Bengali Kichuri

This is a delicious Bengali rice-and-dal porridge-type-of-thing, one of my favorites and great for cold(ish) weather. Recipe is from my mother-in-law via my husband.

Ingredients

1 cup rice
1 cup dal (preferably moong dal)
Mustard or vegetable oil
2 cardamom pods, crushed
2 cinnamon sticks
3 cloves
1 bay leaf
Ginger-garlic paste
Water
Salt
Sugar (optional)
Ghee


Soak rice and dal separately for 5-10 minutes (if using another kind of dal, it will need to soak longer). Drain the dal and dry fry it in a skillet until it gives off a good smell. Put aside. In some oil, fry cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and bay leaf. Add ginger-garlic paste to taste. Fry this until mixed. Add drained rice and dal and mix well, the add water until submerged. Cover and stir occasionally, adding water until rice and dal are soft. Add salt and sugar to taste, and boil water down until the desired texture. Drizzle a spoonful of ghee on the top and let stand. Serve hot. 

Today I Am Terrified...

Today I am terrified.

But it's not because of my anxiety disorder.

No, this time it's not because of mis-interpreted social cues or loud noises.

Today it's because I'm a woman. And as a woman, I am a target. And as a target, I have no control over what people do to attack me. 

I am in Bangladesh, so today's attack came in a Bangladeshi way. I'm reading a book on my bed after lunch, and a phone call comes from a number that I don't recognize. I'm expecting a call, so I answer it. I don't understand what the person is saying, so I hang up.

Buzz. The same number. I answer. Some man is asking where I live. I ask who it is. He doesn't answer. I hang up.

Buzz. He asks the same question. I ask the same question. He hangs up.

On the ninth buzz, I pick up the phone angrily. I ask who he is and why he is calling me.

"Where do you live?"

"Why would I tell you that if you won't even tell me who you are or what you want?"

"Why would I tell you that if you won't tell me where you live?"

"Just tell me what you want."

"I truly am in love with you." 

I'm stunned. "How can you be in love with me if you don't know anything about me? It doesn't work that way."

"That's why I'm calling. I want to get to know you. When can we meet."

"Why the hell would I meet with you? Firstly, I have no desire to do that. Second, I'm married."

"Being married is not a problem."

"EXCUSE ME??" (He seems to think that I'm lying to him about being married. Not that this really matters.)

"Where are you from, just tell me."

"No. What do you want from me? Do you want to rape me? Is that it?"

"Yes." 

I'm stunned.

"You just said that you wanted to rape me."

"Yes." 

"Do you have a mom? How would you feel if someone called your mother and said this sort of thing to her? Or your sister, or your daughter or your wife?" (he makes noncommittal noises) "I'm someone's wife, and sister, and daughter, and I will be someone's mother. Think about that."

He is not impressed. He keeps asking where I live and if we can meet. Finally he says:

"If I don't rape you I can get so many other women." 

"You are sick. I will report you to the police. And if I ever meet you in the street, I will hit you. Understand? I will kill you if you touch me."

"Right, I'm sure you would. Why would you do that?"

"I'm giving your phone number to the police. Do not call this number again."

As I hang up, I'm shaking. In fact, I'm still shaking as I write this. From the conversation, it seems that he got my phone number (= bought from the shopkeeper probably) from the shop where I topped up my credit. That was the only place I gave my phone number, and it seems that wasn't safe.

This isn't a problem that is specific to Bangladesh. This is something that I have faced everywhere.

In Kolkata, just a few months ago, a man groped me (in the groin and then the butt!) in the middle of a crowded street. My husband and I ran him down and turned him into the police. Unfortunately he only spoke Hindi so I couldn't yell at him the way I wanted to.

In Varanasi, a year ago, my husband and I were walking along the river when a man started following us. After walking slightly behind or ahead of us for a few kilometers, he finally gave up.

In Chicago, in February 2014, my husband and I were walking along the sidewalk in front of my university housing. It's slightly dark, and the street is empty except for a group of five men, who catcall, saying that I have "jungle fever" because my husband is Indian. Later in the year, after my husband had left to go back to his field site, an older, grey-haired man wolf whistles at me in the same location.

In Kolkata, a year earlier, a man asked me how to get to Rabindra Sadan when we got off at the station. He ended up sticking with me even when I tried to get away, standing far too close behind me when I was looking at the artwork, pressing his leg against mine in the theater. I ignored him, talking to the kind elderly man who was sitting on my other side, and he eventually left partway through the production. I guess he was disappointed that I didn't agree to go out into the dark, rainy, empty street with him to ostensibly "see the planetarium."

