I see myself in the mirror
(Or do I see you?)
As I brush my teeth at bedtime
Far away,
in another world,
you are waking up
As I try to sleep
and maybe to dream
I hear something
Is that time ticking away?
Or is that my heartbeat?
that drones mournfully
through the endless night
I sound like you, I’m told
and now I see, with painful curiosity
that I even look like you
My hands look like yours, my son says
And when I weep, my face crumples up
just as yours would have done
if only you let us see your tears
Your smile is more serene
My hair, more silver than yours
Is this just DNA?
or some divine miracle?
That I am destined to see myself
as if I see you,
in my mirror everyday
The only solace,
until I see you again...
Friday, December 31, 2010
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Unfinished Business
Candles lit,
I sit in this peaceful room
and think of gifts
I smile
Life did not give up on me
She showed up arms laden with
memories
of longings
sweet moments of
togetherness
and love to last a lifetime
I sit in this peaceful room
and think of gifts
I smile
Life did not give up on me
She showed up arms laden with
memories
of longings
sweet moments of
togetherness
and love to last a lifetime
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Mere Dushman, Mere Bhai, Mere Humsaye
The title translates as: "My enemy, my brother, my soulmate" Why this tonight?
Life puts me in such interesting situations that I have to abandon everything I have been told this far and find new truths to answer the new questions that rise to the fore.
I was 5 years old when a war was fought. I was teenager when cricket matches reached a fever pitch and people rose like one being to applaud or mourn whichever outcome we were faced with.
Then in 1999, came another war. I was far away in Vietnam and in the naivete of people far away from the front line, those of us whose sons were not in the line of fire, we dug deep into our pockets to send money to the soldiers. Kargil went from being another just another name on the map to being a real place.
Today, my oldest nephew is training to be a soldier; his foremost job is going to be keep his country safe. I look at his photographs, standing tall and serious faced in his shiny uniform as a gentleman cadet and I think back to the little boy I had held softly close to my chest, hugging his sleeping form. His mother, my best friend and sister sat across to me in the bus going home, smiling indulgently. He was the first baby I every held as if my own. I was willing to fight to the finish for that little boy to be safe. Today he is being asked to do the same for me. This scares me. I love that young man very much and pray for him everyday, I light a lamp for him at Diwali.
Now where is this leading I wonder. Thanks to my `not cleared to drive`status until Sunday, I am calling a cab to go to work every morning. Taking the bus to work is not a possibility as the mornings are a whirlwind of activity, I barely make it out of the door at 7: 15. I had called on Monday evening to book the morning taxi service for the week. The despatcher gave me a special rate of 12 dollars per trip. Yesterday,I mentioned this to the driver, a gentleman from my neighbour country, fellow Canadian in my adopted land. Although he had not received this alert from his office, he agreed and let me pay him the pre-decided fare. Later that day, I called again and learned much to my dismay, that there was no such special rate entered into the system: I owed the man 3 dollars for the trip yesterday.
As I waited for the taxi this morning, I agonised over this debt. Raised to stand by the highest standards of honesty, I was rewarded by a pleasant surprise. It was the same driver today. As he made room for me, I explained the situation and offered to pay the difference of 3 dollars. He drove me to work explaining how to solve an algebraic equation. I sat there listening, he clearly had a story. At the end, in the drop off loop, he said to me: "I am an engineer from back home. You are a teacher. You understand hisaab, or accounts. You said you owed me 3 dollars, this shows me that your conscience is alive. Had I asked you to pay me, I would not believed in goodness. But you took the effort to ask my despatcher and you sought to pay that debt" As I pulled out 15 dollars to pay him, he remarked: 3 left over from yesterday, 12 for today. 15 in total. I will return one dollar because you are my sister. " Aap meri behen ho. Ek dollar rakhiye"
I walked into school clutching that dollar coin. It made no monetary difference to his pocket or mine, yet I felt that my heart was richer.
"Sarhadd ke uss paar se kuch mehmaan aye they" Guests had come to visit from across the border. Shaayad unme se ek mera bhai hoga. Perhaps one of those guests is my brother.
As for the dollar, it has been stuck in my journal with a piece of clear tape.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
My very own time turner
Walking through the rain this evening, I realise that the year is almost done. I am not fuelled on by the Mumbai rush, I do not plan to visit in the coming summer. ( Well, He laughs as I write this). So there isn't the sweet agonising pleasure of shopping for two little girls: like the Kabuliwalah I often end up buying something that is too small. There will be other times.
There is my upcoming birthday to look forward to, I always love this time of year also for this reason. I have always loved the anticipation, the 40s have only been more reason to celebrate. If I can celebrate the gift of a rainy day in November that curls my hair to all its genetic glory, then I must surely celebrate the wonderous gift of 45 glorious years. Although today, I am the oldest in the house, the memories of all the Elders who raised me are with me in someway. And miles are merely a number. I know that one can be in the same room as another person and be far away. Or be thousands of miles away from those I love deeply and feel very connected. Now only if I had one of those time turners, chai together would be wonderful..
One of these days, I want one of those lovely contraptions. I hear they are available only in a certain shop in a certain village invisible to Muggle eyes.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Where the mind is without fear
It is easy to get into the slump, that grey space where nothing thrives. In this space, I can drag my feet from day to day and allow the negative attitudes to erode my spirit.
Today after school, a colleague came in to see me with a question. A little of this and that and then we came to the important matter of the winter concert. I have long been a great admirer of Gurudev Tagore's work and although speaking and understanding Bangla is my aspirational goal, I enjoy reading the translations. When faced with the literature of Gurudev, an artist and philosopher of such immense stature, one can't help but be inspired.
My students will do the rest. One sentence at a time, we will hold our heads high.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
It is never about the pen
I laughed when I saw much I have written this month. My largest number of posts ever. My journal too ran out faster than every before. Was this because I have had time to think and to clear my head? is it because after the scare November 3rd brought me, I have understood that NOW is IT and I had better say it now.
