...And I thought I was Smart !!!

Jai is becoming very finicky about his food. Does not want to drink milk, does not want to have his usual big bowl of curd, sometimes he would say a plain no to food.
These problems are not new to me. Rasan has gone through the same phase and I think I have tackled it efficiently. She had started to skate at Jai’s age. With such extra physical activity a growing child needs extra nutrition. She would eat with a little bit of convincing. This one, however, is a tough nut. He goes for tennis in the mornings and swimming in the evenings. (Alongwith Didi, of course). I was worried that with the continuous taxing routine, he might grow weak. Despite trying hard to convince him why certain foods are good for him, I was only partly successful.
The other evening, I was talking to the swimming coach about Jai’s progress in the pool. He said Jai needs to develop stamina in order to be a good swimmer. So I thought the time had come to use another strategy. I told his coach to chat up casually in the pool with the lad about importance of good food. I fed the coach about the fact that Jai hates Protinex in milk and wants only Rooh Afza. Everyday Rooh Afza is cool, but not very nutritious. A spoonful of Protinex in milk might help with his protein intake.

After about an hour, when my little man came out of the pool, he said, of course in chaste Punjabi, “Did you see me? I did a hundred breadths today.” I said, “Yeah, yeah I saw you doing great in the pool.” While Rasan did her tenacious lengths of the big pool, I started talking to Jai.
“I saw your coach talking to you in the pool.” (The truth is that I was away to my regular walk outside the stadium)

“Yeah,” he tried to dismiss the topic.
“And what did you two talk about?”
Again in chaste Punjabi.
“Well, just this and that” (actually he said, “Bas eh oh”)
“Ahaan, Even then, tell me what all did you discuss.”
“About food, you know.” Okay, so he was opening up.
“Wow, what? Did he tell you to eat something special?”
“Yes, he said you can eat anything, Just DO NOT drink Protinex in the milk, cos it tastes bad, b-a-a-a-d-d,” and he made a face that is simply not explainable in words.

Wish I had clicked him.

Maujaa'n Ee Maujaa'n

I put a brake to the car. Rasan wants to rush to the school gate saying a hurried bye. I wipe the extra baby cream off her face and kiss her nose. She kisses her brother a warm bye (thankfully he has no school that day; he doesn’t have any 'paper discussion') and runs off to meet her friends before the school prayer. I reverse the car, slowly wiggle my way out of the maddening rush and come back home.

She has a paper discussion at school. Till now, there only used to be a Parent Teacher Meet in which we examined their examined papers, calculated results, signed the report card, said good things to the teacher, and came back home. It was, and still is a gala day for the kids who dress up in their finest “home dresses” - a welcome change from the school uniform they get to wear everyday. However, in addition to that, now Rasan has a paper discussion day too (in school uniform of course) two days prior to the PTM and they are told their marks and other stuff about the question paper, for example how to attempt and more importantly, how not to attempt the paper. So, more or less it is a regular school day sans the school bag.

She comes back from school at 1:30 – all red with the sun and heat outside and excitement inside. As usual, she is hyper about telling about her day, “Yeieiei....Mama, I am first in English…”

“Wow, that’s great. How many marks?”

“Too bad, I don’t know how many, but I topped.” Yes, she forgets to ask her marks from the teacher, but she knows she topped. My Funny baby - I can expect this of her.

And I laugh…

As I help remove her tie and belt to ease her under the fan, I am all ears.

“Well Mama, I am not first in all the subjects though.”

“That’s ok beta. Doesn’t matter. I would have liked if you had gotten highest in all subjects. But no problems. So how was your day?”

I must admit I was a bit disappointed but I knew that she had problems with her Punjabi and Hindi papers, and that’s where she might have been hit the most. So I prefer to keep the discussion off those things.

She freshens up and takes up her tennis racket to play with. We stand outside in the lobby. She says as she hits the ball, “Mama, you know what? In the school today, we were all talking about how everybody’s parents are going to react to their marks.”
Here is what I get to understand.

AP : My father would hit me if he found that I had bungled in marks. AP is a girl.

AD: My father won’t allow me to enter the house if he found out I didn’t score well. AD is a boy.

ABJ: MY father would tell me to sleep out on the road if he found that I had gotten less marks than what he expected. ABJ is a boy who shares her birthday too.

And then one of them asked, “Okay R how would your parents react?”

R: Well, Papa would not ask about my position. If at all I tell him that I am second or third or fifth or tenth in the class, he would say, “Wow, that’s nice.”

ABJ: and your mom? Because all her friends know I am a Chota Mota Hitler in my own right.

R: Well, when she finds out that I didn’t score that well, she would say, “That’s bad but its okay. What is gone is gone. Now start working harder on the next unit/term.”

While reporting this, she is grinning from ear to ear.

AP+AD+ABJ say – Yar teriaa’n ta mauja hi mauja.

Then R+AP+AD+ABJ+together sing – MAUJAA’N EE MAUJAA’N……

THE Award

Devaki thinks that my blog is worth this cute award. Thank you, thank you. I cannot tell you Devaki, how much of an ego-booster I needed these last few days, what with the kids' vacations going on and me getting tired acting as their chauffeur, dustbin, insulated shoutbox etc etc etc - apart from the regular roles that I perform.

And I pass it on to Roop for her matured and insightful thoughts on her blog and the Unchaahi posts. Apart from expressing wonderfully on the cause of women and unborn girl child, she has a great flair of writing travel memoirs which I simply adore.

And I also consider Amitabh Bachchan worthy enough for me to pass this award to. Ahem, Ahem. Let me clarify that it is not due to his star status that has me awed and therefore this award. Salute my spirit that even though he does not know of my existence and therefore he would never come to know of this award, yet I risk your sneers. It might not be a Lifetime Achievement Award etc etc (they don't matter to him cos I think he doesnt go to such ceremonies anyway) . This one comes from one of his readers and this reader is content in reading. He is a wonderful writer, and his blog has sense. He amazes and inspires me all the time with his ripe linguistic skills and his matured expression.

And I would further consider Sudipta for the honor. Reason, he makes me laugh with his simple humor in most of his posts. And of course because he is one hell of an intelligent Capri.

