Had to share.

http://radianceandmist.tumblr.com/post/48790931935

“After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.

Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.

I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?

The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.

She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,

Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.

She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.

Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.

Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.

She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.

To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.

And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.

And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,

With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.

Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.

They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.

Not everything is lost.

How I wonder what you are?

A young boy named Mohammed once told me, “Didi, (sister) can you give your phone number?” Though we had spent the whole day together, I must admit I was very reluctant to share my phone number with my new friend. “Why do you want it, Mohammed?” I asked, hesitatingly. “Because when I am in trouble at least I can call you. didi. The police, beat us every time and they ask for money when we have none so I sometimes don’t know whom to call.”

Mohammed was a street child. Even using that term to address him seems awkward to me now, so many years later. He was attending a social service event called ‘Project Care’ that we used to host for children from organisations all over Bombay, around Christmas time. 100 children were offered a hearty meal and a visit to a zoo or park to ring in the spirit of giving.

As a young college goer at the time, meeting boys like Mohammed on Bombay’s streets was not new to me. I still see a lot of children begging for money and often harassing people for spare change. As a lecturer told us, “After a point we become immune to the sight of street children begging on the road.”

Mohammed  was not just another face in the crowd. He had spent the entire day wondering if he could muster up the courage to ask for my number. Since I was pre warned that we should avoid getting too personal with the children attending the event, I somehow changed the topic and heeded his request.
I often wonder about Mohammed and where he might be today. When we met, he used to sell newspapers to make a few Rupees. Most days he was lucky to escape being beaten by anyone in authority for loitering about. He did not have a roof over his head or speak of parents or a family and yet he called me his sister, so I still feel somewhat responsible for him.  He was the epitome of street smart and won the hearts of all the organisers that day. I hope that all the harsh realities of life didn’t take him to the wrong side of the law.

The recent horrific cases that have emerged out of my home country have left me numb. Not only are the crimes more ghastly, they are increasingly against young children. Sure we’ve watched Slumdog Millionaire but honey, that’s just the tip of the murk-filled dirt pit. Children in India and I’m sure in many countries around the world, are mistreated and manipulated in all kinds of gruesome ways.  

What happens when you violate a child’s world? Well not only have you scared an innocent’s life for the rest of its days, you have also opened a can or ugly worms, wreaking havoc for his or her future. Violating a child sexually not only brings on untold humiliation to the child it can cause volumes of mistrust issues.

I guess you may noticed I have refrained from using the four letter word that begins with R and ends in E. I am sure you can fill in the blanks. There is enough of newsreel and footage on the subject in the past few months to make the issue unforgettable.  Many in my profession have shown utter disrespect for the rights of privacy, which like it or not, is critical to the victims as much as to the perpetrators of these crimes. If you want to place hoodies on those who have committed these crimes, at least prevent the victims from further victimisation. 

Like a diamond in the sky

The familiar nursery rhyme ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’ isn’t merely a repetitive anthem that most children sing. It also speaks of the endless wonder in their young minds. Especially children who have no little to call their own, the least we can attribute to them is their own bodies. The monsters aren’t living across the shore. They are in our houses. They come up when we look at vulgar images of children and ask them to do things that children are not meant to do. Lets clean up our own backyard before claiming that one city is bad and another worse. In case we’ve forgotten what it was to be child like, just talk to someone who’s childhood like Mohammad’s was taken away too soon. 

Image taken at Shelter, Don Bosco Khandala, India. Shelter is a drug rehabilitation home for young boys. The sign, reads: I will become someone and then go home. 

Back in 10

You know you've taken too long to post when the last piece on your blog was up six months ago. Apologies to those who follow my blog with any amount of dedication. The cynic in me refuses to believe that someone would actually take the time to digest my often empty rants, but my gullible side always wins...

I look forward to an upcoming holiday. Perhaps that is the reason for sudden glee. I am hoping a short trip, even to a somewhat familiar place, will recharge my rusty batteries. 

In the meanwhile I've been trying all sorts of interesting things. MANDU workouts for one. Never mind that the instructor, Toni Klein has abs that can put apna Sallu Bhai to shame. He was equally thrilled to be interviewed and took more pictures with me and my dictaphone than I could handle.
I'm just delighted to have not one, but two trainers who encourage me to keep at the exercise. Never mind also that I treated one to a homemade chocolate chip muffin. 
Will miss the duo of trainers when they leave for Austria in a few days. I only hope they take my cellulite with them. After all I'm trying to get rid of the darn excess baggage for nearly 37 years. So till then I will be happily strapped on to a MANDU machine that promises to do in 15 minutes what weight training can do in three hours. Too late to back away now, I'm hooked!

Remember what MAN-DU, women do better!

MANDU Trainer Toni Klein

A MANDU session in swing

Unwinding in style

I don't know if I'm coming or going these days. The hours seem to zip past one another like the trucks on the Doha highway. Whenever I make a momentary glance at the clock, there is always shock and awe... 'Wait a minute, is it already noon' or 'Hey, is it bed time already?'

