What color was your Monday?

I write. Sometimes. No correct that. Rarely. Only when I feel like it.
So when Jo asked me last week to pen a couple of lines about the fall pictures I posted, I gave a tongue in cheek response instead of telling her I cannot turn it on and off. The desire to write or paint. That I do very well all the time – give tongue in cheek responses I mean . Good I never made a profession of writing or painting. I would be out of pocket all the time. I should have made a profession of giving tongue in cheek responses but then not everybody appreciates my humor.
I was humbug enough to believe I was the arty type once upon a time, but the truth is I have always been a hard headed practical person. Even when my heart was broken into a million pieces I was thinking of how to pick things up and start again. Quietly, scientifically, practically.
So what makes me write today? Random things. Extreme feelings. Deep anger, deep sorrow, deep appreciation of my blessings, unexplained feelings for things I still do not understand. Like death.
It is Monday today that not very good day of the week. My day started when I was in the vice like grip of something that felt like a hangman’s noose and yet oddly comforting. It was about 3 am .It was my daughter probably in the grips of a nightmare as a result of all that trick or treating.. I fell into a fitful sleep after that wondering if I should call my husband in India and take an update on dad’s operation. I looked at my blackberry and saw the dear man had posted an update. To me and other silent beings on this earth. I was mad at these silent beings. And sorry for Amit. That’s how my day started. Most of my long commute was spent in talking to him and then the kids. As usual, he talked me out of my anger. I looked out of the window in wonder to see a car pass by with at least 3 inches of snow on its roof. Took my thoughts in a completely different direction. It had been a fairly bright weekend. Where was he coming from?
Surprisingly, even though there was this massive crash on 401, I reached Finch before time and hopped on to the Viva blue to sit in front of a shivering lady from Jamaica. She was very interested in the recipe for Palak Paneer which I obligingly wrote down for her- giving her tips on how to make it more tasty and shamefully salivating at that early hour for a dish I do not even like! My body like my mind acts in really unpredictable ways sometimes! And all my hardheaded practicality cannot figure that out.
I had time to pick up a frothy coffee from Country Style and marvel at all these Canadians bundled up. Was it really that cold? Or was my new peacoat that warm? At work, I was actually happy to see people who usually do not bring out the best in me and beavered away at my computer. I suddenly felt like writing to Nahida after a long time. So I did in between many interruptions and a meeting I did not know why I was attending.
I caught up with the project gossip over lunch and then took myself and my blackberry for a walk. I felt like the Fat Man who walks alone. Don’t ask me what that means. It is a graffiti I see everyday and feel sorry for the Fat Man.
By now, I’m sure you are seeing the halo round my head? The palak paneer recipe giver, the patient listener to office gossip, the good friend to Nahida and of course the Fat man who walks alone to lose these unwanted pounds? I suddenly take an impulsive picture and post it on facebook. More goodness for the world. The halo gets a deeper hue.
Then I suddenly see the date and remember. This used to be a special day for me . How many years ago? The halo has disappeared and I feel like connecting with Nahida again. And then see the last posting she has made. About Ms. Meera passing away.
Less than two months ago Ms. Meera had called me – sounding as excited as a school girl. She wanted to talk to my kids. She asked me to tell them about her. I promised her they would. I remember another promise I had made to Sarita’s mother about coming back to see her in Lucknow. And I see myself now as someone who could not keep promises. Where did they go? Can they hear me? Feel my regret? I so want to know.
So that was my Monday-blue Monday-green Monday-yellow Monday-blue and purple Monday. What color was yours?

My best friend is a Muslim

And I am very sad to say this.

Because I had always thought of her as Nahida, a human being a sterling character and my favorite pillar. It never mattered to me that she was a Muslim.

It still does not. But over the last 20 years, there have been so many riots, blasts, insurgences, Babri masjid tumbling down...things that have somewhere silently frayed the fabric. The first person I always thought of during these riots was Nahida. My heart felt for her and tried to imagine what she must be going through. But while our lives have mirrored each others and we have always slipped into each other's shoes efforlessly, I recently realised that this was one thing I never could do quite the same way. I really could not feel the hurt she must have felt when she could not rent homes, when she worries about Anu. I can only imagine that it must be manytimes fold how I felt when my insurance agent did not believe me recently. And I feel that I have failed my friend.

