Capturing the excitement before it fades away...

Big N has been in swimming competitions for three weeks now and has a little collection of ribbons that grows by the week. Over the weekend, he and I went to Target and got a foam board and some thumb tacks with which to pin the ribbons so we would have a place to keep them safe and create an easy way to chart his progress over the summer.



Yesterday we were at a race and we saw a ribbon belonging to one of the older swimmers lying forlorn on the deck next to the pool. I wonder how long it is before these ribbons don't mean anything to the person receiving them. I guess if you've been swimming long enough and you collect about 50 ribbons each summer, it would start getting old pretty soon.

But for now, the novelty of it all is very appealing and any new ribbon is tacked on promptly.

Muscle Memory is a Wonderful Thing Indeed

It's amazing what your muscles remember, almost three years later, even though it appears that your brain may have forgotten some things.

The first day we were back home after moving out of India, we were unpacking our suitcases and I had to put a few things in a drawer in the bathroom sink area. I held the items in my left hand and bent to pull the drawer when I realized that my hand went under the drawer to hold the bottom part and slide the drawer out rather than reach for the knob in front of the drawer. As the drawer slid out, I remembered that the front plank of the drawer was loose and so would have come apart in my hand had I tried to pull on the knob.

Needed: Humane Medical Equipment

The X-Ray machine stood in the middle of the room about 20 feet by 10 feet. About four or five feet away from the X-Ray machine was a contraption that I hadn't paid attention to when little N and I were escorted into the room. I was looking for a chair on which I would sit and hold little N in my arms while her tiny chest was X-Rayed. I expected the medical technician to give me the radiation-proof vest to wear. The technician did hand me the vest, but little N would not be in my arms.

Instead, she would sit, but herself, in that contraption. I looked at it closely now. It had a wooden plank and a hole about two and a half feet in diameter in the middle through which a green tricycle seat was visible. Her legs and hips would go through the hole until she sat on the tricycle seat. Around her torso rising up from the wooden plank was a plastic enclosure, almost like a vest, which would go around her chest and be snapped shut. Her head peeped just above the plastic enclosure. Every part of her body was where it was supposed to be, but what about her arms?

I was supposed to hold them - tight together above her head. I gently pulled her arms up and held them while the technician tried to close the plastic vest around her chest. By this time little N had started whimpering. She did not like her hospital gown, she was uncomfortable in the seat, her arms must have been hurting quite a bit at the armpits from being pulled up above her head. The vest would not snap shut and little N started pulling her arms down and wanted to be picked up. At one point her arms got wedged in the vest and we had to unhook the clasp and start all over again. This went on for about five minutes by which time little N was angry. She wanted to get out and now.

Two more minutes of struggling with the contraption and the technician was ready to run the X-ray machine that was behind little N. Then he realized it was the wrong film plate in the slot in front of little N. He ran to the supply closet to pick up another one and slide it in its place. Now, finally he was ready. One X-ray front to back and another sideways and we were done, but it took a while before little N calmed down.

There's got to be a better way of doing this. How can one expect small children to sit for any length of time in a contraption such as that without feeling uncomfortable and therefore refusing to cooperate with the process? Or is this the lot of the little children? Children have no voice, other than crying to express their discomfort, so whoever designs these things must not feel the need to take into consideration their needs. No one gets X-rays for the pleasure of it. We go in there because of a medical necessity and, in most instances, in worrisome situations. The least the manufacturers can do is to spare a thought for the comfort of the little people for whom these machines are desinged.

Homeschooling in Bangalore

Su, in response to a query regarding homeschooling via the comments on one of my posts on schools in Bangalore, has this to say:

There are lots of families in Bangalore who are homeschooling their kids even in higher classes, so you're [not] alone. There is a yahoogroup for people who are interested in alternative education in India and the group has quite a few homeschoolers, most are from Bangalore, Mumbai and Pune. The group is http://groups.yahoo.com/group/alt-ed-india/

So if you are interested in homeschooling, check out the yahoo group by clicking on the link or by copying and pasting the url at the end of the response into your browser. Good luck.

Swim Team Rules!

Little blue and green flags fixed to car windows on short white poles fluttered wildly as the impromptu motorcade of about eight cars made its way down the nearly empty highway. At 7:30 in the morning the sky was overcast with dark gray low-hanging clouds as we drove from our team's pool to the rivals' pool about twenty minutes away. The car radio blared Chicago and Tom Petty and Pink Floyd, the DJ keeping his chatter to a minimum.

