An hour on the streets.


Instead of using the very useful tool called Google search I still go old school, like arriving at a mall without checking first what time it opens. I did just that in Kolkata, when, after dragging my feet for a couple of days, I bit the bullet and went to shop for some summer kurtis for myself. I must have written before that I detest shopping with a passion. I believe it has something to do with making decisions. I have a mental block and the damage is irreparable. I found myself in front of West Side Mall in Gariahat at 10 am because I wanted to beat the shoppers but parking lot seemed unusually quiet. I asked the gentleman guarding the mall, ‘Kota e khulbe? (When will it open)’ I was there right at 10 presuming the whole world operated on US store hours. Well, I was wrong. India entertains its consumers an hour less than they do it here. The mall opened at 11.00 am. I had one hour to kill.

So I decided to walk the streets of Gariahat market, my old stomping ground. I know this area like the back of my hand. I thought I would immerse myself in memories by walking from one end of Gariahat till the other – from Ballygunge Station to Anandamela, cross the intersection and walk back on the other side of the road.

When I lived in Kolkata and walked the streets of Gariahat I always had a purpose. I was either going to Ballygunge Institute library, or going home from the bus stop, buying fish and vegetables or out for puja shopping. I threw myself in the crowd and elbowed my way in to get to where I was going. The events occurring around me did not register at all because I was part of the incessant movement. This time however, I was purposeless, an observer, a pilgrim of sorts, out to pay homage to my past and the place that has seen me grow.

I watched the shopkeepers sprinkling holy Ganges water in front of their make shift shops on the sidewalks of Gariahat road as they opened for business, hoping to appease the gods for a successful day. Some were opening their big bags of ware, slowly taking them out to display. The men seemed to be in no hurry, they laughed and chatted with each other, teased and talked about politics and cricket with their competitors as the items came out from huge gunny sacks.

The store keepers who had legitimate stores had opened slightly earlier. They were sipping their morning tea in small earthen cups, called bhaar, from nearby tea stalls, as they sat comfortably turning the pages of a crisp newspaper. I assumed they were the shop owners and not employees, just going by their demeanor.

The tea stalls and food vendors were busy preparing ghugni, luchi, aloor dam to feed the travelers getting off at Ballygunge Station, the shop keepers and the parents and children from neighboring South Point School, whose elementary section must have let off just then.

Little boys and girls with tired, sweaty faces were being dragged by their mothers. The saree clad, mostly young mothers carried their heavy bags while the children allowed themselves to be gently pulled, almost in a daze. Some mothers bought oranges from fruit vendors and after feeding the children the healthy snack, they said loudly, “Ektu jol din toh” (Please give some water) to the man selling fruit. And then to the kids, “Aiiii, hat bhalo kore dhue ne!” (wash your hands well).

Saree shops, shalwar shops, bindis, costume jewelry, magazine stalls, cake shops, watch shops, luggage shops, plastic toy stores – you have it all on the streets – at a good price, if you know how to bargain.

College boys and girls stood at the bus stop flirting, touching each other at every opportunity they got, playing out the age old flirtatiousness between the two genders, flouting the morality of a repressive society when it came to relationships. I watched the innocent, youthful flirtation and joyous laughter safely hidden behind my shades as I waited for the lights to change so I could cross to the other side.

On the other side of the street was the store where ma and later myself, bought our inexpensive blouses and petticoats. The employees were elderly men and as I passed by the store I saw them still – frozen in age. I wanted to peek into my old library which had kept me entertained throughout my childhood and then youth with dusty copies of Noddy, Famous Five, Nancy Drew, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Rebecca, books by Eric Segal and then Richard Bach, but somehow I missed it as I kept walking. Kolkata changes with passing years, Gariahat, somehow, does not. Even the shopkeepers that I knew from childhood – their structure, their clothes seem to be replaced by the next generation having the same structure, same outfit, same demeanor, same dialogues with customers. This continuity was very reassuring. A little part of Kolkata refuses to step into the contemporary decade. A little part of Kolkata remains incongruous.

