Coin Purse

In from the softly falling snow
buying coffee to keep me going through
the next few hours

the change in my purse
makes me smile

some rupees, some two
some dollars, some quarters
and dimes

just like me
all mixed up together
the Indian and Canadian bits of me

with a `small decaff, one milk please. To go` here
and a `kitna hua`there

each part special
each part just right
just me

A new year, a new me?

I did not expect to feel so settled therefore pleasantly surprised. The first few days back were brutal and then it sinks in that this is it. And I have to move forward. Small routines, like waking up at 5 and sitting with a candle lighting up the serene face in the photograph. The candle flickers on and I brace myself to get through the next step: just get ready and get through that door....

The siblings sounds so grown up now when they call. They want to see how I am doing as I am here by myself. They apologise for asking questions about this and that related to our loss. "Do you feel as if you grew up twice, Didi? Once when Pappa died and again now" Oh, they were so little. And to think now they stand taller than I do.

The void is what got to me at first until I look inward and in doing so fill in the gaps.

And the circle of love that held me this week: the children with their unconditional love, Deval with his no-nonsense management of day to day matters, the students who scan my face for signs of grief and even when I am not teaching them, pass my door asking " Are you okay, Ms. Karnad-Jani" They sometimes just stand there and watch me go about my filing and marking and then they say bye and off they go, reassured that I will make it through until I see them again.

My sisters at school, with an early morning hug, a passing smile, a kind word. And the stoic presence of the brothers who stand beside me; the banter, the silent glance, the wave across the hallway.

I am thankful for so much love, so many blessings. A new year, a new me. Amma has left me with enough to get me through the rest of my life. She has left me the resilience to face each day, the grace to give thanks, the courage to keep standing. And above all to believe in her oft repeated reminder: This too shall pass.

Three weeks ago, I remember sitting and observing myself beside her still form. Today, I marvel at the innate strength she left in each of us.

This too is immortality.

Mee Mumbaikar

Mornings meant tending to the ceremonial lamp for 13 days in my parents' home surrounded by memories. And in the early hours before my daily puja, I walked the streets of my beloved neighbourhood.
A former hub of the textile industry, Naig...aum-Parel is now the elite mid-town for those who have the land. For those who did not have anything, tuberculosis was the gift.

Slum Dog indeed. What do you know?
It takes a certain grit and determination to live through the squalor. And to live with dignity, to wear crisply ironed clothes to work and to school, to line up for crowded trains where at anytime the random bullets of a glassy eyed gunman can make one a mere statistic. I return to the street of my Mumbai, as a Mumbaikar. Never as an expat, never as a First World Citizen. I return as a daughter and I am welcomed with open arms.

Mee, Mumbaikar.

Just sitting

this is not even grief: no stages here
it is a deep despair
like oil slick
that threatens to cut off my breath
like falling down the rabbit hole that never ends

and when people
however well meaning
console and counsell,
I wish they had learned to just sit
and be there
instead of wanting to

make themselves useful
and get inside my thoughts

and not seek to tell me
how their grief was worse

and mine is better
as I had three hours before the end

why is it about you I want to ask
and risk the outraged looks: after all the trouble
they went through to support me

I have one title less than before
I have one question now:

Do I cease to be a daughter,
now that
I am an orphan?

So Near Yet So Far

I see myself in the mirror

(Or do I see you?)

As I brush my teeth at bedtime

Far away,

in another world,

you are waking up

As I try to sleep

and maybe to dream

I hear something

Is that time ticking away?

Or is that my heartbeat?

that drones mournfully

through the endless night

I sound like you, I’m told

and now I see, with painful curiosity

that I even look like you

My hands look like yours, my son says

And when I weep, my face crumples up

just as yours would have done

if only you let us see your tears

Your smile is more serene

My hair, more silver than yours

Is this just DNA?

or some divine miracle?

That I am destined to see myself

as if I see you,

in my mirror everyday

The only solace,

until I see you again...

Unfinished Business

Candles lit,
I sit in this peaceful room
and think of gifts
I smile
Life did not give up on me
She showed up arms laden with
memories
of longings
sweet moments of
togetherness
and love to last a lifetime

Mere Dushman, Mere Bhai, Mere Humsaye

The title translates as: "My enemy, my brother, my soulmate" Why this tonight?

Life puts me in such interesting situations that I have to abandon everything I have been told this far and find new truths to answer the new questions that rise to the fore.

I was 5 years old when a war was fought. I was teenager when cricket matches reached a fever pitch and people rose like one being to applaud or mourn whichever outcome we were faced with.

Then in 1999, came another war. I was far away in Vietnam and in the naivete of people far away from the front line, those of us whose sons were not in the line of fire, we dug deep into our pockets to send money to the soldiers. Kargil went from being another just another name on the map to being a real place.

Today, my oldest nephew is training to be a soldier; his foremost job is going to be keep his country safe. I look at his photographs, standing tall and serious faced in his shiny uniform as a gentleman cadet and I think back to the little boy I had held softly close to my chest, hugging his sleeping form. His mother, my best friend and sister sat across to me in the bus going home, smiling indulgently. He was the first baby I every held as if my own. I was willing to fight to the finish for that little boy to be safe. Today he is being asked to do the same for me. This scares me. I love that young man very much and pray for him everyday, I light a lamp for him at Diwali.

Now where is this leading I wonder. Thanks to my `not cleared to drive`status until Sunday, I am calling a cab to go to work every morning. Taking the bus to work is not a possibility as the mornings are a whirlwind of activity, I barely make it out of the door at 7: 15. I had called on Monday evening to book the morning taxi service for the week. The despatcher gave me a special rate of 12 dollars per trip. Yesterday,I mentioned this to the driver, a gentleman from my neighbour country, fellow Canadian in my adopted land. Although he had not received this alert from his office, he agreed and let me pay him the pre-decided fare.  Later that day, I called again and learned much to my dismay, that there was no such special rate entered into the system: I owed the man 3 dollars for the trip yesterday.

As I waited for the taxi this morning, I agonised over this debt. Raised to stand by the highest standards of honesty, I was rewarded by a pleasant  surprise. It was the same driver today. As he made room for me, I explained the situation and offered to pay the difference of 3 dollars. He drove me to work explaining how to solve an algebraic equation. I sat there listening, he clearly had a story. At the end, in the drop off loop, he said to me: "I am an engineer from back home. You are a teacher. You understand hisaab, or accounts. You said you owed me 3 dollars, this shows me that your conscience is alive. Had I asked you to pay me, I would not believed in goodness. But you took the effort to ask my despatcher and you sought to pay that debt" As I pulled out 15 dollars to pay him, he remarked: 3 left over from yesterday, 12 for today. 15 in total. I will return one dollar because you are my sister. " Aap meri behen ho. Ek dollar rakhiye"

I walked into school clutching that dollar coin. It made no monetary difference to his pocket or mine, yet I felt that my heart was richer.

 "Sarhadd ke uss paar se kuch mehmaan aye they" Guests had come to visit from across the border. Shaayad unme se ek mera bhai hoga. Perhaps one of those guests is my brother.

As for the dollar, it has been stuck in my journal with a piece of clear tape.