Mother of tags

Artnavy has tagged me to write a post on being a mother. She was tagged by Boo who in turn was tagged by HBM who is hoping to connect blogging Mothers all over the world in 80 clicks. The rules are- Just write a post of your own (5 things that you love about being a mom) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country - and link back here and leave a comment. It feels strange to write about my experience as a mom now that I’ve become a grand mom 4 times over and have almost forgotten what it felt like being a mom. I’ll try my best but can’t promise to do a great job of it. I became a mom first and a wife and daughter in law later. Now before your devious minds start imagining things let me add that I only became and daughter in law in a real sense only after my daughter Priya was born. My post ‘striking roots’ in three parts, reflects my mood as a young girl in a strange situation and was never a part of the family I married into till my little girl arrived. And her arrival helped me bond with the very people who were strangers to me till she arrived on the scene. Suddenly my MIL became my ‘amma’ and my sister in law a dear friend. To my sister in law Priya was the sister she had lost to accident years back and the whole family was dancing to her tune. My schizophrenic brother in law was never vocal but his affection for the child had to be seen to be believed. Thanks to Priya till date I share a rapport with my in laws and I love them all as much as I love my own family. I am sure my in laws felt that way too. If Priya ensured that I found acceptance from my family it was my second daughter Prasanna who helped me bond with my husband. Yes, one can be a wife and yet not be one. Circumstances forced me to leave my 6 month old child, recovering from a bout of pneumonia, with my mother for a whole year. With her weak sight my mother could not have handled the responsibility of raising a six month old child. It was my sister Vijaya who pitched in to help.It was not easy either. The child would fall sick and visit to the doctor, administering medicines were all responsibilities that my sister took up apart from giving her food and generally keeping an eye on her. I missed watching her take her first step, speak her first word and God knows how much I missed her. My sister used to keep me updated with news about the child. We did not have a telephone connection then and it was only through letters that I got to learn about her progress. Waiting with me for letters from Gobichettipalayam was my husband whose first question when he returned from work would be if there was any news from Gobi about his darling daughter. We would go through the letter over and over again and imagine the situations described in the letter. If my sister in law helped me raise Priya, it was my sister who took care of her even without me being present. I had until then known him to be a dutiful son but he suddenly became an affectionate father and a concerned husband. He also began to bond with my family when my second daughter was left in their care and today my siblings and their better halves take his side and ditch me whenever they get a chance. Very bad of them, don’t you think so too? Bringing up my son Rahul was an entirely different experience. By the time he was born my MIL had passed away, sister in law was married and busy raising her own children and I had to bring him up on my own. Mrs. Sinha who lived in the flat below ours was my deputy and he only had to cry a little and she’d come running to find out what was wrong. He’d call Mr. Sinha ‘ uncle papaji’ and spend a good deal of his time in their house. I started working full time when he turned two and it was Mrs. Sinha who made sure that he ate his food properly and generally kept an eye on him when I was away. Thanks to my children, I was able to understand the joy of being part of a joint family and it give me immense pleasure to remember the love and affection showered on them by one and all. They’ve risen to the occasion and have supported me when I needed them if they had any complaints at least they’ve kept it to themselves. What are they up to now one may ask? How does it feel to be the mother of grown up children? Well, now I wonder if I am their mother or if it is the other way around. They are now my guardian angels. Their weekly phone call begins with ‘Did you go for your walk? Are you careful about your diet’? Their concern is touching. They are my friends. The three of them just have to get together and we can talk till midnight and I get regularly treated to their view on a good number of issues. I love them because I see an extension of myself in them. Priya and Rahul for their love for books. Prasanna for her patience and perseverance. I just cannot imagine life without them and to me motherhood has been a wonderful experience. Being busy with their lives they do not get time to read my blog which is good in a way. I don’t want them to get puffed up with pride so we won’t tell them anything about what I really think of them would we? Now I have to tag people. I tag Usha of agelessbonding to share her experiences as the mother of an only son. Gauri of tiny tidbits whose children seem to be little charms. Also she lives in Hong Kong so that way I’d be tagging someone living in a foreign country. Monika who I am sure has a lot to share about her experiences as the mother of Ojas. Dotm of dot’s thoughts for being the most experienced of us all. And finally eve’s lung who has been quiet for quite sometime now. There are other wonderful mothers out there and if anyone else like JLT or Rajk wishes to take it up please do so.

Gobi Chronicles - 4

Gobi Chronicles - 4

I had decided to dedicate a separate post to Moopachi – the house help who worked for more than 40 years in Vembathy House. As a child I could not imagine the cleaning of Vembathy House being taken up by anyone else. Loud mouthed but efficient is the way I would describe her. She exercised an authority over us as much as over her grandchildren who could not get away with shoddy work. She considered the house as her own. They had to clean the cowshed, sweep and swab, empty leftover food into vessels of their own and soak them in water to be washed by their grandmother. She would supervise their work and would let them leave for school only after they finished their assigned chores to her satisfaction.

As a teenager I would be asked to help her with washing clothes. Those were days when detergents were unheard of and one had to apply sunlight soap on the clothes.  Washing clothes by beating them on a stone fixed near the well and scrubbing extra dirty parts with her hands she’d wash and rinse them clean and dry them out on the clothesline without a crease. One could not find fault with her work. It was her constant chattering (read grumbling) that one had to ignore. No one actually paid attention to her.

Moopachi had 4 children. Two boys and two girls. Her husband worked as a farm hand who climbed up palm trees and plucked coconuts. I don’t remember ever seeing him. The story goes that Moopachi’s daughter Kanni was widowed at the age of sixteen and my maternal grandmother cried for days together thinking of the kind of life destiny had dished out to her. She had a four month old son to look after. I wouldn’t know if Moopachi helped her with money but I was amused at her patriarchal mindset when her granddaughter (son’s daughter)  Dhana married her grandson (daughter’s son).

Once Dhana got married she was forbidden to work for us the reason being that she was now married and the privilege of working for our family belonged to her son’s family.

