A girl is raped, a girl dies,

the old year draws to a close.  And the hotels, bars and restaurants anticipate the moolah from ‘packed to the rafters’ New Year’s bashes.  And people will party till they stumble home in a blurry haze of booze and bonhomie. And the girl will be a topic of conversation, but the party will still go on.  And the roads will be thronged by drunken hooligans while the police will sarcastically advise that women should stay home or be prepared to be groped.  Keeping the streets free and safe is not an option.  Not on New Year’s Eve; not on any other night or day.   

And, before too long, the girl will become a memory. Until another girl or woman is raped.  Because life goes on regardless. Because it is not our mother, sister, daughter. Because such 'news' begets a transient attention span. Because one horror replaces another in quick succession.  Because we have abjured our values so that we no longer see the image and likeness of God in creation.

Because rape is just another silent scream.

Knee Jerk!

How quickly we react, how easily we see in black and white only, and how easily we pass judgment. But is it really that simple? I’m going out on a limb here with what would be considered as outrageous by practically everyone who has lapped up the media reports that have appeared over the past two weeks.

Let’s take the first.  A prank call, a lot of smug laughter, some chaffing, some backslapping (for those that pulled it off) and wide media coverage.  At that point it was still a prank to top all pranks! And then the laughter turned to censure. Just like that.  What an awful thing to do! How irresponsible! The pranksters are now considered criminals.  Irresponsible, certainly. But, criminal?

Let’s look at the picture a little more closely.  Two people impersonate public figures and make a prank call.  They do not know who will take the call and they probably expect to be sent off with the proverbial flea in the ear.  The nurse on duty makes an error of judgment, and the prank goes viral.  The unintended ‘victim’ becomes a joke.  Suicide follows. 

Now look at a mother who has to choose between remaining a national joke for probably a very long while (certainly among colleagues and friends) and being there for two children whom she is raising and loves very much.  Hard choice?  Probably, but only if you are already close to the edge.  A nurse’s life is not easy: graveyard shifts, the responsibility for life, taking tough calls, dealing with extreme illness, dealing with death. And, in this particular case, a duty that allowed a mother to connect with family only once in the week: the kind of life that would take its toll on the strongest of persons, physically, mentally and emotionally.  So, was the prank the cause of suicide? Or was it the last straw? Think about it. Then, whom would you hold responsible? 

Soon, the headlines change dramatically. We hear about the massacre of the innocents.  The one thing that should be a certainty is that children should always be safe: at home, in school, on the playground – everywhere. A while ago I read a novel titled ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ which has so many parallels that, in hindsight, it is almost predictive in its content: an exclusive affluent environment, a child that is different and who prefers to be excluded, the murder of a parent (and a sibling) and the massacre of a class in a truly gruesome way.  

So where lie the answers? Because, surely, there are questions that need to be addressed; issues that need to be confronted and assurances obtained that such an abomination will not happen again. 

Could we find it possible to look at the perpetrator as a victim? Or is it just too convenient to write him off as a psycho – someone monstrously evil?

Look again at the child who was different.  A broken family (the school had a Psychiatrist that had to help children with issues ‘that they were unprepared to handle’ and these were children in the age group 5 – 10!); a father who left; a mother who seems to be the tough cop’s daughter and who taught her boys how to handle a gun (the choice of guns sounds more like a male statement than an option for security) and there is nothing more powerful than the feel of a gun in the hand – alone you are vulnerable, with a gun you are invincible; a closed neighbourhood that sent out a message that they were perfect in an imperfect world.  

To me, this is the story not of individuals but of a society that demands more – much more – in terms of who you should be, what you should deliver and the image you have to maintain.  It is the story not of individual crime but of collective error. We need to turn the mirror on ourselves and face the truth.  We need to retrace our steps and find the wrong turns. We need to ask ourselves the tough questions and accept the tougher answers.

When it comes to being as we believe God meant us to be, we need to stand tall and call the shots.  Without using a gun.

Hairspray!

It should have been a happy recall of those bouffant times, when we teased and sprayed our hair into impossible ‘beehives’ to stay in fashion, until brittle hair and threatening baldness made us realise that natural fall and bounce was the right way to go.  Instead, it was an evening of muffed lines, flat voices, a mike system that copped out more than once and a storyline that was robbed of its punch because of all that.  ‘Hairspray’, the musical, may not be among the better known or as sing-a-long as the Lloyd-Weber offerings, but it does have catchy tunes and chirpy lyrics.  Despite being set in the sixties, it still has a young flavour and the message is still valid.  Though black/white segregation is mostly a thing of the past, discrimination is not, and even ‘impossible’ dreams can be realised. 

After two hours, my immediate reaction was ‘what a waste of an evening!’ And then I overheard the director and teachers telling the children how well they had performed and there were congratulations offered all round. That’s when I did a reality check.

Here were school kids who had never ever done something like this: acting in a Musical and essaying parts that were as alien to them as the Man in the Moon. Okay, so they did stumble at times, but the one thing that came through was their one hundred percent commitment to the performance and their total enjoyment – they were onstage, in the moment and lovin’ it! And every child in the school had their spot in the limelight.  How cool was that?

