Thou shalt not judge….or in my case, thou shalt not presume!

I go to an inexpensive hair cutting salon for primarily two reasons. I can not justify spending a bunch of money on a hair cut, it is just not that important to me, and secondly, the beautiful, decked up stylists intimidate me. I like this particular chain of hair cutting salons where the stylists come primarily from South East Asia. I have been going there for the last 8 years. While I do have my favorite, I can’t always make an appointment with her due to our mutual schedule conflicts. When I get into her appointment book, I feel a joy comparable to winning a lottery. The joy, not because I will come back with a Vogue’s front cover worthy hair cut but simply because I love talking to this gentle, unassuming, kind lady from Vietnam. She always remembers my children’s name, their grades, she inquires about Sean. I like to know about her aging mother, her only son’s summer internship, her husband’s failing health. We are not friends, yet we share some meaningful slices of our lives with each other as she gives shape to my hair. I cherish that.

The times I don’t get her, we nod to each other conspiratorily as she looks up from whose hair she is styling and I follow the stylist I got that day. Every stylist I get, I get a story as well, a quick peek into another individual’s life, that they willingly share. I hear about a promising footballer’s high school football team, as his mother cuts my hair. I hear the hidden pride in the mother’s voice as she tells me he is a scholar athlete. We commiserate on parenting woes and both agree it is the toughest job on earth. I congratulate her on raising a great young man. Another stylist complains to me her husband doesn’t support her in teaching her biracial child her language – Spanish. She is from Colombia married to an American. A different stylish calls me ‘honey poo’ and ‘sweetie pie’ as I try hard not to stare at her HUGE false eyelashes. They don’t always give me great hair cuts, but I feel at home with them. And that comfort, to me, is important.

On a Saturday morning, I went to get a hair cut and found the place teeming with customers. As I waited, I played the guessing game, which stylist will I get that day. I knew all of them except one. She was elderly, somewhat stooped with age, frail with thick glasses, of South East Asian descent. She was at the front of the store struggling to understand the workings of the computer as she tried to take payment from her customer. The customer, a middle aged woman, was obviously in a hurry to be on her way, as she made certain gestures of impatience and mumbled under her breath, ‘oh dear Lord!’ The elderly woman was trying all sorts of keys and was getting increasingly flustered as the impatience of her customer rose. The manager finally came to help and I discovered her grasp of English was seriously lacking.

As I said earlier, I am not discerning about who cuts my hair as long as they have a license, yet I found myself wishing that I don’t get the elderly lady. I had already judged her seeing her lack of computer skills, her flustered demeanor, lack of confidence that I perceived. I got her, though.

‘Next!’ She said.

As I followed her to the chair, I thought to myself, so I will go home with a bad haircut. No big deal, my hair grows fast. It will be fine in 2 weeks.

‘Shampoo?’ She asked.

As she shampooed my hair, I started to relax under her gentle, yet firm massaging of my head. And like a predictable fairy tale ending,she gave me the best cut that I have ever had in that place! She didn’t speak much English, but that has never deterred me from conversing with an individual. In the course of 20-25 minutes, she not only gave me a fantastic hair cut, she also imparted life lessons like the purpose of life, selflessness, needs versus wants and that much sought after happiness that can be found in simple things. She said she had been a hair stylist all her life in reputed salons. But she doesn’t do it anymore because now she has a little grandson who needs her. Her daughter doesn’t earn enough to pay for childcare, so she gave up her career to care for her grandchild. She said there is no end to our wants and needs, and yes she needs money, yet she is not ready to trade the joy of watching her grandson over dollars. She is ready to go without. She opted for happiness at this point in her life. She takes her grandson to free library classes and playgrounds. She pushes him on swings and chases butterflies, she pets puppies with him and goes to pet stores to look at kittens, she cooks his meals and puts him down for naps. And she tells him stories. Life couldn’t be better. I saw her smiling through the mirror as she talked and I smiled with her.

‘Looks like you have a sweet young man to keep you company!’ I said.

‘Oh! He sweet! You see picture?’ She laughed with a young girl’s trill.

‘Yes please!’ I said.

She stopped cutting my hair midway, got out a picture of a chubby little 2 year old from her wallet and handed it to me. I cooed over it and the proud grandmother stood tall in her diminutive frame, smiling the sweetest smile.

She resumed her work, and I silently chastised myself for presuming. I strive not to judge, yet I fail.

As she swung away the protective cloth from my body she asked me,

‘You like?’

She made me look good, very good.

‘I don’t like it. I love it! Thank you. May I have your card?’ I asked.

