USHA

Knowing Usha was like knowing a tornado in female form. She stormed into my life one afternoon around 23 years ago,  shrieking a warm greeting in her inimitable voice to my mother in law - "Hiiii maaamiii!!!" and enveloping her in a warm hug. She had just landed from Stockholm on a short visit to India. I was struck by this woman of whom I had heard a lot over the years, but had never met.

Usha was tall, with long legs and a perfect figure that any woman would go under the scalpel to acquire.   Big expressive eyes that she rolled ever so often as she spoke, which she did a lot!  She was chirpy, loquacious and full of beans. If you ask me what was her core character- the one quality that defined her life- it would be 'independent'.  She was an emancipated soul, brave in the true sense of the word, never hesitating to put thoughts into action.  And yes, she had energy - loads of it. She was also brutally frank and candid to a fault - easily misunderstood  if you didn't know her well.

Usha and I took to each other almost instantly, although I found her too overwhelming and she, as she would later reveal, found me too naive. She had a peculiar voice - shrill and  a tad loud with an unmistakable European accent that comes with years of living in those parts.  She always struck me as masculine ...her rather aggressive gait,  her no- nonsense brusque tone when she chose to get her point across and her practical approach to everything. Usha was as far as a woman can get from being  coy, shy or coquettish!

I cannot think of having too much in common with Usha but who said friends have to be similar to genuinely like and care for each other? I marvelled at the free spirit that she was, occasionally cringing at her irreverence and scant regard for norms that we embrace unconsciously. Behind that tough exterior was an extremely loving and caring person who reached out to family and friends at all times and stood by anyone who needed her.

 She did not visit India too often but when she did, she always called me soon upon arrival. Hearing her shrill voice greeting me with a big hello was the beginning of fun times with her. We shopped, visited restaurants and had long serious conversations. Usha was rather unique. She never believed in niceties and formalities - no ' come home when you can' or 'let's meet up when we can' with her. She dropped in happily whenever she could, ate whatever was at home and made plans for us to take her to the club, at times with her gang of Swedish friends!  She bonded with my mother in law equally well, giving her all the family news and promising to holiday with her.

So, what is surprising? Don't we come across many successful women like Usha who settle abroad and make an alien land their home ? Maybe. Except that Usha never went to  college.  This strong, super confident woman came from a modest, simple and conservative middle class family. Born and raised in Madurai  and married off when she was all of 15 into an orthodox joint family,  she walked out of an unhappy marriage with her daughter who was a toddler then. With no educational qualification to fetch her a job and no support from her parents, Usha lived with friends and found a job that took her to Stockholm.  Usha being who she was, learnt the language, worked hard at her career, fitted in and embraced Swedish culture effortlessly. She had a son through her Swedish partner both of whom she flaunted when she visited family in India.   

She called me occasionally and we chatted on facebook and skype often. Each time we connected Usha kept imploring me to visit her in Stockholm. She wanted to give me a great holiday, get me to meet all her friends, take me around a few more countries where she had friends' apartments to stay....it all sounded exciting.  I would always assure her that it was going to be 'this summer'. We planned my visit with her for 7 years. For some reason, it never happened. She was almost indignant every time I called off my visit, accusing me of not trying hard enough. She did not give up asking me, nevertheless. 

Last year, I decided to finally visit Stockholm. Usha was overjoyed, although she sounded a bit drained and exhausted when we spoke a few times of my travel plans on the phone. I was planning to go in June. Usha called  in the second week of May to inform me that she had cancer of the liver and was in hospital for treatment. She joked  'you cannot put off your visit for next year.... I may not be around to invite you!'  I was devastated. Hearing me sob on the phone,  Usha said  'come on Dharma! I am a brave woman. I can fight this. Don't change your plans..we can still have fun!' That sort of sums up the person she was.  

When I saw her at the Stockholm airport, I couldn't recognise her for a moment. She looked frail and weak and had aged around ten years in a few months. The ten days I spent with her in her serene home, far from the city in the middle of a forest, with birds chirping and a picturesque lake as its backyard will remain etched in my memory forever. We spoke of life and death, of karma and rebirth, of cancer and pain, her life experiences and mine. It was not the 'fun trip' that we imagined it to be in all those years. But it was much more than a holiday.

Through the day we received friends dropping by to see Usha and I was astonished by her warmth, courage and pragmatism in sharing details of her cancer with them. We spent evenings cooking some Indian food and chatting, with the pitter patter of the rain on her spacious deck giving us strange solace. Usha swung between hope and despair. She planned to visit India, work here for a year, build a new home and spend time with her mother and brother as if she had not a care in the world. Occasionally she broke down when reality of her impending death hit her -and to me, that was the hardest and saddest part. I could not see Usha helpless. She was a woman who was always on top of every situation,  got what she wanted, did as she pleased, planned her life to suit her dreams and had her future all mapped out. As she told me a few times, cancer beat her at it. She hired a lawyer to ensure that her children do not keep her on life support should it come to that and asked for all her organs to be donated for cancer research. She refused to move in with her daughter and stayed alone till the end.

