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Author Copy. Not for Distribution

Three Days of Catharsis

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Three Days of Catharsis

Atrayee Bhattacharya

EDUCREATION PUBLISHING (Since 2011) www.educreation.in

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About The Book

The story revolves around the reminiscences of Katyayani Krishnan, an NRI girl from Singapore, who comes to IIM on a student exchange program. She is born to a Bengali mother and a Tamil Iyer father. A sarcastic interactive session with two IIM officials needles her to start questioning her identity. Furthermore, when her maternal grandfather introduces her to the norms of a patriarchal society, she reminisces about several incidents where her parents pedantically make her understand that she is a cultural blend and unique. Her cathartic journey continues when she meets her gamophobic cousin, Thia. A series of conversations makes Katyayani to reveal the nitty-gritties of an intercultural family, her learning process to speak a multitude of languages, how God provided her a channel to start eating non-vegetarian food, and most importantly her fun-filled journey amidst the behavioral and cultural differences between her bloodlines. The story continues with her past chequered love life with a Bengali cultural bigot, Sudhanshu, marking an attendance in her present. Amidst the god-fearing family members, Katyayani reveals her open relationship with God and her concept of spirituality to Thia. Even after knowing the

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minutiae of her life when Thia still questions her identity, she finds her mind free from befuddlement. She defines the true meaning of culture to Thia, she declares her accomplishments as her virtue and she redefines her identity as an outcome of true love and a cultural blend. This book is an effort to bring about the monumental change in humanity to grow and survive as homo sapiens and not to cling on to a particular language or culture to define ourselves. W

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About The Author

Atrayee Bhattacharya is a Microbiologist by qualification, an Educator by profession and a Writer by passion. She is a columnist in two reputed online magazines, reviste.in and bkhush.com. She is also a regular contributor to e-Fiction India magazine. Currently she resides in Singapore with her husband and travels extensively between Singapore, Kolkata and . She is fond of writing about the myriad of emotions in tangled human relationships. W

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O Dedicated to all those humans who believe virtue lies in their accomplishments and not in their cultural and linguistic background O

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Acknowledgement

We all have hidden desires in life. In a competitive world, and in the constant battle for earning to make ends meet, those desires remain concealed. I am indeed a fortunate soul to have a bunch of friends and family, who encouraged me to pursue those hidden dreams of mine. I have penned this story largely out of my personal experiences with various people whom I have interacted with. But there are some people whom I must definitely thank for bringing this novel to the light of the day. First and foremost, I am deeply indebted to my husband Dr. Harish Venkatakrishnan, for his undying support, encouragement and for meticulously improving my English. Huge thanks to Mahashweta Bhattacharya for her timely guidance, to Sushmita Prayaga, Rajnita Chatterjee and Manaswita Mukhaty for believing in me and a special mention to Krithika Rangarajan for bringing about a monumental difference in my life. I hope this novel will spur me on to weave many more intricate tales around many more interesting characters. However, Kutu shall always remain close to my heart akin to a first born. Three Days of Catharsis is entirely fictitious. Every character in it is a product of my roving imagination

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only. Though some characters may be familiar and recognizable to certain people, their lives certainly has no connection with reality. W

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Atrayee Bhattacharya

Chapter1

P “Madam, I think you have made a mistake. Please check the column of your mother tongue.” A semi bald man with a pencil moustache, who had tried his best to dye his remaining hair black, handed over my form back to me for correction. With a smirk on my face, I started observing him more carefully before I could clarify his doubt. That‟s in my genes. Or, to be precise I got this habit from my mom. His pencil moustache reminded me of John Waters. The typical Bengali accent made me modify the alphabets in his words to match his accent. It was like “Madaam, aai theenk you habh made a mistayke. Please cheyck the kaulaam of your maadar taang.” Before I could laugh out loud on my observation he reminded me of the much needed job to be done from my side. “Sir, my mother tongue is Bengali, rather Bangla.” “But you have written Krishnan as your surname.” He continued. “There must be a cohesion madam. It is India, not Singapore.”

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Three Days of Catharsis “Then what shall I write sir? My mother is a Bengali. So my mother tongue remains Bangla irrespective of my surname.” “Oh.” There was a prolonged silence from his side. “So you know Bangla? Thank you. Ingreji te katha bolte boro daate byatha hochilo. I mean why to speak in a foreign language if you know my mother tongue.” He meant it was painful to speak in English. But along with that candid confession, Bangla no longer remained just a language of communication. It became HIS mother tongue. He became more comfortable in handling the documents for my student exchange program trimester in IIM, Kolkata. He spoke uninterruptedly about , maacher jol, Rabindrasangeet, all prominent features of Bengali culture and eminent Bengali personalities. There was a sort of pride while he introduced me to one of his colleagues. His pride was supplemented with the fact that my surname and mother tongue didn‟t have the much needed cohesion. My file was transferred to the next step of the ladder. In the last one week I realized something extremely important about India. There are thousands of interconnected ladders which you must climb before you start thinking about your ladder of success. I was asked to wait for a few hours in the waiting hall. Few more students were waiting for their turn. I exchanged courteous smiles with all of them. They resembled the “good students” category of Mom which I do not belong to. According to Mom, I am a

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Atrayee Bhattacharya good student but I don‟t look the part of a “good student.” It seems she was also like this during her days. The unnecessarily long discussion over my Bong connection had made me a bit thirsty. As I moved towards the water dispenser, a guy approached me asking whether I was joining in the student exchange programme. While he tried to start a full- fledged conversation, I put all my efforts into drinking water rather than converse with him. This was something strange for I never do this usually. His efforts weren‟t futile as I finally paid attention to what all he was asking. We exchanged our basic details and I comprehended that he accepted me as a complete South Indian. “So, where do you belong to?” “India.” I smiled “No. I mean, which country do you reside in?” “Okay! My upbringing was in Singapore.” “Your parents are still there? I mean, do you have plans to go back?” “I am a very poor planner. I have not yet planned for my interaction with Mr. Gurunathan.” I smiled and ransacked the whole area for anyone calling out my name. “Why should you plan for him? He is „your people‟ only.” A statement like this from a MBA student and a future entrepreneur sounded ridiculous to me. “My people! Maane? What does that mean?”

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Three Days of Catharsis “Wait a second. What did you say? Maane. Do you know Bengali?” The CAT cleared IIT graduate found the most inopportune moment to reveal his jurisprudence in logic and basic aptitude. “It is not Bengali. The language is Bangla. And yes, I do know Bangla as it is my mother tongue.” He peeped into my visit pass and read it aloud, KATYAYINI KRISHNAN. “That‟s a SOUTH and your mother tongue is Bengali, I mean Bangla?” There I was dragged into the tagline of being South Indian again. If a Bengali is not an East Indian then why does a Tamilian become South Indian? My MNC job aspirant friend didn‟t realise the most important thing. It was the surname that sounded South Indian, not my name. My name was from the pages of the which any Hindu can use all over the globe. “My name is Katyayini, which is another name of . It appears even in the Lokhir Pachali what Bengali women read every Thursday. Yes, you can raise your eyebrows on my surname as it doesn‟t sound Bengali. My father is a Tamil Iyer and my mom is a Bengali . And, I can speak both Tamil and Bangla along with Hindi and English and of course French which I learnt as a foreign language. One more thing, I am not a South Indian. I consider myself as an Indian and documents stamp me as an NRI.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya He was left speechless for a few seconds due to my mini lecture on linguistics and being Indian. “Are you alright?” I asked. “No. I mean Yes, I am fine. Just that I was a bit out of the way.” I thought I had spoken more than required for a five minute interaction so I smiled at him to make him feel comfortable. Somehow, the last few days in India were beginning to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I was getting tired of clarifying my mere existence as just another girl. “So, where were we? Yeah. Gurunathan is South Indian. I mean Tamilian. So he won‟t be a trouble maker. You will be benefitted by a swift approval.” That was another thing I got to know after coming here. There is a symbiotic relationship between people belonging to the same caste and creed. Work is done smoothly if the official belongs to your community. To be honest, I experienced the benefits just half an hour ago. After an hour‟s discussion over literature, history, politics etcetera, I got a break to ask the guy‟s name. “Oh. My name is Sandeep Banerjee. Fully Bengali.” He smiled and left me with a raised eyebrow on “fully Bengali.” I kept waiting while gulping down a few more glasses of water. My Titan Raga watch was ticking towards 11.30 A.M. and the breakfast‟s aaloo parantha was fully digested. Diya, my maternal

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Three Days of Catharsis grandma, intended to give me a packed lunch which I fervently denied. I was feeling famished when all of a sudden a dark thin man appeared with his tremulous voice. “Madam, aapko sir bulata.” I stood up holding my Prada handbag and walked towards Mr. Gurunathans‟s room while my stilettoes clacked on the marble flooring. “May I come in Sir?” “Please come in Miss. Krishnan. Ukkarungo.” An old man, probably in his last year of service, invited me with a broad smile on his face. As I approached my chair, I realized that the man I was facing was a staunch Tamil Brahmin. His Brahminism was certified by his forehead fully smeared with pattai vibhuti and a round dark kumkum. He was fair, quite contrary to the preconceived notion about Madrasis. Wearing a beige colour shirt and black colour formal pant, he forced himself to get away from his comfort zone of veshti. He pored over my documents through his gold- rimmed spectacles while I was busy observing his facial features to predict a resemblance with some of my paternal side relatives. In the midst of my observation, I realized that my endeavour was baseless as this man had a thick mop of hair which most of my paternal side lacked, for that matter, majority of the TamBrahms. “Okay. So, Miss Krishnan, There won‟t be much of a problem from our side. A lot of NRI candidates pursue higher studies in India these days. After all,

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Atrayee Bhattacharya India is progressing. Our education system is at par with the international standards. What do you think?” A sudden outpour of flawless English in Kolkata took my breath away. I was feeling a bit more comfortable. Though I speak four other languages I feel contented while conversing in English, thanks to my Singapore schooling, my mom‟s tendency to converse in English while discussing serious issues and of course my father being a TamBrahm, whose mother tongue is actually English in disguise. Yes, I do accept the valuable contributions of my dad towards my stock of English words. “Yes.” Before I could utter anything else, Mr. Gurunathan continued his veneration towards IIM. “You know Miss Krishnan, IIMC was the first institute of India for pursuing post graduate degree of Management. It is one of the finest business schools in Asia, and I believe, in coming years it will definitely raise to the next level. What do you say?” This time I didn‟t give him enough chance to continue further. “Yes, of course. I was really very excited when I got to know IIMC provides student exchange with NUS. I mean National University Singapore. You won‟t believe this sir but I joined NUS for this particular reason.” He smirked as he realized my flattering words were going over the top. “Kolkata is a nice place to live in. When I came some twenty years back it was Calcutta. Now it is Kolkata. Very nice place. Very nice people. Bengali people accept everybody. They

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Three Days of Catharsis are very sweet. Don‟t worry about food as there are plenty of South Indian restaurants available nearby. But thayir sadam konjam problem. Curd is very sweet here. Even the sour curd is a bit sweet. My family was very worried when I first stepped out of Tamilnadu. Now, they are used to it.” “Thayir sadam, you mean curd rice. Oh. That‟s not a problem. I don‟t like it.” I gave my childish smile. Mr. Gurunathan‟s questioning look reminded me of Thatha (my paternal grandfather). “Thayir sadam vendaam ah!” (You don‟t want curd rice!) “No. I don‟t like it. I don‟t like the taste and appearance of curd rice.” Probably he didn‟t like me telling that. His disappointment diverted him towards his paper work. Finally, I got my documents signed. Before I could let a breath of relief, he uttered few words in Tamil which I failed to hear. “Sorry. I couldn‟t hear.” Oh my god! Why did I ask that? My paper work was all done, why couldn‟t I keep my mouth shut? “Tamizh teriyadha? I mean don‟t you know Tamil?” “I know. I mean, I can speak, understand but can‟t write. Why?” “Seri. It happens with NRI kids. Sad. Very sad.” He smiled with a slight sarcasm.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Hmm.” I had nothing else to say. I wanted to stop the conversation and grab some chicken nuggets in the nearby KFC. My hunger had reached its peak and I was envisioning some flying plates loaded with lip-smacking foods. I swallowed my saliva few times but didn‟t know why all my exertions went overlooked. “Where are your parents from?” He moved his chair a bit backward, put his right leg on top of his left leg and started playing with an eye-catching paper weight. Somehow I dragged my attention away from the paper weight and replied “My dad is from Chennai and Mom from Kolkata.” I paused and then clarified, “Oh! I forgot. Dad‟s side is basically from Trichy.” I didn‟t know why I was indulging myself into some preventable conversations. Probably, I was confused with so many unwanted questions. I grew up in a country where people speak only when there is an utmost need, and now, suddenly I am in a place where anyone can peep into your life anytime. Few hours back, the man I met was happy to know that I could speak in Bangla and now this man is upset as I don‟t like curd rice. Why do these people take everything so personally? I couldn‟t talk to myself further as I found him checking my papers all over again. I got a bit pissed off. I was all set to raise my temper but all of a sudden I visualised Dad asking me to be calm. My heaving body came down to its normal pose with a fake smile on my face. “Any problem Sir?”

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Three Days of Catharsis “No. Not as such. I thought you are a Tamilian. But, unfortunately you are not.” “I am half Tamilian and half Bengali Sir. What is so unfortunate about it? And I always knew myself as an Indian.” “That is true. But still...” He trailed off and sighed. His sigh irked me and I couldn‟t keep my head calm. But, before I could say anything further, he continued the unwanted discussion. “Don‟t you put vibhuti, kumkum and bindi? I know few NRIs, I mean Tamilian NRIs who maintain their tradition.” “No. I don‟t put.” “Do you eat fish?” His eyebrows arched towards the heavens expectantly waiting for an answer which his expression betrayed that he already knew what was coming. “Yes. I am a non-vegetarian.” “That‟s why.” He sighed. Fifty percent of my genes which I inherited from Dad were asking me to make some excuse and go out of the room but, the remaining fifty percent which was from my Bengali mother was asking me to conclude the conversation. “Sir, I think you are going a bit towards my personal life.” I disguised my anguish with my evergreen smile.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Hey. Illai madam. It is India. Here, everyone is made to feel like home. We are in admin department. We are the local guardians for you. Ungalukku problem na, enkitta vaango (Come to me if you face any problem). You are a Tamilian. I must always be there to help. It feels good when you are able to speak in your own Tamil language. Here, most of the people are Bengali, so you can contact me anytime you want to.” A slight rage welled up inside me. Few minutes back, he labelled Bengalis as “nice people” and now he was asking me to contact him as others are Bengali. And why all of a sudden, Tamil became my own language? What is wrong with the other languages I speak? Do I borrow those languages from my neighbour before I speak? “Sir. That‟s not a problem. I speak Bangla very fluently. My mom taught me Bangla very well.” I spoke with some pride which ultimately landed me from the frying pan into the fire. “Athu thaan problem. You were not taught Tamil. Your father should have taken a stand for it.” Mr. Gurunathan‟s rude voice interrupted my chain of thoughts. I couldn‟t hold my patience anymore. No teaching of my parents could control my anger. I realized that I had given too much of liberty to the person sitting in front of me. “Who told you that I don‟t know Tamil Sir? Who gave you the right to talk about my personal details? Yes. I am only half Tamilian. I am a non-vegetarian

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Three Days of Catharsis though I belong to an Iyer Brahmin family. I do eat fish, ranging from hilsa to prawn and I hate curd rice. That is my personal choice. Who are you or anybody to decide what my father should have done? And one more thing I must admit, it was my mother who forced me to learn and inculcate the best of both cultures. Not eating curd rice cannot outcast me from your Tamil community.” I took a deep breath and drank the water which was kept for him. Before he could respond anything, I took another deep breath and continued, “I just don‟t understand, what the problem here is? Why everyone is interested in knowing why am I putting Bangla as my mother tongue? Wait. What is this mother tongue? I have come across it only in India. I have submitted my documents and I would like to get my ID as soon as possible.” I stopped. But, I think Mr. Gurunathan was expecting me to speak some more. Suddenly, I felt as if my dad asked me to consider his age and say sorry. Unwillingly I took some deep breaths and rearranged few words in my mind. “I am sorry Sir. Actually, I am not habituated of all these. India is a new place. Hope you understand.” He didn‟t reply anything but smiled at me and asked me to collect my ID on Monday. I stood up to shake hands with him and my phone vibrated. The vibration was loud enough to make Mr. Gurunathan leave every possible topic behind and let me go. The call got cut before I could pick up. It was from Diya. I

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Atrayee Bhattacharya came out of the administrative building and dialled her number. “Kheychish kichu?” (Have you eaten anything?) Diya‟s soft voice uttered those two simple words with tons of tension. She is the most caring woman I have ever seen in this world, though her care is often tagged as “throat choking” by Maams (Mom‟s brother). According to Maams, Diya‟s life revolves around food and God. She can make hell and heaven together if she gets to know someone has not eaten. It seems even today Diya calls up Maams in the office for enquiring if he had lunch. “Na. Just now the work got over. Don‟t worry. I‟ll eat something here. Kichu kheye nebo ekhane.” “Bhalo restaurant e jaash kintu. Not all restaurants are good. Drink mineral water only.” Now, she was more worried as I was going to a restaurant all alone. “I shall be fine Diya. Chinta korona.” “Firbi ki kore? I mean, how will you return?” She continued with a much more worried voice. I really pity her. She was never so vexed; rather I have never seen her so worried. Yesterday I asked her not to worry for which she put the blame on Mom for letting me come to India, away from her. Diya belongs to the old school of thought. She still feels, a girl must be with her parents until she gets married. It seems none can replace parents.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Don‟t worry Diya. I am going to meet Maams. He asked me to meet him for lunch, but I guess I am too hungry to wait. I am going to Mall now, Maams will meet me there. Okay?” “Hello? Hello Diya? Are you there?” I couldn‟t hear anything from her end. “Yes. Achi. Please take care. You are away from your parents. Your mom doesn‟t understand.” She was almost in tears. “Diya, Am I becoming a burden on you?” “Naaa. Chi Chi. Orom kotha bolte hoye? Why are you talking like this?” “You are only making me say all these. Why are you so worried? I am 24 Diya. I won‟t get lost. I have all the phone numbers. By the way, noodles for the night.” “Thik ache. As you wish Kutu. Tata and take care.” She hung up. The hunger pangs, which had subdued for a bit due to the heated prejudiced discussion with Mr.Gurunathan, rematerialized. I gave a call to the hired cab which was waiting near the parking area. “Sukumar da, .” I handed over a hundred rupee note to him for his lunch and managed to sit comfortably inside. Dadu (maternal grandpa) had instructed the driver to let me know the routes and name of the roads, and I discovered the driver to be too obedient. While he was busy showing me the routes and articulating about the various adjoining

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Atrayee Bhattacharya prominent places, my eyes fell on a small phuchka stall, the famous Kolkata pani puri. “Stop stop. Maane ektu daaran.” “Daarano jaabe na didi. No parking je eta.” It was a no parking zone. He was very apprehensive to stop near the stall. I asked him to park inside the lane and come out once I call him. Poor guy! He was really afraid as Dadu asked him not to let me go anywhere alone. It took me 5 minutes of cajoling and convincing him that I had been to Kolkata before and I knew enough Bangla to communicate with the locals. Though he was not convinced, he finally gave in to my obduracy. “Kichu problem hole daakben. Ami kaachei aachi.” He drove inside the lane after his consoling statement that he would be nearby. I didn‟t waste a single second and ran towards the phuchka stall. “One plate.” Before I could finish, one reed leaf bowl was thrust into my hand. One by one mouth- watering crispy tangy phuchkas were placed in my bowl and without wasting any time I voraciously devoured them. “Aur ektho hoga kya bibiji?” The dark thin man was all ready to serve me another set but his wish was not fulfilled as I was reminded of Diya‟s advice. I paid him ten rupees and left the place amused with the price that I paid for that heavenly taste. I was still busy relishing the aftertaste when Paati‟s (Paternal grandma) call distracted me.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Hey Paati. Eppadi irrukel? ” “I am fine Kutti. Are you done with your job?” She enquired with a calm voice. Diya and Paati are two entirely opposite personalities. Paati never worries for anything. It seems she never shed a single drop of tear when Dad left for the US for his Ph.D. She is an extremely strong lady and positivity is her best friend. “Sort of.” I giggled and told her that I would mail all the details. She sensed some spicy stuff and agreed for the deal. “Don‟t worry. Have a nice time with your Maams. Did you call your parents?” “Illai. Not yet. Shall call up after reaching home Paati.” “Saaptacha?” “Sort of.” I giggled “What is this sort of man? Eat properly. Don‟t trouble your Diya. I shall call later. Bye ma.” I hung the call and walked towards the lane where I found the driver very worried for me. I reassured him that I was fine. He dropped me in South City Mall. I was very much bored of these shopping complexes which were overloaded with branded items. Gariahat of Kolkata and Sowcarpet of Chennai fascinate me more now-a-days. With no other choice left, I trudged towards KFC.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “How may I help you madam?” A cute teenage girl on the threshold of adulthood greeted me with a broad smile. “Satiate my hunger with some delicious chicken. That‟s the only way you can help me out.” A dramatic reply. I know. But her cuteness made me feel really good. “And, what would you like to have in chicken?” Her smile turned into a warm laughter. Her laughter elated me as I could make her feel a little different from her regular monotonous routine. “One plate of chicken nuggets.” I smiled and asked for some mayonnaise dips. While waiting for my turn, I was scrolling down in my message inbox of the phone and unexpectedly, a message from Maams came. “Kothaye? Please sit near a proper landmark. I cannot search for you in a multi-storeyed shopping complex where people hover around every possible thing.” “Don‟t worry. I am in KFC.” I replied expecting a lecture from him. The girl called out to me to pick up my order. I grabbed the overstuffed packet containing the lip- smacking chicken nuggets. As expected, my mobile beeped for an incoming message. “My God! Why do you always eat non-veg? Father is Iyer. Forgot?”

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Three Days of Catharsis Holding the chicken piece in between my right index finger and the thumb, I started swiping for my message. “Khaate time no maa-baap. Btw for your information my mom is a Bong.” I could realize that Maams‟ meeting was boring, that‟s why he was taking so much interest in messaging. Otherwise, Chartered Accountant Amitabh Bhattacharya doesn‟t pay attention to anybody while working. “BONG. Sheta abaar ki? What all words you invent!” The one-liner I could read without opening the message. Before I could open this message, once more my mobile beeped stating “Ur mom taught u only that what she likes. Huh! Always dominating.” I was getting annoyed as I was unable to concentrate on my chicken nuggets, so thought of putting an end to the conversation. “Hmm. Why does everyone blame a mother for anything a child does? We follow Darwin. Survival of the fittest. We adapt accordingly. I cannot be like you, holding water in wine glass in a cocktail party. Now, don‟t irritate me. Boring meeting se niklo. I am waiting.” I replied while licking my fingers. “Yes .” A prompt reply popped up on my mobile screen. As I tried to devote myself towards the luscious soft pieces of chicken, a loud cry of a kid caught my

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Atrayee Bhattacharya attention. I didn‟t have to struggle much to find out who that attention seeker was. I discovered a cute boy, around 7 years old putting all his strength in dragging his mom towards KFC. A slight smile which had appeared at the corner of my lips vanished due to a loud statement made by the lady. “Vendaam. Naan thirumba thirumba solla maaten. Naan solliten illai? We are . We don‟t eat fish. We don‟t eat chicken.” Her statement left me in the doldrums because a small voice sneered at the back of my head and reminded me of my Iyer roots. This made me glare at the half eaten nugget squeezed between my fingers. Though her resolute statement had made me retrospect for a miniscule moment, it failed to win my heart over as I chomped the mayonnaise coated nugget as if I was taunting her to try and stop me. I witnessed the child making a lot of efforts to convince his mom about the taste and texture which in turn made her more furious. She showered all her frustration to her husband. “I told you not to bring us here. I am sure he has eaten all those stuffs in his friend‟s house.” She was on fire and probably her husband‟s silence was adding fuel to her anger. Within no time, the family vanished from my sight but I started reliving some of my childhood memories which had started popping up. As I tried to revisit my past, I got a message from Maams that he was waiting down with the driver.

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Three Days of Catharsis Strange personality Maams is! For the past 21 years he had been traveling in public transport, not because he couldn‟t afford a car, but it was his desire to witness a hundred different expressions every morning while he travelled by the local train. He made some friends whom he referred to as travel friends. The most hilarious part of the story is, he doesn‟t know the names of half of them. He describes them by their appearance. Every day he gets a different story to tell. Every day he gets something to share with them. It sounds very strange for me as I stay in a country where you cannot even see the faces of people properly. One rather would witness some technology driven human beings swiping their smart phones as if they were ready to jump into the virtual world. I gathered my belongings and moved out of KFC after offering a genuine smile to that teenage girl who helped me in satiating my hunger. As I approached the exit, I discovered some girls ribbing two Kanjivaram draped ladies, replete with a length of jasmine flowers tucked into the pleats of their well-oiled hair. I was amused. Being in Singapore for so many years, where nobody bothers about your existence, I was suddenly jostled into the world of gossiping. Here everyone had a problem with everybody else. Every community tried to dominate in the name of customs and rituals. Sometimes, the customs of Indian government seemed to be more relaxed than the customs of culture in our lives.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Haath dhuyechish? I mean have you washed your hands?” Maams giggled. “I know Bangla. No need of translating it repeatedly.” I rubbed my right hand on his white shirt. “Oh my god! I have to do Ganga snaan.” He shook his head as usual and asked me to get into the car. There was a white plastic bag on the back seat; a newly bought Chetan Bhagat‟s 2 States novel nestling within. I was wondering if Maams bought this as he is never fond of reading. The only thing he reads is Economic Times. The only thing he watches on television is News. The only serious discussion he participates in is about world economy and politics. I held the packet and was about to enquire, but suddenly the driver declared it to be for his daughter. He requested me to keep the book at the back of the car. Maams slid onto the front seat. He never likes to sit at the back. More precisely, he likes to interact with drivers a lot while travelling. I heard it from Mom‟s narration of her childhood memories. It was around 1.30 PM. Maams told me it would take some 2 hours to reach home as it was a Friday. While keeping the book, I glared at the cover page. I had read the novel. It was good but it was nothing new to me. With a smirk at the corner of my lips, I folded my legs and lay on the back seat. I just closed my eyes and my phone rang. It was dad. “Yes Dad. Everything done. I am going home with Maams.”

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Three Days of Catharsis “Okay. You are sounding very tired. Have you eaten anything? Your mom was worried.” He responded in a very dull voice. It was the first time that I was away from him in the past 23 years. “Dad, I ate chicken nuggets.” I giggled and winked at Maams. Maams nodded his head and took the phone and started their typical jija-sala conversation involving hundred complaints about the ladies of the family. As I was earwigging the tête-à-tête, I was driven to several memories of my childhood. Some were extremely wonderful along with some, which left me with a bitter taste. People enquiring about my mother tongue, witnessing the Tamil-Bengali conflict, and finally holding the novel 2 States couldn‟t be a coincidence. The happenings of the past few hours triggered an involuntary reaction in my mind. I was forced to think about my parents love story and revisit my childhood. W

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Atrayee Bhattacharya

Chapter2

P Whenever I take a stroll down the memory lane, the first poem that Dad wrote for Mom comes flooding into my mind. “Few months ago, I met the girl of my dreams. My heart gushed forth joy in torrential streams. Cupid’s arrow had found its mark. Ignited my boundless love with an infinitesimal spark. A mere look into my eyes and you’ll see. What she actually means to me. I searched my heart, searched my soul. Love for her I found, stretching from pole to pole. Her heart pure and innocent had nothing to hide. However it caught me in love’s landslide. She fed an appetite, a feeling called love. Her beauty more pristine than the whitest dove. My love for her is like none other. Love unfettered to worry or bother. Tumult, peace, darkness and light Shone upon her face with a heavenly might. I held her in my arms as I would hold my life. Told her I would give all, would sacrifice.

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Three Days of Catharsis Promised to erase the deepest of the scar Assured her it was worth trying and not dying for. She asked me to leave her for my own good. Warned me not to repent and later brood. I wiped the tears from her eyes and why Cos she’s an angel of the starry night sky. Her mellifluous voice cried in anguish Even in sorrow she moved with a willowy swish. I took her in my arms to give her eternal bliss Love’s first snowdrop, a lovely virgin kiss. People special in life turn and change Lives they live turn out to be strange Love ensures a colourful life without strife. My love for her is THE TIME OF MY LIFE!!!” This poem of my dad always brings tears to my eyes. I don‟t know what made me remember this particular poem so fondly. He has a wide collection of his own poetry which he never wishes to publish. Whenever I forced him to publish his creations, he laughed and declared to become a full-fledged poet once Science leaves him. If that remains his condition for publishing, I am sure it will never happen as the man I know as my father can never be out of research. My Dad, Dr. Krishnan Venkataramani, is an eminent scientist in the world of microbiology, the most romantic husband and an unparalleled father. Any girl would be proud of her father regardless of his profession but I take special pride in him for even after being one of the most prominent personalities in

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Atrayee Bhattacharya the research arena, his humility is what sets him apart. At the age of 54, after having achieved so many accolades, a sense of pride and arrogance is bound to crop up in one‟s mind. But my father; he is still a student. If I were to paraphrase him, “I am still learning. I don‟t know many things in this world. I must study and investigate further. I was born with a student ID and that ID will be taken back from me on the day I breathe my last.” As I was preoccupied with the thought of Dad, my chain of thoughts was splintered by the impulsive braking of the car. “What happened?” My tremulous voice was sounding more like a cat‟s meow. “Kichu na. Look at that man crossing the road with a kid. How can a man be so reckless?” Maams‟s disgusted look made me comprehend that there was something extremely wrong; otherwise Maams is a very calm-headed person. I raised my head and found the driver yelling at the man. I realized that the man was crossing though a signal which was green for vehicles. In Kolkata, one could find a peculiar strategy people follow for the traffic signals. Green light refers to go, yellow makes you go faster and red brings the hilarious part. It too allows you to cross the road provided no policeman is there. This rule applies to both pedestrian and vehicular traffic alike. “Phone ta raakh.” Maams handed over my phone to me. I was so drowned in my thoughts till then that I

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Three Days of Catharsis wasn‟t aware of where my phone was. As I unlocked the phone, my parents‟ photo from their younger days popped up on the screen as the wallpaper. A glorious contented smile appeared on my face. It happens every time I see their photos. The most wonderful couple one can ever find on this earth. Today, at the age of 24, if anyone asks me about love, their names are the first to pop up in my mind. If one asks me if I have experienced love in my life, YES. I did, rather I do it every day of my life. Love is pristine and I observed its purity through them. My parents stepped in their 25th year of marital bliss this year, preserving millions of beautiful memories and leaving behind everything which was not needed in a relationship. If one scrutinizes them as two different individuals, they are definitely not made for each other!!! They are however madly in love with each other. Twenty seven years back they decided to stay together and they made it happen. Tumultuous emotions were flowing through my mind, bringing back flashes of my childhood memories. Not wishing to be dragged into the familiar all-encompassing maelstrom, I sat up, stretched my legs and opened the window of the car. The cool breeze though had other ideas. It welcomed me into its comfortable arms and gently prodded my mind into falling through and onto the most vivid love story of my life. I grew up listening to the love story of a Tambrahm Lad and a Bong belle. The spiel was narrated to me in a way which always left me

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Atrayee Bhattacharya enthralled. Creativity was never my forte, though both my parents are gifted personalities. My mind quickly borrowed upon the narration skills of my father and I started imagining my parents‟ love story as a typical Bollywood masala romance movie. I was transported into the realm of the surreal; two decades before, right into the campus of one of the most prestigious institutions of India, Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). O A Tamil Iyer boy Krishnan, hailing from a humble background, had come all the way from Madras to Delhi with dreams of exceling in the field of Life Sciences. The Centre of Biotechnology in JNU had its nascent beginnings at that time. In the India of then, not many students were willing to risk their career in this developing field of biology. After completing his Bachelors in Science as a gold medallist from Madras University, Krishnan‟s eyes captured the big advertisement of JNU-Centre of Biotechnology in The Hindu. He packed his dreams, left behind a teaching job and set about to achieve something in life. That “something” for him was not very miniscule. His dreams were unfettered. Each day he hypothesized something new and showed it to his mom for her opinion. His mom, as an encouragement, used to approve of the hypothesis with a smile on her face and a pat on his back. He knew only one thing in life that he was born to make a difference. His

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Three Days of Catharsis selection in JNU had opened up a floodgate of opportunities for him to fulfil his desires. With his hands full of documents and a cheque for the tuition fee tucked into his shirt pocket, he reached the administrative building of JNU. He encountered a man convincing an official for hostel accommodation. The fees counter was temporarily closed since the government officials had “lots of other jobs to do” apart from the job for which they were actually paid for. Krishnan was left with no other choice but to wait and he sat on one of the benches in the waiting area and observed the conversation. Finally the man appeared convinced, nodded his head in approval and approached the benches as well. The man was dark, but quite handsome with beautiful black eyes, a sharp nose and not to forget the thick dense hair. The dense hair enraptured Krishnan, as at the age of 22, he had already started balding! “Are you joining Masters in Biotechnology?” The man asked with an inquisitive smile showing his paan stained teeth. “Yes Sir.” Krishnan stood up displaying all the good etiquettes his mom had inculcated in him. “Sit sit. My daughter is also joining the same course.” He pointed to his daughter who was looking restless. A single glance at her would have been enough to say that she was petrified of the future hostel life, away from her parents and most importantly far away from home.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Krishnan glanced at her and nodded his head. He spoke for a while with the man regarding the course, his future plans of going abroad and pursuing research as a career. They both shared a lot of thoughts without even having a slightest inkling about their future relationship status. The man introduced himself as Bipan Bhattacharya and with paternal care in his voice, introduced his daughter Arundhati as well. He invited Krishnan for lunch and left the office as the fees section opened. As Krishnan came out of the administrative block, he was greeted by the sight of a row of sprawling lush green trees ensconcing the grounds with a subtle dappled shade. Underneath one such tree, he found the father in Mr. Bhattacharya deep in conversation with his daughter who was in tears. Tension writ on his face was reflected in his hands as well, which were agitatedly twirling a cigarette in between the index and middle finger. A gentle breeze blew across the grounds and the fronds of leaves parted ever so slightly for Krishnan to see Arundhati in the dappled sunlight. That was the first time Krishnan saw her properly. The black locks of hair covering half of her forehead was in complete contrast to her creamy white complexion. Her big lined eyes were highlighted by a pair of perfectly arched dark eyebrows. A round blue bindi, matching her flowery blue cotton saree, adorned the centre of her forehead but was disturbed due to a frown marring her face. A small crimson tinted nose jutted out of her face, evidently reddened due to her tears for

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Three Days of Catharsis separation from her parents. As she adjusted her thick waist length hair, her eyes met Krishnan‟s who was stealthily admiring her innocent face. She gestured to her father about Krishnan‟s arrival. “Ho gaya?” Mr. Bhattacharya enquired with a desire to move out of that place. Krishnan was momentarily stymied as he was not accustomed to conversing in Hindi before. “Uni hindi bujhben na baba.” That was the first time Krishnan heard her voice. She made her father realize that South Indians did not know much of Hindi. That was quite surprising for Mr. Bhattacharya as he was concerned for Krishnan‟s survival in Delhi without being able to converse in Hindi. “I know Hindi. But I cannot speak it properly. I mean, some grammatical mistakes tend to happen.” Krishnan vetoed Arundhati‟s opinion. Arundhati stared at Krishnan with an arched and raised left eyebrow. Her expressive eyes met Krishnan‟s and it bored into his, trying to drive home the point that nobody dared declare her wrong. Though Krishnan had never paid attention to any girl in the past, he somehow enjoyed the momentary eye- to-eye banter with Arundhati. It was not love, not yet, but there was definitely a spark. As Krishnan kept talking to her father, Arundhati somehow appreciated the determination of the guy. As a silent listener, she paid more attention towards observing the young Tamilian. The Kumkum on his forehead drew all her attention. Every time she looked at him to listen to his

