Literary Safari

Being around my 7 month old daughter brings out the poetic force in me. I find myself speaking to her in riddles and rhymes and sometimes I feel like I’m living inside a musical because I burst into made up songs and show tunes so many times during the day. I wonder whether other parents feel that way?

Today, I was watching her roll around on her play blanket (which is decorated with stars), and was amazed at how everything around her went into her mouth. I had filled a brass bowl with bracelets for her to play with – silver, metallic, gold, plastic — and all she wanted to do was eat them.

Eating Bangles

She has a sophisticated appetite this little child
Stars, shiny and bright, at breakfast time
Golden bracelets, sparkling in a bunch, just in time for lunch
Pearls, smooth and inlaid in silver, for dinner
Will diamonds be next, I wonder?

It sounds a bit silly, I know, but these are the types of things that I find myself reciting out loud when I speak to her. I seldom write them down but today I just keep thinking about her licking the stars on the blanket, then one by one, picking up each of the bracelets in the bowl and sucking on them as though they were the most delicious thing in the world!

Do you ever find yourself reading one book about a particular topic and then, immediately moving on to another in a similar vein? That has been my experience lately as I find myself on a parenthood books kick. In the case of Michael Lewis’s Home Game: Accidental Lessons in Fatherhood, I have my husband K. to thank for turning me on to it. He sent me an email a few weeks ago with a link, and wrote, “I want to read this book.”

As first-time parents, it starts to get overwhelming to keep reading books such as What to Expect When You’re Expecting, or The Happiest Baby on the Block, or  Secrets of the Baby Whisperer throughout the nine months of pregnancy — books that however well-intentioned can’t help but make you wonder whether you will do the right thing, make the right decisions, be a “good parent.” So much pressure …

Perhaps that is one of the reasons why I so appreciated the frank and comic tone assumed by Michael Lewis in his memoir of fatherhood. A non-fiction author and New York Times journalist best known for his books about baseball, Wall Street, and Silicon Valley innovation, this book is based on his “Dad Again” column in Slate magazine which ran from 2002 to 2008, beginning with the birth of his first daughter and ending with his visit to an operating room for a vasectomy after the birth of his third child, his son Walker.

Lewis makes no pretense to be the model father; one who greets his new role in the world with utter joy and dedication. The book would be a boring tome were he to do so. Rather, through journal style chapters in a book divided into three sections (one for each child), he takes readers through his (sometimes knee jerk) reactions to the arrival of his babies, allowing us to peek into his state of mind (harried, confused, frustrated) and his attempts to figure out the role that no manual can ever fully explain.

One amazon.com review of the book warns that Home Game is a better read for men than women: “Women, or at least my wife, should avoid this book because it does delve into the male mindset enough to make me hide my copy for fear that my she might begin to see some of the absurdities of fatherhood.”

Err, this was not the case with me. My husband read the book on a flight across the pond a few weeks ago and immediately came home and handed it to me. “You have to read this,” he said. He wouldn’t tell me why or what he liked about it, but dropped hints that he saw bits and pieces of me throughout the book and wanted to discuss it when I was done.  Uh-oh, I thought … was this a good thing or a bad thing? 

In this book, Lewis describes the comic turns and twists of family and married life that parenthood brings. He writes about juggling his writing career with childcare responsibilities (so different than his father’s generation – “Obviously, we’re in the midst of some long unhappy transition between the model of fatherhood as practiced by my father and some ideal model,” he writes), going along with his wife’s desire to enroll their infant in swimming classes in Paris, taking his daughter on a camping trip with this toddler daughter in California, his drunken passing out in the delivery room, the responses of teachers to the way he dresses his preschool-aged daughter, or where he decides not to share cake with his daughters [read an excerpt] in a real, human, and humorous way.

There’s this one scene where Lewis’s wife wakes him up in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes. He asks her why she is crying and she has no explanation, which only confounds him more as he attempts to console her. Sound familiar? There have been numerous occasions over the years where I’ve found myself in tears and K. asks “what’s wrong? what is it?”, well, I have no answer. Then, I can’t understand why he is perplexed!  This is just one of the scenes that made me laugh out loud and scare the squirrels in Riverside Park away!

