My Name Is Jo, But You Can Call Me Job

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

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 nut to crack.

Round Up The Usual Suspects

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

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?

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

"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

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.