IN THIS TIME OF MIRACLES

Perhaps it’s because they’re ‘Religious’.  Steeped in the word of the Lord, daily prayer and commitment to God’s work, it must come naturally to them that ‘what needs to be done will be done’, even if it takes a miracle to see things through. Times without number I’ve exclaimed, ‘Sister, you’re asking for a miracle!’ and Sister will calmly reply, ‘Yes.’

 

I’ve also lost count of the innumerable times that I have emphatically stated, ‘It simply cannot be done,’ and Sister has replied, ‘Just do it!’

We have an annual day coming up and, against the odds, we have a program to execute. Limited time, limited resources, limited talent, myriad things to do and it must all come right on the day. Perfection is demanded. Teachers are harried, children are hustled, helpers scurry, suppliers are summoned – there is an air of frantic anticipation and the tension can be cut with a knife.  Schedules overlap, tempers snap, rehearsals are called and cancelled or rearranged, props are lost and found, children are temporarily mislaid (they are on a quick trip to the loo and get ambushed by friends on the return trip), voices are raised in cross-chatter as instructions are called and countermanded, and everywhere there is bustle.  Harness that energy and you could light up a city!

Two days to go before dress rehearsal.  We go through the instructions, the sequence, the words, the actions, the song, one more time.  Will they get it right?  One child is out of sync.  One child stops to ask, ‘Miss, I haven’t got my costume.’ Another, ‘Miss, one girl is absent.  Should we keep her place?’ Another, ‘Miss, I need the bathroom.’ I take a deep breath and let it out. The costume problem is sorted out.  The absent girl is relegated to the back row if at all she turns up for dress rehearsal and the children are given a collective bathroom break. And we start again.  Now, there are two children out of sync.  We stop and practice the actions once again.  Everybody is together.  So, we sing.  They lose their note and do not notice!  (It’s good to remember that ‘sing’ is used more figuratively than literally – our children’s voices are not music to the ears).  I make them revise the tonic sol fa and we start again.  One, two, three, go! We get through the song with more enthusiasm than finesse.  Isn’t that what children are all about? I hope so.  Because, by now I’m limp, wrung out, brain dead.  Never mind.  There’s always tomorrow.  And then the event will be over before you know it.  If I survive till then.

Will everything go right on the day? 

I couldn’t say for sure.  What I do know is that it will take a miracle!

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’ ..…!!!!!

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!

Encounters at the ATM (of the very terrestrial kind!)

I sauntered up to the local ATM and noted that the cabin was occupied but there was no queue. Good. I would be first in line. Before I could even register what was happening, I was shoved aside, gustily, by two men who could only be our MLAs – the clothes and the body language proclaimed them to be so. While one stood outside the door, the other barged into the cabin while the previous customer was still inside and demanded to be shown how the ATM should be used! The customer in question was obviously a gentleman; he courteously imparted instructions, counted his cash, collected his receipt and exited.

In the meantime, a queue had built up behind me and was getting restive. The newly instructed ‘client’ was fiddling around with the buttons and showing no inclination to complete his transaction. His companion requested the watchman to assist. The watchman obliged. The two finally walked away with their cash, but not after a few pointed and pungent remarks from ‘members of the public’!

My turn next. Business done, I walked out and past the queue, and headed back towards home. Suddenly, my attention was caught by the woman joining the line: beautifully attired in crimson blazer, black skirt and matching crimson stilettos, her attire was the perfect foil to her flawless ebony skin. Gazing in admiration (I’m a sucker for couture, not necessarily haute) I almost missed the child behind her. The tot could not have been a day older than three; wearing the neatest black and white checked dress, she trotted stoically behind the woman. Judging from their resemblance to each other, they must have been mother and child, but the woman did not glance behind; it was as if she knew that the child would follow. Obedience instilled. The little one even managed the steps to the ATM on her own, unafraid and doggedly determined. An Indian child of that age would have been hand-held if not carried by the mother, a relative or a maid. We take good care of our Bunties and Babloos, judging by the plump customers filling up on burgers and milkshake at the local MacD’s.

