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”

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.

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

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