End game

I was speaking to my professor about the deep despair I have been feeling about the media reports regarding "in-fighting amongst leaders of the Idle No More movement" and what one fears are tokenistic, opportunistic support positions. She  remarked that I had got it right when I spoke about 'divide and conquer'.

How do we know what we know? How do I know what I know? Having read India's history through school and having seen the deep scars that are scraped regularly by people and groups with vested interests to keep the pot boiling and bubbling, this realisation is testimony that I am a product of colonialisation and thereby my epistemology stems from that journey, lived or observed, heard or witnessed.

We have websites of newspapers and also websites to 'teach students news'. Here is one more. 

Now the question is, do we have the courage to share this with those who will suspect our motives?

That's the litmus test of critical pedagogy. And it always begins with me. 

http://canadiandimension.com/articles/5139/

Mummyji, Aunty ji. Suno zara.

I read a blog entry just a little while ago entitled " A letter to a neighbourhood aunty from the-girls-these-days". I read on as if transported into the very setting of each story.

Some of us have lived this reality where women in the community, family, neighbourhood have taken great pains to undermine the lives and efforts of the younger woman. I was one, not too long ago.

Life moves on. Some of us forgive, other's try to. Forgetting is difficult.

When I look back at such incidents in my life, I grieve for the lost years of the 27 year old I was. It doesn't matter to me now. It mattered to her, the me of 1993. To this day, the aftershocks are felt as the termors of other people's fears and insecurities reach out their tentacles and threaten to choke my hard won peace in a far away land.

My Amma always said: take pity on the condition now, don't forget the injustice. If that means I am allowed this total indifference, I'll take it.

 

It's better than the deep despair or excruciating anger. I am also mindful that through faith or good luck, educational opportunities or immigration, I was able to disengage the yoke of patriarchal societally sanctioned oppression and move to a space where I am a person first and foremost.

 

Raised eyebrows and pursed lips, discriminatory practices and vessels banged in anger don't mean a thing to me anymore.  Now all the sweet smiles and how-are-you's are just tokenistic tickets to a future peace for you, I know. Had you cared, you'd have cared then when she came to your home wanting to belong. Too little too late. And the loss is yours, Aunty-ji/Mummy-ji/whatever you call yourself.

All I ask is, let our daughters be happy. Whether it be a niece married recently or a niece whose wedding approaches soon, the daughter I gave birth to or the daughters who are learning to write their names...That's all I ask. Leave them be. Let them make their own lives their way. Let them enjoy their wedding day. Let them enjoy the gifts that husbands bring them.

 

Don't stand over her head and demand half of the rainbow hued bangles her husband bought for your daughters: that hurts.

Remember, daughters-in-law are someone's daughters too. Amma knew that. Not everyone does.

Let's not pat ourselves on our backs please

As I grieve the brutal death of a young woman, I say to my friends everywhere: do not go by the media reports alone. 

I have brothers who are fighting this rot. I have friends, men, who are cutting away at these horrors. I have a son who understands; nephews who fight these wars, real and virtual.

I also have sisters and sisters-in-law, friends who march everyday in their own lives pushing back at the patriarchal barriers that seek to hold us back. And the us is universal, not just in the land far away.

This country has had no woman leader so far to live long and tell her story. That too is a shame. Some countries have had women leaders just because they were the daughters of powerful men. That too is a concern.

When there is a school shooting, let us not pat ourselves on the back and say " That would never happen here. Look at those people, we do it so much better".

When horrendous crimes against women are committed, let's not smirk and ask: "What do you think of this? Is this cultural, this subjugation of women? We'd never let it happen here. We're better than those people".

Instead of pointing fingers at those who do it worse, let us look at how we can do it better, together.

Women are not belongings, neither are sons. Your children are not your children said Gibran. Living with respect and with a will to fight for what is right is the only way.

Watch out for thoughts such as "those people, these people". Watch out for what you say to your children, as they are already citizens in a global village. They cannot afford to inhabit the narrow walls of this generation. They have to soar and reach over chasms. They have to understand and work collaboratively, with heart.

