Blowing Bubbles

Home - Marilynne Robinson

2009-07-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

This is a funny start to a blog post that’s essentially a book review, but I think it’s necessary. Of late, I’ve been quite lazy about typing the things I like to share, and it is something I’m trying to find a solution for. It is really easy to postpone writing about something that completely captures your imagination at a certain point of time. You are on a train, or have friends over or simply need to get the laundry out of the way. And after a while, even a few hours sometimes, the effort to put things on paper or the web seem to turn out as contrived imitations of what could have been a good piece of writing. The distaste of having to share something so inferior to what I originally intended sometimes makes me unwilling to write about it. Well, anyway that’s exactly how I feel about this book review, but I’ll plod along and maybe someone reading this can help me.

Marilynne Robinson has the ability to make it impossible to put her books down, until the very end. And even afterwards, you are filled with a longing to go back, and read some parts over, for it is not suspense that drives the tale. Home is a story about the lives of a brother and sister forced to return to the place they grew up in, for a stay much longer than either wishes for. Their father, Robert Boughton is a retired Presbyterian minister showing signs of rapid aging. The story is based in the town of Gilead, a fictional place that is also the site and name of another book by the author. The events in the two books take place at the same time, and Gilead is narrated by John Ames, a Congregationalist minister who is a friend of Robert Boughton. The narrative in both books is like a certain wine I once tasted – It had a sharp, interesting taste as I sipped, with a surprisingly sudden, short aftertaste that I thought was the finish, until I realized that I had a pleasant mild and lingering sweetness in my taste buds long after that first sip. The things you would like about the books depend to an extent on your own experiences in life, which makes them seem very personal. I lent my copy of ‘Gilead’ to my sister, and have realized how much I miss the book; it has been a long time since I felt that way about anything.

Pride

2009-04-08T12:13:00.000-07:00

I read an article in the New York Times, Science section on Tuesday that discussed the beneficial effects of pride in those who have recently lost their jobs. The article can be found here. It seemed to me to be the single most important thing in getting us through the wonderful economic times we are facing right now.

It’s indeed hard to be proud of yourself after losing your job or getting back on mortgage payments. But to some people, pride is not about achievement, but the desire to achieve and the unwillingness to give up. Pride does not seem to be an emotion felt after the fact; rather it’s the agent that helps you follow the chosen path despite the recession or two that come your way.

There is something about being denied that spurs a person on to greater goals. The initial stages of an unsuccessful job search are not very different in most people. Anxiety followed by disappointment at the lack of response from employers is understandable, especially in highly qualified candidates. However, the difference lies in the grim determination with which a few refuse to be cowed down by the state of affairs. An incredible amount of time that could otherwise go in feeling wretched can then go towards working on the job search itself. And our generation will come through, wiser and more resilient.

Dreams Are Served

2008-08-20T15:07:00.000-07:00

It was a line I saw on a poster in a small but busy store at Fisherman’s wharf along the San Francisco coastline. I was inspired and realized that sometimes, dreams are worth all that you’ve got.

Most of the things I’ve attempted have always felt incomplete. I tried swimming, but gave up when I found that my younger sister was much better; I tried music (vocals) and gave that up because of a fondness for ice creams that made my throat squeak like a frog in regular intervals. I worked for hours every evening on basketball and every morning on running a marathon but only had ligament tears and knee injuries to show. I even tried academic proficiency, but was sadly disappointed because of a lack of grey cells.

In short, I’ve not yet accomplished any of the little things I’ve wanted to. The marathon I witnessed on August 3^rd, ’08 in San Francisco gave me the best definition I’ve come across of the word ‘bittersweet’. It reminded me of what should be the focus of my endeavors. In the few hours that I spent at the Marathon site that morning , I had a little of everything – the anticipation at the starting point, especially for the first timers, the long period in between , that seems to stretch forever, and some vicarious excitement at the finishing line.

The marathon was in perfect contrast to my visit to the island prison of Alcatraz a couple of days before. The marathon was a virtual sea of hope; the prison was a confinement of everything but the freedom of thought. The biting winds and fog that engulfed the place did more to add to its glory. No one expects a prison island to be a tropical haven. It was no longer remote or untouched, for there were swarms of tourists (like me!). The prisoners were long since dead or relocated, and the place seemed more like a government hospital in India than a penitentiary.

