The gaps that I inhabit

A lot has happened in the past months and days yet it has been a while since I have written here. Or written anything for that matter. I observed this hiatus for sometime and reminded myself that it was alright to observe my thoughts or just to do nothing at all. I did not write everything down, it was not necessary. Yet somewhere at the back of my mind I knew that this space waited patiently for my return.

These gaps take me forward. I guess it is a sort of creative moulting, a hibernation of sorts. I wait it out and there is a growth spurt, perhaps I learn to see things differently, maybe say things differently, let go a little, hold on to the important things a little more.

There is a lot going on right now yet this posting does not do justice to that turmoil. This is the virtual equivalent of putting one foot ahead of the other. And another thing, I just bought some beautiful journal: pocket journal with beautiful covers, some larger books. I have been walking around with a cloth gag full of pens and a journal beside me, yet the words do not come.


In this impersonal space, (or is it not that)I do not see my handwriting, nor do you. I do not the urgency with which I wrote this or the beautiful script that would make my Amma proud ( not much of that in my scribbles though). This space is about disciple, of returning, of attending to the needs of the voice, of being heard, of saying I am walking this way today. I live in this gap and it is not a bad place.

Home is where the heart is.

is that why I am only partially here?

Another Sister, Another Story

In the land where Shakti is worshipped, lives Lakshi. She was named after Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. She lives in the slum in Naigaum beside the apartments where my siblings and I were raised. Most days, she sleeps in the clinic lobby that she sweeps and keeps clean for the homeopathic doctor. Lakshi works for many homes in the building in exchange for money and food. She is treated well. She knows us all and often heralds her arrival with her voice before her physical presence.

Long years ago, Bhabhi taught her children to call her Lakshi Ajji ( grandma). Until then most people had called her by her shortened name, after all who would dare sully the revered name of the Goddess when they hollered for a ' maid'. She is quite happy go lucky, sassy and brimming with retorts even. If Lakshi likes you, it is the Naigaum equivalent of the 'A' list. Her devil-may care attitude and demeanour are coping strategies to survive in the harsh world she inhabits.

My brother jokes with her and gets her little treats. She banters with him too and all is well. The gifts I bring her when I return to Mumbai make her feel she is part of the family, she tells me: "Didi, you have not forgotten me" she says with a smile.

From my school and college days, I remember Lakshi had 4 daughters. They had beautiful names: Hira (diamond), Tara (star), Mangala ( the auspiscious one) and Nirmala. One day, after years of suffering, her husband died of tuberculosis, a gift of years of hard labour in the textile mills, the sad story of innumerable, nameless people in that 'city by the sea' as Rohinton Mistry calls it. Today all that is left of the booming textile industry are the skeletons of factories and smokestacks, huge under-construction office complexes that are prime real estate and vada-pav. There are also sepia prints of those long dead men on the walls of their family dwellings: each chawl room neater than any mansion I have seen.

Lakshi's older daughters died too, one after another. The two younger ones eke out a living somewhere, she speaks of them sometimes. Mostly, she talks about her grandchildren. Like most grandparents everywhere, she is proud of the boys. She keeps me informed of their whereabouts and I listen as I think of all the choices that I have in my privileged life that they cannot ever imagine.

On my way to the airport, I had asked her if I could take her picture. She sat down on the very pavement that is her chatting ground. I clicked one picture. Then she asked me to take another one. She covered her head and sat up straighter to pose for the picture. She rewarded me with a serious look, no smiles for an important event such as this. " Don't worry, I am here, I will watch over your mother's place until you return" she assured me.

And I know she will. I hope to return next year for Amma's 70th birthday and if I am lucky Lakshi Ajji will still be there asking in her sing song voice: "Aalis ka Didi, kashi ahes?" (have you returned sister, how are you). Ironically, young and old in the neighbourhood call me Didi, (elder sister) following my siblings' lead. I have done nothing to receive this label of seniority, any more than I deserve the choices that pave my way.

In a land that boasts Chanda Kochhar, Sudha Murti, Kalpana Chawla and Bachendri Pal, lives Lakshi. Can I live with that ? Can you?

Who will stand tall when 'they come for me?'

My community is in crisis right now and I feel the pain. Students, parents and families are reeling under job losses on the one hand and the tumultous events of a long drawn out civil war on the other. One supports, one sticks up for the cause of humanity and one internalises the negative sentiments expressed by many at the inconvenience in their life due to some others who exercise their humanitarian right to be heard. We go about our days hanging on tight lest we say more than we are allowed to. After all, we are expected to speak only as much as we are allowed and no more. We have to wait in line, hat in hand for permission to ask for what is a given to many. As there is a saying in Hindi that my 11 year old son has understood for its true value and rhetoric: Tumhara khoon, khoon. Hamara khoon paani ( Your blood is blood, and my blood is water).

Do we need to exhibit tolerance at a time like this ( from my ivory tower, I tolerate you) or must we open our hearts?

Who will stand tall when 'they come for me?'

