Pandora’s box.

So my son started school. He had a reasonably smooth transition. Few teething pains here and there, easily disregarded.

This story however begins few months before he started school.  I had a hurdle to cross. Given the fact that I am a relatively short person with average limb lengths, the hurdle seemed massive.  I had a simple task to master –“the art of packing the perfect lunchbox”. When you think about it, it seems trivial. When you actually do it, you cry. Period.

Checkpoints to this task are:

1.     

•   It It has to be non messy. You cannot expect a four and half year old not to spill. Kids are spill-monsters. So it needs to be compact and dry. I zoom in on wraps (roti, chappathi, falafel bread) and sandwiches.

• 2.       It has to appeal to the child. Thankfully, here’s a trick I inherited from my mom. The moment the food is ready, start modelling for it. Trot along singing praises about it. Kids are easily impressionable you see. By the time the child opens his lunchbox in school, all he remembers is the aura you have created. Needless to say, this depends upon your modelling skills!

• 3.       It has to be healthy. Ok. So here is the catch. How many of this healthy stuff actually appeal to our senses- I mean, be honest! Sometimes the so called good food makes me wish I was born without the sense of smell and taste. Quite an irresponsible thing to say. But at the end of the day, the truth is - what appeals to your tongue does not appeal to the rest of your body. A major design flaw, I say! Thankfully, there is a way out here. I tend to “Indianise” everything. Spice it up, people..  Jai ho!!

• 4.       And then, last but not the least- the new ghost in town, food allergies. I did a “round” of research. Could not complete the “round” though. Left it mid way. The interim reports gave me nightmares. For a sneak peak, current food –turned- toxins are nuts (all kinds), eggs, gluten, kiwi fruit (I’m not kidding), milk, dairy products.  One mother even told me that chicken is banned in schools.  This made me think – correction – stopped my thinking. What was the point, there was no solution to this puzzle. Well, why should this bother you if your child is not allergic to any of these, Correct? Incorrect! Little children tend to pick from their friends’ lunchboxes.  Now look at the picture again. See the difference?  **

On the first day of school, I went in with no presumptions at all. I had made up my mind – if nothing else works, I pack bread –jam sandwich, so he eats something. After school, when he is home, I would give him a proper meal!  

And then my guardian angel appeared. She came in a red and black dress, hair neatly done, sweet smile on her face – one of his teachers. I casually ask her – “Is there any food that is not allowed?”.  She says “No, none at all. You can send him anything for lunch.” [Implying – none of the kids in his class have any food allergies].

I cried – nearly.

** When we were kids, these allergies were practically unheard of.  Now, it is gaining epidemic proportions. Why does this happen? That is a topic outside the scope of this story.

The long limbed axe

I needed a tool, and so I asked for it. And what you know, without much ado, I was granted one. Viola!

Smooth, polished and shiny on the outside. N...i...ce.... so far so good!

Held it in my hand to have a feel. It weighed me down. Man, heavy it was! And cold! Very cold – for me. I was raised in one of the warmest lands, you see! Told my friend, it’s too cold for me. And my friend said – “ Its metal inside, would tend to be cold.” And so I said “Never judge a book by its cover. The smooth and shiny axe is metal after all.”

Well, it was mine and I needed it. Got working with it. Trained it, toned it, so it would be the best in the world. The axe did its work, pretty well indeed! Peace on earth! Amen!

And then – I took a break. I needed one. Relaxing it was – the break that is!

I came back and what do I see? - The axe is no more mine. It was someone else’s. That’s alright, what can an axe do? Its purpose of life is fulfilled only in the hands of a powerful master. An axe has no courtesy, I say! Not even a good bye!! Well, an axe is an axe. I hadn’t labelled it, so guess anyone could grab it in my absence.

Outraged was I -The axe had used all the tricks in the book that it had learnt from me to bring my house down. Axed my house, it did! Can understand that. It did its job with the new master. What annoys me is shouldn’t it have mentioned the task at hand to me earlier? Opportunistic, to have done it and move allegiance to a new master without a word, I feel. Ouch! That hurt. Not the loss of my house (for I knew a more pretty home could be built again and I already have), but the brutal callousness of the whole episode.

The axe was soulless, you see...

