A Daughter’s First Hero

Last evening, I had a particularly interesting and sweetly poignant experience while going home in the suburban Mumbai local. The train was crowded, when I got in. As soon as it pulled off, a two-year-old girl asked her mother about the whereabouts of her father. In the next coach, her mother told her. The answer did not satisfy the child and she let out a soft, muffled wail, with the unending refrain, "Papa."

We looked on the little scene and smiled. There was something endearing about that child, heartbroken at not having her father close to her. Some people offered her chocolates, hoping to take her mind off her temporarily absent father. It did not work.

Others offered to let her play with their phones. The ploy failed. She wanted Papa, and nothing else would do, her muffled cry suggested. Her aunt, seeing that her voice had become hoarse with crying, offered her some water. But that offer too was rejected. By now, she had been crying for 50 minutes, and was weary with exhaustion.

At length, when the train halted at Kandivali, and the trio got off, a coachful of women craned their necks to see what happened next. A collective sigh of relief was exhaled when the father materialized and the exhausted but finally happy girl jumped into her father’s arms. That Papa is definitely his daughter’s first hero.

As is mine.

No, I don’t remember crying this way for my Dad. In fact, come to think of it, I don’t have too many early memories of him. Mum was what you would call a Work-at-home-mother, so she was always at hand. We depended on Mum for everything, and yet, somehow, Dad, quiet and calm as he was, made his presence felt in our lives.

Especially during the exams when Dad oversaw our Maths preparations.

Maths and I weren’t on a friendly footing in those days. Considering that Dad was on back-slapping terms with it, sitting down to study Maths with Dad a few days before the exams was always fraught with anxiety. I used to marvel over the fact that in his presence, Maths suddenly metamorphosed into a gentleman with impeccable manners who ceased to intimidate me.

Dad has always been a soft-spoken man. So he very rarely sat us down to pass on lessons to us, and we were obliged to watch and learn and then do as he did. There was so much to learn. When Dad’s company was shut down under a management-lockout, most of his 1000-something colleagues had horror stories to tell. One or two, I heard my parents talk in hushed whispers back then, chose to take the escape route out of life. Many took to drink. But if Dad’s back bent a little more at the thought of raising three growing children on the feeble income earned by my mother through her sewing enterprise, we kids barely got to know of it.

He immediately got to work, taking up a second and even a third odd job, in the absence of the first real one. Through this response to the challenge that threatened to engulf the family, I learned that when things go wrong, you don’t sit and mope, you just get up and do the thing that needs to be done.

That tendency of his shaped our values and bound them in cords that couldn’t be broken by any of the lures the world set in our path. No matter what the temptation that we faced, my brothers and I only had to recall how Dad would have acted in our situation, and the danger was averted.

Dad always encouraged us to ask questions, but didn’t always answer them himself. Instead, he chose to direct us to a source where he and we together might find answers. So if there was a word whose meaning I didn’t know, I’d get the dictionary and he and I would leaf through its pages and educate ourselves. Those sessions created in me an enduring love for the English language. As a child, I was the only kid I knew who could be lost in reading the dictionary.

It was also the sight of him, sitting down to read a book, that first got me hooked on to the world of books.

He wasn’t the diaper changing, baby bathing father that the ‘90s threw up. But Dad could always be counted on to wake up in the middle of the night, in response to his frightened daughter’s cries, and peer under the bed to chase away the imaginary demons that haunted her.

As a child, I remember putting my hand in his and walking down the busy street, knowing that I was safe and free to yap away with him by my side to look out for me. Today I am decades older, but when we are out on the street, he will still push me on to the inside of the road and walk by the side of the vehicles. I am privileged to have such a father.

Thank you, Dad.






On the occasion of Father’s Day today, I would like to wish all fathers everywhere a very Happy Father’s Day.

Memories on tap

It was the second birthday of M, my younger brother. Mum had lovingly baked a cake in our very own jugaad oven. Dad had pitched in to prepare the icing, as per the recipe offered by my maternal uncle, M, who was then the chief steward on a passenger liner. Dad and A, my older brother, had arranged the halves of sweetened cherries around the periphery of the cake for some added visual effect.

