False Evidence Appearing Real!

I read somewhere once that FEAR stands for “False Evidence Appearing Real”. I have to agree with that, in retrospect, that is. But when you are lyin5815_1120864313051_1570352424_30303811_4547419_sg on your bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding at the very thought of that awful thing you fear so much, the evidence you dig up from the recesses of your mind seem anything but false…. You know what I mean, right?

I have a 2 year old daughter. I should stop right here, and let you make the obvious connections with FEAR, and fear in general. But, I love to talk about my fears, and so I will.

When Debbie was born, she was barely 5.5lb, tiny and fragile, her wail almost a squeak. Now, although she is still tiny for her age (only 22lb when she should be 27lb, and I get my share of flack about it from busybodies of all descriptions. In my defense I would like to state, both my doctor and this website claim this is quite normal.), she is growing up to be a source of admiration, jaw-dropping disbelief, and pure joy for my husband and me, every moment!

She is a lovely, delightful little girl! She runs around making shrieking noises when I try to make her eat food. She throws a healthy tantrum (the habit isn’t, but the gusto of the display certainly is!) when she is refused ANYTHING, yes, even the flames on the stove burner (?!?!?!) She sings non-stop (ie. When she is not shrieking or throwing a tantrum). In fact she can sing the entire alphabet song, even the last bit (“Now I know my ABCs…etc.), a couple of rhymes, can count till 10 in a random order (!), and recite a couple of Bible verses… *I’m on a roll here, aren’t I… ;-]… and you say “Mmhmm…keep going…”* She cries VERY LOUDLY (seriously, that is how it sounds, my eardrums are not whs1570352424_30095973_8304at they used to be…) Sigh…, loves books, and dotes on her big brown teddy bear. She is healthy and happy. She is surprisingly intelligent and insightful for a 2-year-old, and did I say she loves books…oh yeah, if she is very quiet and you don’t hear shattering glass, she is definitely poring over a book. There is no need to worry, no need to lie awake at night wondering about the future. If we do our best, everything will turn out just fine.

However, and you mommies will surely understand, I sometimes have these fears… Will she grow up into a healthy adult, or will she inherit any of my health conditions problems? How will she stand up to a bully in school? Will she be able to cope with the harder lessons in school? Will she maintain good (if not excellent) scores throughout her student career? Will I be able to guide her well through her adolescent years? Heck, will she let me?? Will she meet the right guy? Will she love him? Will he love her long enough (‘long enough’ read ‘forever’…) Will she achieve all her dreams? Will she love me when she grows up? *Aside: Will she love me more than her Dad…* Aaaarrrrgghhh! Come to think about it, these are all Worries. I worry about her a lot, and which mother doesn’t.

And these worries turn into fears, slowly but surely. Looking around at the world, I do not receive much consolation either. Relationships of any kind are not what they used to be. Even in a relatively conservative country like India, divorce rates are creeping up the ladder, families are becoming more dysfunctional everywhere, psychos are created at every street corner (False Evidence or not, it is creepy!), educational systems losing quality, and the list is endless. Of course, there is any number of good things in a society that can influence a child: a good family, good friends, the church (or any religious institution), good teachers, true ‘soul-mate’ kind of love, and lots more.

But it all depends on the choices that my child makes. Will she let the bad influence her, or will she take in only good influences. As parents, we can guide her, but (I hate this part) we can’t make the choices for her. Sometimes, these fears make us let go of the Trust Factor and lay down absurd rules that curb the normal growth of a child. There really is a thin line between caring and controlling. So, you lay down the ground rules, teach your child everything they need to know, set a good example, and expose them to a loving and caring environment…. And wait. You Wait… to see how your child turns out…How do we do that? How did our parents do it? And what will my little girl be like when she is an adult? What kind of a woman, wife, mother, and human being will she be?

Now, tell me, how can I not let False Evidence Appearing Real creep up on me every night?

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This is my entry for the Write-Away Contest for the month of October, over at Scribbit – A Blog About Motherhood in Alaska.

The Finish Line

I have never run many races in my life so far, whether rat or otherwise. So I do not have any ‘record-breaking’ memories to choose from when I think of a finish line. What comes to mind, though, is a ‘Rabbit Race’ we kids ran, back when we were in grade three, and the world was a rainbow. Apparently, I was on the other (more rainy) side of the mountain…whatever.

Anyway, our teacher, a wonderfully sweet lady with a beautiful singing voice gave us our instructions to run the race (but not in the form of a song). She should have sung it, maybe then everyone would have listened….I digress.

Anyway, during rehearsals (yeah, we used to have dry runs, many, in fact), the teacher said that little containers of mango juice (my favorite kind) would be placed on chairs at the start line and each one of us (dressed as rabbits – rabbit ears made from pink chart paper, socks on our palms for paws, and socks on our feet for, well, rabbit feet..duh), had to drink up all, she said All… the juice as fast as we can, and run (no, hop) to the finish line. Sure, that’s easy, right?

