The Girl Who Read a lot of Books

A Story for my daughter…

*****

This is a story that happened a long time ago. so long that no one really remembers where this story happened, or who told it for the first time, or if this is a story or something that really happened.

 

In a small town, by a small lake, next to a tiny hill and a very large valley, there used to live a little girl called Anaya. Anaya, loved reading books. Really, she was so fond of reading books that sometimes she would forget to eat, sleep, bathe or play when she had a story to finish. Everyone would call out, “Anaya hurry up, you will miss the school bus!”, or they would shout, “Anaya hurry up and eat, your food is getting cold”, or “Anaya come outside and play, we are all waiting for you in the garden”…. But Anaya would barely hear them. She would find a quiet corner in house and read. Sometimes she read under the stair-case, sometimes she read on her parent’s bed, sometimes she read in her grandfather’s room and sometimes she would just sit on a chair in the balcony and read.

 

Everyone thought that she was a bit crazy. Which kid would rather read a book than watch TV? Or play? Or Eat? But Anaya did not care what others thought. She was the happiest when she was left alone with a book. Sometimes she would read books that had pictures in them. Colourful pictures that were smooth and cold to touch and when you opened the book for the first time, they smelt nice. Sometimes she would read the story books that she and her mom got from the library. These books were old, their pages usually had pencil marks and words circled by those who had read them before… and the pages, they were not so smooth but were soft and pale. It did not matter if the books were new or old, if they had a story to tell, Anaya had to give them a chance to tell it !

 

So Anaya and her books, happily spent time together. She would spend time in the ‘Enchanted Woods’, catch criminals with the ‘Famous Five’, train animals at “Mr. Galliano’s Circus” and travel all over the place in her “Wishing Chair”. It was a busy day for her everyday doing all this ! Yet everyone used to think that Anaya is just doing one thing ! Reading books !

 

Anaya did not understand what they were saying. Did they not understand how much work one has to do when you read a story? Anaya first had to imagine what the characters of the story looked like, she had to imagine how they spoke, what they wore and what they smelt like. Sometimes she decided that she did not really like a character at all. But then, she still had to imagine everything about the character before she could decide that. However, her friends really thought reading books was a boring affair and if Anaya really liked her books so much, she might as well be with them by herself.

 

One day, Anaya was invited to a birthday party. She was not very keen to go as she wanted to stay home and read a book. She asked her mother,” Mom is it ok if I don’t go to Navya’s birthday party?”. Her mother said, “No Anaya, Navya would really like it if you went to her party, after-all, she is younger than you and treats you like her elder sister.”.

 

“OK Mom, I will go. Can I at least take a book with me to read in case I get bored?”

 

Her mom rolled her eyes and sighed, “Yes, I guess you can take a book to read”.

 

So Anaya wore her favourite dress, took a story book and went to the birthday party. She did not know many of the kids there so she found a chair in the corner and started to read. A little while later, Navya’s mother gathered everyone around and said, we will now play some party games. Everyone cheered; Anaya was a bit bored. She had never been in a quiz before and just wanted to read her book.

 

“We will now play a quiz”, explained Navya’s Mom. “ I will ask a question, and the kid who knows the right answer gets a lollipop!”

 

“So here is the first question; What is a Big Top?”

 

Everyone was quiet in the room. Suddenly a voice said from the back of the room “It is a large tent where the circus performs”.

 

Everyone turned to see who said it, and Anaya was standing there, a bit surprised that she knew the answer. She had just read about it in the circus stories.

 

“It is the right answer ! Here is your Lollipop!”; everyone cheered for Anaya.

 

“OK, here is the next question: Peru lies in which continent?”

 

“ South America “ Said Anaya before anyone else could respond. How could she not, after all Paddington the bear was from Peru.

 

“Very good Anaya !”

 

And so it went on, Anaya answered many of the questions in the quiz correctly and everyone thought she was a very good quizzer. All she was really doing was she was recalling answers from the stories she had read! Everyone asked her,” Do you study a lot? Do you prepare for quizzes all the time?”; little Anaya just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, I just read books !”

 

 

The Smiling Salesman

“Ma, look! Look what I found in the book!” squealed Nethra in excitement.  “What is it ma what is it?” Shoving the piece of paper in front of my face, she breathed, “Is it about hidden treasure?!”

