It was Christmas morning and the feasty scents of Christmas breakfast and merry sounds of carols were interrupted by a phone call. A stranger called to say mom had been hit by a scooter on a busy road close to our homes. In the frenzied hours that followed, mom was shuttled from the site to a nursing home and then to a hospital. The jumbled bustle of the ambulance siren, the vehicle horns and the faraway sounds of carols was symbolic of our jumbled thoughts. Nobody knew what lay ahead. The twelve days that followed, from admission to discharge, are the twelve days I write about; the twelve days of Christmas as it was for us.
A star that shone
Mom was in a lot of pain and she stoically bore it all, with grace and fortitude. She winced and cried each time she was shifted, but spoke to us with great reassurance. It was only after the first medical reports came in that we got to know how grave the injury was. A femur broken into three, each part digging into her flesh with every slight move and a fractured wrist. It was much more than anyone could bear, and incomprehensible for a frail seventy year old. But mom in her true style bore it all, and that is why this Christmas piece has a star after all.
The power of love
As mom’s condition fluctuated between the known and unknown, the presence of family and friends, remote and near, provided us with great succor and support. Each time the phone rang with the reassuring voice of loved ones, her pain seemed slighter and her limbs a little more responsive. It felt like being empowered, empowered by the immense power of love.
It also helped us pause and think about the numerous people we met in the hospital with no one to call their own, no one to turn to for support and guidance or just a word of reassurance. In our hearts we prayed—God bless our large family and our circle of friends, and we hoped that someday we would be family or friend to someone in need.
They came from far and wide
We informed only a few people about the accident. But in the days that followed the list of well wishers who called, came, and enquired grew from the regular to long forgotten acquaintances of the past. They stood by our side, people whose lives mom and dad had touched in their own special way, creating a protective mulch around us, strengthening us with kind words and acts of kindness.
Their presence reminded me of the family who quietly stood by the manger waiting with ready arms and large hearts while the babe slept peacefully that silent night.
The doors that shut before us
The OT was guarded like a fortress with 3 sets of doors. No one had access to the world that lay beyond the doors, save a chosen few who worked behind them. Deluxe, special, or general—all waited humbly for news of a loved one outside. Money or power made no difference here—all were equally at the mercy of the people who worked inside and the Maker who decided all.
We have no money or power to speak about. But while waiting there endlessly, we realized, we shouldn’t have missed them at all.
A Christmas gift
Mom was successfully operated on and shifted for recovery to a ward. As the days went by, some patients around mom left for home and others for the world beyond. While praying for her broken limbs, her fluctuating pressure, her healing pains, and her irresponsible sugar counts, we had somehow missed to say thanks for the greatest gift of all—the gift of her life!
Now when we sit back and think of the ‘what ifs’ that could have been, a never ending list emerges—what if she had hit her head, what if it was truck instead of a scooter, what if she didn’t remember our contact numbers, what if no one on the street helped, what if the orthopedic had decided to take the day off for Christmas, what if she was hit somewhere far away from home, what if …
The list of questions gets longer every time we think about it. There are no answers save the grace of God. To Him we give thanks for this precious gift, a gift we so often take for granted.
Keepers of a kingdom
In this case that would be the caregivers at the hospital. In our short stay at the hospital we met many of them. No matter what their post or rank, they could be easily divided as those doing a job and those on a vocation. The difference was obvious in everything they did or said.
While being serviced by this mixed lot, we couldn’t help but wonder "what group do we fit into?"
We had some moments of cheer too.
Wise men from the south!
It is amazing to see the confidence with which some men dispense their wisdom on subjects unknown to them. They trickled in at the hospital too, acquaintances, each with their own bit about how to combat the problem. All was taken in good spirit as beneath it all was genuine concern to see mom healthy and active again.
