Hopeful New Year

New years are like birthdays. They mark time in a way that is meaningful to people. Every single day time passes us by with the majority of us doing that which would probably go unnoticed. We go about, creatures of routine, going to work and coming back, taking care of our children or our homes or our pets, our ‘fun’ days earmarked by tight scheduling, our perspectives of happiness gleaned from the lives of those around us or from movies or billboards. We are told that this is the time to change for the better. There is immense pressure to ‘do’ something special to commemorate the passage of time that you know you have not spent wisely. I wonder why it is so. Its fun to celebrate whenever you feel the need for it. I sometimes wake up happy for no reason. I also wake up terribly sad with every thought going determinedly in the downward direction despite every distraction I can think of. So, we are in essence creatures of whim. Why then do we celebrate New Year on cue?

The answer is that it is always good to introspect. Look back at the past year and examine what within you has changed for the good or for worse. I have become tougher because I have had to deal with tougher challenges. I have become more persnickety and less patient perhaps because I am growing older and have no time for the kind of foolishness that actually hurts others. Today I look back and feel real sorrow for not writing my book this year. I feel remorse at all the times I could’ve handled situations better. I feel pride at doing things I never really knew I could do. I also feel a certain level of weariness that I have such a long way to go before I can ultimately rest.

New year’s day is a celebration for many but it always leaves me pensive. A look over the shoulder to moments of happiness, to days that are best forgotten, to the empty pages that haven’t been filled, to the kids growing up, to the increase in depth of old friendships, to the understanding that comes only from having lived a life against tough odds – that’s what New Year means to me – a reckoning, a taking account, a pause to reflect, be grateful and then move on. One day at a time. Hoping to make a difference in at least a handful of lives. Hoping that one day autism will be easier to tackle. Hoping that I have the courage to write the way I want to. Hoping that gratitude finds its way into my heart every day. Here’s to a New year filled with hope…

Then and now

-->

I was recently reading an article that spoke about how the matriarchal system prevalent among the upper caste communities in Kerala (excepting Brahmins who were decidedly patriarchal) evolved and then disappeared for various reasons – one of them being the introduction of prudishness by the British. A woman could even choose whom she shared her body with and there was no questioning her choice. We are talking of a few hundred years ago but the matriarchal system was in vogue in some form or the other as late as perhaps 70 years ago or so.

Looking around at the women in Kerala and the family I married into, I wondered how in the space of hardly a few decades, we went from women holding all the power to women scurrying around like rats working both in the office and at home. Of course many women work in Kerala – we are the most literate state in the country after all but they are expected to do everything at home and they don’t have the final say in what happens to their money. I know my mother-in-law didn’t. I know my mother never had her own money but my father put everything he owned in her name – I never knew why. Perhaps he knew he would be the one to pass away early.

I grew up hearing stories of how my great-grandmother ruled her household, how she would sleep with an iron ‘kathiyaalu’ or cleaver underneath her pillow to scare away potential burglars. Her husband was a Namboothiri would sit where he was told to and who visited only for obvious reasons. He had no say in how the children were brought up. He had no say in how the house was run. Typically, only the eldest male would inherit the house in a Namboothiri family. The younger ones would marry Nair women whose children would then inherit her property thereby freeing everyone from battling over property and assets. My grandmother too was wedded to a Namboothiri scholar who was lackadaisical in his interest in the family. After five children and terrible struggles she dragged him to court and divorced him. It was hard for her to provide for five mouths by herself but she worked hard and did everything she could. At 90, she still tells us that no matter what, a woman should have her own career track – if she has no job, she would be at the mercy of some man or the other. My mother was far more domestic but I wish now that she had followed her mother’s advice. She might have had years of independence instead of the self-styled cocoon that she entombed herself in at 53 after my father passed away.

I too have never been financially independent except for the few years I worked. I couldn’t leave my kids to others because my son was not that easy to take care of – he had loads of energy and inexplicable (at that time) tantrums and he wouldn’t sleep. It meant an almost zombie-like existence and a lonely, friendless life during the best years of my youth but I have come a long way since then. Writing has been my savior. The ability to discover some river of strength deep down, in the face of my own negativity and the lack of understanding that came at me from the people I expected to help me the most, is what kept me going. Now I have no time to say I don’t earn – I still don’t of course but that is a choice. I work at my school for empowering autism. I run to the office started by my husband and keep an eye on things. I run my home and take care of my children and cook endless meals. The home and children are totally my responsibility since my husband is away three weeks out of every four. The one week he is here, we do everything together. And I don’t mind the work, because anything is better than feeling helpless.