“Okay, let me first see” I laughed at her excitement and took the paper from her while carefully closing and placing the Encyclopaedia on the side. It was an old book, much used; one that had lasted me all my childhood and now was seeing my daughter’s. The paper in my hand seemed to be a page torn out of a notebook. I curiously opened it out. Nethu was going through an explorer-pirates-old parchment-treasure phase, and no wonder she thought it was a treasure map, as the page had yellowed, and the writing was quite faded. I could make out that it was my mother’s writing though. Even while scribbling her handwriting was so beautiful…  “Its written by your patti” I told my impatient little girl. “And it seems to be a story. I think..” “Can you read it for me ma..please..?”

There he was again. Wearing a crisp blue shirt and dark blue tie and the usual cheerful smile, he was working the road on my right, expertly weaving through the vehicles. How does he do it, I wondered. How can he manage to smile all the time? That too when no one had given him reason yet to do so? I glanced at the signal impatiently, and again looked to my right. He was moving closer now, coming onto my road. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, fuming at the amount of time wasted at this signal every morning .It was one of the busiest crossroads in Pune and I always spent at least 10 minutes waiting for the signal to turn green and for my turn to hasten to my office. Why do I even hurry? I wondered today. Its not like I even enjoy my job. I looked up just then, and there he was, approaching my car with a wide smile when the signal turned green. Shrugging my shoulders at him, I whizzed past with the feeling of having been released from jail. Ironic, since I was actually rushing to one!

I got off from work early today. I had a few errands to run. I found myself at the same signal, and there he was, still. He was there in the morning at 830, and here he is still, at 630 in the evening. And yet, he was smiling. There s something to be learned from him about attitude, I chided myself as he approached me .As I rolled down the window, he recognised me as one of the regulars and said “Hello madam. Are you sure you don’t need them?” he said, smilingly pointing at the heavy book in his hands. “No, thank you” I returned with a smile and he shrugged and smiled widely again. He never ever pushed.  He was a salesman of Encyclopaedias, possibly one of the worst jobs one could have (I had to admit, even worse than mine). How often does a person buy an expensive encyclopaedia? And that too at a traffic signal? In fact, how many people even want to read these days? And yet, there he was, day after day, wearing a crisp shirt and a tie and his ever present smile, always polite, never pushy, apparently selling encyclopaedias. The thing astounded me.

Soon I changed my job, and with that changed the route I took. A year had passed when I came to be at that junction again, and I was in a good mood. My eyes automatically roamed the crossroads looking to see if he was there, my salesman with the attitude. A knock at my left hand side window had me turning, only to find a familiar smile. Smiling back, I rolled down the window. “After a long time madam?” He enquired. “Yes. How are you?” I asked. He still had the book in his hands. “Oh!” I put my hands on my belly at the kick. I was happy, and I wanted to share the happiness. I looked at the signal. It was about to turn green. “Will you come over to that side? I want to buy your book” I told him to his astonishment. “There, right there” I pointed as the light turned green and the multitude of vehicles moved as a mass forward. I stopped to the side and he soon caught up. “You will really buy, madam?” he asked, unsure. “Yes!” I exhaled exuberantly while placing a reassuring hand on my tummy again. I felt a rush of joy and goodwill. Was it my expectant hormones at that point? I don’t know, but I feel gratitude for that man, who unwittingly made me happy just by being himself. How many of us can claim such an honour?

Who knew there was a story behind the first book I laid eyes on?! Thus it was that the encyclopaedia was the first book that was bought for me, before I was even born, before any picture books and flap books and 3D books. For the first 6-8 months, my mother read to me from it. I would turn the pages curiously, looking at the pictures, probably wondering about an exotic mysterious world (This is what she told me) Much later when I was big enough, I remember many an evening spent thumbing through it, lost in fascination in this ocean of information. I was a product of the internet generation, but I retained the love for a book, a lasting legacy of my parents, and in a way too, of the smiling encyclopaedia salesman.

“What does patti mean ma? I don’t understand! Was he a nice man?” asked my little five year old, squeezing her brows together in confusion. All the times spent with that book flashed through my head like the reels of a movie, and all the times I have seen my one thumbing through it… and I said, “Yes baby, he was a nice man”.

