Soul Repair

In the summer of 1985, my father had to take an unexpected journey; one that only he could take, despite it being a very difficult one. He packed a few of his things and left, hiding his grief behind a pair of dark glasses. He barely looked back at us, as he drove away. There was no promise of calls or letters. The family merely prayed that he would accomplish what he had set out to do.

The journey had been a painful one, though not a lonely one. Far away from family, he forged relationships with others who shared his grief. They set out together, sharing stories,praying and hoping, that they would find survivors. In his private moments, my father reminisced about his beloved sister, who had been on that flight with her family. The quintessential drama queen, she'd written home in true filmi style, saying she wanted to see her entire family at the airport, when she landed. With much of the family already in Kerala, we had traveled from Assam. We got there days before her arrival, to a household bubbling with excitement. My grandmother was packing to return with her daughter, and she was promising us all gifts. Meanwhile, my other aunts were in the kitchen, churning out all of my aunt's favorites. Amidst the cutting and chopping, they spoke fondly about my aunt. The light banter continued, while my grandmother joined in, to check on the laddoos and acchapams. She then settled the bills with all the vendors, reminding them that she needed the best produce when her daughter arrived.

One morning, all this excitement came crashing down.The radio had been turned on, and we heard references to the “Kanishka” crash. It brought about loud gasps followed by loud heartwrenching sobs. The mood of celebration was taken over by one of intense sorrow. My grandmother took to her bed weeping, while the men watched the news, looking for any information about survivors. Finally, my father took on the task of getting answers.

Despite all the journeys he'd previously undertaken, this was the most difficult one yet. Wearing a brave face, he set out with the hope that perhaps his sister and family had survived the crash. On reaching London, he met other people, who were just as hopeful. Prayers were being quietly muttered, as they waited for information. They were first led to a room, where they were shown pictures of the bodies that were found. With a lump in his heart, my father moved from picture to picture. With every fearful step that he took, he prayed. He barely heard the loud sobs from someone who'd just discovered a loved one. There was one man who'd discovered his wife's hand because of the ring she'd been wearing. Another man who'd seen off his wife and kids, was now looking at the stuffed teddy his daughter had been carrying. Blocking out these tragic scenes, my father inched forward slowly. The journey to this country had been a long tedious one, but this walk across the room filled with pictures felt much worse. This walk ended with him discovering only his brother-in-law. What followed was a blur. He was shown into a room, where he had to identify the body that seemed intact and lifelike. On enquiring about the rest of the family, he was told that if they hadnt yet been found, there was little hope. He listened, his face barely betraying his grief he felt.

The formalities were completed, and days later, my father returned. The funeral was chaotic, with the press crowding in for pictures and reactions. My grandmother spent much of that time in bed, never finding closure till the time of her own death.

For the rest of us, life continued. Noone mentioned the Kanishka crash anymore, even though my aunt and her family were sorely missed. Then two decades later, my father undertook another trip to London. This time though, he arrived to the news of my pregnancy. Seeing him thrilled, I then realized that only this announcement, would erase all memory of that painful walk across a room of mangled bodies.   

God's Own Country

Yesterday I dreamt about Kerala; possibly because we are traveling to Cochin next week. I dreamt about the family, the aromas, the loud, happy conversations and the food. As a child though, I always looked upon our yearly holidays to Kerala with trepedition. We were always welcomed by a sea of happy faces. They laughed, spoke loudly, kissed, pinched my cheeks, forced food onto our plates, and enquired if I knew who they were. Over time I began to dread this question of whether I knew who they were. While I had the answers, I dreaded the sudden quiet that filled the room, while they waited for my response. “Yes”, I would mutter shyly and rattle out all their names in quick succession. They would all then smile and go about their chatter. Shy and inhibited, I would then retreat back into my shell.

Decades later, I'm nostalgic, as I remember those holidays with a sort of yearning. I think about my Dad and his brothers, who sat around my grandmother, sipping cups of black coffee and talking. While we kids were always engaged in some game or the other, we looked forward to the promise of hearing my grandmother's stories. And when she was free, she obliged. Looking happily at the big group of grandchildren huddled around her, as she would then narrate tales we'd heard several times earlier. As kids we would play, fight, buy little treats from a neighboring store, and listen in on all the conversations that the elders engaged in. I didn't always understand the jokes in malayalam, but I enjoyed the loud, uninhibited laughter that followed.

While we were having fun, the women would be busy chatting and cutting vegetables. The table was always filled with food that the aunts made with precision. The beans and cabbage were perfectly cut, and the curry always had the right amount of spices. My grandmother was a stickler for perfection and her daughters-in-law made sure she never had anything to complain about. So if the main meals were being cooked in the kitchen, trays filled with glasses of coffee and snacks were being passed around. They always thought I was a bit strange though, as I didn't take the jackfruit halwa or the little laddoos made with avalose podi. I prefered to take refuge in the loaves of bread that were bought specially for us. “Why would you eat dried bread, when you could get some halwa”, said an amused aunt. We sadly didn't appreciate any of the food; not even the tapioca with fish curry , the fried beef, and the turmeric infused butter milk poured generously over a heap of boiled red rice. We didn't enjoy the appam with stew or fill up our tummies with bananas either. Incidentally, I developed a taste for all of that (except the halwa that I still cannot stomach) as I grew up. If she'd been alive, my grandmother would have been proud of the appams I churn out in my kitchen today.

I remember Kerala being all about visits. We visited aunts and uncles and their families, before it was time to head back. And of all the homes we visited, the household I remember most is my uncle's. Tucked away in lush, green Alwaye, my uncle and family lived in a modest little home, that exuded the most warmth and joy. We were always greeted to the sound of my excitable cousin who bounced around excitedly, generously giving us all hugs and kisses. I was always shy at the beginning. So I would hide behind my mom, while everyone urged me to come forward. “Let's see how much you've grown”, my aunt would encourage me gently. My other cousin would then attempt to befriend me by making funny faces, while the grownups went in to catch up on all the news. My mom helped my aunt who moved swiftly in her kitchen, churning out some of the biggest spreads. Meanwhile my uncle and Dad would catch up on family news and Kerala politics. My uncle and aunt kept open house, where they welcomed everyone with open arms. The house was always swarming with activity. Relatives poured in from everywhere. While the men talked loudly amidst card games, the women gathered in the kitchen to help and chat. Meanwhile the kids played all kinds of games. There was never a quiet moment, and when it was time to sleep, there was always enough place for everyone, just as there was always enough food for everyone.

My uncle, my dad's oldest brother, was a man of extremes. If he never shied away from expressing his irritation, he also never stopped himself from tearing up every time someone or something moved him. Dressed in resplendent white, with neatly combed hair that was never out of place, he was a picture of dignity. He laughed as easily as he wept, and was forever willing to help. My aunt, his partner of many years, was the kind and gentle presence that completed him. She lived by her deep faith in God, and took care of the family with undying patience and love. As a child though I only remembered seeing her in the kitchen. She cooked and cooked, ensuring the table was never empty. She'd look away at regular intervals to ask us about our lives in Assam, and whether we wanted something to munch on. One of the best hosts I've known, they both lived a way of life that is so impossible in today's hectic world. Warm and welcoming, to them it didn't matter if you weren't immediate family. You could be a distant relative, a friend of the family or a friend of a distant relative, and still be privy to their hospitality.

Last year, we lost them both. My uncle passed away after a brief illness, and my aunt followed quietly, months later. Though I missed my aunt's funeral, I was there for my uncle's, and what a grand funeral it was. We got a glimpse into the man that he was, when we witnessed the outpouring of grief. Friends and family gathered from allover, to say goodbye to the man who had helped so many. I heard tales of his generosity and his big heart, alongside tales of his childlike temper. While people grieved, his widow sat by his body, looking frail and jaundiced. She consoled all those around her, assuring them that he was in a better place. She missed him terribly, but her faith assured her that they would be reunited eventually. Months later, she followed, leaving behind a huge void.

Going back to the house will now feel strange. It is a house that still reverberates with the sound of laughter and relentless chatter. However, it is a house that definitely misses two important figures. Nonetheless, I'm excited about spending time there. The deaths in the last year have only reminded me that life is too short. So while Kerala promises to be hot, humid and hectic, finally relationships matter most!

All about Bob

Aarit and I just returned from the play area, where he made numerous trips down the slippery slide. At the distance, Adiv was giving animated descriptions of a snake that was seen in the tennis court, to an audience of 5-year-olds. Aarit would have liked to follow them around, but his brother seemed largely oblivious to his 2-year-old brother. Adiv was more interested in either cycling around, or playing cops and robbers.

Not too long ago, around 1.5 years ago, the layout was quite different from what it is now. We were the third family to have moved in, and around us construction was still on. A steady stream of laborers walked in and out every day, and I was sure never to let Adiv wander around on his own.  A very sociable 4-year-old, Adiv found the place boring. He had no friends, and his brother was only 5-months old. There was no play area, and the roads weren't ready either.  There was no sound of the big boys enjoying a game of football, or the little ones cycling around pretending to be policemen. Mothers didn't gather around the play area and discuss events within the layout, and you didn't see old couples walking around enjoying the evening breeze. It was during this time that Adiv made a very special friend; Bob.

