Little Buddha, Milestone no. 7

Dearest Little girl,

 

Seven years ago today you chose me to be raised as a parent by you. The moment you grabbed my index finger in your new born chubby fist for the first time, I knew you had grasped my heart and soul in your iron grip.

 

As you grew each day, I was your pathway to this strange and confusing new world and you were my window into myself. You had to learn language and I had to learn to read silence, to understand the subtlety of baby burps and the softness of baby yawns, I started looking at everyday routine like food and sleep also as wonders.

 

Life is a miracle because of you, if at all I will ever come closer to the peace and wisdom the world knows as Buddha , you are that Little Buddha. In your stories and anecdotes you make me a better human being, in your imagination you give wings to my dreams, in your curious queries I learn the humility of real intelligence.

 

I am thankful the way your enriched my father’s last few years in the physical world, the way you held me together in my grief of losing a parent, how on occasions you with such natural ease became that missing parent for me.

I am amazed at how this same world I inhabit for the last almost three and a half decades seems new from your perspective, how you make me feel meaningful and loved unconditionally.

 

Dear girl, I am eternally grateful for being your parent, co-learner, friend and student.

 

 

Be yourself. Always ask your questions, never shy away from your core, let your light shine whatever the odds. Never be scared from following your instincts, no matter how against the grain these are. Love yourself-body and soul. Keep the warmth,compassion and enthusiasm alive and keep sprinkling your stardust on your mamma.

Happy 7th Birthday angel !!

Mother - Daughter - Mother

  


She was born in the Himachal hills, the nearest school was about five kilometers from her house, where in addition to homework and play she also had to look after two younger sisters when their mother worked in the orchards. So mummy's childhood was an all too common childhood for rural girls in India six decades ago.


I had a very different childhood, in a city, going to a good school , with plenty of assistance at home and practically no choices barred because so many decades ago my mother had chosen to fight for her education with her parents, her right to work with her in-laws and the world in general for the rights of girls.

She wanted to become a teacher and became one and  my achievements make her as proud as the achievements of so many of her students who give her so much credit for being a special teacher.
The voice in me that speaks for girls and against every discrimination against them is HER VOICE . I tell her that she was my first ever feminism expert and she tells me she doesn't know what Feminism is but yes no human being must be put down because of her gender.

Today as she shares her childhood anecdotes with my daughter I know there is no one else who can teach her feminism better.

So every mother's day I celebrate a lot of women through my mother

My grandmothers and great grandmothers and all women before them
Aunts, teachers, senior colleagues who build other women up
Cousins, friends, colleagues who have each other's back
Nieces, young girls, students who make the fight for gender equality worthwhile
My daughter who is my hope for a better world for girls
Myself - daughter, mother , woman in no particular order, all mixed up !

This post is an entry for mother’s day contest by kreativemommy.

Footprints

 

Derek was brought up by his American foster parents with a lot of love and care. As soon as he was old enough to understand that he was from a different race and not their biological offspring both John & Dina had told him the entire story about their long stay in India and how they came about adopting him from an orphanage in Delhi.

They had two younger children too who loved Derek just like an elder brother should be loved. He had no complaints from life and never wanted to dig his history in India.

Dina & John were into organic farming and were not book people at all, the only reading material their house had was the Bible and the newspaper but Derek grew up as a sensitive boy who had his way with words.

He was now an award-winning writer, but even then had no interest in his own background story. John had passed away a few years ago and two months ago Dina too had breathed her last.

In her will she had left him a locker that he had opened a week ago. It had a few family heirlooms and a parcel from Sister Bridgette from the Orphanage in Delhi. The parcel had a journal in which were scribbled a few English poems in a rough hand.

All the pages were signed Sarla and were dated just a few months before his birth date. It had a small note from Dina & John about why they wanted him to get this only after they were gone and why they would want him to find this only connect with his biological mother.

Derek read the poems again and again, the strong language, the stark imagery, the stunning poetry…

He now knew where his writing skills came from, he was finally walking in his mother's footprints.

 

 

This post was written for Wordy Wednesday at B-A-R.

