Chasing dreams Catching vibes

**A Rip Van Winkle in Australia: Juggling Time, Food, Grandkids, and Dreams with a Dash of Nostalgia**

When I touchdown in Australia to visit my son’s family, I slip into a peculiar state—a modern-day Rip Van Winkle, caught between time zones, cultures, and the whirlwind of my grandchildren’s antics. It’s a charming disarray, like waking up in a new era with Ameen Sayani’s voice still echoing in my ears. Life Down Under calls for flexibility, and I embrace it with a book in hand, a quirky vowel game, and Google Home as my nostalgic lifeline. Here’s how I navigate this Australian adventure, sprinkled with humor and a hearty dose of reminiscence.

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Food: Sadhguru’s Wisdom and Tasmanian Simplicity

The first challenge is food. In India, my kitchen hums with Bengali delights—ilish maach, cholar dal, and mishti that could seduce a monk. But in Australia, I channel Sadhguru’s advice: “Indians eat like it’s their final feast. One-third is plenty!” He’s not wrong. During a biting Tasmanian winter, I thrived on bread, butter, and eggs—a minimalist meal that felt like a culinary sonnet. So, I skip the craving for elaborate curries and settle for rustle-up fare: avocado toast, a quick pasta, or whatever my daughter-in-law tosses together. It’s freeing, like swapping a woolen shawl for a light summer scarf.

As Mark Twain quipped, “Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough.” I’d say the same to food—too much weighs you down, but just enough leaves space for life’s sweeter moments.

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 Time: Books, Grandkids, and a Game of Vowels

If food fuels the body, time is my canvas. In Australia, managing it is the real task, but my books are a trusty ally. Reading is my time machine, making hours dissolve like sugar in tea. Reading is my time machine—whether it’s a tattered classic or a fresh thriller. But my immersion is often hijacked by Isha, my four-year-old granddaughter, a pint-sized attention seeker. With her impish smirk, she insists on “horsey” rides or tales of chatty kangaroos. I cave, because resisting a toddler tyrant is futile.

Then there’s Veer, my eight-year-old grandson, as restless as a cricket fan during a rain delay. To keep him occupied, I devised the Vowel Game. I throw him a letter—say, A—and he responds with a word containing two vowels, like “apple” or “aura.” I give him B, he fires back “bubble.” By Z, he’s tossing out “zebra” and “zombie” with the zeal of a quiz show champ. It’s a hoot, sharpening my English and his quick thinking. As Oscar Wilde noted, “Many lack the originality to lack originality.” Veer, bless him, is brimming with it.

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 Dreams and Drives: Bonding with Shuddy

And then there’s Shuddy, our eldest grandson, teetering on the brink of adulthood. At 17, he’s a dreamer with his eyes on the horizon, eager to slide behind the wheel of a jalopy he’s saving for with his weekend gig as a salesperson. Over cups of tea, he shares his ambitions—plans for uni, career ideas, and the thrill of owning his first car. I listen, marveling at his drive (pun intended), though I secretly worry about that jalopy’s reliability. “Shuddy,” I tease, “make sure it’s got more horsepower than my old bicycle back in Kharagpur!”

I try peeking into his iPad to grasp his school subjects, but it’s like deciphering an alien script. The education system has leapfrogged since my 1950s schooling—another Rip Van Winkle moment. Back then, calculus was the peak of academic peril; now, Shuddy’s juggling coding, AI ethics, and quantum something-or-other. I nod sagely, but it’s clear I’m out of my depth. Still, these chats with him are precious, a bridge between my past and his future. As Kahlil Gibran said, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” Shuddy’s longing is loud and clear, and I’m cheering him on.

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 Nostalgia: Ameen Sayani’s Timeless Spell

When jet lag or homesickness nudges me, and my brain flips between Indian and Australian clocks, I turn to Google Home, my digital djinn. “Play Binaca Geetmala by Ameen Sayani,” I command, and suddenly, the room glows with the golden voice of the legendary host, spinning Bollywood hits from the 1950s. It’s more than music—it’s a portal. I’m back in my school days, glued to the radio every Wednesday at 8 PM, soaking in Sayani’s charm.

The nostalgia peaks when I recall my IIT Kharagpur years (1960–65). My friend Y.C. Puri, the proud owner of a transistor in Patel Hall, was the Wednesday king. I’d invade his room, sprawl on his bed, and let Binaca Geetmala’s melodies—“Yeh Raat Bheegi Bheegi” or “Mera Joota Hai Japani”—carry me away. In Australia, I shut my eyes, and for a fleeting second, I’m that 20-year-old again, dreaming big in a hostel room. This is my Rip Van Winkle spell—waking in a new land, a new age, yet cradling the past. As Washington Irving wrote, “He had been sleeping for twenty years, and the world had changed around him.” My slumber is brief, but the shift feels just as profound.

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The Invisible Sphere: My Portable Sanctuary

Unlike some who seek out old friends or recreate Little Indias abroad, I don’t chase what was. I carry an invisible sphere—a cocoon of habits, memories, and joys that makes any place home. Books, the Vowel Game, Isha’s giggles, Veer’s wit, Shuddy’s dreams, and Ameen Sayani’s voice are all tucked inside. This sphere is my compass, proof that a change of geography doesn’t rattle the heart. Pico Iyer put it best: “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.” In Australia, I find myself in the familiar, even amid the new.

So here I am, a Bengali Rip Van Winkle, juggling time zones, grandkids, and nostalgia with a chuckle. Life in Australia is a whimsical ride, and I’m all in—whether it’s cheering Shuddy’s jalopy dreams, dodging Isha’s mischief, or outsmarting Veer at vowels. Now, if you’ll pardon me, Isha’s demanding a kangaroo tale, and Shuddy’s probably eyeing another car ad. Somewhere, Ameen Sayani waits to whisk me back to the 1960s.

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Footnote: Binaca Geetmala

Binaca Geetmala was an iconic Indian radio program broadcast on Radio Ceylon (later All India Radio) from 1952 to 1994, hosted by the legendary Ameen Sayani. Aired every Wednesday at 8 PM, it featured a countdown of the week’s top Bollywood songs, chosen based on record sales and listener requests. Sponsored by Binaca toothpaste, the show became a cultural touchstone, enchanting millions with Sayani’s warm, engaging style and hits like “Awara Hoon” (1951) and “Chaudhvin Ka Chand” (1960). At its zenith in the 1950s and 60s, it was a household ritual, uniting families around radios and shaping India’s musical legacy.