Racism

I have been asked if I faced discrimination for my color when I first arrived in this country long, long time ago. My answer has always been “no, never felt it!” I came with the naivety that in the land of the free racism is found in its past. I came with the belief that there was equality and camaraderie, solidarity and respect for all. The truth was, I was oblivious. I wasn’t aware I was being discriminated against because in India, where caste system still prevails, race was not something one worried about. The complexion mattered for aesthetic reasons(it still does), race did not. We were not segregated due to our race, we were however, segregated for caste. When I think back to some of the comments that I have received in US, with my new found sensibility of race consciousness, I believe I should have taken offense at them. I, however, incredulously pondered upon the ignorance of the person making such comments. I did not take her/him to be racist. As I said, I was naive.

I still live in a bubble. Or I like to think the world that I inhabit is full of people who do not judge me by the color of my skin, but love me for who I am as a human. I do not feel out of place among white/ black men/women because my skin is brown. I have ceased to notice skin color.

But racism exists in abundance. I discovered racism among my children’s peers. I found out it is completely acceptable for children of specific ethnicity to call each other by pejorative terms that is indicative of their race. Children of other ethnicity are not allowed. On a bus to a middle school New York trip with my daughter’s middle school, I flinched every time I heard middle schoolers of certain ethnicity calling each other with a derogatory nickname. I asked my daughter horrified. She explained it is acceptable to do that. As I see my daughter’s friends I find there is certainly a tendency for children with similar background to form a clan. That is not necessarily a negative as long as there is respect for all.

Recently, I watched a Folk tale Celebration of my Third grader, just before the culmination of his school year. As I listened to bright, energetic little voices singing this song with passion, a kaleidoscope of skin colors up there on the stage, I could not help but smile.

Some of us come from a distant land
Some of us come from nearby
But all of us carry a treasure chest
with things that gold can’t buy
And when we share our treasure chest
We all grow rich you see
The riches of our treasure chest
Are what makes you and me.

Holiday games and stories
Languages and songs
Faith and courage and wisdom
And ways to get along, and ways to get along
And when we share our treasure chest
We all grow rich you see.
The riches of our treasure chest
Are what makes you and me.

By Minnie O’Leary

If that song does not describe the essence of America, the great melting pot, then I do not know what does. We come from distant lands, we come from nearby. We all bring our treasure chests full of songs, language, cuisine, cultures and share among each other to enrich our lives, broaden our horizons and hopefully encourage acceptance and respect.

The schools in my community are doing such a terrific job of treasuring diversity. As I sat there and smiled at the enthusiastic third graders belting out this song with animated expressions, I wondered if they will carry the message of acceptance and respect for all as they grow. Will they spread that among the generation that they procreate? Will they, if necessary, teach their parents and family members, dogmatism and superiority hinder social equality and growth?

They filled me up with hope that one day racism will indeed be a thing found in history books. One day skin color will shed all its connotations and become simply what it is – color of one’s skin. Respect will usher in acceptance and solidarity. And the world will put away their guns because there will be no need to kill.

I am a dreamer, you say? Why don’t you join me? 🙂

A woman and a mother too.

My mother at an event giving her first public speech ever.

That is my mother’s picture that you see up there. My mother, who just the other day said to me, ‘Nijer jonye to anekdin bachlam. Ebar ektu anyer jonye bachi!’

(I have lived for myself for a very long time, now I want to live for others)!

My mother was the extroverted extension of me while I was growing up. I was a quiet shadow behind my gregarious, fun loving mother. As I look back, I realize we were just that – an extension of each other. I did not know where she ended and I began, till I started branching out to become my own person. Since I was so intricately woven into her being while growing up, I did not consider her as a woman in her own right. She was my mother and that was the whole of her. The perception was selfish and yet that perception arose from a blind love too. Only when I became a woman and looked at my mother from the perspective of a fellow woman did I see the complete portrait of her. Not just the unidimensional one of a mother but also the little girl, the young woman, the young bride, the rebel, the survivor, the fighter, the whole entity of who she was and who she has become. Her journey, if you will, as a woman.

She fought for her right in the patriarchal family that she was born to right from the start. Fiercely competitive, she fought for her place with her brothers and boy cousins and strangely enough, she got it too. Stories of her spunk and competitiveness have been told and retold by her peers and elders with indulgent laughter. I have heard so many stories beginning with, ‘Tor ma….bapre, koto golp.’ (Your mother….oh dear, so many stories..)!

As a young woman in early seventies when women’s beauty was measured by the length and width of their hair, she went to a salon and cut it all into a fashionable page boy cut. Her society, family and friends were aghast. When covering a woman’s arms was the norm, she went and fashioned sleeveless blouses. There was talk. Married at 19 and a mother at 20, she did not have a chance to finish her graduation, so she went back and finished it when her child was 6 years old. I remember the celebration. When leaving your child and going out to work was frowned upon, she went and got a job. Almost everyday she came home with a book for me, so I was happy as a clam, waiting for her and a book at the end of the day. When women thought husband and hearth were the purpose of their lives, she declared loudly she did not like cooking and cleaning. Life has to be more than just that for a woman. She devoted her time to reading and on her child instead – reading Bangla literature to me, telling me stories that I still remember, reading poetry of Rabindranath Tagore, Sukumar Roy, relentlessly helping with whatever I needed help with. She fought with everyone and provided the best education that she could for her only child going beyond the family’s means. And she told me again and again that I was no less than a boy no matter what society wanted me to believe.

