HOLIDAY!!!

A holiday trip to the sea. An excited toddler. Me busy with preparations. Hubby worried about the long, long drive. Endless packing. Clothes. Blankets. Sheets for the sand. Cushions for the drive. Toys and buckets to build sand castles. Towels. Sunscreen. Hats. Music for the road. And food. Lots of food. Fruits. Chips. Biscuits. Cereal. Juice. Water.

Loading the car. Takes five trips from the house. One suitcase, two backpacks, two picnic baskets, lots of water bottles. And child’s scooter. Leave an hour late. Everyone excited. Crossing the jungle on the way. Saw wild elephants. Screams of joy and tiny eyes filled with wonder.  She is unusually hungry. Constantly demanding something to eat. I am happy. This is a rare demand. One question on repeat mode – When will we reach there?. Stopped at a small motel for the night. She drops off to sleep without her usual story book and songs. Tired.

On the road early next day. She is up early. Doesn’t want me to drive. We snuggle in the back seat. Munching chips. All three of us wear sun shade goggles. She competes with the music with her rhymes. We all sing along. I get back to driving. Papa tells her funny stories at the back. Sounds of endless giggles and questions. I smile. The drive doesn’t seem so long now.

Reach the hotel. We unpack the car. Change and go to the sea. Face filled with pure joy. Can’t keep her off the water. She wants to go deep. I curse myself. Forgot to get her floats. She is wet through. All towels and dry clothes are in the hotel. I curse myself again. But her face is filled with amazement. She feels cold. Finally out of sea. But into the sand. Busy building sand castles. Digging with spoons. Toys. Nails. Sand everywhere. Eyes, ears, nose, hair. It is perfect. Sunset. Sand. Sea. Waves crashing. Warm wind. She is happy. We are happy. Away from the busy bustling days. We are here. Just here. But the moment ends soon. She doesn’t want to go back to the hotel. Bawls till we promise her treats back at the hotel.

Trip to famous church next day. She is cranky. Has stopped eating. I am angry. Very few food options to feed her. I thank god for coconut water and juices. Click lots of pictures. Crying and impatient toddler. Back to the beach. This time with change of clothes and towels and hats. Screams of joy. Jumping in the waves. Makes us smile. Her pure joy. Quickly we are through all change of clothes and towels. I opt for parasailing. She bawls her eyes out. She wants to come. Hugs me tight when I am back. Happy again. My eyes fill up. Her love is without bounds. We all hold hands. A long quite walk along the water. 

A trip to the local spice farm. She is irritated and cranky. "Why are we not at the beach?". Hasn’t eaten anything whole day. So we are back at the beach. While she plays, we feed her. It is better than the TV distraction back home at dinner times. Papa figures out the secret. Sand and water. Her favorites. Can’t keep her off them for long.

Time to go back. Me worried she would cry. But she doesn't. Wants to go home. Misses the beach. But home is waiting. The drive back is as fun as the first one. We stop at the forest for an elephant ride. Squeals of joy. This time she gets to touch the elephant. Watches with wonder how much they eat. She promises to eat well. Falls asleep before we reach home. A smile on her face. A smile on ours.

HOPE

The pen glittered in the sun. Shiny and smooth, it was just beautiful. Maithri could not take her eyes off it. The brown body perfectly accentuated by the golden cap and slightest of the bulge in the centre gave the pen a curve which looked classic and elegant. It sat snugly in Neha’s palms as she showed her latest possession. “Isn’t this beautiful?  My dad got me this pen from Mumbai. It writes beautifully. Let me show you” said Neha. She took out her notebook, and opened the cap of the pen to reveal the exquisite nib. Maithri had never seen a fountain pen with such a small and delicate nib, it was almost not there. But when Neha scribbled on her notebook, she saw that the pen was not really fragile. It was strong and smooth.

“Can I please write with it for a while” asked Maithri. Before Neha could answer, the bell announced the end of recess and their teacher flew into the room. Everyone rushed back to their benches and within seconds a respectful silence had set in the class of fifth grade. Maithri looked at best friend with the new pen and sighed.  Neha was the prettiest in the class with her marble white skin and shiny short hair. She also had the best of things - her bag, pencil box, shoes; even her school uniform looked classier than others. Everyone in class was jealous of her. Everyone, except Maithri.

Maithri and Neha were best friends. By looks there made quite the unlikely pair. Tall and dark, Maithri had unruly hair which had been tamed with oil and forced into a braid by her mother. The differences between the, ended there. Both of them were soft spoken, loved to read books and watch movies, an interest cultivated by their respective fathers. This ensured that they always had many things to talk about, unlike the other girls and boys of their age. Maithri was always happy in the company of Neha. Hence, she never felt jealous of the things Neha had. Up Till now; when that fated pen arrived.

