Big Girls Can Cry

So, after much deliberation, I decided to write about the latest goings on in India today. Too many people posting Facebook updates of being there for people if they want to talk. While all this is very noble and well intentioned for the most part, I have a real problem with it. 

Mainly because, mental health in India is the very very VERY last thing on the table. 

In between the convoluted notions of the good and bad, the beautiful and the ugly, the wealthy and the poor, it is the grey areas that stay forever in the dark. It is frowned upon to struggle, to show that you are struggling. The notions of suffering mentally is laughed at, ridiculed. Labelled crazy, pagal, retarded, insane.... weak.

A society that is so performance driven, that thrives on the outward gloss, the things, the successes and the very extreme disparities, talking about everyday struggles, depression, sadness is almost non existent. 

In a culture that encourages you to suppress fundamental feelings of love, lust, greed, envy, failure, loss and grief, there is very little room to recognize that call for help. 

A culture that is extremely judgemental, of the rich and poor, the fat and the slim, the dark skin and light skinned, of the kind of car you drive, where you holiday, the brands you shop, the number of household help you have or even if you have a head full of hair, we learnt early on, not to talk about these things that stay with us all throughout our lives. 

We only talk of accolades, successes, money, gifts, acquisitions... that feeling of being under the microscope for the way you look, act, talk, eat, walk, earn, work, is forever prevalent. Not walking that line, that our culture so vociferously imposes, has severe consequences. Sometimes physical, but most psychological. 

Crying, expressing anger, disappointment, anguish or grief is considered weak. Too often we hear the words “You have everything going right for you, what do you have to be depressed about?” Or “you should try to adjust” 

As a culture we shame people. We raise anxious kids. We put pressure on ourselves and our children to excel and perform constantly.  Throw social media into this already murky mix and it is a bomb waiting to go off. 

In the unfortunate and devastatingly sad eventuality that something happens, there is the constant chatter, rumours. media hysteria that is over the top, crass, horribly intrusive, speculative and very very disturbing. The hunt to blame someone or  something gains momentum and the circus that ensues is absolutely horrifying. If that does not deter someone to forever seal their lips, I don’t know what will. 

We all need mental health support from the very beginning of our journeys. In school, at home, in hospitals, at work. There has to be a level of trust, of presence and communication for someone to be able to talk about their struggles. Often this is a qualified and objective therapist but it can be a friend or simply a stranger. 

Our fear of judgment silences that need to talk to someone. 

After I moved to Canada, I saw the difference between how mental health is treated differently here. Each time I would take my daughter to the doctor, from the time she was 4 yrs old, he would address her directly, ask about her friends, her favourite subjects. He would ask her (directly) if she was struggling with something, if she was happy. These small things, often overlooked in a country with 1.5 Billion people make the difference between establishing trust or not.

After my cancer diagnosis, an onco-psychologist was assigned to me to help me and my family deal with the cancer diagnosis, the struggle of the disease and the aftermath. There was information given out at every step, therapy suggested for those that needed further interventions, resources available. 

My onco-psychologist did not tell me to be strong, she did not reassure me that things will be ok, she did nothing except sit there and be present. She did not say “ you should be glad this is not brain cancer”.  She heard my fears about the disease, even if it were ludicrous, but she never said I was wrong to feel the things I did. 

She NORMALIZED these feelings. She made me feel like my feelings were valid. 

That is why perhaps, I was able to make peace with it so early on. 

The thing with depression and mental health is that you cannot possibly detect it from the outside. There are so many levels to it and it takes real courage for someone to be able to talk about their struggles. 

If we really want to make a difference we need to first stop putting labels. This is psychological bullying as well. 

We need to talk of our failures with our kids and not just our successes. We need  to listen without reaction. REALLY listen without judgement. We need to be ok with failure, ok with being average, ok with taking a break and not being forced to perform. We need to keep confidences in CONFIDENCE.  We need to start showing up for our friends, for our family. Most importantly we need to be ok with being sad, angry, disappointed or overwhelmed. We need to learn early on that the inside matters a whole lot more than the outside. 

That being sad is just as valid as being happy. Because sometimes, big girls can cry.

Ça va bien aller: ishita banerjee 12” x 18”

The Aftermath

They sent me home after the surgery. Told me I was recovering well. I could not swallow properly without choking. My voice was a whisper only. I was in the kind of pain I had never experienced before. My mother fussed over me, often tiptoeing around my irritable and uncomfortable state. I needed help in supporting my neck while getting in and out of bed. A music box and a bell were my calls for help.
Daughter wanted a hug. She was scared of my bandaged neck. I could see the conflict in her eyes as she tried her hardest to understand yet wanted to get away from me. She wanted her old mommy back, but I had changed. With the tumor, they took away my normalcy.
The first 24 hours were hard. A blur of pain and medication. Nausea threatening every move, unable to speak, unable to communicate. Outside, life went on as usual. Tia went to school, the February freeze continued. Friends came home to see me and I tried my best to be a good sport about it.
In the first couple days, I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to wake up. Didn’t want to meet friends and especially hated being fussed over. I absolutely hated concerned glances thrown my way, and the fragility of my situation. I was tired, irritated, voiceless, in pain and had shooting pains all down my arms.
Day 4 was much the same as the previous two. A Saturday morning. A blizzard blowing outside. A steady snow obliterating the view. I sat down to swallow my liquid breakfast of portige when all of a sudden I felt my hands going numb. Within seconds I was lightheaded and losing consciousness. Next my chest tightened up dramatically making it impossible to breathe. I lay down. It got worse. Within a matter of seconds my body was in a vice like grip avd all my muscles clenched up. My hands would not straighten. My fingers curled into a claw and the most intense pain took the breath out of my lungs. I thought I was dying. Maybe this is what a stroke feels like.
Whispering desperately to call 911, I clutched at my father, terrified at what was happening to me. Call 911 I said. I am in trouble. It took them a few minutes to register the severity of the duration as my body began to clench even tighter, making each breath an agony. My only coherent thought wat that time was that I did not want Tia to have this as the last image of her mother.
My face got distorted. My fingers clenched so tight that I could not feel my hands anymore. I begged my mother to take Tia away from me as my husband desperately called 911. The blizzard had intensified.
The fire men were the first to arrive. It took them less then 10 mins to reach. The snow by now had blanketed the path to our house. They assess the situation. Check my vitals and sternly ask me not lie down. The paramedics arrive 3 minutes later. My father gives him a quick over view of my situation. He explains to the paramedic that I was in full blown titanny: caused by a severe lack of calcium in my body.
By now I am in absolute agony. I want to scream in pain but I have no voice. The vice like grip on my hands and my chest intensified further as I struggled to breathe. My cheeks are completely contorted now. I feel the vice start to grip my even stronger. Save my hand please I beg the paramedics. I’m an artist and I need my hands, I plead.
The paramedic tries his best to reassure me. He communicates with the firemen as the bring in the stretcher and strap my contorted body onto it.
The cold seeps in through my thin sleep pajamas as they carry me down the stairs. It’s a blinding blizzard. My face is wet from the snow, my body inside aflame in agony. They lay down the stretcher on the side of the pavement as they open the ambulance door. I can’t feel the cold. The slew of snowflakes fall in a sheet dotting the red blanket they have put on my body. A thin t shirt and red blanket no match for the raging blizzard outside.
I don’t remember much after that. The pain was so intense that I kept blacking out. The hospital was less than 500 meters from home. They drive me in and take me straight to emergency.
They strip me down as my clenched body refuses to cooperate. The doctor confirmeds my fathers diagnosis. I’m in full blown Titanny from the lack of calcium in my body.

