Mothers and daughters

A mother is also a daughter. In our mothering, some want to be their mother; some want to be diametrically opposite.  

And although each mother mothers differently from her own mother, at times, we notice ourselves becoming our mothers, and that can be vexing, or gratifying, or even both.

As mothers, caught in this nebulous middle area of being a mother and a daughter, sometimes we are caught by its surprise.

When my daughter was younger, a couple of times when I praised her for something, she could not receive the praise. Not convinced she deserved the praise, she hmphed and said, “Hrmphh… you say that only because you’re my mom”.

It always made my breath stop. Each time it took me by surprise.

For that is not something I could say to my mom. Ever. For I knew my mom would never praise me for anything she did not deem praiseworthy. I also knew that when praise did come my way, it was a hundred percent genuine.

Each time my kid said that, I had an odd sensation. Uneasiness twinged with joy. I didn’t know if this was my success as a parent, or my complete failure. There was momentary joy in the thought that my kid considered me to be her permanent cheerleader. Another part of me wondered if I was somehow mollycoddling her, weakening her. And if my mom’s method had somehow made us stronger, kept us more real.

I never found the answer. I also never thought I was praising her for something unwarranted. I was simply happy that she was doing whatever it was. Yes, a mother is also a daughter. But she is also her own person, different from her mother.

 And as mothers, caught in this nebulous middle area of being a mother and a daughter, sometimes we are caught by its surprise.

At times, when we see ourselves in our children: it gives us joy, it scares us. At other times we really really want to believe there was a swap in the hospital.

And just as we watch them, they watch us.

Last week, as I was doling out some motherly advice to my kid (a super rare occasion these days), she said to me, “but you would never do that”! And without a beat, I replied, “that is exactly why I want you to be able to do so. It hasn’t served me well, even if it seems like a good thing...blah blah...” We were talking about generosity of soul, self-love, boundaries, etc., etc..

Just as we hope to teach them a thing or two, I know my child is often my teacher. There are times when I wish I were more like her.

For they keep us real and at times, hold us accountable. Once when my kid was 10 years old, and I was upset about something, she exclaimed, “why can’t you do the things you tell me to do?”

I stopped in my track and asked her what. “Well, think of five good things. That’s what you tell me to do when I'm upset”, she added indignantly.

Sigh, they really are our best teachers. And just as we are their cheerleaders, they are ours. It’s a privilege to be a mother, and a daughter, even in times when that nebulous area catches us by surprise.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you wonderful mothers!

Turtles!

We sit huddled on an isolated beach under the stars. Close to midnight, the waves seem to lap noisily in the moonlight. They seem all the more noisier, given how quiet we attempt to be.

Our motley crew of four - a homestay owner, his 10-year old daughter, a guide and I whisper very very softly in the dark, our cellphones turned off to keep away light. Our eyes adjust to the only light from the stars, the glow of the breaking waves nearby and the occasional glisten of sand.

About fifty feet away is a large sea turtle. She is laying eggs. We sit in the sand and speak in hushed tones to not disturb or spook her. It feels intimate, it feels important, and we must do our part to be quiet and protect her, her eggs, her unborn babies, and her entire  endangered species.  Not quite sure why we remain so close by? Oh well, I’m too excited to ask.

In a homestay on the Konkan coast in Maharashtra, a couple of months ago, my guide and friend - the owner’s 10-year old daughter, tells me all about the turtles. She shows me the pits from egg-laying spots from the night before, another abandoned spot, when the turtle started to dig, only to decide it wasn’t good enough and found another, and a protected area further out on the isolated beach where the turtle conservancy folks bury the eggs. The area is cordoned off to protect it from animal (and human) predators and they monitor it carefully, before and once the eggs begin to hatch.

Our homestay owner is a volunteer for the turtle conservation, and I am only too excited to walk up and down the beach after dinner, looking for turtles. As I trail along with them, they fill me in on the ins and outs of the Olive Ridley turtles, their laying of eggs, the hatching of their babies, and the entire process, including the conservation intervention and effort to keep as many as possible alive. 

On the first night, we walk a few miles on the beach in the dark and don’t spot any trails or turtles. He calls the conservationist to inform him of the areas he has combed. The next day is windy, and he tells me that there will be turtles arriving for sure that night to lay eggs. I cross my fingers.

Sometime after 10 pm that night, my 10-year-old friend calls to tell me they are ready to go look for turtles. I join in. We amble along the beach with a flashlight, looking for turtle trails from the ocean. He spots a trail. Quickly, he uses a smaller flashlight, to prevent too much light in case the turtle is close by or laying eggs.  He notices another set of trails. “Looks like we missed her. She’s gone back into the ocean”.

The second set of trails are from the beach back to the ocean. He closely examines the area where the trails converge. “Hmmm… she hasn’t laid any eggs”. He knows what to look for, how the sand will seem and how loose, even if she has carefully buried the eggs.

Perhaps she will come back or find another spot. We walk further along and find another set of track. All lights are turned off, except a small flashlight and we quietly follow the trail. Sure enough, at the end of the trail is a large shadowy form, it could be a rock, it is a turtle, covered with sand and kelp. She is laying eggs. We leave her in the shadows and move away.

