dead chicken and holy cows

"You have such painful periods because you eat eggs on fridays, amavasais and purattasi saturdays... it is bad, bad karma." Welcome to my family's timeless hindu traditions. "Don't even keep it at home. Give the eggs to the maid, just get it out of your fridge," fine nuances of customs are being passed down.

I share 25 per cent of my DNA with her. I love my aunt. And I keep my mouth shut.

But when my mother - who is usually introduced with her four college degrees and innovations in kindergarten education, and who recently went over to the dark side - tries to enforce these friday values, I go dizzy with blood pressure. Must be the eggs.

Two things changed me forever.

At 9, the ravenous account of my friend's X'mas feast. Eggs (I love them), roast rabbit and chicken biriyani.

"Are we not supposed to be good and not eat meat on god's birthdays," I asked. "Shouldn't we celebrate his birthday as we always celebrate good times," Angel reasoned. I could not agree more.

At 11, reading Amar Chitra Katha. Cow-killing and beef-eating was banned and vegetarianism of all shades was invented to keep hindus from Buddha's allure.

I went on to read huge tomes of Ramayan and Mahabharat, where food was fondly described in great detail. So I ran to my dad, "did princes and priests make merry at auspicious occasions with sacrifices and feasts of animals?"

"Of course," the historian smiled. He rattled off about surviving traditions where meat is still offered to the gods, of socio-political decisions in ancient India, and finished off with a reading list.

But he cannot fight for the eggs in the fridge. He cannot remember if he had lunch himself.

Errands to the butcher's shop made me a saint for several years. Acute protein deficiency reunited me with eggs, and I no longer sit with the vegetarian section at Bajji's Eid feasts. I eat with her, fervently discussing recipes.

Now, where did I start? Ah... amavasais and fridays. Well, I may become a saint again, but you can be sure that I will observe auspicious days with eggs (did I mention I love them) and biriyanis.

glossary: amavasai: no moon day; purattasi: 6th month in the tamil calendar; biriyani: ah... you must have had them.

The knowledge of the gods

"Tell me Ammama, why were you named Fragrance?" I ask. We are discussing stars and names, and I am curious because others born under her star are named with letters G and H.

She reluctantly spells: "My father hoped I would die young, and named me after his sister who died within a month." Looking at my face, she quickly rises in defence: "he was heartbroken. I, after all, killed my mother at birth."

"Names have a strange influence of their own," she says and leaves the rest unspoken - that her grandmother raised her for many years, that her father snatched her away from her loving care for the sake of his pride, that he paid her scant attention, that he got her married to a drunkard - that the name strangles her every now and then, and that she has had to fight it all her life.

Names are a burden, I know it too well. There are expectations and dreams that I have longed to shrug away.

And then there is my aunt, robbed of her destiny, when named to match her brother. But, true to her given name, she handles every crisis that life throws her way with Grace.

Lil' one, what do I wish for you... a name that sits as light as butterfly kisses, or one that will shape your years. Neither may work, but this I hope does. A wish that everytime you hear it, it be spoken only with love.

Someday at lunctime...

My mother grew up in a large, sprawling house with six siblings. Which means that I have 12 cousins whom my mother can call out to cite good behaviour.

The extended family congregates for my grandfather's annual shraadham. And after the prayers and smoke, it is time for a meal of light banter and teasing updates. It is also a time I feel very proud of all of them.

But when the men quickly disappear after food to find an AC, and the women settle down to serve themselves... I become disillusioned.

Is this my family of professors, scientists, geek techies and financial wizards? Can not even one think of serving food for the women who made them.

Maybe it is the mistake of all these women. As the firsts who had to prove that they could have paying jobs, they raced through everything.... chores, careers and children's homework.

Maybe, they just didn't have time to stop and ask, cajole and coax, or demand any help.

But then my youngest cousin brother, of his own, races between mother and aunt and demanding cousin sister to serve hot vadais.

And I know that someday at lunctime, we will make one large semi-circle - all of us cooking and eating and teasing together. Someday at lunctime...

Waiting room

I am at peace in the ICU waiting area. For the doc has said the ventilator will be off in an hour. And ammama looks as fine as she can be with a box in her mouth for about 24 hours.

I must not think of how her mouth must be hurting. I must think that the tubes will soon come off. I must think of shifting to the ward.

And I continue to read Zenzele, lovingly re-reading each page for its lyrical beauty.

When suddenly this woman, whose husband is in the adjacent bed, comes to me. "Console my son," she says and leads me to him. "He is very depressed."

I am lost for words. But I say something about his father looking better today, about his improved breathing. And about his eyes opening a little.

But what I really want to say is:

To have blind faith. Blind faith that nothing bad can happen because god is in charge. That letting you down is not an option for god.

That it is important to mouth "it will be fine", even when the oxygen level drops to 20 and your aunt is shaking in fear.

And to remind the patient of the beauty of the world outside, so that they aspire for that chai on the porch in the yellow evenings.

But I only say, "go eat breakfast, you will need all your energy when he is shifted to the ward."

thank god! my dad is no fanatic.

My dad is the gentlest creature I know. He moves slowly, speaks softly, loves his history books and sometimes resembles a baby.

He is a man of the world, of intellect, and of many liberal views. He is also blessed with a slow, careful reasoning, which can make even Voldemort seem reasonable.