And then it was time to cut the cake. Almost everyone was shy about being in the picture, ceding the limelight to the birthday boy. Except for the bespectacled, nerdy ten-year-old in the right-hand side of the picture.

Apparently, at least four of the cherry halves on the cake had been placed by her, and that fact gave her the right to position herself strategically next to what she considered her handiwork. If you look very closely, you will notice that there are four halves that are slightly off, as compared to the disciplined ‘red ants’ in that circle.

Nevertheless I was fiercely proud of my contribution to that cake.


Lest you get worried at the thought of that little two-year-old holding the knife so close to his face, I’ll have you know, that knife was completely harmless. You couldn’t have cut a slab of butter from the fridge with it. Butter left out too long, now that’s another story.

It was a simple birthday. Homemade cake, homemade snacks and homemade food, Boney M, Abba and the BeeGees playing on the humble Bush tape recorder and loads of fun, laughter and reminiscing about this, that and the other, not to mention the antics of the little fellow.

Memories captured on film by my Uncle M’s Fuji camera.

Memories on tap – even decades later.





"This post is my entry for the 'One Picture From My Photo Album' contest conducted by My Yatra Diary and CupoNation." I am nominating Afshan, Shilpa and Bhavya to participate in this contest-cum-giveaway.

The tyranny of buying the right gift

You’ve heard it said that it is very difficult to gift the one who has everything. I disagree.


First of all, there is no such thing as everything. The universe is constantly expanding and those who have everything today will necessarily need to have more when there is more to be had to ensure that they continue to have everything.

I believe that it is infinitely tougher to gift the person who does not want anything. Such people have few wants and are satisfied with the little they have. You can tear your hair out in desperation but you cannot draw such people out on the subject of what they would like to have. They will tell you that they have everything, that they hardly go out, and that if you got them something, they wouldn’t know how to use it, and they might just give it away.

Buying a gift for such people is a great challenge. I once faced such a challenge twice over. The occasion was the 25th wedding anniversary of my parents.

The clue to my parents’ attitude towards gifts lay in the fact that they were very self-effacing people. They put their needs last, after the monthly household requirements, the needs of the children and other miscellaneous requirements were satisfied. Since we were not ever well-off in those days, there wasn’t much spare change left over once the needs of three growing children were taken care of. And then, true to the best traditions of the great Indian middle class, they would set some money aside for the proverbial rainy day.

As children, we had seen the sacrifices that our parents had put in. Since this was a special occasion, I was determined to buy something special for them, one tiny gift (or two) that would indicate how much I loved them and how much they meant to me.

I had just graduated from college and had not yet landed my first job. I had a little money set aside though, my earnings from a few short pieces that I had written for a newspaper. The smallness of the budget reduced the shopping options available to me. And the fact that I was at the end of my tether as far as ideas went caused those few options to dwindle further.

Those were pre-mall days in Bombay. The only shopping places I knew of were Crawford Market, and Linking Road and Elco Market in Bandra, besides the odd store here and there. Where to go for the perfect gift, was the question.

The fact that I do not enjoy shopping as an activity also added to the difficulty of the task. I do not get a gleam in my eye at the thought of shopping, unless it is book buying that you are talking about. In college, with not particularly significant spending power, we used to enjoy window shopping. With this background, I was totally ill-equipped for the magnitude of the task.

Also, I tend to get rather intimidated by salespersons who always succeed in making me feel insignificant. I don’t know what it is about me, but they seem to size me up and then take it into their heads that they need to be judgmental and that I need some serious patronizing. In those days, I used to wish for a store in which there were no salespersons, where you could check things out for yourself, then take it to the counter and pay for it, and go out into the world, pleased with your purchase.

I don’t know why this is so. In general, I am a very confident and assertive person and I carry my pleasant weather everywhere I go. But park a salesman/girl in front of me, and suddenly I begin to wish for the earth to swallow me. Am I in a minority of one? Or are there others like me out there who are persecuted by the high-handedness of the shopfloor? Does the fear of salespeople have a name? Is it a phobia by itself?

