tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42826110454080783472024-02-19T10:11:55.717+05:30By Little and By LittleBy Little and By Little: stories of incremental change for people with special needs in IndiaJo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-52110807852380356692011-08-28T23:57:00.002+05:302011-08-29T00:01:06.956+05:30New Post at My New HomeHello there! I'm still blogging, just in a new place.
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<br /><a href="http://latikaroy.org/2011/08/role-law-fight-corruption/"> Please drop by by clicking on this link!</a>Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-18616170076754048052011-08-22T01:43:00.006+05:302011-08-22T02:04:44.005+05:30Up, up and away . . .Not everybody can read. And certainly not everybody can read English. I was standing outside the Doon EIC one morning when a woman came by holding a baby (with Down Syndrome) in her arm and a scrap of paper in her free hand. "Where is this?" she asked me, handing me the scrap of paper.
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<br />"Doon EIC," it said, clear as mud.
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<br />"Right here," I replied, leading her in to the centre. And right then I decided we needed a better system.
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<br />What if we could tell people who don't know English and who may not be able to read: "Just follow the balloons"? Friendly, easy, fun. Just what we want them to feel about what we do and who we are.
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<br />But of course, fun and easy for our users means work and effort for us.
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<br />On Saturday, a gang of us descended on the Doon Hospital with hammer and nails.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghYk1IpW06XVcrNYEObQppMkNl6E4wSmAkhTSGqMSei459gldPMfkqQuizSgaFAvDaJsWue3AmhjHX9IzaDm03GuUfRu-0K7UTfvDWT3ahcxG5KrHcuKT9ekhx2ChDZKFN18obggZvw/s1600/Nails.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghYk1IpW06XVcrNYEObQppMkNl6E4wSmAkhTSGqMSei459gldPMfkqQuizSgaFAvDaJsWue3AmhjHX9IzaDm03GuUfRu-0K7UTfvDWT3ahcxG5KrHcuKT9ekhx2ChDZKFN18obggZvw/s400/Nails.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643405112975116322" /></a>
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<br />That was for the signs.
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<br />But for the balloons, it was paint and brushes and playing to the galleries.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHtYXkQ6h6GkkDsLKvT6bc4kn0T8BQdSNBnRimrq4uCOUHXTzIuEsPsdugYbfMRnxfP91ertfS-920mvShpeobQuPXg-FnBA68RM6hxQUqucwaEnWZL4DEsUM57tBfKvxqUflADokwg/s1600/View+of+Stairs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHtYXkQ6h6GkkDsLKvT6bc4kn0T8BQdSNBnRimrq4uCOUHXTzIuEsPsdugYbfMRnxfP91ertfS-920mvShpeobQuPXg-FnBA68RM6hxQUqucwaEnWZL4DEsUM57tBfKvxqUflADokwg/s400/View+of+Stairs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643405803143331602" /></a>
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<br />Everyone was curious. Everyone was interested. Who are these people? What the heck are they up to?
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijID_dAX9ARECI9Zid24zwdxzTsJzpI8Ci86ltt6iZ2cDrkutscqY6iw13RaKq1-m1gVi4EBJVXP4goE0lG7-oriTiQc32R3db7nYG6nrHeeY5OQdi1GTXuhkS-04a2Dar-O5Lgncpwg/s1600/Interested.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijID_dAX9ARECI9Zid24zwdxzTsJzpI8Ci86ltt6iZ2cDrkutscqY6iw13RaKq1-m1gVi4EBJVXP4goE0lG7-oriTiQc32R3db7nYG6nrHeeY5OQdi1GTXuhkS-04a2Dar-O5Lgncpwg/s400/Interested.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643405974170862466" /></a>
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<br />Some stayed to find out:
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqPRc_elafUm4Cu5ZAPhzNacUiuO3i4ckPmt8FyupTGUpa9qILRpNnLzDdIKD4xzHkE1BrNzIfpJlnCZNLdeaIK-_kKxtpNBxSQ-w4RZqiUuR7tw3aZHTRGFeKMXNtIIxg-6Kx1t-qg/s1600/Awareness.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqPRc_elafUm4Cu5ZAPhzNacUiuO3i4ckPmt8FyupTGUpa9qILRpNnLzDdIKD4xzHkE1BrNzIfpJlnCZNLdeaIK-_kKxtpNBxSQ-w4RZqiUuR7tw3aZHTRGFeKMXNtIIxg-6Kx1t-qg/s400/Awareness.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643406251342731634" /></a>
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<br />. . . and in the process, they learned that there is a place where children with special needs wil be treated like the special people they are.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchXxCTgIcP_UmXivN9Z1aPNda6RvWmzVsQNTahBg5J7_ae_nlkHJDTfWTKk5NQjn81bqupz1cujxZBcpsXeNB9FMNFxbYKw9zTQ06gM5O7v57RnG1bl9rw2oPftthyphenhyphen69JKpGxrbouzw/s1600/Special+Kids.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjchXxCTgIcP_UmXivN9Z1aPNda6RvWmzVsQNTahBg5J7_ae_nlkHJDTfWTKk5NQjn81bqupz1cujxZBcpsXeNB9FMNFxbYKw9zTQ06gM5O7v57RnG1bl9rw2oPftthyphenhyphen69JKpGxrbouzw/s400/Special+Kids.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643410028300860034" /></a>
<br />Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-48389778203227173432011-08-19T00:03:00.000+05:302011-08-19T00:04:57.798+05:30New Post!Please check my new blog address for the latest post!: http://latikaroy.org/jo/Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-78875725521303408572011-08-14T08:52:00.002+05:302011-08-14T09:05:36.528+05:30A New Home For My Blog!I've moved! My blog is now a part of our gorgeous new <a href="http://latikaroy.org/en/">website</a> (thanks, <a href="http://www.siddatwork.com/">Sidd!</a>)
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<br />You can go there directly by using this link: <a href="http://latikaroy.org/jo">latikaroy.org/jo</a>Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-50498694535005712502011-08-13T09:51:00.004+05:302011-08-13T10:09:18.101+05:30An Open Heart For The Stranger
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvuWHC7sdPX67RmPoFx2HhqS45uClTQqXLnQ7NSqHvLGVN4tdVsDqS7Zz0Ysgo3oUb-VVg7v-5XocPGjvkQwXMoxTVaYWijNJhyGM-tgSGlobX8fwpIHRsDY3uo8wJ2fwXLLSo8SsUQ/s1600/Swati+at+Doon+EIC.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvuWHC7sdPX67RmPoFx2HhqS45uClTQqXLnQ7NSqHvLGVN4tdVsDqS7Zz0Ysgo3oUb-VVg7v-5XocPGjvkQwXMoxTVaYWijNJhyGM-tgSGlobX8fwpIHRsDY3uo8wJ2fwXLLSo8SsUQ/s400/Swati+at+Doon+EIC.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640191115355451858" /></a>This summer we had a lovely young woman as an intern in the Foundation. Swati is from Dehradun and her parents are both physicians who often refer children to us. She is hoping to become a doctor herself and I was impressed by her quiet, gentle personality and the careful way she went about her work.
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<br />Swati told me on the day she was leaving – just in a by-the-way sort of style – that she had seen me once several years before in a clock shop in town and that she had been amazed to hear me speaking in Hindi.
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<br />I, on the other hand, was amazed – and a little worried – to think that she had taken note of my presence then and that she had remembered it all these years later.
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<br />It made me think about our public personas, and how seldom we consider them – especially in the heat of the moment. What had Swati heard me say in Hindi? If the clock hadn’t been ready on time, as promised, had I gotten get cross? Had I been rude?
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<br />Or if it had been ready, had I been sufficiently grateful? Had I remembered to thank the man behind the counter? Had I acknowledged his part in the whole thing? Had I even realized he existed?
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<br />People are always watching us and drawing conclusions about who we are – sometimes based on a single encounter. Another woman who later became a good friend told me how she used to see me on my bicycle (Anand perched on the back, Cathleen in a baby basket on the front), buying sabzi and how strange she thought I must be: didn’t I have a car? Didn’t I have an ayah who could look after the children?
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<br />I think it’s helpful to remember this as often as possible: that people are watching us, taking note of what we say and how we say it, even if we are unaware of them doing it. So though it always pulls me up short to hear from people that they remembered seeing me years before we actually met, it’s a useful reminder of the effect even our smallest actions can have in the universe.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLaXqNFASVxd43w7sy-bVbbeKSS435ssB4sBiy5QTEhyphenhyphenTOzkRhXs8Hhwsfh9sCJRbx2AFIrPjO2yuTy4Ejvyi93jZNvetpM-FsMNNPSxCkRjrskAGWx37KBGQypqoaeXZEqV0HArS8g/s1600/BOy+at+EIC+doing+Namaste.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFLaXqNFASVxd43w7sy-bVbbeKSS435ssB4sBiy5QTEhyphenhyphenTOzkRhXs8Hhwsfh9sCJRbx2AFIrPjO2yuTy4Ejvyi93jZNvetpM-FsMNNPSxCkRjrskAGWx37KBGQypqoaeXZEqV0HArS8g/s400/BOy+at+EIC+doing+Namaste.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640195355310367698" /></a>
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<br />I wish I could remember it always. I wish I could keep an open heart and a willing hand for every person I encounter, whether I know them or not, whether I am even aware of their presence. It may not be possible in this imperfect life, given this imperfect soul. But it’s worth trying for.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-86693772623061583002011-08-12T15:42:00.006+05:302011-08-12T15:49:11.174+05:30Lakshi Fails PKG
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgSNLc5FobDBEfEFmEdQGxTYfSdo4cjA5LQLSXxAw-Uhe53x465kxZQwgAJ9Pg0Jna9v2udaPk9PQvMZWH5TlbFmP_vpUKGXluXRdOQCYA8yfMW6YzeS7sVRg9Szw6i5Xacw5YnSAFQ/s1600/Shining.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsgSNLc5FobDBEfEFmEdQGxTYfSdo4cjA5LQLSXxAw-Uhe53x465kxZQwgAJ9Pg0Jna9v2udaPk9PQvMZWH5TlbFmP_vpUKGXluXRdOQCYA8yfMW6YzeS7sVRg9Szw6i5Xacw5YnSAFQ/s400/Shining.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639910518376957426" /></a>
<br />On Saturday, Vijay and Lakshi got their "results."
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<br />"What are results?" Lakshi asked.
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<br />"How you did on your papers," her Mom explained.
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<br />"I didn't do any papers," Lakshi insisted. "Ma'am did them."
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<br />Nonetheless, off they trotted that morning, their parents in tow.
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<br />Vijay - no surprise - was first in his class and his teacher's darling. "Such a smart boy," she said enthusiastically. "He knows all the answers."
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJFJk5PjiEa_Y-tBzP3lPq2hGCEs6AfBguTAbr_UC4y0sZ2NhMsQVO3fhC5cje8Mdi-ttTyD80AuiXkENRFOTWljwuLKlEIayrI1Or-at8-yaB6QCER7qIGXdOcqnJk9PfWbJN_1hDw/s1600/Vijay+.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJFJk5PjiEa_Y-tBzP3lPq2hGCEs6AfBguTAbr_UC4y0sZ2NhMsQVO3fhC5cje8Mdi-ttTyD80AuiXkENRFOTWljwuLKlEIayrI1Or-at8-yaB6QCER7qIGXdOcqnJk9PfWbJN_1hDw/s400/Vijay+.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639910681374446162" /></a>
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<br />Absolutely true. Vijay is a brilliant boy - sharp, observant, curious.
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<br />But Lakshi is no less, in spite of having all zeroes. FAIL! Lakshi failed PKG.
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<br />Yet the other night, just for an example, Ravi went upstairs to close the door to the balcony. It's all swollen because of the rains and he had to slam it with a loud bang to get it to shut. Following the bang, there was a brief silence, then Lakshi's voice rang out from their flat in accusing tones: "Who's breaking our door down?"
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<br />When she comes in in the evening, wanting to help and I ask her to set the table, she knows exactly where everything is in our kitchen and exactly how it should all be laid out on the table (plates in the center, forks on the left, knives on the right, spoons to the right of the knives, glass positioned just over the tip of the knife).
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<br />She knows when I've made a cake and exactly how many slices are left and whose was bigger the last time it was served. She can pour, she can divide, she can measure and subtract.
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<br />Yesterday she ran to me in great consternation. "Mom!" she said (she calls me Mom). "It's a disaster! There are two worms in our house."
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<br />Lakshi is three.
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<br />But the school she attends seems unable to assess her bright, sparkling little mind because Lakshi can neither read nor write. How can they test her? The copy books she dutifully carries back and forth each day and fills with scribbles and x's and straight and slanted lines are meaningless to her. She humors her parents (if she's in the mood) by doing as she's been told, but in fact, she's simply too busy doing what a three year old should be doing to bother with nonsense like sitting still and making marks on a piece of paper.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72G9NExvVriCM6fRDvhXVb3Dkg0otwA5oF2el3mL4I8rzGjFDJJjny1MBTZbe8tqpVGr0SiKZxCi6Dr4ljeaqZCcAuQkcrM7GbW_xicCcze1pMBY_Q1DskX9vbOy_NMsbOTm2pCzZEA/s1600/Waving.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg72G9NExvVriCM6fRDvhXVb3Dkg0otwA5oF2el3mL4I8rzGjFDJJjny1MBTZbe8tqpVGr0SiKZxCi6Dr4ljeaqZCcAuQkcrM7GbW_xicCcze1pMBY_Q1DskX9vbOy_NMsbOTm2pCzZEA/s400/Waving.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639911033644396866" /></a>
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<br />Lakshi is three. At the moment, thank God, she has no interest in or use for our categories and judgments. Failing PKG is as irrelevant to her as flying to the moon.
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<br />If we all play our cards right, this child might yet grow up to discover a cure for cancer or to paint a masterpiece or to develop a new way to distribute water. But if we continue to be as stupid as we have been so far - even whispering the word FAIL anywhere in her vicinity is criminal malpractice - there's no saying what we will miss.
