Minus the tension

When I was a student all my friends were taking tuition for some subject or the other. My grandmother who was a school principal was horrified by the very idea. Children should not study after school hours she insisted and if you needed to study beyond your classroom your teachers needed to be shot. In spite of much begging and pleading, I wasn’t allowed any. I didn’t really need it – it was just the cool thing to do. You got to meet your classmates out of uniform (very big deal in a small town!), you got to hang out with the opposite sex (even bigger deal but not really my incentive since I got to do that anyway) and the coaching you studied at was a matter of status – it defined how cool you were. Yes, I realise how small town this is, but there you have it.

As the years passed, I began to struggle with Math in earnest – might have been a combination of shitty, disinterested teachers and plain phobia, but I’d break out in a cold sweat the day before the exam. Even so, coaching was out of the question. It had never been done in the history of our family and what would the neighbours say? That a child from our family actually needed extra help? Unheard of. Finally my grandma caved and a guy some years my senior would drop by and teach me Math every second day and earn some pocket money. But that is where it began and ended. No coaching centres for me. And her basic rules were dinned into my head until I could say them in my sleep -

1. No one with any brains needed coaching.

2. If you paid attention in class in the first place, you wouldn’t need help with your homework.

3. If your parents had half a brain and some time for you, they’d be able to help you and you wouldn’t need coaching.

Right. With that engraved on my brain it is no surprise that I was convinced my kids would never take coaching. No sirree. We have a family tradition to uphold. And what is with children in class 1 taking tuition anyway? Often it’s just parents sending their kids to the neighbourhood aunty to do their school homework.

Thankfully the Brat and Bean’s school doesn’t give too much homework, but the little that they do, is a struggle. For no reason other than that the Brat tunes out. Half way through he’ll look up at me and say, How do astronauts drink water on the moon? Does it fly out of the glass? And I glare at him, ‘It’s almost 7 – you need to finish this page of writing, not worry about gravity on the moon.’

In theory I want to be the smiling, unruffled mother who pours him a glass of milk, hands him a biscuit, pats him on the head and homework forgotten says, “About gravity, son…”. But in reality I’m the mother who looks at the time and panics. Dinner and bedtime lie ahead and I don’t want this to overflow into the next time slot. So astronauts can worry about thirst, I have my own rather practical issues at hand.

One of the first being, that while Class 1 math or english is no rocket science, there is a certain way they’re being taught in school. And I hate to confuse the kids by teaching them in my own way. Teachers are after all trained professionals. They know what they’re doing and there is a method to the madness. For me, it’s less racking of the brain and more torture on a rack as I try to explain to him evaporation and why S sounds like Z when writing cheese and please. Not everyone is meant to teach kids, not because we haven’t learnt it or understood it, but because not everyone can come up with innovative ways to teach and make learning fun.

This by itself is a good reason to send a child for tuition – so that they are taught they way they are meant to, without any confusion on the basics. But I’ve decided not to let this break me down. As long as I can, I’m going to work with the teachers, find out how they are teaching and also read up and find fun ways to teach the alphabet, numbers and everything else. Wish me luck.

Anyway, getting back to the present, I didn’t realise that my tension was coming across to him. And I have no idea when it started. All I know is that it gets exacerbated when we’re doing Math. Mostly because even though it’s only primary level math my own fear of the subject plays on my mind even while I explain it to him. Am I doing it right? How do I explain this to him in a simple way so that he gets his basics clear unlike mine? How do I not screw him up? And children being perceptive the way they are, he’s twigged on to it. I struggle for words and don’t realise how my tone has changed. How he can sense the desperation and tension in my voice?

A few days ago we were doing Math home work and after 15 minutes of explaining to him and watching him do his work I felt the fear ease out of my body. I sat there and watched the little head bent over the table and miniature-OA-stubby-fingers holding the pencil and forming the numbers. And then he looked up at me and said, “Mama, you’re not angry with me anymore, are you?”

To actually experience the moment you need to know the Brat. Skinny rat though he is, he has the sweetest, curved baby cheeks that give him the innocent face of a younger child. His big brown eyes don’t hold half the edge of the Bean or even another child of his age. He reminds me of what you’d get if you crossed a sad-eyed puppy with a tub of melted butter. Soft, gentle, quick to step back if he thinks he is hurting you, parenting him is a walk on egg shells. I worry that he worries. And he worries that I worry.

