129. Good Morning, Rainy Day

One misty moisty morning, courtesy of Kate Stapleton Photography, sweetridgesisters.wordpress.com

Good morning rainy day/We can’t go out to play
But we are glad to think/The flowers can have a drink.

We had to recite this verse, singsong-fashion, in primary school in India, and my mother tells a flattering story of me as a child, expressing such thankfulness one rainy morning. Truth be told, it wasn’t selfless feelings for the flowers that motivated me. Rainy days, especially warm, rainy days, have always given me a feeling of comfort. Perhaps it is because of my different memories of rain—both personal and collective—in India, so longed-for after the hot, dry season, so welcomed by us children, who ran out naked to greet the first downpour of the monsoons; and in England, where it evokes misty, moisty mornings, teapots full of piping-hot tea, hedgerows laden with juicy blackberries, and general coziness. Cultivating an attitude of thankfulness, though, is something else altogether.

children running in the rain (from may11apr1940.wordpress.com)

In boarding-school in the mists of Darjeeling, when the morning bell wakened us jarringly out of sleep at six o’ clock every morning to face the daunting prospect of a cold shower, I would burrow under the bedclothes until the last possible moment, only just making it to Morning Study on time. But my best friend Marianne, who slept in the bed next to mine for all three years at Mount Hermon, would wake at first light and invariably rise before the bell, with a song in her heart. As she made her bed with crisp, hospital corners, she would murmur the song under her breath so as not to disturb me, but I would just burrow still deeper, cultivating an inner scowl worthy of Oscar the Grouch.

When we lived in Winchendon, where most people’s water came from wells which were perpetually in danger of running dry if overdrawn, a sign over the bathroom sink in a neighboring collective household used to annoy me. It read:

Water is precious/Use it gratefully.

Ornery type that I was, I would always think to myself that if water was precious, surely the sign ought properly to read, “Use it sparingly.” Gratitude, I thought, could merely produce a feeling of self-satisfaction without a concomitant reduction of water use. But although I grumbled, I never took up the issue with my friends in this household; neither did I understand what it meant to live and work with a grateful heart. It is only now, more than twenty years later, that I am beginning to have an inkling of it.

A couple of months ago I spoke on the phone with an old friend in England, whom I haven’t seen for a long time. Her dear mother died just recently after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s Disease, and she herself works with children who have cancer. After I had recited the litany of my accumulated woes, she told me about a daily exercise she has found useful: listing the things in her life, large and small, for which she is thankful. She said that it put her personal troubles in perspective and never failed to lift her spirits.

Twenty years ago I might have pooh-poohed such an idea, but now, in my middle age, waking with a song in my heart and a deep gratitude for the gift of life is something I can no longer afford to look upon with a jaundiced eye.

Another memory from boarding school: morning chapel, and a favorite morning hymn, one stanza of which went

Awake, cold lips and sing
Arise, dull heart and pray
Lift up, O man, thy heart and eye
Brush slothfulness away.

I remember looking over at the girl standing next to me one morning as we sang this hymn, and thinking uncharitably how cold and waxen her lips looked, how impassive her face. I loved singing, and it never failed to bring me joy, but it didn’t occur to me either that she might have unspoken sorrows of her own or that the words might have a message for me.

As I sit up in bed in my warm house this rainy morning-before-Thanksgiving with my pot of Darjeeling tea and my laptop, I welcome the new day with gladness. Soon I must arise and face the world, negotiate the traffic on the roads and mingle with the jostling throngs in the shops, and I resolve to do so with a grateful heart. But first, just one more cup of tea.

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115. An Immigrant’s Reflections on Independence Day

Since I immigrated to the United States with my family back in 1970, forty Fourths of July have come and gone, and the forty-first is almost upon us, with its attendant parades, barbecues, watermelons, and fireworks. We are making the usual preparations for a family get-together, and as I think back on other Fourths I wonder if I will ever be able to muster up the requisite emotions. Now that I am finally a U.S. citizen—and it was 39 years before I took the leap—perhaps feelings of patriotism will arise spontaneously, but I will have to keep you posted on that.

