"exchanged"

"May she is not her daughter. Hospital exchanged" [unedited]

I got this text from my mom last night as I was getting ready for bed and I couldn't understand it. Sometimes when my mom types Hindi or Telugu words autocorrect changes them into English and really messes things up, so I have to guess at her texts sometimes--I'm used to that. But I showed this one to Big A because it was so strange, and he got it right away and I was SO impressed... he knows my mom and all her quirks so well! 

(I was trying to highlight my mom's quirks and couldn't decide whether to point out she likes the rapper Nelly or she likes to tease me or she loves to hear me sing or that she has the most unorthodox views of marriage and Hinduism or her pre-marriage days or her fighting days with my dad or how I feel my relationship with her was cloned in a novel after we'd had dinner with the novelist. Yes, I kind of went down a rabbit hole after I searched "mom" on my blog.)

Anyway, the background to that text is my mom's baby sister was widowed earlier this year, and although my aunt had wanted to live by herself, the family pressured her to live with her only child who appears to have put themselves on my aunt's bank accounts and then kicked her out. Big A interpreted my mom's text thus: "Athamma is saying your shitty cousin is not your aunt's real daughter, and that your aunt was given the wrong baby when she delivered at the hospital." I mean, what would it matter--my aunt had brought up my cousin, but yes, that is what my mom was saying. And my mom was so proud of A for figuring it out. 

Pic: This one made me cry. Max was hanging out outside and when I went to find him, he was curled up by Scout's memorial. He never met Scout, of course, but we do sound the wind chimes on our first trip outside every morning, perhaps that's why Max is feeling good vibes there? Or maybe (just maybe) Scout lingers there somehow? I swear--every morning, the tree-of-life solar lantern flickers when I sound the chimes... 

keeping it real

Nu has been watching a show called Arcane (based off of the League of Legends video game) this weekend, and although I've been assiduously working on the chapter due to the editors tomorrow, I must have imbibed a sufficient amount of it. 

I came out of an absolutely horrifying dream this morning in which I was on an escaping spaceship with a ton of children I'd never seen before... and my mom. The children were being taken to a safer place and I was there as some kind of consultant? (Not sure). In any case, I was supposed to be there, but my mom had just stowed away, and I was trying to shield her from the guards. I remember asking her to sit on a bench alongside the children, but she stuck out so she had to sit on the floor and try to be unnoticeable. I was going to pretend to the guards that she was there to take care of the kids, and worrying about saying that out loud, because my mom is quite elitist and would hate that role. And then my irritation with her elitism became this horrible disloyal question: why did I pick my mom and not my kids/dad/spouse? Poor mom!!

In real mom news, she seems to be recovering from her Covid... albeit slowly.

Pic is from this morning's tromp in the woods with L and Nu. I kept wishing the sun would show, but that didn't happen. We did get to see our favorite tree, though. Lots of weekend chores, reading, writing, homework, leftovers for dinner, and tai-chi (from a Mirror teacher) to round out the weekend. 

crossed lines

A long chat with my mom who is back home from staying with her newly bereaved sister for a week and everything is Just. So Sad. 

My aunt wants to stay in her house because she has memories (I used to fall asleep watching TV and he would settle my head on his shoulder, she said. SOB). But people are worried about her living on her own. Last year, the family had a collective meltdown when I, a grownass woman, took public transport by myself, so I know a bit about how that feels. 

My aunt is increasingly estranged from her only child who seems to be treating her badly. Plus her in laws and kid seem to be more into how the property is going to be divvied up etc. instead of consoling her.

I also heard my dad CRIED when he tried to console my aunt. This is my mom's BABY sister, and she was eight when my parents got married, so he's been there all along, and he's so sad for her. 

Naturally, this made my mom worry about my dad's heart and health.

And then I got a play by play of several family members sniping at each other, a video of the accident someone recorded and only my mom and her brother have seen, the sweets she took to one of the rituals, plans for the ashes, how amazing my sister has been ordering food for dozens of people at my aunt's, the CONSISTENCY of my uncle's corpse... etc. I hadn't talked to my mom in a week and it was a VERY LONG catch up, is what I'm saying.

