When school is an idea

'Do you know why you're going to Achan's office today?'

"Yeah because he'll miss me."

'Ah ! That is a nice way of putting it.'

But not quite, I told my self.

It was a school morning and I knew I'll be holding on to the last straw if the usual talk around 'going to school vs not going' came up.

I've given it all I can. I listened and listened, talked and talked, hugged and hugged.

And finally, in order to acknowledge her words, pleas and sometimes the spoken poetry that slides out of her tongue, I went ahead and had a very satisfying talk with her principal.

We spoke for half an hour, in which time I presented her concerns and my understanding of her case for her and for me.

'Does she know that 6 1/2 year olds are still little. That they're not different from Sr.kg / Jr.kg children? Does she know that?', I mimicked my girl while paraphrasing her to the principal.

I also went to the extent of sharing her heart's wails from another night :

"Teachers don't know we are alone in pain when they yell at us. When these teachers yell at my friends, my heart burns and my eyes have fire in them. We're alone and we cry in our hearts in class."

I tried to identify with the teachers for P. I told her just because they yell at your class, they aren't that one person. They're so many people on the inside like she is.

She listened, silently, to my words and said nothing.

Empathy is self-taught. I realised.

I bared it all to the principal.

She was a very attentive and patient listener. She promised to convey what'd then said to her teachers. To allow them to learn to yell less and talk more.

I promised her time. Time for the teachers. Time for P.

But that night, like all the other nights before, we talked of school again. I didn't want it to go in circles. Oh no, not again.

"But I don't like sitting like that in class, Amma ( gestures folded arms). You know that? And talking silently. You know that?"

'But your teachers are ready to try. Why don't you give them a chance?' I ask her.

But the real questions wailing in my head were, 'Why aren't you grateful that I had this talk with your principal? Why aren't you tolerent enough to let your teachers a chance? Why don't you try along with them?'

All that effort seemed to be going out of the window.

"We can make schools in our houses. I can learn at home. You can teach me. Achan can teach me. I can teach myself. You know that, Amma !"

Her words were muddling with the very idea I've been silently endorsing. Homeschooling.

But all I say is, 'You must give your teachers another chance.'

"You know, when I have a child I won't send my child to school. We'll both learn at home !"

Why does she have to defeat me with a child's conviction?

So concrete.

I was silently amused at that reasonable, moral voice.

The benefits of childhood as I know it : You mostly always know what you're supposed to be doing and you do it.

The benefits of adulthood as I know it : You very rarely know what you're supposed to be doing but it is good to do what you're supposed to do even if you end up not doing it.

Although we reconciled with a story reading and sleep, the morning after seemed to have changed nothing.

I've had my fill of this talk which has been going on for six months now.

I decided to give it an ultimatum.

'You can stay at home but this will be the last time you'll be missing school. And you won't talk to me the entire day, today. I'll be in my room working. Ok?'

Kid seemed pleased and worried at the same time.

I felt jittered on the inside. As much I loved to spend time with myself, nothing seemed more significant than her running footsteps thumping across the floor boards, her squeals, her little animated talks while her Barbie waves in the air. Nothing seemed more significant to me than a child's unadulterated happiness.

Surely, Achan (the father) offered a solution I'd been begging in my heart for him to give.

Moonrise mat

Yesterday was magical on several notes

And the night ended, for us, no less sublime.

We opened a book to begin our night

And

to found ourselves

craving to create a face out of shells;

inspired
by the book, ofcourse!

The shells we have

carry a piece of Dubai in them.
In them contain my childhood,

I tell the kid.

We tried several faces and ended up building a heart.

I closed the Ferrero Rocher box of preserved shells from the past,
curated into a heart.

We settled in our bed with the lights turned off.

Content.

I always count on the moonshine swelling
with its luminiscense.
Into our room.
Into our hearts.
So we be soul happy.

Last night, I noticed a silver drowning
of the moon
on our bedroom floor.

I called it the moonrise mat.

When my girl ate the 'my little pony'

I first came across the 'my little pony' series as a little girl because of my sister. My earliest memory was of pink and blue ponies sliding the rainbow thronging sweet green meadows but I don't recall watching the episodes with such intensity of heart. My sister did.

