Happiness isn’t complicated.

I will be labeled as a happy person by most. I greet people with a happy smile. I never forget to raise my hand to neighbors as they are driving by. The fact that I generally carry dog poop in a plastic bag in that hand and raise the dog poop in greeting is beside the point. You see, I generally see my neighbors when I walk my dog. I always wave frantically to drivers who let me go by with a casual flick of their hand. I am overwhelmed by the show of generosity in people in general.

And then there are occasional days when I am run down, cranky, hungry and tired. Then the gloom descends. Then I am a Grinch, I can literally feel my heart shrink three sizes. I don’t want to smile at the nice lady handing my provolone cheese at the super market. I smile anyway because I, too, work in customer service. Anyway, this evening was such a time when I felt I bore the weight of the world on my shoulders. I went to work, dashed back to cart my two children back and forth between swim team, football practice, confirmation meeting. In between dropping off and picking them up, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up provisions for the week. Grocery shopping, being one of my least favorite activities, did nothing to elevate my mood. The tiredness and empty stomach aggravated my grumpiness to no end.

While I tried to zip by the aisles, throwing things in my cart, a young mother tried her best to block me at every step of the way. She was having way too much fun in the grocery store with her toddler. The toddler wasn’t walking yet, she was scooting around on the dirty floor of the super market. The germophobic me shuddered at the scene and the veteran mom in me wagged a finger at the new mom. Get that baby off that floor immediately, woman! I wanted to scream. As I stood, somewhat impatiently at the deli to get my three-quarter pound of provolone, I heard a squeal. I turned around to a scene that brought the biggest smile to my face. The baby was taking her first steps – at the supermarket. And the mother was squealing her encouragement and filming the momentous event at the same time. The other grumpy shoppers like myself, stopped in our tracks to savor the moment. The woman in the deli left my cheese on the weighing scale while we all joined in aaahing and oooohing at the feat of the proud toddler. She waddled for a few moments and then went down on her bottom with a happy, two teethed grin. We all clapped! “Awww, honey, do it again!” “What a big girl!” “You are walking!!” Comments came from all sides. The mother looked at us, beaming, ‘Her first steps! She took her first steps!’

A special moment in the child’s life, and in the mother’s life, as well. We, the grumpy, Grinchy shoppers at that supermarket will always be a part of their joy and special memory. The thought made me happy. The line was long at the check out counter. I didn’t complain. I went to my car, unloaded my groceries and asked a woman who parked next to me if she needed my cart. She took it with a big smile and a grateful ‘thank you!’

Happiness isn’t really complicated, if you think about it. There are these little moments strewn around us like treasures. The moment when the big black and yellow school bus pulls up to my drive way and I see through the window a beautiful teenage girl sedately walking towards home, lost in her own thoughts; or a rambunctious seven-year old running like Usain Bolt because he is free from school. The moment when I see the back lights of Sean’s car backing into the driveway after a day’s work. The moment I feel the wet nose of Sage touch my feet in unconditional love. The lonely dove sitting on the electric wire against the back drop of a spectacularly clear, blue sky. The moment when I look out of kitchen window into my back yard to see the most fascinating sunset. I can string these moments together and wear them as a garland when my heart starts to shrink three sizes down. I simply need to look around and be mindful of the innumerable moments that I own, yet often, don’t realize.

The gift she gave me.

I was in seventh grade when I met her for the first time. The doorbell rang, I raced to open the door and there she was, looking back at me with a toothless grin. Not a single tooth to be seen in that wide smile she gave me. She was hungry and was wondering if I could give her any food to eat. The request for food was made in an empty stomach, but the smile that accompanied the request was one of pure joy. The smile reached her eyes.

She was an old woman, probably early to mid seventies, short, very thin, and as I said earlier, toothless. She had an old saree draped around her thin frame. The saree must have been white at some point but had turned gray with wash and use. I had watched Satyajit Ray’s movie ‘Panther Panchali’ recently and there was Indir Thakrun (a tragic character from the movie) right there in front of me. Her story wasn’t unusual. A childless widow with no money, no support, all alone in old age. She didn’t beg on the streets, but got by somehow with the help of her neighbors. She woke up that morning to find there was nothing to eat so she went from house to house to see if someone could give her food.

The connection was instant. She must have touched some chord in my young heart. I ran in to get her some provisions. Our relationship started that day. She didn’t come everyday, maybe once or twice a week. She wiped her forehead with her gray saree and rested her bony legs as she told me stories of her life. What I found wondrous about her was despite being in terrible poverty where she had to depend on neighbors to survive, she had an inner light, an inexplicable joy surrounding her. She laughed while telling her woeful tales and never forgot to thank the lord for letting her witness yet another day. And she had the most beautiful smile that I ever saw. She blessed me – every time we met. Instead of saying goodbye, she said, ‘May you be a queen one day, my girl! May you get a lot of love in your life!’ Being a queen was not on the top of my list those days, so I simply said, ‘Mashi, (aunty) come again!’

