The Frozen River by Ariel Lawhon


The best kind of books are those that you keep revisiting in your head even after you have finished reading them. This book is one such. I wrote a review for our library blog post. And here it is:

A post on kindness


I don’t remember a time when human beings were not intent on killing each other. My childhood was an era of oblivion, of course, but ever since I started paying attention to the wider world around me I read about cruelty meted out by human beings to other humans (and animals). Religion, borders, language, ethnicity – all become excuses to slaughter one another. But my post today is about the kindness that surrounds us too. Often, the acts of kindness do not make it to the mainstream media but if we look around us mindfully, we see it. There is this one poem that I listened to recently, read out by non other than the inimitable Helen Bonham Carter (I am a big fan). I must have listened to it more than a dozen times by now. It creates a warm feeling in my heart.  The poem inspired me to write this post. Here is the poem:

Small Kindnesses

by Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.
And sometimes, when you spill lemons
from your grocery bag, someone else will help you
pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress
to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,
and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

 The New York Times (9/19/2019),   Bonfire Opera

I want to write about the overpouring of kindness Gouri received from complete strangers thousands and thousands of miles away from her. Gouri came to work for my parents about 15 years ago. She had to heal first after she tried die by setting herself on fire. Married to a cruel man at the age of 14, she wanted to escape her fate by ending her life. She survived but with life altering scars all over her body and mind. Recently, the skin around her neck started contracting from the injuries, resulting in difficulty swallowing. We started looking for surgery to rectify that. But corrective surgery is expensive. I needed help to help her. After a lot of deliberation and discussions with my family, I decided to send out a plea for financial help in social media. I was tentative about my decision to ask for help though. Would people care or simply scroll through?

The response was overwhelming. I cried. Of course I cried. The kindness of my friends and acquaintances transcended every barrier –  Distance from the affected woman, not knowing anything about her except for my words. Her need and her unfortunate circumstances were enough for them. I found empathy, not pity in their words. Friends from India wired money directly to Gouri’s bank account, friends in USA sent money to me which I then transferred. At work, my dearest friend handed me cash with tears in her eyes. “This could have been our daughters,” she said. This could have been. Those who could not help financially sent their best wishes for Gouri’s recovery. I asked Gouri if I could share her photo so everyone knew what the money was going to heal. She is very reticent about standing before a camera, but she took a selfie and sent it to me, saying, “Didi, I know you will only do what is best for me.” Her unwavering confidence in me warmed my heart.

The surgery took place a month and a half ago. While the surgery was not complicated, the recovery was long and painful. But Gouri is doing very well. She has to wear a collar around her neck for a year to prevent the skin from further contracting. The collar, she says, is uncomfortable in Kolkata’s heat but she wears it religiously to let her neck heal. She met with the doctor again to operate on the burn injury in her shoulders and arm. She can not straighten her arm due to the burns. And the money that complete strangers sent to her for her surgery will cover the second surgery as well. This will also take time and involve pain and long recovery. But Gouri is willing to go through with it all for a chance at better quality of life. The final surgery will, hopefully, be on her face to cover the scars from the burn but the doctor has not mentioned anything about that yet. He is focused on functionality over beauty at this point.

This morning, as I read about the deaths in newspaper, I honed in on the kindness.

How will my children remember me?


I just finished reading an incredible memoir in graphic novel by Tyler Feder. The book is called Dancing at the Pity Party. Feder chronicles her journey in grief after losing her mother to uterine cancer when she was nineteen. This book has both humor and heartbreak as Feder paints the beautiful relationship that she had with her quirky, funny, extremely creative mother, her diagnosis of cancer, her physical decline and ultimately her demise. There is nothing funny in death but Feder’s mother found ways to keep her girls smiling even through extreme grief. After her death, Tyler, her two younger sisters and their father need to relearn to live life without the bright, shining light that was their mother.

Tyler Feder remembers the memories she created with her mother. And this made me think how my children will remember me when I am gone. Don’t get me wrong, I do not plan to go anywhere for a long time if it is in my hands. But there will be an ‘after me’ and what memories will my children have when they think of mom.

My fondest memories of my mother is our reading time together. And seeing her laugh. Her laughter did not remain just in her face, it traveled to her eyes and eventually to her whole body. She laughed with her whole being and it is the most beautiful visual I have of her in my mind’s eye.

I will venture to guess what my two kids will remember of their mother:

Numerous trips to the library.

Cuddles and reading books together.

Whenever Sean traveled, our tradition was to make kathi rolls and eat them sitting on the kitchen floor Indian style.

Many hours spent petting Sage. Many, many hours of laughter over Sage’s antics.

Buying burgers and fries from the concession stand in the ball fields and eating on the grass watching a little league baseball game.

Eating dinner in the back deck while solving the problems of the world. Now that I think about it, our dinner time conversations were always very deep.

My gullibility? My first reaction to a comment is to believe it. “Really?” “No, mom. That was a joke.”

Listening to music together in the car while driving to sports events.

Days of making quick pesto pasta for dinner due to lack of time (and planning).

Alu bhaja and patla dal.

Being a sounding board.

Yelling/nagging.

Also laughing (and not being able to stop).

I don’t know if I will be remembered as a shining light. I hope to be remembered as a constant light. I want them to remember me as “Mom was there when I needed her.”