He’s given his sister an iPod and as he gets out of the car, loads his humungous suitcases (full of pieces of America that he will share with everybody he knows) on an airport trolley, he tells her, “This is not a time for understanding—there will be a lot of noise. So fill your life with music instead.” His sister drives off after a quick wave and a lump in her throat. She turns on the iPod to drown the tears that threaten her eyes and this is what she hears…
“Sail on Silver girl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
And If you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.”*
*Bridge over Troubled Water, Paul Simon
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The World in Pink
You can see the world in a grain of sand or through rose tinted glasses. You can view it with your jaundiced best yellow, but have you ever seen the world in pink? Not that Pink is a favorite with me—a bete noire rather. Probably because of the stereotyping associated with it to format little girls from birth into sugar and spice and all things nice…yada, yada, yada.
Then you open your eyes on a rare cheerful Monday morning (because you met your deadlines on Friday…yeah!) and you find that your kid can’t open hers. They are stuck. You splash water, use a hot compress to pry them open and what finally look back at you are slits of pink that are anything but your child’s clear, bright, ‘why-why’ eyes! It can’t be—yes it is—she’s got the Pink Eye! The first few moments you try and retrace the steps of how it happened…a best pal got it; best pal’s mother got it before that. She’s a school teacher and must have had the little tykes around her sneezing and coughing on her face. “What can I do? They even feel that the sole purpose of my dupatta is for them to blow their noses on…I suddenly hear weird noises and turn to see my little ones trumpeting into it.” The cause has been established and now it’s time for damage control. Call to the doctor, drive to four medicine shops who don’t have the necessary eye drops. There is an epidemic on, I guess. The fifth—a dark dingy germ infested one does—beggars can’t be choosers so you buy it, along with a mild ‘preventive’ eye drop for yourself and bottle of sanitizer. You stand kid in a corner, hand her a pair of dark glasses and explain that you will have to play a game of dodge with her as you cannot possibly contract this color at all—you simply do not like pink. She looks on like a forlorn, nine-year old James Bond in dark glasses as you delineate the required rules of segregation—family later accuses you of apartheid but you don’t want to see in pink and would rather risk them seeing red.
Your colleagues definitely wouldn’t want you at work with traces of the pink hanging over you and thank god for a boss who is woman enough to understand the working mom. So you log on from home, only to have your kid walk up to your desk and ask, “What do I do?” Go and read a book which has a big enough print. 45 minutes later, “What do I do now?” Play something—go and pretend that you are Pinky the Pirate, off on a mission with Capt. Jack Sparrow or something like that. You asked for it. Out comes a Yankee Doodle with dark glasses and a wide brimmed straw hat, galloping on a badminton racquet singing, yes, you guessed it—‘Yankee Doodle’! It is sung in various permutations and combinations and at varied tempos. So inspired is she that she even thinks of setting up Yankee Doodle communities. After an hour, she comes up and suggests that you have worked enough and that now you should play with her. You remind her that its the way you earn to pay rent and buy the antibiotic eye drops that are due in her eyes now. She runs and hides the bottle. You find it and drag kid from under bed and do the necessary evil of dropping the medicine in her eyes to her shouts of “It stings!” Well, that’s what the pink eye brings.
Once back at your desk you get a half an hour of peace that the drops buy you and then she’s back. This time the suggestion is, “Just sit at the desk and work like you are doing right now and play ‘Koffee with Karan’ with me—you can pretend to be any film star you want to be and I’ll interview you”. Can I be a Count Dracula, I think with a very cold, chilling stare. “Or from the icy cold look in your eyes, Mimi, we could call the program ‘Sorbet with Sujata’, she says with a chuckle (she knows she is safe because I am maintaining a distance with the pink). At least she has a way with words. Finally, I give in to a game of ‘I Spy’. The only difference being that she begins with, “I spy with my little pink eye…” We spy as much as we can, sitting in the balcony and move on to reading the clouds. We actually spot a smile in the sky. What you are smiling at, I wonder—I have to be homed in, and live in fear of this little pink eye. Or may be it’s a sign I won’t get it, I hope.
