Me and My Dupatta

I've just come back from visiting a lovely blog in Pakistan and it got me thinking.  The blogger Sheeza was discussing the dupatta, and it's significance in the life of  Pakistani women.  The dupatta, by the way, is the long scarf/veil which is worn with the shalwar suit. The shalwar suit is worn in Pakistan and north India, and has become popular throughout India.  I didn't grow  up wearing shalwar suits or dupattas but I adopted that dress when I came here in order to blend in.  I'm here to tell you that if I ever go back to live in Ireland, I don't know how I will go back to wearing western clothes.  The truth is, when it comes to dress, I'm completely converted to sub-continental style.  I could probably do without the sari (although I love it!)  but I don't know how I could do without my shalwar suit - nor the dupatta.  I can't leave home without it!  The dupatta, I mean

The jeans/kurti ensemble, which is an indo-western fusion, has become popular and I wear that too.  Technically, it can be worn without a dupatta.  But I need to carry at least a plain black dupatta when I go out.  I feel exposed if I don't.  Is that strange?

A few years ago, Yash and I travelled to Kolkata along with out children to meet my sister Pamela, who is an air hostess with an international airline.  Her visit was very short.  Just a day.  But we made the most of the limited time.  We took the children to the zoological gardens which were conveniently near the hotel where we were staying and hung out there for the day.  My sister is a very smart and elegant woman.  In those days she was in her late thirties but by some miracle of nature she looks much younger than that.  I was wearing my usual shalwar suit and of course Trish, my baby that time was conveniently strapped to my body.  But I couldn't help feeling a tad uncomfortable seeing my beautiful sister roaming about in jeans and a tight tee shirt.  I discreetly asked her would she not feel more comfortable with a scarf or some type of  light shawl.  She laughed out loud.  "You," she said, "have been living here for too long!"  The realisation hit me!  I've got an Asian mentality now!  In some respects at least.

Recently, the battery of my mobile wore out.  I can't live without my mobile, so I had to  get another battery.  As my husband Yash works in the next city and is seldom around during daylight hours, and as I don't like to bother my brother-in-law and his sons, I visited a couple of shops in the vicinity to see if I could get a new battery. I don't know why this is, but most of these shops were full of males, not a woman in sight. 
Presumeably, when ladies need work like this done, they get the male members of their family to do it.  Well, I didn't let that bother me.  But in one shop I visited, two gentleman of a certain community (the one which is known for covering its' females from head to toe) were sitting there and they stared at me so intently (disapproval of my shamelessness in entering an establishment full of males, probably!) that I could almost feel their eyes boring holes in my skin.  Then I did something I'd never done before in my life.  I discreetly slipped my dupatta up over my head and held the side of it over the front of my face.  I felt better instantly.

Well!  I suppose this means that I am converted to the dupatta.  I wouldn't be without it now!

BREAKING NEWS!

By way of this blog post, I am announcing that I have adopted Ramanaji, of the very interesting and readable blog Ramana's Musings as my honorary brother.  In Indian terms, this is known as a 'rakhi brother'.  If an Indian lady  refers to a gentleman as her 'rakhi brother', everyone here knows what that means.  It is a most honourable and serious relationship in which a man thereafter considers the woman as his sister and extends to her all the privileges of that relationship, such as support, protection, etc.  In a society in which women often find themselves facing obstacles, it is a very precious relationship indeed.  Women with brothers often find themselves in a position to be more confident than they would otherwise be.

On the festival of Raksha Bandhan women tie an amulet known as a 'rakhi' on the wrists of their brothers.  This festival usually occurs in August.  During Ramanaji's recent blog post 'Flame and/or Flamer' I mentioned in the comment section that I would tie a rakhi on Ramanaji whenever we meet.  I have been reading his blog for several months and I feel that he has all the qualities that any woman would look for in a brother.  He is erudite, has a great sense of humour and has an extremely honourable disposition.  I am so pleased that he noticed my comment and has accepted my offer to tie a rakhi on him and make him my brother.  My  husband Yash has at least one rakhi sister, and I know the value of this relationship. I know how honourable it is and do not take it lightly.

So Ramanaji is now Ramanabhai.  Don't worry Ramanaj, I know that 'bhai' in this case is not an underworld don!  I wouldn't expect that of you at all.

This Week's Post for LBC.........

