independant thinkers and their parents

'... so ma, what you're actually saying is this,' my son said, 'you brought me up to be a free thinker, questioning popular thought, looking for my own answers, finding my own truths, but that's only with the rest of the world... not with you, right?'

what can i say, the boy is right!

happy and gay, naturally!

'... so i told the school authorities that it was only natural for her to be interested in boys at this age, and if she were not, now that would be un-natural and abnormal!'

i was telling my son about the 'we wish to bring to your notice that your daughter is interested in a boy, so please counsel and discipline her.' email i got from school.

'ma, please, you're going to give the wrong impression,' my son protested, and quite vehemently too. 'why don't you just stop for a minute and think about what you've done....' the words rolled on, but i didn't pay too much attention.

'maybe he's right...' I told myself, 'the school is conservative, which is why i got that email in the first place... i hope they don't take it out on my chellam ...' when random words my first born was saying started registering in my mind, bringing my meandering thoughts to a screeching halt.

'... and you know what. you've just indicated. very clearly. that being attracted to the opposite sex is normal. and being gay is un-natural and abnormal!'

what? when did i ever say that! i protested. i never meant that at all. i was only talking about how attraction between the sexes is normal among teens. and anyway, even if i did indicate that, what did it have to do with chellam and her issue?

'raja,' i said firmly, after trying to get him to get back to my point, and failing to cut through his indignant support of homosexuality, 'this is not about gays at all. this is simply about my making a point to that stupid school that teenagers are hormonal and will be attracted to the opposite sex. i wasn't talking about homosexuality. it didn't even strike me to talk about it. now let it go.'

he let it go.

we've had this conversation many times, and it always worries me. 'what if?' my mind asks. i've got nothing against homosexuals, i've always said, not giving voice to the thought that homosexuality was ok as long as it was not my children who were that way. hypocrisy? alright, i'll admit to that. but i'm not ready to face any other kind of reality.

does every mother go through this? wondering about her son's sexual inclinations when he makes statements like my brat just did, and in that particular tone? when there are no girls in his life, and when there are too many girls in his life, and no 'girlfriend'? when he chooses deep purple curtains with silver grey flowers for his room? i must confess those curtains are super chic, but an 18 yr old 'straight' boy's choice?

'since when are colour and design gender specific?' he counters when i tell him that choice of curtain is 'gay.' oh god, i cringe just to type those words... did i actually say something that goes so against my policy of be and let be?

'are you?' i've asked him.

'no, but what would you do if i were?' he replies with his own question.

'well i won't be exactly thrilled about it, and it will be tough to accept it, but if that's what you were, i guess i would deal with it.' i say, 'eventually.'

i'm not happy with the direction that particular conversation went. but is there anything i can do about it?

yup. nothing. so let it be. for now.

on the cutting edge

a long exchange of smsses with first born today, he's travelling from san francisco to boston, and because of favourable winds, the 6 hour journey is cut down to 4. a relief normally, but the problem is his flight will now land in boston at 4am, and he has a one hour bus ride to college, in temperatures of -4!

once in boston, he gets completely lost, takes the wrong bus, rides around the city in the cold and dark, and generally has a miserable time. hiding my anxiety, i try to get him to laugh it off. 'look on the bright side raja', i tell him. 'if you survive this with no lasting trauma, at least you have an adventure you can talk about!'

'yup, and i'll be so used to the cold that i'll be walking around kodaikanal in my jetti', he replies (jetti=briefs)

'don't even think about it,' i message back, 'you'll scare away the bison.' we exchange smileys, and sign off.

just last week, he was down with a terrible upper respiratory tract infection and fever, and now he's wandering about in the cold. i don't even want to think about it. oh, well, some years ago, when keeping in touch across continents was not easy, i'm sure children went through these same issues and lived to tell the tale, and parents lived in their own worlds, blissfully unaware. brat will survive.

next is a phone call to my chellam.

'oh ma, i had these ugly tights, and they ripped, and so i ripped them some more and wore them, and they looked so cool, but a bit stripperish,' she tells me. pause for breath, and the words tumble out again, 'and you know what, i tore my jeans, and they look so awful. but you know what, i want totally ripped jeans, with just threads across the knees. they look so cool.'

'errmm... aren't they trashy?' i ask, 'and how come a small rip is uncool and hanging on by a thread is cool?'

she explains that 'sluttish' and 'stripperish' are bit way out, but look cool anyway. and this from a girl who talks about becoming a fashion merchandiser so she can influence global buying patterns. i don't know if i want to be around to see all of that!

and then her voice drops to a whisper; tone is still excited, words still tumble out higgledy-piggledy, but this time in whispers.