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Atrayee Bhattacharya words, his big brown eyes with dense eyelashes diverted her from the topic. He was tall and handsome but not dark though being a South Indian. Mr. Bhattacharya was now being referred to as “uncle” by Krishnan and they all trudged towards the JNU guest house canteen for lunch. Being a central government official, he could arrange his accommodation there for a few days until the classes started. “Are you a vegetarian?” Mr. Bhattacharya pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat on it. “Yes uncle. We are Iyer Brahmins.” Krishnan uttered with a sense of pride. Looking around, his eyes found Arundhati smiling for his statement. She confirmed them to be Boidik Brahmins of Bengal and uttered few statements of Manusmriti assuring that Brahmins are allowed to eat meat but selectively. Krishnan witnessed a myriad of facial expressions in Mr. Bhattacharya as if he didn‟t like her argument. They finished lunch and as Krishnan was taking leave, Mr. Bhattacharya blessed him by stating, “Very good boy. It feels extremely good to see such a determined student. I pray to God for your success. Study well. I come to Delhi very often on official visits. I shall definitely meet you. Achieve your goals but make the sky your limit.” Krishnan bent down to touch his feet, exchanged a courtesy smile with Arundhati and bid adieu to both of them. Krishnan felt that Bipan Bhattacharya was a man ahead of his time. His inquisitiveness, his optimistic

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Three Days of Catharsis attitude and an encouraging approach towards youngsters set him aside. The love story of Krishnan and Arundhati took a long time to start. Before the love story blossomed, Krishnan and Bipan Bhattacharya developed a fondness for each other. In the two years of Krishnan‟s Master‟s degree, they built a great rapport. Mr. Bhattacharya‟s several visits to Delhi also had something to do with him being the father of a beautiful daughter. During these visits, he spent time with Krishnan as well. Within the two years of Master‟s, Arundhati too developed affectionate feelings for Krishnan. His profound knowledge in the diverse field of science, his aristocracy, his creative writing and of course, his good looks made it impossible for Arundhati to ignore him amongst the ten students of their batch. But there was a remarkable difference between their love and today‟s love. Lust is an obvious part of human life. None can deny the fact of developing lust for their partners at some point of their courtship period. These two love birds of the early 90s might have had their private and intimate moments in the lush beautiful greenery of JNU campus. Nevertheless, their romance did not conform to the usual love stories. Love is an eternal feeling which can make even the coloured leaves of Bougainvillea feel as soft as rose petals. As you are blessed with someone who enraptures your heart permanently, every possible ingredient of God‟s creation seems beautiful. Krishnan though, found his

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Atrayee Bhattacharya soulmate in a girl who preferred to discuss the photosynthetic abilities of the coloured leaves of Bougainvillea. He decided that he would spend all his life with a girl for whom the moon was not beautiful on its own but appeared beautiful due to the inky darkness of the night. Their love story was strange to say the least as they relished their moments with the then research developments in the field of Biotechnology. Were they nerds? Was “romance” absent? Did they concentrate more towards their career development that they forgot the essence of love? NO. It was their keen interest in science that brought them close. They fell in love with each other not only because of good looks but more importantly, they shared common goals of achieving the summit of their field through sustained endeavours. It was a peculiar love triangle between Krishnan, Arundhati and Biotechnology where each member embraced the other tightly and simply refused to let go. I, being the outcome of the Krishnan-Arundhati love union, was told only this much about their love story whenever I hazarded to mischievously inquire about it to my parents. Luckily, there exists a concept of „extended family members‟ amongst Indians who voluntarily let you know the hidden facts of other‟s life. I too was privileged enough to have some family members who added the spice in the story and in my life as well. After the explosive sales of Chetan Bhagat‟s novel “2 States”, I was provoked to think about the problems of an inter-state love story. Did

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Three Days of Catharsis my parents face any problem? If intercultural marriages are so demanding, how did they manage to maintain their individuality? The country where I grew up, the ambience what I perceived and the teachings what I incorporated from life made me understand only one thing about love. Love is an eternal bliss. True. But in today‟s world love is devoid of any compromises. Whoever faces any trouble in the relationship is ready to withdraw oneself from the bondage. According to the present generation, love is omnipresent. If you don‟t get love here, you can get it somewhere else. My parents fell in love once and they were intertwined in its knots for the rest of their life. I on the other hand, have fallen in love so many times, none of which seemed to work out. As my mom always tells me, I am a victim of self-obsession and can fall in love with only myself and no one else. O “Ghumiye porechish?” Maams‟s husky voice penetrated my ears and brought me crashing back to the present. “Na na. I am not sleeping.” I rearranged my body, which had begun lazing about during my thoughts of the yesteryear memories of my parents. “We are nearing home. Do you want some shingara (Bengali snack)?” In his usual gruff manner, Maams picked up his ringing phone before finishing his query. It was Diya on the other side who was anxiously enquiring about our whereabouts.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Diya might have asked the maid to make something for us Maams. Don‟t buy anything on the way.” The incessant honking and a sudden build-up of chaotic traffic alerted my senses that home was nearing as these kinds of noises were the characteristic feature of Khardah railway crossing. As the car neared Diya‟s house, I could see Maani (Maams‟s wife) entering the house. Maani, Mrs. Nayanika Bhattacharya was an English Professor in , one of the most prestigious of Kolkata. She is an extremely adorable lady with an appealing personality and the only one who pampered me unconditionally throughout my life. Honestly, she was the one who made me come to Kolkata for this student-exchange programme. “Hoye geche shob?” Maani enquired while opening the gate. Maams who was paying the cab driver glanced at her and directed her to get in and talk. Maani and I moved inside where Diya greeted us with hot masala chai and vegetable cutlet, my favourite Bengali snack. As a sign of a happy family, all five of us started sharing our experiences of the day which started with Tuku‟s mail to Dadu. Tuku, Maam‟s son, was in Germany for his MS in Genetic Engineering. Tuku and I often became the butt of jokes told in the family, wherein the genes responsible for developing the knack towards our subjects were

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Three Days of Catharsis supposedly interchanged between me and Tuku. Being the only child of two biologists, my parents could never draw me towards science. And as far as Tuku was concerned, nobody in the whole dynasty could trace the reason for his interest in Biology. Everyone talks about his fascination towards my father. It was funny in a sense, but it was also true. He loves Dad immensely and keeps a track of all his research work, symposia, conferences and every possible aspect. “Tuku lickheche okhaane thaanda porbe.” Dadu sipped on his tea and enquired Maani if she had sent enough warm clothes with him as it was going to be cold in Germany. As we all continued talking, the focus of the talk shifted to me. Somehow, I didn‟t want to spoil anyone‟s mood by leaking the conflict of views I had exchanged with the officials. I ran around the bushes and spoke about the campus and the mall and every unnecessary thing possible. I participated in the raucous laughter with others as Maams articulated the lighter notes from his important official meeting. In some corner of my mind, a small query kept pricking me, chipping away, until it burst out in a rush. “What is my Mother tongue?” I blurted out, unable to hold out any longer. Everybody was thwarted for a moment which led to a stymied silence. Dadu‟s big bloodshot eyes pierced me as if probing around for a reason for this sudden question. With a sigh he tried to dissuade me but Maams‟ voice cut through.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Ki hoyeche? Did anyone say anything in IIM?” He smiled and his impatience was revealed by his legs shaking underneath the table. Before I could respond, Maani tried to lighten the topic by saying English is the mother tongue for everyone in the present time. “Is it something very serious Dadu? I was asked to write Tamil as my Mother tongue just because my surname didn‟t resonate with Bangla being my mother tongue. As far as I know, mother tongue is often referred to as the first spoken language and for me there is no first spoken language. I had a school language which was English. I have a Khardah language, which is Bangla. I have a Chennai language which is Tamil, precisely, it is Brahmin Tamil. I have learnt Hindi as an NRI language and French was added to the list recently. Now out of all this which one is mother tongue?” I laughed nervously but the silence which prevailed after I finished was pricking at me. “Eto bochor pore mone porlo?” Dadu got up from his chair, pressing the dining table with his trembling hands, a result of Parkinson‟s disease. He was amazed that it had taken me so long to enquire about my own mother tongue. As Maani started massaging his hand, his tearful eyes pierced me as he declared me to be the victim of an identity crisis. “I don‟t have an identity crisis Dadu. I am inquisitive about why these people are concerned so much about just a language.” It was the first time that I raised my voice in this house.

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Three Days of Catharsis “I foresaw this problem 25 years back. I know my intuition never goes wrong. It was a love marriage and I personally have no problem with Krishnan. He is the best son-in-law anyone can get. But what about the next generation? Krishnan and your mom belong to two entirely different cultures. Cultural differences never interfered much into their lives as they always stayed away from India. But it played a vital role in moulding you as a person.” Dadu sighed and sat down in the chair. “May I then know the reason behind your approval for this marriage?” I voiced out softly with some apprehension of getting scolded. “Approval? Huh! Your parents were firm towards their love. Your Thatha-Paati too fell in love with my daughter. Everyone made me keep my mouth shut as your mother was suffering from this dreadful disease of optic nerve tumour. Your Thatha-Paati, being emotional towards Arundhati, rejected the fact of cultural differences. They were modernized and couldn‟t see the trouble in disguise. They could only see the love they both had for each other. I don‟t deny their love. But remember, this amalgamation of two different cultures gave birth to a new system of intercultural happy marriages in our families and at the same time opened a Pandora‟s Box of thousand problems in your life.” He paused to take a swig of water to soothe his parched throat. “Your parents fell in love when they were already deeply rooted in their respective cultures, not needing

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Atrayee Bhattacharya to start afresh in imbibing something new. They started a new life with each other just like how a matured tree allows the winds of change to gently rustle over its leaves, taking in only what was needed and letting pass what was not. Whatever they learnt from their better half was just an addition to their pre- existing set of duties in their respective lives. But what did you learn? Your mom is a complete Bengali. Immersed in the Bangla literature, culture and customs, she became the daughter in law of an Iyer family. She followed a few customs which was a must. That‟s all. Your father remained a Tamilian and incorporated important Bengali festive days in his calendar. Now what do you do? You are neither a Tamilian nor a Bengali. Your mom justified that you got the blend of goodness from both the cultures. Is it? Who decided what is good and what is bad? Being a part of one culture defines what you are or simply put, identifies you. Similarly, your mother tongue is an inseparable part of your identity. Now tell me what are you? You cannot be a hybrid since you are not a plant!” A cold shiver passed through my spine as I witnessed Dadu raising his voice after so many years. “It is not science.” Dadu continued speaking. “It sounds good to have a successful intercultural marriage but does anyone realize what problems the next generation would face? You are modern and have enough justification for your linguistic abilities. Still an official‟s inquiry pokes you. Do you know why? It is because you know that in spite of experiencing the

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Three Days of Catharsis lap of luxury in life, you still seek only one thing, which are your roots. Your father is a scientist. Can he tell about a hybrid plant which has both tap and adventitious roots? No! There can be only one root. Either Tamilian or Bengali.” A small voice at the back of my head sneered at me and told me that this whole thing was true. I quite did not know my true belongings. Dadu‟s statements never focused on blaming my parents, as according to him life was like a food pyramid wherein the next level is always smaller than the previous one. The culture what parents imbibe during the formative years of their life cannot be fully transferred to their offspring since they tend to absorb less than half of what is taught to them. That is called cultural evolution. Evolution is not only about a monkey losing a tail and transforming into a human being. We evolve constantly even in today‟s world as we adapt and tend to modify things as per our needs. I was not about to give up that easily either. “What roots? I am an Indian. My roots are here. My whole family is here.” I argued, but as I stole a glance towards Maani, she gestured me to be a silent listener. Before I could follow up on her hints, she tried to persuade Dadu to stop the conversation. But the old man who had witnessed my mom‟s failure in moulding me into a complete Tamilian or a full- fledged Bengali, wanted to reveal his emotions. He stared at me and continued with a sigh. “Yes. You are an Indian. You are Indian because your

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Atrayee Bhattacharya passport says so. You are an Indian as your mom did not want to change your citizenship. You are an Indian since your family resides here. But do you know what India is? I am not asking you about the prominent personalities, geographical locations and cultural diversity. India is a blend of hundreds of customs, thousands of traditions and a wide range of cultures containing within them numerous mother tongues. And do you know what these give us? Our individuality. The way we speak, the way we live, the way we pray, everything varies from place to place and culture to culture. Many years back I posed a question to your mom about your mother tongue when she was struggling to teach you Bangla and Tamil at the same time. She failed to reply.” He smiled sarcastically and continued. “Our society is a patriarchal one. A child has to bear everything of the father and not the mother. You may know four or five languages, but you still don‟t have a single language to be called as mother tongue. Mother tongue is not just the first spoken language.” He eyeballed Maani and continued. “Mother tongue is Maatribhaasha. Do you know why? It is because mother is the first teacher of our life. She teaches us the art of speaking. And a teacher can teach only what she knows. Your mom taught you Bangla to prove that she retained her individuality even after an intercultural marriage. She let you learn Tamil as she was indebted towards your Thatha-Paati for their love and kindness. She taught you Hindi to

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Three Days of Catharsis make you comfortable in the NRI community. English found its place out of compulsion.” He sneered. “Aah chaaro na.” Maams tried to interrupt the conversation and requested Dadu not to scold me. “Bokchi na. Egulo shotti. I have no right to scold anybody. I told her the facts of Indian society. Every aspect of your life must coincide with your father and not with your mother. Her parents made her a jack of all trades but the master of none. It is good in some aspects but not for everything. To achieve your dreams you leave your roots, do you realize the outcome for the next generation? They are the ones who struggle. They always remain in the confused state of mind seeking their roots.” Dadu wiped his tears and walked to his room holding Maani‟s hand. Maams turned to me to reassure that I was fine. Diya hugged me and vindicated Dadu‟s thoughts as the upshot of his age. She vehemently declared Dadu as a follower of the old school of thought and consoled me. I assured her and everyone that I was fine. I was seriously fine. There was no animosity in my heart for Dadu. He is an outspoken person. His honesty and truthfulness sometimes crossed all levels of sanity and bordered on the edge of brutality. I had been witnessing this righteous attitude of his, right from my childhood days. He is a person who never scolds you but very intelligently makes you realize the facts. Wait a minute. What was going on in my mind? Was he correct on the issue of my identity crisis? Did I fail to seek my roots? What WERE my roots? Did it

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Atrayee Bhattacharya really matter? Why was I so confused? Most importantly, why was I irked by the issue of what my mother tongue was? Oh God! My mind was swirling within the kaleidoscope of the different phases of my childhood. Physically, I was in the present but my mind was threatening to remind me of the various incidents of my life which really had an impact on me. DRINGGGG!!! Unexpectedly the bell rang and I found myself amidst an old couple who were supposed to be distant relatives of Mom and a well- wisher too. They had come to see me, I mean, Arundhati‟s daughter. “Chinte perecho? Koto boro hoye geche!” Their query was not new. Every Bengali asked the same old question of recognizing them and commented on the lightning fast ageing process of children. Diya‟s gesture made me converse in Bangla with them. They expressed their happiness on seeing me and showered their blessings for my studies. Everything was going on smoothly until they showed their gratification of me being in the land of maach- bhaat. I, as an individual, was not very fond of fish. As I opined, they simply giggled and declared my mom‟s failure to transform me into a Bengali. I was stunned. Why should Mom transform me into a Bengali? And where did she fail? My queries were at an all-time high which was slowly sucking me into a miasma of confusion. As a consequence it left me mentally imbalanced. I desperately longed for a break.

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Three Days of Catharsis The elderly couple soon took their leave. I rushed to the washroom to freshen myself up. With my tousled and dripping wet hair, a second cup of tea in my hand, I started chatting with Maani regarding Tuku, in the hope of gaining some insight into his “love-life.” These lighter moments before dinner diverted my mind from the quandaries of the previous hours. All of a sudden, my phone rang and opening notes of Kausalya Supraja Ramapoorva Sandhya Pravarthathe trilled and reverberated throughout the room. “Thatha is calling” I exclaimed in joy. “Namaskaram Thatha. Eppadi irukkel? Admission velai nalla aachu.” I then proceeded to speak with him for almost half an hour, uninterrupted, in flawless Tamil. I always do that. Speaking in Tamil with Thatha makes him feel very good. He always credited my mother for forcing me to converse in Tamil. Before Thatha could hang up, I posed a question which I had not asked him till date. “Thatha. Why did you choose Mom as your daughter-in-law?” I let the question hang. “She is a wonderful human being and the best daughter-in-law anyone can ask for. God gave me a daughter in disguise.” He laughed, asked me to search a good guy for myself, blessed me and then hung up. As Diya enquired about Thatha-Paati, I started conversing in Bangla with her. With a last slurp of the yummy schezwan noodles in the dinner, I bid adieu to the day and went to my room with some old photo albums. Maani followed me with a bottle of water for

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Atrayee Bhattacharya the night. She took leave once she was fully convinced that I was not affected by Dadu‟s words. Truth to be told, I was definitely affected as my mind was wandering in the past in search of my identity. Switching between different languages is my forte, but what was I really? Neither a Bengali nor a Tamilian. Then what? A Tam-Bong? I am not a scientific hybrid but the result of a cultural hybrid, Tam-Bong.

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Three Days of Catharsis

hapter3 C P “Cabbage kootu, Chow chow kootu, Cabbage kootu, Chow Chow kootu!!!” A dark thin gangly kid with dense jet-black hair and vibhuti smeared all over his forehead appeared dancing and singing these lines before me. His beautiful naturally lined eyelashes and inky black eyes beamed me into the past as I opened the collage album made by Tuku. The boy was none other than Karthik, my childhood friend. After their marriage, my parents stayed in the US for a few years. I think I was ten years old when we moved to Singapore. My father obtained his Doctorate from the University of California, Berkeley campus and was appointed as an Assistant Professor in the same university in the Environmental Science department. As my mom was pregnant with me, she was sent to Kolkata to be under the maternal care of Diya. My parents wanted me to be an Indian citizen which was possible only if I were to be born in India. Kolkata, being only 20 hours journey (maximum) by train from Chennai, sounded more easily accessible for Thaatha-Paati than running to the US for witnessing the birth of their grandchild. Thaatha

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Atrayee Bhattacharya wanted my mom to be in Chennai but her pre-existing health problems made him a bit more emotional to fulfil her desire to be with her mom. On 25th November, 1992, an extremely fair, thin baby girl with lush dark pink lips was born. That was me, yours truly. My Thaatha and Paati came directly from Howrah station to see me in NRS hospital where I was born. The nurse handed me over to Diya who requested Thaatha to give me my name. “Katyayini.” Thaatha smiled with teary eyes. “She is born in the land of Durga. She is born to one of the strongest women that I have ever seen. May she blend the goodness of both the cultures! Her name will be Katyayini Krishnan.” He wiped his tears and hugged Dadu. It took a fraction of second for Diya to give me a nick name, Kutu. She started cuddling me, referring to me and talking about me with the name Kutu. Kutu or Kootu is the name of a coconut based vegetable gravy of Tamilians and it amazed my Thaatha-Paati. The very concept of nick names itself was new to them. They were more shocked to know that only very close relatives of my mom knew her by her good name, i.e. Arundhati, otherwise everyone knew her as Tia. Tia is the Bengali word for parrot. A girl being referred to as a parrot was hilarious for them. Invariably as I grew older, even my Thaatha- Paati started calling me Kutu. The name Katyayini remained only in the papers. I was fortunate to hear my good name in schools, colleges, from the mouth of

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Three Days of Catharsis my teachers and of course from my non-Indian neighbours. That is the beauty of being Bengali, or in my case, half-Bengali. Your good name abided by all the rules of naming a child in Hindu culture. It would be very meaningful but you would never be called by that name. You would have something called daak- naam (nickname), which would be a shortened version of your good name bearing no meaning at all!!! Sometimes if the shortened good name did not sit well on the tongue, then the daak-naam would be the name of a bird, flower, fruit or some alliteration of mellifluous sounds. Most importantly, the daak-naam gets modified while showering love. In my case, Kutu sometimes became Kutush, Kotaash, Kuteshwari, Kutti and many more. O “Childhood happiness knows no earthly domains All work and play for no personal gains Knows no boundaries or earthly pains And the memory remains and the memory remains….” As I turned the first page of Tuku‟s album, one of the best photos of my childhood was pasted on the black album sheet with this tagline. The photo had Tuku, Karthik and me laughing while playing in a park in Berkeley. It was the year 2002 when Maani and Tuku came to the US during Tuku‟s summer break. He was just a 9-year old boy, overwhelmed with the joy of travelling abroad. He requested Maani to capture all the possible moments as he had to brag to his friends

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Atrayee Bhattacharya about his sister staying in “America.” This photo was captured so beautifully that the true innocence of childhood was reflected upon our expressions. It was not the innocence which grabbed my attention. It was the series of events which took place during that time which was evoking the nostalgia within me. I visualized the scene of a 10-year old Kutu entering the house holding Maani‟s chunni and wiping a few drops of tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. That was the first time when I enquired about the reason behind this weird nickname. As I lay down with the album ensconced in my bosom, a few incidents of the year 2002 swam into focus. It was not a dream. I was not dreaming. It was a lucid and vivid recollection of the past incidents, more like a motion picture where I was the audience, as well as the actor playing the parts. O “Ki holo abaar?” My mom peeped out of the kitchen while wiping her hand on the kitchen towel and enquired Maani about my latest bout of nagging. “I won‟t play with Karthik and I want my name to be changed. I hate my name.” By not getting anything to hide my face, I closed my face with my palms and curled my body within the 1/4th part of the sofa that I had flopped onto. My mom came, pulled me with all the force she could muster, made me sit on her lap while my “facepalm” posture continued. “Ki hoyeche?” It was the first time I could sense some sort of seriousness in Mom‟s soft yet firm voice. Her voice reflected the determination of her decision

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Three Days of Catharsis to make me understand certain facts of my life. I still remember each and every word uttered by her on that very particular day. I was quite young at that time to understand the whole of it. But as I grew older and faced different situations in my life, I gradually understood the gravity of what she meant on that day. It was a bright sunny day which made all the kids to go and play outside. I was overjoyed as it was the first time Tuku was in my house, playing with my toys, sharing my room and many more things what I had always dreamt of in the past few years, when I used to visit Kolkata during my vacations. I was more upset that day because my name was made fun of in front of Tuku. Those tears shed by me on that day were proving to be difficult to wipe for my mom. When Mom took me in her lap, I was sure she would say the same old story of forgetting and she would provide me with a piece of white chocolate. But this day proved to be different. She was not in a mood to convince me for anything. She was all prepared to make me strong, to make me understand and to make me realize that I was different as an individual. I was a blend of two different cultures. The two cultures to which I belonged to were vastly different from each other. To the extent that what was good in one culture was considered not so good in the other. It was not the issue of the name anymore. It was high time to make me realize that there were thousands of other differences in between the two cultures and I as an

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Atrayee Bhattacharya individual would need to strike the right balance between the two in order to survive. “Do you know the meaning of your name shona? Your name is Katyayini, another name of Durga. Katyayini is one of the nine forms of Durga. She was created to slay the demons in the form of obstacles. You were named Katyayini as you were born to strong parents whose love was unfettered from all the hurdles of destiny. Your Thatha named you as Katyayini to handle any situation in life and to overcome any struggles.” She smiled at me and before I could reveal my actual hatred towards my nickname, she appreciated my thoughts and continued, “And your nick-name, it means nothing. It is just a way of showering love. My mother called you Kutu when she held you in her arms since your feathery soft body felt quite the opposite of a strong name like Katyayini. A soft and cute name, Kutu, blossomed in her mind. You have asked me so many times about the existence of two names for you. It is an age old tradition in the Bengali custom.” She pulled me closer to her bosom, lifted my face and kissed my forehead and continued in a tender yet firm voice. “Kutu, we belong to a country where each corner speaks a different language, where each person follows a different custom and tradition, and where each one of us is distinguished from the other by religion, caste and creed. You belong to a Tamilian father and a Bengali mother, both belonging to different cultures and we speak two entirely different

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Three Days of Catharsis languages in our respective homes. Your mind is too innocent to understand what I am telling you now. But as you grow old, you will come to understand everything and you will come to terms with your unusual existence. I don‟t want to burden your thoughts but you must understand one thing. You are a mixture of two cultures. In my Bengali culture, there is a concept of nick-name, whereas in your father‟s Tamilian culture it is not there. Kutu means nothing in Bangla, but it is a side-dish in Tamil. Whatever it may mean, in either of the cases, it means something good isn‟t it? You love Diya so much, then how can you hate the name what she gave you? Moreover, you love to eat kootu, then how can you not like your name? Remember one thing Kutu, you are a blessed child. You get to learn about Thakumaar jhooli as well as Kannagi Kovalan. You understand almost four languages at the tender age of ten. You cherish the company of four different categories of friends. You relish avial and aalo posto with the same gusto and you know which festival will fetch you a Rosogolla and which one Sakkarai .” She winked and put one rosogolla into my mouth and hugged me tight. “Kutu Shona, you are worried over such a petty issue of Karthik teasing your nickname. Just think once before fretting. Karthik is one of your first friends. You guys have literally grown up together. Can you be away from him? You are crying over his teasing. But don‟t you enjoy the fact that every day you get to taste a variety of delicacies from each

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Atrayee Bhattacharya corner of India? Starting from idly-dosa for breakfast to Aloo-parantha for dinner. Life is very beautiful shona. These small banters will be stored in your little mind. When you grow old and become as busy as your Dad, reliving these memories in whatever spare time you will have is what will give you the most pleasure.” I was baffled with Mom‟s words and before the sweetness of the rosogolla in my mouth could die out, I understood the most important fact of my life. I was a bit different from the other Indian children and my life would be a bit unusual if not difficult. Both my parents were very persuasive people. They could convince me with their thoughts and views in all the phases of my life so far. They were a bit different from the other parents. Where the other parents had to bribe their child to obey them, my parents took a fraction of a second to make me realize the fine line between infatuation and true love. I was not an easy person to convince and I hardly rolled over. But their thoughts and their way of expressing it along with their convincing abilities could win over me in all the stages of my life. Of course, being parents they never led me astray. But their actual power of persuasion is reflected in their own love story. It was not just any other inter-cultural marriage. The existing intricacies of intercultural marriages were accompanied with one big twist. A complication in Mom‟s health. O

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Three Days of Catharsis After my parents finished their Master‟s and Dad shifted his base to the US to pursue his Doctoral degree, my mom preferred to join in JNU itself. By that time, they both had already revealed their love to their respective parents. Thatha and Paati were a bit more outgoing on the aspect of intercultural marriage. Dad was their only child, whom they trusted implicitly. Most importantly, in one of their visits to JNU, they met my mom and fell in love with her soft yet confident personality. Dadu was dead against the marriage due to obvious reasons. However, as my parents were not planning to get married immediately, they concentrated on their careers first and ignored the issue of marriage for the time being. Research life was proceeding on full steam. Then on one fine day, my mom fainted in her lab. She was diagnosed with a very rare form of cancerous disease in her right optic nerve. She lost vision in her right eye and was left with a continued numbness and pain in the head for the rest of her life. It left not only a physical trauma for Mom but also an emotional trauma for her parents. She was their first child. First child, not only by birth but she was the supreme amongst all the other cousins. Dadu decided that she would receive nothing but the best treatment and for which they had to go all the way to Christian Medical College (CMC), Vellore. CMC was one of the best hospitals in India at that time and their neurology department was top-notch. But Vellore was a relatively alien land for Dadu, Diya and Mom. When

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Dadu and Diya were finding it difficult to manage this long course of treatment in that alien land, the only hand which held them was Dad‟s. He preponed his annual leave to meet Mom and to help her parents with the hospital procedures. Dad was not the only one. Thatha and Paati were equally supportive too. They did not hesitate to offer any help whatsoever for one of the costliest treatments at that time. One prolonged years‟ worth of treatment later, my mom was declared unfit for any sort of strenuous job. She approached many research organisations but since she was declared physically unfit, they were hesitant to recruit her. Mom‟s dream to pursue research was shattered but her dream to excel in life remained intact. She started teaching private tuitions as she went back to Kolkata. It was a demanding job as well but it temporarily quelled her worries. Additionally, she found it to keep her parents alive and normal. As my father stepped into the third year of his Ph.D, he came to Kolkata along with Thatha-Paati for formally asking my mom‟s hand in marriage. Dadu opposed it outright citing two reasons, which according to him remains valid even today. The first and foremost was my mom‟s critical health condition. According to him, he couldn‟t shift his share of responsibility to someone else. The second and equally important reason was the difficulties his daughter would face while trying to match the expectations of an entirely different culture. Thatha was an emotional person. He held my Dadu‟s hand

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Three Days of Catharsis and uttered “Arundhati is my daughter Sir. She is not a responsibility. She is an emotional asset. I wish I were the father of such a strong woman.” Dadu broke down into tears but still kept saying NO for the union. Mom remained silent, not because she didn‟t want to marry Dad. That could not be possible. He was her life and her only hope to survive. He was her source to keep herself abreast of the latest happenings in the world of research. Her silence stemmed from her physical incapacities. Her mind was unable to come to terms with her present condition and was starting to think of herself as a burden. All was not lost yet, for the only man who did convince Dadu was Dad himself. I heard about all of this in a family get together in Diya‟s house and the gossiping of Mom‟s cousins regarding the very special day of her marriage talks still remains fresh in my mind. Listening to how the whole thing happened left me well and truly spellbound. The dramatic dialogue deliveries by my great father mesmerized the whole Bhattacharya clan. The scenario played out thus. When the marriage talks took place, Dadu was citing examples of all the possible hurdles while Diya was enjoying the company of Paati in discussing the various rituals of Iyer marriages. Dadu thoughts were focussing on the differences in the two cultures while the two ladies in the bedroom were making adjustments amongst the rituals of both the sides. The physical incapacity of Mom, which was the prime

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Atrayee Bhattacharya emphasis for Dadu, was overshadowed by the talks of Tussars and Kanjivarams in the bedroom. Dadu‟s citation of different timings of kanyadaan paled in comparison to the talks about gifting the relatives. It was amazing to witness the two mothers almost finalizing everything of the marriage without having the slightest hint about what was going on in the hall amongst the male members of the family. It seemed they got to know about the issues raised by Dadu, only when they heard Dad speaking. “Uncle, with due respect to all the elders present here, I would like to speak. I know I am not of the stature to talk about marriage but I am mature enough to understand what life is about. I totally agree that marriage is the union of two families and not only two people. It is always in the best interests if the two of them belong to the same culture and follow the same customs. A mango is always kept with other mangoes but does it get spoiled if it is kept with a banana? No. After all, the mixture of mango and banana in a milk shake makes for one tasty drink. There is a mere adjustment every individual does to exist in this world and to maintain any sort of relationship. My parents, aunty and you, along with every married couple present in this room made some compromises to maintain a healthy marital life. Yes, cultural differences dominate in case of this marriage, but we are not born accomplished. We learn new things every day. It is love towards life what keeps us going along with the zeal to learn. Love doesn‟t provide us with a

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Three Days of Catharsis bed of roses, but it definitely imparts the strength to face thorns of life. Life is a struggle for all of us but love is the elixir which keeps us alive.” Dad swallowed, held Dadu‟s hand and continued. “I love your daughter and we both are mature enough to declare our love as love and not infatuation. I am a person of science. I know scientific logic. When two good things blend, the outcome is always fruitful. We don‟t belong to the same culture. True. But I believe both cultures are good enough to blend effectively and efficiently. Apart from cultural disparities, your prime concern is with Arundhati‟s health. Yes, she is suffering from an incurable disease. Nobody can predict her future, not even the best of doctors. But who knows what future holds for all of us? Can we stop living due to the uncertainties of future? No. You are not shifting your responsibilities. Arundhati is an integral part of my life. The only responsibility you will be shifting on my shoulders is to keep your daughter happy for the rest of her life. Believe me; I shall fulfil that duty till my last breath. I just want her to spend her life like a normal woman of her age. What are you worried for? My divided attention between my career and my wife? I am ready to serve her tea when she wakes up with a bad headache. I am ready to massage her numb limbs even in the middle of the night. I have no problem in making her sit on the commode when her vision is blurred. I want to see her smile when I wake up in the morning. I want her to enquire about my hectic

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Atrayee Bhattacharya research day when I come back home. If tomorrow anything happens to her, I want to be the first person to hold her hand. Next time, when she sheds tears, I want my shoulder to be present for her to lean onto and seek solace. Don‟t think I am doing any favour by marrying your daughter. I am marrying her because I want to spend the rest of my life with her. If I know Mr. Bipan Bhattacharya well, he would like to see his daughter leading a normal life even with all the abnormalities. I can and I shall take care of your daughter. You know me since the very first day of my JNU life. If I could fulfil my desire to achieve a Ph.D degree from one of the renowned universities in the world, I shall definitely fulfil each and every word I uttered today. Your daughter is in safe hands and will flourish in life with loads of love and no tears.” Dad wiped his tears and waited patiently for the elders to respond. Dadu raised one final question. “And what about your children? Will you be able to teach them about both the cultures? A Tamilian by name and Bengali by etiquette?” He sighed. My maternal side was a joint family at that time. Though Dadu cited all the possible future problems, he couldn‟t compete with the charm of Dad. Dad could win over the hearts of all the other family members. His princely looks along with a humble nature made it impossible for anyone to ignore him. Even Mom‟s grandmother, who was in her 80‟s, couldn‟t stop praising Dad. Everyone in the

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Three Days of Catharsis Bhattacharya family vetoed Dadu‟s thoughts and welcomed the Iyers whole-heartedly. Within a period of eleven months, all required arrangements were done and the marriage was performed grandiosely in the suburbs of Kolkata. O A weird sound emanating from a loosened screw of the window pane disturbed my thoughts and brought me crashing down to the present. As I got up to close the window, I heard Diya calling my name. “Shush ni ekhono (not yet slept)?” Diya had a very weird idea about the time difference of different parts of the globe. According to her, I should do all my activities as per my Singapore schedule. I should go to bed by 8.30 PM Indian time as it would be 11 PM Singapore time. By the time I could respond, she was already there in my room. “Are you crying?” She came closer to me and almost peeped into my eyes. I nodded in disapproval, flexed and stretched my arms. Diya held me close, so close that I could hear her heart beat. “Ki bhabhchish? I know you are thinking something.” She raised her eyebrows. “I am not thinking about anything new Diya. Tuku left this album for me. I was just turning the pages and got drowned in the memories of the past. By the way, did you know that Kutu means a side dish in Tamil?” I smiled with my “almost” sleepy eyes.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Oto jaani na baapu. I knew “Katyayini” would have broken my teeth even before grey hair could pop onto my head. Kutu sounded very sweet and close to your good name. Big names are only for schools. Nick names are for families. Why are you asking this now? Is everything alright?” Her soft voice was laced with suspicion. “Nothing Diya. I was just wondering how this small name managed to leave so many memories whereas my „hefty good name‟ restricted itself only to the documents.” I laughed and requested Diya to fondle my head. Diya smirked and continued, “There exist certain things what you cannot take out from your life shona. You are bound to adhere to the qualities of both families. Daak naam is an integral part of Bengalis. You haven‟t seen your mom‟s grandfather. He was a pious man and a staunch devotee of Lord . My son was his first grandson. Overjoyed with the fact of receiving a grandson he named him Madan, another name of Lord . You don‟t know how embarrassed your Maams used to feel when he was called by that name. There was nothing wrong in the name. It was a meaningful name and of course a very good one amongst Brahmins. But, the name was very old fashioned which made your Maams hate it. Still, his love and respect for his grandfather made him obey everything. There are certain things in everyone‟s life what one wants to change, but sometimes we do continue with whatever we have,