I looked at him in surprise,”I’m not angry, sweetheart. What made you think I was?”

“I don’t know. You just looked angry and sounded angry and your body was angry.”

And there you have it. I’ve already done it. Passed some of the tension on without trying. He already thinks Math = angry mother.

I pulled my chair closer and wrapped my arms around him and rocked back and forth, at a loss for words. “I’m not angry at all, sweetheart,” I croon. He was too smart to comment and just buried his face in my neck soaking up the mommy love. I felt his trust pass into my body and the tension in mine ease away. It’s hard not to fall under his spell.

A few seconds passed and we both pulled away and without a word got back to the math homework. The crisis had passed and I had a lesson tucked away for the future. Math and motherhood don’t have to add up to tension. I can do it. And so can he.

Just to remind you of the kind of heart-wrenching Brat he is, here’s a picture of him gently kissing my best friend’s four month old. He fed him his bottle of milk along with the grandmother and told the older lady – “When you reach half way, don’t forget to stop and burp the baby.” ROFL!

The much awaited house tour

I’ve been promising you this since I moved here a year and a half ago. Apologies for delivering so late, but I guess I was just never happy with the way the place turned out. The house was too big with empty corners, a too small living room, large rooms with awkward walls and too many windows. The paintings were never up where I wanted them, the balconies were nothing on my Delhi terrace garden and the stairs were killing my knees.

So we’re moving house. Yet again. Apparently we’re just nomadic by kismat.  The furniture has been turned round and around and shifted and given away and borrowed and lent and we’ve not had a moment of peace. When we moved out of our last house the old landlord left us with, “Sometimes houses don’t suit people – if that happens, I’d love to have you back here.” Err… thanks old man for blighting the place before we even set foot in it. The last year has been miserable for us in more ways than one. No decent househelp, crazy distances that forced me to quit my job, loneliness everytime I looked out of the high rise even though we were surrounded by friends, and a general sense of not being home yet.

Inspite of that we soldiered on and then one day I snapped and told the OA we had to move out of here. This was still not feeling like home. And I am a huge believer in places feeling like home. In creating a home. So we’re moving. I figured if I don’t give you the royal tour now, I’d never get around to it. So here goes. Enjoy.

There is a strong cross breeze at the front door and I've lost a lot of my decorative stuff. So I decided to use unbreakable things such as books. This is a pile of only red covered books set on a green runner with accents of yellow and green. Take that, strong wind.

The first living room arrangement a la Indian railways. I changed it pretty soon.

This was the second option. Lovely for lounging on the couch in the winter afternoon sun. But it blocked the window AC.

Christmas brought inspiration and we finally found the best arrangement while making space for the tree.

And with the arrangement came new cream sofa covers. Clearly people with two kids never learn.

So whaddya think? I also added a new rug that according to the OA only looks older than everything else. The man has no taste. No, I'm the one exception in his life, thank you very much!

Dining room in summer. The chik is made of pretty white chikan counterpanes that I gave up all hope of using after two kids. Sadly you can't tell in this picture.

The staircase leading up to the bedrooms and away from the public areas. The spot you're looking down at is the reading nook.

Corridor between dining and drawing. We were lucky to find a little daru nook again! I don't know why builders keep putting these in.

In the winter this corner of the dining room gets the most delicious sun and I drag the rocking chair here to work while I oversee the kids' homework/craft or meals.

The reading and music nook. This is before we put up the pictures so it looks half-dressed.

Better and aerial view of the nook. Taken while hanging off the stairs and risking my neck for you.

The colour coordinated book shelf that you may also smirk at . Can't help being anal!

One of the table settings during Christmas season. The Bean laid this.

Just for kicks, sharing the Diwali table setting. The tablemats have a fine gold design that you can't see in this light. I laid the table and did the rangolis etc. The OA cooked dinner. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful family tradition :p

A little row of lamps and cacti on the way up the stairs. They got the most sun and they loved it.

Some showed their appreciation by flowering promptly.

An old masala jar stuffed with greens and guarded by an old warrior on an elephant.

This is the same bookshelf as above, and holds some of the most precious books I own.

Guest room. The collage of pictures includes sketches by my cousin and some ancient postcards that my grandaunt used to send my grandmother from around the world, including my favourites - embroidered flamenco dancers.

The only untouched book shelf in this house - this one carries my cook books :p

A corner of the bathroom. I love the white pot.

