A delicious prize!

So I've won! And the prize is delicious. It is The Sweetest Mango.

Yes, yes, I know it is currently the mango season and all that, but this one, though closely related to those mangoes, is a bit different. I recently participated in a blogathon held by Tulika books on mangoes and my post was declared one of the winning entries. My prize :  A copy of this book.

Pic courtesy tulikabooks.com

The Sweetest Mango
Written by Malavika Shetty
Illustrated by Ajanta Guhathakurta
Published by Tulika books
Ages 5+

Do you remember that when you were a child, you probably had a very close buddy (a friend or a sibling) who you hung out with, with whom you shared every little secret, and who was your partner-in-crime for all the mischief that you got into? With whom you shared absolutely everything?

But sometimes you had something really tasty. You hoarded it, hid it from everybody, even your closest buddy and ate it bit by bit, all by yourself? Didn't want to share it with ANYONE?

I would do that. My mother would give me some guL-shengdaNe (jaggery and peanuts - a really yummy combination that I loved. You split open the peanut, and stuffed some jaggery between the halves, and then popped it into your mouth. Yum!) and I would be loath to share it with anyone. I would keep it in a box in a secret place, and eat it surreptiously throughout the day, making it really last. I was reminded of that as I read this book.

Suma is a little girl who loves mangoes in any form. There was, of course, the delicious, juicy fruit, but there were also the pickles and curries made at home that she relished.

Now, Suma has a bosom buddy, Jyothi. The two girls were neighbours in a village near Udupi, a coastal town on the mango belt near the western coast of India. The village had many mango and coconut trees, and there were some around their houses. Summer meant a surfeit of mangoes, and of course, they had to be got by climbing the trees, and eaten freshly picked from the branches.

There was a particular mango tree, the mundappa mango, that grew behind Suma's house. It grew huge, round and sweet mangoes. One day, Suma spots a really big specimen, bigger than a coconut.

'But it was still raw, and it would be a few days before it ripened to sweetness. 
Suma couldn't wait to eat it. "I won't tell Jyothi," she thought. "I'll eat it all by myself."

So what happens next? How does she get through the few days of waiting? Does she get to eat it? All by herself? What about Jyothi?

A book about the joys of friendship, and the carefree innocence of childhood. A drool-worthy book, with warm, summery illustrations by Ajantha Guhathakurtha matching the yumminess of the text.

A read the book within ten minutes of its arrival at home, and was smiling as she finished it. I suppose she, too, was thinking of the way she is often loath to share some of the goodies she gets from her grandparents' place when we visit. And how we sometimes enjoy them better when shared!

Crossposted at Saffrontree.

****************************************************

A word about the mundappa mango. It is a variety that I have not heard of. I did a google-search for it, and came across this article from the Metro Plus section of the Mangalore edition. Quoting from it:
"The Mundappa has a distinctive taste and develops sweetness in its very early growing stage. Even when ripe, its colour will still be green, but a reddish tinge on the top indicates that the fruit is ready for consumption. If allowed to grow to its full size (some growers do) each Mundappa can weigh as much as 450-500 grams. Though they are a local variety, the fully-grown Mundappas arrive in the market only during mid-season."

Another article, this time a blog post from a farming blog, SundayFarmer, laments the gradual disappearance of local and wild varieties of the fruit due to a demand for the 'more marketable' varieties like the alphonso, totapuri, dasheri, etc. Quoting:
"‘Mundappa’ is another local variety that many people in Dakshina Kannada district would readily recall. Ayurveda specialist Dr K.S. Kamath, from Manchi village, says this variety originally came from the compound of a house on Dongarakery-New Chitra Theatre Road in Mangalore.
A red variant of this mango used to grow on three trees in the heart  Mangalore city until a few years ago. None of them can be found today as a posh shopping mall stands on that land. Ironically, the hypermarkets at that mall stock a range of hybrid mangoes, but the local red mundappa can no longer be had for love or money."

A mango locally grown and known in the western coastal mango belt around the Mangalore area, this, along with the many others which are just as or sometimes even more delicious than the commercially known variants, needs to be preserved and propogated for future generations.

A sad state of matters, indeed. Like the 'goti mango' that I remember from my childhood. A very small, very sweet variety that is not to be seen anywhere these days.

.

Mango memories

Tulika books is holding a summer blogathon for mango lovers. Here is my entry.

Summer vacations meant a lot of things to me as a child, but most of all, it meant Mangoes with a capital M.

My native place was in a small, picturesque village, in central Maharashtra. Every year, cousins from wherever they were would zero in for a month or more of mango filled decadence. Our family owned a lot of land in the village, and there were jowar and bajra fields, peanut fields and mango orchards. Of course, for us children, it was the latter that mattered the most.

The fun began soon after reaching the village by ST as the State Transport buses were called. It was a very small place, too small to have a proper bus stand, but there was a clump of banyan trees on the tarred road that passed by the village. There, in the shade of that clump, was a 'paar,' a makeshift 'bus stand', if you could call it that. Transport to the homestead was on foot, by cycles, or on bullock carts. It was usually the bullock cart for us, as we would have luggage with us, too. Luggage, children and grown-ups (in that order) would be piled onto the carts, the adults sometimes preferring to walk along with the cart, happy to stretch their legs after the cramped journey in crowded buses.

Imagine. No motorised traffic. No pollution. A drive through mango orchards loaded with fruit, and past fields. An era much before mobile phones. The only sounds were the tinkle of bells on the bullocks, the clip-clopping of hoofs, the clickety-clack of wooden wheels. The chatter of people, the cry of the occasional baby, the hailing by someone known, working in the fields. The sound of birds, especially the koel, calling out incessantly from the trees, and the crows cawing at intervals. The gurgle of a brook running through the fields. The orchards were wonderful places for picncs that we children often went for. Cool in the shade of the sprawling trees, even at the height of summer. More than eating, we would be interested in throwing stones at the fruit to get it off the trees.

Before we knew it, we would be at the homestead. I keep calling it a homestead because it was a massive, sprawling structure that had seen many generations of my family, who were landowners in the village. There was a huge courtyard in the centre, around which the rest of the house was structured. The walls were thick, made of worn stone, with massive recesses set in, to be used as cupboards, or (as I then thought) cool niches just for us children to curl up in, on a hot day, preferably with something to much, or a pillow and a book.

Kesar mangoes
pic courtesy google images

Here, there were whole rooms that would be piled high with mangoes, sorted out by those that had fallen off the trees and those that had been plucked off them. Our orchards did not grow that king of mangoes, the alphonso, but something just as sweet- the kesar mango. This is a slightly elongated specimen, that never turns that delectable shade of reddish golden so prized in markets, but stays greenish yellow even when ripe. The taste for me, though, is unmatched as remembered from my childhood.

I don't remember ever having this fruit cut, in a plate/ bowl, in the usual civilised way. No. We would simply choose what we wanted from the pile, wash them summarily under the eagle eye of some grown-up, then settle down to devour. The fruit was first squeezed on all sides to make it squishy, then the top was taken off, and we would proceed to suck the pulp out. Mmmmm...heaven! The mangoes had a very small seed, and plenty of pulp, so some of our meals would consist only of a handful of mangoes, and then some- on the go. I remember my brother once swallowed a seed by mistake, and to this day we rib him about the mango tree that never grew out of him!

