Young minds

Let there be colour.

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In this land of limited resources, every day we see ingenious use of everyday things – old saris stitched together to cover a car, old tyres reused as planting pots and old t-shirts repurposed for dusting or cleaning.

When I moved to the UK, I was horrified at the amount of paper that was binned for the smallest of reasons – a slight crinkle, a minor misprint, a tiny smudge. People failed to notice that there were two usable sides to every A4 sheet. If one side was unusable, the other was there to jot down a list, play knots and crosses, or simply, create a doodle. It is refreshing to return to a place where hardly anything is discarded as useless, unless it really is. The inventiveness of the people is inspiring, even though it is motivated by saving money. They probably don’t know it, but they are also helping save the environment.

Limitations can serve creativity. That is why deadlines work. They push you to finish. It is easier to write in response to a writing prompt as it focuses the mind. Newton came up with the Theory of Calculus in quarantine. Faith Ringgold was born in Harlem. She was an arts teacher who wanted to paint large canvasses but didn’t have the space needed. So, she started stitching themed pictures into quilts, which she could carry and display with ease.

Recently, I’ve been wondering if my creative efforts at teaching Spoken English to the local kids will be of any use to them in the long run. The school’s modus operandi is cramming. They have a verb for it – by-hearting. I believe corporal punishment is forbidden on paper, but you wouldn’t know that in practice. The rule remains stuck to the paper.

If nothing else, we create a few light moments in the day. Some colour, some play, some laughter, some movement. Maybe that’s enough for now.

Resources: How to be more creative: https://youtu.be/oTAdkDyVa9s?si=xFA3h5PEaZ-fIiuN

Hope?

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The old ones have not finished and today we have a new one. Yes. The world really needed another war. We, ordinary people needed to be shown the mirror again, as if we didn’t already bemoan our powerlessness. Impotent bystanders. Burning, yet totally ineffective. Quietly sitting, gazing at our phones, pretending to be immune to the bombs, the aggression, the assault on the Earth and its children.

This is not the first time, but it may be the last. History is revisiting, ringing the death knell, foreshadowing another erasure, another devastation. The imbalance of power in our world is showing us its ugly face again.

Vietnam. Cuba. Nicaragua. Libya. Syria. Panama. Iraq. Afghanistan. Venezuela. Now Iran.

I wonder which country starved, besieged and damaged generations across the world. The one that is quick to label others as a ‘Rogue state’.

Three years ago, Al Jazeera reported that 9 out of 10 Syrians were living under the poverty line. In a country that was once stable, diverse and culturally rich, many breadwinners were and still are unable to provide for their families. Young suicides are on the rise.

Abdul Hayy, a psychotherapist in Idlib says, “People in Northern Syria face conditions such as displacement, losing their homes, living in camps where they lose their privacy, as well as unemployment, poverty and an inability to adapt to the difficult conditions. This then leads to people losing hope and fearing the future, which appears as if it were getting worse.”

Humans are responsible for the extinction of many species. We might be next.

“Two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity. I’m not sure about the universe.”

– Albert Einstein.

New things.

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They opened her sister’s tummy and took out a thing that looked like a red chili. Their mother was very worried, but the doctor said ‘all went well’. She was so relieved, she brought her a blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. She had managed to buy a nearly new one for pennies at the village market from a heap of random goods piled up on the roadside.

New things never happened to Amita. She was the fifth of six kids. One girl. 3 boys. Her. One more boy. Most of her childhood was spent in boy’s clothes. When she was seven, she could finally wear her sister’s tattered old frocks. All she wanted was something new.

Amita started complaining of tummy aches that were so strong she had to miss school. She hardly ate anything and became scrawnier every week. She looked sallow. Her parents took her from one doctor to the next. They were exasperated. Finally, the fifth doctor said they would have to open her tummy and look inside. Amita’s dream was coming true. She smiled inwardly. Her operation was scheduled for Monday.

On Sunday night, in her hospital bed she remembered when her aunt had come to visit from Bangalore, she had brought one plastic doll for the girls to share. Its golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her head was round with two very round brown eyes. When you lay her on her back, her eyelids closed over. Thick long black lashes touched her pink cheeks. On standing her up, the lids mechanically snapped open. Her elder sister claimed the doll all for herself. When no one was looking, Amita would hold the doll like a baby, rock it from side to side and stroke its cheeks.

On Monday morning, she was super-excited. As she was going off to sleep, the blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins danced in front of her eyes.

