Moving on.

On December 16th, 2012, a young woman boarded a public bus in New Delhi, India with friend after a late night movie show. Six people on the bus brutalized her beyond belief and threw her down the moving bus once they were finished with her. Her friend was beaten up and left to die. She clung on to life despite the odds – broken, mutilated, ravaged, brain-dead, but alive, breathing. She succumbed to her injuries a few days ago, on December 28th, 2012, after fighting desperately to cling on. Her body simply gave up.

Her fate and death stirred India into a huge protest against the indignities that women suffer and nudged the conscience of the whole world regarding the general attitude towards women, universally. Candle light vigils, marches with placards, protests against politicians and lackadaisical policies, accepting responsibilities that we all failed her, made it amply evident that people were not going to let this one go easily. This heinousness of the crime touched a raw nerve in the psyche of the nation. The fact that rape happens and goes unreported were brought to the forefront and discussed.

The bright young woman, a medical student, whose identity has been kept a secret, was given different names as movements and protests started against what she suffered – Nirbhaya (fearless one), India’s Braveheart, Amanat (treasure), Damini, Daughter of India. I know not if the woman was fearless. I am sure she was an Amanat, treasured by her parents, her family, ones who loved her. There have been no incidents cited that prove she was seeking to make a social change that night. She was a young woman, studying to become a doctor, she was full of possibilities, and she wanted a fun night out with her friend. She didn’t go out that night to become a martyr so people in India and the world could be shaken out of their complacency to do something about gender equality. She is a victim of a grievous crime, l don’t know why she is being called India’s Braveheart, but no matter.

What must have gone through her mind when this assault on her began, I wonder. Fear, first and foremost. Confusion, bewilderment, agony – ‘Why are you doing this to me? I am a human like you. You are hurting me so bad!’ Then she must have lost consciousness at some point, or at least I fervently hope she did because just the thought of the pain the men inflicted on her makes my skin crawl in horror.

Her death and the brutality done upon her opened the third eye of the nation – dare I hope? Will the women who are being subjected to rape, both marital and otherwise, and other form of indignities, garner enough strength to come forward with the tale of their woes and hope to be believed and vindicated?

And I wonder what led the six men to behave so cruelly towards another human? Was it alcohol? What did they suffer in their lives to become so dissociated with simple empathy? How much pain did they endure so they were capable of committing such unfathomable act of cruelty on another human? The men were from a slum in South Delhi, I hear. Does economics have any part to play in crimes such as these? Does education? The answer is no. Jessica Lal was murdered by the son of a minister. The wealthy kill and get away, the poor get caught – that is the only part economics play (Jessica Lal’s killer was caught, however)! And education? What is education in the true sense of the word? Does a degree from prestigious educational institutions make one truly educated enough to believe in human equality? It does not. Unfortunately, female infanticide happens in homes of doctors, professors, lawyers more than in the homes of folks without degrees from college. Aamir Khan, the renowned actor of India, did research for his reality show Satyameva Jayate and came up with the statistics that the rate of female infanticide still happening in the homes of wealthy and ‘educated’ is, in reality, much higher than the lower middle and poorer section of society. True enlightenment comes from opening one’s mind to accept, respect and value another. Rote learning doesn’t make one educated.

Enough has already been said, written, talked about women’s right. Many have voiced their opinions on hanging the rapists. I won’t go into that debate. I don’t have a solution to what will stop rapes right away. But I do think it depends on how we nurture and bring up our sons and daughters. Our actions today will determine what kind of society the next generation will create. First lesson they need to learn today is mutual respect. I still hear comments like ‘Don’t throw like a girl’ to teach a son athletic prowess or “Go wear a bangle and sit in the house’ to show a lack of courage in a male. As long as mentalities such as these exist, women will not be considered an equal to her counterpart.

What does woman’s equality mean, anyway? Men and women are different, physically and mentally. There is no denying that fact. But one needs to realize and respect that the contribution men and women make in society and in each other’s live are EQUALLY important. The roles of men being the bread winners and women staying at home are not rigid anymore, that line has been blurry for a while now. When men accept and respect that and when women start believing that their contribution in the family and their role in society are equally important, we can hope for gender equality. That is a first step – respecting another and believing in oneself.

It is a new year. January is a month of hopefulness, it starts off with new resolutions, new hopes, new beginnings. It is a month which tells us to move on from the mistakes of the past and build on the future. And we will move on. But we will not leave behind the innocent little children of Sandy Hook Elementary school. We will not leave behind the young woman who was brutally raped and beaten with a metal rod and thrown out of the bus to die on December 16th in New Delhi. They are moving on with us. We need them to remind us that enough wrong has been done in 2012 and the years before. We need to right those wrongs. Their memories won’t let us get complacent and self-absorbed. Their fate will remind us that each of us are vulnerable and unless we work towards a change, our loved ones could suffer the same fate. My hope is 2013 sees at least baby steps in the right direction – towards gender equality, towards social equality, towards a progressive mindset, towards true enlightenment, towards rehabilitation and prosperity. These words sound lofty and idealistic, but I do believe we are moving in the right direction. The Sandy Hook Elementary School killings, brutal rape of the young woman, other unreported rapes and other killings are stumbling blocks to prevent the forward march. But the uproar, determination, empathy and rage from the world that arises over incidents such as these prove that we are not going to tolerate such acts and these will not stop us from moving on – for the better.

How many more will it take?

Another mindless killing. Little children this time, between the ages of 5 and 7. They must have woken up in the morning, hugged, kissed and coaxed by their mammas and papas, fed wholesome breakfast, dressed warmly to fend off the cold and sent off to school just like any other regular day. Moms and dads waved goodbye and said, ‘Have a good day, sweetheart! Listen to your teachers and try your best!’

Did they realize that would be their final goodbye? No they didn’t. The thought of saying their final goodbyes didn’t enter their heads because they didn’t live in a war stricken country. They lived in an upscale, quiet, peaceful town of Newtown, Connecticut with a total population of 27000 people. People migrate here in America, legally and illegally, to pursue that American dream of leading a better life. And people here own the right to bear arms to defend themselves – the arms which end up taking the lives of innocent children, again and again and again. Those arms fall into the hands of people with mental health problems and they cease to be means of self-defense, they become deadly weapons that shed the blood of innocent, of babes, of little lives who had gone to school like any other regular day!

