Ben, Arunav and a statement.
Their exams are over. Another year gone by.
Arunav said he wanted to get back to maths after a few days of relaxing and enjoying. How much can one relax was his question. I want to do more maths and relax but no one else wants to do maths....
Ben and Arunav talked and decided, the results can only come as a disappointment to them this year. I smiled. Shyam smiled. I keep smiling thinking of that statement. A simple statement.
A death and a visit
So papaji passed away on 27th May. Alone. On a train.
Anjali, Binny, Achintya came to meet us today. They just talked. They just hugged. We remembered papaji through his life.
C'est tout.
You don't need anything more. Just someone to listen to you. Someone to hear your pain. Someone to hold you - for a very short while.
C'est tout.
C'est fini.
To a Scholar
It was a cold January in 2007. In Hong Kong. We stood outside Canadian International School of Hong Kong, with a 2 year 4 months old Arunav wailing as he did not want to leave his parents and accompany a stranger into the "interview room" for children to be admitted to pre-Kindergarten. As I had written in the post of Jan 2008, I was ashamed at my thoughts and behaviour as a parent that cold day with bright sunshine. One of the many parental guilts that never leave you.
That baby grew despite our parenting lapses. The Universe's penchant for symmetry makes it almost exactly 17 years from that day, yesterday.
It was a much colder day in Cambridge on Jan 16 2024. The sun shone equally brightly with a deep blue sky. Arunav walked into the hallway of Trinity Chapel and was admitted as a Scholar of Trinity College, after his first year there. It was a surreal moment. Too many memories, too many thoughts, too many reflections crowding their way into the moment for me to be fully there, to fully absorb it.
I kept drifting on and off from the moment to the momentousness of the moment.
We sat there with many other proud parents and grand parents. What contribution was truly ours to have deserved that seat? I was not too sure. I just felt lucky as a lottery winner might. We were gifted with a child who hopefully one day can make an exceptional difference to this world, who will live for more than oneself and do greater good. Good to mankind.
May his work benefit people from who he hopes to receive nothing in return.
This blog was started with motherhood. I am the one who has learnt more than I have taught.
Rain and Storm
And it blew
And it poured....
It was chilly outside.
The chill in the body was more.
The living room was warm.
The chill in the body could not be warmed.
And the green leaves swayed
And the brown leaves swirled....
It was raining outside.
It rained inside more.
The living room was dry.
The eyes could not be dried.
So the storms come.
So the storms go.
Life withers.
Life withholds.
Ma turns 80
She turns 80 today.
I made 2 types of her favourite payesh - Chushi payesh with nolen gur and gobindo bhog payesh. I also made cheerer pulao.
Just a simple peaceful morning celebration. Not a big party, just quiet time. The girls are likely to flock in though to wish her in the afternoon. That will be nice. M and S are also anyway scheduled to come in the evening. So she will feel pampered too.
Old age is not easy.
Silence
Is inevitable.
Yet we stay in denial, we want to stay in denial.
How hard it is to accept the finality of silence.
Final.
Silence.
Peace.
L'autumne
My 27 year old self spoke to me. Yesterday.
Through a friend who preserved an email I had sent in those times when emails were a luxury. They had to be sent by preserving a spot in the Computer Room in the basement of the Indian Institute of Management, Bangalore. A spot fiercely contested by those who wanted to play Age of Empires. A spot fiercely contested by those who were competing for the top spots in the Director's Merit List. From that spot, I wrote an email. To a friend. The friends and my communication to whom sustained me in a place which was fiercely competitive, and I was not.
It was mesmerising to read that small excerpt. Those few lines. Those thoughts from October 1998 - traversing through time - to Nov 2022. The girl looking out through the tall windows to the blue flowers outside while complicated management concepts got taught inside. The same girl who looks up to the sky and watches the birds in the blue sky while her companions have complicated conversations about life.
Still the search for beauty in complexity. Still the struggle to stay beautiful in complexity.
24 years.
The autumn of then still as hauntingly gorgeous as the autumn of now. The mist, mellow, Keats still as alive. Meme si the scars, meme si the tears, meme si the follies.
Only because a friend preserved.
"Love After Love
(Derek Walcott)
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life."
Doubt-Humility; Pride-Esteem... and a Self.
I have never been one who was conscious of my eccentricities albeit I was aware of them. One will always know what differentiates one from a large majority. I have always been very comfortable being who I am. I love myself. I love being me. I love being crazy me.