As someone who was already almost an adult by the time I arrived in this country, I had already celebrated national independence many times—Indian Independence. India finally won its freedom from British colonial rule on August 15^th, 1947, and so the anniversary had been marked only six times by the time I was born. To be honest, I don’t remember much about Independence Day celebrations in India in the 1950’s and 1960’s, but I do remember feeling pride in our country and genuine respect for the achievements of our freedom fighters. August 15th was a national holiday, of course, and we must have marked it with the hoisting of the flag and the singing of the national anthem. There was probably a program at IIT, perhaps at one of the student hostels, with lots of garland-giving and speeches before the meal and entertainment started. As the umpteenth speaker took the podium to lavish sycophantic praise on the guest of honor, invariably prefacing his remarks with platitudes such as, “Far be it from me to waste your time with long introductions” or “The Honorable so-and-so needs no introduction,” Dad would mutter loudly that in that case he should shut up and sit down. The entertainment was also predictable, consisting of a classical vocalist, a folk dance or bharatanatyam performance, a comedy sketch (if we were lucky), and, since we were in West Bengal, the mandatory intonement of numerous Rabindra sangeet (during which it was my mother’s turn to express her impatience). For me the high point was always the feast, which consisted of the most delicious chicken curry (at a time when chicken was still an expensive delicacy in India), followed by super-sweet, spongy rosogullas.

from tribuneindia.com

At school I remember practicing for a march past, when we would march in formation round the playing field and halt in front of the invited VIP, swiveling our heads toward him and saluting in unison. Being left-handed, or perhaps just clumsy, as our PE teacher drilled us for the big day (with his sergeant-major barks of “Forward, March! A-Lech, a-Right, a-Lecha-Right-a-Lecha; About Turn! A-Lech, a-Right, a-Lecha-Right-a-Lecha,” and so on, ad nauseum), I always managed to fall out of step.

photo by Ganesh Davuluri (bostoneventphotographer.blogspot.com)

After arriving in the U.S., it used to gall me that August 15^th would come and go without mention in the news. I must have felt strongly about this because I remember being out camping in Canada with Andrew on one August 15^th, and plastering the side of our milk truck with a Happy Independence Day sign decorated in the colors of the Indian flag.  That must have bemused the Canadians. Back in Boston, I attended Independence Day functions organized by the Indian Association of Greater Boston (IAGB) at MIT’s Kresge Auditorium, with their programs almost identical to those back in India, long-winded introductions and all. Despite sharing the impatience and boredom that my parents had felt back at these functions back in India, I still made a point of attending them year after year, as boredom gave way to a certain nostalgia, and, perhaps, the pleasure of simply being around a large group of Indians, with the mothers all dressed up in their best silk saris, the babies crying throughout the performances, and the older children looking uncomfortable in their Indian outfits, stiff from lack of use and creased from long months mothballed in a drawer or trunk.

from city-data.com

For the 50^th anniversary of Independence in 1997 we went down to New York City to attend the annual India Day Parade, and cheered for the Indian film stars, U.S. politicians, and exuberant youth marching in it, as well as for members of the South Asian Lesbian and Gay Association (SALGA), who were denied the right to participate for many years and held placards on the sidelines.

But back to July 4^th: I remember standing on the sidelines of the Fourth of July parade in Winchendon, Massachusetts when Nikhil was about five and covering his ears as deafening bombers performed a low flyover. As the drum-and-bugle corps and baton twirlers marched past, I felt myself automatically tearing up as I invariably do when I hear martial music at patriotic events or at weddings, no matter what my intellectual response is. But little Hannah, who must have been no more than four years old, stepped out to the very edge of the sidewalk all on her own and in her small, clear voice resisted the military drumbeat with the Shaker hymn, ’Tis the Gift to be Simple.

from wwyerkes.net

We have always celebrated July 4^th because it is my parents’ wedding anniversary. Marrying in London, they knew nothing of  its significance as America’s Independence Day. During our earliest years in the U.S., my sister Sally and I would cook a meal for Mum and Dad and watch television as the Boston Pops performed their Independence Day concert at the Hatch Shell, with Arthur Fiedler conducting. We’d sing along to their patriotic medley (I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy, It’s a Grand Old Flag, America the Beautiful) before their performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, culminating in the Boston fireworks display.  As Sally grew older, she and her friends would take the T down to the banks of the Charles River and brave the crowds in person. Then she had the bright idea of marrying the two celebrations with an annual cookout where she would make a large American flag cake decorated with white icing, blueberries for the stars and strawberries for the stripes. With cake and gulab jamuns, hamburgers and pakodas, conversation with our closest family friends and (American) football on the beach, we fashioned a July 4^th that holds meaning and memories for our family. My parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary in this country, and on that golden anniversary friends and family, including their daughters, sons-in-law, grandsons, and several Indian American family members, gathered in Amherst to salute them, with email greetings read aloud to the cheering throng from family members in England and India who couldn’t be there in person.