Maithri couldn’t stop thinking about the pen. She looked down at her own plastic fountain pen. It suddenly looked ugly and fat with a hideous protrusion of nib. It didn’t very write well. It leaked and blotched and spewed ink all over her notebook. Her school insisted on use of fountain pens for fifth graders, and she had to wait for a couple of years to graduate to the more sophisticated ball point pen. ‘If I had a pen like Neha’s, I wouldn’t mind having to write with a fountain pen my whole life’ thought Maithri. Neha caught her looking at the pen again and again. ‘’Here why don’t you use my pen to write in this class” said Neha as she passed it on to Maithri. Maithri was ecstatic as she took that lovely thing in her hand and wrote a few words. The pen was not just pretty, it worked very well too. Writing with it was like gliding your hands on satin.

“It is a lovely pen. You are so lucky to have it” said Maithri, handing over the prized thing to Neha. As the school day progressed, Maithri became more and more quiet. She was working on strategies to convince her parents to get her a similar pen. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. She had learnt quite early that her parents could not afford to buy many things. She had everything which was required – school bag, uniform, shoes and a pen – but they had a sturdy quality to them –they would last for a really long time but are not really beautiful to look at, sometimes downright ugly.  She had learnt not to protest for luxurious or expensive things because it would make her father sad, and mother angry. But this pen was different. She wanted it badly, wanted it with all her might. As she walked on home, she revised on all her tactics to convince Mother; for it was she who made all the important decisions.

Mother was busy cleaning the house when Maithri reached home. The two room set where they lived was right next to a busy street. It was forever dusty, despite all Mother’s efforts to keep it clean. But it didn’t dissuade her, and she took on attacking the dirt with fresh gusto every day. Maithri often felt that Mother was obsessed with cleaning, but she dare not voice her thoughts on this matter. She also knew not to disturb her when she was at her obsession, she would wait for the right opportunity. In the evening, to please her, Maithri came back early from play and opened her school books to study. Mother was genuinely surprised. “This is the first time you have come back from your games, without me having to ask you to! I didn’t even have to push you to study! What is the matter? Is there a test tomorrow in school?” she asked with concern. “No Ma, I just wanted to prepare early for the upcoming examinations” said Maithri. Mother just nodded with a smile and went to the kitchen to make dinner.  Maithri followed her and stood at the door watching her for a few minutes. Then she said, “Ma, the pen I have leaks when I write. It spoils the paper and my hands and everything I touch. Can you please buy me a new pen?” Mother didn’t stop what she was doing, but said “Maithri, you just got a new pen last month after you broke the last one. Ask you father to check on it, if it has any fault. I am sure he will make it stop leaking.” Maithri knew that the first attempt will not work. Then she tried something else. “Father might make it stop spewing ink, but he cannot make it smoother. This pen is so rough; it is quite difficult for me to write. I have to write quickly in the tests, there is never enough time. How can I score good marks if my concentration is on the pen rather than the test?” said Maithri.

This time she caught Mother’s attention; but in the wrong way. “Young lady, do not make the excuse of a pen for your low scores. Students are marked on their answers, not on the pen they are using. What you need to do is practice writing with this pen at home. Go back to your books and copy down today’s entire class notes into your practice book” said Mother. Maithri was crestfallen. She didn’t expect this and was quite upset with the unexpected penalty. Not able to stop herself further she spurted, “Mother you have to see Neha’s new pen. It is just wonderful; it writes so smoothly, that I can finish an entire essay in half the time required. It is very strong too, will not be damaged like my pen if it falls down. That pen would last for years. Please get me this one pen, and I will never ask for anything else”. But her pleading had no effect on Mother. “Maithri, you know we cannot afford to buy things like Neha’s parents. We have talked about this quite enough; I do not want to go over it again. The pen you are talking about must cost hundreds. Your father is providing you everything you need. Do not ask for all this expensive things” said Mother sternly. Maithri gave up. She knew that there would be no more discussion on this matter, without her getting scolded. If she insisted again, there would be serious reprimands. She went back to her books miserably.

The next few days, Maithri was quiet. She didn’t speak much both at school and at home. All the time, she was brooding on how much she wanted that pen but couldn’t have it. She was also angry with Neha. If she hadn’t shown her the pen, Maithri wouldn’t have known the pain of not owning it. Neha enquired about her glumness several times, but couldn’t get an answer out of her. For Maithri was too proud to tell her the truth. She would rather not have the majestic pen than be pitied. So she went about her days dejected and alone, staying away from her best friend and her beautiful pen.

One morning in class, she was told that school was going to be closed the next day for Christmas. That’s when an idea formed in her head. She had read about Christmas and Santa Claus in many books and seen in the films on their black and white television. She was too young to understand what religion meant, but old enough to know that they didn’t celebrate Christmas. But it didn’t matter to her. The books said that Santa Claus always bought a gift to all the good children. All one had to do was write their wish down in a paper, put it in a stocking and hang it on the fireplace on Christmas Eve. Behold, the next morning, the gift would be sitting at the Christmas tree, all beautifully wrapped up and waiting to be opened with eager hands. This whole thing always fascinated her. But she never thought of giving it a try. Maybe it was because they didn’t celebrate Christmas, or had stockings or a fireplace to hang them on. Or maybe because she thought there was no Santa Claus, rather it was the parents who buy the gifts their children wished for. Or maybe because she had never wanted something so badly that she would hope. Hope that Santa Claus really existed and would get her that gift, which her parents couldn’t.