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<br />The promise, the expectation, the new dawn just over the next mountain peak: that's all hers. The failure, the downward spiral, the lost and irretrievable hopes - those are ours.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjGHFtk5JDmdmNXZ4N9x8AMeluizqr5e0WPEtkkgDCR2ieJfjDbbuYFtJwi4gzD2u3mrwcJahjKlFxI2DK7WA1Woj6WEw3EpqRRrNGAYk7z4ltH3zBDCHyDdb7u7FSxIPqBDf_xcXjw/s1600/B%2526W.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjGHFtk5JDmdmNXZ4N9x8AMeluizqr5e0WPEtkkgDCR2ieJfjDbbuYFtJwi4gzD2u3mrwcJahjKlFxI2DK7WA1Woj6WEw3EpqRRrNGAYk7z4ltH3zBDCHyDdb7u7FSxIPqBDf_xcXjw/s400/B%2526W.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639911399441824402" /></a>Lakshi is looking at us expectantly.
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<br />Have we got anything new, anything beyond false measurements and labels like "FAILURE" to offer her?
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<br /> Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-78231569454365670932011-08-03T23:00:00.003+05:302011-08-04T00:09:44.171+05:30Where's That Net Again?I hate to admit it, but I'm desperate. Again. <br /><br />It happens with depressing regularity. Every three or four years, I take my eye off the ball. I go to sleep at the wheel. I stop firing on all four cylinders. (Or is it eight?)<br /><br />Fundraising is a relentless and ever-expanding activity. There is no scope for self-satisfaction, no point at which you are allowed to push back from the desk and stride out of the office, secure in your right to a well-deserved rest. It never ends. People need their salaries every single month. The rent has to be paid. You've got to have petrol for the vans and the bus. The kids need crayons. What about a picnic, the training, the new books?<br /><br />So you keep raising money and it keeps getting spent. The donor agencies preach self-reliance while the government taxes anything you earn. Yesterday everyone loved special schools, today it's all about inclusion. Tomorrow it will be clean rivers and HIV AIDS. You can't win, but you can't afford to lose. <br /><br />So you keep running in the vain hope of at least staying in the same place. As the Red Queen explained to Alice: "Now, here, you see, it takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that!"<br /><br />Sometimes, I admit it, I forget what I am supposed to be doing. Mid-stream, I suddenly stop running. My family needs me. I get distracted by a new project. My 53 year old body demands sleep. I. Stop. Fundraising.<br /><br />That's where we are right now. There. I've said it. We need 36 lakhs ($84,000) to get through the next year and I have NO IDEA where it's going to come from.<br /><br />Just leap, I have been fond of saying. The net will appear. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXH7Bd-hyBpBoIJlnISKhGP-cX_jjxMLthjeYXh_sWn6B5_AC_LadbxfQTFfkOf_4HAF5g8zuG83r2fVZ1rYz2xh7Km49ILt3ShRR-Agv6kuCwV1_Die3yalkdQqPv7gCY2slCxYffA/s1600/Eyes+on+the+Prize.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXH7Bd-hyBpBoIJlnISKhGP-cX_jjxMLthjeYXh_sWn6B5_AC_LadbxfQTFfkOf_4HAF5g8zuG83r2fVZ1rYz2xh7Km49ILt3ShRR-Agv6kuCwV1_Die3yalkdQqPv7gCY2slCxYffA/s400/Eyes+on+the+Prize.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636701050414552066" /></a>There is a fine line between faith and arrogance and a deep gulf between trust in God and reckless expectation. Time after time after time, I have faced the abyss and been amazed and overwhelmed by what seems like an outpouring of support from the universe: we are here, it seems to say. You will not fail.<br /><br />Each time it has happened I have been humbled and awed and each time - so strange! - I have promised myself that I will not let it happen again, that I will take care to have systems in place to prevent financial ruin. And though I put the systems in, once again I find myself needing to leap into the unknown, hoping against hope that the net will, once again, appear.<br /><br />It always does. It will again. This time, next time, the time after that. This road we are on is ordained. Not easy, not complacent. But steady and sure, if just a tiny bit unsettling and a little like a test one hasn't prepared for. <br /><br />But we leap and we leap and we leap - ever higher, ever more agile. <br /><br />That net, that darling net: it's there every time.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-76075197786818902052011-07-31T22:57:00.005+05:302011-08-01T00:04:19.249+05:30One Young Scholar, Two Young Dreamers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gN6A_7EKVzL4Xd_Al83XJ2fNu52rG9uesugIGilsXQtj9UhGoUQZEmit9_yjZh3EjdIAsbnNwV5mNsw3wjAtq5i6i7yZwr-O7Q00feuKMAjeuMlIKawpYny2hVqyVzifEXKff4oysQ/s1600/IMG_8068.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gN6A_7EKVzL4Xd_Al83XJ2fNu52rG9uesugIGilsXQtj9UhGoUQZEmit9_yjZh3EjdIAsbnNwV5mNsw3wjAtq5i6i7yZwr-O7Q00feuKMAjeuMlIKawpYny2hVqyVzifEXKff4oysQ/s400/IMG_8068.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635569764044463298" /></a> Every centre for poor children has at least one girl like this one - a child completely absorbed in the task at hand (a task most likely self-assigned), oblivious to the chaos around her. <br /><br />I have, literally, hundreds of such photos: photos of brave, vivid children, busy with a painting or a sand castle or a game of badminton, completely and utterly immersed in a world of endeavor and achievement and imagination.<br /><br />I salute them.<br /><br />They astonish me.<br /><br />They come in every day, full of energy and hope, ready to start all over again. They come from their homes where, in the monsoons, there may be three inches of water on the floor and they do their homework crouched on the bed, guarding their books from the leak in the roof overhead. They come from their families where Dad is out of work yet manages to find money to drink; where Mom holds three jobs to pay their tuition fees and keep them in sandals and the occasional ribbon for their hair. <br /><br />They come in and they come in and they come in - day after day after day - because of an unquenchable desire for more in their lives; because of a belief that somewhere, in a book or a painting or a new vocabulary word, they may find a clue, an answer, a design. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrJWuM7LyFTXoyugTbpnPNgfdgm_SAmNwZHVxG1BeQcnWZ4zxaRZfhQs2EFmvzz8vadPbtZssE-QXQgoOM4xG_cK7RVXdHeVd839lFJfltY7BrMBSkSmtX36p3YZUwVRisGbom80JYA/s1600/Young+Dreamers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglrJWuM7LyFTXoyugTbpnPNgfdgm_SAmNwZHVxG1BeQcnWZ4zxaRZfhQs2EFmvzz8vadPbtZssE-QXQgoOM4xG_cK7RVXdHeVd839lFJfltY7BrMBSkSmtX36p3YZUwVRisGbom80JYA/s400/Young+Dreamers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635581047492832370" /></a><br /><br />They are our future and our legacy. They pin their hopes on us and we dare not disappoint them.<br /><br />(Photo of the two young dreamers by Muir Adams)Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-44078550793231010832011-07-31T17:09:00.002+05:302011-07-31T17:20:14.000+05:30Asian Green BeansMy sister Lucy is one of the best cooks I know. She cooks lavishly and with love and she usually has a funny story about each thing she makes.<br /><br />Here's her recipe for and her story about the garlicky green beans many of us love in Chinese restaurants in the US.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I used to go to this fancy Chinese restaurant for their green beans. When we decided to move far far away from this fancy Chinese restaurant I went one last time to try to dissect this dish. I cracked the code in two seconds. I could have been making them at home all along. Quit spending so much money eating out! It's easy y'all.<br />INGREDIENTS: <br />1. Slightly blanched green beans (keep them crisp)<br />2.Chopped garlic<br />3.shoyu- soy sauce<br />4.olive oil<br /><br />Get your pan or wok pretty hot, but not smoking hot.<br />Add some olive oil, green beans <br />and then a lot of chopped garlic<br />stir it until the garlic is golden only.<br /><br />AS SOON AS GARLIC TURNS GOLDEN<br />Add several splashes of shoyu (that's soy sauce for those of you who don't speak Hawaiian)<br /><br />Viola! You made the same thing as the restaurant and you paid 10 dollars less.</span><br /><br />This has become my all-time favorite recipe. SO EASY. SO AMAZING. Try it. I guarantee you will love it.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-23825613457487045562011-07-31T11:19:00.004+05:302011-07-31T15:39:52.287+05:30I "let them eat cake" all the time . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJOLpqKv3PvH5HAu3KfEeZxUDqkgLtYdiGqkuntiJ0CoJjI8XhYlYoTr4k3l0ittMybVAhSuc-GCkziF-tBKUKcBdepRAHSJ8mu9JJr6xIfCEi-9U63LqXdbjqo2jzcC-mAd7s60OSQ/s1600/Birthday+Cake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNJOLpqKv3PvH5HAu3KfEeZxUDqkgLtYdiGqkuntiJ0CoJjI8XhYlYoTr4k3l0ittMybVAhSuc-GCkziF-tBKUKcBdepRAHSJ8mu9JJr6xIfCEi-9U63LqXdbjqo2jzcC-mAd7s60OSQ/s400/Birthday+Cake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635453847336786354" /></a><br />Several people have asked me recently for the recipe for the chocolate cake I always make (birthdays, special guests, Core Group meetings, just because) . . . lately, since Lakshi and Vijay have become such helpful little elves in my kitchen, I am making it a lot more frequently. That's the one thing they always agree would be the perfect "job" to help me with.<br /><br />This is the classic Joy of Cooking recipe, with a few adaptations for India:<br /><br />Preheat oven to 200C.<br /><br />Prepare your cake pans (two 9-inch rounds or an oblong 9x13): After too many sad experiences in which half the cake stuck to the centre of the pan when I tried to take it out, I have started lining the bottom with paper. Nothing fancy - I use ordinary brown paper if I have it or even an old large-ish magazine envelope. Trace around the bottom of the pan onto the paper (use a pencil, not a marker!), then cut on the inside of the circle/rectangle you drew so it's the perfect size to fit inside the bottom of the pan. Butter and flour around the bottom edge of the pan, then place the paper circle/rectangle inside and butter and flour that as well.)<br /><br />Cook and stir on a very low flame, watching like a hawk as it can burn easily:<br /><br />1 cup Cadbury's Cocoa Powder (don't skimp, and don't even think of using Weikfield's)<br />1/2 cup milk <br />1 cup sugar<br />1 egg yolk<br />1/4 cup vegetable oil<br /><br />Remove from heat when thickened. <br /><br />(Sift before measuring: I'm just putting this because all the books say you must - I never do it):<br /><br />2 cups cake flour (maida)<br /><br />Resift with:<br /><br />1 tsp baking soda<br />1/2 tsp salt<br /><br />Grind to a fine-ish powder:<br /><br />1 cup sugar<br /><br />Beat until soft (I do this in the food processor):<br /><br />100 gms Amul butter <br /><br />Add the sugar gradually. Beat until very light and creamy. <br /><br />Beat in, one at a time:<br /><br />2 egg yolks<br /><br />Still in the food processor: Add the flour to the butter mixture in 3 parts, alternating with thirds of:<br /><br />1/4 cup water<br />1/2 cup milk<br />1 tsp vanilla<br /><br />Stir the batter until smooth after each addition. Stir in the chocolate custard. Whip (a hand mixie is best for this; if you don't have one, use a wire whisk or a fork) until peaks form and are stiff, but not dry:<br /><br />3 egg whites<br /><br />Fold them lightly into the cake batter (a quick whizz in the food processor will do it).<br /><br />Pour into prepared cake pans and bake about 25 - 35 minutes. They are done when a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. Turn the cakes out on to racks to cool.<br /><br />Variation: You can also make cupcakes, which children adore. If you don't have a cupcake tin: use katoris, being sure to grease and flour each one carefully. Lining with paper doesn't seem to be necessary for small cakes. Cupcakes are fun to try different color frostings and decorations on - with a plate full of these, you don't need to worry about decorating the table!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGm6lFLHzAA9sZ2ENWucH1hVTda_pbVU69MQRQccNZnFSMV2yqcn0OxL6ld0lkuNHxIDUKzltLotNhca346sKMWcDj8SJ0dhotQ-yv8-HaImzDWhz5Z9RTEgblQLuX5WVDcwhpaUohQ/s1600/IMG_5994.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGm6lFLHzAA9sZ2ENWucH1hVTda_pbVU69MQRQccNZnFSMV2yqcn0OxL6ld0lkuNHxIDUKzltLotNhca346sKMWcDj8SJ0dhotQ-yv8-HaImzDWhz5Z9RTEgblQLuX5WVDcwhpaUohQ/s400/IMG_5994.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5635454671694958162" /></a><br /><br />When completely cool, ice with: <br /><br />100 gms Amul butter, softened<br />1 1/2 cups Icing sugar, sifted<br />3/4 cup Cocoa powder, sifted<br />2 Tbsps Hot Coffee<br /><br />Beat it all together well, add vanilla (1 tsp) if you have it (I usually don't, so I leave it out)<br /><br />Taste to make sure it's the way you like it (add more sugar or more cocoa if necessary)<br /><br />Ice the cake and decorate with sprinkles, fresh pansies, an artfully placed green leaf or two.<br /><br />Serve generously!Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-32913697764876134992011-07-28T23:33:00.004+05:302011-07-29T19:57:05.786+05:30Wordless Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2X_qEIXalRmpoKLYLsIEXK9FfaimFSwrSw4iGD5CHRIuYHqVA0tj-dxNV5Kp_BtzzMTTtbeybUoI_aB3OoHb_BbBGADLQ26msnNxDtXyFUVZuKmnCYf2gIIlhOZr6miNr1MxuSnaQQ/s1600/Party+Girl.