When she woke up, Amita had a huge red gash right down the middle of her tummy. It was so painful that she could hardly breathe but Amita didn’t care. She waited for her mum. When the visiting hour arrived, her mum brought her a gift – a red silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. It was even more beautiful than the blue one. Amita felt victorious. She had a new thing, all for herself.  She could hardly wait to show it to the smiley nurse who routinely looked after her.

That night, Amita slept peacefully in her hospital bed, clutching on to her silk purse.

The next morning, the smiley nurse came in with a thermometer and placed the tip of it under Amita’s tongue with a smile. She then started writing her notes. Just then, Amita pulled out the purse from under her pillow and held it up for her to see, her eyes popping out but unable to speak.

“Oh! For me? How kind! Thank you.” said the nurse and received the purse with both her lovely hands.

                                                ****    ****    ****

Resource: This story is inspired by an anecdote from the book “Nonviolent Communication. A language of Life.‘ by Marshall B. Rosenberg. PhD. In Chapter 4, he addresses the heavy cost of unexpressed feelings about unmet needs.

What’s in it for me?

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When we moved from the frantic chaos of London to the quiet serenity of Sakleshpura, we didn’t have much to do. We didn’t speak the local language, had no local friends or family and no real work. I offered to start volunteering as a Spoken English teacher at two local primary schools for an hour per week each. They didn’t ask me for a DBS certificate or for any evidence of appropriate qualifications. Not sure I am qualified, but I was sure we would have fun.

Within a few weeks of starting, my students would smile and wave at me if they spotted me in the market. Some of the older ones would offer to carry my bags. Kushil is seven. His uncle told me that he shampooed his head twice on the morning of the class as he knew I would kiss him on the head. He is one of 5 students at one of the tiny schools in a tiny local village.

I bought hairclips for the girls from ‘Accessorize’. Kavya wore them on the very next occasion she knew she’d see me.

Tanushree lives near one of my new-found friend’s houses. She stood by the roadside when she saw my car coming. I stopped the car and lowered the window. “Miss, books.” She said. I sent her a few age-appropriate story books by Indian authors to read, strictly on returnable basis.

Praapti presented me with a lovely little handmade Diwali card which I did not expect. Such joy! She also enclosed two pens in the envelope – one with dots and the other with bunnies, one writes in blue and the other in black.

After the class we walked to our farm nearby and played with cows and dogs, ate laddoos and fed peanuts to the birds.

Some of the locals cannot fathom why I teach the kids for free. What’s in it for me?

(Resource: Health benefits of volunteering: https://www.mayoclinichealthsystem.org/hometown-health/speaking-of-health/3-health-benefits-of-volunteering)

Half-saree ceremony

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We’re back home, in Sakleshpur, and finally, after more than six months of monsoon, the rain seems to have stopped for now. After making us wait for ages, the sun is finally smiling in all its brilliance. The monsoon arrived one month earlier than expected and stayed a month longer. Many coffee beans were knocked off their branches by sharp rain drops. Moisture laden air meant that fungus started infesting the plants. Months of sogginess in the soil made the roots of the pepper rot. The local farmers were seriously worried, and the return of the sun has brought them and us huge relief.

One of my students reached puberty this month. How do I know? Because her family hosted a celebration, the Half-Saree Ceremony to mark the occasion. The name comes from the brightly coloured silk dress that is worn by the young girl at the centre of it all. A long skirt with a matching blouse and an unstitched piece of silk draped elegantly around her. She wears beautiful jewellery, adorns her hair with flowers and sits on a throne like a precocious princess. The maroon lipstick looks terribly out of place on her cherubic face.

In South India this ceremony symbolizes the communal acceptance of a girl’s transformation into a young woman. It is sacred and hence accompanied by elaborate rituals and fragrant prayers using sandalwood, roses, jasmine and a hundred other things. It is an occasion to formally introduce the young lady to her extended family and community, as well as to reinforce her traditional roles. Generations up and down gather, fostering a sense of identity and belonging, celebrating both, her individual milestone and the timeless traditions that define her heritage. 

I wonder what it’s like for her to have the entire village know this very personal thing about her. Maybe it’s so normal here that there’s nothing strange about it. A healthy normalisation of a potential taboo. I wonder if this is a hidden invitation for marriage proposals not so far in the future. I wonder if she feels the pressure of expectations of her family and community change overnight. I wonder how she sees herself now. She is only 12.