[DISCLAIMER: The above write up bears no implied or intended resemblance to any person living or dead. Any similarities that you may feel are purely coincidental. ]

What’s in a name?

I have lived with this in my country. I have been asked time and again whether I am a Muslim.

Teachers, friends, auto/ taxi drivers, librarians, beauticians, grocers, bakers and absolute strangers – have all thrown this at me. Not that I am bothered, nor am I offended. My answer has always been an emotionless “No”. A “No” with a full stop at its end implying it’s not an open –ended answer and no further questions are invited in this regard. After the “No”, I generally flash a smile (from the heart of course) at the person to spare any embarrassment they would have felt for bringing it up. I mean we are all pretentious aren’t we? We all have been taught not to probe at one’s religion, caste, monitory status, private life. Yet, basic instincts do override the acquired refinement. And curiosity is a basic instinct – a hard one to tame. 

That was my Indian experience.  Indians are generally tolerant. We claim ourselves to be a sovereign, socialist, secular, democratic republic. As for me, it’s not a claim. It is a belief, so deeply ingrained within, that every time I take an international flight, my mind undergoes panic attacks. It is my comfort zone and I would never leave it behind!  And in this vast conundrum called India, belonging to any religion is not a crime. People are just overly interested in other’s lives and a lot of peeking and probing takes place into your private space. But they generally stop at that. A question asked, a question answered, we smile at each other and go our separate ways. Well, I am not talking about the fanatics. This observation is only about the urban, educated India.

Now, a change of scene. I get asked the same question here too, in Melbourne. That’s where I am currently. The question is the same, but the emotion behind it is different.  It is not curiosity, something much more intense.  Pain, suffering, need for consolation? The question sort of equates to “Whose side are you on?” [Back at home, it equates to “It is an unusual name for a Hindu”].  Again, this may not be true at all. May be it is the perception of my overactive, emotional mind.

Yet, the feeling has been strong enough to make me jot it down.  Let me elucidate. I regularly take a cab to work and have come across cabbies from all over the world.  Some people just walk into your life for a few minutes and leave a mark for a life time. The cabbie that drove me to work on this particular day was black, a person of African descent. After the usual pleasantries, he says “You Selma?” [I have booked a regular pick up - drop off schedule with the cab company, so the drivers generally know the passenger’s name]. I reply “Yes”.  He did not ask me the usual question, just went on to infer that I would be a Muslim as I carry the name.  And he says “Hard days!”.  I tally along “Yes, it’s hard when the family is not around and it’s not your native country.”  To this he replies “I know Sister, it is hard for us Muslims to get ourselves accepted, and make a life when everything and everyone are suspicious about us. But in a way, I am happy to live with that as I have moved here from my country raged by unrest and poverty.” I was stunned. I have heard this on TV before, but on my face. I did not react, no, I could not react. I am a young woman with a little family (husband and young child). Most of my thoughts revolve around my son, my home and my little interests  ;). A conversation of this sort was alien, totally. I had in front of me a man who was looking at me for consolation of some form. I had to say something. And I said “There is a God above!!”.

Let’s move on.  Yet another day, another interesting character – an Arab, possibly of Turkish descent.

Again “You Selma?”. I said “Yes”.

Arab: Muslim?

I: No.

Arab: which country are you from?

I: India

Arab: Oh , I thought you were from Italy. Selma is not an Indian name. Its Arabic.

I: Ok.

Arab: I wonder why you have such a name. It’s not Indian.

I: [In my mind] We have lot of Muslims in India, it’s just a name. [Silent outward]

Arab: But you are not a Muslim.

I: Please take the next left into Essex St and right to Sussex. We have to go to Coburg North.

And then again, a Pakistani.

Cabbie: Good morning Madam.

I: Good morning, how are you today.

Cabbie: very well, thanks and yourself?

I:  Not bad thank you.

Cabbie: Your name Selma?

I: Yes

Cabbie: Muslim?

I: No.

Cabbie:  oh OK! It’s a Muslim name. Where are you from?

I: India

Silence, pregnant silence.

We walk away in our daily lives with so many such experiences.  Thankfully most of them are forgotten after a span of time. But again - Are Muslims around the world looking for a mate , a shoulder to cry on? Are we being fair? It is hard to look beyond prejudices, but can you make an attempt?