May I join you?

The doorbell rings a bare 20 minutes after I’ve got rid of them. I push my chair back reluctantly, to answer it. Now what, I groan as I see the small figure through the peephole.

Only when I open the door do I realise that the Bean has tears streaming down her tiny face. She’s six now, but she’s built small and looks like a four year old. And there’s nothing like tears coursing a path down dusty cheeks to break a mother’s heart.

I kneel down and ask her what’s wrong. She is so upset that she can’t form the words and she hiccups it out. I am given to understand that the bigger girls in the park won’t let her play because she’s friends with another girl they don’t like. They made fun of her for even asking to join them. Cliques have existed forever. The Bean, however, doesn’t do cliques. She is very social, can play with kids of any age and sees no reason to restrict herself to one set.

But I’m not seeing reason right now. I’m seeing only a red haze. Anger and hurt. My baby is crying because a bunch of mean big girls aren’t letting her play with them. I know it took her a lot of courage to walk up to them and ask if she could join them. And I know she’s aching because they turned her down and then proceeded to make fun of her. I grab her by the hand and march out self righteously. The door swings shut behind me, I am not carrying my cell phone and I’m in my rubber chappals.

We reach the park and I ask her to point out the group of girls she wants to play with. They’re playing some new fangled game of tag that I can’t make sense of. I am out of breath, my knee is aching and the Bean is being yanked along by the arm, willy nilly. I am going to kill anyone, everyone who makes my baby cry. With my bare hands. And bury them. Under a couple of rocks. And then jump on their graves. Just to be sure.

As I close in on them the red haze fades. My feet slow down. My heart stops stomping in place and settles down to a regular thump. I feel my BP normalize.They are just a bunch of young girls playing the same games they’ve seen played before. Politicking, forming cliques, taking pleasure in another’s discomfort at being left out, knowing no better because no one has seen fit to talk to them about it. It’s a cycle. Other girls have left them out of cliques, and they are finally in a position to do the same. Vengeance will definitely be theirs.

I’ve never seen this happen with the Brat or other boys. Any number of them join a football game, anyone can bowl for the team. Any number can have a cycle race and they’re always willing to have an extra chor or police. It seems to extend into adulthood with men easily joining a gang going out for drinks or a smoke outside office. Women on the other hand will have a hundred hangups about joining an existing group or letting someone new in. Why do we do this? At what age does it start and why don’t we do something to put an end to it?

They all look up as we approach – some enquiringly, some nervous, some looking at the Bean and joining the dots. They don’t want my daughter and they certainly don’t appreciate her mother coming onto the playground to plead her cause, hair flying wildly around her face, in tattered tracks and a faded tee. 

Hi, I venture tentatively, feeling like a 5 year old in a new playground. Would they mind including the Bean in their game, please?

They look uncertain.

She’s small and might get hurt, one of them offers. 

That’s okay, I say gently. If she gets hurt and wants to leave, that is her choice. But do give her a chance.

A braver one, teenager, two plaits down her back says, ‘She doesn’t play with us, Aunty. She plays with X.’

I take a deep breath, remind myself that they are not my daughters, they don’t need to be preached to and that they are in a position to turn me down anyway. And then I point out, as calmly as I can, that she plays with everyone who plays with her, loves making friends and has not been able to join them earlier, because they’ve not let her. They might just like her once they get to know her.

And then I appeal to their vanity. All little girls look up to the didis – and the Bean thinks they are very cool. Would they mind having her tag along? I know she’ll win them over once they start playing. As soon as they get the fact that she is an ‘other’, not one of them.

Okay, they agree reluctantly. Unable to say no to an Aunty who is polite and reasonable.

I smile gratefully, thank profusely, hand the Bean over to one of them and walk away. Then just out of eyesight I settle down on a bench to watch. They explain the rules and she joins in, elated that she is one of them.

The line between being the interfering aunty who fights her child’s every battle at the park and uses her position to bully kids, and the mother who tries to show her child how to negotiate a new friendship, is a thin one. I’m very nervous about crossing it. I’ve seen many mothers charge in, yell at other kids, then their parents get dragged in and it’s open warfare. We don’t want that – we want to make friends. At six the Bean needs help with these relationships and older girls. At 16 she’ll be on her own and I hope the lessons she learns will hold her in good stead.