When I was 15, I was weeding a flower garden in my grandparents' front yard. My grandma had gone inside for a minute when a man pulls up in a truck, sticks his head out of the window and says in a baby voice, "aw, did they leave you all alone?" He then made fun of me for silently getting up and going into the house.

These things have happened everywhere I've been. It's disgusting and gross. And, if you identify as female, there is no way to escape it.

Just this thought makes me frightened. No matter what I do, I will never be able to escape the possibility of these things happening to me. As much self-defense as I learn, as many precautions as I take, I'm always just waiting for the next time when someone wants to attack me.

I think that would terrify anyone.

#YesAllWomen

My troubles with rain

Trigger warning for discussion of suicidal thoughts. 

There is a big porch at my grandparents' house in Ohio, big enough to fit a whole group of friends and relatives in a circle for visiting and ice-cream eating on summer afternoons. It is also big enough to keep you dry when it's raining, most of the time - even when it's pouring like the monsoon outside of my window as I write this. As long as the wind isn't strong enough to push the raindrops sideways, you'll stay dry. 

Some of my favorite memories from my childhood are sitting on this porch on summer afternoons, laying on the couch made of white wires and flowered upholstery that moves back and forth like a swing. The house is in a neighborhood, on a side street in a small town near a big city. It was quiet, and I would read a book in the leafy shade of the potted plants while listening to the whirring cicadas. 

And then sometimes, in the afternoon, we - my grandparents, aunt, brothers, and I - would take our bowls of ice cream out onto the porch after lunch, and watch an August storm roll in. Lightning and thunder were just cool to watch, sitting outside under cover, over a bowl of ice cream slathered in chocolate syrup. 

I always liked the sound of rain. It reminded me of those cooling summer afternoons of my childhood. 

Now I can't stand the sound of rain. Since my year in Chicago, when I had a nervous breakdown that made me end up in the emergency room, terrified that I would kill myself with a kitchen knife if I stayed in my apartment. 

While in many ways I have recovered (I no longer have thoughts of hurting myself, which is a huge relief!), in some ways the extreme stress of that year has become a part of me. I'm more sensitive to noises and sounds. On bad days, I can't stand to have fluorescent lights on, or to sit in honking traffic (all too common in Kolkata and Dhaka where I've been for the last year!). On bad days, when I'm already feeling stressed for some reason, any extra sensory input can put me over the edge, make me curl up in bed trying to block out the world. 

If I'm out of the house when I reach this threshold, things can get really bad really quick. Usually I have my husband there to usher me as gently as possible into an air conditioned (and therefore soundproof) taxi, and to pet me on the head while I try to calm down. Right now, he's in England and I'm in Bangladesh, so I'm trying not to overexert myself. But if I'm alone and trying to get home when I'm in this state, it truly is terrifying for me to try to navigate my way home. I do it, obviously, but it takes me time to recover. 

So how does rain come into this? Rain, it turns out, is one of the most stressful things for me right now. It makes a constant noise that goes on for hours and hours, and that is inescapable, especially during the monsoon. This creates a background stress that, if triggered by something else, can leave me incapacitated for the whole day, unable to function normally or do anything except try to sleep. 

And don't get me started on thunder. If I'm asleep and thunder (or other loud noises like fireworks) wake me up, I have a tendency to get terrified. I know that there's no reason to be scared, but that doesn't help when my heart is beating fast and I have to bury my face in my husband's chest to calm down. And now that he's not here with me physically, it's even more difficult to relax when I get scared. 

It's so strange to me that I am reacting this way to rain. Until two years ago, I loved rain, I loved watching the lightning and hearing the thunder. I even used to sleep right through nighttime thunderstorms without waking even once. I was- dare I say it - a relaxing sound for me, then. 

But these are real, physical stress reactions to rain that I have to get used to and learn to deal with. I've developed a few coping mechanisms. One is listening to music or a radio drama, or even just putting earplugs into my ears. If you ever see me wearing earplugs for no reason, know that that is one of my coping mechanisms. Another is wrapping up in a blanket and covering myself with pillows, and running my hands over the small stuffed animal my husband bought for me in Sikkim. The weight and warmth of the bedding, and the fuzzy texture of the bear helps. 

And of course, if my husband is around, I just snuggle with him until I feel better. 

So that's my tragic love story about my troubles with rain. Do you have any suggestions for coping mechanisms that might help?