I just got a mail from an old friend asking me if I was happy. It was not an easy question to answer. I don’t think my reply was completely correct either. So I started thinking about my life and wondered why I was not happy. I am not unhappy but a lack of unhappiness does not mean the presence of happiness. There are many things in my life that other people would covet. I have a beautiful family, a nice house (yeah now after I have slaved for months living through painting jobs and improvement projects!!), a husband who has probably never looked at another woman (:-)), a reasonably good figure (you try giving birth to two kids and we’ll see how you look!) and on occasion a tendency to be rather humorous. So why am I not happy?
I think it’s because I have nothing (excepting some land and half my house – not bad actually!) to my name - neither money nor fame nor even a simple thing such as a car. What I have is what has been given to me – I have earned none of it. I have a bit of money saved up from my previous job but it’s not like I can do anything with that. I have started a software company because they needed someone to sign the papers and my husband always wanted to do something on his own. He is very talented and a great leader so I have no doubt that he’ll be successful and make tons of money as well. But I have no part in that either. True I gave up my job in order to sign the papers. But it could’ve been anyone else’s name – that won’t make or break the company. I am the Director but that doesn’t mean anything. I will not have a job to do and the rest of the people who are part of the company all know each other and respect each other so I would be the only outsider. While I think I could man the phones, the CEO’s wife will not be allowed to do that I think. So I am without any income and worse, after years of staying at home, I have ensured that my earning power will be real low even assuming I do go and get another job.
It is hard to be happy when you feel that in the past ten years what you have done could have been done by anyone else – it didn’t require much talent to get pregnant or deliver the kids. It didn’t take much talent to run a house. It did take talent to raise the kids but I rather screwed that up with my son. It did take a deal of talent to get my graduate and post-graduate degrees though but not using that has eroded its value and mine. So yes I get into a depression now and again at thought of what might have been and the frustration of not being able to get all the words in my head out. I want to write so badly but whatever is in my mind cannot find its way out. Where are the characters, the plots and sub-plots, the descriptions of human follies that are seething in my brain but vanish when I try to pin them down? I picture myself as being happy when I get my book out hoping someone would read it. I cannot picture myself being happy as a software engineer or as a director in someone else’s company who is tolerated because she is the boss’s wife. I am in short unhappy because I have earned no happiness yet. Maybe the best is yet to come but the waiting is not easy.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Birthday disasters
I just turned 34 on 26th March. Its one of those nondescript ages you have in order to pass on to a more important one. I always hated my birthdays because I have found out on reflection that most of the difficult times in my life have happened on or just before my birthday. Take the earliest really bad one for instance – I think I turned 10 – that was the night the guy who was sharing a flat with us in Kuwait (we called him Uncle – a really nice person) got back from India after his marriage with a chickenpox afflicted wife. Only my dad would have been so generous as to allow him to stay in a flat with three children and expose all of us to the risk of infection. The worst happened – all of us fell ill. That was only the beginning. My dad lost his job because in the Gulf, if you apply for leave it makes no difference. If you are dying it makes no difference. There are no laws about firing – you could find on any day that you are no longer employed by the company. So he lost his job and a terrible three years of mostly unemployment was before him. We survived somehow.
The next difficult one came when I was 13 and had to leave Kuwait and all my friends and the school which I loved to return to Kerala. Most birthdays after that were forgettable till maybe 13 years later when I had to leave the US though I had become fond of California – it was also the time I learnt that dad had cancer. A year later my dad passed away the day before my birthday – that was the worst experience I have had till date – I have disliked my birthdays more than ever after that loss.
