Badges

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There were these three badges when I was in fourth standard (which un/fortunately I never had to wear) - each a different colour, for first rank, second rank and third rank. I suppose one was green, another red and the third orange or yellow. My memory fails me, I just recall that they were colourful and attractive and jealousy-invoking. After every term exam, when the results come out, the badges were given to the first three rank holders, and they got to wear it on their shirt. Proudly.

I remember the first and second rank holders, they were always the same people, just that they kept exchanging their badges every term. But the third rank holder's name or face evades me.

A few days ago, my son came home with a badge, his face brimming with pride (but struggling not to show). It was the badge of the school "Safety Marshal" - the children who were responsible to maintain the "safety" of others at school. Whatever that may be, his badge reminded me how much I had longed for one of those three rank badges, but how I never got any close.

Anyway, during my son's PTM, the teacher did not seem very concerned about his grades and I quickly asked if they were okay, and she said "Yes, Yes, he has good grades for most of the subjects; he is doing well." Funny how the focus has shifted so far away from red, green and yellow. It's good of course, no pressure on the kids, and no pressure on the parents, but then I began to wonder if things would come full circle again and one day the teachers would find out that the students have lost their competitive spirit and it would be good to give them some boost with red or green badges. I must insert here that except for a little envy for those girls wearing badges, no amount of competitive spirit was awakened in me when I was ten.

I do not know what happens in my son's school, what he thinks, what he feels, and he sure has no inkling of how I survived mine. That's the best thing about the generation gap. We don't understand each other and we get to explore everything new. One day someone would come up and say, Look, I think we should give colourful badges (or whatever is the latest fad) to children who perform best in class, so that the others can aspire to be like them. Besides, it is good to encourage the hardworking, talented lot. Now we ignore the performers, say that everyone who participated is a winner, and so those who actually have done outstandingly well will get demotivated and think, "Why should I do it? I am considered the same as that kid who knows nothing." Wow, what an idea. That would so motivate them to perform. Let's bring in the badges.

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An exercise in Murphy's Law

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First it was the rain.

Come to think of it, there is almost always a root cause that sets the whole Murphy's Law mechanism in motion.

I booked a cab as usual. The last time I had booked one, we had reached fifteen minutes early. You know Ola, they always have a car two minutes away from my place. Always. But not this time. The rain, as I said. And the cabs began to vanish right before my eyes, from the app. Finally, I find one fourteen minutes away. Fourteen minutes. We'll be late by a couple of minutes, but that's okay, I thought.

After ten minutes, I can still see the cab driver ten minutes away on the app. I call him up. "Rain, Madam!" he says. "Traffic! Rain! I'm coming."

My son is becoming restless. He will be late for his football coaching. We watch the car progress inch by inch through the highway (through the tracking option in the app). Finally he is here. Ten minutes for the coaching to start. "We're going to be very late," I said to my son. I have an inkling that we're going to be very very late. He wriggled his hands and made a complaining face.

The distance to the destination - eight-ish kilometres - can be covered in fifteen minutes, on a clear and sunny day with no chance of meatballs. Apart from a fair amount of traffic, there is a railway gate and a handful of traffic signals on the way. On normal days, one of these will delay us by five minutes. One of these, mind you. You now know which way the story is headed.

The rain is quite intense as we get into the car. We begin to crawl forward. There are vehicles everywhere. One wonders whether they all fell from the sky with the rain. The first traffic signal is red. Of course.

The railway gate is closed. Naturally.

When the gate is opened, there is the usual mad rush to beat everyone to the other side. One decent truck driver has placed himself diagonally across the gate. He came from the perpendicular road and had to make a 90 degree to enter the railway gate, but got stuck at 45. With cars on all sides, a BMTC bus's nose almost touching his butt, a scooter scampering through the gaps, there is no way he can. No one can move unless this guy evaporates into thin air.

My son and I watch this deadlock in exasperation. The coaching must have begun now. He has tears in his eyes. He hates being late. He looks at me as if I am to blame.

The truck driver and the car facing him engage in a dance. We're right behind this car. The car dude finally gives in and reverses. He takes himself to one side, out of the way. Did I tell you we were stranded right on top of the railway tracks, between the two gates, all this time? A train or an engine that decided to take an evening stroll through the tracks would have really added colour to the scene.

There is a gap where the car was. The truck inches forward, and other vehicles squeeze in. Everyone ignores the car which had given way. He is stuck by the side and would not be able to move until the madness is over.

Finally all is well and the truck makes its turn, the car dude swears never to drive again on a rainy day (among other things), and we continue on our paths.

The rain gets heavier and the road is flooded. We reach the next traffic junction. I see green light from a distance. When we approach, it turns to red. The countdown begins at 120. We stare at it in disbelief. "Sometimes, everything that can go wrong, will," I said wisely to my son. He did not seem very impressed or comforted.

The longest two minutes passed. I expected a traffic light malfunction or something else that would delay us another ten minutes. Wonder why that didn't happen.

We crawl (wade?) in the rain and reach twenty minutes past the time. By then we both have attained a Zen level of calm. My son is just relieved that we made it before the coaching is over.

As I pay the driver and get out, I look up at the sky. It promises another episode one hour later, when it is time to return home.

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Behold, the world's changing

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Behold, my son, the world's changing;
And you're so young and fresh.
You can run and learn new ways
But I am too old to catch up.

I was young in my time, (sigh)
And a long way have I come...
I did my share of running, too-
A good learner in my day.

I know how you see me
In the sunset of my life;
In your eyes I'm frail and old
A woman with no past.

My journey has been long
There's been many a sacrifice;
Can I teach you my lessons
To save you from that pain?

When I speak and judge you
It comes from experience
And not from ignorance

I now know that's what mothers do.

I also know I'm wrong

You can't learn from my mistakes

You have to make your own

And so it would go on and on.

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"If you were to have one super power, which would you choose?"

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"The Green Lantern's watch," replied my son without a moment's hesitation. Little children. They know exactly what they want. (Read this old story - Twitter of the Linkedin.) As they grow, somehow this certainty fades and they learn to stray between this and that and in between.