She handed me her card with a smile. She works just one day a week, when her daughter is home to take care of her grandson. I left a large tip, not just for the hair cut but for the life lessons as well. And, perhaps, atonement?

Shylockism…

I laid my head on my husband’s shoulder and said, ‘We have given birth to the reincarnation of Shylock!’ My insensitive husband guffawed at that, I snapped my head up, glared at him and showed him the white of my eye!

We were seated at my parents’ house in the summer of 2013 in Kolkata enjoying a few stolen moments while the rest of the family played up on the terrace.

This story is about my 8-year-old son, whose love of money has assumed legendary proportions amongst family and friends. Ryan has been often spotted sitting in a corner with his money jar, counting pennies and dimes. He saves everything he gets for birthdays and Christmases and puts it in his college fund (his money jar). He claims he is saving every penny from a young age to help us pay for his college since he has heard us talk about education in America being expensive.

Ryan’s Shylockism started innocently enough. On the second day of our vacation in Kolkata, his grandfather (dadai) asked him if he wanted to accompany him to the fish market. Ryan agreed. Upon return, I received an excited boy glowing from sweat and happiness and a chuckling grandfather.

‘Your son is something else. That boy will go far!’ His grandfather was still laughing.

I learnt, in due course, that Ryan offered to carry dadai’s tholi (jute bag carrying fresh fish) home. Dadai was touched by his young grandson’s offer to help and let him carry the bag. When they reached home, Ryan innocently asked if dadai thought he deserved to be paid for his services.

‘Paid? Why?’ Dadai played along.

‘Well, first I carried bloody fish and fish head which is extremely gross and second, didn’t you save some money by not getting on the rickshaw because I carried your bag? Don’t you think I deserve the rickshaw fare?’ He asked.

‘I hope you didn’t pay him!!!’ I exclaimed.

My father said with a chuckle, ‘How could I not? I was defeated by logic!’

A pattern thus developed. Ryan refused to go on fun outings, if there was a possibility of accompanying dadai on errands. Dadai let him keep the change from rickshaw fares and bus fares – which Ryan termed as his payment for ‘companionship’. This story spread far and wide. All of a sudden, there was an amusing competition among the adoring aunts, uncles, grandmothers (my aunts) and grandfathers (my uncles) to pay Ryan money for kisses and hugs. I have pictures of Ryan holding bills while a grandmother kisses his cheeks.

I laughed along for a while and then tried to stop relatives from playing this game. But as it happens whenever I go back home, my children hide behind the indulgent family members and smile at me cheekily as I get chastised for being too strict.

Ryan often counted his ever increasing pile of notes with a gleam in his eyes and proudly told his sister how much he had. I shuddered at his mercenary tendencies. I talked to him in private about not accepting money from family, he shrugged and said, ‘But they want to give it to me!’

The night before we left for home, Ryan carried some of his money when we went out for our last stroll in Kolkata. He disclosed he needed to find a toy store as he planned to buy a toy for 3 month old baby Khushi, who was living in my parent’s house at that time. Khushi is the baby girl of the young woman who cooked delightful meals for us during our stay in Kolkata. A toy shop was found, a toy for Khushi was bought, Ryan’s own money was spent to buy it. That made me smile.

As we headed home, Ryan ran into Bancharaam – the famous sweet shop in Gariahat. During our two week stay, Ryan dashed into every sweet shop or cake shop that we came across to longingly stare at the varied sweetmeats displayed in the show cases. We hardly bought any, yet he went in to see them and salivate over them. As he went into the sweet shop, he saw a little girl, about the same age as Ryan, tugging at my shirt for some money. He came out and whispered to me, he wanted to buy her some sweets. The girl chose the sweets she wanted and Ryan bought them for her. My smile widened.

On the morning of our departure, Ryan kept insisting that his parents hand him over all his money at once. He had given his money to us for safe keeping. He was getting in the way, so I gave him his money back and told him sternly to stay out of our way so we could finish packing.

In a little while, his grandmother came into our room, holding a bunch of bills with a baffled expression. Ryan had taken all the money and given it all to his grandmother to spend as she chose fit, after he was gone.

Sean and I exchanged glances. I gave his apple cheeks a kiss as I laughed and wiped away a tear at the same time.

Everything was alright with the world again.

How can I be with it?

Every man should be born again on the first of January. Start with a fresh page.

Henry Ward Beecher.

The logical me always says January 1st is just another day and the emotional me disagrees.

Byartho praner aborjona puriye phele agun jalo, agun jalo…

Rabindra Nath Tagore’s immortal lines come back to mind on this day.