I have tried out pens and put them aside, bought new ones and tried them out. Having inherited Pappa's fascination for writing intruments, I tried new ones, bright colours to get my energy onto paper. No such luck.
Until I had 10 days to think and every minute to reflect ( when I was not sleeping of course). So I guess it is never about the pen. Whatever was I thinking?
Don't dissect fireflies
A friend had once said to me
in life
do not dissect dragonflies
and interesting that a teacher in Bio class
years ago
had said the same thing
that as a child she used to
bury dragonflies,
thinking that
their jewel eyes
were treasures
to dig days later
and find nothing
since then I have always
wondered about them
iridiscent in the
glint of sunlight
yet as shortlived
as the best of us
so the Message was right
"Live in the now"
I said to the kids
when we were at Donapaula
with the glorious sunset vista
before us
Let us not say " When I come here again,
I will ..."
you are here now,
what are you doing about that?
Too many moments lost
in planning for the next one
As time spills
like grains of sand
except here,
I cannot retrieve a single one.
Today, now,
And every 'like', Jaan
every drop of chlorophyll
is a gift
as you are with me
in life
do not dissect dragonflies
and interesting that a teacher in Bio class
years ago
had said the same thing
that as a child she used to
bury dragonflies,
thinking that
their jewel eyes
were treasures
to dig days later
and find nothing
since then I have always
wondered about them
iridiscent in the
glint of sunlight
yet as shortlived
as the best of us
so the Message was right
"Live in the now"
I said to the kids
when we were at Donapaula
with the glorious sunset vista
before us
Let us not say " When I come here again,
I will ..."
you are here now,
what are you doing about that?
Too many moments lost
in planning for the next one
As time spills
like grains of sand
except here,
I cannot retrieve a single one.
Today, now,
And every 'like', Jaan
every drop of chlorophyll
is a gift
as you are with me
I am Lilavati's granddaughter
November 4th, 2010
I am resting at home and as I watch the pine trees wave through the window against a sunny sky streaked with white clouds, I welcome another Diwali into my life. I want to make memories, to last me in the years ahead. I think of the memories that I carry in my heart. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.
My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was born on February 28th 1912. I know her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a young woman graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' the other mother'. She went by the name Lilavati when she married and I am told developed quite a reputation for being a a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I don't think she cared too much about what people thought of her, a gift she left with me, whether genetic or through her nurture I do not know. And when I stood up for myself, she would whisper to me: "Tukka saglein mhantalein: Paley paley Lilavati gali naati" I take that as a compliment.
When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to teach and was out of home for the day. Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in the semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She made up nonsense rhymes for me, she made me laugh, she taught me to roll chappatis and waited with me as I fed them to the stray cat in the compound. She told about Pappa's childhood, her own, she shared the good memories and as I grew older, she shared the stories that made my history. I know therefore the dreams that were dreamt and which ones were not fuilfilled.
She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained. I bristle when people who did not know her as well as I do, speak of her from one perspective, the danger of that single story irks me. I take this opportunity to share with family and friends a glimpse of the amazing woman who raised me.
Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the first-born of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits. I was a lucky little girl.
Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She would explain to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD. I would stare wide-eyed.
I remember asking her: "How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" She had laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. She can fight evil, she can make the world a better place. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.
At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns and invite everyone to do the Abhyanga Snana. Pappa and Ajjapappa would be subjected to her minstrations and then she would turn to me. Afterwards, she would give us a 'kaarit' a small fruit that smelled like cucumber, which the men were supposed to crush underfoot as a representation of ' Lord Ram's victory over Ravan'. But my Teemma was a feminist to the core. She who was married at 16, never had the opportunity to study beyond marticulation, was one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. She would say:
" Rashmee, go ahead and squash evil, get a kaarit. Who cares if this is Diwali, remember the Goddess? She destroyed evil too" My Dassera and Diwali would merge in a way. Overjoyed, I would take a kaarit and squish it with my tiny feet. I remember the delight in her eyes, that mirrored the joy in mine.
And to this day when I am faced with demons of any kind, I use my ' 8 arms' to battle them. She had me believe all those years ago, that I was capable of getting through the mess that Life throws at me. In my adopted and beloved home in Canada, I foolishly go looking for kaarit. They used to grow on walls in Fontainhas, Goa and I would pick them off the vines. Here, not many people know what a kaarit is. This summer, I showed the children that wall. There is a sparkling FabIndia in that building, the wall is freshly whitewashed, the karrit vine lives only in the bylanes of my memory.
So I guess tomorrow after their Abhyanga Snana, the kids and I will squish a small cucumber instead.. (and feed it to the birds after, so that we don't waste food: another Teeamma message).
Happy Diwali everyone.. May the light shine on in your lives.
I am resting at home and as I watch the pine trees wave through the window against a sunny sky streaked with white clouds, I welcome another Diwali into my life. I want to make memories, to last me in the years ahead. I think of the memories that I carry in my heart. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.
My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was born on February 28th 1912. I know her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a young woman graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' the other mother'. She went by the name Lilavati when she married and I am told developed quite a reputation for being a a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I don't think she cared too much about what people thought of her, a gift she left with me, whether genetic or through her nurture I do not know. And when I stood up for myself, she would whisper to me: "Tukka saglein mhantalein: Paley paley Lilavati gali naati" I take that as a compliment.
When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to teach and was out of home for the day. Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in the semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She made up nonsense rhymes for me, she made me laugh, she taught me to roll chappatis and waited with me as I fed them to the stray cat in the compound. She told about Pappa's childhood, her own, she shared the good memories and as I grew older, she shared the stories that made my history. I know therefore the dreams that were dreamt and which ones were not fuilfilled.
She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained. I bristle when people who did not know her as well as I do, speak of her from one perspective, the danger of that single story irks me. I take this opportunity to share with family and friends a glimpse of the amazing woman who raised me.
Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the first-born of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits. I was a lucky little girl.
Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She would explain to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD. I would stare wide-eyed.