And since we're talking bathrooms, I give you the frog guarding the powder room.

The balcony on the lower floor - the guest room looks out on to it.

And this is what it looks like if you're lying in bed and looking out of the guestroom windows.

This room went from being the kids' play room to the OA's temporary office for the six months he worked from home. It is now our laundry room cum second guest room so will not be shared in its present avatar!

Another view of the lower balcony, leading out of the dining room.

Because an AC backside always looks ugly!

After I got the lovely escritoire from the parents I gave the kids my plain old table. Yes, I'm mean that way.

But I was kind enough to set it up for them, right down to lining it with pretty paper. The OA spent half the night pointing and laughing at me. Feel free to do the same.

Because nothing fills up the senses more than a fragrant night and a cool night breeze wafting into your bedroom as you sleep with the doors left wide open. I guess there are some things I'll miss about living high up among the clouds.

The Brat reading on the bed, a box of dinosaurs kept for comfort at his legs. The Bean is as always busy with art and craft at her desk. They wanted these posters and I couldn't think of a way to do it without ruining the walls. So ribbons and clothespins it was.

A corner of our bedroom. Again, I've never really been happy with the way it turned out.

And I'm sure you remember this nook under the stairs for the kids. It's now their cycle stand!

In the worst of summer I removed the rug, left the floor cool, put up an inexpensive bit of chik and hung a couple of toys from the staircase to entertain them. Oh, and added some dancing bamboos.

The other end of their room. This was the day we spent making pirate masks and putting up a show for erm.. no one.

This is part of the balcony leading out of my bedroom.

This is the balcony leading out of my bedroom. Perfect for a morning cup of tea on a still day. On a breezy day its deadly.

Oh! And this was my last bit of genius Black and whites taken ONLY by friends. This way I have a wall full of art that has great value for me even if it's not a Hussain.

And this is my favourite - a Mughal miniature by none other than the talented Lavanya Karthik (http://lavanyakarthik.wordpress.com/), featuring the OA and I in a romantic setting, with the Gurgaon skyline behind us. And oh, the two babies hanging like monkeys from a tree. Now this one I'd not exchange for a Hussain.

Because nothing fills up the senses more than a fragrant night and a cool night breeze wafting into your bedroom. I guess there are some things I'll miss about living high up among the clouds.

I believe you met Ms Escritoire in an old post. She belonged to my grandmother who was a writer, poet and artist. Each time I sit down to write I worry that I'm not living up to her expectations, even as I appreciate the privilege of owning her desk now.

Because I owe you a Diwali post. This year we lit up that window and kept fire crackers etc to a minimum.

A kitchen shelf. I love the old hen and the fat ladybird with some green on her back.

And the birdbath in my living room balcony for those who missed it when I last posted about it.

For anything I might have left out, go to the decor tag. 

If you’re in the NCR

… you do not want to miss Annie Zaidi’s book event. I love her blog, I love her and I am sure I’ll love her book once I get my hands on it. THIS is an Indian author who writes brilliantly in English. Please spread the news far and wide and do attend. And oh, don’t forget to buy her book – The Bad Boys Guide to The Good Indian Girl.

 

Having schmoozed with her counterparts in Mumbai and Pune, Annie Zaidi, co-author of The Bad Boy’s Guide to the Good Indian Girl is all set to meet with the GIGs and the BIGs (Bad Indian Girls) of Gurgaon and Delhi, and of course, the BIBs (Bad Indian Boys) without whom the narrative would be incomplete!Gurgaonwallas, here’s your chance to meet with Annie and share with her your stories of GIGs, whether you know one or are one yourself!Annie will be in your vicinity on the 11th of December at 6pm at the large and spacious bookstore, Reliance Time Out.Dilliwallas, Annie will be at the gorgeous, cosy bookstore in South Delhi, Spell & Bound on the 12th of December at 7pm. Come meet her, share your stories,and listen to hers over cups of chai and some delectable cookies. Zubaan’s Anita Roy will be in conversation with Annie on both days! We really hope to see you there! Do spread the word on our behalf! Venue Details: Gurgaon No 127, First Floor, Reliance Time Out, Ambience Mall, NH-8, Rajokri Border, Gurgaon 122001 Phone number: 0124-4029198 Delhi Spell & Bound Bookstore C-11, No 2, SDA Market, Opposite IIT Gate, Hauz Khas, Delhi – 110016

On my bedside table

They call them Metro Reads. And they’re supposed to be fast paced and simple and just right for readers who have a frenetic metro lifestyle. I picked up two to check them out.  Losing My Virginity and Other Dumb Ideas by Madhuri Banerjee and Love on the Rocks by Ismita Dhanker Tandon.