Deciding that the pen was worth the effort, Maithri came home from school that day and hunted for her father’s sock. “No stocking here, but a big sock should do” she mumbled to herself. Having found the perfect one; she hid it under her pillow and went about her chores quietly. That night, just before bedtime, she wrote down her wish for the pen, in the best writing she could. Carefully folding up the torn piece of notebook paper, she put it in the sock and placed it under her pillow. She went off to sleep easily that night; with a light heart filled with faith. That night she dreamt of talking to a huge man dressed in all red, with flowing white beard and a jingle in his step while he listened to her earnestly.

The next morning she woke up before Mother could call out to her. There was no Christmas tree in the house, so the gift she asked for must be in the sock itself. She pulled out the sock from under her pillow and thrust her hand inside eagerly. Her mind told her she was being silly; there wouldn’t be any pen there. Despite that, she was crushed to see that the sock was empty. She started to cry, not knowing why. Was it because there was no pen, or was it because she had hoped for a miracle and it didn’t happen? Father came rushing to comfort her, and Mother asked her the reason for her tears. But she didn’t answer. How could she tell them that she was upset that Santa Claus didn’t come and give her a gift? She was too old for that. Mother was getting angry with the delay being caused on a school day. So Maithri dried her tears and went to school. That day she stopped pining for that pen.

The next couple of months passed away quickly and the school year was coming to an end. Maithri tried be her usual self after the incident with the pen and Santa, though she was still sad. She also disliked not speaking to Neha and missed her very much in the days she had spent away from her. Deep inside she knew that there was no fault of Neha’s in this whole pen affair. So she was back with her best friend and wondered how she could ever have been angry with her. Neha not knowing what had disturbed Maithri those few days, was relieved to see Maithri becoming normal again. They both grew closer after that break, as if to make up for the lost time. With the advent of the final examinations, they studied together after school and spent a lot of time together.

On the day of the last test, Maithri skipped back home almost happy. She was free from the tyranny of studies and school for the whole of summer and she looked forward to two whole months of fun and play at her grandparent’s village. The only thing she would miss was Neha and times spent with her. But then they would have the whole of next school year for that. Maithri couldn’t get herself to worry about anything that day and went about humming to herself.

That night, she had visitors. Just after dinner, as Mother was clearing up the kitchen, there was a knock on their front door. Father opened the door and ushered in Neha and her father. As the parents exchanged their pleasantries over some tea, Neha looked at Maithri with very sad red rimmed eyes. Evidently she had been crying. She gave Maithri a beautifully wrapped box, tied up with a red ribbon forming a bow on the top. Maithri had never got a present so delightfully packed. She was lost in admiring it, and forgot to wonder about the reason behind the gift. Then, Neha told her the terrible fact. “My father has got transferred to Mumbai. We all have to move there. We are leaving early tomorrow morning so that I could attend the admission process in the school there.” said Neha trembling. Maithri was too shocked to give a response. When she didn’t give a response, Neha burst into tears. Her father gently steered her towards the door, saying good buy.  “I will miss you so much; we had such good times together. We will be friends for ever. We will write letters to each other. That is why I have given you this gift. This will remind you of me always” said Neha, while leaving.

Maithri still couldn't understand what had just happened. Neha had always been around for as long as she remembered. She couldn’t imagine times without her. Her mind couldn’t recognize school classes, and lunch times and books without Neha. She just stood there, trying to make sense of it all. Mother and Father knew she was very upset at the loss of her friend. Hence they tried to distract her. “What did Neha give you?” asked Mother pointing to the gift in her hands. Maithri sat on the bed while she gently unwrapped the box and took out the gift Neha had given her. It glittered even in the dull light of their home as it nestled in her palm. Tears streamed silently down her face as she ran a finger over the smoothness of the brown and gold. 

MOVING

Five years, and five different places – that has been my record. I have been moving places ever since I got married and because of it you can safely call my marriage quite ‘happening’. Oh! All that moving!! It has been lovely, it has been terrible. The organizer in me is enthralled, the lazy me is miserable. Travelling across the country with bags and baggage has been quite a mixed experience!!

Why we move? It is just my luck. Probably, on a dreamy day I would have earnestly prayed to have a life of travel, and at that exact moment, the gods would have decided to pay attention to me! Maybe I should complain to the gods for their untimely consideration. Or maybe I should be grateful that they didn’t listen on the other days when I had some really crazy and dangerous prayers like volunteering in Sudan or becoming a cow or climb the Alps!! Well, now that this gift has been bestowed on me (with no returns policy); I think I better enjoy it.

