I am brown and I smell of chocolate chip cookies.

The golden skinned children, as we call them.

Sahana was born to a brown mom and a white dad in New Delhi with light skin, brown eyes and brown hair. In parks and play grounds, well-meaning people cooed over the baby, turned to me, the brown mom and asked if I was the ayah (nanny). I was indignant the first couple of times, ‘No, I am her MOTHER!’ Once the novelty of being the first time mom wore off, I found it humorous and replied, ‘I am her ayah and mother rolled into one!” I am not sure children notice the color of skin much, but I distinctly remember the day Sahana looked at me with wonder and said “Mom, you are brown!!!” She was close to three and I honestly think that was the first time she noticed my color being different from her. Before we had children, Sean and I sometimes wondered how our children will feel about being of mixed race because children desperately needed to belong. Sahana had no problem, whatsoever. We told her she was special since she belonged to two countries and she truly believed us. Fluent in Hindi, Bengali and English, she mingled with her Indian friends and her American family and friends with equal ease. In fact, she loves to be different, loves to be noticed. In a Ravens (football team) pep rally, she was the single brave soul who dared to wear the jersey of the nemesis, Patriots (a rival football team) and sit right in front to be noticed. To this day, she revels in her uniqueness at having two ethnicities, Irish American and Indian. As a little girl, she boasted to anybody who would listen, “I am half American and half Indian”! Later, when she learnt percentage, that changed to “I am 30 percent American and 70 percent Indian because I was born there!”

Young Ryan was very different. He was born in the United States. He didn’t feel he needed to belong to two countries. He wanted to be like most of his preschool friends, white and American. He loved his Indian mom but denied his Indian heritage. In fact, he got angry if we pointed out that he was darker than his Caucasian friends. He noticed the difference in our colors early on. He always identified as mommy and Sahana being from India, while daddy and he were from America. Unlike his sister, he didn’t want to stand out, didn’t want to be different, he just wanted to blend in. I felt sorry for him and it would be a lie if I said I didn’t feel bad about his attitude towards part of his heritage. I noticed a gradual change in his outlook towards his ethnicity when he went to kindergarten. Slowly he started to acknowledge his difference from his other white friends and felt good about it. Two things helped, school and our dog! We are fortunate to live in a very diverse community. Once he went to school, he befriended children from India, Pakistan, Korea, China. School talked about our differences, read cool books on how wonderful it was to be different, how special. That helped. He started telling people he had not one, but two countries. Our lab mix, Sage helped as well. Ryan considers Sage his dog brother and shares a wonderful connection with him. Ryan, a die hard Ravens fan sometimes roots for the arch rival Steelers, when they are not playing the Ravens. Reason? Sage was born in Pennsylvania, (Steelers are a football team from Pittsburg, Pennsylvania). A Ravens fan rooting for Steelers, that, my friends, is true love! If Sage is a mix then it is OK for Ryan to be a mix too. Now he is proud to call himself a mutt like Sage. I do tell him he doesn’t have to go that far but….

Sometimes, when I go to have lunch with Ryan in his school, his little friends pipe up with the refreshing innocence of a six-year-old, “Are you Ryan’s mother? But his color is different than yours!” So now he introduces me to his friends this way, “Oh this is my mom, she is brown because she is from India. And I am part Indian too, but I am not brown because my dad is from Boston!” The other 6-year-old he talks to, generally gives us a blank stare and says “Do you want to play ball?”

The cutest thing both my kids say to me is “Mom, your color is brown and you smell of chocolate all the time. In fact, you smell like chocolate chip cookies!” I like the sound of that….. a lot. Maybe, just maybe I can bottle this chocolate chip fragrance and sell it to make some dough? Hmmmm….let me think about that one!

Dating a white guy.

I started dating my “white” husband in mid nineties in a very parochial (I think) place called Kolkata, India. A white man with a brown woman was a rare sight in those days in my city so we got our fair share of snide comments and stares, bumping-into-telephone-pole kind of stares. We roamed the streets of Kolkata, the gardens of the National Library, the campus of my university, exchanging ideas and learning about our vastly different cultures in the musty yet magical Kolkata evenings. We even sat on the grounds of the infamous Victoria Memorial (supposedly anti-social activity is rampant there in the evenings), till the ‘peace keepers’ felt we were disturbing the sensitive morality of the city by sitting next to each other and drove us away, along with other amorous couples. I believe, it was there that I was called a “lady of the night” keeping company of a white man. I have to defend my earlier statement of Kolkata being extremely parochial here, where ever we went, we met a relative, a friend or an acquaintance of mine. And since I was sneaking out to meet my boyfriend, that was a ‘slight’ inconvenience. I don’t even want to talk about what happened when one of my aunts saw me walking down the street with Sean, holding hands.

