KEEP IT SIMPLE…18th August 2009.

Every once in a while, a news headline captures your attention and causes you to reflect on the values you hold dear. I was reading Herald on a Monday morning, when a story printed in the “Quirky News” column touched my heart. A certain lady in Nigeria had won a lottery. When asked what she intended doing with the money, she said she’d give it to the first female beggar she happened upon. The story went on to say that when she did give the money, the female beggar “screamed with delight. She thanked her benefactor profusely and promised to start a food retail business immediately.” The story ends with a lesson for us all. It says and I quote “before she went away with her money, the ‘new’ millionaire gave handfuls of money to other beggars on the street.”
The world is obsessed with consumerism these days. Our lifestyles have become so cheap. Everywhere we look for bargains and discounts so we can buy more to hoard more. The more we seem to have, the more we seem to want. Credit cards have opened the world to unrestricted and impulsive buying of stuff that will remain in the closet or on the shelf for years after the novelty is over. Immediate pleasure is the mantra of the day for most of us.
A wise old lady once told me with a twinkling in her eye, “If you want less, child, you will have more.” I couldn’t quite figure out her mathematics. Less=More? As a mother with four children and a single income, I tried to work this magic with the active co-operation of my dear hubby. Feeding and clothing four kids really forces you to live a simple life. The common phrases heard by our children are “We can’t afford that.”, “You already have two pairs in the closet.” and “Maybe later.”
“Buy one get one free” is the slogan of the manufacturers and we are their suckers. A pack of chips for Rs 10 gives you a cheap toy that won’t see another day once your child has his way. It will eventually give your child a lot of flab to carry around, besides a high bill for BP once he crosses the safe limit as an adult. The slogan ought to read-“Buy one get one Sickness free.”
Freecycling. How I love that word! Know what it is? I read about this for the first time in Herald. If you have something you don’t need, like an outgrown pair of jeans, and someone has something you really need like a pair of shoes he’s outgrown. Well, you exchange - no money involved - and both benefit. It sounds like the ideal recipe for a simple life, definitely worth a try! There’s even a website called freecycle.org and you can join a local freecycling group. Another thing I love is a jumble sale coz it helps me give things away and simplifies my life. But beware: don’t go to a jumble sale to make purchases unless you have your head firmly on your shoulders. You could land up buying six ties for Rs 107 - that’s enough rope to hang yourself with.
Reduce, reuse, recycle! The 3 Rs of the Eco-Education World! First, check if you really need it:second, try to find a way to reinvent it once its use is over; and third, if you can’t do that, give it to someone who can use it. So easy to do, so easy to teach to others too! The garbage issue has raised a stink in Goa. So many fingers are pointed at the municipalities, but thrice the number those should be pointed at us, the consumers, for isn’t it our garbage after all? If we follow the 3Rs in our own homes and stop dumping outside, won’t that help?
On a short holiday to Mangalore once, we lived in a home that had no beds. There were a cowshed and a tiny garden. The garden had fruits and vegetables to feed the family, cowdung was used for fertilizer and milk from the cow consumed; the vegetable waste fed to the cow and her calf; brooms were made from the coconut leaves; even the roof was thatched with palm fronds. They only had to buy rice, wheat and other essentials from the market but they would make abolim and jasmine garlands to sell, and so earn enough to sustain their simple lives.
I’m so glad for the economic meltdown (although I fear the job-seekers union will stone me for this statement). Once people realise that it’s for their good and begin to simplify their lives, we’ll see less cars on the roads. We’ll have less people in gyms and more doing laps in the community gardens, less credit cards swiped at malls, less queues outside ATMs. Our families will finally have fathers coming back home at reasonable hours.
So in this world of consumerism, how you choose to live your life will determine the kind of person you will be. Live a simple life, and less will always give you more. More money to spend on time out with the family, more time to do fun things with your kids and more love in your home and neighborhood. Let’s hope the meltdown will melt hearts to a new way of thinking.