 

 

Feet of Clay - (in the memory of my late father)

F

 

Blogging from A to Z Challenge [April 2015]

 

 

Had long ago read a poem

about Ozymandias

"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies..."*

 

As I grew year by year

The halos of my parents

did gradually disappear

 

I now saw them whole

as humans with their flaws

their feet of clay**

and all the faux pas

 

Now as a parent

I have to come to terms

with life's full cycle

when my little one

turns around

 

and sees me

as a regular woman

who has her flaws and

is less divine more human

 

 

I forgive you Papa

as you had once said

- "because none of us is perfect

what matters

where we are

we give it our best."

 

* Lines from the poem OZYMANDIAS by Shelley

**Feet of clay is a reference to the interpretation of the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, by the prophet Daniel as recounted in the Book of Daniel.The analogy is now commonly used to refer to a weakness or character flaw, especially in people of prominence

 



The Last Bastions of Patriarchy

My father was a Hindu Brahmin by birth and an engineer by education and profession. So I presume this whole conflict between reason and ritual afflicted him all his life.

He was a liberal parent in so many ways, being an only child I was never brought up "like a boy" but as a strong and independent girl who didn't have to be like a boy to prove any point. But the same man who brought me this way had his patriarchal hang ups too. One of the major ones was regarding the Antim Samskar, the Hindu  ritual associated with funeral.

Traditionally the eldest son of a deceased has to perform the last rites and in the absence of a son the next male kin i.e brother, nephew have to step in, in some families with only girls and no male cousins even son-in-laws do the needful.

Till a few years ago both my parents were doubtful about me doing their last rites. So one day I actually asked them that to ensure that none of us comes between me and this natural right of mine ,lets have a legal agreement where they sign me and no one else this right to perform their last rites. That I think made it clear to them how resolute and prepared I was for this and that settled it forever between us.

It is also suggested sometimes that the inheritor or heir of the deceased has to perform these rites. Daughters traditionally were not allowed to inherit property especially once they were married off so it automatically ruled them out from conducting the last rites for their parents. A common reason being cited is that post-marriage the girl is a different Gotra hence not entitled to do the rites of her parents who now are a separate Gotra.

My logical answer to this conundrum is - What if I marry/divorce/marry multiple times? Wouldn't my Gotra and/or religion change as many times? But wouldn't I still remain my parents' daughter as much as any son remains his parents' offspring?

As a lot of our popular culture will testify, this masculine obligation is the oldest reason to want a son in the traditional Hindu family. It is believed that women are faint hearted and only do the weeping and crying, rituals and management generally falls to the men.

I see it as the most copious form of discrimination by keeping key religious duties exclusively a masculine domain.

If I could do everything else a son can then why not this?

Another subtle form of discrimination that I faced was how people perceive a girl should grieve. She should wail and cry, be weak, disoriented, shouldn't smile or laugh, look for support from men in the family.

I did not cry in public, no not even a single tear. I was smiling and laughing ,whatever came naturally, not because I didn't respect my father but precisely because I was being myself. My grief has no obligation to live up to any expectations.
I am not a weak woman, any one who feels uncomfortable or threatened by that, its their problem not mine.

My father passed away on 6th of March and on the 7th I was the "karta" in his cremation and all other Hindu rituals that followed. This act and public post is not to earn a few pats on the back as a lot of detractors have already suggested, this is not to prove that I am different or stronger.
Because actions speak louder than words ,it is a message for my mom who being a married daughter was not allowed to touch her parents' dead bodies or accompany them to the crematorium, for my six years old daughter whom I tell innumerable times that she is an equal to any other human being in every possible way, no less.
It is a message to families with a single girl child or only girls, please don't deny your girls this right.
It is a message to families with both girls and boys, if you are really dedicated to gender equality show it when it matters.


I don't know much about afterlife and so don't see how a girl or a boy doing the last rites affects that but I do see a lot of power going to our girls if this last bastion of patriarchal power is defeated.

GIRLS CAN.