Another one of my favorite chapters was where Lewis tries to slip back into the work routine after the birth of his second child and quickly learns that he is quickly earning the reputation with his wife as a “neglectful father.” How does he remedy it? He agrees to take his wife and infant to a Baby Brigade movie night where he quickly learns rule # 1 of fatherhood: “If you don’t see what the problem is, you are the problem.” Yes, this may be construed as a fingerpointing exercise at his nagging wife by some readers, but to me, it was also a comical, almost caricaturist depiction of married life that permits parties on each side of the table to better see where the other is coming from.

There are threads of insight and introspection sprinkled throughout the book as Lewis discovers the rules of fatherhood:

If you want to feel the way you’re meant to feel about the new baby, you need to do the grunt work. It’s only in caring for a thing that you become attached to it.

The outside world has a lot to tell you about how to be a father and how to raise your children, and its advice no doubt serves some purpose. It fails, however, to get across with sufficient clarity the final rule of fatherhood: If you’re not bothered by it, or disturbed by it, or messed up from it, you’re probably doing something wrong that will mess up your kids. You’re probably doing something wrong anyway but that’s okay … [you'll have to pick up the book to read the rest of this rule!]   

Read more excerpts from Home Game here and here.

Ben Okri, the award-winning Nigerian author has said, “The fact of storytelling hints at fundamental human unease, hints and human imperfection. Where there is perfection there is no story to tell.” So true this is when it comes to Home Game, which though written from the father’s point of view also creates caricatures of motherhood and women (as seen by husbands) that definitely make us examine our reactions and better understand why men sometimes shake their heads in confusion and wonder. I have a feeling that his experiences will surely stick in my mind in the coming months as we enter the world of first-time parenting, helping us to find the humor in seemingly tragic or overwhelming circumstances. They have also given K. and I many scenarios to consider and discuss and … laugh about as we wait for our new arrival.

In the Washington Post, Amy Joyce compares Home Game to Anne Lamott’s Operating Instructions, which I have yet to read. Maybe that’s the next book that should go on my list–and that I should pass on to K. to read. I’m thinking it will make a good companion read since it comes from a woman’s perspective. I wonder if I will find that to be true.

Jim Rogers was a multi-millionaire investor who could afford to retire and morph into a world traveler before he turned 37, but it took him another 25 years to find the courage to become a father. In the introduction to his latest book, A Gift to My Children: A Father’s Lessons for Life and Investing (Random House, June 2009), the best-selling author of Hot Commodities and Adventure Capitalist writes:

I must admit that not very long ago I would have scoffed at even the idea of having children of my own. Growing up in Alabama, I was the oldest of five boys, and much as I loved my brothers, I spent an awful lot of time looking after them! Alas, I couldn’t help but notice what a financial burden having five children had imposed on my parents no mater how keen they were on us. Later in life, I was too busy working and traveling even to think about parenthood, which seemed like an endless drain on the time, energy, and money with which I was pursuing my passions.  …

In his latest book, Rogers takes a break from writing about his travel escapades or providing tips on the best places to invest your money, instead distilling his life experiences into a book of advice for his two daughters, five-year old Happy and Bee, who was born in 2008.  Becoming a father at the age of 62, when he had the “experience, time, and energy” allowed Rogers to take on his new role with “passion” inspired him to put down his life lessons “in one place, with examples of[his] own experience, as a guide to life, adventure, and investing” with perhaps cliché sounding chapter titles such as:

Swim Your Own Races: Do Not Let Others Do Your Thinking for You
Focus on What You Like
Common Sense? Not So Common
Let the World Be a Part of Your Perspective
Learn Philosophy: Learn to “Think”
Learn History!
Learn Languages
Recognize Change and Embrace It
Look to the Future!

