Looking ahead...

As I look back on the year that was, I can only give thanks. Just that.

Many new gifts came our way and the children and I are thankful for that. Many old paths fell away and that's okay.

I realised that there are different kinds of connections: ones that ask "what happened" out of a general curiosity, while there are others who ask "are you okay, how can I help, what do you need", few, therefore precious.

And wait, there is a third category who remind me that they are "luckier, happier, more fortunate" than me, as they are "loved, cared for, genuinely". I smile then as this ephemeral superiority is so fragile and insecure, where we think ourselves happier because others are perceived as unhappy.

It is very easy to get into a competitive happiness/wellness/fortunate-ness game. Walk kindly then, and gently.

It is what it is, for each and every one of us.

So, I can only give thanks, for all the love and laughter in my life. For all the wonderful friends and family, near and far who touch my life.

Living with gratitude and grace. Not a single bottle of wine was opened to achieve this peace, not one. Not sorry, LCBO.

It was a great 2014. I grew wings.

Little Bhaskar and his special raincoat

Here is a story I have wanted to share with you from long ago. So here goes. 

Your grandfather, BRK, was born on 15th May 1935. He was the only son of his parents. He grew up in Grant Road, a place in South Mumbai, which was also where I spent 2 years of her life. We called him Pappa.

His mother, Radha Heble-Karnad, was quite a story teller. As I was the only grandchild for a long time, until Shashank was born, Teeamma used to regale me with stories from days gone by. This is how I know many stories about Pappa's childhood. He used to always say, 'She is going to be the next generation story teller' as he reminded his mother to keep out the ' uh-oh' bits. But she persisted and told me all about everyone she could remember. What a wonderful legacy ! This is why, I feel like ' a keeper of memories'. 

Bhaskar went to Robert Money School in Grant Road. He loved to read and used to hide comic books inside his text books during class time! (1) He used to love helping his mother to cook, kinda like you do. He used to go down from his building to fetch vegetables from the vendors in the street, like Kaaveri does. Perhaps this early grooming led to his life-long habit of 'baajaar-haat' on Sundays and cooking 'tamata ma eendoo' for breakfast. We remember these memories with fondness to this day. This story from his childhood is my favourite especially because it has continued in a rich family tradition for us and now you. " Monsoon Moods" when we get wet in the rains every year!! 

One monsoon, in June, little Bhaskar started school (I have used his name just so you see your grandfather when he was a little boy. His Ayee (my Teeamma) had bought him a brand new raincoat (perhaps it was blue or olive green, just the right colour for a little boy) and gum boots (galoshes, if you will). He was very excited. He could not wait to wear the raincoat to school. He couldn't wait to splash in the puddles on his way home. Poor little Bhaskar, he waited and he waited and he waited. It did not rain at all, that day. Nor the next. Bhaskar was getting worried now. " Will it even rain this year" he wondered? " Will I ever get to splash in those puddles in my nice new boots". Dragging his disappointed feet, he slowly got ready for bed. He must have put away his boots at the door and folded his raincoat neatly in a bag to take with him the next day. Just then, he heard a loud clap of thunder. Crash, Boom, Shudder. Bhaskar was not one to be afraid of a little thunder. He had other things to do. 

When his Ayee looked around for him, little Bhaskar was nowhere to be seen!!! Then she heard an excited voice calling. She rushed to the verandah and looked down. There, in the now empty street, in the dark, dark night, was little Bhaskar, wearing his raincoat, splashing in those large puddles. Splash, splash, splash. He laughed and he called her. He danced around, all the while enjoying his new raincoat. 

He had got his rainy day after all, well night. He was overjoyed and could not stop smiling. After some time, when he had played to his heart's content, he came back home. With a HUGE smile on his now dry face, Bhaskar went to sleep dreaming of splashing even as the raindrops sang a soft, lullaby in his ear. 

That little boy grew up to be my father and do you know something? He always loved the rain. He used to take all 4 of us to the terrace or the compound , whichever house we ever lived in, to enjoy the rain. When Vikha and Kshitij were little, he used to carry them each on one arm. I used to hold Shashank's hand and away we would go. Amma would caution him to say " The kids will catch a cold" Did he listen? You bet he didn't. Dads are like that sometime. In giving us memories, they visit the little boys they once were. And this is why we love them so much.

So when you get wet in the rain, or watch me standing in the backyard blissfully drenched, think of this story. This is the RainDance Ajju left us. This is his wonderful gift!!

