While we were sleeping one night, a storm came and turned our world upside down. We woke up to a backyard filled with leaves, branches and sticks. We also woke up to an eerily quiet house. The hum of the refrigerator and white noise of the air conditioner were unhappily absent. We had no electricity. The thermostat was already at mid seventies in the early morning, threatening to rise above hundred degree Fahrenheit as the day progressed. The calm morning belied the devastation that nature wreaked upon us the night before.
While picking up sticks and leaves from the yard, Sahana and Ryan discovered three very young baby cardinals in our yard. One of them lay still, the other two were fighting to stay alive. Both the children being avid animal lovers, turned to us in tears, “What can we do? The babies will die if we leave them here!”
We had no answers, of course. Nature can be harsh, sometimes these calamities take lives, those babies are beyond help, sorry but we have to accept their fate – these sort of reasonings were blown away by the tender hearts and streaming tears. Both cried harder, pleading to their ‘all powerful’ parents, “No please! Don’t say that! We can’t give up on them! We can’t let them die. We can bring them in, feed them and give them water!”
The birds had just hatched out of the eggs, their eyes weren’t open yet. Sean and I stood there watching the laboured breathing of the babies and listening to the tearful pleas of our human babies. I looked up to see the daddy cardinal, in all his red splendor, fluttering around from one branch to the other. The unassuming brown mom twittered in agonizing helplessness. At that moment, I could relate to the helplessness of the bird parents. They were helpless against the harshness of nature. I was equally helpless in shielding mine from the harshness of this world where death, agony, pain, suffering are very real.
Sean and I slowly headed back. Hearts were heavy, we failed the children. Despite the sass and attitude we get, both the children still turn to us to find a solution to life’s problems. Their confidence that mom and dad can figure out a way to save the baby birds, and our failure to do so, touched us both. Then Ryan came running in, tears streaming down his face, “Please, please help them mom. The ants are biting them, they are suffering. Make their suffering stop!” I simply had to try to do something, for the faith he has in my abilities to ‘stop the suffering’.
We got a flower-pot, filled it with leaves, picked up the surviving cardinals with other leaves, careful not to leave our scent on the babies and put them gently in the make shift nest. The parents were still watching. Sean balanced the ‘nest’ securely on a high branch. We stood below with fingers crossed that the parents would take over.
Ryan insisted, much to the amusement of his sister, that we should have fed the babies some ‘ketchup’! Why ketchup? Well, ketchup is the only food that he could think of that has the same consistency of the regurgitation that the birdie mom and dad feed their babies. He also told us somberly that saving baby birds was much more important in the scheme of things than going to a picnic when we urged him to get ready to go to Sean’s office picnic. He stood there for a while keeping an eye on the nest up on the tree, turned around and said he was going to offer a prayer at church for the long life of those two birds.
For Ryan, I still have all the answers. That is not the reality, it is his perception of his mother. For Sahana, I still have the answers to questions that matter – again, her perception of me. Their faith truly overwhelms me with gratitude and love and at the same time, scares the living daylights out of me. I am sure the day is approaching soon when I will NOT have all the answers. I sincerely hope that by that time, they both will have learnt answers to some of the questions and more importantly, they will have learnt to explore the right resources to search for those answers.
Their grieving at the imminent death of the birds reminded me of Gerard Manly Hopkins’ lines:
Margaret, are you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leaves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
Sahana and Ryan will not cry their hearts out for fallen baby birds for very long. Even if they don’t shed tears, my hope is, they will still turn around to look at the fallen, bend down to pick them up, give them a shoulder and never ever stop trying to ‘stop the suffering.’
Nothing traumatic happened to me in my childhood to make me the way I am, when it comes to humility. It is somewhat cloying, for want of better words. It is one of the lesser attractive traits in my character. My parents taught me the usual mantra ‘let the world tell you are good, you just do the right thing’. I try to follow the second part of the dictum, I try to do the right thing. But when the world tries to tell me I am good, I fight it. I posted a picture recently which attracted very generous comments from friends and relatives. Instead of gracefully thanking the kind people, I got into my usual habit of telling them why I look good in that picture – ‘the sun was on my face’, ‘Sean is a good photographer’, ‘the camera is good, makes anyone look good’ etc. The folks who commented on that photo must have thought, ‘Oh dear, what did we get ourselves into?’ My children, however, are completely on the other end of the spectrum when it comes to humility.
I want to write a few incidents that show the humility, or lack thereof, in my children. The first one was when Ryan was five years old. He was in a swimming class, the instructor was lining them up to swim a race. Ryan was waiting next to a little girl, whose dad was taking this 5-year-old swim race a little too seriously. He kept advising his daughter how she should move her arms, kick her feet with all her strength, how she should charge the wall at the end of the race. The girl had tuned the dad out long time ago, but dads don’t pick up on these signs as moms do. There, I said it, now accuse me of stereotyping!! The poor dad was going on and on about focus, determination etc. If I wasn’t getting a kick out of the speech, I would have tuned him out as well. Now, since both my children are crazy competitive, all I say to them before a race is, ‘try your best and have fun’! That particular day, I didn’t even say that. I didn’t need to, Ryan was listening intently to all the dad was saying. Once, when he found a break in the dad’s lecture, this is what he said to the poor man, ‘You know, I am going to beat her!’ First, I couldn’t believe my ears, then I felt a heat emanating from my reddening face. I believe I hissed at Ryan to be quiet and listen to his instructor. The dad was quiet, I was quiet also, debating in my mind whether I should apologize for my son’s nonchalant rudeness. I have felt embarrassment a few times in my life. This incident is somewhere there at the top of the list.
