a new nickname

In the process of moving and packing I found of bunch of stuff I’d forgotten about. One of them is this greenish kuffiyeh that I‘d gotten a while ago and stopped wearing when kuffiyehs became less about supporting Palestine and more of a hipster badge. I’m wearing it now to keep the hair out of my eyes while I unpack our boxes and Big A likes to ask if it’s from my Baby Arafat line. Get it? Pretend it’s spelled with a “ph.” :)

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Sushila Atha

Sushila Atha, I think of you frequently. I wanted to name my daughter with your name. I would be thinking of you all the time if I had.

You’re not my atha, of course, you are my Amma’s. Her father’s only sister. Her mother has a sister named Sushila too, so I think I was nearly ten before I realized that mentions of you were different from conversations about Sushila Pinni.

You were the first girl in the family to attend college, but Amma was the first to graduate, a whole generation later. Because you were married before you could. Were married off. And then one day, Amma says, you returned to your parents’ house. Pregnant. Refused to return to your in-laws. Married women aren’t welcome at their birth houses without their husbands, you were told. You ran into the backyard, past the cows bellowing at the camphor flames, and jumped into the well. You were dead before they found a servant who could swim, who could save you. Amma says you were very beautiful. Hair past your knees. Accomplished. There are needlepoint pillowcases somewhere to prove it. Amma has never actually seen you either.

I’m sorry I wasn’t there. We could have gone to classes together, graduated, found jobs, brought our babies up together. (We’d do needlepoint or grow our hair only if we felt like it.) It’s not very difficult, they’ll let you bring your babies to class even, most of the time. They say your mother wanted to intervene but she was too afraid of her Gadadoss husband to do so. Gadadoss husbands still have that reputation. The Gadadoss women are, most of them, subversively feminist because of it.

Amma was horrified that I’d give my daughter your name. But it wasn’t to revisit your history upon her. It was the dream of reworking it, a chance to do your life differently. To let you roam the house raucously, gurgly, never expecting you to be demure. To let you be confident, independent. To keep you happy. To remember you always; you who are usually so secret, from tumbling further away from memory.


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Baby Immunity

Baby A is fascinated by kids, so instead of looking for a nanny here in our new town, we found her a place in a great group care for children under three. She seems to like it there. There‘re lots more people to boss, plus--extra walks, new toys, cheerios anytime she feels like it--the perks are great. But after three days there, she came home on Wednesday with a runny nose and has been running a temperature with a hacking cough and full-blown cold since.

And because she’s been trailing a toxic river of snot, her brother and father are sick too. And their coughing has led to some quality kneeling time at the commode, so the boys are barf-brothers now.

Me? I’m hearty as a gundu-rayi (the proverbial grinding stone). Despite frequently rubbing noses with the original and subsequent rivers of snot. Big A says: Not every one can be lucky enough to grow up in the “third world.”

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Baby Talk 2: The too tasty

Talking about baby talk with T reminded me of this.

Li’l A used to eat a kichri that I used to make him (with rice, and lentils and garlic and peppercorns and chicken and veggies, almonds, and olive oil, pressure cooked and mashed) every day for lunch. When I left him with my mom in Bangalore while I finished up a few things in Oxford, my mother made him this kichri (under my urgent request because this was the only thing in the whole world that would meet all his nutritional needs). Ammama probably futzed around with my rather no-frills recipe a bit. Because after the first spoonful, Li’l A smacked his lips and told her: Ammama, too tasty! Too tasty!

My mother took this as endorsement of her superior cooking skills. Whereas in fact as she found out when he refused to eat any further, he meant it literally. It was too tasty--there were too many tastes in it.

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Baby talk 1: The boom-boom

Baby A is nine months old. She’s not talking yet, but there are plenty of words she seems to recognize. Her name for instance. And “no;” at which she’ll pause, acknowledge our stuffy parental opinion with an indulgent yet rebellious smile, and resume business. And (this is SO cute!) “pet,” upon which she’ll pet-pet-pet your hair, “dance” upon which she‘ll bop on her butt, and “clean” to which she‘ll use whatever‘s handy to wipe a nearby surface clean.