Someone notices movement a little further. We move towards it, to see another turtle wet and glistening in sand. She is searching for a spot to lay eggs. We stop in our path, to not disturb her, and go back to the other turtle. The homestay owner texts and calls the conservationist who will arrive soon. We wait in the dark, near the turtle, keeping her company. Even if I am a mere passer-by in this conservancy process and project, it feels special to remain quiet for this turtle, knowing her eggs will be taken to safety and that many of her babies will hatch. Fingers crossed. After that, it is the cycle of nature, again.

The turtle is done. We hear thumping. She covers the area with sand and with loud thumps, and buries the eggs in sand. I marvel at nature and for the opportunity to witness this in the dark of the night. My 10-year-old friend is excited. “We can touch her shell before she goes back. Sometimes their shell will glow when touched”. Apparently, there is bioluminescence in these waters. And the weeds/kelp/algae on the turtle’s back will light up when touched. More marveling at nature.

It is said the female Olive Ridley turtle will come back to the same beach where she was born to lay her first eggs once she is twelve years old.  As we sit in the dark, I wonder how old this grand lady may be. Or her friend, the other turtle who we quietly followed and then let her be, once she started looking for a spot to lay eggs.

The conservationist arrives and quickly digs up the eggs. He scoops sand with it, deftly and quickly, for they must be kept warm and buried again quickly. The eggs are round, like golf balls, and seem a little squishy, not hard like chicken eggs (I do not touch or photograph them). He seems to keep finding more. He pulls out a whopping 101 eggs!

Since the second turtle seemed to be taking her time laying the eggs, the conservationist tells us he will come back to get those eggs after midnight. I am filled with awe at the magic of the night as I walk back. 101 eggs. That will be a lot of turtles. I am told that of the 101, about 80 to 90 will likely hatch and of that, about four or five will survive. I sober at the numbers. Which means conservation efforts will have to continue. Last year the turtle conservancy in the area released almost five thousand babies in the ocean. 

Nature is captivating. It has its own wise and time-tested inbuilt rhythm. We need that rhythm and beat, even if our modern lifestyle seems to want to do everything to break it. We need each and every creature out there, the dullest and the brightest, for each has a role to play in Nature’s design. And as we become smarter every day, I hope we remain smart (and humane) enough to remember how much we need them. And how important they are to us and our bigger picture, and to keep our bigger picture whole.

A few pictures and video as the turtle scurried back to the ocean 

 

Travel is not for the faint hearted (or weak muscled)

In my opinion this is just too long a post. But my friend in India who had been tracking my whereabouts says that she wanted to read it all and that I should share it…. So here it is. 

I run across Munich airport like my life depends on it. Fed on a staple of Hollywood blockbusters, you know what that run looks like. Move over Jason Bourne, this middle-aged superstar is here to upstage you. Not only because of her speed or alacrity, but because she’s doing so with a carry-on wheelie whirling noisily (and sometimes non-cooperatively) alongside, a pink unwieldy bag on the shoulder, a bottle (that rolled out during security) under the armpit, whilst making sure she doesn’t  drop her phone or any travel documents. Yes, take that Jason Bourne - go ahead and look like you do accessorized like she is. 

No - I’m Not trying to catch any bad guys, or running away from any either, all my papers are legit and in order, (I’m boring like that) - I run only to catch my flight. 

And as in any aforementioned action movie, we must move to a day earlier. 

17 hours ago. Mumbai airport. I arrive to be told my flight is cancelled. I can wait a day in Mumbai and take the same flight in exactly 24 hours. But wait, this flight that I paid extra extra for so I would have only one connection and complete immigration etc. in my final destination operates only three days a week. Tomorrow is not one of those days. Aah… says the agent, “You’ll go via Salt Lake City” With a very tight layover, I notice as I squint at the itinerary. 

“The cockpit crew is sick, and they have no other crew here in Mumbai,” he tells me in confidence. 

“And they will all be better by tomorrow?” I ask cynically. 

“Most certainly” he assures me with his bright smile and 20-something optimism. 

Hmm… also a certified physician, I note sardonically. Did I mention cancelled flights, bring out the best, (and clearly the kindest) in me? Sigh… I decide not to grill the poor fellow about the nature of the cockpit crew’s ailment. I need to make a decision. Quick. 

He looks again at his screen. His face lights up. He has a solution. Mine does too - till I hear his plan. A domestic transfer to Bangalore or Delhi, a flight to Singapore, an 18-hour layover, then a flight to SFO and then my final destination. “How long will I be traveling?” My ears stop listening when his math crosses 45 hours. 

The key he says, taking me into confidence, is to get out of Mumbai. For all flights leaving Mumbai are heavily booked (and also overbooked, he hesitantly whispers). Move over again, Jason Bourne, my intelligence gathering skills are at an all-time high - my sources really seem to be spilling it all. 

Flights from Europe or other Asian hubs to the US are not very full. It’s the Mumbai segment that’s the problem, he shares. His face lights up again. 

“I can put you on your scheduled flight from Amsterdam to Portland.” He announces triumphantly. 

“How?” I ask incredulously. “You’ll have to hurry,” he tells me, “get on a flight to Munich and another from Munich to Amsterdam. And then catch the original second (now third) flight”. 