Those schoolchildren may never ever sing or dance onstage again (or they may – who knows?), but they will carry the joy of this moment with them for the rest of their lives and probably hand it down to a future generation.

So, what’s more important: a flawless, professional performance or the happiest school time memory?

It gets harder…

It gets harder, everyday, to say goodbye…

And it’s the ordinary, the everyday that makes it so.

Today, I saw a couple engaged in conversation, so absorbed in each other that they were oblivious to all that was around – we were like that too.

Today, I felt the nip in the air and the coldness of a dog’s wet nose and I laughed and turned to share.  Did you know?

Today, as I made my morning cup of tea and fetched the paper and planned the day, I wondered what you’d make of it.  This is what we used to do.

Today, I sat with the team and proofed the Advent Booklet and tried to be as meticulous as you taught me how.  We worked together the very same way – grappling with space and layout, floating ideas, feeling the same triumph when the light bulb clicked!

Today, was the first day I turned on the Christmas carols while I worked at the computer.  Softly, so as not to disturb the neighbours just like you said.  How you loved this season.

And today, I started on my crochet decorations.  Red, white and green.  And I imagined that impish grin on your face as you delighted in the expectation of the bounty from yarn and hook.

Soon it will be the first day of Advent and the first recitation of the Christmas novena.  You used to keep count for the fifteen repeats.  Now, I will use my rosary beads.

And when the year comes to an end, I’ll play Auld Lang Syne at midnight just for you.

Christmas

The theme for our Faith & Discussion Group’s next session is ‘Christmas – what it means and how we prepare for it.’  We are expected to introspect and present the result of such introspection, to share and discuss with the rest of the group.  And the discussion can be quite lively and enlightening, judging from past experience!

So, Christmas.  I got to thinking.  What first comes to mind?  Well, the practical things like getting the house cleaned – always a mammoth task which involves long handled brooms, mops and dusters and the murky depths of cupboards which are turned out with a will to the accompaniment of ‘ughs’ (something mouldy), ‘eeks’ (probably spiders), ‘oh this is where it was’ (something misplaced) and ‘you can’t throw that away’ (usually a garment well beyond its wear by date) among other familiar sounds. Then, there are the Christmas cards to buy.  At least this used to be on the ‘to do’ list.  Nowadays, its email, sms and FB.  The cards had to be written, addressed, some with a photo tucked in and mailed before the Christmas rush at the Post Office. Thankfully, I never made sweets but the order had to be calculated and placed.  New clothes? Not essential but usually on the list, particularly when shop windows tempted. Carols in the air either in the home courtesy the CD player, or at practice for the Carol singing rounds, or at the concerts that are a fixture every year – Catholic Gym, Alfy at the NCPA and the local Churches.  Closer to Christmas, haul out the tree, the hangings, the lights and the crib.  What else? Nothing much really, except to look forward to Midnight Mass and the parties that follow.

And that’s ‘Christmas’?

Not quite.  There’s Advent – the time before Christmas.  From the first day of Advent, we recite the Christmas Novena – a family tradition.  Though it is prayed just once a year, ‘Hail and blessed be the hour and moment…’ comes back word perfect. It is a memory, a link to and a reminder of that very first Christmas. There is also more to Advent than the novena and the wreath – another lovely tradition – but we are rarely attentive to this inner preparation when the externals overwhelm by ubiquity.

Ten years ago, I had written a brief reflection on Christmas as my contribution to the prelude to the prayers of the faithful (no, it was not used).  While going through stuff (yes, Christmas clean up!) I came across the typewritten sheet and I think it worth the sharing (even if I am in error and liturgically incorrect). So here goes:

Every year on this night, we gather together to remember God’s gift to us – the Holy Babe of Bethlehem who brought with him the additional gifts of hope, love and peace.  Today, when peace seems a forlorn prospect and faith in the promise of Jesus’ birth seems futile, we need to remember that gifts are only given; they need to be accepted and opened before they can be known and possessed. Each passing Christmas challenges us to open these gifts and share them with the world.  If peace and love seem to diminish, it is probably because the gift is still unwrapped and ignored. 

Gifting at Christmas is reciprocal.  And what better gift can we give than that of ourselves – we who have been ‘loved into being’ in image and likeness.  Perfect in God’s eyes.  We can bring ourselves to the humility of the stable and experience firsthand the gift of Mary’s womb, the strength of Joseph’s protectiveness, the shepherd’s simple and wondering adoration and, since I am an animal lover, the caring presence of the ox, the ass and the doves cooing in the rafters.  

And, by visiting the babe, we too will receive our gift.  All we need to do is open and share it.

Taking myself for ‘Grant’ed…

Ethnic classification is a big deal.  “Where are you from?’ will always be part of a first conversation, directly or indirectly, sooner or later.  Or, enquiries will be directed at the colour of your skin, your accent, the way you dress, your attitudes and, since these are all characteristic of who you are, they define you not just as a person but define your background as well!

For very long, I moved in familiar environments – everyone knew me well and so I did not have to answer questions of ethnicity. Now, once again, I move in different circles and the questions are floated afresh: ‘Are you a foreigner? Are you really an Indian? What do you do to stay so fair? How come you do things the way you do? Where does your accent come from?’ Everything is under the scanner, up for scrutiny and fair game for analysis.

