These are a few things to help those well-meaning or inquisitive or trying-to-help-to-heal-people out there. The following points may help you all. In future when talking to divorcees or twice or thrice-married people, please carry a print out of this.
My kids were always viewed with suspicion whether they were gonna do drugs or drink or run with the wrong crowd or hang out at some street corner. Why? They came from a broken home. Broken home = broken kids. I haven't defined this, society has, for years.
If my kids were half an hour late or fared below average in a paper, it was put down to "trauma from divorce" and I took home the award for "Bad Mother of the Year". Oh cos kids from undivorced homes all stand first, eat their veggies and are home before curfew and are in bed before the boogey man hits the streets.
If these divorced kids have transitioned in style and wear clothes of the current trend, short dresses or tiny shorts or a crew cut then it's put down to rebellion but the kids from normal homes are just fashionable. (From now on, am going to refer to the two as divorced kids and normal kids, I know you are wise enough to distinguish between the two).
If my kids go on to land a great job, it's greeted by "I hope he sticks to it and does not mess it up". A normal kid, well he's gonna become the next CEO of the company or maybe president of the country. If a divorced child is silent in polite company or socially then he's depressed or has withdrawn and needs counselling: a normal child is possibly trying to revise the Pythagoras theorem.
A divorced girl if she has a few relationships then she's either looking for a father figure or just a plain slut and a normal girl "Oh my Lordy, she's so popular". Oh yes the mother of all is "they too may get divorced" since that's what they've grown up with and will have relationship issues, like divorce is a disease you contract from your parents! And yes, even after 6 or 7 or 8 years you will be asked socially "so any news of your ex-husband? Is he in touch with your children?" Seriously!!!! If I wished to be in touch with him I wouldn't have divorced him.
Why is bad behaviour met with excuses. Sorry, I raised my kids to respect everybody and speak with kindness so what's the excuse for rude, bratty, undiscliped kids from undivorced homes???
Today am standing up for kids who come from divorced families. Don't look upon them with suspicion, trepidation or stare at them. We parents don't constantly need validation on how well we've raised them, and they don't need validation on how well they've turned out. We don't judge you normal people. The kids are only divorced, they haven't grown a tail!
Monday, November 16, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Coffee
I am excited about going to sleep so I can wake up to that perfect brew. I can smell it. Shut your eyes and smell the coffee with me....Now you may continue reading. I need my quiet while I follow my morning ritual of spooning my dark coffee and just a table spoon of milk. Exceed that spoon of milk and I am visibly upset. I should be able to see the angry shade of wet earth on a rainy day in my mug and smell the beans.
Am not sure if am partial to any particular brand of coffee, it should just be a dark angry brown. Hate the flavoured vanillas n berries n strawberries. Why deconstruct a perfect creation. Hate the typical coffee available at Indian roadside spots, canteens and in offices. It's over-boiled sweet milk with coffee flavouring : positively nauseating. The coffee culture does not really exist in India except for the south; the filter Kaapi decoction or the typical chickory-enhanced concoction at the roadside carts.
I am not a fan of an Espresso, it's too bitter for me. I like them dark not black. Now that was not meant to be racist. Putting a disclaimer as in this age of being politically correct... to get back to the perfect dark I tasted - it was on my flight on Thai Airways from Bangkok to Hat Yai near the Malaysian border. It was nirvana when I had the first sip of coffee. I had to sip again to be sure and third time for the gastronomic orgasm. Yes coffee does that to me. I called the sirhostess and asked if she could tell what brand of coffee it was. Initially she seemed a bit worried thinking I was going to complain about poor service but I had to assure her that I wasn't; when convinced, she only smiled but didn't say anything. She either didn't understand or maybe it's a national carrier secret "do not reveal how to pleasure our customers with coffee".
A brief period in my life I had to give up coffee for 15 days. The first thing I requested on my return was not a bath or a hairwash. It was the perfect brew of dark coffee. The first sip brought a flood of tears, the second sip a prayer and the third was me, one with my coffee. I am ok about drinking a cappucino if nothing else is available, though I tend to stop at a sip or two and push the cup away. An expensive waste. I think it's for the pseudos. When at a restaurant I always order my coffee black, milk and sugar on the side. I like building it myself. There's a certain pleasure in giving birth to each cup rather than just a premixed. Oh and the coffee sachets, they should absolutely be banned!!!