That was 20 years ago !

My girl, P, stumbled upon a new, revamped version of the 'my little pony' on TV when we visited my birth city last year on a holiday. Twilight sparkle, rainbow dash rang a vague distant bell in my head as my ears caught them. But I soon came to realise, after we'd gotten back to India from the holiday, that the series entertained the very forest of her being.

Nearly a year later, P and I had this conversation out of the blue.

"Who do you like in the 'my little pony'? Midnight Luna, Cadence or Celestia?", she asked
I'm familiar with the names as I've watched the series with her more than a couple of times but not with an intensity of the heart as she did.

I replied, 'Well, I like black and blue. And the stars and the moon and the night.'

"Ok, ok. Do you know why it is ok to like Midnight Luna?"

She didn't wait for my response. She needed none.

"Because she sometimes changes into nightmare moon."

'Ok. So?'

It sounded incredulous to my heart but I silently looked forward to something deep or metaphorical that would whisk my brain in a storm like she usually does. With her words. With her perspectives.

I wasn't disappointed.

"See, when she becomes Nightmare moon, she wants everyone to appreciate the moon. And then Celestia (a powerful pony that brought in the Day) would say, 'Nightmare moon, can you please stop making just the moon be there? There should be night AND day!' So only when she turns to Nightmare moon will she understand that there must be a night AND a day."

I see where this is going.

I identify the wisdom soaked in those words. These ponies have overtaken her very soul these days. She is creating an abundance inside of her by sucking the very cosmos of their philosophy into her bowels, changing the coordinates of my understanding of this cartoon series.

I always knew fantasy was sometimes her only conduit to wrap her head around reality.

When times were desperate in school at the beginning of Grade I, I could only reach out to her as Eeyore. I had to become this fictional character for her school stories to surge out of her.

She rambles on.

"And sometimes, Twilight Sparkle also gets to teach Nightmare moon to be understanding."

I was all ears now.

"She uses her five elements of harmony to do that. The cutie marks from Twilight Sparkle and her friends (marks present on one side of their rears that defines each pony) become balls and a sixth element turns into a crown. The magic when they all get together will spin and cover Nightmare moon. Celestia will come down and turn Nightmare Moon to her real Midnight Luna."

'But why would Celestia wait till then? She could have descended before that, right? I mean, the ponies are so small, they could use some help.'

"No, Amma! If Celestia were to come then, these ponies will not see the power of their friendship. Nightmare moon will not understand the elements of harmony and friendship!"

'Ah, I see how it is !', I thought to myself.

All this is worship. And with worship, we stay near beauty and enlightenment.

How her heart peers into the hearts of her beloved ponies, I shall only understand if a great gusto of passion were to swirl inside of me.

"Amma, can we watch an episode of my little pony together? Then, you'll see."

I sat beside her and typed the words into the search bar. I clicked on an episode link on the results and eagerly awaited to see what she saw.

Although, I already saw it with a heart in my eye.

Finding a voice

I approached A, rather tentatively, on the subject of the "self". I've always wanted to listen and infuse within me the other side of others- the hardly spoken side of others.

 Some hesitate and don't give in too soon, some just need a slight coaxing and others only need a question to spill themselves all over the place. I find these revelations rather liberating, like unlocking a secret. It brings a sense of connectedness in a way I never knew existed. Probably, they too are finding themselves in the process as much as I am.

"You haven't changed very much in these many years." I told her.

I know what I just remarked sounded false, even to my ears, even to those who didn't know A. Who doesn't go through change anyhow?!

We've known each other vaguely for the past eight years. We are the wives of two really close friends. While the friends meet regularly- which is part of their whole business set up, we hadn't seen each other in a very long time.

 And yet, facebook bridged that gap between us in a strange way. We didn't have to start from level one on ourselves at this juncture. But there are some things facebook can't do. And that's when the real story begins.

She belongs to a conservative Muslim family which can be placed on the Malabar side of Kerala. Although, that does say something about her, I must confess what I deeply admire in her may have nothing to do with the 'Muslim upbringing' or may have everything to do with it.