I am reminded of the topic I posed my Journalism students – ‘Does childhood exist today?’ Most of them mourned the ‘death’ of childhood, listing the various ills and woes that beset the child of our time. One savvy student begged to disagree: she argued that as long as there were children, there would be childhood though each generation would necessarily have to ‘break the mould’ as the world moves forward. Children, as only children can, would still possess ‘unbridled curiosity and potential for mischief’!!

One sighting of a self-possessed little child and I cannot dismiss the image from my mind. I wish I had seen her look around, laugh and chatter.

BESLAN

You hold me hostage

To let your comrades live.

But, you seek for them the

Freedom

That only love can give.

Did you, too, see

A childhood playmate die?

Did you feel the fright and

Anguish?

Did you watch a Mother cry?

Surely, you must know

That hate imprisons still,

With bars that bind you,

Lifelong,

To its will?

So I ask for us

The end of sorrow.

I wish for you and all the

World,

A compassionate tomorrow.

This has been written in remembrance of those children who were held hostage and/or who died in the Beslan massacre on September 1, 2004. A photo wall of the victims is displayed at: http://www.golosbeslana.ru/pamyat.htm

Sunday’s Spillover and Awakened Memories

The Sunday sermon spelt out our intended mission for the coming 12 months: Caring for Creation through Conservation. We were told that the youth of our Parish would be visiting our homes to educate us in caring for the environment, recycling waste material and, in the process, they would also collect all unnecessary items like excess plastic bags and packaging materials.

Now, I have some enthusiastic visitors to look forward to. I have, for a long time, been looking for solutions to the disposal of various packaging and unwanted add-ons like plastic measuring spoons. I thought that if I collected enough (and it does not take much time to do that considering the speed at which a normal household goes through cereal and detergent packets!), the Companies would welcome the return. No go.

The plastic spoons were snapped up by my maid to be exchanged for garlic. Cardboard cartons went with the newspapers for selling and the rest - inner packing, wet packing – was sadly consigned to the waste bin. One of our windows overlooks the municipal garbage dump. Not a scenic view but a very educative one. One can study those ubiquitous scavengers, the crows, or the rats and multiplying cats. Or even the humans. Man, woman and child, they visit, they pick over and then collect what they particularly specialize in, carrying away the ‘lucky finds’ in discarded cement plastic gunnies – the great Indian recycling machine.

This reminded me of Sapna.

My husband had wound up his business and we were shutting shop, quite literally. With shutter rolled up, we sat down in two comfortable chairs with a rather large cardboard carton between us and a stack of files for each. We sorted through the files, discarding with a will every unwanted scrap: correspondence, manuscripts, proofs, notes and other assorted jetsam of twenty years and more. So absorbed were we in our task, that we did not notice the little slip of a girl watching us, anticipation in the gaze. When I did look up, I noticed her hopeful expression. Dressed in a ghagra-choli, her shoulder length hair in a tangle, bangles a jingle and a sack that was three times her size trailing behind her, she could only be a rag-picker. So young and already a wage earner!

This was not the time to quibble about child labour, and we beckoned her forward. She eagerly emptied our carton and we told her to keep coming back for more till we were done. This she did on winged feet, returning almost immediately after disappearing around the corner. Finally, it was time for a break and we shut shop, telling her to come back same time, next day. She kept reappearing till we had cleared out every unwanted piece of paper. And at the end of it all we were bidden farewell with a stunning smile. For a time, she had a steady ‘income’. Her reward from us was some cash and a bar of chocolate. Maybe she should have been in school, but then our paths would never have crossed and perhaps her family, whoever they were, would have had to forgo a better meal. She told us her name but was not too forthcoming with any further information. Today, she would be roughly ten years older. Twenty, twenty-two? With, perhaps, a child of her own?

PS : This piece is supposedly in the style of Cory Doctorow!!