Watch out for what you say in public and in private, for it is so easy to congratulate oneself at the 'excellent' human rights record.

Watch for what you say at dinner parties and staff rooms. For those in your midst who stay silent are not voiceless.

They grieve, they too have lost and they will find ways to stand strong. They too are 'those people'. Just as you are.

Let us not forget these facts about what many call nation building, others call colonisation:

• The men came first, the men stayed. They pillaged, they stole, they cheated, they took away what was not theirs to take. And to this day they deny.
• The men asked for the women to be brought over and they called them by a glamourous name: The daughters of the king, to be shipped here to make alliances with the lonely men and to set up home and give birth.
• Further South, where the tobacco and the cotton grew, arms were bereft of babies birthed, as they were considered to be goods to be bought, sold and exploited.
• And women were receptacles of ambition, anger, baser instincts and brutality to walk quickly when there was work to be done and to slowly as their time came, to snuff out their pain so that they created wealth soundlessly.

Let's think also about

• The little girls (and boys) in school hallways seen as deficient as they are not 'like us'


• The little girls with the "Next Mrs. ___" t-shirts celebrating the success of a young musician


• The daughters in gaudy make-up and tiaras with their little hips jutting out for another picture


• The sporty sons who see the young female fans fawning over them and their friends


• The young girls who fawn over young sports stars, diluting all that their foremothers fought for thanks to the images of prosperity portrayed by media.


• The homeless girls in the streets of cities everywhere,


• Those on First Nations reserves,


• Those in basements in the True North Strong and Free with its arms-wide-open immigration policies structured thus to create a sub-class of shift work and subservience to the ruling classes known by how well they have subjugated all those who came before them, with them and after them.


• The unaccounted-for women lost in our North American cities brutalised for their choice of work, itself a market created by patriarchy that no one cries for or even remembers because they are considered to be the detritus of society.

Beware 'the danger of the single story'. Adichie has a lot to say about that. Google it.

Shyam Benegal's 'Mandi' says it all. You don't understand what I just said,I know. That is why I said it. It is not my responsibility alone to learn about the world, your world.

Learn about things beyond the borders of your town, your city, your coffee shop and your hockey rink clique: Google it.

Learn something today. And if you don't know enough, learn to stay silent until you know more.

Do not malign, do not spew venom. Let the grief finds its peace.

We're all accountable for the world we live in.

Let's talk.

Patriarchy, yes. Let's name it and then work for change

A young woman is brutally killed. Social networking sites and media around the world buzz with the outrage, the marches, the vigils, the grief. Interviews are aired, opinions shared, statistics bared.

And I wonder about many things:

• How did I get by as a young woman in India?
• How will my daughter get by as a young woman in a distant city?
• How does my niece come home at 10 pm by local train, aglow as she is in the new relationship she has formalised recently?
• What about my daughter's name sake who lived in our building, only child, raised to be a fearless achiever by her mother and supported tacitly by her proud and silent father.
• The little girls in school hallways, 
• The  little girls in my siblings arms and my heart,
• The homeless girls in the streets of cities everywhere,
• Those on First Nations reserves,
• Those in basements in the True North Strong and Free with its arms-wide-open immigration policies structured thus to create a sub-class of shift work and subservience to the ruling classes known by how well they had subjugated all those who came before them, with them and after them.

You bet I am angry, I am confused and I am writing.

Let's begin with patriarchy, yes. Let's name it and then work for change. The men came first, the men stayed. The men asked for the women to be brought over and they called them by a glamourous name: The daughters of the king, to be shipped here to make alliances with the lonely men and to set up home and give birth.  Further South, where the tobacco and the cotton grew, arms were bereft of babies birthed, as they were goods to be sold and exploited. And women were receptacles of ambition, anger, baser instincts and brutality to walk slowly as their time came, to snuff out their pain so that they created soundlessly.

Then the girls lured into the home of a man who to this day is incarcerated in this country. And those 14 lovely girls who died nameless while their murderer's name is in many minds.