“She is not our responsibility anymore”. She would say when I asked about Dhana.

The leftover food, cow dung to be dried and used as fuel or as manure and the dry palm leaves that she took home would be given to her son’s family. So also were given tamarind, lentils and pickle from the previous year’s stock once a fresh consignment arrived. So what if she was not on talking terms with her daughter in law, all the hand me down saris and children’s clothes would be duly handed over to her !

“But Kanni is your widowed daughter! How can you grudge her the benefit of stuff like used clothes, cow dung or dry palm leaves?” I’d ask.

Her reply set me thinking.

“I had to let her find her way. If I had helped her out she would never have learnt to fend for herself and her son. My sons would have resented her presence in our house. Today she has her self respect intact and shares a good bond with her brothers and their wives. They will there for her at the time of need even when I am long gone.”

“But you don’t even talk to your daughter in law and yet you keep track of their requirements.” I found it difficult to understand the equation in their family.

“Oh, yes. We do quarrel but she is still my son’s wife. If I fall sick she is the one who’d look after me. So why should I not think of her welfare?”

I admit that I still do not understand the logic behind letting a widowed daughter fend for herself and helping a son who was earning enough to support his family. But society was perhaps different sixty years ago. She was perhaps investing in her own future by being helpful to her son’s family.

Soon after my marriage Moopachi stopped working for us. But her granddaughters continued to work for us till they got married.

I had left my daughter in Gobi with my mother for a year when she was just six months old. Moopachi’s granddaughters would pester their mother to hurry up with milking their cow and bring fresh cow’s milk for her to drink early in the morning. They would play with her for a while after finishing their work. When I brought her back to Jamshedpur, I was surprised to receive a letter from Kannamma (Moopachi’s granddaughter) who was perhaps in class 8 or 9.

“Don’t let her play in water” she had written. “She easily catches a cold. “

She went on to describe how much everyone in our joint family missed her. All our neighbors were upset that the child was sent back.

She ended the letter with the following line-

“She was such a good kid. Looking after her was no trouble at all. We all miss her a lot. The house seems empty without her. Please bring her over as soon as possible. We would love to have her in our midst”.

I was in tears on reading her letter. The grandmother worked for us and watched my mother and her siblings grow and settle down in life. We were like family to her. The same spirit prevailed in her grandchildren too.  After Moopachi’s granddaughters got married some others worked for Vembathy house. But the bond was missing. My own visits became less frequent. I miss the days when house helps were like family. They welcomed us on our arrival. They were there to see us off.

“Take care, Come again”.

This was what our maternal uncle, aunt and cousins said. But it was also what Moopachi, Pavayee and the entire neighborhood said. It is the affection showered on us by these simple folks that draws me to Gobi even after 46 years of life in Jamshedpur. I am lucky to have hired domestic helps who have bonded with me like family. It was mainly due to the respect my mother and aunts accorded to those who worked for us that I was able to extend it to people who worked for me. I am glad to say that I have passed it on to my children too. They are our lifeline. They neither complain about the monotony that sets in when they sweep, swab and clean nor do we think of it as worth a mention. Only when they take a day off do we realize their worth and value.

Moopachi must be smiling from up above to see me, now a grandmother of 4 adorable grandkids, fondly remembering the days gone by when she’d buzz in and out of Vembathy House.

Gobi Chronicles -3

Gobi Chronicles -3

I begin the third episode of Gobi Chronicles with two people who worked for us when I was a teenager. The cook Narayana Mama and the domestic help Moopacchi. I have mentioned them in an earlier post.

I have already said that Gobi and Vembathy House has a kind of inclusive air that welcomes each newcomer into its fold and in no time the new entrants become part of the family. Narayana mama was no exception. Before he took up his service as the cook in Vembathy House the kitchen and cooking was taken care of by Ganapathy Mama but I don’t remember much about him.

Narayana Mama was a native of Madurai. He lived alone in a small outhouse adjoining the well. His entire salary of Rs. 40/- per month was sent by money order to his wife in Madurai. I wouldn’t know if Thatha gave him any ‘petty cash’ or pocket money but he seemed to be quite happy and content with all his needs being taken care of except perhaps his addiction to snuff!

Narayana mama was appointed as cook but soon proved himself as ‘Jack of all trades’. He loved Kamakshi mami like a daughter. He was very fond of my cousin Balaji and took it upon himself to keep him engaged while mami took a nap and rested in the afternoon. He attended to practically any and everything from trimming the wicks of the kerosene stove or standing in a line to get sugar and kerosene oil that was distributed at the ration shop. During summer vacations Vembathy House would be teeming with grandchildren apart from those who lived there because their fathers had transferable jobs and thatha offered to school them in Gobi. Narayana mama would cook for the family without a frown on his face and one quite forgot that he was a paid help. I have fond memories of the sweets and savories he would prepare for me to take back to my hostel.

Narayana mama was a staunch supporter of Rajaji and voted for Swatantra party during elections. Our domestic help Moopachi belonged to the Nadar community and Kamaraj Nadar was a respected politician from the Congress party. Narayana mama could indulge in heated discussions about the merits of Swatantra Party and the demerits of Congress. Ladle in hand he could rush into my grandfather’s office to offer his opinion on political issues and blame Moopachi’s anna(older brother) Kamaraj Nadar for anything that went wrong. I was never into politics but I would find it amusing to see him discuss politics with Moopachi! The poor woman hardly understood government policies and political issues but was not the one to back off and let her ‘anna’ be blamed. She’d respond in the only way she could by claiming that the coffee he gave her tasted like gutter water!

“So you know how gutter water tastes” Mama would gloat. “The entire family feeds on our leftover food and she has the gumption to find fault with my coffee”.

For all their outward show of animosity Moopachi and Narayana Mama also had a mutual concern for each other. After helping their grandmother Moopachi’s grandchildren would eat the food left over from the previous night’s dinner before leaving for school. So mama would prepare a little extra to ensure that they had enough to eat.