My favorite story about my aunt is when she was eight and starry-eyed about her new brother-in-law (my dad) and excited about her oldest sister's wedding in general and managed to insert herself in nearly every wedding photo frame until the photographer had to give her candy and plead with her to allow him to take some pictures of the bridal couple by themselves. I've seen my parents' wedding album; this appears to not be apocryphal at all. (smile)

(And I'm struck again by what is time? That eight-year-old with her crossed arms and sassy stare... how does life take us from there to this sad and lonely place?) 

Pic: This one makes me chuckle ruefully. It's from last week's hike when I wore bike shorts and now I have a tan line halfway up my leg so it looks like I'm walking around in thigh-highs all the time. Is there anything I can do about it?

in which my mom schools me on how to use my phone

Sometimes when Nu and I are comfort-watching a show from the '90s (Friends or Dawson's Creek or Felicity--ok, the last two are mostly me), I'm amazed at how all those characters are just walking around without cellphones hoping to bump into their pals randomly and with no way to check in on people if they're late to a rendezvous. I say "they," but I did that too back then, obviously. Sometimes it seems like another lifetime! I wonder if Nu can really even imagine how it used to be. 

And I'm not even a person who uses their phone that much. I was reminded of that today when my mom made a request. She wanted me to record myself singing a handful of Thyagaraja kritis because she said she wanted to hear them right now. (It was so sweet. "I can't wait until June to hear you sing them to me again," she said.) When I told her I didn't know how to record, she gave me such specific directions starting with: "look for the "mic" symbol..." Seriously, I was so impressed. She said that she'd previously taught her aunts to make recordings when they found it difficult to type. Nu, who is of the digital-native generation, is my usual go-to person when I need to figure out something on my phone... but now I can ask my mom too.

Pic: Huck and Max keeping me company; I was putting dinner together while I practiced "Marukela Ra," one of the songs my mom had requested. This version I found is by the superb Maharajapuram Santhanam (incidentally, the grandfather of one of my school friends who's recently become a wonderful advocate and carer for the many street dogs in Chennai).

Tableau

So I'm in a car. I'm in a car stopped at a traffic light.
On the block on which my son lives now. It's by the--
by the Starbucks redux, by the telephone pole, by the
old 7-11, the zebra crossing, the Asian buffet--And. At--

At the zebra crossing, a mom looks on fiercely as: her
skinny toddler drops her hand, and steps precisely--as if
at prom, then delays--to tiptoe the three steps--three steps
away to press the button--the button that will summon the

white walk-sign man. And then I think she says thank you.
That's it. Oh. NoNo. there's a baby too, who anchors the mom,
who had yielded attention for a moment, but is now bouncing--
bouncing, appealing, willing mom to look--look back. Willing

her to smile back. I imagine the baby is a girl; the toddler is a boy.
I'm not reading their signs, only feeling my past. And they're so
close, so I'm smiling and nodding my encouragement to the child,
the baby still bouncing in the pram, the mom. Nodding to myself--

It's that familiar. Memories buzz in the car's hum of silence. The
residuum of busy, sticky hands I've let go. Panic--a fog. The years
alertly sliding in--backlog. Stuck waiting for a sign--green--walk--
wait--ok fine--we're waiting--so incoherent with longing, still, life--


______________________
Ha. I've managed to sneak "At" And "NoNo" in there.

-

sentimental offerings

Another festival of lights at CB's "Winter Warm Up Party." It was beautiful--my neighbors J and E from across the street sang the blessing (I'm more used to reciting it) as we lit the menorahs (I did two). 

Big A's in Milwaukee until Sunday, so I took Nu with me. As always, they protested having to go and as we walked home, raved about how glad they were that they went and how much they love "community." I guess I do know best after all. Ha.

