Cheryl Snell's Blog, page 48
December 25, 2010
Merry Christmas!
Before the ice is in the pools,
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow,
Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!
Emily Dickinson
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow,
Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!
Emily Dickinson
December 23, 2010
Featured!
Another one of my poems written as a response to a prompt on inspiration is featured on She Writes today. Thank you, She Writes!
December 21, 2010
Red Room Rocks, part two
The good folks at Red Room gave my piece Circle Theory a nod this week: "In "Circle Theory," author Cheryl Snell tells of an astounding gesture across cultures to make a daughter-in-law finally feel welcome in her husband's family." Thank you, Red Room!
Inspiration at SheWrites
My response to the SheWrites prompt, "What inspires you to make, or re-make, a book?" is featured, complete with video, on the homepage today. Thanks to Deborah Siegel for the honor!
December 18, 2010
#SampleSunday
For the Twitter experiment Sample Sunday, here is an excerpt from my Amazon Kindle Bestseller (mathematics research), RESCUING RANU:
The motel sprawled at the end of a winding dirt path a mile from the main road. The rickshaw driver had been unwilling to go past the turnoff where the path was pitted and narrow, so Nela walked the last mile, shouldering one burden, the other bumping against her hip. The driver would not have done more than lift the luggage out of the vehicle, although there should be a separate pyune to do that. There wasn't, but this is an imperfect world.
Harnessed by her belongings, Nela walked in flimsy chappals past outhouses and a well. She barely glanced at the landmarks, and idly wondered how clean the well water was. She tried to remember a story about a polluted village well cleansed by a vial of holy water from the Ganges. How did that story end, she tried to recall. The people must all have been poisoned. You can't purify water with other polluted water, or by the wishful thinking known as faith.
She walked past a fence toward the low boxy buildings slumped against one another on smooth loose stones. There were a few barren fruit trees providing little shade. In the distance, the hill flared with fragrant cooking fires, dark, bare figures crouching over them, stirring, stirring. Monkeys occasionally darted from trees and bushes to steal food, scrambling up the trees again with their prizes.
Nela stopped for a moment to slip off her backpack. It was odd to feel her heart beating so fast—she assumed she was in better shape than that! She picked up her luggage, one piece in each hand, and let each go again abruptly. She pulled out the paper with the scribbled numbers and compared them with the ones on the sign above her head. Satisfied she was in the right place, Nela knuckled the door loudly. Chips of paint flaked off. Inside, she heard the fumbling of locks, and several voices hushing each other.
"Hmmm?" The proprietor looked Nela over. A small woman in a paisley sari, she stepped past the door, half-closed it, and faced Nela squarely. She slowly twirled the gold links in her neck chain.
Nela said, "I am in need of a room."
"We have no rooms," Mami lied. For decades, she and her family had had rooms. Tough little men with black mustaches and cunning eyes had managed to keep the business going through political and personal upheavals of all kinds. This woman was only one in a long line of Motel Patels, perhaps not even related by blood. She was probably some pampered son's wife.
She dug her toes in the dirt, flexed them like muscles. Chewing a paan, she waited for Nela to leave, or argue, but Nela did not move. Mami spit out a stream of red juice that had already begun to rot her teeth, barely missing the bags by Nela's feet. Mami stared at the luggage hard, as if they might yield up their contents. Finally she said, "Private quarters in back. I give you girl for cooking food and washing clothes. More rupees, but very good deal! You make a fool of me for such low price!" She pointed to the rundown building on the back of the property. A child with long braids could be seen sweeping the front step with a homemade broom. One of her legs was noticeably shorter than the other. She seemed to know that she was being talked about. Her face flushed and she bit her lips.
Nela considered her options and came to the only conclusion. "Yes, yes. OK," she said. A servant might be useful. She had plenty of experience with them in her childhood. Amma, by example, had taught her how to keep them invisible, to go about the family business as if they weren't there. No distractions, she reminded herself. I have come to work, only.