Couple of weeks ago, Ryan hit a triple in a baseball match. He swaggered back to the dugout, took off his helmet and told his teammate sitting next to him, ‘Go out and hit a triple like me!’ This incident was narrated to me by the other boy’s dad. I was at a loss for words, yet again. Finally, after some mental gnashing of the teeth, I managed to say, ‘Yes, we need to work on modesty!’ The dad was a good sport, he said, ‘Well, Ryan certainly backed up his statement, he went out and hit a triple – a second time!’ He hit two triples in a game. That is a big deal to a seven-year old. While walking back home, I congratulated him on his good performance and then broached the subject of humility.
‘Ryan, it is wonderful that you hit a triple but don’t tell others to go and hit a triple like you! You can wish them good luck and say hope you have a good hit!’
He looked up at me and said, ‘Why? If they hit a triple our team will win!’
“Yes, but don’t say LIKE ME!”
“Why? I hit a triple!”
I gave up at that point. His words were not laced with malice, the innocence was precious. I thought I would make some other time a teaching moment, and let him savor his success.
When Sahana was younger, I found her standing in front of the mirror singing ‘I am awesome, I am awesome!’ in different tunes and intonations. I told her I thought she was fantastic, but I would really like to know why did she think she was awesome? She said, ‘Because I am!’
Sahana, a couple of years ago, was talking to a girlfriend, when I called her. She didn’t hear me, I called her again, saying, ‘Sahana, you can’t hear me?’ Her girlfriend turned to me and said, ‘No, she couldn’t hear you because she was talking to ME and I am awesome!’ I was dumbstruck by the comment of this 10 year old. When I got my wits back, I thought in my mind, ‘Poor child, we need a reality check here. I fervently hope the world thinks you are that awesome, or else, you will have to deal with a lot of mental baggage when you grow up!’
I love the fact that my children have a strong sense of self. I am fortunate because some parents have to bolster the sense of self in their children. But I worry that this ‘strong’ sense of self doesn’t become ‘inflated’ sense of self. Sahana and Ryan are confident, young people and I love that. But I also worry that failure at something may crush them. It may sound terrible coming from their mother but I want them to taste failure once in a while. I feel it is important to learn that failure at anything does NOT mean the end of the world. It DOES NOT mean one is worthless. It just means you work harder and do it the next time, or the next. I strongly believe it is important for every individual to know and appreciate their worth. I am working on it. At the same time, it is also important for us to know what we need to aspire towards, to become truly awesome. I wonder if we are teaching our children that lesson? With participation trophies for everybody, everybody is a winner. But in reality, there is only one winner. When they reach adulthood, will they be able to deal with NOT necessarily being that winner? Will they have it in them to pick themselves up and TRY to be that winner? And if they can’t, will they move on to other things and win other battles in life, even if there aren’t medals and trophies waiting for them, only joy and satisfaction?
We need to strike a balance where we tell the children they are fantastic and special. Every single one of them are unique and the grown ups – parents, relatives, educators, counselors, coaches have the responsibility to nurture their uniqueness yet keeping them grounded to reality. We have the responsibility of teaching them that they can work on the qualities that they already have to BECOME their best! They have their whole life ahead of them to learn, practice, experiment, fail, learn again and WORK towards who they want to be in life.
My husband and I had to cross several cultural barriers to start understanding each other. I may have mentioned in my earlier blogs, we had several disagreements at the initial stages of our relationship. It was mainly due to our cultural differences. One big divide was how we expressed our feelings for each other.
I grew up in a semi conservative, protected environment where voicing your feelings was frowned upon. In romantic movies, two flowers coming close together was symbolic of the intimacy shared by the protagonists. A lot of silent, amorous messages were passed through eyes. I grew up with the romantic notion that if my partner really loved me, there would be no need for words to communicate, he should be able to read my mind through my looks, decipher my expressions and know what I mean. This notion, in my particular case, flopped. My husband, I am sure, wanted to bang his head in frustration, because he didn’t understand why I was mad at him…again. ‘Tell me, please, what did I do wrong this time?’ Finally, I realized the power of words! Now I let him have it (exaggerating a bit) , he probably wants those days of silent treatment back.
He, on the other hand, embarrassed me numerous times in front of my immediate and extended family by professing his love for me openly. My parents and my uncles and aunts were uncomfortable at this display of verbal affection. My cousins and friends loved this novelty, they were amused and somewhat perplexed at the same time. I reminded him often not to verbalize in front of people how much he is in love with me, it was simply not done in India (this was almost 16 years ago)! The poor man, a white guy from a different culture and country, was desperate to reassure my family that his intentions about me were honest. He was also trying to fit in but in the wrong way.
Although, I pleaded with him not to make comments like ”Oh she is beautiful’ when one of my cousins said ‘she is too thin’ I liked
them. I felt cherished when he told my family and his family how much I mean to him, while I still cringed outwardly. Slowly, I changed too. After being married to him, I realized it is actually a wonderful and honest feeling when I acknowledged that I love my husband. India, has opened up a lot more when it comes to the matter of heart, but when I go back I still notice some reticence in admitting ‘Yes, I am in love with my spouse. Yes, I am lucky. Yes, s/he is handsome or beautiful!’
On Facebook, some dear friends (all Indian) were discussing what qualities they love in a man. Sense of humor, sensitivity, intellect, charm et all. After going through the posts, I realized, these were
the qualities, I, too, looked for in a man when I was a young woman. And I found them all in my husband. I mentioned that in the chat. I said, ‘I looked for all that in a man too, I got lucky!’ I was subjected to some good-natured ridicule for that. I was amused at the reaction, it seemed appreciating one’s spouse was still not a ‘done’ thing amongst many.
A couple of days later, I saw a post of one of my American friends where she said how lucky she was to have a wonderful husband and how much she appreciates what he does for her and how special he makes her feel. I know the couple very well, one can see the love and friendship they share. She was not ashamed or embarrassed to let the world know that she loves and appreciates her spouse. Her post made me smile.