When they talk about daylight saving time, do they also mean they are saving it for another day? Perhaps that's only if you're 007.
 
I guess I shouldn't complain. I should be grateful that I don't have to spend my time on a bankrupt airline or mind numbing scam debates. At least I can make the time to do the things I like to do,  some of the time.

I found myself at a wonderfully luxurious spa this afternoon. I opted for a de-stress massage. Call it hallucination, but the massage seemed to have my name on it. It was almost beckoning me to come and unwind.

Five minutes in to the massage and my massuese informed me that my neck and shoulder muscles are too tense. Duh! She reccomended a visit once in three weeks at the very least. Now in a perfect world, I would surely fly off to get a massage every three weeks. But since I don't have a magic carpet or a corporate discount, we will let that one slide.

The skeptic in me likes to believe that the staff tries to get everyone to revisit on some pretext or the other. Only someone with all the time in the world can opt for weekly massages. For me, one in about six or twelve months is a heaven sent. I enjoy the exotic smells, the fresh towels, the resignation to the Gods of bliss. 

So me and my stiff neck will be back but not in a hurry. We are too busy trying to save the day.

My son is six but walks six feet tall

“You have been blessed,” is all the doctor said to me

Six years ago.
I never knew what she meant,
but now I do, and it such a joy to see,

From the moment that our eyes first met, I was hooked,

And still you have me mesmerised,

One glance was all it took,
You made a mother out of me.

You’ve captured our hearts with your sweet imagination,

Your unceasing questions and shy reservation,

There are innumerable times I can advice you with just gentle persuasion

Of course Mama can be a bit harsh on occasion.  

Most people can’t believe you are so young,

They say you are more mature while other kids are so high strung,
I tell them it baffles me as well sometimes,

I wonder what I did to deserve such a wonderful child.

So continue to stand tall my little Daniel,

You are six today and soon 12,

Keep winning hearts, they are far more important than grades,

And remember you are worth more than gold or silver can trade.

Picture perfecto

It is becoming increasingly clear that my old photographs are going to haunt me for some time. Who is that girl beaming from ear to ear with a smaller waistline? Somehow I don't recognize her anymore.

Thanks to social networking there is always that secret fear that someone somewhere is going to upload a picture of your not-so-glamorous self. A long forgotten class picture or perhaps a wedding you were forced to attend. The pictures are not the problem, but their longevity is. They are uploaded forever. For the whole wide web to see.

It is amazing that you may have never felt particularly perky when said pictures were taken. But in hindsight, everything seems so much better. The trees seem greener. The people happier. There is almost a merry tune playing in the background. It is so much easier to gloss over the images.

There are those who post pictures with such regular frequency that it makes one wonder if they do little else. Its as if their lives are one big album with people posing prettily in an attempt to look perfect. A baby's every moment from peep to poop is traced with precision. Don't get me wrong. I offer plenty of oohs and aahs for every cuddly baby picture out there. It just amazes me that people are willing to document minute aspects of their lives.

I can't speak for everyone. I will make my peace with my pictures and choose to delete the ones that make me uncomfortable. Somehow I will always be more at ease behind the camera than in front of it.

Parent thesis

Speaking only for my gender I know one thing for sure. You aren’t born a mother. You grow into one, gradually. Not just by virtue of having the tools. And certainly not the second your offspring makes its entry into the world.
So don’t let those super moms fool you. It is a very tough job and most if not everyone works at it every single day.

 As someone once eager to complete a Ph. D in English Literature, I stopped short after my Masters. That was not because I wanted to have children. It was just because I decided to dive head on in to the working world. While I did juggle job and post graduate school for a few years until then, I felt it was time to give a career my all. The dream to complete my Doctorate soon got lost in the haze of things to do. Before I knew it the poems of Philip Larkin didn’t hold as much value as the timely visits to my children’s paediatrician.

Five years on with more than half a decade of full time mother hood under my belt, I’m wondering what my first job interview will be like. Can I say I have a Ph. D in motherhood? Am sure potential employers will expect me to receive a salary cut because I’ve not been a ‘productive’ member of society. Many would disagree, but they probably won’t be the ones signing the pay cheque.

Fortunately I have the freelance trump card to hold me in good steed. It has been a soaring sense of accomplishment to manage to work from home for all these years. While the bylines have helped pay for many of the bills, they’ve also stopped a lot of inquisitive questions from those most obsessed with what I did with my time. But most importantly, they’ve helped me keep those grey cells buzzing. Even though I wasn’t getting paid half as much as I made when I worked full time, somehow every published freelance piece seemed worth more than those I’d done as a full time worker. Perhaps it was because there were more challenges to complete deadlines. I was my own editor, accountant and critic. I could do only as much as I could manage and the biggest reward was that the writing allowed me to watch my kids grow.

So let them quiz me about my skills – past or present. I can bet that my sabbatical has done more good than any employer can ever imagine. When I look at two very content children, I know the battle is already won.