Amherst, MA Fourth of July parade (pedalpeople.com)

As yet another Fourth of July approaches, everybody seems to have plans. People are wrapping up their shopping and I feel the hush as they busy themselves at home, preparing to host or travel to a family gathering. The paper has no events listed for this weekend except for the annual Fourth celebrations and, sitting alone and quiet out on the front porch last night, I heard the usual stray firecrackers going off early, as excited teenagers couldn’t contain their anticipation. I don’t expect I’ll ever feel an unalloyed patriotism on this day, but it does hold meaning for me, meaning imparted to it by my intertwined national, personal, and family histories.

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107. Kalo Paska

by Nicholas Econopouly, greecetravel.com/photos/sixties/

In Greece in the 1960s Easter was the biggest holiday of the year, bigger than Christmas and much more eagerly anticipated. The blessings of Easter, or Paska, lasted all year long. Although we weren’t a religious family, in the spirit of Indian secularism and my mother’s unitarian socialist agnosticism (“God is all the Goodness in the world,” she told us), we celebrated every holiday there was, and the Greeks knew how to celebrate. All through Lent people had been fasting, denying themselves meat, fish, dairy products, wine, and even the ubiquitous olive oil that seemed to form the basis of every dish. They had also been cleaning and whitewashing their houses, purifying themselves inside and out.

Holy Friday was the most sombre day of Holy Week, one of deep mourning. All the lights of Athens were turned out, plunging even the Acropolis into darkness. Late on Saturday night, people bundled up warm and made their way to churches and monasteries all over the city. Since we lived at the base of Lykavittos, the tallest hill in Athens, with a monastery at the very top, we joined the throngs who walked up the steep, narrow path in single file, pairs, or small family groups, maintaining near-silence in keeping with the occasion.

At the top, the faithful entered the church to pray while the overflow waited expectantly, looking out over the city uncharacteristically wreathed in darkness and silent as the grave. Finally, at the stroke of midnight, all the lights came back on, brilliantly illuminating the Acropolis and the major churches throughout the city. The formerly subdued, almost sleep-walking crowds around us broke into lively cries of Xristos Anesti! (Christ is Risen), to which the reply was Alithea Anesti (Indeed, He is Risen)! And in the same instant came the sounds of the cracking of eggs, as people retrieved hard-boiled eggs from the depths of their coat pockets, dyed dark red, and cracked them against their neighbors’ eggs, wishing Kalo Paska (Happy Easter) to one and all and sharing freely with anyone who had come without.

Then came the lighting of the candles. Everybody had brought a candle from home, stowed in their pockets with the hard-boiled eggs. The first candle was lit from the ever-burning flame within the monastery, and one by one everyone lit their candles from the just-lit candle of their neighbors. When the last candle was lit, the return procession began, people talking animatedly now, but taking care to keep their candles alight and maintaining a joyful solemnity. Looking down from Lykavittos, we could see candlelit processions like our own winding their way home all over the city. When people reached home, they would make a cross with the smoke from their candles on the newly whitewashed walls above their front doors, to keep them safe from evil spirits throughout the coming year.

Durfun at virtualtourist.com

I supposed that the Greek children went to bed when they got home, as we did. But I suspect that the women of the household got very little sleep that night, as they made the final preparations for the massive Easter feast that would break their fast on Easter Day. One Easter in Greece we were visiting the ancient city of Delphi, and the townspeople were roasting whole lambs on spits and dancing in the streets, spirits lifted high and wine flowing freely. Kalo Paska was on everyone’s lips and nobody was made to feel a stranger.

