Looking ahead...

As I look back on the year that was, I can only give thanks. Just that.

Many new gifts came our way and the children and I are thankful for that. Many old paths fell away and that's okay.

I realised that there are different kinds of connections: ones that ask "what happened" out of a general curiosity, while there are others who ask "are you okay, how can I help, what do you need", few, therefore precious.

And wait, there is a third category who remind me that they are "luckier, happier, more fortunate" than me, as they are "loved, cared for, genuinely". I smile then as this ephemeral superiority is so fragile and insecure, where we think ourselves happier because others are perceived as unhappy.

It is very easy to get into a competitive happiness/wellness/fortunate-ness game. Walk kindly then, and gently.

It is what it is, for each and every one of us.

So, I can only give thanks, for all the love and laughter in my life. For all the wonderful friends and family, near and far who touch my life.

Living with gratitude and grace. Not a single bottle of wine was opened to achieve this peace, not one. Not sorry, LCBO.

It was a great 2014. I grew wings.

Little Bhaskar and his special raincoat

Here is a story I have wanted to share with you from long ago. So here goes. 

Your grandfather, BRK, was born on 15th May 1935. He was the only son of his parents. He grew up in Grant Road, a place in South Mumbai, which was also where I spent 2 years of her life. We called him Pappa.

His mother, Radha Heble-Karnad, was quite a story teller. As I was the only grandchild for a long time, until Shashank was born, Teeamma used to regale me with stories from days gone by. This is how I know many stories about Pappa's childhood. He used to always say, 'She is going to be the next generation story teller' as he reminded his mother to keep out the ' uh-oh' bits. But she persisted and told me all about everyone she could remember. What a wonderful legacy ! This is why, I feel like ' a keeper of memories'. 

Bhaskar went to Robert Money School in Grant Road. He loved to read and used to hide comic books inside his text books during class time! (1) He used to love helping his mother to cook, kinda like you do. He used to go down from his building to fetch vegetables from the vendors in the street, like Kaaveri does. Perhaps this early grooming led to his life-long habit of 'baajaar-haat' on Sundays and cooking 'tamata ma eendoo' for breakfast. We remember these memories with fondness to this day. This story from his childhood is my favourite especially because it has continued in a rich family tradition for us and now you. " Monsoon Moods" when we get wet in the rains every year!! 

One monsoon, in June, little Bhaskar started school (I have used his name just so you see your grandfather when he was a little boy. His Ayee (my Teeamma) had bought him a brand new raincoat (perhaps it was blue or olive green, just the right colour for a little boy) and gum boots (galoshes, if you will). He was very excited. He could not wait to wear the raincoat to school. He couldn't wait to splash in the puddles on his way home. Poor little Bhaskar, he waited and he waited and he waited. It did not rain at all, that day. Nor the next. Bhaskar was getting worried now. " Will it even rain this year" he wondered? " Will I ever get to splash in those puddles in my nice new boots". Dragging his disappointed feet, he slowly got ready for bed. He must have put away his boots at the door and folded his raincoat neatly in a bag to take with him the next day. Just then, he heard a loud clap of thunder. Crash, Boom, Shudder. Bhaskar was not one to be afraid of a little thunder. He had other things to do. 

When his Ayee looked around for him, little Bhaskar was nowhere to be seen!!! Then she heard an excited voice calling. She rushed to the verandah and looked down. There, in the now empty street, in the dark, dark night, was little Bhaskar, wearing his raincoat, splashing in those large puddles. Splash, splash, splash. He laughed and he called her. He danced around, all the while enjoying his new raincoat. 

He had got his rainy day after all, well night. He was overjoyed and could not stop smiling. After some time, when he had played to his heart's content, he came back home. With a HUGE smile on his now dry face, Bhaskar went to sleep dreaming of splashing even as the raindrops sang a soft, lullaby in his ear. 

That little boy grew up to be my father and do you know something? He always loved the rain. He used to take all 4 of us to the terrace or the compound , whichever house we ever lived in, to enjoy the rain. When Vikha and Kshitij were little, he used to carry them each on one arm. I used to hold Shashank's hand and away we would go. Amma would caution him to say " The kids will catch a cold" Did he listen? You bet he didn't. Dads are like that sometime. In giving us memories, they visit the little boys they once were. And this is why we love them so much.

So when you get wet in the rain, or watch me standing in the backyard blissfully drenched, think of this story. This is the RainDance Ajju left us. This is his wonderful gift!!

My Teeamma had told me this story when I was a little girl. I am writing to you the day before my 46th birthday. I think back to the stories I have heard from Elders and I look back at all the happy times I spent with them. Now as I stand at the frontline, I am the Elder. And I go back to my Teeamma's reminder that " the stories must be passed on, lest we lose them"

 January 6th, 2012

(1) 

The 'hiding comic books in text book' snippet was shared with us by Sunder maam (Hattangdi) when he and Lina Maushi (Balse) visited us in Markham. The kids were delighted at this information and so was I.