Losing my Virginity was fairly straight forward – Girl never meets boys. Girl wants to meet boys. Girl meets bad boy. Girl realises her mistake. Girl rectifies her mistakes. I found Losing my Virginity an easy read. But we’ve read this before in a more compelling form via Anita Jain’s Marrying Anita and a dozen other books before. Very forgettable and very insipid.

Love on the Rocks is a bit of a mystery story and that gave me hope. Sancha marries a merchant navy officer, a shippie and sails with him. Within days she finds out that the head cook was found dead in the meat locker. The plot thickens, so to speak and she gets drawn into it.  But oh the horror of it – in the last chapter (spoiler alert!)  a character’s “applets” are pulled off his uniform. Applets? Applets? Applets? Ye Gods and little fishes. That is not a typo. She really thought they were applets as opposed to epaulettes. And it went through how many rounds of editing and didn’t get picked up? I think I wrote her off thanks to that one error, because it was quite unforgivable coming from a published author. I have loads of published friends and I would hate it if reviewers or readers were brutal, but this one time I can’t help it.

Though the books were light, breezy and the kind of thing you’d kill time on a train journey with I was a little disappointed with the language. It felt stilted. Indian writing in English is never easy but so many people have pulled it off with great success. I didn’t get that sense of confidence with either of these two books. The last 5 years have seen a surge in light Indian writing in English and I can’t say I appreciate it. The plots are not compelling, the settings are the usual offices and malls, and the language isn’t particularly elegant or eloquent. They’re popping up all over the place and the truth is there is an audience for them. I may not be that audience, but it’s interesting to see that they get read. For all that we snigger at Chetan Bhagat, he sells. I happened to catch a show called Love 2 Hate U (ugh, must they spell it that way?) and the girl who told him off, spoke my mind. He is killing literature with his pedestrian language and stale plots. But then I guess for every Vikram Seth we must pay the price with a Chetan Bhagat. He justified his existence saying he knows a driver who painstakingly reads one page a day, learning English. Good for him if that is the reader he is writing for and much joy to the driver. That said, I wish the focus would be on reading a good book and not on reading an English book. I’d find it a lot more praiseworthy if that driver picked up Premchand or Harivansh Rai Bachchan or a good writer in whatever his mother tongue is and read that. Why read substandard books (I refuse to call it literature) in a language you are struggling with? Whatever…!

There are those who use the whole English as a Second Language thing to their advantage, like Melvin Durai’s Bala Takes the Plunge. Balasubramaniam Balasubramaniam is a sweet NRI boy who has more hair on his chest than his head and needs a wife. Humourous, the book hits the nail on the head in so many different ways. It is totally not my style and I ended up enjoying it inspite of myself. It’s got a very Kolaveri feel to it, if you know what I mean. Very clearly laughing at itself, taking itself lightly. My only issue – boring cover image.

I also had the pleasure of reading Indu Sundaresan’s The Twentieth Wife and The Shadow Princess (I checked for The Feast of Roses on Flipkart and it was Rs 632 – bloody expensive!). Her writing is so lucid. I’ve always had a fascination with the Mughal Period and after you all recommended her on my last book post I’ve been buying up all her work on Flipkart.

I know better than to take historical fiction as God’s own word but the fine detail draws you away from your life and into the intrigues and politics of that period. It’s probably why I don’t enjoy contemporary work anymore. As it is we’re exposed to an excess of everybody’s lives and news on a variety of media. But the past is such a mystery. Be it the way they chewed paan for sensual, red lips or the descriptions of court, I’m like a 5 year old watching Cartoon Network. Her The Splendor of Silence was also a good read. I love a good romance and this one plays out pre-Independence. It’s interesting to see how an American soldier fits into the Indo-Brit social setup. The story begins with his daughter getting a box full of letters that tell her of her parents’ ill fated affair. For me the biggest surprise was realising who wrote the letters to her. Sundaresan creates characters who are easy to empathise with and feel deeply for, each one nuanced and complete. You can feel the hot North Indian loo blow through their lives, sucking the beauty out of it. I read through the night and fell asleep sobbing raggedly into my hotel pillow (this was during the Punjab trip). Not the best way to recommend something I know, but trust me on this one, will you?