An ex-colleague had once told me about a book called Confessions of a Shopaholic by someone called Sophie Kinsella. The book is about a girl who is a compulsive shopper and who runs up enormous amounts in credit card debt as a result of her addiction. Even as a fictional premise, I couldn’t relate to the plot of her book. Could there be any hope for me? Would I be able to purchase something special for Mum and Dad?

When ideas are scarce, we quickly turn to the mundane. Dreams of buying that perfect gift starved quickly. So as a last-ditch effort, I thought of buying clothes for them. But clothes posed their own brand of difficulty. Mum and Dad refused to accompany me, for the purpose of selecting and trying on something. Bereft of their support, I remember walking up and down the store fronts of Crawford market, without being able to make up my mind as to what to buy. With my not-so-heavy budget and my parents’ general unwillingness to accept a gift, I wasn’t sure of my ability to give them a pleasant surprise.

I thought of a watch, but they both said theirs were working fine, thank you. When I spoke about shoes, they said they had bought new pairs two Christmases ago, and both were as good as new. Telephones had not yet become a commonplace possession (Incoming became free only 10 years later in 2003). I thought of buying some music cassettes, but I wasn’t so comfortable buying Konkani music. I didn’t have the budget to take the family out to a restaurant for a nice dinner.

Basically there were so few options and I had so few ideas, that I finally gave up the attempt to buy the perfect gift in frustration. As D-day drew near, I was no closer to my goal.

That was when I thought of giving them a more personal something, to show them how much they meant to me, and how important this day was to us. So on behalf of my two brothers, I sat down and wrote this poem. The writing wasn’t as easy as turning on a tap. But that was alright. The effort was part of the gift. This is what I wrote:


25 years since you walked down the aisle
And said to each other, I do
25 years since the time you made vows
Of being ever faithful and true.

25 years have gone by since that day
The years have sped by so fast
And though the world has changed in that time
Love every test has passed.

And today is the day of that special moment
25 Novembers ago
And here we are gathered, family and friends,
That precious joy to echo.

25 years of loving and sharing
25 years of care
25 years of tender affection
25 years of just being there.

And tonight when champagne glasses will tinkle
And feasting will be underway
The children whose lessons of life came from you
In their hearts a blessing will pray

May there be many more of such valued moments
May the best things in life come to you
And in its time may silver turn gold
Happy Wedding Anniversary, God bless you.


Next month, Mum and Dad will celebrate yet another wedding anniversary. This time I am prepared with a bigger budget, and a wider variety of options to be exercised from the comfort of my home. Who’s afraid of salespeople?




This post is a part of the contest at BlogAdda.com in association with Badhai.in

A Daughter Writes

“It’s a girl,” they said, and everyone was happy. One man was thrilled, delighted beyond measure, ecstatic. His first child was a boy and he had been secretly hoping that they would be blessed with a girl this time.


I was quite little when my mother first told me this story, and like a child, I let my imagination do the thinking for me. I imagined Dad doing cartwheels, somersaulting through the air, unable to sit still out of sheer excitement on receiving news about the birth of his much-awaited little baby girl.


It was only when I grew a little older that I realised how wrong I was. Dad has always been a quiet, soft-spoken man. Jumping around shouting and whooping was never his way. Nevertheless the knowledge that I was loved and awaited long before my birth was enough and went a long way towards building my self-esteem.


Growing up, there were a lot of things that we didn’t have, but the things that were really important we never went without. Dad and Mum saw to that. They skimped and saved and gave and forgave. While Mum’s presence ensured an atmosphere of love, affection and security for us, Dad became the weather in which my childhood thrived.


He was never one to spout words of wisdom. So we children merely watched the way he lived his life and picked up whatever lessons we could. One character trait of Dad’s that I have always admired is his patience, a quality that I sorely lack.


Between Dad and Mum, Dad was always the strict one. Or so I used to think. So whenever I wanted something, I used to go to Mum first, believing that she would be more amenable to suggestion. And yet that didn’t stop me from interrupting raucous playtime sessions for the pleasure of bounding towards Dad when he returned home from work. It was a strange mixture of love and fear that Dad evoked in me then.


