I wish Christmas would never come

They’re sitting around in a mock-meeting. Mr. stuffy faced egg-headed rooster, all prudish with his seriously disapproving pursed lips. Hard to take him seriously with the big red tuft on his head. There is the giddy headed frog, silly fellow’s constantly falling over himself in giggles. I want what he’s on! Five eagerly waving reindeer popped out the other day. They bore a general conviviality that had me on the lookout for exciting company. Every day of Advent brings with it another little surprise, another delightful creation with thoughtful little details.

As wonderful as the tradition of Advent calendars is, it is a tonne of work thinking up and collecting meaningful things to fill 24 little pouches for the 24 days before Christmas. I’ve been shirking my way through this task, cutting corners turning to ready-made ones. Hiding behind the stress of the chores of preparations that lead up to the perfect Christmas celebration.

The tradition has caught on in this house despite us lazy adults, with the children filling in where the adults left off. We, spoilt parents, have got a special spread of Advent Calendars this year – a high-tech variety of Python programmed, love-filled messages that pop up every day, building up into a cleverly crafted Christmas poem. 

On the first day of Christmas, the computer lit up with Once upon a time there lived a dad. 

Day 2, he was never mad. 

Day 3 it said, he had a lot of patience. 

On day 4 ..and never missed any of our occasions.

My calendar, was more the good old fashioned, low-tech hand crafted kind. Collecting used cases from Kinder surprise eggs to craft prudish roosters from. Pouches were interspersed with earrings in my fav colour, necklaces beaded and fitted to size. The occasional poem or hand-made card for variety, a stout wooden star that promised to love me to the moon and back.

My children’s weekly schedule is just as challenging as mine. Yet my daughter makes quiet observations and executes on them, noting attentively that I could do with a new hair clip, or a custom made armband with manually twisted patterns. And as she’s squirrelling away each ready item, toiling at the wrapping and numbering, my son’s honing his programming skills to have the automated calendar running and bug free in time for the beginning of Advent. And me…I’m just making my excuses to myself. In the days when I did take the effort, I recall the joy there was in lighting up faces every day with another door opening, another pouch revealing precious treats. As much pleasure as there is in giving, so also are there gentle pangs of disappointment sometimes. A secret in the trade of giving is to be rewarded by appreciation. Some days all calendars get overlooked in the grind of routine, pouches get forgotten, doors go unopened. I know from experience how that feels. When days like those come, as they always do, the children hide their hurt much better than I ever could, with a benevolent resolve to give happiness.

I love my giddy headed frog from day 10 most of all. In a cross legged precarious perch, he’s sculpted from clay with ears pinched into place and big beady eyes. He followed our escalation with the same comical amusement that he observes everything. We were having a row over her behaviour in a certain situation - I said I disapproved, finally un-muting my internal dialogue over an issue that had been nagging for some days. She made clear her indifference. Sparks flew. We raged at each other about the usual things of respect and value that adolescents and adults seem to define and interpret ever differently. The words came out strong, giving my anger a degree of validity it could never merit. And then I said it. I said ‘I don’t want your damn presents. I want you to care about what really matters to me’.

The night passed, wrought with actions than couldn’t get undone, words that couldn’t get unspoken. There were 3 more days to Christmas and the spirit of the season had right well been butchered. After  every miserable night and every glorious night - after every single night dawns a whole new day. The computer screen had already lit up - it read He helps us stay strong, and tells us when we are wrong. Tip toeing into her room the next morning, I tried not to wake her, lest she order me out again. There was nothing more to offer this morning than the feeble apology from the night before. She stirred and awoke nevertheless, realising I was there. Half asleep she reached out for my hand and smiled. Comfortingly unhesitant.

Later that day while Mr. Frog grinned on, she handed me the pouch for day 21 all ripped up and mended, the little treasure safe inside. It was the same for each subsequent day, pouches ripped and mended. Treasure safe inside. The spirit of Christmas had been ripped and mended. Love, forgiveness, generosity, they were all safe inside.

