"NASA is a conspiracy. They send a man to the moon. Lies, bunch of lies. No, not true. I know. I was hired. Christmas lunch. they came over. I cooked. There was turkey. No, chicken. I don't know. She's lying. All time. It's a conspiracy. All lies. Lunch, not dinner. There was turkey. They all lied. It was Christmas. When they sent the man to the moon. Hypocrisy. Bullshit. I don't like it. Not at all. "
Pause. Long pause. Distressed eyes looking around in panic.
"No. It won't happen . No christmas lunch. they are after me. I know."
Monlogue of a woman. Sitting beside me (a seat away), on the subway.
50 something. Salt and pepper, very disheveled hair. Untidy, unkempt look. Faded baggy denims. An oversized sweatshirt on a hot day. Torn, tattered sneakers. Panic stricken eyes.
She sat there and just talked to herself. Or to an imaginary person, who lives in her head.
I see quite a few like her. On the street. Mostly homeless. or junkies. Walking the street, sitting on the sidewalk, riding the subway. Talking to themselves. Or to some ghosts of their past. Or imaginary people. I will never know. Till I talk to them. Engage in a dialogue
But they only seem to talk to themselves. Engage in monologues.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Immigrant Tales - I
My first memory of landing at the US airport for the very first time with my visa in hand.
As I stood, very tired , very jetlagged, in a very long line of very tired, very jetlagged people, waiting for my turn to clear immgration, I heard a very loud, very irate voice saying "All US citizens , please step to this side and form a line here. This is for your convenience. All the "rest" , please wait where you are"!.
And there it was. Spelt out, loud, clear and very irrtatedly. The separation . Between those who belonged and those who didn't. Between the coveted US citizenship vs the Visa. Between the Americans and the rest of the world. Between those who had earned the privelege of not having to wait in a tiring line and those who had no other choice but to.
And I knew , in that moment, this was just the start. To more lines, more waiting periods. For a driver's licence. For a work visa. For a citizenship interview.
For that feeling of belonging somewhere.
As I stood, very tired , very jetlagged, in a very long line of very tired, very jetlagged people, waiting for my turn to clear immgration, I heard a very loud, very irate voice saying "All US citizens , please step to this side and form a line here. This is for your convenience. All the "rest" , please wait where you are"!.
And there it was. Spelt out, loud, clear and very irrtatedly. The separation . Between those who belonged and those who didn't. Between the coveted US citizenship vs the Visa. Between the Americans and the rest of the world. Between those who had earned the privelege of not having to wait in a tiring line and those who had no other choice but to.
And I knew , in that moment, this was just the start. To more lines, more waiting periods. For a driver's licence. For a work visa. For a citizenship interview.
For that feeling of belonging somewhere.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Immigrant tales
Color, not colour. Sidewalk , not pavement. Stroller, not pram. Grade, not class. Street, not road.
I used to shift houses. Now I move.
Neighbors do not come over to borrow a katori of yoghurt. It would be an imposition, not an opportunity to have a conversation.
More Christmas lights. Less Diwali.
Blues, grays, browns as opposed to oranges, lime greens and reds.
Driving on the right, not the left.
Home and " back home".
That feeling of belonging. Yet feeling "in- between".
The journey of an immigrant. I started mine in 1997.
It's been a long one and there's lots to tell.
I used to shift houses. Now I move.
Neighbors do not come over to borrow a katori of yoghurt. It would be an imposition, not an opportunity to have a conversation.
More Christmas lights. Less Diwali.
Blues, grays, browns as opposed to oranges, lime greens and reds.
Driving on the right, not the left.
Home and " back home".
That feeling of belonging. Yet feeling "in- between".
The journey of an immigrant. I started mine in 1997.
It's been a long one and there's lots to tell.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Men only want to sleeping, sleeping, sleeping
A hot Italian sausage , please.
Yes, she says.
How old your baby? She asks, flipping the sausage on the grill.
One. I say.
I want babies too. But difficult to find a nice man, you know. Men only want to sleeping, sleeping with woman. Sleeping, you know. Just sleeping and that's it. No good.
Yes, I say. Only have babies with nice man.
Yes, she say. I want with nice man.
Where you from? she says.
India, I say.
Aah, I am thinking Italian, she says. You are looking , from Italian.
Where are you from? I ask
Turkey. (pronounced (toorkey, in a very turkeyish accent). You know Turkey?
Yes, I say.
She smiles.
I get my passport, then I go home, She says.
Passport? I say. Oh, Citizenship?
Ya, shes says, citizen. Then I go back. Here, no life. Turkey, very good. Here, too much work, work work. everything rush , rush. And tax. Too much tax. Tax, tax, tax.
I, no like here.
Have you applied for citizenship? I ask.
Yes, she says. One year and 5 months more, she says.
She is counting.
Here, your hot dog. You enjoy.
You look good. Like Italian. Good with baby.
Thank you, I say. Grin, grin.
Well, good luck, I say. Adding relishes to the hot dog.
I will see you again. Ketchup and Mustard.
Ya, she says. Nice to talk to you.
Bye.
Conversation with a hot dog vendor from Turkey, outside Union station in Toronto. 1.30 pm , Monday afternoon.
She belives men mostly just want to sleep around, Canada has way too much taxation, and that someone who looks incredibly Indian can also look Italian.
Yes, she says.
How old your baby? She asks, flipping the sausage on the grill.
One. I say.
I want babies too. But difficult to find a nice man, you know. Men only want to sleeping, sleeping with woman. Sleeping, you know. Just sleeping and that's it. No good.
Yes, I say. Only have babies with nice man.
Yes, she say. I want with nice man.
Where you from? she says.
India, I say.
Aah, I am thinking Italian, she says. You are looking , from Italian.
Where are you from? I ask
Turkey. (pronounced (toorkey, in a very turkeyish accent). You know Turkey?
Yes, I say.
She smiles.
I get my passport, then I go home, She says.
Passport? I say. Oh, Citizenship?
Ya, shes says, citizen. Then I go back. Here, no life. Turkey, very good. Here, too much work, work work. everything rush , rush. And tax. Too much tax. Tax, tax, tax.
I, no like here.
Have you applied for citizenship? I ask.
Yes, she says. One year and 5 months more, she says.
She is counting.
Here, your hot dog. You enjoy.
You look good. Like Italian. Good with baby.
Thank you, I say. Grin, grin.
Well, good luck, I say. Adding relishes to the hot dog.
I will see you again. Ketchup and Mustard.
Ya, she says. Nice to talk to you.
Bye.
Conversation with a hot dog vendor from Turkey, outside Union station in Toronto. 1.30 pm , Monday afternoon.
She belives men mostly just want to sleep around, Canada has way too much taxation, and that someone who looks incredibly Indian can also look Italian.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Procelain Doll
So, I'm not really into porcelain dolls. I think they look beautiful and all that, but I have never bought one or would. Too pink and pretty, and too figurine for me. Too collectibles item.
But I did get one home with me the other day. Pink and pretty and figurine.
But this one I shall keep. Because this one has a story.
And as much as I might not like porcelain dolls, I love stories . Especially the ones that happen to me . And have real people in them.
Tuesday afternoon. Close to 4 pm. My one year old is being what a one year old will be, on some days. A difficult one year old. Refusing to play, or sleep, or sit in the stroller to go to the park. Doesn't mind being carried around, so I put her in my sling, and set out for a walk. I plan to walk around downtown, maybe browse the drugstore, try on some nailpaint, or walk into an art gallery, or a random store that looks interesting enough.
So as I'm turning the corner around my condo, I notice the store that's right there. It's always been a bit of a favorite of mine. I haven't really ever bought anything from there, except a small furry , very life like, kitten which goes "Meow, I love you" when you press a button. Enough to entertain a one year old . For a dollar.
So anyway, this store has always been nice to browse through. First off, it was always absolutely packed with stuff. Packed , as in shelf to shelf, wall to wall. All kinds of stuff. Curios, mostly. Figurines. Lamps. Some nice, some hideous. Paintings. Prints. Incense. Key chains. Tin soldiers. Toy airplanes. African masks. Calendars. Just knick knacks and more knick knacks and even more knick knacks.