Dad used to do a lot of activities with us. He would take us out to watch English films at the cinema hall, a big treat in those days. Many childhood summer vacations were spent with him taking us sightseeing around Bombay. Busy as he was, he would make time for us, and it was with a thrill that we would realise that the outing delighted him as much as it charmed us.


Dad was my original Mr Fix-it. So whether it was the broken nose of my disfigured and tattered but still favourite doll that he stuck with Araldite or whether it was an Algebra problem that defied my comprehension, it was to him that I turned. 

Most of the time, he fixed the problem for me right away, setting aside whatever he was doing. 

Only occasionally would he refrain from intervening, believing firmly that some brokennesses were for me to solve. 

Or live with.


Whenever my childhood friends and I played “house, house,” the girl assigned to play the role of the father just disappeared for a while to signify that the father goes to work in the morning and returns in the evening. We had no idea what happened at workplaces, so the “fathers” in our games had nothing much to do except pretend-dress up and leave for work and then come back after a while and ask for tea.


But at home, our resident Mr Fix-it was always busy, fixing and mending anything that was broken around the house, clocks, watches, taps, toys and what have you.


Often as a kid, I would wake up in the middle of the night, frightened out of my wits by the sound of the calendar flapping against the wall, or by the strange interplay of the shadows that everyday objects cast around the room. At such times, it was “Daddeeeee,” that I would call out hesitantly.


No matter how deep he was in the throes of sleep, Dad would wake up and come to my aid. Far from ridiculing my fears, he would dutifully switch on the light and peer under the bed to reassure me that the monsters I feared were not real. His action taught me that courage lay in facing one’s fears.


Much of that love I accepted as my due with nary a thought. But it was only after I became a mother that I understood the depths of a father’s love, of the sacrifices that a man becomes willing to make for his offspring. And how love far from being a warm, fuzzy feeling, is always an act of the will.


And so, on March 17, his birthday, I salute my father. For all that he gave me, and all that he withheld for my sake, for all the lessons he taught me through word and deed, and all the lessons he let me learn for myself, for giving me deep roots and for teaching me to fly.








And on this day, my very own Father’s Day, I salute all those men who take their roles as fathers seriously.


Men who make changes in their lifestyles for the sake of their children.


Men who willingly undertake domestic chores that they always shunned, and happily feed, change and bathe their little kids, and yes, wash them after a toilet episode, with or without gagging.


Men who play rough-and-tumble games with their kids.


Men who turn homeward joyfully, delighted at the prospect of seeing a wide smile on a little face and of feeling little arms around his neck.


Men who dream epic dreams for their children, and are hurt when their children dream different dreams for themselves, but rally around eventually.


Men who strive to give their children those things that they didn’t have when they were growing up.


Men who make time to teach their children to ride bicycles, do school projects and a hundred other things that will be forever lodged in the memory banks of their children.


Men who feel rewarded when their children rush into their arms.


Men whose hearts somersault when they first hear their children call them “Dadda,” or “Papa” or any other word in any other language that is sacred because it means a father.


Men who realise that merely having a child does not make them fathers; they must work at being good fathers day after day.


Men who are prepared to always be on the steepest learning curves of their lives because the issues that matter keep changing as the children get older.


Above all, men who realise their own weaknesses and frailties but are still determined to make a success of this tough job called fatherhood.










A mother gets nine months to get used to the idea of the new life within her womb. But for a father, the transformation is the matter of a moment. No matter how closely the man has followed his wife’s pregnancy, no matter how well he is informed about trimesters and cravings, and other pregnancy jargon, he is swept off his feet by the miracle of birth.


Love wells up within him with all the violence of a piano falling on him from a fourth-floor window. He is transfixed by the fact that that little helpless new creation is a replica of him, his legacy to the world.










After my daughter was born, I was so tired after the superhuman exercise of giving birth, so full of the prodigious feat that I had accomplished, that it was with a quaint mix of delight and surprise that I realised that mine was not the only life that had changed forever. My husband was cradling our first-born in his arms, holding her tenderly, and gazing at her face.


He told me afterwards that he was entranced from the first moment when the doctor showed him the scrawny little being that was our baby. He asked me, "Do you believe in love at first sight?" I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The answer was there in his wide delighted eyes, the look of absolute devotion that would override all other expressions when he gazed at our daughter.


