Being Indian: outside the box

We visited Sabarmati Ashram near Ahmedabad, during our visit to India in December '06-January '07.

As we walked around, I could feel the poignancy and profound presence of history. We were walking the very dusty paths that Indian freedom fighters had walked on. Just 6 years old in Canada, it was very powerful to see these thoughts expressed so clearly by Gandhiji. ( the suffix 'ji' is attached to the name to denote respect.)

The children and I spent close to three hours at Sabarmati. The peace of those special surroundings, the cool shade of the sprawling trees, and the dry, dry dust of those paths reminded us that we belonged here too, as much as we did in Markham.

Growing up in India, the persona of Mahatma Gandhi was indelibly printed on my mind. I had read about, seen and heard stories about the times that today live on only in history books. My mother remembers the brilliantly lit Mumbai on India's 1st ever Independence Day, August 15th, 1947; the shock she had felt when she first saw the map of a partioned sub-continent. She talks of the deep grief she had felt as a 7 year old, on Gandhiji's assassination in 1948: she had slid under her father's bed and had refused to come out the whole day.

Yet, they were just stories. Sabarmati was different. To me and perhaps for my children too, it was a pilgrimage. The Pretoria train incident had led to this, the lathi charge in South Africa had led to this, the pain of the starving indigo farmers of Champaran had led to this: this small piece of land around which bustled the busy metropolis of Ahmedabad on this day, and it took me a step closer to my own identity of a free Indian in a not-quite-free world.

I realised, as a hyphenated Canadian, deeply, now more than ever before, how important is it to retain ones own identity: personal, cultural, national, in the face of the demands of a majority culture. All messages come to us when we are ready to receive them.

My Indian-ness came to me far away from home, wherever it was: Mumbai or Markham, did not matter that day. In Sabarmati, I found another little part of myself that I had not even missed until that moment.

Waiting...

When I finalised the book last Friday, it was midnight. I went up to my bedroom and picked up my copy of the Alchemist and read Paulo Coelho's preface. It felt as if he was talking directly to me. That is the power of the Soul of the Universe.

On Monday, June 2nd, my book will be a physical entity. Long before that, it existed as a dream. To me, then as much as it is now, it was as real as ever. It is the world around me that needs the physical proof of existence.

To the dreamer, there is no such compulsion. The very fact that I dream it, makes it real. That is enough isn't it?

Stay well

My gulmohar

This is my all-time favourite flower, the gulmohar. I used to enjoy watching them bloom in Panjim, Goa in my childhood. Opposite the Mary Immaculate Conception Church is a rectangular park. Shops and colonial buildings overlook this park and this is where I learned to read. My Amma used to sit with me and patiently read the page of my Bal Bharati and have me follow along. All around the perimeter of this park are the blazing gulmohar trees of my childhood.

Long before the heartfelt mandate to 'not pluck flowers' my maternal grandfather ( Ajja) used to pick the blossoms that would fall to the ground and we would take them home. I used to be fascinated at the vibrant colours: red, blazing orange ( my favourite to this day) , some petals mottled with white spots like a butterfly wing.

I was very lucky to have grown up in a time before television stole such precious moments from lives of children. I was fortunate to be allowed the freedom to take things apart. I was allowed to WONDER, I was encouraged to ask questions. We used to play fight with the anthers of these very flowers, what else did we have in the long thunderous monsoons that rules the coast between June and September?

I came to Mumbai when I was in grade 9 and was delighted to discover that my flowers were here too. All along Marine Lines train station, the avenue, Maharshi Karve Road, beside Kala Niketan Sari Emporium, is lined with these trees. And think of the muscle memory, my friends: to this day, when the train emerges beside Mt. Pleasant in Toronto, my head automatically swivels to the left: alas the gulmohars are in Mumbai and not here.

Here, in my new home, they bloom in my heart. Friends, soulmates, siblings, send me photographs, they save petals for me, they write to me about the trees they have seen. And in those moments, my flowers bloom. And in that moment, my memories are immortal.

Here is one picture sent last year.

To Dreamers Everywhere

Since finalising the details of TLBB (a Bollywood trick that, DDLJ, K3G, KANK, RDB, TZP etc were all superhits!!) I have felt the very same serenity that one feels when your baby starts sleeping through the night!! "Yesss," you rejoice, "no more bleary eyes, no more ' when is this going to end'. Just a healthy glow!! " So here I am after 8 hours of beauty sleep.