Apparently, using the watch, the Green Lantern can do pretty much anything. Which is really cool because the super heroes I used to know had certain definite types of skills - like flying, super-strength to bash up the bad guys or to stop trains, thought-reading, crawling up walls, swinging from spider webs, manoeuvring a flying car, and so on. These days a watch is enough for all this and more.

Anyway, a few years ago when I was asked this question (in a public forum, no less), I said, "I guess I would like to be invisible." Clearly an answer that was delivered with no thought behind it. I assumed that if I gave some answer then they will move on. They didn't. "Everyone wants to be invisible," they said. And within a few minutes, my "dream" super power was reduced to a creepy idea that I wanted to be invisible so as to overhear what others are saying, see what they are doing and so forth.

Actually the answer is (then as well as today) that I don't want any super power. Think about it. I am a Mom who loves her tea and writing and books and movies, and who needs to hug her son and listen to his tales and yell at him everyday. I don't want to be out in the sun with my very own super strength to bash up bad guys. (Though, I must admit, a little Taekwondo training for self-defense is a good idea these days; just in case.) No crawling up the walls, no flying cars, and I definitely don't want to be overwhelmed with everyone else's thoughts in my head, à la Superman.

I would like to vanish into thin air only when I have royally embarrassed myself in front of someone.

I would also like to erase some memories from some people's heads while I am at it.

I certainly don't fancy flying over Bengaluru with my hands outstretched and my cape flying behind me, just because I am stuck in the traffic jam and there is somewhere I need to be. Or swinging from one building to another over the heads of people. (I won't mention the outrageous costumes here.)

I suppose it would be politically correct to say that if I had some super power (i) I would try to bring all the criminals in the world to justice and (ii) I will fight for global peace and (iii) I will try to reduce global warming and close the ozone hole with my very own fingers, and (iv) I will put an end to poverty and suffering and illnesses, but if we really think about it, even the known superheroes have been able to do nothing much about poverty or illness. (Most of them haven't even seen real poverty or suffering, as far as I can tell; they being generally confined to the other side of the globe.) Besides, if all the human evil in the world was eliminated, what would organizations like Human Rights Watch do? Heck, what would the superheroes themselves do? See the massive lay-off looming in the horizon that will bring in more problems, more unemployment, more poverty, more starvation? (Oh, how in the world can a poor superhero rest in peace!)


Putting all those powers (and jokes) aside, let us look at what we dream of every day. Yes, there are certain things that we all wish would happen to us. Put a thought in someone's mind (someone who is influential enough) to show us a bit of kindness. Push our file / email to the top of some important person's inbox at the right time. Allow a critical someone to accidentally see our work. And if we are less talented, make them think highly of us for no reason. Ever heard of Bruce Almighty?

We might like to call it a miracle - such a coincidence! - that we were noticed by The Someone. We would narrate it to everyone - she saw it just by accident! I was so surprised when he called! I had no idea my work was this brilliant! Oh, I am so darn lucky.

But deep inside, we would know. It's called cheating. Maybe it will be smooth sailing for a while. But then we would need more such miracles if we are to keep up the show. Do we really want that? Think Bruce Almighty again.


Mothers are usually known for juggling too many things and trying to be SuperMoms, and for feeling guilty despite everything. We would certainly appreciate it if Superman could go get the groceries or look after the baby or do the chores while we rest our backs, but I'm afraid he might consider those tasks beneath him. We merely need some human support (sometimes as little as a kind word!). Or some magic wand that erases the misplaced feeling of guilt.


So the answer is that there is no real super power that can really help me the way I want to be helped. When a person is given a superpower, he is not expected to use it on himself (think Bruce) but to help others. How selfish of me to think only of myself.

But, wait.

Maybe this can't be called 'super', but I would really like to have a power that helps me with my son's studies. I mean, it was one thing to pass my own exams, but now half a lifetime later to be confronted with the same old questions? I could really use some super-human help to keep me from going insane, as I struggle to first understand the stuff myself and then explain to him.

What? That kind of super power is not in the market these days? That's a pity. A real pity.

I guess I will have to tackle life as it is, then.

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The million-dollar question of the day

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“Auntie, why do Moms scold us all the time while Dads don’t scold us at all?”

This question – that has been asked by children since time immemorial – was recently asked of me by a sweet little eight-year-old. I am not facing it for the first time; I have myself wondered the same, and yet, when her innocent question hit me, I was rendered speechless. After a few seconds of ‘er…I think…you know…’ etc., I finally admitted to her that I did not have any insight on the problem. I wasn’t exactly relieved when her mother informed me later that some of the child’s astute queries often leave the universe itself fumbling for answers.

One morning, in the hustle and bustle of getting my son ready for school, he asked me, “Why does my Dad help me get dressed more quietly than you?” Yes, he used the word ‘quietly’. As opposed to his mother making all the noise – ‘get dressed!’ ‘fast!’ ‘your bus is coming!’ ‘my God, didn’t you eat anything yet?’ ‘you are going to be hungry and sick and under-nourished and ill all the time!’.

My reply wasn’t quite dignified, I’m afraid. I muttered under my breath something like ‘Okay, so get your dad to help you’ and walked away. In my defence, no mother in her right mind can bear a comparison like that, especially when she herself feels guilty for every single thing she does and doesn’t do, every single hour of every single day.

At a recent get-together with friends (all mothers), we, naturally, began talking of parenting (how do we always wind up in that topic?), and we had quite a laugh arguing between ourselves about who amongst us was the loudest when it comes to disciplining our children. Some of the comments went like this:

‘When I begin to shout, my neighbours escape to their hometowns. Did you ever wonder why the houses next to mine are always unoccupied?’

‘I suspect my parents-in-law returned to Kerala cutting their vacation short, because of my constant yelling at their grandchildren.’

‘Surely your voice is nothing compared to mine. When I help my son with his homework, the very foundation of this building trembles.’