Our President is shocked, I have no doubt. He shed tears and I do believe those tears are genuine. He is, first and foremost, a parent. He feels the loss, he grieves. But will those tears bring forth any truly meaningful actions as he promised? Will he have the courage to tell the members of National Rifle association that “Enough already, too much blood has already been spilled because politicians, over the years, needed to appease you for those precious votes!” Will he do something right about bringing stringent laws about gun control which, it is obvious, this nation needs.

Sure guns don’t fire by themselves, people pull the trigger. But due to the easy availability, too many people have easy access to that deadly trigger! People who have mental issues, people who should have received psychiatric treatment instead of access to guns. The young man, Adam Lanza, who shot the children and adults took the guns of his mother, supposedly a substitute teacher of Sandy Hook Elementary (that fact hasn’t been ascertained), who had legally purchased the guns. She was a collector, you see. She paid the price of her hobby with her life and a score of children paid for it too. The children had just seen six or seven summers before their life was brutally ended.

I am shocked, angry, scared. As I made dinner for the children, wrapped them in my arms, kissed them goodnight last night, my heart cried for those parents in Connecticut who waved their final goodbyes to their little children on that fateful morning. Death can come anytime, I understand, but the sad thing is mindless deaths such as these can be prevented. I firmly believe, gun control measures are a solution to gun related crimes in this country. Are our elected officials going to take the right step this time, do you think? At the cost of angering major votebanks, will they bring in ban on assault weapons? Will they rise above politics and vote counts to protect and preserve life, which, by the way, is part of their job description? We need stringent gun control measures. Oh wait! Have I said that already? Pardon me for repeating myself, I am a little flustered right now. I feel if I harp on one point it will finally happen. Naive me!

Some fourth graders were rushed to a store-room closet by their teacher, while Lanza was carrying on his bloody carnage, and since there were papers and crayons available, the teacher set the youngsters to draw pictures while they waited for the police. I would love to see their artwork, what did the terrified little souls create that morning? Some six-year olds were confined in their classrooms by their teacher who explained to them that there was a bad man outside, and they will wait for the good men to come and rescue them. The teacher went to the children who were crying and told them to smile, they will be ok. The children said they wanted to do Christmas, they wanted to go their mommies.

Children die unnecessarily every day, all over the world. I read about their deaths and shudder. Bad, evil people hurt little children, I get more vigilant about keeping mine safe. Sean comes back from different refugee camps and share stories of suffering that tv channels and news papers do not tell us. We grieve for the suffering as a family, we look around and see the splendor surrounding us and hope people don’t forget to remember the people who are hurting all over the world. We try in our little, tiny, inadequate way to make some contribution towards healing a few. And then, we look at the bright, beautiful faces of our two children. We feel blessed to be able to live in a part of the world where we do not have to constantly worry about keeping them safe. Incidents like these shatter our delusion of safety. Safe, our children, are not. And safe, they will not be till guns can’t be bought easily as part of our constitutional right!

How do we explain to our children these shoot outs in a place they consider the safest next to their homes – their schools? How do we tell them, we now worry about their safely when they are at school? We worry that any madman (woman) at any time can use them as target practice when s/he feels the world deserves retribution.

I am stunned, I can’t seem to get over this incident. This one hit home and this one hit hard. I look at the snippets of news where they show the parents crying and think that could be me, any day. This incident will fade away in news channels as America gears up for Christmas, I will laugh, joke and make merry with friends and family, exchange gifts and sing Christmas carols. Life will go on, I know. But I also know, Christmas lights are twinkling less brightly for me right now as I struggle to make sense of it all. For once, I am desperately looking for positivism and I can’t find any. Then I hear about the teachers of Sandy Hook Elementary. Amidst all this evil and carnage and anger and despondence, I bow to the teachers of that elementary school. Some threw themselves in front of the bullets so the children could get away. Some herded the children to safety and hunkered down till they all got rescued. Teachers, you are my heroes. You reinstate the faith in me when all seems lost and the evil gets so powerful that I struggle to breathe. Your actions bring in the fresh air. Goodness is not lost, can not be lost.

Finally, to the little ones who got the most precious gift of all – a second chance at life. Preserve it well darlings. Make something of it. Grow up big and strong, right the wrongs, spread the love, carry the fire, spread the warmth so that the likes of Adam Lanza get the help that they need and don’t ever feel the need to pick up guns to seek retribution.

Let us pray – for PEACE! And an end to easy accessibility of guns. Its time, its time!!!!

Mama thought for a year.

This blog happened because of my daughter’s unwavering faith in my ability to write. She started telling me I should write a book.

“Mom, you should really think about writing a book! I think you will be really good at it!” She said.

“I am not creative enough to write a book! Also I have no time to think!” This was my standard reply.

“Then write a blog. I am telling you, you will be good!” She insisted.

“What is a blog?” I asked. To be fair to her, Sahana did try to hide her surprise at my ignorance, she explained a blog post to me with utmost patience and didn’t roll her eyes once.

Ok, ok, I will think about it!”

The conversation generally ended there till she brought it up again. She did plant a seed in my head which started growing. But what would I write about, I thought. My life wasn’t exciting at all. A regular, everyday woman, trying to raise two little humans to the best of her ability. Not creative, not a terrific observer, not a philosopher, not a deep thinker by any means, what would I write about? I read some sites on how to write a blog. One said to write about something that I am passionate about. I wasn’t really passionate about anything. It was discouraging. Nothing in my life was worth writing about till Ryan said something really, really funny one day. I thought I could write about my children. They make me smile with their words and gestures, maybe some of the things they say will make others smile too. I decided to write a blog on their every day lives, their comments, their growing up. I meant it to be like an online journal of sorts, which I hoped, they will read when they grew up. And maybe share a laugh with me at the memory, since that is all I will be left with once they fly the nest.

But I am lackadaisical in everything. So although the good intention of starting a blog was germinating in my head, it didn’t really grow shoots. The plan wasn’t implemented right away.

Then life threw a curve ball.

