What is it about some people that they simply cannot say no? It’s just two little alphabets after all and doesn’t even require a tongue twisting pronunciation like kollimollyttowitzkaloo.
It’s like if they ever get around utter the word, they probably fear that lightning would strike them dead or some equally crazy catastrophe would befall them giving rise to a new phrase. I sure have come across many of them.
I am not sure about the lightening striking them dead part, I am really sure that a lot of guilt and resentment strikes them, making them wish they were dead (their words not mine).
My mother was one such person. The word “no” didn’t have a place in her dictionary. Coming from a conservative Brahmin family that belonged to an old school of thought (make that very, very old), she simply felt it was her duty to be everyone’s yes man or in this case, yes woman. Refusing somebody something meant it looked “bad” on her part. Naturally this made her the most exploited-walked upon- doormat on which you can wipe your feet on-taken for a ride family member. Now me? I have the opposite problem. Saying yes to anything. Its three alphabets and considerable strain. Saying no was far, far easier and I could do it with a smile, style and sometimes not so gracefully.
With mom being the yes person and me the no person, this was one case where opposites did not attract, but she sure used to attract a lot of people with numerous sob stories coming up to the house asking for money. “My father is ill.. I need money for his medicines” or “my daughter in my village is getting married…I need money” or “My son’s education…if you could spare some money…I need to pay college fees…I need money.” Of course if one was observant enough to notice the pattern in the talk, it always boiled down to one thing. I need money and I need a nice lady like you to provide it.
Mom most times has a very generous heart and does give away easily, sometimes to an extent that would have given Karna, the Hindu mythological character known for his generosity a run for his reputation. Other times, when she felt she was being exploited made her angry and unhappy, but did this make her any less giving? NO!
One such person was Ravi. Ravi from Hubli. No one knows who he was or why he had knocked at my house one fine afternoon, why our house of all the choices in a long lane that we stayed in, why he targeted mom, but there he was standing at the door. He explained that he was from a small village in hubli. His parents were very poor and old and ill. He couldn’t afford to educate himself to finish his graduation. He wanted to complete it at any cost. He needed money to pay for his college fees and would a nice lady like you (mom) be kind enough to give some money (didn’t I say earlier that it all boiled down to one thing?).
Mom, after hearing many such sob stories had learned to be wary of entertaining people who seem to be seek her out like she were some long lost relative, but did she refuse? No prices for guessing. She gave him the money and then dismissed the matter.
Three months down the line, the guy was back again. This time it was money that he needed for text books for his studies. Mom now began to resent it that it was slowly developing into a habit but did she refuse? She gave him the money.
Another three months passed when there was a knock on the door. Yes! Ravi again. Fees for his mid term exam.
And so on it went. Months turned to a year and more. Mom now really became agitated at his sight, but did she refuse? She was yet to learn to say no. Ravi on the other hand seem to make her his ATM and dropped in anytime he wished to with reasons why he needed the money, all in some way connected to his education.
Mom did crib to me, her one and only daughter about how Ravi asked for the money but since I had never had the problem with uttering those two measly alphabets, I could not identify with her feelings about asserting herself and told her so without mincing words. After that she didn’t talk about it, but I could see she silently felt that she was being exploited and didn’t like the turn the whole thing was taking.
Nearly three years went by. One afternoon, when mom was having her noon siesta that she dearly treasures, there came a knock at the door. Bleary eyed, she opens it only to find Ravi standing there.
Like a person in an inebriated state, she let her tongue loose. That sure was a first, her raising her voice when she is usually soft spoken, she yelled about her generosity being exploited, that she seems to be the only target for sob stories – a magnet for the needy to ask her for money and how it all boiled down to the same thing (dint I say so before?), that of all people SHE had to be his target to ask for money and on and on it went.
Ravi couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Minutes later (and it seemed like ages), she paused for breath. Ravi then says,
“Madam, with your kind permission can I say something?”
Having exhausted all her frustration on her inability to say no, mom nodded.
“Today, I didn’t come to ask for money. I finished my BA and got a job as a teacher in school that is in my village. I came here to thank you for funding my education and to take your blessings.”
At that very moment, I would have loved to turn into a little insect to get into mom’s mind to find out exactly what was she thinking. There she was, asserting herself for the first time and for all the wrong reasons!
Ravi carrying mom’s heartfelt good wishes and blessings with him (after his speech, mom eventually did cool down), left with a smile.