A MOTHER’S MUSINGS 11th Sept 2009.
I was going through the newspapers recently, when a front page photograph caught my attention. There was a girl carrying a placard bearing a slogan “Small Family Happy Family.” I mused on the two key words – small and happy. Is this true? Will a small family really make its members happy?
In today’s world, a small family consist of the bare minimum- a father, a mother and a child. I personally feel that if a couple does not have children, the family is incomplete. Of course, thee are couples nowadays who follow the DINK (Double Income No Kids) philosophy.
I write this because I am the product of a small family. Both my parents worked outside the house, and I was left in the care of a servant who was a tyrant. I did not have the privilege of grandparents to pamper me. So I escaped the pitfall of being a spoilt brat. But I ended up feeling lost, neglected, and, because I was a girl, I knew I was not really preferred either. I had my own room and I slowly learnt to talk to myself, something I still do even as an adult.
At some stage in my life, I decided I did not want this life for my future kids and planned on a Big Family. Today, I am a proud mother of four children (three boys and a girl) and the only reason I am not planning more is my age (I’m 40 years old) and because I want to do more for other children whom I adore.
Bringing up children is a job that needs me to qualify as a nurse, cook, maid, manager and finance minister. Besides that, I also have to be a tuition teacher and activity planner. I have to settle disputes, so that makes me a referee at times.
The only sane place in the house is the bathroom where I can escape from the madding crowd that my household becomes at times. It’s a three-ring circus, when the “Full House” gets together for daily rosary, what with Baby inventing new antics to amuse us all and the smallest boy climbing on Dada’s back, right in the middle of “Noman Marie”. With the latest entry, cars are now facing competition from dolls in the house and my three boys are training to be Moms.
Couples often plan their lives well ahead of time and it’s a common preference these days to have small families. I have even heard mothers say that it is best to have just one child and see that he/she gets the best to excel in life.
It is so sad to see monetary benefits take precedence over sound values of sharing, caring and a simple way of life. An only child may become a good breadwinner, but he will still be self-absorbed. The culture of death is what we invite into our lives when we think small. We allow the government, media and feminist movement to dictate our personal lives.
I am certain that if people help each other, there will be sufficient for all. My family has only Dad as breadwinner, and each one of us has therefore learnt to accept that they won’t always get the best. But, as my husband puts it nicely in Bambaiya Hindi “Tension nahin lene ka!” we have more fun at home, playing and praying together, than most families would, and our home is a gathering place for the neighbourhood kids as well. We have singing, dancing and acting competitions and games like carom and cards on weekends, with an occasional outing thrown in, something which we all look forward to and thoroughly enjoy.
So, my advice to those planning their families is, “ Don’t think small, think large!”

A SIMPLE SOUL 2nd Oct 2009

The 20th century has produced many great men. But the man who will be remembered for ages to come, is the father of our nation, Mahatma Gandhi.
Born on 2nd Oct 1869 in Porbander, Gujarat, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was one of 6 children. His father was rich as well as educated. He sent the young Gandhi at the age of 19 to England to study law. In 1892, Gandhi returned to India to practice law and the next year was called to South Africa on professional business. This was the turning point for him and for India. The few Indian settlers in South Africa were often at the mercy of the whites and Gandhi suffered great insult and injury to bring liberty and dignity for them. His inspiration was the famous philosopher Leo Tolstoy whose non-violent movement to free the Russian serfs gave Gandhi the idea of resisting evil with good.
Back in India, Gandhi began to organize the nation to face the British with the demand of home-rule. Non-cooperation and satyagraha were his weapons against the mighty British. He became the leader of the freedom struggle.
The Partition drained the energies of the Mahatma. During a speech he made when riots broke out in Calcutta soon after Independence, he said, “I will never again enjoy peace and joy in my life.” When the whole of India and Pakistan rejoiced at Independence, Gandhi was in prayer at the house of a Muslim friend. The communal riots that broke out after Independence were heart-breaking for him. Just as Jesus went around the villages of Galilee and Judea doing good, Gandhi went around the villages of Bengal bringing peace and love to the tragedy stricken families of both Hindus and Muslims.
As killings continued in the streets of Calcutta, Gandhi returned to the city and stayed in a Muslim house. When the Hindus demanded that he move out into a Hindu home, he said, “You can remove my corpse.” Within a week, he brought calm to the violent city.
There were many Hindus who thought that it was the duty of every Hindu to build a strong Hindustan against Pakistan. They made up their minds to eliminate the Mahatma. On January 30, 1948, as Gandhi was making his way to the ground where people were waiting for him to begin the prayer meeting, a Hindu fanatic Nathuram Godse came up to him and said, “Namaste Bapuji. Today you are a little late.” Then he shot Gandhi repeatedly. Gandhi smiled at his assassin and uttered the words, “Hai Ram, Hai Ram.” before falling to the ground.
That night the Indian Prime Minister, Pandit Nehru spoke to the world: “The light has gone out of our lives. Bapu has left us. Yes, our Mahatma is dead. We will never see him again, as we knew him. Yes, the light is out. Yet even after centuries, this light will shine in the world and millions will walk in the path he has lighted.”
My all-time favourite movies on Gandhi are Richard Attenborough’s ‘Gandhi’ and ‘Lage Raho Munnabhai’. Gandhi’s repeated advice to the ‘Tension Nehi Leneka’ hero not to lie even for a good cause is the true essence of this great man. He spoke the truth with such courage that even the British were in awe of him. Gandhi also had a great sense of humor and jokingly once said, “If I had no sense of humor, I should long ago have committed suicide.” He was a true son of the soil and had respect for the poor. “A nation may do without its millionaires and its capitalists but it can never do without its labourers.” he said. He even displayed his unconditional love for his enemies when he said, “When the British leave, I want to see them off as friends.”
I’d like to end with the opening tribute given at his funeral in the movie ‘Gandhi’:
“He died as he always lived - a private man without property, without official title or office. Mahatma Gandhi was not a commander of armies, nor a ruler of vast lands. He could not boast any scientific achievement or artistic gift. Yet, men, governments, dignitaries from all over the world have joined hands today to pay homage to this little brown man in a loin cloth who led his country to freedom. In the words of G. C. Marshall, the American Secretary of State, Mahatma Gandhi has become the spokesman for the conscience of all mankind. He was a man who made humility and simple truth more powerful than empires. And Albert Einstein added, “Generations to come will scarce believe that one such as this ever in flesh and blood walked upon this earth.”

