Invitation Card

It is wedding season time. Almost all the invitation cards that I have received are bulky, stiff and trace the family tree and other sundry details.

One card caught my attention and provoked this post. It had cloth, crystals, gilt and a thick coloured string too. The bulky cream envelope had another envelope inside it. Part of it was covered in sheer organza material. On opening, out popped two cards which had the past and present employment details of not only the bridal couple but also their parents and grandparents! The grandparents had retired from their jobs, and this detail too was mentioned. By the time one had navigated through the maze of private and government institutions, one forgot the purpose of the card. Do employment details or the lack of it influence one's decision to attend a wedding?! The card ended with "best compliments from loving brother". Isn't a wedding invite all about love and affection? Or does it have to be specially announced?

I mentioned about this trend of printing bulky, expensive and information-overloaded cards to Ponnu. She said, "Don't you know, a card is a forerunner to the majesty of a wedding?" I thought I hadn't heard right. I looked at her surprised. "It is all about announcing – now look forward to something even grander." Does it matter? "It is like the argument -- should anyone except close relatives and friends be invited for a wedding,” she remarked.

A friend is getting married next month. We got talking about his wedding plans and I asked him casually about his wedding card. "It is a vertical card," he said. What was special about that? "It is a vertical card printed on thin card paper. You know, a wedding card is also about the address to the venue. A vertical card makes it easy to fold and place it in your pocket or wallet." A card for convenience. Interesting concept.

Overkill

When you like someone or a thing, don’t like it too much. It will be overkill. Hold back. Not my belief. Ponnu’s advice.

I don’t quite understand what Ponnu is saying. When you like someone or a thing, you just go on liking, or don’t you? You like and you make that liking apparent. Hold back? Whatever for?! Ponnu says, “To make that liking last.” Sounded like the echo of an oh-so-long-ago lecture from the economics professor in college on diminishing returns.

I don’t want to dwell on whether Ponnu is right or I am right. I like to make my liking apparent -- to a book, a piece of music, a person and even food. If I want to eat a particular chocolate now; I indulge it. No nibbling on a small piece and then craving for it later. Or better still, no nibbling and being satiated with that.

I ask Ponnu to download songs that are my favourite and I listen to them on my iPod. After a few minutes of seeing me hear it, she will call out,`Which song are you listening to?” I say, “The same one you downloaded now.” She will go, “Oho! You are going to kill the desire for that song soon by listening to it so many times.” I say, “Better to kill it if it has to be, and move on to other things. Why go back to the same thing again and again, if you think it will be killed on that account alone?”

But I haven’t told Ponnu that no matter how many times I have told her, `I love you’ in a day or in the few years that she has been with me, I have never tired of saying it. I have never felt diminished love seeing her sleep curled up or on her back, or at times shaking her blanket-bound body and thinking it is her feet, only to find it is her shoulder for she turned 360 degrees in the night – and then waking her up saying, `Good Morning Princess. Wake up, it is morning already’. I look forward to doing this every day. It has not become a chore.

I have admonished her countless times and at others sulked, when she has refused to eat her breakfast and run off to college; and still continue doing that without giving up on my efforts or letting her `no time to eat now Ma,’ stop me from trying to get her to eat something.

The best time of the day is when we sit and talk of things that she likes or has caught her eye – be it a wooden earring that she bought from a vendor in the train to the coffee at her favourite roadside stall opposite her college – `You know Ma, that’s the best coffee in the world. You must try it once’. Then she will look at me again and say, `Don’t think just because Vishnu (the coffee guy) is selling it from a tapri (never heard that word before), it is no good’. I look forward to our conversations, even on those busy days when we just manage to have a few words in the night.

The dreams she weaves and lets me in on them –‘One day I will open a book shop and call it Serendipity. Hey Ma, what do you think of that name?’ Or that she wants to live on her own in the part of the city where the British architecture in the old buildings is `beautiful’. “Imagine Ma, living in an area steeped with history of that kind? What do you think; dad will let me stay there away from home on my own?” Countless conversations on the same topic with no definite answers, for these are her dreams, likes and loves. I haven’t got tired of hearing them.

Most days I am asked about my day and she remembers the details. Then on another day in the future when a name or a thing is mentioned, she will go, “But that person or thing was not nice to you, right?” I have to say, “I’ve changed my opinion now, or Things change, you know.” She nods then.

When I say I don’t agree with what she says, I am told, “You should not be judgmental.” We have our time-outs when we have diverse opinions on some matters and tell the other that this cannot be a point of conversation to continue just then.

Yet, I hear this oft-repeated line to me, “You should learn to hold back. Or it will be overkill”.

I will follow my heart. I love to like for the span that sustains itself. When it dies down, it will. It is meant to be, perhaps. I want to tell Ponnu that I have liked liking her, loving her since she was an idea in my thoughts without a gender. The feeling has remained; sometimes overwhelming and at others, grateful for this opportunity to be her mother. I know what will be her reply. “That’s because I am your child.” Aha! As if that alone is a reason for the intensity to sustain itself. On just this one occasion, I am tempted to say, “I know better, Ponnu’.

My Dad, My Parent

I saw my dad recently. Saw him for what he looks like now. In the hurry to meet up with life’s commitments, all of which are my choice, I have not had the time to meet my parents for an extended conversation over any meal except for a quick darting in and out of home while I am on some errands. Yesterday, late in the night, dad waited for me outside the gate of our building as I zipped by to drop off some groceries. I saw dad and realized he has indeed grown old. At 75, dad looks a little tired, perhaps world weary and a little less like the dad I have always known. You know the kind – stern, serious.

When did dad grow so old? As I dropped off the groceries and bid him good bye, my thoughts swung back and forth on the gate where dad had stood for a few minutes till I moved off; to the time I had seen dad in complete control of himself and his surroundings. Now, dad’s hands shake a bit. There are a few seconds of struggle before the fingers clasp the grocery bag, a pause before he talks and tiredness to the voice. When did my dad grow so old? And why?

Why do any of us grow old? Why does the skin move stealthily off the flesh, almost as if scared it will be caught in the act? Why does the hair refuse to conform to its lifetime of a single tone? What makes it decide to go grey, white and even yellow? The failing eyesight, which pole vaults into youth for some resulting in glasses, shows up exaggeratedly while reading or watching television as age sets in. The glasses have to be then removed and the page brought up close or held far to be read. Why? Why do the laws of gravity decide to wreck the body and show up its trophies – sagging chin, distended bellies and what have you!

Age is a state of mind. I have read this statement countless times. Yes, it is. But what about the tell-tale signs? When the mind refuses to believe the body and still tries to race up the stairs and down to catch a train, for instance; only to realize after a few steps that it just isn’t possible to run any further. The body is slowly winding down. Yet, the mind holds dear, images that can be summoned up instantly – the bench that one sat in Class VII or the occasions one bunked a lecture and whiled away the time in the college quadrangle or even the colour of a dress that was once a favourite in school. Like snap shots in an album, they whirr away on the edges of the mind bringing into sharp focus the reality that is today. The mind is still struggling to accept: yes, the body is slowly inching toward a life that has no bearing on it.

I wonder why dad walks slowly and with so much care. Why does he have just two meals a day? I don’t remember him ever saying when I lived with him that fruits constituted a meal. Yet, it is for him now. When did sleep become the prime activity of his day? I want dad to scold me for coming late. I want dad to say, 'That’s a job well done'. But he does neither. He is happy to ask little and I feel, is not bothered with the replies.

