Surely not a mirror image?
"Amma, amma" - the plaintive cries of my daughter Ragini jolted me as I was preparing dinner. Alarmed, I dropped everything and dashed to the bedroom. My little girl had removed all my saris from the wadrobe and got entangled in one of them. I felt torn between amusement and anger and when she looked up and gave me a "I don't know how this happened" look. I removed the offending garment from her and picked her up in my arms. My baby girl was growing up so quickly and getting naughtier by the day. Often my patience wore thin and I was tempted to tear my hair (whatever was left of it). How can a two-year-old be exasperating, endearing, tiring and inspiring at the same time?
Ragini's frail appearance is quite deceptive. Her loud voice carries across our street much to my consternation but her doting papa only sees a prodigy in the making. "The next MS Subbalakshmi, mark my words", he insists! But father's joy can also be a source of embarassment. On a recent visit to a hospital the quiet of the reception area was shattered by Ragini's shrill cry, "Appa, you're wearing Amma's shirt!"
Despite her father and my constant attention, Ragini's soft endearments are served for her favourite person - ourmaid. When the latter walks in through the door every morning the little imp is waiting for her with the broom and a huge smile on her face. This is Ragini's moment of joy while I seethe with jealousy.
Keeping up with the little dynamo is quite exhausting. When she falls asleep at noon, the whole house heaves acollective sigh. I can feel the walls humming quietly. It is the lull before the next storm. I try to regain myenergy in the hiatus and so does Ragini - it is a contest of wills!
Ragini's grandparents after their first few visits got smarter. "We would love to have Ragini visit us but sheshould not be separated from you even for a day", is their constant refrain. Visions of some peace and quiet at home by unleashing Hurricane Ragini on them continues to remain wishful thinking!
Early one morning, as I was having my cup of tea, I tried to fathom why my daughter was driving her parents up the wall. I recalled what my sister-in-law had mentioned to us. When she had quizzed the peadiatrician about her daughter's mischievous ways, the doctor replied without batting an eyelid, "Madam, that is acquired behaviour!" Ouch, did that hurt. The doctor's words struck a chord in me as I remembered my mother mentioned how I would run her ragged. It brought home a scary truth - looking at Ragini was seeing myself in the mirror!
This article appeared in the Deccan Herald a while back.919 Views |
Aunts and Doctors
- Image by US Army Africa via Flickr
“Why don’t you take antibiotics for this hacking cough? How long are you going to suffer like this?” My cousin sounded accusatory on the phone. When my cough showed no signs of abating, my friends and relatives couldn’t understand why I was dragging my feet about going to the doctor. “Why don’t you try alternative medicine?” My friends rattled off names of homeopaths and ayurvedic practitioners in the neighborhood. However, I was determined to wait it out hoping that the salt water gargling and steam inhalation would work. It only got worse and my body felt battered from the sheer exhaustion of staying up nights coughing. Finally, I could take it no more and made an appointment with our family doctor. My friend who strongly believed in Ayurveda was disappointed. “This is the time for a holistic approach” he insisted. “But my doctor is one of the city’s finest. He’s even got a testimonial from my husband’s aunt who’s not easy to please!” I was equally adamant.
A few years ago when my husband’s aunt was visiting, she suddenly came down with a high fever. Despite her loud protests, we dragged her to our family physician. Stoutly denying that there was anything even wrong with her, she gave our doctor a baleful look during the entire examination and kept muttering under her breath in her native tongue, Tamil. In her eyes, my husband and I were worrywarts and the doctor was up to no good as he was poking and prodding her with his gadgets. Nevertheless, when she was given a clean chit and some basic medication for the flu, there was a miraculous change in her attitude. “Nalla doctor”, she declared loudly and gave him a beaming smile of maternal approval. When we translated for the doctor’s benefit, he was delighted and asked, “Can I have this in writing please?” Aunt was back to normal in a day and became the biggest booster for our family doctor’s expertise.