My Teeamma had told me this story when I was a little girl. I am writing to you the day before my 46th birthday. I think back to the stories I have heard from Elders and I look back at all the happy times I spent with them. Now as I stand at the frontline, I am the Elder. And I go back to my Teeamma's reminder that " the stories must be passed on, lest we lose them"

 January 6th, 2012

(1) 

The 'hiding comic books in text book' snippet was shared with us by Sunder maam (Hattangdi) when he and Lina Maushi (Balse) visited us in Markham. The kids were delighted at this information and so was I.

~Rashmee Karnad-Jani

On being served and watching that sunrise

She's amazed at how clear this Saturday is. She slept well, very well. Thank you very much. She's joyful and so are her friends and children. The leaves from the trees around the pergola have all fallen away, detritus now, waiting to go back into the Earth and nourish what is to come after - fresh life in Spring.

She looks back at the day that was and breathes deeply. She is okay. Who knew that this would be so? And she is okay, that is all that matters.

Two decades and then one more of tying up loose ends have been very fulfilling. She had had the precious gift of 12 years in an old country that is now her adopted home, that is now more of a safe space to her and the children than the place that is listed on her birth certificate and theirs. She lives in that birthplace, mostly in memories of a verandah and a home that was once filled with plants, and happy voices, each one tended to, lovingly.  She belongs in both places, she in fact belongs in many.

Yesterday, she recalls, she woke before her alarm and remembered that she was "being served" that morning. The man who wanted his freedom had picked an able ally to deliver the papers to her. "He will come to the house at 7 am or 7 pm" she was told in a series of terse text messages while she was still at work on a long day of parent teacher interviews that Thursday. She had ignored the messages until she had finished speaking with all the families who deserved 100% of her attention at that time,

Then she had stood firm: "I do not want him to come to my children's home. I do not want him to knock on my door, 7 am or 7 pm" she had said. " But "he has to go to work and that's the only time he has", he said, the man hereafter known as co-parent.  She smiled and breathed through the familiar element of control and insistence as if she was there to always fulfil his convenience and that of his sidekicks. "No", she replied, "He will not come to my home. He can 'serve me the papers' at my school tomorrow. I will be there at 7:30" 

Why the school?, you want to know. Won't there be people there? You'd think she'd want to keep this quiet, you are thinking. Oh, the shame of it !  But this is the blessing. That school is her 'dharma bhoomi' where she does her spiritual work. That is where she is touched by the kindness of many friends, wonderful families and students. That is where she does her heartwork that goes beyond a bi weekly pay check. That is where she draws strength from the sunrise in the forest where spirits dwell.

She did not want that man, that oh-so-trusted friend of the co-parent, the deliverer of sealed envelopes,  in her house now, or ever. Shh, ever is a final term, she thinks as she writes this. However, she remembered quite clearly, the World Cup cricket tournament in 2011 in spite of having a very sick child to attend to, she had organised a match day with a huge breakfast spread of strawberries and pancakes, eggs and toast, this and that. She remembers the conversations of teppal and ambshein-tikshein and cooking a special five course seafood spread for him, the sidekick, that had moved him to tears. She had been happy to do that at a time when the co-parent had sat sunk in his own despair and thoughts and she had seen the writing on the wall: that was going to be perhaps the last meal she had cooked for this man, who was then a family friend. She remembered a dosa party at their house, one maybe. And she also remembered doing what she did in the face of their bereavement. But then that was her way. She had noticed that things had changed, since he had picked a side and freely given his signature on every place that needed a witness. She had observed the forced smiles at a get-together. She had marvelled that he had hugged her children at the same evening, as if he was not complicit in the goings on that were tearing their family apart. She had graciously answered the few inane, vacuous questions his wife had asked at the evening, to fill a space. She remembered that this otherwise chatty woman had averted her gaze and trotted off to sit down at a prayer meeting recently.

She also remembered that her children referred to this man as uncle. She perhaps wanted to spare him the shame of having chosen a side. She also did not want him to come to her home to do the bidding that he had chosen to do. She did not want him to enter a space that was spiritually clean and filled with human values that had been instilled in her for years: loyalty and the ability of staying true to courageous conversations.

She noticed that sheepish grin and lowered head as soon as he emerged from his car and dragged his feet over to her in the still dark, school parking lot. He had not thought this through when he chose to be dragged into this matter, she thought seeing him. Usually even for references, people call the ones you place there and let them know that you are using their name. He had not had the courage to pick up that phone even once and inform her that he had forgotten the salt tasted in her home and that he was a witness and an ally. Of course she did not blame him for the leaving or the severance. It was the casualness of this whole alliance that fascinated her. Nothing surprised or shocked her anymore.