My brain tries to do the math. Will there be enough time to do flight transfers? “Oh yes,” assures my ever-optimistic friend. You won’t have to change terminals in Amsterdam or Munich. It’s all going to be close by. 

He sends me to a Lufthansa agent who gives me a boarding pass - but only till Munich. “Wait, what about the other boarding passes? There won’t be time…” 

“Sorry I can’t issue those here - those are KLM flights - you’ll get them at the gate” I hesitate, trying to weigh in this situation, when he hurries me, saying the flight will leave soon and that I should rush. You’re sure I’ll get them at the gate and that it will be quick? “Definitely” another smile and more optimism.

Hmmm… All those smiles and assurances from the 20-something Mumbai airline agents is probably how and why I am now running like a frenzied woman ah no, superstar, at the Munich airport. 

Munich 

The flight is late by a few minutes and I ask the flight attendants if they have information for connecting flights and gates. I am also eager to get out of my seat, as I sit smooshed between two heavy guys (thinking wistfully of my chosen perfect seats on the flight that never took off). Of course, one is coughing. As I put on my mask he tells me his father in law’s cat gave him allergies. Sigh... scratch everything they say about the journey being more important than the destination! 

The flight attendant looks at my printed itinerary “Aah you will have to change terminals; KLM flights are on terminal 1.”  Argh… never again trust a smiling flight agent. 

Not only is the next flight not easy to get to, but getting to the other terminal and my gate involves a security check, a train ride, a bus ride (which of course operates only every 20 minutes since it is too early in the am.) and running, lots of running. The bus arrives, I get on, I ask the driver if we can leave - there isn’t a soul around. He gives me a disapproving and firm, “no”. So much for trying to break the German discipline. Jason Bourne would have driven it himself. I try no such stunt. Getting imprisoned in Munich would require me to write a book, not a blogpost. 

He tells me where to go - I run like crazy trying to reach the gate  - only to arrive at a passport control. Nooooo. I wonder if I should take the flight back to Mumbai to have a chat with the agents who put me on this flight. No boarding pass, no proceeding to gate. I’m told to go downstairs - more running. 

And then finally I stop running, it’s too late. I wonder why I kept running, why I didn’t give up earlier, this tenacity is exhausting. But again, back to matters on hand and the counter in question. 

“You missed the flight” he informs me. I brace myself to not react, or weep, or call him Sherlock; instead I ask, “Is there another flight you can out me on?” 

“Oh no, I don’t do that. Call this number. After 8 am.” It is 7 am. I look at him in disbelief. He is right there. He had a computer in front of him. I ask if there is anyone else who can help me. He tells me it’s just him here and that this is a small airport. I want to scream. I don’t. 

I can’t believe it. There’s got to be another agent who can help put me on a flight. I search for information and talk to a few other people who direct me to another place that may have KLM agents even if it is only for baggage. I go to the deserted area and call out. An unhappy looking agent emerges and shoos me away from there saying that Lufthansa will be responsible for booking my next flight since their flight got delayed. “So should I call this KLM number?” I ask waving the piece of paper.

“Call if you want to,” I stare at him open-jawed, as he walks away.

Just great, I am at an airport on a continent midway from my travel origin and destination, without a boarding pass, or a plan, unsure of which airline is supposed to assist me and who and where to find any assistance. 

I look for some place to charge my dying phone and place a phone call that will probably cost me a fortune. Of course, I’m on hold. 

And did I mention, as I navigate the different counters, I hear an airport strike is going to begin in Munich the next day!! Which means all flights will be cancelled. Which means I need to get out of there pronto!!!

While still on hold, I decide to find the Lufthansa agents (back on the other terminal, of course). I need to leave that airport before the strike begins, even if it means I just buy a new ticket, I decide.

Wow. This saga is getting longer than I imagined. But I’m jetlagged and have nothing better to do at 4 am and how can I leave you hanging in suspense, right? So, continuing on…

Miraculously as my number for the Lufthansa agent is called, I reach the KLM agent as well. The Lufthansa agent chides me for contacting two airlines. But...but… I start… no one told me who would help. Reluctantly, I hang up on the KLM agent (that expensive phone call, remember?) when he mentions Tampa, Florida.

The Lufthansa agent scolds me some more and tells me she should be able to help me. Then her more matronly self emerges as she hears my saga. She scowls at the screen - they’ve booked you on a flight -  Munich to Newark then Tampa Florida and then Portland (two days later!). 

“Why do you want this flight”? She asks. 

“I most certainly don’t”, I reply. KLM has somehow auto booked me. Clearly their AI minions aren’t thinking clearly. 

She finds me another flight and sends me off to the United airlines counters and asks me to say hello to her cousin in Portland! “Come visit,” I tell her “I’ll show you around. I’ll give you my number”. Clearly she is my most favorite person in that moment. She tells me she hates to travel. I burst out laughing and say, “for sure, you see everything that goes wrong!”

And then of course, there is the matter with luggage. She tells me they do not load luggage till the passenger is on the flight. I have only one checked bag and brilliantly enough, it has an airtag in it. I can see it is still in Munich. Now whether it will get handed to the new airline in time for the flight is a matter for some suspense, but I have no bandwidth to worry about that.  