Our romance survived all the surreptitious rendezvous, or in other words, sneaking around and we decided to take the plunge. My wedding was the first Catholic mass I ever attended. Growing up, I had dreamed of getting married in a white wedding dress, they looked so ethereal and beautiful in movies. Yet when the time and opportunity came to get married in one, I opted to wear a sari. I got married in Catholic ceremony, wearing a golden and black sari, Sean looked dashing in a tux. After the homily, the priest started giving the communion. I followed Sean’s lead through out the entire mass, like a two step dance routine. I kneeled when he did, stood up when he did, sat when he sat. So when he extended his hand to recieve the communion, I did the same. I am pretty sure Sean pinched me then, to deter my enthusiasm, although he denies it now. Instead of giving me Communion, the embarrassed priest put his hand on my head and blessed me. I was slightly miffed as I went through the rest of the ceremony.

It was important to Sean to incorporate some Hindu traditions along with the Catholic. For him our marriage was not just a union of two people but also a union of two cultures and two religions. He wanted to know “what can we do that is a Hindu wedding ritual”? How would I know? My focus in a Hindu wedding was always on fun, frolic and food. Did I ever pay attention to the rituals? So we did the very basic sindur ceremony where the bridegroom puts vermillion powder on the bride’s forehead, after we exchanged rings. I was just ecstatically happy to sign the marriage certificate and be done with it, but the rituals, both Catholic and Hindu, were important and meaningful to my husband, I respected that. Even the euphoria of marrying the sweetest guy didn’t take away the feeling of being slighted by the priest. I asked Sean why the heck was I denied the bread that everyone got, that too on my own wedding! That was NOT a nice way to treat a bride! He explained I had to be a Catholic to receive the body of Christ. I felt discriminated against, but let it slide. Later, when we went to enter the Temple of Jagannath in Puri, in India, Sean was denied entry for being a non-Hindu, I was appalled again. How can one be kept out from the house of God?

We decided to go to Cyprus and Israel for our honeymoon. Cyprus, because Sean had a meeting there, and Israel, because we felt it would be symbolic to go to a place where a new religion began, like our new relationship. Getting into Cyprus was easy, those island people were pretty laid back about the difference in the skin color between my husband and I. But Israel? Oh, we confused them. Those young immigration officers weren’t sure we were telling the truth when we said we were husband and wife. I have no idea why our relationship would matter to Israeli immigration, anyway! First, here was a brown woman and a white man, who claimed they were married, second, my passport said my maiden name and third, we didn’t carry our marriage certificate. They detained us for more than three hours along with some unfortunate Palestinian travelers, and asked us the same questions again and again, “Who is he to you?” and “Who is she to you?” “Why did you choose to layover in so and so place?” etc etc. It went on and on, till Sean smiled and said, “No matter how many times you ask, the answer is not going to change, she is my wife, I am her husband, we are here for our honeymoon. And why we chose to fly the way we did? Because we got a better deal with the airlines. Do you have any other ideas?” Finally, they let us go with the warning that we should stay in Israel and not stray into the West Bank. We, of course, promptly forgot the advice of not straying into West Bank, Sean’s organization has an office in Ramallah which we visited along with several other places.

A year after our Catholic wedding, we went back to India to have an Indian wedding. My country, I am sad to say, has a white skin fetish. Abiding by ‘the whiter the better’ rule, women spend a fortune on fairness creams and lotions to lighten their skin tone. Being dark is akin to being ugly, in most cases. When the beauty parlors do bridal make up, they lather foundation on the face of the bride. The face and neck turn very white while the other exposed body parts remain the original skin color, brown mainly. The same was done to me. Sean saw me at the reception hall and exclaimed, ‘What have they done to you? If I wanted to marry a white woman, I would have found one in the US!’ Between smiling and greeting over three hundred people I reproached my husband for reverse discrimination. What does skin color matter, white or brown, he is head over heels in love with me for my inner beauty and he better remember that!

We had our share of misunderstandings mainly due to our cultural differences. My poor husband, trying to be romantic (????) referred to me as “chick” one day and I let him have it! I thought the word was insulting and demeaning, to him it was complimentary. He didn’t know what hit him. Finally, when he figured out what caused this outburst he burst out laughing. Chick was supposedly a cute endearing term that was meant to convey the woman is young, attractive….whatever! There were others, I didn’t get the humor of Saturday Night Live, or Jerry Seinfeld for that matter. And when he said, “Are you bringing your pocketbook?” I gave him a blank stare. What in the world is a pocket book? He didn’t understand my Indian English and phrases sometimes, especially when I used phrases like “Come on, don’t give me that cock and bull story!” “Cock and what?????”

Most of the times we laughed about it and learned about each other’s culture. Sometimes we got into fights and argued about who is right. At the expense of sounding like a Fisher Price advertisement, we literally laughed, learned and grew together. And then came our golden skinned children….How they dealt with their ethnicity is another story. Sort of a sequel to this one.

Three day weekends

Do you remember in one of my earlier posts I described Sean as funny, loving yet lacking in culinary expertise? If my husband ever wrote a blog about me, he would probably write ‘she is funny, loving, a delightful woman but lacking in an eye for detail, when it comes to cleaning.’ At least I hope he will say those nice words before the critisicm, just like I did for him.

