Mid-day blossoms

two colleagues just dropped by

to deliver flowers and a card to say

get well soon,

come, back

life sends surprises

and I, as I am today

dishevelled

tired

without the veneer of my work life

tongue tied

stared back in barely concealed delight

at being face to face

with genuine eyes

and revived

spent the next 15 minutes

finding vases, pretty blue bottles

and filling them with fragrance

from the relationships that

keep me sane.

The Women Who Raised Me

I have had many mothers; the women who raised me created me in many ways or moulded my spirit to be what it is now. Yes, a hurtling life pace takes you along like a leaf on a swift current but at times like these, that leaf snags onto something solid and rests while. And I go back all those years ago when I was surrounded by so much love that it the warmth still envelopes me when I invoke it.

My grandmother, Radha Heble Karnad was well known to many as a strict disciplinarian and a woman with a sharp tongue. I knew her as an amazing story teller who instilled in me the love of memories. She gave me her gift and her job of being the Memory Keeper and today her lovely picture as a yougn women graces the Ancestor's Wall of my home. I called her Teamma, which in Konkani means ' that mother'. I have learned to categorise memories into two groups: felt memories and narrated memories. The former are ones I remember, the latter are ones that were told to me, and I love them too.

When I was a baby, Amma, my mother used to work and Teeamma took care of me. She fed me warm varan-bhaat with tomatoes and made them appealing by calling them ' pivla jhaga, laal topi'. I remember the strains of Aakashvani playing in the neighbourhood when she fed me in eht semi-circular chair in our home at Dadar. She would then draw the curtains and tuck me in for a nap. She was Teeamma as the other mother and that is who she remained.

Diwali in those days was magical. I was the only child, the firstborn of only children surrounded by two sets of doting grandparents too and a great grandmother. The couple who lived on the same floor as us, Patil Mama and Atya Bai did not have children of their own, so they were also part of the family and loved me to bits.

Teemma used to take me to see the Devi idol at Dassera. In an alcove between Saint Paul's Church and the Iranian Bakery near Hindmata Theatre in Naigaum ( secularism at its best). she would show an awestruck 3-4 year old the Devi and say" Look, there She is, fighting evil. Do you see the demon that She has slayed?" She explained to me that the 'demon' was a symbol of evil and we don't randomly go around killing people. Those were the days of the Raman Raghav case and I was very aware that this was BAD.

And I remember asking her: How come She has 8 arms? I have just two as do you" And she laughed out loud, and explained: "Her 8 arms just show you that She is powerful. You are a girl and you too are strong like Her" I don't think I ever forgot that message.

At Diwali, she would warm cocounut oil with crushed pepper corns.

And I sit with this memory of days past, I smile and remember what Teeamma taught me:
I am strong
I am not alone
and I am the daughter of Shakti
 

Diwali is here...again

Ebenezer Scrooge was visited by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet-to-Come. And here I am on Dhanteras day sifting through memories. Spoke to the family, and remembered some more. Amma with her unbeatable spirit, her zest for life reminded me of the 'jal pooja'we performed at Dadar, cleaning the brass taps with tamarind and not Brasso. The fragrance of crushed marigold and mango leaves, the unravelling of the 'toran', the crisp November air where even the dust has a whiff of magic. We would place little bits of toran aroudn the taps, Vishakha with her beautiful Diwali Rangoli. Dividing up the fire crackers that Pappa bought from Abdul Rehman Street or Mohammad Ali Road ( no Ram-Rahim controversies in his heart, he was truly a wise man). And later from good ol' Dadar Market.

Patil Bai's batata poha, the waking up at the crack of dawn.... But even before that there were other days when I was not yet a care giver......and the Elders were around me, each one of them.

I am in pain. My neck is painful and I have a throbbing soreness all the way down to my arm and I am not happy at the way my life has changed. I am one of the safest drivers I know: no distractions, always on speed limit, no multi-tasking while I drive. I am

The poor kids have been very supportive and have been eating take out (thanks to many Desi places in Markham, bread and fruit.

My son asked me yesterday, whispered in my ear as I was leaving for the lawyer's office:
"Can you make your chicken and potato curry for dinner." I have not cooked for days. I cannot chop vegetables, least of all potatoes that are hard. So my 12 year old son will help me do this.

These were my daughter's grade 10 exams too: yet I was never home. I was either at my physiotherapist  or at the lawyers office or the doctor or the massage therapist. I could not do anything that she needed so that she could continue to study. She had to take care of her brother to make up for my absence. Her father would drive me around from visit to visit, as I wasn't yet driving myself. My neck hurts.


I realise that this has taken a toll on the wellbeing of my family although on the surface I am able to walk etc.

Slowing down like this has an impact on everything and everyone. When her father was away last week, she woke up at 5 am to clean the house and make lunch for all of us, sandwiches for three take a long time when you are 16 and groggy from studying half way through the night.

People outside of this life see only the two cars in the driveway (one now as the other has been fully paid for yet towed away, smashed beyond recognition) and the flowers and the UN reports on the best country to live in.

My pain and loneliness are my own.

Yet there are blessings, many. And I am counting them...

When are you coming home?

This question is asked often these days. And it is amazing how so many places are that. Not much to say yet, I am sure that will change when my head clears through this day. Report cards submitted, I am off to enjoy music in the streets: a typical Markham summer beginning. My silver ring lady will be there as will be the slabs of vanilla ice cream with fresh strawberries. Routines are good.

Milestones and moving on

This time of year is all about milestones. When I lived in Mumbai, June was the time for new books, new classes, lots of rain and new green grass. Here, in my home of 8 years, this is the time to say goodbye to grade 8 students as they graduate to their high school phase, to used duotangs where my son's manuscript edited by yours truly is tenderly filed: I stare at it for a long moment.

This is the time when the students who graduated in earlier years and who called me by my hyphenated last name for years suddenly call me ' miss' a message that the high school has done a fine job in many ways.

Milestones are watching my almost beautiful old-soul daughter disguise her excitement at turning 16 and being able to take driving lessons. I sneak a peek at her toothless laughing picture in the old photo album.

Milestones are all about knowing that I have come a long way and understanding that I have been given the gift of enjoying the journey.

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.