6 yard wonder

Women in Chennai love sarees! Isn’t that statement synonymous to kids love chocolate? The annoyingly ubiquitous salwar kameez ( popularly known as ‘chudidhaar’)  may have invaded Chennai in the past decade, cutting across age, economic status and class, but yet, thankfully the 6 yard wonder has retained its iconic status. 

 In Chennai, we wear our sarees with pride. We wear them to weddings, kutcheries, temples, functions, malls and cinemas. Never mind if they are cumbersome to drape, difficult to wash, even more difficult to starch and iron, expensive to dry-clean and not terribly convenient to travel in. Nothing like a crisp cotton saree worn with a smart blouse to work. Or an elegant chiffon to a party. Or a dressy kanjeevaram to a wedding.  Or a classic tussar or raw silk to a recital.

No matter how many sarees we own, we women still hanker for more ( atleast I do!). Why can’t we have enough of them? If we do, I guess all the huge silk emporiums that cram around Pondy bazaar and Panagal park making the area a traffic nightmare will be out of business. As if this was not enough, whenever there is an exhibition in town that lures us with advertisements of  ‘exclusive sarees’  from a particular state or a top notch designer, we women make a bee line for it.  Then there are the weavers and traders who come home selling a particular genre of sarees, stacked neatly in huge bundles or suitcases that they painstakingly unpack and spread out on the floor to show us. Trouble is, while we can breeze in and out of a huge shop staffed with nonchalant employees who can barely hide their exasperation as they ‘show’ you sarees you will never buy, we somehow feel sorry to turn away these vendors who come home with their collections. Just that the huge amount of effort and time they spend in displaying and the earnestness in the whole exercise touches us and we don’t have the heart to turn them away without making a small purchase, which may not even be worthwhile. 

Sarees have become more expensive, like everything else. A good silk saree costs a few thousand rupees and the price varies according to the place of purchase. There are designer sarees, that claim to be one of a kind, which means no one else is likely to own the same. Which also means they come with a heavy price tag. There are high end boutiques with their swanky ambience and hour glass mannequins draped enticingly in sarees ( at times outlandish) beckoning us to step in and take a look. I usually just take a look. Boutiques are exorbitant and understandably so, for they pay a premium to run a store in a good neighbourhood that can afford those prices.

What about the blouse? Back then, sarees never came with an attached blouse piece. One had to scout for a matching blouse piece in a cut piece store, saree in hand, choosing between shades of the same colour holding the saree next to them, at times checking them out in sunlight to ensure we get it right. But then, we could come home and find the blouse a shade darker or lighter, but can’t do much about it. There wasn’t too much of a choice anyway, just pure silk, cotton and two by two ( whatever that means!!). And we had to make up our minds if we wanted a blouse that matched the saree, border or pallu....tough call. We would always end up feeling our choice could have been better.

Now, life is easier. Blouses come attached with the saree, saving us so much bother. Blouse pieces come with embroidery, mirror work, patch work, sequins and borders that can be mixed and matched with any saree to enhance it’s appeal.  There are ready- made blouses aplenty too. The heavily padded ones are in vogue now, dispensing with the need for, you know what. They are convenient two- in- ones ( pun unintended!), as one can flaunt a backless, shoulder-less, neck-less blouse, without worrying about a strap peeping at the inappropriate place.  Just wear one piece and bingo!

 However, tailoring a blouse has never been more challenging, what with myriad patterns, varied designs and designer tailors who charge an arm and a leg for a good fit. But we are not complaining. After all, anything for a good blouse, even if we finally end up spending more on the blouse than the saree itself!  And it is an undisputed fact that a smartly sewn blouse will embellish even an ordinary saree and an ill fitting one would ruin a gorgeous saree.

Young women now pride themselves on never being able to wear a saree. Too elaborate, too inconvenient, too cumbersome. They are better off with their jeans and tees or kurtis. But they are all missing a point. The saree is the most elegant costume, flattering the feminine form like none other. It can be at once sensuous and modest, showing off the midriff and a little or lot of the waist. It can be teamed with a blouse to make a fashion statement.  And there are different ways of wearing it, as each woman renders her own unique style to it, in the way she drapes it and carries it off. 

Now tell me another costume that can match up?

Thaka Dhimi Thaa

Guess the status message on my face book wall that got the most delirious responses and ‘likes’ from friends and distant family? The one  announcing  that I had resumed dance after 30 years. Six months ago, I posted that message rather diffidently, seeking reassurance from those who matter. And was clearly overwhelmed by the response.

I was taught bharatanatyam as a child. It was the norm in Brahmin households to train girls in all classical art forms – carnatic music- vocal or instrumental and bharatanatyam. I learnt all of the above.

My week days after- school hours were devoted to vocal and veena lessons and weekends were devoured by dance lessons. While I went to the next street from our home to learn veena and vocal music, a couple came home to teach me bharatanatyam or their version of it. I must confess that I enjoyed none – in vocal classes, I looked forward to the ‘prasadam’ ( usually a banana with some sugar sprinkled on it!) paattu mami gave me after class more than the geetham or varnam she painstakingly taught me, her hands moving dexterously on the harmonium.

 Veena was slightly better. I first learnt from an ill-tempered old man who had a permanent scowl on his face and later from a more genial family who took turns to teach in between their household chores. The only thing I remember from those classes is the delicious aroma of rasam that emanated from their kitchen as we students twanged the veena in the next room. Nevertheless, I won a few music competitions playing the veena, more as a reward for transporting the instrument with it’s paraphernalia than for the quality of music it produced in my hands. 

