Children of circumstance..

Talking to a friend about how a girl working in their house in Kolkata gave her a little drawing because she wanted to. Reading about the little children who had their hair snipped to separate them from the others as they were admitted to a Bangalore school under the Right To Education quota via another friend's posts. And then remembering and rushing to find a bit of graffiti with my name made fo

r me when I was at the Magill detention centre. These are not the sort of child that has had much of a childhood. Parents and often society has given up on them. They come to the centre from court and are watched by hawk-like attention by the men working there. They eat their food with metal cutlery that is counted when issued and re counted when the dishes are done. They sit in rooms with glassed walls at all times and are guarded 24 hours. Even games turn into violence as I saw on a few occasions.

The boys and girls are very rarely able to escape this cycle of institutionalising. They will mostly end up in adult prisons. That is a sad but true side of the story. When their terms are over, they return to the same environments that they came from. Very few are strong enough to change. Even fewer are allowed that chance. A week after I was there, a group of boys stabbed another with a sharpened spoon. I knew all four by name.

And yet in the middle of that, a 16 year old comes up and tells me how much he misses his son who is only 5 months old, and a 12 year old comes to me, asks me my name and does a graffiti of it in coloured inks.

Everyone, but everyone, knows and responds to love.

Finding something lovely

This is something that happened to me a month or so ago.

As I tidied up the spare room, a square of brown card fell out of a box. It had: To Elizabeth written on it and there were a few lines printed beneath her name. They said

The items in this glass have a special meaning:

The umbrella is to get you under cover when the storm is about to break.

The sticker is to remind you that we all stick together.
The stars are to remind you to shine and always try your best.
The gummy bears are for when you have had one of those days.
The Jersey caramels are to tell you that everyone has a soft side. You just need to find it.
The bubbles are to blow your troubles away.
The tea light is for the times you need to be guided.
The muesli bar is for when you need an energy boost.
The balloon is to give you a lift.
The shell is to remind you that summer is just around the corner.
The glass is half full and NOT half empty.
The phone number is to tell you that you can call when you need to talk 8945 2669

As I read this, a face came up, a girl who waited at the corner of the highway past the Crocodylus Park, each morning to get a ride with me. She was the Elizabeth whom the note was meant for. I used to hand these as a care package in a wine glass, to Year 12s in their final terms of school, along with the things listed. She had not come to school on the day her class got these. 

Amazingly I re- read a friend's post about her daughter's last day of school about an hour ago. 

Final years, last days...these make teachers sad too. At least I felt sad anyway. I then got to thinking about that batch of Year 12s, two now married and expecting their first house to be built as they get ready to welcome their first baby. One that has gone on to work in Bangladesh. Other Year 12s, like the girl who got her supervisor to stop me from leaving because she had seen me and was working at a checkout and did not want to call out. When I walked over, we hugged each other and did a happy dance!

Even further back, the first student I ever taught anything to, apart from my own children; little Jasmine at Alawa Primary School, who sat with me during the day we had to observe a school at work. It was supposed to excite us about teaching. Two of the male students left,saying teaching was not for them! I was hooked though; a little girl telling you that you can be her school mummy will do that every time! 

I always think of something a lecturer told me in university here. The only two professions where parents trust you with their children are doctors/nurses and teachers; don't feel bad because you don't make as much money as the docs, you are just as appreciated, given enough time.

"

Social Intifada

I suddenly realised it has been a year since the Libyan Brother leader,  King of Kings(crowned by a group of traditional African leaders in 2008) Gaddafi was killed, variously either today, or on August 23rd. Horrible end to one of Africa's great leaders or meanest dictators, depending on what one's politics were.

He once said, 'Americans are good people. They have no aggressions against us and they like us as we like them. They must know I don't hate them. I love them.… I hear it is a complex society inside. Many Americans don't know about the outside world. The majority have no concern and no information about other people. They could not even find Africa on a map........' A lot of truth in that!

Of course he also said that he found similarities between himself and Lincoln! Which somehow seems to indicate delusions of grandeur.

Far more interesting than dead dictators is whether Libyans are doing better now or were better off previously. The Arab spring has given the world innumerable photo ops, one female Nobel laureate at least in Tawakkol Karman(Peace 2011) and the chance to feel that people are still able to fight against oppressive governments. It has not dried up completely yet either. Struggles continue in Morocco, Syria, Jordan and a few others including Saudi Arabia. Even a cynic like me feels happy about al-Bashir of Sudan agreeing to not seek re-election in 2015, although it will possibly give him time to double the 9 billion he has already stolen according to Wikileaks.