The Surgery

The date of the surgery to remove my thyroid cancer and the whole thyroid gland was scheduled within a week. I had to mentally prepare myself, get organized, have my parents fly in from India to help and wind up my affairs at office to go on  extended leave.
At the pre surgery tests, I was a bundle of nerves, nervous, anxious and still unaccepting.  It was my calm, level headed, immensely knowledgeable father, who calmed me down to face the reality. His wisdom and calm reassurances were the turning point in this journey.
8th February 2017 dawned with messy freezing rain which left dangerously slippery sidewalks and roads all over the city. The night before was extremely emotional. I cried for the days before my diagnosis, I cried for fear of the unknown, I cried wondering if life as I knew it would ever be the same again. I cried not knowing what the doctors would find and the repercussions it ment for my family. I cried like I never had before, I prayed like never before. With every fibre of my being, all i wished for was to get better and be there for my daughter.
The hospital admissions went smoothly, I was the first surgery for the day. I changed into the sterile hospital gown, covered my hair with the hospital cap, and gave my father and husband an emotional hug goodbye before being wheeled into the OR. The nurse pushing me in told me to pray to whatever force I believed in to be able to overcome this. Eyes closed, sweaty palmed and with a ball of fear knotted in my stomach, I prayed with all my might.
I said hello to my doctor, the discussion all around me was of the messy, icy rain and treacherous driving conditions. I was told to walk into the OR,the anaesthesiologists introduced themselves. The monitors were plugged into to the stickers on my chest. The last thing I remember was extending my right arm for the intravenous line before I went into a deep sleep.
A few hours later, I woke up to intense jaw splitting bone crushing pain. Nausea threatened every move, and I could not speak more than a whisper. It was done, my thyroid was gone. The pain was intense, unbearable. A nurse came and gave me anti nausea medication as I lay there, bruised and blue, but relieved that step one was done. The next few hours were a blur. I could not swallow, I wanted water but I would choke. I wanted to speak, but it was agony. After an intense afternoon of pain and many attempts at trying to take pain medication orally, I finally managed to take one.
The sheer helplessness that you feel after a major surgery is truly humbling. The human body suffers a blow when things go out of balance, but it has a remarkable tendency to realign and adjust itself to this blow. Once the pain medication and the nausea medicines kicked in, I was able to sit up.  late that evening, in the bathroom, I finally looked into the mirror at the new me, blotched, swollen face and neck and a white bandage at the base of my neck, where my normal carefree life one was...

The Cancer Chronicles

It took me quite sometime to accept the diagnosis. At night I would lay awake, trying to think of what signs I had missed. Was there something I had done? Was it something I could have done differently to avoid this? Why me, I asked repeatedly? I couldn't understand, I didnt want to understand. I read a few websites, got even more depressed at words like life expectancy and long term prognosis. I couldn't even go a few hours without crying.
A week later, I went to my doctor who very matter of factory gave me details of the surgery and the tests I would need. She was efficient and professional but she was not the kind who would give me a hug and reassurance. In my mind, no one could understand what I was feeling. I was angry one minute, devasted the next. I wanted to go on feeling normal but the normal did not exist anymore. My husband told me to think of it as a bump in the road. His way of dealing with this was completely different.
My everyday tasks became monumental. I had to talk myself into getting dressed in the morning. I was trying my hardest to put on a brave face for my daughter, dropping her to school each day, helping her with her homework, helping mer make a science project, where tears threatened my every move. I hated seeing my friends go on with normal lives. I was envious of people who didn't have to go through the motions with a dead weight on their heart.
People around me, those who loved me, kept telling me to be positive, some kept telling me that it was nothing and I would overcome it. I hated to hear this. Hated the patronizing tone, the be positive lecture, the "it could have been worse" talk. I could not see the positive. Where was this? How could they tell me to be positive when my body was being ravaged by the unknown? Did they understand how hard it is to cook for the family I love, knowing I have a dreaded disease. Did anyone understand that I was terrified? That every hug my daughter gave me opened up floodgates in my heart? How did they know that things would be alright? They all attempted to make normal conversation around me, when all I wanted to do was scream out my frustration of not being "normal" anymore.
I felt alone and alienated from everyone. They all wanted me to be normal and accept this, when all I wanted to do was cry. I did'nt want to hear scientific facts, medical prognosis, website references, patronizing lectures or even reassurances. I didn't want sympathy, or anything at all. I just wanted to cry.
I cried everyday, every hour the first couple of days. I would manage to compose myself in spurts, but suddenly the gates would open again and I would fall apart. My husband did not understand why I was so down. He kept telling me to pick myself up but that only made me angry. He tried his best, but I didn't to speak to him, didn't want to acknowledge that he was the normal one, while cancer was eating away not only at my body, but my heart and my mind too. 

The Day Cancer Chose Me

January in Montreal can be notorious for its bone chilling frigid days. This January, however, was different. The weekend before was packed with activities. Some of my art prints were on display at this really cool and hip art store in the trendiest part of the city. I was getting a steady slew of online orders and my head and heart were abuzz with so many new ideas for my Etsy shop.
I had got new glasses, new clothes from my recent trip to the US and after a really creative holiday season, road trip to visit friends and a lovely New Years break, I was on a roll.
I was supposed to get my biopsy results for thyroid nodules this cold January morning. Everyone assured me that it was a common occurrence, that 90% ( a staggeringly positive statistic) of thyroid nodules are benign and I woke up feeling confident that i'd get good news. After all, there was no history of cancer in my family. My blood work and indicators were normal. Yes sir, the odds were definitely in my favour.
3 days ago, we celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. I saved the champagne bottle to open tonight, when I came home with good news from the doctor, the celebrations postposed for just 3 days.

We dropped Tia off to school and I remember standing there at the school gate, wondering if things will be the same the next day. I put the niggling nervousness out of mind and after I showered and prepared for my day, I reached for my favourite lucky blue dress. I put on the pearl earrings my best friend Mayuri gave me for my 25th birthday, one which I have worn for every job interview, every life event and every successful and joyous event of my life. Dad called to wish me good luck. Brother called to say the same. Husband insisted on accompanying me as we hailed a cab on this not-so-severe cold January day, as we went straight to the doctors office.

We had waited 6 weeks for the results to come. Each previous appointment was pushed further and further back 3 times and I just wanted to know what it was. They heralded me into the room and husband gave my hand a squeeze as we waiting for the doctor to come in.
She came in with a file, not making eye contact but looking straight into the file. I was expecting a cheery hello but as soon as I saw her face, my heart kind of froze. She minced no words. Time stood still, I felt myself floating, looking at the room from above. At 9.55am on January 23rd 2017, cancer chose me.

The band was tightening around my chest. I felt a deep flush rising from my torso and making its way up my neck to my face. My hands trembled and all comprehensive thought left my mind. All I kept hearing was that I have cancer. I was hyperventilating and that's when i started to shake, trembling as if to get the dreaded disease out of my body, to shake my head and not acknowledge this part that no one can ever prepare for.
I just wanted to run out of that place, I was furious at my doctor, angry at the tissues she handed me, livid at everyone who told me it was it was going to be ok. I was devastated that I believed them. How could I have believed everyone when they said I'd be ok?  I have no recollection of what she said to me after that. I knew I was supposed to ask questions but I drew a blank. I tried my best to hold it together to sign the consent form for the surgery with trembling hands and blurry vision and only when I made my way outside the building, I allowed great big sobs to consume my body as the skies opened up and snowflakes fell on my drenched face.

We dont always remember the days and times which change our lives. Little can prepare us for when presented with earth shattering news. January 23rd, 2017 will be the day that changed my life forever. A day which definitively divided my life into a before and after, January 23rd, 2017 was that day that cancer chose me.

Going gracefully into the grey

Just a handful of years after hitting the fourth decade, I see what the big deal is all about.

Gravity is never kind to the big boned girls, and we certainly won't be facebook friends in the fourth decade. Lets just say, its all going downhill from here.

My eyesight was the first to go. After more than 3 decades of 6/6 vision and having the distinction of being the only Banerjee without glasses, I couldn't read anymore. I kept sending wrong texts to people, sending my boss my whole grocery list instead of directing it to my husband, who was double parked outside the depanneur. I needed to squint to work on my computer and much to delight of my daughter, often missed elementary math mistakes.
Next was this pesky double chin. It would crop up at every angle. no matter how much water I drank, how many neck extensions i did, it refused to leave my side. I gave up wearing necklaces, since it brought too much attention to the heavy jowls. So I hid behind the fashionable folds of heavy scarves and stoles. 