And now he was here: chosen again to be the bearer of the lawyer's package and sent off to 'serve the package' to her. He had been found out and he was face to face with her courage. "Hello" he said. She observed her compassionate response to this sorry sight of a man who had chosen a side and did not know how to deal with the accompanying baggage. She actually felt sorry for his confusion and his shame.


She also felt sorry that he could never speak of this shame to anyone, without implicating himself. He could only hide it behind the worry of being found out. Later that evening, when he had been tripped by a question of a casual rumour, perhaps, he lashed out at her peaceful Friday in outrage at someone else's gossip that implicated his part in the matter, she was calm:

      "People do gossip, you should know that.  You should have thought about your part in this matter before you picked a side. Now that you have, stay on that side" she told him. "Do not monitor my social media posts and police my writing, I have not hired you in the role of a big brother or a father". She remembered a saying from her mother tongue: Pattal guvantu phattar ghallyaari, angaari ussallta" So there you have it. It splashed onto you. For all those signatures on forms and witnessing the process and serving the papers, you don't seem to have thought this through. 

You picked a side, so you stay on that side. Actions have consequences. Everyone knows that. And you MUST read the fine print of the sidekick contract. Maybe now that many will know what a fine job you do at signing papers and serving lawyers' packages, there will be more knocking down your door for your loyal services. That should be fun...And do not text me in triplcate everytime someone asks you about your role as able sidekick. Be strong and no boo hoo please. 

She had said nothing earlier that morning, just stretched out her hand to collect the envelope with the lawyer's stamp on it and it was taped up, not sealed. Whatever. She put the envelope in her car and walked to the edge of the parking lot, through the school yard, past the cricket pitch, by the vegetable patch that students had planted. She looked at the flaming horizon and watched the sun's rays blaze a golden arc into the cold November sky. She pulled out her phone and photographed her favourite sunrise, her namesake rays as old as time in this ancient land.

One loose end at a time is being tied up and she smiles now as she counts her blessings. She knows that when people want to leave they do, and there is nothing you can do to stop them. She lives in the light of understanding and compassion, nurtured by mindfulness and metta.

She has a teaspoon of teppal in her fridge. Maybe she should throw that out now. It's stale. Like many other things that are better off thrown out. 

P.S: This writer observes the human condition and her place in it through a sociological lens. It's amazing how powerful the 'single mother, 'single woman' label is in the minds of many. Refer the work of Griffith, A.I and Smith, D for further academic learning.

My past tense life

My Past Tense Life

25 February 2011 at 09:43

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 " I love having a Mamma"
quips that quick-witted child
and I cannot see the road ahead anymore,
for the tears that come unbidden

I, bratty inside
stamp my foot, mentally though
I did too, until recently

to talk to, laugh with
to read between the lines of her stories
to guess what bothered her today
or who
or what she yearned for, just out of reach

that grief comes in trickles somedays
on others, as waves crashing through
for just a moment or two though,
rations of sadness
that's all I am allowed

as a mother myself, with jobs and roles
the mask musn't slip
"I live for thee", she'd quote often

today it is my mantra
cursed, as she was
to smile through my tears

25th February 2011

I like to write with brightly coloured pens

I like to write with

brightly coloured pens

on days like this

when the Universe

smiles in simple ways

when a curly-haired boy

plays the saxophone

and hums under his breath

driving me crazy

in an endearing way

or my honey-eyed daughter

rests on my shoulder

several heads shorter than hers

before running off to catch

one more diamond-bright dream

or a behind-the-scenes team

pulls together

to find answers to questions

and the hope of hugging my sister everyday

actually seems possible

when an almost-forgotten L@S grant

comes through, unexpected

making me whoop in delight

that my students will have what they need

although I have no Godfather anywhere

high above the clouds

the sun continues to shine

somewhere in the world, all day

I remember this universal truth

as I continue to write with

brightly coloured pens.

(c) 14th April 2011

BRK

BRK

  

My father's initials

are imprinted on my heart

as they are on
every laundry tag
from Gajanan Power Laundry in Naigaum
where time stands still

He taught me to love the rain
and to walk in it
revelling in the cool drops that caress my face
to this day

I turn my face up to the sky
hoping to see someone familiar
amidst the clouds

too much Disney does this
to grown women

and on his 76th birthday
as the rain greens the Earth

I think of the man
who left too soon

who my children know well
through the stories I tell

and I say to him
Come, see who we have become
after 24 years of parting
Come, see our children
and our homes
and our dreams

As I wear my silver hair
proudly
his gift to me
I know that blessings have
guided my footsteps
how else could I have
walked this far alone?