I tried to be sneaky while getting rice, dal, vegetables for my adopted aunt, but it was more of a game between my mother and I. She knew how much I was giving, yet she was indulgent and looked on quietly while I hid cups of rice from her. I still remember how the old woman’s eyes lit up in anticipation of a good meal if I could produce an unexpected vegetable or a seasonal fruit once in a while. One time, my mother bought a saree for her during Durga Puja, the biggest festival of the Bengalis. I remember, she cried.

She came to us regularly for almost three years, and then suddenly, didn’t. I thought about her sometimes, my family asked me where my adopted aunt was but I am ashamed to admit, I didn’t go looking for her. I didn’t have a clear idea where she lived. Also, youth is probably a bit self oriented. I was heady with the feeling of being young, growing up and just life. Priorities changed. I can’t say I forgot her, but she definitely slipped way down the totem pole as I moved on.

The elderly woman in my past embodied the spirit of old India, in its best and its worst. She represented the widows of India, uncared for, cast aside. Yet she remained accepting, joyful, thankful. In those days, she could ring people’s doorbell and ask for help. She wasn’t kept out by the security guards of modern-day gated communities. In those days the neighbors actually took care of her in the way they knew best. I seek for this warmth among the glittery malls and glass and concrete corporate houses in the big metros when I go back. Sometimes I get a whiff of the India I left behind, but often times, I don’t.

I think of her often now. I wonder how her end was. If death was kind to her, or she died alone. I think she came in my life at that particular time for a reason. She came to teach me empathy. She taught my tender, young heart to feel the sorrows of another and to try to help in whatever capacity. I also question who was truly helped in that situation. I gave her some food for sustenance, but what she gave me in return is invaluable. The lesson of kindness.

I later read Mother Teresa’s quote ‘If you can’t feed a hundred, then just feed one’, and I thought of my adopted aunt. As Albert Einstein said ‘Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted’. My cups of rice were indeed countable, her blessings and lessons to me, were not.

I am going to go ahead and say it ‘I lucked out!’

My husband and I had to cross several cultural barriers to start understanding each other. I may have mentioned in my earlier blogs, we had several disagreements at the initial stages of our relationship. It was mainly due to our cultural differences. One big divide was how we expressed our feelings for each other.

I grew up in a semi conservative, protected environment where voicing your feelings was frowned upon. In romantic movies, two flowers coming close together was symbolic of the intimacy shared by the protagonists. A lot of silent, amorous messages were passed through eyes. I grew up with the romantic notion that if my partner really loved me, there would be no need for words to communicate, he should be able to read my mind through my looks, decipher my expressions and know what I mean. This notion, in my particular case, flopped. My husband, I am sure, wanted to bang his head in frustration, because he didn’t understand why I was mad at him…again. ‘Tell me, please, what did I do wrong this time?’ Finally, I realized the power of words! Now I let him have it (exaggerating a bit) , he probably wants those days of silent treatment back.

He, on the other hand, embarrassed me numerous times in front of my immediate and extended family by professing his love for me openly. My parents and my uncles and aunts were uncomfortable at this display of verbal affection. My cousins and friends loved this novelty, they were amused and somewhat perplexed at the same time. I reminded him often not to verbalize in front of people how much he is in love with me, it was simply not done in India (this was almost 16 years ago)! The poor man, a white guy from a different culture and country, was desperate to reassure my family that his intentions about me were honest. He was also trying to fit in but in the wrong way.

Although, I pleaded with him not to make comments like ”Oh she is beautiful’ when one of my cousins said ‘she is too thin’ I liked
them. I felt cherished when he told my family and his family how much I mean to him, while I still cringed outwardly. Slowly, I changed too. After being married to him, I realized it is actually a wonderful and honest feeling when I acknowledged that I love my husband. India, has opened up a lot more when it comes to the matter of heart, but when I go back I still notice some reticence in admitting ‘Yes, I am in love with my spouse. Yes, I am lucky. Yes, s/he is handsome or beautiful!’

On Facebook, some dear friends (all Indian) were discussing what qualities they love in a man. Sense of humor, sensitivity, intellect, charm et all. After going through the posts, I realized, these were
the qualities, I, too, looked for in a man when I was a young woman. And I found them all in my husband. I mentioned that in the chat. I said, ‘I looked for all that in a man too, I got lucky!’ I was subjected to some good-natured ridicule for that. I was amused at the reaction, it seemed appreciating one’s spouse was still not a ‘done’ thing amongst many.

A couple of days later, I saw a post of one of my American friends where she said how lucky she was to have a wonderful husband and how much she appreciates what he does for her and how special he makes her feel. I know the couple very well, one can see the love and friendship they share. She was not ashamed or embarrassed to let the world know that she loves and appreciates her spouse. Her post made me smile.

