A Christmas Tree Story… and then some

Two years back I had this HUGE Moving Away sale and clearance of about 90% (or more) of my house. I sold and gave away almost everything I had – furniture, artefacts, dining table and chairs, books…. even my Christmas tree and tinsel garlands went to places where people had the space to enjoy them and share the love. Last year, our Christmas, as a family, was very sombre – no tree, no kuswar, don’t think we had any gifts either… it was hard, but we pulled through.

I don’t know what it is about Christmastime that just warms me up completely, though. To me, it encapsulates love, joy, peace, romance, celebration, family, friends, giving and receiving (not always with presents)… and it is being. It brings me closer to those whom I love and makes special moments out of thin air from time spent with those whom we choose to be with. It is special and I wait for it every single year.

This year, Minks suggested we get a new tree – since we’re all in breathable spaces today. It has been a difficult year, sure, but we’ve moved ahead – one day at a time – despite having our share of extreme extremes this year. Ash wasn’t sure – he wondered why I wanted to get a tree. I wanted it for myself – for my joy, for my pleasure and for my connection to a place of untold love that I’ve experienced in my childhood, youth… and, well, life so far. I wanted it for us as a family, as every child of mine was growing older – I wanted this time to be a moment of remembrance of the many happy Christmases we had when they were littler.

Many years ago, Dada had got us a white tree – seemed pretty radical at the time (How can you have a white Christmas tree??!) – we have pics of Leona & me posing in silly Bollywood poses somewhere in the albums… Anyway, this year, I kept thinking of the white tree. So, I broke away from our traditional green, faux firs and picked a white tree…. and further, a small, slim tree as opposed to the 8ft beauty I had for years!!

I also, dug through the ornaments that I had kept behind – the ones that I had collected over the years, one Christmas at a time, and picked the ones that matched the Blue & Silver theme I seem to have fallen for this year. I have this beautiful frosted glass train taht has a twin – had a twin – just no idea where it has choo-choo-ed off to! But it is special – for coming home to me from the German Christmas Market in 2008. So it made its way to my minimalist tree this year.

Just as I was adding the final touches to the backdrop of the tree, something really sweet transpired.

Stockings represent the family members in my home, even though we don’t stuff them – they are a symbol. When my niece & nephew visit, we put out 5 – one for each of the kids – adults are not really counted.

This year, I put up 3, then thought of 4… to include me…. Although, the SO has been significant for all of us the past couple of years, since I was putting up the tree after nearly two years, I wanted to give the kids the space of familiarity first. I had barely put up the fourth stocking, when Rhea asked, ‘Where’s Uncle X’s stocking?’ ‘He is family!’, she stated… and watched as I put up the fifth. And that was that…

So we’ve got 5 stockings hung out in my home today…. that may not be filled with candy cane and trinkets or any of that stuff…but I can assure you, it’s filled with a whole lotta love!

As I started this year, the one thing I wanted was clarity; I think I received everything but. I still feel lost about where I stand, I still wonder if my choices are justified, question what I am, who I am… I have a plethora of feelings that feel so FELT, hahaha… but when I open my mouth to express them, they come out as audible nothings and unheard confusion. I sometimes take a hard look at myself in my mirror and ask, ‘Are you Ok? Can you breathe life into your eyes and sing music to your soul?’ and while I scream, ‘YES!’ on many days, on other days, I raise my trademarkable, WTF-passing right eyebrow to the blurry chaos around me and think, ‘You gotta be kidding me!’

Or maybe things were always so clear that I had to painfully sift through the obstacles and choose which ones to knock off, which ones to simply walk around and which ones to hold my breath, squeeze my eyes tightly shut and bear the force of a full body impact – rendered to shatter the strongest… and still find myself standing. It happens… It happened.

So that is my Christmas unfolding this year. Everything is different, yet it contains within its folds bubbles of love and laughter, tears of mirth and joy, grief and loss, moments of orgasmic bliss and heart-wrenching pain – everything, everywhere, all at once – the kind I wouldn’t wish on the worst of my enemies (hang on, I don’t think I have any!!). But yes, that seems to be my potpourri of life – a life that I truly believe is so worth living to the fullest – successes & mistakes all embraced – all mine – taking one step at a time – one breath at a time…; Who knows if we’ll have another Christmas?

