I wonder standing at your door

What do they say to my children?

once the doors are closed

and the bell rings, 

and I leave 

to cook and clean

I come back at noon 

with a hot lunch

and wait patiently 

listening

to words I understand

yet I cannot speak in, 

or scream in 

even when I want to

so I nod 

and smile and they smile back

some of them look like me 

and I wonder 

do they step in 

when my children hurt

do they fight or 

even speak up, or walk away

when people laugh 

at my child's ignorance

or habits

or the smell of curry on his jacket?

I wonder who speaks f

or my child when I am not there

From school back home, 

I remember the sting 

on my hand from the cane

but here, 

they say they don't hit children

so that is good, yeah?

yet I see the light go 

from my child's eyes

every year, far away

and I know 

but cannot ask

does she speak, I wonder, 

the one who looks like me

or the one with the kind eyes

or is se also silenced, 

for different reasons: 

of pay, 

or pain 

or for friendship 

What do they say to my children I wonder

About them 

and about me

what do they say 

about my children, 

I wonder

What do they say about yours?

Do you wonder too, my sister?

Confused mother, sister, aunt, teacher, Master's Candidate, Citizen of the World

The Foremothers’ wonderings

Who is this child?

This special child

I wonder

when I see
The radiance
of shining Spirit

Who is this child ?

walking with strong strides

Towards paths

Uncharted yet

And beckons us,

her foremothers

to walk with her

This honey-eyed child

Dreamt of, gifted

Citizen of the world.

Dedicated to the women we are and the daughters we are gifted

who walk the paths dreamt of by our foremothers

Don’t cry for me

Don ‘t cry for me

I say to the girl

who has shown me the way

Through a life

lived with grace and courage

 And the little one replies

How can I cry for you

when you are so strong?

 I wish for her all

the joy that she dreams of

Feminist as she is

Yet a lover of Austen

I want her to be cared for

And I wish for her all the clean dishes

and folded laundry

Canadian Experience

Canadian experience

They lack, they have

We lack, we have

And then she says

My newest sister

from a far-off corner 

just her voice rings out

strong and filled

with all the lived life

of her journey

and her experience

She says:

 

Canadian experience is not the same

For everyone 

Maybe all of us eat pancakes 

But some of us 

eat chutney with them

And my heart soars 

As there were always many ways  

of being

 

Yet only now we have

The voice to write

On all four walls

Silent spaces

There hasn't been any blogging lately, just thinking. There hasn't been any blogging lately, just observations. There hasn't any been blogging lately, just silent spaces.

Not silenced spaces, just silent ones. And that is okay, it's all fine.

It's a busy time with lots to do. I can do either this or that. I need the limited cache of mental energy to get through days and to focus on simple life sustaining tasks such as safe driving, making meals and breathing. How did it get to be this way?

I suppose taking risks does that. I reach out of a dysconscious phase of "chalta hai", "laissez faire" or " it will forever be this way". So called well wishers warned me "Watch out, you're sticking your neck out, little turtle. They'll come after you".

I didn't listen, I don't listen. I have had my shell hammered on so many times over the past decade that I am bruised and battered inside. I decide that I must poke my head out and do what needs to be done. I am a tortoise, and no one expects me to win against the hare: fast, glib and oh-so-reputable. Everyone knows she can run fast, everyone knows she'll get there.

In fact they expect her to make it to the finish line every time. Not some turtle who can't even walk on ice. The hare has many friends and lots of charm. And I am the tortoise, who slips back into my shell often, so social chatter for me, I just don't know how to hold a wide audience in the palm of my hand.

Yet with my bruised self wrapped inside the shell that is scratched from all those hard knocks, I decide I am going to try this to run this race.

And I do. And they were right. They did come for me. They still do. They watch my every move, I am not imagining it. Come visit, you'll know what I mean.

Yet, I am fine. I am not afraid, I am not hesitant. The children are okay. That's all that matters.

And this silence is special, because it is percolating and processing the stimuli. If you know me  at all, and if you know where I've been and can guess one twist in the journey, you will rejoice too, as I do.

For wrapped in this silence is a voice: strong and shining.

I continue to speak in different ways: sometimes mind maps, sometimes posters, sometimes hashtags, sometimes tweets, sometimes recipes- they are all texts.

My denim jacket is a text too. You just need the courage to read it.

So here's to eating my pancakes with chutney...

And that is another story for another time.

One button on my jacket says: Well behaved tortoises seldom make history.

Happy Gonesh everyone

Ganpati bappa morya. Just a little bit of this and that as I sit in silence after Ganesh Chaturthi. The house is fragrant with agarbati, mogra and a little something called ugdaas.

This brass aarti paler is from Tulsi Baug, Pune. The idol is from Princess Street carved by a little boy we knew who grew up to be a gifted artist. And the fruit from distant places that made their way to Markham. The jasmine flowers are from Scarborough via who knows where. There's a website, I am told. The agarbatis from Ramji Vani in Naigaum bought in December 2010, my last visit there. And the holder is from Panaji, Goa bought from a gift shop near Fidalgo Hotel. Everything is a story.

Pujas and dosa evenings have something in common in my home: they both set off the fire alarm. Today, the camphor set off the hallway alarm and Rani dashed off to spend the rest of the Aarti upstairs in her bed in a huff.

 

Working alone listening to music of the day, I made shira, daali toi, rice, cabbage upkari and cucumber kocholi with rai chi phodni. Simple fare, special though.

 

I realised that I cannot have my Ganpati lunch without the aroma of cucumber kocholi with the crunch of mustard seeds. Go figure!

 

Record time lunch prep in an hour. Made cabbage bhaji as I had no time to chop phansi for gomti upkari.

 

No dabbya khana, I don't have time to make and no one eats more than a bite. I can't make patrado and don't like the store bought patra as its not amchi.

 

Whatever was missing today was felt deeply the heart.

 

All else was here, right where I am.

 

Making new memories is what life is all about nhavein? Else how can we move forward?

 

Happy Gonesh everyone. 

Montreal Home

"At home. Love you"

says a text message

 

following the rule of

Check In With Mamma

 

My heart leaps for joy

pounds a little and

a second later-stills

 

realises that there    

are now

many homes