Dark skin stopped bothering me, after that school leaving function, where I was called up on stage in front of the whole school and awarded the nickname of "Kajal ki Kothri" (Box of Kohl). It took me a while to realise what it meant and it went straight into the heart of that innocent little girl, who till then did not think the colour of her skin needs attention.
My accent never occurred to me, till the Japanese lady spoke out loud in an official dinner gathering and told me she understood English but she found it difficult to understand the one I spoke. I absorbed the comment, blushed and went about struggling with my chopsticks, thought whether it was worth the effort to change anything and realised it was not exciting enough for me to put in the effort. I would rather learn Japanese language in that time than try to ape a proper English accent to please the ears of others.
It has always been a short moment of reflection and decision. I could not do anything about the colour of my skin even if I wanted to. I decided not to do anything about my accent, I did not want to.
Then comes a friend with a connection you think that probably went back to another life. Where you think the same way, you appreciate the same things, you happily disagree with each other on many things, you understand the depths of discussion, thoughts; you share the love of reading, love of word games, you share your problems, share your happiness. Without any effort you know each other - or so you think.
That changes.
She tries to understand what may be lacking in the long term friend. In order to justify another friend's actions and subsequently, her own actions.
The eccentricities that a friend can dig up and throw at your face is something that takes a while for one to overcome. Are you weird? Are you not sophisticated in your mannerisms and response? Do you speak direct? If you speak of your hurt, are you 'offensive'? Do you 'project' things in your mind to attribute to your illness? When you fight with your own mother who loves you for being direct and genuine - are you not a good daughter? Should you doubt your own reality? Should you ignore the humiliations of overnight badgering on a topic? If you are different, are you unacceptable? Should you pretend to blend in?
That takes a while.
It took me a while.
Not because I thought I should change my eccentricities or change myself, but because I found it impossible to believe what was "subtly" indicated to me, even when my intellect understood right away. I found it hard to believe the honesty is gone, the openness is gone. The friend that was - is gone. J'ai perdue mon amie. Oh yes, I accept that responsibility though I do not see how I could have done anything more, short of selling myself.
I was replaced.
It took me a while.
It took all my well wishers to remind me who I am. I am treasured. I am invaluable (well to them at least), before I could stop choking multiple times everyday, before I could fall asleep on a dry pillow.
It took me an expensive crop top,
It took me a silent walk with a friend,
It took many compliments on my nature from strangers,
It took me a short dress,
It took me long laughs with non-friends,
It took me 2 bottles of pills,
It took me a while.
It took me 2 years.
I am back with some scars that will wither away.....or maybe not.
Stronger than before.
The Uncle
There are times when I accept the replacement, rejection, choice and there are times when I am in so much pain that I have to relive the beautiful memories which I protected from being tarnished, just so I can function in daily life. One such morning today.
The Uncle, who immigrated aeons ago to a land of opportunity. The strict discipline with which he led his life making him iconic of that era. The unsaid hardships of an immigrant's life, which led to those values and disciplines - part of which he carried from India. The current generation with a quiet rebellion and yet not trying to upset him. The culture of eating out resulting in the waste of precious savings. The outlook that same enjoyment can be had at home using home reserves of liquor and home made food. The perception of enjoyment - changing over generations. The value system and the ideals of immigrants...... What a beautiful peek into the past on whose pedestal we stand today.
Encapsulated by a single figure, The Uncle.
Honesty, PV and an unlikely deep friendship
It was the 20th of Jan.
The seaside breeze blew into our hairs. The sun shimmered onto the blue water which glistened in glee. We were walking as fast as our legs could manage.
There was no pause before she spoke.
We walked and she told me about what she was suffering from. Told simply, told honestly, told beautifully with no pretence. I have broken my heart in pursuit of honesty and truth - nothing but the truth. So I admired it immensely. Bare naked truth impresses me with its beauty. Always. No attempt at glossing over.
From then on, she confided and she spoke of her biggest fears with no qualms at all. How I grew to admire her from someone who did not take to her openness right away... a few years back. She spoke everyday. She expressed her frustration. She expressed her strength. I could not tell her - her strength lies in her honesty with herself and others.
She called when her radiation stopped. She expressed her fears. She expressed her vulnerability.
Does she realise how beautiful that makes someone?
Prayers for you dear P. I have given so much of myself that right now I am a bit bereft. However, I will fill myself again.
Till then, I will pray.
