Ipsita Banerjee's Blog, page 9

A: Apple Pie #AtoZChallenge

What better dessert to start this year's A to Z Blogging Challenge with, than a good hearty apple pie?
When I got married, more than twenty years ago, I was an okay cook, which meant I could rustle up a meal and it wouldn't be a total disaster.
As I started cooking and experimenting, I realised I enjoyed cooking, I specially liked experimenting and making 'new' things. So somehow, word got around and my in-laws began to think I was a pretty good cook.
Well, I cannot say it made me unhappy, but it also posed a challenge.
Once, my mother and father in law were coming over for dinner. I was cooking and decided dessert was a must. But I was lousy with sweet dishes, in fact I did not make any.
Then I remembered Baba liked apple pie. So apple pie it was. There was no internet those days, no Pinterest to point me to the right direction. So I turned to my trusty and reliable Betty Crocker Cookbook (more about that later) and there it was, simple and easy.

Did I say easy?
Oh the chopped apples and adding cinnamon and nutmeg and salt was simple. What had me was the pastry. I must have wasted a good bit of butter and flour that day. But ultimately I got it right. And there is nothing that delights a cook like a well turned out pastry.  I confess I only lined the top of the dish that first time, but it was enough to have me rated up there in my father-in-laws books! And later a lot of my friends have confessed that it is the pastry that flummoxes them. So here it is, the pastry recipe (and method) I follow, as 'borrowed' from Betty Crocker along with my own two bits. It has not failed me yet! And yes, it can be used for quiches too!

Pastry Dough Recipe:
·         1 cup all-purpose flour·         1/2 tsp salt·         1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon shortening·         2 to 3 tbsp cold waterHow to Make Pastry in 3 Simple Steps

Step 1: Mixing:
·         Use two knives and this technique: holding a knife in each hand with blades almost touching, move knives back and forth in opposite directions in a parallel cutting motion. The side of a fork works too.·         Mix only until all ingredients are worked in. If you overwork pastry dough, it’ll become tough. This is where I went wrong. Don't knead it like your life depends on it! ·         For easier rolling, after you’ve made the pastry dough and shaped it to a flattened round, wrap it tightly in muslin cloth and refrigerate for at least 45 minutes or overnight.Step 2: Rolling
·         Anchor a pastry cloth or kitchen towel around a large cutting board (at least 12 x 12 inches) Rub flour into the rolling pin and on the cloth on the board. If you don’t have a large cutting board rub flour on the rolling pin and your kitchen countertop, that works too. Remember go easy on the flour, you don't want too much flour to work itself into the pastry. ·         Place pastry dough on the flat surface and start rolling from the center out, lifting and turning pastry occasionally to keep it from sticking. If the pastry begins to stick, rub more flour, a little at a time, on the flat surface and rolling pin.Step 3: Placing 
·         Fold pastry into fourths (gently), and place it in the pie plate with the point in the center of the plate. Unfold and gently ease into plate, being careful not to stretch pastry, which will cause it to shrink when baked.·         Instead of folding pastry, you can also roll pastry loosely around rolling pin and transfer to pie plate. Unroll pastry and ease into plate. I have seen others do this and it worked but somehow every time I have tried this myself, I have failed.  
Go on,try it if you haven't. Let me know how it goes!  

April A to Z Challenge: THEME REVEAL 2017

This year sped by real fast... its almost April already and time for the theme reveal!
In fact I missed the date (yes, I'm a bit late) and got to thinking about it and found that some things have changed. On the A2Z website, in my life... you know how it is. For a while, I thought I'd skip it this year... one should stop at three, they say and this is going to be my fourth consecutive one.
But then again, I thought, why not push myself a bit? 

So, after much thought, this year my theme is: DESSERTS.

I know. Some of you who know me may wonder.
As I often say, I am not a sweet person.
But since I am pushing it, why not just go an extra length and write on something OUTSIDE my comfort zone?
So there it is. Desserts.
Of course my blog comes with the usual disclaimer. I am not a food blogger or an expert. I just like tinkering about in the kitchen and my posts may carry recipes but will also be about memories and stories associated with the dishes.
Do you have a sweet tooth?
See you in April then!

Exam-time. Dealing with Distractions.

