Thursday, October 15, 2015

Why he would make a good student council rep!

A conversation this morning with my son, who is thinking of running for student council as a class rep, and he is doubting himself, on whether he can make the speech in front of his whole class, whether he is popular enough to be voted on and whether his skin is too brown for it. 

And here I am wondering how he even got such an idea into his head, that he is too brown to be a rep. But then again, children pick up from their own observations and perceptions about themselves, and we get this little window every now and then to peep in and see how they feel in their own skin. 

And here I was trying to make him see exactly why he would be great as a class rep, given his creative side to come up with ideas all the time, to question things that don't make sense to him, and to ask all those endless questions of 'why' and 'why not'?!

"Why, even your teacher gave you a positive referral for this very thing, buddy," I say to him. "She commends the fact that you are always willing to share your ideas with the class."

He grew thoughtful. Brows knitted in concentration as he mulled the reason why she would have said that. And then a sudden smile of illumination. 

"Oh, I know why she said that!"

"Why, why why?" I poke eagerly, impatient to know the great glorious reason why he was so noticed for it.

"The other day, in class, we were talking about something 'man-made'. And I asked her about that!" he replied sagely.

"What? What did you ask her exactly? What?"

"I asked her why it couldn't be 'human-made' instead of 'man-made'. Even a woman could have made it right?"

Bowled. Over. Completely. 

And I could see why she would have been too.

We have never talked of feminism or equal rights or gender inequalities at home. This is original thinking, straight from the mad hatter's hat, untampered by nurture. And I am so darn glad for it.

"This is exactly why you should run for student council Sathya," I told him. "You are now thinking for all students, male and female."

He smiled. I could see that small flicker of confidence born in him. He was toying with the idea of being voted as rep. I could see that fantasy playing itself out in his head. 

My job was done. He has gone in to brush and groom himself for school. Fingers crossed, when he comes out, it will be with a rough draft of a speech in his head! Wish me luck! More importantly, wish him luck!

Monday, July 13, 2015

Love a little!

Reading even a little on the internet will tell you that what it takes to lose weight is to create that ideal calorie deficit. That if you burn 500 more calories than you consume each day, you can hope to lose 1-2 lbs every week safely. That it takes a calorie deficit of 3300 calories roughly to lose 1lb in a very linear and logical world.

That if you eat more protein and fiber and watch your carbs and fats and the components of each and drink more water, and journal your food, and exercise 45 minutes to an hour, and sleep on time and avoid rice at night and eliminate the white culprits from your diet and do yoga to massage all your internal organs, and chew some 30 times for each bite of food, you will be taking lucrative steps towards losing weight. And I agree with them all. Once you get started on this journey, there are no dearth of paths to explore and woods to get lost in and clearings to come out of. The choices are mind boggling, and there are peculiar permutations combinations of what measures go well with what and what doesn't. And I agree with them all.

But in this last quarter of the year, I found that one very elusive, very cliched secret to weight loss. It is what mind body articles will tell you. It is what friends who love you to the ends of the moon and back will tell you. It is what you know too in the depths of what makes you tick and breathe. That after all those measures and efforts and disciplines to move your body, and bend your mind and be consistent about it day in and day out, if you do not actually love yourself exactly as you are, nothing else can make a dent.

It begins and ends with that simple self love. To look at yourself in the mirror and feel beautiful, extra pounds, extra layers, extra fat cells and all! To feel a glow from within yourself that has nothing to do with how your clothes fit your contours, but everything to do with how your own sense of beauty and well being envelops your own life. This simple truth evaded me for the longest time ever. Only now, it makes sense. How can you ever hope to change something if you begin it with a tight fisted resistance and denial? If you reject what is for what can and will eventually be. Love makes the flow of energy in every direction possible. If love can move mountains, it can definitely shift the weighing scale a little in your favor.

And that was how it began. A simple but momentous shift in my own perception of myself, acknowledgement of my needs, and the fact that I was beautiful. Period. And that gave way to a certain happiness that cannot be described or eulogized unless it is directly experienced. And happiness is its own aphrodisiac. Once you have a true whiff of it, you want more and more and more, and with the openness of heart, more is what you get from this bountiful self fulfilling Universe. And happiness creates more beauty in turn. And this glow feeds itself. And a quarter of a year passes, and the scales shift, and alongside it, the bigger tectonic shifts in your own complicated and simplified self.

The upshot to it is clothes that fit better and then hang a little, knees that don't hurt as much when you go up the stairs, a pulse that remains steady even after an hour of exercise, and confidence that can only ONLY come from within because of the without.

And every single sensation and heartbeat of this journey is priceless.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

My days as a turtle...

3 months ago, when I was getting ready for the trip, I was the least bit excited about it. I wasn't looking forward to it in the way others do. I wasn't making plans. I wasn't looking ahead. My brother's wedding was in a month, and I felt a little dead inside, for all these non-feelings. My siblings would message like crazy talking about the little things and the big things about the wedding, and people, and clothes and plans. I would participate, but halfheartedly at best.