I am a sentimental mess just from reading Nicole's account of The Small One (Q: Is this the first time I've cried at a Wikipedia entry? Ans: No.). I love its theme of offering up devotion in whatever small way one can. "Little Drummer Boy" is another great example of this. And now I'm thinking of "Le Jongleur de Notre-Dame" that I first encountered in Anatole France's version in my French textbook. And now I'm thinking of how much my mom loved that story when I shared it with her, and how she connected it to the story of Kannappa who did all the taboo things (offered meat, spat water, put his feet etc. on the deity) out of love and devotion. And this in turn reminds me of a scene in a Tamil movie whose plot and title I've forgotten in which the Hindu heroine who is in love with a Christian boy goes to church to pray for him. But she doesn't know any Christian prayers, so she recites the entirety of an 8th century hymn-paean written for Durga in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary. It's a moment my mom and I found both funny and sweet. It's a hymn my mom and I love. And now I miss my mom.

Pic: A forest of candles at CB's "Winter Warm Up Party."
 

Babu Ahtah (Don't Wake Daddy!)

The first time my mom visited me in the U.S. and saw a board game called Don't Wake Daddy at the store, she squealed in disbelieving delight. Her dad who worked late as a telegraph master (Telegrams, remember them? When people counted words before Twitter?) slept late on the weekends. And if she or her four other equally rowdy siblings woke their father, there were threats and thrashings.

Inevitably almost, their reality spawned a game they liked to call Babu Ahtah (the Dad game), which consisted of one of them playing the dad and the others trying to play without waking him, but ended with the "dad" waking up and beating them all up to loud, playacting yelps.

And unfailingly (and somewhat hilariously) meta is the way my mom says that most of these games were so noisy that their dad--their real dad--would wake up to thrash them. Really thrash them.

Li'l A loves to hear that story, now that he's not so freaked out by that little detail about kids getting beaten as he used to be when he first heard it. And I think about my mom and her sibs all of whom in that particular time and and in that particular milieu expected to get beaten for bad behavior. And I choke on the extra love that comes from thinking of my amma as a vulnerable child and knowing how, when she became a young mom, that sad cycle of abuse was broken. 

_

the mom who changed

I'm older, my mom is old... and I've mostly stopped trying to change her mind about stuff. We're both stubborn, we rarely persuade each other, and she gets pretty upset.

This morning she said something bigoted on the family chat, and I couldn't let it go. So I texted back some links about why she was wrong. She  texted back, cheekily, "Om Namo Namaha Lecture-ji" (vague translation: "I bow to you, respected lecturer").

I just giggled when I read that. I have no illusions that I changed her mind--but it does mean I got to see my mom deescalate a situation for what feels like the first time in my life.

Five-year-old me

What would my childhood self think about grownup me? 

I've been thinking about it since Nance mentioned that she keeps her kindergarten picture on her dresser to remind her "of the little girl who wanted to be a teacher and a mom. I look at her often and think about how so many of her dreams came true and then some. It helps me stay grateful."

I'm five in this picture, and my favorite thing was to line up my sister, our ayah, and the dolls in my playroom to play school--with me as the teacher. So I think five-year-old me would be thrilled that I grew up to be a teacher and tickled to know I have kids and puppies of my own--I think they'd find that part really hilarious. Back then, the expectation to be "good" was intense--I wonder what five-year-old me would think of my daily quest to be a better person, to keep learning... When I was little, I was always afraid of being orphaned (I read too much even back then), so I wish I'd known my parents would know their grandkids...

Like Nance, I too am grateful that so many of my dreams have come true--even dreams I did not yet know to have for myself. I can see myself at ten or eleven lying on the terrace looking up at planes and wondering (not even wishing, really) *if* I would have a job, if I would fly on a plane (only my parents had flown at this point), and if anyone would fall in love with me. 

Pic: An old B&W portrait of my family (dad, sis, mom, me). I remember so clearly that my dress was a very pale pink and white with a soft collar and square white buttons with a pink inlay; my sister's dress was a hand-me-down from me, it had been a favorite until I grew out of it--I called it the "peacock frock" because it cascaded in overlapping "feathers" and had a deep blue embroidered motif on each. I'm pretty sure my mom's organza sari is orange with white polka dots. When the square belt buckle (buttons and buckle were all purely decorative) on my dress fell off, I used it as a tool at my art table to scrape excess crayon off the paper and even out the colors. I wore a school uniform to school, and "play" clothes at home; I had a very small collection of "fancy" clothes to wear to parties, the club, and so on and I remember most of them quite fondly. My sister was wearing a corrective leg brace at that point, which is why my parents are holding her hands on either side. No one is holding my hand... I wonder what I seem so pleased about... Wow. I did not expect to remember so much. And look at my HAIRY forehead!! lol

trash turtles all the way down

I was worried about a dear friend who'd had open heart surgery last week. It made me feel a little better when I got to see their dear face while I dropped off some medication I'd picked up (they can't be alone, so I could either stay with them while their partner picked up the meds or pick up the meds while their partner stayed with them). 