As I chat with the United airlines agent who prepares my tickets, I tell her this is my second unscheduled flight to Munich. The first was when our flight from London to Berlin got cancelled and flew via Munich and spent hours at this airport. She asked if I have ever been to Munich. I tell her I haven’t, and she laughs and says that’s why this was all happening. Sigh… now I know what I need to do to break that jinx!

And while my legs and shoulders are sore from the strange running with luggage, I’m glad to have found a flight out of there. For in the hours spent at many counters, I learn of a two-day airport strike in Munich that is to start the next day.  The odd thing is I laugh. A laugh that was accepting of the craziness and of everything that could go wrong and the realization that even when things were out of my control, that I would eventually get home. 

And just when I let go of all the trying, that’s when things start to work for me. 

Jet lag and the batata chivda

They say you regress into your young self when you go back to your place of origin. 

Okay fine, but seriously, do I really want to regress that far? I ask myself, at 3 am as I think of stealthily sneaking into my mom’s kitchen to get some batata chivda (a savory and sweet potato fritter snack filled with raisins and nuts). 

Jet lag makes you hungry - at odd times. And while grabbing a banana may be a more sensible (and easier, not to mention healthier) alternative, I carefully evaluate my kitchen raid. 

I text my kid on a different continent and time zone. 

Her response makes me laugh. Game on, I decide. 

All the stealth and sneaking is so I don’t wake up my parents. But the process goes way way back into my childhood as I try to sneak a besan ladoo from my grandmom’s kitchen when she goes down for her afternoon siesta.

As your childhood miscreant days will remind you, it’s mostly about noise and timing so you don’t get caught with your hand in the proverbial cookie jar. 

Hmmm… how much noise will I make?

My walk is soft and sneaky. No noise there. Check. 

Opening the jar could involve some loud displaced sounds in the dark. Hmm…

My mind wanders again to my grandmother’s steel dabba ( container) - now that was trickier and far noisier. Opening it involved some force for my tiny fingers and God forbid, if the lid fell and clanged away on the tile floor, it meant certain doom. Not only did I have to contain the lid from falling, but my tiny palms had to quickly muffle the resonance and echo of the metal sound as it opened. Yes, this is how a tiny restless kid sometimes found ways to entertain herself as the house fell quiet in the afternoon. 

 I think of my grandmother’s stainless steel dabba (container) of ladoo (sweet sticky balls of ghee, sugar and roasted-to-perfection chickpea flour, seasoned with cardamom, and masterfully coaxed into the softest, most delicious creations. Lined symmetrically in perfect concentric circles, my grandfather ate one at around 4 pm each afternoon. 

Now that makes me almost certain that my grandmother knew exactly when one went missing and who was responsible for it. But she never once breathed a word to me. Sheer love. I notice it now, even if I didn’t notice it then. 

I suppose, a part of our childhood is spent imagining ways in which we dupe adults. Only to understand later that they always saw right through us and all our silliness. 

As I regress into the scrawny barefooted kid quietly opening my grandmother’s glass cabinet to get the heavy (for me then) dabba, I remember all the excitement this activity entailed. 

True. All evidence of a childhood filled with antics - mostly unnecessary. Mostly creating a LOT of excitement over teeny tiny insignificant things. 

Is that really why I want to break into my mom’s kitchen? Is it really for the batata chivda? Or for an attempt to create the laughter and excitement from the silliest insignificant things from childhood. 

Even if I may never feel that level of excitement over small things anymore,  maybe just maybe,  a part of me feels that I may detect the slightest trace. 

When all fails… sing!

It’s January. A time of renewed hope - for ourselves, our intentions, our lives. A time to take stock, a time to chart directions, an imaginary map of our life, steered by the best-serving intentions.

Do you sense mockery in my tone? Maybe. For this year, I draw a blank. Boredom? Inertia? A sense of futility? Been there done that? Been there, failed at that?  

Perhaps it is time to try something new. How about looking at something we already do – something that saves us? I close my eyes and search for the first thing to pop into my head.

When things get rough, sometimes, I simply sing.

Really? Is that all you got? I ask myself. Just great. So here, let me continue on my series of unsound advice.

But first let me tell you how I think it all began. I may have my sister to thank. I was probably nine years old and she was nineteen. We went to a very crowded temple fair and the two of us got on the Ferris wheel. It was great, you could see the lights and the city below. Till suddenly, it wasn’t so great. Something was wrong with the Ferris wheel. It was rickety and shaky. Maybe it was just our pod that was shaking like crazy, or maybe it was all of them.  Our fingers clenched the rail. I held my breath. Clearly, we were doomed.

And just when things couldn’t get worse, they did. The Ferris wheel stopped moving. And yes, we were on the top. Because it would all be too easy and simple if we were in the gondola right at the bottom, where escape would seem easy or possible, right?

Right. At that point in my life, I turned to my sister, who was ten years older than me, and had all the answers. Always. And to everything. 

“Let’s sing!” she said. That was her solution. And since she had all the answers. Always. And to everything, I figured that was our only choice. “Sing what?” I probably asked terrified. As if our song choice were the most important thing in that moment. Well, I’m almost certain I asked that.

I am certain we sang “Top of the world”. Not sure if that was her choice or mine, in any case, at least today, it seems like a terrible one. While our exact playlist may be a fuzzy memory, I am certain of the panic-stricken volume in which we sang or screeched in.  