After 20 years of serious writing, 8 years of planning and 2 years of chasing my dream, I am a week away from holding my book in my hand. Yes, my book: The Little Brown Box. Feels exhilarating and humbling all at once.

"What does it take to get here?" one my grade 8 students asked me on Friday after I announced this news on the PA system. I have been thinking about it since.

My wake up call came last July. I had dedicated the summer and the school year that followed to a word that was being whispered in ear towards the end of June. RENEWAL. For those of us who believe in signs, this is not a crazy idea. For those of us who have not yet learned to trust our inner voice or the voice of the Universe ( Read the Alchemist and then come back to this), this may seem like a 'new age' thing.

I went to Harlem in early July and browsed around. I found a delightful book store called Hueman Books run by J. A delightful little nook that had a fruit drinks store and a few tables at the front and rows of books written by people who looked like me, somewhat. Not well known faces that jump out of websites or glossy magazines, just ordinary people who perhaps had dreamt long enough to make that dream come true, like the Velveteen Rabbit. I spoke to J about my dream, ( it is just easy to talk to some people, the clear look in their eyes, does not judge your presence, they let you be, J is one such soul, I thought).

Dreamers everywhere will understand what I have to say next: it is hard to tell people about your dream without risking ridicule or the fear of it. "I am writing a book", you might say. " Yeah right" says the person's face while their lips utter this, saccharine- sweet; " How nice" Familiar?? Whether you want to start your own company or build your house or plant a garden or follow your calling, there is always an unspoken ' Yeah Right' out there.

J said to me: "I will wait for your next trip. perhaps you will bring some copies of your book for me." Just like that. What did he know of me, this man I had met just minutes ago? What did he know of my work, or talent? Just that I had a dream. This was message 1.

On July 5th, we went to Delaware to my aunt's house. Her father, (my grandmother's younger brother) was turning 94. My children were fascinated with the idea of meeting him: a family Elder, the brother of their great-grandmother. They sat on either side with him, his hand in theirs, listening to him as he spoke. Now Punn-joba (great grand-dad) is a cardiologist as well as a writer of children's stories. He has published his first book of stories for children and is working on another. As my kids sat there marvelling at his presence and wit, he said to them: "I wrote this book but I waited a long time to publish it. Now, though I can hold it in my hand, I cannot read it, I have gone blind" This, was clearly message number 2.

And then there was the constant reminders from my son: "Mamma, when is your book going to come out?" I would smile and say that I did not know yet and it would happen in its time.

A few days later he would ask me again with the persistance of a 10 year old boy. One day finally, I said to him: "I don't know what to do. I have not yet heard from any publishers."

And my guru of the day said to me: " Why don't you do it yourself?" That was message number 3.

As always, one is faced by two paths: and it is a measure of your courage, the courage of your convictions that makes you go out and do it anyway, in the face of all the ' yeah right' sayers that hide in the shadows.

That perhaps is the acid test of a dreamer: the ability to take that precious thought out of your heart and lay it down for the Spirit to guide you towards fulfillment.

In hindsight, this has been the easiest thing. All I needed was a hearty dose of trust and an open heart to listen to the messages of the Universe.

Stay well and keep dreaming...

The Little Brown Box

You know what celebrations are like. The music, the food, the "masti-masala and the dhamaka" ( ahem, ahem, we need to work on our Desi glossary soon)

This was 2005. I was immersed in Asian Heritage month work and everywhere I looked, on websites, school assemblies and newspapers: there was just that, the overpowering tribute to all that is superficial.

And I was angry. I had not yet mastered the art of the Zen of activism. I was floundering on the shores of my own angt which was swirling around me that evening.

The late evening light has a serene ability to clear melancholy. Kishore da immortalised this feeling in Safar:

Kah-een door jub din dhal jaye

Shyam ki dul-han, badan chur-aye

Chupke se aye

Mere kha-ya-lon ke aan-gan mein

Koi sap-no key deep jala-ye

Deep jala-ye

I had heard every Bollywood song there was popular, I had had enough of being spoken to LOUDLY so that I would understand, I had had enough of being packed in a little brown labelled box that screamed:

This is who I think you are

And that is who I think you should remain

Forever and ever and always

I was sitting in the staff room at Cedarood. I was perhaps one of the few people still left in the building.

The words started flowing and I scribbled. I did something I had never done before: I started writing inside a brand new book I was reading ( Storywalah: an anthology of South Asian fiction.)