 

Sri. Me.And the ghosts of childhood past

I am sitting on the steps in front of the house underneath the cool green canopy of our jasmine bush. While breathing in the subtle fragrance of these delicate white blossoms, I can’t help thinking of my grandpa; my thatha.It is my favourite place in my grandparents’ house in my small hometown of SriRangam. He had planted and nurtured this bush and I can’t help thinking this is his lasting legacy. He passed away a few years ago at the ripe old age of 94. Sitting on these steps, my mind travels through myriad moments across multiple summer holidays , many of which were spent at my uncle’s place a few doors down, where my grandparents used to live before they came here. This summer holiday is a little different from the others. This time, I am here with my little one for her summer holiday, to show her the town that her mother and grandparents hail from. Is it because I want to show off that my heart seems to have more affection for Sri?

I actually like her now.

It wasn’t always like that.

I never really liked Sri growing up. She was too small and too crowded. One had to share space on the streets with shops whose merchandise overflowed on to the street, roadside stalls and raucous vendors, adventurous auto rickshaw wallas, honking cycle rickshaws, cows, hens and sundry other domestic fauna. Oh yeah, every so often, there was the temple elephant too ambling along taking coins from passersby and blessing them in return.

Everyone spoke in Tamil. Of course they would, the town was in the Tamil hinterland, you say. But for me, understanding and navigating the different accents, the various nuances and the localisms was very intimidating.(I am used to speaking Tamil only at home, having mostly lived outside TN. This was Iyengar Tamil, which, I learnt much later, was different from Iyer Tamil and Chennai Tamil and ten thousand other variants of Tamil, apparently. Even Lord Ranganatha (Vishnu), our resident deity, couldn’t save me!) I couldn’t get comfortable.

Life in Sri pretty much revolves around the Ranganatha temple. She has grown that way, with settlements all around the grand temple complex expanding outwards. Going to the temple is an unquestionable requirement, not a choice. And though I enjoyed the walk through the glittering shop lined street and loved even more the wide open spaces in the huge, beautiful old temple complex, I hated going for the darshan. I had to brave serpentine queues, rude guards and pushy maamis( “we come here every day for this sevai, how dare you presume to tell us not to push you and squash you?”). All this, barely to get a glimpse at the deity before being shoved and shouted out of the sanctum. Spiritual experience, it definitely is not.

Staying with my grandparents meant adhering to the rules of my formidable grandmother, my patti, who I haven’t stopped being scared of even now at the ripe old age of 35! Her rules include(d) everything from personal appearance , to personal hygiene to random things that defied logic (like this time, she said you can’t go back to your husband’s house from your parents house on the 9th day. Why? Beats me) It was sacrilege to be without a bindi and an unadorned neck and hands. Leave my hair open, and I risk angering the whole pantheon of Hindu Gods! Gods or not, I was more worried about incurring my patti’s wrath. All good girls had long, well oiled & plaited hair adorned with flowers (Imagine how I felt, I who rarely had hair long enough to stick a pin on, forget the plaits and the flowers). It wasn’t just her though, it was the town. The neighbourhood maami would come and insist I wear flowers while the maid would remind me that my forehead was bare (Lady, I just woke up, haven’t even sniffed the coffee yet!). And my mother, anxious not to let her child be seen in a “bad” light, would suddenly turn into a big nag. I felt stifled, and out of place.

This is not to say I didn’t have fun. It was loads of fun to meet aunts and uncles and cousins. Awesome to be part of weddings and engagements and ceremonies for which we all usually congregated. Fun to get my local cousin to buy ‘panneer soda’. Eat masala dosas by the dozen. Gorge on the tons of food lovingly fed by my patti and other aunts. The whole lot of us sleeping together on durries in the large hall. Good times, but if I were to make a list of my favourite places in the world, Sri would have been hard pressed to find a place on it.

In retrospect, it was probably when I got married to my north Indian husband that I felt closer to my roots. As if being part of a new reality was making me more aware of mine, and more appreciative of it.

So it was, that this time when I wanted to introduce my little girl to the place and reality I come from, I felt more ….accepting of it. And this acceptance made me look back at things in a different light. When the present becomes a memory it somehow becomes rosier, doesn’t it? Sepia tinged. Gilt edged. Instagrammed.

I felt I had been given a chance to rediscover the town that I was born in, but have never felt attached to. I was determined. Born and brought up in Srirangam, my mother became my willing aide. I visited the Ranganathar Temple armed with an audio guide app and my mother and set out to enjoy every gopuram and every story of this magnificent structure of history and faith. Not once, but thrice in order to cover it to my satisfaction. My daughter loved the stories, the wide open spaces, the elephant sculptures and dropping coins in the Hundi.  And in her laughter I remembered the fun I had had too. The darshan was still a crowded, pushy affair, but this time I chose to marvel at the immense faith of the people that made them brave the heat and crowds just to catch that one glimpse of their God.