I come from a country which has many things to offer to the world. My country is rich in heritage which I am proud to carry and hopefully pass on to my children. I have also had the good fortune to adopt a country which has a lot to offer and teach the world. Here, I have learnt, amongst other things, to appreciate another human, my spouse in this case, and not be ashamed to admit that I lucked out the day we chose each other and decided to spend our lives together. Life is a journey, people say. On this journey we can leave that we don’t need, and pick up new lessons that will make this journey, if not smoother, at least more beautiful and joyful. What is more joyful than to admit that the one who is walking by my side on this journey is the most special person to me? Why on earth should I not say it?

A ‘BANG’ doesn’t necessarily mean a tire blow-out!

I was literally laughing all the way to the bank, on a sunny, beautiful day in Baltimore. I was going to deposit my paycheck, happy to get out of my office during lunch break, I had a spring to my steps. The sun was on my face, the bitter winter was over, the air had the promise of spring. If only my husband was in town, my happiness would have been complete. But he was in Ghana. As I walked across the street to get on the block of my bank, I heard a loud bang. I instantly thought “Oh, some poor guy just had a tire blow out!” All of a sudden, I saw people in suits and ties running towards me, I looked around and realized there were at least 5 or 6 police cars. I was puzzled, and then another bang. This time I saw a police officer run toward me, with his gun drawn, as he took cover behind a police car, he yelled at me, “GET BACK, LADY, GET BACK!!!’ Things were happening so fast around me that my poor brain wasn’t sending messages to the other parts of my body fast enough. I couldn’t move, I stood there, in the middle of a side-walk, by myself, with my arms crossed across my chest, hoping I wouldn’t get shot in the chest. By that time, I had figured out that those loud bangs were no tire blow outs. For some strange reason, I thought if I got shot in the chest it would be very gruesome, so I had my arms protectively around it. Strange how we all react in emergency situations! A bank was getting robbed while I was skipping to MY bank on that sunshiny, gorgeous day, happy to be young and alive. The bank robbers shot a couple of rounds before fleeing. I was the only one standing in the middle of the road, my arms covering my chest and probably my eyes closed. Must have been quite a scene. My friends in the bank yelled at me to go in there, I found my wits and willed my legs to move. We were cordoned off for half an hour, I called my work to let them know I was stuck. Once they let us go, I sauntered back without giving the incident much thought. As I entered my work place, my colleagues gathered around me ‘Are you ok?’ ‘How awful!’ ‘Do you want to go back home?’ I started to shiver then, thinking I could have been seriously injured that day, or even worse, killed!

I love almost everything about Baltimore. The city has a character of its own. It is not classy like Boston, or cosmopolitan like New York. It is in a league of its own, though. It has a down home, genuine feeling, a warmth that I love! I love the people here with their ‘believe Hon’ attitude, the bee hive, hair-sprayed hair, the fancy nails which I think is no less than any intricate art work, the funky looking crab statues in every nook and cranny of the city. The Charm city has its own charm, for sure. The crime, however, is a problem. A big one!

We lived on the top story of a 3 story house on a relatively safe and very funky street of Baltimore. I walked back from work late at night and never felt threatened. My husband got catcalls from time to time, but not me! And I learnt, eventually, not to take it personally! It wasn’t me, it was just my gender! Anyway, one evening, only a few days after the shoot out incident, I heard a lot of sirens! Since the sirens were just an integral part of the city sounds of Baltimore, I didn’t pay much attention, till they got louder and louder, and seemed to culminate at the doorstep of our building. Sean was still in Ghana. I ran to the window to see an extremely drunk man sitting at the stoop of our building with a loaded gun. The police were in the process of extricating the gun from the man and unloading it. I snatched the phone and dialed my mother-in-law. I just had to share the exciting moment with somebody. I continued to give her the running commentary, ‘Now the Police have their guns drawn, they approached the guy, they are taking his gun, he is in handcuffs….’ and such like, while she kept telling me sternly ‘Get away from the window, NOW!’

My husband called the next day to find out how his newly wed bride was surviving, a relative newcomer to a new country! ‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Well, lets see…. I was in the middle of a shoot out the other day and there was a guy holding a gun on our stoop last night. Other than that, I am doing fine, babe. When are you coming home???’

Confessions of a facebook addict while in rehab!

In a moment of insanity, I decided to deactivate my Facebook account. I gave myself a deadline when I will sever my connection with the Facebook world…for a while! Strangely, I was excited and nervous about it at the same time. I was excited that I will be free of the constant desire to check on everybody’s business and sad that I will miss the fun banter and often times the serious exchange of ideas that I had grown to enjoy so much.

