Money, Money, Money...

... must be funny in a rich man's world.

Well, even Abba can't make me smile today.

If I had to look at my relationship with Goddess Lakshmi, I'd say she's been around, benevolent, but we haven't really gotten to know each other. I remember, even as a child, I'd ask for Goddess Saraswati's blessings first, even though my mum would says that Lakshmi only 'comes' to those who seek her. It was never money I asked for, it was always, always and irritatingly always, wisdom. Make me wise, I'd say, ever since I was six I think. 22 years later, I've been put face to face with the inescapable fact: what I know versus what I need are two completely different equations.

Nino's school admissions are on: and we've several options lined up, all the lesser of the evils that are home to the school system in my city. I've considered boards, teachers, first-hand experiences, my gut instinct, other people's freely doled out wisdom - everything - but for the fees. For long, I've been torn between knowing what can make my son happy and make him bloom, versus the fears (some mine, and mostly fed by others) of 'elite' groups, Nino growing up with complexes, about us having just one car in a 'social group' where every family has an obscene number of cars for itself, yadda, yadda, yadda. I've always believed that my socialist attitude to life would be helpful in shielding Nino from the trappings of economic status, but I've been told again, and again, that I'm not being entirely practical in my outlook.

The better of the schools are also expensive and my dad often points out that I went to a regular state board school and did pretty well for myself. And I'd always counter-argue that if we removed fees out of the equation, we'd still choose a particular school because it was so good for Nino. So why should lack of money prohibit me from giving my son the kind of education I want him to have? Because, dad reasons, there's no guarantee the brochure will be as good in real life. Be practical, he said. That's one refrain I've heard my entire life - I guess it is the one virtue I've missed out on entirely.

Today, I've been handed a fee slip for a possible admission that will break my already weakened financial plan. As I frantically thought this morning of what I'll borrow from whom, perhaps sell all those silly gold coins that I received in the wedding, I've been feeling like someone socked me in my gut. There's a voice in my head that says impractical idealistic fool, and I can't help the anger that stems from within me, for me. For all the books I keep spending money on. For being completely clueless when it comes to money, planning, saving.... Perhaps it is true: they were right about me. And yet, there is also this voice that asks me why would I mind being a fool for my son? He may not need it, or like I'm always told, he will not know the difference, and yet...

My childhood was filled with stories of heroism, of people who were brave and foolhardy who went forth to fight for what they believed in. These stories features mothers and women too. In a way, perhaps, this will be a heroic battle on my part. I too am brave and foolhardy, so what if my fight is monetary in nature.

I don't know if this time around I'll say 'Buddhi' before saying 'Lakshmi' when I pray, as I invariably do when I think of what I truly want from the Almighty, but I hope the lotus-wielding goddess is listening: I do want her too.

A thing of beauty...

... is a joy forever.

It's true: I've willed it be wrong and false and foolishly romantic and therefore fated to an early death - but it will not escape me.

I remember reading sometime back this article about a woman whose husband is her better (looking, in this case) half, and all the funny and no-so-funny things about this situation. It was an article I instantly connected to - and I read it with relish, imagining all those mean aunties (most of them on the husband's side I bravely admit, and some silent ones on my side as well) who muttered 'wonder what he sees in her'.

I've come back to this situation often. I did not blossom into the proverbial butterfly, I just became more comfortable with what I looked like. I was a typical geek in school - all gangly limbs, braces and glasses, longer-than-long oiled hair with plaits. And I went to a typically trendy convent high-school. And I was put down directly and indirectly about how I looked. And now when I meet ex-classmates, it's the pretty ones who say - oh, you look nice! - like it's an unexpected shock. I'm dramatically different from before - but it's not the difference so much as the adjective they use.

Although I don't subscribe to the theory that things are easier for pretty looking people, why in some case beautiful women are taken to be dumb and it's pretty frustrating for them - but I do know sometimes it is easier for them. A traffic snarl that can be solved with a smile. A crabby fight that just needs a certain look. This feeling of coming home dead tired and feeling better by just seeing someone's perfection. I also know you get immune to beauty when you live with it for too long - but never really immune. Beauty is the best epitaph.