I come from a country which has many things to offer to the world. My country is rich in heritage which I am proud to carry and hopefully pass on to my children. I have also had the good fortune to adopt a country which has a lot to offer and teach the world. Here, I have learnt, amongst other things, to appreciate another human, my spouse in this case, and not be ashamed to admit that I lucked out the day we chose each other and decided to spend our lives together. Life is a journey, people say. On this journey we can leave that we don’t need, and pick up new lessons that will make this journey, if not smoother, at least more beautiful and joyful. What is more joyful than to admit that the one who is walking by my side on this journey is the most special person to me? Why on earth should I not say it?
Will you all please join me in raising our fists in the air and shouting ‘Gender equality!!! Finally!!’ A fairness cream company has come up with a fairness cream for men and it promises results in just four weeks of usage. Say goodbye to the ‘tall, dark and handsome’ good looks! That is so yesterday! Today’s mantra is ‘fair and handsome!’ I should have been happy reading this. It deals with the double standard that Indian society has – women have to be fair to be considered a beauty, yet men? Well, they are men, right? The sex itself makes them a step above! Nothing else matters or should matter. Now, they have to be fair to be considered beauti…oops, handsome. That’s politically correct.
I have never quite understood the fairness fetish in India and the other Asian countries. I have seen and have been subjected to good-natured ridicule about skin color. It hurt in the teenage years when one really likes to be admired for their physical attributes. But as I became older and wiser, I became optimistic that as India opened up to the world more, it would realize that the average skin tone of Indians is actually an enviable attribute amongst many in the fair-skinned population. People would also realize that skin color is something in your genes. You can take care of it, keep it blemish free as much as you can, but it would be difficult to change your skin tone. I understood that the concept of ‘fair skinned beauty’ is deep-rooted and will take time to completely disappear. The cinema, the media, the music all play to the concept ‘fair skin equates beautiful’. Hindi songs warn women not to go out in the sun, not because one will get skin cancer but the skin will darken – ‘Dhoop mein nikla na karo roop ki raani, gora rang kaala na ho jaye!’ I was told, many times, not to drink tea. Tea will affect the liver, mal functioning of liver will darken my skin further, my prospects of marrying, already low, will dwindle. You get the logic? It may be appropriate to mention a personal experience here. I went for an interview for a sales job in a renowned air conditioning company, right out of college. The job I was interviewing for entitled selling air conditioners in the sweltering heat of Kolkata. The manager, after looking at me and my resume, asked if I was up for this kind of job since my skin would darken under the sun and I would have trouble attracting a mate with my darkened skin. I didn’t even realize how inappropriate the comment was at the time, I was brain washed since childhood that dark is bad, hence the comment seemed normal. I am still embarrassed that I didn’t protest such mindset then. There are exceptions, but they only prove the rule, unfortunately. However, the eternal optimist that I am, I hoped this perception would fade away as my ‘shining India’ shone brighter.
Then I read this recently: “While these ads (apart from boosting the sales of the products), have invited flak for promoting insecurity and discrimination among women, the latest to join the long list of fairness products is something that can be described as ludicrous at best. The product, that has sparked an online debate, is a fairness cream for women’s private parts!
The ad, that went on-air some time back, has been described by the online world as the “ultimate insult to women”. It shows a Katrina Kaif look-alike who has a glum expression on her face, as her husband is more interested in the newspaper than in her. But once she cleans herself up (with that product), she suddenly becomes the object of his affections. The Twitterati is buzzing with comments slamming these products. “This is the ultimate insult. Skin whitening for your vagina,” Rupa Subramanya tweeted. While @ThePunjew, wrote, “What a bummer, there’s no shade card yet to monitor fairness progress!”
The above excerpt is from an article in The Times of India ‘Outrage over fairness cream for private parts’. ‘A new TV ad for a personal hygiene cream, that promises ‘fairer’ private parts for women, has been slammed by netizens.’
Fairness cream is a disgrace, I think. It is demeaning and insulting, to say the least, to women and now men. Some of the famous film personalities have refused to endorse tobacco and alcohol advertisements, yet many movie icons continue to appear and endorse fairness creams. I agree fairness cream doesn’t inflict the same amount of damage in one’s body as tobacco and alcohol but how about the mind? How about society? How about dowry that the grooms ask for a dark-skinned bride? I have watched with amazement as a father joked about how he has set aside a huge sum of money for dowry for his dark-skinned daughter. He joked, ‘When the groom’s family mentions her darkness, I will hand them the first bundle of rupees, when they mention her nose, I will hand them the second bundle!’ All this in front of the girl, who sat there with a slight smile on her face. Isn’t this SOMEWHAT akin to selling the girl, her skin tone, her features?
I spoke to an amazingly beautiful model whose only regret in life was her dark skin. She wishes to be fairer in the next life. ‘What are you talking about? You are beautiful!’ I told her, amazed. ‘Nah, I am too dark!’ Her response. When a baby is born in a family, the question about his/her skin color is asked at the same time as whether s/he is healthy. If the baby happens to be dark-skinned, the comments generally are ‘The color is dark BUT the features will be good.’ I am waiting for the BUT to change to AND! When my babies were born, the hope amongst many of my friends and family were the children get my white husband’s skin tone! I still remember a question asked after Ryan’s birth, by a friend’s mother, ‘The baby is like Sean, I hope? Fair skinned?’
The pancake make up ladies lather on their faces to whiten them is very disheartening. Glowing skin of any hue is beautiful, unnatural white skin is not! I was subjected to such makeup during my Indian wedding, much to the dismay of my white husband. ‘What have they done to you?’ He exclaimed. ‘Color equality for the day, darling. Deal with it!’ I said.
I recently spotted a popular fairness cream in an Indian grocery store in the US. I was disappointed to see the fairness fetish has transcended geographical boundaries. The store owner told me the sale of the product is very high. To me, that was surprising. I started appreciating my skin color more after I came to this country where people pointed to my arms and said, ‘That is what WE want.’ Hence the tanning salons, hence the sun bathing. I thought Indians would feel proud of their naturally tanned skin color but many seem to want the fair skin of the Caucasians. Entry fairness creams. Hackneyed but true, the grass truly is greener on the other side.
