Perceptions

As a kindergartener in London in the fifties, I was referred to as ‘the little Indian girl’. Yes, I was one of a kind in my class! Far from being the ‘exotic foreigner’, my companions found that I walked, talked, dressed and ate like them (with a spoon and fork!); this belied their expectation that I lived up a tree in a jungle, rode on elephants and kept snakes as pets. Far from feeling racially labeled (I was just five at the time) I reveled in the attention and was proud to announce to anyone who asked: ‘I was born in the capital of India.’ New Delhi sounded a little too mundane.

Strange to say, when we returned to India, my Father was posted to a station which found us living cheek by jowl with the jungle. Television, flushing toilets and water on tap were replaced by books, commodes and water by goatskin delivered by the trusty ‘water man’. I did get to spend many happy (and fruitful) hours up the branches of the mango trees in our school compound and yes, snakes, toads and scorpions were frequent visitors to the bungalow in which we lived. I also managed a few of those elephant rides as well! And mutton do pyaza tastes better eaten with the fingers.

I now live in Mumbai – a jungle of quite a different kind. I love to write letters and my correspondents from other parts of the globe usually do express amazement that I can write in fairly fluent English. I still do not consider it a racial slur; on the contrary, I find their ignorance amusing. But only up to a point, and I’ll tell you why.

Do I love my country? Emphatically, yes.

Am I proud of my country? Today, no. Hopefully, a few tomorrows down the line, the answer could be ‘yes’. I will be proud when economic prosperity and the ability to interact at the global level – and that includes being fluent in ‘foreign’ languages – is commonplace for all our citizens. But as long as the large majority of our people are denied a decent education, gainful employment and respectable living conditions which include sanitation and health care, I will continue to wince when friends from outside India applaud my communication skills, because I know that their incredulity is plausible. Those who can read and write are far outnumbered by those who do not.

We have made much progress since that first Republic Day and we have much to be proud of; let not that pride conceal the darkness that haunts the lives of the underprivileged but rather serve as the impetus to bring all our people into the light of day.

Note: The graphic was captured off the Net a long time ago. Acknowledgement is due, but to whom?

Of Borrowed Words and Porous Grandmothers… (and unexpected adventures in the English language!)

Never did I think that I would be penning thoughts to such a ‘Durrellian’ title. Then again, experience has taught me that ‘never’ is a word that never should have been included in the English Dictionary!

When asked to coach media students in writing skills via e-learning, I had little idea of the adventure it would turn out to be.

Invited to cast their words upon the page, our aspiring media professionals were surprisingly reticent. Surely the electronic medium was familiar territory? Slowly, as the assignments began to trickle in, it became all too obvious that the reluctance stemmed from the after effects of a regimented education.

In this time of guides, cheat sheets and coaching class notes, in the scramble for that perfect 99, one’s own words are worth zilch. We are witnessing the mass produced student, programmed to replicate his, or her, stipulated ‘portion’. It is not surprising, then, that the students found the Internet a very safe place to be. Here were the words that they needed: framed, formatted and ready to download. They were in for a rude awakening!

Challenged to produce original work, most of them ultimately stuck to ‘the cat sat on the mat’ formula for their sentences. Others - too few - stepped out and took that self same cat, prodded it till it fought, bit, scratched and then sat on the vanquished mat. Here lies proof that originality is not dead. Here lies inspiration - for words breed words, which is why reading teaches writing. Here lies imagination - without it the written word would be dull indeed.

Then there were those who took the English language where it was never expected to go, coining words and employing phrases which would keep a legion of lexicographers locked in labour for years to come.

But words are never wasted. They can set one upon a novel trend of thought and the English language, when employed by the uninitiated, is rife with unintended humour. One can look upon the phrase wryly and with jaundiced eye, but laughter can never be absent. It was this recurring laughter which prompted my thoughts. Having ridden the rollercoaster from exasperation to mirth and back, I felt the need to share the experience.

Yes, words are never wasted, and my gratitude is certainly due to that delightfully porous grandmother*!

*as part of a writing assignment one student, penning a condolence letter, wrote (and I quote verbatim!): ‘…Words are pouring probably like the tears from your eyes but I cannot go on like this. Grandmother suffered a lot later in life. Maybe she became porous after all the injections she took.’

Pitter Patter Raindrops

A friend posted a comment on Facebook, calling to mind childish rhymes associated with the season – the wet and windy Indian monsoon.

I was taken back in time to all the happy memories which had taken a backseat, particularly in view of the havoc wreaked in recent years. I remembered the joy of that first pair of gumboots – fire-engine red. The first puddle and the giant splish-splash caused by a well aimed jump at dead centre. Dancing in the rain and getting drenched. Twirling umbrellas of every hue, turning a grey day into a rainbow. Childish poems lisped excitedly, coaxed into existence by adult coaching. And one of my favourite songs: Joy is like the Rain – a simple melody composed and sung by the Medical Missionaries a long, long time ago. Isn’t it funny how one jog to the memory can release a chain of thought?