I love to throw in a few personal definitions for good measure. I tell them I’m a little bit of this and a little bit of that, a patchwork bedspread, neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring, a mini-UN, a peace front for what used to be inimical nations (British, German, Indian!), a three part harmony.  

So, what does it mean to be Anglo Indian? For one, I am not tied to customs and traditions. While I love to observe from the sidelines the various rites and rituals that define a community - the links in the chain of generations – I am at the same time relieved that I am not bound by such observance (or, certain rules and regulations!)  I confess that I am sometimes the cause of anarchy.  Take for example my school classroom (a very new and learning experience).  Schoolgirls, it seems, need permission for everything.  This results in a lesson being punctuated every now and then with, ‘Miss, please may I drink water?’  Accustomed to adult postgraduate class where everyone, including the lecturer, can sip quietly from glass or bottle without interrupting the flow and concentration, I was fazed – thrown completely off balance.  At the back of my mind was an irritated, ‘Do you have to ask?’ Now, I tell them, ‘In my class, if you need to drink water, just go ahead and do so.  Just do not interrupt me.’ The girls will soon have to manage a balancing act to remember what they can and cannot do in which teacher’s classroom!  

It is typically Anglo Indian to be different and to be highly individual.  This may not have been so with the first generation of AIs who would have tried to fit in with either or all of the cultures they represented, but strong rejection led to the very distinctive identity that evolved – standalone and devil may care! If there is anything that is ‘customary’ it is that we exist in the moment, live for the day, carry no baggage and are totally spontaneous.  But we break no laws. And, yes, we are thick skinned considering the criticisms that we invite for the way we are. 

We have often been termed butterflies in the derogatory sense, and I find this amusing.  Butterflies live for just one day, but in that day they fill the air with colour and motion that are enchanting to behold.  And they infuse every moment with the useful contribution of their whole self.  One does not forget an encounter with butterflies.  Butterflies are God’s gift. And butterflies are free.

P.S. The title is a pun on my maiden name ‘Grant’!

PPS: Someone asked me, recently, what diet I observed to stay fair!  I was tempted to say, ‘Lots and lots of potatoes – eat white to stay white!”  Now that’s an AI response for you!!

My childhood was a song!

And it’s a recurring melody.  I have just hummed my way through Que Sera Sera, Little Sir Echo, Mockingbird Hill, Look to the Rainbow, Somewhere and Wooden Heart. (Once again, thank you YouTube - I am young again).   It’s amazing how the lyrics come back almost word perfect.  And it’s also amazing how new lyrics suggest themselves too.  Here’s a sample (I’ve called it A Teacher’s Song!):

Sit down, be quiet;

Oh, please don’t be so rude!

Sit down, be quiet;

Be nice as li’l girls should!

Sit down, be quiet;

You must obey the rule.
Though life is no party

School could be so cool!

Children are lovely,

That’s what I was told.

Children are playful,

So happy to behold.

Little girls are sugar

And everything that’s nice.

Ribbons and pretty frocks

And life that’s full of spice.

On the day I came to school

This is what I found:

Lots and lots of little girls

Running all around.

“Miss, she took my bottle”

“Miss, she pulled my hair”

Little voices shouting loud

Here and there, and there!

Little girls as good as gold

Is truly quite a myth.

They can throw real tantrums

And make me have a fit.

And though I sometimes roll my eyes,

And shout as loud can be

I wouldn’t really change a thing -

School’s pretty fine to me!

Repeat: Sit down, be quiet....

Do you think they might listen?

Serendipity….

The gift of a book coupon found me searching for Kitab Khana.  A helpful assistant at the end of a phone line directed me to Davar’s College and a brisk walk later found me on unfamiliar familiar ground.  The area had been a haunt in earlier times, but the years in-between had wrought changes.

I expected to find the usual tired entrance lined with dusty shelves and well thumbed books – a memory from past visits to other stores.  Instead, I was greeted by a frontage straight out of a movie (or a dream?).  Bemused, I entered upon a most delightful scene: books on shelves, books on display, books arranged here, there and everywhere. Crisp, newly minted, fresh off the press books.  Hardbound, paperback, spiral bound books.  Colourful, sober, titillating, serious books.  Books of every kind. The silence was welcoming as were the comfy sofas, some already occupied by browsers with noses deep in – yes - books.  And, the fragrant aroma of printed paper intermingled with that of freshly brewing coffee from the coffee bar at the end of this huge Aladdin’s cave. Or, heaven.

Like a child in cookie paradise, I skipped from display to display lifting covers and sampling snippets.  I was certainly going to use that gift coupon: what I wanted was that one special book - one that would count as both a discovery and a memory.  I came across old friends among the titles and encountered many new ones and then, almost at the end of the ‘cavern’, I found it. The illustration on the cover and the intriguing title brought on that old familiar feeling – love at first sight! 

Among my treasured experiences are the verses of Ogden Nash and Hillaire Belloc and the quirky humour of James Thurber: the ultimate gateway to imagination, the involuntary chuckle and the Walter Mitty experience (if you haven’t had that, you’ve really missed something).  And now, I have added Shel Silverstein’s Where the Sidewalk Ends. A turn of the pages takes you to a magical, whimsical place where the author says what he means and means what he says with childlike honesty and adult wisdom. Who could resist this invitation?