I remember asking her: "How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" She had laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. She can fight evil, she can make the world a better place. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.
At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns and invite everyone to do the Abhyanga Snana. Pappa and Ajjapappa would be subjected to her minstrations and then she would turn to me. Afterwards, she would give us a 'kaarit' a small fruit that smelled like cucumber, which the men were supposed to crush underfoot as a representation of ' Lord Ram's victory over Ravan'. But my Teemma was a feminist to the core. She who was married at 16, never had the opportunity to study beyond marticulation, was one of the most intelligent women I have ever met. She would say:
" Rashmee, go ahead and squash evil, get a kaarit. Who cares if this is Diwali, remember the Goddess? She destroyed evil too" My Dassera and Diwali would merge in a way. Overjoyed, I would take a kaarit and squish it with my tiny feet. I remember the delight in her eyes, that mirrored the joy in mine.
And to this day when I am faced with demons of any kind, I use my ' 8 arms' to battle them. She had me believe all those years ago, that I was capable of getting through the mess that Life throws at me. In my adopted and beloved home in Canada, I foolishly go looking for kaarit. They used to grow on walls in Fontainhas, Goa and I would pick them off the vines. Here, not many people know what a kaarit is. This summer, I showed the children that wall. There is a sparkling FabIndia in that building, the wall is freshly whitewashed, the karrit vine lives only in the bylanes of my memory.
So I guess tomorrow after their Abhyanga Snana, the kids and I will squish a small cucumber instead.. (and feed it to the birds after, so that we don't waste food: another Teeamma message).
Happy Diwali everyone.. May the light shine on in your lives.
Writer's Block
November 10th 2010
Koi atka hua hai pal shayad
Waqt mein pad gaya hai bal shayad
Dil hai toh dard bhi hoga
Iska koi nahin hai hal shayad
My favourite poet, Gulzar Sahab reminds me of this. (I hesitate to translate this as I do not think I can do justice to his thoughts and words)
Last week, Wednesday was a beautiful crisp almost winter day. We were to go to the high school with our grade 8 students, they were going to attend classes with the grade 9 teachers, their teachers for next year. The grade 9s themselves were out for the day at the Take Your Child To Work Day initiative. I walked with the 3 other teachers and a large group of students. This was the first day we would see them leave. This is where I always felt a tug at the heartstrings every year when they stand there, wide eyed, over-awed, suddenly at the bottom of the ladder from being the oldest in elementary school. There is more to teaching than IEPs, Progress Reports and Staff Meetings, beloved as they are. There is the human connection that makes me get up one more day,simply because they show up. They walk through the snow, with all their teenaged angst behind them. All they ask is that I be there and do my best for them. Surely I can do that much.
We walked back after a few hours there. The breeze was cool, the sun was high in the sky. We went in to lunch and finished the day with our literacy block. So far so good.
Just a little around 3 pm, minutes before I was to leave, I lost consciousness and had to be revived by my colleagues. At the doctor`s office where a co-worker drove me, I was poked and prodded and prescribed rest and tests. Diwali weekend ahead, besan laddoos and chivda to be made and lots of family fun planned. How could this happen?
And so I sat there, referrals in hand trying not to think ahead. `Just rest`is what I was supposed to do which is not easy for someone like me whose mind runs a mile a minute ( I think we are called Type A, B will just not do.)
Diwali morning, abhyang snana only a fond memory. I woke to see the tops of the pine trees in my front yard waving against the blue sky and the words came. They have not stopped, 7 pages at a sitting tonight between 10 and 11 pm. And even now at 3 am, I am still writing.
That was it, thoughts bottled up perhaps, as I hurtled with every passing day into the next, putting myself where I could not even see myself. That must be it,
I have another day of rest to go before I get back to my students. I have carried around a 48 hour monitor ( that did not pick up my memories, only heart beats) a test that filled what seemed like innumerable bottles of pure Hattangadi-Karnad blood, a stress echo ( which I aced thanks to my afternoons and evenings at the gym: silver hair is just a guise my friend, I mentally smirked at the technician who marvelled at my heart rate)
Just around 3 pm as I write this, I think to myself. I am awake because I can be. I can nap tomorrow. Carpe Diem, the words won`t stay tomorrow. They will disappear like mist in the rising sun. Write them now.
A wise friend had recommended that the way to heal and to move forward through any stage in life is to `do what you love`. This is perhaps the first step. And while I am at it, also realign my expectations or suspend them completely. The Buddha, now He was really onto something here.
Koi atka hua hai pal shayad
Waqt mein pad gaya hai bal shayad
Dil hai toh dard bhi hoga
Iska koi nahin hai hal shayad
My favourite poet, Gulzar Sahab reminds me of this. (I hesitate to translate this as I do not think I can do justice to his thoughts and words)
Last week, Wednesday was a beautiful crisp almost winter day. We were to go to the high school with our grade 8 students, they were going to attend classes with the grade 9 teachers, their teachers for next year. The grade 9s themselves were out for the day at the Take Your Child To Work Day initiative. I walked with the 3 other teachers and a large group of students. This was the first day we would see them leave. This is where I always felt a tug at the heartstrings every year when they stand there, wide eyed, over-awed, suddenly at the bottom of the ladder from being the oldest in elementary school. There is more to teaching than IEPs, Progress Reports and Staff Meetings, beloved as they are. There is the human connection that makes me get up one more day,simply because they show up. They walk through the snow, with all their teenaged angst behind them. All they ask is that I be there and do my best for them. Surely I can do that much.
We walked back after a few hours there. The breeze was cool, the sun was high in the sky. We went in to lunch and finished the day with our literacy block. So far so good.
Just a little around 3 pm, minutes before I was to leave, I lost consciousness and had to be revived by my colleagues. At the doctor`s office where a co-worker drove me, I was poked and prodded and prescribed rest and tests. Diwali weekend ahead, besan laddoos and chivda to be made and lots of family fun planned. How could this happen?
