Hop on the sidewalk and tip toe past the pigeons

It is windy as hell. I complain. It's what grown up's do when it's windy as hell. And you are on your way to a 9:45 am appointment for your 6 year old's routine eye check up at the optometrist. And then you have to drop him back home, and then get to work, and then work later to make up for the morning hours.....

'Hold my hand"..he says, "And hop."
"Hop?" Here...on the street, with so many people walking by, watching?. "Hop??", I say
Ya, mom...like, take really giant steps, and hop..that way, you won't feel the wind so much and you won't mind it and we will get to the subway fast. It's fun,"

Okaaaaayyyyy....I say, as he begins to hop.


And so I begin to hop. Hesitatingly at first. Then, with gusto. Because, really , it works. I don't feel the biting wind anymore. And I'm having fun.

And so there we are. A 6 year old boy in his spiderman snow shoes and a woman in her corporate attire, Hopping and skipping on the sidewalk, at 9 am in the morning.

"Now tiptoe", he says. "Be quiet. See the pigeons there. We can't disturb them eating otherwise they won't find their food."


And just like that, we switch. From hopping loudly to tiptpeing silently. On our tippy toes. We do the last stretch that way. So the pigeons can continue eating. Undisturbed.

"The train, the train, the train.....it's like a rocket ship. Let's pretend it is a rocket ship. Cone on, otherwise we'll be left behind. You know what I don't like. Being alone on the station. It's scary. Are we there yet? Is the next one our station. Is our station college? College Park. Why is this station called Museum. Oh, because we can walk to the museum from here. Mommmy, can we go the museum after. Why is this one called St. Patrick? You don;t know? Oh, I know like St. Patrick's day. See, I know. Is it St. Patrick's day today? Are we there yet? Is the next our station? What will the eye doctor do? Do you have cookies? I'm hungry? I want apple juice. Are we there yet.'

Spadina to College Park. 9 subway stops. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.

We now sit in the lobby of the optometrist's office.

"Why doesn't the doctor see us now? IS it going to be longer? I remember this place. I came when I was little. Was I four years old? Was I in your tummy? I remember that machine. The lady asked to me focus with my eyes and look for a house. The eye doctors asked me to read things. That time I could not read very well. Where is the eye doctor. Mommmmmy, I'm bored. Why is that lady here? Do I eat my carrot? I'm super excited. Mommmy, I am bored. "

Lobby to Optometrist's room. 17 minutes. 1001 questions and observations. Of a 6 year old.

"Hi, Rohan", pleasant looking optometrist lady aka eye doctor.

"Hi", eager to begin 6 year old.

Wow, super coool", 6 year old checking out optometry type equipment in pleasant looking optometrist lady's office.

E, R, L, Y
H, G. T. U
H, t, w, R

The check up fares well. The 6 year old is asked to do some super cool stuff like look here, look there, follow the light , read these letters, hold this against the left eye, and so on and so forth. The chair he sits on can go up and won. Super cool. Him and the optometrist chat away. He tells her stuff. She tries telling him stuff but doesn't really stand a chance. except to slip a few words in now and then. The eyes are declared healthy. The 6 year old is happy. He gets stickers. Two of them. He declares the eye doctor trip way better then the dentist trip.


We're back in the train.

'Are we there yet. My eyes are strong. That's what the doctor said. I could read all the letters. Did I get any wrong. I don't need glasses. Because I eat my carrots. I'm thirsty. why is it called St. Patrick station. Is it Christmas yet?"


I drop him home. I head back to work.

And as I walk back the same route to the subway station, things just feel a little different. Fro one, I'm not thinking of the biting cold. In fact, when no one's looking, I do a few hops. I even remember to tiptoe past the pigeons. I don't pretend the train is a rocket ship. But I do make a note to myself to find out why St. Patrick station is called St. Patrick.

And as I sit in the train, listening to Mayer crooning through my headphones, I smile a little smile. It's just so super cool seeing the world the eyes of a 6 year old.

Immigrant Tales- II

Adapt. If there's one thing immigrants too, willingly or unwillingly, is that they adapt. To a new culture, to new people ,to a new climate, to new professions, to new languages, to a completely new world. A world so different from what they have known. A world so away from the one they come from. A world so new it has to be discovered.

But adapt they do,and how. I got yet another glimpse of it today.

I watched her as she spoke to him. "You must oil your hair. See, back home, we are oiling our hair. Which is why it is not turning white. See, your hair, too white. And you are not old. Still young. And here, in the apartment buildings, you live in an apartment building , ya? the water is too hard. That is it. That is the trouble. All hairs going white."

