Of courage in the face of death

Of late, I have been reading quite a few books on loss and grief. It all began with a brief from the editor of Women's Web for an article on 5 Books To Read When Dealing With Grief. There were a few books that I had read, but not many seemed to fit in with the aspect of healing after a loss. I looked around the blogs I usually read - approaching Indian Home Maker about the books that helped her to cope with the loss of her daughter, Tejaswee. I also asked a blogger friend, Vibha Sharma for her inputs. These were extremely helpful in deciding the books featured in the article.

Here is one of the books I came across in my search. Also cross-posted at Zealot Readers.

pic courtesy kobobooks.com.au

Mick...Send Me A Butterfly
Written by Lorraine Grennan
Revised edition published by Love of Books Self Publishing.

Death is always disturbing.  Even if the person has passed away peacefully after a long and productive life. Even when it is of someone one knows only slightly. Even if it is the death of a loved fictional character. Even if it is someone one has never heard of before. What makes us react this way to a death? Why are we touched by the finger of sorrow even if we have not directly suffered this loss? Isn't it the realisation of our own mortality?

The everyday news items about deaths in the newspaper disturb me - I make it a point never to read these pages early in my day, especially if it is the death of a child or a violent death that is featured.

So when it is a dear one whose death we are dealing with, it can be devastating. And when it is a parent who has to deal with a child's death, it becomes doubly so. Somehow we expect to die before our children. It is, we feel, the natural order of things. After all, life goes on in a forward direction. Children are born of our bodies, and are our hope for the future. A way for nature to ensure that we do not disappear into nothingness. A way to keep a part of us alive on this beautiful earth. In a strange way, we become immortal through our children, and our children's children, and so on. So, it is terrible indeed, when things go the other way. When a parent has to see the suffering of a child, and the relentless descent into the big void of death. Whether it comes suddenly or after a long and debilitating illness.

Lorraine Grennan's book, 'Mick...Send Me A Butterfly' is a memoir of her son Michael Stewart Grennan's fight with Chronic Myloid Leukaemia. He was diagnosed with the disease on 29th August 1981, and passed away on 23rd March 1983 at just 20 years of age - a period of one year and seven months of facing the monster. 23rd March 2013, was the 30th anniversary of his death, and this is a tribute to his fighting spirit. One that has surely touched many lives that came in contact with his courage and forbearance.

At 18, Mick was your regular teenager, having a girlfriend and a job at a gas station, plenty of friends and a loving family. He had his whole life in front of him, when the disease crept up on him unbeknownst. It was diagnosed after a series of tests for symptoms that seemed like arthritis. It was a punch in the solar plexus, to put it mildly. Ms Grennan writes about how they all coped with the reality of impending death in their own ways. It was devastating, and something that they never could come to terms with. At such a time, Mick showed a maturity beyond his years and became the source of his family's strength, preparing them for his death and the time after it, in unusually thoughtful ways that Ms Grennan has put down with complete honesty of emotion. It does not fail to move, and I had to put the book away at times to bring my own emotions to order. She recounts the shock, the denial, the coping with the treatment (with its own consequences) and the bewilderment of a layperson thrust into the unending medical visits. She speaks of her faith and that of her family and friends, that gave them the strength to cope with the inevitable - both before and after Mick's passing away.

Ms Grennan also writes very honestly about the feelings of loss, guilt, and helplessness that overcame her and the other members of her family after Mick passed away. How every person grieves in a different way, a way very personal to that person, the way they perceive their loss, the way they deal with it. The way that coping with grief does not have a timeline, and that even after we learn to let go, the grief is still very real for the bereaved person. And that healing does come, in its own way to each person.

After his passing away, Ms Grennan was introduced to The Compassionate Friends, a group started by similarly bereaved parents, and it helped her deal with her feelings of grief. Intense feelings that she often wondered about- if they were normal. Ms Grennan has since worked extensively as a volunteer in its chapter in her hometown in New South Wales, Australia. Her work since has helped thousands of bereaved people come to terms with their loss.

This memoir, which is written in almost a diary-like fashion, draws the reader into their lives. A peek into the extraordinary courage of ordinary people. It has been a privilege.

Bitter Sweet

First, the bitter. It has been fourteen years today that my beloved grandmother, the lady who was the first person to introduce me to the beauty of stories and songs, passed away after a full life. I wasn't near her at the time, but had met her just two weeks before she breathed her last. I cannot say that I remember her only on certain days; she is never far from my mind. I have a picture of her just inside my wardrobe, where I can see her in the privacy of my mind. For some strange reason, this year, I can sense her love very close to me. Maybe it is my imagination, but it feels very real. As if she wants to convey something to me, her favourite and oldest grandchild. Maybe it has something to do with getting older. My oldest memories of her are of when she was around my age. She would have been close to 90 if she had been alive today. She could have been.

Next, the sweet. Today is Sankranti. The day is celebrated all over India in different forms of the harvest festival. Sankranti, Pongal, Bihu, Lohri- all forms of the same joyous feeling of plenty. Plenty to eat, after a long, cold winter. The hope of spring and new beginnings.

The kid and I made tiL-guL today, a sweet made of roasted sesame seeds and jaggery, both rich in nutrients, warming foods. She wanted to actively participate in the making, so she cleaned the sesame seeds, broke the jaggery up into pieces, greased the plates, helped stir the roasted sesame seeds into the melted jaggery, and patted down the hot mixture before cutting it into squares. Maybe we could shape the mixture into laddoos next year or the next, as the mixture was too hot for her to handle.

So, as we say in Marathi, tiL-guL Ghyaa, goD goD bola!  A Happy Sankranti to all.

As I contemplate writing my 200th post...

...I think of all the things that have changed for me since I began blogging. It hasn't all been plain sailing: there have been many hiccups, but I've recovered, dusted off, and continued from where I had left off.

I have indulged in my first love- reading and writing- something that had almost been eclipsed by the passing of time and the nitty-gritties of everyday life.