Black became my favourite color and seems to be the only color I wear everyday to camouflage my widening girth. Hitting 40 was like swallowing a balloon. If I wasn't actively losing weight, I was just gaining weight. My proportions started going out of whack in a not so good way. 
My makeup stopped going on smoothly and at the end of the day, mascara would have pooled in the most unbecoming of ways around my tired eyes. So, I bought retinol cream of course. I slathered it on day and night. It made my pillow all greasy sometimes, but I'd rather have non droopy eyelids than a clean pillowcase anyday.
Shapewear became my best friend. Sucking it all in as I hold my breath while slithering into a pencil skirt after having eaten oatmeal for breakfast...just try that on for fun one day.
Next is the gap in the buttonholes of the shirt. Really, how hard is it to put little hooks and eyes in between the gaping flaps? Have a heart on the not-so-slim, bordering-on-the-plus-side segment. I stopped going clothes shopping. It was seriously getting depressing to try on a mountain of jeans in all combinations of sizes to find that NOT ONE FIT they way it was supposed to. Online shopping is infinitely better...try on what you like in the privacy of your home and not get sympathetic looks from pesky sales people.

Aging gracefully in the times of social media is a whole another ballgame. I see so many oomph worthy, perfectly pouty, doe eyed photographs of people I went to kindergarten with, cropping up frequently on my news feed. Of course they will post pictures from Bora Bora or Hawaii or Fiji, posing in their itty-bitty bikinis or hot pants while i hastily pull down my diaphanous tunic to cover my ever-widening posterieur while scrolling down my smartphone.
Not one to be left behind, for my next post, I try the Kim K style duckface to take a selfie which makes me look like Cruella de Ville. I try lifting the phone higher at a more becoming angle to get an artfully perspective shot, only to drop it straight on my eye and have a manhole sized bruise for a week. Elegant.
Then there is the slew of slim fast and detox water concoctions crowding for space on my timeline. I don't remember having gone a single day without seeing a Garcinia Cambogia advertisment or a lemon, mint, cucumber, ox tail, rhino urine crap concoctions clamoring for my attention.
My hair is the last to go. The thick beachy waves have kind of taken on a limpid mousy sheen. I shed like a  Canadian sugar maple in autumn and the girth of my ponytail is inversely proportional to my waist size. The grey has crept up so stealthily that it can put a drone in Afghanistan to shame. I toy with the idea of lobbing it all off, maybe try the unicorn color trend that's so in and chic right now, but the idea of looking like a My Little Pony wannabe seriously deters me.

All this self doubt and trying to lag behind in the age race brought me to an uncomfortable realisation that I was sending out so many mixed messages to my beautiful, impressionable tween. Asking her one day if I should color my hair, she gave me a horrified look and said " But you are my mom and that's why you have grey hair, without it, you wouldn't look like my mom" Squirm worthy moment continued when she asked me "Maman, why do you want to look different?" I stuttered a noncoherent reply and took a step back to look at how damaging my behaviour has probably been for my daughter. 

To prevent any possible long term damage and therapy bills, I will happily resign myself to the chub rub and the flabby arms. Goodbye forever, smooth eyeliner and blemish free tight lifted skin. Self-esteem, confidence, tenacity and determination are the qualities I am going to focus on instead. I'm going to laud a beautiful heart instead of a beautiful face. I'm going to give integrity, grit and dreams more importance than success and resources.  Its going to be an uphill task in this insanely disposable and plastic world we live in, but i've never been afraid of a little hill ( or a couple) before. 
My skin may sag, but the eyes will twinkle. My girth may be a problem, but i'll position it in the audience when my daughter performs. Let the sun add a few more freckles and coats of tan while we chase butterflies in the sun and let the sweat drip off my limp hair while I go gracefully into the grey, holding tightly onto my daughter's hand.

FALL-en

The leaves outside shine yellow, offset by a deep grey sky. There's a cold wind blowing and leaves tumble, fall, rise up in the drift and settle down again. Here, the seasons march so distinctly and purposefully into one another. Each season is so well defined and makes its presence felt in all its hues and shades. Fall is however, my favourite of them all. 

When the schools reopen after the summer, when the rush in the metro makes me groan, when the fun seems to wind up after a busy summer and things seem to settle slowly into a rhythm, that's autumn to me. Its when I dust out my long boots, when my scarfs line the inside of the closet door, when I lock horns with my daughter about the wearing a hat or the thick fleece leggings. Its when the fingers suddenly go chilly after a short walk or the wind reddens the cheeks. When the makeup I wear does not puddle under my eyes and when I burrough down deep into my turtleneck as I brave the walk to work. 
Its when the festivals of home are celebrated with a much-anticipated gusto, its when the excitement of Halloween hangs in the air. Its potluck suppers, apple pie,  gossip and comforting wine, or curling up with a blanket on the couch to watch something really old on the telly.

Its watching the squirrels rushing to stock up for the cold, its crunching the leaves as I walk back home, its taking in the fresh gulps of air after spending the day in a heated office and its the smell of spiced pumpkin latte wafting from the cafe. Its craving soups and stews and warm cuddles, its turning up the oven as the lasagna bubbles away, Its grey one day, brilliant sunshine the next, its deep dark evenings and making plans for the winter. Its the feeling of slowing down, and gathering pace all at once. Its the feeling of letting go, of settling down, of starting anew and I Fall in love with this season all over again.

That gut feeling

May 27th, 2015, 5pm, My ma is here from India, visiting for the summer, helping me help Tia during her exams. Its a bright beautiful Wednesday evening. I come home from work to find my mother sitting on the balcony chair, looking white as a sheet. She is relieved to see me, opens the door, does not greet Tia, which is highly unusual and just lays down saying she is unwell. I don't ever remember seeing her like this. She's always taking care of others, masking her own discomfort. I worry, take her temperature, ask her what's wrong. She thinks its indigestion, says she's getting tingling in her arms and legs and her urine output has been negligible all day.

I call my husband, call my doctor friend Arpita to run her symptoms through her. When i don't see any change, I call my dad in India. He's not in Delhi, he's in Bangalore. He thinks, its indigestion too, but something gnaws at me, telling me its something more. Maybe I should take her to the ER just to reassure myself? I toy with this question a hundred times in 10 mins. I know, the wait time at the ER is unpredictable, I know as a visitor to Canada, it will be an very expensive trip if it is indeed something like indigestion, but i can't come to a decision.

I wait for my husband. I can't concentrate on anything. I barely listen to my daughter, barely look at her homework. Ma starts vomiting now, gut wrenching vomit and she's on the bathroom floor. I help her up, make her drink water and try to make her comfortable as i look for the hospital's phone number. She has her insurance papers out. I wonder why?
Yogi arrives, I toy again and again with the merits of the decision to take her to the hospital. I call my dad again, call my friend again. My mind is not convinced that its indigestion, fatigue or something like that. I have never seen ma like this, suffering, barely able to open her eyes, vomiting and shaking. At 7.30 pm, Yogi, Tia and I eat something that I just cant remember making or eating. I called Info Sante the health helpline in Quebec. I wait 20 mins and reach a French speaking nurse. I ask for an English speaking nurse and i am put on hold. The minutes tick by. Exasperated I hang up. I am so frustrated. I just want mommy to feel better. I want to make her better myself.

I try again in 10 mins and this time, Ma has almost stopped speaking or responding to my questions by now.I reach an English speaking nurse. I run ma's symptoms though her and she tells me in no uncertain terms to take ma to the Emergency.

I pick up my purse, her insurance papers, pack a blanket, a jacket for ma, I hold her hand as she makes her way down the stairs, In the dark, she makes her way to the garage and the last thing she says as I'm helping her down the stairs is "Have you eaten?" I give her an irritated reply. 

Its barely a 2 minute drive to the Emergency. We pull up at the Jewish Hospital and help ma onto a wheelchair. Yogi drives off with Tia. 

Ma goes even whiter, her eyes get glassy and she starts shaking uncontrollably. She makes these guttural sounds and I ask the security guard for a container in case she throws up again. Our number is 176. We have 10 people ahead of us. Ma continues to shake horribly. I am in tears. I stroke her head, make her lean on me. I ask the nurse again if someone could look at her since she is deteriorating very fast.
The nurse senses it, someone comes to take her, they try to take her pressure but she is far away, shaking more and her head is rolling back. Its a flurry of movements now..we are running down the corridor, there are people waiting in a cubicle and an army of people descend on ma. Stripping off her clothes, getting IVs into her hand and I hear the words "she is seizing" over and over again.