I am furious -- life has seized dad in its grip and shorn him off his youth, calibrated his agility and cranked down his enthusiasm. But I like to pretend my dad is still the same. So I ask him to get me my favourite sweets, throw a child’s tantrum when he does not and still complain he loves me the least amongst his children.

Whoever said age is a state of mind was out of his/her mind. Of that, I am sure now.

Telling The Gods

It is time for the elephant-headed god to make His annual sojourn to our homes and localities. Ganesha evokes not just devotion and piety but the sweets offered to him make for a delightful prasad. A 10-day Ganesh festival lends a divine touch to ordinary streets and alleys with decorated pandals, chants and bhajans being sung through the day.

There are many people who say, when they stand in front of God, they don’t ask for anything, for they are overwhelmed. I have read about this too. It is like their wishes are fulfilled by just seeing Him. I wish I could be like that. I am forever asking of God. Many a time I get scolded, by those who accompany me to a place of worship, for praying for a long time. “What are you praying so much?”, I am often asked. “I am telling Him what I want.” On every occasion, I get raised eyebrows and upturned palms as gestures for saying this.

I am unable to understand why no one can fathom what I do. I go to a place of worship to say thanks and to ask for my needs to be fulfilled. I wish folks would understand me as I have no complaints about them not asking, as they claim. I believe in a God and I want Him to know there are things I want Him to help me with. “God knows about you and you don’t need to tell Him,” I am told. Well, I just want to reiterate.

Recently, I went to a place of worship. Here, one can write one's wishes and desires on paper chits (provided here for this purpose), pray and then drop it into a box. There were just three lines on the paper chit to write one’s wishes. A friend and I were there together. My friend took the paper and then in a few minutes dropped it into the box. I continued to stare at the paper. I wondered how to cramp three lines with my wishes.

A few minutes later, my friend called out to me. I looked up and she said, “Can you please hurry up?” I nodded, wrote some more and then put the carefully folded paper into the box after a quick prayer.

When we came out, she asked, “What were you writing so much in there?” I said, “My wishes.” “How many slips of paper did you take?” I looked at her and said, “Why would I take more than a slip of paper? You gave me just one.” She said, “Then why were you writing so long? There were just three lines.” Of course there were only three lines. But I wrote 1 a.b.c, 2 a.b.c. and 3 a.b.c for each wish. She looked at me incredulous. “How could you?” Why not, I thought. I wasn’t asking any human being for anything. I was asking of my God.

Now I have 10 days to go up to Lord Ganesh beginning tomorrow and tell Him my wishes!

School Time

One of my fondest memories is of teaching for a short while in a boy’s school. I had taken a break from my regular job. Finding a lot of spare time on my hands after finishing my household chores, I decided to enroll for a course in early child education. After interacting with adults for over 12 years of my working life, it was a bit strange to learn craft and colouring and come up with ideas that would engage children.

After I completed the course, I went to teach in a boy’s school. I was assigned the senior KG class. The teacher would teach while I was the `helper’. After all, I was a fresher. Classes would start at 9 am and the little boys would file in with water bottles around their necks and a satchel on their shoulders. In the last bench of this class sat a tall boy called Kunal. A good looking boy with a scrubbed face, Kunal was the brightest in class. His best friend was Mohit, who sat besides him.

Kunal and Mohit were seldom scolded or punished as they were the `best’ boys in class. But one day, for some reason, the teacher shouted at Kunal. He was mortified. His sad face refused to brighten up for some time. Even during the recess, he had this sad look. So I went up to him, held his hand and said, “It is alright, my son. You just have to do better the next time. You are a smart boy.” That is all I said. I remember that clearly.

When class was over, the rule was: the children had to pick up their water bottles which were placed on the floor besides the chair where I was seated, and then file past me in a single row. The children would call out, “Bye bye teacher’ and walk past. After several children had passed, it was Kunal’s turn. He picked up his water bottle, said bye and then stepped back to lean over and kiss me on my cheek. I was surprised and smiled. My eyes followed Kunal. He joined his classmates and pointing towards me, told Mohit who stood before him in the line, `I kissed teacher’. They both smiled at me and said in chorus, `Bye bye teacher’.

It has been some years since the incident. The boys must be in the final year in school now. I did not pursue teaching and went back to my regular job. Some days when I am very happy, the face of the two boys on a hot summer’s day years ago flashes in my mind.

`Now' Is The Time

I had an interesting conversation today. A friend called up and we spoke for a long time. How is life, he asked. Couldn't be better, I said. Even if life, at the moment the question is being asked, makes one want to nestle in a cocoon never to come out if possible; I just say `Couldn't be better'. More than anything else, it cheers me up. It takes away the temporary insanity of impossible situations and look to a `niceness’ a few hours away.

After a while, my friend asked — Hey, what would you like to do before you die? Ahem! I did not think my general well-being lent any scope for such questions. I just had to know. Why, I asked. Oh, just like that, he said. I haven’t really chased that thought. Desires are there, of course. But a list? Never made one.

An opportunity was presenting itself. I could not let it pass. My friend said no time would be given for thought. “Just say it quick. Think I am the genie who is granting you the wishes. I will disappear any moment.” Sounded fun. I came up with my list. To work for a sensible boss. Aha.. temporary insanity of a ridiculous situation did come in the way of a wish. My friend laughed. Let’s start all over again, I said.

To write a book, travel more, live in Ooty in a house surrounded with trees and a river flowing by, to live in Kerala for a short time. I said all of this quickly and then realised more than anything else -- if I could read all the newspapers in the morning without the doorbell pealing with the milkman, laundry and all other important people demanding my attention, if I could take a bath without the phone ringing at least once, if I could find a rickshaw to get me to the station on time and if I could write the moment I log in, without having to think and think and then fetch a cup of coffee and still think! That would be a wonderful life.

All the other wishes could wait. Life is about the now, after all.

A Ray Fan

I finally saw the Apu trilogy. I have to admit Ponnu was right. The films were worth their while.

The trilogy is about poverty. It is very sad. These were some of the comments I had heard about it from friends. Who wants to watch a film and cry and then go back to reality sad and unhappy, I thought. So I never saw the films. Ponnu was introduced to the films, when she joined the Film Society in her college. We went all over the city searching for the CDs. But none had it. So we went about putting requisition slips for them at video stores. It was a futile attempt. My friend in office, a Ray fan, said she had the CDs and was gracious to offer to copy them for Ponnu. My girl went large eyed and open mouthed when I gave her the CDs.

Ever since the CDs came home, I have had no peace. “Ma, please watch Pather Panchali.” I would nod and say, `Later’. But one late evening, I was pinned down and saw the film. It was sad but not bleak, I remarked. “You watch the other 2 CDs and you will not regret it,” said Ponnu. I nodded. After a long gap and much prodding from Ponnu, I saw the last two films in the trilogy last week. We saw Aparajito and I could not stop myself from crying over the mother-son relationship. Children grow up and other things in life become so important that they seem to be uncomfortable in their old environs. It is a reality, of course, but I still cried.

Ponnu wanted me to see Apur Sansar the moment Aparajito was over. It was quite late by then. But I agreed. The film started and a few minutes later, I dozed off. It was just a blink affair. But Ponnu caught me in the act. She was livid. “How can you sleep when you are watching a Ray film?” I said, “No, no. I did not. Just dozed off. But haven’t missed anything.” She switched off the video. I did not protest. I went off to sleep. Next evening, I asked her to show me the film. She was more than happy. I saw it and my heart ached -- for the loss of Apu’s wife, for the tragedy that never seems to leave Apu all his life and the loneliness of Apu. No, it is not a sad film. It is a film about an ordinary man’s life with no gilt edges. About what all of us aspire to in life and where our circumstances take us.