'oh ma, oh ma, oh ma...btw, you know what so many people are into in school? cutting!'

she goes on to explain what cutting is in graphic detail, and tells me how this boy in her class was rejected by a girl, so he cut himself, and this other girl took a blade and cut herself in so many places, and went about showing everybody.

i'm horrified that children are doing this, and that my baby is amongst children who are doing this, terrified that she might be tempted to try, just to see what is is all about... well, it's been known to happen... don't a lot of things start simply because a person is curious? but i swallow all of that, and ask what she did when the girls showed her the cuts.

'oh i just said 'whatever' and walked away. i didn't want to give her attention.'

i'm just starting to breathe and thank my lucky stars that my chellam is being so sensible when she adds 'i just hope i don't do it some day!'

every single alarm bell in my body starts to jangle.

'babe, you won't.' i say firmly. 'people who do that sort of thing have problems. either they have emotional issues. they have low self esteem, or are seeking attention. you don't need to get attention or seek validation by doing something so crazy.'

i know it's not that simple. i don't know why children do it, and i have absolutely no idea what i will do if my chellam ever does something like that.

she agrees it is freakish, and really horrid, but i can also hear the morbid fascination in her voice. i remember a girl in my own class, in boarding school who would take a nail cutter and pinch her skin off with it, and pull a blade or compass point through her hands. it was just that one girl though, and yes, we discussed it with shudders, but didn't pay it much attention.

from my conversation with my chellam, it seemed like the problem with teens cutting themselves was a lot more prevalent now, and i cross my fingers and say a prayer she will never harm herself in these ways. those ominous words 'i just hope i don't do it some day!' go round and round in my head.

and to think school sent me an email yesterday, and in extra large sized font that too, asking me counsel and discipline my daughter as she was 'interested in a boy.'

ooh man, what can i say about their priorities!!

ps. if you think you know someone who might be doing themselves harm by cutting, and are not really sure, or are a concerned adult who wants more information, you might want to take a look at this website or this one. i have no answers for you, just know that teen issues like self injury need to be taken seriously and perhaps dealt with with professional help. i wish you never have to address the issue of cutting with a child, but if you do, i wish you strength.

do 18 year olds need chaperones?

my first born wants to travel half way around the world to spend a week with his friends during spring break, in march 2011.

being the kind of person he is, along with his emailed request to go, he sends his dad and me details of his holiday schedule, his friends' holiday schedules, flight options, ticket costs, cost of hotels and service apartments (weekday and weekend rates) in the country he plans to visit.

impressive, but we gene donors freak out anyway.

me, still the conservative villager under my lipstick and concealer, freaking out at the idea of a teenager flying halfway around the world to spend a week with friends; his dad, who is ok with the half way around the world for a week idea, freaking out over the trouble he might get into- probably having nightmarish recollections of his own college days- something that does not bother me even after it has been pointed out; i know my son... err... at least think i do!

so, 'pa, he lives in a different country for heaven's sake!' i protest. 'you have no idea what he is up to there and you're ok with that. so how is this trip different!' i wonder if i should point the father to first born's facebook page.

anyway dh comes up with this crazy proposal that i go and spend that week skulking about in the same service apartment my brat is likely to stay, just to keep an eye on the boy. i can't think of anything more horrid, for both brat and me.

picking a time that's appropriate, what do you think about it raja, i ask. i take pains to point out that i'm a super cool mom who will not get in his way, or on his case, as long as he wasn't doing dangerous things of course.

'it's simple ma,' he says, quick as a flash. 'nana and you have to realise i'm not 14 anymore. also, my friends and i are not so stupid that we will break laws with no care for consequences. that said, if having a chaperone is the only way i can travel, i'd rather not go. i'll wait till you can trust me to travel to a foreign country on my own.'

then he moved on to something else. no arguments, no tantrums, nothing. he just made his point and moved on!

from past experience, i know that first born's 'oh so reasonable' handling of situations gets people to agree to even the most outrageous of requests, and i can't see this as being any different, but i'd like to see where it goes anyway!

i also think i would have made a nice mom for me. sigh.

here's where they are today

my chellam, 14, is now in boarding school, and learning to live a whole new life.

my raja, 18, is now in his first year of college in the us, and has slipped so easily into a new, and to me completely alien, life, it is frightening. he of course thinks being a 'major' he can do pretty much as he pleases.

so that's where my brats are today. this new avatar of my blog will be, i hope, my memory keeper.

birthday presents, and how to get what you want!

last night, chellam, raja and i walked into the taj for a late, late dinner, and saw this prominently displayed sign that said 'salvatore ferragamo at the taj coromandel'

after squeals of delight from my daughter who wouldn't know a ferragamo from a frock stitched by the local roadside tailor, sarcastic comments about overpriced italian brands, courtesy my son, and my observations on the psychological differences between paying a couple of hundred dollars vs many thousands of rupees for a tie, we settled in to the usual crazy dinner conversations  the family is known to have!   

