Wednesday, May 28, 2014

It's not an ism it's who I am

Somtimes, the strangest discussions come out of everyday chats. 

it was my first, nay second social gathering after news broke about the single status that was invisibly hitched to my name. Although the evening was organised by two young people I love dearly, it was awkward entering a room inhabited by the same people we used to meet regularly as a family of four. Although I haven't asked anyone to take sides, people do, I suppose. Thereby, some people, common friends of co-parent and me, have just slipped off the face of the Earth and their hugs and hellos seemed fake and quite unnecessary. 

A few pakoras and fish sticks later, I was engaged in a rich discussion with two gentlemen who'd taken college courses in women's studies, two decades ago in their undergrad and who've actively read Spivak. There's hope. 

I was asked if I was introduced to feminist thought when I came West. That was the underlying thread of unspoken assumptions that I have often been faced with. I have never been asked this directly.  With great pleasure I told them about my Teeamma, my paternal grandmother, who'd told me at 3 that I was the daughter of Shakti and how I have never been broken or bent by the blows of societal oppression or the push back from patriarchy.

I was also asked: "Has it been difficult or a struggle for you to stand true to your ideals of equity and feminism"? I thought about that for a quick moment and replied: it's not an "ism" for me. It's who I am.

I stand up for my son the way I stand up for my daughter. I stood up for men as I stood up for me. My voice for self does not ever come at the cost of your voice. We can live side by side and both be. Just be. No need to become. Being is enough. But all people don't get that.  Some get it, others don't.

Feminism is not an ism. It's a mindset of women or men with voice for those marginalized.  Gender, race and social class all play a part. Yet, abuse and neglect cross colour lines. 

A day later, I had this thought. I did not say it then to the men who were talking to me
About the struggles I face,  Brother. Where do you want me to start? I've paid some hefty tabs. No regrets though as I'm not responsible for the ignorance and insecurities of others. 

Short hair, Kolhapuri chappal, oxidized silver bangles are all symbols. Women who work hard to keep their children fed and out of danger, away from the fists and blows of the men in their lives, are feminists too.  So is my son who makes his sister's lunch and tucks in a note for her to read far away at work. About others, I don't know. I just am, and my ism is not an ism at all. That's all I know. Knowing that I matter as do you was not learned at Pearson Airport when my passport was stamped as a landed immigrant. It was learned at my grandmother's side, over four decades ago. Long ago in a cool floored house in Naigaum. 

And Teeamma smiles through the dappled sunshine in my beautiful backyard. 

Sunday, May 4, 2014

It takes time, this business of living

It takes time
this business of living.
Plans are made
then life intervenes.
The lawn is on hold for now
as the grass is not yet
ready to be rolled.

the ground, all dug up and turned
left to the vagaries of the weather
in the week ahead

a wheelbarrow filled to the brim
with shovels, spades and other things
gleams orange against the
clumps of soil
wet, fragrant
and messy

the incompleteness of this
is exhilarating somehow
as there is next Saturday
to look forward to
the possibilities to imagine
and the thrill of wondering
what it will look like when it's done
A day here
a slight delay there

Such is life
for now
there is sunshine
and a fresh breeze

It takes time,
this business of living



New vistas

I sit here with my coffee mug half full. The men are resting awhile. As I see them, three, making short work of the overgrown lawn and digging clumps of old soil and old grass out to toss into the hole below the deck (that's going to be fixed next), I am amazed that until last year, I had done all this work myself. To save money and to indulge my need to work and till the earth where earlier I had had a corner of the verandah in Shantikunj and then nothing at all, in that horrid prison space of Chunam Lane.

Since the accident, and that excruciating crunch of metal after the screech of wheels, I have been bent over with pain almost every day. Yet, like many pains, it is invisible and therefore difficult to share with unseeing hearts. Then there was the matter of who I am and who I am perceived to be: Oh it's her. She knows how to fend for herself. Oh it's her, don't bother leaving daal shaak for her, she can eat rotli saathey salad. Oh, it's her. She can do this all by herself. So it went over and over and over.