Where do we move? If you could put a pen on one corner of the Indian Peninsular and without lifting the pen tried to draw an X in any way but ensure that you cover the northern, western and southern edges of the country – you can trace my path and the places I have stayed. The common points about these places are: they are at least 10 kms away from the nearest civilization (often a small village town), they have exactly one restaurant to dine out, but they are all serviced by Flipkart and Amazon!!

How do we move? While driving through the countryside highways, have you ever been disgruntled by those overloaded, tarpaulin covered, senile looking trucks which seem to struggle to move ahead but are insane enough to stay on the fast line? Those are the trucks which have carried my house from place to place. None of those awesome, jazzy moving companies for us! They don’t service these unknown places we keep moving to. Now you know never to call me when my belongings are in transit. I would eat your ears out along with my nails.

The only other element in this moving business is the packing and unpacking!! It is the most crazy, stressful, soul searching activity which happens in our house. I always took pride in the fact that I have very few belongings and live minimalistic. But that feeling exists only till the time arrives when I have to pack up my house. Somehow the truck gets completely filled, whichever size you get. It is only at packing time, that I discover the many things which my husband and I don’t use, but then there is barely any time to discard/dispose/donate them, so they get carried to the next place. In the new place, we do not know anyone or anywhere we can discard/dispose/donate, so those unused items remains packed and sent to the darkest corner of the house till the next move – thus the cycle repeats!!

Packing is also the only time there are clashes between the different agents who are packing, i.e., me, husband, maids, packers/truck handlers – how should the paintings be wrapped, how to pack important items like books and saris, should the fridge go horizontal or vertical, should we take the lovely plants I collected or let them go (not really family members), should we bother wrapping the mattresses or let them be to be used by the truck driver at during his journey, etc. The worst and most difficult decision to make is got to do with our car. Do we drive across the country to the new place in the heat of the Indian summer or do we send the car in the truck and foot the bill for all the scratches and damages which happens as a result? Tough decision!

I think you got the picture about our moving days and decisions. It is not all that bad and quite interesting for novices. In case you do want to visit us, I would highly recommend you to do so when we are in the process of the Move. You would be extremely entertained as well as educated!! And of great use to me J

THE LOST ART OF WRITING

Tell me, many of us still write!! I mean write literally - Using a pen and paper? I can assure you that the number is quite low. Today keyboards and touchpads have replaced the pens in our fingers. So much so, that our fingers have forgotten how to grasp these old artifacts of the written expression. Not that it matters – you say. You could type and store information much better in your gadgets. But one thing which is truly impacted by this abandonment of literal writing is the skill of handwriting. It was once a major scoring point for people – not only to the children going to school but also to adults. It was believed that it showed aspects of your character and personality. The curve, slant and stroke of your pen was said to say many things about you as a person. But this graduation into electronic devices has turned our handwriting into such a mess, that I doubt anyone can really figure out anything about us through it. Or maybe it still shows?

I first noticed this assault on my handwriting during my graduate school examinations. I have never had a beautiful handwriting, but it was legible and had a style to it, I liked it as a child. 16 years of schooling with countless notes and tests had ensured that. But two years into graduate school – by that time technology had caught up with the middle class in India – I spent all my study and assignment time on the computer. Come examination time, I realized that my hands just couldn’t move fast enough. It was as if someone was gripping my hands so tight, I could not move. After that one-hour examination, I came out with my right hand fingers almost paralyzed with pain. And just don’t ask me about the handwriting in that test. It was so terrible and barely legible; no wonder I received such a low score in it.

I recently read an article – which is my inspiration for this post. It said that this assault on the handwriting started much before the advent of digital devices. It started with the invention of Ball Point pen. You will see how.

The ball point pen was invented by Hungarian journalist – Laszlo Biro. Frankly he wasn’t the first to create this pen, there were many others, but their designs had a major flaw. They leaked ink. You see, the only ink available then – the one used in fountain pens – was too thin. It was necessary for it to be like that, so that the ink would flow easily through the nib. But this thin ink was useless in a ball point pen, because it would leak through the front. There was another type of ink - the ones used in printing press, which would dry sooner than a fountain pen ink, but it was too thick to flow through a ball point. It was Laszlo Biro and his chemist brother Gyorgy who made crucial changes in the ink making it much more suitable. Their ink and pen design result in a less leaky ball point pen with a fast drying ink. Since then it has been an universal success. Its design and ink has been so developed, that within a few years people could not think about life without the ball point pen.

The ball point was immensely successful mainly because it scored over the fountain pen in many ways. It is less heavy, never resulted in stained shirts and there was no need to carry ink along with you to school or work. Also the ink would dry very fast which meant no more smudges in the paper. It was just so easy to use and carry a ball point pen which had a neat effect on the paper. But the effect of these ball point pens on the physical experience of writing has changed forever.