True mostly my birthdays have been either forgotten or not really noticed but that of course was better than struggling through bad ones. This time around it was quite a disaster. All my friends (I have only fiveJ) called me or sent a message. So that was the good part. The bad part is that I have been under house arrest since nine days because the house is getting repainted at an astronomical cost. I cannot leave the house for a minute even to get groceries. I cannot go out for a walk. I cannot eat lunch with privacy or lie down in the afternoons. I can’t find a place without dust. But it’s for a good cause and I am coping. But it is sad when you can’t even step out for your own birthday. It’s even sadder when your husband forgets his wallet at home and does not bring you even a single flower or a piece of chocolate because he didn’t have the money. I would have simply borrowed a few bucks and gotten some flowers but then that’s just me – I guess a guy doesn’t borrow money even for emergencies.
So I got no gifts – I was woefully short of ingredients to make sweets to give the kids at least and I couldn’t go and buy them because of the painting. So I gave up and just went with the flow. The whole afternoon was spent in moving stuff downstairs to upstairs and I couldn’t get a break but at least my husband came early to help with that. While we finished getting one room ready and he was giving the kids a bath, a real heavy and completely unseasonable downpour started. The guy who’s been waterproofing my roof for the last five months (yes I have tolerated the banging and thumping noises all this while – he’s a one man army and therefore takes forever) had blocked the terrace drain with sacks of cement despite my husband telling him several times not to. So the water gushes in from under the door – piles into the newly painted room flows musically down the stairs and fills the hall. To cut a miserable story short, my husband went out in the blinding rain, cleared the drain and stopped the gush. The next few hours were spent in mopping up. My back felt like it was broken in at least three places. The promised trip out to dinner had to be cancelled because of my pain and the rain. I didn’t sleep a wink that night imagining the rain would come in again through some freak repeat of the day’s horror. Of course the positive side is that I now have sparkling clean floors. A birthday to remember you say - more accurately, a birthday to forget – I never liked the number 34 anyway.
The next difficult one came when I was 13 and had to leave Kuwait and all my friends and the school which I loved to return to Kerala. Most birthdays after that were forgettable till maybe 13 years later when I had to leave the US though I had become fond of California – it was also the time I learnt that dad had cancer. A year later my dad passed away the day before my birthday – that was the worst experience I have had till date – I have disliked my birthdays more than ever after that loss.
True mostly my birthdays have been either forgotten or not really noticed but that of course was better than struggling through bad ones. This time around it was quite a disaster. All my friends (I have only fiveJ) called me or sent a message. So that was the good part. The bad part is that I have been under house arrest since nine days because the house is getting repainted at an astronomical cost. I cannot leave the house for a minute even to get groceries. I cannot go out for a walk. I cannot eat lunch with privacy or lie down in the afternoons. I can’t find a place without dust. But it’s for a good cause and I am coping. But it is sad when you can’t even step out for your own birthday. It’s even sadder when your husband forgets his wallet at home and does not bring you even a single flower or a piece of chocolate because he didn’t have the money. I would have simply borrowed a few bucks and gotten some flowers but then that’s just me – I guess a guy doesn’t borrow money even for emergencies.
So I got no gifts – I was woefully short of ingredients to make sweets to give the kids at least and I couldn’t go and buy them because of the painting. So I gave up and just went with the flow. The whole afternoon was spent in moving stuff downstairs to upstairs and I couldn’t get a break but at least my husband came early to help with that. While we finished getting one room ready and he was giving the kids a bath, a real heavy and completely unseasonable downpour started. The guy who’s been waterproofing my roof for the last five months (yes I have tolerated the banging and thumping noises all this while – he’s a one man army and therefore takes forever) had blocked the terrace drain with sacks of cement despite my husband telling him several times not to. So the water gushes in from under the door – piles into the newly painted room flows musically down the stairs and fills the hall. To cut a miserable story short, my husband went out in the blinding rain, cleared the drain and stopped the gush. The next few hours were spent in mopping up. My back felt like it was broken in at least three places. The promised trip out to dinner had to be cancelled because of my pain and the rain. I didn’t sleep a wink that night imagining the rain would come in again through some freak repeat of the day’s horror. Of course the positive side is that I now have sparkling clean floors. A birthday to remember you say - more accurately, a birthday to forget – I never liked the number 34 anyway.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Waking Up
Her ears woke up long before her eyes did. They heard the musical, rhythmic chanting of RamNam (literally, the name of God or Ram). Her father would be the one softly chanting in a voice so steeped with devotion, it brought tears to her eyes. She would lie with her eyes closed and simply listen. Her father would be up by four in the morning everyday and perform his ritual of chanting the Lakshmi Sahasra Naamam (the thousand names of the Goddess Lakshmi) and RamNam followed by reading from the Gita at his little corner of the bedroom before leaving for work at five. Agarbattis would give off their fragrance of devotion and for the little girl all was right with the world.
