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!

 

AN UNUSUAL LEGACY

My Mother is a recluse.  She loves the four walls of her home and needs no company other than herself.  She is dependent on the maid for her needs and interacts with her.  She also welcomes anyone bearing the Eucharist; for the Lord, there is always a welcome in her heart and home. At 89, she is now on the final leg of her earthly journey.  

Today’s sermon was on gratitude and it set me thinking as to what I should be grateful to my Mother for.  She still is a stickler for correctness and a very strict disciplinarian - she could never be gainsaid.  Her word was law and even my Father obeyed! Though I have reached senior citizen status, whenever I slouch, accidentally mispronounce (given the environment, it happens!) or let out an unladylike wisecrack I experience that ‘ouch’ moment when I remember what Mother would have said!

So what exactly is her legacy?  There are three things that stand out: her faith, her never grow old attitude and her ear for music. And these are best illustrated by the anecdotes that follow.

My Mother has an unshakeable belief that the Lord will provide: the ‘His eye is on the sparrow’ kind of faith.  When my Father passed away, his military pension should have automatically transferred to my Mother.  This did not happen because of a goof up by the bank.  My husband and I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy, corresponding with the powers that be and running from pillar to post (now, I understand what that means!) and finally, the pension came through.  My Mother promptly gave a hefty donation to Don Bosco.  Why? Because he helped her to get her pension.  What about all the running around?  We wouldn’t have been able to do it without His intervention.  Oh well, I guess even saints need human legs!! And of course, in my Mother’s eyes, Don Bosco sits at the right hand of the Lord and is therefore a powerful intercessor.

In her mind, she is still twenty-one!  For her seventy-fifth birthday, my husband and I went shopping for dress material.  I picked up a festive red print, splashed with colour.  My husband promptly remarked, ‘I thought we were shopping for your Mum.  Not for you!”  I replied, ‘This is for Mum.’  ‘She won’t wear that.’ “Yes, she will!’.  To avoid being locked in a battle of tastes, I suggested that my husband pick up another piece.  He did.  A lovely pastel blue with a very subdued print.  We presented the dress pieces to my Mother.  She ooohed and aaahed over the red.  Hubby asked, ‘What about the other dress piece?’  Mother looked it over and said, ‘It’s nice but it’s an old lady’s colour!”  Get what I mean?

Her ear for music? Sharp even to the fraction of a discrepancy in sound.  ‘That’s false!’ often put pause in the middle of what I thought was a tuneful rendition of a popular number. Once, we had choir practice at home and one person was woefully out of tune.  We tried to be polite and rehearsed the hymn again and again.  My Mother was not so accommodating.  Her reaction? ‘What is that noise?!!!’  

I often thank the Lord for my sense of humour.  I have just realised that I also have to thank my Mother for honing 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!!

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’.

Chivalry, oh chivalry…

Yesterday, it was a welcome night out at the Catholic Gym. The Music was good, the company excellent, the atmosphere charged and noisy, the food so-so, and the night warmed up as the wee hours approached – I’d give it an 8 on 10, despite my encounter with ‘the queue’.

The snacks and refreshments required the purchase of coupons and there was just one person dishing them out to the milling crowd. After standing patiently in line while it remained static for what seemed like forever, I discovered that the men in front were ordering their chhotas and burras – this entailed stating the tipples, the quantity and numbers. For example, three large whiskeys (name of brand), two small rums (name of brand and either dark or white), one small brandy (name of brand), two vodkas, and a couple of cokes. The man at the counter would then have to check the rates, calculate the individual cost, tot up and total, enter it manually on the receipt, receive the cash, and dish out the change.

I tried my luck. ‘Is there a ladies’ queue?’ The gent before me bestowed a genial smile and a not so genial reply, ‘This is a private venue. You get ‘ladies only’ in government office!’ I tried another tack. ‘Separate line for ‘Senior citizens’? The same gent turned round and gave me a funny look before facing forward again. Oh well, I resigned myself to my fate and spent the time profitably, calculating how much the bill would be. It was quite some time before I made it to the counter and I had the amounts down pat: so many plates (name of item), rate, total. The man at the counter scribbled away to my dictation, tore off the counterfoil and favoured me with a wide grin and ‘Thank you, Ma’am!’ If only those men before me had been efficient tipplers.