the topic of conversation today was chellam and her penchant for everything branded, hyped and overpriced, and how she would soon (in about 11 years :)) have to foot her own bills. 

amidst much hooting and laughter and protests, we figured out this is how she would probably fill her closets with designer junk.  

chellam, from somewhere in europe, calling her brother - haaii annnaa!!! (some polite conversation follows) 

brother, rudely cutting her off - ok, what do you want?

chellam - nothing anna, it's my birthday in a few days, so i was wondering if you were planning to get me a present. (silence on the line, so chellam bravely pushes on) anna, will you get me a pair of jimmy choos?

long silence again, then, brother -  sure... in your dreams! (click of receiver in her ear)

chellam calls her mother next. polite conversation follows, then - ma, its my birthday in a few days...

mother, cutting in- yes, bangaru, i know. i've arranged for a special puja and a homam in your name. i'll send you the prasadam as soon as i get it. put some kumkum on your forehead every night without fail, ok?

chellam rolling her eyes -her mother's a hopeless case- and hanging up. she can always blame it on the connection later!

she calls her father. 

father - yes, what is it? i'm in the middle of a monthly review meeting!

chellam - no nana, it's my birthday in a few days, and i was wondering if i could pick up a present for myself.

father, relieved that that's all it is, and figuring he can get off the phone in less than 2 minutes, is all sweet and indulgent now - sure kanna, get yourself something nice. what do you want?

chellam - nothing much nana. is a pair of shoes or something like that ok with you?

father, glancing at his watch - sure kanna, get yourself a couple of nice pairs. but get something sensible, not something horrible in purple or orange, ok? take care of yourself. are you dressing warmly enough? don't go out in the wind without your thermals. i've got to go now. call me on sunday. love you.

chellam hangs up with a wide grin on her face. 2 pairs! yyyesss!! 

father hangs up with a sigh of relief. shoes!! now back to the meeting.

of course he has no idea what shoes she has in mind or how much they cost, and she's not going to be around when the credit card slip arrives and he bursts a blood vessel!

things that go bump in the night

'stay right where you are,' my darling husband snapped!

considering that it was 4.00am, and that till the moment he had barked his order, i had been fast asleep, there didn't seem any immediate danger of my jumping up and rushing off anywhere.

'what's happening pa?' i asked sleepily.

'nothing,' the man of the house retorted, 'don't move!'

wide awake now, and definitely not ready to take orders lying down (forgive the awful pun!) i struggled up from bed. 'pa, what's going on, did you hear somebody in the house?' i asked, my words bouncing off a closing door around which came a snort that could have meant yes, or no, or anything else. 

my dh had stalked off to see who had invaded his territory.

he, as he had proved years ago, is far braver than he strictly needs to be when woken up by intruders in the middle of the night. such situations usually ended with the bewildered intruder bound with cord yanked off a table lamp, and dumped in the back seat of the car, while my husband prepared to dash off with his booty to the police station, clad in nothing more than boxer shorts!

i peeped out of the bedroom and saw lights snap on rapidly in room after room. 

'where's s?' the question ricocheted up the stairs. 

where was my son? in his room, i hoped, fast asleep, like he was meant to be. suddenly horror stories about disgruntled domestics sneaking into children's rooms and slitting the throats of the sleeping babes rushed to my mind. 'oh god, let him be safe, please!' i prayed.

it was definitely time to act. i shook my daughter, 'get up,' i snapped at the poor thing. (yes, when you have no idea what you are doing, barking orders feels useful.)

i yanked the mattress up, frantically searching for my 'whacking stick,' a wicked brass tipped bamboo staff i kept hidden there specifically for these situations. 

there was no way i was going to let my man face what i imagined was a mustachioed, knife-wielding, lungi-clad thug, armed with just courage and a sense of outrage, or let my child have his throat slashed in his sleep, so weapon in hand, i crept out of the bedroom, determinded to save the situation.

'check on s!' the command bounced up the stairs again. 

heart beating so loud i could actually hear the pounding, i gripped the bamboo staff tightly in my sweaty hands, and pushed open my son's bedroom door softly... and froze at the sight in front of me...

sitting cross-legged in bed, there he was, my son, plugged into his music, completely oblivious to the galatta his nocturnal wandering had caused, calmly eating some kiwi fruit he had just raided from the fridge!

