Untangled

"Rapunzel, O Rapunzel, do let down your hair...."

Soft and gentle, caressed by mother. Safe and snug in her arms, dreaming in black and white. Hazy, incoherent dreams. Her needs are small, hunger to be satiated and discomfort alleviated. Safe and secure in the knowledge that all she needs to do is whimper and her needs will be met.

Tentative steps on wobbly legs, curious and questioning eyes ask "How far does this string of yarn go?" or "How does this snowflake taste?" The first voices of dissent are heard but all it takes is a toothless grin or a pucker and her wish is someone's command. Toddle, wobble, smile, giggle, pucker, look, touch, smell and taste....her small world is a playground.

"Amma, why must I grow my hair?" "You may cut it after you get married child. A nice young man will come asking for you and whisk you away on a carriage, but you must make yourself worthy of him. You must learn how to cook, clean, keep yourself spiffy and learn how to sew and darn. Don't forget to keep your grades up because you must learn to be independent too" "I will not marry Amma. I wish to be free" Mother smiles and indulges "As you wish" and she bounces off to make a mud pile with legs spread and skirt pulled up. Hair falling on her face and tongue sticking out in concentration. Carefree and dreaming of dragonflies and warm sunny beaches. Dreams in technicolor, unmarred by reality.

Shy and awkward with silences abound. Afraid to meet someone's eyes and quick to blush. Her reticence is taken as acceptance. Ravaged by insecurities and ridden with guilt, she comes to expect nothing but heartache and confusion. Are you a friend or a foe or just a bystander? She retreats into her shell time and time again and yet peeks out when her heart heals. She struggles to save the light within her, the flower to be nurtured against the forces of nature and will.

Life goes on in this vein with new worlds, dimensions being added and choices being made. Bombarded by expectations or burdened with being a peacekeeper. Until one day, the withered flower in her heart blossoms once again. She realizes that she is the fulcrum and does not need any other support. She comes into her own and discovers her potential. Her hopes and dreams that have been buried come into the fore. Released thus, there is a peace and acceptance of all that is the past, the present and the future. Nothing matters except for the peace within. She cuts her hair.

"Rapunzel, O Rapunzel, do let down your hair...." "I cannot for I've cut it short. I cannot heal the world or its insecurities. I cannot be patient and kind and understanding. I cannot be politically correct and accepting of your faults. I cannot listen to you and stay protected in this castle. I want to feel the grass under my feet and make my mistakes. I need to stop grooming my hair and use that time to play and explore. I need to live. Please leave me be."

Parental Guidance

Parenting is like your very first roller coaster ride. Here you are, cruising along serenely with nary a care in the world, sunlight shining on your face and sharing a laugh or two with your partner. You have your first child. Before you know it, you are inching your way towards a reasonably high altitude. You look down and a bit of unease weighs in. You laugh it off nervously, telling yourself that it is fine, really. Millions have done it before you and lived to tell the tale. What's the worst that could happen, you ask yourself tentatively. The coaster reaches it's first height creakily and totters over the edge, maybe with a twinge of regret at subjecting you fine folks to what will unfold shortly. You peek over the edge, concerned. After this briefest of reprieves, all hell breaks loose. There is really no gentle way of putting it. Eyes are pulled out of your socket, your stomach frequently hits the roof of your skull, your face and other body parts are consistently re-arranged. You are screaming your guts out (at least what is left of them), clawing at your poor partner. You question your sanity more than a few times, you feel like you are flying one minute and come crashing down the next. You appear at the very end of the ride, eyes wide open, looking a bit crazed with maybe a facial tic or two thrown in, clinging to your partner for dear life. You climb shakily out of the car and swear never to do it again. If you are one of the lucky ones who were among the first in line when common sense was doled out and among the last when masochistic tendencies were, this ride will be fondly relegated to "Orlando trip 2012" on your Facebook timeline, peppered with many likes and happy comments. There are of course the others who come back for seconds when bad sushi has been given a free rein to their innards. Sometimes, multiple times. You won't see many pictures on their timelines. They simply don't have the time or the gumption to do so. The facial tics have also multiplied exponentially, it is not a pretty sight.

