TANUJA

What happens when childhood is crystalized? Tanuja. My little cousin who will always stay little...
I was too small to notice that something was wrong with the new baby of my Maushi, but everyone else in the family was worried. I only remember her curly hair and her belly-button turned outward! Apart from that, I gathered from the faces of the elders that this baby was very delicate so I should not lift her yet.
Another year or two later, during our summer vacations- I found this child who could still not walk, or stand steady because her feet did not have enough strength. Later, as per the doctor's recommendations, she wore tiny little special shoes to right the tilt in her right foot. That was the toughest time for her parents- not knowing that their child was a 'special' case, rather, 'not wanting' to know...
Tanuja went through hundreds of tests and medications when everyone started noticing that she was not developing with the "normal" pace. Not once did she throw up tantrums about gulping obnoxious medicines or whine when she was injected for several different reasons. God has sent her programmed for the ordeal maybe!
For some years, she went to the school for 'normal' kids. Because the one gift she always has had, is that of speech. She started talking early on, and talked and talked for the whole day without stopping till she went to bed! Whenever she wanted a snack or banana- she would tell her mom, "She wants a banana!"... It took her some time to grasp the concept of "I" because everyone around her was calling her in the third person!
In our family now, a special jargon has been created- by this little girl who hardly knows how to write! Her elder sister Madhura's new name is - "Madhuulllllllla" whereas I was "Pajak-tai", now promoted to "Prajaktai". That says something about the long way we have all come from our first responses- of anxeity, of partial rejection, of rage at the unfairness of fate for this little innocent girl, of patience and acceptance, and even appreciation, finally.

If someone knows what a "contrary" child is, it's all of us who have met Tanuja. She's brilliant at music- a special gift. She's NEVER out of tune, can remember whole songs without understanding ONE word of it, and the most recent development is that she's started playing harmonium!!! (I wonder how many of the so-called "sane" human beings can do all this.... I am especially intolerent towards people who garble the texts of well known songs, not thinking that it's almost like adding red chilli powder to delicious kheer- not respecting words is a blasphemy to me.)
Well, to name another of her virtues, she's extremely enthusiastic- let a bowl of food be seen uncovered on a table, and she'll be the first one to grab a plate to cover it. If she could observe and learn such things on her own, why did she not learn alphabets and numbers? Why can't she understand colors? Why can't she button up her dress at the back?
Well, that's what I mean when I say she's the most contrary child I've seen. If you think you could talk her into eating something she doesn't like........ you're being too ambitious. If you think she cannot express herself eloquently, just wait till it's evening and she wants to go to the playground! She'll even flatter you to get her a balloon, she'll blow up too, if you are trying to dominate! :-)

My friend, a psychologist, tells me that Tanuja is Autistic. She's a gifted child, but she cannot co-relate concepts very easily. Watching Tanuja grow, I have started to appreciate and notice the so called "natural development" of children even more. When did my younger brother learn to ride a bicycle? How did a very young cousin learn the names of flowers? It did not take them years, like it does, for Tanuja to count till three... I never realized how easily they started walking and talking. Tanuja talks a lot, but it is very very seldom "original". She cannot make her own sentences. It's only good luck that she can use standard phrases used by others over and over, to communicate.

In this world, we love children, we love childhood, we cannot stop talking about our own "golden-green days" when simple things could make us happy. That's why Tanuja is so important... in a world which eulogizes childhood and cannot appreciate the joys of "growing up", only because it's a given, it's taken for granted. I love Tanuja, because the child in me feels refreshed after spending time with her. I thank life, and love myself, because I can switch roles and grow up again, I can keep growing...

MARTHA'S VINEYARD: An Eventful Week

Martha’s Vineyard: An Eventful Week:

Monday: As you all know, Pankaj has recently joined BMS in New Jersey, so we were moving from Branford on Monday. By “moving”, I mean to imply that our stuff was moving. We were going to follow after a little vacation to Martha’s Vineyard. As the company pays for moving expenses, we set up an appointment with the movers and packers.