‘Oh, was that the earthquake scare last week? As for me, I begin with, ‘Dear, please don’t drop your uniform on the floor, throw them in the laundry basket.’ After a few minutes I progress to ‘I told you to put your uniform in the laundry basket!’ and ‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’ Half an hour later, I thunder, ‘For the last time! PUT YOUR FILTHY CLOTHES IN THE STUPID BASKET!’ and all the kids in the colony would have thrown their clothes into their baskets, without knowing what had actually hit them. I mean, we aren’t asking them to wash their darn clothes, are we?’

(Dads who firmly believe that their wives are the only mothers who yell at the kids should be allowed to secretly listen in on this conversation.)

Frankly, hearing from other mothers that we all fall into the same tribe of beasts is very, very comforting and does wonders to salvage our self-worth.

So this little eight-year-old’s mother assured me that she does ask point-blank questions all the time, and that there was nothing to worry about being at a loss to answer. I face it every day, she said. That didn’t console me one bit. She’s only an eight-year-old. She hasn’t begun to question Newton’s third law yet. I can handle eight-year-olds. I probably should have told her that mothers are more responsible for their children – to show them right from wrong, to guide them to be good men and women, to teach them to be kind and behave with courtesy and compassion, and to respect others. I should have told her that it was easy to say ‘teach your child good manners’ but it took constant monitoring and correcting. I should have told her that mothers felt guilty for the slightest lapse from their child, as though she alone were responsible. I should have told her that our society blames the mother for every wrong thing the child does, and that the mother agonises whether she’s spoiling the child with too much attention or ruining the child with too little. This constant pressure – added to anxieties from her own career and aspirations and finances and other daily tensions of life – stresses her out and, unfortunately and unconsciously, she takes it out on her child, even while knowing she shouldn't. It is a clichéd statement (but true, like all clichés) that mothers are never appreciated for what they do. Everything a mother does for her family is ‘after all, her job.’ No one even bothers to see what she is doing, how hard she is managing, how she is shuffling between her varied roles, and whether she is a little sad about the sacrifices she is making. No one realises how much she would love to be told, once in a while, that she is doing a good job. But why don’t Dads react the same way as Moms? Of course they are responsible for raising the child too. I do not know the answer. Maybe it is a Mommy hormone. Or maybe, Dads have Moms to fall back on, but Moms have no one to.

On second thoughts, probably it is good that I did not say all this to her. She would have understood nothing, and she would have thought, ‘Why in the world did I ask this question to Auntie?’ and she might have stopped asking questions.

But I rather hope that twenty or twenty-five years down the line, I will meet her somewhere and I would remind her of her question, and then we will have a good laugh about it – because by then, God willing, she would have found out the painful answer herself. (If the world hasn't changed all that much by then.) I hope, when that day comes, I can hold her hand and reassure her that we've all been there, and there is no need to feel guilty, because she is not the only mother who feels every day that she is a total failure.

Because she isn't. No mother ever is.

Read - Scenes from Mother's Day 2014

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The Honesty Conundrum

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Yesterday

"It's past your bed time. Go to sleep."
"Why should I sleep now?"

"Because you're nine years old and you should sleep on time."
"Why aren't you sleeping now?"

"I have some job to do."
"Please do it tomorrow."

"You know I was watching that movie for two hours when I should have been working. So now I have to sit up late and finish those two hours worth of work. That's my punishment for being lazy."


Today

"Please don't keep changing your shorts every hour. The laundry bag is overflowing. I can't keep up."
"That's because you're lazy and you watch movies and you don't do your job on time."

Yes, friends, I told you so. You can be honest with some people at some time or the other, but not with all the people all the time.

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Fat, Free

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People say little children are unpredictable. I beg to differ. I think little children are as predictable as the solutions of Mathematical equations. It’s the adults that complicate situations with unnecessary exceptions and conditions.

If you tell a child one plus one is two, it is always two for them. It does not change according to the time of day or the presence of a headache or based on who’s asking. Trust me, we adults are like that. All our rules have exceptions, all our laws are adjustable. (Sometimes we call it ‘being human.’)

For instance, you keep repeating to your child about the importance of keeping his hands clean, eating from a clean plate or drinking from a clean cup. The intention is, of course, to inculcate the idea of hygiene into him. Then one day, while visiting relatives, he points to one of the glasses in which they have offered juice and says, “This glass is not clean.” As per definition, he should get full marks and a pat on the back. Instead, you snap, “That’s okay. Be quiet and drink the juice.” Tell me, who’s unpredictable?

My parents once told me that if anyone borrowed money from us, it was difficult (and at times even unkind) to ask it back, even when we needed it very much. Many ‘friends’ had apparently borrowed from them and the money was never heard of since. They could never bring themselves to ask. I took it to mean that we should always ask for our money if we lend it. Soon after, a child borrowed one rupee from me for something, and the next day I went and demanded her to ‘give my one rupee back’. I did not want to make the same mistake my parents obviously did. My mother was shocked on hearing of this. I did not understand why she was upset, isn’t that what she had told me to do?

When my son began to pick up reading, one of the first words he read without help was ‘Free’, because he saw it on many of the snack packets that came with free toys. It was important for him to identify that word, when he went to the supermarket with us. He began to associate it with tiny toys. One day, I saw him reading bigger words from a fruit juice packet. After which, he asked me what ‘cholesterol’ and ‘fat’ were. I tried to explain them as best as I could. He immediately asked me if we get them free with the juice, pointing to the inscription on the packet: “Cholesterol-free, Fat-free.”
If ‘Free’ actually means free, it should always mean free.

The world is indeed an unpredictable place to grow up in. Is it any surprise that little predictable Math equations become unpredictable bursts of headache when they grow up?

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What exactly is this picture trying to convey?

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The philosophy (and Einstein) aside, what is this image trying to say?

We all love to blame the education system for what we have (or have not) become: If it were not for this stupid system, today I would be a Nobel Laureate. Someone forced me into studying and did not let me do what I loved. We love to cite the names of all the people who have dropped out of schools and then founded their own companies and became rich. Does that mean everyone who dropped out of school made it big? Does that mean people who completed their education wasted their lives?