I got a phone call that turned my smooth, planned out life upside down. Someone very dear to me was diagnosed with the emperor of maladies. It is interesting how one clearly remembers the moment when one gets a devastating news out of the blue. I distinctly remember the glare of the white neon light when my phone rang and I answered. I was sitting at the children’s swim practice, talking to two other mothers when the call came. I remember hearing the sad, resigned tone of my loved one – and the news. My heart stopped beating for a split second and I distinctly remember the cold, gnawing, raw feeling of fear in my stomach. I mumbled ‘Excuse me’ to my company and walked out in the hall for better reception. I heard the news calmly while my head was exploding with ‘WHY? WHY IS THIS HAPPENING? I THOUGHT I WAS INVINCIBLE? IS THIS A JOKE? IS THIS REALLY REALLY HAPPENING TO ME?” The reality of the situation didn’t sink in immediately, I was in a daze.

The phone call ended. I remember walking back and sitting down with a numb feeling. I remember trying to come to terms with the dreaded C word. The word ‘cancer’ played in my head, again and again. The word ‘cancer’ has such a definitive ring to it – a strong word, a harsh word, a dangerous word. A word that can appear in your life all of a sudden and can potentially turn your life upside down, can actually rip it apart. I gathered the children after their practice, bundled them in the car and headed home, ‘cancer’ still playing in my head. I remember each minute of that evening, down to the minute detail.

Then the research started. I read up as much as I could focusing on how worse it could have been but wasn’t. I started counting on my fingers what were the positives – the early detection, the survival rate, the necessary treatment. I clung to the positives and held on to them for dear life. I couldn’t turn off my thoughts at night and during one of those sleepless nights, I stumbled on to wordpress.com. I needed something fluffy and light and cheerful. I needed balance. I needed the innocence of my children to balance the sadness and harsh reality that I was living. I wrote my first post.

Here we go.

My first step in the blogging world. See if it works. Wow! It did! Hmmmmm! What now? What do I write about? While researching how to write a blog, I read one should blog about something that one is passionate about! Where do my passions lie? That’s a tough one. Once upon a time, I was passionate about a few things, acting, traveling, writing. Then I fell in love, got married, had children. And my passions went hibernating. But this blog is not about self pity! Oh jeez, I lost myself after the kids came. No siree! Loved every minute. Well, you know what I mean. Didn’t really love, love every minute!! That’s stretching it. Didn’t really love the sleepless nights, the temper tantrums, the dirty diapers in the middle of the night etc etc etc. But did love the dimpled cheeks and the chubby thighs. Loved the different stages of growing up and the innocent questions, loved the cuddles and the belly laughs.

Oh dear! This always happens. I frequently get carried away when I start talking about the kiddos. Oh well! This blog, like many other mommy blogs, is probably going to be about the different things my children do to make me laugh. I don’t know why anybody would want to read them or be interested in them. They would be my online journal kind of a thing.

Time to sign off. Warmth of my bed beckons. As long as I can publish this I am set. First time and all.

As I read this post I relived the emotions that were going through me – despondence, anger, depression, fear. I see none of that in this. It is a bubbly, cheerful, happy post – a perfect veneer for my troubled soul. I needed it desperately. The dates of my early blogs show that I probably wrote something each day – as a release, as an attempt to crawl back to happy, cancer free times of my life, as a desperate attempt to hold on to normalcy.

After some tumultuous months of treatment, my loved one was declared cancer free. But I owed it to whatmamathinks for keeping me anchored during that troubled time along with the constant support of some dear friends.

I kept on writing after that. Who knew I had so many stories to tell. I looked forward to writing – in my very ordinary way, about my very ordinary life. And some of you read the musings. Some of you were kind enough to like them and leave comments on them. I thank each and every one of you who visit this blog from time to time and indulge me by reading what I write. I am someone who writes just for the sake of writing, I will never publish, never explain myself beyond what I have written. These are some snippets of my life, my memories, my thoughts, my insight into issues that are important to me.

I often think I will write something deep and thoughtful, something philosophical, something really radical. But that is not who I am; I am not a thinker, I am a mere observer, I can only narrate what has happened, I can infer some. I can learn some and write about what I have learned. I know I can’t change the world with my writing, but if I can bring a smile to your lips with any of my posts, I am happy.

Hug them tighter…

There were probably more than ten thousand people on Dashwashamedh Ghat in Varanasi that evening to watch the evening puja. And my two-year old daughter decided to assert her new-found independence amongst that mass of humanity. She rebelled in Sean’s arms, scrambled down and started walking away to explore the chaos around her on her own two feet and in her own terms. She looked back at us and dared us to challenge her stand – the days of molly coddling me are over, parents! Deal with it.

For the uninitiated, Dashwashamedh Ghat is the most important ghat on the bank of the holy river Ganga, in the city of Varanasi in India. Varanasi is one place where ancient India has been preserved in its essence and ambiance. The old city seems to be warped in time, continuing the ancient heritage with the rituals, the lighting and floating of the diyas, the chants, the priests, the faith. To me, Varanasi, especially the old city, still retains the aura of the India that we read about in history books. The mystics, the sadhus, the beliefs, the believers – Varanasi is the confluence of all these. And Dashwashamedh Ghat happens to be the most famous of the ghats on the banks of the river Ganges where one can see the mass of humanity proclaiming their faith – seeking and hopefully finding too.

Sahana took off and immediately got lost. I shrieked, Sean sprinted towards the direction she headed, she hadn’t made too much progress since she had been picked up by a sadhu (holy man) and the two were chatting like long-lost friends.

The gentleman said a lot to Sean with a beaming smile, Sean returned the beaming smile but shrugged helplessly when it came to conversation. The man kept Sahana on his lap and continued to introduce her to his fellow sadhus. They all talked to her, laughed with her, let her touch their white matted beards, tug their matted hair and touch the beads around their necks, blessed her and gave her some fruit. Sean and I tagged along behind them, not taking our eyes off our precious daughter, yet the camaraderie between the little girl and those men were so evident, we didn’t have the heart to intrude. Finally, when all the talk was done, all the laughter was shared, the man handed Sahana back to us with a final blessing to the child.

