EACH ONE WORTHY OF MY BEST

 Two books I’ve read recently, The Sympathizer by a Vietnamese author, and another about a Latvian protagonist, have led me to think about our cultural stories and how they help shape our identities—and also our personalities. 

More specifically, the amount of time I’ve invested in my mum’s life stories—listening and recording them—have made me see her as a deep, complex and unique person. And I love her as I didn’t before. This has been rewarding, but also humbling. Because isn’t it what we all are? My instinct, which is to invest similarly in all the people I care about feels overwhelming because it’s impossible to do. What’s doable is to accept and treat people as unique individuals who are worthy of respect and love.

What a roundabout way to reach a truth.

July 13 2024

AN INHERITANCE OF TRAUMA

 Reflections on India’s Independence 

Today one hears little about the national traumas experienced by India and Pakistan at the time they gained independence 75 years ago—a vast wounding of the psyche now buried deep within us. Few who experienced that historical event are alive today, and yet the stories and images will live on.

There is a feeling of awe and pride when I recall that my dad was present among the throng of revelers that greeted the first dawn of freedom. He was there when the crowd hushed to hear the words of India’s first prime minister spoken from the ramparts of Delhi’s Red Fort. Dad was 22 and I imagine his heart must have swelled with hope for the future.

Then came the communal unrest and violence. One thousand miles away in the city of Calcutta, my dad’s aunt, Hema Lata, or Bara Ma as she was affectionately called, showed up at the train station with a group of volunteers everyday to meet trains arriving from Pakistan to assist the wounded and displaced passengers. Many among them who were dead. Riots raged in that city for five days. There were 2000 casualties and thousands more injured in Calcutta alone.

One of dad’s uncles decided to remain in Lahore with his family and remained permanently separated from the larger family because of political tensions and travel restrictions between the new countries.

A New York Times photo article revived these mixed feelings that I will forever associate with India’s had earned independence.

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/14/world/asia/india-partition-history-photos.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share
https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/14/world/asia/india-partition-history-photos.html?referringSource=articleShare

NOW THIS

I remember that first time I noticed the creases around my mouth. I must have been in my late twenties or thirties. Bewildered I stared into the mirror. They seemed to have sprung overnight. I smiled. I relaxed my face. I smiled more widely then relaxed my face again. They didn’t go away. Where had they come from? 

Now I know they’re signs of aging and are called laugh lines or nasolabial folds.

Fast forward a decade plus years to the day my stomach feels unnaturally swollen. I am convinced I have a tumor. Alarmed, I cautiously manipulate my abdomen and determine to consult the family physicians about it. 

No reason to panic I am assured. It was only middle-age spread. Embarrassed, I bought myself a hula hoop that very day promising myself that I would rather die than allow myself to thicken at the waist.

Recently while playing the Spelling Bee game, I was annoyed that the common word KINE was not on the list, but DINK was. I didn’t even know DINK was a word. I had been typing in all sorts of letter combinations, as I sometimes do, to uncover words I might otherwise miss. 

Nonplussed, I turn to my husband whose vocabulary is greater than mine, “What does DINK mean?”

“Never heard the word. I’ll look it up.”

I wait.

He laughs scandalously, “Turns out we know quite a few ‘dinks.’ Some even in our family.”

Before emailing the game authorities to point out they’ve missed a word again, I look up the word KINE.

Guess what?

KINE - noun, ARCHAIC.

THE GUN PROBLEM

 Once bitten, twice shy.

I get it—why you won’t react to my posts about guns, or other politicized subjects. Perhaps I’ve bit, but I promise I’ve been bitten more often, and I bet you have been too—right here on social media by people who delight in criticism because they assume to know our every thought and motive. I, on the other hand, can tell when someone is rattling off talking points and not speaking from their heart, or liver.

While we wait and cast our bets on any gun legislation getting passed soon, (I’ll confess I’m not hopeful) the thought of enduring another mass shooting, or listening to desperate parents talk about moving to a safer country, wakes me up at 3 am with the desire to dialogue with those who’d rather bite me.

Although, my personal preference is to rid the world of every firearm—real or fake, I realize there are not many who will walk or fast with me on this. So I suppose some compromise is necessary—that way a few can live and write about it.