As I wrote on, the pain started to recede. I felt better, bit by bit. And this poem was born. Did the grammar make sense that day? Surely not. I did not even bother fixing it. I just wrote on and I proclaimed to myself and to the world:

"My Indian-ness proclaims proudly,
everyday, head held high

I am Ramanujam, I am Arundhati Roy
I am Tagore, I am Gandhi, I am Kalpana Chawla

I am so much more
than silk saris and spicy samosas...."

( Lines from my poem " The Little Brown Box which apprears in my soon-to arrive book by the same name)

This is where I found peace.

Stay well

Somewhere in my youth or childhood...

4.16 pm:

In the land of my birth it is already Friday, May 23rd.

Just spoke to the printer. All the changes had come through, except two: a 't' unwanted, and a '?' as well.

I am waiting for him to send me the corrected work after which I will tell him to go ahead.

And suddenly in the brightness of room 200, where my students have inspired me, day after day, I am a week away from being a full fledged published author!!

One of them asked me the other day: Will your book be under K (Karnad-Jani) or J ( Jani)? It is questions like these that help me hang on when I am tired. Gifts of hope, excitement from the people around me that lend me wings.

As Julie Andrews sings in The Sound of Music:

Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good.

A deep peace that has settled over me.

My newest guru

It is believed in ancient cultures that when the student is ready, the Guru will come. And today, I was ready. Or shall I say tired. This mad pace has been fascinating in its hurtling thunder, one day to the next. Every night, I seem to fall asleep instantly only to wake up drained out. The meditation and rain drenched garden with my morning coffee do help ( but that ambience sneakily tempts me to stay there!)

I was thinking aloud two hours ago that this seemed to be a never ending process. The children were in the basement with me, reading and I was looking through my proofs for (hopefully) the last time. For a moment I thought, what kind of crazy person write 70 poems? And why am I so intent on checking it again when 4 other people have already given their 'all clear'?

Pandit Ravi Shankar's melodies calmed my racing heart a little and then a voice said, clearly from the corner:

"You'll get through this pain, Mamma. It will be over soon. Think of your book, next week, or two weeks from now. You have waited so long for this to happen, that this should not frustrate you. Do you need a hug?"

My son, all of 10 years, was my guru tonight. And I am still here at 11.11 pm, thinking of next week or the week after that. His message is with me hours after he has gone to bed. That is the impact of an old soul.

Of sadness and songbirds

6.28 am.

I think Life is always a reflection of what we carry in our hearts at that given point in time. I remember 6 years ago in June when my mother was diagnosed with a life threatening situation, I would often wonder: why is the world smiling and going about as normal when my world is falling to pieces all around me?" I think that all of us go through these moments.

Today is the day: I have communicated the last 5 corrections to the printer and am on the way to hitting the ' go ahead' button. As I think of this, I realise that this is a new beginning. From what was 'just one book' now I am thinking of others. The possibilties are smiling back at me.

And even as I think of my uncharted journey, I am mindful of the world's pain. And whether we are doing enough for those who have less than we do. China, Myanmar, Darfur, our First Nations.....

I also think of everyday people, those that were in my world a long time ago. I think of my brother's friend from long ago, and the paths that he has been denied in this world; whether they will ever be able to educate his children enough to be able to enjoy a slice of the pie that is proudly referred as India Inc. Today, my brothers and sister have achieved great heights, they have refused to be packed in labelled boxes. Headstart is everything then, isn't it?

What is my role in this equation? Am I a constant or a variable? Am I an observor or a change agent?

One thing I know for certain: there is no such thing as an innocent by-stander.

The world watches and history gets written, how then do we not have blood on our collective hands?

A few lines from one of my poems: Dying Dreams that I had written after the Mumbai riots in 1993.

" Surely there is a shared God somewhere

to look after her"

I will think about this 'other' through this day when I reach out to touch my dream. How about you??

Stay well

Journeys and destinations

As I edit my work for the last time ( hopefully) I am alone in the basement. Keeping away the temptation for another cup of coffee, I try to work through the remaining pages and agonise just a little that there are 5 changes to convey to my printer. I remind myself that I have always done my best in everything I have tried my hand at, this book is no different. I will phone tomorrow morning to ensure that it is done.