The resident doctor asks me what happened and i try and make some sense of it...i can barely speak. I am screaming and panicking too, so much so that i am being forced out of the ER. I tell them, I can't go, can't leave her...but she is coding. Its something out of the medical drama's I see on TV. This can't be real, can't be happening to us. They try to revive her and there is so much activity around her that I can barely see.. I plead with them to let me stay, I promise to stay calm. I can't think, my mind is blank. The orderly is mad at me. He says I am not helping and my panic is disturbing the doctors from doing the best for her. He escorts me out, promising me that someone will come to me as soon as they can. Then, the doors swing shut. I am alone, in a brightly lit corridor, Its 8.45 pm and i am paralysed with fear, wondering if I am ever going to see my ma again. 

Seven years

And with the day's sunset, Tia turns seven. In the blink of an eye, 7 years of motherhood, pure joy, heart wrenching emotions and hope. She's just on the threshold. Wants to let go of my hand, yet keeps looking over her shoulder to see if I'm there. She's no longer a baby, no more a child. She's my best friend, my comfort in a far and distant land. She's the one who teaches me, tests me, questions me and inspires me. I still hold her as her eyelids get heavy. I still inhale her fragrance. I still kiss the boo boos and the bruises and read her to sleep.  The difference is that now, seven years later, I do it for me.
One moment she is a tousled hair, pink cheeked and scraped kneed monkey, the other she is an exotic princess from the land of milk and spice. She dreams in French and speaks Bangla like me. Loves Hindi music and Katy Perry. Watches Frozen for the  umpteenth time and sings her heart out when she thinks no one is about. She loves sushi, wants to speak Spanish and sit on the beach somewhere sipping lemonade with an umbrella on it. An artist she is as her talent is growing, her keen observation showing in every squiggle and shape she draws.
She's kind and sensitive, she holds doors open for everyone around her. She rushes to share every big and small achievement with her nana and namma, and uses tech effortlessly to connect with her baby cousin in Singapore. She lends a helping hand whenever she can and loves to play the big sister to all the kids she knows. She's a fantastic swimmer, is great at Math and has a keen mind. Each day, I see her turning into this beautiful, smart and sensitive human being, full of compassion, observation and spirit. She likes to be independent too, likes to try things out before making up her mind about it. She likes to skip ahead of the crowd. I try to hold her hand but she likes to move forward with confidence and ability.
My heart fills with pride when I hear her teachers praise her presence, her personality and her kindness. I try to believe that I had something to do with it, but I know in my heart that's it's all her.
Lately our battle lines are getting darker. Our arguments seem to be getting longer and obstinate. She's testing the waters now for the future years. I try oscillating between being a friend and an authority figure and find myself really struggling at both sometimes. Many a times, I snap, I falter, I slip up and I make mistakes. I tell her that mom is human too. It's ok to mess up sometimes. I hope she understands and will not judge me as harshly as I judge myself.
Seven is the time for friendships to form, for spirits to rise, for dreams to take shape and make a path towards the future. It's the time for carefree days in the sun, playing in the water fountains, dripping strawberry ice creams cones, swinging high on the swings and really feeling the wind in your hair. It's the time to build snowmen, sand castles and still believe in Santa Clause. It's the time to be fascinated with science, find a sport to enjoy and dabble in music and art. It's the time to be a big girl and learn about chores and responsibility too. I want to push her forward towards new and exciting adventures yet want her wonder and innocence to stay untouched forever.
Tomorrow morning, she will run off to join her friends in the school yard. I'll yell and tell her that I love her, but she will be busy talking to her friends. I'll rush home early to hear how her day went and spend an extra 15 mins of mommy time with her, but she will have her mind full of so many different things. The brand new shiny scooter waits for her to take it for a spin and when she wakes up in the morning to find balloons and streamers filling the house, she will be my precious little 7 year old all over again.

40 ROCK

I'm 40 today. 40 times around the sun, 14,600 days gone, 4 decades lived, half my life spent. So I asked myself what exactly is 40 supposed to feel like? I took a good hard look in the mirror and other than a handful of grey hairs, crows feet, sun spots and a couple of dozen extra pounds, it felt exactly like 39! Woah!

Flip as I may be from time to time, I know its going to be hard making the transition. No more checking the 30-something age bracket on forms and documents. No more following my dreams, experimenting and dabbling. No more 'finding myself"  The 40's are supposed to be living my best life. Its supposed to be being comfortable in  my own skin, being who I am un-apologetically and speaking my mind without fear. Or so all the magazines tell me.

For me, the 40's spell the beginning of letting go. Its the beginning of the biggest changes in my life since my teen years. My body has changed and not in a good way. I'm still growing everyday just more horizontally than ever before. Its that much harder to get my skin to look smooth, my hands to stop drying and to get my eyeliner on smoothly every morning. My idea of a relaxing evening comprises of wearing my rattiest of pajamas and watching back to back episodes of Mad Men. Spicy food has started giving me heartburn and I am terrified of slipping and falling in snowy weather. My temples have started to turn grey. Cellulite and gravity are wrecking havoc on whatever curves I have on me and when buying lingerie I gravitate towards the Shapewear section of the store. I roll my eyes when I see heavily tattooed folks out and about and pray with all my might that my daughter will not scar her perfect skin in any way or form. I cant stay up very late anymore and loud music and cigarette smoke gives me a mondo headache. I am slow at catching up to the latest gizmos and gadgets. I like to stay on the periphery and look in rather than jump headlong with gusto into the unknown. I try not to take things too seriously but worry incessantly that I am being too light sometimes. I worry about the weather, global warming, and even about the Bill 101 of Quebec.

I worry that my most productive years are over and its all going to go downhill from here. My body will change, ovaries will shrink up, eyes will give up on me and my memories will blur. My daughter will soon accuse me of "not understanding" her and my husband and I will reach a point where words will not be necessary for communication. Just rolling the eyes will do.
It may just be a number to some but its still looming large on me. There is so much I wanted to do before reaching this number. So many places I wanted to see, so much wiser (and thinner) and patient (and thinner) I wanted to be.

Maybe my best years are behind me, maybe I lived my life and did not take time out to appreciate it really, but I have been blessed in every way possible. Its only now that I realise what an amazing set of parents I have. Everything i wished for and wanted to do was made possible with the love and support of my parents.
Being a mom who is doing everything by herself now, I have a new found respect for what my parents have been doing for the last 40 years and making it look so effortless.
My husband has been my rock and my anchor. He rescued me from the storm, and is the wind beneath my wings. He loved me in spite of it all and gave me the greatest gift of my life, our daughter Tia.
I watch her sleep sometimes and wonder how I could have got this lucky. She struggles to get up at 6.30am each morning, cracking her sleep swollen eyes just so that she can walk to school with mama. She makes me delightful pony-unicorn-princess cards and labels them Maman. She draws me as a twiggy thin figure sporting short skirts and long lustrous hair, making me realise that children see from the inside. Sigh!now, if only the inside me could be equal to the outside me.....
The other days she asked me why I put on makeup, when I told her she replied "but mama, I love you just the way you are." Now, that's been the highlight of my years as mother so far. Give me sloppy kisses, chubby-armed hugs, sleepy cuddles, bath time tickles and playground squeals any day over all else and I will show you a happy 40 year old.
Never thought, in my wildest of dreams that I would be spending my 40th birthday in cold Quebec, talking halting French, so far away from my family and loved ones  in Montreal. I miss my mom and dad and my brother like crazy. Its been 11 years since my brother made me a funny card for my birthday and I miss it so much now thinking that those days will never be back again. Ever.
This will be the first time in 40 years that I will not be having payesh or sweet rice pudding made lovingly by mom and dad for my birthday. Every year, it has been the one thing that has been a constant. Even when my mom was travelling or away for work, my dad used to make me this rich thick creamy payesh standing in the kitchen till late at night. Being away from them, that's going to be the hardest.
There are these moments when  I start to feel sorry for myself and begin to tear up but then I log right on to my favourite shopping sites online and order a dress here and a top there and I feel much much better.

