No greater gift

A brisk, no-nonsense sort of wind blows outside. It seems to say “ I have a lot of stuff to get done today and I am not going to take a break!”. I, on the other hand, am sitting inside my room feeling a little sleepy, a little warm from the hot coffee that’s in my belly and going off into my very own world where things happen differently. Its comforting and yet not completely cocooning for even in my warm world I feel the tendrils of reality slip in and yank painfully.

Inside my mind I see my son grown with someone to love by his side. He is happy and he is self-reliant and even to a certain extent successful. He is a scientist with a razor keen mind and an out-of-the-box thinking style that gets him accolades. He does not have to face the world’s prejudice or discrimination. He actually has people who care for him around him. He has his sister (who changes from a fashion model to an astronaut depending on the mood of the day) as his anchor and together they make their own place in this world.

Outside my imaginary world I am forced to think about the problem at hand. The school is taking the children to a park with a zoo that’s a little away from the town. They will be gone all day. The children are excited and anticipate the end of the week with relish. My daughter has not been on earth since I first read the circular and signed it (“please sign it right now Amma – I have to give it to ma’am – don’t forget or I won’t be able to go!”). I wasn’t aware that the trip was for all the kids – I thought it was for the little ones only.

It was only when I went to school to pick them up on my way back from running errands, that my son’s teacher approached me with a sheepish expression and said the trip was indeed for all the kids. She was a young girl not long out of college and had been assigned the embarrassing task of explaining to me that the special children would not be joining them because it would not be easy for the teachers to handle them for an entire day. I was told that my son was someone who loved trips and he wasn’t the problem they were talking about but they couldn’t discriminate among the 4 or 5 kids that made up the special group in school. I said “Of course” and walked away.

I did not feel very good the rest of the day. The school could wash its hands off my son but how was I to explain that only his sister was going? Weren’t they asking me to discriminate in my own home? My son was okay with it saying “Oh its a holiday?” and asking to be taken on a red bus just to go to town and back. That’s all he wanted – a bus ride. He didn’t say he felt bad. He didn’t say that he was such a well-behaved kid and why did they do this to him? His calm acceptance broke my heart. He wouldn’t even fight for himself.

I need to go out and fight for my son. If he is a part of the school, they need to take him on every bloody trip they organize or else just not have too-long trips. If they can’t handle special children, why do they charge 50k extra a year for them and then say they won’t treat them like they are a part of the school? What is the worst that will happen if I stand up for my son’s rights? They’d probably boot him out of the school. This was one of the few schools that thought special children should have a chance at integration. The other schools wouldn’t even give me the time of day. But the principle is what counts – whatever the result, I cannot ignore the fact that they hurt my child.

Reality has shown me that my own little world may never happen. But to me its a vision with which I keep myself motivated and inspired. A day will come when my son will reach his true potential. A day will come when he will be recognized. A day will come when he can fight his own fights. Till then I need to be there to tell him “Son, you are our blessing. You can teach the world how to love unreservedly – there is no greater gift.”

Baby's day out

“Nanny rents out baby to beggar” said the headline of the front page article in today’s papers. Normally the paper I get is notorious for its non-existent grammar and misleading phrases not to mention spelling errors – so I didn’t do the expected double-take. Instead I began reading it and found a zany real-life story of a nanny renting out the baby she was hired to take care of.

The parents were the well off sort who were both out pursuing careers in MNCs. They got a maid from an agency (these agencies don’t provide references and pick anyone off the street to work for them) and proceeded to leave this character in charge of their baby while they went out to work. I guess the maid thought of putting the child out to work (after all, you could never begin too early) and rented him out to a beggar for a hundred rupees per day. Then she would sit back, relax, put her feet up and watch the daily soaps till the evening when the child would be returned.

The child kind of protested at being sent out to work and not being fed properly and being clothed in smelly rags. So she drugged him and then sent the newly docile child out. The parents did say they wondered why the child was so lacking in spirit and energy ever single evening but they didn’t think too much about it. The weekends were the only drug-free period for the poor kid and he was noticeably different then.