CHILDREN'S DAY SNAPSHOTS

31st December
my frozen hands
want to loose
their painful fingertips
long after the party is over
the dishes are done
I make a new year wish.

20th January
The shiny new flyover
is not a road
its curved underbelly
is home
cold, unsafe, no walls
the NGO people
tell us fairy tale


14th February
I sold 100 roses today
the money and mother
are gone
Are all policemen bad?


23rd March
I serve tea
to intelligent people
in the university
while they talk about revolution
someone called Bhagat Singh

17th April
My mom died
father is in prison for it
I am now a parent
to three of us.


27th May
The little girl
in the big house
where mom works
has something called vacation
I am sure it must be pretty

20th June
She says touch is love
Love cannot feel so bad
the chocolate she leaves behind
always tastes bitter
even when
I be a good boy

16th July
I polish the pretty school shoes
I iron the beautiful pinafore
I pack the tiffin
I walk the dog
I sometimes feel hungry.

15th August
I sold flags
at a traffic light
the tar burns
into my soles
what is In-de-pen-den-ce
who knows?

25th September
I can never forget
I can never tell
what he does to me
but I want to go to school....

19th October
The Diwali sweets
my fingers
my skin
tastes like gunpowder
my eyes can't bear the light
I make crackers.

14th November
CHILDREN'S DAY


 

Evidence

This story was first published here @ One Frame Stories.

Finally after a decade long legal battle Ria had won the rights to her mom’s property and lockers in Shimla. Since morning she had been looking for an old fashioned cassette player, because one of the lockers had only an audio cassette. Ria found one with a friend’s grandfather and borrowed it for a day. Alone in her room she played the cassette. The recording was long over .The night was long, difficult and full of bad memories. The next morning she called her lawyer. At last she had evidence to nail her dad for killing her mom.

Tooth Saga

I'll make you believe in tooth fairies
in stories of happiness
of replacements
and the flow of life

but how will I ever
tell you
your learning
is my lesson too
because I don't remember
the ones from
my own childhood

you can sow the tooth
and I'll sow memories

hoping for
permanent replacements !

967

Finally after 20 years she had bought that house back in Banaras. The agent had called to confirm her flight details for the next day and now she was having cold feet. She was back in Delhi after a decade and tomorrow she would be where it all started five decades ago- her story, her life.

Baba had passed away ten years ago here in AIIMS and mom two years prior to him. She never came back after that. Anil and his wife had thrown ma-baba out from that house and the long drawn legal battle cost her parents their life.

Anil's extravagant habits and drinking had resulted in the house changing several hands in the last ten years, while she toiled tutoring Hindi to Japanese children in Tokyo, to save enough money to reclaim what was hers as much as it was his.

It was raining when she reached there, but there were no hot chai and pakoras waiting for her, no warm words, no smiles. She walked to the backyard, there it was the huge neem tree. Every time mom preferred Anil over her, every time baba told her ' arrey beta tu toh byah kar chali jayegi" (you will get married and go away", she would come here and nibble on a bitter neem leaf.

She plucked a leaf and pushed the bitterness deep inside. She did not even realise when she had dig her manicured nails into the soft earth, it hurt ,but she kept digging as if a demon from the past had overpowered her till she hit the metallic lid. She took the pot out, spread the pebbles out and diligently counted 967 times she was put down as a girl in this house.

Only 20 years to undo hundreds of insults, not bad she told herself. Next week was the opening of her Indo-Japan cultural museum in this house.
 

A WOMAN AS WONDERFUL AS HER WORK

A government official's speech on his book launch begins with his recollection of his humble childhood who aspired to be someone big. He narrates a few incidents about his hard work  to change the fortunes of his unlettered parents, and then he calls her to the stage- the lady he has dedicated his book to-his school teacher. Her salt pepper hair, through which her small studs peek ,her simple yet elegant cotton salwar-kameez and her smile that reaches her eyes are all memorable.

She never had access to a fancy education and could barely finish her Junior basic teacher's training course before she was married off at 20 without even her formal consent.

Born at the wake of independence in a small hilly village this girl struggled to go to school like her two elder brothers and while they went to the local missionary school and she had to be content with the village government school, 2 kms away.