And a large selection of porcelain dolls.
So on some lazy afternoons, I would grab myself a coffee and just browse the store. Talking to the Chinese owner. Looking at knick knacks. Smiling to myself over some hideous looking lamp.
And if I was really in a mood, I would name the dolls.
The other thing that always caught my attention about this store was the fact that for the last 4 years , there has always been a sign on the door. "Closing Sale. Everything Must Go". Now, that is a gimmick that some store owners use to attract bargain seekers, especially around downtown. But sometimes it really does mean that store is shutting down and they are trying to get rid of the inventory.
For 4 years, I kid you not, the sign was always on the door. And the door was always open for business. And the store never shut down.
Till the last Tuesday when I walked by. Which is what piqued my interest. There was again a sign. It read. "Store shut down. Everything must Go. " And next to it was a very legal looking, stamped document stating something like non payment of rent etc.
And although, the store was open for business, it was almost bare. Almost everything had been sold. Just a few knick knacks here and there. Few customers grabbing the last day bargains. The Chinese owner was gone. The store was really shutting down. That day.
And here I was, just by accident, standing at its door, for what would be probably the last time. So , I walked in. It seemed momentous enough an event for me. I like romanticising things, you see. For one last time, I would walk around, browse and just spend another lazy afternoon here.
And as looked around, I saw a few knick knacks that I have always spotted when I used to browse here. A few painting that I remembered seeing. Lamps, the hideous ones. And a few porcelain dolls. With their pretty dresses.
So, anyway , that is the background to what followed.
As I walked around with my daugher slung on my hip, this lady walks up to us, also carrying a little baby girl. Mothers attract mothers.
Reasonably tall, 5'7 , I should say. Hair tightly pulled back in a bun. Very neat, not a hair out of place. Fair skinned. Not Caucasian. Wearing a summery reddish pinkish, clingy knee length dress. Bit of a tummy. Post pregnancy sort of bulge. Curvaceous, full bodied figure. Light eyes. Against her fair skin, you noticed them. Light eyes.
She walked over and smiled. We said our hello's. She asked how old my daughter was. I answered and asked about hers. Mom talk.
We told each other how cute the other's child was and how hard somes days can be and teething issues and all that. I didn't mind. She was an eager first time mom and she was pleasant.
Then she turned aorund and said something to the man at the cash register. Which is when I figured she wasn't browsing through. Turns out she was married to the guy at the cash register. Who was also the guy in charge of the foreclosure of the store.
She told me the owner could not pay the rent and hence the store had to be foreclosed. Hmm, I said , "too bad'.
As she continued talking, I wondered where she was from. I figured , probably Spanish or somewhere in Eastern Europe.
See, I am curious about stuff like that. Especially being in a city like Toronto. Because mostly everyone in this sity is originally from somewhere.
This city hands you multiculturalism on a platter. And then some more. You never know who you will meet, from which end of the world. So I normally ask. To satiate my curiosity. But I always guess first. In my head. It's like a game.
Spanish. Or eastern European. I was sure. Her English was accented. Something about her face. Something about her body. Something about her husband. I was sure I was close.
"What's your daughter's name?" She asks.
Gia", and "your daughter's?' , I ask.
"Mallika"
"Oh," I say, "That's an Indian name."
"Yes" she says. " I am from India. "
"Oh, "..says my head.
I'm from India too, I tell her.
My head is reeling.
"Where, in India?" I ask.
Punjab, she says.
Oh, I am from Punjab too. I say.
And soon we are exchanging names. Jugraon, Nangal, Doomwali, Bhatinda, Ludhiana.
Me and Jassi.
That's her.
Jassi from Jagroan. A village in Punjab. Not too far from Doomwali. Another village in Punjab . My ancestral village. Where I spent many a summer, growing up.
So , N from Doomwali in Bhatinda and her daughter meets Jassi from Jugraon and her daughter , in a store in downtown Toronto, which N have browsed for the last 4 years, and which is finally shutting down for non payment of rent by the Chinese owner and the foreclosure is being handled by Jassi from Jagraon's husband.
I was wrong about Spain or Eastern Europe. I was not even close.
We talked some more, now obviously, a greater comfort level established.
And then it was time to leave. So I said goodbye and how lovely it had been to meet her . She asked me to wait a minute.
Then , she walked over to a shelf, picked up something and handed it to me.
"This is for Gia, from Mallika. "
I looked down at my hand and there she lay. The porcelain doll in a pretty white dress. With blue frills at the edges . Same blue as her beaded necklace. A wreath of pink roses in her hand. A pink heart adorning the veil on her head. Brown hair. Black eyes. Pink lips. Barefeet.
And in my head, I might even name her.
Jassi or Mallika. Those are the contenders.
But I did get one home with me the other day. Pink and pretty and figurine.
But this one I shall keep. Because this one has a story.
And as much as I might not like porcelain dolls, I love stories . Especially the ones that happen to me . And have real people in them.
Tuesday afternoon. Close to 4 pm. My one year old is being what a one year old will be, on some days. A difficult one year old. Refusing to play, or sleep, or sit in the stroller to go to the park. Doesn't mind being carried around, so I put her in my sling, and set out for a walk. I plan to walk around downtown, maybe browse the drugstore, try on some nailpaint, or walk into an art gallery, or a random store that looks interesting enough.
So as I'm turning the corner around my condo, I notice the store that's right there. It's always been a bit of a favorite of mine. I haven't really ever bought anything from there, except a small furry , very life like, kitten which goes "Meow, I love you" when you press a button. Enough to entertain a one year old . For a dollar.
So anyway, this store has always been nice to browse through. First off, it was always absolutely packed with stuff. Packed , as in shelf to shelf, wall to wall. All kinds of stuff. Curios, mostly. Figurines. Lamps. Some nice, some hideous. Paintings. Prints. Incense. Key chains. Tin soldiers. Toy airplanes. African masks. Calendars. Just knick knacks and more knick knacks and even more knick knacks.
And a large selection of porcelain dolls.
So on some lazy afternoons, I would grab myself a coffee and just browse the store. Talking to the Chinese owner. Looking at knick knacks. Smiling to myself over some hideous looking lamp.
And if I was really in a mood, I would name the dolls.
The other thing that always caught my attention about this store was the fact that for the last 4 years , there has always been a sign on the door. "Closing Sale. Everything Must Go". Now, that is a gimmick that some store owners use to attract bargain seekers, especially around downtown. But sometimes it really does mean that store is shutting down and they are trying to get rid of the inventory.
For 4 years, I kid you not, the sign was always on the door. And the door was always open for business. And the store never shut down.
Till the last Tuesday when I walked by. Which is what piqued my interest. There was again a sign. It read. "Store shut down. Everything must Go. " And next to it was a very legal looking, stamped document stating something like non payment of rent etc.
And although, the store was open for business, it was almost bare. Almost everything had been sold. Just a few knick knacks here and there. Few customers grabbing the last day bargains. The Chinese owner was gone. The store was really shutting down. That day.
And here I was, just by accident, standing at its door, for what would be probably the last time. So , I walked in. It seemed momentous enough an event for me. I like romanticising things, you see. For one last time, I would walk around, browse and just spend another lazy afternoon here.
And as looked around, I saw a few knick knacks that I have always spotted when I used to browse here. A few painting that I remembered seeing. Lamps, the hideous ones. And a few porcelain dolls. With their pretty dresses.
So, anyway , that is the background to what followed.
As I walked around with my daugher slung on my hip, this lady walks up to us, also carrying a little baby girl. Mothers attract mothers.
Reasonably tall, 5'7 , I should say. Hair tightly pulled back in a bun. Very neat, not a hair out of place. Fair skinned. Not Caucasian. Wearing a summery reddish pinkish, clingy knee length dress. Bit of a tummy. Post pregnancy sort of bulge. Curvaceous, full bodied figure. Light eyes. Against her fair skin, you noticed them. Light eyes.
She walked over and smiled. We said our hello's. She asked how old my daughter was. I answered and asked about hers. Mom talk.