Projection!!
Nothing hurts more than when your pain is denied and doubted. It is called a "projection" of your mind. The countless nights without sleep are poofed away into nothingness. The sleepless nights of tears welling and drying and welling again are not facts but "projections" of the mind. It is astounding how people tell themselves "(so-called)Vital Lies" to justify their actions.
The blame lies at my doorstep though. If I do not give more importance to my health and happiness, how can anyone else give?
The Teacher
Mr. Andrew Mollitt.
A teacher who transformed Arunav's journey in mathematics .... and yet he says today,"I am not sure I have taught you much but we have had a good exciting 4 years of journey together and it has been incredible for me."
This was the last 3-Way conference of Arunav in school. It had a twinge of sadness for me. The end of a journey. So many people shaped him into who he is today....
It was the end of Grade 7 when Mr. Hunter told us in a very sceptical tone - well, he can go to Mr. Mollitt's class in Grade 11 but the only class that fits his timetable is Calculus. Do you think he can manage? I said I will ask him and Arunav said yes. That was the start of his journey with Andrew Mollitt. Come Grade 9, he gets him as his maths teacher and I recall the first 3-way conference we had with him. He said, well as you may already know and as is evident to all he is very capable - he is not only capable as in he is top of class - he is way beyond the class. So I think he should prepare for Further Maths and I think he can sit for the exam at the end of Grade 10.
We did not think about it. Arunav did not think about it. He thought of him and offered. It changed his journey.
Today, he respects us enough to have a chat with us about whether we will be staying here, what are our plans. He hopes Arunav oneday will come and visit and help inspire younger minds. A typical Englishman, typical mathematician - does not say much, does not praise much - but what is said, is so meaningful and so true to the core that "much" else is not needed.
A tribute to a teacher. To teachers who care and who make a difference.
M and More
M wrote today.
We have not talked for so long but when does that ever matter. She reminded me of who I was and who I am. How invaluable is that? Everyone knows how difficult it is to earn her respect. So when she says she respects me, it inspires me to be more than the human I am now.
I anyway am very happy with myself but she inspires me to do more, be more.
A Teacup and The Tea
A pale pinkish porcelain cup which was so thin that it glowed when I moved myself to have the light behind it. I, of course, could not dream of touching the cup - let alone move it. So an early understanding of physics set in, as I moved my vantage point to watch the pale pinkish glow much like the middle of a lily petal where the white of the flower is transitioning into the bright pink of the edges - it is the colour of the transition. A swirling body of light brown liquid with a tinge of orange at the edges poured into the precious little cup with a matching saucer. Ma would then squeeze exactly two drops of lemon in it and the brown with a tinge of orange turned a more vibrant orange. Bapi would sip it and say, "Ah" with his eyes closing in satisfaction. That's all the thank you Ma ever got for her efforts. The water boiled for a whole minute before the precious brown Darjeeling tea leaves (only a few needed) were sprinkled onto it, the gas immediately switched off and the saucepan quickly covered with a flat aluminium cover, and left to brew for three minutes. Too much leaves will make it bitter; boiling the leaves will make it bitter - robbing it of the rich aroma, rich flavour, rendering Bapi's trip, all the way from Belur to College Street to the one and only Subodh Brothers for a pack of their choicest Darjeeling Teas, useless.
So, the first thing I learnt as a curious and bored child who just wanted to chat with Ma in the kitchen, was how to make the perfect cup of Darjeeling Tea. A brown paper packet that was ubiquitous in our tiny little home at Belur and probably the most expensive item in the very modest kitchen shelf. The tin container in which the tea would be stored was quality tested by Bapi for airtight-ness. The empty blue Glaxo Baby milk powder tin container did not make the mark. Farex tin container did. And so my childhood image of the precious Darjeeling Tea always comes in a Farex tin with three images of the same baby : crawling, scratching the back and bending down with much ease to do 'touch your toes'.
The cupset however, dominates my fancy and imagination. It was the most beautiful porcelain I have seen and I have no recollection of the brand but my memory of it is fancier than the Noritakes we own today. The modesty of our lower middle class home had a richness we do not have today. The price of teacups in our current home has not matched the value of the pale-pink teacups of Belur.
Dedicated to a dear friend who values the little things in life and who inspired me to write this today.
Bapi
It was 2009.
I have consoled so many with my experience of processing the pain.
The bleak days.
How it stays - the loss is permanent.
How I live his life to commemorate who he was.