Anyway, (Gosh, I sound like Ellen Degeneres), the big day arrived, and we lined up for the race, every little girl with paper ears, sock paws and hopping rabbit feet. Our teacher blew the whistle and everyone hopped to the juice containers, picked them up, started sipping (so far so good), and…dropped the containers and ran….Hey wait! You guys are supposed to Finish the drink, and then run. I was following instructions and the others were finishing the race… where do I come from, anyway, gaaawd! No prizes for guessing what position I finished in at that race. My mom still has a picture of me at that race – lopsided rabbit rabbit ears covering half an eye, drink in hand, and a “What The…” expression on my face!

I look at the winners of that race now, and I wonder if they still have the head start – cool jobs, cooler hairdos, parties, pets, apartments and travel photos – while I try to not to burn breakfast, then force-feed it to my daughter Debbie, and get to work on time.

And then I turn around and look at her toothy grin and the love in her eyes, and I think, well, Mama Rabbit’s going to sip this one in, moment by moment, before the next race catches up… We got time to sip the juices, smell the roses …. The finish line can wait.

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This is my entry to the “WriteAway” contest over at Scribbit for the month of January, 2009. Check out the contest and give it a go. She has great prizes every time around!

Help Me…I Am Wonder Woman

India is a land of wonder women – women born with the sound of their mothers whispering into their ears about the nobleness of sacrifice and compromise, of forgetting one’s own comfort and living for one’s husband, children, in-laws relatives, family and society. The Indian woman grows up thinking she exists for the very convenience of those around her. My Indian sisters who disagree with me are either painfully naïve or are part of the uppermost echelons of society that miraculously believe in equality of the sexes. For those on the lower rungs of the ladder, equality is a luxury they can’t afford.

At the lowest rung of this ladder made up of miserable women, are the ‘manual scavengers’, their very classification a testimony to the detestable prejudice of the caste system that they are victims of. Women forced to collect human excreta from dry latrines in order to earn a few rupees which will buy their children food.

Mahatma Gandhi, that revered man who has posthumously progressed to the greatness of a god, called them the ‘harijans’ – people of ‘hari’ or god. What he called them showed what he really thought of them – untouchables. ‘Achooth’ – a word that, perhaps, has its roots in the very upper caste Mahatma’s own prejudices. Yet, I am only speculating.

He, and many others after him, stressed on better brooms, gloves, and baskets for these people, but no one spoke of letting them move into another profession. Nobody spoke about doing away with this horror, and making people responsible for their own mess. That, anyway, is a trait that seems hard to find in most human beings nowadays.

For the wonder woman, as I prefer to call her, all this discussion is just a stale stench of political hot air strategically performed before the elections. She will always have toilets to clean and money to earn.

15 years after the government banned manual scavenging [Employment of Manual Scavengers and Construction of Dry Latrines (Prohibition) Act No. 46, 1993], these wonder women, found mostly in small towns and rural areas, have not seen one paise of the government grants that were supposedly set aside for them. Although Rs. 473.80 crore was spent in the name of rehabilitation between 1992 and 1998, only 13.9% of identified workers were trained and only 29.7% rehabilitated.

When interviewed they have appalling stories to relate – how they do not have water to wash their hands in summer, how the rains are even worse because the waste is wet and gets all over their clothes, how they can barely look at food let alone eat it, how they grow thin and waste away due to lack of food, how their children pick up all kinds of diseases and they cannot afford the medical help. Alcoholism is rampant, understandably, because only hard core booze could render them numb enough to do this task. Their children do not go to school. Their girl children tag along with their mothers and eventually take over when their mothers fall prey to rape, death, or disease.

In recent years, though, some of these people are realizing that they do not have to stay this way. They seek help from organizations like the Navsarjan Trust, Janodayam in Chennai, Sulabh International, Garima Abhiyan of Jan Sahas in Madhya Pradhesh, and the Safai Karamchari Andholan in Andhra Pradhesh. According to the last mentioned organization, there are over 13 lakh safai karamcharis (another word for people who clean human waste) cleaning toilets all over India. Of them, 95% are dalits and 80% women. The Ministry of Social Justice and empowerment, though, officially announced in 2003 that there are ‘only’ 676,009 safai karamcharis in India. The rest simply slipped through the wide gaps between truth and politics.

These wonder women, fight against such hardships and have a lingering hope in their hearts that some day their life would be different. Atleast, some day the future of their children will be secure. They wonder if it will ever happen. Hope lies heavily on the actions of the organizations that have taken up their cause, and us who read this post and feel at least a tinge of guilt or sense of responsibility.

This is a long and sad post, but the life of the wonder woman cannot accommodate frivolity or fun. Her life is too long and sad. Maybe she is asking you and me, “Can you help me”?

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This post is my entry to the July Write Away Contest over at Scribbit. Have a look here: http://scribbit.blogspot.com/2008/07/julys-write-away-contest.html

Facts and Figures taken from:

http://www.empowerpoor.com/programmereport.asp?report=574

http://www.nowpublic.com/world/indian-women-scavengers-hit-catwalk-un

http://www.hinduonnet.com/fline/fl2318/stories/20060922005601000.htm