How do we discuss our bodies?

The other day I read a beautiful, heartfelt article on how we should talk to our daughters about their bodies. The gist of it was to NOT talk about it. At all. That we shouldn't make any comment about it- good or bad. That we should praise them instead for inner traits that have nothing to do with their physique. While after the first read I cheered the powerful message, after some thought I don't think I fully agree with the proposition that the best way to address body image issues in girls is to avoid discussing their bodies altogether. 

In a world where fat-shaming, skinny-shaming, peer pressure, cyber bullying, and eating disorders don't exist, the above tactic would probably work really well. Maybe then we could create a society from scratch where bodies are mere vessels for gentle souls and curious minds. But it isn't. The reality is that even if we don't mention a single word about their body at home, our kids/younger siblings/cousins are probably going to hear about it in their playground/school/college/THE INTERNET. On one side they are told that they should be concerned about how they look and on the other they don't even have an avenue to talk about it because it seems unimportant to their parents. What do they do when they get these conflicting messages? What do they do when someone they like doesn't find them physically attractive? Who do they talk to? Which ideas will ultimately stick with them and inform their outlook and decisions regarding their body? 

I often think about how I will raise my daughters and sons (if I ever have any) and how I'll approach this delicate topic. But how can I do anything neutrally when I myself am riddled with the after effects of years of being told that my skin/my curves/my shoulders/ my height are not right/not enough/not perfect? Maybe what I should have heard more of-as an impressionable child, as an awkward, approval-seeking teen- was that I am more than enough, just as I am. That my body deserves my love and care in every stage of its growth, degeneration, and regrowth. That yes, there will be people who will tell you that your smile is wonky or that your hands are too big or that you have too many crows feet around your eyes, but they are ignorant people that aren't worth your time or space or peace of mind. That you need to love yourself on your skinny days and your bloated days and the in-between days. That your worth does not lie in the width or your hips or the curve of your breasts, so you love them in whatever sizes they come. That there might be people who are attracted to you and there might be those who are not, but the important thing is to always- always- know that you are more than what others think of you. That in bodies there is no abnormal- that upper lip peach fuzz is okay, the thigh gap is okay, no thigh gap is also okay, wrinkles are okay, grey hair is okay. That these 'imperfections' are what being a real human is about. That life is beautiful precisely because of all the colours and shapes and sizes. That you are okay and loved and wanted- not because of your body, not inspite of it, but with it, as a part of what makes you YOU.

Maybe once I learn and internalise these lessons above, I'll be able to teach my kids a thing or two. What say you?

The Connector in Our Midst

Yesterday I met one of my father's Airforce course mates. If you meet them both, you'd be surprised at how they ever got along. They are just polar opposites in their personalities. My dad is the kind who gets restless after spending just one day bound to home. He's the happiest when he is travelling and meeting family and friends. Jacob uncle, on the other hand, would rather stay home and read a book or watch a documentary. Yet they have been close friends for more than 30 years. Longer than I have been alive. 

Last year my parents had a mini-vacation in Singapore. In those three days my dad managed to get two of his friends who are settled there but hadn't met each other for years, to come for lunch. In that short time, he made two people get in touch again. 

This has been the case for most of the people my father has invited into his life. He nurtures his friendships and relations meticulously, ensuring he is always there for them. And they are there for him too. At my wedding, dad's friends outnumbered my friends by a HUGE margin.

I have wondered often how he does that. Mostly because I can't network at the scale he operates on. I see it as real, consistent, hard work. But, over time, I think I have come to understand how he does it. 

Years ago I read a book by Malcolm Gladwell called 'Tipping Point'. While I was too young to appreciate the wisdom and ideas in the book, somethings did stay with me, like the three archetypes of people- Connectors, Mavens, and Salesmen. Connectors are the ones who, obviously, connect. They are the links between social groups. The ones you turn to when you want to get introduced to someone. They are the 'social glue' that hold different circles together. 

No points for guessing what my dad is. He is a born connector. Which translates into- Shereef and I having one of his college course mates as our local guardian while we studied in Malaysia. That when we go on trips we usually have at least one person he knows in that city. That we have access to knowledge from a wide range of industries. That even after marriage, and moving to Saudi Arabia (of all places), I have one of my dad's friends living just 15 minutes away from my house.