As I was going out the door that evening to get to the clinic, the phone rang. It was my uncle. “Why don’t I accompany you to the doctor? Then I could casually ask him about my diabetes”. The word “casually” in my uncle’s view meant a monologue of his entire medical history; the path traversed with different doctors in different cities and continents, and placing of neatly documented files in front of the unsuspecting medic for careful perusal. Knowing the futility of trying to dissuade him, I responded with a paroxysm of coughing. Out of sheer pity, I suspect, my uncle let me off the hook as I raced to keep my appointment with the nalla doctor!
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The forgotten serpent
- Image by Getty Images via Daylife
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
How rarely hurried shoppers see the lengthy queue that stands to pay the bill?
Standing in line at the billing counter in a store probably ranks up there with queuing up to get your child admitted into kindergarden. Invariably there is only one sales counter open for billing and even if another counter is open, store employees are too busy taking inventory or clearing the umpteen bills and paperwork on the counter. If you’re lucky, the clerk at the open counter will be merely inept. Usually, I find them doing the hard sell to sign up for the store’s frequent shopper program or at times even insolent. The inevitable delay means irate customers in the queue. Tempers start running high and everyone in line tries to figure out how they can get ahead in the queue.
If you are a customer with a large number of purchases, you’d more than likely not, be a thankless victim in the queuing game. You wait with heavy baskets laden with your purchases, gritting your teeth at the befuddled look on the sales clerk’s face while he grapples with pricing. The interminable wait becomes worse with the immature behaviour of fellow shoppers. Someone who has few items to buy often relies on his compatriots’ magnanimity while others try to ride roughshod to the head of the line. Subtle jostling begins with furtive looks at watches amid audible sighs. Even when a customer exclaims loudly at the bad service, there is no effect on the store employees except for a hostile look or a garbled explanation. “He’s new at the job” or “solpa adjust maadi, I’ll do it quickly” are often heard across the counter.
I really don’t know which is worse - the sheer effrontery of that customer who simply walks to the counter without meeting anyone’s eye and plonks his purchases on the counter and demands to be billed or the passivity of the clerk behind the counter when faced with a blatant queue-jumper. Is he blind to the serpentine line in front of him? One can fume at the errant shopper’s audacity silently or remind him of the queue behind him. The inexperienced shopper may even try to appeal to the clerk. This only draws a blank look or a grudging shrug of acceptance of reality. As this drama unfolds at the counter, the waiting line becomes jagged and any resemblance to a queue is incidental.
Repeated experiences with such queues can make one philosophical. I wonder why we have such a hard time with queues. The answer will have to wait, as the line in front of me has just shrunk and I am at the counter now!
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To have or not to have
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
"Son, you know I am a strict vegetarian" is my father-in-law's first remark every time we go to a restaurant. My husband would nod silently and place the order. I have been a witness to this exchange for six years. This ever- present opening gambit never ceased to amaze me and when I finally asked my husband he explained, "Dad is very uncomfortable eating out. Moreoever, he prefers to go to a restaurant that only serves vegetarian food."
I wonder what it really means to call oneself "strict vegetarian". Either you are a vegetarian or a non-vegetarian. What does being strict about it means? When I shared this thought with my friend Rita, she proclaimed in her usual authoritative manner, "Some people feel that the egg lies on the middle path. They claim to be vegetarians despite including eggs in their diet." I pondered on this statement and realised that I belonged to this category. I grew up having boiled eggs for breakfast and yet considered myself a vegetarian - despite my husband's disbelief. I found myself feebly defending my stand by contending that eggs were a good source of protein. If one is averse to dhaal, where is the protein going to come from, I would argue. When I decided to introduce eggs in my child's diet, my husband staunchly put his foot down. "I grew up without having eggs and look at me now - am I not healthy?" he claimed. "No eggs in the house" he declared emphatically before I came up with a counter-argument.
When I shared my secret yearnings, with the ever-sympathetic Rita, to introduce the forbidden food to my child, she suggested "Why don't you send your daughter to my house for breakfast? She can have a boiled egg with my 2-year- old." While I was toying with the idea, my conscience warned me "You will only stir a hornet's nest if you attempt to sneakily do this." I decided to let things well alone.
