Who moved by Vitamin D?

This morning I wanted to call the pundits to my house. Light the holy flames, fill my house with Vedic chants and dissolve my grief like golden ghee melting blissfully on wooden chips.

On most days the puja room in my house is a locked door. I trip past it happily on my way to work, trudge past it groggily on my way to bed. Ignore it most weekends through the clinks of wine glasses. But today is different. I am coping with the death of a 6 year old; I am grieving the loss of a twenty year old. I am dreading a surgery on my dearest friend. Illness, death, loss- a mirror to my mortality. A message that my clichéd haven of two children, a loving husband and a big, warm house are tenuous- oh so very temporary. So very transitory.

I have looked in this mirror before. I have faced losses before. One parent, uncles, grandmother...many painful losses seemingly washed away by exuberant youthful memories. My first beer, my first kiss, the first ride on my Honda, my first paycheck, my firstborn... And yet, yet- when I sat down to meditate this morning, the tears that rolled were not for my friend. They were for me. For all the people I have lost, for all the connections I have had to severe because death gives you no choice. When I closed my eyes and chanted the Mahamrityunjaya I prayed most desperately for myself above all else. As I sat in silence looking at the peaceful smile on Buddha's face, I begged for my sanity above anything else.

And perhaps, that's what God ultimately is all about. That's what praying is all about. It’s about a rock that you sit tight on when the seas start churning. No matter how far out you have swum, when that perfect storm whips up, you are going to swim right back to it. Land is far away. The sea bed is miles below. Your choice is to climb aboard that rock or sink with complete abandon.

I was fascinated when I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. The book raises many questions on the existence of a supreme external being, especially when revered through orthodox channels of prayer and religion. It spurred many a discussions in our living room too. We extrapolated at length. What is God? Who is God? Should we believe in God? Is the act of praying important? Is a physical manifestation of our spirituality necessary? Should I teach my children all the little customs and religious practices we often watch our parents perform and join in condescendingly only after a little disbelieving shake of our heads? Ultimately, should I ask my children to pray every morning?

Spurred by doubt, aided by lethargy, blinded by the bustle of daily chores it was just easier to let go. To drop the evening meditations taught by my grandmother. To spurn the morning salutations suggested by my mother-in-law. To start believing in my invincibility. Did I let go of something important? Did I lose something precious?

This morning, in this searing moment of pain, I realize the answer is a crystal clear YES. (Displaying my oh-so-deep Bollywood roots) I am reminded of a scene in Abhimaan. The hero (Amitabh)asks the leading lady (Jaya) if she believes in religious practices and God. I recall her simple answer "Babuji kehete hain behes mein kuch nahi rakhaa.Vishwaas hi sab kuch hai." (My father says there is nothing to be found in arguments. Faith is everything) While I certainly don't endorse superstition or close-minded fanaticism, there is truth to these words. And it comes shining through in moments when we lose our ability to argue or be logical!

We are wired to look for God when we land in trouble. It’s an instinct as primal as a child hiding behind its mother for protection. But very few of us are evolved enough to find this comfort and strength from abstract spirituality alone. We understand life through our five senses. And that exactly is how we should also understand Death and seek comfort in our conflicted moments. To simply be good and spiritual in daily actions is not enough when the mind is reeling. We need to breathe in the fragrance of an incense stick, we need to hear the chime of the arati bell, we need to see the regal countenance of a merciful God looking back at us with a gentle gaze, we need to feel the stickiness of prasaad on our fingers, we need to taste the cooling assurance of tulasi water...and then, slowly our senses soak in some perspective, some slivers of hope. It’s a sense of sharing and community; Human sympathy and superhuman love reach us in ways we can finally understand. The simplest analogy I can draw is that Vitamin D is needed to absorb Calcium, so is the act of praying for us to absorb God.

So just as I teach my children table manners and find them piano teachers, I must also teach them how to find their faith and keep it. And just as I take myself to the gym and enroll in professional courses, so must I practice my faith daily, even when mortality does not stare me down with stony eyes. In the famous words of Kabir "Dukh me sumiran sab kare, sukh me kare na koi, Jo sukh me sumiran kare, dukh kahe ko hoi." (We all remember God when we are beset by grief, none of us remember Him in our good times. Had we remembered Him in our good times, why should the days of grief have come!')

So I end now my epistle now. The sun is bright outside my study. I am going to open the windows wide and find my Vitamin D.

Waiting Room

I am sitting in the waiting room. Funny thing- Mama on his ICU bed is no different. Attimber on the ICU floor, Akka in the ICU chair, Deepa pouring the ICU tea- no one is any different. We are all in our private little waiting rooms. Thinking…. I see you. I see you death, I see you life- I see my hand rest on your weathered, kind face. I see your eyes rest on my troubled, weary face. ICU. Guilt and regret are fogging the windows. Love and longing making the room stuffy. Just open that window a crack, slide open that glass door- watch the clean, crisp air fly in and sweep you out. Sweep him out. Release, release, release—blessed relief. From needles that pin you to that narrow bed of pain, from our groping, needy desires dragging you down time and again. Go now, go Mama. Shake loose from this torpid afternoon nap. Its time for a brisk walk home, to steaming cup of heavenly coffee.