The whole story came to light when the mother came home early to find a dozing nanny and no sign of her baby! The nanny panicked and spilled the beans and the horrified mother had to wait a few hours to receive her baby from the beggar.

What does a story like this make you think about? Whose fault would you say this was? Was it the maid’s fault? She was a wily opportunist no doubt – she was also uneducated and obviously had no feeling invested in someone else’s child. Professionalism, dignity of labour, accountability even sheer humanity did not come into the picture for her. She was definitely guilty of harming the little child. What about the parents? Did their responsibility end in hiring someone they knew nothing about to take care of their precious child? Why did they trust a stranger? Did they do unexpected checks or ask a neighbour to check on the child occasionally or even install a small camera at the door to be on the safe side? They didn’t do any of these – they simply left their own baby in some idiot’s hands and washed away responsibility by paying her a high salary. They too were guilty of both stupidity and neglect. A career is important but if it is all-important, there are many ways to decide to not have children.

The sad part is that the baby may be irreparably harmed by the drugs given and even babies can feel when they are loved as against when they are toted around like a sack of potatoes in the glaring heat and the dusty roads. What did he do to deserve this? The answer to that is simple – he was just being and in this day and age, who has the time to care for him?

The right lie

I teach my kids lying is bad. I tell them that if they lie they lose my trust and respect. I also tell them they will be found out by Mother no matter how smart they think they are. But, honestly, lying is necessary and it’s vital to learn the skill of the ‘white lie’.

I am, by nature, a poor and patently obvious liar. I get flustered, embarrassed and fidgety when I say a blatant lie. A little one is okay and I normally use those to get out of slightly sticky situations. On the whole though with my rigid upbringing, I am happier saying the truth primarily because it’s a hell of a lot easier.

In a society filled with people of various kinds, it is advisable to learn this skill in order to survive and so I am trying to draw up a blueprint of the kinds of situations where its okay for my kids or anyone for that matter to lie provided they do so in a sincere and convincing manner. Here’s two of what I’ve come up with so far:

1. Someone who has a figure that is best hidden under layers of sackcloth is wearing an outfit that leaves much too little to the imagination is walking towards you and you are bravely trying to keep your face straight (this is just an acquaintance and not a close pal). At the meeting point, a third party walks up and exclaims “Ooh! XYZ – you are looking hot today!”. Do you

a) Say something nice with the same degree of enthusiasm?

b) Mumble something that could be taken for a compliment since you smile mightily as you mumble?

c) Say nothing because it is so difficult for you to lie since it brings on nausea?

d) Wiggle your eyebrows and say “Yeah!”

e) None of the above - you actually try diplomacy and truth together.

Answer: Go for either option ‘b’ or ‘d’. Option ‘b’ has its merits since the person being complimented isn’t likely to have gotten down from her happy state and so you have a good chance of getting away with it. Option ‘d’ is the easiest and they both have the advantage of you not having to actually lie. Option ‘e’ will simply get you one more enemy for life and if you can’t lie, you already have enough enemies to last a few lifetimes.

2. You have seen what is possibly the worst dance performance in history. You didn’t want to attend it, but you are expressly requested to. During the dance, the performer manages to fall twice. After the event, despite your energetic side-stepping, the ‘dancer’ asks you in front of a crowd whether you liked her performance knowing full well that it puts you in a spot. What do you say?

a) Wonderful – I have never seen the likes of it.

b) You fell twice and had no grace or elegance– you should not do this again – in fact I will pay you not to do so.

c) I went into a trance and failed to see anything.

d) Isn’t it awfully hot today? Where is that rain?

Answer: If you are a good liar, go for option ‘a’ otherwise ‘d’. With ‘d’ it’s always safe and it implies ‘b’ if the person feels inclined to think about your answer.

Note: This is a custom situation but it could very easily be extended to singing, speeches or any other performance related activity.