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM2X_qEIXalRmpoKLYLsIEXK9FfaimFSwrSw4iGD5CHRIuYHqVA0tj-dxNV5Kp_BtzzMTTtbeybUoI_aB3OoHb_BbBGADLQ26msnNxDtXyFUVZuKmnCYf2gIIlhOZr6miNr1MxuSnaQQ/s400/Party+Girl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634762136940534946" /></a> Moy Moy used to talk. Most people who know her now have no memory of how she once was, but a devoted little group still does. We tell the stories often to keep the memory green. <br /><br />Moy Moy used to talk. She used to tell jokes; she even had - at four - a flair for the dramatic. Once on a Sunday, I asked her: "Moy Moy, are you ready to go to Church?" She raised both arms over her head like a born again zealot and said fervently: "Hallowed be Thy Name!" <br /><br />And she had a sly sense of humor. Once I found her with both hands in a katori of salt - I said, "Moy Moy, no!" She looked up at me and said "Cake!" I said "Moy, that's not cake." and with a fetching little smirk, she said, "Fooled you!"<br /><br />She was four years old.<br /><br />At five, her sentences became phrases. A few months later, she only had two words at a time. Then one. And then it was back to babbling. She lost her language in the same order in which she had gained it.<br /><br />As it became clearer to us that Moy was losing the ability to speak, that she was regressing, I often told myself I should record her, that I should capture the sound of her voice to remind us later of what she had once been like. I never did it. At the time it seemed like too much of a concession to reality, an admission of what we weren't yet prepared to acknowledge.<br /><br />But now Moy Moy is 21 and she doesn't speak at all. I can still recall the last words I heard her say, after the prayer I would recite for her at bedtime:<br /><br />Angel of God, my guardian dear<br />To whom God's love entrusts me here<br />Ever this night, be at my side<br />To light, to guard, to rule, TO _ _ _ _ <br /><br />I would leave the blank and Moy would fill in: "GUIDE!" with a shout of pleasure and triumph. Then she would say:<br /><br />"Goodnight. I love you."<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50cM3q_RnEqK90vUhbRC1kaj4asZ1yUUpb4FHOhYffZ0-wgU_oN_BAyNIPQ4ZuXRhwRuIz4oKfn_WeHGfPkLSkcHB0KT_EiwiK_G7vE4gIDq2RWiMFanjQc0ZrB6yh-VQk5_daHoQoA/s1600/Sleeping+Child.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50cM3q_RnEqK90vUhbRC1kaj4asZ1yUUpb4FHOhYffZ0-wgU_oN_BAyNIPQ4ZuXRhwRuIz4oKfn_WeHGfPkLSkcHB0KT_EiwiK_G7vE4gIDq2RWiMFanjQc0ZrB6yh-VQk5_daHoQoA/s400/Sleeping+Child.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634762588032546242" /></a> That response got shorter and shorter. The last time I remember actually hearing her speak it was those two words that she chose: "Love you." <br /><br />Whether it's what I now choose to remember or whether it was what she actually said last doesn't matter. She loves us. We love her. It's the truth and, last words or not, it's <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> that matters. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0YqXA5DOxyBmDAAEQVzO0ckm_ZmIQeCWRPmfLIAnYqo3FpwZpdGsP4a0r0IJ3zn15WCM62cG0isWeQhEjHEDKcHYkzYwgLfc_byYfy_XNn2DxcYSVfYKibnzf66RPkgh3XHBS4Jt_g/s1600/Snap%2521.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0YqXA5DOxyBmDAAEQVzO0ckm_ZmIQeCWRPmfLIAnYqo3FpwZpdGsP4a0r0IJ3zn15WCM62cG0isWeQhEjHEDKcHYkzYwgLfc_byYfy_XNn2DxcYSVfYKibnzf66RPkgh3XHBS4Jt_g/s400/Snap%2521.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634779869874369154" /></a>Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-58742740673360118332011-07-25T23:22:00.009+05:302011-07-26T00:40:23.056+05:30How Can We Know the Dancer From The Dance?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpojh_lMjyR8GuhVjx1_z7pHPI57swqWOaLALBngMO4hB9w3hFKHnzUMV52E6UMUUQGRmxZOJYDNnlDHt0urErFEUhyphenhyphenwMUcmfpsDhPEnKvrvPbCf_L-gm9A8K5UXWybq3T288_O8VtQ/s1600/First.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 366px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpojh_lMjyR8GuhVjx1_z7pHPI57swqWOaLALBngMO4hB9w3hFKHnzUMV52E6UMUUQGRmxZOJYDNnlDHt0urErFEUhyphenhyphenwMUcmfpsDhPEnKvrvPbCf_L-gm9A8K5UXWybq3T288_O8VtQ/s400/First.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633369234658786370" /></a><br />When beautiful Meera came to visit, all I could think about was that she was a Speech Therapist. There aren't many people in the world who can appreciate the way some of us think about Speech Therapists, so don't laugh.<br /><br />We always capitalize their title. They are Speech Therapists. We restrain ourselves from writing it as SPEECH THERAPISTS.<br /><br />For us, they:<br /><br />Walk on water<br /><br />Are worth their weight in gold<br /><br />Speak with the tongues of men and of angels<br /><br />High school students, take note. If you want a career with respect, adulation and a sense of purpose from here to eternity - it's Speech Therapy. (Got that? SPEECH THERAPY.)<br /><br />But back to Meera. All I could think was Speech Therapist. How did I forget that she was also a professional dancer?<br /><br />So when I took her to Latika Vihar, I was surprised by the way she stood observing our young and trendy dance teacher (the one we are sending to Bharatnatyam classes to widen her amazing natural talent):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTMPBWAZwkTl653fCEPbMBB9c-jTDJ0iCwWJ9-F8dyIjDVdWse9uVy9KryxCSugDjgmsivlmKFrxH75Z_VFlyQw2hDVunI4pN8bpt6X7oNPIEFcMH-LEUc-wrv5edHiLEXX84CoDT-Q/s1600/Watching.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTMPBWAZwkTl653fCEPbMBB9c-jTDJ0iCwWJ9-F8dyIjDVdWse9uVy9KryxCSugDjgmsivlmKFrxH75Z_VFlyQw2hDVunI4pN8bpt6X7oNPIEFcMH-LEUc-wrv5edHiLEXX84CoDT-Q/s400/Watching.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633361404930568754" /></a><br /><br />When I got a moment to speak with her, she said, also surprised: "I didn't expect to see Bharatnatyam here!"<br /><br />"Oh." I said, blankly. "Is that what it is?"<br /><br />"She's great, Auntie! She's doing it just exactly right!"<br /><br />That's when I remembered. Meera is a professional, a Bharatnatyam dancer with a degree, who performs in public to wide acclaim. Immediately, I thought about how she could perform right here at Latika Vihar, how she could share her amazing talent with the eager children who would love to see her in action.<br /><br />But before I could even suggest it, she had her own idea:<br /><br />"Do you think they could teach me a Garhwali dance?"<br /><br />Why hadn't I thought of that? Bring in the expert! was my idea. <br /><br />But Meera, like a true therapist, preferred to build on someone else's strengths. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshXNme8gw7uV4ScvoZ2QS1NfBrXLNHuwzkPAiruQWWta0n7EM0qKt-8UzZkEiulN_-dDDz3ktJOF6BpHG62FF7xidXt9wa1aErWU-IOMqIVY85_kOgXMGZe6tpQjlS-yTdN_1AysAbg/s1600/Garhwali+Lesson.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshXNme8gw7uV4ScvoZ2QS1NfBrXLNHuwzkPAiruQWWta0n7EM0qKt-8UzZkEiulN_-dDDz3ktJOF6BpHG62FF7xidXt9wa1aErWU-IOMqIVY85_kOgXMGZe6tpQjlS-yTdN_1AysAbg/s400/Garhwali+Lesson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633366079236429362" /></a><br /><br />Because Speech Therapy isn't about showing off. It's about communication. It's about sharing gifts. It's about the joy of language and spoken thought and revealed wisdom. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-6yEYqnoGH5H_XTUYo9XfrdJWcSaA9bCo9zhZNWi5-HmYXzovpwv1Vi-ajp8bCS_ytN9OTx6m0mk7ctpwCtMiKcJ9u-LsmcrNAsQjy_AdirxIxJpi43ppAlYKifDuOJ49JxJ3ub7aA/s1600/Lesson+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_-6yEYqnoGH5H_XTUYo9XfrdJWcSaA9bCo9zhZNWi5-HmYXzovpwv1Vi-ajp8bCS_ytN9OTx6m0mk7ctpwCtMiKcJ9u-LsmcrNAsQjy_AdirxIxJpi43ppAlYKifDuOJ49JxJ3ub7aA/s400/Lesson+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633366803836318626" /></a><br /><br />It's about helping other people to celebrate what they already know and giving them ways to offer it to the wider world. It's about joining in and reflecting back what people already know but have lost sight of. It's about giving people a platform, a stage, a voice.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFnJ-GubW8TgIzc7fGBql9iHi_kMVNRyyrN4no9SqPM8YYYuSIDUVNkDrhoojaXAa6e28GJTph0wKLFpAPRuCiYqSz3OlCPnXnb8mS73GNlnHeBzq3lgcL1psj7frO9zOeYSFHBo2Jg/s1600/Lesson+and+Mirror.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicFnJ-GubW8TgIzc7fGBql9iHi_kMVNRyyrN4no9SqPM8YYYuSIDUVNkDrhoojaXAa6e28GJTph0wKLFpAPRuCiYqSz3OlCPnXnb8mS73GNlnHeBzq3lgcL1psj7frO9zOeYSFHBo2Jg/s400/Lesson+and+Mirror.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633367918153895186" /></a><br /><br />Meera, for all her youth, already knows that. Here is one SPEECH THERAPIST I'm keeping my eye on.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-35701139100729338472011-07-24T01:04:00.009+05:302011-07-24T23:32:58.594+05:30The Guest Is God<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMqsLw2AkvJCRz0F6-r-kJTkNPNGvGn91fuDWpD8N_KU2vq2KiKITx3o3R6aASUvGOtde96osbOwa5u2b52GGW5pjkU9xRbkXsoAbGo5DDY8NlLzR-f3mN_puBztZS0Pjj94gLo4YHw/s1600/Car.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMqsLw2AkvJCRz0F6-r-kJTkNPNGvGn91fuDWpD8N_KU2vq2KiKITx3o3R6aASUvGOtde96osbOwa5u2b52GGW5pjkU9xRbkXsoAbGo5DDY8NlLzR-f3mN_puBztZS0Pjj94gLo4YHw/s400/Car.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632863508628646914" /></a><br /><br />No matter how many toys and books we buy, children always out-fox us by preferring:<br /><br />1. our company<br />2. water<br />3. mud<br />4. pots and pans<br />5. real, concrete tasks<br />6. our company<br /><br />At least, that's been my experience. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtMmUlWlUEXrpuaqcSBewBByBNtj91VU2kBvSefRIewSaGYGQH8YRjYxArpwwqjstakUMq8lYozfVSJxi2MOqKmGZ66FhZDAq5rgjD-e5l9GUe288uKpOCfFxCqQjyXdedOyFSO9z2A/s1600/Vijay.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtMmUlWlUEXrpuaqcSBewBByBNtj91VU2kBvSefRIewSaGYGQH8YRjYxArpwwqjstakUMq8lYozfVSJxi2MOqKmGZ66FhZDAq5rgjD-e5l9GUe288uKpOCfFxCqQjyXdedOyFSO9z2A/s400/Vijay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632863806081050706" /></a><br /><br />Lakshi and Vijay love it when we have guests because they know that means I will be baking at least one cake, there will be lots of kitchen work to "help" with, the guests will find them amusing and entertaining and they will probably get a few treats. WIN-WIN-WIN!<br /><br />These particular guests - Meera, Kiran and Ravi - were a particular treat for all of us. Meera is a speech therapist and the daughter of my dear friend Shoba Srinath - one of the finest child psychiatrists in the country. I've had my heart set on getting Meera to come and work for us ever since I first heard of her career plans (which, she told me this weekend, she decided upon in Class Nine!).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB-67R9bqr3xJrQ4Czgkwu6pTnYj7RbHqT0xrP1yg8qHSd0OubBrQK79uV-racmZe0w_glbYxuPNRVAB8agnInmN9qmN2Rgq0U6tq6qNVViB59R1Lv4fr37Ykw9GKDgOrP1ue-M5Btg/s1600/Kids+at+the+gate.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtB-67R9bqr3xJrQ4Czgkwu6pTnYj7RbHqT0xrP1yg8qHSd0OubBrQK79uV-racmZe0w_glbYxuPNRVAB8agnInmN9qmN2Rgq0U6tq6qNVViB59R1Lv4fr37Ykw9GKDgOrP1ue-M5Btg/s400/Kids+at+the+gate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632865955002469554" /></a><br /><br />(I'm still working on that angle. Watch this space.)<br /><br />In the meantime, in the present, with no matlabi fantasies of my future capturing of the most gorgeous speech therapist I have ever laid eyes on, they were a delight to have around. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUO-2Uf0GxV-LNPnqCn4OidJiwts_J2kEOL7iY5vHWqFkbE1KegCuquYQt7cyhHYzw66GBWY85qRyNNNZsfXJ6H0n3SXiwvCmHruUQxTbzci2WfaS3ZDkuDc_fPzk3UI70JOfFbMwBA/s1600/Learning.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBUO-2Uf0GxV-LNPnqCn4OidJiwts_J2kEOL7iY5vHWqFkbE1KegCuquYQt7cyhHYzw66GBWY85qRyNNNZsfXJ6H0n3SXiwvCmHruUQxTbzci2WfaS3ZDkuDc_fPzk3UI70JOfFbMwBA/s400/Learning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632868249304194226" /></a><br />For Vijay, in addition to the amazing experience of having two grown up men sit and listen to him, there was the thrill of Meera's uncertain Hindi. She had enough to keep him engaged but with just enough mistakes to give him the pleasurable feeling of setting her straight. He corrected her verb-noun agreement frequently and gleefully and she - like a good sport and a very quick study - improved enormously in only three days.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOqOQEP0b2NiM-sHIEQe15QG1nVShGkdlc2J8ra7kHtkDMRmmUGENxbyV7dJ3M7C_qmf60foUtLKwds9E9JQ2s7AibJq8DWGehdp9PWCHI5-Nltt77fkitoUltMBGN3AX139_JXIB1Q/s1600/IMG_9408.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOqOQEP0b2NiM-sHIEQe15QG1nVShGkdlc2J8ra7kHtkDMRmmUGENxbyV7dJ3M7C_qmf60foUtLKwds9E9JQ2s7AibJq8DWGehdp9PWCHI5-Nltt77fkitoUltMBGN3AX139_JXIB1Q/s400/IMG_9408.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5632754869303248418" /></a><br />And for Lakshi, there was the pure joy of Being. Not yet four, she is still the absolute centre of her universe. She focuses on whatever task is at hand with her entire heart and soul, enjoying others' involvement, but not requiring it.<br /><br />She moved in and out of the circle the guests created with a cadence determined by her own inner life - sometimes right there in the middle of it all (pretending to be the sabzi-walli and issuing instructions to her many customers) and sometimes, as in this picture, oblivious to us all, intent on her self-imposed dish-washing duty.