Rid yourself of the baggage in your soul, burn the light in your heart and let the flame soar. The celebration of New Year is more in my heart than in the popping of champagne. Refreshing the page of life on the first day of a new year.

I am done with resolutions, I say every year.

But this year I will make one. My resolution will be to be mindful of myself and whatever I do. To be mindful of my actions and all I love and all I touch. To be mindful of my imperfections, my pettiness, my anxieties, my concerns, my thoughts and my mortality.

And in being mindful, I want to explore how I can BE with it all. I want to know how to be with my actions and all I love and all I touch, how to be with my imperfections, my pettiness, my anxieties, my concerns, my thoughts and my mortality.

I want to be aware of the ground beneath my feet and the air that I breathe. I want to be fully present and focus on my children’s words, their thoughts, complains, hurts.

I want to be with my husband when I am there with him.

I want to be with my friends when I am there with them.

I want to pay heed to the little twinges in my body and learn to accept the decline instead of fighting it or denying it.

I want to be fully present in a situation no matter what lies next. I have realized through the years that without fully being present I am not fully living every moment.

I perhaps will fail to do so at all times. Life itself will interfere but I will accept my failure and learn to be with it and try again.

I wish you a refreshing new beginning, my dear readers. A new start, a positive energy and a time to look back and relish the achievements of the past and let go of the miseries. There is no need to make new resolutions but just be open to happinesses, no matter how small and the new possibilities. Also be ready to embrace new heart breaks and disappointments that perhaps lie ahead as well and think in your minds ‘how can I be with them all?’

That is a powerful question.

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.

The messenger ladybug.

Host of memories came crashing down by an inconsequential ladybug. As I turned on the ignition of my car, harried and stressed and late for work, a lady bug landed on the windshield with a light plop. And it brought back memories of a curly haired little five year old girl squatting on the driveway, brows furrowed in fierce concentration, counting the dots on a ladybug.

My daughter was born in India and was raised by not only her parents, but by a village. Her universe consisted of parents, grandparents, a plethora of uncles and aunts, little friends who grew up with her, adopted grandparents (our landlords), adopted uncles and aunts (our friends in the Indian city where we lived), domestic help, who was an integral part of the family. Her life was enriched by the love and nurturing of all – family by blood and family by association and friendship. For the first five years of her life, it was a party every day. Playdates, frolic in the parks with little friends, visits to Kolkata whenever opportunity arose, travels to exotic places with mom and dad. And peacocks and lady bugs. We had three resident peacocks in the neighborhood, who sometimes came to visit us in our balcony. When Sahana, Sean and I went for our walks in the neighborhood, Sean made horrible peacock noises, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of his wife and amusement of his toddler. He expected to get a response back from the peacocks, but his peacock call wasn’t authentic enough and he never heard back from them. The aunties and uncles who walked around our neighborhood always chuckled at the white man’s perseverance.

And there were lady bugs galore. Ladybugs or ladybirds, was a huge topic of debate between me, the native of a former British colony and my husband, an American, the pollutant of Queen’s English. The ladybugs/birds featured a lot in the children’s play. They counted them, counted the dots on them, let them crawl on their hands and laughed at the sensation. Despite the usual sicknesses, Sahana had a fulfilling and happy time. She thrived in the love.

Then we moved. We came to a new country, a new state, a new home and to loneliness. Before we built a new circle of family and friends around us, that is exactly what we came to – loneliness. From the constant buzz of family, we moved to the thrum of crickets outside our suburban home. During this time, one day, I saw little Sahana crouching down and looking at a solitary lady bug in the driveway of our new house.

‘What are you doing, baby?’ I asked as I lowered my heavily pregnant body next to my little girl.

‘Mama, look!!! A ladybug!!! Mama, do you think this lady bug has come all the way from our neighborhood in India to see how I am doing? Do you think it missed me? Now that it has seen me, will it fly back to Anushree and Rohan and tell them about me!’

As I write this today, eight years later, my eyes tear up at the intensity of her homesickness she must have felt then. That was the magical age of unending possibilities and ‘anything can happen’s! I kept the magic alive and said,

‘That is exactly what the ladybug will do, honey! It will take your news back to your friends!’

She turned her attention back to the ladybug and said,

‘Ok, go tell Anu and Rohan, I miss them. And tell the other ladybugs, I miss them too!’

With that she walked away with a stick in her hand to explore other treasures.