Earlier that morning, the team, made up of children from six to 18 years old, along with their families, had gathered at our pool for directions and last minute instructions before heading out for the races. Parents milled around with coffee mugs in their hands, the children gathering with friends or staying put in the cars and vans, seizing the opportunity to grab an extra 10 minutes of sleep.

At our destination about half an hour later, families spread out their towels and blankets on the pool side lounge chairs and made themselves comfortable while the children headed to the team area, plunked their backpacks down on the pool chairs and unpacked their swimming gear - swimming goggles, team caps, towels, sun screen. The home team was already well into their warm-ups. Each team had the pool, separately, for twenty minutes each to complete warm-ups before the event kicked off at nine am with a rendition of the national anthem.

Officials (volunteer moms and dads in dark blue shorts or pants and white T-shirts) found their respective stations as recorders, timers, stroke and turn judges, marshals or team coordinators. The diner, also manned by volunteer parents, opened for business with a variety of breakfast foods, hot dogs and burgers and drinks.

The races began with the youngest kids, the 8 and under age group and continued up (9-10, 11-12. 13-14, and 14-18), one stroke at a time, boys first, girls second. First came free style, then back stroke, breast stroke, butterfly and finally the team relays and individual medleys. Waves of parents made way for each other as the races of interest to them came and went, but there were the die-hards too, who tracked every race and promptly jotted down the winning times in each of the races on the program schedule. At the end of each race came high-fives, lots of cheering, pats on the back and words of encouragement for the next race.

This is the stuff of every Saturday morning and every Monday night from late May to late August when the swimming league competitions and practice sessions are in full swing. The swim team meets for practice every week day in the mornings with their coaches.

One of the most admirable aspects of the running of these swim teams is that most coaches are high school students themselves and the rest are in college. It is quite something to see them manage a program by themselves with very little direction. The coaches are responsible to the team representatives but they carry most of the day to day operation of the swim team program entirely on their shoulders.

While the younger swimmers are still getting their bearings around the competitions, the older ones, starting from the 9-12 age group, are already well-versed with team dynamics, the rigors of daily swimming practice and in the language of the swimming leagues. They are the coaches' ready helpers in preparing the pool area before and after practice, they check for their time with the timers the minute they touch the wall, the compare it with their time the previous week (to figure out how much time they've "dropped"), some of them know exactly what the state record is for that event and they know their competitors' times (as do some of the parents). It's a delight to watch the younger ones look at their older team mates with admiration, shyly calling out, "good race, so and so!"

Swim team is a great way for parents to meet other families in the community and for the children to make friends quickly whether you've lived in the same area for years or you've just moved in. It's also a fine way to develop team spirit and competitiveness in a low pressure atmosphere, to learn to follow instructions and rules and the nuances of fair play and community involvement. It's entirely normal to see three or four moms and dads running up to a child who's despondent at a bad result, all trying to make him or her see the positive, or exulting in a child's win. In addition to all of this the children are learning a skill that will last a lifetime.

So I say, Swim team rules!

Lessons in Parenting: Chapter 145,676 - Infants Can't Blow Their Noses

Infants can't blow their noses. This, of course, you realize only after you've had a baby, and only in the middle of the night when you've already been up for hours holding the baby in your arms at an incline to clear his stuffy nose somewhat so he can breathe so he can go to sleep. Obviously, you are not thinking straight but the conditions are just right for a bolt of inspiration (or something like it) to strike. Desperation, as they say, is the mother of improvization.

So, during one such night, when Big N was but an infant, I leaned close to his face as it nestled in the crook of my left arm, lifted my right hand, wrapped my forefinger, middle finger and thumb around a clump of my hair and tickled his nostrils with my soft, no-split-ended hair.

He sneezed.

Some things have changed

Spanish seems to be everywhere now. Instructions for everything on every product come in Spanish as well. Home Depot has Spanish translation of nearly every English word they use (wonder what took them this long).

Shops don't require to sign your credit card slips anymore if the total bill is less than $20. I think I scared the Chipotle check out guy by insisting that I need to sign the slip.

There's no Peter Jennings, no Ed Bradley, no Tom Brokaw, no Dan Rather, no Sopranos.

Within the first week of being here a guy at the grocery store started a conversation and talked about India, and actually knew that there was a language called Kannada. In all the years I'd lived here before, Americans always assumed that for some reason I'd decided to talk about Canada when they'd asked me about my mother tongue. Now someone actually knows about Karnataka and Kannada. He also invited himself over for Dosas and Samosas. Two days later an American who'd spent five years in Pakistan asked for detailed instructions on how to make chapaties, and a neighbor (who I met for the first time two weeks ago) asked to borrow my Indian cookbooks so she can make chicken curries. I'd fielded a lot of requests for information about good area Indian restaurants, but never came across anyone who actually wanted to cook Indian dishes.