You can tell parents apart in a crowd. They don't make eye contact. If they do, they fix you with a stare that says "Don't you dare mess with me". They communicate like Mani Ratnam's characters do, via staccato mumbling. They are spent, out of breath and know all too well that long attention spans are actually well practiced tune-outs. They are shifty, constantly looking over their shoulders. Their clothes sense is at best described as odd since they wear what happens to have made the laundry that week AND managed to dodge the hot pink tights thrown casually in with the white load. Their eyes are bloodshot with many hours spent in the ER with tiny objects that have magically made it into various orifices of the human body. They are very well read, with honorary degrees in biology, finance, speech decoding and advanced computer skills with diplomas in electrician tech, plumbing and advance cleaning mech. Don't smirk, do YOU know how to take the hot pink out of white clothes? Hmmmm, I didn't think so. They are photographers, short order cooks, magicians who have a varied repertoire from making boo-boos disappear with a kiss to vanquishing under-the-bed monsters with a frying pan, party organizers and guidance counsellors. They are blessed with a tough hide that does not take it personally and smiles benignly when things such as "I hate my family", "Why did you guys have me?",  "You people are so lame. I wish I had better parents" or even "I HATE my life" are said and have a practiced nonchalance when doors are slammed on the face.

So, whether you are sitting at your child's first violin concert, desperately deleting old photos to make room for the new while nudging your exhausted partner awake (the dimmed lights have lulled them to a deep sleep and the snores are too loud) or lazily contemplating Project Earthling Procreation for the very first time, I have only one thing to say....don't climb on that roller coaster car if you are not the adventurous kind. Your innards will definitely thank you. 

A New Year State of Mind

A time to reflect, revel, ruminate, rejoice, refresh, resolve. A time when some amount of joy and peace penetrates the most jaded mindsets. When the stoniest of hearts finds a flicker of love for their brethren. A time when two things stand out clearly, family and friends. All else fades into a distance. Warmth pervades our souls like a cup of soup on a cold, cold day.

Like a candle that starts a chain at a vigil, we congregate and spread the love. We reflect. We resolve to change our views or our direction in life. Of all the promises made, the most sacred are the ones to ourselves. Yet, we seem to need collective goodwill across the globe to fan the wings of our commitments. Unwittingly, we become a small part of a greater whole.

Differences cease to matter, foes become friends. Hallucinogens take away pain and frustration and for a while, one feels young, fresh and hopeful. This is a beautiful time of the year. If only we could keep this spirit up for the rest of the year, we wistfully opine.

We gather our friends and family close to each other and vow to keep them close as the ball drops and we countdown to a new beginning. We look to this day as a fresh slate, to turn a new leaf or to flip a switch on. Everyone needs a second, a third or a fourth chance at something. A fresh new lease at life or just to be thankful for all our blessings.

We know that this feeling might get squandered soon into the year, the fiercest of resolves might splutter and die out by spring and melancholy can seep in like cold fog by the morning rush-hour. Yet we keep the spirits up and party hard. For this feeling is heady, something that we cannot get enough of.

There are many beginnings through the year. Days, months and seasons begin. Yet none causes quite the ripple effect that the new year brings. It is as if an invisible hand wipes slates clean all the way from the far east to the far west, across time zones.

So, here's to new beginnings and happy tidings. May the new dawn bring a smorgasbord of experiences. May a greater consciousness prevail.

Happy New Year

Existential

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend...........

Who am I and why am I here? Am I really just a jumble of chemicals working in mind-boggling unison? What is the point of this endless waking up, working and sleeping routine? Am I here to prove some evolutionary theory or is there a deeper meaning to it all? Is my place in this world just a chance event or was it predestined in some way? Am I a part of my own small universe that randomly collides with other similar universes, attracting and repelling on a whim? These are all questions that flit across the mind screen with alarming regularity these days.

I find myself attracted to things that I never thought I would be and being passionate about things and causes that I might have previously just given passing thought to. I am pulled by an invisible cord in directions unexplored. My mind is on fire with myriad thoughts cascading through. Yet, my world is calmer than it has ever been. I am able to see things with a clarity hitherto absent. Controlled madness probably sums up this growth spurt the best.