In a while peals of laughter fill that corner of the park. I listen carefully, trying to pick out the Bean’s gurgling, joyful laughter. But I can’t. All happy little girls sound alike and the wave of laughter just washes over me. Dusk is falling and I can’t see them any longer. I realise I’ve been wool gathering for a while so I collect myself and walk home.

Only to realise that I’d left the door open and my article incomplete. Sigh. A mother’s work is never done, is it?

But this is not the end. Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost.

Later that evening the two little figures stroll back home, shadows lengthening in the street lights. I’m always amused by the way children function – no sense of urgency, no purposefulness. They meander and chat and wander home, with no real time frame – they’ll get home eventually, won’t they?

I have a little chat about the Bean’s problem earlier that evening and ask her if she can handle it herself the next time. She nods confidently.

And then I do what breaks my heart a little bit more. I ask her not to walk home alone. To always wait for the Brat and come home with him. She accepts it unquestioningly and I feel like a bit of a failure. I tell the Brat to always walk her home and he nods unquestioningly too. She’s younger and can’t negotiate traffic yet, I lie.

But really, what am I teaching my children if I tell them that a girl always needs a boy to see her home safely? What am I teaching my daughter – that she cannot be trusted alone, cannot have a life of her own? What am I telling my son – that he must always bear the burden of bringing his sister home safe, must always be on guard duty? At the moment though, it’s for both their safety. There *is* safety in numbers and I worry with all the guards and drivers and househelp in the complex, none of whom can be traced once they exit the gates. There are predators lurking at every corner and protecting my children while giving them independence, is a delicate dance. I hope I can keep in step.

On that note, I hope you know that we’ve begun our usual month of Child Sexual Abuse Awareness. 

HOW TO PARTICIPATE

A lot of you have been asking us how to take part in this, what are the rules etc. We want to keep it as open as we can. Any thoughts? Please share. However for the convience of everyone we have put together the ways you can contribute as well as some very broad guidelines…

If you would like to add to the discussion or know somebody else who would, please note that we welcome entries

• mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR
•  posted as FB notes and linked to Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month Page OR
• posted on your own blog with the badge and linked to the main blog OR
• linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

The list of topics is available here. Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.

Please remember to send in a mail with all necessary links or just your input tocsa.awareness.april@gmail.com so that we can track your contribution and make sure that it is not inadvertently lost.

More details on the CSAA blog. 

Introductions

Brat: Mamma, why do some of your friends call you the mad momma? And I think I saw it written on a page in your laptop too.

Me: Because the moment I had you and became a mamma, I went a little mad. Mad with happiness, mad with all the work I now had to do, mad because you’re such a handful. Don’t you think I’m a little mad?

Some thought and then a nod. ‘Yes, just a little. But I like you that way.’

… and then he walked off.

Seven years of being The Mad Momma and the lead actors are slowly piecing the puzzle together.

Hurt

I’m going to stop making excuses for the long absences because I have a feeling you’re used to them now. I’ve been meaning to write for a while but and it took two things to shake me out of my stupor. The more recent of Indians ill-treating their kids in Norway and the film, Talaash.

Every family has it’s own way of handling matters and I don’t think any of us can be arrogant enough to imagine that ours is the only and best way. But not every parent always does everything with their child’s best interests at heart. If I had a rupee for every selfish parent I’ve come across, I’d be a rich, retired woman.

It is very sad and slightly embarrassing to have at least one Indian couple pulled up every year on grounds of ill-treating their kids. Until yesterday the only information we had was that their 7 year old was bed-wetting and they threatened to send him back to India. I can only imagine the child’s mortification at wetting himself in school and I wonder how the parents thought threats would be the solution. Is it not clear that there is something seriously wrong with him? And who are these people go abroad on projects if they’re not even educated enough or aware enough to check with a specialist when they see something so unusual in their child, I remarked to the OA while watching the news.