I am happy Ponnu is glad I watched the films. It is like the time she wanted me to read, `To Kill a Mockingbird’, and I resisted. I said, `Not now. Later’. After much nagging by Ponnu, I read it and fell in love with it. I read the book again twice! I will go back to watching the trilogy back-to-back once.

Sweets!

I like to share food, especially sweets. Whenever sweets are brought home, I go, “Please keep some aside for my special friends.” I always ask for `some’ goodies for my friends. My family usually indulges me. At times, they grumble good-naturedly. “We don’t see any of your `special friends’ pass on anything to us.” I smile in return.

Sometimes, I think, sometimes I just take and give away the family’s share of sweets too. After all, they have eaten some, I tell myself. Now time to give the rest to my friends. The friends circle is from the immediate colleague sitting besides me to anyone passing by when I open my sweet box! So I do need a lot of sweets.

Ponnu was getting exasperated with this habit. I did not realize how much, until last week. A relative gave some chocolates from his trip to Dubai. I thought there were a lot in there and some could be.. Yes, you guessed it right. Some could go to my friends. I took some and happily gave it away to my friends. The next day, I found there were some more in the fridge. I just put my hand into the chocolate bag and had a fistful with me, when Ponnu came by. “Are you going to eat so many chocolates at one go?” “No. I am taking some for my friends.” She looked at me and said, “I hope you don’t think you are the Red Cross,” and walked away. I promptly put those chocolates back. Red Cross indeed!

An Experiment

I speak quite loud, I think. I mean, if I speak on the phone, every one around me can hear. I have never been embarrassed of the fact.

Recently, with our office shifting to this new place, I have some colleagues in the same work pool as me. In the old office, I had known them at nodding distance when we passed each other in the corridor. But here, I get to see them up close and also talk with them.

One colleague has me intrigued. For, she talks in whispers on the phone. I wonder how she is able to do it. After a few days of observing this, I thought, perhaps, I could try that too. It seemed a good idea, at least then it did, to ape her and speak softly.

In the best of times, my voice can wake a sleeping dragon and in the worst, well, let’s not get there now. But I wanted to experiment.

My Bacha and I talk to each other several times a day. We discuss our plans for the day on the phone when we travel to work. Once we reach our respective offices, we catch up on chat. However, the day I decided to try out the experiment, I had reached office when Bacha called.

My resolve to start the experiment was just being put into practice. I had hardly finished speaking in a `soft’ tone to someone, who asked me after saying hello thrice, “Are you not well? You don't sound right.” Of course, I did not tell her I was trying to be soft spoken. Fortunately for me, the caller hung up soon after.

The next call was from my Bacha. I went into the soft mode. “Hello Ma,” she said. “Hiee Bacha,” I intoned softly. A pause and then Bacha said, “Hello?” I replied, “Yes Bacha,” softly again. “What's wrong? I can hardly hear you,” she said. I said, “I can hear you. Where are you, child?” She went, “Huh? What are you saying, Ma?” I said, “Hold the phone right Bacha. I can hear you.” She tried doing that I think and then said, “Ok, now say. Where are you?” I said, “In the office.” It was then that it struck her that there was something wrong with the tone. “Why are you whispering like this,” she asked. I said, “You know Bacha, I am trying to see whether I can speak softly on the phone.” Bacha was irritated. “Huh?” “I am trying to speak softly. Can you hear me?” Bacha was furious by then. “What is wrong with you? Why are you speaking like this?” I mentioned the colleague who speaks softly that I hear no sound in spite of being seated just a few steps away. I said I thought that was remarkable.

“I don’t want to talk with you if you speak like this, Ma,” Bacha said. “I hardly feel I am talking to the same person. You call me when you get back to your old self.” I came back to the old mode in lightning speed and said, “Now, don’t hang up. Say child.” Bacha said, “Finally! Can we get to talking now Ma?” Of course, of course, I repeated some decibels higher than the ones I use.

The matter was not over. Bacha came home a week later and mentioned this to Ponnu, who looked at me in surprise. “Why would you try to be someone you are not, Ma?” “Oh,” I said, “I was just trying to see whether I could speak softly. Not trying to be someone else, you know.” Bacha and Ponnu pounced on me. “You don’t get soft-toned on us. We will disown you.”

So much for an experiment. I am back to my usual tone.

Sea Sights

My office overlooks the sea. I have a seat next to the floor to ceiling (almost!) glass windows and I can see the shimmering waters in the afternoon sunlight. The waters get dark as the sun goes down and then I can’t see it anymore. Most days the sun is beating down too hot and I am forced to draw the wooden screens down.

When my office shifted to this location offering an amazing view of the sea, I was caught by the newness of it. Every few minutes I would shift my gaze from the computer to the sea and watch its ceaseless movement. When the newness wore off, I forgot to pull the screens up once I had pulled them down.

Two days ago I was traveling to work by train, as usual. Seated opposite me was this beautiful elderly woman. Her skin was like cream that settles down once milk has boiled and if you were to gently blow on it, it creases. Well, that’s how her skin looked. Lovingly creased over time. She wore a white sari and had glasses which were secured with a thick white thread running to the back of her head. None of these caught my eyes at first. What did were the four pink glass bangles that she wore on each hand. I have rarely seen an elderly woman with glass bangles. Usually, it is some metal or the other.

I saw the grandma (for sure, she was that) look out alternately from the window and then crane over a lady seated beside her and look through the door as the train halted between stations. She was a newcomer to the city. When the compartment emptied out and there were just the three of us, I asked the lady who grandma was. She said, “My mother. She has come from Agra.”

I asked grandma, “Do you like the city?” She shook her head. “No. I don’t like it.” Her daughter interjected, “This is her first visit here. I have been married for over 15 years but she does not like to come over, for she considers it a sin to stay in my house as I am her daughter. She lives with my brothers in Agra.” Amazed, I asked grandma, “Why do you say that?” She was loath to explain. “It is a sin,” she replied. “I just want to go back to Agra soon for I don’t want to die here. My soul will not rest in peace if I die at my daughter’s house.” I said, “You surely can’t believe that.” Grandma would not budge from her way of thinking. “I am 85 years now. I will die soon. It is a sin for me to die in my daughter’s home,” she repeated.

It was pouring outside. I wondered aloud where grandma and her daughter were going in this dreary weather. Her daughter said, “Mother has been here for a fortnight. She came here for treatment, which finished yesterday. I have been asking her, since the day she came, to see some sights in the city. She has consistently refused. Last night she said, `I want to see the sea’. So we are taking her today as she is going back to Agra tomorrow.”

The mother daughter duo and the son-in-law traveling in another compartment were making a journey of over an hour and half so that grandma could see the sea. I asked grandma, “Why do you want to see the sea?” She looked at me and smiled for the first time. “I rarely get to see it in Agra.”

Since that day, I rarely forget to pull the shutters up at sundown…

A Lanka Trip

I was in Sri Lanka recently. I looked forward to the trip with some trepidation. Reading about the troubled times there, I wondered if it was safe. That should be a good enough reason to enjoy it thoroughly, said a friend. But my fears were unnecessary. Except for no entry zones in high security areas, and check points where soldiers verified one's identity (which was exasperating after a while), my colleague and I came back with good memories.