THE UGLY DUCKLING Oct 16, 2009

There once lived a girl who was all alone. She met a boy who promised her love. The girl was happy for a while and gave herself totally to her handsome prince until the day she told him that she was with child. Then the prince changed into an evil ogre and exiled her to a life of loneliness once more. The poor lonely girl searched high and low for help and, at last, weary from her efforts, she collapsed at the gates of an orphanage. The kind Mother, seeing the girl’s distress, took her in and she was once again loved and cared for. The child in her grew and one day, it came into the world. The girl cared for her little baby till it was time for her to leave it and go back to her lonely world once more. Giving her baby a last tearful kiss as she bade it goodbye, she whispered, “May you find more love in this world than I did.”
When I was a teenager, I once watched a TV Documentary on the life of Mother Teresa and was moved by the orphans she took into her home. Many of these unfortunate ones were victims of stories similar to the one I have just narrated; little angels brought into the world by young girls who were promised love and abandoned once they had satisfied some immature boy’s hormonal urges. Mother Teresa would often say, “I offer adoption as a solution to abortion.” It was her life’s purpose to uphold the dignity of life from the womb.
I prayed that I would get the opportunity to be like her and adopt my own babies, but I was not destined for such a great deed. I remember how I took my husband to the orphanage after my first-born was 2 years old, to see if I could adopt a second child, but was told to wait. I tried again 2 years later and was told to wait again. Maybe that was God’s way of saying “This is not for you, my child!” So I salute those who have taken the step to adopt. They know pure love because they accept someone who is not a part of themselves in the biological sense as a generous gift from a loving God who knows best.
Recently, I came across this delightful anecdote that I’d like to share with you. A young mother was at her parents’ home after the birth of her first child. One afternoon, she remarked that it was surprising that her baby had dark hair since both she and her husband were fair. Her mother said, “Well, it’s not surprising, sweetheart. Your Dad has black hair.” “But, Mama,” cried out the young lady, “that doesn’t matter because I’m adopted.” With an embarrassed smile, her mother said the most wonderful words she’d ever heard “I always forget.”
A friend of mine, who herself has adopted a boy and dotes on him, narrated this touching real-life story to me. It seems there were two teachers in the school she taught in who were childless but had not thought of adoption. One fine day, just after examinations were over and the children were on their way back home, one lad happened to cross the pavilion and heard a low cry, only to discover a little baby in a bag placed over a pile of baby clothes. He ran to the staff room to tell the teachers. One of the two childless teachers had already left the premises but the second one jumped to her feet at once and went with the boy, her heart beating. She saw the wee babe and the rest is history. The two are now inseparable, a blessing for the baby and also for her husband and herself.
But not all are privileged to adopt in such a dramatic way. Approval from spouses, family members, even friends is often required and women who yearn to be mothers are denied this because of narrow-mindedness. Children hope in vain to be adopted into loving homes and look at happy families with envy. Even the most caring orphanage is no home to a child who longs to belong. Those who do adopt prefer the good-looking, fair, boy children and disabled children generally get left behind.
Mother Teresa used to say, “We cannot do great things on this Earth, only small things with great love”. Every ugly duckling is a lovely swan in the making. It just needs the right place to come home to. May that home be yours.

MY IDEAL HOME Oct 30 2009

I pretended not to hear as my eldest boy pleaded for the nth time, “Mama, come to see me at our exhibition.” “Alright, alright, if Dada can bring us in the van, we’ll all come” I promised. And so, on a bright Sunday morning, after mass, we made our way to St Xavier’s Higher Secondary School where the students were hosting their bi-annual exhibition called HOPE (Help Our Planet Earth!)
Yes, you guessed right-the exhibits were on the environment. The usual issues were highlighted but what really caught my attention were the ideas which I could use in my ideal home.
Being an eco fan, I’ve always dreamt that if I built a house it would incorporate eco-friendly ideas and there they were, staring me in the face, done by the students themselves. I had designed my house without a flat terrace because I did not want water-logging, but rainwater harvesting was offered as a solution. One project even showed the run-off go directly into the well which would save me the expense of building and cleaning a tank. My garden, toilet and kitchen would generate vast amounts of waste, so vermi-composting and biogas generation were offered as solutions to careless dumping or burning. Electricity in the village is an ongoing nightmare but thanks to solar-powered cells, my house will have non-stop illumination and piping hot water. An alternative to LPG could be biogas or solar cookers. Now if only I could get someone to create a switch that turned all the lights off when I left a room and a system of ventilation so I would not need to use a single fan in this dream house, I think I’d be ready to build!
I was rather sad though to see so much use of thermacol, as this sent an anti-environment message. All of it has probably found its way to the nearest landfill as I write this article.Teachers should monitor projects like these so the message meant to be projected does not invite scorn or censure. there should be good use of biodegradable materials like cardboard cartons, old newspapers, etc. which are already on their way to the dump anyway.
One project had broomsticks used to make the houses which was not only neat but gave one the true feel of the way houses looked earlier. Another showed how waste paper could be used to make articles by a technique called papier mache. There was a girl who showed me a pen stand made with computer floppys-an item that contributes to e-waste. A chart displaying photographs of garbage dumped in and around Mapusa was an eye-opener as was a magazine cutout of discarded mobiles stacked up in a landfill.
Exhibitions do stir up the consciences of people and invite them to think and reflect on how they can make a change for the betterment of their own lives and those in their neighbourhood. If each one of us makes an effort to conserve energy in our own homes and intelligently use alternative means it could be a big drop in a mighty ocean. Bringing out food from the fridge two hours prior to heating beats using a microwave and definitely saves on gas. (we are a family of six but each gas cylinder lasts us nearly three months). When we wash clothes, the water from the final rinse is stored and used the next day to swab the house.
In the Bastora school project, I was impressed to see that water was saved just by the use of spring taps and sending the run-off to the school garden to water the plants. The use of fans is restricted to usage only after 11 am and on Saturdays, no electricity is used at all. Dustbins are placed around the campus to segregate waste and the wet waste is used for vermi-composting. I’m sure that with all these stringent measures being carried out at school, even at home the students practice eco-friendly habits.
The exhibition did bring out many aspects of the environmental problems and its solutions and I do earnestly hope those who saw the exhibits at St Xavier’s took back the message of Hope and will bring some Hope to our world, one dream house at a time.

