A moment of silence

I opened my front door to let the children in the other evening when I felt a pinkish golden light wash over me. In fact, the whole world had taken on a hue of reddish gold. A bare, winter landscape had become a scene that a painter would give anything to paint. The trees had lost their natural splendor, yet their silhouette against the backdrop of the radiant, amber sky, made the scene surreal. Seeing my silent, upturned face, both the children turned around. The three of us stood there, at our front door, in complete silence for a few minutes. Then Ryan said in a hushed whisper, ‘Mom, take a picture!’ The moment of awe that I shared with my two children will be etched in my mind forever, even after they have flown from the nest. I am thankful to the universe for this glimpse of beauty that we shared that evening. The picture of the sunset is beautiful indeed, but the picture that I have in my mind’s eye, of two little faces mesmerized, humbled by the inexplicable beauty of the world that they are going to inherit one day, is invaluabe. That is my treasure.

Illuminating the world one last time before the day is done.

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.

First time…

What a simple thing, going up a ladder! Most of us won’t get excited about climbing up one, but not this young man. After waiting all his life, six long years, he was finally granted the permission to go up the ladder and hand his dad the christmas lights. The climb, an ordinary act for many, became so much more than that, for this child. The thrill of doing something for the first time, the sense of adventure, anicipation of what awaits at the top, the feeling of importance at being considered a big boy – all reflected on his face. It is a forward progression in his young life. For the first time, instead of the usual caution words, ‘be careful, don’t fall’, he was asked to do something dangerous and exciting . A little man, with responsibilities. It is a rite of passage for him. He knows it, his face shows 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!

What I saw through the view finder

The overused caption. A boy and his dog. I felt the love.

Heart warming. A solitary man, walking down a lonely path. Lending a splash of colors to the bare landscape.

Didn't have to go far for this. Found this in my backyard.

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!

A ‘Daffodils’ moment, in my case a bare tree.

Had a total Wordsworthian moment as I went to my backyard today, to do something very mundane, like letting the dog in. Wordsworth was awestruck seeing

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

In my case it was an ordinary tree, that too, leafless. A very familiar tree, standing like a sentry, in my own backyard made me stop and look at it for a few minutes. The beauty of the silent, serenity around me was fascinating. The sunset with glorious colors splashed all over the sky, and the leafless tree standing still at the edge of the yard. I
don’t know what made me stop because I seem to have ceased noticing these splendid gifts that nature has given us in abundance. I felt a sincere joy in being alive and fortunate enough to witness the sunset. Life, right now, seems like a marathon of schedules, plans, deadlines, activities. Passions have taken a back seat for a while, gone way down the totem pole. When I try to read at the end of the day, my eyes read the words yet my mind fast forwards to the next chore on my list. What happened to those days of reading with utter abandonment? Now, my constant refrain to my family is “let’s go, we are going to be late!” Can’t be late, life will go by us! I complain to whoever will listen, my children have no sense of urgency! Ryan and Sahana live in a world of their own where they control the time or timelessness. In my heart, however, I am wistful, envious. The sight of Ryan throwing his football up in the air or picking dandelions in the yard, seeing Sahana absorbed in her book, oblivious to the busy world around her, make me ponder. Where did those days go by? For me?

This tree, bereft of all its leaves, looked so regal and beautiful in the setting sun. I have read, analyzed, written papers on Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” more times than I care to count, but I think I finally understood the poet’s feelings, for the first time! Unlike him, my mind’s eye is not so sensitive and I will probably not recollect this beautiful scene in “vacant or in pensive mood”. Moreover, how often do I have “bliss of solitude” anyway? So I captured it in my camera to at least look at it again and share it with you all. Happy also that I could still stop to look at a bare tree at the backdrop of this splendid sunset. Not all is lost! This phase of my life is full, and hectic, yes. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It would be great to have more time to look around me and see the wild flowers blooming, the sun setting in all its splendor between the trees in my backyard, the bird’s nest high up in the leafless tree silhouetted against the clear, blue sky. But one day, when my little ones don’t need me any more, this tree, the flowers and the spectacular sunset will still be there for me to look and rejoice. As long as I can still spot them and stop in my tracks to exclaim “Oh look! It is so beautiful!”, I need not despair.