I love Nature. If I am put amidst a few trees and there is some grass growing under them, I consider myself blessed. I can then let the brook gurgle and the wind blow in my mind. Colombo provided me all of it. I loved the place. There were wide expanses of green, and the ocean too. For someone who had taken a trip from the concrete jungles of Mumbai, any place that has Nature in abundance is a sight to go raptures about! The only hitch was that I was there on work and did not have much time to sit and enjoy the sights.

The area where we stayed was abuzz with gun toting soldiers as the government buildings were nearby. Since we did not know the local language, Sinhalese, we tried asking for instructions in English, much to the dismay of the soldiers. Even the tuk tuk -- rickshaw – drivers that we hired could not speak English.

On the first day of our working day, my colleague and I had to meet an official in the government building. The place was just 15 minutes walking distance from our hotel. We asked the soldiers, since we could not see any civilians, for directions. They shooed us off. My colleague said, perhaps we were speaking a bit too quick. So we took turns to speak slowly to another soldier and asked for directions again. We received a blank look in response and were shooed off again.

We began the exercise all over again with another soldier. “Can you please help us get there? We are running out of time.” The soldier looked back with a blank expression. We named the building and I asked, “Is the building we are looking for to the Right or Left?” waving my arms in both directions for added measure. He nodded and said, `Left’. I looked at my colleague triumphantly and said, “See? He understood.”

My colleague nodded and we hurriedly crossed the road and walked a little distance and then found we had hit another no-walking zone with soldiers asking us to move back. I asked again, “The way to this building -- is it Left or Right?” “Right”, said the soldier. We walked straight and turned right only to be met with another soldier barring the way. My harried colleague told the soldier, “A soldier there told us Right and so we are here. We have to go to X building. Is it Right or Left?” He replied ‘Left’. Then it dawned on us that the soldiers were echoing our last spoken word!

When we managed to reach the building, the official had left for another meeting and we had to stay put for a long while. Only if the soldiers understood or spoke English!

Tooth Temple

On Sunday, with all offices closed, we decided to go to Kandy. The Tooth Temple was our main attraction. We reached the venue and as is wont with monuments and places of interest, guides swarmed around. “Better to hire a guide and finish the tour quickly or we will be stranded here for long,” said my colleague.

We hired a guide who said, "I speak English". He quoted a sum and we haggled and settled for Rs 200. We hardly walked a few metres, when he asked, “You Indian?” “Yes,” we said. We entered the temple building and he said, “You having anything to ask, I saying, ok?” All this in a tearing hurry and we did not quite get what he was saying. So we asked again. He repeated himself. My colleague grumbled in Hindi, “What is this guy saying for the Rs 200 we are giving him!” I quickly nodded at the guide for I was eager to hear about the temple.

“You know Buddha?” he began. By then my colleague was spewing expletives in Hindi. I controlled my laughter. It was hilarious for we had said we were Indians. Buddha is not unknown to any of us in India.

The guide cautioned us about taking pictures inside the temple. “When I say photo, you take no.” We nodded. We realised later that every sentence for most Sri Lankans ends with the rhetoric no.

We went up the steps of the ancient temple. We would not be left alone, of course. The guide continued with his story. He said some long sentences, which sounded gibberish to us. The only thing we understood was, “Hema Mala coming. King Ashoka, you no.” My colleague said, in Hindi of course, "This guy is telling us some Hindi film story now. Look at him naming Hema Malini and not getting her name right as well."

I told the guide, “We know King Ashoka. Who is Hema Mala?” That was my undoing. “Hema Mala don't know? Oh, I tell you. Hema Mala and Dhantha princess.” And then some more long winding sentences, which were definitely not in English. At least not the English we were familiar with. We rued our decision to hire this `English speaking' guide. I thought to myself, serves me right for not doing a Google on the temple before leaving for Lanka.

The evening prayers were being said in the temple and we stood in the queue waiting to go up the sanctum sanctorum. The guide said, “Prayers for god. Line stop. You wait. Any doubts, ask me.” I bent down to pick an imaginary thing to stop myself from laughing aloud. My colleague was visibly seething.

We said our prayers, and then went to the first floor of the temple building to see the various Buddhas there – Japanese, Thai, Indonesian, Indian. It was then that my colleague and I saw the pictures on the walls. The story of the Tooth relic was there in pictures and words!

The guide saw us looking at the pictures and said, “Any doubt, ask me. I tell.” Right! He was just the guy to clear our doubts!! We had paid him Rs 200 to be told `You know Buddha.. Hema Mala don't know?’ without telling us the entire story. Perhaps he did. But we could not understand anything of it. My colleague said, “Only if he had brought us here first.” But how could he do that – he had to fleece us off some money, no!

Academic Zone

A college lecturer friend was intrigued that I had appeared for my MA exams. “You could do it after a long gap from studies?” Yes, I replied. He warmed to the topic and said it would be nice if I continued with my studies. `Ahem’, I replied.

“Don’t do your M.Phil,” he said. “Register for your PhD.” That got my thoughts reeling faster than I could catch them. So off I went. “Hmm. A good idea,” I replied. “Imagine studying, doing research and finally presenting a thesis. Sounds good. Wonder whether I have the discipline,” I remarked.

My friend, dear soul, was off on his own mind field of research and thesis. “You should pick up one good topic first. You know how to go about it?” Without waiting for my answer, he continued. “Pick up a topic that has not been researched upon. Of course, that is mandatory. Before doing that, find a good guide. A guide should not be hostile or short tempered. A guide makes all the difference to the research.” I found my mind had recreated the scene and I was conjuring up a guide in my thoughts!

“Find a topic that is worth your while, of use to academicians, and also one that does not involve too much travel as that can put you off. Can you think of any topics?” he asked. I thought for a while and said, “Hmm, I cannot think of any off hand.” The friend was dampened by my answer. “Why don't you tell me some topics and I could help you.” Yes, he could, after all he was a lecturer.

I mentioned one topic off hand. He listened to it with the keen interest of an academician. Then he said, “This could be a feature for a newspaper or a magazine. Not good for a thesis.” Which put paid to my thoughts effectively and I shut up promptly.

I recalled my Bacha’s friend, an academician, who was after her to enrol for an MA and by default I joined her. Bacha named the academician, `conscience pricker’. He would often call up to ask, “You are studying, I hope,” much to our discomfort. When we finished our exams, the conscience pricker called. “The exams are over. Let’s wait for the results.” It is a hard choice with the conscience pricker on one side and my lecturer friend on the other. I rue my decision to appear for the MA exams, for both are fast forwarding to academic times whose horizon is far from my gaze. Bacha and I often laugh at our predicament and the eagerness of our friends to see us on academic greens.

The lecturer friend, meanwhile, would not give up on his favourite topic of a PhD. He insists I think about doing a PhD and said, "You will definitely hit upon a good topic for research. Do let me know. I will help you.” I listened to him and then laughed aloud. He was a bit taken aback, “Why are you laughing?” he asked. “You know what… I have just finished writing Part One of my MA and have no idea whether I will pass. And here you are finding a guide and searching a topic for a PhD. If that’s not funny, what is?”

Mother's Day

Sunday was Mother's Day. I don’t much care for commercial days – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Friendship Day and all the other Days. I like my `Days’ private. Not to be shared with the whole world. But I do love the fuss Ponnu makes over me on this day.

