To Marry or Not to Marry... a BONG

My tango with Bengalis starts when I'm 3. Both our next door neighbours are Bongs. The moment I smell fish, which is everyday of course, I climb over the fence, toddle straight into the neighbour's kitchen, watch the fish being cooked and come back home only after I've stuffed myself. My poor mother does not eat cakes and pastries to this day as they contain eggs. But for my sake, she learns to cook fish.

The tango culminates in my falling in love and marrying a Bong. My initiation into the Bengali community starts in the train itself, en route to my sasuraal. "If you want to impress a Bong guy," I'm taught by my wicked sisters-in-law, "just say to him - tumhi ekto boka chele." ... For a long time I think Bong guys are weird. I mean, who gives a girl a dirty look when she's paying him a compliment?

Then comes the wedding night. My younger bua saas informs me she's a doctor and I'm most welcome to consult her about family planning. My cheeks turn crimson. I come from a strict orthodox family in UP, where I'm just short of calling my dad "Sir." This openness is alien for me and leaves me aghast.

Not to be outdone, the older bua saas asks me the next morning - "Kaho, kaisi rahi? Success?" I turn a deep shade of magenta.

Wait, there's more. At breakfast, my husband's nephew gives me a red rose and proclaims I'm his first crush. Mind you, he's not a kid. He's around sixteen and a good few inches taller than me. I now look like a beetroot. I turn to my husband for help. He's busy gorging on luchi and paati saapta, unruffled by his nephew's confession. I point to the rose and gesticulate - what do I do? He says "Aww," stops eating for a minute and takes a picture of Bhatija, Biwi aur Gulab.

Time for bahu bhaat. I'm summoned to the kitchen by the elders and asked what I can cook. "I think I can boil eggs," I reply. Then add thoughtfully, "Do you need to stir the eggs or just let them boil on their own?" The elders look at each other and then at my mother-in-law with pity.  She averts her gaze and pretends not to have heard a word.

The elders tell me they'll take care of the meal, all I need to do is dress up as a nai naveli dulhan. It takes four sisters-in-law to wrap a sari around me. Now all that needs to be done, is the hair. I take out a side parting. Hubby dearest, who has no experience of these things, empties almost half the box of sindoor on my maang. So now I have a side parting covered in red, as thick and long as the red carpet at the Oscars.

Anyhow, the sari miraculously doesn't unravel and I'm served this huge thali of chappan bhog. GULP. It weighs more than all of my 35 kgs. And right in the centre of the plate is this huge fish head, with the eyes completely intact. A shiver runs down my spine as the cold dead accusing eye stares at me. Even today, whenever I try to cook or eat fish, those eyes haunt me and condemn me for murdering their brethren.

Thankfully the festivities are soon over and all of us settle down in our new roles. My father-in-law, who had been the toughest opponent to our wedding, is now my strongest supporter. There's something that puzzles me though. Every now and then he calls out - "Bauma... bauma." And every time he does that, I look around and wonder why this Bauma never answers. It takes me a good few days to figure out that he's actually calling me.

As I was saying, not only my father-in-law, but even my husband's girlfriend starts warming up to me. She stops barking every time he puts his arms around me and even lets me go into his room once in a while.

And so, life goes on, and so do the bloopers. The other day I inform my in-laws that we had shasuri for lunch. I'm supposed to say chechki. My father-in-law hoots with laughter. My mother-in-law, however, is not amused.

Issshhh... I know I've muddled my way into marrying a family that is mad, meddling, melodramatic but extremely passionate and has showered me with so much warmth, love and apnapan, that I wouldn't have it any other way.

Maike ki kabhi na yaad aai,

Sasuraal mein itna pyaar mila. 


Keep smiling friends. Keep ROFLing. Life is Beautiful :)

From Cradle to Grave and Back

On the 7th of January 2007, I found myself seated between Shri Kapil Sibal, who was then the Union Minister of Communications and Information Technology and my publisher, the owner of A. H. Wheeler and Co., for the launch of my first book, Letters to my Baby. 

Letters to my Baby is a collection of approximately 85 letters, written by a fictional mother to her unborn child, from the 6th week of pregnancy, right up to the baby's first birthday.  Weaved into the letters is invaluable advice for women embarking on the journey called Motherhood. The book was received quite well by critics and readers alike and kickstarted my writing career. 

However, a year or two later, shortly after the second edition of the book had been published, disaster struck. 

Some of you might remember, ten years back, all the bookshops in the railway stations in India were called Wheeler and Co. Yes, that's right. My publishers ran all those bookshops. Unfortunately, they got embroiled in a bitter controversy with the railway ministry. 

I heard it started with the Railway Minister at the time. Apparently, he was appalled by the English name of the bookshops. "Hamre raj mein ingrezi dukaan? Kahe babua? Hatwao inko." Am not sure how much of this is true. But if it is, all I can say is, it happens only in India. 

In the meantime, totally unaware of all this, I was confident of the book doing well as a lot of positive feedback, not just from mums, but also from dads and grandparents had started pouring in. As also some good reviews in various journals and papers like Times of India, Hindustan Times, Indian Express and Dainik Bhaskar. While one review called me the baby whisperer another reviewer was reminded of the letters written by Rani Mukherjee to her daughter in the movie Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. 

This particular review, written for Women's Feature Service was picked up by at least 20 leading newspapers in the country - Decoding Difficulties... Mama Mia - Deccan Herald  

My publishers however, were not doing so well. They lost the case in Supreme Court against the Railway Ministry and had to shut down their publishing house as well as all their shops across India. 

Overnight, my book, my baby, became homeless.

I was devastated. I bought back a few hundred copies. The rest were trashed. I kept trying to find a distributor to put the books back in the market again. It wasn't easy as I live in London and Indians are notorious for not answering emails or returning calls. By the time Flipkart started in India and I struck a deal with them, it was too late. The books had started looking old and worn and I had to abandon the idea of selling them altogether.

They are still gathering dust in my parents' garage in India. Neither they, nor I, have the heart to dispose of them as raddi. It was my labour of love after all. It hadn't been easy. My daughter was just one when I started writing the book, our entire house was being renovated and I didn't even know touch typing.

LTMB - 2nd edition

Then, few months back, out of the blue, I got an email from the vice chancellor of a university in India. He had come across my book and wanted to publish it in Hindi, to be used as a text book by his university students. I was elated. 

Inshallah, things will work out better this time. And even if the translation into Hindi doesn't happen, after speaking to the VC, I feel vindicated. All these years, I've been ridiculed, made to feel responsible, guilty even, that all those copies lying in the garage are somehow my fault and a personal failure.

But if the Vice Chancellor of a University thinks Letters to my Baby is good enough to educate young minds, then that's all that matters. As for the detractors, I don't give a damn!!!

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Keep smiling friends. Keep ROFLing. Life is Beautiful :)