Every step.
I thought I got it.
13 long years.
I was there.
And yet, those piercing words that showed altered reality
brought him back.
The need of him by me.
Just to give me that accepting smile.
Which washed away the deepest rejections.
Just to hear his voice calling Tuya once more.
And silence once more.
Loss, Home and a tryst with Tokyo
Every joy craves sharing. When a connection is lost, it is that sharing that is severed and hence the pain from the loss of the share. The pain recurs at every joy. Every joy becomes tainted.
It was a chance Sunday afternoon that made a pool of old acquaintances and unknown Tokyo folks pick up that pain and turn it into half a joy. As they talked about A Gentleman in Moscow, the conversation turned to Russian literature, my favourite, which then went onto little lanes of College Street, traversing dusty old bookshops and Vostok. Vostok was located right opposite to the numerous small shops selling wedding cards, across the then MG Road. As the pop-up Masha was mentioned, it reminded me of the monthly magazine, "Misha", bapi (my father) subscribed for me. I used to wait for the glossy magazine with beautiful colours and figures and cartoons and information from parts of the world I had no access to. There was no internet. It was a window into the beautiful world outside as I imagined that time. That world was created by these magazines which were priceless.
Ma had carefully preserved one of them. Actually, she did not carefully preserve - it is just the way she is and home is to me with her. Things are preserved. They are not easily thrown away for the sake of temporary cleanliness or the recent fad of minimalistic living. Ma's home is one such. It is still a treasure trove for me. I find old postcards in a corner of the dusty bookshelf which were written by my school friends, now long lost. I find a book in which I was given the freedom to scribble something random when I had no sense of what the book was about. Saratchandra's Parineeta will have a pressed leaf inside which would have created black moss-like marks on the pages of the book, rendering it a little illegible in those areas. I was given the freedom and so the footprints of time remain captured indelibly; 40 odd years since the little girl, super shy in demeanour and exact opposite in thought process, had left a leaf inside Parineeta.
Coming back to Misha. In my last Dec 2019 visit to Kolkata, ma asked me to bring the magazine with me. I now have the 9/1984 edition of Misha in my home. In tatters. The edges are worn out. The right hand corner of the back cover has been eaten up by termites. The middle pages have come loose, As I flipped through them I realised they belong to another monthly edition - ha ha ha. The beauty of imperfection. How I love it.
The half joy was in sharing those pages which delighted everyone, at the precious reversal of time. It was astounding to the cleanliness and orderliness of the present world to see torn pages of 1984 float up onto the screens of smartphones.
Ma's effortless being, bringing joy to people far beyond her reach. Such existences are blessings beyond human comprehension.
Re-New
It is that very happy season of New Year.
Fresh hopes, Fresh starts.
The happiness of "fresh starts" however, stems from the comforts of continuity of the old. Such was our gathering of the year end which brimmed onto the 1st of Jan. Comfort of old friends who never left, who struggled through the ups and downs, through the randomness, through our not-so-beautiful facets.
For those who did not want us. We can keep the goodbyes at the doorstep of the old, because of the comfort of those who are holding our hands while we struggle to put the heavy load of goodbyes down at the step.
Does it pain still? Yes, but the load is lessening. SanB said on the first day of the year, you are phenomenal in your capacity to comfort and your intuition in knowing when one needs it. I wondered how does one seek comfort though?
Maybe it is in comforting that comfort lies. When I give, I receive.
A walk and spoiled eggs
"A" has a calmness about her and a cuteness about her. While we walked up and down the terrain on a hot day, she said, "I try to be eco friendly and cycle to every place. The other day I came back from grocery with a box of eggs. They fell from my cycle." ("saare ande gir gaye yaar")
N and I laughed our way up and down till our sides hurt, the trees echoed our laughter and the sky turned a brighter blue.
Such is the power of small things. A small step. A step by my side - c'est tout!
Charlie Brown
Every day, I spend laughing, smiling.
Just existing and
Every night, I spend slowly
With the remnants of pain.
I don't leave it in the corner.
I don't try to forget it.
I don't try to ignore it
under the stone of denial.
I take it out carefully,
sit and look at it again,
brush off the unsettled dust,
and look at it honestly.
I examine the pain.
I examine what remains of me.
I try to frame my new me.
The old me is gone.
I read a Charlie Brown,
Effortlessly I smile wide.
I live again.
I think of reading again.
I will, one day, painlessly smile again.