It will be soon be a month since the accident. Mom rests beside me now as I put in these finishing lines to my belated Christmas piece, a steel rod supporting her broken bones. The Christmas wreath is back in the storeroom and Jim Reeves rests in the cassette rack for another year. But the twelve days of Christmas 2008, and the messages it brought to us will last a lifetime.
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Happy Birthday Ma
When times are happy or trying, low or soaring, or just standing still, there is one person I need to share it with—the strength and the anchor of my life—my mother.
This special piece is just for you Ma.
Mom is tall, though she never had to be—we would look up to her anyway. She is beautiful and that does not matter too. She is fair, and that is true of more than her much wrinkled skin. Her hands are not tender; they are rather firm and hard. Her brows are not plucked and her hands are not creamed. But she still is the most beautiful person I have set my eyes on.
There are many memories that come to mind when I think of Mom; the lingering smell of freshly baked melting moments on the staircase when we tiredly trekked home after school; my extra fluorescent, shocking-bright-parrot-green lunch bag that she ever so diligently packed our lunches in; the afternoon naps by her side when she read from the newspapers to me; the stories of smart kids, humble sages, ogre aunts, and monster uncles she filled me with; the delightful birthday celebrations; the sacred family prayer times; quickly packed picnics to random places; the home-tailored petticoats and smocked dresses; the mango ice cream and low-fat lime pickles; and many more such memories.
Another thought that comes to mind when I think about Mom is discipline. Mom is a keen disciple of discipline. There is a time and place for everything and that explains exactly why growing up with her was not so easy. I never could see the time and place for anything until a few years ago when my kids also began not to see the same. I regret all the years when my teenage sensibilities did not allow us see eye to eye. It all seems like a wasted lifetime in between.
She lives inspired by the thought, ‘Better to burn out than rust out.’ I have never seen her rest in between; she always has something to do. If nothing else, peeling garlic is time invested for a better tomorrow. She managed everything alone; the washing, the cleaning, the kids, the kids’ friends, and the long list of guests. She played her many roles of mother, teacher, wife, agony aunt, life jacket, counselor, and more, with ease and versatility. I look at my kids today and can’t help but think, they got a very raw deal.
Mom turns 68 today. Arthritis, diabetes, hypertension, and osteoporosis notwithstanding, she still never rests. She finds the time to tend to all of us with her special charm and grace.
I do not have a count of the many lives you touched in these seven odd decades Ma, but I know that the four of us and Pa could never have made it without you.
Happy Birthday
Yours,
Baby
This special piece is just for you Ma.
Mom is tall, though she never had to be—we would look up to her anyway. She is beautiful and that does not matter too. She is fair, and that is true of more than her much wrinkled skin. Her hands are not tender; they are rather firm and hard. Her brows are not plucked and her hands are not creamed. But she still is the most beautiful person I have set my eyes on.
There are many memories that come to mind when I think of Mom; the lingering smell of freshly baked melting moments on the staircase when we tiredly trekked home after school; my extra fluorescent, shocking-bright-parrot-green lunch bag that she ever so diligently packed our lunches in; the afternoon naps by her side when she read from the newspapers to me; the stories of smart kids, humble sages, ogre aunts, and monster uncles she filled me with; the delightful birthday celebrations; the sacred family prayer times; quickly packed picnics to random places; the home-tailored petticoats and smocked dresses; the mango ice cream and low-fat lime pickles; and many more such memories.
Another thought that comes to mind when I think about Mom is discipline. Mom is a keen disciple of discipline. There is a time and place for everything and that explains exactly why growing up with her was not so easy. I never could see the time and place for anything until a few years ago when my kids also began not to see the same. I regret all the years when my teenage sensibilities did not allow us see eye to eye. It all seems like a wasted lifetime in between.
She lives inspired by the thought, ‘Better to burn out than rust out.’ I have never seen her rest in between; she always has something to do. If nothing else, peeling garlic is time invested for a better tomorrow. She managed everything alone; the washing, the cleaning, the kids, the kids’ friends, and the long list of guests. She played her many roles of mother, teacher, wife, agony aunt, life jacket, counselor, and more, with ease and versatility. I look at my kids today and can’t help but think, they got a very raw deal.