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Three Days of Catharsis just for the sake of others. I knew you always disliked this concept of two names.” I smiled and kept turning the pages of the album and was gradually pushed down the memory lane to relive the unforgettable moments of my life. Fortunately as I was not born in the US, I was not sharing the plight of Gogol of „Namesake‟ fame. But I did have a share of my worries while mingling with the kids having only one name. As I grew up with two names, I was well acquainted in responding to both Katyayini and Kutu. But today I could appreciate the confusion of a 10 year old kid while referring to me as Katyayini in school and Kutu at home. I could understand the hesitance of my cousins back in Chennai to call me Kutu. Karthik‟s teasing did leave a profound mark in my life. It constantly reminded me that though I was a Tamilian by virtue of my father‟s name in the surname column, I had Bengali blood coursing through my veins as well. Dad always states poignantly that I am a successful hybrid which managed to withstand all the adverse conditions of life. Was my life really so simple? Did I really withstand all those hardships? Did he ever know how I felt when my Bengali cousins made fun of my love towards idly? Did he ever peep into my childhood days when my urge to eat mutton was disgusting for my Tamil cousins? Did my parents ever notice my eyes searching for some friends in the classes where I was held at an arm‟s length

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Atrayee Bhattacharya due to my surname? I think they could never decipher. The plight of my teacher for my unintended responses in Bangla remained unnoticed by them. Life was never simple, though it was beautiful nevertheless. Hybrids become successful in a laboratory. Sometimes they do get publicised efficiently in the market as well. But acceptance of a product always lies with the customer. Nobody knows what goes on in a customer‟s mind. It takes some time for accepting any new product, no matter how much publicity was done for it. I was a hybrid offshoot of an intercultural marriage. My parents tried their best to impart all the goodness of both their cultures. Their efforts did not go in vain. I was of course a blend of the richness of Bengal and Tamilnadu. But I was never fully accepted by either of them as one of their own. My tired mind and the sleepy eyes enjoyed Diya‟s fondling thoroughly. I did not know when I drifted off to sleep. W

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Three Days of Catharsis

hapter C 4

P “Uthe por, uthe por. It‟s already 9.” Maams‟s croaking poked my eardrums. Before I could open my eyes completely, I felt the bright sunlight piercing through my eyes. Maams was opening all the windows and gathered the long maroon satin curtains to the sides which allowed the dazzling sunlight and a fresh crisp breeze to fill the room. Apart from nature, the room was also filled with the noises of people on the road; people eagerly discussing about the fresh vegetables and fish what they had bought, bicycle bells signalling a man very impatient to get to his destination and not to mention the incessant honking of Rickshaw air horns. It was very clear to my groggy mind that I was no longer in silent honk free Singapore but in the homely chaotic suburbs of Kolkata. “Mmm!! Good morning.” I mumbled with a long yawn. It was Saturday. Maams was in his usual weekend elements. He is someone who doesn‟t even bother to keep his tea cups in the kitchen sink from Monday to Friday, but tries to do every possible odd job during the weekends. It is not his fault really. He

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Atrayee Bhattacharya remains so busy during the weekdays that he hardly gets time to diversify his thoughts towards doing household chores. But the guilt gradually seeps into him during the weekends and he tries to do something to keep himself preoccupied. His efforts are rarely appreciated as he tends to go over-the-top and ends up being clumsy due to his mere ignorance. Mom used his messing-up stories as a tool to fascinate me so much that it enabled her to feed me what I did not like without a grumble from my side. I too had the privilege to witness his weekend antics which fetched him no reward but grumbling from Maani and Diya. Opening curtains and windows apart from waking up every possible children of the family formed a part of his weekend duties which he takes up voluntarily. I woke up lazily, struggled with my spectacles and found Tuku‟s album lying on the computer table. Diya might have placed it there last night. I did not remember anything from last night except for Diya‟s fondling of my hair. Diya‟s fingers and palm had roughened over time partly due to her age and partly due to decades spent in the kitchen. Nevertheless when she fondles one‟s hair, it remarkably induces miracle sedation. It is a natural antidepressant. One would drown into a deep and peaceful sleep and could be woken up only by some similar croaking like Maams‟ voice. I had taken up residence in the computer room in spite of Diya and Maani‟s repeated invitations to their respective bedrooms. I always preferred to stay in the computer room whenever I

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Three Days of Catharsis came to Kolkata. The feather light and spacious single bed with a typical Bengali kolbaalish (side-pillow), four big windows, and an attached balcony to witness the nitty-gritties of the common man on the roads, not to mention the desktop computer for aimless internet wanderings always stole my preference for this room. This room was in between the ground and first floors and I have always called it „The Hanging Room‟ since my childhood. As I climbed the stairs to go to the washroom, a sudden thought cropped up in my mind. Was there any special reason for my affinity towards „The Hanging Room‟? With each step I moved forward, my half asleep mind extruded thoughts vis-à-vis the pseudopodia of an amoeba. Some „hanging‟ thoughts. I was hanging in between Chennai and Kolkata. I was hanging between Mandarin and Maatribhaasha. My identity was perceived to be hanging between Thayir sadam and Maacher jhol. While ascending the last few steps, I realized that throughout my childhood, my perception towards art hung between Rabindrasangeet and Bharatanatyam. Literature betrayed me too. My nascent mind was confused with the plethora of choices what both Tamil and Bangla literature had to offer. Taking refuge in English literature seemed the safest choice at that time to avoid inflicting emotional distress upon either of my parents. “Hoyeche? What happened to the KFC chicken?” Maams giggled while turning the first page of The Telegraph. I was thrown off balance by the sudden

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Atrayee Bhattacharya query when I came out of the bathroom. The fraction of second what I needed for responding, was vehemently snatched by Maani. She yelled at Maams for talking „dirty‟ things to a young woman. Anybody who was new to the family wouldn‟t comprehend what Maams was referring to. But I was completely thorough with his „bad‟ jokes and stupid babblings. He was referring to the early morning ablutions which nature demanded. I laughed and nodded my head while handing over Dadu his second cup of tea for the morning. Dadu enquired about my sleep and health as he had witnessed my travails of jet lag many a time before. He is a man who never dwells in the past. After last evening‟s heated discussion, I was a wee bit hesitant, but he did not even show a slightest sign of solemnity. He was as normal as ever and I could perceive his normalcy when he joined Maams in teasing me. They do this every time, not only to me but to every child of the family. Talking over stupid things is the favourite pass time of this family. As Maams rightly says, “We have our office to pay us for serious talks. Why should I break my head on serious issues without earning a single penny?” It is not only this family where stupid talks take centre stage on a weekend morning. Every family, irrespective of caste and creed, enjoy lighter moments of life when the day is not controlled by a clock. These kinds of talks prevail in Chennai house too. Moreover, I should rate them to be a step ahead of Kolkata folks. It is always a no holds barred

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Three Days of Catharsis conversation in Chennai. There is no age or gender discrimination. I can proudly declare gender equality in this corner of India during the brainless and inane banter. Discussing the menstrual dates of women holds prominence whenever there is nothing to talk about except temple-visits. Sharing the experience of the first night of conjugal life is spoken jocularly. Discussions of nature‟s call seemed trite when compared to the aforementioned. But there exists a grey area of comfort in every individual which remains privy to one‟s-self and not meant for intrusion. Both my parents had difficulties in understanding as well as dealing with the vagaries of their respective in-laws. They faced intrusions which forced them to turn uncouth sometimes. They remain extremely affectionate and loving to their extended family but after all they are mere mortals and not The Supreme One to withstand meddling in their lives. I still remember one serious discussion which occurred between Thatha and Mom during our first visit to Chennai after shifting base to Singapore. O Dad was offered a full time professorial position in Nanyang Technological University (NTU), Singapore. I was 11 years old at that time. We shifted our base to greener pastures for the sake of my dad‟s career. In NTU, he was entitled for an annual leave of 30 days. The culture of selling off and moving out in the US meant we couldn‟t take many of our pre-existing things to Singapore. Dad‟s books, Mom‟s

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Atrayee Bhattacharya innumerable range of sarees and a few unavoidable things alone made their way to Singapore. We visited India to enable Paati to pack half a dozen different ready to mix and eat Podis, not to mention special utensils like idli thattu, paniyaram thattu etc. which according to her was Survival kit 101. Fortunately the immediate visit was made possible due to the proximity of Singapore to Chennai. It was a bright Sunday in Chennai and I was enjoying the dappled warmth of the December sun while gambolling about on the lush green garden grass. I was taking pleasure in my efforts to stare at the sun eye-to-eye when it was interrupted by the babel from inside. My inquisitive nature forced me to get up and go inside in order to personally overhear what was happening. I ended up witnessing raised eyebrows, frowning faces and high pitched serious talks around the dining table. The furore was over Mom‟s availability to visit the family temple. The elders were talking about possible dates of travel, which Mom was not confident of. Credit goes to sex education classes in school which enabled me to guess that they were talking about Mom‟s menstrual cycle. “Enna achu? What wrong did I ask?” Thatha raised his voice. The raising of the voice was not signifying his anger but that of surprise. Raised voices are very common in Chennai house. Dad‟s side discuss everything in such a loud tone that sometimes I wondered if they were a source of entertainment for the neighbours.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Nothing.” My mom sighed and busied herself with some odd jobs. “No. I want to know Arundhati. Why don‟t you like me asking about the dates? What is wrong in that?” As Thatha completed his sentence, Paati and Dad expressed their disgust towards his habit of continuing this unwarranted conversation. “I don‟t like such talks Daddy. You are my maamanar (father-in-law). You must maintain some dignity. It is not only because of our relationship but more because you are a MAN. There are certain things a man must not enquire.” Mom heaved a sigh. “But I can enquire about your health and when you will be free to visit the temple, is it not? Enna da Krishnan? Enna Ma?” Thatha looked towards Dad and Paati for a favourable response but received a stony silence instead. My Dad and Paati belong to that category of people who don‟t interfere in conversations until compulsions arrive. “But, there is a way of asking Daddy. You must enquire these details from Amma. You can ask me to tell you when I will be free, but cannot keep on discussing my 3rd or 4th day over a cup of coffee. It‟s ridiculous. I mean you are an elderly man who must know how to talk and what to talk to whom. I am sorry everybody. I cannot accept these kinds of discussions. I am not habituated of these and I prefer not to get habituated either. There are certain things what I wish to keep private and if you want to peep into my privacy, I prefer a specific way of doing it.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Mom wiped her teary eyes and took excuse from the gathering. I do remember the vivid discussions between Paati, Dad and Thatha, where Thatha was made to understand that different individuals have different boundaries for comfort zones. If an individual is not happy with crossing that boundary line, he must respect their feelings. Life was not very smooth for Dad either. There were numerous incidents when his thayir saadam was a source of laughter in Kolkata. There were times when I witnessed his loneliness amongst hundreds of Bengali relatives during festive occasions. Dad is a very patient and pragmatic personality. He definitely might have felt very bad but never spent his time and energy in transforming himself into a foul-mouthed and irate person. I have seen him moving away and seeking solace in solitude itself. There were times when his acts made me understand one of the basic facts of life. SOLITUDE IS BLISSFUL!!! I think each one of us mature gradually in life and reach a stage where we learn to IGNORE. The same happened with my parents. They never interfered in each other‟s food habits, culture, language and traditions. They tried to imbibe the good things from their partner and ignored the things what was not possible for them to follow. Neither Mom forced Dad to eat fish nor did Dad ask Mom to eat curd rice. During the family gatherings in Kolkata, Mom‟s plate had the gravy of mutton rezala seeping its way

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Three Days of Catharsis to chingri maacher malai curry through the heaped pulao while my Dad‟s plate would display a quiet intermingling between daal (provided the daal was not prepared with fish head) and paneer. He had at least one company in Maams. Maams is a staunch vegetarian and he ensured that the son-in-law of the family had some yummy food dishes on his plate. Dad was fascinated by Maams being a vegetarian, even though he was born in the land of Hilsa. Gradually, as we attended various functions in Kolkata, we got to see the emergence of various vegetarian side dishes in the caterer‟s menu. Marriages which previously served only fish-fries as appetizers gradually started providing one additional vegetarian dish as well. Maacher diye moong daal (daal flavoured with fish head) was losing ground and Dal makhani started gaining prominence. Similarly chaanar kofta, paneer paaturi, mochar chop marked their attendance in many occasions after my parents‟ marriage. Their marriage had a delectable and widespread menu for both vegetarian and non-vegetarian guests. I was astounded to hear that vegetarian food items were consumed more than fish and mutton when their marriage witnessed the gathering of more than 300 non-vegetarian guests. As Maams rightly puts “Non veg attracts but Veg always steals the show.” In my case, I grabbed whatever was thrown at me. Neither did I ignore anything nor did I run away to solitude. Credit goes to my parents as they laid a foundation for me with a blend of both Tamilnadu and

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Bengal. When someone made fun of me as being thayir sadam, I skilfully plucked the bones of Hilsa. When someone teased me being a non-vegetarian, I relished my soft fluffy white idlies dipped in piping hot sambar. I never felt bad about any sort of teasing as I discovered at a very early stage of life that I was a bit different from other children who were born to parents belonging to the same culture. I think I was born mature like the microbial laboratory clones created by Dad which were always more efficient than their parents. I like to think of myself as a true culinary connoisseur. Anything that tasted good, I ate. O “Eai naao. Aar ekta debo.” Maani served three steaming hot Radhaballabi with cholar daal to Maams and told about the pending one that was still in the frying pan. My eyes glittered, my taste buds thrilled and my olfactory receptors reached their threshold of activation as the aroma reached the dining table. “Enna? You can‟t wait Kutu. I know. I am bringing your plate too.” Maani winked, smiled and while going back to the kitchen advised me to have only four as she was planning to cook a number of delectable items for the lunch. Her wink was for that „enna‟. She always does this, uttering Tamil occasionally, though she only knows a few words. Before I could blink I found Maani coming out of the kitchen with a plate heaped with puffed Radhaballabi. I did not take even a fraction of second to reach the

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Three Days of Catharsis dining table and gorge on my favourite Bengali breakfast item. As I tore my first morsel, I stole a glance at Maani. She seemed to be the happiest soul on seeing me relishing my first meal of the day. It always happens in Kolkata. Since my childhood, I always showed some special interest towards this dish, Radhaballabi-cholar daal. The reason behind my special bond with this dish was the close connection it had with my parents‟ marriage. It was the first item served to the groom‟s side on the Bengali marriage day and if I believe Paati‟s words, it was the best dish to introduce Bengal to the cluster of Tamilians who assumed no vegetarian dish could be so yummy in the land of fish. But, how I got to taste it? That was a different story altogether. Quite a hilarious one too. O “Arundhati, I want to have the first item tonight. Can you make it?” Dad uttered, while sitting on the sofa to remove his shoes. It was definitely a Friday evening, though I don‟t remember the exact date. We were in the US and I was around 5 years old. On Fridays, Dad used to come back early as per the rules of the University. I was fidgeting around with the new jigsaw puzzle what Dad had got me last week. I saw Mom smiling and nodding her head. I conjectured about something special and placed myself on Dad‟s lap. He cuddled me and placed a warm kiss on my forehead. With my intrusive eyes I raised my eyebrows and enquired about the “first item.” Both my

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Atrayee Bhattacharya parents laughed and told that it‟s a special dish of Diya. At that tender age, it was very difficult to make me distinguish between Tamilian and Bengali appetizers. Dad found a better way. He started referring to Bengali food items as Diya‟s food and Tamilian items as Paati‟s. That was quite easy for a child to follow. Moosurir daal was Diya daal for a long time. Similarly Sambar was rechristened as Paati daal. I heard a grinding sound, sneezed over the strong smell of hing, shut my eyes and ears to the pressure cooker‟s high pitched whistling and finally found a round puffed poori like food served with liquid gravy. This cousin of poori was my Dad‟s first item. It acquired its name since their marriage. Dad poked his index finger into the puffed first item, tore a small bit of it, dipped it into the gravy (cholaar daal) and swallowed the piece within a few seconds. I witnessed him enjoying the bliss. As I moved my hand to replicate Dad‟s act, Mom held my hand and cried “Bhishon gorom (Very hot)!” English loses its eminence in my house during emergency. Both my parents exclaim in their respective mother tongues while protecting me from any harm. I moved my hand back as I could sense the steam coming out of my plate. Mom said she would feed me first. Before Mom could plan to ignore her dinner and concentrate on feeding me, Dad had already torn my food into smaller pieces so that I could enjoy it on my own.

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Three Days of Catharsis “What‟s this mom? It‟s so yummy.” The five year old small me, uttered in a typical American accent. “I want some more. But not this liquid. It is not spicy. It is sweet.” I made a schhick sound with my mouth which was drooling while relishing the “first item” “This is called -ballabi and this liquid is Cholaar daal.” Mom smiled, overjoyed to see her own flesh and blood relishing the dish from Bengal. “Mom will give you some more. Finish this first and eat it with this.” Dad pointed me to the daal. As I showed my disinterest towards it, the king of persuasion Dr. Krishnan, managed to convince me eating the daal as it would prevent me from going to the doctor uncle. As the recipe is a bit heavy, I could manage to have only two small Radhaballabis at that age. The name was quite big and confusing for me. I still remember this particular exchange of words when I professed my inability to eat further. Me: Mom, I am full. I cannot eat this Radhakrishna anymore. Mom: Ha aar kheo na shona. Don‟t eat, otherwise Kansa will crop up in your stomach. O That laughter of my parents echoed in my ears as I licked my present plate clean. Dadu who was supposed to take oats couldn‟t resist the yummy

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Atrayee Bhattacharya breakfast what others were having. He too had a taste of Maani‟s Radhaballabi. “Dosa banaona keno or jonno?” As Dadu enquired about not making Dosas for me, I revealed my love towards the provided breakfast. Though he smiled but his eyes reflected his disbelief. He penetrated my view so deeply that for a second even I doubted the truth what I spoke a few minutes back. Maani consoled him by telling Thursday‟s breakfast menu was Dosa. If one makes a list of good things that happened due to this intercultural marriage, I am sure the intermixing of various dishes will find a place among the top five. Where making round and crispy dosas became a habit of Diya, aalor dum and bhaaja moong daal became a household name in Chennai. This acclaim definitely goes to my mother who really toiled smart in the kitchen of both houses. In her own house, which was located in a foreign land, she was the supreme in her kitchen. Her passion for cooking and her unconditional love towards Dad made her learn all the delicacies of South India. She gathered knowledge about thokkus, chutneys, podis and many more from whichever source possible. Google and blogs were not so famous at that time for learning recipes. Apart from the „encyclopaedia of Tamil recipes‟ which is Paati, Mom never hesitated to enquire even to my Bharatanatyam class friends‟ mothers. There were times when I waited impatiently outside dance class only for Mom to finish jotting down some important recipes to be prepared for a

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Three Days of Catharsis specific occasion. Implanting Bengali dishes in Paati‟s kitchen was a bit easy as Paati was very keen to learn cooking the innumerable delicacies she had relished during the marriage. Diya and others couldn‟t get a proper chance to admire Tamil cuisines as the Reception party held in Chennai served the guests with a lot of North Indian dishes and very few culinary delights of Tamilnadu like dosa and thayir sadam. In a house where different varieties of fish take prominence in the everyday menu, it was really difficult for Mom to insert kootus, avials and dosa- idly. But, there was a ray of hope through Maams. Tamil vegetarian cuisines stole his attention as he was saturated with the vegetarian dishes Bengal could provide. Gradually during the fragment of every annual vacation spent in Kolkata, Mom could inject a desire to try cooking Tamil cuisine into Diya. Making batter was a bit tedious for Diya but was luckily unravelled by the ready-to-eat mixes of dosa-idly available in the market. For me it was a win-win situation. I could enjoy anything anywhere by then. As I went inside the kitchen to keep my plate in the sink, I saw a big chunk of paneer immersed in hot water, a huge heap of cut cauliflower florets and at least thirty pieces of tiger prawn waiting to be cooked. “Eto keno?” I literally yelled as I was shocked on seeing the amount of food yet to get cooked after this heavy breakfast. “Thia is coming today.” Diya smiled and looked at Maani, who had wanted Thia‟s visit to be a surprise

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Atrayee Bhattacharya for me. Though Maani complained and nagged Diya for a while, we were all excited about Thia‟s visit. Thia, a.k.a Mahashweta Bhattacharya, is Mom‟s 1st cousin brother‟s daughter. A real scholar, she was awarded with Kishore Vigyaan Parishad Yojana (KVPY) scholarship for graduation and UGC-NET scholarship for pursuing her PhD in Sociology in JNU. I am alien to all these scholarship proposals that prevail in Indian educational system. As per the information I garnered from Dad, these scholarships are very difficult to avail in a country where caste reservation takes centre stage. Though I am an ignoramus when it comes to scholarships in India, one thing that I was sure of was Thia‟s profound intelligence and agnostic knowledge. She is a frequent visitor to this house as Mom and Maams share a special bond with her father. She is few months elder to me and recently started her Doctoral programme. We both shared similar meaning of our good names. Both refer to some form of Devi . I am not sure about how much justice I could do to the true meaning of my name but Thia is just a reflection of her name. Mahashweta, which refers to the epitome of fairness, perfectly blends with her skin tone. She is just pure white with neither a hint of rosy tint nor a yellowish shade. Her flawless skin is so smooth and clear that the intermingling of blood veins is readily visible. Her blue eyes, rosy pink pout of the lips and a sharp nose confuse many people over her origin. There were times when her mom was asked if she was adopted. It

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Three Days of Catharsis was nothing like that. She is just a replica of her dad. There is a running joke that prevails amongst all the cousins that God wanted to create a boy but came up short on male hormones and organs (for a want of decency) and so Mahashweta the girl was born. With the ringing of the traditional bell used in worshipping God, the oolu sound of Diya and followed by blowing of the holy conch, I realized that the daily morning was over. I tried to laze around a bit but Maams forced me to get ready. “Arey chaaro na. She is a kid. Let her enjoy in mamabari.” Maani shouted from the kitchen but her yell was overshadowed by the spluttering of condiments. By the time her words could reach us, Maams had managed to convince me for taking bath, a Herculean task for me on a Saturday morning especially at 10.30 a.m. “Words don’t come easily. Hmmm mmmm.” “Ki re bero. Come out come out. Too much bathing for a Singaporean.” A sudden bang on the bathroom door interrupted my humming. It was Thia. No one else calls me a Singaporean. My fellow mates back in Singapore did not dare calling me a Singaporean, as that country needs a documental proof even for cracking a joke. My Kolkata relatives try linking every habit of mine with the Bongs. My Tamil relatives never tried anything to make me a Tamilian for they declare I AM A TAMIL IYER because my father is a Tamilian. In a patriarchal society like India, a mother‟s existence doesn‟t matter.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya It is not because my mom is a homemaker. It is just an outcome of the ongoing societal norms that prevail in India. Women exist only to follow the rules. As I grew up, I came about to perceive something wonderful. Man marries a woman and makes her the daughter-in- law of his house. The LAW part which gets attached to the relationship simply signifies that all rules will be implemented on her and she will be the one to carry forward the tradition of her husband‟s family. Though Mom made me a part of Bengali culture, I saw her putting more efforts in implementing Tamil- ism in me. But why was I thinking so much? Why was my mind wandering seeking an identity? I switched off the thinking knob in my brain and took less than a minute to wipe my body and drape a gown. The moment I was out of the bathroom, I found myself clinched within the peaches-and-cream complexioned arms of Thia. “How are you? It‟s been so long since we met.” Thia smiled through her glittering eyes. “What are you saying? We met just two years back. You made me watch Byomkesh and I fell in love with . I met him in Singapore for some movie premiere and as my desperation reached its peak I was informed about his marriage and kids. You trapped me girl.” I burst out laughing. “But this time I have a better reason to meet you. Some analytical point of view. You know.” She winked at me.

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Three Days of Catharsis As we drowned in conversations of the past, present and future, Maani approached us with a tray containing five bowls. Honestly, that tray was offered to Thia as she was the atithi who is considered as God in India. But the tray garnered my attention as I found it to be so colourful and so Bongish. It had four bowls filled with four different sweets namely, rasogolla (no Bengali house is ever without stocking it), pantua (gulab jamun to rest of the world), maladu (what my Paati sent) and kalakand sondesh (a not so sweet milk sweet). The fifth bowl contained Chanachur (Bengali spicy mixture) for a change of taste in between. I shamelessly gulped one pantua within fraction of a second. It was alas but a momentary feast for all the bowls were licked clean without even a trace of a single morsel. Each one of us were conversing with Thia and gulping either a sweet or Chanachur in between discussions. We talked from heaven to earth about nothing in particular and without any of us realizing Maani had readied her delicacies for lunch. “Ki ki banale amar jonno (what all you made for me)?” Thia went inside the kitchen and literally poked her Grecian nose into the prawn curry whilst inhaling its yummy aroma. It was her habit right from childhood days. I had seen her mom squeezing her ears so many times. She relishes food with her nose followed by eyes and finally with her tongue. She is a complete foodie though no one can make it out from her appearance. A perfect blend of a near fat free body, yet seemingly bestowed with the much vaunted

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Atrayee Bhattacharya curves of the quintessential Indian woman, it befuddles me to date as to how she remains so chic and fit. She breezes through without spending a single hour doing exercise and at the same time gobbling on yummy delicacies. Tasty food and low calories rarely go hand in hand, so where her body fat disappears to, remains a case for Holmes and Watson to solve. Even if I eat biriyani only once in a blue moon, Mom makes me run two extra rounds in the jogger‟s park. I wish I were as lucky as Thia whose adipose tissues seem reluctant towards fat storage!!! Thia and I helped Maani arrange the dining table for lunch. Being the head of the family, Dadu was always served food first followed by the others. I served Dadu with a smile and got a warm pat of appreciation. Due to his advancing age, he couldn‟t eat much of the mouth-watering dishes but never failed to praise Maani. Even after switching to his spice-less boiled vegetables and rice, he kept praising about the prawn and the culinary skills of Maani. This is something I am extremely fond of in my Thatha and Dadu. Since the very first day, whatever their respective daughters-in-law cooked for them, they accepted it as if they were offered nectar and ambrosia. There were times when Dad had yelled “Ayyo uppu jaasthi” for extra salt in the food while Thatha patiently licked the whole plate clean and asked Mom not to worry for there were bound to be days when cooking wouldn‟t turn out to be Michelin Starred Chef style. I have witnessed Maams frowning

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Three Days of Catharsis over the extra sweetness in laabra (Bengali mixed vegetable curry) where as Dadu ignored him and comforted Maani about Maams‟ fussy attitude. Thia is a true culinary connoisseur and never says NO to any kind of food. However she was looking a bit apprehensive. I had noticed her unprecedented silence and changed attitude ever since she came. As the others were enjoying the feast, I kept stealing furtive glances to better scrutinize Thia‟s expressions. It seemed as though she was physically present with us but on the inside, her mind was a maelstrom of serious thoughts. Her usually sparkling eyes were unusually clouded with profound inquisitiveness. I felt a specific and significant purpose behind her visit. We were discussing about her JNU Hostel life, her Doctoral programme and of course the prevailing fashion statements in India‟s capital. We were at the peak of our animated discussions and were cut short by Thia‟s sudden choking on her food. It was an atypical response by Thia to a perfectly innocuous question posed by Maani. Maani‟s question was not so difficult. It was a close ended query which could have had a close ended reply as well. She asked if Thia was in love with somebody. Thia‟s choking immediately elicited hundreds of patting on her head by Maani, a glass of water (which was not needed) by Maams and a continuous chanting of aahare-shonare- ma mone korche by Diya. It is an unquestionable superstition that prevails all over India; CHOKING WHILE EATING MEANS SOMEONE IS

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Atrayee Bhattacharya RECALLING YOU. Was it prevalent all over India or amongst all Indians? I have had the privilege of staying in two of the most developed countries in this world and yet was deeply entrenched with rich cultural experiences of a diverse population. Though every Indian speaks a different language and follow a variety of tradition, they manage to unite at one single point (other than cricket of course) - SUPERSTITIONS. While the elders were busy fussing about, her eyes somehow locked onto mine. Her glance lasted for just a few seconds but revealed a million thoughts churning about on the inside. I somehow felt as if she was communicating with me via telepathy with a restless conscience and an imploring confusion and as if she was demanding a solution to her problems. Her eyes seemed to be murmuring the truth but her tongue was tied in knots with apprehension. Her thoughts, hitherto dormant, seemed ready to explode seeking a life. Her inner voice was dictating her but I guessed she lacked the words to speak it out. Her inadvertent choking led to chinks in her bubbly facade she had till then put up and led me to think that she was indeed in love. Though I never experienced my own “true love” story, I had had the privilege of witnessing my parents‟ ever blossoming love for each other. So whenever anybody of my generation felt something close to love, they sought to pursue my opinion. I was neither provided with a set of guidelines to identify true love nor did I try dictating any rule to them. They

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Three Days of Catharsis always approached me with a situation and asked me to find a similar coherence with my parents‟ life. It seemed hilarious most of the times as none of us could believe in sacrifices and compromises what my parents‟ had undergone in their life. Our generation on the other hand, is very calculative. We have a list of pros and cons for every act of ours and invariably cons take prominence when it comes to commitment. The majority of us seem to be self-reliant and most importantly tend to seek happiness within ourselves. Our inner voice plays out the role of a true companion. It also leads to a rather glaring reality in which the bulk populace seeks a partner just for pleasing the biological needs of their bodies. As Paati rightly states, “We are liberal in our thoughts, in our actions and in every phase of our life. We want to enjoy liberty at every cost. Our insatiable desire leaves us in search of the mythical boundless paradise. This generation is like birds, they want to fly higher and higher but with dreams firmly shut in their eyes.” I spent the better part of the next ten minutes to relish and lick the spicy-tangy gravy sticking to the prawns. My mind was thirsting to seek my own identity ever since my interaction with the IIM officials and the conversation with Dadu. However, they were temporarily put on the backburner for my focus was solely on Thia at the moment. As I was finishing off satiating my taste buds, I was offered a list of desserts to choose from.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Maladu. I want maladu Diya.” I pushed the chair and started helping Maani in cleaning the table. “How? I mean how do you do that? I mean negotiating the battle between the two halves of your cultural traits and why the hell do you do that!!! Is it because you want to keep a balance between the two cultures?” Thia asked me in a tremulous voice laced with apprehension and the slightest hint of irritation. The query seemed unusual coming from her. We both stayed connected since the last fifteen years. Our rendezvous initially was restricted to my India visits, but with the advent of Gmail chats and various social networking sites our bond was further strengthened. She never paid attention to me being a cultural hybrid during any of these years. This coming from her all of a sudden, made her sound scatter-brained. It was as if there was an insane urge to ask me something but somehow she was unable to assemble the words. She seemed to have rehearsed a lot for putting up her queries but all her efforts were going in vain. I did not want to test her patience anymore and asked, “Do you need sometime alone with me Thia?” She gushed into an illimitable pleasure as I touched her nerves. “Yes. I need talk to you Kutu.” She whispered even as I was gulping a whole maladu at once. We crossed the stairs and came to my „Hanging Room‟ while elders retired to their respective rooms. “Whah?” I asked her while struggling to fit the maladu into my not so big mouth.

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Three Days of Catharsis “I think I am in love. I dunno.” She grabbed a bottle of water and continued. “He is a South-Indian, Kannadiga.” My saliva, mixed with a few pieces of broken cashews from the maladu, choked my throat. Thia‟s confession of love was not the thing to throw me off balance. It was the sudden appearance of the possibility of another inter-cultural marriage. As Thia tried to help me out, Maani‟s concerned voice reached my ears. “Kichu na Maani.” I managed to raise my voice after a couple of coughs and assured her that I was fine. “Are you alright?” Thia enquired while patting my head. “I am fine. Hmmm. Let‟s talk it out.” I managed to relax on the revolving computer chair with my legs crossed in the aisle between the cot and the book shelf. Before I could progress further Thia‟s vocal cord found its life. My one statement banished her apprehension and her thoughts were ready to become a reality. The time what I wished to devote to her story seemed to be therapeutic for her. Her eyes glittered as she freed her pent-up emotions. “His name is Siddhant Hegde. He is my senior. I mean not in the same field but in Ancient History. We met in a hostel friend‟s birthday party. He is cute, level headed and most importantly his thoughts are intellectually optimal to do justice to our societal norms.” She tried to continue but I interrupted her saying, “Cut the crap. Speak in a normal language.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya According to me, those societal norms and optimal intellect were in no way related to love. She giggled and shifted the responsibility of those huge words to Max Weber, the famous Sociologist. “What is the problem? You are in love. Simple.” I winked and let her continue. “Problem is I don‟t know if it is love. He says he loves me. It might be an infatuation and most importantly if it is love, what does the future hold for us? I mean I am a Bengali who relishes fish in all three meals, who grew up reading , who prefers a contemporary dance style on the tunes of Rabindrasangeet over a grandiose dance concert and many more things what I am unable to figure out right now.” Thia‟s frowning face took a momentary silence. “There is a problem with this University, I guess.” I murmured under my breath. “What?” She broke her silence and raised her eyebrows. “Nothing. You continue.” I was eager to smell what was cooking in her mind. My interest took prominence as this nascent love story was resonating with my parents‟ love life. I was fervent to know the intricacies of thoughts that tinges in one‟s mind when they become an integral cog in an unusual love story. Maybe the same thoughts would have snatched the sleep of many a night for my parents as well. “I don‟t know. How can we love each other? We are so different. Okay. Let me make the next few

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Three Days of Catharsis minutes, a moment of absolute truth. I do love him. But how will I be able to spend my whole life with a person who belongs to an entirely different lifestyle? My palate is so very different from him. When we dine out together, he sticks to the first few pages of the menu showing the vegetarian items while I salivate on the chicken tandoori and kebabs. We couldn‟t even taste anything from each other‟s plate. It was more like those hostel days which forced students to go out and eat together but pay separately for their food. But, yeah! He paid for my dripping saliva over the non-vegetarian items what I had. But can you imagine how it feels? Food is everything to our lives. We can‟t even share our plates, how can we lead a life in the same house?” Thia gulped some water and was desperate to fully open the floodgates of her muddled mind. But I interjected with a very basic doubt. “Are you serious?” “Serious about what?” Thia argued with her beady blue eyes now as wide as saucers. “Of course, I am serious about him.” Emotions brimmed through her eyes while her heart bled fatigue due to her ongoing emotional struggle. “I am asking about the gravity of what you revealed just now. Do you really perceive love only through your taste buds? In this 21st century when we all are fiercely desperate to achieve our dreams, this matter of food preference is a mere insignificant tweak. We belong to a country where plurality is prominent. Each one of us is distinguished from each

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Atrayee Bhattacharya other. I can show you hundreds of South-Indian Brahmins munching on chicken rolls and many Bengalis puking with the smell of fish. Is it a significant point Thia? You are a scholar in Sociology and have enough exposure to cultural differences that advocate the very foundation of this society. Differences must not create a barrier Thia. You as an individual are obviously different from me. Does that make you wrong? No. How does love wither due to differences? Your statement reflects the immortal backwardness of this society. Broaden your scope of thought processing.” I smirked, relaxed my crossed leg and allowed her to continue. “We are not a firm believer of compromises Kutu. We cannot be like your parents. Do you think I can follow any of their rituals at the cost of my luxury? I saw your mom struggling with nine yards sarees. I saw her licking some coconut based gravy with a smile on her face when she desired to have a macherjhol bhaat. It is difficult to forget her struggle with Tamil what she voluntarily participated in learning just to please her in-laws. I have seen your father‟s expressions over the indecorous idlies. I overheard the heated discussions on the topic of you becoming non-vegetarian. Why should I talk only about your mom? Your dad too did face a lot of troubles. You know that. Leave. I don‟t want to upset anybody for the sake of revealing my repressed emotions. I cannot accept anything out of my comfort zone. If you declare me to be commitment-phobic, so

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Three Days of Catharsis be it. Yes. I am afraid of committing to Siddhant. The mere thought of commitment weakens me. The future is bleak.” Thia broke down in tears. Thia‟s tear-soaked eyes baffled me. I was being dragged into desolation where her ruthless accusations, angst and complaints about the niggling issues of inter-cultural marriages were shaking me by my shoulders. It took me some time to compartmentalise my thoughts and frame some thought provoking sentences to console her. I dragged my chair towards her and gathered courage to speak over an issue what I avoid talking about altogether. “Commitment never weakens you Thia. Commit to truth of your life. Truth imparts strength. You are not commitment-phobic. You are just unsure of your abilities. We compromise in every sphere of life. We compromise on the first show of a movie for the sake of an upcoming exam. Don‟t we? We compromise on the cheese smeared pizza for the sake of our newly bought hot-pants. Lastly, we compromise on many a thing to bring a smile on our parents‟ face. Didn‟t you compromise something for studying in this University? You did. Compromising on a luxury delivers our need and what we truly want. It brings comfort in the long run. You are afraid of commitment. You know why? Because you are truly in love with that guy. You don‟t want to disappoint him by your lack of knowledge towards his culture. Do you know that he is also struggling the same way as you are? We all want to fly higher without any

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Atrayee Bhattacharya restrictions and without anyone‟s interference. But if we have to fly high, the journey is going to be long. Won‟t we get bored without a companion?” I giggled, rubbed her shoulder and continued. “Everyone saw my mom struggling. Few people, whom I don‟t want to mention, had a feast for their eyes by seeing my parents‟ brawl. When my parents were tangled in between rituals, customs and relations, they held each other and took it as a challenge. Our whole life is an examination Thia where destiny is the answer sheet and humans are the medium to write. We make our own destiny. Nobody can make us do anything until we give up. Yes, Mom still gets confused with the nine yards saree but it was never a struggle for her. She took the challenge of learning a new culture not for the sake of others but for the sake of her inner peace. Thatha-Paati never expected her to follow any of their rituals. But she did everything to bring a smile on their faces. When good things happen unexpectedly, it brings along an unending joy to our life. You could only see my dad‟s expressions over the uncooked idlies but never got a chance to witness him licking a chochori. You saw my mom trying out Tamil but never heard my dad singing Pagla hawar badol dine.” I paused to take a deep breath and continued. “They celebrated their differences. That is why there was no guilt while serving each other‟s customs. Others are different from us but that doesn‟t mean they are bad or unacceptable. Love just happens Thia.

