Ruminations

Why would you NOT send your child to a school? 

Why would you want to take on this immense responsibility for formally schooling your children?

Do you suppose you know more about schooling than the institutions so revered (or detested) out there? 

What if you hate it after taking the plunge? What then?

I did not have the answers to all of the above, and I still don't.

So do I start homeschooling her right away and add on to her woes? She spends many an hour at her school, comes home feeling dejected under the weight of her school bag which may or may not be made up of only schoolbooks, and then what? Come to the table for more work?

Nay.

My aim isn't to overwhelm or inundate her with extra work. It is merely to gauge her response and mine. Will we be happier with homeschooling? That is the only question I need an answer to. Thus I am going to begin packing our bags, preparing our itinerary, booking the ticket and making an emergency list. Unfortunately, insurance isn't available for this journey I am about to embark.

All I can do at this stage is to merely introduce her to the concept. Make her comfortable about it - though technically she has been requesting I homeschool her though I suspect she thinks it will be all play if she stays at home. I will have to voice out this idea in as many ways and as many times as possible just to let it sink in (me, not her). The ship hasn’t left the harbour, we are merely preparing. I need this time to plan for the upcoming trial period; a stretch in which both of us will chart our course and decide if we throw away the sails or swim frantically back to shore.

With this, we begin our journey.

A few nights ago, I was grudgingly skimming through the its pages, halfheartedly checking for anything that needed to have been completed by the day before. I look wearily at Kyra's to-do list (who are we kidding here) and it was filled with revisions to be done, pages in workbooks that need to be completed, spell checks to go over, review dates and texts to be memorized.. Those who know me, can attest that I am a horror flick junkie but nothing compares to the aforementioned pages; tis as good as having Emily Rose have one of her fits beside you.

The next page is peppered with meal and snack options and corresponding shopping lists. A far more welcomed, even if innately tedious effort. The final pages have remained the same for the past few months. My personal to do list, my unfinished projects, my task list and goals. All put on hold while I put the daily life in order. An uphill, never-ending, not-even-faintly-amusing chore. Manically repetitive, to be caught in one of those daily housework routines are a special type of hell on earth. The ebb and flow of the passing hours eventually marks every day decidedly over and the wretched alarm a few hours later will gleefully remind you nothing you achieved thus far can be brought to the morrow but that most assuredly life will hand you a dastardly clean slate every morning to labour and cuss over.

As I bemoaned my sorry state of affairs and pledged to climb out of this rut and 'simplify' matters (as a recent houseguest sympathetically suggested), my eyes fell upon some scribbles in the margin. I save that spot for tasks from school specifically directed to the parents.

'Submit Olympiads registration form by so-and-so date'.

It was the night before the deadline and as sleep had yet to knock on my doors, I gathered the circular and the Olympiads registration forms. This was the second batch of forms I had received within a span of 6 weeks. Being the type of mom I am, the first I completely failed to look at and missed the deadline for submission altogether. Dont shudder! 'Olympiads' sound so important, one may be forgiven in assuming its significance. Plus, I was very curious. Where I came from I had not heard of Olympiads being conducted for primary school kids.

The registration forms indicated that these competitions were from children in Grade 1 onwards, listed 6 different Olympiads of different subject matters and included an order form for workbooks to be bought and the amount of registration fees to be paid. An online article warned me parents began preparing for Olympiads 4-5 months prior, the organizer's website clearly states it is in the business of "popularizing competition."

The school circular was careful to mention that this was only an opportunity offered to students but ends it with a grave reminder to 'enroll your child for every competitive test being offered in order to equip him/her for the demands of the competitive world today.'

I consulted my dear friend Google and she drew my attention to a pretty recent article in the Times of India, so aptly titled: 'Olympiads: The new status symbol for parents.' Never mind the reiteration that ours is a competition-crazed society, it makes clear these Olympiads were passing-off as the real deal, when it clearly wasn’t for the actual Olympiads are not meant for little children.

At this, my head began to throb. Clearly these so-called Olympiads were created to cater to the demands of vile concepts such as 'early start' and 'future-ready', and to sit squarely in the eye of a competition-storm gathering momentum. Don’t get me wrong. I loved competition. In school, I use to devise, organize and then participate in inter-school competitions when I felt we needed a healthy dose of it. I had jumped at every opportunity to participate in competitive events at the school, district, state, national and even international level and this continued in university. I was naturally drawn to competitions because I was ready to take them on. Even if I wasn’t quite ready, the thrill of participation would keep me going.

But all this did not start for me till I was close to 11 years old.

As it stands, Kyra: i. spends a lot of time trying to get her head around the daily heap of schoolwork; ii. has swimming almost everyday (completely by choice); iii. has tuitions to attend as I am of no help in Hindi and Malayalam; iv. has some amount of screen time only during weekends; v. Has only about 30 mins of playtime in the evenings (for I am a stickler about an early bedtime) vi. plaintively asks me daily why she is just never left to her own devices (read: do absolutely nothing).