Let the pouches go on forever. Let it not stop when Christmas comes.

I'm a bitch

“I wish you were never born into this family". Her words hung in the air, dense and stinging.

Little girls, daughters are positively delightful little things. They run about gaily, brightening up everything with their pretty little dresses and bunches in their hair. Riding on your knees and making up cute little sentences you can repeat to your friends. All of that is just as jolly as it should be. But a little daughter is one thing and a daughter is quite another thing.

When they were as little as 4, in Kindergarten, he’d sit himself down on the bench with the usual helpless lethargy while she would undo his shoes and help him un-suit from the coat and scarf paraphernalia. Nobody had taught her to do these things, or asked her to. These reserves of intuitive caring came entirely naturally and with complete commitment. Any amount of equal-gender upbringing was no match for natures hard wiring. Whoever said male and female ability differences boiled down to socialisation, not genetics, never observed it from the vantage point of bringing up girl and boy twins. The KG staff remained most amused at how one 4 year old little girl fussed around her twin brother.  

That same little girl, the adorable daughter, is now a 12 year old directing her scorn at that same brother she continues mothering. Growing into her life, one oestrogen loaded, high self-expectation at a time. Which also means it’s an on-going imbalance of boy and woman through their growing up. Well, despite his persistently lethargic disposition, he had had the audacity of brilliantly outdoing her at a Math test. Whilst surprised by his own achievement and scathing from her words, he is nevertheless a man in the making - enjoying his 5 minutes of fame like it were a lifetime of successes back to back.

Whereas for her, she’s on a roll. Perfect is her baseline, success is the norm. Anything right below that is looser-level failure. She’s accustomed to excelling in everything she embarks upon, by sheer grit and perseverance. Of course she was not angry at him, but at herself. It is how women are sometimes. Unfair and irrational. Angry at their own standards. At disappointing themselves, eternally envious of the infuriatingly chilled-out composure of their male company.
Some time will pass but she will come around, as she always does, inundated with shame for her behaviour and an even firmer resolve to work harder, apologising effusively for letting her frustrations get the better of her. He’ll graciously accept the apology, not quite recollecting what she's going on about, forgiving quickly and generously. She will be curiously surprised again, and relieved that he got over it so easily.

It’s endlessly entertaining and frustratingly inefficient that people straddled with the same genetic coding continue to repeat the same mistakes, re-learning the same lessons, generation upon generation (no wonder evolution runs at snail-pace). It’s similarly frustrating and also somewhat funny that whatever the year civilisation is in, boys and girls, men and women simply have different roles to play in life according to the different contributions they make to a shared reproductive system. This little girl, like many of her kind, will be the nurturer and the listener. She will, like her mother and grandmother before her, also be the one to tell the man to intuitively go to the doctor and nurturingly sort out the laundry. She will multi-task, so as to do both to perfection at the same time, not losing sight of her own personal ambitions, as well as booking her kids dental appointments and making a lasagne. All of this will, ever so often, churn up a storm in her.

Until recently, US meteorologists gave traditionally female names to storms, and hurricanes for the shared characteristics of being unpredictable and destructive. When the ‘Women’s Movement’ finally had their say and male names started being introduced, another bias took shape - people became less likely to prepare for hurricanes with women’s names, not taking them seriously because they don’t sound threatening in comparison to their male counterparts. This ironically made those storms more deadly.  

There is a subdued appreciation of the singular advantage of experience this 12 year old boy is being provided with, by living beside and loving strong women. Yes, he would be better equipped to understand them into adulthood, probably ahead of his peers. But excitement for such great fortune is limited while the scrapes still burned. He knows already of the perfect super human powers of emotional intelligence she is capable, of the heightened sense of self-awareness and punitive self-criticism. For reasons seemingly unfathomable, she will also rage with fury causing unpredictable destruction like the hurricanes she defamed. Discount her, and it could be similarly deadly. There will also always, always be those reserves of intuitive compassion. 

