Q is for Questions

In the first decade of my life, say between four and seven years of age, the following three questions (along with their sub-questions) occupied my thoughts and dreams:

Question #1: What magic makes the woollens shrink in the trunk?
Early October, every year, the big trunk in the store room was opened and emptied out. Warm clothes stored in it were aired in the sun to prepare for the inevitable winter. Shrunken balls of naphthalene would roll out of the creases of warm jackets, knitted jumpers and sweaters made by my mother and shawls with Kashmiri embroidery that were stored with extra special care (usually wrapped in old muslin cloth). Despite the mandatory airing, the smell of naphthalene would cling to all those clothes for a good few weeks. Even now, that smell takes me back to the in-between time of the year when autumn is almost out and winter is just getting started.

I remember being made to stand by the big trunk while my mother took out sweaters and 'garam baniyane' warm vests, knitted with white or cream coloured wool, which we wore under our white school shirts. Overpowered by the strong naphthalene smell and the scratchy wool, I'd squirm and squiggle and get my ears pulled or bottom smacked to stand still. Almost always, my favourite sweater would be declared too small for me and passed on to my sister. 

Who makes my clothes small every year? Are there fairies who live in the trunk? Are they related to the little people who live in our radio? Why don't they shrink Daddy's suits or Mummy's favourite 'angoori' (green like grapes) cardigan? 

Question #2: How do people move houses?
Do they get a huge saw, squat and start sawing at the base of the house? How do they load the house on a truck? How big is this truck? Do houses have roots like Papaji's (my grandfather) radishes? Those milky white ones he yanks out of the soil, shakes off the dirt before offering them to us to eat, ignoring my mother's instructions to wash EVERYTHING. 

'A little dirt will only make you stronger.' he would say and take a big crunchy bite of the unwashed white radish that tasted like sweet milk.

And the last one is deep...real deep:

Question #3: How does Rajesh Khanna (Indian film super star of the seventies) come back to life every Sunday? 
There was a time when I was perhaps six or seven, Doordarshan (Indian TV channel) telecast Rajesh Khanna's three super hit films in quick succession. They were Aradhana, Anand and Safar. He dies in each one of them and in two of the films his death scenes were so potent, our entire neighbourhood was in floods of tears. We were one of the first houses to get a black and white TV set, thanks to my father.  It was quite normal for a crowd to gather around our TV set every Sunday evening for the film. In fact, once the TV had to be moved out into the veranda to accommodate all the people. It was a religious film, I think. I wasn't interested. But I remember watching a neighbour climb up the guava tree in our veranda to secure the best seat in the house.

Back to the question--this business of Rajesh Khanna dying, followed by my crying and feeling sorry for him and not being able to sleep because 'babumoshaye' (famous dialogue piece) kept ringing in my ears and then finding him frolicking around trees or cracking jokes with Amitabh Bachhan a few Sundays later, did my head in. 

My grandmother's tales of reincarnation didn't sit well with what I was witnessing at a young and impressionable age. Who was this super hero who died of cancer and then came back looking just like his old self, all grown up, a few weeks later only to die of cancer again?

***********

The only question that haunts me these days is: Do I look fat in this?

I guess, I was more evolved when I was little. 

A couple of years ago, at a school fair, I spotted two photographs that reminded me of question number two of my childhood.

The first photograph is at the top of this post. The second one is here, along with an explanation:

A bit about the photo at the top of this post...

I'm reminded of this oft shared quote of one of my all-time favourite writers: Roald Dahl.

O is for Ordinary Moments

One ordinary evening in August, almost four years ago, I stood in the middle of the gym floor glaring at the treadmill. Tiny rivulets of sweat were dribbling down my body and seeping through my old t-shirt. I had only just got in. The forty steps I took from my front door to reach the club house in our compound had sapped me of my energy. I was angry. Upset at the unfairness of being imprisoned indoors by this crazy, suffocating heat of fifty degrees Celsius, I punched hard at the start button and started my warm up. My heart was not in it. The anger was bubbling up inside and making me stomp on the rubber belt. I stopped.

Looking for a distraction, I brought the speed of the machine down so that I could jump off. I did. And went to the corner where all the old books are kept. Doha is a transient place. People come and go. When they leave, this corner of the compound club house gets a new supply of books and magazines; stuff people don't want to carry back with them. Spanish, French, English, Dutch and Arabic books and magazines pile up haphazardly on a rickety book case.

It was the colour of the cover that caught my eye. It was a shade of my favourite, turquoise. I tugged at it and pulled the spine out and read the title. The blurb promised a good read.

Three days later, when I turned the last page, I was tempted to start all over. But, the laundry pile was growing higher and we'd eaten eggs and toast for two dinners in a row. It was time to step out of the happy fog I'd buried myself in and face the real world.

The book was:

Reading this book changed the way I looked at my days. It almost felt like all the ordinary around me had gotten a make-over! There was so much magic happening around me and I'd never even noticed, like:

• the shapes on my bed the sun draws with his rays when I pull the curtains back every morning. The sky is always blue here (or at least for eleven out of twelve months).
• or
• the neighbour's cat curled up in the big garden pot by our entrance door; the cool soil keeping his ginger fur from getting too hot and his furry red tail twitching to its own beat. 
• etc. etc. you get the idea, right?