Here’s something I saw in one of my groups this morning – apropos, per se, to my closing thoughts…

My Saga with Konkani

Image by Bishnu Sarangi from Pixabay

My son had a college assignment a few weeks back, to interview his relatives in his Mother tongue, and then write a reflective, informal essay on his experience and connection with it. As someone whose work involves a lot of intensity around culture, appreciation, and cultural appropriation, I was very touched at Ash’s effort to interview me and my mum, submit the recordings and document the below essay. As a keepsake, and as an acknowledgement for our contribution to the community, here is Ash’s essay, in his own words… Published on my blog with his permission.

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My Saga With Konkani
Akshay ‘Ash’ K

I’m from Mangalore, and one of the languages spoken in Mangalore is Konkani. Konkani is the key to unlocking my cultural identity and is the basis for which my family is so closely knit. This essay is about how my mother tongue shapes my family’s identity.

Konkani is a lot more than a means of communication for me. It’s like a time machine that sends me back to the days of Mangalore that my grandparents used to live in. It’s a compilation of all the recipe books, stories and music as a reflection of the language.

Konkani carries the experiences and emotions of all my ancestors, the finger-licking foods we die for, even the songs that somehow bring every single Mangalorean family together.

When we converse in Konkani, there’s a story behind every phrase, let alone a word.

Born and raised in Dubai, I was exposed to several languages, but English has always been my primary and comforting language. I spoke English everywhere and to everyone, even at home with my family. However, Konkani always felt like my true home.

My paternal family is from Bangalore, and they speak Kannada. Whenever I hear someone speaking Kannada, I recognise the language, but don’t really understand the conversation. However, when I hear people speak in Konkani, I am pleasantly surprised and find it easy to connect and build a rapport with them.

I have many memories passed down by my grandparents in Konkani. These stories act as a bridge between me and my roots, even when I believed I had absolutely no connection to them.

Throughout my schooling years, I learned Spanish, French and Arabic but none that I felt more inclined to than Konkani. It’s almost like I feel a sense of belonging to Konkani even though I have never “learned” the language. As a matter of fact, understanding a bit of Konkani actually made it easier for me to grasp bits and pieces of other languages like Kannada.

Imagine wearing your same comfortable clothes at home every day, like my regular T-shirt and shorts, then trying out a completely different style of clothing and actually, surprisingly, liking it.

That’s like English and Konkani for me. That’s the role Konkani plays in my life. When I speak Konkani, or at least try to, I feel accepted into a part of something bigger and welcomed without any shame.

At family events and gatherings, Konkani evokes deep binding. We joke, share and relive memories, sing songs in Konkani, and even play games. Like ice breaking activities, this feels like an ice breaking language of sorts. 

I’ve witnessed Konkani being used as an instrument to reconnect and revive distant and lost connections, be it family or non-family members. This feeling of intimacy that Konkani creates, no matter the distance, allows us to maintain strong bonds, and lay a strong foundation for relationships. It’s like carrying a piece of home with us, wherever we go.

In a world that’s getting more complex by the second, preserving our traditions becomes incredibly important and so for Mangalorean descendants, and especially the diaspora of my generation, Konkani plays an essential role. To reiterate, Konkani is like a hidden room in a house that safeguards our recipes, stories, songs, and books that would otherwise go extinct. 

As I reflect on my experiences with Konkani, from when I did not know a single word of the language beyond ‘Mujhe nav Akshay‘ and ‘Maka vudak zai.’, to the present where I’m still not a fluent speaker but can understand most conversations, I am in awe of how the language mirrors the idea of Mangalore itself. 

The way I see it, Konkani holds a testament to the power of language itself through its words, sounds, dialects, rhythmic lilt, and script that possibly transcends time and space. The language intrinsically carries the intangible essence of my entire community. The spoken and written words invoke the vibrant world of my culture, family and the very essence of who I am.

Konkani is more than just a language passed on. To me, it’s an entity, sound, smell, taste and sight all in one. The language has a life and network of its own. Knowing it, is almost like subscribing to a YouTube channel or following someone on Instagram and finding out you know so many people within the same community. It’s like a thread that not only connects me to my past, but also helps me navigate my future and discover pathways that I never knew existed.