For Whom The Drum Rolls

It’s Friday. It’s Astami. I finish my morning coffee watching the dhak players on YouTube. Their drum rolls make me home sick. The clock beeps the six a.m. and the day begins. A quick warm shower, my favorite lavender lotion. Its dress down Friday at office. I move to pick up my usual jeans and cowl neck, but my gaze is arrested by a gorgeous pink cotton churidaar. Almost unthinkingly, I start pulling it on instead. Suddenly I am on a roll. I open my hair and brush it out straight from the usual ponytail. I reach for my kohl and outline my eyes. I find my pretty Rajasthani stone earrings and on they go. And finally, slowly, I reach for my bindi and stick it gently in place. I wonder what the boys are going to think.
I run down to the kitchen. My husband and sons look at me in mild confusion. “Are you going to the temple?” asks my seven-year old. I shake my head. My kids continue to stare at me. “Then why are you dressed like that?” persists my son. Good question. I run through my list and settle for the simplest reason. The truest. “Because I like it” I say. My son looks me over curiously once more and then digs into his waffle. My younger one quips “Amma I think you look beautiful.” My husband nods in agreement and sends me a wink. I feel good. I forget to check the mirror to see if my curves (Ok, all right, my fat tires) are an obvious eye sore.
I park in front of my office. The polished elevator doors reflect the bronze bells strung at the end of my duppatta. I ride up in silence. I am now at the office front door. Suddenly my heart is beating faster. Ten years of working, I have never done this. I am the only Indian at work. We are a small market research firm of thirty odd people- not exactly your usual desi adda. But no time to waste. I have a client call in five minutes.
Drum rolls in my head. I open the door and plunge in.
The pretty young girl at the reception looks up chewing gum. She waves and sinks back to her computer screen. I respond weakly and go into my cube. I drop my laptop bag, pull out my notes and rush into the conference room. The three Sales executives sitting there swivel towards me. One looks at me with polite curiosity. One smiles in frank appreciation. The other has already turned back to the WebEx screen. And that’s that. The day starts rolling by. I receive a compliment or two from a couple of co-workers. One colleague ventures to ask me about the churidaar during lunch and seems genuinely interested in learning how it’s worn. I happily share pictures from Face Book and get a hug for being home sick. But other than that, life is too busy for my pink churidaar.
Day ends. My CEO strolls by. We chat easily about this and that, winding the week down. Suddenly it spurts from my mouth “Is it ok I wore my Indian dress today? You don’t mind?” I am super embarrassed. Can’t believe I asked that. My boss leans back on the window sill. The evening rays turn his ash blond hair into a brilliant halo . “I am glad you did” is his simple reply. I grin back. I can hardly wait for next Friday.
Some drums herald auspicious beginnings; others are just noise in your head.

---

Possessed by loneliness. A peculiar sadness. Pungent melancholy. Dread this night. This fiery red wine. Sears right through me...I am pushing it down. Pushing you down. Pushing me down. Doesn't work. It never works. No rest. No salvation till I given in...swirling down. Tumbling down. ....tonight

Letters to myself

A bit of a dry spell
The writing on the wall fading.....

Best Friends

I can't believe I saw my tears
Reflected in your eyes today
No one has cried with me, for me...
Just listening to what I had to say

You...

So many people
Around me
But not...
You...

And yet all I am
Or ...no....
Not all
But a good part of me....
My laughter, my kisses
My forgiveness, my courage
My children, my songs
Yes...
All the good parts are
You...

Not my dreams
For
They're but my own
But their languor
Their pulse
Their heated glow
What else is it...
But you...
Yes
All the good parts are
You...


Not my life
For
It is
But my own
But its breath, its breadth
Its rhythm
Its rhyme
Where else is it
But in you...

You...

And yet all there is
In this room
Is me
With all the good parts...
For you...

I saw you crying....

I saw you crying
Into your tiny arms
Looped around your father's neck
You did not like the shoes you said
But I heard something else instead
Don't leave me behind
Don't leave me today
Let me stay with you today
And forever
If you leave now
I won't see you till sunset
An eternity will pass
I will be older
How will you know me?
How will you find me?
Love me now
Let's go back home
Lets cuddle in bed
Or sleep instead
I am tired of leaving you
Just keep me with you
I'm only here awhile
A few blinks and
Poof! I will be gone
Soaring out into the wide wide world

And you will wonder
When did he grow up?

And I will say father,
In those busy moments
When you left me behind.

My darling Ma (published in Savadati)

Ma always takes a long time to fall asleep. She tosses and turns and fidgets forever.

Baba of course falls asleep at once. But I am not waiting for him. I want my Ma….

I have to be very careful. If I tiptoe in too soon she will chase me away. So I stand outside her door and wait patiently every night.

Tonight I have timed it right. I slide in right between them -onto the hard protruding edge where their wooden beds meet. It’s uncomfortable, but this is my usual spot.

I bury my face in ma’s breasts. I breathe in her cinnamon-spiced sweat. I press into her chest. She frowns and twists in her sleep.

I wriggle down to her stomach. It’s a band of warm chocolate brown above her saree. I press into it. I know I am pushing too hard. I know I am hurting her. But I press on.

And now Amma is crying. Baba shakes her awake. He is angry and tired.

Ma is trying to stifle her sobs. Baba is impatient and sleepy.

I slink out through the window into the moonlit night. I will wait again outside ma’s door tomorrow night. I am crying too.

I was your darling baby girl ma. How could you let them kill me?

Love Story

Nandini sits hunched over the wrought iron table. Her short brown hair is glowing softly under the late evening sun. You could get mesmerized by the rainbows in each strand if you stared too long. Its beginning to get chilly. But Nandini is oblivious. She is scribbling furiously, stopping only occasionally to wipe her sweaty hands on the hem of her denim shorts. Her smooth brown back is breaking out in goose bumps, barely covered by her spaghetti strap shirt.

Suddenly she pauses and reads through the paper with an intense scowl. By the time she reaches the end she is shaking her head in exasperation. With one swift move she tears up the paper and sits back with a groan.

“Love story. …. Love story……” she mutters, drumming her long fingers impatiently on the table top. “Where can I get one?”

Scraping back her chair, she saunters over to the edge of the balcony. Leaning over the iron rail she contemplates the world with a preoccupied air. The view from her townhouse is reasonably decent. She can see the gentle rolling hills of Palo Alto, covered with lush green grass, freckled with outcrops of strangely slanted trees growing out of hillsides. Snaking between them are the busy roads. Students….teachers…. lovers….. going to and fro from Stanford. Surely there must be a love story somewhere in there!

Absorbed as she is in her reverie, she doesn’t hear the click of keys at the front door as Ankit lets himself in. It’s been a long day at his start-up. He is glad to be home. She also misses the smile that breaks out in his eyes at the sight of her. Dropping his laptop bag at the door he tiptoes across the living room and then lithely crosses the balcony to plant a kiss on her tense neck.

