In the twilight years. That's how my father, who turned 75 this year, refers to the present phase of his life. I always thought it sounded too dreary, but what would I know, I'm not there yet.
It was just about midday at work and I was already knackered. There was no point, I felt like a heap of crap. I could tell I was burning up with a steadily rising fever, so I put my stuff together and called it a day. All I wanted to do was to stretch out under cozy warm covers and sleep forever!! So, I got off the tram on my way back home, picked up a pack of paracetamols and walked into the next restaurant to grab a bite before I downed a bunch. The place was peculiarly dull with faded gilded decor of better days gone by. In it's twilight years too, I suppose. Obviously not a hotspot for lunch, it was almost empty. Which suited me just fine. I was happy for the solitude and the hot food before the fever med's. Whatever bug I had caught was causing a full-fledged skeletally intricate joint ache. Child care for the rest of the day was handed over to my husband. As I was getting off the phone with him, almost ready to continue the commute back home and to my bed, I became aware of a very elderly gentlemen at a table by the window across me. He was waving a dessert cup and yelling out something at me. I hadn't noticed there was anyone else on this side of the restaurant, had completely overlooked him. Looked right through him.
"Want some vanilla cream with fruits" he called out energetically. "It's very good, you really should try it" he continued, as he spooned in some to prove his point. Surprised as I was to hear English in this German city, I was even more taken aback at the offer to share his dessert. His hair was soft snow white tufts and he wore white scrubs like a nurse. His almost Santa-like appearance was belied only by a pronounced stoop that straightened out each time he repeated the offer. Confused, I noticed a wheel chair beside him, as he kept bobbing up and down in his seat insistently. I tried feebly to indicate I didn't want any desert, that I didn't want to share his, that I wasn't feeling very well. He wouldn't have any of it. Before I knew it, I was sitting at his table and we were both spooning in vanilla cream topped with red berries, from one cup. His skin glistened with the folds of age, but his wisened old eyes sparkled with delight and mischief! I don't know how long we talked, I only remember how much I laughed. And by the time I left, I wasn't feeling quite as beat.
That was 5 years ago. Next year my friend will turn 80.
(........to be continued)
Eyes
Friday, 27 November 2015
Friday, 16 October 2015
Not just another brick in the wall.
The times I remember most clearly were those soggy monsoon afternoons when we'd pour in with with our drippy plastic raincoats and our slushy squishy 'rainy shoes' trailing in the dirt of the world. The rain often whipped down in lashes, reaching through even the most well thought through raincoat. I remember shivering half soaked under the whirring ceiling fans while we got into position, bells strapped on our feet, ready in the half-sitting Aramandi position. The first round of Adavu steps, which were sure to warm us all up, were always the hardest. I adored our dance teacher though, I'd go through a lot of pain to impress her! She was like this Deity. Her alabaster skin, her silken hair, her long elegant fingers striking the Tabla, her incredibly sleight and graceful movements when she danced...she was just divine! I was always in such awe. Being a Parsi, she's quite an exception among dance teachers of the Indian classical dance form of Bharatanatyam. Originally Parsis were Iranians of the Zorastrian faith which is one of the world's oldest religions. They fled to India sometime between the 8th to 10th century to avoid persecution by muslim invaders. Bharatanatyam, described in the Natya Shastra treatise that date as far back as 200 BCE, originated in the temples of Tamil Nadu. I guess one could say it's the Indian 'ballet' without sounding too silly. It also encompasses theatre, dance and music in its own graceful fluidity. So, there we were, this meeting of Bharatanatyam, Parsis, and a bunch of little girl students, amongst which were - Hindus, Christians (like me) and basically anyone else who wanted to learn. But that was the India of then. An India long gone.
I was a terribly eager, terribly bad student. Seriously, Bharatanatyam is a horribly painful, bloody hard art form to master, and I just loved it. Talent is often overrated, at least that's what I believed because it worked well for me. Our teacher saw things in me I didn't, like invisible things. She'd say something encouraging and set me up to practice twice as long as every other kid. So whilst clearly there were better dancers in our group of giggly girls, including her own daughters, I often got special attention. Much like one tends to be overprotective of the weakest in the pack. She was firm and kind and always pushing me beyond my limits. I don't know if it was because I worshipped her or because she believed in me, but I always let her push. With one sure flick of her trowel, she fixed a shaky brick. It's people like these that mould us.
It was no big surprise that no great dancer was born out of me. I suspect she knew that all along. But I had a lot of fun dancing while I did, and then when I was about 13, I dropped out. In all the hustle-bustle of growing up, university and generally sorting out life and what I want to do with mine, I might have forgotten about dance altogether.
The next time I thought about Bharatanatyam, I was at the tail end of my 30's, had two kids, was living and working in central Europe and yearning for it to be part of my life again. To be clear, I did try other forms of dance more native to Europe, which were fun enough for a while. But it just wasn't the same. Having made some failed attempts at digging up a good teacher, I was starting to think maybe it's a sign to let it go. A 25 year break would have surely done nothing good to my 'skills'. Why I still continued searching, I can't explain. At almost 40 I was able to continue where I left off at 13. That shaky brick she fixed is kind of jammed!
It's often rainy outside and cold. There is no drama scene here, like in the monsoon rains of Mumbai though. Somethings have changed, some others remain the same. Drama in India has taken on a whole new face. I'm heart broken about the direction my beloved India is headed in. Whilst India was never the epitome of tolerance and harmony, now extremism is brazenly legitimised, even legalised by powerful sections of society. I'm ashamed to call myself Indian. Although I won't be as quick to turn in my nationality for another, I still don't want to be a part of a mindset that would lynch someone over his diet. My happily mixed dance class as I knew it, is a thing of India's past.
The first round of Adavu's are still the hardest. Again, I adore my dance teacher, who this time is a good 10 years younger than I. And my body is 27 years older than when I last struggled with Bharatanatyam! Our giggly group is a bunch of women from varied backgrounds, shaving off time from domestic and professional obligations to spend it on dance. Some are even quite new to the country, still struggling with home sickness and learning the ropes of a foreign culture and language. We dare to leave all our 'baggage' with our shoes at the door so that on Saturday morning at class, we're all the same. It is still with childlike joy that we all learn from our dearest teacher and each other. Little girls again. The moulding continues, even for 40 year old bricks. She's created an addictive atmosphere that encouragingly includes varying levels of talent and expertise. Underlining strengths, supporting weaknesses. There are no egos here, no pride and no politics. Instead there are tears of frustration and moments of delight as we nervously prepare for our first stage performance in, what for many of us, will be decades. She places her trust and professional reputation in our hands, in return we have to believe in ourselves. You can't help but be inspired by the energy and focus. Again, it's just all about dance, about the painful torture of body control and limit-pushing. And so, it turns out, in this often cruel hateful world, my happy dance class does continue. For that, I have you all to thank.
I was a terribly eager, terribly bad student. Seriously, Bharatanatyam is a horribly painful, bloody hard art form to master, and I just loved it. Talent is often overrated, at least that's what I believed because it worked well for me. Our teacher saw things in me I didn't, like invisible things. She'd say something encouraging and set me up to practice twice as long as every other kid. So whilst clearly there were better dancers in our group of giggly girls, including her own daughters, I often got special attention. Much like one tends to be overprotective of the weakest in the pack. She was firm and kind and always pushing me beyond my limits. I don't know if it was because I worshipped her or because she believed in me, but I always let her push. With one sure flick of her trowel, she fixed a shaky brick. It's people like these that mould us.
It was no big surprise that no great dancer was born out of me. I suspect she knew that all along. But I had a lot of fun dancing while I did, and then when I was about 13, I dropped out. In all the hustle-bustle of growing up, university and generally sorting out life and what I want to do with mine, I might have forgotten about dance altogether.
The next time I thought about Bharatanatyam, I was at the tail end of my 30's, had two kids, was living and working in central Europe and yearning for it to be part of my life again. To be clear, I did try other forms of dance more native to Europe, which were fun enough for a while. But it just wasn't the same. Having made some failed attempts at digging up a good teacher, I was starting to think maybe it's a sign to let it go. A 25 year break would have surely done nothing good to my 'skills'. Why I still continued searching, I can't explain. At almost 40 I was able to continue where I left off at 13. That shaky brick she fixed is kind of jammed!
It's often rainy outside and cold. There is no drama scene here, like in the monsoon rains of Mumbai though. Somethings have changed, some others remain the same. Drama in India has taken on a whole new face. I'm heart broken about the direction my beloved India is headed in. Whilst India was never the epitome of tolerance and harmony, now extremism is brazenly legitimised, even legalised by powerful sections of society. I'm ashamed to call myself Indian. Although I won't be as quick to turn in my nationality for another, I still don't want to be a part of a mindset that would lynch someone over his diet. My happily mixed dance class as I knew it, is a thing of India's past.
The first round of Adavu's are still the hardest. Again, I adore my dance teacher, who this time is a good 10 years younger than I. And my body is 27 years older than when I last struggled with Bharatanatyam! Our giggly group is a bunch of women from varied backgrounds, shaving off time from domestic and professional obligations to spend it on dance. Some are even quite new to the country, still struggling with home sickness and learning the ropes of a foreign culture and language. We dare to leave all our 'baggage' with our shoes at the door so that on Saturday morning at class, we're all the same. It is still with childlike joy that we all learn from our dearest teacher and each other. Little girls again. The moulding continues, even for 40 year old bricks. She's created an addictive atmosphere that encouragingly includes varying levels of talent and expertise. Underlining strengths, supporting weaknesses. There are no egos here, no pride and no politics. Instead there are tears of frustration and moments of delight as we nervously prepare for our first stage performance in, what for many of us, will be decades. She places her trust and professional reputation in our hands, in return we have to believe in ourselves. You can't help but be inspired by the energy and focus. Again, it's just all about dance, about the painful torture of body control and limit-pushing. And so, it turns out, in this often cruel hateful world, my happy dance class does continue. For that, I have you all to thank.
Sunday, 2 August 2015
Happy friendship day, O golden one!
Learning is done best by examples. Children learn best through examples set by adults. Education is structured on strengthening theoretical foundations by practical examples. Even the animal world, from what has been observed, picks up quickly on good practice.
It seems, with a certain amount of intelligence, it is easy to pick up on beneficial behaviour from your immediate environment and imitate it. The trick often lies in having the intellect to identify what is beneficial and what is not. It seems in an immature or insecure mind this ability is diminished, resulting in overrating and emulating behaviour that is actually detrimental.
In a nut-shell, my two pence on Friendship day is that with a bit of luck, a healthy frame of mind and the right priorities, we surround ourselves with people that are good for us. Whose examples we can learn from to become better people ourselves. And we do this naturally, to survive and evolve. Of course there is the matter of emotions and circumstances that finally deicide which relationships last and which must go. But by and large, in our lives - excluding the disorienting years of adolescence - the basic premise for finding and maintaining good meaningful friendships lies within ourselves.
Despite my trampling directness and tardy emotions, I have the great fortune today of celebrating a few meaningful friendships that I am perpetually learning from.
Of these, there is one golden girl, I want to pay a special tribute to today. We, your world, are your audience. This is your stage.
I'm always intrigued by people with infectious positivity. Being a die hard realist, I find it fascinating to be around people that always see the silver lining. Although I find all the optimism sometimes mildly irritating, I have learnt to squint for the silver lining.
Only since I've known you, have I realised it takes a lot more than squinting. In knowing you, I have learnt that happiness takes energy, generosity and discipline to be stubbornly, unfailingly light hearted in the face of reality and the hand that life has dealt you. You take it, you make it.
When you finally wrote off a marriage you trustingly whole-heartedly entered into, to a self absorbed, promiscuous narcissist, you did it with peace. Knowing you had left no stone unturned. You promised yourself you'd make up for the hole he ripped open, so your son would come out of it unscathed. Every day for the past 7 years, you have reinforced that resolve, swallowing your dignity, paying the price it takes every single day to keep his world intact. You son is a bubbly, curious delight of a 9 year, safely exploring and unfolding to adulthood.
When you buried your daughter and mourned her demise, again you found your peace in letting her go. The greatest tribute of love was in placing her liberation above your need to hurt and heal.
Have you realised, you're always smiling? And yes, people take the happy one for granted. You are a single working mum, in a foreign country, handling all the annoying bureaucratic details in a foreign language. And you're always smiling. Why is it you're always smiling?? When I'm angry or stressed at work, I'm grumpy at home. I take a free snap or two at some some poor victim in my trusted circle. Everyone is alerted and careful not to trigger the 'bad mood' lurking. That is how most mortals are. We use our unhappiness as control over others. With you, we don't have to be careful of your feelings or try and keep your spirits high. We playfully call you our 'sunshine'. Gold and radiant like your name implies. You're self sufficient. A cushion for others. You seem most content when there is someone you can reach out to and help. When meted with envy and catty jealousy, you explain it and forgive it and go on to look for the next person you can be there for. As always, you will get no credit for it, for your unnaturally sunny-tempered, unforced kindness.
And you are no angel, no spiritual superior being. You are just a mere mortal like the rest of us. Only, you have more love to give than there are people in this world.
I will stay close and observe with rapt attention. I want to be smart enough to learn a thing or two from your many examples, O golden one!
It seems, with a certain amount of intelligence, it is easy to pick up on beneficial behaviour from your immediate environment and imitate it. The trick often lies in having the intellect to identify what is beneficial and what is not. It seems in an immature or insecure mind this ability is diminished, resulting in overrating and emulating behaviour that is actually detrimental.
In a nut-shell, my two pence on Friendship day is that with a bit of luck, a healthy frame of mind and the right priorities, we surround ourselves with people that are good for us. Whose examples we can learn from to become better people ourselves. And we do this naturally, to survive and evolve. Of course there is the matter of emotions and circumstances that finally deicide which relationships last and which must go. But by and large, in our lives - excluding the disorienting years of adolescence - the basic premise for finding and maintaining good meaningful friendships lies within ourselves.
Despite my trampling directness and tardy emotions, I have the great fortune today of celebrating a few meaningful friendships that I am perpetually learning from.
Of these, there is one golden girl, I want to pay a special tribute to today. We, your world, are your audience. This is your stage.
I'm always intrigued by people with infectious positivity. Being a die hard realist, I find it fascinating to be around people that always see the silver lining. Although I find all the optimism sometimes mildly irritating, I have learnt to squint for the silver lining.
Only since I've known you, have I realised it takes a lot more than squinting. In knowing you, I have learnt that happiness takes energy, generosity and discipline to be stubbornly, unfailingly light hearted in the face of reality and the hand that life has dealt you. You take it, you make it.
When you finally wrote off a marriage you trustingly whole-heartedly entered into, to a self absorbed, promiscuous narcissist, you did it with peace. Knowing you had left no stone unturned. You promised yourself you'd make up for the hole he ripped open, so your son would come out of it unscathed. Every day for the past 7 years, you have reinforced that resolve, swallowing your dignity, paying the price it takes every single day to keep his world intact. You son is a bubbly, curious delight of a 9 year, safely exploring and unfolding to adulthood.
When you buried your daughter and mourned her demise, again you found your peace in letting her go. The greatest tribute of love was in placing her liberation above your need to hurt and heal.
Have you realised, you're always smiling? And yes, people take the happy one for granted. You are a single working mum, in a foreign country, handling all the annoying bureaucratic details in a foreign language. And you're always smiling. Why is it you're always smiling?? When I'm angry or stressed at work, I'm grumpy at home. I take a free snap or two at some some poor victim in my trusted circle. Everyone is alerted and careful not to trigger the 'bad mood' lurking. That is how most mortals are. We use our unhappiness as control over others. With you, we don't have to be careful of your feelings or try and keep your spirits high. We playfully call you our 'sunshine'. Gold and radiant like your name implies. You're self sufficient. A cushion for others. You seem most content when there is someone you can reach out to and help. When meted with envy and catty jealousy, you explain it and forgive it and go on to look for the next person you can be there for. As always, you will get no credit for it, for your unnaturally sunny-tempered, unforced kindness.
And you are no angel, no spiritual superior being. You are just a mere mortal like the rest of us. Only, you have more love to give than there are people in this world.
I will stay close and observe with rapt attention. I want to be smart enough to learn a thing or two from your many examples, O golden one!
Saturday, 21 February 2015
50 shades of hogwash.