In her personal life, she always tried to break the glass ceiling by pushing a little more. She will perhaps be the first to admit that she made mistakes along the way. But she did not let that stop her from following her heart or taking chances while always choosing the best for me. Now that I look back, she truly lived for me, and then for a while, through me. When I went to college, the dynamics changed and she became an extension of me.

The woman who wanted to do things differently could not contain herself in her retired life. When I set her free, she soared. Yes, I set her free from my dependance, need and my responsibility. She and some like minded friends opened an organization to help the unfortunate men, women and children. I was uncertain about this venture but as she grew I looked at her with utter amazement and then pride. The picture above is from one of the events that her organization organized in Hridoypur Pronobananda Kanya ashram – a school for orphans. When I skyped with her later she said, ‘I was so nervous talking in front of all those people. I have never done it before.’

My father said, with a proud gleam in his eyes, ‘Your mother was very good!’

Life is a journey, I hear. Some rough terrains, some smooth sailing, some uphill battles, some downhill glides. Towards the end of our journey some of us get bogged down by the stress of it all, some of us choose to sit and rest and look back satisfied at the path they traversed, while some get a second wind, take flight and soar high. They finally get to spread their wings after all the responsibilities are done. The shackles that they sometimes willingly and sometimes unwillingly tie to their feet fall free with a resounding, joyful clang. My mother got the second wind. She is flying.

I look up to her flying high and unmindfully hug the shackles that tether me to the ground now. The shackles that I love more than my life. I smile upon them as I turn my face skyward. I say to myself, ‘One day I will learn to fly. One day my time too will come. One day I will grow up just like my mother!’

Happy Mother’s Day, Ma.

Despite..

Kolkata comes back in my blogs recurrently. I go to Kolkata in my mind, to roost perhaps, when my reality gets too overwhelming. Writing about Kolkata, thinking about my time there, gives me a strange sense of calm. Quite ironic really, considering the controlled chaos that Kolkata is.

Whenever I go back home, I look for continuity. I search for the city I left behind. The fast changing face of the city baffles me mostly. Like a typical Non Resident Indian, I lament the loss of the city’s uniqueness and despise the generic look of it with gated communities, huge, impersonal, air-conditioned malls, McDonald’s golden arches and KFC’s red and white General’s face, coffee shops in every nook and cranny. Kolkatans snort at such romanticism. It is easy for you to romanticize, you don’t have to deal with the daily inconveniences, they say. And they are right. No city stays frozen in time. They develop, they move up and move on.

My yearning for my old Kolkata remains, though. I desperately seek out the old city and find it still hidden beneath. I find the iron filigreed balconies in old mildewed buildings that have escaped the real estate developer’s greed (It is a matter of time). The conference of crows on the antenna of our neighbor’s terrace, the dome of the Science city as I sip my afternoon tea on the terrace of our building and look towards the horizon, the lonesome coconut tree that reminds me how green Kolkata used to be, the little boy completely immersed in flying his kite, the intense cricket match on the street in front of my house, the woman of the house stretching out her laundry on the laundry line on her terrace, Ram Krishna Mission’s dome standing tall in its white splendor and the smiles that envelope me in its warmth as I step off the taxi with my luggage ‘Didi, kotodin thakbe?’ (How long will you stay, big sister?)

I found such continuity in the general demeanor and even the physical frame of the conductors of public buses. The customer service is still as I remember – impersonal, very effective, functional and rough around the edges. The physical appearances seem the same – lanky, young and somewhat reckless. My main means of transport, when I go back, are the rickety mini buses, public buses and auto rickshaws. I observe, with amusement, as the conductors continue to do the ‘phraaaaak’ sound with the tickets in their hand, reminding the passengers, with that sound, and their voice ‘Ticket, ticket!’ The bus drivers still drive recklessly, overtaking the bus in front to get more passengers.

One tradition continues, I discovered. The conductors continue to slap the side of the bus twice as the bus approaches a stop helter skelter, and yell, ‘Ekdom bendhe debe. Ladies, baccha ache!’ (Come to a complete stop, there are ladies and children who will get off)! Men don’t get the special treatment. As a fiery feminist in my young days, this discrimination made my blood boil. But now, this gesture brings a smile to my face. I smile because I have learned to pick my battles and also perhaps, I find another facet of Kolkata that remains unchanged.

I remember the tight grasp of my young mother’s hand, as she unsteadily made her way to the door of a moving bus with me in tow, shouting to the young conductor, ‘Bhai ekdom bendhe dao, baccha ache!’ (Brother, bring the bus to a complete stop, I have a child)! I did the same with my children. I held Ryan’s hand tightly and made sure Sahana held on, as I made my demand to the conductor, ‘Ekdom bendhe dao, baccha ache!’ The reply was standard as well, ‘Haa didi, ashun!’ (Yes sister, come) !

It was raining as we made our way back home from the bus stop. Monsoon in Kolkata is beautiful to watch from a high rise building and terrible to endure if one is on the road. As we carefully avoided the dirty water, potholes, garbage on the streets and rushing traffic, Sahana touched my arm gently and said, ‘This city is so full of love, Ma!’ I smiled in the fading light of the cloud covered sun. ‘Where did you find the love?’ I asked.

‘Did you see how the conductor cared? He brought the bus to a complete stop for us and even helped Ryan get down by holding his hand!’ She said.

