h. 💛

 

[a]

when h was ten, she got this magician's kit for a birthday present and among other other random things, it had a sandclock

we used it for her night brushing, and sometimes, just to watch time flow

one day it stopped flowing

noone knows why

but a heap of white sand got timelessly stuck forever at the narrow neck and wouldn't trickle anymore

imagine that

time stopping

and then the quiet, and the darkness

let's not imagine that

let's turn the gaze and think footprints instead

...

[b]

when h was at her desk with schoolwork, she would often suddenly drop things, get up and run down the stairs. sometimes to get a bag of chips, sometimes to pet a stray cat, sometimes to bring home an orphaned puppy.

yesterday was to pick wildflowers. half hour after she was back there was a just handmade brown oshibana-ready bookmark on her desk. 

it was simple and beautiful. with tiny flowers and buds and leaves on twigs and little art around them, and a text collage cut out from her teenage book. 

i saw it, touched it, tried it out inside the book i was then reading, because she wouldn't let me have it. no matter how many times i asked for it emotional overtones included. it was for a friend.

i wanted it badly enough to ask again after couple hours hoping she'll change her mind. 

"uffff. grow up ma. you can't have everything you want !"

profoundnesses i will save to give back. i thought.

...

[c]

so there were these sudden sunny days when her dadan showed up unannounced. 

with two bags of her favourite masala chips and literally 10 packets of aam pachak and some sour punk candies. sometimes the best succulent pink prawns from the fresh fish market that h loved simply tossed with butter and garlic. also other whatnots - stuff only he and she knew are happy and super healthy food in a different sort of way.

we celebrated these days, these couple hours. h would photoshoot the granddad with her newly made merchandise at odd supermanlike angles to get the right light, and the granddad would maybe take a rare groupfie.

on these days, we talked, and laughed a lot, and  saved some life elixir for later.

...

[d]

"h

you have fever. grey and crimson fever. daarun jwor. 

i try very hard to imagine-feel your fever inside my body. like i took your period dates once, i want to attract your fever and feel it in my system of veins and organs and nerves. 

not to empathize but to know what soothes, what heals you. like an ice compress for high temperatures. or a childhood song. or an orange. 

because yesternight, as i watched your pain, i felt blankness. what are you feeling, i asked myself several times. as i waited outside the toilet holding the door with my toes, a sliver ajar so i can see you're safe. there was no answer. what was the name of the feeling i was feeling. i don't know. i was maybe unfeeling, like an inanimate safety object that would see you to a safe space no matter what. as if this isn't done with emotions but with wiring. so what was it that I was feeling. 

~

the lake feels cool and looks shaded this morning. clouds covering the sun. a thin but constant breeze. pleasant. also quiet, this place i chose to sit down. 

from here i see the fountains with varying columns of water. rising falling spraying mist all around making unmaking shapes and looking very beautiful. for some reason, all the fountains are dancing today. remember you were asking the other evening why the fountains were off.

~

h

donot let anyone ever take away the power and peace of your mind. 

not even yourself. often, it's us who harm us most.

the illness, you will win. like didun would say if she knew. 

she gave you a baby kangaroo name remember. joey."

there would be bad days, there would be dark days, and then suddenly there would be a super sunny morning with art and music and conversations and then there will be silence again.

such were her days through adolescence. her unwellness, her sensitivity, her moods, her life. 

there were long kitchen table and work table conversations for hours on end. where she would keep talking and walking behind me as I went about the day's work and moved from one room to another.

one such day, such an afternoon, for the first time she cried. it was after a longish episode of soundless cocooning. then she wrote to herself, like she always did. collecting her orange peels. 

"someday, when i hear her laughing it will be a new day. i will let out all the breaths i kept in my chest. her eyes will glow. she will walk without a fear hanging in her throat. 

i will walk a little behind her. for her to know that she can do it. i want her to know that i believe in her.

she will run up to her friends and i will smile. 

then, i will let her go for sometime. she will learn. she will grow. 

and i'll be there when she needs me."

me too. I added in my mind. 

...

r. ❤

(hums a tune couple times)

- maa, what was that song you used to play

(I look up, listen, can spot the song)

-- aalote aalote dhaka (flooded by light, endless light)

- right. you know there is something about the song that gives me chills.