I did decide to do many things during the trip; there were moments of reflection, and some of regret. But there were also a few occasions during the trip when I just relaxed and had a good time. The Chocolate fudge at Ghirardelli square was rich, looked great, and made me feel like I was in ice cream lover heaven. Definitely qualifies as a life changing experience! I also tried many things for the first time. I had crab cakes, clam, halibut, shrimp, and oysters. In short, I’m no longer even half a vegetarian, and will do anything to lay my hands on a good bowl of Clam Chowder.

Ah. The trip made me think, it was fun, and I want to get back to work. I even made a bucket list during a camping trip to Big Sur towards the end. In short, I have more to write about every time I remember it – Brilliant.

Two Cities, and some soul searching

2008-07-26T08:37:00.000-07:00

Traveling has its own special place in my life. It is an urge I can’t control, one that releases endorphins in torrents and brings a smile to my face. But the most appealing feature is that it makes me think. It makes me think in different ways, about new experiences, about practices that are different from my own, about busy cities, narrow roads, and different people. I also wonder about human nature, the prejudices we harbor, the expectations we have, and the goals we search for.

I visited two cities in the last couple of months – Chicago and New York. Visiting places makes me want to share my travel experiences, and these are of two kinds. – One, the euphoric feeling of a tourist, wanting to discuss the places that had formerly only been viewed on television or read about in books. The other kind is one that sets in a while later, the discussion of what the entire trip meant. While the former would be a good guide to future visitors, the latter is a more selfish expression of what the trip did for me.

Chicago, Illinois used to remind me of jazz, a bustling nightlife, a city that like most great cities had the prosperous and the destitute living side by side. It was also interesting, as it was the place Barack Obama, was from. I’d heard a lot about the tall buildings, the liberal populace and the notorious muggers on some streets. What I really did see, was all this, except the muggers. I guess I was lucky, but it’s a story that deserves to be told. It happened the very morning I reached the city. I got off my bus at Union Station, and was looking to get to Millennium Park, the place where I was supposed to meet my friends. I’ve been blessed with a very transparent face, and so, my inexperience on the Chicago streets was noticed by one particular man standing by the bus stop. He offered to show me the way. I presumed he would give me directions, and so, gratefully accepted his offer. But as it turned out, he started actually guiding me all the way to the park!

I was shocked. Here I was in a strange city, walking with a man I did not know, to a place I did not know how to get to. I had no way of knowing where we were going, or if he was to be trusted. Honestly, I did not trust him. I felt cornered, scared, and wished I had not come on this journey alone. I made a phone call to the friends, who by the way were lost on the freeway. And told them exactly what I was doing, in the hopes that the guide would realize that I was not alone, and hence, leave me alone. I don’t know to this day, if it was the phone call that saved me, or if I was imagining the whole thing, and the guy was just trying to make some money.

He started explaining to me, that he was doing this as a business venture, to make some money, and that he was using his knowledge of the Chicago streets to help tourists while earning something on the side. He said that he understood how hard it was, to trust people these days, and that that is why he took good care of himself, and made sure he looked presentable. All this had no effect on me, and I just wanted to go my own way. Fear, is a powerful thing. So the moment we got to a busy intersection, I told him I was thankful for his help, but being a poor graduate student, it was something I could not afford. He smiled, said that it was okay, and left. I still wonder though, why after all these years of civilized living, we still have to fear each other more than anything else in the world.

Unexpected...

2008-07-07T20:04:00.000-07:00

Its summer, the birds are singing, the sky’s like canvas with fresh blue paint glistening all over and there are smiles all around. Walking down the lane with trees on either side, I almost wish I were an artist, for I could then savor this moment forever. My feeble efforts with watercolors hardly produce anything significant though, and I put the memory away for tougher times. That was some good thinking, and came in handy, for that very night, I felt an intense desire to be back home, and with my family.