Mom turns 68 today. Arthritis, diabetes, hypertension, and osteoporosis notwithstanding, she still never rests. She finds the time to tend to all of us with her special charm and grace.
I do not have a count of the many lives you touched in these seven odd decades Ma, but I know that the four of us and Pa could never have made it without you.
Happy Birthday
Yours,
Baby
Thursday, May 12, 2005
NIDHI
She came after 24 hours of labor. She was 21 inches long and weighed 3.3 kilograms. We called her Nidhi, because that’s what she means to us, Nidhi—a treasure.
She is my first and so the one I learnt my lessons on—fan speeds best for babies, the temperature of their baths, diaper sizes, packing baby bags, safe mosquito repellents, and more, much more. She rewarded each of my attempts, successful or failed, with a full, warm smile and a look of complete adoration.
She made motherhood seem easy. As an infant, her body clock was timed to mine. She would sleep when I slept and get up a little later than me. I do not remember many night shifts or mid-night nappy changes. It was almost like she had come toilet trained. She could do her jobs, big and small, on demand. This brought great pleasure to my parents for whom successful toilet training was the ultimate test of motherhood.
She helped us be family. All working members of our extended family, who would almost never make it home for dinner, would often land up in time for tea once Nidhi came. My dad ran a small business. A stickler for time, he would give us long lectures on discipline. After Nidhi came, he would simply shut office by 1 and be home by 2, just in time to rock her to sleep.
She had this knack of coaxing others to do as she bid. I still remember a hot summer afternoon when I met my father-in-law at a local general store when I was returning home after a days work at college. He was buying her the legendary Peppy. And this is the man who would never ever miss his afternoon nap.
Of course, there have been some stray incidents that remind us that she is human—the exam that she forgot to mention, the coin that had to be dislodged from the esophagus, some failed attempts at work-experience, the English class work book that was recovered from the local gutter, the gentle reminders from teachers that she sometimes holds court during class hours, and some such other incidents.
Today she turns nine. Her small hands don’t hold on to me like they once did. Her wide dark eyes do not linger on my face like before. Her opinions do not exactly match mine. Her body clock is set differently and her world includes many more people than just me. But she remains precious, my treasure, my nidhi.
She is my first and so the one I learnt my lessons on—fan speeds best for babies, the temperature of their baths, diaper sizes, packing baby bags, safe mosquito repellents, and more, much more. She rewarded each of my attempts, successful or failed, with a full, warm smile and a look of complete adoration.
She made motherhood seem easy. As an infant, her body clock was timed to mine. She would sleep when I slept and get up a little later than me. I do not remember many night shifts or mid-night nappy changes. It was almost like she had come toilet trained. She could do her jobs, big and small, on demand. This brought great pleasure to my parents for whom successful toilet training was the ultimate test of motherhood.
She helped us be family. All working members of our extended family, who would almost never make it home for dinner, would often land up in time for tea once Nidhi came. My dad ran a small business. A stickler for time, he would give us long lectures on discipline. After Nidhi came, he would simply shut office by 1 and be home by 2, just in time to rock her to sleep.
She had this knack of coaxing others to do as she bid. I still remember a hot summer afternoon when I met my father-in-law at a local general store when I was returning home after a days work at college. He was buying her the legendary Peppy. And this is the man who would never ever miss his afternoon nap.
Of course, there have been some stray incidents that remind us that she is human—the exam that she forgot to mention, the coin that had to be dislodged from the esophagus, some failed attempts at work-experience, the English class work book that was recovered from the local gutter, the gentle reminders from teachers that she sometimes holds court during class hours, and some such other incidents.
Today she turns nine. Her small hands don’t hold on to me like they once did. Her wide dark eyes do not linger on my face like before. Her opinions do not exactly match mine. Her body clock is set differently and her world includes many more people than just me. But she remains precious, my treasure, my nidhi.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Some More Poems ...