But there are surprises and interesting twists along the way, such as Rogers advice to his children that they learn Mandarin (“It is the century of China!”, understand the significance of the BRIC nations (“focus investment strategies on growing economies abroad”), experience the world’s diversity (“I urge you to leave your country for a few years. You can always return, but you will have a new understanding. Of everything.”), or even something as simple as the importance of saving (“As you get older, you will probably have friends who eat at expensive restaurants every night, buy the latest gadgets or fashion trends, and spend vacations at fancy beach resorts. You must avoid the trap of spending money willynilly simply because you can. Not only is this a road to financial ruin, it can cause you to forget what’s important in life.”)

I picked this book up at the library a couple of days ago, and both my husband and I got through most of it the same evening. There’s something about the combination of sentimentality, practicality, and utilitarianism, plus a down to earth approach to living an authentic life, that appealed to both of us — not just as tips that we hope to someday pass on to our soon-to-be daughter, but also as advice we could apply to our own lives.

One gets the feeling that Rogers sat down to compose this thoughts and sentiments for his two treasures with the knowledge that there is no certainty that he may be around when they are in their twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties  … to be able to tell them all this himself. As someone whose father passed away when I was 27, but who was very much a world traveler, a wise investor, a reader, an explorer, and an adventurer, Rogers’ perspective was the perfect father’s day gift that fell into my lap.

This is part of an ongoing series that I recently started here, “Flex Your Writing Muscles,” (installment 1) where I take a writing prompt and work it, knead it, pound it … and see what emerges out of it.

In this case, my prompt was to begin with the words “When I was [insert age]” and to write about a memory of that age. I actually started this prompt a year ago, around Diwali, at my desk at work in between tasks. I’ve been playing with it for a while and finally made a small breakthrough today.

The Times of Diwali

Diwali in Bombay

When I was seven
We drove along Marine Drive
My face pressed
Against the grimy glass
Of the bumpy taxi
In my lap a gift-wrapped box
Of store bought jalebis
Sticky orange
Sugary sweet
Circles of delight
Topped with edible aluminum foil

(more…)

“What are you doing for Diwali?” Ask that question of most members of my family and the first response will be “cleaning!” That’s right. There’s one very important thing that my mom and grandmothers taught me that we must do on the Hindu festival of lights: Clean the house.

When I was a kid, for weeks preceding Diwali, I would watch as ladders were pulled out so that those faraway storage spots could be investigated and dusted clear of cobwebs, drawers were emptied and wiped clean of every speck of dust, closets were emptied and old clothes given away, and the windows of my father’s and uncles shops were polished like new.

It was only then that we could break out the new clothes, the diyas (earthen clay lamps) and the sugary treats. Then, of course, was my favorite part – the opportunity to switch on every single light in the house. I mean, every *single* light, from the tiniest desk lamp to the dining room chandelier! There was never any talk of the electricity bill on Diwali and this “lights on” attitude lasted for three whole days.

I’m sitting here today watching the sunset and about to switch on all the lights at home and it’s striking me how fitting it is that Diwali arrives at this time of year, just when our days are getting shorter and darkness is creeping upon us earlier each day. More than anything else, I suppose Diwali brings with it the metaphorical reminder that even if we are surrounded by darkness, we do still hold the power to …. switch on our individual | inner | personal lights!

I just got back from my cousin’s wedding in India. Though the past month has been light on the blogging, in my defense I’ve been working real hard on some work projects and … an intense yet fun photobook project using the print on demand site Lulu.

I was a bit unsure about which book creator to use when I got started, so I experimented with photo book sites such as mypublisher, kodak gallery, and a new one called inkubook. At the end of the day, Lulu offered me a supereasy interface that required no additional downloads, the option to use licensed stock images from Getty for a very reasonable fee, and a range of attractive templates that allow for long blocks of text … so I went with it, even though its major shortcoming is that it doesn’t load very easily on India connections (so my cousins there couldn’t participate in the bookbuilding project).

The final product was gorgeous. Glossy paper. High definition images. And solid binding. All for the price of $46, including shipping (and delivery within less than a week).

My first self-created picture book. I look forward to more. Here’s a picture of the happy couple when they received the gift.

On Father’s Day, I offer up a short tribute to my Papa (1947-2001), a short piece I originally began in response to NPR’s “This I Believe” call for essays.

