Maggi's Musings

5 Things I Love About Being a Mom

2009-05-06T21:17:00.001-07:00

1. I do not have to mask my bossy nature; moms are supposed to act bossy.

2. My concoctions also fall into the "Mummy ke haath ka khana" category; someone actually believes I make the "world's yummiest bhelpuri."

2. Cuddling up with someone on COLD nights has taken on a whole new meaning; I love the sweet innocent smell of baby shampoo on the girls' heads when we cuddle up.

3. Waking up on lazy Sunday mornings is so much easier; I love to listen to the sounds of happy laughter coming from the girls' room.

4. I don't have to think of things to do when I'm bored; I'm so busy I don't have time to be bored.

5. My mom can't threaten me with the all too ominous sounding mantra, "I'm the mom, and I know better!" ; I've joined the club,and we're riding on the same boat :)

Wow! That felt good. Thank you Raina's mom, for getting me back into the blogsphere. I've been away for too long. None of the moms I know blog. So, I'm chaging things a little bit here and tagging a couple of my girlfriends. I'm asking them to write down five things they love about their moms. Here's to you Rags and Lucy.

Desert Rain

2007-12-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Ok, I'm back. I know this has been long overdue. I don't receive any more comments on my old posts. Even my most faithful readers have stopped asking me when I'll write again. I guess they've decided that I've given up writing altogether :(
So much for you naysayers! Just when you thought you'd all forsake me, I'm back. Yes, with a bang!!
Maybe the fact that the semester is winding down [finally] has something to do with it. Or maybe the cold weather is to blame. Yes, can you believe it? My fellow desert dwellers and I are finally slaking our parched tongues, thanks to the somewhat heavy [for us] showers that're hitting our fair city.

Completely Blocked

2007-06-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

Whew! Another school year is done. I can't believe it. It's always been a mystery to me how August suddenly turns into May. During the school year the button on the remote that controls my actions seems to be stuck on the FF mode. It's not a surprise then that I postpone every wistful whim and wish for later. "I'll take this up when I'm home during the summer," is a promise I make to myself every time I come across an interesting book, project, or recipe. May, however, has come and gone. 3 weeks into summer break, I'm bored out of my mind. My life seems to have reached a dead end.
I've exhausted my quota of must-try-new-exotic recipes. MOH's ever increasing girth stands testimony to my prowess in the kitchen. The pile of books that I'd saved up for "the first three weeks of vacation time before the brat's school let's out" lies semi-read on my library floor. Somehow, the plots don't intrigue me, and the characters are not speaking to me yet. My solemn promise to "maintain a vacation diary" and "write a post every day" seems to have fallen by the wayside. As with all other talents, my writing abilities seem rusted. I envy some of my fellow bloggers who can write an entertaining spiel about their short nail fetish. Sigh!
The long hot days of summer lie vacant before me. I'll have to do the noodle dance [brain jog] and come up with some masaledaar [Hindi for spicy] ideas to salvage my sagging spirits.

True Blue Baby

2007-02-23T08:21:00.000-08:00

Took a color personality test online. Now I know why blue features prominently in my wardrobe. Here's the diagnosis...

Your true colour is blue!

You're blue -- the most soothing shade of the spectrum. The colour of a clear summer sky or a deep, reflective ocean, blue has traditionally symbolised trust, solitude, and loyalty. Most likely a thoughtful person who values spending some time on your own, you'd rather connect deeply with a few people than have a group of slight acquaintances. Luckily, making close friends isn't that hard, since people are naturally attracted to you – they're soothed by your calming presence. Cool and collected, you rarely overreact. Instead, you think things through before coming to a decision. That level-headed, thoughtful approach to life is patently blue -- and patently you!

Hangar Harangue

2007-02-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

"Maggi, Nitin's here," yells mom. "Ok, why don't you take the brat by hand and walk out first? I'll follow you with the bags. Oh, and please ask Nitin to help me with the heavier suitcases," I call out. Who needs a car with a chauffeur when you can ride in Nitin's taxi anytime you fancy? It sure does help when one's mother is a teacher and her former students have become taxi owners/drivers. Whew! I've maxed out on the number of check-in bags I can take with me. There're four humongous softcases, two of which supposedly belong to the brat. The fact that they're packed to the brim with my things is a secret known only to me. Gone are the days when I could travel across oceans armed with only a backpack and one tiny VIP suitcase.
After a hot bumpy ride on BMC's "flyovers" we finally reach the airport. I'm relieved to see that the bags Nitin has strapped on top of his taxicab are still very much intact, pitted asphalt notwithstanding.
I hate goodbyes. So, with a quick nod in the general direction where my parents're standing, I bustle off into the cool confines of Mumbai's international airport. It is a chore to push the heavily loaded luggage cart with one hand while trying to control a rambunctious 6-year-old and her assortment of dolls with the other. Young Marathi dudes with spiffy haircuts usher us to the correct security check line. Our bags make it through the screening area and everything is handed back to me bound and tagged with tape that has "Air India" stamped all over it. We finally make it to the check-in counter. "Hi Natasha! How are you this evening?" I ask the uniformed beauty at the counter. She looks young enough to be a high school senior. "How do you know my name?" is the response. "Oh, you helped me file the missing luggage report when I flew in three weeks ago," I tell her. "Ah!" she smiles. "I see that your bags did make it, Ms. M," she beams. "Yes, the bags did make it. Many of the things that were inside those bags didn't," I'm tempted to tell her. However, I merely nod in assent. What's the point of rehashing my troubles.
Check-in process completed I wander towards the general area of the gate. It's past midnight. There're not many shops open at this time. I'm hungry. So is the brat. "Let's try the sandwich bar inside the coffee shop" I suggest. "Not that yucky disgusting place. Remember how you forced me to eat a sandwich there and I ended up with diarrhoea during our last trip?" she accuses. I'd better listen to her this time. I certainly do not want to repeat history. Out comes the methi theplas mom so thoughtfully packed us this time around.
I look around the deserted waiting lounge. Not many people to watch, except for the families stretched out on the dirty torn fake leather chairs. All the television sets in the lounge are tuned to Star News. Some village locals seem to be pretty displeased about some bus that has plunged into some ravine in the Chambal valley. Apparently the bus was filled with school kids on a field trip. I'm about to doze off into a drone induced slumber from the monotonous pitch of the anchor's voice. "Yikes! I'll be darned...if it isn't Maggi. After all these years!!" shrieks some woman in the foreground. I'm jarred awake. Did someone call out my name? I look around bewildered. For a moment I'm lost. I can't recall where I am. Then it all comes back.
"You'd better not have forgotten me," shrieks the female. "I know you recognize me, so I won't bother with the hope-you-remember-me line," she continues. Omigod! It's Snigdha, a friend from my days in the convent. It's been 17 years since I saw her last. "Of course I know you," I shriek back. "I'm older now, but not senile yet," I smile. We hug each other like the long lost buddies that we are. "Guess what! Meenu's here too. She's flying back to Canada, it seems," says Snigdha. "Really? I haven't seen her in 10 years."
I can't quite believe the swift turn of events. The dull three hour wait for my flight was turning out to be the crowning glory of my trip. The hours zip by. All too soon, it's time for goodbyes again. A stern looking Air India employee is shaking his head at me. They've apparently paged me three times already. I've supposedly been holding up the flight.
I guess I should apologize for my lapse. However, I'm not really filled with remorse at all. Instead, I bend down and touch the employee's feet. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity to meet my long-lost buddies," I tell the astonished man. "Let the plane wait. I want to spend some more time here," I plead still clinging to his polished Bata shoes. "What nonsense!" cries the man while using his walkie-talkie to radio some backup. "Snigdha, don't make me go. Tell the man we're meeting after 17 years," I look at my friend. She and Meenu squirm with embarrassment.
Security officials come rushing towards me. I let go of the death grip on the AI guy's feet only to grab the calf of the biggest guard. Several hands try to pry me away. "No, no" I cry out. "Please let me be!" I thrash my legs and shake my head to no avail. Suddenly, I realize how ridiculous my behavior must seem to everyone present. What had come over me? Why was I holding on to some stranger's feet? That too when he was merely a much-hated airport official?
I sober down and my arms hang loose beside me once again. Strong arms grab and shake me. I come to my senses. I see mom's worried face. I look around confused and disoriented. How come I'm home? Where's the airport? Where are the stern officials? Where's Snigdha?
Then, the lightbulbs go off in my brain. Yay! I can dream again. Yes, the stress is definitely wearing off. Apparently, so is the insomnia.

Roses for Valerie

2007-02-13T12:02:00.001-08:00

The desert has been unusually cold this winter, and the poor brat is reaping the ill-effects of playing sweaterless in the school yard. The wracking coughs soon gave way to watery eyes and a high fever. A dreaded visit to the doctor confirmed my worst fears -- pneumonia. How come things start falling apart the moment MOH leaves town on work? I was driving to the drugstore to pick up the brat's medicine when I saw that the access road was completely blocked off. There were cops everywhere, and red flares lit up the night sky. Oh no! I knew someone had died. It wasn't until the next morning when I reached work that I realized the fatal car crash had taken place right outside my college. The grapevine had it that the person who had died was not a student at my college. Neither was she an employee. No one seemed to know what she was doing in the parking lot of the college on that cold dark night. It's been a week since the incident. The crash site is now covered with posters, candles, cards and other memorabilia. One of the bigger placards is hand-written and says "Valerie, we miss you!" in beautiful cursive. Groups of teenagers dressed in black surround the spot at all times. Some of them come armed with cameras wanting to pose next to the pictures of their missing friend. I'll probably never know who Valerie was, or what she was doing the night her life was so cruelly taken away. What was the mistake that had cost her so dearly? As I see the distraught teenagers walking up with flower bouquets at all times of the day, I can't help but wonder if Valerie misses her buddies as much as they seem to miss her. Is she looking down from heaven wondering when she'll ever get together with them again? Will she miss spending Valentine's Day with her loved ones? Did she leave behind a boyfriend or husband who will mourn her passing this Wednesday [a week to the day she died]? I can't help but recall Yeats' words "Was it needless death after all?". Valerie's life [and death] has definitely brought on "a terrible beauty" to Valentine's Day this year.