Bottomline: India, please wake up and smell the coffee. The mindset regarding fairness, instead of improving, is taking a terrible, demeaning, sadly humorous turn. It is invading the privacy of women. Spend more money on gynecological check ups to prevent ovarian cancer, educate women on women’s health and check for breast cancer. Please do not worry about the COLOR of women’s privates. There are so many more things in the world to worry about. Do trust me on this one!
I was literally laughing all the way to the bank, on a sunny, beautiful day in Baltimore. I was going to deposit my paycheck, happy to get out of my office during lunch break, I had a spring to my steps. The sun was on my face, the bitter winter was over, the air had the promise of spring. If only my husband was in town, my happiness would have been complete. But he was in Ghana. As I walked across the street to get on the block of my bank, I heard a loud bang. I instantly thought “Oh, some poor guy just had a tire blow out!” All of a sudden, I saw people in suits and ties running towards me, I looked around and realized there were at least 5 or 6 police cars. I was puzzled, and then another bang. This time I saw a police officer run toward me, with his gun drawn, as he took cover behind a police car, he yelled at me, “GET BACK, LADY, GET BACK!!!’ Things were happening so fast around me that my poor brain wasn’t sending messages to the other parts of my body fast enough. I couldn’t move, I stood there, in the middle of a side-walk, by myself, with my arms crossed across my chest, hoping I wouldn’t get shot in the chest. By that time, I had figured out that those loud bangs were no tire blow outs. For some strange reason, I thought if I got shot in the chest it would be very gruesome, so I had my arms protectively around it. Strange how we all react in emergency situations! A bank was getting robbed while I was skipping to MY bank on that sunshiny, gorgeous day, happy to be young and alive. The bank robbers shot a couple of rounds before fleeing. I was the only one standing in the middle of the road, my arms covering my chest and probably my eyes closed. Must have been quite a scene. My friends in the bank yelled at me to go in there, I found my wits and willed my legs to move. We were cordoned off for half an hour, I called my work to let them know I was stuck. Once they let us go, I sauntered back without giving the incident much thought. As I entered my work place, my colleagues gathered around me ‘Are you ok?’ ‘How awful!’ ‘Do you want to go back home?’ I started to shiver then, thinking I could have been seriously injured that day, or even worse, killed!
I love almost everything about Baltimore. The city has a character of its own. It is not classy like Boston, or cosmopolitan like New York. It is in a league of its own, though. It has a down home, genuine feeling, a warmth that I love! I love the people here with their ‘believe Hon’ attitude, the bee hive, hair-sprayed hair, the fancy nails which I think is no less than any intricate art work, the funky looking crab statues in every nook and cranny of the city. The Charm city has its own charm, for sure. The crime, however, is a problem. A big one!
We lived on the top story of a 3 story house on a relatively safe and very funky street of Baltimore. I walked back from work late at night and never felt threatened. My husband got catcalls from time to time, but not me! And I learnt, eventually, not to take it personally! It wasn’t me, it was just my gender! Anyway, one evening, only a few days after the shoot out incident, I heard a lot of sirens! Since the sirens were just an integral part of the city sounds of Baltimore, I didn’t pay much attention, till they got louder and louder, and seemed to culminate at the doorstep of our building. Sean was still in Ghana. I ran to the window to see an extremely drunk man sitting at the stoop of our building with a loaded gun. The police were in the process of extricating the gun from the man and unloading it. I snatched the phone and dialed my mother-in-law. I just had to share the exciting moment with somebody. I continued to give her the running commentary, ‘Now the Police have their guns drawn, they approached the guy, they are taking his gun, he is in handcuffs….’ and such like, while she kept telling me sternly ‘Get away from the window, NOW!’
My husband called the next day to find out how his newly wed bride was surviving, a relative newcomer to a new country! ‘How are you doing?’ he asked. ‘Well, lets see…. I was in the middle of a shoot out the other day and there was a guy holding a gun on our stoop last night. Other than that, I am doing fine, babe. When are you coming home???’
In a moment of insanity, I decided to deactivate my Facebook account. I gave myself a deadline when I will sever my connection with the Facebook world…for a while! Strangely, I was excited and nervous about it at the same time. I was excited that I will be free of the constant desire to check on everybody’s business and sad that I will miss the fun banter and often times the serious exchange of ideas that I had grown to enjoy so much.
My trip to Rome was an eye opener. I stayed away from the internet and Facebook for seven days. Since I was spending my every waking moment exploring, enjoying, experiencing Rome, I didn’t miss Facebook. But how would it be in my real life where I am often bogged down by chores, responsibilities, decisions? Connecting with friends on Facebook was like a breath of fresh air for me. But the problem was, the breath of fresh air had become a violent storm. I felt constantly drawn to the iPad or the computer to check if anybody wrote back on my status update or how many comments did I get on my picture? Facebook sometimes exposed my follies and often times triggered my thinking brain which stays dormant mostly as I switch laundry or mow the lawn. It was a huge, happy time sucker. My folly, I realized, is vanity. I choose the ‘good’ pictures to share with my friends on Facebook. I check how many likes I got on my updates. At the same time, the non confrontational me finds enough courage online to comment on issues I feel strongly about. Facebook is like a fantasy world full of laughter and camaraderie. I started living in the fantasy world while my real world started collapsing around me.
Mother’s day morning was special. After the usual excitement of handmade cards, gifts, hugs, cuddles, Sahana, Ryan and I just sat in the living room for an ordinary chat. I didn’t have my iPad, Sahana didn’t have her iTouch. She said, “This is just wonderful. We are sitting together and looking at each other. We never do this. We are either working, or studying or at sports or on our computers/ipads/itouch. We should take at least an hour each day to do just this – chat!” Ryan was lying on the couch, he piped in his philosophical input, “I am the only free person here. Mommy is always on her iPad, daddy is on his computer and Sahana is on her iTouch. I am the only one who is free, the only one with a life!”