Next day we went to a temple, where Sean was allowed to go in. It was crowded, the seekers were seeking blessings from the goddess, we were mere spectators of the ritual and of the celebration of the faith. Sahana let go of my finger and walked along to stand next to a blind man who was playing a harmonium and singing devotional songs. She listened intently for a while, with the air of a connoisseur, and then decided such music deserved some dancing. She started twirling and dancing in front of the blind man. People stopped to watch, the murmur stopped, the priests paused. There was this little baby girl in a white frock and a dark-skinned, blind old man in white kurta and pajama. The world belonged to them. The moment was surreal. A crowd formed around them. A man standing next to me said in a reverent whisper, “The goddess is in that child, you see. The goddess is dancing to the music. God manifests itself in children, and you see the proof. The child is one with the goddess now!”

We were in Ubud, Bali, when Sahana was about seven months old. We were walking along the beautiful city with Sahana in our arms when a matronly lady came running out of a house, smiling and chattering to us in her own language she took Sahana from our arms and started walking back to her house. Sean and I were so surprised at this sweet, smiling assault that we couldn’t react for a few seconds. We, then, ran after the lady quietly and entered her house. She was showing the baby to her family members and although we didn’t understand anything that was being said, we understood the universal language of love. We stood there basking in the reflected glory of baby Sahana till the family had their fill of her gummy smiles and belly laughs and handed her back to her expectant parents so we could continue our leisurely sojourn through the city. A lot was said to us in their language and some treats were given to us for the little one.

A very dear friend wrote a letter to Sahana right after she was born. Her first letter. In the letter, our friend said to her not to believe when people say the world is not a good place at all. The world is so beautiful and she will discover it for herself one day – the beauty of it all. I truly believe that is true. I think she is already on her way to discovering how beautiful our world is. How can she not when her life has been and is constantly touched and blessed by all the love that surrounds her?

Last year we went back to Kolkata, India during the summer. I asked my children to tell me what they liked the most about Kolkata and what they liked the least. The least liked aspect of Kolkata was the smell and the honking of the cars. The most liked aspect was the love that they felt everywhere they went. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, the autodriver who advised their mother, after seeing they were drenched in a summer rain, ‘Didi, make sure you go home and have the little ones take hot showers, so they don’t catch a cold” ; the bus driver, who held their hand so they could get down safely from the rickety public bus, the local sweet shop owner who always gave a special sweetmeat to the kiddos, as a special treat for going by his sweet shop.

My children have been touched by so much love in their lives that sometimes I wonder how could they not turn out well. They have felt the love in so many places, in so many ways, by so many people, in so many countries. How can they remain immune to the good will and love that surround them?

Hug your children a little tighter friends, so they feel the warmth. And they remember the warmth. So they can carry the warmth with them when they grow up and share it with those who are unloved and cast aside. Heaven knows, we need a lot of that love and warmth to obliterate the suffering and pain caused by cold hearts. The world needs more loving, hope the loved ones can provide.

A rare crowning glory moment.

I am probably my harshest critic (except when it comes to cleaning my house, only then do I give myself a well deserved break 🙂 ). I over analyze my answers to the children, I try to reason with them, I try not to hover (which, unfortunately, is my natural tendency), I give them room to make mistakes and encourage them to learn from the same. I set myself to pretty high standards, which, most of the times I can’t achieve, then I feel guilty. I know, I know, it is a vicious cycle. Life is a work in progress, I am working on it. I say to self, ‘Self’, I say, ‘Take a deep breath and calm down! If you are late in dropping off your child at a football practice by ten minutes because you had to pick up your daughter from swim practice, it is OK! The world won’t really stop spinning!’

As I parked the car in the football field to pick up Ryan, Sahana asked me a question as she unbuckled her seat belt:

‘Mom, how do you do it?’

‘Do what?’ I asked.

‘Tell us ‘no’ and we listen. No questions asked. How do you make us listen?’

‘No questions asked’ is stretching the facts a bit. Questions are asked and more than I care to answer them. I also explain my reason for saying ‘no’ to certain requests to the best of my ability. When arguments, talk backs start, I put my foot down and say ‘Because I said so!’ Parenting books will condemn me for that. So be it.

‘You guys ask questions before you accept ‘no’s!’

‘Yeah, sometimes! But we know that when you say ‘no’ you mean it and we accept it. How did you make this happen? I want to learn. I want to be a parent just like you!’

I will be honest, that made my heart sing. Standing ovation in a full auditorium can not compare to what I felt in my heart at that moment. I just got my report card and guess what? Straight A’s!

“But when I say no to something you really want to do, you get angry, don’t you?” I probed.

“Yes, but that is just the irrational me then. Now it is the rational me asking you how you do it? Tell me, I will do the same to my children!”

What I said to her is not the main objective of this blog. Some time ago, I wrote a blog about how Ryan asked me if having them was the most difficult decision in my life. I was crushed thinking I made them feel that way by complaining and whining about the stresses in life. Last night, I felt validated. My love was shining through. They saw it! My teenage daughter wanted to emulate my style of parenting.

I know my joy is short-lived. We will have conflicts aplenty and often. But I will look at them as her ‘irrational’ moments. I will cherish these fleeting rational moments for now and garner strength and joy from them to keep my composure when the teenage turmoil flares up and I become the meanest human on earth again!

Thankful for….

“Do not indulge in dreams of having what you have not, but reckon up the chief of the blessings you do possess, and then thankfully remember how you would crave for them if they were not yours.”
― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I became aware of this festival of giving thanks after I came to the United Sates of America. In India, we didn’t say thanks, our looks and smiles said it all. Even today, when I thank my parents for a kind act, they get embarrassed and somewhat offended, ‘You don’t thank your own, thanking is too formal!’ I respect that and say how much I love the particular dress/book/babysitting, I don’t utter the word thanks. I show my gratitude instead, with a beaming smile or an extra hug. I have, however, grown to love saying thanks. That, I think, is the beauty of belonging to two countries. I can constantly pick and choose all that I like from both the cultures and discard the ones that don’t make much sense to me.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday simply because it transcends the boundaries of structured religions and all Americans and residents of America come together this day to show their gratitude and break bread with friends and family. There is,indeed, something uniquely beautiful in offering thanks. Is there any other holiday that is just dedicated to giving thanks? Being grateful for all the bounty that we have received? There are no gifts to be bought, nothing to wrap and put under the tree, no tree to trim and decorate.