(I search up and start playing it on YouTube)

-- really. chills. Any specific part. Or the song as such or the music.

- I don't know. Perhaps the tune. And yes this, these words...

(song plays on)

Amar eeshwar chine nebe away

Ami dnariye tar dorjay...

(My creator will take me as I am,

here I wait at his threshold)

-- hm. And why is it, do you know, that these words give you shivers.

- it's something about their feel, the words are powerful. dark, and then a lot of light. see, gives me goosebumps.

(I am lying on her lap looking up at her, as she thinks, pauses, talks with her big deer eyes trying to put words to something unknown but potent she was sensing because it touched her. she is ten.)

-- hm. you look beautiful btw. from where I am looking. 

gaan ta aar ekbar shunbi ? 

I ask. 

Gratitude

Nothing comes from nothing

Nothing ever could

So somewhere in my youth or childhood

I must have done something good

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

Oh well it is the Birth Day today. 

At the stroke of twelve last night, 3 books, 1 pair of danglers, 1 petite pendant and 1 tiny cake appeared from under the nightshirts of the magician and her apprentice. 

Interesting. 

THREE books. Also other stuff. All out of pocket money. Hm. 

Then the story revealed itself. 

The girls checked available balance from leftover pocket money, pulled out hidden notes and emptied coinboxes to find 700 rupees or so. Then, a public bus was taken to Gariahat followed by a walk to Golpark old bookshops. I took a deep breath picturing them dodging crowds on a super peoply Sunday Gariahat crossing 2 weeks before Pujo. Much to their relief, one Rushdie, One Arundhati Roy and one Murakami, added up to well under 400 rupees, and were purchased quickly. Recounted my school days when price of a book in these shops was directly proportional to the number of its pages and I always looked up thinner books. 

OK then the earrings and pendant were bought from an adjacent seller down the same pavement. Finally, going to Mio Amore (sensibly not Kookie Jar not Flurys not even Cakes) and asking for the cheapest and smallest non-chocolatey cake available. Because mother is not fond of chocolates. Also because at this point, little money is left. Return to home was on an Uber alone. As in just the two of them girls, 16 and 10. Another first. 

After the stroke of twelve, the danglers and the pendant were put on. Looked funny with my night tee and shorts but boy were the jewellery beautiful. I felt pretty without needing to look at a mirror. The candle was blown without making a wish, latter being kind of a lost habit now even though the daughter did remind. A tiny slice was cut out of the tiny cake and shared and eaten. And the books were loved. 

"Will you start reading my one or didi's one right now, Ma, right now ? Achha say you like mine better. " 

"Genius. Of course Ma likes the Murakami shorts better than your fat Rushdie novel"

After an unresolved debate on which book Ma liked better and would start reading, the girls were hugged, but not enough. Not enough.

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

For here you are, standing there, 

Loving me

Whether or not you should

So somewhere in my youth or childhood

I must have done something good

Growing down

So I am going to office, and what am I wearing.

Heeya's ICSE art project. A madhubani hand painted t-shirt. Peacock, et al. A mindfully selected pair of ice blue jeans that would go with the t. Heeya's blue sneakers her feet have now outgrown. Finally, Rhea's beach themed kiddo watch like the cherry on a sundae. 

As I looked at the thing in the mirror, yes definitively a quirky mish-mash but looking beyond that, more like who really am I this morning, the only epiphanic morning moment a Monday might allow, I felt I was a sort of product of my kids, rather than the other way round. 

A bit of Heeya's art, her vulnerability turned rebellion turned independence, her awakenings and her depths, her reflections, her criminal laziness, her moments of intense focus, her beautiful quiet. I observe, I marvel, I absorb, as she happens to life. 

Rhea's infectious entropy, her feverishly galloping exhausted, exhausting mind. Her hunger, her anxiety. The limitless curiosity and awe in her deep dark eyes that fizzles out by the time it reaches my spent soul but blazes brightly in her till the day is done, into the next. A bit of that too. 

Sometimes, often, I feel I am changing, growing, branching, rooting, becoming more of me, with the girls. Does it happen with every parent. Or only those who wanted another chance to childhood. Doesn't everyone start growing down at some point to come full circle. 

Rainy School Mornings (or just making memories)

Desperate times call for desperate measures. We got this.  