            “If you are a dreamer, come in

            If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar

            A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…

            If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire

            For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

            Come in!

            Come in!”

           

Have you ever sat on the seashore at sunset and imagined an enchanted place beyond the horizon? No? Then, be tempted.  Do it.

Hello….

…my friends won’t you sing with me?  Yes! I’m in a cheerful mood.  Music does that to me and I’m finding a lot of it on the Net, together with an overflowing bucket of nostalgia.

So what am I listening to? Old forgotten childhood songs, all reprised on YouTube.  One remembrance leads to another and from ‘Where have you been Billy Boy?” to “Oh dear what can the matter be?’ to ‘The bear went over the mountain’ to ‘Down by the bay’ – and beyond – I’ve been humming along.  And the lyrics have been coming back (like a song!) too. Silly songs, lively tunes make for a cache of treasures.  As the memories flood in, I am amazed at the amount we learned and sang as little ones.  And if YouTube has it, the songs will be carried forward at least for another generation.  Clap if you like that.

Aiming to enlarge the repertoire, I did a recce on the Net (now, that’s one voyage of discovery that can keep one engaged for a lifetime) and came up with a whole host of new and even more delightful songs by people who are happy to share. I made a connection, too.  And thereby hangs a tale.  I searched by keywords using ‘children’s songs’, ‘songs for children on themes’ and so on.  One of the sites threw up a lovely little number – catchy lyrics, catchier tune – about one of the many ‘cycles’ in nature.  But there was no sheet music, so I took a chance and emailed the author.  Bonus upon bonus, he not only sent me the sheet music by return, but was most chuffed that his music had reached the opposite side of the globe.   Now, he wants a clip of the children singing his song.  I think that means I have a goal! So do the children. The name of the song? ‘Can you make the connection?’ It’s about a fruit bat, a tree and you!!

At present count, I have more than eighty songs playing over and over again in my mind; enough to keep me singing for a long, long, time.

In the words of that universal children’s favourite, I’m happy and I know it, so I’m shouting ‘Hello’, ‘Buon Giorno’, ‘Ola’, ‘Namaste’, ‘Guten Tag’ ‘Kalimera’, ‘Bon Jour’ ..…!!!!!

A Tangled Thread…

TANGLED!

My blogs these days seem much of a piece – all about school.  But that is where my head is and where I am urging my heart to follow.

Each day brings something new, a high, a low and an in-between.  A child who will smile, a child who will frown, a child who will be more stubborn than a mule.  The mule I would ignore. The child stays with me even after the school day is done.  What could I / should I have done differently? Why was that one child so determined to challenge authority?  And why do I have to keep laying down the law?  A neat, tidy, orderly and silent classroom seems so at odds with lively, squirming children!!  But how lovely is the noiseless room, with minds engaged and thoughts abloom (even if they are all about getting even with the teacher!).

Singing class seems to be more about letting off steam than learning the tonic solfa and oh how they love their action songs. Even the ‘big’ girls!! When they’re happy, they really show it from the clapping, to the stomping and the screaming.  Next week, I’m planning on teaching them homemade percussion: if noise appeals then why not go the whole way? (A variation on ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’!)  I remember the fun we had, as children, tapping teaspoons, shaking little boxes filled with rice or hard grain and blowing through combs covered with tissue paper.  If you can think up any more impromptu ‘instruments’, do let me know.  (We also tapped teaspoons on the rims of glasses of water filled to different levels – when you got it right, you created the sweetest sound.  But we are too many, and glass and water can be so accident prone.)

And then there’s the crochet which is more ‘is not’ than ‘is’.  Teaching 60 plus students to simultaneously put hook to wool and turn out identical perfect stitches is the stuff of movies and dreams.  The variations on a stitch that I encounter are more the stuff of nightmares.  Perseverance is a virtue that both teacher and student need and I’m resolute, persistent, unrelenting, firm about reaching the goal!!

But there are the diversions.  One student managed to get a factory wound perfect ball of wool into an even more perfect tangle.  ‘Miss,’ she wailed, ‘HELP!’  I brought the yarn home and spent the best part of an hour following one end till it met the other and I had, once more, a well wound ball of yarn.  It was a happy shade of yellow and while hands were busy, my mind dwelt on the weeks gone by. Sitting and untangling the thread was somehow peaceful and yes, amusing!  And the student’s joyful whoop, ‘THANK YOU” was more than enough reward. 

Though I am still bemused by where I find myself, I have stopped wondering about the path, no matter how tangled. Like Theseus, I hold one end of the thread in my hands, but I know that the other end is firmly in God’s clasp.  And when the ends meet, I will be a perfectly wound ‘yarn’.  (Pun intended!) 

P.S. I finally managed to ‘draw’ using Paint.  My work of art? TANGLED!!

Dear Diary VI

When I ‘meet’ a new author and that author appeals to me, I tend to go on a spree.  I liked Fr. James Martin’s ‘My Life with the Saints’ so much that when I came across the title of his other work, ‘Between Heaven and Mirth’ I pounced on it with alacrity.  Fr. Martin has a lovely chatty style, laced with humour and he keeps the brain engaged: my kind of author, my kind of reading.  I thought the second title would be a laugh a minute.  It’s not.  It is a pretty deep lesson on the link between humour and spirituality.  A slightly different take on the maxim: rejoice in the Lord.  And it made me reflect, remember and relive the gladness in my life.