Of course with the surfeit of fruit, quite a lot was sorted out and sold in the surrounding towns. Most of the rest was preserved in rural methods, and the remaining was made short work of by eating. There were special meals cooked incorporating the mango- aamras-puri being my favourite. To make aamras for the entire clan, whoever could would sit around with huge brass vessels and sqeeze out the pulp. If the pulp had to be extracted to preserve it, women from the village would be called in for the day- sometimes days. They would, of course, be paid in kind for their work. No, I am not speaking of very long ago- this was about three decades ago, and a lot of things worked this way in rural areas then.

The pulp thus gathered in great brass vessels would be cooked to thicken it. Sugar would be added as a preservative and what we finally got was a thick mass that solidified on cooling. A lot of it would be spread out in brass platters or on banana leaves to dry in the shade. We call this 'aamba-poli'. The rest would be shaped into rough balls and cooled for a few hours in the shade and stored for future use. We called this 'aambyacha saatha.'

Freshly mixed pickle

Raw mango- a lot of it was processed into a variety of home made pickles to be used over the year. There was an interesting pickle made of the smaller raw mangoes- they were simply mixed with a large amount of the rough sea salt, not the table variety. This lasted much longer than the pickles in which oil had already been poured. So after the other pickles were over, this one was opened, the mangoes cut up and used as a mouth-watering addition to the rough rural diet of bhaji-bhakri (vegetables with jowar/bajra roti) and crushed green chillies.

Some of the raw mango that had sweetened a bit was made into a refreshing drink called 'aam-panha', which could be made fresh, or in a preserved form that surprisingly lasted for weeks inspite of no refrigeration. Let me share a modern version of this drink with you. One that is made every year at my home.

Take raw mangoes. Remove peel. Cut the flesh away from the seed. Cook in a microwave till tender in a vegetable steamer without immersing the pieces in water. Puree. Measure the puree. For every volume of puree, add 3.5 measures of sugar. Add some salt to taste. Blend till evenly mixed. Add elaichi powder / jeera powder / kesar for flavour. Store in glass jars. This can stay in the refrigerator for upto a year.

While serving, take a tablespoon for each glass, add water and ice, stir till mixed well. Enjoy!

Oh, for those unfettered times!

An answer to a question- why set age limits?

Link here to the CSAAM blog

Let me reply to the question of 'why set age limits on sexual exploration?' asked by the blue bride on her blog. I shall use a parallel example.

In my erstwhile career as a medico (I haven't worked as one for many years now), I worked to a certain extent with drug abusers. So I can guarantee to my readers that I am not talking through my hat.:)

There is a decided statistical correlation between age of initiation to smoking and the risk of hardened drug abuse in later life. It has both the physiological aspect, where receptors need higher dosages and stronger drugs to attain the same high, and the psychological aspect of things getting more easily out of hand at a younger age, when a sense of responsibility has not yet matured, and it is more difficult to differentiate between the right and wrong of anything.

Let me share this link, that discusses this in detail.

Psychologically speaking, the same thing applies to 'that tingly feeling'. Very young children cannot necessarily differentiate between fingers and toes and private parts. They do, however, in their explorations, realize that it feels all 'tingly' when they touch say their penis or vagina. It feels good, so they do it more. And they also indulge in exploration with other children.

Now, these children, even when they are older, say 8-9, still do not understand the implications of touching their private parts, and may do so in full public view. This can be misconstrued by older kids or adults as precocious behavior, and put them more at the risk of sexual abuse.

Also, the 'tingly feeling' feels good. So why not try something else? That something else can be dangerous, as children cannot very well discern risky behaviour from the non-risky. That can hurt, damage, cause unwanted infections, lead to teenage pregnancies, or can even, in extreme cases, prove to be fatal. Not to mention the psychological damage it can cause.

Again, the explorations can become addictive, and as with drug addictions, an early onset of these behaviours can lead to actual precocious behaviour and often to unhealthy sexual behaviour as the child grows up. It can also lead to sex addiction or porn addiction, which further leads to unrealistic expectations from partners and the self. Which can, in turn, lead to unhappy/ unhealthy relationships.

Let me be clear here, that not every child who indulges in early sexual exploration goes down the above path. The correlation to high risk/ aberrant sexual behaviour is just too high statistically to disregard it.

Also, I am speaking only about self-exploration by the child, or mutual exploration by children. Not an adult-child equation, which is outright abuse.

As parents, of course, it is our job
to gently re-direct the explorations to something else (which can work in very young children),
to talk to our children about good touch-bad touch,
to educate them about keeping safe,
to keep communication channels open,
to be available if /when they want to discuss something with us - it could be school, peer pressure, bodily and/ or sexual matters, substance abuse, anything at all...
to network with their friends and friends' parents and
not lecturing them/ not clamping down on their behaviour, which may lead to the opposite happening. Make something a taboo, and it instantly becomes cool.

They are children too!

Link here for CSA Awareness Month blog

Childhood. The concept of childhood as we understand is a pretty recent one.

In the middle ages, in a world where the same occupations were practiced through generations, children were considered an asset. More hands to work- either in the house or at business.

Now children then were considered as babies till the grand young age of 7-8 yrs. After that, they were supposed to be able to work, and assigned small or big tasks, and were considered miniature adults.

This led to a very strange situation, where, without a proper understanding of how children's minds and body works and develops, there was also this belief that these miniature adults were somehow repositories of evil that had to be purged of it. This was especially true during the adolescent years, when the hormonal changes made these poor kids behave in a way not keeping with the way reasonable grown-ups should. They were also attributed a sexuality extrapolated from an adult perspective, inevitably leading to sexual exploitation. 

All this may seem very far-fetched, but these were the times when anybody with any unusual characteristics or behaviour was wont to be branded a witch and burnt at the stake. People were regularly given the death sentence (the drawn and quartered types) or put in dungeons and forgotten for even minor misdemeanours. Interpretation of the law depended upon the whims and fancies of the current monarch. The dark ages.

With the advent of the Industrial revolution, things went from bad to worse. Children were now hired out by families to factories and workhouses that made profit from the cheap labour they provided.  

This does not apply just to the western world. In most places the world over, it was the same story, with variations of culture.

All this put children out there where they were more vulnerable. With this kind of imbalance of power, these children were open to all kinds of abuse, including sexual abuse. 

It is not that abuse did not happen in the home or family- it always has happened, and it has always been kept veiled to a large extent, especially in societies that put a large premium on that nebulous factor called honour. It is just that, children involved in organized labour were more at risk, much like street children are. Especially if there wasn't much awareness of their rights.

This still true in these enlightened times wherever there is child labour- domestics like in the developing countries, children employed in factories like in Sivakasi, children recruited for combat purposes in many war-torn nations. This article on frequently asked questions quotes from the UNICEF:

"Child soldiers perform a range of tasks including participation in combat, laying mines and explosives, scouting, spying, acting as decoys, couriers or guards, training, drill or other preparations, logistics and support functions, portering, cooking and domestic labour, and sexual slavery or other recruitment for sexual purposes." (Read trafficking)

These children, too have a right to a childhood. Happily, we have come a long way from the middle ages in terms of an understanding of this wonderful period of life. We have to collectively as a society now see that every child gets it.