The Delight
That is what Poolak means.
He was in charge of RSS - Rate Setting System in Citi Tokyo. He was bald and had a round face-n-body when I first met him in the Aug of 2000. I was fresh out of MBA college, stepping into the world of Finance, of which I understood less than I understood of Dickens and Voltaire. Yet there I was.
My desk was right next to him. I wanted to reach the top in the shortest possible time - exponential was my intended trajectory. He was very happy to be seated next to mine with an intended trajectory of a lark - efficient in working but happy to go wherever life took him. While I was busy traversing the political world of Citi, saving myself from a dagger or two as I climbed fast .... he was inconsequential in my climb and rise. I was happy to lead projects to clean and efficient conclusion and noticed him because his component to the project was always delivered before time and with no glitches ever. I also occasionally noticed that he laughed a lot. Laughed at the slightest provocation and he loved British humour. He had very eclectic literary tastes with no appearance of it - in fact quite the contrary. You knew him only after you have gulped down a few coffees with him.
Years passed by, he remained, I left..... and life took over as our path again crossed in Singapore. He again remained in the outskirts of my fiery existence in this city state till he chose to contract the dreaded disease of cancer. Somewhere it shook my being. I have known him on and off work, a colleague and a friend, in smiles and in tears through 21 long years. He was a part of the canvas of my life for too long a time.
I visited him in the odd hours of an afternoon - alone, as soon as I heard. I could not keep him in the outskirts. I could not wait for a proper time to visit. I could not wait to ask permission for a convenient time for me to visit. I could not wait for someone to accompany me for the visit. I just went.
The fragility of life vibrated in front of me.
His fears, his hopes, his shiver at the mention of prospective pain while chemo started.
The fragility shone in front of me.
There he was all bare, naked with his deepest fears trembling in his eyes, his life slipping out of his hand. I fought hard to see the blue sky past his still bald head. His constant jokes, so much a part of him, pained me even as they inevitably made me laugh out loud. What was an uncertainty to him, was a certainty visible to me. They were forced to decide to leave for India at long last.
The last three days of his stay in Singapore was in our house. I must have done something good in my life to be gifted with those moments. We canceled every thing we had for those 3 days. We talked of our families, the parts that hurt and the parts that gratified. We talked of and watched the funniest British comedy shows and rolled in laughter over the Sub Prime crisis. When he ate only the cashew nuts from a mix of Almonds and Cashews, I questioned him on his choice of whites over browns and he replied he loved Trump. He took the whole day to drink a cup of cold coffee - in his case, the coffee "unfortunately turned warm" instead of a lament over the opposite phenomenon.
As he finally limped slowly out of the lift towards the car waiting to take him to the airport, his smile seemed to fade and quiver. As he slowly lifted his operated leg to fit inside the car, his smile trembled in his eyes. As the door was about to close, I could not stop myself from giving him a long and tight hug. He held me and his voice trembled as he said, "Amar bhishon kanna pachhe Sulata."
There are many goodbyes in life.
Some stay etched for eternity. For inexplicable reasons.
To SBA Kaku
I have so much to tell - the joy and the pain intermingled, makes it difficult though. I can express the joy. The pain, not really. I cannot bring myself to share pain. You epitomise joy to me. The joy of writing. The joy of reading. The joy of exploring. Joy, for the sake of joy. No definition, no reason but joy for just being. There is no deeper meaning of existence, isn't it?
A simple book. A simple letter.
That's all it takes. That's all it took.
Goodbye
Goodbyes
are always hard.
One left at the airport, with a smile
A sure wish to meet again
A sure promise to smile again.
The other left the heart.
No promises.
No smiles.
With a wish that we do not meet again.
Clay and Pain
The clay formed in my hands, fingers.
It formed in my mind.
It took shape through the grief.
The hand moves and gives shape
to what the heart felt, the mind thought.
"Grief. turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it."
Walking with Rusan
It was free, simple. Not exciting, not exhilarating. Just quiet and nice. No rush, no pressures. After a night of not a wink, it was a walk that calmed my soul. Balmed it. I changed plans and watched the orange sun rise behind the dark grey clouds lighting up the edges with an orange golden glitter. She waited for me patiently. She asked me to stop by the beach. I did. We did not express wild joy at having walked together, but smiled into each others' eyes while parting. C'est tout! That was enough .... with a plan to meet again.
2 hours of walk to clean up hours of fatigue.
We also talked of Turkey and India.
