I wonder standing at your door

What do they say to my children?

once the doors are closed

and the bell rings, 

and I leave 

to cook and clean

I come back at noon 

with a hot lunch

and wait patiently 

listening

to words I understand

yet I cannot speak in, 

or scream in 

even when I want to

so I nod 

and smile and they smile back

some of them look like me 

and I wonder 

do they step in 

when my children hurt

do they fight or 

even speak up, or walk away

when people laugh 

at my child's ignorance

or habits

or the smell of curry on his jacket?

I wonder who speaks f

or my child when I am not there

From school back home, 

I remember the sting 

on my hand from the cane

but here, 

they say they don't hit children

so that is good, yeah?

yet I see the light go 

from my child's eyes

every year, far away

and I know 

but cannot ask

does she speak, I wonder, 

the one who looks like me

or the one with the kind eyes

or is se also silenced, 

for different reasons: 

of pay, 

or pain 

or for friendship 

What do they say to my children I wonder

About them 

and about me

what do they say 

about my children, 

I wonder

What do they say about yours?

Do you wonder too, my sister?

Confused mother, sister, aunt, teacher, Master's Candidate, Citizen of the World

The Foremothers’ wonderings

Who is this child?

This special child

I wonder

when I see
The radiance
of shining Spirit

Who is this child ?

walking with strong strides

Towards paths

Uncharted yet

And beckons us,

her foremothers

to walk with her

This honey-eyed child

Dreamt of, gifted

Citizen of the world.

Dedicated to the women we are and the daughters we are gifted

who walk the paths dreamt of by our foremothers

Don’t cry for me

Don ‘t cry for me

I say to the girl

who has shown me the way

Through a life

lived with grace and courage

 And the little one replies

How can I cry for you

when you are so strong?

 I wish for her all

the joy that she dreams of

Feminist as she is

Yet a lover of Austen

I want her to be cared for

And I wish for her all the clean dishes

and folded laundry

Canadian Experience

Canadian experience

They lack, they have

We lack, we have

And then she says

My newest sister

from a far-off corner 

just her voice rings out

strong and filled

with all the lived life

of her journey

and her experience

She says:

 

Canadian experience is not the same

For everyone 

Maybe all of us eat pancakes 

But some of us 

eat chutney with them

And my heart soars 

As there were always many ways  

of being

 

Yet only now we have

The voice to write

On all four walls

Silent spaces

There hasn't been any blogging lately, just thinking. There hasn't been any blogging lately, just observations. There hasn't any been blogging lately, just silent spaces.

Not silenced spaces, just silent ones. And that is okay, it's all fine.

It's a busy time with lots to do. I can do either this or that. I need the limited cache of mental energy to get through days and to focus on simple life sustaining tasks such as safe driving, making meals and breathing. How did it get to be this way?

I suppose taking risks does that. I reach out of a dysconscious phase of "chalta hai", "laissez faire" or " it will forever be this way". So called well wishers warned me "Watch out, you're sticking your neck out, little turtle. They'll come after you".

I didn't listen, I don't listen. I have had my shell hammered on so many times over the past decade that I am bruised and battered inside. I decide that I must poke my head out and do what needs to be done. I am a tortoise, and no one expects me to win against the hare: fast, glib and oh-so-reputable. Everyone knows she can run fast, everyone knows she'll get there.

In fact they expect her to make it to the finish line every time. Not some turtle who can't even walk on ice. The hare has many friends and lots of charm. And I am the tortoise, who slips back into my shell often, so social chatter for me, I just don't know how to hold a wide audience in the palm of my hand.

Yet with my bruised self wrapped inside the shell that is scratched from all those hard knocks, I decide I am going to try this to run this race.

And I do. And they were right. They did come for me. They still do. They watch my every move, I am not imagining it. Come visit, you'll know what I mean.

Yet, I am fine. I am not afraid, I am not hesitant. The children are okay. That's all that matters.