My cousin, who lives in the US, suggested "Why don't you go vegan? It enriches your lifestyle! You will get all the protein you need." I looked at him puzzled as I had no idea what vegan meant. When he explained that vegans are vegetarians whose diet consisted mainly of soya products, I was horrified. How on earth could one subsist entirely on soya? Undeterred by my distasteful look, the voice of experience continued, "You do have some options. You could be a lacto-vegetarian, and take milk and milk products or vegan, and not include anything of animal origin or yet be an ovo-lacto vegetarian by including egg and egg products, and ..." "Stop!" I implored. My head had started reeling with all this data. It was then that I decided to settle for good old dhaal.
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Skirting matters
This article originally appeared in Sulekha
“It's party time,” cried my three-year-old daughter Ragini as she made a beeline for her closet. This was going to be her day -- the day that she had waited for all year -- her best friend's birthday! I mentally braced myself for a round of, “Mom, please can I wear this? Pleeease!” Ragini had changed her mind so many times the last week about what she was going to wear to her friend's party that I was resigned to a long evening in front of me. I was learning the hard way that patience is the virtue that moms need the most.
When my second daughter Malini was born, everybody told me how lucky I was. “Two girls are so much easier to raise. You cannot imagine how much trouble boys are,” many of my friends gushed. I can let the secret out now -- my friends were lying. My two girls, bless their hearts, are cute and endearing to one and all outside the home, but only I know the real truth. Bringing up two girls -- make that two fashion conscious sub-six-year-old girls -- is anything but easy. Having survived breast-feeding, potty training, and weaning, I was beginning to get a little complacent when my older daughter Ragini hit the first of her, “I-will-only-wear-_____ (fill in any article of clothing)” phases.
It began with the Prancing-Around-Naked phase. Wherever fancy struck her, be it the family room or a party at a friend's house, off came her clothes. The shedding wouldn't stop till she was in her birthday suit and she had drawn attention to her (lack of) clothing status in her loudest voice. I am sure much of the gray in my husband's moustache appeared during this P-A-N phase. Just as we were getting resigned to being parents of a perpetually naked child, mercifully this phase ended.
Then it was skirts. Those were all she wore. My three-year-old had begun her Skirt Phase. In the beginning, I was only too happy that she was at least clothed! Nevertheless I was having a hard time coping with it. My angelic daughter, who had quietly worn any dress that I rummaged out of the wardrobe for her, was now very single-minded about wearing only skirts. If I didn't give her what she wanted, she would bawl and plead alternatively until I ceded. Very soon, I found myself fighting a losing battle.
Ragini's single-minded focus on her darn skirts, meant that all those new outfits from her doting grandparents hardly merited a glance. When my mother called me and asked if Ragini had liked the new frocks that she had sent, I had to evade her. It was easy on the phone. The frocks were gathering dust in the wardrobe. But I had not bargained for my daughter's loud mouth. The moment my mother arrived on a visit the little imp demanded, “Grandma, I asked you for a yellow frock. Why didn't you get me one?” While I squirmed under my mother's disapproving look, the real culprit was grinning at us like a Cheshire cat. The Skirt Phase threatened my sanity severely.
Eventually my husband and I found ourselves adjusting and began breathing a little easy during the late Skirt Period. One fine morning soon after this our first-born declared that she only wanted to wear her swimsuit henceforth.
“Geez! I hope this dress mania isn't catching. I'm not sure I can handle another kid going through this!” my husband snorted in disbelief.
The story does have a happy ending. While we told everyone how we had found a marvelous private school for Ragini, we were the only ones who knew that the mandatory maroon school uniform was the deciding factor!
A discordant note
This article originally appeared in Sulekha
After what seemed to be the most agonizing moments of my life, he said, “Come back tomorrow.” At home, my mother called up every relative and friend in town to share the good news.
“What a stroke of luck,” she exclaimed breathlessly on the phone.
When my father looked bewildered by the commotion, I explained, “The maestro's agreed to take me on as a student. I passed the interview.”