One day, soon after my father was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, I placed a blank notebook in front of him. “Papa,” I said, “Do you want to write together?”

We sat down at the beige marble table in our dining room and wrote for 20 minutes. We used Claire Fontaine notebooks, made in France. Their smooth Gingham covers and blank pages, which I had discovered at a crammed West Village stationary shop soon after Papa’s diagnosis, ached to be pressed with a pen.

I began a fictional account of my grandfather’s first journey from India to Ghana in 1932. Papa about how he was rescued from a fire when he was an infant and me about my grandfather’s migration from India to Ghana in 1932. Afterwards, we read our words to each other.

In that half hour, I felt closer to my father than ever before.

I hoped Papa would initiate another writing session with me, but he did not. I kept filling up one Claire Fontaine notebook after another anyway. My words ran quickly across the lines, rubbing shoulders with big, fat tears. When they met on the page, they bled into each other—as if to let me know that it wasn’t what I was writing that mattered so much as the fact that I was writing at all. Each word that poured out of me was a breath—a wish, a prayer, an offering, a release.

My writing had become my life jacket. It was helping me float above the choppy currents surrounding my father’s inevitable decline.

After Papa passed away, I took on the mountainous task of sifting through the papers in his basement home office. There, I found unsent letters to former business partners, stacks of yellow legal pads filled with pages of poetically phrased to-do lists, and a few Claire Fontaine notebooks filled with an almost illegible scrawl. The first page read:

My dear daughter said writing my thoughts every morning is a good thing to do. It opens up the creative impulses in you … So I have started …

A detailed chronicle of my father’s struggle with his illness followed. I flipped to his last entry. Undated, it seemed to have been written a few weeks before he passed away:

It’s 5:30 pm but it’s already dark outside. Fall is here and winter not too far away. Seems the same way with my life. I am in the fall of my life and the winter seems to be around the corner. I wonder if it will be a short winter. …

Writing, I discovered, had also been my father’s buoy when his world seemed to be caving in on him, when he couldn’t breathe anymore.

I am my father’s daughter in more ways than one. Whenever a shadow falls upon my day, I imagine him reaching for his pen during the autumn of his life. That image inspires me to pull out my own notebook and get my pen moving. Writing, I know, will always be my savior and my friend.

A few years ago, I had a beautiful dream about my mother. It spoke volumes to me about everything that she has been to me over the years. Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there who teach their children to fly … and to dream big.
—

“. . .and I awoke and it was true.
I saw everything.
I saw sky of roses, houses of daisies, a tree of orange, a book of apples,
and I loved it all and I lived with it for the rest of my life.”
~ Dick Link, age 8; from Begin Sweet World

The dream sticks to my memory like honey to my fingers. I was flying high with my mother. High in the sky. We wanted to get away from the crowd of relatives trying hard to make plans for us. Sitting on the steps of a rotunda building, the two of us waited patiently as they held boardroom discussions at the foot of the stairs. When you come from an extended family made up of 12 aunts and uncles, and 13 cousins, it is always a project to organize activities, outings and events. This was no different!

Mom and I sat patiently on the steps, our feet crossed at our ankles, as we twiddled our thumbs and watched the mouths move. This was going to take a while, I thought as I leaned back and mentally accepted that fact.

Suddenly, Mom nudged me in my chest and grabbed my arm tightly. She pressed me against her and stood up, pulling me up with her. The next thing I knew, her heels were off the ground and she was jumping up into the air, lifting me up with her. I looked down and realized that we were afloat, two birds rising higher and higher. Unstoppable yeast. We were flying.

(more…)

A current event take on my off-and-on Family Ruminations series. You can read the conversations it generated over at Sepia Mutiny, where this was originally posted.

Representatives from 14 African nations were in New Delhi for the first-ever India-Africa summit, which just ended today. (The India-Africa Summit follows closely on the heels of the China-Africa summit of November 2006.)

Attendees signed off on the Delhi Declaration and the Africa-India Framework for Cooperation, pledging cooperation in the areas of energy, terrorism, climate change and UN Reforms. An informal and equally important outcome: India is looking to play a far more prominent role in Africa’s economic development than China in coming years.