Bob arrived each morning with his parents, who were laborers working in a nearby villa. He usually wandered around on his own, or chatted up with the security, but one day, he spotted Adiv playing with his cars. He stood at a distance, flashing Adiv a big smile. Adiv responded with, “Do you want to play?” Bob spoke only Tamil, and Adiv spoke only English. Nonetheless, they communicated, and played the most amazing games. Sometimes they were chefs in a restaurant, cooking seriously with Adiv’s cooking set. At other times, they merely raced Adiv’s cars. They’d take a break inbetween and share sweets, and if I gave them something bigger (like some cookies), Adiv would leave to share them with his family. He’d return immediately and call Adiv authoritatively. “Wa da”, he’d say, and then they’d start their next game.

Bob and Adiv began looking forward to these sessions every day. Each morning (school hadn't begun as yet), Bob would arrive, looking fresh in clean clothes, his wet hair combed neatly. Occasionally he brought some of his toys as well and showed them to Adiv.  We never really knew what his actual name was. We asked him what his name was and he had responded with, “Bob”. So he continued to be Bob, though my maid insisted he was “Babu”! We didn't’ even know how old he was. Though he was much smaller than Adiv, he seemed to be a spunky kid who knew he way around the layout. He jumped over piles of sand, and ran between villas that were in the throes of being constructed.  Unfortunately for Adiv, he wasn't allowed these fun games. So they played their games on our porch.

After a while, when school began, Bob began coming after Adiv returned at 12.30. Adiv was learning many new things, so he’d try and teach Bob with the help of a little slate.  “This is A”, Adiv said loudly and clearly. “Repeat”! Bob would grin and said, “A”, before  drawing little squiggles beside Adiv’s A. He preferred their games. Eventually Adiv would also give in!

Their friendship lasted for as long as Bob’s parents worked in the layout. Then one day, as suddenly as he had appeared, he vanished. Adiv called out for him loudly. “Bob!!!!!!!!! Where are you”?

“They've gone”, said the maid sympathetically.

*

Anyway, by then families had started moving in. Adiv began making friends with other kids in the layout. Bob was soon forgotten. Nonetheless, we still talk about his from time to time.  I only wish I’d taken pictures of this first friend that Adiv made in our layout.

A Spot of Love

When our house was being built, we didn't foresee losing one of our bedrooms to an excitable, gentle, affectionate being! While I painted images of early morning coffee, and late night beers on the balcony filled with plants, I didn't think I'd instead be faced with pots that have been dug out, or balls of fur, and the gentle, rhythmic thumping of a happy dog's tail. I was sure I didn't want a pet for a while. With Adiv adjusting to a new environment, and Aarit enjoying the taste of used footwear, I didn't think I needed a third child. Nonetheless, life had other plans for us.

A little after we'd  moved in, we found a lean sack of bones, wandering the lanes of our layout. He moved with a cautious limp, and bore signs of extreme starvation. His gentle face was covered with ticks, and he could barely bark. Perhaps out of pity, we began leaving him little bowls of milk and food, that he lapped up greedily. He ate everything we gave him, much unlike the kids. Sometimes we gave him bread, biscuits (that Rohit had begun buying exclusively for our new friend), idlis, and leftover chappatis. After his meal, this tired dalmatian would walk across the street, pee, poop and come back to settle in front our home. This went on for a while. We fed him, and he grew stronger and friendlier. He even took on the role of watch dog; barking at anyone who even dared look at our home. He was gentle with the kids, and happiest around Rohit who would pet him and gave him generous helpings of food. Before long, we discovered that he was no ordinary street dog, as he was responding to commands. He'd sit when told, and he'd even shake a paw. When Rohit opened the door to his car, he'd even climb in and settle down beside him. This only meant that this dog had either been lost or abandoned. However, going by his condition, we gathered he'd been out on the road for a long long time. 

A few days later, Spot was allowed entry into our home. 

Before he came in wearing a brand new collar, Rohit took him to the vet to get him cleaned up and vaccinated. Rohit then took him to the balcony, patted his head, and fed him, thus cementing their relationship. From then on, Rohit had  Spot's unwavering loyalty. While Rohit  had taken him in, we often joked about how Spot had chosen him instead. They took walks together, and Spot wouldn't eat unless Rohit spoke to him and cajoled him into eating. They often stood together in silence; Spot enjoying the proximity to his new owner, and Rohit enjoying his cigarette and a book. Rohit was the strict disciplinarian, who didn't tolerate any mischief. This meant, Spot couldn't steal slices of cake off the table top, or dig his nose into the bin, (or knock down Aarit who was now walking around the house, squealing happily every time he saw Spot). And at night, Spot wouldn't settle down on his cushion, in his bedroom, till Rohit had said good night to him. 

*

Spot has been with us for over a year now. He doesn't limp anymore, and since he first moved in, he has been neutered, vaccinated, and taken trips to the kennel (something he dislikes) during our holidays. He is bigger and stronger, though he still remains playful and excitable when allowed in. He is as vocal and open about his happiness, as he is about his sorrow. With Rohit away for most of this month, we now have to deal with his whining. Even the food, the walks, and the petting (courtesy: Ammamma) don't seem to help! For one day, he gave up food and water, till Ammamma managed to entice him with a bowl of warm rice cooked with a generous helping of meat.

Spot currently shuttles between his room and the balcony. With the kids, I'm still a little uncomfortable with this giant ball of excitement pounding down the stairs, knocking down things (and Aarit), eating what he shouldn't, and settling down on the bed ( something he doesn't dare do when Rohit is around). While Rohit would ideally like to give him to a home where he'd have lots of space to run around, and lots of hands to pet him, I think Spot is here to stay. And as I said before, he picked Rohit, and I don't think he is going anywhere so soon.

Little Fears

A few days ago, Adiv returned from school looking rather pale and withdrawn. I knew something was wrong, as soon as he stepped off the bus. "Did you get into a fight?" I asked him gently. "No", he growled irritably. "Poopy in school?"  I continued to probe (albeit gently), and he finally told me what was worrying him. On the drive back, he'd seen a group of army guys cross the street. He was worried that the army was gearing up for a war. "Is Pakistan going to attack us now", he asked, looking so worried, I had to hug him. After I explained that no such thing was happening, he seemed relieved. "But what are they doing here", he asked again. "Must be training", I said and he seemed okay with that.

I thought his fears (though unwarranted) were endearing. Nonetheless, I knew his fears were very real to him. So I explained he had nothing to worry, just as I have on several nights checked under beds for monsters, or looked under blankets for dangerous spiders. This is something that comes with the job profile of being a mom. You hunt monsters, drive them away with prayers, and listen patiently to every nightmare (or simply look at his face till he is fast asleep, just because it makes him feel safe). Most importantly, you simply listen to everything your child has to say, just so you hear their fears.

According to Spock, Adiv is at that age when kids have a lot of fears. So if he isn't worrying about the strands of grey (that have begun showing with alarming frequency) on my head, he worries about when I will go to heaven (i'm glad he doesn't think I have a ticket to hell). Like a lot of kids his age, he doesn't completely understand death, but we had to have that talk, when Rohit's dad passed away a few years ago. Adiv was younger then, but since then, he has frequently questioned me about Big Dada. Telling him that he was in heaven, seemed to satisfy him initially. Infact, for the longest time he imagined heaven to be this beautiful place that housed God, Big Dada, and Micheal Jackson. Then came questions about where heaven was, why they didn't have telephones, why we couldn't travel to (and back) heaven for a visit. But now, at 5 (2 months away from turning 6), he understands death to be final, and it frightens him. But then, as an after thought he is glad we're all far far away from turning 100, because that's when he thinks people will die.

This stage is just a phase according to Spock, but I don't know if you ever really stop worrying or fearing the unknown. Only, as a parent, I now fear cycle accidents, falls from the slippery slide, accidents during a game of football, and illnesses. I worry when he is late, or when he is out and it has begun raining. I worry about whether he has enough friends and if he is happy. I worry about whether he will be bullied by the older kids, or beaten even. Then I also worry about whether he is growing up to be a decent human being, who in addition to being funny and entertaining, is also kind and good.

And just as I assure him when he is scared, he assures me of his safety.
"Don't worry, I'm very careful."
"Don't worry, when I see a car zooming by (!!!!!!), I pedal like a super hero and reach a safe zone."
"Don't worry, if anyone is bad to me, I will punch them because I am so strong" (!!!!!)
..............................
I bet this is something that no book on parenting talks about!:)

Brothers

I was recently asked how I dealt with being mommy to two boys who were completely different from each other. I paused, and responded with the age old cliche, "aren't all kids unique and different?" The answer seemed to satisfy her, but I began to think about whether my kids were really that different.