Sean is a man of many words and a man of even more actions. He doesn’t like to sit still. If he does sit still at a party, or a social gathering, he has this very embarrasing habit of falling asleep. On these occasions, I make it a point to sit next to him, just to give him a vicious nudge from time to time, to keep him awake and focussed on the conversation. Anyway, my workaholic husband doesn’t take it easy on our three day weekends. My house shines and sparkles after he has had a go at it. This weekend was particularly good since the husband and the kids cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner for me. The good man did loads and loads of laundry, cleaned the floors, took off the stove exhaust and cleaned the dirt and grime! Goodness, just discovered he organized my freezer! Help!! Can’t find the green beans. I am lost without my controlled chaos. Anyway, what did I do this weekend? I reigned over everybody like a queen, read books, wrote blogs, checked mail and Facebook, photographed the kids and the dog. In a nutshell, didn’t lift a finger to help my family. When I tried, out of guilt, I was shooed out of the kitchen. Ok then, twist my arm, folks.

My husband travels quite a bit. When I say to my mommy friends, ‘Yeah, Sean is gone for 10 days’, they say, ‘How fun. Now you won’t have dirty clothes and dirty towels on the floor, no food on your couch. You have complete control over your house for 10 days!’ Most of the times I faithfully admit, he is the picker upper in the family. Chances are he will come back and find dirty towels and clothes on the floor (I am just saying, I am really not that bad), they give me a look which conveys ‘Girl, you don’t know how lucky you are!’ Very rarely, when I am feeling particularly grumpy and tired for doing the ‘single parent’ thing for a while, I stay quiet and let them get false impressions, just out of spite.

Don’t get me wrong, I do keep my house clean. As long as you don’t look closely at the corners and under the beds when you come to visit. Over three-day weekends, Sean takes those dreaded closer looks and gets busy. It is my way of letting him feel indispensable, really. Also to keep him awake during the day with a lot of action. So after this 3 day weekend, I am sitting happily in a very clean, shiny house. Right after I publish this I am going to check how much can I let it slide before another three-day weekend comes around. Oh, darn! Where did he put the calendar now?

Thank goodness for the “accident”!

The breeders had a “The Lady and the Tramp” moment. Their beautiful, purebred, shiny black labrador retriever did the unthinkable. She got out and fell in love with the neighbor’s sheep dog of insignificant repute. And the accident happened. Thank goodness, since one of those accidents came to our house and moved straight into our heart. We named the “accident” Sage.

And climbed where he shouldn't have. — I was told I shouldn't snoop around but you never know, I may find treats.

Fell asleep with the toy in the middle of a game. — All that play is hard work.

The sleeping beauties. — The human pups were totally faking it.

He is a pillow sometimes. — He uses me as a pillow sometimes. I love it.

We foolishly committed to getting Sahana a dog when she was 10. Oh, we heard all the “I will take care of it, feed it, walk it. You don’t have to do a thing!” We didn’t believe her for a minute. But we are gullible, indulgent parents, we gave in. Sahana, predictably, doesn’t feed him, doesn’t walk him or doesn’t take care of him, but she loves him with all her heart. Mom and dad, the suckers, are fine with that. Sage does many jobs in our house. Oh no, not ‘fetch the paper’, ‘open the door’ kind of jobs. He doesn’t do any of that. He does make himself available to Sahana when she suffers from her momentary preteen angst. She swears, stroking Sage gently, helps her calm down. He sits by Ryan’s feet when he reads, he listens yet doesn’t offer any criticism. He makes Sean feel like the most special man on earth when he returns from work (I know that’s my job, but a little word ‘delegation’)! For me? He is my sounding board. I talk to him all day, ask his opinion on things. He agrees with me, ON EVERYTHING! Never talks back, which is so refreshing! Oh goodness, did I just confess I talk to my dog all day? I am sharing much more than what’s good for me. Let’s say I think aloud, Sage just happens to be in the vicinity. Bottom line, all four of us agree, thank goodness for the “accident.”

Behave, Mama!

Parenthood is a great tool for self-help, I discovered. Do you believe our children make us behave better? I think they do. Gee, now that I think about it, time to clean out the pile high self-help books on my bed side table! Yes, I need a lot of help. Instead of those books, I simply use my children to get my act together. They seem to be a reflection of how we think, feel and act, in their formative years, so I watch my step. Like any of my fellow humans, I am full of follies, (really wish I could say otherwise)! I have made, and sometimes still do, terrible choices. Well, that’s exaggerating a bit, not terrible, terrible, but bad choices. Spoke harsh words, been mean and selfish! But after the two little humans came in my life, I have felt the need to change, for the better.