Convinced that the sheer volume of our voices could drown out all our fears, we sang like our lives depended on it. In that moment we probably believed it. It was our only solution.

And maybe it was. And maybe it continues to be. For sometimes, when nothing makes sense, I sing.

There have been many times I have done so. In the car, returning from a doctor’s appointment, feeling helpless, or frustrated. And volume be damned - I sing so loudly, that passing cars with their windows rolled up can hear me. At times, in writhing pain, or unable to make sense of new diagnoses, or simply overwhelm, when nothing makes sense, I sing.

And sometimes I sing in my head – in the middle of strange, unnerving, or unpleasant situations. In a crowd, or in public, when I can't sing aloud, I sing in my head. Yeah yeah, I know how crazy all this sounds. To add to this, I often sing to incorrect lyrics. Yes, I often make up lyrics as I go, at times even convinced mine are better than the original.

Not sure if all this will make you want to attempt this, but try it. It works. And it is time tested. For my sister has all the answers. Always. And to everything. 

Happy New Year!

Love,

Ruta

More Crowing

I am not sure if I write this to validate my crow story in all self-righteousness. Or further prove my weirdness, by simply failing to drop the topic. But here goes.

My sisters remind me of the crow story on my last trip to India. (This one: https://clustersofmoments.blogspot.com/2024/11/conversations-with-crows.html ) The reason it stays with me is partly because on the same trip, my friend tells me her family’s crow story. Yeah yeah, that’s right… whatever it is that they say about ‘birds of a feather…’

She tells me how their crow would visit their balcony every day. They start feeding the crow, but the crow clearly has a favorite. Her husband. He takes the cracker only when her husband hands it to him. No one else. Sorry folks.

“See…” I tell her all indignation, “They do recognize people”. Case in point. I need no more validation. I do a mental jig in my head. I make a mental note to tell my sisters. I soon forget all about it.  

The nerd in me wants to research this further and perhaps write about it too. “The secret habits of crows” will make fine reading. As will “Your neighborly crow knows you better than you imagine”. Coming “this summer” to a bookstore near you.

And while it would be far more educational and informative if I did some scientific research on crows and their human recognition patterns, that is simply not the point of this blog. Wait, is there a point to this blog? All metaphysical questions I suppose.

Metaphysics or not, this blog is about simplicity. It’s an attempt to make sense of ourselves in relation to our world, to distill life into an easier understanding of its experience.

All that we deem strange and weird (even if much later), is really not strange or weird at all. And if you need external validation, you will find there are others doing the same thing. If I dig further, I will find that many people have their own crow stories. 

And while some see the wonder in it, some see the weirdness in it, some see the complete normal in it. And the wonderful thing is that we get to choose. 

Conversations with crows

Of all the friends I had as a child, one was a crow. Yes, a big black, cawing crow.

I had forgotten about my feathered friend, till on my last trip to India, my sisters recounted my daily “conversations” from our balcony, with this particular crow. It all came back quickly. I insisted it was the same crow returning daily. It was. Of that, I am sure. They also recounted that I insisted we (the crow and I) communicated with one another. Of that, I am not so sure. Or at least, some decades later, no longer so sure.

I was probably eight or nine years old and determined to master animal and bird sounds around me. I spent hours perched on the apartment complex wall, perfecting my goat bleat. A herd visited a well at the back of the wall, every day. And while my bleat is quite perfect (ahem… even today), the goats simply looked around nervously and scampered away.

The crow, on the other hand, stayed. And came back. Every. Single. Day. Just to caw with me. He was a friend, my friend. I remember the exact spot on the balcony from where I communicated with him. Of where he perched himself. And even if my caw was not quite as perfected as my bleat, he still came back daily.  

There are times when we are grateful for the families we are born into. Oddly enough, this makes me grateful for mine, despite all dysfunction. For I realize only now (and with much gratitude), no one ever thought to discourage me from talking to crows or from the many other strange things I did. They sometimes discussed it, laughed it off, and accepted it all as part of who I was.

I also remember writing an essay in school, about the crow – not sure if I wrote about “my” crow, or crows in general. But I know my words came strong in defense of all crows and why we need to look at them with wonder rather than as nuisance – given their beautiful black sheen, their friendly demeanor and even their cawing that was crisper than a peacock’s ugly meowing.  

And while I was simply stating what was true to me, I do remember my teacher calling me aside to chat with me about my essay – whether she was amused, captivated, or simply worried, I will never know.

As for my crow friend, was he just flying in to check in with me, have a little conversation, or did he consider me as part of his flock? I will never know. And while that may have been the beginning of my love of foreign languages (crow, not included), I wonder if I even felt the need to know what he was saying.

He looked at me and cawed. I cawed right back at him. And then he repeated, And then, I repeated. What he said, I may have never known (or maybe I did, as I claimed), but the delight I got from this whole business was one hundred percent real.

He was simply my friend and we cawed along, just fine.

Clarity is a murky thing

Serendipity is a funny thing. In that, it happens. Over and over. Just when you need it. Just when you’re looking for it, in the least.

I am in the middle of a book, “The Sense of an Ending”, by Julian Barnes. Too distracted and saddened by the events of the past week, I do not wish to immerse myself in the happenings of fictionalized worlds of books. My head swims in the many questions related to events around me, to pay head to those Barnes raises, even if most eloquently.