I find myself being more than just curious about my ancestors. They are suddenly not just names but  forces that pull me into worlds unknown. They are missing pieces in the puzzle of my life. I quiz my parents relentlessly about Sita paati, Chandramoulee thatha or athanga paati. I collect stories and tidbits with rabid enthusiasm, stories that I want to share with my children. I feel regret that I did not glean anymore from people who have already passed. Doing rituals like "shrardham" takes on new meaning.

I realize that being rooted to the past thus is strangely comforting. It gives my branches the nourishment and strength to reach out to the sky. Everything in this universe comes from something, be it a song that arises from a musical note, a masterpiece that starts from a brush stroke, or conviction that starts from a small thought. I too, come from a mix of tangibles and intangibles from the past that shape themselves according to the world around me. This is what I will pass on to my children, who will carry the torch forward. It is intensely humbling when I think of myself thus, merely a small link in this chain.

And, one day, I realize that I am but a curious blend of my parents and my children. 

A short rant

Hey you! The girl in the awkward high heels with bunions and fallen arches. Yes, you....with the face and hair aged by unfair expectations, chemicals and heat. Do you realize that your breath is shallow from holding it in so your bulges don't show? The bulges that are a reminder of meals that have been missed or eaten in haste. Your falsely whitened teeth try to hide the nicotine stains, a habit picked up to fight the weight battle and spurred by insecurities. You in the creative wardrobe, mixing and matching designers and colors so it appears that you have new clothes on every single day. You with the painted talons that get in the way of living your life freely. You soldier on daily with repeated onslaughts to your body and soul, trying desperately to fit your square peg into round holes. You who finds substitutes to fill the emptiness that results.

Stop and think whether the reflection in the mirror is your own. There are places to see, languages to be learnt, boundaries to be shattered, planets to be saved, children to be nurtured, peaks to be climbed, books to be read and written, strays to be rescued and beaches to be walked barefoot on. There is a life to be lived in comfortable shoes and clothes. Wear your body with pride. It is your very own unique stamp on this universe. Step out of those uncomfortable clothes and expectations and breathe......

Battered

The color, a pristine white. The consistency, soft fluff. The quantity, more than anticipated. The result? Perfect malli poo-like idlis. These, accompanied with getti chutney, molaga podi-nalla yennai and fragrant sambar is the equivalent of a symphony orchestra playing upon your taste buds. Add degree kapi to this and gastronomical nirvana is attained. Sorcery of this high order was required in those days by the lady of the house to make sure that her sour gent sang a happy tune at the breakfast table (OK, more like a satisfied grunt) and felt sufficiently charged to leave the comforts of his Bombay Fornicator to go face the world (I'm positive that I got your attention now. Now go Google it).

The perfect idli batter has to be the holy grail of all Tamil households. It is the stuff of legend and closely guarded family secret recipes. It is the reason why many a homemaker is celebrated for her kai pakkuvam and others sidelined as also-rans. It is amazing that something with just two ingredients (rice and urad dal) can reduce many a new cook to tears. Here, I share my journey from making tear-stained, concave discs to the aforementioned delights that are equated to the jasmine flower, a string of which would grace the lustrous single plait of the successful lady who managed perfect idlis every single time. She wore the flowers like a crown to match the smug smile on her face.

Cut to me, a decade or so ago. Wet behind the ears, eager beaver cook raised among culinary greats and married into a family of hall-of-famers. I thought that I had the idli thing in the bag, thank you very much. I mean, how difficult can making idlis be? I've eaten them all my life. Quite simply put, I was dead wrong.  After the first few disastrous results, I figured that it was possibly because I had a humble "Oster" grinder and not the sophisticated "Ultra" grinder. So, hubby bought me one. I tried and failed miserably once again. I changed the kind of rice used (turns out that one needs idli rice to make idlis. Duh) The idli Gods started to smile upon me. It was not a fully benign smile, more like a small crack on a stern facade. My idlis started to become convex but were nowhere near perfection. I let go of my ego and started asking everyone for their recipes, even the close-mouthed mistresses of perfect idlis. They tried to dodge my keen questions, but I persisted until I gathered every last secret ingredient and every last secret tip to make my batter rise like a phoenix out of the ashes of my pathetic idli making efforts. I tried every ingredient under the sun including cream of rice, flattened rice flakes, cooked rice and even corn flakes. I kept my batter covered with old blankets and sweaters to keep it warm. I let it rest in a pre-heated oven and sometimes in the furnace room on top of the dryer while it was being used. I used my ingredients in every ratio and proportion possible, skills that would have made my middle school Math teachers proud, yes, even the ones that had given up on me for good. The idlis started resembling what I had eaten many years ago and yet something was missing. They just were not fluffy enough. I thought in desperation that it had to be because I had the misfortune of living between the arctic circle and the Tropic of Cancer. My husband however, categorically said that we could not move and muttered something under his breath about not getting what idlis had to do with latitude.