So spoke the Pakistani beautician to the white Canadian man, while she cut his hair. And he listened, and nodded and consented as she explained why he was turning white and made references to back home where people's hair did not turn white because they oiled their hair and so on and so forth.

Meet N. Talkative N. Always doling out advice, N. Spirited N. N, in her black T-shirt and blue denims, N. With flat soled black shoes. Short hair. Maroon lip gloss.Still talking incessantly to the Canadian man, N.

"How old you must be? Not too much. Ya? See, that's what I am saying. You have to be careful. See, here, no one looking really after their hair. Just shampoo and condition, what is that? See,back home, we are oiling. And putting egg. All natural thins. No chemicals. Oil is good. And what you must do is putting some egg...not whole egg, just white part..okay, now it's done...you do, hahn, you do all I am saying and see, all white hair is gone. All the girls are thinking who is this nice young man"

Ok, bye now, you have a good day"

"Yeh gore log na, bahut inko samjhana padta hai..bilkul kuch oil nahin, kuch nahi. Abhi dekho hamare wahan, to hum log bilkul time lekar yeh sab karte hain. Chalo, threading hai? Ek minute, thoda hindi music laga leti hoon. Abhi pata nahi na doosre yeh gore clients ko pasand nahi hai to. hamare log to acha lagta hi hai, na, hindi music. '

And switching to the vernacular, and humming the bollywood tune, she turns to me. And transforms into the N I know.


To the N that has spoken to me if who she is. And the life she lived back in Pakistan. Where she lived for 35 years. Of which ten were spent being the eldest bahu in a joint family of 13. Doing what is expected a eldest bahu of a joint, typically conservative family. A simple, domesticated life of meals to be cooked, children to be tended, in laws to be looked after, marriages to be attended or arranged, festivals to be celebrated. A busy house of 13 people, N in the thick of it all.

Then, the move to Canada. For a better future and a University education for the kids. From the three storey full house to a one bedroom apartment with 4 people. From the salwar kameez donning bahu to the jeans donning beautician. From elaborate meals being cooked for a family to sandwiches packed at 6am and lunches on the go. From conversing in the vernacular to conversing in English with the Candian 'Eh's" thrown in for good measure. From "khuda haafis" to "Have a good day".

"Acha, abhi yeh shape eyebrows ka maintain karna hai..next week aa jana......

The door opens and her next client walks in "Hi Cindy, very chilly outside, eh? What your skin looking so dry? See, I am always saying to use herbal facial. Back home...

N switches. I smile.

She has adpated. And how.

Been there, seen it, loved it- Part I

The masala shop at the wholesale market in Ulsoor. Gunny bags laden with spices. Laid out in no particular. Mighty mustard, the turmeric. Feiry red, chilli powder. The darker brown of the garam masala. The lighter shade of the coriander . Salt. White and pure. Pepper. Strong black.
The first snowfall of the Canadian winter. Tiny , white flakes. Blanketing everything, as if taking over. Announcing winter's arrival. Falling on the ground. Collecting. Falling some more. Soft white snow. Clean, white snow. Rooftops, streets, cars, coats- all shrouded in the white.
The bangle market in Delhi. Surrounding Hanuman Mandir. Glass, metal, colour, pattern, shimmery, matte, orange, lime green, blue, more blue, then red. The buyers and the sellers. Thin wrists, fat wrists, dark wrists, fair wrists. The bangles being tried on. One by one and then by the dozens. . The choori wallis. Spirited women. With their incessant banter. Making their sales. Almost always, you'll spot a bride to be. Looking for her choora. The choori walli will give her a dozen bangles. Shagun hai. Not a sale. A gesture. A tradition.
The flower market in Amsterdam. A narrow street lined with flowers. A riot of color. Of roses and zerberas. And tulips. Oh, the tulips. The purples and the reds and the oranges and the pinks. Flower power in Amsterdam. No pun intended.
Gay pride parade in Toronto. Along six blocks of Church street. Blocked off for a party that lasts all day and most of the night. Drag queens. Nudity. Techno. Dancing. Partying. And then some more. Gays and Lesbians. Or not. The young. The old. The restless. The party makers. The bystanders The Toronto crowd. The tourists. Wild is the mood. Costumes. Feathers. Masks. Floats. Everything exaggerated. Nothing understated. A celebration. A party.

..........I wish I may, I wish I might, I wish my wish

Wish this , wish that

Wish it could have been
Wish it should have been
Wish it wasn't
Wish it were,
Wish this, wish that.

Wish on an eyelash
Or a mail van
Wish on the first star
Or a shooting one
Wish this wish that

Wish you hadn't
Wish he had
Wish this was that
Or then
Wish this, wish that

Wish fairy
Grant a wish
Wish lists
Wishful thinking,
Wish this, wish that

Cross,
your fingers
Find,
a four leaf clover
Throw,
A coin into a wishing well
Make a wish.
Wish this, wish that.