Mom closed the door, feeling equally blessed.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
DEATH THE LEVELER
Whew! What a day! I thought to myself as I headed home. My office was conducting one of those training programs which I was a part of and I just hit home, tired but with the soda bottle high that one normally gets after attending an interactive training session, all bubbly and energetic despite a long day.
I lay on my bed musing over the events of the program when I heard my mother calling me for dinner.
Dinner was regular affair with rice, curd and papads. I was happily tucking in when mom questioned me about the day and I, in turn, asked about hers. Family was just mom and I you see; dad passed away when I was a little baby and I have a genius for a brother who was abroad, involved in his research. I had just finished my graduation and began working as an executive in a telecom company and overall life was looking good.
Dinner time, besides chatting about the day to life events to politics, was also the time when decisions were taken jointly regarding the domestic issues by mom and I and this time, it involved modifying our kitchen which looked a thorough mess and resembled nothing on this earth with its damp walls and grease, dirty floor one couldn’t step on and a clogged up sink. Mom mentioned that two men who were into civil work and had come over that day to take a look at things for remodeling.
In the course of the conversation, Mom spoke about an event which was to affect me more severely than what I thought it would.
Apparently, while mom was negotiating the price and showing the kitchen contractors the place, it turned out that there was a bucket half filled with water and a little baby squirrel had fallen into it. Mom had got the bucket of water ready to use it to wash clothes when she was interrupted by the men. One of the men emptied the bucket complete with water and squirrel out in our backyard and it lay there for a few minutes, shocked and shivering with cold and fright before bounding away.
The squirrel had escaped death for the first time that day.
The incident was dismissed and once mom was done with the contractors and her washing up she went outside to stand near a wall separating our house and that of our neighbor. As was the routine every evening, mom was gossiping with our neighbor next door a spirited old lady when there was a sudden movement and something that looked like a blur passed by her. Before she could recover, there was another movement just as fast. It took both for a minute to grasp that it was the same squirrel that mom had found in the bucket now being furiously chased by a cat.
My neighbor, a rather enthusiastic old lady, tried to chase away the cat that was excitedly mewing at the squirrel. As for our friend here, it had gone close to a pot kept close by and just sat there shivering with fright. The cat had to pass my mom and our neighbor to get to the squirrel. It mewed away in hope to cross but was also wary of the watchful eyes of mom and my neighbor, who seem determined to keep it away from the squirrel. After a while with a disgusted look at the ladies, the cat slunk away.
The squirrel had escaped death for the second time that day.
Mom finished relating this incident in time with me completing my dinner. I went to my room which was in the first floor of the house to listen to music, as is my post dinner ritual. As I entered my room, I opened the bathroom door and lo! There was the little squirrel dashing about the bathroom.
It had come in through a little window which had a tree growing by it outside. I was in a dilemma. Should I let it out? It was nearly midnight and how can I open the doors so late? What if it dint go through the door and starts jumping all over the house? What if the cat gets at it?
While I was thinking, I heard a mew just outside the door. That decided it! The cat was somewhere about outside and I decided that the squirrel was safer where it is than outside at the mercy of the cat. After all, it had shelter and it was safe from the greedy cat. I locked the bathroom door so it wouldn’t get out and bound all over the house.
Thus the squirrel had escaped death for the third time that day. I sure felt like a savior thinking of that.
Next day being a Sunday, I had my own plans. I hardly went to the first floor of my house. The squirrel was completely forgotten as I stayed in the ground floor. After finishing my chores, I set out to go on a shopping spree.
It was evening when I reached home and rather pleased with my purchases. I suddenly remembered the little squirrel still locked in the bathroom.
I rushed upstairs to the first floor and opened the bathroom door cautiously, half expecting it to dash out.
Unlike the previous night, there were no movements or noises in the bathroom. The room was eerily quiet.
“It must have escaped through the very window that it came in” I thought to myself and went into the room. A quick, accidental glance into the toilet made me freeze on the spot.
For, fallen in the toilet that was left open the previous night was the squirrel, lying there deathly still. There was only one feeling that I felt. It overtook all other emotions and seemed to match with that of the squirrel’s expression in its death– a feeling of sheer helplessness – that when death decides to strike, no one is spared.
I lay on my bed musing over the events of the program when I heard my mother calling me for dinner.
Dinner was regular affair with rice, curd and papads. I was happily tucking in when mom questioned me about the day and I, in turn, asked about hers. Family was just mom and I you see; dad passed away when I was a little baby and I have a genius for a brother who was abroad, involved in his research. I had just finished my graduation and began working as an executive in a telecom company and overall life was looking good.