Konkani and I are an ongoing saga – one that I am humbly honored to be a part of. With every spoken word, story shared, and connection made, I’m reminded, with much humility, the immense impact of the language – my mother tongue – on my sense of self.

Bangalore
August 2023

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Akshay is a student at St. Joseph’s University, Bangalore, and can be reached on LinkedIn

This Thing Called Karma

“What others do to you is their karma, how you respond to it, is yours”

For the past few years, I often repeated this mantra – to myself,
to my children, in my blogs, when I spoke in class or at conferences…  It had become a standard mantra.

Like all philosophical mantras, this one with all its dogmatic relevance challenged me – every single time. At the end of it, I had no choice but to surrender to it and move on.

But…. let me be the first to say that I moved on, probably looking calm on the outside but on the inside, I moved on kicking and scratching with the frustration of obvious injustice of it all.

Life wasn’t fair and I was furious at being dealt with such an unfair and biased hand. It was clear to anyone who chose to see the unfairness, yet, all I could do was sit back and breathe.

Philosophy can only do so much when it comes to self management. All those golden myths and quotes of ‘higher consciousness’ guiding us how to respond to life’s quandaries meant nothing if I couldn’t recall them when I needed to.

But here’s where I surprised myself.

I remembered them – not always immediately – sometimes, the essence of those quotes and higher truths slowly peeked out from under the blanket of my inner turmoil, waiting shyly until I saw them and embraced them. I didn’t always do that – I didn’t always embrace them.

The perspective of injustice is not easy to drop – especially when shy hope peeks out at you with a Monopoly-influenced Chance or Community card that says, “Hang in there!”.

I was tired of hanging in there while this army of spite of casting weapon after weapon at me, at my children – hoping to break me down, hoping to take me down, hoping to annihilate me and this sense of hope that I carried.

Truly, holding on to any goodness or any light in the middle of a pitch black cloud of terror is not easy. It reeks of despair and desperate urgency and it echoes of the spiteful laughter that is intended to draw you down.

Or is it really?

Because I found that even after allowing myself my moments of despair and that self-invited, gate crashing into my own perfectly organised pity party, I found that that shy hope had accompanied me, uninvited, too.

And I was able to pause – no, I only paused, I didn’t come to this big ta-daaa moment where all of a sudden I could see the meaning of life or anything, but there was an odd sense of clarity – like I could somehow navigate through this crap even if it only meant one day at a time, one step at a time.

I still couldn’t understand how anyone could justify their silence over the negligence and lack of providence for their their own children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. There was no excuse. But there was nothing, there is nothing I can do to light up the heart and soul of people who have closed themselves to anything but vengeance, greed, anger and hatred – almost all of which has no basis except that they are asked to be that way as a token of loyalty. People who have lost touch with any sense of humanity and integrity to do the right thing.

Because..? Sigh! I better not comment…

So I continued my love-hate relationship with this whole concept of Karma and wondered if reincarnation were my only way out to have this insanity play out of my existence…. I wondered if this were my destiny, my fate…. until…

There was a sudden turn of events… and every ounce of my being – my head, my body, my voice, my heart started screaming, “Karma!! What you give is what you get!!” I felt redeemed and at the same time I felt guilty for feeling redeemed. I felt there was a God!! And then I remembered that I didn’t believe in a vindictive God! But we all pay for our transgressions, don’t we? Heaven and Hell is right here – right now… and we can’t really run away from doing shit to others, playing with their lives, their emotions and their feelings… right?

This meme came up on one of my facebook pages… a post from 2015

Then why did this expression of karma and karmic response (I can’t think of anything else at this point) – why did it unsettle me so? Was it that I didn’t believe that it would come around to justify my experiences?

Then I remembered my mantra. And I hated it for coming up when really, all I wanted to do was remain with my self-righteous anger, the anger that I so deserved to feel and experience. The anger of betrayal, of family turning so vile that they turned their back on me, the anger of loving a man who didn’t deserve it and the anger towards a father who was willing to sacrifice his children’s lives to perpetuate his own sense of self and egoistic narcissism.