To a child, rain is an enjoyable variation in the seasons. Hot pakodas and butter melting off roasted corn-on-the-cob, finger lickin’ good. Cancelled schooldays. Sailing paper boats in suddenly appearing rivers off the kerbs. Tracing the path of raindrops on a steamy window, watching a drenched world without, from the safety within.

The adult perspective has a more jaundiced view (pun intended!). Monsoons mean gastro, dengue, malaria, floods, traffic snarls, open manholes, collapsing buildings, leakages – inconveniences galore. The adult world is not a nice place to be.

And, suddenly, I think of snails. Snails, tiny and large, crawling on leaves and across window sills, lured by the freshened earth. And I have a poem to share with you, a poem which brings together the adult, the child and snails!

For a 5-year old – Fleur Adcock

A snail was climbing up the window sill

Into your room after a night of rain.

You called me in to see and I explain

That it would be unkind to leave it there.

It might crawl to the floor, we must take care

That no one squashes it. You understand

And carry it outside with careful hand

To eat a daffodil.

I see, then, that a kind of faith prevails;

Your gentleness is moulded, still, by words

From me who have trapped mice and shot wild birds.

From me who drowned your kittens and who betrayed

Your closest relatives and who purveyed

The harshest kind of truth to many another.

But that is how things are. I am your mother

And we are kind to snails.

Note: The graphic is from Discovery's School Clip Art

Indomitable Spirit

I have just returned from a funeral. One more farewell scripted by the Big C – Cancer. A long illness well fought and patiently borne.

It has been my privilege to have known cancer patients, some directly, some through their writing and others through friends of friends. I use ‘privilege’ advisedly, because people who battle with cancer are very special – they know that they have an inner enemy who is part and parcel of their daily living. An enemy that sets the terms and conditions. An enemy that makes no concessions. An enemy that can be obscure and is insidious. Cancer patients face ultimatums which test them to the limit of physical, emotional and spiritual endurance. They become shadow boxers overnight, without the special benefit of training or prior experience.

A recent encounter sent me back to The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. I first came across this indomitable spirit in TIME’s 10 Questions. Intrigued by the answers he gave, I went on to read what was, literally, his last lecture – he was fully aware that due to advanced pancreatic cancer the clock was ticking and he has since passed away. His lecture is his legacy to his family and his students. A book that can be completed in a single sitting, this ‘last lecture’ is full of hope, humour and possesses an incredible energy. The Last Lecture is not about dying, it is about living.

Another article excerpted from a forthcoming book by Dame Maria Boulding, a nun and hermit, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer in her 80^th year is more spiritual, in tune with the rhythms of living and dying and the will of God: “….everyone will have to let go of his or her ideas about how the journey should work out, and accept another, far more baffling, itinerary.” Cancer is, indeed, a bend in the road, a route that is often unlit and seldom signposted. But, strangely enough, cancer can be a giving enemy too. It allows friends, family, doctors and nursing staff and even complete strangers to give of their time, their love, their encouragement and support. It brings people closer and makes bonds visible, tangible.

And there is the ‘return gift’ of courage. Because it takes courage to accept, to fight, to engage with life such as it may be, to smile through the tears, to hope against the odds. Yes, it takes tremendous courage. Courage that is the real Big C. Courage that is contagious.

An Armchair World

Bungalows with gardens, as residences, were taken for granted till we finally settled in Bombay in the mid sixties (it was still Bombay then!). That was when I was introduced to the boxed in way of life. The size of the box depended on social and financial status and, of course, inheritance. The smaller apartments were classified as either ‘shoebox size’ or ‘matchbox size’ and not much imagination is required to visualize these homes.

We finally moved into a one-bedroom apartment, small by the standards of the time but spacious by today’s. I found it claustrophobic. Yet, there are those who make their home in an 8 x 10 room, furnished with a bed, some folding chairs, a table, a cupboard, a fridge and a TV. The kitchen is a small platform at one end of the room and the bathing area a curtained-off alcove. Families of four, six and more have grown up happily in such cramped spaces. I have often wondered how.

In the last few months, we have had to share our living space with a burly, hirsute Haryanvi – the ward boy who cares for my husband in the daytime. Since he has, necessarily, to share the bedroom, I take myself off to the armchair by the window in a neighbouring room. When I am not cooking or pottering, this chair becomes my comfort zone – a place to read, to crochet, to daydream, to pray and to watch the cats or the rest of the world go by. There is elbow room for my cup of tea and the reading of the moment – books which take me to different places and through other people’s minds. Thread, hook and pattern dwell in the bag by my feet.

The chair, transformed by antimacassars and cushions, observes the seasons too: Christmas, Easter, Summer and the monsoon. Christmastime is special because I can sit next to the Nativity scene and take in the beauty of each hand carved figure, testament to a talent lovingly employed. At Easter, the aroma of Easter eggs fills the air; some received, some waiting to be gifted. Summer exposes me to the full heat of the sun, no tanning parlour required! And come the monsoon, the displays of thunder and lightning fill the window frame. The smell of freshened earth rises in the steam of the first rain and as the clouds let down their bounty, I sit snug and secure in my little world, appreciating the ‘awesome wonder’ on the other side.