I have re-visited many childhood favourites, some that I had almost forgotten about, and others that I just had to dust the surface of.

I have found another way of connecting with my fast-growing and book-discerning daughter. I had always read to her and with her through all these years...my blogging about the books we enjoy together has made me something of a hero in her eyes. Something that I'll always be thankful for and cherish.

Not just her, my nephews- my siblings' sons, to whom I was 'just the pesky aunt that visits every year', have of late been looking at me through new, respectful, eyes. It is almost as if I had suddenly become worth taking seriously. They're tweens, too: grown-ups begin to become persona non-grata beginning now. How refreshing for things to look the other way! Of course, I have to thank my ruminations about Harry Potter for that.

I have found new and wonderful friends past my 40s. Choxbox, Sangi, Starry, Veena, Zoe, the Saffrontree gang specially the mad momma, utbtkids, Artnavy, Vibha, Ranjani, Sheela and Arundhati. There are many others - bloggers and non-bloggers, both- Swapna, Subhashree, Suranga, Abha, Shankari (where are you?), Monika, IHM, R's Mom, TGND, Shruti, Simran, Rashmi, Aparna, Padmini,...some of whom I've met and others whom I've only ever interacted with online. Any names that I may have missed- consider yourself tagged. All of you have enriched my life in your own special way. Some of you have been pillars of strength when I needed it- you know who you are.

I've participated in some fun activities and competitions online, notable of which are the Tulika blogathons. Won some, lost some. A prestigious award on IHM's blog- this is something I cherish.

I've been a participant and raised my voice in some awesome drives- Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month and Violence Against Women Awareness Month. One may call it armchair activism, but even that has its uses: and if that is all I can contribute, that is what I will.

You will find my work (other than this blog) at Saffrontree (my online family), Book Reviews, Zealot Readers, Women's Web and Mom's Diaries. Maybe in a small way at each place, but it's me.

I read the writing of all the aforementioned friends, and some more, as also the awesome stuff shared by every one of them. All of which has slowly pulled me out of the deep well I was in. I've learnt a lot from all of them, and hope to continue learning. My reading also has gone places, much more than it would have if I had  been just a reader.

I've challenged myself now and again, and have loved the experience. My writing, too, has evolved over the past two-and-a-half years, and I see the road opening in front of me.

Wish me luck as I end this 200th post. Looking forward to many more such posts where I can interact with like-minded friends. For you guys make it all worthwhile.

Dear Veena

This is an open letter to you. I have never met you. But I feel, since you are a friend of a friend, and fellow book lover, I can take this liberty. This is also a pretty longish letter, so please make yourself comfortable while you read it. 

pic courtesy goodreads

First, this has been a wonderful read. A book tailor made for the likes of me. Ever since Sangi recommended this book, I had wanted to lay my hands on it. I ordered it from flipkart. None of the book stores I visited had it on stock. They still don't. It is their loss, in my opinion.

Spoiler alert for readers other than the author: Do not read this post if you would rather read the book first.

You had me at chapter one. To Kill a Mockingbird is a favourite here too. I must have first read it around the age of 12. I got it out of the school library. (I wonder now, why I was not prevented from issuing it out in my 6th grade!) Sure, some of it went over my head at the time, but I loved it for the holiday 'adventures' of Scout and Jem. Something about it intrigued me, though, and I picked it up again when I was older, in my late teens. I understood the nuances much more then. I have revisited it a few times since, and each time, I have learnt something new, noticed something I had missed earlier. Actually, I could say this about many books I have had the good fortune to read. As it is truly said, “A classic is a book that always remains fresh, and yields something new at every reading.”  But that is more relevant to your last chapter- Read. Rinse. Repeat.

The latest in these are the Harry Potter books- books that have fascinated my daughter as much as me, and which, I am sure, we will be re-visiting many times over.

Of course, it goes without saying, as far as To Kill a Mockingbird is concerned, that I have watched the movie many times, too. As much for Harper Lee's story as for Gregory Peck, I must confess!

Let me now go from chapter to chapter. Completely agree with the curiosity about the birds and bees in chapter 2. All I came across in my innocent past were the books that a college student who would come to our house every day to oversee our homework, as my parents would not be at home in the evenings. She was an ardent fan of all things Mills & Boon, along with the auxiliaries- Barbara Cartland, Danielle Steele, and the like. She was also big-time into best sellers like Sidney Sheldons, Perry Masons, etc. Not what I'd pick up now, but then- I was fascinated by the stuff she read. I was in my 9th then, and I must admit that she was not the most scrupulous of persons, and she would let me borrow her books. I would then read them behind my school books. Curiosity did kill the cat to an extent, colouring my world-view for a long time. Somehow, I regret reading those books then. I should have put my time to better use- there were so many more wonderful books to choose from in my world. But then I was unfortunate at the time, in that I did not have much guidance on the subject.

Paper v/s Pixel? Yes, any visitor to my home will vouch for my leanings. My home is drowning in books. They are everywhere. Somehow I have never been able to adapt myself to digitized versions of books. They might have the same stuff on them, but they are just not the same. As even my 11 year old know, (thanks to Inkheart) books and characters are made up of paper and printer's ink. I agree completely with Hermione Granger when she says that one of the smells that comprise her perception of the love potion is that of freshly printed books!

Have to admit that we, too, wonder sometimes about the erstwhile owners of some of the books we pick up at used book shops. Inscriptions like- "Dear Jenny, Hope this book is something you always wanted. Love, Walter." - bring to mind The Wonder Years.

Love in the aisle- Wonderful. Escapism at its best. OK, I'll admit to being a bit different on this one. Of course I had my fantasies, but they were always, always, about having my book up there on the shelves. Mundane, I know, but true. I still have these.

The chapter about books read in Mumbai trains tickled my funny bone the most. I was laughing uncontrollably as I read it. Why? First-hand experience. As a true blue Mumbaikar, I have done my share of travelling by the local trains in amchi Mumbai.