(c)
May 15th, 2011

This rainy Sunday, it is Hindustani

22nd May 2011

Kayee saalon se zindagi kuch jamm see gayee hai,

ab waqt hai woh karney ka jo karna padta hai,

lekin jaantey hai hum

key iss doar ke baad, ayengey woh din

jab dil aazaad hoga
aur hum woh karr sakengey
jiski khwaish barson se hai hamarey saath
jisey kabhi tanhaai mein
hum halkey se choootey hain
aur kehtey hain
bass thodi der aur
ruko zaraa
jeena ab bhi baaki hai
(dedicated to my desire to learn the sitar someday, for which my busy life right now, does not give even a sliver of time)

Purple, precious

Grt to see you today, my friend.

your eyes speak of a sadness

that your smile belies

and I do not know

how I can help,

if at all

so I am going to say many things

and hope at least

one or some bring peace:

you are more than a number

silver shines with wisdom

in cultures not as restricting

and

those that we cannot see

are not far from us

we just have to realign our frequencies

and if we sit in silence

they come and softly stroke our hair

the fragrant lilacs

remind me of you

as do the orchids

and silk scarves

you who adore the colour of queens

must surely know that

you are precious.

June 6th, 2011

Packing Day

I watch as she packs up 
her childhood 
into neat little boxes.
And looks at the future 
With the same
Diamond eyes
That shone for me when days were bleak

And I know as did others
That when roots are strong
And wings are too
The flight is joy
And unfettered bliss

As I watch her stand on the threshold 
Of independent life
I smile
As she takes with her
The wish lists of all her mothers
Radha, Kamala, Veena, Niti, Vishakha, Sushma, Suniti, Selvi and 
Me, the one who will write the stories.
22nd August 2012

The laughable hypocrisy of some relationships

They start falling off like leaves in the autumn, these loosely tied human relationsips. They can be those joined by blood, or from a long shared life path, it doesn't matter. The invitations to tea,  dinner, Thanksgiving and what not dissipate like mist in the sunshine. Sometimes, people are so wary of even saying hello while passing me by in a narrow corridor that they look straight ahead. They amuse me, these people who pretend that they care about me and my children, that they are not afraid of the contagion of separation and divorce, They pray at their temples and clap rhythmically at bhajans, they lend their mellifluous voices in collective devotion, yet they lack the one thing that a grieving family needs: they lack courage and they surely lack the honesty to face their own hypocrisy.

With a chuckle in my heart, I say hello to them when they pass me by. This startles them and they stumble over their own self righteous tongues to say hello. OMG, she talked to me, now I have to say something. I cannot pretend I didn't see her: Their eyes shuttered, they walk on by.

Others leave frantic messages on my answering machine when they know that their deliberate exclusions have been found out by the sharing of photos by well meaning friends. "Call me, we MUST talk. We haven't been in touch for so long" they shout breathlessly into their phones. This hammering of my virtual door leave me unmoved. Really.

It's okay, I want to tell them. Don't feel ashamed of your hesitation to invite me or my children to your homes, parties or shindigs. I know you are confused and scared. You have seen death and lived through it, we all have by this stage in our lives. But this is new for you, perhaps. The signing of papers leading to the systematic dissolution of a relationship that was considered to be picture perfect. But I am not washing my hands relentlessly like Lady Macbeth, just so you know. I did not kill anyone, I did not wish anyone gone. I am not contagious, neither is my condition. I am not out to ruin your party.

I have a busy life and a happy one. I know how to raise my children and they know how to raise me. We are okay, in case you wondered about that. The Village Grocer makes a yummy Thanksgiving dinner and we had fun. I am sure New Year's Eve will be wonderful for the children and me as we are happy together, We don't miss any forced bonhomie and shifty glances. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to shout into my answering machine with your hilarious excuses.

You are encouraged however, in the interest of your own journey, to know that life does change. It's changing, even now for you. So don't add to my amusement with your shifty glances please. And please, oh please stop pretending that you care. It doesn't matter, really. Free yourself from this weight.

Amma used to say that when one leaf falls to the ground, new ones take their place.

The kids and I are fine. And better off without the hypocrisy of your pseudo solidarity.