I had every reason to remain angry and then feel angry towards the mantra too for coming up and taking me away from my moment of self-righteousness and making me pause.

Pause…. to think, to feel, to introspect, reflect and respond…

Damn! This philosophy of life that I had bought into – these ideals of living with my head held high – they’re taking away my moment of kick-back tantrum-throwing, and rage at the injustice and all that juicy drama that I can engage in…. even if it is in the privacy of my own bedroom.

psst…. It was that mantra again…

Ok… I was going to do what I believed in… I was going to follow that mantra…. and allow karma to do it’s bit, while I did what I felt right and honorable to do.

I wondered if I was doing this to be on the good side of karma – or however the karmic loophole was. I wondered if  in my ‘don’t react, don’t retaliate, don’t stoop down to their level, just hold the highest intention, do your best and move ahead‘ formula was my way of appeasing the Law of Karma or something. I wondered if that instinctive desire deep-down to scream and tear everything that was unjust apart was the real me and in my choosing to be calm, I was just toeing the ‘expected’ response to be in Karma’s good books.

I was torn by playing the devil’s advocate for myself.

So, I decided that it wasn’t worth it to fall in my own eyes – karma or no karma. It wasn’t worth succumbing to hatred and discounting the values that my parents, grandmother, uncles and aunts had raised me with. It wasn’t worth shaming the effort I had put into my own evolution. And above all, it wasn’t worth nullifying whatever I was going to hold as an example and model for my children to emulate.

Karma was a bitch, indeed – but she was watching me and even if it meant taking the high road in the face of bone-crushing reason to be nasty, I was going to take it.

Let me know what you think in the comments section below.. 

Validation – From My Daughter

A few weeks ago, he challenged me – more than challenged, he threatened me via email that in some years, my child – his child, too – would turn into an ‘alcoholic and a drug addict’.

That was a defining moment for me.

I wasn’t as shaken as I was angry – angry because this was a ‘man‘ who was using his own children as a means to harass and hurt me. I took a few days to digest this fresh awareness of another impossible low in a relationship I cannot believe I spent so many years in, then something else happened. I began to wonder what this daily battle was going to look like – what this steep uphill trek of single motherhood, single parenting would open up for me.

The past three months have been hard – very hard. You see, there are moments that are ‘hard’ and then there are moments that go like, ‘She’s-still-standing-&-smiling-&-laughing,-unshaken,-so-let-me-up-the-heat-&-start-burning-her’ hard.

I’ll be honest, I worried.

I worry. Present tense.

I worry how I’m going to make ends meet, how I’ll give my children an education, how I’ll feed, clothe, shelter them… and honestly, how I would do all this single handedly…. I worry about the unwarranted stress the children are very likely going through at the hands of an absent father who wasn’t even paying for their food & education. I worry that this turmoil, at such turning points in the children’s lives could put them on precarious cross roads & I wondered if I was instilling strong enough values in them to help them get through life.

In other words, even though I worry about how I would get all these things done and somehow I still get them done, I had bought in to his horrid threat and allowed it to grip and freeze my heart.

Then, yesterday happened.

I got home after a long Wednesday of meetings and classes to find my youngest sprawled asleep on the couch and my daughter bounding up to me excited to share some of her Halloween candy with me. I was starving and didn’t have an opportunity to have dinner so she got a mooli paratha* (spiced radish flat bread) and shoved it in my mouth while I was grumbling about the mess the dogs had created somewhere in the house… and how I’d have to clean up soon after getting home after such a long day…. at the same time, coordinating with my oldest to book him a cab home from the Halloween party he had attended with his friends.

I looked up to see her sitting in front of me with an excited expression on her face.

‘Ma, I want to tell you something, but I don’t know how you’ll react..”

Now this could go in two directions – either she got her period or it was one of those moments when she forgets that her Insta account is on my phone & I don’t believe in anything called online privacy for a 12-yr-old daughter… Either way, I kinda sensed where it was going… but… it was her moment, not mine…

So as I chewed my paratha, I said, “Well, you’ll never know how I’ll react until you tell me and see my reaction…”

With that goofy smile still plastered on her face she told me, “XYZ asked me out…”

Omg!!! I thought that was the cutest and nicest thing to ever happen – and as she continued to narrate the when and the how and how she played a bit hard-to-get (wtg!! That’s my girl!) and how she didn’t want to really bunk school tomorrow anymore (hello??), I continued to giggle with her and really re-live and re-witness those very feelings of first crushes and infatuation – a throwback to similar moments of my own….

