I was a library grandparent once.


I was at our local library talking to the volunteer coordinator about my volunteer application. She looked at it and turned to me and said, ‘We need a few library grandparents, would you be interested in something like that?’

‘What exactly does a library grandparent do?’ I asked, bewildered.

‘You will read to the children!’

Yes, I would love to read to the children but being a library grandparent didn’t seem that grand to me. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be a grandparent….one day! Maybe, twenty years from now! Sahana, are you reading this? Anyway, to show I wasn’t really that old, I said, ‘I can only volunteer during the morning hours since that is the time my son is in PRESCHOOL!

Lady, my son goes to preschool, I am the mother of a preschooler, don’t make me a library grandparent!!! The sweet woman was very accommodating. She figured out a time that fit my schedule, smiled, thanked me for being a library grandparent and sent me on my way.

That evening at dinner table I proudly told the family that I will be volunteering at the library once a week. They said awesome, what will I be doing. ‘I am a library grandparent!’ ‘You are what??? Hahahahaha! A grandparent?’

The day I went to volunteer, the coordinator took me to the librarian in the children’s section and introduced me as ‘This is Piyali, she is our new library grandparent!’ The children’s librarian looked at me, chuckled and said, ‘She doesn’t look like a grandparent to me, may be we should call her something else?’ Thank you!!! But the coordinator had better things to do than get into the nitty-gritty of names. What’s in a name anyway? So there I was, serving the community as a library grandparent for two years.

I loved being the reader in the library. I took my book and read quietly on a rocking chair till I felt a little presence by my side. It was fun to watch the different personalities of children. There were the outgoing ones who brought the books of their choice to me and wanted me to read them, then there were the shy ones, who wanted to hear a story yet didn’t want to make the first move. At first, I asked them if they wanted to listen to a story, some said yes and came to me, others said no, yet stayed close by. I picked up a book from the table turned the pages and started a soliloquy about the illustrations, characters, words, colors. Slowly, I felt the little body sliding closer to me, I didn’t make eye contact but kept looking at the pictures and talking about them, when the child was next to me looking at the pictures, I went to the first page and started reading the story, he or she stayed. The parents gave me a grateful smile and wandered around looking for books or sat nearby, taking a break.

The biggest perk of being the library grandparent was bumping into my library grandchildren in stores and supermarkets. Familiar faces came up to me to say hello. I, of course, with my swiss cheese brain couldn’t place the faces till they reminded me I read to their children. It definitely made standing at the check out counter in the supermarket a little sweeter when people came up and told me that their child would like to come back for more book reading, which day did I  read at the library.

Now I work (read volunteer) behind the scenes in our new, swanky library. For company, I have a staff member and a scary, loud machine that spits books into different bins to be sorted and interfiled. It often shrieks “System Jammed” in a mechanical voice (oh, yes, it is a machine) till somebody flicks a switch. I am surrounded by books and the smell of books, I get the first pick as well. This job has its own perks. I am learning a new skill and developing a renewed respect for librarians. I had no idea so much work goes in to provide us with shelves full of lovely, wonderful books. Love that. But I do miss my library grandchildren.

Eventually they changed my name or designation from “Library grandparent” to Guest reader. How boring!

Can’t end this post without a bow to my man, Ben Franklin. Ben, you are “The man!” Thank you for creating the first free libraries in the U S of A. I fell in love the day I walked into the Enoch Pratt free library in Charm city and the love saga continues!

No honor to be had around here…


I was browsing through the work of the first graders pinned on the wall, while waiting to meet Ryan’s teacher for a conference. One project caught my attention, the children had written who they ‘honored’ and why. They were all very entertaining reads. I read all the writings and colorful illustrations with a smile while searching for the one written by my son. I was curious to find out who he had honored.

There was only one which had no name on it, and I knew that was Ryan’s by the curl of the tail of lower case ‘g’! That is his idea of writing in cursive, by curling the tail of g artistically. He had honored Zach! I admit, I was slightly crestfallen. There was a secret hope/desire that I would find him honoring his mother for feeding him (that has to come first, he loves his food), taking him to sports and practices( he loves sports next). I would get all misty eyed, go ‘awwww’ and make that my Facebook status update. But there it was, ‘I honor Zach because he is a great basketball player and he tries very hard.’ First I couldn’t even remember who Zach was, after racking my brain for a while and fearing that I was slowly losing my mind, I remembered Zach. He was a fellow teammate at Ryan’s basketball clinic whom Ryan had met only six weeks ago. He, indeed, was a good player, but Ryan and Zach were certainly not tight. They probably high-fived each other after a basket, but the camaraderie ended there.

