Who will stand tall when 'they come for me?'

My community is in crisis right now and I feel the pain. Students, parents and families are reeling under job losses on the one hand and the tumultous events of a long drawn out civil war on the other. One supports, one sticks up for the cause of humanity and one internalises the negative sentiments expressed by many at the inconvenience in their life due to some others who exercise their humanitarian right to be heard. We go about our days hanging on tight lest we say more than we are allowed to. After all, we are expected to speak only as much as we are allowed and no more. We have to wait in line, hat in hand for permission to ask for what is a given to many. As there is a saying in Hindi that my 11 year old son has understood for its true value and rhetoric: Tumhara khoon, khoon. Hamara khoon paani ( Your blood is blood, and my blood is water).

Do we need to exhibit tolerance at a time like this ( from my ivory tower, I tolerate you) or must we open our hearts?

Who will stand tall when 'they come for me?'

My kinda day

Just when the spirit begins to slump, along comes my kinda day. Since January with the new responsibilities at work and deadlines galore, I have been steadily pushing myself to meet them and my own high expectations of what I must do for my students and community. As always, in keeping the needs of others at the top of the list, my own fell by the wayside and I received a swift reminder about my neglect. Whoever had heard of simple coughs and colds turning into a raging case of bronchitis? And me, who until now, had breezed through childhood and three decades with not as much as a fever to mark the day. Well, several weeks of misery later the chest pains began which turned out to be a fractured rib ( how does one get that at 43 with no school yard or bar-room brawls is quite a mystery. )

I survived the good-natured ribbing by my students and children about ' safe schools' and 'stay out of trouble Ms. Karnad-Jani or there is a suspension waiting for you' etc. I made it through to May.

I needed to refresh my soul connections and to recharge my energy. So I stayed home, could not trudge off to work another day.

And it was my kinda day: rainy, green, grey and oh so Lonavala!! For a Mumbaikar in the sweltering humidity, the change to the green spaces of the Khandala Ghats ( look that up, lots to learn) is the benchmark. I sat on the backyard swing, spoke to Amma, and Kshitij. Dug in the garden, dislodged many bunches of forget-me-nots and re-located them. Landscaped the front garden and connected with what I loved best. Da kink in my hair reminded me of who I am as I had lunch with Jagjit Singh and Tum nahin, gham nahin sharaab nahin. The lilac tree with its windchime and the water dripping off the ferns, the birds silent until the sun peeped out coming to the birdbath for a splash and the peace.

The sun has come out now which means I have to find a cooler space. A good day and it is not even over yet.

The Universe conspired with me today.

Namesake?

I remember reading Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake through one night two years ago, the only other book I stayed up for was " The Bridges of Madison County" in 1995. And as dawn broke over the Eastern horizon, I had made up my mind: I was in a new country, a new set of rules and I was going to do what I have always wanted to do: take my name back.

Stereotypes abound when it comes to women and more so of South Asian descent in my new country. I smile or cringe when ill informed people wax eloquent about ' those people raising their daughters to be meek and docile" Yeah right, tell that to Indira Gandhi, Benazir Bhutto, Khalida Zia, Sheikh Hasina, Maneka Gandhi, Chandrika Kumaratunga, Medha Patkar, Bachendri Pal and Kalpana Chawla......

My father raised me well. While Amma took care of the softer aspects of my personality, he stood up for the values he was instilling in my young mind. At 19 when I readied myself to go to Bangalore alone on a overnight train, he reminded all the worriers that as long as "Rashmee kept her wits about her and did not walk off into the sunset leaving her belongings on the berth, there was no way she was going to be hoodwinked": oh the joy of that!! Life is indeed a self fulfilling prophecy. I was raised to believe that I would make mistakes sometimes but I was not to live every single day worrying about the next one or blaming myself for the previous one. And that has freed me to be who I am and enjoy every moment of it.

So there it is: I am a Karnad and always have been.

So two years ago began my quest of taking back my name. Three sets of forms later, my boss's sister, a provincial judge, said to me when I asked her to sign the forms: "You are taking back what was always yours, you need no one's permission to do that. Yet I waited.. I had to get my highway licence and then change my name once and for all on that piece of id. The next step was my passport. I had always written as KARNAD-JANI for the last 16 years so my literary identity was not changing.

So I got my licence and changed my name and that was that. I had practised my signature and was delighted with it.

But old habits die hard. I had requested a copy of Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth from the library and received a call yesterday to collect the copy. So off I went this cold February afternoon and searched for the book: Jain, Jensen, .... the list went on and still no book.

And then came the sudden realisation: of course I was not there,. I was under KARNAD wasn't I? I looked and there I was: as safe as I had always been. And the smiles of my Elders broke through the winter clouds.