Years later she would wake up to the sounds of her roommates getting up or the early morning coffee bell at the girls’ hostel. Those mornings saw her chanting for a few minutes before the real start of day as she had promised her father. The rest of the day would go by as a blur but the mornings were always the same and she never faltered in her routine.
Much later when she awoke next to her husband in her new world, she found it more difficult to keep the promise to her father. Sometimes her rosary would have to be hidden since there didn’t seem to be a place for it in the new scheme of things but whenever she felt lost and alone, she would pray mentally to get some solace. But she felt like it was a thing of ridicule and a habit that she must overcome rather than continue.
And even more years later, she awoke free from all thought of chanting or God’s name or anything connected to it. Her mind would be full of the list of things to do as soon as she woke up. No time for contemplation or remembrance or even a tug of memory for her childhood mornings. Now she would be up thinking about whether her maid would be in or not, whether she had enough dosa batter for the family or would it be enough for her children who would eat nothing else – whether the school uniforms were ironed or not, whether she’d make chutney or make do with toast, whether she’d have time for a cup of coffee before the morning’s work is begun. None of the thoughts she woke up with were restful. None of the sounds she hears when waking bring a smile to her face. It is usually the raucous noise of construction or the blaring of the loudspeakers from a nearby Ashram that wake her up.
It has been too long since she woke up with joy in her heart and a prayer on her lips to welcome the new day. Her waking colors her whole day and so her whole day is spent in doing chores on her list or trying to get things done. Her father’s voice still echoes in some dim recess of her heart trying to find a way out so that his grandchildren can have the pleasure of a joyous waking up. She had let his loss bury not only him but also all his lessons and a part of her childhood which she could not pass to her children.
Years later she would wake up to the sounds of her roommates getting up or the early morning coffee bell at the girls’ hostel. Those mornings saw her chanting for a few minutes before the real start of day as she had promised her father. The rest of the day would go by as a blur but the mornings were always the same and she never faltered in her routine.
Much later when she awoke next to her husband in her new world, she found it more difficult to keep the promise to her father. Sometimes her rosary would have to be hidden since there didn’t seem to be a place for it in the new scheme of things but whenever she felt lost and alone, she would pray mentally to get some solace. But she felt like it was a thing of ridicule and a habit that she must overcome rather than continue.
And even more years later, she awoke free from all thought of chanting or God’s name or anything connected to it. Her mind would be full of the list of things to do as soon as she woke up. No time for contemplation or remembrance or even a tug of memory for her childhood mornings. Now she would be up thinking about whether her maid would be in or not, whether she had enough dosa batter for the family or would it be enough for her children who would eat nothing else – whether the school uniforms were ironed or not, whether she’d make chutney or make do with toast, whether she’d have time for a cup of coffee before the morning’s work is begun. None of the thoughts she woke up with were restful. None of the sounds she hears when waking bring a smile to her face. It is usually the raucous noise of construction or the blaring of the loudspeakers from a nearby Ashram that wake her up.