Trodding those Miles

2007-02-12T07:10:00.000-08:00

Despite being a voracious reader, I've never been much of a poetry person. I do, however, recall some verses from famous poems the nuns at my school forced us to learn "by heart" for "recitation" exams. One of the few poems that has stayed with me all these years was penned by Robert Frost many moons ago.
Sure enough, buried in the deep recesses of our minds, we all have dreams and desires that we want to accomplish before we pass on. For some of us, it's traveling to different destinations. BH, my ex-boss and mentor, is an example of the traveller. She has a huge world map covering one wall of her office. Every time she visits a new part of the world, she marks the corresponding spot on the map with a white-topped pin. Despite her seasonal meanderings around the globe she does literally have many more miles to go before she can sleep. To this end, however, she has an edge over me. She has already realized a great part of her dream. I'm still at the nascent stages of my jounery.
Unlike BH, [or even my very own MOH] I do not like to travel much [unless it a shopping trip to India]. My journey is more figurative than literal. Two weeks ago, when my parents walked out of the terminal gate and into my extended arms, I was finally able to jab a figurative white pin on my road map to success.
Over the last decade, I've met and befriended several Indian immigrant couples in the US. Many of them are comfortable enough in their adopted country to "bring" their parents over for six-month visits every year or other year. My readers who belong to that category of desis who constantly have a set of parents visiting them may not be able to appreciate why I feel like I have climbed Mt. Everest. Only those close friends who have known my father will truly understand my joy.
Like Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, here is a man who is supremely at ease in his surroundings. I would not be lying if I say that I probably inherited the stay-at-home strand from his gene pool. Set in his ways is an understatement when it comes to my dad. To put it plainly and simply, the man does not like to spend even one night away from his home [and his routine]. To top that, he's also very traditional in thought. "How can I come and live at my son-in-law's house?" he asked incredulously when I first broached the topic of a US visit with him. "Well, I earn quite well, dad. Maybe you can think of it as spending your daughter's money and not MOH's," I argued. We've been going back and forth like this for well over seven years now. I had to finally pitch a real hissy fit and threaten to stop visiting India for good when I visited them last December for him to even consider the option of visiting me. I even threw in the "If you don't come help me with the brat for at least six months, don't expect me to come take care of you when you become old and senile," for good measure. I know. It was a cheap underhanded trick. But the blow found it's mark. He did make the token trip.
I strut around with an idiotic grin on my face these days. None of my friends can fathom the joy I experience when I go out with MOH on a dinner-and-movie-night sans the brat. "Oh! She's busy playing with grandma," I say nonchalantly to the surprised acquaintances. For the first time in 10 years, I don't have to come home to a quiet house. I don't have to cook my own meals. I can actually expect hot sweet chai in bed every morning. Ah! The supreme bliss of living with one's parents again!!

Of Wine and Women

2007-01-10T19:12:00.000-08:00

No, I haven't been reading Steinbeck over the Xmas break. It's just that this post is dedicated to my dear pal, Mr. B, and the title sums up his problem in a nutshell.
I met Mr. B about five odd years ago, and ever since the day I met him, he's been on the hunt for a good desi damsel who would agree to spend the rest of her life with him. Several near hits with the dear Misses later, B is still single and searching.
"So, what's the problem," I queried last week when B asked me to help him choose a flattering mug shot to go with his shaadi.com advert. "How come you're still searching? Tumhe koi ladki pasand nahi karti ya tumko koi pasand nahi aati?" I pestered even though I knew the answer to my question already. B's lonely bed was indeed of his own making. Common sense told me there was no way any of the prospective brides had rejected him. You see, Mr. B is eligibility personified.
"I'm so frustrated Maggi," whined B. "All the girls I've met so far are soooo childish and naive. Wish I could meet someone like you."
"What d'you mean, someone like me?" I countered. "Well, you know, bold and beautiful, cold and cut-throat, fiesty and funny, sexy and smart," was his comeback. "Ahem..." I parried wondering if B had taken to drink to fill up his lonely evenings. Here I am, a harried woman in her 30s, much-married and with kid, living a humdrum existence in slumber inducing suburbia. Why had B used all those epithets to describe me, I wondered. Then I got it. Maybe he was just pulling my leg and it would not do if he saw that his words had quickened my heartbeats just a wee bit. "Yeah right!" said I nonchalantly. "I'm serious, Maggi. I like how grounded you are. There is an aura of complete control about you. Don't you realize that? It is very apparent when one talks to you that you lead a very complete life," said B.
That night I pondered over B's comments. Soon I realized that he was right. Ok, before you think I'm being a pompous ass, let me clarify. What I realized is that I am much more confident of myself and my abilities now than I ever was before. Even though I complain and whine and drone about the mundaneness of my existence, B is right. I do lead a complete life; I am married, I have a child, I work full-time, and despite all my commitments I find time to socialize with my buddies over the weekends. I cook reasonably well, entertain often, am a fairly decent housekeeper and manage to find time to read, write, sew and craft.
I'm at a stage in my life where I know what I want and I'm not afraid of my wants. I'm Indian enough to like eating with my hands and American enough to not care about what others think when they see me eat with my hands. I'm traditional enough to eschew make-up and New Age modern enough to know that my choices are good for me. I'm ebullient enough to attend every social do I am invited to but the loner in me loves to turn the ringers off once I get home at night lest the phones ring. I'm pragmatic enough to know that I am not beautiful enough to win the Miss Universe title but I'm smart enough to know that when I wear my black kanjivaram saree, leave my hair open and don my million watt smile, I can make some heads turn. Yes, Mr. B, I now know why you would like to marry a woman like me. The million dollar question is, though, would you have wanted to marry a girl like me had you met me 15 years ago, instead of five?
MOH will vouch for the fact that yesteryears' Maggi and and today's Ms. Maggi are as different as from each other as cheese is from chai. When he married me, I was a flighty kid with unformed dreams and a don't-really-care attitude. I'd never left the confines of my parents' home and like the frog in the well, I believed that the whole world was just like Mumbai and all humans were like Mumbaikars. I guess I was haunted by the ghosts of some sadak chaap Romeo in Mumbai the night I came back home and yelled at MOH and his friends for having the Customer Service clerk at Sears page me by announcing my name since I thought that people at the store would now know my name. Now I want the whole world to know who I am. I drive around in a red coupe that is proudly registered as Ms.Maggi. Then there was the infamous fight I had with MOH when after four weeks of marriage we had to move from the Midwest to the Southwest. We were packing up the stuff from our tiny apartment and I flew off the handle when I saw that MOH had used an carton that had Always Ultra written on it to hold his CD collection. "Now the movers will know that I use Always Ultra when I get my period," I whined mortified, when MOH wondered why I wanted him to throw away a perfectly good brown box. Little did I know then that three years down the line I would be have a whole class of nursing students watching me writhe and heave as I tried to give birth to the brat. Yes, I have come a long way since then.
So, Mr. B, no Indian girl in her early 20s, however stupendous her qualifications or liberal her upbringing, can have the sassiness of this 30-something wife and mother and teacher. Girls, like good wine, must be allowed to age before they can become women!

Welcoming Maveli

2006-08-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

Gone are the days when people used to felicitate Onathappan and anticipate Maveli's vist by adorning their courtyards with floral carpets. Malayali women no longer practise the graceful Thiruvathira kali. Neither do the men prance around doing Pulikali. The kids, however, are trying to keep the Onam spirit alive by showing off their dancing talents. So what if they're not dancing to the tunes of a Mallu song?!

Divine Magic

2006-08-21T14:38:00.000-07:00

Islamic sweet water, milk-loving Hindu gods and a perfumed Xian mother...wonder what miracles the Sikh, Jain, Jew and Parsi gods will conjure!

Health Hues

2006-08-04T04:11:00.000-07:00

One thing Ms. Maggi had always taken for granted was her health, probably because she was usually healthy as a horse. "In the pink of health" was how people described her rosy cheeked ruddiness. Until this summer, that is. May and June changed all that. Ms. Maggi spent the afore mentioned months married to her bed in utter hopelessness. She soon discovered that whereas the US was THE place to live during healthy times, life SUCKED when one was laid up in bed. If your maladies didn't kill you, sheer boredom and depression would. The fact that most of Maggi's gal pals were vacationing in India and the one exception who was not chose this exact time to move to another state did not help Maggi's sagging spirits.
"If I have to stare at the Native American pots on those curtains a minute longer, I'll slash my wrists or something," wailed Ms. Maggi to the ever patient MOH one hot afternoon. "Hold off on that plan till I finish this meeting and drive back home" responded the man of her house before hanging up the phone post-haste. No doubt he was embroiled in some it-just-can't-wait-to-be-solved production problem at work. Work waits for no man and when a man had to do something, he had to do it, crazy wives nothwithstanding.
Maggi considered carrying out her threats to teach MOH a lesson. However, sanity prevailed. "Sigh! Maybe I'll just move to the guest bedroom," Maggi pacified herself while staring at the silent handset. She acted on her new plan without taking into account the fact that the guest room was not designed to be a soothing environment. "No sense in buying a really comfortable mattress," she had reasoned with MOH while they were designing this particular corner of their nest. "We don't want our guests to feel so much at home that they decide to live with us forever. Better make things a bit less than perfect." "Genius! It's amazing how your devious mind works," MOH had beamed with pride then. Now, sleeping on the lumpy sagging mattress and staring at the dull blah curtains, Maggi cursed her previous less-than-hospitable intentions.
"Imposing house-guests or not, I'm definitely redoing this room the moment I get better," vowed Ms. Maggi at the dinner table that night. "See, I've spent the afternoon making sketches for a copper and blue Kokopelli wall mural that I will paint myself," she continued. The worry lines around MOH's mouth and forehead relaxed 89%. His face broke out in a huge grin. "'Atta girl! Looks like a few hours in the room was exactly what you needed. It has revived the old Maggi spirit," observed the happy man. He was tired of playing Mr. Mom and wanted his wife [or was it life?] back so he could return to playing poker on the computer while wolfing down the hot bhajjis his wife had fried up. From what he could see, his prayers would be answered soon. The future looked rosy enough...

Off the Beaten Path

2006-05-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

In the past several years I have met more people from Bangalore than from any other part of India. Could it be because most of the people I meet are IT professionals and Bangalore is the IT capital of India? The first question I ask when I meet someone who hails from Bangalore is “Where in Bangalore is your house?” The responses vary. “Hosur Road,” say some, “Basavangudi” say others. “Indira Nagar” says a third set. However, the response that most thrills me is “Koramangala.” That’s because this is the only part of Bangalore I am familiar with. Actually, let me correct myself. I am only familiar with Koramangala’s 8^th block. Logic tells me that if there is an 8^th block, there must be 7 other blocks before that. Where do these blocks begin? Where do they end? Who decided which was the first block went and which were the following ones? How does a person who is new to the city [and the suburb] figure out all these details?

Whenever I visit Bangalore, I stay with my “langotya” [desi for diaper-days] pal, S. She is my hostess and my guide during the few days I spend in the “garden city.” I bow down to her genius as she sashays confidently [with me riding pillion] through the lanes and bylanes of this fast-growing city in her tiny efficient Scooty. As I see her maneuver through the tricky streets I marvel at her powers of adaptation. How did a girl who grew up in Mumbai learn to get by so well in a new relatively unknown city? She seems to drive using a mental map. I’ve never ever seen her use a real map, however.

I, on the other hand, use maps on a regular basis to get oriented with places I know nothing about. When I moved to the US of A after I got married, this is the first habit I picked up. I figured out quite early on that “road trips” are the done thing here. Every weekend, MOH and I would head out to new and exciting places in a rental car armed with nothing more than a change of clothes and some detailed maps we’d picked up from the local AAA [of the automobile, not the alcohol fame] office. Yes, here in the US, it is easy to figure out how to drive from one place to another. All one has to do is google a particular address, or do a mapblast exercise. All car rental companies have fairly detailed maps available for the first time visitor. The local AAA offices also have detailed “triptechs” that are free for the taking. This is not the case in India.

In all my years of living in Mumbai, I don’t ever recall anyone using any kind of map to drive to any place. In fact, the only maps I ever saw [of Mumbai] were in our Geography textbooks when we were in middle school. This is the case in other states as well. I’ve often wondered how people get around from one place to another. How do auto-rickshaw, taxicab and “tempo” drivers get from point A to point B without getting horribly lost? How do railcar operators [are they known as drivers or motormen?] maneuver from one station to the next with unfailing aptitude?