My dad was ill and was to be operated at the military hospital in New Delhi. My mother who was in Jalandhar was in a fix as to where my younger brothers aged 5 and 3 could be left for her to be able to be by my father’s side. Narayana Mama relieved her, offering to look after the children. He had to change trains at Madras and Delhi to reach Jalandhar. It was winter time, he knew no Hindi and with his smattering knowledge of English and no one to receive him at Delhi he reached Jalandhar around midnight to take charge of two pre-school kids. This proved that he could not only rise to the occasion but also that he considered all of us to be his kith and kin. Unfortunately he took ill soon after and  after 10 years of selfless service, thatha had to send him back to his family in Madurai.   

Domestic help is hard to find these days and I happen to be one of the lucky ones. All those who ever worked for me have been dry honest and wouldn’t pick up and pocket a safety pin lying around. I meant to write about Moopachi in this post but the woman who worked for our family for over forty years deserves a separate post. So more in a later post.

The Lazy Me...........

I am a reluctant shopper. I really am. I have a few indulgent friends who help me shop for clothes and accessories. Very often I don’t even go myself and let them pick up stuff on my behalf. For veggies and grocery I drive my husband to the market, park the car under a tree and read a book or the day’s newspaper. He happily does the marketing. The reason for this is my husband’s choice of time. He likes to shop around 12 noon which is the hottest time of the day. He says that fresh vegetables arrive at the market around that time.  To my credit I must say that I am easy to please and have no complaints against his choice. When we are done and return home we have to deal with school buses and vans and auto rickshaws, loaded with children, as well as the company employees speeding up to arrive at their workplace for the afternoon shift. So I truly find even the minimum shopping (of the absolutely essential kind) cumbersome. As far as grocery and vegetable/fruits are concerned husband would veto the idea of door delivery. I order books and test strips for my glucometer from Amazon. Haven’t tried clothes and accessories yet.

So when my son and daughter in law launched chicshop.in in Mumbai I couldn’t help wishing that such a service was available in Jamshedpur. It combines online shopping with a personal interaction with stylists over Whatsapp who send images of the item and give one an idea not only about the material but also other choices for their requirement available in the same or nearby store. A local delivery service delivers stuff picked up before 12:30 PM on the same day while orders after noon are dispatched on the following day. It is a boon for mothers of  toddlers and school going children, working women as well as men who would appreciate a little help while planning a surprise gift for their women. Grandmothers like me nursing an arthritic knee can use the service to lavish gifts on their grandchildren, nieces, daughters and daughters in law.  

So while I wish my son all the best in his endeavor I also secretly hope that it grows and reaches out to small towns like ours.

The Spice of Life - 2

The Spice of Life -2

I have decided to write again. Hibernation over and back to action. I begin as usual with my favorite topic “The Spice of My Life”. Yes, you’ve guessed it. MDH and his regular habit of driving me nuts.

My husband is plumber, mason and electrician all rolled in one. No, I have no problem with it at all. I gave up any effort to get someone to fix leaky taps and broken tiles long back. He will not hear of it and insist on doing it himself. I am secretly in awe of his interest in learning new skills but we won’t tell him that right now. He will get all puffed up and try his hand on yet another new venture.

“So what’s your problem”? you may ask. None at all if he worked on his own. He needs an assistant and who else would be willing to dance to his tune except me.

Let me explain…….

The condenser of the ceiling fan had to be replaced. Till about a fortnight ago we didn’t need the fan. Now that summer’s here fans need to run at full speed. He got the condenser from the store and set about replacing it. The center table was brought in and positioned below the fan. A stool was placed on top of it and MDH climbed over it. I was concerned about his safety and to be able to hold the stool I asked him to give me a minute to finish my cooking……………

"It won’t take more than a minute" was his response.

I switched off the gas and dutifully held the stool while constantly craning my neck to see what he was up to.

“Get me the screw driver”…

“Which one? You have screw drivers of four sizes”.

“The red one”.

“The long red or small red”?

“You’ve seen me at work all your life and yet you ask”….

A part of me – the wicked me - felt like leaving him right there to get back to my cooking. But his safety was also a concern.

“Will you be safe while I fetch your tool box”?

I decided to get the entire thing to be able to hand him a screw driver or spanner of his choice.

That done he next asks for a torch. I truly get bugged when at the age of 76 he stands with his head a foot above the fan asking for one or the other thing. I am in perpetual fear of his getting hurt.

 A torch, a blade, a screw driver or an adhesive tape – the list is long.

We then start quarreling like school children.

I am asked to flash the torch at an angle suitable to him.

“You are blocking the light” I say.

He has to get down and re-position the center table/stool combo. He climbs up and I flash the torch again.

After 4 to 6 trials he gets frustrated and takes the torch from me and holding the screw driver between his teeth flashes the torch himself. Once the location of the old condenser is identified he returns the torch to me and with proper instruction I manage to get the angle right.

Handing him the blade and taking it back…

The long screw driver once and the smaller one later…..

Constantly looking up is painful in the actual and figurative sense…..

Worrying about his safety has my blood pressure soaring…….

Finally after half an hour the task that was meant to be accomplished in a minute gets over and he climbs down beaming with satisfaction. I wonder if it wasn't easier to get an electrician to do it.

To top it he asks if lunch was ready and when I ask to be given a couple of minutes...….

His response is-

“What were you doing all this while”?

“Dancing to your music” is my reply.

And I hope you agree that I was doing just that.

   

Gup shup ??

Long since I wrote anything. In the initial years of blogging I would find something or the other to write about. The blog became a platform to express my views and to connect with like minded people across the world. I made a few friends some of whom are my Facebook friends now. Somehow blogging is no longer the passion it used to be ten years ago. I wrote for Women’s web too. These days I seem to be doing nothing. My arthritic knee keeps troubling me and a morning stroll is all I seem to manage. The house is clamouring for attention and I keep postponing the minimum cleaning it deserves.

