I'm writing to inform everyone of the brief, and now thwarted, hijacking of my AOL IM screenname. Recently, a mangy dog, a blistering barnacle, someone who deserves not the attentions of the scum that graces the lowest regions of the gutters, took advantage of my screenname. I am using cybercafe computers, and I must have inadvertently saved my password on one of them. This dark spot on the face of humanity found my innocent AOL account and used it to harrass my friends with obscenities. Yay for those of you who yelled back (like the Bot)! And also thanks to those of you who e-mailed me to let me know that intervention was required. I have now changed my password, and hopefully the blighter is sitting in some cafe gnashing his yellow teeth. Sorry to those of you who thought that it actually was me IMing (but seriously, I haven't completely lost my mind yet, although it's maddeningly hot).

"Talent show from hell" - well, whatever it is, hell is close by.

Just finished reading a heartbreakingly beautiful book by Roddy Doyle, called "The Woman Who Walked Into Doors". It's the story of a woman who survives a brutally abusive marriage, and somehow it manages to make her sound incredibly strong and vulnerable at the same time. I HIGHLY recommend it.

I just returned from a four-day visit to Durgapur, for my Grandmother's death anniversary. She passed away in 2000. Hindus often have a puja (worship/holy ritual) to mark the anniversary of deaths. It was really important to me to be there this year, since she and I were very close, and I miss her sorely. It was a good trip, with lots of loving family, excellent food and memorable conversation.

This time, we took the train to Durgapur. Last time we drove. The train is always a trip. I chose the non-AC compartment on purpose, because of the crazy assortment of passengers and vendors selling everything from tea/coffee, boiled eggs, fruits, combs, books, folding fans, balm for aches and pains....There was a man selling locks and other low-tech security devices, and he looked a lot like Houdini, with many chains and locks hanging around his neck and waist.

Most striking/disturbing is the grotesque procession of beggars, most of them maimed in some horrible way. They make there way from compartment to compartment, performing strange feats to gain attention - like a talent show from hell. There was one man whose arms were amputated at the elbow, but he was using what remained of his upper limbs to play a two-sided drum, with amazing rhythm. I really don't know what the proper reaction to such a thing is, so I'm just putting it out there. It is true however that the more days one spends here the less it hits you. The first few days I was here I felt constantly assaulted by the volume of humanity and the extent of the poverty. Now it's beginning to take something outrageous to really get my attention.

A funny internal moment happened also. I was sitting on the train, looking out on the scenes from rural Bengal - lush rice fields, thatched roof huts, coconut trees and huge sky - and suddenly my Jukebox electrogadgetron began playing "Sweet Home Alabama". As I listened to the words about going "home to my kin", I started laughing out loud because of the strange combination of appropriateness and incongruity. Always a priceless combination.

Last week, I accompanied Mohan da, a counsellor and social worker with the NGO, to Uluberia. Uluberia is about an hour and half from Calcutta, like a suburb, except that the word "suburb" really doesn't work. It's one of the most desperately poor places I've ever seen here, and again, primarily Muslim. Most of the people in that area do Zari-work, which is basically gold/silver embroidery. I had the chance to see some of their work, and it is breathtaking. I've seen that sort of work in expensive boutiques on Park Street in Calcutta, but it is much more striking in that context - a pale shimmery chiffon cloth, stretched over a bamboo and jute board, with four or five people sitting on a dirt floor around it, fingers working tirelessly at minute stitches. I'm thinking about the women who will wear that sari - I know/am them.

We were visiting a family of Zari workers who visit the HIV/AIDS clinic. The patients are two brothers. They are orphans. Both of their parents died of AIDS already. They live with their maternal aunt and uncle, and 5 cousins, in a one-room mud hut. Most of the outside patio is given over to the bamboo boards for Zari-work. Most of the inside room is given over to a bed and some dusty trunks. When we arrived, the maternal aunt (Mami), ushered us graciously in and made us sit down. She started bustling about, ordering daughters to make lemonade. I just wanted her to sit down so I could talk to her. The story she told was fascinating. When Mama, her husband, returned from prayer, he joined in as well. They have suffered for their decision to keep the two HIV-positive boys. Their own family did not speak to them for months. I also heard about how the boys' mother was thrown out of the hospital two days before she died, because the doctor found a blood report with her HIV status. He never explained to Mama and Mami why he had done that. It was years before they found out that she had died of AIDS, and that her two sons were also infected. The only good aspect of the story was the change in their neighborhood since active HIV-awarenesss campaigns have started. Both boys are accepted in the community now.