I left for Rome in the afternoon. But I carried little Ryan’s words in my heart. It came back to me again and again as I roamed the streets of Rome. Without my cell phone, my iPad or my computer, I was completely disconnected from the world-wide web. I was free. I came back home and plunged right back into social networking, posting pictures of my trip, writing blogs and posting them, checking often to see the comments and stats. Life resumed, chores piled up and I escaped into my virtual life, laughing, bantering, reading poetry, exchanging ideas on important issues, being armchair analyst. My virtual life was brimming with happiness and friends. My real life? Well…if a day had 36 hours, I would have been fine. But it doesn’t and I wasn’t fine. I decided to deactivate and focus on things that were important.
Resistant to change, I pooh poohed Facebook when it was first mentioned to me couple of years ago. “I am never getting on it, that’s not who I am, I am a private person”, I said. My best friend from college didn’t let go. She connected with old friends, people were asking for me. Those magical college days, those inseparable friends – I was sold. The first few months, for me, were full of new discoveries, of reunions, joy of connecting with old friends, sharing my story and hearing theirs. I was often chanting “Facebook zindabad” (long live Facebook) online and off. But without my knowledge, things started getting out of control.
So one fine morning, I chatted briefly with friends, went to my account settings, my fingers shook for a few seconds over the ‘deactivate’ button and I touched it. I felt a strange sensation of severing connection with a fantasy world where I was loved and wanted. I am loved a lot in my real world too, but in the Facebook world that feeling of being loved is quite palpable, it’s there, out in front of you, in written words! That’s paradoxical, don’t you think? Palpable love in a virtual world? I make it sound dramatic but the sense of loss was real. It was done!
I was surprised though, to realize that with the sense of loss there was also a sense of unfettered glee. Freedom from my self-inflicted imprisonment in the unreal world of Facebook. On the first day, I got so much done, the feeling of being productive was exhilarating. At night, I started missing my friends. I was sad to think I would wake up the next morning and won’t say a cheery good morning to the friends with my morning cup of coffee.
Day 2 was miserable. I was moping around the house constantly thinking of the people I left behind in my virtual world. I had forced my husband to hold a wager that I won’t go back for at least two weeks. The fear of losing out to him kept me from running to the computer and logging myself back on, but oh, I was sad! I haven’t had any experience with kicking an addiction, but on ‘Day 2’, I got a clear idea of what people go through during withdrawal. At the same time, I felt good about being strong at resisting the urge.
Day 3 was much better. Facebook was loosening its hold on me. I was thinking and focusing on things at hand more instead of rushing through chores to get back on the site. I sat and read with Ryan, focusing only on the little body nestled to me while he read. I listened to Sahana focusing only on her words and making a mental note where and when to drop her off and pick her up. She mostly talks to me as her personal taxi driver as her social life and school life is buzzing with activities. I completed my chores on time, read a few pages, wrote a few words, the ‘pre Facebook me’ was back.
This distance was important for me, not only to get a control over my addiction to social networking, but also to get a perspective on why I spent so much time on it. I still love what Facebook world has to offer – some wonderful, like-minded friends, uncomplicated relationships, heartfelt laughter, food for thoughts but it also showed me I can get on Facebook on my terms. I will go back to it, I miss my friends too much not to. But I know I can cut back my time on it. If I feel myself slip sliding back into the same addiction, I will do the same – hover over the deactivate button, my fingers shaking and finally touch it to sever connection temporarily, with a feeling of deja vu. I learnt a lesson about myself, through something as trivial as Facebook, that I actually do have self-restraint. It’s a good feeling.
It all started with admiring glances. While I put on jewellery or make up, little Sahana stood by me and watched in awe. A pretty little face, surrounded by a halo of brown curly hair, looking up at me like a sunflower. She sometimes said, “When those earrings get small on you, can I have them?” Her face lit up in anticipation when I promised I will save all my stuff for her so she can have them when she grew up. She grew up to be a tom boy, comfort over style was her mantra. She was happy in a baggy sweat shirt and sweat pants for a long time. I had to remind her to put a brush through her hair before going out. She was my wild child.
An almost imperceptible change started in middle school. Some days she still wore ‘comfort clothes’ to school.
“Sahana, you can’t go to school looking like that! I do NOT like the sloppy look?” I would yell.
“This is not sloppy, I have an image mom, this is me!” I guess that was her image then, sloppy sweat pants and grungy sweat shirts. The image must have changed since we are going on a shopping spree a little more than usual. And we are spending a little more time choosing clothes than we used to. The shirts are getting a little tighter, sweat pants are making way for jeggings, sneakers with two different colored fluorescent laces are being replaced by black boots. And, mama’s mascara and eyeliner are being ‘borrowed’ often. She doesn’t LOVE my sense of style (who would?) so I don’t worry about those being pilfered when she starts fitting in them, except maybe, for an occasional sweater. But shoes….I don’t know about that. She ‘borrows’ my earrings and necklaces and surprise, surprise, those never find their way back to my jewellery box anymore! Oversight?
The usurpation doesn’t end there. I turn on my computer, click on my account, go to google. Guess who is already signed on? Bingo. I let out a sigh of frustration, switch accounts and sign myself in. While I am working on my stuff, the skype icon at the bottom of my screen constantly tells me which seventh grader just came online. She switched my skype account to hers on MY computer. She does projects on my computer, she needs to have the skype on to ask friends questions about the projects. Ahem! Too bad, mom has passed that age too, Sahana! Only thing is, mom didn’t have skype in her day and age:)! She managed to customize the google on my ipad as well, which I guard from her jealously. It may be good to mention here that she has her own netbook and her own itouch, yet nothing is safe from the clutches of the dreaded little woman.