This brings me to my next point. I know a gazillion engineers, several doctors and a bunch of teachers. I know a few veterinarians and some military officers. I know fashion designers and gemologists. I even know a geologist. Yet, I cannot recall ever meeting a cartographer. Are there cartographers in India? What does one do to become a cartographer? What kind of degrees do these people need in order to enter the field? Are there colleges that train them? How much do they get paid? Drawing up precise maps seems like such an intriguing way to spend one’s life. Do the people who chart out maps ever travel to the places they draw up? I wonder…

In another day and age, I might’ve enjoyed pursuing map-making as a profession. For now, however, I must limit myself to finding out more about these unsung heroes.

Poor Doctors and Dishonest Students

2006-05-02T11:18:00.000-07:00

College students are notorious for “bunking lectures," or "cutting class" like my American students are wont to say. This was the case when I was a student in Mumbai. It is also the case now that I am teaching in a college in USA. The following anecdote reveals the ingenious, and often nefarious, ways in which a student’s mind works.
My friend P, is a recent immigrant. This is her first semester as a college lecturer in the US, a fact most of her students are aware of. One of her students had not shown up for classes many days in a row. In the US, teachers can “drop” students from their roster (essentially striking their names off) if they miss a specified number of class meetings. P was all set to drop this particular student when he suddenly showed up in class again.
When asked to explain his long absence, the student replied that he had been very ill. As is the procedure, P demanded proof of illness (a doctor’s certificate) from the student. The student patiently replied that he did not have a doctor’s certificate. He then went on to add that P would find this unacceptable, but she would have to understand that there are “cultural differences between India and the US.” While people in India go to a doctor whenever they fall sick, American citizens simply nurse themselves back to health at home.
If this were indeed true, one wonders how the poor doctors make a living in the US!

P.S. My pal S just told us that her pal M, a doctor's wife, just got back from a trip to India. Among other things, M apparently purchased a diamond necklace worth Rs. 52 lakhs! I can actually buy three flats like the one my parents own for that kind of money. What can I say? I should've married a doctor.

Reading Books Written by Indian English Authors

2006-05-02T07:52:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading a brand new book called Madras on Rainy Days. The author, Samina Ali, is the new-kid-on-the-block among other Indo-American authors, and this book marks her entry into the literary circle.
I must say that Ali has a very individualistic style of writing. One of her quirks is that she writes using a lot of fragmented sentences. The beauty of it is that this is not at all jarring. It only adds authenticity to the narrator's monologue. Sadly, however, the book does not live up to its early promise. The plot soon succumbs to the all too familiar "Oh, life in India [especially for a woman] really sucks, and no Indian can ever be really happy because she [or he] is soooo trapped within stupid out-dated traditions."
Every single Indian author in recent times uses this ruse to reel the Western reader in. Their tales are all sagas of unbearable suffering. Their books never end on an "all's well that ends well" note. Seriously, this attitude is beginning to get on my nerves. I don't know if I want to take this India bashing anymore. I know that India has its share of problems, but is life in India so bad?
When I was growing up in India, in what was a typical middle-class Indian home, we did have our share of problems. Everyone around me had problems too. Yet, I did not, ever, see a single clinically depressed person. Somehow, maybe because Indians are such believers in destiny, people seemed to accept their share of trials as inevitable and went on with their lives. They met each day with energy and enthusiasm.
A typical example was my mother's bai [maid-servant]. This woman had a very tough life. Her husband, when he was alive, used to drink everyday and hit her. She took to working as a maid-servant in order to feed her five hungry children and finance her husband's alcoholic binges. Later, she lost her husband, two young sons and one daughter-in-law in quick succession. With the men in the family gone, she had to support her two teenaged daughters and five grandchildren. Surely, misfortunes like these would make even the strongest heart crumble. Yet, this woman went about her daily chores with dignity and good cheer. She was always neatly dressed [despite the occasional tear in her sari] with a big red bindi, oiled hair and colorful glass bangles. She worked hard and eventually married off her daughters to good young men and educated her little grandchilren at the local municipal school. I can cite numerous such examples of courage, tolerance and acceptance.
It is only after migrating to the US that I began noticing sad, disheartened, lonely, depressed people. Despite all the material charms of this place, I cannot think of ONE friend who is totally satisfied with his/her life. There is something lacking somewhere. Going to a counsellor or a therapist is common place nowadays. Taking a sleeping pill in order to get some shut-eye at night is also something many of my friends do. It is simply a part of modern life in a so-called developed nation. Why then, does no one write about how life in the US sucks?
"So Maggi," you might ask, "if you dislike desi authors so much, why do you read their books?" What can I say? When I used to live in India, I didn't bother to read a SINGLE book written by a desi author. No, even as a grad student, I did not read books written by "authors of Indian English." Yet, now that I live in the US, the only books I seem to want to read [other than cheap paperback thrillers] are ones written in English by authors of Indian origin. Amitav Ghosh, Chitra Bannerjee Divakaruni, Jhumpa Lahiri, Shashi Tharoor, Anita Nair, Arundhati Roy...I've read them all...
Maybe my hands automatically reach out and pick books by desi authors because I miss India. I like reading about familiar themes and familiar places. I do like the references [they make] to local Indian customs [a lot of which I can identify with]. I also like the Hinglish dialogues. What I don't like is the sheer melancholia of it all. Why can't writers of the new ilk model their work on old giants [and geniuses] like R.K. and Ruskin Bond? Yes, their writings are melancholic in part too, but there is much humor and wit hidden within the mundane routine lives their protagonists lead. Their musings about life in India are true-to-life without being overly sentimental and melodramatic. Reading about Malgudi, for example, always brings a smile to my face. So, in order to counter the evil effects of Samina's woeful tale, I think I'll spend the next couple of days re-reading Bond's Night Train at Deoli. My sad psyche needs some cheering up.

Clear as a Bell

2006-04-26T08:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, there are signs around you that you simply cannot ignore. Their messages ring loud and clear...

You know you're definitely middle-aged when...
Young handsome guys riding snazzy motorbikes stop in front of you. You're elated that someone finally noticed how heart-stoppingly beautiful you are, and you turn to them with your best smile. Instead of complimenting you, however, all they say is "Aunty, aap ko yeh address pata hai?" Aunty? Huh?! Who me?!! :((

You know you're more than a little overweight when...
Your hubby tells you "You know I love you very much; but this [your bulge] is a little scary. Why don't you go consult a doctor and make sure it's not a tumor."
Your daughter tells you "So what if you're fat? You're still beautiful."

You know you're addicted to the soaps on TV when...
You call up your mom over the phone and talk about characters on the soaps like they are real people. "Mom, can you believe that Karan married Urvashi? Just like that! Wow! What was he thinking?!"

You know you're steeped in total suburbia when...
All you can do when you meet up with a girlfriend is bitch about another common friend who's not there yet.

You know you've left the "simple living high thinking" ideal far behind when...
People ask you why you need all the things you are "collecting." "No," you answer. "You don't understand. I don't need it. I want it."

Note* If even two of the above hold true for you, you know it's time you move on [and ahead] in life!

Self-Portrait

2006-04-22T23:31:00.000-07:00

Maggi

Smooth and sexy

Smiling devilishly

like a witch on her broom

If only her spells would work.

Sari Soiree

2006-04-22T22:57:00.000-07:00

MOH and I believe in division of labor. He has his chores, I have mine, and never the twain shall meet. In our house, picking up the mail is exclusively a male domain. The only time this rule is reversed is when I go on an online sari shopping spree. This happens…ummm….maybe once in two or three months. Here is how the whole thing works.

I come back from work and feed the hungry brat some leftovers from the previous night’s dinner [picking her up from school is an exclusively female domain]. Then, while she is busy catching up on Maya and Miguel’s latest antics on TV, I hook up my laptop and settle down to some “quiet time.” Usually, this means logging in to YM and chatting with my buddies Lucy and Avi. On rare occasions, when both Luce and Avi are busy or unavailable, I go on a virtual safari – a sari safari. Yes, that’s the name of my favorite sari shop here in the US.

I stumbled upon this website quite by accident while doing on internet search on Kantha saris. Embroidery and quilting is something I do when I need to keep my hands [and my mind] busy. I have been trying to experiment with the running stitch style embroidery from Bengal, known as kantha. I was on the lookout for traditional kantha patterns one day, and I did a google search using “kantha saris” as the keywords. Sarisafari was one of the links that came up. I was intrigued by the very different name, and I immediately clicked on the link. What an adventure the safari turned out to be!

Melinda, the owner of the sari shop, has stocked up the website with more than 600 specimens of traditional hand loomed saris. Each one is unique and hand-picked with care. I simply adore traditional Indian cotton fabric, and these saris were like a dream come true. I ordered three saris that day.

After that first visit, I was hooked. I went back again and again. Melinda’s attention to detail and the prompt turnaround [delivery] time are a welcome contrast from the other disinterested unreliable sariwallis [or sariwallas] trying to peddle their wares online.

Every time I make a purchase, Melinda, my very own sariwalli [as she likes to be called] emails me an invoice. Then I begin “lurking” at her site to see when she takes the pictures of my choices down. Once the pictures are down, I know the saris are in the mail. That’s the easy part. Waiting for the package to make its appearance in my mail box is the hard part. I have to be very careful to get to my bounty before MOH can get to it. So, I wait in front of the mail box and accost the mail lady while she’s in the act of actually placing people’s mail into their respective mail slots. When I see her place the envelope with Melinda’s neat handwriting into my slot, I let out a silent cheer, “YES!”

I wait for the lady to lock up the mail box with her master key. Then I open it again with my key and get my saris out. I run home and rip open the packet like an excited kid opening presents on Xmas morning. Next, I stand in front of the mirror, try on my saris and preen till MOH gets home.

I did this whole stunt today also when I became the proud owner of two new Narayanpet saris. I was so stunned by my own beauty [after I had donned one of the saris] that I didn’t quite hear the garage door go up when MOH drove in. So, I couldn’t get out of my sari in time before he walked into the bedroom. “What? Another sari? How many do you need? I’ve personally counted 80 saris in the closet,” exclaimed my indignant hubby. Ok, ok. I admit I do have a sari fetish, but 80? I don’t think so. But even if I did, what’s the big deal? Every girl has the right to “collect” something…Imelda Marcos had her shoes, I have my saris. No, I haven't actually counted how many I have. I don't believe in counting my blessings, lest I jinx my good luck :)

Notes*

Sariwalli = Hindi for seller of saris [female]

Sariwalla = Hindi for seller of saris [male]

Naatu Vishesham* -- Life in a Modern Joint Family Structure

2006-04-20T09:30:00.000-07:00

My readers will remember that I mentioned something about an epiphany I had when I was forced to deal with a "situation" in this post. I also promised to tell you the whole story. So here it is...