Dad obviously wants his connector talents to be passed on to his children. Unfortunately, I think it has rubbed off only on Shereef so far. Bilal and I still need to put considerable effort in widening our circles. While I do get annoyed at times because of the pressure by dad to meet more people, keep in touch, and build bridges for other people to meet, I think that ultimately my life has been richer for it. I have my father to thank for my incredibly diverse friend circle. And more than that my mother who has made it possible for my father to be this way by opening our home and hearts to family and friends to come and stay. She has been the gracious host to dad's endless last minute parties. She has embraced his family as hers. Even the connector needs that one person he can come back to, and that's my mother. 

Here's to my parents, An odd, odd couple who have somehow made it work against all odds and brought to life three quirky children on the way. Thank you. heart emoticon

The Umbilical Cord

The umbilical cord
Once cut
Dangles
From the navel
Till it dries into
Forgotten anatomy
Unless you were born
Into a label
The Umbilical Cord then
Bleeds and never leaves as
It ties you to your mother,
her mother, your foremothers
and stretches to reveal
the outlines of pain
engraved on your backs and
the blood on your bones
So when other mothers feed
their unborn what they need,
the Othered Mothers seek
inherited deeds to teach their child
the skill of unravelling Umbilical Cords 
morphed into nooses
that kill you by the inch.

The child,
born as a footnote to a
history of oppression that spills,
unchecked, into the present,
isn’t afforded the privilege of forgetting
his roots unless he demands
a hand to escape his pre-dug grave,
an opportunity to become human again;
Then it's his duty to discount the rusty chains
shackled to his ankles,
to ignore the dusty cords that hang
his shadows every day
With rage and centuries of hate
‘It’s no great news’ they say,
Till the day,
forced to accept the noose
wound around his neck,
constricting each breath,
choking lungs labeled by ancient men,
the one born in the margins
turns a headline in death.

The Big Little Things

Once upon a time, in a far away land, lived a people who did not care for the Little Things. They cared so little for the Little Things that soon the not-so-little things became mere Little Things too. One may wonder what took up all their attention, so much so that they stopped caring for the poor Little Things. Well, it was the Big Things- much much bigger-happening in lands across the sea. If that wasn’t enough to divert the attention, some among them would walk around with seals in their hands and mark others’ foreheads with bright red labels that read ‘NOT US’. Then another group made a different seal in neon green that said ‘ANTI NOT US’. Soon they declared that those without a seal need to be hunted down as they don’t belong anywhere, hence proving dangerous. So they squabbled on, over these Big Things- the happenings of far away lands and If not that then the color coded seals they’d invented just a few days back. 

The Big Things took so much of their time that one day the Little Things decided they couldn’t take it anymore and slowly faded out of their lives. The people didn’t notice it on the first day. Neither the second. Then on the third day they realized something was amiss. 

The wife did not smile at her husband through her sleepy eyes, neither did he turn to cuddle her. The husband did not smell the fresh coffee brewing in the kitchen. The kids did not come running to squeeze them in a warm hug. The neighbor didn’t say hello in the elevator, gone was the friendly smile. The roses in the garden were as perky as ever but had no scent whatsoever. The sky was clear but the sun didn’t shine. The breeze refused to play with the hair. The birds went about their business without chirping their songs. The trees stood proud, offering no shade. And just like that the world had lost all its colour and smell and flavor. 

While the men and women were busy debating, disrupting, and deconstructing the Big Things, the Little Things had slowly stepped away. The Little Things took with them all the hues that make the rainbow stretch and all the notes that made music just yesterday and all the joy that made life worth living everyday. And the people? They never truly learned how to live without the Little Things, so they invented Bigger Things to make the Big Things seem Little. 

The End.

The House

The House was a spectacular sight. Even in the yellowed photo I carried around, it stood tall and proud, reveling in its own grandeur. No one knew for sure how old it was. At the last count, five generations of family had lived and died there, each leaving a mark only my grandmother could tell. 

Each night before my eyes grew heavy with sleep, she would stroke my head on her lap and tell me The House was alive, that it grew when youth was unwillingly handed down before each generation folded into itself. It was true, because as its dwellers multiplied, The House stretched till each person found his place. With babies new rooms were born, the rooms expanded when the elders died, and eventually the kitchen and bathrooms were invited inside. 