Am not sure if am partial to any particular brand of coffee, it should just be a dark angry brown. Hate the flavoured vanillas n berries n strawberries. Why deconstruct a perfect creation. Hate the typical coffee available at Indian roadside spots, canteens and in offices. It's over-boiled sweet milk with coffee flavouring : positively nauseating. The coffee culture does not really exist in India except for the south; the filter Kaapi decoction or the typical chickory-enhanced concoction at the roadside carts.
I am not a fan of an Espresso, it's too bitter for me. I like them dark not black. Now that was not meant to be racist. Putting a disclaimer as in this age of being politically correct... to get back to the perfect dark I tasted - it was on my flight on Thai Airways from Bangkok to Hat Yai near the Malaysian border. It was nirvana when I had the first sip of coffee. I had to sip again to be sure and third time for the gastronomic orgasm. Yes coffee does that to me. I called the sirhostess and asked if she could tell what brand of coffee it was. Initially she seemed a bit worried thinking I was going to complain about poor service but I had to assure her that I wasn't; when convinced, she only smiled but didn't say anything. She either didn't understand or maybe it's a national carrier secret "do not reveal how to pleasure our customers with coffee".
A brief period in my life I had to give up coffee for 15 days. The first thing I requested on my return was not a bath or a hairwash. It was the perfect brew of dark coffee. The first sip brought a flood of tears, the second sip a prayer and the third was me, one with my coffee. I am ok about drinking a cappucino if nothing else is available, though I tend to stop at a sip or two and push the cup away. An expensive waste. I think it's for the pseudos. When at a restaurant I always order my coffee black, milk and sugar on the side. I like building it myself. There's a certain pleasure in giving birth to each cup rather than just a premixed. Oh and the coffee sachets, they should absolutely be banned!!!
Friday, October 30, 2015
Sidewalks
I want sidewalks without the slums, the smells, sights and utter hopelessness of poverty staring at me every time I step onto the broken paver block pathways. I don't have anything against the poor. My heart goes out to their plight, but I want my sidewalk. Maybe sidewalks with flowerbeds and treelined like in the Hollywood movies. I want to walk along the beach without worrying about the laschiviousness that greets my clothes. I want to stand alone and stare at the sea or the long winding road without wondering whether the men think am there to be solicited.
These are the worries I face as a middle class Indian woman. I have to battle for walking space outside the square foot I call my home, as the pavement belongs to the slum dwellers and the skies to the moneyed. So what do I own in this city. My small 800 square foot. I am not allowed anger against the system 'cos am constantly reminded to offer thanks for small mercies and that at least our system is better than that of a few other countries. Like that's supposed to make me feel happy or safe. Yes I must also pay my taxes, but for whom are these taxes, yes to build the sidewalks.
They've now taken not just the sidewalk but also my street and I drive almost apologetically on it. Oh yes, now that I have a car I need to be careful about driving on the road so that the ones who live on my sidewalk can play, dance, sit and sleep on the road on which am supposed to drive. Yes, forgive me if I happen to interrupt their sunday game or evening slouch on the pavement with a cuppa in their hand, sorry, how silly of me for not being a little more vigilant about the leg stretched out on the road while slouching on the pavement and having an animated conversation with the neighbouring slum dweller.
For if I've run over them or nudged them with my car for no fault of mine as I definitely were not drinking. Am met with glares and groups who may take out rallies against me for being so insensitive. When I walk past their homes they stare at me angrily, a look of how dare you covet our space, go find your own, and a look of defiance when there's anger writ large on my face when I have to sidestep the mound with flies hovering over it or the puddle of wasted food from dishes washed on the sidewalk or peoples discards.
I want this city as I too belong to it as I cannot walk down the Altamounts, Woodehouses and Breach Candys. I get shooed away by the security who actually live on these sidewalks. I haven't come to gawk or steal, I just want to stroll in the shade or smell the flowers but am not allowed here either. So where does this forgotten middle-class woman walk?
These are the worries I face as a middle class Indian woman. I have to battle for walking space outside the square foot I call my home, as the pavement belongs to the slum dwellers and the skies to the moneyed. So what do I own in this city. My small 800 square foot. I am not allowed anger against the system 'cos am constantly reminded to offer thanks for small mercies and that at least our system is better than that of a few other countries. Like that's supposed to make me feel happy or safe. Yes I must also pay my taxes, but for whom are these taxes, yes to build the sidewalks.