I sermonise while helping Rhea balance and manage the extra long steps past the interrupting walls between iron railings around the lake. The street was waterlogged from end to end and she was using the high iron fence as a precarious pathway to the main road so as not to wet socks, shoes, trousers and her body parts inside them.

Suddenly there was no fence anymore, because there was no lake anymore and we still had a good 30 feet distance to cover to get to the road where the bus will arrive soon and won't wait if we are not visible and SoS-waving both hands like shipwrecked souls. 

Kole aay. Come in my lap / arms. 

Ma ! I am almost 10 ! That's in years and 30 that's in kgs. You will break your back. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Jhotpot kole aay. Wrap your legs around me you're slipping. Now stay put. 

Thus we walk and wade slowly through the water. A bundle of mother and daughter and schoolbag and umbrella. An occasional big muddy wave hitting us now and then from all indifferent vehicles of the universe. And then finally, triumphantly, we reach the bus stop couple minutes ahead of time. With a balmy sense of achievement. 

Nice way to start the day. 

Time Trickles

[One]

"This incompleteness is all we have" 

During the last work trip to Munich, I picked up my usual museum prints, among them, a painting from Alte Pinakothek that reminded me of the girls back home. It was titled "Italia und Germania", painted by German romantic artist Friedrich Overbeck in the 19th century Nazarene style. It is an allegorical painting showing two women inclining towards each other, hands intertwined and faces almost touching, symbolizing a warm and close friendship between the two countries and cultures. 

The lady on the left, with dark hair and a laurel wreath, represents Germany. The one on right, with blond hair and a floral wreath, represents Italy. The backdrops, also different in accordance, blend beautifully in a pale blue sky and a range of grey-blue mountains. 

When framed in dark brown wood and put up on the stairway wall, the painting reminded Heeya of a friend she loved and lost. Adolescent losses can be deep. She started sketching it one evening in August when she was missing her friend.  In a couple hours, she created a pencil drawing of what she thought would give her peace and a vicarious feel of being with her friend. It didn't work, like it never does. She cried for a bit and put the canvas away. 

The mid-sized canvas was lying around her room for a few days before I asked her if she would like to complete it maybe. She said she will, later. Months passed, another day she started painting the sketch. Dark crimson, sage green, rich gold, the pensive sketch started looking vibrant. Then she stopped.  Few days later, I gently nudged. Finally, in the last week of December, I told her it might be a good idea to finish that painting before the year ended.  The incompleteness of the thing and the shadow it cast on her mind were disturbing me. For her, I wanted a closure and then, belief in some other new beginning.

Heeya never finished that painting. One day she hid it inside the closet. I took it out and never asked her to work on it again. We put it up above her desk. 

For her to be able to look at, and live, and never be afraid of incompletenesses. 

[Two]

Rhea likes open car windows. She likes the wind on her face. This is usually forbidden due to her proneness to allergy triggered by dust and pollution but she either insists and argues or simply goes quiet and does a silent window roll down on her side when no one is looking.

On one such occasion when I noticed her doing this and demanded she immediately rolls up the window also because the air conditioner was on, she said, calmly -

"Ma. Looking out of an open car window to the world outside is like looking at and feeling life. 

If I look ahead, I see all the places I will be going to. If I look behind, I see all the places and people I have left behind. And I can always choose which way to look when. It changes the way the wind blows. So satisfying." 

[Three]

"Ma. The word child is singular, and children is plural. For plurals, apostrophe is usually after s, like girls', or boys', you know what I mean, so when I write something belonging to a bunch of children, in a sentence ..."

"Children's. Apostrophe before s, Rhea."

"Thank you Ma ! I am glad we understand each other!"

[Four]

Heeya had two favourite lullabies. Years back, I had to sing them many times over till she fell asleep.

She has her Boards exam starting tomorrow, was off to bed early tonight but as I check in on her after an hour, I find her awake and restless. 

Sitting beside her on the bed, I switch off the nightlight and stroke her hair for a bit. 

"Ma - what are you doing. I will sleep on my own."

I start low humming. 

"Ma. Please. I can sleep on my own. Just go !"

"I will. After I sing a song. Two songs."

"What! Ma - seriously. I am sixteen. I don't need songs to sleep! I want to sleep on my own. Please go." 