The running on to the platform as the 7.13 fast local thundered on to the platform, dodging the oncoming crowd, to be straightaway swallowed up by the motley group desirous of getting into the already packed ladies compartment. The split second pause to allow for the commuters being regurgitated from the compartment and the rushing in to fill up the vaccum created. Quick, practiced movement towards potential seats, and asking those seated where they would be getting off- I know it is an irksome practice, but I look at it as a necessary evil. Necessary in a city where survival of the fittest matters, and I think most people living in it understand this. I look at the journeys in a Mumbai local train as an environment of networking that works wonderfully well in maximum city. Complete with friends, friends of friends, social updates, status updates, pokes and multitasking.:) 


Have been there, done that, however. Rushed, pushed, been the social climber up to the window seat, sat/stood with a book in hand, (yes!) getting lost in a book in the midst of the enveloping chaos. Yes, laughed and giggled, too, much to the chagrin of co-travellers. Made friends over the books read- much like in the blogosphere. Hidden books, too, covering the clandestinely read ones with newspaper. Actually, the covers served only the purpose of hiding the title; the very fact of having the book covered screamed out the inappropriateness of the book being read.:)


And the story about Belfast- very Brysonesque indeed!

I won't say much about chapters 6, 7 and 9, except that they sent shivers up my spine, and that I can fully understand the paranoia. When I was expecting my baby, I was in my mid-30s, and everything that I had learnt about complications of late pregnancies kept playing on my mind. I drove my obstretician- who is also a dear friend- up the wall with my worries, until she had to threaten me with dire consequences if I did not shut up and stop being such a worry wart till the end of my pregnancy.

The joy of reading- that has been a project in progress since the past 11 years. 11 wonderful years, in which i have tried every variety of rhyme book, story book and every other kind of book. As Maria says in 'The Sound of Music', I must have done something right, because, gloriously, happily, thankfully, I have managed to pass on my love of reading the printed word to my daughter. I am content.

Ah- the whodunit! Love, love, love the books by Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle and Wilkie Collins. Would love to read books by Henning Mankell and Dorothy L Sayers. But the one I started off with as a young teen was Alfred Hitchcock with his Three Investigators- oh, that is nostalgia!

Cookbooks and books by food writers- I don't agree with you on the point that only men can stir our senses with their descriptions of all things culinary. I can name one kitchen goddess at least, whose books and shows are to die for- Nigella Lawson. More than can be said of her non-dessert recipes, though. We didn't like a single one we tried out in the throes of our gustatory desires. I would like to recommend one book to you here. Try Eat Cake by Jeanne Ray. I can guarantee you'll love it.

Arabia- the land of a Thousand and One Nights. I would fantasize in my Mills and Boon days about Arab sheikhs and such, but the adult me is completely disillusioned. Combine the reading of books like Not Without My Daughter, In the Land of Invisible Women, and the horrifying books by Jean Sasson with the media coverage of the Gulf War over the years, and Arabia no longer has me in its thrall.

Hide the author- yes, sometimes there is something called too much information. I have always regretted reading the biography by Barbara Stoney of my favourite childhood author- Enid Blyton. My idol had feet of clay, and I didn't like it one tiny bit. It hasn't stopped me from reading the biographies or autobiographies of favourite authors, however. I like to know what makes them tick, and what is it that drives them to pen their particular kind of books. So I tried to undo some of the damage to my psych by reading this newer biography of Enid by Duncan Mclaren, in which he discusses the whys and hows of her life as it is reflected in her books. Portraying her as a human being capable of mistakes just as much as you or I, instead of the villian of the piece!

And re-reading-? What do I say of that? Yes, I do love to go back again and again to my favourite books. Love all of them!

A wonderful read, Veena, full of a lot of nostalgia for me. I hope to meet you someday, though it is likely that like most readers who write, you'll find me quite tongue-tied at first. I express myself better in writing, of course. I hope you will see beyond that, and maybe find a kindred reader.

Also hoping to read much more from you.

warmly,
Sandhya

Malavika Shetty- the writer of The Sweetest Mango

She is a linguist with impressive credentials. The bio at the place she currently works reads:

Malavika Shetty is currently a Marion L. Brittain Postdoctoral Fellow at Georgia Tech, where she uses her background in linguistics to teach courses in multimodal communication. Her courses encourage students to think critically about the role of language in the media and in their daily lives.
Malavika received her PhD in Linguistics from the University of Texas at Austin. Her areas of interest are linguistic anthropology, sociolinguistics, and narrative. Her dissertation, Television and the Construction of Tulu Identity in South India, looks at how television can be used by a community as an effective medium for language revitalization and maintenance.

Let me add here, that her particular field of work is one which has often fascinated me- linguistic anthropology- the development and propogation of language. There are a few books at hand on the subject that I would like to share here sometimes. Not really technical books, but easy reads for lay persons like you and me

She is also the author of a lovely children's book, The Sweetest Mango, published by Tulika books. A mouth-watering addition to their wonderful books for children.

As one of the winners of their mango blogathon, Tulika books sent me a copy of the book, and asked me if I would like to interview the author. Would I like to? Of course, YES! They introduced us to each other by mail. Malavika was very approachable and sweet. Even waiting a week or so that it took me to actually get down to sending her a list of questions, which she promptly replied to. Thanks, Malavika.

So here she is, Malavika Shetty, in her own words.

How did you conceive of the story idea?
I have always wanted to write a story about friendship and the close bonds formed during childhood. Also, I love mangoes, so I thought about writing a story about friendship, but also a story that was set during the mango season.