If this system is wrong, what is the alternative? Evaluate each student on the subject of his choice alone? Is that possible? Or even recommended? You're good in mathematics, you focus on only mathematics for the rest of your life; don't learn any language, don't waste time mastering the alphabet or teaching yourself to write? You're a good swimmer, forget arithmetic, do only swimming? Heck, we don't even have enough teachers to teach in the existing system. Are we talking about kindergarten kids or college-going youngsters? People who know little children know their interests change by the day. What are we, fish, elephant or horse that we should stick to only one talent?

A couple of years ago, while speaking to another enthusiastic friend who blames the system (but has no solution to offer, nor has he done any research about it), who keeps on about 'children should learn only what they like to learn' (and whose child was still an infant at the time), I said, my son is keen on football, and if I let him do only what he likes, he will never learn enough arithmetic to go to a shop and purchase anything, and he will never sit down to learn a little language to get along in life. He has to be forced into reading. He likes math and science but when there is a choice between science and TV or play, I know what he would choose. I do encourage him to play. But if he has to choose one later in life, he has to know about the others. I don't know if I am right, but as a mother I don't want to end up with regret ten years later.

You know what the wise dude replied? "The world needs football players too." 

My dear fellow, who says the world doesn't? If my son chooses a football career, I would only be delighted (I think). But does that mean he should go only for football classes 24 hours, from UKG ? That I should not force him to learn a little basics of everything else? That he will pick up Mathematics and English and Malayalam and Science by himself, without there being any classes or exams in sight? What is the point you are making?? (After all, my son was at that time only six or seven years old. He has at different times wanted to be a scientist, an astronaut and a skating teacher. He loves sports but his current career aspirations do not even feature a sport! So which skill should I hone? Send him for all extra classes in science, astronomy, sports and skating? Oh I see the next headline coming up - "Mother punishes child by never letting him play with his friends and sending him to all kinds of extra-curricular activities".)

The point this friend of mine made without listening to a word I said was that mothers like me do not encourage children to chase their dreams, instead they would force them to study stupid subjects and thus allow their dreams to perish. How simple and nasty it all sounds. How delicious. 

If I had not been forced to learn History in my high school, I would never have read a thing and I would probably have asked if Gandhiji had been one of the old Prime Ministers of India. If I did not have to struggle my way through Geography, I would never have known where Brazil was located and would have gone searching for it in Africa. Forget Brazil, I would have looked for Assam near Korea. Wherever Korea was. And the Basic Science I learnt, helps me to pretend to my son that I am a genius. So do I remember everything I learned by rote in high school? Of course not. It was up to me to follow it up with more reading if I wanted. If there were no exams, I would never have bothered. I made my choice once my high school was over. But I had to know everything before I could make a choice. 

When my son asks me why this or that works, I may not know the direct answer, but I know enough to make an educated guess. (Or an educated blunder, which is of course on a different level than an ignorant blunder. I also manage to get away with an educated I-don't-know.) But did school make me a Nobel Laureate? Was that even the intention of school?

Instead of blaming the whole education system (without even giving it due thought), the point to ponder is: a child should be given opportunities and encouragement in his area of interest. But he has to learn a few other things too. I agree that backbreaking homework isn't the right way to go, but they need to be taught what needs to be taught. If you force a child who is interested in fashion designing to join medicine, it is not necessarily the system's fault.

Granted that there is too much on the plates of the children, especially the little ones. Granted that they should not be forced to do so much homework in their kindergarten years. Granted that there is a great deal of scope for improvement in the system and that the system should be kinder to the students. Granted that the attitude of people should change and they should stop expecting their children to be good at everything. Granted that the guardians should learn to appreciate them for their talents and not blame them for their incapabilities. Granted that if a child does not do well in one subject, he should not be called stupid. Granted that we should keep our eyes open to see what the child's (changing) interests are, and as far as our situation allows, encourage them.

There may be academically inclined children who are forced into sports; there are sports inclined children who are forced into literature; there are seemingly lazy children who are forced into everything. I repeat, it is easy to blame an entire system. Try coming up with a feasible solution that provides justice to every child and gives him wings, as they say.

And until you have a clear, practical method to suggest that will train and evaluate each child based on his skills alone while also ensuring that he learns the basics of science and history and geography and language and arithmetic, don't show me pictures of elephants and ants, along with quotes from Einstein (I am sure he meant more than to blindly discredit the education system) and tell me that the system is flawed.

I wonder if I sound naïve, because everyone on social media laps up this image and gleefully forwards it over and over again. Maybe they know something I don't. Maybe I will do a volte-face a few years down the line and say that all this observation and summary had been a terrible mistake. After all, they all have hopped into the bandwagon, they should know where it is headed.

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Sometimes it is better to let things be

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When my son ran out to play in the evening, I called after him to switch off the television and the three lights in different rooms that he had switched on for purposes of his own. He just ran off, as though the house had suddenly filled with vacuum and my voice had failed to carry. A few random, varied thoughts on energy conservation, ozone layer and poverty lingered on my lips and then they ran off, too.

As responsible parents, we want to raise a generation of kind, responsible, law abiding, energy-conserving, poverty-sensitive, caring, perfect citizens. We are responsible for the future of the nation. It’s in our hands that the Tomorrow is getting moulded. We are alert, tensed, on our toes for any sign that our children are going astray. Is it any surprise that we are always jumpy and irritable? Every bit of news we read, every parenting advice that we find crossing our path, makes us conscious and look at our own lifestyle and method of raising our children to make sure we’re on the right track.

We try so hard that we run the risk of overdoing it. The television-and-lights-switch-off dialog happens almost every evening. Some days he runs back to obey my command, rather than waste his precious play time in an argument which he knows he will lose. On other days, he just yells back, “Will you do it please,” and goes his way.

And yet, at other times, when I do not say anything, I notice him switch off the television or any other stray lights that I must have forgotten to turn off, and go on with his business, without even being conscious of what he’s doing.

Sometimes it is better to let things be. They will find their own way back. If we do our part right, everything else will fall into place. All our efforts are not wasted. I read somewhere (in social media, where else) that the things we tell them in childhood become their inner voice when they grow up.

I hope so.

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When is the Aam Aadmi Party?