Borrowing from some of Shania Twain’s wisdom, she is a bitch and a child, and a mother. She is a sinner, a saint. Take her as she is, it might mean you will have to be stronger. Don’t be afraid, you know you wouldn’t want it any other way.

Dreams and dogs

Dreams don’t come floating on fluffy white clouds. 

Nor do they have star popping centers with tinsel trimmed edges. No, there is none of that mystical magic in making dreams come true. For those times when dreams are to sail out of the stupefied subconscious into reality, it is only grit, ambition and hard work that will lead the way. And never giving up. It’s so easy to get sold on the romance of living out a dream, misled by the marketing and packaging of ‘making dreams come true’. Fatally underestimating how thin you have to be willing to be stretched, how little sleep you will have to sustain on, how much you have to continually believe in it. Blood, sweat and tears. Thats what dreams comprise of. 

Would you take on someone else’s dream though? Strange things happen, stranger than they seem. All of a sudden you could be straddled with an abandoned dream you never dreamt, to realise or let perish. Like that puppy the kids wanted so bad, their biggest dream. They beg and plead, it’s their only Christmas wish. There’s nothing else in the world they’d rather have. Until you get the dog and it doesn’t walk itself, chews up all the new furniture, reduces exotic family holiday destinations to places only reachable in dog-ride km’s. Dreams have that very inconvenient thing about them, they demand sacrifice and commitment and even a complete change in life-style. A permanent departure from the plush comfort-zone. They make you forfeit luxury treats of laziness and relaxation. Or else those cherished aspirations become an irresponsible recklessness, ending up like the Christmas pup, in the orphanage of abandoned dreams. 

Two days ago, 5 otherwise completely disconnected people become a team of focused foster-parents to one such abandoned dream from that orphanage of dreams. Once loved and cherished too, by someone. Overnight they had not 1, but 2 full-time jobs. Dreams want to know nothing of all the misfortunes life has slung at you. They were dreamt into existence, so you rise to the challenges of rough times. What good is it hiding behind self-pity if it comes at the cost of giving up on dreams? Giving up, even on adopted dreams.

Is that even a thing, an adopted dream? Whom are we kidding, dreams are not dogs. 

Dreams come floating on fluffy white clouds.

PWC, the Oscar stars!

Martha L Ruiz and Brian Culinan became the most known, non-celebrity faces at the Oscars this year. As auditors, this is probably the 5 minutes of fame they wish they'd never had. The Pricewatercoopers accountants are probably experiencing that 'may the earth rip open and swallow me' moment.

Everyone had something to talk about on a dull winter Monday morning. For once, we here in Europe woke up to news that wasn't hogged by Donald Trump's depressingly ridiculous imbecility. Entertained instead by Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway's comical expressions of the night before. How Warren fumblingly passed on a burning ball of uncertainty at the 'best movie' announcement, to Faye, rather than scorch his own fingers. How the over-eager Faye impatiently grabbed the envelope to blurt out the movie name she recognised on it (happily blanking out the rest), only to realise later how badly her fingers were scorched. Warren himself got off 'scot-free', sheepishly taking the mike back grinningly at a shock-faced, applauding audience. True to the spirit of Hollywood, the applauding remained stable through the entire fiasco! Only later did we learn, that the whole goof-up was attributed to two selfie-taking distracted PWC auditors who's responsibility was handing over the right envelopes to the right people at the right time. 

The infallible PWC who had previously boasted that their 83 year old contract had never come up for tender because they do such a 'good job', was also capable of human error. Precisely because, surprise surprise, even companies as big as PWC are comprised of mere mortals. So even fat pay-cheque drawing Partners at PWC aren't exempt of human error.