  

As for dance lessons, the couple came home during weekends and almost settled in. Since we had a famous hotel and a never ending supply of milk, coffee, snacks and food at home, hosting dance teachers was never a problem. No wonder I was their favourite student whose latent talent they seemed to recognise! The lady sang and her husband did the nattuvangam. I was coaxed into practising a few hours a day. My grandmother, mother and aunt closely followed my progress and insisted I do the ‘arai mandi’, footwork and hand gestures properly. My father hated this noisy intrusion in the house and chided the women for torturing the ‘poor child’ and not letting her study! My brothers were ambivalent. One of them, very musically inclined, knew all my dance songs and sequences by rote and annoyed me, singing them all the time at home.

Was I really interested? Not too sure. Parents barely cared if the child had interest or aptitude for something and considered it their bounden duty to enrich them culturally. Which I think is a great idea since we do end up appreciating the art more later on in life, even if we don’t make a living out of it.

 My debut performance was when I was 8 years old, in a small hall near our home. If wearing heavy make- up and glittering costumes was exciting, the praise and accolades after I got off stage were heady. That’s what egged me on. I performed very often, in every major event in school and college, in most family weddings with cousins and sabhas all over Salem. So much so I came to be known for my dance more than anything else. When I visit Salem now, my children are bemused by the nostalgic praise I still receive for my dance from elderly neighbours and friends, almost as if I was a legend in my time!

Marriage decisively closed the door on my dancing and I was strangely relieved with the respite it provided. However, over the years, whenever I watched a dance recital, I felt a pang. My feet involuntarily tapped to beat as I tried to recollect the adavus I had learnt. But apart from ensuring that my daughter Tara started lessons when she was 7 and accompanying her to every class, I did nothing about it. Tara hated it too, and just went through the motions with utter indifference, just to please me. Luckily, after her arangetram when she performed exceedingly well, she has never looked back.

 

But for some inexplicable reason, I have had more people assume that I am a dancer than the lawyer that I really am, and I wonder what special looks a dancer is supposed to have that sets them apart? Does learning the art influence one’s gait, stance and posture? But each time someone  made that mistake, I couldn’t help feeling elated.  Tara’s guru and students in her class urged me to start dancing again. I always dismissed the idea as improbable, even ludicrous. Somehow, bharatanatyam as I had learnt it then seemed a piece of cake. But in Chennai with so many dance schools propagating various distinctive styles, the art form is intensely competitive and requires disciplined hours of rigorous practise by an aspirant. I was not even vaguely tempted and was happier seeing Tara blossom into a fine dancer, fulfilling my aborted desire.

Then fortuitously, Tara started Kuchipudi lessons and I happened to watch one of her sessions. The alluring sound of the thattukizhi and the lilting tune of the jathis haunted me. Could I possibly start dancing again? After a month spent in thought and hesitation, I approached her Guru,  almost expecting  polite rejection or even ridicule, considering I am in the wrong side of forties. On the contrary, he welcomed me with open arms, pointing out to a 63 year old retired bank officer who started learning bharatanatyam and kuchipudi at the grand age of 57 and has done arangetram in both! I started classes – twice a week and love every minute of it. Our classes are a great leveller – from 6 year olds to a 63 year old, we come in all ages and sizes. And that is what makes it even more special.

 I sometimes wonder what stopped me from taking this leap a few years earlier. But, I am glad I listened to my heart now. Better late than never!

No Place like home!

(An edited version was published in The Hindu- Sunday Dairy on June 23, 2012)

It’s been 6 weeks. I was dying to get away from Chennai’s scorching heat and sweltering humidity.  And was excited to head to Canada to visit my daughter.  It was wonderful seeing her with her new family and we have been basking in their warmth and hospitality.
Canada is a beautiful country.  The air is pure and unpolluted, the water is sterile enough to be drunk straight out of a tap, roads are squeaky clean, cars are big and state of the art, homes are spacious and opulent and people are gracious and friendly.  There are lakes and streams everywhere, verdant parks and gardens in the middle of a big city.  Every street looks the same and homes are designed to have the same façade. Every city has the same chain of restaurants and coffee shops.
People respect lines and solemnly queue up for everything. No mad scramble to get to the counter before you. Discipline, punctuality, civic sense, dignity of labour, mutual respect for fellow citizens are qualities imbibed by Indians living here, while also trying to retain the flavour and ethnicity of their home country. Every Indian has stories about failing the driving license test a few times before getting one and being handed the infamous ‘tickets’ from traffic cops for over -speeding, bad parking or jumping signals. Indian men help around the kitchen and do chores, children help with clearing garbage, women work very hard at home and outside and everyone strives to fit in, in an alien country they call home now. So much so, they find India too dirty, disorganised, corrupt, convoluted, crowded, chaotic, with nightmarish traffic and people prying into each other’s lives and getting entangled in family politics and gossip. While men may consider returning to their home land someday, I suspect the women may never allow that to happen, as traditional roles have rather blurred and been blotted out here, much to their comfort and convenience. The weirdest thing for me is to hear our kids speak the American way – accent, twang, shrug, rolling eyes and all…it’s almost unreal, coming from an Arjun, Shyam or Divya! I sometimes wish they should be genetically modified to have white skin!! And first generation adults have a confused accent, as if they can’t decide which way to go.
Chennai is everything that Canada is not. Yet, I miss Chennai – its heat, humidity, crowd, noise and all. Chennai throbs with art and culture. There are people on the streets, at all times. Groups of youngsters hang out near tea shops and juice centres all through the day. Posters scream welcome to some politician attending a meeting or gracing an occasion; banners proclaiming successful completion of a term in office of a minister claim our attention; our ubiquitous Chief Minister smiles and greets us from every highway/ over bridge/ traffic junction from giant-sized posters sponsored by sycophants; fan clubs celebrate their favourite film star’s birthday with posters pasted shabbily on walls; and then there are random, ugly graffiti all over our walls in ‘Singara Chennai’! There are vendors and hawkers on every street, however posh, selling fruits and vegetables. There are roadside eateries doling out just about anything, including ‘panneer butter’ and ‘Andhra style chinese items’.
 We wake up to a cocktail of sounds and smells. Smell of food from neighbour’s  kitchen, vehicles plying and honking on the road, M.S.Subbulakshmi chanting from a distance,  Ilayaraja blaring from somewhere, cycle bells, an old lady loudly selling keerai, fragrance of agarbathi and flowers from puja rooms, our  neighbour mama ringing the bell as he completes his morning prayers, dishes clanging as our maid cleans them.
We can hail an auto or a cab if we need to go out. We can stop anytime anywhere and get directions to get to any destination. Auto drivers and pedestrians are aplenty and willing to guide or misguide you. No need to use a GPS - the clever device that tells us which exit to take on which highway.
I miss the people. The simple folk crisscrossing roads all day.  Who are always toiling to make ends meet and yet do not complain.  Who work for us for a pittance and yet respect us as masters. Who are grim reminders of how fortunate we are in more ways than one.
   There is something about home and routine. When we are caught in it, we long to get away from the madness. When we are away from it, we miss the very same madness!

