Out of sight, but always on my mind....

There was a time when I hardly spent time with my Ma.  I was studying, teaching, volunteering, managing our household (finance, maintenance etc.), and having fun with friends, all at the same time. So, when I was ready to wrap up for the day, I would be tired…and Ma too sleepy.

When my professional life started, time was scarcer. First, I left my home town for work-related training…and then she left the country to live with my sister. There were work deadlines, different time zones….and life was too fast-paced for both of us. She was always on my mind, but not always part of my daily routine. I told myself that I would slow down when she got back. I would imagine the two of us sitting in our living room….having a chitchat every morning, while dunking our Marie biscuits in tea (something we both enjoy), before I left for work.

But then the wedding…and the relocation…..and the new job….and the settling down….and the kids (two of my sister’s and one of mine) happened. And although we did get several lazy mornings (while I was on maternity leave) when we had our chitchat over our morning cuppas, things had changed.  There was always the awareness that she had come to visit, and would eventually go back.

As the grey hairs started to become more noticeable on both of us, the realisation dawned. That spending time with her wouldn’t ever be as easy as walking to the next room. It would involve planning, preparation, budgeting, tickets, visas, time off work/school etc. It’s the price I will pay for the rest of my life (and I know many others like me do too), for choosing to call a faraway land my home.

Today, she is more on my mind than she ever was.  Every time I check the time, I involuntarily spend a few seconds thinking what she must be up to. Has she gone for a walk? Is she watching TV now? What did she eat for lunch today? Is she spending some time to learn how to use her new smartphone, as she promised me she would? And although she doesn’t know this, I feel like I spend more time with her than any other person I see every day.

I do call her every day (almost). Even it’s for a couple of minutes. Sometimes, I call just to tell her that I can’t have a long chat that day. Just hearing my voice brightens up her day, I know. For what more can we do? We, the children who live far away from our aging parents?

There’s actually a lot we can do. We can write letters, send flowers or birthday cards. We could buy them something they would never buy for themselves – like a smartphone or a flat screen TV (my old TV works just fine, she would tell me).  Or perhaps a tiny photo gift – a coffee mug with the photo of the grand-kids, which they would display with pride in their living rooms (and value more than the flat screen TV). We can offer to pay their bills online. We could speak on the phone to their doctors or carpenters or even the maids. What’s the point, you ask? Well, according to my Ma, when I spoke to her doctor at one of her regular visits, she felt so relieved because it was not up to her alone to ask all the questions and get the advice.

We could arrange for someone to take them for a medical test they have been feeling anxious about (sometimes, they feel too conscious to ask for help). We could get them involved in a community project, where they could teach underprivileged kids at home, or take them out for a picnic. We could get their favourite meal delivered at their doorstep (thanks to online orders). We could send them a movie ticket….and one extra, to take a friend along. Or money for a little indulgence (my Ma likes having facials at home J). We could send them a postcard from every holiday we go to. Better still, we could take them on holidays. In short, our parents should be part of our bucket lists (“see the Kanchenjunga with Ma”) as well as our to-do lists (“make a list of Ma’s medicines and stick it on the cupboard where she can see it easily).

So every time I hear someone say “What could we possibly do for them, living so far away?”, I come up with a dozen things in my mind.  All we need to do is use our education, imagination and friendships to get things organised (all three of which, we ultimately owe to our parents). Our parents don't need a lot from us (not half as much as we needed from them in our growing-up years). True, I have also heard of parents who can never be satisfied and pressurise their children with their demands all the time – stuff for another post. But for the vast majority, our parents never actually "ask" for anything but our time. For ultimately, it’s not living far away from their children that they fear the most. It’s the thought of being forgotten.

A silent prayer...

Sarla had only ever worn hand-me-downs – ill-fitted, faded and even ones with rips that had been carefully stitched up by her mother. Her mother had an old sewing machine, their source of livelihood.  She would sew all night by the oil lantern – petticoats, blouses, little dresses. Sarla often begged to try the new dresses on. “I will be careful, I promise. They will never know I tried them on.”

“They won’t, but we will”, her mother would always say. “They trust me with their beautiful fabrics. It’s not ours to try on.”

But the thought of wearing a new dress kept haunting her. She would stand outside shop windows and gaze at the beautiful dresses for hours. The one with the polka dots was her favourite. The other one, with lace round the neck, was pretty too (and looked very expensive). She skipped lunch most days, trying to save money for a new dress. But given they never had any breakfast, she would be too hungry by midday and give in to buying a puffed rice mixture from the roadside vendor.

After school, she would run small errands for a lady in the neighborhood - give her a head massage, paint her nails or run to the grocer’s to buy her essentials. In return, the kind lady would give her a biscuit with tea…and sometimes even let her paint her own nails with expensive nail polish. If there was anything she loved as much as the thought of a new dress, it was painting her nails.

One afternoon, when she got to the lady’s house, she found her swooning over a set of new curtains that had just been delivered. “Quick Sarla, put these up. I can’t wait to see how they look!”, said the lady. The new curtains were a bright red fabric, possibly some sort of faux silk. They filtered the afternoon sun and cast a beautiful red glow in the room. And while the lady beamed with pride and run her fingers over the smooth fabric, Sarla had her eyes fixed on the old set of curtains she had just taken off. The afternoon sun had faded their colour, but the polka dots on them was unmistakable.

