WEDDING BELLES

As kids we had an abhorrence of weddings.  True to form our parents trotted us through every ceremony till we knew the rituals by heart …mercifully the family tree was not in such abundance so the number of weddings were limited.

The only attraction was meeting our cousins,  nieces and nephews, some of them who were much older than me, and some first cousins  old enough to be my mother.  One nephew in particular, took churlish delight in introducing me amidst gasps as his aunt, a habit which he has not given up!. We were strictly told not to “play” with each other but sit primly watching the goings on. No wandering about even accompanied by strong looking male cousins as we would be easily kidnapped what with the jewellery we wore.

The best event was the wedding reception. The bridal couple relinquished the comfort of the sofa to shake hands with well wishers, trying to balance the flow of gifts . They would finally abandon all hopes of sitting till the long queue eased off. The plastic smiles they wore slowly morphed into grimaces.  The most entertaining event was the kucheri. No one bothered to listen to the singers warbling, the women were most engrossed in sizing up each other’s clothes and jewellery and viewing eligible young “girls and boys” who were paraded at weddings. The mridangam player and the nadhaswaram artiste would engage in the funniest of facial contortions, and we would imitate them and convulse into laughter till we were ticked off severely by an adult at this show of deep disrespect.

Weddings stretched to three days and if you were closely related you attended every single one of them. I thought that with the passage of time,  rituals would coalesce into a single window, and a one day wedding. On the contrary wedding celebrations have ballooned into a display of wealth, and aesthetics at a price. It does not matter that you are South Indian. You have a mehndi ceremony for “close women friends and relatives”, the sangeeth, the mappillai azhaippu, muhurtam and wedding reception, making it a five-day wedding.

Out comes the jewellery from the bank and preparations are afoot as every invitee likes to look her best. The men have it easy, or so I think. The pandal décor could cost anywhere between 2 to 5 lakhs depending on how much you want to spend and you could extend it further. You have event managers who supervise the flow, and in some cases are assigned the task of welcoming!

The best part of the wedding according to me is where every guest is accorded warmth and made to feel that his or her presence added to the wedding something which the family takes on, not strangers. On one occasion there was neither the event managing team nor the bridal couples’ relatives as we entered the mantapam. A smiling stranger insisted we go straight for breakfast, and we headed in the direction he pointed and enjoyed all the delicacies. Lo and behold there were no familiar faces, and as we stepped out we realised we had stumbled on to the wrong dining hall, and hastily beat a retreat to the wedding on a different floor.

“The food prepared is enough to feed an army” said a young nephew fired with idealism of youth and determined to get married under the trees or on the beach when his time came. To prove his point that anyone could partake of the wedding feast, he along with two other bright young men, all of them still in college, and suffering hunger pangs, spruced themselves up and walked in. The girls at the reception giggled and sprinkled rose water on them and offered them buttonholes  and kalkand. As they walked to the dining area, interested relatives ogled at these eligible boys wondering whether they belonged to the groom’s  side or the bride’s  and made a mental note to find out who they were. The boys scooted as soon as they  had their meal, and after several namaskarams to the men who fed them.

Whatever food is left over could be distributed to homes where the poor and needy could have a feast.. The illai saapad has its disadvantages, as much of food served is often left uneaten. Gifting  is another debatable and difficult issue. You cannot really gift something to a couple blessed with everything. Money in envelopes could get lost in the mela. Flowers, even expensive bouquets are tossed out as no one has the time to arrange flowers. And yet, can we  attend a wedding without taking something?

According to me, one  good idea is the gifting of a book, if you know what kind of persons they are. Books on marriage, cookbooks, self help books..there are plenty to choose from . Gift coupons from popular stores work well. The nicest idea we encountered was a little line in a simple wedding invitation. It requested  persons who wanted to gift the couple something  to make a cheque however small in favour of a charity  they were supporting. The envelopes were dropped into a box kept for the occasion after you wished the couple, and there was no surfeit of unwanted gifts.