Parenting, no child's play!

An edited version was published in 'The Hindu' open page in Feb 2012.

I was recently invited to give a presentation in a seminar organised by a school in Coimbatore about parenting in the digital age. I am not a qualified child psychologist. Neither can I claim expertise in guiding parents in their role as parents. The only qualification that I can think of - I am a mother of 3 children who have grown into adorable adults – and I cannot take the entire credit for this impressive achievement. But today, that seems to be the only achievement I can boast of in 46 years!!

For starters, having 3 children is enough to raise anyone’s eyebrows. I normally don’t hide my age or the fact that I have 3 children. And people always give me an incredulous look - I can’t tell if it is the  ‘come on- you – must - be – crazy’ kind of disbelief, or ‘wow- how –on-earth-did-you-manage-raising-3- kids’ kind of  admiration! But I love that moment- when I reveal the great truth and see the recipient mentally calculate my age in proportion to that of my eldest son.

 I stepped into the role of a mother with equal ignorance as I had done into that of a wife. The idea of 3 children was my husband’s - he is an only child and felt duty bound to make up for the lapse on his parents’ part.  And since planning of any kind is alien to me- leave alone family planning, I willingly embraced motherhood, having 3 children in 7 years.

I became a parent when I was 19 years old!! That is the time most teenagers today rack their brains studying for engineering exams, preparing for CAT or dreaming of a Masters degree in a well known university abroad. And I stumbled into motherhood uninitiated and unprepared as it were.

Anyways, whatever age one chooses to become a parent, fact remains that raising a child can never be taught....it is a process that one learns along the way, and the path is fraught with pain and joy in equal measure.  One needs patience, perseverance and stoic acceptance.

 Babies are relatively easier to look after, if you ask me. All they need is - to be fed on time, their diapers changed when wet, be put to sleep and wake up at will. It is in the ‘terrible twos’ that the woes of the parents start. Toddlers are ‘cute’ for an outsider but a handful for the parent. They have to be potty- trained, force- fed, baby-talked and protected from mishaps waiting to happen. They seem like angels only when they are asleep!

Teenagers are a nightmare in comparison though. Atleast young kids can be admonished and yelled at when they don’t behave. But teenagers can give you a hard time with their defiance, disrespect and mood swings. And then of course, raising a daughter has its own set of challenges. We want to protect them from the big bad world and watch over their whereabouts; ensure that they don’t fall into bad company; lecture them on late nights and the lurking dangers in pubs; fret about their clothes (or lack of them) – and be considered old fashioned pests who never understand them!

Add to this the stress of getting children into a good school for which admissions are booked even when they are in the womb and tutoring them till they come to a class when we can no longer teach them math or science. 10^th and 12^th have the board exams looming large like a formidable demon that has to be held by its horns. And parents go into a self imposed exile shunning tv, friends and any social activity for a few months, vicariously living through the ordeal of their children. Then begins a mad scramble for application forms, entrance exams, professional courses, universities, admissions and capitation fees.  A lot of work, let me tell you!

But a few decades ago, parenting somehow seemed a cake-walk! How else would you explain couples having 5 and 8 and 12 children as a matter of routine? It was not uncommon to have the mother and daughter pregnant at the same time- without feeling embarrassed at the prospect of a child born along with its aunt or uncle!! We now shudder at the thought!!

Parenting then was not taken too seriously, I think. It was a joint effort – with grandparents, aunts and uncles freely chipping in to raise children. And parents were not too sensitive or possessive about their children – it was okay to have them disciplined by a relative in the family.

 I am the 5^th child after 4 brothers and don’t remember being disciplined by either of my parents. We were all brought up by our grand-mothers and an aunt who lived with us.  And our mother never once defended our misbehaviour or resented the interference from her in-laws. And I think we grew up to be reasonably good individuals who understand people’s idiosyncrasies and are tolerant to their quirks- exposed as we were to various such characters in our childhood.

To me, parenting means being there for your child.  Do what it takes to ensure your child gets the best out of life; understand  that each child is different and celebrate that difference; never compare the child with its siblings/ cousins/friends; recognise their interests that may not always be in sync with yours; foster their individuality; nurture their talent; tell them it’s okay to make mistakes; teach them to learn from their mistakes; love, adore, hug and kiss them; cook for them and clean after them; teach them the simple pleasures of life – such as going out for a walk to the beach, chatting with grandparents, sharing their thoughts , enjoying a home- made meal with everyone; and above all don’t pretend to be their friend – they already have them- just be a good parent without trying too hard.