There are many more situations in school, at work or in the neighbourhood where your ability to lie quickly and effectively could mean the difference between social acceptance or total exclusion for you and your children. So keep your skill honed with practice, with simulation of possible situations and by reading plenty of fiction and you have a bright future ahead of you. I am planning to write a “How to lie for the inveterate truth sayer” book in the near future – till then – happy lying!

A life to live for...

She sat in front of her mirror and tried to smile. It came out pathetic and slightly lopsided. Her face was not what she wanted to see. She wanted to see a different Maya. That person had vanished over 20 years ago. She was looking for someone who simply did not exist anymore. Each time she sat down at her dressing table, she suffered a sharp pang of disappointment. She knew she was growing older and there was nothing she could do about it but that was not what bothered her.

Just this morning she had sent her husband off on one of his innumerable business trips. He was into sales at a manufacturing company and had always insisted he wasn’t in control of his schedules and that he had a demanding job. He also adroitly hinted that she didn’t appreciate the amount of hardship he had to undergo to keep her in the luxury she was accustomed to.

She smiled to herself. How she hated the idea of his ‘sacrificing’ nature! But who would believe her? She was effectively in a gilded cage branded as being an anxiety ridden mentally unstable woman and indeed to a certain extent she now believed herself to be so. But she wasn’t this way twenty years ago. Her husband with his ever smiling facade had managed to fool everyone. There was not a single soul in the neighbourhood who would believe that he was in reality a completely different creature. The ladies who walked past her house every evening exchanging gossip, holding potluck lunches and complaining about household help mocked her openly and not so openly. ‘A neurotic middle aged woman with too much time on her hands’ was the kindest description they would arrive at. The sad fact was that the definition was all too true. Yet her husband was also responsible and his ill-treatment of her continued to go unnoticed by everyone else. She was trapped by her insecurities and the fear that her daughter would be lost to her – so she stayed.

She stayed though she knew that her husband had had innumerable affairs and actually kept a second flat in the city for the purpose of entertaining his mistresses. He could always just say that he was being forced to stay with a crazy wife and that she wouldn’t give him a divorce. Women always fell for sob stories. He would simply enjoy them for a while and then give the excuse of his wife’s dementia getting worse as the reason for having to put an end to their sweet relationship. Maya’s lips twisted into a bitter line at the thought of what she continued to put up with. The irony was that she herself had fallen in love with a classmate all those years ago and married him against her family’s wishes.

The mirror still showed her the aging face of a middle aged woman who had scanty hair that couldn’t cover the conspicuous bald patch on her head. She started losing hair when she began taking the pills – pills for high blood pressure, pills for anxiety, pills for allergies, pills to restore beauty, pills to revitalize, vitamin pills and then sleeping pills. It would be an easy matter for her to take just a few extra pills and end her miserable life. Her daughter’s face appeared in her mind. Her love for her was her only reason for existence but soon she would leave for college and then maybe find a partner on her own and then these empty rooms would haunt her. Shouldn’t she take her final step now rather than wait for that horrible loneliness to hit her?

The instinct to live however is not weak and survives most attempts at self-destruction. Slowly she moved away from the mirror and thought hard about how to pick up the ruins of her life and move on. Her husband must not have the final victory. She must not distress her daughter anymore with her fits of hysteria. She must learn to be a different person – one without her weaknesses but instead with a new strength. She did have someone to live for after all – her new self.