At which point the OA pointed out that a degree in software engineering or geophysics is just that – a degree. It doesn’t make you any more aware as a person or more involved as a parent. It is a reminder of the premium we place on a degree in this country, without any effort towards general awareness. Sit and mug for your engineering entrances, never mind that you know nothing about the world around you. All the code writing ability on earth will not change the way some people think and there are still those who won’t step out in an eclipse if they’re pregnant or who will think their wife is unclean for 3 days every month. I notice compassion is a quality we rarely seek to develop in ourselves.

Interestingly, none of the Indian media until today mentioned the fact that the boy was apparently being beaten with hot metal items and belts. This made my stomach turn. If it is true, I hope Norwegian legal system locks them up for life.

In the  Stavanger case the couple spoke of cultural differences – some of the objections against them were that they were feeding the kids by hand and co-sleeping with them. People who move abroad and consistently do stuff that is culturally inappropriate are my next peeve. I’m sure there is no law against feeding kids by hand, but when in Rome… Surely you realise that your kids will need to eat with a fork and spoon in school. Surely you know they will be teased by classmates who hear that they still sleep with their parents at age 6 or whatever it is that is culturally appropriate there. Kids depend on their parents to support them and give them their best and sometimes the best is ensuring that they don’t stick out like sore thumbs anymore than they already do, that they feel at home around their friends. Their social circle is not your village elders in India. Of course once it gets out and about in school, this is the route it will take, with social service knocking at your door to see why your teenage daughter is asked to eat away from the family for a couple of days and sleep on the floor. And then it is too late to cry foul. Years ago I had written a post objecting to a British (was it?) plan to give out little booklets to educate immigrants on the culture. I was offended because I can wield my fork as well as the next person, know my cheeses and certainly don’t go about spitting on walls. But I’d not factored in the likes of these who go abroad and give the rest of us a bad reputation in the name of culture.

If culture really overrides all else for you, then you should stay home and steep your kids in it like a teabag. Throwing them into the hot water of contradictions in another country is just not fair. And I’ve heard it so often from friends and cousins abroad during our growing years – the desi tiffin that no one wants to share (unless you live in some hardcore desi district), the teeka you wear to school and cannot rub off until your mother leaves the bus stop by which time everyone has seen it and begun to make fun of you. I’m not prescribing uniformity. I’m asking for compassion for kids. Childhood/ adolescence is hard enough without us making them banners carrying our political slogans. Culture is what we are deep inside – not what we take to school in our tiffin. A sandwich for tiffin is not denial, just as sleeping in their own cots won’t reduce the family bond.

I’m also surprised that the family is putting pressure on the Indian government to help them. How is it that people will jump at the opportunity to go abroad and work, make the most of the fantastic infrastructure, work life balance, blah de blah, but not give a fig about the local laws and customs that make it the fantastic country it is? And now you come running home to mummy for help. I’m glad the Ministry of External Affairs has put its foot down and refused to get involved. I’d be horrified if they did.

I took forever to write this post today because it was in between work and home. I stepped out twice to pick up the kids from the bus stop and one of those times I saw a mother walking her son back from school. Neatly oiled hair, ragged saree and ragged shawl, cracked heals in worn slippers. Her son on the other hand was in a neat albeit faded school uniform and dusty shoes with a girl’s woollen cap on his head.  Now I know where the closest school for the disadvantaged is and I realised how far they’d come walking from.

Nothing we don’t see on a daily basis in India, but coming close on the heels of the Norway cases it broke my heart. How often we say the poor shouldn’t have kids if they cannot afford to give them the basics – an education, a good home. Well, who decides what the basics are here? I’d imagine love is the basic. Here was a mother denying herself so that her child was warm, and getting an education. And she has to walk twice the distance everyday to pick up and drop him so that he doesn’t have to maneuver through traffic each way. They were chatting cheerfully as they passed me and didn’t even notice the woman whose eyes welled up as they walked by. And on the other hand you have these rich families based abroad, ill-treating the kids society doesn’t grudge them. Yes, they give them better food, warm clothes, homes and education, but what about time and love?