<br /><br />I was thinking about guests, and the place they hold in the North Indian home (the South Indians tell me it's not the same where they live), about children and the place they hold in our hearts. <br /><br />Looking at Lakshi, the two merged into one: "The child is the guest and the guest is God."Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-59717511118002067512011-07-18T22:45:00.009+05:302011-07-19T18:14:58.836+05:30Fledgling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ44HZuJgHxrAj0zngTP5GolVocshGA8lVZcgBGG03WOexStIdngMufVV0oAft6RL6a8uyalS0D7ABQ4Wx9ZRdK6NO5M5lZjqMHT7i7jMPoXylmHwJPBtgmaGqng2PbGCqoNuBKG585A/s1600/Long+Bird.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ44HZuJgHxrAj0zngTP5GolVocshGA8lVZcgBGG03WOexStIdngMufVV0oAft6RL6a8uyalS0D7ABQ4Wx9ZRdK6NO5M5lZjqMHT7i7jMPoXylmHwJPBtgmaGqng2PbGCqoNuBKG585A/s400/Long+Bird.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630744924216547138" /></a> You worry about a bird that doesn't fly. <br /><br />I saw this little fellow perched on a potted plant in our garden yesterday and I thought - "let me just run inside and grab the camera," knowing he would be long gone by the time I got back.<br /><br />When I returned, though, there he still was. Breathing rapidly, obviously frightened and distressed. This wasn't a normal bird, I thought. Something was wrong. <br /><br />Or is it only mothers who see such a sight and immediately think: "Catastrophe!"???<br /><br />This mother did. I assumed that death was imminent. I stroked its little back and tried to think of soothing things to murmur.<br /><br />No one else seemed too concerned.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngs1zxWK6BrAUgyZHLZVlLxzDzD2EH6abkMI2b__Spx2ajmSg8TlksjuBAmxZU1z66WJUNroWLRjve0qnVNKV4786bsTiNn7_4FQEJpzDu63hZZBKHEXt8kryY_WTycaT17dp-Bdcvg/s1600/Vijay+calm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngs1zxWK6BrAUgyZHLZVlLxzDzD2EH6abkMI2b__Spx2ajmSg8TlksjuBAmxZU1z66WJUNroWLRjve0qnVNKV4786bsTiNn7_4FQEJpzDu63hZZBKHEXt8kryY_WTycaT17dp-Bdcvg/s400/Vijay+calm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630752618716435842" /></a><br />Vijay, for example, was all calm curiosity - first from a distance, and then coming in close to see what was happening.. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8Np9AoCAkPwz3vCoY4jQaDKAblb-ciAA1zIkV_XyekoWwPUKNXFb2qDjiOsEg_Wtjl7bAhNRAmwy4defQGvxpoQeCA0dz7RUyGpKG38GbmomUod8ilKCU4mypCdKkjLoaYdrjpig_A/s1600/Vijay+looking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC8Np9AoCAkPwz3vCoY4jQaDKAblb-ciAA1zIkV_XyekoWwPUKNXFb2qDjiOsEg_Wtjl7bAhNRAmwy4defQGvxpoQeCA0dz7RUyGpKG38GbmomUod8ilKCU4mypCdKkjLoaYdrjpig_A/s400/Vijay+looking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_563075187941868512" /></a><br />It was when he brought Lakshi that I began to think maybe I'd gotten the wrong impression.<br /><br />Her first response was like mine - worried, holding back, anxious:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUaM4mzic8BPimP434NWPZ8wWG-xTcYIHlSnxAKzv69AL2okC1IunMwAeP4aSvmvqCulir6riin7yYyS9EUlsKuL-j5P3aCtjr9P1NaEbFv7xSohvb_mgMZztY5Ps5hdfsMQfdZZwJBQ/s1600/IMG_9292.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUaM4mzic8BPimP434NWPZ8wWG-xTcYIHlSnxAKzv69AL2okC1IunMwAeP4aSvmvqCulir6riin7yYyS9EUlsKuL-j5P3aCtjr9P1NaEbFv7xSohvb_mgMZztY5Ps5hdfsMQfdZZwJBQ/s400/IMG_9292.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630753620350137202" /></a><br />yet quickly turning to interest:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglm644Op5kpWtIzsFL1BekCn3iEYeefpYai5PfnO-KkV8l0XE5EPenLbHq2Js0ZDgCCAnMdMgFJOvVDW7L8VfVJOOFQ4sX5DM2hTAZARsR361CcXquS8cSd6eG4Pj-vhh8dhd7g-mDKw/s1600/IMG_9293.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglm644Op5kpWtIzsFL1BekCn3iEYeefpYai5PfnO-KkV8l0XE5EPenLbHq2Js0ZDgCCAnMdMgFJOvVDW7L8VfVJOOFQ4sX5DM2hTAZARsR361CcXquS8cSd6eG4Pj-vhh8dhd7g-mDKw/s400/IMG_9293.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630754162885598978" /></a><br />and then delight, almost recognition:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnnkc2qfn2XPHx6oBFjULQqkZsS2BEcpStM8oY9eAjpouUxGbnM8FmIaoUZ5bwsxYBqWlqv95flpU2pKz-GjNcbP6jAhKOC_NNPDpXn0SYWlmZyZEZWsxS60oRgtOYrlMyFTk15GRMA/s1600/IMG_9294.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixnnkc2qfn2XPHx6oBFjULQqkZsS2BEcpStM8oY9eAjpouUxGbnM8FmIaoUZ5bwsxYBqWlqv95flpU2pKz-GjNcbP6jAhKOC_NNPDpXn0SYWlmZyZEZWsxS60oRgtOYrlMyFTk15GRMA/s400/IMG_9294.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5630754488451168882" /></a><br /><br />When my friend Nicola told me later that one of the biggest problems fledglings have is well-meaning humans thinking they are ill and trying to rescue them, many things fell into place. <br /><br />In the heat of the moment, for example, it hadn't registered, but each time I got close to the little bird, a racket of squawking would start up from the other side of the garden. Nicola told me that mother birds are always close by, hovering anxiously, trying to protect their newly-launched offspring. If they sense a predator (that would be me) they set up a distraction, hoping to draw the danger to themselves.<br /><br />And all that quivering and heavy breathing? <br /><br />Perfectly natural if you consider what this little bird is about to do: leave home for the first time, fly off alone, commit to finding his own food, be a grown up. Daunting. Shocking. Overwhelming.<br /><br />No wonder he's a bit anxious. No wonder, times ten, his mother is flapping and scolding frantically off on the side. Yet this is the only way it happens in nature. Pushed out of the nest, the fledgling must fend for himself or die.<br /><br />I like to find "sermons in stones, and good in everything," but this one is a stretch. <br /><br />Today, Lakshi and Vijay, tempted by an older child, ran out of the garden and took off for Latika Vihar without telling their Mom. She came down to check on them a few moments later and found them missing. Frantic, she set out searching and caught up with them fifteen heart-pounding minutes later, safely at their destination.<br /><br />Sometimes the fledglings decide for themselves, long before they are really ready or capable. <br /><br />Also today, I talked with a grown woman whose parents are still making all her decisions - whom she will marry, where she will work, how late she can stay out. Today's discussion was about the trouble she had gotten into by staying at a friend's house past nine o'clock.<br /><br />Sometimes the fledglings opt to stay in the nest, long after they should be out on their own.<br /><br />Nature's relentless time-keeping (DING! Out of the nest! DING! Fly or die!) doesn't suit most of us. We are left with this extreme risk: the balancing act we constantly maintain between love and safe-keeping. Breathless at the beauty and precarious nature of childhood, we would do anything - anything - to protect the ones we love. Yet without that inner Mama Bird, prepared to watch the little ones fall down from great heights, we could end up protecting them so much they forget how to fly. <br /><br />I took the above photos of the fledgling from my verandah. And the view was a safe one, limited by the walls of the garden. But when I came into the garden myself, to catch him from another angle, I got this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hkkEQxtSgF7q4zniZkUsDDM2khB-BfHFaTnMJYtP6KxNGDCiBHCeIbWCxeTRMp8f0c0lip-R7LlNusN1Xl_lEd8yKoeea0DqycA6xh6IV2c-2Js5kW6rQGrrqOb_0I6TfLBYS3HG_A/s1600/Rainbow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7hkkEQxtSgF7q4zniZkUsDDM2khB-BfHFaTnMJYtP6KxNGDCiBHCeIbWCxeTRMp8f0c0lip-R7LlNusN1Xl_lEd8yKoeea0DqycA6xh6IV2c-2Js5kW6rQGrrqOb_0I6TfLBYS3HG_A/s400/Rainbow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631042056722339010" /></a><br /><br /> . . . shining eager eye and all. Posed against a rainbow, this bird looked totally different. Not pathetic anymore, but poised - gathering strength and courage for the inevitable next step.<br /><br />When I came out an hour later, he was gone.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-17985015446302803122011-07-15T23:52:00.004+05:302011-07-16T00:54:25.910+05:30Walky-Talky<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPiDoTcS8rewtyEurwBotWhMLi2DjB68R9XdBrtw-zH8Sbh4vsB03tFb9x6y5_MTDTyGJHfToOWTWl4VDxAeEN2T5h9br6PvnyQtGH_E9mEQ5CEz14M7hQBlEKfm5cJe2BHgttuWUQg/s1600/IMG_9192.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZPiDoTcS8rewtyEurwBotWhMLi2DjB68R9XdBrtw-zH8Sbh4vsB03tFb9x6y5_MTDTyGJHfToOWTWl4VDxAeEN2T5h9br6PvnyQtGH_E9mEQ5CEz14M7hQBlEKfm5cJe2BHgttuWUQg/s400/IMG_9192.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629653398093980050" /></a><br />What goes on in the mind of a child? Why is a swing so compelling, why does a mud puddle <span style="font-style:italic;">demand</span> to be jumped in? What makes a a child kick a stone as she walks? And why-oh-why is a walky-talky so irresistible? <br /><br />A walky-talky is the term my friend Chris Neiman coined over 50 years ago (age 4) for those little walls children love to walk on - so daring! - while their parents keep to the safer wide pavements.<br /><br />There is one on the main road of Vasant Vihar, where I walk almost every day (it's a fallen street light pole which the electricity department hasn't bothered to pick up) and even now - age 53 - I can't stop myself from hopping on it for the seven steps of joy it gives me.<br /><br />I can't believe I'm alone in this delight. But what <span style="font-style:italic;">is</span> it? The swoop of the swing, the abandon of the mud puddle, the careful precision of the walky-talky steps - so daring, yet so safe - . . . <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjszi8E8BjwdSP14YrnqTO8iQAX9snwhYU__e_iP031vzCcZnbgD7WiYFgMpEeg3YE2kbhcC-Zk6YdX_fpsXy7-F8pTEaDC_iZ6UNa5hMQjbIpcVOiPDVnNitAZyy-AWT_oh4BIhFAA/s1600/Red+light.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjszi8E8BjwdSP14YrnqTO8iQAX9snwhYU__e_iP031vzCcZnbgD7WiYFgMpEeg3YE2kbhcC-Zk6YdX_fpsXy7-F8pTEaDC_iZ6UNa5hMQjbIpcVOiPDVnNitAZyy-AWT_oh4BIhFAA/s400/Red+light.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629660049615315938" /></a><br /><br />A red car in the distance to look at while mincing along the little wall. Or a red tail-light on a black car. . . it doesn't matter. The joy is in the steps, in the mincing. Children keep it simple. They remind us of uncomplication. They keep us pure: a swing for the freedom of being lifted in the air, weightless and unencumbered; a mud puddle for the love of mud puddles; a walky-talky to help us to remember to pay attention to our feet as they step proudly along the narrow beam, amazed at their own prowess.<br /><br />Sometimes I want to start all over, to be a child again. Because that's not possible, I hang on to mud puddles and walky-talkys.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-12112051295983245062011-07-14T22:14:00.005+05:302011-07-14T23:42:42.180+05:30SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!When Ravi was in his teens in Mumbai (and I was still an innocent babe in Fall River), one of his favorite pastimes was going to the movies. In the late 50's, American movies were in Technicolor while Bollywood's were still black and white. So he and his friends were thrilled when they arrived at the theatre one afternoon and saw a big sign that read: SOME SCENES IN COLOR!" scrawled across the posters on display for that day's feature.<br /><br />The first one they watched was a maudlin tearjerker in which a very sad woman wanders down to Juhu Beach, bent on killing herself by plunging into the sea. There she is, all in black and white, slowly making her way toward the water, when suddenly the scene bursts out into color:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7XuLmDNPID0W2mmD666A4Qo1mlZr1L9gc64IsmrV6h2VyqilT-ro5RX8XggXemRBlKpa0fznO7XSol5eRVB_SdyH8aNCvqSMnWaqy4H6_bPjMbU7rJfnUTH-MDKAWnMfRZN_AvUYAg/s1600/marilyn-monroe-101.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 341px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7XuLmDNPID0W2mmD666A4Qo1mlZr1L9gc64IsmrV6h2VyqilT-ro5RX8XggXemRBlKpa0fznO7XSol5eRVB_SdyH8aNCvqSMnWaqy4H6_bPjMbU7rJfnUTH-MDKAWnMfRZN_AvUYAg/s400/marilyn-monroe-101.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629255868855676546" /></a><br /><br />and there is Marilyn Monroe, perched first as here, with the Niagara Falls as her backdrop, and then shown lying on a raft being buffeted by waves and holding on for dear life. <br /><br />SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!<br /><br />The next one was a crime thriller, starring Kishore Kumar. There he is, all in black and white, making a tense, suspense-filled getaway from the bad guys. Suddenly! TA DA! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE5gXgaGCFZgXDrdWAjbdTwYQn2cqiqAoT-EXf9QwGebHp47J5lvzIhTCiAlf29qfTnjxG6uvdKgHhGhNixwMbtQGviRFEAII6HHyiqS3LP8exYlISOvmAeyIx9eYRYnZTzpg1pmX8g/s1600/North+By+Northwest+Hitchcock+Cary+Grant+pic+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWE5gXgaGCFZgXDrdWAjbdTwYQn2cqiqAoT-EXf9QwGebHp47J5lvzIhTCiAlf29qfTnjxG6uvdKgHhGhNixwMbtQGviRFEAII6HHyiqS3LP8exYlISOvmAeyIx9eYRYnZTzpg1pmX8g/s400/North+By+Northwest+Hitchcock+Cary+Grant+pic+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5629261582199704690" /></a><br /><br />It's Cary Grant, running desperately away from the evil crop-duster plane bent on snuffing him out.<br /><br />SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!