I still see it, The House. In my dreams the coconut trees dance with the wind, and branches from the twin mango trees settle on the brick roof. I hear the mangoes falling on the roof with a loud thud, rolling down the sloped roof, and the cheers erupting when one of the children deftly catches the juicy prize. I smell the raw mangoes being pickled in the kitchen; I see the red chilies spread out to dry out under the scorching midday sun; I hear my grandma chasing me away when I venture too close to the well in the backyard. And I don’t want the dream to end. 

The House was kind to its inhabitants, but each generation was less grateful than the previous one. My grandma was the last of its protectors, so they waited for her to die to dissect The House. But she didn’t die; she chose to fade in front of our eyes. It wasn’t sudden, but I still remember the shock as it hit me that she was now half her size. Old age reached her legs first. They would refuse to cooperate when she wanted to walk. She wasn’t very stubborn and let them have their way. The regret set in only after her legs forgot to walk, but by then it was too late. 

She prided herself on her ability to retrieve dates and names and numbers at any given time. Ask her ‘Velliamma when was Rafi mama born?’ and you could see her eyes light up as she prepared to dive deep into the recesses of her mind to grab a date which was now a pearl in a hidden oyster that lay under so many other memories that she’d rather forget. But she would still emerge, memory soaked, a smile on her face and the date in her open palm. 

As the years settled into the wrinkles around her now toothless smile, memory became murkier. ‘Grandma what’s Khadeeja ammayi’s first born’s name?’, and she’d ask back ‘Who’s Khadeeja?’. Soon the answers didn’t match the questions and it wasn’t long before blankness engulfed her and she was a shell a step away from crumbling into nothingness. 

Before they could tear apart The House, a faraway King’s sprained ankle triggered war and our family bore the battle scars. Rebels and loyalists that came from the same womb now couldn’t share the same roof. Since my father, the youngest one, had returned to his Lord, my mother and I were disposable. 

Years later my mother told my children, stroking their heads on her lap, that the house had lived through floods, droughts, and centuries of nature's fury, but it couldn’t survive its own children who tore it down. 

When we were told to leave, I ran to the attic while my mother fell on their feet, begging them to let us be. I climbed up the creaky wooden stairs and dug out the photo album buried under the dust carpet that hid stories of the many lives lived in The House. And before my uncle barged in and dragged me out by my hair, I stole a single picture of the only place I called home.

A Train Ride Across India

Would you like to accompany me on a train ride from Jabalpur to Bangalore? A journey from central India to South India?

Here's the soundtrack to our journey. Plug your earphones in and listen as you travel with me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sK7riqg2mr4

Come with me. Come prepared though. Take your sweaters, jackets, mufflers, gloves. It’s 6.30 am and Jabalpur is very cold now, around 6 degree Celsius. In the station you will see men huddling together for warmth. Some will be walking around with bedsheets tightly wrapped around their head and shoulders, like human burritos. Listen to the announcements in Hindi and English telling you where your train awaits. Walk across the length of the crowded platform to get to your coach. Get in, get comfortable. Maybe order some tea and warm your bones.

Your neighbours are an elderly couple going to visit their son in Bangalore. They are kindly looking; the gentleman, a retired Hindi professor, will remind you of your grandfather and the woman will give you warm smiles. Make sure you talk to them. Also near you is a large, boisterous north Indian family that has come laden with food. An assortment of children referred to as chintu, bintu, munnu etc. will be beckoned from their daydreams and threatened and cajoled till they eat breakfast. Chintu, Bintu, and Munnu will resume their play, ignoring their parents’ glares and threats. 

The train will whistle to let you know the journey has begun. You are in an AC compartment so your view outside is unhindered while no one can see you from the outside. The train is picking up speed now. The buildings merge into one another and soon you leave them behind. Now you are travelling through plane lands. As you go further you see wheat and maize fields on both sides. Wide stretches of land with a tiny hut in the middle, it’s probably where the farmer lives. It’s still foggy. You cross a river where the mist seems to be reaching out to the sky from the water, rising like smoke. You marvel the carpet of fog that rests so peacefully on the land, twirling around trees, at times pierced by the sunlight streaming through the leaves. Your reverie is interrupted by a vendor peddling steaming ginger and masala tea. Another man walks by selling hot samosas that you try not to buy. 