It still remains to be seen which way things go. The only thing we can probably be certain of is change itself and the fact that unlike the Gulf wars which seemed to rely on CNN, the Arab spring is an Intifada or 'shaking off' by social media. The Wikileaking of US government emails and the massive mobilising of opinion and protesters thanks to platforms such as Facebook and Twitter drove the protests to the extent that social media usage doubled in the Arab region during the height of the movements. This also indicated the discontent among young people. Ranging from Saudi women fighting for the right to be allowed to drive cars to Omanis challenging existing methods of finding employment, the movement has been an amalgamation of many things for many people. Overseas, it even led to the Occupy movements in Wall Street and several other cities both across North America and Europe.

In the meantime, I doubt if any one in Libya had ever dreamed of a day when Gaddafi would be dragged from a hiding place, dusty and bloodied, looking at his captors for signs of the mercy he was rarely known to display himself. Let us hope the momentum is maintained and social media continues to carry the message to all parts of the world. Ironically the oppressive governments have also been embracing Twitter, Facebook and Youtube in what at least one of the countries, Syria, has named its Electronic Army, one that is in line with its chemical and biological warfare capabilities and its hopes of becoming a regional power broker. This makes it harder for people outside these countries to judge the truth behind what they may be reading on various sites.But that is still better than the repression of the years before 2009.

Happiness at Eid or any other time

I was just talking to someone online when another friend popped up to say Eid Mubarak to me. It was not the first Eid greeting I have received in the last couple of days. I then started to think about all the posts about Eid I had been noticing on social media. From posts which said Happy Eid to everyone but especially to Nafisa, Firoza etc, making it a point to indicate which friends were Muslim leaving me wondering whether they only wished their Christian friends a Happy Christmas, to an artist friend's incredibly beautiful simple graphic message left for all to appreciate, they have come in many forms.

Some have been pretentious and forced, likening the call of songbirds to the sounds of the muezzin or even to the greeting Eid Mubarak. That almost sounds like a politician or a mediocrity churning out a crowd pleaser. Others have been natural, inclusive and embracing.

I have to admit, I have wished everyone a happy Eid on purpose. I think in the light of the constant riling and inflaming that our politicians seem to indulge in, the least we can do is to be inclusive and rejoice in all happiness, no matter who is responsible for sending it to us.

One of the most beautiful Eid messages I read came from a friend who recalled how the actress Meena Kumari, a devout Muslim could not keep Roja, the day long fast when she became very ill. Her friend the poet and film director Gulzar, an equally devout Hindu then offered to keep the fast for her as long as she remained ill. He ended up doing this for three years, until Meena Kumari passed away!

By Rochishnu Sanyal

I remembered  seeing another friend around the 15th of August telling his friends who were getting excited over a photograph of two people from another religious group posing with a national flag draped with shoes, to calm down and realise that it was perhaps a much older photo, that was being re-circulated to excite the wrong kind of emotions. He was valiantly trying to convince them that inflammatory posts and angry reactions are exactly what the enemies of all Indians want. Not all the responses to him were particularly complimentary either, but he kept on stating his point!

This is what we need to tell our people, both adults and children. Instead of dividing the world  along narrow religious and language lines, we have to realise we are all the same. No one group has a monopoly on idiots or on good people. It is up to us to recognise each and give them their rightful place.

I was reminded this weekend away at camp once again, of what I tell my students when they ask me whether I believe in Ganesha or not. This is usually the older age groups and thus they are also able to appreciate what I mean when I say, 'I am spiritual but not religious,' without wanting me to clarify it. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing after all, a little less religion and a lot more spirituality might do us all some good.

The artwork is by Rochishnu Sanyal.

To Condom or not to condom?

I was lucky enough today to be given a condom! I have to make it quite clear that this is not something that happens to me everyday, but when I explain why, I am hoping people will understand my excitement. The said article can be seen in the attached photo. This was one of a variety being handed out to Year 12 students. They are in their last term of schooling and there seem to be a constant parade of seminars and study sessions that school organises to make this time less stressful for them. Frequently there is food at these dos. And occasionally, because they are turning 18, at least the majority of them, there are information sessions about good sexual health and safe sex. This was not quite a session, but we did have a lot of leaflets on sexually transmitted diseases and planned pregnancies. We also had a fairly comprehensive display of condoms. The students seemed to snicker a bit, some of the bolder ones made the usual enquiries about whether they came in a larger size! But on the whole they were not behaving as though they thought it was a slight to their morals etc.

A couple of the girls later came to me and we started talking about how it would have been better if humans had been designed in a way that women had some sort of easy contraceptive measure they could use too..not as invasive as an IUD or a contraceptive patch, but less slow acting than the pill. I found that none but one had actually used a diaphragm. As we talked I idly flicked through the multi coloured packets in front of me. One of the girls complained that when she was younger boys did not like using them, it was considered brave to be risk taking. As my eyes grew larger while my pupils contracted…a special teacher trick by the way, she quickly assured me that it was no longer the case. We all agreed that it was lucky most boys did not know what they were doing the first ten or so times, other wise there would be more teenage pregnancies.