When we ape the west so much why don’t we think of having a bridal shower?  The bridal couple provides a list of what they propose to buy, and the invitees discuss among themselves what they want to give them. It goes against our Indian way of thinking but I think it is so so practical without spending money on stuff which they would find useless..

One of the best weddings we have attended is on the beach, with just a select crowd of 100 people. Of course the only concession was hiring a white steed, for the groom, who, being a German enjoyed carrying off his precious love after the ceremony.  A priest solemnised the wedding in English  for the benefit of the groom and his family. The thali was tied amongst the strains of soft nadaswaram recorded music. The guests were taken to a restaurant booked for the occasion and we all came back happy.

I just keep wondering whether we will retract from these kind of social customs which have become a way of life, or will weddings stretch longer or whether we will come back again full cycle…it remains to be seen.

Why apologise?

I wonder why, as a nation we are apologetic over most things. More so South Indians.  We are apologetic over our complexions, our idlis, our being Madrasi and yes, on eating rice.  There are fixtures in the minds of many that being descendents of Dravidian culture, we are short, dark complexioned and unsophisticated. And that all populace south of the Vindhyas are Madrasis, irrespective of whether they hail from the great city.

Over the years the little waves of change have created the new Dravidian, who has adopted much of the Northie culture, if only to prove himself or herself and to others that we are none the inferior. We have inculcated the mehndi ceremony and the sangeeth into our already long three day weddings. The wedding crowd do not sport the mind-blowing, vividly coloured traditional Kancheepuram silks, but they favour bling saris, the ghararas and lengha cholis, glitzy with an overkill of design and colour. The salwar kameez for instance which was exclusively the preserve of the North is here to stay in South India and this craze, fashion, or comfort garment  has trickled down to the lower echelons of society, where it is difficult to tell the mistress from the maid.

Just today a friend sent a book to me which was to be reviewed in Gym 3S. My fair complexioned,  good looking, voluptuous maid with her jil-jil salwar kameez, replete with “gold” jhumkis and a glittering bindi, opened the door. My friend’s driver bent double with his namaskaram and bade my maid “good morning” and gave her the book. “Amma had sent you this book madam.” Madam took it without a by-your-leave, flashing that million dollar smile and namaskaramed him with equal ardour. Hovering in the background aware of my simple cotton sari, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry…

And yes, removing rice from the daily menu has become another food fad for us. I find that the Gen-next have banished rice from the table and apart from the few morsels that they take if the curry served merits it, it is a strict no-no.  The Gen-Y will soon say “Rice? What’s that?” Chapattis, phulkas, parathas (never mind if they are layered with oil) have become ubiquitious in a daily diet. I have heard very lofty expressions from the younger generation who claim that they don’t cook rice in their homes and that they eat only chapattis and bread!  As if it gives them a badge of excellence for ‘graduating’ in their food habits! I love my rice and proclaim it with impunity, but my own family is not exempt from the exclusion of rice most times.

Rice to me (in small quantities) is a comfort food, in any form whether it is ven pongal, lime or tamarind rice or biriyani! It is ancient, sacred, benevolent and nourishing and is the second most eaten cereal grain in the world. I know a couple of nephews who went off carbohydrates and on a high protein (Atkins) diet and soon enough two of them developed gout, and had to face another health problem.  It’s not that I am advocating rice, as wheat grain is extremely nutritious and yes, has carbohydrates but what I’m trying to say is that you don’t discard  what you are used to in your daily diet. For God’s sake you need your carbs more so for the amount of energy expended these days, in multi-tasking. Though no one admittedly, heaps   mounds of rice on the plate as was the custom in the old days.

After a great deal of research, international dietetics and nutrition experts advise that the best way to diet is to eat the food of your region, food you are used to but in small quantities and of course exercising every day. Eating out is the order of the day, and since so much international cuisine is at your door, the  kids  look down upon simple home cooked fresh food.

It was a great experience to visit the IRRI, the International Rice Research Institute, on our visit to the Philippines some years ago. IRRI is playing a key role in helping provide solutions to some of the many problems faced by rice today. The goal of IRRI is to conserve, contribute and create rice species of the world. IRRI was established to help farmers in developing countries grow more rice on limited land with less water, less labor, and less chemical inputs, and to do so without harming the environment. It was amazing to look at the different varieties of rice laid out as exhibits.