Although, I complain and ‘fake’ yell at Sahana for taking my stuff, never returning my necklace, customizing my computer, secretly I like it. This is a sweet phase of a little girl growing up to be a young woman. She will be gone in a few years and when she has flown the nest I will ‘probably’ yearn for that anguish I felt when I had to do the difficult job of switching accounts on google, or looking everywhere for my necklace that never found its way back to my bureau, after being ‘borrowed’.
On my fourth morning in Rome, I was nervous. I had the map laid out on the hotel bed and was tracing my fingers across the unfamiliar sounding names of serpentine streets. The plan was to see the Basilica di San Clemente at Laterno and the Basilica of San Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in chains)! I knew it was very close to the Colosseum so walked confidently towards the impressive amphitheater, standing proudly against a cobalt blue sky. I opened my map up in front of it. After giving myself five minutes of peering cluelessly at the streets on the map, folded it carefully, put it back in my pocketbook and went to the first policeman I found.
“Scuzi, senor, how get to Basilica di San Clemente?” I constantly spoke terrible English during my stay in Rome. For some reason, I felt if I dropped some words, I may be able to communicate better!!!
The policeman answered back in accented but perfect English, pointing me in the right direction. I stopped to look at the ruins of Ludus Magnus, a gym for training gladiators. Archaeologists believe there was a network of corridors that linked this structure to the Colosseum.
The Basilica di San Clemente at Laterno was tucked in a narrow lane. This basilica was dedicated to Saint Clement, the fourth pople, making this one of the oldest Roman basilicas. Ruined in 1084, it was rebuilt on the same site by Paschal II in 1108. I entered the Capella di Santa Caterina (St. Catherine’s Chapel) which has some decorative frescoes by Masolino de Panicale (1383 – 1447). This is a prime example of of a church piled atop a church piled atop a pagan temple. A 12th century church was built directly over a 4th century church, which was built directly over a 2nd century pagan temple. This kind of architecture is not unique in Rome since almost the entire city is built directly on top of the ancient one. In San Clemente, one can actually go down to the lower levels and get a glimpse of the city’s architecture in the 2nd century. 2nd century!!!! How incredible is that?
I had to buy a ticket (5 euros) to go into the lower basilica. The lower church was dated back to the 4th century and still has some relatively well-preserved frescoes. The base of the building dates thousands of years back in time. It corresponds to a 2nd century house in which a Mithraeum was created later, a grotto shaped room, devoted to the Persian god Mithra. I found the worship place of this ancient cult more interesting than the churches above it, so I read up on it further. Since photography was prohibited, the facts are all I have to fall back upon.
Mithras, or Mitra, is a very ancient deity. In the Vedic religions that preceded Hinduism, Mitra was a solar deity of oaths and treaties who was closely connected with the sky god Varuna. In Persian religion, he is the solar deity of friendship and honesty operating under the supreme god Ahura Mazda. The followers of Mithras, the Mithrans, met in caverns or in artificial enclosures made to look like caverns. Under the basilica too, the mithraeum had the grotto look. Along the walls there were stone benches where the sacred banquet was held. In the center of the room the alter with the god is visible. The god is slitting the throat of a bull. The blood from the bull symbolized the benevolent force and fertility. As part of their rituals, Mithraic priests sacrificed bulls until the blood flowed into troughs, which followers would then scoop out with their arms to bathe in. Next to the temples are the buried remains of a Roman palazzo of 1st century. We could hear the sound of rushing water as we walked around the rooms underground. I learnt that this water is from the ancient pipes and aqueducts between the walls.
After being transported completely to the 2nd century, walking along the dimly lit rooms and corridors, listening to the swish of the running water and imagining the worshippers of the pagan god congregating to worship in the Mithraeum, I made my way up to the lower basilica. It was fascinating because of its antiquity and how well some of the frescoes have survived the onslaught of time. But the annoying aspect for me was being stuck behind a French-speaking tour group, who blocked every single way, I tried to exit. They were listening to their tour guide in rapt attention, completely unaware of me, trying to duck under their arms, around their torso to find a leeway to exit the narrow hallways. I do have a touch of claustrophobia, roaming around the labyrinthine belly of the basilica for over half an hour was starting to stress me out a bit. One woman, finally, acknowledged my efforts to get by them, spoke to the others and the way parted for me. I walked between them, Moses-like, and climbed the ancient stairs to emerge in the 12th century chapel for Saint Caterina. Felt like I traveled through a time machine. As I sat on the pews to absorb the experience and write in my journal, real world donned on me again, and not in a nice way. I saw a young man standing at the door of the chapel, looking very important, official and confident, he had an money-box in his hand. As the tourists walked into the Basilica, he thrust the money-box confidently in front of them and saying something in Italian. It gave me the feeling that he was expecting them to pay to enter the church. Most of the folks, I observed, dug into their pockets and brought out euro notes to put into his box. I knew the entry to the chapel was free. As far as I know, churches don’t charge you to go in. But people were falling for his con man’s tricks. The ugly within the precincts of the beautiful. I gave him the white of my eye as I walked out past him. The restrooms in Rome are few and far between, hence it requires a little bit of planning. Within four days, I had checked out where some of the public bathrooms are, in case of an emergency. From the Basilica of San Clemente, I walked around aimlessly looking at ancient buildings, peeking inside them to see a beautiful courtyard and a fountain in the center and slowly made my way towards the public restroom at the back of the Colosseum, on Via Colosseo (note it down if you plan to visit Rome soon)! But the French group had beat me to it. Older women were standing in a long line to use the facilities. They turned, smiled and greeted me like an old friend and I did the same.
From San Clemente, I made my way to San Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in chains). This church houses the famous Moses by Michelangelo and the original chains that supposedly bound Saint Peter.
Supposedly, the original chains that bound St. Peter.Mausoleo di Giulio II (Julius II’s Mausoleum)!The power in this sculpture of Moses…
The constant walking with two bags with bricks in them was taking a toll on my back and hips. I sat down in front of the Colosseum and indulged in my favorite activity – people watching, while my weary body rested to build up enough energy to walk back. And I found this gentleman/lady looking at me.