My uncle Gobind is a retired World Bank developmental economist who has served as economic adviser to the government of Ghana. I asked him to share his thoughts on this historic summit.

“While India is less prominent than China in Africa today, both in trade and investments and aid,” he said, “it is more respected than China because of its image, its democracy, its presence in education, industry— especially pharmaceuticals and railways, and IT. There is growing interest in Africa in India, but it is not yet a hot issue, except for mining companies and the new private oil companies like Reliance. India is currently big in Sudan, DRC, Nigeria, Zambia and S. Africa. But it’s increasing its presence everywhere.”

The Emerging Economy report, released yesterday, underlined the role of Indian corporations in driving new technology usage in Africa. From the Earth Times [full story link]:

Chinese corporations have made significant investments in Africa over the past decade. For example, China’s Civil Engineering Construction Corporation is building the $8.3 billion railroad linking Lagos and Kano. However, the Report also points out that Indian entrepreneurs have long enjoyed trading relations in Africa, particularly along the continent’s east coast, running from Kenya down to the tip of South Africa. In the early part of the 20th century Indian engineering and consumer brands were considered as reliable as those coming from Europe. Bilateral trade between India and Africa increased from less than US$ 1 billion in 1991 to over US$ 9 billion in 2005. Today, the Government of India is aiming to achieve a trade turnover of US$ 500 billion by 2010.

My grandfather might be one of those Indian entrepreneurs referred to above. In the 1930s, Dada came to West Africa as apprentice to an Indian trading company. He ended up placing his roots down in Ghana where he opened a chain of movie theaters and imported movies from India and China for a rural audience.

(more…)

I take my duties as an aunt very seriously. Ever since I became a massi (maternal aunt) a year ago, I’ve started reflecting more and more on the important role that my aunts and aunties (the female family friends and mothers of friends) played in my life, both when I was a kid and in many cases, now.

So, I’m not exaggerating when I say that one of my life goals is to be the best massi ever. I can’t help it that I want to be adored and worshiped by my nephew in the same way that I adored and worshiped my aunts (the sisters of my mom and dad who I called tata-French for aunt—or simply by their first names, as in Dipika or Poupee) and aunties (I can never forget the glamorous Auntie Veena in Ghana who baked cheese sticks for our picnic at the Tesano Sports Club in Accra when I was 10) throughout my childhood.

Which is why when I first heard about the UK bestselling tribute to the institution of aunty-dom, The Complete Book of Aunts, by Rupert Christiansen with Beth Brophy, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. It even includes “ten golden rules for aunts”! From the book jacket:

Of all our blood relations, an aunt offers the most potential for uncomplicated friendship. THE COMPLETE BOOK OF AUNTS is an entertaining and touching exploration of aunts in all their guises and varieties, culled from real-life, literary and historical sources.

The book was inspired by a kid’s question to the author: “Why are there aunts?” In response, Christiansen takes a thorough look at the etymology of the word aunt, the many words for it that exist in world languages, and great aunts in (mostly Victorian) literature. He also highlights various aunt types: Bargain Aunts, Mothering Aunts, Damned Bad Aunts, X-Rated Aunts, and Honorary Aunties (think of all the older desi ladies you call ‘auntie’).

Read the rest of this review (and the conversations it generated) over at Sepia Mutiny, where I’m guest blogging this month.

My dad passed away exactly six years and one month ago. Every Christmas Day, I remember the delight and sweetness he brought into my life. Here are some of my favorite memories of him that I thought I’d share as part of my off-and-on again series “Family Ruminations.”

Papa always came home late on Christmas Eve. If my mother, sister, and I didn’t accompany him to Man Plus, the men’s retail clothing store that he owned in Greenwich Village, then he would go alone.In the hustle and bustle of holiday shopping—the biggest sales night of the year—he walked the floor, checking on the salesmen as they skillfully guided harried customers to the perfect last-minute gift.