It saddens me to see the way women have been reduced to nothing more than glorified maids in the part of Kerala that I am familiar with. They are now made to marry some random stranger, to reproduce on cue , to never revel in their sexuality and to function in the service of the menfolk be it their husbands or sons. Such a fall from stardom. I feel suffocated whenever I visit Kerala despite my attachments. In Bangalore, in spite of the pollution, I breathe freer.

At the end of it all, I am my grandmother’s granddaughter – the one who knows she can fight it alone if need be but will not buckle down in the face of lesser minds - the one who is not willing to give up on her dreams. Perhaps I should’ve been born in the time when women ruled. That would certainly have been something to write of ;)

Chipped Happiness

I have an old, slightly chipped mug that I bought maybe ten or so years ago for less than a hundred rupees. It was on sale. It has a picture of a steaming glass of back coffee in it and the legend ‘café’. I, of course, prefer to drink tea in it. My tea is as ordinary as the mug in which I drink it. Its not green, lean or mean. Its just ordinary tea boiled with milk and sugar. It suits me. The mug I mean. And the tea.

One day while I was out for lunch, I ordered a cup of black tea with a slice of lime. I don’t like the way tea is made with bags in lukewarm water with some indifferent milk thrown in at the last moment. So, I specified – really hot water only please! And they obliged. Served in the cutest little teapot nestled over a cup, was my tea. I loved that little teapot. I asked them where I could get one like that. Many months later I happened upon something similar but far more delicate – in Mysore. So I got two of them and came home happy.

Much like many of my impulse buys, this too stayed in my crockery cabinet because it was too ‘nice’. I buy pretty things and then never dare to use it. I suspect I got this characteristic genetically since my mother has a ton of stuff she got for the house in Kerala thirty years ago which is now in bad shape; much like the house itself which stands forlorn in its neglect. I decided today that I was going to change. I didn’t need so much stuff. I would follow the Japanese de-cluttering queen’s example and keep only things that would ‘spark joy’. So I pulled out my teapot-cup and measured some organic stuff flavoured with ginger into my teapot which was first rinsed with warm water. I take pictures of the little pot much to my daughter’s amusement and silent mumblings of “Its about time Amma”. I sit down and pour myself a cup and try to look serene for that is not my natural look I assure you.

I take one sip and its all wrong. The organic whatchamacallit was bitter or rather it left a bitter aftertaste. The cup while pretty, did not have the right balance so it was not easy to drink out of it. I felt no joy. Back went the teapot-cup in its nook in the cabinet. I apologized to my chipped cup and had my tea with a simple breakfast – in that very cup.

So what did I learn today? I didn’t need something fancy to drink in. Having a pretty thing doesn’t necessarily spark joy. I like chipped cups that feel right in my hands – that warm me up on chilly mornings – that let me treat them any which way I want depending on my mood and continue to be there for me because they know how much I love them.

Always the new attracts us and promises us that it will make us happy. For a fleeting moment, we believe that in possessing it, we will have something we have not had before. The truth is that you already have everything that you need to be content (reasonably so at least). Adding mere things will not change anything. If you cannot be happy with what you have, the chances are that you will not be happy with anything more either. So I shall stick to my chipped mug of happiness – what’s your chipped mug trying to tell you today?

Conversations with self

My body and I are currently not getting along. We seem to have a horde of differences. I try to be reasonable but my body is clearly not seeing sense. Today’s argument went something like this:

Me : You need to get a bit tougher. I mean look at the number of back aches over the years. It’s a bit embarrassing. My 90-year-old grandmother doesn’t have as many back aches as you do!

Body : (rather tartly) You spend most of your time sitting or standing. You don’t take me swimming or cycling or anything that makes me feel valued. Your grandmother can do more work than you so don’t give me that crap. Blame yourself – learn a new exercise. Walking in slow motion doesn’t cut it anymore!

M: I walk at er..average speed. I am doing all those superman, cobra, get on all fours and extend myself like a fool exercises, aren't I? I don’t know how to swim and I can’t find a teacher to save my life. Besides I need to shape up before I squeeze myself into the swimsuit I bought !

B : (muttering) By the time you shape up even this damn swimsuit will be too tight for you.

M : I heard that ! You are supposed to be on my side. Why do you betray me at every turn? I only tried to get the milk from the fridge and you fold up like a banana peel !!

B: It’s a two-way street – I can’t help you if you don’t actually do something.

M: (with a painfully sore ego) Forget the backache – what about this rash? I look like an eruption of pink sand dunes! I am not allergic to anything so how do you explain this huh?? I can’t go to work. I scare the neighbourhood cats if I show my face and now I have to invest in a burkha all because of you!