And she laughed as she said, “You’re not reacting the way I thought you would!! I thought you’d be all…” and she made one of those crazy, rabid dog-cross-Tasmanian-devil imitation faces…. “but you’re like this!”

We immediately went on to video call my sister so Rhea could share her moment with her favourite aunt and in that half hour, we three Rangel women spoke and giggled and laughed ourselves silly… and felt like life wasn’t so hard after all!

As we spoke, I checked in with myself… to just come to terms with what really was happening on the inside .. and very, very honestly, all I could feel was lightness, happiness and innocent joy. I wasn’t over thinking, I wasn’t over reacting, there was no panic…. all there was, was this settled knowing that my daughter came to me.

She opened up to me with this very precious, very important moment of her life. She trusted me.

Over the years, as the mother of a daughter, who, for what it’s worth, was very fond of being her father’s princess, I worried if I had built enough bridges that would stand the test of stormy times. I worried if my daughter would succumb to pressure or so much of the crap that children these days are exposed to. I wondered if I was too tough as a parent and had lost their trust to open up to me about important matters.

Yesterday, Rhea redeemed me of that worry.

Two weeks ago, my oldest had a heart-to-heart chat with me about drugs and weed and I’ll confess, I kept a straight face, but my head going, “omg… wtf.. WTF!!” on manic loop… and he went on to say, “Listen, Mama, don’t worry… I’m telling you this, aren’t I? I tell you everything, you know that…” and I do…

But for that scary nail-biting thing called self-doubt…

For the most part, the six of us (me + three human children + two canine babies) are like a boisterous lot of roomies. I lose it at times (read: many times) in the face of having to lose sleep, send them off to school, work & overwork, manage school activities, get groceries, be available physically and emotionally, clean up after the dogs – poop, pee, puke (theirs, not mine!) – so yes, I lose it often. I scream, I shout, I yell – to wake them up in the mornings and to keep them off from annoying each other… and to just get them into bed on time, so I can catch some zzzs…

I paused & thought about what exactly I did right, after all?! At first all I could think of were the numerous ‘stereotyped parenting no-nos‘ that I had committed – I screamed, I shouted, I was demanding, sometimes it was because-I-said-so, other times it was ‘go make yourself a sandwich’, they’ve heard me at my eloquent best and well, they’ve also heard me punctuate every sentence with profanities at times when a clean, quiet sentence would just not do justice to the frustration and angst within. So, I bashed myself up and was ready to put myself down yet again, until another voice said, “Well, you also showed up real & true wherever you were.”

Not saying that being authentic meant cussing every time things went out of hand, but well, I guess, when I did, I showed up with all my flaws in front of my kids. I wasn’t perfect, I was flawed, but here I was. I was fiercely protective about my kids, stood up for them at every step of the way, filled in eyes & a smiley on their zeroes and boxed their ears when they deserved it. I embarrassed them by dancing in public and had straight-faced, honest conversations with them about life choices, men, women, sex, romance, body parts, responsibilities, drugs, pregnancies, growing up, growing old, fashion, relationships, everything (in varying age-appropriate levels)…. and yet, remained a mom when mom needed to step in.

I guess somewhere in those ‘being real’ moments, I had broken down barriers and walls and paved the way for open access for my children to their mother. Someone they could reach out to. I reckon they’ve figured out when they can mess around and when they can ‘summon’ the dragon-slaying, steadfast ‘mom’.

So back to that threat that their father threw at me about how my children would turn out.

I realized how strongly rooted I was in the values that my parents and family had instilled in me… through living those principles and not shoving it down our throats. As an individual, my own choices helped to serve as a navigator to other values, yet the central axis remained steady. And now, I see that in showing up, flaws and all, my children are learning lessons that are far more profound and grounding…. and there’s a gradual osmosis of values.