Just when you are about to order breakfast, another set of neighbours- an army family known to your uncle- offer you a meal of homemade idlis and chutney. The sun is now up and you look out to see you are passing a tiny village with hay stacked outside the huts, goats tethered to trees, cows lazing near small ponds, and tractors readied to start the day's work. The train crosses a bridge and when you look down you see the dry river bed with just puddles of water here and there. 

Everyone’s had their breakfast now. All feet are up on the berths now. The lady starts to knit. She tells you its a sweater for herself. Mainly a way to kill time in this long journey. The other passengers have drifted off to sleep now. You go over a river again. This time a stunning one with shimmering water. The water flowing smoothly only to crash on some stray rocks, then bubble over. Framed by trees leaning in on both sides, the river is such a sight to behold that you almost flip your phone out to capture it. But you know it will never be as beautiful as your eyes see it now, in this moment. So you enjoy what's left of it before the train whisks you to another sight.

What's in a name?

What's in a name?", asked a lovestruck Juliet. If she was Indian she would have said "Lot's in a name. tatabyebye." 

Dear friends, a name is not just a name. My mother will be first to attest to this fact. Mom's name is..wait for it.....Fathimathu Nazeera Begum Sherule. No, it's not a sentence, it's her full name. And she still hasn't come to terms with the consequences of this novel of a name. For one, filling her name in forms is a pain. The columns for letters will run out but her name won't end. So we are held back- in airports, banks, offices...waiting for the name to conclude. 

Secondly, since there are so many names to choose from, my mom uses different ones for different purposes. So her FB name is Nazeera Faz, her official name is Fathimathu Nazeera Begum Sherule. Her family and friends call her Nadeera. In school she was known as Nasira. It's so confusing now that she chooses her name according to her mood, trying out different permutations and combinations till she hits the right one. Often you'll catch her asking us which name she has used for which purpose. Now she says her name is causing an identity crisis...

My mammima was named Asiyamma, a name she didn't find fashionable enough after her marriage to a doctor, So was the case with Fathima's grandma. So these two Asiyammas decided to shed their old, unfashionable names and take on a 'hep' one- Ayesha. This was way before any records made names permanent, people could change names like coats. And so Kasaragod lost two Asiyammas and gained two Ayeshas. 

This dislike for one's own name skipped a generation and reached Fathima's sister, Sehar. Toddler Sehar disliked her name so much that she went around introducing herself as 'Blossom' (courtesy powerpuff girls) to everyone. One day her mother was asked about the wellbeing of a certain blossom by a neighbour. Poor thing was unaware of her own daughter's alias. 

It's not just the given names that cause grief though. Some names can be bestowed to you without your approval. My mother remembers a man from her childhood, the village gossip, who was fondly called 'Aakashavaani' (Indian equivalent of BBC Radio) much to his chagrin. Then there is modalaynde Aysinja (Crocodile Ayesha). I expected a grand story of a lady bravely fighting off a crocodile, but turns out it's just that Crocodile Ayesha's husband once skinned a crocodile. So he was named modala (crocodile), and she became the crocodile's wife. Thalekatt (Turban) earned his name because of his permanent headgear. And the village rage machine who went about fighting with everyone was simply called 'Ladai' (fight), probably making him even more pissed.

My mother also tells me there exist some scientific sex changing names in Kasaragod. Parents that had only female offspring and wanted a boy would name their last born girl "Pakkerchee". Similarly, families with only boys that wanted a girl would name their last born 'Baduan'. The idea is to name your poor child the worst possible name so that the next child is of the opposite sex. 

But there are aspirational names too! For instance, in Punjab, where soldiers are considered sons of the land and pride of the family, we have kids named Kernel Singhs (Colonel Singh) and Major Singhs. There is famous a story of a certain sergeant who was named Major Singh. Whenever officers asked his name it would cause quite some confusion as they didn't know if they should or shouldn't salute him....
You also have Happy Singhs, Lucky Singhs (no Happy Go Lucky Sings though) and a certain Yo Yo Honey Singh. In Kerala we have Sundari (beautiful girl), Sughunan (the one with all the good qualities), and the best one-Sreemathi (Mrs). I guess Sreemati sighed a sigh of relief after her marriage...

Considering all this name induced drama, I am glad my parents named me a simple 'Nazreen Fazal'. If possible, I'll give my children even shorter names. But since Ameen has been going on about naming our son (if we ever have one) Cassius Clay or Mike Tyson, I'lll probably have to act real quick.