'pa,' i shouted down, 'i found your intruder!'

why do i love thee, let me list 5 reasons...

first, my apologies to abha for letting this post slide for this long - will your hurt be appeased, my friend, if i say it was because i was romancing my darling husband in the hills somewhere, singing songs, running around a tree, with flowers nodding in the background, etc., in true bollywood style?

what! you don't believe me?

oh just as well, because it wasn't true anyway - at least not the singing part :)

now, on to the tag - 5 things you love about being a mother - that's what abha's tagged me to d0 - check out her list of 5.

i'm going to copy paste her instructions

The tag is: 5 things that you love about being a mom. Next, find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (let them know that you've tagged them!) - and link back here and HBM (that's where this all started) and leave a comment.

here goes - 

1 - i love seeing the world through my children's eyes -  my 17 yr old, i swear he was born old, is the eternal cynic. i'm amazed at the way his mind works, at how he can take apart an action, a reaction, a conversation, anything at all, and analyse it to death, dragging me into discussions the wildest stretches of my imagination could not otherwise think up! i love the way my 13 year old, a romantic in the truest sense of the word, is ready to believe the best of everything, and secretly pray she never loses this innocence that makes her such a pleasure to be with.

2 - i love the way they keep me young and 'with it' - without them, how would i know how awesome jesse mccartney or the google android was? how would i know that a pottery party was the most 'uncool thing' a mom could think up for her child, and that girls are just as good at football as boys, if not better? it's not just media stars, gadgets, and other things teens are fascinated with, they have such fresh ideas, and think in ways i've forgotten to. they take me back to my own childhood, and remind me what hard work it is to be a child in a grown up's world.

3 - a little give, and a little take - ok, a lot of it! -  i love doing things for the children; covering books with brown paper, giving massages and mini facials, finding the right shade of bangles to match that silk skirt, driving them to an early morning classes, serving them hot lunch when they come home tired from school... there are alternatives, somebody else could do it, why they themselves could do it, but i do it, simply because it makes me feel great to still be able to do little things for them. 

and it's a wicked thing to admit, but children are very handy when it comes to fetch and carry - who else can you get to run around looking for the keys that are in the handbag right next to your elbow, or to fix the computer when the dog has jumped on the wires? who else can you get to give you a foot rub when you're home after a long hard day, or carry back that sandstone sculpture you fell in love with in thailand? 

4 - i love how i can still teach them to look at the world through my eyes - wow, raw fish is not such a bad food, and taking half a day off to go browse through a museum while on holiday is not so boring really. and hey, this ray charles dude can sing, can't he, and bombay jayshree, and begum abida parveen, and vivaldi can make really nice music ma! music, art, indian culture and customs, the list goes on. there's so much they still have to learn, and i love introducing bits of these worlds to them.

5 - i love early morning 'kattis' (our word for hugs) - at one time early morning hugs were things i took for granted. actually with two children, one who fell asleep only if she had my hair twisted in her fingers, and another who kicked me all about the bed, i was glad for space. who needed early morning hugs! now that big bed seems strangely empty without all those bodies filling it up, and i'm glad for times they still feel little enough to sneak in for a cuddle. reminds me of how quickly times flies by, and how soon the small joys we take for granted today are gone. i love you my babies, i've always got room for an early morning hug!

one mother's wishlist

Raja, Chellam,

Let me spare you the worry of thinking up something appropriate to get for me on those days you think are special, and you must get something to mark it; here's my list for you.

Your company – The man who said, ’’The greatest gift is a portion of thyself’’ sure knew his stuff. Talk to me when I call, make time for me when I drop in to see you, even if you think you are too busy to make that time. Maybe I want to see you just for a minute. Maybe I just want to see that smile, maybe I just want to hug you and think of how you used to smell of baby powder, or too much perfume, or sweat, dirt and excitement after a football match. 
Come with me to that hopelessly romantic movie, even if it embarrasses you to be seen with your old mom at a chick flick. You don’t have to jump off the plane with me if I suggest going sky-diving, but drive me to the drop zone. Come out to lunch with me, take me with you when you go shopping for your new gizmo, sit with me a while when I’m unwell, and keep me a part of your life no matter where you are and how old you are, and who else is in your life.

Tell me the truth – Don’t lie to me, ever. I am always firmly on your side. It maybe a hopeless exam result, it maybe a girlfriend or a boyfriend I don’t approve of, it maybe murder you have committed, I don’t care. Tell me the truth. We will find a solution for it and face the world together. 

Hugs and kisses – I will never be too old or too dignified to be hugged and kissed. Hug me, kiss me, tell me you love me; I will make sure I always return these gifts to you, doubled.

Your appreciation – I love doing things for you. Some of them are silly and spontaneous, some take a lot of planning and effort. Show me you appreciate my efforts and my thoughtfulness. Don’t take me for granted. Tell me I am the best mom in the world; pay me for what I do with your words and smiles, with your hugs and kisses. That is what keeps me going.

Your children – You will not always have as much time for me as I want from you. Give me your children to love, to bring up, to tell stories to, to talk to about when you were little, to braid their hair, tuck their shirts in, to kiss their scraped knees and comfort them, to scold, and in them to see you again as you once were, in all your goodness and innocence, before you got all grown up, and independent, and left.