Why am I here, writing this? I just came across someone from my school who I don't really remember, but who used to play Mary in all our Nativity plays. Because she's got glorious skin and is angelic and cherubic. Every year. Who said Mary was beautiful? The subconscious treatment that equates beauty with being above ordinary starts in school. Why don't they have a random straw poll and pick a Mary in schools? Why not the short one or the dark one or the one with the pug nose? It takes no acting talent: she just needs to sit there and smile, so I don't believe talent had anything to do with it. We've conveniently equated beautiful with the divine. Hence anyone else is lesser, mere mortal. Little girls with pink frilly frocks and cherubic cheeks versus little girls with broken hearts wondering why they can't play princess.

Is this the same thing as picking the best speaker for the debate competition? No. Talent can be nurtured, developed, everyone has a shot at it. Beauty? Why that's the one damn thing that's not really in your hands. You can go as far as well-groomed or well-turned-out or well-dressed, but beautiful? Not even under the scalpel.

When I saw her today - Mary from school - and I looked through her photographs from school and I sat bewitched and saw her beauty - and felt very frumpy myself. And sorta felt cheated. And a little hurt that my 'blossoming' never came. And worried how I'd react if I saw my son being held back from something he wanted to do because of how he'd look. And grateful that perhaps he'll have to put up with it lesser because he's a boy. Maybe. Big maybe there.

Ofcourse I do believe that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. I just wish all the beholders were are short-sighted as Nino's Dad.

One quick question...

... as my faithful pc gets a new lease of life, as I finally get around to finishing Chox's handmade tag while wondering why dumpers must always be in plastic, and as Bejan Daruwala finally has something nice to say about my week after what seems like horror-scopes for months, I've one quick question...

CBSE, ICSE or IB and why?

Small town girls

I'm a small town girl. Born and brought up in Gandhinagar, a dusty and shady small town, where only bureaucrats and government officers/officials live. Growing up, surrounded by friends from the same family background of hard-working parents, book-filled homes and serious political discussions over endless cups of tea, it was like an extended family, where everyone knew my folks, and they'd know if I'd been in trouble before even I knew about it. And like everybody else, I couldn't wait to escape it.

The capital of the state it may be, but Gandhinagar has always been what other city residents call it, 'an old age home'. We had no places to shop for the kind of clothes we wanted, no places to pick interesting hair accessories. For everything, even a fairly decent dressing sauce, we'd all troop into the car and drive up to Ahmedabad. When I go back today, I barely see any young people there. There are the school-going kids and then there are the parents whose nests are empty and whose children have long flown to more interesting pastures. There are things about it that I loved, and love still: like how it just smells so clean, so green. Driving down from Ahmedabad, a mere 40 km away, I roll down the windows as Gandhinagar appears and just take in deep lung-fulls of air, the smells of childhood that I've come to miss: the smell of dusk, a mix of dust and cow dung, called godhuli so beautifully in Hindi.

Of course I loved my schooling years there: and it is here that I found my first friends, faced my first bullies and had my first few crushes. Last night, a few of us classmates met again, nearly ten years after we'd parted.

After a long time, I dilly-dallied over what I'd wear, knowing the guys would surround me and rib me silly about going from Somalian to gargutan. I settled on jeans and a silk paisley top, low-slung enough to fit my more feminine state of mind now, and yet, comfortable enough to face people with mindframes I'd no idea of.

There were meant to be 11 of us, but only four of us turned up. Most of the class doesn't live in the state/country, and reunions have somehow never worked out because of those logistics.

Last night, as we three girls and one guy chatted, we relieved those small town memories, recounted to exact and embarrassing details by D, the only guy who'd come. Like how I once wore a mini-skirt to a friend's birthday party, and had probably never realised that my then-hair, were longer than the skirt. Or how the first time a guy 'proposed friendship' to me, I'd burst out in tears leaving him and the class wondering if I was a lunatic.

And like all friendships, it got cemented over some skeletons. Some of them our own, some of those who had not made it to the reunion. One of the girls has been through a physically abusive marriage and is now living in with an Australian guy who loves her to bits. Another classmate ran away from home and community and married a guy who she later discovered was already involved with another woman. Another had an abusive father who'd beat her in such a way that we'd never be able to see it, but the bruises and welts would all be there, hidden beneath her school uniform. Or like how the guy who was a write-off was running an uber-successful ad agency, the guys who were the flirts and mr-commitment-phobic's were the first ones to get married. There were the regular juicy bits of affairs and divorces, success stories and unfathomable failures. Open, frank discussions of sex and what works and what doesn't. Random kaleidoscopic insights into the one-dimensional memory I had of the faces I grew up with.