Seriously, free women of the 21st century, make up your minds!!! Do you want to be treated as respectful equals in society and the work force? Do you really want to take control of your life and sex, and all of that great sounding 'Women's group' stuff? Do you honestly even mind being sexually objectified?
What you do you really think of womanisers like Dominique Strauss-Kahn or the sleazy Berlusconi? Is their demeaning behaviour towards women and misuse of power to live out their sick sexual fantasies really abhorring to you? Because it didn't seem much like that with the cooing and giggling hordes of women flocking to read and watch the 'Shades of Grey'. The picture of an innocent virgin college girl being sexually dominated to submission and violence by the success and wealth of a cocky young disturbed man is a massive success, and it's because the WOMEN love it!! So basically, if the despicable conduct of old, wrinkly men came instead in the package of a well built, dashing man with power and success to boot, it would be completely different.
Let's pretend for a moment that the story line wasn't the flat cliché it is, that the book, which sold over 100 million copies, wasn't just smut and poor writing which probably took all of 10 minutes worth of work. An introverted college girl of low self-esteem, with obvious abandonment issues from her father and a bully of a friend is literally swept off her naive feet with simple minded gullibility in helicopters and planes, by the protagonist. Falling prey to the flashy wealth and success, her sexual identity only starts to exist when she becomes his subjugate sex-slave. But of course it's all consensual - as if consent even counts between two people in social classes so far apart. As we recall, it didn't do much for Clinton? Even so, how much better is violence if you ask first and then hit?
At the very least, it's about love! Still suckers to riding into the sunset with the fairytale prince. Still not ready to find that sunset on the merit of your own smarts. Well, then at least loose the act. His possession and control of her reflect not his love but his need to 'own her', for her to obey him. Which, infuriatingly, is exactly what she does. None of what she eventually is, comes from within her. Her job, her home, her way of life or self-esteem - all rewards for pleasing him or demonstrating her love for him. Among the most disturbing scenes in the movie, was the supposed pleasure on her face as she get's spanked and another time she gets struck by a cane, stripped nude and kneeling. Popular opinion is going on the barricades protesting against the blatant condoning of matter-of-fact violence, but in the mainstreaming of pornography it's glorified.
The most dangerous of messages is that to the real perverts. Lurking in the shadows of society, they now get a clear thumbs up to go for their kill, women love it - just bring along enough bling. But the world is not hollywood. Perverts won't be converted for love. Teenagers and adults will go home with this glossy image of violence and sex, encouraged to try the forbidden. It will cause real physical pain, and it won't be stopped by calls of 'Red' and 'Yellow'.
The commodity that women have publicly approved and popularised is no better than regular porn that reduces women to sexual objects, portraying them as passive recipients of degrading and/or violent acts which pressure them to 'consent' to things they find demeaning, taking away the intimacy of the experience. Men will be further empowered and encouraged to believe such control can be easily gained over a woman, for her own pleasure.
Why this abuse masquerading as romance with such unfortunate societal implications is so popular amongst the women folk is just absolutely baffling. For the moment, forget the '1 Billion Rising' hogwash of double standards. True comfort and identity for women still seems to come through submission.
The final idiot check should be, is this a message I want my daughter to take away? She might just be better off watching 'Frozen' for the umpteenth time.
What you do you really think of womanisers like Dominique Strauss-Kahn or the sleazy Berlusconi? Is their demeaning behaviour towards women and misuse of power to live out their sick sexual fantasies really abhorring to you? Because it didn't seem much like that with the cooing and giggling hordes of women flocking to read and watch the 'Shades of Grey'. The picture of an innocent virgin college girl being sexually dominated to submission and violence by the success and wealth of a cocky young disturbed man is a massive success, and it's because the WOMEN love it!! So basically, if the despicable conduct of old, wrinkly men came instead in the package of a well built, dashing man with power and success to boot, it would be completely different.
Let's pretend for a moment that the story line wasn't the flat cliché it is, that the book, which sold over 100 million copies, wasn't just smut and poor writing which probably took all of 10 minutes worth of work. An introverted college girl of low self-esteem, with obvious abandonment issues from her father and a bully of a friend is literally swept off her naive feet with simple minded gullibility in helicopters and planes, by the protagonist. Falling prey to the flashy wealth and success, her sexual identity only starts to exist when she becomes his subjugate sex-slave. But of course it's all consensual - as if consent even counts between two people in social classes so far apart. As we recall, it didn't do much for Clinton? Even so, how much better is violence if you ask first and then hit?
At the very least, it's about love! Still suckers to riding into the sunset with the fairytale prince. Still not ready to find that sunset on the merit of your own smarts. Well, then at least loose the act. His possession and control of her reflect not his love but his need to 'own her', for her to obey him. Which, infuriatingly, is exactly what she does. None of what she eventually is, comes from within her. Her job, her home, her way of life or self-esteem - all rewards for pleasing him or demonstrating her love for him. Among the most disturbing scenes in the movie, was the supposed pleasure on her face as she get's spanked and another time she gets struck by a cane, stripped nude and kneeling. Popular opinion is going on the barricades protesting against the blatant condoning of matter-of-fact violence, but in the mainstreaming of pornography it's glorified.
The most dangerous of messages is that to the real perverts. Lurking in the shadows of society, they now get a clear thumbs up to go for their kill, women love it - just bring along enough bling. But the world is not hollywood. Perverts won't be converted for love. Teenagers and adults will go home with this glossy image of violence and sex, encouraged to try the forbidden. It will cause real physical pain, and it won't be stopped by calls of 'Red' and 'Yellow'.
The commodity that women have publicly approved and popularised is no better than regular porn that reduces women to sexual objects, portraying them as passive recipients of degrading and/or violent acts which pressure them to 'consent' to things they find demeaning, taking away the intimacy of the experience. Men will be further empowered and encouraged to believe such control can be easily gained over a woman, for her own pleasure.
Why this abuse masquerading as romance with such unfortunate societal implications is so popular amongst the women folk is just absolutely baffling. For the moment, forget the '1 Billion Rising' hogwash of double standards. True comfort and identity for women still seems to come through submission.
The final idiot check should be, is this a message I want my daughter to take away? She might just be better off watching 'Frozen' for the umpteenth time.
Let them live! (Part III)
I didn't think there would be a part III either, I'm just as surprised as you are. It happens rarely, and most unexpectedly. People surprise you, become twice the person you take them to be, twice the person you will ever be.
Something else unexpected happened while we weren't paying attention. Turns out, our daughter is 9 going on 19. Her mind is developing faster than we or her body can keep up with. Trading in all her baby pinks for the darkest blacks. She's sensitive and gentle one moment and breathing fire, striking down all that moves the other. In equal parts infuriating and bewitching. Arrogant and surly as often as she's crushed by insecurity. Just when we think we're raising mean, self focused little people, she goes and surprises you with empathy - even for a cake of soap.
She took suspiciously long in the bathroom one evening while the rest of us were haggling her to hurry, in a rush to get to someplace, running late as ever before. While we waited impatiently, she was busy flooding the soap tray in the bathroom, taking her time doing it. Hours later when we got back and some poor soul (that would be me) reached for the soap to wash my hands, I pick up a gooey slimy mass well into disintegration. As is expected of a mature adult I first went off on a rant before I finally asked the sensible 'WHY???'.
'I imagined the Soap was alive Mummy, and it would die outside water. I was saving it'.
Great! Now I had killed it, fished out and flushed down that struggling-for-life-soap that had only just been saved. This might be the most adorable explanation for soaking soap, while I end up being the cold hearted ogre. As it goes, and as is just, I was indicted and she was the angel. Tossing her halo for fury, as though a fresh coat of confidence had just been applied to her, she retorts 'You don't care about my feelings, all you care about is keeping order!'
And so it is on the the roller coaster of an adolescent girls emotions. Everything you've heard is true and not true. With all the vitality and authenticity that adolescence is fuelled with, she's sharp and quick as a cricket to hop on the thicket of hypocrisies that is parenting. Holding us to task, questioning every contradiction. We're poorly prepared with neither rhetoric or strategy. Nature has sprung this upon us, and I scramble for literature on 'The purpose of the Teenage brain' - there is a book for everything. Unfortunately there are also opportunities that pass while one gets caught up in the distraction that books provide.
Now in the meantime our pet crickets, a whole swarm of them to be sure, are systematically being treated like lesser beings so as to buffer the guilt when we finally decide it's time to discard of them. As this process advances - in ways of forgetting feeds, neglecting to change their dried up water sponges, leaving the blinds down thereby cutting off their only source of sunlight - a few of them perish, successfully reducing them to the nothing that they rightfully are. At the same time, there is amongst us a parallel crusade. An equally determined one-girl soap-saving faction, as passionate about the crickets as we are indifferent. Protesting our definitions of right and wrong, she demands with the same soul searching depth 'What is to become of my crickets daddy?' It takes a special kind of person to have the integrity to do what is right, not what is easy. To apply that philosophy to the lives of pet crickets takes an extraordinarily special kind of person. 'I don't know honey' he spares her the proverbial smarmy insincerity. Satisfied only when a trace of shame slid into his voice, she asked as many times as it took to pull it out of him.
We throw a spoke in the hamster wheel frequently and run away from it all. Our destination of choice to beat a bit of winter was Dubai this time - which turned out to be more like running towards than away from it all. Anyway, with holiday plans looming, resolving the cricket business was becoming more and more pressing. There was a curious transition in the father-daughter cricket conflict. Frequently disarming her with the deferential manner in which he addressed her concerns, slowly resurrecting trust. With that came the responsibility of keeping it. The true strength of a man can be measured in the most unusual of ways.
When we were all packed and ready to go, father and daughter duly emptied the cricket boxes. Cricket baby, after cricket baby had to be sifted out by the dozen from between the white grains of sand. As did the doubts in our little girls mind. The swarm of crickets were smuggled in a small plastic box puckered with holes for air, in the cabin luggage of this inter-continental flight. We hoped they wouldn't reach chirping maturity whilst in flight. All the security scans let the timorous swarm pass through undetected, much to the relief of the Father-daughter taut pack of nerves!
Dubai, you might know is a city on a stage. It's artificial perfection brings together Ski-slopes beside groves of marigolds and petunias in bloom, right past a 160ft giant aquarium in the middle of the desert. All within the cultivated, air-conditioned confines of shopping Malls. Everything seems to be in some way or the other either the 'largest, biggest' something in the world, or in competition to get there. Built by the hands of voiceless exploited labour from developing countries. Transported everyday to the city in small white non-air-conditioned busses from their sardine-packed bunkers in obscure parts of the dessert, conveniently far from everyone's conscience . Their sweltry busses and lives are the only semblance of natural existence. In many ways, Dubai is a show-case of our transgressions towards each other and the planet.
It is to this world, that we transported the crickets. From their constrained modest plastic home in Munich, to the shores of Arabia. Trimmed with imported Australian beach quality sand followed by acres of lush green palm dotted lawns of a posh 5 Star accommodation. My little girl and her daddy took out the box with the jet lagged crickets to a well sprinkled spot of luscious green, under the protective shade of a dense palm frond. I can't read cricket minds, but if mirror neurons really work to experience grief and joy of others, I'd say going by the release of sheer happiness on our little girl's face that the crickets must feel some of that joy too. It is here that they will frolic and multiply to their little cricket heart's content. Daddy has brought the lesson of attachment to a responsible end and Dubai fauna has been enriched. Daddy is a hero.
There might be a few corrupt contradictions here, she might see through them one day. For now her crickets will live, and she's back in sync with us. For now she's 9 again.
Something else unexpected happened while we weren't paying attention. Turns out, our daughter is 9 going on 19. Her mind is developing faster than we or her body can keep up with. Trading in all her baby pinks for the darkest blacks. She's sensitive and gentle one moment and breathing fire, striking down all that moves the other. In equal parts infuriating and bewitching. Arrogant and surly as often as she's crushed by insecurity. Just when we think we're raising mean, self focused little people, she goes and surprises you with empathy - even for a cake of soap.
She took suspiciously long in the bathroom one evening while the rest of us were haggling her to hurry, in a rush to get to someplace, running late as ever before. While we waited impatiently, she was busy flooding the soap tray in the bathroom, taking her time doing it. Hours later when we got back and some poor soul (that would be me) reached for the soap to wash my hands, I pick up a gooey slimy mass well into disintegration. As is expected of a mature adult I first went off on a rant before I finally asked the sensible 'WHY???'.
'I imagined the Soap was alive Mummy, and it would die outside water. I was saving it'.
Great! Now I had killed it, fished out and flushed down that struggling-for-life-soap that had only just been saved. This might be the most adorable explanation for soaking soap, while I end up being the cold hearted ogre. As it goes, and as is just, I was indicted and she was the angel. Tossing her halo for fury, as though a fresh coat of confidence had just been applied to her, she retorts 'You don't care about my feelings, all you care about is keeping order!'
And so it is on the the roller coaster of an adolescent girls emotions. Everything you've heard is true and not true. With all the vitality and authenticity that adolescence is fuelled with, she's sharp and quick as a cricket to hop on the thicket of hypocrisies that is parenting. Holding us to task, questioning every contradiction. We're poorly prepared with neither rhetoric or strategy. Nature has sprung this upon us, and I scramble for literature on 'The purpose of the Teenage brain' - there is a book for everything. Unfortunately there are also opportunities that pass while one gets caught up in the distraction that books provide.
Now in the meantime our pet crickets, a whole swarm of them to be sure, are systematically being treated like lesser beings so as to buffer the guilt when we finally decide it's time to discard of them. As this process advances - in ways of forgetting feeds, neglecting to change their dried up water sponges, leaving the blinds down thereby cutting off their only source of sunlight - a few of them perish, successfully reducing them to the nothing that they rightfully are. At the same time, there is amongst us a parallel crusade. An equally determined one-girl soap-saving faction, as passionate about the crickets as we are indifferent. Protesting our definitions of right and wrong, she demands with the same soul searching depth 'What is to become of my crickets daddy?' It takes a special kind of person to have the integrity to do what is right, not what is easy. To apply that philosophy to the lives of pet crickets takes an extraordinarily special kind of person. 'I don't know honey' he spares her the proverbial smarmy insincerity. Satisfied only when a trace of shame slid into his voice, she asked as many times as it took to pull it out of him.
We throw a spoke in the hamster wheel frequently and run away from it all. Our destination of choice to beat a bit of winter was Dubai this time - which turned out to be more like running towards than away from it all. Anyway, with holiday plans looming, resolving the cricket business was becoming more and more pressing. There was a curious transition in the father-daughter cricket conflict. Frequently disarming her with the deferential manner in which he addressed her concerns, slowly resurrecting trust. With that came the responsibility of keeping it. The true strength of a man can be measured in the most unusual of ways.
When we were all packed and ready to go, father and daughter duly emptied the cricket boxes. Cricket baby, after cricket baby had to be sifted out by the dozen from between the white grains of sand. As did the doubts in our little girls mind. The swarm of crickets were smuggled in a small plastic box puckered with holes for air, in the cabin luggage of this inter-continental flight. We hoped they wouldn't reach chirping maturity whilst in flight. All the security scans let the timorous swarm pass through undetected, much to the relief of the Father-daughter taut pack of nerves!
Dubai, you might know is a city on a stage. It's artificial perfection brings together Ski-slopes beside groves of marigolds and petunias in bloom, right past a 160ft giant aquarium in the middle of the desert. All within the cultivated, air-conditioned confines of shopping Malls. Everything seems to be in some way or the other either the 'largest, biggest' something in the world, or in competition to get there. Built by the hands of voiceless exploited labour from developing countries. Transported everyday to the city in small white non-air-conditioned busses from their sardine-packed bunkers in obscure parts of the dessert, conveniently far from everyone's conscience . Their sweltry busses and lives are the only semblance of natural existence. In many ways, Dubai is a show-case of our transgressions towards each other and the planet.
It is to this world, that we transported the crickets. From their constrained modest plastic home in Munich, to the shores of Arabia. Trimmed with imported Australian beach quality sand followed by acres of lush green palm dotted lawns of a posh 5 Star accommodation. My little girl and her daddy took out the box with the jet lagged crickets to a well sprinkled spot of luscious green, under the protective shade of a dense palm frond. I can't read cricket minds, but if mirror neurons really work to experience grief and joy of others, I'd say going by the release of sheer happiness on our little girl's face that the crickets must feel some of that joy too. It is here that they will frolic and multiply to their little cricket heart's content. Daddy has brought the lesson of attachment to a responsible end and Dubai fauna has been enriched. Daddy is a hero.