The ancestor of rice is Gondwana’s Grass a wild weed grown about 130 million years ago! The thirteenth century Bengali poet Ramai Pandit describes more than 50 varieties of rice grown in Bengal!

So, whether you hail from the North, South, East or West, think twice before you say no to rice….and to the other factors so part of your heritage.

Press Report on Udhavi

UDHAVI...a concept note

UDHAVI  has been inspired by the number of senior citizens “orphaned” and left to their own devices without the support they richly deserve.  We are still working on statistics, but the life span in India and throughout the world has been increased, and consequently it is important that the elderly lead a meaningful enriched life without the despair and ill health they suffer with longevity.

Most of the children, encouraged by their parents to better their prospects have migrated and some of them without ensuring that their parents are comfortable. Unfortunately we do not have the infrastructure that the West has for older people where the culture is “independence” at all times in their lives. We hang on foolishly to traditional values, hoping that we will be ultimately cared for by our children, are reluctant to move into Retired People’s Homes worrying over the likely problems in a new territory.

Having closely lived and loved old people most of my life, I thought there was nothing better than creating some kind of support for older people. Whilst there are so many schemes and programmes for the young adults and children, the old are kept on the back burner as persons who have outlived their usefulness. On the contrary, old people are rich in their experience in different fields, and their knowledge can be harnessed in a productive way as specialised consultants. This raises their self worth even if they work on a voluntary basis. One does not realise how enormous their contributions could be to society.

What I feel would help is a networking base to help the elderly.  Our first meeting  of UDHAVI was on August 13 2013 in Chennai, and five volunteers offered their help. Each of them is contributing towards making a better life for the old and the infirm and for caregivers. I now call them mentors.

We need to widen our base and each of these dedicated volunteers could get more people to join us thereby creating a ripple in the pond. What could each of us do?

We locate old people who need help, to register with UDHAVI. We screen them on eligibility to find out how much of help they really need. We visit their homes to check on the safety aspect, if their homes are user friendly and the  accessories they lack.

We split our volunteers area wise, and the seniors will connect to those people in their locality.

We build a comprehensive data base, which covers doctors, nursing help, nursing homes, hospitals, and visiting doctors, and shops which provide accessories for the elderly. This information has to be held by the core group to share whenever necessary.

Each member of our core group can form their own group of volunteers from that area

Though we are starting out as a voluntary agency, we do need some funds for transport stationery etc, and we need again volunteers for managing finance.

We need to look at  groups like Help Age, Dignity Foundation and Orion to quote a few and try to give our Senior Citizens what these organisations are not able to provide.

We need to talk to geriatric doctors who  could attend our meetings time permitting and give us pointers on what to do.

Though it is not a priority at the moment, short trips or visits to certain places, movies or even arranging for shopping at malls would be appreciated.

Above all, total commitment is essential, and with the kind of networking I envisage the entire burden will not rest on a few people alone.

Talk to people, you will be surprised how keen people are to help towards this cause. Those who are good at social networking like Facebook can help us. I know it sounds ambitious but everything is worth a try!

Suggestions are welcome, so are volunteers who really want to help! Contact:  sabi.kittu@outlook.com

THE MEMORY BOOK

Have you ever stuck your head into the frig and wondered why you’ve opened it? Or frantically combed the house for your car keys just as you are leaving? Or thought of a hundred things to do and when you sit down to do it, nothing stays in your mind?  Don’t  come to the conclusion that you have Alzeimer’s. It could happen at any age…

It was about ten years ago, realising that the present day life is fraught with stress and the compression of a  million to-do things is compressed into a couple of days. The brain goes into an overdrive and it is but natural that periodic amnesia sets in very early in life! There are methods which will remove some of the frenzy you get into when you can’t remember where and what. Every day jot down the things you plan to do, and even if you tick off 60% of the list you have achieved something.

