By Little and By Little

New Post at My New Home

2011-08-28T23:57:00.002+05:30

Hello there! I'm still blogging, just in a new place.

Please drop by by clicking on this link!

Up, up and away . . .

2011-08-22T01:43:00.006+05:30

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.

"Doon EIC," it said, clear as mud.

"Right here," I replied, leading her in to the centre. And right then I decided we needed a better system.

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.

But of course, fun and easy for our users means work and effort for us.

On Saturday, a gang of us descended on the Doon Hospital with hammer and nails.

That was for the signs.

But for the balloons, it was paint and brushes and playing to the galleries.

Everyone was curious. Everyone was interested. Who are these people? What the heck are they up to?

Some stayed to find out:

. . . 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.

New Post!

2011-08-19T00:03:00.000+05:30

Please check my new blog address for the latest post!: http://latikaroy.org/jo/

A New Home For My Blog!

2011-08-14T08:52:00.002+05:30

I've moved! My blog is now a part of our gorgeous new website (thanks, Sidd!)

You can go there directly by using this link: latikaroy.org/jo

An Open Heart For The Stranger

2011-08-13T09:51:00.004+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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?

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?

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?

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.

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.

Lakshi Fails PKG

2011-08-12T15:42:00.006+05:30

On Saturday, Vijay and Lakshi got their "results."

"What are results?" Lakshi asked.

"How you did on your papers," her Mom explained.

"I didn't do any papers," Lakshi insisted. "Ma'am did them."

Nonetheless, off they trotted that morning, their parents in tow.

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."

Absolutely true. Vijay is a brilliant boy - sharp, observant, curious.

But Lakshi is no less, in spite of having all zeroes. FAIL! Lakshi failed PKG.

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?"

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).

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.

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."

Lakshi is three.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Lakshi is looking at us expectantly.

Have we got anything new, anything beyond false measurements and labels like "FAILURE" to offer her?

Where's That Net Again?

2011-08-03T23:00:00.003+05:30

I hate to admit it, but I'm desperate. Again.

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?)

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?

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.

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!"

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.

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.

Just leap, I have been fond of saying. The net will appear.

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.

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.

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.

But we leap and we leap and we leap - ever higher, ever more agile.

That net, that darling net: it's there every time.

One Young Scholar, Two Young Dreamers

2011-07-31T22:57:00.005+05:30

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.

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.

I salute them.

They astonish me.

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.

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.

They are our future and our legacy. They pin their hopes on us and we dare not disappoint them.

(Photo of the two young dreamers by Muir Adams)

Asian Green Beans

2011-07-31T17:09:00.002+05:30

My 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.

Here's her recipe for and her story about the garlicky green beans many of us love in Chinese restaurants in the US.

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.
INGREDIENTS:
1. Slightly blanched green beans (keep them crisp)
2.Chopped garlic
3.shoyu- soy sauce
4.olive oil

Get your pan or wok pretty hot, but not smoking hot.
Add some olive oil, green beans
and then a lot of chopped garlic
stir it until the garlic is golden only.

AS SOON AS GARLIC TURNS GOLDEN
Add several splashes of shoyu (that's soy sauce for those of you who don't speak Hawaiian)

Viola! You made the same thing as the restaurant and you paid 10 dollars less.

This has become my all-time favorite recipe. SO EASY. SO AMAZING. Try it. I guarantee you will love it.

I "let them eat cake" all the time . . .

2011-07-31T11:19:00.004+05:30

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.

This is the classic Joy of Cooking recipe, with a few adaptations for India:

Preheat oven to 200C.

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.)

Cook and stir on a very low flame, watching like a hawk as it can burn easily:

1 cup Cadbury's Cocoa Powder (don't skimp, and don't even think of using Weikfield's)
1/2 cup milk
1 cup sugar
1 egg yolk
1/4 cup vegetable oil

Remove from heat when thickened.

(Sift before measuring: I'm just putting this because all the books say you must - I never do it):

2 cups cake flour (maida)

Resift with:

1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt

Grind to a fine-ish powder:

1 cup sugar

Beat until soft (I do this in the food processor):

100 gms Amul butter

Add the sugar gradually. Beat until very light and creamy.

Beat in, one at a time:

2 egg yolks

Still in the food processor: Add the flour to the butter mixture in 3 parts, alternating with thirds of:

1/4 cup water
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp vanilla

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:

3 egg whites

Fold them lightly into the cake batter (a quick whizz in the food processor will do it).

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.

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!

When completely cool, ice with:

100 gms Amul butter, softened
1 1/2 cups Icing sugar, sifted
3/4 cup Cocoa powder, sifted
2 Tbsps Hot Coffee

Beat it all together well, add vanilla (1 tsp) if you have it (I usually don't, so I leave it out)

Taste to make sure it's the way you like it (add more sugar or more cocoa if necessary)

Ice the cake and decorate with sprinkles, fresh pansies, an artfully placed green leaf or two.

Serve generously!

Wordless Love

2011-07-28T23:33:00.004+05:30

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.

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!"

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!"

She was four years old.

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.

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.

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:

Angel of God, my guardian dear
To whom God's love entrusts me here
Ever this night, be at my side
To light, to guard, to rule, TO _ _ _ _

I would leave the blank and Moy would fill in: "GUIDE!" with a shout of pleasure and triumph. Then she would say:

"Goodnight. I love you."
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."

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 all that matters.

How Can We Know the Dancer From The Dance?

2011-07-25T23:22:00.009+05:30

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.

We always capitalize their title. They are Speech Therapists. We restrain ourselves from writing it as SPEECH THERAPISTS.

For us, they:

Walk on water

Are worth their weight in gold

Speak with the tongues of men and of angels

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.)

But back to Meera. All I could think was Speech Therapist. How did I forget that she was also a professional dancer?

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):

When I got a moment to speak with her, she said, also surprised: "I didn't expect to see Bharatnatyam here!"

"Oh." I said, blankly. "Is that what it is?"

"She's great, Auntie! She's doing it just exactly right!"

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.

But before I could even suggest it, she had her own idea:

"Do you think they could teach me a Garhwali dance?"

Why hadn't I thought of that? Bring in the expert! was my idea.

But Meera, like a true therapist, preferred to build on someone else's strengths.

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.

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.

Meera, for all her youth, already knows that. Here is one SPEECH THERAPIST I'm keeping my eye on.

The Guest Is God

2011-07-24T01:04:00.009+05:30

No matter how many toys and books we buy, children always out-fox us by preferring:

1. our company
2. water
3. mud
4. pots and pans
5. real, concrete tasks
6. our company

At least, that's been my experience.

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!

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!).

(I'm still working on that angle. Watch this space.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Looking at Lakshi, the two merged into one: "The child is the guest and the guest is God."

Fledgling

2011-07-18T22:45:00.009+05:30

You worry about a bird that doesn't fly.

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.

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.

Or is it only mothers who see such a sight and immediately think: "Catastrophe!"???

This mother did. I assumed that death was imminent. I stroked its little back and tried to think of soothing things to murmur.

No one else seemed too concerned.

Vijay, for example, was all calm curiosity - first from a distance, and then coming in close to see what was happening..

It was when he brought Lakshi that I began to think maybe I'd gotten the wrong impression.

Her first response was like mine - worried, holding back, anxious:

yet quickly turning to interest:

and then delight, almost recognition:

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.

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.

And all that quivering and heavy breathing?

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.

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.

I like to find "sermons in stones, and good in everything," but this one is a stretch.

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.

Sometimes the fledglings decide for themselves, long before they are really ready or capable.

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.

Sometimes the fledglings opt to stay in the nest, long after they should be out on their own.

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.

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:

. . . 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.

When I came out an hour later, he was gone.

Walky-Talky

2011-07-15T23:52:00.004+05:30

What goes on in the mind of a child? Why is a swing so compelling, why does a mud puddle demand 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?

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.

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.

I can't believe I'm alone in this delight. But what is 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 - . . .

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.

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.

SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!

2011-07-14T22:14:00.005+05:30

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.

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:

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.

SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!

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!

It's Cary Grant, running desperately away from the evil crop-duster plane bent on snuffing him out.

SOME SCENES IN COLOR!!!

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!

(But she committed suicide herself. Hang on. Maybe this doesn't work.)

Well, Cary Grant, then.

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!

(Except for this: Once told by an interviewer, "Everybody would like to be Cary Grant," Grant replied, "So would I.")

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?

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.

The Cup of Grace

2011-07-14T00:08:00.004+05:30

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Vina Srivastava Is My Hero

2011-07-08T10:00:00.002+05:30

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.

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.

Start with the garden.

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.

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.

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.

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 - and remembers - 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."

And finally, her amazing relationship with her children and the wonderful people they have filled her life with.

Everyone wants to be part of the Srivastava circle because they all have so much fun with each other. They travel in packs (dozens 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.

And the centre of their turning world? Vina. Is me koi shak hai?

Teachers Are Like Gardeners

2011-07-06T20:33:00.007+05:30

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 work and I can justify going to visit her in Mumbai for the same reason.

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.

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.

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.

Surprise!

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?""

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!

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 assured 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.

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 fun.

Who better to set the tone and raise the bar than Vibha and Roopa?

A little aside, a kind of metaphor for what they did here.

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 spectacular one-night performance and it's easy to miss).

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:

opening in its show-off style the night of the very day they departed:

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.

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!

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.

The Picnic Rebellion

2011-06-30T23:15:00.009+05:30

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.

"Ma'am," he said, a bit embarrassed. "Lakshi wants to talk to you."

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?

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.

"Kya hua, Lakshi?"

"Why can't I go for the picnic?" Straight to the point. That's my Lakshi.

"The picnic is for the older kids," I said, already feeling inadequate. "You have to be six years old to go."

Lakshi's face shut down. "Humph," I could almost hear her saying. The only thing stopping her was not knowing the word.

"You used me for the Latika Vihar dance," she said accusingly.

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.

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.

Except, perhaps, for Lakshi.

Grandchildren of staff (honorary or not) are allowed, I decided on the spot. Those eyes.

"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."

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.

Trust.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

The Everlasting Arms

2011-06-26T23:43:00.008+05:30

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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 genuine 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.

"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.

One of Ours

2011-06-24T12:04:00.006+05:30

What 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Photos by Erin Steigerwalt (C) Erin Steigerwalt

Soap Nuts

2011-06-23T23:46:00.001+05:30

I 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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 European Parliament's Environment Committee has just called for a complete ban on phosphates (the worst offenders in the chemical makeup of laundry powders) in detergents.

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."

The European Parliament wants this ban to come into effect from 2013.

But here in India, we don't need to wait so long.

Who remembers REETHA? 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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."

"Oh, reetha," she said, dismissively. "We get them from the tea gardens all the time."

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.

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.

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 reetha was not.

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?

I am a convert. I'm all for reetha. But I've still got to work on Padma. She's a tough little soap nut to crack.

No Helmet, No Key

2011-06-17T19:15:00.001+05:30

Ok, 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 instruct the ignorant.

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.

Today, I think I made a difference.

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.

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?"

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.

A few weeks later, she arrived bareheaded. "Naina?" I said, in that warning tone I do so well.

"Sorry, didi," she said laughing. "I forgot. I promise I'll remember tomorrow."

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.

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.

Well, Naina, and everyone else in the Foundation, here's a message:

"The law is the embodiment
of everything that's excellent.
It has no sort of fault or flaw
And I, my dears, embody the law."

"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."

This morning she arrived in a hurry, helmet carefully stowed on the hook at her feet, head unprotected.

"Naina, the key," I said, hand outstretched.

She laughed, apologized.

I didn't even smile. Hardened my heart, kept my hand out, stared her down.

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.

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."

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.

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?"

"Naina, I said. "You tell them your mother is watching what I am doing from her spot in heaven and she is cheering. She can't believe her luck. She cannot believe that someone is watching out for her little girl just as she would have."

It Only Takes Twice As Long

2011-06-14T00:16:00.002+05:30

Children - 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.

A few days ago, I gave them a laundry assignment. Big hit.

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.

When they finally escaped, they scampered in to the house, full of energy and purpose. "MOM!" Lakshi shouted. "Where's our job?"

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.

It would have taken me around five minutes to do it all myself. Lakshi and Vijay?

Hard to say, actually. There were so many diversions.

The boy needed a rest almost immediately.

while the girl, typically, continued to toil . . .

till she decided she needed a rest as well:

after which she discovered the drumming potential of all those plastic lids:

The newspapers had to be scanned for cartoons and recognizable words before they could be carried out:

Two hours later, my important job was finally done.

They were ready for the next assignment. I was ready for bed.

The Good Shepherd, Part 2

2011-06-12T00:14:00.008+05:30

Ram Chandra is a shepherd. It's not often we run into shepherds these days, so this feels like an occasion. I've seen him on our streets for years, but it wasn't till recently that I actually stopped to converse with him. I wrote about our first encounter here and when I did, it turned out that eveyone in our neighborhood knew him too.

Though nobody, including me, knew his name.

Now we do. I met one of his relatives a few evenings after writing my post and once he'd determined that I meant no harm (they are accustomed to the ridicule of the streets, the taunts of small children and the accusations of "upstanding citizens"), he told me that Ram Chandra had a speech defect, but that he was a good man and a hard worker.

THAT I knew.

Now I see him everywhere.

He is always with his animals and it seems he is connected with them in ways unfathomable to - well, to non-shepherds. He seems to consult them, to defer to them, to seek their opinions and to give them serious consideration:

They trade stories and share jokes:

And like the Original Good Shepherd, he knows them, and loves them for who they are:

But I was surprised to discover today that that love is returned; that the animals he shepherds so patiently through heat and rain and the dark of night revere and regard him right back and that their connection is deep and wordless and beyond anything like a speech defect or shabby clothes.

Ram Chandra is revered. Maybe not by you or by me, but definitely by this simple beast, this animal who is not fooled by outward appearance but for whom the only truth is what is inside.

I was gone by this time. They didn't know about my zoom lens; they were not posing for the camera. This was love, pure and simple. This was the Good Shepherd, who would lay down his life for his flock.

Moy Moy's Story: It Never Gets Old

2011-06-11T01:07:00.003+05:30

Moy Moy is so much a part of our lives we sometimes forget that's not true for everyone else. So here's her story once again: the story of Moy Moy, the reason for and the inspiration of much of the work of the Latika Roy Foundation.

Moy Moy is from a remote village in the Himalayas. Her mother had been sterilized after her 12th baby – but Moy Moy was conceived anyway. Determined to get an abortion, she came down to Dehradun – and chose the one obstetrician in the city who doesn’t do them. The doctor persuaded Moy’s mother to give birth and leave the baby for her to find it a home – a few months later, coming for a routine prenatal appointment, she went into labor on the bus. The bus pulled over and Moy Moy was born on the side of the road – 12 weeks premature, weighing in at 2 pounds.

Her mother wrapped her up in a shawl and brought her in to the hospital. There was no incubator so Moy Moy was parked in a small metal crib in the nurses’ station.