So, yes, protect your own children from sexual abuse, make them aware of this scourge, prepare them to protect themselves. Teach them about recognising aberrant behaviour on the part of ANYONE - known or unknown, about good touch, bad touch.

At the same time, do speak up about anything that might lead to such a situation, whether in the private or public sphere. A drive such as CSA Awareness Month is a small first step in global awareness. Please do your bit to join in however you can.

Book review: Cinderella Ate my Daughter

I would like to thank Utbtkids for introducing me to this wonderful book.

Consider this. A cousin, who is a parent to three girls aged 12, 8 and 3, has always picked up girlie stuff for her daughters. Pink, frilly dresses, tutus, barbies, disney/barbie toys, dresses, fashion accessories, all the latest disney/barbie movies/dolls' houses, barbie add-ons, barbie UNO cards(??), decor in all shades of pink- baby pink, magenta, fuschia, crimson, carmine, cerise, rose...you name it. Even hot pink cakes for every birthday. Bratz stuff, shiny lip gloss and nail polish (for these age groups??) - such pride on the mother's face when she recounts her children's obsession with dressing up and hair-dressing! I am often chided for not getting all the pinky-pink stuff for my daughter, that I should lighten up and let 'a girl be a girl'! She is welcome to have her opinion, of course! Not for me, though.

Things are made more difficult by the burgeoning in-your-face hard-sell of all things pink. Or rather all things stereotypical. Parents, beware. The people to decide what your kid plays with, how s/he plays, how s/he dresses are not you, but commercial establishments who have invested big money in the business of deciding this for you. So much so, that sometimes there isn't any choice in the matter.

In her book, Cinderella Ate My Daughter, Peggy Orenstein (see blogroll on the right side for her wonderful blog) discusses this wide-scale commercialisation of gender stereotypes, the messages it passes on to the hapless, impressionable children, (of both gender) the long-reaching effects of this stereotyping, and the way this industry is fed by the hopes and aspirations of every parent who buys into it.

Pic courtesy flipkart

Cinderella Ate My Daughter
dispatches from the front lines of the new girlie-girl culture
Written by Peggy Orenstein
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers

Gender stereotyping is not a new thing. It has not begun with the culture of all things girlie. It is as old as civilisation- maybe even from before civilisation. Gender stereotyping has its roots in biology. A woman can give birth to and suckle her baby, a man cannot. So the woman stayed at home to take care of the baby, ensuring the propogation of humans, while the man ensured survival in terms of providing for food and protection.

However, what began as a matter of convenience and an equitable division of labour that worked wonderfully well for the survival of humans, has evolved slowly but surely into something that denies human beings their most fundamental right- of being humans. The world gets divided into the masculine and the feminine, each strait-jacketed into our notions of what is right or wrong for each.

In an out-and-out patriarchial society like ours, this has always featured big. We already have a million ways to perpetuate gender stereotypes. We do not need another way to achieve the same.

Good girls don't do this, they don't do that- so many social restrictions based on gender- Oh, yes, there are these for boys, too. They don't have it easier. Real boys don't cry, real boys cannot play with dolls...I could go on. Resulting in aggression as the only acceptable emotion for them to show- crippling them emotionally!

Paradoxically, the girlie culture has its roots in the feminist movement. Barbie, in fact, was introduced in 1959 as a symbol of feminist aspirations(throwing off the shackles of domesticity), and was then targeted towards teenagers. Soon, though, Barbie, (astronaut, scientist, doctor, etc. in her initial avatars) and her successors were no longer a sign of empowerment- there was a definate element of sexualisation coming in. Girls who played with them were getting younger and younger and more impressionable by the day- of course putting the dolls off the radar for the original older age groups. Making it that much more difficult to contain and deflect the subliminal messages that were being sent to these children.

A short-sighted view of the princess/barbie culture provides a vision of empowerment. After all, our kids think it is so 'cool' to emulate the way Barbie dresses. So 'cool' to know about the latest in celebrity activities. Hannah Montana becomes a goddess. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Miley Cyrus,...the latest pop icon become role models. Not yet 3-yr-olds aspire to be like these idols. Ordinariness, simplicity is seen as totally 'uncool.' After all, who wants to be an old-fashioned so-and-so? So stereotypical!

Commercialisation, of course, demands that where there is a demand, there has to be a supply- so that profit can be made. After all, that is how it works in a capitalist set-up. Crass comercialisation takes it a step further, and feeds on the social weaknesses that come disguised as another step in empowerment.

'The pursuit of physical perfection was recast as a source - often the source - of young women's "empowerment." Rather than freedom from traditional constraints, then, girls now were free to "choose" them. Yet the line between "get to" and "have to" blurs awfully fast. Even as new and professional opportunities unfurl before (the girls), so does the path that encourages them to equate identity with image, self-expression with appearance, feminity with performance, pleasure with pleasing, and sexuality with sexualisation.'

... by the time they are teenagers, the girls (quoting a study by Deborah Tolman, a Professor of human sexuality studies at the City University of New York) respond to questions about how their bodies feel - questions about sexuality or desire - by talking about how their bodies look. They say something like, "I felt like I looked good." Orenstein says, "My fear for my daughter, then, is not that she will someday act in a sexual way; it is that she will learn to act sexually against her own self-interest."  Something seen in victims of low self-esteem, and not a sign of empowerment.

Sounds eerily like something the manusmriti has advocated for the female half of the population long long ago, doesn't it? We have plenty of our own misplaced ideas and beliefs to correct without complicating things in this way, thank you very much!

So what's with the pink and blue? Let us consider here a discussion on children's fashions in the past few hundred years.

Disclaimer: The next two paragraphs have much to do only with patterns of fashion in the western world. India has a very different story - a veritable study in ethnology ... but that is a subject for an entirely different post. Suffice here to say that the pink v/s blue debate with all its history has made an entry to our country quite recently - though making waves enough to start worrying.

In the west, children of both genders wore only white, at the most, shades of grey, up to 6-7 years of age, for a very practical reason: soiled clothes could be cleaned only by boiling them, and coloureds were a waste. The styles were also similar, much like dresses, with boys' clothes buttoned up in the front and the girls' buttoned up behind. When pastels came in, both genders wore all colours. Around the time of WW1, pink was actually associated with boys, as it was considered a watered down version of red, a colour associated with strength and bravery.

Yet, today, all things feminine are associated with the colour pink - a belief that we have to thank Nazi Germany for. Just like they made it compulsary for Jews to put on a yellow Star of David to distinguish them, they issued pink stars to those men that they believed were homosexual - these too were part of the reprehensible Final Solution. This gave pink a 'non-masculine' tag, and was equated with all things feminine. This, of course, has been exploited by marketing divisions of companies like Disney and Mattel to widen the divide and create a market for girl things and boy things. Not just toys and clothes, but every b****y thing!

Magenta, an extraspectral colour
pic courtesy biotele.com

Let me put one thing straight. I have nothing against pink, and I think it is a beautiful colour. I have no problems using something pink, on the stipulation that it does not have the associations I have spoken of. Same goes for orange, grey, turquoise, white, green, blue, red, black, yellow, violet, and any other hue of the rainbow. Speaking of rainbows, pink is not even a colour from the spectrum- there is no wavelength that translates to pink. It is a trick played by our brain, that interprets a mixture of the wavelengths for red and violet as magenta, a deep shade of pink. Experimentally, this can be created by superimposing two different spectrums created by two prisms. Try it. Go ahead- click on this link to read the complete explanation. It's fascinating!

