The ways of pain...

Its been more than a week since I last blogged. Some days I don’t find the time to unwind and write. Some days I don’t have the energy. Some other days I don’t have the mood. But to be honest they are all excuses – I can write on any day – the fact is all of those days may not bring out the best words in me and the idea of writing something not good has never appealed. Of course the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are my opinion alone but then I have to go with what I feel since the whole act of writing is very personal indeed.

Today I was pondering on the essential differences in the way my guy pals and lady friends think about bad experiences or painful memories. I have a self-confessed hedonist pal who tells me that he can shut out what hurts him and focus exclusively on work and that is how he gets over various issues including but not limited to, heartbreak. And yet I have seen him at his vulnerable moments when he lets down the shield and appears almost human in his weakness. I have another pal who says yes pain is hard but just let the memories slide over you like water off a duck’s back and in no time at all you will be right as rain. I have no idea exactly how one goes about that particular exercise. I have yet another friend who tells me he basically pushes every unpleasant memory away into the recesses of his mind and never ever unlocks the door to it. He also claims that it is not forgetting but rather a way to cope by choosing to not think of it in any way ever again. Perhaps it is a guy thing but I simply do not understand how to do that.

One of my closest woman friends went through a difficult time recently and though she took quite a while to get over the hurt, once she was done she was completely done. That of course I can comprehend – I am not sure I can do that but yes I can relate to that approach on some level. Yet another friend appears to walk away from hurts without batting an eyelash. More lady friends suppress their memories and develop issues over time. Its not easy to get over pain and remorse if one does not face it – at least that’s my view but to each his own and no one can even begin to guess the depth of another’s pain or find the perfect solution for it. Time always alleviates any hurt – it is one of man’s invaluable survival mechanisms that the knife edge of pain is usually blunted by the passage of the years. Our whole beings are geared towards joy and therefore looking forward must mean letting go of past pain.

Despite the myriad ways in which men and women deal with unpalatable memories, there is one thing in common – always the depth of the wound determines the time taken to heal and always one has to work through the worst of the pain to arrive at acceptance. For me, pain is dealt with over a long period of time. I cannot let go of hurts easily. Any off-chance comment or observation can trigger the pain when I least expect it. My memories have a raw feeling for far too long. But acceptance does come and it is a welcome respite. Writing about hurt is one of the ways I use to cope – it soothes me like nothing else for you could confide in friends but unless you are very lucky, you stand the chance of being judged or you worry about burdening someone else. To be able to take refuge in words is a blessing indeed...

Learning to see...

How do you look at a person? What is it that starts the process of evaluation and judgment? At what point do you decide that the person is worthy of attention or common courtesy or even superficial interest? I guess that looks have a lot to do with it – a good voice influences people positively as well but more than anything a sincere smile does it for me. I love those who smile straight from the heart with none of the grimaces that an inflated sense of self-importance creates. When the smile reaches the eyes, it lights up the face from within – that is what I find most appealing about those I choose to have around me. S has this in abundance, so does my son – Mahi is growing a bit self-conscious but whenever she is her regular 8 year old self, she has the most dazzling smile indeed.

My little friend Riya smiles like the sun. She is  dark chocolate hued with bright eyes, glowing skin and perfectly proportioned limbs – a small-scaled joyous entity that never fails to make us all grin like kids. I lost my heart to her fairly early in our acquaintance as she sat quite composedly for ages as her mother went about her chores very very slowly! She would venture out of the kitchen hesitantly at first and then with increasing confidence as she realized we were quite alright with her exploring the house. She loves my puris and aloo and quite cheekily asks me for aloo every time I give her rotis with jam or any other accompaniment. She eats daintily, breaking her puris into little pieces and slowly relishing the aloo to make it last. She also grabs her glass and bangs it against the counter to focus my attention on the fact that she wants tea which she then emphasizes with a firm “Didiii, chaaaa!” I sometimes think I look like a walking tea urn to Riya :-)

This child fills our house with laughter and noise – yes sometimes too much noise as she is very headstrong and refuses to listen to anyone. Of course I am a bit stern with her but my husband thinks nothing of indulging her happily. She makes it a point to wave goodbye to him every single morning standing alongside me with one hand wrapped around my knee and the other waving enthusiastically to everyone in sight. Some days I help her climb the railing of the portico so she can sit and wave in peace. 

The other morning we were sending off S to office and Appu to school with all the usual celebratory waving when my  neighbour passed by in her car. I was lifting Riya onto the railing to perch while I went to water the lawn – it was too cold to let her play in the water – when I happened to notice my neighbour looking on with an expression of disgust that was so palpable I felt like pulling the child away from it. Here was someone whom I generally considered a nice person and I found myself faced with the irrefutable evidence of her dislike of the bright and bubbly creature who was even then waving goodbye to her with a happy smile. The reason was obvious – a maid’s child is not eligible to be loved by someone of our ‘class’ – her dark colour was an obvious stigma – how dare I walk around with her, play with her or carry her! I have heard more than one denizen of this sought-after residential complex bemoan the fact that servants’ kids are allowed too much leeway – they would undoubtedly spoil our kids and they would definitely steal.