Two weeks later, the story gets more personal. An American couple, both doctors, was volunteering at the hospital. When they heard about the baby, the woman said her sister would adopt her. The sister was me. And the baby, miraculously, against all odds, came into our lives and changed everything.

She wasn’t meant to be conceived, but she was. She wasn’t meant to be born, but she was. She wasn’t meant to survive, but she did. She wasn’t meant to be our daughter, but she most certainly is.

And when it turned out she needed a special school and there was none to be found in our city, it never occurred to any of us that starting one would be a problem. Now, 17 years later, Moy Moy's school serves hundreds of children from all over the state and the country. Because of her, nearly 100 people have jobs and a purpose in life that has transformed them into extraordinary bearers of good news in a world desperately in need of it.

Indeed, whenever something needs to be done and the way looks dark and the task seems impossible, we think of the child whose whole existence has been a series of impossibilities and we realize, once again, that all things are possible with faith, love and the ability to leap into the unknown.

Just leap. The net will appear.

Water Works

2011-06-09T23:28:00.015+05:30

One very hot summer afternoon, my mother stood at our kitchen window looking out at the house next door. Our neighbours were Portuguese immigrants - from the "old country". Their house was kept dark all the time and the children were seldom allowed to play outside. This particular day, we could see them lying listlessly on the screened in back porch. Every now and then, one of them would whine or cry, the mother would lose her temper and scold, more crying would ensue and the cycle never seemed to end.

My mother didn't know I was standing there watching her as she watched the scene from our kitchen window. She would never have said what she did if she had known I was there because Mom never criticized anyone out loud. But what she was watching seemed to her like child abuse.

"Oh WHY don't they put those children in water?"

Mom was a great believer in water. We spent our entire summers in it - the beach was the ultimate treat, but a wading pool in the back yard or a sprinkler on the lawn was always possible and water play of all sorts was a standard summer day prescription. She couldn't understand why a parent would prefer to listen to endless whinging when the solution was right there in plain sight.

I remembered this today when Vijay and Lakshi scampered into the kitchen - it was the hottest part of the afternoon. Moy Moy, Mummy and Masiji were all asleep and so was Vijay and Lakshi's mother. The perfect time to fight with each other, make a mess in our living room or . . . find something even more exciting to do.

When it got quiet suddenly, I went to investigate and found Vijay carefully cutting Lakshi's hair.

Put those children in water! I could hear Mom's voice roll down across the years.

In India, however, you can't just fill a pool with water or leave a hose pipe running. That's like a federal crime. So I did the next best thing.

I collected all our old rags - the ones I use for dusting and shove under the laundry basket to eventually wash in a separate load - filled a basin full of soapy water, gave each child a scrubbing brush and asked them to wash the rags for me. "I don't have time to do it myself," I explained. "I really need your help."

The children set to it with a will. For well over half an hour they scrubbed and rinsed and wrung out the cloths:

Their favorite part, though, seemed to be hanging them to dry on the little line I put up at their level:

When I wasn't out there taking photos, guess what I was doing? Making cookies for them in the kitchen! Just call me Grandma.

Lord of the Dance

2011-06-08T23:25:00.011+05:30

We talk about inclusion all the time. It's a concept, it's an issue, it's a right, it's an imperative.

At Latika Vihar, it's just the way it is. That means it may be funny and endearing (that's what we hope) or disturbing and worrying (and that we just accept and try to sort out). Today I saw both. One little girl who hurts herself repeatedly and brutally. Today she came in with her eye swollen shut and bruises all over her face. It's upsetting for everyone - the woman who looks after her followed her around helplessly, trying to distract her with the things she liked to hold yesterday, which, if she has in her hands, prevent her from punching herself. Today, those things weren't working. The other children were distressed; the whole staff was worried. We will speak with her parents, with our doctor, with a teacher who has a special bond with this child. We will figure it out. Or we won't. One of the things we keep learning is that not all problems can be solved. Some things must be endured. But we do it with love and with kindness and we try to make up for the unfairness in as many ways as we can.

Sometimes, thank God, inclusion is easy.

Here's our boy Saurabh, joining in the dance session:

He's confident enough to try out his own moves:

And he is clearly pleased with his results:

But learning to dance well is demanding. It requires discipline.

and concentration

before you can strike out on your own . . .

But once you've got it:

Oh, man, you've got it . . .

Saurabh's teacher - did you notice? - is a child not much older than he is. She's been coming to Latika Vihar since she was very small and she has taken in the idea of inclusion so naturally she couldn't begin to explain it to you. It would be like explaining how she breathes.

She listens when he speaks to her. It's really that simple.

Arun's Toy Story: The Sequel

2011-06-05T17:29:00.016+05:30

Last week I shopped for toys. Maybe you remember how successful my little spree was:

I returned home from Delhi on Friday afternoon. That night, I assembled. (Don't miss the empty wine glass, without which . . . ):

While assembling, I had plenty of time to think. I had even more time as I placed all the furniture and little dolls in the house I had put together . . .

I thought about the children at the Doon EIC who would fall in love with these toys and about the likelihood that for many of them it would be the first time in their lives they would ever have seen so many toys in one place. I thought about the fun they would have with them and then . . . well, then I let myself start thinking about all the children who wouldn't get to play with them. It's always dangerous to let a train of thought like this start. We know exactly how it will end.

It ends with a fund-raising appeal, so I'm warning you right now. Proceed at your own risk.

The next morning was Saturday. The Doon EIC would only open on Monday so I figured it would be ok to allow Lakshi and Vijay, our honorary grandchildren, to play with the toys for the weekend.

This may have been a mistake. Or maybe not.

Lakshi and Vijay were in our living room pretty much for 48 hours straight. I could see their little minds at work. Geometry puzzles deciphered

Architectural decisions made

Kids at play are the best possible argument for play itself, - and while toys aren't strictly necessary (pots and pans, sticks and stones, a bit of sand, a cup of water all work just as well), they sure do add to the fun.

I spent around Rs 46,000 on the toys and books for the Doon EIC because we were starting totally from scratch. For our other centres (Latika Vihar, Karuna Vihar, Mama EIC and Khushi), which already have the basics, I need only Rs 25,000 each. That's only $550 for each centre! A piece of cake.

But here's the story. Today is my dear brother-in-law Arun Gupta's birthday. Arun died after a biking accident in 2004, leaving a gaping hole in the lives of more people than it is possible to count. I remember Arun for so many reasons, but one of the most important is his incredible delight in life. He was born to bring joy to others, born to have fun, born to help other people (especially children!) have fun too. Every time I went home to the US for a visit, he would take my children out to buy toys and me out to buy books. Every time. "We don't need any more toys or books," I would protest. "Yes you do," he would insist.

Today, to celebrate his birth and his life, I am launching the Arun's Toy Story Campaign. In his memory and in his name, I know we will raise the $2200 we need to give our children the fun he would want them to be having.

You can send your checks made out to Latika Roy Foundation directly to us here (369/1 Vasant Vihar Enclave, Dehradun, UK, 248006, INDIA) or you can donate online here: http://www.giveindia.org/give/pledgepage/ArunsToyStory (Just be aware you have to register at GiveIndia! Takes five minutes. In the scheme of things, not much time.)

The Angle of Repose

2011-06-03T22:37:00.004+05:30

I took this photo when I was in Florida in 2008, just after my mother's death. My sister, my father and I had gone down there to meet Mom's twin sister, who was too ill to make it to Massachusetts for the funeral. Now she is gone too, as is their younger sister Sheila. It struck me only today - three years later! - that the picture (twin chairs and a singleton) is a metaphor for the MacGill sisters.

But that's not why I took it. I took it for the reminder it is of the repose and calm that I dream of and only seldom achieve. I took it for the line which limits the view - making it seem attainable, measured, just there, waiting to be floated into and embraced by.

All three sisters loved the ocean; all three of them collected shells, driftwood, stones - things they could carry home to remind them of the vastness and the mystery of the sea.

I keep this photo as a little icon: a reminder of my darling mother and her sisters and an instruction to slow down, to gaze at something beautiful, to think of nothing, to feel the warm sun and the cool breeze, to dream, to pray, to be.

The Disability Free Pass

2011-05-29T22:12:00.005+05:30

Matthew, who has a mental handicap, has five brothers and sisters. The other children get quite a few treats because of him through gestures of kindness offered by local organizations. A free afternoon at the fair, for example, or tickets to the circus: "For the handicapped and their families.” There is never any shortage of volunteers to ride shotgun with him for these fun events. After one such enjoyable outing, his sister Sophie asked her mother in conspiratorial tones: “What happens if they ever find out that Matty isn’t really handicapped?”

Matty isn't really handicapped, at least according to Sophie. He's just Matty, her older brother, whom she has known her entire life. She's not above making the most of what other people perceive, but in her own mind, she knows the score. And the truth is: Matty isn't really handicapped.

I was reminded of this story yesterday while listening to an NPR (National Public Radio) interview with Ian Brown, author of "The Boy in the Moon" a memoir of his life with his severely handicapped son, Walker.

Walker, like my daughter Moy Moy, has difficulty swallowing so he eats through a tube. It was surgically inserted directly into his tummy. I laughed out loud when I heard Ian Brown describing the difficulties of tube feeding:

Terry GROSS: Since he can't swallow and has to be fed with a tube, describe what feeding him is like.

Mr. BROWN: Well, (we had) to hook him up . . . it was very complicated. He'd be asleep, and you had to hang a feed bag up on an IV stand, and that was a gravity-fed thing, through a little lock in the tube.

And the tube then would go down through his sleeper, a hole that you would cut in his sleeper, into this little Mickey valve, they call it a Mickey, that is permanently in his side. And it has a little stopper in it.

So you connect that up, and you turn the pump on, and then it would slowly feed him throughout the night. But, you know, if he woke up, and he started hitting himself, then, you know, you've got to do everything in reverse. You've got to turn off the pump, you've got to lock the little - the line so that the stuff that's in the line doesn't come shooting out, which I, you know, constantly forgot.

You've got to unzip the sleeper to get into the Mickey to undo the Mickey then take it out, out through the hole, hang it up so it doesn't drop onto the floor. You know, then you've got to pick him up and take him downstairs and give him a bottle because though he can't really swallow without aspirating, the bottle seems to calm him down a little.

Moy Moy has a tube in her tummy too. And for the first three days post-surgery, we also found the whole process mystifying, challenging and unbelievably difficult. Then we got used to it. Three days. Now I know how to unclog the tube when it gets stuck and how to tell when she is about to cough and spurt the contents of her tummy into my face. I know how to remove the tube and how to insert a new one (which I was originally informed could only be done by a surgeon). And we don't have the new-fangled, even simpler system that the Browns did for their son, with a gravity-fed automatic process or a Mickey button with a little valve.

It's e-a-s-y. Definitely easier than spoon-feeding a child who has trouble swallowing and worlds more convenient when it comes to administering medicines. But it's fun to shroud the whole thing in mystery. I've done it too, so I don't blame Ian Brown. The average reader of his newspaper or the listening public at NPR has no idea what tube feeding involves so it's simple to impress them and simpler still to create an image of parents struggling bravely and poignantly to care for their poor disabled child. I know, I know.

But I also know that most of us parents have worked out a system. Most of us have back ups and safety nets and ways to get around just about anything. At least those of us who are writing books, essays and blogs.

So what motivates us? Why do we like to make things sound more difficult than they are? Why do we need to make what we do seem more dramatic, more enormous, more fraught?

I think we are worried that people will forget us. I think we are afraid that because we make it look easy, people will think that it IS easy.

It's easy to pour formula down a tube - once. It's easy to change a nappy - once. It's easy, even appealing, to wriggle out of an event we don't really want to attend by saying "It's just too difficult. I've got a child with special needs." Everyone nods; everyone sympathizes. No one understands that moments become years, that the work of a day can stretch into a lifetime and that while taken one at a time, each act is manageable, added up and tallied, they all amount to nothing. We feel we have nothing to show for ourselves. Nappies changed; feeds given. Years gone. Decades.

My friend Natasha Badhwar says "Days are long, months feel safe. But the years, the years seem to be on the run." We are chasing our years, we are running after our lives, we are hoping that they really do amount to something, that all we are pouring out for these children we love so dearly, so helplessly, is adding up to something significant. Please forgive us when we overreach. We know we are doing it. We know there is nothing heroic about the one tube feed, the one nappy, the one night of broken sleep. It's the years. The years. The long, long avenue of years.

Toy Story

2011-05-27T23:59:00.008+05:30

A Mandate and A Budget. What could be better? We needed toys and books for the Doon EIC and we had money to burn. I canvassed my friends for suggestions of where to buy what, enlisted Kavita Arora from Children First and Deepa Bhushan from my ancient history and set out on a grey and stormy summer day.

Deep breath. Money to burn.

I had to keep repeating this to myself in an encouraging tone. Money to burn. Lots of money.

For one accustomed to scrounging at yard sales and my siblings' basements for cast-off yet astonishing toys and books, having actual money to spend was thrilling. But also alarming. 76,000 rupees. 76,000. It's harder than you think.

At Store #1, I managed to spend 6,200. All toys.

At Store #2, Eureka (the bookstore for the young) which, by the way, you MUST visit if you have anything to do with children - what a find!!!, I managed another 6,300. But toys are easier to buy than books. Toys you look at quickly and decide. Books! You have to read them. You have to gaze at the pictures and turn the pages and laugh at the jokes and the funny illustrations and THEN decide.

Deepa and I took so long in that shop that Kavita finally had to leave us and go back to work. We could have spent all day there, but we were getting hungry and there was still a lot of money to spend.

By Store #3, post lunch, and with a providential cold front moving in, we got a bit reckless. "Buy both," Deepa said as I vacillated between the ride-on-car that looked like a fire engine and the one that looked like a rabbit. "Why not?"

"A doll house?" Of course.

"Wooden blocks? A baby walker? A wooden train? A tent? A swimming pool?" Oh, why ever not?

But by now, my debit card was acting up. So many demands! My bank detected "Unusual Activity", and, much to the shopkeeper's chagrin, my card was declined.

Oh, the ignominy!

I called Vandana, our accountant, she conferred with the bank and finally informed me that I had a limit of 15,000 per day. "Probably for your own safety," she said gently yet pointedly. (Vandana hates to see anyone - especially me - spending money.)

So I switched to my American debit card, paid the Rs 17,000 and moved on to the next store.

There, we managed to spend Rs 8,500, again on my American card.

By now, even Deepa had to bail out and I was left on my own, still on my mission: EVERY TOY IN DELHI OR BUST. Store #4 had a wonderful collection and a very nice shopkeeper.

But as nice as he was, when my American debit card was declined, he didn't offer to donate the goods.

Oh, no! I had been afraid of this. Every now and then, my American bank forgets that I live in India. They see some crazy person in New Delhi making mad purchases and they swing into action to protect me. I knew there would be an email waiting for me once I reached home: "Suspicious and possibly fraudulent activity has been detected on your account. Contact Bank of America immediately."