After years I was enthusiastic about climbing up Rockfort, a Ganesh temple set atop a hill. And got sorely beaten by a 5 year old and a 65 yr old in enthusiasm and joy. An old friend and a weekend visit from a cousin and his wife added to the merry party.

Kolams (Rangoli) in the morning are an intrinsic part of my tamil identity and of my association with Sri. For the first time in all these years, I took the responsibility of making the morning kolam in my patti’s house and felt a new sense of belonging.  And I realised, is it Sri’s fault that I had never made her my own?

My daughter fed a cow. Gave a coin to the elephant, which she could not have enough of. Met goats and squirrels. She sat on the stairs by the window, and read, like I once used to do. Along with her, I dressed up with gusto. We happily tied our hair and wore jewellery and wore a bindi. Small everyday things, but I felt relieved, in a way. I wasn’t rebelling any more. There was no need to.

This is not to say that I have become more religious or traditional or ritualistic. I am still the same. But, accepting Sri for what she is, even for a brief period, made me happy and content.

This trip therefore, was important and memorable in more ways than one. One of the best moments however, was when I told my mother that I wanted to wear flowers, white & orange, enough to cover my hair. The shock on her face was equal to her look when I broke the news of wanting to marry a North Indian, Non Vegetarian, Non Brahmin!

Both times though, it was worth it.

A friend indeed

“Hi Anu, its me” said a voice I hadn’t heard in over two years. Pressing the phone hard against my ears, as if to make sure it was her, as if I couldn’t recognise that voice, I offer hesitantly, “Shania?” “Yes. Can you talk now?”

We talked endlessly. All through those years when we were together and apart. We met in the 8th standard when my dad was first posted in Ahmedabad. We hit it off right away, partly because she was one of the few with whom I could converse (it is difficult being a non-gujarati in Gujarat) and partly because we discovered a mutual love for reading. We studied together, we exchanged and discussed books and authors and everything else there is, sat next to each other in class and always had lunch together. We were perfectly happy in the little world we had built for ourselves where all others entered only in the capacity of a guest role. Our mums & dads got used to accepting the other as a permanent feature in conversations and occasional meal times.
The Rasheeds were successful doctors, both husband and wife. They were also well regarded as they were very active in taking up causes for the benefit of the local community. Shania got her activism from them. She was always fighting for something – the plight of the local stray dogs, teaching the children from the nearby slum, mobilising people to clean up their own society – small causes maybe, but they made her so big in my eyes. As is usually the case, we were very different. While she stood up for her causes, I was largely non-confrontational. She was used to voicing her opinions, I was used to keeping them to myself. She was unafraid whilst I had my insecurities. But we were inseparable.

“ I .. I am stuck. I am afraid. I just felt I needed to speak to you.. If in case…I don’t…”
“What? What are you saying? Where are you??” my voice urgent, because there is something in her voice I had never heard before. Fear…

She was fearless. “We will report you to the college authorities. Even the police! Then you will know the consequences of troubling women!” she angrily proclaimed to two men who had been harassing me on my way home every day after I had finally confided in her. It was all they could do to slink away in shame. She was my rock and my saviour.
We went to college together. Both of us had hopes of being writers and had enrolled for a course in mass communication. Even though I had been away for two years in between ( my dad got transferred , and back again to Ahmedabad after two years) it felt as if we had never been apart. College was a riot. We bunked classes together, hiding in the bathrooms to escape our principal doing his rounds. We rode around the city on our two wheelers and our new found freedom. Hot bhuttas in the rain near Law garden, pav bhaji at Honest, pizza at Tomato’s or dessert at Upper Crust… riding, walking, talking -Our eyes were full of dreams, heads full of idealism, and our hearts full of excitement for the future.
In the final year, however, I panicked. Journalism doesn’t really pay well. Nor do Advertising agencies. Plagued by insecurities – what if I am just not good enough? – I decided to pursue my Masters in business administration. It was safer. At first, she tried to talk me out of it, but when she saw how scared I was, she helped me with my applications. And so it was that I went on to do an MBA while she took up a job as an intern with a prominent newspaper.