Aside from their story, what I found most touching was their generosity. Sitting in that one room, Mami kept insisting that Mohan da and I stay for a lunch of fish and rice (very Bengali meal). We had to decline, but I was amazed at the sincerity with which she made the offer, having just heard about how she often went hungry when Zari-work was not available. I don't know why I was amazed - here is a couple who have adopted two boys who need a lot of care and attention on top of their own five children.

I've been having terrible dreams. And I wake up, and the rain is POURING outside. Like a sheet of water outside the window. It's a sound I usually find soothing, but lately have found depressing. The dreams have been a combination of frustration, fear and guilt. Isn't that the best? Anyway, the only reason I'm getting into it is because the one I had last night was at least mildly amusing (for people who have read Harry Potter).

I was in an old apartment building with a lot of my friends from medical school. We were waiting around nervously for Lord Voldemort to arrive so I could fight him. The buzzer rang, and we all jumped, but the voice over the speaker was that of my aunt. But then the door burst open and it was the Dark Lord. So I whipped out my wand, ready to attack....and I saw that my wand was a slowly burning stick of incense. Which fills me with panic, because that means my wand is slowly diminishing into ash. I look at my friend, who quickly shows me an incense holder with multiple sticks that I can use when mine has burned away. That brings temporary relief, but at this point the Dark Lord requests a break to go to the bathroom, so we all sit down to wait nervously again, as my wand lets off sweet-smelling fumes.

That's about all I remember, and I have no idea what it means - fighting a Dark Wizard with incense. Of course, I did just finish reading the fifth Potter book. And I spent a long time yesterday staring at the smoke from incense. Oh, and I'm living with my aunt (who is, for the record, the sweetest person and nothing like You-Know-Who). Hmph - I guess that explains it. Also, I just remembered that the Malaria meds are supposed to give you bad dreams. Well, at least it makes me less prone to falling asleep.

OOOH about the sunset.

I was on the ninth floor balcony of my friend's apartment. And I saw it. The thing that I dream of in Boston. The sun setting over Calcutta. Especially in the monsoon, the sky is striking, dramatic. That makes the sunsets exuberant, tragic, violently emphatic. The light glints against the old buildings and the many trees. And the birds continue their dance in the golden sky. I told my friend that I was afraid to look, knowing how much I would miss that moment in Boston.
Ok, I'll stop now. I think you might get the point. Although until you are with me on that balcony, sipping grape juice and feeling the cool breeze and warm sun, humming quietly, you definitely don't know what I'm talking about.

I just went on a book-buying spree. Among other things, I found a lovely copy of Rabindranath Tagore's "Gitanjali" where the illustrations are pictures of his original Bengali manuscript. It also has little gems like his Nobel Prize acceptance speech. He was also knighted by the British, but he rejected that after the Jalianwala Bag Massacre (the British slaughtered about 2000 Sikhs in a park).

Yesterday I had an amazing experience. I travelled to a small village on the outskirts of Calcutta with some workers from the NGO here. We held an HIV/AIDS awareness session at a girls' highschool. The village was beautiful, with many many cows and goats. At one point I was playing with a small goat and then its mother showed up, irately. It was a bit frightening. I moved rather quickly away and back down the desolate village path, lined on both sides by tall leafy shade-giving trees. The girls at the highschool were incredibly intelligent and knew almost everything about HIV. They all wore white saris with blue borders, and the classrooms had big windows but no fans. The floors were all dirt. And there was a token goat in the courtyard, leaping around. In any case, the social workers with the NGO were nice enough to let me butt in every now and then to explain virus biology using strangely simplified metaphors. I was having a great time. Some of you know that my digital camera is broken. So now I am taking pictures with a distractingly noisy, but otherwise unexceptional regular camera. I think I startled some of the girls with its violent clicking and flashing. The girls all asked us to come back again, and I, very untruthfully but Indianly, said "yes, of course!".

Tomorrow morning I am travelling by car to Durgapur. A town about four or five hours from Calcutta. That is where my ancestral home is. Hmmm, what does that mean? Well, there have been Rays living there for several generations. It's like the hive of Ray bees. It's where my parents met. So in some ways, it's where my existence was plotted. In any case, I'll write more when I'm back after a week or so. I'll try to remember the stories.

In the meantime, check this out. I heard about this site on a really great program on the BBC. I am amazed at the "Historical Galleries" of famous hoaxes. Sad that much of the "history" I know isn't even real.