Luckily, I had one card left to play - an American credit card. Quickly, quickly, before they could catch me again up to my nefarious and possibly fraudulent activities, I paid for the toys, raced to the wine store for a few bottles to take home and then hopped in the taxi, chuckling just like Santa Claus.

You think I'm joking?

Painting Walls and Winning Hearts

2011-05-21T08:50:00.001+05:30

Our newest project, the Doon EIC, is housed in the government run Doon Hospital.

Government Hospitals are famous for being dreary and grey: long dark corridors with stone floors, walls covered in posters with huge amounts of text so small that nothing can be read.

The only pops of color here are the fleeting ones provided by peoples' clothes - don't miss the father-daughter pair going up the stairs. You cannot stop Indians when it comes to color!

And you cannot stop the Latika Roy Foundation, either. All our centres are noted for their bright, cheerful environments - kind of a "medium is the message" thing. We love what we do and we have fun while doing it. Making our centres kid-friendly and colorful just goes without saying.

So as beautiful as our new center is, state of the art and all, there was still something missing. Those walls were so blank and clean. Enter Shalini, our resident artist.

Over the course of two mornings (under a grueling sun!), she filled them like canvases, just waiting for children to come and color them in.

And here come the children!

So many, in fact, that we had to ration them - a different group each day for four days in a row, each with strict instructions to do only so much so as to leave something for the others.

They were obedient; they put their heads down and set to work:

We learned from each other about technique:

(Notice how Nirmala rests her hand on the wall for support - I didn't see it until I looked at the photos the evening of the first day. Look how steady her painting is:)

It was easy to forget where we were at times. The Doon Hospital! A government hospital in India, where drear and grim is the order of the day. But the sparkle of the primary colors and the endless good cheer of the team was infectious. Over and over, people passing by on their way to the surgical ward or the OPD stopped to watch - one of us would invariably engage them in conversation, explain what we were doing in the EIC, and urge them to tell their friends the good news. "If you know a child with a disability, this is the place . . ."

Then we would offer them a brush, and ask them to paint with us . . .

The passers-by were so serious and intent . . . so thrilled to be included!

There is something so moving about these Foundation gatherings - when everyone (drivers, therapists, teachers, doctors, helpers, accountants, administrators) takes a day from their busy lives to make something beautiful for the children we love and serve.

And because we are all also good friends, the devotion to the children is just one part of what keeps us inspired and working for a better world. There is also the sheer joy of being together,

the fun of teasing each other as we work

and finally, the grace and the incredible good fortune of having jobs that we love and a sense of purpose in this world:

My Name Is Jo, But You Can Call Me Job

2011-05-18T01:27:00.003+05:30

A few years ago, my children and I were the "last straw" in someone else's life. This friend had endured a series of calamities in her family and we arrived with ours at precisely the wrong moment. Circumstances were such that we had no choice but to depend upon her for help and she bore the imposition with gritted teeth and a sighing, heroic, martyr’s air: a peculiar combination of resignation and accusation. It’s not easy being someone else’s personal cross.

At the time, I was angered by the unfairness: could we help it if we were sick and far from home? We hadn’t planned it this way. I remember feeling hurt and insulted by the obvious implication that we were just another terrible thing happening to her, rather than people suffering a misfortune all our own.

Now I have more sympathy. For the past six months, my family has endured a sea of troubles that seem to have been sent our way on purpose - all neatly wrapped up with bows, ribbons and tags with our names engraved upon them. A stroke, four bouts of pneumonia, a broken foot, a broken back, a broken pelvis, viral fever, two rounds of eye surgery, a seizure disorder, even two deaths (both under heartbreaking circumstances).

I say that my family has endured these trials, but what I really mean is that I have. Each illness, every crisis has felt like one more awful thing happening to me; one more catastrophe for me to wade through, one more test of my ability to face adversity.

Forget that none of these problems has caused me any physical pain. That I have not financed any of the recovery plans. That the major impact on me has only been a sense of sadness, more work and more needing to orchestrate contingency plans. It doesn’t matter. I feel like Job. I sigh deeply and frequently.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that there is no such thing as Job, at least not the one we all know or imagine: the lonely servant, the just man who was still punished by God, the stoic saint who suffered grievously and alone.

Because in fact, we never really suffer alone. All that happened to Job - and his afflictions were many and horrific - happened to others right along with him. If he lost his children, his wife did too. If he lost his fortune, his employees lost their jobs. If he was covered in horrible boils and painful ulcers, someone had to look after him in his agony.

Misery doesn’t actually love company. Misery wants the limelight. Misery wants to be the one and only, the one worthy of pity, the one to be sympathized with and marveled at: How do you do it? we want people to ask. You are amazing, we want them to say. I could never do what you do.

So to not be miserable - I’ve just learned this! I have to share it! - company is crucial. Company is key. We need to share the burden and we need to see that the burden was never ours alone in the first place. “Send not to ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee” is not pious and poetic instruction - it is the truth.

Being human means sharing in the human condition. It means that what happens to one happens to us all. At some times (as in my house for the last six months) it’s more apparent than at others, but that’s just the way things go.

I believe that the more open we are to others, the more likely it is that we will suffer. But the opposite is just as true: that the more open we are, the more we will make a space for joy to infiltrate our lives and the more others will reach out to us in support and friendship and - sometimes - miraculous rescue.

It happened to me today. A man I love was floundering in despair and anguish. Another man - a gifted and caring psychiatrist - just happened to be in town. I was able to bring the two together. Why else are we here on this earth?

Soap Nuts

2011-05-14T22:28:00.008+05:30

Round Up The Usual Suspects

2011-05-11T00:55:00.000+05:30

This morning an elderly neighbor called to ask if I could help her find a new maidservant, someone to wash the floors and do the dishes. The old one, she said, had been stealing from her. A gold chain here, a pair of earrings there.

"You mean you caught her in the act?" I asked.

"Oh no," she admitted. "But I know it's her. Who else could it be?"

Who indeed?

Several years ago, we had a break-in at Latika Vihar. I called the police to file a report and they came down to survey the scene of the crime. They stomped around importantly, asked a few questions and made a few notes. Then, as they were leaving, they said to the two of our staff who had discovered the theft: "Come to the chowki this evening at eight."

Raj and Ganga Ram went pale.

"Why do you need them to come at eight?" I asked.

"Madame, no need for you to worry. We'll talk to them ourselves."

"You can talk to them now," I insisted.

"Just come at eight," they said again to Raj and Ganga Ram.

"I'll come too," I said. "And I'll bring my husband."

"Madame," they said urgently, drawing me aside. "Don't you want us to beat them up?"

I stare at them blankly before I respond. "No I don't want you to beat them up," I say as if speaking to morons. Ganga Ram is like a younger brother. Raj could be my son. No I do not want you to beat them up.

Where do I begin? I am actually speaking to morons.

For the past eight weeks, Padma, who works for us during the day, has been doubling as a night nurse for Masiji who had a fall and needs help getting to the bathroom at night. The first few nights, her son dropped her to our house. On Day Four, she asked if I would mind picking her up in the car. Her son, she said, was getting hassled at the police post on his way home.

I stepped in soon enough that he didn't - in fact - get beaten up, but other boys his age were not so lucky. Nor were old men heading home after a day's work. In fact, anyone on that particular road - as long as he was poor and unimportant - was fair game. Those boys and these men were returning home via Vasant Vihar, the city's "fancy" neighborhood and it was safe to assume they were up to no good. A little pro-active beating would show them just who was boss while reassuring the gentry that the police had their interests at heart.

Except that all of them had just done an honest, hard day's work. Some of the boys were kabari-wallas, collecting trash that no one else would touch and recycling it down to the last possible scrap. They keep our city cleaner than any of us do. Some of the men were sabzi-wallahs, bringing fresh vegetables to our doorsteps to save us the trouble of going out to the market to buy them. How we welcome them when we need them. How instantly we forget their existence once they are gone.

It sickens me that the first people we think of when crime is the issue are the ones who are least likely to commit it. Not because they are more virtuous than anyone else but because they have so much more to lose AND because they know they will be the first ones suspected. It's a vicious, evil circle and we should hang our heads in shame if we ever set it in motion. The call to "round up the usual suspects" should send us all to the mirror.

Why My Mother Would Not Have Joined Facebook

2011-05-08T15:32:00.002+05:30

After my mother died, my sister Lucy kept discovering interesting things she had left behind. One of the most fascinating was a do-it-yourself autobiography which someone must have given her (it was definitely not something she would have bought for herself).

Called "The Book of Myself", it is a blank diary with pithy statements at the top of each page which the diarist is meant to complete. For example:

"If I had any trouble with Mom growing up, it was in this area:"

MY Mom's answer? "None."

"I wanted this person to be my friend, but the feeling was not mutual."

Mom: "No problem people!"

"This person significantly influenced my life growing up:"

Mom: "No one in particular."

"This is the profession I most often mentioned when people asked me what I was going to be when I grew up:"

Mom: "I don't remember being asked."

"I kept this secret from almost everyone:"

Mom: "No secrets!"

"One big misunderstanding with a friend:"

Mom: "None."

"I learned to take myself less seriously through my friendship with:"

Mom: "Not applicable."

"I regret having burned this bridge:"

Mom: "I do not recall having burned any."

"Of all my personality traits, I hope my family will remember this one about me:"

Mom: "No comment."

The whole book is like this. Page after page after page of searching questions or leading phrases, each one answered in three words or less, brushed off, pushed aside, deemed irrelevant or - perhaps - impertinent. After the first few pages, the answers become predictable. You know for a certainty that there will be NO revelations here. Yet each question is politely answered, as if the book had a power of its own, as if, in spite of having no intention of sharing anything personal, she still felt she had to respond.

There was one way she did reveal herself, however. Throughout the book, you can find her proof-reader's pencil at work: a comma added in the introduction, a redundant word crossed out in one of the headings, a misspelling silently corrected.

But her own personal life is strictly off-limits: No mentors that she can recall, too many friends to list, no romantic interest other than her husband, no conflicts of any kind, no memorable teachers, no chores she disliked, no worries, no fears, no burnt bridges, no secrets!

I, on the other hand, provide a wealth of information not only for my friends and family but for their friends and families too. I have this blog and I love facebook. A day is incomplete if it doesn’t include an update or two. Some are profound and revealing: my worries about my daughter’s disability, my difficulties living in a joint family, my fears about nuclear war and global warming; but most are inane and of interest to no one but me: an unexpected hailstorm in Dehradun, my passion for The West Wing, the soup I am planning to make for dinner tonight.

Yet even the most banal of comments (often the more banal the better) elicits a string of responses from my friends. Encouraged, I make rash statements, declare my love and my disdain openly, take sides and express opinions with seldom a thought for who might be reading what I say or what anyone else might think.

My mother was far more discreet. Knowing that words could be misunderstood and that what seemed like just a simple comment could in fact be wounding and unforgettable, she chose silence more often than not.

But does it follow that her generation, comprised of those who kept their secrets close, who avoided social networking and would have refused to indulge in the mindless chatter of the net are by nature deeper? That their characters were stronger than ours and their relationships more lasting?

I doubt it. As parents, while we all worry about the ubiquitous nature of the net, and particularly about social networking sites and their deliberate and cultivated shallowness, I think our children are simply growing up with a different version of the backyard fence, the village well. Some of us had chatty mothers who yakked on the phone for hours or stood in the grocery store aisle holding up traffic to catch up with a neighbor. Some of us didn’t.

As a bit of a chatterer by nature, I think the thing to ponder on is not the mode or the frequency of communication but what is communicated. In my mother’s case, her reluctance to share personal details was itself a revelation of epic proportions, a clue to her selflessness and humility and, perhaps, the explanation for her kindness and deep compassion.

There have always been tell-alls and over-sharers; todays “forwards” are yesterday’s hand-written chain letters. Mom, on the other hand, really didn't think her hectic inner life was anything so amazing that it had to be retailed to the world. Ironically, that means that her mystery and allure just go on increasing for me and many others who knew and loved her.

On facebook as in life, less is often more.

Just Playing?

2011-05-03T00:23:00.002+05:30

On this day of turmoil and revenge, I thought it would be nice to remember the joys of childhood and innocence.

One of the questions we are so often asked at Latika and Karuna Vihar is "Don't you ever teach the children? All they seem to do is to play."

It's so hard to convince parents that when they play, children are learning all they need to know, that their brains are hard-wired for this, that for kids, play is work and that they actually need to do it to grow and flourish.

When Marcie was here last week with Paula, she told me about a poem by Anita Wadley about the importance of play. I loved the idea, but I wasn't wild about the way it was written. So I did my own version below and added photos to make it even more fun. I tried to give a link to the original version at the end of the post, but I keep getting an error message - just google Anita Wadley if you'd like to read it.

Building castles out of blocks

I dream of shape and form

I wonder about balance

And how a house is born.

I stack the blocks so carefully

I keep myself quite still

I’m learning how each piece behaves

And how a space is filled.

I’m going to be an architect.

And you think I’m just playing?

Wearing Mama’s high-heeled shoes

I stand up tall and straight

I pack my briefcase on my own

And kiss the kids – I’m late!

I know they want to tag along

But Mama has to work

I’m off to court to try a case

I’m wearing Mama’s skirt.

I’m going to be a lawyer.

And you think I’m just playing?

This picture that I’m working on

Was going to be a tree

But on the way, another thought

Seemed just as good to me –

A tree of stars, each branch alight

Demanded to be drawn -

The vision from inside my heart

Appeared here on its own.

I’m going to be an artist.

And you think I’m just playing?

My students sit in tidy rows

And wait for me to speak.

Well, three are dolls, and one’s a cat

Who thinks I’m speaking Greek.

He won’t sit still or do his work

He doesn’t like to read –

For him I’ve got an IEP:

He’s got ADHD.

I’m going to be a teacher.

And you think I’m just playing?

This hole goes clear to Africa

Straight down, clean and bright

I’ve got my shovel and some forks

I’m sure my map is right.

I’ve been working here since morning

You can help me if you wish

But don’t disturb the little elves

They’ve just come off their shift.

I’m going to be an explorer.

And you think I’m just playing?

I’m busy with this puzzle

I have to fit this piece

The one that seems to have no home

No matter how I squeeze.

It seems some rules are absolute

Like square pegs and round holes

I’m learning how to work it out

I’m focused on my goals.

I’m going to be a problem-solver.

And you think I’m just playing?

Ask me what I did today –

The answer’s always “Played.”

At school, at home and on the bus –

My mind’s just built that way.

I’m a child and play’s my job

It’s what I’m meant to do –

It’s how I learn about the world

And grow to be like you!

I’m going to be a grownup.

And you think I’m just playing?

We Go To Bed With Corruption and It Joins Us On Our Morning Walk

2011-04-28T00:33:00.000+05:30

"Well, who's behind the anti-corruption bill?" she said. "I have friends in Allahabad who say that Prashant and Shanti Bhushan aren't quite as clean as they make themselves out to be."