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Three Days of Catharsis You don‟t have control over it. Culture, creed, caste cannot define an individual in today‟s world. Your way of living defines you. If you meet someone trustworthy, honest and genuinely good don‟t hesitate to make him your companion. If good-looks come along, it‟s a bonus. Sometimes you seek love and sometimes love finds you. Love with wisdom and practicality is bliss but love with selfishness brings misery. My humble advice is to stop worrying about rituals and blah blah. We hardly get time to breathe in our career graph so where the hell can you give appointment to a ritual. Finish your PhD, become an eminent social activist and bring the ball to your court. You are skilled enough to live your life, manage your mind by controlling your emotions and last but not the least, committing to a relationship. Keep your love alive Thia. More you think about these unwanted complications of human life more shattered your relationship will be. Stop worrying babes.” I chuckled and hugged her. “And what about my next generation?” Thia‟s words bore into my ears and I felt an eerie chill creeping up my spine. I felt her words engulfing me and her query stabbing me like a thousand needles at once. The two words “next generation” came out of her mouth and vanished along with the whispering of the wind. Her query was a momentary veil of thought but the answer to it was the first step in my journey to purgatory.

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hapter5 C P Thia‟s words momentarily stymied me into a stoned silence. I slowly released her from my embrace and sat back in my chair. Till date I do not know whether she really meant those words or had just uttered them in the heat of the moment. Her sudden query spun the reels of a scene where I experienced my first substantial lesson of life; food based cultural conflicts. The string of memories beamed me back in time to Kolkata. These were to prove a paving stone towards my journey towards self-actualization and most importantly carving a niche for my identity. It was one of our 10 day vacations. We were all gathered around the dining table for lunch. “Daddy inge curd romba nalla irruku. Pink color. Sweet also.” An eight year old girl revelled in the excitement having tasted sweet mishti doi for the first time. “Why are you not given the pink curd?” She raised her whole body from the chair and tried to peek into her father‟s plate. She also managed to glimpse the others on the dining table and was astonished by the sight of pabda maach (butter fish) floating in red spicy gravy.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Arey fishes are aquatic animals. They cannot stay without water.” Within a fraction of a second, the girl jumped onto the glistening marble floor from the chair she was standing on, grabbed the fish from the bowl and rushed to the bathroom in search of a bucket of water. The little girl, whose efforts to bring the fish back to life were going in vain, was none other than me. Dadu, from whose plate the fish was taken, was captivated by my innocence, but at the same time was saddened with the fact of me being anonymous to the concept of fish eating in a Bengali house. There was a momentary silence which was ruined by my loud cry. “It is not moving Mom. It died. You killed it.” As my cry echoed in the dining room, Dad came to my rescue. Dad thought this would be the right time to address the issue of cultural diversity within my bloodline in a positive manner as it was being brought to the forefront during my formative years itself. My cognitive development was nevertheless swinging in a multicultural, multiracial and a multilingual country like the US. This INTERCULTURALISM however was a new seed being sown. Whatever I had absorbed till that very day was a queer mixture of both Tamil and Bengali cultures. I was never explained to, nor given a chance to find out which one belonged to whom. My parents thought it better to preserve the innocence of my tender age than to expose me to the caprices of my deep seated cultural differences.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Instead of examining the similarities and dissimilarities between the two cultures, my parents endeavoured to inculcate in me whatever they knew the best and thought I could imbibe easily. Neither was Dad capable of representing himself as an authentic Tamilian nor was Mom in her case. No single individual is representative of a complete race or ethnicity. We all tend to display our preferences and experiences and affix them to the label of identity. But where was I in all of this? I perceived myself to be inept in constructing my own identity. From a country where I was referred to as an Indian, I was thrown into a place where I was allocated two verily different parts for my individuality. This incident marked the first time when Dad started his child rearing strategy for his intercultural child. It was never going to be an effortless job for Dad. He was not a trained educator unlike my teachers in the international school who were skilled, trained and competent to deal with cultural diversity amongst their wards. Dad strived to be thoughtful, inspiring as well as entertaining with his words. He was well acquainted with the journey of human race from the cave painting era to the present day computer era. But implanting the details of cultural conflict into an eight year old mind was pretty much akin to throwing down the gauntlet. He embraced his little angel with all the warmth of his parental love, wiped her tears and initiated the session of injecting Interculturalism.

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Three Days of Catharsis “What happened Kutu? Why are you crying?” Dad wiped my wet cheeks with his fingers, carried me tenderly in his arms outside the bathroom and placed a warm kiss on my forehead. “The fish died Dad. I couldn‟t save it.” I cried with a nagging voice. “It was never alive Kutu. It was already cooked when you saw it. Fish is a type of food. You have read about it in your books about the different types of foods haven‟t you?” Dad stopped for a while for my response. His otherwise logically active daughter however, seemed to be tangled between many thoughts. Dad continued as he didn‟t receive any input from my side. I kept staring at him and waited for his point of view. “We all are different from each other sweetheart. We belong to different places and our food habits are highly influenced by the place where we live in. People staying in Kolkata have different food habits than people staying in Chennai or even the US” Dad‟s teaching session became episodic as I got side-tracked by a huge wall poster of a royal Bengal tiger in the room and posed a query. “Tigers are present everywhere. But they eat only meat. Why? They eat meat in America as well as in India. Whichever zoo I have been to, I have seen them eating only meat” I curled my eyebrows so tightly that the integrity of Dad‟s justification was under threat. “Kutu. Listen to me carefully first. We are not tigers. We are humans and we are the most intelligent

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Atrayee Bhattacharya animals on earth. We cook our food before eating. We wear clothes. We live in a house not in an open jungle or zoos. Don‟t you remember your friend Michelle eating burgers and Tan eating noodles every day? It is because they belong to a place where these are readily available.” Dad paused to analyse his impending words to make it sound more logical to my unripe mind. “But Michelle and Tan are from different countries Daddy. They look so different. Thatha and Dadu look quite similar. And you told me that Chennai and Kolkata belong to the same country, India. I am not saying fish eating is wrong. Mrs. Smith has taught us to respect all the cultures of the world.” I articulated my words with pride to show my recently gained knowledge over something called „culture‟ though I did not know much of it at that time except accepting and respecting all the cultures. A sign of relief appeared on Dad‟s face as he realized my awareness towards the heterogeneity of human beings based on culture. He found himself in a slightly comfortable area as he thought it was easy to push my thoughts into better understanding my pre- existing intercultural genes. He continued to talk without any hesitation. “Listen Kutu. You are a very intelligent child. I am sure you will understand whatever I tell you today. Mom, Dadu, Maams and everybody here are slightly different from Thatha-Paati and myself. They love to eat fish. As I told you a few minutes back, we eat food

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Three Days of Catharsis which is made available to us by nature. Here in Diya‟s place, you will find a large number of ponds and lakes. A huge amount of fishes stay in these water bodies. If humans here don‟t eat them, the number of fishes will keep on growing and one day the pond will become too small to hold so many fishes. Many years before something similar happened. Those days nobody ate fish. The population of fish grew so much that one fine day they all died due to lack of water. The whole city was stinking with the foul smell of dead fishes. The whole kingdom lent their hands in cleaning the city. The city was cleaned but their King wanted a permanent solution to rid this problem of ever growing population of fish. He ordered all the citizens to start consuming fish and that was the time the tradition of eating fish started.” Dad stopped and looked into my eyes for trusting his words which he borrowed from a kind of folktale that took birth in every Bengali‟s tongue whenever a Bengali Brahmin was questioned about eating fish. He decided that it was not the correct age for me to learn about the various scriptures that advocated eating non- vegetarian food for Brahmins. “What about Thatha?” I probed. Dad realized that his daughter‟s unformed mind was childish but not illogical. “That is a different story. Thatha belongs to a very hot place where ponds are not readily found. Fishes are also very rare. They don‟t taste good unlike the fishes what Dadu prefers. They get a lot of

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Atrayee Bhattacharya coconut and hence make avial and kootu.” Dad pulled me closer and cuddled me. “Does mom eat fish?” I queried with suspicion in my voice. “Yes. When she is here with her parents, she eats.” Dad smiled. “I got a doubt. Mom says Ananya aunty belongs to Dadu‟s place. She cooks fish in her house. I saw Mom eating fish in their house during Antara‟s birthday. Then why doesn‟t Mom cook fish at our home? Why doesn‟t she feed me fish? If Ananya aunty can cook, it means we get good fish in America as well. If Mom likes to eat fish, she can cook in our home also no?” I asked with a slight hint of growing urge to taste fish This last query of mine put my Dad in a quandary. Till now he was playing very safe and had almost resolved the food based cultural conflict in a respectable manner. But now he was thrown into the darkest den of Hindu culture and customs which holds a lot of controversial descriptions about enabling one to eat meat. My question was dragging him to reveal the basic distinction between the thoughts of Bengali Brahmins and other Brahmins towards fish eating. Till date he never intended to sow the seed of Brahminism in my mind though he often designated all of us as Brahmins. At this very stage, Thatha and Dadu were essentially the same for me. I was completely unaware of the cultural differences existing between both of them. Dad tried his best to make me examine the

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Three Days of Catharsis similarities and dissimilarities but was incompetent to provide me with the reason behind the contrasts. The eight year old child was made to think critically but the elders were failing in deciding what to inject and what not to. The discussion was heading towards scrutinising the minutiae of Bengali Brahmins eating fish based on revered Hindu scriptures. “Because Dad doesn‟t like it.” Mom entered the room answering my previous query with a smile on her face and continued, “Shona, we three live in the USA away from everybody. We shouldn‟t do anything that the other members of the house don‟t like. I told you some time back dear that Dad and Mom are different from each other. But as we love each other, we don‟t do anything that hurts the other. Mom doesn‟t feed you fish as you are a photocopy of your Dad.” She burst out laughing. “You both are sooo different. If you are different then why did you decide to stay together?” I nagged them again to receive a proper reply to my queries. “Because we wanted you Kutu.” Dad hugged me and Mom together in a tight embrace and the discussion over „eating fish‟ was over for the time being. Could my parents really put a full stop to my queries? The unlined face of the eight year girl peeped out from the warm hug of her parents with a fearless mind and inquisitive eyes. The topic was never over. It only temporarily halted as the uncompromising mind of mine set about to seek the nitty-gritty of this

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Atrayee Bhattacharya interculturalism on my own as I gradually grew up. My mind was pierced by the thorn of desire to know where I truly belonged and what all I must absorb from my culture. The question remained the same. What was my culture? The journey to the truth is always filled with sarcasm, cynicism and frustration. I was still in search of the elusive truth. But I soon realized that the day I banished doubts from my mind, would be the day of joy, and contentment in my life. O “Ki re? Why are you so silent? Did I press the mute button on your remote?” Thia queried with an inquisitive laugh. I was pulled back to the present and all of a sudden I realized that her presence and her queries were setting me on a journey to discover the existence of a distinct culture amongst the fledglings born out of an intercultural wedlock. “You are a Sociology scholar Thia. Do you really need my help to answer your query? Your next generation will absorb whatever is provided as social, political and communication based realities. Can you prove yourself as a true Bengali? You bear the cultural fragments of Bengal but cannot represent the entirety of it, can you? We are all participants of a multicultural world Thia. We imbibe anything that fits our comfort zone. Few minutes back you referred to maacher jhol as your identity. Do you mean Maams is not a Bengali just because he doesn‟t eat fish? That‟s hilarious. Most importantly, what about the figure

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Three Days of Catharsis conscious Indians who feed on green salads irrespective of their caste and creed? When did salads become a part of Indian cuisine? We select cultural information based on our needs and the situational demands.” I paused and waited for Thia‟s response. She was quiet and eager to listen to me than pouring out her opinions. “What? Did I go wrong anywhere?” I asked. “Not exactly. I am more eager to listen to your thoughts Kutu. Do you know you are an excellent subject for pursuing research within the scope of interculturalism? It is a budding topic in our multicultural world. Don‟t get me wrong. I find truth in your words but at the same time I sense a slight pain while you deal with the very basic fact of being a victim of interculturalism. Today your voice is more like a matured mind. Probably many years back Tia pishi, your mom, might have had the same chain of thoughts which assisted her in crossing the boundaries of her own culture. My parents have hundreds of differences in between them though they belong to the same community and their differences left an indelible impact on my life. Therefore I am truly eager to know your plight. What about you? Was your journey smooth? We always see you smiling, accepting and adjusting with all the situations. Did you ever get pricked by the differences? At 24 years of age, you sound unhampered in your thoughts. But you did have a rough patch, didn‟t you? I am all ears to know about that. Can you reveal your true feelings for the sake of

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Atrayee Bhattacharya our fifteen years of friendship?” Thia voiced her opinion with a curiously affectionate gesture. I glanced over Thia‟s shoulder and said “It‟s going to rain”, watching the dark clouds approaching from the south. I moved to the balcony, placed my small round face in one of the curvatures of the balcony grill and spread my arms to feel the first drop of this unanticipated rain. Within a few seconds, a big rain drop touched my profusely lined palm. The drop enjoyed a momentary solitude and then slowly merged with its fellow mates. Raindrops drove into my face like a thousand tiny sharp needles, stinging my eyes and splashing my memoirs. Thia‟s words were disconcerting but synchronously her queries set me on a journey towards catharsis yet again. My mind was decluttering. I witnessed the raindrops skittering away from my hands, out of my control, and concomitantly my mind unravelled the various episodes of my adjustment and acceptance in life. O The day I first stepped into Singapore, my perceptions were distorted by reality. The multicultural ambience was prominent enough to resonate with the US but the whole country was just a small dot in comparison to Berkeley where I was nurtured for ten years. The desperation to find a place adjacent to the super powers had generated an extremely competitive mind set amongst the citizens. Socializing took a temporary backseat. Powwows became rare. It took me some time to make new friends. Singapore exhibited many

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Three Days of Catharsis features of Chennai due to its dense population of Tamilians (who formed the bulk of Indian population) but was vastly different from India. The difference was stark for me due to two main reasons. Firstly, Mom with whom I spent most of my time with, was neither competent in speaking Tamil nor she looked the part. Socializing with the Tamilian populace seemed insurmountable until Dad was around. Secondly, Mom being a homemaker found it difficult to socialize as others were too busy in their own workplaces that they restricted themselves to a rare courteous smile. A ray of hope soon appeared on the horizon when I secured admission in an International School. I was again amidst a multilingual group of students and faculty members. Students who spoke Malayalam to Mandarin were under profound care. I discerned the respect towards racial differences. The regular interactions during parent-teacher meetings enabled Mom to establish her own group of friends too. It was her sheer luck that she could get in touch with some Bengali families through one of my Danish friend‟s mother. Mom‟s life was set on a roller coaster ride since then. Astute comprehension of Bangla literature and music made her a prominent figure in the then pocket-sized Bengali Association of Singapore. The close proximity of my school combined with a handsome salary of Dad made her life a little more relaxed. Dad soon arranged for a maid for taking care of the household chores and her presence helped Mom

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Atrayee Bhattacharya to devote some time for refining various activities within the Bengali association. Her inclination towards her own roots did not reflect any cultural favouritism though. Within a matter of eight months, she made sure of my re-amalgamation with Bharatanatyam, though by then I got a peek into Rabindrasangeet as well. Life seemed hassle free for Mom. She presumed her parenting to be on the right track as she was able to make me a part of both Tamil and Bengali cultures. How much was I interested to imbibe, did not garner her attention much! A complete year passed and soon I had developed a decent interest in both music and dance. Probably my genes played a role in moulding my pursuits. A new session had started in the school as well, imparting a promotion to the teenage group. Spending hours before the mirror for adjusting the front locks of hair, hiking up the skirts to make it look smaller, waxing the legs to promote their sheen and locking eyes with a charming guy were slowly making their way into my routine. I was developing into a gorgeous girl with big brown boat shaped eyes and long dense eyelashes, a fair skin tone completely in contrast to the dense black curly locks and last but not the least, a developing voluptuous yet lithe body. My charm and prudence played a vital role in making me the centre of attraction amongst my friend circles. My core group of friends consisted of a mix of Danish, Swedish, Chinese and Indians. Their races did not trouble me but their food habits did. They were all

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Three Days of Catharsis non-vegetarians who ate anything and everything as they pleased. As our growing age let us enjoy some degree of freedom, we started celebrating our respective birthdays with a small gathering in restaurants. Though my friends respected my vegetarian nature, I felt a pricking in some corner of my mind while relishing my “green” food alone. During one such gatherings in a quaint café, I was busy chomping on a green lettuce sandwich and French fries when my Danish classmate Harald thought it appropriate to raise a doubt on the difference between me and Geetanjali who was an Indian (Bengali) too. Geetanjali with her mouth ballooned with mee-goreng (a Malay cuisine) replied, “You are poking into a very complex issue of an extremely complicated country my friend. Kats and I belong to different parts of India.” Disgruntled, Harald threw another arrow. “But I found Arundhati aunty speaking to you in your language.” “Yeaaaah. But Kat‟s dad belongs to a place called Chennai where they don‟t eat meat.” My ears perked up on hearing this and at that point, I somehow felt my intervention was needed. “Actually Harald, I am not supposed to eat meat. I am a Brahmin by caste.” I proclaimed loftily, hoping to stop the conversation once and for all. “But so am I!!!” exclaimed Geetanjali, her voice betrayed curiosity mingled with incomprehension. Sensing that the chat was heading to some uninvited

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Atrayee Bhattacharya lanes, Krithika, another classmate of ours, judiciously diverted the topic towards upcoming projects regarding school work. I was left tangled in the previous conversation. Geetanjali‟s words had left me nonplussed. How was it that she being a Brahmin could eat meat whereas I could not? I bid adieu to the „not so wonderful‟ evening party and came back home with my quarterly progress report to drum in my success story. As soon as I entered home, I was greeted by voices chattering away incessantly in Bangla and suddenly found myself being hugged by a huge crowd of Bengali ladies. With an exchange of courtesy words and smiles, I made my way to my room with an excuse of freshening up. For the next half an hour, I could overhear some Rabindrasangeet, some flattering words for my mom‟s upbringing of me and of course a truck load of applause for my Dad‟s scientific acumen. Finally, as the clock chimed 8 PM, the guests slowly started making a move. I showed my face for the last time with a fake yet beautiful smile and finally closed the door when the last of them took their leave. “Keno eshechilo? I mean any special purpose to visit.” I asked Mom, the plastic smile still plastered on my face. Mom blamed it on and continued helping Fatima, our maid, in cleaning the drawing room. Before anything or anyone could steal my precious time with my parents, I showed them my progress report to gain some plaudits. Geetanjali being a

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Three Days of Catharsis Bengali, always captured Mom‟s attention. As Mom enquired about her grades, my mind raked up the topic of Brahminism yet again after being reminded of the evening‟s fiasco. “Dad, how come Bengali Brahmins eat non- veg?” “Edhukku inikki kekkara? Why are you asking this today?” Dad replied with his face furrowed while poring over one of his research papers. “I want to know the difference between your Brahmins and mom‟s Brahmins.” “Why this discussion again Kutu? I told you long back. We eat food what we like and what we get.” Mom intervened with a slight tone of irritation and tiredness. I ignored Mom and motored on, fully knowing I was on the warpath. Yet I was determined to see this out for I wanted a definite answer today. “Dad I want to know the facts and not personal opinion. I am always asked about my food habits which are rare for a country like Singapore. I must have some facts to substantiate my acts.” My voice had risen with a demand for a genuine reply. Dad kept down the bunch of papers on the newly bought tea table, removed his spectacles and penetrated with his thoughtful eyes into mine. His reactions almost drove me into despair. I thought my queries were going to be left unanswered when Dad broke his silence. According to him equating Brahminism to food habits was wrong. Though

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Atrayee Bhattacharya scriptures from Rig veda, Manu- and various preaching of Bhagwata Purana denounce meat eating, there were some concessions given. Animals sacrificed in the name of God were deemed as consumable for Brahmins. Braddharna Purana reinforced fish eating amongst Brahmins. Various pages of talked about Ashwamedha yagna wherein after a lengthy ritual involving horses, they were sacrificed and later eaten. Why, even the great sage , the saviour of humans in South India, was portrayed in mythological stories to have eaten the meat of sacrificial goats. Dad got up from his sofa, collected his papers and said, “Humans are taste driven and not cause driven. We eat flavoursome abundant resources.” “Does that mean I can eat non-vegetarian food?” I crooned slowly drawing half a smile at the corner of Dad‟s mouth. His smile which had given me a glimmer of hope was immediately and vehemently snuffed out by Mom. I slowly slunk back to my room, various rebellious questions poking me from within. In the next few weeks, I secretly tasted chicken curry and fish fry from Geetanjali‟s lunch box. She unintentionally injected the thought of me being half Bengali, which further spurred me to taste it. Meat eating, which was unethical according to Thatha, started sounding gibberish to me after I licked the chicken gravy. My taste buds which always recognized Bengal for its Radhaballabi, aaloo posto, labra etc. were desperate to explore its fish, mutton

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Three Days of Catharsis and chicken recipes. My secret desire to do so went unnoticed by my parents and I happily continued relishing my newly gained taste. But life is idiosyncratic at its best and the Newtonian law of “every action has an equal and opposite reaction” always shows up when you desist it the most. One fine day, I was caught red handed at home when Mom found a fish bone in my lunch box. Even as Mom made a hue and cry, Dad was an increasing picture of calmness amongst the stormy waters. He simply came to terms and showed his acceptance of the fact with two valid points. First and foremost, controlling food habits of the next generation was insane and secondly, I had the birth right to taste fish being half Bengali. Mom found it objectionable for she had promised Thatha for making me a vegetarian. My despair gave way to a torrent of tears and a wretched feeling told me I had let down everyone‟s trust. As I broke down, Dad told me that if I were to be unhappy in not eating meat, then I shouldn‟t be doing it. I should start eating non-vegetarian food. According to Dad, one shouldn‟t do anything which made one unhappy. It made sense diplomatically. As I heard him say so, my guilt lined face admitted the fault. I preferred to have lasting peace at home rather than the temporary joy of munching a few pieces of chicken balls in the café. My taste buds though regularly tested my patience. Life smoothened a bit after that incident and took a joyous turn in the month of April. Thatha and Paati

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Atrayee Bhattacharya were coming to visit us for the first time. It was their first trip abroad. Thatha had recently retired from his high profile government job with a lump sum pension and associated benefits and finally agreed to cross the sea and breathe the air of a foreign land. I was excited as I was allotted the duty of becoming their Singapore tour guide. In the past year alone I had roamed around the whole of Singapore nearly five times over. My analytical attitude helped me in understanding and later on recounting the history and significance of each tourist spot. My young mind was proficient in exploring new avenues. One such exploration was learning Mandarin in order to better communicate with my Chinese friends. Though English was one of the official languages of Singapore, people back in India assumed Mandarin and Malay took linguistic prominence. My close association with Chinese friends made me learn a few words in Mandarin which I could boast about to Thatha-Paati. My excitement was boundless which seemed to be justifiable as they were coming to meet us for the first time. “Thatha inge inge.” I shouted while waving my hands near the Arrival Gate at Terminal 2 of Changi Airport. My excitement led me to forget about the sound proof nature of the glass doors in the airport. Initially Thatha couldn‟t see us and finally when he spotted us, he gave a broad smile of relief. Paati was still hesitant as if she harboured some unknown fear. This is a very common issue with Indian middle class people especially with the ladies. They are amongst

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Three Days of Catharsis the most knowledgeable Indian citizens but always harbour a fear of committing mistakes. Another peculiar hesitance conquers the mind of an average Indian middle class citizen when they think of or arrive in a foreign land. They are easily intimidated by fair skinned people or „gora aadmi’ who converses in an unintelligible English accent while dark skinned people seem off putting with their huge imposing physical figures, deep voices and quirky attitudes. The two and a half hour time difference between India and Singapore had left Thatha and Paati with an unfamiliar feeling of disorientation. So they took their time in coming to the exit gate of the Arrival Hall. As soon as they came out, Mom touched their feet in front of several other people who were mere recipients of some perfunctory hugs and handshakes. I was a bit taken aback seeing the scenario play out but before I could utter anything I too found myself bending down and touching their feet. Amidst some insignificant talks between Thatha-Paati and Mom, Dad hired a cab for going home. The „Lah Lah‟ land was literally a greener pasture not only for Dad‟s career but also for the scenic beauty across the roads throughout the country. Thatha-Paati were welcomed with chaanar payesh (a Bengali sweet) along with a basket of fruits containing South African grapes, Filipino bananas, Turkish figs and the famous China Fuji apple. Fatima, who was all set to serve the guests, was stopped temporarily for the Iyer style pranaam ceremony. Mom, Dad and I

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Atrayee Bhattacharya gathered round in front of God‟s idols and touched Thatha-Paati‟s feet together. As me and Mom straightened our bodies, I found Dad murmuring something to Thatha in while his palms were inwardly cupping his ears. It was a tradition known as Abhivadaye or literally “I bow to thee in respect” which was followed by only males. It was the only time I felt elated about gender discrimination for this procedure entailed some difficult Sanskrit words. Though I was always present, it left me wondering the reason behind pranaam-ing twice. Were blessings bestowed upon differently in Bengali and Tamil style? Thatha articulated the same words to bless all of us what he had uttered in the airport. Then why twice? Though I was quite young to opine on it, I surmised the reason to be „maintaining cultural harmony‟. I was amazed with my parents‟ patience levels and knack of striking the right chord in following the customs of two cultures. It was also the first time I had a chance to observe a puritanical Indian parent up close. They considered their son as a child even in his mid- 30‟s. Unexpectedly, I found someone referring to himself as head of the family, instructing my parents and using everything with the utmost right. Thatha and Paati moved around the house liberally, peeping into each corner without any hesitation, unafraid to opine on anything and everything what they saw fit. I was not despondent but their behaviour jolted me, as I was growing up in a country best described for its

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Three Days of Catharsis formality and hands-off rule. I was accustomed to my parents knocking, asking permission to enter my room. Suddenly, all privacy was being thrown to the four winds. My parents did not exhibit any change of expression as they were not an NRI kid. They flourished in a country where all these quirky behaviours were pedestrian. Their behaviour was not entirely new to me. I entertained Thatha‟s demeanour without getting irked during my visits to India as it was his own house. Not only Thatha, even Diya‟s domination over Maams had stolen my attention many a times. My parents‟ generation seemed acquiescent towards the existence of demanding parents in their lives. Though I was happy on Thatha-Paati‟s arrival, apprehension and non-conformity were budding in my mind. I decided to be firm towards my privacy and my way of living. I reassured myself thinking that my bourgeoning adolescence was probably the cause for my rebellious conscience. I preferred to watch all of them with a wooden expression over opining my non- acceptance towards their thought process. The next three days were a feast for Thatha- Paati‟s eyes. The meticulous honk-free traffic, the spotless roads supplemented with picturesque greenery, the huge skyscrapers, the underwater world in Sentosa and the national personification of Singapore; Merlion mesmerized both of them. True to their Indian roots, the ladies of the house preferred to carry along home-made food with us wherever we went. Dad decided to finish the tourism part of my

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Atrayee Bhattacharya grandparents‟ visit in the first week itself, keeping my school schedule in mind. He was privileged to have a concept of „work from home‟ but I was not granted with anything called „study from home‟. The elders of the house, which recently numbered four, unanimously agreed to finish the sightseeing sooner than later for two main reasons. Firstly, everyone wished for me to be a part of their joy and secondly, Thatha‟s first abroad visit was scheduled for only three weeks. As soon as the main attractions of Singapore faded out from their thoughts, our guests were feeling the boredom of the unobtrusive life here. Though Mom acquainted them with her friends, they failed to garner much attention for they were predominantly Bengali interspersed with a few European and Chinese people. After a while, Thatha condescendingly asked Mom to make some Tamil friends as well so that I could get a better exposure to my roots. My parents‟ busy life made them take Thatha‟s opinion very lightly but I had an avalanche of eagerness on the inside to know the link between the friends‟ circle of my parents and my knowledge towards my roots. His words made me think twice. How can Tamil alone become my roots when I was nourished for nine months in a womb of a Bengali woman feeding on all the delicacies of Bengal? I vividly remember Dad retorting back after repeated enquiry about Tamilians as acquaintances. “Enna Appa? My life is busy with my research. I am not privileged to have some spare time to search

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Three Days of Catharsis only for Tamil friends. My friends are from my own field, be it Tamilian or whatever. Please don‟t keep on asking Arundhati the same thing. Here she needs to speak Tamil for making Tamil friends. And what is wrong with you? Making friends is based on our comfort zone. She will make friends with whom she is comfortable with.” “No kanna. You are not getting my point. Kutu gets exposed only to Bengali people. She won‟t realise she is a Tamilian.” Thatha stated thinking that he was capable of convincing everybody. I, who had decided few days back not to poke my nose into any of the elderly matters, uttered with an askance “When did I become a Tamilian???” “Of course you are a Tamilian. What do you mean?” Thatha spoke in his usual authoritative tone. Before any of us could respond, our landline phone rang which made me put a halt to the ongoing topic of me being Tamilian. The call was from Kolkata. I was the one who picked up the phone but thought of continuing my conversation once the elders were done with their daily talks. Finally I got my turn and with no hesitance I demanded Maams to courier chanachur along with the stuffs Mom wanted from Kolkata. As the telephonic conversation came to an end, I stated languidly, “I am an NRI and not a Tamilian.” My words left a mark of fury on Thatha‟s face which I let go unnoticed and took my leave from the scene. Days were swift and I too got busy with my school activities. Though I was not very fussy over the

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Atrayee Bhattacharya menu of the day, I was getting a bit irritated by the frequency of Dosa for breakfast, sambar for lunch and some South Indian cuisine for dinner. It wasn‟t that I hated them but I was actually habituated of a variety of dishes from all over India. Once I disguised my annoyance and asked Mom for making some Bengali or Punjabi dishes. She could see through my thinly veiled disgust but gave some vague reasons for not doing so with her typical salesman‟s ready smile. I let a few more days pass by but one fine day my cup of patience boiled over. Dosa was served again for breakfast. I controlled all my frustrations but found my patience getting severely tested with Utthapam getting packed for my school tiffin. I clamped my teeth with a sudden flash of anger and snatched my tiffin box from Mom, offensively removed the stack of Utthapams and poured some chips and biscuits into it. The typical throat choking love of my Bengali mother over poured but this time none of her convincing words could let me undo my acts. Paati too tried her luck with loving utterances of Kozhandai and Kanna but today was not a lucky day for them. “Stop making South Indian dishes every day.” I spat my anger on the door and slammed it on their faces. I was assured that some unwanted discussions might have followed after my departure. That evening I found Dad waiting for me near the school gate. I fully well expected his presence after my dramatic outburst in the morning. I was not a spoilt brat and Dad knew that. Probably he wished to

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Three Days of Catharsis live through the reasons behind my sudden change in behaviour. I prepared myself for his strong convincing words that were to follow while settling down comfortably in the front seat of our car. He welcomed me with a warm and dazzling smile to make me feel comfortable and revealed plans of having dinner in Pizza Hut. Before I could enquire about the others, I was told about their direct arrival at the dining spot. We exchanged a sign of exultation for a miniscule second followed by an inexplicable silence taking shelter in our new Mercedes. As the first few drops of rain collided with the windshield, Dad broke the unnerving silence stating the obvious “It‟s going to rain today.” Dad looked at me with his innocent smile and wide eyes as if expecting me to say something to break the icy cold silence that prevailed. I puffed out my disgust and asked him not to run around the bushes. Dad respected my views and requested me to keep a calm head in the house. “Do you at least know the cause behind my outburst?” I sounded belligerent. “There is a better way to tell what you want to eat, isn‟t it? Put it in words what you want to say instead of dramatizing.” Dad voiced out firmly and continued without giving me a chance to opine. “Kutu, the way you behave reflects on our upbringing. No body blames your age or your hormonal outflow. They simply blame your parents. Did Mom teach you to react like this? Remember Kutu, more than me or

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Atrayee Bhattacharya you, Mom will cop the blame the most. After all she is the one who has nurtured you the most till date.” Dad‟s words rang in my ears though it failed to make any impression. However it forced me to speak out. “There is something called situational response Dad. I have been asking Mom to bring a change in the dishes since last three days. She did nothing. Just nothing. Same Dosa or idly accompanied by either sambar-coconut chutney or some cousins of them. You all may like it but I don‟t. I hate monotony.” “Thatha likes them Kutu. He is a true blooded Iyer who relishes South Indian dishes more than anything else. Remember, he is old and most importantly our guest for rest of the month. If Mom makes those dishes to please him, what wrong is she doing? She feels happy to feed her father-in-law the way he wants.” Dad tried to convince me. “Don‟t bring that Tamil-Bengali issue into this. I never uttered anything against anybody. I just voiced against monotony. I display my repulsion even towards the repeated cooking of Bengali cuisine. Don‟t I? Dad, I am just fifteen. I am struggling with 3 different cultures in my life, two from my birth and one from the outer world. I should be allowed the privilege to choose from a variety what all three cultures have to offer. I am not choosing what sounds unethical to either of my parents. Am I? I always disguise my disgust with a mere request and give enough time for others to work on it. Neither of you try to read my intentions when it is actually needed.

