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?

In praise of the ordinary...

Can one be inspired by the ordinary? I used to think that the very fact of existing in a quiet and routine fashion would deter creativity. How much could one write when all around was just normalcy perhaps now and then tinged with pathos or humour! And yet I have managed to write something or the other for years – it doesn’t matter if anyone reads it – the very fact of being able to write while leading a humdrum life is quite a feat. Of late I have been wondering whether I have enough in me to write my dream book however. 

Obviously anything I write would have a basis in fact and the facts I have lived with or have observed aren’t extraordinary or earth-shattering – they are commonly known truths. The characters I see around me are ordinary too – it is only perhaps in the way I can depict them that a measure of interest may creep in. The instances of joy or sorrow in my life too are not unique. What then can I write about that would make anyone want to read my stories?

A recent movie that I saw made me think more about celebrating the mundane. It was quite an eye opener that made me view the little notes I wrote about everyday life in a new light. I always write about the ordinary. I always learn little lessons from them. I always take joy from what to another would seem almost inconsequential. A perfectly made cup of tea, or the appearance of tiny green grass to replace the yellow patches in my lawn, the ringing laughter of my children, the look of appreciation in my husband’s eyes when I drape myself in a sari – simple things to make my heart sing. I write about these – with the desire to celebrate life’s little pleasures. I also write about the pain of misunderstandings, of incessant worry over a child one has failed, of relationships one must say goodbye to. It is after all these nuggets that make up one’s existence.

The reason I loved the movie I saw was the way the ordinary was portrayed and perhaps that’s why I continue to write about regular life – to portray that subtle beauty. My stories or observations may not be unique but my words and the thoughts behind them are definitely different. Maybe I have been ignoring the beauty of simplicity in my efforts to find a perfect theme to write about. I write about reality – not the elevated, convoluted kind – the simple everyday kind. Why then do I see that as something to be apologetic about? Is it possible to be taken seriously when one only wants to tell the world to look around and see the miracles that happen with every beautiful sunrise? I don’t know really but maybe I should start to find out...

Revelations.

Have you ever experienced a moment of revelation in your life? I have gone through a few but they are rare occurrences. The moments I am talking about are ones that provide great insight into a subject that you have up until then thought of only in one way. Of course there are many times when a simple change in point of view is brought about. Sometimes its a friend who makes you see things differently. Sometimes its words uttered by a child that turns your thinking around. Sometimes its the words in a book that jump out at you. I am not talking of those moments. I am talking of a moment when you are sitting quiet and suddenly a thought of such startling clarity and simplicity flashes into your mind that you are astounded that you had never known it before.

I remember clearly one day about six years ago when I had such a moment. I was brushing my hair in front of the mirror and for the first time in many years, actually paid attention to the reflection before me. I couldn’t recognize the colourless creature I had become. I did not seem to care how I looked. I did not have the joy of living anywhere about me. The worst part was my eyes – they were pools of disinterest. They looked lifeless. That’s when it hit me that I was so unhappy and that my days consisted mainly of following a forced routine so that I didn’t get much time to think about my unhappiness even for a minute. 

And just like that I made a promise to myself to start living life with interest and perhaps a bit of selfishness – with the desire to fill myself with joy and to be a better wife and mother by actually allowing myself to be happy. That one moment changed me in a big way. I went out and got myself a job. I made friends after years of being cooped up in a house. I remembered how to laugh, how to go out for an occasional lunch just for the heck of it, how it felt to be part of a team.

Another moment came to me a few days ago. I was grappling for days with the hurt from the fact that someone whom I cared for could leave without apology or even a word of closure. I understood the need for it of course but I prefer always to close the loop with my friends. It leaves less of a bad taste in the mouth and one can actually deal with it quite stoically. I wondered how it was so effortless for some to close their mind to things they didn’t wish to contemplate. I wasn’t very clear-headed about the fact that sometimes there is no point in even trying to figure out what goes on in another’s mind. I was even bitter to some extent that I, who pride myself on being quite smart, made yet another error of judgement. If I was hard on my friend in my mind, I was rather merciless on myself. 

This then was what was going through my mind when all of a sudden I had this revelation. It didn’t matter. My purpose in life wasn’t to keep hurting when I did stupid things. Clearly I would never stop doing that! My purpose in life was to be happy doing the things I love with the people I love – not with the people who perhaps never understood me at all. My purpose was to fulfil every promise I made to my family and to myself. My purpose was to move on always despite any odds and to do so with my head held high. With the revelation came a detachment as well. Only I had the power to make me unhappy and from now on I would forever choose not to. 

I love these rare moments of clarity. I don’t relish the turbulence that my mind goes through before the calm hits it but it is all worthwhile to feel that blanket of utter certainty envelop you. Once you experience these moments, you look at everything in your life with more appreciation, you learn to be grateful – most of all you learn to respect yourself for the new understanding that floods your being. Here’s to more revelations....

Weeding...

I woke up pensive today. I was trying to eject some patently unpleasant truths from my mind – those truths that I was not yet ready to accept. I grew quiet and restless and looked out the window to my front lawn. It had rained the previous night and the grass glowed as though lit from within – the soft greens calmed my too-tense mind and I went out to feel the grass on my bare feet.

I love to walk on the damp and springy grass. I love the way it tickles my sensitive toes. I like the cushioning feel of it – it’s a sensory delight. I noticed that a whole lot of little weeds had sprung up in the last few days and so I sat down determined to eradicate them all. While I was on my knees carefully pulling out errant weeds, my maid and little Riya walked by. Riya muttered something to her mom and promptly joined me on the lawn while her mother entered the house.

She watched carefully as I pulled out the stubborn little weeds and then proceeded to mimic my actions perfectly. She couldn’t pull them out by their roots since they were quite tough despite looking deceptively delicate but she picked the right ones to tackle. We worked side by side with an easy camaraderie – I, as usual, lost in thoughts and she, watching me like a hawk. After a while she decided to change tactics – she picked up and disposed of the African Tulip flowers that bespattered the lawn like blobs of orange paint on the vivid green of the grass. 

That was easier and a lot more fun for her – she could run around happily while doing her tasks. Once done with that, she came close to me and put out her tiny hand palm upwards. I looked up at her and smiled and placed the weed I was currently pulling into her hand. She closed her fingers tightly over it and ran to keep it away in the corner. Each time she would do this and come back with a huge grin. Each time I would hand her another plant I pulled out. We both liked the game and my lawn was looking prettier by the minute. 

I spoke to her in Malayalam and she cocked her head at me like a little puppy. I knew she didn’t follow what I said but it was a comfortable routine and we both liked it. Suddenly she squatted next to me and pointed out something that was growing at the edge of the lawn right beside the hedge. It was a long, ethereally delicate mushroom, with a silver stalk and a golden brown dome. She made to pull it out and I stopped her and simply looked at it for a while. How lovely it looked - slim and sparkling with moisture like a precious gem. “That must be what love looks like” I think to myself – for love is hard to describe and yet when you find it you know what it is instantly. I pull it out and hand it to the discard pile. There is a place for everything in life and in my lawn. And just like that my mind grows still and calm like a pond with no ripples at all in it. No more pensiveness – just an all-encompassing acceptance.

Our job done, Riya and I walk back inside together. Tomorrow we will do this again…