My trip to Rome was an eye opener. I stayed away from the internet and Facebook for seven days. Since I was spending my every waking moment exploring, enjoying, experiencing Rome, I didn’t miss Facebook. But how would it be in my real life where I am often bogged down by chores, responsibilities, decisions? Connecting with friends on Facebook was like a breath of fresh air for me. But the problem was, the breath of fresh air had become a violent storm. I felt constantly drawn to the iPad or the computer to check if anybody wrote back on my status update or how many comments did I get on my picture? Facebook sometimes exposed my follies and often times triggered my thinking brain which stays dormant mostly as I switch laundry or mow the lawn. It was a huge, happy time sucker. My folly, I realized, is vanity. I choose the ‘good’ pictures to share with my friends on Facebook. I check how many likes I got on my updates. At the same time, the non confrontational me finds enough courage online to comment on issues I feel strongly about. Facebook is like a fantasy world full of laughter and camaraderie. I started living in the fantasy world while my real world started collapsing around me.

Mother’s day morning was special. After the usual excitement of handmade cards, gifts, hugs, cuddles, Sahana, Ryan and I just sat in the living room for an ordinary chat. I didn’t have my iPad, Sahana didn’t have her iTouch. She said, “This is just wonderful. We are sitting together and looking at each other. We never do this. We are either working, or studying or at sports or on our computers/ipads/itouch. We should take at least an hour each day to do just this – chat!” Ryan was lying on the couch, he piped in his philosophical input, “I am the only free person here. Mommy is always on her iPad, daddy is on his computer and Sahana is on her iTouch. I am the only one who is free, the only one with a life!”

I left for Rome in the afternoon. But I carried little Ryan’s words in my heart. It came back to me again and again as I roamed the streets of Rome. Without my cell phone, my iPad or my computer, I was completely disconnected from the world-wide web. I was free. I came back home and plunged right back into social networking, posting pictures of my trip, writing blogs and posting them, checking often to see the comments and stats. Life resumed, chores piled up and I escaped into my virtual life, laughing, bantering, reading poetry, exchanging ideas on important issues, being armchair analyst. My virtual life was brimming with happiness and friends. My real life? Well…if a day had 36 hours, I would have been fine. But it doesn’t and I wasn’t fine. I decided to deactivate and focus on things that were important.

Resistant to change, I pooh poohed Facebook when it was first mentioned to me couple of years ago. “I am never getting on it, that’s not who I am, I am a private person”, I said. My best friend from college didn’t let go. She connected with old friends, people were asking for me. Those magical college days, those inseparable friends – I was sold. The first few months, for me, were full of new discoveries, of reunions, joy of connecting with old friends, sharing my story and hearing theirs. I was often chanting “Facebook zindabad” (long live Facebook) online and off. But without my knowledge, things started getting out of control.

So one fine morning, I chatted briefly with friends, went to my account settings, my fingers shook for a few seconds over the ‘deactivate’ button and I touched it. I felt a strange sensation of severing connection with a fantasy world where I was loved and wanted. I am loved a lot in my real world too, but in the Facebook world that feeling of being loved is quite palpable, it’s there, out in front of you, in written words! That’s paradoxical, don’t you think? Palpable love in a virtual world? I make it sound dramatic but the sense of loss was real. It was done!

I was surprised though, to realize that with the sense of loss there was also a sense of unfettered glee. Freedom from my self-inflicted imprisonment in the unreal world of Facebook. On the first day, I got so much done, the feeling of being productive was exhilarating. At night, I started missing my friends. I was sad to think I would wake up the next morning and won’t say a cheery good morning to the friends with my morning cup of coffee.

Day 2 was miserable. I was moping around the house constantly thinking of the people I left behind in my virtual world. I had forced my husband to hold a wager that I won’t go back for at least two weeks. The fear of losing out to him kept me from running to the computer and logging myself back on, but oh, I was sad! I haven’t had any experience with kicking an addiction, but on ‘Day 2’, I got a clear idea of what people go through during withdrawal. At the same time, I felt good about being strong at resisting the urge.

Day 3 was much better. Facebook was loosening its hold on me. I was thinking and focusing on things at hand more instead of rushing through chores to get back on the site. I sat and read with Ryan, focusing only on the little body nestled to me while he read. I listened to Sahana focusing only on her words and making a mental note where and when to drop her off and pick her up. She mostly talks to me as her personal taxi driver as her social life and school life is buzzing with activities. I completed my chores on time, read a few pages, wrote a few words, the ‘pre Facebook me’ was back.

This distance was important for me, not only to get a control over my addiction to social networking, but also to get a perspective on why I spent so much time on it. I still love what Facebook world has to offer – some wonderful, like-minded friends, uncomplicated relationships, heartfelt laughter, food for thoughts but it also showed me I can get on Facebook on my terms. I will go back to it, I miss my friends too much not to. But I know I can cut back my time on it. If I feel myself slip sliding back into the same addiction, I will do the same – hover over the deactivate button, my fingers shaking and finally touch it to sever connection temporarily, with a feeling of deja vu. I learnt a lesson about myself, through something as trivial as Facebook, that I actually do have self-restraint. It’s a good feeling.

Being a mom ain’t easy!

If that is not the understatement of the millennium, then I do not know what is! On top of that, it has been reiterated so many times that you have probably stopped reading at this point. Or you didn’t even click on it, thinking “There she goes with one of her original thoughts!” Wink, wink!