Make me proud of you - Live happy, live your life without regrets, follow your dreams. Life is not just about work or about material success. Be curious, be adventurous, take time off to love and to laugh. Also don’t ever forget that life has been good to you; give back to those who are not as fortunate. Let me see you do all of this, and let me feel the glow of pride that comes in seeing you live well.

Of course this doesn’t mean that you don’t provide your old mom with gifts of the material kind. Surprise me with a party, pamper me with jewellery; give me presents of art, exotic holidays, accounts at my favourite book-store, and melt in the mouth chocolates. If you think there’s something I might like, and if it doesn’t feature in this list, please feel free to go right ahead and get it for me. And you don’t have to wait for an occasion to give me a present. I won’t take offence at the ‘for no reason at all’ gift. 

Love and hugs, Amma

untying the strings

here he is now, fast asleep on the sofa, feet propped on my lap, forcing me to balance my computer awkwardly as i tap this post out. 

my son, 17, the lines of his face soft and relaxed, beautiful, exactly the way he used to be when he was 4, and slept just like this, except that now he has a 3 day fuzz covering most of his face, and an earring glints between the overly long strands of hair brushing his cheeks.

i remember when we first moved to chennai. i was 24, scared and quite alone. i had never stepped outside the shadow of my parents or husband, and there i was, pregnant with my second child, in an unfamiliar city, my two and a half year old son in tow, and the disapproval of family, mine and my husband's, hanging over my head.

'i want to study' i declared. 

'and what about your son?' they asked. 

'i'll send him to school' i said. 

'but you're expecting a baby' they said. 

'yes i am.' i replied.

it was just the two of us in that flat that seemed so small after the luxury of space we were used to in the house in the village. us, an old cook and his wife, and a 'boy,' all of whom had been around far longer than i had been married. 

i would drop him off in play-school and rush off to college, studying something i didn't even know if i was interested in. anything to escape a life where every day was the same as the previous one.

i remember he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the light switches, and even then sometimes they were just beyond the reach of his fingertips. and i remember bathtimes. he would sit on his colourful stool, and i would work the soap into a mountain of suds in his palm, and heap them on his nose, and into horns on his wet hair, singing 'row, row, row your boat...'

'merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, merri-vily, life is but a dream.' he would chorus in his baby voice, and we would laugh, both of us. 

i remember the day the doctor told me the pregnancy had to be terminated. i was distraught. my son wiped away my tears, wrapped his arms around me and said 'amma, don't cry, i will always be your baby.' 

we held each other and cried. i, for the loss of one child, and for the innocence of another, and he because his mother was crying.

we went out to dinner twice a week, once on wednesday to the club, and once on saturday, to any restaurant i had heard about. i introduced him to everything from street food to japanese cuisine, all of which he learned to enjoy, and by the time he was three he was handling his cutlery so beautifully, friends asked if i would teach their children too. he wanted to learn to use chop sticks, so i bound a pair with rubber bands, wedged a piece of paper in between, and showed him how. how frustrated he would get every time he dropped his food, but he persisted, and got it.

there was no thought then of space. he would bounce home from school, full of stories about his day, and i would gather him in my arms, hold him close, and listen.

then his sister came along, and he had to learn to share his mother's affection. he didn't like it one bit. i would get reports from school that he had stuck bubble gum in nikila's hair, and had got into a fight with akshara. he would return with scratches on his face. my solution was to teach him to fight back. bad idea. he wouldn't, or would do it so tentatively, he would get walloped.

i don't know when it started to seem as if i couldn't breathe. maybe he was 4, or maybe he was 5. 

'go on,' i would say, 'you're not a baby any more, try to do it on your own.' 

he didn't understand. what had been perfectly ok was suddenly declared 'babyish.' so he had to go into the wash room on his own, and he had to fall sleep on his own while his mother sat in the next room watching tv. if he came to the slightly open door, and held on, watching me, waiting for the programme to end, so that i would come to bed, and tell him a story that he could fall asleep to, like i had done all these days, i would fly into a rage. 

'why can't you sleep on your own?' i would demand. 

'because i'm scared amma.' he would whisper, lips trembling, tears ready to spill onto his cheeks. 

'but i'm right outside!' i would say in exasperation. 

'but i want you here amma,' he would reply, patting the bed by his side.

more years went by. now he wanted some space too. no more hugs in school in front of his friends, no cheering loudly for him at the races. affection was strictly for demonstrating at home. his friends and what they thought was all important.

but we still had our twice weekly dinners out, and discussed everything under the sun. we talked about the magic of books and he read them faster than i could buy them. i spoke about the wonder of ancient indian culture. he took tosilambam happily, pouted his way through three yoga lessons, and refused to try dance. 