I hadn't heard a peep out of my mom or sis for a whole day. So when the phone rang around 2 am, just as I was putting the puppies and the house to bed, I freaked the fuck out because I thought something was wrong with either my friend or my mom and dad. But no, it was just my mom calling to chat. I think she was a bit thrown off by DST too? Anyway. 

After that, I kept trying to read myself to sleep. Big A was at work, and then he texted to say he'd been attacked by a patient. That was it for sleep last night. I was so sad and worried for him and made him send me pictures and cried over all the scratches and bruises I could see.

And I got to hear the whole story today... I am sad for the patient suffering a psychotic episode in prison and then again in the hospital. I am sad for the security guard who gets paid minimum pay and is expected to put his life on the line--he got attacked first and Big A was trying to help him him when he got attacked too. There are no villains here. It's just awfulness all the way down. I'm just thankful there were no guns involved.
_______________________________
Pic: This made me laugh when I went thrifting this weekend because I needed new books for our Little Free Library (I got some awesome ones). I didn't get these books. They both have the same title--One Bite at a Time--it's just that they couldn't be more different in content: one is a book of recipes for cancer survivors and their caregivers and the other a collection of horror short stories!

Such As

Yesterday my mom and Big A both took planes. Big A for job interviews; my mom to go home. I started crying at the airport and didn’t stop till I went to bed early with the babies.

So yes, I missed and moped for my man and my ma, but despite the leaden, weepy way the day (and the weather) started out today--I felt less and less child bride/teen mom with each passing hour. (Needless to say, I’m neither child nor teen, but I think the two who took planes are sometimes guilty of treating me thus. Such as.)


Also, in seriously funny stuff--I’m going to see the Russell Peters show at MSG on Fri. YES! Big A got me stage-side tix and I’m going with P who is a childhood friend or cousin (yeah, only like about 26 times removed), but actually feels like my sister. (cough) Such as (cough). Man, I tell you--somebody gonna get a hurt real bad.

_

My father's marriage and me

My father was supposed to marry a princess--the daughter of the Raja of Ettayapuram. When he paid the palace a visit with his family, they found her very short. Then a family friend took them to meet my mother. Her family weren’t “Poligars” or even Padma Velama, but the girl (my mom! my mom!) was tall, lovely, and college-educated. Amma offered my dad some coffee and he promptly fell for her. He also got too fond of retelling this story with the punchline, “Who needs a princess when you have a queen?” Reasons why I’m glad dad didn’t marry the Ettayapuram girl.

• I might have turned out short.
• I love my mom etc.
• The Ettayapurams got their titles for betraying Kattaboman and kissing British ass.
• Although a few generations later they did become Subramania Bharati’s official patron, so perhaps they kind of redeemed themselves.
• Let’s just stick with i might have turned out short.

_

assisted living

grass and sky haven't have heard yet 

and I let the unknown speak for me

tricky forests spring up like questions

I will keep seeking a story I read as a kid

with its sad embrace of a torn telegram 

whose yellow moths follow me forever 

even the temporary kingdom of my trust

where lie grave jokes of literature and life 

about what could have been... has been

O I say--we are such strange creatures

I hear about chimp haven; feel a relief 

for beloved elders finding assisted living

Friends, the only breath in cages is death 

maybe we use shards and shadows to knit 

soft shelters to lay over this thing called life?