Despite the gloom, I found my sun. And despite the squalor, Sahana found love.

Supervisor Sage.

I have a supervisor in my house, who I completely love, adore, look up to for guidance/counseling and have nothing nasty to say about. He is perfect or very, very close to being that.

He is handsome and yellowish white. He has a long snout, pinkish brown nose, floppy ears and when he turns on the charm, he gets squinty eyed and irrestistable. He is mostly serious but once in a while, he lets his guard down and shows us his wild side. More about that later, but I must tell the universe why he is the best supervisor in the whole wide world, why I am head over heels in love with him and why someone should write a book on leadership qualities after observing him.

First of all, he is a young man of few words. He guides with his eyes, and sometimes by licking his chops. I like that. Verbosity is not what I need when the children and the husband are out of the house. He lets me have head space but clearly gets the job done by communicating with his beautiful amber eyes. He lets me know when it is time to wake up by standing next to my bed, wagging his tail and blowing doggy breath on my face. Don’t snicker, it is a great way to open my eyes, stretch my arms and leisurely scratch between furry ears. How awesome is it to wake up and be told by silent communing that you are a wonderful human and you are thoroughly loved?

His internal body clock tells him when it is time to wake Ryan. He stands in front of Ryan’s door and tells me with his eyes to do his bidding – ‘Open Ryan’s door please!’ And when I do, he bounds in and nuzzles Ryan’s face, second round of doggy breath exhaled on a human face. Ryan groggily says, ‘Good morning Sage!’ Morning work done!

He doesn’t micromanage yet effectively directs me to important chores like morning walks, feeds, a rawhide bone, toy. His eyes say ‘Yes, I understand you are messaging your college friend via social networking site, and I understand it is important. I will just stand here and look at you with my beautiful eyes and keep the smile on my face! I can wait!’ That works. I am guilted into hastily signing off and fetching the leash.

He shows me where his rawhide bones are kept. He stands in front of them and shifts his paws in the same place, wags his long bushy tail and intermittently licks his chops, while his eyes dart back and forth to the bag of rawhide bones and my face. His will is done. How can I resist? Am I not a mere mortal?

On walks, when I pull him from clumps of dry leaves, he turns his Sagely, somber, beautiful face and says (just always understand, Sage’s saying is with his eyes, so I don’t have to repeat), ‘Human, I understand you do not want me to defecate in that clump of dry leaves because it is difficult to pick up, but please understand, this place smells just right to do my business. Bear with me, for the sake of love that you have for me.’ I obey.

My supervisor is at his best when I haul groceries from the car. After a weekly trip to a retail store for bulk groceries, I feel overwhelmed at the amount of ‘junk’ we need for our family. I rant about having to carry all the items inside the house from the car, I strategize how I can trick my husband into doing the shopping after work. My supervisor, however, gets very motivated at the prospect of sniffing groceries. He detracts me from my evil thoughts of making the husband do it by the spring in his steps and the wag in his tail as he excitedly sniffs the trunk and urges me to open it. After a good round of sniffing, he accompanies me on every trip back and forth from the car to the house with the hearty assurance that I am doing a fantastic job, I am a strong human and I ‘got this.’ He goes in and out of the house saying, ‘I would help you with this if I could, if only my forepaws could carry, but I will not sit around idly as you trek back and forth, I will be with you every step of the way!’ Once all the grocery is brought in, he jumps in the trunk of the minivan and sniffs each crevice to make sure all items have been removed, before I lock the car.

He spends longer time sniffing and licking chops and showing his approval on those rare occasions that I purchase meat or fish. He is the perfect leader. He is not overbearing, he is calm and reassuring instead. He is not bossy but leads by making me feel I am part of whatever idea he came up with. Giving him a bone, taking him for his walk, feeding him, playing tug of war, belly rubs and rolling ball etc were joint decisions. I feel empowered and appreciated. He indulges me by letting me stroke his soft fur and relax after a long day. He endures my baby talk and squeaky voice and even humors me by going squinty eyed and rolling on his back, babylike. He calmly tells young pups to mind their manners when they jump on his snout. If a fellow dog barks at him, he looks quizzically and moves on, a picture of poise and grace. He herds the children constantly and gently rebukes Ryan if he plays too rough. He keeps a close eye as the man of the house does yard work. And makes sure he recieves the belly rubs and pats when he desires by looking at his man with chocolate drop eyes full of love. He has got us dancing to his tune without making us feel we are doing so. We are happy to do it. We live to do it. A true leader, I say.

When the day is done, he waits patiently for me to place his rug by my side of the bed, just so. Sometimes Ryan sneaks his rug into his bedroom to lure Sage in his room. But Sage loves to sleep with the grown up humans, so he waits till his rug is reinstated in its rightful place. Finally he settles down with a contented sigh and yawn, but flicks an eye open when one of his team members get up to go to the bathroom or get a drink. Ever vigilant, ever caring leader of the pack.

Now, there are wild moments when someone comes to visit. Our gentle leader loses his self control in his exuberance to make the guest feel welcome. He also forgets his size as he tries to crawl on their laps. He forgets himself sometimes when I make sandwiches and pitifully begs, or should I say silently wills a piece of cheese or meat to fall on the ground. But we will ignore that. After all, what is there to strive for if we attain perfection?

I am a super hero.