Three days and I’m still safe. The domestic help walks in with pink puffed eyes—I unceremoniously walk her out and use generous amounts of sanitizer on the door knob and broomsticks. I’ve played dodge very well so far. I have been using the ‘preventive’ eye drops, kept all the pink-eyed ones at a distance and even slept with sunglasses on. Once her eyes are wide open and clear, kid goes back to school, relieved that she can now be in the more entertaining company of her peers. As I wake up, I am relieved that I haven’t got the pink slip yet considering I’ve been working from home and then…I can’t open my eyes! “Time to play dodge with you, Mimi?” grins the wide, why-why eyed kid. “You are the reason”, I sms in retaliation to the friend who started it all and she calls back on her way to work saying, “Think of it as an Annual Maintenance Program for your eyes.” Sister of friend calls with an I-told-you-she-is-the-reason subject line and informs me that all and sundry are seeing pink, even those who talked to her over the phone and live in other states—may be even other countries. I’m beginning to actually get a feeling that if you don't pass it on, it doesn't get cured…kind of like a chain email you hem and haw about deleting because of the bad luck it may bring if you did not pass it on. I got a cheery sms from The Reason asking me how the Annual Eye Maintenance Program was going. I replied “In swollen proportions”. Should have added pink to it.
Moral of the Story: Pink se panga nahi lene ka.
Then you open your eyes on a rare cheerful Monday morning (because you met your deadlines on Friday…yeah!) and you find that your kid can’t open hers. They are stuck. You splash water, use a hot compress to pry them open and what finally look back at you are slits of pink that are anything but your child’s clear, bright, ‘why-why’ eyes! It can’t be—yes it is—she’s got the Pink Eye! The first few moments you try and retrace the steps of how it happened…a best pal got it; best pal’s mother got it before that. She’s a school teacher and must have had the little tykes around her sneezing and coughing on her face. “What can I do? They even feel that the sole purpose of my dupatta is for them to blow their noses on…I suddenly hear weird noises and turn to see my little ones trumpeting into it.” The cause has been established and now it’s time for damage control. Call to the doctor, drive to four medicine shops who don’t have the necessary eye drops. There is an epidemic on, I guess. The fifth—a dark dingy germ infested one does—beggars can’t be choosers so you buy it, along with a mild ‘preventive’ eye drop for yourself and bottle of sanitizer. You stand kid in a corner, hand her a pair of dark glasses and explain that you will have to play a game of dodge with her as you cannot possibly contract this color at all—you simply do not like pink. She looks on like a forlorn, nine-year old James Bond in dark glasses as you delineate the required rules of segregation—family later accuses you of apartheid but you don’t want to see in pink and would rather risk them seeing red.
Your colleagues definitely wouldn’t want you at work with traces of the pink hanging over you and thank god for a boss who is woman enough to understand the working mom. So you log on from home, only to have your kid walk up to your desk and ask, “What do I do?” Go and read a book which has a big enough print. 45 minutes later, “What do I do now?” Play something—go and pretend that you are Pinky the Pirate, off on a mission with Capt. Jack Sparrow or something like that. You asked for it. Out comes a Yankee Doodle with dark glasses and a wide brimmed straw hat, galloping on a badminton racquet singing, yes, you guessed it—‘Yankee Doodle’! It is sung in various permutations and combinations and at varied tempos. So inspired is she that she even thinks of setting up Yankee Doodle communities. After an hour, she comes up and suggests that you have worked enough and that now you should play with her. You remind her that its the way you earn to pay rent and buy the antibiotic eye drops that are due in her eyes now. She runs and hides the bottle. You find it and drag kid from under bed and do the necessary evil of dropping the medicine in her eyes to her shouts of “It stings!” Well, that’s what the pink eye brings.
Once back at your desk you get a half an hour of peace that the drops buy you and then she’s back. This time the suggestion is, “Just sit at the desk and work like you are doing right now and play ‘Koffee with Karan’ with me—you can pretend to be any film star you want to be and I’ll interview you”. Can I be a Count Dracula, I think with a very cold, chilling stare. “Or from the icy cold look in your eyes, Mimi, we could call the program ‘Sorbet with Sujata’, she says with a chuckle (she knows she is safe because I am maintaining a distance with the pink). At least she has a way with words. Finally, I give in to a game of ‘I Spy’. The only difference being that she begins with, “I spy with my little pink eye…” We spy as much as we can, sitting in the balcony and move on to reading the clouds. We actually spot a smile in the sky. What you are smiling at, I wonder—I have to be homed in, and live in fear of this little pink eye. Or may be it’s a sign I won’t get it, I hope.