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"We should go to the Aam Admi Party", said my son, a few days ago.

I was surprised. Did they show election news in Cartoon Network, or did the children discuss politics while playing football? I considered making a "good-parent" statement that I appreciated his views on politics. ("Wait a minute," I said to myself. "He is only eight years old.")

I then pondered over giving a lecture on different ideals and mottos and purposes and even venturing into each party's manifesto (I love the way he listens, wide-eyed), but thought it better to simply ask, "Where did you hear that from?"

It turns out that there was an auto rickshaw (with loudspeakers playing songs) that had been touring the neighbourhood a week ago, distributing AAP caps and asking the kids to make sure their vote went to the common man's party. Needless to say, the kids were impressed. If there is a common man's party, that's where they will go.

While we're on the topic, I'd like to suggest that political parties seriously consider recruiting these under-12 beings for their campaign. For one thing, they don't charge a paisa, as long as you give them a free cap or just allow them to hang around. For another, they will yell their throat out Inquilab Zindabad-ing for you. As in the case of everything that comes free, there is a downside to this too - in the middle of a burst of "AAP Zindabad", someone would insert a "Modiji" and the whole chant would swing to "Modiji zindabad" from which, recovery is tough. (Congress hasn't caught up in this part of the Little World yet.)

"The Aam Aadmi Party is the best," my son added. "When is it?"

That's when I realised that all the while, my little one had imagined AAP to be One Big Happy Party where the Common Men got together and shared free drinks and food, and chatted for a while, probably danced a bit too, and then went home.

And at that moment, I hated all political parties for misleading us all by calling themselves "Parties."

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Growing out of it

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When my son was four months old,

He discovered his toes.

He found these little things

Bouncing before his eyes.

He gazed at them intensely

And frowned in concentration.

He then told his tiny fingers

(Which he'd recently discovered)

To go and grab them hard

For they did look very tasty.

His little fingers obeyed

And brought his toe to him.

Which he, without delay,

Pushed into his mouth.

He liked the way they fit,

The toe and his mouth,

As though the two of them

Were made for each other.

He scowled at the taste-

"Well, that is surprising.

It's like nothing I've eaten-

It's like eating myself!"

He chewed, deep in thought

Like a connoisseur of food.

I tried to pull the toe out

Of his toothless mouth,

But once he had discovered it,

There was no turning back.

He bounced back like a spring,

Went back to his business.

He'll grow out of it soon, said

A wise old woman, who has 

No doubt raised a few many

Toe-eaters herself.

He's not gonna chew his toes 

Forever. He'll grow out of it.

Soon enough, he began to put

The toes to other use 

When he started crawling 

And discovering the world.

He grew out of it, like she said,

Like he grew out of other things.

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16 Things to know (for your own peace of mind) when talking to an 8-year-old:

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1. He doesn't listen anyway.
2. If you want his attention, insert this line in your conversation, "then you can go and watch TV".
3. He will get his way in the end.
4. Junk food is sometimes nutritious. (He will bring the packet and point out the 'nutritional facts' if you dare to say otherwise.)
5. You can't win an argument with him. (In their pre-birth school, they specialised in Law.)
6. All rules are meant only to be broken. Pathetic are those who try to follow them. Pitiful are those that try to enforce them.
7. School days are good, because he doesn't have to endure his mother's many commands during the day.
8. One should do homework only when one has nothing better to do.
9. Whoever invented rice had some grudge against humanity. Probably some sadistic idea by God. Well, no one is sure if God exists, either, so... It all stinks of a conspiracy.
10. There are no such things as sleep time, meal time, study time,... All time is either play time or TV time.
11. He could give Albert Einstein a run for his money. (He doesn't think old Albert was all that brilliant anyway.)
12. Reading isn't everything.
13. Parents are supposed to know everything, but these days he has his doubts on that theory.
14. His friend's Mom makes excellent and tasty meals (even rice).
15. He is never (and can never be) tired. Admitting you're tired is a sign of weakness.
16. If you yell at him, all he gathers is the fact that you yelled.

(With apologies to my son, who will soon discover this blog...)

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Best parenting advices

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The best people in the whole world to provide parenting advices are... those who have absolutely no experience in parenting.

Yeah, they know all about how to put the baby to sleep, when is the best time to make a toddler do his potty, how to calmly and gently tell the child to do as he is told, and,...- in fact they have a whole set of answers to all the problems parents could possibly face.

There is a certain knowing chuckle (or a wise smile) associated closely with these advices. You'll learn to recognise it if you are a parent. The moment they become parents, though, unfortunately, they seem to forget the advices they used to offer free of charge - perhaps because reality has come up from behind and knocked their heads out with a non-stick frying pan.

I might have been one of them too, I am sure. I must have forgotten. Thankfully.


Some of the advices go like this. (Parents, please take elaborate notes.)

"Oh, just put the baby to sleep by singing to him. That's very soothing to him."
The Poor Hapless Parent (PHP) has been singing herself hoarse for 40 minutes and the child is still wide-eyed (wider than before the songs started, for obvious reasons) and lively and energetic, cooing and giggling, with no sleep sighted anywhere in twenty neighbouring countries, and the PHP has begun to hate the fact that the Homo Sapiens have been foolish enough to discover such things as songs.


And then yeah, potty. Let's not forget the potty. So the parent thinks getting the child to do potty every evening is tough job."Evening?" comes the excellent advice, with that chuckle of wisdom I told you about. And perhaps an impatient tap on the forehead too. "Put him on the potty in the morning! That's very important for him, it will clear his little tummy and helps him eat better throughout the day."
Tears start coming out from the PHP's eyes. Not out of love or gratitude, of course, but from the irresistible urge to bang her own head against the nearest wall. She alone knows the morning chaos in the house to get the sleepy child to rise and squeeze into his school uniform and gobble something remotely resembling breakfast and run down the stairs to the bus that has been honking for the last thirty minutes. Potty, yeah, sure.