I started a project of writing down one fact each day for this entire month, for which I am thankful. Good friends, understandably, groaned at my sudden spurt of gratefulness, and I predictably, ignored their good-natured ribbing and marched right ahead with my sparkling positivism. I seriously believe it is important to count our blessings. Not only does that keep those dark, gloomy thoughts at bay which loom large on the horizon when the sun doesn’t shine upon me, but also makes me much more sensitive and compassionate towards others who don’t have much – both in materialistic and non materialistic sense.

But being the impatient person that I am, how could I contain myself to mere one thought a day? How about all those other ones that are constantly bubbling within me as I try to arrange them in sequence and spread them evenly throughout this month of Thanksgiving? I abandoned the project and decided to put my thoughts in a blog post instead. Most days, I try to be grateful for the life I lead, some days………well, I am only human.

The month started with an occasion which was something to be greatly thankful for, my mother’s birthday. How can I even begin to thank two individuals, my mother and father, who gave it their all to love, cherish and nurture their only child, to the best of their ability.

Oh, my list of blessings is endless. It is impossible to enumerate them all, so I will just name a few.

I am thankful for the community where I live that not merely tolerates diversity but accepts it, respects it, promotes it and celebrates it.

My little, cozy house with heat on this cold, cold day, which seems to shrink every year as the children grow up and spread out, and yet, this lack of space brings us closer. Not much space to hide in our remote corners.

I love to be the cynosure of two big brown eyes, and the silent companionship he provides.

The job that I got after fourteen years of staying at home. The children were ready and so was I.

The two little humans that are responsible for my gray hair as well as the deepening laugh lines on my face. Oh alright, go ahead, call them wrinkles, if you must!

The wonderful educators and coaches that have touched the lives of my children, instilling in them the enthusiasm to learn and play. So very grateful to those special people.

My mother-in-law, who treated me as one of her own, since the day I landed at her doorstep with her son, apprehensive and nervous. I willingly left my country and culture to follow my heart. But really, I never truly left. I simply broadened my horizon.

My brothers and sisters in law, who became the siblings that I never had and showered me with love.

So, so thankful for the feeling that I am surrounded by love and good will from friends here and all over the world. Grateful for the friends in my life who held my hand through difficult times and didn’t let go. You know who you are.

And the moments, those little moments when I live a thousand lives.

The moment when my 13-year-old daughter puts her arms around my neck and says, “I am so happy I can talk to you about anything and the relationship we share. Many of my friends don’t feel like they can talk to their mothers!”

The moments when I get a glimpse of her beautiful heart full of compassion through the facade of teenage nonchalance.

When a warm, cuddly, tousled haired, freshly woken up seven-year old boy scrambles up on my lap to be held and snuggled as he rubs the sleepies off his eyes, before he gets ready for school.

The moment when he sheds tears at the prospect of baby birds dying and shows immense faith in my ability to save them and make his world right. It is an overwhelmingly beautiful moment and scary at the same time.

The sight of the dog, the boy and the girl gamboling on green grass.

When Ryan reminds Sahana as she pins him down in a wrestling match, that he is not her punching bag, but that she should get one for Christmas instead, or yells out his new-found wisdom from school, “Sahana, be a buddy, not a bully!” between giggles.

The moments when one of the computer generated noises (Sahana calls them songs) comes on and I am pulled to dance along with them in our tiny living room.

I give a silent thanks every time Sean’s plane does a successful landing in whatever part of the world he goes to.

The remaining tenacious green leaves hanging on to the trees for dear life as the fall wind blows through them, trying to shake them off.

The slices of the dazzling blue sky through the filigree of bright orange, red and yellow leaves of the fall.

The moment when I look outside my kitchen window and get rewarded with the most spectacular sunset, right in my backyard.

For living in an area where I get to see the amazing change of seasons which reminds me of the cycle of life – birth, life, death and resurrection.

And for the man in my life, who doesn’t miss a beat, looks me in the eye and answers my question, “what are you thankful for?” with

“You! I am thankful for you!”

If any of you cynics out there tell me he said that to shut me up once and for all, I am not listening. Tralalalalalala! 🙂

Happy Thanksgiving, friends!

That time of the year.

Every year around this time, I wallow in self-pity. As the leaves start changing colors, the heat of the summer wanes, the blue of the sky simply dazzles my eye, the wispy clouds float aimlessly, I look up and my mind dissociates to travel back in time. Between cooking and cleaning and working and driving the children around my heart remembers the beat of the dhak from a long, long time ago. Durga puja – the biggest festival of the Bengalis is about to begin.

The myth goes somewhat like this:

Mahishashur, a demon, won over the heart of creator Brahma by his devotion and earned a boon that no man or deity can destroy him. He initially desired immortality but since immortality can only be achieved by a god, Brahma asked him to choose another wish. He chose to be killed by a woman, thinking no woman can be powerful enough to destroy him. Brahma granted him this wish.

His victory complete, he wrecked havoc on the abode of the gods in heaven and defeated them in war. He acclaimed the throne of Indra while the defeated gods ran to the safe sanctuary of Lord Shiva to seek his help. Shiva and the other gods, with their collective energy, created a brilliant, formidable force in the shape of a young woman. She was Shakti (power) endowed with divine gifts. She was the evil slayer, who finally destroyed the evil force and prevailed the good.

In Bengal, however, Devi Durga is more than the destroyer of evil. She comes to us as the much beloved daughter coming home to her parent’s house after a year. The societal structure has been skilfully woven in to this myth and made this festival a very personal and endearing one for most Bengalis. Durga is not only the revered goddess, she is our very own, our dear girl, come back to us for a visit after a long absence. The women, after marriage, are expected to leave their parents’ home and make a new life with her husband’s family. In rural Bengal, it was not easy for daughters to visit their parents’ home often due to distance, transportation, responsibilities. It was indeed a time to celebrate when the daughters finally came to visit. The same concept was passed on to Devi Durga, thus blurring the divide between godliness and humanity. I absolutely love this merging of the abstract with the concrete. Pujo is not just about celebrating the home-coming of the goddess but also the home-coming of many, many other daughters who couldn’t come back to their ancestral homes any other time of the year.