Suddenly I noticed another pair of hands on the table among the prophylactics. It was one of the older teachers at the school. She gave me a couple of furtive looks and I swear I saw her ears swivel a bit as she tried to catch what I was saying to the girls. I got up, and walked over to her and smiled sweetly. And she told me that she was worried that the presence of so many condoms, in such ickle lollipopsy colours were sure to send the hormonally charged kids straight into each others arms! I kid you not! You could have knocked me down with a condom. I tried to reason with her, saying, ‘But they are already having sex!’ At which she said, ‘And whose fault is that?’ We batted similar remarks for several minutes before someone came and collected her, either for a trip back to the asylum or the convent, I forget which one.

And I came back and sat down. My ‘coven of deviants’ had left, for nothing more dangerous than English Communications and Legal Studies. Not one condom had been taken beyond what we had given them, and as far as I know, none of the kids sneaked off for anything hotter than a fiver worth of chips from the local deli. I sat there thinking of the strange dichotomy of a society that on the one hand sells only adult female clohing, ie, mini skirts, crop tops, halter necks and fishnet stockings for females aged from zero months to when they actually become adults, make shows like Toddlers and Tiaras for little girls to be sexualized beyond recognition and then holds off prudishly on giving out condoms because it will promote sex.

I have friends who are like the proverbial reality show mum, getting all excited when they have a kid that boogies like a rock chicklet…and getting all Puritan when the rock chicklet grows up into not quite the right kind of daughter they were hoping for, more grunge than Gouri. One has to wonder who the real problem lies with. I have noticed that boys seem to be given a hero’s welcome when they have heterosexual sexual encounters, whereas girls are ostracized for that. It does not get better as they grow up either. I am certain that popularity or peer acceptance is more for boys who are seen to have more partners than for girls who have more than one partner, in which case she is more often than not labeled as an easy opportunity, the dreaded S word. Strange how even in the liberated West, there is such a premium placed on being sexless and virginal while also pushing kids to wear makeup and clothes that would once have seemed more at home in their mother’s closets.

Much of the response my colleague and her friends have are entrenched in her belief that the high school will be encouraging children to have sex. Quite frankly, I disagree. The fact of the matter is, sex is an extremely personal decision. The availability of free condoms might influence somebody's decision on whether or not to have sex. Nothing more than that.

But condoms are easily available in any pharmacy. Any kid who wants to have sex that badly will buy them, or just have sex without them. Personally, I have heard several stories of teenagers who didn't have the money to buy condoms, which, let's face it, can get expensive. Did they decide not to have sex? No. They decided not to use a condom.

I might be more inclined to be wary on the matter if these condoms were being distributed at an event for middle schoolers. The one thing that I found mildly odd? The condoms have been supplied by Nando’s, a Portuguese fried chicken chain that has offered free condoms at high school across the state. While it's a great marketing tactic, it seems a tad 'immoral' to me. Don't get me wrong: the idea is still a good one. But I would have been far more comfortable if the condom idea came from a person who actually cared about these kids' safety, not a chicken franchise who was trying to get in some free advertising. At least we are lucky they are not chicken flavoured!

But the point is: handing out free condoms at high school isn't immoral. It's smart. If these kids are going to have sex, they're going to have sex, and there's really nothing we can do to stop them. What we can do? Educate them about the dangers of unsafe sex. If that means handing out condoms at school, then, by all means hand out condoms at school. 

Sunday markets!

Today I woke up very late and packed the boys into the car for a day of shopping for Indian groceries and vegetables other than the abominable courgettes and pumpkins that seem to take up the lion’s share of space at the local shopping centres. It is not as if Aussies do not know how to eat, but largely the shopping centres cater for Anglo-centric tastes. This is fine if your idea of fine dining is the old meat and three veg, or your curries consist of raw chicken dumped into a pot with a can of apricot halves and some Maggi Apricot Chicken Curry simmer sauce.

But for me and my own, born and raised though they may be in Queensland and the ‘Terrtory’ as some seem to call it that simply won’t do. Meals for my little Australians have to occasionally involve mocha or banana flowers curried with some shrimp or prawns and sprinkled gently with fresh coconut, lau or snake gourd cooked with fenugreek seeds and milk and the theme fish of the Bengali kitchen, ilish or hilsa, glorious on its own, fried or with mustard in the even more sublime shorshe ilish. For this reason, we go to the Central Markets.

Also, they have the best kimchi, miso and black bean paste this side of the South China Sea. They have such a range of vegetables as to make gourmet chefs out of teenagers, with chrysanthemum leaves, garlic greens and large hands of ginger jostling for space with bags of tiny pearly pea aubergines(egg plants) and galangal or Thai ginger.