It is a small space, confined and clearly demarcated. If I stretch my arms, I can almost touch the walls on either side. And, yet, here I am extraordinarily content. Could it be because the heart is at home?

Cats

Take note. We have been invaded!

I am a dog lover. Ask anyone who has been owned by a dog and they will tell you that they possess you body and heart. Dog lovers are as distinct from cat lovers as dogs are from cats. My neighbour is a cat lover with a vengeance and every sighting of, or interaction with, a cat is faithfully reported.

Feral cats have been part of our surroundings from way back when. I know because our dogs delighted in chasing them or barking them up a tree. We have been dog-less for many years and I ceased to notice the cats, until now.

Every morning at seven thirty, there is moggie roll call. This morning, I counted thirteen. A cat coven? They come in one by one: some from over the wall, some spring from ledges off the building and others amble in off the road. Breakfast is the gleanings of the meat handed out in generous measure from Olympia – the restaurant. Sated, the cats disperse. Some to languidly snooze, others to whatever business they need to transact. The younger ones play.

Then there are the bank cats. They drape themselves on the steps leading to the ATM, on the parapets holding the lamps and sometimes on the sofa intended for the elderly. They are indifferent to the customers coming and going but they love the watchman. Occasionally, they infiltrate the bank but do not stay long.

Overlooked by our bedroom window is an office complex. Here too, cats have made a home, a playground, a maternity hospital and a crèche. We are, at different times, treated to the sounds of importunate males, cautionary mothers and hungry kittens. The other night, we were serenaded by a feline four part harmony in true Walt Disney fashion. And as they sang to the soon to be obscured moon, our neighbour also aping Walt Disney quenched their chorus with a well aimed bucket of water. So much for budding quartets.

The church, too, has its customary cat. Ours is a traditional structure replete with belfry (but no bats), steeples and mice. So, the cat completes the picture. It is well fed and content, occasionally choosing to nap in the porch or on well cushioned kneeler depending on the weather and the temperature. The church, outside service times, is dimly lit, cool and cavernous, a haven to those in need of peace – human and cat alike.

Finally, there is the orange tom who befriends my cat-loving neighbour, in exchange for a saucer of milk. He also visits every doormat and bestows fur and fleas without discrimination.

And so the encounter with cats has become a part of the daily ritual. The invasion is complete.

Childhood yesterday, today, tomorrow?

Thunder and lightning greeted daybreak and looking up at the stormy skies, I waited for the deluge with anticipation. Sure enough, the rain came bucketing down, thrumming on the weather shades and splashing off the sills and panes. I revel in the noisy fanfare that heralds a goodly shower, thanks to remembered childhood tales of the Norse gods who threw thunderbolts or hammered enthusiastically on heavenly drums. The rain, of course, was the result of heaven’s floors receiving their annual wash down! There is a lovely anecdote which tells of a child looking up and smiling at every flash of lightning because ‘God was taking her picture’. It is incidents like these which recall a childhood filled with magical moments. And it is these moments that we carry through to adulthood even though we also belonged to the ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ generation.

Over the last few days, the newspapers have spoken to us of the death of a child – a little boy who committed suicide because he was caned by his headmaster. And as part of the media focus, a prominent columnist, a ‘bad girl’ by her own admission, has stated her point of view. No stranger to the Principal’s office, I too received my share of whacks: smarting palms, stinging calves and strident scolding were battle scars - of skin and ear - to be endured. And we are certainly here today to tell the tale with, perhaps, a hint of bravado? Suicide was definitely not on the agenda and despite the ignominy of the label and the cane, life was for living and living to the full.

So, why would a little boy want to throw away his life? Are today’s children more sensitive, more vulnerable? He brought stink bombs to the classroom which, in my time, would have been paid for by a good long kneel, on a very hard floor, hands to ears and copious tears. An additional whack from a parent for good measure reinforced the message that stink bombs were a no-no. Perhaps caning is also a no-no. But the trigger for suicide? Surely, there must be more than that.

Childhood begins in the home. That place where attitudes and abilities are formed and the armour to face the world is built up bit by bit. And home is where we need to look. Tragically, the life that has been lost cannot be brought back, but other parents can open up to the heartfelt message – cherish your child. A child that is well grounded and secure can communicate and be reassured in return. A child that is loved in a stable home environment will not blow out of proportion the anger, or punishment, meted out by an ‘outsider’. A child which can interact with its parents does not need to internalize fear. And a child that knows the rough and tumble of the real world, rather than the virtual one of television and video games, can face up to almost anything this nasty old world will certainly deliver.

Blame and shame are deterrents but not the solution. The solution lies in truth. A child is dead and with him the truth of the situation has also died. But there are other children with lives to be lived. And care and counseling of both child and caregiver will help them realise that wonderful truth.