Our Farmer Friends
Can you imagine a world
Where there is nothing to eat,
No corn, no rice, no millet,
Not a single grain of wheat?
Take a minute to think,
About what our world would be,
Without the many farmers
Working in their fields!
They sow the seeds that make our feed,
And tend them with loving care,
They toil in the sun from dawn to dusk,
For some wee little fare.
We owe them a lot,
Much more than their little fee,
It is because of them that we are
And because of them that we will be!
(Written for Nidhi when she was in 3rd grade. )
Noah's Ark
God made man so that he would have friends. But as he looked down on earth, he was disappointed. All men were bad. He was so angry, that he decided to destroy the earth and all creations on it. But when looked closely he saw one man, Noah, who was good. He and his family had kept HIS commandments throughout. So God decided to save Noah and his family but punish all the rest.
He called Noah and said,
Make an ark of gopher wood,
Big and strong as tall as you could,
Take your family, kith and kin,
No other man, should I see within.
Then take the animals, two of a kind,
Gather them all, in the ark, inside.
Noah set about arranging things just as God had told him to.
♫Two of a kind. Two of a kind.
First came the elephants, and then came the geese,
Giraffes and bears, sheep and fleas,
Parrots so green, and foxes so mean,
All of them hurried, to their places within. ♫
When all the animals were gathered inside,
Noah shut the door and bolted it tight.
Now we have to wait.
It’s an order divine,
Till God’s anger pours
On the rest of mankind.
It rained. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights. The water kept rising and rising. All living things on earth died.
After many days, when the water was low
Noah decided to open the door.
He, his family and the animals all,
Came out and saw, Nobody at all.
God’s anger had ceased and now HE vowed,
‘Never again will it rain like this
A rainbow in the clouds is a sign of this’.
Now live my children,
My children live well,
Live in peace and harmony,
My children live well.
So my friends, the moral of this story is:
♫Every time it rains and pours,
And you see a rainbow,
Think of your father Noah,
And think of God and his mercy. ♫
♫God made you and God made me
To be his friends to eternity
So live in peace and harmony
And know that God loves you. ♫
(Written for Nidhi’s elocution on ‘Noah’s Ark’. All paragraphs marked with ‘♫’ are meant to be sung. Text in the verse form is meant to be recited as a poem, and was accompanied with actions. )
Can you imagine a world
Where there is nothing to eat,
No corn, no rice, no millet,
Not a single grain of wheat?
Take a minute to think,
About what our world would be,
Without the many farmers
Working in their fields!
They sow the seeds that make our feed,
And tend them with loving care,
They toil in the sun from dawn to dusk,
For some wee little fare.
We owe them a lot,
Much more than their little fee,
It is because of them that we are
And because of them that we will be!
(Written for Nidhi when she was in 3rd grade. )
Noah's Ark
God made man so that he would have friends. But as he looked down on earth, he was disappointed. All men were bad. He was so angry, that he decided to destroy the earth and all creations on it. But when looked closely he saw one man, Noah, who was good. He and his family had kept HIS commandments throughout. So God decided to save Noah and his family but punish all the rest.
He called Noah and said,
Make an ark of gopher wood,
Big and strong as tall as you could,
Take your family, kith and kin,
No other man, should I see within.
Then take the animals, two of a kind,
Gather them all, in the ark, inside.
Noah set about arranging things just as God had told him to.
♫Two of a kind. Two of a kind.
First came the elephants, and then came the geese,
Giraffes and bears, sheep and fleas,
Parrots so green, and foxes so mean,
All of them hurried, to their places within. ♫
When all the animals were gathered inside,
Noah shut the door and bolted it tight.
Now we have to wait.
It’s an order divine,
Till God’s anger pours
On the rest of mankind.
It rained. It rained for 40 days and 40 nights. The water kept rising and rising. All living things on earth died.