“Aaaaeeeeeee!………Oh my God! Ankit!” gasps Nandini swiveling around. “You scared me! Don’t sneak up on me like that ever again” she reproaches him, even as she plants a swift answer back onto his cheek; blissfully unaware of the contradiction presented by her grinning lips.

Ankit grins back unrepentantly.

“So ….how was your day?” he asks walking back towards the table littered with pens and papers, his eyes ruefully taking in the littered floor.

“Not good. I need to write a love story for my writer’s club. Where the hell do I get one?”

Ankit shrugs laconically.

Irritated by his lack of response, Nandini resumes her scowl and sits back down again. She drops her head into her hands, trying to refocus her concentration. Ankit eyes her slim stooped figure.

If Nandini looked up now, her heart would skip a beat at the tenderness in his expression. But all Ankit asks is “Why don’t you get a laptop like the rest of the world?”

Nandini throws him a withering look. “I need to THINK. If you can’t help, can you at least go away?”

Chuckling loudly, Ankit makes to go back into the house. At the door he throws out another question “Hey Nan, what should I make for dinner?”

“Oh just toss up some salad and maybe pasta?” she returns absent mindedly.

“OK” he waves over the back of his head, disappearing into the house.
Soon the kitchen is alive with sounds of cooking. Running water, clanging pots, clinking lids, pasta poured into a vessel, pasta spilling on the floor, the local radio channel blaring through it all. Exasperated Nandini gives up her efforts and leans back in her chair. She can see glimpses of Ankit moving around in the kitchen. It does feel good to have him around, she admits. Ankit fills the house in a way she never can. After spending the whole day in almost complete silence, her senses are slowly awakening- enticed by roasted garlic, wooed by golden nubile spaghetti.

“I am sorry I didn’t have it ready” she suddenly calls out.

“Hey! After five years I think I know what to expect!” he calls back, laughter distorting his voice.

“Yea! Yea!” she mocks. Then sobers down.

“Ankit?”

He appears at once, sensing the change in her mood.

“Ankit I got an interview call this morning. They have a temporary vacancy at a private clinic. It’s a group practice. They are looking for a pediatrician who can come in three times a week to fill in for someone who is …….”Nandini takes a deep breath “ …on maternity leave.”

Ankit’s expression is dead pan. “And…” he encourages her softly. “What did you decide?”

“I don’t know…..I don’t know Ankit. How can I?” Nandini’s voice is an anguished whisper. Their eyes are drawn simultaneously to the dusty blue teddy bear sitting in the potted tomato plant near the balcony’s rail. With synchronized movements, they both look back at each other again. And then Nandini is moving towards him, her eyes welling with tears. And Ankit’s arms are ready for her. For the next few moments the only sounds are Nandini’s soft sobs and Ankit’s gentle caresses.
The teddy bear is silent. Laden with a year’s worth of grief – and guilt- and dust. He sits quietly in the exact spot where Akshay dropped him a year ago, riddled with a coughing fit.

“How could I Ankit. How could I? I thought it was just a cold….just a cold….”

“Hush….I know jaan. I know….it’s over now. Let it go” croons Ankit.

Yes, it’s been a year. A year since Akshay fell fatally ill with a rare case of bacterial meningitis. A year since Nandini failed to diagnose it immediately. A year since they rushed their baby to the ER, burning with sudden fever. A year since they returned home with an empty car seat, to stare in dull shock at the blue teddy bear.

With visible effort Nandini pulls herself together- and away from Ankit’s arms.

“I know” she sniffs “I’m trying. I am. …..But…And this god damn story! Why the hell did I join this club??!!???”

Ankit is prepared for this mood swing. They both know why Nandini needs the distraction of a writing club. But he plays along. “Yes god damn writing club” he exclaims in mock fury. “Taking my wife away from me.”

He pulls her back into his embrace. He is a full head taller than her and has to stoop to kiss her lips. Eyes closed, lips locked, they sway in gentle rhythm until suddenly something tightens between them. Their touch is harder, rougher. There is a rush to their breath. He swings her up completely into his arms.

“Ankit, you are totally ruining my muse. Stop distracting me like this," she complains; but her eyes are heavy with desire.

His breath is labored too but he throws her a wink, smiling wickedly.“To hell with your muse,” he growls.

Then he is striding into the living room, laying her gently on the couch. And then striding back to draw the blinds.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I won’t follow them in. After all he just damned me to hell. But I can’t help smiling too. She will find me soon. I am not that far away……

MJ

Porus says there was nothing like him. Porus knows best.

My Distant Grace

In June 1998, I moved from New Delhi, India to America -irrevocably separating myself from my mother, uncles, aunts, friends and cousins. Since then, life has been a finely balanced act of blending the present with the distant. I discovered fairly quickly it’s easy as a customary weekly phone call – and yet as painful as an awkwardly silent phone line. It’s about realizing that a loved one’s life can and does move on without you, but it’s beautiful and important to be an audience to that change. It’s about sharing the responsibility of communication and not retreating into wounded silence if someone forgets your birthday. It’s about believing you are missed - even without the certainty of a physical hug or the reassurance of a loving look.

So, armed as I was with these brilliant insights and experience, you would think being away from my then-boyfriend and now- husband - would have been a breeze. Hah!

We met as graduate students in University of Florida, in 1999. A year-long separation occurred when he got a job in Chandler, Arizona and I got one in Princeton, New Jersey. Our time apart was fraught with tensions and tears. While I cannot recall any specific incident that rocked our relationship to the core, that year remains a not-so -pleasant blur of nagging arguments, unspoken fears and gut-wrenching farewells. A missed or delayed phone call would whip me into cold fury; a terse tone was interpreted as indifference; any sign of pre-occupation was attributed to fading interest; waving goodbye at the end of a stolen weekend would reduce me to weeping hysteria……the list can go on. You get the picture. Thankfully, the ordeal ended soon enough. We got married and I moved to Arizona. And lo! And behold! I was transformed!