I let Riya play with the water that day and she did so happily, oblivious of the distaste of the wonderful neighbours in my immediate environment. The maid next door however is very fond of her and she greets her very warmly each morning when she sees us at our gardening. The one Sunday morning when Mahi, Riya and I were splashing each other on the lawn saw even the dour-faced housekeeping staff who had come to pick up the garbage, breaking out in smiles. By the time we were done we had a little audience just watching and enjoying the sight of three crazy creatures having a bit of fun. The laughter of children can make anyone want to laugh again – silly pure unalloyed pleasure is the blessing of kids – we have it in small bursts of rare joy but they have it always. Somehow I notice that nowadays children are losing that ability earlier in life so that even a five year old seems worldlier and less carefree than I remember myself being at ten. Appu, however, is blessed with that perfect belly-shaking laughter even at twelve and one has to see him with Riya to know how beautiful the sight of simple affection can be.

I respect Riya tremendously – she is two years old and so very independent. She speaks clearly in Bengali and while I have no idea what she says most of the time, she perseveres quite patiently with me till I manage to get the gist of her conversation. She is also immensely intelligent and knows the weeds from the grass naturally, can cross a busy road by herself, can understand the importance of washing hands after my elaborate mime sessions.

Why do we not see even a child with love? Have we all become so cynical and judgmental that only sanitized sights will give us happiness? I pity the neighbour who cannot see the beauty in a soul and only thinks a fair skin is worthy of affection. I feel sad for the day when this little one will comprehend the disgust of those who are deficient but appear wealthy. If only people would learn to see with their hearts, how much happier this world would be...

Light in the dark

As I see the lit lamps and hear the firecrackers outside, I reflect on how a festival I never used to celebrate has come to mean a lot to me. Being a Malayali, Diwali or Deepavali as we call it, was never something that was on our celebratory calendars. I grew up not ever having burst firecrackers or lit diyas on that day. It was someone else’s festival – just like Holi or Christmas. Not once in school or college did we ever treat Diwali as a day of significance.

The last nine years that we have lived here in Bangalore, we have celebrated Diwali in our own little ways. No pujas or too many sweets (the kids and I are not sweet-toothed ;-)) – but plenty of little hand-painted diyas and noiseless firecrackers so that the kids enjoyed themselves as they watched the neighbours celebrate. They always had plenty of holidays during this time of the year and therefore the entire atmosphere during Diwali was one of festive joy.

These days I feel that the festival has a deeper meaning for me. I usually observe and don’t take part in the raucous festivity I see around me. But the essence of Diwali for me is light. Not the light of the diyas that keep away the night although that is a beautiful sight indeed, but rather the light that each of us carries within which helps us cope against the encroaching darkness of pain and disquiet.

For each of us is a being of light. We thrive in sunshine. We bloom in the presence of happiness. And yet each of us always carries some pain too. For a lucky few it is not much and can be ignored by means of distracting entertainments or self-induced delusions up until the time hard-hitting reality comes in a form that can no longer be ignored. For the unlucky majority, the problems having to be dealt with and the burdens having to be borne are much harder and for these beings, it is so very easy to forget that they have that inner light. That light truly never fades – yes it is eclipsed now and then by worries and fears but light always wins. The important thing is to remember that nothing can extinguish it and Diwali with its eternal theme of victory of light over darkness, of good over evil, of happiness over despair is the perfect time to remind ourselves of the power we hold within us to win over any setback at all.

So when the diyas shed their steady light all around, the words that flow as a prayer from my heart are simple – “May each and every one of us never lose sight of our inner light. May we always have the strength to tackle whatever comes our way. May the beauty of life be forever reflected in the light of love that radiates from our hearts.”

For a little respect

The wait was irritating me. The mail said 11 and it was now almost an hour later. I had to get back home and work on half a dozen other issues. My head was awhirl with thoughts of how to solve this problem or that, the list of people I needed to talk to, the hateful job of following up on earlier follow-ups and so on. I tried to sit patiently enough and it was simply not working. As I fidgeted mildly in my seat, I wondered to myself – if this is how I handle being asked to wait unnecessarily, then how hard must it be for the youngsters who had been waiting at least as long as I had.

The occasion was the distribution of course completion certificates to a batch of special needs children. They had attended a three-month course on computer operations and iPad learning sponsored by a prominent software company in Bangalore. The youngsters varied in age from 12 to 19 I think. I saw the familiar worried yet bravely smiling faces of the parents leading their wards by the hand. I saw the lost look in many of the children’s eyes. I saw their acute discomfort in the crowd that led to incessant rocking or flapping or muttering. That was the way they coped with what to them was a barrage of unpleasant stimuli. Every single experience was accompanied by a sensory overload – for these children, each day posed herculean challenges. And they had so few to champion their cause – when would the day come that these children could simply be accepted for what they were? Not any time soon I thought to myself disconsolately.