On special days like Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day and my birthday, Ponnu asks me to name something special that I would like. I have to think hard for a reply. Not because I don’t want anything. It is just that I cannot remember anything when this question is put to me. So I say, “Oh, I can’t think of anything right now.”

Ponnu came down with a high fever just two days before Mother’s Day. I do not ever remember the Day except when I see the advertisements in the newspaper or watch TV. This year I don't remember seeing it either on TV or the newspapers. Another reason being, Ponnu did not come up with the `tell me your favourite thing, Ma’ this time.

By noon, Ponnu was feeling much better. She realised then it was her Day to wish me. I was hugged and kissed for being the `nicest mother’. Later in the evening, Ponnu went down to meet her friends and when she came home, she did what she’d do as a five year old. Hide one hand behind her back, which for me meant there was something there for me. When she entered the house, she gave me a bouquet of red and cream roses and wished me again. I thanked her. I am at a loss for words -- what do I say to a child who cares for me in ways I have never thought about? I smiled and said, `I love you’.

I took the bouquet and asked her to get the vase. She did. Then she looked at me and said, “You did not really see my roses.” “Of course, I did. They are beautiful,” I said. “No, you did not really see them,” Ponnu insisted. So I looked at them again and said, “These are Chinese roses. I like them. They are beautiful.” Ponnu smiled. “No, Ma. There are 20 roses in there, for every year of my life that you have been my mother.” What does one say to such thoughts? What does one say, really?!

Exams!

Two decades after I had written a major examination, I decided to write another last week. No particular reason than a whim.

I filled the admission forms for MA class last year. With much enthusiasm – running to and fro with certificates to the Xerox outlets, carrying mark sheets of god-alone-knows how many academic years, affixing photographs and doing all those student rituals. The enthusiasm lasted just that much. I had for company, my Bacha – my ex-colleague who over a period of time became my daughter. Some relationships are like that – thoughts fuse with love and one is gifted the unexpected.

Some days before the exam, Bacha messaged me. “Ma, the exams begin next Friday”. I promptly texted back – “Not appearing”. Her response was, “I am”. That set me thinking. What was I afraid of? I came up with many excuses. For starters, I had read my text books only a few times. Not read, but scanned. Bacha replied she had done just that but was still giving the exam. I googled to see whether there were any articles on `studies and lazy students’. Just over a lakh entries answered to that description!

I went over to Ponnu and declared, “I am appearing for the exam.” She must have been taken aback by that statement for she said, “What is the worst that can happen? You will fail. Then you can write the exam again.” One can only rise after that. Expect the worst and even a notch higher is a milestone. For me, it is.

Over two decades is a long time to get back to studies, to read without letting the mind call out to the usual small and big chores. I was able to do that, albeit with much difficulty. My brains must have surely singed with the effort.

A week ago I found myself outside the examination hall. Students, children actually, were memorizing their notes at the last minute. I entered the classroom and was gladdened by the sight of a grey haired man. Someone older than me was here!

My Bacha reminded me every day, “Ma, we have nothing to lose. We have a job that we love.”

The exams got over two days ago. Life is back at its familiar contour. A colleague came up with, “So when are the results?” As for me, I have passed. I did what I thought I could not. Not just that. I sat put in a narrow bench and chair three hours for four days. Wrote with a pen for three hours at a stretch. I breathed in exams as I went about doing my chores and attended office too. The results are a formality. To the colleague I replied, “Sometime in June or July.”

Egg Curry

I am a vegetarian by choice. I have had my fill of meat and fish and relished the fare. I had even given up eating eggs. But one hungry evening, with nothing in the fridge except eggs, I realised it was silly to give up on them.

The nicest thing about eating eggs is that even a roadside eatery will have them – scrambled, poached, curried, and what-have-you – on the menu. No matter what the hour, the one item on the menu that will appear on the table almost immediately after the order is placed, is the egg.

One late evening after work, a few of my colleagues and I decided to go out for dinner. As the friend who was giving us this unexpected largesse put it, “A no star restaurant for the working class,” which meant either the restaurant suited us or we did. Since he was going to foot the bill, we enthusiastically agreed.

The restaurant, with cramped spaces and narrow seats, had everything from fish to meat to even crabs on its menu. Every item on the menu was ordered. I looked for something vegetarian. There wasn't any. Sure enough, the egg -- the golden yellow instant meal -- was there on the menu as my saviour. I placed my order. Egg curry. Sure, said the waiter. My friend laughed aloud. “Only you can think of egg curry at night in a restaurant famous for its fish and crabs.” I had a lot to say to that, but since he was the host for the evening, I decided to clench my teeth and smile graciously.

In no less than a few minutes the egg curry, dark brown and thick, arrived on my table. While everyone around was chewing on the meat and the crab, I sampled my egg curry. It was delicious. I was almost at the end of my meal when I found something unfamiliar in the curry. I picked it up and examined it. It was a tiny bone.

I called the waiter. “Why is there a bone in the egg curry?” He looked at me surprised. “The curry is meat gravy. We just ladle the gravy and put in boiled eggs into it.”

The harsh crescendo of my horrible, generous host’s laughter still rings in my ear. I don’t order egg in restaurants any more.

A `Pest’

I haven’t visited my blog for some time. I began writing it as a friend thought I should spend my time doing something other than talking. Once I began writing the blog, I found it quite enjoyable. But I am not given to a discipline. So I write when I feel like or when my friend prods me.

My friend takes much delight daily in this one question -- "So, no more posts?" My standard response to that has been, "Will write." But this pest, my friend, refuses to take no for an answer. “Can’t you write,” he goes. “I CAN,” I want to scream but since the luxury of a chat allows one’s emotions to be masked, I say, no thoughts as of now. “Good”, is the sarcastic response.

Here, pest. I am doing something better than `talking’.

It is a blessing, I realize, to have friends who can infuse confidence, hope in you and not give up ever. Even a pest like this one I know.

A Little Tact

Ponnu, the growing-up adult is good company. She brings about a lightness to situations.

A close relative came home for a visit. Her appearance had changed since the last time I had seen her, and that was some years ago. When I saw her, I commented on how different she looked now. She asked, "Have I changed a lot?" I said, "Of course, you have." Then, she asked the inevitable question. "Have I put on weight?" I replied, "Ya, loads of it too. You look very different now." My poor relative was saddened, and insisted, "My face is quite chubby, isn't it?" I just took off without considering what I was saying. "You know, your arms have become fat. You also seem to have shrunk in height." Ponnu's `Ma' got me turning to her side. "I think grandma is calling out to you."

I went in and realized it was just a ruse to get me out of the room. For Ponnu followed me. "How could you tell aunty she was fat?" "Hey, she asked me. I did not volunteer that information," I defended myself. "Not on, Ma. Just not on." I looked at Ponnu and decided to pull the right weapons from my armoury for an argument. "Ponnu, I was being honest. You don't expect me to lie, do you, and tell her, `You look the same'?" Ponnu laughed. "Ma, a little tact would have been better. Don't tell a lie, but don't say the truth in all situations."

One of my first guidepost to Ponnu was to always speak the truth, no matter what the stakes. I forgot to add tact.

Good Grades

If grades are the indicators of one’s progress, I have often wondered what my report card as a parent would say about me. Left to me, I would give myself `A Plus’-es. I like to think I am very good as a parent, open, friendly, willing to hear the other side, generous – oh, the adjectives are numerous. It also makes me happy just thinking about all those words that would describe a `nice Me’. It is nice to be self indulgent at times.