Help me find a “school for scolding.”

You know how parenting is like building a cathedral? You keep working at it with love and care but don’t see the fruit of your labor till the children grow up. Of course, they grow up to be caring, honest, loving, simply delightful human beings with no baggage at all. Then you realize you have presented the world with a beautiful piece of art. All those years of frustration….err, parenting are totally worth it, as you see the wonderful individual standing in front of you. Hmmmm, when I get carried away, I truly get carried away, don’t I? But one can hope! True or not, when I have just about had it with my kids, I clamp down my lips (so as not to scream), take deep breaths and tell myself ‘You are building a cathedral, you are building a cathedral! Stay calm! Ignore the sigh and the rolling of the eye, control that desire to smack the smirk off your beloved child’s face!” I guess what I am trying to say is, you don’t get to see what kind of job you are doing till the little ones are all grown up.

But both Sean and I got our performance evaluation as parents, by none other than our six year old son. We are doing an ok job of it, most of the time, but both of us are lousy when it comes to scolding! We are both failing….miserably. Over lunch, he told us, in no uncertain terms, that we both can work on our scolding. We can go to a scolding school, if we need to. He was dead serious!

According to him, daddy talks matter of factly, in a normal voice. Hearing this, Sahana, who generally lives in her own preteen world, oblivious to the going-ons in her family, chimed in “Oh, he raises his voice plenty, what are you talking about?” And with that valuable contribution, promptly went back to her la la land, dreaming of books, friends, middle school, smarticle particles and what ever else she thinks about. See how I didn’t mention boys? I am in denial! Ryan completely ignored Sahana’s input and continued with our progress report. He insisted daddy doesn’t have the proper scolding technique down since he tells Ryan in a “normal” voice not to do the naughty thing he is doing. Poor Ryan generally doesn’t pay much attention to it and continues to make a bad choice. And then, wham, without any warning dad takes a privilege away. If only Sean got the scolding down right, Ryan would pay attention, stop making that bad choice and not get the punishment. It is dad’s fault really, for not communicating his displeasure well.

And mom? Well, mom is on the other end of the spectrum. Mom could use a more business like voice instead of yelling. When mommy yells, it really doesn’t serve any purpose, you see (yes, he said these exact words). In fact, it bothers Sahana, if she is trying to study and it hurts his ears. His advise to me was to use more stern, “business like” tone instead of the loud, shrill, high pitched yelling that I use to convey how upset I am about things. Moreover, it probably disturbs the neighbors too. Uhhh, the more he talked the more I felt like a shrew! Goodness! Do I really sound that bad? Sahana broke her reverie to comment “He is right, mom!” Well, thank you! For the support!

So here I am, looking to enroll in a ‘scolding school’. If you know of one, pass along the info. Both my husband and I would be extremely grateful. Don’t want any cracks in the cathedral that I am building! And now that I know what we can improve on…..

My ‘Oh so international’ look!

Once I left India, at the ripe old age of 26, I realized I could file a claim to be a citizen of the world. Solely due to my very international looks. I assure you, I am not bragging. I have ample proof to support my claim! Seriously! Here are some stories.

I was ‘fresh off the boat’ and waiting for the INS to issue my employment papers. As I wrote in one of my earlier blogs, around this time, I was scuttling around Baltimore, avoiding eye contact with locals because I didn’t understand a word they said. Trying my best to decipher what the sweet ladies said to me at Lexington Market as they handed me a loaf of bread and I handed them the money, or the homeless man, at the corner of the street, who greeted me every morning. I was itching to do something other than walking around Inner Harbor, frequenting the Enoch Pratt free library and trying new food every day. Looking back, that does not seem like a bad life at all! Why, in the world, was I itching to do anything else??? A friend asked me if I would like to volunteer at the Hispanic Apostolate, teaching English to Hispanic immigrants. I jumped at the opportunity. I went to meet the director of the program, a sweet, elderly nun, whose name, my swiss cheese brain, didn’t retain. She wasn’t at her office so I decided to wait. In a little while she came in, looked at me and started talking to me in Spanish. Alarmed, I exclaimed, ‘Uh, no Spanish, no Spanish. Only English!’ She took a good look at me and said, ‘oh, sorry! You look like you could be from one of the Latin American countries! Where are you from?’ That was not the first time that I was mistaken for a Latina, while I volunteered there. Just sayin’. So there we go, we have covered entire Latin America. Moving on.