After my return, I spoke to her a few times. In her last conversation ten days before her death, Usha asked me to buy her temple jewellery that she had seen on the internet and send it with a friend. She was talking of starting a venture in India the next month,  helping her ex mother- in- law find decent accommodation in an old age home and enquiring about my family. Not a word of death.

 Usha passed away in the early hours of August 14th, 2013.  Even now I cannot believe that she is gone. I expect to see her online in skype and  hear her 'Hi sweetie' pop up on facebook chat. Miss you Usha. More than you will ever know.    

திருமணம்...... அப்போதும் இப்போதும்

என் -

பாட்டிக்கு எட்டு வயது

பல்லுப்போன போதல்ல! வீதியில்

பந்தல் போட்டு ஊரைக்கூட்டிய திருமண நாளில்

என் -

தாத்தாவுக்கு இருபது வயது

தடி ஊன்றிய போதல்ல! அவளுக்குத்

தாலி கட்டிய போது!


ஒருவரை ஒருவர் சந்திக்காமல்

யாரோ யாருக்கோ செய்த சம்மதத்தால்

அம்மி மிதித்து அக்கினியை வலம்வந்து

அருந்ததி பார்த்தார்கள்


அவர்களைப்போல் -

சம்பந்தமே இல்லாத துருவங்களை, நான்

சந்தித்ததே இல்லை!


தாத்தா சங்கீத ரசிகர், புத்தக புழு

பாட்டிக்கோ படிப்பறிவும் இல்லை, சங்கீதமும் பிடிபடவில்லை

தாத்தா சாப்பாட்டு பிரியர்

பாட்டிக்கு சமையல் கைவந்த கலை

ஆனால் அலுத்துக் கொண்டே அவருக்கு சேவை செய்வாள்

அவளை சீண்டிக் கொண்டே தாத்தா வேடிக்கை பார்ப்பார்


அவரோ கன்னங் கறுத்த தூணைப்போல

இவளோ கண்ணைப் பறிக்கும் தேவதை


அவளுடைய சமையல் திறமையும்

இவருடைய சாப்பாட்டு ரசனையும்தான்

அவர்கள் சந்தித்த ஒரே தளம்!


தாத்தா தூங்கினால் பாட்டிக்கு பிடிக்காது

பாட்டியின் விமர்சனம் தாத்தாவுக்கு ஆகாது!

வேற்றுமையை ஏற்றுகொண்டது மனது

திருமண ஆலோசகர் எல்லாம் அப்போது ஏது?


முன்பின் -

சந்திக்காத ஆணும் பெண்ணும்

அறியாமல்தான் கணவன் மனைவி

ஆனார்கள்

சண்டைகள் சச்சரவுகள் சமாதானங்கள்

மாறி மாறிச் சுற்றிவந்த இன்பதுன்பங்கள்

எத்தனையோ வேறுபாடுகள் நடுவே

என்னென்னவோ இடர்ப்பாடுகளை

இணைந்துநின்றபடிதான் தாண்டிவந்தார்கள்!


அன்று -

திருமணம் என்பது இல்லறத்தின் அவசியம்

இன்று -

இருவர் இணைவது இணைய அவசரம்!


அன்று -

வேறுபட்டவர்கள்தான் இணைந்து வாழ்ந்தார்கள்

இன்று -

இணந்தவர்கள்தான் வேறுபட்டு நிற்கிறார்கள்!


ஒருவர் மனதை ஒருவர் புரிந்துகொள்ள

ஒருவருக்கும் இங்கே நேரம் இல்லை!

நேசமிருந்தால்தானே நேரம் இருக்கும்?


கண்கள் கலப்பதில்லை காதல் பிறப்பதில்லை

கணவனும் மனைவியும் சந்திப்பதே இல்லை!


பொறுமை இருந்தால் புரிந்துகொள்ளத் தடையேது?

எதிர்பார்ப்பை நீக்கினால் ஏமாற்றம் ஏது?

சகிப்புத் தன்மை சகஜமாய் இருந்தால்

வாதம் ஏது? வழக்கு மன்றம் ஏது?


இவர்களுக்கு

என்னதான் வேண்டுமாம் திருமணத்தில்?

புரியாமல் உழல்கிறார்கள் குழப்பத்தில்

இதயங்கள் இணைந்து விட்டால் வெறுப்புக்கு இடமேது?

அபிமானம் பெருக விட்டால் பிரிவே கிடையாது

இதை -

கற்றா அறிந்தார்கள் நம் முன்னோர்கள்?

அவர்களை -

கண்டும் கற்காவிட்டால் நாம்தானே மூடர்கள்?

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!