I sometimes wonder what's gotten into me. Nothing seems to interest me. It's ages since I listened to music. Yesudas was a favourite. I used to love his Krishna and Ayyappa songs. I enjoyed the wit and humour in Jayantisri ‘s talks that dealt with topics that interest me too. I am not into reading books. At least not as much as I used to. The last book I read was Sita by Amish and that was two months back. I have a book by Tom Wolf that I want to complete reading having startedit. It is interesting. But reading 735 pages in fine print may not be a challenge I can or want to take up. I think I will look for something less daunting.

I need to shake myself out of this state of inertia. To start with I think I will shorten the nightie that my daughter gave me and alter the Kameez that is a wee bit loose around the chest. And I am going to work at making myself look presentable each evening. All those starched and ironed saris in my wardrobe need to be aired out and what better way than to wear them in turns. But then I always associate getting dressed up with going out. In the comfort of my home I just cannot get decked up. I need to wear soft, loose and comfortable dresses. If I dress up in an ironed sari I need to go out. But the thought of climbing down the stairs puts me off. At least  for me climbing down is harder than climbing up. Maybe once our lift is installed I may socialize more. I had plans of starting a small interactive session for ladies who wish to get comfortable with spoken English which could later get transformed to a place where they could exchange notes regarding house keeping and counsel each other about problems faced by them with teenaged children and a demanding school curriculum. This would keep me engaged and my saris would be put to use. Hopefully our lift would get installed soon.

I wonder if this happens to others too? After years of busy schedule and active life why this slow down? Do I miss my work life so much that nothing seems to replace it? Or is it just a part of the ageing process?
Whatever it is I need to get going. This is certainly not the kind of life I want to lead. Wish me luck. Once I get active I may have more to write in my blog.

Domestic violence -The other side of the story

Amma,

I am not sure if this letter will be well received. You are bound to feel upset and I won’t be surprised if you call me a ‘hen pecked’ husband. But I have to make my point and leave it to you to save the situation if you feel that I am right. Or rather that I am not wrong.

Point no. 1- Mine was not a love marriage. You chose Rashmi for me and I went by your choice. You wanted a fair, well educated girl from a decent upper middle class family to take charge of the household after you. I had no say in the matter and was regularly told that you and appa as parents would select a girl who would double up for the daughter you never had. It is quite another thing that you were supposed to bring me a wife – not a sister. Till today I have not complained. Yes, she has her shortcomings but then I have mine too. In the two year of our marriage we are still getting to know each other. Why don’t you do the same and try to understand things from her perspective? 

Point no. 2. – Is it fair that you expect her to cook a fresh meal three times a day considering the long hours she puts in at her office? You won’t let her hire someone to cook, you will neither let me help nor offer to help her yourself and yet find fault with her for not serving a freshly cooked five course meal for dinner. To top it you find the ‘dal’ salty and the ‘sabzi’ bland. How can you expect a girl who spent six years in two different hostels to take over the entire responsibility of running a household as per your terms? She needs time to pick up our ways.

Point no. 3 – Why do you bring up her parents all the time? It is always ‘her mother didn’t teach her to cook’ or ‘her father pampered her so much that she hasn’t learnt to adjust’. You never seem satisfied with the gifts they lavish on me. The suit they gave for my first Deepavali was ‘not worth giving to our driver’ and the diamond ring ‘had to be cross checked at our jewelers for its worth’ after all ‘it may not be real diamonds’. Do gifts really matter? It is just a token gesture. Don't I earn enough?How does it matter? If you keep on finding fault with everything they do, will she ever bond with you? They are her parents. She left her home and parents to share her life with me. But that does not mean that she is no longer their daughter. You resent the phone call she makes to her people, you resent the occasional outing that she plans with her friends and it may not be wrong to say that you resent her very presence in our house. 

You were not like this before. How has the equation changed after Rashmi came into our lives? You chose a wife for me with utmost care but nowadays your day begins with complaints about her and ends with more complaints against her. Appa is better. He is not as insecure as you.

Do you think that I can relax in the privacy of my bedroom? Rashmi takes over from where you left and subjects me to another round of torture by saying nasty things about you. I truly cannot believe what she says. Did you really add salt to the dal only to later complain that it was salty? And were you actually hiding behind the door and listening to her phone conversation?

I was better off without this mess called marriage. Am I not entitled to a quiet evening, with both of you being cordial to each other, where we can all sit together sipping tea and enjoying a normal conversation? If I pay attention to you she pulls a long face and if I go out for a short evening walk with her you get upset. While women can talk about domestic violence I can neither utter a word nor expect you to understand what I go through. People don’t talk about the emotional and mental torture a man goes through when he is caught in the crossfire between his parents and wife. Believe me, it affects my performance at work and my interaction with those around me.

Please try to understand…………………………

I just want some peace of mind and unfortunately it cannot be ordered online. 

This is my final submission for the blogathon # A letter to her . I wrote this piece because I felt that men also suffer in silence and experience the torture of being pulled in opposite directions by two women both clamoring for their attention. I wouldn't know if it qualifies to be called Domestic Violence. But it does cause a lot of agony and impacts their lives in ways that no one wishes to understand.

Note: I would like to read MeenaKandaswamy’s book When I Hit You because I understand that it deals with domestic violence that happens everywhere but society refuses to admit it.  I would love to read what the author has to say and I hope it helps me extend a helping hand to any victim of domestic violence whom I come across.    

     

On the dynamics of a healthy marriage...........

Mamma,

I don’t know if it’s okay for me to write to you about this. But having seen the life you lead I feel it is time I came out with my observations. I truly hope I am wrong but my gut feeling says that you are at the receiving end of an abusive relationship with daddy. Please don’t get shocked. I am no teenager. I am now married and I understand the dynamics of family life. I have been observing you from the time that I could gauge your moods. I was perhaps 6 or 7 years old when I could understand the meaning of your words as well as silence. In fact I would find your silence oppressive and long for you to return to your ‘normal’ mood.

I took me a while to understand that your mood swings had something to do with daddy. You took care to keep it to yourself but we children have a way of understanding that all is not well between parents. The days you went into a silent mode coincided with the days when daddy went about beaming at those around him with the look of a conqueror. As a child I took care not to annoy or upset you on those days but I still did not understand what went wrong between the two of you.