Hissab

Tajurbaa batoar liya hai buss
Itney saalon mein
Tum kaudi kaudi ka hisaab rakhna zaroor
Hum toh yun hi yaadon ko tarashtey rahey
Rashmee Karnad-Jani

Another winter

First snow of the year. Mixed feelings
The passage of time
One more year
One more rhyme
Shovelling, 
Heavy lifting
And hot chocolate
Walks at Milne maybe
And long moments spent reading
First snow
And mixed feelings
(C)
2014

Fall leaves and consoling people

I wonder as I speak consolation to a grieving woman, how did I get to this point? I am at the end of my fourth decade and already have 27 years of parent-loss under my belt and 42 years of caregiving. Surely, I can retire now with full benefits? I am told that "isn't a thing" as teenagers would say. I am not allowed to stop doing what I have done for so long. I just have to keep doing it as long as I live.

I speak of the binary of loving someone so wonderful as a parent recently (or not so recently) lost and the excruciating pain of missing them with every breath. I think of the dissonance of knowing that the striated muscles of my face are incapable of controlling the steady leaking of tears that run out of brimming eyes at the sadness that I see in fall pictures, two brothers walking together in the distance or a green tree behind a soon to be bare one. And I wonder at the swag I have on the basis of having done all this when I was 21. Of being left to fend for many, including myself.

My son explained some economic concepts to me yesterday on a short walk through Main Street where he used big words kindly to share his learning about how the actions of some affect the lives of others. I hear ya, kid.

And as I watch the flurries swirling this Saturday morning, I acknowledge the many parts of me that are jostling for attention in this busy life. I will get to you, I promise.

Until then, there's a fridge to clean, a plumber to call, a roofer to chase, marking to complete, transition plans to write.

I guess it is good, this busy-ness. It leaves less time to wallow. And even less time to bawl. I know that if I chose to do that, it would scare the kids and everyone else.

I am the Elder, I just have to lace up those winter boots and keep on walking.

In the face of death, there's the promise of life

On Saturday, my Pappa's teacher passed away. He was a brilliant mathematician and an ardent follower of the arts. He was also my uncle, in that special Amchi way where people know their roots are intertwined yet with the loss of one link, it is possible to lose a dropped thread into the ball of yarn.

I sit with a rapidly cooling cup of tea beside me. I am reflecting on the single thread that ties the grieving family with my own moment in December 2010: when one loves a parent deeply and completely, one does find the courage to say to them: you are tired now. It is okay if you want to go. I will always love you. Four years ago I had done that too. The relief that the one you love is not living a life trapped inside their failing body but is free of this cage to let their spirit soar with each sunrise is perhaps the most unselfish love of all.

What does it mean to live on the path set for me, for us? What does it mean to wake up and look for a familiar form, hear a beloved voice,in the neighbouring room, reach for the phone once a week or daily to chat? What does it mean to know that one is surrounded by people who love the departed as deeply and richly and are as evolved spiritually, to be there, unconditionally for one another. That perhaps is the lasting legacy.

Because that is not a given. Not all families stand strong after the pillar is gone. The glue dissolves and bits and pieces fall off. That is why that which is precious must be cherished.

And through the tears, we continue to reach out for those who love us and we cobble together our new normal. One where now, we are the elders. Amee chi mhalgadeen.

Fast forward to a time when our children will pay us tribute. May we make them as proud as our forefather and foremothers have made us.

On this heartheavy Sunday evening, my writing is not as coherent as I would like it to be. It will have to do. This is the way, of grieving, of reflecting. This is the way of giving thanks that I am fortunate enough to have lived in the same slice of time as the Elder we honoured today.

I must practise walking now, for that is indeed a tough act to follow.

The secret of growing sunflowers

The secret of growing sunflowers is the ability to believe: in the possibility that lies inside the hard coated seed, my own common sense and an inexplicable tenacity that doesn't let rodents, rain or reality ruin the results.

Before all else though, I guess it begins with a firm and unshakeable belief in possibilities. 

Broken stems do not decide the outcome of the blossom. 

You tie that stem to a strong support so that it bypasses the need for the broken stem. You look at the root bed and cover it with more soil, you water it, relentlessly love it and whisper to the whorl of leaves that tower our your head now: I know you're there. I know you got this. I got this too.  

You know I'm here and I believe you're going to be fine. And then one grey sky day the little curled up tendrils spring up and smile at the sun. 

I'm the proud mamma of a gorgeous sunflower that is sticking it's tongue out at the stem that gave up mid way through. I did this without you. I did this in spite of you. 

Yeah you. Yeah us! 

(C) 2014

Nani said so

I attended a wedding yesterday, a beautiful nikah at the Unionville Jamatkhana. The bride, a young friend from grad school looked lovely and was very happy to be getting married. Everything was lovely. I took in the simplicity, the serenity and the soulful rendition of the nikaahnama. I prayed with my palms upwards, seeking all that is good for this lovely girl, the bride, so young.

