a peep outta me

I have 3 days to go until my daily life is completely transformed again. I should rightfully be quite a confused person. It's a wonder I'm as sober and clear in the head as I am. Yes.

I have lately been feeling rather divorced from my Bengali roots. Of late, Robindro Shongeet has been giving me pleasurable shivers and I can sometimes think of no deeper sadness than that of not knowing my mother tongue well enough to read, hear and understand 'Kobi's' art. And I lost my Feluda in English, a priceless piece of Bengali literature, an Oxford-Statesman collaborative effort to bring Satyajit Ray's intrepid young Holmes-chela detective to the unlettered (in bangla) masses, at Delhi airport. Mum regrets not taking the hard line with my learning bangla as a child, and thinks I should take evening classes in the language once I get to London. I should also try to join some sort of singing group, she says, and no harm if there are eligible young bengali banker boys in it.

Accha, I've finally figured out on this trip that my dad is ultimately cleverer than all of us put together. Besides somehow always knowing how to get back at aunties who bug my mom (we had a rodent problem once and he would cart off the unfortunate carcasses to a vacant lot owned by an irritating aunty), he also always puts his finger on the nub of things. While mum and I engage in endless draining verbal battles about who is the worse mother or the worse daughter, he quietly listens and then puts in an earth shattering one liner (Wendigo, if you miss your mother so much, you should import her to England as a dependant). He is a DEAR. I don't know what to do with him.

By the way, my heroine number one has just started posting regularly. She's quirky, petty, pouty and a closet intellectual. And she's actually 100 % sexy.