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  SHOCK TO SHANTI

  ARCHANA SINGH

  For Manish, Ansh, and Reya

  Contents

  Foreword

  TICK-TOCK

  School

  Auntie

  Missing Trains

  BREAKDOWN

  Jello Shots and Cheap Wine

  Juggler

  PERSPECTIVE

  Chai Talks

  Together and Alone

  Inspiration

  Mini-Mes

  CHANGE

  Clear It

  Try It

  Leave It

  Manage It

  Work It

  Move It

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Archana used to have two different personalities. I wasn’t sure which one was writing the book. She was this politically correct and graceful person when sober. However, after one drink, which is really all it took to get her drunk, she was an overly passionate political activist. The first time I saw this dual persona, I thought the only solution forward was to seek out an exorcist. One of those two had to go. Luckily, we lived in Manhattan, where you’ll never have trouble finding whatever it is you seek, no matter what time of the day it is. But I decided to pretend that this problem just did not exist. Many of us find this a very effective technique. It just needs a bit of practice.

  The first time I experienced her aggressive persona was in the early days, when Archana and I were dating. As you’d expect, our light banter somehow moved to politics; more specifically to entitlement programmes, like social security. This conversation took place as we were waiting at a red light on our way home after a night out in Manhattan. From the corner of my eye, I saw Archana was furious. She called me a conservative Indian. I tried to defend myself with a couple of quick points. The argument began. As I was trying to come up with a winning point to clinch the argument, I noticed that Archana was not sitting on the passenger seat next to me. She was one of the pedestrians crossing my car. Really, you’re going to get out of a car at a red light, completely drunk, at a point when you’re still new to the city? This couldn’t be happening. Now what was I supposed to do? It wasn’t like Manhattan traffic was patient enough to allow me to turn on the hazard lights, get out of the car and coax Archana to get back in. The thought of running her over crossed my mind. Manhattanites would be a lot more understanding of me running her over than, God forbid, actually blocking traffic. I overcame superhuman obstacles to get Archana back in the car.

  You’d be wrong if you thought this was an isolated incident. Archana was this maddeningly unpredictable and yet this supremely endearing person. One had to look the other way when it came to dealing with her on points of disagreement. I am still trying to figure out how best to take this in my stride.

  As you’ll read the book, you’ll find a free-spirited girl slowly getting saddled with responsibilities and trying to find herself in a new world. I must say the adjustments Archana has needed to make to navigate life have simultaneously been fun and a horror show. Needless to say, Archana further complicated her life (and mine) when she decided it was time to write a book. I will leave you with this note for a person very special to me:

  ‘The creative process is also the most terrifying part because you don’t know exactly what’s going to happen or where it is going to lead. You don’t know what new dangers and challenges you’ll find. It takes an enormous amount of internal security to begin with the spirit of adventure, discovery, and creativity.’

  Archana embodies all these qualities.

  Manish Ghayalod

  TICK-TOCK

  Every other summer, our family migrated over eight thousand miles from Pennsylvania to India in an effort to stay connected to our roots. There was never a household discussion or vote for this plan—it just happened. As my sister and I headed into our teenage years, the idea of discovering our heritage wasn’t half as exciting as spending time with friends at home or taking a grand European vacation.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to be exposed to countries we studied in school?’ We learned early in our lives that creating an educational link when asking our parents for something produced better results—just not in this case. Their belief was that the more we experienced our culture, the more we’d appreciate it.

  When the school year ended, my mom lugged my sister, brother, and me to the other side of the world. Not to a modern city like Mumbai or Delhi, but to a remote village in eastern India, secluded in the state of Bihar.

  Not many would classify Pittsburgh as a roaring metropolitan; yet compared to even the most hip city in Bihar, Pittsburgh felt like an urban oasis. In essence, maintaining a link with my heritage was a three-month survival trip.

  The expedition began with a thirty-hour journey that required multiple forms of transportation: planes, trains, buses, and rickshaws. Not an automated rickshaw, but a manual one with a single person lugging an entire family. It was astonishing to watch a man, no more than 120 pounds, transport a family of four (with luggage) on his rickshaw for twenty minutes.

  And if spending over two days in transit wasn’t arduous enough, we hauled six suitcases stuffed with discounted items my mom found at Macy’s clearance racks. She had the uncanny ability to utilize every inch of the bags by wrapping items within items and placing them at perfect angles. Yet the suitcases looked bloated, to the point that any untoward movement could cause it to explode like a piñata.

  All traces of modern life dissappeared as the journey progressed. We travelled the last segment on a rundown bus with no doors and rusted seats. It looked like a prop pulled directly from the set of Mad Max. As the bus puttered through the vast farmlands, the scenery looked barren. Signs of the country’s overpopulation were unnoticed in these rural towns. In fact, human presence was non-existent for large spans of the bus ride. We saw occasional activity, like farmers returning home from the fields donning a lightweight cloth, dhoti, wrapped around their legs, or women in saris, carrying baskets of produce on their heads. The hustle and bustle had all but disappeared. Instead there was silence—and farms—and dust.