“Sarla, my dear, would you please fold the old curtains and keep them away in that corner cupboard? I’ll put them up every time the new ones go for dry cleaning.” So Sarla did as she was told. Except, she didn’t keep all of them away. She brought one home.

She told her mother that the lady let her have one of her old curtains as a reward for mounting the new ones.  Sarla had learnt to lie. She stayed up all night watching her mother sew a dress out of the curtain fabric. And when her mother found a small piece of lace that was left over from a previous job, Sarla knew straight away that she wanted it round the neck, just like the one in the shop window.

Sarla now had her dream dress. But she could never step outside wearing it. So every day, after her bath, she would wear it at home, admire herself in the mirror and then carefully fold the dress away. And every time she did this, she let out a silent prayer – for the new curtains to never get dirty.

Of first pets...

My first pets were four lovebirds. I named them Tuni, Muni, Mou and Tushi. Not sure what I was thinking, as two of these - Tuni and Mou, were male. I was later told that names don't mean a thing to them....so they wouldn't have problems with their gender identity. What a relief!

Baba and I got them from the Shyambazar markets, early one morning. I was probably 8 or 9 years old then. When they got home, we discovered that Tushi wasn't moving at all. She was alive and awake, but simply wouldn't move. I broke into tears, thinking I had somehow hurt her foot in transit. Determined to make it right (as mothers usually are), Ma took her out of the cage and rubbed Amrutanjan on her leg (I'm not kidding). Within minutes, Tushi became the most active bird in the cage (whether that was her personality or the effect of Amrutanjan, we could never tell).
She was also the first to lay eggs, which never really hatched because her clueless lover Mou, thought they were little toys and kicked them around like a lunatic.

I have several such memories of my loony lovebirds, who have now become part of our favourite family stories.
Today, we brought home Shanaya's first pet, Rojo (meaning "red" in Spanish). Here's hoping he gives her stories and memories that will always bring a smile to her face.

Edited to add: Roho died on the 18th of July 2017. We buried him in front of our house, and said a little prayer.. S keeps asking me if fish turn into fairies when they die. I do not know. But I know that Roho will always hold a special place in my heart.

Our wanderlust wall

Our wanderlust wall. Red bindis to mark the places we've been to together. Here's hoping that we always find a way to add more dots...

Come, let's tidy up

My scribbling on The Indian Express on Aug 14, 2016:

Come, let's tidy up...

Conversations with My Little Girl

Oct 16, 2016

"Mummy, put on the 'bubble base' song", says my 3-yr old.
"I don't know which song you mean", I say.

I try looking up nursery rhymes, nevertheless...hoping I'll find the one she means.
Turns out she wanted "I'm all about the bass".

Quite relieved she thinks that the lyrics say "bubble base".
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Sept 21, 2016

Shanaya: Mummy you're hurting my ear.
Me: But am not even touching you, Shanaya.
Shanaya: But you're hurting my ear by talking.
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Sep 2, 2016
Shanaya: Me hot. Mummy, you not hot.
Me: What? Where did you learn that from?
(aghast at her honesty and her ability to judge female hotness at 3yrs of age!)
Until I realised that she was feverish. And I was not.
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Aug 24, 2016.

Me: Shanaya, I can’t sit here for an hour at dinner time, poking your cheeks to remind you that you have stored food in one corner of your mouth. You need to chew, swallow and take the next spoonful.
Shanaya: Mummy, no need. I can poke my cheeks…see?
And with that, she pokes the little mound on her cheek and chews for a whole one second. The swallowing and taking of the next spoonful did not follow. But she is convinced that she can single-handedly manage the poking of her cheeks.

On "growing up"

As kids, we were often awestruck by certain things that grown-ups did and thought in our heads "When I am able to do that, I'll be a grown-up".

I remember two such things -- drinking tea from dainty (and very fragile) tea cups (our drinks were usually served in plastic tumblers...so those Corelle cups always held my fancy).
The other thing was folding sarees neatly within seconds. I often watched Ma do it....and tried it myself several times later. But never without burying myself in a pile....clueless about which side to hold up and fold.

That day, I folded all my Puja sarees away while talking to Ma on the phone. Later, I realised I didn't even need to pay attention to the task. I just did it effortlessly.
It was a strange feeling. I could see myself as the awestruck little girl...only, this time, I was looking at the grown-up me.

While I have been a grown-up for years now (too many years!), this totally mundane task was like an epiphany. Not only was I folding my Puja sarees like a pro, I wasn't feeling the usual pangs of sadness that always marked the end of Puja for me as a child.

I had grown up indeed.

Waiting for fairies in our garden

This post is part of the Letters to My Little Girl series.

Dear Shanaya,

You will probably forget all about this weekend. So years from now, when you are reading this, I hope it makes you happy. As happy as you were helping Mummy and Daddy with setting up our backyard garden.