I am not talking about the bouts of unexplained crying, the dirty, messy diapers, the temper tantrums in the middle of a parking lot, the filching of candy bars that are within reach from the baby carriage as mommy paid for the grocery, and making mommy trudge all the way back to the store from the parking lot with a gooey, chocolaty baby to pay for the stolen Toblerone, the terrible two’s, three’s…sevens…twelves….! Not talking about explaining difficult phenomenons like God, death, angels, Santa Claus, tooth fairy, nail fairy. Yup, in our family, we TRIED to believe in nail fairy and extract money out of her when accidentally a nail fell off after the finger was caught in a door. Nail fairy didn’t pay a visit, though. Not talking about raising your eyebrows sky-high and pointing to your watch when your daughter talks on the phone for more than half an hour! None of that old stuff! Much has been said on that already.

I am talking about how I can’t be naughty when I want to be. Even when the kids aren’t around, I feel like a hypocrite if I do something that I tell them not to do. I can’t seem to turn off my over worked conscience! My mother had no such qualms. Her mantra to me was ‘Do as I say, don’t do what I do!’ Wish I had adopted that dictum instead of ‘Practice what you preach!’ Reading way too many parenting books will do that to you!

Please be under no false impression that I lead my life perfectly to set an example. Heck no! But I do stop myself from using words like ‘hate’, ‘stupid’, ‘shut up’ ‘dumb’ and others that are no-no in the house! I thank the telemarketer for calling “No, I am not interested in your scheme but thank you sooo much for calling!” instead of slamming the phone down because we are already late for some practice or other. I can’t curse if I want to (good thing I don’t want to curse often), ‘What an idiot’ being my limit! The other predicament is I can’t eat chocolates and other desserts in peace. My guilty conscience or mommy conscience stops me from pilfering and devouring a whole chocolate bar. If I manage to quieten my conscience and open the refrigerator with the intention of stealing, I encounter a bag of candies with this written on it: Mom, keep out! Quite unwillingly, I make a fair share of a chocolate bar. Couple of days ago, I felt extremely low energy. I had a lot of errands to run, grocery shopping being one of them. I decided to treat myself to a delectable chocolate mousse cake as a ‘pick me up’ for lunch. Decadent, I know. I came home feeling very naughty and indulgent. But then I couldn’t eat it. I simply couldn’t! I remembered two faces who absolutely loved dessert. I kept it in the corner of the kitchen eyeing it and ‘cursing’ myself for not buying more of those so I could have one.

Finally, I divided the cake to my two children for after school snack when they came home. Dessert is a very special treat in our house. The little faces lit up “Wowza! What got into mom today? How did we get so lucky? Dessert for snack? And we didn’t have to do a thing to earn it????”

As I said, being a mom ain’t easy, but then again, nobody said it would be! I teach them to behave well and they keep their eyes glued on me so I have to toe the line, most of the times. I guess we help each other ‘grow’!

Mamas around the world, lets raise a glass to the universal mommy hood. Here’s to TRYING our level best to raise some worthy citizens of the world and TRYING to be better humans ourselves, in the process.

There are, fortunately, books on parenting. Really helpful ones which tell us we are not doing this alone. There are others who are trying their very best. Here are some to look at:

It could have been my story…..

It could have been my story but it isn’t because of an accident – the accident of birth. I am going to write a story today. A true story that shook me to the core. This story didn’t make the newspaper but it didn’t stay within the neighborhood where it took place either, it spread word to mouth and it reached me here, in America.

Not too long ago, a young woman, who we shall call Reena, was dreaming of a happy home with a loving husband. She didn’t belong to the emergent middle class in India, she was from the lowest strata, living in a simple home in a slum in Kolkata and dreaming of a simple, but content life with the man she was about to marry. It didn’t work out as she had planned, like it often doesn’t! Her husband didn’t share her dreams and didn’t want to share his life with her either. He drove her away after a few years of marriage. The reason? Who cares about it? She is just a woman and she is absolutely replaceable.

Reena came back home broken, abused. Her family did not welcome her with open arms. Why would they? She was just another mouth to feed and their resources were meagre. She had taken her share of the family inheritance in her dowry. When she returned empty-handed, she found she had no support in anyone or in any form. She was stigmatized since she was returned by her husband. It was her shame, she must have been at fault, of course! One day, during a quarrel, her brother said her life was not worth living. She was a burden to them, she was a burden to the world. The woman was emotionally vulnerable to begin with, she broke down completely and set herself on fire to end it, once and for all.

She couldn’t finish the job that she started though. Neighbors rescued her and took her to the hospital. Instead of succumbing to her injuries, she hung on to life. Reena survived. She walked out of that hospital with a misshapen face, disfigured with horrendous scars. She withdrew within herself, hid in the house for a while, covered her face with the pallu of her sari. But for some strange reason, she rediscovered her will to live again. This experience transformed her…gave her a will to try one more time, to take a shot at life. She didn’t talk to a therapist about it, she barely had two square meals but she must have figured out what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger, for she came out of her house swinging, determined to make it!