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Three Days of Catharsis Your reluctance in doing so resulted in today morning‟s episode. Who likes what, has got absolutely nothing to do with me. If I respect your opinions, I expect others to do the same. My single flare-up against your food has brought out the Tamilian in you. If you guys were so very inclined towards your own culture, either Mom should have stopped her Bongish stuffs or you should have stopped yours. If you want me to respect and embrace both the cultures, you should provide me with the best of both of them.” I sniffed and discreetly wiped my tears which were playing hide and seek with my lower eyelid. “We all respect your views Kutu. I am not speaking only to you. I have tried my best to make Thatha-Paati also to acquaint with your desires. But you must respect the elders in the house. I understand your plight in this cultural inconsistency. Mom and I feel you must develop an ability to adjust. Thatha is old and belongs to a different school of thought. It is natural for your paths to diverge. We all tend to differ from our previous generation but that doesn‟t mean we get the right to hurt their feelings. I would not force you to do anything in life. But remember just one thing Kutu. It is easy to bring tears to someone‟s eye but it is easier to bring a smile on someone‟s face. The bridge between this easy and easier can be crossed effortlessly with just the slightest degree of adjustment. None stays in your life forever. But whatever moment someone captures in your life,

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Atrayee Bhattacharya make those moments happier for them for blessings sometimes come in disguise.” Dad smiled at me, parked the car and took out his umbrella to shield me from the rain. My adolescence was struggling to cope with what was being told but in the end; my mind won over all the defiant emotions of the heart and agreed to follow Dad just for the sake of love. We had to wait in the shade of the parking lot for the drizzle had intensified into a severe downpour, the quiet murmur transforming into a swarm of angry buzzing bees. The sound intensified further akin to stones being pelted on hard gravel. Gradually within the next few minutes, the sound lessened and the drops faded into a musical chime. The curtain of rain had passed by us. Water dripped from the trees and bird chirpings reverberated in our ears as we walked to the dining area of Pizza Hut. While pushing the glass door, my eyes caught someone draped in a maroon-blue bordered saree and a face wreathed in a dazzling smile. Mom. Her attire had taken me by surprise and as I turned my still disbelieving eyes to Dad, he spoke in his silvery voice, “Your mom knows all the tricks in the trade to make anybody comfortable. Look at Paati.” Surprisingly Paati bled confidence through her unafraid beautiful eyes. I heard her opining and discussing without giving two hoots. \ “Here they come! We have been waiting for you guys. The waiter came twice and we had to turn him down with a smile.” Mom said while articulating to

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Three Days of Catharsis me with her kajal lined eyes as if requesting me to follow Dad‟s words. I had been experiencing this since childhood. Both my parents secretly conspire as to what should be implanted in my mind. Dad plays the role of convincer and negotiator while Mom investigates the success of the job. I exchanged a deferent smile with my parents and hugged Paati. However my brimming youth could not remain silent for long as I was eager to share my past experiences of being here as well as to sing praises of the place. Thatha soon joined the conversation enthusiastically which soon left me thinking that he too had swallowed the nectar of adjustment my parents usually dole out. Our excitement soon reached its crescendo but could not sustain itself for the menu prominently displayed a mini ranch describing various items of poultry, livestock and seafood used in making their pizzas. The Iyer Mama (uncle) in Thatha was petrified and almost tried to do a Gangasnaanam (purifying holy bath) right in the middle of the dining area. My dad placated him by finally turning to the vegetarian section of the menu. I don‟t remember what we ate that day but my mind still relives those repeated and irritating query of “You don‟t eat non-veg no?” posed by Thatha. Though Dad had endeavoured his best in the past few hours, the taut leash of my emotions finally gave in and split asunder. “Stop testing my patience!” I retorted in a voice laden with fury while vehemently tearing a piece of pizza with my teeth.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “No Kanna. I am asking you. You are a Tamil Brahmin. You should know what you should eat and what not to.” Thatha smiled, dusting his hands free of the pizza crumbs. “Your language is so chauvinistic!” I exclaimed audibly somehow through a mouthful of pizza and smiled wryly at Dad while nodding my head in exasperation. I guess the repeated utterances of „Tamil Brahmin‟ irked Mom as well. A lady who usually refrained from being foul mouthed chose a discourteous tone to participate in the conversation. “It has got nothing to do with being a Tamil Brahmin or any Brahmin for that matter. She does not eat non-veg because her mother did not let her eat it. I am afraid that I do not like this constant usage of caste and creed in our daily conversations. I am sorry Daddy but being a mother of an adolescent NRI kid, I cannot entertain your repeated efforts to categorize her. Remember Daddy, I promised you to make your grandchild a vegetarian. Your frequent enquiries question my integrity as well.” For a change Paati raised her voice against Thatha reminding him of the existence of a Bengali mother in my life. Though Thatha‟s eyes revealed a staunch cohesion between his words and thoughts, he chose to keep quiet and tried to divert the topic. Concurrently, Dad sought a way to put an end to the topic once and for all.

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Three Days of Catharsis “None of us can be at peace if all of us are going to be at constant loggerheads. We are a family with a blend of two entirely different cultures. Canvassing for Tamil Brahmins‟ prominence won‟t hold aloft the elegance of that culture in a young mind like Kutu‟s. It‟s the responsibility of all the elders to inculcate a sense of inclusiveness and respect for every culture in her mind. Arundhati‟s father and you were always found advocating the existence of a patriarchal society in her mind. I don‟t understand why. Please stop tagging her as Tamil Brahmin. Fitting her in my mould is the biggest mistake one can do. She is neither a Tamilian nor a Bengali. She is an Indian and her documents tag her as an NRI. I want this topic to end forever. If she tells she does not eat non-veg, it is not because of her caste. It is just because she was asked not to. I hope you agree with my points Appa.” Dad finished his share of food and requested for the check. That night it rained as if the heavens were falling on earth. Resounding claps of thunder boomed in the night while angry white bolts of lightning flashed across the sky. I was a mere spectator of nature‟s wrath with a flood of emotions; some were embellished with guilt, some strangled with the persistent masculine mentality and some were wrapped with parental affection. My inner conscience unwittingly and guiltily thought I was the main reason which had led my previous generations onto a sparring path. I did not sleep the whole night. The

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Atrayee Bhattacharya eyes of a teenager which usually overflows with fairy- tale dreams were moist on that stormy night. A storm was not only raging on the outside but another was brewing inside our home as well. I saw my parents and grandparents bidding adieu to the night with a smile but I sensed a feeling of foreboding that all was not over yet. The night was over, sure, but it left me with a severe cold and congestion. All I could do was to look forward for a weekend of much needed rest. The next few days were spent in taking a number of medicines for fever and chest congestion. The irritating wet heaving coughs coupled with a general malaise led to a lot of mood swings in me. Our plan to visit Kuala Lumpur for the upcoming Tamil and Bengali New year was scuppered due to my continuing illness. However Paati and Mom were primed to welcome the New Year with a truck load of home-made snacks and sweets. In the midst of all this, I was spending my time resting in my room wondering about the efficacy of the prescribed medicines for my ailment but harboured no doubts of their efficiency in eliminating my taste buds. I was granted sick leave from school but no such respite from boredom. To keep myself occupied, I spent my time reading Dad‟s collection of Jeffrey Archer novels and periodically tasting homemade maladus- murukkus-nimkis-jhebegoja (hors d'oeuvres from Bengal and Tamilnadu). Paati took it upon herself to feed me with her own hand. The recommended diet which included a bland paruppu-saadam (bland lentil

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Three Days of Catharsis and rice mixed together) and shaada torkaari (Bengali style of mixed veg without any spices) was nauseating. I remember Paati once collecting my phlegm filled vomit in her own hand. The whole experience left me drained and a sense of revulsion towards eating started creeping up in me. To combat this, Paati started coating little balls of rice with sweet raw mango chutney. I was not allowed to gulp any fried food but my senseless taste buds kept demanding everything what was prohibited for the time being. Paati caved in to my stubborn demands but judiciously she kept some chips or muruku or thattai (snacks with rice flour) on the plate for a mere verisimilitude. Whenever I raised my voice against anything unsavoury in my mouth, she fed me a small bit of the snacks. I, who showed my gratitude even to the watchman of our building for opening a gate, was completely ignorant towards the efforts of my parents and grandparents in keeping me well. My illness left me with not only a bitter taste in the mouth but also mood wise. Till now, the mountain of my emotions was a mere dormant volcano with minor rumblings from time to time. But the major explosion was yet to happen. The mountain had become active slowly but a disastrous outburst took place nevertheless on Tamil New Year‟s Day. I was terribly sick since that morning and was constantly demanding Mom‟s presence all the time. Paati voluntarily took the charge in the kitchen so that Mom could be at my bedside, at

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Atrayee Bhattacharya my beck and call. Dad had taken the day off as he comprehended the severity of my condition. Thatha, being a common man and unaware of any medicinal knowledge, was really afraid of my deteriorating health and instructed Dad to take me to a better doctor. My continuing craving for good food made Paati emotional and provoked her to make a variety of South Indian delicacies. Dad and Thatha made frequent visits to my room and tried to cheer me up with a list of delicacies Paati was making; Paal Payasam (South Indian Kheer), mixed veg sambar, rasam, morkozhambu, fried potatoes, carrot-beans curry, cabbage kootu, fried papads, mango chutney, cucumber raita along with rice. It was a typical Tamil New Year‟s day feast. Somehow none of the aforesaid could make me happy. A continuous pain in the chest repelled me from taking even a single morsel of rice. The child in me was more eager to taste chanachur which was sent by Maams. Paati tried her best to convince me for eating rice but I retorted back brusquely. Everyone was on the knife‟s edge, with frayed tempers and emotions due to my ill-health and my repeated misconducts finally drove them over the edge. Mom literally asked me to get out of the house if I had so much of problems with the other members of the family. Dad, who is usually an epitome of patience, too lost control and scolded me. Physical agony combined with the emotional strain of getting scolded incensed me so much that I snatched a packet of chanachur from the top shelf of our kitchen and

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Three Days of Catharsis started gobbling it rapidly. Thatha-Paati requested my parents with folded hands to stop their sessions of scolding. In the next few minutes, I felt as if I was floating away. My body had become numb and paralysed. Images started swimming before my eyes and I started swaying on the spot. In the distance, I heard Thatha‟s affectionate words reaching my ears akin to audio being played from a tape-recorder with a dying battery. Then silence. All was black. When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring into the bright lights of a hospital room with the smiling face of a Chinese nurse peering into me. “How are you feeeeelinnng?” A nasal tone uttered something in English but in a typical Singaporean accent. It was the nurse. I had just awoken from a deep slumber. My mind was still playing the images of my last vision of my parents and Thatha-Paati around me. I murmured something in a garbled voice though I wanted to respond properly to her query. I had never been to a hospital before. With an oxygen mask respirator clamped over my nose and mouth, and an aspirator poking out of my chest, my eyes were wide open in search of a familiar face. I gathered some strength to utter “Mom.” The nurse smiled, nodded her head and I found the tear stained face of Mom standing in front of me in a blink of my eyes. I have very faint memories of what happened over the next few days. I just remember Mom feeding me a bowl of soup which I had never tasted before. On my repeated asking

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Atrayee Bhattacharya about what it was, I always found her stating with moist eyes and a reddish nose, “It is needed for you. Please drink”. Unaware of the happenings behind my back, I showed my eagerness to go back home. After five days, I was discharged from the hospital and upon reaching home, was welcomed by Thatha-Paati and a huge group of well-wishers. To my surprise, Dadu and Diya broke the prevailing rule of „not staying in daughter‟s house‟ and landed up in the „Lah-Lah land‟. I was embraced by the bear hug of Paati. She took me in her arms and uttered, “Kavala padatha Kutu. Your life is precious. No custom is more important than your existence.” In the crowd where I was the centre of attraction, my mind was fascinated towards decrypting the hidden meaning of Paati‟s words. Within an hour, all the guests left leaving behind their good wishes and get well soon cards. I was given a glass of orange juice to drink and was asked to rest in my room. As I followed the orders of Paati, I sensed a frisson of unease amongst my parents and Thatha. At first my young mind thought of placing the blame on my disease but soon realized that a disease elicits a caring concern of sympathy and not the type of cold vibes what I experienced in the past few hours. With my mind revolving around many thoughts and eyes stuck on the table spilling over with medicines, I did not realize when I drifted off into a stupor. “To hell with your Brahminism! You mean to say your customs are more important than the life of my

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Three Days of Catharsis child?” A sudden loud outburst stirred me from my sleep. It was Dad. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and sat up on the bed, wondering what the commotion was all about. A cool breeze blew in through the windows, tinkling the wind chime and parting the sheer maroon curtains draped across the doorway of my room ever so slightly, which enabled me to espy the drawing room. I noticed some animated discussions happening between Dad, Paati and Thatha. Dadu and Diya were sitting in a corner of the hall as mere onlookers with poignant expressions on their faces. I rose up from the bed, skirted around the corner, away from the prying eyes of the elders and peeped through a sliver of crack between the bedroom door and its hinges. Mom was standing beside Dad wringing his hand in supplication and asking him to calm down. It was the first time I saw Dad in an incensed manner. His voice as well as body was trembling in his wrath. Apart from Dad, the other member whom I saw in an entirely new light was Paati. Being a woman, her anger was supplemented with a flood of tears. She gestured towards Thatha and spoke, “Anna enna sollarel! You are blaming a person who has abided by every single word of yours. Born in the 20th century, it would have taken a fraction of second for her to abandon your thoughts and pleas. How dare you talk about our daughter-in-law like this? How could you forget her appeals to the doctor? When each one of us was tight- lipped on the doctor‟s instructions of feeding meat to Kutu, Arundhati was the one to oppose it. She, being a

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Atrayee Bhattacharya non vegetarian by birth, stood firm with your so called customs and tradition. I have followed you in every path of yours. Be it the days spent in fulfilling the basic needs or the days where luxury escorted us. But not today. With all due respect I would like to break and bend the rules. The customs, tradition blah blah were made thousands of years ago based on the needs of that time. I don‟t prefer to apply any of the rules at the cost of Kutu‟s life. We are not doctors. I am her Paati and I have every right to choose anything that suits her well-being. It is my choice, my decision and I would gladly coerce my son to follow the doctor‟s advice without giving any attention to the „Tamil Brahmin‟ tagline.” Thatha was deep in his thoughts with his eyes closed, eyebrows frowned and arched, forehead furrowed and his right index finger curved around his lips. No sooner than Paati had finished her words, he uttered just one sentence in Tamil which roughly translated into he had shattered many of his relatives emotions by getting a non-vegetarian daughter-in-law. He did not want to hurt anyone further by making his kith and kin follow a path which was not meant for Tamil Brahmins. His words on one hand infuriated Dad and Paati further and on the other hand left my mom heartbroken. Dadu who somehow managed to understand Thatha‟s words finally raised his voice. “You came with the proposal. None of us went to hang our daughter on your neck.”

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Three Days of Catharsis Paati begged Dadu‟s pardon with folded hands and apologized profusely for her husband‟s insensitive words. With a mouthful of praises for Mom, Paati declared Thatha undeserving of such a good son and daughter-in-law. “Relatives a ungaloda prachanai? Yes I too feel that they are the problem. They came for my son‟s marriage only to find faults. They tried to hinder my son going abroad for his higher studies with all sorts of trivial reasons just because they failed to do so themselves. When we peruse our life in public, some people come in the form of critics; some people come to while away boredom in their life. But only a select few stand by you, during thick and thin. Those few are your own descendants. Not those distant relatives. At this crucial juncture, you being a father have deserted Krishnan when he needed your support the most. I am not with you in this. You go and stay with your customs. I will go and stay with my family.” My worst fears, which had crept in during that one stormy night, were coming unfounded. My eyes which were until then spying the scenario unravelling in the hall started welling up with tears. I was shattered to the core. I momentarily thought of going up and requesting them to stop fighting over this issue and tell them I did not want to eat anything against their wishes. However, my thoughts were interrupted by what followed. When the scene in the hall looked like something straight from hell, with everything aflame with everyone‟s anger, I just saw Mom falling

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Atrayee Bhattacharya at Thatha‟s feet with folded hands and swollen teary eyes. She spoke in a trembling voice. “Daddy, I have seen my parents on the verge of losing their child. They were strong enough to withstand that fear. I lost everything in life. Physical beauty as well as a career path. I have only Krishnan and Kutu as a hope to lead this life. Please do not take it away from me. I beg of you”, Mom broke into a bawling wail with tears cascading down her cheeks in torrents. Authoritative tone, conservative nature and societal fear aside, Thatha was not emotionless. Though he inwardly disagreed with the words of Paati and Dad, he couldn‟t hold back his love for Mom. His love and admiration for her was as pure as a father‟s true love for his daughter. Probably the love blossomed to that extent since Thatha did not have a daughter and of course Mom‟s amicable nature played a vital role. Thatha broke down in tears, hugged Mom and started begging pardon for his earlier words. He kept uttering his fears of what others might say about his allowance for Kutu to eat meat. Diya sensed this was the right moment to break the ice after remaining tight lipped all the while and started consoling Thatha. “Bhaisahab we have to think of our blood. People tend to talk. Your success makes them jealous and failures make you the subject of their discussions. Bolne dijiye logon ko. We cannot leave our own flesh and blood for the sake of others no? Did you leave your son when he fell in love with a Bengali? No. That was not a matter of life and death. Still, being a

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Three Days of Catharsis father you agreed to fulfil his dreams. Kutu is our life. If something going against your principle is going to keep her alive, wouldn‟t you change them?” She paused for a moment, looked at Dad and continued. “Some years back, we too changed our principles. We got a Non-Bengali son-in-law in the family amidst hundreds of aspersions and bad-mouthing. But see now!!! Everyone is happy. People forget everything as time passes by swiftly. It is our life. We must live with what makes us hale and hearty.” There was a pin-drop silence in the room. Everyone had finished their quota of tears so they preferred to remain silent instead. The hamming actor in my mind was all set to make my presence felt in the drawing room, where people had played their parts surrounding me, who was the central character. As I was about to step outside the shadows and into the spotlight, the two halves of my conscience popped out of thin air. Kutu 1.0 was wearing a flowing white gown, a veritable picture of innocence and goodness while Kutu 2.0 was wearing a little black dress, with devilish looks and an impish attitude about her. Kutu 1.0 wiped her teary eyes melodramatically and asked me to step into the scene with a humble attitude and accept the blame on myself. Kutu 2.0 on the other hand chided me and asked me not to pay attention to her. Instead she wanted me to focus on those who were talking left right and centre about customs and traditions but did not utter a single full sentence in their own mother tongue. I almost burst out laughing

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Atrayee Bhattacharya on Kutu 2.0‟s observations when I observed a sense of tranquillity in the drawing room. They were wiping each other‟s tears and the whole dramatic situation came to an end with a group hug. All of a sudden, the hug dispersed and I could see Diya murmuring something in Bangla while coming towards my room. I turned to stone in the fear of not knowing what to do. I heard Kutu 2.0 shouting “Run you fool.” Immediately I dashed towards the bed, lay down and covered my body from head to toe with a blanket. Diya had come to see if I was doing fine. As soon as she left, I saw Kutus 1.0 and 2.0 appearing inside of my blanket. Before Kutu 1.0 could start her nagging preaching session, I saw Kutu 2.0 giving a firm kick up 1.0‟s arse, making her disappear. 2.0 was lying upside down with her head resting in the cusp of her palms and waggled her finger while saying, “Blessings come in disguise. We can enjoy KFC uninterrupted. Enjoy the bliss.” A sudden sound hurried her up. Before she could vanish, she asked me to act as if waking up from a deep slumber. “Shona, get up. Its 6 „o‟ clock. Have some milk.” Mom uttered in a hoarse voice filled with love and affection. Participation in school dramas had really groomed me into a competent actor. “Haan. Bhalo lagchena” I replied in such a sleepy voice that would have fetched me an Oscar for sure. The next moment I found everyone talking in a mellow voice full of love and affection. A big episode in my life had just ended. Before leaving for India, Thatha declared me to be

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Three Days of Catharsis free from the clutches of tradition, culture and customs of food habits. Since then my taste buds have been enjoying the bliss of Bengal and Tamilnadu in the truest sense of the word. O “Baabaah! Eto puro chobi. This is a full-fledged Bollywood masala.” Thia exclaimed and made me come out from the role of a storyteller. I was sitting with my legs folded on the chair while rubbing my palms on my kneecaps and looked at her beautiful blue eyes with a wry smile on my lips. “So much discussions over food. Khede peye gelo re to! Chalo. Let‟s have phuchka.” Thia stood up from the bed, stretched to relieve the numbness in her legs and literally pulled me from my chair to go out. The clock chimed 6 p.m. and we heard the sound of the holy conch being blown by Maani for the evening puja. We took a small piece of sondesh what was offered as evening prasad and set out to drown in the tangy tamarind water of phuchkas. With the last phuchka in my plate, in pure Bangla I asked the phuchka-vendor to give me an extra dry one. “Wow! What an accent! None can predict that you are an NRI, that too half Tamilian. What about the languages?” Thia smiled and eagerly waited for me to unravel yet another chapter of my life. W

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Chapter6

P “How much? I mean koto holo dada?” I asked the phuchkawala while searching for some small currency notes within the bunch of hundred rupee notes. Thia took out twenty rupees and paid the man while he was busy staring at me with a slight sign of awkwardness due to my utterance in English. He was further puzzled as I was the only one in the mob who thanked him for his service. While the other eyes in the crowd viewed me as a braggart, the malnourished puchkawala grinned at me for pleasantly surprising him. Thia and I started crossing the numerous puddles of water while trying to balance ourselves. We walked for a while side by side in complete silence and suddenly both of us chirped at once. “Hmm. U tell.” Thia smiled and let me continue. “Remember Sudhanshu?” I smirked while concentrating on avoiding the puddles on the rain soaked, pot hole ridden road. “Who? Maitreyi kakima’s son? Yeah. He recently got married. Nice food and awesome hall decoration re.” I smiled and flashes of my first ever kiss blurred my vision. Honestly, I had kissed and been kissed by only one person till date. Sudhanshu.

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A nasal voice calling my name brought me back to earth. It was Mithu aunty, Diya‟s neighbour. She took ten whole minutes of our evening in narrating her personal worries, accomplishments and of course the reason behind her coming out in this bad weather. While talking to me, she glanced at the fairy white girl next to me and enquired about her. When she got to know Thia was not only my cousin but a Sociology scholar as well, she started boasting about one of her social activist family member for another few minutes. With the rain clouds looming overhead accompanied by a sudden clap of thunder, Mithu aunty excused herself to mind her business. We were secretly thankful for nature‟s intervention, for it had rescued us from her undesired preaching sessions. As we reached home, Diya told us that Maani had managed to convince Thia‟s parents to let her stay with us for the night. Since her flight to Delhi was tomorrow evening, Maams and I would drop her in the airport where her parents would be waiting with her luggage. The proposal sounded good to me until Thia placed her hand on my shoulder and asked for the „story‟. As the elders dispersed from our sight to carry on with their respective jobs, we went to the main balcony of the 1st floor, adjacent to the dining area. We placed ourselves comfortably on the bamboo reclining chairs. I stretched my feet, with arms folded above my head and was all set to enjoy the momentary silence when Thia suddenly poked me and

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Atrayee Bhattacharya languidly said, “Language disparity… Pleaseee” and gave me a broad wink. I looked at her, nodded in disbelief and through the gaps of the shade, watched the solitary gigantic dark cloud looming on the horizon. It was as if the cloud was seething in anger over God‟s instruction to hold back the showers, while inwardly it was bursting to full due to being laden with water. I felt the cloud was mimicking my own feelings. My mind was asking me to divert the topic somehow away from my own life story but my unabashed heart was eager to spill the beans as if its longstanding wish was finally coming true. “Hey why did you ask about Sudhanshu out of the blue? He used to like you a lot. You guys were good friends no? But I don‟t know. Since Anindya da‟s marriage, I always found him ignoring any topic where you cropped up. Kichu hoyechilo? Anything serious?” Thia‟s list of doubts seemed endless. Her queries though provoked me to break my silence. I swallowed a little, pondered for a while and then uttered, “Language strangulated love.” My words were ringing in my ears but were they mere words or the truest sense of emotions finally coming out? Language played a significant role in moulding my emotional growth as a person. When a person perceives life for the first time after coming out of a mother‟s womb, their thoughts and emotions are brought to life by expressing it in a medium called „language‟. A new born baby expresses itself with

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Three Days of Catharsis some random body movements and garbled sounds whereas a full grown adult human being exploits the vocabulary of a particular language. A toddler crosses several stages of learning before it fully becomes efficient in using any particular language as an adult. Lullabies play a significant role in making a child familiar with human languages. Unambiguously, my childhood too got the wind of human language through various lullabies sung by Mom and Dad. There was a phase in my life when Bangla took much prominence and Tamil language had only two words in my dictionary, kanna and kozhandai. Thia‟s query regarding my experience with the various languages opened yet another chapter of my life. I found her all ears, eagerly waiting for my words. O A mother is the first teacher of one‟s life. My mind acquired its primitive shape through Mom. She, being a Bengali by heart and soul, landed in the multicultural US clasping the richness of Bengal culture within her. Hailing from an exceptionally social country, Mom was able to exchange her own culture and language with a great sense of pride. As a toddler I was blissfully unaware of the language and cultural disparity amongst my parents. According to them, I grasped whatever was pronounced before me. Gradually with my growing maturity, I could seize the logic behind my affinity towards Bangla. Dad convinced Mom to be a homemaker due to her limited physical capacity and Mom put a positive spin on the

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Atrayee Bhattacharya scenario by looking at it as an opportunity to devote all her time in nurturing me. Dad‟s decent salary was sufficient enough to fulfil our basic needs if not luxury. Through persistent communication with Paati and few of our Tamil neighbours, Mom was able to bring about a Tamil Iyer style environment around the dining table but couldn‟t reciprocate the same in case of language. It is relatively easy to comprehend any North Indian language with a basic knowledge of Sanskrit and Hindi but the same cannot be said of Tamil. Tamil did not originate from any other language rather it forms the root of all other South Indian languages. Mom was completely alien to Tamil. However, the level of difficulty in comprehending and conversing in a language should not be perceived until one starts to learn that language. There are Indians who are proficient in Mandarin which doesn‟t belong to them. With apposite exposure, one can learn any language in this world, even the strange clicking language of the Kalahari Bushmen. The key ingredient here is „exposure‟. Where could Mom get the ideal exposure to Tamil? The much vaunted forward class of Tamilnadu absorbed English as their preferred medium of communication. Dad‟s Tamil was restricted to sollungo, vaango, pongo, enna aachu and few more basic queries of a regular day. Even my faintest memory of Dad‟s interaction with Tamilians visualised Dad speaking in English. Conversing in English with NRI Tamilians

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Three Days of Catharsis was widely accepted as an influence of the prevailing ambience. But leaving behind your mother tongue Tamil and exchanging your thoughts with your parents in English is off the wall for a man who grew up in Chennai. Dad never showed any keen interest in teaching Tamil to Mom. But she had this inherent knack of observing different people and their style of talking. While I spent time enjoying nature‟s beauty in the neighbouring park sitting in my perambulator, Mom made acquaintances with some ladies sharing the same stage of motherhood. One of them was Karthik‟s mom, Radhika Aunty, who shared the same emotions of holding aloft her own culture of Iyer Brahmins. Mom and Radhika Aunty developed a close association within a short span of time. They shared one more commonality. Their pride and admiration towards their respective cultures and tradition couldn‟t erase their innate humility. They exchanged not only the motherly concerns but also showed a strong desire to learn each other‟s language and culture. Mom always showers gratitude to Radhika Aunty for whatever Tamil she could learn till date. Though Mom started uttering few Tamil sentences to mesmerise Thatha-Paati, she couldn‟t fit Tamil in her role as a mother. My toddler days were spent under her shield and could see only glimpses of Dad due to his busy schedule. Just like any other normal human being, Mom too showered her affection for me using her own mother tongue Bangla. In the presence of Dad, they

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Atrayee Bhattacharya used to communicate in English or Hindi. The unripe mind of mine was exposed to Bangla and English more prominently than any other language. Bangla became the medium to speak to Mom and English gained prominence with Dad and in pre-school. The day when Tamil was brought to light in my life left a slight bitter taste. It was one of those days when Mom paraded the significance of patriarchal society, cultures, and customs. I was enjoying Dad‟s company and a chocolate ice-cream while coming back from school. We entered our house while I was busy explaining a short story of Enid Blyton that I had read recently. We both greeted Mom who was over a serious telephonic discussion with Paati. As I moved closer to her, she grabbed my hand and said, “Namaskaram sollu.” My mind which was still revolving around that story noticed some words which sounded familiar to Dad but not to her. She repeated her statement but now with a livid tone. I held the phone and uttered, “Namaskaram sollu.” I heard Paati‟s laughter from the other end. She asked me to say only namaskaram and not sollu. Even at that age, I was capable of selective hearing. I vehemently ignored her desire to teach me correct Tamil and handed over the phone to Dad. As he spoke a few sentences in Tamil and resorted to English, Mom‟s fury was discernible through her arched eyebrows. The moment the phone call ended, Mom demanded Dad to speak in Tamil with me henceforth. Before I could comprehend anything, they started speaking in

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Three Days of Catharsis Hindi which was complete gobbledygook for me at that time. Though an amateur to the language, I was efficient enough in deciphering human expressions. I guess when you are born to a parent who speaks many languages you tend to decode expressions better than understanding new words. I could understand that the issue of me not speaking Tamil was trivial for Dad but not for Mom. Following the heated discussions, Mom instructed me then on to speak in Tamil with Dad and Thatha-Paati. My ears were accustomed with it through Karthik, Dad and Thatha-paati but it couldn‟t find place in my vocal cords till that very day. Mom‟s strict directives brought tears to my eyes and I curled my head down in the sofa. Her stern voice echoed in my ears as she declared she wouldn't change her mind. Dad held me close to his chest and consoled me by stating that the rebuke was meant for him and not me. That night, an unnerving silence prevailed in the dining room since Dad had decided not to speak much to avoid speaking Tamil altogether. Unfortunately Mom caught a wind of what was happening and she started injecting in me a few basic words of Tamil with a constant stare at Dad. As the days passed by I learnt basic sentences in Tamil through Mom and started speaking few lines with Dad. His replies were always accompanied by a smirk. Once when Mom enquired the reason behind it, he simply said, “Kutu‟s Tamil is not from her heart. It sounds more like obedience towards your rules Arundhati. I never wanted my child to be bound by any rules. I am

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Atrayee Bhattacharya waiting for the day when speaking in Tamil becomes her desire and not a result of our guidelines.” Dad‟s self-proclaimed D-Day would not be long in waiting for the very next year, his wish of me yearning to speak in Tamil was to be fulfilled. It was a surprisingly bright sunny winter day. Mom‟s mind and the sunny day went hand in hand, completely in contrast to the regular downpours of a typical Berkeley winter day. Mom had a long and detailed examination of my slender fingers while reading out folk tales from Thakumaar-jhuli the previous night. She made me fold and unfold my fingers and move them in a hundred different possible ways before finally deciding to enrol me for Bharatanatyam classes. There was a hidden truth behind Mom‟s desire to make me a multitalented person. Mom was a trained dancer whose talents came to the fore only in Singapore when she actively participated in various cultural fests. In her life, her keenness for dance was eclipsed by an urge to pursue a career in research. While destiny led her down the lane onto an entirely different genre, the hidden passion for dance and music continued to prosper in her life. With her intricate knowledge of various forms of Indian dance and after her intense examination of my movements, she declared me fit to learn Bharatanatyam. Dad was an ignoramus when it came to any form of art and skilfully thrust this responsibility onto Mom. Through his regular visits to the nearby temple, he was aware of a renowned dance teacher in the

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Three Days of Catharsis vicinity of our home. He handed over a piece of paper with a plausible address scribbled onto it. The address was only plausible, as till date Dad could firmly say something with confidence only about General knowledge, Science and English literature. Everything else that he said needed reconfirmation. Mom took the paper from Dad and while fondling my head, told me about the next day‟s programme of meeting my new dance teacher. The six year old I was neither excited to the hilt nor apathetic towards the newly planned venture. I just nodded my head in approval and buried myself deep within my new quilt in the warm embrace of Dad. The bright unclouded Sunday ensured we did not face much trouble in hiring a cab. The cab driver dropped us at the backside of the temple. We paid a visit here during some special occasions as marked in (both Tamil and Bengali). “Abi-tha-kucha-lam-bal Bhagavathisubramaniam Natya Kala Kendra” Mom read it aloud with a raised eyebrow. She blinked a few times, looked at me with her muddled mind and smiled instead, to mask her perplexity. Being a part of an English speaking country and with the constant guidance of Dad, I developed a knack towards the English language. I was proficient in pronouncing any word written in English even at that tender age. I read out every detail on the board without any hitch, leaving Mom mystified. Mom raised her eyebrows again but smiled genuinely and took me inside the building. It

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Atrayee Bhattacharya resembled a normal house but there were lots of partitions on the inside unlike the usual concrete walls. Each partition was adorned by numerous pictures, each depicting a specific batch of students. I saw boards imprinted with batch names hanging on the top of each partitioned room. While I was eyeing here and there holding Mom‟s hand, we both entered a room filled with sounds of kids of my age with ankle bells (ghungroo) clinking rhythmically and dancing in synchronization to the classic tham-thith-tham-thai- tha-thai beat. To my joy, I discovered my classmate from school amongst them and all my attention was soon firmly upon her. While we communicated to each other through our eyes and bright smiles, I realized Mom was talking to a lady. She touched my chin compassionately and smiled broadly at me. Before I could get a proper look at her, Mom and I came out of that room. At that tender age, I was so preoccupied in bidding adieu to my friend that I completely ignored glancing at the lady who was yet to become my mentor. We were asked to wait in an adjacent room which bore an official ambience. Mom sat in a chair meant for visitors and gathered the loose end of her saree on her shoulder. The table in front of us was almost threadbare save a few items of stationery, so I preferred to look around the room which had lot more knick-knacks to quench a child‟s restlessness. The "office room" resembled a narrow aisle. At one end was an entrance/exit leading outdoors while

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Three Days of Catharsis the other end was furnished with a table and an executive chair. The table was covered with a maroon lace net table cloth and two flower vases were placed at the centre along with a stack of registers on the left hand side. A glass of water covered with a decorated coaster was kept on the table which was probably meant for the person who occupied that executive chair. The other end of the table had three smaller chairs meant for the visitors. As I was busy analysing the bunch of artificial flowers in the vase, an old woman approached us with a cup of coffee for Mom and a glass of orange juice for me. Mom exchanged some courtesy words with the lady and warned me to be careful about the delicate glass I was holding. As the lady left us in our solitude, I looked around the room and glanced upon the pictures adorning the wall. Each photo had a common face; A well-built woman of moderately fair complexion, draped in a Kanjivaram pattu saree, hands adorned with glittering glass bangles, half of her forehead covered with kumkum, heavy lidded eyes with thickly lined kajal, an artificially dazzling smile piercing through lips painted a bright shade of red, both sides of her nose pierced with mookuthi (Tamil style nose ring), and a prominent pair of diamond studs glittering from the lobe of her ears. I correctly guessed that this woman was to become my dance instructor. Apart from her face, I found another familiar face in one of those huge embellished frames. I pointed out to that familiar face to Mom with eyes wide as saucers

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Atrayee Bhattacharya and half my face buried in the glass of orange juice. Mom smiled and pointed out that she was Hema Malini, a celebrated figure of Indian cinema. On hearing the name, I could recall Dad watching some movies of Hema Malini on TV some time ago. Suddenly the sounds of jingling ankle-bells and dance beats came to a standstill and we could hear some discussions between the instructor and the kids from the ante room. As the nattering of the kids mellowed down, a lady appeared before us with an amiable smile. She was the same „common face‟ of all the photos. We stood up and Mom greeted her with a typical Bengali style Namaskar. By the time I could sit in my chair, I sensed another affectionate touch on my chin. I looked up and all my attention was stolen by her big Kumkum. Till then only Paati‟s Kumkum was enrapturing but now the lady in front of me was bearing a hypnotising form of Kumkum as well. As Mom finished discussing the basic requirements and official details in order to admit me, the lady asked me my name. “Katyayini Krishnan.” I replied while resting my face on my knuckles, my elbows on the table and a sliver of a little finger snaking its way into the corner of my mouth. “O ho. Tamizh ah!” Her face glowed with a radiant smile and she rattled away in Tamil for the better part of the next minute or two.