And to Raza for sharing this wonderful post in particular and all his posts in general. That is because he writes so sensibly and in such a thought provoking manner. And well, he is one hell of an intelligent and expressive Capri too. I know, I know this will raise many-an-eyebrow.

I, Me, Myself confer this award to Sidhu (though perhaps he would prefer that I address him as Sidhusaaheb) for the versatility in his posts and for being such a regular and prompt commentator on mine.

I love Amarjit Tiwana's Haiku site. His poems are like a little bird that flies over my computer everyday and says a few words that re-form themselves as a Haiku. I hope he accepts this nice matters award, though he seems, like Amitabh Bachchan, above these things.

Actually there are many blogs of note that I really want to link here through this award. However, sheer modesty stops me from being so extravagantly preposterous.

Thank you Devaki, once again.

The Goddess Abides

Before her widowhood she had been a daughter and sister, wife and mother, dividing herself perforce, though willingly, for she had enjoyed each relationship and treasured her memories. Now she was living with herself and by herself as though she were a stranger, discovering new likes and dislikes, new abilities. Books, for example – she had thought of books as diversion and amusement. Now she knew they were communication between minds, her own and others, living and dead. Such communication was the source of learning and she had a thirst for learning, reviving after the busy years of her married life. (29)

“The ability to love is the secret of life. So long as one can love, really love, another human being, death waits afar off. It is only when the capacity to love ceases to exist that death follows soon. I thank you, my darling, for letting me love you. It keeps death from my door.” (29)

“Do not limit happiness; one takes it where one finds it.”

“One happiness has passed, but hold yourself ready for the next, whatever it is. If you do not see it on the horizon, then you must create it where you are. So long as you live you may find happiness if you search for it, or create it for yourself. Perhaps the search itself is happiness.” (31)

…that love had ended, stopped by death, and suddenly, for a while, there was no one to love. In the long months when she knew he must die she had wondered about love. Would it go on living after the beloved was dead? Could so strong a force continue to feed only upon memory? She knew now that it could not. The habit of love became a necessity to love and remained alive in her being, like a river dammed. Now it was flowing again, not in fullness, not inevitably, but tentatively and gently toward this man who sat facing her, his back to the sunset. (46)

“The need to love and be loved lasts until we draw our final breath and from the need comes the power. It is in you, it is in me. How can this be, you may ask. Because, my child, my dear and only One, love sustains the spirit and the spirit sustains life. Yet even if it is one-sided, the one who loves is sustained. It is sweet to be loved, but to be able to love is to possess the life force. I love you. Therefore I am strong." (47)

“It comes to us, always to be welcomed, from whatever source, at whatever time. One love does not displace another. Each love is added richness.” (66)

“Each experience of love…is a life in itself. Each has nothing to do with what has taken place before or will take place again. Love is born, it pursues its separate way, world without end, transmuted into life energy.” (77)

She understood why he had left her today and she knew that he would always come back. She had made it possible for him to return to his work. She had given him his freedom even from love, and so he would love her forever. (210)

…the only way to be loved is to be stronger than the one you love. (224)

Somehow she had come into his life at a moment when he needed to worship and he had worshiped her. What does a woman do with a man’s worship? She can destroy it by her own selfish need – or she can use it for his development and growth.
I must never let him know, she thought.
But know what?
She must never let him know that she was merely woman. She must never descend to daily need, if she wanted to keep him. No, even that was selfish. There could be no question of “keeping.” She must rise to the heights of her own. She must be quite willing to release him while she loved him – even because she loved him, for love, if it be true, seeks only the fulfillment of the beloved and this on the highest level. (241)

These are some excerpts from The Goddess Abides by Pearl S. Buck

(Methuen , London, 1972)

The introduction to the novel reads:

Pearl Buck tells a story of human love in its infinite variety. At the centre is Edith Chardman, just widowed in the prime of life (42, as I found it) as the story opens, after a long and happy marriage to a man much her senior. Into the emptiness come Edwin (72, to be precise), even older than her late husband, and Jared(24, when he meets Edith), young enough to be her son. With each there is mutual attraction, strong and vital, yet with the vast differences imposed by disparate ages. In the intense months that follow, Edith confronts complexities of love to which she had never had occasion to give the least thought. She learns how subtle are the ways in which love is to be fulfilled.

Just a Thought

India has reached the finals of Azlan Shah Hockey for the first time in last 12 years. It is no small feat for a country which had almost forgotten that there has to be a glory involved with the official national game. More than winning this game, it was about good playing - on and off the field. However, I wont be analysing the situations that have been laid threadbare before us anyways with the Gill vs Gill episode.

Indian Women's Cricket team has won Asia Cup for the 4th time in succession. A matter of pride indeed for all of us. And for the team that had to prove itself - against the norm that is the Indian men's cricket team. The so-called "Team India" - that is supposedly the sole honour bearer of a 100-Crore plus strong country, that is the symbol of the nation, that is the life and breath of a people who sleep and wake through their television sets flashing live their dreams through this game.

Both the news are found relegated to obscure corners of national newspapers. IPL and the teams named so spiritedly are spread all over the major and minor newspapers.

I have nothing against the IPL. For M's sake, I am even taking interest in the matches, and am trying to understand the score and the game.

Just an observation - from an Indian loyal to Hockey, from a woman proud of the Indian Women's Cricket Team's feat (however humble it might be considered), from a confused Indian about our priorities in the sports field.

Nimakh

Nimakh literally means “small,” “little.” When I first went to Amarjit (Sathi) Tiwana’s haiku blog, I was reasonably impressed. When I started to interact with him, he offered to send me a copy of his publication NIMAKH- his book of Punjabi haiku poems.

Haiku is (perhaps) the smallest poem in the world. Having its origin in Japan; it has been adopted by poets world-wide. To me it is no less than a wonder. It is a superhuman ability to express oneself in a matter of 10 odd words and still end up saying a poem.

The poet informs in the book that Bhai Kahan Singh Nabha has defined the word Nimakh as “the time taken to blink an eye.”