Are grades given keeping in mind the preference of the person who is being graded?! Ah, that would be a lovely way to do it, though. Ask, argue and then give some leeway to what the person is saying with regard to herself. It is like telling your boss, I think I deserve an x amount of raise while he smiles benevolently, which is an indicator that his `thinking’ is not on those lines at all.

I don’t really need a report card as a parent. Nevertheless, it would be nice to know what Ponnu has to say on this matter. After all I am her parent.

One day Ponnu announced my grade unexpectedly. “You know, you are a nice parent.” It came out of nowhere, without a context. So I asked the predictable, ‘Why?’ “You have so much patience Ma. I could never be as patient as you.” I have committed that moment to memory. Perhaps, one such unexpected day I might be told I have some other enviable attribute.

A Single Child

When one has an only child, there are well meaning relatives and friends who tell you your decision to have a single child is not quite right. “Single children grow up to be selfish, they don’t share their belongings with anyone. They throw terrible temper tantrums,” is what they believe and say. None of this could be wrong. But it need not be true as well.

I don’t think this thought bothered me at all for a child picks up what she is taught by parents and elders or what she sees the family doing. This is my belief.

When Ponnu was in school, there were times she exhibited traces of jealousy when I showed a fondness for a neighbour’s kid or was carrying a child too long in my arms. But never did she ever ask why she was an only child. Even when Ponnu was well beyond her teens, I still heard this comment from relatives who rued our decision to have a single child.

One day I decided to know Ponnu’s thoughts on the matter. “Would you have preferred a brother or a sister?” She replied, “To have them treating my books badly?” I said they would not, considering she was their sister. “You know, a brother or a sister for company,” I said. Her answer as usual amused me. “Ma, I would have preferred an elder brother.” Well, well, well!

Now when my relatives still shake their heads to a `single child’, I smile widely.

Just Live

One day I decided to broach the topic of death with Ponnu. My death, to be precise. I told Ponnu, when I die I would like my eyes to be donated. She said, "In that case, we will have to give your glasses with it. You can't see with your naked eyes, remember." I could not help but laugh at this reaction to a serious topic.

"It would be nice to give away my body to a medical school," I continued. I said I had heard of how difficult it is for the medical schools to get dead bodies. "Let me do something nice when I am gone." Ponnu decided to put a stop to the conversation then. "Ma, let me tell you, I am not doing anything that you are saying." I argued, "After all, it is my body. I can exercise that right over it." She looked at me for some time and then said, "I have a better idea. Why don't you just decide to outlive dad and me instead? Then you don't have to worry about anyone not honouring your wishes. Also, make sure you are healthy. That will be of help to the students you have in mind."

I have never discussed this topic with Ponnu since.

Feathered Friends

My grandpa and an uncle are my favourite people. They were part of my early childhood. I have always had fond memories of them. It has been years since they died but I remember and talk about them frequently at home.

When a person dies, crows are fed cooked rice as a ritual during the mourning period. I have associated crows with my grandpa ever since, for it was the first time I saw the ritual. My uncle told me a number of stories about grasshoppers. He also said it was a good omen to see one. Of course, they were tales made up to entertain me. Yet, a grasshopper is an instant connection with my uncle. On the rare occasions I see a grasshopper in the city, I can't help feeling very happy.

Ponnu and her dad know about my favourite people. It amuses them a lot to see me give food to the crows that at times perch on our window. When Ponnu sees a crow on the window she goes, "Hey Ma, your grandpa has come to see you."

A grasshopper jumped into our living room one night, just once, frightening Ponnu who is afraid of insects. Of course she does not admit to that. "I find insects icky," is her explanation.

Ponnu doesn't shoo off the crows that often visit our home. But the pigeons get her goat. "Ma, are the pigeons related to you?" she asked me once. I said that was a funny question. "Well, you have the crows and the grasshoppers. What about the pigeons?" I said, "No ways," still wondering the reason for the query. I soon got the answer. "Then I can shoo these pests off this minute. Thank god they are not your relatives."

Not On

It can be discomfiting when a child corrects the parent for use of improper language.

Sometimes I have a difficulty in placing names to faces and then resort to what I remember – either an incident or a conversation connected to the person – when I am talking about this `lost’ person to another.

Ponnu had a classmate who was in her class in school for some years. I remember him as a boy who had an embarrassing moment in class during his first year at school. There were a couple of boys all with the same sounding name in Ponnu’s class. Whenever Ponnu spoke of her classmates, I’d go, “This is the guy who had that embarrassing moment?” She’d tell me his name again and we would resume the conversation.

Ponnu soon realized that the `embarrassing moment' was my way of remembering her classmate. So she decided to set matters right. The next time I said those words again, she said, “Ma, please don’t refer to my friend like that. I have often told you his name.” I said it was alright for me to say it for after all it was only between us. She insisted it was still `not on’. I have never forgotten that boy’s name since, though he left school to join another and was not mentioned much at home. Ponnu had a point there, I concede.

`My' Way

I have never wanted Ponnu to obey me. When she was too little to understand, the power wrested with me to dress her the way I wanted to, feed her, take her out, read to her – everything was my decision. As she began to understand things, I would explain why we needed to do things the way we did. That there were `desirable’ and `undesirable’ behaviour and she needed to make her choices with care.

Somewhere down the line, I found that I had in me `Do it my way’ commands which I gave in to, without pausing to reflect. On one occasion, Ponnu and I went to buy her shoes. Ponnu liked one style and colour and I, another. There was nothing wrong with Ponnu’s choice. Neither was it exorbitant or flimsy or even unfit for a child to wear. Yet, since I liked the other colour on display even more, I wanted Ponnu to buy it. She reluctantly did. But I found my answer when she never wore that pair of shoes. I asked her about it. “I don’t like it much Ma. I did tell you then. But if you insist, I will wear it now.”

Another time, Ponnu wanted a jacket. I did not find the time to go shopping with her. On way to an assignment, I was passing by a shop where I saw a sea green colour jacket that I liked. So I bought it for Ponnu though I know she is not too fond of the colour. Ponnu saw the jacket and said, “I wish you had asked before you bought it for me. I would have liked us to go together and buy it. I don’t like this colour.” The rebuffed parent in me stood up in all anger and I told her off.

I could easily have got Ponnu to wear what I wanted to. But that is not the way I want us to be. There is no joy in getting anyone to obey.

Happy Things

In my efforts to get my child understand the rights and wrongs, I have sometimes delivered the homilies in a matter-of-fact manner and at times found it better to say it through incidents. But that was when Ponnu was little. As she grew up, the latter would not quite work.

The newspapers are rife with unfortunate incidents and I would constantly ask Ponnu whether she had read them. When sad stories were told to me or I was privy to some in my workplace, I would mention them to Ponnu. Soon the `sad’ stories became a daily evening affair. One day Ponnu asked me, “Why do you say something sad that has happened with someone in office or what a colleague says over here?” I said that was because I was quite upset about it. “Can we do something towards that,” was her query. Not quite, I said. “Then leave it Ma. Don’t come and tell dad and me these sad stories. Let us talk about something nice.” In my defense I said, “You know, you can’t escape sad things in life.” Pat was the reply. “Of course, I can’t. But I don’t think we should be speaking about other people's sad stories everyday at home.”