<br /><br />So I'm thinking there has to be a lesson here for the rest of us. When life gets too difficult and suicide is your only option - change the scene! You are actually a pin up girl in living color! <br /><br />(But she committed suicide herself. Hang on. Maybe this doesn't work.)<br /><br />Well, Cary Grant, then. <br /><br />There you are, fighting evil, warding off the dark forces, but - wait a minute - they still seem to keep winning. No worries! Become Cary Grant! In Technicolor! <br /><br />(Except for this: Once told by an interviewer, "Everybody would like to be Cary Grant," Grant replied, "So would I.")<br /><br />Technicolor or not, Cary Grant was actually a man named Archibald Alexander Leach who married five times. The sexiest man in America, yet divorce followed divorce followed divorce. Marilyn Monroe, whose brief, poignant life ended tragically in a drug overdose, and whose name was linked to baseball star Joe DiMaggio, playwright Arthur Miller and President John F Kennedy, was actually Norma Jean Mortenson, and who has ever heard of HER? <br /><br />Life, it turns out, isn't easy for any of us - black and white, brilliant technicolor or anything in-between. Life is hard. The best we can do is to reach out to those on the road beside us and reassure them - black and white, brilliant color, and all the shades of grey in-between: we're in this together. We don't judge. We don't point fingers. We're in this together.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-91836437189084206032011-07-14T00:08:00.004+05:302011-07-14T01:10:12.585+05:30The Cup of Grace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrqYRBYAyKmFbnVkiMtRWMIAoy2sK4l_FmM_CW8fzgqnPxNqjJl0WxzocUCvMu50AWlj77A9sB7trH4nqX_cFanezBOPMo_HucixYpcnlIuFtras-5VRvjLQZiSEajP5nm7vV_HiOng/s1600/IMG_9177.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrqYRBYAyKmFbnVkiMtRWMIAoy2sK4l_FmM_CW8fzgqnPxNqjJl0WxzocUCvMu50AWlj77A9sB7trH4nqX_cFanezBOPMo_HucixYpcnlIuFtras-5VRvjLQZiSEajP5nm7vV_HiOng/s400/IMG_9177.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628923364167216418" /></a><br /><br />I woke this morning feeling sad - you could almost say bereft. Swimming up through the waves of drowse and languid torpor, I couldn't put my finger on the cause of the problem. I climbed out of bed, thinking it must have been a dream. While brushing my teeth, I remembered. <br /><br />My tea cup was missing. My most beautiful tea cup, given to me by Marcie, Paula's friend (and now mine) who had come with her on her historic return visit in April and whose presence here in Dehradun somehow created the bridge between two worlds which had been lacking during Paula's time with us.<br /><br />Not that Paula hadn't had visitors while she was here. Her mother had come three times; her daughter Carol came too. But we take family for granted for a reason. They come wherever we are. That's why they are family. When a friend comes it gives a different stamp of approval, a different kind of validity. It says our choices have been good ones, that someone whose only bonds are of friendship and affection wants to know what we've been doing for 12 years in a foreign land. And for those of us IN the foreign land, it says we are important parts of a dear friend's history and that it's vital for us to meet.<br /><br />So Marcie's being here was special for all of us - Manju, Savita, Moy Moy, Ravi, me - all of us who owe Paula so much.<br /><br />That's to explain the connection I felt with the tea cup. Paula and I had had thousands of cups of tea together over the years. Tea was my connection with my mother; is my connection with my daughter. Marcie pulled it all together with a gift of the most beautiful cup I had ever seen. And this morning, as I realized with a thud, it was still missing.<br /><br />Had one of the staff broken it and feared to admit it, knowing how I prized it? The most likely explanation. A.W.O.L. for 36 hours? It seemed pretty clear that it had vanished for good.<br /><br />For the next ten hours, the vague sadness remained. So silly. Only a cup. In the grand scheme, how did it matter? Marcie was still there. Paula, God Knows, was still there. Mom was watching over me. Cathleen and I predict each other's thoughts and dreams. I scolded myself every time the feeling of loss surfaced again. It's only a cup. Down, girl!<br /><br />I came home from work today at 5:30. Creature of habit, I went to the shelf to take out the cup for my evening tea. Not there. Sadness. Then I wandered into the living room for one last search. And there it was, hidden on the mantelpiece behind the candle stand, exactly where I had left it, I now remembered, when the phone rang and I had run to pick it up.<br /><br />I washed it carefully and prepared my tea, each step in the process a mindful, grateful one. Another moment. Another day. Another grace. Another cup of tea. My dear ones drinking with me.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-28102352751932432962011-07-08T10:00:00.002+05:302011-07-10T12:21:35.511+05:30Vina Srivastava Is My Hero<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U1aSBRHUpchv6WBSCYbbCNmIdN12hSwsOfMf7al-7JSlP7G0gRCsFLRJnSj7THMqDlzWK95f9jDxkAvMQvHvKx8ERCnBHOsHJjxqyZDIfJoRqseL1DFV8_m2Z-_h9Ia-lJuHZZl3_A/s1600/Edmund%2527s.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-U1aSBRHUpchv6WBSCYbbCNmIdN12hSwsOfMf7al-7JSlP7G0gRCsFLRJnSj7THMqDlzWK95f9jDxkAvMQvHvKx8ERCnBHOsHJjxqyZDIfJoRqseL1DFV8_m2Z-_h9Ia-lJuHZZl3_A/s400/Edmund%2527s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627420242805701426" /></a><br /><br />Please look carefully at that face. Vina is one of the most beautiful women I know. It goes without saying. It's something anyone with two eyes can see. <br /><br />But there is more to it than that. Her beauty is a reflection of an inner life which is complex and thoughtful, full of depth and mystery. The way that she thinks, the values she holds dear and lives out in her everyday life, the connections she makes and the understanding she brings to things both political and cultural amazes me. I admire her more than I can say. I learn so much by watching her move through the world.<br /><br />Start with the garden.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvFsUJ4P7W6zg-_adkbzjcC9psH9_YUDmK29hKUnxF2zrNMWw4NY81y9gwG2upCgLjUQcGHTaIEcxT6Y9nA6rMEAbFokLNLY1K2Hrl8Hq_hD-QmjifMucZagox6Si6qzOlHt18Z18Ng/s1600/Garden.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvFsUJ4P7W6zg-_adkbzjcC9psH9_YUDmK29hKUnxF2zrNMWw4NY81y9gwG2upCgLjUQcGHTaIEcxT6Y9nA6rMEAbFokLNLY1K2Hrl8Hq_hD-QmjifMucZagox6Si6qzOlHt18Z18Ng/s400/Garden.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627597747255045746" /></a><br /><br />Hers is a kind of metaphor for her life. Its abundance and exquisite design speak to the amount of time and energy she puts into it (she's up by five AM and out there first thing, inspecting, encouraging, training and pruning) but it is also a testament to her generosity. Her plants have offspring all over the city because she thinks nothing of sharing the wealth. My own garden not only got the bulk of its seedlings and cuttings from hers, but was actually planned and designed by her as well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkPqzQm_6P8ZS1Ir1at3auj4d4nsJ62DCGnfITNbFoM0eJ6r28khdK7ugkZoY_qhorBC5PolMJPM7D1_WiZH4MYHpMo7RHAbTL9S39aB32FsKuT33dLsMOtHugSw3XVW0Fq_dsP5YUA/s1600/Garden+and+Window.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqkPqzQm_6P8ZS1Ir1at3auj4d4nsJ62DCGnfITNbFoM0eJ6r28khdK7ugkZoY_qhorBC5PolMJPM7D1_WiZH4MYHpMo7RHAbTL9S39aB32FsKuT33dLsMOtHugSw3XVW0Fq_dsP5YUA/s400/Garden+and+Window.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627607018105974290" /></a><br /><br />Second: Vina has young friends. I am one of them (at 53!), but she is also close to the next generation - like my children, her own grandchildren, and their friends too. She knows them all. But it's not a passing acquaintance where they say "Good evening, Auntie" as they move on to the next, more interesting thing. It's a cultivated friendship and she puts time and effort into it - as she does with everything else.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SaG1wHu9ujQ_SR7NNb9FV_AYBAEB9G7U1LGWFkstmR6qdVciWiAAiCbJlvPyMDyYDqwp0gcveKQ2G-zjJFJMBSMVu6z4n-0Z9KV4v_zXu6jMF1UxTR0E_9M_WKszAWjjhgz40NKsUA/s1600/With+Cathleen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SaG1wHu9ujQ_SR7NNb9FV_AYBAEB9G7U1LGWFkstmR6qdVciWiAAiCbJlvPyMDyYDqwp0gcveKQ2G-zjJFJMBSMVu6z4n-0Z9KV4v_zXu6jMF1UxTR0E_9M_WKszAWjjhgz40NKsUA/s400/With+Cathleen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627608738780121730" /></a><br /><br />When the kids are in town, she makes a special point of coming to visit them. Whenever she can, she invites them over on their own - she wants to know what they are thinking, what they know about, what she can learn from them. This is a huge clue to her own vivid personality. She stays current. She's ready to try anything. 80 years old and one of the most active facebookers I know. On her ipad, no less. Yet with no hesitation at all about asking for help when she needs it. It's the perfect example of inter-connectedness. She knows how to network - it comes naturally and it's all about giving and taking.<br /><br />Oh, one more thing: she never complains. At 80, she surely must have all the same aches and creaks that anyone else would at that age. But she knows - <span style="font-style:italic;">and remembers</span> - that aches and creaks are interesting to no one other than the person experiencing them. I recite this truth to myself daily. "Be like Vina," I keep saying. "No one needs to know."<br /><br />And finally, her amazing relationship with her children and the wonderful people they have filled her life with.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2O5qE-8Ai7udwzuQ2dIHmXqNKJfcbkx55gH7fYZW2bsEsEiAmDhpFZHyjgXGyeS_i3d6yAvNI7yObAR8h-esmV97MmRSeuaKhoD_XiRPZDSIBU643kEmw6uCKxzsWWGE9NrysTF0neQ/s1600/With+Shavak.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2O5qE-8Ai7udwzuQ2dIHmXqNKJfcbkx55gH7fYZW2bsEsEiAmDhpFZHyjgXGyeS_i3d6yAvNI7yObAR8h-esmV97MmRSeuaKhoD_XiRPZDSIBU643kEmw6uCKxzsWWGE9NrysTF0neQ/s400/With+Shavak.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627610913375308370" /></a><br /><br />Everyone wants to be part of the Srivastava circle because they all have so much fun with each other. They travel in packs (<span style="font-style:italic;">dozens</span> of them sign up for the family excursions to Tuscany, to Nairobi, to Portugal because none of them can bear to miss any chance to be together). Those of us on the periphery get in as close as we can, to bask in the reflected glory. They are generous. They welcome us and make us feel a part of the circle. <br /><br />And the centre of their turning world? Vina. <span style="font-style:italic;">Is me koi shak hai?</span>Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-57281648059608361022011-07-06T20:33:00.007+05:302011-07-07T21:45:23.293+05:30Teachers Are Like Gardeners<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayK93mTOSW-xOvTMyoYn-PNpprR7d3GjLN8D3S6p_OA7oXNu4i82gk4Gj4SgF9QJKiAd4jrZJerj9dYX_LUni7hgXKLBZ9Fj4yQ49BOgt6iNev58WK0kXrk-xScs889HQKBP440OAIA/s1600/Green+Chair.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayK93mTOSW-xOvTMyoYn-PNpprR7d3GjLN8D3S6p_OA7oXNu4i82gk4Gj4SgF9QJKiAd4jrZJerj9dYX_LUni7hgXKLBZ9Fj4yQ49BOgt6iNev58WK0kXrk-xScs889HQKBP440OAIA/s400/Green+Chair.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626464116289764818" /></a><br />Getting Vibha Krishnamurthy to come to Dehradun, on any pretext, is always worth doing. She is one of the smartest, funniest, most enchanting people I have ever known and the fact that she is also a developmental pediatrician is the icing on the cake. I can get her to come here for <span style="font-style:italic;">work</span> and I can justify going to visit her in Mumbai for the same reason.<br /><br />So anyway. I got her to come this past weekend. Not only that: she brought her whip-smart colleague, the young and gorgeous Roopa Srinivasan, also a developmental pediatrician, also brilliant.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKla5ab0v-Vk70UlS1r4u6rTFxm5LP5ZvvtQWnpZ9kO-ieJjCFOMGJuNGfBYTHYAxdXyUVT913XV-9ucwcn35YVdEGYDGbHyL471coKVaYbeeVAEhUMoUMwipx-n5xwEq2JTybOeBDw/s1600/Roopa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKla5ab0v-Vk70UlS1r4u6rTFxm5LP5ZvvtQWnpZ9kO-ieJjCFOMGJuNGfBYTHYAxdXyUVT913XV-9ucwcn35YVdEGYDGbHyL471coKVaYbeeVAEhUMoUMwipx-n5xwEq2JTybOeBDw/s400/Roopa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626443463471272994" /></a><br /><br />These two were to be our secret weapons, our magic wands in the battle to win over the hearts and minds of Uttarakhand's physicians and to convince them to refer babies to us at the Doon Hospital EIC. They did just that, but the magic turned out to be not only their amazing wealth of knowledge. Nope. What really astonished and moved the doctors was their amazing command of Hindi.<br /><br />Vibha and Roopa are both from Chennai, a city not noted for its Hindi. So the doctors came prepared to be lectured to in English. One of them told us he liked these sort of workshops because they gave him a chance to catch up on his sleep.<br /><br />Surprise! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDGWHCjk1y7cCq0XbQVuR2S5zR8JOY2SwAQ-Ti_fDUq7_OeHWeep3CrjkYquKx2G0O0ywzaH2scGLN1Z_poUlNaDDuuKY5JVrzsf9QfunqGXIR1RTSJNoKvpo3Rw5w5yimVUZ3vtopw/s1600/Red+Shirt.