I don't quite know what happened to me when I heard my friend say that. There we were, having a sensible discussion about the Right to Education Act and there I was thinking how smart and well-informed this woman was. Then I made a point about the importance of the anti-corruption bill being passed if we were to address the issue of corruption in education and she said what she said about Prashant and Shanti.

I was stunned. "Stop right there." I said, my voice trembling a bit. "You are speaking about people I know and love. These are people I would stake my honor, my name and my own integrity on - to my last breath. No one will slander them in my presence."

"Don't you see what they are doing?" I asked. "This is divide and rule. They get people like us to start doubting our own and then it's just two steps to victory. The charges against the Bhushans are baseless, fabricated! How can anyone believe them?"

To her credit, my friend - who is brilliant, thoughtful and well-read - immediately backed down. She apologized, and said she would clarify things with her friends in Allahabad. But it got me thinking. If someone like her, who reads widely and thinks analytically, could be taken in by the lies being spread about these two good men, what about the general public? Those people who mostly just glance at the headlines and accept what is printed in the daily papers as Gospel? Is there any hope at all?

Has corruption so infected our souls that we can no longer even tell good from evil? Have we become so distrustful, so willing to believe ill of others that we can't see what is in front of us?

If you think corruption means just having to pay a bribe to get a service which is rightfully yours, think again. It's part of everything we do, every single day. It determines how we think and what we believe. It defines our relationships and dictates our behaviour. Our health, our safety, our routines and our attitudes are all created, infected and reinforced by corruption. Corruption now defines who we are.

Corruption is why my mother-in-law broke her back on a car ride from Delhi to Dehradun. It was corruption that diverted traffic from the national highway so that kanwaria pilgrims could take it over for their annual walk to Haridwar. Corrupt politics ensures that religious vote banks determine highway policy. Corruption in the PWD allows the village roads to which we were diverted to be neglected and full of potholes. Elderly lady breaks her back? Blame corruption.

Corruption killed a child I know who was electrocuted at a wedding, for what but corruption allows tent wallas to set up shamianas anywhere they please with live wires trailing here and there in blatant violation of safety codes?

Corruption is why we all still boil our milk every morning in spite of it being pasteurized and - supposedly - safe to drink as is. None of us trust the dairies to have followed standard refrigeration protocols - and inspectors can always be paid off.

Corruption means I have to drive out each night to pick up the woman who works as a night nurse in our house. If her son drops her off on his bicycle, he will be hassled and possibly beaten up by the cops at the corner. Their rule is unquestioned. They got their jobs by paying huge bribes and they will recoup their losses by extorting money from innocent victims.

Corruption means that our hearts and our souls have been invaded. We are so accustomed now to assuming the worst that it simply doesn't occur to us that people can still be genuinely good at heart, can still be willing to sacrifice their comfort and security for the good of the nation, can still put their own reputations on the line in the service of a greater good.

I'm here to say publicly that Prashant and Shanti Bhushan are men of honor and integrity, that they don't care two figs for the slanderous campaigns being waged against them and that if enough of us stand with them, then corruption will lose and the truth shall prevail.

Vitiligo

2011-04-26T01:55:00.000+05:30

A little girl and her mother came to see me last night. "She's got these white patches on her legs," the Mom said, trying to sound casual. "It started with just one, but then they spread."

My heart sank. I sat down and tried to sound casual too. "This is NOTHING!" I said emphatically, failing in the casual department, but determined to reassure both mother and child, and to reinvent the reality of their lives in a single stroke.

Maybe I'm wrong (please, God, let me be wrong), but I'm pretty sure it's vitiligo.

Vitiligo is a common, genetic, autoimmune skin disease in which there is loss of pigment from areas of the skin resulting in irregular white spots or patches.

Big deal, right? I mean, it's not like cancer or AIDS or tuberculosis. It's not painful or life-threatening. It's not contagious. It's just a skin condition which results in a few white patches.

Except that in India, it's a disaster. It means that a girl is off the marriage market with a resounding thump. It means that her sisters will be viewed with suspicion too. And right now, today, it means that a child who once was popular and well-liked suddenly has no friends either in school or in her neighborhood. She is ostracized.

"Really?" I asked, unable to stop myself from sounding incredulous. "REALLY?"

I know this girl. She is a jewel. She is known for her kindness, her concern for smaller children, her willingness to give up her own pursuits to join in theirs. She has a reputation for being sweet in a world where sweetness is rare and treasured. How could she, overnight, be dropped like a hot stone?

"They'll still talk to me," she says valiantly, protectively, about her friends in school. "But they won't sit next to me. They're afraid they'll catch it too."

I sit beside this brave, darling child and her heartbroken mother and I want to cry and I want to scream and I want to grab the world by the scruff of its neck and shake it. "Is this the best we can do?" I want to ask. "Do we really want to judge a person this way? Is this really how we want to make our decisions?"

The world won't answer me. I'm on my own here, and so are you. So, more importantly, is that child who came to see me with her mother. Maybe she will find the strength to say that it doesn't matter, that a few white patches on her skin are not the sum of her character and that what she looks like has nothing to do with who she is. Maybe, less likely, she will even believe it.

But in-between, here we stand. We are her champions. We are the ones she may turn to. Our son may marry her if we teach him how irrelevant a patch here or there really is. Our daughter may befriend her if she knows we know she could also be her given one slight genetic change. She is our own dear child. She is our own dear child.

Biodata

2011-04-21T01:04:00.002+05:30

Everybody wants a job.

"Jo, there's a woman at the gate. Says she knows you. She looks like a job-seeker. What do you want me to do?"

That's my husband speaking and I am in luck because I wasn't the one who opened the door this time.

"Ask her to give a biodata. Tell her to submit it in the office." I say this casually, over my shoulder, because it's Saturday and I am busy and I don't have time to deal with yet another person with no qualifications, no education and no skills who still expects me to give her a job.

This is a situation I know by heart. If I go out to the gate, the woman will tell me how desperate she is for a job, how her husband is dead or a drunkard, how she is a widow or a single mom, how she has three chote-chote bacchae to raise on her own (she will make a hand-cupping gesture to indicate just how tiny the children are) and how many hopes she has pinned on me (though we have never met before this moment).

This woman has no concept of the right person for the job, no idea of there being more to getting a job than desperate need and no thought that I might have more going on than her pathetic situation. This woman is desperate. She needs a job and in her universe, I have jobs in my pocket, just waiting to be handed out.

I feel this same exact way about funding agencies, and I know where she is coming from, but I still don't have a job for her.

So I fob her off with the biodata line. I hope it will be enough to stop her in her tracks (Just what IS a biodata? Where does one get one made? What should it contain?) while I go on with my day. Those men and women who appear at my gate and who accost me on my way to work and who want me to hire them or their children or their wives or their brother's daughter - they can almost all be diverted and defused with a request for a biodata.

Almost all. Today, Vimla Kaintura arrived with hers. By biodata standards, it wasn't up to much. Folded six times and placed in an envelope far bigger than required, it had all the markings of having been prepared by someone who had been paid for the service. There were misspellings and grammatical errors (Martial Status: Married), but overall, I was impressed.

It was neat, it was typed, and it showed effort and resolve.

It is so easy to dismiss people who don't have the background and the skills we are looking for. It is so easy to insist on a degree or a diploma, to demand experience and job application savvy. And in so doing, we need to understand that we are rejecting some of the finest, most reliable people on God's green earth.

At the Latika Roy Foundation, the most skilled people - the ones with the gorgeous resumes and the flawless qualifications - come and go and come and go. They are on their well-planned career paths and God Bless Them. I sincerely wish them well.

But the Vimla Kainturas of this world are here for the long haul. They will be with us to the end of time and their skills and gifts are no less real and no less valuable. I wish it were possible to hire them all. It isn't. And so we continue to make it easier on ourselves by making it more difficult for them. While they, paradoxically, make it more difficult for themselves by trying to conform to our ridiculous weeding-out techniques.

It's a wicked and insane world; one in which the people who are the most important, the ones without whom everything we love and want would come to a screeching halt, are somehow made to feel superfluous and irrelevant because their biodatas aren't quite up to the mark.

So I put this out to the universe, in the hope that we may remember what is real and what is imaginary. That we might keep in mind that being able to cook a meal or wash clothes will always trump being able to operate a computer or produce a resume. Always. We eat food and we wear clothes. Everyday.

Resumes? Dust in the wind.

Why I Hate Vodafone

2011-04-17T09:40:00.001+05:30

A few months ago, I switched my pre-paid cell phone connection to a post-paid. This seemed like a major step to me, proof that I was here to stay, a well-established adult with a fixed address and a long-term plan. It seemed serious and mature, like owning a house or investing in a retirement plan.

Pre-paid, by contrast, was temporary and fly-by-night.

While pre-paid, I often ran out of money on my phone in out-of-the-way places, frequently with no options for recharging. I would simply forget to add money to my account and then, arriving at 11 PM in Delhi with a balance of 35 pesae, I would trudge to my hotel hoping in vain to find a paan-walla still open from whom I could buy a recharge coupon. When that didn't happen, I would hope that my husband would think to call me, rather than waiting for me to call him. The next morning, I would be stranded in my room, unable to confirm my appointments because I couldn't call out (people who have pre-paid connections are constitutionally unable to use hotel phones because every call costs five times as much as it should) . . . I thought and acted like all my fellow-travelers on the pre-paid route: "I'll give you a missed call," I would say. "Call me back."

Post-paid meant an end to all that. I would have options. I would walk with my head held high. I would be given credit for my timely payment of bills. I would be viwed as a good risk, a safe bet. If, while traveling, I needed to run up a large bill, no problem! I would now be a post-paid customer, a known factor, a person who could be trusted.

Not.

Phone companies are desperately keen to convert pre-paid customers to post-paid, but short sighted in their rush to sign us up. Almost as soon as I switched, I began to regret it. My bill came due on the 22nd of each month, for example. By the 15th, the SMS messages would begin. Five, six, sometimes seven times a day, I would get a reminder: Your bill is due by the 22nd. Please pay today to avoid discontinuation of your services. If I made a particularly long phone call, the messages would come even earlier: You are reaching your credit limit of Rs 1500. Please make an interim payment of Rs 500 to avoid discontinuation of your services.

Paying my bills was complicated by the fact that there are only two payment offices in Dehradun, both at a considerable distance from my home. When I tried to pay online - after a lengthy registration process (which included a password setting with upper case, lower case, a number and a "special character" as mandatory features - which I devised and then promptly forgot) - the system would invariably freeze just at the payment gate. Go to the 24 hour kiosk and credit cards were not accepted (inconvenience caused is deeply regretted).

So finally, inevitably, I decided to go back to being a lowly, unappreciated pre-paid customer. No fancy, colorful bills delivered to my door by courier anymore, I would return to the ranks of those who buy their recharge coupons from the guy who sells cigarettes and beedis. So be it.

Again, NOT.

This evening I went to the Vodafone office to announce my decision. The same office which had welcomed me with open arms when I went from pre-paid to post now informed me that a "request" had to be entered for the switch to be made. In 24 to 48 hours, I would get a call from a service representative who would ask me why I was making this decision. After THAT process, I could return to the office with proof of residence, my old bills and a passport photo. After these documents were scrutinized, I might be allowed to return to my old status as a free bird on a prepaid plan.

Clearly, Vodafone would prefer this not happen. Although I am not valuable enough as a customer to treat well, they would still rather keep me on a little string which they can yank anytime they feel I am getting a bit beyond myself, any time they decide I am straying a tad outside of my "credit limit."

And while I am tempted to "Get Idea" or come home to Airtel, I don't think it would be any different if I did. Company policies all seem pretty much the same. No matter how much I rant and rave in the shiny Vodafone (or Airtel or Idea) office, the sweet, well-trained kids in their red uniforms (with their "Happy To Help" name tags) will answer politely and vacuously, spouting lines they have memorized but never thought about: "Company policy, Ma'am." "Sorry, Ma'am, that's the process." "I understand, ma'am, but we have to follow the procedures." "You are absolutely correct, Ma'am, but it's not in my hands."

With pre-paid, the answers all vary according to the mood of the seller and the word on the street. I may buy my first card near Bindal from a guy in a little bania shop who remembers my kids from when they were small and were always hoping for a Thums Up. If I need a calling card for the US and Israel so I can call Anand and Cathleen, there's this guy in Panditwari who keeps a good stock of the bargain rated ones. When I notice my balance dwindling, I'll take a walk to Sethi Market to my old pal the paan-walla. He'll ask me where I've been all these months and I'll tell him I've been away. Then he'll say "The 888 card?" and I'll nod. It's still Vodafone behind it all, but it feels more like home.

Crafts for Christ

2011-04-14T00:22:00.004+05:30

Yesterday I was invited to an amazing all day workshop at a cafe in a nearby village. "Himalayan Tapestry Creative Day" was billed as a day for women to learn a wide range of crafts - quilting, card making, watercolor painting, cake decorating, embroidery and even how to make a necklace using buttons. It sounded so interesting and so totally different from the frustrations and drama I am currently embroiled in at home, I made up my mind to attend, regardless of the difficulties.

I made arrangements for food to be delivered from a restaurant (we were expecting guests) and went about my business. Naina agreed to come in early to look after Moy Moy and I left the house at 9:15. My friend Preeti was coming with me so we met at the half-way point and drove on to the venue together.

We were a little late and we arrived to a beehive of industry and endeavor. Eight Australian women were in charge of the eight simultaneous activities and at first it was impossible to make a choice as to which group to join. Each one was gorgeous and alluring . . .

and the teachers were patient and encouraging:

I was wandering around taking photographs, and Preeti had just settled on a painting activity

when suddenly the whole day's events came to a screeching halt:

Time for a Bible reading! I am a religious person myself, but there was something so odd about this imposition of Scripture in the middle of the Himalayan Tapestry's Creative Day I just couldn't get my head around it. And not content with only a reading, the eight Australian women (who were now revealed as - perhaps - ravenous missionaries, hungry for souls) seemed to feel compelled to do even more: as the Biblical passage was being read, they acted it out, in a pantomime so simplistic it seemed more like a parody of the story than an enhancement.

What was this about? I looked more carefully at the little bag I had been given when registering. I saw now it also contained a leaflet with four Gospel readings - the first of which we had just seen enacted. Clearly, more was in store for us. Was this a tax, a hidden charge for the day's events? Being compelled to listen to and watch Biblical skits? Did the organizers feel we needed this? Was it important that we not think simply having fun and making beautiful things was enough?

It's hard to imagine Jesus being so ham-handed. It's hard to imagine the guy who healed people of dreaded diseases like leprosy or blindness and then "charged them strictly to tell no one" behaving like this. It's hard to imagine a man who attended a wedding and changed water into wine just to spare the couple the embarrassment of having run out being so "in your face" about his message. Especially when people were busy doing embroidery and making button necklaces.

Jesus was respectful of people's intelligence and of their dignity. He never saw the need to insult anyone with false advertising or to pretend to be anything other than what he was.His story was far too compelling to need theatrics to get it across.