And that is why it is very scary when doesn’t question wrong ideas: because then superstition becomes tradition; and the mediocre becomes the alternate.

And you have no words to argue even when your insides are screaming that it is wrong. For what words can you offer a seasoned professor?

All you had was a basic instinct. And now, you doubt that too.

How can someone who tells that history is written by the victor not believe in folk tales that endure civilisations?

How can the man who firmly believes that all answers lie in the grey suddenly accept the least common factor?

How can he, who taught you to trust your woman’s instinct at 10, now say that listening to your heart is worthless?

And how can he of all people say that you are not supposed to apply what you learn?

Is it too much effort to stand up for small, little things because the next big research project is within arm’s reach?

Don’t battles have to be won in everyday life? Is the political not personal?

Thank god he is vocally secular. Thank god he hates Modi.

family picture

When I was eight, I drew a picture in my head; of my family:

my sis,

a red lil' brother,

dad and mum,

aunt and uncle,

my grandmother and grandfather,

and komala akkaiya, our nanny/domestic-help.

My world then was these nine people. And life was dancingly perfect at eight.

My grandmother raised me as much as my mother. And I looked up to my aunt just as my dad.

My grandfather stood me at the bus stop and my uncle ran ran on hot tar roads to teach me the cycle.

My sister was everything to me; and my brother made me feel all protective.

It all changed two years later, when my siblings, grandparents and aunt and uncle moved to the city.

There were tears, moping afternoons, more tears and oh-so-much anger against all of them.

Akkaiya too had to leave, when mum decided that she was too expensive for three people. She found another nice home.

And for the next 10 years, the only times I would feel completely at home would be on the suburban train between both sides of my world...

....praying for them with a little-known god at a quaint shrine on the way.

It all taught me to cling close to my family and avoid confrontations as much as I could. And this probably is the heart of my soul.

~~

Today, luckily, little has changed. My sister is still my only love; and my brother, at 18, makes me feel just the same. And I follow my aunt's decisions as much as my dad's, even when I don't agree.

This is the first arc that I draw - and it is eight angles wide. The eight voices that I hear, whenever in doubt.

There are conflicts, there are tears, and there are realisations that shake my world, but nothing has changed the way I love these people.

And in that I am still the little girl of eight.

~ the window siller

check-list:

don't talk too much,
don't cross your legs.

don't come too close,
or your pimples will show.

is the saree slimming?
and the bangles all gold?

is she facing east?
and the cat thrown out?

~~
but how can I fight...
and what do I say?

when it is love,
shown their way.

chettu, akka and ammama

Last time aunt went on a trip, she reminded me my responsibilies: chettu, chaapa and ammama.

This time, the fishes are dead, and it will be: chettu, akka and ammama. And aunt didn't remind me this time.

I guess I grew up sometime this year.

My grandmother is sewing the edge of a new cotton saree as I type this. I wake up these days to music: the kut-kut of her knife on the chopping board. For you know it will be a good day.

She battles pain in her wrists, thanks to all those IVs, but doesn't give up. And she is slowly filling in her blouse, that hung loose all these days.

I am enjoying a three day break sleeping, sleeping more, and making maggi for grandparents.


Next on agenda is getting sis to eat two eggs a day. One for her, and one for lil Chintu, whose kicks I cannot feel yet. Come on sweetie, you can do better.

- window siller :-)



chettu: plants; chaapa: fish; akka: elder sis; ammama: grandmother.
brother makes rainbow inside the house.

Prayer

“What do you pray for every day,” aunt asks, as I open my palm. The kum kum today is red, the light red of fountain pen ink.

I wish I could tell her that until the same time last year I hardly prayed for myself. That I prayed for my sister and all the women in my life. For the goddess would know that the women could do with more blessings than you.

And all of last year I have prayed to her to make things better. She does it in fits and starts, just like I choose to work. Just when I go to her smiling about a day like sunshine, she chooses to put my piece in the snake’s mouth. And there I am sliding down its belly to the bottom right away.

~~ O mother goddess, you who stood fierce in sacred groves, before they shut you in ornate temples. You, who aremade of clay, for all things must return to the earth. You, who take the braves as consorts and protect the animals and the seeds.

To you I submit like a child: clear this confusion in my head; show my way clearly to see. Should I make happy all those all around me, people who love so dearly me. Or should I listen to the replies stuck in my throat and hold up until I feel it is all just right. ~~

prayer: the window siller; pictures: Egg.

good to know: Sacred Groves of Tamil Nadu by M. Amirthalingam; http://www.fao.org/docrep/005/y9882E/y9882e14.htm

WTF statement of the day

"I am not looking at anyone."

"But your mindset perfectly matches with this boy's," she goes on.

I look up sniffing hope. Does my mother really understand me....

"Your horoscopes say so," she finishes.

Honest to good

Yesterday night, I resolved to be just myself. To speak what I really really think. To be completely honest about myself. To tell Dad and Sis, the folks I relate to most, what I really feel and think.

I can no longer shut the voices in my head. It has been coming slowly... thanks to Stick, thanks to Dotty-Wotty and New Momma, thanks to Ayn Rand. But it is also going to make things very difficult for me.

The Beast sums it up for me:
There is a problem with being involved in a close relationship. It's not the fear or loss, of rejection, of being someone you're not. It's the fear of being yourself.

I am determined to overcome it and oh, am I going to be unpopular...