It happened on a rare occasion that you chose to sleep in my room. Daddy came looking for you. I pretended to sleep. The conversation that followed is something I did not understand till I graduated from school.

“Hey, stop fussing” It was daddy talking in a hushed tone.

“Not today, please” I heard you protest. “You know I fast on Thursdays”.

“Fasting on Thursdays eh? Enough of this drama. Come on”.

“I don’t feel up to it”.

“Who is asking you?”

I then peeped from beneath my sheets and saw him leading you out of the room. You followed him like a lamb being led to a slaughter house. I knew then that something was very wrong though I didn’t understand what. Everything fell in place much later when Sr. Superior arranged for a program on sex education and the speaker highlighted the rights of a woman in matters pertaining to sex. I truly wanted to ask you why you let him bully you against your will. I realized how much you must hate yourself for not having a say in the matter. I also understood that you were being blamed for giving birth to a daughter because daddy often said in apparent jest that your clan was famous for producing daughters as was evident that you were one among five sisters. He joked about it so often that it ceased to be a joke. I also noticed that any reference by daddy to your ‘clan’ was always subtly tempered with sarcasm and you put on a mask of silence.

To be frank your submissive nature annoyed me as a teenager. But I now understand how hard it must have been on you. My husband is a wonderful person who believes in respecting women. His parents share a wonderful relationship and it is a pleasure having them over.  I now realize what was missing in your marriage. There was no equality. It was a kind of master – slave arrangement. But it is not too late to assert yourself. I am with you. Carve a niche for yourself. I plan to start a counselling center, for women in an abusive relationship, along with a few friends. Why don’t you join us? You need to come out of your silent mode. You don’t have to discuss your personal experience or drag daddy’s name into it. Just take the first step by lending a sympathetic ear to women who come forward to share their stories. The rest will follow. You’d be surprised at the kind of physical, emotional and mental torture women undergo just to keep their marriage going. The issue ought to be discussed and our men folk need to learn to acknowledge and accept  their women as equal partners and learn to treat them with love, affection and respect. Daddy was brought up to believe that a man could lord over his wife. Once you assert yourself he may change his opinion for the better. Why not give it a try? Think about it………………

Hugs!!!

Yours,

Neha

This post is my 2nd post written for the Blogathon series # A Letter To Her by Women’s Web. I appreciate the initiative taken to create awareness about domestic violence in society.

Note: I would like to read MeenaKandaswamy’s book When I Hit You because I understand that it deals with domestic violence that happens everywhere but society refuses to admit it.  I would love to read what the author has to say and I hope it helps me extend a helping hand to any victim of domestic violence whom I come across.    

Domestic Violence - When enough is enough.

My child,

I cannot believe that you are already eighteen years old and will be leaving for college in about a year from now. I wish to share with you the story of women belonging to three generations who for very different reasons put up with domestic violence. I feel that you are old enough to understand and when your turn to get married comes, you will be bold enough to say ‘NO’ to physical, emotional and mental abuse from your partner.

As a child I witnessed the plight of an aunt of mine who was married off at the age of sixteen though she was a brilliant student who passed her matriculation examination with flying colors. Her father wanted to send her to college but her mother felt that she ought to get married. Her handwriting was beautiful and her house keeping skills excellent. On festive occasions she’d make beautiful ‘rangolis’ that would make passersby stop to admire. She’d make a perfect housewife. And so she did. But her husband was never appreciative of what she did. He’d find fault at everything she did right from the food she cooked to the way she folded clothes. Her husband was spiritually inclined and would spend his time performing an elaborate morning puja and reading religious texts. He resigned from his job for the very purpose and her's was the onus of coping with his tantrums. He punished her by refusing to talk to her for weeks if she dared to show the slightest disinclination to act as per his command. His silence hurt more than his words and she literally fell at his feet and apologized for any suggestion she had dared to make. As a child I often wondered how a person who was spiritually inclined could spit venom on his wife for minor lapses and why she put up with it. I later heard that while the world praised her for being the role model for others to emulate, her own mother in law once remarked that her son needed to be put in his place and it was her tolerant behavior that was responsible for the pathetic life she led. However, that was eighty years ago when verbal abuse was not even considered worth a mention and physical abuse happened when the woman ‘asked for it’. Emotional abuse?? A woman was not supposed to have emotions. Unknown to others she could wipe a tear if she felt hurt – the rest was part of life.

Having said this, I must admit that our generation was no better. A woman could work outside her home but the husband controlled her income. I have known working women hand over their entire salary to the husband, accept a pocket allowance from him and use the cheapest mode of transport to travel to work for to save money even if it meant leaving home early. The smarter ones resorted to scheming and plotting and ‘stole’ a small amount from their own salary for their pocket expenses by claiming that they had contributed towards a gift for friend’s anniversary or a child’s birthday party. An unexpected salary raise or a double increment went unreported and the extra money tucked in a secret pocket in her purse to be used later. A wife who dared to resist the arrangement was trying to show off that she brought home a salary and was ‘put’ in place by the husband. Why did they cope with it you may ask? Those were days when women lived in joint families and the job allowed them a life of their own and a few friends with whom they could be themselves. The domineering husband would be tolerated in lieu of some eight to ten hours of freedom.  

The next generation revolted and announced that their financial independence had to be respected and no one could question their spending habit. They could order food from outside or hire a maid to cook and clean. The husband was asked to help at home. This new found assertiveness did not go down well with their men. If their wives earned more than them and/or were offered foreign assignments it hurt their ego. After all they had been pampered by their mothers and had always had their way. According equal status to their womenfolk was unheard of. Such women had to be put in place. Quarrels and snide remarks followed by physical violence took over. The bolder ones were able to say NO to abuse in whatever form. But most of them gave in and became subdued for the sake of peace in the family. The once assertive woman had been truly ‘put’ in place by her man.