Dinner time, besides chatting about the day to life events to politics, was also the time when decisions were taken jointly regarding the domestic issues by mom and I and this time, it involved modifying our kitchen which looked a thorough mess and resembled nothing on this earth with its damp walls and grease, dirty floor one couldn’t step on and a clogged up sink. Mom mentioned that two men who were into civil work and had come over that day to take a look at things for remodeling.
In the course of the conversation, Mom spoke about an event which was to affect me more severely than what I thought it would.
Apparently, while mom was negotiating the price and showing the kitchen contractors the place, it turned out that there was a bucket half filled with water and a little baby squirrel had fallen into it. Mom had got the bucket of water ready to use it to wash clothes when she was interrupted by the men. One of the men emptied the bucket complete with water and squirrel out in our backyard and it lay there for a few minutes, shocked and shivering with cold and fright before bounding away.
The squirrel had escaped death for the first time that day.
The incident was dismissed and once mom was done with the contractors and her washing up she went outside to stand near a wall separating our house and that of our neighbor. As was the routine every evening, mom was gossiping with our neighbor next door a spirited old lady when there was a sudden movement and something that looked like a blur passed by her. Before she could recover, there was another movement just as fast. It took both for a minute to grasp that it was the same squirrel that mom had found in the bucket now being furiously chased by a cat.
My neighbor, a rather enthusiastic old lady, tried to chase away the cat that was excitedly mewing at the squirrel. As for our friend here, it had gone close to a pot kept close by and just sat there shivering with fright. The cat had to pass my mom and our neighbor to get to the squirrel. It mewed away in hope to cross but was also wary of the watchful eyes of mom and my neighbor, who seem determined to keep it away from the squirrel. After a while with a disgusted look at the ladies, the cat slunk away.
The squirrel had escaped death for the second time that day.
Mom finished relating this incident in time with me completing my dinner. I went to my room which was in the first floor of the house to listen to music, as is my post dinner ritual. As I entered my room, I opened the bathroom door and lo! There was the little squirrel dashing about the bathroom.
It had come in through a little window which had a tree growing by it outside. I was in a dilemma. Should I let it out? It was nearly midnight and how can I open the doors so late? What if it dint go through the door and starts jumping all over the house? What if the cat gets at it?
While I was thinking, I heard a mew just outside the door. That decided it! The cat was somewhere about outside and I decided that the squirrel was safer where it is than outside at the mercy of the cat. After all, it had shelter and it was safe from the greedy cat. I locked the bathroom door so it wouldn’t get out and bound all over the house.
Thus the squirrel had escaped death for the third time that day. I sure felt like a savior thinking of that.
Next day being a Sunday, I had my own plans. I hardly went to the first floor of my house. The squirrel was completely forgotten as I stayed in the ground floor. After finishing my chores, I set out to go on a shopping spree.
It was evening when I reached home and rather pleased with my purchases. I suddenly remembered the little squirrel still locked in the bathroom.
I rushed upstairs to the first floor and opened the bathroom door cautiously, half expecting it to dash out.
Unlike the previous night, there were no movements or noises in the bathroom. The room was eerily quiet.
“It must have escaped through the very window that it came in” I thought to myself and went into the room. A quick, accidental glance into the toilet made me freeze on the spot.
For, fallen in the toilet that was left open the previous night was the squirrel, lying there deathly still. There was only one feeling that I felt. It overtook all other emotions and seemed to match with that of the squirrel’s expression in its death– a feeling of sheer helplessness – that when death decides to strike, no one is spared.
Monday, January 25, 2010
MATTERS OF THE HEART
I am posting a series of incidents from my experience as a facilitator for children in the age group of 4 to 6 years old. Do check out all my classroom tales – Kings and Kingdom, The simple truth, Matters of the heart and What’s the hurry and hope it brings a smile to your face:)
How in the world would you explain a concept called trust to a 4 year old? Or for that matter a 40 year old? A word that has too many personal definitions, that is built on personal experiences and perceptions?
I proceed haltingly, my mind raking for examples appropriate to make my class of eager eyed listeners understand the concept.
“Suppose,” I began, “just suppose your mama who comes to pick you up at 1 o clock after class ends, promises to come, but does not turn up at the said time, would you trust her to come the next time around?”
“Yes!” Came the confident response from one wide eyed four year old.
“Well! What makes you so sure”…I ask somewhat taken aback by the unconditional yes.
“Ma’am, I know that she’ll come. My heart tells me that she will.”
Now, is that trust or what?
Vidya.S
How in the world would you explain a concept called trust to a 4 year old? Or for that matter a 40 year old? A word that has too many personal definitions, that is built on personal experiences and perceptions?