And this silence is special, because it is percolating and processing the stimuli. If you know me  at all, and if you know where I've been and can guess one twist in the journey, you will rejoice too, as I do.

For wrapped in this silence is a voice: strong and shining.

I continue to speak in different ways: sometimes mind maps, sometimes posters, sometimes hashtags, sometimes tweets, sometimes recipes- they are all texts.

My denim jacket is a text too. You just need the courage to read it.

So here's to eating my pancakes with chutney...

And that is another story for another time.

One button on my jacket says: Well behaved tortoises seldom make history.

Happy Gonesh everyone

Ganpati bappa morya. Just a little bit of this and that as I sit in silence after Ganesh Chaturthi. The house is fragrant with agarbati, mogra and a little something called ugdaas.

This brass aarti paler is from Tulsi Baug, Pune. The idol is from Princess Street carved by a little boy we knew who grew up to be a gifted artist. And the fruit from distant places that made their way to Markham. The jasmine flowers are from Scarborough via who knows where. There's a website, I am told. The agarbatis from Ramji Vani in Naigaum bought in December 2010, my last visit there. And the holder is from Panaji, Goa bought from a gift shop near Fidalgo Hotel. Everything is a story.

Pujas and dosa evenings have something in common in my home: they both set off the fire alarm. Today, the camphor set off the hallway alarm and Rani dashed off to spend the rest of the Aarti upstairs in her bed in a huff.

 

Working alone listening to music of the day, I made shira, daali toi, rice, cabbage upkari and cucumber kocholi with rai chi phodni. Simple fare, special though.

 

I realised that I cannot have my Ganpati lunch without the aroma of cucumber kocholi with the crunch of mustard seeds. Go figure!

 

Record time lunch prep in an hour. Made cabbage bhaji as I had no time to chop phansi for gomti upkari.

 

No dabbya khana, I don't have time to make and no one eats more than a bite. I can't make patrado and don't like the store bought patra as its not amchi.

 

Whatever was missing today was felt deeply the heart.

 

All else was here, right where I am.

 

Making new memories is what life is all about nhavein? Else how can we move forward?

 

Happy Gonesh everyone. 

Montreal Home

"At home. Love you"

says a text message

 

following the rule of

Check In With Mamma

 

My heart leaps for joy

pounds a little and

a second later-stills

 

realises that there    

are now

many homes 

Sunflower Tuesday

He's started asking again

At 15 as he had when 5

Mamma, can we plant 

Sunflowers?

He cranes his neck

When we pass gardens

Or see a few lone, strong stems

Wild and glorious

Beside highway 7

Where few admire or even notice

Their brilliance

We must plant earlier, chelda

I explain

Dig deep, set the distance between,

Prep a rich soul

Next year, okay baba? I say

Next year after the last frost

Lets do this together

Sunflowers, life: same lessons

Yet he sighs

My son

When he sees sunflowers

And that sigh tugs at my heartstrings

And embeds its claws deep inside 

The list of

things left undone 

this summer

He doesn't ask for more you know

My son

He endures, rises above the new normal

He wipes down counters

Fills ice trays, takes out the trash

Watches me for signs of sadness

Pats my back like my grandfather did

Teaches me about popular culture

Computers and Broadway

Steers me away from pain

 

So I walked directly to a tub

And bought a bouquet

Had it wrapped in fancy paper

 

And gave it to him

For me! His face lit up

To see fat, golden sunflowers

 

From someone else's garden this year

Store bought

Sunflowers

 

A promise of shared sunshine

With his mother- me

 

Someday I hope

Two hands stronger than mine

Will dig deeper in rich soil

And plant sunflowers

My brother- life itself

Your success speaks

of many routes and roots.
And the price paid

In many places

Of names lost

And renamed

Of tears shed

And dreams 

Imagined joy

Lights at the end 

of endless tunnels

That shone in minds 

and hearts

Today, 

dear brother

Your name: Life itself

Shines for many

As do you

Everyday I have rejoiced 

this summer

To see that name 

glowing there

The board, the people 

and I

Have waited long for this day!