Regardless, I start with 'ghum jaay oi chnad'. In no rush. And then 'mere ghar aayi ek nanhi pari'. Repeating the refrains, prolonging the outros. All of six or seven minutes maybe. Heeya was in deep sleep. 

'Maine puchha use ke kaun hai tu, Usne bola ke main hoon tera pyar, Main tere dil me thi hamesha se, Ghar me aayi hoon aaj pehli baar'

'When I ask her who she is, She says she is my love, Forever in my heart, Now also in my home.'

......

Each Day

I think up death like a respite

Like a reverie, a vacation in life

Beautiful, distant and quite dreamlike

I think it up often in my mind

Lukewarm water, lukewarm lights

An impatient dawn to an ending night

Fragrant 

Amber

Wordless

Quiet. 

I think of a date

In the middle of chores

I think of a time

When no one's home

I think of whys

Why nots some more

Thoughts close in

Slow

And sure. 

Then I close her book, put away her phone

Take off her glasses, leave a night light on

Tie all that hair, clear a small forehead

Pull out a hand from under the head

Clear the forehead between her brows

Breathe in her scent with lips and nose

I defer a death

Each day, once more.

photo art by h. 

Seasons

...

[ July]

Heeya behaved not so nicely with me this morning. I was disturbed. Maybe also with life.

Midway at lunch, she asked, almost in an accusatory tone. "I don't get it. Why would you even sit down to eat with me if you don't want to talk. You could have had lunch before and I could have had it on my own." 

"When someone is hurt, she may not feel like talking." I said softly. Not an act, I was down. Could sense she was looking for a retort. At fourteen, it can just be about winning dialogues. I finished lunch, put my plate down and came back to the table with fruits and ice-cream. Arranged in two bowls for the two of us, put the spoons in and sat down. Pulled my bowl and started having the dessert. She was still at chicken. 

"Ok. If you are hurt, why would you want to sit here with me. You could go to the room or do your work and not even be with the person who hurt you. Why are you even here...!" 

"I am here because I like being around you. 

I like being around you because I love you. 

Even when you hurt me, that doesn't change." 

She looked up from the plate and for a moment I could see her little girl big eyes. I added - "But beyond a point, if you go on hurting me, and making me sad, I may not be around anymore. Even if I always love you."

...

[August]

Rhea has started training in eastern classical. Riyaz must be done every morning and evening no matter what. She is learning music; and I, the harmonium. She sits across me and the box with folded legs and her frock pulled to cover her knees and her back straight and arched alternately. We sit on the floor and with the air conditioner switched off, as strictly advised by Guruji. 

One such evening. We were grappling with a new palta where I was getting the 11-22-33-22-11-77-66-11 algorithm wrong every time during descent. It was 6 pm, I had postponed a meeting to get this done and it was not getting done. I was irritated with myself. She was singing fine though, without aid. 

-- 'Rhea please stop fidgeting and sit quiet when doing riyaz. Guruji said sitting still is the first step.'

-- 'Rhea ! You are restless again. Sit apart from the harmonium.' 

-- 'RHEA ! move away from the harmonium and stop touching it. This is the LAST time I am telling you.'

-- '...Wait. Do you keep going back there for the little puffs of air that keep blowing in and out of the bellows when I play ?!'

"Yesss Ma !! This is so much fun ! Give me your hand - You try .."

I did. With my right hand, as I blew the bellows with my left. It was fun.

...

[September]

Rhea is learning. "Swarasthan" - placing a note in its right place. "Sa - Griha" - The home which she has to know so well. "Hawa diye haway chhobi anka" - Painting pictures in air with air from the play of breaths. She is learning. How a song is so much more than its notations, how one note trickles into the next, almost unuttered, just as a butterfly is beautiful only with blending of its colours. She is learning. Ten thhats. Their soft and high notes, their ragas and times of day. She is discovering the sudden spookiness of a "komol" Rishabh and subtle magic of a "komol" Nishad when followed by "shudhho" Dhaivat. 

We do a blindfolded quiz sometimes. I play 5 or 6 notes, a good mix of Shudhho-Kori-Komol, and she identifies them. This is her favourite part of the everyday riyaz.  

"One more, Ma" And I make it a little more complex. Going back and forth. High and low. Soft and sharp.