I, for once, will put my humility aside, turn a blind eye to all my incapabilities and declare that I am a super hero. There are many of us out there, you know. The ‘super heroness’, however, is relative. There are super duper heroes, there are super duper trouper heroes. I humbly (there is that humility again, which, by the way, I am trying to get rid of) bow in front of them. I am not a super duper hero yet, I am still a super hero. Yes, I still save the day but there is a difference between me and those of the higher ranks. The super duper heroes and the ranks above, save the day brilliantly, and after saving the day they look fantastic, they are energized and raring to go. After I save the day, I look like a wreck, my bed never looks more inviting, all I want to do is crawl into a hole and never come out….till the next morning.

Like most super heroes, I have a side kick. He does all he can to make my life run smoothly. He follows directions beautifully and teaches the two little humans, who live with us, ‘When your mommy says to do something, I jump!’ I don’t think that is helpful as that just irritates the heck out of the little ones, but my side kick believes, one day, they will get the message. The side kick is a wonderful chap who always tells me I am a superhero. But I am skeptical of his opinions because he is biased and he looks at me with these mushy gushy love tinted eyes.

‘Mom, you are a super hero!’ This comment came from one of my harshest critics, my fourteen year old daughter. I just pulled into the parking lot of the facility where my two children train for their swim team. As I unclicked my seatbelt, I heard my daughter’s bewildered voice,’Mom, look, I am covered with red rashes!’ Panic attack!! I put the car in gear and drove to the doctor’s office. I ignore the stern faces and lecture of the receptionist and the nurse ‘we really would like it if you call us first’. I plead to see the physician. They relent, Sahana gets checked, prescribed. I pick up the medicine, bring them home, get them settled. And hear, ‘I don’t feel so good!’ – the much dreaded words. Her temperature shoots up to 102.2! Second round of panic attack, yet calm outside, I administer icepack, ibuprofen, kiss and ‘you will feel better soon, darling!’ Call the doctor’s office, call the side kick, ‘Get home already!’

A couple of hours and a couple of ibuprofen later, the daughter stands next to me while I cook up some dinner. She looks at me cooking and just puts it out there,

‘Mom, you are a super hero!’

‘Haha, why do you say that?’ I ask lightheartedly.

‘Because you are!! You do all this, you take care of us, you drive us around, you write blogs, you act in plays, you go to work. When you make a commitment, you follow through and you do all of this well!’

While I served them dinner, I thought about all I do, despite my procrastination, despite my laziness. I actually don’t give myself enough credit for holding it all together. Not many of us do really. In our rush to live the day, we don’t stop to think how much we are actually getting done, what we are doing right. I, personally, have a tendency of harping on my shortcomings – how much I didn’t get done, how I let the kids down, which ones were bad mommy moments, what could I have done better! There is always room for improvement, sure. But it is equally important for all of us to give ourselves a pat on our backs, once in a while and believe when someone says, ‘Thank you, you are doing a lot for us!’

So I will believe I am a superhero because my daughter thinks so. Self doubt, insecurities, guilt give way to positivism, acknowledgment. I wrote this blog because I know self doubt will creep in, negativity will rear its ugly head. But I will have this moment, written in this blog to drive those ugly ones away. Those words said by my daughter…..maybe because the meds made her feel better and momentary gratitude flushed through her feverish brain.

Uggggh, did I detect self doubt….again??

Vacation

The act of getting my family out of the door is blog worthy in itself. Sean zooms around the house with an air of ‘oh I am so responsible for the security of this house’, closing a flap here, a door there. Ryan clutches on to his minuscule star war figure (please don’t ask me which one, because I am that kind of a human who confuses Star wars with Star Trek, causing fans to shudder) and lazes around with no sense of urgency, whatsoever. Sahana, dons her tattered boots and shoves her little journal and pen IN her boots, and settles down on the couch with a deep, thought provoking book like Inferno or Dr. Faustus. That kid is weird, and I like her. I purposefully walk into a room and promptly forget why I came in in the first place because mentally I am checking the mile long list of little things that can preempt any kind of disaster like sore throat or upset stomach or a 102 fever. Once we are ready to go, Sean runs in to do one more thing that needs to be done. When he comes out, I run in because I forgot my waterbottle. And when I come out, the kids run in, either to go the bathroom, or because the answer to ‘do you have your coat?’ was a subdued ‘nooooo!’ Yes, we are predictable! And if Jerome K. Jerome was alive, he would have written a wonderful short story about us.

That is exactly how it panned out before our car trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. Finally, the seatbelts were clicked, the ignition turned on, my shoes were off, feet on the dashboard and we were on our way. Right away, there was a major disagreement over the choice of music – Dixie Chicks or Veggie Tales, which I squelched with ‘You guys settle down….or else…’ threat. Peace prevailed for a couple of hours till:

‘I need to go to the bathroom, NOW!’ – Ryan’s plaintive voice.

At that moment, we were sitting in traffic on I 495 south with long serpentine line of cars ahead, moving at snail’s pace.

‘Daddyyyyyy, I need to go the BATHROOM!’

‘Ok, buddy! I will try to find one, as soon as I can!’

After some whimpering and crying and moaning and requesting his helpless parents, Ryan got angry and resentful. This is how he is going to take revenge on us for not helping him out in his present state of discomfort:

‘When I am older and you guys are too old to drive, I am going to drive you guys around and not stop at a bathroom when you guys need to go!’