We told each other how cute the other's child was and how hard somes days can be and teething issues and all that. I didn't mind. She was an eager first time mom and she was pleasant.
Then she turned aorund and said something to the man at the cash register. Which is when I figured she wasn't browsing through. Turns out she was married to the guy at the cash register. Who was also the guy in charge of the foreclosure of the store.
She told me the owner could not pay the rent and hence the store had to be foreclosed. Hmm, I said , "too bad'.
As she continued talking, I wondered where she was from. I figured , probably Spanish or somewhere in Eastern Europe.
See, I am curious about stuff like that. Especially being in a city like Toronto. Because mostly everyone in this sity is originally from somewhere.
This city hands you multiculturalism on a platter. And then some more. You never know who you will meet, from which end of the world. So I normally ask. To satiate my curiosity. But I always guess first. In my head. It's like a game.
Spanish. Or eastern European. I was sure. Her English was accented. Something about her face. Something about her body. Something about her husband. I was sure I was close.
"What's your daughter's name?" She asks.
Gia", and "your daughter's?' , I ask.
"Mallika"
"Oh," I say, "That's an Indian name."
"Yes" she says. " I am from India. "
"Oh, "..says my head.
I'm from India too, I tell her.
My head is reeling.
"Where, in India?" I ask.
Punjab, she says.
Oh, I am from Punjab too. I say.
And soon we are exchanging names. Jugraon, Nangal, Doomwali, Bhatinda, Ludhiana.
Me and Jassi.
That's her.
Jassi from Jagroan. A village in Punjab. Not too far from Doomwali. Another village in Punjab . My ancestral village. Where I spent many a summer, growing up.
So , N from Doomwali in Bhatinda and her daughter meets Jassi from Jugraon and her daughter , in a store in downtown Toronto, which N have browsed for the last 4 years, and which is finally shutting down for non payment of rent by the Chinese owner and the foreclosure is being handled by Jassi from Jagraon's husband.
I was wrong about Spain or Eastern Europe. I was not even close.
We talked some more, now obviously, a greater comfort level established.
And then it was time to leave. So I said goodbye and how lovely it had been to meet her . She asked me to wait a minute.
Then , she walked over to a shelf, picked up something and handed it to me.
"This is for Gia, from Mallika. "
I looked down at my hand and there she lay. The porcelain doll in a pretty white dress. With blue frills at the edges . Same blue as her beaded necklace. A wreath of pink roses in her hand. A pink heart adorning the veil on her head. Brown hair. Black eyes. Pink lips. Barefeet.
Thank you. And I left.
And as much as I still am not porcelain doll person, I think this one's a keeper.
And in my head, I might even name her.
Jassi or Mallika. Those are the contenders.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Chinese taxi driver and the Pakistani lady.
So on my way to a job interview, the other day, I hailed a cab. The driver was an older (ish) Chinese guy. Spectacled, salt and pepper hair, a very gentle, yet somewhat naughty face , with eyes that smiled, wearing a crisp half sleeved button down cotton white shirt.
Hi, I said. He said hi. 375 University, please, I said. 375 University, he said.
And normally I will strike a conversation with a cab driver because I think cab drivers have very interesting stories to tell. And are mostly very eager to talk. And I love random conversations with random people. One off's.
But since I was on my way to an interview, I was doing a last minute mental run of my resume. Then, at a traffic light, this other cab pulls up next to us and an African cab driver sticks his head out the window and with a beaming smile across his way yells to my cab driver "Give me all your money" . My cabbie, also very amused, exchanges pleasantries and then we are on our way.
"You know that guy" he starts with a heavily Chinese accented voice. "He have interesting story."
"Yes?" I say...putting away my resume. Conversation with taxi guy vs resume prep. The former wins hands down.
Hi, I said. He said hi. 375 University, please, I said. 375 University, he said.
And normally I will strike a conversation with a cab driver because I think cab drivers have very interesting stories to tell. And are mostly very eager to talk. And I love random conversations with random people. One off's.
But since I was on my way to an interview, I was doing a last minute mental run of my resume. Then, at a traffic light, this other cab pulls up next to us and an African cab driver sticks his head out the window and with a beaming smile across his way yells to my cab driver "Give me all your money" . My cabbie, also very amused, exchanges pleasantries and then we are on our way.
"You know that guy" he starts with a heavily Chinese accented voice. "He have interesting story."
"Yes?" I say...putting away my resume. Conversation with taxi guy vs resume prep. The former wins hands down.
Turns out that the other cab driver is from Trinidad. Some 12 years ago , him and my cab driver, met, when they both came to Toronto and started driving cabs. 5 years later, cab driver from Trinidad wins the 1.1 miliion dollars lottery! 1.1 million..12 years ago..you do the math!!
So he cashes his lottery and heads back home. A millionaire.
The Chinese cab driver's life moves on.
So he cashes his lottery and heads back home. A millionaire.
The Chinese cab driver's life moves on.
A month ago, the Chinese cab driver meets the Trinidadian cab driver, who is back now in Toronto, driving a cab again. Apparently, and so he says, he gave all his money to his family.
"Why he do that, " continues my cab driver, in a very animated voice, "he have no wife , no children. Who he give money to?".
"If I win money, I retire. I no drive taxi "
"I retire. He, a fool. I tell him"
"He, the only millionaire taxi driver, in Toronto"
"I retire. He, a fool. I tell him"
"He, the only millionaire taxi driver, in Toronto"
And there in lays the affirmative to my theory. Always strike a conversation with a cab driver. They have some really interesting tales to tell.
I'm hoping to hail a taxi another day which is driven by the only millionaire taxi driver in Toronto. Because that would most certainly make for some very interesting conversation.
I'm hoping to hail a taxi another day which is driven by the only millionaire taxi driver in Toronto. Because that would most certainly make for some very interesting conversation.
The Pakistani grandmother.
I was hanging out at this park near where I live. Something I do , almost every evening with my daughter. She plays, I sit there, facebooking on my Iphone, or soaking in the sun, or reading a book.
Only that Tuesday evening, I was gazing at people, which is also what I do. Check out passer bys, wonder what they do, what their story is. Which is when I noticed her. Walking towards us with a stroller.
She was wearing a salwar kameez. And although you have numerous suit and sari clad women in the suburbs, it is a somewhat rare sight in downtown. So I noticed, and I smiled, and she smiled back and came and parked the stroller next to where I was.
Late 60's, I would imagine, pepper and mostly salt hair in a braid, green and maroon cotton salwar kameez with sneakers, a very approachable face with extremely soft features. She let her granddaughter, who she babysits every day, out of the stroller and sat down next to me on the bench. Eager for a conversation.
She was wearing a salwar kameez. And although you have numerous suit and sari clad women in the suburbs, it is a somewhat rare sight in downtown. So I noticed, and I smiled, and she smiled back and came and parked the stroller next to where I was.
Late 60's, I would imagine, pepper and mostly salt hair in a braid, green and maroon cotton salwar kameez with sneakers, a very approachable face with extremely soft features. She let her granddaughter, who she babysits every day, out of the stroller and sat down next to me on the bench. Eager for a conversation.
And this is her story.
She came to Toronto from Pakistan in 1973. And she had been here ever since. She talked of a Toronto (which is now one of the most multi cultural, immigrant populated cities in the world), where there were hardly any immigrants from India or Pakistan. She spoke of how there was only one (as opposed to the gizzilion today) store that stocked Indian groceries, and the stock came in on Tuesdays and if you didn't get there in time, the masala packets were all gone!
And then she spoke of being a mother and a grand mother and of being a wife, and a woman. She gave me a perspective of her generation. She said it was hard. To be a working mom of two, to run a house of four, to cook and clean and manage the groceries. She spoke of her husband being a good husband and a good father and helping out. But she also said that the brunt of the work was hers as it is often a woman's. Sort the kids clothes, figure out whether the atta is over or is it the dal, keep track of meetings at work and PTA'S at school, dentists appointments or time for immunizations.
I asked her if she was bittter about all the work she had put in. She said no. That's just the way life was. And now her son and daughter are grown up and setlled. She is retired, as is her husband. The pension is comfortable. She relaxes. Does her yoga. Long pareyr hours. Babysits the grandchildren. Is no longer always in a rush.