Afterwards at the reception, I mingled. I was by myself and I introduced myself to people I knew were close family and congratulated them: Mubaraki, I said and we talked a little. 

I saw the bride's grandmother a distance away, her mother's mother. She was sitting with her son and we talked about roots and routes, Dadar and Bandra. Then she said: May everyone's daughter's be happy. That is all I wish for always at weddings. I cry at all weddings. I cry a little just glad that this child is ready to move onto the next phase of their life. You can't keep them with you forever.  They have to do what they are supposed to do, get married, start a family, be happy. May your daughter be happy too, she blessed. 

Then she said something even more meaningful to me at this stage of my life as I wait for my pension to be valued before the final step asked for by my co-parent. 

"Agar gareebi hai, toh jyaada kaam karkey kamaa saktey hain" (If there is less money in a marriage, you can work one more job and make some more money). Lekin zulm kaise sahegi koi kisiki beti? (But how can someone's daughter suffer oppression). 

And in that moment, another layer of doubt fell from my soul, as I realised that I had indeed, no questions asked, no regret in my mind, started out my married life in one room of a chawl in a dirty street in South Mumbai, just for the love of a man who was my friend. I put up with the daily indignities of his mother's hammerings on the partition when I slept, the nightly and drunken swearing of his father with the most horrific of words. and the behind the scenes pot stirring of his sisters who insisted on keeping their parent's suspicious of my presence always. That was the 'zulm', the oppression that I lived through. That was the oppression that had metastasized over the Atlantic, through phone wires and WhatsApp, like a deadly basilisk to infect the mind of the man who never learned how to be a husband and father. He stayed a son and brother and a very good one at that, you could forge medals. To this day, the puppet strings like under water cables are alive and well. That's their life. 

So I sat there, with Nani's hand in mine, freeing myself from the burden that he had placed on me: that I deserved this 'fate' of being 'left'. 

I breathed deeply and smiled. I HAD lived through the lack of money in those days. But I had been freed from the zulm by a man who did not think I was worth it. 

Thank you, co-parent. You did open up some space for me to breathe again. 

(c) 2014 

Did you?

Did you, when you danced
at your niece's wedding last November
think of the history that you carry?

did you perhaps
think that she is a daughter
and was a child cherished
by you and others?

did you perhaps consider
that her husband may also be spineless
and not speak up when
the door is hammered angrily to wake her
every morning
and fill water
and do chores, supervised with taunts

did you consider that his father
may, drunk,
swear at this child you hold dear
and curse her openly
while everyone including
the man she married
stare in the distance
letting her become one more
Draupadi?

Did you consider that
she has dreams
for the man she walks with
and the life she is making with him

and that she too
wants to be respected
loved
cherished
cared about
and not dismissed
in jokes
with his family
and called
Oh That Woman

and Madam
and who knows what else

When you danced at your niece's wedding,
not so long ago
did you consider this?

That she too is a wife now
to be cast away
and labelled
and told that
her dreams of being an individual
and her right to learn
and ask for help
invited this fate upon her

Will you tell her
You asked for it,
Look at you
Look at what you made him do to you
You asked for it?


Did you consider all this?
In your role play of Dharmraj Yudhistir

Or did you just dance to one more tune

(c) 2014

My Mumbai speaks to me

The synecdoche

Of bashing my country

And my Mumbai

Leaves me pained

Are we so

Afraid of pointing

To those who line their pockets

That we blame ourselves 

over and over

And let them

Get away to their splurges

And crystal glass holidays

Their corporate nexus and

Their multi stories 

While flaneurs film squalor

To win Oscars and call 

Me a slum dog

And the one lone starving horse

Stares out over what was

Once your childhood beach

To watch those cars whiz on the SeaLink

And you nod over 

Sauvignon and oysters

And sell me once again

When you distance yourself

From me

Look at me

I'm Mumbai

Your Mumbai

I'm the name on your 

laminated birth certificate, child!