(Dedicated to J, my brother)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Markham Morning

We're are at the dentist 

This morning 

After a Sunday chat 
and cuddle  

With my daughter  

and the peaceful one 

With emerald eyes and ringed tail 

And breakfast at beloved T and T 

 Just now in the parking lot 

A familiar face 

The man who 
closed down the kurti store 

Whose merchandise marked  

The start of my summer
for years 

has opened a convenience store beside Jaffna kitchen.  

So emergencies are taken care of 

a mental note
milk etc can be bought  

on winter days 

When we forget that we've run low 

 we chat a while: Come visit he invites 

I'm just glad I just met him.  

Simple affirmations that this is IT 

 That's what we'd come here for:
Escapees from 
a fattening expat circuit 

Two years per country, 

An IB education 

And friends from consulates and multinationals 

Who smacked
their little daughter's hand 

If she reached 
for a rival pop brand 
at a birthday party 

Who tracked status 
by your car brand 

And the crystal glasses 
filled with good ol' H2O 

We came here: with 9 bags, each other, two children 

And no jobs 

Stepping off a cliff 

Into a chasm
On a belief 

Sold us by 
immigration messages 

To belong, to know people by name, 

to ask about kids growing up 

and to share stories  

of where we're were headed. 

So I guess 
after 11 years 
this is home.

Tears Talk

The first thought of this day 

It's here- the book 

A first,
second,
or fifth- loved just the same

 

Yet hidden in this delight, 

I find a niggling thought
that whispers: 

you didn't say what you wanted to

You said too much,  

you said too little 

You fool, 

you looked terrible  

With tears in your eyes
In that place

And I stand strong 

shut my ears  

and shake my head- I don't listen

to this voice 

today

I was with friends, I retort 

people I came from 

and those who come from me

They don't care 
about more or less
T

hey've let me be 

And for them I spoke 

And for those who weren't there 

That live in my heartbeat, 

each one

Leave, now 

You Sly Critical-Voice-Of-Days-Bygone 

 

I command,recognizing this whisper, 

Let me show you the door 

Don't bother coming back
  

My tears come
from a place of strength

courage 

and as Disha knew long ago, 

at the tender age of 3

From joy

I'm like this only

And it's okay

My Jai-Hind, caught at midnight

Dear compatriots in Hindustan: don't scoff at my Jai Hind
It comes from a place of respect

Where everyday I teach my children
And remind others around me
That there's more to me
Than silk saris and spicy samosas

And everyday I fight against
The mud slinging
When people call us 'those people'

I

 do not stand on a pedestal

I stand with you
Paying respects to the Tiranga
And cheering for our men in blue

I also remember LakshmiBai
And Bachendri, and Usha
And Kalpana
Arundhati
And Shamsia, Sudnya,
Advita, Ipsita, Kaaveri, Vishakha
And Veena
And I think of Tahira from across the border
Who calls me Didi

Batwaara and Azaadi
Two sides of the same coin then!
The lines drawn by unseen hands long ago
Wounds festering to this day

May freedom come
With humility and no caste divides

May no Nirbhaya die

And may we promise
That borders between hearts
Are erased forever
So the master plan of Batwara
Doesn't win over
And over

This I wish us
On this curious day

For both Jai Hind
And Sar Zameen are made of
People and
Their children, so like mine.