She keeps eyes tightly shut and listens intently then takes a few seconds and tells me the exact notes almost every time. She gets 8 out of 10 right on a usual day. I am 5 out of 10 on my best days. 

There is something she requests between notes. Asks me to play the full sargam a couple of times before launching the next tune and listens in. Sort of resetting her ears and mind, clearing the head. Every time she does that, it reminds me of someone smelling coffee beans before trying out the next fragrance.

I watch with love. She, is learning. 

...

[October]

Heeya had promised me a birthday painting this year. I wanted a couple of my favourite things in my favourite colour. 

But we had a row and birthday eve saw a black canvas redone many times over and stored angrily away frontside back, upside down. I rechecked at dawn, first thing my birthday morning, before she was up. Was sad, but said nothing to her. 

A week later, she picked up that black canvas again, early Sunday morning in the balcony, on the easel, and even before breakfast started to work in a driven sort of way. It started with white streaks, clouds in night sky? No, a white bird. Minutes later, black again. "Where did the bird go?" I asked. "It just died!" Came a loud answer, over her earpod music.

By forenoon, the canvas had a bemused moon. A blood moon, with grey white gossamer clouds floating desultorily.

I liked the moon but wished it were my favourite cream-white-yellow, a full October moon. 

There was another painting created in the flow, on the same day. This time some special sunflowers, not all yellow though, not the way I had imagined them to be. 

Her gift reflected her mind, but were after all made of my favourite things : the full moon, a sky, some stars, and sunflowers.

...

Pause

1st Feb, 2021

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

There is a singular sensation that can make you wish for death and life at the same time, sometimes. The sense of a helplessness induced by an inexplicable connection with another human being.

You suddenly desire Death, because there is extreme anxiety, discomfort, fear, restlessness that you wish weren't there. You are responsible for what you love but then you are so very helpless. One doesn't need to go through this. 

And then you desire Life, because only this vulnerability lets you experience undiluted love. Makes you a little more than your self. You can almost touch tenderness in that moment of truth. Even as you try to rationalise objectively that every connect in life is a give and a take, be it parent or child or a friend, love seeps in silently from underneath.

No exchange, no expectation, no negotiation, numbing pain and rare pleasure, still ... love. It is such a thing. 

As I put Rhea to sleep early for the morning surgery, singing her favourite song, my voice echoes strange in the indifferently white hospital room, and that singular sensation floats in again. I dodge for a while, then deny, then smile and let it flow. And settle. The view of the night garden just outside the window brings in a soothing quiet.

Love, it is such a thing.

...

2nd Feb, 2021

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

Fearless never works for me. I am afraid of things. Things that matter. But I do try to keep it aside and do what must be done. So it appears to onlookers as though I am fearless. But you see I never really am. I only choose to defocus.

---

Post surgery, tonight is a moon's crater sleep story lent by a friend. Thousands of craters creating the unique lunar texture, each with a name, an aura, a sight to see. Rhea watching them all in her mind, through a telescope from Earth. She listens thinks questions almost reaches the moon travelling across the silence of spaces. It really is the Moon right now. She wants to jump high pick heavy stuff easy and vacation on the Moon. Mars is still uncertain but Moon is quite a friendly neighbourhood. She can even pick a crater and build her city in it and a house on top of the hill in the centre. And watch Kolkata with a telescope and maybe see her first Earthrise...

...

3rd Feb, 2021

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

Three lights are on throughout the day and night in a room two levels above us. That is the topmost floor of the hospital building. To me they look like "Akash Prodeep", the 'Sky Beacon'. Those lamplights that stay aflame on Earth to guide those in the sky. 

The midnight silence of the hospital is both clinical and deep. Somewhere in that quiet there are deaths, there are births and there are lives breathing in between. All foliated beautifully by life.

When Rhea slowly goes off to sleep, holding a hand of mine, so I dont go anywhere away from her, leaving her alone in the scary bed full of wires and dials, I kind of see my purpose. Seeing the girls off to their lives. Seeing the parents off to their endings. Then stepping out and seeing my final self off, to silence. 

...

Montage

 

1.

Workday lunch between meetings. Rhea and me at home. 

"Ma I need water."

"Finish the food first. Water in between food dilutes digestive juices". 

I buy time with my eyes on the laptop.

A minute later.

"Juices ... seriously ! Ma, I NEED water."