Well, maybe their bond goes deeper than I thought. Still puzzled, I attended the conference, came home and forgot all about it. Today, at lunch I remembered my slight at not being honored. Who was this Zach who usurped my place in my boy’s heart, and wanted to get at the bottom of it. I laughingly asked Ryan why did he honor Zach, his other friends had written they honored their moms, dads, friends, army, military, firemen, astronauts etc, etc and he honored Zach, who he hardly knew??? He heard my spiel with a slight smile and said ‘Did you see the alphabet at the corner of the paper?’ I did see an alphabet, yes. He said, ‘I got to think of someone who I honored whose name began with the letter Z. At first, all I could think of was zebra, so I wrote I honored zebra because they are fast. But that didn’t sound good to me. So I thought some more and remembered Zach! His name begins with a Z and so I honored him. I wanted to honor you but I didn’t get the letter M!’

Seriously? Honor someone whose name begins with one of the most difficult alphabets in English language? Who would I have thought of? Emile Zola? Zachary Taylor? Of course, Mark Zuckerberg? Oh wait, we are talking of first grade, here!

Get out of my hair!


I grew up with the usual insecurities that girls grow up with, my looks, height, skin tone, body mass etc, but not my hair! Oh no! I was born with a head of luxurious, full-bodied, bluish black, shiny hair. My mother decided to increase the volume and beauty of it by shaving off my head five times in my childhood. I had no say, of course, but had to suffer in silence in school when girls teased me about my shining, bald head! But I did have the utmost satisfaction of informing her, as I got older and wiser that shaving heads did nothing to grow one’s hair any thicker! Don’t fight me on that one, I am not going to hear it!

My mother was very proud of my hair. She would tell anyone who listened how people crowded around me in hair salons complimenting the thickness of it and how they wished they had hair like mine. I said in my mind, ‘You can have it! Take it all!’ I, the black-haired Rapunzel, was not happy with my headful of hair at all. I had to wash it, brush it, detangle it….and I have already mentioned in one of my earlier blogs that I am inherently lazy!

I kept my hair long because even the thought of cutting it short was somewhat sacrilegious in my extended family, ‘What? You want to cut off that beautiful hair! People would die to get hair like you!’ So I kept it long in a careless topknot on my head!

I met my husband and quite predictably, he loved the hair despite my exaggerated eye rolls and long sighs. When my daughter was born, she liked to clamp her little fists around my long earrings and pull with all her might. I got rid of earrings. Then she targeted my long hair! Finally, I found a credible reason to get rid of it. Don’t want the baby to put my hair in her mouth now, do I? On a whim, I went and chopped it all off. I will never forget Sean’s face when he saw me that day! He recovered quickly and said I looked great, whatever I wanted to do with my hair was simply fantastic. I look gorgeous either way! What can I say, I got a good one!

I asked him to back me up when I faced my mother with the new do. As soon as my mother saw me, her face fell. She couldn’t talk for a few seconds. Good thing I was an adult, a married woman and a new mother, or else I would have been grounded till kingdom come. When she got her speech back she turned to her baby granddaughter and said, ‘Now you have two daddies!’ Interestingly enough, my mother sports a very stylish page-boy hairstyle. Sean, my knight in shining armor, came to my rescue as usual. He gave this classic line to my mom, ‘She loves your look so much, she wanted to look just like you!’ I gave him a gratified look which said, ‘I knew there was a reason why I married you!’

I visited Kolkata with my super short haircut, only to be reprimanded severely by my uncles, aunts, grandparents. In india, long hair is a sign of beauty and I did away with that! In fact, a well meaning neighbor while lamenting my decision came right out,’Why did you do this? That was your only sign of beauty!’ Sean and I laughed so hard and appreciated the lady’s forthrightness!

We were living in India then, and I couldn’t withstand the pressure any longer. I let my hair grow back. Life got busy, I didn’t have much time to take care of it, it was either pulled in a ponytail or tied it on top of my head while I raised kids and held the fort. Then I started noticing long strands of gray! And that was the last straw! I was not going to go around with long salt and pepper hair. Some women carry it off well, unfortunately, I am not one of them!

