When they (my twin granddaughters) were about 2 yrs or so I, along with their Nanny, would go out for walks with them. There was a phase when they loved face painting. However, they had never asked for a face paint before a walk. This day, they insisted they wanted to become cats and that we should take them as they were – Cats ‘Meow’!
On the way, they came across a lamp post and decided to sing and enact Hickory Dickory Dock… No amount of coaxing could dissuade them from performing their ‘action song’ using the lamp post as a Grandfather Clock! Much to our amusement (and that of the passersby), they went through the whole act and I decided I’d better click pics and preserve not just the memory but also the fun and laughter I experienced with them. Today, I’m so glad I did.
Buckle up! No one has to tell you, remind you to buckle up these days. I remember how traffic cops would be ever vigilant to challan anyone who didn’t bother to use their seat belt. Challan is the Hindi word used for traffic fines. You don’t buckle up, you pay a fine! Those were the days when buckling up became a traffic rule because no one cared to use the seat belts and the government was telling people to to use them, they were very controversial.
Today, it isn’t necessary to remind anyone except, of course, if you’re driving with a kid. One doesn’t even have to specifically ‘think’ about it. It comes as a force of habit. I also recall how people grumbled about it. Found hundreds of flaws with it. Felt it was a money-making racket with the government in cahoots with businesses. However, all arguments and counter arguments were put to rest ages ago.
Then came the compulsory use of helmets.
Do we have to remind anyone driving a scooter or motorbike to wear a helmet? Not these days we don’t. Yet, when it became mandatory to wear a helmet, it met with equal resistance as the safety belt. People refused to wear it citing their own theories on how useless it was and the rant once again that the government was just helping businesses. They might have had a point there, but there was a ‘safety’ point to it as well.
I had a few relate to me how so and so died despite having a helmet strapped firmly on the head. They justified their objection to wearing a helmet this way. But check the stats, I’d say. How many were saved because of the helmet. Check how many died with the helmet on because the helmet wasn’t strapped on properly or not strapped at all. I had seen a number of people doing this… keeping their helmets on their heads but not strapping them so they could take them off on a stretch where they knew there were no cops nor checks. They did this to avoid being fined.
The women (in my country) were very worried about their hairdos. Especially those who made ‘jhooda’ (buns). Many women who had long hair rolled their hair into buns that were not on the nape of their neck but pinned higher. There were mutterings and grumbling and someone in the government decided women could drive without a helmet! I can understand the problem women with long hair have. And I also understand how some communities have religious restrictions on cutting their hair. But that is not an insurmountable problem for women. There are other ways to do one’s hair to accommodate the helmet.
This certainly brought up the question about safety. How did the government justify this? It made no sense to me. Were they inferring that women had harder nuts to crack?! If she were to ride a two wheeler, she was in equal danger of injuring herself fatally too. And it puzzled me why women were so happy with this decision.
Down the years, one saw many women using the helmet while driving. But it was their choice to do so. It wasn’t imposed on them. I have no clue how it is these days in my home country. I wonder if women are still exempt from wearing a helmet. I guess the traffic rules and regulations differ from state to state, so the situation would be different from state to state.
I wonder what the response would be if helmets for kids riding bicycles were to be imposed in my native place? I wasn’t used to seeing this in our day and during my stay back home. And I found it great that kids here must use a helmet while cycling. It made sense to me.
Everyone has a right to their opinion. But at times, it is important to think things over in the right perspective.
Nobody tells you to buckle up anymore. It isn’t necessary. Everyone just does it.
Now we are faced with the vaccination protests. The arguments continue pro and con. But no one is thinking about how and why the disease is spreading all over the world. There may be cases of vaccinated people getting infected, but like in the helmet and seatbelt issues, see how many aren’t getting infected. How many are not spreading it. And more importantly, how many unvaccinated people are spreading it. One person can infect quite a few directly who then infect more.
Why do we protest so much about things that are good for us now? We argue and fight about our rights. But as I see it, I have the right to my opinion, but I have no right to harm anyone through my actions and decisions. Unvaccinated, and roaming around town, I can catch the virus and bring it back home. I might have an elderly person or kids back home. Neighbors and friends, relations I meet. I would be infecting unsuspecting individuals. Apart from keeping myself safer than I was before, by getting vaccinated, I’d be also protecting my kids… my family.