But I think he might have enjoyed a few patchwork quilts and the odd handmade card. And I kind of hope he'd like the one I made:

A little bird on a wide green meadow. A pretty bird with a sparkly eye and a sweet branch to perch upon. A bird whose only reason for being is the song she was sent here to sing. No other agenda. No shopping list, no ulterior motive, no Scripture lesson sugar-coated with an art and craft class.

Jesus was about hard truths. But he didn't frown upon unmixed delights. Water into wine. Bread upon the waters. Lose your life to save it.

I'm going to use my new-found card-making skills this weekend - I've got a sick friend who would be thrilled to receive one and another who just lost his wife and could use a little love. Because that's what Jesus came to teach us. It's about love. Only love.

What Corruption Means

2011-04-10T00:48:00.001+05:30

So many of us are simply breathless with the amazement of the last few days. The clarion call against corruption sounded by Anna Hazare followed by the stirring and full-hearted response from one end of the country to the other . . . it's been inspiring and uplifting. It feels like a New Age, a turning point, a glimpse of what a life of integrity and honor could be like.

But is it really all so black and white? I've made a little list of the ways in which my own life has been enhanced by corruption, and I invite you to try the same exercise:

I have never taken a driver's test. In 1998, I gave a "guy" 800 rupees and a few days later he gave me my license. It expired in 2008, but hey! What the heck! Who is ever going to question ME? And if someone does, I know someone else who will sort things out.
I am wait-listed on the Shatabdi to Delhi and I really need to get there (like, because I have to attend a meeting I forgot about until the day before and the train was all booked). I have this friend whose husband works in the Railways Ministry and she will get the ticket confirmed for me. Who am I? Who is she? WHO CARES?
My family has three gas connections: one in my name, one in my husband's and one in someone else's (I can't even remember whose) - all gotten kissi ke through se. Not allowed, but, again, WHO CARES?

This is the stuff of our lives. This is how we work. School admissions, medical care, land transfers: "I'll talk to someone," we say.

Who that someone is, who we are - it all gets lost in the urgency of getting the thing done. Some of us take pride in obliging other important people because we know that what goes around comes around. Others of us make a name for ourselves thorough helping the little guy, the one no one else will go to bat for.

When we rail against corruption we conveniently forget how enmeshed in it we are ourselves, to the point where following the rules simply does not occur to us because there have, for so long, been no rules to follow. From traffic laws (Wearing a seatbelt? A helmet? Signaling for a turn? Waiting patiently at a level crossing? Ha. Don't make me laugh.) to building codes (Why is the water pressure so low in every colony in the country? Because people have built illegal underground tanks which must be filled - the law of gravity WILL be obeyed - before the taps above ground will flow) we are all trained to think first of our own interest and then of the law.

Corrupt officials in the government (our neighbors, our relatives, our friends, ourselves) get that way because we encourage them to do so. Every interaction has two players. No one is corrupt alone.

This is our life. This is who we are. We are like this only.

Anna Hazare, bless him, has made a start. But we have a long, long way to go.

Catch Them Early!

2011-04-06T13:59:00.001+05:30

Most people are fascinated by multiple births. Twins, triplets, quads - so exciting! But to obstetricians, pediatricians and other child development specialists, multiple births spell trouble. A woman expecting twins is by definition a high-risk mom; the more babies, the higher the risk - both for the mother and for the babies.

So when Shefali arrived at our Early Intervention Centre in Dehradun, India, with her four babies, we were amazed that only one of them had difficulties. Lakshi was the smallest of the four and the last one born. The ultrasound had detected three children, so her arrival was a surprise no one was prepared for. A month premature, she weighed well under a kilo at birth and she didn’t cry immediately.

Any one of those facts - multiple birth, premature, low birth weight, delayed birth cry - should have prompted the obstetrician or the pediatrician to advise the mom to visit an Early Intervention Centre, but in India, such advice is rare. Lakshi was over seven months old before her mother started worrying about her development and nearly a year before she learned of our existence.

Our pediatrician diagnosed Cerebral Palsy with associated developmental delay and Lakshi was enrolled in our intensive mother-and-child program whose goal is each child’s holistic development. An inter-disciplinary approach ensures that children learn social skills while doing physiotherapy and language development while working on fine-motor skills. Every activity we do with the children has a purpose, though all the children know is that they are having fun.

Shefali was a poster-mother. Her energy and commitment to Lakshi’s growth was an example and an inspiration to both the other parents and to the staff. Nobody in the EIC had anything like the demands on their time that four babies of the same age presented, yet Shefali never seemed tired or cross or impatient. Other mothers sought her out for advice and direction - another carefully nurtured feature of the EIC’s approach. Mothers Support Groups are an invaluable resource, especially for new moms just setting out on the adventure of raising a child with special needs.

And Lakshi’s improvement - slow, but steady - was also inspiring. Other mothers looked at her and found hope for their own children. By the time she graduated from the EIC at age 6, Lakshi was walking with the help of a rollator, speaking in short sentences and more than eager to join a mainstream school like her brother and two sisters.

Finding that mainstream school has been the challenge. The one her siblings attend pleaded an inaccessible environment for a child with physical difficulties. The one she finally enrolled in refused to allow her to participate in any activities outside of her classroom because that would involve someone helping her to move. When her parents learned that she was being left alone in the class, with no light and no fan, they withdrew her.

Attending Latika Vihar - our inclusive neighborhood children’s centre - gives Lakshi the chance to be with other children who accept her for who she is. The fun of being with other kids, enjoying normal activities like art and craft, music, pottery and games has bolstered her self-confidence and restored her self-esteem. That’s important, because her mainstream education experience is still an uphill struggle.

Now she’s has joined a high-end government school meant for children of government officers (her father is one). Legally, the school cannot refuse her admission, a fact which the headmistress refers to over and over, making it clear that if she had her way, they would never have taken her.

Early Intervention is only the beginning of a long, exciting journey to change a society which is afraid of differences. We are hard at work trying to win over the teachers and the management of that government school, trying to create a place for Lakshi which is hers by right, trying to build an inclusive world, step by step, by little and by little.

Photo Credit: Muir Adams

Tis The Season . . .

2011-04-03T01:24:00.001+05:30

School admission time rolls around faster every year. For some reason, I am besieged each March/April with requests for help from parents desperate to get their children into School X, Y or Z. I am not influential and nobody owes me any favors, so I'm not sure why people keep coming to me. The word, I guess, is desperate. But I put my heart into it because the people who come to me are, typically, poor and even less influential than I am. I write a good letter and sometimes my appeals actually work - I suppose because they are different from the ordinary ones:

"Sachin's parents are not rich or important and it's unlikely that they will ever be able to make a big donation to your school. But they are good people with fine values. They will insist that Sachin play by the rules and they will do all they possibly can to reinforce what you teach him everyday in the classroom. He will grow up to be a model citizen who will work hard and pay his taxes. He deserves the best education he can get because he's going to support his parents and make this country a better place to live in for all of us."

Sachin got in. The principal at the school his parents had set their hearts on had a vulnerable moment and my letter touched him. He gave Sachin a chance and Sachin hasn't let him down. He really is a model citizen in the making, a boy his school will be proud of one day.

But there are so many other children I have written letters for who haven't been admitted, children who are no less worthy, no less precious. What about them?

I'm feeling it particularly this year because several of the kids I've been asked to champion are kids with special needs, kids for whom the decks are already stacked against them and who need a break more urgently than most.

Kirti, for example.

Kirti is one of our EIC stars. She is one of quadruplets and her parents are marvels of the universe. We are all simply in awe of them. Three of their four quads were born normal. They beat the odds. Kirti didn't. She was born with Cerebral Palsy and a host of difficulties.

But Early Intervention helped her through the toddler years and slowly but surely she advanced to the point where her parents believed she was ready to go into a mainstream school. The Kendriya Vidyalaya they selected had to accept her because of the Right to Education Act, but that didn't mean they would welcome her. In fact, the Headmistress at the school told them clearly that they were making a mistake, that she didn't belong with "normal" children and that it wasn't going to work at all.

Kirti is only one child. One of many. There is Siddharth in Bangalore, a child with low vision and high intelligence whose parents are beginning to despair because they can't find a school willing to celebrate the special boy he is. There is Amrit here in Dehradun whose only problem is that he needs a little help to get around. So many children - brave, valiant, eager children who want to learn and are willing to work hard and put their hearts into their studies - are still being rejected because of who they are, because of how they learn, and I, for one, am tired of it.

I am tired of a system that recognizes only one kind of student, of teachers who are prepared for only one kind of child, and of tests that cater to only one kind of knowledge. The world is VAST. The ways we learn are INFINITE. Why do we want to limit ourselves? Why do we even think of rejecting the Kirtis, the Siddharths and the Amrits?

If Tiles Could Talk They'd Be Text-Tiles

2011-03-29T23:38:00.000+05:30

My friend Ana of I Made It So has this wonderful weekly feature on her blog where she invites readers to dig into their blog archives and recycle a favorite old post. She provides a theme each Friday, we all get to fish around for something appropriate to share AND we get to read everyone else's offerings. Sometimes, her themes are so interesting I am inspired to do a new post just for the occasion. This is one of those.

Ana's theme this past Friday was "text, tile, textile" (she doesn't use capital letters).

I've been thinking about tiles so much I see them in my dreams and talk about them in my sleep. We are building an Early Intervention Centre at the government run Doon Hospital. Building! We are building - from scratch! state-of-the-art! - one of our own centres right inside a government hospital. There are days when I go to the site and I am so overcome I just stand there in a daze while everyone else moves purposefully around me.

You have to know, first, what a government hospital in India is like. The Doon Hospital has improved considerably since the first time I saw it over 20 years ago. Then there were open drains running along the corridors, the walls were stained red from people spitting paan juice on them, and the wards were stacked with people, sometimes lying three to a bed.

Now it is much cleaner and better organized, but those are relative terms. Glance out of any ward-window and you will still see piles of refuse rotting on the ledges. Walk past any bathroom and you still have to hold your breath to make it by without gagging. And step into any ward and you will still see patients lying in various levels of pain and suffering, huddled beneath flimsy blankets they had to bring in themselves from home.

But all around them, as far as the eye can see, are miles and miles of white tile. It's a new innovation, meant to convey hospital-like cleanliness and hygiene, and, to a degree, it works. White tiles can be washed. Paan stains are regularly removed. Good move, Doc!

The tiles in our Early Intervention Centre are not white.

This is the kitchen.

And here's the counseling room.

And here's a close-up of the blue-ish purple tile we chose for the children's play area:

Each room is different. Each room says that people are not all the same. The text of our tiles is a celebration of the unrepeatable special spark that lies within each child, just waiting to be fanned into flame.

And this is the real wonder. This is what amazes me. How did we slip this revolutionary idea past the white tile wallas, the ones who believe that all of India's problems will be solved by hygiene and systems and objectively verifiable indicators?

So ssshhh. Don't tell anyone. Those tiles are talking.

The Fab India Legend

2011-03-29T00:14:00.001+05:30

My friend Radhika Singh's book on Fab-India has just been published (you can order it here). At the Dehradun launch for the book this past Sunday, people shared stories about what the shop meant to them and I found, to my surprise, that I had a few stories of my own, though in the heat of the moment, the first one came out a bit garbled and the second one didn't emerge at all.

So I thought I would give it another try - because they are both good stories.

Fab-India, for those who don't live here, is "an Indian chain store retailing garments, furnishings, fabrics and ethnic products handmade by craftspeople across rural India." (I lifted that from wikipedia.)

It was started in 1960 by an American man named John Bissell who came to India as a Ford Foundation consultant and ended up marrying an Indian woman (Bimla Bissell) and staying here for the rest of his life. It's a store that, in spite of being a chain, people feel passionately about and intimately connected to.

So here are my stories.

The first time I set foot in Fab was in 1981. I was 23 and I was going home for my first visit since moving to India with Ravi. Gifts for my family were obviously in order and my friends Libbie and Amitav told me I would love Fab India. "It's got an American sensibility," Amitav said. "You can pull things off the racks yourself - you don't have to point at stuff and hope the guy behind the counter knows what you mean." Amitav was right. What a beautiful store! Full of the most wonderful fabrics!

So there I was, walking wide-eyed through the place, running my hand appreciatively across the cloth, loving the fine weaves and the dazzling colors. But the price tags! Ravi and I were dirt poor in those days. I wanted to get something for each one of my family, but there was no way I could afford to do it.

Just then, John Bissell and an American woman appeared on the shop floor. It was clear to me that she was a buyer for a large US firm. They stood just a little way from me and I could hear John saying "See. That's a typical American buyer. She appreciates the weave, the 100% cotton, the design."

The woman said: "And yet, she walks past without buying."

John: "She's worried about the ironing."

No, John! I wanted to say. I'm worried about the money! Because, of course, I wasn't a typical American buyer at all. I might have looked like an ex-pat or a tourist, but in fact I was a very poor American girl on an Indian rupee budget.

Fast-forward to 1996. By now, Fab-India was a force to be reckoned with. It was wildly popular and known throughout the country.

I had changed too. By now I had a little more money and didn't feel quite as daunted by the Fab-India prices.

So there I was in the same N-Block Market shop and there, in a little deja-vu moment, was John Bissell again. And again, there was an American buyer beside him. Only this time, there was also a nurse. John Bissell had had a stroke a year or so earlier. He was no longer able to speak and he had trouble controlling his saliva. The nurse was there to wipe his chin, but John Bissell was still clearly in charge.

I had only recently gotten involved in the field of disability so I didn't really understand what the communication board he held in his hands was all about. What I did understand was the tremendous courage and dignity I was witness to.

John Bissell was not going to allow a stroke to change his ability to engage with the world. With determination and tenacity, he got himself back up on his feet. He worked out a way to communicate - with staff, with customers, even with American buyers - and he carried on.

That image of this strong, lovely man - out on the shop floor, doing what he had always done - has stayed with me all these years as an icon, as a vision, as a dream come true of what it looks like to prevail, to hold fast, to stand tall against the odds.

We all have much to learn from his courage and from his grace.

English Mem, Hindi Bolni-Walli

2011-03-25T23:26:00.000+05:30

When we first moved to Dehradun I bought groceries at a local shop, occasionally on credit. I was friendly with the shopkeeper, but we didn't know each others' names. One evening while making my purchases, I asked him how much I owed him and he pulled out his little register and leafed through to find my page. Curious to see what he called me, I leaned over and saw that, in his book, I was "English Mem Hindi Bolni Walli".

The English Lady Who Speaks Hindi! A title to treasure.

Learning Hindi is the single most important investment I ever made toward my life in India and one that I consciously enjoy almost every single day. It's hard to explain why being able to speak it is such a pleasure. I don't have complicated exchanges; I don't discuss deep philosophical issues. Political debates almost never happen, nor am I capable of a nuanced discussion on the pros and cons of the Right to Education Act.

Indeed, I think the pleasure comes precisely from the simplicity of the conversations I have, from the fact that almost all of what I talk about is tangible and real. How high a child's fever went last night. The price of cauliflower. How sparkling that dress is in the sunshine. The way to Sethi Market (left at the gol chakka, phir bilkul straight jana).