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDGWHCjk1y7cCq0XbQVuR2S5zR8JOY2SwAQ-Ti_fDUq7_OeHWeep3CrjkYquKx2G0O0ywzaH2scGLN1Z_poUlNaDDuuKY5JVrzsf9QfunqGXIR1RTSJNoKvpo3Rw5w5yimVUZ3vtopw/s400/Red+Shirt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626444361736946370" /></a> <br /><br />Not only was their Hindi flawless, witty and entertaining (Roopa actually grew up in Jabalpur; Vibha in Delhi) but the content of their workshop was too. The doctors were mesmerized. "It wasn't us," Vibha insisted. "It's the material. I mean - child development! How could people NOT be interested?"" <br /><br />We all know, however, that even the most interesting material can be put in a boring big package and delivered like a lead balloon. Obviously, that's what the good docs were expecting. What they got instead was insight, wisdom, compassion and cutting edge medical information - delivered by seasoned story-tellers, show women with a sense of drama and timing and the perfect one-liners. A tour de force! <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7W_-IsrDGPaG0XX1tAJpyVczRcC5q1867uHegWyinUoF7FYxz36R5l1W-uSKnhQnpvYXB7xX2-UBJfWygVhcULcr9IKXIsOGonkNU9bMIOguV55iSgS-jAi_LF1m_Sc_toUNh03cYQ/s1600/Talk+with+docs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7W_-IsrDGPaG0XX1tAJpyVczRcC5q1867uHegWyinUoF7FYxz36R5l1W-uSKnhQnpvYXB7xX2-UBJfWygVhcULcr9IKXIsOGonkNU9bMIOguV55iSgS-jAi_LF1m_Sc_toUNh03cYQ/s400/Talk+with+docs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626445800807321266" /></a><br /><br />The workshop was for government doctors of Uttarakhand and they had no choice about attending. Their seniors ordered them to come and so they did - some from many hours away, in the remote areas of the state (Precisely the ones we've been so eager to get to). For us, it was almost like a miracle to walk into a doctors' workshop <span style="font-style:italic;">assured</span> of a full house. Our previous efforts with private sector doctors have always been disappointing. Only the same faithful few keep attending and there is always a sense of preaching to the choir. <br /><br />So this time, there was a special challenge: how to create an electric atmosphere, a buzz, an excitement about the topic and an eagerness to learn more. Because we want them to come the next time - even though they HAVE to - with a sense of anticipation, the knowledge that this is going to be <span style="font-style:italic;">fun</span>.<br /><br />Who better to set the tone and raise the bar than Vibha and Roopa?<br /><br />A little aside, a kind of metaphor for what they did here.<br /><br />They stayed in my house, where as luck would have it, a Brahma Kamal (Flower of Bethlehem) was about to bloom. I had spotted the bud a few nights before and prayed that it would do its one night performance while they were here (this flower blooms in <a href="http://jochopra.blogspot.com/2010/08/brahma-kamal-or-flower-of-bethlehem.html">a spectacular one-night performance</a> and it's easy to miss). <br /><br />But it was not to be. Almost as if it were taunting me, the flower stayed resolutely closed for the three nights they were with us:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS7jeYDzZiN2lAc2jF20avFs-SvBaZeoXflYVbR-o3eBPe3DPjMZpx94Xku2mzG5QHR1VizVzgqGVicRmluIHnlPVPrzU6b9a9iZQ4oGSNqlbiOqCPHZ9zLlFc_LsyWbGNqW3154A3A/s1600/Flower.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSS7jeYDzZiN2lAc2jF20avFs-SvBaZeoXflYVbR-o3eBPe3DPjMZpx94Xku2mzG5QHR1VizVzgqGVicRmluIHnlPVPrzU6b9a9iZQ4oGSNqlbiOqCPHZ9zLlFc_LsyWbGNqW3154A3A/s400/Flower.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626450340184363378" /></a><br /><br />opening in its show-off style the night of the very day they departed:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1XWJOMKGtJqtEsZxjX7X4W7OfvtJn766B5fe78L83GZXT_08tDfo_Zi2YtUzEfBd31h6sg0JjIJWtVlzsXcmkMzzWF4-citYxbd_b-oKEoFxF9OSvNk7rzMYdl8orl4upFvTAcG64A/s1600/IMG_7587.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju1XWJOMKGtJqtEsZxjX7X4W7OfvtJn766B5fe78L83GZXT_08tDfo_Zi2YtUzEfBd31h6sg0JjIJWtVlzsXcmkMzzWF4-citYxbd_b-oKEoFxF9OSvNk7rzMYdl8orl4upFvTAcG64A/s400/IMG_7587.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626451572672680818" /></a><br /><br />It struck me as I stood there looking at it, shaking my head a bit (Come ON! You couldn't have done it one night earlier?) that this was a metaphor for the life of a teacher, which is what these two are, in addition to being gifted and caring physicians.<br /><br />They go all over the country, training other people to see children as they do - marvelous, incredibly interesting little beings with worlds within them to be discovered and understood. They sow seeds in the minds of their audiences - an act of faith in their students' good sense and willingness to learn and then they leave. So often, they don't get to see the flowers - the sudden and magical dawn of awareness, the click, the ah ha! <br /><br />So Vibha, Roopa: I want you to know. The flower bloomed the night after you left. The fragrance still lingers. We'll make sure the seeds you planted will flourish and thrive.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-36915081504167404592011-06-30T23:15:00.009+05:302011-07-01T15:37:24.108+05:30The Picnic Rebellion<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjc5-XBU_hQ9odJByIn5HWgClrhe7W9tRrlkfypnghIncC2njiduCJybK16sY4oCS4Nag9vD-q0VYfyc1BIsKSKMUQwZAxMOE74Ob25h9bat7WIzwlc2KtDRO05ZmvjZ5k87p30NiQDA/s1600/IMG_6974.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjc5-XBU_hQ9odJByIn5HWgClrhe7W9tRrlkfypnghIncC2njiduCJybK16sY4oCS4Nag9vD-q0VYfyc1BIsKSKMUQwZAxMOE74Ob25h9bat7WIzwlc2KtDRO05ZmvjZ5k87p30NiQDA/s400/IMG_6974.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624070550284954946" /></a> I was cooking dinner the night before the big Latika Vihar picnic when Vikram appeared at the kitchen window. Lakshi was in his arms, looking sleepy, but determined.<br /><br />"Ma'am," he said, a bit embarrassed. "Lakshi wants to talk to you."<br /><br />This seemed important. Vikram generally dismisses his children's concerns with the typical Indian father's dismissiveness. What could Lakshi want to talk to me about that she couldn't do on her own?<br /><br />I opened the door and she trotted in and put her arms up for me to hold her. Those eyes. The very ones you see in the photo.<br /><br />"Kya hua, Lakshi?"<br /><br /><br /><br />"Why can't I go for the picnic?" Straight to the point. That's my Lakshi.<br /><br />"The picnic is for the older kids," I said, already feeling inadequate. "You have to be six years old to go."<br /><br />Lakshi's face shut down. "Humph," I could almost hear her saying. The only thing stopping her was not knowing the word.<br /><br />"You used me for the Latika Vihar dance," she said accusingly. <br /><br />This was true, though "used" isn't the word I would have chosen. Lakshi was an important member of the "All Is Well" dance troupe, as were many of the little ones at Latika, none of whom were allowed to come for the picnic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3BtcLARAAM92wfZQ6ORbeJSMlZHP7jI9JIqL3p-IiOoNYmV15918KMxWfz-XW5ekMhruHRRPIUwYM-5o_9VhQzxuBD45vDmhW2V-wxc9s4wryutJKe2h_F6R0CSp6hGeoKi0LbDXMg/s1600/Latika+Dance.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR3BtcLARAAM92wfZQ6ORbeJSMlZHP7jI9JIqL3p-IiOoNYmV15918KMxWfz-XW5ekMhruHRRPIUwYM-5o_9VhQzxuBD45vDmhW2V-wxc9s4wryutJKe2h_F6R0CSp6hGeoKi0LbDXMg/s400/Latika+Dance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624075459696252994" /></a> It was a safety thing, as well as a realization that while many children under six can manage without their parents for the two hours that Latika is open, seven hours at a picnic, with all the rough and tumble of a long ride on a bus, water play and missed naps, is too much for most of them.<br /><br />Except, perhaps, for Lakshi.<br /><br />Grandchildren of staff (honorary or not) are allowed, I decided on the spot. Those eyes.<br /><br />"You can come with me," I told her. "You and Vijay. Moy and I will take you in our car. We'll leave at nine."<br /><br />She looked at me solemnly, as if to gauge my sincerity, then scrambled to the floor to walk back to her flat with her Dad.<br /><br />Trust.<br /><br />The next morning, both children were at my door at nine sharp. I NEVER leave on time and this morning, with Padma out, Ravi traveling and Naina late, was no exception. But there they were. Waiting. Sighing. Waiting some more.<br /><br />By 9:15, I was ready. Moy was ready. The bus leaving from Latika Vihar with 70 children and staff was not quite ready. No matter. We packed the car and set out for the picnic spot.<br /><br />Lakshi couldn't quite believe her luck. We arrived at Dr Kalhan's farm and there wasn't another soul in sight. Just us. She and Vijay had the pool all to themselves.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojAO64ng4LcPqqlMdsZXzAWW7tLbdcFUG8ckAgku3FuUxuT8zyMZ3cysaanVdBYqasZ0vojovyclHqYI7DgsiL_YrXu40A2J3jDTU34Z0j8StoJQQ_NHNh1CqieMUBjLMe0x0gFcNJw/s1600/Triumph.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiojAO64ng4LcPqqlMdsZXzAWW7tLbdcFUG8ckAgku3FuUxuT8zyMZ3cysaanVdBYqasZ0vojovyclHqYI7DgsiL_YrXu40A2J3jDTU34Z0j8StoJQQ_NHNh1CqieMUBjLMe0x0gFcNJw/s400/Triumph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624083456627931042" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPy8nPOYBpr3cNd1CnZXjrvyoDM1MWcotL_65yH35BJinm2MH8eENgz2P0JwlLenLfynElgFVwCB7AJPNoRezPzHx00INfzXKjNHz82y2iCWXEDkbaNDA_ZdpvurG6FiurafcPipCmmQ/s1600/Vijay.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPy8nPOYBpr3cNd1CnZXjrvyoDM1MWcotL_65yH35BJinm2MH8eENgz2P0JwlLenLfynElgFVwCB7AJPNoRezPzHx00INfzXKjNHz82y2iCWXEDkbaNDA_ZdpvurG6FiurafcPipCmmQ/s400/Vijay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624083918889475874" /></a><br /><br />That moment was enough to justify the whole day. The nap she needed to take on the lawn while all the other children carried on, the tummy upset from all the excitement and overeating, the tiniest bit of clinginess and anxiety - all worth it for this expression of joy and delight and amazement:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7QMDUeNzJPbGgbR-AP58NJUlpYBOFLBsDGS8ywA8WpMYufi9j2_vMSKkfYPkI2AbCqzdkEr6E9xbY8Q8EqSE1sZNYcgb2lHgadKaf5au_vBdiGkiJ6ShdJMcfayz5rIw4Hkigu9b-Q/s1600/Ecstasy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF7QMDUeNzJPbGgbR-AP58NJUlpYBOFLBsDGS8ywA8WpMYufi9j2_vMSKkfYPkI2AbCqzdkEr6E9xbY8Q8EqSE1sZNYcgb2lHgadKaf5au_vBdiGkiJ6ShdJMcfayz5rIw4Hkigu9b-Q/s400/Ecstasy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624084897526451970" /></a><br /><br />It's not often in this world that we get to see such abandon, such astonishment, such awareness of the marvel of being alive. I would take her anywhere.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-16652294632649320722011-06-26T23:43:00.008+05:302011-06-27T08:50:43.214+05:30The Everlasting Arms<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYzcHjgNj4YksgB22ytx00YeZNGMbfJ2USZrwsqEwXnJ9wdp0xaUUu7zqJCqU3qhUbqviEUlWuIAdXTplUf9tWDeD1HeqiWFKCniewmAX7DkjnT-JNBKDiFMX1es57n3Anz9ePISvKg/s1600/IMG_8473.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 332px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieYzcHjgNj4YksgB22ytx00YeZNGMbfJ2USZrwsqEwXnJ9wdp0xaUUu7zqJCqU3qhUbqviEUlWuIAdXTplUf9tWDeD1HeqiWFKCniewmAX7DkjnT-JNBKDiFMX1es57n3Anz9ePISvKg/s400/IMG_8473.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622594058595001922" /></a><br /><br />Nearly a decade ago, Somebody gave Somebody (both shall remain nameless) a particularly Lurid Souvenir, acquired on a trip to Brazil. Second Somebody didn't want the gift, but unable to bring herself to toss it, left it behind in my tender care. I transported it carefully over three separate house moves, each time thinking that Second Somebody would demand to know where it was when she returned.<br /><br />A few days ago, five years after the last house move, I decided we had reached the end of the statute of limitations for statues. Feeling both brave and reckless, I put said Lurid Souvenir in the trash, firmly, finally and, like I said, bravely and recklessly.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyklHAqelkU3JhBgxGPXDzSBrZ42lQlSPalJhhpFd-WSzRwt8Pv5j4xVaYE16FecpQM0mHCbM03S3ypqAmJ5HM5NtNW7rFn-NG3w5yA_s3fmjZgm9CbDQ5dJl86j4WBGKeh-Ap8e5Agw/s1600/IMG_8470.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyklHAqelkU3JhBgxGPXDzSBrZ42lQlSPalJhhpFd-WSzRwt8Pv5j4xVaYE16FecpQM0mHCbM03S3ypqAmJ5HM5NtNW7rFn-NG3w5yA_s3fmjZgm9CbDQ5dJl86j4WBGKeh-Ap8e5Agw/s400/IMG_8470.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622596589846232322" /></a><br /><br />Also stupidly. Did I not know? No one throws anything away in India. When we lived in Delhi, I once tossed a collection of unflattering photographs of me, Ravi, our children, my parents and a few friends. Some weeks later, visiting a family living in a slum outside our flat, I came fact-to-face with a picture of me, eyes closed, mouth open, looking drop-dead ugly, yet, for all that, still pinned up on their wall. Next to the picture of me was a photo of my parents, laughing with the Hornsbys - old friends who had never been to India and whom none of the slum family knew or would ever know. No worries! How can you throw away a photograph?<br /><br />So I should have known that the statue of Jesus, Christ the Redeemer, a replica of one of the New Seven Wonders of the World, after all, would not stay long in a dust bin. And indeed, it was Vijay, Vikram's son, who first spotted him and, disapproving and perhaps even horrified, rescued him from oblivion.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzk4jYccBr7O4RzrfAAH7IrC83ghRkE4nfb-siBPmpmSeSisCzmWDTdZ7eFWd8oLgMLVN1o0W_yo11FPGv8yG6SRWnl1_n0qYPTtNtQVMfrtabX-iaN8FOPm9YDa_OuyWbFPGgvisU0w/s1600/Disapproving.