nirali, nila, rivkah. lovely, melodic rivkah. yet, i keep thinking of her as a boy. i've thought of her as a boy from the time she was born. i even call her Bablu. she's like a little scruffy boy baby, a little jayanth.
but tonight, when i finished nursing her and kissed her in the dark, I saw her right ear, tiny and light and lavender-baby-smelling. I saw on it, a earring. a earring that would mean piercing, which would mean pain, hurting her, a white scalloped girl-baby-dress, a moment of our shared girl-hoods--mine over, hers not yet begun-- resting yet, like her, and sealed by a tiny white pearl sedate on her ear-lobe. that's when i thought, "i have a girl!" a girl named rivkah. a girl with a pearl earring that is too small to see.

aliya took her to the library. like all american buildings, it had lots of dark windows and automatic doors and tall white, spotless walls. her grandson knew his way around it like a book. aliya stopped to browse through a rack that said 'New Books' and manu said, i want to go down!
"alright, go down." she looked at her and said politely, as ever, "would you follow him to the children's section? I'll be down in a minute." so there was the grandmother following the grandson down the wide spiral staircase, her hand on the bannister, his own stretched akimbo as he hopped down the steps. he counted 23 of them. the childrens section was truly beautiful, with books at a toddlers height and red and blue cushioned seats. she wished her grandchildren in India had a library like this one to go to. she sat down, watching manu dart from book to book, filling a basket. aliya strolled in holding some bound books of her own. she smiled kindly at her ml and sat down beside her, and was soon engrossed in her book. molly kept an eye on manu. then he was at her knee, insisting she read him a book. in bangalore, she read to her granddaughter from the malayala manorama. she made up tales of women in sarees going to schools to teach little girls like her Rachel and coming home by auto in the afternoon. she was a good story teller. but this book was in english. it pages were hardboard, like the cover and she read it in her mind, 'the train runs past my house.' manu stared up at her expectantly. molly shook her head. she was aware of aliya right beside, head buried in her own book.
"mamichi! read."
"no" she said as nonchalantly as she could.
the little boy did not understand this. "mamichi! please read."
she kept quiet and looked down at the book. then manu turned to his mother and said, "mummy, you read."
aliya put her book down and looked at her son. suddenly molly knew she must read the book. it was important. "manu," she said. but the boy was already focussed on his mother. aliya looked straight at her son, not reaching for the book.
"manu" she said, louder, "manu, i'll read, mamichi will read for you."
the boy gave her the book. as she read, she could hear nothing but her pounding accent and the silence her voice fell into. when she finished, she looked up. manu smiled, aliya's head was back in her book. but molly knew - if manu had listened with two ears, aliya had, with four.

early this week, jayanth said for the first time, " amma i don't want to go to school." i was so taken aback i did not know what to say. he loves his preschool, always has, always says he had a good day, even though his praise is more tempered now he is in a class with the big guys - four year olds! (earlier he would bounce into the car and say, "amma, i had a good nice day." without me asking. now i have to ask, at which point he replies. but this was new.
"why don't you want to got o school?"
"its so long, its all day."
and then, " amma, why do i always have to be the bad guy? why cant i be the good guy?"
"when are you a bad guy?"
"when we play in school."
and then, "amma, when nathan says No to me, it makes me sad."
jayanth is having a hard time dealing with his four year old seniors.i talked to a teacher and we agreed that personality apart, it could be him being the only colored kid in not just his class, but the whole school. it could also simply be cultural. here is an indian kid raised to be polite and wait his turn and be 'good', while his american classmates seem almost automatically tuned to being 'in your face' straight-shooters. the other day, at a play date, my little boy turned away from his friend, who decided to roar (yes, roar) in anger about a toy not shared, and almost hyperventilate. i wanted jayanth to look the boy in his face and roar back, but there he was, disturbed and maybe confused. instead of gathering him in my arms and smothering him with kisses (Which is what i wanted to do, to comfort him), I apologized to my friend and then told jayanth, right in front of her son, " if xx shouts at you,you can tell him that you don't want to play with him. and if he keeps doing it, you can walk away, alright?".
the next day, jayanth who remembered his friend's injustice toward him,told me, " if i tell xx no screaming, his mom will tell me no."
i assured him that was not the case.
"but if i walk away, i will be alone."
oh man. time for me to reconsider my advice.
"that's not so bad is it?"
"no it is"
in that case, jayanth, I said, you can scream back at him.
"no, that's not nice. it hurts my ears."
i had no solution to offer. i have none now. jayanth is out in the Real World of his own terms, and all my love cannot protect him from it. its daunting, and to both of us. but its the only world we both will ever have and we wouldn't have it any other way.