Three days and I’m still safe. The domestic help walks in with pink puffed eyes—I unceremoniously walk her out and use generous amounts of sanitizer on the door knob and broomsticks. I’ve played dodge very well so far. I have been using the ‘preventive’ eye drops, kept all the pink-eyed ones at a distance and even slept with sunglasses on. Once her eyes are wide open and clear, kid goes back to school, relieved that she can now be in the more entertaining company of her peers. As I wake up, I am relieved that I haven’t got the pink slip yet considering I’ve been working from home and then…I can’t open my eyes! “Time to play dodge with you, Mimi?” grins the wide, why-why eyed kid. “You are the reason”, I sms in retaliation to the friend who started it all and she calls back on her way to work saying, “Think of it as an Annual Maintenance Program for your eyes.” Sister of friend calls with an I-told-you-she-is-the-reason subject line and informs me that all and sundry are seeing pink, even those who talked to her over the phone and live in other states—may be even other countries. I’m beginning to actually get a feeling that if you don't pass it on, it doesn't get cured…kind of like a chain email you hem and haw about deleting because of the bad luck it may bring if you did not pass it on. I got a cheery sms from The Reason asking me how the Annual Eye Maintenance Program was going. I replied “In swollen proportions”. Should have added pink to it.
Moral of the Story: Pink se panga nahi lene ka.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
In an Inuksuk...
…there is warmth. It’s the Inuit way of saying “There’s someone there for you—you are not alone in your journey”. And so an Inuksuk made its journey all the w
ay from Canada with Meenakshi and Aparna to tell us that we will always have company no matter where we go. Interestingly made from rocks from the Canadian shield, its outstretched greeting every morning is a great beginning.
But sometimes the great beginnings might have the not-so-great middles. Especially when you have a Rakhi making competition at school and are not endowed with the traditional creative instincts. All this made worse because you do not have a traditionally oriented mom who instead of gathering the mandatory tinsel, bindis, stick on peacocks and other feathered friends, hands you a pencil shaving in a perfectly turned out helix. “At least your mom did not give you different types of dal to make a Rakhi with”, said a friend encouragingly—her mother was another anti-traditionalist obviously more tuned in to gastronomic fantasies that gets extended into all spheres of life including art and craft.
So you take that pencil shaving and work it in with the other recycled materials and decide on a ‘Recycle—Save nature” theme. You love it, your friends love it and are in awe that you actually could create something out of what one would just chuck away in the dustbin. Encouraged by the adulation, you begin to hope for a prize. Just that the judges are watching out for the peacocks, roses, the shine and the shimmer and all that jazz. So they announce the first prize, and the second and the third…and there are no more prizes after that. You get off the bus with your Rakhi of the Recycled and no prize, till your mother hands you a pretty little draw string purse full of beautiful pebbles from a lake you will dream of visiting someday. “Look at the color—this one’s almost purple! Look at the lines! How old could this be? It looks so rough but feels so smooth! Thank you!” It’s a gift from a young colleague of your mom’s but for you it’s a prize you won.
So perfect are they that you know exactly what you must do with these pebbles. You sit together and build an Inuksuk. You put them together to remind you that you have what is more important—people who make you smile when you are sad and fill the icy moments of life with warmth. .JPG)
We gave the Inuksuk a name. We call it Shiv, short for Shivranjini, who journeyed through the Himalayas to the Pangong Tso Lake and drew out from there the smooth, amazingly hued pebbles that became pebbles no more but a prize for an competition that wasn’t won. It will now stand as an Inuksuk from the Himalayas to remind us that there will always be someone—to bring in a smile, some cheer and a prize of pebbles from a lake on top of the world.
ay from Canada with Meenakshi and Aparna to tell us that we will always have company no matter where we go. Interestingly made from rocks from the Canadian shield, its outstretched greeting every morning is a great beginning. But sometimes the great beginnings might have the not-so-great middles. Especially when you have a Rakhi making competition at school and are not endowed with the traditional creative instincts. All this made worse because you do not have a traditionally oriented mom who instead of gathering the mandatory tinsel, bindis, stick on peacocks and other feathered friends, hands you a pencil shaving in a perfectly turned out helix. “At least your mom did not give you different types of dal to make a Rakhi with”, said a friend encouragingly—her mother was another anti-traditionalist obviously more tuned in to gastronomic fantasies that gets extended into all spheres of life including art and craft.