I turned forty and made a momentous decision. I will wear my hair short for the rest of my life! I did just that and this time my husband declared that he loved my short hairstyle. What else could he do, poor guy! That was all I needed. My mother, miraculously, came around and said I looked fine with short hair! Oh, the joy! I feel liberated and free from the long tresses which I had to carry around unwillingly for a major part of my life. Friends from India still try to exert pressure by saying long hair gave me a softer look, short hair makes me look ‘stern’! Or “You looked so much better with long hair, please grow it back!”I always threaten them that if they don’t back off, I will write a blog on my hair and make them read it. I have done good on my threat. So there….

I will give you four pennies if you give me ten dollars.


I often ‘borrow’ money from my children. I am always out of change for lunch money or snack money. So I tell them ‘Just take it out of your money jar, I will pay you back!’ I keep a mental count on how much I owe them and pay them back with a little interest…..most of the times. Sahana has smartened up lately, she puts all her money in a bank account and keeps nothing at home. Young Ryan loves his money jar and he can be seen, often times, sitting in a corner, counting his pennies and nickels. I look at him and think ‘Shylock’ in my head!

Recently, I took three dollars from the above mentioned, precious money jar and asked Sean to pay him back. Since we vowed to take care of each other at our marriage, we fulfil our promise. I take care of his nourishment, his laundry, our children, he takes care of me in tricky situations, like when I have to repay my debt!

The following conversation is a result of my eavesdropping. And I am recording this because I want Ryan to read this write-up when he is doing his Major in Math at Harvard!

Before Ryan’s bedtime, Sean went to return the three dollars and decided to make it a teaching moment as well.

‘Ryan, how much is 10 minus 7?’

‘3! Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy, all the way to Japaneze!’

‘Right, big guy! So I am giving you $10 and taking $7!’

A moment of silence, then a cry of desperation,

‘WHY ARE YOU TAKING $7 FROM MY MONEY JAR???’

‘But I am giving you $10 and taking $7! So you get back your $3! Remember you said 10 minus 7 is 3! So 7 plus 3 is 10! You had 7, now I am giving you 10 but taking away your 7! So you see, you have the $3 back that mommy took from you.’

At this point, I believe Sean proceeded to take his $7 back.

Wailing.

‘NO! NO! DON’T TAKE MY $7! I will give you four pennies if you give me that $10!’

More math. More teaching, a few moments of silence and then desperate pleading.

‘Take four pennies dad, for that $10! Not $7…..!’ Sniffles added at this point!

Sean said they will talk about it the next day and left it at that!

The next morning, when Ryan woke up for school, he rubbed his eyes, sat right up on the bed and said in a groggy, morning voice, ‘Can I have my $10 dollars, dad?’

We will talk about it tonight!’ I think Sean was scared to broach the subject…. understandably. He decided to break the ten at a store and give the boy 3 one dollar bills. He also thought of using poker chips or something of lesser value than $10 to teach this complex math fact!

Once, when Ryan was about four, I was trying to teach him subtraction. I made the mistake of saying, ‘Ry, if you have 5 candies and you give 3 candies to Sahana, how many candies will you have left?’ Without missing a beat, he said, ‘I don’t want to give ANY candies to Sahana!’ I debated which lesson to teach him at that moment! The lesson of sharing or subtraction! Decided to go with math, just had Sahana give her candies to Ryan. Things went smoothly from then on!

Tonight, before going to bed, I found Ryan standing quietly in front of Sean’s bedside table.

‘What are you doing here, buddy?’ I asked.

‘Trying to see where daddy put MY $10 dollars!’

Sean and I both looked at each other and then the letter proudly stuck on our refrigerator, saying, ‘Your child, Ryan Callahan has been invited to a first grade Math instructional seminar in school….’ It is an early form of Gifted and Talented program in Math!

Doing math?

Through my kitchen window…..