Now with a few dollars saved from this and that, not because I cannot afford a makeover, but because the thrill of doing things on a shoe string budget is fashionable when you have money for the bragging rights perhaps, I hired this team of diggers.

Yet, the years of regulation and looking over my shoulder for the disapproval come to mind and the panic  kicks in. Some delay, a little glitch and I cringe as if I am going to hear that voice say: Why exactly are you doing this? And how do you plan to finish it? And how are you planning to pay for this?

My heart soars even as the wind rushes through the cedars like waves of a stormy sea. I do not have to listen to your criticism anymore. I do not have to see your raised eyebrows oozing disapproval. or quell the disappointment when you refuse to eat with us on the patio. And oh, how lovely is that feeling of now having to look over my shoulder or my ankles at the chains holding me down.

I observe that I was always the encourager to your every project and your every dream. Yet mine were never good enough to support whole heartedly.

That's just who we are I know now. And when you walk in and out of the space that still bears your name but not even a smidgen of your soul, I do not look up anymore.

The garden is coming along nicely. It is a work in progress, like me. And I am okay with that.


My first quarter results

(When I post this, it is time to post second quarter results, but nonetheless, this had to be said)

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 is now. 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 changes 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 B.Ed and now the M.Ed. Soon my PhD. My foremothers had to put up with unimaginable agonies.  I, on the other hand, 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 band-aid your fears. 

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

I don't and I won't. 
Much love
- the daughter of Shakti 

Of stone tables and blue glass dishes

It's January 1st and she's almost at her 5th decade. She's stronger. Thanks to the daily meditation of lying in bed for the first few minutes of wakefulness and counting her blessings, always starting with the children, she knows that she's going to make it through. Well, in some ways she already has.

Her son is smiling more
and frowning sometimes,
as a regular teenager would. He and his sister belt out popular songs as they tidy the kitchen. Her daughter as serene and strong as all the foremothers whose spirits she carries within her. The cat flops down in the middle of the floor for a belly rub. It's all good.

In a quiet house at breakfast, she chops a nectarine mindfully, half a banana, an apple- smallish and then feeling adventurous, pops half a pomegranate in memory of Amma's story of Demetre and Persephone. 
She decides then that such a magnificent meal deserves a blue glass dish and from the neighbourhood of Go Vap outside HCMC bought long ago- the plate that looks like a cupped palm or a large blue strawberry hulled out for more goodies.

Armed with a cup of coffee she makes her way up to her beautiful orange room thoughtfully decorated by someone who has since decided to move on in a different direction. That's okay she thinks and settles her food and drink on the table. 

Her stone bistro set. Last summer at Canadian Tire out for some summery knick knack, grass seed or hedge trimmer perhaps she'd seen it and fallen instantly in love. She wanted the stone and iron table to sit in a sacred space for herself and her loved ones-
People who would sit there with her perhaps. But looking at the 200 dollar cost the old habit patterns got hold of her and she second guessed it as too frivolous and decadent to boot. Then her daughter's voice whispered into her consciousness: "You don't have to ask permission or watch out for raised eyebrows and pursed up looks of disapproval. You make your own money, surely you can afford this." So after a token price check at HomeDepot she'd returned from the kitschy neon coloured plastic sets back to what she now thought of as her stone table. She had bought it and carried it home. A former student now working there helped her load it in quipping about her long ago science class and the homework she'd dish out. 

She'd got some help to fix the table and hoped to have the helper join her there sometime. 

But when eyes and hearts are
Focused on invisible far off imagined peace, they have to follow their path. 

So that rarely happened as she was relentlessly and consistently cast in the role of a deterrent to his peace and tranquil space. He'd never acknowledged the demons that plagued him although he spoke of them in passing-
It was always her fault.

On the Monday, she had mentioned her weekend shopping treat to a friend, a brother at work who was astute as he was observant. 
"Oh, you and your children will have loads of fun meals and long chats at that table" he'd remarked sharing in her delight as he admired the photograph. She was surprised that the void was obvious to many close to her. It was time, she had thought and waited for him to make his move. And he'd left three weeks ago. And she hadn't  grieved now. Not anymore as that was in the past. The grieving was over.
Now the living began.