So, I persisted. I endured long monologs from ladies who claimed that they only had to cast a passing glance in the direction of the batter for it to erupt like Mount Vesuvius out of the vessel and flow out into the plate kept underneath. I sighed in envy at a friend's ease at feeding an army of hungry junta with idlis made from the very last drop of batter, perfect from start to finish. Needless to say, I was never picked to bring idli-sambar for any pot-luck and was relegated instead to bringing dessert while my poor deprived family bore the brunt of my sub-par idli making. One fine day however, my idlis started getting good, then better and finally a day came when my husband grunted at the breakfast table. I thought that I was hallucinating and ignored it. Then, he grunted again. Could it be, I thought. "Idli supera irukku", he said. I fainted with happiness and once recovered, I got ready to buy a fresh jasmine string to adorn my short bob. This would be the happy ending to my story, complete with a rousing ovation and subsequent encores had it not been for the recent healthy revolution. "Did you taste the idlis at Sangeetha's house?",  my friend mentioned at the last get-together. "She makes it with quinoa, brown rice and horsegram in the ratio of....."  As Vadivelu would aptly say at this point, "Shaba, kanna kattudhe!"

Dachau

I find it hard to sleep the night before I am to visit Dachau. My mind slips into consciousness and out. Dark dreams in shades of grey color my sleep. A deep sense of foreboding fills me as alight from the train into the bahnhof. The town is somber and filled with elderly people with kind eyes.....eyes that are filled with understanding. However, I am reluctant to make eye contact as I board the bus that will take me to KZ-Gedenkstätte Dachau....the memorial site of the first and most important concentration camp of the Third Reich. An eerie silence greets me when I get off the bus. Trees line the cobblestone pathway leading to the site. As my shoes crunch on the path, I close my eyes and can hear the marching of feet....both the military precision of soldiers and the nervous shuffle of would be inmates. My heart clenches with fear. I hear raucous laughter and light hearted chatter. Confused, my eyes fly open and are greeted by a group of school children visiting on a field trip. I drink up this sight of youth and hope, who are on their way to embrace possibly the darkest part of their nation's past.....it is impossible to move forward without a deep understanding of what precedes. Lost in thought, I come upon the road that originally lead to the gates of the camp. Rail tracks are partly buried in the sand and I see the commandant's quarters at a distance. I come upon the wrought iron gate with infamous words  "Arbeit macht frei" on them. As I enter the grounds through the gates, I shiver and tears begin to flow. Mere minutes into the museum, my mind shuts down, unable to rise above the oppressive sadness that fills the air. Floor to ceiling posters detail the political climate preceding the rise of the Röhm Putsch, timelines encapsulating Hitler's regime, personal accounts of inmates who survived the camp, visual and descriptive vignettes of unspeakable horrors committed by humans on fellow humans.....my eyes read every word and yet not one registers. I walk around like a zombie with images and words swirling in my mind.....like photographs in rapid succession from a camera gone wild. I come upon a section on poetry written by inmates of the camp....words written on forbidden paper with forbidden stubs of pencils. Fresh tears flow as I read one written by an eighteen year old to his mother, who probably never got to read those words of complete despair....thank God. There are uplifting tales of brotherhood, of humanity in the face of horror. They are but a bleak streak of color on a desolate canvas of sadness. A short film concludes the tour.....more senseless words and visuals. I cannot bear to walk over to see the living quarters of the inmates (of the many rows of sheds, only one is kept intact). On the walk to the exit, I see a wrought iron sculpture showing stick human figures grotesquely caught on barbed wire. With every step taken away from the site, my heart lightens and I realize that I have not taken a single photograph for remembrance. I reach Munich and go straight to church, where prayer soothes mind, body and spirit.

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