Once the bags are filled to groaning with bok choy, spinach, lal shak which Mr Kim sells as red amaranth, okra, and other Indian essentials, our collective thoughts turn to the other shops in the market. The Mushroom Man's shop has not just the usual buttons but also porcini, oysters, morels, shitaki, enoki, Portobello, Swiss and Chanterelles all year round. To bring that brown paper bag home and pour out those freshly picked treasures onto a clean tea towel for some delicate dusting! All they then need is to be gently warmed through with some butter and flat leaf parsley until they are sizzling and firm. The place also sells truffles from local oak forests as well as the Loire valley. That unfortunately is a pleasure I have to do without until I win the Lotto! Till then the truffle oil at roughly fourteen dollars for a tiny vial of golden oil will have to do me. Tonight it will grace a big bowl of pasta spirals along with parsley from the garden and buttery cashew nuts.

This I plan to decorate with melting shavings of another of today’s buys. The Smelly Cheese shop stocks most varieties of cheese the country has, and then some. There is cheese by the wheel and by the wedge from Italy, France and England. We got some Aussie cheeses. For crackers, the boys pick Castlewellan Blue and Dutch Gouda. For tonight’s pasta, I buy some generously sharp Limestone Coast cloth wrapped cheddar…hard, honest and flavoured to the brim. Now for the car park and home. This is a good day’s work done and rewarded. Now if only I could train the boys to put the shopping away according to their rightful regions in the fridge. Ah well!

Any one wishing to drool over cheese…..here is a link!

http://www.smellycheese.com.au/index.cfm?objectid=66A14675-1372-1763-B0E9443F2FB3B17B

My grandmother's story

About ten years ago I lost my grandmother on my mother’s side, my Didu. She died in September, so it is not quite an obligatory remembering exercise but more a thinking out loud about someone that once lived and filled my life with such love that I hope to able to repeat that some day with my own grand children.

I have been thinking about her since this morning when I woke up to find two friends had written, one about her mother and the other about her childhood in her Didu's house.This opened a floodgate of reminiscing, mostly pleasant.

She was born in the early 1900s in Berhampore in Murshidabad. Her father was the Government pleader in the court and she was a much loved eldest child. Her mother was daughter to the famous Kobiraj(physician), Haran Chandra Chakravarti of Bangladesh. He was said to have been the inspiration behind the Kobiraj character in Ashapurna Devi’s Prothom Protishruti, The First Promise.

A childhood of much laughter and love changed abruptly for her when at the age of 8, her mother died of puerperal fever after giving birth to her fourth child. Her father was left with three daughters, one a baby only three months old. A son had died earlier of reasons she did not remember clearly, only telling me that it had been a fever that had taken many infants with it when it swept across the town.

She remembered little of her mother, except that she was literate and had taught her the Bengali alphabet. In the hot summers of Murshidabad, they would lie under the high beds, that used to be common in those times (one climbed into bed via a set of steps) and her mother would fan them with a palm leaf fan. She once said she wished she remembered more about her mother, but that it was easy to say such things in hindsight!

Her father did what many men still do, remarried within just a couple of months. I guess the period of mourning is so much more rigorous for Indian widows because we are so fragile and take so much longer to heal, once broken. This started a period of wilful neglect and ill treatment of Cinderella-esque proportions. The girls were given less food, less love and less attention than even the cows in the dairy sheds along the back of the house. She remembered how the young step mother, a child herself at 16 years, would make a great show of calling them from their games with huge brass glasses of milk, which concealed the half cups of liquid that they contained from the eyes of the older women who might have been able to stop the mistreatment if they had known. The cruelty was always subtle and done with intent. It increased as the new wife herself had children over the following years. My Didu was always very detached when she told me any of these stories; it was easy to see that if she had not done that, her own life would have become embittered and twisted.

However the true horror of having a stepmother came through clearly when she came to stay with us after I had my second child. She spent 6 months in Australia at that time. We talked endlessly, in between the usual business of raising two babies. She said she had always worried when she was ill that she would die and leave her children without a mother. I knew then how much she had missed her own mother while growing up. She was the first one to tell me that it was alright to not feel a Hallmark grade of motherliness towards the babies all the time, saying she would lock herself for a 10 minute break occasionally when her young brood got to be too much. I learnt more about parenting from her than the shelves of shiny How To books at the library.

While she was with us that year, we had an elderly neighbour who asked me who the lady was. I remember teasing her about the interest she was getting, saying perhaps we will see a marriage before long. She was very amused by all this and one day said, widows should be able remarry you know, if men can, why not women? And then looking at my face, she quickly pre-empted my next remark saying, ‘If they want to, only if they want to….!’