In between all this I made the mistake of picking up Phiroz Madon’s The Third Prince. I was on my Mughal times rampage and buying up everything I laid eyes on. *shudder* Where do I begin with all that was wrong with it? Let me pick a single flaw. The language. He describes a sadhu’s hair as dreadlocked. Yes, technically he was right but the anachronism irked. I couldn’t really settle into the plot and dig my teeth in because the writing was jerky. The rest of the language, the dialogues were all written in too contemporary a style for him to capture the period he was writing about, even though he got the setting bang on.

I loved Jawahara’s The Burden of Foreknowledge (again, a mystery set in Emperor Akbar’s times) and can’t understand how anyone would pick CB over any of these. Why aren’t these flying off our store shelves or even *gasp* pirated? Is it that we’re getting the next generation used to a standard of books that is like processed food? Books that don’t require you to pay attention or even pick up a dictionary for the odd word that you don’t understand? Dumbing down doesn’t quite describe it.

I wondered, and so asked Jawahara since she is one of the few fantastic writers I have the privilege of knowing, why is it that so few Indian writers based in India write well? I see a pattern – almost all the best writers have studied abroad or now live there. I know it’s our second language, but I didn’t realise that the difference would play out so significantly. Also, why is it that most of the historical fiction set in India is by authors living abroad? I’d love to write historical fiction if I ever write at all, but I feel intensely nervous at the thought of such an undertaking. I have neither the vision nor the grasp of the language required to do something that I’d consider worthy of reading. As Poppy says, maybe I set very high standards, while another friend astutely points out – You’re too proud to write rubbish! But that is my excuse – I want to know why others aren’t. Others who have more faith in themselves. We have a wealth of history and romance just waiting to be written about. One point Jawahara made was that libraries abroad are better organised and well stocked. Considering I haven’t walked into an Indian library in some years, I can’t comment on that. The last few I saw had crabby librarians who knew nothing and said even less. Clearly there is no hope for us.

Edited to add: Read this to see the same point I am making, made in a far better way! http://www.dnaindia.com/bangalore/report_commercial-success-a-diving-force-for-writers-today_1625722

Top five regrets

I know you come here for my thoughts and not email forwards but I do want to share it with you since I don’t have the time to write. I’m also in the middle of a lot here so this email couldn’t have come at a better time. A prospective career change, a house move, a huge party (my dad turns 60 this year and I’m hoping for the biggest, bestest party ever) and some other life decisions. Pray that I make the right choices for myself.

Nurse reveals the top 5 regrets people make on their sickbed 

For many years I worked in palliative care. My patients were those who had gone home to die. Some incredibly special times were shared. I was with them for the last three to twelve weeks of their lives. People grow a lot when they are faced with their own mortality. I learnt never to underestimate someone’s capacity for growth. Some changes were phenomenal. Each experienced a variety of emotions, as expected, denial, fear, anger, remorse, more denial and eventually acceptance. Every single patient found their peace before they departed though, every one of them. When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently, common themes surfaced again and again. Here are the most common five: 1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me. This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honored even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made. It is very important to try and honour at least some of your dreams along the way. From the moment that you lose your health, it is too late. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it. 2. I wish I didn’t work so hard. This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children’s youth and their partner’s companionship. Women also spoke of this regret. But as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence. By simplifying your lifestyle and making conscious choices along the way, it is possible to not need the income that you think you do. And by creating more space in your life, you become happier and more open to new opportunities, ones more suited to your new lifestyle. 3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings. Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result. We cannot control the reactions of others. However, although people may initially react when you change the way you are by speaking honestly, in the end it raises the relationship to a whole new and healthier level. Either that or it releases the unhealthy relationship from your life. Either way, you win. 4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends. Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying. It is common for anyone in a busy lifestyle to let friendships slip. But when you are faced with your approaching death, the physical details of life fall away. People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible. But it is not money or status that holds the true importance for them. They want to get things in order more for the benefit of those they love. Usually though, they are too ill and weary to ever manage this task. It is all comes down to love and relationships in the end. That is all that remains in the final weeks, love and  relationships. 5. I wish that I had let myself be happier. This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called ‘comfort’ of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content. When deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again. When you are on your deathbed, what others think of you is a long way from your mind. How wonderful to be able to let go and smile again, long before you are dying.