And let's put things into perspective, what were the real consequences of the blunder? Did Jordan Horowitz go home with the wrong award? No, the goof-up was corrected immediately, amidst a lot of awkwardness. Did it surface a systemic rot at the core of PWC competencies like with the Volkswagen crisis? No, it was a localised human moment of inattentiveness. Was anyone hurt, did a bad drug have to be recalled? Did anyone die, like in the recent Yemen attack that went 'dreadfully wrong' killing 25 people amongst which 9 were children under the age of 13, one a 3 moth old baby and a US soldier. 

This was a show-biz, black-tie event of some brilliant entertainers thrown into an off-the-script scene of embarrassing awkwardness which gave everyone something hilarious to talk about at work, and more fodder for the ever hungry Trump-inspired political satire. 

There is talk of how many heads will roll, how PWC will salvage face. Will PWC be able to claw it's way out of this crisis? The Oscars have barred Martha and Brian from future ceremonies. Crucial work of repairing the cracks that led to this mammoth mistake are being mended. 

I think it's also a huge opportunity for PWC to rise above all the melodrama and parade its humanity. To laugh at itself and it's Oscar winning blunder. To hold back on rushing to internal decapitations. To acknowledge the damage sloppy carelessness can cause. And forgive. Forgive and appreciate being able to quickly and confidently eliminate a deep-rooted, festering flaw in the company. For a blunder is what it is. Nothing more and nothing less.

Wouldn't that come as a pleasant, unexpected surprise? It's a rare ability, in business, for a company to use the opportunity of a crisis, into a showcase and proof of it's empathetic human side.

Be the star of the extended Oscar's, PWC!

Gone girl.

Now that we're all grown up, our mentors must be hugely relieved. The pathologically troublesome duo, magnets to everything that was frowned upon and forbidden, doing precisely what we were told not to. Born one street and two days apart from each other, we were joined at the hip by crime, transgressions and loads and loads of laughter.

School was a game of dodge. Dodging the headmistress who'd stand watch at the entrance gates to greet us, the invariable late-comers. Dodging uniform checks, there was always something out of place, the hair wasn't tied right or the shoes, or socks or..we couldn't keep up, or didn't want to. Dodging homework collection, dodging something or the other. Notoriously infamous, every teacher had an eye on us. 

We couldn't even take the straight road back home, meandering between snack kiosks, food carts, and Popsicle stores. Finally falling into an endlessly looping drop-off routine. First you drop me off to the door, then I to yours and then, because we still couldn't bear to part ways, you at my door, and on it went... Until we were caught out by either your father, the die-hard disciplinarian, or my meddling brothers, the die-hard meddlers. The only one that sped up this ritual was a donkey. India, being India we faced-off rather unexpectedly one time with a charging donkey. Chatting as we always did about the world, teachers and boys, we had startled to see a large donkey galloping purposefully in our direction. A screaming, crying hysterical race ensued - us against the donkey! Only when it caught up, hearts pounding, pulse racing and...ran right past us, did the warm sweat of foolishness flood over. We went from screechy screams to belly aching laughter so quickly, it sounded all the same!

Neither of us ever had two coins to rub together. Luckily for us, we both came from parents that believed in earning money first, to have any to spend. So whenever we got really desperate for a midway snack of those spicy hot, deliciously savoury potato dumplings in bread (vada pav), we resorted to devious tactics. One that was repeatedly pulled off with consistent success, was the 'we are foreigners' trick. Hovering around the vendors’ kiosk, putting on fake American accents to play the 'foreigners', we would enquire most affectedly after the 'vada pav'. Explaining we were from out of town and would like to try the local food. Asking him for a taste in our practiced 'posh' manner. And when we'd had our fill, the panic search for money - our last act - played out. Why he humoured us every week for years, I'll never know. At some point we dropped the foreign accents and claimed to have settled down permanently. We still have a long standing debt with this dear, if poor, migrant vendor who never did let us settle our debts but remained our friend, always. How many such relationships we struck along the way, I don't know. Often people were appalled at first at the obnoxious audacity of our antics and then somehow won over by the ingenuity and gall of it all.