The program had yet to start when my companion, who was my son’s school principal was asking a parent how the course had helped his child since we were now going to start it at the school. He says in front of his smiling son “Oh he picked up some stuff – its not like he’s normal so he didn’t really understand most of it.” I bit my lip in anger. He could’ve had the decency to not refer to his own child like that in his hearing. With a lack of total acceptance from their own families, how were these children to seek acceptance from the society at large? Forget acceptance, weren’t these children deserving of dignity and respect like any other human being? Yes they are imperfect – so is everyone else on this planet.

The function finally started and progressed tediously with the children already agitated and uncomfortable. Then an open session was declared so that the children could come forward and sing or present something as they wished. A tall, lovely, beautifully dressed young girl (she must’ve been thirteen or fourteen) came hesitantly and aimlessly towards the front and took the mike. She began singing in a completely flat and uninvolved fashion unable to look up and face the audience even for a second. As she struggled through her first song and began a second, something changed – she began raising her head and looking around her slowly. She started squaring her shoulders ever so slightly and a smile flowed tentatively on her face . I sat quietly with my hands clasped tightly feeling in my being the tension she must be going through. I didn’t take my eyes off her face for a second. Suddenly she looked up and across the room at me and smiled a beautiful innocent smile that touched me to the core. I smiled back and she looked at me through the whole of the rest of her performance. It was like she knew I was cheering her on – wanting to see how her beauty bloomed with that little touch of confidence and with the magic of music. Her job done, she gave away her mike and went back to her mother. We all applauded enthusiastically.

I know that a lovely girl like that will have to overcome almost insurmountable odds in a society like the one that is in India. People will take advantage of her. She will not be able to speak for herself. Her mother must be dying slowly as her daughter’s beauty became more apparent everyday. And yet for moments such as this when the young girl was radiant in her joy, her mother could forget perhaps all the worry and the pain – just for a moment, mind you – but even a moment’s respite from weary burdens can keep us going on and on.

I came back home still filled with the thoughts of that girl and others like her. I saw lots of families wholeheartedly supporting their children amidst a few who continually spoke less than favourably of their own sons and daughters. I saw a few steps being made in the direction of providing the children with some kind of skills to make them more self-reliant. I didn’t see any effort at trying to teach the children the skills to survive in an antagonistic society. I worry about how they will cope. I am a parent too. I long for the day when my child and others like him will be treated just like anyone else – with respect for the unique personalities that they are. I know that it will not come any time soon however but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying...

The Heart's Tongue

The other day S and I were talking of languages. My earliest memories were definitely of my mother talking to me softly in Malayalam. The language of your mother’s womb is the language you will always go back to. As I grew older and moved to Kuwait, my language of choice changed to English. I was only three and all around me in school, there was English. There was English on TV too. My parents only spoke in Malayalam so I knew both languages but once I started reading, I began thinking in English and that was when I lost my connection to my mother tongue. When your innermost thoughts are in one particular language, that then becomes the language of your mind. English continues to be the language that I think and write in.

S grew up in a little village in North Kerala. He grew up with Malayalam, studied in Malayalam and knew only Malayalis. Everything was simple and straightforward albeit very limiting. There was never a crisis of not fitting in. It was his home, his parents’ home and his grandparents’ home as well. His roots were strong and his language, beyond doubt could only be the mellifluously beguiling softly rounded cadences that make up Malayalam. For two people who were married solely because of parental interests, the language of the heart is more important in learning to love – the language of the mind comes later.

I look at my children and wonder why I went so wrong in not steeping them in the language of their parents and grandparents. It always seemed easier to talk in English – their friends talked in English – the school demanded proficiency in it and I was very comfortable with it myself. I don’t know why S didn’t insist on sticking to Malayalam – perhaps he just went with the flow – but we both regret it strongly. The younger one is learning to read and write her mother tongue now. Appu is of course Appu. I am glad he understands the language – I wouldn’t go so far as to push him to write in it!

These thoughts on roots and mother tongues came to me quite late in life. I know I only spoke and sang to my babies in Malayalam till they were 2 or 3 years old. The deepest emotions I felt towards my loved ones, were always expressed in Malayalam. The chord that binds together hearts has a lot to do with the medium in which love is shared. Yes words can be superfluous in bonds of great depth but we all know that sometimes words make all the difference. When endearments are softly whispered, would you not like to hear them in the language of your heart and soul? When you pick up a crying baby and soothe him, do you actually sing ‘rock a bye baby’ or murmur some nonsensical rhymes in the language you were brought up with? When you listen to a tender song in your mother tongue, would you not associate it with someone you share the same language with?

In the cities of this country, the vernacular has no place – everyone wants to run after English alone. The homogenizing revolution is built on the debris of regional languages. Soon everyone will sound the same in every metro in India – that would be a shame indeed. I fear we will lose the melody of our tongues if we allow the languages of our hearts to be forgotten ...isn’t it time we bring back the beauty of our mothers’ words and pass it on to our children?