There might be a few corrupt contradictions here, she might see through them one day. For now her crickets will live, and she's back in sync with us. For now she's 9 again.
Monday, 17 November 2014
Let them live! (Part II)
And so it was that our successfully manipulated impressionable young minds were in pet ownership bliss. They sat around waiting for the moment the crickets would chirp. The crickets sat around too - waiting for nothing, generally quite clueless. It took all of 10 seconds and then one chirped! The kids were overjoyed. My son ran over to his room for his first greeting chirp. And what do you know, his crickets chirped too!
Crickets chirp about 62 times a minute at around 13°C and tend to be nocturnal. The higher the temperature, the higher the rate of chirping. In protest to the changing of the seasons, our home is set at a constant 25° around the year. Usually male crickets chirp, but females pipe in too - completely unnecessarily. So they chirped, and they chirped, all round the clock. Shrill, high pitched and constant - especially at night.
My daughter was completely immersed into her dear pets, maternal instincts in overdrive and all. This little cricket mother monitored their mating appetite closely, noting with some distress that the female didn't particularly fancy the male - that at least explained what all the chirping was about! She also insisted their chirps changed when she was near, or when their moods changed. The crickets would be impressed to know they have moods. So the whole educational side of the pet project was in full throttle and our nights and sleep on the whole were in total decline.
While our little girl dreamed of having hundreds of baby crickets through nights of incessant chirping, we lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, quite blinded now by my husband's dazzling brilliance! She couldn't sleep without the chirping and we couldn't sleep with it. But we were the adults and so we got our way. The crickets were rapidly downgraded from pets to pests, from the children's room to a small bathroom on the lower floor, far from everyone's conscience. It might take her some time and therapy to overcome the trauma of this separation. Such is life.
Both terrarium's adorned the window sill. Many layers of shuttable doors lay in between to seal out the noise. There they stayed and chirped, sullen with the defensive sullenness of the defenceless. We counted down from their life span of a 100 days for nature to take it's course - preferably sooner than later. Only a matter of time till we reclaim our bathroom, bedrooms, sleep and lives from this menace! Any case the kids presented on behalf of the crickets was struck down. A form of open fascism was adopted to sit out the shorter part of 100 days. It couldn't be much longer till the dreadfully sad demise of the 4 dear crickets came to pass.
We miscalculated nature. Sometime around day 20, little specks of black stirred in the terrariums. Like the sand on the floor had come to life. Each box had about a 100 little cricket babies. The creatures in captivity strike back by multiplying, literally, a 100 fold!!! The children were ecstatic, my daughter was in tears of joy over her cricket babies. And we had over 200 crickets to boast of!
Outside, winter is fast approaching, the temperatures are falling rapidly. Releasing the crickets will mean their certain end. It will be another 6 months till it warms up enough for them to survive outdoors. What do you think - will we call upon that last shred of decency, take responsibility and turn this lesson around for the kids, even if it meant perpetuating our cricket menace? Or take the quick and easy way out?
Let them live? Or let them go?
Crickets chirp about 62 times a minute at around 13°C and tend to be nocturnal. The higher the temperature, the higher the rate of chirping. In protest to the changing of the seasons, our home is set at a constant 25° around the year. Usually male crickets chirp, but females pipe in too - completely unnecessarily. So they chirped, and they chirped, all round the clock. Shrill, high pitched and constant - especially at night.
My daughter was completely immersed into her dear pets, maternal instincts in overdrive and all. This little cricket mother monitored their mating appetite closely, noting with some distress that the female didn't particularly fancy the male - that at least explained what all the chirping was about! She also insisted their chirps changed when she was near, or when their moods changed. The crickets would be impressed to know they have moods. So the whole educational side of the pet project was in full throttle and our nights and sleep on the whole were in total decline.
While our little girl dreamed of having hundreds of baby crickets through nights of incessant chirping, we lay awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, quite blinded now by my husband's dazzling brilliance! She couldn't sleep without the chirping and we couldn't sleep with it. But we were the adults and so we got our way. The crickets were rapidly downgraded from pets to pests, from the children's room to a small bathroom on the lower floor, far from everyone's conscience. It might take her some time and therapy to overcome the trauma of this separation. Such is life.
Both terrarium's adorned the window sill. Many layers of shuttable doors lay in between to seal out the noise. There they stayed and chirped, sullen with the defensive sullenness of the defenceless. We counted down from their life span of a 100 days for nature to take it's course - preferably sooner than later. Only a matter of time till we reclaim our bathroom, bedrooms, sleep and lives from this menace! Any case the kids presented on behalf of the crickets was struck down. A form of open fascism was adopted to sit out the shorter part of 100 days. It couldn't be much longer till the dreadfully sad demise of the 4 dear crickets came to pass.
We miscalculated nature. Sometime around day 20, little specks of black stirred in the terrariums. Like the sand on the floor had come to life. Each box had about a 100 little cricket babies. The creatures in captivity strike back by multiplying, literally, a 100 fold!!! The children were ecstatic, my daughter was in tears of joy over her cricket babies. And we had over 200 crickets to boast of!
Outside, winter is fast approaching, the temperatures are falling rapidly. Releasing the crickets will mean their certain end. It will be another 6 months till it warms up enough for them to survive outdoors. What do you think - will we call upon that last shred of decency, take responsibility and turn this lesson around for the kids, even if it meant perpetuating our cricket menace? Or take the quick and easy way out?
Let them live? Or let them go?
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Let them live! (Part I)
Anyone knows when they are not loved. Even crickets. Crickets are not terribly bright about most things. They're fed water in a sponge lest they drown themselves attempting to drink from a dish. One of those creatures that does very poorly in the body mass to brain ratio, although some crickets do brilliantly in the testicles to body mass ratio - who needs brains when you've got ba**s, right? Still, I'm sure even crickets with their minuscule brains and ginormous testicles know when they are not loved.
We've been over this a few times. Working adults aren't meant to have kids, let alone pets. Our 9 year olds argue, quite irrefutably, that didn't stop us from having kids so why not have pets too? No reason to add insult to injury, but never mind. Finding the right pet for a family, one that becomes a part of the family is hard. We already have a fish tank, and that just became furniture. A dog would be great! They can be personal trainers, mediators through family crises, fluffy bean bags on cuddly evenings, watch guards, floor mops all rolled into one jumping, slobbering, loyal, lovable thing that's ecstatic to see you every single time you walk through the door - he's you're therapist, an any-time anti-depressant, you name it! Unfortunately they also need company, which we can't even offer each other enough of. So dogs were not happening for us. We were looking for something convenient. Something that the kids could love and care for as much, get attached to, but preferably didn't occupy as much space, cause us any work, take up any of our precious time and yet make for a perfect pet. My husband, this man just keeps dazzling me with his sheer brilliance, came up with the perfect solution - Crickets!
At first it was a bit of a hard sell, so he sold it hard. I wasn't sure about keeping creatures in captivity for the sake of the children's emotional development and entertainment. We were doing it with the fish in the tank and now we'd be doing it again. I tend to be a snob when it comes to principles - only the loftiest and purest will do. But I backed down this time. Apparently in the wonderfully convenient class system of creatures of the world, crickets really didn't matter. So I let myself be awed as he extolled the benefits of having crickets as pets. Each can have a pair of their very own, in their own rooms in terrariums! The investment is minimum since crickets are mainly sold as feed for other pets. They only live a 100 days and they might even have babies in that time, giving our kids the opportunity to witness the cycle of life first hand. And if not, the kids would have still lived out their pet phase, with all the nurturing and caring 9 year olds can shower on a pair of crickets in a 100 days. Everyone's served, pet chapter closed, we all move on. I must say, it all sounds pretty damn good!
So the crickets, aka our extended family now, were ceremoniously brought home. There were a few days of research and re-work that followed till the sexes were sorted to make pairs. The chap in the pet store just couldn't have been bothered to add sex-sorting services for 15 cents a cricket. Well anyway, they all got names, we learnt to tell them apart, it was all very exciting and everyone was so happy!
.........to be continued :-).
We've been over this a few times. Working adults aren't meant to have kids, let alone pets. Our 9 year olds argue, quite irrefutably, that didn't stop us from having kids so why not have pets too? No reason to add insult to injury, but never mind. Finding the right pet for a family, one that becomes a part of the family is hard. We already have a fish tank, and that just became furniture. A dog would be great! They can be personal trainers, mediators through family crises, fluffy bean bags on cuddly evenings, watch guards, floor mops all rolled into one jumping, slobbering, loyal, lovable thing that's ecstatic to see you every single time you walk through the door - he's you're therapist, an any-time anti-depressant, you name it! Unfortunately they also need company, which we can't even offer each other enough of. So dogs were not happening for us. We were looking for something convenient. Something that the kids could love and care for as much, get attached to, but preferably didn't occupy as much space, cause us any work, take up any of our precious time and yet make for a perfect pet. My husband, this man just keeps dazzling me with his sheer brilliance, came up with the perfect solution - Crickets!
At first it was a bit of a hard sell, so he sold it hard. I wasn't sure about keeping creatures in captivity for the sake of the children's emotional development and entertainment. We were doing it with the fish in the tank and now we'd be doing it again. I tend to be a snob when it comes to principles - only the loftiest and purest will do. But I backed down this time. Apparently in the wonderfully convenient class system of creatures of the world, crickets really didn't matter. So I let myself be awed as he extolled the benefits of having crickets as pets. Each can have a pair of their very own, in their own rooms in terrariums! The investment is minimum since crickets are mainly sold as feed for other pets. They only live a 100 days and they might even have babies in that time, giving our kids the opportunity to witness the cycle of life first hand. And if not, the kids would have still lived out their pet phase, with all the nurturing and caring 9 year olds can shower on a pair of crickets in a 100 days. Everyone's served, pet chapter closed, we all move on. I must say, it all sounds pretty damn good!
So the crickets, aka our extended family now, were ceremoniously brought home. There were a few days of research and re-work that followed till the sexes were sorted to make pairs. The chap in the pet store just couldn't have been bothered to add sex-sorting services for 15 cents a cricket. Well anyway, they all got names, we learnt to tell them apart, it was all very exciting and everyone was so happy!
.........to be continued :-).
Thursday, 20 February 2014
Anchor.
We never stop seeking our parents approval. Their vote of confidence for our choices and our lives, remains consciously or unconsciously very important to us. So you can imagine how pink with joy I was when this year, on my 38th birthday like every year, that one travel worn birthday card, yet again, made the long journey across continents to my mail box. 'I'm so amazed and proud of you' it said 'that I want to shout out, "That's my daughter!"
And no, I am no nobel laureate. My accomplishments are nothing out of the ordinary -which is another way of saying I have none to boast of. I went through a decent education, work at a decent job, raise 2 kids and some fish.....I live an average life and grow some flowers in my garden. My biggest accomplishment is to keep physical and mental stability -when I do accomplish those, that is. And yet she wants to shout out with pride "That's my daughter!"
I was one of those delightfully charming rebellious adolescents. I raged a constant battle for justice, equality and freedom that I believed was enjoyed by my 3 older brothers in different measure and means than I was allowed. Swaraj was my birthright, and I wanted to have it too! (My own daughter is now 8 going on 16, payback time is around the corner I fear!). My mother's soft nature belies her steely strength. A clever camouflage that several sorry people made the terrible mistake of misjudging. My Dad, bless his heart, to this day is clumsily misjudging, perpetuating his learning process. It was a credit to her temperament how she deflected most sparks I flung her way, leaving the fighting up to me. I took it on. Someone had to do it! Although quite the opposite in character herself, shying away from confrontations, she patiently bore my renegade spirit without stifling it and sat out my rather tiresome effusions. If today I'm given to unabashed toughness, woman or not, it's because this gentle lady let me.
Of weaknesses, the greatest of hers are us, her family. Each time any harm comes our way, her otherwise calm composure receives a proper buffeting leading to a loss of control. Since I am a living germ-meter, I catch every bug there is to catch. Her worried brows have spent many a long hours, all summed up perhaps even years, watching over me.
A child's perspective is so wonderfully absolute. The world as they know it, is the world as it is. There are no other versions. I believed that's what mother's do. Their lives consist only of a string of opportunities to support and protect their children. What else do they have to do? She is here for me. For a child to know that with unappreciative detachment, is to know with complete and total certainty that it has unconditional, selfless, secure love. A standing invitation to take it for granted, to be reckless. Because it will never wear out.
She is funny too, with her fears. I remember the time, one of the many times, I lay in a hospital bed spent from some sub-tropical disease or the other I had merrily contracted. Exhausted, I had finally found sleep after restless hours. All the time, with her by my side. Watching me closely. No sooner had I floated into peaceful slumber than I was shaken awake vigorously with someone repeatedly yelling my name. 'Sorry, were you sleeping?' she asked into my aghast face. What she didn't say, but had splashed all over her face was 'I thought you were dead!'
The other time, at the spectacular end of a very challenging twin pregnancy, I made for a worrisome sight as my body kind of went on strike at the most crucial juncture, trembling violently with a rising fever. She was there too. She's just always there. The rock that we are all anchored to. The doctors decided on an emergency C-section. Everyone around must have spoken german and looked quite grim when the decision was pronounced. The next instant, my husband tells me, she was gone, had found her way to the hospital chapel and was deliriously explaining to a bunch of blank faced Turks, that spoke neither English nor German, that her only daughter was probably going to die giving birth to twins and there was nothing else she could do but to storm heavens!
There were times I observed with some amount of annoyance how thin she spread herself for us, wondering where the self-respect was. Provocatively I dug and poked, testing for the limits of this dedication. There were none. She always knew, with vivid clarity, which side of the fence she was on. She knows what she cares about and she could weather every storm for it. Fiercely independent, intelligent and hardworking, she taught me a women can raise (4) kids, run a home, hold a job and be her very own person. With her many faults, she still mastered motherhood flawlessly, by her own convention, giving effortlessly, naturally, unendingly.
In a place rife with mindless female infanticide, when asked why she had 4 kids, she has always answered (I love this part!), 'I was waiting for a daughter'.
For this and many more reasons, I'm so amazed and proud of you, that I want to shout out, "That's my Mother!!!"
And no, I am no nobel laureate. My accomplishments are nothing out of the ordinary -which is another way of saying I have none to boast of. I went through a decent education, work at a decent job, raise 2 kids and some fish.....I live an average life and grow some flowers in my garden. My biggest accomplishment is to keep physical and mental stability -when I do accomplish those, that is. And yet she wants to shout out with pride "That's my daughter!"
I was one of those delightfully charming rebellious adolescents. I raged a constant battle for justice, equality and freedom that I believed was enjoyed by my 3 older brothers in different measure and means than I was allowed. Swaraj was my birthright, and I wanted to have it too! (My own daughter is now 8 going on 16, payback time is around the corner I fear!). My mother's soft nature belies her steely strength. A clever camouflage that several sorry people made the terrible mistake of misjudging. My Dad, bless his heart, to this day is clumsily misjudging, perpetuating his learning process. It was a credit to her temperament how she deflected most sparks I flung her way, leaving the fighting up to me. I took it on. Someone had to do it! Although quite the opposite in character herself, shying away from confrontations, she patiently bore my renegade spirit without stifling it and sat out my rather tiresome effusions. If today I'm given to unabashed toughness, woman or not, it's because this gentle lady let me.
Of weaknesses, the greatest of hers are us, her family. Each time any harm comes our way, her otherwise calm composure receives a proper buffeting leading to a loss of control. Since I am a living germ-meter, I catch every bug there is to catch. Her worried brows have spent many a long hours, all summed up perhaps even years, watching over me.
A child's perspective is so wonderfully absolute. The world as they know it, is the world as it is. There are no other versions. I believed that's what mother's do. Their lives consist only of a string of opportunities to support and protect their children. What else do they have to do? She is here for me. For a child to know that with unappreciative detachment, is to know with complete and total certainty that it has unconditional, selfless, secure love. A standing invitation to take it for granted, to be reckless. Because it will never wear out.