Speaking of safety and kids, there is Talaash. At this point I’m going to warn you to stay away if you haven’t seen the movie, because spoilers lie ahead. Two emotions dominate my parenting. Love and terror. Love so strong, it hurts. Terror that I will lose this precious love, so fierce that it constricts. It explains why I have worked from home for the last 8 years. It’s not the best way to live, but it is the only way I know. The first time you hold your child, you worry that you might drop him. At the first sign of a cold, you worry about his health. For the first few days you’re terrified of drowning him in the bathtub. When he begins to take school transport, you worry about accidents. There is no end to the fears, just as the love is limitless.

And to me, that is all Talaash was about. I went with an open mind and didn’t look for loopholes in the thriller. To me it was just two parents who went through every parent’s worst nightmare – losing a child. And then it depicted the way their grief manifested itself. People are complaining that it is wasn’t what you expected of Aamir. Heck, why are you expecting anything from Aamir? He’s just another human, just another entertainer, just an artist who probably wanted to explore a genre he hadn’t. Personally I’m glad he picked this route and not the creaking gates and screeching ghouls. I’m glad he took the paranormal and with this gentle exploration said, hey, who knows… I’m amused when people pick loopholes in a paranormal film – who sent you the memo on what ghosts are supposed to do/say/look like?

It all comes back in a loop of course, to the Indian couples in Norway. THIS is what happens when you lose a child. How could you have taken this privilege, this blessing, so lightly? May God forgive them. I know I can’t.

Before the street lights come on

It’s dark and I’m running down the little path, my heart palpitating, my palms clammy, my eyes seeking, seeking. I pass adults on cycles, dog and their walkers, guards slouched over lathis, and then in the distance, floating through the dark I hear two crystal clear voices. Mine, my heart sings out. They are. Mine, that is.

It is the first time I’ve let the kids go to the park alone, no shepherding and chaperoning them. And this doesn’t come easy to a victim of much, much child abuse. In my mind, a predator lurks in every corner. And yet, at 5 and 7 my brother and I were playing hide and seek across 10 houses and two streets. Yes, that was 25 years ago and in another time and place. But my children have a right to that freedom, that independence and that time away from mama.

I spent a couple of days agonising over it. Maybe I should give them a mobile phone so that I can stay in touch, I think to myself. But the very core of me rebels against that idea – either I let them go without that dog’s leash or I continue to guard them. The  free spirit won and I chose to let them live a little.

The start was inauspicious. They wanted to take their cycles but the OA’s fancy geared cycle was parked in front of theirs and they ended up buried under a pile of metal. I dug them out and threw them out of the house unceremoniously. Only to realise they were still in their flipflops. Get back in and wear your shoes, I called out and disappeared to get them a bottle of water.

I came back to find them gone. Had they worn their sneakers? Wouldn’t they need water? Who would keep an eye on the bottle as they played? Ours is not the safe environment of a high rise. It’s an open but gated community of sorts with many an opportunity for strangers to slip in and out.

I decided to get some work done since they’d gone and sat down in front of my laptop. It was dark when I looked up and my page was still blank. Where were my babies? And then because sunset wasn’t enough, there was a power failure.

I dashed out of the house into the pitch black, leaving the door wide open in case they came back while I was out hunting for them. And then I began to run to the park, gimpy knee forgotten. Which is when I saw the two figures come floating through the darkness. Blurred at the edges, chatting away in the clearest, dearest little voices. What struck me before all else was that they’d managed to come to a consensus as to when it was time to come home and were sweetly and carefully skirting the edges and heading back together.

I called out and they started. Then a squeal of delight and two sweaty, dirty little bodies flung themselves at me. Mama was here and now it was her job to look out for traffic; they could throw caution to the winds. I felt a surge of pride and satisfaction.

So I put all misgivings aside and gave them the line my mother was given before me, and her mother before her, ‘Next time, be home before the street lights come on.’

A generator roared to life and the street lights came on. We walked home hand in hand.