I was at work when someone called up to say that he had brought Tiwana’s book for me. It was a huge surprise. I was grateful, I was happy and I was amazed that I got the book within 48 hours of saying yes to Tiwana’s offer of sending me the book. I reached home by 1 and found the book- Nimakh was really nimakh : 84 pages and only two poems on each page – lest quantity should override quality. All of 17 x 11 cm ( 4.4’’ x 6.4’’) – it was fit to be carried in my current purse. As the kids went into the swimming pool at 4.30 p.m., I dived into the book. Consuming one poem by one poem, one page by one page– I was amazed at the expression, angry at one reality depicted in one poem, pleased with another, nodding at a truth condensed in a poem, agreeing with the nostalgia in another—my response was that of a child who has been made to sit in a room full of toys. She doesn’t know which toy to handle first, which one to keep, which one to let go. I normally do not dog-ear the books I read. But the devil inside me wanted to dog ear at least 20 pages for a future reading. The book was so cute that I couldn’t muster courage to do that. So I tried keeping a little scrap of paper as a book mark to go back to that particular poem.

The most striking thing in the book after its poetry is what Navtej Bharati has to say about the poet and his muse. I wouldn’t literally translate what he has to say but the crux of his foreword is something like this.

We tend to take things around us for granted. We see things only as far as we need them; we live only as much as we need to. We refuse to see the miracles around us – miracles that happen everyday, around us, with us, in us. It is due to a “stare” (geijh in punjabi – when we get used to looking at things in a particular way). It is such poetry as Tiwana’s that breaks this geijh. It is such poetry that tells us of the Nature that is beautiful with the presence of mankind, and is beautiful sans mankind. Man is diseased with a narcisst approach. Nimakh washes our eyes to show us the world around. They tend to include us in the Great Chain of Being. We see more and we live more.

I won’t quote any of Tiwana’s poems here. You need to go to his blog and read them all by yourself to have a first hand feel of the miracle.

Roop's Tag

Roop had tagged me on these. Its my first one. I have worked really hard on it. Ever seen someone work so seriously on a tag?


I am passionate about:

1. Mahesh- though he would hate that I am saying this publicly…
2. Ghazals and Quwallies – Jagjit Singh and Nusrat Saab respectively
3. Reading – Fiction and non fiction, both
4. Punjabi poetry – all of Surjit Pattar, Shiv, and random pieces I encounter.
5. My Nokia N95 8GB – it allows me to take so many pangas with it
6. Internet –I pray for the endless existence of this amazing world
7. Work Out - More whenever I attack it with vehemence.
8. My work-place - with all its heat and dust.

Eight things I want to do before I die:

1. Own a Mitsubishi Montero- for Jai’s sake
2. To lose this weight forever and see a fit Manpreet in the mirror
3. Then Go for a World Tour – Just me and Mahesh
4. Publish all my poems ( I would do that sooner than waiting for the time just “before I die”) definitely before I leave for this world tour
5. Inculcate a lot more Jigra (at least as much as my mom and mom-in-law have). Jigra in Punjabi means a lot more than Patience
6. Appear and win in a gameshow that promises 5 Crores – it has nothing to do with the dream of the world tour, just recording for reference sake
7. Learn to do good makeup
8. Laugh and laugh and laugh.


Eight things I say often:


1. Oww come on
2. O Jaan de yaar
3. Theek theek laa lo
4. Got it? (in my classes)
5. Dafa karo ( I know its rude, but it is to tell myself to let go of things that annoy me)
6. hmm...well...
7. Exactly
8. Right…

Eight songs I could listen to over and over:

1. Entire Mulaqat-Ravi Mann
2. Aiwen hass ke na langhya kar ni sanu ishq ho geya
3. Mere dil dian too jaane tere dil dian main --- KOOLJEET (yes he is sach much cool)
4. Zindagi ki na toote lari, Pyar kar le ghari do ghari – Kranti (Film)
5. Saawal Sundar Ramaiiya – Bhagat Kabir’s Shabad - sung by Bhai Harjinder Singh Sri Nagar
6. Jinde jinde ni jinde – Rahat Fateh Ali Khan
7. Kids’ rendering of “Phone Chakko Ji”

8. Apni marzi se Kahan apne safar pey hum hain –ghazal by Jagjit Singh (among many others from the same artist)

Eight things that attract me to my friends:

Roop, I wanted to follow your example and ask only my best buddy M just as you had asked your best buddy P, but I planned a little variety. So, I tagged a few of my friends on SMS today and here is what I found. Well, most of it turned out sugary, so please take it with a pinch of salt.

1. Damdar, Charming Personality, Loving nature (Kiran you are so cute) and the Aura I create around myself – (ahem ahem ahem, I know I am not at the modest best, but I m being honest at least) Six of them said this, though I would have liked to know 'What' in Personality
2. Vivacity and typical Punjabi style of dressing and talking – Harpreet Vohra said this. Raghbir said it is the typical Jatti touch
3. Positive attitude (Thank you Ravinder Bhai, otherwise I m such a sloppy Capri), Friendly and Helping nature-three of them found me good enough
4. I am a little Kamli-said Bikram Sekhon and Ajay Bhaji (they are right) though Bikram later sent another sms saying “U r cute and have a spirit to fight in society” and Ajay Bhaji added that he is a little kamla too, that is what endears me to him.
5. I talk straight forward without any mean interest- a colleague wrote
6. My clarity of Fundas and Intellect – Daljinder and Santosh Basran
7. Simplicity and sense of humor – Rohit said
8. My Smile – Aww Avneet is always sho cute
9. Way of talking and accent – I got this from four of my contacts

However, I have saved the best for the last:

10- M found that (among other things) what attracts him to me is my Innocence and a Kind and Big heart. - No comments !!!
Roop, now this calls for a big Awww. See the amazing results when you put your friends to work? You come to know so much about your own self. Otherwise I also keep ranting that I m worthless, useless, talent-less, artless, everything less blah blah blah. Thank you, thank you, thank you all – this will keep me on the cloud nine for at least a month. Thereafter I will find some way to hang on.
…and this takes care of my homework.