To the outsider, Adiv has always been the extrovert who befriends different groups of kids, and has long conversations with their mothers. He is loud, emotional, dramatic, and very demonstrative. Meanwhile, Aarit appears shy. After several meetings, he will welcome you with the hint of a smile, and maybe put out his hand (if you are lucky). He is quieter, stingy with his hugs and kisses (I get many, thanks to my mimi status), and maybe not as emotional (it's still too early to tell). When Adiv is home, there is always some drama. You'll hear toys crashing out of his toy cupboard, cars falls down the stairs, or the thumping sound of him dancing on the coffee table (to "lungi dance" or some other latest hit). Aarit however is the reader, who will spend hours pouring over books with animal pictures. Though he enjoys small puzzles, he will throw it all aside for a song (also lungi dance), jump onto the small coffee table and dance. As I write this, he is grooving to "let's party all night", the latest Akshay Kumar song. (yeah, they've both inherited their taste in music from their mother. ) When their song isn't playing, they cycle around the furniture, or bounce balls (the soft ones) off eachother's heads and laugh!

In their quieter moments, Adiv engages in pretend games with his cars, while Aarit settles down to talk to the neighborhood cat. Just as he urges our dog Spot to eat, he urges Tabby (the cat) to drink up. He is clearly the animal lover in the family, unlike Adiv who prefers them in zoos.

Even when it comes to food, they are quite different, despite their shared preference for meat. While Adiv is mostly oblivious to what is on his plate, Aarit enjoys what he eats (though small portions). So when we are in a restaurant, he will sit around and taste new things, while Adiv is wandering around befriending other kids who're just as disinterested in their food. 

Despite all their differences, what they have in common, is their love for eachother. Aarit weeps piteously every morning when Adiv jumps into his school bus, only to wait patiently by the door step for him to return. Adiv is welcomed with hugs and kisses. Like all older brothers, Adiv teases him, also declaring from time to time that we should return Aarit to the hospital. But then, during trips to the Zoo, he also worries about whether the bears and lions will eat up his brother. Thanks to a steady diet of masala hindi flicks, he is always on the look out for gundis (his word for goodas) who might want to kidnap his brother.

Despite all their differences, they work well together. They enjoy running around the dining table, drinking pretend tea, watching Rowdy Rathore over and over again, going for drives, or simply laughing (just because you can!).
 And finally, isn't that all that matters.

Aarit is here!

Aarit finally decided to make his much-awaited debut on the 14th of January. I had my last check up on the 13th, when the doctor suggested we wait a big longer. Tired and exhausted (Adiv said he was getting irritated because the baby was taking this long) I went to bed, only to wake up at 3 in the morning with mild contractions. Despite the repeated nudging, Rohit jumped out of bed only when I announced emphatically that it was time to get to the hospital. We left immediately and hours later, at 7.38, Aarit was here.

Labor was quick and unbelievably painful (despite assurances from everyone that it would be easier this time), but seeing Aarit made it all worth it. He was perfect, healthy, and resembled his excited older brother. I spoke to Adiv soon after Aarit's birth, and he reminded me that the boys team was now stronger. Rohit who'd endured my blood curdling screams for a few hours was ecstatic. He joked about how I'd fractured his arm while I held on to him, before rushing out to call family and sneak into the NICU to see his newborn.

When Adiv finally arrived to see his brother, he was visibly thrilled. We'd wrapped up presents for him (supposedly from the baby), and that won the baby several brownie points. And when we placed the baby on his lap, he gushed about how tiny and beautiful the baby's toes and fingers were.

*

We've all been busy since then. Adiv is busy with school and friends, and he can't quite understand why his brother sleeps as much. He is waiting for him to grow up, so they can play (he also wants to give him lessons on farting and peeing!!) . I spend as much time as I can with him, doing everything for him, so he doesn't feel left out. Luckily he has friends he meets every day in the evening, and my parents who pamper him with outings and games.

Meanwhile, Aarit is transitioning from a sleepy, milk-drinking, frequently pooping (and peeing) infant, into a responsive, cooing, sleepy, milk-drinking, frequently pooping (and peeing) infant. Adiv and my Mom sing him to sleep with the song that my mom used to sing to us and Adiv (works like magic even now), while Pappa entertains Adiv with games that involve much running, policemen and thieves. While I'm busy making sure Adiv with his boisterous demonstrations doesn't pull out the baby's arm, Rohit is back to being the weekend father and husband, till we get back to Bangalore.

We never been busier and more tired, but we've also never been happier. Though I barely have the time to comb my hair or enjoy a nap, the family feels complete. Now I look forward to more adventures with my boys!

Fear

When a well-known playschool opened up a branch close to home, I was most excited. After a year of waiting outside school for two hours every day, I now welcomed the possibility of having three-hours of much needed "alone" time. Fortunately Adiv took to this new school as well. It boasted of a huge play area that had ducks, rabbits, a trampoline, and several bikes and toys. Adiv just couldn't wait to begin, though he wondered about his old teacher and friends from time to time.

Day one was a success. While many kids bawled and vomited, he waltzed in. Though mommies were told they could sit in for three days, Adiv told me I could go sit in the car. "Don't disturb me", he added. So I returned home happily, to spend three hours of "me" time. I'd now be able to read or talk on the phone (without having to answer important questions about the power rangers or Micheal Jackson), watch movies ("Inglorious Bastards" had gathered dust for a year before I finally watched it), and cook. After these three hours I'd go and pick him up. He'd play for a bit, before eventually agreeing to return home, hungry and tired. During lunch we'd talk about his day. For a week or two, when they hadn't done much, I assumed they were merely waiting for the kids to settle down. While those who cried were being carried around, Adiv entertained himself. They didn't sing songs or engage in fun activities. Also, the toys had I'd seen on the shelves during the orientation, seemed to have disappeared. To make matters worse, I overheard the teacher talk to a child who wanted to play outside. "Can't go out," she said. "Too much hot is there." A lot of the parents didn't mind the teacher's language skills, as their kids spoke no English. We were worried, because Adiv spoke only English and we didn't want him picking up any incorrect English in school.

Though I was worried about the teacher's language skills, I decided to give it time. Adiv didn't seem unhappy, and I hoped he'd make friends and have some fun.

After a month, I began realizing that all wasn't well. At first Adiv began saying he didn't want to go to school. After a week, he began screaming and crying when we reached the gate. Both Ro and I would speak to him about what was bothering him, and all he'd say was that he was scared. I wondered if he was scared of the teacher, who seemed to lack warmth. She spoke loudly and often sounded rather harsh. "I'd be scared of her if i was 3", I told Rohit. Nonetheless, we decided to watch. I walked Adiv into his class one day (despite protests from the center head), and found 10 kids sitting around a table, quietly. I was unnerved, as I didn't think three-year-olds needed to sit like stiff zombies. They needed to explore, talk, and touch the toys that lay around them. After leaving him screaming and crying, I'd wait outside till the crying stopped. I knew this was no adjustment issue, as he was alright for so long. I spoke to the center head, trying to understand what the problem was, and she said my friendly, happy child was "unfriendly" and "anti-social"! Annoyed I let her know that if he was being unfriendly he was probably unhappy. She said we should give him time to settle.

Things however got worse when Adiv began talking in his sleep. He was beginning to have nightmares about school. Also his temperament had begun to change. He was throwing frequent tantrums and seemed angry most of the time. He was terrified of his teacher, and he wasn't telling us why. Once they even left him by the gate all by himself, after another child had poured water on him. He stood alone with the watchman, waiting for me to come get him.

He was getting more and more unhappy and I had to find out what the problem was. It was then that I decided to engage in this role play activity with him. I told him I'd be Adiv and he would be aunty. He agreed happily because he has always loved make-believe games.

"Sing a nursery rhyme", he said.

I sang.

Then immediately I felt a rap on my head. "Sing properly", he said authoritatively.

It was then that I discovered that his teacher was hitting him and probably mocking him. Both Ro and I were livid, and we took him off school immediately. We also complained to the director who said she'd look into the problem immediately. Meanwhile we decided we'd home school Adiv for a bit, till he got over his fear of school. Also we didn't want him to dislike school just because of a bad experience here. And as he was only three, we didn't think he needed to put up with this place any more.

This was a month ago, and we now spend two hours every day singing rhymes, painting, learning alphabets and numbers, reading stories, and watching classics like the "Jungle Book"! I may have lost out on some alone time, but I am happier because Adiv is happy. In a couple of months we intend to start him in a new school again, and this time we intend to make sure he feels safe and happy in the environment!