~Rashmee Karnad-Jani

On being served and watching that sunrise

She's amazed at how clear this Saturday is. She slept well, very well. Thank you very much. She's joyful and so are her friends and children. The leaves from the trees around the pergola have all fallen away, detritus now, waiting to go back into the Earth and nourish what is to come after - fresh life in Spring.

She looks back at the day that was and breathes deeply. She is okay. Who knew that this would be so? And she is okay, that is all that matters.

Two decades and then one more of tying up loose ends have been very fulfilling. She had had the precious gift of 12 years in an old country that is now her adopted home, that is now more of a safe space to her and the children than the place that is listed on her birth certificate and theirs. She lives in that birthplace, mostly in memories of a verandah and a home that was once filled with plants, and happy voices, each one tended to, lovingly.  She belongs in both places, she in fact belongs in many.

Yesterday, she recalls, she woke before her alarm and remembered that she was "being served" that morning. The man who wanted his freedom had picked an able ally to deliver the papers to her. "He will come to the house at 7 am or 7 pm" she was told in a series of terse text messages while she was still at work on a long day of parent teacher interviews that Thursday. She had ignored the messages until she had finished speaking with all the families who deserved 100% of her attention at that time,

Then she had stood firm: "I do not want him to come to my children's home. I do not want him to knock on my door, 7 am or 7 pm" she had said. " But "he has to go to work and that's the only time he has", he said, the man hereafter known as co-parent.  She smiled and breathed through the familiar element of control and insistence as if she was there to always fulfil his convenience and that of his sidekicks. "No", she replied, "He will not come to my home. He can 'serve me the papers' at my school tomorrow. I will be there at 7:30" 

Why the school?, you want to know. Won't there be people there? You'd think she'd want to keep this quiet, you are thinking. Oh, the shame of it !  But this is the blessing. That school is her 'dharma bhoomi' where she does her spiritual work. That is where she is touched by the kindness of many friends, wonderful families and students. That is where she does her heartwork that goes beyond a bi weekly pay check. That is where she draws strength from the sunrise in the forest where spirits dwell.

She did not want that man, that oh-so-trusted friend of the co-parent, the deliverer of sealed envelopes,  in her house now, or ever. Shh, ever is a final term, she thinks as she writes this. However, she remembered quite clearly, the World Cup cricket tournament in 2011 in spite of having a very sick child to attend to, she had organised a match day with a huge breakfast spread of strawberries and pancakes, eggs and toast, this and that. She remembers the conversations of teppal and ambshein-tikshein and cooking a special five course seafood spread for him, the sidekick, that had moved him to tears. She had been happy to do that at a time when the co-parent had sat sunk in his own despair and thoughts and she had seen the writing on the wall: that was going to be perhaps the last meal she had cooked for this man, who was then a family friend. She remembered a dosa party at their house, one maybe. And she also remembered doing what she did in the face of their bereavement. But then that was her way. She had noticed that things had changed, since he had picked a side and freely given his signature on every place that needed a witness. She had observed the forced smiles at a get-together. She had marvelled that he had hugged her children at the same evening, as if he was not complicit in the goings on that were tearing their family apart. She had graciously answered the few inane, vacuous questions his wife had asked at the evening, to fill a space. She remembered that this otherwise chatty woman had averted her gaze and trotted off to sit down at a prayer meeting recently.

She also remembered that her children referred to this man as uncle. She perhaps wanted to spare him the shame of having chosen a side. She also did not want him to come to her home to do the bidding that he had chosen to do. She did not want him to enter a space that was spiritually clean and filled with human values that had been instilled in her for years: loyalty and the ability of staying true to courageous conversations.

She noticed that sheepish grin and lowered head as soon as he emerged from his car and dragged his feet over to her in the still dark, school parking lot. He had not thought this through when he chose to be dragged into this matter, she thought seeing him. Usually even for references, people call the ones you place there and let them know that you are using their name. He had not had the courage to pick up that phone even once and inform her that he had forgotten the salt tasted in her home and that he was a witness and an ally. Of course she did not blame him for the leaving or the severance. It was the casualness of this whole alliance that fascinated her. Nothing surprised or shocked her anymore.

And now he was here: chosen again to be the bearer of the lawyer's package and sent off to 'serve the package' to her. He had been found out and he was face to face with her courage. "Hello" he said. She observed her compassionate response to this sorry sight of a man who had chosen a side and did not know how to deal with the accompanying baggage. She actually felt sorry for his confusion and his shame.