Because my Hindi is not as good as most educated people's English, my talk tends to be with poor people, people who are unpretentious, simple and absolutely delighted that they can understand me and that I can understand them. This innate hospitality amazes me. Where I come from, it is expected that immigrants should learn the language. The natives have nothing but scorn for people who live in their country but haven't bothered to master English.

Here it is just the opposite. Here, I am treated with reverence and awe because I can converse. I have mastered a few stock lines for this situation, deprecating remarks about how strange it would be, if, after 30 years in the country, I didn't speak the language. These lines invariably cause laughter and more admiration. I play to the galleries.

Living in India, for a girl who grew up in America, accustomed to a range of comforts as long as your arm, isn't exactly easy. How to explain the joy of being able to discuss the price of onions, the benefits of polyester vs cotton, the value of listening to your mother-in-law versus the pleasure of charting your own path? I can't explain it. I just know that life feels more real in Hindi, that the complications that ensnare me in English are manageable in Hindi and that this English Mem gets a glimpse of pure happiness when speaking in Hindi about what would seem inconsequential and unimportant in her native tongue: bread, water, the kitchen garden, the neighbours' grandchildren.

Lacking vocabulary and grammar, we pare it down to the essential words, the present tense. No Guru could do it better.

WrongDiagnosis.Com OR The Masi Who Cried Wolf

2011-03-20T02:38:00.000+05:30

This is a post in which no one is going to look good, least of all me.

Masiji had a fall over two weeks ago. I took her to the hospital immediately (me being good) where an x-ray revealed that her ankle, though badly swollen, was only sprained, not fractured. After a couple of days of tender loving care (me good again), with wheelchair rides to the bathroom, night-time vigils and all meals served in bed, I decided it was time for a little tough love.

Knowing that bedsores - to say nothing of pulmonary embolisms - are common problems for elderly patients who have fallen and become immobile, I insisted that Masiji get up and move. Every day, ignoring her protests, I hauled her to her feet and forced her to walk a few shuffling steps. I made her use the walker rather than the wheelchair. I hinted that very soon we would discontinue the night nurse and expect her to get to the bathroom on her own.

She was equally insistent that moving was impossible. The pain, she said, was unbearable. I had no idea. She was not a complainer by nature. She wanted to get up and move. She hated being dependent. but she was in agony. I had no idea.

The trouble is that Masiji is most certainly a complainer by nature. By profession. By avocation. It is her passion in life. There is literally nothing she cannot find to complain about. It's too cold. It's too hot. The fan goes too fast. The fan doesn't work. There's too much salt in the sabzi. The dal is tasteless. The dalia is too watery. The halva has too much oil. Nobody calls. Everyone arrives at the same time. Nobody ever takes her anywhere. It's so tiring when she goes out.

Forgive me if I didn't take her complaining about the unbearable pain in her ankle seriously. I didn't. I know my Masiji. So when she protested that she couldn't possibly put any weight on her injured foot, I nodded sympathetically, all the while insisting, implacable me, that she get up and do just that. Day after day.

Then finally, two weeks into this saga, I took an objective look at that ankle. It was still swollen, 16 days after the accident. I called a friend who happens to be an orthopedic surgeon and asked him to make a house call. He took one look and said it was fractured. Not sprained. Fractured. She needed a cast and a whole lot more sympathy and I needed a large rock to crawl under.

Masiji, vindicated, was thrilled. (I imagine her gravestone reading: I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK.) There were many phone calls made.

I, exposed as both heartless and wrong, was chastened and distressed. My little core group of friends reassure me that I am still actually a good person but Masiji and Mummy look at me with wounded expressions and a vaguely hunted air, as if wondering what I might do next.

Fair point. I wonder too.

Fighting With Myself

2011-03-15T12:32:00.001+05:30

When I was in 6th grade, the nun who taught us religion said something I've never forgotten: "Think of the person you like the least. THAT's how much you love God." Another day, she offered this helpful observation: "The thing you dislike the most in another person is your own worst trait."

Sr Raeanne was all about hard truths. She made you think. But she was also a tyrant, a vicious disciplinarian. There was a rumor that - after years of shocking displays of temper and power-mongering over defenseless young children - she had finally been committed to a mental institution. But in fact, as I learned a few months ago from an old friend from the same class, she merely left the convent and got married.

I can still recall how she beat Jimmy Dillon because he wasn't singing "Spirit of God in the Clear Running Water" during our practice session for Mass the next day and how when Jeffrey Costa giggled (out of sheer nerves) while she was doing it, she hauled him up in front of the class to be beaten next. Jeffrey - a gentle boy - ended up becoming a policeman. I lost track of Jimmy Dillon, but the awful memory of his quavering voice, as he tried and failed to sing the song she forced him to perform alone in front of the class, remains with me to this day.

Common wisdom has it that experiences like those shape us more permanently than the words that were spoken. I'm not so sure. I remember that awful day vividly, but it did not cause me to lose my faith or to leave the Church. I just thought she was nuts.

Yet I still remember her words of wisdom. How much you love the person you love least is how much you love God. What you hate in another is what you hate in yourself.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately as I struggle with the care of an elderly, cantankerous relative. Her neediness and attention-seeking irritates me beyond reason and each time I manage to step back and observe myself (which is not as often as I would like), I wonder if Sr Raeanne was right. I wonder if I am so annoyed with her fretfulness and self-absorption because they are traits I dislike in myself. Seeing them lived out loud reminds me of how close to the surface they are in me.

And Sr Raeanne's thoughtful teaching style yet nasty way with the children in her class reminds me how easy it is to talk about inclusion, and how difficult it is to live it.

Keystone Policies

2011-03-12T11:43:00.001+05:30

Yesterday as I was walking in Delhi a woman walked toward me. She had a young girl with her and I was struck, as I often am, by the way that she was dragging the child, rather than walking companionably, as one might with a friend. I'm sure she meant no harm, but she was clutching the little girl by her wrist rather than her hand and pulling her along as she walked.

A small thing, hardly worth mentioning.

The title of this blog is "By Little and By Little." It comes from something Dorothy Day (my hero!) often repeated: "It is by little and by little that we are saved." I believe this with all my heart. What is life, after all, but a series of individual moments? In each one of them, we are making choices, developing habits, creating our lives. It is the tiny everyday things which we do over and over which define us.

When we started Karuna Vihar, one of my first resources was a simple, down-to-earth book called "Teaching Children with Mental Handicaps". It was written by a woman who had worked in Pakistan for many years and it was a warm, loving collection of commonsense and experience. I have never forgotten her advice to "always hold a child by the hand, not the wrist, and walk with her as you would with a friend."

Try it both ways and see what different messages your body sends you: you clutch a wrist or you hold a hand. As my friend Rachel puts it, there is nothing quite like the feel of a little paw in yours. It evokes tenderness and regard and reminds us that there is a real person attached to it, however small, and that that person has thoughts and ideas and places to go, too. She's not just an appendage to be dragged wherever we are heading, someone we can commandeer simply because we are bigger than she is.

So we made holding hands, not wrists, a policy at Karuna Vihar. Old staff do it automatically, and remind newcomers until it becomes second nature to them, too. Soon it becomes so ingrained it just feels strange and awkward to do it any other way, like wearing your shoes on the wrong feet. And I notice that the children now do it too, taking their cues in this, as in so many things, from the grownups.

I think of this as one of our keystone policies - a simple rule that says it all, a rule that illustrates the principles we hold dear and which we can use to guide all our other actions: Be kind. Be fair. Remember the child. Go at his pace. By little and by little, we'll get there.

Monday Morning Train, 4 AM

2011-03-07T06:49:00.002+05:30

The alarm rang at 3:45 and I got up almost immediately, pretending I was Ravi, for whom such unearthly risings are second nature. I had copied his night-before rituals, too: clothes neatly laid out in the bathroom, bags packed and standing by the door, ticket in my purse in an easy-to-find spot, phone all charged.

But my usual last-minute flurrying happened anyway. You can only pretend to be someone else so long. 3:45 is still too early for me to function well and even though I had tucked my ticket in my purse myself, I panicked at the last moment and searched fruitlessly for it in my computer bag. My thyroid pills! Toilet paper for the train! And that ticket! Where was it again?

But in amidst all the scurrying back and forth from the kitchen to the bedroom, I made myself a cup of tea and sat down gratefully to drink it, in honor of a Russian custom which I love: apparently, in Russia, everyone travels the way I do. Total chaos with the entire family racing madly in all directions, shouting instructions to each other which no one pays the slightest attention to, while luggage piles up in teetering stacks, only to be opened again to shove in some forgotten item.

Then suddenly, on some private family signal, everyone sits down together for a moment of calm and repose. They pause, breathe, and sip a bit of tea. Then they all leap up again and continue hurtling about as if that moment of quiet and reflection had never happened.

But it had. And it did. I'm on the train now and that sweet pause in my preparations is with me even now as the train hurtles forward, intent on getting us to Delhi. I sit by my large window, gazing out at the sun rising over the crest of hills we are leaving behind and feeling lucky to be here, however sleepy, grateful that I slowed down even for two minutes to drink the tea, to take the photo, to find a quiet pocket in the morning, to remember.

My Mother's Beautiful Shawl

2011-03-01T00:16:00.001+05:30

A few years ago, my mother noticed me shivering. It was a cool May evening in New Hampshire and I had only recently arrived from India where, having lived for over 25 years, my blood had thinned and my tolerance for cold had evaporated. Mom could relate. British by birth, she had grown up in California and Florida and she hated the cold with a passion surprising in one so generally non-judgmental. When she saw me shivering, she gave me her shawl. Later that night, when I tried to give it back, she told me it was mine to keep.

I held that shawl close and I felt my heart fill. By that point, Mom's Alzheimer's was far advanced. By then, she seldom noticed if she was cold herself - let alone if anyone else was - and so her sudden awareness of my discomfort was like a gift: a reminder of the person she had once been and of the generosity and selflessness which had always defined her.

But it was more than that.

The shawl she gave me was a special one. Made of Scottish wool, it was soft and warm, with beautiful muted colors. Her sister (my godmother) had given it to her as an engagement gift in 1953. She loved it so much she wrapped each one of her seven children in it when bringing them home from the hospital (or, with Moy Moy, from the airport). She wore it herself on special occasions (I have photos of her in various fancy gowns with that shawl on top).

And then, 53 years later, she gave it to me. Here in India, far, far away from the world she knew and the babies she wrapped it around, I wear it as often as I can. When it's too hot (which is most of the time), I drape that shawl on this blue chair in our bedroom where I can see it every day and remember the darling mother who wrapped the baby I once was in its very fabric, who held me close (and my brothers and sisters) in its lovely folds and who then released me, and sent me forth, with her blessing and her love, to become the person I am today. How lucky we all are! How fortunate to have been once enclosed and protected and now strengthened and renewed by her love and care and nurturing spirit.

The shawl she gave me is an emblem of all that she stood for: justice, grace, generosity, the warmth and protection of a loving presence.

Now that she is gone, I feel it passed on to me like a sacred trust. That shawl is a symbol of our best selves, a reminder of what we might be if we let ourselves achieve the dreams our mothers had for us when they held us in their arms, wrapped in the most beautiful shawl they possessed.

If It Ain't Broke . . . Don't Fix It

2011-02-26T12:05:00.000+05:30

This is the road to the Foundation. Left at the pile of dirt, carefully round the dead tree behind it (avoiding the gaping pit the mound is evidence of), circle the stack of bricks, duck under the low hanging lichee tree branches and emerge dusty and victorious at the office gate.

When this trail of destruction first began in Vasant Vihar months ago, I have to admit I was impressed with the heavy machinery in use. Accustomed as we are to seeing men "breaking up the rocks in the hot sun,"

it was amazing to see bulldozers and steam shovels hard at work. It almost seemed like progress.

But as the weeks dragged into months and the roads continued to be chewed up with no concern for putting them back in order so that people could walk and drive on them, it began to seem more like more of the same, only worse.

The bulldozers provide a stamp of professionalism to what turns out to be just another big PWD scam: a World Bank loan to the government of Uttarakhand to lay sewage pipes throughout the neighborhood.

Sounds good, right? Except that our neighborhood is perfectly well-served by our own individual septic tank systems. Why would anyone pay for the privilege of linking to a system that may or may not actually function when the system we already have is working fine?

But the state government has gotten the money!!! Who cares that it's a loan that will have to be repaid eventually??? There are contractors right here, right now who are more than eager to do the work that doesn't need to be done, and to share their profits with whomever it is who makes sure that their bid is the one accepted.

And the wreckage left in their wake? A new twist on the old phrase:

If it ain't broke, break it, and THEN don't fix it.

High Heels, Part Two

2011-02-22T00:33:00.000+05:30

I know there is a lot to look at in this picture, but I'd like to draw your attention to the shoes. You can't see Sumita's or Neha's, but you can safely assume they are in the same neighborhood as mine. You can't see Rajesh's either (he's the guy between me and Neha), but you can safely assume his are not. His are almost certain to be like Suresh's (brown suit), Rizwan's (white kurta/red scarf) and Ramesh's (white kurta). That is: sturdy, sensible, comfortable.

Not us. Height, elegance and agony - that's what we women like. This particular day, I liked that combination so well I decided to walk all the way home in this get-up. Our fashion show had been a surprise and I had come in jeans and sneakers and changed just before our appearance. There was nothing to stop me from changing back and walking home happily. Except that I thought I looked so cool and haughty.

Or just plain stupid?

Coming over, I had worn my pedometer, as I always do. At a fast clip (I was late), it took 800 steps door to door. I was still wearing the pedometer on the return trip, little black dress, high heels and all (devotion, what else can I say?). This time? 1756 steps door to door and every one of those steps was an effort. I couldn't stride. I alternated between a mince and a plod. My toes were curling in on themselves by the time I reached our gate and the moment I climbed down from my heels, my feet began to cramp. It took 15 minutes of massaging to get them back to normal and it wasn't over. That night as I fell asleep I was woken by more cramps, this time shooting up my legs.

The next morning, I made a decision. It would be sneakers, from here on in. (Mostly.)

They may not look elegant and they certainly don't go with that little black dress. But they allow me to walk. They give me permission to move and the freedom to stride. They let me take to the streets. I feel like myself when my feet are happy. I know who I am and I never think twice about the next move.

(Mostly.)

Because (sigh) there are still those moments, and always will be (face it) when the little black dress and the long, sleek legs want to come out to play. And women, unlike men, are more likely to say - ah, what the hell?

Hard Hats for the Core Group

2011-02-17T22:06:00.000+05:30

Our senior staff meets once a week, almost religiously, almost like clock-work. We call ourselves the Core Group and we've been doing this for the past fifteen years. This week, we met at the construction site for the new Early Intervention Centre at the Doon Hospital and while we didn't exactly get our hands dirty, standing there in the middle of the sky, with open windows looking out toward the Himalayas, walls going up before our eyes and decisions being taken with rapid-fire and immediate effect (These guys have a DEADLINE. They are working FAST.) was almost painfully exciting.