When I was in school, the first few years I had to write with a pencil. When I did graduate to pens, the school insisted on use of fountain pens for the initial years before we were allowed to use the ball point in high school. During my fountain pen days I was sick of them. They were leaky and spewed ink on my paper; I just couldn’t wait to move on to the ball point pen. But later on as an adult, when I actually had the freedom to choose which pen to write with, I tended to prefer the fountain pen. But it was only after reading this article that I realized why I liked fountain pens and why schools in those times insisted on their use.  

It is because fountain pens write smoothly.  You barely have to lift your hand from the paper; words just flow out of the pen in a smooth line. No wonder cursive writing was a big thing when fountain pens were the fashion of the day. That’s because there is no other way to write with a fountain pen. It joins the letters and the words with graceful lines. But the most important advantage is that very minimum pressure is required to make an impression on the paper. You just have to touch the nib slightly on the paper to write; don’t need to press it down like in ball point pen. All this means much less strain on your hand and a better handwriting. You should really try this sometime. Go get a fountain pen – try writing with it for a few days and then do this test. Write one page each with that fountain pen and a ball point pen; then see which one is easy to write with?

The ball point pen is also the reason why we have moved away from cursive writing. While the free flowing movement of the fountain pen encouraged the joint slanted cursive writing, the ball point discouraged it. Most of us think we moved to print – the un-joined letters we use today instead of cursive writing – due to the high volumes and speed of writing required during higher education. But in her book – ‘Teach yourself better handwriting’, the handwriting expert and type designer Romary Sasoon says, that separate letters, as in print, is rarely faster than cursive writing. If that is the case then why would we move to print from cursive which is not only beautiful to look at but also fast? It is because of the pens we are using. As the author of the article I read says “fountain pens want to write. Ball point pens have to be convinced to write, need to be pushed into the paper to make an impression”. Hence the print (un-joined letters) form of writing it resulted in.

I think that is enough said about pens and handwriting. Let me get back to the point I started this post with. Why does handwriting even matter? There is a lot of research which has been done in this area, and there is new evidence which links handwriting with education and thinking. It has been found that children not only learn to read more quickly when they first learn to write by hand, but they also are better able to generate ideas and retain information. My memories of school days tell me about the copious notes I used to make in order to remember facts. It seems, when we write, a unique neural circuit is automatically activated. The gesture of the written word causes a mental stimulation in the brain.

A 2012 study led by Karin James in Indiana University supported this view. They found that when children had drawn a letter freehand, they exhibited increased activity in three areas of the brain that are activated in adults when they read and write. However, the children who typed the letter on a computer, there was barely any activity in those parts of the brain. It has been found that when children composed text by hand, they not only consistently produced more words more quickly than they did on the keyboard, but expressed more ideas. There are many studies which agree to this, while there are some which go on to say that that the difference in mental stimulation between writing and typing is not that great. Whichever side of argument you may believe, the fact is that writing by hand would definitely be more beneficial than just typing into the computer. Thank God, India is not that technologically advanced to put IPads and computers in our youngest citizens. Students still take notes by hand in our schools and colleges. It helps them learn better, argue two psychologists, Pam A Mueller of Princeton and Daniel Oppenheimer of University of California. They say that writing by hand allows the student to process a lecture’s contents and re-frame it – a process of reflection and manipulation that can lead to better understanding of memory encoding.

The benefits of handwriting extend beyond childhood. Even today, I write the best when it is using a pen and paper. Every post I have written in this blog has first been penned down in a much used diary and only then has it been transferred into electronic medium. That is because the ideas flow better and faster when I am actually writing.  It provides clarity and structure to my thoughts. Thus saying, I rest my case.

References:

Some portions of this post are excerpts has been taken from the following articles-

http://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2015/08/ballpoint-pens-object-lesson-history-handwriting/402205/

http://mobile.nytimes.com/2014/06/03/science/whats-lost-as-handwriting-fades.html?_r=1&referer=

THE AGONY OF BEING UNHEARD

She is 6 years old and loves to talk. She wants to talk about her friends, what they did in school, about some funny man she saw in the street, about the dreams she had last night or just some story her teacher told her in class. Her father gives her a patient hearing, but he is not always there. Mother is too occupied with work all the time. She responds to her stories with silences. She searches intently for some sign of acknowledgement or understanding in her mother’s face. But all she can see is the stony face her mother puts on when thinking about the next task in hand.

She thinks – Mother is always busy.

She is 13. She is a normal teen – confused and excited about a lot of things. But one thing she is sure of is her brother. She looks up to him – he is like a god to her. Every day she waits eagerly for her parents to become busy with their evening routines, because it was then that her brother unfolded for her a new world. He talks about his friends, his thoughts and opinions, dreams and aspirations and also many stories he had read or heard. She listens with rapt attention to every word he says, filing away pearls of wisdom into the farthest corner of her brain. But she is also bursting with things to tell him. She wants to talk about her day, her friends and all the interesting and strange things which happens on a school day. As she starts telling him about it, she watches his eyes slowly get disinterested. Within minutes, he changes – from paying close attention to what she is saying, to planning for the next day or homework or whatever other thing which is more interesting or urgent than his sister’s ramblings. She stops talking. They both get on with their homeworks and daily chores.