As Spock said, “To deny the facts would be illogical.”
PS: These are just my thoughts as I see things. I’m just trying to understand the situation. If you don’t agree, that’s ok. Please don’t post any rude comments.
This happened some 6-7 years ago. I lived in Chile then. I had to consult a physician about a mole that was growing on my leg, and it was also indicating inward growth – a kind of plantlike feeling where I felt it had a root.
“No sé mucho español. ¿Puedo hablar en inglés? (I don’t know much Spanish. Can I speak in English?)
Doc– Si, Si. No problema. I know leetle, leetle Englich.
“That’s a relief. Thank you so much!”
So, I tell him what my concerns are about the mole on my thigh. He asks me some pertinent questions. Nods his head thoughtfully.
Doc– Ok, I will see it first.
Then he gets up and walks away from the his desk towards a curtained area in one corner of the room.
Doc– Come with me here, señora. You will remove your trouser and I am going to touch you here, in this place.
I almost burst out laughing. The immediate thought that ran through my head was…‘what if I were silly enough not to understand what he meant!’ I’d have gathered my handbag and vamoosed out of the room!
“Ok, señor,” I said instead and followed him into the curtained area.
Examination done. He agreed that there was a downward, rootlike growth. Diagnosis would depend on removing the mole surgically and sending it for biopsy. We walked out and sat at his desk. He had to decide on a date for the surgery. That done, I stood up and thanked him from the depths of my heart.
Doc– So señora, how you like my Englich?
“Awesome, señor doctor!” I said genuinely appreciative. “I am so happy to have found a doctor with whom I could communicate in English.”
When I was widowed, we lived in a very conservative and restrictive society in a rather backward province at the time. So things were pretty bad for me with my sort of disregard for their stifling conventions that made no sense to me.
It was a society that took away the colors from a widow’s life, literally and figuratively too. Any kind of fun and enjoyment was banned for her. Dressing up was absolutely forbidden – no jewelry either. As if that weren’t enough, society had decreed that these unfortunate women could only wear certain colors – specifically, a dull, dark maroon and a dull greenish-blue. This identified them as widows. It horrified me that such rules were imposed on them. Imagine wearing clothes that put a tag on you WIDOW for everyone’s information! As if they hadn’t suffered enough. And for what purpose? It wasn’t their fault that fate had dealt them such a blow!
I recall a social acquaintance of mine, one who is a non-practicing, lawyer, telling me why the women of their society “willingly” accepted these social norms. She tried to explain it to me by quoting her widowed mother:
“My mother accepted it because she believed, ‘Once a husband dies, there is no color left in life. Life becomes totally colorless.‘ This is why it is okay for them to wear these colors and not wear jewelry nor participate in festivals and entertainment of any kind.”
“Oh, really?” I interrupted her with undisguised sarcasm. “What about the men, the widowers?”
“What about them,” she countered. “They are men. These things don’t apply to them They can carry on their lives.”
“Exactly my point – Why doesn’t it apply to them? Why does everyone start looking out for a wife for the widower, but push the widow into deeper misery? Why do they strip her of her dignity and self-respect? Why do they want to kill her spirit? Why make them like living corpses that way?”
“That’s how it’s been for years and that’s how it will remain. Who can stop it? At least it is better than Sati.”
“If the practice of Sati (burning the wife alive on the funeral pyre of the husband) can be stopped and declared a crime, this can be too. All it takes is the decision to fight against it. All it needs is one strong person to stand against it.”
“That’s what you think. We women don’t think so.”
“How many young widows have you asked about how they feel and what they think about this, with the assurance of confidentiality and secrecy?”
“I don’t need to ask anyone,” she was riled and het up. “This is our ‘rivaaz’. Our culture. And our society will follow it.”
“And are women in this ‘rivaaz’ consulted? Are they even represented when rules are made and imposed on them by ‘society’?
“It is a male dominated society. The women will never be consulted.”