Greeks followed the Orthodox calendar, and when, years later, I married into a Ukrainian American family, I discovered that they did as well. Ukrainian Easter rarely falls on the same day as what they call “regular” or “American” Easter, and many of its customs and practices are very similar to the ones we first encountered in Greece. After midnight on Holy Saturday, the Ukrainians, like the Greeks, greet each other with Christ is Risen: Khrystos Voskres! and reply, Voistynu Voskres! They too crack and eat hard-boiled eggs, dyed dark red, although they spread them liberally with an eye-wateringly pungent horseradish sauce.

As I write, my sisters-in-law Eve and Vera are washing the dozens of coffee cans that Eve saves from year to year for baking babka, the Ukrainian sweet bread eaten only at Easter, spread with a heavenly soft cheese called paska. Eve has perfected her own recipes for both, which seem to get better every year. Vera is the guardian of the egg-painting supplies, so in keeping with the Ukrainian tradition of pysanky, we may decorate eggs tomorrow as well, although our  skills do not extend to the artistry and delicate precision of our cousin Juliana.

Kalo Paska and Happy Spring!

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103. Holi, Water Play, Rites of Spring

During the long summers as a child in Athens I joined the other children—mainly boys—in the streets of our neighborhood playing with cheap, brightly-colored plastic water pistols. They held less than a cup of water, sprayed only a short distance, and had to be refilled frequently—from where I don’t remember, probably our mothers’ kitchen taps. Despite having only two moving parts they still broke frequently, but that was part of the fun, too—running to the kiosk at the bottom of the hill clutching a handful of small change, selecting the color of a brand-new model, and racing back to join the fray. Running about joyfully, shouting and screaming, and getting wet: this was the point of it all.

As a girl in Kharagpur I remember hiding under the bed on the day of Holi, the spring festival of colors, as a noisy, exuberant crowd of my father’s students marched inexorably towards our bungalow. It was exhilarating but frightening, that day when everyone abandoned their customary restraint and soaked each other from head to toe with colored water. Our hair and skin were stained with the powerful dyes for days afterward and people who had only one or two changes of  clothes had to wear the brightly stained garments all year. Everything was all right once the students actually arrived and my mother had plied them with sweets; it was listening to the drumming and the wild shouts and cries of the approaching mob (or so it felt to me) that was so terrifying. Wearing my oldest clothes, I too went out with my friends, doing the rounds of the neighborhood with our buckets of colored water and plastic water squirters, delighting in spraying as many people as we possibly could while getting drenched ourselves.

topindiatravel.com

During the half-year we lived in India when Nikhil was eight, we were living in Pune when Holi came around. In the days leading up to it, while my kaki and cousins  prepared modaks and other seasonal delicacies, Andrew and Nikhil ventured into the Tulsibag market on a quest for the traditional piston-like water squirters, or pichkaris. One afternoon, when I had woken up from my afternoon nap and was having a quiet cup of tea with my cousin, they returned with their arms full of parcels, grinning from ear to ear. Besides several packages of water balloons, they had found two gorgeous specimens, antique pichkaris made of heavy brass, which they promptly proceeded to take apart, put together again, and test out on anyone within range. That Holi they stationed themselves on the roof with their new pichkaris,  several buckets of colored water, and dozens of water balloons at the ready. I must admit that I hid out for much of the mayhem, but Nikhil and Andrew entered fully into the carnivalesque spirit of the day. The blistering heat of summer came on cue immediately after Holi and poor Nikhil was stricken with a dangerously high fever for the next week, which I still l blame on the amount of dirty water he must have swallowed inadvertently. But I suspect that if you asked him he would say that it was all worth it.

Back in the United States super soakers had come into fashion. No longer simple little water pistols with reservoirs no bigger than a tea-cup, these were massive, multi-barreled, and powerful. They were to the puny plastic water pistols we played with in Greece what machine guns are to single-shot pistols. Nikhil and his friends would have summer parties featuring super soakers where they  broke into two teams and raced around the yard getting each other and themselves as wet as possible, pausing only to fill their reservoirs from a 55-gallon drum. My father purchased a super soaker for the sole purpose of scaring the squirrels off his bird-feeder. When I went over to with Nikhil, Dad would call Nikhil aside conspiratorially and take him into the bathroom, where they would fill the bright-yellow plastic contraption and he would station Nikhil just inside the house, ready to take aim through the sliding doors if he spotted a troublemaking squirrel climbing up the trumpet-vine to the bird-feeder.