And as I write this I am listening to songs from a recent Bollywood film " Jub We Met": the voice says this:

Hum joh chalney lagey, chalney lagey hain yeh raastey

Manjil se behtarr lagney lagey hain yeh raastey

The singer reminds me that getting there is as meaningful as arriving: "When I started walking, roads/paths start walking as well and the journey seems more pleasant than the destination"

What is that Paulo Coelho says about personal legends in the Alchemist? My brother in Turkey will surely remember. Maqhtoub!!

Now back to work.

Last minute throes

This is me on my first birthday!

I was at the printer right after school until 6.30 with my son reading a book and playing at the other computer. I also received my business licence for The Magic Pencil, my very own publishing company!!

Now I can work with other struggling writers and help them side-step the obstacles that I went over the past 8 years. Zen has it that every obstacle can be turned into a stepping stone. Perhaps this is the learning for me.

A cup of coffee and I should be back at work to look through this one more time. Someday, I will look back at this and smile some more.

My brother sent me an email of congratulations at the almost-done book. And I was reminded of who I was then and who I am now. Today, very few of the original witnesses to my life are around, yet I feel their presence around me.

ISBN Moment

Yesterday at 4.20 pm, my heart beat slowly and softly: everything done, Sri, one of the most supportive patient people I have met in recent times, got the ISBN number from my email and arranged the barcode on the back cover. I stood still, really still: this was a moment to live for, I will remember it forever.

Dreams do come true, mine took 8 years.

June 2000: I had started thinking about the book (I knew this would come back to me) when I returned from Saigon with the kids.

So all in all, I owe B-16 Venus Apts, (the very first home that we owned together, Deval and I) the first peace I ever enjoyed in my life after 1993 as well as the beginning of this book. I guess peace has that effect, it allows you to reach within and stretch higher. Of course you need a soul group to help you hold on, to believe in this mad caper as much as you do yourself, sometimes more. And here I am: a week away from holding my book in my hand.

I cautioned myself from thinking about nay-sayers: realistically I know that there is always someone who will scoff: this is the risk we take when we do something different. In this case, I have willed myself to step out of the labelled brown box and stand tall, while not being trapped by the invisible, crippling expectations of the world around me.

I asked my critical voice: Is this book being written for Rashmee first and foremost or to please those voices that denigrate?" And the answer came back loud and clear: this is MY legacy, for my life, for my children, my students and my roots ( in whichever order you see it).

This is the peace in my soul.

And I know this for sure: it can be done. That is my message to myself. Remind me when I forget. Deal?

Rashmee

May16th, @ Viveka Printers

May 15th was an interesting day. Due to a car battery incident and the fact that Ashray would have had to spend 3 hours at the printers as I worked, I chose not to go. A lot of work had to be done. So I decided to take the 16th off from work and get this done so that the long weekend would not weigh on my mind. I went to the printer's and worked through the day until 3 pm.

I have tried to look back and recall where this dream started, when did the idea of The Little Brown Box as a tangible product come into being. Yet at this time of heightened excitement, I am unable to. It will come, I know the slump of relief, when all this is finally over. For now, all I can think of is some sleep: without typed words dancing in front of my eyes that is!

May 15th

19 years later

You come to me in the soft sunshine
as I leave for work
earlier than I did
yesterday

You come to me
with the smell of gasoline
and memories
of the faithful Lambretta

That came home
one Saturday without you

( continued)

( Today is my father's 73rd birthday.)

Dreams

Hello,

One step at a time, I am closer to my dream. My book, The Little Brown Box is just days away from becoming a 'finished product'. Yet, every step that is leading me to that day is equally precious. I am mindful of all the roads I have travelled to get here. This phase in my journey reminds me of my early hazy dream, my ongoing hesitation, the criticism of sceptics, my disappointment at a backslide, and thankfully the immense belief in possibility.

I have reminded myself many times in these past few weeks, that it is never too late. Every day I spend ironing out details, editing my work and observing my excitement are all a part of this process of resilience. Everyday is one more day of learning. I tell myself that I must not rush, deadlines are important no doubt, but more important is the need to always keep the goal in sight. Do I want to get my book out on a particular day that a slight delay should cripple me? Or would I rather take the time to ensure that it is my best effort? This much I owe myself and all those who believe in me।

To my family and friends, thanks for cheering me on every step of the way. To my students in my study group at school, thanks for the tacit approval of my persevrance ( SICK!!!) Now that's something!

स्टे वेल्ल

रश्मी

Rashmee