I passed a group of boys and I stiffened for just a second till I remembered the confidence that silver hair can provide. As a young woman, when I passed a group of young men, I braced myself against an unwanted touch or some kind of unwanted remark. A lone boy hardly ever said anything, but a group of them was a different matter altogether. I remembered the feeling of apprehension as I passed groups of boys, my eyes to the ground, my pace increased, as I got silently ready for some kind of shame. That day I looked back and felt a little bad for the insecure young woman I used to be. I looked the boys in the eye as they took in my short-cropped hair and shocking pink shoes. I smiled and nodded; surprise registered in their faces, unsure of what their reaction should be. I chuckled as I moved on, peeked in Bharat Shevashram, lamented the loss of trams in the Gariahat area as I took in the construction that was going on to cover up the tram lines there and arrived back at West Side Mall after 11:00. The door man, looking dapper in his navy blue uniform, opened the door for me and smiled an unsure yet happy smile as I looked him in the eye and said a big, smiley “Thank you!”

The feeling of walking the streets of Gariahat is fast fading but as I write these little snippets I travel back to that hour, to that day, to that place. We live so many hours, a few stand out and get etched in memory. This particular hour was one such.

The rendezvous


I never get into arguments about Kolkata…anymore. I had to qualify that statement with the word ‘anymore’ because in my young and foolish days I asked my foreigner boyfriend to leave the city because he made an innocent (and true) comment about the dirt piling up in the corner of a street. I have wizened up since. I have finally realized that if I look from an outsider’s perspective, Kolkata does not appear very lovable. Kolkata needs to be discovered. It does not open itself up easily. One needs to have a deeper insight to dig within and discover the charm that hides underneath its veneer of dirt, dust and traffic. And this wooing the city takes time and effort.

I met a young American woman at the Dubai international airport as we waited to get on our connecting flight to Kolkata. Upon hearing Sahana and I converse in Bangla she asked if she could practice her Bangla with us. She was exuberant about the city. She, we found out, goes to the city often for her dissertation.

“My fiance is from Kolkata. He lives in US but he introduced me to the city and I fell in love. How can one not fall in love? It is full of these new discoveries that one can make almost everyday of their stay if one is looking. The people are wonderful, the food is to die for, the street dogs are adorable!” I had found a kindred soul. Her praise of Kolkata made me all shy, tongue tied and all warm and fuzzy. Praise of Kolkata does that to me, every time. 🙂

Since my love of the city is deeply personal.

I woke up before everyone on my first morning. Part jet lag, part excitement of being home, part anticipation and partly – desire to be alone with my thoughts and the first glimpse of Kolkata as it awakens into a new day. I tiptoed out so as not to bother the tired help, sleeping in the living room. I perched myself on the wide window sill of our back windows which opens up to a wide vista of the sky line of South Kolkata. A few tall buildings, coconut trees, the solemn white dome of the Ramakrishna Mission, the terraces of the neighborhood houses and the wide expanse of Kolkata sky. I sat still, savoring my first hello to Kolkata after two years, soaking in the slowly lightening sky, the sights, the sounds of the city – so familiar. My very own rendezvous. In the cooing of a lonely dove, the eccentric flight of numerous crows, the whistle and distant rumbling of the first local train, in the sound of water filling up a bucket, Kolkata embraced me deeply, meaningfully. The city opened up its palm to show a glimpse of my life that I spent here.

‘Nothing is lost. I have it all here within me. Safe’. First morning of Kolkata said to me.

I arrived truly, at that very moment.

Kolkata journey – Began.


“Mom, you are in a weirdly good mood! Turn it down to a 5.” Informed my sassy daughter gleefully as we chomped down a Dunkin Donut breakfast at the airport before our plane took off for Dubai. After two weeks of intense schedule, unnecessary worries of health, presentations at work and other issues, we were ready to take off – headed to roost. And yes, I was uncharacteristically chirpy.