Special Place Away From Home

Our month-long holiday is coming to an end, and my parents are already dreading the prospect of saying goodbye to their adored grandson. It was an eventful month, with Adiv entertaining and touching them with his amusing banter, and his frequent demonstrations of love. He would sing them songs, stage mock boxing matches, cuddle up beside them to watch Ceebeebies, make demands that would invariably be met, and tell them at regular intervals that he loved them. However, he was just as vocal with his displeasure when disciplined, staying mad for a few seconds in the bedroom, before emerging again with a wide grin. "Now I'm happy" he'd say, followed by "I won't do it again." With my Dad he played amusing games. They played running and catching, boxing and racing games with his toy cars. They'd even sit around playing computer games, an addiction that Adiv has now passed on to my Dad. While my Dad was the more indulgent one who catered to every whim of his, my mom was the slightly more strict one. Though she allowed him the pleasure of jumping on to a pile of cushions or playing with water, she also had rules about what wasn't allowed. She baked with him, read to him (enacting out every scene) and brought back surprises every time she went out. He watched movies with them, drank pretend tea (water in a little cup) when they drank their tea, and insisted that they always talk TO him. He played games in tents my Dad made with bedsheets and duppattas, ocassionally even stopping to play doctor, giving injections to anyone in sight.He enjoyed going out with them; be it a trip to the beach or store, or visits to their friends homes. Everywhere he went, he demanded complete attention. On one of those trips, he'd even taken on the task of playing host, when he attempted to serve the actual hosts. "Please eat something", he said politely while simultaneously enjoying the noodles that was specially made for him. And when it was time to leave, he'd given the hosts generous hugs and the promise of coming again.
*
Adiv loves coming to Chennai, because here he is loved unconditionally. He entertains and amuses everyone from my parents, to the watchman, to the maid. This kind of importance was something anyone could get used to! With my parents Adiv shares a bond that had begun before he was born. They marvelled at his perfection when they first saw him during a scan. After he was born they were ecstatic grandparents who'd spent several sleepless nights singing to him. They took turns rocking him when he was collicky, and carried him from room to room showing him the pictures on the wall, the pigeons on the tree outside and the colors in his room.
*
As a child, my equivalent of this place had been Calcutta. I was born there, because my aunt who was a doctor lived in Calcutta. So my earliest memories of myself take me to Calcutta, where I played, entertained, threw tantrums, and was myself. I have memories of taking the rickshaw to the market with my aunt, walking to a nearby park, and standing on a stool to look at a baker writing out my name in icing on a beautiful cake. In that house, I played pretend games with my doll, listened to everyones heartbeat with my aunt's sthetescope, and hung from the window talking about friends, school and life. Years later, I still think fondly about my aunt's house, as Adiv probably will think about my home in Chennai years later.
However, for the moment he is in two minds about his return to Bangalore. While he is anxious to get back to Dada, he is not too sure about leaving Ammamma and Pappa behind. However, he secretly enjoys knowing that he will be missed when he leaves. "I will come again", he assures my parents, also adding that he'll need new terms of endearment when he does.

New Friend

Adiv is afraid of policemen, though he is privately in awe of them. He loves that a policeman can put "bad" people behind bars, and shoot them if they attempt to run away (I confess he has been watching a lot of TV). However, as much as he admires them (even playing policeman from time to time), he is also very scared of them. Afterall, they had "blood guns" (his noisy toy guns paled in comparison) and handcuffs. Also, he had fears of getting arrested, because he wondered if policemen went after little boys who misbehaved from time to time.

*
Despite the blistering sun, we'd gone out today to shop, when my Dad called us back saying a policeman was waiting for my mom (who was also out with us). My parents wanted to get their passports renewed. The policeman who had shown up, had come to verify the details provided, and fill his wallet with a few crisp notes that would discreetly be pushed into his eager hands. We rushed back as soon as my Dad called, though Adiv wasn't too keen on returning just yet. He insisted on going to the beach or a toystore, when Ro told him that a policeman was waiting for him at home.
"Why?"
"He is coming to see you", said Ro.
"Why? I am good now."
"Didn't you throw a tantrum yesterday?"
"No", said Adiv beginning to look a little nervous.
"I'm not scared of jail", he said suddenly with an air of forced bravado.
"Good. You'll enjoy it then", Ro played along.
By the time we got home, he was apprehensive about getting in. He hid behind me, and seemed visibly relieved when he didn't find the policeman at home.
"Where is the policeman" he whispered to my Dad.
"He'll be back", replied my Dad. "Don't worry. He is a good man", he assured Adiv.
Adiv then ran into the bedroom, jumped on the bed, and said, "I am sooo scared." He ran into the living room and back every few seconds, checking to see if the policeman had returned. When I threatened to tell the policeman about a tantrum the previous day, he wept piteously saying, "I don't want to go to jail." We quickly assured him saying we would never let anyone take away a good boy. And if anyone tried it, we would fight them like the power rangers. That assurance had brought on a smile. "Red power ranger or blue power ranger", he continued, briefly forgetting about the policeman.

When the policeman finally made an appearance, Adiv was feeling brave. He tiptoed into the living room and sat down beside my Dad. The policeman ignored him and focused on the papers in front. The lack of a gun had made him less intimidating, and Adiv decided he could smile at him. When he got no response, he began talking.
"Hello."
"I am a good boy."
"Hello. Yes", responded the policeman, looking rather disinterested.
"I don't throw any tantrums."
We agreed vehementally, though we were mighty amused. A small smile appeared on the man's tired face.
"I also drink my complan every day", continued Adiv.
By then, the policeman seemed rather confused. He turned to my dad who explained what was going on. Once he understood his fears, he smiled at Adiv, shook hands with him, and assured him that he had nothing to fear. Adiv let out a sigh of relief, and looked at us with an expression that said, "Now this policeman is my friend, and you better be careful." He jumped around happily, before saying to the man, "You please take Ammamma (my mom) away." The man responded with a big smile and agreed to put Ammamma in jail, when Adiv changed his mind again. "Don't take anyone", he said gently. Now that they were friends, he assumed he could make these recommendations. The man agreed again, thereby cementing their friendship. The man sat down for a few more minutes and exchanged pleasantries before getting up to leave. Much to our amusement, Adiv and the man even gave eachother elaborate goodbyes.

*
So, policeman's visit had gone well, with Adiv getting rid of his unwarranted fears, and the man feeling richer (my dad had slipped him a few notes). Adiv announced that the policeman was his friend now, and that he wasn't scared. However, when Ro reminded him that he was going to Bangalore soon, Adiv decided he'd have to try and befriend the policemen in Bangalore as well.

Seasonal Friends

As a group we didn't have a lot in common. Our interests were as varied as our aspirations and backgrounds. Nonetheless, we'd all met at work, bonding over long coffee breaks and frequent trips to the loo (yes, we women travel to the loo in packs, catching up on entertaining gossip while simultaneously powdering our faces and reapplying lipstick). We helped eachother with work, saw one through a painful divorce, saw another through a broken relationship, supported one who hadn't got her well-deserved promotion, and cheered another who was in process of finding "the one"! We celebrated birthdays, prayed for eachother, posed for numerous pictures, and engaged in laughing fits long after office hours. We shared our food and our lives, and gave ourselves amusing pet names. We went out eating,drinking, and having fun, but were also very involved in eachothers lives. The group was there blending in with family, and cheering me on when I got engaged. And once married, we gave eachother culinary tips and other marital advice.

As with a lot of relationships that go well, I hoped our friendship would survive the changes that came with changing priorities. This was a group that had made work interesting for me. I'd initially been sceptical about joining the company on account of the work they did. I was technologically challenged, and ill-suited for a company that did only technology-based projects. Despite announcing that the only Java I knew was the island in Indonesia, (Java script was beyond my comprehension even with help from patient subject matter experts) I'd been offered the job. Surprisingly, I hadn't fared too badly, and I'd begun enjoying work once I made these friends.

Then the changes began. I was the first to get married and leave. I still kept in touch via e-mails and calls, but once Adiv was born, he became my priority. In time others got married and eventually became mothers, while the rest acquired new jobs and new friends. We still sent eachother ocassional e-mails, even meeting up during holidays to see babies, attend family functions and gossip over lunch. Gradually the phone calls became fewer, as did our meetings.

*
Till two weeks ago, I didn't realize that the friendship was actually over. We had all moved on to better things, and didn't really need eachother to lean on and confide in. Though we decided to meet, the meeting hadn't happened. After the initial disappointment, I understood that I didn't need the group as much as I had needed them years ago. They'd helped me laugh, but they'd also taught me acceptance and sharing, aiding me in my emotional growth. They had supported me emotionally and spiritually when I needed it. However we'd all moved on since then. Now it was time to focus on current relationships, and those that had lasted, while gently letting go of those that would only be part of some very happy memories.

Finding Help

When I first moved to Bangalore with three-month old Adiv, all I wanted was a good maid and a good pediatrician. I got lucky with the pediatrician, but I'm yet to find that "good" maid. I've had many in the last three years; a cheerful gossip who frequently took days off (but made some very palatable food), the quiet giant who breezed in and out without a word, a timid mouse who wanted so badly to please, a wannabe beautician who knew no cooking, a loud hag who muttered threats at Adiv, and finally a nanny-turned-housekeeper who charged a bomb. They didn't last for various reasons. Some made rare appearances, some didn't know their job, some didn't do too well, and some thought they could start calling the shots. However, what they did have in common was a displeasure of having a mistress who didn't go out to work. All of them suggested politely (and impolitely) that I leave Adiv with them and venture out. Leaving the house meant, they got to do as they pleased, and sadly for them I wasn't going to leave my baby with any of them.

The first one who made some delicious food soaked in generous helpings of oil, was good with Adiv. She played fun games that had him laughing hysterically. But being the paranoid mom, I wasn't sure I liked the idea of putting him incharge of someone who didn't change everyday. I wasn't even comfortable with her cooking, because I wasn't sure if she was bathing atall. Sometimes she wore the same saree for a week, and once she even came in wearing a nightdress. "Too lazy to change", she giggled and walked in. She wasn't reliable, and went missing for 13 days. By the time she returned (without any apologies), I had replaced her.

The quiet woman who replaced her didn't say much except when she was protesting.
"Do I have to sweep under the rug?"
"Do I really need to sweep and wipe the balconies?"
When Adiv's feet began showing tell-tale signs of how well she was sweeping, I sent her off.