I her daughter's life different than her, I ask? "To some extent , yes, "she says. "But some of the battles a woman fights always stay the same , "she adds. Not offering any further explanation, smiling , expecting me to just know.
" But," she says, "I help her out with the kids. so she can stay at work. See, I didn't have any help so I had to wait till my kids were 11 years and older to pick up a job. "
"I help her out as much as I can. Make it a little easier for her than it was for me. "
She spoke of how much she missed Pakistan. Especially when she first arrived to this land of foreign people, foreign culture and way too much snow. How she even misses it now, afetr so many years. How a foreign country can never be the same as home.
How this is home now, though, and she will live out her life here.
An hour had passed. It was time to leave. We put the kids in their stollers. I let her know how wonderful it was talking to her. She smiled and said she came her often and we should meet up more. She said she would bring some homeopathy medicine for my daughter who had trouble teething. And that I should meet her here again on Monday morning.
We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
I was meant to meet her yesterday and get the medicine. I had a hectic day and couldn't go. That's life.
In two weeks, I go back to work and most likely will not have time to go for my evenings at the park. I am hoping to meet her again before that. And have another conversation. With yet another interesting stranger.
I asked her if she was bittter about all the work she had put in. She said no. That's just the way life was. And now her son and daughter are grown up and setlled. She is retired, as is her husband. The pension is comfortable. She relaxes. Does her yoga. Long pareyr hours. Babysits the grandchildren. Is no longer always in a rush.
I her daughter's life different than her, I ask? "To some extent , yes, "she says. "But some of the battles a woman fights always stay the same , "she adds. Not offering any further explanation, smiling , expecting me to just know.
" But," she says, "I help her out with the kids. so she can stay at work. See, I didn't have any help so I had to wait till my kids were 11 years and older to pick up a job. "
"I help her out as much as I can. Make it a little easier for her than it was for me. "
She spoke of how much she missed Pakistan. Especially when she first arrived to this land of foreign people, foreign culture and way too much snow. How she even misses it now, afetr so many years. How a foreign country can never be the same as home.
How this is home now, though, and she will live out her life here.
An hour had passed. It was time to leave. We put the kids in their stollers. I let her know how wonderful it was talking to her. She smiled and said she came her often and we should meet up more. She said she would bring some homeopathy medicine for my daughter who had trouble teething. And that I should meet her here again on Monday morning.
We said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
I was meant to meet her yesterday and get the medicine. I had a hectic day and couldn't go. That's life.
In two weeks, I go back to work and most likely will not have time to go for my evenings at the park. I am hoping to meet her again before that. And have another conversation. With yet another interesting stranger.
Friday, June 12, 2009
This one made me think
Two 25 year old's. D and O. They grew up blocks apart in Toronto and met in primary school. Best friends , since then.
D was just starting out as a photographer. O had just landed a job in the financial district with a reputed investment firm.
Here they are, in the picture, in D's car. D is on the left , in the driver's seat. O is beside him. It is te Thursday night and they are returning home from having watched an NBA game in a friend's house. D is driving O and O's girlfriend back home. O's girilfriend is sitting at the back and she is the one who took this picture.
Two young boys, with their whole life in front of them. Starting off in their careers. Best friends since primary school and still going strong. Happy, dating, going for games, living their twenties. Sounds just right, doesn't it?
What doesn't sound right , then , is that three minutes after this picture was taken, both of them were dead. Shot dead.
So, then , here's the story.
After they left the game, and were driving back home, they got a call from one of their friends from the friend's condo that they had just left from. They had mistakenly taken someone's keys with them. So they turned around the car and headed back to return the keys.
It was a warm night , so they had the car windows rolled down. When they got to the friend's condo, they parked under the building and waited for their friend to come down.
Out of nowehere, a man walked up to the car, at the D's driver's side. D' barley said something like "how's it going" , before the man fired. One bullet hit D in the chest, the second hit the car and the third hit O. By the time, the ambulance got them to the hospital, they were already dead.
It's been a year since this incident. The killer was never caught. There have been no suspects. The police is baffled. It could have been a car jacking gone wrong. A junkie on the street. A planned murder with a motive.
And although it matters that justice must be served, D and O are gone. At 25 years of age. And they will not be back. Ever.
I was fairly overwhelmed after I read this story. I felt a lot of things. I thought a lot of thoughts. More than I can even pen down.
I felt sad. I felt angry. I felt scared. Threatened.
I missed my best friend. I wished we lived closer. I wish we had more time to get together and talk and laugh, like we do when we are together.
I felt protective of my kids who I think are growing up in an unsafe world.
I felt thankful for what I have. And fearful of what could be lost. And how easily and quickly it could be lost.
D and O, rest in peace.
Kudos to your friendship.
My heart goes out to your families.
And to make some sense of all this, I tell myself you are in a better place. Hanging out. Like best friends do.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The vibe of children
I was at this music session with my one year old daughter. We go there every Wednesday. It's an hour long. And come Tuesday evening, I am looking forward to it.
A very talented, mother of one, local Toronto musician, N, comes along, with her guitar and strums some songs for kid ranging in age from 0- 5 years. It is a relatively open space, everyone sits on the carpet on the floor, there are various musical instruments lying around for the children to discover. Tambourines, african drums, marracas, shakers, flutes. Also, some colored scarves for the kids to throw around in the air, or on each other. Scarves of muslin cloth in blues, oranges , pinks, reds, greens.
N, sits on a stool, with her classic brown chunky boots and her guitar. She croons. Fun songs. Old Mac Donald. Speckeled frogs. You are my sunshine.
The kids sit around her in a circle. Well, some sit. Some lay, some run around, some talk, some laugh, some cry, some sing, some dance, some shout.
See, that's the thing. They all do what they want to do. So in the moment. The whole vibe of that room in that one hour is so in the moment.
And that's why on every Wednesday, I just totally love being in that room full of children. Because in that space, and in that hour, there are no agendas. There is no false political correctness. There is no pretence. There is a musician. And then there are just these little people being who they are, doing what they want.
Here, I am tired , hence I shall just start bawling at the top of my voice. And stomp my feet while I do that.
I want that toy so I am just going to snatch it from you. Then if you look visibly upset or start bawling, I will either give it back to you or run away to the other end of the room with the toy.
I am tired and sleepy and I don't really care for the music so I will just lay here and sleep. Or pretend to.
I will dance like no one is watching.
I will smile at you not because it is nice to do that but because I feel like. Or don't.
I will continue staring at your face just because it is a new one.
I willl dig my nose. And analyze the find.
I will scratch my bum.
I will now make a poop in my diaper and stink up this whole room.
I will pull at the strings of N's guitar.
I will make up my own lyrics. And sing them at the top of my voice. Louder than everyone else.
I will pull my T-shirt up and show my friend my newly disovered belly button. After which, he will proceed to do the same.
I will play that big drum and then sit on it.
I will put the shaker in my mouth.
I will eat the orange scarf.
It's joy . Sheer joy. The vibe of these children.
A very talented, mother of one, local Toronto musician, N, comes along, with her guitar and strums some songs for kid ranging in age from 0- 5 years. It is a relatively open space, everyone sits on the carpet on the floor, there are various musical instruments lying around for the children to discover. Tambourines, african drums, marracas, shakers, flutes. Also, some colored scarves for the kids to throw around in the air, or on each other. Scarves of muslin cloth in blues, oranges , pinks, reds, greens.
N, sits on a stool, with her classic brown chunky boots and her guitar. She croons. Fun songs. Old Mac Donald. Speckeled frogs. You are my sunshine.
The kids sit around her in a circle. Well, some sit. Some lay, some run around, some talk, some laugh, some cry, some sing, some dance, some shout.
See, that's the thing. They all do what they want to do. So in the moment. The whole vibe of that room in that one hour is so in the moment.
And that's why on every Wednesday, I just totally love being in that room full of children. Because in that space, and in that hour, there are no agendas. There is no false political correctness. There is no pretence. There is a musician. And then there are just these little people being who they are, doing what they want.
