Eid Mubarak!

Eids always make me nostalgic… I am transported back to Mubarak Munzil – the home that I grew up in and that I still love and the magical Eids we celebrated there.  

Bathed and dressed in our new clothes, with hennaed hands, we would crowd around the breakfast table. The menu was always the same. Piping hot kichdi, dalcha, papad-badi and two varieties of seviyan. The one made with sugar by my mother and the other made with jaggery – my grandmother’s specialty.

After breakfast, we went with Abba to the Eidgah. We were left in the car while Abba and my brother said their prayers. Sometimes, our neighbours would accompany us to the Eidgah. We would buy cheap, plastic toys with our Eidi. What treasures they seemed to our innocent eyes! The bright, multi-coloured toy tiffin carriers and a host of little things that gave us such joy. Eid prayers completed, we would trudge to the cemetery and pay our respects at the graves of our grandfather and other deceased relatives. From there, we invariably went to Abba’s aunt’s house. Hers was a large family – her daughter and four sons and their families all lived together in a sprawling house. We would first visit her and then each uncle in turn which meant a round of seviyan everywhere!

Lunch was the traditional biryani. There were always friends at the table. So we loitered around, eating, talking, laughing… Sated, we would continue our conversation in another room. Idle chatter, silly jokes, teasing each other... such wonderful times we had!

Evenings saw a continuous flow of relatives who came to greet my grandmother and take her blessings. Then there was dinner – where we sometimes had people coming over or we were invited to the houses of friends and family. Time seemed to move at a leisurely pace then. Nobody was in a rush and Eids were a joyous occasion of family and friends coming together, sharing food, conversation and laughter.

When we grew older and could not accompany Abba to the Eidgah, we followed our mother as she led the prayers at home. My sisters, the maids, the cook all standing in a line behind my mother. Her duas after the namaaz, were for the whole world. She asked for health for all the diseased and ill, for prosperity for the poor, happiness and peace of mind for those going through difficult times. She prayed for the Palestinians, the Bosnians and whoever at that moment in time was facing persecution. Her duas were so impassioned that they made us all cry. Trying to appear unaffected and ‘cool’ - in the words of today’s generation - my sister and I hid our tears behind a nonchalant smile as we embraced each other.  

Those Eids are a thing of the past. Abba, Dada and so many of our relatives who were such an integral part of every Eid are no more. Life is rushed and the business of living consumes our every waking moment. Few of us have time to apply mehendi or make elaborate preparations for Eid. The Eidi has increased but the joy it brings has decreased. Yes, Eids makes me nostalgic and my heart yearns for the Eids of the past. Those innocent, joyous Eids at Mubarak Munzil!

So, what makes you smile, chuckle, chortle, giggle?

They say that we reveal our character by the things we laugh at, by what we find funny. Our first instinct, when someone falls, is to laugh. So the person who falls not only has to worry about the scrapes and wounds, but also the ignominy and embarrassment of a crowd that finds his fall funny. 

When we were growing up ‘comedy’ for us meant Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chaplin, Tom & Jerry. Today we are surrounded by comedy shows, sitcoms, rom-coms, stand-up comedians, funny movies.... and yet we have become increasingly intolerant and unable to take a joke. Indians have always been accused of having no sense of humour. I guess we are a serious lot, carrying as we do, a 5000 year civilization on our frail shoulders. But look at our history - our kings loved a good laugh. Court jesters were appointed to entertain the king. And the witticisms of Birbal and Tenaliraman are legendary.    

Here are the top five things that make me smile:

1. Peanuts Comics - Charlie Brown and his friends can always, always make me chuckle
2. Orson’s Farm Comics - An amazing bunch of characters beautifully delineated
3. America’s Funniest Videos and the candid camera type of shows
4. The humour in Kung Fu Panda, Ice Age and Madagascar. Silly movies like Welcome, especially some scenes that really set me off
5. Some TV shows like Yes Boss and Sarabhai Vs Sarabhai. I like the British brand of humour: loved Mind Your Language, Yes Prime Minister and Are You Being Served?

What I cannot stand is the comedy show where all the contestants believe that you cannot say something funny without it having a sexual innuendo. The canned laughter, Archana Puran Singh’s loud, forced laughter and the crass, over-the-top humour of the contestants puts me off - totally. I guess I am a prude that way.