I am pretty strict when it comes to academics, I want the children to get straight A’s, B’s are tolerated but not appreciated, C’s… now that’s trouble. I push my kids to try harder in whatever they do and I want them to grow up thinking “I gave it my best shot”! I have read Amy Chua’s ‘The Battle Hymn of the Tiger mother’, while I can’t be a parent like her, I understand where she comes from and agree with her to some extent about pushing children to reach their potential. But my primary goal, is to see them grow up as decent humans with compassion, love and respect for others. Fortunately my partner shares the same aspirations for them. Since two pairs of little eyes are constantly monitoring our every move and emulating our every action, we feel we need to clean up our act. So I eat my veggies, tell the truth, try hard not to be judgmental. Help myself while I help them, at the same time. A few years ago, it was scary to see Sahana parroting what I said, forming opinions on things based on mine. Another me? Uughhhhhh, I don’t think the world can handle that! But not to fear, she is developing a cool, unique identity of her own, slowly yet steadily. Ryan still walks in his father’s footsteps, daddy can do no wrong in his eyes. So I glare at poor Sean when he makes fun of broccoli at dinner table, “Oh, we are eating trees today!” or says ‘Dumb, dumb,dumb!’ while watching football. Hate that word. Oh, we don’t use the H word in our house, we say ‘strongly dislike’ instead. And when my kids say ‘Can we say the S word in this case (I think we were discussing the genocide in Rwanda, when Ryan asked this question)?’ They mean STUPID. On retrospect, I should have let them use a much harsher word in that particular case. They are not allowed to say “I am bored!” either. Don’t tolerate that. There are books, tons of them, in the house. Pick up one. There is a yard outside the house, bats and balls, bikes and scooters, go play outside, create your own fun, but don’t say you are bored! That is my stand. Do you feel stifled? I feel a wee bit that way just writing these things. Whatever happened to self-expression? Maybe I should ease up a bit! I sometimes worry that my kids will only eat Mcdonald’s and drink teeth-decaying soda when they go to college. By the way, I am glad to report that when I read this particular bit to Ryan, he vehemently protested, “Never, I am not going to eat that stuff!” Yessss, with a fist pump in the air! They are soda and Mcdonald’s deprived. They will probably use obscenities a lot too, while talking to their friends (maybe they do now, I don’t know) just to get it out of their systems.

My mother swears I gave her enough grief to last for a lifetime when it came to eating. Now, I eat everything on my plate and DO NOT balk at the idea of eating steamed brussel sprouts like I used to! My kids won’t go to that extent but they are easy when it comes to food. Don’t get me wrong, there are days when all I want to do is guzzle soda, eat ice cream for lunch and candy for dinner. But a tiny voice tells me “little people watching” (oh, dear!) and I reach for a granola bar for snack. But please don’t get the idea that we don’t eat ice cream and candy in our house, we do, only occasionally. I am not fond of exercising, give me a book and a couch any day. But I haul my unwilling self to the gym to get rid of those sneaky, extra calories, as well as frustration, crankiness, so I can be somewhat pleasant when I remind them for the eighteenth time that they need to get their swim bags and get in the car!!!! I want to be there for them, healthy and active, to see them grow up. So I do my part.

I try my best to be honest and truthful with them and give them straight answers so they will continue to confide in me and ask me questions instead of taking them to the playground. I bend the truth sometimes though, especially when my six-year-old sings “I am sexy and I know it” at the top of his lungs and asks “Mom, what does sexy mean?” in the same high pitch voice, in a crowded supermarket. I mumble something like “attractive” and hope the interrogation would stop there. I try hard not to be judgmental, which, unfortunately, is my nature, so my children would learn to give people a second chance before jumping to conclusions. These two also taught me the important lessons of selflessness and unconditional love. I finally learnt to put others before me. Being an only child and a pampered spouse, I was selfish, before these two came along.

Yet, I don’t want to give them the impression that I am perfect. I am asked often, “Did you like doing homework?” The answer is no, not always. I had some favorite subjects, and some I didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. I want them to see me with my imperfections. When Sahana was younger, she asked me with awe “Mom, you are perfect. Do you ever make mistakes?” That worried me. That kind of perception of me is a burden for both of us. First, that is so far from the truth, and second, she will never relate to me if she saw me as perfect. I confessed my vices (ouch, that’s a strong word), I am inherently lazy, impatient, procrastinator. I should be cleaning the house right now, instead of writing a blog, just to give you an example. There is a lot of room for improvement. I told her I was still learning to be a good person and trying to overcome my weaknesses. Sometimes I can, and other times I fail but I promise to keep trying. She said she wanted to grow up just like me. The best compliment I ever got. I am pretty sure that has changed, she doesn’t view me in the same light at age twelve! Children often see their parents as infallible, yet when they get older and see their parents flawed like any other, there is a tremendous sense of let down. That is something I don’t want Sahana and Ryan to experience.

I do think parenting helps us improve. If we act the way we want our children to behave, we will end up being better people. The daunting responsibility of nurturing the body, mind and soul of young humans is enough to make us walk the line. When we falter, we feel the piercing gaze of those little eyes, we apologize and get back to trying. Hey, that’s another thing I learned to do post kids, say sorry when I make a mistake. I used to be obstinate and willful. I don’t know what my spouse will say about that, if you ask him, so please don’t ask! Just take my word for it.

Who you calling ‘domesticated’?

