The question I will never ask my son

So often I over-hear mothers asking their little ones a questions and I tell myself "No I will never ask my son that question".
What will you be when you grow up? That is the most common and often repeated question. Mothers I asked claim that the question will set their children thinking about their future, would make them ambitious and will encourage them to study harder. I love the answers they receive, I will be a bus driver, a barber, I will be an engine driver, a policeman. I hear the mothers mutter things like" you are too young to answer that","Hey those jobs wont make you as successful as dad". I cannot stand the pep talks mothers give soon after the answers. "May be you should be a doctor, or a computer engineer, may be a bank manager". Thanks to the ignorance of childhood, the child sees heroes in the 'workmen', the barber, the cobbler, the tailor and the bus-driver.
How today's mothers and indeed parents have forgotten that all little children grow up to be characters- Chacracters they the parents influence heavily and will be formed before the child turns six. How they seemed to have forgotten that children are not born with the sole purpose of pursuing a career and making money. How they have ceased to remember that children are made in the likeness of God and they distort this God-likeness to petty ambitions and drives for success. How they fail to acknowledge that long before the lives of their children are over their careers will be over. Then these children will roam the face of the earth with bitterness and resentment, loneliness and sheer lack of identity.
I will never ask my son what he wants to be when he grows up. My desire is to bring up as a 'man after God's own heart'. So someday soon I will tell him what Martin Luther King said "If a man is called to be a street sweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great street sweeper who did his job well"

Airplanes

The mountains, the sea and the sky- they never cease to excite me.
On a dull and mundane afternoon, I just need to take a stroll and stare at the sky. The expanse, the colour, the clouds, the birds, especially eagles and the occasional airplanes just let my heart rise and fly. The emotion I experience, is one that no crazy roller coaster ride could give. I marvel, I sigh, I admire, I jump deep within, I blush, I think and I feel so small and insignificant. Then my dull afternoon becomes all so lively and I am happy and refreshed.
But my favourite is the airplane. My first memories of the airplane starts as early as my fifth year on earth. I still hear my uncles screaming "Hannah come, come!! look that is a jet plane". I saw a speck moving in the sky leaving two white lines that got wider and blurred out. "What is that I asked "ahem..... thats like the smoke that comes out of the silencer in your dad's scooter said one of my uncles". Till date those two lines turn me on like nothing else does
Then came the helicopters that would drop printed notices from the air, I would rush to pick them where they fell and then scream at the top of my voice as I ran under the helicopter imagining I was chasing it. I never bothered to find out what the contents of those handbills where. There was a famous pass time with the children of my neighbourhood to rush out at the sound of an airplane and scream "bye!, bye!". I truly appreciate the grown-ups around with us then;they never killed our fun saying "no one up there can actually see you". Over the years I started to guess where an airplane was heading from my city based on the direction it took. I was not right always but it was a good excercise to learn my north,south,east and west so well that I could understand when my grandfather gave directions to any place. He always said 'walk a furlong towards the east then turn north......... " he never said "walk straight turn left and then right".
When I was eight I flew in an airplane for the first time. Believe me!! looking down from up there for the first time was amazing. It dawned to me that all my waving at an airplane was seen by no one in the airplane. Somehow after nearly 25 years I still wave and say bye to an airplane in the sky. People dont think I am crazy because my three year old is standing beside me. What they don't know is that I could wave and yell even if I were alone.
The only man that has had a fright because of this habit of mine is my husband. When we were newly married we lived close to the airport. So depending on the direction of the wind, all flights that were landing or taking off went right above my house.Imagine my glee, I would rush out at the sound of every plane and wave and say "bye". My husband wondered if he had married a lady with a strange idiosyncrasy. Then I would scream" Honey that's a British Airways, and this one is Lufthansa, gee I can actually see the Airline names is'nt that cool?". He would only say a hesitant "hm......". Fortunately he soon realised that airplanes in the sky just made me a child momentarily and I was normal otherwise.
Airplanes in the night sky are magical. The blinking lights, the lights through the windows that remind me of the borders in rolls of old photograph negatives.Wow what a sight!
I reached the epitome of the joy of seeing airplanes in the sky a couple of years ago. Guess what? I saw an airplane from inside another airplane in which I was flying. It looked like a toy ,really tiny and seemed to float in space. It stays on in mind like a digital photograph.
I may travel far and wide on airplanes in the years to come, but when a grandmum I am, I will still wave at an airplane and scream "bye", maybe my grandchildren will save my skin ;).

I am teacing my son to lose

My son's daycare has been conducting competitions for the year, first there was the fancy dress, then coloring contest and now the sports day is here. Every child must participate, in all events,so I could not choose to send my son to be 'the audience' for any event. As this went on, my son won a few prizes lost a few and dint seem to bother about winning or losing.