Here, I am tired , hence I shall just start bawling at the top of my voice. And stomp my feet while I do that.
I want that toy so I am just going to snatch it from you. Then if you look visibly upset or start bawling, I will either give it back to you or run away to the other end of the room with the toy.
I am tired and sleepy and I don't really care for the music so I will just lay here and sleep. Or pretend to.
I will dance like no one is watching.
I will smile at you not because it is nice to do that but because I feel like. Or don't.
I will continue staring at your face just because it is a new one.
I willl dig my nose. And analyze the find.
I will scratch my bum.
I will now make a poop in my diaper and stink up this whole room.
I will pull at the strings of N's guitar.
I will make up my own lyrics. And sing them at the top of my voice. Louder than everyone else.
I will pull my T-shirt up and show my friend my newly disovered belly button. After which, he will proceed to do the same.
I will play that big drum and then sit on it.
I will put the shaker in my mouth.
I will eat the orange scarf.
It's joy . Sheer joy. The vibe of these children.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The stranger in my window
I have known you since July 2008.
I know where you live. On the 3rd floor of 21 Carlton Street. I know that your condo had a balcony. A tiny one. Tiny or big enough to fit two foldable balcony chairs. In beige fabric. One plastic foldable balcony table, on which stands a yellowish beiegish planter that is plantless because it is used as an ashtray.
I know that every day at around noon, you make your first appearance on this baclony, sit on the above mentioned chairs, place a Starbucks coffee on the above mentioned table and smoke a couple of ciggaretes, which you flick into the above mentioned planter acting as an ashtray. I know that your balcony is your place to come out and sit on , only when you need to smoke.
I know you are tall. I am guestimating 6 feet plus. Big. Sort of in a rotund way. You have blonde hair. When you are home, you are mostly in lounging clothes. T-shirts, baggy sweatshirts, track pants, shorts. Flip flops. Always, flip flops on the feet.
Your body language is relaxed. Bordering on lazy.
The first time in the day that you come out on your baclony is when you have just woken up and risen out of bed. Clothes dishevelled, eyes sleepy, hair tousled up, expression grumpy as in "not a morning person" grumpy.
And you are definitely a morning smoker. You need your coffee and smoke as soon as you get out of bed.
And you are not an early riser. You normally get out of bed around noon.
Which often makes me wonder what you do? Like, for a living. I guess, maybe a student, with classes starting late. Or a working professional with a night shift kind of job. Those are the two most obvious ones. You could be so many other things.
Late riser, that you are, for sure.
I think you have a girlfriend. The again, she could be a friend, maybe even a sister. But I like to think of her as a girlfriend. She is there on Sundays. Aound noon, you both sit out and talk. She talks, she is very chatty. You mostly listen. You smoke a couple of ciggarettes. She, one or two. She is regular. Every Sunday, so far.
Then sometimes, there are other people. Like your friend the other day. With the 'mad scientist" look. Wearing a tie and walking out on the balcony with a bong in his hand. Smoking up, the two of you. Lots of ciggarettes that day. The rare time that I actually saw you in the evening.
Because mostly I just see you in the afternoon. When I am in my kitchen, fixing and eating my lunch. I see you sitting there. Smoking. Talking on your cell phone. Gazing blankly into space. And so, while I eat my luch, I glance at you. And I try and imagine who you are, what you're thinking, how your day has been and what you are like. And then I'm done lunch or you're done smoking and we go our separate ways.
You are the stranger. Who lives in the condo facing mine.
You are a stranger. And I have known you for the last 11 months.
I know where you live. On the 3rd floor of 21 Carlton Street. I know that your condo had a balcony. A tiny one. Tiny or big enough to fit two foldable balcony chairs. In beige fabric. One plastic foldable balcony table, on which stands a yellowish beiegish planter that is plantless because it is used as an ashtray.
I know that every day at around noon, you make your first appearance on this baclony, sit on the above mentioned chairs, place a Starbucks coffee on the above mentioned table and smoke a couple of ciggaretes, which you flick into the above mentioned planter acting as an ashtray. I know that your balcony is your place to come out and sit on , only when you need to smoke.
I know you are tall. I am guestimating 6 feet plus. Big. Sort of in a rotund way. You have blonde hair. When you are home, you are mostly in lounging clothes. T-shirts, baggy sweatshirts, track pants, shorts. Flip flops. Always, flip flops on the feet.
Your body language is relaxed. Bordering on lazy.
The first time in the day that you come out on your baclony is when you have just woken up and risen out of bed. Clothes dishevelled, eyes sleepy, hair tousled up, expression grumpy as in "not a morning person" grumpy.
And you are definitely a morning smoker. You need your coffee and smoke as soon as you get out of bed.
And you are not an early riser. You normally get out of bed around noon.
Which often makes me wonder what you do? Like, for a living. I guess, maybe a student, with classes starting late. Or a working professional with a night shift kind of job. Those are the two most obvious ones. You could be so many other things.
Late riser, that you are, for sure.
I think you have a girlfriend. The again, she could be a friend, maybe even a sister. But I like to think of her as a girlfriend. She is there on Sundays. Aound noon, you both sit out and talk. She talks, she is very chatty. You mostly listen. You smoke a couple of ciggarettes. She, one or two. She is regular. Every Sunday, so far.
Then sometimes, there are other people. Like your friend the other day. With the 'mad scientist" look. Wearing a tie and walking out on the balcony with a bong in his hand. Smoking up, the two of you. Lots of ciggarettes that day. The rare time that I actually saw you in the evening.
Because mostly I just see you in the afternoon. When I am in my kitchen, fixing and eating my lunch. I see you sitting there. Smoking. Talking on your cell phone. Gazing blankly into space. And so, while I eat my luch, I glance at you. And I try and imagine who you are, what you're thinking, how your day has been and what you are like. And then I'm done lunch or you're done smoking and we go our separate ways.
You are the stranger. Who lives in the condo facing mine.
You are a stranger. And I have known you for the last 11 months.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
My big giant breasteses
"I don't have breasteses, Daddy doesn't have breasteses....but Mommy has big giant breasteses!"
5 years old's say the most crazy, funny things!!
5 years old's say the most crazy, funny things!!
Saturday, April 4, 2009
For a season. And a reason.
Inspired by a Grey's Antomy narrative that talked about the people we meet in our lives and the friends we make. The friends that eventually become a family to us, different from the family we are born into. The family we are born into is the one we don't choose. It is , of course, the one that feeds us , clothes us and eventually prepares us to go out into the world. To choose our tribe.
Tribe. I like the sounds of that. Rings of a certain togetherness.
We all have our tribes. It consists of people, we in the course of our life. At different stages . In different places. In varied ways. Some, we go to school with. The growing up years. Others, University. The formative ones. Some we work with. Bosses, Colleagues. A few we just meet. At a club. At a friends house. At the YMCA.
Destiny and brings us together. A certain connection binds us.
Of all the people we meet, some stick. Keepers.
Some don't. They are there for a reason. And a season. But, only a season.
The sifting process. Which separates the friends from the accquaintances. The friends, which then become the tribe.
I have a tribe. It is a wonderul tribe. The people in my tribe have interests ranging from art to music to art to travel to photography. Yoga, and books. Cooking, world cinema, fashion. They are talented people. In their different ways. Intelligent people. Wise. Grounded. Honest. Hard working. Real.
I am glad I have my tribe.
Tribe. I like the sounds of that. Rings of a certain togetherness.
We all have our tribes. It consists of people, we in the course of our life. At different stages . In different places. In varied ways. Some, we go to school with. The growing up years. Others, University. The formative ones. Some we work with. Bosses, Colleagues. A few we just meet. At a club. At a friends house. At the YMCA.
Destiny and brings us together. A certain connection binds us.
Of all the people we meet, some stick. Keepers.
Some don't. They are there for a reason. And a season. But, only a season.
The sifting process. Which separates the friends from the accquaintances. The friends, which then become the tribe.
I have a tribe. It is a wonderul tribe. The people in my tribe have interests ranging from art to music to art to travel to photography. Yoga, and books. Cooking, world cinema, fashion. They are talented people. In their different ways. Intelligent people. Wise. Grounded. Honest. Hard working. Real.