What struck me as a blow was her display of a cool attitude to matters that surrounded her immediate concerns. It was that impression she left on me when I last saw her as a new mother to a 10 month old girl and which still looks the same, seven years later, with the addition of another child.

She is an earnest care-giver and nurturer and knew exactly when to not take things too hard on her self. She is a provider in her own way and seemed never to tire out of it. Before you could even utter what it was that you needed from her, it will be right before you in no time. 

Yes, her work was the invisible work most women do. Work that goes unnoticed. But I have also heard women (including myself) grouse a lot around it but make no mistake, she wasn't that kind. It was admirable then and now that I decided to allow my very marrow to suck every bit of it ever since I'd recognised it first in her.

"You know,  I did change after D was born and more so after our younger one joined the family. It was hard in a strange way. The expectations that needed to be met was grinding me on the inside, especially since the second child came out. I began to lose temper all too soon and on trivial matters that too. I would berate D for having gotten a wrong answer in a homework assignment. 

Sitara, you know? I was angry at my husband and even my mother on these occasions. Have you ever felt that? 

And it all took a while for me to get a grip on reality. I wrapped my head around the fact that I'm a grown woman with two kids and husband and that only our immediate families can be concerned about them. They have all the right, so, why should I stop them from using that right?'

We hold on to a lot of things that cannot be mended. It is these stories and many others that we carry inside of us- some that are our own to keep, others that we share- that build us. 

We're, thus, created. 

'It was hard for me to stay calm and patient while dealing with my children. But I've finally arrived at a point where providing empathy for them all has become easier.'

Combine her generous heart with a regard of utter nonchalance to matters that would have bothered other women; she made a splendid host to us when we lodged ourselves at her place for the weekend.

"What persona!", I often wondered watching her slither her way among us like a cool breeze.

She didn't give away a lot on personal, familial issues. We didn't need those details. 

We don't always need to spell everything about ourselves to others. Sometimes, all they just need is a sense of who you are. And it is this subtlety that we both needed then.

Whatever she generously divulged touched a common core in me. A locus point, I identified, that arose my sense of belonging with her. I understood she graced upon points in her life as touchstones of growth and learning. She spoke of only what matters to her now, what prompts her to search within and enables her to grow. And she laid them out to me in her usual open, naive kind of a manner.

A mother to a six year old girl myself, I could immediately relate patterns here, on psychological and emotional contexts. But I must say her story found a common chord to mine not just after we became mothers; although it is largely the reason, but also because we were vastly innocent and gullible as daughters and daughters-in-law and that our eyes opened to a lot of things at some point there.

A lot of things that seemed like the ugly truth then but now, to us, doesn't have to necessarily remain 'the truth'. It helped us focus on the sides of others we sought to inspire and to get inspired.

Most of what we have to deal with when being part of a family and a society at large is present under the skin. And we cut through most of it only over a walk or a cup of tea or in this case, beside the kitchen stove top while making Neer Dosa. Ergo, her story spilled forth!

With every word she spoke; despite the different upbringings, circumstances and experiences, I was glad to discover that we're on the same road here. We've both been nursing ourselves, our psyche, our thinking and our very deep conviction of being to a more positive, coherent and approachable attitude to life.

"I've arrived at a point where I've learned to accept a lot of things around me. I've been through bitter tears and anger modes a lot often in the past. I'm more determined to raise my kids kindly, trying to understand them and everything that surrounds us"

And thus, she's arriving.

We're all containing multitudes inside of us. It is these confided stories of shared learnings, atonement, growth and love that bring a universal camarderie into the tapestry of our very being. 

We each seek ourselves, every day, in whatever form we choose, amidst all the life we face. This is our beauty. This is where we belong.

Resurrecting the soul of a girl

"You know why I like playing teacher-teacher? Because there is no angriness!"
But you do raise your voice and get angry? Oh! And some of the lines you use?!
"Yes, Amma. But there is no real angriness!"

This is coming from a Phoenix of a girl who had risen out of the ashes only two months ago. A girl, very much back on her track to being self driven, self taught although my direction she seeks at times and well motivated in her learning. And I mean learning with a capital L.
No studying in my home. I have consciously discouraged it. It'll be so out of character for the both of us.