Then came a family (in turns). The daughter ambled from room to room with a broom, as if gentle caressing the floor. She soon left for greener pastures (baby sitting for a child who'd be home alone), leaving her sister here. Her sister, a cheerful young girl with sparkly eyes, did pretty decent work, but she complained about the food I gave her from time to time.
"This isn't how you make it Didi."
"More oil Didi"
"We don't make upma like this Didi."
Eventually when I told her the food wasn't part of the deal and that she shouldn't complain when it was given, she left in a huff. Her loud-mouthed mother came next with tales of how her daughter had stopped work because her husband who had given up work so he could live off (drink) her. I didn't mind as long as I had help. She seemed okay, except that she made elaborate displays of cleaning the walls and the floors when I was in the room. Soon I also noticed that she disliked Adiv. She blamed him for running across the room when she was sweeping, and tugging at the clothes that were being put out. When I finally heard her yell threats at him (he ofcourse giggled innocently) I sent her off.

During that time I had a cook who was a wannabe beautician who was well-dressed and came to work wearing makeup. When she started work, I knew I couldn't really sit around with umcombed hair, wearing a pair of tracks and an old tshirt. She was a nice girl who needed the money. Sadly she didn't know any cooking. When her family decided to get back to Manipur (their home town) for the sake of their kids, I was able to say "Bye" without the guilt of having sent off someone who needed the money.

Soon afterwards, I had a woman who seemed matronly and kind. She made good food, and her work was good. She was gentle and soft spoken. I tried to hold on to her with generous amounts of food that she could take home from time to time. I believed that if she was also happy, I'd be able to keep her. All was well, till guests showed up on weekend. "Too much work", she said and walked out, without any warning! I wept later, because I was angry at myself. I'd been trying to please her into staying by helping out with all the chores.

Luckily after her came a gentle, mousy woman who'd never stepped out of her house before. She was sincere and willing to learn. Unfortunately, when my grieving mother-in-law moved in with us, we needed someone who'd be home for the entire day, because I would be out driving Adiv to school, waiting around and then bringing him back. This lady, though willing to learn, couldn't cook. So I had to let her go, and replace her with a fancy, super-efficient, super-expensive maid.

This last maid was a nanny once, with some experience overseas. She was a deligent worker and a willing learner. She did all the work, and the money we paid her seemed worth it, though it was way above what anyone was getting in this area. She did all that was expected of her, and I was generous with food and presents for her daughter. It was an easy relationship, but familiarity had to breed contempt. After a year in our house, she began thinking she could call the shots. She reduced her work hours to half (even though the salary had increased), and began taking time off to "rest"! She argued she needed 3/4 days a month to rest, in addition to the Sundays she got. She even began refusing chores saying, "I'll do it another day. Today I'm busy." Her excuses for not coming ranged from "I'm tired" to "My daughter didn't wake up early this morning." When I threatened her with a pay cut, she said she needed time to think about whether she wanted to continue. She called after a week, chatting pleasantly, and asking when she could start again. By then I'd had enough, so I decided to say bye!

This was a month ago, and the hunt for a replacement continues. While many have come and agreed to the terms, noone has started work yet. Sometimes I wonder if the last maid is fabricating tales to drive away hopefuls, just so I am forced to call her back.

This is the plight that many of us share. We struggle to find good help, and make futile attempts to keep them. A week ago someone I met was frantically washing up some of the vessels, so her servant wouldn't be angry at the amount of vessels. I know people who entice maids with TV watching and other perks. We are so dependant on them, and the biggest mistake some us make is letting them think they are indispensible. In the last month I've found that they aren't. I'm optimistic. I've got into the routine of cooking and doing the household chores, when Adiv takes his afternoon nap. In the morning I drive him to school, and wait outside with a book (Iris Murdoch at the moment). I'm busier, and hoping to be fitter. But my fingers remain crossed, as I wait for someone who will last.

To the movies

I love going to the movies! I enjoy standing in queues for tickets and the anticipation of finally being able to see stories come alive on a big screen. When I was younger, the theatre experience wasn't as "fancy" as it is now. We didn't walk into well-lit, air-conditioned lounges to buy tubs of buttered popcorn and drinks, before being led into a clean movie hall. Then, we went to threatres that we knew (and hoped) were clean, ignoring the discomfort of the chairs, focussing only on the thrill of seeing the curtains come up. I didn't even mind the government sponsored films on development that were showed before the movie began. During the break, we'd saunter into the lobby, buy ourselves Thumbs-up and popcorn. Now there are queues of people who can't quite decide if they want the tortilla chips or the popcorn or the chicken and coleslaw sandwich. Nonetheless, I like that we are in surroundings that are cleaner than it used to be. While we buy these goodies and wait in the lounge, we're only mildly aware of a small group of workers streaming in to clean the hall. Once they are done, we are let in. A few advertisments later, the movie has begun, and we are hooked.

I've always been a movie buff, and I was no snob as far as the genre went. I enjoyed Govinda's slapstick, Rajinikanth's theatrics and romantic comedies, as much as I enjoyed Kurosawa, Majid Majidi and Kieslowski. I loved the song and dance routine, as much as I loved a good story that made me think and cry. If people thought I watched too many movies as a child, they weren't very surprised when I chose to study film in college. Though I didn't pursue a career in films, I still continued to watch them.
Much of this movie watching came to a halt after Adiv's birth. Despite our initial attempts at watching films in theatres, we soon gave up. Adiv would watch wide-eyed for 10 minutes, and soon begin his explorations. So much of the time, one of us was standing outside with him, while the other watched inside feeling a wee bit guilty. So from them on, it was only DVDs for us. We got them as soon as they were out (Ro even bought many of them during his travels abroad), and watched them in the confines of our home, while Adiv was either sleeping or busy playing with his cars.

Then two weeks ago, I did something I hadn't done before; I went for a movie alone. Fairly independant, I'd done several things on my own. I'd eaten in restaurants on my own, I'd travelled alone, I'd shopped alone, I'd spent entire days in the British Library alone etc etc. Nonetheless, watching a movie on my own didn't feature in my list of favorite activities. I preferred company when I watched a movie, because if I enjoyed anything more than a movie, it the prospect of discusssing it (read: Ripping it apart) after it was over. So if I went alone, I was denying myself that experience.
However, this time I couldn't depend on Ro (he was needed to babysit Adiv) and my plans to see the film were sudden. I finished cooking lunch, changed and rushed out. I was going to see "Biutiful"; a film I knew nothing about. I knew it had two Oscar nominations and I'd seen a lot of Javier Bardem's work previously, to know that he'd be nothing less than brilliant. So I drove myself to the mall, parked (tough task on a weekend when the entire world is in the malls), and went to the ticket counter. The man at the counter was chatty.
"It's a spanish movie", he said.
"I know. I want one ticket."
"But it has english subtitles", he added.
"I know."
Eventually he gave me my ticket. I walked in with a small group of people (the only few who wanted to see Biutiful) and waited for the movie to begin. The theatre was fairly empty. In the theatre were two other people who'd come alone as I had. There was one group that seemed as serious about the film. Two other men were merely enjoying the airconditioning. So they were already snoring gently at the back. Three girls chatted and giggled incessantly till someone gave them an irritable "shush". Then there were two couples who chose the back row to cootchie-coo! Once all of us had found our places, the movie began.
As predicted, the movie was well-acted, though a tad bit too depressing. Javier Bardem was brilliant as a father who shuttled between Chinese sweatshop owners, illegal african street hawkers, his kids, and an ex-wife who was bipolar. He also made some money by passing on messages from the dead to the bereaved, so he could provide for his kids after his time. He was dying. Despite all this, the film focussed on goodness and all that was beautiful in the human soul. Uxbal, the man he played is good and willing to make a difference.
In the darkness, wearing my cloak of anonymity, I cried! There were no disturbances. Adiv didn't need his water or feel the need to wander away. I was in the movie, and I felt every emotion.
So with "Biutiful" began a new experience; the experience of watching a film alone, in a theatre with a group of strangers. Though I still missed discussing it afterwards, Ro was kind enough to listen to my narration of the storyline (I don't mind that either). Now, before I rush off to school, I'm planning my next outing for the weekend; The Fighter maybe? Rabbit hole?

Three

As far as Adiv's birthday celebrations go, it's been a month-long, ongoing event. Christmas, a big wedding, an early-party, numerous home made cakes topped with three candles, and an unending supply of toys have led the little guy into believing in birth months and not birth days.

First my parents came armed with the customary packet filled with presents. Then there was a Christmas party, where he dragged home a big bag filled with presents. Then, there was the excitement of welcoming my brother who made his annual appearance. An indulgent uncle, he pampered Adiv with more toys. Then we visited the extended family in Kerala, during a wedding. When we got back to Bangalore, we were planning his birthday. Adiv wanted the balloons and the streamers, and he practiced his thank you speeches even before the presents made an appearance. Rohit ordered the food, and my father took on the responsibility of decorating the house. Meanwhile, I began thinking about the cake I wanted to make. Despite being told it would be easier to buy that perfect looking cake, I was determined to bake one. So when Adiv announced that he wanted Spider Man, Ro and I decided to try and make a Spidey cake.