Nirbhaya they called her. And Damini after a film based on a similar theme. And they say that she apologised to her mother before she died. What for? I want to know. For dying perhaps says a sister. That too was not her fault, I retort. And my grieving sister concedes that point. I did not want to win that round you know, yet I do with my fierce anger.

And the niece, recently engaged, posts pictures and emails many more. All I can think of is " I hope they treat you well, kid".

I see her mother bending low to pay respects to the young man as is traditionally done in some mindsets. I can sense she is hoping that they they will treat her daughter well. Although she was the prime perpetrator of the instigation against her only brother's new wife. She was the first born daughter whose words were gold. They were the words thrown at the young women and she was the sister cited when they imagined the horrors the new bride would heap upon them. So they did what they knew, they heaped upon her indignities after indignities before she even knew what was going on. Yet today, she is afraid for her daughter, and praying at shrines. I know.

And I wonder, who will bow to the girl? Who will honour her? Will the mother and father who raised this young man let him honour her? Or will they taunt him and make him hard hearted and neglectful? Initially, he will start playing to that game to keep the peace and over time, it will become a habit. If they continue to live inthe shadow of the patriarchal banyan tree that does not allow anything to grow under it, such is its shade. It only puts down roots from its branches and grows stronger.

If a banyan tree has to grow, a strong hand has to loosen that sapling from under that suffocating shade and relocate it elsewhere. Game, set and match in favour of nuclear families, folks. Away from the Ji's and the forced kem cho's.

Photographs ina beautifully emroidered wedding album are torn, shifted around, technically doctored to mirror the desires of an old man who has not yet given up his role as The Father. While he has not filfilled any roles of that job and is a titular head, all who are in contact with him feed the monster of patriarchy even with the suffix Ji to his fatherhood title.

And I wonder about this little girl off to be married who couldn't even say her name when I first met her, two decades ago.  Is there a Patriarchal figure in her marital home too who will ruin her wedding album moving pictures, tearing some, throwing some out based on who he likes and does not. Is there a Mother in that home who is so drawn in by her own journey that she vacillates between celebrating this new daughter and crushing her spirit lest she have freedoms she and her daughters never had, for fear that she 'steal away' the son: once again the male figure her only emblem to show.

How do I know this? This is my story. My wedding album is a mutilated relic of the marauding hands of a man who thought he could make a difference. He has failed, miserably and lives out his days on the crumbs of pity cast his way. I don't even bother. Moving on is the way forward. One forgives, forgetting is impossible. And if I forget, how will I warn my daughters?

I was born from Shakti, my Teeamma told me. I never forgot that image of the eight-armed goddess that she took me to look up to.

And I am here praying and writing and honouring all women and those men who stand strong.

Patriarchy it is folks. What are we going to do about it?

Let's talk.

Traditions, thankfully

December 31st, 2012

I'm here by myself on the last day of this year. A treat in the middle of the season stuffed to the seams with shopping (not too much, just thoughtful gifts), groceries (eat healthy in the midst of all the chocolate) and family time (with two teenagers and my busy schedule, every minute of walks in the snow and doubled up laughter is precious).

I usually come here on weekends: Saturday morning brunch with the children or Saturday evenings to write. I get caught in the comfort of routines that play out in front of my eyes as I sink deeper into the moment, safe. With so many loyal and satisfied patrons, the baking (excellent), the coffee (great, always fresh) beckon, relentless.

As I have said before (in My Motorcycle Brother), this special place is Mainstreet Markham's best kept secret. If you know what I am talking about, you're in. The name itself is a litmus test. If you think I am speaking of a grocery story, then you're not quite there yet!

If you sit at a table, you can be either a newbie or a regular. It's the nods and hellos that set you apart. If you enter the serving bay and help yourself to coffee or honey, you've been here awhile.

And if the weekend reminds you to go with your weekend gaze, your journal and get your coffee refilled many times, then like me, you're hooked. You will return, I know: from out of town, from work, from a busy week, you will come back many times. You will come for your chicken cutlet on your lunch break because you do that every December 31st. This place is tradition, it is a part of many lives.