It has been too long since she woke up with joy in her heart and a prayer on her lips to welcome the new day. Her waking colors her whole day and so her whole day is spent in doing chores on her list or trying to get things done. Her father’s voice still echoes in some dim recess of her heart trying to find a way out so that his grandchildren can have the pleasure of a joyous waking up. She had let his loss bury not only him but also all his lessons and a part of her childhood which she could not pass to her children.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Bollywood Bonanza
I cannot turn on the TV at all without being bombarded with images of scantily clad females in every channel. Yes, I do know that at least 50% of the population are enjoying this and even small kids and pre-teens get a big kick out of the whole Bollywood song and dance routine. But honestly doesn’t it pall after the first one thousand close up shots of almost-boobs and endless thighs? How many different kinds can there be after all? Not a single Hindi movie gets made without at least one ‘item-number’ – for those of you who are not Indian, this translates as an excuse for the director/producer to bring in almost completely undressed women doing pelvis-dislocating routines in case the heroines are a little coy about showing acres of flesh because the ‘script calls for it’ (what script? Hindi movies never have one)
Imagine a poor unsuspecting person watching a Hindi movie. The movie starts off with the hero landing in a helicopter or some such nonsense and an extravagant song routine follows where the mother of the hero features prominently (she is , thankfully, fully covered). The hero then does the rest of the heroics and right in the middle of an emotional dialogue between father and son, up pops the item number. Why would someone in harem pants and/or leopard skins be dancing in the middle of the living room around a pole in broad daylight is anyone’s guess but dance she does with the father and son ceasing hostilities till the number is done and resuming shortly after. This would be the script of a blockbuster hit – I don’t do flops – and in case this dosage of see-all costumes is not enough, a title track is added after the movie is made!! This is to keep you in your seat after the movie is finished and to raise funds for the poorly-clad women on screen I’m guessing.
I understand that men may get ,er, titillated by the sight of toned bodies gyrating on screen but even some of them feel that there’s simply too much and the novelty’s long since worn off. And yet the Hindi film industry has a huge fan following. People don’t mind being taken for a ride or the lack of a script – all they want is entertainment. For those of us who come from states where the regional film industry actually bothers to create cinema, it’s a bit baffling. I grew up watching great cinema (both English and Malayalam), wonderful acting and meaningful stories on film. I can watch a Hindi movie only after suspension of all brain-activity or as a stress buster after say, a bout of examinations or a killer project. I am definitely in the minority here in Bangalore but I shall continue to single-handedly defy the meaningless stupidity that is the average Hindi movie.
Imagine a poor unsuspecting person watching a Hindi movie. The movie starts off with the hero landing in a helicopter or some such nonsense and an extravagant song routine follows where the mother of the hero features prominently (she is , thankfully, fully covered). The hero then does the rest of the heroics and right in the middle of an emotional dialogue between father and son, up pops the item number. Why would someone in harem pants and/or leopard skins be dancing in the middle of the living room around a pole in broad daylight is anyone’s guess but dance she does with the father and son ceasing hostilities till the number is done and resuming shortly after. This would be the script of a blockbuster hit – I don’t do flops – and in case this dosage of see-all costumes is not enough, a title track is added after the movie is made!! This is to keep you in your seat after the movie is finished and to raise funds for the poorly-clad women on screen I’m guessing.
I understand that men may get ,er, titillated by the sight of toned bodies gyrating on screen but even some of them feel that there’s simply too much and the novelty’s long since worn off. And yet the Hindi film industry has a huge fan following. People don’t mind being taken for a ride or the lack of a script – all they want is entertainment. For those of us who come from states where the regional film industry actually bothers to create cinema, it’s a bit baffling. I grew up watching great cinema (both English and Malayalam), wonderful acting and meaningful stories on film. I can watch a Hindi movie only after suspension of all brain-activity or as a stress buster after say, a bout of examinations or a killer project. I am definitely in the minority here in Bangalore but I shall continue to single-handedly defy the meaningless stupidity that is the average Hindi movie.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A job well done...
The following is a letter I sent to our newspaper when I could no longer control my anger at a very political issue that is going on. I am sure they will not publish it - so just to have the pleasure of telling them I've posted it on the net, I am leaving it here. Good heavens, who thought I'd go political;-)....