"Harsha called up Kasturi this morning, and the two of them had a huge show-down," said Shuchi, without any preamble. "Ok, I'm coming over to your house, and we'll take a walk," was my hurried response before hanging up the phone. "Aaaah, the pimple has popped and the pus is out," I mused with glee. Nothing like fresh gossip to get the boredom out of my humdrum sleepy suburban experience. I grabbed my car keys, yelled a quick "Don't wait up for me, I'll be late," to MOH by way of explanation and drove off post-haste. En route to Shuchi's house I called up Kasturi to get the juice straight from the horse's mouth. I had to be on the same page as Shuchi before I reached her casa if we were to dissect the why's and how's during our walk.
"So what happened?" I asked K. "Oh, well, you know how things've been lately with H," she said. "All the attention you guys give me just doesn't sit well with her," she moaned. And K was right. We all love her to death, and she really is the star of the show wherever she goes -- her joie de vivre is hard to miss.
H walks around with this notion that she is the matriarch of "the group" by virtue of the fact that she is the oldest amongst us. She never did like all the adulation K got. "Hmmm..." I mumbled by way of encouragement. "Well, H never forgets a slight, real or imagined, and somehow she thinks I have manipulated you guys into dismissing her and her efforts," K went on. "Hmmm..." I said again, deep in thought. When had we ever slighted H? I wondered to myself. I didn't have to think too much since K went on describe [in great detail] the long litany of complaints H had [primarily] with her and [by association] with all of us.
"How can anyone hold on to a grudge for 11 months?" I asked S later that evening. "And why did H choose K's birthday to get 'even' with her?" I continued enraged. "Well, all I can say is,with H around, K won't miss her inlaws. With friends like H, who needs a mean saas or a nanad?" * said S. That is when it all became clear to me.

Other than the Gujaratis or Sardars, most familes in the US [especially those who have become Americans via the H1 -- Green Card -- Citizen route] are nuclear in nature. The typical Indian woman living in the US comes here as a shy young bride. She has not lived with her inlaws for any extended period of time. Therefore, she does not know them too well, and there is always a certain extent of formality in her dealings with her inlaws. Meanwhile, however, she manages to create a mini-India [her home] wherein she tries to maintain the traditional lifestyle she is used to from her parents' house. She also manages to create a tiny tight-knit circle of friends. Her friends are usually other women of her ilk. This circle becomes a strong support network with the members pitching in to help one another during tough times and celebrating with one another during happy times. Unfortunately, however, women in the US do not always get to pick their friends.

This is how "circles" are formed:
When the young couple move into a particular town or city, the first friends they make tend to be Indian families from the workplace [either the husband's or the wife's]. Later, their "circle" might extend to include parents of Indian children who attend their kids' school. If by some lucky [or unlucky] turn of fate, they learn about Indian neighbors, these families go on to become "friends" too. Under these circumstances, it is easy to see why/how the couple cannot always "gel" with everyone in the "group."

This is more an issue with the women than the men. During forced it's-Friday-so-let's-have-a-potluck-and-spend-time-together events, men stick to drinking beer and discussing politics [the national and international kind]. The women, on the other hand, like to get more up-close and personal. They discuss personal issues and try to outdo one another with their cooking-decorating-parenting prowess. Soon they form core groups within larger groups. People tend to pick favorites, and now we have the birth of the "best friend" syndrome. Intrigues, group politics and idle gossip follow soon after. Isn't this exactly what happens in a joint-family unit in traditional India? [If your've never been a part of a joint-family unit, simply turn on the TV to a desi channel, tune into one of the popular soaps and watch an episode or two. It will be an education in itself.]

Don't get me wrong. I'm not railing against the formation of such groups. I'm not ranting about the crazy first-I-love-you-then-I-hate-you gimmicks my friends and I indulge in either. I am merely telling you that this is our way of life. Sure, at first I did miss India and the family that I had left behind, but now that I am in the thick of things here, I am beginning to feel a strange sense of belonging. I do have a large extended family here too -- the one made up with people I have met here. Like all families, I share a love-hate relationship with the members. Mostly, it is a you're-really-a-pain-but-what-do-I-do-without-you kinda' situation. I'm learning and waiting...biding my time till I become the matriarch of the circle!

Notes:
Naatu Vishesham = Malayalam for Village Gossip
casa = Spanish for house
saas = Hindi for mother-in-law
nanad = Hindi for sister-in-law [Indian women are known to have ego hassles with the female relatives when they move in with their inlaws after marriage]

Hum tho Aise hi Hain*

2006-04-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

Human beings, as a species, cannot maintain status quo. They always want the opposite of what is. In my BC [before child] days, my neighbors would see a stylishly slim Ms. Maggi walking down the street, and they’d say, “Ooooh, it’s really cool that you’re sooo thin. But you know what? It’d look really good if you put on some weight. You’re too thin right now. Indian men like plump women.” So then, Ms. Maggi ate a lot of hot parathas swimming in ghee and put on oodles of weight. You’d think the neighbors would be happy to see her waddling down the lane. “What is this Maggi?” they now ask, clucking their tongues. “How come you’ve put on so much weight? Are you pregnant?”
The same goes for the length of my hair. When I lived with my parents, I used to wear a long oily braid down my back like a true South Indian. “Uff! What is this, Maggi? When’ll you chop off those tresses? They’re totally impractical in hot humid Mumbai. And the rush in the local trains…don’t you get lice in your hair?” wondered my so-called friends. After coming to the US, I chopped off my locks. Ever since, all I hear is, “Oh, Maggi, look at you in those old pictures. Wow! You actually chopped off all that lovely hair? Why? Can’t you grow it back?” Sigh!
Now, before you begin to believe that I consider myself above these nay-sayers, let me tell you that I am EXACTLY like them. “The reason for your dark moods is your living conditions,” I pontificated when my friend A confided that he was feeling “anti-social.” “Move out of those dumps, find yourself a good woman and let your creative energy flow,” I advised him. He did exactly that. Now he’s the proud owner of a brand new house, and he is thinking about tying the knot. “I don’t know what has gotten into you. Why would, you, a bachelor without a green card, need a house?” I yelled at him. “Completely crazy!” I muttered. “And that girl you say you’re seeing. As if you think a virtual relationship is going to work.” “But…but…isn’t that what you told me to do?” he asked perplexed. “Ridiculous! So, if I told you to go jump in the well, would you do it?” I shook my head in frustration.
The list goes on. I’m constantly trying to change people around me – MOH, the brat, my Bihari-Bong neighbor, G -- my best pal in the US, all my students, MOH’s collegues’ timid newly-wed brides, my parents back home in India, my m-i-l in London, my s-i-l in the Gulf – you name the person and I can tell you how I want them to change.
For example, I was the one who egged my mom to go back to work once I was grown up. Now that she’s a determined career woman, I tell her “Why don’t you retire and be content with being a grandmother. Why can’t you just come live with me in the US and take care of my house, hubby and the brat?” I have the same complaint with my m-i-l too. When she lost her husband, my f-i-l, I told her, “This is the 21st century. There’s no need for you to play poor sad widow. Move out of this house, get yourself a new set of friends, find some new hobbies and live life the way it should be lived.” It took her a few years to realize that Maggi does say some sensible things once in a while. So, she followed my instructions to a T. “Why can’t the woman just sit at home? Is this any age to gambol about? She’s no spring chicken, you know?” I grumble when MOH tells me how he can’t reach his mom on the phone because she is not home.
“I’m sure you’d like everyone to live exactly according to your specifications Maggi,” says MOH in his calm composed tone [which drives me up the wall. Yes, I want him to change his tone]. “Why don’t you just concentrate on changing yourself first?” he asks. “Why should I?” I argue back. “Why don’t you?” he parries. That is the status quo in our relationship [and in my life] as of now.

Epilogue: You are the way you are because that's the way you want to be. If you really wanted to be any different, you would be in the process of changing right now. --Fred Smith

Notes:
Hum tho aise hi hain = Hindi for, This is who I am

Kudumba Vishesham* -- Life in an old joint-family structure

2006-04-18T13:31:00.000-07:00

My grandmother cloistered herself within her large old house in central Kerala after my grandfather’s death. She lived in this state of self-imposed house arrest for more than 30 years. This was her way of mourning for the man she had married and lived with for more than 25 years.

I used to call my grandmother achamma [dad’s mom] even though she was really my ammamma [mom’s mom]. During my visits to achamma’s house in the long hot summer months, I would often wonder how she could bear to be at home forever. I was a party girl even then, and my uncles would take me “to town” every evening to eat vada sambar or mysore pak at Ashoka Bhavan, a local vegetarian “coffee house.”

Not once did it occur to me that achamma probably never missed the outside world. Now that I think about it, our home was indeed a happening place. The intense drama surrounding petty squabbles and ego hassles within a typical joint family structure ensured that each day in Sree Parvathy Mandiram was a new experience.

When achamma married my grandfather and came to live with him, he already had two daughters from a previous marriage. Our house was named after the two girls – Srimathy and Parvathy. Then, achamma went on to have six children of her own [one of them died in infancy]. Eventually, several nieces and nephews moved in and achamma’s tribe increased. In order to manage this large household, there were five retainers/servants. Eventually, the children grew up and got married and brought forth grandchildren.

With the passage of time, some members [of the family] moved out to cities like Mumbai and Chennai to seek their fortunes. However, every summer, the entire clan would assemble at Sree Parvathy Mandiram. On hot sticky nights, after dinner, we would gather on the brick verandah [that my mom and her siblings referred to as the “town bus”] and exchange stories and anecdotes late into the night.

While the elders’ voices droned on in the background, I would lie down on the baked brick floor with my head on achamma’s lap and drift off into peaceful slumber. The constant chirping of the crickets and the tiny glow of the fireflies’ wings added a magical quality to the nights. The frequent power cuts added to the rustic charm of the place. I would often look at the swaying fronds of the coconut palms in the yard and imagine they were ghosts dancing a wild dance in the darkness.

Now achamma has passed on, and it has been many years since I have visited Sree Parvathy Mandiram. I’ve forgotten what it is like to “belong” to a large joint family unit. Oftentimes, I have regretted the lack of drama in my largely insular, nuclear existence here in the US. Yesterday, however, some situations and events made me realize that I have somehow developed my very own “joint family” in this cowboy country.

Ah, but then, I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll fill you in on the details of the situation in another post sometimes soon. Till then, it’s adios from Ms. Maggi.

Notes:
Kudumba Vishesham = Malayalam for family stories

Products of Our Environments

2006-04-15T21:55:00.000-07:00

When I went to pick up the brat from school on Friday, one of the parents at the pickup line greeted me with a loud “Whoa! What’s with the really bling shirt you’re wearing Maggi?” Ok, I admit, my garb was an aberration from my usual get-up, but at three dollars a pop I had not thought much about the color of the tee [when I picked up three for nine bucks at Walgreen’s]. Later, when my friend came to help me with some sewing, she exclaimed that “I wouldn’t have worn that ‘banian’ [Indian term for cotton knitwear] if I were you.”

“Does it look really bad?” I asked MOH when he walked in at tea-time. “Dunno what you’re whining about; it looks just fine to me,” responded my other half. “It must be bright if MOH thinks it was fine,” I mused as I perused myself critically in the mirror. This has always been a bone of contention between us, ever since we got married. I like to walk around disguised like a monsoon cloud [clad in black and gray] while MOH prefers his wife to be decked up in the colors of Holi. I’ve always wondered how he came about his strange [to me] preference. The answer suddenly dawned on me when I was visiting India last Xmas. I observed that his mom, my m-i-l, loves dressing up in bright bold saris!

This has led me to believe that although genes do play an important role in our physical and mental make-up, our emotional selves are based largely on our childhood environments. What we see and experience in our formative years shapes our preferences as adults.