Can you think back to those times when you enjoyed a belly laugh at good clean humour that did not offend?  Something that cleared the air, refreshed the spirit and left you feeling re-energised? 

I can recall one incident so very clearly.  Hubby and I were in a gift shop that sold odds and ends including posters and signs.  I suddenly spotted one that called forth a spontaneous guffaw much to his embarrassment - everyone turned to look at me and then at the sign.  Suddenly the whole shop was filled with chuckles.  The sign? ‘A minute could be very short or very long depending on which side of the bathroom door you are.’  A statement I can truly appreciate and that goes for everyone who has known limited loos and long queues. Yes, it felt good to see the funny side and I mentally applauded the creator.

Fr. Martin also tackles the question of whether God (the Saints) and humour can be mentioned in the same breath (my paraphrase).  I wonder that anyone could possibly doubt that.  In nature one finds the awesome (the truly awesome and not the casual adjective that is scattered around today), the beautiful, the lovable, the joyful and yes, the comical.  God created the platypus. Surely he must have been in a playful mood?  I can feel the happy chuckle all the way from the beginning of creation!  

Have you never been subjected to the cheekiness of monkeys (yes, they can be annoying too)? Or watched a puppy chase its tail? Or caught dolphins leaping for sheer joy? Or spied a line of ducks waddle past? It’s a long list – no room here. I am sure that our Creator intended that element of delight for all of us to savour. The trouble is that we are usually too busy to notice. We also expect power to be cantankerous, and we tend to view the Divine with human eyes. We must certainly amuse God even when we exasperate and sadden.

Here’s one for the road: one of the resorts, at which hubby and I vacationed, boasted a tame pet monkey by the name of Canute.  I treated him to a handful of nuts to coax him into friendship.  He took the nuts, checked that he had collected all that was on offer, gave my hair a hard tug for good measure and scarpered. Then hubby went for a stroll.  On the return leg, he paused at one of the garden seats.  Canute happily scrambled onto his knee and sat there for all the world as if they had been best friends forever (or brothers in a different time frame?).  I could not help but laugh at the picture they made – both with identical quizzical expressions! (Hubby had a way with animals, but that will need a separate blog.)

Yes, laughter is definitely a gift from God.  One that deserves a heartfelt ‘thank-you’.

Dear Diary V….

 …or T G I F: a phrase that is in every working person’s lexicon - those that do not work on Saturdays and Sundays, at least.

Once when a harried friend shot the acronym at me, I cheekily replied that it didn’t apply – every day was a holiday since I had taken premature retirement.  I did not have to wait to exhale or anticipate eagerly the ‘whew’ moment when I could shed bags, clothes and other odds and ends, knock off those pinching shoes and fling myself into a comfortable chair, and stay up all night watching what was on offer on the Movie Channel.  I had leisure in good measure and I used it wisely, or so I thought.  

The problem with retirement is that everyone assumes that you are ‘free’ and the requests for your time flow in thick and furious, and when you say ‘yes’ to one, you end up saying ‘yes’ to another, and before you know it, you are busier than before.  Some engagements are fulfilling – you enjoy them, you learn from them and you are left happy for the experience. Others leave you wondering whether you have suffered permanent brain damage.  I have known both and I am still sane and sober – I have survived. 

It’s funny but the ‘not so happy’ experiences are experiences too: they add to that vast repertoire of knowledge that the brain will store away and hopefully dredge up when needed.  I know that my bad experiences have taught me to appreciate the good ones, to know what to avoid, and how to deal with people and situations. For instance, a stubborn and willfully disobedient child may not require punishment but understanding.  When dealing with a classroom of 60-strong, very lively eight year olds, patience is usually thin or quite worn out and the first reaction is to ensure discipline that the whole class will not forget.  But later reflection brings on the questions.  Never having taught in school, I am troubled by the one child that will not conform.  Could I have dealt with things differently? How?  Putting my head together with other teachers and parents and even children, provides perspectives that may help me in future.  I am on a learning curve.

And then there are the happy children, the ones that will smile and laugh and say ‘thank you teacher for the new song’ or they will come up to you and touch your feet or shake your hand and wave out to you on their way back to class.  And your heart is warmed by their attitude even if the volume of their collective voices makes you wish for earplugs!

And then, of course, my weekends are once again appreciated as has not been done for a very long time.  Now leisure is a treasure and I thank God for Fridays from the bottom of my heart.

I Teach therefore I Speak

Some years ago, a friend of mine who is not so conversant with the finer nuances of the English tongue and who was a working mother at the time, told me that she had placed her toddler daughter in a ‘crush’ (sic)!!  I gently advised her that crèche was the appropriate word and pronunciation.  When I visited the premises with her to pick up the child at the end of the day, I realised that she had inadvertently bestowed the more appropriate title – a crush it was.  There were so many children crammed into the room that all you could see were an entanglement of little hands and feet and bobbing faces accompanied by an uproar of little voices.

Today’s classrooms are a spillover of this scene.  Not quite Dante’s inferno, but nearly there! What have we done?