This Vikram-Vetaal marriage

She sits with bated breath
knowing that this may indeed
be the last summer
of normalcy

and gets ready for
what is now the new normal
that HE has named as
final,
terminal,
dying,
dead even
waiting to be buried,
decaying everyday

where she had ignored signs
and slogged on
thinking that
this was what
marriage was all about
he has chosen
although at deficit

to walk away
with happiness as the goal

his prerogative, it's been
 to name it
as parallel lives
and rail road tracks
separation-perhaps-on-the-way-to-the-D-word

every time there's no buffer
of kids or others
the veil slips
and the eyes glaze over

the blame lies
squarely on her shoulders
placed there by a twist of the lip and
"Look at who you are, look at what you do,
look at who I have become
because of you"

loads left for her
for being herself
now that the ZNMD
and YoLo have sunk in for him

and he, on the pretext of 'you spoke'

is off again, like Vikram and Vetaal
that legendary tale from
Doordarshan long ago

And she pays bills,
and counts days
until peace returns
and moves through this life

knowing it is not her
was never her

It's just lives that have outlived their usefulness

and another thread unravels,
swish,
swish,
shh
as her fingers tap the keyboard. 

Finding little bits of me

This Sunday afternoon
as I cleaned the bookshelf
a long overdue task
sorted books by genre
and piled them through three shelves

research, theory, social capital
bell hooks, Bhabha and Bourdieu
I found little bits of myself

a receipt from Mumbai
Amma's 70th birthday menu
Matuna Gymkhana
Pu La Deshpande cassettes
and Vaaryavarchi Varaat

Pappa's laughter
echoed through two decades

amazed at how the gap of years, 27
blended through me
this storyteller
alone and
sorting
sorting
sorting

trying to make sense of
wrinkles and silver hair
where I look like one parent or another

in rooms miles away,
my children
oblivious to the tsunamis in my ventricles

nap
finish homework
march towards their destiny

So can I too, say my parents visited me today?

The boy in the bouncy castle

We sit patiently

Listening to the AGM 

Under old trees, blue skies 

             in the distance-
             a bouncy castle

Little people's voices ring out

as their mothers watch for safety

And there draped over the edge

A young man

off soon, to university

Invisible dreams shining 

in diamond bright eyes

shaded with uber-cool glasses

Somewhere inside that tall frame

is the boy

You've loved and raised

             My special memory, this sliver of time
            of this sunshine day 
            with you

To Veena

How's your Amma
asked a kind voice today

and I, dry eyed
told of her passing
surprisingly matter-of-fact

yet, my heartbeat quickened
talking to the woman who
bears Amma's name

and I breathed through the pain
Anichcha, I whispered
Arising and passing
Anichcha

And I brought back a vada-paav
for Elders
under trees

And Amma walked with me
every step of that way
proud
of who I have become

Sisters under shady trees

I sat with sisters today

under leafy, trees

beside children and men 

who were busy today

having fun, meeting friends

with nobody needing us 

every minute of every day

we shared thoughts

asked questions

re-wrote scripts that we have been led to believe

opened labelled boxes wider: 

mother, sister, good mother, who knows what

we stepped out

just a little

peeked out

and liked what we saw

who knows, 

sometime soon, 

armed with empty journals

and pens that make us happy

we will write our own stories

soon

a year later, a sister promised

my heart sings with that promise

a part of me left behind

under that shade

I face the sun once more

Konkani Association Picnic, July 6th, 2013

You Are My Superhero

You Are My Superhero

You teach me to walk taller, 

speak stronger, 

reach higher and enjoy art

You are my Superhero: 

you teach me to smile at inside jokes, 

watch out for untied shoelaces 

and empty pop bottles in the schoolyard

You are my Superhero: 

you make me smile 

when I hear your giggles and your whispers, 

your never-ending chats outside my door 

when you should be heading home.

You are my Superhero

Without you beside me, 

this year would have been

Just Another Year

I would never have painted a picture,  

splashed rainbow handprints, 

shared bangles for Women’s Day 

or dared to dream

Had it not been for you, 

I would never have believed

That I could fly

You are my Superhero

because you make me believe in magic

You are the proud Cedarwood Cheetah

Who strides forward

Endangered no more.

Written especially for Cedarwood Public School's grade 8 graduating class of 2013.