Sometimes the silliest of things sets me off. I remember Anu and I were at a parlour once and there was this lady who had just finished a relaxing facial and dozed off. She kept snoring and every time she snored Anu and I would just double up. What was funny about that? Don’t ask me, it seemed real funny at that time :)    

So, what tickles your funny bone?

Thoughts on Parenting

It is, without doubt, the toughest, most important, most challenging, most rewarding and the most frustrating job in the world. And there is no course that prepares you for it. You are not trained for this job and while there may be many books out there on parenting, nothing - and nobody - can every prepare you for this onerous task. And while it is a universal experience, it is also a truly unique one. There are billions of parents out there in the world and billions of ways of parenting. How one parent brings up a child is vastly different from how another rears his brood. Social, cultural and religious mores all play their part. For instance how a child is brought up in India is way different from how a child is brought up in the US. 

For years, I was wracked with guilt because I thought I had ‘failed’ as a mother. Getting back to work when my daughter was just three months old, leaving her at the mercy of paid help, carting her around to my workplace and meetings, leaving her to fend for herself at a very young age, I felt I was a real bad mother. That I never gave her the childhood she deserved. It took me a long, long time to get over the guilt and realise that I had brought up a wonderful daughter: one with the right values, one who was honest, true to herself, compassionate, helpful and generally what we would describe as a “good” human being.  

A lot of my ‘Aha!’ moments or moments of self-realisation have come from my daughter’s epiphanies.   Some months ago, my daughter turned to me and said “I think your dad did a fabulous job of bringing you up”. My immediate instinct was to point out that it was my mom who brought us up really, not my dad. But I thought about it. It was true, my dad had played his role too. As had my grandmom. We (my siblings and I) are a sum total of this parenting by all of them. Yet they never told us “This is right - this is what you should do” or “You must not do this”. It was something we saw, we learnt, we imbibed. And that really is the best way. Because children don’t do what you ask them to do, they do what they see you do. Monkey see, monkey do, right? I really find it strange when parents tell their children the ill effects of smoking and drinking, but happily do both. Or are shocked when their kids use foul language, when they swear all the time. 

There really are no rules in parenting. No dos and don’ts. You simply have to go by instinct. I have seen parents who have been too strict with their kids and the children just went ahead and did things behind their back. I have seen parents give their children way too much freedom and that has back-fired too. I have seen parents who tried hard to be their child’s friend. But hey, your child already has plenty of friends, but he/she has only one set of parents. So be the parent. A friendly, responsive, supportive parent. But a parent nonetheless. Children need parents. They need to know that whatever life throws at them, they can count on the love of their parents (who else can love them unconditionally, besides their dog?). They need to know that their home is a safe harbour where they can return to, when the storms of life buffet them around. They need to know that however hard it gets out there, they can still manage because their parents are watching out for them and will continue to - till their last breath. 

Of all the roles I play in my life, the one that is closest to my heart, the one that I most cherish is my role of a mother. It fulfils me like nothing else does. My daughter’s cheerful “Ma!” is the sweetest sound in the world for me. When I look around and see several of my  friends battling it out with their kids, having hard-to-resolve issues with those whom they have given birth to and reared, or damaging them, intentionally or unintentionally, I feel grateful for doing some things right. 

Like loving my child and showing her that I love her in many, different ways. Making her feel special, indulging her, never ever laughing at her dreams, or her fears, her hurts, her insecurities. 

Like always being there for her - even if not physically. My daughter knows that I am always just a call away.

Like building a strong relationship with her. So many times we fail to really nurture relationships. We assume that once the relationship is established, we don’t need to work on it. Every relationship needs to be nurtured - continuously - like a garden. You can’t just water it once and expect it to bloom.   