The focus is now going to be on the next 40 years. With my imperfect body, wrinkles, paranoia et all, I will move headlong. I will live and laugh with my daughter. I will learn to skate, maybe even ski, I'll paint my heart out and color my dreams psychedelically. I'll pick up when I fall, laugh and try again. I will embrace my curves and encase them in shapewear and tummy trimmimg jeans when needed.
My 40 rocks and here is raising a glass to it.

Six is the sweetest age

Six is the sweetest age. Not yet ready to leave the lap of childhood yet independent strong and vocal. Chasing butterflies one minute and looking longingly at high heels the next. Six is what my precious is today. She is saying goodbye to her toddler years, preparing to begin her education in earnest, starting to read, write and be enraptured by the joys of discovering things for the first time. Six seems like just yesterday. Six seems like the clock is racing. Six is one last morning cuddle before wake up time, six is choosing her own outfits no matter how mismatched they are. Six is pink, soft and fluffy. Six is ponies and Barbie. Six is having imaginary conversations with her dolls. Six is the immense pride in getting dictation words right. Six is friendship one minute, tears the next and six is one last swing or one more turn on the monkey bars. Six is peer pressure and wanting to wear what her friends are wearing to school. Six is a hasty wave before she rushes off to greet her friends each morning and complaining at 5.00pm that its too early to go back home from school. Six is resisting her bath each day, but once inside, refusing to come out. Six is questions and more questions about each and everything all around.

I hope the rainbows and ponies stay for as long as they want. I hope you never outgrow your princess pink phase. I wish for you to always see the world as you see it now, clean, pure, innocent and happy. I wish for you to laugh like you do now over the silliest things and take comfort in the fact that a hug from mommy will make the boo boo better.

I love to watch you sleep you know. I love to breathe in your scent. I sometimes hold your hand and just feel how soft you are. I pull up the covers for the hundredth time just for you to kick them off again and I never tire of picking up your tutus from the floor. I love Owly-Owl, Pinkie pony and Bambi too. The giant pink unicorn sheds its fur all over the bedroom floor and after you have gone to school I pick up the threads and smile thinking of how tightly you hugged it the night before.
Your choice of pink, pink and more pink for everything drives me crazy sometimes, yet isn't that what year 6 is all about? My heart swells with pride when you explain how the earth goes round the sun and I get teary eyed when you sing Jan Gana Mana in your baby sweet voice.

I realised how much you have grown today when you cried your heart out on getting a beautiful card from your grandparents in India. The depths of your feelings completely took me by surprise. You said you missed them and wanted them close so you could hug them and say thank you. That told me you were so much wiser than your six years. I have to let you go on your own paths soon. I need to let you find your way, overcome sorrows and heatbreak, triumph over disappointments and be tenacious enough to realise your dreams.  I am not ready yet to take that leap. Not ready to miss out on each and every moment of your life and certainly not ready to let go of your hand, but at 6 my love, you are readying to do just that. The meadows are still full of flowers and butterflies abound. Find your paths but still be the happy little girl you are now. Happy 6 years to you my precious, for six is still the sweetest age.

Extraordinary

I came in contact with someone really extraordinary recently. I didn't think they made people like her anymore. She's one of a kind, all smiles, heart and soul and exuding an energy I cannot describe. I had heard about her for a while. She was supposed to be a very dynamic, talented, and gifted teacher, but my experience with her was really so much more.
She walked into our class the very first morning with a little bit of intrepidation. We were anxious, nervous, eager and raw. She sensed that and put the sweetest salve on our rawness. She smiled, looked into our eyes and within minutes she had all our names memorized. With something just as simple as that, she put us ease and we began in earnest. I found myself challenged at first. Was I really cut out for it? My level of French didn't even come close to what some of the others had in my class. I found myself excited at the prospect of going to her class each day. Her manner was simple, clear, precise and well thought of. It was as if she knew my handicap, anticipated my questions and had simple practical solutions to offer. She transformed a language course into something visually understood. To remember some of the prepositions she told us to correlate it with @2%..à,de, pour, sans ... Elementary and effective. To remember participe passé, we used DrMrsVandertramp! I felt like a child in school again, but hey, then again, that's exactly what I was. To remember the verbes pronominal, we used Josephine and Napoleon as an example. I am sure these things will stay on with me forever.
She was very forthcoming with encouragement and praise. She chose to look at the positive side of things even when some situations bothered her. She welcomed the students with open arms and gave advise like an older sister. Instantly, she had my attention, my motivation and above all my respect. The French language is difficult for me. Being a high academic achiever all throughout, I wanted to be ahead academically, yet at the same time I did not want to let her down. The effort, the thought and the hard work she put in surely deserved more than a half hearted try. I pushed myself a bit more each day. I read the french newspaper, watched French tv and made more of an effort to face my handicapped oral French. She made me dig deep in appreciating the little and not so little things in life when I read "Le petit prince". Many a quote from the book caused tears to flow forth. She even shared her favorite books with me. It went beyond the ordinary and became just that much extra.
Days slipped by silently and weeks simply rolled. With laughter, reminiscence, anecdotes and advise, she transformed our class with unspoken dynamics. She was passionate, patient and most of all she put us at ease. I eased into accepting French and talking French naturally. She was never overly strict with rules, always there to help in a crisis, often overlooking tardiness and extremely generous with her marks. She shared her hot ginger tea with me when she saw my discomfort with a dry irritating cough and helped others in their life issues, career choices or simply by recommending a doctor to someone in need. She guided us in the exam, corrected us gently, encouraged us and made us love her subject as much as her in the process.
To me, her work seemed so much more than a profession. It was something she did with her heart. After I wrote the first essay in her class, she moved me to tears when she came up to me and told me that I write like a québécois. That was perhaps the only time I have ever felt validated by my teacher. Just those words gave me the added impetus to conquer my fears of a new language. The more I embrace it,  the more it loves me in return.

It's funny sometimes how the universe conspires to help us when we are ready to learn. Nicole was just that. She came into my life when I was most challenged, lost and unsure. She helped me transform vulnerability into triumph and made me believe in the future. She treated us like people before students, respected our limitations yet pushed us ever so gently in the right direction without expecting anything in return. Like she said, we are really her children. I learnt more than the correct French from her, I learnt about the goodness of the heart. I hope to one day, carry forward what I learnt from her, I hope to aspire to be a better human being and I hope to try and find the Nicole in me to continue this circle called life.

School Lunch Dilemma

The hardest part of my day is meal planning. Not just the meals we eat ensemble as a family but planning healthy tasty school lunches for my primary schooler. It has many levels of stress for me, first it has to be healthy: given our propensity to gain weight, family history of diabetes and elevated blood pressure, not to mention the cheese-butter-meat-sugar society we live in, it is a monster task I have to struggle with. Both the husband and kid are not too fond of the upma-poha-chilla indian kind of power packed breakfasts and lunch and I juggle with bread, meat, rice, pasta, tortilla options endlessly.
Next comes the time factor, it has to be doable in a half hour or less...groan. It has to be easily transportable, easily eatable by a 5 year old with minimum fuss and spills and has to be big on taste too. If I ever had a choice between being slim for life and having magical superpowers in the kitchen, the superpower prowess option would win hands down..(sigh!)
I am a one pot kind of girl. I like to throw things together into one pot and not bother with too many options and choices. Give me my meat veggies and carbs together please and see me smile.
Of course I love the elaborate indian curries and dry sabji/torkaris, daals and meat, but only if someone else(read my mom) cooks it for me, slaving the day in the kitchen, but certainly not for me. I can happily survive on bread and butter and watch my waistline expand.
I am the lazy cook, so that doubles my lunch stress.
My daughters school does offer the option of a hot lunch and believe me it's infinitely appealing on many levels especially in-21 degrees cold Montreal winters, but she insists that she wants mommy to cook her lunch..(she is still 5 after all and mom is still wearing her halo) so I suck it up, put all my motherly love into the wok and get a reasonably decent lunch together at 5.45am in the morning. I take comfort in knowing exactly what goes into my daughters tummy and that she likes my cooking for now. In a few years the same stuff that she loves to eat now will be labelled Yucky and moms halo will be replaced by red gleaming horns so I hope to enjoy it while it lasts.
It's a huge struggle coming up with ideas 5 days of the week. I have apps like Foodily and Food on the Table and I can rattle off stuff for Epicurious with my eyes closed, but my struggles continue.
Just yesterday I got the idea to chronicle the school lunches I make, everyday for a month from my favorite blogger Bong moms cookbook. She posted her kids lunch menu and other fans and followers contributed their ideas and comments. How cool was that!
Maybe if I can record the kind of lunches I made and what went into it, I will know when and how to put it in rotation. In a few years too when I lock horns with my much older daughter, we can both look back to the days when the same school lunches were fun for her…
So here goes:

Jan 8, 2013…

Lunch: Tortilla wrap with chicken keema and peas
Sweet peppers
Snack: Dan Active drinking yogurt in banana strawberry flavor.

