Ghare-Baire

As I walked through Boston, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being an outsider.The aroma
of freshly baked clam chowder wafting through the streets of Boston was a stark contrast to
the rich, spicy scents of Kolkata's street food. It wasn't just about the cold; it was also about
the unfamiliar pace of life here. I yearned for the familiar sounds and vibrant life of Calcutta,
my heart aching for its lively streets. In this new city, I felt like an outsider, a square peg in a
round hole, lost in this new city.

At MIT, I blended in with the crowd of students from India. I poured my heart into emulating
my American classmates, mimicking their style, speech, and even attempting to acquire a
taste for their cuisine. I changed my style of clothing, picked up their way of speaking, and
even tried to develop a taste for their food. Despite all this, I still felt on the outside, looking
in. I longed for the vibrant chaos of Calcutta, the enticing scents wafting from street vendors,
and the never-ending symphony of chatter. Compared to that, Boston's quietness felt strange.

During that time, it felt like I was living two separate lives. Within me, a dichotomy existed:
Pranab, rooted in the essence of Calcutta, his soul intertwined with its culture. The other part
was a new version of me, trying to fit into this unfamiliar Boston life. I was doing everything
I could to belong, but deep down, I knew I was being someone I wasn’t.

My first encounter with Aparna and her daughter was purely by chance, yet it felt like fate. It
was a typical chilly day in Cambridge, and I was walking aimlessly, wrapped in my thoughts
and the cold. I heard their voices as I walked by a local park. I could hear the distinct Bengali
beat in their voices. I saw them from a distance: Aparna in her sari, her daughter playfully
skipping around her. I trailed behind them, not to invade their space but to soak in the
comfort of their existence, seeking solace in their presence. They stopped at a bookstore, and
while Aparna browsed, her daughter looked at comics. I stood frozen at a distance, grappling
with the decision of whether to bridge the gap and reach out to them. At last, as they stepped
out, I mustered all my courage and approached them.

"Excuse me," I started. "Are you from Bengal?" Aparna looked surprised but nodded. We
talked, first hesitantly, then with growing enthusiasm. She was from North Calcutta, not far
from my own neighbourhood. We shared stories of our hometown, and by the end of the
conversation, she had invited me to visit her family for tea and I agreed immediately.

Visiting Aparna's home was like stepping into a forgotten world. The distinct aroma of spices,
the sound of Bengali being spoken, her warm hospitality—it was a piece of Calcutta right
there in Boston.Usha, Aparna's daughter, was a lively child, her energy and curiosity
reminding me of the life back home. She was a bridge between the two worlds - the familiar
warmth of Bengal and the unfamiliar terrain of Boston. I found myself eagerly awaiting these
visits, a respite from the loneliness and disconnect I felt elsewhere. With Aparna, I didn’t
need to be someone else. I could just be myself, the Pranab from Calcutta.
Aparna's husband, Shyamal, was often quiet, immersed in his research and thoughts. Yet, his
presence added a layer of familial comfort to their home. He was polite, occasionally sharing
insights from his work, a reflection of the disciplined life he led. Though we weren't related,
they welcomed me as family, a gesture that meant more to me than they could have known. I
had great respect for Shyamal Da but this could not stop me from developing feelings for
Aparna. Aparna was my escape, but I had to stop escaping at some point.

My meeting with Deborah happened at a university event, a world away from the comfort of
Aparna's home. She was a friend of a classmate, and we were introduced casually during the
event. Deborah was immediately intriguing; she had an air of confidence and an effortless
charm that was both alluring and intimidating. She was fascinated by my background and by
the fact that I had come all the way from India to study. We talked about my experiences in
Boston and about cultural differences, and she listened with genuine interest. It was
refreshing—here was someone who saw me not as an outsider but as someone unique and
interesting.

We started seeing each other, initially as friends. But soon, our relationship took a romantic
turn. Deborah was like a breath of fresh air. She introduced me to a different side of
American life: the music, the parties, and the carefree spirit. With her, I felt a new sense of
belonging, a validation I hadn’t realised I craved. Our relationship progressed, and I found
myself caught between two worlds. On one hand, there was Aparna and the comfort of
familiarity—the shared memories of a home left behind. On the other was Deborah, who
represented a new chapter, a life where I was seen, accepted, and admired.

