I is for Innocence

The other night as my 8-year old was on the verge of drifting off she said, “Mama, if I ask you something will you tell me the truth?” Now this is one question I dread as much from my daughter as I’d dreaded it from my mum in my teenage.
So anyway.. “Yes,” said I.
“Is Santa for real or do papas and mamas give us gifts every Christmas?”
Whew.. What could I do? I’d promised to tell the truth so truth it had to be…the whole truth and nothing but the truth.The deluge of tears that followed was heart wrenching.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she sobbed after I’d very deliberately, very surely killed Santa. “I argued with all my friends. They told me there was no Santa and I didn’t believe them. I believed only you.”

Heartbreaking! O I felt so guilty.

“Who will we decorate the tree for? Who will we keep the cookies for?” she went on.. And then the thought struck her “Did YOU eat up all the cookies we kept for Santa? And the letters we wrote to him.. all lies.”

And more questions..
“Are there no reindeers either mama?”
“No,” said I, shamefaced.
“No Rudolph?”
“No”.

“If I hadn’t asked you, you’d have never told me and then when I had babies I wouldn’t have bought them gifts thinking Santa would get them and then on Christmas day they wouldn’t have had any gifts at all. How sad they would have been.”  Some thought!

Finally after a long sad time we managed to console her.. not convince mind you, just console her.. that there had been a Santa long time back and then parents had just taken over after he passed away. Next morning having slept over the issue and apparently having given the matter plenty of thought she said, “Mama when I die (death and dying are pretty much dinner table conversations here) and I am born again and if you’re my mama again please don’t ever tell me that there’s no Santa. It feels really sad”.

Even as I hugged her I wonder how would I handle it given a second chance.

Coming from her it sounded like I’d woven such an elaborate web of lies, which of course I had. So what should I have done? Killed the Santa story completely? That would be so sad. Or maybe I shouldn’t have built it up and embellish it as much. Definitely NOT make it the core of Christmas celebrations. How deeply I regretted not telling the twins about it earlier… or at least hinting at it.

My son had seemed unconcerned through this entire exchange. However in one of his Hindi worksheets on Christmas when they had to write a line about Santa this is what he wrote.. “Our parents give us gifts but we think Santa has come”.

 

 

What do you think, people? Do your kids know there’s no Santa? How old were they when they find out? How did they react?

I’m dreading Christmas this year.

PS: A few days later my daughter wanted another clarification.. ‘Are tooth fairies also not for real?”

Linking to ABC Wednesday  a fun challenge for bloggers.

Happiness Update – Week 9

Here’s last week’s happiness update. I’m sure you guys know the drill by now so without much ado here’s what made me happy.

1.The Husband coming back home after almost a week

Such happiness.. I do need my jousting partner around.

2…. laden with boxes of special Lakhnawi mithai..

There was a box ONLY for me with this…

That’s Sohan halwa for the uninitiated. How I love love it but it has so much ghee that you can actually see a white layer when you bite into it. I was sent just two pieces so I don’t overindulge. I swear the parents keep tabs on my weight from across hundreds of kms! Of course I refused to share.

3. A non birthday present from the sister

Aren’t they gorgeous?

4. Becoming redundant bit by bit

This one is relief, pride, happiness all rolled into one. It’s so great to watch the kids grow independent.

4. Chaste Urdu from an autowallah

This sure made my day. As I was handing out change to the autowallah ‘Shukriya’ said he in such perfect diction and so politely that I was transported back home right away. No offence against the local Marathi but no language in the world can parallel the sweetness, grace or the elegance of Urdu.

5. A late night cup of tea with The Husband.

This used to be a ritual before he joined the gym and started crashing with the kids. Now it’s a rare thing to be cherished.

6. A big tight hug

Umm… nothing beats this.

The picture is an old one but the hug was just as warm

Happy birthday

She had always been a good girl – meticulous, cautious. But tonight she wasn’t herself. Tonight she didn’t want to be herself. She would banish years of conditioning… of saying NO, for tonight her heart would rule her head. She steeled herself. Then, ‘Happy birthday’, she said to herself biting into a huge piece of cake.
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Today’s genre is ’55 fiction’

I'm taking part in the Write Tribe Festival of Words -3

What inspires me

– When a boat owners son grows up to be the Indian president he inspires me.
– When a boy who lost his father and had to rent out his musical instruments to survive at just 9 years, becomes a leading musician of the country he inspires me.
– When a young girl stands up to being gang raped by six men she inspires me.
– When a boy with a bad stammer grows up to be a super star he inspires me.
– When a young village girl scales Mount Everest she inspires me.
– When a cricketer combats cancer and gets back to the game he inspires me.

And there’s inspiration closer home too..
– The working mum who comes home to housework and homework day after day inspires me
– My cook who’s on her feet 10 hours a day so she can put her son in boarding school inspires me
– That little boy who’s a quarter my age yet offers to help me with my vegetable bag inspires me
– The paraplegic old man who goes to buy his own bread and eggs each morning in his wheel chair inspires me
– My daughter who hugs me even when I’m yelling at her inspires me.

There’s inspiration all around us. People who struggle, persevere and hang on for the sake of a dream, for the sake of their families, for the sake of their principles… amazing people all around. All we need to do is stop and look.

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Linking to  Write Tribe Festival of Words. 


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I am Malala – A review

Title: I Am Malala
Author: Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb
Price: Rs 295/-

How often does it happen that you’re just finishing a book and a reviewing challenge comes up? First, I’m not big on reviews.. writing them that is. I love reading them though.

‘I am Malala’ is a book I’ve been wanting to read for a long time for lots of reasons. Though I’m not much for autobiographies I love women protagonists and one as brave and inspiring as this one made it a sure read for me. Also, I have always been curious about life in Pakistan because they are so close and so like us yet so very different in many ways.

All those reasons made the book a compelling read.

This is the story of Malala, a young Pakistani girl, who is passionate about the cause of Women’s education. 

Malala was the eldest of three children. Both her younger siblings were boys. Despite the bias against girls that was/is prevalent in Pakistan, much like India, she remained her father’s favourite. Her mother was illiterate yet a very forward thinking woman. However, it was her father who influenced her most. He was a speaker and an educationist and ran schools of his own. She would sit near him and listen to him as he told stories or later, discussed politics. As she grew older she started going out with him to deliver talks on the need for education. They would talk at rallies and meets and at radio stations.

She traces the political upheavals in Pakistan – Musharraf’s coming to power, Benazir’s assassination, the Taliban rise, 9/11 and it’s effect on Pakistan and also Osama’s capture. 

Her relatively happy life as the brightest student of her class, changed when the Taliban took over the Swat valley.
“I was ten when the Taliban came to the Valley. Moniba (her friend) and I had been reading the Twilight series and longed to be vampires.”
What it must have been for a free-thinking, Twilight reading, bright young girl to suddenly be barred from school, is hard to imagine. From worrying about whether she would top her class yet again she had to start worrying about how long she would be able to go to school at all. 

However, Malala and her friends refused to be cowed down by the Taliban. They would hide their books under their shawls along the way to school. She talks at length about life under their rule. She derived her strength from her father who canvassed tirelessly against them. She also wrote a blog for the BBC under the pseudonym Gul Makai.

When she was 15 in 2012, on her way back from school, the Taliban shot her in  the head at point blank range. Nobody expected her to survive. But she did and despite her experiences, continues to champion her cause even today.

Her’s is a very fascinating journey and that makes the book a great read. 

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Linking to Write Tribe Festival of Words. 


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