You may have noticed that I have not included physical violence in the first two generations. Do you think it didn’t happen? It did. But in their case it was an accepted thing in society. No one would interfere – not even one’s parents. The woman would console herself by saying that he was burdened with the demands of a joint family and she was the only one who could serve as an outlet for his frustration. Moreover she was financially dependent on him - even if she had inherited a legacy from her parents or had a job or sold homemade pickles and papads that fetched her money.

 The reason for compromise was different in the third case. These women lacked the confidence to walk out of an abusive relationship. They valued the protection offered by the husband – never mind if it was an abusive one.

I want you to be different. Have the confidence to insist on mutual respect in your marriage. If you don’t get it don’t hesitate to clamor for it. A girl known to me rang up her mother in law after the first instance of physical abuse. She asked her to warn her son to never ever raise his hand on her. She would not only walk out of the marriage but would see to it that he was put behind the bars. The words had a magical effect and her husband understood that she meant what he said. There is no shame in letting on to your well wishers that you are at the receiving end of an abusive relationship. One can never guess the amount of domestic violence that prevails in society because no one wants to discuss it. As in the case of rape victims where the offender gets away with what he did while the victim is shamed, victims of domestic violence are blamed for annoying their abusive partners. Not all men are bad or abusive. I hope you find a wonderful husband for yourself. Even if you lead a normal life where both of you have mutual respect keep your eyes and ears open for what’s going on around you and extend a helping hand and stand up for any woman who is in an abusive relationship. She could be your house help, a neighbor relative, friend or colleague. And if you are blessed with a son treat him at par with your daughter and train both of them to love and respect one another. We need a whole generation to be groomed in this manner for the society that we live in to be hundred percent functional.
Your Grand aunt and friend.

              

 This post is my contribution to the Blogathon series # A Letter To Her by Women’s Web. I appreciate the initiative taken to create awareness about domestic violence in society.

Note: I would like to read MeenaKandaswamy’s book When I Hit You because the incidents of domestic violence never get reported because it is considered a private thing to be restricted to the four walls of one’s home. The topic is close to my heart having seen various degrees of domestic violence around me. I would love to read what the author has to say and I hope it helps me extend a helping hand to any victim of domestic violence whom I come across.    

Gup Shup again

The writing bug has struck me again. After all I can rave and rant to my heart’s content in my blog world and forget all about it within minutes knowing that my readers would lend me their ears without ever being judgmental. So here I go!

If I had cribbed about my husband’s quirks in earlier posts I take it back. No, not entirely. He is a quirk alright but I realised that quirky husbands could be useful too. Let me elaborate-

 My dining table was polished 15 years back. I’ve been cribbing about the cushions needing replacement and how a fresh coat of paint was due etc.  etc., for the past five years. The cushion cover is fixed and cannot be removed and washed and they looked soiled. My rants fell on deaf ears and my husband of forty four years continued to either watch TV or read the newspaper. I then gave him the ultimatum.

“I am giving away the dining table and the chairs today” I declared “We can get a new set”.

Now, the announcement had the desired effect. No, don’t imagine that he agreed to get it polished. He didn't. We both love the dining table. It is sturdy but very light. We bought it when money was tight 30 years back. I know that a similar set would cost a fortune even if we could get one of the same quality and I had no intention of getting rid of it. My husband is a lover of stuff purchased with hard earned money. He also will not throw away what his parents or mine bought with their hard earned money. So the thought of giving up the dining table away woke him from his reverie and our familiar ‘nok jhok’ commenced.

“Why replace the cushions? They seem good enough”. 

“Don’t you see how dirty the cover is? And one cannot remove it to wash. I don’t feel like sitting on it”.

“It was your idea to put cushion. The earlier arrangement of a ply board covered with sunmica was good enough”.

“Does it mean that they can’t be replaced even in fifteen years? Call a carpenter and get it done. Or else I am just throwing it away”.

“What if I wash it?”

“Are you crazy? The cover cannot be removed and washed. It has to be replaced”.

“And if I wash it clean? I will unscrew the board with the cushion and wash it”.

And if you mess it up and it gets misshapen I will replace it”.

“Only if I don't do a good job of it”.

I was secretly relieved. I was certain that the flop idea of washing the cushion with the cover intact would never work and I would have my way. I advised him to try washing one at a time and offered to help if required.

“No need. I will manage”.

It was then that realised that I had underestimated my better half’s potential. He carefully dismantled the ply board with the cushion, turned it upside down and soaked it in soap water for half an hour. He then gently scrubbed it clean and rinsed it with fresh water without letting a drop trickle down to the wooden board.

And to my surprise the cushion was sparkling clean and looked almost new. He is washing the rest one by one without dismantling them. And between you and me I must say that he’s doing a good job of it. 

He was all smiles - gloating over his success. I could not deny him the pleasure. This was a time when defeat was a delight.

He now plans to polish it himself and I plan to keep my skepticism to myself. Once bitten, twice shy??

Just my thoughts - 2

The writer in me seems to be hibernating. However much I wish to write I am not able to put down my thoughts on paper. Paper?? Well, I cannot write on paper these days. I only type out my thoughts in a word document and copy/paste it on my blog. It seems strange because I was known for the long and interesting letters that I wrote from my hostel. In fact, while in a boarding school, our letters were censored and our principal would make a weekly announcement on the best or most interesting letter written by the boarders and mine would be often declared the best. And how about all those exams that I answered? In these days of ticks and crosses I don’t think people consider long and descriptive answers worth a second glance but our days were different. We wrote out elaborate descriptive answers and a good answer would fetch us 5/10. No one heard of people scoring 90+ in language and literature. It was only in Mathematics that people got distinction marks.

Don’t get me wrong. I don't grudge the present system. But, with all the high scores one obtains, the proper application of the knowledge thus gained seems to be wanting. Getting a job means that one is trained to put theoretical knowledge to use and all promotions and perks depend on how well one’s skill is applied and how much the company benefits by such an application. To add to one’s woes ‘lay off’ has become common and loyalty to the organisation is limited because of lack of job security. I wouldn't know if the attitude is harmful in the long run. It is too early to say. I have worked in my college for 35 years and even after retirement I still feel connected to the institution. I willingly help out as much as I can and feel included. Would the current bunch of young office goers feel the same? I am not too sure about it.