On the streets of Baltimore, I was mistaken for an African-American, more than once. Then we went to Thailand. It was before Christmas, Thailand is a shopper’s paradise, so we decided to do our Christmas shopping in the markets of Chiang Mai. It would be good to mention here that my husband absolutely loves to bargain. He is shameless when it comes to bargaining and sometimes I pretend I don’t know him. I loathe bargaining. So before we hit the street shops of Chiang Mai, we made a pact that he will do all the haggling, I will merely choose the stuff. What transpired in the shops was later related to me by my husband, Sean. As we entered a shop, Sean got into business while I just looked around. I heard the conversation between him and the shopkeeper, a sweet old lady with very bad teeth. I am not observant at all, but I always notice bad teeth. Sean was completely embarrassing me by quoting terribly low prices, the shopkeeper said things to him in broken English and then somethings in Thai. I could care less, I was almost switching to the mode of disowning my husband temporarily. Finally, Sean threatened to leave, the shopkeeper, of course, acquiesced and started putting things in a bag. I came back to stand next to Sean. The shopkeeper smiled at me and said to Sean, ‘You marry Thai?’ Sean said, ‘She is not Thai, she is Indian!’ The lady was taken aback, ‘You not Thai???’ She asked me. ‘No, I am Indian!’ She pointed to my face and then hers saying ‘Thai, Indian same, same!’ Supposedly, when Sean was being terribly mean to her about prices of her ware she was looking in my direction and pleading to me in Thai to talk sense to my man! Since I wasn’t paying attention to the scenario, I completely ignored her! After that whenever we went shopping during our stay in Thailand, Sean sported a ‘don’t mess with me, I am here with a local chick’ attitude. I think we benefitted financially from my ‘Thai’ look in Thailand.

Next venture was in Bali, Indonesia. Yes, I fit in there too, as Balinese. In Ubud, a young woman was trying to sell timeshare to us. She got very excited knowing I was from India. She held my hand saying, ‘oh, I am holding the hand of a person who comes from the land of Shahrukh Khan!’ Then she wanted to know how solid Shahrukh’s marriage was to Gauri Khan. How strange! Non-Indian readers, Shahrukh Khan is a Bollywood actor. In our travels together, especially in South Asia, Sean always gets a lot of attention. He attributes that to his irresistible charm and natural good looks, I attribute that to his white skin. White skin is a precious commodity, where I come from. I do get a cursory glance, sometimes a curious look, who is this local woman the white guy is hanging out with. In Bali, the young woman made me feel pretty good about being from Shahrukh’s land. Thank you Shahrukh Khan.

Same thing happened in Egypt. ‘Oh, you are from India? We love Amitabh Bacchan! Do you know him?’ No, I don’t know him but I am so glad he has made India a household name in the far lands of Luxor, Giza and Sharm el Shaikh! In the old city of Jerusalem, people got excited knowing I was from India and shook my hand. I don’t know why, I kind of know why, but we will not talk politics in my blogs!

Recently, I had to go get my blood drawn. I try to joke with technicians when I get my blood drawn, or my ultrasound done, or the hated mammogram done. The simple reason being nerves. Generally, I am met with a courteous “keep your mouth shut lady, and let me do my job” kind of grunt. But this gentleman was very nice. He played along like he got my jokes. He then asked if I was from Philippines. Another feather to my hat. ‘No, I am from India!’ I said. ‘You know, I thought you could be but didn’t hear the sing-song in your voice, so wasn’t sure!’ he said. Sir, you are stereotyping here, I wanted to say but I didn’t. He was a nice man.

Anyway, as you can see I am taking great strides towards becoming a world citizen very soon. Someone who cannot be contained by borders (by the way, the previous line is kind of borrowed from Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Namesake”, love that concept). Now, I am only waiting for someone to mistake me for a Caucasian, then my journey would come close to completion. Gee, I wonder why people haven’t made that mistake yet!