I haven’t been back to my home town Kolkata during Durga puja for over ten years now. This year I couldn’t even go to the local celebration because of work. When I looked at my schedule, I was crestfallen. I won’t get to see even a glimpse of the goddess this year? But now that the day is upon us, I am strangely not that sad anymore. I have those memories hidden in my heart in a beautiful gift wrapped package, waiting for me to open. So that is what I did. And this is what I found.

My first memory of Durga puja is the sky, always the sky. I remember looking up at the brilliant blue sky on a clear day as a little girl counting days till school closed for puja vacations. Our family had our own puja primarily done by my grandmother, who probably knew more mantras than the priest conducting the puja, but could only help in the capacity of an assistant due to her gender. A woman couldn’t be a priest. Durga puja of my childhood is one of unadulterated joy – we wore new clothes every day for four days of the puja, unending games with cousins, no lessons to prepare, we always seemed to stay under the radar of the grown ups since they were busy with their friends and family members. I remember us playing ‘detectives’. Some of us older cousins always assumed the role of the main detectives – Sherlock Holmes and others of his ilk while the younger cousins reveled in the roles of our side kicks – till they got a bit older and rebelled against this injustice. There were good foods galore, the taste of which I can still taste if I close my eyes, late nights, lot of laughter, camaraderie, just a bubble of happiness surrounding us. We knew the bubble was going to pop in four days and real life would be back with a vengeance. But those four days of puja was special and different and structure free.

The family puja finally stopped due to financial constraint when I was about nine. But Durga continued to come to Kolkata and Bengal every year, no matter. As I got older, the four days of Durga puja changed meaning for me. From teenage, I felt the absence of any sort of spiritualism in Durga puja in the opulence and grandeur that I saw all around me. Durga puja, however, remained as a symbol of happy times when life was vastly different from the structure and routine that kept us prisoners. It was a ritual, a joyous celebration. Durga, in my doubting, skeptic mind ceased to be a goddess, but she continued to be that young woman who came to her parents’ house with her four children to rest her weary bones. Durga puja was synonymous with sunshiny mornings, smiling mother, flutter causing dhaak beats, music blaring through microphones in the pandals nearby, the rustle of the new clothes, the limp due to blisters caused by new shoes.

And the crushes of Pujo romance!!! I remember taking umpteenth rounds within a marked perimeter with giggling girl friends so we could catch a glimpse of the young men who caused our hearts to beat a little faster. The stolen glances were all we had and they were enough. Pujo romances were not meant to last. They had the mystery and aura of those magical days. As I grew up, I simply stayed home during the colorful, bright and crowded evenings of those four days. But I still felt this veneer of good will and joyous spirit enveloping me. I long for that feeling. There was a collective sense of joy, rejoicing and abandonment. We were in unison in this feeling of letting go of our real lives for four short days. There was still poverty and sorrow, the homeless people, living on the streets, and that didn’t escape me. But even the little girl, sleeping on the streets with her family donned a new ribbon in her wild and unkempt hair, and skipped around in the pujo pandals.

There were unpleasantness in the crowd – pickpockets, eve teasing, the nasty man rubbing against an unsuspecting girl – but the distance has made those memories fade away. I have gleaned only the good and saved only the treasures. At this time of the year, the blue sky with wispy clouds is the only continuity I have left. The sky still reminds me that it is time for that special daughter to come home to us. I look up and get lost. When I look down and around, my real life painfully reminds me, I am far, far away from home. I speak fondly of those days, but my family can not relate. They don’t share the same memories.

Friends and family back home complain of the traffic jam, the crowd, the unnecessary opulence, the competitions that pujo pandals have these days. Durga pujo has lost its spirituality. Where is Durga in all this glitter, they ask. And I agree. This grandeur of pandals, this show of wealth – designer clothes and new jewellery, is not what Durga pujo is all about! For me, Durga pujo is all about reconciliation, reunion with family and with one’s inner self, it is about the special search within us to draw inspiration from the goddess to slay our inner demons and emerge victorious. And as I have already mentioned, Durga pujo, for me, is about happiness in letting go of structure and routine, just for a few days.

One year, I will go back home and try to relive my memories. I sincerely hope I will find those feelings that I wrapped up in my heart before I left home. If I don’t, no matter, I will keep the ones I have safe, and open them each year as Durga gets ready to make her descent to earth, bringing with her, her children, her lion, the repentant ashur at her feet and most importantly happiness and joy!

Respect

Recently I watched a Hindi movie English Vinglish, by myself because my husband flat-out refused to sit in a movie theater for almost three hours. The much talked about English Vinglish, according to the rumor mill, was made by the director to apologize to her mother.

The story line doesn’t include the usual song and dance sequences that are the trademark of most Hindi films. The movie tells the story of a woman – a mother, wife and a daughter-in-law, who constantly puts the needs of her family ahead of her. Her morning cup of coffee cools as she gets up to make breakfast for her mother-in-law, her husband and cater to the various needs of her children. She is the symbol of the quintessential Indian woman, or at least how the society expects them to be- traditional, domesticated, loving…and a martyr. If there is frustration in her, it doesn’t show, she takes care of everyone with elan and also runs a small business of making and selling an Indian dessert – a laddoo.

She wears the traditional dress of India – a saree, and doesn’t speak English, the language of choice of the middle and the upper level of the social strata. Her teenage daughter is ashamed of her non-English speaking, traditional attire wearing mother and screams her annoyance at this social ‘lack’. She wants to keep her mother hidden from her friends and teachers in school. The husband and the daughter ridicule her English pronunciation as the camera zooms in on the woman’s uncomfortable, embarrassed and sad smile.

A lot happens but I will let you go to the theaters to watch the rest. The plot written above is just a teaser which I got paid to write to lure audience (kidding!)