......is on my other blog.  It can be read here.  It is a bit lengthy for my diary, you see.

So, (in alphabetical order!), Ashok, Conrad, Grannymar, Helen Mac, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria, Marianna and Ramanaji (I know you've already visited, Ramanaji), and not forgetting Anu and other who follows our Loose Blogging Consortium, if you've come here to read the post, just click on the link and it will take you right over.

See you there!

New Fashion

I saw an elderly, sari-clad woman as I was walking down the road the other day.  She's the mother-in-law of a neighbouring housewife.  All dressed up for a winter walk in a cardigan - then I saw.  Them!  Under the sari, she was wearing a pair of sports shoes.  Yikes!  Reebok types.  All laced up.

A little further down the road I saw another woman in the same outfit.  Sari and sports shoes.  I never saw that before in my life.  Until that day when I saw it twice.  Up to then, I only ever saw saris worn with 'chappals' - slippers like what we called 'flip-flops' in Ireland - a type of open-toed sandal.  I often saw ISKCON (Hare Krishna Devotees) women wearing buckled sandals with heavy socks in the Irish winter weather years ago - but nothing like this!

Then on Sunday our friend Dr. Sumitra, on a visit to our city - dropped by wearing - you've guessed it - laced up sports shoes and a sari.  "Is this a new fashion?"  I asked her.  "Yes!  And very comfortable!" she replied.

Does anyone remember the 'Adrian Mole' books by Sue Townsend back in the eighties?  The life and times of a young teenage boy in Thatcherite England.  I remember a passage where Adrian's boiler-suited feminist mother is unfavourably compared with pretty Mrs. Singh, the Indian neighbour, in her pretty sari and sandals.  Adrian's father groans looking at his plainly dressed wife who pities the 'poor downtrodden Indian woman!'  Well, Mrs. Singh, by the looks of things, seems to be catching up on Adrian's mother where comfort and practicality is concerned.

So in case anyone out there is thinking of messing with an Indian lady, DON'T.  You might get a kick you weren't expecting!

In This Day & Age.....

I'm sad today, really sad......

I've mentioned a neighbour's daughter, Chitra (not her real name), a young woman in her early twenties who got married a few short years ago, is now the mother of a baby daughter and finds herself stifled by tradition.  I still remember Chitra cycling down the road on her bicycle in her school uniform calling out "Hi Gael Aunty......"  Well, I met Chitra yesterday.  She is home on a visit.  There is another sad story to tell.

She recently found out she was pregnant for the second time.  That's okay.  Two children is perfectly acceptable by Indian standards.  (I have four, but being a foreigner, I am allowed my little (!) eccentricities).  Her husband is abroad, and she was spending time at her parents' place.  She informed her husband and in-laws of the pregnancy by telephone.  They were not happy.  One day, the parents-in-law appeared at Chitra's parents home and insisted on taking her away.  Her parents, in no mood to antagonise Chitra's in-laws, agreed to let her go.

The in-laws brought her to a clinic and had the child's sex discovered.  Female.  Chitra's child was then aborted more or less immediately.  She is now recovering at her parent's home.

There was no reason at all to kill that baby.  The family are well off.  This couple have  only have one child.  Chitra is healthy.  The pregnancy was progressing well.  Most of all; Chitra wanted the baby.  She did not want to have an abortion.  But in the face of pressure from her in-laws, her confidence was low.

I'm from Ireland, and I well remember the abortion debate.  Ireland had banned abortion.  The pro-abortion lobby argued that a woman has a right to choose.  The anti-abortion lobby argued that the child also has the right to life.

What choice did Chitra have?  That baby was killed because it was not a boy.  It is so sad that in this day and age a married, educated girl can't be allowed to give birth to her own child.  Let me say here, that as per the Indian laws, what has happened to Chitra is illegal.  Her in-laws are technically outlaws.  Still, they did it.  It is not the laws which have to change.  It is the awareness which has to change.

I am writing this through a veil of tears.  I'm weeping for Chitra and for her child.

Songs and Rhymes from Childhood

A few years ago, my youngest son Nitin (now 6, then 3) was ready for pre-nursery school.  In north India in general,  some form ofp pre- nursery education is necessary, as the children have to face a tough syllabus once they join school.  So I went down the the local nursery school where all my children with the exception of Neil, the eldest, have received their nursery education.