After many days, when the water was low
Noah decided to open the door.
He, his family and the animals all,
Came out and saw, Nobody at all.
God’s anger had ceased and now HE vowed,
‘Never again will it rain like this
A rainbow in the clouds is a sign of this’.
Now live my children,
My children live well,
Live in peace and harmony,
My children live well.
So my friends, the moral of this story is:
♫Every time it rains and pours,
And you see a rainbow,
Think of your father Noah,
And think of God and his mercy. ♫
♫God made you and God made me
To be his friends to eternity
So live in peace and harmony
And know that God loves you. ♫
(Written for Nidhi’s elocution on ‘Noah’s Ark’. All paragraphs marked with ‘♫’ are meant to be sung. Text in the verse form is meant to be recited as a poem, and was accompanied with actions. )
Thursday, March 03, 2005
What I Expect My Teacher To Be
Motherhood calls on you to take on different roles. As a sample, let me tell you about the first time I played poet! It happened like this.
My daughter was taking part in a recitation contest, the topic for which was What I Expect From My Teacher. I searched high and low for a readymade poem that I could just teach her, but was not very lucky. D-day was fast approaching and so I knew the only way I could get one was to sit down and write one myself.
"There is nothing you cannot learn if you approach it systematically," was my husband's encouraging advice. So I sat with her the next day and asked her about what she wanted from her teacher. She had some very simple demands. I share the list here because it is very different from what my expectations of a teacher are and I am sure it is not similar to your list either.
1. When I do homework she must check and say "Very good Anna."
2. If I am absent, teacher should ask me why I did not come.
3. She must take me out of class.
4. She must teach me everything.
I sat for a while transfixed by the simplicity of her demands. I found it hard to imagine that some of these were expectations. And then I sat down to write the poem.
I labored over the poem for a day or two. My first attempt was something like this.
Teacher, teacher, pumpkin eater...
Nidhi did not like the beginnning. I tried to explain but she won. So I abandoned that one there. The next was like this.
East or west, you are the best,
But there are some times,
You are a real big pest.
My husband advised me that we should not allow Nidhi to participate in this contest unless we planned to change her school soon. I sometimes wonder if it had something to do with the verse. But nothing could stop me now. I looked at her list again, labored some more, and finally managed after many days to come up with this. Please look at this poem with gentleness and understanding. After all it is my first poem.
What I Expect From My Teacher
Dear teacher,
My list for you is long,
Please listen while I say,
This is what I expect,
From you everyday.
You must be there to guide me,
When I learn new new things,
To say “Very good Anna’,
When I do the homework for the day.
Please ask me when I am absent,
Where were you yesterday?
This shows me dear teacher,
That you really care.
Teach me to read,
Write, count, and spell,
Tell me some stories,
Of kids, animals, and elves.
Take me out of class,
To see the birds and the bees,
Teach me about honesty,
Cleanliness and peace.
You must be thinking,
‘She expects the world from me’,
But that’s just because
Dear teacher, You mean the world to me!!
Yep! I wrote it. There is nothing you cannot learn if you approach it systematically, you see.
My daughter was taking part in a recitation contest, the topic for which was What I Expect From My Teacher. I searched high and low for a readymade poem that I could just teach her, but was not very lucky. D-day was fast approaching and so I knew the only way I could get one was to sit down and write one myself.
"There is nothing you cannot learn if you approach it systematically," was my husband's encouraging advice. So I sat with her the next day and asked her about what she wanted from her teacher. She had some very simple demands. I share the list here because it is very different from what my expectations of a teacher are and I am sure it is not similar to your list either.
1. When I do homework she must check and say "Very good Anna."
2. If I am absent, teacher should ask me why I did not come.
3. She must take me out of class.
4. She must teach me everything.
I sat for a while transfixed by the simplicity of her demands. I found it hard to imagine that some of these were expectations. And then I sat down to write the poem.
I labored over the poem for a day or two. My first attempt was something like this.