"Rhea finish up the food first." 

Cant even ask her to fetch herself as the glasses are beyond her reach.

"MA I NEED WATER. 

My throat is as dry as the dried riverbed in Shantiniketan. Even a drop will do."

Exasperated and guilty, I give up and get up. 

"Drama Queen !" I mutter under the breath. 

"No, that's Didi. I am the Drama Princess."

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

2. 

The quintessential first dental appointment. Been there for Heeya, seen that, sat endlessly on a paediatric dentist's chair for months on with her on my lap. Repeat play after 6 years. 

"Ma I'm scared."

"Hm. So what do you usually do when you are scared."

"I sit at a corner for two or three hours."

"And then ?"

"Then continue with my normal day."

"OK. Good. That's one way. There's another that I follow. A surer one."

"What is that."

"Just do it. The scare and fear is instantly gone. Shall we try it at the dentist's today."

"What ?! What if I bleed and die in 'just doing it'." Rhea shows a quote-unquote gesture.

With the younger one, I am never ready for the retorts. 

Tailpiece : 

Pretty much nothing worked. The dentist got half bitten on two of her fingers and half kicked under her chin even after two assistants tried pinning down the patient. Thankfully, nobody bled to death.

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

3.

Rhea is in bed reading. I have a rare early night and just as am about to turn the lights off and kiss her goodnight, there is a quiet bomb blast.

"Ma how do you know I am not a transgender ?"

Ouch.

Pause.

She is seven.

"Where did you learn that word Rhea"

"Didi told me"

"And do you know what it means?"

"Of course. It means either a girl's mind in a boy's body or a boy's mind in a girl's body."

Here I am unsure of what to say next.

She goes on.

"But Ma, what is this girl mind. How do you even know you have a girl or  boy mind. I mean I have a girl body but what mind ? What is your mind ? Girl or boy."

I find a floater to survive.

"Alright do you like wearing hairbands and well, earrings and eyeliner and look pretty?"

"Yes I do. Sometimes. All the time is boring."

"Yes sometimes is fine. But that is a girl mind. Now imagine a boy likes that as well and dresses up like a girl. Then we say the boy probably has a boy body but girl mind."

I can only hope I nailed it.

"But Ma. I love wearing boy clothes as well. My jeans and my t shirts and cap and I like playing with them and with Baba with football and do other fun boy things. So what's my mind ? Tell me !"

I need urgent aid. Anybody there. Anyone.

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

4. 

Early winter mornings are cold. And warm. 

"What will you have for breakfast ?" 

"How about a snuggle Ma.."

"Alright (snuggle 1 2 3 and when it doesn't end) hey who will cook breakfast ..."

"Keep your hair on Ma. God will."

"Really. Is he even a good cook."

"Ma, is God a he or a she."

"Good question. I don't know. What do you think."

"I think she...I think God is a bit like Didun. So let's just assume breakfast is cooking and let's just snuggle back."

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

5. 

She is a reasonably independent girl at seven. Post bath dressing on her own time as I dry her hair.

"Ma, what if pants were alive."

"What ? What pants. I don't know"

"I think they would have pretty gross lives."

"Why ... ?"

"Because they always have to be, you know..., with our private part ! Jeez don't you ever think of them "

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

6

Rhea is not fond of classical music except a select few. Vivaldi Four seasons is a favourite, where she likes trying to identify the seasons from each other, although it certainly is not an ideal sleep music. 

I had an unavoidable official call scheduled around midnight, hence put on a Chopin Nocturne for early sleep induction for Rhea. Number 9, to be precise and to be doubly sure.

After a good fifteen minutes, when I tried checking on the sleep status as I usually do by picking and dropping a finger let's say, she peeps half out of her pillow and asks me in a deliberate and displeased tone :

"Ma. What is that noise playing on and on.  

Can we turn it off now so I can get some sleep."

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

7.

After I fix her online classes after three disconnections, and in the process, save her face in front of her class-teacher :

"Ma, you are just like an umbrella !"

Then rethinking for a second, all of one second, she comes a little closer and sliding her hands under my arms in a hug, softly adds :

"Actually you are like a warm coat. A warm coat."

I reckon the repetition is for emphasis.

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

8.