The banter is heartwarming. To someone like me, an immigrant professional, an economic-political immgrant, here on invitation by the immigration policies of the Canadian government, this is a place that revives my hope of keeping my children rooted to the family life I cherish so much. The older people in the cafe speak to the younger ones in the languages of their heart, and they in turn respond likewise or sometimes in English. "Just like my children", I think, with a smile.  Employees are wished well and sent home with a box of homemade baking to ring in their New Year. I sometimes get a shukriya and a gentle smile, a recognition that I too have another language in my heart. And my motocycle brother knows me as The Little Brown Box. What greater joy for a writer than to be known as her blog: where one stops and the other begins, who knows?

We were hesitant at first years ago. Now my son knows that you get mac-and-cheese on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My daughter likes her coffee and quiche just so. I buy a box of desserts to start a new December 31st tradition.

Today, I listen to the music and let the conversation flow around me. The music stops and I am reminded that in Australia, Sri Lanka and India, 2013 has arrived. I pick up my iPhone and phone my sister. I email my brother, I wish friends. Invisible heartstrings buzz with good wishes and a wistful longing for other homes, other hugs and other sounds.

In the land of my birth, I am a day closer to me next birthday. Here, in my well loved home of glistening snowfields, I still have a few more pages to fill, a few more cups to drain. So I sit, I smile, I muse, I scribble. I know that I will return another day: the desserts are decadent, the coffee whispers my name. Saturday writing at a table for two has become my 'writer thing'.

The sounds of conversation are the best sounds to bring in the new year with.

Come visit. We are in Markham.

Breaking free

Constraints imposed by
those who benefit from them,
you don't have to stay

What do they say to my children?

What do they say to my children?

once the doors are closed

and the bell rings, 

and I leave to cook and clean

I wonder when

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, that he doesn't shop at The Bay

or the smell of curry on his jacket?

I wonder who speaks for 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 now

thought they did long ago

 

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

and he, I know, will never tell

If he cries to me

I say to him

Ignore, try harder

this is for your good maybe

as that is what I was told

and the ones who stay with him, many

does she speak, I wonder, 

the one who looks like me

or the one with the kind eyes

Or maybe she too is silenced, 

for different reasons: of pay, 

or pain 

or for friendship 

What do they say to my children I wonder

when I leave him with strangers who

started out like me

and are now way up high

 

What do they say to them and about me

what do they say about my children, I wonder

What do they say yo yours?

Do you wonder too, my sister?

No obituary

I had recently called an aunt
to express condolences
on behalf of my birth family
at the passing of her husband

and she, like others too, I suppose
hadn't known
that Amma was "gone"
and remarked
that she hadn't read
any mention in the KSA magazine;
the watering hole of my people everywhere

We had never spoken of it
maybe tacitly decided not to place it there
perhaps
no obituary, therefore

How can we trap someone so special
ever-alive
and so here
into a word limit
on a page?

How could we pretend
that she was gone
when she lives on
every day, every moment

in the honey-eyes of her first born grand-daughter
through the bear hugs of her first born grandson
in the laughter of the littlest one, so like his Baba

in the name of the little girl, who walked earlier than most
to make up for lost time
and the two little girls, six-months apart
who'd placed their little hands in hers
and shared snacks with her, each nodding to the other
to say 'go on help yourself'

and through the lived lives of
her four children
who try everyday to honour her memory
by forgiving those who did not come by
to pay their respects
by giving of themselves
and who walk in her path-
as she has always wanted

Tired bodies, He had said
need to rest
like worn clothes, discarded
Anichcha too is the message

therefore
no obituary
as those who live forever
cannot be boxed in
with a word limit
and few sentences

New Phone, New Contacts

After months
of a dying phone system
A new set, bought
and installed

"I'll help set up,
a new list of contacts"
says my son, eager to help

I realise wistfully
that the new one will
no longer begin with
"Amma Home"
"Amma Cell"

My albhabet changes
irreversibly.