Either out of intrigue or excitement, over the years other little girls joined our alliance, struck easily and innocently, as is the case with children. Some recruits were as crazy as we were, gladly getting into all the trouble we did. Some others were just in it for the ride. Not her though, she was different. I can't recall exactly when or how we became so close. She wanted in and yet was careful to eschew our embarrassing ways, withstanding any peer-pressure. Mostly, she watched disapprovingly as we, her ever closer cronies, found new, more deliciously ridiculous ways to make public spectacles of ourselves in a constant quest to rise from the inconsequence of early teenage girlhood. To be seen, to matter and entertain. It was a total clash of personalities. Her distinctly feminine, shy, soft, sweet ways. We stomping around, loud, pushy and fearless. Keeping our awkwardness all the way from little girls to gwaky teenagers. Unmoved by any dignity lent through her presence. Occupied more by the insignificance of our existence. Constantly devising means to counter it.

To rebels like us, she was little miss goody two shoes with the fetching smile, and effortless kindness even to the less fortunate children in class. Deeply empathetic people are often as deeply sensitive and easy to hurt. There was no telling what or who would yank her into a river of tears. 'Water tanker' is what the girls in their cattiness called her. Perhaps it was that vulnerability that tugged at very boy's early protectionist instincts, enchanting them into a hopeless infatuation. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that she was so exquisitely, obviously, naturally pretty. Either way, every boy we ever knew fell for her, lock, stock and barrel. While the rest of us tom-boys brooded over one-sided crushes, doomed to single-hood forever. She didn’t even seem to notice the string of broken young boy hearts trailing behind her. We grew up alongside her, learning little. It's funny though, how some impressions from eons ago stay indelible. Carved into the deepest recesses of memory. To stay, whatever else transpires. To date I recall vividly how her head bobbed when she spoke. Her eyes twinkling, trimmed by long glorious eyelashes. I daresay if I was a boy, I'd have gladly joined the trail of broken hearts.

In one of the more constructive moments, our masterminds of nonsense founded a girl group of 11 year old's - 'The Dynamite Girl's'. Without resistance or participation she had included herself in our schemes, indulging us. Top on the agenda for 'The dynamite girls’ was saving the world. From what and whom could be determined later. The most action we ever saw was scaring each other off at the local grave yard. Undeterred, secret girl group meetings convened after school, in the scorching heat, on the roof top of an old gate. Admittance was only permitted to those that knew the secret password. The group was serious business. Serious about making someone, anyone, curious about our activities. A secret code language was devised to communicate with. Letters were written diligently every Wednesday to practice and learn the code, and most of all, to keep up the illusion of relevance. We were all sold to the idea of the group, which we stubbornly held on to for quite a while. Everybody but her. I think now, that she might have actually hated it. Nevertheless, she played along. Without resistance or participation. Mindful not to hurt our feelings. Always mindful not to hurt anyone’s feelings. Even providing our sorry ambitions with not only her company but also lunch box provisions. Generally opposed to our behaviour, she played along to please us. Maybe she stopped practicing the code language sooner than others, but other than that, she never protested. Never told us off. Never broke away. I’d like to think that despite our differences we enjoyed each other. Opposing and attracting, that's how it goes, right? We, the audaciously brazen balanced off by her graceful gentleness. In transition, at the edge of childhood, preparing each other for everything that comes after.

It didn’t work out both ways, I don’t think. Perhaps those wonderful childhood memories are not equally wonderfully shared. I recall her as the most pleasant person from my growing years. Of hatters, craziness, bravado and brilliance there were many. The ones that painted the town red, and delighted in it. She stood out with plain and simple pleasantness. Kind, smiling, soft, pleasant. Pleasant, also meaning pleasing. Pleasing her friends, pleasing her teachers, her family. Pleasing her siblings, the baby brother. A polite, God fearing, ardent catholic. Conforming to everything people expected.