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzk4jYccBr7O4RzrfAAH7IrC83ghRkE4nfb-siBPmpmSeSisCzmWDTdZ7eFWd8oLgMLVN1o0W_yo11FPGv8yG6SRWnl1_n0qYPTtNtQVMfrtabX-iaN8FOPm9YDa_OuyWbFPGgvisU0w/s400/Disapproving.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622603275993576162" /></a><br /><br />Look at that expression. What was I thinking? There was no way I was going to convince this child that I didn't need or want such a glistening white statue. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwsZcNASuRFanCUmUWokhmI92xKiehrcNKk93Oy_DRriaGa6D-_Poe51wmQGc8YCqm7XFgOG1iBmHxgjQU_CDQSlJn4Fixc45h791NMpSkwOQhuQ4QhRcMliXvwbZJyIubdRnkKIW0w/s1600/IMG_8467.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwsZcNASuRFanCUmUWokhmI92xKiehrcNKk93Oy_DRriaGa6D-_Poe51wmQGc8YCqm7XFgOG1iBmHxgjQU_CDQSlJn4Fixc45h791NMpSkwOQhuQ4QhRcMliXvwbZJyIubdRnkKIW0w/s400/IMG_8467.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622607570488805154" /></a><br /><br />Lovingly, carefully, respectfully, Vijay placed this version of Christ the Redeemer up on our wall. Beside the gatepost lamp, next to the flowering vine. I took it down that evening and put it into the mailbox where it could only be seen from inside the house. The next morning, it was back up on the wall. "EVERYONE can see it if it's up here," he said solemnly.<br /><br />So now I'm getting used to it. I try to be secular and tolerant, respectful of all religions and wary of pushing my own. But this little boy and his <span style="font-style:italic;">genuine</span> tolerance have taught me a thing or two. In the circle of respect and true religion he has drawn for me, I find I can now look out the kitchen window at my friend Jesus and feel not only enveloped but restored. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtPCl8_dl6twp74Dpqco50gcPCqjpdv86_1z-VHAcJv3aC27ISG5Z_p82bFeQijdKrK2EsVOBtXWbPZM7khhNk_tnHxRY5W_d9lYZzKp2FfchFFCqOEHJRLyEDLP7BRVcjCbSA0NsEA/s1600/Rio_Corcovado_Pain_de_Sucre.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNtPCl8_dl6twp74Dpqco50gcPCqjpdv86_1z-VHAcJv3aC27ISG5Z_p82bFeQijdKrK2EsVOBtXWbPZM7khhNk_tnHxRY5W_d9lYZzKp2FfchFFCqOEHJRLyEDLP7BRVcjCbSA0NsEA/s400/Rio_Corcovado_Pain_de_Sucre.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622723432650602914" /></a><br /><br />"The eternal God shall be thy dwelling place," the Good Book says. "And underneath are the everlasting arms." Vijay, in his simplicity, has led me by the hand back to my true home.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-88805736951282689752011-06-24T12:04:00.006+05:302011-06-24T20:06:16.745+05:30One of OursWhat a week I've had. A series of amazing meetings in Delhi, Bangalore and Mumbai - each one a little gem of perfection and good will, each one filling me with a sense of accomplishment and well-being. By the time I reached the airport in Mumbai on the final leg of the long journey - homeward bound at last! - I was sailing. Sitting in a coffee shop by the departure gate, I had to keep hugging myself or I would have been squealing with delight.<br /><br />Across the concourse, I watched a boy walking toward me. He was about 13 and he was moving carefully, managing to roll his suitcase behind him while clutching a boarding pass in his other hand, keeping an eye on the people going past him, noting the three stairs he would soon have to go down, navigating around a pillar and keeping his parents well in view - all at the same time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgA1Zr6XduyLkwvCdGvS6UY2Lq304XaPiYFK7PFw1L5a9GeOQH2kSZEDZ0UIr1uTavylH1ueebX-tp-s4Ck8p-4-jbQ0J5OosA0G2mB_h0iKy32JwmM61aYLK2Skpdu2tJ-XhqTH9eQ/s1600/Young+Man.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgA1Zr6XduyLkwvCdGvS6UY2Lq304XaPiYFK7PFw1L5a9GeOQH2kSZEDZ0UIr1uTavylH1ueebX-tp-s4Ck8p-4-jbQ0J5OosA0G2mB_h0iKy32JwmM61aYLK2Skpdu2tJ-XhqTH9eQ/s400/Young+Man.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621752763703812274" /></a><br /><br />Even from a distance, I could see that he was one of ours. I watched him with respect and a strange sort of pride: I don't know him or his parents and unless the fates conspire, we will probably never meet; but I was proud of him nonetheless. I could see how the simple tasks we take for granted when traveling were a challenge for him and I could guess how hard he must have worked to master them. <br /><br />And I was struck, as I so often am, by how lucky we are - those of us who are a part of the world of special needs. We can put our "accomplishments" in perspective because we work with people for whom every hour of the light and dark are miracles and we know that theirs are the true achievements, born of ceaseless endeavor. We can cope with the inevitable bad weeks that will follow the good like this one just past because we've seen in real life the meaning of determination, perseverance and triumph. And we can admit to weakness and not feel ashamed because we get our inspiration from people - their weaknesses on display for all to see - who go on astounding us with their power, grace and strength.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsVTNMvfY9xN1hw-CVusWgA3SNZ66nG-KgQw7-Ff8lvmfByoHc_qLEuBz1QWYTtzkqCWPGjkTi5DYHLorsGM6cl0AA8mcb3AsAwUVRuVIVjwhyMT_UWWYDNO_kQ5oyY1fq09JvNLKIg/s1600/Shalabh.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxsVTNMvfY9xN1hw-CVusWgA3SNZ66nG-KgQw7-Ff8lvmfByoHc_qLEuBz1QWYTtzkqCWPGjkTi5DYHLorsGM6cl0AA8mcb3AsAwUVRuVIVjwhyMT_UWWYDNO_kQ5oyY1fq09JvNLKIg/s400/Shalabh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621761676424995394" /></a><br /><br />I watched that boy with pride and emotion, moved beyond words to be a part of his world, glad beyond telling to be able to share his story.<br /><br />Photos by Erin Steigerwalt (C) Erin SteigerwaltJo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-7589738054363460552011-06-23T23:46:00.001+05:302011-06-23T23:46:43.568+05:30Soap NutsI love doing laundry. I enjoy sorting the clothes by color and fabric, choosing the water temperature and pushing all the machine's buttons. (For many years, we washed clothes by hand. I did not enjoy that. Nothing like a washing machine for reducing drudge work. Every home should have one.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjMebx2FCUB_RTTbusluXtHC3eejgYjSSt1jZ_ql1tOzzBWKNdUER7ZXXHak52t6TWw6OWt92zLNLrT6PwVpae4gXg1HZ2yTrLzS1T_0V5eoAOxYqsYaTgw5vFdlydxHDoursmo71DA/s1600/IMG_7357.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivjMebx2FCUB_RTTbusluXtHC3eejgYjSSt1jZ_ql1tOzzBWKNdUER7ZXXHak52t6TWw6OWt92zLNLrT6PwVpae4gXg1HZ2yTrLzS1T_0V5eoAOxYqsYaTgw5vFdlydxHDoursmo71DA/s400/IMG_7357.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621391726180287442" /></a><br /><br />I especially love hanging clothes to dry. What a satisfying feeling, to give each piece an expert f-l-i-p, and place it neatly on the rack to flutter in the warm breeze. We hang ours on the roof-terrace, where all the neighbors can see what I'm up to as they do theirs. I am not an early riser, as they all are, so my status was somewhat pathetic as our clothes never appeared on the racks until long after theirs were done and folded. Then I discovered a little trick. I do a few loads late at night (when my neighbors are all no doubt sleeping - SO LAZY!) and now emerge proud and industrious almost as early as they do. <br /><br />We do a ton of laundry in our house. Moy Moy produces most of it, but a household of five, plus Vikram's family, plus frequent guests means we use a lot of water, a lot of electricity and a LOT of laundry detergent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95myF68g2kOrweBquSDIbKVpIvbpQ-UAg7ovnokaalcjguo2OY8zbZ09C4RGW4NMWymHJDPdnKKNw29N08_0UgOnMu8avqqSbFqcn8vcn8nrHoaM6gsEHlCTFZ7zeSTYfRbVre4ECvg/s1600/IMG_7359.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95myF68g2kOrweBquSDIbKVpIvbpQ-UAg7ovnokaalcjguo2OY8zbZ09C4RGW4NMWymHJDPdnKKNw29N08_0UgOnMu8avqqSbFqcn8vcn8nrHoaM6gsEHlCTFZ7zeSTYfRbVre4ECvg/s400/IMG_7359.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621394710463393314" /></a><br /><br />I love washing machines. Like Gandhiji and the Singer Sewing Machine, I believe the washing machine is one of the greatest inventions of our time. But laundry detergent? I cannot stand it. It's wildly expensive, for one thing and the strain on our budget given the amount of it we require, strikes me as criminal.<br /><br />But even worse (she says nobly) is the damage it does to the environment. In what seems a counter-intuitive process, the very substance which produces clean clothes also causes lasting and extensive filth in our environment. The <a href="http://www.europarl.europa.eu/en/pressroom/content/20110614IPR21332/html/Environment-Committee-calls-for-laundry-and-dishwasher-detergent-phosphate-ban">European Parliament's Environment Committee</a> has just called for a complete ban on phosphates (the worst offenders in the chemical makeup of laundry powders) in detergents. <br /><br />The reason is simple: "Phosphates released into water cause algae to grow at the expense of other aquatic life. This phenomenon, known as "eutrophication", can cause "red tides" or "green tides". The leading sources of phosphate discharge into surface waters are agriculture and sewage. Detergents come third."<br /><br />The European Parliament wants this ban to come into effect from 2013.<br /><br />But here in India, we don't need to wait so long. <br /><br />Who remembers <span style="font-style:italic;">REETHA</span>? Also known as soap-nuts. Soap-nuts! Such a charming name for what is actually an almost miraculous little product. I was first introduced to them by Priyanka, a friend who is trying to market healthy, environmentally safe products. Soap Nuts is her first venture, and she's already got me sold.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJhsuS1jmxchMB9vk7Temkbl67CYRPdK4jDlBw55A1cnVUEa38cKOBB5-6wzc7hORQiI4LJ0G1-c97ynBvnLkVWURvS1EuEsjqFxFHJFyrd9YIzztuPDgqpw5BH4pIhuRC5vybMbpQw/s1600/IMG_7362.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJhsuS1jmxchMB9vk7Temkbl67CYRPdK4jDlBw55A1cnVUEa38cKOBB5-6wzc7hORQiI4LJ0G1-c97ynBvnLkVWURvS1EuEsjqFxFHJFyrd9YIzztuPDgqpw5BH4pIhuRC5vybMbpQw/s400/IMG_7362.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621472624946942898" /></a><br /><br />When she first told me about them - a totally natural soap which grows on trees - I couldn't believe it. Turns out everyone's grandmother knows about them, and has used them for generations. You can buy them in an old-fashioned grocery if you have to, but if you are lucky enough to live in Dehradun, you can just walk down to the tea gardens and pick them up off the ground.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tbUKf_KdtL_pW4V56U2__x6vMBYnRQtUBJIS6f_v-TW-NVWwxAbs_Q-R4LjO_XN34fqAWxZSnyRQLs_c66LENVMXz1WB4xl9AGbdSz0NrzbpMxdZdWZpzZCSXlmc3246WjUXhDTV1w/s1600/soap+nut+tree.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tbUKf_KdtL_pW4V56U2__x6vMBYnRQtUBJIS6f_v-TW-NVWwxAbs_Q-R4LjO_XN34fqAWxZSnyRQLs_c66LENVMXz1WB4xl9AGbdSz0NrzbpMxdZdWZpzZCSXlmc3246WjUXhDTV1w/s400/soap+nut+tree.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621473220066871506" /></a><br /><br />I was even luckier. Priyanka gave me a box of my own. Each box comes with a sweet little white cloth pouch with a drawstring closure. You put four or five nuts in the pouch, tie it shut, and toss it into the machine. No need for detergent. Even better? You can use them again. And again. Priyanka's experiments indicate that one pouch full will last three or four loads if you use cold water. (In hot water, you can only use it once.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGZ2qqA7pbLpgqMFnFarugPdwo4E-zATyXvvNDq93VPS1lvuHyjuSbhwZ0dv32EGGf_KPMxykO_vJPG8q2mqLixWsY1lnTU3LcRTa0hEX8hpZ7vBVCjNNHwfxmnbejMinbzGkDfFR4Q/s1600/soap+nuts.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGZ2qqA7pbLpgqMFnFarugPdwo4E-zATyXvvNDq93VPS1lvuHyjuSbhwZ0dv32EGGf_KPMxykO_vJPG8q2mqLixWsY1lnTU3LcRTa0hEX8hpZ7vBVCjNNHwfxmnbejMinbzGkDfFR4Q/s400/soap+nuts.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621472965089380722" /></a><br /><br />Priyanka was a font of information. She told me that Soap Nuts are actually not nuts at all, but berries and that they come in two varieties: sapindus trifoliatus (Small Soap Nut) and sapindus mukorossi (Large Soap Nut). The Large Soap Nut is the most commonly used in cleaning (probably due to its size & ease of harvesting), but both varieties are effective.<br /><br />Soap Nuts contain large quantities of saponin in their shells, which acts as a natural, gentle detergent when it comes into contact with water. Without added chemicals, fragrances or dyes, Soap Nuts are safe and gentle for handwashing delicates, yet tough enough for regular laundry. They will leave your laundry soft, clean and fragrance free, without the use of fabric softeners. They are also good for people with soap allergies as they contain no artificial dyes or fragrances - the usual source of allergies for people with sensitive skin.<br /><br />All excited, I showed the nuts to Padma, who helps in the house and who often does the laundry. "Can you believe this?" I asked her. "They're free! We don't have to buy Surf anymore."<br /><br />"Oh, <span style="font-style:italic;">reetha</span>," she said, dismissively. "We get them from the tea gardens all the time."