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)

What next??

Same time last year.  I made a list of things I wanted to do in 2011 – of tasks I wanted to complete, dreams I wanted to realise and wishes I wanted to fulfil. Here they are:

• Become a writer – start a blog and pen down my thoughts. Maybe see my name in print in a leading publication?
• Travel – explore new places
• Complete Masters in Psychology
• Start an Epilepsy Support Group
• Paint our house
• Make money!!!
• Be a good President of my Rotary Club
• Join a good gym and work-out regularly
• Practise  yoga every morning

When I looked at this impossible list this morning, all I could do was smile.

Ok, the first one on the wish list was partially realised. I did start my blog Kanavu and began writing – rather, took tentative baby steps. And got enough encouragement to keep it going from indulgent well- wishers and friends cheer-leading me along the way! Much to my delight, got an article published last week in none other than ‘The Hindu’!!! I was euphoric for a couple of days....as if a new talent hitherto undiscovered was suddenly revealed for all to see! And the feedback I received was overwhelming....of course, some friends thought I could not have written it...maybe my husband ghost wrote it for me? I don’t look like the serious, intellectual type who can sit calmly and write?? Anyway, glad to know that I am not predictable...that could be boring!

As for travel, I hardly did any – apart from going to Coimbatore, Bombay and Bangalore for weddings – certainly not the kind of travel I envisaged!

The psychology course? I enrolled for M.Sc. Psychology in the Madras University distance education last year along with my closest friend. We planned to study together and write exams together. She studied and wrote. I always had other more pressings things to do when exams were scheduled! But paid exam fees thrice, that too along with late fee fines, that too after being reminded and pulled up by my dear friend!

The Epilepsy Support group has not happened either. Although it has been top on my wish list for a while....and I have been an active member of the Indian Epilepsy Association helping people with epilepsy to cope with the condition.

The house finally got painted.....after a gruelling 3 months of moving furniture,  clearing clutter, enduring 3 painters at all times of the day in every part of the house and  sneezing to the nasty smell of paint and thinner. Why is painting a house that has people living in it so complicated? Especially houses like ours that have stuff accumulated over decades in the hope that they will be used someday....I also wanted kolam on our walls and got that done by an impoverished artist who has since found more work, thanks to me.

Make money?? Joke!!

As for my tenure as President of  Rotary club, well, it has been great going so far. We did a number of meaningful projects – a health camp in a village that benefitted 200 people, a leadership seminar in a Govt girls school that inspired many young students and construction of a new building in another neglected primary school. But have another 6 months to go....and hope to keep up the tempo and enthusiasm.

Joined ‘Score’ – a high end gym in Alwarpet after much thought....but enjoying my work-outs immensely. And yoga? Not as regular as I would have liked it to be.  

So, should I say managed 30 % of what I had planned to do this year? 
But one major event in 2011 changed my life rather unexpectedly...and wiped out 6 months in planning, preparation, shopping, inviting...My daughter Tara got engaged in January and married in June- bestowing me with the status of mother-in-law!!  But I enjoy that as well......especially when people tell me  'You are a mother- in-law???!!! You have a daughter old enough to be married??!!’ What can I say...small pleasures of life!!

Now on the threshold of 2012, what should be my resolutions?? Any ideas?

Growing up in Chennai!!!!

A lot of my friends who read my blog on growing up in Salem were wondering how I ‘grew up’ in Chennai and if I managed to accomplish the growing up part at all!

 And I find myself ruminating on the predicament of young girls taking that leap of faith, moving into their husband’s home after marriage.   When the marriage is arranged by the parents and not by choice, there are surprises galore! For one, the husband is almost a stranger, which makes it interesting in a way as both parties grope their way around trying to make sense of each other. Uprooted rather abruptly from her parental home, the new bride faces the additional challenge of having to adapt to a new home, new set of people - their idiosyncrasies, eccentricities and all.

I have heard stories from both my grandmothers of their child marriages....they were married even before they attained puberty to young men in their teens.