Endless summer afternoons

It’s 48 degrees in the shade and Delhi is not baking but burning to a crisp, like bacon. The proof is the oil dripping off my face. I do my best to not fight it, to embrace the heat. I try and remind myself that there are people across the world who yearn for a bit of the bone warming sun. And I do my best to make the home comfortable, with thick drapes, chilled aam panna, cool creamy lassi and the good old desert cooler that fills our home with the lovely fresh scent of khus. But it’s an undeniable fact that the North Indian summer is deadly and kids on a school break feel trapped inside the home.

For years I’ve flip flopped between summer camp or not. Last year a friend ran a special summer camp at a very special school and suggested I send the kids with her. It suited me because the kids travelled both ways with her and I didn’t have to organise the logistics. Her kids and mine are friends and it worked out well for everyone. I’d even sent them in the earlier years in Delhi because we were locked into our third floor house and the kids couldn’t get out of the house until 6 pm. It just seemed cruel.

This year, now that we’ve moved into our lovely little house with a garden, I decided I’d keep them home. The entire point of a summer break is to give them a break from routine. To let them lounge like lizards and come up with something of their own to do. To let them whine, ‘I’m bored, mama’. And then tell them what my grandmother often told me – ‘Only boring people get bored; interesting people have a whole world of fun going on inside their heads.’ My brother and I hated it when she said that. And yet it taught us so much. We learnt to entertain ourselves. And we learnt to be still.

They say an idle mind is a devil’s workshop, but I disagree.  Left to themselves kids can be amazingly creative and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with some of the things they’ve come up with. It’s not easy, particularly since I work from home and that means the kids bang on my door ever so often with a ‘What shall we do?’ or a quarrel to settle. But I soldier on without succumbing entirely to the tempting air conditioning of malls. Remember this post on keeping kids out of malls?

What is lovely about the new locality is that there are so many parents who parent just like I do. We may have nothing to say to each other (but funnily we do!) but we agree almost blindly on matters of parenting. So each morning the kids go off to have lunch with someone and every 3rd or 4th day I have about 4 kids at mine. They play hide and seek around the house, they paint, they create entire farms of playdough, they lose their tempers and throw the ludo board at each other with accusations of CHEATING!, they drag bedsheets over chairs and create castles and pirate ships and put on feather boas and masks and create stories. On a Saturday the OA plays math games with all the kids while another mother runs them through their Hindi workbook for a quick revision. I do a storytelling activity followed by a quick art and craft session. In case you don’t know how to come up with stories, you can take a little help from this game the kids were gifted (thanks Aneela!) that I thought I’d share with you. It is called Shape Your Story and is very handy to keep the kids entertained. There is a set of cards, a dice and a marker. All you need to do is add to the shape and create something. And that is the starting point for your story. Much fun and much inspiration for the wildest of stories.

What is nice about this system is that each house has it’s own set of games and at another home located at a dead end, they play cricket and football. A third home is  bang opposite the park so they run out and play in the shade. The kids learn to eat pure vegetarian at one home while the vegetarian kids learn that meat will be put on my table even though I will ensure that they don’t touch it. But every single one of these homes offers only healthy homecooked food and fresh fruit. And very limited TV viewing. I couldn’t ask for more or better.

In another two weeks the kids are off to spend 3 weeks with my parents while the OA and I take a much deserved trip to Istanbul and the US. Before we know it, these long lazy summer vacations will be over. Real life will begin and they will never know more than a 20 day break in the year. Until that happens, I want them to know what it feels like for a day to seem endless, a night to be cool and restful, a break to be never ending and a week to be full of possibilities.

I leave you with some pictures of what they’ve been up to.

Breaking a lump of clay to discover Dino fossils. Some of the toys you get these days are amazing. Just right for my geeky son.

The Brat creates an octopus from a couple of sticky straw thingies.

The Bean draws the Taj Mahal from memory on the chalkboard I’ve painted in a corner of their nursery.

The Brat’s latest obsession – big cats. I think he was trying to copy a Serval or something here.

A friend joins them on the mess mat for an afternoon of finger painting.

The Bean’s ladybird on canvas

Planting veggies for the summer