Until she finally rebelled. Disappearing into the oblivion. Tired of all the nice pleasantness. For years now nobody’s heard of her. She’s left us no trace, nothing that would lead us back to her. Gone. No one more to please.

Caught in the busyness of mid-life, we're attending to Instagram-ed projections of our perfect lives. How to get thinner thighs and thicker hair. Where to live next, what our kids will become. Remembering to forget. Afraid to face the effects of all the mistakes we made with her. It's easier to add to them, now than mend any. Too far gone, too weak to take responsibility. Easy is the popular choice. 
So, no one knows what became of her. Does she still smile that fetching smile? Do her eyes still twinkle under those glorious lashes?

You are missed, gone girl. And we are sorry. We have failed you. 

St. Johns School - Thane

Eat your greens. Say please.

A bunch of young teens hanging out at McDonald’s on a Friday evening. Some others strolling, chatting, shopping.. It was a warm summer’s day in the city mall. Kids letting off the weeks’ steam. Probably giggling over boys, taking the millionth selfie, impressing girls, gelling down hair, eating too many fries. Doing what teens do. Being kids.

At home dinner’s being fixed. The usual drill - rounding up the family, getting 11 year olds to do their bit - tidy up their little piles, set dinner. They are at that exasperating age – not quite little enough to be babied, not old enough to really be responsible. The struggle is always striking the perfect balance between protecting them and preparing them. We’re guilty of overprotecting and expecting more independence of them, all at once. 

The whole point being to deliver them into the world as good, conscionable, compassionate, educated adults. Getting all the tiresome details right along the way. Clean your teeth – 3 whole minutes, circular movements. Floss. 

Deal with frustrations. The world won’t revolve around you. Learn that rejection is part of life. Always pick yourself up, always try again. Find a passion. Find something you burn for. Practice, practice, practise - for anything you want to be good at. Talent is overrated. Go hunt down your good fortune, don’t wait for it to find you. 

Take a bow when you’re on stage, smile at the crowd. The butterflies in your tummy will settle. 

Don’t snatch, ask nicely. Don’t be a bully. Care about children and people less fortunate than you are.

Appreciate your life, be grateful for your blessings. Welcome children fleeing from war torn countries that have been robbed of their own childhood.

Treat people with respect. The way you want to be treated yourself. 

Mind your language, only use the bad words we use. Don’t think up new ones, we can’t keep up. 

Get off your phones. No really, get off your phones! Read. Write.

Go outdoors, move. Exercise. Eat your greens. Say please.

Most of those slain on Friday were children. An angry deranged young man shot out at point blank rage at children between the ages of 14-17. Children, I am sure, that were taught every tiresome detail with love. Eat your greens. Say please.

How is the world of today changing his life, my son was asked by someone. Not in a big way, he says. There is something new that’s got inside his head, to stay. I think it's called fear. He told me about his school friend whose family is moving to China. She says she’s happy to soon be living in a high walled community flanked by security. She will feel safer there than she does in Europe. She was one of the lucky ones that left the mall 10 minutes before the shoot-out began.

My daughter, on the other hand, says it takes more to change her life. It has changed the way she thinks about things. Munich is a place of clean air where people are happy and safe, she thought. If the young man was such a good shooter, why didn’t he become a policeman? Why did he shoot innocent people? 

When will this pass? Where is 'safe'?

Eat your greens. Say please. 

Terrorism, a matter of perspective?

When darkness falls, we go for the kill. Like the Bonnie and Clyde of murderers. Watchfully patrolling the small expanse, prepared and seasoned. This far gone there is no more guilt, no hesitation and no remorse. When the blade slices through soft flesh, there is no doubt left. Just satisfaction. Peace.