I am not proud to admit that I didn’t know how to cook an egg, or anything for that matter, till I was in my late twenties. Since I believe in complete honesty, when Sean proposed to me, I came clean ‘just so you know, I can’t cook or clean’. In other words, don’t have any expectations of a clean hearth and home-cooked meals at the end of the day. Without missing a beat, he said, ‘That’s fine. I am not looking for a house keeper, I want a wife!’ Good answer!

I gave him four conditions before marriage. A prenup of sorts, if you will. He needed to buy me a pillow (the guy thinks pillows are evil incarnates for neck bones, he still doesn’t use one) an apartment with a balcony, salt and sugar in the pantry (he is one of those fanatics who tries to keep salt and sugar out of his diet, not normal, I say) and take me out to dinner at least four times a week. I was partly kidding, I would have married him anyway! But the good man took me seriously and tried to meet my requirements. He only failed to procure an apartment with balconies, our first apartment was on the fifteenth floor with big, wall to wall glass windows. I loved it.

True to his words, he came home from work and cooked dinner for both of
us while I stood beside him, enchanting him with my mesmerizing company! OK, I may have chopped a tomato or two… badly. Over the weekends he vacuumed, did the laundry. And on top of that, we went out to eat at least four times a week. Things were going great. There was one little problem, though. My husband is a delightful man, he is funny, loving, super smart but somewhat lacking in culinary repertoire. Our mornings started with oatmeal, he made tuna fish sandwiches for lunch and the same type of pasta every evening. Now that I think of it, it might have been a ploy to get me into the thick of things! Did I say he is super smart? After a few months of eating out, my palate craved for some comfort food, yet repelled at the thought of oatmeal, tuna fish and pasta……repeat. Tentatively, I went to an Indian grocery store and bought some dal (lentil) and basmati rice. Called home to acquire culinary knowledge, finally armed with wisdom from far away India, I put one cup of rice, two cups of water on the stove and watched with awe as the rice changed shape and size. That doesn’t quite portray me in a very good light, does it? But you’ve got to admire the honesty. I cooked the dal too, with simplest of ingredients. Then waited for my husband to come home. He went overboard with the praise. Another ploy, to push me in the direction of domesticity, methinks. But I will pretend his jubilation was genuine!

Things started to change from then on. Slowly but steadily, I learnt to cook. After a lot of trials and errors, I could produce a half decent meal, but nothing to write home about, which, by the way, I didn’t. As I said earlier, those were not my crowning glory days. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t learnt to do these domestic chores. I congratulated my mother-in-law on raising her son well, while I gnashed my teeth at my own parents for not making me cook and clean at home. Gotta blame someone!!! I also vouched my kids will be totally self-sufficient by age 5!

I grew up in a middle class home in India where I was expected to go to school, do my homework, practice my music and then study some more. Cooking, cleaning, laundry was done by domestic help. I grew up with the mantra that I had to finish my education, a master’s degree at the very least, get a job and then marry, in that order. That’s exactly what I did, the only difference being, I ended up marrying a non-Indian, and leaving the land of domestic help! That wasn’t in the plans, but hey, such is life….unpredictable. And people have done worse for love!

After 15 years and two kids, I am now a pro! You should me see whizzing around the kitchen, helping Sahana with a math problem, listening to Ryan read, and whipping up a meal, all at the same time. Talk about multi tasking. The cleaning….well, one can’t be good at everything! I am a complete suburban, swimming mom (not soccer mom anymore, kid gave up soccer). I cook casseroles, bake cookies from scratch, mow the lawn, dress in sweats, and drive a minivan! You can’t get more suburban than that! Yet, the other day, when a friend said ‘Gosh, you are so domesticated’ after hearing I baked a cookie cake for Ryan’s birthday, it stung! Growing up, my parents aspired me to be someone, do something worthwhile. I truly believe I am doing something worthwhile, being home for the children. Yet when some one puts a label on it, domesticated, I don’t quite love the sound of it. Before we had children, my husband and I decided one of us would stay home and be the primary care giver. He really wanted to be the one, but he was making so much more money than me. Poor guy had to keep his job, while I quit mine. Started a job that required commitment 24/7! After hearing my dilemma with the word
‘domesticated’ Sean said he would love to be called that, can he please stay home and be domesticated while I brought the bacon home? The idea of putting make-up on every morning and leaving my spouse with the kids and dirty dishes sounded pretty appealing for a while, then the memory of oatmeal, tuna fish, pasta pattern came back with a vengeance to haunt me! No way, Jose! See ya in the evening, honey! I would revel in my domesticity. Off to bake an apple pie – FROM SCRATCH!

And this is a proof of my culinary expertise. Baked French toast with pecans on top since I never took pictures of the apple pies that I baked. Just had to post it. Call it vanity!

These preteen years.

Sean recently gave me a card where he wrote, ‘As we enter the most challenging phase of parenting….’ Wait, I thought we are already past the most challenging phase. The sleepless nights, dirty diapers, the mysterious crying bouts, temper tantrums in grocery stores. Now I empathize with moms in stores struggling with a carriage and a crying toddler, I hold the door for them with a ‘I know what you are going through’ smile. That had to be the most difficult phase of parenting…. till Sahana turned 12.