Verdict by the 5 year old: YUMMY...polished it off completely. A high point for mommy. She's shining her halo.

The keema and peas

Jan 8th 2013: Lunch: Tortilla wrap with spiced chicken keema and peas. Snack: DanActive drinking yogurt

Chicken keema:
400 gms minced chicken marinated with lots of crushed garlic( 5 big pods), a 1/2 inch grated ginger, 2 tbs onions minced, cumin powder, turmeric powder, red chili powder ( a pinch), coriander powder and garam masala, salt to taste
I let it all marinade overnight.
next morning i got it out of the frig along with 2/3 cup of frozen peas and one boiled potato
I heated 2 tsp oil in my non stick wok and added some more garam masala, 2 tbs more or minced onions and let it get  fragrant
Next I added the chicken with all the marinade and spices etc and let it cook well breaking up the pieces. When almost done, I added the chopped boiled potato, the thawed and microwaved peas,2 tsp of tomato sauce and cooked it till fragrant and done. Checked the salt and then added a handful of fresh green coriander leaves....Hmm heaven!
I put the mixture in the frig and used it inside one warmed whole wheat tortilla
I copped a few mini sweet peppers to accompany the wrap.

Food in a foreign land

The scales have never been kind to me. In fact each time I gather up my courage to climb on one, it laughs at my face. I have had a love affair with food for as long as I can remember. I love to eat and it shows. Food is my comfort, my sin, my passion and yes, my fat too. Food however has taken on a whole new meaning since the time I came to Montreal. With every kind of ingredient within easy reach, nothing is out of bounds or too difficult to make. Weekends turn into gastronomic adventures and indulgences hit the roof. But it's a whole different feeling to find the foods from your country, the foods you grew up eating and the food that is so unique to our land in a far away corner of the world. It's the thrill of discovering the perfect daal or the succulent tikka that only a sweaty turbaned punjabi dhaba owner can make, or the crunchy vada of the south Indian origin in far off Montreal.
Only recently our dear friends D and A introduced us to the popular Indian place in Montreal where the owner and serveuse speak chaste punjabi, there is piped bhajan music playing on the player somewhere and pictures of various gods and goddesses adorn the wall along with the ubiquitous taj mahal, Pushap sweets.
The samosas were to die for. After spending a samosa-less, tikki-less, gulab jamun less year, I fell onto the street food wagon like a starving orphan. I guzzled the syrupy sweetmeats, ate through a few plates of Chloe bhature and watched the fair skinned Quebecois tuck into the thalis on offer there.
Stuff that was so routine and part of our everyday consumption in the motherland has taken on a whole new meaning in a distant place. There is dhahi bhallas which taste very much like the real thing, samosas that come in all shapes and with multitude of fillings, chutneys vie for space with their color taste and vibrancy and the south Indian food on offer here is 'simbly awesome'.
In the depths of the Canadian winters I craved my moms home made bhuni khichuri. I would try and replicate dishes I had taken for granted at home and never bothered to learn. I would beg my mom to email me her recipe for cabbage with peas or prawn malai curry as I longed for a taste of home. I made a separate section with a special label for the recipies my mom sent, I started following blogs on Indian cooking in earnest and tried my hand at making and baking Indian dishes and sweetmeats every chance got.
On Diwali this year, as the temperatures plunged to sub zero, I was ticked pink ( orange????) having made my very first gajar ka halwa. So excited I was at my feat that I could not wait to share it with my friends ad fellow food lovers. I began to look forward to our get togethers when I knew our friend D would cook up a batch of divinely succulent mutton curry. I would brave snowstorms to get the frozen Nanak paneer so important was my craving for mutter paneer and we would wait impatiently for the Maxi grocery store to stock up on bhel puri and haldirams bhujia.
I am lucky that my family shares my love for food. Tia loves muter paneer, mutton curry, samosas and gulab jamun with a gusto. It gives me immense satisfaction to see her enjoy a bowl of Indian goodies. My heart swells with pride when she lists her favourite foods as daal bhaat, parantha and kebab.
The taste of home is not so easily forgotten. The memories happy and sad, of celebrations and triumphs, of hard work and laziness, of hot summer days and cold winter nights, of Durga pujas and
diwalis are all linked to food in one way or the other. 
Its a heady feeling to discover a really good place that sells your childhood goodies and share it with your friends. Food is our common language. Each one of us has their own memories associated with the foods we ate in the homeland. 
The scale sits dusty at the bottom of my bed now. I can hear it mocking me, but the comforting smells of aloo methi from the kitchen and the biriyani cooking on the stove has its way of overruling it.
Outside it's a cold and grey day, and inside more food memories are being made, albeit in distant Montreal.

