The dreaded summer holidays!

When the schools closed in early April, a friend said in a rather resigned tone, "I have to keep my children occupied for 50 days". I was surprised that she was so precise about the number of days, and at her attitude. I later realised that she was not alone in thinking so (sometimes, even I think of the holidays with dread!).

I remember, as a child, the summer vacation was one we looked forward to with glee. Two months of playing, and no studying at all! There were no summer camps or classes, and it was the only time parents did not tell you to study. I have fond memories of summer vacations at my grandmother's house, where all the cousins would have gathered. We were a group of twelve, and it was a wonderful period of bonding.

Even today, when we meet (which is not very often), we can recollect memories of those holidays, and laugh at the pranks we played, and the scrapes we got into. We were out playing, even in the afternoons, but there were enough trees to shade us from the harsh summer sun, and our houses were cool and shady with long verandahs. I can't remember getting a sunstroke, or feeling sick playing in the sun.

I really can't blame children feeling bored today. We live in small apartments, and most of the lovely trees have been cut down. Confined to small rooms, without much space to play, what can we expect them to do? How much of TV or computer games can you play? My family is today scattered over three continents, and school holidays do not always synchronize. Consequently, there are no annual meetings or get-togethers, and keeping in touch with the family requires a certain effort.

Life indeed has changed. While I understand the need for summer camps and classes to keep children occupied, I feel sorry for the present generation of children who may never know the joys of simply doing nothing.

The Magic of Vishu

Every year I look forward to Vishu, the Malayalam New Year.

As children, we would enthusiastically help my mother arrange the vishukani, the auspicious items that we are supposed to see first thing in the morning on Vishu. She would spread rice on a large plate, arrange betel leaves and arecanuts on top in a special way. Over this she would spread her special collection of one rupee coins, saved up for this occasion! On top of all this, she would arrange her beautiful jewellery.

Around the rice plate (traditionally a bronze uruli), we would arrange the nava dhaniams in small bowls- all the cereals and pulses that form an integral part of our diet. Seasonal fruits and vegetables - jackfruit, mangoes, raw bananas, yam and golden vellarikai - would be tastefully arranged around. A shower of golden cassia fistula (konna poovu) would be kept on top and the whole would be reflected in an artfully placed mirror.Looking over all this with a beautiful smile would be an idol of Krishna or a picture of Lord Guruvayoorappan decorated with flower garlands.

Early in the morning, before sunrise, my father would feel his way to the pooja room, light the lamp, and gazing at the kani, pray for abundance in the coming year. I remember being woken up by my mother, gently telling us to keep our eyes closed. We would be led to the kani, and only then were we allowed to open our eyes. I have always found that scene so magical. In the darkness of the pre-dawn hours, the glowing light of the lamp glistening on the gold jewellery casts a magical aura that is hard to describe.

After the kani kaanal comes the best part - the kai neetom when young people are given money. As children, we looked forward to that, and I remember saving up all my money, only to have it borrowed by my brother who would 'forget' to return it later!

Today I continue the tradition, especially for my daughter. Together, we arrange the vishukani the previous night and I am usually the one who sees the kani first. Often I have been troubled, and literally at the bottom of the pit, with no way in sight. But when I light that lamp in the darkness which casts a golden glow on everything around, and gaze at the benevolent face of the Lord, my troubles vanish and hope springs within. It is as if He assures me that He is there to take care, to walk with me, and to hold my hand through this difficult time. A ray of hope that dispels the darkness of despair.

That, to me, is the real magic of Vishu.

On writing a Blog...

When I decided to start a blog, I really had no idea what I would write, or how often I would post. It seemed a wonderful way to share my thoughts with the world, and maybe find some kindred souls out there in cyberspace.

My first post happened quite by chance - I took a walk down a lane and experienced a moment of awareness, what they call 'satori'. I sent off a couple of mails to a few friends, and that was it. The other two posts happened in the same way. A chance remark, an incident, these were enough to trigger a train of thought that flowed out as words on the page.

The problem is, when you start writing a blog, there are any number of people to advice you on what you should write. If I express an interest in the origin of place names in Chennai, "why don't you write about that?" says a friend. Or I look at an old house and feel a sense of nostalgia, then another friend tells me to write about that. But I am no expert on any of these subjects, and writing about things I don't know much about is not my idea of what my blog should be.

As I mentioned to a friend, I want to let the writing happen, to flow on its own, to be spontaneous. I have nothing against planning a series of posts or linking them together. In fact, I find that very interesting. But I don't want to look at everything in my life as material for my blog and not be there, in that moment, experiencing that emotion, that incident.

So, sometimes, there could be days when nothing comes, when there is a block in my thought process, when the words will not flow. That is alright, for if I do not panic and if I am patient,I will be able to go past the block, and realize the true meaning of that obstacle, how it has made me more strong and more aware.