This dynamic between the mother and the daughter paused me to think back and reflect on my relationship with my mother when I was going through the turbulent years which we call teenage. As a child, I remember a sense of wonder filled awe towards this beautiful, strong, opinionated woman, who was my mother. I was her faithful follower. I emulated her laughter, thought the way she did, observed her kindness towards others and tried to please her always. She drilled in me I had to be someone in life, she told me I was bright and smart and I could do absolutely anything I wanted. I worked hard and got good grades to see the brilliant smile that shone on her face as she looked through my report card. She didn’t have a strong command of the English language but she enrolled me in an expensive, English medium school, the fees of which, we hardly could afford. She foresaw the need for English in my future, where a solid knowledge of the language will give me a boost in life. She struggled financially to pay the fees, but both my parents grit their teeth and paved my way for a better future.

As I thought hard about my feelings, as a teenager, towards my mother, I remembered many emotions I felt towards her over the years. Embarrassment was not one of them. Why wasn’t I ashamed of the fact that she didn’t speak the language or didn’t wear western clothes. First, it was a different age. Speaking in English was definitely important but the disregard for vernaculars didn’t reach to the degree that I see today when I go back. Most of the women of her era wore traditional clothes so I didn’t have anyone to compare her to and be embarrassed about her. But more importantly, I believe she had this aura of self-confidence around her which earned my respect. I never felt embarrassed about her for her lack of another language because she introduced me to a treasure at a very early age – literature in my vernacular. She told me stories, read me books in Bengali when I had no letter recognition. I was taught to read and write in English before I learnt the Bengali alphabets. She cleverly introduced in me this lust for more and more Bengali literature by reading to me works of Sukumar Roy, Rabindranath Tagore, Abanindranath Tagore and numerous other magic weavers. And did they weave their magic on me! I followed my mother around with an open book while she gently reminded me I could read these all by myself if I learnt to read the language. Learn, I did and how! I was like a sponge, I soaked up the language with a determined focus – to read Abol tabol, Buro Angla, Raj Kahini, Shishu, Aryanyak, Pather Panchali, Adarsha Hindu hotel, Bindu r chele, Chander pahar….

She taught me how to think and scratch the surface. Before I read Dr. Seuss’ ‘Horton hears a who’, she taught me a person’s a person no matter how small. Her comment about lack of English was something I tell non-English speakers in this country. She said, ‘I can still speak enough English to get by, most English speakers can’t speak my language. Are they ashamed of it? No? Then why should I be?’ When I grew up and married an English speaker, who doesn’t understand a word of Bengali, he whole-heartedly agreed with her. When a lot of people including my extended family exclaimed how lucky I was to find a husband like Sean, my mother was the only one who smiled and said to Sean, ‘You know you are the lucky one, right?’ Sean said he knew.

I loved spending time with my non-English speaking, traditional saree clad mother even in my late teenage. I remember coming back home early to go see a movie with her and answering friends’ questions ‘Who goes to movies with their mothers?’ with ‘I do!’ When I started to think independently and started spreading my fledgling wings, roles reversed a bit. She started listening to my points of views and nodding in agreement sometimes. She has this amazing ability to learn from anybody so today she can keep up with various generations and speak and understand their language. I started bringing home new music, new ideas, different thoughts. We disagreed often and debated on issues but she realized I was coming to my own. I was her long time companion, and I was slowly letting go and she felt the pain

I am a mother of a teenager now. I often talk to her about the heritage of my land that I am, hopefully, passing on to her – respecting an individual for what they have and not insulting them for what they do not. I often emulate my mother while parenting my children. Sometimes I find myself saying the exact same thing my mother used to say to me. I break down laughing, ‘This is what your didiya used to tell me when I was your age!’ I tell them. This continuity sometimes diffuses a stressful situation when the children smile with me, picturing their mother as a little girl and at the receiving end.

As I narrated how the teenager demeaned her mother, my teenager asked me gravely, ‘Mom, do I ever make you feel that way?’

I asked her back, ‘What do you think will happen if you made me feel that way? Do you think I will take that kind of behavior from you?’

‘I will be grounded till kingdom come? But that is not an issue because I don’t feel embarrassed about you, anyway!’ she responded.

My mother was and still is my biggest fan. She was the champion of my cause, my number one supporter, the sail beneath my wings. She loved me unconditionally, stayed up all night to tend to my sicknesses, nourished my intellectual needs She did all that and she demanded respect in return. I was not allowed to get away by being disrespectful. She was not the conventional mother figure to stay at the background and be a martyr. She is a strong woman who made her presence felt in my life and I am ever so grateful for that.

A life time of love and respect (oh well, alright frustrations too at times:) ) can’t be captured in a blog unless I write reams and reams about it. Unfortunately, some emotions can not be expressed no matter how much one writes about them, those are special feelings meant to be just felt in one’s heart. So I will end my tribute to her here. It is her birthday today and I am physically thousands and thousands of miles away. But in my heart

‘I’m already there
Take a look around
I’m the sunshine in your hair
I’m the shadow on the ground.

I’m the whisper in the wind
I’m your imaginary friend
And I know, I’m in your prayers
Oh I’m already there’

(Lonestar)

The blog is my feeble attempt to show my love and respect that I have for you as my mother and as a strong, beautiful woman of the world. Thank you for helping me to be who I am and sorry for causing you sadness and frustration at some points in our life together. I now fully comprehend when you said to me, ‘Wait till you are a mother yourself!’ I know now.

Shubho Jonmodin, Ma! Happy birthday!

You are weird, I like you!

I wouldn’t dream of generalizing, of course, but can I please say the above lines to all the middle schoolers out there? ‘You are weird, I like you!’

I found this sentence on my thirteen year old daughter’s i Touch welcome page. The conventional me frowned at this and condescendingly shook my head, ‘Kids!’ I patronized.

Weird, in our days, was used mainly as an insult. A brief history of the word ‘weird’, according to Oxford Dictionary is this:

Origin:

Old English wyrd ‘destiny’, of Germanic origin. The adjective (late Middle English) originally meant ‘having the power to control destiny’, and was used especially in the Weird Sisters, originally referring to the Fates, later the witches in Shakespeare’s Macbeth; the latter use gave rise to the sense ‘unearthly’.