So many dreams and hopes have come together in this project. It's difficult to believe it is actually taking shape. When we started Karuna Vihar 16 years ago, we talked in lofty terms about our vision for the future but I don't think any of us really believed it would come to pass. The problems were so enormous and we were so young and small and inexperienced. We wanted it to be true, but we knew in our hearts that it was unlikely.

But just as we asked our children with disability to take things one tiny step at a time, just as we counseled their parents not to expect overnight miracles, we did the same. We took our own advice. We kept our heads down and went on putting one foot in front of the other.We worked on the moments and the years took care of themselves.

Miracle followed miracle and wonders never ceased.

And now, here we are. In a joint venture with the government of Uttarakhand, building a state-of-the-art centre for our youngest citizens with disability - an EIC for babies from birth to five, proving that the most vulnerable among us are every bit as important and precious as anyone else.

But let's not get carried away.

We had requested the use of a conference room at the hospital so that we could complete our Core Group meeting after the inspection of the construction site. Well, the conference room wasn't available, but would this room in the private ward do?

All squished together with several of us perched on the bed (luckily there was no patient in it at the moment), it was a good way to get over ourselves, to remember how we started and to remind ourselves that that big or small, it's still heads down, one foot in front of the other. We are learning all the time, we are so grateful we could sing, we are amazed that we are here, that this is happening, that the babies we want to reach have actually been given a centre all their own and that we are the ones who get to open the door for them.

Deo Gratias!

All Present and Accounted For

2011-02-13T23:18:00.000+05:30

Like everyone else in the field of disability in India, I've been waiting eagerly yet with trepidation for the Census takers to come to my house. Getting the number of people with disability right is so vital for so many reasons. I wanted to be here when they arrived and I was worried I would miss them. I was anxious to see how they would handle Question # 9, yet afraid they would flub it.

I had so many possible scenarios going in my head, the last thing I was prepared for was what actually happened.

What happened was that two very fine gentlemen - Mr Jagdish Prasad and Mr K N Singh - presented themselves at our gate, forms in hand and our names on their list, and announced proudly that they were here for the Census.

It was the pride that struck me.

They worked in the Water Department, they informed me, but for the moment, they were taking the Census. For a temporary assignment, their conviction and investment was remarkable. They sat down in our garden (our living room was full of the guests we had invited for lunch) and, after refusing my offer of tea, they got down to business.

One by one, they slowly and painstakingly took me through the process - asking each and every question on the list carefully and diligently, making sure I understood not only the questions but the logic behind each one.

When we came to Question #9 (the only one I really cared about - sorry, but it's true), they asked it first in its bald form: "Does anyone in your family have a disability?" and then immediately paraphrased by saying: "Does anyone have any difficulty seeing? Or hearing? Or moving? Or understanding? Or any combination of these? Or in any way at all?"

They asked without judgment. They wanted to know.

I answered matter-of-factly. They wrote it down just as calmly.

Moy Moy was counted as a person with multiple disabilities. So was Mummy (hearing and movement). So was Masiji (movement).

Jagdish Prasad and K N Singh did their work well today. I was proud to be counted, along with my family. But more important, they were proud to make certain we were counted accurately. What more can we ask?

Hope and Need

2011-02-12T01:05:00.002+05:30

How many times have I felt like this? That could be Moy Moy: peacefully asleep in my arms, oblivious to all, secure in the knowledge that Mom is there, that Mom has everything under control and I am safe. And that could be me: pensive, overwhelmed, all-too-aware of how little I actually have any control whatever over and how powerless I am in my desperate desire to protect my child.

Being the parent of a child with a disability is a tightrope walk - we are constantly calculating wind velocity, tensile strength and the distance from point A to point B. We never stop plotting. Our babies lie sweetly in our arms while our minds race through the next set of hurdles to be negotiated for them. We love their simple, trusting faith even as we curse the labyrinth we have to guide them through. Not fair! We shout inside our heads. Not fair!

Muir Adams took this picture. His teachers told him that when photographing for voluntary organisations, it's important to capture both need and hope. He got it right with this one. The need is all too clearly etched on that Mom's anxious, beautiful face. But the hope shines forth from her baby's peaceful repose: I've got my mother, he says. What more do I need?

How Inclusion Works

2011-02-10T00:56:00.000+05:30

Here's Lakshi (again). OK, so I am a little besotted. But there she is in my kitchen every morning and my garden every afternoon. Last night she saw I was serving cake to some guests and she crept into the living room, snagged a piece and somehow managed to fall fast asleep in my arms a bit later.

I'm hooked. So when I see her at Latika Vihar, I can't help but feel proprietary and fascinated. She's such a little bundle of energy and mischief. And so fetching.

She is ALSO a text-book case of being three. Watching her is instructive and fun.

Lakshi adores Latika Vihar. She counts the hours for it to be time to go and she refuses to leave until the last possible second. But one day a few weeks ago, she suddenly announced that she no longer wanted to be a member. When her older brother got ready to leave, she simply refused to budge.

It finally emerged that one of our special kids had frightened her. Kritika is adorable, but she has a habit of suddenly lashing out at other children without warning or provocation. Lakshi had been hit a few times too many and she wasn't willing to chance it happening again.

Enter Hema. In spite of her tiny size, she has a larger than life presence and, as the Coordinator of Latika Vihar, she is determined that every child have the best possible time while there. She is Miss Inclusion and she makes sure every kid feels special and wanted.

Slowly, steadily, she wooed Lakshi back, encouraging her to take part in events she enjoyed:

helping her to develop friendships with older girls with whom she felt safe:

while simultaneously working with Kritika to help her develop better social skills. Inclusion doesn't just happen miraculously. It needs time and thought and a lot of attention.

But when all those things come together, miracles (of fun and play and joy) do occur:

Lakshi is back! And engaged!

And here she is with Kritika, the girl she was so afraid of just a few months ago.

Proving once again that miracles do occur, and inclusion does happen - but not out of nothing, not just by wishing. It's based on skill and hard work and unswerving belief. It's what we owe our kids and what we know can come true if we want it enough.

Little Girl at the Window

2011-02-08T10:10:00.000+05:30

Can there be anything more delightful than finding a child at your window, just inches below the sill and eye-level with your desk, peering in at you - you, so seriously engaged, all hunched over your laptop and thinking about really important things - and grinning?

That's my Lakshi. She bursts into my life whenever it suits her. She has no concept of my time or my pre-occupations or my need to get to the office before noon. "Mom'" she says arms up in the air. I melt.

When her Dad (Our Man Vickers) had his stroke, she and her brother Vijay turned to me and Ravi for security and safety in a time of turmoil in their little world. Now she is an everyday part of MY world and she comes running to be scooped up each morning.

Lakshi is tiny and that is part of her charm. She is also fierce and opinionated and full of curiosity about everything under the sun. She is my delight and my sunshine, a little corner of the world which is simple and clear and complete. Lakshmi is the Goddess of Wealth. That's what Lakshi does for my life.

Grey Hair Part 3!

2011-02-02T22:33:00.001+05:30

What was I thinking?

It wasn't a sudden decision.

It wasn't a decision taken after long and careful thought.

It wasn't a decision at all.

It was an order from on high, delivered in no uncertain terms by God's Own Elder Sister, Nutan. "Stop dyeing your hair," she said.

Though she is seven years older than me, she has almost no grey herself. In anyone else, this would seem to disqualify her from dispensing advice as to whether I should dye or not. God's Elder Sister had no such qualms.

And though I thought I had decided for myself, clearly, I was wrong. Just ask Nutan.

Grey Hair, Part 2

2011-02-01T22:55:00.001+05:30

Well, maybe I have a few more things to say about going grey.

It wasn't actually a sudden decision. I first began thinking about it when my oldest friend - Martha Rose - came to India for a visit last year. Like me, she had been dyeing her hair for over 20 years. This is how she looked when I last saw her in America:

Adorable. But when she arrived in India, look what she had done! Now she looked regal, full of the wisdom of the ages:

Yet, somehow, no less adorable, no less fetching:

I began to think seriously about following her example.

Over the next few months, images of other friends kept flashing through my mind:

Gloria.

Aruna.

Arati.

Anne.

And Vina, the ultimate in white-haired beauty.

Oh, yes, there were men, too . . . (beautiful men, in fact)

. . . but we all know it's different for men. I needed women as role models.

And one fine day, I decided that not only did I need role models for the white-haired life - I wanted to BE one. And now here I am: still a fledgling, still taking baby steps, but having such fun! About to fly!

High Heels, Grey Hair

2011-02-01T00:54:00.000+05:30

This is how I looked six months ago. Long (by my standards) hair. Dark brown.

I am over 50 in this photo and with my family inheritance, there is no way my hair can be this color naturally. Dad was completely white by the time he was 35; Mom was grey in her 40s.

Had I left it to nature, I think I would have followed Dad's path: my first grey hairs appeared in my late 20s; the sexiness of pure white on a youngish face would surely have followed.

But we all know that what is sexy on a man is dowdy and over-the-hill on a woman.

Or so I thought. So I started with henna when I was just over 30. My friend Deepa and I did it together and we made a pact: knowing how hideously the auburn sheen of henna veers into glaring orange without the host head seeming to realize, we promised we would tell each other when it was time to stop. She told me when I was 35. I told her a year later. I went on to chemical dyes. She just stopped altogether.

Well, we aren't all as beautiful as Deepa. Nor as confident. Nor as experienced. One of the reasons she didn't want to get into dyeing was that she had watched her own mother do it for years and years. She had seen first-hand the mess, the expense and - worst of all - the dreadful and inevitable return of the "skunk-line." She wanted no part of it.

MY mother had never dyed (she barely wore lipstick) so I had no cautionary tale before me. What I had was these pesky white hairs which were always there to remind me of things I preferred not to think about.

So for 18 years (18 YEARS!) I spent $6 every 6 weeks (nearly $1000!) to keep up the pretense that I was not, in fact, getting older.

Six months ago, I had suddenly had enough. And just as suddenly, I stopped. No more dyeing. I have surprisingly little to say about it. Just that it is a release and a delight to relax, to agree with what everyone already knew: I'm getting older. And once that is agreed upon, to use it. For India is the place to be when growing old.

There is deference to be had: a seat on the train, the first to be served, one's advice sought. And carte blanche when one wishes. Now that my hair is grey I feel reckless and uninhibited: who cares?

How Networkers Cross the Street And Other Secrets of a Happy Life

2011-01-23T23:19:00.000+05:30

Like many things in India, crossing the street requires more courage and determination than one expects to have to come up with for such an everyday event. Street-crossing styles range from the terrified to the brazen, from conciliatory to let's-make-a-deal. It takes all kinds to make a world, but my favorite street crosser is The Networker.

She starts by making eye contact. There she is, standing confidently on the edge of the road, with no intention of wading in until she has someone's surprised attention. "Hello there!" her expression says. "You're a pedestrian at times, aren't you? You've been in this position too, right? You know you have." She never stops looking at the driver she has selected and before he knows it, he has stopped, almost against his will, and is smiling back at her as she moves out in front of his car.

I like her style because she's on to something fundamental. She knows there's more to life than crossing the street. And while she does want to get across (she's got appointments, she's got a schedule, she's got things to do), she also wants to change the world - one intersection at a time. She wants the guy who lets her go to feel good about doing it; so good that he will do it again for someone else. And again for someone else. And again. And again. Till it's a habit.

And when she's the driver herself, she remembers the pedestrian she once was and will be again and she startles those waiting patiently by the side of the road by stopping and waving them across. She watches their surprised and wary expressions, smiles encouragingly as they hesitate and then broadly as she sees them get the idea, sees them realize that she is really stopping for them and that they can take their time as they step out onto those mean streets that suddenly seem less menacing and more like friendly avenues which are as much theirs as hers.

I like her style because she knows that everything, even something as simple as crossing the street, is about relationships, about trust, about knowing that the other person could be me, and very soon will be me, and that how we treat the driver whose help we need, how we treat the pedestrian who needs us, will determine how the world will evolve - not only for us but for our children and for our children's children.

I like her style because she is being the change she wants to see in the world.

The Practice of Medicine

2011-01-21T00:03:00.000+05:30

I'm not a doctor or a nurse, but I have patients. It's amazing what you can learn to do. I take temperatures, check blood pressure, administer chest physio, nebulize, adjust medications, give enemas. I can even insert a feeding tube.

A few days ago, Masiji's blood pressure shot up to 150 over 110. I cured her.

Of course I called Dr Sebastian for advice, but the cure came from me. And it was that simple. A little time; a little attention; a little touch.

Masiji is a person who needs excitement and variety in her life. She likes drama and she thrives on attention. And it struck me as I was checking her blood pressure the evening of the day it shot up, that as a widow living far from her own children, nobody touches her now. Although she lives with us and even shares a bed with her sister, she has almost no physical contact with anyone.

Being unwell automatically means touch. My hand on her wrist as I check her pulse. On her shoulder as I help her out of her sweater so I can put the bp cuff on her arm. Fixing the stethascope under the cuff, my hand now beneath her elbow to hold it steady. It struck me.

And so, though Sebastian told me I should check her BP once each day, I decided to do it twice - morning and evening. I added the little detail of bringing a notebook so I could write down the result. As far as possible, I stuck to the same time each day - to show her I was taking this seriously. Every day I would explain again the difference between the systolic and diastolic readings and why we were more concerned with the second number than the first. Every day, we discussed her medications, discussed the need for exercise and stress reduction and how she really should lose some weight. Every day.

And it was while I was doing all this that I realized how much of medicine is not the interventions - the medicines, procedures, surgeries and tests - but the human contact, the questions, the listening, the concern, the attention, the touch.

When I accompanied Vikram to Delhi for his six-week checkup (almost flying colors! almost complete recovery!) I was struck by the contrast between the two doctors we met. One spoke almost exclusively to me, in English, focused on the test reports and the brain scan rather than on Vikram and didn't lay a hand on him. The other spoke in Hindi, asked V a lot of questions, listened carefully to his answers and, in a startling - these days - divergence, actually physically examined him. Vikram came out of the first session feeling anxious and confused; out of the second relaxed and hopeful.

How much of good medicine is about listening, about genuine concern, about touch?

It's not easy. Patients, by nature, are plaintive and querulous. Their concerns are the only ones that matter and they have no idea of all the other things the doctor or nurse is thinking about. To them, their headache, their coughing, their pain is the only thing in the world. But good doctors enter into their world and help them to find the road out.

Yesterday, when I went into Masiji's room to check her blood pressure, she waved me away. "Not today," she said. "I know it will be too high."

"Why is that, Masiji? What happened?"

Turned out she and Mummy had had an argument. An inconsequential fight over nothing in particular, though she needed to tell me every single detail. My job, clearly, was to listen. No advice, no pointing out any inconsistencies. Just to listen.

When she was finished talking, I took her blood pressure. 140 over 70. She was cured.