I saw, with surprise and awe, that while I may have given birth to the child, my child had given birth to the father.


From the beginning, my husband was amazing with our daughter. He knew instinctively when she was hungry, when she needed to be burped, when she was asking to be rocked, when she wanted to sleep. It was a treat to watch them together, and I was amazed at how right his instinct was. In those early days, he was patience personified, never losing his cool, slipping effortlessly into his new role as a father. Three years later, it is a role he is reprising with our son.












Motherhood is the most fulfilling tough job in the world. In its own way, so is fatherhood.


Being a dad is a difficult yet immensely significant role. It requires a man to seek to be involved in every stage of his children’s lives, putting their needs foremost, delighting in the milestones they achieve and agonizing over their heartbreaks and losses, fumbling to do the right thing for them out of a sense of duty and love, struggling to be a good provider and protector, and weeding and pruning the young ones during the growing season and running the risk of being unpopular sometimes.


As he gets deeper into his role, a father strives hard to raise a perfect child, in spite of his own imperfections. He struggles to make his young ones feel secure, in spite of his own insecurities. He juggles feeble knowledge of child psychology with conviction honed over a million years. He knows that he must strive to be a better man because his children are watching him more than they are listening to him.


But the job has its satisfactions. If he is a good father to his children, then it is more likely that his daughter will be a better mother and his son a better father, when it is their turn. Fathers who are involved in their children’s lives also give them a head start in life by imbuing them with a sense of physical and emotional security and building their self-esteem.


When a dad does his job right, the whispers of his actions are felt across time. Generations of daughters and sons will, I am sure, wholeheartedly agree.
 

A Dukedom Large Enough

The Strand book sale was on some time ago. Book lovers in Mumbai will know what that means. It means you set aside everything else and make that pilgrimage to Sunderbai hall at Churchgate for the sale. 

It isn’t every day that some of the greatest gems of English literature, not to mention history, biography, design, architecture and a host of other categories, are marked down to such a great extent. For those people whose heart skips a couple of beats on sighting the words, discount, sale and books, in the same sentence, this is truly a treat.


I have fond memories of the Strand sale. Some of the most priceless gems in my collection hail from there. As I sat down to write this post, I could think of other books that were waiting for me. I yearned to shut shop at work and rush to the sale, and yet the sale began and ended, and I did not go. Why, do you ask?


That’s what happens when a book lover marries a non-book lover. While I regard books as food for thought, my husband considers them food for termites. Where I think of them as storehouses of knowledge, he sees them as gatherers of dust.


My husband told me some time ago that I may not buy any more books, that if I wish to buy any more books, I must give up the ones I have. A sharp intake of breath escaped me. I could not believe my ears. Had my husband just asked me to give up my books? How could he be so cruel?


He claimed, in his defence, that he had never once seen me read them since our marriage. Insufficient grounds for desertion, I countered. How do I explain to him that merely having them in my life, within reach, is a great comfort? I may not have read those books in the last few years, but they are mine, familiar and homely, and it is with a warm and fuzzy feeling in my heart that I regard them.


Besides just because he hasn’t seen me read them, doesn’t mean I haven’t. If there is anything that exceeds the joy of reading a good book, it is the joy of reading a good book AGAIN. The experience can be likened to that of visiting an interesting yet familiar place in the company of an old friend. The fact that you know exactly what is going to happen next matters not one whit.


Mind you, I do not buy books unless I have read them before. They have to be ‘keepers’ before I put my money down for them. Of course, I enjoy a good whodunit as much as anyone else, but for such so-called ‘best-sellers’ there are always the famous ‘circulating’ libraries and the street booksellers, who stock both cheap two-penny and classic literature. 

It is at one such unassuming street bookshop that I bought my copy of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, with ‘To Manohar and his charming consort, Bharati – on their wedding day, 1903,’ inscribed on the flyleaf. The pages were brown and fragile when I bought the book (and at my shoestring college budget it was definitely dear at Rs 80), but how it must have been cherished by the bridal couple. And they must have been Shakespeare enthusiasts to get a gift like that.