  Look at the typical ceremonies and rituals in a Brahmin wedding - the ‘Mappillai Azhaippu’ – when the bride-groom  parades in a decorated open top car, thrilled children keeping him company, while men and women walk alongside in a procession with a band playing old film songs; the ‘Oonjal’ – when the bride and groom sit in a decorated swing while women sing thematic songs, give the couple paalum/ pazham ( pieces of banana in sugary milk), decorate their feet and throw coloured rice balls all over the place making a mess of it; to the actual wedding when the bride sits on her father’s lap and is ‘given away’ to the groom; the ‘Nalangu’ – when the bride and groom sit opposite each other, rolling a coconut, anointing sandal and kungumam on one another, sing songs, tease, play games and blush when the elders have a blast pulling their legs amidst laughter and cheer.

None of the ceremonies look like they were designed for mature adults in their right minds! Decades ago, since children entered wed-lock, ceremonies were fun filled and light-hearted although the rituals by themselves were poignant and loaded with profound significance.  It was not uncommon to find the bride and groom playing in the pandal erected for the wedding from where they were unwillingly dragged to become man and wife! That said, even in today’s day and age when the bride and groom have truly come of age, these ceremonies are followed with aplomb in many families.

Brahmin weddings are a riot!! The couple and their parents have to negotiate the unreasonable demands of priests apart from repeating chants after them, holding various stuff in their hands, keeping an eye on the ‘seer varisai’ and silver ware, all the time watching over guests attending the wedding and ensuring everyone eats before leaving, not to mention grabbing the gifts and cash to be safely handed over to a disciplined mama delegated for the task! And all this amidst the deafening noise of the nadaswaram and tavil playing furiously in the background, drowning the cacophony of a few hundred people greeting each other and catching up in the wedding. And by the end of it all, the couple look like they have just survived a tornado!

 Why don’t we have the simple malayalee wink- and - you- miss - it – type of weddings??  Or the Punjabi weddings which seem all fun, frolic, dancing and cocktails? But I confess to feeling lost in a church wedding I attended in Cochin a few years ago – the priest kept talking about sins and pardoning to a solemn crowd that stood in utter silence and reverence with only the choir providing some much needed relief,  breaking out into a song every now and then.

Anyway, going back to days of yore, the bride lived in her parents’ home till she attained puberty. And when the much awaited event happened, the husband’s family was informed and an auspicious day fixed for sending her to the husband’s home. And then, without much ado, consummation of this child marriage took place, I guess. Our ancestors sure knew what the reproductive system is all about! To hell with love, compatibility, chemistry, wave-length, attraction and the like! But those marriages lasted forever....and the couple grew up together and grew old together.

I was myself a wide-eyed 18 year old when I stepped into my husband’s home in Mylapore 28 years ago. My mother-in-law made sure I completed my BA English Literature from Queen Mary’s college which is her alma mater. I took a bus (27D) for the first time on my own, back and forth from college. Initially I felt like a kid lost in a trade fair. 


This home was in stark contrast to my parental home in Salem with just 3 members- my husband and his parents. At times, the silence was deafening!


It was far from conservative and the least orthodox. My husband was disappointed that I was (and continue to be) a strict vegetarian. In Salem, even eggs were looked upon with disgust and my father used a separate stove and vessels to make the occasional omelettes for my brothers.

And my father- in-law despised noise of any kind ( except music of course!) So, he would ring the bell to call people in the house. One ring for Amma, two for my husband, three for the maid and four for me! We all listened keenly for the bell to ring and rushed to his beckoning immediately. When Appa was around, we spoke in hushed tones and went about our jobs in stoic silence. He was a stickler for discipline and time – one could set the clock to his routine.

I longed for the crowd, chaos and noise of my Salem home. I never realised that I would ever miss my grandmother, leave alone my parents, aunt, brothers and extended family! When we visited Salem, my husband was confounded by all the chatter that ensued from various directions...each trying to draw the other’s attention at the same time, suddenly breaking into peals of laughter and jumping topics with gay abandon!