Tell us a bit about your childhood and background.
I grew up in the suburb of Bandra in Bombay in an idyllic neighbourhood where I played all day with lots of children. We went cycling, plucked and ate mulberries from bushes, played cricket and hide and seek…. My childhood was a never-ending summer. I am still in touch with the friends I grew up with and, when we meet, we speak about how much fun we had growing up together.
My family is from a village near Udipi (the village I describe in the book is my village), and almost every summer, my family and I make the trip to the village where there are lots of mango and coconut trees. My summer holidays, growing up, were spent doing exactly what Suma and Jyothi do in the book (except the walking to school bit!). I plucked mangoes from the trees surrounding the house. I ate lots of mango curry.

Did you have an experience similar to that of Suma or Jyothi, as a child?
While the setting of the story is similar to my experience of childhood in my village near Udipi, I do not recollect a similar incident of saving a mango for myself and finally sharing it.

How did you approach Tulika books with your story, and how did the journey of making the book go?
I have always loved reading Tulika books and enjoy reading them with my children very much. I also make up my own stories and tell them to my children, so the thought of writing a children’s book was always in my mind.  I was in Chennai one summer, so I walked into the Tulika office and asked about how I could go about writing and submitting a story to them. I was, very kindly, given an email address to which I could submit a story.  I got back to Atlanta, wrote the story, and sent it to Tulika. I was thrilled when they actually accepted the story for publication.

Ajanta Guhathakurta, the illustrator, is an established name. As I said in my review, "A drool-worthy book, with warm, summery illustrations by Ajanta Guhathakurtha matching the yumminess of the text."  How did you collaborate with her on this book? Check out this interview of Ajanta Guhathakurta by R's Mom.
Ajanta read the story and came up with the fabulous illustrations all by herself.

Your bio says:  "Her areas of interest are linguistic anthropology, sociolinguistics, and narrative."  Could you elaborate on that? How do you associate that with creative writing?
My research broadly looks at the relationship between language and culture. I look at how language is a crucial component that binds communities together and how it is an essential part of a community’s identity. My training and background is in linguistics, but I use tools from anthropology to look how language is used by a community.
My dissertation looked at how a Tulu-language television station in Karnataka could change the way Tulu is regarded. Having a call-in Tulu TV show gave community members an opportunity to voice their opinions and present different versions of narratives like folk tales and folk songs that have been part of the community’s oral culture for centuries.
Listening to folk tales and folk songs while I was doing my research has been an amazing experience. There are so many stories and wonderful descriptions contained in our oral cultures. These narratives are a source of inspiration for my own creative writing

Tell us some more about the 'mundappa mango' that the story mentions.
The Mundappa is a variety of mango found in the region of Karnataka that I describe in the story. It is one of biggest and fleshiest mango varieties, and, if eaten, when it is at its optimum moment of ripeness, is in my opinion, the sweetest mango in the world. The Mundappa has a distinct round shape and grows to be as large as a coconut. I used to see the Mundappa in trees far more often when I was growing up than I do now. It seems as though the Mundappa mango trees are giving way to other varieties, so laying ones hands on a perfect Mundappa is really a treat.

It is said that it is more difficult to write for children than for adults. What do you say to that as seen from the perspective of your profession, and as a children's writer?
I don’t think it is a question of ‘difficulty’. For me, it is more of a question of what I want to work on at a given moment. Sometimes I find that I want to write something that adults would read. At other times, I want to write something that children might enjoy. While I enjoy my work as a linguistic anthropologist and like writing about aspects of my work for an academic audience, I have discovered that I also enjoy writing for children very much.

Great, that means that we shall be reading more by you. Are there more books in the pipeline?
Yes! I loved writing The Sweetest Mango, and working with the editors and staff at Tulika has been a wonderful experience. I will certainly write more children’s books.

Crossposted at Saffrontree.

On reading!

First- a warning. This post has a bit of 'patting-my-own-back' flavour to it. So read on only if you love reading as much as we do here!

I recently came upon this article that speaks at length about the love of reading, and goes on to give many tips on how to get children enjoy reading books.

The writer speaks about inculcating a love of reading in a child, and how that helps in its development. A must read. (Pun unintended!) Some of the points she makes made me smile, and look back on our journey of reading at home until now. I'm glad I did quite a few things right there, purely by instinct. I hope I continue doing that!

Some points from the article that I would like to highlight- her words in quotes, in red, followed by my comments.

"What this means is that adults and caregivers should be working at home to develop a child's  motivation to read rather than teaching her how to read." - wish more people thought of reasons they could have TO READ instead of just teaching the kid to read.

"Pretty soon, your child will make the connection between the pleasure of undivided attention and the pleasure of reading." All kids like parental attention. So if you give it to them associating it with positives like reading, they won't try to get it with negatives like bad behaviour.

"Young children love rhyming words. They are fascinated by the rhythm and repetition of sounds contained in them." Dr Seuss certainly knew what he was doing. So did Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear and Spike Milligan.

"In addition to regularly reading to your child , keep books readily accessible to them at home.
If you can afford it, work slowly on building a good library at your own home." -maybe the reason my home has more books than anything else, everywhere possible?

"Read books that you personally like. Your enjoyment can be infectious."- Oh, yes, WE know about THIS! We're book mad, we are!

"Continue reading to your child occasionally even after she is an independent reader. She will love the interaction and it will help add to that special relationship you already have with your child. Use that opportunity to assess and steer introductions of new books." - So now you know the secret of my reading aloud the Harry Potter series to A! This is something that most parents lose sight of, once the child is off reading on its own. Oh, I wouldn't trade those times for anything!

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.

.

Happy Birthday, A !

She'll be 11 today.

When I see her, I remember the first time I saw her. Just a small speck going 'twinkle-twinkle' on the ultrasound screen, and I fell in love with her. At that point, I did not even know if it was a she or a he. All I knew, was that she was my miracle, one that had come to me after whole 7 years of marriage. I was overjoyed, yet worried. It was a tough world that I was going to get her into. I almost lost her along the way, and it was again a miracle when I had her in my arms, whole and healthy, after an excruciating 9 months.