After a thirteen hour-long flight to Dubai, five hours layover there and then a four hour plane ride to Kolkata, I was ready to hate the universe. But then, almost magically, the lights of Kolkata appeared beneath us. My hatred melted away leaving an inexplicable joy in its place. The relief of arriving at our destination was compounded by the relief of coming home. Ryan, who was sitting by the window, nudged me to show the lights of the city below us and seeing my ecstatic and expectant face, said in a very characteristic Ryan way, “Your time to shine Mom! Your time to shine! We are coming to your city!” I did have a tiny little pang in a remote corner in my heart – my city, not theirs, never theirs. My city indeed!

I have already written a blog about going home (Almost home) so I do not want to repeat myself, however, I did wonder if there are many cities out there in the world where those who belong feel such deeply personal ownership towards it. My happiness was shared by many of the passengers on board. A ripple of joy and excitement passed through the plane where murmurs like:

“Eshe gechi!” (we have arrived)
“Oi dekh Kolkata!” (See, there is Kolkata)

was overheard over the drone of the plane’s wheels engaging.

Since I am a Bangali, I shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation of the young couple sitting across the aisle from me (they were speaking loudly). The young woman’s joy was written all over her face and I automatically felt a kinship with my fellow Kolkata lover. She hugged her little son in glee and said, “Babu, eshe gechi, Babu eshe gechi!” (Babu, we have arrived).
The woman’s husband quipped up, “Haa, joto kichu pocha, bhanga, nongra shei shohor e eshe gechi.” (Yes, where everything is nasty, broken and polluted, we have come to that city).

As one can imagine, a big argument ensued. The husband tried to say he was simply jesting but the wife’s Kolkata loving sensibilities were severely wounded,

After a relatively hassle free customs and immigration check we arrived at our designated carousel. I have written before that I find this last stretch absolutely unbearable but a miracle happened. The carousel never broke down like it has done in the past and both our suitcases danced their way to us only after about seven to ten minutes of waiting.

And then came the most coveted moment. The moment that makes two years of planning, worrying, anticipating all worth it. My smiling mother, my beaming father and this time my happy husband as well since he had arrived in India prior to us for work.

The hugs were awkward as usual. We still do not hug comfortably yet the happiness was palpable like you could almost touch it. My America born, very-used-to-hugging children threw themselves at their grandparents and were filled with kisses.

We emerged into the smoggy, dusty outside. I breathed in deeply and smiled. The commotion and complete chaos told me I had come back home. I smiled wide. And promised myself to imprint every moment of my waking time in my memory which then will sustain me till I can come back next time. I promised to feel deeply and meaningfully. I did.

Flying solo


This blog will be an exception. I will begin at the end this time. This blog will be about my experience of leaving Kolkata – alone. The family left Kolkata when the school vacations ended. I stayed on for one more week to experience the city on my own without the responsibility of two half grown humans.

As I lifted the backpack on my shoulders, turned around to wave goodbye to baba and entered the Kolkata airport with my single piece of luggage, I felt light. Sad, excited and light. Leaving Kolkata is always sad. Recently I read a book by Reyna Grande where she says that her umbilical cord is buried somewhere in her village in Mexico, so no matter where she lives she feels the pull towards the village where she was born. My umbilical cord was not buried anywhere in Kolkata except, perhaps, virtually since I have a similar pull towards the city. In Bengali we call this attraction ‘naari r taan’. Every time my plane takes off from the soil of Kolkata, I feel a tug at my heart. There is always a sense of uprootedness all over again, even after so many years. This time, however, I was also excited. I have traveled by myself only twice in all these years of my life. I have been accompanied by my parents first, husband next and for the last 15 years, by the children. I realized how tense I usually am when I travel with the kids. My whole energy is focused on their well being. When they were little, my plane rides were spent keeping them occupied and relatively happy – changed, nursed, rested. Now I look out whether they have their bags, their earache, their hunger, their moods, their quibbles. This time, however, I felt light, alone – in a relieved kind of way. I felt I would even enjoy the 24 hour long journey back home. That sense of excitement at an impossibly long flight seemed incredible since I strongly dislike plane rides like most people I know.