The first few times were traumatic and disturbing. Haunting nightmares followed. Confusion, disorientation. But like with everything else, so it is also with murder. You get better with practice. Just gotta keep at it. After all these years, some nights the nightmares recur. Questionly, judgingly. The dead come to haunt you in your sleep. Hordes of them, angry swarms of them. Looking for revenge and answers: How can some decide on the fate of others? Remind yourself why you're doing it, how there is no other way.

We continue with conviction. Clear about who the enemy is and why he is the enemy. The whole family, including the children, have now been inducted into the same cause - which seems big enough to contain any doubt anyone could ever feel. To be effective they have been injected with enough hate, expanding the killing machine. We have to work together to preserve and protect what's precious to us. Instilling our views in our children early on. Good, now they are angry too!

Razed to a stubble in the ground are the sad remains of what used to be a lush green, fragrant patch of Basil. Vengeance for the invaders is reinforced. We can't stand around and watch until our beautiful blossoms are also devoured. Their insatiable appetites destroy everything! Hours of gentle caretaking and the joy of sprouting saplings, gone in one moment of inattentiveness. Our approach in tracking down the terrorists of our garden, is selectively scientific. Of the 244 different varieties of molluscs in this part of the world, there are apparently many 'good' types, beneficial to foliage. We couldn't care to understand how they differ, if they differ. We know just enough as is necessary to categorise them as collectively evil. Understanding how they operate, where their hideouts are and where they get their food from. Studying their behaviour in order to conquer and destroy them all.
Slugs have been cursed with desperate ugliness and disgustingly slimy trails, triggering not a trace of sympathy or empathy. Making it even easier to kill them. It is, however, a lost cause. Their invincibility is laid down by nature. As if anticipating what was in store, nature has programed each one of these slimy trailers to lay 400 eggs in 2 cycles every year, producing thousands and thousands more slugs in turn! Our counter-measure massacre will have to forge on...

Not quite so sure anymore, a nagging conflict with my conscience ensues. Who here, is the enemy? Who's the terrorised and who's the terrorist?

The perfect Christmas night. (- by Aurelia D. M.)

Every cold white winter eve
Santa comes and says 'Good Steve!
'I've got a present for you!
And for your sisters of course too!'

Steve wakes up in the morning
rubbing his eyes and yawning.
'what a nice warm winter night,
and Santa gave me a brand new kite!'

Good old Santa lovely man
Every night he comes eating ham.

Home (Part III)

The years in Athens, living by the sea. Problems are the same all over the world, but with the sun on your back and the smell of the ocean they seem lighter. The money just wouldn't stretch in Greece, so they moved to Munich. Back in Munich the smiles didn't stretch as far as the money did. The problems are the same wherever you go. In the grey and cold of the central European winter, they seemed different.

The sun kept bobbing in and out as they travelled and lived in Turin, Rome, Berlin, Munich, Vienna and somewhere along the way, seven years on, their second son was born. To him they were both his - the son that Lilly brought into the marriage and the son they gave birth to. So clear was his responsibility and love towards them both, that his step-son never felt the need to look for or know his biological father. As a child and into adulthood, to this day that remains. How perfectly must that role be played if a child could never tell the difference! They were father and son. Of that, neither ever had any doubts.

While the younger one was just a toddler, there were patches when they had to live apart until job stability and the child's schooling could be brought back into sync. That's the drawback of moving often with a school going child. A drawback, and one of the biggest regrets. To have uprooted a school going child every two years, just when he'd settled into his new environment, made new friends and felt secure - to make him do it all over again. It wasn't right. In the end, it wasn't worth the stress on a child, to have a few hundred more on your pay check at the end of the month. He could have been more sensitive, more mindful of the effects of his decisions. Something that weighs down on him to this day. They were father and son, he should have done better. Enough years have gone by to let it go. He still hasn't forgiven himself.

Both the boys are absorbed in their lives. They rarely call to find out how he is. Lots of parents have that problem when the kids leave home. That's ok. That's how it is now. There is no bitterness, no anger. There is no self-pity in solitude.
Sadness. There is sadness. A sadness that is exceeded only by an acceptance and understanding. Not burdened on any other. A naturally cheerful disposition transforms insistent melancholy and grief into self-reflection.