Here is my loyal companion. I ignore her mostly, glance at her impatiently while planning my to-do list, look at her sometimes yet really don’t look. But she dresses up for me in her green splendor every summer, and waits patiently for me to peek out of my kitchen window to show off her regal form and soothing green. She turns bright red in fall, catches the last rays of the setting sun to shine resplendently. In winter, she spreads out her bare branches and reaches up to touch the gray, winter sky. And in spring, she gives me hope that the long, dark winter is behind us. She tells me stories of new life, new hope, a new beginning. My children hung their swing from one of her branches, they played many imaginary games under her strong trunk, in the dark, cool shade she created for them. They climbed on her and dangled their feet licking Popsicle. They built their tree house on her. She is a trusted friend, a confidante, a playmate.

For me, she is my constant in a busy life. I look out of my kitchen window, she is waiting for me….. patiently.

‘So sorry I bumped into you!’


I knew the meanings of the words ‘personal’ and ‘space’ growing up, but didn’t quite know what it meant if you put those two words together. Personal space was a foreign concept in the middle class Kolkata, where I grew up. The other day Sahana asked me incredulously, “You didn’t have your own room? How did you manage?” She can’t even fathom how I managed to grow up without retreating to my own space once in a while. I grew up in a one bedroom apartment with a tiny living room, an eating area, a bathroom and a kitchen. I slept with my mother on the bed while my father slept on a pullout bed which was stowed away during daytime. Before exams when I had to pull an all-nighter, I studied in the tiny dining room so I didn’t disturb my parents, sleeping in the bedroom.

Thinking back, I did wish once in a while for my own room, but I knew that was just wishful thinking, a luxury which we couldn’t afford. Since I didn’t have a room of my own, I never missed it either. My situation was not unique, it is rare for children in middle class India to have a room of their own. We don’t grow up with the concept of personal space, and it is good in a way, since our congested nation can’t afford to provide much space for personal use anyway!

My children unwind after a busy day by going to their rooms, listening to their music or playing with their toys. Our way of unwinding was playing or reading in the same room with our parents, mainly mother, in companionable silence. I have so many happy memories of my mother and I sharing the same pillow, sitting next to each other reading our books. There were, of course ,no head phones, we all listened to the radio or tape recorder together, sometimes when they had enough, our parents yelled at us to turn it off. Did I feel smothered and crowded? I am sure I did at times, specially during adolescence, but it doesn’t stand out in my memory since that was the only way of life I knew. I had no problem standing close to another person in a crowded bus, holding on to the guard rail for dear life, our hands touching. I had no choice either, since we were packed like sardines on public buses during rush hour. At festival times, the markets were crowded with busy shoppers. I made my way by pushing and shoving, just like everybody else without giving it a second thought. As I said earlier, I had no idea of personal space so there was no question of respecting it.

When I came to United States in the mid-nineties, I heard the words ‘personal space’ for the first time. I saw people maintaining reasonable distance from each other even in crowded streets. Saying ‘excuse me’ after bumping into another human was something I had to learn. I liked this elbow room a lot, but at the same time missed the human connection that I felt back home. When I was ‘fresh off the boat’ I missed crowds, I roamed the streets of Baltimore, just to feel included in the mass of humanity. Sean and I had to compromise when it came to house hunting since I wanted a town house with a whole bunch of neighbors and neighborhood kids running around. Sean wanted to live in the middle of nowhere where he didn’t have to see his neighbor’s back deck.

I pooh poohed the words of caution by well-meaning friends when we decided to go to President Obama’s inauguration in D.C. with our four and nine-year old children. Sensible friends warned us against such foolhardiness “There will be thousands and thousands of people, are you guys crazy? It is madness!” What were they talking about? A woman from Kolkata is never scared of thousands and thousands of people, we deal with that number everyday just going back and forth from work. Bring it on! We went. My experience as a commuter in Kolkata’s public transport came in handy when I had to push Sean and the kids onto a CROWDED bus and yelled at the bus driver when he asked us to wait for the next bus. We had already waited for an hour and a half. I was waiting no more, and that was that. I was in my elements. Ryan vomited on the bus on our way to the metro, the driver gave the white of his eye, he was annoyed with me to begin with, but that is another story.