I am glad I have my tribe.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
How cool is sausage shaped poo
You need to have patience..lots and lots of mind numbing patience. You need it when when you have a brilliant film just waiting to be seen, that you have been waiting to see all week, and it is already inserted in your DVD layer, waiting to be played, to be accompanied by a glass of white that has been chilled all day and now has been poured into your favorite crystal wine glass, just waiting to be sipped, and right about now, your 9 month old refuses to sleep. No sleep...wide awake, alert eyed, cute as a bug, wanting to play. You nurse, you rock, you sing lullabies, you curse under your breatht, you hush, you shush, you try to sleep train, you shed a few tears, you scream out loud inside your head, you sing lullabies again. And finally she sleeps. And you sleep beside her. Exhausted. The film lays in the DVD player. The wine just sits.
You need to understand things will not always go as you plan....when you are just laying on your couch on a Sunday afternoon, something you very rarely do, but is what you really, ideally plan to do on a Sunday afternoon, and since today the baby is miracolously napping, you are just laying on the couch, reading this book that is absolutely brilliant and right then when you are at the most exciting part , your 5 year old yells from the washroom that he is done pooing and that he needs to be cleaned up , which you rush to do, to get it over with, so you can come back to your book, and then he insists you look at the poo because it is shaped like a big sausage and how cool is that and you have to analyze the poo with him, the big one and the little ones around it that he thinks look like meatballs and how cool is that and you stand there looking at the poo and talking about the poo and when you are done having that inane converstion about the poo and the 5 year old is cleaned up and you run back to the couch to the book, your 9 month old wakes up. With a poo in her diaper. Not the big sausage and meatball kind, but a messier, smellier , yellower kind.
You need to do what you need to do....... when both the kids fall asleep at a decent hour on a Friday night and you decide to pop open a bottle of wine which soon becomes two and after the third you decide to live it up and do a late night and watch a movie and when you finally pass out at 2 , only to be woken up at 6:30 in the morning by two very energised, very awake kids and you are now completely hung over, and in that state you have to get the two dressed to go to a birthday party , with your head throbbing and your stomach feeling funny, and you are now surrounded by about twelve other high on candy and choclate cake 5 year olds and about 4 of their younger 9 month old siblings, and you have to have conversations with other moms about kid stuff.
You need to be calm....when you are going on a road trip and you are a roadtripper and absolutely love road trips , only now you don't get to drive, which you love doing on road trips because you are sitting at the back, squeezed between two carseats, one with a 5 year old who asks at precise 2 minute intervals if we are there yet and the the other with a 9 month old who dislikes her car seat and is expressing her dislike at the very top of her lungs. And silently in your head, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, Are we there yet?
You need to give up ....trying to make the house look aesthetically pleasing because that's what you are so good at doing , however , now next to your buddhas, there is always a superhero and a teddy bear and on your intellect displaying bookself is always a Duckie says Quack Quack, If I had a Gorrilla and a teddy bear, and everytime you walk through your living room, you always will step on a squeaky toy that will squeak or trip over a hot wheels car that lies next to a tedy bear and when you reach into the sides of your couch, you will pull out half eaten candyfrom last Sunday, a few diapers, numerous crayons, lost socks, pacifiers... and a teddy bear. There's always a teddy bear!
And you need to constantly remind yourself, that one day they will leave, to live their own lives, in their own spaces, with people they will call their own, and then, when that happens, you will sit on the couch in your aesthetically pleasing living room, on a Friday night , watching a movie, sipping a glass of wine , knowing that you can sleep in the next day and then read all afternoon till it is time to get behind the wheels of your car to head out for a road trip.
And finally, you need to know that while you are cruising along, enjoying the drive, there will be a moment when suddenly you will know, that on some days you do miss analyzing the poo that looked like a sausage and how cool was that, singing lullabies, sitting between two car seats, tripping over teddy bears and attending kids birthday parties.
So maybe what you most need to know is that, this is what it is here and now, and it will be no more some day, so no matter how crazy the day, you enjoy it while it lasts.
Oh..and the teddy bear will somehow find a place somewhere in between your intellect displaying bookshelf, maybe next to the Buddhas....just for old times sake.
You need to understand things will not always go as you plan....when you are just laying on your couch on a Sunday afternoon, something you very rarely do, but is what you really, ideally plan to do on a Sunday afternoon, and since today the baby is miracolously napping, you are just laying on the couch, reading this book that is absolutely brilliant and right then when you are at the most exciting part , your 5 year old yells from the washroom that he is done pooing and that he needs to be cleaned up , which you rush to do, to get it over with, so you can come back to your book, and then he insists you look at the poo because it is shaped like a big sausage and how cool is that and you have to analyze the poo with him, the big one and the little ones around it that he thinks look like meatballs and how cool is that and you stand there looking at the poo and talking about the poo and when you are done having that inane converstion about the poo and the 5 year old is cleaned up and you run back to the couch to the book, your 9 month old wakes up. With a poo in her diaper. Not the big sausage and meatball kind, but a messier, smellier , yellower kind.
You need to do what you need to do....... when both the kids fall asleep at a decent hour on a Friday night and you decide to pop open a bottle of wine which soon becomes two and after the third you decide to live it up and do a late night and watch a movie and when you finally pass out at 2 , only to be woken up at 6:30 in the morning by two very energised, very awake kids and you are now completely hung over, and in that state you have to get the two dressed to go to a birthday party , with your head throbbing and your stomach feeling funny, and you are now surrounded by about twelve other high on candy and choclate cake 5 year olds and about 4 of their younger 9 month old siblings, and you have to have conversations with other moms about kid stuff.
You need to be calm....when you are going on a road trip and you are a roadtripper and absolutely love road trips , only now you don't get to drive, which you love doing on road trips because you are sitting at the back, squeezed between two carseats, one with a 5 year old who asks at precise 2 minute intervals if we are there yet and the the other with a 9 month old who dislikes her car seat and is expressing her dislike at the very top of her lungs. And silently in your head, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, Are we there yet?
You need to give up ....trying to make the house look aesthetically pleasing because that's what you are so good at doing , however , now next to your buddhas, there is always a superhero and a teddy bear and on your intellect displaying bookself is always a Duckie says Quack Quack, If I had a Gorrilla and a teddy bear, and everytime you walk through your living room, you always will step on a squeaky toy that will squeak or trip over a hot wheels car that lies next to a tedy bear and when you reach into the sides of your couch, you will pull out half eaten candyfrom last Sunday, a few diapers, numerous crayons, lost socks, pacifiers... and a teddy bear. There's always a teddy bear!
And you need to constantly remind yourself, that one day they will leave, to live their own lives, in their own spaces, with people they will call their own, and then, when that happens, you will sit on the couch in your aesthetically pleasing living room, on a Friday night , watching a movie, sipping a glass of wine , knowing that you can sleep in the next day and then read all afternoon till it is time to get behind the wheels of your car to head out for a road trip.
And finally, you need to know that while you are cruising along, enjoying the drive, there will be a moment when suddenly you will know, that on some days you do miss analyzing the poo that looked like a sausage and how cool was that, singing lullabies, sitting between two car seats, tripping over teddy bears and attending kids birthday parties.
So maybe what you most need to know is that, this is what it is here and now, and it will be no more some day, so no matter how crazy the day, you enjoy it while it lasts.
Oh..and the teddy bear will somehow find a place somewhere in between your intellect displaying bookshelf, maybe next to the Buddhas....just for old times sake.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Am mother. Can multitask.
So I'm on maternity leave for now. So I have to look for a job in August. So given the way things are these days (you know, the big R word , and all) I figure it would be in my best interest to be on top of my game. So I decided to start a little prep. Read up a few things about interviewing. So here I was browsing through a list of possible soft skills questions. This one said:
Can you multitask?
Hmmmmmmmmmm...let me see now.
