In support of International Women's Day (March 8, 2012):

In support of International Women's Day (March 8, 2012):

How can we, as a culture and as members of the global community, involve, educate, and inspire girls in a positive way? (http://www.genderacrossborders.com/blogforiwd/)

In order to answer this important question, we need to first define for ourselves what ‘positive way’ means? I hope that we can all agree that at the minimum, 'positive way' implies growth of the person. While there are various ways in which a girl child can be inspired, I think, the most important way is by creating examples and role models. Children learn more from what is not directly taught to them, but what meets the eye, than from their text books and in classrooms. I have most observed this with my own daughter. And it is thus, that I have suddenly become more aware of my own identity as a woman and as a person, than before. My interactions with my surroundings, my treatment of others--men and women included, and their treatment of me, is indelibly imprinting stories into my daughter's character. And this tells me that while I will never fully be in control of the person she will be (nor do I want to be), I can so beautifully influence the person she becomes by being the best person I myself can be.

And this all means that whatever I am doing right now, I better have a good reason behind it, for she is watching, she is listening, she is growing. And this translates to each of us being aware of those little pairs of eyes in our own houses, families and neighborhoods, and noting for ourselves, that mis-treatment of anyone is NEVER allowed. Men and women are different, but not unequal.

My Cavernous Bag

A comment/reply/(add-on?) to To Erin Morgenstern's Flax-golden tale of Feb 24 2012:
(http://erinmorgenstern.com/2012/02/flax-golden-tales-necessary-supplies/comment-page-1/#comment-50593


Whimsical sisters.
I know them. I am one of them. Women are more likely to do something like this, than men, and sisters even more so. I know now what your sister's bag's belly carries---scarves and perhaps hats for the needy trees. Just like mine..though mine is filled up with rattles and pacifiers and emergency diapers and Desitins and all that for the baby's butts and of course the caramel mocha colored lipstick for my lips and a pair of sunglasses--them demanding their own real-estate in the bag--big round goggles, in equally spacious quilted bag for them. All of them tumbled with the cell phone, the essential keys, and of course the card-laden wallet. My bag is like a laundry machine in action, you never can get what you want right away. You will invariably have to feel with your fingers through various shapes and textures inside the cavernous bag, to eventually get what you want--and yes you sure will get it--sooner than later, or sooner or later.

Rows and Columns

When I used to do research for a living, I needed to collect my findings, sort them into all sorts of categories, and present them such that they made sense, such that I was able to establish connections that (hopefully) no one had ever unearthed before. And for all this, and much more, I readily resorted to good old MS Excel. I selected two rows and in one click managed a bar-graph here and a pie-chart there. I added worksheets on the same excel file, and maintained thousands of data matrices on different but related inputs all in one place.

And then I became a mom, and the need to use a computer-aided sorter vastly diminished. It is real-time action now and the chances for those cogitated outcomes are rare. We are dealing here with 'pee-pee right now' and 'not hungry (forever)' situations where most presentations to the toddler are strongly rebutted with the endless 'whys' and 'hows' and the infant's desire to be stuck to her vending-machine (that's me) has crossed the realm of innocence and now seems almost a little devilish. So, after that long hiatus, today when I needed to actually make a formal list of a variety of things to do, for an upcoming event, and to then relate them to the resources on hand, I was glad that my instinct to go for the Excel sheet was still alive. Soon the big jumble of ideas and plans, that was giving me sleepless nights, was now formally 'sorted', under appropriate headings with relevant resources like time and person in-charge neatly tagged. And I thought to myself, "Ah! the power to confine ideas to their allotted rows and columns." The impermeability of the boundaries within the matrices, renders things less grey, and more black or white.

I know there are so many fantastic features in the software, but for me, for now, just the site of the grid, is gratifying enough. I can see that the upcoming event will be well fortified in the logistics. The spirits and attendance, I cannot guarantee.

Being a Parent

When my first born was born, I discovered a 'variety' of love--the love for her, so different in depth and quality than anything I had ever known in life till then. She became the most natural recipient of all that I had worth giving. And I often heard myself saying, "really, is this what 'love' is?" I know hubby changed as a person too, he grew into a strict yet fuzzy person he never knew he could be . And then my belly started to grow with another little one growing inside it. Hubby declared that I could love whoever I wanted as much as I wanted, but his love for Miss Sunshine will remain 'unchanged and undiminished'.

That was then. And now as three of us surround the cradle of our littlest five month old buttercup, each of us trying to draw her attention as we clench our fists in almost uncontrollable spasms of emotions of 'cho chweet', it surprises me how much unquestionably we love her--I love her, he loves her, and she loves her too. Most importantly, I realise that parenthood is about learning that there is this 'one variety' of love that actually has this ability to duplicate, multiply and keep growing with each heartbeat. I now know that 'there is no favorite child'. Our children are us, and there is no choosing between my two kidneys or my two ears, and that is what our children are...they are the eyes and ears and mouth and mind and all that, that we will leave behind us, and we love them all just as we loved the first one alone.