This entire process was fun, because Adiv sat through it all. He helped me bake the cake (sifting the flour is quite a task for a three-year-old-to-be) and helped us mix colors for the icing. Once the coconut loaf cake was ready (a success), I got the base ready by pouring royal icing on top of the cake. On top of that, Rohit carefully drew Spidey's eyes. We did an excited jig because the eyes were perfect. Then in turns, we finished the rest of the icing. We were proud parents, and to celebrate our success, I licked the remnants of the icing. Adiv who was up, clapping and bouncing, wept buckets when my lips, tongue and teeth turned a nightmarish purple.

"Mimi became monster", he wept tragically, while I furiously brushed my teeth to get rid of all the coloring!

The birthday was a sucess. The biriyani and phirni were great. The cake was tasty and Adiv loved it. The family came to sing to him, and he graciously accepted all his presents with obvious excitement.

Since then he's been cutting several cakes each week. We came to Chennai to spend time with my brother and see him off, and my mom has been baking regularly since then. Every cake came with three candles that he blew out, while we sang loudly to him. Truly an exciting month for him.

*

So, as is obvious the year has begun well for him. As it progresses I hope and pray, it will be as good and exciting. I hope he continues to be surrounded by people who love him. I hope he appreciates family, not taking anyone for granted. I hope he values all his blessings, and grows into a good human being.

2010 ended well for him. He discovered love, not once but twice. First came the pretty young thing in pink, who played haughty, but eventually succumbed to his charms. Though she ignored him initially, she was soon seeing him off after school. He played cool, picking his clothes, insisting on belts and matching pairs of socks. He even refused to let me walk him to the door of his school. "You wait outside", he said quietly. He was letting his lady love think that he was driving to school on his own.

Then came pretty young girl in pink (2). "She is very pretty" he gushed. "She wears pink lipstick", he added, commenting on her pink lips! Unfortunately she didn't fall for his wooing, as he'd changed his technique. He was showing her his tongue and teeth, after all wasn't that what the chimp told George (of "George of the Jungle") to do? He also made new friends with whom he exchanged tales of dried cranberries (!) and dinosaurs. He met cousins he hadn't seen in a while, and discovered that boys play games that are more fun. He learned to pedal his bike and sweetly ask for a bigger one (we're getting him one). He thinks the pizza man has the "coolest" job in the world, because he wears a cap and drives a bike. He thinks I have all the answers (I'm enjoying that status now), and that Rohit is the strongest man alive. (I've tutored him to say, "I get my muscles from Dada and my brains from Mimi"). He likes to dress up like "Wake up Sid" (Ranbir Kapoor), and has developed a fascination for Micheal Jackson. He loves his teacher and school, and has now begun demanding sandwiches and burgers that have faces.

As parents it's been an exciting year for us as well. We now have a little boy with a vivid imagination. In addition to cars and guns, we have a little man who loves to cook inside his tent. He enjoys playing magic dungeon under a blanket, where we are magically transported to magical lands (birthdays, balloons, icecreams) where only rabbits play hosts. He never tires of hearing the story of "Hansel and Gretel", and loves having people over. If he can amaze me with his social skills, he can even exasperate me with his jealous rage when we give other little kids as much attention. After an peaceful 2010, we now look forward to an exciting 2011.

The Big Inning

We've finally begun the school hunt for Adiv. Though we are happy with the school he goes to, they only have classes till UKG. If we waited to shift him after that, we were warned we'd have trouble finding a good school that would take him in then. So it made sense to shift him while he was in nursery or LKG.
Ro and I got busy, and made a list of schools we were interested in. The first few schools we checked out, proved to be way too expensive. Then there were some that only wanted rank holders, and we definitely didn't want a school that was only interested in academics. Neither did we want a school that took in only rich kids (we'd be going to Kerala while his classmates went to Italy during the holidays). We wanted a fun place that would understand that every child was unique and talented, and make learning fun for them. We were wary of schools that had large classes, because we didn't want Adiv to disappear in a crowd. We also didn't want a school that expected every child to conform to a specific standard. We wanted a place that would encourage him to think for himself, and not tell him how to think. After much internal debate, we finally decided to visit a school that was recommended very highly.

After making an appointment, we got to the school on time. The admissions officer, a short haired lady with a made-up face rushed us into her office saying, "I've only got 10 minutes." She offered us seats, ruffled through some papers on her table, and began talking. She was so busy, she barely looked at us or Adiv, who was waving his hands in the air to get her attention. Of the ten minutes she spent with us, she used the first 5 minutes to throw us a lot of jargon. Confused, I turned to Ro, who seemed to be paying a lot of attention. After this memorized speech, she went on to tell us about the school.
After a dramatic pause, she said, "We prepare the child for 1st standard."
"Hmm", I said, not quite sure as to what that meant.
"So, we begin with Maths, English, and Environmental Studies in Nursery", she added.
Now I was amused. Nonetheless, I decided to listen in on what else she'd have to say.
She went on about the languages he'd have to learn by the time he got to 1st standard, and the report cards that would come to us. Then, she suddenly shifted gears to talk about their extra curricular activities.
"We're not only about studies", she said with a triumphant smile. "To the regular time table, different activities are plugged in, on a weekly basis. We have swimming, Taekwondo, tennis, dramatics, art.." Contrary to being impressed, we found all of this ridiculous. Though we were in favor of extra curricular activities, we weren't in favor of forcing our child into activities that he wasn't interested in. So if Adiv didn't want to swim, I didn't see why he had to. I would have been happier if she'd spoken about finding out where a child's interests lay, before steering him towards these activities.
She also stressed on the importance of reading. Being an avid reader, I couldn't agree more. I didn't however agree with their need to force the habit of reading.
"Once a week the kids will spend an entire day in the library", she said.
Though I wanted Adiv to read, and i'd tried to inculcate these habit by reading to him, I didn't quite picture him sitting quietly in a library for an entire day.
Finally, she began talking about their air conditioned buses and their breakfasts and lunches. "Since he will be in nursery, you only need to pay for his breakfast", she added. "Lunch will begin only from class 1.
Then it was time for the fee structure. She hurridly brought out a sheet of paper, to show us the figures. "If you give us 50K now, we'll block a seat now", she said before rushing out the door.
"If you want a tour, i'll get someone to show you the place."
Then she vanished. As we stood around waiting, a bored office boy guided us to the nursery section. We peeked into all three classes and by then the office boy had vanished as well.
"So I guess we don't get to see the celebrated pools and tennis courts", I told Ro.
We laughed and walked out. We knew instantly that a place that was indifferent to our child wasn't the place for him.
*
From this school, we drove to another that had asked us to come in before 4 o'clock. Despite being asked to come, we weren't allowed past the main gate. "Apply, and if we call you, you can come check out the place", said someone on the phone, at the security desk. Slightly annoyed, we left. During the drive back, we decided we'd let Adiv continue in his current school. While he finished nursery, we'd hopefully find the right school for him. We just needed to do more research. We weren't floored by the sprawling grounds, the pools, the horse riding, and the fancy lunches. We only wanted a school with good teachers who'd make learning fun. A good teacher was all one needed, because she'd encourage thinking, understand differences, and celebrate individual talents. So now we're searching for a school that focuses on the child, and not on the facilities, the 5-star meals, and the nike shoes.

One Difficult Question

The curious toddler has now grown into a thinking young man. From the time he wakes up, to the the time he falls asleep, Adiv has questions. "What? Why? How? When?" Despite ocassionally feigning irritation, I'm mostly fascinated by how his mind works. He now wonders about the clouds and who filled them with water, if Elmo was born without teeth (ahem...and a peepee), if some dogs can talk, how batteries work, if he can flatten dough with tongs, if the plant really cries when he plucks a flower etc etc. The questions are neverending, and I try as patiently as I can, to answer all of them, even if it means I have to read up on the sharks and dinosaurs, among other things.
Nonetheless, every now and then, you encounter a question that you need to answer cautiously. Luckily he never asked me how babies were born. I guess Ice Age 3 took care of that. With rapt attention he watched the mammoth Ellie strain, scream, and push out her baby. He then declared that babies came from legs, in a tone that suggested no doubt. However, the trip to Hyderabad a week ago, brought along questions that were more difficult to answer; questions about death.
It was Rohit's dad's first death anniversary, and the family gathered for a small, but beautiful prayer meeting. Rohit took the week off, and we stayed in his house in Hyderabad, where Adiv had a blast with his cousins. From the time we got there, he began calling out to Rohit's dad. "Big Dada, where are you?" He knew we were going to Big Dada's house, but he was confused about why we had the keys to the house. "Where is everyone", he asked me, wearing a puzzled expression on his face.
I explained Rohit's mom and sister would arrive the next day, and that Big Dada was now with Jesus. He seemed temporarily satisfied, and the old cars on the shelf served as a distraction. When Rohit's sister's children arrived, he was ecstatic. He explained to them that Big Dada was with Jesus now, and then went on to show them his toys.
Then on the day of the anniversary, we went to pay our respects at the cemetry. The kids were given bouquets to place over the tombstone, when one of the older kids asked if this is where her grandfather was buried. Adiv who was listening, seemed unnerved when Rohit's mom said "Yes."
"What place is this", he asked me.
I didn't know what to say. "Big Dada is resting here and then his soul went to be with Jesus", I said sounding rather lame. I knew he didn't understand "soul", and I hoped he'd stop thinking about it. He didn't. He stood beside the grave and said, "Big Dada, get up and come here". The other kids began distracting him and soon they were chasing after a puppy, and running from a row of beggars who called out loudly for our attention. The priest was late, and soon the kids were bored and hot. Luckily, I'd come armed with water. Then one of the kids began reading from the other tombstones. She read out verses, names, ages, and began telling us about them. I walked with them, slightly unnerved by those graves that had pictures of the people who'd died. I looked respectfully at faces that stared back at me, and followed Adiv who'd begun to understand perhaps that he was in a place where lots of people lay beneath tombstones. He was getting cranky, and he insisted he wanted to leave. "We'll go", I assured him, hoping the priest would arrive quickly. Luckily, the priest arrived, and after a small prayer, we were ready to leave.
As we were leaving, we encountered a group of mourners who'd come to bury a loved one. Ro steered Adiv away from the crowd, and got him outside.
Adiv never mentioned that trip to the graveyard again. The rest of that week was filled with memorable games with his cousins, rides on the scooter, trips to the terrace where he drew faces on the floor with chalk, and several dance performances to the tunes of popular Bollywood songs.
I'm relieved for now, but I bracing myself for more questions. Even though I believe he is too young to be told about death, I know I'll have to handle the question when it comes again!