<br /><br />I could see she wasn't impressed. "Let's try it," I insisted. And for a few days, she dutifully filled the little white bag and tossed them in. <br /><br />Finally one morning she said - a bit urgently - that we really HAD to go back to Surf. "Moy's clothes aren't coming out clean," she said accusingly. <br /><br />This was very amusing because just a few months earlier, I had said the same thing to her. Moy drools a lot and saliva, surprisingly, leaves stains which are quite difficult to remove. When I had pointed it out to Padma, she had explained that even with hand-scrubbing (with Surf), she wasn't able to get them clean. That, somehow, was acceptable. Not getting them clean with <span style="font-style:italic;">reetha</span> was not. <br /><br />So the lesson? If you pay for something and it doesn't work, at least you've tried your best. If you get it for free and it doesn't work, well, what else can you expect?<br /><br />I am a convert. I'm all for <span style="font-style:italic;">reetha</span>. But I've still got to work on Padma. She's a tough little soap nut to crack.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-57773931009302013612011-06-17T19:15:00.001+05:302011-06-17T19:21:35.101+05:30No Helmet, No KeyOk, maybe I get a little carried away. Frequent angry outbursts while driving, teaching people "lessons" on the road, turning errant children over to their parents and, occasionally, a citizen's arrest. Idiots behind the wheel make my blood boil and I can't seem to escape the missionary's zeal to <a href="http://jochopra.blogspot.com/2009/09/instructing-ignorant.html">instruct the ignorant</a>.<br /><br />But for all my ranting and scolding, I don't make much headway. People look at me with mild curiosity when I stay in the left lane to make a right turn and there have been times I've created havoc on the road by stopping to allow an elderly person to cross. Nobody ever changes their ways.<br /><br />Today, I think I made a difference.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUGCa8lVRAVvFvP_GxhLd3kdYGUR6R8aGvw96s37W4bIYyS2i5wt6cZeoTz7IgjPxdt_Q0Bm5HnY54KwGPloXjSH6rMouHD_Ojpud1eeJeRZZkeghfw28IZA8nhb3IzB1oqGns07rzw/s1600/IMG_8009.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeUGCa8lVRAVvFvP_GxhLd3kdYGUR6R8aGvw96s37W4bIYyS2i5wt6cZeoTz7IgjPxdt_Q0Bm5HnY54KwGPloXjSH6rMouHD_Ojpud1eeJeRZZkeghfw28IZA8nhb3IzB1oqGns07rzw/s400/IMG_8009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619176492564132290" /></a><br /><br />Naina, beautiful Naina, comes every day to look after Moy Moy while I am at work. After scrimping for over a year, she recently saved enough to buy a scooter and she now sails in through the gate with pride every afternoon. At my insistence, she also bought herself a helmet.<br /><br />One evening, she stayed late so I could attend a dinner program. As she was leaving, I noticed that she hadn't put her helmet on. I asked her about it and she said "Didi, it's dark now - who'll see whether I've got it on or not?"<br /><br />Big lecture on the purpose of wearing a helmet. Embarrassed agreement. A promise extracted never to ride without a helmet and then the satisfaction of seeing her drive off suitably protected.<br /><br />A few weeks later, she arrived bareheaded. "Naina?" I said, in that warning tone I do so well.<br /><br />"Sorry, didi," she said laughing. "I forgot. I promise I'll remember tomorrow."<br /><br />I stood looking at her for a moment. Naina's mother died recently and her father is long gone. If she were my daughter, I would simply lay down the law. And I would do it with very good reason. We have two staff members in the Foundation and one in my husband's organization who have suffered head injuries in road accidents. They will never be quite the same. Their example is a living and constant reminder of the dangers of reckless driving, yet Naina and countless other young people like her continue to believe their youth and vitality will protect them and that nothing could ever possibly happen to them.<br /><br />Laws exist not only to protect society from criminals but to protect us from ourselves. Helmet laws are a good example, yet they are routinely and openly defied here in India and nothing ever happens. Our roads are a sea of chaos and catastrophe as a result.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIDfkoz0IoNiC4igWBPiU6vyXLRTGOkeM3VU4gBT-uzg8QLF9MEvxt04h28hZlsQwp7X1O8FhMT6R7bJ1SpCdW8cabq7zS0OOPH6QUcQIEEB73y7eRumj4KgGzzPxHgig-E5xUhJpwQ/s1600/Traffic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIDfkoz0IoNiC4igWBPiU6vyXLRTGOkeM3VU4gBT-uzg8QLF9MEvxt04h28hZlsQwp7X1O8FhMT6R7bJ1SpCdW8cabq7zS0OOPH6QUcQIEEB73y7eRumj4KgGzzPxHgig-E5xUhJpwQ/s400/Traffic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619176842945487314" /></a><br /><br />Well, Naina, and everyone else in the Foundation, here's a message:<br /><br />"The law is the embodiment <br />of everything that's excellent.<br />It has no sort of fault or flaw<br />And I, my dears, embody the law."<br /><br />"Naina", I said sternly, "If I ever see you without a helmet again, I will take your key away from you for 24 hours. If it happens again, I'll take it for a week."<br /><br />This morning she arrived in a hurry, helmet carefully stowed on the hook at her feet, head unprotected. <br /><br />"Naina, the key," I said, hand outstretched. <br /><br />She laughed, apologized.<br /><br />I didn't even smile. Hardened my heart, kept my hand out, stared her down.<br /><br />Chastened, not quite believing, she gave me the key and I hid it in Ravi's desk. All day, she kept laughing and trying to get me to change my mind, as if the whole thing was a joke which would soon be over. <br /><br />As luck would have it, I was to take the train to Delhi this evening. My rickshaw came to take me to the station and still not quite able to accept that I meant it, she pleaded with me for one more chance. Even Masiji put in a word for her. "Forgive her," she whispered. "She's learned her lesson."<br /><br />I was about her age when I got my first speeding ticket. I had been driving nearly 80 miles an hour. Just like the state trooper who pulled me over and wrote out the ticket calmly and impassively, impervious to my pleas, my tears and my promises, I refused to entertain her. I simply picked up my suitcase and said I believed her when she said she would never forget again. I was going to make sure of it. Then I headed out the door.<br /><br />Five minutes ago (I'm writing this on the train) she called from my house to beg me to tell Ravi to give it to her. "My brothers are here, too," she said. "What will I tell them?"<br /><br />"Naina, I said. "You tell them your mother is watching what I am doing from her spot in heaven and she is <span style="font-style:italic;">cheering</span>. She can't believe her luck. She cannot believe that someone is watching out for her little girl just as she would have."Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4282611045408078347.post-19561222668799108732011-06-14T00:16:00.002+05:302011-06-14T22:45:45.921+05:30It Only Takes Twice As LongChildren - OH MY GOSH - really want to be useful. Vijay and Lakshi plague me for things to do, ways they can help (they are particularly fond of tasks which involve spray bottles of cleaning fluids, washing dishes or mixing cake batter). I try to come up with tasks. <br /><br />A few days ago, I gave them <a href="http://jochopra.blogspot.com/2011/06/water-works.html">a laundry assignment</a>. Big hit.<br /><br />Never establish a precedent with children. Don't even give them a chance to have expectations. I made the mistake of telling them there was another important job for them which they could do the next day. With difficulty, their Mom managed to restrain them from coming down until 2:30 (I was at work until two). She told me later that they said I was WAITING for them because I needed their help on an important job.<br /><br />When they finally escaped, they scampered in to the house, full of energy and purpose. "MOM!" Lakshi shouted. "Where's our job?"<br /><br />Thinking fast (I had totally forgotten yesterday's offhand remark which they had grabbed on to as a Divine Order), I asked them to carry the huge collection of Moy's empty Ensure tins from the kitchen to the car - a distance of about 25 steps, and a stack of newspapers from the hall closet to the recycle pile outside. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizarHNCX3SwqPW8-7mBMJvNbhyTa3rSAIKtWVjZxyU9Ge141Xv2QX4d0Tpm4OpQz70qQ82nWIu4dMSDehmm_Fr5FyOw_IqJrXzUE5-8oCd-PvlZVC8s-UA7mWvkO8nsgNYQzi_8bRT-A/s1600/The+project.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizarHNCX3SwqPW8-7mBMJvNbhyTa3rSAIKtWVjZxyU9Ge141Xv2QX4d0Tpm4OpQz70qQ82nWIu4dMSDehmm_Fr5FyOw_IqJrXzUE5-8oCd-PvlZVC8s-UA7mWvkO8nsgNYQzi_8bRT-A/s400/The+project.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618115835408928242" /></a><br /><br />It would have taken me around five minutes to do it all myself. Lakshi and Vijay? <br /><br />Hard to say, actually. There were so many diversions.<br /><br />The boy needed a rest almost immediately.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1H7xiVQfvoNhiDIsLBFBsWLVmjR-zaxONOwzpJe2tzZK9c3NjMsHvd07wAquF26Sx_-k7Bo4aDpSv9RJ0iGAiEagY1RjBfgLTc00wBIOlWATGy63ixhkc3WAP5a5ms4EW8gw21FxJmg/s1600/Boy+resting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1H7xiVQfvoNhiDIsLBFBsWLVmjR-zaxONOwzpJe2tzZK9c3NjMsHvd07wAquF26Sx_-k7Bo4aDpSv9RJ0iGAiEagY1RjBfgLTc00wBIOlWATGy63ixhkc3WAP5a5ms4EW8gw21FxJmg/s400/Boy+resting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618118225832785506" /></a><br /><br />while the girl, typically, continued to toil . . .<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCQ2b2ZVy7RyZQMkmqgYB92x13bUpr3PdUX_YF8EX1ETUjFPDiaOwspJJWm3cCoRrjFQ-GFFoA_rCObk3r_u-LohmZNwOhLqNXoTk7Fa8U-0mnB1_TmNl9DW6B3j-LfkLmzwj3IBHDw/s1600/Girl+working%252C+boy+resting.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiCQ2b2ZVy7RyZQMkmqgYB92x13bUpr3PdUX_YF8EX1ETUjFPDiaOwspJJWm3cCoRrjFQ-GFFoA_rCObk3r_u-LohmZNwOhLqNXoTk7Fa8U-0mnB1_TmNl9DW6B3j-LfkLmzwj3IBHDw/s400/Girl+working%252C+boy+resting.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618118528135808482" /></a><br /><br />till she decided she needed a rest as well:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDEKR-Vsi7Qdm6H5_3aXxyQlwTvz3somS4rEJgNOuffevgRGHdbmk3yZ_P-MJcOyLz1nnLyDjsc39OAwjGjWU4ytIdquWytzFsY4X60y3pz7yEcqdA2T1c94mZsfRB0okNlDLE4sMxw/s1600/Girl+thrilled.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDEKR-Vsi7Qdm6H5_3aXxyQlwTvz3somS4rEJgNOuffevgRGHdbmk3yZ_P-MJcOyLz1nnLyDjsc39OAwjGjWU4ytIdquWytzFsY4X60y3pz7yEcqdA2T1c94mZsfRB0okNlDLE4sMxw/s400/Girl+thrilled.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618118968920811362" /></a><br /><br />after which she discovered the drumming potential of all those plastic lids:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ3eLwP16mOyM5_yZtPEVtI2JjgKHdKP9XXzOfbkdOYB04nqU2pz4dQEv3MMMZS80xvwPPxNAeYNqG7TPiqFFSi4BEz9pZw370He7qKKk_xu2AoF46XicmXbqJXdtdAaP86bE6Bj8Kg/s1600/Girl+drumming.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJ3eLwP16mOyM5_yZtPEVtI2JjgKHdKP9XXzOfbkdOYB04nqU2pz4dQEv3MMMZS80xvwPPxNAeYNqG7TPiqFFSi4BEz9pZw370He7qKKk_xu2AoF46XicmXbqJXdtdAaP86bE6Bj8Kg/s400/Girl+drumming.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618120417169382258" /></a><br /><br />The newspapers had to be scanned for cartoons and recognizable words before they could be carried out:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_bbwnP-33lvxLI6VbRdl235LjZoh9K4LGxTv4IU6AnLnROS_91H26QHmMFn5XHP5ULxmrV6YO__8YEfyi0IlJDAD7EGHYyOxBo7cmcu9gIsDxlSE_EnHqDQlrt62BBZamZKdqFmraQ/s1600/IMG_7992.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_bbwnP-33lvxLI6VbRdl235LjZoh9K4LGxTv4IU6AnLnROS_91H26QHmMFn5XHP5ULxmrV6YO__8YEfyi0IlJDAD7EGHYyOxBo7cmcu9gIsDxlSE_EnHqDQlrt62BBZamZKdqFmraQ/s400/IMG_7992.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618123530800260946" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GVmOoxEXYySQWCPEyP15Hd15tM5oG_pKaAXPxcYImA7eYQaaSF6BKmVvgntTO9Wt8E7AlpurizzOyZK5xOXS7ux9omhfIjJ-7TA_wxZG2XUxNV7qUYuzOYuQ5Owxu2SPiYHCwE65kg/s1600/IMG_7983.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0GVmOoxEXYySQWCPEyP15Hd15tM5oG_pKaAXPxcYImA7eYQaaSF6BKmVvgntTO9Wt8E7AlpurizzOyZK5xOXS7ux9omhfIjJ-7TA_wxZG2XUxNV7qUYuzOYuQ5Owxu2SPiYHCwE65kg/s400/IMG_7983.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618123064920125330" /></a><br /><br />Two hours later, my important job was finally done.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57_4e8x9IW57RszqrGv_BWIdff8-KCDkVq2iwc4cHGfXCWCTpX34w6spMMcHtqHAlX76Xf_STpzKYinEDl1aj59oLabZ-m5rdpc9XNofzF6SkQM1r3zfzj29O1AiYMXeh2RseBF9OvA/s1600/Girl+with+papers.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh57_4e8x9IW57RszqrGv_BWIdff8-KCDkVq2iwc4cHGfXCWCTpX34w6spMMcHtqHAlX76Xf_STpzKYinEDl1aj59oLabZ-m5rdpc9XNofzF6SkQM1r3zfzj29O1AiYMXeh2RseBF9OvA/s400/Girl+with+papers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618124456790201794" /></a> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFyl5OcZRBZ5G4OuDtAIFb17Aj8VC1m8GJD775yKzP-48-c71X27WclpnaMq3q8KGmKLSVJN7bRkAYprcbCtR4uxVix9jwfiuPpi32qlBuFUSiAGlWA6nyArGMEZSJK17BJxOjj1kqWg/s1600/Boy+with+papers.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFyl5OcZRBZ5G4OuDtAIFb17Aj8VC1m8GJD775yKzP-48-c71X27WclpnaMq3q8KGmKLSVJN7bRkAYprcbCtR4uxVix9jwfiuPpi32qlBuFUSiAGlWA6nyArGMEZSJK17BJxOjj1kqWg/s400/Boy+with+papers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618124674523432722" /></a><br /><br />They were ready for the next assignment. I was ready for bed.Jo Chopra McGowanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15663017534433599497noreply@blogger.com0