“ I …am in a village in south Gujarat. Have been living here for the past few months for a feature. Something happened and … the Hindu Muslim situation in the village is on a boil. We are all surrounded by a mob…”
“We all? Who we?” I shout desperately into the phone.
“We Muslims, Anu”

Yeah. Shania Rasheed was Muslim. Of course. But back then, it didn’t really mean anything to me. In the general course of our interactions I never found anything really different about them and us (except for my family’s fanatical fondness for curd rice which I am told is shared only by other Tam Brahms) It was such an inconsequential thing in my scheme of things, that there was no curiosity in me to find out anything about our cultural differences. I was utterly ignorant and I wasn’t even aware of it! That little world we had made? There was no place in it for religion either.
Much later I wondered. How did she feel being a Muslim in our country. Did she even think about it? Was it different? Were people different to her? Much later it struck me that the area she lived in was predominantly Muslim. Was it coincidence? Could they not find a house elsewhere? I never thought to ask her how exactly they celebrated Eid. Being a vegetarian and a Tam Brahm at that, food, to me then, was just something to appease my hunger and I didn’t know what their traditions were, what did she like… how callous had I been?
Afterward, as our career paths diverged, we got immersed in our own personal lives and like it so often happens we had little time for anyone else, including each other. We still made efforts to do something special, like the time I surprised her for her 25th bday in some remote rural outpost in Rajasthan where she was holed up for work. But the moments became lesser and lesser.

“We Muslims..Anu”
The deathly calm in her voice as she says those words chills me. I could physically feel her fear emanating from the phone.
“Where…where exactly are you? Give me the details properly. Fast.” I say equally calmly, trying to send some support and solidarity her way. But I feel numb with fear. What can I do?

“What can I do?” I couldn’t mouth those words when I held her tightly in my arms, tears pouring down my face. I couldn’t even manage the courage to face her as her whole body convulses with painful sobs that I want to delete from memory for ever but can’t. I was practically useless, as I watched what was left of her family gather around for the funeral proceedings. The one moment I looked around distractedly, my eyes fell on a large blowup of her parents laughing together, so happy and content, unaware of the gross misfortune that was to befall them. I could say or do nothing as I mutely watched the proceedings by her side. It was the year 2002, and their society had been burnt to the ground alongwith many others. That year brought the weight of the word religion to our notice for the first time in our pseudo-liberal elitist worlds. It threw up the fact that it is a non-entity only for the privileged and the naive. The whole country was horror struck at the planned carnage revealing itself in Godhra that snuffed out hundreds of Hindu lives mercilessly. The intervening days of confusion and chaos and the subsequent mayhem unleashed on the Muslims, the reports of a condoning government and an administration complicit in the violence.. I watched my city fall apart in my mind in disbelief and horror.
That was the beginning of our moving further apart. After I joined back work in Mumbai, I completely threw myself into my job. I deliberately made myself so busy as to not have a moment to myself. I began avoiding her calls or cutting her off with an excuse the few times I did speak. She even wrote to me a couple of times, asking me what the matter was. That she needed me more than ever. I never replied. I did follow her career though. Her reporting assignments were getting meatier and her writing more confident. I watched unbelievably as she seemed to grow from strength to strength. How come someone whose life has been so rudely torn apart be so sane? How can someone who has all the reason to be boiling over with rage and venom have so much compassion, so much love? One day as I was reading an article written by her about the change brought about by mobilisation of local women in a small town in Orissa, a stray memory from college popped into my head and wouldn’t get dislodged. That moment in the past was so real that I could smell the passion I had felt back then, and the common ideals we believed in. What had happened? And just like that, something changed in me.
“What do you mean you are quitting? You can’t just do that!” squealed my manager at work when I handed in my resignation a month later. “Arvind, am actually very sick, and the doctor has advised me to take it easy. So I am taking a break” I lied, easily, already able to feel the cool breeze of freedom. I had finally landed a job in a newspaper on a probationary basis.