Like keeping the lines of communication open always. My daughter and I established a routine of sorts. When she was smaller, I worked flexi-hours and would pick her up from school. She would excitedly share all that happened in school on the way back. Later during her college days, we would sit together after I returned from a long day at work and ask each other about our day. During her one year sabbatical post college, we would sit late into the night and watch her TV programmes together. Stuff that she wanted to watch. Some of it that I followed, some that I invariably dozed through. But always we had our ‘commercial break’ conversations. Ensuring that your child can talk to you about anything, is important. Silly conversations, serious discussions, crushes and infatuations, friends and their loves and lives, her likes and dislikes... Now that she is in hostel we have our calls late at night. I don’t have a very good phone personality, so our conversations are not as long as I’d like them to be, but we make up through long emails and short messages. 

Like being honest with her without overburdening her with our problems. It’s a fine line. I do think children need to know at least some of what’s happening in your life. However it’s also important for them to be told that this is a passing phase and that challenges are part of life and can be overcome and that Life is always beautiful, despite all the problems and difficulties. Share both the good and the bad, else they’ll think that life is only misery.

Like being stern with her at times. Children need to be disciplined, not in a harsh or violent way, but they need to be told when they are doing something wrong. By laughing it off or letting bad behaviour pass, you are actually condoning it and this could become an issue later on.  

Like letting her make her choices, take her decisions. I never ever forced her to do things she was not comfortable or happy with, whether it was the choice of a course or choice of college. I was real keen she joined Mount Carmels and she even got through the written and oral entrance exam, but she chose Jain College. And she thrived there. I cannot understand parents who push their kids into engineering or medicine simply because they believe these are better career choices. 

Like being the best that you can be. Ultimately, that’s what is most important. And I think the greatest compliment I have received in my life is one of the 50 reasons that my daughter mentioned for loving me: “Because watching the way you live your life, makes me better at living mine!”

I am therefore I write!

My writing is like me: simple, straightforward, sensible. No complex sentence structures, no nuances, no textures, no hidden meanings…. I write like I talk. In the days before email (Yes, those ancient days when, horror of horrors, there were no computers or emails!) I used to write long letters to my friends and family. A classmate who has preserved some of my letters to this day, recently told me: “Every time I read your letters, I felt you were right there in front of me, talking to me”.  I admire the way my friend Ranjana writes. And the way my daughter writes. But sadly I cannot write like them. My style is different.

I love writing. And writing is all that I wanted to do for as long as I can remember. I articulated this when I was in the sixth standard when I mentioned “Author” as my ambition in a classmate’s autograph. A word that is almost obsolete today and taken over by the more contemporary “Writer”.  I loved English classes, especially compositions - another obsolete word.  I enjoyed writing those compositions – My Best Friend, The Autobiography of a Rupee, My School… Sometimes, I would pen a poem as part of the composition. I would be called over by my teacher Miss Meera to read these compositions aloud. As I entered my tenth standard, I veered more towards poetry. I wrote poems for my siblings and cousins on their birthdays; I wrote a poem about my dad’s friend, which he proudly shared with all and sundry; I wrote poems on stuff that I saw, felt or even imagined. I was praised. My family thought I was really talented and I started believing them. So I wrote some more. And became more passionate about writing.

To write well, you must read. And I read a lot. I devoured books. It helped that I came from a family of readers and was surrounded by books and magazines. We were encouraged to read. I think there was not a single room in the house that did not have books. And that’s true of my home now too. And so I read and nursed my ambition. Literature is what I wanted to do. So off I went to Madras to do my graduation in English Literature and my post graduation in Journalism and Mass Communications  – the first girl in the family to step out of the hometown for further studies.

Destiny then brought me into advertising and I became a copywriter. I wrote for a living. I learnt to write with discipline. I learnt to write to sell. I learnt to write under pressure. I learnt to write with crazy deadlines.  My clients loved what I wrote. I remember three incidents in particular when my writing was especially noticed and appreciated, by two different Chief Ministers of Karnataka.

The first was a campaign we did focusing on communal harmony post the Babri Masjid demolition. The Government of Karnataka, through the Department of Information & Publicity wanted to do a multi-media campaign. We worked through the night and finally came out with a campaign that I am really proud of… Veerappa Moily was the Chief Minister of Karnataka then. The Client Servicing Executive and I went to his official residence on Kumara Krupa Road to present the campaign. He read through it and expressed his happiness with the work.