It was vaguely unsettling: more so because one of the reasons I wanted to run away from my city was because of it's 'simple' residents, their 'boring and uneventful' lives. All this while, there was an underbelly to these residents that I'd not noticed, in my immaturity, in my need to get away from it all. It was also ironic, that I'm one of the few that still lives in the vicinity, when I'd been most vocal about my need to get away and see the world, while everyone else lives in countries I'd not even heard of when I was a kid.

Without Nino, and Nino's Dad, it was also my first time, in a long time, meeting people only I knew, who were in no way involved in the social circle I inherited when I got married. It was refreshing re-living school stories, crushes, laughing at the absurdity of teenage and its short-sightedness, of mourning friends and friendships that had passed on. It was humbling knowing that while our girths had changed (some of us, some are still lucky!), our faces hadn't, our expressions hadn't. We still punched and kicked and laughed raucously, ate from each others plates, enjoying a camaraderie we probably din't even have a decade back.

It was a trip back in time, a flash-back, but not grey or ochre, instead brilliantly hued and humbling in all the wisdom and hindsight it brought.

The age of wisdom - part two

I'm babysitting two kids - Nino and his elder cousin and role-model, Karanbhai - and we've played and read, and watched Tom and Jerry and there's still ages to go for bedtime, so we start to talk. We're talking of different places of worship, as in a temple, a church, a mosque, etc, since Nino recently visited a Church for the first time. And just like that, conversation takes a turn...

Karanbhai: I'm Jain, what are you?
Nino: Random muttering about the church and the baby Jesus he saw there.

Karanbhai, persisting: I'm Jain, and you are?
Nino is a bit flabbergasted. Eventually he says, I'm people.

--

Today when I pick him up from school, he's chattering excitedly about some Inden Fly. I don't get it, frankly I think it's a montessori method I haven't read up on, and the worry starts to set in.
In the car, the muttering continues.
On the top there is saffron. In the bottom green. Middle is Ashok Chakra. Inden Fly.

OMG, I want to scream, I din't realise he's talking about the Indian Flag. So we open up his bag and see the painting of the flag, just single strokes of the three colours on paper. Beautiful painting Nino, I tell him. Its not a painting, he says. Its called republic.

Towards sweeter mouths and hearts

I went to Nino's school today to share a small chat with the children about Eid-ul-Fitr. Years of winning inter-school and then inter-college debates have left me with a laid back attitude about speaking in front of a crowd, a very matter-of-fact confidence that comes from having bellowed your opinions on stage (then) and on paper (now).

I was surprised therefore to feel actual qualms that kept me up at night, had me hyperventilating in the morning and generally made paisa-vasool of my deo. It was not just because I wondered how to explain the significance of the festival to kids between two and six years - it was also because of the various hyperboles this festival has come to be associated with.

When Nino's teacher had asked if any parent wanted to speak about Eid to the kids - I saw grown women shuffling feet and looking at each other. I volunteered, and one mother remarked that maybe I could teach them about the festival as well. Unlike its currently socio-political image, Ahmedabad was founded by a Muslim king, and his dynasty ruled over it for generations. Most of the city's famous landmarks are Islamic in nature or design or origin, and old city was once home to the kind of diversity that inspirational books are made of.

Today, Ahmedabad is a twin-city. Majority-dominated and economically-affluent western suburbs and Minority-dominated eastern suburbs. Deepening the divide is the Sabarmati that splits the two suburbs - the same river, on the banks of which, Mahatma Gandhi launched his satyagraha movement for a free, but united India. Most schools in the western suburbs are dominated by Hindu students, and our children have fewer, and more often none, Muslim friends. It's a sharp cry from my own childhood - my best friend in the early years was Nazia who later migrated to Saudi Arabia. Eid in college was marked by sharing yummy biryani from one massive plate at friends' homes. It was even better when Eid and Diwali were celebrated almost together - the lights, the smiles, the joy, the hopes - all were the same.