She is funny too, with her fears. I remember the time, one of the many times, I lay in a hospital bed spent from some sub-tropical disease or the other I had merrily contracted. Exhausted, I had finally found sleep after restless hours. All the time, with her by my side. Watching me closely. No sooner had I floated into peaceful slumber than I was shaken awake vigorously with someone repeatedly yelling my name. 'Sorry, were you sleeping?' she asked into my aghast face. What she didn't say, but had splashed all over her face was 'I thought you were dead!'
The other time, at the spectacular end of a very challenging twin pregnancy, I made for a worrisome sight as my body kind of went on strike at the most crucial juncture, trembling violently with a rising fever. She was there too. She's just always there. The rock that we are all anchored to. The doctors decided on an emergency C-section. Everyone around must have spoken german and looked quite grim when the decision was pronounced. The next instant, my husband tells me, she was gone, had found her way to the hospital chapel and was deliriously explaining to a bunch of blank faced Turks, that spoke neither English nor German, that her only daughter was probably going to die giving birth to twins and there was nothing else she could do but to storm heavens!
There were times I observed with some amount of annoyance how thin she spread herself for us, wondering where the self-respect was. Provocatively I dug and poked, testing for the limits of this dedication. There were none. She always knew, with vivid clarity, which side of the fence she was on. She knows what she cares about and she could weather every storm for it. Fiercely independent, intelligent and hardworking, she taught me a women can raise (4) kids, run a home, hold a job and be her very own person. With her many faults, she still mastered motherhood flawlessly, by her own convention, giving effortlessly, naturally, unendingly.
In a place rife with mindless female infanticide, when asked why she had 4 kids, she has always answered (I love this part!), 'I was waiting for a daughter'.
For this and many more reasons, I'm so amazed and proud of you, that I want to shout out, "That's my Mother!!!"
Friday, 14 February 2014
Walking with dinosaurs.
Oh sleep........thou art everything to me! Whatever happens in between, only assists in the passing of time from one sleep unit to the next. Some mornings I feel a great magnetism pulling me back to my cozy duvet and plush pillow, and there is only so much I can do in my humble strength to resist it. And when I do, it's with the single ambition of being reunited with both, that I go through my waking hours. My sacred sleep. It's one of the first things I taught my twin babies to do - to fall asleep and stay asleep until daylight was well underway. They cooperated - well, mostly.
They aren't babies anymore, and you know kids and putting to bed routines! It always includes any number of stalling tactics, sometimes old and unimaginatively lame, often creative clever ones that warrant bonus stay-awake minutes - no, you can't do away with those, it's what good parenting calls for. Though be on your guard parents, pay close attention. These negotiations are prescient warnings of things to come. The little sneaky tykes are way ahead of us in the game of dodging bedtime! I'm not yet ruling out the possibility of a secret bedtime-terrorist outfit of little brats thinking up new sabotaging strategies for their bratty followers to implement. Ha! But I am on top of this. There will be no dinosaurian approach here, careful balance will be struck between setting fair limits and authoritarianism. Nothing happens by chance - I've read 'How to raise resilient children' cover to cover. Also, I happen to have a knowledge bank that cunningly files away every trick up every sleeve I have ever seen - I don't fall for the same things twice! Seriously, how many can they have? So let it be known, I am the adult here!
'Wait Mummy! STOP! Don't put down the blinds!!' he shouted, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Bored me goes, 'Why not?'
'Didn't you see it?', eyes still sparking. Still bored me 'See what?'
'A shooting star! I saw a shooting star!! quickly pull the blinds back up again, Hurry!" he urged. My daughter runs into the room 'Did he see a shooting star? I want to see the shooting star too! How come I never see shooting stars?'
'I'm sure you were mistaken, it couldn't have been a shooting star' I said patiently, but ever increasingly more bored. 'Off with you Aurelia, back to your room and into bed. And you Ewan, into bed!'
'Why not?' he persists, 'Don't shooting stars exist? You said shooting stars exist!' his sparkle turning to disappointment.
'Yes, of course shooting stars exist. You couldn't have seen one though.' I said as kindly as I could.
'If they exist, why couldn't I have seen one? ' sparkle turning to disappointment and hurt. Remind me to chuck that lousy book!
'Because honey,....... Oh well, it would be gone by now anyway. Shooting stars shoot away you know. Why don't we just roll the blinds back down and crawl into bed ' I said in a weird friendly stern tone.
'Well, I saw the shooting star and you didn't' he said resiliently (perhaps the book isn't all crap). Aurelia's back again, 'I'm sure you just imagined it' she says huffily.
'Good for you Ewan, I'm happy for you if you saw a shooting star. Now lets get to bed, both of you' I said, reassured about my parenting skills.
'I made a wish you know, I made a wish upon a shooting star. It's going to come true' he said smiling, and I smiled a fake smile back. 'Don't you want to know what I wished for?' he asked.
I've got this one! I reply 'They say if you tell me, it won't come true. Lets say our prayers......Good night honey.'
Lights out, in bed, at last! Clear up dinner, check! Tidy up kitchen, check! Should be catching up on work...ah, what the hell, no check. The laundry is pouring out and ready to crawl......nah, tomorrow's as good a day as any. Will just call it a day and crash.
I hear a soft whine. I'm sleep drugged and trying to place it. I look at the clock. It's 12:33 a.m. I hear it again, I'm trying to move. It's that magnetic force again keeping me in bed. The whine gets more distinct, now he's calling for me. Heroically, I break through the force, bringing up my protesting body, moving my legs of lead. I trudge over to his room, he's sitting up in bed and crying. Wide awake. 'What's wrong honey? Did you have a bad dream? Why don't you try going back to sleep?'
Between sniffs and snorts, what I can decipher is, 'I'm gonna eat you all, carnivores eat....gonna eat you all, my whole family and......and everyone else'
I'm blank. 'What? What're you......why...come, come, go back to sleep honey, no one's eating anyone.'
Quite frantic now he says 'No you don't understand, I wished upon the shooting star to turn into a Giganotosaurus when I wake up tomorrow. They're carnivores, MEAT EATING dinosaurs. I don't want to be a Giganotosaurus!'
I'm waking up. He goes on 'Now I can't go to sleep! If I do, I'll wake up as a Giganotosaurus tomorrow.'
Oh, for the love of God!!!!
'Don't worry honey, that won't happen. It'll be fine. You won't..um...er.. turn into a Trex. I don't think you saw a shooting star.....' I'm trying here.
As if it would matter, he says even more agitatedly, 'Not a Trex mummy, a Giganotosaurus.' Then he draws a long breath, and bellows, 'AND I DID SEE A SHOOTING STAR!!!'
'Ok, Ok, you saw a shooting star alright! You saw a ***$%&!!#@ shooting star!'
Seriously, I'm going to burn that book!
I tried again, 'But...um..... wishes on shooting stars don't always come true.'
'They don't? I thought wishes on shooting stars come true? You said so.'
Focus on the greater cause here my child!
'Well, think about it' I said, 'you couldn't hurt us even if you were a.. um.. a.. T.. Giganotosaurus. Dinosaurs didn't live alongside humans.'
I'm awake now, good and proper and I can see him thinking 'Then when I wake up tomorrow I'll be alone, a lone Giganotosaurus. I won't have you or daddy or Aurelia, I'll be alone in the Cretaceous period making a meal of everything that's slower than I am.' Waaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!
'The Cret...what??'
Well MAYBE you should have thought about that before ??!!
Aurelia is awake now and wants to know why Ewan is yelling about a shooting star he didn't see in the first place.
I'm outdone, I give up!
They aren't babies anymore, and you know kids and putting to bed routines! It always includes any number of stalling tactics, sometimes old and unimaginatively lame, often creative clever ones that warrant bonus stay-awake minutes - no, you can't do away with those, it's what good parenting calls for. Though be on your guard parents, pay close attention. These negotiations are prescient warnings of things to come. The little sneaky tykes are way ahead of us in the game of dodging bedtime! I'm not yet ruling out the possibility of a secret bedtime-terrorist outfit of little brats thinking up new sabotaging strategies for their bratty followers to implement. Ha! But I am on top of this. There will be no dinosaurian approach here, careful balance will be struck between setting fair limits and authoritarianism. Nothing happens by chance - I've read 'How to raise resilient children' cover to cover. Also, I happen to have a knowledge bank that cunningly files away every trick up every sleeve I have ever seen - I don't fall for the same things twice! Seriously, how many can they have? So let it be known, I am the adult here!
'Wait Mummy! STOP! Don't put down the blinds!!' he shouted, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Bored me goes, 'Why not?'
'Didn't you see it?', eyes still sparking. Still bored me 'See what?'
'A shooting star! I saw a shooting star!! quickly pull the blinds back up again, Hurry!" he urged. My daughter runs into the room 'Did he see a shooting star? I want to see the shooting star too! How come I never see shooting stars?'
'I'm sure you were mistaken, it couldn't have been a shooting star' I said patiently, but ever increasingly more bored. 'Off with you Aurelia, back to your room and into bed. And you Ewan, into bed!'
'Why not?' he persists, 'Don't shooting stars exist? You said shooting stars exist!' his sparkle turning to disappointment.
'Yes, of course shooting stars exist. You couldn't have seen one though.' I said as kindly as I could.
'If they exist, why couldn't I have seen one? ' sparkle turning to disappointment and hurt. Remind me to chuck that lousy book!
'Because honey,....... Oh well, it would be gone by now anyway. Shooting stars shoot away you know. Why don't we just roll the blinds back down and crawl into bed ' I said in a weird friendly stern tone.
'Well, I saw the shooting star and you didn't' he said resiliently (perhaps the book isn't all crap). Aurelia's back again, 'I'm sure you just imagined it' she says huffily.
'Good for you Ewan, I'm happy for you if you saw a shooting star. Now lets get to bed, both of you' I said, reassured about my parenting skills.
'I made a wish you know, I made a wish upon a shooting star. It's going to come true' he said smiling, and I smiled a fake smile back. 'Don't you want to know what I wished for?' he asked.
I've got this one! I reply 'They say if you tell me, it won't come true. Lets say our prayers......Good night honey.'
Lights out, in bed, at last! Clear up dinner, check! Tidy up kitchen, check! Should be catching up on work...ah, what the hell, no check. The laundry is pouring out and ready to crawl......nah, tomorrow's as good a day as any. Will just call it a day and crash.
I hear a soft whine. I'm sleep drugged and trying to place it. I look at the clock. It's 12:33 a.m. I hear it again, I'm trying to move. It's that magnetic force again keeping me in bed. The whine gets more distinct, now he's calling for me. Heroically, I break through the force, bringing up my protesting body, moving my legs of lead. I trudge over to his room, he's sitting up in bed and crying. Wide awake. 'What's wrong honey? Did you have a bad dream? Why don't you try going back to sleep?'
Between sniffs and snorts, what I can decipher is, 'I'm gonna eat you all, carnivores eat....gonna eat you all, my whole family and......and everyone else'
I'm blank. 'What? What're you......why...come, come, go back to sleep honey, no one's eating anyone.'
Quite frantic now he says 'No you don't understand, I wished upon the shooting star to turn into a Giganotosaurus when I wake up tomorrow. They're carnivores, MEAT EATING dinosaurs. I don't want to be a Giganotosaurus!'
I'm waking up. He goes on 'Now I can't go to sleep! If I do, I'll wake up as a Giganotosaurus tomorrow.'
Oh, for the love of God!!!!
'Don't worry honey, that won't happen. It'll be fine. You won't..um...er.. turn into a Trex. I don't think you saw a shooting star.....' I'm trying here.
As if it would matter, he says even more agitatedly, 'Not a Trex mummy, a Giganotosaurus.' Then he draws a long breath, and bellows, 'AND I DID SEE A SHOOTING STAR!!!'
'Ok, Ok, you saw a shooting star alright! You saw a ***$%&!!#@ shooting star!'
Seriously, I'm going to burn that book!
I tried again, 'But...um..... wishes on shooting stars don't always come true.'
'They don't? I thought wishes on shooting stars come true? You said so.'
Focus on the greater cause here my child!
'Well, think about it' I said, 'you couldn't hurt us even if you were a.. um.. a.. T.. Giganotosaurus. Dinosaurs didn't live alongside humans.'
I'm awake now, good and proper and I can see him thinking 'Then when I wake up tomorrow I'll be alone, a lone Giganotosaurus. I won't have you or daddy or Aurelia, I'll be alone in the Cretaceous period making a meal of everything that's slower than I am.' Waaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!
'The Cret...what??'
Well MAYBE you should have thought about that before ??!!
Aurelia is awake now and wants to know why Ewan is yelling about a shooting star he didn't see in the first place.
I'm outdone, I give up!
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Creatures of habit.
The winter that never came will soon pass. The winter road services, hundreds of tonnes of gravel and salt put away without ever being put out. The one year we changed to winter tyres on time, cost us more fuel and no additional safety. Central Europe is having the anti-thesis of the American winter. There are even theories flying around about one causing the other. I personally, am suspicious of the weather God's ulterior motives for sparing me its winter wrath.
We in Munich, have had virtually no snow, apart from some soggy, half-hearted flakes that briefly lingered on the ground in little white piles of mush. The temperatures have been mild at best. I can't even remember when it was unpleasantly wet and windy last. Nature in it's great wisdom seizes the opportunity wherever it can and adapts quickly - trees and bushes are already swelling at their tips with new life. Chirping birds tell of a change in plan, the effort to migrate to the warmer south just didn't seem justified this year. The Great Tit and the Nuthatch are already going about the business of finding a mate and starting a family, or perhaps two, with all the additional time on their wings! Toads are migrating earlier, rabbits and hare are already on the scurry hop, squirrels aren't worrying about their winter stocks not lasting. It's still February, but who's to point that out to nature.
On the tube this morning I noticed most everyone, myself included, is still wrapped and mummied in heavy winter coats, steaming beneath them, complete with wooly hat and scarves, some even wore gloves - at almost 14°C! It is winter and that's a fact. There won't be any cheerful spring colours sported yet, NO NO, the dark grey and blacks and heavy blues will have to sit it out through the official end of the season and no earlier! Why??? There is an odd stubbornness about the way the humans go about it, with an unyielding inflexibility. Unwilling to accept that things are different now, things that we have been instrumental in changing - changes that we can't have. The fur lined boots trapped in sweaty feet in heated rooms. Drippy sad snowmen get built by eager desperate little hands. It IS winter!
Spring is a reward that's earned well after a bitter cold winter. There is even a sense of guilty privilege, not having gained the right to the warmth of Spring. Perhaps humans are simply domesticated creatures of habit and routine - needing to do the same set of things over and over again, for security and reassurance and safety. In the German national service, winter was commanded from November to March. During this period the soldiers had to pack themselves in furs and winter layers - T-shirts were forbidden, whatever the temperature. From the 1st of April, summer was commanded, all winter paraphernalia had to go - only T-shirts were permitted, even if it snowed. China has a neat border demarcating the north - with what qualifies as a winter hence deserving central heating, and the south - with what doesn't qualify as winter, hence by policy, having summer all year round. It's pure fate for the poor freezing unfortunate that live on the wrong side of the border in the same weather conditions without central heating.
Even when we do have the choice, we rigidly stick by the routine we know. Determined to maintain a sense of control. Making things exactly the way we want it to be. So It's woolies and warm clothes and hot cups of tea and long sofa snuggles wrapped in cozy warm blankets.
An officious looking rabbit hurry-hopped across my path. He jerked a look at me - not of fear, more incredulous, curious sympathy at me carrying my own weight and that of a dark black bulging down coat on my back. He seemed to be daring me to embrace the change, showing me how it's done.
We in Munich, have had virtually no snow, apart from some soggy, half-hearted flakes that briefly lingered on the ground in little white piles of mush. The temperatures have been mild at best. I can't even remember when it was unpleasantly wet and windy last. Nature in it's great wisdom seizes the opportunity wherever it can and adapts quickly - trees and bushes are already swelling at their tips with new life. Chirping birds tell of a change in plan, the effort to migrate to the warmer south just didn't seem justified this year. The Great Tit and the Nuthatch are already going about the business of finding a mate and starting a family, or perhaps two, with all the additional time on their wings! Toads are migrating earlier, rabbits and hare are already on the scurry hop, squirrels aren't worrying about their winter stocks not lasting. It's still February, but who's to point that out to nature.