Gajar ka halwa on diwali

Mutter paneer

Fish fry..all dolled up

Year One

Everyone remembers their firsts, the first prize, the first love, the first kiss, first baby..., for me today it would be my first year in Montreal, Quebec. Tia and I landed here exactly a year ago on the 1st of December 2011, on a vividly sunny, bitterly cold and windy day. I was recovering from an illness, my body was travel weary and my heart was torn in two, leaving my parents and home and trying to put on a brave face for a future totally unknown.
In theory it seemed to make sense, but as I was packing to leave home and my parents, I honestly thought that I would snap in two. I was emotionally drained and yet I had to suck it up and try and brave it. I told myself in my mind that this was going to be a trial period. That I could always return if I did not like it, but I could see in my fathers eyes and my mothers embrace that they thought otherwise. They knew me better than myself.
It was a blurry experience getting off the plane, clearing immigrations and before I knew it I got a glimpse of the city from the back seat of the cab. The trees were bare, it looked so grey all around, yet there as a big bright sun in the sky. I remembered thinking that it looked so industrial unlike the explosions of color I was used to seeing in India.
Yogi was so excited to show me the home he had made for us and in his excitement forgot the passcode to the main door and we spent the next few minutes, shivering in the cold, surrounded by our luggage ( all 9 pieces) as Yogesh tried his best to remember the code and call up the concierge of the building as we stared dumbly all around us.
In due course, The code was finally entered and I stepped into a warm sun filled apartment which was to be our home from now on.
All I wanted to do was call my parents and lie down. That's what I remember of that day exactly one year ago.
 Step two was getting geared up for the winter. Shivering in my thin layers we made our way to the mall to buy snow pants, snow boots, hats, mittens, and parkas for Tia and me. I had absolutely no idea what to look for and it was a pretty stressful search for waterproof-wind-proof snow pants and jacket for Tia, waterproof-snow gloves and snow boots. Delhi winters had no way prepared me for the brutal Canadian winter. The wind chill made my eyes water and froze the insides of my nose. I could not feel my head and my temper was directly proportional to my discomfort.
Tia being a happy 4 year old then, was happy to skip around and explore her new surroundings oblivious of the discomforts and perils the winter chill.
Yogi insisted that I get a decent parka too and only then did I begin to thaw out. It turned out that all the good winter jackets and boots were sold out by the 1st of December. Canadians take their winter gear very seriously and waiting till the temperatures hit sub zero to buy the winter paraphernalia is not a great idea.
I was exhausted and jet lagged by all this shopping stress and thus concluded the next few days.
I realized how disconnected I was when I could not read a single road sign, or a single label at the shops. It felt so alien. People were warm and friendly all around, yet I felt handicapped by my lack of  French.
As days turned to weeks, weeks to months, I was welcomed by most people I met with open arms. My french failings seemed to be fading as I found my way around and got to meet and talk to people (gasp: in English ! ) Tia started daycare or GARDERIE as it is called here and I was bowled over by the sincerity and the warmth of the people and the system. Everywhere I went there was acceptance, warmth and an eagerness to accept a non francophone into their midst. I got to learn about the daycare system. I saw how much attention the kids get here and it was so easy to forget the chaos and crowds of school in Delhi. Tia started to understand French and pretty soon had a best friend. I found myself explaining to her about skin color and it color and how we are all the same regardless of how we look.
I started to address people with a hesitant 'bonjour' and took my baby steps to learning French.
The weather grew colder, the snow was magical. All around the houses seemed like in a fairy tale. Christmas came, we had a tree. Santa visited with some goodies and life began in earnest as I learnt to improvise, prioritize and give my everything to raising a happy healthy child. I was lucky enough to get work too and I attended evening French classes as the snow blizzards blew.
Yogi travelled for work in March and Tia and I were totally alone here for over a month and we managed it all. It was lonely without family and loved ones but it gave me tremendous independence and self confidence.
Among other things, I got to experience first hand, the good side of humanity. My wallet which I accidentally lost while picking up Tia was returned by a kind lady who found it outside the library.
I was overwhelmed by kindness and generosity. It was a valuable lesson on doing good to others and I have witnessed such small gestures pretty much all around me every day.
In the spring I started university to study the French language full time and I was amazed by the standard of teaching here. Punctuality, professionalism and commitment took on a whole new meaning. The teacher worked harder than the students to make the class fun and interesting. Centres of learning such as the university of Montreal are really like mini cities with state of the art technology to make life so much easier for the students and I truly fell in love with the education and teaching methods here.
I began communicating in French now and no longer felt like an alien from outer space.
In the summer my parents came to visit and it was the best time. Tia turned 5, as the city erupted in green and I explored the city and it's offerings of nature and festivals with my parents. Every weekend was packed as we played in the water, picnicked in the parks, ate fresh produce from the farmers market, went to music shows and festivals and tanned and relaxed with my loved ones all round, I had the best summer of my life. My parents liked Montreal as much as me. There was something for everyone to do here and there is never a dull moment. I made friends gradually. We party, we hang out, we share our weeks ad our food and our doors are always open to them.
Tia started kindergarten while I was away on work and Yogi and my mom were able to be there and help her get settled in the big school. She seems to be enjoying school a lot and her days are long, filled with sports, activities friends and work. I love the kindergarten activities they are doing a lot. I love the system and method of teaching and I love it that the kids are exposed to art, literature, music and books from early on. I like the sense of community and the idea of voluntary community service. It's a whole different approach to help and be part of the vast and diverse community we are all a part of.
A year on, Tia is completely Bilingual. She speaks the French language as a pro, I too can talk in French whenever needed, I can speak in French with the teachers in the school, I can read labels, understand local terms and feel like a local. I even complain of the cold like a Québecois!
A year on, I am no longer scared. It was a year of learning, letting go, exploration and discovery. I am used to breathing in the cold air, used to the convenience of the system, happy to use public transport and no longer afraid of a challenge. It was a time to focus on family and find happiness in the small things. Bonne annee to us and many many more to come. Hope we never forget the passcode to the front door again...

Glimpses of the city in summer

parc jean drapeau

Montmorency falls

Touched by an angel. Happy 5th to tia

My heart is filled to bursting point. It's a special feeling and one that cannot be explained, comprehended or even contained. The light of my life, my heart and my soul, the princess of our hearts turns 5 today. My little fledgling is a Big girl now, she is 4 feet tall and has two brand new adult teeth. She has a sunny disposition, is an extrovert of the highest order and has a temper that springs forth at the drop of a hat. She has the softest hair, and the brightest eyes. Her baby arms encircle my waist as I comb her hair each day and she says she can't wait to grow up and look like mommy. Silently in my heart I wish for time to stop at that moment forever. She smells of baby lotion, shampoo and of excitement and wonder. I love to cuddle up with her in bed just to inhale the fragrance of childhood and hold it in my senses forever. I wonder if I can ever tell her how much she means to me, or how deeply I love her. My heart sings with joy when I see her after a busy say. I can move mountains to make everyday special for her. She is independent, stubborn and headstrong too. At 5 years she has a 'I can do it myself' streak that cannot be contained. She is strongly vocal and emotional. She has a brilliant artistic streak and the uncanny ability to sense when mommy needs a hug. She is all pink and girly, yet is a tomboy who loves to play rough with her nana or dig in the dirt with her grandma. She speaks French like a local and Bengali in her baby sweet voice. She has imaginary conversations with her toys that I love to eavesdrop on. Her imagination and creativity blow me away at times. She has confidence in her ability and helps others in need whenever she can. I am astounded at the changes a mere 5 years have brought. She hugged me as we cuddled for bedtime just now. She wanted to hear the story of how she was born from mummy's tummy for the hundredth time. She loves to hear it over and over again. In turn I love telling her about how much we wanted her in our lives. It's the most special time of the day and as she hugged me she said ' thank you mommy for my birthday, I love you'.....I have not stopped crying happy tears since. Thank you my darling for choosing me as your mom. Thank you for the sunshine sparkles, the teary hugs, the growing lessons and the moments of pure unadulterated fun. Thank you for the wonder and awe with which I view the world, as we both discover new things and take paths uncharted and unfamiliar. Thank you for the confidence you have in me as your mother. Thank you my darling for coming into my life and coloring it with every hue. Happy 5th birthday my darling Tia. Happy 5th to us as a family and may the sunshine and smiles increase manifold with each passing year. Love mommy

the broken limb part2

How much we underestimate mobility. I have spent a considerable amount of the year gone by complaining about my hectic schedule, my hatred of driving and my crazy life. The past 24 days changed all that. Never again will I take my ankle for granted. Its the essence that keeps my feet on the ground. Never again will I long to lounge in bed doing nothing....its not what its cut out to be. besides how many days of doing nothing can a person take. Never will I take lightly the simple mundane activities like stretching, brushing my teeth, turning to one side and taking a bath. A broke limb changes all that.
Its hard to sit in bed with the leg elevated on pillows. Its hard on the back, on the tailbone and on the other leg too that has the ample cushioning. Its hard to hobble on a walker..i feel 80 years old. It hard on the wrist and the palms too and i have never had such sore palms before.
Bathing is an event in itself and probably the most uncomfortable part of my day..not because of the pain or anything but because my mommy has to bathe this amazon of a woman. I leave all semblances of normality out of the door when I step into the bath..its too embarrassing to go into the details but its a humbling experience in itself.
Its hard to be dependent on another person for just about everything. I cannot close a window, get myself a glass of water, or even dress myself without help. If my phone rings and it is more than an arm length away, i cannot reach it. if my daughter wants something i cannot get it..its frustrating to say the least. My patience is wearing thin and my breaking point gets shorter with each passing day.
My plans went all akimbo with my fall. My busy bursting life is reduced to a small radius of the bathroom, bedroom and the living room. I made plenty new discoveries in these 24 days too like its easy to slide than hop on the walker. That i can brush my teeth under 3 mins flat, and that i can be wearing my shorts and have oiled hair when people come to visit me. I can survive without my makeup and my skin has lost its tan and is a shade or two lighter with all this indoor exposure and that i have gone through the entire month without once using my credit card. hooray!
It has been a time to rediscover my real friends. They have called me, sat with me when i was so lonely in the hospital room, brought me lovely books and flowers and have come to see me from way across town. Its for this that i am most thankful. I think I have spent more time talking to my friends in the past 24 days than i have done in the entire past year. I have had friends call me from California and Canada and the well wishes just keep pouring in. The virtual world has been fun too and my cyber buddies are so much fun to connect with. I am so thankful for the funny comments and messages. Discovering friends whom I long took for granted and the love and affection we share is what makes this broken limb seem ok now.