She doesn’t look for ladybugs anymore. She deals with the complicated world of high school, she reads “To kill a Mocking bird” and writes papers on “Female infanticide in developing nations”. She is slowly becoming a thoughtful, mature woman. Dreams have changed, magic is dealt with skepticism. But since I am the treasurer of HER childhood memories, I chronicle this faithfully, in my heart and in this post. I do this for her, and perhaps, more for me. Who knows one day, when she turns back, she will look for this little nugget of gold. A forgotten moment, yet etched forever in her mother’s memory.

Bitter sweet

As I adoringly gazed at my few months old baby girl, my first-born, with sleep deprived eyes, I didn’t feel the transience of time. For a first time mother, the infancy of her baby is such a miraculous time. Every facial gesture of the baby, every grimace, every twinge is a thing of wonder. The reality that she will eventually grow up never crossed my mind. My love for her and my adoration at her tiny perfectness were overwhelming. As I placed my cheek on her impossibly soft, warm cheek when I walked up and down the room while she slept with her head on my shoulder at 2 am, I was filled with a glorious, wondrous feeling of love and a fierce protectiveness that was very new to me indeed. I never thought my baby would be four years old, ever. She would stay little with all her baby fragrance, baby smiles and baby sweetness. But that didn’t happen, of course. She turned four soon enough, and then five, and then….She was joined by a little brother when she was five and I felt that overpowering sense of love and protectiveness as I held his little body close to my chest, second time around.

As a young mother, I exclaimed at every ‘first’ of my babies. The first feel of the rough edge of an emerging pearly white. My infant has a tooth!!! The much awaited rolling over, the crawl, the first step, the first word! Every ‘new’ was an occasion to celebrate, to inform the grandparents, uncles and aunts. Yet, while celebrating and rejoicing the new milestone, a tiny part of me mourned the loss of that time before. I won’t deny that slight little feeling for a split second, ‘Oh, s/he is growing up!’ But I was always mindful not to harp on that feeling because life is, of course, a forward progression in new paths and onto new discoveries.

The first day of kindergarten, every first day in a new grade since. The first time the elder one stayed alone, the first time she offered to make dinner, first day in middle school and then high school, first of many of our book discussions and theological discourses, first time I realized she was thinking independently, making her case, forming opinions. The first time she lied, argued, talked back.

The first time I left the little one at school and made the mistake of turning back. His tear-stained face and one little arm extended towards me, pains me still. The first time HE stayed alone, I drove back into the driveway and saw an anxious little face peering out of the window. The first time I dropped him off at his swim practice and drove away. I saw him sling his swim back on his shoulder and make his way inside to swim, alone. First time he made his own lunch, jumped into the pool without floaters.

There were moments of relief and pride at each milestone and that tiny little twinge way back in the innermost corner of my heart.

They are both growing up, loosening their grip. And there is that ‘push me pull you’ feeling inside me. I mentioned earlier, there is that very tiny pang of ‘oh, my babies!’ In my day-to-day life, I don’t think about this enough, but when Ryan casually holds my hand on a walk and his knobbly knuckles seem to fill my hand, I ask myself, ”When did this happen?’ I remember just a little time ago, that hand in mine was tiny, soft, malleable – resting there comfortably, ready to be guided. This hand today, which grips mine confidently, still needs direction, sure, but his grip has an assurance. It almost says, ‘I can hold you up, mom, if you stumble. I am almost there!’ When Sahana wears my saree, puts my make up on and smiles at me, I gasp ‘She is a woman!’ I have a Rip Van Winkle moment. Did I sleep through time? Or is this the way human life works? The changes are imperceptible yet right in my face. I am simply unaware. One day, I look mindfully and wham, it hits me! Time’s a flying!

Yet, I find their babyhood in the goodnight kisses and the early morning cuddles, in their sleeping faces and innocent questions. My babies are still hidden there somewhere inside. I seek them out when I put time aside to do it. Then we sit a while, laugh together and cuddle and I enjoy this bittersweet flavor that life offers.

This is a woman’s store, get out…

Did any of you read the ‘You wouldn’t want to be’ series to your children? You should certainly look into it, it is a great resource and a fun way to learn history. Anyway, I am not here to discuss children’s books, I am here to tell a story that resurfaced in my mind after seeing my friend’s Facebook update. The particular series came to mind because if I ever wrote that series, I would name mine ‘You wouldn’t want to grow up dark, skinny and tall in mid eighties Kolkata’! I was just that and let me tell you, it wasn’t fun.

I tried make up, and ended up as a white apparition in order to lighten my skin. I tried jewelry, nothing looked right. It brought laughter and ridicule. Eventually, I stopped dabbling in the mystery of foundation, rouge, eye shadows, avoided jewelry and fancy clothes, or anything that would bring attention to looks. I found self deprecatory humor as an effective defense mechanism. I guffawed the loudest at being named ‘Big Ethel’ and nodded emphatically to show I enjoyed the joke as much as the jokers. Was it bullying? It, perhaps, was, but I didn’t recognize it then. There were plenty of tears, but they were shed silently, in the privacy of my bed.