A few years ago on one of our vacations we ran into one of our colleagues who was travelling with his children. As we were staying in the same hotel, inevitably, we met up over drinks and dinner. During one of these conversations, we were informed that they did not have a TV connection. No one in the house watched TV so that their daughter (and son) had no distractions and could concentrate on their studies and other co-curricular activites. In fact, the children (the daughter is the same age as mine and the son is a bit younger) did not have any TV habits. They did not care if the hotel room had TV and had no idea what "Suits" were. They did not cry because the hottest guy died on some hospital show or grieve that the other guy was gay. What could I say? I looked at this man aghast and refused to meet my husband's eye. Another notch on my "failure" belt! Whatever happened to the good old baby sitter at home? I remember days when there was no maid and I turned on the TV and plonked the kids in front of it just so I could get some work done! The maids came and went, the TV programs changed, Teletubbies became Bob the Builder who grew into the Winx Club to Pikachu and Raichu and Someothershitchu and finally evolved into pretty adult serials like "the Fosters" and "two and Half Men", so much so that sometimes when I am passing through the living room , I have to cover my ears!!! So in reality, when I complain that my children are glued to the TV and have roots growing out of their backsides into the sofa in the living room, it is actually my fault. I am the one who taught them to watch TV.  It is something I admit to, rather guiltily. True, I personally do not watch much TV, but I have been known to watch movies on occasion and have even sometimes devoured "Spooks" and "The Game of Thrones"!!!  So can you imagine my consternation at this parent? I retreated guiltily, certain I had ruined my children's lives. My husband tried to start a discussion on the topic but I successfully pretended to be asleep. Later the discussion was much watered down and I muttered something about "not practical" and "too late". But can you imagine the pile of stress I was under? Much later, quite recently, in fact, one day I was talking to my girls. I was, as usual, hyper-ventilating about the fact that they do not study enough and have too many distractions. As on earlier numerous occasions, I confiscated their phones and removed the digital card from the TV. Let me clarify, when I am angry, "distractions" include the TV, the DVD player, the computer, the lap-top, the cell phone, Whattsapp, any other app or game they are using, the land-line where their friends continually call, the MacDonald's App, the i-Pad, gazing out of the window, chatting with cousins/friends/relatives/grandmothers/me and any other school activity not designed for academic pursuit! I was pretty certain they would not  get into any college of their choice as they would they fail to produce the cut-off marks and amount to nothing. "And I will NOT marry you off just because you have nothing better to do," I ended with a flourish! For once my daughters did not react. We did not end up in a slanging match with doors banging and tears falling. In any case I suspect they imitate me and laugh behind my back when I am not around. They started talking to me. Yes, they understood. Yes, there were distractions. But did I think that  removal of the distraction would make them study? "In fact," said the younger one, "why would I study if I knew I would get punished anyway? When you take these away I want to study even less." I still haven't seen her logic. But yes, I remember another girl, about thirty odd years ago. Another girl who did not bother to study just because no matter what she did she was not considered "good enough" by a parent. In my mind I can still hear that rebellious teenager as she sobbed into her pillow, feel her rage as she felt frustrated and thwarted …. by the growing-up pangs. I often wish I could reach out to that teen-ager I was, wish I could soothe her and tell her that everything was going to work out just fine and she never had to look at others to measure her self-worth, but I can't. That child had to grow up and learn alone. Just as my children do. I can only walk with them for a while, I cannot live their lives. I have stopped removing the distractions since then. The younger one who has her ICSE next month and is currently undergoing the rigors of her Rehearsal exams can be seen studying at her desk. Her phone is next to her and sometimes I hear giggles and notes read out loud. While eating, she watches some TV. But she also sits up late into the night with her book next to her, she makes notes and uses a high-lighter pen to mark through her books. Frankly speaking, if you ask me, I am mortified. She is studying, true, but is that good enough? I won't know until her results come through but at least I can see she is trying. This is more that I can say about her a month ago. The older one herself surrendered her phone to me a month before her ICSE last year. "Too distracting," she said. She has her Class XI finals next month and keeps telling me she has to do well in the exams. I tell her that just saying she has to do well does not translate into good results, she has to work at it and she gives me a cold stare and says she knows! I have seen her studying now and then, her phone remains with her and she continues to exchange voice notes with her friends! (BTW this voice note thing is the latest craze. First she records a voice note. Then she listens to it on repeat till you want to scream. Then she makes you listen to it and tell her if she sounds happy or sad or serious and she actually expects a reaction…. I tell you, madness!!!)
Anyway, coming back to where I was. What works for one child may not work for one. I've said it before, each child is unique and different… each has his or her own way of dealing with life. What may be a distraction for one may be a life support system for another.How do we know what's best? We don't. It's up to us to decide when and how to let go. When to trust our gut instincts and let them follow theirs. The rest, as they say, is up to them and what the stars have in store.
Let me end my tirade here today with best wishes for the exam season: may your days and nights be stress-free and happy. I know, many parents need it more than the children! 