Keep things in the same familiar place. Your key rack should be  in the most accessible place and the keys hung on the nails in the same order. These could be car keys, your store room keys, your cabinet keys etc. But keys to your precious cupboards where you keep your cash, jewellery etc should not dangle in the most obvious place. Tuck the kothu saavi into your waist if you are  a woman, as I do, otherwise hide it in one particular place, and do it when your maids are not watching you like hawks. I have hid these keys so safely, that I have spent hours in a hide-and-seek game looking for them. Moral of the story…. slip it into the same hiding place. When the place has been discovered, its time to change it like your password. When you do, please divulge this to your spouse, but if he or she also has periodic amnesia, tell another member of the family who has a sound memory.

If you still don’t want to tell, open a memory book, and it will be one of your priceless acquisitions especially as an old age comfort device. Reserve it only for your memory recall jottings.  The first thing I did when we converted our beautiful home into apartments, and occupied a downsized version of the original,  was to put away lots of stuff into the lofts we so provided with foresight.  Out came my brand new memory book where I listed the lofts in each room and wrote down what they housed. That dimpled hand beaten copper sombu, the dinner service, old coffee filters, and idli pathrams…every item was listed, so I didn’t have to go into a nerve wracking ordeal of wondering where these priceless possessions disappeared to. And whenever the time came when they didn’t seem so priceless, I knew where they were ensconced and gave them away without a second glance, proud that I had evolved, and happy that I was losing my materialist yearnings to acquire or hoard these things.

Women these days keep most of their expensive jewellery in the bank. But do they know what these items are?  We keep “loaning” or presenting our children with the odd earring, necklaces or bangles. When you question them they are equally vague and say they are not sure what you gave them.  Flip the pages of your memory book and you will find the answer if you have been methodical enough to write it down. And when it comes to domestic help and advances, writing it down, together with the due  date of repayment helps immensely.

Those of us who are great planners, and consider ourselves visionaries, try to tidy our lives for our children.  We make our will, and entreat our children to take away family heirlooms which we enjoyed for many years. Alas there are very few takers among our younger generation today, and once clearance can be obtained from the inheritors, list them so that they can be disposed off or at least written off to people you would like to bequeath them to.

 How many of us write living wills? This was taught to us by a dear friend who wanted to make life easy for executors of his will.  There is absolutely no bar on writing this when you are young!  It just means putting down a list of where you keep your important documents. Like your fixed deposits. Your key to the bank safe. Passwords. Bank Passbooks. Insurance papers. Wills.  Anything at all which are very private and which should be accessible to your next of kin.

I used to wonder if the Memory Book a veritable data base of information,  should be kept under lock and key. The answer is a definite NO NO.  If it is tucked away chances are that you will not summon the energy to go and fetch it. It should be placed within your reach, easily accessible, and yet somewhere where prying eyes will not uncover your secrets.

With all this advice, chances are you might misplace your memory book like I did! To remember where you kept it, now I guess you need sticky notes on your computer and save it on your mobile, and pray that they won’t crash!

 

 

 

A TREE UPROOTED

 

I often wonder at the wisdom of uprooting a very old tree whose branches have given shade to many lives, whose roots have sunk deep and proliferated in many directions, making a declaration of permanence. You hope it will have a new lease of life if you transplant it elsewhere in “pleasant surroundings”!

Well, here is  a true story and one that has been repeatedly enacted many times over. A very dear bachelor friend so much a part of our lives, spent all his adult life working towards the cause of the mentally challenged, and assisting many other social organisations and NGOs. With a special interest in education, he was correspondent of schools at different times, and shaped the lives of children, and to many of us he was a role model. He established  an institution, designing  many gadgets to make it possible for the mentally challenged to  work there, and earn  a living for themselves. Today it stands in silent testimony of one man’s efforts to bring sunshine into the families of those handicapped people. His services are too many to be listed here. 