My mom is tall, thin and fair. So, I’ve always believed that in order to be “beautiful,” a gal has to be tall, thin and fair – attributes that I sorely lack. On the other hand, my m-i-l is not very tall, of medium build and has dusky skin. Not surprising, then, that according to MOH “A true Indian beauty is not very tall, not very thin and not very fair.” He finds my typical South Indian looks “nice.” Thank god for small mercies.

Similarly, I have since realized that my mom does not own a single red, green or bright yellow sari. No wonder I think “sober” colors are “decent.” It also suddenly dawned on me that all my crushes during my teenage years were guys who showed signs of premature balding. My dad is quite bald and has been like that since I can remember. “I’m losing so much hair…soon, I’ll be really bald,” moans MOH many a times. “So what? All intelligent men are bald,” I argue back. I'm sure this is merely his way of checking to see if I still love him.

The brat is living proof of the validity of my theory about the effects of the environment. “I don’t know why everyone likes Aishwarya Rai,” she exclaimed after watching Ash baby gyrate to the tune of Amitabh's kajra re. “She's not really all that beautiful; she does not have pimples like you do ma.” What can I say? I stand vindicated.

From the Mouth of Babes...

2006-04-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

Little children seem to exhibit clarity of thought much beyond their years. The brat is a prime example. Most of my students would give an arm and a leg to be able to see problems and suggest solutions as easily as she [and others of her ilk] can. Of course, her abilities can be attributed to the innocence of youth, and it is regrettable that as they grow older kids seem to lose this all too important skill – reading into situations/people exactly as they are minus all the hype and hoopla.

Here are some vignettes from conversations I’ve had with the brat over the past two years…examples of some top-notch analyses.

On why I should not have another baby: “When I am allowed to have only one mommy and one daddy, why should you have two babies? You already have one and that is enough.”

On my complaint that my mom is more patient with the brat than she ever was with me: “She was young when she had you. She didn’t know any better. Moms are like that. They understand things better when they get older and become grandmas.”

On why she threw away her lunch and then lied about it: “I wanted to check if you really have powers like you say you do. I don’t think you have powers. If you did, you would’ve known that I didn’t eat my lunch and that I threw it all out.”

[Explanation to her friends] on why she is not allowed to have a boyfriend: “My mom is an Indian, and Indians don’t have boyfriends.”

On why a pterodactyl “eats like Indians”: “It used to eat only fish…no meat.”

On why I can never match up to my mom’s cooking skills: “Your idlis are almost as soft as hers, but hers are softest.”

On the fact that mom’s job [being a teacher] is more difficult that dad’s job [software engineer]: “You have to stand up and scream at students all day long. Dad gets to play on his computer.”

On Easter [explaining the holiday to her friend Keshav]: “It’s a day when birds lay eggs all around the park, and the eggs have candy inside it.”

I guess that’s what you get when teachers in the public school system are forbidden from using the word Jesus, or even the generic – God, in front of their students!

Vishu Visheshangal

2006-04-14T08:38:00.000-07:00

Every festival has a fragrance attached to it. Onam brings with it the clean smell of post-monsoon days and the wildflowers that make up the Atha poo kalam [a floral carpet made in the front courtyard of the house]. Diwali is reminiscent of the smell of firecrackers and colored sweets swimming in ghee. Whenever I think of Xmas, I am reminded of the pungent perfumes my Goan/Manglorean neighbors wore while dolling up for the midnight mass at the local Church grounds. Holi is all about the chemical smell of gulal and other bright dyes.
My favorite festival, though, is Vishu [also known as puthu varsha pathippu in Tamizh, Baisakhi in Punjab, Bihu in Assam, and so on]. Vishu made it to the top of my favorites list when I was a li'l gal, mainly because of the divine smell I associate with this very special day.
In Mumabi, where I spent all my childhood, the insistent rings of the paav-wala's [bread vendor] bicycle bell woke us up every morning. My mom would jump out of bed on most mornings and buy some paav for our breakfast and/or my "tiffin" box. At 5 a.m. in the morning, I would be somewhere between the stages of delicious REM sleep and wakefulness. My half-asleep semi-awake brain would register the paav- wala's early morning raga and his trills would become a part of my dream sequence.
On Vishu morning though, the sounds would be intertwined with the cloyingly sweet fragrance of fresh jasmine flowers, sandalwood incence and the slightly musty smell of a bed damp with the sweat my body had produced overnight.
Mmmmm...I can still recall the excitement and anticipation of being woken up by amma, her bony work-worn fingers covering my heavy eyelids that were still encrusted with sleep. When she let go, I would open my eyes slowly to what was an almost magical tableau. The tiny nilavillaku [brass lamp] glowing in the semi-darkness of the early dawn would lend an ethereal charm to the picture of Guruvayoorappan and Mookambika devi. The eyes of the stone idols would seem almost life-like for that one split second. Then, my mom would give me a shiny new five rupee coin as my kaineetam. Of course, that was only the beginning. By the time I had collected money from my dad, his older sister, my mom's younger brother and any and every elder I could think of, I would have hundreds of rupees in my piggy bank.
Times have changed. I am now a Malayali twice removed from my roots -- I don't live in Kerala or even in India. I have now donned the mantle my mom used to wear. I do my best to keep some of the older traditions alive. Although I did smell the incense this morning, it is not the same without the jasmine, the sweat and the paav-wala's shrill bells. Besides, no one gives me kaineetam anymore and I am the one lighting the lamp. There is no one to cover my eyes and then open up the blindfold to reveal the magical portent for the new year.

One more...and then I'll go back to writing about fun stuff! I promise.

2006-04-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

Philosophy of Reading, and Goals for the Next School Year

1. Teaching Philosophy
The purpose of college level reading classes is to provide an opportunity for students to derive long-term benefits. I want to encourage my students to grow and develop as critical readers and thinkers. I believe that I will serve my students better if I can model problem solving and comprehension skills, define different problem-solving techniques, and show them the resources they have at their disposal in order to do all this. In my classes, we work on finding, reading, and evaluating new information from a myriad of print and media sources. I teach my students how to recognize their limits, and how to be prepared for change.
My classroom is very student centered. I prefer to involve the students in the learning and thinking process. I admit that this philosophy and approach is often loose knit and not very tightly structured (unlike my rhetoric and composition classes). This presents its issues and challenges. However, as a community of learners, we continue to learn from experience and from our literary sources. I am constantly working on trying to master the dynamics of teaching within my discipline so I can improve my effectiveness as a classroom instructor.

2. Primary Goal
My primary goal is to have a positive impact on the students' future personal and professional life. Part of this involves stimulating students to consider situations from perspectives different from those they normally adopt. To this end I evolve written and creative-skills projects and assignments that provoke students to think out of the box. Some of the topics and themes for these projects are very adult and very graphic, and/or disturbing. I also encourage classroom debates and discussions. I often play the devil’s advocate in these discussions, and take the side of the “losing team,” in order to set things on par again.
This semester, for example, I had students in my College Reading class research a crime story that intrigued them. They then had to write a confessional story from the point-of-view of the criminal. We then discussed how it was important to think like the criminal in order to understand his/her motives and thought processes. We agreed that it was necessary to always remember to put ourselves in other people’s shoes before judging them. This skill would come in handy in our personal and professional lives, because we are constantly interacting with other people whose points-of-view might be different from ours. Assignments and units such as this involve encouraging students to develop life-long habits of self-motivated learning.

3.Secondary Goal
My secondary goal is to prepare my students for success in other college/university classes. I often work one-on-one with my students, and help with assignments from other courses they are taking at the moment.

4.Evaluations/Success Rate
I would say that my often untraditional methods make for a creative learning environment. My students seem to be motivated and willing learners. I have them fill our student evaluation forms twice during the semester, and the results indicate that they are happy with what is being done in the classroom. Many of my students have followed me from RDG 091 to CRE 101. This is a clear indication that they want to be in my classes.

I also have my peers, and my chair, evaluate my instruction. Again, the evaluation results are most satisfactory. I continue to take post-graduate level classes (especially at NAU) in order to hone my teaching skills. I am also constantly on the internet and the library researching lesson plans and thematic units so I can make each semester a unique experience for my students.

Planning Ahead

2006-04-13T11:10:00.000-07:00

Whoa! It's mid-April. Time does fly when one is having fun. I can't believe that I'm almost wrapping up another school year. I need to take stock of the situation [in my professional life] and plan ahead so I can face the next batch of students with the same [or even renewed] enthusiasm I had when I first began teaching. That being said, the essay that follows is what I propose to do while I rest and rejuvenate [should I say resuscitate?]
The development of effective reading abilities is a lifelong process. To encourage students to become mature readers, school literacy programs must foster situations/environments that promote comprehension and critical thinking skills. These skills must be introduced at the preschool level and reinforced even in college classrooms. A child’s reading ability is based, to a large extent, on parental influences and social background. However, it is primarily the role of the school teacher to model effective learning techniques to the student.
School teachers and other reading professionals are, thus, faced with a huge responsibility. In order to effectively apply their expertise towards the development of literacy amongst their students, they need to possess enough knowledge about literacy standards and processes. I am very interested in knowing about these standards and processes. I would like to do my research assignment on national reading standards in the US. This will help me get a better understanding of the overall situation.
I want to particularly stress on the aspect of Teacher Education. What is the government doing to promote awareness among teachers and reading professionals? Are there standards that are set up to verify the credentials of people entrusted with the task of teaching students how to read? What are the strategies teachers need to follow if they want to promote literacy through the instruction of reading and writing with the help of literature?
I often feel that as a teacher I’m muddling through a maze while trying to teach my students comprehension skills. A lot of the assignments I have come up with and the teaching strategies I use are all a result of trial and error. More often than not, senior colleagues have helped me in my endeavors. However, there is nothing scientific or standard about their approaches either. They have also arrived at certain conclusions after years of experimentation. I also find that teaching strategies vary from state to state, school to school, department to department and even individual to individual. The age, the cultural biases and personal beliefs of teachers influence their teaching philosophies in a major way. That is the reason why I want to learn more about national standards and approaches.
I plan to use the internet, refer to journals brought out by organizations like the International Reading Association, and talk with colleagues who are reading specialists in my quest for information during the next few weeks. Hopefully, by the end of the semester, I will have collected enough information on the subject. God willing, by next semester, I can put some of the theories I read about into practice in my classrooms!

Yet Another post on Teaching

2006-04-12T22:22:00.000-07:00

My student, Sam, told me today that I was "the tighest teacher in the college." "Tight? Erm...well, Sam, what do you mean?" I asked perplexed. "Is being tight a good thing or a bad thing?" I turned around and asked the class. They smiled indulgently and told me that it was a really good thing. Whew! Of late I have been finding it really difficult to understand what these teenagers are saying. I mean, it is supposedly English [or "American" as they put it] but the "lingo" seems to be a world apart from the language I speak [and supposedly teach].

Upon reflection, the parlance is not the only thing that sets me apart from my students who are about 13 years junior to me. When I went to college, the classrooms were strictly "traditional," in the sense that we learned by reading from actual textbooks. Our teachers always asked us to write about the texts we had studied in class. That is not the case in classrooms today. With the advent of computers and satellite TV, many teachers simply allow students to learn “literature” by watching tapes or movies based on the original text. That is my conundrum -- I know my students are really into technology. So how can I incorporate technology in my classroom yet ensure that my students do not turn into robotic techno geeks who have no capability to think independently?