And some Roman soldiers milling around, trying to earn some euros.
Luring tourists into taking pictures with them.
In my contemplative, people watching mood, I also realized a couple of eccentricities of the city of Rome. First is the psychological warfare that goes on daily between the pedestrians and the vehicles. Often, in many streets, there are crosswalks and no lights. The norm is for the vehicles to come to a complete stop to let the pedestrian cross. But I noticed the complete disregard for this rule, especially by the cab drivers. In fact, the vehicles somewhat accelerated threateningly as they came close to the crosswalks, the poor tourists, as a result, quickly stepped up back onto the curb, lacking the courage to boldly step off the sidewalk to face the audacious driver. I hail from Kolkata, where the traffic is synonymous to chaos, I should have been used to this, yet I just couldn’t jump in front of an aggressive cabbie expecting him to brake and let me cross the street. Sean’s suggestion was, not to look them in the eye, just get in front of the car and they will stop. I didn’t think a loving spouse should ask his better half to walk in front of a moving vehicle, but he was trying to be helpful, so I held my peace. On these particular occasions, I loved tour groups. They gave me the confidence to cross the street fearlessly, by being one among many. If there were no tour groups in sight, I sidled against a local who boldly stepped off the curb without giving the on-coming vehicles a second glance, and scurried across with him/her.
The other eccentricity probably applies to all the tourists across the globe. It is their propensity to stop suddenly to either take a picture or exclaim excitedly at a point of interest. I walk fast, I had to stop abruptly on several occasions to avoid a sure collision with my fellow explorer. The beauty of it was, they were completely unaware that they were about to be bumped by me. Most of the times, I smiled indulgently and passed by. Once in a while, when I was tired, hungry and hurting, I did a say a quiet ‘What the heck?’ as I walked by them.
It was almost 2 in the afternoon when I grabbed a lunch of an eggplant, buffalo cheese, sundried tomato and fresh basil pizza and came back to the hotel to rest for a while. I planned to go meet Sean in Trastevere and walk back to the hotel with him.
Piazza Santa Maria, where I waited for Sean. The church of Santa Maria is seen at the back.A gorgeous mosaic of Jesus and Mary in Chiesa di Santa Maria.
Sean and I strolled along the famous Via Del Corso looking at the designer stores and ended up at the Spanish steps again. I had gone there without my husband, but the romance in the air made me want to go back with him. After all what is the point of being in Rome if one is not kissed on the Spanish steps by the beloved? We witnessed a man proposing to his lady-love and she accepting the proposal on the steps. We all clapped when the gentleman turned to the crowd and said, with tears in his eyes, ‘She said YES!’ We were thrilled to be part of a special and endearing moment. We walked around the steps and went to the Trevi fountains, had a nice dinner of spagghetti carbonara (me) and gnocchi sorrentino (Sean) at a trattoria and a ‘not so yummy’ gelato near Piazza Novona. Then we worked off the dessert by walking through narrow cobble stoned alleyways, which I absolutely loved, to Campo di Fiori – a piazza alive with musicians, diners, tourists and shops.
Campo di Fiori – alive with action.Pasta decoration in front of a restaurant.
Day four ended. I realized I still had the remnants of my country mouse syndrome as Sean had to pull me back on the sidewalk a couple of times as I exuberantly exclaimed at a frescoe or an ancient looking apartment, or flowers on the window sill of a dilapidated house, completely unaware that the person behind me was so close to colliding into ME!!!
Destination for Day 5 – the doma and cupola of the Basilica of St. Peters and maybe Castel Sant’ Angel, if I still had the energy.
If that is not the understatement of the millennium, then I do not know what is! On top of that, it has been reiterated so many times that you have probably stopped reading at this point. Or you didn’t even click on it, thinking “There she goes with one of her original thoughts!” Wink, wink!
I am not talking about the bouts of unexplained crying, the dirty, messy diapers, the temper tantrums in the middle of a parking lot, the filching of candy bars that are within reach from the baby carriage as mommy paid for the grocery, and making mommy trudge all the way back to the store from the parking lot with a gooey, chocolaty baby to pay for the stolen Toblerone, the terrible two’s, three’s…sevens…twelves….! Not talking about explaining difficult phenomenons like God, death, angels, Santa Claus, tooth fairy, nail fairy. Yup, in our family, we TRIED to believe in nail fairy and extract money out of her when accidentally a nail fell off after the finger was caught in a door. Nail fairy didn’t pay a visit, though. Not talking about raising your eyebrows sky-high and pointing to your watch when your daughter talks on the phone for more than half an hour! None of that old stuff! Much has been said on that already.
I am talking about how I can’t be naughty when I want to be. Even when the kids aren’t around, I feel like a hypocrite if I do something that I tell them not to do. I can’t seem to turn off my over worked conscience! My mother had no such qualms. Her mantra to me was ‘Do as I say, don’t do what I do!’ Wish I had adopted that dictum instead of ‘Practice what you preach!’ Reading way too many parenting books will do that to you!
Please be under no false impression that I lead my life perfectly to set an example. Heck no! But I do stop myself from using words like ‘hate’, ‘stupid’, ‘shut up’ ‘dumb’ and others that are no-no in the house! I thank the telemarketer for calling “No, I am not interested in your scheme but thank you sooo much for calling!” instead of slamming the phone down because we are already late for some practice or other. I can’t curse if I want to (good thing I don’t want to curse often), ‘What an idiot’ being my limit! The other predicament is I can’t eat chocolates and other desserts in peace. My guilty conscience or mommy conscience stops me from pilfering and devouring a whole chocolate bar. If I manage to quieten my conscience and open the refrigerator with the intention of stealing, I encounter a bag of candies with this written on it: Mom, keep out! Quite unwillingly, I make a fair share of a chocolate bar. Couple of days ago, I felt extremely low energy. I had a lot of errands to run, grocery shopping being one of them. I decided to treat myself to a delectable chocolate mousse cake as a ‘pick me up’ for lunch. Decadent, I know. I came home feeling very naughty and indulgent. But then I couldn’t eat it. I simply couldn’t! I remembered two faces who absolutely loved dessert. I kept it in the corner of the kitchen eyeing it and ‘cursing’ myself for not buying more of those so I could have one.