Love thy neighbor

People often ask me if I have family here in the US. All these days I have been saying I have a cousin in D.C, but other than her, nada! But lately, I have changed my answer. I say, my adopted sister lives just down the street, just 3 houses down!

This write-up is going to be about her. You know how you come across a certain person, who touches your life in a special way and makes you a better human? She is one of those people. She loves Jesus in her life, she is a true believer because she tries to lead her life as Jesus intended for us to live. I respect her faith immensely because she lives by it.

Now, I am not an emotional kind of gal, but I know I will tear up from time to time while writing this blog. Wait, while I go get my tissue box! I met her while we both were waiting with our daughters at the bus stop, on the first day of kindergarten. We had just moved into our neighborhood – from India! Yes, huge move. We had no friends, no family nearby and no aquaintances. I was pregnant with my second child, and very sick. She came up to me and introduced herself. Her fourth child, nine months old at that time, on her hips. Next time I
saw her, she was standing by my front door with cookies in her hand to welcome me to the neighborhood. We were very close in age, and the girls were in kindergarten, so we saw each other from time to time. Since we had moved from India with only 7 bags, we had no furniture, no tv, Sahana had no toys, only a few books. It is not a surprise, Sahana preferred to spend time at Ms. Wendy’s house than her own. Towards the end of the pregnancy, my body had had enough of the torture. It decided to rebel! Late at night, (always late at night), my body said “Are you planning to go to bed tonight? Un uhn! Not so fast, your blood pressure is spiking, get yourself admitted in the hospital!’ I generally pleaded to Sean ‘I will lie quietly and not move! The pressure will come down. Please, it’s going to be ok, let’s not go to the hospital!’ Since I had a history of erratic blood pressure spikes, the doctor had mentioned the dreaded word ‘preeclampsia’! My poor husband, worried he was going to end up with two kids and a dead mother, completely disregarded my plaintive voice and called Wendy around 11 at night for help. Little Sahana, fast asleep in her room, couldn’t go to the hospital. Wendy had four kids of her own, yet her response was ‘Coming right up, you guys get ready!’ This happened 3 times! Finally my ob/gyn said enough is enough, I had started to resemble the Michellin man, and that was her cue to get the baby out. Get admitted, pronto! But one little problem, where do we keep our six year old daughter? My mother-in-law had her ticket to fly down and hold the fort while I went to the hospital, but that was not for two days still. Who do we turn to? You guessed it. Sahana stayed the night at Ms. Wendy’s house while I went to climb Mt. Everest, ummmmm….gave birth to the little guy. I don’t know what we would have done if she wasn’t our neighbor.

She bailed me out on several occasions, when I had to run to Sahana’s school, when my father had to be taken to the hospital and I had nowhere to keep the kids. She was there for me on numerous occassions, I can’t possibly write down every one of them, but she knows I am thankful for every one of them.

I do want to mention this one story, when I, yet again, felt her love! I take my dog out for a walk every morning around the neighborhood. I go by Wendy’s house, we generally exchange pleasantries. One morning, she was there by her door, I yelled good morning, waved and continued on my walk. All of a sudden, I heard thunder and the sky broke open! Sage and I were caught in a heavy rain. We tried to take shelter under a tree, but the effort was completely futile. So I spoke sternly to my scaredy dog. “Dog” I said, “We are not going to melt in the rain, lets just keep walking!” Under protest, with his tail behind his legs, my dog followed! After a few minutes, I saw the headlights of a car coming my way. It was my friend coming to rescue me from the rain. To see if I needed a ride back!!! She saw the rain, she knew I was out walking and would get drenched! She came looking for me. She had to get her 5 month old infant and her 3 year old toddler in her car, in that torrential downpour. She did it, though!

She is the kind of person who does things which I would LIKE to do, but don’t do it because of the inconvenience. Things like opening her home to neighbors so the community can be more close-knit. She cooks casseroles to send to homeless shelters, she cooks dinner to take to bereaved families and others in need. She offers her house to young women who are struggling to get their footing. She takes the initiative to open a community book club so we can meet and discuss books.

It is not mere lip service when I say I am a better person for knowing her. She is truly my hero. And at this festive time, I would like her to know how much I care for her and appreciate having her in my life. Wendy Gladstone, you rock!