Teacher, teacher, pumpkin eater...
Nidhi did not like the beginnning. I tried to explain but she won. So I abandoned that one there. The next was like this.
East or west, you are the best,
But there are some times,
You are a real big pest.
My husband advised me that we should not allow Nidhi to participate in this contest unless we planned to change her school soon. I sometimes wonder if it had something to do with the verse. But nothing could stop me now. I looked at her list again, labored some more, and finally managed after many days to come up with this. Please look at this poem with gentleness and understanding. After all it is my first poem.
What I Expect From My Teacher
Dear teacher,
My list for you is long,
Please listen while I say,
This is what I expect,
From you everyday.
You must be there to guide me,
When I learn new new things,
To say “Very good Anna’,
When I do the homework for the day.
Please ask me when I am absent,
Where were you yesterday?
This shows me dear teacher,
That you really care.
Teach me to read,
Write, count, and spell,
Tell me some stories,
Of kids, animals, and elves.
Take me out of class,
To see the birds and the bees,
Teach me about honesty,
Cleanliness and peace.
You must be thinking,
‘She expects the world from me’,
But that’s just because
Dear teacher, You mean the world to me!!
Yep! I wrote it. There is nothing you cannot learn if you approach it systematically, you see.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
And I Want To Be...
At age two, when her three cousins declared to a not so small gathering of grandparents, aunties, uncles, and some neighbors, that they wanted to be a scientist, a doctor, and an engineer respectively, my daughter casually informed a stunned audience that she would like to be a patient.
Since then she has aspired to be many things; the lady who rings the bell at school, the postman who gets to cycle, the flag bearer at march past, the billboard painter who is allowed to get messy, and many other similar things.
I do not ask her often now. But every once in a while she does inform me about a change in ambition. It happened today too.
"Ma, I want to be the principal of St. Agnes School."
I was mighty impressed. At last my baby was growing up. I held her close and told her about my family, the school that my uncle owned, my uncles and aunts who were principals, my mom who won the Best Teacher Award in the small town she lived in, and lastly, I told her about myself—an ex-teacher.
She listened to every detail and seemed really pleased that she was keeping up some kind of family tradition, without really intending to. I was sure the decision had not been easy on her, because of the stark contrast to her previous ones, and was eager to know about the deciding factor that led her to make it. And why only St. Agnes?
“Why do you want to be principal of St. Agnes kanna?”
“Because she gets to go for picnics with the first standard, the second standard, the third standard, and the fourth standard mummy!”
I sat down for a while. And aspired to be what I always wanted to be. Ironically, it was patient too!
Since then she has aspired to be many things; the lady who rings the bell at school, the postman who gets to cycle, the flag bearer at march past, the billboard painter who is allowed to get messy, and many other similar things.
I do not ask her often now. But every once in a while she does inform me about a change in ambition. It happened today too.
"Ma, I want to be the principal of St. Agnes School."
I was mighty impressed. At last my baby was growing up. I held her close and told her about my family, the school that my uncle owned, my uncles and aunts who were principals, my mom who won the Best Teacher Award in the small town she lived in, and lastly, I told her about myself—an ex-teacher.
She listened to every detail and seemed really pleased that she was keeping up some kind of family tradition, without really intending to. I was sure the decision had not been easy on her, because of the stark contrast to her previous ones, and was eager to know about the deciding factor that led her to make it. And why only St. Agnes?
“Why do you want to be principal of St. Agnes kanna?”
“Because she gets to go for picnics with the first standard, the second standard, the third standard, and the fourth standard mummy!”
I sat down for a while. And aspired to be what I always wanted to be. Ironically, it was patient too!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Parenting and Icecream Sticks—The Hidden Connection
My mother always warned me about the demands of motherhood, but nothing could prepare me for the demands that would follow once my daughter started schooling.
There is a particular subject called Work Experience, that curriculum designers claim is aimed at developing job skills in children, but I am sure it has an ulterior motive—that of exposing the inadequacies of parents.