She is today 11, emerging slowly onto the cusp of womanhood. My daughter, I am dedicating this poem by Sarah McMane, (one that I read at this post by Peggy Orenstein) to you today. My wish for you.


For My Daughter

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes—
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.


Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women—
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.


Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.


Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.


Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress—
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.


Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear—
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Life is tough, my lovely A, yet it can be so beautiful. My hope and wish for you is to find your own happiness, in your own special way.

Happy Birthday!


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


My thanks to Ms McMane for graciously permitting me to reproduce her poem here.

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!

Chasing Hugo- an experience of Murphy's law

That is what we did all this week.

Let me first make it clear that I am not usually very keen on movies, but with something extraordinary like the movie in question, and a tween on her summer vacation, I do make exceptions.

Let me also make it clear that this is a longish post, a rant at that.

Last friday we read in the papers that there was an interesting new movie running in town, one that A and I certainly wanted to watch.  The movie, HUGO, is based on "The Invention of Hugo Cabret," a book that we have been searching for for a long, long time. (Hint, hint, everyone! For both the movie and the book!)

So we searched the movie listings, and found out that there was only one place at which there was a day show-  Goplalan Cinemas, on Bannerghatta rd. So we made plans. I picked A up at noon from a summer camp she is attending, gave her some sandwiches in the auto that I had got from home as her lunch, reached the multiplex 20 minutes before the show and hurried up to the box office.

Disappointment! Yes, they had advertised about the show, (they even had a huge hoarding up next to the ticket window), but they had had some problem with the distributors, and had decided not to run it. (So why hadn't they discontinued the ad in the paper?!)

OK, so there we were, with full tummies, quite a distance away from home, with a remote possibility of meeting up with friends who stayed nearby, but no concrete plans. We decided to pick up some supplies needed for school and home from a nearby Staples store, and then spend some time at a Crossword outlet nearby. Browsed around some, then decided to have an ice gola from a Go Gola stall. Yum!

Undeterred, we decided to go to the evening show at PVR cinemas. This time, we even got some company- Choxbox and her FB.

So we made our plans for yesterday's 6.25pm show, and I decided to check if I could phone in for tickets, or get them online. Imagine my surprise when I found that now the movie was listed at 3 places; all the places except the one to which we had gone earlier. Clicked on the link for PVR cinemas, and as if by magic, the movie was not listed there.

That made me smell a rat.

I then tried to book through BookMyShow. On their site, the movie was listed at Cinepolis, Bannerghatta rd, for a 10pm show, and an offline listing for PVR cinemas. So now we were down to 2 listings from the original 4 I had seen just three days previously. Wondering what that meant, I got the phone number of BookMyShow from Just Dial services, and called them.

They confirmed that their listings showed just that one show at Cinepolis. When I asked them about PVR, they said that there was a 6.25pm show listed there, but they were unable to book for that multiplex as they did not have a tie-up with them.

I then tried calling PVR cinemas directly. They had one IVR options number, which did not list Hugo as one of the movies. The landline was not picked up at all, inspite of calling repeatedly over a period of half-an-hour.

I was now getting seriously annoyed. What kind of service was this? It did not make sense to drag the girls all the way to the cinema through the evening Bangalore traffic, especially with the threat of rain.

It was now 11am, and A would finish her class by noon, and, as was pre-decided, be got home by the mother of the other child who attended with her. I called up Choxbox, and she was neck deep in some work, with no chance of being able to go to the cinema to check in person. This was a movie we really, really wanted to watch on the big screen, and the only option left was for me to go personally to PVR.

I decided that if the movie was indeed running, I would just call Chox, pick up the tickets, pick up A and come back home with the girls - I could get a ride with the other parent. If not, I decided I'd take A out to Blossom Book Shop, a treat I had promised her for a long, long time.

I got ready quickly, and was off. Reached the box office there, and the people there had not even heard of the movie. I checked, and there was no poster of the movie anywhere, though many of the newest wonder- The Avengers. They looked very Hunger-Game-ish. Somehow I didn't think A would be interested. So I called up Chox to inform her, called up the other parent to tell her I'd be picking A up myself, (as it was almost time for them to be picked up) and went ahead to the class.

We were almost near Blossom, when I suddenly realized I had not packed my reading glasses in my hurry. Now, that was a real blow, as it meant there was no way I could browse at the book shop.

We were hungry, though, and decided to have lunch before doing anything else. At the place we ate, some popular songs were playing, none of which I knew. Except for Celine Dion's 'My Heart Will Go On' from The Titanic. Which is when I told A that a 3D version of the movie was playing in theatres.

Now, A has earlier watched the movie on television. So she was instantly enthused with the idea of being able to watch it on the big screen. Now, I had no idea where it was running. (No smartphone!) So, I called Choxbox again, and asked her to check and tell me. (Sorry I bothered you so much the whole day!) PVR was the place, again.

Now comes the high point of this extremely long narrative. We finished eating quickly, then reached the cinema a good half-hour early according to the show timing. Went to the box office and asked for two tickets for the show. The girl behind the counter looked at me and said, "We don't have that movie running, ma'am!" You could have knocked me over. "But, it is listed on the PVR site," I sputtered in some consternation. Yes, she said, it would have been but they had their last show on the Wednesday, and decided to discontinue it one day early to make space for a new movie that had its early release this week!

All this in a high-tech age where information is supposed to be at our fingertips, and it should not be necessary for one to go personally to far-flung places to find things out, let alone get them done. I understand our government and semi-government establishments are still stuck in some other era, but businesses like the entertainment industry?

Anyway, we had already wasted much of our afternoon in what turned out to be a useless pursuit, so we decided to put the rest of the time before we needed to go home to some better use. Going to Landmark was ruled out because of my glasses.