It’s amazing how the silliest things can make you want the familiar and comforting sight of home. I had tasted a great dinner, thanks to my roommate who tries a new recipe every week. I was watching the customary half hour of TV, and the show was about thanksgiving. I really think the network television guys have it easy, one show about a family event, and they had me hooked. Or I was probably one of the few gullible ‘not yet middle aged’ women. Anyway, I wanted to go back home more than I had ever wanted to in a year in the US. After that, it all went downhill. I started imagining every monosyllabic reply to questions to be deliberate slights, decided that all my friends were way too busy and that I might as well be on the moon. Gosh! I’m surprised. And so, here’s probably my most meaningless post so far, though it describes my state of mind accurately – I’m clueless.

No man is an island

2008-07-02T10:23:00.000-07:00

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

These famous words by John Donne were not originally written as a poem - the passage is taken from the 1624 Meditation 17, from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions and is prose.

In Memory of

2008-06-28T19:37:00.000-07:00

In lieu of things that never happened,

In those dreams that were fulfilled not

In minds, haunted by thoughts

You reside, amidst empty lots.

Questions still arise aplenty

The ‘why’ and ‘what if ’

Some recrimination and some regret

Of things unsaid, promises not kept.

A parent mourns the sudden loss,

Loved ones wonder, still in shock.

Strangers weep, for a good soul lost,

A friend still struggles, acceptance is hard.

The years like clockwork go past

New friends, places, views and thoughts

Yet with each year memories grow stronger

Of a good life lived, however short.

You are always missed,

Your smile still alive in many hearts,

The joyous moments remembered

And the last sad day, forgotten not.

The Smell of Fresh Print

2008-06-12T07:15:00.000-07:00

It’s been nearly ten months since I landed in Columbus, Ohio. The last thing I remember doing back home in India is reading the Independence Day special edition of The Hindu, a mammoth edition with plenty for everyone to enjoy. There is something about waking up early, looking for the bundle outside your door, and sitting down with a steaming hot cup of tea that makes a morning complete. As a toddler, I’ve seen my father do it, with a tacit understanding that he would have to finish before my mother finished cooking breakfast and sat down with her coffee. The reason for the order of precedence was my mother’s uncanny ability to fold the newspaper in such a manner, that nothing could return it to its neatly folded pristine state again. And any serious reader of the news knows the pain of having to read a crumpled set of sheets.

The tradition has undergone a transition many times through the ravages of time. As India’s growth rate increased, the amount of time one could spend on luxuries like reading early in the morning proportionally decreased. Dad left early for work and read whatever he could salvage out of the office stack, my mother multitasked by cooking and reading out loud the latest crime statistics, and I barely had enough time to find all the paraphernalia to go with my school uniform and make it to the assembly at school in time. As I grew older, scrambling for the school bus was replaced by a passion for a morning jog, and a new age ‘ go slower’ thinking that made me spend almost two hours with the news every morning. A few years down the line many of my friends who had hardly ever read the business sections (me included), started reading them from half a dozen sources, with foreign newspapers like the Wall street journal assuming almost god like status. The reason for the spurt was the sudden interest in an MBA and the great rewards that always came with doing it from a ‘good’ place (read IIMs).

My favorite section has always been International Politics. Its amazing how something that I could do nothing about, and had absolutely no use for at the time, was the one thing I relished most. To me, it was the pickle that completes a south Indian meal. I have spent many a rainy evening re-reading the above section, reflecting on the unfortunate in Africa and the Middle East, the brave non-violent protesters of the Colour revolutions in Eastern Europe, and the busy New Yorkers in the USA. An integral part of this process is the ‘other person’. He or she likes reading most things you like and provides a sink for all the ‘reflections’ you come up with. My joy in the newspaper would have died long ago had it not been for my dad who patiently listened to my rants about the articles on eve teasing, my mom who gave a broad smile every time I found a scholarship announcement in the midst of the advertisements and some friends who nurtured my love for discussion throughout four years of undergraduate engineering. One of them was actually so good at the ‘read-think-talk-listen’, that after she left, I stopped reading the newspaper for a while. It hurt so much to not have her around.

So for someone who liked the newspaper so much, and had many fond memories associated with it, a year in Columbus was hell(only in this respect). The local newspaper was affordable, but had volumes of advertising, and boring news columns (from an international perspective). So at the end of a year, I decided it was time to do something about the situation, and thanks to a research assistantship that made many things much more affordable, I subscribed to the New York Times. After a wait over the weekend that seemed never ending, I finally found the bundle outside my door one morning. To read that headline from sheets in my hand instead of on an LCD screen after so long was plain refreshing. Enough to make me start waking up at six every morning just to read the news! Talk about unexpected benefits…

Ten things I miss out here..