And this one I need to write for Rhea to remember that we did this ever so often. And how she used to love doing this super silly sweet thing

The first time we tried, she was afraid. Standing at the edge of the bed, turning around, not looking back, counting to ten and then a slow backward fa...ll.

I catch her and ask "You trust me?" 

She smiles in relief and says "I do !"

Afraid, Unsure, Hesitant. Slipped badly once and hurt herself on falling at 3 instead of 10, but still undaunted, the brave girl suggests:

"Ma, why don't I close my eyes when I fall. It will mean more trust, no ?"

And she does it. Fall of Faith, with eyes closed and no longer afraid. Precious.

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

9. 

Heeya set her Google Assistant to French.

She converses with her all the time, almost like chatting with a friend while learning the language. 

This evening at dinner table :

"Ou es-tu, Google ?" " Where are you, Google ?"

Google promptly answered :

"J'etais en train de vous preparer un petit cafe mais je suis de retour pour vous aider"

What was that - I am curious.

Heeya smiled and did a quick but wrong translation for me.

"I am on my way in a train to a small cafe, but will return whenever you need me."

Sweet. I smiled. 

After a minute, she corrected the translation.

"I am in the middle of preparing a small coffee, but will return whenever you need me." 

I liked the wrong translation better. 

It painted a picture of a day when maybe Heeya will write me a letter with that line somewhere in it. And I will see a bit of her life at someplace far away from me, with a promise to return if I ever need her. 

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The Elephant, the Puppy, and the Magnet

[from Heeya's desk]

Parenting a 13 year old still 7, and a 7 year old who feels like 17, needs daily doses of wisdom. Sometimes it spills over. Like this.

[Heeya]

:: Ma, why do you always make me do difficult things ? I mean, why can't you ever chill ? Why not eat the chicken first and uchhe last ? I don't like having uchhe first it's so bitter ! Why does every game have to teach us something and why do I have to play fair with Bon every time ? Why must the guitar be played everyday, why not 3 hours when I want and not for days if I don't. Why can't I do my French only when 'I' feel like ! Why can't I just take things easy ? Why do I need to say no to myself when I could have so much more fun saying yes ?? 

[Ma]

: Alright let's do 3 quick stories, shall we ?

...................................................

The Elephant -

: Imagine an elephant and a mahout. Big animal, ever hungry, whenever taken out for a ride, ends up at the  banana grove. But the mahout wants to take it across the jungle to explore beyond boundaries, cross over and check out the next plantations and forests. So, what does he do ?

:: Bananas hee hee ... what's wrong with bananas Ma. Let the poor thing have it.

: Alright, only bananas all his life then. Eat and sleep and dream and eat again. 

:: Hm..why not train him to go the other way?

: Yes, but how ?

:: Mm. With a stick for starters, and slowly he'll change direction maybe.

: Spot on. Your mind is that elephant, and you are not the mind. You are the mahout who controls the mind. Bananas are fine sometimes, but guide him beyond bananas too. By and by, he will like the other journey.

...................................................

The Puppy -

: If you had a puppy ...

:: Ma please please please can we have one now. Bon will be 7, she will be fine. You had promised !

: Achha we will, but listen. If you had one, would you want him to poop in your bedroom ? Will it make you happy ? Will it be fun ?

:: Noooooo of course not Ma. I will potty train him.

: How ?

:: Take him out every day at a fixed time maybe.. outdoors, and grow the habit.

: Spot on. Again, your mind is that restless untrained puppy, but you are not that mind remember ? Because you can control it, train it, put it into daily habits. And once that is done, you can also have fun with the puppy sometimes.

:: Cool...so can we get a puppy this year pleease Ma !

...................................................

The Magnet -

: Finally, what is the difference between a permanent magnet and an ordinary magnetic material ?

:: Magnets have North and South poles.

: And ?

:: They attract and repel each other.

: Yes but how are they different at the core ?

The only difference in permanent magnets is that the atomic poles are neatly aligned and focused in a single direction, where as in ordinary magnetic materials they are not so. Their poles are all randomly oriented. Haphazard. No order, no focus, no direction, no power.

[pauses, thinks, smiles ]

:: Got it ! 
Ma, do you read all this stuff in that fat old Upanishad Dadan gave you?

: Bits yes. Other bits...are stories from another book.

:: Nice. Alright, uchhe first. But only for today !

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