“Not for long. Take my word. Change is coming. The winds are changing direction. But I’m keen to know, will you accept and support the change when it comes? You yourself have broken the boundaries of your social culture, you went against all that your society deemed wrong. Didn’t you? You are living your life on your terms. Will you be brow beaten if, god forbid, diktats such as these are imposed on you?”
She preferred to let silence speak for her. And the silence spoke louder than her words.
A few months back, my son and DIL bought a house. The day they moved in, the twins were extremely excited. They called me and announced that they had “finally” moved lock, stock, and barrel, into their “new house.” Thereafter they promptly took me on a tour of the place with running commentary and expert comments. They did a great job I must say. Soon, the tour was done inside and outside the house too.
It was time to settle down and chat.
Amu: You know what, Dada, there’s a room just for you when you come here.
“Now, isn’t that simply fantastic! I will have to think about how to do it up.”
Mia: Mama’s already thought about that. She’s put up new curtains too.
“Well, then I’ll think about what should go on the walls and some other itty-bitty things.”
Amu: It’s going to be fun Dada. Aren’t you excited?
“Yes, I am. Super excited.”
Mia: But you know what Dada, just in case you’re wondering which of the two bedrooms we showed you was yours, the smaller room is yours. The bigger one is ours. You do know yours is the smaller one, right?
Two worried faces looked at me intently. They expected me to be disappointed. I decided to play along.
“Oh!” I said and pulled a long face.
Amu: (clearly moved) Dada, Dada, it’s just a wee bit smaller than ours, she said placatingly.
“Then it’s alright!” I laughed. “Anyway, it makes sense, you know. There are two of you and just one ME. You definitely have more stuff to put in. I was just teasing you. I’d be surprised if I had the bigger room”
They relaxed. And looked at each other in silent communication.
“We’re going to share the bathroom too!” they exclaimed, taking advantage of this moment. And giggles followed that revelation.
“I hope it’s big enough,” I said laughing.
Mia: Oh, Yes, Dada, the bathroom is big enough, but (she pauses) the WC is a bit low! How will you manage? Your back will hurt.
Amu: Maybe she can use mama-papa’s one.
Mia: Or the powder room… the WC there isn’t low!
As I listened and watched their expressions changing with each thought and possible solution, I realized how genuinely concerned they were about their Dada and her physical limitations in some areas.
“What would I do without you two ladoos to care for me! (Literally, ladoo is a sweetmeat). You think about everything to make me comfortable.”
Both: We love you Dada!
“Love you to smithereens too, my dolls.”
Amu: Do you know the master bedroom’s bathroom is BIG and has a jacuzzi too?
“Yes, I heard about that and saw it too on the tour you took me on around the house.”
Amu: Yes, but you don’t know something. (both the girls giggle).
“Now don’t laugh alone. Come on, tickle my funny bone too. I like a good laugh.”
Amu: Mama said she’d like to relax in the jacuzzi with a glass of wine.
“Oh boy! Now that’s a thought. I wouldn’t mind doing that myself!”
Both: But you can’t! Mama said only she and papa would be using that bathroom.
“Oh shoot! (sad face) and here I was dreaming about luxuriating in there with a glass of wine!”
Amu: Really?! But can’t you imagine it?
“Well, I already did and that’s why I thought it would be awesome.”
Amu: (thoughtfully) No Dada, just imagine a naked woman with a glass of wine in the jacuzzi! Ewww!!
Mia: It’s so silly, Dada, (she says between bouts of laughter.)
Amu: And so funny. Just imagine that Dada!
“Well, I could imagine that but I’d rather not, you know,” I manage to say as I laugh out loud. “Come on girls, ever heard of bathing suits aka swimsuits, bikinis. Imagine that kind of a woman.
Amu: But that is not so funny, Dada. Another burst of laughter.
Their laughter and mine punctuated and truncated our conversation about nude women, wine glasses, and jacuzzis.
One evening, the twins, their mum and I were sitting out in the little park behind the house. The girls decided the bench we were on would be the school bus.
Amu: This is our school bus, and you are the bus driver, Dada! (they call me Dada)
“Oh no! I can’t drive your bus. The driver’s seat is uncomfortable and you know I have a bad back.”
Mia: You just have to sit. No walking. No standing.