Apart from improving my mental math ability, there was one more lesson I learnt: When you’re hungry don’t join a queue of thirsty men!

(Perhaps, on second thoughts, I should have captioned this post 'Oh Chivas Regal...!)

Toilet Humour

My maid lives in a one room tenement that is under renovation. The toilets are in a block some distance away and there is an early morning queue for its use (if you’ve seen Slumdog Millionaire, you’ll get the picture). The toilets, too, are being demolished and rebuilt. My maid is worried: when nature calls, how will she and her family be able to answer?

Her problems jogged memories of my own experiences now tinged with laughter thanks to the distance of time. It is one thing to use a common trench at girl guide camps or a handy sugarcane field while on a weekend picnic when you are a child; it is quite another to face that kind of experience as an adult once city life has applied the veneer of ‘civilization’. But needs must and, living in a country where private sanitation enjoys the least priority, the experience varies from exasperation to the wackily humorous.

Our first holiday as a married couple was spent in a village off a magnificent coastline but with no indoor sanitation. For short stops, we availed a screening bush or tree as and when required. When I asked my husband about how I was supposed to take care of the daily morning routine, he calmly answered ‘the rocks’. I was horrified. After two days, nature wouldn’t wait, so ‘the rocks’ it was. Armed with a roll of toilet paper and a small bucket of water, I rose at the crack of dawn, trudged to the furthest corner of the beach, climbed up the highest pile of rocks from which perch I could keep an eye on the surroundings, happily bereft of human presence. Yup, been there done that!

Journeys by road are now dotted with wayside inns and more sophisticated hostelry. But not so long ago, there was nothing but nature between departure and destination and nature flourished thanks to the passing presence of needy travelers. Been there done that, too. I also have memories of the time before flushing toilets: bathrooms were rooms and not the minuscule cubicles you find today, and sturdy commodes lined one wall. One would sit in happy camaraderie with other members of the family – preferably of the same age and sex – and get on with the job. Nature’s needs were taken care of quite naturally.

Today, I baulk at the thought of a repeat performance of any of those experiences (and that includes the ‘pig toilets’ in Goa – but that’s a story for another day). They were certainly not for the faint of heart.

There was also a time when parties and picnics were embellished with a lusty rendering of the bawdy ‘Long live the Loos of England’ (a repertoire which included ‘Daisy, Daisy’ and ‘On the Isle of Capri’), which occasioned the parental, ‘Where did you learn that?!’ Pity the occupying Brits did not think to convert that song to local legend!!

Unfamiliar Feathers

We had two unusual visitors today – a kite (locally known as a cheel) and a budgerigar.

Our local denizens are crows and pigeons and we listen to caws and coos in surround sound from sun up to sun down. But today was different. The normal voices were muted. A glance out of the window showed me the kite perched on the terrace of the neighbouring building; the head was still downy and I guessed that it would be the equivalent of a human teenager. I watched it as it glanced imperiously from its vantage point, head turning from side to side almost constantly. And I was immediately reminded of a certain Mother Superior I'd had the misfortune to cross – the kite’s expression and demeanour were the same as that of the aforementioned stern and vigilant disciplinarian!

The similarities in appearance and mannerism in the human and animal worlds crop up so very often. When watching the one or the other, images spring immediately to mind. The most common example would be owners and their dogs: believe me, they do resemble each other - sometimes startlingly so. Such similarities have also been the cartoonist’s inspiration and delight. Sometimes the likeness strikes one at a very inopportune moment necessitating chuckles to be suppressed, accompanied by an urgent desire to be removed from the spot.

And sometimes such similarities are used to illustrate a sermon. A visiting priest waxed long and loud about the frailty of human nature and the tendency to sin. He thundered at the congregation, reminding them of the fires of eternal damnation. When he came to the end of his message, he noticed a man weeping copiously and approached him, thinking that he had touched a deep inner chord. Well, he had but not the one he thought! The man was weeping because he had just lost his billy-goat and the priest had a long and similar beard – the resemblance was just too much for him to bear!! This anecdote is a staple in the Redemptorist repertoire and one that never fails to establish rapport with the congregation.

Our other visitor, the budgie, was small, plump and pale yellow topped with green. It seemed a little fussy and a tad agitated too. It reminded me of someone, but I can’t for the life of me quite remember who!

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.’