Thankfully, Nikhil was no longer interested in such things by the time Paintball came on the scene, although he enjoyed playing Laser Tag for a short period in his adolescence (probably because it involved a trip to the mall with a group of his friends). Somehow Paintball crossed a line for me and I found it—still find it—disturbing. It’s too much like hunting down a human being. Why is it that people seem to become jaded with simple pleasures? Why keep upping the ante, moving on to play that requires ever-bigger and more menacing paraphernalia? As a child, it didn’t even occur to me to think of our water pistols as weapons but, for me at least, Laser Tag and Paintball are too closely associated with war games ever to be just harmless play.

In recent years people in India have become more aware of the toxicity of the artificial dyes used at Holi and are urging the use of environmentally-friendly ones, which is entirely a good thing. Holi, traditionally a holiday that gives people a once-a-year license to let loose, can become threatening, especially for women and in large crowds. Harmless play can suddenly turn to violence, and many people opt to stay indoors, as I found myself doing instinctively when I hid under the bed as a young girl. But while there’s always a fine line between joyful abandon and dangerous loss of control, every society needs its rites of Spring. To echo today’s greeting from an old classmate of mine on Facebook, I wish everyone a happy, colorful and safe Holi!

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85. St. Nicholas’ Day

As children, no matter where in the world we were living, on December the 6^th—St. Nicholas’ Day—we always put our Christmas lists in one of our shoes. In the morning the lists would be gone, and there would be candy in the shoes. There was always the mild threat that if we had been bad children we would find coal in them, but that never happened.

I don’t know where the custom came from, since I doubt if it was a tradition in our mother’s family and it certainly wasn’t in our father’s. I don’t remember whether we put the list out on the eve or the night of St. Nicholas’ Day; we didn’t quite know who  St. Nicholas was, although we assumed that he was Father Christmas. But once our lists had been accepted, the magical Christmas season officially began.

After that day we were not to ask for or get anything for ourselves, only for others. It’s strange how firmly that idea is fixed in my head, yet I don’t remember anyone ever telling me as much explicitly. Another unwritten rule was that it was only after December the 6^th that we could start singing Christmas carols (just as after January 6^th, Twelfth Night, we had to stop singing them).

On December 6^th in 1963, while we were in England preparing to leave for India, Auntie Bette took us down to the West End of London to see the Christmas lights. Those were the early years of the West End lights, in the days before before austerity measures and the energy crisis forced them to be severely cut back, even stopped for a time, and all the big department stores on Oxford Street had extravagant displays inside and out. I remember Selfridges in particular, which had turned a whole floor, it seemed, into Santa’s workshop, a wonderland full of mechanical yet completely lifelike elves each working on a toy, with everything beautifully crafted down to the finest details.

In India we sent out our Christmas cards and waited for cards to arrive—from England, mostly—treasuring each one and keeping a running count of how many we had received. To this day I count our cards and give each one a special pride of place, though the numbers have been dwindling in recent years. My father used to make our Christmas cards every year, since in the 1960s cards of any kind in India were hard to come by. (Hard to believe, with the Hallmark-ization of Indian society since the Nineties.) I remember one year when he made a particularly spectacular set, using colored Sellotape, each one a unique stained glass window depicting a different Christmas scene. I wish we still had one of those cards.

The tree was something that went up on Christmas Eve and stayed up for all twelve days of Christmas. It was only in America that we started getting our tree earlier in December. In Greece in the early Sixties Christmas was not such a big celebration (New Year’s Day being the focus of the Holiday), so trees were not available until just before Christmas. My lasting memory of the Christmas season in Athens is of the little boys caroling at our door, their clear high voices accompanied by the tinkling of triangles. They had a small repertoire of traditional carols, of which I remember only Simera ta Fota and Kalin Esperan Arxontes.

In those days we used to have candles on our tree, not electric lights. One evening when my mother, sister, and I were at the dinner table the tree caught alight. In panic, my mother leapt up, heaved up the barrel of retsina, the cheap and plentiful Greek wine, that was in the other corner of the dining room, and poured it all over the tree. Unfortunately, the alcohol only made it blaze all the merrier. By the time Dad got home from work Mum had  managed to put the fire out, but he was furious to find all the retsina gone.