With advancing years, and when an aging body could not keep pace with his young agile mind, he decided to close home and move to a retired people’s home. He meticulously planned the move, donating most of his few worldly possessions to charity, and even telling us all he would pull the curtain down rather than be a burden to others. Knowing his penchant for independence, despite his physical weakness, a remarkable young couple whom he was very close to over 50 years, decided to “adopt” him after a lifetime stay in Madras, then Chennai!

We used to get mail from him practically every other day, describing his life in the new  surroundings in a salubrious clime with stretches of bucolic green, interspersed with beautiful blossoms, to inspire him to heights of creativity in his writings and poetry. But I could read between the lines a sadness that he had left familiar surroundings, though not a word of complaint or regret was uttered. The very people who took him in had apparently advised him against the move.  But as we grow older, an obstinacy takes hold, and once the mind is made up it is hard to reverse the decision.

All I can say is that four and a half months in idlyllic surroundings taught this old person what family life was all about, and he experienced love, concern and caring on a day to day basis. He had his music, photography, his writing, his forthcoming book on education and his memoirs which will never see the light of day…then what happened? Fluctuating blood pressure, two or three falls, and rushing to a renowned  hospital some two hours away.  Ten days of coma and he was gone. No one listened to his fervent plea in his living will that he was not to be kept alive by tubes and life support. When push comes to shove, it is difficult to practise euthanasia or convince the attendant doctors.

As one ages, it is only familiar objects, home of many years, faithful servants,  and friends who provide  security, and you do feel disoriented moving, even though you have a room all your own,  resembling the previous one, surrounded by most of the objects that are familiar to you.

On  our last visit to Australia, we visited Retired Peoples’ Homes and talked to the management who informed us that they also ran what they called “assisted living” where you remain in your home and a team comes over to assist you to live your life according to your needs of course at a charge. And when you are too feeble you are taken to a Nursing Home where nursing staff and doctors keep you comfortable. This is possible in a developed country where the concept of independent  aged is accepted, and with the life span increased,  organisations spring up to make life easier for them.

India has a long way to go. We assume that our children will look after us. Most of them live outside India, and they lead independent lives and nuclear families exist in place of  the joint family which is practically non-existent. Builders and developers, quick to capitalise on  this enormous need for older people, advertise gated communities for retired people making it sound incredibly tempting. Unfortunately most of these homes are outside of big cities and it does call for a total move which might not augur well for all.  The children are sometimes resentful of their parents wanting to move as some kind of stigma seems to be attached, and the guilt prevails rather than bowing to the practicality of the situation.

We need to organise a team to offer help to older people, both in terms of the physical as well as the psychological,  on a voluntary basis initially, and I am determined to give it a try. We will need data bases for resources, we will need volunteers, who are active and not too old themselves. We will need connections to doctors and hospitals, and nursing staff. When and if this fructifies, we do need all the help we can, and have to remember it is for a very good cause. Some of the elderly have loving children to take care of them, and they are blessed, because it is more the exception than the rule!

There are so many programmes and organisations established for children, for they are our investment and our future. But do we disregard the old and the infirm when their productive days are over, blind to what they face? A question which each of us needs to find the answer.

If you have any ideas to share on this subject, please contact this writer at sabi.kittu@outlook.com

 

 

A FREEZING CHALLENGE

Most of us have been in the ICU of hospitals at some time or the other. An intensive care unit (ICU), also known as a critical care unit (CCU), intensive therapy unit or intensive treatment unit (ITU) is a special department of a hospital or health care facility that provides intensive care medicine. These Units cater to patients  who suffer from life threatening illnesses and/or injuries and when the condition warrants  close monitoring and support from specialist equipment and medication in order to improve the patient’s condition. The ICU is supposedly manned by  highly trained doctors and critical care nurses who have been trained  in caring for seriously ill patients.

If you are admitted in a comatose or even semi comatose condition, it really does not matter what happens around you.  But when you are not all that ill, have your mental faculties intact, and have had the misfortune to be kept in the ICU, just “for observation” for the night or the next day as I was on two occasions, the miseries are manifold.