But I often wonder. What was so different about this relationship that I could not nurture it from a distance like I do so many others? How is it that we remain peacefully in love with our parents, siblings, children and friends even after years of separation- but flounder hopelessly within days of separating from our husbands, boyfriends or partners? Is it that this manifestation of love is deeply grounded in physical intimacy? Or is it that the distance demands loyalty and morality beyond human endurance? Or is it simply that boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives are far more easily replaced than sisters, mothers, fathers or sons? If the last is true, then was it fear that spurred my actions? Did I fear rejection? Did I dread being left behind as his life raced on? I don’t know… I don’t have answers…. just quick silver questions stoking my conscience.

But I do have hope. I hope that after all these ruminations, if I am ever tested again, I will finally accord this relationship the same faith and grace I have offered to all other long distance relationships in my life. I hope so for me- and you.

Do I?

Lazy, exacting, judgemental, cloying, unpleasant, unforgiving.
Do I like you?
Hell - NO!!!!!!!!

When...

When a child cries
Its important to know why

Vaidehi (published in Savadati)

I enter our apartment and toss my keys down on the elephant-shaped side table. I have just dropped off Vaidehi at the San Francisco International airport. I pour my customary glass of scotch and let myself out onto the front deck. The apartment is unbearable.

Vaidehi and I met twenty-two years ago. It was a chance meeting in a coffee shop. I was reading Virgina Woolf, she stopped to comment on it - and stayed chatting for three hours. She was a first-year undergrad in Berkely, California. I was a Doctoral student. She was so utterly beautiful! Her eyes alight with smiles. Her long dark brown hair silkier than sweating coffee beans. It was all I could do to not stare hungrily. Suddenly, half-rising, she had kissed me full on my lips. I was shocked. Certainly not what I had expected from an undergrad clad in a demure salwar kameez, with a pink bindi to boot! She had smiled back at me with wicked delight. And that was the start of our relationship. The first of many instances when Vaidehi would gracefully flex my perceptions.

We became inseparable - an official couple on campus. Born and brought up in Berkeley, I was completely at home. But she hailed from Hyderabad, Andhra Pradesh, India. An only child of fairly well-to-do parents, she had been entrusted to a family friend (also a senior in her department) and sent abroad for higher studies. Needless to say, by now she was not on speaking terms with that friend - or with most of her Indian friends for that matter. She must have suffered countless jokes and jeers. I say ‘must have’ because I never heard about them. She flicked them all off with a toss of her long hair.

Informing our parents was solely Vaidehi’s idea. I did not see the need.

She first sent a letter to her mother and father. It sank wordlessly into the enormous void separating them. She then tried calling repeatedly; repeatedly they left her calls unanswered. Finally, her father sent an e-mail - she must leave me and Berkeley, return home and marry her uncle’s son in Hyderabad; otherwise she would be ostracized. That is the only time I ever saw her falter. It was as fast as two rapid blinks of her moist brown eyes and then she resolved things with typical passionate logic. Had he only asked her to leave me, she could have forgiven him that. But his remaining conditions were beyond forbearance.

Next we tried my parents. They lived in Palo Alto. Both were professors of modern literature at Stanford. She was delighted when in answer to our e-mail, they invited us over to dinner.

But I was filled with dread.

We dined with them on a crisp Saturday evening in October. I dressed in my usual black jeans and shirt. But Vaidehi chose a light green chiffon saree. Her hair lay open, swaying lithely when she walked. She added a slim gold chain, small gold studs and one gold bangle. She looked impossibly delicious.

As soon as we entered my house, she touched my parents’ feet. She smiled at my father and thanked him for having us over. Then with unflappable calm she linked arms with my mother and sashayed off to the kitchen. Soon we could hear gentle giggles assaying from within. My father and I stared at the floor in awkward silence. My parents had not known what to make of me for a long time. For my part, I had spent considerable energy snubbing them into silence. Yet there we were, watching my girlfriend woo my mother. Seeking approval…even acceptance. The evening climaxed when Vaidehi acknowledged that understandably our relationship must have been a shock, but we hoped they would accept us and let us be one family. Mr. and Mrs. Chakraborty, my distinguished parents, positively beamed us out of the room with their smiles. I drove home furious. “You gave in! You showed me down!” I kept shouting at her over and over again. “No” she said, serenely confident. “Sometimes it’s ok to give in.”

And so the years passed. I earned my Doctoral degree in Child Psychology and was offered a teaching post at a community college. Vaidehi also completed her Bachelors then Masters in Information Management and Systems. We settled into jobs and life was replete with everyday cares.

It was around this time that Vaidehi started chatting with a young Indian woman, Shivani, who had moved into the apartment below us. Shivani was a Journalism student by day and a waitress by night. It took us two months to realize Shivani was pregnant. And another two months to realize she was painfully alone.

I watched with silent anxiety as Vaidehi became increasingly attached to Shivani. We were childless. A fact that Vaidehi and I had accepted. But now I worried Vaidehi was pouring her expectations into Shivani’s womb. Sure enough, Shivani offered us her baby the minute he was born. I was aghast. But a look of utter understanding passed between Shivani and Vaidehi. Neither was doing any favors. Shivani had no means of supporting the baby. (She had separated from an abusive boyfriend). Vaidehi was only too delighted to accept the baby. However, none of us wanted to go through the red tape of an actual adoption. So we worked out an informal arrangement by which Shivani stayed around to sign off on official documents etc. But the baby, Kedar, lived with us. Vaidehi devoted herself to being a mother. At first I mocked her, and then humbled, I allowed myself to be sucked in as well. Soon the three of us were family.

One day, about six months later, out of the blue, Vaidehi got it in her head that if she could just get her parents to see Kedar, things would fall in place. I felt motherhood had softened her. Hmph! I scoffed. But then I remembered sometimes it’s ok to give in.

So we flew to Hyderabad; all four of us- Shivani, me, Kedar and Vaidehi. Of course we were greeted by a silent, locked door. We sat in front of that door the whole day. Finally Vaidehi shuffled to her feet. I wanted to tear down that door and shoot them all.

And that’s when we realized Kedar had fever.