Fight for me

Every way

You know how

There's still time

Write letters

Make movies

Sign your name

Take the day off

And sit in silence

On tracks that are silent

Like they did

So you could breathe free 

It's my dream that

My children will fight for me

And my name and worth

And not blame me 

As if I orchestrated 

my own abuse

(C) 2014

My Shantikunj Family and why it's special

After a  busy weekend of driving around for chores, fixing some rushed cedar planting by a fly by night team and just being four decades and then some years old, my wrist and accident injury are hurting badly. I remember a time, through this tired Sunday evening haze of times when pain, mental or physical meant that I could just cry and someone would comfort me. The children are caring and I have a strong support  network but it's different somehow. I guess the chattr is gone and that causes more pain sometimes than the actual pain itself. As I ask for a pain killer and a glass of water I remember 1995 or 1996. Pappa was driving me to the weekend grocery shopping I think and a child ran in front of the scooter. He swerved to save the child and I slid off the pillion. Right opposite Rupal book store near Lok Seva school. And before I knew what had happened my ankle was swollen. I hobbled home and tried to rest. That evening passed in pain and final exams were near. I remember sitting in the cool verandah at Shantikunj with my leg extended and weeping with pain. And Samir was there, he was little then. He'd come to visit his cousins and we were all in one another's homes all the time so it was normal. I remember weeping quietly and Samir comforting me: radu nako Rashmee Tai, bara hoil lavkar. He should have been playing or something but he stayed there with me. 

Through my pain now I remembered that quiet evening in Shantikunj and maybe it was the magic of that moment or the kindness of those long ago words from a little boy, that it doesn't hurt as much anymore.

(C) 2014

Coming to Canada through the eyes of a 3 year old

Ashray's memory 

of our first day 

in Canada. 

We ate a pizza. 

And you were sad 

and I was tired 

and Didi was mean to me. 

New Sister Stories

New sister stories

Tell me she says:

This new sister

An elder asked her 

Which part of you

Is this or that?

I don't fit that norm 

she says

But I am 

so I am

When I have a moment

I'll ask her

May I share your story, 

new sister?

With others who are 

Also and are 

still struggling 

with saying 

they are

Who

They are

So a hundred years later 

we don't have 

another stained glass window

To apologize to children

harmed today

For now: We walk together

And leave 

only footprints

On the 

softly fallen snow

Of this land 

Grabbed from

Your people

This land

That we now call

Canada 

(c) 2014

IPRC corridor

I'm waiting outside a room on the second floor of a high school. I have three IPRCs scheduled the first is supposed to begin in 3 minutes. But it appears they are running late and I will be delayed. 

One parent, for the first student I'll present isn't able to come. The community liaison teacher had phoned them earlier, a few weeks ago, to explain the process. I'd asked her via email if they had any questions. "They don't know what to ask yet so there's nothing yet" she has written. 

Yesterday the student asked that mom wanted to know if he'd be able to change schools is this one is not convenient. "Yes, you can", I had reassured him. " Okay, I'll let her know he'd said. 

We'd filled forms together for two students. The third had said she'd get her father to fill it in. I'd invited the other high school special ed head to assist with that for all my eight students. That had helped them and released me enough to continue my grade 7 literacy programme in a withdrawal setting. 

Two students are coming with their parents, I'd called home again this morning to confirm times, directions as well as overview of the meeting. One father speaks English sparingly and another fluently. I've asked the mother of the student to come as well and she's agreed. 

As I wait here, I meet a parent who was before me. He smiles I responded. Do you have a child here he asked. I said that I was a teacher. "My son goes to school here. He loves this school. Even if he's sick he wants to come." I smile and nod. That's what makes me want to come to work too, I think to myself: the fact that my students love school and we are together learning

"I think he's going to grade 11, or is it 12? He seems confused for a bit. A perfect moment for the parenting discourse to kick in I observe: what kind of parent doesn't know which grade his child is in?". I walk past this pothole but observe that this is a distinct possibility that judges and labels invisibly. 

"We don't know what to do after 21"he says. "We have no plan" he says and smiles. I knew then that this was an IPRC but now it's evident that this child has needs that don't automatically allow for integration into the mainstream world; that's taken for granted in many minds. "My son is in a special class, you know" he says. He won't go out like everyone else. He smiles some more and soon it's time for him to go inside. The meeting ends soon, a teacher and parent talk about inflating wheels. A wheelchair perhaps I think. 

And I wait for my parents to arrive with their children. Ours are luxurious worries: academic or applied, college or university, career cruising and IPP. French or learning strats. 

I think of the letters I created. This child is exceptional, I'd checked off. 

I sit in the empty hallway. I give thanks for what I've got in 206 and at home. And in Montreal. I think of exceptional children and remember that each one is precious.

I breathe and focus on the meetings ahead. The hallway is still empty but my heart is overflowing. 

(c) 2014

Happy IWD

Happy IWD 2014 and then some...