Lately the spirit of competition in him has hit a new high. He has to win in every game at home!!!. If he did not, he wept. "I won!" "I did not lose!"

Then it dawned on me that winning became more important to him than deserving to win.
I tried hard to understand the basis of this desire and then slowly I began to see that all of us have the desire to win. Win when we do, we know how to take the praises. We like the fact that we are being applauded. And when winning becomes a pattern, then we hate to lose. We fret, we dread, we let shame consume us when we lose. Losing affects morale, self confience and self dignity. When we lose we feel insulted and disappointed. In short most of us think that winning is more important than deserving to win.
He must learn to lose....., my son must learn to lose.
"I will win", he said this morning and I said I would be happier if he lost. He started whinning "but I will win, I will win". "What difference would it make if you lost", I asked. "Nothing will change, mum and dad will love you just the same, your teacher would teach all the stuff she teaches to the winner"- I tried to reason with him. And then I told him what Pierre De Coubertin said "it is not in winning but in participating there is the true spirit of sportsmanship". "So shake hands with the girl or boy who wins today and say well done!". "Run to win but be prepared to accept defeat by one better than you".
It seemed above his age to tell him that losing gives more reason for striving to win than winning itself. After losing we work towards winning, but after winning we hate to lose and that is bound to happen.

Someday my son will read Kipling's 'IF' and understand what I told him today.

"If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;...........................

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!"

The Smiling Mad Man!!!!

Mad people have always intersted and intimidated me.
I have often wondered if to the mad the sane seemed just as mad. They seem to shake their heads endlessly and mutter to themselves always. Perhaps they are sorry for us -the so called sane.

In one of the bus-stops that I commonly used, was a mad man, a genial and unintimidating one. He saluted you and bowed so courteuosly, before he put out his hand for alms. His eyes and his smile where never vacant or meaningless. If you refused him money he did not curse!!!. This mad man did not seem to mutter too.

I watched in wonder as he used a drinking straw as a cigar holder and smoked his beedis away.

New-comers to the bus-stop tried to run away from him, but the others just accepted him as an intergral part of the bus-stop itself. Years went by and suddenly one day he disappeared!!!!!!. Many like me would ask around, 'what happened to that mad man?'. No one seemed to know. If he died I hope he died smiling and carefree as he lived.


I have moved to another city, but when at my home town, and when at the bus stop I still look around hopely for a familiar face- The face of the smiling mad man !!!!

AHhhhhhhhhhhhChu!!!!!

I am at the lift lobby waiting for for an elevator to open its doors. A string of people join me, all looking up for the lights atop the elevator doors to glow. Ting Tong and the elevator doors open. I step in first and then.... there is the fragrance of a rose, ah chocolate aroma next, wow the sweet scent of lavendar! What was that now, smelt like cheddar cheese :). Who's the dacoit!!!, I can smell musquito repelent.

I look around and find not people, but staues cast in stone, staring at nothing. What ever happened to the ears-stuck to the - mobile whisperers this morning ?. 'Are'nt your noses tickling people??????. Oh come on, rub your nose, sniff a little or least bat an eyelid- There are no fumes in here alright but there are purfumes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.', I yelled on the inside.

I am breathing hard, 'can we close the doors please' I say to myself. But not yet!!!.People are still walking in and it felt like I just walked under a lemon tree,then under an apple tree, then near a blue berry bush.
Boy!!! the doors shut and we start moving up.
The elevator stopped at the third floor, I step out and sneezed Ahh..ahhh... chhu!!. 'Bless you' said a kindly soul. I screamed within me"Bless the man that has to climb the 11 floors in the elevator". He will be SCENTOFFOCATED!!!!.

He left his best with me

City breds that live in joint families- a fast disappearing breed,I am one of them. Brought up in the heart of an industrial city, my sister and I lived with four uncles, an aunt, grandparents and a whole lot of visiting 'relatives', who walked in and out all through the year. Those where the days when visitors gave children fresh one rupee coins before they waved bye bye. The fun in the parents' resisting and the guest insisting and the child simply staring- it will soon be unheard off I am sure.

Despite all the talking,laughing and playing that was so much a part of the family, silence and mystery shrouded my Grandad. No one chit chatted with him, no one laughed with him, no one asked him questions, no one scolded him. The only thing I remember somebody doing ' with him' was to play chess. The lone friend who called on him was Mr. Singh, the only friend that called him up was S.R.Naidu.

He was an active man though- took a walk in the morning, prayed fervently, chopped wood for the fire, cycled to the store, read voraciously, smoked or chewed tobacoo a little, undertook frequent civil engineering surveys and slept a sound sleep.