Before this momentous event, my music lessons had always been the cause of constant strife between my mother and me. When I had turned ten, my mother began scouting the market till she found the right teacher. He was a young fresh graduate from the local music school. He would arrive exactly on time, first have the tiffin (snack) my mother painstakingly prepared and leave on the hour. Sometimes I wondered whether he really came for her upuma and dosa, which he always consumed with great enthusiasm. I never did find out since he didn't last very long.
Over the years, though my mother managed to maintain a constant stream of teachers, I remained unschooled. One day she declared much to my joy, “Enough! I wash my hands off this matter!” After the brouhaha had died down I summoned up the courage to ask her, “Can I learn how to play the piano instead?” The silence that followed was deafening, till she asked, “Where did that come from? ” She was quite perplexed by my request. When she finally nodded her head resignedly I found myself conjuring visions of playing at Carnegie Hall!
My piano lesson started off with a bang the very next day. “Scales! Scales my dear. I want you to play only scales all day long!” my new piano instructor insisted. He'd come in the scorching heat of the afternoon, have a good siesta while I played and wake up only when I started banging on the keys. This phase did not last too long, as after my first few lessons, the neighbor's dogs started baying the moment my classes began and wouldn't stop till I quit. Henceforth it became a constant battle between woman and beast with the canines finally emerging as the winners. That was the end of the piano phase.
For the next few days I was in the doghouse. Mother walked around with an injured look on her face and I had to act pronto. “Give it another shot,” my conscience urged me. Nevertheless she was taken aback when I declared over the dinner table, “I've decided to learn music from the maestro!” I mentioned the name of a well-known local musician.
“You're on your own. And no fooling around this time. He is a hard taskmaster,” she warned.
That was how I ended up taking and passing the test with the maestro that had so overjoyed my mother. The next day, I found myself on tenterhooks as I waited for my first lesson with the maestro. Finally there I was seated in front of him. “Sing a piece you already know,” he commanded. When I started to sing he bellowed, “Stop! I heard a discordant note there!” When he sat there glowering at me I wished my mother would walk in that very moment with the customary coffee and tiffin. I knew that half the battle would be won once he started digging into that uppma!
A warning label
This article originally appeared in Sulekha
Yesterday my cousin Veena called up and asked me to look around for an eligible groom for her daughter. “Why is she going for such an arrangement?” I was curious. Here was a young girl with a PhD and a rising career in a multi-national firm going along with her parents’ choice for a life partner. “You’ll have to talk to her about it. I have a job to do and she’s getting older by the day!” Veena’s emphatic voice came through clear on the phone. When I met my niece a few weeks later and cornered her, I was surprised by her candid reply. “Dating wasn’t an option in college. Now that I’m working there’s hardly any time to socialize. My chances of meeting anyone are practically zilch.” “But what about the pitfalls of an arranged match”? I persisted. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it” came her pat reply.
When I discussed the matter with my neighbour Rita she had an interesting theory. “Indian men must come with warning signs that read, If you take me on, you take on my family!” Rita’s bitter experience with arranged marriages was evident. “I wish there are schools that train women to deal with manipulative in-laws.” Rita who’s been married for nearly 20 years pulled no punches. “My mother-in-law’s performance is worthy of an Oscar as she rattles of her physical ailments, imaginary or otherwise when her son’s around. She plays him like a violin. All those afternoons of watching soap operas on television are paying off!” she declared indignantly.
Rita’s tale reminded me of the conversation I have had with my American friends. “How on earth did you agree to marry a total stranger?” They were dumbfounded. When I explained to them that this was the norm, they remained unconvinced. “Look at the bright side, our divorce rate is very low” I argued. My reasoning only evoked their sympathy as they rolled their eyes and walked away.
So what do I really want for women? A popular columnist in a woman’s magazine claims, “In our society the woman’s been conditioned from birth to play according to the rules but has anyone figured out what she actually wants to do?” I know that all I want is a warning label, ideally colour-coded – but I’d settle for a few words in black and white!
© Chitra Srikrishna., all rights reserved.
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