It also stands that her mom: i. may not be as far sighted as some parents when it comes to an early start of competitive events but certainly is in no rush to join the fray; ii. appreciates whatever little time there is to spend on herself and is not intending to reduce that in any way; iii. is already overly involved in Kyra's schoolwork which she highly resents and dreads the time Ezra will walk into Grade 1; iv. will be damned if she can get Kyra to sit and pore over workbooks in preparation for these bogus Olympiads.

It could all be very well she decides to participate next year or the year after (or never), but it will not be at my behest. Her decision to compete, if ever, will be respected only if she:

i. can prepare for these on her own with minimal external support; ii. will be able to handle commitments to school, home, family, social activities and still be a happy and sane child; iii. will take some amount of pleasure in preparing for these competitions without an unhealthy focus on winning; iv. displays emotional maturity to handle both wins and losses.

A tall order eh? Thus, it will be my pleasure to redshirt her from the Olympiads this year (and for as long as it takes).

p/s: also for those of you who are like-minded, bring along those forms and we will have a little bonfire replete with wine and hor d'oeuvres.

The powder I thought. Perhaps when I was powdering the kids and sending them off in the morning looking like a couple of geishas. Wishing I could stretch the period of uncertainty, unable to contemplate the alternative, I mindfully licked the tip of my finger and brought it slowly to my eyebrows. The litmus test. The finger hovered then taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I rubbed the eyebrow. I repeated it once more before I dared open my eyes. But there it was. The white strands plastered down stared back, wondering what the fuss was all about. I screamed (silently) in horror. I couldn’t manage the other signs of ageing well enough to have one more added to the list!

The mirror was abandoned as I stuck my head in the sand for weeks on end. The result was disastrous. I had forgotten to dye my grey head in time for Ezra annual day. Panicking 20 mins before we were due to leave, I recalled someone mentioning hair mascara to me. In my frenzy, I did not make the obvious assumption that it was probably a mascara stick meant especially for hair and not the type I had in my drawer. But I wasted no time in applying it to my greys and what with the upward motion I adopted, I had a head looking like black sleek needles had been poked into my scalp. Well, black needle-like hair was better than limp grey I thought as I rushed outside to put on my shoes. I heard a shriek of horror from the main door. Looking up I saw my helper, staring at me wide-eyed pointing to her forehead. I realised I was sweating but wondered what the fuss was about until I swept my palm across to wipe off the sweat. Black sweat. Ink like drops dripping off my head making it look like squids were squirting from my head.

And so it was common sense more than vanity that beckoned me back to the mirror and I knew that those miserable strands of hair loved company and were encouraging the rest to do the same. Last week I decided to take stock and was horrified to see more than 20 strands beaming beatifically back at me. Nothing would shake off that despair which hung like a cloud over me. Except maybe Beauty and the Beast. So last Sunday I decided to take it easy. To cart the kids to the cinema and have Disney transport me elsewhere for two hours. Part of me also wanted to do a Facebook check-in to poke fun at my Malaysian family and friends who were not going to be able to do the same for the ‘coming soon to the theatres near you’ was true for this movie if you considered the 5-hour drive to Singapore near enough.

I booked the tickets, packed the kids into the car and drove to the mall. We were so excited I promptly forgot about my white eyebrows. Isn’t it right when they say being with kids just makes you feel younger? True that, if you were all working concertedly towards the same goal. In this case, it was to have caramel popcorn. Lots of it. Enough to last them till dinner. It was a Sunday after all. The day I took as a god given right to have some semblance of a break. It started off so well. Popcorns orders were given while we were at our seats, so no long queues or having to watch Ezra try to run off with a nearby dustbin while struggling to pull out the right notes for the exasperated cashier. We were all settled in with our 3D glasses on and save for Ezra who kept shouting intermittently for all to hear that he is oh-so-tired of the glasses, the expedition was going better than planned.

Until Belle decided to throw her father out of the Beast’s jail and to lock herself in. It was while that gripping scene was unfolding that I took a handful of popcorn and shoved it into my mouth.

C-R-A-C-KKKK.

I had bitten hard into a kernel. So hard I had shooting pains in my temple. After the initial pain wore off I felt something poking against my gums. So for the next 90 minutes, I had all my fingers in my mouth trying to pry whatever it was out my gums. This ordeal continued at home until the next morning when I realised that there were no remnants of a kernel stuck anywhere. I had simply cracked a tooth. I promptly called my eldest sister to cry and then the dentist for an appointment this morning.

I was confident it was going to be a simple procedure. In this day and age was it too much to expect a superglue meant for teeth? I didn’t think so. Until the dentist told me he would be removing that very big chunk of the cracked bit and perhaps would have to remove the entire tooth if the remaining bit couldn’t stand alone. With the suction hose and mouth mirror still in my mouth, I demanded to know how long fixing a new tooth would take? 2 hours perhaps? He told me nothing could be done for a few months. I started so hard I kicked the dental tray and over that din of falling tools, I told him I wasn’t going to leave for Malaysia next week, a vacation I have been dreaming about since I got here 11 months back with a gaping hole in my mouth where a nice tooth should be! Hell, I wasn’t even going to ever step out of the house!