I remembered I had a Rs 1000 worth gift voucher for Fabindia, so decided to go upgrade my wardrobe. Something I don't do as a matter of course. I don't like to spend good money that can be put to bibliophilic uses in buying un-necessary clothes or accessories. There was, however, the thoughtfully provided gift voucher from my brother (You know me, bro!) and the other little fact of a currently oft-expressed advice by my tween daughter- "Aai, you should wear some nicer clothes!"

So we went to Fabindia.  But, as they say in hinglish, "Mera bad luck hi kharaab tha!"

Saw a beautiful kurti in black with some exquisite embroidery in crimson and forest green. Tried it on- a perfect fit. Asked A to check the price tag as I had forgotten my glasses at home.

"Rs 435," she said. "Wonderful, let's pick it up," I thought.

Gave the kurti to her to hold while I looked around for some more to be able to use the whole amount. After a few minutes, the kid comes up to me and said sheepishly, "Aai, I read wrong. It is Rs 4350!"

:( Should have double checked. The piece was much too exquisite for 435! Had to put it back!

We did check out some more stuff, and finally I did find something that met her AND my standards, and bought it.

A wasted endeavour in many ways, but also one that gave A and myself some laughs, and some more mother-daughter memories of some crazy times spent together!

Not to mention the Fabindia kurti!

    

Whose name means 'Bright/ Radiant'

Taking a break from the blog break to remember a girl whose mother, IHM, has been more of an inspiration to me than she can ever realize. A girl who sparkled very briefly but brightly on the blogosphere's horizon.

Happy Birthday, Tejaswee- and may you be at peace wherever you are.

I leave you with a well loved song in her memory.

Koi yeh kaise batayein ke woh tanha kyon hai?

Pic courtesy internet

Your gazals transported me to another world. They defined many nebulous emotions for me and many others of my generation. You made me want to fall in love all over again each time I heard your songs. Your songs brought home longings that I did not know I had. Your songs brought to me an understanding and love of Urdu shayari. Your bhajans brought me closer to my God, brought me peace. You made me realise that silk and gravel can pair up easily- in one voice. Yours.

Jagjit Singh, rest in peace.

Music that moves --- Part 1

Music is food to the soul. It can uplift me, move me, transport me to another world altogether. Often it moves me to tears. While listening to a song, I have often to hide my tears, esp. if I am with company, even if it is just my family around. When I'm by myself, I let go and let the tears flow. With happy, peppy music, I let it take me over and sway to it. It can be a very cathartic experience, believe me.

Yesterday I just wanted to chill out after an extremely hectic weekend. Sports league at school, a long awaited baby shower for a friend, a commitee meeting in the apartment complex, and guests for lunch on Sunday- from the in-laws' side.

So I put on some old hindi songs that I love while I did my chores in the morning, and just let go. These are some filled with angst.

This is lovely! First part is sung by Madan Mohan, the music director, and I never fail to have goosebumps at the place where Lata Mangeshkar takes off for the second part- the beginning alaap is really something.




This is a classic sung by Lata Mangeshkar, composed by Jaidev- couldn't get sweeter and simpler than this.




Feel the frission up your spine as Lata begins this one! Mukesh compliments her perfectly.




The incomparable Lata paired with the equally incomparable Dimple Kapadia in this one!




Story of the unrequited first crush! I prefer the Kishor Kumar version to the Lata one.



This one is all about being on an emotional precipice. I couldn't get a better link. Just close your eyes to shut out the image and let Asha Bhonsale's mellifluous voice wash over you.




Angst for GenX. Life has to go on. The brisk beat adds to the feeling of restlessness.




This one is by Reshma, a singer born in undivided India, and who had to go over across the border at Partition. She is known for her Sufi songs too. Although there is a movie video available, I prefer to highlight the singer instead of the very cheesy acting.




This one was part of the repertoire of A's school band, of which she was a part. Never failed to bring tears to my eyes. Probably A's first brush with an awareness of sadness in music. The stills in this clipping are poignant.

A tale of two friendships

Sometimes, some friendships take a life of their own, don't they?

A had a 'best friend' at school in the early primary years, and the two girls were inseparable, though as different as chalk and cheese in temperament, interests and disposition. They were in the same class for 3 years, and we had innumerable playdates together. Sometimes I would just drop A off at her place on a weekend to spend the day. AM, the friend, has pet rabbits and lovebirds, and A, starved for a pet of her own, (sorry, baby, this is one thing that you will have to grow up and have for yourself.) would have a lovely time. Sometimes AM's mother would drop her off at our place. Sometimes I would take the two girls with me for some outing- a visit to our library being among the most enjoyed- followed by lunch at whichever place the girls wanted.

AM has a twin who is a special child. A lovely boy, he became someone very special for A. Every time we met, A would spend some time holding his hand, talking to him, and he, too, would always have a smile for her.

AM's mother S and I have become close friends. We have a lot in common - a similar educational background, and we are also both SAHMs inspite of it, and a lot of mutual affection.  S is a woman I really admire. She has had a lot on her plate, but her enthusiasm for life is to be seen to be believed. Of course there is sorrow in her life, but as she puts it, she has been blessed to be chosen as the mother of this soul.

Last year, the two girls were in different classes. Somehow the trajecteries of their friendships and interests have skewed away from each other. AM has become a part of the in-crowd, and A has gone further along the route to be labelled a 'nerdy' child.

There have been many instances where I have had to comfort a bewildered and hurt A, who could not understand what had happened to her 'best friend' AM. Where had she gone? Obviously the girls were both growing up, losing bit-by-bit that innocence of childhood. Making different choices. It saddened me to see it happening.

We did, however, continue to make trips out together with the girls, and at these times, we could see the original friendship still there beneath all the problems that they were having.

A, in the meantime, had another friend, someone so well suited to her- their temperaments and interests coincided. They are both book-mad. Their mothers, too, both gelled. Again, they had a lot in common, books featuring at the top of the list. Both pairs of friends got on like a house on fire. I could see that this was going to be a friendship for life. But...