BTW "Unaccustomed Earth" is a great book. Real, wistful, very touching.

You CAN go home!

This is Shantikunj, the first home I ever knew. Today, Feb 14th 2009, my youngest brother moved into his palatial condo in Thane a verdant suburb of Mumbai. And a page of my childhood was turned forever.

I have an overflowing heart right now, spoke to Kshitij, my brother. Asked him the very question he has asked me since I married and moved on to other homes: "Does it feel the same". And he said to me: " Kinda, you know how it is". Days will move forward. He will get used to the greenery outside his window and he will make new memories. And in the midst of that, Shantikunj will beckon, with all the memories we have there. Who says that the old house is empty? All the days that we spent together are there waiting for us to return and reclaim them. After all, marbled floors, however precious, do not replace the cold floors of my mother's kitchen. And we all get it: that is the gift.

Here is a poem I had written long ago.

Memories

The sultry air, the promise of rain,
A certain smell in a passing train,
Summers past and pleasure
Thrills

Raw mangoes from a tall tree,
Well water and ferry rides,
Bicycling in the fields,
Kites on the hillock,

Hatching butterflies and chickens,
Wind in our hair
Long drives, dark nights
And sandy beaches.
Special outings and memories

We move on
Life takes us away
From the days that were such fun
Special moments

The first rains still recall.
I look back all those years ago
We were children together
Do you remember?

Today, I remembered a war

Today, I Remembered A War

This evening watching M*A*S*H with the kids

I was asked by my almost 11 year old son

“What is more difficult: being a soldier or being a doctor in a war
Is it more difficult to die or to watch someone else, helpless?”

And time once again compressed itself Like the Knight Bus

I was back in 1971 Windows papered with brown and black

Dinner at 6, something unknown

And the misplaced thrill of a 5 year old’s heart
for long shadows from candle light

Not knowing the seriousness

Of War, or Death The buzz,

the whine of planes overhead

Like so many bees

Hiding under covers and thinking

Who are these people?

Do they even know I am here
a tiny speck, a real person
and that I love puppies, chocolate and

to walk on the beach with my father?

Today we are sisters, you and I

and sit at the same table

I teach your child

I hold your hand

when you weep for his struggles

Or yearn for her success

And somewhere in the gathering dusk we remember the same war

We smile at our fears as we share memories with our children

And we comfort the girls that we were

On either side of that border

We move on with our lives and

We pray that our children

never ever have to face those fears

as we yearn for the rains of our long-lost homes

We pray that we are safe together

You and I.

These parents, those parents

As an educator and a parent, I often cringe when I hear the term ' these parents' and wait with bated breath for what comes after.

And the comments are mostly judgemental: These parents don't come to meetings. Those parents don't understand this math. These parents walk in when they feel like, these parents, these parents, these parents.

On Jan 29th, I was in the company of many parents. It was ( as per my previous post) the Information Night at our high school. Families milled around, hesitant at first and then taking the plunge, asking questions trying to re-caliberate ( Randy Paush used this word in 'The Last Lecture' and I love it).

As I wandered around, collecting fliers for my class display ( some of my students were at a tournament and they would need the information) I met this gentleman and after the exchange of pleasantries and the usual conversation of the snow and the cold weather, the talk moved to high school in general and changes in particular. He said: " I am quite impressed when I see the math my kids are doing these days: they work with concrete materials, are expected to demonstrate critical thinking and problem solving in groups, have conversations about their math reasoning, think about their thinking ... Wow!"

I had to ask: Were you born and raised in Canada? Did you go to school here?"

"Oh yeah," he assured me, " Yet I did not do math this way. This is just a sign of the change in times and expecations in education."

Phew, this was the time to exhale on behalf of all ' those parents' who 'did not get the math we do here'.. After all, not so long ago, I had been one of them. 7 years ago, entering Canada with a high level of fluency in 6 languages ( English being one of them) I was mildly disappointed that I did not know that the 3Rs" meant "Retell-Relate-Reflect" and not " Reading-'Riting-'Rithmetic" ( never mind the spelling, it is English after all, it cannot be wrong now can it?).

I narrated my story, we chuckled about this and the gentleman went on his way. BTW, did I mention that he heads the math department at a high school?

Will all ' those parents' please stand up!!!

I am okay now

January 29th, 2009

A cold winter night in the rotunda of our neighbourhood high school. The time to let go, as a grade 7/8 teacher, sees me at the edge of my seat. I watch with bated breath as the students who have worked with me for two years, get ready to take their place in the next phase of their young lives.