For self-reflection there is ample time. Endless time. Homesickness was something he never knew. Since being called up for military service at the age of 18 he's been away from home, and never been homesick. Some say home is where the 'heat' is, to recharge the solar-cells. Still others say home is where you hang the hat.
Home was where Lilly was. Never mind, she was still in Rome while he had to move to Turin or he was in Munich while she had to stay back in Vienna. She was on this planet. She was home.

Ever since she's passed, the sun is setting in the twilight years. Homeless.

Home (Part II)

His shakes are more violent today than the last time. The Parkinsons' acting up he says, brushing it off. It's been a while since the last time we met. Every time I promise to come back soon, I never do. Life gets in the way.
My kids keep digging at my conscience, asking when was the last time I saw my old friend. As I've said before, we raise them. They teach us.

Trevor is a jolly kind, he always was. You can see that. Jolly and adventurous. To him getting called out to join the army at 18 was more of a break than a dread. Although an only child, from a loving home in Leicester, he couldn't help but cease the opportunity to explore new horizons. That was around the early 1950's and the chances that came by for such things were limited. He travelled to Germany, went on to Austria and was on his way ahead when he met Lilly.

Nights are often the best part of the day, he says to me. In his dreams she seems so real, he can almost smell her. When he wakes up, she's gone and he's alone again. Her last few years were ones of intense care. She was wheel chair bound, almost invalid. Years of anxiety medication and high blood pressure had got the better of her. Giving her care, had filled his days. She had been the homemaker through their 5 decades together. Caring for and loving him and the two boys. When it was she who was the baby, he had applied himself with dedication and tenderness. Having learnt well from her example.
On some unkinder nights he wakes up in a cold sweat with a pounding in his chest. In his dream he's wheeling her, chatting and laughing along the way, only to bend down and find no Lilly. The wheel chair empty.
Still, he likes the nights. For the times he's with her and life is complete again.

Complete, like he had felt in Vienna with her toddler on his shoulders and Lilly by his side. Only just into adulthood himself, there was a lot of cautioning about a woman eight years his senior, with a child of her own. It didn't deter him. He had wandered off far from where he belonged. With her he was home.

His face lights up as he tells me this, just like it does when I walk into the restaurant - his dining room for the past six year. The same time, every day of every month of every year, he's here. Right at this very table by the window, on his own. Just where I first met him. The way it's squared off with an old broken piano against one wall and his wheel chair by the other, you even play into his imagination of this being his home. Since Lilly has gone, he uses her wheel chair as a walker for himself. It doubles as a ready respite when asthma leaves him heaving for air on the short walk over. 'You know where to find me if you're looking for me', he jokes in his mails as he gently prods for a visit, saying his fingers are too old for typing - they just won't tap dance the way they used to! Trevor has clearly always been the people's person. He has a timeless charm about him, and a stunningly graphic memory that shames me. I have lists for everything. I have lists for the lists I have everything for. All my memories are replaced by tasks, jobs on the lists of lists. 'Visit Trevor' is the one I'll be checking off today. Between the mechanics of life, we lose sight of living it. What's your strongest memory I asked him. The answer took about twenty seconds in the coming. One pouring autumn evening in the early phase of their dating, Trevor was miserably late to meet Lilly. He played the Clarinet at a band. That night they were held back for a few extra pieces. When his Taxi finally pulled over by her building, she was waiting in the rain. As he got off, she ran out to hug him. 'You came' she had said in joyful disbelief, 'You came!'

We stay in that moment for a bit, smiling to ourselves. What's your strongest memory, he asks me. What moment in your life left a most striking impression?...I look at him and think. I'm still thinking.

Home (Part I)

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)

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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 :-).

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!!!"

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!

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.

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!

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.

“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!'