On the tube this morning I noticed most everyone, myself included, is still wrapped and mummied in heavy winter coats, steaming beneath them, complete with wooly hat and scarves, some even wore gloves - at almost 14°C! It is winter and that's a fact. There won't be any cheerful spring colours sported yet, NO NO, the dark grey and blacks and heavy blues will have to sit it out through the official end of the season and no earlier! Why??? There is an odd stubbornness about the way the humans go about it, with an unyielding inflexibility. Unwilling to accept that things are different now, things that we have been instrumental in changing - changes that we can't have. The fur lined boots trapped in sweaty feet in heated rooms. Drippy sad snowmen get built by eager desperate little hands. It IS winter!
Spring is a reward that's earned well after a bitter cold winter. There is even a sense of guilty privilege, not having gained the right to the warmth of Spring. Perhaps humans are simply domesticated creatures of habit and routine - needing to do the same set of things over and over again, for security and reassurance and safety. In the German national service, winter was commanded from November to March. During this period the soldiers had to pack themselves in furs and winter layers - T-shirts were forbidden, whatever the temperature. From the 1st of April, summer was commanded, all winter paraphernalia had to go - only T-shirts were permitted, even if it snowed. China has a neat border demarcating the north - with what qualifies as a winter hence deserving central heating, and the south - with what doesn't qualify as winter, hence by policy, having summer all year round. It's pure fate for the poor freezing unfortunate that live on the wrong side of the border in the same weather conditions without central heating.
Even when we do have the choice, we rigidly stick by the routine we know. Determined to maintain a sense of control. Making things exactly the way we want it to be. So It's woolies and warm clothes and hot cups of tea and long sofa snuggles wrapped in cozy warm blankets.
An officious looking rabbit hurry-hopped across my path. He jerked a look at me - not of fear, more incredulous, curious sympathy at me carrying my own weight and that of a dark black bulging down coat on my back. He seemed to be daring me to embrace the change, showing me how it's done.
Wednesday, 4 December 2013
A friend in need is a friend indeed.
Since I was a child I've wondered what that meant. It seems all so terribly easy, and logically flawed. It gives an awful lot of credit to the wrong part, the receiving rather than the giving part. Debates on how the phrase was really meant notwithstanding, the public currency that backs the 'friend' being the one in need, far outweigh any other interpretation. Because that is the most popular notion, the version we want to believe. Now that that's sorted, again, what makes the person in need get to be the real friend?
It is undermining the altruistic giver. Which would well fit with long lasting claims that we are selfish creatures, engaged in a battle of survival, incapable of displaying altruism. Incapable of showing kindness to others at a cost to ourselves. Yet over and over again we know of people around us, people among us, people who become famous on account of touching acts of selflessness. All this altruism that we see in ourselves and others, is it just self-interest in disguise? Anyone who has given without an obvious return will testify to how rewarding it is, giving you a feeling of having done something important and valuable thereby increasing your own self worth. Helping people even features in the 'World Happiness Database' (yes, such a thing exists!!) in Rotterdam as a clear measurable towards increasing happiness. There is also the danger of subconsciously nurturing the idea of having invested into a pay-back system, making it a right to receive the same treatment in turn.This is one depressing way of looking at human nature, there are yet darker ones too that I need take no responsibility for!
Around 1968, George Price, building up on the works of a number of other scientists like Hamilton and Haldane, came up with an equation that explained how altruism could thrive even amongst groups of selfish people. Phew! just when you thought there was no helping us! All these guys contributed towards developing a simple equation to explain that an organism would demonstrate self-sacrificing behaviour if it would enhance the reproductive chances of those it was closely related to. Price walked into the University college London an unknown academic, presented it's staff with this remarkable equation, and walked out with an honorary position and the keys to his own office. As Haldane had explained, he himself was willing to sacrifice his own life either for two brothers, or eight cousins - that is, by kin selection. Since he would share 50% of each brothers genetic make, and 12.5% of each cousin's, his genes would survive even if he were to die. That's a nicely squared off equation, you'd have to agree, and it does make my perspective look so much more cheerful!
If for the survival of ones own genes or for the sake of cashing into a feel-good pay back on investment scheme, can altruism even be considered altruism at all with so much vested self-interest? Price was so depressed when he found out that he and his buddies might be right that he gave himself over to the service of others and became a devout Christian to prove that human beings are the only species that can beat out their own nature. 5 years later he killed himself. The debates about the scientific roots of altruism continue to rage.
That's not a happy ending and it is the season of Advent. I will turn this around.
Whilst biology and psychology are part of understanding behaviour it can never be an entire and complete explanation for the complexity and grandeur of the human condition.
I confess, I kind of fancy myself to be a good friend, the giving part, the part that should rightfully get credit. There is no way to make this sound less conceited, so it's a good thing we have sorted out that altruism has nothing to do with it. Conversely, when in the rain, I'm quick to make an inventory of the people that come to my rescue. Taking the opportunity to determine who my real friends are. It isn't fair or accurate. People are the way they are - some of them our friends for good reasons. Giving to, and receiving from them, each in its own a privilege and a gift. Let not one be celebrated any more than the other, rather celebrate having someone to give to and having someone to take from.
Friends are friends indeed. Happy Advent!
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
Do you believe in Santa?
He could have asked differently, challenged me to come out with it - 'Does Santa exist?' But he didn't. He asked 'Do you believe in Santa?' Asking for my opinion, not wanting black or white. Giving me room to deflect. In his very protected 8 years of life, he has come to trust my judgement. It's flattering and humbling in equal measure. Where is this heading, will I have to open the whole can of worms? Are there really Tooth fairies and Easter Bunnies and how are babies really made? We're going to have to come clean with them sooner or later. I can tell he's on the fence with this, he could go either way. His voice says there's not much time left to buy.
But there is some, and I'm going to use it. Whatever the skeptics may say, there is a point to all this yarn spinning. Childhood is so fleeting. The trusting innocence and boundless imagination is here and then it's gone. To never be re-created again in any other phase of our skeptical age and life. How dreary would the world be without that priceless look on faces with childlike faith in magic and make-belief! How conceited and dreadfully dull to claim, only that can be seen and touched is real. All things in this great universe not comprehensible to our doubtful minds just couldn't be. There couldn't be a God, or love or life on Mars. And what would inspire poetry and romance and all that makes this existence vibrant and exciting? The wisdom of Lucy has answered these for me.
'I like to honey, I like to believe in Santa'. Stay my child, for as long as you like in the age of gold.
Satisfied, he replied, 'Me too!'
But there is some, and I'm going to use it. Whatever the skeptics may say, there is a point to all this yarn spinning. Childhood is so fleeting. The trusting innocence and boundless imagination is here and then it's gone. To never be re-created again in any other phase of our skeptical age and life. How dreary would the world be without that priceless look on faces with childlike faith in magic and make-belief! How conceited and dreadfully dull to claim, only that can be seen and touched is real. All things in this great universe not comprehensible to our doubtful minds just couldn't be. There couldn't be a God, or love or life on Mars. And what would inspire poetry and romance and all that makes this existence vibrant and exciting? The wisdom of Lucy has answered these for me.
“There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realise what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.” - L. M. Montgomery.'Do you believe in Santa?' he gently presses.
'I like to honey, I like to believe in Santa'. Stay my child, for as long as you like in the age of gold.
Satisfied, he replied, 'Me too!'
Sunday, 16 June 2013
Send To > All.
Ever wondered what kind of dimwits at work mistakenly sends out mass emails to the whole company? There is at least one of those every 2 years in our 40,000 global organisation. Who does things like that anyway? How can anyone be that stupid??
Now I know. Anyone in today's work environment deals with IT support for every annoying malfunctioning digital detail. My malfunctioning digital detail was my BlackBerry - for a whole week!! Rather than see it as liberation from corporate slavery, I pined like a dog for my master. When should I heel? When must I jump? My master control panel was rendered defect. Me and my notions of self importance were frantic about getting my life gadget to work again. At this point, I had gone through several calls with the technical support. With each trial and failed solution I was getting more frantic. Finally after running through the last proposed procedure unsuccessfully, I was peeved! Am I expected to bear through yet another call of which the first 5 mins are annoyingly dramatic music followed by 'Your call is on hold. Hold the line please. Your call is on hold. Hold the line please...'? Pressed for time with meetings back to back and with the urgency of an upcoming business trip, I just had to sort this out in the few minutes I had to spare. So I hurriedly, sent out an email from my desk to the techies that my problem still persists and I FRIGGIN needed a solution soon, so they had better get their asses moving!! It came out much nicer than that, more polite than I intended to be. Because I was so hard pressed for time I guess. That's interesting - that being a bitch may actually take more effort than being nice. Send! Right about the time I hit 'Send' is when I realised I chose the wrong distributor list. AAAAAARGH!!!! Rather than mail the BlackBerry services I had sent it out to BlackBerry Users, which is basically everyone in the company that owns one of these 'Employee-on-a-leash' gadgets. A clean 80%-85%. Brilliant me!
Where I work, we insure and reinsure all kinds of stuff, all over the world. We are about the biggest in the business and are hence able to attract a wealth of talent. Some of the brains around are Aeronautical engineers, pilots, doctors, physicists, chemists, statisticians, mathematicians, climate researchers, geologists. We virtually have specialists for every faculty of every industry to work out complex risk solutions for casualty, property, marine and aviation, financial risks, etc etc etc. Right. And they just, all of them that is, received my mail requesting help for my persisting Blackberry problem. The earth didn't split open and swallow me. I did wait in the hope that it would.
Just about the exact moment I hit the 'Send' button I got that unpleasantly sinking feeling embarrassing blunders can cause. As most of you are aware, one can revoke, or attempt to revoke a sent mail. As most of you might also be aware, this handy feature is no use for the thousands of very engaged, busy professionals who open new mails almost immediately on receipt. So most of the damage was irrevocable. And then the most interesting part of this experience started to unfold. My inbox started filling up with responses, which were one of two kinds - (A.) cheerful or (B.) sour. Type A, were compelled to react out of a sense of duty/protocol or just mere pleasantries. One response, a pilot from Type A, explained politely he wasn't in charge of the BlackBerry services and therefore, very apologetically explained, couldn't help me. Another Lawyer offered, in addition to a hesitant apology, that he forward my request to the appropriate service since he unfortunately wouldn't be able to solve the problem for me. There was also the jovial congratulatory remark about my 'moment of fame' which even my slinking around at work couldn't avoid. There were those among Type A too that were old colleagues I had worked with at some point of my career, who had moved to other countries or departments. They were pouring in with "Hello's" and "How are you's" and "Good to hear from you's"....ahem. My mistaken email also became a social medium of connections and re-connection of sorts. Almost emotional and nostalgic sometimes. Especially in the case of a particular colleague who wrote back from our South African office with words of warmth and greetings. I probably won't ever see her again - incidentally that was her last week with the company. If not for my mail, I couldn't have said goodbye. Type B were the usual sour frowners, complaining about the inconvenience. The ones that took the time and effort to make their displeasure known. These are the ones that I was dreading in the first place, the reason why my mistake could have been so potentially disastrous. It turned out, Type A vastly outnumbered Type B. In all, I received a little over 50 responses. The rest thankfully just ignored my mail, recognising it to be the mistake it was. The whole goof-up turned out to be an experiment in Human psychologies - and a very reassuring one at that!
Should this experiment ever be repeated, I hope to be a Type A. Unfortunately I don't know that for fact. What type would you be?
Now I know. Anyone in today's work environment deals with IT support for every annoying malfunctioning digital detail. My malfunctioning digital detail was my BlackBerry - for a whole week!! Rather than see it as liberation from corporate slavery, I pined like a dog for my master. When should I heel? When must I jump? My master control panel was rendered defect. Me and my notions of self importance were frantic about getting my life gadget to work again. At this point, I had gone through several calls with the technical support. With each trial and failed solution I was getting more frantic. Finally after running through the last proposed procedure unsuccessfully, I was peeved! Am I expected to bear through yet another call of which the first 5 mins are annoyingly dramatic music followed by 'Your call is on hold. Hold the line please. Your call is on hold. Hold the line please...'? Pressed for time with meetings back to back and with the urgency of an upcoming business trip, I just had to sort this out in the few minutes I had to spare. So I hurriedly, sent out an email from my desk to the techies that my problem still persists and I FRIGGIN needed a solution soon, so they had better get their asses moving!! It came out much nicer than that, more polite than I intended to be. Because I was so hard pressed for time I guess. That's interesting - that being a bitch may actually take more effort than being nice. Send! Right about the time I hit 'Send' is when I realised I chose the wrong distributor list. AAAAAARGH!!!! Rather than mail the BlackBerry services I had sent it out to BlackBerry Users, which is basically everyone in the company that owns one of these 'Employee-on-a-leash' gadgets. A clean 80%-85%. Brilliant me!
Where I work, we insure and reinsure all kinds of stuff, all over the world. We are about the biggest in the business and are hence able to attract a wealth of talent. Some of the brains around are Aeronautical engineers, pilots, doctors, physicists, chemists, statisticians, mathematicians, climate researchers, geologists. We virtually have specialists for every faculty of every industry to work out complex risk solutions for casualty, property, marine and aviation, financial risks, etc etc etc. Right. And they just, all of them that is, received my mail requesting help for my persisting Blackberry problem. The earth didn't split open and swallow me. I did wait in the hope that it would.
Just about the exact moment I hit the 'Send' button I got that unpleasantly sinking feeling embarrassing blunders can cause. As most of you are aware, one can revoke, or attempt to revoke a sent mail. As most of you might also be aware, this handy feature is no use for the thousands of very engaged, busy professionals who open new mails almost immediately on receipt. So most of the damage was irrevocable. And then the most interesting part of this experience started to unfold. My inbox started filling up with responses, which were one of two kinds - (A.) cheerful or (B.) sour. Type A, were compelled to react out of a sense of duty/protocol or just mere pleasantries. One response, a pilot from Type A, explained politely he wasn't in charge of the BlackBerry services and therefore, very apologetically explained, couldn't help me. Another Lawyer offered, in addition to a hesitant apology, that he forward my request to the appropriate service since he unfortunately wouldn't be able to solve the problem for me. There was also the jovial congratulatory remark about my 'moment of fame' which even my slinking around at work couldn't avoid. There were those among Type A too that were old colleagues I had worked with at some point of my career, who had moved to other countries or departments. They were pouring in with "Hello's" and "How are you's" and "Good to hear from you's"....ahem. My mistaken email also became a social medium of connections and re-connection of sorts. Almost emotional and nostalgic sometimes. Especially in the case of a particular colleague who wrote back from our South African office with words of warmth and greetings. I probably won't ever see her again - incidentally that was her last week with the company. If not for my mail, I couldn't have said goodbye. Type B were the usual sour frowners, complaining about the inconvenience. The ones that took the time and effort to make their displeasure known. These are the ones that I was dreading in the first place, the reason why my mistake could have been so potentially disastrous. It turned out, Type A vastly outnumbered Type B. In all, I received a little over 50 responses. The rest thankfully just ignored my mail, recognising it to be the mistake it was. The whole goof-up turned out to be an experiment in Human psychologies - and a very reassuring one at that!
Should this experiment ever be repeated, I hope to be a Type A. Unfortunately I don't know that for fact. What type would you be?
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
Sleeping beauty.
I have never met him, barely spoken to him. Yet I am most intrigued. He's the Prince in the alternative Sleeping beauty. The end of this tale is left unfinished, open. Especially for him.
She continues sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. If her mind is imprisoned in an unresponsive body or she is blissfully unconscious to all and everything, one can never know. For all she does is sleep.
Every new day is identical to the last. Her favourite music plays in the background. The scent of her favourite flowers fill the room. She lies numb to his tender stroking. He talks casually about his day, as husbands do to their wives. The curtain flutters lightly in the breeze, sneaking in a ray of sunlight on her face. She twitches. He beams! She's happy! She's here! Little signs, big messages.
When he can tear himself away, he's trotting the globe, this Prince. On the determined search for something that will wake her up. He's going to bring her back. There has never been any doubt.
In respectful disagreement of every bit of medical proof and advice to the contrary, he keeps on looking. His search widens as do the months prolong.
There are only one of two possible endings.
One day she may awake. And he would have found it.
Maybe she won't. And he'd keep on looking.
She continues sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. If her mind is imprisoned in an unresponsive body or she is blissfully unconscious to all and everything, one can never know. For all she does is sleep.