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Three Days of Catharsis Mom and I gawked at her lip movements but fell flat in comprehending any of her words. Within a few minutes an expression of bewilderment appeared on her face, the velocity of her chatter reduced and came to a grinding halt as she perceived our inability to understand what she had spoken. She paused to receive a response from our side. Mom smiled hesitatingly and revealed that she was a Bengali and not a Tamilian. Moreover, she said she had very little knowledge of Tamil and mentioned that my Tamil was in its nascent stages as well. The huge Kumkum lady smiled graciously and accepted Mom‟s words with a friendly nod of her head. As she proceeded in English, I realized that the talk was mainly for the elders and I resumed my job of analysing the artificial flowers on the table. Very soon, the meeting came to an end and Mom just asked one small query before leaving. “What shall I call you Madam? Is Mrs. Subramaniam okay?” Mom swallowed nervously unable to predict her response. The lady smiled even wider and spoke with a twinkle in her eyes. “My name is Abithakuchalambal. Everyone addresses me as Abitha. Mr. Bhagavathi Subramaniam explores an entirely different field of interest so I do not get much chance to get introduced as Mrs. Subramaniam. I am more recognisable through my first name.” Mom and I bid adieu to my new teacher without the slightest inkling of the major change that was to

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Atrayee Bhattacharya come my way in learning Tamil. The rest of the day bore a euphoric feel. Dad had prepared a scrumptious lunch and the dining table was peppered with long discussions on where to buy necessities like a dance dress, ankle bells. In the evening, we visited the temple where Dad was introduced to my dance teacher and on her advice we ended up shopping for things at a store nearby. My dance classes were scheduled every Saturday from 5 to 6pm. My oodles of energy and enthusiasm were putting up quite a show for I was adding another feather to my cap. On my first day, I found myself to be a part of the same group of kids whom I saw pirouetting over the musical beats during my admission. Mrs. Abitha, whom every student referred to as Abitha Maami, was a very encouraging personality. She was a darling with the students and with her unconditional love and affection, she stole our hearts. Each mudra, every taalam was introduced to us with its complete meaning and context where it would and should be used. She implanted in us the method of „expressing through eyes‟ so prominently that till date my eyes speak even before my voice can play its part. My life with Bharatanatyam was proceeding on a smooth track in the initial few weeks. A small hiccup emerged as Abitha Maami relapsed into speaking Tamil while explaining intricate instructions for certain dance steps. The usual inge, illai, vendam and few other words did not cause much trouble as they were

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Three Days of Catharsis already registered in my mind through small conversations with Dad and Thatha-Paati. However, certain Tamil statements which were exclusively meant for the rectification of dance steps were new to my ears. Abitha Maami was not to be blamed for the frequent usage of Tamil during her lessons. My batch consisted of nine other students and coincidently all were of Tamil origin. The mere presence of someone well versed in your mother tongue provokes you to communicate through it. The same happened with Abitha Maami. She resorted to Tamil when she found it difficult to explain through English. Though I never found any of my fellow mates responding in Tamil, I discovered that they could comprehend the language easily as they followed all the instructions without batting an eyelid. As the weeks passed by, an odd feeling crept over me. I sensed inferiority within myself when it came to comprehending what Abitha Maami was trying to convey. Sometimes she forgot to repeat the instructions in English which made me either stop performing or repeat the same mistake. I was a young child. Abitha Maami did not consider it to be a sin for me to misapprehend the dance steps. But deep within me, my competitive nature nagged me, leading me to think that I was letting myself down before the other kids. My Bharatanatyam classes were nearing two months of completion. Abitha Maami had sent word to all the parents for an informal meeting after the dance class. One of my batch-mates with whom I had

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Atrayee Bhattacharya grown close with introduced me to her mother. During the introduction her mom started conversing in Tamil while my friend pointed out my incapacity in understanding it. I was left red faced and felt some sort of pain deep inside. Probably the pain was caused due to my full name. My name reflected my Tamil origin and people quickly surmise that I was supposed to know the language. It was the first time when the situation demanded Tamil from me and I was left short changed. My friend‟s mom was unfazed with my incapacity to speak in Tamil. However, the blossoming inferiority complex within me was making fun. In the midst of all this, I observed my mom happily discussing with the other moms in English. None of those Tamil ladies expected her to even remotely understand Tamil since her name did not go hand in hand with the knowledge of the language. Alas, my plight was entirely different. The Tamilian surname of mine inadvertently projected me as an individual well versed in that language. Abitha Maami had built a chain of appraisals of me for Mom, but there I was not even showing the slightest sign of contentment. She finished by stating, “Katyayini is a quick learner and a very dedicated kid. She will go places as an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer.” She smiled, touched my chin lovingly and a prompt reply came from my end. “I have to learn something more important.” I said with a serious look in my eyes, which probably

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Three Days of Catharsis went unnoticed both by Mom and Abitha Maami as well. Mom held my hand, exchanged some more courtesy words with all the other ladies and we set on our way back home. In the cab Mom intuited some degree of seriousness in my attitude but preferred to give me some time to reveal my mind. We reached home in another ten minutes and found Dad with a heap of papers. He placed a very formal query about the meeting in my dance school without having any intention to pay attention. Mom borrowed words from Abitha Maami in building a tower of acclaims for me before Dad. The series of accolades for me finished with a pat for herself for taking the right decision in enrolling me for Bharatanatyam classes. Dad and I were staring at Mom silently and I was impatiently waiting for her to stop so that I could talk to Dad. As Mom took a momentary pause, I stole her thunder and uttered tremulously, “Please teach me Tamil Dad. I want to speak in Tamil. When they hear my name, they expect me to speak in Tamil. I don‟t want Abitha Maami to repeat her lessons in English just for my sake. I feel so low when every other girl understands her words and I just keep blinking rapidly while trying to translate. Please Dad.” I sniffed, raised my head to look at Dad and wiped the tears lining my lower eyelid. An outlandish silence engulfed the room after I had finished. Dad shook his head incredulously, held my hand and brought me near him, followed by a

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Atrayee Bhattacharya warm tight hug. Mom joined us with her optimistic smile and teary eyes. I could see tears welling up in Dad‟s eyes as well. My unripe mind knew sorrow as the meaning of tears but that day I discovered something called tears of joy. My tears signified my inabilities but their tears revealed their happiness as they could see their dream getting fulfilled. I did not get any proper answer to my request that day. All I could sense was an aura of contentment amongst my parents and that was the first time I witnessed my parents kissing each other. I realised something good was yet to happen and the process started. The very next day, Dad started his unique teaching process. Banishing English for the sake of teaching Tamil was not a good option. English remained my first preference to seek the ultimate resort. A day always started with English and Tamil got a slot in the evening. Dad‟s basic duty after coming back from his work was to talk to me in Tamil. I learnt Tamil through animated conversations with Dad. He involved me in some odd jobs to teach me the usage of various verbs under different situations. The learning process started with the probable phrases used in a dance class. Dad was ignorant of my dance steps but was prudent enough to predict the way of teaching. I still remember how I used to approve his words while finding them similar to Abitha Maami’s instructions. Paati always says, “Your mind bestows to fulfil your desire if you truly desire from the bottom of your heart.” At that point of

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Three Days of Catharsis time my only desire was to follow each and every Tamil word pronounced by Abitha Maami. My desire was really strong that I took only three days to learn those basic statements usually made in a dance class. However, that seemed not enough for me as I did not want anybody to point out my incapacity towards the language. I judiciously chose to learn few other sentences in Tamil to reveal my learning process and not complete ignorance. My level of comprehending Tamil was reaching its crescendo and I was eager to show it off to others. The week painstakingly crept to Saturday and I was ready to go to my dance class with Mom. She found me murmuring something and asked me not to worry in case I misconstrued any instruction in Tamil. Mom still gets reminded of that Saturday which made her realise that her daughter was a fearless kid who did not want to lose. The ten minutes in the cab, I did not think of the dance step but memorised some sentences in Tamil. The memory of that day is so vibrant in my mind that I always feel it was just a minute ago. “You are practising Tamil, what if you forget the dance steps?” Mom fondled my head with a mischievous smile. As she removed her hand from my head, I found her yellow chiffon saree moving away from my sight resembling the curtain movement in a theatre show. With my eyes set on the road I replied, “Dance is in my ears, hands and legs. I need not practice it at the last moment. Tamil is there only in my brain. The day it resides in my tongue, I won‟t

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Atrayee Bhattacharya even practice Tamil.” My prompt reply was too hefty for Mom to digest. She was astonished and that mischievous smile was replaced by some sort of confusion. Till date she lands up getting some unexpected responses from me which is apparently ahead of my age. The words I exchanged with Mom was not to be the only treasured memory for the day. Mom thought my murmuring contained the dance instructions in Tamil. Wrong. That was something what I wanted to convey in the class. That day, I eagerly waited for Abitha Maami to repeat her words in English considering my presence. I danced almost like a robot already fed with required instructions. I was more attentive towards her actions than mine. As soon as we finished practising the dance steps learnt on the previous day, Abitha Maami enunciated about a new mudra and taal. I somehow felt inopportune as she delivered every word in English. However, within the next moment I was lucky enough to reveal my progressing knowledge as she described a movement in Tamil. As I always used to stand in the centre of the first row, my inconvenience in understanding anything used to get noticed very quickly. Though I was not unnerved today with her speaking in Tamil, she was kind enough to consider me. “Keep your left hand straight and stiff at the top.” “Vendaam Maami. Ennaku konjam konjam Tamil theriyum. Purinjithu.” I spoke firmly but in a slow

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Three Days of Catharsis pace. As I found her amazed and silent for some time, I chose to translate my Tamil to English. “No need Maami. I know a little bit of Tamil. I understood what you told.” I blinked impatiently, swallowed saliva and eagerly waited for her response. All of a sudden I found myself clinched within her arms. Her emotions seemed to be irrepressible as she spoke with some tears of joy in her eyes. “Excellent Katyayini. You are my best student.” Abitha Maami smiled and fondled my head. Her one statement made me the „hero‟ of my dance class. I was overjoyed without having the slightest hint of my upcoming hurdles. Hurdles pop up in life to hone one's self to perfection. I too cherished the perfection as I overcame the hurdles. The hurdles here came in a disguise of confusion. My young mind was tangled between three languages. English maintained its dominance as I spent a better part of my daily schedule in school. Tamil took prominence while conversing with Dad. I was nowhere behind in pleasing Mom by speaking in Bangla to her. Gradually my house became a linguistic hub. Though I developed a proficiency in switching between Bangla, Tamil and English based on my listener, my mind was a bit disorganised while building a sentence following one particular language. English was never affected as for any NRI kid, English remains their first language. The confusion arose between Tamil and Bangla. A simple „what happened‟ became enna

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Atrayee Bhattacharya hoyeche, Tamil taking the first place followed by Bangla. The confusion was not restricted only to my house. It garnered much more attention in community club functions. Some complimented on my endeavour to learn the languages while some found my confused state of mind to be cute. However, people of my age group found it hilarious and sometimes I became a matter of joke for them. There were some people back in India who declared my efforts futile. There were various occasions which left me disconsolate and tried to wrap up my desire of learning Tamil and Bangla at the same time. Dad, the saviour of my life, proposed a solution. According to him, leaving the desire to learn was in itself defeat. He asked me to learn the language to understand the speaker instead of learning it for the sake of speaking. According to him, a good listener in the present can become a good speaker in the future. My naïve yet intelligent mind pasted a smile on my face when anybody tried to make fun of me. My Tamil kept getting interfered by Bangla and English as well but there was a gradual decrease in the frequency as time passed by. I used Tamil and Bangla cautiously while uttering small sentences and reverted back to English as and when needed. Being an NRI kid, the frequent usage of English was very much expected and acceptable too. Though the process of learning different languages was a bit cumbrous for my puerile mind, the memories of learning each language would always be treasured.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Haan aashchi.” Thia‟s sudden rejoinder to Maani interrupted our visit to my past experiences with language. She moved out of her chair and went inside. As the darkness started playing hide and seek with the lone street lamp, I could just see her image going away from me. The gigantic dark cloud of the south sky was now enjoying the company of various small fellow mates. It made me recall the various family gatherings in Chennai and Kolkata where every bloodline of mine enjoyed my efforts to learn Tamil and Bangla. But did everything end up smoothly? No. Not at all. Gradually my fanaticism to learn languages, love for Bollywood and of course the presence of North Indian friends provoked me to learn Hindi as well. Hindi benefitted me in more than one way. My parents who always took resort to Hindi while hiding some thoughts from me were left trapped. Though I was a quick learner, it took me more than ten years to be proficient in four Indian languages. The proficiency did not come alone. It arrived with its friend and equal foe, PRIDE. As the conversation was fleetingly stopped, my own statements were bustling around my head. Proficiency brought pride and in return strangulated love. Yes. Since I received the best of both worlds, I could never bring myself to truly accept any one particular culture. The intercultural aspect of my life started carving out my own identity in this world. I drifted down the memory lane again, this time in a stony solitude and in dwindling evening light.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Three years ago, Mom and I paid a short visit to Kolkata. One of my distant cousin Anindya da was getting hitched to his childhood friend Madhumita. It was not the marriage which elevated my level of excitement to the hilt. It was the veiled opportunity to meet Sudhanshu. I was so elated and joyous that I did not know what I truly felt. Was it love? Nah. Probably a mere infatuation of a twenty something budding woman towards a good looking hunk of a guy. Till date I don‟t consider my mind to be qualified enough to distinguish infatuation and true love. Perhaps I was too ambitious and self-conscious to have devoted any time for this special ingredient of life, LOVE. “Kutu, Chole esho shona.” Maani‟s disembodied voice reached my ears before I could see her dark image on the balcony door. I was asked to join them for the dinner. Though we all shared raucous laughter in between, dinner was over on a silent note. Possibly my silence was the reason as I had always been an unsurpassed participant of any event. Sticking to the stereotype, elders of the house were glued to the TV screen showcasing some family drama which was supposed to be akin to our own family life. Till date, it perplexes me as I could not find a family where every member seems decked up 24×7 with bounteous BB cream, perfectly lined eyes and most importantly, designer clothes. I made my boredom felt by excusing myself from the „watching TV‟ session. To my huge relief, I found Thia and Maams withdrawing themselves from TV as well to engage in some

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Three Days of Catharsis professional talks. The book shelf in the corner of Maams‟ bedroom caught my eye. I looked patiently and found an unread novel of Ken Follet. I bagged it and silently pushed off to my Hanging room. The outside languid me was however restive on the inside. Neither the culture biased IIM officials nor the muddled commitment phobic mind of Thia were bugging me. But I was certainly restless and forced myself to revisit the past. The wind blew through the open windows and rustled the pages of the novel placed upon the table. My mind was transported into the fond memories with Sudhanshu. I have learnt a lot many things till date and one important thing which kept me ticking till today was that human minds are complex and human emotions are not always black and white. It keeps me wondering if we constantly seek the shadows of our past. O Right from the mid 2000's, the sudden boom of social networking sites started playing a crucial role in building and maintaining relationships throughout the world. Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam was put into realization in the truest sense. Lost friends and anonymous links of our bloodline found prominence in our lives through the small screens of computers and mobile phones. They became the cheapest and the most affordable way to socialize with people. A few compliments on photos, some plaudits to an awe- inspiring status message and some mutual friends gave birth to new relationships on social networking

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Atrayee Bhattacharya sites. Sudhanshu and I witnessed the forte of Facebook in knitting the knots of fondness between us. Through a chain of comments on Thia‟s Facebook wall, we got to know each other. It all started with a harmless friend request, graduating to regular chatting and culminating at the stage of a love proposal. The proposal was online so was its acceptance. His comeliness, the hooded eyes lined with thick dark eyebrows, the luscious well crayoned pink lips and his sharp aquiline nose couldn‟t escape my eyes. I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame and was desperate to meet him. The beguilement of love was at its apogee. Although a typical Bengali marriage doesn‟t witness any tradition of Sangeet ceremony, the glamorous marriages of Bollywood left their impact on each and every tradition. A Bengali marriage is usually preceded by a day of a get together, reminiscent of a bachelor‟s party. Bengalis call it as iburobhaat representing the last food as a bachelor. Recently the gatherings also witnessed the spurt in dance routines to hit songs in which everybody participates to revel in the frolic and fun. Anindya da‟s marriage was no different. Their ancestral house had an open terrace which was covered with a makeshift canvas ceiling and decorated akin to an uptown discotheque. Sticking to traditions, alcohol was replaced by simple aerated drinks complemented by snacks followed by supper, though the enthralment of a dance floor was preserved. Mom and I entered

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Three Days of Catharsis their house and were soon embraced by the jamboree. I knew most of them through Facebook so it did not take much time for me to gel with them. None of us were aware of the frenetic rhythm of our gyrating to the medley of various Bollywood numbers. The younger generation were prancing on the floor amidst the intermediary applauses from the elders. Though my feet were jiving to the rhythm, my eyes were in search of Sudhanshu. I felt an unwonted impatience within my heart. Soon enough, I discovered him entering the place. The scenario played out resembling a typical Bollywood scene depicting the entry of the hero. My sights were trained onto the tall fair guy wearing a brick colour long kurta accompanied by a pair of navy blue jeans. His brown eyes were glistening underneath the gold-framed spectacles. The recently shaved face was glowing under the big lights of the cameraman who was recording the video for the party. He was chipping into customary conversations with elderly relatives on his way to us. A mischievous smile was emerging from the right corner of his lips. I was mesmerised by his princely looks. My feet had already stopped moving to the beats and joined my other senses in being dumbstruck with awe. The expression on my face was tantamount to that of a child eagerly waiting for an ice cream vendor to come near him. I was longing to drown in his warm embrace and wished to return the same. Out of the blue, our eyes locked and I found him winking playfully at me. The

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Atrayee Bhattacharya wink was followed by a wishful smile. Before I could react, I was pulled over by Anindya da who introduced me to Sudhanshu. The moment he held my hand, I felt a tingling sensation creep up my spine. Goosebumps erupted all over my body as our eyes locked onto each other. Anindya da‟s voice was getting fainter by the second. Every word what Sudhanshu uttered was as sweet as honey but failed to make any sense to me. There were a thousand words jumbling about in my mind but failed to muster my senses to utter even a few. It took me some time to emerge into the real world from my fairy tale moments. The pride of my pulchritude was washed away before his magnificence. My ego, arrogance, and smugness went into unexpected hibernation. For a change, I found myself listening without opining. My words seemed to be submissive. I was enjoying some sort of devotion towards him. The age difference of five years between us made me consider him superior to me in every aspect. I was a changed person altogether. O Dhaaaammm!!! The sudden rap of the balcony door against its frame broke my chain of thoughts. I was brought back to the Hanging room. My thoughts were clouded with reminiscences of the past few minutes. I heard Maani cautioning me about the faulty door stopper. I got up from the bed to lock the balcony door. A sturdy whoosh of wind embraced me and I felt the rain soaked wetness passing through each

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Three Days of Catharsis strand of my hair. I glanced at the tarry black sky and was greeted by the gentle pitter-patter of the first drops of rainfall. The moon was playing hide and seek with the large pillows of cloud. It was analogous to the night of Anindya da‟s marriage. Amidst the occasional mild drizzle and a bright golden moon peering sporadically through the rain clouds, there was a sentience of Sudhanshu‟s presence. The notorious wind forced me to drift down the memory lane yet again. I felt ossified. That one particular night what I had buried long back was reinvigorated. O Rain during Anindya da‟s marriage was bizarre in itself as it was the month of February. I was a member through the groom‟s side and so was Sudhanshu. The uncustomary Sangeet ceremony was followed by a gap of one day. That one day was spent to „Break the rules‟. The Gen-X decided to spend the day without any parental guidance. Alcohol flowed freely, accompanied by Continental, Chinese and Mughlai delicacies, not to mention the never ending stream of munchies. The only place where everything was allowed was Sudhanshu‟s house. The first floor of his villa was dedicated to all of us to enjoy our freedom for the day. All of us decided to make the most of the rare opportunity with aplomb. The party was hosted by Sudhanshu himself. Good food, some wine to lower our inhibitions and a mild drizzle to view at from the balcony. What else could be more romantic? Our eyes were playing hide and seek with each other.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya I harboured an inordinate desire to get close to him. Soon enough, everyone started relaxing after a few rounds of alcohol in their systems. I sensed an opportunity and moved to the balcony. I saw the moon illuminating the sky, with scattered raindrops creating a sensuous chime. I felt the same feeling within my heart. I was scatter-brained not knowing how to talk to Sudhanshu. I felt crestfallen not knowing how to reveal my feelings. Unaware of any human presence around me, I closed my eyes and embraced the chilly breeze. Suddenly someone from the back held my hands which were resting on the balcony railing. I saw a ring finger with a coral stone ring and the little finger adorned with an emerald one. It was Sudhanshu. My heart was pounding and ready to break free of its containment. His fingers entwined with mine and he rested his chin on my right shoulder and folded his arms along with mine. The wintery breeze hopped around my thick black curls. I was alone with him at last. The leaves were in susurration to our union. I felt his hot breath on my neck and then a soft brushing of his lips. My soft skin felt his gentle stubble. He ran his hand through my fluttering curls and ran his slender fingers on the nape of my neck. A frisson of pleasure ran through my body. I turned around and giggled as his stubble tickled me. As I looked into his brown eyes, all the surrounding sensuous scenery disappeared. It was only me and him. His perfume was intoxicating. Though I was feeling sick in the pit

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Three Days of Catharsis of my stomach, my soul yearned desperately for his touch. As he held me by my waist, every thought of mine went blank. His one touch stopped my breath. I felt his muscular body pressed against mine. My mind was already framing images of my first kiss but he kept teasing me by slowly nuzzling around my neck. He encountered no resistance from me either and I was eager to proceed further. Gently he cupped my face in his palms and brushed his lips against mine. As I felt his soft luscious lips against my own, a wave of pure pleasure ran through my spine. Gradually his tongue probed inside my mouth. I felt the strong flavour of wine as our breaths intermingled. Unintentionally, my arms reached out to his strong neck and pulled him down to me. We continued kissing, heedless of our surroundings. With every flick of his tongue against mine, I felt the burn of alcohol stinging my breath. Our breaths quickened and started coming in short heaves. His hands clutched my hips and pulled me closer. There I was, entrapped in his warm chest which I had desired for so long. My heart fluttered and urged to push him away but any residual resistance instantly crumbled. His lips continued playing with mine for a couple of minutes and then he stopped. We looked at each other drowning in lust and desire. We held hands and walked till the last room on that floor. It was his personal room with a cot and all basic amenities. The room was illuminated with a dim light. He locked the door, smiled and leaned against it.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Can we have some more?” I promptly responded. “I cannot come to Kolkata frequently so don‟t leave our desires unfulfilled. I cannot keep on longing for you.” He displayed his mischievous smile yet again and with a fell swoop, carried me to the bed. I felt a rush of bliss running through my veins. All this while, he was continuously kissing me and nuzzling me. Once on the bed, our paces quickened and lust overcame all other primal emotions. With frenzy, we began undressing each other. While doing so, he hugged me and kissed me and let out a small cry. "Your bra hurts." He exclaimed. "Take it off then." He proceeded to unclasp them and throw it away while staring at my body with a smile on his face. He just nodded his head in approval and came closer to me. He cupped my breasts in his palms and I sighed deeply while an involuntary moan escaped my lips. I undid the belt of his pants in a fervour even I did not know that existed in me. I pulled him on top of me and his hands were all over my body, exploring my heat. I moved his hands to my bosom and did something that was pure intent. Soon, he entered me and spots of light flashed in my head while we writhed in pleasure. When we made love, it was so intense. I kept grasping his neck while he moved in and out of me. He sighed with intense pleasure as the rainfall outside sang to our erotic rhythm. I wound myself firmly against him just to make sure he was

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Three Days of Catharsis real, really flesh and blood and this was not some erotic dream of mine. We kept going till our bodies could go, exploring every bit of sensual passion that this erotic moment could offer. Just as I wanted this to go on forever, Sudhanshu rocked forward one final time and his body shook with waves of pleasure flooding over him. "Hold tight." I exclaimed. He did not move. I buried my face deep in his neck and licked his earlobes. He was still lying prone when waves of intense spasms shook my body all over, again and again until I sighed deeply to catch my breath. We both lay covered in sweat and the smell of alcohol reeked from our breath. We broke into a satisfied laughter and soon cuddled each other and went into a deep sleep, me cradled in his arms and hairy chest. That night was truly a night to remember for me. It was the most luxuriating sleep I had had in months. In the morning, I woke up to brush my teeth and make some coffee. I brought some for him on a table into the bedroom and found him sleepily delectable, an ever slight snore escaping his lips. As he woke up, he rubbed his eyes and was disoriented for a moment and stared at me with confusion. Then he smiled recognizing me and pulled me closer to him. As we sat cuddling on the bed, the romantic moment was broken by the shrill harsh ringing of my cell phone. “Hey Paati. I should go to a temple? Yes naan ippo poren. Don‟t worry. Pakkatle daan irruku Paati. Poren poren.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya It was a reminder call from Paati for me to visit an Ayyappan Temple. She always advised me to visit an Ayyappan Temple on specific days of the Tamil calendar to pray to God for keeping me healthy. She never bothered my parents to get something done through me. One of the best traits of Paati is her ability to maintain an individualistic approach to each relationship. Though the conversation ended with me convincing her and assuaging her emotions, I was a bit miffed to exit my dream world on a jarring note. I never expected that the sensuous night within the warm embrace of my dream man would culminate in a morning of responsibilities and soothing emotions. Before I could plot my next course of action, I found Sudhanshu perplexed and a bit riled up. It took me a few seconds to realize that I had shoved him away roughly just a few minutes back as my phone called out Paati‟s name. “It was my Paati.” I smiled coyly and tried to comfort him, though my efforts were going in vain. “And who the hell is 'Paati'? Sounds more like 'Potty' to me” He pushed me to make his way to the bathroom. Usually indecency in language perturbs me but I excused him for his ignorance to an alien language, Tamil. “Oh. That‟s my paternal grandma.” I held his hand, placed myself within his hairy chest and said, “In your language, Thakuma.” “Isn‟t Bangla your language too sweetheart? After all, Bangla IS your mother tongue. I would

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Three Days of Catharsis rather hear Bangla through your mellifluous voice than that rowdy and rough sounding „TONGUE TWISTER‟ of a language called Tamil. It just doesn‟t suit your personality.” Sudhanshu lifted my face with his index finger and lightly brushed my lips with the tip of his thumb. As he caressed me, his words were ringing in my ears. 'Tongue twister and rough, rowdy sounding'. Yes, Tamil is a difficult language to comprehend for anybody not belonging to the place. But those adjectives were totally unnecessary. What jolted me was that it was SUDHANSHU who spoke it. I idolized him, worshipped him, and it shook me to the core that these words were coming from him. By the time the cobwebs in my mind cleared, he freed me from his grip and moved to the bathroom, while I was left standing in a comatose state. The turn of events was totally unexpected. Here I was, after spending the most romantic night of my life, and yet feeling strangely lonely and violated. My mind was muddled with queries and allegations. I paced about fervently in the room waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. “Why did you refer to Tamil as a tongue twister? Why did you have to call it rowdy sounding and rough?” I sat down on the couch with my jaw clinched and my right leg moving up and down nervously in a tic, all signs of my growing impatience and a welling anger inside of me. I could also feel my cheeks turning hot while I questioned him. Sudhanshu was

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Atrayee Bhattacharya donning a khaki slacks with a crimson red chequered shirt. He smirked and replied simply, “Because it is.” He came and sat down next to me while rolling up his sleeves. “Chale? Where shall I drop you?” “I am not a one night stand whom you have to drop somewhere.” I replied indignantly. My words were really out of the context and sounded superfluous. No man of sane mind could have withstood that. “What are you talking Kutu? When did I ever treat you like that? Why are you so furious?” “I am not going anywhere till you reply. How can you slander the world's most oldest spoken language with such labels? You know my father is a Tamilian. Right?” “Hey Bhagobaan. Ektai yaarki te eto raag. If such an innocent joke made you so furious, I don‟t know how to treat my future wife.” Sudhanshu burst out laughing and tried to embrace me. I allowed myself to get caught up in his warm embrace, but certain things were irking me still. Perhaps the tumult of still figuring out my identity was bothering me. We decided to go to the temple together and then proceed to Anindya Da‟s house for lunch. Just as we were leaving, I received the second call of the day from my typical Bengali Mom enquiring about my well-being. My thoughts were temporarily distracted from the simmering topic.

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O The creaking of the main collapsible gate of Diya‟s house took my mind off the pages of my past. As I slowly wandered back to the present, I realized everyone was preparing to bid adieu to the day. Maams peeped into my room while climbing up the stairs and perhaps my rock-still body made him think that I was fast asleep. He whispered „Goodnight‟, switched off the light and closed the door behind him. The sudden pitch black darkness of the room dazzled me at first. Soon, a beam of light snaked its way underneath the door of my room. I realized that it was coming from upstairs. I could visualize the gossiping session between Thia, Diya and Maani. The surreal blend of light and darkness at the threshold of the room made me contemplate the existence of grey shades in our characters. The lack of light made the room resemble as if coated in a thick shroud of charcoal dust. The blanket of darkness soon took its hold and tried to consume my past but the chapter what I had revived pushed me to peruse it once again. Just like how Harry Potter witnessed the past through Tom Riddle‟s diary, I too found myself witnessing the whole episode of that fateful day of visiting the Ayyappan temple with Sudhanshu. O It was a crowded affair in Lake Market area. Sudhanshu‟s newly bought Swift car struggled to make its way to the temple through the thronging mass of people flocking on the roads. I was

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Atrayee Bhattacharya momentarily stunned by the scenario near the temple. According to the Tamil calendar, it was Uththira Nakshatram, an auspicious day to visit and pay obeisance to Lord Ayyappa. I saw numerous Iyer Mamas in silk veshtis with their foreheads smeared with vibhuti. Some of the Maamis were draped in elegant silk nine yards madisaar saree and hair tightly pleated and decked with flowers (some with a single red rose, some with a length of jasmine and some with a melange of colours), while the others stuck to the more modern six yards silk Kanjivaram saree. Who would say it was a land of maacher jhol? Not only the Mamas and Maamis, but even the so called chamathu ponnus (good girls) were dressed up in pavadai- dhavani (kind of Tamilian lehenga-choli). The tinkling sound of glass and gold bangles, the temple jewelleries, the brilliant colours of various flowers, the soothing and overpowering aroma of incense and the rhythmic chanting of Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa all around, transformed the place into a spectacle not unlike any temple of South India. My eyes were set on the crowded road while my mind was restless to finish off the temple visit as soon as possible. Sudhanshu, however, was looking perplexed. “What is she wearing? Her legs are visible through the saree.” Sudhanshu muttered while trying to move through the crowd. He was surprised by the sight of madisaar. After a few minutes, we managed to squeeze into a parking space a few hundred yards from the temple. He looked very uncomfortable

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Three Days of Catharsis amongst the Tamilians of Kolkata but his manhood put up a brave facade by not leaving me alone for the darshan. I caught everyone‟s attention as I was in a pair of dark blue jeans with a casual white tee and a multi-coloured stole draped around my neck. Nevertheless, my attire did not affect my devotion. I did pradakshinas, namaskarams, chanted some slokas and performed everything whatever I had been doing since childhood. My sincere devotion to the Almighty never stopped Him from testing my patience though. The day had already formed into a neat pile of kindling, needing just one small spark to turn it into a roaring conflagration. That was provided, courtesy of a sly remark about my attire by a self-proclaimed culturally rich Iyer Maami which landed me in a heated and unwarranted argument. Till today, neither do I remember her face nor do I remember the heated words exchanged with her outside the temple. But I vividly remember what followed on the trip back to Anindya Da's house. Never for a second did I imagine that a small incensed conversation in Tamil would blow away the burning flame of love from my life. O The sliver of light from upstairs, which tried it's best to illuminate my „Hanging Room‟, blinked out without warning. The day was finally over for all and the rain soaked darkness of the night was ready to wrap everyone in a blanket of sweet dreams. But here I was, not even on the verge of closing my eyes, let alone crossing the threshold and stepping into a world

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Atrayee Bhattacharya of dreams. The sky was finally speckled with stars, marred only by a few pock marked clouds moving across the sky like an angry swarm of insects. The smudgy flickering light of the street lamps illuminated the rain-kissed grills of my balcony. The inky darkness of the night and every possible ingredient of nature conspired against me. The nocturnal beauty, which should have rightfully ensconced me in its arms and carried me away into the gentle night, made me turn those rotten pages of my life yet again. The veil of night was torn apart as Sudhanshu‟s venomous words pierced my ears as arrows would pierce their target with unnerving aim. O We had just gotten into his car and were on our way to Anindya Da's house when Sudhanshu finally lost his cool and let out his pent up emotions. “Ki dorkaar aishob lokeder sathe kotha bolar? I mean do you really need to justify yourself to them? Who are they? Bloody Madrasis who know nothing but to nod their heads in an incomprehensible manner during any conversation. They know only to gorge like gluttons on sour curd rice, Idli or Dosa as if they have not eaten it before. Sour Food!!! No wonder they sound sour and sullen when all they eat is sour food. Cultureless group of morons who try to pass themselves off as sophisticated. Do they even have any culture? Every morning they wake up with a malodorous oily head. Bhagobaan jaane (God knows) what they apply to make it stink like that. To compete

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Three Days of Catharsis with our fairness, they became the brand ambassador of Fair & Lovely. Take a good look at those barbarians Kutu. Their dark complexion blended with fairness creams and sandalwood talcum powder gives their skin a greyish tint." His voice had started to pick up a high pitch, stopping just short of screaming out his lungs. "That culture's music sounds nothing like our Rabindra Sangeet. Their way of worshipping countless Gods is just to appease their own selfish nature. They call themselves Brahmins but their rituals do not hold water against ours. And look at what those people wear. Their men just drape a cloth around their waist which is just waiting for a gust of wind to blow it off. And look at the way their women drape sarees. I mean seriously. Is that whom you call a woman? Showing her legs, that too through a saree? A lady with a head of grey hair is draped in a silk saree, in a way as if they were caught in a straight-jacket at a lunatic asylum. Whoever taught them this style statement? No wonder they behave in a lunatic manner. And their language!!! Don't even get me started with that. Sounds like a group of monkeys, gibbering and chattering away in a cage all the time, while rattling away at the bars. Nobody even in their wildest of dreams can comprehend what they are speaking. There is no similarity. Forget similarity. That is not a compulsion. The language is not even pleasant to listen!!! When we speak Bangla or Hindi, you can make out emotions within our words. What

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Atrayee Bhattacharya emotions do Madrasis convey through that rough, rowdy and tongue twisting sounds? Every word sounds the same, like a nail being hammered to the wall or like marbles being rolled through an empty vessel. No wonder they say empty vessels make more noise. Those people are only about noise and have absolutely no substance whatsoever. Thoughtless Tamilians! Oh how could I forget to mention the caste based distinction in a language? Brahmin and Non- Brahmin Tamil. Ridiculous!" His voice had reached a crescendo when he uttered the last statement. I stared at him dumbfounded. A small part of me wanted to punch him then and there. It took me all of my strength to control myself and my welling rage. He continued though, his every syllable now ringing with conviction and paid scant attention to the emotions etched on my face and rising within me. "They speak every sentence as if they are extracting some form of revenge on the listener. But surprise, surprise. Most of them speak in English. Do you know why? They themselves do not understand that mumbo-jumbo language that supposedly defines them. Muddled Madrasis. They also have the audacity to impart inane pronunciation to the English language as well. Just ask them to pronounce any word with the letter 'H' in it. All they do is to study in this country and rob it of brain resource by moving to another country to satisfy their selfish needs by working in a high paying job. Disgusting group of Neanderthals if you ask me. All they do is eat sour food to live a dour