Years later, we did a brochure for KPCL for the inauguration of a Power Plant. The Chief Guest was the then Chief Minister of Karnataka S M Krishna. Just to make the brochure interesting, I wrote a poem on the Krishna River. The CM was so impressed with it, that he asked the MD of KPCL who had written the poem. I was given a letter of appreciation and a KPCL Bond!

A couple of years ago I did a brochure for free for a charitable organization that takes care of orphan girls and destitute women. The brochure was ‘launched’ at a function held in honour of the woman who started the Ashram. Another CM was the Chief Guest. He cursorily flipped through the brochure and then started reading it – seriously reading it, word for word. At the end of it he announced a sizeable amount to be disbursed to the Ashram. Did the money actually reach this place? That is another story.

I am a third generation writer. My maternal grandfather wrote. My mother wrote, though sadly she has not preserved any of her writings. Uncles, aunts, cousins… they all write and write well. Some of them are even published. I wrote my very first novel – more as a lark. A Mills & Boons kind of book, just to prove to a friend (who loved M&Bs) how silly these books were and how easy to write. My second novel took several years to write and is now waiting to see the light of day. There are more books waiting to be born, more stories waiting to be told. They come to me in the most unexpected moments. When I am driving. When I am day-dreaming. When I am lying on my bed and just thinking idly…

Writing is not always easy, especially for a perfectionist like me. I want every sentence to be crafted perfectly, every word to be chosen with care. Sometimes it happens naturally. That’s what I call ‘inspired’ writing. It seems to come from some divine source and I know that I cannot duplicate that again.  

Writing – like most other art forms – is a gift from God. It is not something you learn. It is inherent and then you polish it, you hone it, you make it as good as you can. I am truly grateful to Allah for giving me this gift. A gift that has defined me. A gift that has brought me such joy and satisfaction. A gift that has helped me make my passion into my livelihood. A gift that I have passed on to my daughter, a fourth generation writer. 

A Washing Machine For Souls

As I sat looking at the clothes tumbling around in my washing machine, I wondered how it would be, if there was a Washing Machine for Souls? One that would, with a turn of the knob and the press of a button, wash away the grime, the impurities and the stains that stick stubbornly to our souls. This unique Washing Machine would have different temperature settings too. A gentle handwash for the relatively clean souls. Delicate for those little baby souls that left for their heavenly abode before they could get polluted by the world. Hardened souls, encrusted and besmirched, would need higher temperature settings.

We would of course need to separate the souls, just like you do with your clothes. It wouldn’t do to mix the whites and coloureds. So those souls with just a few white lies, some petty jealousies, small white collar crimes must be washed separately from the dark coloured souls: those who have indulged in violent, blood-red atrocities; those who harbour black evil, sinister malice and hatred.

They would all go through the entire cycle. Pre-wash, wash, rinse and come out spotlessly clean. But then I wonder, would any Washing Machine be able to wash clean the souls of those who have – in the name of religion - killed humanity?

My Garden Of Eden

My husband loves gardening, loves to potter around in his tiny patch of green, humming, weeding, trimming, digging, watering…. Everybody who visits our home is amazed at how he has transformed our tiny garden into a tropical forest. Tiny birds with long tails, colourful butterflies, buzzing bees, croaking frogs and a big fat chameleon have made our garden their home. All of us love to watch the birds in our garden. They come in a group – three or four of them – especially after Sunil has watered the garden. They rest lightly on the creepers, seeming to do a fine balancing act on the green twine. They hop onto the balcony, feeding sometimes on the rice grains that Anu leaves out for them. They converse with each other in dulcet notes…. Anu told us about how one tiny bird trying to drink from the large cement pot filled with water in which lotus and water lilies floated, lost her balance and fell into the water. She came up quickly, shook off the water disdainfully and flew away.