“Saji, I have got a lead. There’s something brewing in Arvad in Navsari. It could be big. You know Shania Rasheed right? She is there, and if she is there, you can be sure that it must be something big.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“One hundred percent. She is there on the scene. We should get there immediately” I say with some urgency. Saji, my senior and mentor considers what I have just told him. “Please…we should cover it. And I want to come with you” He looks at me. “OK, lets do it.”
After a few frantic calls and some rather nervous packing, we finally leave Mumbai for Navsari in another colleague’s car. The journey is just 4 hours, but for me its 4 hours too long. What must be happening there right now? Image after horrific image flits through my mind. I screw my eyes shut in an attempt to stop them but it seems to make them worse. “Anu, are you going to tell me what it is?” I open my eyes reluctantly. “It’s a long story” I say. “Well we are stuck in the car for the next 3-4 hours….”
“And so you cut yourself off from your best friend because you couldn’t face her for what was done to her? By your community. Our community? That doesn’t sound too extreme to you?
“They were burned alive, Saji. We did that. Us Hindus. And for what? Because they were Muslims. Any Muslims. ”
“Those people were fanatics Anu. There are enough on both sides aren’t there? And they might claim a religion but fanatics are essentially independent of religion. Of reason . Of humanity. As is friendship. Friendship is independent of religion too. If you didn’t think of her as Muslim when you were friends, why are you doing it now?”
“Guys, we are here”, warned Ashutosh, as he drove into a decrepit town, whose most striking feature was the silence that was thick in the air.
I looked around in terror, fearing the worst. Suddenly, we heard another vehicle come in from the distance. It turned out to be a police vehicle. Noticing us, the vehicle stopped, and a policeman approached us suspiciously. “Who are you?” came the brusque question. “eh.. we are from the Bombay Post. We had got a tip that there is a dangerous situation brewing here between Hindus and Muslims….” “So you came to add fuel to the fire? Eh? You journalists are all alike.”
“Hmm sir.” I ventured, diffidently. “Can you tell us what is happening? One of my friends is here and she had called me. She seemed to be in danger. Please…” The policeman looked me over, as if deciding whether this chit of a woman needs to be shoved away or pitied upon. “They are out over there near the school. There is a woman. A Muslim woman. One of your people I think. Reporter. She is helping negotiate. “
There was no doubt it was her. I couldn’t care less what she was negotiating except that it meant she was alive!! Relief almost made me faint. But I said, “Lets find them.” And we trudged along on foot, as the road ahead didn’t look too safe for our old Maruti.
As we approached the school compound, we saw people milling around, some listening patiently, some shouting slogans while a few policemen slouched about on the perimeter but all of their attention was riveted upon the figure of one woman who was trying to out shout and out talk the men. It was her.
We pushed and shoved our way to the front and soon everyone in the compound noticed the presence of strangers amidst them. It was then that she saw me, disbelief writ large on her face. I grinned, and ignoring the questions and shouts went forward and engulfed her in a huge hug. She dissolved in my arms, as if carrying the weight of the world all alone had been too much even for her. “How…What are you doing here?” she whispers.

“I have come to save you of course, you maniac” I smile.

Vested interests may time and again try to tear people apart. . Politicians and their uncles may say that Hindus and Muslims can’t coexist. But then, for many many of us, it is the truth we live in. What do they know?
It is all going to be okay.

The coolest parent EVER

“You don’t understand!”

What mom has not heard this at some point in her life? I had realised I would too, just that I didn’t expect the realisation to come true already. She s all of 4 for god’s sake.
“You don’t understand anything ma” she pipes again, her lips puckered, tears threatening to pour down those soft baby cheeks. The first time I heard it, I stopped in my tracks, stunned. That hurt. That really hurt. And I thought I was such a cool mom (yeah well..). It dredged up memories from deep within…

“Why did you make your brother cry? (He lost the game, and so he is crying, I didn’t make him! He cries anyway!) You don’t understand!
Don’t read while having dinner (But this is the latest Nancy Drew and she‘s just about to find out who did it!) You don’t understand!
Why didn’t you come first in class? (Because I can’t learn by rote as well as others. Why is it important to come first anyway?) You don’t understand!
How come you can’t have cabbage dosai? You like them.. ( I like cabbage and I like dosas but NOT cabbage in the dosas, yuck! ) You don’t understand!
Tie your hair. Wear a bindi. (Why do I have to? I like my hair open. And I don’t like wearing a bindi) You don’t understand!
Are you going to wear that top? (Yes, I happen to like it, and its just sleeveless, not transparent!) You don’t understand!

My mom and I would have clashed a million such times over the years, hurting each other, with little understanding. All that time, I was convinced my mother did it on purpose. She didn’t understand me or my needs at all. And I vowed that when I was a parent, I would be the coolest parent ever!

Cut the Flashback. Back to the grim present.