I would just like to mention a couple of things from the book at the end.

Cinderella's story as we know it is the one popularised by Charles Perrault. He, in turn, based it on a tale from the Grimm Brothers' collection of folktales and fairy tales. The tale of Aschenputtel, a fiesty girl who does not wait around for any fairy godmother or the prince to rescue her- complete with gory bits, now sanitised for our consumption to the point where we have a good and beautiful but wimpy heroine.

Peggy Orenstein also dedicates the last chapter to do-able remedies against the unstoppable and unavoidable onslaught of the girlie culture. And keeping in mind the natural rebelliousness of the fast-growing but impressionale children whose lives can get impacted.

Book Review: Nanberry - Black brother White

Pic courtesy harpercollins.com.au

Nanberry
Black Brother White
Written by Jackie French
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers, Australia
YA

It is the story of Nanberry, the 9yr old Eora (aborigine) boy whose life takes an unexpected turn when smallpox brought into Australia by the First Fleet carrying convicts wipes out almost his entire tribe. Surgeon John White, the fleet's surgeon, adopts him as a son, much to the chagrin of his housekeeper, who is surprised to realise that the 'native' is as much a human being as she is!

The rest of the book is a narrative told in the first person by the different characters.

John White, the surgeon of the First Fleet, and later at the newfound colony. A good man of strong convictions and a thirst for knowledge.

Rachel Turner, who survived a wrongly given death sentence and deportation to the convict colony. Who has rather genteel origins, and works as Surgeon White's housekeeper, and later becomes his emotional anchor and mother of his son, Andrew. Who later becomes one of the richest and well-loved women in Australia.

Nanberry himself- the black brother, who, blossoms under the love and care showered on him by his foster father Surgeon White, and Rachel, but is loath to relinquish his roots, and is unable to quite become the 'English gentleman' that his foster father wanted him to become. Especially after he finds himself a target of the other white people's prejudice.

Andrew White, the son, the white brother, who gets a privileged education in England, and becomes a hero in the battle against Napoleon.

Which, along with a handful more of characters, both English and Eora, makes for a kaleidoscope of emotions, motives, actions, stretching across a period of history from the first Bitish settlement in Australia in 1788 to after the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. A piece of history that is in many ways still taking a shape. We see the arrogance of the Europeans in their 'finders-keepers-owners' attitude which has shaped much of the history of colonisation. "Britain did not recognise the country as being inhabited as the natives did not cultivate the land, and were, therefore, 'uncivilized'. " We see the reasoning they used in their ruthless decimation of the original inhabitants of the Australian continent- the aborigines- and their relentless claiming of the land.

We see the utter bewilderment of the Eora who did not have the concept of  individual ownership of land and resources- through the voice of Nanberry Buckenau. Who, although fostered by an exceptionally enlightened man for his times, keeps his roots, and returns to his people and their ways from time to time. Even as a child, he refuses to answer to the English name given to him by his foster father, and responds only to his rightful name, Nanberry.

A piece of history that we know really took place, as there are written records of it. All the characters really lived, even Nanberry about whom there are records researched and listed in the bibliography by the author, Jackie French, whose book for children 'Diary of a Wombat' has been reviewed by me earlier. She traces her mother-in-law's ancestry back to the family into which one of Andrew White's daughters married.

In an extensive afterword, she says, "All history books are detective stories, and history writers must track down information and put it together exactly as a detective does....The events in this book are as true as I can make them. The first decades of the colony were an extraordinary and fascinating time. But there comes a point where a historian and author has to say, 'I don't know'. "


"Neither the English nor the Eora understood each other. In most cases, perhaps, they didn't want to...To me, now, Nanberry (Nanbree / Nanbaree in the records found) and Andrew White seem to be the first modern Australians, triumphantly accepting both sides of their heritage."

I will be entering this review for the 2011 Global Reading Challenge under Australasia, and for the Reading the World Challenge 2011 over at Papertigers.

Book Review: The Diddakoi

Pic courtesy flipkart

The Diddakoi
Written by Rumer Godden
Cover illustration by Christian Birmingham
Published by Macmillan Children's Books
Ages 8-12 yrs

I've learned a lot about adoption and attachment from Sangi's posts, and there are many nuances to the whole issue that I would not have otherwise being sensitised to. Thanks, Sangi!

So it was hardly a surprising thing that I unwittingly picked up quite a few books that deal with that on different levels. A few are books for children, and here is one of them. A complex, well written book that draws one into it.

A spirited, half-gypsy, half-Irish girl. An orphan. A misfit at school, targeted with some serious bullying for being different. The fact that 'normal, nice' children can, in fact, be very cruel, especially if they reflect the prejudices of their elders. The fact that prejudices can lead to fear of a situation/ person, and that it can become difficult to overcome.

An ordinary 'Miss Marple-ish' British village in the 1960s where everyone knows everybody. A legal care system where the best interests of a child is decided by the letter of the law, and not by what the child would want, or what might be truly best for the child. Some well meaning going wrong. Others unaware of their own ability to give and heal.

'It's good of you, Edna,' Miss Brooke repeated, but it might spoil your holiday. Besides, I don't think Kizzy would go.'
'Heavens, you don't have to ask her.'
'I think I do. People should always be asked before being disposed of.'
'A child?'
'Children are people, Edna,' said Miss Brooke as she had said it to Mrs Blount.
'Well, please yourself,' said Mrs Cuthbert. 'But I tell you, Olivia, that child's too much on your mind.'
'Isn't that what she came for?'
'For what?'
'To be on my mind.'

An ordinary children's story of extraordinary meanings, the book takes one on a roller coaster ride of emotions, which nevertheless unfold very gently at times and with the dramatic quality of a tempest at others. That brings home to us the fact that the human spirit is more resilient than one can imagine, and that we all that the light with the dark in all of us. That patience, love and care can wrought wonders.

Rumer Godden herself was very difficult, and different in many ways as a child, and in this book she writes from  her own memories of it. Kizzy Lovell, our central girl character, the 'diddakoi'=half-gypsy, who is picked on by the other children for being different, and who is in the centre of a controversy over who should foster her, and how, is a throwback to that childhood. In some ways Kizzy reminded me of some of Enid Blyton's similar characters- Carlotta from the St. Clare series, and Lotta from her Circus books.

This is her best known book for children, which got the Whitbread Award in 1972. It has been called "the sort of book children had to fight for to get it from adults". The book should be read in the context of the period in which it is set, as there is much that can be considered 'politically incorrect'. And inspite of the many negatives, the many questions it raises, especially in young minds, it is an incredibly uplifting book, with a happy ending. A loved it!

Crossposted at Saffrontree.   

Mommy is guilty as charged

Ranjani had tagged me some time back. Sorry, Ranjani, for not doing the tag for such a long time. I have no excuse but my laziness.

Yesterday, however, I went out with a friend and her one-and-a-half year old son, who adores A and will keep asking for her by his pronounciation of her name every time he sees me, expecting her to be somewhere around me all the time.

We did many things (like browsing in a bookshop and picking up some books) that I know A would have loved to do with us. I kept thinking of her all the time, and was wishing it was a holiday, so that she could have accompanied us. Maybe I will take her out on the next school holiday.