Many moons, many memories.

Last night I dreamed I went to Murari Pukur again (that's so Rebecca-ish, I know). A luxury resort had been built and within the pond, right at the middle was an intricate swimming pool which had to be reached by arched foot bridges. There was another huge square pool on the other side, covered by a mosaic tiled canopy, it stood shimmering in the light. The house was back, only the front façade was covered in white and the current owner assured me that they were working on building ornate dining rooms out there. The rooms were cottages looking onto the pond, I asked the owner if I could swim in the pond and he was shocked that I wanted to, "it is so deep and such a long distance!" From memory I know that pond cannot have been more than 50 meters in length. At one time I could take a deep breath and dive in on one end and come out at the other, gasping and pretending I was some super sleuth in training. The lawns were neatly manicured and cut, plants carefully planted. None of those flowers and wild-grass jostling for space as I last remember it. Young Frangipani trees strategically added to the luxurious feel and I found myself marvelling at it all and wondering if the planner had imagined it a trifle better than I had. Yes, at one time, in my youth and brimming enthusiasm, I had told my father that what he should do is turn the place into a resort. He had sighed and turned away, smiling. I wonder if he knew, then, that Murari Pukur would be lost to me one day. Just as he would disentangle my fingers from the crook of his elbow and walk on ahead leaving me struggling to catch up….I think of the old days a lot, those warm sun-kissed days, those lazy unstructured evenings, those long nights of balmy silence interspersed by giggles and secrets shared between friends. Is it likely that my dream may have been triggered by the visit of two such sisters recently? Possible. They dropped by one day  and we met after years. Years that melted away quicker than the ice-cubes in our glasses of orange squash from the summers of yore. They brought back memories not quite forgotten but hidden in recesses of my mind. Or was the dream triggered by the fact that over the last two days I have packed up all of my late father-in-law's clothes into carton boxes that now sit in the living room waiting to be given away to charity? As I took out those suits and jackets I remembered laughing with him, visiting places together, holidays as a family and conversations that now echo only in my mind. That blue striped shirt he loved, that jacket we bought together, that sweater he said kept him as warm as a bear, that shawl we got him from Kashmir… it was all I could do to stop crying and carry on. And at the end of the day, I think that's all we have. The warm snapshots faded at the edges of days gone by, of friends we laughed with, the joyous music lifting our spirits even when it is cold and the wind blows outside. Everything is magical: the scoldings from our elders, the lectures of that Uncle we all secretly despised, the histrionics of that fat aunty we all loved to hate and would imitate with a pillow stuffed down our front! The other day someone asked me what I wanted for myself for Christmas. I could not think of a thing; I am fortunate, I do not need any more clothes or sarees or shoes or even books. I'd rather spend money on an evening out with people I love than buy another handful of possessions I do not need. (Actually to be honest, the only thing I still like to buy are books, there are endless worlds awaiting and those fascinate me more than any new piece of clothing or accessory ever could!) So what I am saying here is nothing I haven't said before and nothing new. Let's make memories. Let's just meet up, find friends we never stayed in touch with, catch up with people who have moved out of our lives, get closer to the people we care about and spend our energy on the things we want to do, not the ones we HAVE to. Memories are all we take with us when we go and all we really leave behind when we are gone. Because, you know, those clothes will fade and be given away, the jewelry will be stored away in bank lockers, all your possessions will gather dust somewhere, even the house you so lovingly built may lie vacant and locked… what you will leave is a smile at a shared memory, a laugh at a sudden thought, a spoken word about something you said or did and that is how you will stay alive, even after you are gone.
Life is too short and impetuous for much else. 

Why I should not be writing about Parenting!