But that is not the whole point of writing this blog. I grew up and matured enough to become comfortable in my skin. I didn’t try to change anything for anyone. I chose comfort over style and received enough compliments later on in life to blunt the pain of the few nightmarish years of teenage.

After I came to this country, I primarily wore Sean’s shirts and sweatshirts over jeans and wore ethnic clothes when the ocassion called for taking it a notch higher till I landed with a job as a guest coordinator in a hotel. I had a job and no clothes to wear to it. So my spouse and I went clothes shopping – in my usual attire of oversized shirt, jeans, running shoes and a hat.

We went into an expensive looking store which held rows and rows of black pants, shiny white, blue, grey (there were not a riot of colors in those days) shirts under the glittering store light. As we entered diffidently, a very nicely dressed older woman came up:

‘Hi there, may I help you find something today?’ She asked brightly.

‘Yes, we are looking for some business casual clothes for me!’ I responded.

‘Oh, this is a woman’s store. You won’t find anything here!’ She politely smiled at me.

I still don’t know why we turned around with a puzzled, baffled expression on our faces and walked out of the store. I know why I walked out. I probably didn’t understand her accent and I simply followed Sean. But I don’t understand why my loving husband didn’t stand his ground and say ‘She IS a woman, find some clothes for her! NOW!’

But Sean just walked out and we looked at each other and then started laughing. I said, ‘I should take umbrage at not being recognized as a woman, but this is way too funny. Maybe I should ditch the hat and wear my hair long, since my curves don’t quite send the message I am a woman?’

Sean laughed because he found the expression on my face very comical!

At a party, I told the story to a girl friend, I was kicked out of a ‘woman’s store’ for a mistaken gender identity, I said. She asked the name of the store and the mall, then she laughed too and said, ‘It wasn’t a mistaken gender identity, you silly goose! A woman’s store, in this country means women who wear plus sizes. She saw your size and knew that store wasn’t right for you!’

So that is the politically correct term for women who wear plus sizes – women. They are the real women. So what are we? The skinny ones? Chopped liver? Discrimination, I say 😀 !

Almost home…

The preparation of going home to Kolkata starts almost ten months prior to the actual date. It starts with pinning my husband down to look at his calendar and give me some dates to work with. Then comes the intolerable stress and anxiety about finding the best price for tickets, looking at layovers, working out swim meet conflicts, assuring the competitive son that going to India is more important than swimming in the Divisionals. Finally, when the tickets are bought, thinking about and looking for gifts to bring back home. And while doing all this, pausing suddenly to savor the sweetness of a childhood memory, smiling at some inconsequential snippet of home that is precious to only me, being mindful of the soothing, calming, reassuring feeling that I will go home soon and I will bask in everything that is so familiar, yet somewhat different with the passage of time.

Driving to the airport, standing at the check in line, getting on the flight – I don’t quite mind. There is the hustle bustle of fellow travelers. The energy of others, at the beginning of the journey, energizes me. I see fellow South Asians and play guessing games with the family – which city do you think they are going to? I note with awe, the immaculately dressed and impeccably made up women getting ready to board a long flight. How do they look so good and will they look this good at the end of 24 hour travel, I wonder. Some actually do!

As I find my seat on the plane and buckle my seatbelt, I look around and grin foolishly at whoever catches my eye. My joy is contagious, I get smiles and nods back generally. And every time the flight starts moving for take off, I invariably say, ‘Here we go! Goodbye_______ (my hometown)! We will see you soon!’ The children haven’t chastised me about it yet! They smile indulgently at my enthusiasm.

As I feel the plane starting to descend, I grip Sean’s arm and smile, despite the terrible ear popping, ‘Half the journey is over, dude” The lay over is spent walking around whichever airport we are transiting from, looking at duty-free goodies and eyeing the chocolates. Then it is time to get back on the next plane again. This time, the flight is full of Bangla speaking fellow passengers, saree or salwar kameez donned, brown-skinned, small boned, familiar! I eavesdrop shamelessly, butt into conversations unwanted but soon get accepted. The common topic of discussion, generally is ‘Kotodin por deshe jacchen?'(How long has it been since you went home) ! Desh….motherland…a word that fills me with a warm and fuzzy feeling of belonging.