So you take that pencil shaving and work it in with the other recycled materials and decide on a ‘Recycle—Save nature” theme. You love it, your friends love it and are in awe that you actually could create something out of what one would just chuck away in the dustbin. Encouraged by the adulation, you begin to hope for a prize. Just that the judges are watching out for the peacocks, roses, the shine and the shimmer and all that jazz. So they announce the first prize, and the second and the third…and there are no more prizes after that. You get off the bus with your Rakhi of the Recycled and no prize, till your mother hands you a pretty little draw string purse full of beautiful pebbles from a lake you will dream of visiting someday. “Look at the color—this one’s almost purple! Look at the lines! How old could this be? It looks so rough but feels so smooth! Thank you!” It’s a gift from a young colleague of your mom’s but for you it’s a prize you won.
So perfect are they that you know exactly what you must do with these pebbles. You sit together and build an Inuksuk. You put them together to remind you that you have what is more important—people who make you smile when you are sad and fill the icy moments of life with warmth. .JPG)
We gave the Inuksuk a name. We call it Shiv, short for Shivranjini, who journeyed through the Himalayas to the Pangong Tso Lake and drew out from there the smooth, amazingly hued pebbles that became pebbles no more but a prize for an competition that wasn’t won. It will now stand as an Inuksuk from the Himalayas to remind us that there will always be someone—to bring in a smile, some cheer and a prize of pebbles from a lake on top of the world.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Hard Work for an Air Full of Nothing
Naga walked in holding on to her arm. It was swathed in Crepe bandage.
What happened, Naga, I asked?
“It’s my son, madam’, she grimaced. “He jumped on to me and swung on my arm like a monkey!”
“I thought my arm would come off, madam”, she said very seriously.
I tried a little harder not to laugh but it’s hard to keep a straight face when there’s an image of a monkey-kid swinging on a limb!
“What madam…so much we have to do to raise children! I need my arm to work no at the computer? Do they have any idea of how hard we work so that they can waste to buy things here and there?”
But Naga, that’s what we earn for isn’t it?
“Oh yes, Madam, we have to earn so that they can have all the good things we did not have. My mother did not sometimes have milk to give me and I have to buy Bournvita to put in the milk so that they will at least drink the milk without complaints.”
“And my son, he will not only drink but also eat the Bournvita. My daughter madam, is very adjusting but this son…so much waste he does without thinking how hard I work”, she grumbled on.
Come on, Naga, can we really expect them to understand how hard we work? It’s like the saying that our fathers had to take the stairs so that we could use elevators…
“Yes but Madam, it does not mean that we have to buy all the junk these silly advertising fellows put on TV. Other children will buy so mine will want and there I am buying packets of chips which are only air full of nothing and few chips.”
Hmm…that’s a thought I did not think of.
“Yes Madam, full of air those packets of Lays, Fritos, Cheetos and what not and we pay Rs 10 for each pack when we could have got the air for free…we only need to go out and take a deep breath, no madam? Why pay Rs 10 for it?”
Well…the air is supposed to keep the chips fresh and there are some chips in it, Naga.
“What Madam, may be two rupees worth of it. That Saif fellow cannot eat just one that is ok, no—he is anyway getting to eat the chips free to hold the packet on TV—but then when our children decide that they too cannot eat just one…all our money is going down the pockets of these chips company for the air they pack with the few thin potato bits.”
Kids need some junk food too once in a while, Naga. If you deprive them of it, they would want it more.
She grumbled on “But, no understanding they are having about the value of money, Madam. For them Rs 10 is like a piece of paper. I have been working since class 10 to earn and children today—all they want is leisure.