UNTIMELY TRAGEDIES 13th Nov 2009

Every morning, I begin my day with a hot cup of tea and the daily newspaper, scanning the headlines, then checking page 8 to see if my article has finally come or not. Then I flip over to the obituaries, and my heart skips a beat. Almost every other day, I see young faces “We deeply mourn the sad and untimely demise of …” Immediately, I flip back to the news pages, to discover that an innocent life has been lost by careless driving.
It breaks my heart to think how the foolishness of one individual can bring about untold suffering to so many, in a matter of seconds. The words stand out: ‘sorrowful’ ‘bereaved’. I picture the parents of the victim; shattered, their family now incomplete. Sometimes it is an only child, and then all hope is lost.
I recall the death of a young boy, Calvin, who died on a ship, (maybe it was an accident) and, for weeks, I was amazed at the condolences sent. There were so many people out there who missed that boy so much.
I am told that rash, reckless driving coupled with unsafe roads is behind this mass murder in Goa. Sensible people have warned me not to learn how to drive, for it is the surest way to meet my Maker soon.
When I travel pillion, there is a constant prayer on my lips. I wonder as I walk on the road whether I will see my family ever again. When I see an old man check left and right so he can cross the road safely, I have this urge to shout, “Hey, it doesn’t matter. You could be mowed down anywhere, anytime!”
Spotting a gang of unruly young boys on their fancy bikes, I think to myself, “Is this the future of Goa or the end?” A couple of months back, I heard of a boy who had taken a bike for a test ride. As he sped down the slope, he rammed into a bus that had slowed down, was flung up into the air and crash landed. He was an only son.
Another shocking story is of a boy riding recklessly late one night, who landed on the spikes of a circular garden in the heart of Mapusa. One can only imagine his suffering…
When my son, who is 16 years old, asks me if he can learn to ride a bike, I have only two words, “Not yet.” It makes no sense to send danger onto the roads. I wish parents would understand the risk of allowing their children to master bikes especially the powerful kind, before they have mastered themselves.
I know of some parents who are soooo… proud of Johnny being able to ride a bike at a tender school-going age. But little Johnny could be the death of Uncle Jimmy one day, if he loses control.
We have traffic rules. The government reminds us of them off and on. But who cares? Even the novel idea of rewarding good driving behaviour has died its own tragic and untimely death.
We read so many quaint sayings on safe driving, but they just pass through our minds. My mind is still fresh with the tragedy of a year ago involving a bridal entourage on its way to the church for nuptials. As new life was about to begin for the bride and groom, the life of the beautiful bridesmaid Branda was snuffed out in an instant.
Living may have become expensive, but life has become so cheap, and easily dispensable. The murder of a girl for just Rs. 2,000 has shown us that. What is the solution? I believe that it should start in the home. If you have watched the tiatr ‘Ekssident’, you probably have a few ideas already.
Observe traffic rules even if the whole world is not following them. Drive carefully; you want to reach the right destination in one piece, don’t you? Do not drink and drive; nothing is more important. Give the right hand signals or light signals. Do not be lazy, or you will drive the one behind you crazy.
When walking, keep to the pavement. Do not confuse drivers by darting across the road. Face the traffic, so you can save yourself if you feel that an approaching vehicle may hit you. Use the zebra crossing; alert the traffic policeman that you are waiting to cross if he has gone to sleep.
I hope that when I travel next, my prayers will be shorter, and that a day will dawn when I can catch the bull by the horns and mount my Scooty with the confidence of a rodeo master, safe in the knowledge that my photo won’t land up in the obituary column the next day.