I have nursed a 6 month old cradled in my left arm, and fed a 5 year old with the other hand. A picky 5 year old who wanted me to pick his spinach out of his spinach quiche. Then I have held the 6 month old in the right arm, a very fidgety 6 month old, and cleaned the bum of the 5 year old after he made very big, very messy poo. In a very small, very tiny airplane washroom. On a very long, very tiring 14 hr flight.
I have held a baby in my arms, while stirring the tomatoes for the chicken curry and pureeing the onions for the raita. I have pushed a stroller with one hand, carrying groceries in the other. Through streets laden with snow. I have done up my face, while taking to a citibank cutomer service rep on the phone held between the cheek and the ear, while keeping an eye on the 8 month old on the floor doesn't put any hazardous object in her mouth. I've had one baby in the bathtub, one 5 year old out of it, washing the former, drying the latter.
Oh yes, I can multitask. I'm a mom. I do that.
We do that.
My friend, who has directed films, dealing with everything that goes on while directing a film. Directing, thinking, supervising, managing. Then, on the break, when everyone else sips coffee, she has run to the washroom, got on the cell to check in on her baby. And while on the phone, she is pumping. Pumping with a breast pump to ease the engorgement.
My other friend, who went back to work in three months after having had her baby. Back to work where she had to attend meetings, then dash to the stationery room to pump milk, dash back to her desk to do some R& D, rush home to deliver the pumped milk for the baby, rush back to work, then leave work, dog tired, to again feed, diaper, bath, change.
Don't get me wrong. You don't have to be a mother to be a good multi tasker.
It's just that when you are a mother, you just are a multitasker.
Can you multitask?
Hmmmmmmmmmm...let me see now.
I have nursed a 6 month old cradled in my left arm, and fed a 5 year old with the other hand. A picky 5 year old who wanted me to pick his spinach out of his spinach quiche. Then I have held the 6 month old in the right arm, a very fidgety 6 month old, and cleaned the bum of the 5 year old after he made very big, very messy poo. In a very small, very tiny airplane washroom. On a very long, very tiring 14 hr flight.
I have held a baby in my arms, while stirring the tomatoes for the chicken curry and pureeing the onions for the raita. I have pushed a stroller with one hand, carrying groceries in the other. Through streets laden with snow. I have done up my face, while taking to a citibank cutomer service rep on the phone held between the cheek and the ear, while keeping an eye on the 8 month old on the floor doesn't put any hazardous object in her mouth. I've had one baby in the bathtub, one 5 year old out of it, washing the former, drying the latter.
Oh yes, I can multitask. I'm a mom. I do that.
We do that.
My friend, who has directed films, dealing with everything that goes on while directing a film. Directing, thinking, supervising, managing. Then, on the break, when everyone else sips coffee, she has run to the washroom, got on the cell to check in on her baby. And while on the phone, she is pumping. Pumping with a breast pump to ease the engorgement.
My other friend, who went back to work in three months after having had her baby. Back to work where she had to attend meetings, then dash to the stationery room to pump milk, dash back to her desk to do some R& D, rush home to deliver the pumped milk for the baby, rush back to work, then leave work, dog tired, to again feed, diaper, bath, change.
Don't get me wrong. You don't have to be a mother to be a good multi tasker.
It's just that when you are a mother, you just are a multitasker.
Here's to thinking. And to best friends. And to Grey's Anatomy.
I love Grey's Anatomy.
And I love my best friend for knowing that I would love Grey's Anatomy. And for telling me over and over again to watch Grey's Anatomy. And when I didn't listen, then, for getting me the DVD's for Grey's Anatomy. Then sending my 5 year old with her 5 year old to the balcony to play. And for babysitting my 7 month old daughter. And for bringing me my dinner to where I sat. All so I could sit and watch Grey's Anatomy.
And thank God for a best friend like that. Because I love Grey's Anatomy. I love the drama. I love the interplay of relationships. I love the characters. I love the hospital setting. I love the soundtrack. I love the dialogues. I love Burke and Bailey. And I love Christina and George. I love them all. Yup, even Alex.
And I love the narrative. I, especially, love, love, love the narrative.
It is a well thought of narrative.
It is a well written narrative.
And it is a very well narrated narrative.
It is a narrative that makes you listen.
It is a narrative that makes you think.
It is a narrative that makes you question.
And it is a narrative that makes you introspect.
It is a narrative that provides you an intelligent perspective.
It is a narrative that gives you an insight.
And it is a narrative that throws questions at you.
For instance, what would you do if you knew this was the last day of your life?
Think about it. I know I will.
And I love my best friend for knowing that I would love Grey's Anatomy. And for telling me over and over again to watch Grey's Anatomy. And when I didn't listen, then, for getting me the DVD's for Grey's Anatomy. Then sending my 5 year old with her 5 year old to the balcony to play. And for babysitting my 7 month old daughter. And for bringing me my dinner to where I sat. All so I could sit and watch Grey's Anatomy.
And thank God for a best friend like that. Because I love Grey's Anatomy. I love the drama. I love the interplay of relationships. I love the characters. I love the hospital setting. I love the soundtrack. I love the dialogues. I love Burke and Bailey. And I love Christina and George. I love them all. Yup, even Alex.
And I love the narrative. I, especially, love, love, love the narrative.
It is a well thought of narrative.
It is a well written narrative.
And it is a very well narrated narrative.
It is a narrative that makes you listen.
It is a narrative that makes you think.
It is a narrative that makes you question.
And it is a narrative that makes you introspect.
It is a narrative that provides you an intelligent perspective.
It is a narrative that gives you an insight.
And it is a narrative that throws questions at you.
For instance, what would you do if you knew this was the last day of your life?
Think about it. I know I will.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Red Red susu in the bed
Green green fairy queen
Yellow yellow dirty fellow
Brown brown let's go to town
Black black hay in the sack
Pink pink think think
Blue Blue I love you too
White White turn off the light
Gray Grey springtime in May
Just one of those days. Feeling wonderfully poetic!
Yellow yellow dirty fellow
Brown brown let's go to town
Black black hay in the sack
Pink pink think think
Blue Blue I love you too
White White turn off the light
Gray Grey springtime in May
Just one of those days. Feeling wonderfully poetic!
Casa
Today, I counted a blessing. For having a home. And then I felt even more blessed. For having three.
My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.
23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.
Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.
White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.
Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.
FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.
A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.
Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.
Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.
Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.
Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.
Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.
Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.
Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.
Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.
And music. Always, music.
It all comes together to make this home.
Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.
The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.
Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.
The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.
The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.
The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .
The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.
And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.
I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.
And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.
Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.
I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.
The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.
Sunil's fish.
Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.
The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.
The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.
And the music. Always, music.
The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.
And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.
My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.
23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.
Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.
White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.
Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.
FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.
A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.
Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.
Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.
Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.
Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.
Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.
Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.
Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.
Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.
And music. Always, music.
It all comes together to make this home.
Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.
The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.
Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.
The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.
The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.
The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .
The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.
And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.
I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.
And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.
Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.
I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.
The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.
Sunil's fish.
Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.
The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.
The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.
And the music. Always, music.
The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.
And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A good start
Wake up early. 6ish. Before the rest of them. I lay in bed a few minutes. Just . Eyes open, mind calm, sleep slowly receding. I linger in the warmth of the rajai just a little bit more, then peel it off. Hoist myself off the bed.
Walk to kitchen. Squeeze half a lime into a glass of warm water. Sip, sip, slowly. The sourness tingles the taste buds. Tea or coffe, I think? Always, a decision I make in the morning. It's a mood thing.
Turn the cofee maker on. Set the coffee to brew. French Vanilla. Sometimes, Colombian dark roast. Tetley Orange Pekoe, if tea.
Roll out yoga mat. Position feet. Raise arms over head. Nice and long. Streeeetch. Slowly bend . Touch my toes. Up again. Hands to namaskar. Prostrate. Get into downward dog. Then, mountain pose. Back up again. One cycle of Surya Namaskar. 30 seconds break. Then, repeat. No counts. Keep going till the mind and body know to stop.
Sit myself on the yoga mat. Half lotus. Back straight, stretched. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Inhale . Exhale. Slow. Keep the focus on the breathing.
End with the child pose. My favorite. Has always been.