There have been other jewels that I picked up from these street book haunts. Pied Piper by Nevil Shute, The Devil’s Advocate by Morris West, and A Streetcar named Desire by Tennessee Williams, among others. I could barely keep the excitement out of my voice, when I bid for those books. I was so afraid the hawker would see that I wanted those books and hike up the price.


Could I give up any of these?


What about the volume of Catch 22 by Joseph Heller that I cannot go beyond page 9, which I will finish some day?


Or the abridged editions of The Prisoner of Zenda, The One Thousand and One Arabian Nights, A Tale of Two Cities and Oliver Twist, that whetted my appetite for the real thing.


What about books like Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton and Christ Recrucified by Nikos Kazantzakis that taught me that prose could be poetry, that it could bring tears to your eyes and give you goosebumps?


Or Animal Farm (which by the way, I wish I had written) and 1984 by George Orwell that created such a stir in my mind?


Could I give up the Collected Works of Oscar Wilde and Saki and the Complete Short Stories of O Henry that occupy pride of place on my bookshelf? Not to mention All Things Wise and Wonderful by the inimitable James Herriot. (Note to self: Need to lay my hands on All Things Bright and Beautiful, All Creatures Great and Small, and The Lord God made them all.)


I could not part from One Minute Nonsense and Prayer of the Frog (parts I and II), both by Anthony de Mello, from which I am always able to glean new wisdom.


And you better not ask to borrow Anne Frank – The Diary of a Young Girl which I read in college, and was greatly influenced by.


Nor can I do without my English, Spanish, Portuguese and Italian dictionaries and my Roget’s Thesaurus.


There are so many books that have become a part of my life. Could I give them up? No way.


We have a shared history, these books and I. To me, these books are not just storytellers and purveyors of information. They have created their own worlds in my imagination and peopled them with characters, sometimes lovable, sometimes ruffianly, but always memorable. 

They are my friends, an inseparable part of my life and my consciousness. They have left an indelible mark on me. I am a changed woman for having read them. They have forged my thinking, fashioned and re-fashioned my perceptions, changed my life. To them, I return time and time again for conversations that are always spirited and alive.


Above all, I must make room for the books that haven’t been published yet. Books whose existence is now confined to a few manuscripts of long hand, but will someday come into their own — with my name on them.




Portable Magic
Books were always a life-saver. When the electricity conked off, or our national Doordarshan programming was disrupted, I turned to my books. I could spend hours reading, racing through each book, so that I could rush back in for another treat.


What fears did loneliness have then that could not be quashed by a book? When friends were scurried off by their parents on vacations, we had our books for company.


When we ourselves travelled from Bombay to Goa on the Great Indian Railways on a journey that seemed to take forever in the torpid summer heat, it was books that came to our rescue. Books were, as Stephen King put it, “portable magic.”




Decorating = Building bookshelves
I have always fantasised about having a library in my home, a room with books on all the walls from the floor to the ceiling. In that fantasy, I used to reluctantly set aside space for a low door, under which a true book lover would gladly crouch.


I have always felt that any room with bookshelves in it is well-decorated enough to suit me. I recall the library scene in the animation film, Beauty and the Beast. I fail to remember what exactly happens there in the library in the Beast’s mansion. But what I cannot forget are the stacks of books piled high from the floor to the ceiling. Only the room was massive, and the ceiling stretched as high as the spires.




Books and I
By non-reader standards, I was a strange kid. I could spend hours poring over old newspapers and tattered books and magazines. There was always something interesting to read there.


I remember how excited I was the first time I stepped into a library as a child. In that heightened state of excitement, I remember trying, mentally (and feverishly), to multiply the number of books with the number of shelves, and wondering if I would be able to finish all the books in that room, if I read, say, one a day. I also recall a distinct thought I had back then: that heaven must be a place where you could find all the books that had ever been written, in all the languages of the world.


When my brother became a member of the British Council Library, I used to go to the library in his stead every Saturday, borrow four books, devour them as fast as I could and return to the library the following Saturday to borrow another four. One of the librarians there would eye me warily, wondering perhaps when I found time to do the things that normal human beings do. I would hope desperately that there was no library rule against making too many trips in a single month.