Everyday ordinary things that went unnoticed and unappreciated because I was too busy complaining about the heat, or making plans to escape, or longing for the outdoors, started to look different. This beautiful memoir showed me how rich my ordinary was.

'the gift on an ordinary day' sits on my bedside table. I still can't figure out how anyone could've parted with this gem. Their loss--my gain, I guess.

Last April, I wrote To Katrina Kenison to thank her. If I'd asked her permission, I would've shared her reply here. But, I didn't plan this post ahead of time, so I didn't. All I can say is that she wrote a beautiful reply and added this at the end: 

"We are all just walking each other home." ~ Ram Dass

I'm taking the liberty to quote William Martin (I discovered him via Katrina's book, too) here. 

He writes in The Parent's Tao Te Ching:

Make the Ordinary Come Alive

Do not ask your children

to strive for extraordinary lives.

....

Help them instead to find the wonder

and marvel of an ordinary life.

Show them the joy of tasting

tomatoes, apples and pears.

Show them how to cry

when pets and people die

Show them the infinite pleasure

in the touch of a hand.

And make the ordinary come alive for them.

The extraordinary will take care of itself.

I became that child and showed myself the way. How could I show this beauty to my children if I wasn't able to see it myself? I was getting a bit lost in the glitter of expat life, you see. Designer bags and size zero waists were eroding my confidence. That was four years ago. That was before Katrina's words blasted the ordinary into my life and turned it sunny side up. 

I can never tire of thanking her for writing this book,

or,

 the person who left their copy for me to find on that rickety old bookshelf in the corner of the club house.

THANK YOU BOTH.

M is for Meraki

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a word I'd never seen before. Its definition was attached to it. I saved it and made a poster. Ever since then, I've become a fan of this little Greek word. It holds so much simplicity in it that if I use it as my gauge to measure all that I do everyday, I'd be in bliss.

Photo clicked at Angkor Wat in December 2013

Maybe this is what Vidya Suri calls mindfulness. 

'Laborare est Orare' (to work is to pray or work is worship) was our school motto. At home, my mother was a true believer of 'your work shows the real you.' Hard work pays off. Yes. But, how about making that work a labour of love?  Do we still call it work? Or does is then transcend into a higher realm and become a prayer? 

Gardening, writing, cooking a meal for my family are things I love. I pour myself into these tasks. I may get up with painful knees after hours of gardening or a flat bum, after hours of sitting at my desk, but the buzz that resonates inside is better than any glass of wine or G&T I've had --ever! 

I saw a living example of Meraki in action last week. I wish I'd taken a picture, perhaps we don't need it. This lady, in her late seventies (guessing), was managing the toilet door in a restaurant near Mattias Church in Buda. Snow white mop of hair sat on top of a kind face with twinkling hazel eyes. She was taking the 100 HUFs needed to go in. It was freezing outside. The crowd of people who wanted to use the loo was substantial. She wore a blue dress and was bent slightly as people do when they get old and the body becomes less agile. She would accept your coin, turn around to drop the coin in a little metal tray, turn back around to give you a full blown smile (it went all the way to her eyes) and let you in. She did this slowly and gracefully.

When people came out of the cubicles, she bid each and everyone goodbye in a voice that said: I care and I love what I do. 

In fact, when I joined my daughter and her friend who were waiting for me by the main door of the restaurant, I couldn't stop talking about this lovely lady by the loo doors. I wish I'd thanked her for showing me Meraki that morning.

I'm sure you've come across people who look so happy in what they are doing that it rubs on you. 

An old lady in a blue dress with kind eyes showed me that operating a loo door could bring her so much happiness that it spilled out of her and touched us all.

"And all work is empty save when there is love;

And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.

And what is it to work with love?

It is to weave the cloth with threads drawn from your heart, even as if your beloved were to wear that cloth.

Work is love made visible."

says Kahlil Gibran in The Prophet.

I didn't know Gibran's words when I became a mother for the first time. The never ending nappy changes, the night time feeds and the colic were followed by packing lunches, fixing breakfast, running to get us all on time to school, dealing with marking piles of books, head lice issues, homework, school trips. Oh! the list was endless. 

It's easy for me to say this now, when the children have grown up, to Meraki through your day. Back then, I would've rolled my eyes at you if you'd suggested that I leave a piece of me in all that I do. "There will be nothing left of me!" this over-tired, over-worked mother of two would've screeched in protest.

But then I look back and I see two heads huddled around me when I read them stories. Or hear their squeals when dandelions and daisies and moss turned into magic potion they concocted in the garden and the potion turned out perfectly slimy, just like they had predicted it would. Or feel the rough bark of the trees they climbed while we (husband and I) stood under the boughs with arms spread wide to grab them if they fell, I realize that Meraki had crept in despite the exhaustion.

Yes, work is love made visible. 

Last year, I had the privilege of meeting two artists whose art is full of Meraki. When you see their art, you can feel the love. If you have time, meet Dithi and Kalpana.

Wishing you all a Meraki-ulous day:)