I was talking of a 'Learning' you acquire out of mindful and mindless activities. Art, dance, reading, make believe, movies, theatre have always revolved our lives, indoors. Outdoors brought a whole new pandora's box of learning. And she oscillated between the two effortlessly. It defined the very rhythm of her day. I go about doing the things I love and she gets about with hers. Our sanctorium of a place turns into a haven of an incubator for creativity, quiet learning and fun. Or so I think is what seems to be churning here. It is a slow burner of a lifestyle that found us ages ago. And we're happy being together and being apart at the same time. Eclectically, speaking.

But only two months ago, July, to be precise, things took a not-so-good turn after a month at school. A transition was underway. And we all knew this was coming. After all, Grade I is a big deal for a not-so-old kindergartner. And she was riding the waves as they came. Boldly and confidently. Until.
"Why do they yell at us so much? It is so painful, it hurts my body!"
Are they yelling at you?
"No, the entire class!"

I gave her a side of what the teachers were going through. Particularly, the class assistant teacher who seemed to be notoriously topping the list of never-ending yell abuse.
Dealing with 40 odd children for 5-6 hrs is no small feat, I answered. She took my point and said nothing then.

But the story was the same the next day and the day after and the day after that. I soon discovered I was losing her in a strange way. Like as if, she were fading or turning grey. As much as I tried to acknowledge this ongoing unfairness with her, things stayed pretty much the same for her. I ardently avoided feeling corny around her.

"You know? I have a magic pixie, a male, who says you got someone laughing very hard today."
We're swinging at the park after school. She continued to swing as she listened.
"And that someone's name begins with a M."
"No, Amma. It begins with a K. It was Kapila. She was laughing hard at my joke".
And there, we broke the ice for the day. Every day of July was a series of luxuriously crafted stories of conversation starters.

I never in my life imagined creating so many stories to extract some information from a little big girl. And it worked miraculously!

Our conversations were meticulously spaced. It could be while swinging in the park after school or during lunch or as a bedtime conversation after a read-aloud/oral story narrations we do as parents of our childhood stories to the girl or during our mini walks in our beautiful residential society.

And soon enough, she began to volunteer snippets of her days. Highlights that her rainbow heart held ever dearly. She cracked open and started spilling beans.

It was a conscious, rigourous grind to get her back to her original, spirited, opinionated, confident self.
Since, she never had trouble getting up in the morning ( except to go to school), I awoke her on school days at her usual 6:10 and encouraged her to play, draw or whatever her heart desired then. She had close to an hour to warm up to the idea of a bath later and the "getting ready to school" part which she did willingly on most days.
Today I even had time to spare to read her a story in the morning !

By the mid of August, I saw her heart going all rainbowy and glorious again. She no longer wants me hanging about the park. Atleast, not in a clingy way she did in the month of July when this was eating the both of us from the inside. She lost that sulky attitude she had for her friends when we waited at the bus pick up point. Now that was a good sign! She even came home most days very much chirpy.
She restored her ability to feel vital and capable. She was replenished by a kind of invisible support she received from us as parents.
She grew out of her ashes, only more boldly, more compassionately and more deeply enlivened as a person. Her soul was revived thus. It is as if she is blazing in her usual techno colour we hadn't seen for an entire month.

"I will see if I can talk to your class teacher about the yelling problem. We need to know the teacher's side of things as well. Right?".

She nodded quietly, very assured, in her signature understanding way.

Everyday is another day. Hopefully!

'I don't want to go to school!'

This has been a unfailed chant every dawn. She's approaching two months since the day she began Grade I. Things seemed different in the beginning but now school seems revolting. I sometimes tell her it is not going to be the same every day.

Every day is another day. Hopefully.

'You know why I don't want to go to school? '

A tiny implore is diffusing out of her question.

'Because my ears pain when the teacher yells so much!'

Now she's lost it. Broken tears stream her face.

She may be a pep talker to some but she is containing it all inside.

Now how do I talk to this kid? How do I reach out to her?

Maybe talking is pointless. All I've been doing so far is hug and kiss and mutter a "I understand " into her ears.