In a literature class, for example, can the reading and actual enactment of Shakespeare’s “Othello,” which is an active exercise, be replaced equivalently with a simple “watching the movie,” activity, which is very passive by nature? What is it that the students stand to lose by sacrificing the active for the passive?

Many of my colleagues are perplexed with students who can effortlessly perform complex activities during a video game, or develop a website with apparent ease, but who cannot read fluently from a piece of text. At the community colleges, we are now seeing the advent of Gen Yers, (students born after 1981 and before 1995). They exhibit some typical personality traits. Last fall, I was involved in setting up, and conducting, a workshop for the teachers at my community college. The workshop focused on teaching instructors some skills so they could effectively deal with these “problem” students.

I have realized, by trial and error, that it is impossible today to ignore the influence on technology. We cannot get away from the use of computers and other multimedia in our classrooms. Often, I find that letting the students watch a tape, or a movie, is an excellent way to introduce the subject to them and get them interested enough so we can then read the actual text with enthusiasm. Most students tend to think of literary figures like Shakespeare or Faulkner as old fogeys who didn’t know what they were writing about. They’re also a bit intimidated by the language used in these literary texts. However, watching the movie often simplifies things for them, and they understand that there is indeed a story behind the text, that contains some universal truth about human nature and human follies. This is what eggs them on to actually read the text for the class.

Each teacher has to experiment with various teaching methods and tools to figure out what works best for their subject and class. There is no right or wrong way to approach teaching literacy to Gen Yers, our students in the digital age. It does help to remember, that a good teacher always incorporates several pedagogical tools to get his/her point across.

Critical Thinking Skills and Learning

2006-04-12T10:55:00.000-07:00

Author's note: I wrote this response essay a few years back. I can't seem to find the original copy of the journal where the original article was published. I tried to do a google search using the title as keywords and got a link to the ERIC database. The abstract is available online, but I could not locate the full-text article, unfortunately.
A lot of what Patricia Braswell has discussed in her article holds true in the case of classrooms today. I'm amazed to see how some issues never seem to change.

Patricia Braswell’s article, “Cabbage Worms and Critical Thinking,” that was published in the Teaching English in the Two Year College Journal, Volume 20, n1 p64-70, Feb 1993, discusses the importance of incorporating critical thinking skills into college-level writing classes in order to enhance comprehension skills and active learning.
Braswell begins her essay with an explosive accusation. She claims that most composition teachers only check for basic comprehension skills. They do not take the time or the effort to “move toward emphasizing the higher skills of analysis, synthesis, and evaluation.”
As teachers we are all faced with a great challenge – we want our students to become better thinkers, readers and writers. Braswell explores her Beaufort’s County Community College’s ambitious project aimed at incorporating critical thinking skills into a college level reading/writing class and its result on student learning. For students to develop literary abilities and for them to apply the abstract knowledge they receive in college classes in to concrete settings in real life, the development of critical thinking skills is a must. The powers-that-be at LaGuardia Community College have established the claim that thinking process can be improved through support and reinforcement on the part of instructors.
Problem solving is the highest level of thinking. It requires a bunch of critical reasoning abilities. Instructors must, therefore, encourage students to read literary material that will force them to don their thinking caps. The writing assignments that follow the reading exercises must tap into these critical thinking skills. Of course, we must not forget that critical thinking will only follow if comprehension is accomplished. Students cannot be asked to “think” about something that they have not yet fully understood.
Braswell quotes a number of renowned scholars and veteran teachers in her effort to put across her point better. Joseph Eulie, Gordon Wells, Jerome Harste and Richard Paul are some of the research scholars she refers to.
Braswell gives us specific examples of two class sections of English Composition 102 from Beaufort County Community College, which were chosen to be a part of the Critical Thinking Project. One class section followed traditional course competencies as laid out by the College Board mandate. The other section sought to “sharpen (the students’) skills of thinking, reading, and writing logically, critically, and effectively through a variety of methods – lectures, work-shopping, discussion, problem solving activities, writing assignments, and examinations” (Braswell). In this section, 30% of the final course grade was set aside for class participation. Both sections were given standardized pre- and post-tests in critical thinking.
Students from section 2 protested loudly that they were being made to do more work and were not initially ready to accept responsibility for their own learning. But by the end of the course, they did express the feeling that they could “make sense of their own ideas and those in the world around them” (Braswell). The ones who dropped out of this section were the ones who ingested the proverbial “cabbage worms.” They only wanted to sit and listen and were not prepared to do anything.
As a result of projects like the one described above, the approach that college teachers take toward their classes has changed significantly in the past decade. Our instruction is now designed to ensure that students become willing participants in the class work and that they use their thinking powers to reason and solve literary and conceptual problems.
The best admonition that Braswell provides in her article appears toward the very end, when she cautions teachers that “It takes more than one quarter to effect significant changes in students’ critical thinking abilities…”
As teachers we might often get frustrated at our seemingly minute accomplishments. In the long run, however, the right efforts will, definitely, produce more analytical thinkers, readers, and writers.

Vishu in Exile

2006-04-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

Vishu [the Malayalam New Year] is almost here, and I just got an email from the Nair group on Yahoo telling me that the konna trees in Kerala are in full bloom. One group member mentioned that the golden yellow flowers are in bloom in Singapore also [where he lives]. I remember when I was growing up in Mumbai how amma and other Malayali aunties would run around helter skelter the day before Vishu trying to find some sprigs of kani konna for their vishu kani. The konna trees are hard to come by in Mumbai and Malayalis beg, borrow and steal in order to put up a good kani for their families.

For the longest time we used to get our stash of konna poo from my best friend, Sumi’s, father. He used to work for Telco and his office was located in the outskirts of Mumbai, where, I believe, some konna trees did grow. Every year, he used to manage to bring back some blossom laden branches of the all too important flower, and Sumi’s mom would pass on a portion to us. Then, after his retirement from Telco, we began buying the flowers in tiny little plastic pouches – approximately one sprig per packet from the local Malayali store. These sprigs were often days old, and the owners of the stores would keep them refrigerated lest they wilt before D-day. The fact that they were semi wilted when placed on the kani trays didn’t really seem to matter to us. After all, beggars can’t really be choosers.

This will be my ninth Vishu away from home. I don’t know if things have changed in Mumbai. I don’t think amma keeps a Vishu kani anymore. I do, however, do what I can to keep some of the Vishu traditions alive. My answer to the lack of kanni konna? Some sprigs of glorious yellow palo verde!

That's a Fit

2006-04-10T14:41:00.000-07:00

Prologue: So here I am at Wal-Mart sorting through a pile of blue denims, trying to find the right fit. MOH is fuming at the nostrils since, he claims, he has an early morning conference call and he needs his beauty sleep. “Come on, dude!” I tell him, “A gal has the right to take her time picking out a new pair of jeans.” “Not at 11.00 p.m. on a week-night; she doesn’t,” counters the other half. Meanwhile, the brat is whining for a new pair of shoes, not because she needs a new pair, but because, “It’s not fair that mom gets whatever she wants and I get nothing.” Yeah, well, whatever!

I head down to the fitting rooms and as luck would have it, they seem to be locked. A painted sign announces that the fitting rooms were “Open for public use from 7 a.m. to 10 p.m. daily.” So much for trying on my selection for size.

Much to MOH’s relief [and the brat’s dismay] I head down to the checkout aisle to pay for my wares. We head back home, and although it is almost midnight by then, I insist I should try my new threads on right away. The stiff denim slides easily up to my knees, but after that it is a struggle. With a jiggle here and a wiggle there, I manage to get the waistband up to my hips. Now I have the zipper to deal with. I pull and I yank to no avail. I have to conclude that the jeans don’t really fit. So what’s new?!

The Story: It all began when I decided to visit Mumbai last Xmas. The original intent of the visit [meeting my parents] soon gave way to a new high [shopping for saris]. The first time I accompanied my friends to the local market, I reacted like a lost Bedouin who had found water in the dry desert. I have to admit that I went a wee bit overboard and when it was time for me to pack my bags for the return trip, I found that I could not snap the locks on even after forcing the brat to sit on top [of the suitcases].

“You will have to downsize,” Amma declared. “Ahem! And just what would you like me to leave behind?” I wondered aloud. “Take all your saris. You can’t buy them there. But why are you taking your western clothes? You could always buy news ones after getting back,” she replied. “Hmm! Mothers do know best after all,” I mused.

Thus it was that I left my most loved pair of jeans behind. It has been three months since I got back and I have yet to find a suitable replacement. I’m getting tired of wearing formal pants and Capri’s all the time. So, you ask, what’s the big deal? Why don’t you just head out to the mall and get yourself a new pair of jeans? Trust me, however, when I tell you that finding the right pair of jeans is not as easy as it might seem.

I should know. By now I have tried on at least 38 different pairs and I am not even close to finding “my” pair. I’m beginning to think that this is no less serious a task than finding the right guy [or gal] to marry. Serious shoppers must first decide on a store. In my defense, I visited the GAP outlet, Lerner New York, and my all-time favorite, Target, before heading out to Wal-mart. This reminds me of harried mamis turning from shaadi.com, to Times of India Classifieds and then coming back to the friendly neighborhood matchmaker in order to find a suitable match for their darling offspring.

Once you decide on a store, there is the brand to consider. This is much like identifying a prospective [groom or bride] from the right “caste.” Just like each caste has its sub-castes, each brand has its models. Thirdly, there is the style to consider – easy fit, relaxed fit, straight fit and classic fit. When desis want to get married, they figure out the broad category of prospective matches they are interested in. For instance, “I want an engineer, preferably a computer engineer,” many of them are wont to reason.

Next there is the “cut” to watch out for -- tapered leg, straight leg, flared leg and boot cut. Your prospective spouse can be old-fashioned, traditional, progressive or downright ultra-modern. The exact shade of denim is another factor you must take into consideration. Do you want indigo, deep blue, light blue, gray, ash, black, almost white or some other interesting mix of all of the above? Well, people have color too, you know.

Once you identify and understand your preferences with reference to all of the above mentioned criteria, you must find a pair [of jeans] that fulfils these requirements and manages to fit the unique contours of your body. Surely a thin person would not consider marrying a prospective who resembles a Sumo wrestler! Also, you must remember that each numbered jean size comes in three different categories: tall, regular and petite. The success of the Jaya Bhaduri-Amitabh Bachchan marriage notwithstanding, I’m sure most people would want to find a partner who matches up to them vertically. Finally, when you manage to get all these ducks in a row, you will want to figure out the financial implications of living with your choice. With reference to a marriage, need I elaborate more on this context?

Given the complexity of the situation, I am sure you now understand why I am faced with such an uphill task. Devout Hindu that I am I believe I cannot succeed unless my stars are well aligned. So, I must plod on…meanwhile, happy denim owners/wearers [including my near-perfect life partner] console me by saying that although the path to success is long and tortuous, with interesting twists and turns, one day I will find the right pair of jeans. When I do, they tell me, I will, once again, feel exhilarated and on top of the world.

Epilogue: Since the penning of the above comparison/contrast essay, I am happy to report that I have found my match. It is a midnight blue 10 Regular, Tommy Hilfiger stretch hipster, slim fitted and boot cut. I found it at Ross and it cost me only $24.99! Hurray!!