2008-06-03T05:31:00.000-07:00

Reading the crisp new pages of The Hindu every morning over a cup of chai.
Watching the peanut sellers with their faces lighted up by the gas stove, frying peanuts during the cool evenings in Bangalore.
Trying to stay upright inside a local bus.
Seeing the sidewalks freshly washed every morning, and decorated with various patterns by the ladies of the house.
Jogging at Lal Bagh early in the morning, and watching the sun rise from the top of that tiny hill.
The sights and sounds around the Shankarmutt temple – The bells, the murmured prayers, the incense , the musical chants and so much more.
The hot idli that felt lighter than a flower and the spicy sambhar I used to take for granted.
The vehicles honking on the road, the crowds selling everything that you can imagine, the crowds buying all those things, and the thrifty housewives driving a hard bargain.
The old shriveled lady who defies age and continues to work as a domestic help in a dozen houses all day, and manages a toothy grin at the end of it all.
And most of all, the one place I loved, the place that nurtured the ‘best days of my life’, my undergraduate college, and in particular – The basketball court in it. They represent days that will never come back, and are so special, that they will cheer me up on many a gloomy winter morning.

A Rush of blood to the head

2008-05-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done

There are thousands to prophesy failure

There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it.

- From ‘It Couldn’t be Done’, Edgar A. Guest

Jumping out of a plane, when it’s in perfectly good condition might seem to be foolishness to some. To me, it’s unthinkable to not do something that offers a different perspective, an experience that jolts your mind and body into feeling something special – the rush of blood to your head during freefall.

Skydiving to me, meant many things. One of them was to understand how I react to fear and uncertainty. But fear means different things to different people. A friend of mine said he would rather go bungee jumping than skydive. To me, to trust nothing but a rope, to have no back ups at all, is plain crazy. Our instructors at ‘Start Skydiving’ told us a lot about risk management, and that it was up to us, to pull the cord and save ourselves, at least the AFF (Accelerated free fall) jumpers. I liked the fact that I was responsible for what happens up there, for I trust myself to do what is necessary to save myself. I also feel that a bungee jump is more about fear and nothing else, where as a skydive is a million things. The feeling of being pushed up by the wind during free fall; in an arch for those few seconds is not something you can experience anywhere else. I felt beautiful, powerful, and blessed, to be able to do what I was doing.

I was part of the AFF team that could not jump the first time due to bad weather. But the whole day, I spent my time imagining the entire sequence of events – From wearing the jumpsuit, to letting go of that last piece of metal at fifteen thousand feet. I even wrote a farewell note to some friends (I like preparing for the ‘worst case scenarios’) Going through the jump sequence so many times really improved my confidence. The fact was, the experience was not just about the jump. Our instructors made sure we had a great time overall. I looked at their journals, some stunning photographs of difficult dives, watched the tandem jumpers fall off the sky, and pretended not to be jealous. At the end of the day, I consoled myself as best I could and waited for sunshine and blue skies.

And on one such perfect day, I went with a group of friends to the jump site, got onto a plane and experienced the best five minutes of my life. Five minutes that have enhanced everything I have done since then, and left such an impact, that every sunny morning I find myself saying – ‘What a perfect day for a skydive!’.

Ambition

2008-05-17T14:40:00.001-07:00

It’s another day,

Here or wherever I thought,

I’d like to wake up, and

Feel the purpose, long sought.

A reason to live,

Beyond fear of death,

A reason to die

Not boredom or lack of depth.

Poverty makes you aspire,

Injustice makes you strong,

Meaning seems not to matter,

After a fight so long.

Ashamed, worried, jealous.

Of the path the others found

The end to work towards,

So their smiles abound.

Do we try to forget?

By everything we do

That there might be nothing

Beyond survival that’s our due.

Maybe life’s true meaning

The motivation it lends,

Despite nagging qualms,

Can’t be understood unto the end.

But we play the chips dealt,

We wait to see light

And enjoy doing those things,

Meaningless, but a delight.