Every new day is identical to the last. Her favourite music plays in the background. The scent of her favourite flowers fill the room. She lies numb to his tender stroking. He talks casually about his day, as husbands do to their wives. The curtain flutters lightly in the breeze, sneaking in a ray of sunlight on her face. She twitches. He beams! She's happy! She's here! Little signs, big messages.
When he can tear himself away, he's trotting the globe, this Prince. On the determined search for something that will wake her up. He's going to bring her back. There has never been any doubt.
In respectful disagreement of every bit of medical proof and advice to the contrary, he keeps on looking. His search widens as do the months prolong.
There are only one of two possible endings.
One day she may awake. And he would have found it.
Maybe she won't. And he'd keep on looking.
Monday, 21 January 2013
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Absolutely nothing. No, less than nothing. I have my eyes wide open. Nothing. Eyes shut tight. Same nothing. Not a shadow, not a shape. Natural instincts of panic were set off as I was guided in by the waiter. Through a supreme act of will, I resisted turning around and running. Probably anticipating this from years of experience on the job, his grasp stayed tightly firm. I moved to my seat under his guidance in little pigeon step shuffles, which is where I stayed put for the next 2.5 hours. It was a full house tonight, wherever it is we were. It is a weird experiment, precisely why it's so popular. Very weird and very intriguing.
It took a good 25 mintes till everyone 'sounded' seated and the hysterically accosting cackle began to subside. The 80 people (voices) were calming down. The brain responded to an unprecedented loss of a one sense, vision, by putting all other remaining senses almost immediately in overdrive - especially that of hearing and paradoxically also speech. Which resulted in fine tuned, overly sensitive ears on high alert meted with unnecessarily loud voices competing with each other. A recipe for insanity, had it gone on longer than 2.5 hours. But 2.5 hours in utter, absolute, total darkness....and dinner, could just still expedite the process of insanity. Dinner was an additionally interesting aspect of the evening, once I had worked out where it is dinner would be placed. There is also the matter of locating utensils of cutlery, plate and glass to transport dinner and drinks from (invisible) said location to mouth. Given the circumstances, the animalistic option of eating right off the plate also exists. It's not like anyone could frown at my table manners. To complete the effect, the 4 course menu wasn't disclosed either. We must be very bored to seek out this kick! I realise I haven't heard much from my partner. My need to stay in control, kept me focused on taking stock of my situation. Gathering my bearings in as much as I could. So I went about groping cautiously at my surroundings. The table I'm sitting at is as broad as my legs are long - from foot till knee. "Opps, sorry! Didn't mean to kick, just measuring". Coordinates of serviette and utensils mapped out in my mind, explored by technique of stroking obstacles with hand, never losing contact to avoid knocking over tall objects like bottles of water etc. In the process, hairy male felt-up arms length away on left. Anther, not so hairy, also male, same distance to the right. Sex gauged by startled voices - however accurate an indication of sex that may be. Minor embarrassments in light of knowledge gained. Little experiments also performed of holding hand in front of nose, moving serviette up and down in front of face. Fascinatingly, uniform, complete blackness. Zero visibility confirmed again. Very satisfied indeed with myself, to have conquered the limitations and sized up my environment! I am now ready to share the results of a well analysed picture. I'll be our path finder tonight! So, what happened to him anyway?
'Dining in the Dark' - it was his idea to begin with. "It's like with human relationship's" he had said, "groping your way through darkness. Searching for things you couldn't identify when found. Feeding off them nevertheless". It is an uncannily close analogy. He had no picture now, he said. Reportedly holding his head in his hands. He was finding the whole experience most exhausting. I eagerly shared, with an annoying insistence, the vivid picture I had cleverly deduced. He couldn't see it. "What good are eyes, if there is nothing to see". A circumstantial blindness. All the waiters in here were blind, moving around with enviable dexterity, clicking away their fingers to gauge each other's positions. We were diving into their world, fleetingly, without their skill. It might have been easier to let go and free-fall into the experience. We wouldn't know, because we couldn't let go. During the courses, the stupefying game of keeping food perched on fork, till fork was successfully guided to mouth, was repeated as many times till scrape tests on plate concluded relatively empty plate, or the bother of chasing around obstacles on plate got too exasperating causing us to give back course uneaten. Between courses, I was tiring myself out fighting off messages from my brain to send my body into sleep mode, naturally associating the darkness with bed time, whilst my body was trying to consume and process dinner courses. Eventually when I wasn't playing spoon and marble race with unidentifiable food and with nothing else to do, I sprawled across the knee-to-foot broad table and gave in to my brain. Darkness, nothing more.
It took a good 25 mintes till everyone 'sounded' seated and the hysterically accosting cackle began to subside. The 80 people (voices) were calming down. The brain responded to an unprecedented loss of a one sense, vision, by putting all other remaining senses almost immediately in overdrive - especially that of hearing and paradoxically also speech. Which resulted in fine tuned, overly sensitive ears on high alert meted with unnecessarily loud voices competing with each other. A recipe for insanity, had it gone on longer than 2.5 hours. But 2.5 hours in utter, absolute, total darkness....and dinner, could just still expedite the process of insanity. Dinner was an additionally interesting aspect of the evening, once I had worked out where it is dinner would be placed. There is also the matter of locating utensils of cutlery, plate and glass to transport dinner and drinks from (invisible) said location to mouth. Given the circumstances, the animalistic option of eating right off the plate also exists. It's not like anyone could frown at my table manners. To complete the effect, the 4 course menu wasn't disclosed either. We must be very bored to seek out this kick! I realise I haven't heard much from my partner. My need to stay in control, kept me focused on taking stock of my situation. Gathering my bearings in as much as I could. So I went about groping cautiously at my surroundings. The table I'm sitting at is as broad as my legs are long - from foot till knee. "Opps, sorry! Didn't mean to kick, just measuring". Coordinates of serviette and utensils mapped out in my mind, explored by technique of stroking obstacles with hand, never losing contact to avoid knocking over tall objects like bottles of water etc. In the process, hairy male felt-up arms length away on left. Anther, not so hairy, also male, same distance to the right. Sex gauged by startled voices - however accurate an indication of sex that may be. Minor embarrassments in light of knowledge gained. Little experiments also performed of holding hand in front of nose, moving serviette up and down in front of face. Fascinatingly, uniform, complete blackness. Zero visibility confirmed again. Very satisfied indeed with myself, to have conquered the limitations and sized up my environment! I am now ready to share the results of a well analysed picture. I'll be our path finder tonight! So, what happened to him anyway?
'Dining in the Dark' - it was his idea to begin with. "It's like with human relationship's" he had said, "groping your way through darkness. Searching for things you couldn't identify when found. Feeding off them nevertheless". It is an uncannily close analogy. He had no picture now, he said. Reportedly holding his head in his hands. He was finding the whole experience most exhausting. I eagerly shared, with an annoying insistence, the vivid picture I had cleverly deduced. He couldn't see it. "What good are eyes, if there is nothing to see". A circumstantial blindness. All the waiters in here were blind, moving around with enviable dexterity, clicking away their fingers to gauge each other's positions. We were diving into their world, fleetingly, without their skill. It might have been easier to let go and free-fall into the experience. We wouldn't know, because we couldn't let go. During the courses, the stupefying game of keeping food perched on fork, till fork was successfully guided to mouth, was repeated as many times till scrape tests on plate concluded relatively empty plate, or the bother of chasing around obstacles on plate got too exasperating causing us to give back course uneaten. Between courses, I was tiring myself out fighting off messages from my brain to send my body into sleep mode, naturally associating the darkness with bed time, whilst my body was trying to consume and process dinner courses. Eventually when I wasn't playing spoon and marble race with unidentifiable food and with nothing else to do, I sprawled across the knee-to-foot broad table and gave in to my brain. Darkness, nothing more.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Stupid India.
The farther back in time one goes, the better a woman's position in India seems to have been - relatively anyway. In the period of the Rigveda, about 1500 B.C, we were among the first to allocate a fairly respectable position to women in society. Although always subordinate to their husbands, women were allowed to attend tribal assemblies, their presence was essential in religious ceremonies, they could choose their own spouses and could remarry if their husband died or disappeared. Practices like child marriage were unknown. Greatly learned and highly intelligent women sages or ‘Brahmavadinis’ like Vac, Ambhrni, Romasa, Gargi, Khona came from this era. The very influential Indian female philosopher Ghosha, whom part of the Rigvedas have been attributed to, was a result of this ancient period. The ancient Hindu philosophical concept of 'shakti' the feminine principle of energy, came about as a product of this age.
During the later Vedic period the status of women was already on the decline, with the interpretation of the Manusmrtis[1], the Islamic invasion of Babar and the Mughal empire and later Christianity curtailing women's freedom. Men welcomed the 'Purdah' practice (veil for concealing women from men) that came with the Muslim conquests in the subcontinent. Nicely hidden, her face remained shrouded. Uncovered only for the perusal of her owner. By the medieval period, Sati was in place, child marriages were rampant, a ban on widow remarriage was enforced, Devdasis[2] were being sexually exploited in temples, Rajputs practiced Jauhar - honorary self-immolations of their wives and families to end their lives with 'respect' before the men marched off to the battlefield. A variety of influences were happily in play for the Indian man to state and maintain his control on women. Systematically building a system around it to enhance and preserve his grip. A grip that tightens, further restraining with every sign of revolt. Designed to painfully remind and reprimand.
We have expressed shock at the brutal gangrape of 23 year old Damini. Confused and pained about ourselves. Questioning our culture, our values, our morals. What have we become? Look what we have done! Why all the surprise though? How different have we ever been since say, 500 B.C? The bigger question is, are we ever going to change? We have grown into a culture that have lost practice with questioning and reflecting and reacting through reflection. Prone more to an obedient stupor. We are formed rather by influences and impulses, flowing with the tide rather than directing the tide. We celebrate the Smrtis[3] and it's verses, some of which are full of prejudice, hatred and discrimination against women, rather than question them. The Moguls showed us how to control and restrain our women, and we learnt how to with glee. Then went ahead and imaginatively improvised with our own additions. The Christians came with their restraints for women and we applied those too.
Damini could be one of the countless nameless and faceless women of modern India. A culture that we have nurtured over the centuries is now augmented with the given socioeconomic conditions. She's holding a mirror to us. How many Indian men can claim to respect their wives, sisters, mothers? I'm not talking about equality, much of the industrialised world is still struggling with that one. I'm talking about respect! How many of our fathers or brothers see and accept their women as individuals? That is where the learning starts - at home. Like Arundhathi Roy said 'We are having a very unexceptional reaction to an event that isn't very exceptional'. And she is right, how sad is it that such a tragic event isn't exceptional? Sure there exists a whole lower financial layer of Daminis whose lives comprise of such incidents. That's why a meaningful trigger is important, one that has been pulled now and hasn't fired into the air. That's why it is exceptional this time around, because we have reacted. It is exceptional because we are reaching a tipping point as a people. We are not nodding in the usual ‘Kay kare?’ - ‘What to do?’, defeatism. We are saying we object!
We are stirring out of a numbed apathy. Like we did for Shaheen Dhada and her friend, the Facebook girls, and now again for Damini. This is the second time in a few months that a woman has unleashed a rage for change that will be multiplied a thousand times in the coming days and weeks and months. There is a resounding call for action across the country. A call for accountability and change that cannot be suppressed. We are standing up for what is right, fighting for it, protesting, getting beaten for it. We are thinking beyond what we have known, beyond what we have been taught. We are thinking.
Author Chetan Bhagat famously wrote about the Great Indian Stupidity in ridiculous routines and bureaucracies of every day life and why we accept them. Because we are too stupid to think beyond what we know? The honorable Justice Katju frustratedly said that 90% of Indians (not all) are fools. Obviously not meant as an accurate statistic (phew!) - he Intended in his comment to awaken people to the realities of widespread communalism, superstitions, and other backward traits. I might disagree this time. I think there is an awakening in the process. There are reasons for more optimism in India. In the face of despair and the horror of this incident, hope has emerged. Hope in the people. Hope that we will soon also care enough about female infanticide, about brides burnt, about brides bought, about 'honour killings' of women and rape.
According to Malcolm Gladwell “In the end, tipping points are a reaffirmation of the potential for change and the power of intelligent action. Look at the world around you. It may seem like an immovable, implacable place. It is not. With the slightest push — in just the right place — it can be tipped.".
According to Malcolm Gladwell “In the end, tipping points are a reaffirmation of the potential for change and the power of intelligent action. Look at the world around you. It may seem like an immovable, implacable place. It is not. With the slightest push — in just the right place — it can be tipped.".
We are on the verge of tipping. We, not-so-stupid India.
[1] Manusmrtis, The Manusmrtis also known as Manav Dharam Shastra, is the earliest metrical work on Brahminical Dharma in Hinduism. According to Hindu mythology, the Manusmriti is the word of Brahma, and it is classified as the most authoritative statement on Dharma .The scripture consists of 2690 verses, divided into 12 chapters. It is presumed that the actual human author of this compilation used the eponym ‘Manu’, which has led the text to be associated by Hindus with the first human being and the first king in the Indian tradition.
Some of the comments on women in the Manusmrtis (Source: http://nirmukta.com/2011/08/27/the-status-of-women-as-depicted-by-manu-in-the-manusmriti/),
- “Balye pitorvashay…….” – 5/151. Girls are supposed to be in the custody of their father when they are children, women must be under the custody of their husband when married and under the custody of her son as widows. In no circumstances is she allowed to assert herself independently.
- “Na ast strinam………..” – 5/158. Women have no divine right to perform any religious ritual, nor make vows or observe a fast. Her only duty is to obey and please her husband and she will for that reason alone be exalted in heaven.
- “Imam hi sarw………..” – 9/6. It is the duty of all husbands to exert total control over their wives. Even physically weak husbands must strive to control their wives.
[2] Devdasis, In Hinduism, the Devadasi traditionwas a religious tradition in which girls are “married” and dedicated to a deityor to a temple. Originally, in addition to this and taking care of the temple and performing rituals, these women learned and practiced Sadir (Bharatanaty), Odissi and other classical Indian artistic traditions and enjoyed a high social status.
[3] Smrtis, Smriti literally "that which is remembered," refers to a specific body of Hindu religious scriptures and is a codified component of Hindu customary law. The literature which comprises the Smrti was composed after the Vedas around 500 BCE. Smrti also denotes tradition in the sense that it portrays the traditions of the rules on dharma especially those of lawful virtuous persons.
Thursday, 15 November 2012
Next, please!
There he is again, perched on the window ledge with his beak poked into the yogurt cup. He pulls it out, yogurt-lipsticked white in complete contrast to the rest of his blackness. Eyeing me sideways, oblivious of his comical appearance. Clever guy, undoubtedly. He not only figured out my window ledge refrigeration system, but also worked out how to get to the contents of a foil-sealed cup. I feed him as a reward, still he can't be too sure of me - instincts. It was November, the leaves and temperature were falling. He won't be migrating any place warmer, Raven's never do. Enough of yogurt cups set out on hospital room windows to keep them going. His buddies in the chestnut tree across must have a good laugh at his new Black&White look. He found food though, so he's having the last laugh.
The kindly young intern took her time with the initial check-up, was comforting and confident. We were gently warned that surgery maybe unavoidable. Quite the reception to hope for at a hospital actually. We were in good hands. Until, that is, the gel slicked goldilocks resident Doc sailed in to veto her diagnosis. In his presence, our nice Intern morphed into a pat seeking eager puppy dog. Goldilocks had all of 30 seconds to spare for the check-up, looked right through us anxious parents, and left with the same haughty air that he sailed in with. The pecking order, at first, seems no different here than in any other medical food chain, with the nurses at the bottom, then come the interns, followed by residents, attending docs and the heads of departments. The hierarchy is set cuttingly deep though. A few days in hospital and I was almost curtsying before his Highness, Mr. Head of Department myself! The differentiating factor to note here though, in no uncertain terms was, that patient is down, down, down, right at the very bottom of the pecking order. Wonder what my yogurt eating winged friend would think of that! He IS having the last laugh!