She thinks – My stories are not as interesting or as fun as his. I do not have anything to interest him. 

She is 19. Being an undergrad student is quite disheartening to her. Neither a child, nor an adult, she is expected to be both at different times by different people. She belongs to a group of friends who call themselves The Gang. They  love to have fun and frolic around all the time. She often finds their actions silly and sometimes dangerous. Her moral meter flickers dangerously many a times, and then she often voices out her thoughts to her friends. Stop it, don’t do this, this is bad and wrong and dangerous. Soon they have a list of nick names for her – Grandmother, Teacher, Aunty. “Chill and relax, have some fun, nothing with happen” they tell her. She becomes silent.

She thinks – My friends don’t understand me. They find me boring Maybe I don’t know how to have fun. 

She is 23. Graduate college is not at as she had expected. For the first time in years she finds people she can talk to. They actually look at her while they listen to what she has to say intently. She opens her life to her friends as they do to her. She is so happy and excited. She really begins to understand people. For the first time it is so easy to be honest, and bold and confident.

She thinks – Finally, I am living.

She is 26. She has a boyfriend and they spend hours talking to each other. It is mostly her who is doing the talking. She tells him about her work, about the wedding shopping she is doing, about her fears about how marriage would change her life. He listens and responds beautifully. He tells her everything about his life, his family and his plans. She is so happy. At work, she belongs to an amazing team. They comprise of lovely, caring and funny people. They are also very good at what they do. Every day after lunch they gather together to talk and chit chat. Here she tries to tell her opinion or random piece of information. But her words are shot down before they even form a sentence. The others in the team have already thought of it or they disagree with her on it or they just want to say something. She never gets to completely express her thoughts – whether it is about a movie they saw or a project they are working on. This happens every day. She stops saying anything. After some time, she stops meeting up after lunch and makes the excuse of pending work to get back to her cubicle.

She thinks – I am stupid. I don’t know as much as these people. They are so smart and confident and assertive. I have nothing to offer to them.

She is 30. Her husband comes back late from work. He is tired. He is always tired these days. Or has it been months. She doesn’t remember. Over dinner he tells her about how difficult it has become in office. Crazy workload, crazy expectations. He sighs and starts playing with their baby. Within seconds, he is smiling. She had been waiting for her husband to come back from office. She wants to tell about her day, some bits of information, some decisions to be taken or just how it has been. She starts to tell him, but after the initial few minutes – he switches off – already immersed with the baby and meeting its demands of attention. It happens so very often now.

She thinks – What I talk about is nothing important. It is drab in comparison to my baby. It is more fun to play with the baby than listen to me. Maybe I am inconsequential too. What I do in a day does not really matter to him. Maybe I don’t have anything interesting to say. Maybe I tell the same things over and again, like my mother.

She is 50. Her children are grown up and pursuing lives of their own. They do not have the time to talk to her. Her husband is busy with his career, only now he doesn’t talk about it with her. He is kind and patient and helps her with everything. But each of them are living their own lives – Two individual islands in a sea.

She does not think anymore.

Have you ever felt this frustuation? Of trying to talk but being unheard. Maybe you have something important to talk about. Or maybe its just trivial things. Maybe it is plea to help you, give you direction, or maybe it is an offer of help to others. Then how do you feel when that someone doesn’t pay attention to you. Not out of malevolence, but out of plain lack of interest. Maybe if it is an outsider, you don’t mind much – only your ego is hurt. But what about when it is a loved one? Or many loved ones. It is more than your ego which is shattered. Not in one go, but the pieces break off slowly – one at a time. Till there is nothing left. You are no one. Then you are inconsequential, irrelevant. All the achievements, treasures and memories don’t matter when you have no one to share them with.

Maybe each man really is an island.

MY PARENTS WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG!!!

When I was 10 years old, I often wished I had different parents. You see, I didn’t like mine. I felt they were too much of everything - too strict, scolded me too much and were too conventional. I didn’t like the routines and rules they followed in their lives and intended me to do it too. I often thought about how when I would have children, I would raise them differently. Some of my displeasure was also due to watching too many English movies where the parents are carefree, laughing and let the children do anything they want. Of course I was too young to know that movies mostly show what we want to see. Another contributing factor to my dislike of my parent’s ways was due to comparison with my friend’s parents. Yes, it is not just grownups who compare their children with others, it happens in the reverse order too. Ask any teenager J

Anyways, now that I have a child of my own – whose future I am responsible for, I see myself taking the same path as my parents. Not because that is the only parenting I have actually seen. Rather, it is because they were right all along. All through my childhood and teen years, my parents have been preparing me for now – a happy, independent and strong adult. Only, I didn’t know this then. As I look back now, I see how every step or action they have taken is helping me right now. Let me describe to you how.