I bear the 24 plus hours of travel in relatively good humor. I smile and nod ecstatically at the grumpy immigration officials at Kolkata airport. I seem to want to impress upon them that the entry stamp that they so nonchalantly pressed upon my passport is so meaningful to me. They are the gatekeepers who just opened the door to the enchanted land where my past is waiting for me.

I turn into a very disagreeable person at the baggage claim, I confess. Every second there seems intolerable. My husband feels my irritation, he massages my back, smiles kindly, tries to distract with conversation, yet I remain irritated. Each time this interminable wait to retrieve our luggage becomes unbearable. So close, yet not quite there. I politely harass the young airport officials, ‘Bhai eto deri hocche?’ (Brother, what’s taking so long?). Invariably, the carousel gets stuck and I mutter under my breath.

I do all this because just behind the wall stand two humans who I simply can not wait to see. They have been counting months and then days, like me, till our plane touches the ground. I know they have come early to avoid getting stuck in Kolkata traffic and I know that as every passenger goes out of the terminal, their eyes brighten with hope. And then dim again. It’s not me, yet. Not us. They are the treasurers of my childhood and youth, they keep my memories tucked away in their treasure chest and guard them with love and longing. They are the ones who smile wistful smiles at my ‘remember when’s. They are the only two people who ever so eagerly await my arrival and shed tears at my departure.

Finally, when our luggage is gathered we push our cart to the exit past the custom official, my eyes scan for those two beloved faces as the children run ahead. This reunion happens every twelve months and I am parched for their presence. When I see them, or they see us, my father’s face is a combination of relief, joy, excitement, happiness. His face seems just about ready to burst with all these emotions. My mother is more expressive, she smiles from ear to ear, squeals our names, comes forward to envelope the grand children in a bear hug, and then hugs me fiercely with unspilt tears of happiness glistening in her eyes. My father gives me an awkward side hug (hugging doesn’t come naturally to him), he hugs his grandkids and shakes hand with his son-in-law.

He, then, gets busy warding off unsolicited help from airport porters, calls the driver of the rented car that will take us home. My daughter, who is fluent in Bengali, claims Didiya (grandma) and narrates all that happened on the flight. Little Ryan is generally shy, unable to speak the language, stands quietly with a shy, tired smile. Didiya notices and takes his hand. His little hand willingly disappears in her grasp. He nods and smiles mostly while his sister talks nineteen to the dozen. In the car, as we head home, Ryan slowly reaches out and touches Dadai’s (grandfather) shoulder giving him a little nudge. Dadai nudges him back with a conspiratorial smile while I blink away some unexpected tears at this silent communing.

Finally, my two worlds meet.

Sincerely trying – to find the silver lining.

All you see of her face are two beautiful eyes looking back at you. The rest of the face is covered up carefully with her dupatta. And all of her arms as well. She doesn’t wear new clothes, she doesn’t buy any jewelry or apply any make up like most twenty year olds do. She stays busy hiding her burnt and severely scarred face and arms from public prying eyes. She keeps her head down and walks fast when out on errands. Her ‘happy place’ is within the perimeters of the home she lives in now.

Gouri is employed as the domestic help in my parent’s house. My father had some initial misgivings about Gouri’s scars, he was worried that his grandkids, my children, would be scared of her disfigurement when they came to visit. I knew I was raising them differently. However, I had a conversation with them about this employment, about her scars and her life. They both agreed the scars and the disfigurement were a non issue and that didiya and dadai (grandmom and granddad) should ‘most positively’ hire her.

We went back home this summer and met Gouri for the first time, in person. Sahana gave her a spontaneous hug, maybe to show that her facial scars are no deterrent for love and affection. Ryan didn’t mention anything about the scars but behaved with her like he always behaves with any other women, shy smile and never looking up in the eye till the ice was broken and Gouridi became his winning partner in a game of Ludo every evening. Towards the end of our visit he was hanging from her arms and reveling in her love.

Her story is nothing new. She is yet another victim of domestic violence, who, unable to find any support or escape from the torture, in a moment of insanity, decided to put an end to her own life. She thought she would end it all, the pain, the degradation, the horror, the shame. Instead she gained a life of scorn, judgment and yes, shame – she left her husband and got a divorce, you see. The shame is indeed not hers, is it? Don’t answer that, that question was rhetorical. The shame belongs to those who failed her. Those who failed miserably to help her when she was flailing, trying desperately to get out of the clutches of her drunken father-in-law and abusive husband.