At first, when we moved to the suburbs I was miserable. I hated the lack of human voice, the noise of the crickets after dark. There were no street lights, no cars, most importantly no people walking in front of our yard. While Sean exclaimed happily about spotting a “beautiful fox” or a bunch of deer or cute bunny rabbits in our yard, I said “Oh, dear, get me out of the zoo!” When I freaked out after seeing a 3 feet long rat snake in our yard, Sean looked at me with something akin to pity in his eyes and asked  “You never caught garden snakes and salamanders growing up?” No, I didn’t catch snakes and salamanders growing up, thank you very much. I grew up in a city called Kolkata and I am a completely city girl. I longed for the city lights, city noises, the constant excitement and hustle and bustle of city life. Specially when Sean traveled I felt so isolated in the ‘burbs’ by myself with two young children. But slowly, I started getting used to the solitude. In fact, I began to enjoy the quiet. I still love the city, but after the dealing with parking, people, noise, crowded roads when we head back home, see the green around me, I breathe deeply “Ah, peace!” Call it old age, if you will.

My husband tells me I am patriotic, to a fault. He has good reason since I asked him to get out of my country in a moment of nationalistic rage when he made an innocent comment about the river Ganges getting very polluted. I am not the same passionate young woman anymore. With age came wisdom (I hope) and with wisdom came the knowledge that if we don’t identify the problem we cannot find a solution. Now when I go back, I notice the complete disregard for personal space in Kolkata or any big city in India, among people and cars alike. I don’t think people realize it is a ‘problem’, it is simply the way of life there. I, too, was oblivious of it till I went to a different country and lived a different life. My suburban children, however, surprise me by taking it all in their stride. With the adaptability that only children have, Sahana and Ryan walk through the congested streets of Kolkata undaunted and chide me instead if I make any negative remarks about the cleanliness of the city. I will be truthful, when I go back I feel uncomfortable when I am in a crowd. I avoid public transport during rush hour, I avoid malls in the evenings and I really wish that the person who bumped my shoulder hard on his way to catch the bus would turn around and say “Oh, I am so sorry I bumped you!” BECAUSE THAT REALLY HURT!!!

I have changed, just not sure if it is for the better or worse. And I have learnt to enjoy my solitude to notice this.

A proud mommy moment (or a mean mommy moment, it is a matter of perspective, really)


The day started awfully! For once I had planned to do something with the kids, on their day off from school. I was going to surprise them with a movie and a lunch out. This, you have to understand, is a big deal for my deprived children. I never make plans to go to museums, aquariums etc on their off days. They play, read, write, lounge around or work. I only oblige when they request a trip to the library. So today was going to be special. I was happy to imagine their surprised faces. But…..the day started off badly with bickering, a lot of bickering. I tried to mediate by saying, ‘Make good choices, we are going to watch a movie and go out for lunch! Bad behavior will take the privilege away!’ ‘Really?? Awesome!!! All of a sudden, peace prevailed….for a while!

Half an hour before we were about to leave, a huge fight, complete with pushing, shoving, kicking, screaming, broke out. Instead of refereeing  a ‘he kicked me’,  ‘she tackled me to the ground’ sort of verbal boxing match, I calmly said, ‘I am so sorry guys, the movie is off!’ Complete silence and disbelief! Sahana has trouble saying sorry, her defiant comment was ‘Fine!’ Ryan gulped down the tears quickly and said, ‘I am sorry, we can go now, I am calm!’ We didn’t go, it was disappointing for all three of us since I was looking forward to the movie as well. But we had a wonderful conversation followed by a group hug! They listened to my reason  for taking away the movie privilege – if we make bad choices, there are consequences. I asked them to tell me honestly what they did wrong that morning, without blaming each other. They did. Ryan apologized to Sahana for initiating the fight, Sahana said sorry for losing her temper and pinning him down. I said I was very sorry for taking away a fun morning but I hoped they understood my reason for doing so.  They both agreed I had made the right choice! Phew! Close save from being termed the ‘mean mom’ (they probably thought that in their minds, didn’t verbalize it for fear of getting into trouble)!

We had a group hug and promised to try the fun outing on a next school holiday! It was a proud moment for me as a mother for several reasons. I didn’t lose my temper, I was so tempted NOT to follow through with the consequence (darn, I really wanted to watch the movie) but stuck with it (it was hard) but most importantly, the children accepted the punishment as a result of their action. They didn’t sulk or get angry, they said they messed up, next time, they will make a better choice! That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I have to say, their crestfallen faces made me feel like a scrooge. I hate to disappoint them, giving in is so easy! I also think this post is not going to make me very popular with my family and friends, is it?