Looking at the hurt expression on my daughter’s face, I realised with horror, I WAS my mom. I had become what I have been striving so hard NOT to become (Don’t get me wrong, my ma is the sweetest, kindest most infuriating creature on earth, though my husband comes really close. Which is really a whole new blog post for another time)
And then it dawned on me – there is no such thing as a cool parent. That it is an oxymoron, a contradiction, an impossibility. You can be cool or you can be a parent, but you cannot be both ! ( Unless you are ok with having your children grow up to be selfish, fat slobs and wastrels that make nothing of their lives… God, there I go sounding like ma again! Help! ) But really, would I want to be cool in my daughter’s eyes, and allow her unlimited screen time, give in to every sugar craving, allow her to bunk school indiscriminately and turn a blind eye to her occasional rude behaviour? Should I rather be easy going, and trust that she knows what is right or will learn eventually and leave it to her to judge?

How does one find the balance between being firm and being a nag? Balance the fine line between letting go and being easy? Forget that, where is that blasted line??!

One thing parenting does is it helps you get used to things not going your way all the time, to put it rather mildly. Now, since I do have to get on with my life, I have resigned myself to accept that my pipe dreams of being that mythical ‘cool parent’ are not going to materialise.

I am – not- going – to- be -a cool – parent.

So there are rules of course – non-negotiable rules like eating vegetables and being wary of strangers. Some negotiable rules like bedtimes and TV time on weekends . And then there are those like playing in the sand and painting with fingers and jumping in muddy puddles – where I smile and turn the other way….

And sometimes, I whoop and join her.Shed the burden of being a parent and breathe the uninhibited joyousness of childhood.

And tell myself, I can be cool, its just that I will be the

Coolest GRAND parent EVER!

(That’s why they are called GRAND parents- they have the GRANDEST job in the world. Being a grandparent must be the reward for those hard years of parenting. They can just stick their thumb out at their hapless children sweating it out with their own and say “Ha! So you thought you could better us eh? Whatever you do, we will always be the cool one! ” )

The look in his eyes

Our eyes met again.

I hurriedly looked away, while an eerie feeling engulfed me, feeling his eyes still on me. Shuddering as I drove away, I decided once again that I will take the longer route to the bus stop starting tomorrow.

Tomorrow finds me hurrying my baby along as she jumps and skips to the car. I check my watch. Nope, no time to take the longer route. Its pouring heavily and I can barely see a feet ahead. I take a deep breath, and take the shortcut to her bus stop through the slum at the back of our society. The slum provides us with all the work force that run societies like ours – the bais (housemaids), the dhobis (washer men), the drivers and watchmen. There are also daily labourers, who congregate on the roads every morning, I presume waiting for contractors to come hire them for the day. There are always men huddled together in groups every morning all along that narrow road that I use as a shortcut for reaching my daughter’s bus stop. There are tiny cramped houses with peeling paint and flapping clotheslines almost on top of each other spilling onto the road on both sides so that you feel boxed in. Women can be found filling water in vessels or washing up right outside their tiny houses, practically on the road. The rain has turned an open garbage dump nearby into a stinking decaying mess and there are children rollicking in the slush and the puddles that have formed all over the pot holed road. Every morning when I enter the area, I feel a familiar wariness creep over me, as if I shouldn’t be here, that I stick out here like a sore thumb. And I drive extra cautiously so as not to hit any wayward children, staring straight ahead trying not to have eye contact with anyone. Lest they see the disgust and the fear in mine. Except, he saw me.

He was one of them, dressed in a cheap shirt and trousers and waiting. Waiting, and looking. One day when momentarily I had forgotten my rule of not looking around, I caught him looking at me. He was clean shaven and his clothes were as clean as they could be, though rumpled. But his look had me unsettled. What was going on in his mind? Was he right now thinking about the unfairness of it all? Was my presence there an everyday reminder of all that he could probably never have? Hurriedly I looked straight ahead again and adjusted my top. Was I dressed inappropriately? I felt vulnerable..

“Ouch! Sorry sweetie” I said to my daughter as the car lurched over a pothole I could not see due to the lashing rain. My car harrumphed like a wheezing horse and then spluttered and died. Just like that. Suddenly the only noise I could hear was the steady beating of the rain and my little girl squealing “yayy muddy puddle…” Stumped, I kept staring at the steering wheel as if somehow that could get the car started, when a tapping at my window made me jump.

It was him.