Kartik Learns To Talk

2011-01-12T23:46:00.001+05:30

A few days ago I met Nisha on the road. Nisha is Gia's Mom, whose story I shared back in October. Gia has a little brother named Kartik, and I told his story a few weeks later.

Gia was worried about Kartik because at the age of two and a half, he still wasn't talking. We got him into Karuna Vihar for an assessment and the diagnosis was simply that he needed more stimulation, more time with other children, more communication. The prescription? Two hours every day at Latika Vihar, our inclusive children's center.

When I met Nisha, Kartik had been coming to Latika for about six weeks. So I wasn't expecting much. These things take time.

But Nisha leaped off the bike, her face alight, and said "He's started talking! He says Mama, Didi, chai, and roti now. What did you do? It's like magic."

What did we do? Time to go to Latika Vihar and find out.

I found Kartik being looked after by Pooja, our special educator. In spite of having seven other children to care for, she managed to stay aware of what he was doing and what he might need.

When Kartik first arrived, she told me, he would sit quietly on his own, only truly secure when Gia was in sight. Gradually, with her help, he ventured further out to see what other children were doing, eventually deciding it was more fun to play the way the other kids did.

Parallel play is an important step in a child's development. Kids are totally absorbed in their own thing, but still like the idea of another child nearby. Kartik was right on time - almost three, he was doing just what he should have been doing.

But Pooja knew he would need help moving towards a more interactive style of play, a style where turn-taking, sharing and communication became more important.

So she helped him test the waters and guided him as he took the first steps toward being with other children.

At first, he was hesitant - needing her almost constant presence:

Gradually, he gained confidence, learning that he could still be safe, even without her right beside him:

But the real breakthrough came when Kartik realized that other children could be trusted too:

and that the sweetness of a friend's support is what will take you through even the most difficult challenges:

Kartik still has a way to go, but his resilience, Nisha and Gia's devotion and Pooja's skill will get him through.

As for me, I just can't stop thinking about luck and narrow escapes. How many more Kartiks are there out there? How can we reach them? When it is so simple to help them find their voices, how can we allow ourselves to fail?

That Lady Who Brings The Chai

2011-01-08T01:29:00.002+05:30

You know her. She's the one who serves the tea in your friend's house, or in the office where you work or the office where you are visiting.

She keeps her head down and seldom makes eye contact, though she might smile shyly if you happen to notice her in an encouraging way.

You probably won't, though. No offense. I'm no different.

When I first came to India at the age of 23, the whole idea of servants creeped me out. I was a self-help American girl and though I had once been a waitress myself, I couldn't bear the idea of anyone waiting on ME. Toast? Thanks so much! I'll make it myself. Tea? Thank you, no really. I'm fine. I'll get my own later.

Over time, I got used to the idea. Learned how to reach out for the cup while continuing to listen attentively to the other people in the room. Later, I could even go right on talking while picking it up, continuing with my important train of thought as if that lady with the tray wasn't even there.

Because she wasn't.

She was in her world; I was in mine. This went on for years. Then slowly, the walls began to come down. My friend Gloria - in her gentle, inimitable fashion - showed me another way, a way which acknowledged the humanity of the person holding the tray without stooping to condescension or pity. My friend and house guest Angie - with her fiercely democratic and egalitarian presence - taught me how much more fun it could be to engage with the person holding the tray.

And then it was off to the races.

Because now, every person serving tea - whether in my home or in some dreary government office - has suddenly leapt to life. There they stand, holding the tray, yet full of a hectic, inspired life the depths of which I cannot begin to fathom.

She's all dressed up. She's got a dream for her son - the bright one, the one who can imitate anyone. She loves the deeper shades of red. She's wearing pearls this afternoon.

She brings the tea in on a tray, but she's thinking about her village. She's remembering the bus journey that brought her here. She's calculating the days until her sister's son's wedding. She's hoping it will rain so her crops back home will flourish.

She's alive. She is not just that woman holding the tray. She's got a life, and a story and a dream of a common language. We owe it to her to look into her eyes and acknowledge her existence.

New Year Resolutions

2011-01-06T00:03:00.000+05:30

I love resolutions – reflecting on them, making them, keeping them, discarding them: the circle of life!

This year, mine include more hand-written letters, more time with my mother-in-law and her sister (both live with us) more long walks and more baked potatoes.

Less worrying, less time on the computer, less judging, less cholesterol. Fewer late nights, more early mornings.

More cake, more photography, more prayer, more music.

What about you?

New Year Images: Let Them Go

2011-01-04T00:41:00.000+05:30

On New Year's Day, I went to visit one of our neighbours. Mrs Agrawal is a good woman: funny, down-to-earth, warm and generous. I brought her some "Mexican Wedding Cakes" - a special Christmas cookie which melts in your mouth and has no eggs. She was thrilled.

We sat in the sun on her verandah and caught up with each other's lives. Though we live right across the road, we seldom have the chance to chat. She told me about her daughter's operation; I told her about Moy Moy's pneumonia.

Then out of the blue, she asked me what another of our neighbors had against me. I knew what it was, but I pretended not to. For months I had watched the other neighbor's husband dump their trash on the vacant lot next to our house. Finally I asked him why they didn't spend the 30 rupees a month to have their garbage collected and disposed of properly. Since that day, no one in that family would even look at me, let alone speak.

"Why?" I asked Mrs Agrawal. "What do you mean?"

"She says you have trunk loads of money coming in for Karuna Vihar and it all goes in your pocket."

I smiled and said there are all kinds of people in this world and changed the subject.

But the accusation stayed with me all day. It came at an odd moment in my life. Due to a cash flow problem, we have literally been living hand to mouth in the Foundation. I have been frantically fund-raising just to meet the payroll and several senior staff have gone without their salaries a few times. Our normal 10% raises are six months overdue. Moy's health issues have been draining, I have given money I don't really have to several people who were also in health crises and, in fact, I can't remember when cash has ever been quite so tight as it is right now.

So being accused of siphoning money meant for the Foundation hit me hard. It was absurd and funny, but it was also painful.

Yet the only option is to try and understand, to step out of the aggrieved innocent's role and become instead the compassionate observer, the one who realizes that this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her. This is a huge challenge for me - my "image" is important to me and I find it next to impossible not to defend it against detractors.

But being in public life - even in my own tiny sphere - means that this sort of thing will always happen. Small people will always exist and they will always be ready to pull others down. The challenge is to go on doing one's work sincerely and with honor and integrity and with no concern for what "people" might say.

The Tibetan prayer flags are the image I hold on to: fasten your life to the rope of integrity and honor and let everything else flutter by on the prevailing winds.

Image? Let it go.

India: Where Even Simple Pleasures Are Not Simple

2010-12-29T23:53:00.000+05:30

This is the time of year when many of my friends turn up in Goa, Kerala, Thailand and Singapore. It's cold here in Dehradun and it seems right to get out if one can. I'm one of those who can't. My house is too complicated (three people with disability means vacations by the seaside are not happening), and anyway my purse is too small.

I don't mind. I console myself with the "simple pleasures" in life. Beethoven. Candles. Homemade bread. And, at this time of year, a fire in our very own fireplace.

What a treat. I buy wood for 5 rupees a kilo (what a bargain!) and all day I look forward to that moment when Moy is in bed and the biddies are in their room and I will light the match beneath the grate. I may also pour a glass of wine, I may write letters, I may read a book. I may just stare into those flames and pretend that they are the ocean.

This afternoon, anticipating this evening's "simple pleasure," I set the fire up early. I tore up newspaper and crumpled it under the grate, set up the kindling in a neat little triangular pile, then laid in the logs on the side. Naina, Moy Moy's babysitter, watched me doing it with interest.

"I get my wood at the tea gardens, Didi," she said.

"Oh? Do you also have a fireplace?" Even as I asked, I knew the answer would be no.

"I've got a chula set up outside," she said. "That's where I cook our food."

Naina's gas cylinder ran out a few days ago. Gas is in short supply lately and it's unlikely she will get one for at least a month. So my simple pleasure is her dire necessity. Before she can have a cup of tea in the morning (I wander sleepily out to the kitchen whenever I happen to wake up and switch on the electric kettle), she has to gather sticks, fan the flames and boil water and milk.

It is nearly midnight now and my fire is dying. I'm going to bed. But I go mindful of how lucky I am, how blessed, and of how easy it is to forget that and how stupid.

An Open Door At The Christmas Inn

2010-12-24T16:26:00.001+05:30

Like every other good Christian growing up in the West, the story I heard about Mary and Joseph and the Inn at Bethlehem went like this: there they were, a young, friendless couple, penniless, forced by circumstance to travel in the final days of Mary's pregnancy. Realizing she was about to give birth, they knocked on a door and were turned away because there was "no room in the inn."

That phrase conjures such horrors in the minds of people like me that it has reverberated down through the ages - no room, no room, no room. It has become a metaphor for Christ himself in a world which is hostile to the message of love and simplicity he came to teach. No room for you, Jesus. Find somewhere else to be born. Not here, not here. Our doors are closed.

But what a PR coup this is. What a twist on what most likely actually happened.

Living in India for nearly 30 years, I have a different take on the story. I think Mary and Joseph turned up at what passed for an inn in those days, at their income level. They certainly would have known better than to have asked for a room at a Best Western or the Taj. The inn they chose would have been a dharamsala, a place for poor people like themselves, a place where weary travelers huddled together in whatever space they could carve out for themselves - on the floor, wrapped in their own capes and rough blankets.

Was that a place for a young woman to give birth? Right in the midst of all the others? I think the innkeeper, who was probably poor himself, did the best he could in the circumstances, the way the poor always do. I think he thought creatively and compassionately and suggested the stable as quieter, more private and, with the heavy bodies of the animals filling up the space, warmer too.

And who turned up first to greet the newborn? Not the Mighty Three Kings, who arrived almost two weeks late, bearing useless gifts of the kind Jesus would warn against when he grew up. No, it was the shepherds, also poor people, who came in haste across the fields to see this thing which had come to pass.

In the popular legend, the innkeeper is the villain and the shepherds are just a bunch of villagers frightened by an angel into leaving their flocks and rushing pell-mell to see what was up. The Kings, on the other hand, are stately, thoughtful men of wisdom and gravitas, men who studied the skies and planned their journey in advance, even to the last detail of the gifts.

I'm not trashing the kings. Frankincense and Myrrh have their place in this world, I suppose. But as we reflect on the story again this Christmas, let's spare a kind thought for the innkeeper who did his best at the very moment he was asked; for the shepherds who left everything they possessed to go and pay their respects immediately, not waiting for the shops to be open so they could buy a suitable gift first.

Because a woman about to give birth needs a place this minute. And a newborn king would like to meet his subjects today.

Tis A Gift To Be Simple . . .

2010-12-23T01:01:00.000+05:30

The moment when Santa Claus arrives is the most anxiously awaited part of every Latika Vihar Christmas celebration. The children pretend to be cool and unconcerned:

but every single one of them is poised, hoping to be the first to spot him:

When he does arrive, it is pandemonium - every year, without fail. And every year the only way to restore order is for Santa to threaten to leave if everyone doesn't sit quietly and wait their turn. Yet, it is not difficult to understand the children's amazement at what is happening nor their concern that it could be over before their turn comes around.

I mean, here is this guy they have never met, walking around with a bag full of candy and gifts, and just handing it all out.

These are children who don't have much. They are not bone poor, but the current price of onions means their parents aren't buying them; they have one sweater or jacket each; the day it is washed is the day they shiver with the cold. And they know, better than most children, that good things run out quickly and that there is no reason to assume that they will be among the favored few who get whatever is going around.

Except at Latika Vihar. Even though they make no assumptions, have no sense of entitlement, at Latika Vihar, they are indeed the Chosen Ones.

Child after child was called by name to meet Santa . . .

and their universal astonishment and delight was the perfect antidote to the jaded consumerism of the West where children have lists and expectations and suffer sad disappointment when things don't quite match their hopes and dreams.

It made me cry to see the looks on their faces, the disbelief that these shiny packages could really be theirs:

and though my American mind is already working feverishly to think of a way for next Christmas to bring them even shinier and more wonderful gifts, the lesson these children are teaching me is that more is not, in fact, more and that part of being overwhelmed and astonished lies in limits and simplicity.

Latika Vihar is about love and gratitude. It's really that simple. And that simplicity? A light to the nations.

Sleeping Through The Night

2010-12-22T13:56:00.000+05:30

Becoming a parent means letting go of many things, not least of which is unbroken sleep. We all understand this and most of the time we accept it with good grace. It's part of the deal and most of the time, it happens when we are young and energetic enough to take it in stride. Anand was born when I was 25, Cathleen when I was 28 and Moy Moy came along when I was 31. Sleepless nights for feeding, changing nappies, nursing sicklings and soothing nightmares were part of the fabric of my life as they grew from babies to toddlers and then teens.

I thought often when they were all small of my mother with seven of us and how she said when the youngest was finally sleeping reliably through the night that she had just gotten used to it, that it wasn't until she actually got to sleep as much as she needed that she realized how tired she had been for all those years.

I'm still tired. Moy Moy is 21 now, but we wake up with her every single night. She needs to be changed, she needs to be turned, she may have a seizure and she needs to be held. Her coughing wakes her and then us and we get up to reposition her on the pillows. When she is sick, we set the alarm to wake to give her her medicines. She sleeps in our bed which makes things easier and more difficult at the same time.

Last night I had the beginnings of a bad cold and an idea occurred to me after Ravi had gone to bed. I could sleep in the guest room.

Guiltily, but before I let myself dwell too much on selfishness, I got out a soft white quilt, pulled my lumpy old pillow out from the middle of our enormous bed (specially designed for three) and crept upstairs. I fell into a sleep so deep it seemed like an inky black well, lined with velvet, and didn't emerge until after eight this morning. I woke confused - where was I? - and rested as I can't remember being in a long, long time.

Not complaining! Just reporting.

A Song For An Inclusive Christmas

2010-12-18T23:43:00.000+05:30

Here's a song I wrote for a Christmas concert a few years ago, set to Beethoven's "Ode to Joy.

Children, hear the Christmas story
Ages old and yet still new
How the Lord of power and glory
Came to earth a child like you

Born to simple village parents
In a stable filled with beasts
To remind us of his promise
That the greatest is the least.

Bethlehem now calls us homeward
Find the stable bathed in light
Enter in, behold the baby
Ruler of both day and night.

Bring your gifts of joy and friendship

Hearts that love are never small

Clothe the naked, serve the homeless:

Peace on earth, good will to all.

Fast away the old world passes,
Hail the new sun in the sky

Casting beams of love and blessing
Bringing peace that never dies.

Join your hands with those beside you
Let the walls between us fall:

Greet the stranger, feed the hungry
Peace on earth, good will to all.

Build the road of peace before us
Build it wide and deep and long

Shield the slow, remind the eager
Help the weak and guide the strong

None shall push aside another,
None shall let another fall

Sing with us the Christmas message:
Peace on earth, good will to all!