The idea of education is practically as old as time.  Sharing of knowledge, and the ‘how’s and ‘why’s of the way things were done, ensured continuity and survival.  As people evolved and curiosity grew, the scope of knowledge expanded proportionately and each generation added its own layers.  The only difference between earlier generations and ours is that knowledge was the prerogative of the elite and was shared only with the privileged few.  The remainder were left in the dark, exploited as menials and deprived of rights since they ‘did not know any better’.

I like to think that it was the Catholic Missionaries who wrought a change; who realised that education and knowledge meant empowerment and in an ideal world, where all are meant to be equal, an equal access to education would make a sound beginning. Revolutionary? Yes!!  Catholic education has made its mark worldwide and ‘convent educated’ was, at one time, an unofficial ‘magna cum laude’.  Why the past tense?

A peek into today’s classroom shows us a Catholic education system that is a shadow of its former self.  No longer are we the innovators and propagators.  Instead, we meekly allow ourselves to be dictated to by an authority that has no business to be in authority. True learning and all-round development are slowly being stifled by a prescribed syllabus that has nothing to do with education.  The number of children per classroom is ridiculously out of proportion with the need for teacher-student interaction, and the powers that be need to be reminded that bricks and mortar are rigid by nature and therefore the number of desks and benches can only go thus far and no further. The well ventilated, airy classrooms so conducive to learning have been replaced by ‘crushes’ stuffed beyond the limit.

Add to this the underpaid and jaded teachers, an exam system that rewards a ‘learn by rote’ attitude, and an unrealistic pass percentage that aspires to 95% and over: it’s not surprising that we are churning out mediocre geniuses, by the schoolful.

On the other hand, among the institutes in the city, there are a minuscule few that happily and resolutely insist on breaking this mould.  Why are the Catholic schools – convent and parish – not among this number?

It’s time that we stood tall and reclaimed our heritage. After all, we were taught by the best teacher ever.  So, don’t tell us how to educate, we’ll tell you. 

Dear Diary – IV

Remember when you were little and grandma was snoozing and you were determined to be a tease? Grandma would seem to be unfazed by your incursions into her comfort zone and then all of a sudden, her eyes would fly open and her false teeth would pop out at you.  Scary! And the next day you would try it again to see if she would do it again!!  (I agree that my childhood memories may not be universal, but I’m sure somebody, somewhere will have experienced this.)

This morning a young dog, still at the very playful age, was urging an old dog to be up and at it.  It was early morning, the sky still grey and the weather damp from overnight rain.  The old dog sported a very grey muzzle and ears.  He ignored the youngster and rearranged his limbs with a deep sigh.  The youngster would not give up. Finally, the old one raised himself rheumatically on all fours and bared his teeth with a menacing growl. The youngster fled yelping down the street.  The old one shook himself (I’m sure I heard a satisfied ‘harrumph’) and settled himself back into snooze mode.  Some tricks still work. And the young dog will be back tomorrow. 

The juxtaposition of memory and incident was a welcome start to the day.  More so since the morning papers always seem to offer bad news, on top of bad news.

Today, at least one news item proved interesting: The East Indian dictionary. A resource that will provide future generations with information about the mother tongue that many no longer use. 

My introduction to EI-speak was via a recipe.  The final touch required one to run a greased belan over the surface of a cooked sweet ‘dough’ after it had been poured into a mould, in order to render it smooth before cutting into triangles.  What on earth was a belan?  A classmate at Secretarial School, supplied the answer: ‘rolling pin’.  She was, as I discovered later, an EI.  

Over the years, I have encountered words and expressions which convey much better than the translation, exactly what the speaker means.  For example a ghoomat is a ghoomat ! What else would you call a gutted, dried gourd, topped off with a dried skin, drummed upon with the tips of the fingers to render a magnetic beat? It’s not a drum, it’s not a tabla, it’s not a bongo.  It’s a ghoomat.

EI speak is not easy to acquire; you need to be attuned from birth.  It is akin to Marathi but is a dialect in its own right, with vocabulary, grammar and idiom that the dictionary will hopefully capture. I never did quite pick it up since hubby spoke fluent English and Marathi when conversation was needed.  At other times, words were redundant.

But my AI ears are always tuned in to new sounds and I did manage to grab a few choice words and phrases here and there.

My favourite? Just has to be ‘pyethyu’ (rendered phonetically).  It is supposed to mean ‘young lad’ but more often connotes ‘lazy rascal’ and many a nephew has been hailed with ‘oye pyethyu’ in his time!  

Being EI is not just belonging to a community, it is a way of life which one encounters in the living: cuisine and kitchen implements, weddings and social encounters, dress, music, architecture and furnishing, customs and observances.  How long will all this be followed?

For example, almost gone is the lugna (lugda?) – the nine yard sari - replaced by ubiquitous denim (the universal jeans).  As a wife, I did sport the festive nine yards on occasion (surprisingly comfortable!) but as a widow I need to don one of another colour.  So, mine has become a relic which may perhaps be worn by generation next more as fancy dress than attire.

For now, the past is present in memory.  Happily so!

