Credit card Sushovita Mukherjee. Maumee, OH I t was not too long ago. Or I thought that way. But then 30 years have gone by like a fleeting second. I had been recently married and was preparing to live India with my husband for UK to pursue higher studies and training. It was a time of laughter, carefreeness and craziness. I had lived under the wings of a happy and tight knit family where my only responsibility in the house was to wake up in the morning. Ma was worried, how I should mange my affairs abroad with no one to guide me. Baba was sad. I was his companion to the theaters and movies at the Academy and pandal hopping during the Pujas. Thakuma was restless too. “Don’t eat any meat there” she advised. To her, the West was weird, and people ate demons. She reminded Ma to pack a fool jharu and shil nora in my suitcase. She was convinced that no housewife could ace her role without these grand pieces of equipment. Only Boro Jethu, who was erudite and scholarly, was optimistic. Don’t forget to snap a picture of yourself in front of the British parliament and send it to me, he said. An octogenarian at that point of time, he read Chaucer and Shakespeare till the wee hours of the morning much to the chagrin of my Boro Jethima. She would drag me to the corner and whisper “ekei bole ghorer kheye boner mosh tarano”. Ma was worried a lot about my lack of winter clothes and proper attire. She made many trips to the French Tailors on Chowringhee and after reviewing catalogs decided on some dresses and coats. Needless to say, they were full of frills, laces and buttons and I looked like a nineteenth century fashionista. The only contradiction to my Ma’s grooming efforts was my facial expression. I had that helpless look that is so common among women raised in protective Bengali family At last the eventful day arrived. My entire family had turned up at the airport to see me off. Everyone had some advice for us. I could see my Baba’s eyes were moist. He gently whispered in my ears “Come back soon! After all this is your homeland, this is where you belong” Those sentiments fell on deaf ears. I was too anxious to take off. We landed at London’s Heathrow and a taxi ferried us to Ipswich, a small in East Anglia and about an hour’s drive from London. As we approached the flats (unlike apartments in US!) the driver announced “We have arrived at 1 Pearson Road! Your home away from home”. The flats were two storied with grey walls and appeared small. The flight was long, and I was ready to sleep Very soon, I settled down to a routine, doing house chores in the morning, studying in the afternoon and watching television in the evening. On weekends, we took the local bus to the town center to eat out, pick up groceries and window shopping. Social life centered around making long telephone conversation with friends and family on weekends. Mostly my husband would call and I would sit and listen. The topics ranged from future career plans to the cricket games they have missed. I was bored. I wanted more adventures outside the four walls of the flat. Couple of weeks went by and I became acquainted with Derrick Lousaing from Trinidad and is pretty wife Jenny. They lived upstairs. Bo was working as an Orthopedic surgeon at the hospital. Jenny was a doctor UPAHAAR 2021 উপহার ১৪২৮ 32
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