J was drawing letters today. he drew an H some time ago - maybe three weeks ago --, and he 'signed' some other letters with his fingers in the air. but today he drew an upside down J and i was delighted, "J -A -Y jayanth" he loves to say, with great pride. he was trying to draw an A, but it turned out like an H each time. then i explained that in an A, the lines are joined at the top and slanting. he made a pretty good version given that i was not demonstrating but instructing, what with Nirali nursing. boppy on the lap, brain in the kitchen. then i put her down, took his paper and wrote in large capital letters - J A Y and said excitedly, "this is how it looks!" you should have seen his face. it dropped a hundred feet and his eyes filled to the brim when he saw my writing. that was a long, confused moment for me and a very sad one for jay - me, wondering why he should react thus, he, on the verge of bursting into tears. then i realized -- he had immediately made the comparison between my letters and his and there was no question which looked better. i had burst his little bubble by trying to help! i changed gears at once and said, " you did a great job writing, jayanth. i am so proud of you" and his face lit up the way it always does-- like nothing else! and he started writing his As again. but what a moment that was! a moment that threatened to shatter his world, the moment that could have had him falling into the very young child's abyss of self-doubt and gloom. i'm so glad--grateful even--to have recognized it and held my hand out.

prose -m.l/d.l

the atmosphere in the house is so cold. the m.l can sense it without realizing it. she sits alone in her room and prays. they can hear her singing in her low monotone and when they pass her room, they see her with the Bible in her hand, on a corner of her bed, here, in her son's house, where she should, traditionally at least, feel comfortable enough to order (no, never!), ask (yes, if done nicely, gently), request (politely, nonchalantly), a family prayer. but will it happen? if she did ask, would they oblige? will everyone, mother, son, children simply flock at the appointed time to the drawing room and sit, ready to sing and listen to scripture, or will the mother sulk and retreat (or worse, burst into an opinionated NO), and will the children laugh and pout at the same time, from being made to sit in one place for 30 minutes at a stretch, their nintendos and puzzles vying for attention but a few feet away on the carpet? as for the son, he confuses her the most. will he put his foot down and insist, like a man should, or slink away like a fox shamed out of its hiding place? or will he make a jjoke of it or make a convincing excuse while still sitting in front of the TV with his eyes on his laptop? she has never felt as alone as now, at thismoment when she cannot ask if any one would like to pray with her. she would like to rush home,or vanish, or expand into something sprawling, something so imposing, nobody can deny or refuse it.

axioms of marriage

the best thing about it - adultery
the worst things about it - the spouse
why its like office projects - it'll all about negotiation
why its not like office projects - no deadlines, its forever..

cutting the cord

yesterday in the park. Jayanth was cycling furiously, on his diego bike. (he's finally left behind the tricycle). it was such a beautiful fall day--felt like late spring--and I was trying to keep up with him, when he turned around and said,
"amma, i want to be alone."
he's never said that- he always wants me, and says so, which in turn makes me feel like a miser's million dollars, every single one invaluable. but there he was, at three and a half, ready to go it on his own. i mock-sulked, looked hurt and could think of nothing to say. he turned and looked at me, once, then raced off, till he was too tiny for comfort on the other side of the green. then we got home, and happened to talk about parents going to work. he said," only boys and fathers to go officie (sic)"
"no, moms go to officie too. look at carmen, look at appachie. one day I will go to officie too," i said.
this took some time to digest. when he got the sense, after some more examples and explaining, that one day, soon, i would be working too, like his dad, he looked at me, clear-eyed and pronounced,
"you can go to work amma, i'll take care of myself."
o horror! i never thought i'd see the day. in as unruffled a tone as i could muster, i asked,
"if i go, who'll feed you? what will you eat?"
"i'll eat something. dont worry amma, you can go to work," he insisted. he was giving me permission to leave him, and he insisted on being gracious about it.
what could i do, but thank him, and dread the day.

relevent book : adam gopnik's, "at the childrens gate", a memoir of life in NY city. the chapter on Peter Pan and making the children fly.

Sending my son to the jewish cultural center's preschool has been making me think about my (lacking, ambivalent, confused) commitment to my own faith. seeing the jewish parents' confidence and ease--the ease with which they practise judaism and yet remain perfectly normal, intelligent and humorous ( qualities i have always thought to be beyond the realm of seriously religious folks...they all seem limited in some ways) -- makes me think that it should'nt be so hard for me either to combine my current self (ideas and actions) with a faithful self. why i had to go to a synagogue to see this i dont know...i am surrounded by methodists, and mar thomites who are equally balanced, funny and smart while being religious. but that's for taking apart later. all i know is, i need the idea of god, so i might as well believe in him. now see- that is blasphemous in itself. but i guess, the aetheists believe in their non belief. the agnostics believe in not knowing what to believe. i the fencesitter, believe in the sanity and immense peace of mind that comes from believing. therefore i believe, and forgive me god.

you never have enough

he's 3and a half. he said he wants me to come drop him to school today but i stayed home. wondered what on earth was getting me down and then realized, its many things, but one big one is seeing his sad little face, and big almond eyes, submitting to the car seat belts, wanting me when i'd said no. brings me to the point, when do we ever have enough of our children. and before we know it, they've had it with us. the river only flows downwards, my grandmom used to say. one day he wont look back. but now he;s craning his neck and i'm out there with him, as much as i can, and even that'snot enough.