And so I sat there, referrals in hand trying not to think ahead. `Just rest`is what I was supposed to do which is not easy for someone like me whose mind runs a mile a minute ( I think we are called Type A, B will just not do.)
Diwali morning, abhyang snana only a fond memory. I woke to see the tops of the pine trees in my front yard waving against the blue sky and the words came. They have not stopped, 7 pages at a sitting tonight between 10 and 11 pm. And even now at 3 am, I am still writing.
That was it, thoughts bottled up perhaps, as I hurtled with every passing day into the next, putting myself where I could not even see myself. That must be it,
I have another day of rest to go before I get back to my students. I have carried around a 48 hour monitor ( that did not pick up my memories, only heart beats) a test that filled what seemed like innumerable bottles of pure Hattangadi-Karnad blood, a stress echo ( which I aced thanks to my afternoons and evenings at the gym: silver hair is just a guise my friend, I mentally smirked at the technician who marvelled at my heart rate)
Just around 3 pm as I write this, I think to myself. I am awake because I can be. I can nap tomorrow. Carpe Diem, the words won`t stay tomorrow. They will disappear like mist in the rising sun. Write them now.
A wise friend had recommended that the way to heal and to move forward through any stage in life is to `do what you love`. This is perhaps the first step. And while I am at it, also realign my expectations or suspend them completely. The Buddha, now He was really onto something here.
Division Lesson
A few weeks ago, I had quite the scare. For seemingly strong, not-even-a cold-through the coldest-winters me, being told to "get into bed and stay there until we find out what's wrong" is a life sentence.
November 2010
I have taken time off work, I stayed in bed too. Doctor's orders. Need to get to the bottom of this business. had a 48 hour monitor ( pshaw, it picks up heart beats, not memories I scoff) Have a carotid scan that will discover how the blood flows to my very wonderful and crazy brain. Still here, still Rashmee....
I am tired from all the mess, of not knowing what is causing this.
Yet God talks to me when I need Her the most. I was at the physio office getting my neck looked at. After all the prodding and poking, I lay down on my back with a hot pad around my neck. I stared at the inky sky. I was suddenly overcome by anger, and frustration and self pity. I thought of my children who are strong as they face their fears gently holding each other, of all the love and support I have in my life, my students whose success I wanted so badly to celebrate tomorrow on report card day, and on and on... The tears leaked from my eyes and disappeared in the folds of the voluminous electric collar. And as I shuddered through my pain, invisible and felt, I thought I heard a whisper. "At least this is self limiting, it is not terminal.Think of at least 3 people who have it worse"
I am tired from all the mess, of not knowing what is causing this.
Yet God talks to me when I need Her the most. I was at the physio office getting my neck looked at. After all the prodding and poking, I lay down on my back with a hot pad around my neck. I stared at the inky sky. I was suddenly overcome by anger, and frustration and self pity. I thought of my children who are strong as they face their fears gently holding each other, of all the love and support I have in my life, my students whose success I wanted so badly to celebrate tomorrow on report card day, and on and on... The tears leaked from my eyes and disappeared in the folds of the voluminous electric collar. And as I shuddered through my pain, invisible and felt, I thought I heard a whisper. "At least this is self limiting, it is not terminal.Think of at least 3 people who have it worse"
I did not need any further reassurance then. I had the perspective of what I was sad about and how much more there is out there. Amma always says if we took all the suffering in the world and divided it equally, we would prefer our own former share. Wise words that come to me from the long-ago paths we walked together.
One day at a time and I will get there. Not everyone has that option.
Still here, Still Rashmee
we are resources,
as daughters,
as sisters,
as wives,
mothers
and workers
we are resources
as citizens
and leaders
we are resources
first and foremost
first and foremost
to give,
to do
and to be
used,
overused,
misused,
abused
and confused
yet as I sit here
with a rapidly cooling cup of coffe
and peel off layer after layer
of labels
I find
gorgeous
graceful me
Still here
Still Rashmee
to do
and to be
used,
overused,
misused,
abused
and confused
yet as I sit here
with a rapidly cooling cup of coffe
and peel off layer after layer
of labels
I find
gorgeous
graceful me
Still here
Still Rashmee
Legalised oppression
I read a pure sunshine note written by a dear friend today. In this she talks about the love shared with her by the mothers-in- law of her friends who were like mothers to her. I have also read Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's books in whose credits, she showers equal love and thankfulness to her mother and mother-in-law alike. And that makes me thing back to 1992.... ( Mahesh Bhatt, thanks for opening the possibility of laying bare one's life. So here goes)
I am amazed at mothers-in-law who have unconditional love to share. I know my mother is one such mother in law. My sister in law held everyone spell-bound at Amma's 70th birthday party as she heaped accolades on all that Amma means to her. My long lost aunt is another. So it is possible I suppose.
However I have not had the pleasure of such a relationship. Quite the contrary has been my own experience. Now of course things are different; is it distance that has made the heart fonder, it is that sights are set on the years ahead and needs emerging from there.... I don't quite care anymore. Too little, too late..
As outlined in The Celestine Prophecy when power comes into play the goodness is lost. people who would have been able to live a perfectly harmonious life bring their legalised titles into it and the pecking order raises its head. People with prescribed power, live life by their entitled role in society and subjugate ' lesser mortals' for their own short term gains, clearly wring out positive possibilities that exist in relationships long before they have a chance to take root.
The often vitriolic and always critical lens through which my presence was monitored, the ' you are the bahu, therefore this is how you get treated' the disparity of treatment between daughters and daughter in law right there in the same house, the orders hurled at me, the accusations, the verbal abuse, the appraisals of how much kadhi patta was added to something, the close monitoring of what we did on weekends, the piles of dishes I have washed soon after giving birth to my daughter when others had the freedom to sit around and read newspapers and sip tea, the bystander attuitude when said abuse was meted out daily.... Makes for a story out of Ms. Kapoor's tear jerkers.
Day after day, I used to look straight at my Shantadurga photograph and pray: "Let me get through this, just let me get through this" And She held on to me until I reached the other side and made it out of there alive. Something died though, along the way, 3 and half years of bahu bootcamp does this.