Mister Friendly

If you know Adiv, you know how friendly he can get. As a parent, I wish he'd be more wary of strangers, but he is relentless in his attempts at befriending strangers. He begins with a smile, and then begins mimicking Iron Man. He puts on his invisible Iron Man suit, takes on a serious expression, and stomps forward. Then he aims his hand at the stranger who is either immersed in an interesting book or engaged in serious conversation. A few grunts, big smiles and "I am Iron Man" later, he has succeeded in making a friend.

The return trip from Chennai was no less eventful. I hoped he'd sleep, after which Ro and I would fish out our books from my bulging bag. However, he was excited about what the "food man" would bring. After drinking some juice, he noticed a man on another seat watch a movie on his laptop.

He jumped off my lap and said, "I am going to see a movie."

He slowly inched his way forward, smiled, said Hi. Soon he was on that man's lap watching Three Idiots. The friendly man was even forced to give him his headphones. So when the songs began, Adiv sang along loudly. The man responded by clapping. "You sing really well", he said. During the course of the movie, they even played boxing. Adiv eventually got tired and came back to us after announcing that he'd been boxing with the "scary man." I was horrified.

Adiv is just as friendly with people who visit the house; the vegetable vendor, the security guard with a notice, the gas man, the store man who brings groceries, and the occasional bank representative. The man from a bank who made an dishevelled appearance this afternoon, didn't seem particularly keen on chatting with a two-year-old. He merely wanted us to be done with the signatures, so he could finish his work and head home. Adiv smiled, spoke loudly, and sang a few songs, but he got no smiles. Finally, as a last resort he took him a small eclaire and said, "Want a small piece? We share?" That brought a smile on the man's tired face. Adiv ofcourse didn't wait for a response, and the eclaire was in his mouth in a second. Nonetheless, the man seemed to be in a better mood after that.

The bank representatives in Chennai (while we were visiting my parents) were more forthcoming. One of them even sat down on the carpet, so Adiv could show him his cars. They played for a bit, drank juice (after saying "Cheers"), spoke (the man got quite emotional when he told us he'd never been given toys like this to play with when he was a child) and left amidst elaborate goodbyes. An older man who arrived much later was less friendly, but when my Dad left the room to get a cheque, Adiv pretended he was a ferocious dinosaur. He growled and crawled to the amused man. When he smiled, Adiv asked him what his name was, and if he could sit with him.

Though i like it that Adiv is friendly and has no inhibitions, I'm sometimes uncomfortable. It doesn't help my paranoia, when I see him bond with a strangers who offer him chocolates and attempt to carry him. So now i've begun giving him the talk. No taking anything from strangers. No going with strangers. I'd like to protect him from the bad world, I need him to be safe and not so trusting.

Fighting the Flab

I'm no fitness freak, though I begin each month with the decision to diet and exercise. Then we'd either get invited to a meal somewhere, or we'd try out a new restaurant in the vicinity. Sometimes even the weather plays fiend, when it rains, making my morning walks impossible. Nonetheless, I tried for a while. Ro was instructed to wake me up in the morning (rudely if required) and pay no heed to my protests. I'd eventually wake up, put on my shoes, hook myself onto the walkman, and walk around the building. When this routine got boring, I ventured out. I was welcomed to the sight of cows grazing illegally on a vacant plot, and tea shops bustling with activity. Little grocery shops were ministering to a tiny trickle of customers, while the only barber shop on that road, pulled up its shutters. IT professionals drove past or walked towards the bus stop, while I walked by enjoying the sights. However, after a while, even this proved to be monotonous. And, with the onset of the rains, I had another excuse to stay home.

Then, when Adiv began school I suddenly found myself free for two hours. I dropped him off at school and waited in the car with two crossword puzzles, a book, my breakfast, and a phone. I enjoyed this alone time, but I also began nursing the possibility using this time to go exercise. I just needed to find a gym close to the school.

I took along Ro and Adiv to a gym I'd seen not too far away from school. The board that read "Fitness Studio", pointed to an old dilapidated building. Hesitantly, we walked up the narrow staircase that was caked with layers of dust and the remnants of notices that had once been plastered along its side. Careful not to touch the railing, we continued walking, ignoring the paan marks, the hand prints, and the handwritten proclamations of love on the wall. Eventually, two flights later, we got to the gym that was filled with equipment that looked unused and abandoned. On one side, two muscle men got up and give us their chairs.

"Please sit", said one, while rummaging through the contents of a drawer. Eventually he fished out a worn on price list.

One Month: 1000 Rs

Three Months: 2500 Rs

.........................................

I feigned some enthusiasm, while Ro asked a few questions. Then we left. This wasn't the place for me. By then we'd spotted another gym on one of the bylanes. So we decided to try that out. Conviniently located beside a sweet stall, the staircase to this gym was a lot cleaner. On either side were pictures of very fit people exercising. Notices about the next kickboxing class, the aerobics class, and the dance classes filled the walls. Right on top, we were welcomed to the sight of a spacious, airy gym. A few women who'd just finished their workout were leaving, while we got in. A few still ran tirelessly on threadmills, while a few men lifted weights and stood around chatting. A friendly instructor came forward, this time bringing me a fancier price list. Deciding I like this place better, I paid up immediately and promised to return the following Monday.

Then I rushed out, bought some appropriate gym wear, and indulged in some calories. Afterall, I was going to begin gyming from Monday.
*
My first day was eventful. I walked in happily, after fighting the sweet odours emnating from the sweet shop next door. After warming up, I was led to a treadmill that I walked on cautiously, gradually increasing the speed. This was followed by ten minutes on the stepper, and another ten on the cycle. I was largely oblivious to the people around me, paying full attention to my reflection. I was going to shed some weight at get clothes. Perhaps I could work on shedding some weight before the next gettogether. Could I work on the treadmill and also go for walks? As I sweated, my weight loss ambitions grew bigger.
After a month in this gym, I noticed a nicer gym that had opened up right next to Adiv's school. If I got a membership there, I'd just have to drop Adiv and walk to the gym. So without wasting any time, I went to check out the place. This time, I was welcomed to the sight of newly bought equipment and 5 eager trainers. I was one of the first few people to get a membership and they were excited. They filled me in on their plans.
"We're going to start aerobics."
"We'll give everyone personalized training."
Excitement of this kind is often contagious. So I paid up immediately, and promised to return the next morning.
The next morning, I was led to the treadmill, where I walked for a few minutes before the trainer urged me to run. I did, only to stop few minutes later, huffing and panting. Then I was led into another room to carry weights, and do various exercises for the belly and feet. The enthusiastic trainer who needed to be reminded that it was time for me to to pick up Adiv, also urged me to diet and cut out the junk. I promised to try.
It's been a month in this place now, and I quite like it. Now I run comfortably on the treadmill and enjoy the strenuous exercises. I haven't been the most regular, but I look forward to staying fit and healthy. Since I began, more people have joined the fitness center, and I've even made a new friend in the process.