I believe in the Second Amendment, but not for people who were responsible for tragedies in Columbine, West Nickel Mines, Sandy Hook, Marjorie Stoneman Douglas, or Robb Elementary School.

I believe in your right to own firearms responsibly for hunting and self-defense, but not for mowing down or massacring innocent civilians.

I believe in the constitutional rights of the more than 311,000 students who have experienced gun violence since Columbine to not have to live in fear.

I believe our children should come home from school alive

—Inspired by “There Has to Be a Tipping Point on Guns, Right?” (NY Times, June 6, 2022)

DIGNITY

“I think the Irish most often use the world ‘dignity’ of any other group of people,” Biden said. “I think it’s because when you’ve been deprived of dignity you put a high, high premium on it.” 

I've been thinking more about this recently. The fact that my experiences makes me extra sensitive and predicts my reaction to certain stimuli. I guess like most things, this is neither good nor bad, and I believe awareness is key. 

THE SEVENTY SENTENCE

While reading a book for our book club, A Place For Us by Fatima Farheen Mizra, I came across a sentence that shouted out to me. The sentence read thus, “Make seventy excuses before judging someone.”

I pondered this for a while, actually I’ve oft thought about it in the last few weeks--reflecting that while making excuses for myself might be habitual, I didn’t apply it to the same extent to others.

If I take the broader meaning of the word “excuse” to also mean, reason, justification, explanation or even apology, I end up with something more commonly heard which is “to give someone the benefit of the doubt.”

When I first read the sentence, what had come to my mind immediately was the Biblical reference of forgiving someone seventy times seven. Forgiveness and being slow to judge are two different things to me. The first occurs after the fact of an act that hurt or betrayed, the second, before the feelings of hurt or betrayal are played out.

So perhaps making 70 excuses first for someone’s behavior might save me from undue suffering, and from having to forgive later.

This morning I looked and found the source for the Muslim adage which, by the way, is not attributed to the prophet but to another early Muslim philosopher, “If a friend among your friends errs, make seventy excuses for her. If your hearts are unable to do this, then know that the shortcoming is in your own selves.”

Making seventy excuses before judging someone is not a new concept for me and not necessarily a religious one but a prudent one of extending goodwill and compassion to my fellow humans. However, it took the unusual phrasing of words to force me to look at the message anew and to consider the merits of exercising it.

THURSDAY MORNING IN HOSUR

 4/27/22

In the early morning darkness, I hear the birds first and then the Imam’s call to prayer. Not very much later the sacred gives way to the mundane and crass—traffic roaring in the distance, the Hindu temple’s songs on loud speakers. 

Dawn breaks quickly, darkness making way for daylight in a matter of moments, and the lightness of the morning air calls me outside where Scamp is ready to play. Mum, after her devotions, will join us outside sweeping up the few leaves that have fallen on the path during the night. It’s her exercise she says. This is the magic of Hosur mornings.

Being with mum is like being in another world and when I reside here, all other worlds fade. It engages in a way that takes over everything else.  It’s the reason, I might not write, or call or remember how much I love you.

Mum’s my focus. We’ve done a couple jigsaw puzzles, played numerous Boggle games, taken our meals, while looking after small housekeeping chores. We laugh and joke and act “jalep”, and all the while, mum keeps up a steady flow of family stories, and anecdotes from her life. When she mentions something I don’t recall hearing before, I reach for my iPad to jot down a few words that I hope to flesh out later. 

Now more often than before, she mixes and matches events and dates that I know don’t go together. She’ll mention Aunty Ivy and her first GC in the same sentence, and Maggie in a story decades before she was a part of our family. And I’m thankful that I paid attention earlier and know most of the stories so well, that I know when she misstates facts, but also because when she falters for a name or place, and pauses with confusion on her face, that I can supply them to her, and watch her eyes light up at making the connection again.

Yesterday, mum tutored me in knitting baby booties. Having knitted dozens of pairs in her lifetime, she knows the pattern by memory and I have this unexplained desire to produce them as prolifically and effortlessly as she once did.

My stays are short, and my visits few and far apart, but as much as is in my control, I will find forever in each moment.