Open to feedback and Inputs (especially to all those who could not SMS me :))

VISAKHI

My friend Gurinder Singh sent me a Happy New Year wish in January (understandable) on my Facebook Funwall. I did not check it (the lazy bum that I admittedly am) till the 13th of April. It was perhaps Willed by Him that I had to check it on the Asli New Year. Anyways, I responded as soon as I saw it. He responded with a Happy Visakhi and at the same time poured his heart out with a poetic rendition of his feelings. I somehow could not stop myself from responding with what I feel about Visakhi. The words in maroon color are his, the rest a development of the thread he handed over unwittingly to me.


Kaisree chunni lai ke..
kaisree ladoo kha ke
kaisree jalebi nu ghuma ke
gurudware ja ke
ja phir dhani ram chatrik ga ke
dhol nu dga la ke
... aundi hundi si Visakhi...
par hun nahi..

Haan,
kankaan de son rang nu mehkaundi,
wattan banneya tey meildi aondi,
mere pind de mele wich dhoorh udaondi
...aondi hundi si visakhi
Par hun Nahi...

Hun ta har saal subsidiyan da marya kirsaan
visakhi nu
laazmi aondey meenh
tey gadeyan nal bhijji
apni laachari nu
sir utey madasey wangoo banhda
akhbar di mehz tasveer banya nazar aonda aey

kankaa’n di rakhi keon karni,
visakhi hun kinh manaoni

haan oh rangan, sugandhaan wali
...aondi hundi si visakhi,
Par hun nahi...

...TOOTH FAIRY

Rasan lost a milk-tooth today. Not that it is the first one, but it is surely the first when the tooth fairy won’t be visiting her. Ever since age 6 when she lost her first milk tooth, I have been faithfully acting the elusive fairy and placing a Canadian loony or a two-dollar coin from my forex residues. The excitement that accompanies the ritual cleaning of the tooth- before she places it under her pillow for the tooth fairy to find it spic and span and place an equally shiny coin in exchange for it - is simply endearing. She sleeps that night without fuss for I have told her that the tooth fairy visits you only when you are asleep. She even forces me to sleep early lest the fairy should turn back and not give her the promised coin. The shine in her eyes in the morning upon waking, in the anticipation of that coin is worth all the treasures in the world. The yell with which that coin comes back to me, and finally goes to her piggy bank is so innocent.

Tonight she asked me point blank, “Mama, hasn’t it been you all through, who used to put that coin?” This is not the first time that she has doubted it. Last month, when Jai lost his first tooth, she told him to clean it nicely and put it beneath his pillow so that the tooth fairy finds it worth exchanging for a dollar or two. And surely he found a two dollar coin beneath his pillow. Next morning, she expressed her doubt about me being the tooth fairy but I shoo-shooed it by turning my face away and saying no. But both my children are very particular about not taking a “hmm” for an answer and making me say out aloud what I want to say. Their pet line is “injh nahi, uchi bol ke dasso!” That is their way of ensuring that I don’t lie or try to put them off the track. Anyway, I tried to manage with a "hmm" thinking it was perhaps too early for her to lose that faith in fairies.

Coming back to her question tonight, I ignored it gently and concentrated on Mahesh’s incoming call. Finally the call had to end; she was awake still and repeated the question. I couldn’t lie tonight and said, “Okay, you want the truth? Yes, it has been me.” Thank god for the half-dark room. She bawled, “aaannnn, too bad.” So I went to the bed, lay next to her and explained why I went on doing it. Then I asked her, “Wouldn’t it have been rather good if you didn’t know the truth?” The rational being inside her spoke, “No, its okay, I suspected it. But now I am not feeling good that there is no tooth fairy.” “Well, with your new found knowledge, don’t you dare tell Jai the truth,” I warned. “Okay, I won’t baba,” said she, “but I feel like crying,”

Oww my baby, she is already feeling the heart-breaks as the childhood beliefs start to vanish. But she decisively said, “Okay Mama, don’t put any coin beneath my pillow today, lets see if the tooth fairy comes,” Is there still a trace of that fantasy in her mind? I wouldn’t want to kill it. “Right, I won’t. Lets see.”

And I won’t. For sure.

Perhaps I should…???

And This 9th March

Would that
In these busy days
You were visible, physically...

Watching the time
Come a full circle-
Watching your investments
Returning us dividends-

- Of a healthy
Wholesome life
With children growing
Inch by inch
Every two months.

- Of the faith you taught
Entrenched in our mind
Making possible
An existence
Protected by love.

- Of our own growth
From struggle
To
Settlement

And

- Of Her loneliness
Visible
With her wrinkles
Through her smiles

Fourteen years is a lifetime…
But this banwaas for her will not end
For there is no come back of
This Raam.

Questions And Answers

We are watching Sanjiv Bhaskar’s Journeys of India. Today he is showing Punjab. First he shows a Sikh wedding in a prominent Jalandhar marriage palace. Then he travels to the Indo Pak border at Wagah. The scene is complete with the blue attired coolies on the Indian side handing over the stuff to the coolies in red on the Pakistani side.

He travels to his home village and tries to find his ancestral home but it’s impossible for him to locate it. After all, the winds of change have swept over the Pakistani villages too.

His sentimentality is so well received among me and my children. Rasan is preparing her school bag for the next day. I am telling her to go brush her teeth. She is mesmerized by the similarity of the land, vegetation, the sunset and the sky that is common between the two countries.