She started working as a teacher only after her marriage but financial independence did not take away any of the social stigma attached with not having a child soon after marriage.

The child happened 14 years later but throughout she loved her students and her work devotedly, it was her solace, her strength and she was the light of hope for many of her students. She worked as if IT REALLY MADE A DIFFERENCE to the young girls she taught and their families. The kids in school, according to her needed her more, because they came from families with almost no resources and no inclination to send their girls to school. 

There were ugly scenes with families and a couple of times with the police as well to prevent child marriages and allow girls to study further if they so willed. 

Her husband had a good job for a comfortable life even without her salary but she wanted to work- for herself, and more importantly for her belief that a teacher could ignite minds and souls like no one else ever could.

Now she works with several NGOs. Her age does not prevent her from still giving it her all. Her husband and daughter now understand, love and respect her even more for bringing beauty to her work.

Often we keep looking out for inspiration, from biographies of great people, from a biopic about a legend and in the process fail to look at the stellar lives lived by people closer home. These commoners do not have awards on their mantelpiece or public acclaim but their stories are stories of grit, passion and love for their work. It is difficult to look at your own from a distance and narrate their story objectively, but today I have tried.

I am proud that this amazing lady in this story is my mom. It’s a tough call, a huge dilemma, which is more beautiful, my mom or her work.

This post is part of a contest at Women's Web and Mia Tanishq.

ROOTS AND BRANCHES

"India lives in several centuries at the same time."  - Arundhati Roy

This could well be true for all of us as people in this mish-mash of social melange`.
Whenever I think about the ancient Indian philosophical concept of Shakti, And whenever I celebrate the power and essence of womanhood I think of two women:

MY MOM & MY DAUGHTER

Both of them have made a huge difference to my worldview and have chiseled the woman ,the person that I am today and will grow to become as long as I live.

MUMMY- I was an only child and in 70s and 80s when I was growing up I did understand how much and how many times my mother confronted people,mostly friends and acquaintances who would pity her and my dad for not having a son or give unwanted suggestions to my mother to train me well in lady-like etiquette and household tasks.

As you would have guessed by now I was never forced by her into the kitchen or asked to dress in a certain way.I was very active in theater during college and rehearsals would often get late,but she once told me she had no reason to keep checking the clock because she trusted me completely.

Despite my father's and the extended family's apprehensions she stood by me like a rock to support my decision to move out of my small town for higher education and later when I chose my own life-partner.

She walked several kilometers as a young girl to get to a secondary school and hence instilled in me huge respect and value for education.She chose to work as a teacher to take the light to more girls like herself and even today is vociferous about girls being the hope for a better and sensitive society.

PRINCESS- The moment I conceived her I knew I had become a better person in some way,I cared more for environment,for other kids,for health,for music.

When she was first placed in my lap I knew I was now stronger than ever before,in this male-dominated setup I had a little girl to raise to be a good human being and overcome the gender stereotypes that she might encounter at all stages.

When she started learning I realized my education was not yet complete,her queries made me search for newer answers for better answers.She made me realize the special intangible gifts my mom had given me- my confidence,my self-respect and my dreams.

Today and forever I hope I live up to being the link between these two inspiring ladies ,one who has lived a long graceful journey and the other who is just beginning hers.

LOVE YOU MUMMY ! LOVE YOU PRIYAMVADA !

This entry is contesting at CELEBRATING GIRLS,CELEBRATING WOMEN

Blogoversary week Special - FIVE

The snapped limbs

of a rag doll,

or a lost toy

the missing piece

of a picture puzzle

or the mislaid

hair clip

from a shiny pair

Her sanguine eyes

look at me

as if I am the

goddess of her small things

However behind

my reassuring smile

I measure my 

fearful fragility

and wait for the inevitable

as she will grow up

to see my

shivering

human inability !

मदर्स डे

साल दो साल में

एक -आध बार होता

किताबों के सारे बक्से  खुलते

चुनिन्दा साडीयाँ, चुनियाँ निकलती

एक-एक चीज़ को माँ  घंटो 

छूती रहती ,और पीछे बजता

एक पुराना गाना- मेरा दर्द तुम न समझ सके....