She was always a hard worker, she started looking for a job as a domestic help. But faced rejection, yet again. People didn’t want to look at a scarred face in their house doing their chores. A retired couple were divided on this issue of hiring Reena. Mrs. Basu wanted to give Reena a job on humanitarian grounds, to give her a chance at life again, while Mr. Basu feared the grandchildren, when they came to visit, will be scared by her. He was sympathetic to what life had dealt her but wasn’t ready to employ her for her deformity.

My India is shining brightly for many. We are hosting the Commonwealth games, beauty pageants, the Formula 1 car racing! It is an exciting time to be in Inda with its trendsetting fashion, booming IT industry, entertainment industry, the telecom industry. The glittering, sparkly malls, the retail therapy that my friends do to pick themselves up when they’ve had a rough day, the big decisions they make whether to buy the Prada handbag, the Jimmy Choo slippers, the latest iPhone or Mac Air. By saying this, I am not passing any judgements on anybody or trying to act holier than thou. If I didn’t dislike shopping with a passion and I had the money, who knows, I would probably do the same! We have been free from the British rule for only 65 years and look where we have come! I applaud the efforts of my country women and men. Hard work, perseverance, grit, determination, talent – a combination of all these have propelled the country forward despite the snail paced bureaucracy and corruption. But there are these pockets of darkness that we need to, yet, illuminate. Many, many good men and women are working hard to make a difference. I have had the good fortune of meeting some of them and seeing the fruits of their effort. While it is certainly encouraging, we still have a long, long way to go. So many women, urban and rural alike are underprivileged, uneducated, and are still at the mercy of societal indifference, neglect and discrimination.

I was discussing the state of women with some Indian friends, while sitting in a beautiful home, eating delicious food, when one of my friends commented that we are not in a position to criticize India. We left the country a while ago and what exactly are we doing to change the situation? We have lost the right to criticize the day we boarded the plane to leave for good. That brought me down from my lofty, all-knowing state and dashed me to harsh reality! My friend was right! It was so easy for me to criticize and point out the problems at a social gathering and then do nothing about it but just return to my comfortable home, to get a good night’s sleep. What a hypocrite!

I couldn’t do a thing to change Reena’s situation but I wanted to try. I spoke to Mr. Basu pleading with him to employ Reena for her skills and not reject her, yet again, this time for the deformity of her face. Children are sensitive, and by giving Reena a job, he can actually set a great example for his grandchildren. This is a perfect opportunity to teach his grandchildren the important lessons of giving a fellow human a chance, to teach them everybody deserves a chance, the lesson of looking deeper for beauty than what is visible to the eye, the lesson of compassion and empathy, the lesson of acceptance of others who may be different! His grandchildren will be enriched by this experience. They will learn from her that if life gives you lemon, make some lemonade. I do believe I have convinced him. I just may have a good night’s sleep tonight.

Don’t go away with the Frenchman, you said he was hot!!!

This happened a long, long time ago, maybe a life time ago! At a time when I had long, black hair, not a touch of those ‘stress related highlights’, when I was in a perpetual sense of wonderment of all the things around me, I was easily amazed, easily happy, when I went places, I actually took the sights and sounds in instead of looking around constantly to see if my kids are within my eyesight, when my thoughts didn’t wander from one schedule to the next, my face didn’t sport the worry lines, it easily broke into a smile, when I thought, felt, experienced! Wow, MUST have been a long time ago. Now that we have established the time frame, on to the main story.

I was very new to Baltimore and I was going with Sean to see Washington D.C for the first time! I had read about Washington D.C, heard stories about it, regarded it with awe! Powerful, make or break decisions were made in the cavernous insides of the beautiful buildings there. Not just of USA, but sometimes the fate of other countries are decided there. Since my blogs are apolitical, we will not get into the merit of those decisions but will leave the readers to make their choice. But I digress.

Sean drove into Washington and quickly ditched me. He had an all day meeting, he brought me along to do the sight-seeing solo. We planned to meet at a place after his meeting to grab a bite. I wasn’t unhappy about being on my own, though. It was a gorgeous day, the green of the mall stretched before me, the reflecting pool reflected the breathtakingly beautiful buildings spread around the mall. I sat on a bench to just take in the beautiful scene when a young man sat next to me and smiled. Since I am very social (read talker), I smiled back and said hello. It turned out he was from France, traveling alone, first time in Washington D.C, and overwhelmed. His English was slightly better than my French, but we hit it off. I should mention here that my sweet husband once told me to walk a few steps behind him in Champs de Elysee, Paris, when, in my usual state of wide-eyed innocence, I said at the top of my voice, ‘Sean, this is the famous Champs (ch sounding like CHocolate) de (sounding like DElhi) elysee (el-i-see)! Sean turned to me with a sombre face and said in a quiet voice, ‘You need to walk a few paces behind me because I don’t know you!’ This must have been a terrible faux pas, since he didn’t say that when I didn’t recognize Sting in Varanasi! But then, he is a little snooty about his French and Spanish!