I have always loved to converse with strangers. I was at it right from Kolkata airport. First victim was a young man who made the mistake of sitting next to me. I found out about his job, his intentions of going to Dubai, where he lived in Kolkata, his university, his return and more. He too, seemed to be too happy to chat. Next was an elderly gentleman from Cape town, South Africa, who had come for business and was returning after traveling to Kharagpur and another place which I could not figure out due to his pronunciation but did not want to keep asking for the fear of annoying him. He said I must visit Cape Town, it is very beautiful.

There were many first time flyers traveling with their spouses for some pilgrimage. These men and women were confused, loud and excited. They provided me with such entertainment as I watched them interact excitedly with each other inquiring about passports, tickets, water bottles, food. Before the boarding announcement was made, I got up to use the restroom. As I opened the door of the ladies room, I was shocked to see a woman completely covered in a black burkha doing her business with her stall door wide open. She shrieked and so did I. Her husband was outside the main door of the ladies room. He came running and shooed me away. The lady was reigning in the entire 4 stalled bathroom by herself. Her husband was standing guard. I decided to flee the scene, walked a few extra paces and opened the door of the next bathroom very cautiously. It was clear.

On the flight, I always book myself an aisle seat so as not to bother my fellow passenger when I wish to get up to go to the bathroom or stretch my legs. Trust me, in a 14 hour long flight, you need to stretch them as far as you can. Soon enough, I was joined by two young men from a village in Murshidabad. Their final destination was Singapore. They were going via Dubai, then Dammam and finally Singapore.

“What are you going to do in Singapore?” I asked.

“We will work as electricians for 2 years.” They said.

They asked me where I lived. After hearing I work at a library in US, one of them asked how I managed to find a job in the US. The other asked if I could bring them over to the US by sponsoring them and then find them jobs too. I ruefully shook my head and said neither do I have that power, nor the influence. They were disheartened.

It was evident quickly that this was their first ever ride in an airplane as the man next to me fiddled with his seat belt trying to figure out it’s purpose. They clearly needed help. They experimented, I helped. They opened and closed the food tray, asked me if they could take the pillow and blanket with them when they landed, could they at least take the headphones. They reclined their seat and made themselves comfortable. I had to tell them to sit upright till the plane took off, showed them the seat belt sign and explained about it being lit and then off. Every few minutes their phones would ring, before we took off. I could not hear what the person on the other end asked but they must have been asked the same questions since the answers never varied:

“We are sitting in our seats, we got lemonades, there is AC in the plane, we are listening to music, we will be given food, we have a pillow and a blanket, we can watch tv if we want.”

When the stewardess asked them to turn off their phones in English they looked at her blankly and then looked at me for help. From that time on I became their official translator. They refused food when the stewardess asked them if they wanted mutton, chicken or vegetarian. They shook their head in the negative.

I knew they were excited about the meals, I asked them:

“Khaben na?” (You don’t want to eat?)

They readily agreed and voiced their choice. Once they finished they asked me if we are given seconds. I said they could certainly ask. They decided not to.

After that, the stewardesses asked me questions, I translated them back and forth. Understandably, they were nervous about their next connection to Dammam. They asked if I could help them. I had a tight connection myself and had to run, but I explained to them the information board where they can look up their next flight. They got out their boarding passes and I showed them which flight number they should look for. Their eyes still remained unsure and yes, a little helpless.

As I pulled my luggage from the overhead locker, when the plane stopped at the gate in Dubai, one young man shook my hand and the other folded them in a namaste.

I walked off to clear security and find my next gate and marveled at the courage of my new found friends and thousands others like them who leave their comfort zone to explore the world for livelihood. They are breaking the glass ceiling in search of a better life for themselves and their loved ones.

I knew they would be much more confident in their next flight to Dammam and finally when they reach their destination, they would have mastered the art of flying. Who knows how many ‘firsts’ await them in their lives, but I do hope all of them are enlightening. I set out for my own world but the two men remained in my memory – first their helplessness and then their determination and courage to achieve something better.

Good luck, gentlemen. I had to write about you, so I remember.

Dada


I still remember the excitement of standing at the bus stop to get on a public bus to go to school by myself. I was in grade 9. After coaxing and cajoling for almost a year, some of us got the permission to use public transport to go to school. We had finally grown up enough to leave the school bus behind. I distinctly remember the beating heart and the clammy hands, clutching the fare. My first step into the world of grown ups, as a semi grown up! I later found out that my dad had followed me the entire way to school, in the same crowded bus on that first day to make sure I did not get lost. You can imagine my indignance at that! He tells the story to my children with much laughter as the children laugh with him.