'listen to my music,' i said, and introduced him to the sounds of rock, country, jazz, and classical music. he loved classical indian violin, and even learnt it for a while. 

we hung out at art galleries and gaped at everything in equal wonder. 

'what do you want for your birthday?' his father asked him. 

'a painting.' was the prompt reply. he was 11. 

my brother declared him an unnatural child, made old before his time. he didn't care. he fell in love with the bright canvasses of shuvaprasanna's flowers. 

'make me one,' he begged the artist, 'in pink and blue.' the artist, amused, agreed, and the boy worked 3 years, washing cars, and saving his birthday money and his deepavali money, and negotiating a 'money for marks and medals' deal with his father, to pay for it.

i remember one day when he came home from school terribly disturbed. he had listened to some street children speaking at his assembly, talking about their dreams to become doctors, engineers, and policemen.

'ma, they don't even have money for 3 meals a day,' he said, 'all they have is their dreams. one boy was so scared to speak, he peed in his pants, right there on the stage. i felt so bad for him. can we do something for them ma?' 

so we raised money for these boys to have milk and biscuits in the evening. and he would go visit them them at festival times, taking biryani and sweets.

then one time he came back from school, threw his bag down by the dining table and demanded his lunch, as he did every day. i looked at him, mouth hanging open- in those few hours he had been away from home he had changed. 

'raja, your voice has broken.' i said. 

'what rubbish amma' he dismissed, only to admit 3 days later that i was right. 

my baby was growing up. 

our weekly discussions now included girl friends and drugs and alcohol and sex. 'treat them with respect' i would say, 'stay safe no matter what. don't do drugs. don't drink and drive. actually don't drink at all, you're too young for all of that.' and he would roll his eyes and call it lecture number 17, or something.

and i remember the day we fought. he threw his watch down on the ground, smashed it and screamed that he hated me, that he never loved me at all, and that he had only been pretending. i remember calling my sister to come over and do something because i couldn't do anything at all, except reel from the pain of what felt like a thousand knives in my heart. i don't remember today what the argument was about, just that i felt like i was going to die.

'he's growing up,' a friend said. 'he needs space and doesn't know how to ask for it or how to take it.' he had his secrets and his friends and parts of his life that had nothing to do with me. he was ready to let go of his mother; i wasn't ready to let go of him yet.

he went away to boarding school for a year. he went away a child, and came home so grown up i sometimes wondered who this young man was. our relationship was different now. sometimes he looked to me for advice, and sometimes i turned to him for answers.

'stay in india for your undergrad raja,' i said.

'when are you going to let me go ma?' he responded. 'it's got to happen sometime, you know!'

and so he is preparing to fly. 

'come with me to look at the colleges.' he asked today. 

'no, i said.' i don't know anything about all of this. go with your father.' and sat down with a friend to have a little cry. she sent me a link to a blog with a post about letting go. it just made me cry harder. 

'do fathers also feel this way?' i wrote to another friend, 'or is it just us silly mothers?'

i remember talking to a friend years ago about how apron strings could bind so tight they became prisons. glib talk that. words spoken without a thought to how letting go could be so heart breaking.

but my son's life is his own, as mine is my own. i know even though i am not ready to let go, i must; in spite of his promise to me, my baby cannot always be my baby.

and for the first time i truly understand why, every time we children leave home after a visit, my mother has tears in her eyes.

growing wings

they're back. in two weeks, father and son have travelled across three continents, driven 2,000 miles and visited 16 colleges.

in the last two weeks, first-born has told one admissions counsellor that the way he saw it, he would not be the super-chef dishing up global delicacies, he would be the one hiring the man; charmed a hostile admissions counsellor into giving him the new, and so far undisclosed maths syllabus, so he could brush up on it, increasing his chances of admission, and got a third counsellor to promise him a 20% scholarship right from year 1, if he finished with a fairly decent high school grade.

the son's now given up the idea of culinary school; he thinks management is a better option. 

his father's now given up the idea of technical school; he thinks the college with a 3:1  girls:boys ratio is the better option.

all in all, a good trip.

as for me, i'm not turning on the waterworks. not yet.

and some days, they are perfectly horrid!

4.45am - "BITCH GET IN MY CAR" i jerk upright and flail around blindly. damn, there's somebody in my room, and from the sound of it the foulmouthed idiot is trying to kidnap me or something!!

chellam says sleepily, 'ma, can you shut that alarm off, i want 5 minutes more please!' 

what the hot place downstairs??? that is her morning alarm? and what's it doing going off at 4.45 am anyway?