The ever evolving language had changed the meaning to the ones we know now – bizarre, odd, something preternatural or supernatural. The teenagers seem to have embraced the original meaning of the word, and are bowing to this power to control fate. They are slowly emerging from the cocoon of their innocent childhood and looking at the huge world around them with a fresh pair of eyes and newly formed sense of self. They are trying to make sense of the chaotic world in their own terms. According to them, the possibilities are endless, they are in charge of their destiny. They are slowly letting go of their parents’ fingers as they test the waters, push the envelope. They believe they have the power to control their fate, they are weird and they like it. At this junction of my life, when I am mostly tired and wilting, I look up to them to draw energy. They are my sunshine, so bright and radiant. I celebrate this age along with the poet Sukanto Bhattacharya

এ বয়স জেনো ভীরু, কাপুরুষ নয়
পথ চলতে এ বয়স যায় না থেমে,
এ বয়সে তাই নেই কোনো সংশয়–
এ দেশের বুকে আঠারো আসুক নেমে।।

E boyesh jeno bhiru, kapurush noy
Poth cholte e boyesh jaye na theme,
E boyeshe tai nei kono shongshoy-
E desher buke atharo ashuk neme.

Unfortunately, I am no translator but the gist of the lines is this:

This age is not one of cowardice,
This age is unstoppable in its pursuit of its dream
This age has no doubt or fear
Let this age bless our country.

Often times, when the children were young, they would pass a judgment on a peer ‘Mom, so and so is so weird’ only to be reprimanded by me, ‘nobody is weird, people can be different and that makes the world so much more exciting.’ The word ‘weird’ was not entertained in our household, precisely because the mother and the father grew up disliking the meaning of the word. It stood against our value of celebrating our differences. It reeked of segregation, disrespect.

But language is called fluid for a reason. My daughter likes someone who is weird. What does the word mean to her? Weird is someone who is non conformist, who thinks outside the box, who pushes the boundaries without hurting others. Weird is the new word for visionary. At this age, teenagers form a band – the band of the misunderstood, the victims of their parent’s persecution and unfair curfews. They break free from what the parents think is normal. Normal is so relative, I am reminded often. Being weird is a good thing, I learn and accept.

I like this weird generation a lot. Yes, despite the eyerolls, the grunts, the exasperated sighs, the trance like state when they are busy communicating virtually, I simply love them. I love the excess of emotions, both tears and laughter, (and yes, there are frustrations sometimes). I love the positivism, the self-reliance, the emerging independence. I love their view of their world. I love their new-found ability to peel off the surface and look beneath for deeper meaning of life, of world. They are vulnerable still, they are still malleable, to some extent, but not for long. They are a work in progress still, but inching closer towards completion.

The poet who I turn to again and again to find a way to express my emotions, Rabindranath Tagore, celebrates the youth with these words; and he too uses the word adbhut, a Bangla word that can be loosely translated to…..wierd!

Amra nutan jouben er i dut
Amra chonchol, amra adbhut.

We are the messenger of New age
We are restless, we are strange;
We are the messenger of Youth.

Strange denoting different. Different is good, different should be revered, celebrated. Isn’t that what we teach our children as well?

We walked a walk and talked the talk – a bit early maybe.

Sage (my dog), Ryan (my son) and I went for a walk today and did some serious exchanging of ideas. Sage didn’t share much. He was somewhat preoccupied with the various dog pee smells in each and every tree trunk or light post that we encountered. Ryan and I did most of the talking. Ryan may well be seven years old, he is very wise for his age.

The conversation started with how summer was going; is Ryan excited about second grade; is mom excited about her new job and such like. Then we moved on to the question of how the first tree was created and whether the trees that we see around us are the descendants of that first tree. Then next topic we discussed was how Sage’s shadow resembled one particular type of wolf, and my young scientist gravely declared that Sage has descended from that particular wolf who has left his shadow with Sage as an inheritance.

We got into serious grounds next – drinking alcohol. Sean and I don’t drink alcohol. I tried it as a youngster, never liked the taste, never felt the need for it in my life. Sean made a conscious choice to stay away from alcohol because he too didn’t feel the need to introduce that poison in his body. In fact, I heard this story on my wedding day from his friends:

“Your husband is a piece of work. He went to a bar in Costa Rica with friends and ordered a glass of milk!!!”

Ryan and Sahana have decided not to drink alcohol as well when they are adults.

On our walk, Ryan asked me if making the choice (of not drinking) was difficult and more importantly is it going to be hard for him when he grows up. Teaching moments, or rather talking moments like these don’t come up often in our hectic schedule. So I put it to good use.

For me, the choice was relatively easy. In the mid eighties India when I was a teenager, drinking was still considered a taboo among the middle class, especially for girls. Most of my girl friends abstained from drinking and the boy friends didn’t expect us to drink anyway, so there was not much peer pressure, or the need to conform. Sean had more of a difficult time growing up in America where drinking alcohol had more acceptance as a social norm. But after the initial ‘Come on man, just one drink’ people respected his choice and left him alone. They also appreciated his voluntary service as their designated driver after parties.

Ryan and Sahana, I believe will have more of a difficult time standing their ground, if they choose to stay away from alcohol, than we had. I say this because in first grade play ground discussions, little boys and girls have already questioned Ryan about his choice, “You are so funny! Why won’t you ever drink? I have sipped from my parents’ drink, I like it!” I told him he is going to hear more of it as he becomes a teenager. Teenage drinking is a huge problem world wide. And really, what is the harm in one drink? One glass of red wine is even beneficial for health, I often hear. The harm is, one drink often becomes two and then becomes three. His strength of character will be sorely tested when and if he refuses drinks in people will back off and respect his choice if he stands his ground.

I am a firm believer in ‘live and let live’. I have made my choice in my life. I respect other ADULTS’ choice of enjoying their alcoholic beverage as long as they don’t harm others under its influence and don’t get behind the wheels after downing a few. We have spent way too many moments of silence in different sporting activities, in memories of teenagers who lost their lives to drunk driving. I am not going to go into statistics, it is out there right in front of our eyes.

Life is about making choices. My children will make a choice on this when they are at a legal drinking age (I hope). My job, as a parent, is to make sure they are aware of all the ill effects that alcohol has on human body and let them make an informed decision. All I can hope is my children stay away from it. And if they don’t, then I hope they make good judgments of how much and when to stop. Most importantly, I hope they designate a driver!