There are students everywhere, some of them my own from years past. They stop by to say hello and share their wisdom about what I should remind my current batch before they enter this building:

1. Remind them to review their notes everyday.
2. Remind them to practise their math everyday
3. Just do for them what you did for us: believe they can do great things

( If I am allowed a Kleenex moment, this is it)

The high school is a very warm and family friendly place. The band has set itself up in the centre of the area, teachers at department booths are answering questions and the principal is walking around meeting every eye and doing what she does best: being the authentic and dedicated presence a parent would want as a partner in their child's education.

One of my students asks me to walk with him to the table. He forgets his questions, takes me aside, asks me for paper and makes me write them down. I do that unconditionally, knowing that this is a stressful time for him. He is expected to take decisions that will impact his life and he is learning how to do that.

Then he takes a deep breath, takes the sheet from me and looks over his shoulder at me. I walk behind him as he approaches the table again. He stands tall in front of the depratment head and jumps in:

• What does the course look like?


• Will you show us exemplars?


• What accomodations will you provide?


• What courses can I take in grade 10?


• If I think of anything else, can I call you at school?

Finally he seems more relaxed and moves to the cafetorium for the presentation. As we sit down, he turns to me. My son was sick. My daughter was watching him as their father was away on a business trip the whole week and I was working late again.

"I am okay, thank you Ms. KJ. You can go home now. I am going to be fine" He says.

My mother used to say: "If someone hugs you, don't break away until they are ready to let go"

This evening, I remember that sound advice. My student has to know I am here, with him as long as he needs me until he is ready to let go first.

I walk out into the still cold night, snowflakes falling softly on my head. And suddently at 7.30 pm on this magical January evening, the sun is shining.

The Little Brown Box

A lazy Sunday afternoon where the deceptive sunshine outside the window lulls me into a false sense of warmth. As I get ready for a bundled-up walk in the neighbourhood, I wish to share this poem.

The Little Brown Box

My Indian-ness comes to me with greater clarity
far away from “home”

it comes to me with a sting
when people speak to me loudly
to ensure that I understand

it comes to me with a familiar fragrance
of wood-smoke on a rainy day
it comes from a steakhouse in Markham
not the roasted peanut stand in Mumbai

it comes to me with the refreshing coolness
of sticky brown paint I smear on the women’s’ day banner

my Indian-ness proclaims proudly,
everyday, head held high

I am Ramanujan, I am Arundhati Roy
I am Tagore, am Gandhi, and I am Kalpana Chawla

I am so much more
than silk saris and spicy samosas

you casually, callously pack me away
in your little brown box
in your ignorance, you do not know
that I like so many others

can and will reach for the stars
that shine for me, as they do for you
from their celestial distance, they have the vision
that you sadly lack

they see me for who I am and what I can achieve
they see beyond the melanin in my epidermis
and wait for my glory to light up the world.

(Srinivasa Ramanujan was a world renowned mathematician
Arundhati Roy won the 1997 Booker prize for her book “The God of small things”
Tagore is India’s Nobel Laureate (1912 for his poetic work Gitanjali)
M.K Gandhi led the people of India with principles of non-violence towards self rule and his work is said to have inspired MLK Jr. in the Civil Rights movement in the US.
Kalpana Chawla was the NASA astronaut who tragically perished with her co-workers in 2003.)

Rashmee Karnad-Jani © 2005

Glass Ceilings and Labelled Boxes

January 21st:

I had not watched endless reruns of President Obama's inauguration. Blame it on the shortage of time: travelling spouse, high school exams for one child, doctor's appointment with the other and caught in the middle, my utter exhaustion due to daily unspoken battles with the system that sustains me ( hopefully).

Starting 12:01 pm yesterday, the voices of cynicism have already seeped into conversations, brandishing labels of ' racism' at people who rejoice at a moving world event when they were merely discussing the speech content from the perspective of literacy. Oh the horror of celebrating something together, we are a divided world and proud of it! This is the lesson our children face and fight against everyday, depending on the maturity and wisdom of the adults that stand beside them.

We live in a world where previlege due to one's station in life is accepted with justified entitlement by majority groups ( men -women, popular culture- minorities). With 21 years of work experience in the corporate world and education, I have seen up close, the very forces that seek to erode the achievments of people who have worked to get where they are. Sisters out there who have had to work ten times as hard as their male counterpart to 'prove their worth' know exactly what I am talking about.

It begins thus: start the whispers by implying that "they got there on account of something other than hard work and sheer grit" ( advantage of race, gender, age whatever it "their most perceived trait"). It does not really matter that the very people who insinuate this would be OUTRAGED at a reverse comment that their status ( race, gender, age) have got them where they are, and has always done so.

Yes, in a myopic world we seek to seal people in labelled boxes and expect them to stay there. When they do not, we scoff at their audacity. " How dare they think they were good enough for this" is the sentiment, voiced only in circles where it is believed that it will be fed. And so it goes on: racist ' jokes' are not made in front of people who represent that race, sexist tales are not told in groups where women wear their feminism proudly.