I proceed haltingly, my mind raking for examples appropriate to make my class of eager eyed listeners understand the concept.
“Suppose,” I began, “just suppose your mama who comes to pick you up at 1 o clock after class ends, promises to come, but does not turn up at the said time, would you trust her to come the next time around?”
“Yes!” Came the confident response from one wide eyed four year old.
“Well! What makes you so sure”…I ask somewhat taken aback by the unconditional yes.
“Ma’am, I know that she’ll come. My heart tells me that she will.”
Now, is that trust or what?
Vidya.S
THE SIMPLE TRUTH
“Fruit time”, I declared the theme for the day as I handed out blank papers and crayons to my class of 4 year old kids. “Draw any fruit you like best and color it.” Having seen the group settled down, poring over their papers, furiously coloring away, I then proceeded to draw one myself. I always liked to get involved in any activity that is designed for them. It helps me get in touch with my inner child.
I drew a banana, picked up a green crayon from a basket of crayons lying beside me without looking at the color, half lost in thought I began to color the banana.
Halfway through, I paused and let out a groan.
“I should have colored this banana yellow!” I exclaimed.
A 4 year old boy, busy coloring looked at my drawing and then said to me, “its okay ma’am. Just think it is a raw banana.”
Really! Life is that simple isn’t it?
Vidya.S
I drew a banana, picked up a green crayon from a basket of crayons lying beside me without looking at the color, half lost in thought I began to color the banana.
Halfway through, I paused and let out a groan.
“I should have colored this banana yellow!” I exclaimed.
A 4 year old boy, busy coloring looked at my drawing and then said to me, “its okay ma’am. Just think it is a raw banana.”
Really! Life is that simple isn’t it?
Vidya.S
WHAT’S THE HURRY?
Timez up!! I yelled like I usually do at the end of each session to my class of 4 year olds. My yell was accompanied by squeals of excitement and scrambling for bags and loud “Bye ma'am’s” amid hugging them all goodbye for the day. I began to quietly put away my stuff and turned around to see an adorable 4 year old who hadn’t budged from the classroom. This was surprising considering “time’s up” yell is one harried time with everyone rushing about before they could rush home. I am equally impatient to pack up and leave the class and head home and here was this girl, yashoo was her name, standing still and looking at me without a word.
What happened yashoo? I asked kneeling down to her level until we were eye to eye.
No response.
“C’mon speak up. You need something? Can I get it for you?” I asked wondering if she needed to answer the call of nature.
“Tell me what it is.”
“I want a hug from you” she lisped.
As she threw her arms around my neck and as she laid her soft cheek against mine, I thought my heart is going to burst into a million pieces with the gesture and I asked myself – what’s the hurry after all?
Vidya.S
What happened yashoo? I asked kneeling down to her level until we were eye to eye.
No response.
“C’mon speak up. You need something? Can I get it for you?” I asked wondering if she needed to answer the call of nature.
“Tell me what it is.”
“I want a hug from you” she lisped.
As she threw her arms around my neck and as she laid her soft cheek against mine, I thought my heart is going to burst into a million pieces with the gesture and I asked myself – what’s the hurry after all?
Vidya.S
LESSONS FROM THE CLASSROOM-Kings and Kingdoms
Kings and Kingdoms! I thought excitedly, a volley of ideas swimming through my head as I tried to chalk out the flow of activities for my forthcoming class session with 4 year olds. My job as a teacher gives me ample exposure to come up with ideas to make lessons most interesting for the little ones for I teach the age group of 3 to 5 year olds. Little did I realize that over time I wasn’t the only influencing factor in the class, but was learning a lot from them too. Some of the interactions with the kids over time also made for amusing anecdotes that I felt simply had to be penned.
Since of my kids still lived in a fantasy world of kings, still thinking that they existed only in books and that they almost were magical, I thought it would be better to give them a more realistic view about kings how they lived.
My sessions was scheduled thus –
Starting with the story of the emperor’s new clothes – wherein this clothes obsessed king who wanted a new dress everyday gets fooled by his tailors into walking naked in the streets thinking he was wearing a new invisible dress. The tailors had played a trick on the king saying that it was the most desirable outfit that can be seen only by wise men and had pretended to dress him up with the invisible dress when the king actually had nothing on him. Little did the king realize he was naked as a new born baby as he paraded the streets, telling people that he was wearing an invisible dress and was ridiculed by all and suffered shame and humiliation.
This was followed by movies and clips of the kings in India, the palaces they lived in. Then we went about trying to create little puppets of kings and kingdoms out of clay.