5.45am - jerk upright and flail around blindly. please god don't tell me i overslept. first born had to be at the golf course at 6.00. damn, i overslept. dash madly into his room, apologising profusely, only to find him under the covers. 'don't worry ma, coach smssed saying it was ok if i was there at 7.00' 

oh, and you never thought to let me know?

walk back to room with mood meter inching toward 'annoyed' 

discover chellam is still sprawled across the bed asleep. so much for that 4.45 alarm. wake her up, get under the covers and try to grab some sleep. nope, not happening. too much adrenalin rushing around for that. remain under the covers, eyes closed, forcing myself to breathe slow and deep. not working.

7.00am - back from the golf course, pick up breakfast for chellam from the kitchen, and take it up to her. 

chellam 'maaa, whydyu get TWO idlis!!' 

whiney tone actually triggers a sharp shooting pain that goes all the way from the back of my teeth through my eyeballs, and right into my brain! i mutter something about ungrateful children and a mother's stupidity, slam the plate down on the bed, and lock myself in the bathroom.

mood meter is firmly lodged at 'pissed off' and the day hasn't even got to it's feet yet.

8.15am - driver calls. he's not coming in to work, his wife's sick.

8.45am - maid calls. she's not coming in to work, her father's sick.

mood meter points to 'ohh myyy gorrdddd' hopelessness

wash down my morning's handful of antibiotics, steroids, tummy protectors and decongestants with a glass of hot water, and throw in some paracetamol for good luck. that flushed feeling could be the onset of insanity or the fever coming back.

the day passes in a daze of phone calls, instructions to the other maid who at best functions like she checked her brain in at the gate before walking in through my door, a meeting with a dear friend. we spend more time gossiping and less working. thank god for small mercies.

mood meter tentatively hovers around 'happy'

5.15pm - turn into my lane and find chellam running out onto the road bare footed, in her school uniform shirt and the thin knit shorts she wears under her uniform skirt - she might as well have run out on the road in her panties! yell and scream that she might have the body of a lumbering 16 year old but her brain is still stuck at 10.

the handful of leering drivers and watchmen looking on have their entertainment quota for the day filled. barely manage to stop myself from turning around and screaming 'and whatreyou looking at? yeah, you, and you, and you!'

8.30pm - get my ass kicked in scrabble, but the company is worth every point i lose, and then some, so it's ok.

9.30pm - come home to find that brat female offspring of mine has been on the computer, on facebook and some stupid thing called 'restaurant city,' knowing perfectly well that the computer is out of bounds on weekdays, and especially so now because exams are going on. sms records show message activity. do i even need to say that we have a 'phone turned in before dinner' rule?

lose it. completely. mood meter zooms to 'insane woman yelling madly, loud enough to be heard down three streets, arms flailing about, spraying spittle all over the room, and eyeballs in serious danger of falling out of her head'  

'ok, if all you do is break every rule i set,' i yell, 'fine, no rules. but don't expect me to do anything for you either. you can't have EVERY BLESSED THING your way!'

she throws a tantrum back, and stalks off, fat tears streaming down her face, saying she needed some peace and quiet to study in. 

right, and i was the one getting in the way of her mugging up her math equations!

mood meter quietly gives up trying. there's nothing in it's experience to describe this.

9.45pm - mom calls, and makes the mistake of asking about the children. she gets an earful. and then she actually says 'don't be too harsh with her, poor thing, it's that age! children are so sensitive these days.' and goes on to tell me about an 8 year old who was accused by her teacher, in front of the class, of stealing a classmate's pencils, and the child, feeling humiliated, went home, poured kerosene over herself, and set herself on fire!

thank you ma, that makes me feel so reassured, and hello, where was all this understanding about 'that age' when i was growing up? i mean, i remember dad actually taking a belt to me, and you watched without saying a word. didn't i go through 'that age' too?

but what's the point. i can't say all of that, and she's only trying to help. i don't even bother to check the mood meter.

10.30pm. talk with mom done, i turn the radio on to 'quiet storm' put my head down on the dining table, and wish i could cry. my eyes burn. i don't know if it's from the fever coming back, or the emotions roiling inside. the voices of barry white, and sade, and seal flow over me in songs of love, and slowly lead my reluctant emotions to a place where it's still dark, but not an acid in the gut dark. this is a more bearable curtains drawn in a cool room dark.

11.15pm - first born calls, asking to be picked up from work. 'i'm hungry ma,' he says, 'can i have some dinner as soon as i get home?' i heat up some quiche, fill a bottle with vegetable juice, and leave. the car's sun roof is open, the warm night air flows through the windows rolled halfway down, soft rock plays on the radio. the road's blessedly empty.

