Sunday, August 10, 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 

Saturday, August 9, 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 

My parents with me in the backyard

Moments of silence on a quiet weekend with birdsong for company urge me to tell this story.

On Amma's first birthday after her passing, October 10th, 2011, the children and planted a Japanese maple in her memory. She'd travelled to Ontario on her own in 2005, three years after surviving chemo and cancer. She'd amazed many at her grit and I'd fought hard to get her visit visa after it was rejected twice by the Canadian High Commission in Mumbai and the Embassy in Dilli- in spite of working full time, and submitting all required paperwork, I'd been deemed unfit to support her for her trip! Anyway she came we went to Quebec City, Prince Edward Island and she dipped her right foot in the Atlantic in memory of Terry Fox. She walked at Unionville for the annual Terry Fox run to support the sister of my co-parent who was undergoing chemo then. She lived with us six months, enjoyed MPL, and then left to go back to Mumbai. Five years later she was gone from the physical world. Every year since it was planted the Japanese maple has soft filigreed red leaves in our backyard. Amma's tree is here and it has a lock of her hair at the base of it, the kids and I planted it together.
I see my Amma in the world around and Pappa in the sunrise- Bhaskar as he was. 
Do not stand by my grave and cry. I am not there, I did not die. 
That's my everyday meditation for them. 
(C) 2014

Ready to die yet?

 I remember 
a few years ago 
when I was boarding 
a flight to get to
Mumbai suddenly 
as Amma was sick 

I had a thought 
on the way to the airport: omg 
I haven't taught my kids 
how to cut a mango!! 
I can't die yet. 

And yesterday I saw 
my son
expertly cut one. 

Now I must make a list 
of all he needs to know 
and teach him all that 
and quickly.

In the meantime 
I'm enjoying mangoes! 
I shall teach him how to cut 
a pineapple next. 
And then breadfruit 
and jackfruit... 

I can't die yet,
I can't die yet. 

An everyday ladhaai

An everyday ladhaai 

They said that about
Wars fought to
Conquer others' lands
Or subjugate evil
That a battle fought
On many fronts is successful
So we do that now
In classrooms
Boardrooms
Admin meetings
And election platforms 
On twitter 
And through the stories
We tell the children

one by one,
You and I, every day
Alone,
Apart
Together
In spirit 
We break 
the master's house 
with the master's tools
and some others, we craft together
one 
brick 
at 
time. 

2014 (c)

The glow of an Angel


Your daughter's 
child
Is a link 
I see
With the cheeks
that we all share
And perhaps 
glimmer 
of 
you

Sometimes I wonder if
It's shapes in clouds
That I see
Or is it something 
beyond DNA
That makes a child look
Like a grandmother 
she's never seen
Yet whose presence 
Is imprinted into her being

I remember 
how much my Pappa 
loved you
And called you Angel
Perhaps it is you then
Whose star light shines
Through Swara's smile
(In memory of my aunt, Anjala Karnad-Dhume)

(C) 2014

Art for art's sake: not at my cost

A recent piece written by an unseen friend and one childhood friend regarding  the backlash against pictures in a public transport setting are making me think of Epistemology- why do we know what we know. And how do we acknowledge the layers of responses with a compassionate setting. You know what they say- you had to be there. I'm a woman who to this day in urban spaces in my adopted home marvel at the space bubble around me. What? No groping? 
While I would agree with the response to the backlash against the photos and points made regarding the issue of "professional" jealousy and sabotage of careers, the picture of the two men with the girl between them did evoke a visceral distaste and panic in me. As a Vipassana meditator I was able to breathe through the twists in my chest and trace their origin. 
Travelling on Western Railway trains at 10 pm after doctor calls as a medical representative, I've dreaded everyday the signal stops of the train over the Bandra Creek. I've also experienced the slow inching forward of predatory men in trains and in Mumbai over two decades ago. In Goa four years ago in broad daylight, I've rushed away from a beach shack at Colva with my two children to the safety of a CCD just so that the leery beery gaze of men did not result in a whole scale follow- who wants fish an chips at a time like that? 
And it's nothing to with being a woman alone. I'd worry for my son too. Remember Arundhati Roy's movie theatre scene in God of small things? I've clutched my belly then with my boy still inside. 
So, before I throw away the backlash as backward or not appreciative of art, I'd look at the epistemology of the discomfort. 

The male gaze, the colonial gaze, the hetero gaze, are all deeper potlas that need to be unpacked one skein at a time. 
Think Bandra Creek and slowing Western Railway Train. Would you let our niece or daughter or son be in that situation alone? That's the litmus test. 
(C) 2014