Teachers; a trip down memory lane

This teacher's day, I drove Adiv to several florists, before finding flowers that he liked. He gathered them in his arms (one for each teacher) and marched into school wearing a very pleased smile. The teachers gave him encouraging yelps of surprise, thereby doubling his pleasure. "Happy Teacher Day", he said carefully. Two minutes earlier, he'd said, "Happy Birthday Teacher day?"! However, this time he got it right.
*
I have distant memories of my first teacher, who tirelessly taught us rhymes in the most comical fashion. My father had been transferred to a little district in Assam, Cachar, where we endured several terrifying cyclones, and acquired numerous friends. There were few schools in the vicinity, and the only one that showed any promise had a very enthusiastic teacher who multi-tasked. She sang her rhymes loudly and clearly, while spelling every letter in the song.
"H-I-C-K, Hick, O-R-Y, Hickory...D-I-C-K, Dick, O-R-Y, Dickory....."
While I sat by the window, looking for any sign of my mom, this teacher sang to a class full of toddlers who would begin to spell before they began to talk.
After a four-year long stint in Assam, we moved to a dusty and dry township in Tamil Nadu. After the hills of Assam, the rains that ravaged rooftops, and the gardens that often had sightings of wild animals, Neyveli was a drastic change. This peaceful little township with the ageing bunglows and the barren gardens, had one popular CBSE school. It was run by a principal who was greatly feared. His morning assemblies notoriously went on for hours, when he would read out marks and humiliate students who hadn't done as well. He even had a special team of teachers who made sudden appearances in homes to check on students who were in their 12th. We were given tons of homework, that we finished, for fear of being dragged out in assembly. From that era, I only remember a teacher who taught Social studies (very well) with a pronounced tamilian accent, and a sullen Math teacher who scribbled furiously on the board and let it be known that she hated Christians.
A year in Kerala after Neyveli was a wonderful change. My new school was friendlier, and less intimidating. I found my voice and joined the choir. I even took small parts in an Independance Day play where I only had to drop dead. I made several friends, and began enjoying myself. Here again, it was my History teacher that I loved the most. She brought every character to life, making every war exciting. I joined the music class, and made futile attempts at stitching embroidery at the Arts and Craft class. After this year, I moved to the southern tip of India. Nagercoil (close to Kanyakumari) was what I needed to rejuvenate my soul. Despite rebelling about the frequent transfers, I loved it here. The only CBSE school there was run by a dreamer who wanted to make huge changes. He encouraged Shakespeare, music, drama, inter-school competitions, and a whole lot of fun. For classrooms we had little hut like buildings. For teachers, who had people who shared the principal's vision of how he wanted to bring change. Many of us thrived in this environment. It was here that I was encouraged to sing, attempt bigger parts in plays, read, and learn. Sadly, by the end of the year, my Dad had to move again.
This time we were moving to a bigger city. Chennai was bustling and crowded after quaint, peaceful Nagercoil where everyone knew almost everyone else. Nonetheless, I took to this city almost immediately. I liked the pace with which it moved, and I still had access to music teachers and libraries. School however was another nightmare. As we were always on the move, looked for CBSE schools. The one we joined did wonders for my brother, but did quite the opposite for me. From enjoying music and literature, I was suddenly thrust in an enviroment that was fiercely competitive. The class was divided into two sections. You were either working towards finding a seat in IIT or a university in the US, or you were well aquainted with the latest trends and fashions. As I fit into neither, I remained the outsider till I finished school. Here, the kids used their play time to finish up homework. Sadistic Math teachers gave up to 400 problems a day as homework. I struggled with homework, the frequent tests, the pressure. Students walked around saying they wanted to be brain surgeons and cardiologists, while I merely wanted to write and read. However, in the midst of that nightmare I found my silver lining. She was my classteacher and a strict one at that. She tolerated no nonsense, and had at some point made us all cry. Nonetheless, she transformed into a completely different being, when she explained poetry. If she seemed heartless and tough normally, she was mellow, gentle, and full of empathy, where she discussed poetry. It was then that I began to understand that her tough exterior was probably just a facade. Beneath the layers lived a gentle soul, who was never going to let her guard down. Thanks to her, I realized i wanted to study literature. I enjoyed it, and that was all that mattered.
In college, I finally met the teacher who'd teach me the biggest lesson of all. She insisted it was okay to be different, and not fit in. She encouraged us to read, make our own interpretations, and be brave enough to voice them. Then there was another, who taught us feminist literature. She repeatedly told us that we didn't need to fit into socially accepted, stereotypical moulds. She insisted we could lead complete, wholesome, successful lives, even without a man. We just had to be independant, strong, and confident.
While several teachers had given us the skills required to get to college, only these two had imparted life skills. They didn't feign interest in the sciences and seem apologetic about their fondness for literature. They didn't measure success by the the amount of money one would make, or colleges people went to. If you were happy doing what you did, you were just as successful. With that knowledge came a certain confidence that has stayed on for years after that.
Now that Adiv has started school, I'm pleased he has a nice trio of teachers who are kind, gentle, and funny. They seem to understand that every child is difference, and that difference is what is celebrated with the opportunities that are given to the kids. Nonetheless, as there is a long road ahead, I can only hope Adiv will have teachers who will be positive influences, imparting the life skills that he will require to a successful human being, and not just a successful professional.

The House Guest

This weekend we had a very special guest. I'd met him briefly a few days ago, on the day he'd landed from the US. Jet lagged and exhausted from all the travel, he went straight to the diwan, curled up and slept. When it was time to leave, he was prompted to say Hi.
"Hi", he said.
I had to refrain from going forward and touching him, as I'd normally have done with any child. Nonetheless, I knew autistic children were particular about having people in their space. So I was going to wait till he allowed me in.

A few days later, when he came to stay with his mother, I was apprehensive. His mother was going to leave him with us for a day, while she went out shopping. Also, I wasn't sure if he'd take to Adiv who is relentlessly demonstrative and chatty. I wasn't sure of how we'd console him if he missed his mother. He didn't play with toys, so we wouldn't be able to distract him with anything. He only listened to a DVD of the Wiggles, an aussie band. I didn't have to worry so much about food, as his mom would bring along his stash of comfort foods; some organic jelly beans and gluten free cereal and rice cakes.

When he finally arrived, he flashed us his winning smile, and charged right in. He ran from room to room, exploring. He touched everything that came along the way. He felt the water can, Adiv's toy horse, the walls, and the cushions. He even felt Adiv's hair and smelt it. Adiv stayed close, saying Hi repeatedly and smiling. He got on his horse and called out to him.
"Sit with me", said Adiv.
The 8-year-old got on behind him. A few seconds later, he lost interest. He ran around, followed by his mother who made sure he didn't drop or throw anything. After some running around, he climbed on to the bed, and snuggled up between the sheet and the mattress. Adiv was ecstatic. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Then they both jumped on the diwan like two happy kids. However, Adiv was in his space for a bit too long, and he responded by pushing him off the diwan. My heart skipped a beat, but luckily Adiv landed on a pile of cushions. "Keep Adiv away. He doesn't understand that Adiv is a baby", explained the mother apologetically.
"Adiv is fine", we assured her. We understood it wasn't his fault, but we had to be careful.
*
By the time I woke up the next morning, our little guest was at the table eating his cereal. With some prompting, he turned to me and said Hi. After breakfast, he came close and held my hand.
"Hi there", I said gently. He pulled to the kitchen. He was curious about the pressure cooker, and all the activity in the kitchen. We put on his DVD for him, while he ran around feeling things, smelling hair, and poking cushions. I attempted to distract him with one of Adiv's videos, but he was bored. So the Wiggles were1 back on. Even though he'd seen it thousands of times, he loved it, chuckling happily on his mother's lap.
When she left for her outting, we were worried, but he seemed fine. If he sensed she'd left, he didn't seem upset. We watched him and Adiv in turns, before he was fed lunch. He enjoyed his broccoli, and ate up some rice with a teaspoon of dal and veggies. After lunch, he was given a pill to calm him down. As he was already getting comfortable with Rohit, he was able to rock him to sleep. Adiv wasn't very pleased though. Adiv insisted that Rohit carry him. And when Rohit was feeding him broccoli, Adiv emphatically declared, "I like cauliflowers also." While I attempted to entertain Adiv, he said angrily, "This is my house. Tell him to go."
*
In the evening we were all intending to go out to dinner. The little boy hadn't yet woken up, and we were beginning to wonder if we should wake him up for a meal. He hadn't eaten in 7 hours, and was sure to be hungry. When he refused to wake up, we employed other tactics like switching on the light (he'd burrow himself further beneath the comforter) and putting a grain of rice on his lip. We weren't sure if he knew he was hungry, and hoped a taste of the food would get him to wake up. He didn't, and that's when we discovered he was running a temperature. Then we made more desperate attempts to wake him up. We knew he didn't like liquid medicines, but we only had liquid Tylenol. So while Rohit held him, I poured in a teaspoon of Tylenol little by little. He didnt' seem to mind it. By the time his diaper and clothes were changed and he was fed, his mother came back. He flashed her a happy, bright smile and climbed onto her lap. They were leaving in a bit, and his mother got busy packing. Meanwhile Adiv was lying around pretending to be very ill. In a medicine cup, I poured him some juice and coaxed him to drink it as we'd done with the older fellow. Adiv wrapped himself in a blanket and said loudly, "I also very sick."
Adiv was happy to see the 8-year-old leave. He now had his mother and father to himself. However, Rohit and I missed the little fellow. We hadn't spent a lot of time with him, but we'd grown used to him. In his own way he'd begun displaying affection. He would casually climb onto Rohit's lap, or pull me along to show me something. Though we were strangers, he had warmed up to us. When it was time to leave, he surprised me with a hug, a smile, and eye-contact.
*
In a week's time they'd leave for the US again. I wondered when we'd see him again.
"When we go to the US, we will go see him", said Rohit.