Yes, there is a but. This friend, too, moved away. Not mentally, like AM, but physically, to another school. A was heart-broken. Everyday, she would speak about this friend. Every time she read something she loved, she would want to talk to her. We do manage occasional meetings, but somehow it is never enough.

The two different pairs of mothers, though, still remain friends. Their bond, too, I hope, is for a lifetime.

Yesterday, we had planned a trip to a kitchen gardening workshop, Oota from your Thota. A wanted to ask AM if she could come, so we called. That is when we came to know that her twin had been seriously ill for a few days, and was still in hospital, though fortunately recovering.

That was it. We put our plans for the day aside, as A wanted to go and meet her friend and her twin, as did I. So we went.

I hope SOMEONE UP THERE is aware of my little one's golden heart, and will not let it be hurt so often.

Books that reminded me of my grandmother and her bed-time stories



Pic courtesy flipkart


These are a set of three books (at least for now- I hope she writes more of these!) by Anu Kumar, who has earlier been interviewed here by Satish for Saffrontree. They were picked up by A (all by herself) a few weeks back, and have been read many times since. By both of us.

Jatayu - Saviour from the Skies.
Nandi - The Divine Gatekeeper.
Jambavan - The Immortal Bear King.
Written by Anu Kumar.
Published by Hachette India Children's Books.
Ages 4+

Jatayu, Nandi and Jambavan are who one might call 'minor characters' in the Indian epics, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. They are nevertheless important in their own way. Here we have our own homegrown versions of magic and divinity, fantastic creatures and gods /demigods behaving in a most human way. In each book, we go through almost entire epics from the vantage point of the particular protagonist.

I was reminded of a set of books called 'Katha Kalpataru' written in Marathi, that I have from which I had been read to in my early childhood by my grandmother, ( the books invoked some serious nostalgia!)and which I have myself devoured when I was older and able to read Marathi on my own. It is a set of 16 books, a compilation of many interlinked stories from the Indian mythology, told in the way of folktales, one story leading seamlessly to another. There are many fast-forwards and flashbacks to this kind of storytelling, but it is guaranteed to keep the attention of the audience/reader.

Anu Kumar has used this same method in her books, distilling all stories about the protagonist from various sources- which I am sure are the two epics and the Puranas.

She has also mentioned that there are various versions of the same story, as also different geneologies for the characters, and that she has taken the most interesting versions for her book. This, I think, is true of most of mythology/folklore- and it changes depending upon the culture in which the story has been propogated.

This may be an interesting addition to the book collections of those who want mythology in bite-sized portions, or for parents struggling to come up with a bed-time story for a little one- a story interesting enough, but not too long (each chapter can become a separate story)- and yet keep the child wanting more the next day. As also a slim enough book for a child/parent who may be intimidated by a bigger book. (I know many of those- I have added these books to my list to be recommended to those friends/ neighbours who would like to have a book for a child not seriously into reading, but wanted something interesting, as well as inexpensive.) Or just another interesting book on Indian mythology for someone like us here.

Crossposted at Saffrontree.

Twinkle, twinkle, O bright star!

Today is a year since a bright star coming up on the blogging horizon was lost after a brief and entirely preventable illness. Tejaswee Rao, daughter of the incredibly sensitive, yet courageous and formidable lady we know as Indianhomemaker passed away with complications following dengue.

Like many others, I, too, had been following IHM's blog for some time before that. I remember reading about Tejaswee's illness, and also the fact that I could not believe what I was reading. I did not know much about her then, but over the next few days, I hopped over to her blog and read quite a bit of it. Here was this promising young woman, already showing signs of becoming a force to reckon with, and she was dying?

I am sure, IHM, prayers went up for her recovery from all over the globe. But sometimes God prefers to remain unmoved. We human beings are not able to fathom his mysterious ways. She did not make it.

But she, and IHM, will continue to be an inspiration. She will for ever be a guiding star. In her characteristic way, IHM has ensured this immortality by instituting the BLOGSARS -The Tejaswee Rao Blogging Awards, Tejaswee's legacy to all women.

Imagine, if this is the effect she has had on someone who did not know her very closely, how much she must have touched the lives of those that knew her!

Peace be with you, bright star.

Of work, books and Harry Potter

So what have I been upto?

My house-help was on leave for many days due to seasonal illnesses in her house- first her daughter, then herself. I have just this one lady who comes to clean- washing vessels, sweeping and mopping. I have never had a full-time maid or cook- I do all the rest myself as a matter of course. But it is a real drag when I have to do the washing vessels and sweeping-mopping. Not really complaining, as it is my house, but one wishes it didn't have to be for so many days at a stretch. I did all of that when we were out of the India, of course, but then there were things like dish-washers and vacuum cleaners that made life easier, leaving one with enough time to pursue one's interests, and of course one was younger and nimbler!

Anyway, as a consequence I wasn't really upto blogging by the time all the chores were done. Reading- yes, I've been reading, of course. It was my way of unwinding.

I have been reading 3 books in parallel. One is In Search of Sita - Revisiting Mythology, edited by Namita Gokhale and Malashri Lal. An anthology of essays on and discussions about Sita, that much misunderstood and iconic figure from our epics.

Another is Looking for Enid - The mysterious and inventive life of Enid Blyton, by Duncan Mclaren. Biographical, but not your everyday biography. More a discussion on the incidents and influences in her life that made Enid, Enid, and the association of what was going on in her life with what she wrote then. An interesting read, one that was a must-read for a Blyton fan like me.

And the third is When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, by Judith Kerr. Autobiographical fiction, based on the real-life incidents during the childhood of the author, when her family fled from pre-Hitler Germany.

I would like to review all three books at length, in later posts, if I may.