This weekend was about several trips to the local nurseries, getting our hands dirty in cow manure and potting mix, playing with water guns in the backyard, chasing bees in the morning and waiting patiently for nightfall when the garden fairies would visit.
You were such a big help, pottering about the backyard, singing songs that you made yourself.


Our garden is complete, well in time to enjoy the colours of Spring. I really hope the fairies you're waiting for, come visiting soon.

Lots  of love,
Mummy

5 ways using Google can harm you…

Writing this makes me feel a bit hypocritical. A part of me lives on Google land. I am one of those who would have Google on speed dial, if I could. And that is why it has become blatantly obvious to me that this “having-information-at-my-fingertips” is harming me in more ways than one.

I can no longer lose myself in anything – No matter what I am doing, watching, eating, drinking, hearing, saying….I am forever taking mental notes like “must find out more about this later”. Occasionally, I can’t even wait for “later”. So I’d google a historical era while watching a period drama (and end up missing a few scenes). Or I’d keep my book aside and look up the origin of an unfamiliar word. And of course, when a TED Talk or TV interview fascinates me, instead of watching it till the end, I put it on pause and instantly google the speaker’s spouse.  Always the “spouse” first, in order to see who these charming people find charming (and subconsciously check out how “available” they are). Curiosity may not have killed the cat, but it has surely killed my ability to “be immersed”.

I am a scaredy-cat – My Google-dependence grew worse during my pregnancy. My search history looked something like this:
• Should a pregnant woman eat prawns?
• Should a pregnant woman sit on the floor?
• Should a pregnant woman eat prawns while sitting on the floor?
OK, maybe not the last one. But you get the drift. I was neurotic, and let Google feed me morsels of fear and caution every minute (so, very little space in my tummy for prawns anyway). The point is, stories of deaths, diseases, accidents, lawsuits, heartbreaks, medical malpractices, recklessness, fear and hopelessness will find their way to you more easily than the positive stories. Medical websites (and “online” doctors) thrive on our curiosity, and the more we read, the more convinced we are that the harmless-looking rash on our skin is actually the first sign of leukaemia.

I don’t talk to people as much as I used to/would like to – What’s the point of having a real conversation when most of my questions are answered in the virtual world? You mean to say…you still call your mum to ask for recipes? And on moving to a new neighbourhood, do you ask your neighbour about the best local markets? Good for you. I want to be more like you. Seriously.  I hardly tap into the pool of knowledge and experience of people I know. I end up (and it sounds so stupid, even as I type this) getting information from face-less strangers in the virtual world than from people who love me, wish me well and would be more than happy to help.

I am lazy, boring and shallow – There was a time, when I used to write down reading notes. Excerpts, quotations, names of places and things that struck a chord. In the process, these things got etched in my memory…and I could often recite a verse or think of quotes and trivia, appropriate for the occasion. But then came Google. And I stopped making an effort, because I could “always look it up when I need to”.  I have stopped using the part of my brain that could store information and produce it on demand. This has also made me a sceptic. Every time I see someone post a picture on social media and caption it with a beautiful quote, my mind goes “Come on, you just looked it up because it would make you sound deep. It’s not like you actually read Oscar Wilde ever.”

I have lost my spontaneity and sense of wonder – Gone are the days when we just packed our bags and set off for a long drive to the country-side. With no planned destinations or stop-overs.  We’d discover little cafes, revel at the wild flowers that greeted us, walk into desolate memorial grounds and spend hours reading epitaphs. Now, I make sure I know when the wildflower season is….which cafes are the most popular…and which famous people were buried in those graves. I know this, and more, months before we actually go on that drive. Not surprising that I am not surprised at anything anymore. There is very little sense of wonder…in fact, there is this annoying feeling of déjà vu, which isn’t even déjà vu. It all seems familiar… not in any beautiful, mysterious way…but only because I have seen pictures of it on Google, when I was “looking up” things to see and do.

Dear Google, you have been a friend…but you have made me pay. And although I can’t think of any better place to say the classic “it’s not you…it’s me” phrase, I’ll just say that we’re both to blame. You have placed the world at my fingertips…and I did not resist the temptation.

Our song

(Part of the Letters to My Little Girl series)

Dear Shanaya,

You and I may not be the best singers (or music composers) on the planet, but we sure do have an “original” song under our belt. It’s a song that we sing in chorus, when we are happy. It’s the song I sing to you, when my heart bursts with love…and I just want to cuddle you tighter. It’s the song you sing to me, perched on “your” bar stool in the kitchen, as I wash dishes or cook us a meal.

The lyrics may not be very “inspired”, but you and I couldn’t love it more. The song has only three words, by the way, which are sung in a few different tunes J.

My version – My Chiku, My Chiku, My Chiku, Re

Your version - My Mummy, My Mummy, My Mummy, Re

In the darkest of times…

Or when we’ve had a fight…

I hope this song plays in our heads, and takes us back to those lazy afternoons....those early morning cuddles....or those cold evenings under our blankets....just you and I.

Love,

Mummy

P.S. You have just learnt to sing Do Re Mi, and want to sing it in loop all day.