मैं झांकती दरवाज़े से तो

वो मुस्करा देती,पर नहीं छिपती

आँखों के कोनों की नमी

आज बरसों बाद

नहीं बिखरी मेरी किताबें

नहीं निकाले मैंने कोई चुनिन्दा कपड़े

छू के देखा ,आँखें भी नम नहीं मेरी

फिर भी मानो

मन ज़रा गीला सा लग रहा है

और जैसे कानों में वही गाना बज रहा है

मेरा दर्द तुम न समझ सके

आज शायद मदर्स डे है !

आज माँ की बात करती हूँ

चलो आज माँ की बात करती हूँ

ऊनी मोजों की नर्म बुनाई 

आज आत्मा पर पहन लेती हूँ

गर्म पकवानों की मीठी खुशबू

आज दिल में फिर भर  लेती हूँ

आज माँ की बात करती हूँ 

पापड़,अचार, चटनी और दफ्तर 

पति,बच्चा ,ससुराल और घर

इसी भागम-भाग में बीती

माँ की हर दोपहर की बात करती हूँ

मैं सीखूं वो भी जो

उसे सिखाया  न  गया 

मैं वहां तक उड़ पाऊँ

जहाँ उसके सपने से भी

जाया न गया

आज मैं माँ की 

उस उड़ान की बात करती हूँ 

मुझमे जो घोल दी 

कतरा-कतरा माँ ने

बूँद-बूँद अपनी उस  पहचान 

की बात करती हूँ

वो जो दुःख न मैंने कभी बांटे

वो जो शिकवे न उसने कभी किये

माँ-बेटी की ऐसी हजारों बातें 

अब मैं कुछ-कुछ समझती   हूँ

अब मैं माँ की बात करती हूँ

गुस्से में जो था उसने उगला

रूठने का मेरा झूठा बदला

आज उस विष-अमृत को

साथ - साथ  चखती हूँ 

मैं जो उम्मीदें  पूरी कर न  सकी 

मेरा भी कुछ खालीपन जो 

वो भर न सकी

आज वो  तोल-मोल करती हूँ 

मेरी बेटी और मुझमे

फिर से जीवंत हुए 

उसी रिश्ते को

आज नयी आँखों 

से चलो तकती हूँ

आज फिर माँ की बात करती हूँ 

ऊन नहीं है बस  माँ

मैं तो शब्दों के कम्बल बुनती हूँ

तुम्हारे जैसे लज़ीज़ तो नहीं

पर कुछ-कुछ व्यंजन रचती हूँ

मेरे तुम्हारे सपनों से भी आगे

उसके लिए आशा करती हूँ 

वो जो मैंने कहा नहीं तुमसे कभी

एक बार शायद एक ख़त में लिखा 

मेरी बेटी वही आई लव यू माँ 

हजारों बार दोहराती है

तुमसे कहा नहीं कभी यह भी

की जब-जब वो मुस्काती है

अपनी नन्ही को देखकर

माँ मैं तुमको याद करती हूँ

आज मैं माँ की बात करती हूँ  !

HER DAD'S MOM

I run my fingers delicately

through his sparse snowy hair

murmuring a blessing.

He sits there

eyes closed

wondering what,

I wonder.

As I rub

luke warm oil

into his pale

old ,wrinkled skin,

the daughter in me 

fades into an oblivion,

the woman liquifies,

a little girl

becomes her dad's mom.

I am proud...yet again !

In her tiny steps                                         
I had never imagined
the grace of a victorious queen

but thats how she walked into
that room full of strangers
with a smile unusual for
a clumsy toddler

her composed demeanour
floored my anxiety
almost instantly

it was time to learn
another lesson
in self-reliance,faith and trust

An unconventional
first day at school
sans any flare up or hitch

Priyamavada you didn't give me
a customary tale to tell
but who's complaining
you just gave me another day
when I am so proud of you !

no word...