He knew he was dealing with a madwoman and decided that we should take it one step at a time. First the local anaesthesia. Probably gave me much more than needed to shut me up. Now with a numb face and saliva drooling out over a bib, frantic eyes darting all over looking for answers, I prayed fervently. He removed the offending piece. I almost collapsed when I took in the size of it. He examined what remained of the tooth and decided that in view of my impending trip, he would insert a screw to prop it up. In a haze of immense relief, I thought of all my body parts that could also do with a prop up but would never live to hear those magic words being uttered.

He finished off by sawing the lower half of the tooth so I wouldn’t bite into it and repeated more than once that this was a temporary measure at best.

I ran out of the clinic before anything changed and headed to Mcdonald’s for ice cream. I had to repeat myself as the words wouldn’t form properly seeing that I had no control over half my face.

I am still in a daze but so grateful the dentist managed to salvage half of the tooth. I’m busy now, packing for the trip back home next week and I am sticking with porridge for now. For if I lose a tooth in Malaysia having a scrumptious meal, I would be in glutton-heaven and it wouldn’t feel so bad.

Exciting times, being closer to 40. Between a headful of grey hair, white eyebrows, a sawn off tooth threatening to be a gaping hole any moment now, you would be forgiven to think I was auditioning for a role as Queen Grimhilde in the next version of Snow White.

We coughed up the money to pay the registration fees, admission fees, tuitions fees and whatnots and were almost paupers after the first cheque was cleared. I convinced myself that as Kyra will be spending most of her day there, I would rather pay and be worry free. Worry free in my speak also meant trouble -free, leave-me-the-heck-alone free. But oh no. I was soon the class’s worst mother; incompetent and inept. I would miss bake-offs and charity drives. I would forget to submit a 3-page long consent form so that my daughter could go to the zoo. I would dress her in uniform when everyone else was glamorously decked up for some celebration / festival in school. I would send my daughter to field trips as the only student without an accompanying parent. I would also not complete projects on time (or at all). I also had to regretfully decline (sometimes not intentionally!) all sorts of invitations from reading sessions, to contributing to the annual day or simply donating an amount to the various charity drives they had all year round. I have walked her to school when it was a declared holiday. I would miss reading the notes and reminders sent by the school on a web platform. Every single day. I simply could not keep up. I was a working mother with 2 young children. I had just moved to a new country and was in a new job, one that demanded so much from me that my body even refused to produce enough to breastfeed my 4-month-old. I was willing to pay the exorbitant school fees; all they had to do was leave me alone. But unfortunately, Kyra was in a school where (a sizeable number of) mothers congregated in the mornings for $6 lattes, their stunning figures wrapped in gym outfits, discussing events they would organise for the school and their rosy-cheeked children. I would be dishevelled, having thrown together some suitable work outfit and be running across the field towards the exit to catch my train, my heels kicking up mud on the way out.

I missed her previous school in Delhi. And I was willing to forget how one of the teachers there sat me down and listed all the ‘symptoms’ Kyra displayed. I was petrified. A 3-year-old. Not allowed to just be. Not allowed to not know her alphabets or how to hold a pencil correctly. I had refused to shove alphabets down her throat. I told the teacher she will learn to hold a pencil when it suits her. I was livid that the teacher had me worked up for an entire week worrying about Kyra.

When did schools and education institutions become so unforgiving, so blinkered in what an education means and so procrustean in approach?

We moved again some 10 months ago and as Kyra stepped gingerly into Grade 1, I told myself, now this was her battlefield, not mine. She was to deal with her teachers for all things relating to school as her parents had done before and their parents before them. I ignored her homework save to bark some orders out to her. Most of the time she simply refused. She was overwhelmed I could see. Not yet 6 and with 2 new languages to decipher: Hindi and Malayalam. Both as foreign to us as Greek and Latin. It was my turn to put on blinkers. I wanted school work to remain between the parties so invested and involved; the student and the teacher. But I couldn’t get away from the darn WhatsApp group. It was terrifying. An entire hour before she even reached home, there would be messages from teachers and parents, back and forth about school work. It was unnerving. It is truly the curse of our generation to have instant messaging apps and group chats. What would happen if I opted out of these chats? Was I legally and morally obligated to remain, a silent witness to the abnormality that was unfolding before my very eyes? Sometimes when the guilt mounted too high, I would ask a question or two, seem interested, then roll my eyes as far back as they would go.