I will write about her life, I have her permission. She worked in Kolkata as a domestic help. A man came with a group of his friends to see a prospective bride for one of the mates. The man happened to see her, liked her and wanted to marry her right away. First Gouri’s father and elder brothers were reluctant at this match. It was too sudden they said, they were not ready. The man said he will take less dowry. That sealed the deal. I can’t judge the family. Extreme poverty, one less mouth to feed, you do the math. Her family borrowed, begged and finally married her off.

When Gouri followed her newly wed husband to his home a surprise awaited her. The man’s family was clueless about this wedding which was nothing more than a whim on the man’s part. The in-law’s disappointment knew no bounds. Families treat their sons as assets because they are wed to bring money in the form of dowry. Gouri didn’t bring much money to count. You must have figured out Gouri’s fate in her marital home by now. Let me just add a few more facts. She escaped to her neighbor’s house and saved herself from being raped by her father-in-law. She discovered that her husband has another family – wife and a son. She was beaten severely everyday when her husband turned up dead drunk. She pleaded with her father and brothers (mother and sisters don’t count and don’t have any say) to let her come home. They said “little things in life”. They said “Make peace, make it work”. They said, “God intended”. They said, “Fate.”

She was an eighteen year old young girl, trapped in a horrific marriage with no support, no chance of escape. And we say slavery is abolished? In which universe? So Gouri made a choice, she made a choice over the only thing she had some control over. Her life.

She didn’t die, of course. After 9 months of intense pain, medical intervention, antibiotics, surgery, she lived. Her father and brothers, didn’t have much to begin with, but went completely bankrupt to pay her medical expenses. ‘My brothers used to love me before, but they don’t love me anymore!’ She told me. When her brothers sit down to eat lunch, she is instructed to leave the room and sit outside till they are done so they don’t have to see her burnt face, which revolts them they say. She told me this matter-of-factly, without emotion. Her family holds grudges against her as the reason for their debts and bankruptcy. I try my best not to judge, yet at the same time, remind her she had asked for help, and didn’t get any!

Since I heard about Gouri, I wanted to make it better for her. She is twenty years old, I thought. She has her whole life ahead of her. She deserves a second chance, she deserves a decent shot at life. I wanted to raise awareness of her situation, maybe raise money if I couldn’t afford the cost of reconstructive surgery for her. Yes, I was playing God, in my mind. When I went back and talked to her about it, I discovered she has not healed emotionally. She refuses to take a simple pill for her cold, she made it clear she will not see a doctor or take another single injection as long as she lives. She is not ready for any surgery to reconstruct her face. She can’t even bear to think of it. The pain is still fresh, still immediate. She remembers too much. At least for now, she will hide her face from the world and smile inside the four walls of her home. But I can be patient. I will wait. After all, she is only twenty years old.

The silver lining in this story? Well, now she is determined to earn money. She has a goal to buy a little plot of land one day. She knows her family will not take care of her any more. She knows she is on her own. She gives money to her family when they are in dire straits, but she saves most of her money. She has a wonderful financial planner in my father. He takes pride in telling her (and me) how many fixed deposits she already has and in 5 years how much her money will multiply. She listens and smiles silently. Maybe, just maybe she sees the first light of the silver lining peeking out from behind the clouds?

Pilgrimage, no less…

A happy coincidence occurred in my life recently. My friend’s daughter sent me a questionnaire for her summer holiday project. One of the questions was ‘Name five people who have influenced you and why!’ I didn’t have to think much when I wrote the name of my class teacher. One of those five people, who has been most influential in my life is my class teacher of 5 years, Miss______. Guiding and inspiring a class full of hormone imbalanced teenagers must not have been easy, but Miss (that is what we called our teachers in India) did it with an ease which amazes me now.

A few days after writing the answers to the questionnaire set by my friend’s daughter, I found my teacher back in my life after 23 years, thanks to Facebook and efforts of a very dear girlhood friend, who kept on searching for her. Her efforts paid off, Ms _____ was found. We were told in her excited status update, to send in friend requests. After my initial doubt of is she the real one, I sent in a request and got accepted as her friend right away. From student to friend. Life has come to a full circle. I have grown up! I instantly wrote to her as I excitedly told my family,

‘I can’t believe it, I found my teacher on Facebook. I am messaging her right now! This is surreal!’ Yes, I am one of those people who overuses the term surreal.