Sometimes, I feel this is the pitfall of being in the US, where it's so quiet and there is no dearth of personal space. When there is so much of both, I tend to recede inwards into my shell and start getting comfortable there. And any interactions with the outside world feels like an intrusion. It takes effort to even hold a conversation on some days. The only energy I have, I conserve for the boys and what they need from me on a daily basis. These are the days of my existence as a turtle, slow to take on the world, happiest inside the comforts of its hard back, where the din and the roar of everything external, is but a faint hum on the inside.

Of course, not all days are like this. There are days of complete social engagement, interaction, liveliness, gregariousness and I realise the potencies of my own charm, when my tongue feels more fluid in conversation, eager to please and eager to evoke smiles, when I feel inspired to take on bigger slices of life and living, when everything around me feels like poetry, when my own connection with the Universe feels like a constant flow of music. Where I whisper my longings, and it returns it, with interest and dividends attached. All feels well. Everything feels right.

Earlier, I would go all out and express this side of myself to the fullest, to everyone in my life and enjoy the beauty of their happiness with me. But when came the time to return to the shell, it would also confuse, confound and hurt the people around me. Many could not understand this side of me. Those were the days, even I could not understand this side of myself. The highest confusion was mine. But when you go through these cycles enough number of times, and sense the pattern that belongs to it, you slowly begin to accept that you come inbuilt like this. The high and the low. The extrovert and the introvert. The doer and the observer. I actually do not know any other way to be.

There is a saying which I love....Argue for your limitations, and you get to keep them. Soon I began to own this statement. I so completely accepted this side of myself without question and without a doubt that there might something wrong with me, that I would explain it to anyone who took the time or the courage to ask. This is how I am. And it's not personal....I would say. And that was the simple and very convenient truth.

As I matured with age, I began to rein myself in a little during my upswings. I would feel like calling a dozen friends and prodding them out of their own little shells, but I would desist where possible. It was hard, but perhaps simpler to avoid the resultant confusion, when the period ended, as it ultimately would. I started channeling my joy more to my children, to music, to writing. With a few more cycles of maturity, I began extending that tempered treatment even to my periods of silence. I tried not to go so deeply into my shell, that it told on everyone around me. I tried to maintain a string of balance and a small thread of connection to the outside world. Some evenness between this mood and that.

Today, I think this is where I am at. I am very comfortable in my own skin. Confidence teaches you that. That it is okay not to have to please everybody, all the time. That it is okay to live, knowing that someone might be miffed at you. I think you can train people on what to expect from you, and train them to keep those expectations low. In return, I afford, very generously, the same courtesies. I don't expect return phonecalls. It is okay, if you visit the country and don't make time to visit me. It is okay if you sound dull and listless to me on the phone or don't feel like talking. I don't ask for explanations to things. Or justifications. It is unnecessary. I actually, secretly rejoice in these moments, because it gives me a chance to give that full and complete freedom to someone to be who they want to be at that point in time. I love this declaration of individuality of a person. And I love that they can feel comfortable enough to be that way with me.

Isn't that kind of freedom the most beautiful thing we can ever give another person? Free them from our expectations. Give them wings to fly off into their own sunsets and sunrises. And still be there, without judgement, when they come back, wanting to enjoy your smile and a word. That is the beginning of friendship...

Friday, August 09, 2013

Thanni o thanni!

When you are a young boy on a vacation in Chennai and staying at your grandfather's home, which is not part of a big building co-op, but one of two apartments in a have the opportunity to see a thanni lorry in action, on a regular basis.

On the appointed day, you brave a hot sun and wait for it patiently with your grandfather, as he directs them through the lanes and bylanes of suburban Chennai. You are even prepared to walk half a kilometre with him to find the lost lorry and bring it home. You recognise the exact beep of its horn and the sound of its wheels as it comes screeching to a stop and then backs as close as possible into your lane.

As the workers set up, you eagerly look into the tank on the ground, just to see how all the water has been sucked dry by the motor pump, just an hour earlier, and deposited into the overhead tanks, in readiness for the new delivery. And when your mother arrives on the scene, you show it to her as well.

You watch as the man sets up the pipes, connecting one to the other to make it long enough to reach the tank. You watch as he secures them snugly with strips of rubber tubing. Rustic, but effective nonetheless.

You watch in fascination as the water gushes out in this bulging arc, pouring neatly into its designated slot. Water has a rhythmic quality which soothes and entrances. And you let it. Your body goes still as you observe its fluidity.

But it requires patience as well. And waiting, as you shift from foot to foot. But there is nothing that could take you away from there, just then. Nothing.

In the middle of it all, the man asks for some water for his young son who is riding with him that day. You eagerly carry the green plastic bottle, rush up the stairs, so as not to miss even a second more of action than you have to, place your demands to the kitchen, and rush back downstairs with it. While your mother peeps from the balcony above, wondering which 'boy' it is for.
She sees the man pouring the cool water down his son's throat, and she smiles at the simple love of it all.