Mrs. Radha Agarwal (Radha Ma'am!), the proprietor of the school, was only too happy to  welcome Nitin into her school.  She also suggested that I also join the school as a teacher.  How could I teach, I asked, with no training.  It was, she assured me, the easiest thing in the world.  All I had to do was teach nursery rhymes to three to four year olds(the pre-nursery class)  in perfect English.  For me, that should be no problem at all.  I went home and thought about it.  I always said that I'd like to return to work when the children got older.  This might be a very good opportunity. Yash was totally against it; said I wouldn't be able for all I had to do at home as well as going to work.  But I was keen to give it a try - so in the end I decided to do it.

There was, it turned out, a bit more to do than just teaching the children nursery rhymes.  The children were off at 12 midday.  But I had to serve the full school timing, and say until 2 o'clock.  During this time, I had to prepare lessons.  I had to draw pictures of nursery rhyme scenes and write the rhyme on the back.  I had to tear, paste, colour!  Now for someone who is into art and crafts, this would have been a dream job; for me, it was brain-numbing boredom.  I had to paste cotton wool onto sheep and paste tiny pieces of coloured paper on to trees.  Basically, I would have never made a crafter.  I was fond of knitting at school, however,  basically, I am all thumbs.  But making a bunch of lively kids stand in line and recite rhymes!  It was extremely difficult and tiring.  I tried to do my part and make them speak the Queen's English, and I must say, I lived up to my own expectations in this respect.  But the more I recited these rhymes for the children, I thought, what an unsuitable way for a child from a Hindi speaking home to learn the rhythms and cadences of the English language.  How can they make sense, for example, of Humpty Dumpty, Hey Diddle Diddle and Hickory Dickory Dock?  Now these rhymes might make perfect sense to a person growing up in England, I mean, if you are a child in London, then "London Bridge is Falling Down" would have a lot of meaning, but otherwise.....

However, one of the first nursery rhymes that north Indian children learn in English is one I had never heard before I came out here.  Does anyone know it?

Johnny Johnny?
Yes, Papa !
Eating sugar?
No, Papa!
Telling lie?
No Papa!
Open your mouth!
Ha! Ha! Ha!

Well, it might sound a little bit simple, but it is quite suitable for Indian children.  I think it is one rhyme to which they can relate.  Lots of Indian children call their father Papa (mine do!).  Lots of them like eating sugar too, but that's a universal thing.  Kids everywhere love sweets.  This rhyme seems to have an Anglo-Indian connection, because the name Johnny is as English as can be.

I don't remember learning too many rhymes in school when I was a child.  Maybe I have forgotten them.  I remember singing "Mary Had A Little Lamb" and "Jack and Jill", both to exactly the same tune.  I remember seeing the rhymes mostly in books I was given as gifts when I was a child.  I loved the rhyme "Sing a Song of Sixpence" and used to laugh at the blackbird perching on the poor maid's nose!

When I was a child, I was a confirmed book lover.  I started seriously reading when I was around eight years old.  But sending the kids "out to play" was the only way the poor mothers could get a bit of a break, and my mother used to shove me out every so often.  My sisters and I used to play with other children on the same road.  We lived in a small cul-de-sac with a green open space opposite the houses and my mother could see us easily from there.  We didn't go to playgrounds much as there wasn't one nearby.  We used to use a large rope for skipping; one child at either end and someone skipping in the middle, all the kids lined up to take their turn.  Sometimes the rope turners would tease us and turn the rope really fast.  For some reason these fast turns were called 'peppers'.  I have no idea why.  We used to juggle small balls up against a wall - I was no good at this - all thumbs, remember?  We often used to tie the skipping rope around the lamp post and make a makeshift swing.  We used to chalk out 'piggy beds' (hopscotch) on the roads, and run when a car came.  Many of us used to chant local rhymes when turning the skipping rope or juggling those balls.  I remember a great skipping rhyme went "Vote, Vote, Vote for De Valera!"  Now De Valera was the President of Ireland when I was a child; he had previously been Taoiseach (that's Prime Minister in Irish) and a great freedom fighter who had escaped being executed by the British because he was born in the United States.  This was an old election slogan of his from back in time, obviously.

I remember another old rhyme we used to say:

Janey Mack
Me shirt is black
And what'll I do for Sunday
Go to bed and cover your head
And don't get up 'till Monday.