What I will write in this blog is nothing new for many of you. When you come to think of it, nothing I say is unique. But it is certainly new for me. It is parenting a preteen. I have to say, I simply love being a parent. I love to see my kids grow, like all the other parents. I give a lot of thought to what I say to them, how I address the problems they come across or questions they ask. Yes, sometimes I get overzealous and talk too much, then they tune me out. Its not like I don’t get stumped by them, sometimes I do. But I have no problem telling them I don’t know the answer to a particular question, but I will think about it and try to come up with an answer. And I follow through, for the most part. Having said that, I also make plenty of mistakes, I lose patience and yell sometimes. After 8:30 pm, I am an alligator, ready to snap heads off if people whine or misbehave. I promise myself I will work on my patience, every new year, I try for a while, and fail. I DONOT want to give the impression that I am a perfect parent, I am not. I just do the best I can.

My daughter was very easy in some ways as a baby and uh…not so easy in others. We traveled with her quite a bit when she was little. She was a champion traveler with an awesome ability to fall asleep anywhere, without a fuss. People on airplanes got grumpy when they saw us taking seats next to them with a toddler. The same people, all smiles and happy at not being woken up by a screaming kid, complimented us at our destination ‘Wow, you have a good traveler there!’ She survived a forty hour trip from India to Hawaii, for crying out loud! She fell in a mud puddle in Varanasi, got up, looked at her muddy outfit, tried to wipe off the mud and skipped along. She nonchalantly looked on, as bats flew around her head in the caves of Ellora in Aurangabad, while her mother freaked out and ran! She spoke to me in my language since she could talk, turned to her father and said the same thing in English. My husband never learned my language, sigh! At age four, she advised a smoker on a cruise ship on the Nile river that it was terrible to smoke and his lungs will turn black in no time. Poor guy! I still remember his flabbergasted face as he listened to Sahana’s lecture. A great eater, she tried all kinds of exotic food, always finished her veggies and drank her milk. She was also the child who asked me why Santa used the same wrapping paper as mom and dad, at age four. And always took just one more step before stopping when I asked her to stop! Affectionate, loving, quick-witted, spunky and sassy. That is how I think of her. She was a child who always kept me on my toes, asked profound questions, pushed the envelope and made me struggle to stay one step ahead of her. Never a dull moment when she is around.

Watching her grow up has been an experience in itself. First, the changes were subtle, slight rolling of the eye, a little sigh here and there, some mumbled words when things didn’t go her way and lately, lashing out in anger. ‘Why do you hate me so? What do you have against me?’ or “Whatever you give me you do it out of guilt!” That one hurt! The first time it happened, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. What the heck happened? Who is this stranger?

I felt like a new, inexperienced parent, all over again. I thought hard how to react to such outbursts, how to deal with this new person that I saw emerging, at the same time, be sympathetic and supportive to the multitude of changes happening in her mind and body. Part of the outbursts are manifestation of the confusion she feels inside. I realize the hormones have started causing havoc in her. All of a sudden, I witness unexplained tears after a normal conversation. ‘Why are you crying?’ ‘I don’t know!’ I understand the need to just retreat to her room and be alone, I try to keep the pesky, little brother away. The big dilemma was, do I excuse some of the bad behavior and blame it on the hormones or do I not let her get away with rudeness? I chose to be ‘old fashioned’, if you will. I made it clear, bad behavior will have repercussions. In her case, losing reading privilege. This, I feel, is a life lesson to be learnt. No matter how she feels, she can’t get away with mean, hurtful words, society will not stand for it and it is better to learn that lesson early. Like all of us, she needed (and still does) help with anger management. Before losing control, I told her to excuse herself and go to her room to let off steam and write in her journal. I found, as an adolescent, a pen and paper is the best way to vent one’s frustration. She took my advice. Although she wasn’t allowed to speak rudely to us, she could get rid of her anger by writing down her feelings in her journal. I promised never to read her journal without her permission. Funnily enough, when she is calmer she tells me not to peek in her diary, I won’t be happy to read it. I never do. I don’t respect her privacy in social media, I check her emails sometimes (she knows it) but when it comes to diaries, never! I used my journal to vent against the several injustices dealt to me by my hard-hearted parents. I had to be home by a certain time??? Why? Have to finish my homework instead of hanging out with friends. Oh, so unfair! The diary knew it all. It worked great. After I left home, my mom found my journal AND READ IT! She found out about my crushes, my frustrations, my anger! I believe, she now has a better sense of what I was going through at that age, and we have shared a few laughs over some of the memories. I hope to have that moment with my daughter some day.