Glossary:

Amma = South Indian term for mother

Mami = Maternal uncle’s wife. Loosely translated, it stands for any middle-aged, married woman.

Maggi's Heritage

2006-04-10T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's Monday, but I just couldn't bring myself to get out of bed and go to work. The semester is ending, and I do have a couple of personal days left. I decided to stay home and take it easy.Whew! My weekends seem to get busier and busier by the week. I need an unofficial weekend [I'm home, but no one knows I'm home...so i) they won't call me, ii) they won't call on me iii) they won't expect me to call them; iv) they won't expect me to call on them] to relax after the official weekend is over. Wonder how many people feel the way I do.
Anyway, be that as it may, I have to deliver a lecture [on the Nairs of Kerala] at a colleague's class this week. I've been doing some research online, and I found the abc's explained in a nutshell at this website.

Clearing Cobwebs

2006-04-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

I lead an interesting life...thanks mainly to my laziness. I woke up this morning, pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee and was happy...till I remembered that I had to go to school in the afternoon [for a meeting]. I rummaged through my closet but couldn’t find anything to wear. I could’ve sworn I have at least 20 decent office shirts/tops. Hmm, where could everything be? I began hunting around and discovered a clothes hamper nestled in the back of beyond. I dragged it out, opened the lid and was drowned in an avalanche of unwashed clothes. You know what, ever since the week before spring break I had been lounging around in my home clothes without bothering about work clothes. Sigh! Now I would have to lug the whole load to the gujju bhai's laundry across the street and shell out 200 bucks to have them dry cleaned or whatever. The glass-half-full part of me rejoiced over the fact that I would now have clean clothes all through the end of the semester. And after that...well...I'll probably wake up again one day to discover I have nothing to wear!

"THAT IS IT! "I thought, enough was enough...I decided to get some order into my life. I threw in a soothing CD with reiki music and Enya in it and was all set to do the impossible. I thought I'd begin by mentally listing out the chores that needed to be done [beginning with the laundry]. Oh maaan...easier said than done. Hmmm......the list seemed endless.

So, I went to get some paper out of my drawer to make a real list only to find that the dumb thing was stuck [too much stuff in there]. See, there is a method to my madness. Once a week [if he remembers to do it] MOH gets the mail. He looks through them and gives me whatever is mine. Sometimes, I open them, but most times I don't. I save them for later. Either ways, the envelopes get stuffed into that tiny drawer willy nilly...opened or unopened. No wonder my drawer was so cluttered.

There were at least three envelopes worth of photographs. And to think that once upon a time, I used to neatly arrange all the photos in albums with captions and everything. Ok, what else? Aaah, invitation cards to the brat’s dance show. I had forgotten to invite all my friends. And then there was some money that belonged to my neighbor. I could not recall why she had given me all that cash. However, I figured, the cash was here now. So, till she asked me for it [or for whatever product/service I was to buy with it] the notes were technically mine. That meant I didn’t have to go to the ATM and withdraw cash for the week. I conveniently struck that chore off my list. Next, I reached out for my handbag so I could shove the crisp stash of twenties into my wallet.

What do you know? The handbag was in greater disarray than the drawer. I couldn’t even locate my wallet inside my bag. So, I dumped everything out on the countertop. There was a crumbling chocolate chip cookie in there along with god knows what other stuff. The silver lining to this cloud? I could simply eat the cookie and forget about cooking lunch. So, I gobbled down the cookie although it was probably a month old.

Maybe I’ll be ok. Cookies don’t really go bad, do they? Bottom line? There’s junk and clutter all around me. It all begins with the mind...maybe I should get rid of some of those cobwebs in there first. What say you?

Incidentally, one of the realtors on the bus tour counted four cobwebs on my porch. *Maggi rolls her eyes*

Just a Brick in the Wall

2006-04-06T22:17:00.000-07:00

Living vicariously can be a real thrill. That must explain why every Tom, Dick and Harry [or Jane, Lily and Rose] who visits LA for the first time [or even the second, third or umpteenth time] ends up signing up for a bus tour that showcases the houses of the rich and the famous. I know I’ve done this on at least three different occasions. Prior to Tuesday night, I’d never imagined that my gareebkhana would make it to the itinerary listing of a bus tour.

So imagine my surprise when on Tuesday night Man of the House [henceforth known simply as MOH] told me that on Thursday morning, between 9 a.m. and 12 noon a whole group of realtors on a “bus tour” of “potential sales/investment properties” would be stopping by to examine our casa. You’ll remember that we’re picking up the stakes and moving. Our house has been on the market for a month now. MOH announced grandly that at the end of the tour, the members of the guild would pick the house with the highest “curb appeal” as the “House of the Month.”

Ms. Maggi turned panic mode on: Whoa! A bus full of realtors? It was the fag end of a long hectic Tuesday and MOH had thrown news of such import so casually. Sigh! What was I to do? When all else fails, eat. My ultimate panacea for all ailments. A sizeable dinner of hot rice, cold curds, soggy chips and spicy plantain flower sabzi later, my numb brain sprang into action. The result? A frantic phone call to Haydee, my personal whirling dervish at work [read, cleaning lady]. She promised to come by the next morning and “do her magic.” Whew! Close call. Thank goodness Haydee did not have another cleaning engagement on Wednesday morning. Ms. Maggi turned panic mode off.

To cut a long story short, it is Thursday night. The tour did take place this morning and a bunch of strangers did walk through my most private space. What’s more, they filled out comment cards on the curb appeal of my house. Yuck! The comments were fine [except for the predictable ‘Your house smells like “curry.” You must think of using air fresheners’ remark.” Erm, well, I am South Indian…and no, I don’t cook “curry” everyday, thank you very much. Grr!] Every single tour member commented that the house does have great curb appeal. They loved the clean open floor plan. They marveled at the interiors and wondered how I managed to keep everything so neat and clean. Am I happy? You bet not. What’s ticking me off is the fact that I feel violated somehow. People [who do not know me] walked around my house and looked through my kitchen shelves and the fridge and the pantry. They looked into my laundry room. They checked out my personal pictures and souvenirs. I’m pretty sure they walked into my puja room with shoes on their feet. They saw what my bed looks like, and they must’ve figured out what brand of toothpaste I use.

How do famous people deal with the loss of their privacy? Do I want to be rich and famous? Rich, yes. Famous, not so sure. I like being a nameless face, a brick in the wall, thank you very much.

Glossary:
gareebkhana = Poor house (Hindi)
Puja = Ritualistic prayer (Sanskrit)

Hiccup of the Day

2006-04-06T16:49:00.000-07:00

Happiness

Light and cheery

Bouncing heartily

Like a bubble in the air

If only you didn't have to pop it.

To my mentor -- In Your Footsteps I Follow

2006-04-06T00:17:00.000-07:00

My family members agree that I must've inherited the writing bug from my maternal uncle. When I was a little girl, I used to watch my Unnimama [which is what I called my uncle] pen line after after line of beautiful Malayalam calligraphy in a yellow leather-bound diary every evening. On weekends and holidays, he would write almost all day. He used to hide this diary of his in a big long jhola bag -- a desi journalist-wannabe's jute satchel. I often wondered about the contents of that yellow journal. Time and again, when he was out smoking in the garden or taking a bath, I would sneak a peek inside the mildewed pages of the hallowed yellow tome. Sadly though, I never did quite figure out the intricacies of the Malayalam script, and the mysteries of his creation always remained beyond my grasp. They still do...
I do recall him mailing some of his finished pieces to various Malayalam weeklies and periodicals. Sometimes, a faceless editor would deign it proper to publish one of Unnimama's submissions and there would be a nice fat check in the mail. At other times, the fat white manuscripts came back in thin brown envelopes. An inky rejection slip would be taped to the front page.
Times have changed. Now, I have taken on Unnimama's mantle. However, no editor has ever had the pleasure of reviewing my jottings. Not surprising then that no one has "rejected" my writings either. Of course, my writings have never brought me any material gain either. The current state of affairs notwithstanding, I do have a moderate fan following comprised of close friends and family members who do read and applaud my often meaningless drivel. I do have the internet to thank for this.
Hail gods of the blog world! I bow to thee :)

Out of the Block

2006-04-05T00:20:00.000-07:00

Slake your thirst

For the dams have burst

The soil is wet

And my mind is set

It’s no ruse

I’ve found my muse

Maggi is back

Everything’s on track

Hallelujah! I can write again.

Change

2006-04-05T00:06:00.000-07:00

It is only when you are about to lose something that you begin to appreciate/value its presence in your life. I’ve lived in this house for about five years now without really thinking of it as a home. It was just a place to go crash at night…a place to hang around when nothing better was happening elsewhere. Now that I am faced with the prospect of selling this house and moving on to something bigger and better, I’m loath to do it. Suddenly I can see how much this house is a part of me…how much these four walls envelop me in their coziness. I am now aware of every single flower that blooms in the tiny garden I have, and I cherish the way the Brazilian pepper tree sways in the wind. As I look out the window and breathe in the cool night air, I am taken aback by the green velvet lawn in front of me and the purple mountains rising up somewhere beyond the lawn. I’m caught unawares by the realization that I will really miss my neighbors – strangers who have gradually become family. If change is the only constant thing in our lives, then I am indeed glad that my attitude towards this dwelling has changed!

Mumbai in the Rains

2006-04-04T23:38:00.000-07:00

Life does have a way of throwing curve balls. How else can you explain the irony of someone who grew up in coastal Kerala and marine Mumbai ending up in the southwestern desert state of Arizona? Phoenix has been having one of the worst droughts in recent years, and we had gone a record number of days without ANY precipitation till we got some scattered showers last week. I cannot help but feel nostalgic about all the weeks and months of rain we have in Mumbai. As of this moment, I would give anything to experience the thrill of drinking hot chai from a tea vendor outside Dadar station while standing, dripping wet, under a useless umbrella that had long since given up fighting against the steady flood of a propah Mumbai downpour.

Maggi's Rants

2006-03-30T17:39:00.000-08:00

Maggi's Rants

Haiku for the Day

2006-03-02T21:42:00.000-08:00

Sleep

Long and deep

Dreaming colorful

Like a Bollywood musical

If only I could do that every night

Write Side of the Bed

2005-03-22T09:28:00.000-08:00

Wrong Side of the Bed: A Reflection Paper

It has been more than a decade since I graduated from high school. I had forgotten all about the sometimes funny and sometimes frustrating ethos of a traditional Catholic girls’ school in India, till I began reading Poojitha Prasad’s Wrong Side of the Bed. This captivating tale of a very average 14-year-old girl from Bangalore, India, who wakes up one morning and finds herself, inexplicably, in San Francisco, is unique in its multicultural appeal. Straddling two very different cultures – Indian and N. American – this book proves entertaining and interesting for both sets of readers.

The book opens with a very strict school principal lecturing Anita Nair (the protagonist) and her school mates about the proper codes of conduct young girls should adopt at all times. It is April, the beginning of summer in India, and the girls are about to embark on their summer holidays. A few (mis) adventures later, Anita is at home, in her pajamas, ready to meet her gal pals at midnight for a very naughty rendezvous. They plan to visit their principal’s house and scare her silly. However, Anita, a sound sleeper, dozes off, and does not wake up till the next morning.