Anyway, the point of the story is, as far as I can remember I have called the young, lanky bus drivers, auto drivers, taxi drivers as ‘dada’ (big brother). That was the norm. I asked them if they would take me:

‘Dada, jaaben?’ (Big brother, will you go?)

I haggled with them over price and fare.

‘Ki bolchen dada? Dosh taka r ek poishao beshi debo na!’ (What are you saying? Won’t give you a cent more than 10 rupees)

But lately, I realized they look at me strangely when I call them big brother. They see the crow’s feet near my eyes and the silver in my hair and wonder, ‘How old does she think she is, calling us dada?’

When I go back now, I catch myself and use the appropriate endearment ‘bhai’ (little brother) instead of the one I am used to ‘dada’.

How would they know that when I go back, I slip back into that young girl, the fresh faced young woman who felt she owned the streets once upon a time? How would they know that when I go back, I shed the identities that I have accumulated since I left the city – that of a mother, a wife, a lover. I am back to being me again – daughter of India. The daughter who boldly came home in the middle of the night from work without any worries of rape and assault. Perhaps I was lucky, but there was less fear among us. There were the neighborhood boys, dadas, who held vigil even that late at night.

Kolkata does that to me. It reduces me to myself. It reduces me to the girl I was before I spread my wings and flew away. And I love being that ‘me’ for a while, luxuriating in the feeling of being just a loved daughter, niece, big sister but alas, granddaughter no more. I walk the much walked paths to bus stops, stores, phone booths, xerox shops which I walked numerous times as a little girl, a young student with a big pack pack, a college kid and then a woman in love. New stores have taken the place of some old ones yet the roads remain the same. Some of the dadas I used to know still keep vigil in the neighborhood. They have whites in their receding hair line, wrinkles in their faces but they are there. The sight reassures me. They keep my childhood intact. My memories remain safe. And as I hail a taxi these days, I remind myself to say:

‘Jaben bhai?’

Just another day at the library.


I was sitting up at the kiosk, looking at the book presentation that I have to do next week when a man came up to me holding his library card up.

Man: I want to sign up please.

Since he already had a library card, I knew he was not talking of signing up for one of those. I was confused.

Me: Sign up for what, sir?

Man (impatiently): Sign up for a computer!!

I smiled and said, ‘Oh, you don’t need your library card to use our computers. Just choose one and start working!’

He stared at me for full five seconds and then said, ‘Your computers don’t work, do they?’

I was, naturally, taken aback by this presumption.

‘They work fine sir. Just choose anyone.’

It was morning hours and the library was relatively empty. Just a handful of customers were using the computers.

He walked over to one, and as he pulled the chair to sit down, he said in a loud voice, ‘You are shitting me! Your computers don’t work!’

I turned towards him again and assured him in a most pleasant voice that they do work and he should try to use one.

He pushed the chair back in loudly, walked towards the elevator and told me loudly, ‘I am going to __________ County library, where the computers actually work!!!!’

All I could do was stare at his receding back dumbfounded.

I felt a surge of anger at the unfairness which was promptly replaced by hilarity as I shared the story with my coworkers.

Later, I thought from his perspective. Experience must have taught him nothing is free in life. If you are offered free service, it must not be just that good.

I wish he had given our free service a chance 🙂 ! But…..oh well!

Mom, mom! I beat the girls!!


I may have written this in some of my previous blogs that both my kids are braggarts. If I wanted to phrase it nicely, I would say neither of my kids have any issues with self-esteem. They both consider themselves the most wondrous things after sliced bread. And since I am their mother and hence responsible for making them presentable to the society, I tell them ‘Don’t say you are awesome. Let the world say it!’ I haven’t had much success in imparting that wisdom to either of them.