The younger generation is reminded by quoting the Gita: 'Don't forget your parents'. Surely the Lord also laid out guidelines on the older generation on how to treat the people they are supposed to welcome into their homes, the role they play in paving the way to sustain strong families. This is the lacuna in one sided gyaan. It is clearly an indoctrination to ensure that you earn good karma for the afterlife. But what about the duties they let fall by the wayside? Who accounts for that?
Yet at family gatherings, this is not highlighted. The saccharine flows and I merely observe. The time is past, too much has happened. I am not affected anymore nor am I fooled. The compliments that are showered on me are clearly in preparation for the next step of the journey, when I am expected to play host.
I have asked this question (rhetoric actually): If our daughter were treated the way I was, would you stand for it? What would you do?
I stand true to my values, the way I was raised and demonstrate respect as they are the family of my children. Are they my family too? I had entered their home hoping that would be the natural outcome of marriage. Too many doors slammed in my face have enabled me to open my own. Today I stand true to what I was raised to believe: When love fails, duty comes forward.
And so it shall be.
I speak up on behalf of many; it is time I spoke for myself too. Yes, my friends. This too is domestic abuse...
Recently a niece got engaged, a cousin is waiting in the wings. Even as I see these smiling faces and see the traditional relationships she will inherit, I send up a silent prayer to the Universe. "Please let them remember that she is coming into their home with a lot of love and hope in her heart. Please let them see that she is someone's beloved daughter. Please let them not push too far. Please let them be kind to her, respect her worth and love her as they would want their daughter to be loved. Please.....
I am amazed at mothers-in-law who have unconditional love to share. I know my mother is one such mother in law. My sister in law held everyone spell-bound at Amma's 70th birthday party as she heaped accolades on all that Amma means to her. My long lost aunt is another. So it is possible I suppose.
However I have not had the pleasure of such a relationship. Quite the contrary has been my own experience. Now of course things are different; is it distance that has made the heart fonder, it is that sights are set on the years ahead and needs emerging from there.... I don't quite care anymore. Too little, too late..
As outlined in The Celestine Prophecy when power comes into play the goodness is lost. people who would have been able to live a perfectly harmonious life bring their legalised titles into it and the pecking order raises its head. People with prescribed power, live life by their entitled role in society and subjugate ' lesser mortals' for their own short term gains, clearly wring out positive possibilities that exist in relationships long before they have a chance to take root.
The often vitriolic and always critical lens through which my presence was monitored, the ' you are the bahu, therefore this is how you get treated' the disparity of treatment between daughters and daughter in law right there in the same house, the orders hurled at me, the accusations, the verbal abuse, the appraisals of how much kadhi patta was added to something, the close monitoring of what we did on weekends, the piles of dishes I have washed soon after giving birth to my daughter when others had the freedom to sit around and read newspapers and sip tea, the bystander attuitude when said abuse was meted out daily.... Makes for a story out of Ms. Kapoor's tear jerkers.
Day after day, I used to look straight at my Shantadurga photograph and pray: "Let me get through this, just let me get through this" And She held on to me until I reached the other side and made it out of there alive. Something died though, along the way, 3 and half years of bahu bootcamp does this.
The younger generation is reminded by quoting the Gita: 'Don't forget your parents'. Surely the Lord also laid out guidelines on the older generation on how to treat the people they are supposed to welcome into their homes, the role they play in paving the way to sustain strong families. This is the lacuna in one sided gyaan. It is clearly an indoctrination to ensure that you earn good karma for the afterlife. But what about the duties they let fall by the wayside? Who accounts for that?
Yet at family gatherings, this is not highlighted. The saccharine flows and I merely observe. The time is past, too much has happened. I am not affected anymore nor am I fooled. The compliments that are showered on me are clearly in preparation for the next step of the journey, when I am expected to play host.
I have asked this question (rhetoric actually): If our daughter were treated the way I was, would you stand for it? What would you do?
I stand true to my values, the way I was raised and demonstrate respect as they are the family of my children. Are they my family too? I had entered their home hoping that would be the natural outcome of marriage. Too many doors slammed in my face have enabled me to open my own. Today I stand true to what I was raised to believe: When love fails, duty comes forward.
And so it shall be.
I speak up on behalf of many; it is time I spoke for myself too. Yes, my friends. This too is domestic abuse...
Recently a niece got engaged, a cousin is waiting in the wings. Even as I see these smiling faces and see the traditional relationships she will inherit, I send up a silent prayer to the Universe. "Please let them remember that she is coming into their home with a lot of love and hope in her heart. Please let them see that she is someone's beloved daughter. Please let them not push too far. Please let them be kind to her, respect her worth and love her as they would want their daughter to be loved. Please.....
Mamachya Gavaala Jaooya...
When the student is ready, the Guru will come. I met Narayan maam, my mother's cousin for the first time ever in 2000.
We had just returned from Vietnam; the children and I were living on our own. Ashray was 2, Disha- 6. The home we had lovingly put together was our base once again. Deval was still in Vietnam and soon moved to Dhaka. How long we were to be on our own, I did not know. Caught right in the middle of the monsoon, with a new school where the dignity of children was crushed underfoot, Disha shrivelled from day to day. Ashray got sick, got better, started play school and hated every minute of it. And I went from day to day being a single parent.
Then I heard that I had family nearby. I called up Narayan maam and went over for a visit. With his equally welcoming wife and soft spoken daughter, he welcomed us and made us comfortable. We spent a few hours chatting and from that day onwards, I did not feel as if I was alone in Vasai. I had a ' koolar' near by.
In August that year, Deval changed jobs and returned to Vasai. Before his next posting to Singapore that was to start that December, we decided to go to Goa for Diwali. And met Narayan maam's family on their way to the same place, his in-laws lived there. So even in Goa, we had a home now. We visited them and had fun, spent Lakshmi Pujan at their place and made more memories.