The entire country is watching the arguments for and against ‘Triple Talaq’ and I feel happy to see victimised women opening up and sharing their experiences on TV. I do not for a moment claim that women are not ill treated in communities where Triple Talaq is not allowed. But divorcing a wedded wife for no fault of hers by uttering the word Talaq thrice over the phone or writing it on paper appears to be a practice that allows men to get away without giving the divorced wife any financial support by way of alimony. I hear that counselling the couple and advising them to make an effort to stay together precedes the process of actual divorce and just uttering Talaq thrice is not valid. Why then is it not practised? I am not competent enough to discuss the validity of the practice and wouldn't know if it is allowed in the Holy Quran. But I do feel that women have suffered for long enough and ought to be allowed to voice their protest even if a very small percentage of Muslim women are actually affected by it.

Polygamy is prevalent in almost all communities but it is not openly endorsed by society except among the followers of Islam. Yes, when men lost their lives in the battlefield and their wives had no one to support them society might have allowed the practice. But today it seems to be a license for men with roving eyes to resort to polygamy while the first wife is forced to remain a silent onlooker. At a time when census reports say that the male/female ratio is skewed in favour of men is it still necessary to allow the practice?

These are my views. I do not claim to know much about polygamy, nikah halala and Triple Talaq except what I was told by friends. A Muslim friend of mine explained the circumstances under which men were allowed to marry a second or third time and her explanation seemed acceptable enough. Over time, I believe, women were silenced and such practices were modified to suit men. 

Long back when I was in college a friend’s dad had three wives of whom the third wife was the most beautiful as well as the smartest. The first wife had no children and he married her younger sister who was my friend’s mother. My friend would joke that she was glad that her chinnamma was smart enough to put a stop to his adding a fourth wife to the list. All this happened when my friend did not belong to a community that permitted polygamy. 

I would be interested to know whether the Supreme Court would decide in favour or against Triple Talaq. There seems to be a provision in the marriage contract or ‘nikahnama’ wherein a women can insert a clause disallowing Talaq. If this is true I feel women ought to be rightfully informed of the provision and encouraged to exercise their right. 

It is long since I wrote and my writing is not very organised. I am just putting down whatever comes to my mind. Let me get going. I may improve with time. I have been lazing for long enough. Health was also a cause for concern. I haven’t been in great health for the past month. Writing is an activity I have always enjoyed. I need to get back to it to keep myself engaged if not for anything else.

Old age Blues......

An elderly relative passed away today. She was 92 years old and had lived a full life. She was lucky to have all her children living in Chennai. She’d take turns to stay with them for a few months in a year. Her grandchildren are married and she has been blessed with 8 great grandchildren. She lived hassle free life with her children taking proper care of her. However, her death raised a question in my mind. How many of us are lucky to have at least one child nearby to come rushing when we need them? I am afraid - thanks to technology - that with the world getting smaller, the gap between parents and their children has hopelessly widened.

A look around me tells me a different story from that of the aforementioned lady. Elderly couple lead lonely lives waiting for weekly calls from their children. Very often the weekly calls become monthly ones. Reason?? Well, in foreign shores weekends are busier than weekdays with everything from stocking the refrigerator to washing clothes is squeezed into the available 48 hours. Children have their dance/music/karate/swimming classes and while one parent takes care of the shopping the other escorts the children to one or the other of these classes. Apart from this they organize birthday/Deepavali/Christmas parties as well as play dates for their children. Who can blame them if calls to their parents are postponed?

I am not blaming anyone. When my children were growing up I just wanted them to have good education. Good education gave them good opportunities and helped them spread their wings. I could not deny them a bright and prosperous future that awaited them. Visits to their homes have been eye openers. Their life is as much a struggle as mine was forty years back. Luckily for me, I had my job and a select group of friends who doubled up for family. So I have learned to lead my life in a productive manner. I cannot bring myself to complain having seen their busy schedule. 

Most of the time I am okay. I accept that this was what I had wanted. There are however times when I feel depressed. Like when my husband fell ill or when I had to deal with my arthritis. Waiting for my Kerala style massage at Arogya bhavan I could not help remembering the time when our house was full of people and I was attending to five sick people in our one bedroom flat. Here, I was driving myself to the clinic from college and driving home once the massage was over. There seemed no point disturbing my husband and asking him to wait at the reception area for an hour although he would have gladly come over if I had wanted him to.

 Who is responsible for this situation? Was it wrong to educate our children? Or was it wrong to want them to reach for the skies? I see that I am not alone. I have several friends and relatives who go globe trotting to spend time with their children. But they almost always wish to return to their niche. They don’t feel inclined to stay anywhere else for longer than necessary. 

Adjustment problems tend to crop up in spite the best effort from both groups. Children exposed to an alien culture are unable to bond the way we did when we visited our grandparents. And with gadgets replacing story times the next best option is to get computer/internet savvy and focus one’s attention on a gadget of our own instead of poking one’s nose into their lives. 

I don’t know if I am being pessimistic or cynical. Maybe a bit of both. The best thing to do would be to get involved in some activity and keeping one’s self busy. We have in our township two ladies - nearing eighty years of age - who head NGOs and find no time to brood. I am in awe of their enthusiasm and plan to assist them in whatever way I am able to. After all happiness is just a state of mind. 

While I think can manage my old age and the loneliness that is bound to follow by blogging and interacting wth virtual as well as actual friends I worry myself sick when I think of my husband who is a loner and depends solely on me for company. He is not into the social media and TV shows make up for social interaction. He watches a few Tamil serials and very often on returning home from college I can hear him talking while I climb up to my 3rd floor apartment. If you think he’s entertaining friends you are mistaken. He is so involved in the TV program that he is literally in conversation with the characters in the serial and very often seems to know what would be said next!