Dear Diary – III

A friend recalled to me Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist and its mesmerizing message.  Well, dear universe, what I would dearly love is a huge and spacious mansion surrounded by beautiful gardens and a bevy of minions to wait on my every need and instruction.  Now that would be heaven!  Which brings me to the realisation that I first need to complete my stint on earth.  Oh well!!

In the meantime, little moments of joy will do very nicely thank you, and this Sunday had quite a few of them.

Sunday morning was cloudy and cool; in Church, Thomas the watchman had set up the keyboard so I did not have to run around in a tizzy to get things done; the Sisters were in good voice and the hymns included my favourites; the usually self-effacing celebrant preached a sermon to remember; the prayers of the faithful (I do so prefer the Protestant ‘bidding prayers’) were simple and child-like for a change and I got to lead them.  Yes, the day started well.

There were reminders that friends were looking out for me and that I was missed at an occasion I did not attend.  A not so mild case of hiccoughs (I'm on a retro trip and this spelling is much more elegant than hiccups) had grounded me for the better part of that evening and night.  It’s nice to know that one matters.

And then I got to wash the dishes.  The maid has a heavy cold and the doctor has advised her to avoid putting her hands in water as far as possible.  Much to her chagrin, I barred her from the kitchen sink and set to.  I love washing the dishes: this is one exercise that allows me the opportunity to rid myself of all frustrations, anxieties, and temper – all those negative vibes that activate (aggravate?) the bile duct.  There’s nothing so satisfying as seeing clean and rinsed kitchenware drying on the rack and an empty, scrubbed and shining sink to crown one’s effort.  There’s a song on my lips too – the new one that I’m teaching the ten year olds in school.  It’s catchy! 

A little bit of crochet, a little bit of reading, a little introspection, a little bit of catching up with friends and family over the telephone, a mid-day nap, my favourite dessert of stewed peaches with sweet yoghurt to wind up supper.

No mansion, no minions, yet it has still been a delight-filled day!

And now I shall lay me down to sleep and pray the Lord my soul to keep….

Dear Diary – II

Be careful what you wish for.  The wish might just come true. How often have you heard that? 

Crochet with me is an addiction and it makes me sad that there is no one who wants to learn the craft.  Not in my vicinity, anyway.

Well fate and the Education Board seem to be on the same wavelength.  The latter have decided that crochet and knitting are fundamental requirements for young ladies about to graduate from school. I quote (faithful to the original): “Crochet and knitting has (sic) been very popular in Europe and Japan. It has also been very popular even in India, where it is being practised for the last 200 years.  These two arts have always complimented (sic) each other.  It is being popularly practiced by women both in urban and rural India.  Woolen clothes are particularly used in places where the climate is extremely cold.  Those who excel in this art have been able to earn substantially from it.  Earlier the crochet needle was called a hooked needle.  Crochet is done by the hook of the needle, whereas knitting is done by two needles.  These needles are prepared from light metal and plastics.  ….Variety of attractive items can be prepared by crochet and knitting for e.g. torans, sweaters, shawls, table mats…. These forms have seen many innovative adoptations (sic) in new styles…”

Yes, the Education Board for English Medium, Government aided Secondary schools either needs to revisit English language basics or learn how to make use of spell-check and grammar-check on their computers.

But we are talking crochet.

The Principal needed a ‘teacher’.  I know crochet (I really do).  Put the two together and I now have 120 14-year olds who have to learn how to hold hook and yarn and produce a square handkerchief, a circular handkerchief, a small purse, a doll and a strip of lace by the end of the year. They are both optimistic and enthusiastic.  I hope I catch the contagion.

It is years since I stepped into a classroom and experienced the noise level at close quarters.  It takes some getting used to as is the: ‘Miss, please may I go to toilet’, ‘Miss, please may I drink water’, ‘Miss, I have to keep my appointment with the Counselor’, ‘Miss, she’s pinching me’, ‘Miss, may I come back into the room’!!  After years of just doing one’s thing and not interrupting the speaker’s flow, of cautiously leaving the room and re-entering, of being independent in thought and action, it is strange to find a roomful of persons chained to ‘authority’ (mine) and ‘permission’ (yes, mine again) .  But I cannot circumvent school rules even though my inner voice urges me to tell the girls, ‘just go!’

Strangely enough, I find other school lessons coming back to me.  Faced with chubby thighs and short skirts (yes, the mind boggles), I feel the need to tell them how to sit like young ladies: skirt over knees, knees together, ankles crossed.  The slump at the table is corrected with a sit up straight and I tell them how we had wooden foot-rules shoved down the back of our uniforms to ensure that straightness!  And then the thunder on the stairs is muted by asking them to walk on their toes rather than the flat of their feet.

The girls regard me with amusement and I am not surprised.  At 61 I am a species of dinosaur. The nice and friendly kind, I hope.

Dear Diary – I

Life has turned into such a day by day, blow by blow event that it is difficult to focus on a topic or theme.  Remember the kaleidoscope – that amazing, crazy combination of colours and shapes? You fell in love with the pattern and then with a slight turn or shake of the cylinder an even more stunning pattern fell into place, never to be repeated. What fun!

Well, my seconds, days and hours have turned just as colourful, chaotic, comical, curious and compelling. 