--------------------------------------------------------------

Related/Random BOC

* I read a story when I was 9/10--I think of it as my first grownup story--about a man who tears up a telegram bearing bad news about his wife and baby in order to pretend to his fellow train passengers that all is well. The story sat between Hawthorne ("Young Goodman Brown") and Thurber ("The Catbird Seat") in an anthology of great American short stories (likely someone's discarded textbook), but I don't know the title or author despite a great number of patchy google searches.

* I couldn't get through to mom or sis on the phone today and was panicked enough to ask my cousin to check on them... turns out his wife, daughter, and mom are also down with the virus.

* The pulmonologist thinks my mom will be ok and back to normal in a couple of weeks.

* The story about the NIH chimps going to Chimp Haven was from my commute to work this morning.

* And there was a planning meeting for the conference in Minneapolis--so I was hearing Prince too, I guess.

"L(ove)" Notes

• L and I were both feeling feeble and fragile (L is post-Covid and I'm post-Covid-shot) so we went for a gentle stroll in the woods behind L's house. I thought this turn in the river was absolutely breathtaking. 

• L is just the best at sharing her view and the river--she lets the whole street keep their kayaks in her yard.

• Also, when I called my mom this morning, I got a whole carful of aunts and uncles, which was fun. When I told my mom that I was sick from the Covid booster, she said, "Oh, you did that? We're not even wearing masks over here, everyone is fine." My mom does her own thing, so I didn't say anything. However, when I archly relayed this story to L, she rightly pointed out that *I* had had a bunch of people in my house for pooja a week ago and that everyone has their own magical thinking about Covid. She's not a friend who always agrees with me 😃.

• Nu needed some extra kindness today, and L was the one to give it to him when he brought L some salad for dinner.

• L just called me sounding very excited... it turns out that Michael Moore, whose Substack she subscribes to, had quoted At from an article in the Washington Post. 

mid-night, mid-life, mid-everything

Do you remember how childhood used to be real and we lived inside it?

I just got off the phone with my mom... we were chatting and having a great time, but suddenly she did some time math (it's around 3:00 am here, 1:30 pm in India) and told me to go to bed. 

She also said she would send me 100$ to buy "something nice" on my December trip with my sister and I suddenly felt about 12 years old. When I did the currency math, $100 is like 8400 rupees, and I demurred, but my mom won't let me refuse. 

Something about being hustled off to bed and the delight in my mom's voice about treating me makes me feel precious and small and cared for. And it makes me want to cry. But of course this week, everything makes me want to cry.

Pic: Sanford Woods last week. 

Wake up call

A long time ago, I had a dream.

Li'l A is a toddler crawling through one of those giant mall play tubes. He doesn't walk yet, and he seems to be having a good time. I used to call him "Aachu" back then--a mispronunciation of his name and also a mispronunciation of the Telugu word for love "Aasa." Kind of like how "Holla" is neither "holler" nor "hola"--but actively alludes to both. But, I digress.

It starts to storm, getting both late and dark at the same time; I start to call Aachu, but he doesn't show and I'm immediately scared and frantic. Then in that weird third-person narrativity of dreams, I can see him inside the tube and realize that he's crawling away from the sound of my voice as fast as he can. And not merely to be naughty or prolong playtime but because my voice terrifies him. This was at a time when his GERD-y refusals to eat and my Indian mom instincts to overfeed as much as/whenever possible were at the point of worst conflict.

I cannot begin to describe how sad and disappointing it was to see his fear. And I cannot begin to quantify how much I backed away from my pig-headedness about eating right away.

I think I remembered my dream because I heard Amy Chua (the infamous tiger mom) on the radio this morning and she described how her daughter would yell that she hated her. I'll admit to being the mom who expects all of Li'l A's grades to be As, to asking what happened to the missing two points on a quiz that garnered 98/100.

But I wouldn't be able to deal with my kids not loving me.

_

Neighbor

I don’t know Eliza. Haven’t even met her, actually; but already, I love her.

She’s Big A’s mom’s friend’s granddaughter (who was adopted from China). She and Li’l A might be classmates in the new school year so Big A’s mom was telling her about Li’l A and that I (his mom) came from India.

Eliza reportedly got all excited: “From India? Really? Did you know... Did you know that I’m from China?”