Duly satisfied by the exposure provided with the original objective, I called all the kids for a reflection round of all the activities – a time when we were to pour out our learning’s for the day.
“So,” I asked, “What qualities do you think a king should have?”
“A king” declared an eager 4 year old, “must wear clothes all the time.”
“And even if he doesn’t” quipped another, he must not lie about it.
That’s wisdom for you – as basic as it can get.
Vidya.S
Since of my kids still lived in a fantasy world of kings, still thinking that they existed only in books and that they almost were magical, I thought it would be better to give them a more realistic view about kings how they lived.
My sessions was scheduled thus –
Starting with the story of the emperor’s new clothes – wherein this clothes obsessed king who wanted a new dress everyday gets fooled by his tailors into walking naked in the streets thinking he was wearing a new invisible dress. The tailors had played a trick on the king saying that it was the most desirable outfit that can be seen only by wise men and had pretended to dress him up with the invisible dress when the king actually had nothing on him. Little did the king realize he was naked as a new born baby as he paraded the streets, telling people that he was wearing an invisible dress and was ridiculed by all and suffered shame and humiliation.
This was followed by movies and clips of the kings in India, the palaces they lived in. Then we went about trying to create little puppets of kings and kingdoms out of clay.
Duly satisfied by the exposure provided with the original objective, I called all the kids for a reflection round of all the activities – a time when we were to pour out our learning’s for the day.
“So,” I asked, “What qualities do you think a king should have?”
“A king” declared an eager 4 year old, “must wear clothes all the time.”
“And even if he doesn’t” quipped another, he must not lie about it.
That’s wisdom for you – as basic as it can get.
Vidya.S
THE SIN OF BEING SINGLE
RECIPE FOR THE PERFECT MAN.
A cup of chemistry.
A variety of communication strategies to be employed as and when needed.
Spoonfuls of imagination.
Cups of thoughtfulness,
Bowls overflowing trust and compatibility.
A dash of humor.
A pinch of stability.
A blend of mischief and maturity.
A handful of memory for birthdays and anniversaries and for all other occasions that only women can keep track of.
Method:
Wouldn’t life be real easy if we could cook up a recipe for things we like? Especially for our life partners who can be chosen and cooked to perfection (I am not being cannibalistic here) to season, add, simmer and occasionally mash and be mashed on the process? Reality doesn’t even come remotely close.
A friend of mine once said, “Men are like fine wine. They start out as grapes and it is up to the women to stomp the shit out of them before they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.” Having researched and experienced the grape making process thoroughly, I found it really tedious and prefer to opt for the single life.
If it weren’t for the people around me, I’d truly enjoy staying single. Unfortunately this is not possible unless I am living in some remote island filled with animals and feast on herbs and roots. Once the “marriageable” age is reached, let alone the older generation who talk about “settling down” in every sentence they use, but your own peers, the ones who went through the “singles” phase and loathed those who popped the “M” related question end up joining the conspiracy against the singletons and pop back the same question to you! The audacity of it all!
Or is it just plain concern?..
I have had various explanations to my single status, not from my imagination mine– that I must be someone with a preference for the same sex which is why I am not getting married ( I couldn’t be more straight), that I must have suffered some kind of abuse as a kid and that is manifesting by my refusal to get married and , that I must have been dumped by someone or the other in the past and hence hate the male species, that maybe I have a secret lover that I aren’t talking about ( and in this case, “ask her about it and do get her married to the guy of her choice” say my relatives to my poor mother who in turn interrogates me on my non existent secret lover), that I am harboring a deep fear for the “one-eyed snake” as one person put it (please don’t ask me to explain this. The guy needs to be given credit for his subtleness), that there must be “something wrong somewhere” for her to stay this way… the list is endless.. The cake goes to my maid who comes in to clean at our place advising mom to “hypnotize” me into getting married if it doesn’t work any other way.
Please! Cant a woman be healthy, attractive, intelligent, independent and STILL stay single and enjoy it without people acting like as though being single is a disease?.
Then there is the dreaded Valentine’s day. Heart shaped pizzas and couples in love feeding them to each other. I can look at that and feel happy that there is love in the air, if it weren’t for the comments I would get, making me feel incomplete, like I have lost a limb or something. “What are you doing for Valentines?” “Aren’t you going out? You mean you still haven’t found anyone yet.” Like partners are meant to be picked and chosen like vegetables off the market.
Maybe one day they’ll have an island where they’ll banish all people who are single and who knows I might find my man there and get married!!!
Vidya.S
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