My heart goes out to her as I see her struggle to figure out where she fits in, at age 12. She gets overwhelmed sometimes with all the changes happening in her life, her body, her relationship with peers, navigating through middle school drama. There is conflict within her own self, the little girl who still wants to play spies and pirates with her younger brother and the surly tween who doesn’t think it is ‘cool’ to do so. This metamorphosis from a little girl to a young woman is very hard and I see my baby going through it right now. Hard, it is, but also exciting, for both of us. She is developing a mind of her own, sharing her own thoughts. It is refreshing to hear her thoughts on spirituality, romance, dating, literature, social norms, social media and how it affects today’s youth. We talk about what ‘being popular’ means, where she stands in the social hierarchy in middle school and if she is happy. Most days, she is. Our conversations have moved from ‘what if our house became a submarine and we lived underwater?’ to Huey Newton quotes and ‘mom, Brown has the best program in anthropology, that’s where I want to go for college!’ I do miss the magical ‘what if’s yet look on with wonder as she talks animatedly of her dreams, aspirations and goals. She has figured it all out and the possibilities are endless!

I know this is another milestone, teenage. I hear from other mothers that they can’t wait for this phase to be over. Some say, they will be friends with their children again, when they are thirty. Personally, I am starting to feel some frustration of parenting a preteen. At the same time, it is fascinating to see that the process of becoming an adult has begun. I have to see how it pans out for my girl, but it has been, mostly fun and sometimes frustrating experience so far. She still is a little girl who has far to go, so much to experience, so many things to figure out, and many milestones to cross. I feel immensely lucky to be part of her journey and hopefully, be there for her if she needs a helping hand along the way. I believe, parenting is a lot about teaching them to make sensible choices. If my daughter can make some good choices when the time comes for her to do so, I will feel my job was well done!

‘I don’t have an accent lady, you do!’

I didn’t have many culture ‘shocks’ when I first came to this country, more like culture ‘surprises’! I was surprised (well, that maybe an understatement) when Sean’s three big, huge brothers enveloped me in a bear hug to welcome me into their family. Keep in mind, I came from a land where we didn’t touch, we folded our hands in namaste and greeted others. I came from India, that too mid-nineties India. Not only did we not touch, we didn’t hug MEN, unknown men at that! Goodness! So when the brothers gave me welcome hugs, I was culture surprised! Looked up at Sean to see him smiling benignly at the scene. When we had a moment together, I hissed ‘What was that all about? Why did your brothers hug me?’ ‘They were just welcoming you to the family! That’s how we do it here!’He tried to soothe me. A little tutorial before meeting his family would have been helpful, but that was obviously overlooked by my fiance. No matter, I learnt in due course, now I go back home and try to hug friends to show my love and feel them stiffen!

Another instance of surprise was when we took shelter from torrential down pour, under the awning of Baja Beach Club and peeked in to see what was going on inside. People were trying creative ways to drink shooters aided by scantily dressed buxom beauties. That experience could be qualified as culture shock and not mere surprise but we are not going into nitty-gritties here. Then there was my first Gay and Lesbian Pride Parade in Central Park in New York. Hmmm, I forget if that was surprise or shock. Just remember gorgeous men and women wearing very little clothing or no clothing.

My big issue, as a new comer, was the heavy, Baltimorean accent. I could not, for the life of me, understand a word that was being said! And here I was, a person who took pride in knowing a foreign language so well! I was in for a rude awakening. There was a really nice young instructor in the gym we went to. Gary, the instructor, was a nice man with a heavy, heavy Baltimorean accent. He took a liking to me right away since I was from India and he loved Indian food! He tried to engage me in a conversation whenever he could. After a few ‘I beg your pardon’s (I was very formal those days and spoke the Queen’s English), I looked at Sean to translate. Sean, fortunately, understood my predicament and rose to the occasion. He learnt to read the utter incomprehension in my face and jumped in to rescue me. Despite his help, I felt like a complete idiot! It became so bad that I didn’t dare go to the gym if Sean wasn’t with me! And if I did, and Gary was around, I tried not to meet his eye! It was very embarrassing. Poor Gary! And poor me!!!

Talking about the gym, I must mention another culture ‘surprise’! Sean went to exercise and I went to pretend to exercise but primarily to hang out with my husband. Newly married and all. I noticed, the men who exercised there hardly ever looked at me! What’s up with that? Here was a cute, young woman (I was kind of cute and definitely young) working out next to them and not a single, stolen glance! That didn’t bode very well for my ego. Sean got a lot of stares, and this I noticed! Finally, I asked him ‘Why do the men ogle you and not look at me?’ ‘Because they are gay!’ He answered. Oh, the joy! Phew!! I was just not the right gender. I was ok with that! We lived in a predominantly gay neighborhood, and I never felt so safe living in crime infested Bawlmore. Sean got a few cat calls from time to time, but me? Never! I could walk home from work late at night without a worry. It was great!

In a few months, I got a job as a guest coordinator in a hotel in downtown Baltimore. Things were getting better, I was beginning to break the code of Baltimorean English till bam…..telephone conversations!!! I had to frequently talk to guests on the phone and the thought of phone conversation was enough for me to break out into a cold sweat! I tried to avoid picking up phones, hoping my colleagues would take pity. But they yelled ‘ANSWER THE PHONE!’ I still cringe remembering how many times I had to say, ‘I am sorry, could you please say that again?’