B: You should’ve thought of that before you piled gloop on me for two hours in an effort to tame your weird frizzy hair. Too much gloop and you got a viral infection. Hence the rash – a two-year-old could follow this simple logic but you persist in being stupid.

M: Yeah you know it all don’t you! Now all I can do is sleep since I am on two different allergy medications. Who will do my work for me, huh? Tell me that!

B: I need a break – you never listen to me – you don’t give me enough water and you eat just enough to keep me going. How am I supposed to get any rest when you read till 1 in the morning? I have had it with you – I’m going my own way.

M: Er…how would you do that? You are my body after all.

B: Oh so now you are being possessive eh? Don’t objectify me! Treat me like I matter and thinks will go swimmingly.

M: (wincing) Don’t remind me about the swimming bit – I hereby swear I shall do my best to value you – howzzat?

B: Well it’s a start. Now go drink that water!

Black coffee mornings...

I’ve stopped having tea in the mornings. I avoid milk as much as I can. I don’t feel like having one more of anything when it comes to food. But I do have a renewed affection for black coffee sweetened with jaggery. It is the flavour of days long past.

My father loved his black coffee. He could drink it at any time. He could drink any number of cups of it. He even used to joke that his dark complexion came from the coffee and told me he used to be fair as a child. I found that quite funny. For me it was a forbidden drink when very young so I ached to try it.

I was a very odd child. Knowing that mornings were my best time, I woke up early and took out my books. I must’ve been 14 or 15 then. My dad woke much earlier than me and seeing me up, would make black coffee for both of us. It was a ritual. We didn’t speak much. We sipped our coffee and he would walk to the Ashram while I would study for an hour or so. The rest of the household woke much later.

Today, as I sit sipping my black coffee and wonder why I have lost the will to wake up early and enjoy my day, I wish I had my Acha around just to tell me that it will all be ok. I wish I could see him enjoying the first of endless cups of coffee. I wish I could wake with the sound of his prayers in my ears and in my heart. I wish so badly that he could see his granddaughter for he had passed by the time she was born. She too loves coffee in a tea-drinking family. As I cradle my morning black coffee, I feel connected to my father for a few fleeting moments and I can almost feel his roughened hands stroking my hair as he passes by on his way to somewhere else.

Walk the talk...

The rains had just woven their magic. The heat had slipped away into the night. The air was cool and fresh. I wanted to walk outside. Mahi knew I walked alone always but she asked if she could come with me. Usually she and her dad have these long chatty walks at night but he is away three weeks out of four so she does miss him.

 I had been working on too many things and been away for hours at a stretch. Its school holidays for the twosome so they were pretty much bored. I don’t have help with Appu so if I am out at meetings, he simply does what he wants which ends up in him zoning out so much that I get scared. I find that even when I get work I love to do, I have to think twice about attending meetings or taking on extra work. Sometimes I wonder why I am not allowed to have a life of my own even after so many years of back-seat existence. Always I have had to forget my likes and do what was best. Always. I did resent it many times. And then I tell myself – I’m a mother – I can do anything.

Mahi was in the mood to talk. I listened to her after stilling my wandering mind.

“Amma, I don’t mean to sound weird but have you ever imagined Appu being like any other boy. What would he do? Would he act anything like this?”

“Well, initially when he was very small I just wished he would sleep like a regular baby or not be hyper or just give me a break. But now I don’t imagine him as anyone other than Appu.”

“Amma, I keep trying to picture him that way and it doesn’t work. He wouldn’t be Appu. He wouldn’t be so attached to me. He wouldn’t be with me so much – right?”

I smile at her. “Is it hard for you Mahi? Knowing you always have to keep an eye on him? Do you miss having the kind of brothers your friends have?”

She shrugs her slender shoulders. “Not really Amma. Appu is Appu and he’s my brother. I will always look out for him. He loves me a whole lot. He's a really good brother.”

I nod and walk beside her. My heart is full and my throat closes up.

We talk some more. She wants to know why she never has loyal friends. She wants to know how I make friends easily. I tell her I don’t. I am lucky to have a handful of friends who are true to me. She too will find such friends over time. Time and difficult phases can filter out good friends from the kind of friends who don’t stick around. Also one thing you learn when you grow older is that its good to forgive as often as you can. Learn to say sorry when you goof up. If you miss your friends, call them and talk. Let them know you are thinking of them.