There's On Demand TV! I don't know if this has happened to you, but very often, when I switch to a movie channel the chances are pretty good that I'll catch a rerun of a movie. For a few days I unfailingly catch the same movie every time and, most frustratingly, will catch it at exactly the same point every time. With On Demand TV, none of that anymore. The movie will start when I want it to.

Just a Quick Post...

... to say hello. After two weeks in Europe, we're finally back home. Still out of pocket in terms of a few things (such as the internet). Will be back on line in a few days and hope to have settled in better by then.

In the meantime, thank you for all your comments. I promise I'll respond to them once I'm online.

Cheers!

Change in Dateline

When we first found out we were moving to India for a couple of years back in 2004, we had all of three weeks to prepare - to figure out what to do with the house, the furniture, schooling in India for my son, how much stuff to take, what to leave behind, etc.

When the time came to head back to the US, we'd basically had all of the time we lived in India to prepare, but it was not enough, not by a long shot. When we left the US, we were coming to live close to family, close to our parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, aunts, uncles, cousins, and all our extended families who were minutes away rather than days away. We are heading back now to being our little unit again (although our number has increased by one more than we were when we came - my daughter who was born in Bangalore last year).

The house buzzed with activity for a week. Closets were emptied, clothes, shoes and toys given away, the pantry and refrigerator cleared. The pungent smell of reams and reams of packing cardboard and paper vied with the screeching noise of duct tape as it was torn off and plastered on everything from the tiniest spoon to the largest piece of furniture. The packers started off slowly and, fortified by many cups of tea made in the last saucepan remaining, became frenzied as the hours ticked away there were the pesky last few items still to be packed.

The whirlwind of packing and organizing the other aspects of the move had kept all our emotions under the lid. As was to be expected, there was a time crunch at the end. In the rush of taking care of the things on my list, there was, thankfully, no time for emotional, tearful goodbyes. My parents siezed the opportunity when it presented itself to make a quick get away (they had decided not to come to the airport) and my son and I waved them off in cheery tones and rushed right back into the house to finish packing the very last suitcase.

One final walk around the house and it was time to head to the airport. Just as we had finished checking in all our luggage is when the lid decided to come off. My son and my father, who had spent a lot of time together during our stay in Bangalore doing grandson-grandfather stuff, were the two people I was most concerned about. The finality of the move back sank in with my son at the airport check-in counter and with my parents on the long drive back from our house to theirs late at night. A single tear drop rolled down my son's cheek and landed on his watch followed in quick succession by many others and my own.

As is typical of children, he tried various permutations and combinations of living arrangements that would allow him to spend time with his grand-parents while allowing them to have their lives and family connections and him to continue on with his life in the US, negotiating right up to the point we got on the plane. Then, again, as is typical of children, the excitement of the journey caught up with him and the new TV/light/dinner table configuration on the plane took up all his attention.

There's a lot more adjustment to come, of course, once we are properly settled in at home in the US, but I am grateful for this opportunity we had after more than a decade to actually spend more than the three weeks we could scrape together during holidays in our hometown.

This, in brief, is the story of the change in dateline on the blog. There are a lot more posts on life in Bangalore coming up and about parenting and travel. I do hope you will continue reading.

Book Review: The Burden of Foreknowledge, Jawahara Saidullah

The river whispers maddening things to me in a slow, sinuous rhythm that wraps itself around me.... Her voice burrows within me, flowing inside me. 'Nadee...' she says, in a fluent, gentle cadence, 'there is only one way out of this trap....' Her words rush into each other, colliding and bursting like bubbles in the air before slithering into my ears, filling my mind until they crowd out every other thought, leaving me at her mercy. Others are oblivious to her insidious, hissing, sibilance and go about their business.

Thus read the initial passages of Chapter Four in The Burden of Foreknowledge. Sensuous writing that transports you from the mundane to a plane where all your senses are on high alert is the hallmark of this fine first novel by Jawahara Saidullah.

Over the past few days, I've read this book in a few different settings - at home on the sofa, in bed, in airport lounges and hotel rooms. But each time I pulled my eyes away from the book, it was mildly shocking to come back to my surroundings and realize where I was.