There's a silence
There's a silence.
So still, I can hear my heart beat.
It still does.
Miraculously.
The night is peaceful and dark.
So still, I can hear my baby breathe.
She sleeps peacefully.
Un-miraculously.
The darkness stretches its arm.
Yet the night is crystal clear.
How did the dark light up so well?
The light of truth.
Truth when visible in its stark naked form.
Lights up the night.
Night it still is.
Dark it still is.
Yet there is light.
There is silence.
Truth pains the heart.
Slices through the kindness.
Truth liberates the soul.
The lightness of being as truth liberates.
There is silence.
There is truth in silence.
How can liberation be so hurtful?
The answer lies in the silence of the night.
The darkness blankets the chilled soul.
The silence soothes the severed soul.
A final truth lies
cushioned in the night's silence.
One more autumn leaf
So we try again
and again and...
Not to let that last leaf fall
We stick it up
We tie it up
We hold it up
We wish it up...
It still droops
It still falls
The life inside is gone
How long do you hold it up?
We question, what is that life?
when did it go?
what makes that life?
Silence surrounds.
The pundit
He sat chanting the mantras
Loud, clear, booming.
Echoing around the room.
Peace, Serenity, in spite
of the pain and tears.
The mantras did not reach them
"Cover your head"
"Throw it this way"
"Not the right, the left"
Peace, Serenity vanished.
The ritual over.
The pundit looks up and says,
"Let the good words in,
Let the bad words out"
and turns to look at me.
So much meaning in those words
So much care in those looks
Care as a human soul for another.
Balm for the wound.
God comes to life.
Svaha
Svaha.
The body is gone.
Maybe the soul lingers
To watch the tears
To watch the pain
To watch the sorrow.
Some speechless in sorrow
Tears well up and dry
Well up again and dry again
The loss permanent, irreversible,
unfathomable.
Others vocal about the rightness of the ritual
The mantra doesn't reach the soul.
The ritual rules, the body rules.
The essence non-existent,
The spirit non-existent.
The fire burns, the woods crackle
The tears can't smother the fire.
The fragrance no match for the heat.
Mace, Sandalwood, Cardamom, Ghee, Clove
Burns and burns, till none remains.
The hours pass unnoticed
The chants reverberate
The mind numbs to the pain
Thoughts cease. Feelings cease.
The chants overpower all.
The distance between the two worlds
vanished.
Svaha.
An evening muse
So yes, I write because I cannot but - When I do not I have withdrawal symptoms :)
This happened sometime back, but I feel like keeping it here as I cherish the memory of it. Our usual bed time talks led us to little A saying "I gave S half my Milo bar but she didn't give me more of her sandwich..." Big A answers, "When you give, you don't expect anything back. If you expect - that's trading, not giving."
Little A looked stumped :)
Too quick too fast
Right after my post yesterday came the news of cancer again.
My friend and someone I feel close to - whether she does or not, is immaterial to me. I do. Someone younger than me. Someone with beautiful children, beautiful simple family. Touched by the C word.
I still cannot talk or think about it without choking.... and I wonder when will it come even nearer.
It is the easiest cancer - best success rate - should be no worry....and yet why can I not digest it?
The end result is not the only thing. It is the journey, it is the path - ahh, how long and how painful and how life-changing it is.... There is no fun, there is no joy, all that you have and need is "grit" "grit" grit" with loads of faith.
I feel like the senseless animal who wants to just ask - why? Why she? Why them? I tell myself "it's ok" and something inside me cries out 'how is it ok?'
I know I will feel better. I know they will be fine. I know life will go on. I know they will emerge stronger.
That same feeling of the silent volcanic eruption which shakes up the whole system. Tomorrow will look better.
An end and a start
Another year passed by, another year began. I guess old people talk like this. If this is a necessary and sufficient condition, I am old - as those words came to my mind as soon as I opened my thoughts to a title for the first post of the year..
But I feel young. I feel happy.
I have not worked to keep myself feeling young but I have worked really hard to keep myself happy. So yay to me :)
I talked (including electronic talk like email, sms, whatsapp) to most of the people who make me feel happy, who bring out the positive in me. I tried not to let my unhappiness spill over to the ones forced to be near and close to me :) I found myself a new task and challenge (learning cycling at this very young age ;) and I am super excited with the progress and my commitment to it. Soon I will have a more boring post on that :)
My first week of the year went well. Happy new year!