What has A been reading? On her own, three books lent to her by Choxbox's FB. (I must read them before we return them, they seem to be delicious!) And more.
1. Play Time by Julia Donaldson.
2. Return of the Hundred Mile An Hour Dog, by Jeremy Strong.  Which made her want to get the prequel, The Hundred Mile An Hour Dog, which we did, and she read- with lots of giggles.
3. The Perfect Hamburger, by Alexander McCall Smith.
4. St Clare's series by Enid Blyton. And identifying with a lot of it- the friendships, the fights, the bickering, the feeling left-out, the dynamics in class with the teachers- she's in middle grade now, so she can really get under the skin of the characters and is really enjoying it. Although I do try to bring to her notice some of the politically incorrect things Enid Blyton writes, and how they may be wrong if imbibed!

Reading together- of course Harry Potter. We finished Half-Blood Prince around the end of the holidays, and are on the verge of finishing the last book, Deathly Hallows, - nicely in time for the last movie, which she wants to watch on the big screen. She wants to watch it with her friend, Choxbox's FB. Let us see how that works out.

Which brings us to the movie itself. We are so looking forward to it. I don't know when we will get to watch it, as this weekend is booked for something else already, but maybe next weekend? With A, and hopefully with Choxbox and her FB. I probably will watch it one more time, as I can't just watch it once. The trailor promises a great experience. How different it will be from the book, has to be seen.

Other than all this, A has been back at school for about 6 weeks now, and we have settled down to our routine more-or-less. Remember the homework monster? Well, we have been trying out charting, a time-table, and it has been working- somewhat. I am keeping my fingers crossed. Thanks for the pointers, Starry!

A also had a music examination. She did OK according to her, and came out a bit bemused, as the examiner had been a little intimidating. She has been learning Hindustani Classical vocal music for a few years now. Much as I would like her to learn it purely for the love of music we all have, for the sake of the pleasure a knowledge of music can bring in her life, and the discipline such a training instills, her teacher would like to measure it by exams. So be it.

My househelp turned up for work since yesterday, and I immediately took the opportunity to make a visit to the ongoing Strand books sale at the Institute of Engineers on upto the 17th of July. It wasn't as great as it normally is. There was a lot of stuff for the preschool and early readers, plenty of Dr Seuss, Martin Waddell, Magic Tree House and such. Not much for A's age, not unless you count the Harry Potter books, Ruskin Bond, and Enid Blytons. We have a lot of those. There was also a whole load of Tulika books, but we have or have read most of that which were on display. So after spending some time in the children's section, I turned to the rest.

What did I pick up? These.

The Story of Hana, and how she did not remain just a Holocaust statistic

This is one of those rare books about the Holocaust that is written with and ease which will lie gently on younger children wanting to learn about it, as it stresses the positive throughout the otherwise stark and sad tale. I would recommend this to be one of the first books that may be used to introduce the Holocaust to young readers. I picked this book up on my last visit to Mumbai. The publishers, Jyotsna Prakashan, are one of the leading publishers of Marathi books for children, and this one is available in both Marathi and English versions. 

Pic courtesy infibeam

HANA'S SUITCASE
Written by Karen Levine
Published by Jyotsna Prakashan, by permission of Second Story Press
Ages 10 +

An estimated 11 million people were killed in the Holocaust, of which about 6 million were Jews. Bare statistics. Since then, many stories of those killed and of the survivors have come to light, bringing home the horror of it all, how many ordinary and extraordinary lives have been lost.

Hana Brady would have been just such one faceless statistic.

Our book begins in Tokyo, Japan, in the winter of 2000, when an ordinary looking tattered suitcase from Auschwitz arrives there. On it are these words painted in white- HANA BRADY, 16 May 1931, WAISENKIND (orphan in German). It was sent here from Auschwitz on request by the Tokyo Holocaust Education Resource Centre.

Pic courtesy:
Tokyo Holocaust Education
Resource Centre

Who was Hana Brady? What was her story? Fumiko Ishioka, the director of the museum, sets out to find out. This is the story of her journey to find out all about the girl, which takes her all the way from Auschwitz to Nove Mesto, in the former Czechoslovakia, where Hana's story begins.

A happy family of four- the parents and brother-sister, George and Hana. Their life changes in 1939 when the Nazis take over Czechoslovakia. Increasing sanctions make ordinary life difficult and then impossible by degrees, then first her mother and then father is deported.

Then one day, the two children are also deported to Theresienstadt, now Terezin, and they are permitted to take just one suitcase each with their personal belongings. There, they are separated, and later, Hana is transported to Auschwitz on 23rd October, 1944, where she is sent along with the rest of the girls straight from the train to the gas chamber. They had been commanded to leave their suitcases on the railway platform.

Pic courtesy hanassuitcase.ca
Fumiko and George with the suitcase

Fumiko Ishioka doggedly and painstakingly followed the leads from the entry of George and Hana Brady's name in the Nazi's registers to trace her journey, and found out about her death, but also the fact that George was known to have survived. By tracing other survivors who were with him in the concentation camp, she finally traced a 75 year old George Brady now residing in Canada, and got in touch with him.

Between them, they brought Hana's story to us, all his memories and the family photographs that he had saved, and which he now so generously shared. There were also many things that the siblings had put in a box and buried in their backyard all those years ago, in a game of 'burying treasure', that were found by another family now living there. Ensuring that she does not remain a faceless statistic. A lovely, lively human being, who was lost to the senseless genocide.

Pic courtesy radio.cz
Hana and George with their
mother Marketa 

The book by Karen Levine is simply written, shuttling between Hana's story in the 1930s, and the story of Fumiko's effort to bring it to us. There are plenty of real photographs of the Brady family, beginning with the toddler Hana to the 12 yr old Hana on the cover page, copies of the drawings Hana made in the Theresienstadt deportation centre, as also photostat copies of the Nazi records which Fumiko followed on her search.

The telling is gentle, though, so that even a child as young as 10 can read it. As A told me when we discussed the book after reading it, "I felt very sad, but it was not frightening."

Crossposted at Saffrontree and Bookreviews.

Am entering this review in Reading the World Challenge 2011 over at Papertigers for A under the Czech Republic.