Stifling our guilt, we rushed to the R___ L___ hospital. At the entrance I grabbed a registration form and started filling it out. I was brought up short at the second line itself. It asked for the father’s name. Point blank. There was no option for “mother” or “guardian”. I crossed out ‘father’, wrote in ‘mother’ and after a slight pause filled in Shivani’s name. I quickly filled out the rest of the form and handed it in. A red pen ran down the form and made a big circle around Shivani’s name. We don’t need mother’s name here, said a masculine voice. We need father’s name. But he does not live with us, he does not even know the baby, I explained. Never mind, came the retort in impatient tones. The baby has a father right? Give me his name…..and the pen hovered over the form. Did I imagine the mockery in the voice? I opened my mouth to argue, when someone intercepted. It was Vaidehi. “Sir” she clipped, “this baby needs help. Get him help now. His father does not care if he lives or dies, and you want his name over his mother’s who carried him for 9 months? How about we put in your name- how about that?”

I stepped aside and watched the fireworks. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned! The poor man stood no chance. He retreated and fetched his manager – who was also lambasted by Vaidehi. The manager now rushed to get his senior manager. Oh boy! We really raised a stink that day! It was the four of us ranged against a veritable army of pot-bellied, pompous old men. Finally a senior doctor suggested we could write the father’s name and the mother’s name. His suggestion was greeted with a great roar of approval - clearly everyone was impressed by his brilliance. We finally gave up.

But I remember a nurse who smiled and stuck her thumb up at me, signaling victory. I also remember my sadness at her gesture.

In the end, it turned out Kedar only had a minor heat stroke. Much relieved, we cut our trip short and returned home.

My world has turned many times since. Memories cartwheel around my head like tumbleweeds……

Vaidehi cheering at Shivani’s graduation, Vaidehi puzzling over Kedar’s assignments, Vaidehi beaming at an unexpected promotion, Vaidehi laughing at my first (and only) attempt at wearing a saree, Vaidehi marching to protest the Iraq war, Vaidehi buying a hand fan to celebrate my first hot flash, Vaidehi accepting Shivani’s move to Boston, Vaidehi quietly acquiescing when Kedar followed suit.

And more recently- Vaidehi stunned to receive a call from her newly widowed mother… Vaidehi disappointed by my cold silences…Vaidehi sobbing quietly in bed last night……

And finally, Vaidehi departing for India today.... without a backward glance.....

Draining my glass, I come back in and start my laptop. I pull up the screen for Singapore Airlines and click on the tab ‘flights and fares’.

Departure city: San Francisco. Destination city: Hyderabad.

It’s time to let my world turn again. Sometimes it’s ok to give in.

Krishna

Krishna Nee Begane Baro

Krishna......Krishna.......
I never tire of singing your name
Tasting it over and over again
I sit drenched and drunk
Your name spilling over my unsteady lips....

Sing to me, play to me, play on me Krishna
With soft golden notes splay open my soul
Absorb me, cherish me, nourish me Krishna
There's not much left here for me to behold

Deceptions

An outright lie is a welcome deception.
Beware instead of secret dreams, of a sidelong glance, of a sudden double-take, of a whispered name.
Silvery, slippery veils of deception. Baring both - the deciever and the decieved.

Laundry

I wish my life was
Like my dirty laundry
Happily blooming
Without qualm or quandary

Saagar Manthan (The Churning of the Oceans)

The Hindu mythology tells the story of Saagar Manthan (The Churning of the Oceans). Once upon a time gods and demons came together and churned the milky oceans to find the elixir of life. Through that churning were born many things- great and small, noble and vile. Such is our life.

My Churning

For the first time in my life I am a stay-at-home mom. I have no classes to rush to, no meetings to attend, no paychecks coming in my name. Some days I wonder why I did not do this earlier. Other days I want to find a shrink and get my head examined.

I worked as a market researcher in the pharmaceutical industry for the past 9 years (since Jan 2000) – and 8 of those 9 years I worked from home. This industry thrives on the East coast, especially in the New Jersey/New York area. But my husband was based on Chandler, Arizona. So telecommuting was a good compromise as we began our married life in December 2000. I considered it a temporary arrangement while I settled down in Chandler. The plan was to find an on-site job within a year or so. But inertia set in and I decided to let things ride for some time. Soon we decided to have our first baby. Advait was born on August 5th 2003. After his birth, telecommuting became a logical solution to managing a baby and still keeping a full-time job. Advait did go to daycare but only for 3-4 hours. My husband had a 10 minute commute so he could drop him off late in the mornings and I worked East coast hours so I could wrap up by 3PM PST. I could earn a six-figure salary and still be home with my son by 4PM.

I should have been happy. But I was restless.

I was the only telecommuter in my office and was passed over for promotions again and again. I saw others who had joined the company at the same time as me rise up to managerial positions. I watched my husband flourish at his job and get promotions two years in a row. One a more emotional level I envied my friends who dressed up each morning and walked out of the house. I hung onto every story they regaled about fantastic social events happening in their office. I also tolerated endless jokes about people who ‘worked from home.’ I patiently pointed out my generous salary to friends and family who were not quite sure what I did at home. And to stop work at 3PM, I had to actually start working by 5AM! Not an easy task with a little one in tow.

All in all, I worked myself up into solid discontent.

So we decided we would move to California. We felt this would not only be good for Advait since we have lots of family in California but would also be a great move for our careers. The Silicon Valley is the final frontier for my husband who works in the computer industry and I had renewed hopes of getting a full-time on-site job in San Francisco, which cradles most bio-tech companies.

And that’s when we discovered we were expecting our second child. Torn between laughter and tears we postponed our plans for another year and settled down to welcome Vedant.

Vedant was born on November 15th, 2005. We spent an idyllic year in Chandler after his birth. I needed to get back to work but we could now afford a full-time nanny, Shawna, who also helped around the house. Shawna and I became very good friends. It was wonderful to have someone to chat with during breaks. It was equally wonderful to hear Vedant gurgling and playing downstairs all day. People told me I was lucky. Indeed I must have been. But at heart I was still restless.

And so in November of 2006 we moved to California, San Ramon.