My eldest son was never into academics – he loathed studies and enjoyed playing outdoors, tennis, swimming and music. Ditto with my daughter – she loved theatre and dancing. My son started music lessons when he was 7 years old – he holds a Masters in classical music today and is a promising veena artist. He is 27 and has decided to make music his living. My daughter is a classical dancer who has dabbled in english theatre as an actor and in movies as an assistant director. But she was never keen on music – would always dodge music lessons and ensure that the teacher was frustrated enough to give up! My last son is the only one who did the predictable – a brilliant student, he excelled in school and is now pursuing electronics and instrumentation in BITS, Pilani. But he studied despite us....we never forced any of our children to study hard or top the class. I would go to their school only twice a year for PTA meetings.  Never stressed over their performance.  Never compared notes with other parents, leave alone with other children. Never lost sleep over their marks. I am not sure if my attitude was good or bad – and I am certainly not suggesting that it is the ideal. But my heart swells with pride when I see the three of them so close to each other- with no comparisons or complexes, taking pride in one another’s choices and looking out for one another’s welfare. And I choke each time someone compliments me on what wonderful children I have- how happy, warm and affectionate they are!

Today, parenting is a challenge. Parents give more than the child needs and on the flip side expect much more than the child can possibly do. I find a lot of children unable to hold a conversation with real people – unless they are on sms/ chat/ skype/ g-talk or whatever.  Most of their time is spent in attending classes – tuition, dance, music, skating, even story- telling! Today’s children get the best of everything- education, gadgets, clothes, gizmos, holidays, pocket money.....but do they really have a childhood?? 

Vanity Fair

Is there any girl or woman today who does not have her eyebrows shaped and threaded to perfection, her arms and legs waxed to smoothness, her hair styled, straightened, permed, coloured or streaked , her face bleached, massaged, creamed and  ‘masked’?

I always wonder when this beauty parlour/ salon/ spa/ wellness clinic culture started thriving and we women embraced it with open arms and large wallets, spending long hours lounging in chairs and couches while girls pamper us with their services. What if we were caught in that vulnerable state? I mean, in a ridiculous garment handed by the salon – held by gathered elastic, hanging loosely upto the knee, our hair tied back tightly with huge clips, our face unrecognisable behind an inch of mask or our feet soaking in warm water in a pedicure sink. But when we step out after a lot of scrubbing, rubbing and creaming, we can’t help feeling good and beautiful.

 Beauty queens can wax eloquent on the importance of inner beauty that shone on the wrinkled visage of Mother Teresa, but I daresay they would never trade a visit to the salon for charity work. 

 In Salem, we had just a couple of beauty parlours. I had never been to one, knowing fully well that the idea would have been scoffed at by my grandmother who considered shampoo to be harsh on the hair!

 I had long thick hair that was oiled everyday with a herbal concoction  prepared at home using hand- picked ingredients such as amla, henna, curry leaves, cow’s milk and coconut oil. My aunt removed tangles and plaited it twice a day. Our maid helped me wash my hair with Shikakai mixed in sour curd. A mud pot with burning coal would be kept ready in the backyard. Fragrant sambrani would be thrown in , a cane basket instantly placed as a cover on which my tresses would rest, as aromatic smoke slowly wafted across my scalp, drying it. That was the only time my hair was not plaited and left loose, to cascade down to my hips. I knew no other hair style except the rettai pinnal, othai pinnal and pai pinnal. My hair was healthy without ever having used shampoo, conditioner, gels or serums. But I envied the more modern girls with ‘bob cuts’ and dreamt of chopping off my hair with a ‘fringe’ on my forehead! 

As for the face, where was the sunscreen lotion, toner, moisturiser, cleanser and scrub?  For the longest time I used green gram flour mixed with kasthuri manjal for my face, as my mother decided that was the best to keep acne at bay. Then,  I graduated to Pears soap as it was supposed to be  mild and gentler on the skin....in any case, it looked exotic, oval shaped in a light chocolate colour, even transparent,  so unlike the solid red and green bricks that passed off as soaps.  The rest of the family used Hamam soap – the same soap for everyone and each complained that the other had over- lathered it, wasted it or kept it too long in water. Making it sound as if soaping one’s body is an art. Since we all used the same bathroom, I cautiously hid my soap behind the boiler lest my brothers helped themselves to it. At times, they did, and finding my Pears wet and soggy was enough to start a fight. Once in a while, my mother applied milk cream, gram flour and lime juice on my face.

 Once on a visit to Madras for a relative’s wedding, coaxed by an older cousin, I had my eyebrows tweezed. My grandmother hit the roof, reprimanding her for taking a teenager to a beauty parlour and doing things that only film stars did. Besides, plucking one hair from a girl’s body, however tiny, was considered a sin – equivalent to extinguishing a thousand lamps!

In Chennai after marriage, far from my grandmother’s scheme of things, I revelled in visiting beauty parlours and did the works. Not having the courage to sport a bob cut, I kept trimming ‘split ends’ , until my hair decreased in length and made its way up to the shoulder. People who knew me with long hair lamented this undesirable change and kept remarking how lovely I looked earlier!

Since I had straight silky hair, I decided to perm it - after much thought and debate, telling myself that we have one life and what the hell, should we not follow our heart and do the things we desire? I zeroed in on a famous unisex salon that looked like it used only the best and safest products. After what seemed like an entire day of applying gels and lotions , knotting my hair with curlers and loading it with chemicals, I looked at the mirror. Good grief! Was this me? The beautician said in a reassuring tone ‘ You look great madam! What a difference it has made to you!’ I wasn’t sure...if the ‘difference’ was a good one. It felt kind of weird....this was not me. I spent a fortune buying special products to maintain the perm, more chemicals, for sure. Despite following the rigmarole of using special shampoos, conditioners and leave on serums, to my utter dismay, the perm wore off in a few months. And with it went a chunk of my hair too.  As if this wasn’t enough, people empathised with me for the awkward phase my hair was going through - neither straight nor curly. And I did all I could to get back my original hair! 