They've now taken not just the sidewalk but also my street and I drive almost apologetically on it. Oh yes, now that I have a car I need to be careful about driving on the road so that the ones who live on my sidewalk can play, dance, sit and sleep on the road on which am supposed to drive. Yes, forgive me if I happen to interrupt their sunday game or evening slouch on the pavement with a cuppa in their hand, sorry, how silly of me for not being a little more vigilant about the leg stretched out on the road while slouching on the pavement and having an animated conversation with the neighbouring slum dweller.
For if I've run over them or nudged them with my car for no fault of mine as I definitely were not drinking. Am met with glares and groups who may take out rallies against me for being so insensitive. When I walk past their homes they stare at me angrily, a look of how dare you covet our space, go find your own, and a look of defiance when there's anger writ large on my face when I have to sidestep the mound with flies hovering over it or the puddle of wasted food from dishes washed on the sidewalk or peoples discards.
I want this city as I too belong to it as I cannot walk down the Altamounts, Woodehouses and Breach Candys. I get shooed away by the security who actually live on these sidewalks. I haven't come to gawk or steal, I just want to stroll in the shade or smell the flowers but am not allowed here either. So where does this forgotten middle-class woman walk?
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Deaf But Not Mute
Have you noticed how people do not listen to you or do they not hear you? Let me explain. Hypothetically, you talk about how your child does not toe the curfew line of 8:30pm and how you've set the slate right with a chat about the perils with grounding. You were affirming about having handled the situation well from problem to solution.
Now when you've introduced this subject as part of your conversation or tete a tete, it was not you whining, complaining, not a question, not a conversation starter, but there you have the wisest Magu or Rafiki (though I love and respect Rafiki) of the lot tell you (and I hear condescension) how to handle the situation with.... "If that doesn't happen, your child will get raped, molested or will become a drug addict or will become a waster and not succeed in life...."
All things you had already advised your child about (How to raise a family, how to succeed in life monetarily, how to socialise, how to be married happily ever after) - Noooo! but they the sermonisers hold the tablets and have written the commandment. And yes you must balance all these with a simple mind, simple measures.
You start talking to the Magus or self-appointed wise ones, you think you have them in rapt attention while your talking as they are looking at you - or are they looking through you? What gives them away is when they repeat everything you've just said as the solution to what they think is you announcing a problem.
Hey! that's exactly what I just said; so did they not hear me? All you are doing is stating, but you will promptly be given the SOP manual on how to handle the friend or gardener or maid or spouse and pretty much everything else.
Why do people not pause and listen? Like when you tell your spouse "Oh! I ate that cake at Rita's, now my jeans don't fit!" Promptly a head appears with a voice following "Who told you to eat that cake...!" I know I didn't need to eat that cake but it was staring at me, I just need a silent, patient hearing.
Oh well I've been guilty of this with the kids; all their banter and mishaps - which have been gracefully handled by them - is followed with sermons and stoic expression..
Now when you've introduced this subject as part of your conversation or tete a tete, it was not you whining, complaining, not a question, not a conversation starter, but there you have the wisest Magu or Rafiki (though I love and respect Rafiki) of the lot tell you (and I hear condescension) how to handle the situation with.... "If that doesn't happen, your child will get raped, molested or will become a drug addict or will become a waster and not succeed in life...."
All things you had already advised your child about (How to raise a family, how to succeed in life monetarily, how to socialise, how to be married happily ever after) - Noooo! but they the sermonisers hold the tablets and have written the commandment. And yes you must balance all these with a simple mind, simple measures.
You start talking to the Magus or self-appointed wise ones, you think you have them in rapt attention while your talking as they are looking at you - or are they looking through you? What gives them away is when they repeat everything you've just said as the solution to what they think is you announcing a problem.
Hey! that's exactly what I just said; so did they not hear me? All you are doing is stating, but you will promptly be given the SOP manual on how to handle the friend or gardener or maid or spouse and pretty much everything else.
Why do people not pause and listen? Like when you tell your spouse "Oh! I ate that cake at Rita's, now my jeans don't fit!" Promptly a head appears with a voice following "Who told you to eat that cake...!" I know I didn't need to eat that cake but it was staring at me, I just need a silent, patient hearing.
Oh well I've been guilty of this with the kids; all their banter and mishaps - which have been gracefully handled by them - is followed with sermons and stoic expression..
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