It's been a busy few weeks. One daughter developed respiratory distress and had to be hospitalised for three nights, she has only just been allowed back to school. No, she does not have asthma. But with all the dust and pollution around, are you really surprised? Her pediatrician and pulmologist think it was caused by a bacterial infection. The other one has been suffering for a few months with pain in the joints of the wrists and fingers. Initially we thought it was a ruse to avoid writing, but she seemed to be in agony so over the past four months we have repeatedly been visiting doctors in succession: a pediatrician, an endocrinologist and a pediatric rheumatologist. (I have learnt so many big words this year!!)We have done a battery of blood tests and even a nerve Conduction Velocity (NCV) test which entails electric currents being passed through the hand and the doctors are as yet unable to come up with a diagnosis! Today, we shall try Homeopathy. I'm grabbing at straws here. Add to that the usual rigmarole of the wedding season, social obligations, school duties (bake a cake, collect a cake, deliver a cake), filial obligations and daily living. My work has not only taken a back seat but has also probably fallen off the wagon and I have no time to do anything but somehow breathe and stay alive, much less write.In fact I have received a few emails with writing prompts and encouraging words saying that I have not written a blog post for a while and I should.  I have ruthlessly been deleting them all. You see, in all the melodrama  that has been going on, I have had a lot of time to think. And the primary thought that has occupied my mind is that I am NOT qualified to be writing on parenting.Here's why:1.      I am evil: As I have often explained, I am not mummy material. The sight of babies' drool does not send me into a tizzy. I cannot do the ga-ga goo-goo and am likely to do permanent damage on children just by glaring at them. Just the other day at a relative's place, a small boy was being naughty. I guess all small boys (and girls) are like that. We were waiting for the kids to finish eating so the adults could start. This child was sucking on a small plastic water bottle and refusing to eat. I asked him to leave the bottle and eat. He shook his head, no. I asked again. He shook his head more violently. He was sucking on the bottle so hard it was creating a suction. I tapped the bottom of the bottle. The rim must have hit his lip or mouth because the next moment, he had thrown away the bottle and tears flooded his eyes. Thankfully there was no cut or anything and I never meant to hurt the boy. I spent the next half an hour making friends with him and playing with him. My daughters, who were there and watched me trying to soothe the boy with unbridled glee, told me I was evil.2.      My house, my rules: I do not hold back, I tell the girls exactly what I think and why. I tell them when they look like a tree trunk or need to diet. I do not hesitate to let them know that their work lacks depth or sincerity. I have been known to scream at my daughters ( and even their friends) in public or elsewhere if I felt it necessary and I have never hesitated to discipline them or make them apologise for their mistakes. I am told that it is wrong. I have been told that I should sugar-coat my words for fear I may traumatise them but I do not think it necessary. See the cover photo? Yes, that's me in a mask frightening my girls and their friends! When the girls were younger, we often visited my in-laws who lived in another house over and on weekends.  Often, we got late returning and the girls would fall asleep in the car. I used to make them get up and climb the four storey stretch of stairs to reach our apartment. I would walk behind them and prod them to keep them moving up the steps. If I had not, they probably would have fallen asleep on the stairs! My daughters tell me that this has scarred them for life; to this date they cannot climb the stairs (especially at night) without thinking that someone would poke them from behind.3.      I have no maternal feelings: My relationship with my own mother has always been iffy. She came over and helped me when the girls were new-born and I was struggling with diapers and feeding bottles and I am grateful for that but it is only recently that we have mellowed down enough to have an almost civil relationship with each other. Maybe it's because I have now entered my purple years and have come to a stage where I am not bothered by anything anyone says or does and do exactly as I please. But I have never had a role model to look up to or aspire to be. I was, like all mothers, inundated with advice and lectures and after a short span of time realised that I had no patience for it.  So I threw away the guidebook pretty early on.  My brand of parenting is, at best, described as dictatorial. I order, they obey.4.      I have failed: I order they obey. Did I just say that? My daughters do anything but obey. They bend all the rules, they do not listen to a thing I say. They can argue the hind leg off a donkey. Take this example:"Can I watch TV?""Don't you have exams? Go Study.""Please , I have to watch my show"."I said NO, why do you ask if you won't listen?""Only while having dinner""……""Please Ma, only half an hour."After an hour, the TV is still on. One child sits at the dining table chewing a chapati in slow motion. The other is curled up on the sofa, eyes glued to the TV."Why is the TV still on? Didn't you say you would watch only while eating dinner?""I watched when I had my dinner, now Isha didi is having dinner!" 5. I'm an optimist. This is an obvious handicap while raising children in this competitive world. My girls are pretty so-so in studies, they manage to pass. Just about. And sometimes it is not even that. They do not play any games, they are not fond of any sport and generally lead unhealthy, in-active lives spent in front of some screen or the other . It's not that we did not try. We have been through dancing classes, singing classes, roller-skating, squash, piano lessons and what-not together. At the end of the day, you will only find them on the phone or on snap chat and even sending voice notes on Whattsapp. Even though ICSC looms round the corner, my daughter is seen more on Instagram than at her study table. We turn the wi-fi off, they sweet talk my sister-in-law (who stays opposite) to sharing her password. We confiscate their phone, they sneak them out of the cupboard. They lie for each other and cover up for each other except when they are fighting like wild cats. They eat an unhealthy diet of chocolates, chips and shortbread in the middle of the night and wonder why they are putting on weight! Yet I believe in them. I think they will turn into normal, well-adjusted, happy, responsible adults. I still think they will follow their dreams and succeed although there is every indication that they might not even get admission into a college of their choice. Such is the blind optimism I have been cursed with.This is why I have not been writing. This is why I told myself that I should never write a word on parenting ever again. But then I realised that probably there are other mothers like me who go running about with a glazed look in their eyes and wonder if everything they are living for or doing is wrong. All I want to say is that it probably is, but don't worry. As long as you are yourself and doing the best you can, surely, everything will turn out right!