12.30am- dinner's done with. everything's put away for the night. the children are both in bed. 

i look at my handful of medication, the steroids, the antibiotics, and everything else, and feel like throwing all of it away. the prickling behind my eyelids comes back again.

i want my darling husband here. i want a sane, sympathetic adult to talk to. a warm body to hold. somebody to stroke my back, and smooth my hair and ask if i need something. i need to put my head on his shoulder, and have him drape his leg over my hip; to hug him close and fall asleep not knowing where he begins and i end. 

but he's hundreds of miles away, and i won't see him for 3 weeks, wishing we were a 'normal family' with mother and father and two children sitting down to breakfast every morning, and discussing the day's events every evening before children are tucked in under the covers in their rooms, and mom and dad curl up in each others arms to sleep, is not going to help. heck those kind of families probably don't even exist!

like that old eagles song says, i need to 'get over it' if not now, by tomorrow morning at least, when the alarm will go off again at some unearthly hour, to some awful noise that passes off as music, by some ass whose mother should have washed his mouth out with industrial strength floor cleaner years ago.

dear god, tomorrow's a new day. please, let it be a better one.

so, what does she want to do?

first born's back from college visits, so 'has he decided what he wants to do?' is the question of the month. since i really can't say 'he wants to laze about and make lots of money' -it reflects poorly on my parenting skills- i smile beatifically and say 'culinary school, or business, but i think he's leaning towards business.'

sometimes the follow up question is 'and what does chellam want to do.'

usually i'm sane enough to respond with the polite and vague '13 is a little early to know, isn't it?' even though i'm actually thinking, 'heck you're 40 something and it's obvious you still have no clue about what you are doing!'

anyway, back to the question. blame it on 

1 - the late hour - 11.30 at night, 

2 - the 'setting' - we were at elliot's beach sitting on the wall, listening to the waves, enjoying the cool breeze and talking about everything and nothing at all, 

3 - the mood - mellow, relaxed, dreaming about owning a beach house and having access to the wind and the waves any time i wanted, and 

4 - the person who did the asking - my sister, 

that prompted me to blurt out, with more honesty than was strictly needed-

'oh she wants to travel around the world and shop, and fill her cupboards with jimmy choos!'

oops... what happened to the 'plastic surgeon/chef/IFS/fashion designer' and even 'global retail merchandiser' i had rehearsed just for this moment??

first day at work

originally posted in to 'the wind and the trees'

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today is my first born's first day at work. all of 17, he's got 2 months before he gets into his final year of high school and is doing an internship in a local 'star hotel' kitchen to see if he can kick the food bug, or if he cares enough about it to succumb and go to culinary school.

he's working split shifts - 10am - 3pm, and from 7pm to when ever the restaurant kitchen closes - close to midnight, i think. between golf in the morning, and an hour of gym in between his shifts at the hotel, he's got more than his share of things to keep him busy.

today, he came home after shift 1, and gave me a colourful picture of the workings of a hotel kitchen (i'm glad i'm not vegetarian, and even so, i wonder if i will ever eat here again!) 

here's a snippet of conversation between washer-upper and my son - 

washer-upper - dai, entha ooru, coimbatooraa? (where are you from, coimbatore? there's no word that describes the 'dai' accurately. suffice to say it's an extremely disrespectful way of addressing someone)

my son - aamaa, yaen? (yes, why?)

washer-upper - athan, vaaya thoranthale theriyudhu, pattikkaadu! (it shows the minute you open your mouth, bumpkin!)

after i picked myself up from the floor, wiped my eyes, and stopped laughing long enough to speak, i asked him if he minded. after all, he was used to being addressed as 'thambu,'  a form of thambi (younger brother) a term both respectful and affectionate, by the staff.

he shrugged, 'why should i!'

yes, this holiday/ internship would definitely do him good, and if nothing else, it certainly should be interesting!

the cast, crew, and the reasons why

why this blog? for three reasons

one - to maintain some semblance of sanity in my life by giving me much needed child related rant space,

two - to keep the 3.5 readers of my other blog to the wind and the trees from running away, as they surely will if i inflict this upon them, and

three - i promised my chellam i would one day write a book called 'growing up with shivi,' and this is my memory jogger/record keeper/witness of truth

the cast and characters

heroine - shivi, 13yr old girl teen, referred to as chellam in happy times, overly fond of shopping, and of the colour pink, fitting neatly into almost every cliched slot there is for 13yr old girl teens overly fond of shopping and of the colour pink

everybody else qualifies as sidekick, or as it is so beautifully said in tamizh - jaalra. in order of importance

brother - referred to as first-born or raja, exists solely to make her life miserable (according to shivi), also serves as a life raft in the stormy sea that shivi's mother is tossed about on

mother - me

father - referred to as nana, long suffering provider of gadgets and funds for shivi's other mad escapades

assorted characters playing the roles of friends, foes, teachers, and sundry relatives make sporadic appearances.

this drama is set in the lovely south indian city of chennai.

read on.