And when the child refuses to listen to us for whatever reason, this chuckling gang of people have a solution to that too. "Be gentle," they say. "Don't shout or yell at him, just explain it slowly to him and he will understand."
Why didn't I even think of that before? asks the PHP. I have been always screaming at him, from the time he was born. The day they first delivered him to my arms, I screamed at him, just to make sure he knew who was the boss around here. From there, there was no looking back. I should have been calm and loving, God, I never knew it. You should help me spell Love, okay? I hadn't even heard of it until today. Thank the mighty Almighty for bringing you to me. 

There are many more such gems of advices up their sleeves, if you need any tips, go to them!
I think you got the hint. 

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Why (and How) Moms always Win

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Me: Haven't I told you not to do ---?
Son: But I was in a hurry, that's why.

Me: So? After your hurry is over, you should make it right.
Son: I have seen you do the same! You didn't make it right the last time you were in a hurry.

Me: Of course I did.
Son: No, you didn't. Two days ago, you-

Me: Okay, so I didn't. Do you think I was right, or wrong?
Son: Wrong! It was bad, and you didn't-

Me: So you know it was bad, why did you do it today?
Son: (speechless) (gaping) (confused) (thinking) (lost)

Me: (escaping before the confusion cleared...)

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Making a man out of him

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Seeing the picture of horses in the Bangalore Mirror one day, my son asked me to explain the story to him. When I read the part where "CUPA is considering legal action against the culprits", he wanted to know more about the culprits. I replied lightly that they were some bad men who did not give any food to the horses.

My seven-and-a-half year old son then explained to me that probably these men were poor, and did not have much money to buy food. They thought food would be found somewhere in that area for the horses, and there was none. That's what had happened. Then, luckily for them, the school children came with bananas and grass. My son could barely make himself coherent; his vocabulary was tumbling over, unable to keep pace with his thoughts.

I stared at him in wonder. Cruelty to animals is not something he imagines humans are capable of. There surely is some explanation behind it, he thinks. People cannot starve horses.

What do we do to these little gems, I wondered, in the pretext of raising them??

As Baloo the bear says to Bagheera the panther when they debate sending Mowgli back to the man-village, "They'll ruin him! They'll make a man out of him!" We ruin these little perfect, flawless, wonderful babies by making men and women out of them.

A few months ago, when my mother visited us, she asked me about the latest electrical equipment in the house. I explained to her briefly how it worked. Not that she had to do anything to it, she was only improving her general knowledge. A few days later when we were having dinner, my mother said, "I still get confused between the different green and orange indicators."

I replied shortly, "Green means it is working as it should, Orange means it is on battery backup."

A moment's silence later - in which it was evident that my mother's confusion was still as deep as ever - my son calmly, patiently and in no hurry at all, explained to his grandmother that the green light meant this, the orange meant that, the blinking green lights on that side meant this, the blinking orange meant that,... I watched them in amazement - my son pointing to each and elaborating its purpose and my mother nodding in understanding. I don't think my mother will ever get confused again - he was so thorough and so patient and so clear.

I am afraid of what I am doing to him - making a man out of him. I try to teach him my own different ways of showing impatience, anger, disapproval, disappointment,... We're in an unconscious tug of war, he and I, to teach each other a few lessons of life.

And I am terrified that sooner or later he will give in, and I will win.

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Second Timer's Unluck!

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There is indeed such a thing as Beginner's Luck - we all know that.

Wikipedia says,

Beginner's luck refers to the supposed phenomenon of novices experiencing disproportionate frequency of success or succeeding against an expert in a given activity.

Nothing else can explain the fact that the very first time I made aviyal in my life, it tasted great - so great that I assumed I was already an expert, perhaps a genius, and that I had a natural knack (coupled with a natural lack-of-interest) for cooking. Forget the part that the second time I made it, it was a disaster and was saved only because my Mom was around.

Every week, my son has to learn words for his dictation in school, and it is my painful duty to teach him. Sometimes I tell him to "just write, let me see how many words you already know." He ponders for long over each word, applies phonics, thrusts his tongue out for effect and comes out with a result. I look at it, and am amazed - the word is perfect. English is a crazy language, as I always say. Nothing in English is as it seems. There is no clear rule for pronunciation, sometimes it is this way, sometimes it is that. For instance, I taught my son that if 'e' comes after 'g', it is pronounced like a 'j', example: strange, damage, danger. He pointed to 'belonged' and read it as 'belonjed'. He asks me why 'Ocean' is pronounced as 'oshen', shouldn't it be 'oseyan'? Anyway, he has his phonics right most of the time, so he gets some of the dictation words right at the first attempt. I am pleased. I don't bother with those words, and focus on the rest. The next day he comes back with the dictation results and lo and behold - the words that are wrong are exactly the ones he had got right the previous evening.

I firmly believe Wikipedia should devote a page to Second Timer's Unluck, because such a thing exists as much as Beginner's Luck does. It is almost inevitable and unavoidable that the second time the smug beginner attempts something, it should fail miserably. Because Sir Isaac Newton has rightfully said, "Every action has an equal and opposite reaction."

The first time, we are careful more than usual, we thrust our tongues out and ponder for long over each step. The second time, we feel it is easy - we have already done it right once, it was no fluke, and it was quite simple, really - and our concentration slips. We are prepared for an Encore. And the second time, we are unlucky.

The first (action) and second (reaction) balance each other out, and from the third time onwards, we are careful enough, we are experienced enough, we are sensible enough and we are balanced enough to get a moderately good (or sometimes better) result.

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A Child's Cry and a Mommy's Heart

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When I hear a child's cry from the play area where the kids of the apartment gather every evening, I sit up, alert, and listen, my Mommy heart pounding. Is that my son's voice?

When I make out that it isn't him, it is not a rush of relief that washes over me - it is a rush of terror. My Mommy heart begins to pound harder: Did my son do something to him to make him cry?

I listen keenly to the wailing voice complain to anyone who is willing to listen. R threw the ball at me and it hit my head...here, right here...

R did. Not my son.
The flood of relief finally makes its appearance.

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Bringing up NRK

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If you are a Malayali living in any part of the world, and if you are middle-aged or thereabouts (or older), you will know what I am going to talk about.