"life is for the living"

"Life is for the living," my father used to say.
I never really understood what he meant.Oh, I was familiar with death. I was never shielded from it and as a young teen, often accompanied my father on his occasional trips to the crematorium or graveyard. Later, on the way home, I would I would bombard him with questions and he would answer the best he could. The rituals baffled me. Sometimes he would also talk about his death. I would be appropriately offended and upset and he would wait for my tirade to be over before he would gently explain that EVERYONE has to go someday. I should get used to the idea, however dismal it sounded.I made peace with that. In my mind, that day was a distant eventuality.I was naive. I never imagined that day would come so early in my life. A day when I was barely an adult in my years and certainly an unruly child in my heart. Predictably, I fell apart. I hung on to my tears for as long as I was home only to cry myself a river as soon as I returned to college. It's a wound that still bleeds at the most unexpected moments, a grief that does not let go.Unfortunately, the date of my father's death also marked my cousin's birthday. For the longest time I refused to wish her. For me the world ended on the 13th of May. Nothing good could happen, nothing shone brightly, no celebration was possible.Two years later, a very close friend got married. On the 13th of May. I think that was when I first really got a taste of what my father meant when he said life was for the living. I attended the wedding, I clearly remember that day. It was a lunch invitation, I was in a borrowed red sari and I drove those ten odd miles like a maniac back from the wedding to my apartment near the Film Institute in tears. I think I felt I had betrayed my father somehow, that I had dared to go out and have fun on what was, obviously, a black day.Looking back, I wish I could hug that young girl once. I wish I could stem her tears and explain that life, truly, is for the living and she had done nothing wrong by living.And my father never went away. I find him everyday, in mundane everyday things, in a phrase someone says, in a song he used to hum, in a blazing sunset, in a starless night, in "a violet by a mossy stone, half hidden from the eye."Some years later, I had another father-figure in my life. My father-in-law. He took it upon himself to be a father to me, considering I had none of my own. I did not welcome it. But he wore me down with his love, his affection, his paternal pride at my achievements, however small. I found myself listening, talking, arguing back, airing my opinions, even bullying him on occasion. I'd like to think that he too found the daughter he had never had in me.I started wishing the cousin on her birthday again. I learned to laugh and live, even on the 13th of May. It was not such a bleak day after all. I could raise a toast to my father and celebrate the years we had together. Life was easier.My father-in-law passed away after a long fifty day battle with a cerebral stroke. As I sat by his side I hurled all my love and angst and frustration and joy at him, in the hope that he would respond, that he would smile at me once again and I would bring him home. On the fifty-first day I did for him what I could not/did not do for my own father: I sat by his side (along with my husband) as he slipped away silently into the good night. It was the 5th of November. Losing a father was bad enough, I always thought. But losing two? I thought I could never smile again.But the years go by. Just as I was writing this I went outside where my husband is passing time flicking through TV channels. A dialogue by Mithun Chakraborty in some random Bengali movie I had watched and laughed at with my father-in-law caught my attention, "marbo ekhane laash porbe shoshane.." I had to laugh and I know he laughs with me somewhere.You see, tomorrow is the 5th of November. I know, like on most Saturdays, I will go to the market. I will buy vegetables and fish and fruits and I will cook for the family. Maybe the menu will verge on food that I know he loved, specially when I made it for him, but it will be a normal day. I will do all my household chores, I will smile and greet people I meet, pass my trademark comments in the bazaar and live my day laughing with my daughters, smiling at the sunlight streaming in the windows and  no one will know that I still miss my fathers. And I still talk to them. Everyday.You see, life, is for the living.(The dead only wait in the wings, for us to call upon when we need them.)