The girl was clearly even less eager to have company than Nela was, but the hierarchy of power had been slapped into her, and she grudgingly made room for the visitor and her luggage. There was no bed, or bedroom, only a pallet on the floor, a basin, and a wardrobe made of treated cardboard. Four wire hangers hung from a rod inside the doors. A table big enough to write on, a dry place to stack books, and a lamp that could be made bright enough so that Nela would not damage her eyes, finished the spare surroundings. Nela was home, but not home. The village where she had grown up sprawled just across the river. It could make no claims on her with its suffocating embrace, its links of diluted shared DNA. So close to a place where everyone was auntie or uncle, it was good to be alone. Alone, it was possible for her to breathe.
The girl had teetered off with her own things to the sleeping porch off the bedroom. She must be used to being shoved from one corner to another. There were cheap pictures of Ganesh on the walls, but what obstacles could he possibly remove in the little girl's life? She had been born into a situation she could not get out of, except possibly through marriage. Nela listened to the child's uneven steps as she moved around the porch, and realized that marriage was not an option, either. The imperfection of her legs sealed her fate in this community. At least she would be spared something.
She had come in again. Nela watched her grab the heavy suitcase and heave it into the wardrobe. There was no point in either helping her or stopping her from doing her job. The child had purpose, and pride in her ability to earn her keep. Nela allowed the suitcase to be put away, but would not relinquish her backpack. She sat with it on her lap, hugged it like a child. When the girl held out her hands for it, she had the look of an impatient parent on her smooth face.
Nela shook her head. It was not the usual ambiguous waggle. It was a definite no, but the girl grabbed the handle anyway, and tugged hard. Nela pulled back, standing up to force the girl to let go. She did. But when she let the handle go, it was Nela who stumbled backward. The girl, with no trace of a smile, either victorious or apologetic, offered her hand to the sprawled woman.
On her way up from the floor, Nela took in a few more details. The girl was about ten years old, her underfed frame stretched on bones lengthening fast. She had high cheekbones and guarded eyes. Dressed in a plain cotton sari frayed at the hem, her only adornment was a thin gold chain, so thin that from a distance it looked like a few grains of sand sprinkled her clavicles. Her thick black hair had a blue sheen, and Nela could tell that it was heavy. It had been plaited too tightly into braids that hung thick as limbs just behind her ears. They probably gave her a headache she was so used to, that she never noticed it. Who braided her hair, anyway? What was she doing in Kerala? Did she have people? They should want more for her than this.
Nela sat back down in the chair, bag still in her lap, and pointed to the other chair. The girl took it obediently. Nela unzipped the bag and pulled out the long yellow pads of paper, the pens and pencils, her worn copy of the Gita. She laid them all out on the table, looking for a reaction. The girl seemed unimpressed. Nothing glittered, nothing gleamed. Nela asked, in Malyalam, "Can you read?" She flipped open a page, ran her finger down the margin. The girl patted the pad as if it were a pet, then shook her head and backed away. "Don't be afraid," Nela smiled. "The words can't hurt you. Do you know your numbers?" The girl nodded. Of course she did, it was probably up to her to haggle over prices at the market. She must have learned to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, at a young age.
A game the young Ramanajun had played with his schoolmates, his "magic squares," might appeal to the girl, Nela thought, and so she pulled out a blank sheet of paper, scored it with three columns, and wrote numbers in each square. The columns added up to the same number in all directions. The girl caught on fast, and laughed with delight. She wanted to try it, too. Nela pushed the paper and pencil toward her. "What is your name?" she asked.
"I am Ranu," the girl said.
The motel sprawled at the end of a winding dirt path a mile from the main road. The rickshaw driver had been unwilling to go past the turnoff where the path was pitted and narrow, so Nela walked the last mile, shouldering one burden, the other bumping against her hip. The driver would not have done more than lift the luggage out of the vehicle, although there should be a separate pyune to do that. There wasn't, but this is an imperfect world.
Harnessed by her belongings, Nela walked in flimsy chappals past outhouses and a well. She barely glanced at the landmarks, and idly wondered how clean the well water was. She tried to remember a story about a polluted village well cleansed by a vial of holy water from the Ganges. How did that story end, she tried to recall. The people must all have been poisoned. You can't purify water with other polluted water, or by the wishful thinking known as faith.
She walked past a fence toward the low boxy buildings slumped against one another on smooth loose stones. There were a few barren fruit trees providing little shade. In the distance, the hill flared with fragrant cooking fires, dark, bare figures crouching over them, stirring, stirring. Monkeys occasionally darted from trees and bushes to steal food, scrambling up the trees again with their prizes.