My daughter, Nidhi, has her Work Experience periods on Thursday. The foreboding of an impending Work Experience period hits me by Sunday.
"Nidhi, did teacher say anything about the Work Experience this week?"
"No ma. How many times will you ask?"
I resign myself to asking her thrice a day. The teacher, who I am sure is part of the crafty scheme I described earlier, declares the items required for the class only on Wednesday. We get to know of it in the evening when Nidhi returns from school at 6.
"Ma, this time it is easy. She only wants icecream sticks. "
"Oh, wow!"
I briefly contemplate buying a nice dessert of icecreams (with sticks) for the family. Would be nice after dinner.
But I can hear a soft murmur inside me, 'No, it can't be so easy.' It must be the voice of experience, or it must be my sixth sense.
"Eh? How many dear?"
"Fifty."
"FIFTY?"
The soft murmur inside me is replaced by a wild thumping, accompanied by some sweat.
I try to smile when I look into her eyes that are growing big with anxiety.
"You will get it no?," she says.
I smile reassuringly.
"Yes, yes. I'm sure we will get it somewhere."
I quickly turn around. I would have to distribute icecreams in the entire building to get fifty sticks. I can picture myself giving my neighbors icecreams with the request, "Aunty, sticks rakhna. Nidhi ka work experience hai." The thought is not very pleasant, so what if the Patils are a cooperative lot. (Their sons had Work Experience in their time too.)
Jon, my husband, seems to have taken the news well. After all this is not Nidhi's first Work Experience period.
We set out soon after, armed with some money and our mobiles.
Have you ever tried shopping for icecream sticks? Well, I hadn't, till then. I have taught teachers-to-be, under graduates, and school children too, but I must say, I was oblivious of the role of icecream sticks (fifty of them to be precise) in the education of children or else I would have been better prepared.
We checked with our local baniya first.
"Bhaiya icecream stick milega?"
"Isekreeem ka danda? Kaun rakhta hai?"
We looked at each other with understanding. His son was too small for Work Experience.
The next stop was a bigger general store.
"Tha. Khatam ho gaya," he informed us matter-of-factly.
Oh my God! We should have thought of this earlier. All parents of the six divisions of third standard children of St. Agnes School (name changed) were shopping for icecream sticks, and fifty each at that! The urgency of the situation hits us hard.
"Okay, I'll go this way and you go the opposite way. Call me when you get something," John called while getting into a nearby rickshaw.
We went separate ways. We visited some thirty shops between us that day. All the shops that had icecream sticks had only a few of them because the early birds got there first. By 9.20 p.m. and after some umpteen calls to check each others icecream stick count, we finally managed to collect fifty, actually sixty, in case we heard or she got the number wrong! We reached back trimuphant by about 9.40 p.m.
Nothing can beat the joy of seeing sixty icecream sticks together. We wrapped them in plastic, and packed them in a tough box. As an extra precautionary measure, Jon declared that he would drop Nidhi to school the next day.
We then settled down to a quiet dinner. Dinner conversation revolved around the challenges of parenting. Our aging parents observed that the challenges of parenting are quite different now. After dinner we celebrated over icecreams (with sticks). A sense of accomplishment reigned in the house. And all was well till the next Wednesday.
There is a particular subject called Work Experience, that curriculum designers claim is aimed at developing job skills in children, but I am sure it has an ulterior motive—that of exposing the inadequacies of parents.
My daughter, Nidhi, has her Work Experience periods on Thursday. The foreboding of an impending Work Experience period hits me by Sunday.
"Nidhi, did teacher say anything about the Work Experience this week?"
"No ma. How many times will you ask?"
I resign myself to asking her thrice a day. The teacher, who I am sure is part of the crafty scheme I described earlier, declares the items required for the class only on Wednesday. We get to know of it in the evening when Nidhi returns from school at 6.