We are in the medical factory, body-fixes get churned out here. Here you are a number amongst many. If you're not the last number, you're lucky. Plato said the physician should never separate the soul from the body in treatment. The nurse came by to check vitals and hook up the drip. My daughters catheter squirted out blood on the sheets in the process. 'Oops, the sheets will be changed' she said, into the little one's big worried eyes. So the leaky vein got plugged, sheets would get changed, hence terrified child should be fine as well. Plato, tell them something! Inevitably one starts to rankle at the cold, indifferent, inconsideration. A question, any question, was one too much and prompted an irate bark.
'...umm, those fresh sheets you spoke about?'
'grrrrrr....'
When is the Doctor expected?'
'GRRRRRR'
'Could we have some more hot water for tea?'
'Grrrr, Woof'
'Will she have surgery today, she's been on an empty stomach for 5 hours?'
'Grrr...Snap!'
'It's past 12 in the night, could you pipe it down in the nurse's room please?'
'SNARL!'
I am not the gracious kind. Sonner than I should have, I was roped into becoming bellicose rather than diplomatic. We were systematically winding each other up and I was developing quite a reputation for it, I could tell by the even further deteriorating treatment. In turn, I was walking around like a ticking time bomb, reaching the end of my tether myself. I had ample time to tick too, my child was asleep, at 7:30 in the evening which left me staring at the ceiling in a dark room, stroking her and ticking away. I must state at this point, my daughter thankfully wasn't suffering from any grave illness. She had an abscess in her tonsils, which although terribly painful, is relatively minor. Nevertheless, almost one week later with absolutely no change in her condition and the pain unabatedly forging on despite a cocktail of meds, the anxiety builds. At one of those rare Doctor's appearances I said 'She says she tastes blood in her throat'. He goes 'Yes, So?' Did he just say YES, SO?????.....tick tick tick! Me, 'and by that you mean....?' I have had more meaningful conversations with Siri on my iPhone.
The next morning I forced on renewed optimism, something's gotta give here. There is a scratchy landing sound of his claws at the window, would he appreciate a change in flavour maybe? Although he's some company, he's not a big listener. For that I'm very glad for my trusted human visitors who faithfully come by drop off food, hugs, and hold my hand while I freely throw up all my frustrations and exasperations. These friends, they willingly do this to themselves. Gracious people - unlike me. Half way into the story of the midnight Nurses' party in the ward, we hear a loud clanging, clunking sound, steady and slow. Approaching louder now, and louder. We look at each other quizzically and turn to the direction of the sound. The source is right beside us and going right past us, a bunch of prison officers escorting a man chained at the feet and arms turn into the room right beside us! A prisoner patient, right out of the jailhouse to be my neighbour! This isn't exactly 'something giving'!! 'Just what we need', we both chorused! The last time I heard of a convict in hospital it was a murderer, involved in 4 killings. I don't even want to know what this one is being held for. The armed officers will be posted inside and out of his room at all times, we were assured. Well then, we're good. Sleep tight.
The nurses' midnight parties came to an end. I got over my initial paranoia and gave him a name - Mr. Con. It is an unsettling feeling walking past fully armed men through the day. The door to Mr. Con's room was always wide open. I could see his chained feet every time I passed by. I never did get a look at his face. My daughter's condition remained unchanged in the meantime and I went back to the business of worrying and hurting over her. Finally, more than a week later the initial diagnoses made by the Intern was pulled out and dusted again. She was going to have surgery, she was well practised at the empty stomach routine by now. It was a relief of sorts. Relief at the conception of an action plan, as opposed to wait and watch. We've got to go through all of it, to get to the end of it.
Restless and sleepless, 2 nights before the surgery I managed to slink past my sleeping angel to pace the length of the corridor - up and down and up and down. I could tell I was driving the cops mad. Generally disgruntled by the nature of their job, they sat parked in front of my neighbours room in apparent discontentment. Now there was me the psycho pacer too. The nurses were huddled at the other end talking in hushed voices. I overheard the bit about the TV. The system in most hospitals here, is to pre-pay for the use of TV and telephones in a hospital room. We don't own a TV at home, so we didn't miss one here either. I never bothered activating either gadget in our hospital room. Mr. Con apparently would have liked to watch TV. Given that money is a requirement for that process, for him it was an impossibility. He wasn't allowed any visitors and I know for a fact no one spoke to him - least of all his grumpy watch dogs. I'm pretty sure not even Raven visits him. Was he a murderer too like the other hospitalised con I had heard of? Maybe he's a drug peddler or a bank robber. Or maybe a rapist? A child molester? Perhaps...'just' a tax evader? I had tired myself out enough to crash. But I didn't quite get it out of my mind. I have winged friends and two legged friends and all sorts of Gadget-y entertainment, still hospitals suck and everything about it sucks and I'm not even sick. Why shouldn't Mr. Con have some entertainment? The nurse was a little perplexed at first when I asked her to activate Mr. Con's telephone and TV and charge the costs to my room. She, unlike the Raven who only ever looks at me sideways, give a long hard stare. Then she agreed and explained to me that it's actually against policy so she'd have to lie about the room occupancy. Since it was just the central telephone board, they shouldn't care much, she shrugged. I could hear her in Mr. Con's room, awkwardly executing the crooked billing scheme....and then spelling out my full name and room number loud and clear so that the telephone central and Mr. Con could make a careful note of it! AAAAAARRRRRRGH! What was she thinking??!! I'm already imagining myself and my daughter being held hostage at gun-point - paranoia back in full relapse!
Mr. Con got his TV. Now every time I passed his room I could see his toes, chains and the flickering colours of the TV tube fill the room. He watched a LOT of TV. Sometimes a confused sour-faced police guard came by my room at shift change wagging the TV bill, asking why my name and Mr. Con's room number were on it. Each time I tried feebly to explain, not really wanting them to understand. I often succeeded in sending them back more confused. My daughter was getting prepped for surgery and I was only partially taking in the repeated requests Mr. Con was passing through the nurses to meet and thank me. I was, however, very much taking in the total change in the nurses behaviour towards me and my daughter. Their smiles, and touch, how they spoke to us, how they looked at us. They had gained nothing by an entertained Mr. Con. But they were unmistakably transformed because of it. I never had to change the sheets again! We all seemed, relieved and happily surprised to have discovered human sides in each other.
The surgery went off well, she was finally rid of the damn thing. I haven't ever seen anything like it, a drugged out, ecstatic, post op 7 year old. What a difference also, to experience medical care in the hospital factory. Gentle, tender, care for the sick. The requests kept coming from Mr. Con, he wanted so badly to thank me. Part of me was embarrassed at the fuss being made about a small gesture, part of me didn't want to insult him by refusing the meeting, part of me was just plain uneasy at the whole prospect of being introduced, exposed. I was at sixes and sevens about going over. I wanted to be able to see him as a person, meet him without knowing what he did or why he's in chains. I wanted to be able to look beyond the shackles. It took me a while to get my head around it, to ease my mind of some of it's prejudices. Judgement had already been passed, he is already being punished. I don't need to run my own little trial. I awoke the next morning resolved to go over. His room door was closed. I knew then that he was gone. I'd like to believe that I was too preoccupied with my daughter to go over and meet Mr. Con. I'd like to believe it, although it's not true. He had been discharged and was back in the Jug. I tried to drop him a postcard, to tell him he was welcome, that it was nothing. But they had no trace of him. He only existed as a convict from the city jailhouse. A number.
The kindly young intern took her time with the initial check-up, was comforting and confident. We were gently warned that surgery maybe unavoidable. Quite the reception to hope for at a hospital actually. We were in good hands. Until, that is, the gel slicked goldilocks resident Doc sailed in to veto her diagnosis. In his presence, our nice Intern morphed into a pat seeking eager puppy dog. Goldilocks had all of 30 seconds to spare for the check-up, looked right through us anxious parents, and left with the same haughty air that he sailed in with. The pecking order, at first, seems no different here than in any other medical food chain, with the nurses at the bottom, then come the interns, followed by residents, attending docs and the heads of departments. The hierarchy is set cuttingly deep though. A few days in hospital and I was almost curtsying before his Highness, Mr. Head of Department myself! The differentiating factor to note here though, in no uncertain terms was, that patient is down, down, down, right at the very bottom of the pecking order. Wonder what my yogurt eating winged friend would think of that! He IS having the last laugh!
We are in the medical factory, body-fixes get churned out here. Here you are a number amongst many. If you're not the last number, you're lucky. Plato said the physician should never separate the soul from the body in treatment. The nurse came by to check vitals and hook up the drip. My daughters catheter squirted out blood on the sheets in the process. 'Oops, the sheets will be changed' she said, into the little one's big worried eyes. So the leaky vein got plugged, sheets would get changed, hence terrified child should be fine as well. Plato, tell them something! Inevitably one starts to rankle at the cold, indifferent, inconsideration. A question, any question, was one too much and prompted an irate bark.
'...umm, those fresh sheets you spoke about?'
'grrrrrr....'
When is the Doctor expected?'
'GRRRRRR'
'Could we have some more hot water for tea?'
'Grrrr, Woof'
'Will she have surgery today, she's been on an empty stomach for 5 hours?'
'Grrr...Snap!'
'It's past 12 in the night, could you pipe it down in the nurse's room please?'
'SNARL!'
I am not the gracious kind. Sonner than I should have, I was roped into becoming bellicose rather than diplomatic. We were systematically winding each other up and I was developing quite a reputation for it, I could tell by the even further deteriorating treatment. In turn, I was walking around like a ticking time bomb, reaching the end of my tether myself. I had ample time to tick too, my child was asleep, at 7:30 in the evening which left me staring at the ceiling in a dark room, stroking her and ticking away. I must state at this point, my daughter thankfully wasn't suffering from any grave illness. She had an abscess in her tonsils, which although terribly painful, is relatively minor. Nevertheless, almost one week later with absolutely no change in her condition and the pain unabatedly forging on despite a cocktail of meds, the anxiety builds. At one of those rare Doctor's appearances I said 'She says she tastes blood in her throat'. He goes 'Yes, So?' Did he just say YES, SO?????.....tick tick tick! Me, 'and by that you mean....?' I have had more meaningful conversations with Siri on my iPhone.
The next morning I forced on renewed optimism, something's gotta give here. There is a scratchy landing sound of his claws at the window, would he appreciate a change in flavour maybe? Although he's some company, he's not a big listener. For that I'm very glad for my trusted human visitors who faithfully come by drop off food, hugs, and hold my hand while I freely throw up all my frustrations and exasperations. These friends, they willingly do this to themselves. Gracious people - unlike me. Half way into the story of the midnight Nurses' party in the ward, we hear a loud clanging, clunking sound, steady and slow. Approaching louder now, and louder. We look at each other quizzically and turn to the direction of the sound. The source is right beside us and going right past us, a bunch of prison officers escorting a man chained at the feet and arms turn into the room right beside us! A prisoner patient, right out of the jailhouse to be my neighbour! This isn't exactly 'something giving'!! 'Just what we need', we both chorused! The last time I heard of a convict in hospital it was a murderer, involved in 4 killings. I don't even want to know what this one is being held for. The armed officers will be posted inside and out of his room at all times, we were assured. Well then, we're good. Sleep tight.
The nurses' midnight parties came to an end. I got over my initial paranoia and gave him a name - Mr. Con. It is an unsettling feeling walking past fully armed men through the day. The door to Mr. Con's room was always wide open. I could see his chained feet every time I passed by. I never did get a look at his face. My daughter's condition remained unchanged in the meantime and I went back to the business of worrying and hurting over her. Finally, more than a week later the initial diagnoses made by the Intern was pulled out and dusted again. She was going to have surgery, she was well practised at the empty stomach routine by now. It was a relief of sorts. Relief at the conception of an action plan, as opposed to wait and watch. We've got to go through all of it, to get to the end of it.
Restless and sleepless, 2 nights before the surgery I managed to slink past my sleeping angel to pace the length of the corridor - up and down and up and down. I could tell I was driving the cops mad. Generally disgruntled by the nature of their job, they sat parked in front of my neighbours room in apparent discontentment. Now there was me the psycho pacer too. The nurses were huddled at the other end talking in hushed voices. I overheard the bit about the TV. The system in most hospitals here, is to pre-pay for the use of TV and telephones in a hospital room. We don't own a TV at home, so we didn't miss one here either. I never bothered activating either gadget in our hospital room. Mr. Con apparently would have liked to watch TV. Given that money is a requirement for that process, for him it was an impossibility. He wasn't allowed any visitors and I know for a fact no one spoke to him - least of all his grumpy watch dogs. I'm pretty sure not even Raven visits him. Was he a murderer too like the other hospitalised con I had heard of? Maybe he's a drug peddler or a bank robber. Or maybe a rapist? A child molester? Perhaps...'just' a tax evader? I had tired myself out enough to crash. But I didn't quite get it out of my mind. I have winged friends and two legged friends and all sorts of Gadget-y entertainment, still hospitals suck and everything about it sucks and I'm not even sick. Why shouldn't Mr. Con have some entertainment? The nurse was a little perplexed at first when I asked her to activate Mr. Con's telephone and TV and charge the costs to my room. She, unlike the Raven who only ever looks at me sideways, give a long hard stare. Then she agreed and explained to me that it's actually against policy so she'd have to lie about the room occupancy. Since it was just the central telephone board, they shouldn't care much, she shrugged. I could hear her in Mr. Con's room, awkwardly executing the crooked billing scheme....and then spelling out my full name and room number loud and clear so that the telephone central and Mr. Con could make a careful note of it! AAAAAARRRRRRGH! What was she thinking??!! I'm already imagining myself and my daughter being held hostage at gun-point - paranoia back in full relapse!
Mr. Con got his TV. Now every time I passed his room I could see his toes, chains and the flickering colours of the TV tube fill the room. He watched a LOT of TV. Sometimes a confused sour-faced police guard came by my room at shift change wagging the TV bill, asking why my name and Mr. Con's room number were on it. Each time I tried feebly to explain, not really wanting them to understand. I often succeeded in sending them back more confused. My daughter was getting prepped for surgery and I was only partially taking in the repeated requests Mr. Con was passing through the nurses to meet and thank me. I was, however, very much taking in the total change in the nurses behaviour towards me and my daughter. Their smiles, and touch, how they spoke to us, how they looked at us. They had gained nothing by an entertained Mr. Con. But they were unmistakably transformed because of it. I never had to change the sheets again! We all seemed, relieved and happily surprised to have discovered human sides in each other.
The surgery went off well, she was finally rid of the damn thing. I haven't ever seen anything like it, a drugged out, ecstatic, post op 7 year old. What a difference also, to experience medical care in the hospital factory. Gentle, tender, care for the sick. The requests kept coming from Mr. Con, he wanted so badly to thank me. Part of me was embarrassed at the fuss being made about a small gesture, part of me didn't want to insult him by refusing the meeting, part of me was just plain uneasy at the whole prospect of being introduced, exposed. I was at sixes and sevens about going over. I wanted to be able to see him as a person, meet him without knowing what he did or why he's in chains. I wanted to be able to look beyond the shackles. It took me a while to get my head around it, to ease my mind of some of it's prejudices. Judgement had already been passed, he is already being punished. I don't need to run my own little trial. I awoke the next morning resolved to go over. His room door was closed. I knew then that he was gone. I'd like to believe that I was too preoccupied with my daughter to go over and meet Mr. Con. I'd like to believe it, although it's not true. He had been discharged and was back in the Jug. I tried to drop him a postcard, to tell him he was welcome, that it was nothing. But they had no trace of him. He only existed as a convict from the city jailhouse. A number.
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Prost!
"Where are my Oktoberfest shoes?" he called. Oktoberfest shoes? If that means nothing to you, then you are thankfully not among the 7 million who flock to Munich this time of year, sporting the standard ensemble worn by Americans and Australians alike at the 200 year old folk-festival turned Beer craze. The Oktoberfest, a.k.a as the Wiesn put little Munich on the map. The quintessence of the festival being Beer, it's ceremonious entry and unceremonious exit from the human body. An event at which people from all over the world converge eagerly, bent upon repeatedly testing their (in)ability to handle large amounts of alcohol. Lederhosen clad tourists coat the streets of Munich or lie around in undignified human piles.
Munich is bursting at the seams. Had it not been for the meticulous German measures and controls, the city would be catapulted into total drunken chaos. The strain of handling 5 to 6 times it's native population, most of which are in the form of intoxicated beer corpses, shows in everything from public transport and paramedics to the overloaded police force. It's all they do can to keep the security and sanity of the city. Even so, it is not uncommon that rape and even death are noted within the Oktoberfest premises or in its immediate proximity. Neither the obvious danger nor the already exorbitant and steadily rising prices at the Fest are a deterrent. The hordes of people keep flowing, as does the beer.