I pick up the book again, and what I read stops me in my tracks. The protagonist talks about history. And although his context is a little different, I apply it to mine.

“The history that happens underneath our noses ought to be the clearest and yet it is the most deliquescent.”

It truly is, isn’t it? It flows away from us before we can make sense of it, and yet it is our history, in our time. It belongs to us, and as Barnes points out, it ought to be the clearest.  

But it isn’t. Maybe it will be to those who look at it in the future. Which is probably why Barnes talks about past history, “Perhaps I just feel safer with the history that has more or less been agreed upon”

And while our history in our present may not be the clearest, it is ours and we will have to own it. And it is ours, to help remind us that only we can shape it.

Thank you, Julian Barnes.

Grief and love

To lose a loved one… to have a human being removed from our lives… forever. Even when it is the truth, the truth seems elusive. Even when there is no denying the reality, the reality seems slippery.

For how can a person be gone? Their smile is still with us, their grace, their kindness, their humanity still lives. How then can the person be gone forever?

Certain places and situations will never feel complete without them. Unconsciously, we expect them to join us, but they never will. Even when homes and walls that have been filled with their life and presence, can never be without.

We talk in the present tense about them, only to be reminded of the permanence of death. Our mind wants to trick us into believing that they are still here.  Perhaps it is a way to protect the heart. For it may be harder for the heart than for the head. Allowing small escapes from reality, even when the stark, steely, certainty stares at us.

Slowly we train ourselves to accept it. Coax our hearts into believing that they are in a place beyond suffering. Reminding ourselves of the full lives they led with meaning and purpose. Of the good they did and the world they changed for the better in their small and generous ways.

Grief fills us, and so does love. And you wonder how you can be so filled with grief and love all at once. The loss of a loved one will do that. Slowly you notice gratitude seeping in. For what they added to your life, and you can only hope that you added something to theirs.

Travel notes… History repeats…

A recent trip to Germany was a sobering lesson in the history of the past, in the history of our times.

We do this to ourselves, I thought. History of the times. History of our times. Over and over again. In different parts of the world. 

Unbridled power-hungry individuals, operating on fear and terror, greed and prejudice… slaves to their own agenda, they let loose terror, often in the guise of protection, nationalism and even progress. 

History repeats, they say, we accept. I studied history in college. As an idealistic teenager, wanting to change the world, I could never fathom how we could nonchalantly accept that. As a jaded middle-aged person, I still don’t understand why we don’t want to learn from our past. After all, the signs are all there. Yes, history repeats, they say, we accept it. 

Unlike the idealistic teenager I once was, willing to change the world, I offer no solutions. I offer no hope.  What my age (and lack of maturity (?) sigh… according to what my mom said to me recently, sigh…), do offer is our ability to notice, to connect the dots, to see patterns. What my age does allow is to see history in shades of grey and not black and white. Of the motivations and backstories and even the best intentions (and oftentimes greed) of the perpetrators of terror in history.  To see them as human, knowing fully well, humans can simply be cruel and self-serving, even if their pretext (or disillusioned goal) is to serve a nation and the betterment of its people. 

And just perhaps, sitting with unsettling uncomfortable thoughts and occurrences in history, may somehow begin to stir something within us. Something that enables us to connect the dots from the past to our present, to an invisible line of the future.

And then perhaps, even if history repeats, we may be in a position, at least, once in a while... to notice it, to pause it, to change it.  

Holocaust memorial - Berlin

The book burning site in Bebelplatz, Berlin. The specific spot in the square is now poetically, "The Empty Library" where you stare in the ground, to see lines of bookshelves, in the cobblestoned square near Unter de Linden. (Not the best picture, sorry!)   

Mother with her dead son - a Pieta sculpture in Neue Wache serves as a memorial 

Remnants of the Berlin wall

East Side Gallery - art on the wall

According to our tour guide (a historian) below this spot lies the bunker where Hitler and his wife, Eva Braun (who he married a day before) they took their own lives, along with Goebbels (his propogandist) and his wife. As per our history tour guide, the Germans choose to not make any fuss over the location, or turn it into any kind of place of remembrance.  

Reading lists

I read a lot. But when asked to come up with a list of my favorite books, I falter. And yet, I find myself saying, “Oh! That’s one of my most favorite books. An all-time favorite.”  All the time. About many different books, of many different genres. I must be fickle. 

I find myself saying, “Oh! She/He is one of my favorite authors. I want to read everything they have written.” All the time. About many different authors, of many different genres. I must be fickle.

I never fail to closely peruse a reading list when I see one. I love it when it when people have the wide perspective to put together a list of their favorites. In a year. Or a lifetime. I will excitedly examine a reading list, looking for the ones that I may have missed, to add to my list of next books.

Books make us feel. Books make us think. Books bring us characters we love and hate, the ones we see in ourselves, the ones we want to learn from, the ones we want to stay far away from.

I may continue to read, but I am growingly aware that I may not immerse myself in a book, the way I did as a child or teenager. An odd thing to say, I suspect. For with age, comes perspective and experience and wisdom. So, do all these “good” things somehow stop us from plunging with abandon into a book, its characters, and its world?