A Recipe For Marital Bliss 27th Nov 2009

Its 6 am and the alarm goes off to awaken my dear better-or-best hubby. His job is to make tea and chapattis, then wake up the boys and get them off to school. And what does his bitter-or worse half do in the meantime? She dreams on, her little princess cuddled close to her bosom. Neighbour’s envy, owner’s pride you may well say!
Well, if you think that is luck, then yes, I am truly lucky. Which husband cooks exotic dishes occasionally (I do the mundane rice-curry-veggie-meat dishes), shops for groceries, bathes the kids daily, washes the clothes and even has a 9-5 job at the factory on the side?
It wasn’t always like that when I married the bloke. But thank God he was trainable. It has taken me many years-and lots of fights and cold wars-to bring about this change in a man who could barely make a cup of tea and boil some rice to survive. Nowadays he tries out recipes and then praises his own fare when it is a stupendous success. Mind you, I’m not grumbling; it gives me a chance to put my plump feet up and solve the latest mystery in a detective book from the library as the heady aroma from the kitchen teases my olfactory buds.
This year, my youngest son had to learn ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’ for conversation. It was so embarrassing teaching him that Mummy was supposed to cook, keep the home neat and tidy and dress him up for school while Daddy had to go to work, bring toys and sweets home, and be always loved and obeyed. How confusing for little Nathan! He can see for himself that we are not Mummy-and-Daddy but Daddy-and-Mummy.
If you get the impression from what I have just revealed to you that my husband is not King of his Kingdom, you are wrong. Daddy is definitely feared by the kids in the house while Mummy gets strung along all the time. If its remarks to be signed or money to be shelled out, “Go to Daddy”. If you want a boo-boo kissed or a complaint against mean big brother registered, Mummy is the counter that is always open 24x7.
I am the neat-n-tidy freak of the house but with four men (my hubby and our three boys), I fight a losing battle. Still, I resort to the age-old method of nagging, nagging and then nagging some more till I get the work done. These Diwali holidays however, I decided to let things go to seed, and for three weeks our home was storm-hit by torn paper, broken toy parts and filthy clothes strewn in every possible corner of the house. Before sleeping, we would just lift up all the mess onto the nearest chair or table, and the next morning the kids were back in business playing ‘Tornado Jane’. Only when the boys went off to school the first day did I venture to set my home in order. And let me tell you, its back-breaking (and bending) to keep it that way. This is the only area where Daddy is Daddy and I just cannot get him to change.
But all in all, I am happy with the way things shaped up after 17 years of marriage. I thank God that my husband accepted the fact that he needed to be a help and not a hindrance and is a good role model for our boys. If Daddy can do it, so can you all. Right, boys?
I am certainly proud of the fact that the tables have turned in my household. I listen to women’s tales of woe and I think to myself “Why can’t they see that it is their fault that their husbands don’t help in the house?” If you just say “Men will be men” and “His mother didn’t train him well.” then you deserve to be treated like a glorified housemaid. With two incomes becoming the norm rather than the exception, it is high time women realize that two pairs of hands also make lighter work. I do hope that good sense will eventually prevail and all you suffering wives out there will change your lives for the better. Just grab that tiger by the tail and he’ll soon be purring like a pussycat.
As for those who have lives just like mine, you have chosen the path of true love and perfect marital bliss. Remember: ‘A perfect wife is any woman who has a perfect husband.’

MY MIGRANT MAID 11th Dec 2009

“Good morning, Madam.” Thus I am greeted every single hazy-headed morning as I open the door to my daily help Mausi, as I fondly address her. Right on the dot of time for two years in a row, this energetic fifty-year-old dynamo has been serving me with all her heart and soul, captivating me with her ready smile and her enthusiasm for the rigorous jobs of ‘top work’ that I frankly find too tedious to even contemplate.
She tells me she came here to Goa ages ago from her native Karnataka, when her husband abandoned her and her baby girl. With pride she declares that she helped build the very building complex I live in. Nowadays she works as a domestic help in the homes she and her family help build. She narrated the details of how she had to bring her daughter along with her and let her wander around in the dirt, while she was slogging in the sun. She managed to send the girl to school but then decided that girls were not worth educating much as their future is in the kitchen. Now a grandmother at last, her daughter having married at the tender age of 19 years, she is still busy earning the small bucks to pay back debts that a lavish wedding had heaped upon her.
When I hear derogatory remarks made about migrants, I think of people like her who helped build the posh buildings and hotels that dot our state of Goa. I feel like the Shiv Sena sickness has come home to roost. When we need labourers to serve us, we welcome ‘outsiders’, as we call them, with open arms. Then we feel threatened and they become infiltrators to be ousted. If they really vanish as we wish them to, I wonder whether there will be anyone here in susegaad Goa to take their place. Or will we have to resort to self-service like our counterparts in the West. For people fattened by Middle East moolah, this could be a good thing as it may help reduce the accumulated layers around the waist and the fog around the brain.
My maid invited me to her grandchild’s naming-ceremony last year. When I went with my whole battalion (we are a family of 6), she was delighted. The entire gathering of Muslim migrants was surprised we had come at all, and welcomed us into their hearts and homes. It was an exhilarating experience to feel the warmth in their acceptance. I felt like Shantipriya (remember Om Shanti Om?) for a while in the attention I got. I also saw, for the first time, in what appalling conditions people like them live. Yet in all that squalor, I saw a sense of comfort and ease. There were at least 100 people squeezed into that tiny zopadpatti spilling outside and into the neighbouring house, and everyone seemed to be having a ball. I plonked myself and my kids on the floor but she wouldn’t have my husband do that, so she got the ‘Sahib’ a special chair. My kids caressed baby goats and cupped little chicks in their hands for the first time and were thrilled. When I filmed the ceremony for her and presented her with the DVD, she was deeply grateful - and I was happy to have been able to make her happy.
I realise that having migrants come and settle in large numbers leads to several problems of housing and hygiene, but that does not mean that we have the right to abuse them. When we go abroad to work, our Goans are given proper accommodation, which they vacate once they leave. Here we cannot follow this policy because they are Indians like us and have the full right to settle down anywhere they want in this great land.
Where is the famed courtesy and hospitality that we Goans boast of when it comes to our migrants? Have we tried to see why crime has increased with their influx into our neo-rich state? If we love making quick money, so do they. It must seem like putting your nose to a candy counter and salivating. Our people are also earning illegally, aren’t they? Otherwise how come our politicians have so much money to play at casinos and travel in posh cars? Gandhiji was a first-class politician who traveled third class! Aren’t our politicians third-class people who travel first class?
Let’s not bash up the poor migrant who wants to get rich just as we do. As long as we need them, they will keep coming. I, for one, desperately need my migrant maid whom I love and need too much to let go.