Our family welcomed us with open arms. The kids were now 1 and 3 years old. Neither of them were babies. I felt the most challenging part of parenting was behind us. After all we were finally sleeping through the nights (yes I can see experienced parents laughing right now!). I felt I could now put the kids in daycare and get out of the house. I found a new job with great ease. It was another company on the East coast so I still worked from home for the most part but they had a West coast team as well. So there was the promise of flying out for onsite meetings, driving to San Francisco for client meetings, travelling to conferences for important presentations. I was given the title of Associate Vice President of West Coast research. I was on a high! I discovered I excelled at client servicing. Every project I touched turned to gold- we got repeat business, new business, glowing referrals. My team was on a roll and I was in the driver’s seat.

But now the hours got longer. And the work became high pressure. With all this responsibility came impossible deadlines and enormous amounts of politics. Having worked almost solo for almost 6 years, I was blown away by the ugly e-mails, friction filled meetings and barbed back-biting. And as the year progressed I realized I was still very much treated as a telecommuter- the only difference was we were now 3 of us on the West coast- all ignored by the main mother ship. So I was restless again! This is bad I finally cried to my husband one night. All this politics! No training. No development. And still sitting at home! I really hated it when friends caught up with me after years of silence and started their greeting with ‘Hi! Still working from home?’

So once again things were in a flux. I quit this job and within a week I had another one at hand. That was certainly a great boost for my ego! And this time, it was a truly an on-site, full time position in San Francisco. In fact I went from no commute to an almost 2 hour commute each way. I had a 20 minute drive to the BART station, then a 45 minute ride into the city, then another 20 minute ride by MUNI to my office. And god forbid if I missed any connecting train, things could get really crazy.

In the mornings I left for work before anyone was up. On good days I could get back in time to pick my children up from daycare by 6:30 PM, but on most days I just managed to get back home in time to tuck them into bed. At office things were more hectic than ever. This new job was with a consulting firm vs. a traditional market research firm. To the uninitiated, let me explain, there is a world of difference between the two. The former has crazier deadlines, works 24 hours around the clock- and has a do-it-all-yourself structure – which basically means there is no team to hand off any phase of your project work. I was also relegated to being behind a desk most of the times vs. servicing clients, which I loved best and really excelled at. And to top it all, it was a start-up with a current staff of three young earnest girls. There was no talk or laughter during the day. All of us sat in our cubicles working furiously for hours until it was time to go home; There was no fancy social life as I had imagined. I also felt awkward leaving the office at 6 PM. The other girls came in before me by 7AM and left after me at 10 PM. They were young, single and without kids. I felt like an old Cadillac trying to race against two hip Mustangs!

Did I not know what I was heading into? Of course I had an inkling! But I was so delighted at the prospect of finally stepping out, that I ignored every word of caution uttered by any well-wisher. At that time I was determined to succeed. I actually lasted all of 4 months.

Meanwhile my husband, who worked the same hours as I did, put away his laptop on most evenings and took charge of the house. While I fretted and fumed over a report due the next day, he fed the kids dinner. While I typed up a client response, he read them stories. While I finally dropped into bed exhausted, he cleaned away the kitchen and planned next morning’s breakfast. Even on the weekends as I worked and worked, he took the kids to swim classes, cooked Sunday brunches and played with them all day. And never once did I hear him complain. He understood this was important to me - and accepted it peacefully.

But now in my heart reared something more powerful and painful than any discontent I had ever experienced before. I hated being away from my kids day after day. I missed their faces in the mornings. I missed their hugs in the afternoons. I was absent from their school parties, I could not take them to play dates anymore. We only had weekends in which to cram in homework, co-curricular classes as well as precious family time. All the things I had taken for granted earlier, were now so difficult to accomplish! Our house was running purely on my husband’s ability to sustain.

The final straw came, with diabolic luck, on the day I was slated for my 3-month review. It was the meeting in which I would be accorded permanent employee status. Just as I pulled out of the garage at 5:30 AM, Advait came running out of the house. He was bawling his head off. I leapt out of my car in alarm. I just want to see you, I just want to see you, he cried, hugging me tight. How I got to the office that day, I do not know. I cried and howled all morning and in the review I acknowledged things did not look too good. And finally two weeks later I resigned from my job. That was February 2009.

Right around the time I resigned I got another rude shock. I attended back-to-back parent teacher meetings for both my kids. Teachers at both schools remarked on their lack of self-discipline, their rowdy behavior and their restless attitudes. Take him home earlier, urged my younger one’s pre-school teacher. Let him be with you, let him be in the house around you. She was asking me to calm him down.

I was angry and resentful. There are so many kids in daycare! They all looked fine to me! And in response the teacher said something I will never forget- Yes there are, she said. But we are talking about your child and what he needs.

My husband and I thought things over. We knew one of us needed to slow down- the kids needed us. After much soul searching I decided I should step up to the plate. So I postponed my job hunt. For the first time ever I focused on my children with complete attention. I reduced their daycare hours and established firm routines for work and play. I let them do chores around the house and worked with their teachers to define a system of daily checks and rewards. I served them milk as they played outside; I gave them time outs when they broke house rules. At first my children were decidedly confused. They were not sure what to do around me or the house. Then with enviable equanimity, they quickly adjusted and welcomed me home.

And lo! Suddenly! I was at peace.I did not know I could be this content. I was hugely astonished. And not a little dismayed and ashamed! Growing up in a staunchly feminist household, this was the last thing I imagined would give me comfort. I worried about my family's reaction, I feared my friends' ridicule. And then I think with wisdom born of despair, if not experience, I decided, for once, to follow my heart. At stake was not just my pride or sanity- it was my family's peace and happiness. It was time to give back a little of what I had taken from them over the past two years of constant turmoil.

So now I don’t know what the future holds. I certainly don’t wish for a full-time job that will pull me away from my kids again. It’s a joy to see them happy and relaxed instead of being hurried to daycares and back! Perhaps I will get a part-time job. Perhaps I will go back to school for higher studies. Perhaps I will do no more (and no less) than manage my house and kids, full-time.

While all this mulling hasn’t got me an answer yet, it has certainly given me some insights. I call them my emerging elixir.

