In Dehradun

True to form this time, even my last flight from Delhi to DDN was late. I was in a foul mood and completely exhausted.

The 40-seater small aircraft and its bumpy takeoff didn't help my mood any. Till, in the distance, I saw the first sight of the Himalayas - snow capped and extending in both directions as far as I could see. I was moved. I had never imagined that I would set eyes on the Himalayas in person in this lifetime or that it would affect me so much. It was just awesome and was so completely unexpected. Suddenly, it was as if all the hassle with getting here never even happened.

And so now, I am in Dehradun. Small city, friendly people. The house has a view of Mussorie from the front balcony. We are planning to go there soon.
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It is really surprising to see what draws the attention of kids. Small N is fascinated by a brick house being built next door. She spends hours watching them lay the bricks in a row, putting cement on top and then moving on to the next row. She's never seen any brick houses being built, only wooden houses in NZ.

Born or made?

Had this really heated argument with friends here yesterday.

Perspective #1: All kids are born with innate intelligence. It is how life and circumstances enable them to apply what they were born with that creates geniuses and super-intelligent kids – ie, everyone has the ability to ‘shine’ but only some are given the circumstances that enable them to do so.

Perspective #2: Only some kids are born with the ability to be highly intelligent and to do well academically and otherwise. That is why not all kids are bright and superachievers because they don't have that ability .

Three of us screamed like banshees for 5 minutes, trying to convince each other that our perspective was the right one. The fourth one was waiting for the right time to make her point. After 5 minutes, we all had to split to complete various other chores at home. So the debate was inconclusive. Just as well, as otherwise, being mature, intelligent women, we might have come to blows;-)

Now, which one is the right perspective?

My first freegan encounter

While waiting at the supermarket checkout on Sunday, I was idly flicking through a mag on all things green. And in there was an article on the food fad known as ‘freeganism’.

Click here to read the rest of the post.

35 years ago

SGR: 30 June 1942 to 30 October 1973

It was the lightning that woke her up. At least that’s what she thought. She could hear the rain and see the lightning through the small window in the bedroom. As she closed her eyes again, and curled up all ready to go to sleep again, she saw her father coming into the bedroom. He was leaning on her mother and saying Muddiyalay, oru madhiri irukku (Very tired, feeling unwell/uncomfortable). She went right back to sleep the comfortable sleep of a four-year old.

Till she was woken up yet again. She was angry then. She didn’t want to get up. But somebody was asking her to, calling her name and patting her shoulder. She sleepily opened her eyes. How funny!!! It was still dark. And there were so many people in the bedroom. The auntie from the opposite flat. Some man who was rubbing Daddy’s feet – Daddy was lying still on the bed. And someone else too. And where was amma? She was standing near the bed and was she crying? Where was her little brother?

But before she could go to her amma, the auntie grabbed her hand and said, come on, let us go and sleep in my house. No, no, I don’t want to, she said. I want to be here with amma. But somehow, nobody seemed to be taking much notice of her – not even when she burst into tears.

She didn’t remember where or how she slept in that auntie’s house that night. Nor did she remember what happened the next few days except for a few stray incidents. Lots and lots of people in her house, thatha, patti, mamas, mamis, periappas, chittis etc. The whole gamut of relatives and lots of other people she did not know.

Lots of men chanting and her father lying in balcony of their home. And horrors, someone cutting away his shirt. Actually cutting it. She ran forward, asking them to stop, but again, she was shushed, albeit gently. Didn’t they understand that they were ruining her Daddy’s shirt?

She also remembered a whole group of people going away from home, some of them carrying her father on their shoulders. And she was angry that her brother got to go out with them and she wasn’t allowed. She wanted to badger her amma till she was allowed to go with them. But she was told that she couldn’t,and once again her mini-tantrum was ignored.

As days passed, she simply accepted the fact that they were now living in Mylapore, with her thatha and patti, instead of in Ashok Nagar. She accepted that she had a new school and a new life. She accepted that her mother had to go to ‘office’ now daily. As children do.

Things went on as per normal.