MY TEENAGER - MY TEACHER 25th Dec 2009

A mother gets heard when Junior’s small. Then she’s at her teen’s beck and call. How true! When my eldest son turned thirteen, I planned a big birthday bash for him. Little did I know that was going to be the last time I would ever celebrate his birthday at home. The next year, when I suggested a party, he said, “Chill, mama. Just give me some dough and I’ll take my pals out instead.” Whatever happened to the little boy who used to pester me for a party every year and invite the whole neighbourhood to it?
The other day, I made the mistake of opening my teenager’s cupboard. I backed out, appalled. It looked as if a tsunami had hit the region. I spent a whole morning sorting out stuff that I should not have to be looking at in the first place. When a child is small, one makes excuses for such things, but what excuse can I make for a boy of 15 years who can’t even keep his underwear in the place assigned to it?
When boys become teenagers, they get so fashion-conscious, and it is a real pressure on the wallet. Suddenly branded names like Levi and Adidas are the mantra of the day. The price tags on these items almost bring on a heart attack. Speaking of clothes, I distinctly recall an incident when baggy pants first came into vogue. I had gone to visit a friend of mine and her son walked in through the door, looking as if he was straddling a horse. On close observation, I noticed that his pants had reached sub-zero level. I got a glimpse of electric blue just before he scooted into the bedroom. I now make it a point to check my son every time he leaves the house. Cannot have him displaying his assets to all and sundry, you know.
Not only are boys fashion-conscious at this age, they also become girl-conscious. The same girls who were sissies in pigtails are now “babes” to be tailed. Last year, it was a crush on A, now it is E. Next I, then O then U? Wow, well!.
They are also into exercise in a big way, doing push-ups to try and get into stud shape. In fact, even hairstyles are evolving from the crew cut, which they were forced to sport in school, to the punk style, which they find ‘cool’. The other day a bizarre friend of my son’s stunned his father by saying he was going to shave his head in such a way that the words STUD stood out. The father recovered quickly enough to retort, “Alright, but only if you add a Y after it.”
I never thought boys would want to smell good, but I was wrong. I remember him as a kid coming home filthy after a good game and waving his smelly socks in front of my nose. Now he washes his play-clothes religiously every time he is back and then spends an awfully longer time washing himself. When I blow my top at him for wasting water and electricity, all I get is an apologetic hug. Now, which mother can resist that, especially if it is given by a boy who gets embarrassed with any show of affection by her in public?
When Junior entered the portals of college, assigning pocket money became first priority. I sat my boy down, explained the reason for it and warned him not to come begging for more, each time he over-shot his budget. So, when the demand for a mobile came, I was ready with “Save a little every month and you will have one by next year.” It is amazing how soon they forget what their demands are once you use this game plan.
Another obsession teens have is chatting, whether it is on the phone or on the net. The cybercafé is their home away from home, their haven of refuge from prying Moms and Dads. Facebook, Orkut you name it, they circle the globe in their desire for recognition. Or else they are on the phone talking about heaven knows what for goodness knows how long.
Blaring beat-filled remixes, T-shirts with funky slogans, holey jeans with odd-looking logos, spiked hair that speaks for itself, need I go on? These sum up what we are exposed to once our cute lovely babies grow up to be young men.
So, all in all, I am cutting my teeth (and grinding them) on my first-born teenager. He is my teacher in a sense, because he trained me to be a mother when he was small, and now he is once again training me to live my own turbulent yet thrilling teens through him in a new way. Thank you, son! All I can say to you is “Shine on!”