Games I play

I play some games. Silently by myself.
When I used to walk back home from college in Bellary with the sun beating down my head, I used to play this game...cloud cover the sun. Sometimes there would be no clouds in the sky. I then used to desperately wish if a cloud appears from somewhere then this wish will come true. And most times, a tiny little bit of fluff appeared!! Promise!:))
Then I play this game of toss. I always wish on heads. Most times, heads appear. My wishes themselves may not come true but my mind is immediately calm.

Then I wish on missing items. If I find this. .....Like I lost my Nigerian beaded belt in the Continental flight when I moved from US to Canada. I nevr thougt I would find it. When I was waiting for the truck to arrive at 4815 Bloomburg Drive, and was worrying about dad, I wished I would find it. And I found it in the bag I looked in at least 10 times before.
I wish on the Magic Fortune cookie. And it mostly tells me what I want to hear. Funny isn't it?

I am a proud Indian. ARE YOU?

Sometimes there is this simmering rage inside me. Like now.
When my 'Indian-ness' is questioned by someone entirely un-Indian.
I know this sounds like a take on Sharukh's interview on NDTV.

But my anger had been triggered off from elsewhere. And watching Sharukh on NDTV fuelled it a little more

Just because I live in Canada or US I do not become a non Indian. I still invest in India, have a home in India and uphold the values of a true Indian in the global world. I am India's ambassador out in the world and a darn better one than those who spew communial hatred in India.

Am I a dollar chaser? Are you a rupee chaser? What's the difference? As long as my dollar is going into India and into Indian economy and not the fat greasy palms of the bureaucrat you may be grooming to keep your Indian business running.

To me being an Indian is tolerance, live and let live, and accepting of all cultures and beliefs. To me being an Indian is to appreciate the goodness in others while giving my best. And to treat every individual as a human being before I treat him as a Muslim, Christian, Dalit or Brahmin.

That India is holding its head high today is because of people who had similar values Gandhi, Sai Baba, Narayan Moorthy, Ratan Tata. Who focused on the best in India and the real issues. They are the Indians I relate to.

Not the petty Indian crab who tries pulling you down by deceipt, sarcasm just because he perceives you to be more successful than he. And happier than he.

And therein lies his failure and unhappiness.

I feel like ending this with a Bah!!! And those who know me will know the intensity of my feelings with just that.

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Ishani's pink jacket phobia

I rarely write about this little girl of mine.
She is the one who comes up with those funny oneliners like the ones you read in the Readers Digest.
Like declaring after a hearty breakfast smacking her lips " Bacon is the best chicken ever!" Or after a tumble with me in the bed emerges sweating and laughter all over her face gasping " Oh my God! Love is hot!" And then after counting the worry lines on my forehead and asking me what they were for, went around looking for her lines and finally found them on her little tummy!
Like most little girls, Isha's favorite color was pink for a long time. Even till last year. I bought her a pink winter jacket which she wore all of last winter giving her purple one a clear ignore.
The jacket is one of those in which you can take off the fleece to make it a windcheater, so it could be worn in spring too.
Suddenly, Isha developed a strange apathy for this pink jacket.She just stopped wearing it.
When I asked her why she said "It stinks". So I washed the jacket and offered it to my little goddess, who took it a little hesitatingly and then in it went into the closet.
I stopped trying to figure out what was the matter.
Many weeks later, Isha and I set out on one of our weekend 'mother-daughter bonding trips' as she calls it. Taking advantage of her mood, I asked her to wear the pink jacket and she said "NO. I dont like it!" But why not I insisted.
"You know this spring, Alison and I used to collect bugs?" she asked me. I nodded. "One day I put two grasshoppers in my pocket because I did not have my bug catcher. And then I forgot about it. The next time I put my hand in the pocket, they were all squishy!"
"But I washed it!" I told her. "No. they are still in there"
Sure enough, on my return I checked and there were some small remains of the poor grasshoppers which even the tumble in the washer had not taken out. Even though I have since cleaned the jacket, my bug loving and animal loving daughter is not going to wear the jacket which will remind her of the dead grasshoppers I know!