Then I saunter back to the kitchen. Which is now smelling of freshly brewed French Vanilla. Mmmm. Pur myself a cup. A little bit of cream. Lots of sugar. My only sugar fix for the day. Hence, sweet as hell.
Light an agarbatti. Some days, lavendar. Others, nagchampa. Or occasionaly burn the oil lamp. Always, satsuma.
Sit on the couch. Mentally make a note of the day. Things to do, meals to make, people to call, stuff like that. Sip, sip. On some days, pick up a book. Start to read.
Then, Gia starts waking up. Soon, Rohan and Rajesh. Diaper change. Rohan's breakfast. Put on some music. Good morning world.
I am a morning ritual person. I love my morning rituals. It's my thing. It's that time of the day, which is just mine. Sometimes as short as 15 minutes. Some lucky days, longer. Whichever one, I'm just happy sto start my day that way. My way. With the cleansing of the lime water , the energizing of the yoga, the taste of the beverage, the aroma of the incense, the calming of the Pranayama.
Because I never know what the day will bring. Excitement, bad news, good news, fatigue, peace, tension.
But I do know that I had a good start.
Walk to kitchen. Squeeze half a lime into a glass of warm water. Sip, sip, slowly. The sourness tingles the taste buds. Tea or coffe, I think? Always, a decision I make in the morning. It's a mood thing.
Turn the cofee maker on. Set the coffee to brew. French Vanilla. Sometimes, Colombian dark roast. Tetley Orange Pekoe, if tea.
Roll out yoga mat. Position feet. Raise arms over head. Nice and long. Streeeetch. Slowly bend . Touch my toes. Up again. Hands to namaskar. Prostrate. Get into downward dog. Then, mountain pose. Back up again. One cycle of Surya Namaskar. 30 seconds break. Then, repeat. No counts. Keep going till the mind and body know to stop.
Sit myself on the yoga mat. Half lotus. Back straight, stretched. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Inhale . Exhale. Slow. Keep the focus on the breathing.
End with the child pose. My favorite. Has always been.
Then I saunter back to the kitchen. Which is now smelling of freshly brewed French Vanilla. Mmmm. Pur myself a cup. A little bit of cream. Lots of sugar. My only sugar fix for the day. Hence, sweet as hell.
Light an agarbatti. Some days, lavendar. Others, nagchampa. Or occasionaly burn the oil lamp. Always, satsuma.
Sit on the couch. Mentally make a note of the day. Things to do, meals to make, people to call, stuff like that. Sip, sip. On some days, pick up a book. Start to read.
Then, Gia starts waking up. Soon, Rohan and Rajesh. Diaper change. Rohan's breakfast. Put on some music. Good morning world.
I am a morning ritual person. I love my morning rituals. It's my thing. It's that time of the day, which is just mine. Sometimes as short as 15 minutes. Some lucky days, longer. Whichever one, I'm just happy sto start my day that way. My way. With the cleansing of the lime water , the energizing of the yoga, the taste of the beverage, the aroma of the incense, the calming of the Pranayama.
Because I never know what the day will bring. Excitement, bad news, good news, fatigue, peace, tension.
But I do know that I had a good start.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Three mad women. One crazy dog. A rickety old car.
Memories. Rock solid things. Escpecially the good, happy, crazy ones. Those are for keeps. Those are the ones the ones that find a special nook in the chambers of your head and then just lodge themselves there. For good.
Of course, the details get fuzzier as you get older, but the essence stays.
And everytime you decide to visit that little nook in your head, you remember. And you smile.
I want to pen those memories down. I want to dig them up. And smile as I do.
I want to save them before the nooks get all taken. And the details get fuzzier.
So here goes.
It is only fair I start with a very happy one. It features three mad women, one crazy dog and a seriously old car.
Like I said, the details get fuzzeir, so I am not sure why we made the trip. Was it to drop me off? ? Or pack my stuff for the night and head back to G's house? We had a purpose, I know. But it doesn't matter. Becuase I am just glad we made the trip.
We. G, me and Roo. And one crazy (God bless his soul) dog named Paoli. G's adopted stray, Poali. Sweet Poali. Moody Poali. Crazy Poali. Poali, who also has a special nook in my head.
From G's C2 in CP to my 142 in Noida.
Late night.
In G's serioulsy old, yet dependable Fiat. Oh, the memories I have of that car. All good.
Gray, I think it was. Vintage, definitely.
So we head off. I think it was Roo and G in the front. And me and Poali at the back. Well, me at the back and Poali pretty much all over me at the back.
And here's the thing. All through the drive, we laughed. Man, we laughed. At silly , inane stuff. Office gossip, life, ex boyfriends, current crushes, colleagues, silly jokes, this, that and this. We talked and we laughed.
Roo also sang. A lovely hindi song. Very seriously. And G and me laughed. We thought she was being funny. But she wasn't. And she was upset. And we felt bad. And made it up to her. And then she laughed.
We even invented a word. Mountaaaaains. We still say it. After all these years. And we laugh.
At one point, Paoli stuck his bum right in my face. He also stuck it in Roo's face. We had a dog stick his bum our faces. And we laughed. It was outright gross. But we laughed.
And if you ever had that happen to you and you were in the company of some really good friends, who have a kickass sense of humor, you'd laugh too. Trust me.
Then we got to Noida. And as the door to the car opened, Poali jumped out and ran. Away. Into the Sector 37 streets of Nodia. In the middle of the night. Like any crazy , wild , happy dog would.
And then the three of us, in our nightshirts and Pj's chased him on the streets of Sector37 in Noida. In the middle of the night. Like any three seriously crazy, mad, happy women would.
We fnally got Poali. Leashed him up.
We were still laughing.
Man, what a trip . What a night. And what a rock solid memory.
Oh, and we never ever laugh when Roo sings now. Never.
Of course, the details get fuzzier as you get older, but the essence stays.
And everytime you decide to visit that little nook in your head, you remember. And you smile.
I want to pen those memories down. I want to dig them up. And smile as I do.
I want to save them before the nooks get all taken. And the details get fuzzier.
So here goes.
It is only fair I start with a very happy one. It features three mad women, one crazy dog and a seriously old car.
Like I said, the details get fuzzeir, so I am not sure why we made the trip. Was it to drop me off? ? Or pack my stuff for the night and head back to G's house? We had a purpose, I know. But it doesn't matter. Becuase I am just glad we made the trip.
We. G, me and Roo. And one crazy (God bless his soul) dog named Paoli. G's adopted stray, Poali. Sweet Poali. Moody Poali. Crazy Poali. Poali, who also has a special nook in my head.
From G's C2 in CP to my 142 in Noida.
Late night.
In G's serioulsy old, yet dependable Fiat. Oh, the memories I have of that car. All good.
Gray, I think it was. Vintage, definitely.
So we head off. I think it was Roo and G in the front. And me and Poali at the back. Well, me at the back and Poali pretty much all over me at the back.
And here's the thing. All through the drive, we laughed. Man, we laughed. At silly , inane stuff. Office gossip, life, ex boyfriends, current crushes, colleagues, silly jokes, this, that and this. We talked and we laughed.
Roo also sang. A lovely hindi song. Very seriously. And G and me laughed. We thought she was being funny. But she wasn't. And she was upset. And we felt bad. And made it up to her. And then she laughed.
We even invented a word. Mountaaaaains. We still say it. After all these years. And we laugh.
At one point, Paoli stuck his bum right in my face. He also stuck it in Roo's face. We had a dog stick his bum our faces. And we laughed. It was outright gross. But we laughed.
And if you ever had that happen to you and you were in the company of some really good friends, who have a kickass sense of humor, you'd laugh too. Trust me.
Then we got to Noida. And as the door to the car opened, Poali jumped out and ran. Away. Into the Sector 37 streets of Nodia. In the middle of the night. Like any crazy , wild , happy dog would.
And then the three of us, in our nightshirts and Pj's chased him on the streets of Sector37 in Noida. In the middle of the night. Like any three seriously crazy, mad, happy women would.
We fnally got Poali. Leashed him up.
We were still laughing.
Man, what a trip . What a night. And what a rock solid memory.
Oh, and we never ever laugh when Roo sings now. Never.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)