Nela stopped for a moment to slip off her backpack. It was odd to feel her heart beating so fast—she assumed she was in better shape than that! She picked up her luggage, one piece in each hand, and let each go again abruptly. She pulled out the paper with the scribbled numbers and compared them with the ones on the sign above her head. Satisfied she was in the right place, Nela knuckled the door loudly. Chips of paint flaked off. Inside, she heard the fumbling of locks, and several voices hushing each other.
"Hmmm?" The proprietor looked Nela over. A small woman in a paisley sari, she stepped past the door, half-closed it, and faced Nela squarely. She slowly twirled the gold links in her neck chain.
Nela said, "I am in need of a room."
"We have no rooms," Mami lied. For decades, she and her family had had rooms. Tough little men with black mustaches and cunning eyes had managed to keep the business going through political and personal upheavals of all kinds. This woman was only one in a long line of Motel Patels, perhaps not even related by blood. She was probably some pampered son's wife.
She dug her toes in the dirt, flexed them like muscles. Chewing a paan, she waited for Nela to leave, or argue, but Nela did not move. Mami spit out a stream of red juice that had already begun to rot her teeth, barely missing the bags by Nela's feet. Mami stared at the luggage hard, as if they might yield up their contents. Finally she said, "Private quarters in back. I give you girl for cooking food and washing clothes. More rupees, but very good deal! You make a fool of me for such low price!" She pointed to the rundown building on the back of the property. A child with long braids could be seen sweeping the front step with a homemade broom. One of her legs was noticeably shorter than the other. She seemed to know that she was being talked about. Her face flushed and she bit her lips.
Nela considered her options and came to the only conclusion. "Yes, yes. OK," she said. A servant might be useful. She had plenty of experience with them in her childhood. Amma, by example, had taught her how to keep them invisible, to go about the family business as if they weren't there. No distractions, she reminded herself. I have come to work, only.
The girl was clearly even less eager to have company than Nela was, but the hierarchy of power had been slapped into her, and she grudgingly made room for the visitor and her luggage. There was no bed, or bedroom, only a pallet on the floor, a basin, and a wardrobe made of treated cardboard. Four wire hangers hung from a rod inside the doors. A table big enough to write on, a dry place to stack books, and a lamp that could be made bright enough so that Nela would not damage her eyes, finished the spare surroundings. Nela was home, but not home. The village where she had grown up sprawled just across the river. It could make no claims on her with its suffocating embrace, its links of diluted shared DNA. So close to a place where everyone was auntie or uncle, it was good to be alone. Alone, it was possible for her to breathe.
The girl had teetered off with her own things to the sleeping porch off the bedroom. She must be used to being shoved from one corner to another. There were cheap pictures of Ganesh on the walls, but what obstacles could he possibly remove in the little girl's life? She had been born into a situation she could not get out of, except possibly through marriage. Nela listened to the child's uneven steps as she moved around the porch, and realized that marriage was not an option, either. The imperfection of her legs sealed her fate in this community. At least she would be spared something.
She had come in again. Nela watched her grab the heavy suitcase and heave it into the wardrobe. There was no point in either helping her or stopping her from doing her job. The child had purpose, and pride in her ability to earn her keep. Nela allowed the suitcase to be put away, but would not relinquish her backpack. She sat with it on her lap, hugged it like a child. When the girl held out her hands for it, she had the look of an impatient parent on her smooth face.
Nela shook her head. It was not the usual ambiguous waggle. It was a definite no, but the girl grabbed the handle anyway, and tugged hard. Nela pulled back, standing up to force the girl to let go. She did. But when she let the handle go, it was Nela who stumbled backward. The girl, with no trace of a smile, either victorious or apologetic, offered her hand to the sprawled woman.
On her way up from the floor, Nela took in a few more details. The girl was about ten years old, her underfed frame stretched on bones lengthening fast. She had high cheekbones and guarded eyes. Dressed in a plain cotton sari frayed at the hem, her only adornment was a thin gold chain, so thin that from a distance it looked like a few grains of sand sprinkled her clavicles. Her thick black hair had a blue sheen, and Nela could tell that it was heavy. It had been plaited too tightly into braids that hung thick as limbs just behind her ears. They probably gave her a headache she was so used to, that she never noticed it. Who braided her hair, anyway? What was she doing in Kerala? Did she have people? They should want more for her than this.