After Singapore, it was Canada and soon Facebook came knocking. Since then, we have never looked back. We chat almost everyday, we banter, we tease, we share and we reflect. Narayan maam and I have stopped wondering why did we wait so long in life before we met, we have both learned to give thanks that we ever met at all and connected as we had known each other for life, perhaps several.
As I sit here on this Sunday night, I give thanks for being gifted the company of this man who is more than an uncle to me: he is a reading buddy, he is a critic, he is a shoulder to rest on, he is a friend, he is my teacher, he is my Guru. He smiles through all the cards that life has dealt him and speaks with a voice so strong that it makes the world sit up and take notice.
I no longer have my own place in Vasai; just a video clip of Deval unscrewing our name from that door with my muffled sob from behind the camera. Yet when think of the beloved song: Mamachya gavaala jaooya, I think of Vasai and have Narayan maam standing in the door with his signature smile. Home is where the heart is, I know and I know I have a home in Vasai. What more could a girl ask for?
We had just returned from Vietnam; the children and I were living on our own. Ashray was 2, Disha- 6. The home we had lovingly put together was our base once again. Deval was still in Vietnam and soon moved to Dhaka. How long we were to be on our own, I did not know. Caught right in the middle of the monsoon, with a new school where the dignity of children was crushed underfoot, Disha shrivelled from day to day. Ashray got sick, got better, started play school and hated every minute of it. And I went from day to day being a single parent.
Then I heard that I had family nearby. I called up Narayan maam and went over for a visit. With his equally welcoming wife and soft spoken daughter, he welcomed us and made us comfortable. We spent a few hours chatting and from that day onwards, I did not feel as if I was alone in Vasai. I had a ' koolar' near by.
In August that year, Deval changed jobs and returned to Vasai. Before his next posting to Singapore that was to start that December, we decided to go to Goa for Diwali. And met Narayan maam's family on their way to the same place, his in-laws lived there. So even in Goa, we had a home now. We visited them and had fun, spent Lakshmi Pujan at their place and made more memories.
After Singapore, it was Canada and soon Facebook came knocking. Since then, we have never looked back. We chat almost everyday, we banter, we tease, we share and we reflect. Narayan maam and I have stopped wondering why did we wait so long in life before we met, we have both learned to give thanks that we ever met at all and connected as we had known each other for life, perhaps several.
As I sit here on this Sunday night, I give thanks for being gifted the company of this man who is more than an uncle to me: he is a reading buddy, he is a critic, he is a shoulder to rest on, he is a friend, he is my teacher, he is my Guru. He smiles through all the cards that life has dealt him and speaks with a voice so strong that it makes the world sit up and take notice.
I no longer have my own place in Vasai; just a video clip of Deval unscrewing our name from that door with my muffled sob from behind the camera. Yet when think of the beloved song: Mamachya gavaala jaooya, I think of Vasai and have Narayan maam standing in the door with his signature smile. Home is where the heart is, I know and I know I have a home in Vasai. What more could a girl ask for?
Reading Buddies
When I look back at the days of my childhood, I remember a time when I could not read. I used to listen to stories then. Told to me by my grandmothers, and grandfather. My Ammama came to visit quite rarely, whether ill-health, or chores kept her away, I do not know. The dustance between Matunga and Dadar was not much, yet those were the days when people did not visit their daughter's marital homes much. Perhaps that was the reaon. When she visited us in Goa much later, she used to read to me from Ekalavya magazine and regale me with stories. Now when my aunt comes to visit and tells of stories that her Kamli Attya had, I feel as if some gaps are filled. Wisps of memories like fog in the rising sun, touch me softly. At least I have that.
My Ajjapappa ( Pappa's father) was a man of few words and watched over me, no stories though. At least none that he told a three year old. My paternal grandmother did. She told me many and also taught me the distinction between tales and stories. She taught me the difference between a 'khabbari' which is factual narrative; and a 'kaani'which is fiction. She regaled me with Tales of Baroda, ( Badodey Khabbari, my all time favourites) the summers she spent at the palace of the Maharajah of Baroda, Sayaji Rao Gaekwad, at whose court her maternal uncle worked. I could see it then: the Royal elephants chomping down rotis smeared with warm ghee, the piles of jasmine flowers that her aunt strung into gajras for her hair, the large Gujrati swing in the varandah.... When I passed the Sayaji University campus in Baroda on a recent visit, those stories came alive again. I saw through the smog and the crowds to another time; when a little orphaned girl used to read the world around her and perhaos say to herself " Someday I will tell my granddaughter that I spent summers in a palace.
That girl was my grandmother, my Teeamma. She also told me about the ups and downs that she went through in life. How her father had passed away when she was 7 and how she, with her two brothers and mother were left to live in the homes of uncles. How lights were turned off while they still had homework to do as the uncles' wives would complain about the mounting bills. How she was married at 16 right after her matriculation examination and how her brother went to England to study ahead. How her mother did not survive to see her first grandson, my father, and how she dreamt of a better future.
These stories gave me courage when Pappa pased away, I used to say to myself: "At least I have a job, my siblings and I are not at the mercy of uncaring relatives. No one is going to turn out the ligths when they have homework, I help pay the bills. So there"
Amma used to bring me books from her school library and read to me. Her soft voice would wash over me and though I did not understand too many words of English ( except sorry, thank you, ice cream and taxi) I knew that these words told a story. She read each sentence patiently and then translated it for me. She also told me stories of summers spent at the Udipi House where she was born, many years later when I took my children to visit, they too saw their grandmother as a little girl. I am paying forward my debts. So on and on until one day sitting on a cold park bench opposite Singbal Book Depot in Panji, Goa, Amma taught me to read the Balbharati reader in grade 1.