It was as much a challenge for me to contend with my new found status as the daughter-in-law of a renowned celebrity as it was to have three children in 7 years. But I pretty much ‘grew up’ here – studying, learning to cook, drive, cross the road, travel alone and come into my own! 
And embraced this family as mine....

Growing up in Salem.....

It seems a distant memory. When someone asks me which is my hometown, I almost say Chennai. Not surprising, considering that I've lived 28 years in Chennai and 18 years in Salem. Born in Salem - a rather small town that has steadfastly remained small except for the few multiplexes that have sprung up incongruously here and there and a couple of ghastly 'shopping complexes' that are all the rage among youngsters.

  

But it is still a charming town that refuses to grow into a city, where the farthest place can be reached in 15 minutes, where everyone knows everyone else living there, where going to the cinema on Sundays is still a ritual followed by many families, where textiles and money lending are thriving businesses and every affluent family owns a Bungalow in Yercaud - considered the most exotic week-end get-away!

My grand-father was an entrepreneur who started a hotel in Salem- 'Vilwadhri Bhavan' – known for its excellent filter coffee, sadha dosa and vegetarian meals. We are all even now known as ‘Vilwadhri children’ long after the hotel was wound up and razed down giving way to a hideous building now housing a huge textile showroom.

 We lived in an old house as one large unwieldy family...... my grand-parents, parents with all five of us children, an aunt who remained a spinster and therefore stayed  with us and my grand-mother’s step-mother.  As if this was not enough, my mother’s parents and her brother’s family also lived close by and dropped in at all times. My aunt from Coimbatore would land up with her children ( 4 of them!) every week-end. Another aunt who lived in Calcutta  boarded the Howrah express the day her kids started their summer vacation and came to Chennai from where a car  picked them up and brought them to Salem.  And she would leave children in tow just in time for them to get back to school after 2 months. So our entire summer break was spent with all our cousins all the time.  And there were random visitors and guests who dropped in at all times of the day and felt at home in our house.

And did we have our own rooms? Unheard of! It was a typical old-fashioned house with many small rooms that hardly served any purpose. There was one ‘dressing room’ that had 4 Godrej cupboards and a dressing table with a mirror over which all of us fought for space. The women kept their clothes here. The men had rooms upstairs which was almost entirely their domain. But there were no attached toilets. We had 2 toilets in the backyard – both Indian style with absolutely no trace of comfort, leave alone luxury! Come to think of it, none of us could stay there a minute more than was absolutely essential!

  The backyard was open to sky and was where all the cleaning, washing, bathing ( in one small space with a rickety old door and a boiler for hot water that was heated with cow dung and fire-wood) took place. The backyard was also my grandmother and her step mother’s favourite spot as they sat leisurely on the floor and cut vegetables, cleaned rice/ grains, churned butter milk and kept a watchful eye over all the activities of the house.

It was an orthodox, conservative home steeped in tradition, rituals and every conceivable inconvenience.  Nevertheless, it was a happy home. I am not sure what my mother went through caring for such a large tribe, but for us children, there was never a dull moment!

My Grandmother was undoubtedly the Matriarch – she ran the house, controlled everything and everyone with her booming voice that could be heard in every corner of the house including the terrace. She would ostensibly pray all morning- with her book of Sanskrit scriptures and a japa mala in her right hand with its beads rolling to keep count of whatever she was chanting.  But she was watching over all of us all the time – giving instructions to the servants, chiding us for taking too long in front of the mirror ( 2 minutes was considered too long!), ensuring that all of us left home in time for school and the cooking, cleaning and washing went on without a hitch!

My father had his own set of prayers in the puja room with my mother fussing over his needs. None of us could touch  grandmother or mother in the mornings as they wore clothes that were washed and dried separately to ensure their ‘purity’ and if that terrible accident (of touching) happened, they would rush to have another bath before they proceeded with their chores!