Since, I still didn’t understand what my colleagues were saying when they spoke fast, I kept to myself and didn’t contribute much. One nice lady asked why I was so quiet! I smiled but another lady answered for me. And I am NOT JOKING, this is exactly what she said, ‘Well of course, she is quiet, because where she comes from, if she makes too much noise, the tiger will know where she is and come and get her!’ I didn’t think she was joking but hopefully, she was! Remember, all this happened about 14 years ago, when people didn’t have much idea about ‘incredible India!’

Around that time, when I was trying to understand my fellow humans, I went into a store to buy some stuff. Probably cough lozenges, I was addicted to those! The cashier, a young man, said something to me jokingly. Of course, I didn’t get the joke because I didn’t understand anything that he said! So I asked, ‘Ummmm, beg your pardon!’ he said it again, I failed to comprehend, yet again. This time I said, ‘I am sorry, I didn’t understand your accent!’ The man must have felt irritated about me not getting his hilarious joke, he said this loudly and clearly, ‘Lady, I don’t have an accent. You do!’ He was right.

The irony is, now I talk like Americans, gone is my Queen’s English. But my Indian friends get somewhat frustrated about this, ‘Gosh, you put on such an accent! Talk normally!’ This is now normal, or I have forgotten what is ‘normal!’ Looks like I simply can’t win!

Who’s Sting?

A very, very dear friend came from the State side to visit us in India. Whenever guests came from outside of India, the first thing we did was to grab them and take them to Varanasi! We felt one needed to see, sense and feel Varanasi if they really wanted to experience India. Most of the times we didn’t give them a choice. ‘Ok, this is where we are going folks! Pack your bag!’ ‘But how about Agra, the Taj?’ they sometimes tentatively ventured! ‘Later, maybe!’ we firmly retorted, and headed for the airport! Jeez, weren’t we in charge of taking them around and planning their vacation? In the chaotic land of India, we were their sole life line to navigate the traffic, the shopping and bargaining, the public transport, the beggars. We were in complete control of their itenerary and time! Wow, feel the power?

Anyway, our friend was very interested in seeing Varanasi so we didn’t have to coerce him to go. We stayed in a little bed and breakfast called Ganges View on Assi Ghat! That place is a real treasure, friends, if any of you are planning a trip to Varanasi! We were having a delightful stay and a simply wonderful visit. We woke up before the sun came up and sailed along the river Ganga watching the sunrise and seeing the city come to life. Walked along the ghats taking in the peace, serenity and timelessness of Varanasi. We trudged along the narrow lanes and by lanes of the ancient city, dodging the holy cows and holy cow dungs, little boys playing cricket, peeking in the houses to see what the inside looked like. So wrong, I know! Salivating in front of the sweet shops and tea stalls, looking at the temple of Vishwanath with reverence (we didn’t go in since Sean and our friend weren’t allowed in, being non-hindu) where the widows came to beg, sing songs and try to make a living. Serenity and peace juxtaposed with sadness and poverty. But such is life.

Everything was going great till some pesky foreigners, attired in Indian clothes, came and brought confusion and chaos. The sleepy, little bed and breakfast became a hub of activity, all of a sudden. The owner, who was taking very good care of us, forgot to ask us every two hours, if we were doing ok, or if we needed something. He seemed preoccupied with those foreigners wearing saffron dhotis and saffron sarees. In the evenings, they would play the harmonium and sing songs, accompanied by tabla. My husband and friend kept whispering something about a certain individual resembling Sting. I didn’t pay much attention. Just told them it was bad manners to stare when they were staring! One evening, I was enjoying a beautiful sunset over the Ganges, from the balcony, the B&B owner came to me and asked very politely if dinner at 9 would suit us since Sting wanted to have dinner at that time. I shrugged and said ‘That’s fine!’ When my husband and friend came back I informed them we were having dinner at 9. At dinner time, we were passing the dal and vegetables with these, very polite foreigners, who I still considered pesky and wished them gone. The conversation between my husband and our friend went like this ‘Gosh, I swear that guy looks like Sting!’ ‘Why, even his butt looks like Sting!’ I just focussed on my food.

The next day, we were waiting for our flight back to Delhi, guess who should walk in? The bunch of foreigners, still in their Indian outfits! Going back with us in the same flight. Seriously, are they following us? I groaned. My husband and friend perked up immediately. ‘Gosh, how can two people be identical? I swear he looks just like Sting!’ This time I was listening. I piped in ‘He is Sting. Who’s Sting?’ They whipped around to look at me. ‘What did you say? How do you know? And how do you NOT know who Sting is???’ ‘Hold your horses, I know because the b&b owner told me he is Sting. Who the heck is he?’

My sweet husband did not disown me but very patiently explained who Sting was. For that, I am grateful. Sting was in Varanasi to promote Indian cotton, on a UN mission. We stayed at the same place, ate together, listened to their music. Justifying my ignorance here, I hardly listened to English music those days, didn’t quite get the lyrics. That, my friends, is my excuse for not knowing who Sting was. Now? Now, I roll down my window and sing ‘Every breath you take….’ at the top of my voice while driving till the kids say ‘Mom!! STOP!!!