In that awareness, there is validation…. of a job well done… of children turning up just fine. And it isn’t that validation is always required, just that sometimes, in those dark and doubtful moments, when everything looks bleak and impossible, it helps beautifully to be reminded that despite the stumbles and falls, the path is unfolding… and it is the right path you are trekking on.

So, yes, we’ll still have our struggles until this cycle of struggling comes to an end as it would eventually.

But until then….

I can see clearly now and trust that the Universe indeed has my back.

Doing a good job there, Mama! Hang in there!

The War that Shaped my Today

A lot of my family & childhood friends would be sharing this today – because it is a significant day that shaped our childhood and our experiences. It is significant because it was a day that made us and our experiences a part of World history. It may sound trivial to some, nuanced to some others, but for us who lived through the Gulf War, it is significant.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realised the magnitude of having lived through the Gulf War. It was the first time that we had taken a family trip to India. And it was also the time when we realized that everything that was what we called ‘home‘ was being demolished, destroyed and burnt as we watched the daily news.

It was a time I recall of fear and anxiety – constantly wondering what my uncle, who I adored, and my grand-uncle, who was every bit the grandfather I never had were going through. I was worried sick about my school mates and teachers, family and friends who were still in Kuwait.

I didn’t get to see the war first hand, but I had the nightmarish imagination of what our history books told us. (I always hated history, and being part of history made me hate it even more!) Regardless, we waited and worried. My parents were suddenly without a job. My grandmother was suddenly without the security of knowing where her young son was.

And I…?

I was suddenly lost, displaced and without a home. My roots were rudely pulled out. I had no friends, my family were somewhere in the middle of burning oil fields, fighter jets and in a war zone.

So yes, one would probably say, “But you were in India!”

Ha! I can tell you first hand of the exclusive behavior reserved towards NRIs – even in school – even by children who learn to say nasty things as they listen to adults speak at home. It is no small joke when some of us relate to ‘not being wanted in our country of birth and residence… and not being quite wanted back in your country of origin either. So it was quite a ball-play between bastardly and step-motherly treatment, I guess. Or so, I felt at the time.

For a 12-yr-old, just getting to terms with her hormones, and now facing the prospect of suddenly being thrown into a new school – to make new friends and fit in – all the while wondering what was happening back home was scary, to say the least.

Those of you who know me personally today, would find it utterly and ridiculously impossible to believe how painfully shy I was as a child. I would talk, but only if I knew the people. I would be afraid to raise my hand in class, and I would hate to go out of class in case any of the ‘tough girls‘ would ever find me. I felt safer when my older cousins were around because I remember they would be the big sisters who would care for me when I needed that nudge.

So walking into a new school, in a new country, and having everyone stare at me was daunting – and horrifying – yet, there was a sense of fear because all those people had something that I did not.

They had a home.

I did not.

I was a refugee.

So, I came up with the perfect solution to keep the fear and insecurity at bay.

On my very first day at the school in India, as I entered the school gates, I remember mentally telling myself, “Be friendly, laugh, talk… fit in.“

And no one did.

No one saw my fear, my insecurity and my inner chaos.

What they did see was this tall, different-looking, who preferred to speak in English, (although she spoke better Hindi than many in the class :)), who did well in class, whom the teachers adored (because she did well), who made friends easily, won the school elocution competitions, participated in school and community events, read mass readings at church, led the choir, and lived… (and effectively shut down feeling the fear!)

Sadly, these defense mechanisms became a part of me and shaped into a large part of my personality. I must say the adversity challenged my sense of identity, but my social persona today is largely a result of what happened 28 years ago. It was my desperate need at the time – to find a home, find a community, find my place.

Hmmm… I  never thought that deeply about the Gulf War until today.

I am a survivor of war. My family and I are all war survivors. And we, all five of us, have experienced the fear and desperation that comes with being displaced and living like a refugee – even if it is in your own motherland.

So today, I acknowledge how far we have come along. Yes, we have been blessed – we have come through it. My childhood friends, Many of us are still in touch with each other – we share that bond and experience. We carry the trauma within us in various ways – some superficial, others deeper and with invisible scars. But we know we’ve come through.

And with that, I realize today, how grateful I am to this city I live in today. A city I was forced to be displaced to 4 years ago – but a city that welcomed me and gladly allowed me to drop roots and make my home.