We weren’t gifted any books as children, for reasons I’ve mentioned before. So all the books that my brother and I had were those that we had received as prizes at school for having topped a particular school subject in class. We used to spend the week after our school annual days devouring the books that we had received.


One year, I heard a nasty rumour that the school planned to hand out cash awards, instead of books, as prizes. I doubt any other kid was as upset as I was.




Teaching a Love for Reading
The habit of reading was inculcated in us at a very young age. Neither Dad nor Mum actually sat us down and read to us. That was an age when parents had no access to Better Parenting books. So they just let centuries of instinct and intuition supply what they lacked in knowledge.


And so it was that while today I have the benefit of knowledge, gleaned from scores of websites and books, on the best way to raise a reader, my father just read books. It was the sight of him reading, the look of absorbed reflection and delight so evident on his face, that told us, without words, how much fun reading could be.


As we grew older, Dad showed us his books. There was an air of quiet pride when he did that and I learned to understand what a treasure it is to have and hold your own books. It was then that the seed was sown, the determination to be the proud owner of my own collection some day.


I also have one other childhood memory relating to books. I remember asking Dad, “Will you give me your books when I am older?” I added, “I don’t want anything else,” perhaps intending to soften the blow.


“Oh yes,” he had said then, smiling at me. And he was as good as his word.


Today I can see Matilda, Winnie the Pooh and Noddy trying to encroach into my space on the bookcase and I am thrilled beyond measure. I want to raise a family of readers. Some of my most treasured moments have been spent with my daughter, my arms wrapped around her affectionately, with a book on our laps. 

As we read her favourite stories, over and over again, holding her chubby forefinger as we trace the embossed lettering on the books, I know that the words that she is listening to are dancing across the blossoming expanse of her mind. 

I modulate my voice to sound like Noddy or Tigger or Agatha Trunchbull, Matilda’s adversary, knowing well that she is literally hanging on to my every word. Sometimes I deliberately omit a particular word, only to be forcefully reminded of the remission.


There are many reasons why I cherish these moments with her. For one, it is time that I set aside for her alone. Movies, TV, household chores, office work, my own reading — everything else takes second place. All other noises are hushed. 

Little as she is, she knows that her multi-tasking, much harried mother is making her a gift of time – always a precious gift. But more importantly, she realizes that she is being initiated into the delights of reading, a pastime that is dear to her mother’s heart. Her mind is expanding. Her imagination is breaking boundaries. Her world is being enlarged. And the only equipment that is needed to achieve this is what author Christopher Morley once describes as “(not) just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue.”




How much is a Book Worth?
Time and dust, the two eternal adversaries of all things finite, have left their mark on my books. The covers of some of them, once shiny and bright, have faded. One or two of them are scarred by the blot marks of a wayward fountain pen. And the unkindest cut of all, one for which I am thoroughly ashamed, is the dog’s ears on some of my most cherished possessions. But neither time nor dust could diminish their worth in my eyes.






The Hand That Rocks the Cradle Pats Herself on the Back
Last week, my daughter held my face between her palms (a fail-proof way of getting her mother’s attention), and said to me, “Mamma, I become big then, you’ll give me your books, please. I don’t want anything else.”


I don't want anything else either.




(The title of this post has been adapted from Shakespeare’s The Tempest.)

The Spirit of Christmas Past

Christmas is most real to a child, perhaps because the Creator of the world came to us in the form of a child.


As children, preparing for Christmas, it was a delight to do something good and not be found out. The parish priest of St John the Baptist Church, Thane, (I think his name was Fr Peter something), came up with an ingenious idea to prepare the Sunday School children for Christmas. While others cleaned their homes, we children should clean our hearts, he said.


He handed each of us a single sheet of paper on which the popular image of a heart, with numerous lines crisscrossing it, was printed. The crisscrossing lines would total up to more than 300 little squares. The idea was that all through Advent, we should do something nice for someone and offer it as our gift to God. With each good deed, we would be permitted to colour one of those little squares. On Christmas Eve, we were encouraged to place our coloured hearts, a symbol of our love for God, in the manger at the church crib. Wrapped as He was in nothing but swaddling robes, our coloured hearts would keep Him warm.