A ‘MIDDLE’CLASS WRITER’S TALE. 8th Jan 2010

When my debut ‘Letter to the Editor’ was chosen as the star letter, I was deeply moved and motivated to write some more. I sent in my first middle ‘A Mother’s Musings’, which was the beginning of an exciting journey into the world of page 8. I have always loved writing but except for rare insertions in the monthly church bulletin, I never got a chance to improve my skills. Writing, for me, is like speaking aloud, which I do all the time, even to myself, and reading is a passion I cannot deny. A good novel and a huge bar of chocolate go well together and buffer me against the strain of daily family life and being a devoted and obedient wife.
I naturally now know the names of most of my fellow and filly ‘middle’ writers and admire each of their characteristic styles. For example, I would love to meet the seasoned Saturday veteran Adelmo Fernandes and see for myself if his tongue is really in his cheek or not. The militant ‘Accidental Activist’ Venita Coelho on Tuesdays is one lady I feel a little intimidated with but envy a lot. Is the well-travelled philosopher of ‘Those were the days’ Marc de Souza really as old and wise as he sounds? I must meet him one Thursday and find out for myself.
Sajla Chawla’s poignant tales transcend boundaries of community and nation every other Monday, Vanessa Lobo regales her readers with ‘Little Matters’ on alternate Fridays. The occasional treat by Ganesh Subramaniam , S. Kashyap (what does ‘S’ stand for anyway?), Jagmohan Chopra, among others, keeps me begging for more. A rare once-in-a-full moon treat by Pedro Naik is worth its weight in gold as was the sparkling guest appearance of Salil Chaturvedi with ‘Through a Child’s Eyes’.
My editor has finally assigned a regular fortnightly Friday slot for my middles. I take that as a compliment and a promotion in a way. If freelancing is my calling, who am I to deny it? It definitely is a step up from being just a stay-at-home Mom. Now I’ll be known as the stay-at-home Mom who writes! I can blush self-consciously when a passing neighbour congratulates me or my child’s teacher expresses hopes of me joining the PTA. Working from home sure beats going to the office. How my husband will envy me the luxury of sitting on my plump bottom and earning some small bucks in the bargain!
Writers all over the world go by the creed “The pen is mightier than the sword” and their contributions mean a lot to them personally. A simple acknowledgment by way of a thank-you letter appreciating their worth and showing them how it has impacted your lives would make a big difference. I recall a letter I received when my first middle was published. I had sent it a couple of months earlier and almost chewed my fingernails off waiting for it to ‘come out’. A latter offering was printed first and I resigned myself to the fact that the article had been canned. Imagine my surprise when it finally saw the light of day, and then a ‘fan’ letter that followed. I may never receive another letter like that but that small gesture made my day and may perhaps be the making of me as a serious writer, who knows?
There may be many like me out there with a genuine gift for writing, just wondering how to go about it. Its really easy. All you do is write that ‘middle’ and then send it to the editor at the Herald. Choose a topic that you believe in, because your heart must be reflected in your writing. Intersperse the points you wish to get across with personal anecdotes and well-phrased quotes. Be sure that you only preach what you practice. Write as the thoughts flow and edit later. Put in more substance than the article requires- your editor will most certainly cut you down to the right size. When you are satisfied with your results, take that long-awaited cup of coffee or nicotine fix and promptly send it off in the mail before you get cold feet.
Well, I hope to see more names in the future. And perhaps one day, we budding freelancers can all jam up together for a night out and I can finally satisfy my curiosity that I wasn’t off the mark in my mental images of the stalwarts in the field of ‘middle’ class writers.

THE CIRCLE OF LIFE 22 Jan 2010.

When I was little, I had a sweet maternal grandma who would bring us to Goa in the holidays (we lived in Mumbai then). How we loved our summer vacations in the sprawling bungalow, sprinting from room to room and then into the barren paddy fields nearby where we would play in abandon. During the hot summer days, the pond close by became our swimming pool and we would bathe and splash around catching tiny frogs and fish in its shallow depths. I can still remember Granny’s face, the way it crinkled when she smiled, the yummy food she cooked, and especially her hairstyle- two plaits, curled upwards and pinned like a crown on her head. She would make us fetch caravandas and bindi-chi-sola from the trees in the forest for her spicy curries. What an adventure it was to go hunting for them: each one tried to find as many as we could, often popping a few into our mouths as well. Granny died when I was just eight, but whenever I think of her, I feel so blessed to have had such a warm, generous and loving grandparent. I wish I could hold my dear Granny and tell her with tears of gratitude just how much she has done for me just by loving me the way she did.
Memories of my Papa (Dad’s father) also bring forth a flood of tears. I still remember the day he took me for my usual evening stroll to the park. On the way, I accidentally walked into a pile of cow-dung. Papa bent down, lifted me out of my slippers and carefully cleaned up the one that was messed up. Then he lifted me up on his shoulders and we continued towards the park. I enjoyed many a piggy-back on his puny shoulders and, young as I was, I felt a deep loss, when he was finally no more.
Old people do not deserve aged homes; they need to be around their grand-children. When you lose a parent prematurely and your children have no one to call Nana or Papa, you do feel cheated. Granny’s lap feels the softest and Papa’s pockets are always full of goodies.
Nowadays, people migrate to foreign lands leaving behind aged parents to fend for themselves or live lonely lives in some home for the aged. Old people seem to be resigning themselves to this alarming trend for they say to me, “Once my children are settled abroad, I will go and spend the rest of my life in a home.” Sometimes it is the harsh climate that dissuades them from migrating, but often it is the harsh attitude of the children themselves that makes them reluctant to go.
But the fact remains that children need their grandparents and they also need a complete circle of life to understand what life is all about. Old people need to be loved by their grandchildren just as much as grandchildren need the wisdom and gentleness of the old. I often wish orphanages and aged homes could combine forces, for it is these two extremes that need each other the most and can give joy to one another without reserve.
We will all grow old one day and will experience the helpessness of not being in control of our lives. Then we will realize the foolishness of abandoning our parents into aged homes. For what goes around comes around, and our laps will one day be empty, longing for the grandchildren who will never sit in it.
As for my children, every old person is Nana or Papa and it gives me great joy to see them lifted up, caressed and have a cozy lap to sink into while they nibble goodies and listen to a fairy tale narrated to them with animation in a soft, mellow voice.
Your children deserve the best too. Can you not give it to them? Don’t take away the most precious possessions from their lives. Give them the gift they will cherish the most- their Grandma and Grandpa. Recent laws have been made empowering parents with rights to demand a dignified life. But the only law that matters is the law of love. If you truly love your children, then you will give them back their grandparents. If you love your parents then you will give them back their grandchildren. It is a sacrifice you can afford to make so that the two extremes complete the circle of life and love.