A visit to Willing Hearts
A few hands, a few chops, a few hours
off the idle days;
What a lot of difference to those who have
no hands to feed them anymore.
Winter in Singapore
is indicated by a slight chill as early as 5.30am. The sun on my balcony moved at an angle. It streamed in at 9am earlier and now it is smiling at 8.30am due to the changed angle. The sun never came from the west before, but now the afternoons are brighter. The sun "shines" on the leaves and does not glare at them. The grass in the morning is mistier.
The midday still scorches :)
Philosophy
Interesting conversation I had with the big A last night. It made us all sleep late - but astute observation nevertheless.
He said, while comparing FIS with his new school, here there are more principles like resilience, care, collaboration, service, etc and the children are so mindful of that, they are not natural. They don't laugh at naturally funny stuff because that may violate one of the principles. They are like robots. In the previous school they laughed when some one said "nins and peedles" but when I laughed here, none of the other children did. They did not find it funny. They all behave in the same way. In FIS, the children were all different.
I said, in other words you are telling me here the children are moulded in a particular way? It is interesting you say that because lot of studies believe that schools are a mechanism of 'brain washing' (for the lack of a better word).
He nodded.
I tried not to look astounded.
Camp
Both As back from camp.
Aarushi after 2 days (1 night) and Arunav after 5 days. Both crashed to sleep. Both could not stop talking :)
A Happy 10th Birthday
A birthday so different and so fulfilling. Surrounded by new kids so welcoming and open - they beat hands down the ones who knew him for 6 years..... 6 looong years. The words "Hey Arunav it's your bday, you need to be in the middle." "Arunav is the star today - woohoo" "Cool Ved, your team has 47 - don't worry we will get there" and many more such friendly exchanges - children so natural, children so like children.
A decision made. A decision final. Have never seen him happier.
Kids in the newland
While this old hag misses her old setting and comfort zone, the kids so far are having a blast in their new environment.
They had 3 birthday parties since they came here. They had no playdates, but they played with friends every morning and afternoon. They played (with children) more in the last 15 days than they have played in the last 2 years in Hong Kong. They swim, they skate, they cycle and they seem to really like it here.
Let's hope it will carry to school. Let's hope the biggest factor will be in favour of them. The rest will fall in place. The rest can remain.
Migration without change
The sunset that is never ending
The price that one never stops paying;
The listless, dry haze that covers the day,
Is more painful than one can say.
The faces changed; the little door became big
The smiles vanished; the expressions more tight-lipped.
The heat surged in. The winter went.
Still it is more painful than one can say.
The girls dance to the music and laugh
The carefree laughter, the sound... so alien
The little boy turns and looks up
The crease of the smile is also painful to say.
Acceptance, tolerance - two things more valuable than one can say.
The quiet one
The one whose name is not always splashed in the news...be it newspaper or newsletters. She steals the show quietly or so the teachers said :) It always brings a smile. Lucas' mamma said, "L told my husband. You can beat me in chess but not Aarushi - no one can beat her. She is the best." And poor Aarushi - at home she is mostly always beaten by Arunav - so no wonder she likes playing only in school, not at home :)
The French teacher said," I don't always say this of children - but she is really talented in language - she is brilliant." For at least a year she will have to give up French for Mandarin. I felt guilty I do not end up giving much time to her - but may be that is working to her benefit !
She has a sleepover with her best best friend and she is over the moon. I hope she does not miss us. I want her to enjoy and be happy fully. Till the cup overflows...
Demenager: on the moving of the display cabinet
A young man, with a slight bend, body thin and stripped of fat with a smile showing nearly all the partly yellowed teeth, a smile that wrinkled the eyes.
An old man, straight as a stick, equally thin and stripped of fat with a smile showing very few teeth, the ones left are equally yellowed, a slight smile not reaching the eyes.
They lifted the heavy cupboard with ease, talked about how they can improvise to make things easy. Took out a bundle of ropes, tied them around the dismantled doors to give them a hold. And many such tiny improvisations making a Herculean task so easy....
The sharpness of the brain when we are surrounded by need and resource constraint, is a marvel to watch. That's what human beings are designed for. That's how we thrive. Not in the couches, not in the comfort, not with affluence. The comforts rot us, strips us of the richest resource we have, our intelligence. The brain clouds in the comfort, the brain degenerates and disappears in the talks of Louis Vuitton bags or the Lamborghinis.
To be in the mud and not be muddied is the challenge.