Sean and I, looking desperately for a hole in traffic to get to an exit, exchanged glances, trying hard not to laugh out loud….fearing our fate in old age!

Long story short, we got off at the nearest exit after many more tears and oohs and ouches. We found a bathroom. Ryan emerged after doing his business with a huge toothless smile, the relief on his face was palpable. We got hopelessly lost and completed the 3 hour trip in 5 and a half hours.

There were some moments when I shook my head and wondered why we bothered. There were some fights, sibling rivalry, some shoves and pushes and temper tantrums. But those were few compared to the skipping, jumping, tinkling laughter, camaraderie and sibling love.

At Busch Gardens, I was dragged kicking and screaming to ride the Lochness monster so that we could tell posterity that we rode that horrendously scary ride as a family. I planned to be an observer of the jollity at the amusement park and use the excuse of my camera to get out of riding scary rides. The plan failed. A locker was found, our stuff was stuffed and I was, very unwillingly, dragged to the rides. I screamed myself hoarse – a happy scream. And felt very daring and brave afterwards as I stood there watching people go up high and get dashed to the ground…just about. I wondered who was having more fun going on the rides – Sean or Ryan. Sean tried to use the fearless Ryan as his pretext to get on each and every ride ‘A grown up must accompany Ry, so I have got to go, you see!’ When Ryan was barred from going on the scariest ride, the Griffon, due to his height, Sean’s ruse failed. He admitted, he would go on it by himself and would I care to join him….for love. I gave him a kiss and told him I loved him, but not enough to get on a ride that is described as such in Wikipedia:

Ride Elements

205-foot 90° drop
146-foot (45 m) Immelmann
130-foot 87° drop
100-foot (30 m) Immelmann
Splashdown finale
360° Climbing carousel turn

It takes one up 205 feet, goes over the edge for a few seconds so one can look straight down 90 degree drop, before it plummets down, 70 miles an hour. And that is the beginning of several twists and turns.

He went alone. And came back exhilarated.

Sahana made it a point to mention to me every time I wanted to take a picture that “You guys are such tourists. I hate tourists!” My response to that was “Be quiet and go stand next to your brother!” She went with a slight grin on her face and reiterated that she hated such touristy behavior. We did the tour of James Town, lunched by the beautiful York River, strolled the historic lanes of Williamsburg, went on a guided tour of “Ghosts among us” and heard stories of vampires, cannibals and ghosts that supposedly frequented and still haunt the streets and mansions of Williamsburg. We played mini golf and ate ice cream. We laughed and teased and hugged each other.

As the children ran ahead of us, excited at things they saw, chattering happily, Sean and I looked at them and realized a few things. First, they are growing up way too fast. Life is going by us and we aren’t making much of an effort to stop time to enjoy the moment, we are too caught up in meeting deadlines, working, taking them to structured activities, paying bills, worrying about their future. We sometimes forget to enjoy the present because we are doggedly focused on their future. A little time outside the structured life we lead, gives us the chance to really see them, as the little humans that they are becoming.

The vacation wasn’t perfect. We are not a perfect family with well behaved kids and smiling, patient parents like they show on television. There were moments, as I said, when I wonderer if going away is really worth it. Sahana’s temper flared, Ryan whined and whined to buy a toy gun. Sean almost made Ryan go to bed without dinner for bad behavior, I yelled at them to stop fighting. But those moments have already been shut down in a tiny, little compartment in my head. The moments that I will air out and smile upon are the brilliant, happy smile of my thirteen year old Sahana, constantly scribbling quotations in her little journal, toothless laughter of young Ryan after riding the Lochness monster, the beaming face of my husband, who posseses the ability to have most fun in any vacation. I can cope with my regular, google calendar dictated life for a while. The happy moments will see me through. When dark clouds start gathering in the horizon, I will need to pack up my little family, and get away again, to regroup and rejuvenate, to bond and to be part of some meaningful experience – together.

Way back when…

I firmly believe it is always a good idea to start at the beginning. For instance, the day I caught a glimpse of the back of a tall, well-built man at the book corner of an upscale store in a five star hotel in Kolkata, where I worked at the time. The man must have felt the brush of the pallu of my saree on his arm, or the soft gentle swish of air as I passed by him to the cash register, he turned back and smiled at me. Months of customer service training made me immediately flex my facial muscles into a responding grin. But then I smiled a real smile. Maybe I smiled because his smile was so genuine and warm, maybe because he had kind eyes or just maybe because I was twenty-four and a very handsome man just smiled at me.

I finished my job at the register and went back to my department in the mezzanine floor and promptly forgot about the man downstairs. In about ten minutes, he came up. He needed a gift for a wedding he had to attend, it was a Sunday and all the stores in the city were closed. I gave him some suggestions, of course, but surprisingly, the conversation gradually shifted from gift ideas to us – my Master’s program, university, job, likes, preferences, his work, education et all. I do not remember what all we talked about, but I do remember we talked for about two and a half hours. My poor manager sent a coworker up to my floor to make sure I was coping fine with a foreigner. I also remember, after talking for close to an hour, he asked me if I was married. When I said no, he extended his arm, gripped my hand in a firm handshake and gave me his name. I tease him to this day that if I WAS married, would he have not told me his name? He says he wanted to make sure the coast was clear for him to pursue farther. Fair enough!