Wish it away,
Wish it true
Wish it were
Wish it could be
Wish this,
Wish that.

Oh, the wishes we wish

Self, meet self.

Hi you
Me?
Yes, you

And You?
Me?

I am you.
Me?
Yes, you.


I know you?
Sure , you do.

You are?
You.
You are..
me?

I am you,
From, back then
when...

There was fire..
And passion
and desire
and dreams.

Really, Me?
Yes, you.

Back when..
Nothing was,
Not to be achieved.
Mediocrity, not an option
Compromises, not to be made.


This life
truly live it.


Back then...when
The world was for the taking..
The universe was to be unraveled,
Paths to discover
Journeys to be made


Words to be read
The hunger
To know it all
See it all
Do it all
Achieve it all

Overcome it
Fight it
Stand up for it

Be vocal
be strong
proud
Even, vain
never one among the crowd
Always ahead. or above. or away.


To meet, to love,
to learn, to grow
To talk and listen
And then some more.

To live,
And not just.
But , to live
it up....
and large.

A life. One life. This life. Lived.


Me?
Yes, you

That was me?
That was you.

So, hello, me
Hello, you.

What gives?
What's up with you?
Me?


Yes, you
From back then.. when

This is me
It's just not, back then...when.

But, hello you
And hello me

Nice to have met you
Or, really, me.
From back then....when

Stick with me
You,
Well, me.
From back then, when.

I like you.
I like me.
From back then.

I'd like to be you.
I'd like to be me.
From back then when.

Notes to a new mother

"She's only two weeks old and she's constipated"
"I had to hold her legs up, and rub her tummy. She pooped. But it was hard. Shouldn't it be a softer consistency?"
"She doesn't sleep much. I finally had her down at 3 am!!"
" She likes the bottle. It's easier on me too."
"She won't stop crying. I can't figure out why"
"will it be better, in a month or two"
"I miss my old life"
"I feel, kind of sad. And overwhelmed. Is that ok?"


- Of course, it is. Yes of course, it is.

And yes, she will cry, for no reason. And you won't figure it out. And when you don;t it'll get to you. Both, the crying and not being able to figure it out.
And yes , you will feel sad, and tired and overwhelmed.
And yes, it is ok to miss your old life. When you could sleep in. Or not have to wake up in the middle of the night.
And yes, it easier when someone else can feed her with the bottle because you're just tired. And want to lay on the couch and watch mindless TV. And not have to think about the consistency of poo.

And no, you're not being incompetent. Or a bad mother.
You're just being someone who just spent the last nine months being pregnant. Getting bigger. Straining your back. Throwing up. That, and the hormones gone crazy.
Come D-day. 16 hrs of labour. The exhausted pushing, the tear, the baby, the nursing, the sleep deprivation. That, and the hormones gone crazy.

So yes, as happy as you are, that your baby's here and she's healthy and beautiful,and everyone around you is over the moon, you are also tired, sleep deprived, in pain and nursing. With a new baby to take care of. Whose poop doesn't seem right. So, yes, it is ok for you to feel a bit sad and very overwhelmed.

And, no, my dear, you didn't just overnight turn into that super woman who can miraculously sing a baby to sleep. Or calm her down when she's crying. Or know what to do when she's constipated. Or be sunshine mommy all day long.

You didn't turn into all that. You just turned into a mom. Of this little delicate baby, that arrived without a manual. Or a "sleep" button. Or a "stop screaming" one . Or an exchange or return policy!

So yes, it will take time to figure her out. And figure it out. And figure out a whole bunch of other stuff, that, right now you don't feel like you will figure out.

But you will. Because I did. And She did. Because we all did.

Because we do.

Tick tock tick tock

It's been a while since I've been here! There's been no time or hardly any !

Tick tock tick tock. So much to do..so litle time.Cliched, yet true.

Between the kids and the house and the career and the desire to do so much, read so much, watch so much, meet so many, talk about so much....tick tock tick tock.

Between knowing that to do it all, is to live my life within a completely organized, planned to the tee timetable, which then the bohemian part of me completly disagrees to as being so robotic.

SO I make these little arrangements. The morning rush is the morning rush , yet I sit down with that first cup of tea. Light the incense. Gather my thoughts.

Sit on the red bench at the subway station and read. Let a few trains come and go.

Lunch hour equals an hour at the gym.

A little less cleaning on the weekends. A few extra calls to some friends.

Laundry can wait an extra day. A good film beckons.

And while there's all those bills to be sorted, right now it was just time to sit down and write.

Tick tock tick tock. Now, how do I fit the yoga in?