The story is about a young girl we come to know as Nadee and the tragedies that befall her, starting with the loss of her entire family to a flood in the first chapter of the book. From then on, the novel arcs its way, with Nadee, to Kashi (where the raging Ganga dumps her, the sole survivor), Agra and Fathehpur Sikri where Nadee encounters the final twist of her fateful life. All through the book, glimpses of what is about to come flash on the pages as Nadee recounts the visions of the future that come to her, enticing you to read on. Nadee's suffering and her emotionally deadened state are made all the more poignant and stark by the sensory imagery that pervades the novel.

Set in the late 1500s in the time of Emperor Akbar, Burden is chock full of finely etched characters that the author has somehow acquired intimate, thorough knowledge of. Imagining the goings on in a time five hundred years ago is difficult enough, but to imagine them with the kind of detail that is on exhibit throughout the novel is quite something else.

I particularly liked the descriptions of life in the "house of culture", the "house of passion and longing" in Agra and its cast of characters - Nafasat Bai, Amma Jaan, the multitude of servants, the patrons and the rooms in the cavernous house which seem to have lives of their own. Some characters and events are familiar, from the history books of high school, but the novel casts them in a new light, enabling you to see them through Nadee eyes, feelings and individual circumstances. The assured advances of the plot through the familiar terrains of history are a delight.

If you are up for a great story, warmly told, one that transports you to other worlds and constantly leaves you surprised, breathless, feeling that tiny bit off-center and wanting more, then I highly recommend The Burden of Foreknowledge.

The Burden of Foreknowledge
Pages: 178
Price: Rs 295

Review: Lulu.com's Self-Published Children's Literature

Once upon a time, there was a baby polar bear who was a very picky eater; there were two girls, Orelda and Corelda, who went on a cruise aboard a ship called the S.S. Rottensteamer; there was Orangie the orange, who wanted, more than anything, to be back among his friends on the orange tree in the orange grove; and there was a boy who liked to play and not go to bed at the end of the day because the night monsters were waiting for him.

If these sound like stories you might have read to your children or might want to read to your children, you're right. These are children's stories. But what is unique about the books these four stories came out of is that they are all self-published books. The authors decided they had stories to tell and they were good enough to be published and they went ahead and did it themselves.

And the stories are good, very good. They are fun to read (even for me), very well told, they have excellent illustrations accompanying them and the books are slickly produced.

Potato Soup, written and illustrated by Phil Weinstein, is a heartwarming story about a baby polar bear who is a picky eater and how his parents got him to eat soup with a whole lot of different vegetables. This story reminded me of the time I used to read Green Eggs and Ham to my son and for months afterward we used to repeat the idea that although we think we might not like something at first, if we just tried it we might end up liking it after all.

"We're gonna need some corn," the daddy polar bear said. "Corn?! I don't like corn!" the baby polar bear said. "I only like potatoes! Potatoes, potatoes, potatoes!"

"It's OK, it's OK," said the daddy polar bear. "We need corn to make potato soup." "All right, all right," said the baby polar bear. "I'll get some corn but I'm not gonna like it and I'm not gonna eat it!"

In this manner, the baby polar bear adds one vegetable after another into the soup and in the end ends up liking the soup and all the vegetables that went into the making of it.

I particularly liked the illustrations in this book. The polar bears look warm and cuddly and the picturization is appealing.

The Book of Monsters by Jamie Melani Marshall is a lovely story of how a young boy gets over his fear of monsters in his room at night. He decides to follow the monsters to their abode one night and discovers that there was nothing to fear after all.

The author has illustrated the story herself and the colorful drawings are a major attraction. They are stylized and it's fun to pore over the pictures trying to find small details relating to the story. The text is in simple rhyme and the language is easy on the early reader.

Orelda and Corelda's Ocean Voyage by George and Leslie Nazarian is, as the title suggests, a travel adventure book and coloring book in one. Any journey is fascinating and a cruise especially so. Children will love this story as much for the cool stuff the two girls and Oradillo, their friend, get to do on the ship as for the opportunity to color the pictures using their own imagination of how a cruise might feel. It's a great book to carry along on a trip.

Orangie, by Tempie Johnson, recounts the journey of Orangie the Orange from his tree in the orchard to the supermarket and back. It's a simple story, simply told, but is a life lesson for little children in kindness and humanity. It has the feel of a story that grandma would make up on the spot by your bedside - the best kind of story there is - and for this reason, children will find it attractive.

Perhaps because these are self-published books, I get the feeling that we, the readers, are privy to a little bit more of the authors' personalities. We find out, for example, that Tempie Johnson has been telling her story for ages, and that her son Stephens, finally got her story published. We read about the origins of Phil Weinstein's story at the back of the book in a personal note from the author that most parents will relate to immediately.