“No. I don’t want to be the driver.”
Both: (Disappointed) OK! (They turn to their mother) Mama, you are the driver. (She accepts).
“Thank you,” I said, relieved. I walked across to the opposite side to a comfortable chair and lowered myself, leaned back and relaxed. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. I could doze off, I thought. It was so peaceful and relaxing. But, enroute to the school, the bus broke down.
Amu: Let’s get the mechanic!
She makes a dash…
… and stands in front of me. I keep my eyes shut.
Amu: Dada, come quick. The bus broke down.
“Why do you need me?”
Amu: You are the mechanic!
“What?!”
Amu: You didn’t want to be the driver so you are the mechanic.
“You never asked me if I wanted to be the mechanic,” I said haughtily.
Amu: But we did ask you to be the driver. You didn’t want to. So now, you are the mechanic.
“(Groan!) I didn’t know it was a choice between two jobs.”
Amu: But it was. We gave you the first choice! Now quick Dada. We’ll be late for school.
I haul myself off the chair. Walk reluctantly to the bus, dragging my feet as she goads me to move faster. I repair the bus, bending awkwardly, by changing an invisible punctured tire. I overdo the grumbling and groaning!
Mia: See, if you had chosen to become the bus driver you wouldn’t have to bend and push and pull. You would just have to sit. in. your. seat. We told you.
“Ok, Ok! Don’t rub it in. There, it’s all done. Now off you go.”
Amu checks to see if everything is alright. They get on the bus. I heave a sigh of relief. As they roll away, Mia shouts:
Dada, what does ‘rub it in’ mean? And she laughs heartily as their driver picks up speed and zooms off to school.
Some years ago, when Aly, the eldest of my grandkids was about two and a half years old, on a video call she asked me about her grandpa.
Aly – Dadi, do I have a grandpa?
“Yes, you do?”
Aly – Where is he then?
“He’s not here now,” I said, wondering if she had already learned that he had died long ago.
Aly – I know, she said, with wisdom beyond her years shining from her eyes.
“So you know he isn’t here with us, and you know why, yes?”
Aly – Yes, he is in heaven.
“Yes, sweetie. Your grandpa is in heaven.” I was relieved.
Aly – Does he know about me?
“I’m sure he does.”
Aly – Can he see me?
“I believe he can whenever he peeks through the clouds.”
Aly – (Beaming a bright smile) Does he love me?
“Oh, my dear, you cannot imagine how much he loves you. He adores you.”
Aly – (She’s glowing by now) Dadi, does he miss me?
I choked on my words as tears threatened to spill out and said, “Trust me sweetie, he misses you very, very much.”
Her little heart found a lot of comfort in that assurance. She flashed her angelic smile and settled into the couch more comfortably, content in the knowledge that her grandpa knew about her; loved her; missed her.
Sometimes it’s so much better to sugarcoat a bitter pill.
PS: Down the road, in the present time, she’s eleven and asked me about him and wanted me to tell her how he died, how I felt, and how her father and his brother took it.
This time, I didn’t sugarcoat the pill. She was ready to hear about pain and loss.
My twin granddaughters joined playschool when they moved to Canada, and their teacher was expecting. For a couple of months, they were unaware about this. But then, a few more enlightened girls were discussing their teacher’s “big tummy”. Our little ones soon learned that she was going to have a baby.
They were super excited! At that young age of innocence they were uninhibited and wanted to confirm the news… hear it from the horse’s mouth and they also had some other questions to ask. They didn’t only want to confirm what they had heard, they wanted to know who put the baby in and how it would come out of her tummy. Yes! I bet you are laughing now imagining how the conversation went.
Amu – Is there a baby inside there? (she points to the tummy).
Teacher – Yes, there is. (highly amused by their frank curiosity)
Mia – When will the baby come out?
Teacher – There are a couple of months more.
Twins together – OHHH! (Their brows were furrowed. There was a HOW knocking around).
Mia – How does it come out?
Stumped on how to answer this without going into unnecessary details, which they wouldn’t know nor understand, she said:
“Oh, you know, I’ll go to the hospital and the doctor will help the baby out.”
Amu – Will the doctor cut your tummy?