The samosa man

The traffic was noisy and the dust and fumes as eye-watering as usual. The ring road connecting the suburbs of the city was always busy. The lorries were the main polluters followed by the buses and the auto rickshaws. Thick grey clouds of smoke billowed from their rickety exhaust pipes and the noise was at the usual deafening level. I sat inside the car with the windows up and ran my eyes desultorily over the whole picture.
The kids were singing aloud to some song in the car and my husband was sitting near the opposite window looking out. This particular signal was a pain – it took too long to change lights and that meant only a few vehicles could inch along at the junction. We settled ourselves for a bit of a wait. The regular troop of vendors came out and started selling their wares. One sold guavas – ripe and unripe. I have a fondness for the strongly flavoured fruit but have never actually bought any from the on-road guys. They have a huge tray on which the fruit are piled in a half-cone with a little bowl of chilli powder and salt together with a knife that has probably never been washed even once in all the generations of its service. You can buy the fruit cut as is or cut and sprinkled with the chilli and salt. The guava guy is generally quite popular.
The next guy to walk by the car with his goods on display was the ‘car wipe cloth’ guy. I usually call him that because my driver invariably wants to buy the bright red badly dyed pieces of cloth that he sells in order to wipe the car. My precious sharkskin leather piece goes unused and fluffy cotton goes ignored in favour of the red threadbare towels. These highly-prized towels always lose colour and when my driver is feeling particularly energetic, leaves red stains on the car upholstery as well. But he cannot be moved - white is out, only red will do.
We also get a visit from the friendly neighbourhood hijdas or persons of mixed sex ( I honestly do not know the politically correct term for that) who prefer the motorcycle crowd. They rub their hands all over the poor victim and shimmy closer in their outrageously low-cut blouses teamed with filmy saris - if the guy is not forthcoming with the money, they then make lewd gestures and pronounce curses on the poor guy for the next couple of generations. Funnily enough a ten rupee note makes a quick appearance after the curse and all is well with the curse being withdrawn and effusive blessings given in their stead.
The samosa guy is a regular. He sells the south Indian style samosas which are triangular (not conical) and have a thin crisp skin and some sort of unidentifiable filling inside. He walks in between the lorries for the drivers are his best customers. He tries his hand at selling to the others as well. He walks quickly and purposefully while balancing a heavily and artfully laden tray of samosas, dodging the odd cyclist and perpetually moving scooterwallah who is always on the lookout for the smallest gap between vehicles. Suddenly I hear my husband laughing. I asked him what was so funny. He tells me to look at the samosa guy carefully. I see him wiping a sorry looking samosa on his shirt and then blowing on it before carefully replacing it on his tray. I missed the first part during which the samosa had rolled under the car in front of us and he had dived to pick it up. I couldn’t help grinning. Real street food indeed!
The light finally turned green long enough for us to pass and move on to the next signal where more slices of life awaited us. The next time you are in Bangalore and on the ring road, don’t forget to look out for the spunky samosa guy and more importantly, don’t get the urge to try one of his crisp samosas!