I WISH…… I WONDER. 22 Jan 2010 on pg 14 under the heading ‘YOUR TAKE’

As little children, we often play games with friends and these games sometimes hold the seeds of our future. My fondest memories of such childhood games was the one I would play by myself. All it needed was some chalk and a blackboard. I would stand in front of an imaginary class, repeating what I had learnt in school that day and reprimanding my students just as my teacher used to. Then I would pretend to correct books as the class did its assignment. Finally I’d ring the bell and, as I bid my class goodbye. This game shaped my future and made me desirous of joining the noble profession of teaching- a vocation which many, sadly, have reduced to a pay packet at the end of the month.
My B.Ed. training days at SXIE, Mumbai brings to mind a special event and a debt I will never be able to pay my dear teacher Mrs. Athaide . All through that year I had never displayed any great gift but a poem I had written for the annual magazine showcasing our extracurricular talents impressed her and she asked me to do a ‘filler’ for Annual day. I was reluctant, but finally after much persuasion she got me to agree. I took the song ‘ Those were the days’, changed the lyrics to reflect all we had done that year and brought the house down that evening. I remember my principal, Mrs. D’lima, ask where I had been all that time and that was praise enough from the starchy monarch. That one kind gesture boosted my self-esteem ever so much.
When I did become a full-fledged teacher I had my own fan club but I often felt that I was not doing much for my students, since management demanded that portions be completed and books corrected. This obsession with completing syllabuses is what quenches the spark in dedicated teachers. Then there were unmotivated colleagues whose only thrill in life was a fat salary cheque placed in their hands by an equally fat clerk who could hardly muster a smile. My greatest frustration, however, came from the overwhelming numbers we had to teach.
When I came to Goa, I was relieved to see the classes reduced to half the numbers I was used to and envied the teachers here. Though I do not teach for personal reasons, the ideal class I would have loved to teach is one with 20 students, where I would know each one personally and could do regular home visits. The few times I had done these visits in Mumbai changed my opinion of those students drastically.
Uniforms blot out differences but teachers need to know these very differences if they want to educate in the real sense of the word. A friend of mine recently told me that she is glad that she has moved to Australia for the simple reason that her second child is rather slow and the teacher allows him to study at his own pace. Here, in India, he would have been classified a dunce, punished by the teachers and ridiculed by his classmates, she said. I was instantly reminded of Aamir Khan’s movie on dyslexia “Taare Zameen Par” where the little Ishan is forced to go away to boarding school when he cannot perform well in studies like his elder brother.
We strive for perfection even in our own children, when we force them to live out our dreams and aspirations. In the movie “Ice Princess”, a girl, who is heading for a physics scholarship at Harvard University discovers her gift for ice-skating. Her mother, appalled at her life choice, only comes to terms with her daughter’s talent when she watches her sail through the figure skating championships, winning the silver medal . At one point in the movie, the mother, in frustration, angrily blurts out to her daughter that she is throwing away her dream for a passing fancy. The girl replies, “Not my dream, Mother, yours. I’m going after my dream.”
Last month my son requested me to write a poem for his college magazine so I gave him this one:

I WISH……….. my books were lighter and my satchel less bulky.

I WISH………...the principal was full of smiles and not so rude and sulky.

I WISH………...my teachers knew the way to make me wanna learn.

I WISH………....education was loads of fun and not just a way to earn.

I WONDER……if it really matters how many volumes you’ve read.

And…………….if a few words of kindness is all that needs be said.

I WONDER……if I’ll remember my school for what it taught.

And…………….if that high–paid job will satisfy me or not.

The poem summarises a child’s perspective of education as drilled into him by his elders and what his own heart really wants. I hope those who are in the noble profession, sorry, vocation of teaching listen to the heart of their wards and will ‘bring out the best’ in them.