 And God forbid when I got my periods...I was banished from the house, had to eat in the backyard or upstairs, wash my clothes myself and generally be a spectacle for all visitors who knew my ‘cycle’ better than I did! And much against my grandmother’s wishes, I went to a convent run by a Christian missionary wearing a uniform of blue skirt and white shirt with a blue tie, white socks and shoes. She hated our uniform as much as she hated the nuns who ran the school. Simply because there were no holidays for all Brahmin festivals and we girls were taken to church for Mass and funerals of old nuns and were even punished for talking in Tamil! And she hated the fact that all my friends were either  Sindhis, Punjabis or Marwadis......not a single Tam Brahm girl from a good family!

By the way, I was protected, molly-coddled and chaperoned all the time. Our driver who was more an odd jobs man and a personal secretary to my Grandmother would cause me immense embarrassment by accompanying me to the bus stop at our street corner from where 4 girls from our neighbourhood boarded our school bus. He hung around while we waited for the bus to arrive and left only after I got in and settled down in my seat! Same story in the evening when I alighted.....he would wait to hover behind me as I walked the great distance along with my friends that took exactly 3 minutes! After much tantrum throwing and quarrelling, ably supported by my Dad, I was granted a cycle that I could ride to Paattu class in the next street. But no, I could not ride my cycle alone....too risky....so our good old driver would ride his cycle behind mine and ensure that none of the road -side Romeos got any fresh ideas!  For safety reasons, the Dance teacher came home almost everyday and stayed way too long and a Veena teacher was hired to come home thrice a week.

With so many inhabitants, the house was certainly noisy at any given point with  half a dozen people chattering, cackling or arguing over family matters and gossip. So when we had to study, we would be packed off to the terrace. There we paced up and down books in hand with a rare sense of purpose, waving to neighbours in the adjoining terraces, looking down at the street and listening to film songs being played in the distant background.

 My father was clueless about which class we went to or how we fared in school. The report card was signed with a flourish, without wasting time scrutinising our marks or the class teacher’s remarks! I don’t remember coming back from school without having a few visitors in the drawing room sitting with my father sipping our famous coffee of which there was an unending supply all through the day. Worse, one of the old uncles would always exclaim ‘is this Dharma kutty?? How you have grown!! Do you remember me??’ and in a hurry to go in I would mumble ‘ yes’....but the uncle persisted ‘ so, tell me....who am I’.....tricky!!!  Jobless uncles!!

But those were simple days...with no TV to distract us, no video games to claim our attention and certainly no computer or internet to hook us on! We were one big gang of friends living in the same street and looked forward to playing every evening for a couple of hours until it got dark. Then we were summoned into our respective homes to study, eat and sleep. Despite all the chaos that went around us, we were disciplined without being pampered or spoilt. We got new clothes twice a year and ate out rarely. Going to a movie was a special treat. But we were happy and never complained of boredom.

I wonder if our children today can ever imagine a life without their own rooms, where they lock themselves up for hours with their laptops, i pods and i pads, their cell phones always buzzing with calls and messages, their face book accounts agog with happenings.... yet they seem far from happy! 

A Stitch in Time

Ever wondered what a group of women talk about when thrown together in a party?

Well, apart from husband bashing, comparing notes on maids, travails of bringing up kids, putting up with teenage tantrums and discussing their careers, there is a topic of universal appeal that seldom fails to evoke interest among the fairer sex. 

Wear a smartly tailored outfit to any gathering where there are a bunch of women -  the reactions are varied - some secretly admire your dress but are too vain to pay you a compliment; a minority are indifferent to what others are attired in and choose to ignore their sartorial preferences; there are the simple, candid souls who gush with praise and curiosity…‘I like your blouse / churidar / embroidery.. where did you get that made?’ ‘Thanks, I have a tailor who makes all my clothes’.  No sooner does a woman utter these words than the name of the tailor, his shop, contact numbers are all exchanged in record time! ‘You could refer my name’ - the supposedly well dressed one will even offer condescendingly.