All I want is leisure too, Naga, I said to myself. All we all want is leisure. And isn't it ironic that we have to work our tails off for those moments of leisure and those packets of chips with air full of nothing?
What happened, Naga, I asked?
“It’s my son, madam’, she grimaced. “He jumped on to me and swung on my arm like a monkey!”
“I thought my arm would come off, madam”, she said very seriously.
I tried a little harder not to laugh but it’s hard to keep a straight face when there’s an image of a monkey-kid swinging on a limb!
“What madam…so much we have to do to raise children! I need my arm to work no at the computer? Do they have any idea of how hard we work so that they can waste to buy things here and there?”
But Naga, that’s what we earn for isn’t it?
“Oh yes, Madam, we have to earn so that they can have all the good things we did not have. My mother did not sometimes have milk to give me and I have to buy Bournvita to put in the milk so that they will at least drink the milk without complaints.”
“And my son, he will not only drink but also eat the Bournvita. My daughter madam, is very adjusting but this son…so much waste he does without thinking how hard I work”, she grumbled on.
Come on, Naga, can we really expect them to understand how hard we work? It’s like the saying that our fathers had to take the stairs so that we could use elevators…
“Yes but Madam, it does not mean that we have to buy all the junk these silly advertising fellows put on TV. Other children will buy so mine will want and there I am buying packets of chips which are only air full of nothing and few chips.”
Hmm…that’s a thought I did not think of.
“Yes Madam, full of air those packets of Lays, Fritos, Cheetos and what not and we pay Rs 10 for each pack when we could have got the air for free…we only need to go out and take a deep breath, no madam? Why pay Rs 10 for it?”
Well…the air is supposed to keep the chips fresh and there are some chips in it, Naga.
“What Madam, may be two rupees worth of it. That Saif fellow cannot eat just one that is ok, no—he is anyway getting to eat the chips free to hold the packet on TV—but then when our children decide that they too cannot eat just one…all our money is going down the pockets of these chips company for the air they pack with the few thin potato bits.”
Kids need some junk food too once in a while, Naga. If you deprive them of it, they would want it more.
She grumbled on “But, no understanding they are having about the value of money, Madam. For them Rs 10 is like a piece of paper. I have been working since class 10 to earn and children today—all they want is leisure.
All I want is leisure too, Naga, I said to myself. All we all want is leisure. And isn't it ironic that we have to work our tails off for those moments of leisure and those packets of chips with air full of nothing?
In a Manner of Speaking
In a manner of speaking, everyone can be what he or she wants to be but you…you…you are the proverbial Caesar’s wife…you must be above suspicion. You must speak so that your words hurt none. You must behave so that your actions hurt none. You must at least make sure that you do not react to anything anyone says or does (or even thinks). Even if it hurts you a bit, or a little more than just a bit, or insults you big time and perhaps wants to make you shout so loud and so desperately that you want to scale the tallest tower in the vicinity or at least the tallest tree and let out a scream to provide the much needed release to your lungs (and soul!) and let everybody know how you feel…oh no, that option is not for you. You must be, in a manner of speaking, perfectly, politically correct in the most polished possible way.
And here you are, so plainly you, so blatantly blunt, not aspiring for the lofty heights of the painfully prosaic and mythical political correctness. So what are you going do you do? “Sharpen, up”, says a little thing. Sharpen eh? But sharp would hurt more wouldn’t it in a literal manner of speaking? Now that’s a thought—blunt as opposed to sharp—what’s the choice? Blunt wouldn’t kill you would think. Sharp is what would sting you think. The choice is your’s, everybody else around gets to punish you anyway they like anyway, for your verbal transgressions, your irate expressions—anything will be meted out to you from the icy cold shoulder or the ridiculously raucous smses. In a manner of speaking, why is it that everyone expects you to be the epitome of perfection while you see no proactive efforts on their part to attempt the same? Ah! Did you overlook the fine print…they have a right to just be themselves—so sensitive that they must express their emotional reactions to your actions. They believe however, that you lost your’s when you decided to lose your way and cross their paths.