She suddenly asks, “What is Lahore?”
“It’s a city in Punjab,” I say.
“Punjab?”
"Yes, there is a Punjab in the Pakistan too , and it was once a part of this Punjab.”
“Okay, that is where Nankana Sahib is, right?”
“Yes.”
“Cant they give it back to us?”
“No.”
“Why, its our land!”
“No, its no more ours. When the country was partitioned, it went to the Pakistani share.”
“Okay, so India and Pakistan fought?”
“No, not over Nankana Sahib.”
“Mama, when Dhesi mama (my mom, Dr Dhindsa) came to India, how old was she?”
“She was Jai’s age.”
“Oh, and how did she come?”
“She was brought with her family on a truck by my Bapuji.”
“Oh, and your dad?”
“Well he and his family had to travel by foot over to India.”
“Oh, and how did they manage? Did they have water?”
“Well I am not so sure; they probably didn’t carry water bottles in those days…”
“Did they have any money?”
“No, when you are asked to leave your house suddenly, I don’t think you can get hold of any money, right?”
“Why did they have to leave the house?”
Well, because the leaders said Sikhs and Hindus were in danger in Pakistan.”
“Why?”
“Because they said that Sikhs and Hindus had killed Muslims in India and the Muslims might like to have revenge, and they might kill Hindus and Sikhs in Pakistan.”
“They were lying, right mama?”
“Yes they were, partly.”
“So the people didn’t kill each other?”
“They did, but again that is because they were misguided by leaders.”
“What do leaders get out of it mama?”
“They like to know that they have power over people, and that people agree with what they say…”
.
.
Meantime she goes and brushes her teeth in between the commercial breaks. She comes back to announce,
“I hate England.”
“Why?”
“Because they divided India.”
“Well, they didn’t. Partly it was our own fault. We allowed them, so they could.”
“But they ruled over us. Why did they have to rule over us?”
“You like to mind your class, right? You like to be the monitor too, right? How would you like if you were told that everybody around you would agree with you and you will have immense power over your friends? Every body likes to be obeyed.”
“Well ruling people is different, ruling countries is not acceptable.”
“Yep, but that’s no reason to hate England, you don’t have to use the “hate” word, (Well, as a rule, my kids don’t use the phrase, “I hate”)
And I tuck her into her comforter…
.
.

“So what did your grandpa do, Mama?”
“Child, he was a farmer, but he died 5 years before partition.”
“Oh, what did your dad do then?”
“He had to rely on government scholarships.”
“Does government give money to study?”
“Yeah, to intelligent children who need it.”
,,,
,,,
,,,
And the conversation lulls her to sleep.

Everytime I visualize the scene of people abandoning their homes from this side, and from that side for ever with next to nothing with them, my throat is choked. And now my daughter’s too.
Are my children inheriting that pain, too?

Answering the simple questions is so hard sometimes.

Some Good Websites

Three months - a frantic run to finish PhD thesis, Mera Daghistan, a change in job and the resultant paper work, (and so many other excuses that I have forgotten now), The Fountainhead, and of course word games . And you thought I have been a real lazy bum in coming back here to update after so long? And I know you all have gone back from my page disappointed (if at all you ever felt like appointed ;) ).

Apart from the above reasons, these three months were spent hibernating. These three months - I discovered yet again that being a parent of an about to be 10-year old is not easy. I have shared her growing pains and suffered some resultant pains on my own person in the process. I have found what the expression "pain in the neck" means, because I am suffering from that - literally and figuratively. I have reawakened to what "apple of my eye" is because both my apples -Rasan and Jai - have been alternatingly sweet and sour and hence enjoyble. Oh boy, I am behaving like that incorrigible doting mother now... And to think I had logged in today to share some good educative websites for practising English Grammar and Language and Mathematics. Here they go.

http://www.rhlschool.com/

http://www.englisch-hilfen.de/en/index.htm

http://bringing-up-kids.blogspot.com/

http://www.internet4classrooms.com/tcap_lang.htm

http://kids-space.blogspot.com/

http://www.mathgoodies.com/lessons/vol1/perimeter.html

http://www.superkids.com/

I found these sites extremely helpful in worksheets for practice at the school level. Because I myself loved playing simple word games on them during the print taking process. My thanks to the creators and the people behind these sites.

It would be so helpful to people like me if you all could share some good websites about kids education.

This Morning

My favorite treadmill in the gym overlooks an interesting segment of the road. To avoid looking at the calorie-time –distance-incline-speed panel, I usually concentrate on the people going by. Early mornings are always a familiar scene, whether you watch it from the treadmill, or from the window of your house sipping tea. Fathers with rumpled hair, sleepy eyes, nightclothes going to drop the kids on their scooters and bikes; reluctant kids hanging on to the seats, or onto the fat tummies of their still young dads who are going to flop on the bed the moment they reach back home. Rickety school buses carrying children to school-amazing how the cars and other personal vehicles come with all kinds of safety measures but the van and bus wallahs have modified the buses with seats to benches and kids sit there prone to falling in any direction should the bus take a turn. I always used to wonder where do all the old vans and discarded buses go. And now I come to know that they are employed for these “not so important” journeys. And kids going in buggies. Buggies - the very logic of which makes me cringe, but which, in any case, are better than the rickshaws manned by skeletal men who have to paddle fat men and women to their destinations. And of course, cars – driven by ill-clad chauffeurs (it being Ludhiana) and dads and moms who go to drop the kids to school.

Today, there was something special that I saw. There were five kids, probably slum kids-probably not - but definitely from lower middle class. They were all in motley dresses, not in the uniforms of public schools. One of the kids, a female, had a single crutch to support herself, and a carry bag in one hand. Other kids were younger, and all carrying school bags or plastic carry bags-obviously going to school on foot. They stood and had a deliberation amongst them over I don’t know what. Then they hailed a rickshaw that was passing by them in the same direction. I do not know what the exchange between them was, but I saw the rickshaw puller shaking his head indicating a negative response. The kids again talked to him, probably pleaded with him. After about 2 minutes of discussion, the older girl indicated to the kids to hop into the rickshaw. They all took their seats immediately on the main seat and the "tupp", and off they went.

From what I gathered with my over-oxygenated brain atop my sweating body, I presume the kids requested him to drop them to their school, and he refused. They then renegotiated and then he relented.

And I am 100 percent certain that the kids had no money between them.

Therefore, I admire the rickshaw puller, who got nothing in monetary terms from this trip, except perhaps some mental satisfaction of having helped a few underprivileged kids.

Would you, or I, or anyone else amongst us do it if we were going past them in a car ??

BITTO

Her name is Bitto, endearing term for Bitiya, as her parents must have called her when she was a little girl. I met her in New Delhi one evening when I was famished and wanted something good to eat after a whole day of rummaging through the books and shelves of libraries of Delhi. I was just walking aimlessly towards the Bengali Market when I saw her selling roasted corn cobs on the roadside.