Papa always stayed at “the store” (as we called it) till it shut its doors. Then he would hand out Christmas bonuses to the salesmen and pop a bottle of wine or champagne with them, sharing in the feel of satisfaction with them.

I think that this was his favorite night of the year. He loved people watching … and there is nothing like people watching in the Village, especially at Christmas time. All sorts of people would pound the pavements in search of that perfect gift. At an urban men’s clothing store that specialized in hip-hop apparel and bling bling two-piece sets, the turnout was even more spectacular. Beautiful men and women armed with handfuls of cash arrived in their silver and black BMW’s and sports cars. Short black men dressed in baggy jeans and large fleece and leather jackets strutted through the door flashing their golden teeth at the women browsing through the racks. Young children held onto the hands of their mothers grumbling, “When can we go Mommy?” while their mothers shifted shirts between their hands asking, “Do you think Daddy will like this or that one?”

On Christmas Eve, Papa would usually leave the shop for a few hours and wander through the of the West Village, going into his favorite stores to pick up gifts for us, his three girls. Over the years, we came to love and look forward to these last-minute shopping excursions.

Balducci’s Market was at the top of his list. Here, he would walk through the packed aisles and pick carefully from the assortment, bringing home a loaf of tomato focaccia chocolate truffles, and of course, French pastries for Mom. Papa loved fine food and there is no more tempting place to be at than Balducci’s at Christmas time, where gift baskets pregnant with fresh baked goods, gourmet fruit and fine chocolate line the aisles and the pavement outside.

The other places on Papa’s list were Barnes and Noble, Bigelow’s Pharmacy, and Le Chateau, the Canadian women’s clothing store. It was also on 8th Street like Man Plus. Here, Papa would buy us our annual presents – pajamas, slippers, socks, gloves, scarves, one of each for each of us. He had wild taste. One year, he bought me blue pajamas decorated with oreo-stuffed clouds, golden stars and animal print poufy slippers. That same year, he bought anjali cloud pajamas. For mom, he always bought beautiful and delicate colors that were warm and comfortable like the knits and sweats that she so likes to wear.

We would laugh when we opened his gifts. They were always hastily wrapped in boxes after we went to bed, our names scrawled on the brown paper packaging in black fine-tip pen and no giver acknowledged.

On Christmas Eve, when we were usually wrapping up with dinner, we would hear the garage door open. “He’s home,” we would laugh as we chewed on our piece of apple or orange. He would stay in the garage for a long time and we knew that he was sorting through his purchases, bringing them into the basement so that he wouldn’t have to go out into the cold later. Then, when he was finished with his transfer of goods, he would walk into the house, empty-handed but for one or two shopping bags, the ones filled with the perishable food items, that is!

A few years before he passed away, he also discovered Carry On Tea and Sympathy, the British food shop on Greenwich Street. The shop reminded Papa of his childhood in Ghana, where all the non-perishable foods they used to buy was imported from the England. Here, he would pick up Christmas crackers, plum pudding, cheese, Cadbury chocolates and hot chocolate mix. On our last Christmas, I went to the store with him and delighted in picking up a large fishnet stocking filled to the brim with all sorts of British candies, including Smarties and Aero chocolate.

After he had finished eating his dinner – which he always ate while telling us funny stories about the store – we would all sit in the family room and watch some TV. We knew though that Christmas Eve was meant to be an early night so that all the presents could appear under the tree early morning. Off we would go to bed so that we could leave Papa Claus to work his magic.

I never saw him at work and each year, I always thought that he would get tired of doing this. But until his physical body gave out and he was unable to, he kept up this tradition, he kept going. On our last Christmas he bought all of us the most beautiful and perfect gifts—Buddha heads for me and my sister, Zen scented candles, and of course, pajamas and bath lotion.

Papa was one of those whimsical shoppers. He always bought us things that we didn’t necessarily have use for but that we would always remember. (more…)

Diwali was a week ago. My cousin in Barcelona just sent me this video clip of the local news coverage of the Indian community’s children’s Diwali program. The kid with the cool blue glasses is Nilesh, my cousin’s son, and I’m proud that he actually knows why the holiday is celebrated.