Looking at Sunil’s love for gardening, I know he would have been delighted with the gardens around Mubarak Munzil, when we were growing up. There were three of them. A small one near my sister’s room housed a few mogra and rose plants. The fenced-in garden in front of the portico again had many flowering plants and shrubs. This was where we played many fun-filled games. The garden in the west - now that was something magical! Besides the mogras, the roses and the raat ki rani plants, there were so many fruit-bearing trees here! Pomegranate, guava, mango, two large chickoo trees with sprawling branches perfect to lounge in, fig trees, lemon trees and small patches which my grandmother had converted into miniature vineyards. There were some borrom trees that needed a long thorny trek to be reached. Close to the compound wall, these attracted many urchins who’d jump the wall to pick the borroms that generously carpeted the ground. The stone bench under the grape vines was privy to many an innocent conversation, It was here that we sat with friends and shared terribly important secrets. We played ‘house house’ in the gardens with our little toys. We sang and danced. We hid here when we were angry or sulking. Our garden was also the venue for a picnic once. One of our junior classes was unable to go to their planned venue for some reason. The Principal and teachers called up my parents and asked them if our garden could become their picnic spot. My parents agreed. So there I was perched on the ledge of the bedroom window watching a bunch of little kids tucking into their lunch boxes, playing passing the parcel and enjoying their picnic!

One year, my grandmother used the space behind our house to plant some maize. The crows swooped down. A scarecrow was placed in the middle of the crop but proved ineffective. A maid – tall and lanky – almost like a scarecrow herself was given the responsibility to shoo the birds away. So every now and then, she’d race up the stairs to the terrace with a rag in her hand. She’d stand on the terrace wall, waving the rag like a flag of truce. My second sister Nasira, who inherited my grandmother’s green thumb, looked after our gardens till she married and moved away to Dubai. Slowly, the gardens – left under the care of servants – became a neglected lot. Plants dried up. Weeds overran the place. Trees shriveled up and quietly died. But in my memory, the gardens of Mubarak Munzil are still rich and green, still buzzing with life and activity. Birds still sing here. Laughter still rings out. And little children with dreams in their eyes run about joyously.

The dreams I dream…

Dregs of half-forgotten memories. Fears surfacing from the subconscious mind – unfounded, unvoiced, unarticulated. Snatches of conversations. The faces of people I’ve loved and lost. The visages of those who live in my every waking thought. Ghosts of the past lurking in some corner of my busy mind. Events as fresh as the morning’s newspaper… These wake up when I go to sleep.

I dream so many dreams every night: vivid, multiple dreams with the power to cheer or chill. Vestiges of the dreams linger through the day, colouring my mod – sometimes a bright, sunny yellow, sometimes a bleak grey.

When I was studying in Chennai and later working in Bangalore, I’d have nightmares about losing my mother. I’d rush to the Telecom Office near my Hostel at a decent hour and call home. I could relax only after I heard my mother’s voice and assured myself that she was fine.

After a friend, Sujatha, once paid a surprise visit all the way from the US, I dreamt my best friend and soul sister Ranjana had surprised me too. I shared the dream with her in an email and she went to a great deal of trouble to make my dream come true!

Sometimes my dreams are a harbinger of things to come. I had dreamt of my nephew’s arrival before my sister announced her pregnancy. I dreamt of the unraveling of a family when only the adults knew what was happening. Returning to Bangalore after my father’s funeral, I dreamt that my second sister had a boil on her left shoulder that refused to heal. I called her up the next morning and told her to get herself checked for diabetes. A couple of months down the line, she did develop diabetes.

One night my daughter and I shared the same dream - of Bellary being bombed. It was as if we had both embarked on the same nocturnal journey and alighted at the same station.

My father appears in my dreams often. As do my uncle and aunt. My cousin Azra is another person who frequents my dreams regularly. As do my friends. In fact, when I was planning our School Reunion, I would dream of it almost every other day.

Work spills over my dreams too. I wake up in a panic after dreaming about errors that I overlooked in a brochure or annual report artwork. The next day I go back to check it once more and sure enough would spot a typo I had earlier missed.

When I was in Bellary last week, I had a terrible nightmare of my pet Tubby being mauled by a huge dog and lying unmoving. I kept calling out to her, crying and sobbing… And woke up in a sweat, my heart beating erratically.

My dreams are fresh in my mind when I wake up. Then they slowly fade into the crowd of activities that fill my day. Many a time, I’ve told myself I should keep a notebook and pen near my pillow and record my dreams as soon as I rise, Maybe I’ll see a pattern there? Maybe I’ll be able to interpret my dreams? Till such time though, I share them with my husband and daughter, whose dreams are as vivid as mine. For now, they are the keepers of my dreams.