So when Ryan comes home and brags about wining the pacer test at Physical Education class, or shooting a good soccer shot at recess or running laps or whatever related to physical activity, I absent-mindedly say, ‘Uh huh, uh huh! What did you learn in class today?’ The conversation kind of dies away right there 🙂 !

Yesterday, I paid attention. He came home elated.

‘Mom!!! Guess what??? I BEAT THE GIRLS AT TRUNK LIFT!! I beat the GIRLS!! Can you believe it?’

I looked up to see if the exclamation was in disdain, but it was not! He was thrilled and happy. He went on to explain:

‘You know how strong the girls are, right? Their cores are so strong because they are all about gymnastics. I beat them in the trunk lift!’

My smile spread to my entire face. It was his birthday, yet he gave ME a gift. The gift of his respect for physical prowess irrespective of gender. In today’s age when we still hear derogatory ‘runs like a girl’, ‘throws like a girl’, Ryan was thrilled to beat the girls. It was a major achievement because, you know, those girls are strong!! They are unbeatable!

I paid attention and congratulated him. I also congratulated myself, my husband but most importantly Ryan’s strong big sister who teaches him every day girls are smart, girls are athletic, girls are equal. To be able to beat a girl is an occasion to celebrate. I also congratulated the little girls who Ryan competed against. Grow up strong, girls. Show the world you are unbeatable! And if a boy beats you, he better rejoice and savor his win because you gave him the competition of his life and who knows how hard the next win is going to be.

Summary of the first decade.


image

As Sage greeted him with the usual doggy exuberance, Ryan bent down to give his nuzzling head a cuddle, he looked up from his dog, his eyes smiling:

‘Mom, I have the best life anyone could ever have!’

‘I am so happy you feel that way. Why do you say that, my love?’

‘Because I have a mother who loves me and focuses on my studies so that I learn. I have a father who loves me and helps me to be the best I can in sports. I have a sister who makes me strong by teaching me how to fight for myself. And I have a dog who teaches me to take care of him so when I have children I will know how to take care of them.’

The evening had been a dismal one for me, for various reasons.

Ryan, however, knew nothing of my turmoil and inner conflicts. And he will never know how his words magically transferred my sadness to one of hope and yes, joy. Words are powerful. They destroy but they can also restore faith – in life, in good, in innocence and in the unfettered joy of living.

Ryan tends to live his life in slow motion. He gets involved with everything that is going on around him and forgets his focus. He gets so wrapped up in the world in his head that I sometimes can not reach out to him. This frustrates me sometimes as chores need to get done, places need to be reached on time. When I cease for a moment to really look at the person that he is growing up to be, I see that he just carries with him a joy, and he chose that moment, unknowingly,  to sprinkle his joy dust on me.

I see him say an encouraging word to his discouraged teammate. I see him saying an exuberant hello to a diffident little boy who did not want to come to swim practice and I witness the boy’s face light up with a smile at being greeted by a teammate. The little boy’s grateful mother tells me how relieved she was at Ryan’s loud, cheery hello as she walked in with her unhappy boy. I hear from his teacher that he is a ‘nice boy’, a ‘really, really good child’. And I know he is sprinkling joy dust as he goes along his path in life. He makes me happy and lightens up my soul along with his big sister.

May the splendor of his soul never dim, my wish for this gorgeous boy who turns ten today. Happy birthday, son. May you continue to love, continue to hope and continue to feel!

Precision of Language


I will be the first to admit that I am not the most patient person. Every year, I make a silent resolution to be a little more patient than I was the year before. When I feel I am going to lose my temper, I try to reign myself in within me. I close my eyes, breathe deep and if possible, remove myself from the situation. But I fail sometimes. I give in to the angry, red surge that flows through my blood and my temper defeats me. I try again, and again. One day, I say to myself, I will win. I am doing better, I am told,  than how I used to be.

Although I am an impatient person, I like to explain to my children the reasons why I ask them to do certain thing or forbid them from doing some others. I try my best to express my logic in meaningful language that will be age appropriate. My mother in law says she respects us, the modern parents, because her reason to her children was generally, ‘God made me your mother, now you listen to me. Do not ask questions!’