I wonder if its unfounded science to include parents so excessively in school matters. One may argue that the parents are ultimately invested in an academically successful child. Is that all that life has really been reduced to? I want to sit with my daughter when she gets back from school and do nothing. Let her do nothing. She will usually gravitate towards her paints or her notebook. She would ask me silly questions and sing an odd song while pairing it with even odder Bharatanatyam moves. She would insist on baking. I would tell her to entertain herself and she usually does that. We would lie in bed, not saying anything but connecting all the same. She would arrange and rearrange her dolls, chop off more of their hair, paint their faces and decide that one of them must be buried in the flower pot. She would be a normal 6 year old. So I’d like to think. 

But now, 3pm onwards are supposed to be filled with homework and preparation for reviews, most of which she cannot successfully complete on her own and I loathe having to participate in something I left aeons back. I have taken to learning some Hindi in order to help her along and I do not appreciate having to do something against my will. I am aghast at the turn of events, and I feel helpless. I feel swept up by a tidal wave of education norms which do not feel natural at all. I feel intruded upon and overwhelmed by constant messages from school. I dread looking into her bag or opening her daily diary. I have muted the WhatsApp group. I do not want to participate in her projects, which are all meant for parents anyway for who asks a 6-year-old to create 3D renderings of a building. I want learning for her to be fun but all joy has been obliterated in this clinical approach to education. I want her to be responsible for unfinished work and for the teachers to deal with her as they see fit. If homework is to be age-appropriate then it must stop being parent-led but student-driven. I want to be left alone to do things which do not revolve around the children. That is the whole reason I am sending her to school. If I wanted it any other way, I would have homeschooled her. Oh the horror!

So once again I am the recalcitrant parent. The one who does not conform. The one who scoffs at regulated and standardised assessments. The one who comes across as being indifferent to her child’s education and future. But in the current context, far from being promising, those words seem like a glass casket I am preparing her to lie down in for the rest of her life, and I won’t have that, not if I can help it.

She took her entertaining role very seriously, her main aim was to soothe and placate and she could achieve that within minutes. I had also come to rely heavily on her even after the children were in bed;  I'd surrender into her embrace, so ready to forget all my troubles. She made life bearable, she and my bottle of single malt did. She also achieved the impossible; making parenting that tad bit easier for I could cajole and bribe my way with the kids just my threatening to remove her from our lives and it worked like magic.

Until it did not anymore. The children begin to love her in a way I had not seen them love anything else. They would cry for her when she was indisposed, they would start fighting each other well before we reached home to lay claim on her. They could stare at her, slacked-jaw, as she continued to captivate them.  They craved her company and nothing else; gone were their paint and paint brushes, the pots of play dough all but forgotten and their books were left staring at them disbelievingly.  I realised looking at them one day, as I (not so) subtly tried feeding them something unpleasant, caught up as they were in her, that I was raising a pair of zombies and not children. Their bright young minds were blighted, they exhibited characteristics which belied the inquisitiveness so fundamental of the young of age.  

I had the difficult task in confronting her but in her glassy eyes, I only saw a reflection of a parent wholly at fault for letting things get out of control. I saw a parent who had used all  means necessary and at her disposal to make it through these past few months. But I also saw resolve staring back and knew that the time was nigh to redress the situation.

So last Saturday, I persuaded them to take an afternoon nap. Adept now at the power of negotiating they repeatedly made me promise that they would get a chance to spend some time with her once they woke up. I heard neither of them asking me if they could go out and play, swim or kick a ball and thus as I smiled and promised them whatever it is they wanted, I kept my fingers crossed.

Once asleep, I then had the painful task of telling her goodbye. It was not easy for she had provided me many hours of respite and allowed me some time to hold myself together as all else threatened to unravel around me. I faltered, wondering if this was a good idea, unsure if I could survive without her serving as crutches. But I took a deep breath and pulled the plug. A small light flickered and went resolutely off. I carried her heavy frame into my room and found a place to hide her away from prying eyes. In a wardrobe she now sits, huddled behind some clothes, silenced, with no life running through her veins.

I braced myself for tantrums and all hell breaking loose once they woke up. They stared disbelievingly at first but I had the stage ready. Where she had sat before in a position of honour in the living room, now stood a 5 foot shelf filled with toys, games, books and all things amusingly jejune which were previously sitting resolutely in a cupboard. Persnickety parent that I was (am), I never could let the children enjoy those board games, toys and childish paraphernalia for fear of destroying these items beyond repair. But I had only succeeded thus in all but wrecking my own children.

Questions were asked as they hesitatingly fiddled with these items they had only seen briefly in their lives and were warned not to touch but I nonchalantly said that Appa has had someone come and find her a new home. And as Appa was out of town and was the parent always in favour, their disbelief at her disappearance dissipated pretty quickly. I waited for the bawls and screams, but nothing came.

I watched in disbelief as hours went by as they busied themselves with paint, puzzles and books. Of course they fought each other something terrible every 20 minutes or so, but I persevered for I had armed myself with a stiff drink to get through the rest of the day. Surprisingly every day since has been better. They talk about her occasionally but only in passing.  How truly resilient children are. They now fill their time, when it isn't troubling me or fighting each other, with games they device on their own, or flip through a book or simply sit in the balcony painting. The paucity of manufactured entertainment has been truly remarkable.