Don’t get me wrong, I still immerse myself completely into a good book, and believe the make-believe characters to be my family and friends for a little while. So much so, that I’d rather stay with them, than cook dinner. Oh well…

And yet, just somewhere, the head rules over the heart. And that, right there is the distinction between the books I read as child and youth and the ones I read now. I now rationalize. I now think. I now analyze. I no longer simply feel, and leave it at that, as I did before.

An odd realization, I suspect. I may be writing this before I have processed it, or writing this is my processing.

I recently came across a reading list, in a book by the same name. It had a list of books that help and give perspective to a bunch of people who need it at the time. I was excited to read the list.

I had read all but one from that list. Of the ones I had read, I had read all but two as a teenager or younger. For the couple I had read more recently, I thought, “Oh those are good books, and I can see why they’re on the list”.

But for the ones I had read a long long time ago, I simply went,  “Sigh… how I loved that one.” I didn’t necessarily have any analysis of why they were on the list, but I simply felt the feelings I felt when I first read them. From my heart. And not so much from my head.

On this list, was Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. I loved Daphne Du Maurier so much that when I was done reading all her books that I could lay my hands on, I started on her autobiography. I did the same with Agatha Christie. I wanted to know the writers hiding behind the words I had so hungrily devoured, behind the stories they had woven, the characters they had created, and the worlds I temporarily inhabited with them.   

Of Du Maurier’s book, Frenchman Creek, was an all time favorite. A bored and beautiful noblewoman, ahead of her time, confined and restless in the expectations of English society, finds adventure with a swashbuckling French pirate. I read it at 13 or 14 and loved her free-spirited sense of adventure and rooted for her to stay true to her spirit.

I read it again in my 30s, as a young mother and wondered, “what about her kids? Will she feel guilt and loss, and miss them?” I pondered these and other “grown-up” concerns that were mundane practical and related to her children, that might have a bearing on her emotions later.

Sigh… I simply could never read it the way I had read it at 14. My life experience and ideas of responsibility and correctness would no longer allow me to root only for her spirit, even when I did.

Perhaps, it’s a truth we accept. We can never go back to being the person, we once were, even when that person still lives inside us.

Funny that a reading list should make me see that.

Monastery notes

Tormas, or Tibetan butter sculptures are an ancient tradition kept alive by Tibetan monks and nuns in monasteries in India. I had read about a nunnery in Dharamshala where the nuns have continued the art of making tormas and was eager to visit. 

Like the art of Mandala, intricate tormas are made patiently and painstakingly as offerings during religious rituals and ceremonies, among other purposes in traditional belief. Sacred tormas are made from the butter of dri, female yaks. Pictures of beautiful intricate creations made wondrously with yak butter and flour lead us to this nunnery.  

We walk into a nunnery in Dharamshala. Burgundy robes swish around us as the nuns go about their day. Work, study, prayers - a certain peace surrounds the place, a certain peace surrounds us. They are welcoming and friendly; smiles are abundant and handed out freely. Language is not a barrier where the language of smiles and peace speaks so loudly.

Amidst the peace is also the energy of youth. The nunnery has many kids, some as young as eight. They may have burgundy robes and shaved heads, but the unmistaken signs of the energy of children within is intact and palpable. Giggles and laughter fill the hallway as they walk to classes or prayers, from rooms they share, two or three kids to a room, minimalistic and neat. They are filled with sweetness and curiosity and love being photographed. Despite the outwardly seeming austerity and discipline of monkhood, the place seems filled with laughter and love, the kids all look so happy, there seems no reproach or harsh disciplining. The rules seem clear, but they also seem to be instilled with love and compassion by the older nuns.

The kids look wise with their shaved heads and robes but the child inside them is intact. We attend an evening prayer, where the monks sit cross legged on wooden benches in rows. We see a kid nun bend forward, still seated, her head dipping and arm reaching under the bench she’s on. I wonder if she will fall. She doesn’t. Instead her head reemerges, face victorious and trying to stifle giggles, a bead in her hands. Her prayer bead rope has broken and she is trying to retrieve the beads. The kids around her stifle giggles too. A lot of excitement surrounds the activity of her going down like a diver, while still seated on her bench, her head popping up, her beautiful face dazzling a victorious smile each time she finds a bead.

A few older nuns nearby watch. None try to reproach or discipline her. She is a child and she is allowed to be one, even when the apparent expectation in the prayer hall may be different. How I wish I had seen this when my child was still young.

I wish we would all raise our kids like this.

All images Copyright © Ruta Kale, 2024

 The Butter sculpture room in the monastery

Dipping down to retrieve her broken prayer beads

The gazebo where a thousand lamps were lit - notice the Himalayan range on the horizon

A thousand butter lamps lit - backdrop of the Himalayas 

and Tibetan prayers chants fill the air... the sheer magic of it all.

All images copyright © Ruta Kale, 2024 

Tests of endurance… of mindsets, emotions, and faith in one’s physical strength and self

This was a quick ten minute jotting with frozen fingers, as we waited for chai in the morning. Pictures of these notes attached - just for fun :)  

I set on a small Himalayan trek after decades. Treks that I had loved as a teenager, constituting some of my most favorite memories. The kind you turn to in difficult times, images of places of peace and beauty, that bring back peace and beauty in a trying moment.