Some women would rather not reveal the source, for them, tailors are a zealously guarded secret. ’Oh… this is a gift from a cousin.. don’t know where she had it made’ is a safe answer.

I confess to having this sentiment that once I recommend a tailor to friends with the noble intention of helping him expand his trade, I would invariably fall out with him and what is worse, the very friends I introduced would latch on to him for the rest of their lives!

My neighborhood tailor who was struggling to make ends meet in a match-box of a shop until a couple of years ago, has now, thanks to me, expanded big-time with an impressive list of clients and guess what - he refuses to oblige me! When we run into each other on the street we behave like perfect strangers!

Just as clothes come in different shapes, sizes and fits, so do tailors come in different moods, moulds and styles of functioning. Some are happy with using a sample (by the way - there is no perfect sample - there are always minor alterations suggested - an inch higher on the sleeve, half an inch lower at the back etc), some insist taking measurements hands on, some so professional that they call you for a trial before actual delivery.

And we women don't mind at all being 'measured' by a male tailor...so long as the end product is satisfactory. 

Holding on to a tailor is not easy. Talk to a tailor and he will tell you that if you ever want to incur a woman’s wrath, it is by ruining her clothes! You can of course get them altered but it will never be the same. I can think of a dozen tailors I have tried and abandoned for  some reason or the other... has an attitude, too haughty, spoilt my silk blouses even after taking detailed measurements, changed a pattern so painstakingly explained, used a colour scheme in the embroidery I disliked, and of course, failed to deliver on time.

Ah…. Delivery! Tailors give you an Expected Date of Delivery (EDD). Land up at the tailor on EDD - it is most likely that your bundle of fabric will lie untouched by scissors, needle or thread in its pristine, virgin  form! Reasons given unapologetically are – workmen absent, power-failure, wedding-season, festival-time and the most annoying of them all – bulk-orders from NRIs.

There are tailors specializing in blouses, tailors expert in embroidery, tailors making only salwars, tailors who charge exorbitantly and tailors who are ridiculously cheap - but remember there is simply no tailor who delivers on time!! If you have one could you please give me his contact number?

        

Whats in a name?

'Can I talk to Mr.Dharmaraman?' This is an oft heard opening sentence I hear when I answer my mobile phone. First of all, the caller is perplexed to have a female voice answer the call. And the next thing, he assumes it is the secretary/wife/sister of Mr.D answering on 'his' behalf! I usually react with abnormal calm and composure that comes with years of experience....from being called 'Sharma', 'Kurma', Darma, etc in school, when I always wondered why I had such a vague name...why not the simpler Shanthi, Jayanthy, Radha, Kamala, Lakshmi....never mind if they had to be distinguished by their initials as there were some 3 Shanthis and 4 Lakshmis in a class of 40 girls. For a few years I ardently wished to change my name to 'Pushpa'!!!

And how did I get this rather rare name? Simple...my paternal grand-mother was Dharmambal and it was the custom in our family to name children after their grandparents. So my eldest brother was Ramachandran - paternal grandfather, second brother is Ramaswamy - maternal grandfather, third brother is Shankara Narayanan- Dad's paternal grandfather and fourth one is Srinivasan- Dad's maternal grandfather...phew!!! My parents mercifully called it quits after I, the fifth child and only daughter was born. But for some reason, I was given the more complicated-mouthful-name of Dharmasamvardhini. If our Mother Superior in the St.Joseph's convent that I went to had received an application from a kid by this name, I am certain she would have rejected it outright for sounding obsolete and unfathomable! So Dharma it was at school. And since it was an all girls school, there was no confusion regarding my gender! Thank God for small mercies!