Before he left, he handed me his card and asked me to call him sometime. The cards that I got at that job generally ended up in the trash can. His, I kept. After a couple of weeks, while searching for change in my purse, I came up with his card. I remembered the feeling of happiness and excitement in me when he was talking, the ready smile and the twinkling green eyes. I made a decision, very unnatural for me. I decided to give him a call. I am naturally shy, not prone to taking chances or making the first move. But I wanted to see him again.

I could almost hear the pounding of my heart as I dialed the number and heard the phone ring on the other end. And then his deep voice boomed into my ears. I managed a squeaky hello and a stuttering ‘I am Piyali!’

The response to that was, “Which Piyali?”

Oh, the embarrassment!!! I felt a flush of warmth creeping upon my face as shame swept over me. He didn’t remember me! I wanted to hang up immediately, instead I calmly mentioned I was Piyali from the ______! My voice didn’t waver but I was close to tears at the humiliation of being so forgettable. He recovered quickly. He even managed enthusiasm in his voice, which he now claims, was genuine. And then dropped the second bomb.

“Do you want me to take you out for dinner sometime?”

Do I want him to???? No I did not. Girls in parochial Kolkata in mid nineties did not go out to dinner with unknown men. All I wanted was to see him again, maybe at the store, in a safe environment, among a lot of people!!! My degradation, at that point, was complete. I politely said, “No thank you. I just called to say hello. You have a good day!”

I was bitterly disappointed but also strangely relieved that I could close that chapter and move on. His interest in me that night meant nothing. The next day, he was back at the store. And the next, and the day after that. He kept coming back. I was thrilled to bits, reveling in all the attention and the cherishing the novelty of knowing a man from a different country.

Then one day he asked me, “So, when are you going to the Book fair with me?” Not “Will you go to the book fair with me” but “When….” I was caught off guard. I couldn’t go out with him. My virtue as a middle class, rule following Bengali woman was at stake if I was seen with a man, a white man at that! Yet, in my heart, I desperately wanted to. I broke the unwritten rules yet again, I gave in. Our first date was the Kolkata Book fair, standing in line to get ticket, walking leisurely to the book stalls, stopping to see the local artists paint pictures, pointing out the ones we liked the best, laughing at our dust laden shoes, talking of our idea of a perfect life partner, telling him I never wish to get married, wishing his wife good luck when he said he wanted six children.

Our courtship was beautiful. Our rendezvous were covert, romantic and thrilling. For the demure, rule follower me, dating was a wild adventure in itself, dating a foreigner was beyond belief. He waited for me in front of the RamKrishna Mission in Golpark, outside my Mass Communication classes, he came by the hotel at night to pick me up and drop me home in his car. We walked along the Lake and the Maidan, we sat by the musical fountains and I talked to him about Rabindra Nath Tagore, sung him a few of my favorite songs. We ate ice cream at Scoops by the river Ganga and watched the sun go down by the Howrah bridge. We soaked in the sight of the pinkish hue of the Victoria memorial as the last rays of Kolkata sun illuminated the splendid marble architecture. Kolkata is a city where I was born, I have many pleasant memories of it. But the streets of Kolkata, that I roamed with the special man by my side will always have a special place in my heart. It was on those streets that we explored each other fully and discovered each other’s thoughts, views, core values. We found commonality and we found differences. We learnt, we grew and we fell in love.

Almost seventeen years and two children later, we are here today. Silver highlights in my black hair, and there is stylish grey around his temples. The love notes that we used to write to each other every day have been replaced by grocery lists, sticky notes saying ‘there is food in the oven’, quick texts saying when the kids need to be picked up and from where. I mourn the loss of the wild rush of the romance of the first few years. What happened to those days of listening to love songs, day dreaming, walking the streets of Kolkata and later Baltimore, endlessly, completely lost in each other, sighing over poetry of Pablo Neruda, candle lit dinners and serenades? G.B Shaw is spot on when he says:

When two people are under the influence of the most violent, most insane, most delusive, and most transient of passions, they are required to swear that they will remain in that excited, abnormal, and exhausting condition continuously until death do them part. ~G.B. Shaw, Getting Married, 1908.

We did not remain in that excited, abnormal and exhausting condition continuously. Who does, after seventeen years? The most violent, most insane, most delusive and most transient of passions have given way to steady rhythm of gentle companionship and a deeper bond of trust, love and understanding. We have both learnt to recognize and appreciate the different manifestations of love that is not limited to love notes, love songs, moon sightings and passionate sighs, but goes way beyond that to make one feel truly cherished.

Some nights I come back home from work to find him fast asleep or semi asleep. I open the refrigerator – my dinner is waiting to be heated up, the dishes are done and the kitchen is sparkly clean. I feel completely loved then – more than love letters, diamond rings or flowers could ever make me feel. I wake up in the morning after a night of snow to find the driveway already shoveled and my car cleaned so I can get out without worries. Most mornings, I feel him covering me up with my kicked away blanket and tucking me in so I can get a few more minutes of sleep as he gets up to do his exercise. In my semi awake state I hear him softly shutting my door and whispering to the children, “Don’t bother mommy. Let her sleep in!” Children, schedules, home works, activities, jobs take up most of our time these days. Mortgage, bills, college funds have replaced thoughts of Neruda, Dali, Simon and Garfunkel. Most days we don’t feel it, yet some days, while taking a hike among nature, when we have a moment to pause and take stock, we look at each other and find fulfillment. We are in it together, we built our life together, creating a family, nurturing our young ones and taking care of each other in sickness and health.