Are we raising insensitive children?

Today, in the Kolkata edition of The Telegraph, I came across a book review of a book called “The Good Indian’s Guide to Queue Jumping” by one V. Raghunathan. It has been published by Harper Collins, a renowned publishing house that is known to be fussy about the titles it publishes. Now I have not read the book (nor can I genuinely say that I want to) and I am certain Harper Collins has its reasons for publishing the book, but what caught my eye was the title of the book: “The Good Indian’s Guide to Queue Jumping.” Seriously?But then it made me stop and think. Let’s face it, queue jumping is a malady that affects us Indians, all the time. Be it at the airport, the check-out line in the grocery store, the entrance to a movie hall, even at the cash counter at the nursing home, we all seem to have been afflicted with a strange case of “I want to be first.” I particularly remember a trip abroad in my teens. While the whole world waited in queue at Heathrow airport, this extra-large family of Indians tried to jump the queue and was firmly put back in place by the grim faced officials. I saw the disgust on their faces. And I saw them looking at all Indians with the same distaste. And I felt sad because I wanted to scream that “No, all Indians are NOT like that!” but no one would care. Times have thankfully changed however, nowadays when you go abroad somehow you will find even Indians lining up, mostly peacefully, some lesson has been learnt over the years, maybe some awareness has come in? However, I have seen this too that the same family that stands in queue everywhere in the world suddenly finds it impossible to stand in line in our own country… does it have something to do with the climate or the air? I wonder. Nowadays, again thankfully, people do speak up when someone breaks a queue. I, in fact very loudly complain. Often I am told, rather condescendingly, “oh, really, the line is there, why YOU go ahead,” as if that solves anything!!! But I am helpless to change anything if the others behind me will not speak up.Are you wondering why I am suddenly ranting about queues today? Or what it has to do with parenting? It’s not just the queue business. It’s basic decency. Holding a door open so that it will not bang on the face of the person right behind you. Driving in your own lane so that the person next to you will not be inconvenienced, listening to music on earphones on a flight, refraining from talking loudly on the phone in a movie hall, keeping the cell phone mute in a theatre, talking softly in a hospital, smiling and saying thank you to the guy who helps you in the supermarket, refraining from littering the street or spitting on the road, saying please to the waiter who is serving you at the restaurant… there are so many things. Somehow we rarely, or never seem to inculcate these.And why? Because the bottom line is that in general we do not care about the convenience/inconvenience of others, we live in utter disregard to the other person, oblivious to their requirements or rights. Yes, we are insensitive. Oh, you’re protesting, are you? I’m glad you are, I’m glad I am irritating you because this needs to change. And who can change this if not us and our children and their children after them? Now it’s all very well for us to tell our children all this, maybe they will listen to you and learn. But you know, experience has taught me children only learn what they see. So the next time you feel like jumping the queue just because you are in a hurry, stop. Your child is learning that it is okay to be selfish and self-centered. The next time your feel like swerving into someone’s lane just to get ahead three feet while completely blocking the car behind that wanted to go left, restrain yourself. The next time the driver honks for no reason, in fact, do tell him off. Just try to be sensitive. Try to think that the person in the line ahead of you is equally busy and in as much as a hurry as you are. Waiting will not be difficult. Learn patience, practice patience. And your child will learn it too. Through you. Let’s raise sensitive children. Children who smile and say please and thank you and hold the door open and do not honk needlessly because an older person is exiting the car in front of them and that takes longer than usual. Let’s teach them that it is not okay to roll down the car window and throw that empty packet of chips, that it is not okay to play video games with a loud volume for it may disturb the person next to you, that it is not okay to scream and shout and run about in a restaurant. Let’s raise sensitive children, who will care, not only for themselves but for the people around them and hopefully some of it will rub off on their friends too. Only then will the world stop thinking of us as an insensitive population full of queue jumpers.