It was a hot evening of June and Delhi walahs know how it is in June on the Delhi roads. And there she sat, in such a heat, vigorously airing the red hot coals. She had just opened her ‘shop’- if you may call the two brick makeshift stove and a wire mesh one. Under the tree that she sat, is the road that I have spent many an evening walking and smelling the great raat ki raani. It never fails to give me a nostalgic feeling for home. Coming back to Bitto, she sat there, in front of a house close to the road. I asked her to make me a fresh corn cob and after a stressful day, just sat there cross-legged, by her side, on a brick waiting for her to roast a good piece for me. In that W.H.Daviesian moment, I just stared at the cars going by, people passing by. And in their non Daviesian moment, people must have wondered what is this woman from an educated background doing sitting on the roadside with a corncob seller, apparently doing nothing. She asked me about my whereabouts, what I did, where I lived. She was suitably impressed with the kind of job I was in, and about the mission I was on in Delhi. When she came to know about my Punjab connection, she pointed out that I might be finding the corn cob too costly since we can get it almost free in Punjab. I laughed and said; no it’s no more like that. Though I myself come from a farming family, we no more grow it, so I pay roughly the same money for a feast like the one she was making for me. Meanwhile the cob was ready, she took extra care to apply more of lemon and less of salt as per my request, and I paid for it and moved on. I did not have to go eat junk.

Next day, around the same time, I was with her again. Today, she welcomed me with a smile of recognition. Today she was a bit different. She had her usual one eye on a perspective customer and another, very angry one, on a Delhi Police Cop who sat in a very small and tortuous beat-box close to her station. On asking she revealed that he had threatened her with destroying her “shop” because she had refused him a free snack of a corn cob. I jokingly said “de dena tha, bhikari samajh ke de deti”. She laughed and said, she had not done her “bohni” yet, “aise kaise de deti”. I laughed and said yeah then you did right. She was in a double mind. She talked to me more like she was talking to herself, “Kya fark padta, de deti, mera bhi toh dimag kharab ho gaya tha na.” I felt she wanted me to endorse her view. I said yeah, you are right, but now that you’ve done it, let it be. And then I asked her name. We became friends. She, by her own account, is in her early forties. Clad in an old sari, dark complexioned, she smiled, most of the times-except when she was reminded of her early evening rendezvous with the cop. She is already a granny, her grandson being of 3 years. And very understandably I was amazed. She said she had gotten married when she was all of 10, and she had had her elder son when she was about 14. And I was immediately reminded of my soon to be 10 Rasan, who still feeds from my hands.

She had been widowed at the age of 20. Her younger son was two when she lost her husband in an accident. I asked, “Did you or your parents not think of your remarriage?” She said, “Yes, my parents did pressurize me for a remarriage but then I refused.” I asked why. Throwing a few more black coal balls into the fire, she said, “What would I have gotten out of another marriage? A husband who would get drunk each night? And then beat me to pulp? I would have had to bear that and earn a living also. And feed him as well. I thought I was better off without a marriage. I had had children, and I did not want to have another owner.”

Then she told me about how she has been working as a cook and housekeeper for a very busy local gynecologist and her family. I asked her about her routine and she told that she moves from her house at Narela, a sub-urb, at 5:30 am, travels by train for the good part of an hour (or more perhaps) and comes to her employer, cooks their breakfast, then supervises cleaning and washing, then cooks lunch and dinner and moves out by 6 p.m. Then as an additional source of income, she has taken to selling these corn cobs. She sits here till 8: 30 p.m and makes good money. Right opposite to her, across the road, sits her “maami” in the same business. The Maami was about the same age, very quarrelsome and very suspicious. She did not like me sitting and chatting up with her rival-niece. Bitto told me this. While chatting up with me, she kept doing her brisk business too. I admit I did feel ignored at those moments. But of course, I was only a distraction to her.

My interaction with her lasted for three days. She and I became good friends. I felt a little guilty the last two days when I could not go to see her because coming back from the JNU, I would be too late and tired to venture out for the cob. She was winding up when I reached there one day before leaving. She said reproachfully, “I had been waiting for you.” I told her I was leaving for Punjab the next morning. We talked about my children, my family, her sons, and her extended family. And we parted, saying something like, nice meeting you, see you again soon.

What struck me about her was her attitude towards life, marriage, and woman’s status. A total illiterate person, with no scholarly consciousness, and yet so liberated, self dependent, aware of her rights, bold enough to lead a single life. Her will to struggle, to give an even better life to her family-all single handedly- is a thing I would never forget. Never once did she complain of poverty which was so obvious. The worries, the tiredness that comes with the state of deprivation were all too visible on her face, but she kept a cheerful demeanor. I took this picture with her permission and she was blushing when I clicked it in my mobile. Only the blush did not show through the dark evening that surrounded us!

STRENGTH

Strength is the capacity
to break a chocolate bar
into
four pieces
with your bare hands-
^
^
^
^
^
^
and then eat just one of the pieces.

( RD, January 2007, p-75)

THE FRAGRANCE OF MOTHERS

I am very fond of perfumes. I think I have a sample each of most of the world's best brands and I treasure them the way I treasure my books. My morning ritual of dressing up is complete only when I finish dabbing the perfume on my pulse points. If I am going out when Rasan is home, she will insist on my picking up the landline telephone receiver and putting it near my ear so that it can catch the current fragrance on it for the day. Rasan says, "That way, Mama, I can still smell you when you are gone. Whenever I pick up the receiver and dial your number, I get the feeling that you are close by." When she kisses me bye, she inhales the smell and says, it will stay on with me. She is no poet, she has no poetic expression so to say. The expression is that of a child missing her mother and thats it. But that never fails to shake the poet inside me to wakefulness to think how she feels.

I dont remember my mother ever using any perfumes. (Now I like Davidoff Cool Water Woman on her). Never saw any in her treasured red and black rexine 'shingar box' or the painted glass square box filled with the little stuff of her memories that did not mean much to me then but which I used to love rummaging through whenever I would get an opportunity. Perhaps she did use some talcum powder occasionally. But, even now, when I hug her, when I go close to her, I get to smell the same fragrance that I used to inhale when I was lying next to her, talking. Or when she would hug me briefly as a 'shabash'. I don't know what that fragrance is. Perhaps it is the smell of her compact face powder that gets into all her personality. But it always gives out a feeling of being in a comfort zone, where God was and is in his heaven, and all was and is well with my world.