Firstly, you are moved from the emergency to the ICU and instructions go back and forth between the ward boys and the nurses over your head and you sigh in relief as you are wheeled into a refrigerator. Ah yes, you have to wear the hospital gown. Gone are the comforts of thick cotton gowns with tapes at the back. The ones you are given are paper thin, translucent, and you guessed it, eco friendly and disposable without the headaches of laundering. They are fastened with Velcro at the back, which hurt as you lie flat, and with maneuvering and twisting like I do, the fastening comes off. Fortunately or unfortunately you are surrounded by co-patients who don’t have the energy to ogle, or see you in a half clothed state. Uniformity persists and at times difficult to tell a male from a female, so you are cloaked in anonymity. It is easy to contact pneumonia in these surroundings!

Lowered on to a waiting bed,  the monitors and tubes are all in place as your progresess is recorded and your fate described electronically. There is a file on you, and interns and young doctors enquire politely how you are, and  ask what exactly is the problem. The problems? “Innumerable”, I want to say, as I clench my teeth in an effort to keep them from chattering. “It is i..i.cyc..c..cold”, I venture. My toes generally go into a cramp if they are chilled, and dash it I forgot to bring those warm woolen socks knitted for me by Sue, my sister-in-law, who believes that woolen socks should be part of ones wardrobe and her insight is to be lauded. They bring you blankets, cotton blankets, one at first. When I still chatter, they place another one on me. “She must have fever,” say the nurses and check my temperature which is absolutely normal.

Since I was conscious and mobile I did not want a bedpan. I was however assisted by a kindly nurse, and I felt a rush of cold air behind, and realized the back was fully open. Giving up futile attempts to cover my behind, I shuffle to the loo which has bedpans, urine bottles, beakers and other stuff.I asked if I could read, and in a moment of weakness the sister gives me the newspaper which I could not enjoy, as the light was dull and the headlines screamed murder most foul, theft, and other heinous crimes including rape. Enough to depress even the most cheerful person around.

When the Chief comes on his rounds, there is a bustle of activity as files are updated and every comment of the Doctor is recorded and hopefully carried out. Your fate (read stay in the ICU)rests with the good doctor.

End of the day but the ICU is  forever night with artificial lights, and you lose sense of time though aware that it moves ever so slowly. You welcome the night, as the end of it you will see the day, and that means discharge or at least a move to a ward where you see life around you. But you are not prepared for the night and the surprises it brings.

The handing  over begins as the shift changes. The nurse-in-charge loudly tells her takeover counterpart every single detail of the patient, his or her physical condition, through the well worn file. By now you know your entire history by heart. Lights are dimmed and you are gently asked to sleep.

That’s when the fun and games begins. I thought ICUs would be silent zones where soft footed medical staff would be Florence Nightingales .Not so in your wildest imagination. Cries of “Narayana, kadavale!” rent the air, as one male patient believes he is being assaulted. “Thatha, don’t shout”, says the young nurse as she runs to placate him. Two beds away another man who has been relieved of his tubes sleeps but lets out the strangest of noises and loud snores oh so familiar. It makes me terribly homesick.

The interns and nurses discuss their day with gusto. They talk about in-laws, out-laws, the state of economy in the country, the corruption, politics and various other subjects… and the emphasis with which the discussion goes, pales  drawing room conversation  into insignificance.  They joke and laugh loudly and in my disturbed dream, I imagine glasses clinking and people laughing in a half drunken state. I sit up in bed, call a nurse to my bedside who “Ennama”s me, and I tell her in no uncertain terms what discourtesy it is to such sick patients, and that I would write about the attitudes here and complain. Very deflated the matter is reported to the doctor, and silence persists for sometime before the cacophony begins again.

The next day I am cheerfully told I could “go” and I feel that I have been released from jail.Though moving to the ward is another process which you suffer  there is the promise of your own gown, and the warmth of family attenders and then home. The ICU is the loneliest place in hospital hell, where you lie removed from family and contend with tortuous thoughts. Recovery when you are not so seriously ill, is faster in your own home, with nursing staff and the comfort of familiarity. Ah for midway nursing homes  where you could just lie back and allow yourself the luxury of relaxing, without the endless disturbance of hospital routine!