I am writing this to express my unspeakable irritation at the farce that I see unfolding before me regarding the new Bangalore airport. As a concerned citizen, I cannot believe that the government would so publicly renege on its commitment. The airport is ready and it’s ready on time. I live in Jakkur and have personally watched with growing pride at the way the work has progressed these last three years. The roads from the Hebbal flyover to Devanahalli are in good shape. Brunner has delivered a perfectly executed finished product. And the government as well as assorted politicians and even key business names have now woken up and protest that the airport is too far for their convenience.
All us North Bangalore residents have been so used to the step motherly treatment of our needs that we commuted to the business areas in increasingly chaotic traffic without a murmur. A trip to the airport would take us nearly two hours but who cares about that. Now that the other people have to make this same trip, it rankles. But where were all these people when the airport project was announced so many years ago? Didn’t they know what it meant then? The BIAL completed its task to perfection – connectivity was not their job. It was the job of the government which was apparently in hibernation or in a drunken stupor all this time since only now it seems to have woken up to the glaring fact that a world class international airport in Bangalore also need roads to get there.
I fully agree that traveling to the new airport will not be easy but keeping the existing HAL airport which was a makeshift arrangement right from the beginning, is not going to solve the problem of connectivity. The HAL airport is a disgrace – there’s not adequate room for anything – not for parking, not for the arriving passengers. It is a cowshed in comparison to the new facility and instead of lauding all the efforts that went into it, people are acting like it’s a curse!
Let the government work immediately to provide a dedicated road system from the city to the new airport. Let them pay a penalty for going back on their word, for not doing anything, for bringing in loss to the airport authorities. I am fully confident that no foreign company will now take part in an infrastructure development project in Karnataka. Why, even today’s front page screamed ‘New Airport inauguration postponed’ – do you know why? – I don’t and neither does the article – it just says that some equipment is not installed in the ATC – yeah, right. Anything to throw dirt on a flawless piece of work – anything to show BIAL in a bad light – not even bare details of the kind of system missing in the ATC (which somehow still managed to conduct successful flight tests) – irresponsible reporting supporting an even more irresponsible government. Can we just give the new airport a chance? Its location cannot be an issue – all major cities have airports that are situated away from the business districts. Its facilities cannot be an issue. Only getting there is – let’s get the government to do its job instead of penalizing people for having done theirs too well.
I am writing this to express my unspeakable irritation at the farce that I see unfolding before me regarding the new Bangalore airport. As a concerned citizen, I cannot believe that the government would so publicly renege on its commitment. The airport is ready and it’s ready on time. I live in Jakkur and have personally watched with growing pride at the way the work has progressed these last three years. The roads from the Hebbal flyover to Devanahalli are in good shape. Brunner has delivered a perfectly executed finished product. And the government as well as assorted politicians and even key business names have now woken up and protest that the airport is too far for their convenience.
All us North Bangalore residents have been so used to the step motherly treatment of our needs that we commuted to the business areas in increasingly chaotic traffic without a murmur. A trip to the airport would take us nearly two hours but who cares about that. Now that the other people have to make this same trip, it rankles. But where were all these people when the airport project was announced so many years ago? Didn’t they know what it meant then? The BIAL completed its task to perfection – connectivity was not their job. It was the job of the government which was apparently in hibernation or in a drunken stupor all this time since only now it seems to have woken up to the glaring fact that a world class international airport in Bangalore also need roads to get there.
I fully agree that traveling to the new airport will not be easy but keeping the existing HAL airport which was a makeshift arrangement right from the beginning, is not going to solve the problem of connectivity. The HAL airport is a disgrace – there’s not adequate room for anything – not for parking, not for the arriving passengers. It is a cowshed in comparison to the new facility and instead of lauding all the efforts that went into it, people are acting like it’s a curse!