And she has words too. To be precise, she has a very versatile, “boom-boom.” I think she likes the way it feels in her mouth, so she uses it for everything. Even when she’s feeling lonely in the back seat of the car all by herself and goes boom-boom, waaah-waaah, boom-boom, wah-WAH! We’ll have to talk to her about that; it’s completely unconvincing as a heartrending cry for help. Boom-boom.

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The Veggie Update

I received far too much praise for the post I wrote about how my family and I were going to go vegan/ovo-lactarian vegetarians. Uhm… now I have to come back and divulge that it wasn’t the great and lasting success that I anticipated it would be when I wrote about it a week or so into the experiment. The Big and Li’l As have decamped to meat in many forms. Baby A enjoys the taste of all things including veggie burritos, earthworms, and garden dirt. As of today, I still ate cheese. As of last month, I still took one last sushi trip.

Lets detail. Cheese: We were temporarily living with my MIL, who is the sweetest and makes sure that there’s some form of vegetarian protein for me on the table come dinner time. It seems kinda mean to tell her that I don’t eat cheese. Also cheese, it‘s kinda nice; the soy version just doesn’t compare. Sushi: We were moving to what JOAT once called “Holy Middle Earth” which means not very many Sushi restaurants, very few good ones, and no sushi places that would deliver at all--so I had sushi before it got taken away from me. I’ve resisted sushi the last three or four times opportunity has presented itself though. Also, I eat chocolate, but unless it’s made from the eyeballs of wailing baby lambkins, don’t even talk to me about giving it up.

How the family did. Let’s just leave Baby A out of this. She’s into cannibalistically biting everyone lately and just wouldn’t understand about sparing other species. Big A was enthusiastic about the venture; Li’l A was always unhappy about it. But the food that I cooked just didn’t taste right after I removed meat from it. Commenter Amit suggested that meat could be replaced with TVP, but there weren’t too many fans of that at home. I also keep getting asked if I miss meat. I don’t. I used to, back when I used to give it up as a penance or vrath. But this time around, I have zero cravings and actually get a little cranky with all the recipe suggestions for fake meat and substitution.

So at the end of it we have one vegetarian who went vegan (except for cheese and milk chocolate), we have two gusty meaty eaters who tried vegetarianism and one baby who’s demonstrating a growing keenness for animal-based food. Our farm share veggies, which I was depending on to introduce us to an abundance of new veggie experiences are ‘orrible and mealy, but we live in a liberal college town where there are plenty of veggie and vegan choices on every menu.

Being vegan does make it a little difficult to go out for pizza or icecream as a family. And I’ve been opting out of such excursions because it feels weird, but it also feels weird to have them go without me. Much as Big A supports my decision, when I refuse a certain food, there is an unaware split-second, a flash of surprise and then resignation. I hate telling people that I’m vegan, because it sounds pious and as though I am going to sit at the table with them and disapprove of their food choices. So Big A is under strict instructions not to introduce me to anyone as a veggie. When we’re invited to dinner, I’d rather pick food that I am happy to eat without explanation.

I don’t see myself ever going back to animal products. My family eats less meat (esp. at home). It’s not what I’d call a revolutionary transformation, but a modification is blowing in the wind.

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Mahmoud Darwish 1942-2008

I didn't always agree with Darwish's philosophy and have sometimes quibbled about his craft. But his death is a too sudden loss. And i find myself recalling his charm, his insistence that conflict is absurd when all the possibilities for life--for love--exist.

From his 2002 poem A State of Siege: (You can hear Darwish read it here.)

[To a killer:] If you reflected upon the face
of the victim you slew, you would have remembered your mother in the room
full of gas. You would have freed yourself
of the bullet’s wisdom,
and changed your mind: ‘I will never find myself thus.’

[To another killer:] If you left the foetus thirty days
in its mother’s womb, things would have been different.
The occupation would be over and this suckling infant
would forget the time of the siege
and grow up a healthy child
reading at school, with one of your daughters
the ancient history of Asia.
They might even fall in love
and give birth to a daughter [she would be Jewish by birth].
What, then, have you done now?
Your daughter is now a widow
and your granddaughter an orphan.
What have you done with your scattered family?
And how have you slain three doves in one story?

...

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