10. 30 a.m. Our movers and packers arrived right on time, when we were still half asleep from the late night “send off party” we had received the last night. Their truck had assorted items like foam sheets, clinging plastics, stacks of folded cardboard boxes, papers etc. My favorite however, was a cello-tape machine- which seemed to shoot the tape to the surface which needed to be sealed, and then you could drag it and cut it along the sharp edge at the front of the tool. I guess I am more impressed with genius everyday inventions rather than by the Theory of Relativity or Gravity or Black holes or even DNA J Well- it’s all “Relative” I guess haa haa…

Both of us, still sort of reluctant to come out of the “bachelor-life” mode, had “relatively” an empty house, still, it took them almost 4 hours to pack our 3 chairs, 2 tables and one small sofa! Looking at the inventory of items we had sent to the moving company, the company sent us two guys. Probably they thought it below dignity to be sent to pack such a puny little stack - or we had underestimated the amount of material we (sorry, I) had amassed during these 6 -7 months- whatever the reason, the movers took it easy.

Every cup, porcelain plate, bowl and glass was separately wrapped in sheets of paper first, then stacked neatly into a box, which was sealed when full by that magical taping device I mentioned earlier. I loved watching the rhythm of their work- as I had loved watching cobblers, carpenters, masons and painters so far J It was clear that they were trained specially for packing, the way they unfolded every cardboard box, the way they taped the lids to the sides first so they won’t flip over every second if you didn’t hold them, the way they split themselves between kitchen and living room…it was all so systematic, so professional. I had the sudden urge to work for a packing company- given my skills for organized labor (except for organized cooking), I would be a success I think haa haa.

Another factor however, is that we can never look at our furniture “objectively”.

It takes people who can look at your each and every unique saucepan and cup or bowl with the detachment of a saint. In my view, each pot had an identity. In their view the whole conglomeration could be sorted only in terms of –glass/ not glass, small/ big. I only instructed them where necessary, to keep aside the things which were going with us to the temporary accommodation. Otherwise, it would have looked like poking my nose in their business, considering that they knew their job much better than I did, though it was my own house they were packing. Every box was marked with the name of the moving company, our address, and item number. Apart from that, there were categories printed over the box- such as Kitchen, Girl’s bedroom, Master bedroom, Living room, Dining room- and the movers were marking the appropriate box after sealing it. I was amazed. We had only one bedroom, but people with their own houses and large families here must need all those designations! As he finished packing every box, the packer wrote a little comment on the top- “books”, “CDs” “Tableware” or “clothes”. Yes, even the clothes went into the boxes- some of them folded and stacked, and others, like suits or winter wear, which were hung on hangers in our closets, were now hung in fantastic cardboard closets that they conjured out of thin air! I was exhilarated. This was another ingenuous method of packing, which was in fact as simple as a box with a bar in the middle, marked “This side up” on the cover. Hangers with clothes which should/ could not be folded, like suits or jackets, were hung on this bar. We would find them exactly in the same condition a month later, when they are delivered to our new apartment.

Pankaj had seen this before, but it was new to me. The thickness of the wad of papers they brought in made me think about the millions of trees being cut every day. Squandering of natural resources is not just a necessity, but a cultural phenomenon in the USA. At some party, I even saw tissue papers with the print of balloons... which indicates that there is “paper for every occasion”! A different kind for wiping your ass, another one for wiping kitchen platform, a flashier version for the dinner table ensemble and then these huge 3 feet by 3 feet sized stacks for packing. Recycling is a very recent discovery to the Americans. I won’t even mention the plastics! In the USA you come to splurge. The packers shot so much cello tape over each box, that the boxes are better than safe deposit vaults now.

So that was the end of packing. We gave them some beer to cheer them up on that extremely hot summer afternoon. And as they departed with our boxes, we started cleaning up the apartment. After 2 hours of scrubbing and vacuuming, the landlord still had a little comment- “I think you forgot the bath tub!” He was a nice guy- just meticulous.

That evening, till Murthy (Pankaj’s colleague) came home from office, we were homeless- with just a car, jam-packed to the roof with luggage for temporary housing, laptop and sleeping bag. So we went to the Branford public library- to while away some time, and check mails. I was so tired by the end of the day that I hit the bed at 9 pm, feeling light after shedding off my material possessions, though only for a month.

Tuesday 9.00 am. We had already booked a rental-car to go to Martha’s Vineyard, not wanting to drag our own old box filled with luggage for an extra 200 miles or so. Breakfast at Mac Donald’s was the worst ever I have had in my life- fruit bowl, egg and bread, with coffee. Mac Donald’s is not the place for healthy breakfast, but we were already on the highway, and there wasn’t any other option. By 1 pm we had reached “Wood’s Hole”, a tip on the east coast of America from where we were to board a ferry to the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Are you thinking about what we did with the car? It would have been possible to take the car on board, but the small island has clogged traffic all the time, plus we wanted to enjoy riding a bike, so we left the car in a parking lot. Now are you thinking about how we went from the parking lot to the ferry? Did we wait for the taxi-cab (which, at any rate, don’t hover around as much as our rickshaws)? Or did we have to walk 3 miles, dragging our suitcases? No. There was a shuttle every 10 minutes, from the parking lot to the ferry- free of cost (or the cost was included in the parking charges). Now this is what I call “height of convenience”. These are the small organizational details that have nothing to do with the prosperity of the country and everything to do with a little bit of common sense for common good- this shuttle is one of them.