At the time of my marriage is when I realised my name was not just rare but also unique and poetic. My father-in-law who loathed to amputate names and call people by ridiculous pet names quite unconnected with the original (Lachu, Kappu, Komu with our North Indian counterparts- Pinky, Chunky, Bunty, Bakki, etc), was ecstatic hearing my name and insisted that it be printed as such in its full form on the invitation! Which in turn created a lot of interest among relatives and the elitist Madras crowd. I was complimented for my beautiful name....some said it is the name of the deity in Thiruvaiyaru and translates as 'Aram valartha naayaki'.  Now that was special! And I started taking pride in my name.  To digress a bit, my last brother has been called 'Juni' for the longest time and my niece who has the lovely name of Prithi is only known as 'Moni'.  

Just when I smugly settled down to adoring my name and the way it sounds as I ceremoniously flaunted it to everyone introduced to me in my new home, disaster struck! A tamil movie with the title 'Dharma' starring the action hero Vijaykanth was released...and of course Vijaykanth was Dharma! I was appalled to see posters screaming 'Puratchi kalaignar Vijaykanth in and as 'Dharma' in every wall of Chennai's hoarding crazy streets! Not flattering at all! Now, should I change from Dharma Raman to Dharmasamvardhini Raman or R.Dharmasamvardhini? Too complicated....better left alone for people to figure out that I was not named after an action hero who was never on my parents' mind when they named me!

And from then on, everytime I was introduced as Dharma, I was given a quizzical look as if to say ' but, isn't that supposed to be a man's name?' and as if reading their mind, I would hasten to add the Dharmasamvardhini/ Thiruvaiyaru Ambal/ Aram valartha nayaaki bit and they would be all awe struck! And let out exclamations of 'Wow! what a lovely name!'.....no pain, no gain, isn't it? That was with a small circle of friends and family, some of whom till today insist on calling me by my full name and love the way it sounds. You can imagine my delight when in the USA my name seemed the easiest and coolest of Indian names, thanks to the popular soap 'Dharma and Greg'!! 'So easy'....., the Americans would exclaim!

Later, after the dust settled on the weirdness of my name, its noble meaning and divine connotations, I joined Rotary. And the routine of explaining my name began once again..... a routine I have mastered to perfection and know what to say when, in order to elicit the desired response.  Convincing 40 Rotarians was never a challenge. Until I became the President Elect last year and the President of my club this year. Everyday the last 2 years I have been receiving calls from various people from the Rotary district wanting to talk to Mr.Dharmaraman .....that's how they pronounce it, without a pause, and from where the hell they get the Mr. prefix is still a mystery waiting to be unravelled!. And I have had to always say, 'Yes, this is Dharma' in the most dignified tone that I can muster. After a pregnant pause from the other side, the caller would gather himself from the gender shock and proceed with the conversation. Worse, girls making annoying sales calls offering personal loans are always flummoxed when they hear a woman named Dharmaraman. And I, like the majority of us, never have the patience to deal with them sparing myself the bother of explaining that I am a woman with a first name and a second name that seem to have seamlessly blended into one vague transgender name! 

Shashi Tharoor in his brilliant book 'The Great Indian Novel'- a modern day interpretation of the Mahabharatha, after listing the definition of all Sanskrit words and terminologies used in its Glossary, has an entire page devoted to 'A Note on Dharma'. He concedes that 'Dharma is perhaps unique in being an untranslatable Sanskrit term' as the English language has no equivalent for Dharma broadly defined as'code of conduct, pattern of noble living, religious rules and observance'.  He suggests that Dharma is most simply defined as 'that by which we live'- but 'that' embraces a great deal - moral law, universal order, righteousness, spiritual harmony, ethical code, cosmic responsibility, social justice - wider and profounder than any western word such as 'duty'! In an almost exasperated tone, Mr.Tharoor finally invites his readers upon each encounter of the word Dharma in his book 'to assume the term to mean any, or all of the above'.  

If that is not poignant, what is? So, as you can see, my name has evoked myriad emotions within me...and can I blame others for reacting the way they do?