Teacher – (In order to avoid another “how” question if she replied in the negative, she opted to go with…) I don’t know. He might have to cut it.
Both – But that is horrible!
Amu – It’s going to hurt a lot and there will be a lot of blood!
Both the little girls seemed quite disturbed by this.
Teacher – Oh no! You need not worry about that. They will give me a medicine and I won’t feel a thing. No pain.
Both were relieved by this information and turned to leave. Just when the teacher thought the conversation was over, one of the twins had another question.
“Who put the baby in your tummy?”
Should she answer that with, “the stork”? Indians didn’t use the stork story because it isn’t a bird everyone knew about. What everyone knew was GOD! And being who he was, he was bigger and stronger and more powerful than superman, especially in a kid’s mind. He could do anything, even the impossible. Scripture stories, in any religion, speak of these amazing feats. So it was the easiest way to explain it to very young kids.
Now the teacher was an Indo-Canadian and like all, or almost all, Indians answer this question she said:
“God put it there!”
“Oh!” they said and off they ran to play with the other girls. I’m sure she was glad they didn’t think of another HOW question! How did God put it there?! That would need a lot more imagination to explain in a satisfactory way!!
I remember being told that God had dropped off my younger brother at the Army Hospital and my mother was there to pick him up! I swallowed that story hook, line, and sinker! Just in case you are wondering — even at the age of ten, I hadn’t noticed that my mom’s tummy had grown enormously! I was pretty naive or too tomboyish to have noticed such things. Besides, that was 1965 India. And that was the story all kids were told until they learned the truth… mostly from their friends, older kids, or when they were old enough to study it in their Science class.
“Gossip is the art of saying nothing in a way that leaves practically nothing unsaid.”
~Walter Winchell
“Hi, Joycee!”
“Long time no see, no talk! What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“I know. This pandemic has really made life boring.”
“Umm… well mine bordered on boring even before the pandemic. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. I find things to keep me sane. Could be better, you know, anyway, how’s it going with you?”
“Oh, before this virus thing it was great. Never knew I’d have so much fun in my sixties! I have such a lot of time to indulge in all the activities I had no time for earlier.”
“True that. Though I can’t match your “free” time, I still have more than I used to.”
“I hope I’m not keeping you from something. I should have asked before I called. I forget that you’re a WFH girl.”
“Well, actually, you are. I’m looking for ‘love’ but just can’t find it on the grid.”
“Wow! Seriously?!”
“Yes. But why are you so shocked?”
“Gosh! I never knew you had this daring streak. I mean, you know, society, your society, and family… you know you’re not considered a young woman any more by them… with us, it’s a different story.”
“Hmm… young! That depends on which part of me you are referring to. Well, above the belt, I’m still a kid!! So yes, I am young. hehe. As for society, the so-called friends, and family, what do I say? They’ve said, done, thought of enough things to spice up their sad lives by making up saucy stories in many of which, I am the Shero!! Their minds. Their concoctions… Let them be happy, hehe. I didn’t bother about it then and I did not even try to clarify anything. I let people be happy. Whatever they think, whatever they say, tells me a little bit more about who they really are behind their social masks. Haha!”
“Hehehe… you haven’t changed a bit. Love that. Ok, you carry on with your search. Hope you are lucky. But be careful. No offence, but its a dicey world out there and I know you aren’t that savvy about it as you think you are.”
“Thanks for the advice and no offence taken. But could you enlighten me about the dangers of finding ‘LOVE’ on a grid in Word Search.”
“WHAT!”
“What were you thinking?”
“Exactly like those mongers of gossip and outrageous fiction we were alluding to earlier. Those who “spice up” their lives by conjuring up images and weaving stories around them without solid facts. Hehe, guilty as charged! Imagine, if I were one of those, how this would go round the gossip mill?! I get why you care a hoot for what people THINK. You go HUNT for love… wherever. Just let me know when you find it… couldn’t resist saying that haha! Even this short conversation with you has been so refreshing. Stay the way you are girl.”
“I love hearing a sane voice in the cacophony of judgmental, criticizing, condemning, voices. Stay in touch. You know how I am! Not much of a phone person… as the caller… Muah!”
It's In The Tale 
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