I am doing OK!

Aloka falls asleep within 10 seconds of her head touching the pillow. And she sleeps through the night without turning once, unaware of what's going in the room. My late night phone calls, my noisy games on the tab, my getting in and out of bed to charge my laptop- none of that disturbs her.

Why is it then, I wonder, that she negotiates every night where to sleep, and who to sleep with? Why is it then that she promises her grandmother, while bidding her goodnight grandiously, that she will sleep in her room tomorrow (a tomorrow that never happens)? Why is it then, that she waits up for me with sleep-drunk eyes those extra 10 minutes past her bedtime, as I close up for the night, locking doors and feeding Ana?

By wanting to be in my bed, senseless to the world, my little girl honors this sometimes-absent, often-preoccupied mother. By snuggling in my bed and holding my hand for those precious 10 seconds before she falls asleep, my little girl makes me feel like I am doing OK being her mother.

Who needs any other validation? I am doing OK.  

Sex- A poem by Amit majmudar

There are some poems that make me burn up and take flight like a Chinese Lantern. They say what I always wanted to say, and I stay up stunned and resonating. Here is one of those. Enjoy!

Sex

The one book where we never lose our place
spreads its covers to a gooseflesh Braille.
We are bookmarks slipped into each other.
In that book, we read each night of a couple
who go without touching for hours on end;
then, the dishes put away, the toddler
powered down and set to charge for tomorrow,
they thumb a lock and make a greenhouse
where once there was a master bedroom.
Orchids push open the drawers. Honeybees
bother the reading lamp.
The carpet threads itself with grass
twitching higher in a sunset-sunrise time-lapse
as the house regresses to a forest,
the plumbing to brooks, the chandeliers to stars
and “mommy” and “daddy” to the first lovers ever
under a glazed glass dome the size of the sky,
no duty save sensation,
the scar from her Caesarian
his Tropic of Capricorn. At last the throbbing
vines that roped them flush to the bed
slink back into the box spring.
The greenhouse shatters into mist
to reveal a plaster ceiling. They pull apart,
fall open like the covers of a book,
their years together pressed, preserved,
petals they can place on their tongues

I Love Living in this Village!

As I drive around this village, I see how harsh living conditions are. It is visible everywhere- in the fodder grass drying on the trees (I know how much hard work is involved in cutting the grass for cows and then drying it for the winters), in the fields that are worked upon all year round (back breaking work with little return), in the ragged school kids, in the condition of clothes drying on clothes lines, in the mud houses barely holding together, and in the roads that are never more than stones and mud. Life here is hard and harsh.

But as I drive around, I feel my heart uplifting. I love living in this village. 

I love the grass drying on the trees. It, to me, is a sign of family values, for no one person can collect so much grass all by herself. Families toil together for months to collect this much grass. It also is a sign of love and care for their precious cows, gentle creatures, who give back as much as they take in.

I love the fields that change color based on what is being sown or harvested. It, to me, is a sign of give and take from the Earth, something I was so far removed from for years. I envy those who touch the Earth so closely and are touched by it. How very blessed they are. And how disconnected are the likes of us!

I love the ragged children. They have none of the goodies that city kids have- no vitamins, no tabs, no TV, no books, no play grounds, no cloying parents to oversee them. Nothing. Yet they have such light in their eyes. And they make me feel so special just because I stop to talk to them or teach them occasionally in school. They make me believe I could make a difference in their lives, and how rare and beautiful is that!

I love the worn out clothes that people wear. On days when I am wrapped in layers to beat the cold, I see young kids and old folks walking around in threadbare sweaters and chappals on their feet. That, to me, is a sign of such wholesome health, because you can survive here in that attire only if you are active all day and hardy as a bull.

I love the mud houses with their rooms in a row, slate roofs and huge aangans. These are the only type of dwelling that merge seamlessly with the mountains and rivers and trees around us. I have always believed that everything nature makes is beautiful and everything man-made is ugly. But mud houses prove me wrong. 

I love the unmade broken roads. It is because of them that we slow down and I can look around at these pretty sights in my village. It is them that remind me that we are nothing. Our tar sprayers and road rollers can do whatever they want, but come monsoon, roads will be washed off. We are insignificant against the elements that rule our world here. 

That is why I love living here in this village. It makes me at once insignificant and impactful. It makes me feel connected to the source of life.  It makes me see as I have never seen before.

And I can't stop looking.  

Holes in the Soul

Love is like anger in many ways. It is self-righteous- it comes with a belief that "since I feel it, it must be right". Much like anger, it is self-fulfilling- every action, every emotion, just fuels it and proves it right. And much like anger, it hides other important facts- about yourself and about the other person.

But the power of relationships have little to do with "love" you feel for the other person, except at the very start. And when relationships sour, it is not because people change. It is, in fact, simply because people don't change.

The loving husband, who one day becomes abusive, is just being who he always was. The starry-eyed girlfriend, who now can't stop finding faults in the man she once adored, is just being who she always was. The once devoted lover, who now seems indifferent, is just the person she/he always was. The meanness, the lack of consideration, the indifference, the selfishness, the abuse- these don't spring up from nowhere. They were always there- in individuals who got together by falling in love.

The secret to a good relationship is within each of us. It is not a complex secret really, but a simple fact that you need two good people for a good relationship. Only two complete people can make a complete relationship. Empty people create empty relationships.

No lover can fill holes in the soul. 

A Very Short Cut

Here's to the pleasure of belonging to a mixed family!

Growing up, our family had a Sunday routine of first visiting the paternal grandparents in Lajpat Nagar, followed by a visit to the maternal grandparents in South Ex. This routine was followed religiously every Sunday, except when we were travelling. What a nice thing my parents did, I realize now, but that's beside the point.

My bauji and bhabhiji were "theth" Punjabis and my nani a proud bengali. Both showed immense pleasure if we, the grand kids, spoke to them in their language. While my sister and I made efforts to learn a smattering of both the languages in order to please the grand folks, my brother couldn't be bothered. He was at once lazy and clever.

That's how he greeted his grandparents on Sundays.

At Lajpat Nagar: Bhabhiji, kee gull?
At South Ex: Nani, kee gaul?

A Minor Point?

You need to be in minority to understand what oppression truly feels like. Oppression of words/slurs, of violence, of having choices taken away. You have to have fought for your rights to understand how precious and delicate these rights are. You have to have felt the paralyzing fear of losing everything you held close to your heart to understand those who have lost.

I am so proud to be a minority because it makes me a better person, because it makes my blood boil when others are oppressed, because I have the capacity to empathize with people regardless of their religion, sex, or economic status.

And if you are wondering why I am a minority- it's because I am a woman. And not just that, I am an independent, happy, single woman! Truly a minority. 

The Little Magician

Aloka is turning into quite a magician. Here is her very original card trick!

Aloka: Nani, pick a card. Now check it carefully. Remember what card you have, okay?

Nani: Okay. 

Aloka: Now put it back with the other cards. 

(After nani puts the card back, the little magician shuffles the cards in her little hands with great difficulty)

Aloka: Now pick another card. Don't look, just pick a card, okay?

Nani: Okay, okay I won't look. 

(Nani takes a card without stealing a glance)

Aloka: Now look at the card. Is it a different card from before?

Nani: Yes, quite different!

Aloka: See, that's the magic!!!