This trek was neither too hard, nor too rustic in terms of hardship. We had a guide and porter and someone to make hot chai and food at a most incredible campsite in the Himalayan mountains. Such luxury. My jaw would have dropped in disbelief had I heard of this decades ago.

Yet, there was a small apprehension gnawing inside me. Would embarking on this “luxurious” trek cast a shadow or tarnish my old memories of treks in the Himalayas? Would it be too hard? Would my body, once spry like a mountain goat on these very mountains now feel heavy and burdened and incapable of completing the trek?

The excitement was real. More so because I was setting on this adventure with a best friend of over 30 years. One who loves these mountains and treks every year. Both were excited to be here, both were excited to be here together, both had demons of physical limitations to overcome. Time had been hard on our bodies. Illness, surgeries, physical limitations sometime do more than simply the physical aspect. They cause doubt and apprehension to creep in. Doubt in our own physical abilities, apprehensions of things that can go wrong.

These doubts and apprehensions, even if killjoys, are also real. And sometimes, it is hard to tell how real or how big they may be.

So what do you do when they cast a shadow on your sense of spirit and adventure, on everything you hope to do? Do you look at your spirit with a certain sense of dread and distrust? Play it safe and not venture out?

Moderation (as with everything as we age), is key. Understanding limitations (even if sometimes hard to estimate) may be key.

But as I sit here scribbling this with frozen fingers in the Himalayas, with eagles circling above the majestic mountains and my bestie taking in the views (or searching for possible network), I am glad we didn’t listen to our limitations. Or try to keep our old memories intact by not risking to taint them with possibly bad new ones filled with limitations.

#@$%#@ the weather

I seem to complain about the weather. Constantly. Always displeased, disgruntled, dissatisfied with what the weather Gods have to offer to me.

There are of course those occasions when I look at the skies above and smile, I thank nature and the weather gods for their bounty, but it seems less than my constant string of complaints. 

Let’s take this year for instance. Right at the start of 2024, we have the worst possible winter storm in Portland. Power outages, internet outages, trees down, damage to property and morale. We stay huddled by the fireplace, armed with flashlights, managing to communicate to our kid on the other coast that she may not be able to reach us, it seems like ancient times, albeit surrounded by modern things - many of them unusable. 

#@$%#@ the weather. We are at its mercy. 

The next few months are mostly gloomy and wet, many days when even the dog wants to hurry back home. She stops by our street, looking towards our home, then looking at me telling me that we need to go back home. She refuses to walk more. 

#@$%#@ the weather. We all dream of summer. 

I plan a trip to India. My hometown seems to be in the throes of the worst summer ever. My nose bleeds everyday. I remain in a self-inflicted home arrest, trying not to venture too far from areas of the home with air conditioning. I cancel meetups with friends due to nosebleeds. I do very little than hang around at home. Was I always such a delicate darling? Oh well… no need to answer that. 

#@$%#@ the weather. I miss the rain and gloom clouds of Portland. 

A bestie of over 30 years and I venture on a trip and trek in the Himalayas. I am excited to be in the Himalayas and the quaint towns in its foothills. We reach there. It rains. Every. Single. Day. From short little rain bursts, to hail storms in the mountains, to a torrential storm with thunder and lightening on the last day. It doesn’t stop us, but we have to be mindful of the weather and plan around it. 

#@$%#@ the weather. We’ve been talking everyday for the past month planning this trip. 

Clearly, I don’t seem to have the best luck with weather. I would quite understand if you weren’t exactly keen on going on a trip with me. Yet, when I look at pictures or think of these times (I have ranted above), none of it seems dreadful. At all. 

During the snowstorm, I see cozy pictures of us huddled by the fireplace. Of phone calls to check on others, inviting them over, or being invited over to homes with power. We have no internet and my husband treks to a friend’s place to e able to work. He makes him chai and lunch. The weather sucks, but the sense of community is strong. 

As for the long gloomy days, every time we have a break in weather, the dog and I rush out for a walk, appreciating the sun and elevated temperatures, whenever available. 

And even if I resolve to not visit India in April, and snort white ghee-based creams like a cocaine addict, to prevent nosebleeds, the pictures I see, tell a different story. I eat the best mangoes in the world (any self-respecting Maharashtrian will pridefully argue over their hapoos (Alphonso) mangoes), I see smiles, and laughter in meeting family and friends after long, I doubt I will remember the nosebleeds or house arrest in hindsight. 

As for the trip, the pictures speak for themselves. My friend assures me that she has good luck with treks and that it will not rain while we are trekking. She is right. There is a short hailstorm once we arrive at our campsite and we are safely under a shade. The mountains are glorious, even if the sunrise is in the clouds and we miss the golden peaks. But the beauty of the moment and our surroundings can chase away even the smallest shred of disappointment about weather. 

So glad for pictures and our mental capacity to cherish the good. We truly are a blessed species, for with the unfortunate, we remember the good with such ease. Even when things are not quite perfect, we revel in the joys that the moment has to offer. 

That does not go to say that I will not complain about the weather. Oh no, my fingers are swollen from the heat and a shopkeeper thought I was a Westerner a few days back, given how red my face was. But even when I gripe, I am aware of the resilience of our species able to find sunshine in  most situations.

The trick may be to remind ourselves of the sunshine even as we wallow in the discomfort of it all.