As I walked into the class area, armed with sewaiyan, I hoped to talk about a festival that's also called Methi Eid, where hearts and stomachs are made sweeter by the joys of bonding with family and friends. Nino was pleasantly surprised, but all grown up, and he let me talk with all his friends, smiling smugly as they called out my name and told me their favourite sweets: strawberry ice-cream topping the list.

I talked about the crescent moon, celebrating Chand Raat with mehendi and shopping, and warm hugs to be shared. Eid Mubaarak, I said, and the words echoed back, dented in a few places by small tongues using new syllables. I smiled, hopeful that I had managed to give them a peek into a religion that many of them are likely to grow up to fear or hate. Someday, I hope to read to Nino Faiz and Ghalib, as we soak in the setting sun on Sarkhej Roza, stop by the Siddi Syed Jali with the words of Iqbal echoing... Mazhab nahin sikhata apas men bair rakhna, Hindi hain ham, watan hai Hindustan hamara! (Faith does not teach us hatered, we are all the people of the Indus valley, and our nation is the land of the Indus, India!)

Sweetened mouths and fuller tummies later, we parted ways at the gate as the kids streamed out to greet mothers/grandmothers/fathers. 'Why are you here?' one mother asked. 'To talk about Eid.' 'But you are not Muslim, are you?' she said. 'No,' I said. 'Eid Mubaarak to you as well.'

--

I've just come to know that Nino has reportedly embarked on a hugging-spree. Frantic calls from the mother-in-law, whose concern over sewaiyan-stained tapestry has reached Valium-prescription levels, say Nino has hugged the living room furniture, the plants in the balcony and the puritan brahmin cook with single-minded dedication: 'Eid Mudaarak - kheer aapone' (Eid Mubarak, give me kheer!)

A Bag story

Nino's Dad and I went to a brand new pre-school/day boarding programme's orientation session on Sunday. It's a new concept in Ahmedabad: a large majority of women here don't work full time, or live in joint families, so day-boarding has never really taken off. But the new school offers a variety of programmes, from regular pre-school hours to day boarding to evening activity hours. I for one know atleast half a dozen journalist friends who work crazy hours, are not bonafide gujaratis and have no family support system in the city, who'd grab the chance: a curriculum that combines the best of montessori and its critics, a campus that's full of trees (such a rarity these days) and lots of outdoor activites such as a swimming pool (we've been wanting to get a club membership for us so Nino can swim, but the fees - well, that's a story for another post!). Though we don't know if we are signing up Nino for it, (because we're really happy with his current montessori pre-school), I do know the school has its heart in the right place.

Anyways, the real reason for the post's title. Well the orientation also served to bring together some friends of the couple that's promoting the school. We sort of fit in that definition as well: we know through a relative the couple's siblings. A six-degree sepration sort of thing that would wear anyone down, but in aapnu (which mean hamaara, ours) Ahmedabad, it's what we call 'family friends'.

So when the orientation wrapped up and we were all standing in groups drinking coffee/having icecream (at 11:00am on Sunday morning!), I saw a lady with a Bottega Veneta Cabat . Okay. Exhaling slowly. For those in the know, exhale slowly as well. For those not in the know, the Bottega is a premium and exclusive leather goods brand, and it's bags are exquisite and very expensive. The reason I love the brand so much is that there are no monograms on display (remember the LVs that airports are stuffed with these days?), and no one who's not read about the bag will say much about it, other than, 'it's a beautiful bag.' No bling, no show, just pure choclate brown, soft leather, woven similar to the warp and weft on a cane basket. It retails for around $4000 (Rs1,60,000).

Now Ahmedabad is a rich city. A generation back, it was known for its textile mills and old industrial families, many of whom have lost the firms, but still retain the money. Unlike the north, old money (even if the money's not currently there!) commands a fair bit of respect here, and the feudal system of old money marries old money still works. Many of these families don't even have a surname, the names of their forefathers serving as second names, as in the Hindi saying naam hi kaafi hai (the name is enough). There is a certain genteel-ness about this - a certain charm that makes them carry a cloth zari batua with more ease than a Channel. The nouveau riche on the other hand, and there are loads of them, the state being the hotbed for all things entrepreneurial, love their monograms, so much so that local grocers, pre-school gates and saloons see more than their share of Coach, Gucci, Channel and ahem, the ugliest of them all, Louis Vuitton.