But still I preserved. What would it (really) take for me to recreate (as close to as possible), the life I had in Singapore? Why, just a tad bit of willpower and a few phone calls!  I began calling agents before even booking my ticket for Cochin to ensure I had someone to fill in as a helper at home. I had a vision of her: smiling, amiable and ready to take away all my troubles. I would interview and hire her over the phone from Singapore, and she would be ready and waiting for me when I arrive. Preferably with a bouquet.

Agent #1: No answer.

Agent #2: (Does not speak English)

Agent #3: You are kraazyyyy maaam to wait for Hindi or Inglis helper.

Agent #4: What?! You want to interview?! You are asking ridiklous. Pleaze learn our ways before coming. I only send, you just take.

Agent #5: For what you want Inglis speaking madam? She only do work. No talking talking.

My home became a thoroughfare for helpers who would come, raise my hopes, then send them unsympathetically crashing down to the hard slab of the kitchen or the bathroom tiles and leave in a huff.

One spoke Hindi only when it suited her, most notably when she wanted to leave early; another had long conversations over the phone while sipping tea in the balcony, yet another emptied an entire bottle of Harpic unto the bathroom walls (but left the toilet untouched).

I was getting tired of gesticulating a chore to no one’s understanding, being forced to listen to one way conversations in Malayalam, cleaning up after the helper, reexamining all the cupboards to rearrange things the way they should be and simultaneously hoping that the current helper would just decide to stop on her own while still training my ears every morning to hear the shuffle of feet outside my door way so I can put down the pan I was washing and heave a sigh of relief.

So when the parade of helpers slowed to a trickled and finally did stop, I was left alone to nurse my wounds and relive, at least in my head and mostly at 6am, all the times I never had to wake up at an ungodly hour to prepare tiffins. This while trying in vain to calm a hysterical 2-year-old and trying hard to remember that I should not be dropping Kyra off to the bus stop without a certain unmentionable undergarment.  My personal work was suffering as I juggled between meal pans and shopping lists, opting for clean floors instead of hot meals and deciding if I should be helping Kyra with her homework, or tackling a growing mountain of clothes to locate Ezra’s missing uniform. But the mess in the house and in our lives were solely mine to blame and as I usually am not overly hard on myself, we trudged along.

One sunny afternoon, I decided the grime on the bathroom walls was too much to bear. I donned what I reserve only when the incurable cleaning demon possesses me, an outfit that leaves nothing much to the imagination. I was adamant to make it through all the three bathrooms and the entire kitchen before the children walked through the door.

It must have been what Mr. Miyagi hoped the Karate kid felt when he was made to ‘wax on, wax off’ continuously, for I almost reached a zen-like state with the rhythmic strokes when I was rudely disturbed by the doorbell. When the incessant ringing could be ignored no more, I made my way with a huff and two puffs to the door and swung it wide open, ready to take on the assailant of my mid-afternoon reverie.

‘Madam?’ came the tentative question from a chastely dressed petite young woman. A horrified look came upon her face as took in my clothes.  She quickly looked past the tart who stood in her way, into the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of the real ‘madam’. I stood, arms akimbo, waiting for her eyes to refocus on me.

‘I. Madam’.

I gathered from her words and actions, expert now that I was in deciphering the indecipherable language, that she was looking for a job. What is another trial, another probation, another letdown, I thought to myself as I let her in.

It has been 6 weeks since. She is all that the rest were not; pleasant, accommodating, punctual. My dream helper that rose from the ashes of burnt hope. Admittedly, she comes only for a couple of hours daily, but I learnt the painful way; something is always better than nothing. Having tempered my sunny expectations with a huge dollop of cold reality, I am more forgiving with lapses, better prepared to deal with absences and have learnt a little better how to keep my expectations in check!

I sighed as her colourful figure darted across the balcony. There isn’t going to be Bharatanatyam nights for Kyra and I, as there are bhangra nights. Not that Bharatanatyam is unattainable but if you have to be instructed in dance, then it becomes a discipline. Any discipline for me is a chore, lazy bum that I am. It thus transcends the enjoyable into the exacting. The structure, exclusivity and sheer restriction of it all is antithetical to dance as I prefer it. Growing up, I took my dancing with a generous helping of unbridled spontaneity; of exaggerated moves and bursts of frenzied movements. We measured dance not by performance levels nor intricacies but by how much fun the dancer has. The bhangra is special like that.

It features in most celebrations held outside the gurudwara. We start days before a wedding, late into the nights. The young, old, sickly, wobbly, awkward, uninitiated, the prudes; everyone joins in. During the sangeet, the ladies gather around the bride and sing unmentionable songs to the beat of a dholki; lyrics that make the older women guffaw and the younger ones blush something pink. That is followed by a couple of hours of dance before the men are allowed to join in and the DJ takes over the reigns spinning both the latest and evergreen bhangra beats. This goes on easily till the wee hours of the morning until exhaustion denies movement to the limbs.