All this was to make it clear that my French is terrible….ok, non-existent. The Frenchman could speak English, barely. But we decided to tour Washington D.C together. We did the usual touristy stuff, went up to the Washington monument, Jefferson memorial, Lincoln memorial, et all. I helped him out in ticket counters, took pictures of him with his camera, he took pictures of me with my camera, had lunch. It was fun to discover a new city with a new friend. At the end of the day we parted ways without exchanging numbers or promises to stay in touch. We both knew that this was where our camaraderie ended.

I met Sean at the appointed time (I am pretty sure he was late, he always is) and gushed about what a wonderful day I had with a friend.

‘How awesome! You met an old friend here?’ he asked.

‘No, I made a new one!’ I told him about my new friend.

My husband is not the jealous type at all but till date, 14 years later, he sometimes jokingly talks about my ‘going out with the Frenchman’! We have shared many a laugh over it and my kids have been told the story as well. No prizes for guessing who told them the story, though.

Anyway, Sean and I are planning to go to Rome for a week. He has a meeting, I am tagging along to revisit one of my absolute favorite cities. The kids are being left with the grandparents. Predictably, the preteen girl is ecstatic about this unexpected freedom from parental watchfulness. She is arranging rides for her innumerable student council meetings, birthday parties, and other social activities. I am just standing by the side line watching her manage her social life and her rides with such ease. She truly is on her way to growing up!!! But the little guy is not super happy about the prospect of both parents leaving for a week. He is split between looking forward to being pampered rotten by the grandparents and missing mom and dad. So he is trying everything in his power to make us review our decision to go. Last night, the dinner table conversation went like this:

“Dad, you really shouldn’t take mom with you!” he said.

“Why Ryan? You will have so much fun with Didiya and Dadai!” Sean said.

“Yes, I know. But Dad, what if mom finds a Frenchman when you are in a meeting?”

I had to interject, “What Frenchman, Ryan? Why would I find a Frenchman? What are you talking about???”

“Just like you found a Frenchman in Washington D.C when dad was in a meeting. And you said he was hot!” he points out.

Sean burst out laughing while I glared daggers at him.

“I didn’t say he was hot, I don’t even remember how he looked!” I try (its the truth)!

“Yes, you did! Yes, you did! You said he was hot! Dad, don’t take mom to Rome, don’t take her!”

Katy Perry, Drake, LMFAO, and other singers of the ilk, you are banned from my radio stations. Why does a seven-year old talk about ‘hot’??? Oh wait, he does have an almost thirteen year old sister!

Just a housewife…

I always bite the end of my pen before writing down my occupation in a form. Once, while standing in the immigration line to enter United States, I wrote my occupation as ‘Homemaker’! The young officer squinted at my form and asked, ‘So you are just a housewife?’ It is probably politically incorrect to put the word ‘just’ in front of housewife, as he immediately cracked a smile, an embarrassed one and said, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to say just a house wife. I meant do you stay at home?’ It broke the ice, he was nicer to us, having made the faux pas, and we moved along.

For a while, I used to write ‘house wife’, but I find that word nonsensical. What the heck does that mean? Then I wrote home maker, instead. But that made me feel guilty because apart from cooking, my ‘home making’ skills are quite limited. Now I write ‘mother’. Now that is a real job, which includes yet is not limited to being a chef, chauffeur, maid, educator, counselor, confidante, disciplinarian, entertainer – did I leave anything out, fellow mothers? Oh yes, it also includes listening to endless jokes with absolutely no punchline whatsoever and laughing along just to see the joy in those faces! But I still get flustered when people ask me, ‘Now that Ryan is in full day school, what are your plans? What are you doing these days?’

I am doing plenty. But are they worthy enough to enumerate? Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, running errands, laundering and most importantly, I am making myself available to get my kids off the bus and asking that important question, ‘How was school today, guys?’ And then lending a patient ear!

I am always at a loss for an answer. ‘Er, not much really, doing some volunteering but that’s about it!’ I always say I am volunteering at the library or at the schools, never do I mention, I washed the kitchen floor, I cleaned two toilets, I made a four course Indian meal and then did the dishes, got the homework done and here I am sitting at the children’s sporting activity but what I really want to do is curl in my bed with a good book. But having said all that, I realize my counter parts, the working mothers or fathers are doing all that I am doing AND going to their jobs. Working parents, you truly are my heroes!

I asked my wise friend, Wendy the other day what should an appropriate response be to this line of questioning. She keeps me grounded when I suffer from my ‘home maker’ angst from time to time and lends an ear to my gripes. She said ‘Tell them you are investing in your family!’ That sounded important and professional, I am totally going with it!