About half an hour after we boarded the ferry, a little strip of land became visible… but it wasn’t our island! The realization that our island was further deep into the sea definitely added to my sense of wonder and excitement. One look at our co-passengers on the ferry, and I came to know about the overall status of Martha’s Vineyard- on thetourism scale. It is the haunt of the upper-middle class Americans (on the lowest rung of society there) ranging to celebrities who want a quiet vacation …probably the island we chose is a happening place- attracting all sorts of people, I thought.

It was happening in its own way- but totally devoid of the glamour I had anticipated. There was a lull over the whole place inspite of the peak period of summer-vacations. Perhaps it was a temporary slack during weekdays- however, I liked it this way because it was the ideal environment for relaxation that we were seeking. Thanks to the powers of internet, we had booked the cottage from home and did not have any idea where exactly it would be, though the information and photos on the website suggested that it was right next to the sea. As we landed on the island, we called their number- and lo! The housekeeper said that it was a five minute walk from the ferry station. We walked along the beach all the time, and saw the sign for “Capricorn House” across the road… at once I felt that the considerable amount of money we had spent on the room had been worth it. The beach was visible from the patio of the house, and a side view of it from our room. We absolutely could not afford the “full sea-view rooms”, but this was not at all bad either.

But at that point, we were more concerned about food than about anything else- being famished after that stupid breakfast at MacDonald’s, we had not eaten anything. The downtown was another two minute walk- and we found this pasta-place. Very late lunch for us Indians and dinner for the Americans coincided then- at 5 pm J. After that, we followed the American biological cycle totally for the few days that we were there. Basically, our cottage, a phenomenon called “Bed and Breakfast” is in itself is an out and out American concept. It is like a hotel run by a family- renting out some bedrooms of their house to recover the costs of the house. Our housekeeper, Tracy, would make breakfast everyday, tidy up our room and replace old towels with new. Our room itself was very tiny, but we preferred it over the others because it had an attached bath. The house was decorated in the old-Victorian style. My favorite? – A really old old wooden chest with iron bolts and lids, being used as the TV stand! Apart from that, the house was stacked with various antique pieces, like the white dressing table in our room, or the dark wood table in the dining room, or the tiny chairs on the patio. The décor went a long way in contributing to the feeling that we were staying in a “home”, not a hotel.

That evening we just took a stroll on the beach after dinner and came home to sleep like logs.

Wednesday, 9.00 am. The table was laid for breakfast. Blueberry muffins, watermelon slices, a variety of cereal, fruit juice, coffee or tea, bagels with cheese and jam. To make the most of what we’d paid, we ate heartily, intending to skip lunch if necessary. Then we walked out to catch a bus to the other end of the island- Edgartown. So the island is divided into six small villages, Edgartown, Oak bluffs, Vineyard Haven, Menemsha, and so on. In Edgartown, we shopped for some petty items- coffee mugs, t.shirts, chimes etc. with the theme of Martha’s vineyard in all of them. In the afternoon, I was very eager to go out into the sea! We went with the beach towels provided by our B&B, with books and snacks- somewhat American -style again. But ours was a feeble attempt. People come to the beaches here with practically their whole house with them- beach chairs, garden umbrellas, Frisbee, floats and what not. Looking at the beach beauties, I became unconscious of myself in the swimsuit (which was the most modest thing I managed to choose from a store). Here it was taken for granted that people would roam around with little to cover their bodies. No one looked at you- or if they looked, they didn’t gloat. It was a great feeling- being able to wear skirts and shorts again, years after college.

We left our beach towels and backpacks on the shore and I eagerly dipped one foot into the water. It was cold. I shivered. I am not used to sea water being this cold, though it was not chilling; it was certainly not the comforting lukewarm of beaches in India. I was already missing the coconut and palm trees that shoot up everywhere around the beach in India, as if defining the boundary of the sea, marking the territory of land. Water, you aren’t allowed beyond this point….they guard the seashores from being eroded. Though the memories of Tsunami are still fresh, I found the sand on these alien shores more vulnerable, and the sea much more threatening.