In India there were no pine trees, at least not in Kharagpur, but there was a row of tall Casuarinas somewhere on the IIT campus. One year Dad climbed one of them—illegally, no doubt—and brought home a huge branch as our Christmas tree. He put it up on Christmas Eve and in the morning it had been magically transformed, decorated and artfully covered with snow made from cotton wool. That year a mysterious parcel had arrived from Auntie Angy in England, and on Christmas morning there was a small white boot on the tree edged with bright red. Father Christmas, it seemed, had accidentally left his boot behind while he was decorating the tree. We still have that boot in our Christmas decorations and I put it on the tree every year.

It was a big deal for Father Christmas to make the commitment to honor our Christmas requests, because in many cases he had to make them himself. One year I asked for a doll’s house, and another year, stilts, neither of which would have been available in Pujara’s general store in Kharagpur. But on Christmas morning there was a large model house under the tree, fully furnished, with every detail lovingly hand-crafted; and the next year, an ingeniously designed pair of wooden stilts with adjustable height settings. From the sounds I had heard as I lay there sleepless on Christmas Eve, it seemed that my parents were providing some material assistance to Father Christmas for some of the finishing touches on his handiwork.

I carried on the St. Nicholas tradition with Nikhil and he wrote a polite note to Santa every year in his meticulous handwriting, careful not to be too greedy. Like us, he never got any coal in his shoe, either, although one year it was ominously smudged with black on the inside, along with the candy. Proving its authenticity, the candy in Nikhil’s shoe was always exotic, with no recognizable brand names on it. No Universal Price Codes at the North Pole!

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84. Feasting or Fasting?

First National Day of Mourning (photo courtesy of Norah Dooley)

November 26^th, 1970 was a Thursday, and we had the day off school. Having just immigrated to Massachusetts a few months before, I didn’t know anything about this American holiday and my family didn’t have any particular plans. So when friends invited me to go down to Plymouth with them for a protest in solidarity with the local Native Americans, I was game. It was to be a day of fasting, I was told, and I was fine with that, too.

A group of our high-school friends drove down from Brookline: Norah, Andrew, me, and I don’t remember who else. Arriving at the seaside, we joined a small but spirited group of Indians and a few non-Indian supporters gathered in a straggly circle. Speeches were made, from which I gathered that the story told about Thanksgiving was a myth and a lie, and that for the Native people of this country, it was more properly a day of mourning than of celebration. They had welcomed the strangers with food and material assistance and had been repaid with betrayal and genocide. Plymouth Rock was not a national monument but a national disgrace,  and we would now proceed there to symbolically express our sorrow and anger.

I had never heard of either Plymouth Rock or the Mayflower before that day, but I joined the group in throwing handfuls of sand on the little rock in its metal pen, and then followed the crowd as it surged onto the ship—or a replica of the ship, as I learned much later. Surprisingly, I don’t remember any police presence whatsoever; perhaps the action was so unexpected that no overtime detail had been dispatched, especially at a time when the officers would all have been home feasting with their families. In any case, after the protestors had milled about on the deck for a time, venting righteous anger on the life-sized Pilgrim mannequins on board, it was decided to return peacefully to the shore, which we did without incident, and then dispersed.

My memory of the rest of that bleak November day is hazy. You can read Akim Reinhardt’s account,  Taking Back Plymouth Rock, on 3QuarksDaily and another on the website of the United American Indians of New England. Before returning home, we visited Plimoth Plantation, which, strangely enough, was almost deserted. The staff, all dressed in period outfits, were preparing to re-enact the first Thanksgiving by roasting a whole deer—or a replica of a deer, I can’t recall which.

I have now lived in the United States for more than 40 years and, despite everything, have found myself entering into the spirit of this uniquely American holiday. This year we have not one but two gatherings scheduled, with my parents on the Thursday and with my in-laws the day after. But I feel a pang as I read of UAINE’s plans to mark the 41^st National Day of Mourning. If I weren’t the one cooking on Thursday, November 25^th, I would gladly slip away from the feasting to fast, as I did on my very first Thanksgiving in this brave new world.

uaine.org photo by nicole s

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