At another time, I told Ponnu, I was planning to write a story. “Please write happy stories, Ma,” she urged. Now, why was that, I wondered aloud. “You know, it is so easy to get people to feel sad. The challenge is to make people happy. That is what I think you should be writing.” A split second later, she added, “Hope I did not sound rude now.” Of course not, I reassured her. I thought over what she had said. It is a task to be happy and only talk of happy things. But I accepted that challenge.

A Belief

Raising a child is a delicate task. One wrong move and the child could be scarred forever.

I wanted Ponnu to know and depend upon a force beyond us, her parents and other family members. An energy that she could call upon in times of need and feel secure. I wanted to introduce God into my child's life. But what religion is God, I wondered. I did not want Ponnu to have any confusion or compulsion in this regard. So I would take the little Ponnu to the altar at home and observe what her dad and I was doing -- pray. She was free to pray or simply look at the glowing lamps.

As Ponnu grew up to understand things better, I have asked on a few occasions, "Will you light the evening lamp today?" Most days her answer was in the negative. For her dad and me, that was not a matter of concern. Yet, on rare occasions I worried. For, if my child did not believe in a God, where would she draw her strength from in times of need?

Sometimes Ponnu visits a temple close to home. When I ask her the reason for the sudden visit, she says either the idol there is beautiful or she `felt like it'. Ponnu's dad feels it is a non-issue and asks, "Does it really matter whether we formally call out or pay obeisance to God?" Each of us must make the choice, he says. I have learnt to respect Ponnu's.

Mother's Day

I have a secret desire to receive flowers. Gifts are generous thoughts, but flowers are spontaneous gestures, I think. It may seem strange but a six-year-old Ponnu surprised me with wild flowers that she plucked from a hedge on her way back from tuitions. On reaching the door, she held her hand to the back and when I asked her what she was hiding, she grinned. After she came into the house, she put the tiny yellow heads with thin stems into my hand and said, “For you.” I was ecstatic and walked around with a smile the whole day.

On some days I received long leaves that she liked or white flowers that she found on hedges that were grown on the boundary walls of our building compound. After she gave me the flowers, she would stand to watch what I was doing with them. Usually I put them in a saucer with water in it for they were too small to be put into a vase. Some days, if I was too busy at work in the kitchen, I would take them, thank her and place it on the window sill. Soon enough I would hear a, “You are badly behaved”. I would then turn and hurriedly ask why, to which the answer would be, “You placed my flowers there and not in a cup. It will die without water.” I had to quickly tend to the flowers or I would have to hear the `You are badly behaved’ statement many times for days together.

I still receive flowers from Ponnu. On one rare occasion, I got a bunch when I came home at night after work. I was surprised and hugged her. “Sorry for yelling at you this morning,” she said by way of a reply.

One of my finest gifts from Ponnu was a couple of years back for Mother’s Day. In the evening when I reached home, Ponnu asked me to come to the living room with my eyes closed. I heard a match being struck and then she said, “Now open your eyes.” When I did, she said, “Happy Mother’s Day”. What I saw was beautiful. Ponnu had switched off the lights and on the centre table was placed a crystal bowl filled with water on which floated gerberas in varied colours. Between the flowers were floating candles amongst which were a few artificial pearls. I looked on at the beautiful creation and said, “This is super”. She said, “I got this idea after watching the Oprah show.” I just looked on at the lit candles and the flowers and said a swift prayer of thanks. I could not say anything to Ponnu than a Thank You. Words do seem meaningless at times.

I Can

I never thought I would be amongst folks who talk to their child affectionately and yet be polite, without a need to yell when the situations or circumstances are beyond them. I have surprised myself (quite happily, I must admit) at having done just that on most occasions.

It isn’t that I am a paradigm of model behaviour with Ponnu. But she is the only person I can go back to immediately and say, “I think that behaviour was not on.” I hear that from Ponnu as well, when she is angry with me.

Is it the love for one’s offspring that challenges a parent and brings out the best? I wish I knew. No matter how angry I am, I can still modulate my voice and tell her, “I am very angry now. Just don’t speak with me.” A little while later, I can also go back and explain why I did it, this time in total calm. Or tell her in a grave voice what I disapprove.

It is very easy, I think, to talk to a child with respect and love, and then not be surprised with the delightful results. We are all blessed with talents and bonuses in the form of people and relationships. I have mine in Ponnu. Like every other relationship, it needs to be constantly worked at. I think, unlike other relationships, a child springs a surprise everyday for she is growing up and the process is a long one.

Our rituals

There are certain rituals, all my own, that I follow with Ponnu. I have this fear that I may die and not have told Ponnu what she means to me. I don't ever want to end up like that.

So in the morning, I go up to her room and much to her father's amusement say, "Hey, my princess, wake up. Good Morning." After a while of this, and if Ponnu is still sleeping, I go on with "Wake up baby. It is morning." Most days she wakes up after a little while. But on some days, she refuses to budge. If, after a while of more such words from me, Ponnu has still not woken up, her father will remark, "Your princess is still sleeping?" He takes charge then. There is this loud, "Ponnu, wake up," after which he proceeds to switch on the bedroom lights. With a howl, Ponnu is up and in the bathroom.

In the many conversations that we have on the phone through the day, Ponnu and I sign off always with, "I love you." Once I was entering office and found my chief in the corridor talking to someone. I was on the phone with Ponnu. By the time I could go past my chief, Ponnu wanted to hang up as she had a class to attend. "I love you, Ma," she said and I replied, "I love you too". I hung up and then saw my chief raise his eyebrows at my declaration of love. I have yet to be more embarrassed.

Every night before going to bed, Ponnu and I say our goodnights to each other. On one occasion I hugged her and said, "You are the best child in the world". Ponnu's father happened to be nearby and chipped in with, "Of course the best kid, if there are no other kids in the world."

It's A Myth

I have raised Ponnu on a lot of stories. When she was very little, our favourite was the story of Santa Claus.

Each year, a fortnight before Christmas, Ponnu would start writing down her list of goodies she wanted from Santa. When she finished with it, I would tell her she could not ask for many things from Santa Claus as he had to give other children around the world as well. Ponnu would go through the list again and some goodies were struck off. If there were any that were very expensive, Santa could not give her those too. He could not be partial to Ponnu and not have enough to give other children. So she understood.

Ponnu was three years old when we made the first list. As the years went by, the choices broadened to include sketch pens instead of colouring pencils, a specific brand of chocolate instead of just chocolates, games and so on. As we read the list together, she'd ask, "Do you think Santa would be able to get this for me or will he think I am too greedy?" and I would ask her to tick off at least one thing from the list every year. Simply to let her know that even Santa Claus has limitations.

When Ponnu was six, my mother told her there was no Santa Claus. The child was hurt with that revelation. When I came home from work that night, and was spending time with her before she slept, she looked up at me and asked, "Ma, are you Santa?" I asked her why and she said, "Grandma says you are."

I said it was true that there was no Santa Claus, but I loved playing Santa to her during Christmas time. She smiled. The next year though, the list was being prepared at least three months in advance. The questions asked this time and since then have been, "Ma, I want this book for Christmas" and many other such requests. "Do you mind Ma, if I ask for three books this Christmas and also a CD?" With no Santa to protect me, I have just stressed which request could be taken up and those that had to be rejected. Christmas now does not have Santa leaving his goodies at our home at midnight. But over the years, I have Ponnu playing Santa to me during Christmas and getting me things I have mentioned in passing through the year. From a book of my favourite poet to even my first ever cookery book (for she saw me trying hard to write and keep pace with the chef on TV), Ponnu touches me with her thoughful gestures.