the broken limb

I've been thinking for the past 24 days. There's not much else to do actually. thinking, feeling, venting and yes spending most of my time on my big behind since i cannot use my right leg for a few more weeks. I took a nasty fall on the 1st of June 2011, on a hot hot hot Wednesday afternoon. I was poised to make a huge change, i was looking forward to many new plans, and was conjuring up mental images of what was ahead when all of a sudden i slipped off the road divider, bang into on coming traffic and crack..broke my right ankle bone to smithereens.
The poor bone could hardly withstand this big girl's fall. It broke onto 3. I asked for help but Delhi's milk of human kindness refused to flow and i was helpless and hurt and a spectacle in the middle of the dirty dusty street. People stared from across the road. I saw a many a curious eye taking in the fun of watching the fat girl fall but no one came to help a fellow human being a few kilos here or there.
I dragged myself and my swollen leg across, dodging the traffic, tried to stop the rising panic and the gnawing bone and propelled myself to an auto to somehow make it to my car. I had to request the auto driver to support me while i made it to my car and only once inside did i allow myself to cry and wallow at my ordeal.
Its strange how things unfold and how they look in hindsight. The first reaction in my moment of crisis was to call my mommy. I howled while i called her and told her that i thought i had broken my leg. I called my father too crying, needing my daddy more than i ever did before. while i waited for my father to rush to my assistance, all I could think of was calling my husband in distant Montreal, across the seas, and time zones, blissfully asleep at 5.30am. I just wanted his comfort and it did not even cross my mind that I was worrying him sick out of his mind and leaving him feeling helpless from so far away. I just wanted his reassurance..just wanted him to tell me that things will be fine and that he loved me....
Daddy came real soon, husband spent those frantic minutes reassuring me, mother and daughter at home were worried sick and my leg went numb from all the action.
I think back to what i did, how my reactions were and how the scenario unfolded now with a twist of a smile, but when i was in my moment of crisis i was so thankful to have loved ones to fall back on.

milestones and miles to go

Almost a year since i wrote. I never thought I'd have anything fun/interesting/deep to say..but thinking back, I realised I missed journaling my fun moments, the moments that made me pause and think, the times when a light bulb went off over my head or just the times when I wanted time to stop because my heart was breaking. Many changes are strewn along the year gone by. Most importantly was our decision to settle down in Canada. Yogi left last year...he resolve to live in a better country with better facilities and which valued work as work was unshakable. Its been 9 months now..9 months since a new life has taken shape is a far away distant cold land. Now, I prepare to follow suit with my precious four year old.
The change is terrifying me. I am leaping into the unknown. Leaving behind the place I love, the job I love and the people I love the most to give our future a chance to turn into something unknown. I am torn between wanting to hold on yet move forward... torn between wanting to be there more for Tia and yet terrified of never returning to my creative endeavours.
The finality of the decision to move away just sank in as I am preparing to withdraw Tia from the school she loves and friends she has just begun to make. I see such immense sadness in her grandfather's eyes as he knows that the days of their rough and tumble play are numbered. I sign in to my workplace these days with a heavy heart. No one knows of my decision to move as yet...but I am carrying this huge bundle of memories and sadness as I go about my daily duties. We have spent 9 months away as a family. The mother-father-child unit is now alien to Tia. She prepares to turn 4 in a few days and does not seem to miss her father too much. I am throwing her a grand party with lots of friends and fun..and I am moved to tears thinking that she will be separated from these friends soon never to return.
Yes she will make new friends, learn a new language and a way of life in her new home far away...but I will always always have this niggling doubt in the back of my head if what I did was indeed in her best interest.
I am excited too. The anticipation of being with my husband, the excitement of setting up a new home, and being a hands on mom after years of tip-toeing around the demanding schedule of working in TV..of cooking 3 meals for my own family and being able to feel pride in the little triumphs of the day.
Tia's 4th birthday will be a milestone our entire family will remember..it will be the year that our lives changed forever

the wonder years

The more I grow up (or age gracefully), the more I seem to be reflecting on the days gone by. The best days were the ones I spent in school. I have such vivid memories of the sights, the sounds, the experiences and even the smells. I was in an all-girls school for the first 10 years and it was as memorable as it can ever be. I was in LOVE with our cute white and red uniform. The crisp white shirt, the white box pleated divided skirt, the red belt, the red socks and the cute red hair accessories were the best. I was always the tall one in my class. I got to stand at the end of the line, sit at the back of the class and play the male part in all the school plays. While the rest of the girls got to play the pretty princess or Mary in the Christmas pageant, i was always the prince, the father, the scraggly old man, Joseph or even one of the 3 Kings! My best friend was also in my school(obviously!) she even lived in the neighbourhood and we had so much fun together. Studying or doing homework was the last thing on our minds as we spent so many carefree days playing hop-scotch, badminton, and eventually moved on to talking about boys and clothes. My mother would always find me at her house at mealtimes. I used to time my visits to coincide with the appam stew, beef curry or kari meen that her mother used to make. At other times, i used to make do with the pickles they had specially sent in from Kerela. I was heartbroken when they moved away. Eventually we did too and like all children, i made new friends, went to a new school, found interests like rock and roll and Madonna to amuse me and got more than my fair share of attention from the boys.
My school days were full of fun and learning. I remember coming home after Elocution class to teach my mom how to pronounce and enunciate correctly. Or loving Shakespeare's Tempest with all my heart. I fondly remember the SUPW(Socially useful Productive Work) classes and the needle point tea-cosy i had so proudly made. I remember being the flag bearer at the march past on our Sports days, but never winning anything at the race. I remember my basketball days and how my mother used to take me for practice even on a Sunday, riding a hot-tin bus when we did not have the luxury of a car. I remember so proudly wearing our basketball uniform of a teeny-tiny red miniskirt(I still had legs then!) and making heads turn as we went to other schools to participate. I really don't remember how many we won or lost, but the feeling of being out there, with peers was beyond extraordinary. I loved being on stage too be it singing Leaving on a Jet plane, or participating in the Christmas Pageant, singing Alto in the Choir or playing the part of the angry father in the dramatisation of Mill on the Floss.
I was a good student too. I had a good head and when needed i could apply myself on the academic level. I was in the top 10 of my class and other than in Hindi, i was a high scorer on most subjects. The time spent in the school library was one of wonder for me. It was there that I discovered Enid Blyton and her magical use of words. I would read each and every book she ever wrote and as i grew older i moved on to Nancy Drews, Hardy Boys, Hitchcock and then...Mills and Boon!
My mother till this day believes that I would be a better person(a doctor perhaps??), had Mills and Boons not filled my young, impressionable head with wild, passionate, romantic imagery! The more she tried to keep me away from "trash" the more i read them. Thus began the rebellion of my teenage years, with loud Rock music, shorter than short skirts, crazy psychedelic plastic ear-rings, studded boots and BOYS!
There was no looking back, as i found suitors in every nook and cranny and I loved the attention they gave me. From compliments to books to music...the secret stash kept growing every week as did my battle with my parents, who thought that i was well on my way to the path of ruin and disrepute. When i wrote in my secret diary my mom would be itching to know who it was about and when i began to get terrible headaches, my mom even thought that i was doing drugs. Many days of sulking, crying, raging battles and treats ensued. Many nights spent crying, and lamenting about how they did not "understand" me. Many Rod Stewart, Peter Gabriel, Madonna, Wham records later, i calmed down. I started a new school( a co-educational one at that) and I found the school boys could be so un-interesting. I made some amazing friends and managed to cram the best days of my life in the two years of Senior school that I spent there. I learnt to love studying again. My love affair with the English language flourished and I made a new best friend. My new friends made me love "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy" and "PG Wodehouse". I wholeheartedly particiated in the childish school pranks or hard study lessons and emerged a winner. I remember the infectious gang of girls in my class. There was one who would study too much or the one who used to laugh the loudest, the one with serious style and the one with the nose pin....Two years flew by at the blink of an eye and we grew up, laughed and made many memories together. Our school farewell was the most poignant moment for me. Dressed in my mothers purple Kanjivaram Saree I lit the lamp that would light my paths in the years to come, The atmosphere was heavy, it was time to grow up, to take on responsibilities, to find the path of your dreams. Many roads would take us on many new paths, the comfort and security of school would be left behind. We made many promises to our Friends, wrote on each others year books and posed for an unending stream of photographs to freeze the moment for our lifetime. As i walked back home that night with my parents, looking over my shoulder I saw my lamp flickering in the distance. Maybe many new memories await me, many new experiences yet to unfold, many even-better times yet to come....but with tears welling in my eyes I bid a silent goodbye to the best years of my life...my wonder years