But what do you believe in? You have the right to be you…do you? Then be so, you can’t make everyone happy…in a manner of speaking. You still need to do the decent thing bit, is it? Then, be yourself and do the decent bit and from your point of view, in a manner of speaking, that makes the others an ‘indecent’ lot…
“…So in a manner of speaking
I just want to say
That like you I should find a way
To tell you everything
By saying nothing…”*
*In a Manner of Speaking, Depeche Mode
And here you are, so plainly you, so blatantly blunt, not aspiring for the lofty heights of the painfully prosaic and mythical political correctness. So what are you going do you do? “Sharpen, up”, says a little thing. Sharpen eh? But sharp would hurt more wouldn’t it in a literal manner of speaking? Now that’s a thought—blunt as opposed to sharp—what’s the choice? Blunt wouldn’t kill you would think. Sharp is what would sting you think. The choice is your’s, everybody else around gets to punish you anyway they like anyway, for your verbal transgressions, your irate expressions—anything will be meted out to you from the icy cold shoulder or the ridiculously raucous smses. In a manner of speaking, why is it that everyone expects you to be the epitome of perfection while you see no proactive efforts on their part to attempt the same? Ah! Did you overlook the fine print…they have a right to just be themselves—so sensitive that they must express their emotional reactions to your actions. They believe however, that you lost your’s when you decided to lose your way and cross their paths.
But what do you believe in? You have the right to be you…do you? Then be so, you can’t make everyone happy…in a manner of speaking. You still need to do the decent thing bit, is it? Then, be yourself and do the decent bit and from your point of view, in a manner of speaking, that makes the others an ‘indecent’ lot…
“…So in a manner of speaking
I just want to say
That like you I should find a way
To tell you everything
By saying nothing…”*
*In a Manner of Speaking, Depeche Mode
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sleepover It
There comes a time when every mom has to give into it—a sleepover party. A code name is given to the party—so those not invited would not feel bad. How polished! Rooms are cleaned and loud but faithless vows are made that the room will be kept clean. Menus are drawn up by the host child and tailored to fit some if not all friends. Passwords are made to be whispered into each friend’s ear to ensure entry to the room. While board games are pulled out, they will give room to the ones born from their imagination. The mood is at an all time high and parents are given compliments that they are the best. The best is to bask in these compliments till the time you clash over discussions of the mundane clean-your-room, do-your-homework, be-responsible…etc.
So all the young ones make their elegant entrances with their overnight cases and favorite pillows or pokemons or bunnies or dollies—you would think the teddy bears have fierce competition in their work space these days. The first few minutes are always a little icy—sometimes uncharitable comparison of whose house, room, bed, PJs, etc are better. Then they thaw a bit, get off their high horses and get down to the business of having fun. Many tears are shed over the board games—everybody wants to win you see and they don’t. Paintings are drawn to wipe out the tears and then a movie accompanies the dinner. Everyone has to sleep in the same bed, so you let them lay as they want to on the bed or around it with barricade of pillows. Then you listen to the stories…of how there was a girl with a ribbon around her neck and how a chap kept asking her why she wore it. But she wouldn’t tell. He married her nevertheless and kept asking her as the years passed by till finally she undid the ribbon and guess what happened? Her head fell off!
As a parent, your role in the sleepover is to be at your ward’s beck and call, supervise that all the games are safe enough, be a fair mediator in case of confrontation which anyway don’t last long so it’s better left unaddressed, make sure that they are well fed, and of course once in a while try and get a bit of rest.
For me, during a sleepover that had begun the day before, the floor looked enticing enough to sleep on so I did. Besides, I was just too tired to haul myself to the bedroom. I just lay down on the floor, while the girls played a game. All that I heard came in surreal snatches but nevertheless were eye-openers. I believe the game was “Vet and Pet”, where one was the vet, the other thankfully was not a pet but a zookeeper (a welcome change from a game of yesterday where she was the pet and the other a dog trainer), and the third was giving all the animals and a mermaid a nice wash. From the corner of a tired eye I saw the miniature plastic animals, being examined and washed with a lot of care. The vet had come to assess the animals and came out with the following diagnosis:
The Lion was having dental problems that need to be dealt with. The zookeeper retorted, “You go and stick your hand in its mouth then!”