The one thing I hated the most was doing household chores. My mother had me doing the dishes when I was 8 years old. Every day after lunch, I would trudge down to the washing area and clean the plates and bowls, all the while dreaming about watching tv or going out to play. If I would protest, I would get an earful from my mother. Her often repeated dialogue was “You don’t know anything, you will realize the value of this when you grow up”. By the time I was twelve years old, in addition to the dishes, I would sweep the house, chop vegetables and cook simple things like eggs. And mop the house in the weekends. Meanwhile my friends were off learning tennis and horse riding. How I hated the housework!! But little did I know that this practice would make my life easy as an adult. Today I can do everything around the house in a jiffy and it is not an effort at all. I never get the anxiety attack which most women experience when their maid takes a leave.  Why? I even got a compliment from a maid that I chop vegetables faster than her or anyone else she knows. Now that’s one compliment I am really proud of. Thank you mom.

I know we have help for all this now, and no one really cares about house work. But knowing how to make your own food and keeping the place you live in clean - these are essential life skills. Possession of these skills doesn’t get recognized but the lack of them is acutely felt. All the single men and women staying away from family would know what I am talking about. Mastering these skills takes away the mind space and stress taken up by these daily activities. Today I work in automode – these things do not take up my time, effort or energy.

Another thing I hated as a child was getting up early in the morning. My parents were early risers – they would wake me up, each for their own reasons. Mom would expect me to study; she believed that our mind is fresh in the morning and would absorb the most, compared to rest of the day. My dad would take me running and do yoga. You can imagine my feelings then. While my friends could sleep late, till 10-11 am during weekends, I would have to get up 6 everyday, if not earlier, irrespective of the day of the week. No late night movies for the reason that it wouldn’t help me get up in the morning. I find it funny that all those years I resented this the most, because now I find it the most effective way to start the day. Over many years and many trials on how to lead my day, I have found that the age old routine which my parents have been insisting was the best one for me. Today I get up at 5 am, do some yoga or walking, and get a major chunk of my work done before it is 9am. I find myself the most focused and productive in the morning. Well, frankly the motivating factor which pulls me out of bed every morning is the fact that I would get some quite time for myself before my toddler wakes up. The rest of the day is a whirlwind. But I feel wonderful because I already have done what I want in the morning. How the rest of the day goes – doesn’t effect me, my work or mood.

My parents live frugally. In the earlier days, it was out of necessity, but now they do it out of choice. In my childhood, I never had pocket money, had new clothes only couple of times a year and we never ate out. When I was younger it didn’t really bother me, but as I grew into my teens I didn’t like it. I had frequent fights and debates with my parents on this aspect. I wanted us to live freely, enjoy the money we had. I found it especially hard when I saw people less financially stable living more luxuriously. I revolted, took up summer jobs and blew that money in the way I wanted. They watched silently, knowing that while I have not learnt to spent money well, I had learnt what it means to earn it myself. My parents had taught me the value of money. I realize that my parents saw things differently from how we see things now. My dad has a simple formula – he felt that if we are not saving or investing at least 50% of our take home incomes, then we are living way above our means and are not financially sound. Today I couldn’t agree with him more. Living like that my parents have become financially independent enough, that they wouldn’t have to work another day the rest of their lives. More importantly, they have helped me learn to be financially sound. Right now, my family’s monthly expenses are less than half of what some of my friends pay as rent!! This gives us financial leeway to do a lot of things – investment, a loan free apartment, travel, etc. Thanks to my parents for this valuable lesson.

My parents rarely attended the Parents Teachers meetings when I was in school. They also rarely dropped me or picked me up from the bus stop to school after I entered my teens. I had to walk all the way – almost 3 km everyday. Even when it was dark. While most days I enjoyed this sense of being an adult and freedom, I hated it when I was tired. What I never realized was that they were making me independent. They were teaching me to be responsible for myself and how to be cautious. It is because of them that I learnt not be scared when alone. I have travelled to far off places alone, lived alone in a new city while I was single and working and am completely independent. Today I can never get lost or scared in any new place. I know how to get out of situations.

Oh! There are many other things I can go on and on about my parents influence on me as a person. My dad would always insist on me reading books and writing articles, essays etc. Of course I didn’t know then, that later on – writing would become my one creative outburst. This blog is mostly due to my father’s inspiration and persistence. In fact writing has also become my source of income over the past few years.

I cannot help smiling when I look at myself today. I am living my life in the way that my parents have been asking/teaching me to; the way that I hated as a child but now I find most fruitful, comfortable and wise. The rules and routines I despised then, now I embrace because they make my life easier and more meaningful. My parents always used to tell me to be independent. I thought they meant – work, earn, be financially independent. But what they actually meant was true independence – freedom from anxiety, dependence on people. They have given me self reliance and the ability to take care of myself and my family. They were so right. 

P.S.: Hey this doesn’t mean that I agree with them on other things. There are still a million things I argue with them about. Who knows as I become older (wiser?) I might see the value in what they say. 