Those of us who regularly surf Malayalam TV channels have inevitably cringed and flinched and blanched and winced at the weird accent that flows out of those so-called-Malayalis who rule Prime Time TV. We have secretly and publicly mocked and laughed at and insulted these people to our heart's content. We have easily blamed their parents for not teaching them our beautiful language, for not correcting their Anglicised accent, for not telling them that though chetta and Chetta are spelled the same in English, there is a world of difference between the two.

But let me start at the very beginning... a very good place to start...
*A crimson Sun rises over the Western Ghats & Suprabhaata plays in the background*


The population of the world is divided into four groups : Malayalis, semi-Malayalis, adopted-Malayalis & non-Malayalis.

The first, Malayalis whom others fondly call Mallus, are born and brought up in Kerala; they think and talk in Malayalam, they also dream in Malayalam, when they are angry they swear in Malayalam (sometimes using words borrowed from friendly neighbourhood Tamil), when they wake up they read a Malayalam newspaper, they love Kilukkam, most of their lives they have lived in places where Malayali voices float in from outside, when they go out to a shop or in a bus, they are greeted (or abused) in Malayalam, and they have a special love-hate relationship with hartals, rains, alcohol and communism. A real Malayali is defined by more or less a blend of these, and much more.

Adopted Malayalis were once born as non-Malayalis but due to circumstances or fate (usually a mix of both) have learnt to understand the Malayali culture and speak Malayalam like an authentic one. (Much like the Punjabi family of Punjabi House.)

Semi-Malayalis are those quirks of nature who were brought up outside Nammude Kochu Keralam as Non-Resident Keralites, and as a result know precious little about their homeland and its fragilities, and they speak like foreigners. (I don't mean half-Malayalis). Yes, they are our topic of discussion today.

(Some of my friends would argue that though they were brought up as NRKs, they have the characteristics and mannerisms of a full-fledged Malayali. Full marks to them. 

I also know of another set of people who try very hard to conceal the fact that they are Malayalis, and they go through such troubles to not let anyone overhear when they are forced to speak in their mother tongue. 

There are obviously some overlaps.
Then there are half-Malayalis. Expecting them to behave like one of us is totally unfair.)

Non-Malayalis, of course, are the rest of the world.

If you know who you are, then you know who these people are too. Nee aaranennu ninakkariyillenkil nee ennodu chodickku nee aaranennu... etc. etc. 


*Zoom into a particular slice of time, chenda melam in the backdrop*

Some time before my son was born, I happened to work with a Malayali born and brought up in Pune. His accent was worse than that of a Westerner learning an Indian language. One day, overhearing both of us discussing the project in English, a colleague commented, "Why are two Malayalis conversing in English?" Without a moment's hesitation, I snapped, "I don't consider him a Malayali." The Pune NRK smiled good-naturedly. Later he confessed that he spoke to his parents in Malayalam but most of his time was spent with friends and others, which explained his accent. I wasn't convinced. I said to myself that surely he spoke to his parents in Hindi or Marathi or whatever language Pune-folk used.

Fate has its own weird and twisted sense of humour, people. When my son was born, I was determined that he would speak, think, dream and shout in Malayalam like a 24-carat Malayali. When others in Kerala and Bangalore admired his perfect two-year-old accent, I beamed and burst with pride. Then came school. I realised for the first time that he did not know a word of Kannada, English or Hindi to communicate. His ayahs knew only Kannada and pieces of Hindi, and none of his teachers spoke Malayalam. A Communication Disaster was knocking at my little baby's doors.

But he survived. A few weeks later, he demonstrated the words he had picked up from other languages, and I was impressed (and enormously relieved). Things started to go downhill from there - I think. His friends circle consisted of Malayalis, Tamilians, Kannadigas and Andhraites, and their common language became English. Even when only Malayali friends are around, they forget to switch language and would continue in English. When he comes running in from play, he begins with "Do you know what happened?" or "Amme, can I play for some more time?" When I roll my eyes at him, he thinks for a few minutes and then slowly understands why I did so, and then restarts in Malayalam. If I roll my eyes every time he does that, there wouldn't be much left of my eyes. Sometimes, rather than bothering with the eye-rolling routine, I confess I'm guilty of replying in English too. A friend, who overheard him one day, observed sarcastically: "You should teach your son a little Malayalam." Seriously! After all this effort, this is what I get to hear. Just you wait, I thought, your baby will soon start speaking - then you'll know!

When one day my son, then six years old, began to talk about "Njaan oru tree-yil climb cheythu" -- I almost fainted - and it was not because he was climbing a tree. Terrified out of my wits, I began to roll my eyes harder, and pretended to not understand a word of what he was saying until he used all words in Malayalam. (Another time, in the middle of an interesting story, he said frustrated, "I can't remember the Malayalam word for camel !") Every time this happens, the good-natured smile of my Pune NRK friend flashes before my eyes.

At seven and a half years, my son takes the hint and corrects himself, but a few years from now, he may not bother.

In every visit to Kerala, I observe how effortlessly and clearly the children there speak, how well they understand synonyms of a word simply because they hear these words from different people around them, and I realise it isn't as easy as I thought. It is even harder since my son does not get to learn Malayalam in school. (Which is another heavy responsibility of an NRK parent.)

One little girl who lives next door to us in Bangalore, who spent the first five years of her life in Kerala, speaks such delightful Malayalam that I make sure I converse with her whenever I see her. (I also shamelessly show my displeasure when her choice of words extends unnecessarily to English.) I suppose the early years spent steeped in Malayaliness do make such a big difference. My son understands his mother tongue very well, but there are some phrases and words that he may not come across at all, over here. There is no way I can teach him those. I taught him to count in Malayalam, painstakingly, at least till twenty, and then in spurts of ten until hundred, but the important part is that, today when he needs to count something, it comes out as onnu, randu, moonu instead of one, two, three. It wasn't easy, people. It wasn't easy at all, to say the least.

It was (is) like pushing a heavy rock up the mountain - if I relax for an instant, it would start rolling downhill, and I would have to chase it down. And there are miles to go before I reach the top, to the safe plateau from where no amount of gravity can pull it down.