Finally, I divided the cake to my two children for after school snack when they came home. Dessert is a very special treat in our house. The little faces lit up “Wowza! What got into mom today? How did we get so lucky? Dessert for snack? And we didn’t have to do a thing to earn it????”
As I said, being a mom ain’t easy, but then again, nobody said it would be! I teach them to behave well and they keep their eyes glued on me so I have to toe the line, most of the times. I guess we help each other ‘grow’!
Mamas around the world, lets raise a glass to the universal mommy hood. Here’s to TRYING our level best to raise some worthy citizens of the world and TRYING to be better humans ourselves, in the process.
There are, fortunately, books on parenting. Really helpful ones which tell us we are not doing this alone. There are others who are trying their very best. Here are some to look at:
It could have been my story but it isn’t because of an accident – the accident of birth. I am going to write a story today. A true story that shook me to the core. This story didn’t make the newspaper but it didn’t stay within the neighborhood where it took place either, it spread word to mouth and it reached me here, in America.
Not too long ago, a young woman, who we shall call Reena, was dreaming of a happy home with a loving husband. She didn’t belong to the emergent middle class in India, she was from the lowest strata, living in a simple home in a slum in Kolkata and dreaming of a simple, but content life with the man she was about to marry. It didn’t work out as she had planned, like it often doesn’t! Her husband didn’t share her dreams and didn’t want to share his life with her either. He drove her away after a few years of marriage. The reason? Who cares about it? She is just a woman and she is absolutely replaceable.
Reena came back home broken, abused. Her family did not welcome her with open arms. Why would they? She was just another mouth to feed and their resources were meagre. She had taken her share of the family inheritance in her dowry. When she returned empty-handed, she found she had no support in anyone or in any form. She was stigmatized since she was returned by her husband. It was her shame, she must have been at fault, of course! One day, during a quarrel, her brother said her life was not worth living. She was a burden to them, she was a burden to the world. The woman was emotionally vulnerable to begin with, she broke down completely and set herself on fire to end it, once and for all.
She couldn’t finish the job that she started though. Neighbors rescued her and took her to the hospital. Instead of succumbing to her injuries, she hung on to life. Reena survived. She walked out of that hospital with a misshapen face, disfigured with horrendous scars. She withdrew within herself, hid in the house for a while, covered her face with the pallu of her sari. But for some strange reason, she rediscovered her will to live again. This experience transformed her…gave her a will to try one more time, to take a shot at life. She didn’t talk to a therapist about it, she barely had two square meals but she must have figured out what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger, for she came out of her house swinging, determined to make it!
She was always a hard worker, she started looking for a job as a domestic help. But faced rejection, yet again. People didn’t want to look at a scarred face in their house doing their chores. A retired couple were divided on this issue of hiring Reena. Mrs. Basu wanted to give Reena a job on humanitarian grounds, to give her a chance at life again, while Mr. Basu feared the grandchildren, when they came to visit, will be scared by her. He was sympathetic to what life had dealt her but wasn’t ready to employ her for her deformity.
My India is shining brightly for many. We are hosting the Commonwealth games, beauty pageants, the Formula 1 car racing! It is an exciting time to be in Inda with its trendsetting fashion, booming IT industry, entertainment industry, the telecom industry. The glittering, sparkly malls, the retail therapy that my friends do to pick themselves up when they’ve had a rough day, the big decisions they make whether to buy the Prada handbag, the Jimmy Choo slippers, the latest iPhone or Mac Air. By saying this, I am not passing any judgements on anybody or trying to act holier than thou. If I didn’t dislike shopping with a passion and I had the money, who knows, I would probably do the same! We have been free from the British rule for only 65 years and look where we have come! I applaud the efforts of my country women and men. Hard work, perseverance, grit, determination, talent – a combination of all these have propelled the country forward despite the snail paced bureaucracy and corruption. But there are these pockets of darkness that we need to, yet, illuminate. Many, many good men and women are working hard to make a difference. I have had the good fortune of meeting some of them and seeing the fruits of their effort. While it is certainly encouraging, we still have a long, long way to go. So many women, urban and rural alike are underprivileged, uneducated, and are still at the mercy of societal indifference, neglect and discrimination.
I was discussing the state of women with some Indian friends, while sitting in a beautiful home, eating delicious food, when one of my friends commented that we are not in a position to criticize India. We left the country a while ago and what exactly are we doing to change the situation? We have lost the right to criticize the day we boarded the plane to leave for good. That brought me down from my lofty, all-knowing state and dashed me to harsh reality! My friend was right! It was so easy for me to criticize and point out the problems at a social gathering and then do nothing about it but just return to my comfortable home, to get a good night’s sleep. What a hypocrite!
I couldn’t do a thing to change Reena’s situation but I wanted to try. I spoke to Mr. Basu pleading with him to employ Reena for her skills and not reject her, yet again, this time for the deformity of her face. Children are sensitive, and by giving Reena a job, he can actually set a great example for his grandchildren. This is a perfect opportunity to teach his grandchildren the important lessons of giving a fellow human a chance, to teach them everybody deserves a chance, the lesson of looking deeper for beauty than what is visible to the eye, the lesson of compassion and empathy, the lesson of acceptance of others who may be different! His grandchildren will be enriched by this experience. They will learn from her that if life gives you lemon, make some lemonade. I do believe I have convinced him. I just may have a good night’s sleep tonight.
whatmamathinks 