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Three Days of Catharsis life, think stupidly and speak in a stupid language as well. They are the very scum of this country who proclaims the copyright of God. Business is what they do in the name of God. A bunch of idiots, who do not know the significance of Gangajal in worshipping God, advocate Brahminism. They pick holes in our fish eating habits. I just wonder if their so called Brahmins know anything about our Hindu scriptures. Rakhosh is what they were, they are and what they will always be. They will forever be a filthy horde of dark skinned Madrasis.” Sudhanshu spat out the heavy racial slurs with a dark revolted expression pasted on his face. Our car was stuck in traffic while crossing Deshapriyo Park. He had finally stopped speaking but was still fuming at the edges. Amidst the chaos of Kolkata traffic and the incessant honking, an eerie silence was engulfing me. Every word of Sudhanshu had pierced me and my emotions. Still, I held my patience till he spoke of something totally unexpected, which proved to be the final straw. “You are a Bengali Kutu. I don't care if your father is a Tamilian, which in itself is revolting in the first place, but your mother is a Bengali. No one talks about father tongue. It is always mother tongue. Bengali is your culture and must take prominence in your life. You belong to US and not to them.” Sudhanshu looked at me, nose wrinkling when he said 'them'. His eyes were expectant, as though waiting for my approval. I turned to him. My big eyes,

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Atrayee Bhattacharya accentuated by dark eyeliner, were brimming with tears. I could nearly smell the saltiness. I steeled my heart, determined not to weep. My stare pierced through the wall of tears, found his eyes and broke the silence. “I don‟t belong to anybody or anyone MR. SUDHANSHU CHAKRABORTY. I am an educated human being who prospered in a multicultural world and was taught to respect each individual how and who they are. Unfortunately I could never learn to criticise anybody for what they eat or how they dress or how they pronounce English words. Have you heard your mom speaking English? Why should I spell her name when so many renowned Bengalis are there uttering English in their own accent. I am not criticising anybody as I don‟t think I am eligible to do so. I only wish that you realize Bengalis are not from an English speaking region either. Your, yes your, country has no single language as a medium of communication. Each individual speaks English in a different accent which I refer to as MOTHER TONGUE accent. When you criticize someone‟s Idli- Dosa, you open the door for others to criticise your maacher jhol. You did not realize that you made a mockery of yourself by disparaging one of the oldest fermented food products.” I smiled sardonically. “The varied way of draping a saree is a fashion statement of India. Do you know its value in the fashion industry? The significance of draping madisaar is well scripted in shashtras. Married

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Three Days of Catharsis women cover their vaginal orifice during religious activities. It is their way of showing dedication to the Almighty. You made fun of someone‟s tradition when you yourself do not know the significance of draping saree in Bengali style. Coming to your language issue. There are thousand other languages what you do not understand. What will you do then? Bag them and tag them just like how you did to Tamilians? By the way, for your kindest information my father, whom you insulted for being Tamilian, was the one who taught me the significance of fish eating in Bengali culture. Every individual is different and unique. Being unique does not make a person, or a culture for that matter, bad or wrong” “I don‟t know. I just don‟t want you to be with them. You sound horrible, when you speak in that weird language.” Sudhanshu spoke, with his eyes fixed on some construction work which was going on in the middle of a busy traffic intersection. I smirked and said, “Who are you to want anything for me? I speak a language because I know it. Don‟t think I am talking like this because I am half Tamilian. I am voicing myself as I find you suffering from a superiority complex. Bengal embraces a rich culture within its bosom. Bangla language is dulcet to dictate and is great on the ears. True. But does that bestow you with the right to demean others and their culture? Every language, every culture is magnificent and its significance lies in its proficiency to provide a unique identity to human beings belonging to that

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Atrayee Bhattacharya culture. You ridiculed the caste based dialect of Tamil language while you forgot the distinguished dialect of Bangla. Edeshio and . Ki? Kisu bhool koitasi?” My utterance of Bangal bhaasha left Sudhanshu flabbergasted. I stole a glance of his unqualified expression and continued, “Am I sounding wrong to you Mr. Chakraborty?” My caustic words consumed all the silence inside the car. “I learnt both Tamil and Bangla at a very tender age. Gradually got familiar with the different dialects too but never learnt to demean anybody. You know French right? You never dare deriding that. Why? Because it is a foreign language for you. Mr. Sudhanshu, your perceptions ridicule me. You cannot withstand a language of your own nation but you adulate something that doesn‟t belong to you. You belong to a country where two most ancient languages of human race propagated. My dear! You do not respect your fellow countrymen as they speak differently, they look differently and they eat differently. Then how can you respect me who am totally different from you? “You derided their malodorous oily heads right? It is YOUR head which is malodorous, which tagged a community thoughtless without giving a second thought. The language, the culture, the customs what you are advocating doesn‟t need your thoughts. You need not demean Tamilians to portray Bengalis as superior. Neither Bengal needs your appraisal nor does Tamilnadu need your heinous remarks. You

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Three Days of Catharsis calling Tamilians thoughtless or senseless will never bring any change in their lives but your thoughts definitely displayed your frame of mind. You called a community Rakhosh, doubted their knowledge on scriptures. Fine. Now what kind of a Brahmin are you who could have crossed the threshold of a temple without taking bath. Where was your knowledge of Hindu scriptures when you were fucking me last night before getting your marital rights? You live in a state where every alternate hoarding advertises a Shakti Upasak solving your problem in the name of God. What are those celebrated figures of Bengal doing? Isn‟t that a business? Every corner of this world does business in the name of religion. You, being in 21st century spoke about skin colour? Outrageous. People like you forced the women of this nation to advocate fairness creams. I should genuinely thank God that my parents did not think like you. Otherwise I wouldn‟t have seen the light of this world. Lastly, Mr. Sudanshu 'Bengal-is-great-others-are-not' Chakraborty I don‟t think I am suitable for you. Your frame of mind doesn‟t fit into my mind. You are sick and I wish you to get well soon" Dhaaammm!!! I got down from the car, slammed the door but peeped inside to voice out my last word to my lost love. “Though Tagore held aloft the literary acumen of Bengal, his Ashalata no more exists to oust drivel from her man. I won‟t say Grow up but would rather prefer you mature soon in your thought process.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya With the noisy slamming of the car door and with my sarcastic remarks, I closed that chapter of Sudhanshu in my life as well. We never spoke after that day. What bothered me more was he never tried to apologize for what he had said. Probably he is still snarled in his superiority complex. Blocking him from social networking sites was beneath my dignity. He is still there in my friend lists but we just do not talk anymore. I will never know the real reason why we separated. Probably love never existed between us. Maybe it was just a momentary infatuation between two good looking people which led to those intimate moments and later allowed both of us to move ahead in life. But if I had really moved ahead, then why was each and every moment I spent with him still alive within me? Why were my eyes misting up to mimic the wet weather? The rain soaked breeze could have unfolded other happier memories but no. I must be thrown unceremoniously into that day of my life in order to re-live it!!! Singapore's night climate had given me enough chances to witness the crescent moon playing hide and seek amidst the pillows of cloud, all the while threatening to open up this chapter of my life. But somehow, that never came to pass. I did not shed a single drop of tear while shutting the door on Sudhanshu‟s 'love', but today my eyes were pouring out whatever they did not shed on that fateful day. Slowly but surely, my eyelids were beginning to droop with sleep. However, my mind was once again on an overdrive mode, posing a thousand queries.

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Three Days of Catharsis Was there no concept of infatuation in Mom‟s generation? Of course there was. Every love starts with infatuation. Physicality and personality are the two main features which gather attention at first. No love affair starts with true love from day one. An infatuation is nurtured and when mature, emerges as love. Every generation has a similar story but how much dedication was put into the ordeal matters. My parents have a hundred differences between them but I have never seen them trying to change each other. Many a times they were found correcting each other but never were they found shutting the door of love for each other. If they could handle cultural and linguistic differences then why couldn‟t I? Sudhanshu opined something what he did not like. What was the big deal? He was not the only person to criticise a Tamilian, was he? No. I could have just dusted his words from my mind and moved on with my love for him. But I couldn‟t. Neither Mom cared about what her relatives spoke about Tamilians nor did Dad lend an ear to the criticism of Bengalis. They led their life independently with love for each other and never criticized the traits or the culture of one another. Maybe that is why I was so put off when Sudanshu started his ranting. But why did I decide to correct him? Could I change anybody or their perceptions? I sighed deeply. The answer was a resounding NO. With that thought still spinning in my head, my mind drowned in the dense darkness of the night. I began to appreciate Dadu‟s view. My parents have

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Atrayee Bhattacharya only one root. They belong to only one culture. They had to preserve and protect the magnanimity of only one culture. Neither of them were accused or abused for not knowing the other‟s culture. But where did I stand in the midst of all that? I have to embrace the richness of both Bengal and Tamilnadu. I am the sole custodian for both the cultures in my family. They run in my veins. They make up my genetic constitution. I slowly began to comprehend how complex my life actually was. I could neither throw away any of the two cultures nor could I expect to represent them thoroughly. It was not language which strangulated my love. It was my struggle with my own identity what shunned me away from it. With a deep yawn, I pulled the blanket on me with a desire to sleep. But a small voice in me raised a doubt. Will I be all alone always? I am culturally unique after all. No one could and never would realize or understand my trials and tribulations except for me and me alone. Though my mind steeled my resolve and made the choice to face all of it, but my heart moseyed through each and every proclamation made by Dadu. The prevailing darkness pledged to become ceaseless. The opaque darkness of the night escorted my doubts till I reached the porch of dream world.

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Three Days of Catharsis

Chapter7

P The wheel of time spun and the night finally waned, keeping blankets of grey clouds intact in the sky. The bright orange tinge of the first sun ray lingered through the ridges of those clouds. As the first ray of the autumn dawn displayed a prismatic effect through the tiny rain drops upon the balcony grills, my eyes witnessed the bliss of nature‟s spectacular splendour. Amidst the monosyllabic chirps of birds, a lyrical breeze and the faintest odour of Shiuli phool, I opened my eyes wide to start the day afresh. The way I got out of my bed, stretched my arms and moved to the balcony was a bit cinematic to say the least. But the clichéd crisp copper leaves swaying in a hoarse autumn wind were missing from the set piece. Through the mist of this dawn, my eyes could only see the silhouette of some joggers on the road. Whispers about their Puja plans were loud enough to reach my ears. I was not even aware of the time until the alarm rang in my mobile for a reminder. “Paati- temple” It was 5:45 AM. I switched off the alarm in my mobile which was lying down near my pillow. I ogled at my bed. That beautiful hand printed Rajasthani

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Atrayee Bhattacharya dohar of mine was at sixes and sevens. Bed spread appeared messy and projected my disturbed sleep of last night. The disoriented bed along with an unflustered side pillow was still beckoning me towards a small nap. Waking up with the first light of dawn on a Sunday is fictional for me. If my memories assist me well, the last time I woke up before the cock crow was for dodhimongol (a Bengali ritual) of my friend Dipto during his poite (threading ceremony of Bengali Brahmins). Though Dipto‟s character did not have much impact on my memory lane, assisting Mom and the other Bong beauties for all the required rituals of poite definitely made its mark in my amnesia-driven memoirs. Honestly, this somnolent generation of ours couldn‟t care two hoots about the umpteen rituals thrust upon us by the elders. However, to buy peace we willingly restrain ourselves from time to time with the ball and chain of tradition and customs. In my management language it is a WIN- WIN situation for both the parties. “Koi? Jhum. Acho?” A shrill voice slaughtered the prevailing silence. It was not at all necessitous to peep from the balcony to unearth this “Diya-seeker.” You know why? In this era where every human being is subjugated by advanced technology, there still exist people like GOURANGO MAMA who snub the very basic existence of a door bell and prefer to screech your name from the street like a foghorn. I have come across hundreds of peculiar characters in different stages of my life but only few remain vivid in my

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Three Days of Catharsis memories. Gouranga mama is one of them. Here, the suffix “MAMA” is not similar to the usage of MAMA while addressing any Tom-Dick-Harry Tamilian male. Mr. Gouranga Bhattacharya is actually a maternal uncle of Dadu. Confused with the age and relationship? I too was when I was first introduced to him. He is not Dadu‟s own mama. Some distant relative. The mirthful mystery is that he is similarly related to Diya as well. He is Diya‟s cousin mama too. Comical isn‟t it? I can never forget the day when I declared Dadu-Diya to be siblings on the basis of sharing a same maternal uncle though cousin. Actually, Mom belongs to a sub caste of Bengali Brahmins who are referred to as Boidik. The classification doesn‟t end here. To be more precise and accurate they belong to Pashchatya boidik shomaj. It is a very close knit community. The imminence amongst the members is dictated by the marriage manual. Tallying the sub caste as boidik is the first rule to be followed while seeking a prospective life partner. Apparently, every one of them gets connected to each other in some or the other way. I am a product of an intercultural (biological) reaction but I feel this first rule of marriage manual can make your survival a bit smoother in a ritualistic world like this. Since I gathered my senses, I stumbled upon a lot of happily married couples who ostentatiously proved that LOVE IS NOT A PRE- REQUISITE for a booming wedlock. One can

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Atrayee Bhattacharya indisputably get hitched with an unknown person and gradually develop love towards him or her. As I had witnessed few failed love marriages and many fruitful arranged marriages, I gradually developed a sort of predilection towards the process of match making. During every annual visit to India I happened to encounter some or the other cultural gathering or to be precise our annual trips were meticulously channelized as per the programme schedules back in India. Be it a marriage or a poonal (threading ceremony in Tamil) or a mere celebration of festivals, we made sure to mark our attendance as NRI guests. In spite of so many celebrated relatives, every celebration chose rituals and customs to be their chief guests. They unobjectionably took prominence from the beginning till the end. Be it Chennai or Kolkata, every celebration held aloft the concept of following certain rituals and artistically upheld my predilection. Each one of us faces some incidents in life which remain etched as immortal memoirs in our mortal mind. My reminiscences regarding rituals are redolent. I had witnessed the “instruction-exempted” life of Maani and “instruction-laden” life of Mom as well. Wait a second! It would be wrong to question the temperament of both the mothers-in-law since Diya and Paati are wonderful women in all spheres of their respective lives. The term, “Instruction- exempted” life of Maani illuminates the fact of her pre-existing knowledge and acumen towards every ritual to be followed. Maams had an arranged

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Three Days of Catharsis marriage, well organised by following every rule of the Bengali Boidik marriage manual. Maani acquired the new status of being a daughter-in-law. Her bloodline was Boidik too, so except for the house and people in it, nothing was new for her. The assembly of different ingredients in a pushpapatra, the usage of white and red chandan, the usage of gobindo bhog chaal and durba (holy grass) in daily puja, the type of mantras chanted, the pronunciation, the way everyday puja was performed and most importantly the names by which the Gods were known, everything remained unaltered. No list ends without food. The tradition of offering cut fruits, khichudi-polau-labda-payesh being the most significant part of bhog prosad, mooger jaala and chaal kola makha, literally nothing was new and „yet to be learnt‟ for her. When there‟s nothing new, there is nothing to teach. If there‟s nothing to teach, there is no prerequisite for instruction. When Mom secured the same status (daughter-in- law) in an Iyer family, every single thing was new and different. Except pushpa (flowers), there was nothing in a pushpapatra. Marigold and hibiscus were prominently missing amongst the flowers which were offered. Red chandan was replaced by kumkum. Vibhuti became an integral ingredient. Gobindo bhog chaal was very much alien to Iyers. Durba usage was prejudiced towards Lord . Mantras showered some solace to Mom though the pronunciation was poles apart. Not to forget, like Lokkhir paachali something called Saami paattu-mandhiram existed

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Atrayee Bhattacharya amongst Tamilians. While Dadu‟s day started with -Vishnu, Paati‟s first word of the day was Shivaya Namaha Om. The story didn‟t end there. Gonesh Thakur was now Pillaiyar. Narayon was rarely used for Vishnu. Venkatramana-Govinda-Go…vinda replaced Narayon. Instead of Radhe-Krishna, Paati‟s omnipresent chanting of Guruvayurappa got an opportunity to knock Mom‟s eardrums. Maa Durga became Amman. Kaali idols looked very different. Kartik Thakur of Bengal was Subrahmaniya here. Lord Ayyappan was added to the list. A new concept of praying for husband‟s long life appeared in the form of Karadayan-nonbu. The list was essentially endless. Food too contributed to mark the difference. Pongal-vadai-sundal-sakkraipongal and a wide array of flavoured rice held all the required magnitude in constituting Prasadam. When there‟s everything new in your life and your enthusiasm to learn the new is at its zenith, you are surely going to be „instruction- laden‟. Mom is considered as a successful daughter-in- law for rest of the world. May I ask the basis behind labelling her successful? She held the richness of her Bengali traditions intact while embracing the Tamil culture. Absolutely true. Today she might be tongue- tied for some Tamil words but she is definitely as proficient as any Iyer mami while following all the Iyer rituals. She knows how to embellish a boron-dala for a Bengali wedding and dexterous enough to make an aarathi thali for an Iyer marriage oonjal. If success

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Three Days of Catharsis is all about being intelligent, diplomatic and proficient in whatever you do, Mom is undeniably successful in the chosen field. But which is more important? A successful life or an uncluttered, smooth life? Performing Puja on Basant Panchami as per Bengali customs and then repeating the same puja on Navami day during Navraatri as per Tamil tradition, seems cluttered enough for me. puja marks its presence first on Saptami day of Navratri for Tamilians and again comes on the first full moon day after Dussera. wishes for Tamilians spreads in the morning. The same wishes get translated into Bangla in the evening and consecutive days. Holi doesn‟t exist for Tamilians and is celebrated in the morning itself. Quite contrary to what happens in Bengal. She celebrates three NEW YEARS. One with the whole world, second with the Bengalis and third with the Tamilians. For Mom it is a matter of pride for being able to follow so many rituals in her single life. I consider it to be a matter of confusion. Every culture is different and exhibits a distinct way of performing any ceremonial act, thereby giving birth to a distinct ritual. The rituals you follow are dictated by your traditions which in turn are directed by your roots. Regardless of all the endeavours you display to familiarize an alien culture, you are never accepted as one of them. Mom is undoubtedly accepted as a successful daughter in law by the Iyers but she remained a non-Tamilian in her introductions. A fact is never a fault. In her 25

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Atrayee Bhattacharya years of marital life, she kept comparing (if not complaining) the two cultures, their respective traditions and rituals. I heard her telling out „Bengali way of doing‟ to my Tamil bloodlines and „Tamil way of doing‟ to the Bongs. If this complicated life of hers is termed as successful, then my perception towards success is certainly wrong. My frame of mind defines life to be successful, if it is peaceful. Lesser the rules to be followed, the more peace you garner. Today, technology is the new GOD (in disguise). Our fast paced life can neither afford so many rituals nor can dare questioning the arbitrary rules dictated by our sacerdotal decree. We can become agnostic or even an atheist in our approach towards life but can never erase the column of religion while striving as a social animal. Religion, culture, tradition, all gets assigned to us right from the zygotic stage in a womb. They in turn set the guidelines to be followed for rest of our life. Probably, Maani is no different from any other woman in that dynasty. She was assigned the same jobs what others were given. Nothing novel she could achieve like Mom. Does that make her life less lucrative? NO WAY. If I were to choose a marital life, I would have chosen Maani‟s. Rituals amongst Hindu Brahmins are endless as well as inevitable. You can discover an escape route only by the skin of your teeth. Mom received a rulebook after her birth as a Bengali Brahmin and entertained another set of rules as an Iyer mattuponnu. The harsh reality is that both the

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Three Days of Catharsis rulebooks are poles apart. The added rules what seemed to be a burden for me were a source of pleasure for Mom. O A few years back, I started perceiving Mom‟s life as cumbersome. I was released from the clutches of teenage and waiting for adulthood to adopt me. It was during the time of Navratri. Mom‟s schedule was packed with personal as well as virtual meetings regarding celebration in Singapore‟s Bengali Association. She was in charge of organising the cultural events throughout the five days of Durga Puja. The list of “THINGS TO DO” seemed to be unending. In a foreign land like Singapore, where your attire for five days of the week is dictated by your job profile, the Bong beauties really get deprived of revealing their wardrobe. Five days of Durga Puja are invested judiciously in showcasing the best of sarees they have. Colour codes for each day, theme party for the evenings, dance-drama-music programmes from varied age groups, arrangement of artists from Kolkata and every nitty-gritty of that year‟s Durga Puja was handed over to Mom. Apart from my active participation in various cultural events, I was playing the role of an unpaid associate of Mom. The story didn‟t end there. Picture abhi baaki hai. Navratri not only heralds the arrival of Durga Puja for our family, but also setting up of the Golu (arrangement of picturesque dolls in an orderly

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Atrayee Bhattacharya manner for show) for the Iyer maatuponnu. Everything was pretty similar to the preceding years except one. Mom had acquainted herself with some Iyer maamis in the neighbourhood who were invited for Tamboolam (small gift distributed on special occasions). It was Saptami. Mom finished her Lakshmi puja as an Iyer daughter-in-law at the call of dawn and was all set to leave the house for attending Saptami onjoli of Maa Durga. A stumbling block by the way of an unexpected ringing of the doorbell threw all the plans to the wind. That year, Saptami- Ashtami fell on weekends keeping me available for attending the puja. A typical Bollywood style lehenga-choli along with traditional jhumkas and bangles were good enough to outwardly beautify me but failed miserably in hiding my impatience. This year I had the rare opportunity of attending the actual puja part of the festival and I did not want to miss it. I answered that doorbell disinterestedly which rang at the wrong time. Two women draped in pure Kanjivarams were waiting outside. “Hellllooo! Nanna irrukiya kanna?” The seemingly elder amongst the two ladies enquired with a lackadaisical smile. My welcome was equally perfunctory. I placed myself in one corner of the room and waited impatiently for them to leave. Unfortunately, Mom‟s guest relation attitude was not a slave to time. She patiently entertained them for a complete 41 minutes with small chit chats, some sweets and of course handed over the very basic

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Three Days of Catharsis purpose of their visit, Tamboolam. They in turn invited Mom for the same. As they got up from the couch to leave, I too got up hurriedly to see them off. Probably my impulsiveness was barefaced enough to get caught by one of them. “Are you going out somewhere?” This time, it was the other lady. She stole a glance towards me, rather my anxiety, and asked Mom. As her impeccably lined eyes were devoted towards Mom‟s clarification, I chose to bear a humble smile on my face. Alas! It didn‟t do anything good. They presumed their visit to be intrusive and apologised to Mom before leaving. I was left with Mom glowering at me for the unwarranted embarrassment. “Come on Maa. Don‟t you get tired?” “Of what?” Mom responded while absentmindedly throwing the keys and essentials in her bag. We both got out of our condominium. She locked the door and rubbernecked for my response. “Dragging the burden of two vastly different customs?” “It is neither a drag nor a burden.” Her intense glare silently commanded me to keep my mouth shut. “I am a part of the two customs and I will follow both till I am alive.” She paused. “It is making your life cumbersome Mom. You have to manage so many rituals which do not hold any meaning in today‟s world.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya We got into the car. Though I had recently obtained my driving license, my Indian mother couldn‟t muster enough courage to allow me in the driver‟s seat. So we had to book a cab. Mom flung her Gucci handbag aside, murmured some slokas, made rapid salutations to countless Gods, smiled at me and said, “Your unlimited usage of internet, social networking, hi-tech phones and all, do not hold any meaning in my world. Do I question you? No. You know why?” “Why?” I raised my eyebrows, anticipating an unacceptable reply. “Because I know you get joy from that. I get joy in upholding my culture, wherever that may be from.” “Your culture is Bengali. Then why Golu?” “In the parlance of Immunology, Bengali is innate and Tamil is acquired. Both are however needed to keep all three of us rooted.” She displayed a smile marked with a finality to end the topic. It was over verbally but left me feeling jumbled. Which was innate and which one was acquired for me? Mom, following the traditions of both cultures, left me with a conglomeration of the two, with a hundred traditions and infinite rituals for the entirety of my lifetime. O I could distinguish the Doppler shift in Gouranga Mama‟s voice and realized he had entered the house. A retired professor of physics from University, he judiciously invested his time these days

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Three Days of Catharsis in educating impoverished pupils and as a priest in a small Shiva temple near his house. He epitomized the blend of science and culture. Every rule of Bengali customs rests in his mind. His acumen in advocating Bengali culture made him ubiquitous in any of our family functions. There was nothing special today except for it being a Sunday. His visit was neither untimely nor unnecessary for he had come to escort me till the Shiva temple where he served as a priest. While climbing the stairs, he peeped into my hanging room where I pretended to be busy getting ready. “Are you ready young lady?” He queried airily. I looked at him and replied in a lazy drawl. “Ha Gouranga Mama. Just give me ten minutes to take bath.” Gouranga Mama was a Mama to everybody. Except his own grandchildren, nobody referred to him as Grandpa in this family. Surprisingly his physical appearance was quite deceptive. He looked younger than Dadu even though he was pushing eighty five. My slothful attitude was antagonistic to the expressions etched on his face. “Sure. Take your time. I will have some tea in the meantime.” He smiled desultorily and climbed to the first floor. Soon I could hear the cacophony over a cup of tea and figured out that ten minutes could be extended to an hour. “Where are you going at this time?” Thia‟s sluggish voice reached me as I was busy pinning a small circlet of jasmine buds to my wet hair.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Temple.” I answered while staring at the budding perplexity on her face. Possibly my mistimed plan of temple visit seemed inapposite for her. She jumped out of her bed and pored over the Bengali calendar hanging on the wall. “What is today? Kon utshob? Calendar is not showing any festive day except for Sunday.” She grinned and sprang back onto the bed. My expertise in beautifying my facial features grabbed all her attention. I was clad in a green-maroon Pavadai- Dhavani. A one-gram gold temple jewellery set ornamented my neckline and ears. A pair of gold plated bangles bookended half a dozen green and red glass bangles, and completed my ensemble. I could see Thia‟s eyes adhering to my reflection in the mirror. She was mute but suddenly raised her eyebrows on seeing me putting kumkum. Before she could frame an interrogative sentence I uttered. “It is not Bengali sindoor. It is Kumkum, a coarser sibling of sindoor. Even unmarried Tamilian girls put it. Actually it is used by both the genders down south.” “So you declare yourself as a Tamilian.” Her demanding words called for a long conversation which seemed to be impolitic to start at that time, especially with Gouranga Mama hot on my heels. I chuckled at her. She winked and said she would join me for going to the temple.

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Three Days of Catharsis “No Thia. You‟re going to take another hour to get ready and then Gouranga mama will start his discourse on punctuality.” “Another hour? For what?” She enquired, contorting her face till her eyebrows nearly met her rosy cheeks. Even before doubt could cloud my face, she fervently declared she would come in a pair of jeans without even taking bath. “You will get caught man. Everybody will drill us with their lectures.” She looked at me while brushing her teeth, steadied the drooling froth inside her mouth and replied, “You ah ye to shee mah acumen.” Within a minute she washed her face with a facial scrub and rubbed her wet hands through her dark brown hair which made her hair look freshly wetted. She struggled for another minute to get into her jeans and tee, tied her hair with a rubber band, lined her eyes with kajal, and pampered her lips with a coloured lip balm and bam! She was ready! “Chal.” She winked at me with her mischievous smile, held my hand and presented ourselves before the elders. Everyone seemed to be happy seeing Thia accompanying me to the temple. While Diya and Gouranga Mama started singing praises of Thia for her devotion towards God, She whispered in my ears. “See. Nobody could catch me.” I smiled at her mischief. She murmured again. “Height of ignorance. They think I am going to

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Atrayee Bhattacharya worship God but I am going to coax you for the differences in tradition that you faced.” My big eyes looked even bigger in astonishment. My reaction to Thia‟s words could last only for a fraction of second as my attention got diverted to Gouranga Mama‟s cynical remark on dressing sense of the new generation. My eyes remained glued to his face until he finished his brief sermon on Indian heritage and culture. Thia calculatedly ignored his seditious thoughts which were essentially targeted towards the attire she had chosen to visit the temple in. The darting minute hand of the wall clock coerced me to put an end to the one sided conversation. “Gouranga mama! Your love for culture is incurable.” My loud laughter what followed my words was a bit inapt but mercifully made him mobile and we three could proceed to the temple. Hindu scriptures portray Lord Shiva to be the most easily satisfied god. It seems pouring water on Shiv-linga and offering any wild flowers and fruits can attenuate him. I too did the same while Thia prayed silently. Her eyes looked disarrayed. I thanked Gouranga mama for making my job done and we both left for Diya‟s house. “Done.” I sighed in relief and looked at Thia. She was unnaturally quiet. The silence what I perceived in her was analogous to the calm before a storm. Her suppressed thoughts wanted someone to pick her mind.

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Three Days of Catharsis “What happened?” I placed a hand on her shoulder and asked. She remained silent till we crossed the road and then spoke, “Does God bless us based on what we wear?” A puckered brow shadowed her words. “No. Not at all.” I replied and we kept walking silently. Her query somehow tickled my mind. She was not the only one posing this question. I too sailed in the same boat of thoughts. Existence of God is a resilient allegiance of human life. None of us could see God but still all of us trust in the subsistence of a superpower that controls our lives. Who gave birth to God? God himself or humans? Who demarcated religions, God or humans? When preaching of every religion converges at harmony then what is the need for so many religions? We take birth as humans and almost immediately get categorised into a religion. Scriptures published some millions of years ago describe how God looks like. Who wrote those scriptures? God or humans? I may get slaughtered by religious and cultural zealots if I pour down my guileless thoughts. In the present time when our life revolves around proven theories, my logical mind designed God plausibly. The special features of Hindu Gods signify their exceptional proficiencies. We need not gratify God for anything. He is the architect of our life. Our destiny is pre-designed. Alterations can be done only through our own efforts, thoughts, motives, deeds and not by simply bucketing flowers and fruits to God. Since birth we all are hammered with

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Atrayee Bhattacharya thousands of mantras and slokas as a means of attaining God but most of us murmur them without even knowing the true meaning behind them. If God could be attained like this, then every priest would be having his three meals with God himself. If God takes care of only his devotees, atheists wouldn‟t have survived in this world. God remains important because he is still unachievable. Divine remains divine until unexplored. According to me GOD is an abbreviation for Good deeds, Oodles of love and Devotion to humanity. “We don‟t question God for how he dresses up. Similarly he too doesn‟t bother for your jeans.” My words brought a smile on Thia‟s face. “You are mad Kutu. Who questions God?” “Why? What does that mean? We question him every day.” My words did not fit into her frame of mind. She waited for me to continue. “You get late for a meeting, you question God for the fast-moving time or the slow paced transport. You get a pimple just before your date you throw a big WHY to God. Your gravy gets burnt, you make faces to God. You lose a mark in an exam you blame God for not blessing you appropriately. Your boyfriend leaves you, a series of interrogative sentences waits for God‟s reply.” Thia giggled and said, “True.” “You know when was God born?”