Mommy feeling guilty? You bet!

According to the tag, I have to

1. Write about 2 instances where you have put yourself before your child/ children... been a wee bit selfish.
2. How did you feel? Did you feel a pang of guilt or were you comfortable?
3. Tag 2 more moms

I have always had A along with me since she was born. Since we do not stay with extended family, it was only us all the time. I never had anyone to help with her. I have,  of course, my house-help who comes in everyday for housework, but taking care of A and cooking is something I never liked to nor wanted to delegate.

The first time I spent some time alone without A around was when she joined school. Even there, I would say it was I who had a bad case of separation anxiety - A was ready for mixing socially, and so settled down there quite soon.

Over the years, I have grown to like the 'me time' I get when I am by myself. I find that it is essential for me to have this time for myself, to do as I please, without worrying about the kid's or the husband's schedules. Reading, morning walks, blogging, working on something interesting, browsing in bookshops, going shopping or catching a movie/theatre programme with friends or by myself, eating out sometimes. When A was younger, I also caught up on the listening to music other than nursery rhymes and other children's songs when she was elsewhere. All the things a stay-at-home-mom may do after all her chores are done!

Of course, I love the times we can spend together on days when she has a holiday. Some of the best times we have spent together are sitting together, each with her book in her hands. Yes, I have a little reader at home, and I'm glad it's so.

So I would have to really think for doing this tag. Let me see-

1. Harry Potter. A is as much into the series as I am. Only difference being, that I discovered the series in 2004, when she was just three, and she began reading them in 2009, two years after book 7 was published. True to my belief that she should read the books before she watches the movies, she has watched them all only on TV. Except for Deathly Hallows 1 & 2. She began with book 7 much after DH 1 had gone from theatres, and we are still waiting for the movie to come on TV, or for us to pick up the DVD, which we will probably do only after all the movies come on DVD, and we can buy the boxed set. Of course we finished reading book 7 at super speed in time for her to watch the last movie on the big screen. Went to watch it with Choxbox, her FB and another friend from school and her mother, all big on Harry Potter.

So I would go to watch all the earlier HP movies on big screen without her, even when I knew that she would have loved to watch them with me on big screen. That would be Order of the Phoenix, Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows 1. If I count the fact that most of her friends went to these movies without reading the books, that would include Goblet of Fire, too.

2. A has never been one of those kids who pester their parents to buy something, anything, everytime they make a visit to a shop. Except when we are in a bookshop. Woe betide me if I take her to a bookshop and do not buy something that she will enjoy. So I do not plan a bookshop visit with her if I have not budgeted for at least one book for her to choose and buy. There are also all those books that are interesting enough to pick up, small enough to be read quickly, but too expensive to pick up, and sometimes for a younger age group. Think of all those fabulous picture books we have not yet got our hands on! So we take advantage of bookshops' policies which allow the customers to make themselves comfortable and read away if they may.

Considering her love of books, and of browsing in bookshops, there have been many occasions when I have gone for it alone- when I have to go to a book sale which it might not be possible to go for on the week-end, which might be in a far-off location, or if I just up and go plonk myself in my favourite book shop on a day when I need some retail therapy. Do I feel guilty? Yes, I do, indeed. As Choxbox will be able to testify, I often pick up a whole lot of books, then realising that they would be way beyond my budget, put away most of those that are for myself, and end up buying those that I know A will enjoy!

To A's credit, she has never consciously made me feel guilty about these things, taking it as gospel that the book has to be read first, and she is overjoyed when I get her something on my book-shopping trips. Yes, she makes me feel guilty about that, too. Contrarily, I would not have felt as bad if she had gotten upset about it.

That was my rather wordy take on the tag. I would like to tag Choxbox and Sangi. Both are ladies I admire immensely for their out-of-the-box thinking and from whom I learn so much. There are some more out there whom I would have loved to tag, but the rules say I have to tag two. So anyone else who wants to take it up is welcome to do so. Let us hear your mommy-guilt secrets, ladies!

Review- On My Honor

Pic courtesy goodreads.com

On My Honor
Written by Marion Dane Bauer
Published by Yearling books, an imprint of Random House Children's books.
Ages: 8-12, 12+

Peer pressure. Everyone faces it, children more so. It looms large in their small world, often leading to literally life-and-death situations.

Twelve year old Joel and Tony are 'best friends', very different in temperament, often squabbling and bickering, but inseparable.

Tony- exuberant, fun-loving, risk-taking, with a devil-may-care attitude. Joel, the more cautious of the two, introspecting, sensitive to undercurrents in a situation, a foil for Tony.

On the way to a cliff-climbing trip, (which Joel had earlier tried to wriggle out of, hoping his father would not give him permission to go), the irrepressible Tony had decided he wanted to go swimming in the river instead. The turbulant, treacherous Vermillion river, known for its rapids. Inspite of having promised his father 'on his honor', that he would not do anything dangerous, Joel falls for the bait when Tony accuses him of being over-cautious.

"Sometimes, Bates, you sound just like your old man."
Joel could feel the heat flooding his face. "What's wrong with that?"
" 'Be careful in that tree, son,' " Tony mimicked, " 'you might get hurt. Watch Bobby when he crosses the street. Those drivers never pay any--' "
Joel had been moving closer to Tony as he spoke, and now he gave him a hard shove.

Tony keeps needling Joel, driven by bravado and dare-devilry, goading him to challenge Tony to a swimming race to a sandbar a hundred yards away. With terrible consequences.

Peer pressure. Wanting to fit in. Misplaced confidence. A sense of being indestructible. A devil-may-care attitude. Inability to lose face. Unwillingness to be perceived as a 'coward' when being just sensible and careful. A recipe for disaster?

Marion Dane Bauer has written a fast-paced, racy, but sensitively told story based on a real incident that happenned in the town where she grew up, at the very same place as described in the book. A very short, 90 page book that is very hard-hitting.

Bauer's potrayal of Joel's effort to get out of what is very clearly a fool-hardy venture, without losing face- first hoping that his father would not give his permission, then trying to make Tony see sense is very realistic. It happens ever so often in our own kids' peer-group. The disaster comes on unexpectedly, chillingly, with everything else seemingly the same, unchanged.

The potrayal of Joel's survivor guilt is heart-wrenching. The disbelief, denial, anger, dissociation, grief, a desire to hide, not face the parents, an obsessive 'washing-off of the stench of the river', are powerfully written. It helps, that his father is understanding, trying to help him let go of the paralysing, mind-numbing grief.

The wracking sobs flowed out of him like water.
His father held him for a long time, saying nothing, until Joel's tears came without sound and his breaths were quivering gasps. Even then, his father held him.
"Do you believe in heaven?" he asked at last. "Do you believe Tony's gone there?"
"I don't suppose anybody knows," his father answered gently, "what happens after...I believe there's something about life that goes on. It seems too good to end in a river."

It is a Newbery Honor winner, 1987, and the William Allen White Childrens' book award winner, 1989. A wonderfully written book, that chills me on each reading. Given a thumbs-up by A.

Crossposted at Bookreviews and Saffrontree.

It is never too late for mommy to learn

Sangi has tagged me with this very interesting tag. I need to pick out 5 things that being a mother has taught me. Hmmm...let's see.