When I had first met her I had thought how can someone so short- statured have such a huge personality.Her broad smile,her impeccable control on language and her colourful shiffon sarees ,all added to the charm.Whether you listened to it on AIR ,where she worked,or just casually chatting with a neighbour,her voice was the kind you don't forget easily. Yesterday I met her again after almost a decade.She is someone else .The glow and the charm are gone,so is the memorable voice.She lost her only son a few weeks ago and since then a smile, a hug or a kind word evoke no response.As she sat there at the doctor's clinic with her husband,staring into nothingness,I hugged her tight,hid a tear and turned away.I realised why there is no word in any language for a parent who loses a child.

कल मदर'स डे था माँ

कोशिश इस बार भी की थी

की सबके जैसे                                             

मैं भी बोलूँ कुछ ख़ास तुम्हे                                                  

कोई कविता या फिर कोई गिफ्ट भेजू

पर नहीं हुआ इस बार भी

हमने रोज़ की तरह

बस की अपनी -अपनी ज़िन्दगी की बातें सांझी

आपसे सीखे ज़िन्दगी के कुछ और नुस्खे

और आपने मुझसे

इन्टरनेट की और बारीकी

मेरी हँसी मैं

जानती हूँ आपने सुन लिया जो मुझे था कहना

और आपके दुआ भरे हाथ छू

गए मुझे इतनी दूर से भी

हाँ माँ

लोग कहते हैं

कल मदर'स डे था  

MOTHERS

A Spanish proverb says -An ounce of a mother is worth a ton of a priest.

Ever since I have ben a mom ,I often wonder, about moms of people who made an impact ,be it the great reformers,scientists and artists or the dictators,terrorists and the like.

I often wonder what kind of childhood influence did Hitler's mother have on him to make him so full of hatred and anger.So I researched and found that Klara Hitler was a young victim of cancer and many historians opine that had she lived more Adolf Hitler would have been an artist and not a traitor.His years of misery in Vienna after her death was the time when he formulated many of his ideas on politics and race which had immense consequences in the future.

I strongly believe that any kind of change in individuals or societies has to begin with mothers,simply because they are the vocabulary and the dictionary of a child's thought process.I am my child's encyclopedia ,her window to the world,her reference point to relationships.I am important because I am indeed the key to her future and the difference she might make to the world.If this is so then it is the most empowering role one can ever have.

We really have had enough of sham glorification of motherhood in literature and history,what is needed now is aware motherhood,educated daughters who become empowered wives and moms.

History,literature and  even our own bollywood is full of exaggerations of the greatness of motherhood,what however is really needed is acceptance of motherhood as a job worthy of respect and praise.The requirement is of a society more sensitive towards its women ,a nation that pays some real credit to moms who groom its future.  All moms though don't need to carry the load of making the next Einstein or Picasso,yet all mothers must carry the huge load of responsibility of nurturing responsible and sensitive humans.

REVELATIONS 2010

,dadHAPPY 2011 !

I would want to believe that most of us would come to the internet  today for just a short while to wish our dear ones who are away,so coming straight to the point.

• It is a sublime sense of pride to see my best friend and better half doing so well professionally and yet finding time to be a hands-on dad.
• It is strange that me who has hated cooking all my life has started relishing the joys of a perfect fluffy omelette and the sadness of a crumpled cake.
• It is new that the city beautiful which was big bad world for a small town girl once now just appears to be too small for my intellectual,social and spiritual aspirations.
• It is an uncomparable joy to see my toddler eat my broken omelettes and altered recipes as if I am the greatest chef that ever walked the face of the earth.
• It is the most awesome sense of being grown-up when my dad puts his hand on my shoulder and I know he trusts me with a lot of family responsibilities.
• It makes me swell with pride when my awesome-cook mom praises my soup and gives it 9.5/10.
• It is humbling and baffling as some people whom I knew as friends are strangers and some strangers who remember a good deed done long ago want to reconnect.
• It is a raging debate in my mind how much of me is facebooked and how much blogaddicted.

           So 2011 here I come with all this and more,hope you take favourably to me,my friends and family.