She had walked through that convoluted time from June until now. And this morning before she made her breakfast, she emptied the closet of old clothes and artifacts of a shared life that can go where they too can be happy.

She sees now that her journal has a bicycle on the cover, a repeated print on every page. So this cold sunshiny January morning, less than a week away from one more wonderful birthday, she sits at her stone table with a pile of fruit in a beautiful blue glass dish, a bag of pens beside her. The children sleep off their joyful revelry of last night, the cat is napping by the window on the other chair, on a mat she's thoughtfully placed there for warmth. 

She give thanks for stone tables and disposable incomes, whispers of strong daughters, blue glass dishes and friends who will want to hear this story- of stone tables and blue glass dishes. 

Daffodil Landscapes


To all of us
Who trudge through 
And walk weary steps 
Wake another day
And wonder whether and if
Or when 
better days
Will ever come

I share this Gujrati saying
Strange as it's a language
that 
has caused me
Great joy and pain
yet sums it up 
quite nicely

Kadhyaa etlaa
kaadhvaana nathi!

So trudge one more day
And celebrate the sun
Still high in the west sky, late
Promises that the Wordsworth landscape
Is always in our hearts
That will soon dance with
The daffodils 

The Monsoon does come to Markham


Class dismissed
Day plans for the morrow 
Beckoned and working through
I noticed the light dim 
Behind trees
Of our Cdwd forest
Baarish! My heart leapt
And I came back to the moment
It's not Baarish, silly
It's not the Monsoon
This is Markham not
Mumbai
And I smiled, sighed
That I have two
Homes now
And I belong in both
With fierce unapologetic 
Undiluted, love
the grey sky shone
With blessings 
And my rain-drenched
 bifurcated self
walks home hood off, 
face held up to the sky
raindrops 
fall softly on my soul

My deficit list

In speaking of children from racialised backgrounds, some people have a tendency to engage in a lot of regretful sighing and head shaking. These 'sad moments' are sometimes accompanied by declarations that these children come 'with very little'. of what? I am tempted to ask, and sometimes do. If they are in deficit, then so am I. Here is my life of what I lack. 

I come with very little
Haven't skiied downhill
Nor snowboarded
Skates aren't for me
Neither are beaver tails
I come with very little

Haven't cheered at hockey games
Guzzled beer at dawn
Or been to The Cottage- just one ?
I come with very little

I just have my memories 
Of countless years
in this ancient Land
Memories
Of smudging
snowshoes
And Grandfather Teachings
Honouring the land
And reading the stars
For signs of travel
And being Me

those who
Came after 
Have others 
Of mogra and mungphali
Sitar and savera
Ghazals and Goa
Boat rides in Nha Trang
Sentosa sunsets
Dharavi tears
And Naigaum rain 
Lucknow kurtas
And K Rustom icecream
Parsi Dairy ni lassi
And Swagat bhel
Amma's fish curry
And Kavlem peace
come
With 
Very 
Little
You think

And I chuckle
Shake my head 
At how
Little you know
Of
Other worlds. 

Rashmee Karnad-Jani 
2014 (c)

Sleeping Late the day you left for Montreal


I wake to wave goodbye
And get back to
Bed
And sleep
Until 2:15 
And then I realize
That I was drowning 
In dreams
As waking to a house
Without you is unbearable
And I was also sleeping 
off the emptiness 
now that you've left
But a text from Dorval
And I'm spry again
Booking Megabus tickets
To visit you at Easter 
Such is love
And hope
And sleepiness
On Sundays
Without you. 

2014(c)

International Women's Day 2014

Happy IWD

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?

Future Plans



It wasn't me 
It was never me
She smiles in delight
And begins again
To celebrate herself
Last labels
Peeled and 
relegated to 
the trash can
Where they belong with 
Many other things
I'm me
Maybe even mee!
Somedays she says
And I'll never say
I didn't try 
So live on 
beautiful sunshine 
I'm here with you 
always
Live and love with joy
The next twenty one years
for me
And then, she asks
Oh then my love
You begin again 
With me beside you
Always
Until your last breath 
There's still me 
Me always
Beside you