1. Are you there, God?
I grew up in a household which put a lot of premium by God, prayers, going to temples, rituals, etc., but I was never convinced of the existence of the said almighty. If anything, I actively rebelled against all of what seemed to me to be a lot of foaming at the mouth over something that was not proven to be existing anyway.

Oh, I knew all the scriptures I was expected to know as a child- the mythology, the epics, the prayers, what could/could not be done- the works. I have to thank my grandmother for much of that.  Not complaining! It has definitely enriched me.

I was, however, entirely confused by a ritualistic approach to God- an insistance on the paraphernelia of religion- that one must have red flowers/ white flowers/ leaves of a particular plant/ coconuts, etc. for a God that seemed to me too petty to have wanted all that JUST SO. My belief thus bordered on atheism, but, as I feel sometimes, I threw the baby out with the bathwater. Pun not intended.

Having A was a miracle of sorts. I had her quite late, also having complications during pregnancy, a difficult labour and finally, an emergency C-section. The anxiety and heartache I went through during all this, and finally having her, healthy and whole, in my arms made feel that yes, there must be a God.

So did I finally get religion? Not quite. I cannot still abide by rituals. The occasional pooja I do, on festive days, is more to introduce this part of her culture to A, rather than for its own sake. I do not pray everyday, for then, I feel, it will become a meaningless ritual; or go that extra mile to get those red flowers/ white flowers, etc. I do pray the day I feel like praying, for, on that day, I know that my prayer is true and heart-felt, and it will certainly reach God. And A knows all the prayers, songs and stories that are part of her inheritance, her birthright as my grandmother's great-grand-daughter.

At times, I even feel close enough to God to quarrel or fight, if need be. When I feel the presense of the divine, my eyes close of their own accord and I bow my head. Spiritual yearnings? Maybe.

2. A smile in my heart.
"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." Osho Rajneesh.

When I see the affection A has for younger children, the raptures she goes into over any baby, see the affinity younger children have for her, I think back to myself as a child- heck, myself as a grown-up and wonder over how different she is from me in this aspect. As an adult, I loved babies, still do, and am a natural in handling the extremely fragile lovelies. But I normally cannot have easy coversations with older kids, unless they share my interest in books. I was never what you would consider 'mother material'. I never fantasised over having babies as she does, never wanted to get the little kids in the neighbourhood together to raise rabble. I was fine with my book in my corner, inhabiting my imaginary world, thank you very much!

When I saw the two purple stripes, and later A's heart going 'twinkle, twinkle' at an impossible rate on the screen at an ultrasound, I realised how much I wanted my baby. Connecting with her when in utero was an out-of-this-world experience, and I was absolutely smitten by her once I had her in my arms.

Please bear with me over the next paragraph.

The day she was born was an extremely hot day even by Mumbai standards. Since all AC rooms were occupied at the time, I was moved to a non-AC room temporarily, just for one day's time. A could not yet suckle, and as a result she got dehydrated. She was taken away by the nursing staff on duty for some time (the nursing home believed in rooming in; babies were NOT taken away to the nurseries like in most hospitals those days. AND the obstetrician was a dear friend, who had hand-held me through my extremely difficult pregnancy, with me going ballistic over things that could go wrong- a distinct disadvantage of being in the know in medicine) on the doctor's orders, so that she could be given some glucose water orally to tide over till she could suckle. The panic I went into over that was unimaginable. This was my baby. Where were they taking her? Why? So what if these were doctor's orders? Couldn't they do whatever they needed to do right there, in front of me? Blah, blah, blah, blah...you fill it in.

Love is here to stay. Always, in my heart. No matter what, no matter when, no matter how.

3. They are not always right, nor always wrong.
As a child, I often thought my parents were always right in everything, until came a time when I thought just the reverse. Now they could do nothing right. And one's peers also thought the same of their parents at the same time. So I often ended up blaming my parents for things that I did not do right.

While some of it may be true, (see, I have a long way to go yet!) I realise now as hands-on mom that my parents always did that which they thought was right at the time, and what was humanly possible for them. The realisation has gone a long way in making my peace with them over issues we didn't see eye-to-eye.

Something I hope my daughter also realises over a period of time- that her mother is just human, and that I do the best I can do, the best I believe I should do. I hope to God that it is the right thing.

4. Just a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down!
Coming from a background where my mother was the rulebook, and considering that I rebelled against it wholeheartedly, sometimes even to my detriment, I always thought that with my child I would be different. I would not do this, or that, that I would always talk to my child, explain things, do things right. I am not saying that I had bad parents, just that they were very conservative, old-fashioned, and pretty much followed the norms of the times they lived in.

I was living in a fool's paradise. No, not till she came along, but till she learnt to stand up to me and say NO! WON'T! pretty early in her toddlerhood. A true-blue Taurean, she knew very well how to dig her heels in and...err...so did I.

I had to go great lengths to unlearn all that I had absorbed. As always, I took the help of books. It was a lot of trial, and much more of error. Still is sometimes. I learnt that logic works more wonders with A than putting my foot down. I need to back off and calm down, be less authoritarian. I who needs to get my act together if I am to make any headway with teaching this lovely but stubborn as a mule child of mine the right things. Blogs by friends who are wonderful parents, like Starry,  Choxbox  and  Sangi help. Their views and extremely clear headed analysis of so many little things often show me the light.

5. It is never too late to get an education.
Having a daughter taught me so many things.
*That one cannot learn everything from books.
*That I cannot bear it when she is in pain, but have to be strong enough for both of us to make it bearable.
*Everything that is humanly possible is certainly achievable, especially if your child needs it of you.
*The human body is amazing- and this doesn't include just what they teach you at medical school. One can survive on the barest minimum of sleep, oxytocin and lots of TLC.
*That much more can be achieved by being patient and explaining things instead of laying down the law.
*That sometimes one is only human and wishes one does not have to explain things so much but can lay down the law!:)
*That one can have conversations with an extra-chattery child where one can switch off and yet make satisfactory rejoinders.
*That even though one loves the child so much, one can wish that someone takes her away for the day, on the stipulation that she is returned in the evening safe and sound. Sending her off to school is the best option.
*That the best part of the day is when A comes home with a smile and a hug for mommy, followed closely by the time in the morning when everybody, including the husband, are out and one can finally rest one's errr...backside with a hot, steaming cup of tea.
*That children can ask the darnedest questions. And one never has an answer for them when they are asked in company.
*That one has absymal / long forgotten / outdated knowledge about the things children learn as early as in middle grade. And that one has to read up a lot to be able to keep up.
*That it is a lot of fun to do things together, and it does not always have to cost a bomb.
*That the best times we have spent together are when we have sat together on the bean-bags near the wide open windows, reading aloud to her in the light streaming in from a book I have loved and wanted to share with her.
*That one has to exercise tough love at times and settle for being the bad cop- mommies often are, as they are the ones usually around. That certainly goes for SAHM mothers like me, as also for working moms, though that bit is slowly changing.
*That there is no single rule about how things should be done, although a large portion of love, faith, hope, belief in oneself and patience is required on our plate.

I have to tag five others as part of the rules. I would like to tag Starry, Utbtkids, Ranjani, Crazy mum and Arundhati.  Let us know what you think, ladies. 