Nela sat back down in the chair, bag still in her lap, and pointed to the other chair. The girl took it obediently. Nela unzipped the bag and pulled out the long yellow pads of paper, the pens and pencils, her worn copy of the Gita. She laid them all out on the table, looking for a reaction. The girl seemed unimpressed. Nothing glittered, nothing gleamed. Nela asked, in Malyalam, "Can you read?" She flipped open a page, ran her finger down the margin. The girl patted the pad as if it were a pet, then shook her head and backed away. "Don't be afraid," Nela smiled. "The words can't hurt you. Do you know your numbers?" The girl nodded. Of course she did, it was probably up to her to haggle over prices at the market. She must have learned to add, subtract, multiply, and divide, at a young age.
A game the young Ramanajun had played with his schoolmates, his "magic squares," might appeal to the girl, Nela thought, and so she pulled out a blank sheet of paper, scored it with three columns, and wrote numbers in each square. The columns added up to the same number in all directions. The girl caught on fast, and laughed with delight. She wanted to try it, too. Nela pushed the paper and pencil toward her. "What is your name?" she asked.
"I am Ranu," the girl said.
Light
I could never figure out why Mom loved Christmas. Dad died on a Christmas Eve. Mom's father left her mother at Christmas, and Dad's dad was found dead in his home on Christmas, surrounded by his cats, if you catch my drift.
After so much loss, I started referring to Christmas as Xmas. Mother didn't much care for that, but for me, Christmases were at best brief moments of red and green shorting out wasteland winters. I vowed that once I was on my own, I'd ignore them. Who knew that Mom would start campaigning every August for me to spend the holiday with her? She made Christmases that were works of art, and I found myself rubbernecking, drawn to them like disaster.
One year, Mom suffered a stroke. The doctor said, "You'll hear from this later." No I won't. We all thought everything would change – but nothing could diminish Mom's delight in Christmas. That year it was contagious. We joined hands and danced around the blinking tree, singing carols with ad-libbed lyrics. I pretended it was not a one-time deal.
Mom began to lose things -- keys, money, sense of direction. Soon there was no driving. No cooking. She couldn't keep track of relatives' relationships to her or to one another. You look familiar was all she would give me. Her appetite began to play hide and seek, then disappeared entirely. Dwindling, she got on the scale and announced, "I lost a hundred pounds!"
This year, although she can no longer wrap them, she wants to deliver gifts to long dead relatives in another country. She wants to celebrate the holiday with her parents, on the farm in where she spent her first eleven years. "Dad chops down the biggest tree he can find," she tells me as we decorate our fake one. "Mum decorates it with ropes of popcorn and cranberries." I keep on winding lights around artificial branches. A moment before she had been crying because she couldn't remember how to do that.
She sits with vacant eyes in the chair facing the tree. I plug in the lights and nothing happens. I ask her why the hell does she love Christmas so much. No answer. I busy myself with testing the bulbs one by one.
She begins to rock in her chair. There's no telling what, or if, she's thinking now. "Dad fastens candles to the branches. When he sets them on fire, they burn and burn." She comes out with all this in a singalong voice, and I want to chime in, but these are not my memories. Perhaps they are not even hers, but the ghost of a fantasized childhood. "The flames were dangerous, but you never saw such beauty! It was enough to take your breath away."
Her face tilts up toward the memory, and I have to turn away. I try the extension cord one more time, and the room comes alive with the light of so many extinguished stars.
After so much loss, I started referring to Christmas as Xmas. Mother didn't much care for that, but for me, Christmases were at best brief moments of red and green shorting out wasteland winters. I vowed that once I was on my own, I'd ignore them. Who knew that Mom would start campaigning every August for me to spend the holiday with her? She made Christmases that were works of art, and I found myself rubbernecking, drawn to them like disaster.
One year, Mom suffered a stroke. The doctor said, "You'll hear from this later." No I won't. We all thought everything would change – but nothing could diminish Mom's delight in Christmas. That year it was contagious. We joined hands and danced around the blinking tree, singing carols with ad-libbed lyrics. I pretended it was not a one-time deal.