The Oktoberfest is an important part of the Bavarian culture, having been around so long. Still, one can't imagine they are completely comfortable watching their local costumes and traditional clothes reduce to something of a drunken uniform. How would it look if Indians only wore their Saris to eat rice and curry? Then have masses of toursits adorn Saris, as they consume bushels full of rice and curry! Germans are wearing their traditional alpine costumes like the Dirndl less and less - before and after the Oktoberfest that is - thereby not only supporting but also promoting their Oktoberfest image.
Ok, let's try another angle here. It's easy to hate the whole Wiesn Meshugaas and to vilify its faithful. It's harder to understand it's attraction though. Why people travel from all the corners of the earth and spend ridiculous amounts of money, recession or no recession, to drink themselves senseless at this one place? Unreasonable amounts of alcohol can be consumed in several, easier accessible locations. The economic motivators for the breweries and the city are obvious. According to some statistics each time the band in a beer tent encourages guests to clink their mugs, 1000 Litres of beer is consumed, which happens several times hourly, in 15 tents. 7,5 Million Mass (1 Liter beer mugs) are sold at the Wiesn, that's more than 1 Liter of beer per person on an average. Not even taking into account the hundreds and thousands of roasted chicken and other sorts of grease oozing goodies downed to counter the alcohol. The stats are mind-boggling, the Wiesn is ALWAYS a smashing success. More every year.
What's in it for it's patrons though? What brings them and keeps them? Viktor E. Frankl claims man is constantly in search for meaning in his life. Does the Oktoberfest celebrate the ones that have found it or console the ones that are still looking? Did Viktor get it all wrong, maybe all we are looking for is a pair of Lederhosen to drink the next Mass in. Prost!
Munich is bursting at the seams. Had it not been for the meticulous German measures and controls, the city would be catapulted into total drunken chaos. The strain of handling 5 to 6 times it's native population, most of which are in the form of intoxicated beer corpses, shows in everything from public transport and paramedics to the overloaded police force. It's all they do can to keep the security and sanity of the city. Even so, it is not uncommon that rape and even death are noted within the Oktoberfest premises or in its immediate proximity. Neither the obvious danger nor the already exorbitant and steadily rising prices at the Fest are a deterrent. The hordes of people keep flowing, as does the beer.
The Oktoberfest is an important part of the Bavarian culture, having been around so long. Still, one can't imagine they are completely comfortable watching their local costumes and traditional clothes reduce to something of a drunken uniform. How would it look if Indians only wore their Saris to eat rice and curry? Then have masses of toursits adorn Saris, as they consume bushels full of rice and curry! Germans are wearing their traditional alpine costumes like the Dirndl less and less - before and after the Oktoberfest that is - thereby not only supporting but also promoting their Oktoberfest image.
Ok, let's try another angle here. It's easy to hate the whole Wiesn Meshugaas and to vilify its faithful. It's harder to understand it's attraction though. Why people travel from all the corners of the earth and spend ridiculous amounts of money, recession or no recession, to drink themselves senseless at this one place? Unreasonable amounts of alcohol can be consumed in several, easier accessible locations. The economic motivators for the breweries and the city are obvious. According to some statistics each time the band in a beer tent encourages guests to clink their mugs, 1000 Litres of beer is consumed, which happens several times hourly, in 15 tents. 7,5 Million Mass (1 Liter beer mugs) are sold at the Wiesn, that's more than 1 Liter of beer per person on an average. Not even taking into account the hundreds and thousands of roasted chicken and other sorts of grease oozing goodies downed to counter the alcohol. The stats are mind-boggling, the Wiesn is ALWAYS a smashing success. More every year.
What's in it for it's patrons though? What brings them and keeps them? Viktor E. Frankl claims man is constantly in search for meaning in his life. Does the Oktoberfest celebrate the ones that have found it or console the ones that are still looking? Did Viktor get it all wrong, maybe all we are looking for is a pair of Lederhosen to drink the next Mass in. Prost!
Wednesday, 27 June 2012
R.I.P Triops
His craze for Dinosaurs has lasted 3 years now. Before that it was Airplanes, duration of craze - also 3 years. Throw in the first year of babyhood and the expanse of his life has been accounted for. Yes, he's nothing if he's not consistent, and yes, my little boy turned 7 this year. Months in advance he had picked out his birthday gift - a Jurassic Expedition set, 'with REAL fossils' it said on the box. On his birthday, he impatiently tore off the last separation of gift wrapping to finally be united with his much longed for gift. Along with excavation kits with bits of plastic bone packed into soft clay and Dinosaur jigsaw puzzles was a teeeny tiny pouch labeled 'Triops eggs' and another comparatively big box labeled 'feed'.
Triops, a kind of crustacean, are among the longest lived species earning them the title of 'living fossils'. Their fossil record reaches back to as far as 350 million years, remaining virtually unchanged since the Triassic period. In short an exceptionally hardy, resilient piece of nature. Apparently my 7 year old son, and because of him all of us, would be able to conveniently observe the birth and life of these remarkable species in the domestic comfort of our home. Indeed, how very convenient!
We set out in childlike excitement to find a home for the precious eggs to hatch and grow. Only the most elaborate aquarium was good enough for our new guests. we brought home an 80 x 40 cm tank, to hold about 130l of water all fitted with trappings of air pump, heater, illumination, filter, automatic feeding mechanism. We were ready! Imagine, we were going to have our very own fossil pets! Who needed dogs or cats or birds in cages or nimbly gnawing hamsters or guinea pigs when we could experience the magic of life unfold as it did (with some minor alterations) 350 million years ago! Then the sand was washed and poured in and an ensemble of hand picked rocks and stones adorned the Aquarium floor. At last the precious eggs were immersed into the water! Let the transportation back in time commence! From that point onwards, all eyes were kept peeled on the aquarium for the slightest signs of movement in the blankness of this uninhabited water world. Two chairs seating two gaping kids were permanently parked at the aquarium from where their noses stayed glued to the glass. Air bubbles rushed out from the vent in a constant steady, monotonously reliable stream, the bright white tube light shone down in the water, never waning, never waxing. We waited, and we waited....and Voila!! Amidst the lifelessly floating bubbles, and sediments was a shivering white speck! Microscopically throbbing, as only life can, clearly distinguishable in it's vigour from the inanimate specks. A natural ebullience shone through to us from within the glass enclosure. They were hatched and they were here! As the count went, more than a dozen dinosaur shrimps. The 7 year olds quickly assumed an officious sense of responsibility for the new borns, instructions to the feed cycles were carefully studied. Duties were distributed and responsibly accepted.
Humans and their children were amused and entertained by yet another successful domestication.
As the hours and the days passed on, the micro millimeter jerks and jitters that are their natural movement got ever increasingly nervous...or was it just my imagination?! Their sudden entry into this world of changing constants, of always bright or always dark, always bubbling or always not, seemed to be somewhat overwhelming. Instinctively they appeared to be searching for something, someone to protect them, teach them to eat, to swim....to survive. All that space made for so much emptiness. Save the bubbles batting them around, other life there was none. They fought off the currents, and searched till they tired. In a day the population had depleted, in two there was just one lone confused fighter to be spotted, last fish swimming. In three days there were none. All gone. The hardiest, most resilient creatures undermined.
Now the young spectators marvel poignantly from their prime seats at the emptiness of bubbly water. "They're just hiding in the rocks" said one. "Yes, they'll come out in another 350 million years" said the other. R.I.P Triops.
Triops, a kind of crustacean, are among the longest lived species earning them the title of 'living fossils'. Their fossil record reaches back to as far as 350 million years, remaining virtually unchanged since the Triassic period. In short an exceptionally hardy, resilient piece of nature. Apparently my 7 year old son, and because of him all of us, would be able to conveniently observe the birth and life of these remarkable species in the domestic comfort of our home. Indeed, how very convenient!
We set out in childlike excitement to find a home for the precious eggs to hatch and grow. Only the most elaborate aquarium was good enough for our new guests. we brought home an 80 x 40 cm tank, to hold about 130l of water all fitted with trappings of air pump, heater, illumination, filter, automatic feeding mechanism. We were ready! Imagine, we were going to have our very own fossil pets! Who needed dogs or cats or birds in cages or nimbly gnawing hamsters or guinea pigs when we could experience the magic of life unfold as it did (with some minor alterations) 350 million years ago! Then the sand was washed and poured in and an ensemble of hand picked rocks and stones adorned the Aquarium floor. At last the precious eggs were immersed into the water! Let the transportation back in time commence! From that point onwards, all eyes were kept peeled on the aquarium for the slightest signs of movement in the blankness of this uninhabited water world. Two chairs seating two gaping kids were permanently parked at the aquarium from where their noses stayed glued to the glass. Air bubbles rushed out from the vent in a constant steady, monotonously reliable stream, the bright white tube light shone down in the water, never waning, never waxing. We waited, and we waited....and Voila!! Amidst the lifelessly floating bubbles, and sediments was a shivering white speck! Microscopically throbbing, as only life can, clearly distinguishable in it's vigour from the inanimate specks. A natural ebullience shone through to us from within the glass enclosure. They were hatched and they were here! As the count went, more than a dozen dinosaur shrimps. The 7 year olds quickly assumed an officious sense of responsibility for the new borns, instructions to the feed cycles were carefully studied. Duties were distributed and responsibly accepted.
Humans and their children were amused and entertained by yet another successful domestication.
As the hours and the days passed on, the micro millimeter jerks and jitters that are their natural movement got ever increasingly nervous...or was it just my imagination?! Their sudden entry into this world of changing constants, of always bright or always dark, always bubbling or always not, seemed to be somewhat overwhelming. Instinctively they appeared to be searching for something, someone to protect them, teach them to eat, to swim....to survive. All that space made for so much emptiness. Save the bubbles batting them around, other life there was none. They fought off the currents, and searched till they tired. In a day the population had depleted, in two there was just one lone confused fighter to be spotted, last fish swimming. In three days there were none. All gone. The hardiest, most resilient creatures undermined.
Now the young spectators marvel poignantly from their prime seats at the emptiness of bubbly water. "They're just hiding in the rocks" said one. "Yes, they'll come out in another 350 million years" said the other. R.I.P Triops.
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Patriotism.
In the throes of Visa renewals again. If some could have their way, I would need a Visa to see the rest room at transit airports. The many delights of being the proud owner of an invaluable hand written Indian passport (Paradox?). Too bad the rest of the world can't appreciate the personal touches of cutely scribbled illegible Name, misspelt and hence non-existent address, random stranger's name for Husband, Mother's name swapped with Father's etc, on an official document of identity. Sloppiness and Cricket are our national sports. Facts that identity is defined by, become a matter of interpretation. In a way it is also a constant reminder of their ineffectiveness. I take no offense at the heaves and sighs of exasperation at passport control, at always slowing down the line. They will fumble, to my perverse pleasure, with my un-scannable passport and then resign begrudgingly to the primitiveness of manual entry.
I see this as a test. The more I travel, the more I am tested. Will I succumb to the ease of European citizenship? Will I submit to the convenience of sailing in and out of countries without any of the ritualistic drama ensuing when I produce proof of indecipherable identity? Oooooh the temptations of a scannable passport! What of National pride and Patriotism? Yes, What about Patriotism? Will I be letting down my country of 1.2 billion if one of me rejected my original Indian identity? I could flatter myself with my self-appointed importance.
Eventually it is not out of love for country and homeland that I cling on to my origins, rather something much more personal. Out of the need to believe in who I am, where I came from and what I am. It is not my nation I would defend and love with my last breath, it is myself.
Bring it on now, the demeaning interrogations and belittling processes, all aimed at determining if A.) I am going to plonk (save yourself the trouble, I already have!) or B.) I am a terrorist (investment here may well be worth the effort). For as long as there is self-mockery, I will be soothed and amused and my Indian handcrafted identity is alas the only one in it's sloppy uniqueness that truly represents me.
I see this as a test. The more I travel, the more I am tested. Will I succumb to the ease of European citizenship? Will I submit to the convenience of sailing in and out of countries without any of the ritualistic drama ensuing when I produce proof of indecipherable identity? Oooooh the temptations of a scannable passport! What of National pride and Patriotism? Yes, What about Patriotism? Will I be letting down my country of 1.2 billion if one of me rejected my original Indian identity? I could flatter myself with my self-appointed importance.
Eventually it is not out of love for country and homeland that I cling on to my origins, rather something much more personal. Out of the need to believe in who I am, where I came from and what I am. It is not my nation I would defend and love with my last breath, it is myself.
Bring it on now, the demeaning interrogations and belittling processes, all aimed at determining if A.) I am going to plonk (save yourself the trouble, I already have!) or B.) I am a terrorist (investment here may well be worth the effort). For as long as there is self-mockery, I will be soothed and amused and my Indian handcrafted identity is alas the only one in it's sloppy uniqueness that truly represents me.
Monday, 28 May 2012
The invitation.
'Come in' he said, when my husband was home.
'Come in and sit down, you look tired and worn'.
The table was set for him and one more, and no other.
Vanilla Sauce, apple pie. Laid out on a lace cover.
'Sit you down then' he said, to my befuddled husband.
'tis a somewhat odd story, so breathe in deep. It's all a little muddled'
The pie smelt delicious, the coffe was steaming
'That's my first Vanilla sauce', he said almost beaming!
'I am weary these days' said this man to my husband.
'I was glad for sociability, being so much on my own.
"Oh don't mope!" said your wife when we met at the store.
"Come by for some coffee and apple pie at Four".
'They are all away now, both your kids and their mother'.
'For you see when I came by, total mayhem was the order!
little girls in tutus were slipping on their ballet shoes,
"Watch my son! Stir the sauce! I'm running late", was her excuse.
The pie was in the oven, the timer would ring,
"Stick around" she called out "I'll be back before you blink".
'She was gone in a flash, amidst the smell of browning apples',
'And there was me in your home, the oven timer was my shackle'.
'As I gathered back my bearings, came a sense of foreboding,
your son, he was not helping. His suspicion kept on mounting.
I concentrated on the stirring, though that feeling kept recurring.
Then suddenly he was whisked off too, by a unknown lady in a whirring Subaru'.
As my husband heard him out, patient with his nervous recount.
How he got here, why he stayed, lost control and well-obeyed.
His thrifty wife had struck again, yet another will was slain.
He smiled and kicked his legs up. Leaning back, sipping his coffee cup.
'I'll be damned!' he beamed, with wicked satisfaction.
There ARE more fools than I to be had!
It's reassuring to know I'm not the only one thats mad!
'Come in and sit down, you look tired and worn'.
The table was set for him and one more, and no other.
Vanilla Sauce, apple pie. Laid out on a lace cover.
'Sit you down then' he said, to my befuddled husband.
'tis a somewhat odd story, so breathe in deep. It's all a little muddled'
The pie smelt delicious, the coffe was steaming
'That's my first Vanilla sauce', he said almost beaming!
'I am weary these days' said this man to my husband.
'I was glad for sociability, being so much on my own.
"Oh don't mope!" said your wife when we met at the store.
"Come by for some coffee and apple pie at Four".
'They are all away now, both your kids and their mother'.
'For you see when I came by, total mayhem was the order!
little girls in tutus were slipping on their ballet shoes,
"Watch my son! Stir the sauce! I'm running late", was her excuse.
The pie was in the oven, the timer would ring,
"Stick around" she called out "I'll be back before you blink".
'She was gone in a flash, amidst the smell of browning apples',
'And there was me in your home, the oven timer was my shackle'.
'As I gathered back my bearings, came a sense of foreboding,
your son, he was not helping. His suspicion kept on mounting.
I concentrated on the stirring, though that feeling kept recurring.
Then suddenly he was whisked off too, by a unknown lady in a whirring Subaru'.
As my husband heard him out, patient with his nervous recount.
How he got here, why he stayed, lost control and well-obeyed.
His thrifty wife had struck again, yet another will was slain.
He smiled and kicked his legs up. Leaning back, sipping his coffee cup.
'I'll be damned!' he beamed, with wicked satisfaction.
There ARE more fools than I to be had!
It's reassuring to know I'm not the only one thats mad!
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