The best part about these bags, monogrammed or otherwise, is that most of these are fakes. Bought from New York City's famous China Town when visiting friends and relatives in the US. Because no true blue Gujarati would spend a ridiculous amount of money on a bag. A sentiment to cheer, considering that some of the price tags are enough to get someone a roof over their heads.

Unfortunately, bags such as the Bottega, or the even more exclusive (and beautiful, may I add) Birkin, don't have fakes. If they do, the fakes cost nearly as much as the originals themselves. So seeing this lady with the bag sort of took my breath away, making me happy (about her good taste, ofcourse) and sad (so much money, for a bag?) at the same time. This is when our host rescued me. 'It's got to be a fake,' she said. 'She's just returned from Hong Kong.'

God bless the Chinese.

'Mama, make me your daughter'

Nino loves to dress up like a girl. He begs and pleads anyone and everyone to drape him with my scarves, wear my danglers propped up on his ears and lots of silver bangles. Then he wears my shoes and says, 'Come to Mama'.
The first couple of times everyone thought it was cute - he actually does make a pretty 'girl' - and I loved decking him up. But gender play works only one way, and I learnt that the hard way over the weekend.

Nino and I went on a play date on Saturday with his new friends from the montessori playschool he's recently started. The aim of the playdate - with a pool and toys - was to get the children familiar with each other - and offer the mothers a chance to get to know their fellow parents better. Boys are outnumbered in the group, 3 to 6, and at the playdate there were only 2 present - Nino and the hostess's son. Nino loves shoes - everybody's especially small footwear that's more his size. He chanced upon the slip-ons of a classmate, a girl, and slipped them on and then preened on how the shiny mettalic straps looked. As he showed them off to me, I casually mentioned how he liked to make-believe that he's my little Nina.
The mothers all looked at each other and giggled. A few called out to Nino, asking him about his 'girl' footwear and wondering aloud if he needed to borrow a skirt. - It was all good natured humour - till one of the mothers said her daughter loves to wear jeans and plays 'dadda' all the time. This time the gender play was appreciated - as if playing a male has more educative and emotive value than playing a woman. I was left a little shocked myself, and not because it was Nino in question, but because this was coming from a group of seemingly educated, modern women.

My husband's family has this annoying habit of classifying actions into 'girl' things and 'boy' things - if you cry/whine, you're a girl. If you're not sitting 'correctly', you're sitting like a boy.
My mother-in-law gets very upset when Nino dresses up - and she says it's because it might tempt him to, in her exact words, 'grow up effeminated'. Sometimes I want to tell her, it's not just a girl that he wants to play - he's playing me. Is that such a bad/taboo thing?

And while we may encourage our daughters to 'wear the pants' in the house, we most definitely don't want our boys to wear the skirts. It's not just the fear of homosexuality that pervades our choices - any behaviour that does not confirm to prevailing gender standards is frowned upon. If he's a boy - he has to have all the manly qualities that define that standard. All those and only those. And while it applies to girls as well, I belive we're starting to make some space for our daughters. The sons, unfortunately, will still have to measure up to the balls/cars/speed/violence/sports genre. They will continue to have 'Cars' parties and get a block-building set even when they want a doll or a kitchen set. What you're seen choosing often translates into who you are.

Nino loves some of the male gender trappings (such as balls and cars and racing his animals) - but he's also got a few surprises up his sleeve. He's a very loving kid who loves even more to express that - through hugs or words. He's eager to mother every little baby he meets and once went around for months telling everyone he's got a little baby in his belly (after a close friend of ours got pregnant). And he's very observant when it comes to clothes or jewellery - and also art in the form of sculptures and paintings. He often helps me pick my earrings - and I must say, he has good taste.

My husband and I often wondered how we would react if we had children with different sexual leanings than ours - this was before we had Nino - and both of us agreed that it would be okay. And while we've never rasied this topic since Nino was born, both of us are very protective of him when he's playing 'Nina' around other people. I don't want to guess work Nino's make-believe time and make future predictions - but I do know that I want him to be able to be whatever he wants, without the guilt of having 'disappointed' his parents attached to it.