Maybe one day I’ll be classy enough to shop at Couture Wala

I just received a text message from the CBI advising me not to pay bribes to any Central Government/ Public Sector employees for doing official work in West Bengal, Sikkim, or Andaman and Nicobar Islands. So I guess I’ll pass that along to the rest of you.

My friend Andrew and I went wandering through SoCal to find Seagull’s bookstore on Saturday. In terms of books the trip was mostly a bust, but as we made our way back to Gariahat we did acquire an eight-year-old child. I’m pretty sure we picked her up when we were walking through Deshapriya Park. I wasn’t certain whether she was following us until we doubled back on Sarat Bose to run an errand and she was right there, and then I made the mistake of eye contact. She kept trying to hold my hand, and when I’d look in her direction she’d clasp her hands under her chin and (I swear) bat her eyes. She had the recently-shaved-head-and-donated-frock-look of a kid from one of the orphanages, and I’m not entirely clear on what it was she wanted from us. So on we went, like some strange, uncomfortable family, until we reached Rashbehari Avenue. She was clearly planning on crossing the street with us, and at this point Andrew told her in Bengali to go home to her mother. It sounded pretty ludicrous when he said it out loud, and she obviously thought so, too, because she was like, no way, dude. If she was trying to squirm her way into our hearts this was a master stroke, because Rashbehari is a very busy road and I suddenly felt incredibly responsible for her not being hit by a taxi. As soon as we all crossed, however, she was gone. Hopefully all she wanted was to cross the street? Hmm.

Things have been busy lately, and on top of all of it I have my eight millionth cold of the last month. I really don’t know how I keep getting sick like this. Maybe I should wear more scarves. Even so I ventured out with a slightly disgruntled Benjamin in search of "cold drinks" this afternoon, which for both of us means Limca or nothing. Because Pepsi seems to own Rashbehari this was a somewhat difficult task, but eventually we found ourselves standing by a tiny shop, sipping away happily as we discovered that we were standing next to not only a Rainbow Gems horoscope shop but also to a self-help center, which offered guidance in such capacities as pre-marital and marital counseling, "personal development," and "academic decline." We watched the comings and goings for a while before I began to think that maybe this was like standing outside of an AA meeting waiting for people to emerge. Then we noticed a less prominent sign that advertised drug and alcohol counseling in the same place and would have felt a little guilty, had all the people emerging from the building not been plump young boys in school uniforms, clearly there to curb respective cases of academic decline and not for help kicking their crippling emotional dependence on hash. So, guilt averted! Thanks, Limca. Also, a woman about my age emerged from the horoscope place and took a picture of us with her camera phone (the jig was up with the cartoonish "ch-chk" sound it made). We looked at her quizzically as she walked away, and she laughed and shrugged. Fair enough, I guess.

I also dragged Benjamin to Spencer’s department store to see if they had any Meatloaf (he didn’t understand and I don’t expect you to, either). "Meatloaf?" asked the Music World employee, and I tried to explain to him that I was a woman of discriminating taste while Benjamin giggled in the corner. This is just the kind of American music I’d expect to find pretty easily here, but they didn’t have it. It was worth it anyway to watch several employees conversing in Bengali about Meatloaf with very concerned looks on their faces. Let me tell you, people: Spencer’s has a whole lotta’ nothing. What they do have? Frozen mozzarella sticks. Who’s paying for it today? My tummy.