"Ma, this time it is easy. She only wants icecream sticks. "
"Oh, wow!"
I briefly contemplate buying a nice dessert of icecreams (with sticks) for the family. Would be nice after dinner.
But I can hear a soft murmur inside me, 'No, it can't be so easy.' It must be the voice of experience, or it must be my sixth sense.
"Eh? How many dear?"
"Fifty."
"FIFTY?"
The soft murmur inside me is replaced by a wild thumping, accompanied by some sweat.
I try to smile when I look into her eyes that are growing big with anxiety.
"You will get it no?," she says.
I smile reassuringly.
"Yes, yes. I'm sure we will get it somewhere."
I quickly turn around. I would have to distribute icecreams in the entire building to get fifty sticks. I can picture myself giving my neighbors icecreams with the request, "Aunty, sticks rakhna. Nidhi ka work experience hai." The thought is not very pleasant, so what if the Patils are a cooperative lot. (Their sons had Work Experience in their time too.)
Jon, my husband, seems to have taken the news well. After all this is not Nidhi's first Work Experience period.
We set out soon after, armed with some money and our mobiles.
Have you ever tried shopping for icecream sticks? Well, I hadn't, till then. I have taught teachers-to-be, under graduates, and school children too, but I must say, I was oblivious of the role of icecream sticks (fifty of them to be precise) in the education of children or else I would have been better prepared.
We checked with our local baniya first.
"Bhaiya icecream stick milega?"
"Isekreeem ka danda? Kaun rakhta hai?"
We looked at each other with understanding. His son was too small for Work Experience.
The next stop was a bigger general store.
"Tha. Khatam ho gaya," he informed us matter-of-factly.
Oh my God! We should have thought of this earlier. All parents of the six divisions of third standard children of St. Agnes School (name changed) were shopping for icecream sticks, and fifty each at that! The urgency of the situation hits us hard.
"Okay, I'll go this way and you go the opposite way. Call me when you get something," John called while getting into a nearby rickshaw.
We went separate ways. We visited some thirty shops between us that day. All the shops that had icecream sticks had only a few of them because the early birds got there first. By 9.20 p.m. and after some umpteen calls to check each others icecream stick count, we finally managed to collect fifty, actually sixty, in case we heard or she got the number wrong! We reached back trimuphant by about 9.40 p.m.
Nothing can beat the joy of seeing sixty icecream sticks together. We wrapped them in plastic, and packed them in a tough box. As an extra precautionary measure, Jon declared that he would drop Nidhi to school the next day.
We then settled down to a quiet dinner. Dinner conversation revolved around the challenges of parenting. Our aging parents observed that the challenges of parenting are quite different now. After dinner we celebrated over icecreams (with sticks). A sense of accomplishment reigned in the house. And all was well till the next Wednesday.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Hail All Ye Mothers!
Who ran to help me when I fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.
~Ann Taylor
I marvel at many things day in and day out. I marvel at the numerous stars that spot the skies, I marvel at the lines of ants that march to the orders of an unseen commander, and I marvel at the discoveries of man that take him to heavens heights and to the bowels of a quark.
But I marvel most at the mothers that fill the earth. I marvel when they have kids, I marvel when they keep them, I marvel when they attempt to educate them, I marvel when they make up the weirdest of stories for them, I marvel when they take up a part time 9 to 5 job in addition to the full-time, day-n-night service they inherit when they are mothers, I marvel at their patience, their perserverance, their magnanimity, their ... The list goes on and on.
And that is exactly why, when I thought it was time to blog my thoughts, ideas, and experiences, (thanks to Mandar,) I thought my blog should be dedicated to our breed of mothers.
So if you are a mother, prospective or present, take some time to send in your thoughts, your experiences, your opinions. Let the world and its occupants marvel at the phenomenon called MOTHERS!
I plan to post in some of my experiences as a mother, some moments that made the experience worth it, some poems that I wrote for my brats, etc. So watch this space.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)