Gorby

I used to know this cat. She was an occasional visitor to our place – she preferred the capacious ‘tharavadu’ situated a little to the south east of our house. She looked aristocratic so it seemed fitting that she live in a traditional Kerala home rather than in a modern day concrete affair like ours. So we called her “Thamburaty” (Thambu for short) which in Malayalam means a lady who is the head of a noble house (we Nairs are matriarchal so women were traditionally more important). Now this lovely cat was very elegant and spotless white with black tipping only the tail. She would come on the lazy summer mornings and I would talk to her – she would listen for a while and leave. This became a sort of routine. I was about 14 at the time I think and loved cats dearly.
Thambu appeared a number of times that hot summer and one day I heard a pitiful pained mewling from the loft. There was no easy way to climb to it so I ran outside, climbed the ladder to the terrace and peeked through a slit next to the top of the kitchen wall – there she was, our friend the queen, licking up three tiny little kittens. That was the beginning of our succession of cats. It all started with lovely Thambu...
The three kittens were very different in sight as well as temperament. There was Gorby, Spotty and Tiger or Tigu for short. Tigu was a wonderfully cute kitten. He was chocolate coloured with darker stripes and looked exactly like a chocolate tiger and hence the name. He was active and so ridiculously funny when he was seriously stalking a frog or some such creature for he was tiny and never did grow much before he died like so many of my later kittens. In those days, we didn’t have any knowledge about the diseases that could take the lives of cats and veterinarians in that backward spot only dealt with cows – cats were a waste. Spotty was not very lovable. She was white with three spots of black on her head on the left side – it made her look rather asymmetric and while she may have had a good enough nature, I never really had a bond with her. It is her children however that kept Thambu’s line going so I do have a soft spot for her.
Of course my all time favourite was Gorby. He is the reason I write this story. I called him Gorbachev simply because he was white and had an odd shaped black mark right on the centre of his head just like good old Mikhail Gorbachev did. I like to believe he was more than a cat because he had a very highly evolved soul. Generally tomcats (stray ones, not pedigreed ones – just the ordinary ones who would have died outside your front door had you not taken them in) don’t stay at home – they come to eat occasionally if they were hungryMore often they’d get their own meat and would just come for a look once every few months and then there would be no sign of them. Gorby was from the very outset, quite different. He was a house cat and did not show any signs of being ashamed of it. He was very well behaved and did not jump into the communal bowl of milk like his siblings. He was obsessively clean and licked himself like there was no tomorrow. He was also amazingly intelligent.
When Gorby and his brother and sister were very small, we’d get them into our huge hall and move the furniture to the side and play with them. We’d get them some little thing like a bit of string or a small ball or even a small pencil and drop it or wiggle it around. The three would jump up arching their backs and attack. It was hilarious. The string would metamorphose into a snake and Tigu would act very superior when he managed to subdue it. The ball would be too much for the playful kittens and they’d each bat it with their paws and start in surprise when it moved – they’d zoom after it only to slip and slide and land upside down when they hit the sofa or someone’s foot! This always happened because the floor was smooth and they never know how to control their speed. My sister and brother and I would be organized into three sections. One person had to keep the kittens engaged the other would watch to see they didn’t get hurt while I would hold a rolled up newspaper and deliver a running commentary while the kittens played their version of major league soccer. Innocent and cheap entertainment which also called for a little imagination like most of our modes of passing time in childhood.
Gorby was a wonder and a delight. He loved going for walks and would tag along whenever I had to go anywhere close. He would bound to the front and look back as if beckoning while I made my way through the dense grass and wild shrubbery that seemed to spring out of the earth constantly even if we tried to get someone to remove it on a regular basis. Gorby would walk all around me as I made my way to the communal well to get the pump started (to fill our water tank) and then we’d take a little time and walk around slowly so he’d get to investigate his little interests on the way back.
I swear there were many times I felt that Gorby understood whatever we told him and sometimes intuited more. I especially recall one incident involving my elder sister. She would study on a need-to-pass basis so she always waited till the last week before exams and then went overboard. She would tell everyone to call her at 4 in the morning and then go off to sleep. I slept on top of a bunk bed in those days with her on the bottom bed. He promptly walked in at 4 the next morning and jumped onto her stomach after mewing softly and getting no response. He then kneaded his claws on her tummy to get her attention and wake her up. She yelled and turned over but he persisted till she got up. Whether she studied or not, he never knew but he went away satisfied that he had done his bit in making sure she would do college!
I remember how gentle he was with one of us kids if we were unwell. He would sit close by and keep us company through our fever or stomach-ache and had the gentlest expression on his beautiful face. I have never seen a cat that could emote like Gorby. How devoted he was to the entire family as opposed to regular cats who only thought of people as their meal tickets and slaves!
We had Gorby for a few years before he started showing signs of an illness. His beautiful coat began to lose its shine. He lost weight and wasn’t overly bothered about grooming himself. Worst of all he developed a huge festering sore or canker of some sort on his right ear. We tried cleaning the sore and putting in antibiotic powder but it only got worse like an exposed cancer. He looked like a ghost of his former self and our pity seemed to wound his dignity even more. Then one fine day he just walked away never to come back. I never saw his body or found out where he went. This was a cat who never left the house for long and I explored all his haunts and found nothing. A part of me wanted to believe that he was away having a great time somewhere but I knew very well that he had passed and chose to go away and do it quietly with a minimum of fuss. Even as I write this story down, tears come unbidden to my eyes. I cannot forget my lovely Gorby who felt like a soul I had known before in a previous lifetime. Words don’t do justice to him and the delight he gave us by simply being. I hope Gorby is back in some other form and having a blast in his current incarnation. Rock on Gorby!