The decision to choose Deborah wasn't easy. It seemed obvious to the world but it was an
extremely difficult decision for me to make. It wasn't just about love; it was about my
identity, about who I wanted to become in this new country. I wanted to fit in, to be accepted,
and being with Deborah seemed to affirm that I was part of this new world. Yet, deep down, a
part of me knew that in making this choice, I was leaving behind a vital part of myself—the
part that Aparna had come to represent.

Our wedding ceremony blended two distinct cultures. I had friends from MIT and friends
from the Bengali community. As I stood there, saying my vows to Deborah, I felt a mix of
emotions. I was happy because I loved her, but a part of me felt like I was betraying myself,
my roots, and Aparna. Life with Deborah was good, but it was never simple. I always felt
torn. Part of me always missed Aparna and the connection we had. But I told myself that I
had made the right choice—the practical choice. I needed to fit in and be a part of this new
world.

Marrying Deborah didn’t just change my relationship status; it changed my whole life. I was
now part of a world that was entirely different from anything I had known. Deborah's world
was full of new customs, new conversations, and a whole new set of expectations. I tried hard
to fit into this new life. I attended parties with Deborah, where I was often the only Indian. I
would try to talk about things my American friends were interested in, like American football
or politics. It was tough. I missed talking about cricket or Calcutta's street food. But I kept
telling myself that this was my life now, and I had to adapt.

Deborah was a wonderful partner. She tried to understand my culture and often asked about
Calcutta. But there was always a gap. There were things about my past, my beliefs, and my
experiences that she couldn’t fully grasp. I often found myself missing the ease of
conversation I had with Aparna, where no explanation was needed.

Aparna remained a part of my life, if only in my thoughts. I would find myself thinking about
her at odd moments—while driving to work or when I saw something that reminded me of
Calcutta. There was a sense of unfinished business—a story that hadn’t been fully told.
Sometimes, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Not because I didn’t love Deborah, but
because with her, a part of me always felt hidden and unexpressed. With Aparna, I had been
able to be my whole self, and I missed that.

Years slipped by, and the initial thrill of my new life with Deborah slowly morphed into a
predictable routine. While it was comfortable, it lacked the excitement I had once imagined
life in America would bring. Our marriage had its highs and lows, as all do, but beneath the
everyday problems lay a deeper unrest within me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was
living a life that didn't fully belong to me.

One unexpected day, a chance encounter with someone from the Bengali community stirred
old memories. They mentioned Aparna, and her name, not heard in years, brought a surge of
emotions. I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss, not just for Aparna but for the life I might
have lived. This moment of reflection made me realize that in choosing Deborah, I had
inadvertently drifted away from a crucial part of my identity, tied deeply to Calcutta, my
culture, and Aparna.

After years with Deborah, a sense of restlessness lingered within me. Despite our shared life,
a deep-seated longing for a connection to my roots persisted. This unfulfilled yearning
ultimately led to the unraveling of our marriage, as I found myself irresistibly drawn to
someone who echoed the world I had left behind.

Falling in love with Mamta was unexpected, a whirlwind that swept me up and made me
question everything. She was the eldest daughter of the Banarjee family, a name
well-regarded in our Bengali community. Our paths crossed at a Bengali gathering, one I had
attended with Shyamal and Aparna. It was more than just shared culture; it was as if she
represented a part of myself that I had lost in my efforts to assimilate in America. The
decision to end my marriage with Deborah was painful, filled with a tumult of emotions and a
profound sense of loss. Yet, it felt inevitable, driven by a powerful force that seemed to pull
me back to my beginnings. This new relationship with Mamta, while steeped in the
familiarity of shared heritage and culture, brought its own complexities. I hoped that in her, I
would find the missing piece, the bridge between my divided self. But life is rarely that
simple. This union, though filled with moments of joy and a sense of cultural affinity, could
not entirely quell the turmoil within me.

Now, reflecting on my journey, I understand that life is about striking a balance, a harmony
between the past and the present. My experiences have taught me that being true to oneself is
crucial. Changing to fit into a new world isn't the answer; it’s more about surrounding
yourself with people who appreciate the real you. Yet, this understanding hasn't made my
path any easier. In both Boston and Calcutta, I feel like a piece of me is missing. I've made
peace with the decisions I’ve taken, understanding that what I sought in Deborah, and later in
my second marriage, was something neither could provide. It was a search for inner
contentment, a sense of belonging that I had to find within. Aparna remains a closed chapter,
yet she continues to be a significant part of my story, a symbol of a different life path.