2008-03-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

Well, here’s a bit from my Spring break trip. It was an eventful day; we started out early, at around seven in the morning. We’d had a good breakfast at the inn we were staying at. It was aptly named ‘The Mountaineer Inn’, and I’d fallen in love with it the moment I read the name on the internet search site. Without too my effort, my companions were convinced into agreeing to stay there as well. The owner was an old Greek, a friendly person, the kind you feel you’ve known all along somehow. So, after a breakfast of hot bagels, some cinnamon-raisin bread, and strong coffee, we set out armed with a google map to Mt. Mitchell, North Carolina.

We reached the place that the map indicated, and saw that there was nobody around. Just before we gave up however, we found an enterprising little dog, who woke his owner up with the rousing welcome he gave us. The lady walked out in her night gown and told us with a smile, that this was not the camp ground we were looking for, and gave us fresh directions. The process continued, we woke up quite a few people in the country side, observed the different sets of teeth, and finally, a man who seemed the ‘trekking kind’ showed us the way. Overjoyed, we parked the car, and walked towards what seemed to be a trail. Four miles later, we reached the highway. Needless to say, all three of us were quite annoyed at seeing a road instead of the mountain peak. We journeyed back, our sense of adventure dissatisfied, and our spirits low. When we reached the car, a huge sign greeted us – One that pointed to the opposite side we had just explored and said in bold letters –‘BLACK MT. CAMP GROUND’.

We gave each other sheepish grins, swore to keep the details between us and set out to conquer the peak. I took pictures of course, and every time I see how close our car was to the sign, I burst out laughing! We made our way to the actual camp ground, which had many signs, clearly indicating the various routes and the way we had to follow. After much debate, the two veteran trekkers with me decided that although the novice who’d come along would slow them down and so make reaching the peak in time impossible , the trek to the point just 1000 m below the peak was achievable.

I was already pretty tired and disillusioned with the climb. It was my first trek, and I’d done nothing but reach a highway so far. Nearly six miles of climbing for nothing! But then, I quickly realized that I’d (inadvertently!) mentioned to a few of my friends that I was climbing the ‘highest peak east of the Mississippi’. I also realized that such an occasion would never be forgotten if they found out about where I’d managed to reach, and so decided to try climbing the mountain that loomed large in front of us. Well, we made it to the top.. Me leading the way! - Unfortunately, it was only because the policy was ‘Slowest first’, so that nobody got lost. The views along the way helped take us ahead, and I cursed every chocolate bar that was now weighing me down. With a few laughs (surprisingly without any falls on my part) along the way, we did make it to the point we were aiming for.

I was expecting something big once I reached there, but like one of my friends pointed out, the trek really was more about the way to the top than the summit itself. We began our descent soon, and I was elated, glad that I’d made it so far without any dire accidents to anyone around me. Which, if you know me well is practically the norm? We stopped after a while, and the guys decided to rest for a bit. They decided to let me go ahead, for considering the speed at which I’d been gingerly stepping down every rock until then, it seemed like they’d catch up with me in no time at all. This is where the big surprise of the trip hit us all. I was much faster when they were not around me. Eager to reach the bottom of the hill, I ran down, careless of any fall that might result. I was, however, very careful to follow the track. The guys started off behind me, did not catch up, and decided that I must be lost. For I was slow, I was known to have a very poor sense of direction (I still object to the characterization) and hence, getting lost was my defining feature.

In short, they spent hours looking for me on the top, and finally found me waiting at the bottom. I’m sure they were relieved to find me, but at the time, the most dominant emotion was anger, at how stupid I could be. And I know I was, for it was dangerous to get separated from your group while it neared dusk, and I could easily have taken a wrong turn. I was guilt-ridden, shocked at my recklessness, and pretty upset. The same speed of descent that had given me so much pleasure while running down the slope had caused my friends needless worry. At that moment, I felt like the prodigal son after his return.

We went back to the inn, me somewhat subdued. Its remarkable how the next morning, I was as excited as I was the previous morning, and we set out to explore some more of the riches North Carolina seems blessed with. But that’s something for another entry. Right now, I’m still trying to get rid of the knee pain that followed running down the slope so fast, as though I needed further reason, to never do that again!