Looking back, I recall that none of my good deeds were really scale-breaking. Sometimes I may have foregone a sweet that my brother wanted. Or I may have given up watching a favourite TV programme and tried to help mum instead.


More than the deed itself, it was the spirit in which it was done that made it significant. For once, we thought of the needs of others, rather than our own. For once, we swallowed our pride and grief, if we were scolded undeservedly. For that one time in the year, we would try our best to be a little less selfish, a little more generous, a little more as God would have us be.


The Wise men came with their gifts. We brought our hearts. It was with a glow in my heart that I would place mine at the manger, knowing without the shadow of a doubt that just as the Babe smiled upon the little drummer boy in one of my favourite Christmas songs, He would look with delight upon me.


My parents never bought us gifts at Christmas. Partly because our financial circumstances didn't permit it. But more importantly, because we were just not aware of the tradition of buying one another gifts for Christmas. The way my parents taught us to view Christmas, the focus was always on the Birthday Boy, whose birth transformed the world.


So the tradition of piling up neatly wrapped gifts at the foot of the Christmas tree and pretending it was Santa Claus who had bought them for us never featured in our memories of Christmas Past. In fact, for a very long time, we didn't even have a Christmas tree.


Dad used to make a crib, a small visual representation of the Nativity. It was a small house that Dad had fashioned out of leftover plywood. It wasn't at all ramshackle as the real one must have been, but that was because Dad had good carpentry skills. With loving hands, he would smooth sawdust on the floor, place the thatched and stitched roof on top of the house and put the little statues in their positions. Even as he tried his best to make the little house as comfortable as possible, he would tell us, "The real stable must have been dirty and smelly. Imagine the trouble that Our Lord willingly accepted for our sake."


All through Advent, my excitement would be steadily built up, rising in intensity as Mum made a different Christmas sweet each day for our kuswar (Christmas goodies). One day, it would be neureos, then perad the next day, dodol the day after, and cake and kormolan the next. The following day, it would be two types of doce (the Portuguese word for sweet). one made of chana dal, and the other of local bread or pao. They were both my favourites, chonya doce and unddya doce, unddo meaning the Konkani word for bread. This would be followed by batk or bolinhas. For the local flavour, Mum would make chaklis and besan laddoos and our basket of Christmas goodies would be complete.


Day after day, our little home would be redolent with the aromas of all these sweets. It was another reminder that Christmas was approaching. As these Christmas goodies were being made at home, I would go to school with a heavy heart. Somehow it seemed unfair to miss all the excitement even for a few hours.


Incidentally, one of my cousins, so went a famous family story, apparently wrapped up a school exam in a fraction of the time allotted to write it because she did not want to miss out on the kormola making at home. While it was a very amusing story that never failed to bring on the laughs, dear cousin, if you read this, I want you to know that I thought your action was thoroughly excusable. :)


Meanwhile, Dad would decorate our little house with colourful buntings and balloons, even as Christmas carols would be playing on our little tape recorder. Mum would sew Christmas dresses for the two of us. The finishing touches would be put at the very last minute, often because there was so much that she had to do, while managing her sewing business too.


While these preparations were on, my excitement would be muffled, under wraps. It was only when Dad got the crib ready, often the last step in our Christmas decorations, that the warm feeling in my heart would smoulder into a full-blown fire.


Those childhood Christmases were beautiful. I remember the thrill that used to come over me at Mass on the first Sunday of Advent when the choir would sing, "Bestir thy power, and come, Lord, to save thy sin-laden race." It used to be my cue to give in to unmitigated joy and excitement because my favourite time of the year was finally here.


Truly, there is no Christmas like the one experienced by children. One casualty of being a grown-up is that unfortunately we lose the tenderness and affection that we used to experience as children. We lose the warm Christmassy feeling and merely end up keeping the date.


This year, I resolve to change all that. I resolve to become a child again at Christmas time. I resolve to re-live the excitement that was mine, all those years ago, and to share in the delight of my little daughter and son and two nephews. I resolve to open my heart again so that when I peer into the crib and look at the little Babe lying in the manger, I can feel content that I have made my heart a fit dwelling for Him.