I allow questions. And I patiently reason with them, but only to a certain point. When I reach my breaking point, I let all the reasoning go out of the window. ‘Do it NOW!! Do it because I said so!’ Lately, Sahana has been saying, ‘because I said so is not a good enough reason, mom!’ I tell her that will have to suffice since my reasons only face rebuttals and more rebuttals from her. We have reached a satisfactory compromise. She tries to draw me in a debate for as long as she can. I try my tactics of being patient with her, and as I reach that dangerous breaking point, I use my ‘do it cos I said so’ arsenal. It works. The job gets done. We coexist (not always happily, but oh well)!

Yesterday, after dinner, I said to Sahana, ‘Please clean up the kitchen.’

‘But why me? I have a lot of homework!’

‘You will clean up the kitchen because I asked you to.’ My fifteen year old daughter’s response was this:

‘Precision of language, mama, precision of language! If you say you asked me to do something, you are actually empowering me by giving me a choice. If you ask, I could refuse. You must say, because you said so. In that case my choice is taken away. Since I am your child, I must do what you said I should do. And then I am bound to do it! So yes, precision of language!’

With that long lecture, she happily went to clean up the kitchen chuckling to herself. I also chuckled since we both read and discussed Lois Lowry’s The Giver which talks of ‘precision of language’ and we both decided we must practice it. I also chuckled because each age has its joys and challenges in different forms. Mothers of two and three year olds, if you think your toddlers are fun and frustrating, let me tell you, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Fifteen is kind of toddlerhood of adult age – willful, self centered, irrational yet adorable and sweet. If one takes the time one can get glimpses of the real human that is slowly emerging, always evolving, still malleable but slowly taking shape. I find the whole process fascinating, when I have the patience to see through the husk, that is.

A teenage daughter and now a teenage dog! I clearly need help.


Sage is not a teenage dog, mind you. He is a 35 years old (in human years) dashing gentleman, a convalescing one. He has recently had a surgery on the knee of his right hind leg because he tore it playing amazing soccer (not true, just making it up). But you already knew about that. I already wrote about the surgery, my tears, family’s love, Sage’s bravery and perseverance etc, etc. Now he needs to strengthen his leg muscles by walking on snow, swimming, walking on grass, going up and down the stairs. He needs to do all this but he has to take it slow. ‘Only SHORT leashed walks’ the vet tech warned me. And I am giving him only SHORT leashed walks. And Sage is acting teenagerish – willful, irrational and grumpy.

Every morning as I get ready to take him out, he runs back and forth in excitement, ‘Today is gonna be the day! Today this mean lady, who does not let me have any fun any more will take me for a loooong walk. Today I am going to smell fascinating smells, chase deer, eat or roll in fox poop. Today’s walk is going to be EPIC!’ His eyes say.

I fail him, of course. I walk him for no more than 10 minutes and bring him back. This morning we went in to our back fields but they were full of snow. He started lifting his leg up. So I, assuming his paws were getting cold, brought him out to the streets. He was very happy digging his nose into snow, smelling every mail box and fire hydrant, checking to see if any cats were lurking around or any deer poop that he could gobble up before the mean lady could stop him. But his joy, of course, was short lived. I walked till the end of the street and turned to come home. He looked at me first with disbelief and then stood his ground. The message was clear,

‘YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME, WOMAN!!!!!’

He followed me back but kept turning back, looking wistfully at the path we used to take for our long morning walks before he tore his cranial cruciate ligament. He took extra time sniffing mail boxes that he had already sniffed when we started the walk.

‘Take that! I will take my time and drag my feet and fight you every way without physically resisting you!’

‘Sage, quit it. You are acting like your sister. Very teen agerish! Who asked you to tear your CCL? I don’t want you limping again because of anything foolish like gamboling in the snow or going for long walks right now. Come on now, act your age. We will go up and down the stairs for exercise.’

I had a full blown, loud conversation with my dog as I walked him back. Neighbors, if you were watching, do not be alarmed, I have not lost my marbles yet, I was just having a conversation with Sage.

But if I have to deal with a teenage daughter, a teenagerish grumpy dog, a feather brained tween boy for long, I can not guarantee my sanity.