My mother-in-law emanates a different kind of fragrance. Of course fragrances cannot be explained but I associate her with a great fragrance of Nivea Deodorant spray. I recall a funny incident that took place about ten years back. My regular shopping list would include an adventurous foray into the newly arrived "phoren" body sprays in my favorite general store in Jalandhar Cantt. One day Mama ( my mother-in-law) happened to be with me when I was selecting a spray for myself. She was not into such fragrances or sprays then. She said in a low voice in my ear," Roz nahaya karo ta ehdi lod na pawey." I blinked at her naughty comment and we laughed. A few years later, I found Nivea spray in her almirah and I wanted to shout out laughing. Well, for obvious reasons !! The position now is, that she cannot live without one. If she happens to catch me encroaching upon her spray, she would reprimand me promptly and I cant help but laugh. She and I share a private joke about it everytime I see her spraying it post shower. Coming back to her fragrance, everytime I go near her, I get to smell that innocent fresh fragrance. And yet, I associate that smell with inspiration, gusto and courage.

The other day I came across an anecdote in an old issue of Reader's Digest. An airwoman would come to a store every few days and go to a particular fragrance counter, smell the tester and go back. One day the saleswoman asked her if she would like to buy that perfume. The former replied that she did not want to buy it, she merely came to smell her mother's fragrance whenever she missed her. Upon reading that piece, a smile automatically came to my mind and I thought of Rasan grown big, perhaps living far away and totally into her career, going to a store and smelling some of my pet fragrances, just to make up for my physical absence.

Auntie

She is a regular in the gym. She walks with a lazy step, does halfhearted aerobics, and barely moves on the bike. On the treadmill, her whole body heaves with an energy-less movement . All the exercises the trainer tells us to do are just not her type perhaps. I am poor at guessing people’s ages and therefore I had no idea about her age. She could be anywhere between 22-30 years. The day before yesterday, a little girl of about 9 years accompanied her. I presumed it was her daughter. While I was vehemently cycling away my cellulite, I tried to be social to her. Oh why couldn’t I control my big mouth… even if I thought it was her daughter, I should have shut my trap up, and kept on working out. But no, I had to say hi; I had to ask, “Is that your daughter?” Till now, I have not forgotten that flabbergasted look on her face. She responded with a cold “Nahi, she is my niece.” And I retraced my steps back to the treadmill with a sheepish, “oh.” I laughed to myself. How could I be such a fool not to notice that she was not more than 20 years old? But then I had never been in such a close proximity with her either.

I think I had ruined her day. She must have been thinking, “Do I look that old, that someone should mistake me for a mother of 9 year old?” She kept throwing sour glances to my side, perhaps thinking, “ Look at her, so fat, so heavy, and mistook me for a mother.” Breathlessly working on my aerobics, for a moment, I even toyed with the idea that if tomorrow Rasan went with me to the gym as she has been insisting on doing during these vacations, she might get back to me with , “Is that your grand daughter?” And I planned that I would say, “No, my grand daughter is slightly older” ;)

I put my mind back to burning my fat away and somehow the workout was over. We changed, came downstairs. She was walking with another mate of hers, and that child of course. It was hot. I felt that the child had perhaps come with her for an outing. Subjecting her to a long walk home would be a torture to her. I stopped my car, invited them to hop in. She sat with the child in the back seat. Her mate, a college girl, in the front passenger seat, started to talk, “ Are you an NRI?” I laughed, “No, I m a through and through desi.” She said, “Auntie your personality is like you came from abroad.” “No, I live here and work here,” I said, “Did you plan to make that child walk all the way home?” Now she spoke from the back seat, “ It was her choice. AUNTIE, where do u work?” I laughed to myself, here is your chance of revenge, baby. Anyways I said “I work with the technical education department.” “So AUNTIE, where do you live?” “AUNTIE isn’t that far? Do you come from that far? AUNTIE we have to go to Dandi Swami. You can drop us here.” I said, “I could have dropped you there too, but it’s a bit out of the way for me and my kids are waiting.” “Oh AUNTIE, how old are they.” I said, “My daughter is almost as old as your niece, and son a little younger.” And I stopped the car, they got down. She shut the door with, “Bye AUNTIE, thank you AUNTIE.” My kids' friends call me Auntie. So, I am used to being called one, but it was different here. I could feel the glee in her voice. I chuckled to myself. One of us went home happy at least. She had had her revenge. Now I can go to the gym guiltlessly, still see her around and smile to her.

Hisaab barabar !!!

Beauty is Power??

Scene I : Rasanmeet is to submit her Social Studies project work. She is supposed to draw a picture. She asks me and I suggest her to make any of the pictures that her chapter on THE WORLD OF GROWING KNOWLEDGE has in it. It has Gutenberg standing near his printing press. It has a picture of Indus Valley seals, an old man reading by the light of lantern, Rasan chooses the picture of a blind girl reading a book with the help of Braille and draws it on her notebook. I don't see the relevance of asking the kids to reproduce an image from the book onto a notebook that they will throw away anyway at the end of the term. Still I manage not to criticize the system of the school. She asks me what should the caption be of this picture. Her teacher has asked them to use a new slogan, and not the caption given on the book. I suggest, "Knowledge is Power" and explain how it would become a power for such a person who cannot see.

Next day, she comes home with a star on the page, a treasure to her, and a matter of pride to me.

A few days later...

Scene II: On TV-this young girl-with-a-slightly-dusky-complexion's dad has a theatre which has now failed and she wonders how she could revive it. She determines to do it anyway. Lo and behold, a cream comes to her rescue. She uses it, becomes gori over a period of 8 weeks after massaging it on her face in the movement of 8 and in her own words, gora rang and thode latke jhatke, and she is successful. Needless to say, the theatre is overwhelmingly crowded and she gets a standing ovation for I don't honestly know what. And the given slogan is , "Khoobsoorti Shakti hai", "Beauty is Power."