A birthday-- we are now in double digits!

I can't let the month of May slip away without a post! I have been away all month, but all about that later. A had a birthday this month, and I can't let THAT go unrecorded.

It has been 10 years now since I first set eyes on a warm, wriggly bundle with a shaggy mop of hair which was considering me seriously (It was an emergency caesarian and I was sedated enough to have fallen into a deep sleep soon after I heard her cry and the obstetrician, who is a friend, told me that I had a beautiful girl baby. So I saw her after she was all cleaned and wrapped up!)  with the biggest black eyes I've yet to see on a baby.

It has been a wonderful decade of motherhood, and there have been good times and bad times, none of which I would exchange for anything in the world, all memorable. I would have loved to hold on to all the moments and feel sad that they have to grow up so soon. How time flies!

As usual, my preparations started well in advance, before school closed for the vacation. I asked A to make a list of guests she wanted to invite, and to get relevant phone numbers (I had quite a few as most mothers are good friends) and email IDs. That took a few days, considering her friends are spread over different classes, as also some who are not from school.

Next I checked with the mothers if they were here in the vacations, and got a tentative headcount, as I had to give my caterer a fair idea of the numbers. Then for a theme and place. A and I were sure of one thing, we wanted someplace outdoors. "Something like a picnic, Aai!"

Our first choice was the Martin Farm but it was not available on the date we wanted. Then I considered the the Birthday Nature Walk that Starry had had for her daughter's birthday, but she had hers in January, with a more friendly sun, something that could be troublesome in May. Then a friend from my complex suggested a place that was owned and run by another friend of hers.

Bang in the middle of the city, behind Manipal hospital, was a playschool called The Green Pocket which also holds summer camps, and rents it out for birthdays, with a list of activities that one could choose from. The lady who runs it, Anahita Cooper, is really sweet and helpful, and we hit it off from the word go. But what clinched it for me was that the moment I stepped in there, I heard cuckoos in the chickoo orchard and a rooster crowing loudly, transporting me back to summers of childhood spent at our native place playing in mango orchards by little brooks with the only sounds those of birds and monkeys in the trees, bullocks lowing in fields nearby and the chatter of all us children.

A clump of green

So 'The Green Pocket' was on, a tentative headcount was done, and I had a talk with Mallika, the caterer who has catered for all A's birthdays, except the one when she was 8, when I had a cooking party, and the children made their own pizzas, and we gave away aprons as return gifts.

After that, it was all long distance, as we shifted base to Mumbai for 5 weeks of the vacation (will soon do a post on all the fun we had there- kept seriously offline for most of the time) and we were due back just 2 days before the birthday. So phone calls to all guests were made from there.

Then followed last minute phone calls and mails to Mallika and Anahita, for all the details. Return gifts had been bought and packed before leaving for Mumbai. So all we had to do was bake the cake (She wanted me to bake it this year. Some of our guests do not eat egg. So we decided to make an eggless, maida-less wholewheat flour cake- satisfied my yearning for healthier options wherever possible.)



Kids on a treasure hunt

The kids ran riot. There was a treasure hunt organised and conducted by Anahita, and a visit to PetStepin, a pet care centre next doors, for those who loved animals. There were dogs, and rabbits to pick up and feed, and of course, the rooster. There were huge mango trees laden with raw and ripening mangoes, with tire swings hanging by sturdy ropes. There was a tree house to climb up onto. There were scores of chickoo, sitaphal and mango trees laden with fruit, and some of those delicious, mini gooseberries, what we call raiawala  in marathi. There were also squirrels, running around quite used to having children around them. The children were strictly told NOT to feed any animals, except for the rabbits, and even those were to be fed the leaves that were provided. They loved it all!

Petting animals at PetStepin

Then we had cucumber-and-cheese sandwiches, pizzas made on whole wheat bases, boiled corn with salt and butter, (the ubiquitous) chips from Hot Chips and cake. And of course, the ice lollies. These were unlimited, and I was proud of A for resisting them! (She had been a bit unwell for some days, and had been asked to keep off the ice lollies.)

Anahita had earlier asked me to send her a photo of A, and she had made a Happy Birthday banner using it, on which all the guests could write their message. That is going to be a prized possession. Especially as one of the girls who wrote on it (and drew horns on A's picture, which were later made into a tiara!) is a special friend, and is moving to another school, and will be sorely missed.

All friends who were invited came, except for one very close friend W, who is out of town, and was sorely missed. And the gifts- people have been very thoughtful while gifting, and we have a rope ladder from Sutradhar (no prizes for guessing who gave that!), a pair of adjustable skates, gift vouchers to book shops (but of course!) an architectural kit (from Artnavy) an amazing board game based on the Harry Potter series, called CLUE, and much more.

Return gifts? We picked up folders from Gurjari, embroidered beautifully in their characteristic style, with each child's name painted along the edge by A. And of course, folders couldn't be given empty- so each one contained a book that the particular child may enjoy- again picked by A. And just books for some younger kids.

Next year- she has already told me- she will be doing everything from the planning stage onwards. I need to only facilitate her plans.

Sure, sweetheart! And may you have many more!

The story of this (grand) lady I love

Yamuna's mother passed away when she was just 4, while giving birth to her brother, who also did not live for long. Her father, after a few months, married again. She now had a stepmother, who proceeded to add to the family every year or two. Soon, Yamuna was pulled out of school at the age of 9. Her services were needed at home to help her stepmother handle the household and a horde of children. Her father did not protest, as he did not see anything wrong with that. Didn't it happen all the time? Anyway, with his ancestral business of chief-ink-makers for royalty, he did not have the time to think about household matters. She grew older and entered her teens, a bright child deprived of learning. She did try to read whatever she could get her hands on, though, whenever she had the time.

Even after her mother had passed away, her maternal relatives visited off-and-on. During one such visit, her aunt, a younger cousin of her mother, came with a marriage proposal for Yamuna, who had just turned 16. It was her brother-in-law, who was an Ayurvedic practioner. The family was a well-to-do one, and it would be a comfortable life for the motherless girl. Horoscopes were compared and matched, and the proposal accepted. Yamuna now began to live in her world of dreams. She was soon going to escape the daily drudgery at home, and queen it in her new household.

Many preparations were made. Then came the wedding day. Dressed up in bridal finery, Yamuna was taken to the mandap, where her father took her to sit next to a man in his forties. There was another woman near him, with a 4 mnth old girl, both dressed in finery. The priest began the ceremony, and asked Yamuna's father to put her hand into that man's.

Yamuna was confused. Her mind told her that there must be some mistake. She looked around for her aunt, the one who had got the proposal, and there she was, dressed in finery, and sitting with a group of unknown ladies, chatting away. Yamuna wanted to ask her what was happening, but no-one was bothered about her confusion. The ceremony continued, and in no time at all, she was the man's wedded wife. Even her name was changed according to custom, and she was now no longer Yamuna, but was now Mandakini.

The wedding festivities went on, and a bemused Mandakini travelled with her new family, from her village near Satara to Mumbai, to her matrimonial home. Everything was new, and her only lifeline was her aunt.