My first interactions with him began when I was three and started going to Pre-KG. He walked me to, and from the school. Thus started for me an enduring relationship- one that grew stronger by the day and lasted 30 years. By the time I was seven, I was running to the petty shop to buy him cigarrettes and 'nizam lady' (chewable tobacco). In a year's time I had learnt the names and prizes of every brand of local cigaratte that existed then. He took my sister and I on a little trip to ooty when I was 10. He took us to a very unlikely children's spot. The church yard of St.Stephen's church ooty. The number of epitaphs I read on that one single day out number all the epitaphs I have read ever since. Then he showed me the most important tombstone there- the tombstone of Mrs. Henrietta Sullivan. John Sullivan was a British collector of coimbatore who founded the queen of hills in the 1800s.

When I turned 12 my grandfather told me "try and memorise Mathew chapter 5, 6 and 7, and whenever you do it I will give you a prize". I never promised him I would and have not done it till date. Wheezing struck be down badly when I was 16 and he told me "the power of the human mind is immense, keep telling yourself that you will recover and you will not worsen". He had introduced me to the concept of autosuggestion. Suddenly one day I asked every adult in the family, "when is grandad's birthday?", they said the did not know. So I walked up to him and asked him, he told me 'five days before yours'. Then for the next 12 years I called him on every one of his birthdays and he did the same to me.

During the five years of collegiate education, I visited him once every week. He had by then taken me for a dear friend and confederate. Within the locked doors of his tiny room week after week, he sang songs, told tales, shed tears and bragged victories. It was then I learnt that he had been a sheperd boy, tea estate laborer, trench digger, soldier, shikari and a draughtsman in the Highways department of India. I heard how he losts his mother at infancy and his dad at teenage. He very fondly told me about the woman who treated him, as a mother would treat her own child. In that tiny room I heard him confess his follies and defend some and got to know why he had two initials to his name.
During one of my weekly visits he said 'Hannahma I may leave many things to my sons, daughters and grandchildren, but I want to leave this with you- the book The Sermon on the mount by C.F. Andrews". As I read the book, I realised why he had asked me to memorise Mathew chapter 5,6, and 7.Those were the best days of our friendship.
A job took me away from my hometown and after a few more years, marriage took me to another state. One day news reached me that he had dementia and that parts of the family wanted him away at an institution. I went to my home town and went to his house, where I found him sleeping on the sofa. My aunts and uncles told me, you have to help him recognize you. I said "Thatha this is Hannah". He said "oh you've come, how have you been?". Then with no trace of dementia he explained to me how he fell ill, why they amputed one of his toes and how he was feeling then. The whole family was stunned and he never went to an institution.
My son was fortunate to have sat and played on his lap. After a trip to the UK, I heard that his memory was fading soon. Again I visited him and said "Thatha, Hannah". He asked me "so when did you return from England?". His brain was attempting to forget his errors I knew, and we called it dementia. A couple of months before he died, he visited my house- he rarely left his own house. He died a peaceful and sudden death. You could call it luck, but I know it was providential grace that I was in the city that day.
When his death certificate was to be applied for my family called me up to ask questions like what was his given name?, what was his date of birth ? and so on.
Then I knew that when he died, my dad and his siblilngs lost their dad, my grandma her husband, my cousins a grand dad, his relatives an uncle .
But I lost a friend. A dear and remarkable one.
I never visit his grave, I never will, for he is not in there. But whenever I remember my grandad, I pick up The Sermon on the Mount and read it.

Then I tell myself, he left his richest possession with me.

Children can teach us to be real !!

Does information bombardment make life more interesting? For example if we did not have the LTTE, the Oscars,Barack Obama, Indian Politics and Cricket would we still chit chat during our "team lunches"?. The 'daily news' equips us with 'conversation starters', but we never talk about 'life'. Do we ever discuss child labour, sense of humour, orphans and orphanages, music and philosophy.

Ah.............there I can almost hear you say "who wants to talk about them Phew!!!!".

Its because we don't do that kind of talking do we find ourselves shocked when 'The guy who shared your cabin at the office commits suicide' . And we find ourselves saying about a team mate "he looked normal till yesterday he has had a nervous break down today".

We fail to see the person behind the 'designation', the emotion behind the 'silence', the scar behind the 'shyness', the sadness behind the 'loudness', the hurt behind the 'snob' and the pathos behind the 'smile' .

Yes we are all individuals with our own 'personal space' and we hate it when another enters that personal space. But we are essentially social beings and the less we use 'the news' to talk the better it is.

We should learn from children to talk about the sky, the kite, the colours of a butterfly, the beauty of an airplane flying in the sky, the roar of the seas, the new born sister of a neighbour, the tricks possible with a top and the earthworm that wriggles.

May be then we could reach out to each other and enrich each others lives.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!