She also felt sorry that he could never speak of this shame to anyone, without implicating himself. He could only hide it behind the worry of being found out. Later that evening, when he had been tripped by a question of a casual rumour, perhaps, he lashed out at her peaceful Friday in outrage at someone else's gossip that implicated his part in the matter, she was calm:

      "People do gossip, you should know that.  You should have thought about your part in this matter before you picked a side. Now that you have, stay on that side" she told him. "Do not monitor my social media posts and police my writing, I have not hired you in the role of a big brother or a father". She remembered a saying from her mother tongue: Pattal guvantu phattar ghallyaari, angaari ussallta" So there you have it. It splashed onto you. For all those signatures on forms and witnessing the process and serving the papers, you don't seem to have thought this through. 

You picked a side, so you stay on that side. Actions have consequences. Everyone knows that. And you MUST read the fine print of the sidekick contract. Maybe now that many will know what a fine job you do at signing papers and serving lawyers' packages, there will be more knocking down your door for your loyal services. That should be fun...And do not text me in triplcate everytime someone asks you about your role as able sidekick. Be strong and no boo hoo please. 

She had said nothing earlier that morning, just stretched out her hand to collect the envelope with the lawyer's stamp on it and it was taped up, not sealed. Whatever. She put the envelope in her car and walked to the edge of the parking lot, through the school yard, past the cricket pitch, by the vegetable patch that students had planted. She looked at the flaming horizon and watched the sun's rays blaze a golden arc into the cold November sky. She pulled out her phone and photographed her favourite sunrise, her namesake rays as old as time in this ancient land.

One loose end at a time is being tied up and she smiles now as she counts her blessings. She knows that when people want to leave they do, and there is nothing you can do to stop them. She lives in the light of understanding and compassion, nurtured by mindfulness and metta.

She has a teaspoon of teppal in her fridge. Maybe she should throw that out now. It's stale. Like many other things that are better off thrown out. 

P.S: This writer observes the human condition and her place in it through a sociological lens. It's amazing how powerful the 'single mother, 'single woman' label is in the minds of many. Refer the work of Griffith, A.I and Smith, D for further academic learning.

My past tense life

My Past Tense Life

25 February 2011 at 09:43

PublicFriendsFriends except acquaintancesOnly MeCustomFamilymerind limited (ex merck sharp & dohme)See all lists...Markham, Ontario AreaAcquaintancesGo Back

 " I love having a Mamma"
quips that quick-witted child
and I cannot see the road ahead anymore,
for the tears that come unbidden

I, bratty inside
stamp my foot, mentally though
I did too, until recently

to talk to, laugh with
to read between the lines of her stories
to guess what bothered her today
or who
or what she yearned for, just out of reach

that grief comes in trickles somedays
on others, as waves crashing through
for just a moment or two though,
rations of sadness
that's all I am allowed

as a mother myself, with jobs and roles
the mask musn't slip
"I live for thee", she'd quote often

today it is my mantra
cursed, as she was
to smile through my tears

25th February 2011

I like to write with brightly coloured pens

I like to write with

brightly coloured pens

on days like this

when the Universe

smiles in simple ways

when a curly-haired boy

plays the saxophone

and hums under his breath

driving me crazy

in an endearing way

or my honey-eyed daughter

rests on my shoulder

several heads shorter than hers

before running off to catch

one more diamond-bright dream

or a behind-the-scenes team

pulls together

to find answers to questions

and the hope of hugging my sister everyday

actually seems possible

when an almost-forgotten L@S grant

comes through, unexpected

making me whoop in delight

that my students will have what they need

although I have no Godfather anywhere

high above the clouds

the sun continues to shine

somewhere in the world, all day

I remember this universal truth

as I continue to write with

brightly coloured pens.

(c) 14th April 2011

BRK

BRK

  

My father's initials

are imprinted on my heart

as they are on
every laundry tag
from Gajanan Power Laundry in Naigaum
where time stands still

He taught me to love the rain
and to walk in it
revelling in the cool drops that caress my face
to this day

I turn my face up to the sky
hoping to see someone familiar
amidst the clouds

too much Disney does this
to grown women

and on his 76th birthday
as the rain greens the Earth

I think of the man
who left too soon

who my children know well
through the stories I tell

and I say to him
Come, see who we have become
after 24 years of parting
Come, see our children
and our homes
and our dreams

As I wear my silver hair
proudly
his gift to me
I know that blessings have
guided my footsteps
how else could I have
walked this far alone?

(c)
May 15th, 2011

This rainy Sunday, it is Hindustani

22nd May 2011

Kayee saalon se zindagi kuch jamm see gayee hai,

ab waqt hai woh karney ka jo karna padta hai,

lekin jaantey hai hum

key iss doar ke baad, ayengey woh din

jab dil aazaad hoga
aur hum woh karr sakengey
jiski khwaish barson se hai hamarey saath
jisey kabhi tanhaai mein
hum halkey se choootey hain
aur kehtey hain
bass thodi der aur
ruko zaraa
jeena ab bhi baaki hai
(dedicated to my desire to learn the sitar someday, for which my busy life right now, does not give even a sliver of time)