THE WORST NIGHT (AND DAY) OF MY LIFE

The weather suddenly turned foul, the thunder thundered vigorously, the lightning flooded the sky and the rain poured down in buckets.  I needed a refuge and I needed it fast.  I saw the light on in this house and I sought admittance but no one answered.  Fortunately, there was an entry point and so I took advantage, hoping no one would grudge shelter to a bedraggled stranger.

 

No one was home! That was surprising. I checked out the place, made myself comfortable and heaved a sigh of relief. There was food on the kitchen counter top too.  What a welcome! But it did not last too long.

After a couple of hours, I heard a key turn in the lock and light footsteps enter. It was a woman carrying a shopping bag and she sang as she entered.  Happy company, I thought and sat up to say hello. She took one look and yelled, ‘Get out of my house you varmint!’ and she set to with a will, banging about and screaming till I cowered in fear. I managed to find a roomy cupboard and concealed myself there but apparently she had seen me enter.  The next thing I knew was that I had been locked in and there I remained for the night and the best part of the next day.  You can imagine my plight. When would I see daylight again? 

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I heard was the voices.  A man and that woman talking.  The woman was explaining in shrill staccato and the man seemed to be in vociferous agreement.  Then, the cupboard door swung open and my place of concealment was flooded with light.  The man had a thick stick in his hand and looked dangerous.  Was my life in jeopardy? It was ‘do or die’.  I leapt past the man; the element of surprise was on my side.  He chased me around the room but I was quicker and, seeing an open window, I jumped out as fast as I could without a thought to the consequences.  Oh, the joy of being free and out in the open again.  

Whatever happened to ‘shelter the homeless’ and ‘feed the hungry’? Is charity so very dead?

Take my word for it, it’s certainly no fun being a rat (especially if you land up in Wendy’s home)!!

A friend of mine…

She’s bright, vivacious, an ever-charged battery in a small, compact frame.  Her frequent in-your-face, foot-in-mouth moments are charged with an honesty that is refreshing and what some would consider the crassness of youth, I consider enviable. There is no subtle veneer that shows you one face to your face, and another behind your back. You know where you stand with her and to be ‘liked’ is a privilege.

She is that odd mixture of old fashioned wisdom and naivety; she will immediately grasp the fundamentals that govern the serious, but will fail to catch a meaty joke. She challenges, opinionates, likes and dislikes strongly and, most importantly, she is herself. She has the vulnerability that is typical of her youth but will still take risks that are very obvious (to others!); sometimes she comes off without a scratch and sometimes the price is heavy. But she takes all that in her stride. The lesson is learnt.

She has a heart that cares for the less fortunate and she is ready to pitch in and be an agent of transformation – she radiates the joy that she creates! And she leaves behind unforgettable memories; the kind that bring a smile – sometimes rueful - to the face.

Though she can make you spin on your head (even if unwilling), and throw a whirling dervish out of whirl, she is not a problem to be solved like ‘Maria’. She belongs to the tribe that will change the world for the better, provided the world does not change her.  We have this habit, which is understandable, of being protective of our children and conformity keeps them away from harm. Little do we realise that we might be quenching a fire - one that lights and warms but does not destroy. I would like to think that that is impossible in the case of my young friend. 

From another realm, one day, I would love to be able to look down on the woman she is and say, ‘age did not wither her, nor custom fade.’ And the Lord will endorse that with a thunderclap!!

MY BEEF!

Beef has been banned.  Behind the dismay at interrupted dietary habits, also lies the apprehension that this will pave the way for other incursions into minority livelihoods and lifestyles.  Freedom to eat is as important as the freedom to speak, especially in a democracy, even one that appears to be morphing into a theocratic state.

My personal encounter with beef was brief and disastrous, thanks to the tapeworm that I unwittingly hosted.  Add to that the hypertension (also inherited, this time genetically) that precludes red meat and beef has been banned from my menu from as far back as I can remember.

But there are other reasons too.  Our abattoirs are not the most hygienic or humane places.  Breeding cattle in large numbers for the table releases harmful methane.  If you have ever stepped into a tabela (that’s Indian for barn) and experienced bull fart firsthand, you’ll have no doubt about the impact.  I have our collie to thank for that memory. 

And then there are the children.  We have countless numbers of them who have never known a proper meal let alone one that counted beef among the ingredients.  Simple rice, dhal and veggies would satisfy them if only they had access to food instead of starvation.  Do we accept this as normal? Do we hear the same outrage?  Are we capable of sustaining a campaign to see no child hungry?

Perhaps we could turn the tables.  If beef is no longer eaten, then bovines should not be bred. Grazing land could be reclaimed for cultivation.  And adequate nutrition for every child should be made compulsory (apply the same penalties as for the ban on beef!) as a quid pro quo.

And for the determined beefeaters, I presume the import route would still be open (the ban is on local slaughter). Then again, are we sure that ‘mad cow’ has been completely eradicated?!

PRAYER, ANCIENT AND EVER NEW…

Sometimes, I am asked to work on the text of a prayer and one such assignment came my way recently.  Formulaic prayers are not really my forte, so I looked up the books and put the words together in the traditional way.  But we also cater to the now generation and I had to contemporize!  I struggled and how.  Personally, I am spontaneous in my communication and after I encountered ‘Hey God! This is Anna’, I never looked back. That was the way I would always get in touch with my Maker. And the connection is unbroken (unlike that of my network supplier!)

 

The present exercise made me take a look at the oldest prayer, the Our Father. How would it sound in the modern idiom? Something like this????

Hey God, somewhere up there in the Universe, our lips are blessed each time we say your name. We’d like to see heaven happen down here too in real time, right now. You can do it. Yes you can. And while you’re about it, we’d like some food – the real thing (you know, like Coke, Pizza and Big Mac) and when we’ve been real bad, just take care of that, huh?  Please? As for those who’ve been mean to us, we’ll try doing things your way (the operative word being ‘try’!). And when the bad guy tries to grab attention, just take him out, okay? Thanks for the time!

I tried sms and twitterspeak versions and am in danger of suffering serious brainfreeze.

Nah! It does not have the same feel and resonance. Some things are best left unchanged. 

Old is indeed gold. The original article is the genuine thing. 

And we have God to thank for that!

 

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!!

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.