Let the government work immediately to provide a dedicated road system from the city to the new airport. Let them pay a penalty for going back on their word, for not doing anything, for bringing in loss to the airport authorities. I am fully confident that no foreign company will now take part in an infrastructure development project in Karnataka. Why, even today’s front page screamed ‘New Airport inauguration postponed’ – do you know why? – I don’t and neither does the article – it just says that some equipment is not installed in the ATC – yeah, right. Anything to throw dirt on a flawless piece of work – anything to show BIAL in a bad light – not even bare details of the kind of system missing in the ATC (which somehow still managed to conduct successful flight tests) – irresponsible reporting supporting an even more irresponsible government. Can we just give the new airport a chance? Its location cannot be an issue – all major cities have airports that are situated away from the business districts. Its facilities cannot be an issue. Only getting there is – let’s get the government to do its job instead of penalizing people for having done theirs too well.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Go Go Goldfish
I am a complete sucker. There is no doubt about it. I keep falling for the same tricks time and time again. This time it’s the goldfish.
I have been in the “let’s get this house to look like a human habitation” mode for quite a while now. While on a cleaning spree, I uncovered a glass bowl which used to contain goldfish. We had gotten it (plus the fish) as a return gift on my neighbor’s son’s birthday party. I should have dumped them when I had the chance – instead I got them home and tried to take care of them. Despite my care or maybe because of it, they died within a week. I felt really bad and my kids kept asking me what happened to the fish. Anyway that was two years ago but the uncovering of the fish bowl got my daughter asking for the fish all over again. So I succumbed (if I had the guts, I would tattoo ‘idiot’ on my forehead – well actually the mirror image of ‘idiot’ so I would get a good look whenever I pass by a mirror). I promised the kids I would check for fish in the local pet shop and buy some if they weren’t too expensive. I think it’s important to keep promises and so I went out the next day and got a pair of small goldfish.
I couldn’t wait for them to come home from school and see them. When they burst in that evening and saw the fish, they were really thrilled – I couldn’t help grinning at their expressions – they promptly named the fish Appu fish and baby fish after themselves. I told them not to upset the creatures and to not make too much noise around them and to please never feed them anything or they would die. They chorused assent. When I cleared the table set for tea and got back, my son had dumped half a biscuit in the goldfish bowl. I frantically fished the offending item out, fished the fish out and changed the water and let out a long held breath when they were back in the bowl. I saved them once but the days ahead were worse.
By the third day, my kids began acting like the whole thing was my idea. They forgot about the fish – didn’t want to help me feed them or watch me change the water or say good night to them any more. And me? I got stuck with taking care of two more monsters. The fish take after their namesakes - one is hyper and eats properly, the other is slim and eats nothing. I can only give six pellets of food and one eats them all so either a) the fat one dies of too much food or b) the thin one starves or c) they both die. Eeeek!! Too much stress – I thought watching those damn things swim was supposed to relax you. I tried whistling and clucking at the non-eater so that it would notice the food – it’s of no use – that fish is completely oblivious. I tried yelling at them to have breakfast (well it works with the kids) – no use. I tried cajoling but couldn’t think of any reasonable bribes they might be interested in. I really don’t want skinny to die but I see no hope if this regimen of dieting continues.
All in all I am beginning to spend so much time or trying to feed the damn things with absolutely no results that it’s getting to me. I don’t even make fish curry anymore since I can’t stand the sight of fish of any kind. I am switching to chicken – to eat and not to keep as pets. Maybe I should just leave the two to the tender loving care of their namesakes – that would for sure get them back in line !!!
I have been in the “let’s get this house to look like a human habitation” mode for quite a while now. While on a cleaning spree, I uncovered a glass bowl which used to contain goldfish. We had gotten it (plus the fish) as a return gift on my neighbor’s son’s birthday party. I should have dumped them when I had the chance – instead I got them home and tried to take care of them. Despite my care or maybe because of it, they died within a week. I felt really bad and my kids kept asking me what happened to the fish. Anyway that was two years ago but the uncovering of the fish bowl got my daughter asking for the fish all over again. So I succumbed (if I had the guts, I would tattoo ‘idiot’ on my forehead – well actually the mirror image of ‘idiot’ so I would get a good look whenever I pass by a mirror). I promised the kids I would check for fish in the local pet shop and buy some if they weren’t too expensive. I think it’s important to keep promises and so I went out the next day and got a pair of small goldfish.