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Three Days of Catharsis “You mean Janmashtami?” She probed. Her response made me laugh vociferously. “God was born when man discovered that certain incidents of his life were not designed by him. God was born when inadvertent incidents occurred. When God took birth in man‟s mind, his imaginations drew God‟s features designating special powers to God. Humans of similar ingenuities jostled together and procreated religion which in turn gave birth to culture. Your culture and tradition dictates you for the rest of your life.” “Carry on Kutu.” “You got pissed off for someone advocating the dress code of Hindu culture. Why? Do you see any deficiencies in God‟s blessings towards you? If jeans could reduce God‟s blessings for you, you wouldn‟t have been admitted in JNU. Your goodness garners blessings for you and not your attire.” I brought my words to a standstill as we entered home. Thia draped a convinced look on her cherubic face. Egg rolls were served as Sunday breakfast. My arguments could mollify Thia but left me sceptical towards the prevailing mentality of people in this country. Thia, while licking the tomato sauce from her plate, announced ME as her PhD topic. Everyone chortled except Dadu who buttressed Thia‟s thoughts. Progenies from an intercultural marriage remains a piquant area for research. “What‟s so special in me to attract you?”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Your upbringing within a blend of two colossally different cultures of India.” “Hmm. India is a huge conglomeration of cultures. True. But some commonalities remain between them.” I gazed around and continued, “Superstitions, gender discrimination and hypocrisy.” My response froze everybody sitting on the dining table. “What shall I say about Indian culture? A woman becomes a prostitute when you pay her for sex but when you buy a man for sex you showcase the prevailing culture of DOWRY.” I sneered mockingly. “Hey, we don‟t take dowry Kutu.” Maams exclaimed with his eyes still on his laptop screen. “I used YOU as a generic pronoun.” “Okay. I won‟t ask you anything Kutu. I didn‟t intend to hurt you.” Thia bit her lower lip and raised her eyebrows. Her eyes casted two shadows, one of apology and the other was her persisting desire to unbridle my story. “I am not hurt. In the past few days every person I met, every incident that had surpassed me did only one job, IMPOSED ME BACK IN TIME.” I paused as I sensed everyone lending an ear to my suppressed feelings. A sort of silence prevailed in the hall. Nobody spoke but I could hear their unuttered wish to listen to me further. “The IIM officials wanted cohesion between my name and mother tongue. Dadu declared me as a quarry of identity crisis. Few years back a boastful guy failed to detach me from my Iyer roots, which

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Three Days of Catharsis was perceived to be inferior to my Bengali ones.” I stopped only to find the spark in Thia‟s eyes for my last sentence. “I am neither hurt nor angry. I just realized that I am an excellent topic for people to debate on. I can be a good guinea pig for some sociological research. Good. I would love to be the subject of your research Thia in case you too don‟t come up with the same conclusion that people like me suffer from identity crisis.” I smirked. Maani and Diya intervened to buy peace in the ambience. The topic was diverted to the most comfortable zone, FOOD. Thia‟s discontented eyes revealed a hundred unuttered words which tried to soothe me. Her unsaid thoughts prevailed in the ambience just to draw me closer to my past. My ears received many a noise but deep in my heart was a wisp of silence. My memoirs were tossed in the wind unaware of where to land. The dilemma of tradition was caged deep in my memories. Her unexpressed demands snapped that rusting cage of my past effortlessly. O Memories have a very complicated identity. Some lift us up while some tear us apart. Some encourage while some put a damper on things. Memories are like tools. We can use them as a weapon to destroy our mere hope of surviving or we can use them as an instrument to construct a better future. Some of them fade away very easily, but some keep striking you like a wrecking ball. Interestingly, the memories we hate the most prove to be our staunch devotees. They keep

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Atrayee Bhattacharya knocking our door occasionally to mark their attendance in our lives. However, if I try to erase the most unloved memory of mine, my mere existence would be endangered for the differences in the cultures of my Mom and Dad had impregnated some undesirable scenes in my mind. I was very small when I first landed in India as an NRI. Scenes of that visit remain vibrant in my thoughts as it was the first time I met the whole of my dynasty of both Mom and Dad‟s side. Thatha-Paati met their son after five long years. Some incidents still make me laugh at my ingenuousness while some coerce my mind to erase them. In those days I was not proficient in spoken Tamil yet. English was the preferred language that too in an American accent. On the way to Thatha‟s house I kept describing about aeroplanes, air-hostesses and of course tried my best to educate Paati with the immigration process. Paati still makes fun of my instruction laden words to her. It was not only my verbose nature that amused her but also some of my deeds. The first was an incident about keeping a bunch of dhurba on the head of someone called Pillaiyar who was sitting outside Thatha‟s house. My little mind was unaware of this Pillaiyar at that time. I came out to the courtyard and found a cow drowned in its own little world. The bunch of grass was in my hand, mind was cluttered not knowing what to do and heart was thudding fast in my ears, afraid of enquiring about this Pillaiyar. I looked back and found none, slowly came out of the

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Three Days of Catharsis main gate and fed the cow with the grass. I fondled the cow and uttered, “Hello Pillaiyar! I got this for you.” Amidst the chirping of birds, I heard a loud laughter. It was Paati. I swallowed my saliva in anxiety. She lifted me in her arms, kissed my cheeks and pointed out to an idol of Lord Ganesha placed in an alcove of their wall. “That is Pillaiyar kanna. Lord Ganesha is also known by that name.” She smiled. Even at that age I was undefeatable. I remained silent only till she finished the story about the origin of that name. When she felt she had convinced me I uttered, “Okay! But anyway that idol cannot eat grass. So I gave it to the cow.” A raucous laughter mushroomed in the house for my promptness and presence of mind. Mom declared me ignorant to Tamil names of Gods and requested Thatha-Paati to teach me. The teachings were not only restricted to names but extended to slokas as well. I learnt them blindly without understanding anything. The process of acquainting me with divinity continued for some more days until I asked the elders the reason behind so many Gods. Paati‟s intellect delivered a very convincing answer to my logical query. DIVISION OF LABOUR. Perhaps she was right. In a day of twenty four hours, we put forward hundreds of demands to God. Some for success, some for money, some for education, some for a good life partner, some for children and some like me just wish for peace. We ourselves made God‟s job easy by categorising them based on our wishes to be fulfilled.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya The chants what I learnt as a child are still lucid in my mind. I still chant them whenever needed. However, I wonder till this very day whether the chanting of those complex mantras and slokas are truly needed. Does God fail to understand my colloquial voice? I think God is not a staunch believer of using mother tongue as a mode of communication. When my queries were answered and my wishes were fulfilled, I realized even God was multi-linguistic like me. My young mind was definitely in the dark towards the complexities of life at that time but I realised one basic rule of survival. THE MORE YOU DEVOTE, MORE QUERIES CROP UP AND MORE INSTRUCTIONS AWAIT YOU. Thatha and Paati were not the sole souls delivering me religious discourses. Diya and Dadu too took part. The tradition of offering a bunch of dhurba to Lord Ganesha was not followed by the Bongs rather the holiness of dhurba was distributed equally amongst all Gods in Bengal. I remember how Diya affectionately handed me a few dhurba and some flowers dipped in red and white sandal paste to offer to all the God idols without discrimination. I would be lying if I say every bit of the two cultures is different. Pouring water to appease Lord Shiva was an integral part of both the houses. The Gods to be prayed were quite the same though Paati‟s list vastly outnumbered Diya‟s. I couldn‟t hear much appraisal for Lord Muruga in Kolkata. This name of Lord Karthikeya was unheard for many. Lord Ayyappan seemed to be

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Three Days of Catharsis famous amongst a few who had spent one of their holidays exploring the part of South India known as Temple cities. Each day was designated to a particular God. Differences lay there too. For example, Goddess Lakshmi was venerated on Thursdays in Bengal while on Fridays down south. I found the list of differences to be inexhaustible and distanced myself from it, yet remained attached in following the instructions to buy peace. Following the practices of both the cultures proved to be affordable over arguing with Mom over the differences. My mind raised several doubts to seek the truth behind every rule created by mankind. However, very soon I realised God and religious beliefs are a very sensitive issue. Mankind has poured his heart and soul to visualize God, to interpret the meaning of various religious scriptures and to design the rulebook of spiritual life. No two brains are the same, so visualizations had to differ. A single word can hold different connotations in different situations, so interpretations of the same varied. And the design of rulebook was entirely based on the designer‟s creativity and comfort zone. I learnt about many scriptures describing Lord Shiva as easy to assuage while Lord Vishnu was challenging. Unfortunately, none of them has ever asked anything from me. I folded my hands when I wished to. I bowed down to the Supreme whenever I found myself helpless. I offered God flowers and fruits when I was told to. They gave me food as Prasad I ate it as a delicacy.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Mom often praises me for my abilities to put Kolam (south Indian tradition to draw decorative designs with rice flour paste at your threshold). She says her hands still shiver at the very thought of it. Of course it will, as her brain perceives Kolam making as a tradition to be followed and not as a mere art form. Traditions, customs and the superstitions associated with them seemed to be the most difficult subjects in a semester. Their syllabus was unending. I did not opt for those subjects in my life and fortunately the environment where I grew up was conducive to my decision. I did not affront any of the two cultures but remained a bit aloof. I was a matter of talk for my attitude but everybody spared me from lecturing, bearing in mind my admixed root. But my warped mind speaks a different story. My generation and I are spared as heart of hearts even our elders realized the set of traditions they follow do not fetch them anything. I don‟t deny the goodness behind spirituality, the logic behind some of the customs and variations between different cultures. However, I cannot accept any one of them to be supreme. My sanctity lies within me and not in an idol of God. Paati‟s thought towards division of labour was kind but if I pray to Lord Shiva for education and not to Goddess Saraswati, will I fail in my exams? Or will my prayer application be transferred to Goddess Saraswati‟s office? If second one remains the option then I am afraid, heaven‟s scenario won‟t be any different from IIM office. If you say your customs bear a scientific

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Three Days of Catharsis logic, others proclaim that theirs too, then how does one alone become superior? If there is any variation in the traditions, then it should be credited to the extraneous factors associated. The geographical location does play a vital role. Thayir sadam became an integral part of Tamilnadu because the environment demanded it. Bengal was inherently blessed with a variety of fruits and flowers so their way of appeasing God was unlike using tamarind rice and lemon rice. With all due respect to the astrological and astronomical reasons of early morning marriages amongst Iyers, I feel it has a lot more to do with the hot weather. My assumptions can be wide of the mark but I am sure that no one culture is superior to other. Since childhood I had been hearing those extended relatives of Dad boasting about their culture. Though repeated invasions in Bengal had eased that culture a bit, their pride too remains thicker than their blood. The scene of Mom becoming a matter of laughter for her inability to wear nine yards saree remains intense in my mind. I had heard people enquiring her culinary expertise apart from making fish. Ludicrous isn‟t it? If Paati could cook more than idly-dosa then Mom too served a long platter of vegetables. Many self-proclaimed „close relatives‟ tried to correct Mom‟s calendar too. They instructed Mom to disregard the Bengali festivities as she was not Bengali anymore. Mom‟s weak heart couldn‟t bear so much and poured it out to Paati one day. Paati was always intelligent. Her tenacity could tackle that

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Atrayee Bhattacharya sensitive situation. I was mature enough that time to understand her thoughts. Her words still echo in my ears and frame up my present mind-set. “Kanna, your culture is YOUR property. You were born to it. A culture makes its followers unique in its own sense. Nobody is superior in this case, neither you nor I. We are different, unique but not wrong. If people ask you not to worship God in your way, laugh it out. God doesn’t discriminate between a Bengali and a Tamilian. In the times when culture has become an undesirable commitment, you follow the rules of two vastly different cultures. Come what may I am proud of my daughter-in-law. I boast myself with you.” No daughter-in-law can be perfect until her mother-in-law emotionally supports her. If today Mom bears the badge of perfection, a part of the credit goes to Paati for her unconditional support. My life was never miserable but interesting nevertheless. With the load of different practices, my imaginary thoughts artistically designed culture, tradition and customs as mere humans who were occasional guests in my life. Any festival would gladly invite them, while the other days entombed by my busy schedule would politely request them to leave. The phenomenon of people trumpeting „My Culture‟ still amazes me. Our culture is just an identity card and can never impart us with any power or decree to demean others. In a multicultural world, our culture is like a drop of water in the ocean. We can choose to teach our culture but not to preach about

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Three Days of Catharsis it and never to screech about it. Religions, cultures, and the associated customs never created any problem in my life as such. The problem was always associated with people conceptualizing their culture by jumping into a competition of proving oneself better. It was always an individual‟s perception and the habit of poking others that defamed the whole concept of my existence as a blend of two cultures. At this age if I am asked to tear a page from my life I would definitely rip off the rendezvous of my parents with Mr. Padmanabhan. The character called Padmanabhan entered the book of my life when I was thirteen years old. We three were in Chennai to spend our annual holiday. It was New Year‟s Eve, not of the Tamil calendar but of the Gregorian calendar. A bright sunny day, archetypical of Chennai weather, was all set to bid adieu to the year. It was just another casual holiday for all of us and we sat lounging about in the drawing room when the harsh jangling of the doorbell jolted us from our reverie. Thatha, who was drowned in the pages of Ananda Vikatan, a fortnightly Tamil magazine, unwillingly walked to answer the door. “Vaango! Vaango Anna.” Thatha welcomed his eldest cousin brother, who was accompanied by his wife, Kausalya. At the age of thirteen, I probably was not the best judge of human traits but in retrospect, I could now envisage their appearance much better. A couple who hailed from a typical patriarchal society with Padmanabhan Thatha bearing all the hallmarks of

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Atrayee Bhattacharya a chauvinistic male while Kausalya Paati bore a timid tremulous look, as if each of her emotions were reined in by her dominating husband. Once they entered the house, Thatha immediately introduced Mom to them. As they failed to participate in Mom and Dad‟s wedding, they somehow invited themselves to our house, just to scrutinize the success of an intercultural marriage. The Bengali within Mom made her do pranaams as soon as introductions were over. I tend to slip into peals of laughter whenever I am reminded of Padmanabhan Thatha‟s reaction. “Illai illai. Direction correct illai. Face east and then do namaskarams.” Padmanabhan Thatha almost shouted out with an authoritative voice. Mom was taken aback for a bit. Her white face paled further though she bore an acknowledging smile. Proper directions were observed and Mom and Dad together paid the necessary salutations. Mom‟s people pleasing attitude made her utter one line which backfired and induced a provocative conversation instead. If my memory serves me right, Mom and Dad never interacted with Padmanabhan Thatha after that day. “I am still in a learning stage Periappa. I shall learn everything slowly.” Mom spoke with a diligent smile. The situation warranted everybody to acknowledge Mom‟s thoughts but before anybody could respond, Padmanabhan Thatha let loose a quiver-full of inapposite thoughts. “You can never learn.” He sneered with an air of utmost arrogance accompanied by a maniacal laugh.

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Three Days of Catharsis A sign of uneasiness and surprise coated everyone‟s face. He contemptuously ignored everybody in the room and decided to have a one on one discussion with Mom. “How can you learn OUR rituals when you were not born with it? You are not one of us. You are accommodated within us just for fulfilling one‟s puerile demands. Krishnan is the most loved child in the family. Every puppet he pressed for was brought to him. You are one of them.” He paused expecting others‟ acceptance. His eyes demanded others just to nod their head considering his elderly stature. However, it didn‟t quite work out like that. Paati raised her voice with utmost humility. “No Anna. Arundhati has learnt almost everything of Iyer culture.” “Huh! Appadiya? She doesn‟t even know the significance of directions in our tradition. Krishnan fell in love with someone and you brought her here without giving a second thought about your coming generation. What does she know about us? Pongal is not about just making some variety of food items. Is she aware of the significance of Kaanum Pongal? I don‟t think her parents would have sent the new vessels needed for her Thalai Pongal (first Pongal after marriage). She belongs to a community where there is a very fine line of distinction between Brahmins and non-Brahmins. Their celebration starts and ends with something what we can never think of - Fish. Their hunger is satiated with something that is

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Atrayee Bhattacharya never permitted for Brahmins - Fish. I can never believe her parents celebrate Diwali with the same fervour as we do. Did you get gifts for Diwali? I think it arrived at your doorstep some one month before as they wanted to celebrate their Durga puja. How can their Brahmins stand with us when they support the sacrifice of animals in the name of Goddess ?” He gazed around unceremoniously, probably in search of some other topics to unleash. The silence that prevailed in the drawing room was very uncanny. Thatha, Paati, Mom and Dad appeared to be waiting for Padmanabhan Thatha to outpour all his thoughts. They were surely inaudible but all of them bore a sort of anger and disgust. Till now I was just a mere spectator but soon became a topic of the heated discussion. Padmanabhan Thatha pointed at me and spoke again. “Look at her. Your future generation doesn‟t even put kumkum and vibhuti. Whom do you rely on to take your culture forward? Your house‟s daughter- in-law doesn‟t put pushpam (flower) on her head. Mother is the first teacher of a child. Her mother doesn‟t know anything about us, then how can she teach your grandchild? One should always foresee the future before taking any important decisions like marriage. Marriage is the first step towards transferring our heritage to the next generation. I wonder if her parents gave her thaali (sign of marriage in Tamil custom). Does she wear it?” He almost peeped into mom‟s body to discover her thaali. “Does

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Three Days of Catharsis she know any or slokas? I don‟t think so. She might not know any of our Gods.” His words sounded very hilarious to me when his eyebrows rose in pride with his utterance of „our Gods‟. I was taken aback for a fraction of a second wondering if he really possessed the copyright of God. Thatha took an initiative to stop Padmanabhan Thatha‟s haranguing thoughts. “Their marriage is now more than fourteen years old anna. We are happy and I think all the elders should shower their blessings only and not anything else.” “We are left with no other choice Ramani.” He smirked at Thatha. Everybody presumed the end of his unwise attitude but it didn‟t stop there. When Mom served him coffee with some snacks, he spoke again. “I am afraid. Hope you didn‟t add some fish into these foods.” He burst out into a vacant laugh, assuming his words to be funny but silence no longer lingered on Dad‟s lips. “What do you mean by that?” Dad glared at Padmanabhan Thatha. His face had turned a deep shade of crimson, apparently seething with suppressed rage on the inside. Dad, otherwise an epitome of patience, always spoke his mind whenever his love faced intense accusations. It was surprising to see my Bengali mother silently ignoring the foul mouthed rantings of Padmanabhan Thatha and my imperturbable father uttering real venomous words.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “I was just joking da Krishnan.” Padmanabhan Thatha smirked. Kausalya Paati glanced fearfully at Dad and hurriedly sipped her coffee. “That was a joke? Do you think it was funny? Do you find anybody else laughing? That was the last straw. I was keeping quiet all this while only to respect your age. No more. You are questioning her knowledge about something what nobody taught her, yet she strived to learn. You sounded as if you are the sole upholder of Iyer culture. Are you?” Dad glowered at him from top to bottom, smirked and spoke again. “Where is your Panchakacham Periappa? And Madisaar is nowhere visible. We live in an age where people hardly respect elders but you had the temerity to lambast Arundhati‟s ignorance towards directions for a mere salutation. Shall I remind you that your own grandson doesn‟t even bother to bow down before you, let alone complete his Abhivadhayes? You should be happy that my wife is still silent showing the true colours of a cultured and civilized human being. You raised doubts on her abilities to follow our rituals while your own daughter-in-law could never perform Kaaradaiyan Nonbu during the prescribed muhurtam.” “I did not come here to compare anyone.” Padmanabhan Thatha interrupted Dad from opening the Pandora‟s Box further. “Oh I‟m sorry! Did you take it as a comparison? That will never happen. Comparison happens only between equals and I do not have the habit of poking

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Three Days of Catharsis others for their inabilities. I haven‟t yet attained a lofty stature to judge others but I am more than capable enough to protect my own family from any unwarranted intrusions. From Pongal to Karthigai Deepam, Arundhati has followed every ritual of this family without the slightest hint of hesitation. Nobody asked her to do, nobody even expected her to do but she indulged herself. You know why? Because she is the mother of a child born out of an intercultural marriage. Her innate purity wanted her child to be aware of her roots. “You advocated your culture but couldn‟t hold your own mother tongue while preaching. Before you declare my wife to be unknown to Tamil, I must inform you that she speaks better Tamil than me. I cannot demean myself like you by deciphering the concepts of Brahminism but I would definitely want you to know one thing. You are mistaken by thinking that only an Iyer girl can hold aloft the traditions of our family. Anyone who has a tendency to accept and accommodate can carry forward any culture. It all boils down to the person‟s attitude towards the world. The Bengalis whom you cursed a moment ago, I found them to be one of the most loving humans. I laugh at your ignorance Periappa. You don‟t even know about Kaali puja what Bengalis do on the day of Diwali. You showed your true colours by talking about the gifts. Yes! My parents receive the gifts one month early and similarly my in laws receive theirs a month late. None of them complain. Do you know

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Atrayee Bhattacharya why? Because we do not build any relationship based on what we get as gifts. A man who doesn‟t even make a local phone call judges my in laws about sending new vessels for Thalai pongal” Dad‟s voice had risen every second till it attained a feverish pitch. “You demeaned Arundhati for not wearing pushpam on her hair but never paused to understand the true reason behind it. She already has a tumour inside her head and the doctor has explicitly forbidden her to wear these in order not to burden her head further. If she wanted to insult our culture she wouldn‟t have put that kumkum-vibhuti on her forehead. Furthermore, you also accused Kutu of not sporting the same. Did you know that she has a very sensitive skin due to which she is not even allowed to use talcum powder? Periappa, there are a hundred things what are prescribed as rules to follow. But can we truly follow everything? No. Do you? We follow those things which do not hinder our survival. I agree I had a love marriage. I crossed the threshold of my culture and brought a girl from an alien land. My parents and I are grateful to have such a woman who gladly accepted and followed every bit of us. On hearing your poisoned words, I realized something important. You surely receive love and affection only if you deliver the same. I showered love to a Bengali girl and she reciprocated by blending her identity with mine. You said you are not left with a choice except blessing this „unconventional marriage‟? I would say our whole dynasty is lucky to get someone like

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Three Days of Catharsis Arundhati who will seek elders‟ blessings at every stage of life, no matter even if the elders are like you. In the future if you wish to represent yourself as a true Iyer, blend in with every bit of our culture first.” Dad‟s words sounded the death knell on the relationship with Padmanabhan Thatha. We encountered that family in almost every family gathering but everyone maintained a respectful distance from each other. O “Kire angry?” Thia nudged my silence with her innocent query. I found myself back with all of them. I smiled inwardly to my ricocheting memories and before I could respond to her, Diya spoke on my behalf. “Na na. No anger and all. Kutu is very intelligent and mature. These are just trivial issues.” Diya carted her diplomatic smile, looked into my eyes and hinted me to ignore everything. Thia too was wise enough to change the topic quickly. She eyeballed my attire carefully and asked, “Hey is your dress lehenga choli? Wait a second.” She got up from her chair, approached me to have a closer look. “It is like lehenga only. But looks a bit different.” She paused. “It is Paavadai dhavani. A Tamilian style lehenga choli. The chunni is draped like the pleats of a saree.”

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “I think I have seen you wearing this in one of your Pongal photos.” “Probably.” I replied reluctantly. I too lugged the distinctive attitude of a woman, not accepting that her attire was probably repeated. “But I think that one was pink and grey.” Thia‟s words breathed some life into me. I had worn this before but I felt on top of the world since Thia had not recognized it. I smiled and said, “I have many of these. It is easier to wear compared to a saree.” “Nice no. You get to wear a variety of dresses.” “That‟s the beauty of being NRI. You get Indians outside India who hold aloft the Indianness and not the state wise demarcated culture.” My words were still a bit harsh. I could see Diya‟s charm fading away. I spoke again but this time to bring some cheerfulness in the ambience. “You know something Thia, if any day you walk on the track of my life you will find so much of pleasure in dealing with the differences. It was fun especially while selecting your outfit for the day. No matter which part of India we belong to, we do push the boat for Gregorian New Year. I too did the same. My year started with some gowns or pencil skirts or a pair of new jeans. Pongal was next in the list of festivities. As a child I received Pattu pavadai for that day. It is a child version of the same what I am wearing today. Gradually it transformed to Pavadai dhavani. It used to be a scene to treasure. Mom draped in a pure kanjivaram or a mysore silk or any of those Mangalgiri, Venkatgiri saree, Dad‟s momentary attire

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Three Days of Catharsis of veshti and I donned in my pavadai with a jasmine circlet tied on my thick curly hair. Bangles, anklets and a set of temple jewellery used to come out of their boxes to beautify me. I used to look like a typical Iyer chamathu ponnu (homely girl). Can you imagine the scenario, I beholding my patriarchal culture and relishing on pitha, payesh (Bengali delicacy for Sankranti) along with the vennpongal and sakkaraipongal?” I smiled and looked at Thia. She smiled back while fidgeting with her mobile phone. Her silence was a bit unusual. She was not only hearing me out but conceptualising my life as well. Her smiling eyes made me continue though. “Trumpeting about culture and tradition took a halt until the Bengali and Tamil New Year came around. Some years had both the New Year‟s falling on the same day while most of the years witnessed Bengalis celebrating their New Year a day before. Those two consecutive days used to be a gastronomical delight.” I paused to check my calendar knowledge and corrected myself. “Sorry! Bengali Saraswati Puja comes in between. I too got a chance to wear those baby sarees. Jamai shoshti fetched my Iyer father a nice looking set of Kurta-pyjama every year. Similarly Aadi sale back in Chennai stocked new clothes for all three of us. Dussera celebrations wore the cloak of both Durga puja and Golu. Not only that, sometimes we got a chance to perform Dandiya as well. Don‟t you think I am more Indian than just a Bengali or Tamilian?” I giggled.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “My mother is truly a superwoman for tackling all the nitty-gritties of both the cultures. The year when Thatha turned sixty, we celebrated the Iyer tradition of Shashtiabdhapurthi during my annual holidays. Incidentally, Amalendu Kaku’s marriage was also on the cards during the same time. We came from Singapore on a whirlwind trip of fifteen days. Dad efficiently divided the travel plan in order to pay a visit to Kolkata as well. I witnessed Mom‟s efficacy while she packed our luggage. We had two big bags to carry. One for Chennai and the other for Kolkata. Mom‟s nine yards saree, Dad‟s veshti, my pavadais, and traditional Tamil jewellery were all in the bag meant for Chennai. The other bag contained Dad‟s kurta-pyjamas, Mom‟s Tussars and Jamdaanis and my skirts, jeans and frocks. I was never fond of putting bindis, still Mom‟s gawking forced me to put it while attending any function back in Chennai. Every celebration in the foreign land was happily performed by both Mom and Dad injecting the inputs of both their cultures. It always amazed me to see Dad performing Bengali pujas like a Bengali and then showering his Iyerism during Tamil festivals. It was never only me who became a blend. My parents too exhibited the traits of each other.” I smiled and stopped unravelling my words. “Hmmm!!! You know something Kutu. Whenever we have spoken, I found you more Bengali than me.”

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Three Days of Catharsis “The same compliment I have received from my Tamil friends and cousins too.” I smirked. “You asked me how I feel. Whenever I came to India I felt like a GMO. Everyone knows my exceptional qualities but nobody wants to accept me as their own.” My words made both of us burst out laughing. It was around 11 A.M when Maani intervened our chattering. “Are you guys prepared to leave or not?” We both got a bit surprised for her odd interference. I turned my head only to find the wall clock scourging us. “You told you are having lunch outside and still lazing around like a pair of sloths.” She paused, gazed at Thia and spoke again, “And I know you have not yet bathed. Go. Take bath and get ready. The cab will come within half an hour.” Thia swallowed her saliva in disquiet. Maani and I couldn‟t control our laughter on seeing Thia‟s face which displayed all the signs of getting caught red handed. Thia was supposed to leave today for Delhi. As decided earlier, her parents were bringing her luggage directly to the airport. We both decided to have mutton biriyani for lunch in one of her favourite restaurants which was on our way to the airport. She owed me a treat for her admission in JNU. Thia took a bath, this time for real and dressed up to leave. I too had slipped into a pair of jeans and a casual tee. Dadu had booked the same cab of Sukumar da for us to go. This cab and its driver are so much attached to Dadu that sometimes I feel Dadu owns the car and the driver just took it home for the day. Whenever ladies

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Atrayee Bhattacharya travelled alone, Sukumar da was hired as the driver. He was truly a master of Kolkata roads. “Boi ta porlo meye?” I asked him if his daughter read the novel. He smiled coyly and nodded his head in affirmation. “What book?” Thia enquired while placing her bag and herself inside the car. “2 states. Chetan Bhagat.” My response first surprised her and then left a smile at the corner of her mouth. I too got into the car. Sukumar da was loaded with a hundred instructions regarding safe driving. Dadu fired his advices from the first floor balcony while Thia and I witnessed Maams almost getting inside the car through the window to direct. Maams paid him the money needed to park inside the airport. He asked me to spend some time with Thia‟s parents too before coming back. I was happy with the plan as this was probably my last Sunday to have some family time before I slipped into the shoes of my MBA final trimester. Thia exchanged goodbyes with the elders, received blessings from them while I got a note of „Take care while coming back‟ and we both finally left for the airport. On our way Thia efficiently chose English as the medium of communication to keep the driver away from it. “Hilarious Kutu. How could you compare yourself with a genetically modified organism?” I smiled and asked her about her decision towards her commitment. She declared herself to be

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Three Days of Catharsis gamophobic and we both remained silent for a while. The silence in the car was broken by Sukumar da confirming the flight timings. It was around 1 P.M. when we reached the restaurant. Thia gave a hundred rupee note to Sukumar da for him to have his lunch and we both entered the private dining area of the restaurant. The order was placed. The waiter confirmed twice about our order of ONLY mutton biriyani. Though he was very anxious to put a light on their other delicacies, Thia curtly cut his words. He left both of us in peace. We were still quiet. Thia gazed around and tried her best to avoid any eye contact with me. She was befuddled and seemed to be in a dilemma whether to speak out her mind or not. I took a call to break the silence. “Tell it out man. I am Kutu. Your almost best friend.” My words were followed by my impish smile. “What does that ALMOST mean?” Thia‟s eyes finally met mine. I laughed, winked at her and asked her to spell it out. She kept her mobile phone aside, gripped her palms together, closed her eyes for a while and finally spoke. “My thoughts are blurred Kutu. I seriously cannot decide on my relationship status. Since childhood I have met a few people who avowed the mere existence of love through your parents‟ love story. On the other hand few still proclaim their marriage to be a mishap citing your example. My parents know about him and they belong to the second category of people. Everyone loves Krishnan and Arundhati but nobody

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Atrayee Bhattacharya wants to walk on their path.” She paused as she found a scratch of sarcasm on my face. My unchanged expression made her continue further. “You were right about the purpose of my visit. I wanted to scrutinize whether my parents were correct about you or not.” “And what did you find?” I rested my chin on my right palm and asked for her opinion. She swallowed her saliva and kept mum. I raised my eyebrows demanding for an answer but did not utter a single word further. I wished for her to open up. I took in the reason behind this treat as well. I was not at all hurt for her running around the bushes. Rather I could sense her predicament very easily. Amusingly, I found her mind to be more muddled than mine. “I am afraid that I found your life very complex. Not only yours but your parents‟ too. I can never be as strong as your parents to withstand all those emotional hurdles. I could never understand my own traditions, how would I deal with theirs? Most importantly, I would not like to see my child facing questions regarding identity for his or her whole life. This cultural complexity is very difficult to deal with.” Thia lowered her voice as the waiter approached us with the food. Shahi Hyderabadi mutton biriyani was served. I preferred to bring the topic to a halt. As I petered out, Thia looked stupefied. I generally do not end a topic without sharing my piece of mind. However, in the last three days every incident that had manoeuvred me to my past experiences bestowed me with some

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Three Days of Catharsis patience. I found myself voiceless for an issue that had always made me retort. Thia looked into my eyes impatiently. I smiled at her, held the spoon and fork and said, “Cheers!!! May you get your degree soon.” “Won‟t you say anything Kutu?” “De-rri-shi-ous.” I uttered with my mouth full of biriyani rice. Thia smiled and poked a mutton piece with her fork. Perhaps she thought I was convinced with her words. “This treat is from my side.” “Hey Kutu! That‟s not correct. It is a treat for my JNU admission.” “You attain your doctorate and then treat all of us. I won‟t get better food than this to treat you for my visit to my MOTHERLAND.” Thia furrowed her face and uttered, “Motherland!!! When did you start talking like some freedom fighter?” “Ha ha ha.” I laughed. My voice was quite loud enough to garner others‟ attention. I begged pardon to the family sitting next to us. Their reaction was quite similar to that phuchkawala. They smiled, apparently unaware of the concept of begging pardon to an unknown person. “It is my MOTHERLAND.” I paused and continued again. “Okay. Let me put it correctly. It is my MOTHER‟S LAND.” Thia‟s hand slowed down its pace while reaching the plate. She looked at me and enquired if I was hurt.

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “Not at all Thia. Even I have to let my true feelings loose.” Thia did not enquire further leaving some room to start the discussion afresh on our way to the airport. She looked at her watch to see the time. Her flight was at 7 P.M. There was a lot of time left for us as her parents were supposed to come only at 5. She looked around. The waiter allotted to our table appeared out of the blue. We both were truly shocked to find him hovering around our head in a flash. “Would you like to have some dessert madam?” He spoke with an overdose of courtesy. “Do you have something called khoo-baani-eee?” I asked while flapping the pages of their menu book in search of the dessert chart. “Yes madam. That‟s one of our speciality. It‟s called khubani-ka-meetha. Excellent choice madam. A Hyderabadi biriyani must get followed by a Hyderabadi dessert.” I posed a brittle smile to him and requested him to get the desserts once we finished our main course. He left us nodding his head in affirmation and located himself in a close proximity. “We have lot of time Thia. Let the sun paint the sky in its orange tint.” My poetic approach brought a smile on her face. We finished our lunch. She hinted the waiter to clean the table and serve the much awaited dessert. We remained silent for a while. Her defiant eyes needled my thoughts. I folded my hands, placed them on the table and spoke my heart out.

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Three Days of Catharsis “Do you know the origin of the word CULTURE?” “A Latin word colere.” Thia spoke with an intention to probe my thoughts. I did not want to upset her as well, so I spoke further. “Hmm! And the literal meaning somewhat translates into „to grow, cultivate or nurture‟. No culture was nurtured by a single human being. Every culture arrived at a conclusion by mere socialization of humans during the ancient period. Everyone wants to ponder over the differences while I prefer to go through the parallels. Similarities reveal the close link between all the cultures. After all, culture was structured to grow as a civilized social animal. Differences occurred because we adapted to the demands throbbed on us by the surroundings. The past three days proved to be cathartic for me. Every single person I met and every scene where destiny had planted me in transported my mind to the past. I was not born on my own. The chemistry of love triggered the biology in my parents and I saw the light of this world. After completing twenty four years of my life I still find one category of people declaring me Tamilian considering the fundamental norms of a patriarchal society and the other category affirm me to be a martyr while fighting the battle of identity crisis. But who placed me in this quandary? I have lived in a foreign land where I was just an Indian or sometimes just another girl. There, the sophisticated society considered me from the land of Tagore, Gandhi and

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Atrayee Bhattacharya Raman while the concept of snake charmer, religious riots and Bollywood crafted my image in the unworldly artless minds. However, whenever I come here, I find others trying to conclude my identity. Who am I? “Tagore‟s literary acumen crossed all the boundaries, entertained people of all races and cultures and brought accolades to the land of Bengal. Raman Effect is prescribed in the physics syllabi of every educational institute in this world. Gandhi did not attain fame for his Gujju-ism but for the work he did to serve humanity. Then how does culture impart you with your identity? Tagore represented Bengal but Bengali culture did not bring fame to him. Culture is a medium to bind all of us together. If I am asked about my culture, I would prefer to name my culture as Civilized Human.” I sniffed and gulped some water to soothe my dried throat. “In the past three days I was asked to prove my existence. People sympathised my cluttered upbringing. You pushed me back in time to analyse every bit of my life and now you efficiently blame me for your gamophobia.” I paused and looked into her raised eyebrows. Her eyes tried to justify but I spoke again. “Please don‟t ask if I am hurt. No I am not. I don‟t get hurt with things what I don‟t agree with. And please don‟t think of me as an inspirational guru. I am not preaching you. Since childhood I have encountered people with a preconceived notion about me and my raising. Their thoughts definitely

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Three Days of Catharsis interfered with mine but couldn‟t hinder my intrinsic growth. But their urge to seclude me made me firm towards my own being. I preserved the blend of a multicultural world within my heart and sailed to unfurl my dreams. Today I am in my final stages of MBA, already placed in a French company and probably will make a mark as an entrepreneur someday. The company which hired me did not bother about my mother tongue, my culture or the traditions I follow. My knowledge was my only identity for them. Nobody categorized me between dosai and maacher jhol when I brought plaudits to my school on the international stage. My aptitude was my identity. Whenever I performed in a concert, Bharatanatyam remained a form of art and not my paternal culture. Rabindrasangeet remained an amalgam of mellifluous music and heart touching emotions and never my maternal belonging. I was really shaken when Dadu thrust his thoughts upon me. I really dwelled in my past to seek my identity. And what did I learn? The past three days were not a mere cluster of hours spent. My thoughts were packed in my mind and I was forced on a cathartic journey. I underwent three days of catharsis.” Thia remained speechless. Her eyes were lined with tears. She gobbled a few spoons of the dessert hurriedly. I too relished the mouth-watering sweet of the Nawabs for a few minutes. Her eyes finally met mine. Those suppressed tears whispered into my ears. They wished me to speak. I smiled and spoke again,

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Atrayee Bhattacharya “We all cannot be referred to as humans and hence we are given a particular name. There are hundreds of Mahashwetas in this world. Then how can it be your identity? The surname you carry makes you a part of your family and doesn‟t define your identity. Culture, customs and traditions set a guideline to lead a fruitful life. The language what you speak remains just a mode of communication. If mother tongue was so important in their lives then why do they boast of their kids being a part of English medium schools? I have met few Bong beauties in Kolkata itself who smile and tell „Bangla ta thik ashe na‟. Isn‟t it hilarious? They dare question me my mother tongue but hesitate to enrol their children to pursue higher studies in Bangla. The cultural bigots out there can proclaim their supremacy till their last breath but they can never deny the facts. Every culture in this world demands humans to grow. Your performance, your attitude and a slight sense of humanity only can make you superior. Our achievements identify us in this fast moving world. Do you recognise any of the Noble laureates through their culture or the language what they speak? NO! Why? In today‟s world work is worship and your accomplishments provide you with an identity. My identity resides in my intrinsic worth and so will be yours.” Thia remained silent. I asked the waiter for the bill. I took out my card to make the payment. She probably wanted to stop me but preferred to keep quiet.

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Three Days of Catharsis “1500 Rs, that‟s all?” I asked surprisingly. “We cannot even think of such a delicacy at such a discounted rate in Singapore.” I giggled but Thia was still silent. “Have you heard of Maslow‟s Hierarchy of Needs?” “Hmm!” I smiled and responded, “I am from a multicultural world and two „colossally different‟ cultures of India run in my veins. People like me and those custodians of culture accompany each other till the second level where both our physiological needs and the need of security get fulfilled. We attain our self-esteem through our actions but they choose their age old culture and customs to embellish their pride. People like me move to the next level of self- actualization by accepting the whole world as how it is. We accept and accommodate the diversity amongst us. However, self-actualization becomes a step to portray supremacy for them. When no culture is same there is no need of comparison. You, I or any of us exist in this world not to follow a culture but to serve the very basic purpose of being the most beautiful creation of God. WE developed culture and not the other way round. If you still ask me WHO AM I? I shall say I am a civilized human being. If you poke me further to my roots, I shall proudly declare myself as a TAMBONG. I AM a blend of two cultures, two languages, two traditions and an outcome of a true love. The blend within me taught me to love, to live

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Atrayee Bhattacharya and let live. My identity lies in my uniqueness, my dreams, my thoughts, and of course, in my ability to accept, accommodate and adapt.” The waiter brought the card back with the receipt. I signed on it. “You know something Kutu.” “What?” I smiled and encouraged her to speak. “You should not become a subject for research. You are not just a topic of discussion over a cup of tea. You are a motivation to our generation. Unleash the power of your thoughts and enlighten the world. Write a book. You exist. Yes you do! With your diversified bloodline YOU EXIST. With your beautiful thoughts, YOU EXIST. With a brilliant upbringing YOU EXIST. And it‟s not only you but every child born out of an intercultural marriage does exist. You are a wonderful blend and your virtue lies in the conglomeration. Please write a book on your cathartic journey. A man strives during his whole life to seek the true meaning of his existence while you, at the mere age of 24 have attained the truth of your life.”I fidgeted with the pen, looked into her eyes, smiled and said, “My thoughts are well preserved, laptop is working fine, your idea sounds agreeable and probably the market too demands for something freshly baked.” We both burst out laughing.

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