My Emerging Elixir

To understand and accept- I finally understand and accept that I have responsibilities more demanding than any corporate job and more urgent than any personal ambition. It takes a lifetime of hard work to raise decent, healthy children. I cannot and should not hope to switch off anytime soon. I also accept that everyone’s life flows in different patterns and at different speeds. Every family has their own needs; every child has his/her requirement, every person has their own distinct desire and destiny. I must never, ever forget that. Just because most people behave in a certain way, does not automatically make it the best choice for every individual. I must never hesitate to go off the beaten path if I truly think it’s the better one.

I also understand and accept that what I am today is not necessarily what I will be tomorrow or what I was in the past. We are all forever morphing; our motives, priorities, fears, desire, ambitions, needs are all ever-changing. It’s important to accept that change and allow it. It’s important to not box yourself into stereotypical roles and saddle yourself with lifelong labels. Life churns constantly- we respond to each situation like a chameleon changes colors. No color is ever permanent- but all colors are beautiful. Enjoy the color you are today- and don’t worry you are stuck with it for life. You will likely change color pretty soon- even if by just a shade.

To appreciate: I now take time to appreciate. I appreciate my life. I am grateful I have the luxury to make errors and rectify them; I am thankful I always have a choice. There are millions who live lives forced by circumstances; who don’t have a choice regarding which path they tread; who don’t have children to love and protect; who don’t have marriages replete with unfaltering loyalty and respect. How did I forget to be thankful for all that I have?

To trust and be patient: So far life has not brought me a single moment that has been utterly destructive. Even in my darkest moments I have been granted strength and compassion. Life has taught me to trust her- and trust her I will! So even when the benefits are not obvious or immediate, I must be patient and persist with the right actions,trusting that things will always work out. Life shifts patterns relentlessly, falling into alternating tableaus of hope and despair. We should try to play along, trusting that the scene will change again soon.

All right! I think I have said enough. I am going to sign off now- with one last thought. I spent a lot of time worrying over what was important to me. The day I changed tracks and thought instead about who was important to me, things became much simpler, if not easier.

Happy Hours

Happy Hours was my brain child. Well, the idea was mine, but the name was Yasmin’s genius. What kind of a twisted mind names a childcare facility Happy Hours?

This should have been warning enough.

Yasmin and I arrived in San Berman, California about 11 months ago. It’s a beautiful little county- a poor man’s Switzerland if you will. Rolling green hills, picture perfect clouds, cool crisp winds. The population is predominantly young Asian families spawned by the Silicon Valley nearby.

Perfect!

We rented a 2200 square foot ranch style house in an old neighborhood, near a first class elementary school. The realtor shook her head in sympathy as I exclaimed over the steep rent. But the house was so perfect! It had a beautiful stucco façade, graceful palms in the front and delicate pink roses in a sprawling backyard. The house was L-shaped with three bedrooms at the back, a double-car garage and two full bathrooms. The living and dining areas formed the front of the house, the shorter arm of the L.


We loved it that the bedrooms were set away from the street.

After six months of frenzied cleaning and unpacking, at last things looked ready for launch. I went online and put out an ad. It highlighted my status as a former pediatric RN. It also candidly acknowledged that Happy Hours did not have a license-as yet. However we begged parents to give us a chance. In return we offered personal one-on-one care, fresh home- cooked meals and snacks-at prices significantly lower than other daycares. We even waived the diaper-stocking fee and security deposits for the first few parents that signed up with Happy Hours. We advertised for babies between 6 months to about a year-and-a half old.

We did not have to wait too long. Within three days we got our first call from Mrs. Valgapalli. She turned out to be a pleasant young thing of twenty-five – who asked me to call her Sumeeta. Sumeeta’s daughter-Nisha- was 8 months old. She had wide black eyes, curly black hair and dimpled black skin. I almost drooled at the sight of her. So perfect! Perfect! Perfect!

Sumeeta had a thick Indian accent. Apparently she had arrived in California only a year ago. In fact, she was married only about 18 months ago! And now she had this baby in a strange land, with an almost equally strange husband. She was overwhelmed. Tired. She hadn’t slept well in days. Sumeeta’s husband worked in the Silicon Valley and could not fathom what his wife was supposed to do if the baby was in a daycare. He also failed to understand why he had to shell out enormous amounts of money for this luxury. To top it all, Sumeeta could not drive. How was she supposed to get to and from a daycare? So things looked quite bleak until Sumeeta chanced upon my ad. The location was close enough for her to walk over. But more importantly, the rates were perfect.

I hid my smile.

Sumeeta was a diligent mother. Why is the price so low, she wondered? I assured her it was a promotional stint. The fees would soon be raised to match other centers – but I promised to keep them lower for her as the first parent to sign-up. I could see Sumeeta’s eyes sparkle at the thought of bringing home a good deal to her husband.


Bulls eye !!! exclaimed Yasmin.

Sumeeta then spent an hour checking around the house. She checked the backyard. She requested the weekly menu and inspected the kitchen closely. She went into the bedrooms lined with clean little playpens and checked the linen and the ventilation. She was about to pronounce herself satisfied when she spotted the door at the end of the narrow hallway. She turned to me, clearly expecting to be shown that room too.

I was caught off guard. But Yasmin stepped in seamlessly.

It’s the door to our bedroom, gushed Yasmin. Would Sumeeta like to see it? I walked purposefully towards it, but Sumeeta backed away with a laugh. No need she waved. How could she broach my privacy? She pronounced herself satisfied and signed the papers. Nisha would be dropped off the coming Monday- three days from now. She was scheduled to come for three full days every week, 9-5PM.

Just as she was leaving I remembered. Sumeeta, I called, here take these. I thrust the slim green folder into her hand. This has a couple of letters of recommendations and my RN license number, I explained. Sumeeta smiled as she flipped through it while holding the baby awkwardly in one hand. Excellent, she said and thanked me.

I was uneasy about this. One attempted call and it would be all over. But Yasmin was elated. She's like that, my Yasmin. Such a thrill freak.

The next call was from Mrs. Cairns. She was calling to confirm if the price was really as low as advertised online. Did we have any openings? I took the call and informed her we had already reached our capacity. Yes, yes, we were already full! Mrs. Cairns hung up sounding disappointed.