'Why do they have to yell, Amma? All the time!'
How about your Maths teacher? You like her a lot, don't you? Does she yell sometimes?
'She never yells. She is gentle. But the other teacher, you know the helper teacher, she is always rude. And it is painful.'

She adores her Maths teacher deeply, truly, madly.

'Amma, she is my class teacher, you know? She is MY class teacher !'

If you want to be face to face with pure, unadulterated pride and acceptance, you should have been right there with me that day.
Before my very eyes.
She burned like a thousand splendid suns.

Donkey Angel with a pink bow

Tonight we slept like angels did.

Tonight I claimed indulgence from my little girl as I played Eeyore, the unforgettably (highly suspect ?!) "unmemorable" stuffed toy donkey character from the widely known Winnie the Pooh adventure stories . It all began with me trying to jog her memory of him ( I don't know why we got there) and it did come to her eventually but only to sufficiently end in magic realism diffused from within her.

Some of the things that kids say and imagine, seem to sink its hooks right into our very hearts. We wouldn't have had this enchanting conversation if I were to remain the "Amma me" busying us to be tucked in bed.

She sought the conduit of the "Eeyore me".

It was bedtime so I feigned exhaustion and sleepiness. I switched the lights off, the door wide open to the hallway- the room gently aglow from its light; the rays of which found its slant landings on one of her drawings tacked dutifully on the wall of this room; many moons ago. It was a drawing made out of her glitter pens, done with all the "loverliness" afloat in her heart while I'd been away from her for a few days . When I'd gotten back she presented me with that sublime sparkly piece of art.

A drawing of me and her.

She was recounting to the "Eeyore me" what the "Amma me" thought of her work.

"Do you know what she felt? She loved it so much she wanted to stay there!"
"Stay where?", I checked while not betraying my Eeyore inflection.
"In my picture. In glitter land." She sounded incredulous yet persisted on.
"You know what my mother says? That we have a third eye in our hearts and that helps us see the wings we have. It is using our imagination. That is why we're angels. My mother and I are angels."

There goes the meaning of her life in a single breath. Quite a metaphysical thought for a 6 year old to be tossing at a bedtime conversation. And no, she did not get "the third eye in our hearts" concept from me. It's all a result of the churnings of her mind. Heart? Brain?

I resumed my curiousity.

"So do only children have the third eye in their hearts?"
"Well, not all. It's like Shiva. His left eye is the Sun, right eye the Moon and the third eye the fire."

She ends "fire" with a slip of a revelation to be kept just between the two of us. That was to remain our secret knowledge. (Not quite so now, is it?!)

She goes on, "So only those who believe in the third eye will see glitterland. And so we're angels.
Do you believe in the third eye, Eeyore?"
"I'm beginning to believe in it now." I said,  swearing inside my head that I'd felt my heart grow luminous in a smile.
"Then you will be a donkey angel with a pink bow!"

I cracked up at that declaration. My once blazing heart spilled all over our space. She felt sublimed immediately- mighty pleased to have found a gloom dripping Eeyore guffawing in her face.

" I don't usually live here. Can you see that greyish brown part in the sky?", she asked while pointing at the window. It was dark, overcast with looming rain clouds made aware of its presence by the city lights.
"I live there. I have a castle. You can't see it from here."
This, she confides in me with all her breath put in this belief.
I add on, "It's like those Japanese movies with castles in the sky."
"No. My castle doesn't stay there. It has wings. Large wings. And I sit on them. It floats!" Animation oozed from within her eyes and voice like satin.
"There are swans too. And the huge castle is in the middle of it. It's got a ceiling as high as space!"
"Ah!"

She went on about it through the night, in great length like an artist performing a soliloquy; so intoxicated in the narration of her imaginings that I had to snap the both of us out this other worldly revel.
It was a school night, after all!

 All we can do sometimes is shrug at the choice we've decided to take. 

Today, she took her break from school and forged her solidarity with the whole "school going business" in the night by conferring with the ghosts of her imagination - which included me, the donkey angel with the pink bow. We were both replenished in a strange way. Almost transcendently.

Tonight we slept like angels did.