The second was that the Giraffe was lonely and should be moved to live with the Rhinoceros for company. The zookeeper replied, “But…but the Rhinoceros has suddenly turned carnivorous…”
The third was that the stones were getting into the paws of some other ambi-vorous animal but the big shock came when the zoo keeper was given a bill that went into a few thousands of…dollars!
Being fully aware of the exchange rates (they have been learning about currency) the zookeeper protested and launched a verbal attack on the vet, who solidly held her ground. Meanwhile the washer of animals had washed off the stripes of the tiger and was in tears now because the mermaid’s base had broken off! Now that was a crisis that got me to my feet and I hugged them all and we all laughed together over chips, juice, the mermaid, the lost stripes, the lion’s dental problem, the rhino who had turned meat-eater and the fact that the aspiring vet found out that you have to study really hard to be one. Said she, “I think I shall just be the vet’s assistant”!
So all the young ones make their elegant entrances with their overnight cases and favorite pillows or pokemons or bunnies or dollies—you would think the teddy bears have fierce competition in their work space these days. The first few minutes are always a little icy—sometimes uncharitable comparison of whose house, room, bed, PJs, etc are better. Then they thaw a bit, get off their high horses and get down to the business of having fun. Many tears are shed over the board games—everybody wants to win you see and they don’t. Paintings are drawn to wipe out the tears and then a movie accompanies the dinner. Everyone has to sleep in the same bed, so you let them lay as they want to on the bed or around it with barricade of pillows. Then you listen to the stories…of how there was a girl with a ribbon around her neck and how a chap kept asking her why she wore it. But she wouldn’t tell. He married her nevertheless and kept asking her as the years passed by till finally she undid the ribbon and guess what happened? Her head fell off!
As a parent, your role in the sleepover is to be at your ward’s beck and call, supervise that all the games are safe enough, be a fair mediator in case of confrontation which anyway don’t last long so it’s better left unaddressed, make sure that they are well fed, and of course once in a while try and get a bit of rest.
For me, during a sleepover that had begun the day before, the floor looked enticing enough to sleep on so I did. Besides, I was just too tired to haul myself to the bedroom. I just lay down on the floor, while the girls played a game. All that I heard came in surreal snatches but nevertheless were eye-openers. I believe the game was “Vet and Pet”, where one was the vet, the other thankfully was not a pet but a zookeeper (a welcome change from a game of yesterday where she was the pet and the other a dog trainer), and the third was giving all the animals and a mermaid a nice wash. From the corner of a tired eye I saw the miniature plastic animals, being examined and washed with a lot of care. The vet had come to assess the animals and came out with the following diagnosis:
The Lion was having dental problems that need to be dealt with. The zookeeper retorted, “You go and stick your hand in its mouth then!”
The second was that the Giraffe was lonely and should be moved to live with the Rhinoceros for company. The zookeeper replied, “But…but the Rhinoceros has suddenly turned carnivorous…”
The third was that the stones were getting into the paws of some other ambi-vorous animal but the big shock came when the zoo keeper was given a bill that went into a few thousands of…dollars!
Being fully aware of the exchange rates (they have been learning about currency) the zookeeper protested and launched a verbal attack on the vet, who solidly held her ground. Meanwhile the washer of animals had washed off the stripes of the tiger and was in tears now because the mermaid’s base had broken off! Now that was a crisis that got me to my feet and I hugged them all and we all laughed together over chips, juice, the mermaid, the lost stripes, the lion’s dental problem, the rhino who had turned meat-eater and the fact that the aspiring vet found out that you have to study really hard to be one. Said she, “I think I shall just be the vet’s assistant”!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Straw Struck!
There she is—look at her! Her hair flies out in jagged odds and ends making her look like a mythical Medusa, as the erratic breeze plays out its aimlessly ambivalent mood. She’s standing at the curb waiting for the bus to bring back her child at 2.30pm. Just that today her kid comes back at 3.30pm. She only realizes that as all the kids tumble out of the bus but her own. She sheepishly gets back in the car and drives off, with as much dignity as possible as the other parents look quizzically. Blame it on old age—blame it on the all the straws in her life. Straws…you ask? Yes all the straws in her life.