There is something primitive and comforting about bhangra and we danced as we lived; with gay abandon. Every dance opportunity was a performance in itself and everyone present, a performer. But at times we did add a little bit more structure to the otherwise free-for-all dancing. I remember being rounded up every evening for weeks together with at least 10 other girls where we would be carted off in a maroon Mercedes to the designated house for an evening packed with fun, homework-free, dance routines in preparation for celebrations on Vasakhi. Those chortles and giggles are what my childhood memories of dance are filled with.

Exclusion in dance is anathema to me. The Punjabis I know would never suffer through a bhangra performance without the promise of joining in at some point. It also mandatory to insist that everyone else joins in, the question of actually being able to dance does not arise. It is also not just about loud music and singing; we have twirled and whirled to the pulsating, rhythmic beats of only a dhol; trancelike, the freedom of spirit bound in movement almost blissful.

Bhangra is all inclusive; I have had my Chinese, Tamilian, Ceylonese friends in high school perform the bhangra. Bhangra is indulging; we have danced the bhangra to techno music – fed up that we were of waiting for real music to come on.

By the time Kyra was ready with her little tray, I was ready to doze off, spent and exhausted that I was. But as I looked into her colourful tray, I knew couldn’t let this pass and promptly plonked a box of Punjabi sweetmeats on the tray.

A little bit of Punjabi does a whole lot of good.

Good friends are immensely satisfying, but none so disturbingly raw as your childhood friends for it is those friends who recognize, understand and associate us with precisely the experiences we have so carelessly discarded, or stories we have so carefully guarded or memories so precious that we dole them out at intervals, as a means to deepening our current relationships. Friends who when they meet you, will strip away the lifetime of change to bring you back exactly to the very juncture you had left it all for different horizons. Simply with a sentence, a reminder, a knowing look, a cursory remark.

At a party yesterday, I met a group of childhood friends and acquaintances, most of whom I had not kept in touch since I was 19. We picked up the pieces of erstwhile friendships, lifted the curtains and peered back into chapters gone by, at pages rife with tears, laughter and idiosyncrasies associated with our younger selves. It was telling to see how we tried to make sense of the new person that faced us with the person we use to know – frantically sprinkling random information and most notable memories like holy water aimed to exorcise the new from the old. It was more telling to see how we reverted to shades of our former selves, as the layers of accumulated metanoia slipped silently away for they did not belong in the face of this unadulterated exchange.

But we had all gone through various versions of ourselves, each rendition living an entire lifetime before the page turns to welcome the protagonist of the next chapter that sometimes it is not possible to recall anything at all about your 5 year old self staring back at you from behind a photograph tucked away in the family album.

In the entire drama which unfolded thus, I realized childhood friends remembered much more about earlier versions of ourselves than we care to hold on to, the only ones really who can create links, however tenuous between the progenitor they knew and the progeny today. I had an exceptional time yesterday, replaying stories about myself as if for the first time. Ralph Emerson was right when he said ” It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.”

It was all so terribly, terribly unsettling and exciting!

Friend: “Boss, I don’t know how you do this.”

She now looks at me with pity pouring out of her every pore, and then a misplaced light bulb flickers dimly in the recesses of her mind; Friend: “FML, you are as good as single you know that.”

I shoo her away to get back at packing. These unwanted opinions from well-meaning friends and exasperating almost-strangers have ceased to irritate us. Why does one equate long distance relationships as mired in neglect, constant absences, with a helpless spouse crying for help? One of the times KV picked Ezra from school, his principal caught hold of KV by his shoulders no less, and admonished him “You can’t do this to your wife, SHE NEEDS YOU!” She was wild-eyed with worry that her words were falling on deaf ears (both his and mine). It did not help matters when she overheard us howl with laughter outside the gates.

Tsk Tsk.

Few realise that its harder work for KV in his role as a husband and father with us being 5 hours by flight away. How he packs much more in his visits than a constantly-present parent can ever do. Because there is a sense of purpose in his visits, I hardly feel his absense. But I still get looks as if I am walking around with HOPELESS & HELPLESS plastered on my forehead merely because our marriage breaks the conventional idea of one!

Few remain unconvinced that I can travel alone with the kids, give the car a basic check, repair things around the house, assemble and disassemble furniture (from IKEA), maintain a full time job and run a household along with two kids. Or that I once knew how to change tyres, or that I fixed a mini chandelier all by myself, matching wires and getting electrocuted and all that. Maybe it was growing up in an all-female household that taught my sisters and I that if you are a damsel in distress, just roll up your sleeves and help yourself. The time is nigh to remedy permanently the geographical distance between us (thus the frantic packing!). I look forward to moving back to India, to being with him (purrrrrr), putting my feet up with a glass of wine and watching him make the kids squeal with laughter (like only he can) but I would like to put it on record that he is my husband, not my crutches, I am his wife, not a cripple.