Despite all our responsibilities, I still find time to put my arm in the crook of his elbow when we go for a walk, he still makes me feel like a giggly girl when he flashes a smile and teases, we still banter like we used to which seem very amusing to the children, he still calls me out to show a splendor of nature – like the sunlight creating a rainbow in a spiderweb on the side of our house. I still don’t enjoy any experience to the fullest unless I have shared it with him. It was simply wonderful to be young and recklessly in love. I am so glad we have those memories. But I am indeed glad to grow and mature in this relationship with my spouse where a few stolen moments in the morning before the craziness starts see us through the entire day.

I love being married for all the right reasons. I love the man in my life for the man that he is. I love the feeling of being the only one for him. I also love being married for the reason Rita Rudner says here.

It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. ~Rita Rudner

Indeed!

N’DOI….for ever, D’DOI…never!!!

It was a perfectly sane moment for once. Like a very ‘together’ mother, for once I was focused in kitchen work and the task in hand (chopping cherry tomatoes, I believe). Like a regular, relatively sane seven-year old, Ryan was making his action figure do impossible feats, while softly mumbling heroic things like “CHARGE” and “SOAR” and “TO THE RESCUE” ! The dog, like any other relatively sane lab mix was sniffing around for food and intermittently putting his long snout and wet nose between Ryan and the action figure to find out which exact crisis the rescue hero was currently engaged in. Sahana was in the ‘I am a rock, I am an island’ mode – sporting the ‘hiding in my room, safe within my room/ I touch no one and no one touches me’ attitude.

All of a sudden, the peace was broken with a shout of this word:

‘N’DOI!!!!!!’

I startled, and looked back at my son. The dog stopped in mid yawn, scared. Ryan had taken a ninja stance (or I think he did), one leg up, two arms half spread, fingers doing the rap singer type curl, head tilted at a forty-five degree angle, shouting N’DOI in a deep baritone. I mean, as much of a deep baritone a seven year old can muster.

“What are you saying? Keep it down. Inside voice please!” I reprimanded him, convinced that it is some form of gibberish that is meaningful only in his dream world, where he spends a considerable amount of time. He went back to his game. I went back to my cherry tomatoes, dog went back to his yawn. Sahana stayed in her ‘I am a rock..’ zone.

But N’DOI in deep voice didn’t leave us. It was uttered and often – much to my amazement. The word was now accompanied with a self smack on the head. It was cute the way he puckered up his lips, rounded his eyes and hit his head when he said ‘N’DOI’. I looked on with an indulgent smile, giving him a kiss when he did that, ruffled his hair, told him how cute he was….till I found out what it meant.

At dinner table, I heard a soft rendition of N’DOI again, complete with a soft head smacking. It was such a constant in Ryan’s vocabulary, I wondered what it meant to him.

“What does N’DOI mean darling? Does it have a meaning?” I asked, all smiles.

Ryan didn’t deem the question important enough to answer or maybe, his sister beat him to it. Sahana, in her usual patient, ‘you are so out of touch, mom’ voice explained to me the meaning of N’DOI!

“Mom, n’doi is a sweet way of saying DUH!”

“WHAT??”

The word “duh” is not entertained in our house by either of the parents. We find it demeaning and simply don’t see the need for anyone to be using it.

“You have been saying the word all this time?” I rounded on Ryan, stern.

“NO, I didn’t say the word. I said N’DOI!” He defended himself.

Ugh! But it conveys the same meaning. It is not the word, it is the weight it carries, it is the meaning it conveys. He didn’t get it. Mom said not to use the word duh, he didn’t. He followed the rules. He just used a replacement word to mean the same.

“Mom, N’DOI is not bad. It is not a mean way to tell people they are dumb. It is actually endearing. But watch out for D’DOI. If he says D’DOI, that is mean! That is hurtful way to tell people they are dumb! As long as he is not saying D’DOI, we don’t need to worry!” Sahana pacified me.

I believe, like “What the heck?” “Oh my gosh” “Sugar” and many, many others, DUH has found a replacement.

Ok, FINE! N’DOI – you are excused. But if I ever hear D’DOI – you are grounded…till kingdom come. You have been warned.

More laugh lines for mama over this one.

It takes a village…

I can see the word cliché flashing in your head as you read the title of this post, but I promise you I have a new thought this time. Just hear me out, it is momentous – me having a new thought, that is! And I promise not to beat around the bush but get to it….soon.

My children are deprived of the love and indulgence of their grandparents and extended family. Having grown up with a doting grandfather who I bossed around as a child, I feel my kids are missing out on a huge part of childhood joy. On Grandparent’s Day at school, Sahana and Ryan are generally ‘adopted’ by a friend’s grandparent for the day. It breaks my heart. At sporting events, grandparents of teammates cheer for my two. I miss my parents and my in-laws at these, they too miss out on so much! Skype and other social media have certainly made the world smaller but it is still not the same as getting a kiss from your Grammy or Didya. Living so far away from family is never fun! While rocking a screaming baby and reading to a demanding five-year old, I often wallowed in self-pity. Where were those extra pairs of hands I needed so badly? Why are my kids growing up without the cuddles of grandparents and all those uncles and aunties far away in India! So unfair that I have to raise them alone with the occasional help of my traveling spouse! Doesn’t it take a village? The discipline of us parents needs to be balanced by the indulgent love that the grandparents shower over the little ones. The grandparents get to enjoy the young ones yet don’t have to bear the responsibility of raising them, in most cases. Win win for all! Or is it?

