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 

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