Pappa, now was a different type of reader. He used to read Marathi books and subscribed to magazines so that I should be able to enjoy Marathi literature too. He read aloud from Pu La Deshpande's books: Batatyachi Chaal, Gann Goath and others. And the newspaper. Those days in Goa, the Times of India arrived from Mumbai by plane and we received it in the evening. Until I came to Mumbai at 13, I had always thought that newspapers were delivered in the pm! With the newspaper spread out on the floor, he would read aloud. His laughter rang out and I would know he was reading R.K Laxman's You Said It. He would explain the context of the cartoon to me and tell me what it is that The Master had referred to in his inimitable way. He spoke about politics, about the Budget and about world news. So many of us read print and do not know how to read the world and signs that come to us everyday. Pappa taught me to look beyond words into bias and prejudice. He taught me perspective and point of view through laying side by side the story of India's Freedom Movement as well the incidents reported from the Kashmir Valley which we had not become blase about yet. He reminded me to question and to find my own answers. He brought the wide to me just by inviting me into his. Today, 24 years since his passing, I can only imagine how thrilled he would have been at the magic of the World Wide Web. Maybe he is, who knows. My siblings, nephews (dear A and A), my children and now my nieces ( A and K ) have been the architects of my own role as storyteller. The boys ( young men now) used to say that ' Maushi reads in many voices'. I was at once the lion and the mouse. Vikha who even at the ripe old age of 18 insisted on a bedtime story every night and rejected all my attempts to make one up about her ( Once upon time there lived a beautiful girl...No Didi, that is my story, tell me another one), helped me see that we all love a time to snuggle into our imagination and stay there for a while.
There is one more reading buddy who stands lost in the pages of my own stories. When last heard of, he had sold all the books that we had once loved together, like a stash of stale newspapers. What he chose to keep close and what he chose to throw away as scrap is after all a personal decision. And the loss is his to bear. I still have a book shelf that keeps me warm through every winter. Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Naipaul still remind me of lazy, literary Sunday afternoons in Bandra.
And then there is Sheryl. My Guru in many ways, she quite effortlessly through the Stories From Home initiative, helped me see that our lives are indeed the stories of our times, our spoken history. These are the authentic experiences in literacy that the curriculum insists we present students with. So someday they too will say: "Once upon a time, there lived a little girl".... And maybe tell their own stories to their children and grandchildren. What better way to document our journeys. What better way to remind ourselves of our own lives !
Mid-day blossoms
two colleagues just dropped by
to deliver flowers and a card to say
get well soon,
come, back
life sends surprises
and I, as I am today
dishevelled
tired
without the veneer of my work life
tongue tied
stared back in barely concealed delight
at being face to face
with genuine eyes
and revived
spent the next 15 minutes
finding vases, pretty blue bottles
and filling them with fragrance
from the relationships that
keep me sane.
to deliver flowers and a card to say
get well soon,
come, back
life sends surprises
and I, as I am today
dishevelled
tired
without the veneer of my work life
tongue tied
stared back in barely concealed delight
at being face to face
with genuine eyes
and revived
spent the next 15 minutes
finding vases, pretty blue bottles
and filling them with fragrance
from the relationships that
keep me sane.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Women Who Raised Me
I have had many mothers; the women who raised me created me in many ways or moulded my spirit to be what it is now. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. And I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that it the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.
My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was well known to many as a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I knew her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a yougn women graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' that mother'. I have learned to categorise memories into two groups: felt memories and narrated memories. The former are ones I remember, the latter are ones that were told to me, and I love them too.
When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to work and Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in eht semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained.
Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the firstborn of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits.
Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She explained to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD.
And I remember asking her: How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" And she laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.
At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns.
And I sit with this memory of days past, I smile and remember what Teeamma taught me:
I am strong
I am not alone
and I am the daughter of Shakti
And I sit with this memory of days past, I smile and remember what Teeamma taught me:
I am strong
I am not alone
and I am the daughter of Shakti
Diwali is here...again
Ebenezer Scrooge was visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet-to-Come. And here I am on Dhanteras day sifting through memories. Spoke to the family, and remembered some more. Amma with her unbeatable spirit, her zest for life reminded me of the 'jal pooja'we performed at Dadar, cleaning the brass taps with tamarind and not Brasso. The fragrance of crushed marigold and mango leaves, the unravelling of the 'toran', the crisp November air where even the dust has a whiff of magic. We would place little bits of toran aroudn the taps, Vishakha with her beautiful Diwali Rangoli. Dividing up the fire crackers that Pappa bought from Abdul Rehman Street or Mohammad Ali Road ( no Ram-Rahim controversies in his heart, he was truly a wise man). And later from good ol' Dadar Market.
Patil Bai's batata poha, the waking up at the crack of dawn.... But even before that there were other days when I was not yet a care giver......and the Elders were around me, each one of them.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
I am in pain. My neck is painful and I have a throbbing soreness all the way down to my arm and I am not happy at the way my life has changed. I am one of the safest drivers I know: no distractions, always on speed limit, no multi-tasking while I drive. I am
The poor kids have been very supportive and have been eating take out (thanks to many Desi places in Markham, bread and fruit.
My son asked me yesterday, whispered in my ear as I was leaving for the lawyer's office:
"Can you make your chicken and potato curry for dinner." I have not cooked for days. I cannot chop vegetables, least of all potatoes that are hard. So my 12 year old son will help me do this.
These were my daughter's grade 10 exams too: yet I was never home. I was either at my physiotherapist or at the lawyers office or the doctor or the massage therapist. I could not do anything that she needed so that she could continue to study. She had to take care of her brother to make up for my absence. Her father would drive me around from visit to visit, as I wasn't yet driving myself. My neck hurts.
I realise that this has taken a toll on the wellbeing of my family although on the surface I am able to walk etc.
Slowing down like this has an impact on everything and everyone. When her father was away last week, she woke up at 5 am to clean the house and make lunch for all of us, sandwiches for three take a long time when you are 16 and groggy from studying half way through the night.
People outside of this life see only the two cars in the driveway (one now as the other has been fully paid for yet towed away, smashed beyond recognition) and the flowers and the UN reports on the best country to live in.
My pain and loneliness are my own.
Yet there are blessings, many. And I am counting them...