My kinda day

Just when the spirit begins to slump, along comes my kinda day. Since January with the new responsibilities at work and deadlines galore, I have been steadily pushing myself to meet them and my own high expectations of what I must do for my students and community. As always, in keeping the needs of others at the top of the list, my own fell by the wayside and I received a swift reminder about my neglect. Whoever had heard of simple coughs and colds turning into a raging case of bronchitis? And me, who until now, had breezed through childhood and three decades with not as much as a fever to mark the day. Well, several weeks of misery later the chest pains began which turned out to be a fractured rib ( how does one get that at 43 with no school yard or bar-room brawls is quite a mystery. )

I survived the good-natured ribbing by my students and children about ' safe schools' and 'stay out of trouble Ms. Karnad-Jani or there is a suspension waiting for you' etc. I made it through to May.

I needed to refresh my soul connections and to recharge my energy. So I stayed home, could not trudge off to work another day.

And it was my kinda day: rainy, green, grey and oh so Lonavala!! For a Mumbaikar in the sweltering humidity, the change to the green spaces of the Khandala Ghats ( look that up, lots to learn) is the benchmark. I sat on the backyard swing, spoke to Amma, and Kshitij. Dug in the garden, dislodged many bunches of forget-me-nots and re-located them. Landscaped the front garden and connected with what I loved best. Da kink in my hair reminded me of who I am as I had lunch with Jagjit Singh and Tum nahin, gham nahin sharaab nahin. The lilac tree with its windchime and the water dripping off the ferns, the birds silent until the sun peeped out coming to the birdbath for a splash and the peace.

The sun has come out now which means I have to find a cooler space. A good day and it is not even over yet.

The Universe conspired with me today.

Namesake?

I remember reading Jhumpa Lahiri's Namesake through one night two years ago, the only other book I stayed up for was " The Bridges of Madison County" in 1995. And as dawn broke over the Eastern horizon, I had made up my mind: I was in a new country, a new set of rules and I was going to do what I have always wanted to do: take my name back.

Stereotypes abound when it comes to women and more so of South Asian descent in my new country. I smile or cringe when ill informed people wax eloquent about ' those people raising their daughters to be meek and docile" Yeah right, tell that to Indira Gandhi, Benazir Bhutto, Khalida Zia, Sheikh Hasina, Maneka Gandhi, Chandrika Kumaratunga, Medha Patkar, Bachendri Pal and Kalpana Chawla......

My father raised me well. While Amma took care of the softer aspects of my personality, he stood up for the values he was instilling in my young mind. At 19 when I readied myself to go to Bangalore alone on a overnight train, he reminded all the worriers that as long as "Rashmee kept her wits about her and did not walk off into the sunset leaving her belongings on the berth, there was no way she was going to be hoodwinked": oh the joy of that!! Life is indeed a self fulfilling prophecy. I was raised to believe that I would make mistakes sometimes but I was not to live every single day worrying about the next one or blaming myself for the previous one. And that has freed me to be who I am and enjoy every moment of it.

So there it is: I am a Karnad and always have been.

So two years ago began my quest of taking back my name. Three sets of forms later, my boss's sister, a provincial judge, said to me when I asked her to sign the forms: "You are taking back what was always yours, you need no one's permission to do that. Yet I waited.. I had to get my highway licence and then change my name once and for all on that piece of id. The next step was my passport. I had always written as KARNAD-JANI for the last 16 years so my literary identity was not changing.

So I got my licence and changed my name and that was that. I had practised my signature and was delighted with it.

But old habits die hard. I had requested a copy of Jhumpa Lahiri's Unaccustomed Earth from the library and received a call yesterday to collect the copy. So off I went this cold February afternoon and searched for the book: Jain, Jensen, .... the list went on and still no book.

And then came the sudden realisation: of course I was not there,. I was under KARNAD wasn't I? I looked and there I was: as safe as I had always been. And the smiles of my Elders broke through the winter clouds.

BTW "Unaccustomed Earth" is a great book. Real, wistful, very touching.

You CAN go home!

This is Shantikunj, the first home I ever knew. Today, Feb 14th 2009, my youngest brother moved into his palatial condo in Thane a verdant suburb of Mumbai. And a page of my childhood was turned forever.

I have an overflowing heart right now, spoke to Kshitij, my brother. Asked him the very question he has asked me since I married and moved on to other homes: "Does it feel the same". And he said to me: " Kinda, you know how it is". Days will move forward. He will get used to the greenery outside his window and he will make new memories. And in the midst of that, Shantikunj will beckon, with all the memories we have there. Who says that the old house is empty? All the days that we spent together are there waiting for us to return and reclaim them. After all, marbled floors, however precious, do not replace the cold floors of my mother's kitchen. And we all get it: that is the gift.

Here is a poem I had written long ago.

Memories

The sultry air, the promise of rain,
A certain smell in a passing train,
Summers past and pleasure
Thrills

Raw mangoes from a tall tree,
Well water and ferry rides,
Bicycling in the fields,
Kites on the hillock,

Hatching butterflies and chickens,
Wind in our hair
Long drives, dark nights
And sandy beaches.
Special outings and memories

We move on
Life takes us away
From the days that were such fun
Special moments

The first rains still recall.
I look back all those years ago
We were children together
Do you remember?