For some inexplicable reason, women are never happy with their natural attributes. We want curly hair if we have straight hair and vice versa. We want bigger this, smaller that, better this, brighter that. And we help the beauty business and cosmetic industry boom, thrive and flourish.  Botox, chemical peels, dermabrasion, laser hair removal, lip sculpting, micro pigmentation are just some of the specialised treatments offered by leading dermatologists today- that they are exorbitant goes without saying. Yet, skin clinics are teeming with people – especially older women who make appointments several weeks in advance.

As for me, now, I have come a full circle. Only mild baby soap for my skin. Only shikakai powder and henna for my hair after applying herbal oil. I still visit a salon and get basic stuff done.  But stopped tampering with my natural, physical attributes.  Avoid hair dryer and blow drying. Use a basic sunscreen on my face. Avoid make-up except for kajal and lip gloss.

Above all, feel good about myself- the way I am, looks and all.  


Pictures above - first one shot on my wedding day- Sept 15, 1983. Second - when I 'modelled' for a pharmacy co. in 1989. I sigh looking at my long tresses in both!

Ponnimma

I was about to step out that evening. My mother in law called out to me, in a tone I recognised as one that immediately conveyed we had visitors in our drawing room. This is the season when close friends and family drop in with invitations.

That evening though, we had two unusual visitors. A woman in her forties dressed garishly in a bright saree with multi colours in loud prints, accompanied by her son, a decently clad youth in his twenties. At first, I could not quite place her. But as she affectionately enquired ‘ eppdi irukkeenga chinnamma?’ it struck me that she was Shanthi- the daughter of Ponnimma- who had worked in our house for 20 years as house help.

Ponnimma was a maid in our house when I first came to Mylapore as a new bride. A tall, well- built woman in her thirties, she was always well dressed – in a clean saree , her long hair oiled and tied in a neat bun, with some jewellery on her person that would make it to the ‘marwadi shop’ every now and then, as and when the need for money arose. She had seven children- 3 girls and 4 boys. And she had walked out of her marriage with all seven of them in tow, from an alcoholic husband who abused and traumatised her for years. Her sister, who also worked in our house as a maid, gave her shelter in her small housing board flat and the job.

 Ponnimma’s first salary in our house was Rs.60. She would dust, sweep, mop the floor, make the beds, wash clothes, put them out to dry and fold them, clean vessels and help around the kitchen when the need arose. She came in twice a day but was never on time, showing up at different times every day and taking off unannounced once in a while. But she always had a good excuse up her sleeve when my mother in law confronted her. One of her seven children falling sick, close relative or friend’s wedding, death in the neighbourhood, quarrels over corporation water that had to be hand pumped,  suicide attempt by a jinxed lover in her building, elopement of a married woman (with children) with her paramour, one of her sons getting into trouble with the police – usually for a drunken brawl or selling tickets in ‘black’ outside kamadhenu theatre, one of her sons consuming rat poison, one of her daughters stalked by some jobless Romeo, fights with her cantankerous landlady, visits to temples outside city limits and yes, her occasional ailments, aches and pains.  

Ponnimma was always bright, chirpy, cheerful, talkative and full of news. Her troubles did not trouble her too much. She had stories to share every day, and her life was full of them. If she was not in the midst of a crisis, her sister’s family or land lady was.  There never was a dull moment. Soon after Ponnimma came to work, one of her children came after her, looking for her. At times, she would drop whatever she was doing to feed them with the food we gave her; at times she would loudly admonish them for never letting her work in peace; at times she would rush back home with them to attend to an emergency that called for her presence.  And she came back with more stories!

None of us have seen Ponnimma’s husband, although she talked about him every day. Apparently, he wanted her to ‘sleep’ with him and bear him children, without having to take care of the large tribe he had sired. She dreaded his return in her life and kept her whereabouts a secret. She claimed to be taking different  routes to get to our house each day, just so her husband could not find out.  But that did not stop her from stopping every foot of her way as she leisurely walked with a basket in her hand, chatting with every person she met on the road – her fellow maids working in the neighbourhood , vendors, shopkeepers, even my friends and temple priests. She knew everyone.  And had a kind word of enquiry for all of them.  She kept abreast of the latest news in everybody’s lives, especially salaries drawn by various maids working in different ‘flats’. And everyone knew she worked in our house- as she took great pride in introducing herself as our maid. And we became notorious in the Mylapore police station, Royapettah hospital and among local goons for being her employers!

Ponnimma was a great cook and enjoyed feeding people. Her rasam smelled delicious, her curries were yummy and even her fish and prawns looked tantalising to a vegetarian. She would bring just one dish she cooked  and insist on sharing it with the other maid, the driver, gardener and all of us at home, explaining the recipe as she tempted us with the open dubba held in her hand. 

She did have her faults though – the most glaring and annoying was her weakness to pinch small things – soap, tooth-paste, shampoo, small change and trinkets lying on the dressing table. But when we complained that something was missing, she made a hue and cry, searched high and low, prayed to mundakanni amman and produced the lost thing from somewhere!

And oh, she insisted that each of my babies were first taken to Mundakanni amman temple and placed in the goddess feet by the priest and handed over to her. Which was all very divine, but for the fact that she always went into a trance when the aarthi was performed, with the hapless baby in her arms, while I struggled to gently extricate it without incurring the Goddess’ wrath!  

Over the years, Ponnimma became a part of our family. We depended on her in times of need and she never let us down. She was almost a foster mother to my children and loved bathing, feeding and pampering them. And the children in turn loved her. She took them to temples, walked them in the crowded ‘aruvathumoovar festival’ of kapaleeswarar, unabashedly let them partake of the  food offered in all pandals, nursed my mother in law after a major surgery, spent nights in hospital when my son was ill and knew every member of my family and my husband’s family as much as they knew her.