Life is beautiful

2008-03-25T17:06:00.000-07:00

It’s probably the fourth time I’ve watched this movie, but its incredible how every time, I come away with something new. I just spent my spring break hiking in the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. On my way back home from the airport, I was on a local bus. Unlike the ones that run in the University area (OSU), these COTA buses had more local workers than students.

There isn’t another way to say it – these people were poor. Most of them were wearing old and worn out clothing. Some of them were also well advanced in years. There was one old lady who must have been about eighty, she was wondering when ‘smell-vision’ and ‘taste-vision’ would become reality, just like television. Another, was nearly delirious, had her white hair hanging loose, and gave you the impression of a person sleep walking. The journey lasted two hours, and I was witness to at least fifty people, all in impoverished conditions travel in the same bus. I know it’s illogical, that I might deserve a vacation, and that at least some of these people had brought themselves down in life despite having opportunities. However, at the end of the two hours, I felt like I was choking in the bus, and could hardly manage to control my tears. I’d spent an amount equivalent to their monthly salaries, on one trip. And at that moment, I really felt guilty. It does not really mean anything, for I doubt if I’ll give up on future trips to different places. But I realized that although my vacation was well earned, it was hard to stay happy when I saw those unfortunate souls. I tried to ignore them, and to forget.

Well, I got onto the connecting bus, (My journey had three connecting buses) and proceeded to think of other things. A man got onto the bus, and started asking around for directions to the swimming pool. My ears perked up at the mention of one of my favorite sports, and I told him that I could take him to the Ohio State swimming pool. We started talking about the sport, and he mentioned that his daughter was taking part in a swimming competition that evening, and he was on his way to cheer her on. I told him about my short stint as a swimmer, and about what I was now doing. As we parted ways, I think something on my face must have told him that I was upset. He simply said – “Don’t ever let anything or anybody pull you down. Some things might seem unjust, but the important thing is to never lose hope. There is a joy in achieving, that just money can never buy”. He could not have said it at a better time. Although he was mistaken about the reason for my sad face, his words told me that I was feeling guilty for the wrong reasons.

Those people on the bus might have been poor in material terms, but were probably rich in other ways. I realized how offended I would be if some millionaire who took a cruise every other month decided to feel sorry for me because I was ‘poor’. I’d fight all the way to prove that money had nothing to do with happiness. And here I was, making the same mistake. As I finished watching the movie, I saw that if a person could see the funnier side of life in a concentration camp, and could even manage to savor the last few moments of his life as moments that made his son laugh, indeed riches have little to do with happiness.

Surprised

2007-09-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

It’s been almost a month, and strangely, the place does seem like home. When I left India not long ago, I was excited. I looked forward to spending my time in a ‘developed’ country, learning things that were exclusive to students in the US. This bundle of positive thinking did not, however, include feeling at home. I felt, like my family and friends, that however good it could get, I’d always feel like a visitor. That feeling you get when you are on a great vacation, enjoying yourself while living in a hotel room is the most I expected from Ohio State. The real deal has fortunately been much better.

I arrived on the seventeenth of August, sore from the long travel in the plane, and with quite a few misgivings about the place. The group of people on the plane decided that it should not stay that way! The plane was delayed due to bad weather (A common ruse, I’m told), and the staff of the airline gave us a brilliant time by laughing at themselves, the airport authorities, and everything in general. Not a bad way to get through the unpleasant wait in the plane. My co passengers were model citizens, and proved that the US was indeed a very friendly place. When one of them actually waited at the Columbus airport (My final destination) until my pickup arrived, I was sure that whatever my future experiences in Columbus might be, I would always consider it a place with very hospitable people. The weeks after that were surreal, and more posts are necessary to do justice to the incredible experiences I’ve had here. Suddenly, from being the one who complained about everything, I found myself being the one who had nothing but praise for everything I found around me. My other friends in the US were ‘pleasantly’ surprised. I hope.

I realize that I’m here to do my Masters and possibly PhD, in Mechanical Engineering. (Although being able to play basketball had a lot to do with coming here!) But in case anyone planning to apply to a US university is reading this, trust me you will find a whole array of things to do here, and it’s worth every dollar you spend.