teenagers and alcohol

I do not know how many of you are from Kolkata or follow the news here but last weekend an incident has rocked the city. A group of teenage boys and girls visited a friend's house to surprise her on her birthday. The family was in bereavement and did not want any celebrations in the house. So the group moved to a club where they were not served as the club does not allow dependent (read minor) members to introduce guests. They shifted to yet another club, presumably for food and purchased three bottles of vodka from an off shop and returned to the apartment complex of the birthday girl to party there. Apparently, they hung around the parking lot, having "fun". At about 6 PM one boy of Class XII was found injured and taken to hospital where he was declared dead. This is, in essence, what I have gleaned from the newspapers I have read, i.e. "The Telegraph" and "The Times of India", (Kolkata editions) although some of the facts are contradictory. For more on the story, in case you are interested, please check online. I'm not here to discuss the events or even say I have any knowledge about the same.I cannot even begin to imagine what the mother of the deceased child (let's just refer to him as X) is feeling. Shock, rage, desperation… she is saying it was murder, while so far reports of the witnesses suggests an accident. She last saw her son at about 10:30 AM when X told his mother he was going to a party to be thrown by friends. The papers say he was a friend of a friend or whatever, some of the boys and girls there deny knowing him. But no matter what, can you imagine the heartbroken state of the mother?I am no detective. I do not know where the investigations will take the police or what truth will emerge from their inquiries. I guess all that will follow hopefully sooner rather than later, I don't know what will happen. But what I do know and understand is that the life of a child of Class XII has been brutally cut short, in someone's house, a son will not be returning home. Ever.I am no detective but I am a mother. And this is exactly one of the many kinds of fear that dwells in the heart of every mother parent. Even my husband has been affected by the incident. He, who normally never talks much in the car on the way to Court was waxing eloquent about the incident today. I realised then that he is just as affected by it as I am. A few days ago I was in Bangalore for a weekend. Three of us old friends visited a bar on a Friday evening. To our shock we saw a whole lot of under-age boys and girls at the bar. At the entrance we even spotted a classmate of my friend's class XI son, my friend said a lot of them have fake IDs that their parents get them!! These minors were partying, drinking and smoking like there was no tomorrow. I remember another occasion at a club. There was some carnival going on and the place was full of teenagers, we had gone to pick up our girls. To our shock we saw 14/15 year olds drinking beer. One of my daughter's friends actually came and asked me to help as one friend was so drunk that she had passed out. On another occasion I got into a fight at the bar because I told some kids they should not enter the bar and their mother did not like it. I asked the bartenders why they serve minors. Helplessly they told me that they did not, but often the minor's own parents or older friends would buy it for them. The bearers and waiters could not go and take away their glasses, could they?I have nothing against drinking or having fun. But there is a time and place for everything. Increasingly we hear of minors drinking. My daughters tell me of their friends who regularly smoke hookah and others who drink. A single-parent friend worries about this under-age drinking (that is so rampant in her city) so much that she makes her 16 year old son come near her and smells his breath when he returns from parties. The boy obviously does not like it and they have huge fights but she insists, even at the risk of being hated by the boy. I laughed when I heard. But now I think that's probably one of the most sensible things she doesI keep telling my girls that they should not drink or smoke until they are 21.How do I know they listen to me? You're right, I don't.Just as my parents did not know.My daughters are going on 16 and 17, vulnerable enough to peer pressure and wanting to "fit in". Old enough to want to "experiment".Do I know all their friends? Or all their friend's parents? No.Just as my parents did not know mine.My daughters go out for parties occasionally. They also go out with their friends.  Do I know who else will be there? No. Do I know where they are going? Yes, they tell me. But can I monitor them all the time? No.Just as my parents could not.Just as X's mother could not. Just like no one can. Neither you nor me. Nor that lady across the road.Teenagers today have access to everything, if they want it badly enough. Those kids bought three bottles of vodka. "My", I thought, when I read that, "that's a lot of money." I wondered why the shop keeper sold it to them. Then I thought maybe he did not. They simply could've gotten anyone else to buy it for them. As I said, if the will is there, there always is a way. Don't forget we are talking about a generation that believes in instant gratification, be it clothes or games or smartphones or PokemonGo. If it's out there in the virtual world, they want it. And I am not saying that that is such a bad thing. Thanks to the internet and media, the world is within their grasp. They can dream bigger than we ever dared. They can fly higher than we ever imagined. They see worlds we still cannot fathom. And these worlds also bring with them new choices that we never had to face.So what is the way out of this? How do I keep my daughters away from alcohol until they are mature enough to handle it? How do I ensure that my girls do not walk into bars or pretend to be older than they are? How do I ensure my girls will never fall into the "wrong" crowd or do stupid, irresponsible things? How do I teach them to walk away from situations that look like they are going out of control?You know what? I don't know.I can only teach them the proper values and hope for the best.
That is what frightens me.