She soon came to know the bitter truth. Raghunath, her husband, had lost his first wife and child in childbirth. He too, had duly married again. His second wife had given birth to four children, none of whom had survived infancy. Her daughter was the fifth child, and had survived, but the doctors had advised no more children due to some medical complications. This was the lady near the groom. Bowing to pressure from the family to have a male heir, he had agreed to marry again. As was the tradition, no-one had thought to care about what a 16 yr old might feel about the whole thing. Nor what his earlier wife might feel. Nor taken the groom's wishes into considerstion.

Luckily, Raghunath was a good man, and treated his young bride well.He realised early on that she was an intelligent girl, with a thirst for learning. He encouraged her to read, and taught her many things. Not the least of which were the secrets of Ayurveda. He was a learned man, and had a roaring practice as a Vaidya (ayurvedic practioner). His patients were given freshly prepared medicines, made in the old fashioned way, from Sanskrit texts. Mandakini was taught all the procedures, and except for the actual diagnosis, learnt much at the elbow of her husband.

As for the expectation from her of an heir, she had two sons, then a daughter, and another son within 10 years of her marriage. Consolidating her position as the mother of a son. The other wife was not forgotten in all this, and the two wives lived together in as much harmony as they could, in the same household. A studio photograph taken of Raghunath with his two wives shows him sitting in a chair flanked by his two wives in saries worn in the then latest fashion, with short sleeved blouses, jewellery, and hair made up like that of Marathi film heroines, with curls falling over their foreheads.

They lived in a joint family, with Raghunath's brothers and their families too staying together, and all the children had many mothers. The children all thrived and had the best of education. Unfortunately, Raghunath had a stroke when Mandakini was in her mid-thirties, and was confined to his bed / armchair. Both wives worked to keep him comfortable in what were his last years, and he passed away when his daughter was 21 and Mandakini was in her late thirties.

From then on, began a cycle of dependency. She stayed for some years in the same house with the other wife and her daughter's family. Her elder son was a doctor, married and staying in the same house. Her second son too was a doctor and had gone to the UK for further studies, supporting himself. Her daughter and younger son were staying at her younger brother-in-law's place, completing their education. For that was one thing that Mandakini was very clear about- getting a good education.

After her daughter married, Mandakini and her younger son came to stay at her son-in-law's home. She had differences with her elder two daughters-in-law, for whom she had become a burden. Her youngest son completed his education, started a job, got married, and after some years came back to stay in the house where his father had lived, staying there to this day.

Mandakini lived most of her years after that with her daughter's family, as a well loved grandmother, telling her grandchildren the stories she had painstakingly read or heard, the songs she knew, showering them with all of her love. Her daughter was a doctor too, and would often be busy or away attending her patients. While the grandchildren came home to a grandmother who made home a warm place, with good food on the table, and a treasure trove of stories and songs.

After her grand-daughter married and went away to the US with her husband, Mandakini felt the loss very much. She had taken part in all the festivities even though very frail. She had made her grand-daughter wear first (what we call ghaDi modNe in Marathi-wearing an outfit for the first time)  the beautiful azure blue nine-yard sari that had been bought for her to wear at the wedding. And then gave it to her as a keepsake. As a wedding gift from her, she had sat down for many weeks and written down the recipes of many of her dishes that her grand-daughter loved. And then the wedding was over and her beloved grand-daughter was gone.

Her health was already delicate, and she began to waste away. It was the beginning of the end. And she wanted to spend her last days in the house where she had come as a bewildered bride, then had found some happiness and contentment, and where there were memories of that happy past. Her youngest son came and took her away. It was there that her grand-daughter saw her for the last time, on returning back with her husband. The grandmother held her hand, and her husband's hand, and asked him to take care of her.

Just two weeks after that, on Sankranti day, she passed away, peacefully in her sleep. Her husband's other wife outlived her by two years.

I am that grand-daughter, and she was my much loved grandmother. It has been almost twelve years now since I saw her last, but not a day passes that I do not remember her. I still have the azure nine-yard sari that my grandmother wore at my wedding. As also another of her well-loved cotton saris, used for so long that it has become silken soft. The keepsakes from a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, and loving grandmother.

And now I am passing on her stories and songs to my daughter. And the story of her life. It is her legacy, and A's inheritance.

Back to school

A is back at school today. After more than two months. Two months and ten days, to be precise. A sort of extended vacation. She had school in April and May, at a time when all her friends were at home, having their vacation. For a change, though, she was coming back early, after mid-day. So we had many more hours together. Even if she was doing her homework for a lot of that time.

When she finally did have vacations, it was June, July, August, a time when her friends had all started school. So there we were, with time on our hands, no friends to play with, the husband too out on a business trip for many days. At 9, she was not a very little girl anymore, and we had begun to relate girl-to-girl. In fact, we had long ago begun to relate that way as far as books were concerned. We had already begun to read books together, discuss them, and have our own private jokes from them that we laughed at together. Something that I've been looking forward to since she was an infant in my arms.

Image: Courtesy Flipkart 

So we made many plans. Of course, there was the holiday homework. A will be appearing for the Olympiad tests this year, and through our work towards this, I discovered many lacunae in her Math, which we have tried to eliminate. Not the least of which was her lack of mastery over multiplication tables. So everyday we went through tables from 2 to 12, something that we need to continue doing. Clarified the mysteries of factorisation, LCM and HCF, Roman numbers versus Arabic, and much more. In the process, we discovered  a fun book on Maths,  THE NUMBER DEVIL. 

A loved this one, and we are still working our way through it, so I'll save it for a later review. 

Books- yes, we read loads of those. As I had written earlier, we became members of Hippocampus at the beginning of these vacations, and we spent many happy hours at the library, some with friends from school, who were also having their vacations.

A finally mastered bicycling these vacations, and won herself a brand new and bigger cycle. Bicycling has since become the must-do thing for every evening. Even on days when we have been out the whole day or in the evenings, A makes it the point to take at least one round on it around the complex before she will agree to come home. I'm glad. It has given her another way of relating to her friends, all of whom have been bicycling for ages. Bettered her self-esteem, something I've been wanting for her. So she has swimming (something we planned on doing more of, but couldn't, as the pool filtration plant went out of order) and cycling now to count among her favourite activities after books and artwork. 

We met up with friends, too, a lot in these hols. Spent time with Choxbox and her girls at a book launch,

a Korean play The Tale of Haruk, at Ranga Shankara, and the Strand book sale. Went to a birthday party of A's best friend AM at her farmhouse, had a Friendship Day get-together, had a Bangalore Saffron Tree group meet, and rounded up all that with a magic show at Artnavy's older one's fifth birthday party. Of course we met with my friends J, P and R and their daughters too. We also had the Independence day celebrations in our complex, which were great fun. 

More than anything else, it is the lazy times we have had together as mother-daughter, just reading or watching a movie, doing some art-craft project, discussing something, sharing my favourite music with her, girl-boy talks, shopping, visiting the park, just lying-in on lazy mornings with nothing to rush around for, staying up late doing something interesting without having to worry about having to get up early in the morning for school or anything else, just the unstructuredness of the days that went by, that I am really going to miss as her school routine begins.

I am already feeling the emptiness of my morning, with just myself for company. Ah, well, we all adjust to anything that comes by, and so will I. For now, let me just finish this post and then go to find something to do. I suppose I have my chores, and I have this reading challenge to look forward to.

I'll miss having you to myself, A. I suppose we all have to look ahead and move on, but it is difficult.