She nods thoughtfully as we head back home. Once inside she gives me a tight hug and thanks me. She wants to do it again the next night. I nod and hug her again. I look at how tall she has become and how very pretty. I thank her for being Mahi and I hope very hard that she never outgrows her need for  Amma.

For the love of a brother

-->

It was one of those Saturdays. I had to rush about all day. Morning saw me making breakfast, waking the two teenagers who seem to be sleeping more than ever and left with no time to make lunch. I ran off to various errands and meetings after telling S and the kids to have fun. They went out to eat and shop and chill. By the time I got back at night I was bone weary.

Too hot to sit on my recliner, I plopped myself on the floor and closed my eyes. I was tired. I had my period so there was no one position that I found comfortable. I had a ton of work yet to be done and most importantly I had to teach Appu because no matter whom I leave him with at home, no one will take the trouble to teach or read or just play with him differently so that he can learn something new.

I wanted to curl into a ball and  lie on the floor but I bit my lip and decided to get on with it. Mahi asked me if I was ok. I said yeah just a bit tired as moms generally are. She got me a glass of water. I was telling my husband that I would try and make Appu read at least a bit or I wouldn’t be able to deal with the guilt. A day lost for him is a day I cannot replace. S told me to take a break and do it the next day. I refused. By the time I gulped down the water, Mahi was back. She said, “Amma, you sit right here. I’m going to read with Appu today.”

I was touched.

“Are you sure you will have the patience baby? Its not that easy.”

“I just want to help. I can do it Amma.”

Off went my little girl. I told her which book to pick and I sat in the living room with my eyes closed listening to them read. It was all about giant octopuses. Appu seemed somewhat interested. He would read and then she would read the same thing so that he would understand how the words were pronounced. She jumped and pranced about telling him what the words meant. She would come running to ask me how to explain some word or the other and I would tell her. She would then go back and add to it memories of movies, trips, other stories so that he could compare. Appu grew more animated. He seemed at ease reading with his sister.

Forty minutes went by. I was still on the floor. My eyes filled up as the oh-so-different voices of my children filtered their way to my heart. I was lucky to have a daughter who set out to help without me asking her to. I was lucky to have a son who could still laugh his child-like belly laugh at the silliest things and who adored his kid sister. My tiredness vanished. I got up and went to Appu’s room to see two happy faces shout out “Finished Amma!”. Appu got his break for being cooperative and Mahi got the biggest hug I could give her.

For some, autism is a thing to be ashamed of and swept under the carpet. For Mahi it’s a fact to be accepted. She may never have a brother like her other friends but she is all the stronger for knowing that she has a brother who will love her like no other.

Not words

I ask myself sometimes what it would be like to live a life where autism did not play a part at all. It would be different certainly. I would not be on edge every moment as I am now. I might have had fewer grey hairs and looked less tired. I might have smiled more. My daughter might have had an elder brother who would always take care of her instead of the other way around. But then I don’t really know, do I? A life without autism may appear to be easier and it probably is but if there is one thing I have learnt over the years, it is the simple fact that everyone carries burdens and hurts that may or may not be apparent. Wishing for something different may not be a bad thing but thinking different is always easier may lead to more disappointment.

So over the years, acceptance has seeped into all of us in this family. Mahi does not ask why she has to stand up for her brother always. My husband does not speak of the moments he probably wanted with his son but instead works harder so that he leaves him with a safety net – perhaps because this is the only way he knows how to show his love. I don’t complain about the fact that a constant high alert mode is taking its toll on probably every cell in my body – instead I find moments every day where I can learn to let go. It is all a work in progress.

I have also learnt to view with gratitude the little things that make life light up when I least expect it. A hug from my son who knows exactly when I need it the most. Stumbling upon lovely bronze chrysanthemums in some shabby roadside nursery that I then lovingly plant and fuss over. Watching how my little girl moves magically about the house warming my very soul. Had things been different perhaps I might have noticed little moments less and focused on what the world in general focuses on. Now I have much less materially but a lot more in terms of experience. I have a hundred stories in me that are clamouring for release. I have a self belief that comes from trying so many things that I never thought I would ever try. I have had to be twice the person I was just to be able to cope.

In spite of how life has wended its way to a place where I can start appreciating its beauties, there is one thing that I will always regret having – it may be inconsequential in the larger scheme of things but I want it so badly I can taste the longing. I want to be able to share my words with my son. I want him to understand who his mother was. I want to be able to share with him the beauty of words and how they can capture what is hidden. I want him to lose himself in a book. I know its too much to ask so perhaps its better if I try and understand his colours and patterns instead. I have to keep at it and maybe one day I will understand the language of ‘not words’.