I was impatient to grow up.My daughter, lucky for her, has declared many a time with big fat tears rolling down her cheeks that she refuses, simply refuses to grow up. (she also prohibits me from growing old and dying – so I guess there’s something more to her refusal to grow up than Peter Pan’s influence).

But when the kids came along, I found myself falling in love all over again with the favorites from my childhood. It was as comforting as revisiting the old haunts of yesteryear, brimming with all the colorful stuff dreams are made off. There isn’t a dearth of books for children these days but many fall out of favour before the end of the book! Children’s books are not meant to be didactic or preachy – for you mustn’t write for children (JR Tolkein), you must write up to them (EB White). So the award-winning Room on the Broom by Julia Donaldson was just the thing the three of us needed one balmy Saturday night, huddled on the living room sofa, with a DVD borrowed from the local library. It was one of those rare occasions where the movie preceded the book in my household. We turned off the lights and let the movie work its charm on a 2 year old, 5 year old and a mommy-never-too-old.

I fell madly in love with it. We watched it three times in a row, none of us breathing a word while it played for fear of losing the magic. I was reluctant to return to the world of fluorescent lights and yellow lamps after that. Of cold marble flooring and wooden cabinets. For I had been on whooshing on a broom, with a witch and her 4 friends –  a cat, a dog, a bird and a frog. I had been into forests and  a bog, looking for her wand, hat and bow. And when the dragon decides to chomp her down, I looked on in horror but was caught in wonderment as her friends devise a singularly most spectacular sight to frighten the dragon away. And then, the grand finale comes, made up of stardust and magic spells and moonbeams to behold. Purrrrrrr….I could curl up and dream now but it won’t be better than the dream I just left behind, mind you.

But after 5 days in a row of Room on the Broom, I began to draw parallels. Something I never did as a child – for I enjoyed a book so thoroughly I did not want to colour any part of it with my own realities – inviting though that may be. Of course  I still looked for pixies under the fronds of big palm trees and imagined a magical land amidst the leafy branches of the tamarind tree but I invited these stories into my life, never the other way round.

The story begins with a good ol’ fashioned witch – and her  cat, a broom and a wand. They seem content, this witch and her cat, flying around on the trusted broom. But one day, a gusty wind blew of her hat that disappeared in the woods. They failed to find it, the witch and the cat, but a dog comes out of the bushes and returns the hat. He politely seeks for a room on the broom and readily, the witch agrees to take him on board. In the same vein, for different reasons, the witch loses her bow and her wand and agrees to make more space on her broom for a frog and a bird who have managed to stumble upon these items and return them to the witch.

This eclectic bunch, the witch with her cat, the dog, the bird and the frog, had me drawing irresistible parallels with Malaysia. The diverse racial composition in the country today was enacted under varied circumstances – some came to trade in spice, others to address the dearth of miners, tappers, clerks and teachers and still others merely hoping for greener pastures. Each brought with them trepidation but a will to survive masked in distinct and contrasting practices and traditions. Everyone made space for the other, grudgingly  or otherwise. The passive collaboration on the broom was at once  narcissistic and sacrificing – to jeopardize another of his space on the broom could perhaps spell the end of the journey altogether. Instead of whooshing ahead into blue skies and dreams coming true, you could be entangled in a web of bitter trivialities – insignificant questions with potentially ominous answers. What if the witch wanted her broom back all to herself or the dog and the cat growled and spat at each other? “Who has a better right on this broom?” the cat purrs, seemingly innocent. “It was I who was here first,” growls the dog, “perhaps the bird and the frog should leave!” “But it was I,” croaked the frog, “who saved her wand. What is a witch without her wand?” There is everything necessarily selfish about efforts towards racial integration in our nation- but naysayers living in glass houses themselves do not understand that.

Now little did they all know there was a dragon close at heel, salivating for a witch to fill his belly. He flies as quickly as he can to catch up, breathing fire through the mist. In the meantime, the broom breaks and the witch loses all her friends while she continues to zoom through the air, the dragon now dangerously close. The dragon catches a now limp witch and smacks his lips ready to chew her whole. But then out of the bog rises a creature so horrid so petrifying, that when it opens its mouth in a synchronized yowl, growl, croak and shriek, the dragon politely drops the witch and flees.

In face of danger, it was the witch’s four friends who had come to her rescue, harmonizing and indeed capitalizing on their differences to achieve an end that would have been elusive had any one of them decide to champion its particular brand of animalism. As a prelude to putting up a show of a united front to scare the dragon, the dog did not ask that the cat and frog should bark instead of meowing and croaking – what fun would there be to fit a jigsaw puzzle if all the pieces were identical I ask you?

The Malaysian narrative is a story of cultures that have coalesced to a certain degree to achieve a compromising balance, while still retaining a core of distinguishing elements. On one hand we celebrate this cultural heterogeneity in the Visit Malaysia ads but walk around brandishing dogmatic and pedantic views about racial and religious (in)equality.