In Marshall's book, the usually boring bio and information about the book is replaced by,

The Book of Monsters (a bedtime story) is author Jamie Melanie Marshall's first book. It's not that bad. Really. It's pretty good. You should probably buy it. Unless of course...

You have no money with which to buy the book (this is sad. Perhaps if you wrote a letter to the author, she would take pity on you and send you a copy. If you can't write either, a simple handprint or droolmark will do.)

There's a long list of such helpful suggestions and I have a feeling young children will love reading something of this nature addressed to them directly by the author.

If you are an author interested in publishing your book yourself, given the quality of the books I've described above, Lulu.com appears to be an valuable resource. The FAQ is useful to get to started in case you are interested in exploring their services.

They also have a handy catalogue that you can search by genre and popularity if you are interested in buying the books. The books have been rated by customers and the rating appears in the blurb related to each book on the web page.

Diaper wipes are ...

great for cleaning monitor screens and keyboards.

If there is something horribly wrong with this, please don't tell me. I'm in squeaky clean heaven right now.

Grasshopper Restaurant, Bangalore

I don't remember a single conversation from all the times I've been to the Grasshopper, but my memories are all of good times spent with good friends enjoying good food in a lovely ambience.

Grasshopper is housed in a farm on the outskirts of Bangalore off of Bannerghatta Road just past the Meenakshi temple (it's about a 30-minute drive from Jayanagar). The surroundings are beautiful with large, mature trees, some of them mango and sapota (chikoo), and a vegetable garden out in the front. A gravelled pathway laid with stones takes you past an industrial looking building on the right and a small pond on the left.



The path leads to a long, wide corridor on your right supported by beams and looking out on to a wide expanse of gravelly ground set with stone benches and more trees.



The corridor is the main seating space for the patrons with the gravelly yard serving as overflow space.



As you can imagine, space is tight and reservations are a must and at least a day before. The restaurant does not cater to walk-in patrons.

The first time we visited Grasshopper we did not know what to expect. One of our friends had heard about it, knew they served salads (after months of Indian food, one thing I positively crave is a salad fix) and that was good enough reason to go check it out.



We called for reservations and the owner, Sonali, asked details about who would eat what - if there were vegetarians in the group, if everyone would eat sea food, whether there were any dietary restrictions and so on. What we found when we went there the next day is the equivalent of a gastronomic oasis of understated continental cuisine in a spice-mad country. The menu is set (eliminating the bother of the menu-perusing and dish-choosing ritual) and the dishes in the seven-course meal are brought out one by one at an unhurried pace.

Since then we've gone back a few times, some times with children, other times not. Children love the space to run around in and to explore the various nooks and crannies on the farm. There are a few beautiful dogs on the farm that become instant friends with the children.

The food is excellent. The combination of the fresh raw materials and the flavors brought together with the minimum of interference in the kitchen is truly a delight to savor. I suddenly realized the last time we were there that the warm breads served right at the beginning to get you started are the only carbohydrates you will get during the entire meal.

The combination of the unhurried service, the quiet surroundings, the uncrowded atmosphere (at the most you can expect one other group to be seated next to you during your entire stay there), the homely feel all combine to relax your senses and let loose. Conversation flows easily and a general feeling of bonhomie envelopes you by the time desert and coffee roll around at the end of about the three or four hours.

All this comes at a price, as you might have guessed. Lunch and dinner are priced at around Rs. 1,500 per person (drinks not included). I understand Grasshopper serves a shorter version during weekdays at lunchtime.

Grasshopper also houses a fashion boutique with designer clothes, sandals and jewellery for sale.

Reservations tel. no.: 98454 52646.

Review Blogpourri at Guardian Abroad

If you are so inclined, please take a minute (or three) to review Blogpourri at Guardian Abroad. The Guardian has a bunch of blogs on various topics listed under "Your Blogs" and "Expat Life (the truth is out there)" is one of the topics.

Here's the link to the place where you can review this blog. There's also a link on the side bar on the right. Muchos gracias!

Coming Back Home to Rice, Dal, Ghee and Pickle

We were away for five days in Bangkok and Hanoi. Let me just say it's wonderful to come back to dosas and spicy coconut chutney for breakfast and hot rice, leftover dal (six day-old dal was surprisingly good, or perhaps tomorrow I'll be singing a different tune, eh?), and ghee and pickle for lunch. Yum, yum.