How do I know this? Sometimes people forget that I was never in The Little Brown Box they had created for me. They say things in my presence that they think I will laugh about or go with. They 'compliment' me then by saying: " I do not see your colour you see. I am so broad minded that I have given you a seat beside me, I think you are one of us"

And I think to myself: this also means you do not know so many things about me such as

1. 
   
   the fragrance of the jasmine garlands at Matunga market


2. 
   
   the clicking of the metal balance of the vegetable vendor in my street


3. 
   
   the fragrance of the first rain on the parched Earth


4. 
   
   the pain of being spoken to LOUDLY by people who cannot see beyond the colour of my skin

You do not see my children for who they are, you see just a blur of whatever you choose to see. You continue to print labels for the boxes you seek to pack people in.

My circle of concern is small these days: I no longer worry about why people say the things they do, their misconceptions and opinions are their gifts that I choose not to open if they do not appeal to me. It took a large contingent of Gurus to get me to this place: The Buddha, Thich Nhat Hanh, Don Miguel Ruiz, Stephen Covey and above all my mother. Aikaavey janachey, karaavey manachey" she says to us in Marathi. This means, " hear what the world has to say but follow your heart" The courage of my convictions is therefore stronger than I thought possible.

So what is my next step? I will take my musings back to my class of wise people and have them reflect further on what they meant this morning:

I do not think it is fair to judge someone even before they have been given a chance to prove themselves.

It is mean to wait for someone to fail

It is unrealistic to expect someone entering a messy house to clean up all the mess in a short time.

I think I am the luckiest person alive: I have the most awesome teachers!!

Great expectations

January 20th was a special day for me as it was for many. At 5:00 am, my waking hour, I sat at my dinner table overlooking the snow covered backyard and in that dark room, and watched my thoughts go by.

In just a few hours, we would witness something that would in a small way begin to right the wrongs of many bleak years.

Barack Hussein Obama would be inaugurated as the 44th president of the United States of America. Here,, I must say that I am not enamoured by the image of a country and since my early teens have not lost my heart to media inflated heroes. Therefore mine was merely the observation of just another human being on this planet who by a quirk of fate shared the same time zone as this event.

We talked about it at school with my small group of grade 7 and 8 students who are my teachers in many many ways. I asked them this question:

• Why should it matter to me/ to us that Barack Obama is taking oath of office today?

In their typical adolescent honesty, their responses were interesting:

• The US is Canada's largest trading partner and it impacts us


• That is an economic response as it will show us if the months ahead will show an increase in trade or not.


• It will show us whether there will be real change and what it means for people in the streets

And then a quiet voice spoke up: It means more than that. For many years, people who have been discriminated against have not had a voice. This is proof that all voices can be heard when people want change. Remember when we talked about the poem " Oppression" by Langston Hughes?"

I stood there, unfazed. The brilliance of my students does not surprise me. It merely validates what I have always knows:

When people feel safe, they speak up

When they are celebrated, they speak up.

When their prescence at a gathering is valued, they speak up.

After 4 years of working with this age group and 2 years with this class, I expect great things from them, and they surpass my expectations every time.

These are my change agents, they prevent me from feeling angry at the ignorance of many. They help me see the greater good and collective wisdom of kindred spirits, after all that is what had moved the world forward, isn't it?

Pages of history

Interesting that when I Googled "Roots", links popped up about the apparel line. I smiled and tried Alex Haley, remembering that I was an impressionable high school student when I had first read the book. To this day, I remember the horror I had felt when I read the stories of capture and sale.

Long before I read Gone With The Wind or To Kill a Mockingbird or Cry The Beloved Country, this book with all its very visceral tug had reminded me that there were many stories out there that I knew nothing about.

Following a meandering path of life and career I landed on Canadian shores and as many know my 7 years here have nothing in common with stories of oppression, told and untold. Yet I sit here, on the edge of my seat ready to witness another page of history being turned. I was on bed rest expecting my firstborn when I saw Nelson Mandela being sworn in. I was alone at home and miles away from the special place where HOPE shone anew,. Yet I had felt more alive than I ever had before

People often ask me, as if I am somewhat naive: How does it matter to you?

Was she ( a lost sister) your own?
Was he ( a rejoicing brother) one of yours?

Yes, I say, they are mine. How could they not be? Why else would my eyes glint with unshed tears at the pain or joy of either?

For through all the years, whatever we have witnessed together, as a people, for whatever we leave our children, some small gifts of hope shine forever. Tomorrow is one such moment.

Jan 20th, 2009.

It is my history too !!