Being a child, she also accepted the gradual realisation that came to her – that she would never see her Daddy again.

This is what I can remember about the night my life and my family’s life changed forever. Sometimes I wonder how I can remember it so clearly when I can barely remember anything of my life before that day…

Navarathri manjal kungumam invite

Happy Saraswathi puja to you all.

Ladies, and girls: check out our kolu (in its full glory below) and do drop in for manjal kungumam (haldi kumkum) and prasadam (sundal et al).

The men are welcome too!


this here is our wildlife reserve on the right and the farm on the left.

This is of course, Disneyland!!!! Don't miss the skating rink.

PS: In case you are not familiar with the bommai kolu concept, please remember that a willing suspension of disbelief is essential to enjoy the spectacle in its entirety.

Dy(e)ing to design

I was at the littlie’s school last evening to demonstrate ‘India’, as their topic for this term is India. From saris to ghagras and Diwali, we talked about all that and then talked some more to the kids about henna.

Finally came the practical session, which was also the grand finale of the evening: we had to put henna on the kids’ hands. Although I can do the southie way of henna quite well (which is more basic shapes, as opposed to the really delicate northie designs), I did my darnedest best to accommodate the kids’ requests, such as hearts, butterflies, suns etc. Till it was one little boy’s turn.

Little Boy: Can I have a shape done on my hand too?
Me: (encouragingly)'Course, u can. What shape would you like?
LB: A body?
Me: A body? (struggling a bit here)Um, sure, what sort of a body?
LB: A dead body…

Faking it

This literally makes me see red.

I can live with (or without) the fake fireworks and the fake cleanliness. But this?

How could they do that to a child? How? Start early. Start telling them from now that they are “ugly”. No age is too early to start the stereotyping. I feel sick.

What else will they fake next?

Cashew memories

Take a childhood memory.
Fry it in lots and lots of nostalgia.
And what do you get? Click here to see.

Teacher talk

(This is a true incident. Names of teachers, students and subjects have been changed for their own protection:-)

Student Brinch: Miss Maples, can we please have our philosophy assignment grades.

Miss Maples: I am sorry, but you can’t because I haven’t marked them yet.

SB: But Miss Maples, Miss Figg’s class have had their assignments back 3 days ago. Why can’t we?

MM: Well, Miss Figg may not have a life, but I do!!

Whoever said it’s only the youth of today who are goners?

Experiment

Aim of the experiment: To find a de-stresser, beat the winter blues.

Apparatus: One primary school, whole lot of parents, their kids and a few dance moves.

Procedure:
Step 1: Find out at the 11th hour that your child has a folk dance show at school that evening.
Step 2: Forget cooking (helps when you have an older child who is amenable to making pizza), get child ready, go to school.
Step 3: Drop child off and sit with other parents as (supposedly) audience.
Step 4: Watch group of kids dance and cheer them on, thinking: this is real cute.
Step 5: Discover at the end of that dance that parents of those children are expected to join their kids for the next round of dancing and do the same dance moves (what? I didn’t even look properly).
Step 6: Wait for you turn with some trepidation (yup, this is exactly what I wanted – to make a fool of myself in front of 200 other people).
Step 7: Loving the way your child and her class dance.
Step 8: Psyching yourself up and stepping onto the dance floor, as you know your child will be utterly disappointed if you don’t.
Step 9: Dancing, absolutely loving every minute of it.
Step 10: Feeling great after the dance is over, in spite of the wheezing breath.

Observation: Most parents wore smiles on their faces throughout the evening. So did the teachers and the kids. Personally, you’re left feeling really relaxed and happy.

Inference: It really works! Dancing an impromptu jig with your child, in front of an audience, is a great way to feel good;-) Just try it.

Hmmm...

Have to go to my older one’s school this evening. Parent-teacher interviews.

I’ve been strictly coached by my 15-year-old horror on the proper attire, accent etc. And she ended her list of long instructions with: “Umm, and amma, I know this is a long list of instructions, but one more: can you please make sure you don’t ask my teachers any clever questions, ok? They won’t know the answers.”