She’s clutching at straws now, hanging on to it for dear life. All the puny, dried up, dirty brown straws that you would throw away for recycling. And that’s funny because her eyes would be all but vacant hadn’t it been for those straws—it gives her hope. What’s wrong with that, she asks? There would have been no Shawshank Redemption without hope. Hope springs eternal and life is for living. So what if along the way, you meet men (and women!) of straw? They are not what they seem to be. But then none of us are what we seem to be, she says. Scratch under the put on airs and all of us will be like the people of straw we love to blame. I am like those straw men the military do their combat training on, she says. It’s hilarious how she stood her ground clutching at what she could, while her house of straw was huffed and puffed at. Build a house of bricks, you say? But this little piggy is incorrigible! She ran here and there clutching at all the straws around her and held on to all that she could. Why, you ask? Because you can’t make bricks without straw, or paper, or rope, or…even handicrafts for that matter. Besides, you never know when Rumplestiltskin comes around to weave the straw into gold, she says.
After yo-yoing between the to be or not to be, at the moment it looks like she’s drawn the short straw—the shortest possible. She knows she has the unpleasant on her plate right now. Sometimes she bawls about it shamelessly when no one is looking (and my, does she look ugly—like some water color set out in the rain!). Sometimes she laughs when her friend guffaws to point out the funny straw or two (and my, does she look a sight—like some unrehearsed comic sidekick!). Sometimes she’s angry to the point of mutiny (and oh boy, does she look demented—like the mad wife from Jane Eyre!). But most of the time she deals with it. Someone’s got to deal with it, it's like toilet-cleaning duty. Or would you rather the necessary but unpleasant tasks not get done? Hey no one is setting up a straw man argument but at least let’s not get to the talk of the final straws. Lets point her to the straws in the wind that isn’t just messing up her hair—it’s signifying a different future.
Let’s just leave her now. Let her be. She’ll be back at the right time. She’ll be there for her child. She’ll be there for those she cares about—the final straw might break the camel’s back, but let’s hope it won’t break her. You see the final straw, you say? Look at her—she just dodged it, again!
She’s clutching at straws now, hanging on to it for dear life. All the puny, dried up, dirty brown straws that you would throw away for recycling. And that’s funny because her eyes would be all but vacant hadn’t it been for those straws—it gives her hope. What’s wrong with that, she asks? There would have been no Shawshank Redemption without hope. Hope springs eternal and life is for living. So what if along the way, you meet men (and women!) of straw? They are not what they seem to be. But then none of us are what we seem to be, she says. Scratch under the put on airs and all of us will be like the people of straw we love to blame. I am like those straw men the military do their combat training on, she says. It’s hilarious how she stood her ground clutching at what she could, while her house of straw was huffed and puffed at. Build a house of bricks, you say? But this little piggy is incorrigible! She ran here and there clutching at all the straws around her and held on to all that she could. Why, you ask? Because you can’t make bricks without straw, or paper, or rope, or…even handicrafts for that matter. Besides, you never know when Rumplestiltskin comes around to weave the straw into gold, she says.
After yo-yoing between the to be or not to be, at the moment it looks like she’s drawn the short straw—the shortest possible. She knows she has the unpleasant on her plate right now. Sometimes she bawls about it shamelessly when no one is looking (and my, does she look ugly—like some water color set out in the rain!). Sometimes she laughs when her friend guffaws to point out the funny straw or two (and my, does she look a sight—like some unrehearsed comic sidekick!). Sometimes she’s angry to the point of mutiny (and oh boy, does she look demented—like the mad wife from Jane Eyre!). But most of the time she deals with it. Someone’s got to deal with it, it's like toilet-cleaning duty. Or would you rather the necessary but unpleasant tasks not get done? Hey no one is setting up a straw man argument but at least let’s not get to the talk of the final straws. Lets point her to the straws in the wind that isn’t just messing up her hair—it’s signifying a different future.
Let’s just leave her now. Let her be. She’ll be back at the right time. She’ll be there for her child. She’ll be there for those she cares about—the final straw might break the camel’s back, but let’s hope it won’t break her. You see the final straw, you say? Look at her—she just dodged it, again!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)