It was a Famous Fairness Cream advert. This cream has been promising all the Indian girls for years now that they all will become gories. And whats more, they have launched one for men too to make them Fair and Handsome. Wow!! Whatever happened to that tall-dark-handsome conveniently abbreviated as TDH by the college and university girls.
I have also been using this cream for ages now. Not that I manage to draw crowds to a theatre. It acts only as a barrier between the day to day pollution, or does it? Maybe its only for a mental satisfaction that I use it-replacing it now and then with other over the counter beauty solutions. However, let me not digress with the description of my beauty :) now.

I am not a committed feminist, nor am I against any cream. But I was horrified at the advert having been aired on POGO TV, an all Hindi cartoon and kids show channel. What is the message that is being given to young impressionable minds? That you can conquer the world if you are pretty, fair, good looking? What becomes of the knowledge part? Or you have to keep knowledge subordinate to looks? Many of my friends would say that a good combo of the two virtues would make you a winner all the way. What would happen if you had a lot of knowledge but were not gifted with the looks that kill or the physical charm that attracts others?

Is Knowledge secondary to Beauty? Is fairness (gorapan) really the key to success?

THAT GREY EYELASH

IT was about two months ago that I first discovered it. I was taking my scooter out of the parking shed of my college. Peering close to the rear view glass, I wanted to admire my looks before covering the face in the daku-hasina style. However, I was in for a shock. The upper eyelid of my right eye had a grey eyelash. I thought I was mistaken. It was perhaps a reflection of the light. Perhaps it was shine that made it look whitish. Nooooo, I inspected it closely and there it was, staring me in my face. My feet went cold, my hands went numb, and my brain went dull.
A grey eyelash?
Right away?
In the thirties?
Aint it too early?
Well, but there it was, the bitter reality. With leaden feet, I kick started my scooter, absent-mindedly put on my glasses, and forgot to drape my mulmul da dupatta over my head. Who cares for the damned complexion when you have a grey eyelash? Let the dust get into the skin.
A grey eyelash?
I tried to shrug it off, so what, the grey hair have to catch up after all. And sooner or later, I was going to have one of those dreaded grey eyebrow hair, but a grey eyelash?? However much I tried to wean my thoughts away, that grey eyelash would come back – a horrid view sure it was.
I wanted to call up Mahesh then and there and yell “ Mahesh, I got a grey eyelash.” Then thought the better of it. Let him discover it. He wouldn't mind giving me a patient hearing but I was having mixed feelings. What if he starts to view me as an old woman? After all, no man would like his wife to tell him that she has a grey eyelash. Moreover he has his own struggles with the graying of hair. He inherits it from his mother, I from my father. Perched on that seat of scooter, heading home, I thought of the day when I had first discovered a grey strand in my head. It was in 1992 I guess. Shocked sure I had been, but I attributed it to studiousness, and dexterously covered it with henna (those were the days when hair color was considered a “bad bad” thing). I often tell Mahesh that by the time I am 40 most of my hair would have turned grey and then I will not color them red or black, I will color them grey, as would become a graceful old lady. And then people would come and say, your skin is so young, you don’t look a day older than 40.
How good to look one’s age!
But a grey eyelash????

I could not resist telling him, though I told him only about a month later. His reaction was, "acha?" And thats it. And it prompted him to console me by telling that he understands how horrible the first discovery can be. Bless him for that. My Knight in Armour always comes to my rescue !!!
Everytime I see the mirror, I want to avoid it. But somehow it sometimes fascinates me to see that grey eyelash that is known only to me, and now to Mahesh. Well, I have made peace with my grey eyelash since. I am ok with it now. Guess it will have more friends soon. Very chivalrously I wait for them.

Did someone mention aging gracefully…??

Jai’s Worries

They say, worries start as you grow older. Jaiteg is going to turn 5 this April 11th. He is already worried. He is worried about the content of sugar in the foods that he eats.
It so happened that one day his didi and I were talking about the bad sugar- sugar that might kill if habitually taken in large amounts. And Jai was close by, he immediately shot a question, “does one die with sugar?” “Yes,” I said, “but only if you take too much of it. And it kills slowly. It’s not like it will kill one today”. But a child is a child. Everything else got awashed from his little head. The “killing nature of sugar” stayed back in his mind. He said, “Mama I have eaten sugar today. Will I die?” Oh dear dear. I wanted to hug him and tell him “maa sadkey, why would you die.” But I told him “no, you won't. Because you keep walking and running about so it gets burned by your body and it wont do you any harm”. But boy, he was worried. And the devil of a didi he has got, she said, “Yes Jai, the sugar is not good for you”(she can herself consume chocolates in wholesale if given the opportunity). Jai was upset, visibly upset. So he started to take extra precaution. That night, he took a stroll. It was so funny to watch him take a walk in the living room with his small legs while we dined. He was walking briskly to and fro - in an obvious effort to burn any kind of sugar that he might have in his system.
And this was not all.
He had overheard me telling Rasan that too much of salt, especially the one we consume with chips and packaged snacks, and the salt she likes to lick with her fingers after dipping the wet finger in the salt container, is bad. Here was another cause of worry for him.
This is all what happened bout 15 days back. Then onwards, he likes to make it doubly sure that the food does not contain either sugar or salt. He has stopped eating chocolates, samosas, chips, and, by God, every kind of junk because they might contain sugar or salt. He does not want cold drinks anymore. Even while he can see his didi or her friends and even his friends sipping away at the fizzy drinks, he makes no show of any greed. Last weekend, when I offered him some soda drink – just so the paneer pakoda he ate could be digested easily, his response was very grown up. “I don’t take any junk food, tuhanoo pata ee ai na.”
If, by chance, he has no option but to consume sugar, he makes sure that it is God's sugar (natural sugar) and not insaan wali cheeni. He always want to know if the salt contained in what he is eating is in moderate amounts or is too much.

My tragedy is that I cannot laugh, for fear that it might make him feel he is not being taken seriously. I know he will grow out of it. But it makes me feel good that he is watching everything that goes into his mouth.