A `Special' Friend

Ponnu’s views on marriage were now out in the open. So what does that mean? Time for me to ask the question that was worrying me. Is `worry' the right word? No. Not worry, really. Curious, I guess. Yes, `curious' sounds best for I don’t expect Ponnu with anything foolish or impractical.

I know Ponnu’s friends. Every one of them is familiar by name, some by faces and some I bond with very, very well. But I haven’t yet heard of any `special’ friend amongst them. Anyway this was the work of my overanxious mind.

I thought I was being casual when I’d ask, “Ponnu, do you have a special friend?” She replied, “No” just as easily. Ok, so she got what I was hinting at. I asked the question, I guess, a little too frequently and one day Ponnu decided to help me with, “Are you asking, do I have a boyfriend?” What relief! I don’t know why I could not have been open and just asked the question, considering we don’t have a this-is-the-limit cordon about our relationship.

“Yes, that is what I want to know,” I said finally. “See Ma, I don’t have a boyfriend now.” That meant there could be one in the future. Ponnu looked at my seemingly calm face and then put her arm around my shoulders and drew me close. “When I do have a boyfriend, you will be the first to know.” I laughed self-consciously. I don’t have a choice in the matter and yet, I am anxious. The fears are nameless and the list endless if I mentally prepare one. I think it is better for me to live the moment, which is meaningful everytime Ponnu and I are together.

Unrealistic

Whenever someone mentions the word marriage and associates Ponnu with it, I can feel my temper rising. I can’t think of Ponnu being married. I realise this is not right. But I can’t see my child going off with a man for life. Since Ponnu has come into my life, I find that when I go for a wedding and see the nuptials taking place with the mridangam and naadaswaram blasting away, I get emotional.

Ponnu’s dad once remarked, “Everyone gets married. So did you.” Of course I did. But still. “I can’t see my daughter being taken away by a guy.” He asked, “Who takes her away? That is not the way to see it. She gets married.” Yes, yes. But I still revolted against the idea. Someone taking away my girl. Can’t digest that.

One nurtures one’s fears and over a period of time these grow so large that sane reason stands no chance. One day I mentioned casually to Ponnu, “You don’t really have to get married. You study, get a job, see the world and enjoy yourself.” Ponnu looked at me for a little while and then said, “You know something… That is a selfish thing to say.” After which she walked away from the room.

I sat rooted to my seat and was thinking about what Ponnu had said. I mentally cringed at the word, `Selfish’. I have never seen myself in relation to that adjective. Selfish. It was just that I was afraid another person would not be as good and loving to Ponnu as I or her dad. But that was a negative thought without any reference point. A thought which came out of my unwillingness to let go and put another’s happiness first.

A little while later I went to Ponnu’s room and found her reading on the bed. I sat across her and apologized for what I had said. It was indeed selfish on my part to tell her something that came out of my fear. I hugged her and said, “You were right. It was a selfish thing to say.” She only asked, “Did I hurt you?” A bit, I replied. But you were right, I stressed.

A parent is learning anew with a child. The roles are not rigid. Most times the parent shows the way and sometimes the child points out the signs ahead.

Letting Go

When does a parent really let go? Or does it ever happen? I have embarrassed both Ponnu and her father with my feelings over her. Yet, I would not like to term it an obsession, because Ponnu is not an obsession. I can see her living her life without me around -- without me on the phone talking to her and inquiring after her.

Yet, there was a distraught me a few years ago when Ponnu was in her last year at school. Soon enough it was time for Ponnu to appear for her final examinations. And the day came when her dad and me accompanied her to the examination hall. No word escaped my lips as I saw my child talking with her friends and then it was time to say good bye. I hugged her and she kissed me and I wished her the best for her exams. She joined the queue that would take her into the examination hall. Then it hit me. This was the most important examination in my child’s student life, until then. Perhaps, I think now, perhaps, the fact that she was no longer the child whose hand I had held and taken to school years ago or the reality that she was a grown up girl though still in school uniform that made me sad or it was just an amalgamation of these thoughts. I really don’t know. But the tears slipped unchecked and Ponnu saw it. She looked at me, enlarged her pupils and put her finger across her lips. I nodded.

I left the school compound and Ponnu’s dad wondered why I was sniffing. "What happened", he asked. “Oh, I just felt a bit emotional seeing Ponnu going off to write her first public exams,” I said. He laughed. “Now, what will you do when she goes off as a bride,” he asked. I heard him and surprised myself by laughing. Really, what would I do then.

Mother's Fears

As a mother, I have innumerable fears. Well, some of them can now be termed in the past tense. I am not going to spell out everything for I think it will only reinforce some of them. The initial fears of losing my child in a crowd refused to shake off years later.

A four or five-year-old Ponnu’s hand can be clasped firmly in mine in a public place and I can quell my fears. Or take her physically and deposit her down to her grandma’s house when she went there weekly to pay a visit. It was then unthinkable to send her off with anyone except her father. But as Ponnu grew older, I realized I could not do much in the matter.

It was like the time I would pick out Ponnu’s clothes for her. Until she was three years old or thereabouts and then she wanted to have a say in the matter. In my defense, I‘d like to say, I am graceful where Ponnu is concerned. I respect her. But I don’t think it would extend to any limits that I don’t consider safe or not right. A parent is a parent is a parent. Can’t escape that at times, methinks.

When Ponnu started going to college, though it was my decision to send her some distance away from where we stay so that she learnt to travel by the local trains, I still had my foot in the door. Ponnu was to message me when she boarded the train, when she reached college and also when she left for home. Initially Ponnu was okay with it. At times, she’d come up with, “Other parents don’t ask this of their children.” My answer always remained, “I am not comparing you to other children, so you don’t compare me to other parents.”

This arrangement of constant messaging lasted until one day, Ponnu said, she wanted to know why she had to punch in so many messages to me. “Is this a question of trust,” she asked. “Not at all, “ I said. “On the contrary, this is to do with my knowing you are safe.” “Then one message should do,” she said. It was then time to sit down and sort this out. “You are my only child,” I began. To that the repartee was quick. “Some of my friends are single children like me and they don’t have to message or call back as often as I do.” I thought for a while and said, “As a mother, my heart walks outside of me when you are not within sight.” I had read this somewhere long ago. Trust Ponnu to come up with, “Then, you must tell your heart to stay in its place, Ma. I am not getting lost or losing my way. Even if I do, I can ask and find my way.”

I am a parent. I just know that I worry. So I told Ponnu we could come to an agreement. Just one message to tell me when she has finished college for the day would be nice and I could message her instead, if I was eager. “Don’t worry, Ma. I will call you,” she said. Ponnu does that.

Just Write

My friend who pushed me into writing a blog is seething at my inconsistency. “How can you,” he goes. I haven’t really sat down and collected my thoughts to put them down on my blog. Then comes the clincher, “What is there so much to think,” he asks. “Just write.”

My friend has since left the organization. Feels bad to know another good colleague and friend has gone off the comfortable pool we worked in. I would like us to stay in touch. But the cheeky guy has only one question to ask after the pleasantries are exchanged. Tera next post kab aayega? Ahem!

Is this post to answer his query? I wish it was. It is in fact a more can-be-done to myself. Until he comes up with his next, So what? Just one post!!!