To her utter horror, Anita finds herself in far away San Francisco. She is now living the life of Chris Magnus, an American teenager, who seems to have serious relationship issues with her dominating mother, Jenny Magnus. In a style that is very reminiscent of J.K. Rowling and her favorite hero, Harry Potter, Anita manages to meander through spells of confusion and terror to find her way back into her own life and home.

During the course of her journey, she meets Chris’ pals and teachers. She also meets Chris’ boyfriend, Neil. Finally, she meets Chris, her American counterpart, who is equally chagrined at being forced to wake up in a strange bed in Bangalore. The entity responsible for their plight is Switch, a monster with no heart. It switches people’s souls for fun. In their quest for victory over the evil Switch, who insists that the only way out of its maze is by answering a crazy riddle correctly, the girls (Anita and Chris) are aided by a hypnotist, Mrs. Sue Kenneth.

Characterization and setting are the two of the book’s strongest suits. Most of the major characters, Anita Nair, Chris Magnus, their girl friends, the strict and no-nonsense Mrs. Rao, the very American mom – Jenny Magnus, the timid-and-yet-shrewd Mrs. Kenneth, are all well rounded in their appeal. The names of the characters are apt also. Since Bangalore is a city in South India, the central character, Anita Nair, has a very South Indian last name. Also, Rao, is a very common last name among Brahmins in Bangalore. So, the uptight prim and proper principal of St.Oxford English Girls High School is known only as “Mrs. Rao.”

Prasad’s description of a Catholic Girls’ school in Bangalore is nearly perfect. All Mrs. Rao is concerned with is the moral and academic perfection of the girls entrusted to her care. “Once you have all grown up, it’ll be very difficult to change the character that is in you and that has already been developed. That is why it must be developed at a young age itself,” claims Mrs. Rao (Prasad, 2004, 1). She reminds us of school m’arms in old Victorian novels.

The girls in the story, Anita, Chris, and their friends seem to be quite true to character also. They’re the average girls-next-door sort of teenagers, giggling their life away. Interestingly though, some cultural elements seep into their lives also. The girls in India, Anita, Meena, Sona, Preeti, Rita and Rose, are all more child-like in their innocent quest for “fun.” They do not, ever, seem to miss having boys around, and are content with drenching themselves in water and coke as a form of “defiance” against Mrs. Rao’s rules (Prasad, 2004, 2-3).

On the other hand, their American counterparts, Chris, Jane, Ann and Cally, seem a lot more world-weary and cynical than the Bangaloreans. Their lives are riddled with problems faced by typical high school students in the US – competition, bullying, and boyfriends. Cally and Ann seem to think nothing of sabotaging their classmate, Stephanie’s, attempts at winning the swimming trophy: “ ‘Look, Step always picks the number six diving platform in any case. I’m sure she’d do that…’ Ann whispered. ‘How about…’ Cally held up a bottle of sun tan oil, which she had in her locker. Ann winked at her” (Prasad, 2004, 72).

The attention to detail is what makes the book a must-read for people trying to compare/contrast the high school experience in India and the United States. Anita refers to a “cafeteria” as a “canteen.” She is very surprised when her “mom,” Jenny Magnus, offers her “lunch money” (Prasad, 2004, 14). Mothers in India often pack home-made lunches for their daughters. Typically, Anita is a vegetarian and finds herself in a bind when she is faced with the unpalatable (to her) American food. The desserts are the only things she is able to digest. Similarly, upon waking up in Chris’ bed, she notices that Chris does not have nearly as many books in her room. Indian students do rely heavily on printed material, and reading is very much a part of their lives.

Since India is a tropical country, with a warm climate, ice skating is not something Anita is comfortable with. When forced to step into Chris’ shoes at the skating rink, therefore, Anita faints. She is, however, like other Nair girls, very good at swimming. Nairs hail from Kerala, a coastal state in South India. Natives are well versed in swimming by the time they are toddlers, since rivers, lakes and backwaters riddle the state.

Both Chris’ and Anita’s fathers seem to play secondary roles in their daughters' lives. One wonders if the father-daughter relationship is the same in both cultures. Chris’ father seems more laid-back than Anita’s father, though. He seems to be the peace-maker at home: “ ‘Now, Now Jenny. All teenagers have this craze of going out,’ Mr. Magnus said. ‘Calm down, dear.’ ” (Prasad, 2004, 81).

Anita’s father is a tad stricter than Chris’ dad. He seems to think nothing of “invading” Anita’s privacy and reading her emails. “I see…but what’s all this nonsense about paranormal stuff…And Chris? Who’s that?” demands Mr. Nair, after reading the email Mrs. Kenneth had written Anita (Prasad, 2004, 150).

This is typical too. In American families, teenagers often keep to themselves, and live behind the closed doors of their rooms. Their room is “off limits” to their parents. This is not so in Indian homes, where children are not expected to keep secrets from the parents. Their lives are more controlled/managed by their parents. Parents also keep a strict eye over the comings-goings of their children, and they reserve the right to question friendships/associations/liaisons their children might develop with people outside the family.

The computer seems to be the one point of similarity between the girls. Both of them are fairly comfortable with using a computer, and browsing through the internet. This proves that the invasion of modern technology knows no cultural boundaries.

The book’s interesting and relevant title, easy to read print, and audience-perfect length (154 pages) are definite strong suits also.

Prasad’s book is by no means,however, a perfect piece of writing. It has its share of flaws. Modern day Americans, for example, can never digest the fact that a Physics teacher in an Elementary School in SFO would ever be seen brandishing “her long cane at Jane, sporting an evil smile” (Prasad, 2004, 18). Neither would the teacher ever accuse her student in class thus:

“You liar! You are lying” (Prasad, 2004, 18).

In our world of lawsuits and severe punishment against child abusers, it would be strange indeed if a Physics teacher wielded such tyrannical powers over her class.

It is also strange that when Chris fainted at the skating rink, her friends would bring her home, and her parents would choose to get a doctor home to examine her (Prasad, 2004, 54). The people of the United States live in a world filled with insurance rules, HMO’s and PPO’s. How on earth would an average American middle-class family be able to afford the charges for a private/home visit by a licensed doctor? These are a few instances where young Poojitha Prasad’s assumptions take precedence over research and solid facts.

Wrong Side… is, however, a book for teenagers written by a teenager. We must, therefore, accept it for what it is -- a 14-year-old girl’s flight of imagination that is quite informative, and yet entertaining (especially for teen readers)!

Works Cited

Prasad, Poojitha.  Wrong Side of the Bed.

     New Delhi: Rupa & Co., 2004.

Shifting Demographics and Cross-cultural perspectives in our Classrooms

2005-03-20T10:46:00.000-08:00

There was a time when the standard method of pedagogy was lecturing. We now recognize the folly in believing that every child follows the same learning style. Differentiated instruction is the current mantra, and each amongst us tries to reach out to the visual, the auditory, the kinesthetic, the self-directed, the team-worker, the ADHD, the trouble-maker, the leader, and the introvert in our classes. Why can we then, not stretch ourselves a little more and acknowledge that the diversity in our classrooms does not end there?

The United States of America, once known as the melting-pot of cultures, now resembles a salad more than a soup. Every ethnic strand stands out proudly and makes a statement for itself. Nowhere is this heterogeneity more apparent than in our classrooms. A one-size-fits-all approach cannot, therefore, work.

Last fall, I attended a seminar on brain development, and how the brain learns. One of the most important lessons I learned at the workshop was a concept called SAIL. It is an acronym for teaching strategy and student success. It implores teachers to create a SAFE learning environment, where students feel ACCEPTED and INCLUDED so that LEARNING is optimized. What a wonderful concept!

Although authors, illustrators and educators are trying very hard to create meaningful, relevant and politically correct coursework and literature, racial and gender-based stereotypes are still rampant. Due to misinformation and misrepresentation of varying cultural norms, students who appear “different” from the popular student crowd get picked on and teased or bullied relentlessly.

Students in America are still remarkably insular; they are shielded from many of the harsh realities of life that students from other parts of the world are more painfully aware of. Consequently, when, as adults, these young people have to explore realms outside their ken, they feel lost and rudderless.

The world is constantly shrinking. It is not possible anymore to live in our comfort zone. Today’s student community will have to reach out to the global business/consumer community as corporate gurus and career people tomorrow. If they must succeed and remain economically viable, we must instill in our youth a strong understanding of cross-cultural understanding and tolerance. How else will our ships SAIL?

Once Upon a time...

2005-03-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

... it used to be known as "the Queen's Language." No more!!

Language is one of man’s most powerful inventions. The ability to transcribe our thoughts into words that can be written down for future reference is a wonderful gift. It helps us share our collective experience with future generations. English Language teachers, worldwide, face a tremendous responsibility. They must ensure that their students not only obtain syntactic/semantic skills, but also develop a genuine appreciation and enjoyment of the subtle nuances of the language.

My parents initiated my earliest forays into the world of English language and literature. I remember my father reading out aloud from abridged versions of famous classics like David Copperfield and Jane Eyre. The nuns who ran the traditional Catholic school I attended made sure that I mastered the intricacies of “the Queen’s English,” and eventually, I was able to delve into these wonderful stories myself.

Since most of the classics I read were written by Britons, there was no variation between the English I had learned in school and the English I read in print. Imagine my surprise, then, when (as a teenager) I stumbled upon the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. An ingenious substitute teacher had teamed up with the school librarian and dreamt up a new approach of incorporating literature into our lives. Whenever she subbed for us, instead of having us go over the work our teacher had left us with, she encouraged us to read these American classics. We devoured every word voraciously.

Holy Molly! Here was a whole new way of speaking (and writing) the language I thought I knew so well. Suddenly, I didn’t know how to pronounce some of the words. Many of the words seemed to lack a vowel or two (e.g. 'colour' was now 'color'). I could make no sense of the cute expressions either. This was my first foray into the world of “multi-cultural” Children’s Literature.

I learned a lot about America from reading books written by Americans. Eventually, I began reading books written by authors from around the world in an attempt to understand the curious variations of the English language.

As a college-level Rhetoric/Composition and Reading teacher, I encounter students from many different walks of life. All of them share one thing in common – they want to become better at comprehending and writing using the English language. Since many of my students are immigrants, they suffer from low self-esteem issues and feel that the way they speak English is “wrong.”

My first job is to ensure them that while their “accents” are certainly not “main-stream American,” they are not “wrong.” I never tire of pointing out to my students that English is not “dead” like Latin or Sanskrit are. It is a living, breathing, constantly evolving entity. There are differences in the way we speak and use the language. Even so called Americans are not immune to this “problem” known as an “accent.” It is ok to have one. That is the beauty of the language.

I love a noisy interactive classroom. My goal is to develop a community of learners, who are co-dependant on each other for their learning needs. Since I have some leeway in designing my class/course content, I do not use any standard textbooks. Instead, I encourage my students to bring in their favorite ethnic story from their childhood/family history. We then take turns reading these stories out in class, and analyzing their content and structure. Most of the writing we do in class also involves introspection into my students’ individual personal backgrounds. Apart from obtaining grammar and mechanical skills, my students gain some valuable insights into different world-views. They also develop a genuine respect/tolerance for people who are different from them. Helping my students gain confidence in themselves as unique individuals is certainly another tangible!