The poor kids have been very supportive and have been eating take out (thanks to many Desi places in Markham, bread and fruit.
My son asked me yesterday, whispered in my ear as I was leaving for the lawyer's office:
"Can you make your chicken and potato curry for dinner." I have not cooked for days. I cannot chop vegetables, least of all potatoes that are hard. So my 12 year old son will help me do this.
These were my daughter's grade 10 exams too: yet I was never home. I was either at my physiotherapist or at the lawyers office or the doctor or the massage therapist. I could not do anything that she needed so that she could continue to study. She had to take care of her brother to make up for my absence. Her father would drive me around from visit to visit, as I wasn't yet driving myself. My neck hurts.
I realise that this has taken a toll on the wellbeing of my family although on the surface I am able to walk etc.
Slowing down like this has an impact on everything and everyone. When her father was away last week, she woke up at 5 am to clean the house and make lunch for all of us, sandwiches for three take a long time when you are 16 and groggy from studying half way through the night.
People outside of this life see only the two cars in the driveway (one now as the other has been fully paid for yet towed away, smashed beyond recognition) and the flowers and the UN reports on the best country to live in.
My pain and loneliness are my own.
Yet there are blessings, many. And I am counting them...
Saturday, June 19, 2010
When are you coming home?
This question is asked often these days. And it is amazing how so many places are that. Not much to say yet, I am sure that will change when my head clears through this day. Report cards submitted, I am off to enjoy music in the streets: a typical Markham summer beginning. My silver ring lady will be there as will be the slabs of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries. Routines are good.
Milestones and moving on
This time of year is all about milestones. When I lived in Mumbai, June was the time for new books, new classes, lots of rain and new green grass. Here, in my home of 8 years, this is the time to say goodbye to grade 8 students as they graduate to their high school phase, to used duotangs where my son's manuscript edited by yours truly is tenderly filed: I stare at it for a long moment.
This is the time when the students who graduated in earlier years and who called me by my hyphenated last name for years suddenly call me ' miss' a message that the high school has done a fine job in many ways.
Milestones are watching my almost beautiful old-soul daughter disguise her excitement at turning 16 and being able to take driving lessons. I sneak a peek at her toothless laughing picture in the old photo album.
Milestones are all about knowing that I have come a long way and understanding that I have been given the gift of enjoying the journey.
This is the time when the students who graduated in earlier years and who called me by my hyphenated last name for years suddenly call me ' miss' a message that the high school has done a fine job in many ways.
Milestones are watching my almost beautiful old-soul daughter disguise her excitement at turning 16 and being able to take driving lessons. I sneak a peek at her toothless laughing picture in the old photo album.
Milestones are all about knowing that I have come a long way and understanding that I have been given the gift of enjoying the journey.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The gaps that I inhabit
A lot has happened in the past months and days yet it has been a while since I have written here. Or written anything for that matter. I observed this hiatus for sometime and reminded myself that it was alright to observe my thoughts or just to do nothing at all. I did not write everything down, it was not necessary. Yet somewhere at the back of my mind I knew that this space waited patiently for my return.
These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.
There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.
In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.
These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.
There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.
In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Another Sister, Another Story
In the land where Shakti is worshipped, lives Lakshi. She was named after Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. She lives in the slum in Naigaum beside the apartments where my siblings and I were raised. Most days, she sleeps in the clinic lobby that she sweeps and keeps clean for the homeopathic doctor. Lakshi works for many homes in the building in exchange for money and food. She is treated well. She knows us all and often heralds her arrival with her voice before her physical presence.
Long years ago, Bhabhi taught her children to call her Lakshi Ajji ( grandma). Until then most people had called her by her shortened name, after all who would dare sully the revered name of the Goddess when they hollered for a ' maid'. She is quite happy go lucky, sassy and brimming with retorts even. If Lakshi likes you, it is the Naigaum equivalent of the 'A' list. Her devil-may care attitude and demeanour are coping strategies to survive in the harsh world she inhabits.
My brother jokes with her and gets her little treats. She banters with him too and all is well. The gifts I bring her when I return to Mumbai make her feel she is part of the family, she tells me: "Didi, you have not forgotten me" she says with a smile.
From my school and college days, I remember Lakshi had 4 daughters. They had beautiful names: Hira (diamond), Tara (star), Mangala ( the auspiscious one) and Nirmala. One day, after years of suffering, her husband died of tuberculosis, a gift of years of hard labour in the textile mills, the sad story of innumerable, nameless people in that 'city by the sea' as Rohinton Mistry calls it. Today all that is left of the booming textile industry are the skeletons of factories and smokestacks, huge under-construction office complexes that are prime real estate and vada-pav. There are also sepia prints of those long dead men on the walls of their family dwellings: each chawl room neater than any mansion I have seen.
Lakshi's older daughters died too, one after another. The two younger ones eke out a living somewhere, she speaks of them sometimes. Mostly, she talks about her grandchildren. Like most grandparents everywhere, she is proud of the boys. She keeps me informed of their whereabouts and I listen as I think of all the choices that I have in my privileged life that they cannot ever imagine.
On my way to the airport, I had asked her if I could take her picture. She sat down on the very pavement that is her chatting ground. I clicked one picture. Then she asked me to take another one. She covered her head and sat up straighter to pose for the picture. She rewarded me with a serious look, no smiles for an important event such as this. " Don't worry, I am here, I will watch over your mother's place until you return" she assured me.
And I know she will. I hope to return next year for Amma's 70th birthday and if I am lucky Lakshi Ajji will still be there asking in her sing song voice: "Aalis ka Didi, kashi ahes?" (have you returned sister, how are you). Ironically, young and old in the neighbourhood call me Didi, (elder sister) following my siblings' lead. I have done nothing to receive this label of seniority, any more than I deserve the choices that pave my way.
In a land that boasts Chanda Kochhar, Sudha Murti, Kalpana Chawla and Bachendri Pal, lives Lakshi. Can I live with that ? Can you?
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