Our cultural, racial and religious differences should be celebrated and shouted from the rooftops but self-serving leaders have exploited this already tenuous linkages.  Instead of becoming Asia’s leading cabinet of curiosity, we have planted ourselves firmly in the running for the laughing stock of the region.

How the witch and the friends celebrated their victory! But was soon dismayed to see that the broom was half its length now. The dog, bird and frog insist that the cat and the witch go one without them – but the cat and witch are doubtful. Fortunately, an idea strikes the witch! She casts a spell with the help of her friends – all of them contributing an item each. With that, the most magical thing happens – out of the sky, between moonbeams and stardust, comes a magnificent broom – with room for all.

It wasn’t about pondering about the have beens, what ifs, and the could haves , it was only about being in it together. If a plan to advance one person (or community or race) leads to the detriment of another, it is time to switch gears! A simple story about shared responsibility and collective consensus and cooperation – long missing from the Malaysian vista.

The broom itself was magical – with seats for the cat and dog, a shower for the frog and a nest for the bird.

Apparently, Kyra’s teachers have 2 major complaints about her: “Talks too much and laughs too loud.”

I stare at them in disbelief. Why would anyone want to curb a child’s chatty nature or tendency to laugh even when things are not funny? It goes against nature if you ask me. My mum received the same complaints about me when I was in school, and not once did she admonish me or remind me to bite my tongue.

Kyra can be absurd at times and downright and uncomfortably honest. But she is only 5. She is only finding her voice and trying to plant those baby feet of hers on terra firma while defiantly clinging on to wisps of clouds. She still dances and sings with wild abandon and airs her thoughts for all to see and if I had it my way, I would never want that to change. Her curiosity is sometimes alarming but her spontaneity is heart-warming.

THE TONGUE THAT LIES, THE CLAWS THAT CATCH!

BEWARE THE FIBS, STORIES AND SHUN

THE PHANTASMAGORICAL THIEF THAT WILL SNATCH!

THE PEOPLE TOOK MATTERS IN THEIR HAND

END OF A TYRANNICAL ERA IS WHAT THEY SOUGHT

THE COUNTRY CAN’T GO DOWN LIKE A FALLEN TREE

NO MATTER WHAT THE DEVIL MAY HAVE THOUGHT.

AND SO HAND IN HAND THEY STOOD

AS A SEA OF SO BRIGHT A YELLOW FLAME

OUT WITH THE JIBBYWOCK, AS BITTER AS WORMWOOD

THE END LOUD AND CLEAR, AS IT CAME.

THIS IS THE TIME TO SEE THIS THROUGH

SURVIVE WE SHALL FROM THIS PLAGUE

WE SHALL NOT WANT THIS LEVIATHAN TO REAR HIS HEAD

THE LAW? THE LAW SHALL NO LONGER BE VAGUE!

HEAD ON! WE SHALL MEET THIS FOE

ON YOUR HOPES AND DREAMS SHALL WE BUOY 

O FABULOUS DAY! HURRAH! HOORAY!

WON’T THE NATION CHORTLE IN SHEER JOY!

T’WAS BRILLIANT, THE PEOPLE IN DROVES

UNTANGLE, THEY SCREAMED, UNTANGLE THE WEB

DO NOT MOCK US, FOR WE DO NOT ROVE

just about anything to make sure you understand that the hands behind the desktop are the ones that rule your life. Occasionally, a door opens, letting you into deeper recesses of the organisation, a constant charade aimed only to evoke blind loyalty or abject resignation to fate, the latter evident usually in employees who decidedly cling on to more shards of self-respect than the former, albeit with some amount of thespian talents.

You see, regardless of what your job scope states on paper, the primary goal is to generate work, not complete it. So the powers-that-be devise comical, and sometimes ruthless ways, to expand upon trivial subject matters so thoroughly exhausted already, in order to extract any last ounce of secrets it may yet yield. Most of the time the subject matter has been relentlessly discussed, examined, stripped of all respect, poked and prodded by all and then discarded. Any information gathered will be used to create new and ingenious morsels of work, distributed among departments, in an order of priority. When it reaches a unit, it is pounced upon and inflated beyond its original meaning, choking it with Byzantine concepts and charts, so that a casual watcher would indeed be mesmerised at this exceptional display of a particular kind of skill set found only in mammoth multinational organisations, usually the ones whose mind, body and soul, theoretically speaking of course for these institutions have no soul to begin with, are geared only at the most sustainable form of cupidity. The relentless pursuit of money is, a corporate social responsibility. For lives depend on the continued existence of the company and doesn’t charity first begin at home?

Throngs of people commute daily to these companies, wave after wave of sticky human beings in a crowded train, blank stares, nimble fingers on phones, jostling ever so unbecomingly, only to be unceremoniously dumped on a platform. Clickity clack clacks up the escalators and down, serious faces, nonchalant gait, and sombre looks – sometimes Despondency, Resignation, and Bewilderment clearly walking hand in hand.