She comes down to watch for the rest of the time, and even asks for a picture of you with the man and the boy, but you shy away at the last minute.
By this time, the tank is almost full to the brim. Water is frothing as it swirls inside. And with just a flick of the switch, the man cuts the supply, and air is silent. He empties out all the remaining water from the pipes, before disengaging the two and folding them into circles back into the lorry. The rubber strips come off and are tossed carelessly in the back among the pipes and you wonder if it will not fly off in the breeze of the open road.

Payment is made and the transaction is complete. The man waves goodbye and starts the engine. And there goes the lorry, down the road. Bye Bye Metro Water vandi. Thank you for stopping by. We will see you in another 4 days after these 8000 litres!

You go back upstairs, excited to tell your brother everything that you just saw. Your mother's thoughts, however, are all of that little boy and how thrilling it must be for him! To ride with his father on the Eid day off from school, taking to the roads, driving to people's homes to give them a part of their sustenance!! Will these not be the memories he grows up with? Will not some part of his boyhood dreams be coloured with these tinges? Just as the memories of her little boy will be defined by some of these very moments...when he stood on a dusty road, under the swaying breeze of the coconut trees, beneath the azure sky of a bright morning....waiting for the water to come.

Wednesday, August 07, 2013

The exacting art of making sabudana khichdi!

[Dedicated to my Periamma, who taught me how to make the 'as close to perfect as possible' sabudana khichdi. And through it, a desire to strive for excellence, at least in one dish of the vast canvas of cooking!]

Making sabudana khichdi is an exacting process as I have come to realise. One that has many variants, all of which need to fall into place for it to come into its own.

Right from the way it is soaked to how much of water it takes in, to the amount of oil used to cook it, to the number of peanuts you measure out to powder and flavor it, the steps have to be both precise as well as bended to flexibility, should the measure of exactness go awry at any point. And in this, it has my full and complete admiration. For something that requires so much of your stillness, concentration and presence, is something that is worthy of meditating upon. And I shall do just that!

I owe my love of this dish to my Aunt in Pune, who has understood every nuance and mood of this grain to master it so adeptly, and wields it to satisfy every sense of the palate. In a fit of self-confidence that can only come from the rushes of youth, I thought I could easily replicate her style and I made it at home. Over and over. And it was a washout every single time. I have lost count of how many packs of sabudana, I would have wasted in the process. And it never struck me that these failures could be turned on their head and fried as vadas. Finally, there came a day when after sampling yet another one of her perfectly churned out batches of khichdi, I deigned to come down from the high horse of my own independent study of it and asked for the secret. How do you make it Periamma, I mouthed rather coolly, when every part of me was literally begging inside, grappling to understand where the key to all my struggles lay.

Secret 1 : With the very first step she laid out, I realised my mistake. You soak the grain in just enough water to cover it. No more, no less. More makes it soggy. Less makes it hard and chewy. Also, different varieties need different hours of soaking. The ones I get in Chicago can easily do with the overnight soak. The ones in India, need just about an hour.

In this it is about balance. That perfect walk along the thin pole...with not even a balancing stick to hold on to. Either you get it right, or you don't!

Secret 2 : This needs lots of peanuts powdered to this semi coarse consistency. And also lots of oil to cook it in. So it can be the reward after a period of healthful eating. Or you can toss all such notions aside and cook it every other week.

In this, it is about excess and plentiful excess. Every time you feel it getting sticky, you add more oil without even batting an eyelid. And just when you think 20 peanuts is enough for those 2 cups, you add another 10 more into the mixie, and then another 5. Maybe just 2 more. 1 last?

Secret 3 : You need to mix in the peanut powder to the grains, before you cook it. It may work the other way too, but from all my repeated practise sessions, this works better.

In this it is about eccentricity. Why add the peanuts just a second later into the pan, when you can do it beforehand, and let the grains and the nuts become better acquainted? Why wait and delay the inevitable???!!!

Secret 4 : It needs careful monitoring over a low flame, with frequent stirring to make sure the undersides don't get sticky and clump together. And in the end, if its gets sticky anyways, let it cool in the breeze of the fan. The grains stop banding together so fiercely.

In this, it is about TLC. And micro-management. The kind where you don't take your eyes off of it even for a second, and even when you do it, it is done as a covert operation, before it develops the smarts to figure out the second's worth of neglect.

Secret 5 : A dash of lemon juice at the very end works wonders in bringing all the flavours together. As does, a big bunch of coriander greens.

In this it is about the pompadour touch. That little zing, that flair for the tart!

Suffice it to say, I have had enough intimate conversations with this process, to unearth all its secrets (or so I think! Foolish me!!!). For I have made several worthy batches of khichdi. Both the boys like it and if I space it out well in the course of a month, don't object to it in the least.

It makes for a hearty breakfast, an easy dinner option and can be a party hit, if the stars have aligned well in the charts that day! Making it each time is an act of mystery, where even the weight of my history with it will not guarantee success. It is thrilling because I never quite know what will come out at the end. Even if one step goes off the beaten track, it can become a slushy disaster or a clumpy, chewy mess.

But on the days it behaves itself and lends complicity to me in full and complete abandon and kindness....those are the days of true happiness. And today is one of those days!