And then, Ponnimma lost her husband. His death came as a relief to her although she lamented the fact that she could not wear flowers or her big bindi anymore! She single- handedly raised her children and got her 3 daughters and 3 sons married. One daughter eloped with a bank clerk and took refuge in our terrace for a few days before they were officially married in the temple. Two sons died rather young, leaving Ponnimma devastated.

Ponnimma stopped working for us a few years ago when she could no longer cope with heavy house work. She took to cooking in a few houses instead. She had moved into her daughter Shanthi’s house in Adyar where her grandchildren doted over her. But she was a regular visitor to our house- once a week, to see all of us, give us news of her family and enquire of our welfare. She worried about her last son who had turned out to be a wastrel, unmarried and under her care. Yet, she seldom sulked or complained, her indomitable spirit, innate warmth and enormous optimism intact.

Then one day last year, we got a phone call around mid morning. It was Ponnimma’s son in law, informing us that she had passed away. She had complained of chest pain at midnight and died on the way to the hospital. It was the most shocking news I had heard in a long time. While my mother in law went to pay her last respects to her mortal remains, I could not bring myself to see Ponnimma lifeless. We felt a member of our family had left us.

And here was Shanthi, Ponnimma’s eldest daughter, inviting us for her daughter’s wedding.  Shanthi’s son, a B.Com graduate, works in Tidel Park , one daughter worked in Sify after completing B.Sc in mathematics and her last daughter is pursuing MBA after a degree in biotechnology along with a diploma in optometry. Shanthi’s husband, a tailor, worked in Singapore on a contract for a few years while his family lived here in kabali thottam. Now, he owns and runs ‘ Shanthi Tailors’ in Luz. And now the daughter was marrying a Singapore citizen and moving with him shortly.  

Ponnimma must be proud....

Fighting Fit....

I look into the mirror. Stand sideways.....take a deep breath.....tuck my flabby abdomen in a bit. Then face the mirror.....pinch my swollen love-handles. Turn around.......and what I see is, well.....the less said, the better! Indian figure and all.....that always looks best in a saree. And why not? Since that is the only costume that can camouflage faults and hide imperfections in 6 yards of fabric, draped painstakingly around bulging abdomens and burgeoning hips.  ‘You look best in a saree’ – I hear this ALL THE TIME. And know that it’s just another way of saying ‘ You are too plump for anything else!’

I don’t remember being slim – not as a child, not as a teenager and never later when my attempts to lose weight were aborted by repeated pregnancies and joys of motherhood. My mother was a very slim person. All of Salem admired her for her lissom figure despite 5 children. And I have’nt inherited that enviable attribute from her. I take after my Dad and his sisters who were pleasantly plump and cared a damn about it.

Those days, losing weight was never considered a healthy habit – and if you did shed a few pounds, you would gain the sympathy of all old uncles and aunts who would click their tongues and exclaim - ‘poor child! What happened to you? You used to look so nice and chubby!!’ ‘ Chubby’ was a safe term used to describe anyone who was clearly overfed and overweight. There was no question of dieting or exercise and no knowledge of nutrition and healthy eating.  We ate too much ‘carbs’ – really.....idly, dosa, rice, puri, chappathy, bread, biscuits and more idly, dosa and rice. We did not drink too much water – that was supposed to take away your appetite!

 I was never into sports, even in school, apart from the march- past and incredibly stupid ‘drill’ that we were made to perform for our sports day to the sonorous beat of a drum.  At home, we had a ‘show-case’ in our drawing room – so typical in houses those days – full of cups, medals, trophies and shields won by all five of us children, juxtaposed with dolls and random curios collected over the years. The big ones were my brothers’ - they were excellent athletes and even had a cricket team of their own called ‘Tigers Eleven’.  Mine were too tiny – usually won by default, for being in the winning team of some insipid game. But I always won prices for debates, elocution and dance contests – more as certificates and books.  Ahhh....come to think of it, dancing kept me in reasonable ‘shape’, if ever there was one!

I stepped into my first aerobic class in 1985, desperate to shed the uncouth weight I had gained after my first baby. It was run by Steina Vasu, in her home on Cathedral Road – a small hall with a thatched roof with excellent audio system where instructors shouted 1, 2, 3 up, back 2,3, jump, 1,2,3 jog, back 2,3,down....I went to an all women class at an odd time of 10 am or 2 pm. And we were all typically obese women with a burning desire to lose weight, constantly asking each other if we saw any difference in the waist line. That was thrice a week. Other days, I struggled at home with the hugely popular cassette of Jane Fonda’s work-out, straining to catch her instructions in American English. But the idly, dosa routine continued along with bhel puri, cakes and pastries that I so loved. So, there was no question of a well toned look or improved metabolism. No knowledge of BMI, cardio vascular fitness, calorie intake, ideal heart rate, strength training, muscle toning, ideal height- weight ratio, core strengthening, abs tightening – none whatsoever! Losing weight was all I cared for - an uphill task, indeed.

Then our own Gymkhana club opened a gymnasium with some basic equipment and a few ‘trainers’ who I‘ve seen tending to the garden and serving in the bar before. I took a membership for a grand sum of Rs.200 per month and started working out there. The trainers who barely managed to switch on and off the treadmill, would give valuable advice on how I had to be more regular to lose weight around my hips (even they figured my problem area!) Soon, I found driving to the club from home and back a bit tedious. Also the temptation of snacking after work-out got the better of me. The soaring price of petrol did not help either. So, called it quits after some time. Exercise was then some sporadic walking in the neighbouring C.I.T.colony, or when in the mood, Marina beach.