I have no problem with that except that he doesn’t know a single phone number except mine and when in distress and I am unavailable he cannot call a single person to help. What if I fall ill and need medical aid? We have a doctor in the complex but my husband won’t know to look for his number in my cell phone! He is so laid back and is happy to let me handle things like drawing money from the ATM or booking tickets online. In America I don’t get to use my i Pad because he uses it to watch his favorite shows and read the newspaper. So it is evident that he can become net savvy when he wants to. But apart from that he couldn’t care less. 

My friend has a different take in the matter. She says that her husband would take care of things while she took it easy just like my husband. When her husband died an untimely death she had to learn things the hard way. May be she is right. Why should I imagine that I am indispensable and he would not be able to manage without me? Maybe he would when it came to that.

But my question is does it have to happen only if and when tragedy strikes? Why not before?

Life in America - 2

I am in Atlanta right now. At my son's place. He has done his best to make us comfortable by stocking his kitchen with grocery and his fridge with vegetables, milk, fruits and of course 'desi' yoghurt. My husband cannot gulp down a single meal without 'dahi'. I remember the time we landed in Patna on a hot evening in May. After a refreshing bath we went around looking for rice and curd - typical of the Tambrahm couple we were. Little did we expect that procuring plain curd and rice would be such a difficult (nearly impossible) task in the capital of Bihar. 

Plain rice at night? Curd? People looked at us as if were aliens from another planet. All that a few places could offer was sweetened curd and fried rice. We managed without curd that night. My husband put on a 'sour' look that seemed to say that it was my fault not to have brought curd with me from Jamshedpur. 

I digress. Coming back to life in America...........

With all good intentions my son had purchased a food processor. I wish he hadn't. Or that my husband hadn't noticed it. 

"Why don't we prepare idlis"? he asked eyes lighting up at the thought of idlis as an alternative to multi-grained bread that I gave him for breakfast. Now, please don't get me wrong. I have made enough idlis in my forty three years of marriage and was really looking forward to an idli-free vacation in America. I have written about my experiences with a manual grinder here.  

"I don't think it is sturdy enough to grind rice" I said. I was happy to put the fear of God into his head.

"If it gets spoilt, fixing it will be more expensive than buying a new one. We don't have Munna here". 

Munna was the electrician who repaired our 35 year old Sumeet mixer in Jamshedpur. My husband is so full of praise for him that he doesn't let my friends throw off their old superannuated mixers offering to get them repaired by Munna.

But as God would will it, my better half spotted a packet of idli rava in the Indian store and picked it up right away giving me no time to think of a new excuse. 

"Now you only have to grind dal". He was elated and went looking for dal and found it in no time.

"We are here just for two months" I tried to dissuade him. "What will R do with all this after we leave"? My protest fell on deaf ears. Son was smiling to himself understanding my ploy but refusing to take sides.

The very next day the idli project began.

"Did you soak dal for idli"?

The man is after my blood. I decided to mess up the proportion and make really horrible idli and blame it on idli rava. I am glad to say that I almost succeeded. The idli came out really hard and the project was a disaster. 

But I have married a scientist who worked in a research lab. He doesn't give up easily. The next time he asked me to try a different proportion, stood by my side while I soaked dal monitored my efficiency in using the food processor saying 'stop' and 'start' at the appropriate moments advising me on when to add water.............

To cut a looooong story short, Idli came out perfect and he is bent on buying another packet of idli rawa before we leave. To add to my sorrow he is hinting at trying out 'adai' and 'vadai' offering to guide me if required. 

I almost hear you ask -

''What is the connection between life in America and preparation of idli''?

Idli is easy on the stomach but a lot of preparation goes into serving this health friendly breakfast item. I truly wish that one didn't find a mini India in every corner of America and would have loved to live on milk, cereal and bread rather than using the delicate food processor that I have here. It has a single jar made of brittle plastic and cannot be left in the sink like the metal jar we have back home.  

 My domestic help Baby would have taken care of washing the jar in Jamshedpur. Out here I am a new incarnation of Baby and till I wash, wipe and put away the jar and mixer I remain tensed. I really wonder if idlis are worth the trouble. Of course juicers, mixers and grinders suited to the pounding, crushing and grating techniques employed in Tambrahm cuisine are available here. But I truly don't want to burden my son with gadgets that he may not use and to see them gather dust after we leave would be equally wasteful.  

Do I really want to put my better half on cereal and bread for the entire period that we stay here?

Of course not. I was just joking. He also adjusts a lot and has no complaints against the food I serve him.

I had earlier written that I feigned to be deaf. That was in an different era - eighteen years ago to be precise. Now I am half deaf and so is my husband. We keep saying "What? Eh? Oh?" to each other all the time. But with all my selective and actual deafness the truth is that I cannot deny him the food of his preference once in a while. Our 'nok jhoks' have reduced drastically and a realization that we only have each other, with whom to share our joy and sorrow, in this alien territory has set in. Please don't imagine that we are absolute angels. Once we reach familiar territory the 'spice of life' will automatically be added. 

And of course we have Eddie to fuss over. He has been adopted from a rescue home by my son and is an absolute delight. My husband runs miles from canines but Eddie is an exception. He loves to stroke Eddies' back and for his part Eddie puts out his paw to indicate that he wants he wants to be stroked more. He takes turns to approach us merrily wagging his tail.

Yes life in America is different. It has its merits and demerits. The internet access is definitely better here and the online library facility helps me read books on my i Pad something that I have come to appreciate and makes me want the same facility in India. Exercising (read walking) on the treadmill in the gym is something I will miss when I return. I must look out for a gym near my house and monitor my exercise routine when I go back. Walking in the crowded park near our house tends to make me cautious and reduces my speed. Moreover, one tends to meet known people and with a 'hello' and 'namaste' thrown in morning walks turn into social interaction. I do miss it here but walking for health benefits is also important.

I wrote two papers after I came here on the 'Role of Multimedia in Higher Education' and 'Improving the Quality of Higher Education in India' and felt good about it. So life here is not just about idli and vada or pulling husband's leg for his food preference. Life in America is about spending some quality time with our children and understanding about their life in foreign shores.