I thought of ending the blog there till a dear friend threw a wrench in my plan, or rather my thoughts on stay at home parents. He said when he has children he would continue to work and he wishes his partner would choose to do so too, at least part-time. His reason being that staying at home may not necessarily keep people sharp and on the edge. It can hinder personal growth. That idea got me in a tizzy. What is happening to me then? Am I not reaching my potential by being ‘just’ a mother, baking, cleaning, cooking? After thinking about it a whole lot, I finally decided, I don’t agree with this point of view. I may not be sharpening my business management skills, or my software engineering skills (which, by the way, I don’t have folks), I may not be very useful in the corporate world right now, but I am indeed polishing the skills that are equally important – to me and my young family. I am sharpening my skills to stay one step ahead of two young, bright minds, (and let me tell you, that is no mean task), I am practising empathy and selflessness, which I consider my personal growth. I am meeting intelligent, wonderful fellow mothers who chose to give up their successful careers to devote their time to their children. I am constantly growing, learning and evolving. People, busy in the corporate world, may not rate my skills very high and our materialistic world won’t put any value on them. I am fine with that.

After all, ‘reaching one’s potential’ is so relative!

Play ball, girl!

I was standing in the short- stop position on a beautiful, starlit night in Delhi at a woman’s softball game at the American club. I had my glove on, grit and determination written all over my face, crouched, ready position just like our coach said. I was ready to pounce on the ball if it came my way. And for those who may not be aware of the importance of the short- stop field position, let me clarify that it is a very important position to field at, and generally the best athlete on the team gets to play at that place…. just saying:)! I guess, I also should admit, we ALL had to play ALL positions during the game.

Sean got me into softball primarily to stop a nagging wife from grumbling that he was spending way too much time playing sports. He has this terrific ability of making me feel like I am making all the decisions but when I take a moment to reflect on things, I figure out, I am doing exactly what HE wanted me to do all along. I am sure he will give you lessons on this if you want any! Works out great for him! So he decided to entice me into joining the women’s softball team in the American Club in New Delhi. I am moderately athletic, I had given birth six weeks ago and was carrying a substantial amount of baby weight which I was desperate to lose. I gave in.

Having played some and watched a lot of cricket growing up, I thought, how difficult could softball be. I thought wrong. The bat is a stick, not a paddle, you hold it up over your shoulder at a precarious position, and you swing as the ball comes your way. You miss mostly, and swing around. Not you! You may be fantastic at it, its me! I used to swing at air and go around 360 degrees before coming to a stop. Hilarious really.

We practised a lot. The coach was very patient with me and helped me learn the nuances of the game. Since I was somewhat athletic, I got the hang of it pretty quickly. I played an inning, came out to nurse six weeks old Sahana, handed the baby back to Sean and ran back in the field to play. People saw me and exclaimed ‘This is what women playing ball is all about!’

On this particular night, I was pumped. The field was green and beautiful, the overhead lights transformed the night into day, we had a decent amount of beer guzzling crowd cheering us on. I had a good feeling we were on to something. The best batter of the enemies sauntered in to bat. The captain yelled, ‘She is a hitter! Take a step back all!’ We backed up some. I relaxed a bit, since I knew the batter would hit it either out of the ball park or hit it so hard, the outfielders would be scampering after the ball. This one would be an outfielder’s problem. We, in fielders, were safe! I desperately wanted to gaze at the dandelions growing nearby, but decided against it so as not to get hit by the ball!

The pitcher looked around, saw us in our uncomfortable, crouching, ready position and pitched her first pitch. Ball! For the non softball lovers, that is a bad pitch. She got ready and pitched her second. And the batter let it rip. At the resounding crack of the ball hitting the bat, I moved mainly out of instinct. There was a loud roar from the spectators. I was frantically looking around me running hither and thither looking for the ball, till my team mates ran towards me with joyful faces. What the heck? Why were they zeroing in on me instead of fielding the ball, the batter must be running all four bases now and scoring. The women started thumping my back congratulating me while I screamed, ‘What is going on??? Where is the ball!!!’ A few seconds of silence, before the captain lifted my gloved hand, and showed me the softball safely nestled in my glove! I had caught the ball and got the batter out, and I had no clue! I looked up to see the batter walking back to the dugout. Instead of feeling the joy, I felt like an idiot!

The next bit, I heard from my husband, who almost threw the baby up in the air, when I instinctively made that awesome catch…. without my knowledge! When I picked up the ball, a couple of beer drinking men shouted, ‘Did she f***ing make that catch!!! That is unbelievable! Wow!’ Then, when they saw me looking around frantically for the ball, having no idea that it was in my glove, they said, ‘What is she doing?’ At this point, Sean’s jubilation at having such an athletic wife, albeit clueless was dying down a bit. He turned to the men and said, ‘She doesn’t know she has the ball!’

‘Huh? How do you know?’ They asked, obviously puzzled.

‘I know…. she is my wife!’ My loving husband responded!