  Small shantytowns were scattered throughout the region that looked nearly identical. There were around a dozen or so mud homes with thatched roofs and a small school nearby.

  Considering there weren’t any bus stations or street signs to determine our location, the only landmark we relied on was a ten feet wide banyan tree. These fig trees are unique, as they have aerial roots that grow into the trunk instead of the ground, making them look majestic after decades of growth, as if the roots were braided together. Once the gargantuan banyan was spotted, the entire family screamed ‘Ruko, Ruko,’ (stop), with a loudspeaker-like voice to get the driver’s attention. After all, the bus didn’t have doors, much less a system to request a stop. The message eventually reached the driver, who immediately slammed the brakes.

  Taking the driver’s cue, the conductor tossed our bags from the overhead rack, next to us on the dusty ground below, without any concern of damage. They looked the type to laugh in our face if we threatened to sue for damages.

  As the bus left and the dust settled, the village kids gathered around us foreigners to practice their English. ‘Yes, no, very good’ they chanted with their accents, light on the y and heavy on the v’s and d’s. They continued with these four words, over and over as if this repetition alone would make them fluent in English, all the while carrying our dirty overstuffed suitcases to our uncle’s door. This was a sleepy town and having visitors from another country was a novelty. All the kids needed a good stare before heading home, perhaps waiting to hear our heavy accents while attempting to speak the native language, Maithili, one of the thousands of d
ialects in India.

  The three-day travel was exhausting and it was annoying to end the journey by becoming a village bozo. All we wanted was a long nap—of course, after a much needed bathroom break.

  But there were no attached baths with running hot water, or a flushing toilet. It was like living in a history book describing life before indoor plumbing. Technically, it’s not history, even in America. According to the Census Bureau, upwards of 1.6 million people are living without full indoor plumbing, which is hard to believe about one of the wealthiest nations in the world.

  We were ushered into the backyard, to a small square concrete slab, with a manual water pump and some steel buckets next to it. Those three items comprised the bathroom ecosystem; and the pump was the only source for water in the entire house. We pumped freezing water into the buckets, and had a ‘shower’ by dumping water on our head. In case that wasn’t traumatic enough, we learned to balance our body in a squatting position above a hole in the ground, or more precisely an in-ground toilet—an excellent way to train for improved balance but not a pleasant bathroom experience.

  When we finally had a chance to rest, it was a miracle if electricity worked, as measures were taken by the government to conserve energy for many hours a day by cutting electricity use, leaving the rooms muggy and hot.

  It was the epitome of minimalistic living.

  Included in our survival vacation package at no extra cost was a chance to face the wrath of India’s monsoon season. The word monsoon originated from the Arabic word ‘mausim’, meaning season. Ancient traders who travelled across the Indian Ocean used this term to describe the system of alternating winds, which blew from the northeast during the winter and the southwest during the summer.

  The southwest monsoons involve a continuous state of moist winds blowing from the Indian Ocean over India, causing heavy rains in the process. As the hot air rises over the land and creates a low-pressure area, the cooler ocean air rushes inland to replace it.

  It just so happened that our stay fell right in the thick of the summer monsoon.

  The villagers believed wholeheartedly in work–life balance, with a much heavier emphasis on life. My uncle, even as a senior college professor, enjoyed long lunches at home. In addition, he finished his day early, not so he could take advantage of happy hours with his buddies; it just happened to be the town’s way of life.

  During the monsoons, work came to a standstill. Roads flooded from the torrential downpours. And without proper drainage systems in place, excess water on the streets left the town immobile. There was little opportunity to socialize or travel, even within the neighbourhood.

  We should have been bored out of our minds, cursing our mom for the humdrum summers. Instead, after the initial adjustment to rural life, we enjoyed our stay. We sat on chowkis, or wooden beds, on the veranda of the mud house all day long. An old transistor radio, sitting on a makeshift desk against the wall, played classical Indian music while we occupied ourselves with board games like Ludo and Snakes and Ladders. I ate piping hot onion pakoras and slept the afternoon away while the rain fell furiously, forming a pool of water below. For three months, time essentially stood still.

  It could have been mundane.

  It should have been too sedentary for teenagers.

  Instead, it turned out to be a peaceful getaway.

  Although I thought those days were agreeable, I certainly wasn’t mature or old enough to understand the beauty of the calm or to appreciate an empty agenda.

  Decades later, it’s not quite as slow or serene in New York City, with my family of four. I’m a busy adult running from home, to work, to activities, to home again. There is nothing extraordinary about my schedule; it bears a similar pattern to most parents, working or not.

  Time to sit and ponder, to watch the earth and its natural wonders without interruption, has become a fantasy.

  Looking back on those days, I can only dream of sitting on a veranda—completely off the grid…

  Each dawn a pensive sigh

  then a gruelling prepare,

  Several clips of soliloquy

  before the grand premiere,

  In calm I stay momently

  as the curtains rise,

  Then a simple credence,

  the show must go on…

  Then again drapes surrender

  The story tacitly kept,

  In savoured tunes the mask removed

  Walking from the stage,

  Stillness shares the naked face

  with drops of guileless mirth,

  In calm I lay silently

  Till dawn again appears...