I love that rhyme; it captures the way Dublin people speak, saying 'me' instead of 'my'.  I never learnt it in school, it was part of daily life.

Well, Nitin passed out of pre-nursery school, and I also did.  I had fallen way behind in my housework and studies and the job was far too low paid to justify that.  But no experience is ever wasted.  I'm glad I did it!



This is my weekly post for the Loose Bloggers Consortium.  We are a diverse group of bloggers scattered worldwide who post on the same topic every Friday.  We are (in alphabetical order) Ashok, Conrad, me gaelikaa, Grannymar, Helen, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria, Marianna and Rummuser (Ramanaji).  If you have time, please visit the other members for their individual approaches to this subject.  I may mention here that Marianna and Judy will not be posting this week for personal reasons.

Update!

Today is Friday! I usually do my Loose Bloggers Consortium post on Friday evenings, and I'll be doing the same this evening, at 8.30 pm Indian Standard Time. But this is my diary and I wanted to mention one or two things which have happened to me or around me today.

Firstly, I'm shocked that my friend Judy Harper from Alabama in the United States has become a crime victim. She was injured in a carjacking incident. I've come to know this amazing woman through her two interesting blogs "Sixty Is Just The Beginning" and "A Creative Writer in Progress". We are both members of the "Tuesday Morning Writings" group and the "Loose Blogger's Consortium". Judy's posts for both these groups can be found on her "Creative Writer" blog. She has lived a full and interesting life, she has been in the US Military, has successfully raised a daughter and is currently working as an accountant and is a loving grandmother to her daughter's children. I wish Judy a quick recovery from both the physical and mental trauma of this incident. I have no doubt that she will quickly put this dreadful incident behind her and move on.

Yesterday I visited a blog called "Out and About in New York City".  It seems to be basically a photographic blog.  The post was called "Waiting", and consisted of a photograph of a person in great poverty seeking financial help.  There was a view of the person, obviously sitting in a wheelchair, with a can for donations and a notice saying "Homeless.  Please Help.  Thank you.  Happy holidays to all."  Anyway, I was getting late, so in great haste, I posted a quick comment, just making my own observation.  I posted: "Beggars!  They're everywhere." and signed off.  What I basically meant was that living in a developing country which is tackling a huge poverty problem, I have seen a lot of human misery and the lengths to which many people will go to get some money.  .  It's all there on my recent post  on my other blog "Out of Ireland, Into India" called
"An Alternative Profession".I was writing on how hard it is sometimes to distinguish the genuinely needy from the frauds.  Around the same time my friend Braja, the blogging yogini from Mayapur posted on this, and although we both approach the same topic differently, I thing between the two of us, we have the area pretty well covered.  However, seeing this post on "Out and About in New York" made me realise that poverty is not only in the developing countries, but in developed countries also, and that struck me deeply.

Alas!, In my haste to leave a comment, I totally forgot that Daryl, the blog author of the "Out and About in New York City" blog is not a regular reader of mine.  He/she took me totally out of context.  This is what I received in my email this morning, courtesy of Daryl.

"What a nice POV ... have you always had a good life with food on the table and in your stomache?  Have you always had a home and a caring family and friends?  Well if the answer is yes, I hope it continues for you and should you ever encounter bad times, I hope no one ever calls you a beggar."

It seems that Daryl took the word "beggar" to be a form of abuse.  Is there another word I could have used instead?  I certainly wouldn't mind anyone calling me a beggar if I was one!

I was rather upset by that email.  I gave the following reply to Daryl, and I hope he/she reads it and understands.

"I was simply stating a fact, not passing a judgment.  I made that remark in sorrow, not in scorn.  How you perceived it is your problem, not mine.  I know what I'm speaking about.  If you care to check, this link, you'll see what I mean.

Is POV an acronym for 'piece of vitriol' by any chance?  It would be a good description of your email to me.  Well, thanks for the 'slap in the face' this morning. 

Like beauty, meaning is in the eye of the beholder, obviously."

I was both angry and sad when I wrote that email.

I suppose that this is a lesson to me to think twice before posting a comment, particularly when it is on an unknown blog.  I have always made it a point to leave a comment, however short, whenever I visit a blog, because as a blogger myself, I know how important feedback is.  When you write something, or maybe photograph something, you would like to know what others think.  I've left probably thousands of comments all over the blogosphere and this is the first time something like this has happened.

It's sad when someone misunderstands you.
.