Bring my my Rainbow

Pick up a pen from the pen-holder closest to you, yes, any random pen (no, not a highlighter, just an ordinary pen), and I CHALLENGE you, that that pen writes in black ink.

In our house this is always true----all the pens create black print. And I ask---where have all the colors gone? Granted, that we hardly ever use the humble pen now days----we gladly type away on our keyboards. But even then why did we stop appreciating colorful script? Ok, not 'colorful' but at least script written in more than just black ink? Long long time ago, I used to be a teacher, and I would actually sit down with exam sheets and term papers, and check them and leave comments and grades written in red ink. Those words and points written in red, meant a lot to the reader, and I could see how anxiously the receiving student would scour through the sheets for all things in red. In those days itself, during office hours, I would make detailed graphs on white paper, indicating different things on the picture in different colors---I often used the red, black and blue, but also had the pleasure of using yellow and green inks on occasions, to point to some overlapping portions of triangles or axis. And all those pens were just there----in my pen holder, a mere hand stretch away.

Today, I was drawing a technical picture (don't ask me why), and needed to draw something in blue over a graph I had already made in black---and I COULD NOT come across ONE SINGLE blue-inked pen. It annoyed me no ends to see that even pens whose bodies had all blue on them, actually wrote in black.

Only teachers care about the different color pens now? I will have to trudge across to my toddler's room and rummage through her pen-caddy for some sketch pens to finish off my current task. And note to self: when in walmart next, grab a set of pens of different color inks....if they still make those pens.

WRITE NOW

I read this person's blog, and he had written, right on the top right corner of the blog screen---his name and underneath 'author'...just that---that was his plain and simple introduction, and indeed that was the reason I was on his blog page to start with--his novel and his novel writing tips and all that. But those six letters in black on a white background--A U T H O R....wow those left a mark on my mind...and I actually looked at that word for more time than it takes an adult literate person to read and understand a simple english word.

What I would do to get that title for myself (I mean writing would be a good starting point, but then that ain't happening as much!). I did manage to convince (actually convincingly say to) two important people of my life that I am a 'writer'---one my three year old toddler, and other my semi-literate household helper--a Tibetan refugee lady who barely speaks english and of course given her super enslaved work hours (she works very hard for various employers), she almost never reads any book. The latter's significance in my life comes from the fact that if it weren't for her ceaseless some hours of all the chopping and other basic house work, I would have literally no minute to sit down before a computer, and my husband for sure would have no chapatis to eat AT ALL. Anyhow, getting back to the gist of this blog, when one day the helper asked me all too innocently if I worked too, I took a moment's silence to frame the sentence for myself, and then spoke aloud, "I am a writer." I imagined she would not ask me the details, and she obliged by moving on to the next chore without any curiosity on what, why, who for, do I write? Or those even more difficult questions: "have you published?" "when will you publish?" "what are you writing about?" She moved on, and I heard the echo of my own words for the whole day that day.

Likewise, once when I sat my toddler down to teach her the whole meaning of the word 'occupation', I ran her through the various kinds of jobs the different people she knows do...like her dad, and uncle and that aunty and so on. And then I declared to her, and to myself, "and your mumma is a writer." I was in the business of explaining occupations that day, so I had to add for my daughter's sake, "I write." Pause, then "I write stories and will write a book and so on....". Of course for the kid, her holding a pencil to start to write the first letter of her name, V, too makes her a writer. So she gleefully said, "mumma see I am a writer too." Being a parent, I of course said "Amen"..... truly wishing upon her countless years of satisfying writing. And I also wish that we will both graduate to 'author' too.

Author, who are you?

When you read literature, of any kind, once the story has ended, and you have put the book down and you casually cast a glance at that small black and white picture of the writer on the back cover of the book, and you notice that this writer was just as much a person as you are, you are sometimes stirred to realise that this same person like you, had so much story to tell! For me, the greatest curiosity is always about when in the day did the author find the time to write.....I figure its my own quest at prioritizing my time, that must spark such queries, but I think its more than just that. I have this great desire to somehow plant myself, ghost-like---invisible, behind the author as s/he writes away on white sheets of paper, or pecks away on that overused keyboard. I want to examine the surroundings of the author, those stray empty cups of coffee/tea/water, those dust-lined book shelves, those wilting/blooming potted indoor plants, and perhaps a small bound planner beckoning the author about upcoming engagements and errands. Navigating through the circadian rhythm, and creating stories or penning memories, this author is just as much a human as I am, and I like to have lived a life in the day of....