Three days a week, I endeavour to develop the musical skills of little girls ranging in age from 8 to 13, in batches of 65 or thereabouts.  None of them come from English speaking backgrounds; none of them have ever been exposed to western music not even to the ‘Disney’ tunes that have enthralled generations.  I was told to expect the unexpected.  Little did I realise.

At every lesson, taken in the library, with keyboard primed, eager little feet came trooping in and 65 little bodies in all shapes and sizes settled cross-legged on the floor (no sweeping and swabbing required here – uniformed derrieres did the job beautifully!) and 65 voices wished me good day. I hope the smile on my lips belied the trepidation in my heart.  Did any of them know how to sing? A unified chorus of 65 yeses greeted me.  Did any of them play a musical instrument?  Again a full throated roar of ‘yes’.  Turns out they didn’t understand the question.  They had just stopped at ‘play’ and all children know how to play, right?  Well once that was sorted out, I got them learning how to fill their lungs with air and how to stretch their little lips into the required shape for sounding words.  So far so good.  The giggles and good natured pushing and shoving augured well.

Then came calamity.  Asked to ‘la la la’ to the tonic sol-fa, they just could not hit the notes.  Flat would be an understatement.  Without this basic skill, how would they ever sing?  And how would they ever learn the difference between shouting in unison and singing in unison? 

As I teeter between amusement and frustration, I remember one of my favourite musicals ‘Anna and the King of Siam’ – now if I could only reprise Deborah Kerr’s role (without Yul Bryner, of course – pity), life would be a song – literally!

Following the thread…

Newton’s Law: every action has an equal and opposite reaction.  Throw a stone into the water and ripples will form.  Nothing comes from nothing.  You’ve heard and seen it all.

I have always been fascinated by consequences.  Just the thought makes me agonise over decisions and, sometimes, when I have reached a point in life, I pause to trace back as far as I can go and I am amazed at the chain of events – the minuscule, small, medium, large and enormous consequences - that have determined my journey. Consequences – it’s a topic I’ve waffled on about before and will waffle on about again – and again!

Let me explain: We have a discussion group on faith and culture and we have to take it in turn to lead the discussion.  So far, I had been happy to take a back seat.  Then, the priest director and I happened to engage in conversation and I threw up the remark, ‘How am I a Catholic?’ He was taken aback, ‘What do you mean?’  Well, I know that I was baptised and confirmed and I do attend Sunday Mass and I will jump into arguments on doctrine and faith for argument’s sake, but does that make me ‘Catholic’ in the way it is supposed to mean? Our discussion meandered, as it usually does and the upshot was that I led the discussion on ‘my’ topic.  It so happened that I used a prayer written by a Jesuit, Fr. James Martin.  It turned out that he had written a book, ‘My life with the Saints’.  I was given the loan of it and what a joy it was to read.   The author is an excellent raconteur with a rare personal honesty and the ability to find grace in all things (I like to think that is a Jesuit trait – I like the Jesuits!).  I discovered much that I had forgotten and was happy to remember.  I discovered that we had many saints in common – those whom we liked, to whose intercession we had turned, whose name was part of our own.  For instance, the happiest part of Confirmation was that it allowed me to add St. Bernadette to my given names!  And who hasn’t tweaked St. Anthony’s ears for that lost and must be found object.  Included in Fr. Martin’s book was my favourite Pope, John the XXIII – I have a cherished rosary with his image embossed on the case.  And I had recently been introduced to Fr. Pedro Arrupe through a heart tugging musical put up by a student group from Goa.  

But I digress (so did Fr. Martin, on occasion, but he did it so nicely!).  The point I wanted to make was about saints and names: my baptismal name is Anne.  A little patience and you’ll see where this is going. Consequences!

God called my husband home.  Our parish organist – who played at his funeral – followed him a little later.  That was unexpected and a shock.  It also left a vacuum in the music ministry. I started filling in with my minimal keyboard skills and scratchy soprano, happily drowned out by the powerful and in majority altos. From there I went on to accompany Sister at morning Mass.  She is the Principal of a school in need of a singing teacher.  In Mumbai singing teachers are either priced out of range or thin on the ground.  And so I was reluctantly press-ganged into training the uninitiated to unite voice with keyboard in a semblance of harmony.  I use recorded tapes for voice (the mind boggles at the thought of 60 voices imitating me!). I digress again.

The name of the school? St. Anne’s!  

I have never given my patron saint a second thought.  All I know about her is that she is Our Lady’s mother, her husband’s name was Joachim and we remember both on parents’ day – July 26 every year. Now that I have read Fr. Martin’s book, I am curious.  After a lifetime of exploring different trails, this connection cannot be mere coincidence. And there is more.  Three sisters in law taught here.  And I have just discovered that St. Anne’s is the Alma Mater of my office assistant at XIC – a very happy young lady who bubbled over with memories of her schooldays. Consequences with connections!

Consequences or God’s plan? Should I even dare to think so? Many tomorrows will reveal the pattern; in the meantime I will be the thread woven into the motif, the patch, sometimes in the background sometimes in relief.  A bright thread I hope - one which lends (a little!) decoration to the design.

Oh dear! I have waffled.  My thoughts have run away with me and today’s late night is going to have disastrous consequences if I don’t rise and shine with the dawn tomorrow.

I wish you sweet dreams. Enjoy where they lead!