  School

  As I enter my daughter’s classroom to participate in one of her morning programmes, I notice the other parents are already lined up next to their perfectly groomed daughters and sons, each waiting with picture-perfect smiles, to be ushered to their seats and be dazzled by their five-year-olds. Once again I am the last to arrive. I smile at the immaculate families while wiping away the sweat from my face, formed after running two blocks and ascending a flight of stairs. Aeons ago I may have been punctual with my youthful body, but today I am ten minutes late, standing in damp clothes, desperately trying to catch my breath. In hindsight, my child-rearing days should have been completed years earlier, like my mother.

  I catch my daughter, Reya, biting her nails and looking around nervously as she hasn’t seen me yet, showing a rare vulnerability while standing alone. This is the girl that punched her principal because he was in her way, and scratched a girl ‘by accident’ when she wasn’t listening to Reya’s demands a few weeks ago? This is the girl who makes her older brother put away her shoes and jacket because she isn’t in the right mood?

  She has inundated me with guilt without saying a word; clever little girl. Damn this disease of being habitually late.

  She spots me making my way towards her in my semi-wet clothing and slowly flashes me a killer smile, while breathing a sigh of relief at not being abandoned. Although I am convinced the firecracker is going to attack me with her tiny hands when I get close to her.

  ‘You’re late mama,’ she says quietly, but not accusingly while giving me a hug. Where is my real daughter?

  ‘And you forgot I was supposed to wear pyjamas to school today.’ It’s never one mistake at a time; instead they come in rapid successions. Depending on my luck on any particular day, they can stop at two otherwise it comes in multiples.

  I must have accidently skipped one of the hundred emails from the class parents about special attire day. Nonetheless, Reya’s remark is absurd on at least two levels—one being that someone asked my child to wear pyjamas in daylight and second that my daughter is genuinely distraught with the unfulfilled request, glum that she is not wearing her Hello Kitty jammies.

  It is not just about educating children any more, it is a test of memory and organizational skills for parents.

  Remember a list of fun clothing to be worn throughout the school year: inside out day, crazy hat day—the list goes on and on. If that isn’t enough, as concerned parents we must participate in healthy snack weeks for the children.

  ‘Bring healthy food items on the weeks your child has been assigned and a friendly reminder to be aware of all allergies.’ An additional list is provided that aids and guides us towards a proper selection; the school avoids any risk of leaving the interpretation of the word ‘healthy’ to the discretion of parents.

  It’s no wonder Hostess Brands, the wonderful company that created delicacies like Twinkies and Ho-Hos had to file for bankruptcy. And although two private equity firms pounced on the ‘snack cake’ portion of Hostess for four hundred and ten million dollars, I am unsure any parent will allow their children to indulge in the spongy delight with cream filling again. The owner of one of the private equity firms stated he bought it because it was an ‘iconic brand’ and the ‘consumer base has not declined’. In this day and age, ingesting preservatives is akin to consuming toxic waste, so good
luck to Hostess for their second innings.

  ‘My kids aren’t even allowed to have juice. You can’t imagine how much sugar it contains,’ the class parent once told me, whose medical credentials put some weight to her words. Growing up as a juice guzzler myself, I couldn’t completely eliminate it from my children’s diet so they receive a watered down version instead. I occasionally question my parenting skills when my son asks for a greater portion of water in his orange juice.

  ‘Mama, don’t worry. I like water too,’ he tells me, assuring me this is a normal activity.

  Forget deliberating over snacks, my parents didn’t even accompany us on our fifteen-minute walk to elementary school, a part of it walking through ominous woods. They had nothing to fear, as a ten-year-old elected leader escorted the rest of us followers to and from school. It was accepted practice by the neighbourhood, not only by my laissez-faire parents; I find the dramatic tiger mom generational shift a bit extreme. All these restrictions: gluten free, allergen free, sugar free, fat free, organic, non-GMO. But instead of sending a box of mouth-watering preservative-filled Twinkies, that have a shelf life of forty-five days, to school in protest, I obediently wash and cut celery sticks as advised.

  I look around to see almost all the children in their night suits and a row full of homemade snacks brought in by parents to celebrate nothing in particular, just a beautiful day of kindergarten. Instead of starting the day at 6 a.m., they woke up an hour earlier to bake cookies and muffins for their children’s play, using purely organic ingredients, of course. I am suspicious of their ability to function and wonder if drugs are involved.

  The guilt of being late and not dressing Reya ‘appropriately’ is making me anxious, especially next to these upstanding parents, where my mistakes are magnified. I want to find someone to blame, in order to regain my equilibrium, but Reya has other plans for me. She walks me along the walls of her classroom to catch a glimpse of her artwork and storybooks. There we are, a picture of four brown stick figures with dark brown faces, two with pink triangle dresses, two with bright green pants standing in front of a rainbow. The stick figure of Reya has big pink glasses, larger than her face. I suppose her glasses are a statement piece for her being unique. The drawing is so colourful and happy that it quickly rubs off on me. Maybe I could switch out some dry spreadsheets from my work walls to one of these masterpieces.