Well done,said Yasmin.

That afternoon we got another visitor. Sudhir walked in unannounced with a whimpering six-month old boy. The boy had startlingly light eyes and silky brown hair. He was referred to us by Sumeeta. He came alone, clutching a messy diaper bag. Sudhir did not offer details about his wife but said he needed help for a couple of months till his parents arrived from India. The baby whimpered again. Sudhir shifted the baby uncomfortably from arm to arm and asked to see our license. It should be here soon, I assured him. He looked unconvinced. Clearly he was not used to picking daycares and the lack of a formal license was not a good start at all. I think he would have left, when by some stroke of luck, the boy started bawling and screaming in full earnest. Sudhir was completely flustered. I jumped into action. Within minutes I had Sudhir seated and the boy cuddling against me sipping warm milk from a freshly sterilized bottle. Slowly Sudhir relaxed and his face lit up with grateful relief. We chatted idly as the child quietened down. Sudhir was amazed how the child took to me and remarked perhaps he thought I was his mother. I looked so much like her with my long brown hair and wheat colored complexion. I smiled back at Sudhir with easy familiarity. Once the child was sleeping, Sudhir took the perfunctory tour, grabbed the slim green folder and quickly signed all necessary papers. Stuffing his copy of the agreement into the diaper bag he told me this had been the first of 5 centers he had planned to visit that day. But now he had the entire afternoon free to catch up on important office work. It was an omen of good things to come, he smiled.

Indeed chuckled Yasmin.

Don't forget to get the immunization records on Monday I called after him.

We did not get any more calls or visits over the weekend. We were wondering whether to move forward with the two children in hand ......

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It is 7AM Monday morning. Our doorbell is ringing.

Confused, I open the door to find a big brown man blocking the doorway. Behind him there is a petite woman wrapped in a flowery saree. The woman is cradling a baby boy about six months old. The man-Mr. Karanidhara- is walking into the middle of our living room. Are the rates as advertised? He is fairly yelling his question at me. I find myself nodding. The woman looks embarrassed. She wants to tour the facility. She looks so dumb and harmless. I tell her to go ahead.

Do we really offer fresh meals and snacks at no extra cost, the man hollers again. I am beginning to get angry. Yasmin steps in. She nods. Can the child start right away? Again Yasmin nods. Am I really a pediatric nurse who can handle a medical emergency? Yasmin is nodding again politely. The man relaxes and smiles. Good! Good! He booms. Good fresh food is necessary for young brain to develop, he pronounces. And the rates! The rates of course! He laughs loudly.

The man owns a jewelery shop in the strip mall two streets down. He has fired his assistant just the night before. Going online to place an ad for a replacement, he chanced upon my ad. That gave him an idea. If we have an opening, his plan is to get his wife to help out for some time. Our location is perfect and the rates are an added advantage. Of course if he had been looking for something more permanent, he would have done a lot more searching and thinking, but hopefully the boy would be here for only a week or two. Would that be all right with us? Yasmin is getting impatient as well, but she nods.

Good! Good! he booms again. Then as as an afterthought he asks if we have any other Indian kids in the daycare. Yes, we have two other children, both Indian, I chime in. He looks delighted.

And so we remain talking in the hallway waiting for his wife.

Suddenly there is a slight disturbance behind us. The woman has crossed the hallway into my bedroom. Flushing with anger I rush after her, but she is already inside. I find her looking over the room with idle curiosity, her eyes only briefly resting on the framed photo and the newspaper clipping. I send her out and take deep breaths.

I come out of the bedroom to find the couple in whispered conference. The father turns around with an apologetic smile. I am sorry says he in his oily voice. Vibha,my wife here, wants to know who that baby is in that photo frame. He pauses delicately, but I stare back in silence. I am so sorry, so sorry he continues hastily. Not our business he says. He yells at Vibha in some foreign dialect. She looks suitably chastened and apologizes to me in turn. Now we are all shaking hands and I hand over the papers necessary to finalize daycare arrangements. Vibha promises to bring over the required medical records the next day.

And then, at last, it is time for them to leave.

Now I am ushering them outside. Their boy, Shankar, is in my arms.

We reach the front gate just in time to greet Sudhir and Sumeeta on their way in. I motion them to go in while I wave farewell to Mr. Karanidhara. There is a brief delay as he hunts for his keys and another 10 minutes pass before he is able to extract his car sandwiched behind Sudhir’s truck. But finally they are gone.

I turn around and am surprised to see Sumeeta and Sudhir are already coming back out. They have left the packed diaper bags on the dining table along with the immunizaton records and tucked the sleeping babies into their tiny sleeping cots. Both are running late for personal appointments and promise to call me in the afternoon.

As Sudhir’s car purrs out of sight, the street descends into utter silence.

I have locked the gates and am strolling back in now.

But before I go.... I am going to tell you.

The clipping’s headline proclaims “Shoot out at happy hour kills local barman and baby.” The article goes onto describe how a drunken Indian man opened fire during happy hour at a local bar in Indiana. He was apparently suffering from depression. Apparently a victim of the crashing automobile industry. As most patrons rushed out in panic, the man leaned over the counter and shot the barman trapped behind it. He also ignored the barman’s plea and first shot his baby.

The article does not describe the terror in the barman’s voice - but I know it. I heard it. I was there, hiding behind the old jukebox. It had been my idea to visit Sam on the way to Turan’s daycare. My hand clamped tight over my mouth as the first bullet entered my baby’s head. I think I fainted as the second one pierced my husband’s heart. Actually I am not very clear on what really happened. I know I made it out of that bar only because Yasmin took charge. At least that's what the psychiatrist says. Logical, he says, since she was the only one to stand by me when my parents got divorced.

Yasmin died 7 years ago in a car crash.

The article, of course, does not mention any of this. It does mention though, that the Indian pleaded temporary insanity and filed bankruptcy.

And the forty-three year old widower moved out of town.

Now go! I need to lock the front door. No you can't follow me in. Husshhhhhhh!! QUIET!!! ...Yasmin is singing...

"Three little babies lying on their bed, one fell down and now he's...."

THE END