I froze. No, no this can’t be happening to me.. My vision blurred as my mind raced through a hundred different possibilities none of which ended well…I frantically searched in my bag for my mobile to call my husband when there was a louder tap on the window. I spun towards the window expecting to meet leering menacing eyes. Instead I saw questioning eyes full of concern. What? Have I fallen into a delirium? He seemed to be saying something and beckoning towards the back of the car. With my heart beating loudly enough for the whole locality to hear, I slid the window open an inch. “Start the car, we will push. Your wheels are stuck in a pothole” He had to repeat it again, slower this time, since I was displaying all the understanding of a gargoyle. Somehow I managed to nod, and turned the key in the ignition. It was then I noticed that a few other of those men were all standing at the back of the car ready to push.

Ever get the feeling you are part of something unreal? That’s what I felt when a bunch of strange men I wouldn’t generally associate with heave- hoed me out of that hole with my little girl playing the cheer leader. As they came around to the front, I still couldn’t get up the courage to get out of the car, but I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. I tried to put all of my feeling in my “thank you so much” when blushing, he said “Didi, my wife works in your society looking after a kid. Roma? You had given your cycle to her?”

I started to turn back home with my delighted daughter, too late to catch her bus, a multitude of thoughts welling in my mind, but most of all knowing I wouldn’t feel unsafe on that route again.

Hitch

Yet another of us falls victim to that institution of mythical bliss – marriage. My brother will be exchanging rings and toasting champagne with his future wife at a beautiful park in San Francisco city while I am miles away in gloomy Pune halfway across the world. Such is Life…

It had to happen one day of course. Though we were kind of losing hope… But today I am so deliriously happy that my husband had to remind me that I had forgotten his coffee. Twice. And the quest for marital bliss (!) kills romance once again. Hehe.
My previous post eulogising my brother (yeah there was another, can you believe it) was when he was about to begin his career. Getting hitched to a job is one thing, but getting hitched to another person, presumably for life, definitely deserves to be recorded for posterity in the annals of the digital world and so, here I go again.

When Kanna came along, I was already 6 and a half years old and though I can’t remember how exactly I felt, all my memories of the period point to my viewing him as my plaything. All the motherly feelings that were buried in my 6 yr old heart came to the fore when this cute little chubby bundle came along- and boy was he cute then. I know its difficult to believe now.
So we went through all the regular phases…from Caring Elder Sister in love with cute Baby Brother to Cool Elder Sister being followed by a Pain-in-the-Ass Brother, to Selfless Elder Sister having to give things up in favour of Snivelling Little Brother, to ribbing and squabbling partners to… now sharing an easy friendship…
We have shared Hardy Boys & Harry Potter and a mutual love for books. Pontificated about Sauron and LOTR (where I was woefully inadequate) and gone on flights of fantasy. Fought for window seats on the train and first reading rights to a new book. Played endless games. Teased amma. Argued with appa…

I have listened to him rattle off the bus numbers on all the routes in Chennai & subsequently Bombay. Watched bemused as he gorged on Scooby Doo & Scooby Snacks. Ribbed him as he went through a super massive eating phase. Ribbed him endlessly. Watched him master kite flying with a Lappet! Been secretly proud of him as he worked harder and scored better than I ever could. Been amused, annoyed and amazed by his passion for stamps, coins, capitals, Eminem, Rock music, vada pav and samosas (The guy made an app to find Samosas for Gods sake!). Acknowledged his somewhat dubious superior prowess with technology. Watched him grow wings away from the protective cocoon of his family. Tried things he never did before. Felt a pang of jealously when he started running and cycling and no way, gymming! And laughed and fought and loved him through it all. All that history has somehow managed to keep us connected , and I still shudder to think what if all my teasing over the years had turned him away from me – because underneath all that crap I loved him a lot and I still do ( Don’t gag)

But then, today isn’t about the past is it? Today we savour the present moment, and eagerly await the future. He has now grown up to be smart and mature, and responsible and kind, ready to explore and experiment and take chances. He has become his own man, a man that I am proud to call my brother (though this paean on the web might be the only place I shall admit it) Yet he manages to remain the adorable goofball he has always been.

My father used to say, when my brother was only 2 or 3, that somewhere in the world, a little girl exists who will one day decide to partner him, and how he can’t wait to meet her! Well dad, your wait is now over.

Today they are getting engaged. And as they stand poised on the edge of the precipice to take this leap of faith together, all I can do from continents away is to blog my love, my happiness and my best wishes for them and yell

Jump guys Jump! but remember to hold hands!!!