Mom began to lose things -- keys, money, sense of direction. Soon there was no driving. No cooking. She couldn't keep track of relatives' relationships to her or to one another. You look familiar was all she would give me. Her appetite began to play hide and seek, then disappeared entirely. Dwindling, she got on the scale and announced, "I lost a hundred pounds!"
This year, although she can no longer wrap them, she wants to deliver gifts to long dead relatives in another country. She wants to celebrate the holiday with her parents, on the farm in where she spent her first eleven years. "Dad chops down the biggest tree he can find," she tells me as we decorate our fake one. "Mum decorates it with ropes of popcorn and cranberries." I keep on winding lights around artificial branches. A moment before she had been crying because she couldn't remember how to do that.
She sits with vacant eyes in the chair facing the tree. I plug in the lights and nothing happens. I ask her why the hell does she love Christmas so much. No answer. I busy myself with testing the bulbs one by one.
She begins to rock in her chair. There's no telling what, or if, she's thinking now. "Dad fastens candles to the branches. When he sets them on fire, they burn and burn." She comes out with all this in a singalong voice, and I want to chime in, but these are not my memories. Perhaps they are not even hers, but the ghost of a fantasized childhood. "The flames were dangerous, but you never saw such beauty! It was enough to take your breath away."
Her face tilts up toward the memory, and I have to turn away. I try the extension cord one more time, and the room comes alive with the light of so many extinguished stars.
December 17, 2010
The Gift
I may be Episcopalian but I have a soft spot for Lord Ganesh. I like the idea that a gentle elephant god should be Remover of Obstacles. He's a good problem-solver, too: when charged with circling the universe, he walked around his parents, saying they were all his worlds.
One morning, after fifteen years of marriage, I opened the first gift my mother-in-law had ever given me. I tore into the package - hope over experience, I guess. I drew out the long gold chain from a carved teak box, and uttered a sound like speech, but wasn't. My husband said, "Mother melted down her marriage bangles to have this necklace made for you." Her blessing, hard won but fully given.
For years I had been considered an interloper, taking what did not belong to me. Family members not yet born at the time of the family shame absorbed it, and confronted my husband and me with it years later. "Amma will never accept!" a niece only recently informed me. Memes perpetuate.
My head was suddenly filled with the noise of cultures clashing, and the gold links weighted with family history began to slide from my hand. It was then that I saw the tiny vermillion Ganesh emerge from the metal. A mantra moved through my brain: Vakrathunda Mahaakaaya Suryakoti Samaprabha Nirvignam Gurumaydeva Sarvakaryeshu Sarvada.
Obstacles removed, I slipped the necklace over my head and kissed it like a Catholic.
One morning, after fifteen years of marriage, I opened the first gift my mother-in-law had ever given me. I tore into the package - hope over experience, I guess. I drew out the long gold chain from a carved teak box, and uttered a sound like speech, but wasn't. My husband said, "Mother melted down her marriage bangles to have this necklace made for you." Her blessing, hard won but fully given.
For years I had been considered an interloper, taking what did not belong to me. Family members not yet born at the time of the family shame absorbed it, and confronted my husband and me with it years later. "Amma will never accept!" a niece only recently informed me. Memes perpetuate.
My head was suddenly filled with the noise of cultures clashing, and the gold links weighted with family history began to slide from my hand. It was then that I saw the tiny vermillion Ganesh emerge from the metal. A mantra moved through my brain: Vakrathunda Mahaakaaya Suryakoti Samaprabha Nirvignam Gurumaydeva Sarvakaryeshu Sarvada.
Obstacles removed, I slipped the necklace over my head and kissed it like a Catholic.
December 16, 2010
Red Room Rocks
Thanks to Red Room for mentioning my entry into last week's blog contest on the subject of "Compass". Here is how they describe my story: Cheryl Snell's rather epic and partially epistolary tale of cross-cultural family misunderstanding. Where will you fall when "East Meets West: Bad Blood." 
December 15, 2010
Kindle Bestseller List
The Kindle version of my novel Rescuing Ranu is at #10 in the mathematics research category on Amazon! Check it out before it moves...