And then the high end gyms started mushrooming in Chennai – with bill boards screaming fitness, good health and super toned bodies and alluring advertisements in leading publications.  I would look longingly at them – knowing fully well that they were out of my reach. Was it okay to spend Rs.15,000 for an annual membership in a gym? Nevertheless, I checked out all gyms in my neighbourhood.  I would talk to the courteous staff at the reception, go on a tour of the gym gaping enviously at men and women sweating it out on an EFX or pumping iron with heavy dumbbells, take their brochure and promise to ‘consult my husband’  and come home with a heavy heart.

In 2006, having survived a huge personal crisis, I decided to reward myself with a gym membership – the one that I had coveted for long. And joined ‘Fitness One’. And what a great thing it turned out to be! I loved the sessions with the physio and dietician and detailed measurement-jotting  by a trainer ( female, of course) before a personalised workout chart was handed to me. I followed the chart sincerely the first few days....but soon learnt to cheat, and do whatever it took to complete my workout in an hour and 15 minutes. The atmosphere and the kind of people working out in a gym have a huge bearing on us. When you see young hunks with bulging biceps and nubile girls in capris and tank tops working out with a vengeance, some of the enthusiasm is sure to rub off on you.

But after 4 years, I gave up gymming for a year and discovered yoga. And loved it. But felt something missing in my fitness regime. So went back to a gym – ‘Score’ this time, and loving it even more!

 So, it’s yoga in the mornings 4 times a week and gym in the evenings 4 times a week. Now, fitness to me is a way of life – indispensable. And when I happen to miss a few days due to travel or work, I feel miserable. It’s always tough to begin, but when you fall into a pattern, it’s addictive – releasing happy hormones that give a ‘high’ without the hangover. As for weight loss, I really don’t care anymore!

A Daughter leaves......

                                        

‘Ammaaaa, where are you?’

‘ In a meeting Tara...what is it?‘

‘Nothing.....just asked... when will you be back?’

‘Soon, baby. Need anything?’

‘No ma.....just come’. And the phone call would end.

This was a typical conversation between my daughter and me...thrice a day. Not that she was waiting for me when I got home – but she needed to know why, what and when of everything I did.  At times I would wonder who was watching over whom here!

When I am in my office, she would gesticulate from our house entrance from where I am visible – usually asking me to come inside – immediately! Nothing much really - just to eat with her or discuss some pressing matters of shopping plans or gym timings.   

None of my things were just mine. They were hers as well- that goes without saying. Including clothes, soap, shampoo, hair dryer, eye pencil, lipstick, chappals, bags.....the reverse, of course, was never applicable.  And no matter where I chose to keep my new acquisitions, she would ‘smell’ them – from a mile. And reach for them – without wasting too much time! And rather unfairly, whenever I found something missing on my dressing table or closet, I would blame her for pinching it.

She dressed in my room. Used my dressing table and mirror- and for some reason, I had to wait for my turn until she finished. This, despite the fact that she has a bigger dressing table with a bigger mirror in her room! But no, mine was more convenient. And I could never close my bedroom door – not even to change clothes. She would always knock with such urgency that not opening the door immediately would make me feel selfish and rude. Once let in, she would happily saunter in and switch on the TV to watch her favourite show on TLC.

Her two huge cupboards were full of clothes that would literally tumble out when opened. Her bed was stacked with clothes. Yet, she had ‘nothing to wear’ when there was an occasion in the family. What are mothers for, if they can’t lend their daughter a silk kurta that has just been dry cleaned and saved for a special evening?

We worked out in the same gym.  And I loved embarrassing her by teasing her trainer and distracting her impossibly tough sessions with him. And she gave me glaring – why-don’t – you – work-out- and - leave – me - alone- looks. And always asked ‘Amma, how do you manage to talk to everybody, all the time??’!! Most often, we walked together from home to gym and back.

We pottered around in the kitchen together – cooking a new dish, experimenting a new recipe.  She was the royal taster – if she approved of a dish, it had better be good. We planned dinners out and snuck into our beauty parlour for some quick waxing and eyebrows. I tagged along with her to Express Avenue and hung around exasperated as she tried out clothes and drooled over accessories – protesting if she attempted to buy something that I somehow knew she would junk in less than a month. I accompanied her to movies I would never have cared to sit through, just to please her.

I marvel at her sense of fashion and style, things that have eluded me always. She knows all leading international brands; I am mostly clueless. She can read maps and find her way in any part of the world – when we holidayed in China, she would navigate through cities using all modes of public transport while I tagged along in bewilderment. ‘You can get lost in our home Amma!’ – she would often tease me.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than watch her dance. But when she performed on stage, I could never sit without getting jittery. I dreaded the footwork she may forget or the sequence she may miss. I usually stood outside the auditorium and peeped in every few minutes to ensure she was fine. And heaved every time she got it right. She looked to me for validation – regardless of the encomiums she received from others.

She is smarter and more intelligent than I can ever hope to be. She can laze in bed doing nothing an entire day. But also can work hard to the point when I plead her to get some rest. She can say things to her father that I dare not dream of (ha ha...what pleasure!!) and get away with arguing fiercely with her grandmothers.

She is quite unlike me in many ways – more practical and less emotional. She would often chide me for getting carried away – ‘Amma...why are you like this??’ – ‘this’ usually meant a quality I would be better off without. I have seldom seen her go overboard. She can hold herself very well and is amazingly sorted out for her age. ‘You have such a lovely daughter!’- I hear this from someone every single day. And I know she is not only lovely.... also very special.

And then, Tara got married last year. But nothing much changed for us as she waited for a visa to join her husband in Canada. I knew it was a question of time before she left to where she now belonged. I ardently wished she embarked on her new life soon. And she finally left on Tuesday.