Book Review: "BoyzNite" by Xane Fisher

Fiction » Literature » Coming of agePublished by Royal James PublishingPublished: Aug. 01, 2016Words: 6,400Language: EnglishISBN: 9781310182440

When you are reading a short story entitled "BoyzNite", you basically know where you are headed but not  how it will end. This is the story of  the first night home for Berkeley law student Ian Peters when he returns to Piermont, Washington for the summer. Ian teams up with his brother and other friends and heads out to party the night away with a substantial amount of booze and other "poisons". Throw in Kristen Fulbright, currently an exotic dancer and an old flame from school into the mix, ("if Peter Pan had a daughter, this was her.") and you find yourself getting dragged into the story as if someone was taking you by the hand and pulling you in. As Xane Fisher aptly puts it, "none of us had a clue what the hell we were doing but we sure tried to make it look like we did." As expected, the party has unexpected guests and more people coming in and everything spins out of control…or does it? It's difficult to review a single short story without giving it all away so I will not say too much except that is a rather sad and strange story, well worth your while. Sad and strange, yes, but also an interesting take on a raunchy boy's night that leaves you thinking and hoping that the story carries on beyond the pages of the book. 

Why I am afraid.

Last Friday, the twins went to their very first school. Yes, the youngest of my hearty collection of nieces and nephews, Satvik and Meenakshi, picked up their tiny little knapsacks and water-bottles and marched off to play school. I was instantly reminded of other tiny feet marching off to school 14+ years ago. Was it really so long ago? I remember waiting outside the play school (it was compulsory) while the children alternated between playing and crying and going through several multi-colored stages of distress. Those days there was no candy crush to play, much less 4G internet surfing. It was distressing and boring. I couldn't wait for the kids to 'settle down' so I could get back home. Oh, 'settle down' they did. They all do.By and by they stopped crying. By and by they stopped looking back to see whether I was there. Those tiny feet grew bigger, the tread got heavier, the uniform changed, the needs changed until now I can happily say that my children do not need me anymore.
There are times when I cannot believe that I have been married for well near twenty years. My daughters will soon turn 16 and 17. How time has flown on soft winged feet. As I watch these two, Meenakshi and Satvik, and watch their parents and grand-mother fuss over them, sometimes I feel a helpless bout of nostalgia about my girls. And I wonder. Should I have been more patient when they were small? Should I have paid more attention to their hugs and embraces? Should I have not been in such a tearing hurry to get back to work? Should I have indulged them more? Did I do enough for them? Was I there for them when they needed me? Will I be there should they need me again?
And I remember those tiny feet that came running as soon as I returned home. Those eyes that followed me about as I went through my chores. That tiny voice that had declared that "when I grow up I want to be like my mother; I will drive and I will cook!" Those faces that lit up and hung onto every word I said…
Right now our house, as you know, is full of teenage hormones. No one wants to be like me, a creature they love to hate. I am the enemy, the harridan from hell. The one who doesn’t understand, much less care. We are always, but always, fighting each other. And if they are not bickering with me, they are shouting at each other and the house constantly resounds with "shut-ups", "disgusting" (apparently everything is disgusting!) and "I hate you"! 
Yet, I know even today as soon as I will enter the house the girls will drop whatever they are doing and come and greet me. I know late at night before going to bed one will come with a comb and a hug and talk about her day. Another one will surprise me with a hug when I least expect it. The thought gives me joy.
But I also know that these days are numbered. All too soon it will be time for them to leave home. In fact I keep prodding the older one about colleges and where she wants to go and keep telling her to find study options outside her comfort zone, outside the city of her birth. I WANT them to leave home and test their wings and stand on their own feet for only then I will know that I have done my job as a mother.  
You know, I used to think I was very laid back and prepared for whatever life threw my way. But motherhood changed all that. I became frightened the day I became a mother. And it has gripped my heart tighter as the children grow older and leave home. My heart frets and worries and I have to use every bit of resolve to not let it show.
I'm sure you all have been reading the newspapers and following the news. That kid who stayed back in the restaurant in Dhaka to be with his friends, the other innocent people hacked to death, that young Indian girl on holiday. The suicide bombers in Baghdad, in Beruit. The 7 year old run over by a truck, the ten year old raped, I can't imagine what personal hell the parents of those children are going through. My heart goes out to them, specially the parents of the Bangladeshi terrorists who are trying to apologise for what their sons have done.
Stop, I want to say. As parents we can only do so much, walk with them only for so long. Even then, they are living their lives and we, ours. Who knows where my children's lives will take them? Who will be their friends, what they will do, what choices they will make?
All I can do, as a parent is instill my values in them, educate them, teach them to be responsible, to think for themselves, to be gentle with the world and let them go.
I can never guarantee that the world will be gentle with them.