Her influence in my life has been twofold. The first one being that of what educators dream of – instill the love of learning. She ignited in me the love for languages. She taught us Bengali for five straight years, and in those five years she held open the door of Bengali literature for me. I peered in and saw the treasure. And then there was that point of no return. She let my imagination soar, she waved the magic wand and opened my blind eyes so I could immerse myself in the prose and poetry of Bengali literary stalwarts. She taught me to think on my own, she gently let go of my hands, stood back and watched as I took hesitant steps towards appreciating literature. Appreciation of literature transcends language barrier. Love of Bengali literature paved way for love of English literature and translations of literature in other languages. She taught me to express my ideas coherently while writing. Well expressed ideas got kudos, a satisfied smile and a nod of the head. Badly written assignments got this rebuke,

‘Eki mudir dokan er bhasha? ‘ (This type of language belongs to grocery stores)! Why grocery stores? Don’t ask. 🙂 !

Some of the phrases she used for us have become legends in themselves. I will not even try to translate them in English (they were delivered in Bengali, of course) except one. As she asked us Bengali grammar and each of us gave wrong answers and kept standing, she said to us, ‘Bokader jodi kono building thake, tumi tar chile kothay thakbe’ (if there is ever a tall building for fools, you will be given the penthouse suite!) Since 20 of us stood in the class somewhat shame faced at our failure to provide the right answer, this statement caused considerable mirth. But we dared not bring any smile to our lips, so as not to be disciplined further. All the laughter was reserved for after the ringing of the bell. As we filed out into the corridor to go back to our classroom, laughter erupted like a dormant volcano. We imagined 20 skyscrapers of fools built next to each other and all of us looking out of our penthouse suites. It was a collective shame which turned out quite humorous at the end of that period.

Educators have one of the most difficult jobs, I think. They have the responsibility of inciting in their students this love of learning which is (or should be) the primary goal of education. And they have to do this within the strict parameters of set curriculum, standardized testings and the numerous other set of rules that different boards of education dictate for them. Miss had to stay within those parameters, she had to finish the curriculum, despite all the rules, she inculcated in us the love for the language that she taught.

She never had to raise her voice to bring the class under control. Her personality was such that before she entered the class, we sat up straighter, looked attentively towards the front of the class and made ourselves ready to listen and learn. We tried hard for her. I remember, our class got the trophy for being the best class in whole school. I have a proud picture of her holding a trophy with all of us around her, a thin, bespectacled me all the way at the back, peering at the camera. She encouraged us to participate in dramas, public speaking, debates, music. We went out and won inter school competitions in those. She was the wind beneath our sail. She pushed us so we could soar and reach our potentials. I am unsure of how the child psychologists would rate her method of disciplining us, but I, her student, would attribute her disciplining to that what Rabindranath Tagore talks about when he says,

“Shashon kora tarei shaaje
Shohag kore je go”

(The discipline that is infused with love is the best form of discipline)

It certainly worked for us. We felt her love and carried the love with us as we moved on and grew up.

I have so many happy memories of play practices and performances under her leadership. After 23 years, she remembered. Her first lines in my inbox was “Kemon acho? Ekhono natok koro?” (How are you? Do you still act?)

Her one particular advice came back to me after I became a mother and my children started going to school. She had said to us, when we were in eighth grade, ‘Do me a favor. When you are parents and your children go to school, instill in them a love of learning. If family and neighbors worry about the grades they are getting, lock yourselves in a room and throw the key away. Do not participate in the race for good grades but teach them to think for themselves, make sure their curiosity and thirst for true knowledge is satiated.’

Whenever my children truly enjoy a book and excitedly tell me the new information that they learned in school, I see their glowing faces and think of the advice I heard at age 14. I admit I haven’t been able to step out of the race completely, I have partially given in to societal pressure. Yet, I try not to. I try to talk about what went wrong, what they could have done better and most importantly, what did they learn?

All this happened a couple of weeks prior to my short trip to India. And I knew right away that going home would remain incomplete if I didn’t visit Miss. As two of my friends and I rang her doorbell, we became 13-year-old for a few moments, slightly unsure, apprehensive. There she was smiling. Our beloved teacher, now our friend. Three of us went to meet her with our children. The young ones sat silently with a grin on their faces as their mothers dissolved in laughter, again and again. There were, of course, a lot of ‘remember when’s! There were 23 years of life to catch up, so many laughs to laugh, so many memories to remember! My two childhood friends, who went with me to meet Miss are now educators themselves. I sat there quietly listening to them discuss their profession with their teacher, who perhaps, had some influence in their choice of career. They certainly have a wonderful role model to draw inspiration from. As we headed home, my daughter looked at my glowing face. ‘Mom, you are so loved!!’ She said with wonder and admiration in her voice. As I drowned in a beautiful feeling of contentment, I realized I am. I am so blessed to have been loved so.

Now all my visits back home would include a visit with my teacher. It is a pilgrimage, no less. After all, we are ‘her girls’! Every single one of us in that class.