The goodbyes were not too emotional. After all the voluminous paperwork, meticulous packing and last minute preparations, we were exhausted when she left past midnight struggling with three humungous bags threatening to capsize from the trolley. When she walked away from me into the international terminal, I felt numb, even a tad relieved that she was finally moving to her new home ending her seven months long wait after marriage.

Until I came home. As I walked in without her, the feeling of emptiness that engulfed me  is indescribable.  Her tiny room with pink walls; tinier bathroom with pink tiles and an array of cosmetics strewn on her vanity; her cupboards with clothes left behind; a big collage of her photos that I gifted for her 20^th birthday; a cute picture of Krishna framed on her wall; the smell of her perfumes and colognes; a hairclip here; a earring there; a bill from a reputed store; granola bars and oil free snacks that she loved; her cot with soft cushions that she hugged to sleep; her dance costumes and CDs.....it seems just the other day that I held her in my arms as she wailed her way into this world 24 years ago!

The Prophet’s words ring in my mind as I come to terms with her absence:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 
and He bends you with His might 
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Parenting - no Child's Play!

I was recently invited to give a presentation in a seminar organised by a school in Coimbatore about parenting in the digital age. I am not a qualified child psychologist. Neither can I claim expertise in guiding parents in their role as parents. The only qualification that I can think of - I am a mother of 3 children who have grown into adorable adults – and I cannot take the entire credit for this impressive achievement. But today, that seems to be the only achievement I can boast of in 46 years!!

For starters, having 3 children is enough to raise anyone’s eyebrows. I normally don’t hide my age or the fact that I have 3 children. And people always give me an incredulous look - I can’t tell if it is the  ‘come on- you – must - be – crazy’ kind of disbelief, or ‘wow- how –on-earth-did-you-manage-raising-3- kids’ bordering on admiration! But I love that moment- when I reveal the great truth and see the recipient mentally calculate my age in proportion to that of my eldest son.

 I stepped into the role of a mother with equal ignorance as I had done into that of a wife. The idea of 3 children was my husband’s - he is an only child and felt duty bound to make up for the lapse on his parents’ part.  And since planning of any kind is alien to me- leave alone family planning, I willingly embraced motherhood, having 3 children in 7 years.

I became a parent when I was 19 years old!! That is the time most teenagers rack their brains studying for engineering exams, preparing for CAT or dreaming of a Masters degree in a well known university abroad.

Raising a child can never be taught....it is a process that one learns along the way, and the path is fraught with challenges, pain and joy in equal measure.  One needs patience, perseverance and stoic acceptance.

 Babies are relatively easier to look after, if you ask me. All they need is - to be fed on time, their diapers changed when wet, be put to sleep and wake up at will. It is in the ‘terrible twos’ that the woes of the parents start. Toddlers are ‘cute’ for an outsider but a handful for the parent. They have to be potty- trained, force- fed, baby-talked and protected from mishaps waiting to happen. They seem like angels only when they are asleep!

Teenagers are a nightmare in comparison though. Atleast young kids can be admonished and yelled at when they don’t behave. But teenagers can give you a hard time with their defiance, disrespect and indifference. And then of course, raising a daughter has its own set of challenges. We want to protect them from the big bad world and watch over their whereabouts; ensure that they don’t fall into bad company; lecture them on late nights and the lurking dangers in pubs; fret about their clothes (or lack of them) – and by all means be considered old fashioned pests who never understand them!

Add to this the stress of getting children into a good school for which admissions are booked even when they are in the womb and tutoring them till they come to a class when we can no longer teach them math or science. 10^th and 12^th have the board exams looming large like a formidable demon that has to be held by its horns. And parents go into a self imposed exile shunning tv, friends and any social activity for a few months, vicariously living through the ordeal of their children. Then begins a mad scramble for application forms, entrance exams, professional courses, universities, admissions and capitation fees.   A lot of work, let me tell you!

But a few decades ago, parenting somehow seemed a cake-walk! How else would you explain couples having 5 and 8 and 12 children as a matter of routine? It was not uncommon to have the mother and daughter pregnant at the same time- without feeling embarrassed at the prospect of a child born along with its aunt or uncle!! We now shudder at the thought!!

Parenting then was not taken too seriously, I think. It was a joint effort – with grandparents, aunts and uncles freely chipping in to raise children. And parents were not too sensitive or possessive about their children – it was ok to have them disciplined by a relative in the family.

 I am the 5^th child after 4 brothers and don’t remember being disciplined by either of my parents. We were all brought up by our grand-mothers and an aunt who lived with us.  And our mother never once defended our misbehaviour or resented the interference from her in-laws. And I think we grew up to be reasonably good individuals who understand people’s idiosyncrasies and are tolerant to their quirks- exposed as we were to various such characters in our childhood.

To me, parenting means being there for your child  Do what it takes to ensure your child gets the best out of life; understand  that each child is different and celebrate that difference; never compare the child with its siblings/ cousins/friends; recognise their interests that may not always be in sync with yours; foster their individuality; nurture their talent; love, adore, hug and kiss them; cook for them and clean after them; teach them the simple pleasures of life – such as going out for a walk to the beach, chatting with grandparents, sharing their thoughts , enjoying a home made meal with everyone; and above all don’t pretend to be their friend – they already have them- be a parent and a good one at that!

Today, parenting is a challenge. Parents give more than the child needs and on the flip side expect much more than the child can possibly do. I find a lot of children unable to hold a conversation with real people – unless they are on sms/ chat/ skype/ g-talk or whatever.  Most of their time is spent in attending classes – tuition, dance, music, skating, even story- telling! Today’s children get the best of everything- education, gadgets, clothes, gizmos, holidays, pocket money.....but do they really have a childhood?? 

( was published in the open page of 'The Hindu' in Feb 2012)