Indian Rain

We Indians are a nostalgic lot. Ask any Indian about the monsoon and they will wax eloquent. The soft patter of the rain on the window as you huddle below thick comforters sipping hot chai and watching old Hindi film songs on TV..the aroma of onion and mirchi pakoras fresh off the pan..the numerous hawkers by the sea battling to keep their fires alive against the fury of the lashing rain as they roast corn on the cob spiced with chilli powder and lemon juice..the multitude of crows perched on the balcony ledge, shaking off the water from their rain drenched feathers and cocking their heads comically..the smell of the freshly washed mud as the relentless rain pauses for a brief moment, allowing the sun to push forth feeble rays amidst the dark thunderclouds..the long months of the stifling, claustrophobic heat of the summer followed by the monsoon- touching like a kiss on expectant lips, soothing but with a passion of its own right. After all, the rain does strike a romantic chord in the most apathetic Indian. There are scores of books and poems dedicated to the delicate sentiments associated with the rain. The movies are flooded with images of scantily clad heroines soaking and dripping evoking bolder emotions.

I was no different. Long walks on Marine Drive with boyfriend number one (BF1), crowding beneath a miniscule umbrella and trying to avoid the eunuchs and beggars that tried to deter lovestruck couples from parking anywhere, longer telephone calls to boyfriend number two everytime they played "Ab ke saawan" on TV and the longest kiss with boyfriend number three (actually it was BF1 but chronologically he was 3) as we took shelter in an empty classroom. But nostalgia is a powerful inducer of amnesia. Like other Indians, I fail to mention the overflowing gutters, the sewage floating through flooded roads as you tried to wade to school in knee deep muddy water, the swarms of flies hovering over everything like a pall of doom, the stench of wet clothes unable to dry in the moisture laden air..even the romance wore the tired look of a veteran.

One monsoon, I remember walking home or rather being carried home one stormy afternoon with BF1 ..and it wasn't he who was doing the carrying. The ruthless winds steered us with the force of an army raining down on its enemy while the rain attacked us with the intensity of a million arrows. Our cozy umbrella had long surrendered any attempt at protecting us from the fury of skies. When we got home, BF1 was shivering and shaken and looked like something that even the cat might decline to bring in. I remember him recoiling from my touch and it was only when my mother, armed with towels began rubbing him vigourosly that he was jolted back into reality. The reality of my ragged boyfriend on that wet afternoon seemed like a far cry from what my memory, fed on the romantic scenes painted in countless movies, had conjured.

Eight years later, I have experienced the myriad of seasons that one is exposed to in Salt Lake City, Utah. Not easily forgettable is the cold rain pouring down in the frosty evenings. I hear it now, slamming against the large windows of my lab, as I pore over a tedious calculation. "Oh, it's raining, that's soooo romantic", I hear someone gush at my side. I look up with annoyance at the new Indian graduate student, fresh from India, hovering around me. That could have been me three years ago, I think to myself regretfully. Alas, my memories are not romantic, and time has made them even less so. Right now, all I could think of was the fact that I had to walk a long way in the chilling rain to the animal facility. And that my lab rats would get drenched and ragged and shake little droplets off their wet bodies. Just like my boyfriend had done several years ago. The comparison brings some mirth to my tired mind and I grin with amusement and get back to work.

My advice: Live each moment when you can. You never know when the seasons will change

The Uprooting of Wisdom

The aggravating pain in my tooth has been replaced by something worse..the fear of having it extracted. I went to the dentist last week to see if she could kill me mercifully and rid me of my toothache. Instead, after a lot of horrified gasps and scandalized expressions she seriously explained that I had to have my wisdom teeth removed. Not tooth mind you, all four teeth. At this point my boyfriend went into some sort of stupor and refused to wake up till Seinfeld came on later that evening.

Still sick to the stomach with the tons of antibiotics that were being pumped into my system, I decided to call on my family to garner some much needed sympathy. My sister was speeding on the 280 interstate when I called her. I ended up talking to her children's nanny instead. She sounded sorry for me but between my pain and her Californian accent I barely fathomed that tooth extractions were terrible in general but I would pull through.

When I finally reached my sister on her cell phone, she was trapped in rush hour traffic and the danger of her recently done hairdo falling apart. This certainly did not help her mood or my cause in any way. She was very brief and very clear. Her first tooth extraction back in India had ended in some kind of muscular spasm. The fiend in dentist's clothes sought to alleviate her pain by cracking her jaw . Now any lesser mortal than her would have passed out. Being my sister (and a formidable one) she was just driven to tears. Her second extraction was in the United States and involved general anesthesia and some form of sawing. At this point, I don't remember any more of the conversation. I blame the cell phone reception for abruptly breaking off.

Not having met with much success on the sympathy front with my sister, I proceeded to call another member who I felt would surely understand my agony. My brother had just consumed a filling dinner and the better part of a ripened bottle of Pinot Noir. He was in a very expansive mood and to my mind, seemed exactly what the doctor had prescribed. An hour later, I was still on the phone. I could not tell if that dull numbing pain throbbing through my head was emanating from my decayed tooth or from having listened to my brother describe in gory detail all his escapades at the dentist's clinic. The sweat drenched dentist, the discovery of another tooth clinging to his wisdom tooth like an unholy siamese twin, the shattered pieces...I shuddered but nothing could shake off those images.

When I awoke the next day, the antibiotic had taken effect and I felt like a new person. Brave and ready to take on the world and rid it of its imperfections like so many rotten wisdom teeth. So it was with great gusto that I called my parents in India to cheerfully apprise them of my tooth situation. My father's compassion was well-received but short lived. Hardly few minutes into the conversation, he launched into the story of his first extraction as a young, penniless graduate student in Europe. The extraction was fine he explained, it was the torrent of blood that came after like a blood bath that wasn't. And it's best I don't repeat his other story of the dentist with a hammer and chisel. He painted a picture so gruesome that it sounded like it came straight out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Personally, I think he enjoyed telling me that story. As for me, I was just glad that I had no more family members to call.

My advice to you: Don't look for sympathy..you may get something worse.