In the morning, the first thing I did was to push open the blinds––looked outside. The sun hadn't broken out . . . A stunning-sparkliness greeted me. All was covered under snow––massive, impassable. 6-7 inches! The rails of our deck were plausible witness. Our driveway was buried under snow. Trees, roof tops were burdened with a pristine-decorative-impossible radiance.
Lots of work ahead . . . in the abundance of snow––more to come.
When it snows, I love a warm house––a house full of voices. Also hot-soup. And coffee. Being snowed in while alone is a miserable, sad situation. Desolation piles up in an empty house.
In 2004-2005, I moved to Baltimore to head a project under the Johns Hopkins University-CCP––decided to check life beyond UNICEF. It was a timely separation . . .
My work entailed 80-85% overseas travels. Our project office was in downtown. Baltimore wasn't safe––social violence was extreme. I think the trend continues (201 homicides, 591 violent crimes in 2024). I rented a match-box-type 3-storied ancient house in Little Italy (comparatively safer) ––walking distance from my office. (One night a guy was shot in the next street right after I moved in).
My landlord, Tony, was a wonderful, caring-elderly person. He was an Italian-American. People revered him in Little Italy. He helped me with my move, settling in. He became my friend in a new place. My mom got worried–-
"Oi, Runa what's this man's intention?" She asked my sister. Her maternal-protective-instincts on high alert . . .
"Amma, I have no intention to marry my landlord," I assured her in mock seriousness when I visited Dhaka. "He's too old for me." I had a good laugh with my sisters, later.
During my first winter, it began snowing suddenly around noon. I was in a long meeting––didn't check weather predictions. The office was almost empty when I finished. Colleagues had taken off before the roads became difficult. Many commuted from neighboring suburbs. Maryland was never/isn't ever prepared for snow unlike NY.
"Go home. It will be snowing hard," a colleague advised. "I'm heading out."
I packed up and left the building––bracing myself for a 15-minute snow-walking. I hadn't realized so much snow had fallen already. Heavy snow flakes twirled down from the sky aiming at me . . . everything. No one was around. I took my usual short cut through the inner harbor. Caught in the swirling snow, the aloneness frightened me. I was mostly a tropical girl . . . and then I wasn't anymore. Extreme weather terrifies me.
Once I was caught up for hours in the snow as I headed towards the Dulles airport in Washington D.C. The car was from a rental service hired by the office. Traffic was bumper to bumper, ploughing through the snow at a snail's speed. Usually, the travel duration to Dulles was 1.5 hours, max. I thought I would miss my flight. I didn't––it was much delayed.
My next-door neighbor, David grew indoor plants. I discovered this when he invited me for a drink. He was an African-American––drove a trendy, lemon-colored sports car. He offered to plant-sit my (many) house-plants whenever I traveled. This was a great arrangement . . . one summer-day he died in a car crash.
My next target was Shailaja, a young woman––fresh from Grad school. She worked with our Asia division. I pulled her into the projects I was managing. Working together, we became close friends. I guess she looked up to me as an older sister-kind-of-mentor.
Before I travelled next time, I packed my house-plants in Shailaja's car boot. She was eager to plant-sit. A stumble happened. She forgot to unload the plants–– they stayed in the boot for days in the wintry-fall weather, embraced a shriveled death . . .
Shailaja was sorry, embarrassed as she came to my office with the death news of my plants after I was back.
"I will buy all your plants, Nuzhat," she offered, pained. I listened––sad for my plants but suppressing laughter at her predicament.
"I won't accept any replacement." Shailaja was crestfallen at my response.
"But . . . if you promise to plant one tree every year for each one you murdered, we have a deal." We laughed and hugged.
Till today, two decades later, I tease-shame her about the "killings."
. . . My project came to an abrupt end. The HR-Chief advised me to apply outside and including in projects in Johns Hopkins-CCP that were in the pipe line. Africa Division and colleagues/groups working in Latin America approached me. I was more interested in the latter. I also applied to UNICEF . . . and was offered a post.
During my first winter, it began snowing suddenly around noon. I was in a long meeting––didn't check weather predictions. The office was almost empty when I finished. Colleagues had taken off before the roads became difficult. Many commuted from neighboring suburbs. Maryland was never/isn't ever prepared for snow unlike NY.
"Go home. It will be snowing hard," a colleague advised. "I'm heading out."
I packed up and left the building––bracing myself for a 15-minute snow-walking. I hadn't realized so much snow had fallen already. Heavy snow flakes twirled down from the sky aiming at me . . . everything. No one was around. I took my usual short cut through the inner harbor. Caught in the swirling snow, the aloneness frightened me. I was mostly a tropical girl . . . and then I wasn't anymore. Extreme weather terrifies me.
Once I was caught up for hours in the snow as I headed towards the Dulles airport in Washington D.C. The car was from a rental service hired by the office. Traffic was bumper to bumper, ploughing through the snow at a snail's speed. Usually, the travel duration to Dulles was 1.5 hours, max. I thought I would miss my flight. I didn't––it was much delayed.
My next-door neighbor, David grew indoor plants. I discovered this when he invited me for a drink. He was an African-American––drove a trendy, lemon-colored sports car. He offered to plant-sit my (many) house-plants whenever I traveled. This was a great arrangement . . . one summer-day he died in a car crash.
My next target was Shailaja, a young woman––fresh from Grad school. She worked with our Asia division. I pulled her into the projects I was managing. Working together, we became close friends. I guess she looked up to me as an older sister-kind-of-mentor.
Before I travelled next time, I packed my house-plants in Shailaja's car boot. She was eager to plant-sit. A stumble happened. She forgot to unload the plants–– they stayed in the boot for days in the wintry-fall weather, embraced a shriveled death . . .
Shailaja was sorry, embarrassed as she came to my office with the death news of my plants after I was back.
"I will buy all your plants, Nuzhat," she offered, pained. I listened––sad for my plants but suppressing laughter at her predicament.
"I won't accept any replacement." Shailaja was crestfallen at my response.
"But . . . if you promise to plant one tree every year for each one you murdered, we have a deal." We laughed and hugged.
Till today, two decades later, I tease-shame her about the "killings."
. . . My project came to an abrupt end. The HR-Chief advised me to apply outside and including in projects in Johns Hopkins-CCP that were in the pipe line. Africa Division and colleagues/groups working in Latin America approached me. I was more interested in the latter. I also applied to UNICEF . . . and was offered a post.
Winter started while I waited for the recruitment processes . . . Snow fell heavily . . . I remember those bleak, cold-loneliest days, long nights––alone in my old-house in Little Italy . . . I began spending my entire days at the nearby Barnes and Nobles book store with my lap top. They sold Coffee, snack/semi-lunch––store toilets were clean.
On some wintry evenings after office, Shailaja would knock at my door. My world filled with warmth . . .
On some wintry evenings after office, Shailaja would knock at my door. My world filled with warmth . . .
Thanka, Nuzhat, for your snow stories, One feels the adventure and the dangers lurking, but more enjoyable are the moments of warmth and kindness.
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