_

I thought i would dream about the dead bird

I didn't dream about the dead bird. 

But i kept on and on thinking about it. Because although i try not to believe in signs and portents, my attempts at rationality disappear when there's a very sick baby in the house. 

Long ago, before i had--or even thought about kids of my own--i knew a Tamizh teacher who told me that she got pregnant after/because a house sparrow built a nest inside her house. And a couple of years ago, i even blogged about how house sparrows were trying to nest in our home, but i didn't think about any connection until i was well and truly pregnant with Baby A. 

So now we are at the point where i have a very sick baby lying face down on my chest and a dead house sparrow lying on the window sill with its legs curling upwards pathetically. And i keep on returning to that equation and assuming the worst. Later on, my mother part coaxes, part bullies me past this image. 

My mom: Did Big A dispose of the bird?

Yes.

Oracle Mom: I think that means you've just rid yourself of any danger stalking Baby. 

I'll take it.

FTW Mom: Also, remember that your first house sparrow didn't actually nest or hatch in the house. It wanted to, you chased it away, and you still had a baby.

I love her. And i have to admire the way she can turn anything on its head with the best contemporary theorists.

_

"should I stay or should I go"

"Good Morning Akka," my baby sis texted me around 2:30 am... and then my mom got on the chat too and the three of us we were just... yakking for a while... (This is one of the many reasons my sleep patterns are so fucked.) And then, things got urgent. My mom who watches a lot of Turkish TV shows and has wanted to go to Turkey for a while and knows that Istanbul is huge on my list of places to visit because I'm a history nerd suggested we all go to Turkey together. She'd pay for my air ticket, she said. The three of us could share a suite. How about next week? We should go!

I asked Big A if I should go. (That's right, he usually works nights, so he was up reading beside me too; yet another reason my sleep is messed up.) He said to go for it. I have midterm break coming up next week and so I thought I could actually do it. But this morning, I looked at my calendar and realized that next week I'm in charge of the WGS sessions of the Michigan Academy conference and have board meetings, and am not completely off. Also, I was kind of looking forward to unwinding for a bit, and I'm a bit freaked out about planes falling out the sky. I'll probably stay.

I'm glad to see my mom is willing to spend that much money though. This was probably going to come from her "kum-kum money." (Kum-kum is sindoor/vermillion/the red powder Hindu women use in their hair as a marker of their married status.) Back in the day before middle-class Indian women worked, this was the money families gave their daughters when they got married so they wouldn't have to ask their husbands when they wanted to treat themselves to something. In Victorian novels, "Pin Money" seems to work this way? The amount varied according to the family. My grandmother's kum-kum money at her wedding was several mango orchards and required a manager and became the inheritance handed down to her own four daughters (including my mother). Unofficially, kum-kum money also worked as an emergency fund that could help women leave, if they decided they should go. 

Although Big A and I have everything in both our names, I still (and always will) have my kum-kum money in a separate account (I promised my parents this). And it's going to come in useful because just this morning, someone dear said they'd need help making their mortgage this month, and I know without consulting anyone that I am going to be able to be able to help. They'll be able to stay. 

Pic: Jumble of things on a shelf at work. I love that picture in the center with At reading to Nu so much... This was also around the time At had just discovered The Clash and loved belting out "Should I Stay or Should I go" as a punchline to everything.

Three on Thursday: What I Wore

Me: Walking down the hall...

Student: OMG, Dr. M! I LOVE YOUR OUTFIT!

Me: (grinning) Calm down, E, this isn't a belt--it's because I hurt my back.

What I wore: Ugly back brace.

*

Me: Looking all around my office, and then in a stroke of sheer genius patting the top of head... (nope), and then defeatedly asking student--"L, can you see my glasses anywhere?"

Student: (calmly) They're ON your face.

What I wore: Reading glasses.

*

Me: Chuckling to myself because there's a sign in the faculty break room that says, "Your mom doesn't work here! Do your own dishes." And At had rightly remarked that their mom DID work there and righteously asked why "mom" and not "parent?" And then I realized that despite all that, At had left some unwashed silverware by the side of the sink.

What I wore: A smirk. You know what they say about socialists and sinks.