I couldn’t wait for them to come home from school and see them. When they burst in that evening and saw the fish, they were really thrilled – I couldn’t help grinning at their expressions – they promptly named the fish Appu fish and baby fish after themselves. I told them not to upset the creatures and to not make too much noise around them and to please never feed them anything or they would die. They chorused assent. When I cleared the table set for tea and got back, my son had dumped half a biscuit in the goldfish bowl. I frantically fished the offending item out, fished the fish out and changed the water and let out a long held breath when they were back in the bowl. I saved them once but the days ahead were worse.
By the third day, my kids began acting like the whole thing was my idea. They forgot about the fish – didn’t want to help me feed them or watch me change the water or say good night to them any more. And me? I got stuck with taking care of two more monsters. The fish take after their namesakes - one is hyper and eats properly, the other is slim and eats nothing. I can only give six pellets of food and one eats them all so either a) the fat one dies of too much food or b) the thin one starves or c) they both die. Eeeek!! Too much stress – I thought watching those damn things swim was supposed to relax you. I tried whistling and clucking at the non-eater so that it would notice the food – it’s of no use – that fish is completely oblivious. I tried yelling at them to have breakfast (well it works with the kids) – no use. I tried cajoling but couldn’t think of any reasonable bribes they might be interested in. I really don’t want skinny to die but I see no hope if this regimen of dieting continues.
All in all I am beginning to spend so much time or trying to feed the damn things with absolutely no results that it’s getting to me. I don’t even make fish curry anymore since I can’t stand the sight of fish of any kind. I am switching to chicken – to eat and not to keep as pets. Maybe I should just leave the two to the tender loving care of their namesakes – that would for sure get them back in line !!!
Monday, March 3, 2008
A hand up...
The kids had their annual day last Friday. It went well all things considered. The programme started on time and finished on time. The chief guest came on time and was someone I have long admired so I enjoyed hearing him speak. Our kids behaved well and did not throw any tantrums and remained more or less quietly backstage till it was time for them to perform.
I was uncomfortable though – because the truth which I go to great lengths to hide from myself is becoming more apparent with each passing day. The fact hurts me much less now than it did four years ago but it still hurts all the same. My son is not like the other kids. That’s the truth and there is no way out of it. It is not a good thing but neither is it bad. He is extremely intelligent and very cute as well. He loves with a heart as big as the whole world. He can solve puzzles in a trice and is a computer whiz at seven years of age. He is also wrapped up in his world or at least a world that seems to barely overlap mine most of the time. He used to be mine when he was very young and then he left to follow some other vision. He loves to be treated like a much younger child. He doesn’t want to grow up.
At the annual day, they made him give a bouquet to an important guest. All the ‘special’ children were made to do that – so it killed me on the inside to see my child alongside them. I hate the word special. He does not have any mannerisms or features that make him look different – only his partial presence and therefore lack of focus in this world causes him to be labeled as such. He then got an award for “best attempt at adaptation to a classroom environment” which means he has finally learnt to sit still for 20 minute stretches and is therefore allowed in the mainstream classroom. I think it’s great he got the award but the way the teachers were leading him and holding his hands together and turning his head for him made him look like he could barely go and take the certificate by himself when he is normally very self-reliant!! I don’t know whether to applaud the teachers for their over-zealousness or wring my hands in agony that they seem so eager to slot him that they give him no chance to be himself.
Then he had a bit part in the play (which he very cutely screwed up so innocently that it had me laughing loudly) and then in a group dance. I was amazed at the way he actually stood in his place and managed to match everyone’s steps. I wanted to cry so badly there in that hall seeing my son jump up and laugh and clap and shake his little butt. How his teachers managed to get him to be interested in the steps is something I cannot begin to guess at. Anyway he had a good time and we were relieved and happy as well.