A friend married into a family where the mother-in-law wanted to have a major part in her child rearing technique. If my friend took away the privilege of dessert from her son for bad behavior, the grand mother took the child behind the couch or table, and gave the dessert in stealth, with a warning not to let the mother hear about it. This is just one occasion of many when the parent’s authority is undermined by the extended family, sometimes blatantly and sometimes behind the back, and often times in my country, India, the parents bite their tongue and stay quiet to prevent family discord.

But this is a new age of parenting amongst the middle class world
wide. Parents are becoming more aware of the effectiveness of good parenting, they are hitting books, taking counsel. Often times,they disagree with the method the earlier generation used for child rearing which involved corporeal punishment and also giving in to unreasonable demands. Authoritarian parenting versus more democratic way of parenting that many practice now. The children were seen, not heard a generation earlier. Now the children are not only seen and heard, but they are the center of the parents’ universe around whom their lives revolve.

The older generation, often times, disagree with modern parenting. My parents never utter a single word in front of my children when I am disciplining them, but out of their earshot? Oh, watch out! They make it very clear, I am too harsh and I shouldn’t have taken away privileges for not putting away toys even after the umpteenth reminder. ‘They are only children, they will learn!’ Learn how? If I always pick up after them, I don’t see them learning anything! They need to know that action or inaction in this particular case, has consequences. Anyway, I am very grateful, they don’t undermine my parenting but many are not as lucky as I. I have heard stories of how the mother or the mother in law reprimand the parent, in front of the child, for disciplining him or her. What kind of mixed message is the child getting in that case? The child is the real sufferer here since this is what she understands,’I can make a bad choice, if my mom and dad scold me, grandma or grandpa will scold my parents so my parents don’t have the ultimate authority over me anyway! So why should I obey them?’

I live far away from both sets of the family, and I certainly miss the love and affection my children are deprived of. But I am envied by my Indian counter parts that nobody interferes with my way of dealing with bad behavior. Over the years I have made it very clear to my immediate and extended family that what I say to my children is the final word, nobody can override my decision. But that doesn’t mean I am not berated for being too harsh or tough, but that is all said in love and away from the children’s ears! I can take it! The uncles, aunts and grandparents are such an integral part of children’s life and they provide a such a fantastic sounding board to air out the grievances against those mean parents!

So here’s my two cents, finally! Where is the drumroll? I think, while it takes a village to love and nurture a child, the discipline shouldn’t be left to the village to handle. The village Elders, a.k.a parents should be given the SOLE responsibility of that department. What the Elders decide for the child should be followed by the villagers. Ye or Nay, what say, all?

Best of both the worlds.

I have made a resolution that I will see the glass half full from now on. No more of the Eeyore attitude for me. I haven’t complained about the winter this year, not once. The fact that this was the mildest winter ever, is beside the point. So when I threaten Ryan that he won’t be taken to his basketball game till he writes one page of his journal and threaten Sahana to confiscate the Complete Works of Jane Austen if she doesn’t go outside the house for an hour, I tell myself I get to experience the best of both the worlds. The fact that Ryan writes three lines and fills the page with illustration and that Sahana goes outside and blows dandelion seeds all over the yard instead of running and getting some exercise is also beside the point.

Sahana is a natural athlete who doesn’t care for activities that take her away from her books. Her punishment for bad behavior is taking away her reading privilege for an evening. She got in trouble for reading in class while the teacher was teaching. She got in trouble with her parents on numerous ocassions for not responding when called or for ignoring her chores because she was lost in a book. Her friends tell me Sahana walks the halls of school with her nose in a book. Her media
teacher, upon hearing I was Sahana’s mother said, ‘Oh, Sahana!!! She doesn’t just read, she devours books!’

Ryan eats, sleeps and dreams sports. He is worried what his decision is going to be when BOTH pro football and pro baseball teams come to recruit him. He took pity on his anti football mother and said he will ultimately choose baseball, that is after winning gold medals in swimming in the Olympics. He rushes through his homework so he gets ten minutes to throw the ball around before he goes for swim practice. He gets one of his sporting activities taken away if he doesn’t read a book or doesn’t write a few sentences. I sigh when I think I had once complained about Sahana’s reading habits. But, since I am done being an Eeyore, I tell myself these two show me the world from both sides of the spectrum. I am actually lucky!

I often hear from people that both my kids are really good, polite, respectful. While I thank them profusely for their kind words, I wonder in my mind why do I not see what the outside world sees, what am I missing? I know, in my heart, they are good kids but they bring out the worst in each other. I worry how their relationship will be when they grow up. Being an only child, I don’t feel I fully understand the sibling relationship. But again, since I am done being Eeyore I focus on the moments when Ryan uses up all his good behavior stamps in school to ‘buy’ two gifts for his sister and one gift for himself, and Sahana saves the last slice of pizza so Ryan can have the leftover the next day. I recently read a book called ‘Get out of my life but could you drive Cheryl and me to the mall first?’ by Anthony Wolfe where he says chances are your child is going to grow up to be the kind of adult that the world percieves him/her now. If that is true, my children will be all right. I am taking that argument and running with it. As I said, I am an Eeyore no more.