Probably it was the drastic increase in depth of water immediately along the shore, or the numerous algae hindering sight under water…the sight of the sea here was not half as inviting as in India. Underneath the feet, the sand was coarse to the extent of pebbles. It scorched your legs if you fell down by the current of water. I did take a dip or two. I stayed in the water for a long time, I played as much as I liked. But I did not enjoy it with abandon as we can do in India. Pankaj was repulsed by the sight of algae and did not even try to swim. Maybe the water was clearer further away from the shore, where people were swimming easily. Maybe it was high tide. But that day, I was disappointed. I longed for the forsaken beaches in Konkan that our parents have recently visited. The sight was wonderful, but the spirit was absent, I thought.

Thursday: Since we had explored the island on our own yesterday, this time we thought about taking a sight-seeing tour. So this island is called “Martha’s Vineyard”, firstly because the sailor who discovered it named it after his daughter, Martha; and secondly because, at least for the show of it, there is a vineyard on the island. The sightseeing tour was nothing much apart from a list of celebrities who had houses on the island…including The Clintons, Herman Melville, …….. I didn’t even recognize half the names, so I was dozing midway, when we suddenly came to the most beautiful (and privately owned) part of the island. On our right was a lighthouse, built a long long time ago, and on our left, a sheer drop from the hill of the lighthouse, ending into the most beautiful beach I have ever seen in my life. The lighthouse stood on the top of a hill jutting out into the sea, as if dividing it into two parts- the result was that there was this sense of sea all around you, while you were still standing on land- the truest sense of the island.

The lighthouse, apparently an important historical monument now looked very tiny- and yet caught the eye, being the sole object of human-element in the midst of nature unbound. Yes, there is one aspect of the beaches I loved to see- the greenery and the blueness. Here the water was much more shallow, and there were trees and bushes lining the whole curve, offering a beautiful contrast to the off-white limestone of the cliff and the sands. That was the kind of beach I wanted to go to, but alas! Beauty, a slave to the riches, showing a glimpse of herself, yet made unattainable to paupers like us…

Biking was on the agenda till the last moment, but even before we knew it, the vacation was almost coming to an end. I wanted to make the most of my time on the sea, and it was a second preference to do the “touristy” things, unlike on our trip to Washington. On our way back, when we stopped into a little shop to look for a mini-lighthouse, we struck a conversation with the shopkeeper- a middle aged lady of extreme zest for talking. She immediately commented on our accents, (“ Please don’t mind… it’s just so peculiar…I want to go to India at least once, even if it is when I am 70”) So it turned out that this lady had a soft corner for immigrants, and was fervently criticizing Bush and the Republicans. “Well, if you have traveled across America, you will know that in the South- it is not as easy for immigrants as it is in the east and west… This is a huge country- everyone here is originally from somewhere else! And yet, in the South, it is not the same for everyone!!!.......”

This lady also told us an interesting tit-bit about the life on the island. Since the island was under snow in winter, desolate, far from being the tourist attraction that it was during summer, the big chain restaurants would not come here. So there was not a single MacDonald’s, Wendy’s, Subway or Pizza Hut on the island. “Thankfully”, I thought to myself. Even though the sight of a Subway is very assuring to a vegetarian like me, it homogenizes the country too much. It is like going to any little village in India, being sure of finding a statue of Gandhiji there…no offence meant, but the chains paint all the towns of America in the same color, which is totally disconcerting to a person who grew up where the accents and topography and culture changes every 10 miles.

We had chosen for vacation a place obscure, unlike Disney World or Las Vegas to which Indians flock invariably. This little island housed the elite of America, Indians obviously do not belong. But that conversation with the shopkeeper was endearing because it would go a long way in creating a sense of belonging. That a citizen of America should discuss her political concerns with us made me think of this country as if it were “mine”. Life surprises us every second- otherwise, how could we have learnt this new lesson of belonging in a place where it was hard to spot a single Indian tourist! How could we have enjoyed our stay in the Vineyard, even though there wasn’t a single Indian restaurant there, nor the urban phenomenon of chains of fast food? How could we feel so peaceful on the island which was literally an island- isolated from surrounding multiculturalism?

I think it was an effect of the rustic life. In small towns, people are somehow more welcoming, more straightforward and families are closely knit. They don’t use the sophisticated jargon like “subaltern/third world/ developing countries”. I guess this was my tryst with the “original America”, where “integration” was the keyword.