The little one performed as well. She was a class act. Every step of her dance she executed with skill and grace though she was the smallest kid in the group. I felt pride lift me up off the chair by a couple of inches at least!! When I got home, I started thinking about why her achievement should be more laudable than his – she always liked to dance – he never was so inclined – from being unable to stand still for a few minutes even, he managed to dance through a whole song and that too in time with others. So while she is much younger and really talented, the amount of effort my son put in must have been tremendous. And I in my narrow-minded spirit failed to see that. I saw his awkward steps and didn’t see his joy. I saw him as part of a group that is normally looked down on and was ashamed to be associated with him. I worried that others would pity me as his mother. It is easy to love a child who is all you imagine. It is more important, however, to love more the one who needs a hand every step of the way he needs to tread to reach his personal goals. If a mother fails to see that, she can be no better than the majority who deride and ridicule someone for being different. So I will stand up for him and cheer the loudest every time he gets a prize or reaches even the smallest milestone. I will applaud the loudest for his every step and will pray the hardest. And one day he will leave his other world and come back to me….
I was uncomfortable though – because the truth which I go to great lengths to hide from myself is becoming more apparent with each passing day. The fact hurts me much less now than it did four years ago but it still hurts all the same. My son is not like the other kids. That’s the truth and there is no way out of it. It is not a good thing but neither is it bad. He is extremely intelligent and very cute as well. He loves with a heart as big as the whole world. He can solve puzzles in a trice and is a computer whiz at seven years of age. He is also wrapped up in his world or at least a world that seems to barely overlap mine most of the time. He used to be mine when he was very young and then he left to follow some other vision. He loves to be treated like a much younger child. He doesn’t want to grow up.
At the annual day, they made him give a bouquet to an important guest. All the ‘special’ children were made to do that – so it killed me on the inside to see my child alongside them. I hate the word special. He does not have any mannerisms or features that make him look different – only his partial presence and therefore lack of focus in this world causes him to be labeled as such. He then got an award for “best attempt at adaptation to a classroom environment” which means he has finally learnt to sit still for 20 minute stretches and is therefore allowed in the mainstream classroom. I think it’s great he got the award but the way the teachers were leading him and holding his hands together and turning his head for him made him look like he could barely go and take the certificate by himself when he is normally very self-reliant!! I don’t know whether to applaud the teachers for their over-zealousness or wring my hands in agony that they seem so eager to slot him that they give him no chance to be himself.
Then he had a bit part in the play (which he very cutely screwed up so innocently that it had me laughing loudly) and then in a group dance. I was amazed at the way he actually stood in his place and managed to match everyone’s steps. I wanted to cry so badly there in that hall seeing my son jump up and laugh and clap and shake his little butt. How his teachers managed to get him to be interested in the steps is something I cannot begin to guess at. Anyway he had a good time and we were relieved and happy as well.
The little one performed as well. She was a class act. Every step of her dance she executed with skill and grace though she was the smallest kid in the group. I felt pride lift me up off the chair by a couple of inches at least!! When I got home, I started thinking about why her achievement should be more laudable than his – she always liked to dance – he never was so inclined – from being unable to stand still for a few minutes even, he managed to dance through a whole song and that too in time with others. So while she is much younger and really talented, the amount of effort my son put in must have been tremendous. And I in my narrow-minded spirit failed to see that. I saw his awkward steps and didn’t see his joy. I saw him as part of a group that is normally looked down on and was ashamed to be associated with him. I worried that others would pity me as his mother. It is easy to love a child who is all you imagine. It is more important, however, to love more the one who needs a hand every step of the way he needs to tread to reach his personal goals. If a mother fails to see that, she can be no better than the majority who deride and ridicule someone for being different. So I will stand up for him and cheer the loudest every time he gets a prize or reaches even the smallest milestone. I will applaud the loudest for his every step and will pray the hardest. And one day he will leave his other world and come back to me….
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