FIXING IT

It was a pair of small orange scissors – quite simple and cheap. While it played a very important role in my kitchen, it was not a prized possession and quite easily replaceable. So when it broke one day, I didn’t think twice about throwing it into the dustbin. But my then friend and now husband stopped me. He took the scissors, wound up the broken plastic part with thread, coated it up with hot wax from a candle and behold, my tiny scissors was back to being fully operational. Frankly I was quite impressed with him. He looked like the kind of guy who could do things around the house :P. Such guys make great husbands!!!

Anyways, it was 5 years ago and I still have that pair of scissors and it is still cutting things up quite well. It would have never crossed my mind to fix it up like that. It is exactly how most urban people live. When things get broken, we throw it away and buy a new one. We think we do not have the time to fix it or that we have enough money to buy a new one with more “advanced technology”. So what is wrong with it – you would say. I say we should give “fixing things” a chance before we jump to the store to buy a replacement. Here are my thoughts on why.

I think we don’t really value the things we own. Often that’s the case with the people in our lives too. While we use our possessions mercilessly, we take them for granted. But the moment they threaten to not serve us, we throw them away. Imagine if we were treated this way by the other people in our lives? I say we need to learn to value the things and people around us. Can we survive a single day without them? No. Then why don’t we give our scissors, tools and phones a second chance? Why not take care of them and coax them to stay with us a little longer. Take them to the guy who fixes things and get them working. Who knows how many more years it could serve you.

You might wonder - why should you take the effort? You could just buy a replacement with much lesser effort and time. Well here’s why – You save lots of money!!!

Most of the times, fixing things would save you quite a lot of money. Here’s an example. My laptop charger broke a couple of years ago, when I was in metro city in the south. When I took it to the showroom, they suggested I buy a new charger which charged me 1500 rupees. Well, I didn’t mind then. That charger served me for two years, till it broke again a week ago. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) I live in a very small town. When I took the charger to the only computer shop in the town, he gave me two options. One was to order for a new charger which will cost me 1500 rupees again but I would have to wait for a couple of days. While I was contemplating life without the laptop for those couple of days, the shop owner gave me the other option. He could fix my charger for 200 rupees and he could do it right then. A little more than an hour later, I was on my way back home with a fully functional charger in my bag and the idea of this post in my head.

Is this not great? We live in India- the land of Jugaad. They say anything can be done or fixed or customized in India. Then why not use this great ability which we have around us in abundance?

Here is another reason to try fixing things – Do not fall prey to consumerism. Everywhere we see, we are being pushed, cajoled, manipulated or convinced to have more, spend more, buy more. I don’t get it why do we need so much? Frankly we don’t really require that latest smartphone or the expensive stereo but these corporations with their flashy products and glossy commercials psychologically convince us that we cannot do without them. They are just making money!!! Why don’t we get that? More importantly, they are making money by taking away our money – our hard earned money. And we give it away without a second thought. I say we say no to consumerism. Lets buy things which we really cannot do without and leave the rest. Life would easier, simpler and more happier.

I know what you are thinking right now. Of course its your money and you can spend it the way you want to. But atleast think about the environment. Each of our human products which is being built/made is destroying our world little by little. The waste from the factories dumped around, the resources being consumed, the air and water being polluted – it is not “them” that’s doing all this. It is us too – every time we buy something, they make another two for it. We cannot do without many things, but lets not encourage the manufacturing of the luxury items. Or try and make the phones, laptops, mixer or TV we own work longer and postpone buying new ones. Each time we do that, that is one less item being produced, our tiny contribution to environment’s conservation. And of course one more livelihood – the repairing guy gets a chance to live. Here’s how it happens.

Our car got some major trouble recently. The service centre gave us a quote of 75K – their solution was to replace every troublesome part with a new one – even if the part was just dented. Instead, we took the car to the local mechanic and two days later – the car was completely fixed with the same old parts but working absolutely well and with just 15 K in monetary damages. We get a new car, and the mechanic gets his livelihood. There you go.

I wonder what kind of message are we leaving for our future generations. Instead of this guzzling of new stuff which appears in the market, we need to teach them to value things. We need them to learn to be self sufficient – they should be able to fix things themselves; whether it is broken scissors or a broken relationship. They should learn to not throw away things at the first sign of trouble and learn to make them work. If we are able to pass the right message, then they will be less cruel and learn to give things and people a second chance.

There is this famous joke about how Indians use a T shirt in different ways as it ages, till it becomes a mop. I think we should be proud of this quality. Most of the country does live like this. I grew up in a home where the milk packets, used bottles and tins  were sold to the recycling guy (raddiwala for u), cream from the milk was used to make home made butter and used/torn clothes were sold to old ladies in exchange of utensils and other kitchen ware. Things were not just strewn around the garbage. But the urban lot is slowly moving away from all of this, including me. We have been so much influenced by the west and the world of consumerism. We need to remind us of ourselves, our roots, our values. Maybe we need something like the “Made in India” movement – we need a “Fix it” movement.