Why do we have IWD

You've asked

And wondered

I've said

One day is a context clue

Little ones, that there's work

Still to be done

just like one month

For Black History, and my

Boxed people "South Asians"

Tamil Heritage 

Yeah we shouldn't, right 

Maybe leave me

A month and a year too

Seeing as I do 

all the work anyway

And labour

How about I 

celebrate my 

Life

And courage 

And personhood

Every day

And revel in the joy

That I'm raising a son who knows that

And a daughter 

who strives 

and shines

So here I stand

Hand in invisible hand

Of women far and near

Dear strong daughters

Of Shakti

who resist

The imprint of The Father

The gaze of submission

And the labelled box 

When they look YOU

in the eye

Speak in Urdu, Tamil, Gujrati in

Your hallways

And smile knowingly

So here I am

Paused and poised 

I proclaim

I was 

before

You

Else who would

Have given birth

To these worlds?

To you even 

And your heirs?

(c) 2014

Bidai thoughts

I don't think we cry

That you're leaving to 

Start a new life of your choice

I think we cry

for the we 

That we were

And that no one cared that

We were people first

And daughters 

raised in love

With aspirations 

and dreams in 

our beating hearts

We cry that this fate 

should not 

befall our daughters 

And we hope that 

You never know this pain

Of being less than

And being  dismissed

And labelled

taunted and shunned

I've never asked women

Why they cry at weddings

Maybe I will someday

When I examine 

my own unshed tears

And find some answers

(c) 2014

Sewing machine Saturday

Through the winding streets of a quiet neighbourhood on Saturday, July 27th, 2014, I bought an antique sewing machine at a garage sale. I was taking the children out for a day of this and that. Their father was returning after six months of leaving home to clean out his things from the house, not a pleasant thought. We got through the day nicely with a Japanese lunch afterwards and a mall crawl and chocolate bark sharing.

I paid a sizeable amount of money after asking my daughter if she'd keep it after me. Of course she assured me, my child, the old soul historian. I remembered threading the needle for Teeamma and wanting to pump the foot rest. I remember the stories of the clothes she'd stitched for my birth. 

Back to the present, what would I do? The machine folded into a desk, I somehow knew it would. My grandmother's memoir will get written soon and my thesis too at this desk. I can sense the connection. 

The next day, the woman I bought it from delivered it at home with a story of the machine neatly written out and tucked into the drawer. 

Now the house doesn't feel like a twelve year old home new home of a family without history.

 It feels like old homes in India with some old furniture in it. It feels like a little slice of Shantikunj. My sons wallet and keys are in one drawer. Pens highlighters, postage stamps in another. The sewing machine my grandmother had or her cupboard made of Burma teak, I'd never have ever received, not with the overarching reach of patriarchy and entitlement that's embedded in minds I was born around. The brothers would get it all whether they valued it or not. And their wives would show these pieces off as antiques while only I know that they recoiled from Amma's touch on their freshly painted walls that she held on to for support or the smell of her salve when her back hurt. 

So here, far away in a land I now call home, I'm connected to the memories of someone else's mother and the clothes that she must have stitched. I filled out my pension valuation form there. Felt stronger somehow. I can do this, one stitch at a time. And we will now remember this day as the one when we got the antique sewing machine. 

(C) 2014

My first quarter results

Written in March 2014

As I write this I'm almost ready to post first quarter results: three months and life is going on just fine. You haven't asked. But I thought I'd tell you anyway. 

I have my matters in order, haven't missed a single bill payment or a single meal.

Haven't had a single day without milk or fruit or veggies. Not once has my son run our of clean clothes or clean dishes.

And I'm not surprised. I'm an old hand at this. I've done this and then some in the years gone by when I was almost as young as my daughter. Above all I'm blessed and very lucky to have what I do: emotional financial and spiritual stability and my health.

What's interesting is that many people have quietly disappeared from view, physical or virtual. And that suits me fine.

I've never been one to sit and indulge in idle chat and now more than ever I have a thesis to tidy up. 

Yet I do want to knock on a few figurative windows and say to people: psst, it's not contagious this thing that's happened. 

It's not going to infect your fragile peace or your solid foundation. I've been asked not to talk about IT as people don't need to know. 

It's laughable really in the 21st century. And I or my children consider this as a special phase where we are not a charity case for anyone. Not even the Canadian government. So there!

Some relationships are strong and they have withstood the life change, in mine.

For those who hide away, my children and I have one message: don't be afraid.

It's not catching. If anything we're happier in our routine and not worried about the other shoe falling. 

Above all I thank the grit with which I finished my BEd and now the MEd. My foremothers had to put up with unimaginable agonies. And I am free.

So don't cry for me, Argentina. There's really no telling what can happen in a life. There's no vaccine or I'd send some over to bandaid your fears. 

Buy roses, gift diamonds, advise me to move on a.k.a don't bother you. 

I don't and I won't. 

Much love

- the daughter of Shakti