Sometimes I fear that I try too hard, and he will end up saying something blasphemous like, Oh I hate Malayalam.

But perhaps there is no cause for concern. I meet a lot of folks here who speak Kannada like a native, and Malayalam with a rich, beautiful northern Kerala accent. Maybe those lads were born and brought up somewhere over here, or in places like Mangalore. If they can manage two languages so well, perhaps...


The bottom line is that I have stopped making fun of those Manglishi TV anchors. As a parent, I know how difficult it is, even if we are determined to put in the right amount of effort. It is easier to stop trying. When you have more important things to worry about, it is easier to pretend not to notice.

You're right, I am pretty much obsessed with this.

Who knows how this story would turn out?

*Sunset over the glorious Arabian Sea*

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Angry Birds vs Angry Mother

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I swear I didn't know the importance Angry Birds held in earning a child's respect... I would have thought being a great cook or a patient teacher or a brilliant story teller or an understanding friend would have been some of the key roles that would elevate a Mother to the pedestal, but Angry Birds? I can see Experienced Mothers nod in understanding, some raising their eyebrows ("Your son is seven years old and you didn't know it yet?"), some smirking in a been-there-done-that manner, and some shaking their heads in a What-has-this-world-come-to way.

Apparently (how did I miss the obvious) the cooking, teaching, story telling and brilliance are taken for granted, no one even notices them.

The difference, as MegaMind had put it, is in the Presentation. The skill, if you have any, has to appear. From nothing. As if by Magic!

Many of my friends - real and virtual, moms and dads, non-moms and non-dads - have long been obsessed with Angry Birds. I would read their exploits on Facebook. Some of them are my kind of people, so I was sure that the moment I set my eyes on those Angry Birds, I would be addicted to them too. So I never did. I kept away.

Until now.

With the uncanny knack and absolute absence of embarrassment that little children possess, my son attempted and learned and became an expert in Angry Birds, within no time. I still refused to look that way. He offered to teach me. I resisted. It wasn't difficult to resist because when he said 'I will teach you to play' he only meant he will show me how it was played. He would not let me touch it for more than three seconds - barely enough to aim those birdies and then he would pull it from me saying either 'you are not aiming it right', or 'here, let me show you' or 'My turn! I want to play! I want to play!' I would drop it and storm away in an unMotherly show of anger.

Then one day, he was stuck on a certain level in the game. He tried and tried and tried, but could not pass that level. 'Show me,' I said, seeing his frustration. 'But if you are going to pull it away from me like last time, I am going to be very furious'. An advance warning to pre-empt an unpleasant outcome. 'Okay', he said in a resigned tone.

So I began my Taming of the Angry Birds. Several futile attempts later - remember that I was already on a higher level, without having ever attempted the simpler levels - I gave up.
He tut-tutted, 'Oh, you don't know anything!' and went back to his trial and error.
I just watched in silence. That was not the sort of rebuke a Mother would want to hear so early in her Motherly career. That's the kind of dialog that comes in teenage, they say. Seven years? Too early.

When he abandoned it after a while and went away, I took it up. And started from level one. Aiming, firing, scoring. Slowly, impatiently. Shooting the darn birds all over the place. Even where there was nothing to shoot but empty space. 'What are you doing?' he asked.
'I am learning to play Angry Birds', I retorted. After all, the world wasn't listening to me, only he was. I wasn't ashamed of admitting it to him - not yet.
Finally, slowly and steadily, I reached the particular level that he could not cross.

He came and sat by me. I warned him not to take it from me, not to utter a word - because yes, mister, I am going to master this, once and for all. Perhaps his eyes did carry that incredulous, a trifle mocking, and sarcastic look. All those vanished when I set my scowl on him, though.

I played that level twenty-five times at least. Perhaps fifty. Pulling  the birds this way and that, aiming them, shooting them, applying Differential Calculus, Newton's Laws and Murphy's Laws, Probability theory and Permutations and Combinations to kill off those bubble weirdos in space. Some always remained alive, bouncing gleefully off to oblivion - and I would fail the level. He watched, without saying anything. I would Shshsh him if he dared to attempt the slightest sound.

Then I did it! Perhaps I was angry enough by then that I got all my furious birdies attacking with their beak and claw.
I crossed that level, the one he, the expert, could not. And he said, "Wow! How did you do that?" His eyes brimmed with the deepest admiration and respect possible for a seven year old. I did not waste the chance to lecture him on persistence, determination and hard work - all it takes to win at Angry Birds.

Yes, sir, Angry Birds is more than just a game, it is life itself, the sooner you realise it the better!

(And now I think I will just check out the next two levels of the game...)

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Twitter of the Linkedin

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IM needed a little help with her work last evening. She called me ten minutes after my son returned from school. Which meant I was in the thick of things. (As in, Go change your dress! - One minute. Take a bath! - One minute. Have your food! - One minute. Oh, my goodness - look at your fingernails! Come here, let me trim them for you. - One minute. How MANY one minutes do you need??)

While I was talking to (read that as trying to talk to) IM, my hair got royally styled up. (Amme - I will comb your hair. - No, please! Ouch, you're hurting me! Where's your hairclip. Let me- Oooohhhh my hair! Will you stop that? Etc. etc.)

Needless to say, I could not make much out of what IM was saying with so much going on in my life, so I promised to return her call in 30 minutes, once I got the seven-year-old sorted out. Then I pulled him to me and started assaulting his fingernails (Eeek! long, dirty nails, what do you do with them all day?).

"I need to finish this quickly and call IM, she needs some urgent help," I said.
"What help does she need?"
"Something to do with work."
"Tell me."
"You won't understand."
"Tell me."
"Okay... She wanted to know if she should choose the Twitter of the Linkedin or Accept the Facebook of the Fan page." Let me see you counter that, lad.
Without missing a beat, he said: "Accept the Fan page."

Little children know everything.

(Disclaimer: He hasn't heard of social networks, let alone the three popular names used here, and all he knows about the Internet is that it resides in his Mother's computer and she uses it to send her work to IM and others.)

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