Until we give it South Indian name- Delhi Belly

Before I begin I must confess I am not a physical risk taker. I never have been. I have also been very lucky in the health department so I can count the number of medically traumatic events in my life on one hand. And my flight to America is definitely counted in that five. I also must tell you this post contains some pretty graphic details regarding my bowels. I recently read an article posted on FB saying that women are perceived to be less funny than men and part of that is because we are taught to not put ourselves out there. Well I can guarantee you this is not a "sit there and be pretty post". I am putting myself out there and hoping you have a bit of a laugh.

The flight started out just fine. Said goodbye to the family, checked-in, and sat down for a beer and a sandwich before the flight. I had a window seat next to a grandmother, a daughter and a newborn baby. Between the three of them they had about 7 carry on bags, all small and all shoved under the seats and on the floor in front of us. Knowing I am a lifetime member of the TWBC (teeny weeny bladder club), I began planning my escape route early. But honestly nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. It began with some passing of gas, then some passing of smelly gas, followed by some worse smelly gas. I looked at the peacefully sleeping baby and the worn out mother and I decided if I were her perhaps I would be willing to put up with some toots if it meant she didn't have to disrupt her baby by standing up to let me out. I watched a movie- more gas. I read my book- more gas. I slept a bit-more gas. Finally it was time, I sat up and waited for my moment. It happened. The baby started crying and roused a bit.

"Excuse me. I need to get out."

"You can't. You will wake the baby."

"Sorry? I HAVE to get out. I need to use the toilet."

"You can climb over. If I stand up the baby will wake." (baby had truthfully fallen back asleep)

"If I climb over you I might kick the baby and that will definitely wake him up."

I won and I made it to the bathroom just in time. With my bowels completely empty I returned to my seat regretting my choice to eat that sandwich with uncooked vegetables. What was I thinking eating lettuce? They probably picked up the head of lettuce that had traveled on the bed of a truck, then stored on the kitchen floor and just tore a piece off to make the sandwich look nice. No one else eats the lettuce. Why did I? Ugh, bad choice.

I remember the days when a lay over in Frankfurt meant getting off the plane, with all the other international travelers, into an non-AC hexagonal shaped concourse with one bathroom, not enough chairs and an open coffee bar in the middle that allowed smoking. Man, that was awful. You walked back on the plane after enduring your lay over kinda like that person who hasn't had a V8, your vision all wonky and the feeling that your body was at a 45 degree angle. Thankfully, Frankfurt has had a major update. There is a major walk involved, down twisty and turny corridors but at the end is a multi-stall AC bathroom with running water that is safe to brush your teeth with. As you walk further, you pass the smokers in their glass box. Why do they make the box glass? I choose to believe it is so I can say to my children, "Look at those yucky smokers in there!" Even though I was kid-free I still found myself making a yucky face at the smokers as if my disapproval was going to suddenly make a light bulb pop and they were going to out down their cigarette and never pick one up again. Further down there are carts with lovely smelling coffee and gorgeous looking pretzels, but considering my sensitive stomach I decided to avoid both. Now here is still one curious thing about the airport. They have plenty of bathroom signs but when you enter the bathroom you realize it is one door to a sink and then another door to one toilet. And you can't lock the door into the airport hallway. Stay with me on this description, please. So that means, if you are like me-in need of some quality toilet sitting time you must do so with a one or two women waiting by the sink and a steady stream of ladies opening the door asking, "Is the toilet taken?" I wasn't ill enough to have left all my embarrassment behind, so I kept slinking from toilet to toilet like a stray cat trying to go unnoticed. I finally made it to my gate so I pulled out my travel pillow and crashed on the bench.

I awoke with my body shaking from chills and found a white man across from staring me down. I tried to pull my dupatta tighter around my shoulders and stood up to get in the sunshine. When my strength wore out, I sat down shaking again. The man looked at me, leaned over and asked, "Are you sick?" Now my brain started racing. If I am sick they will not let me on the plane. They will quarantine me in Germany. "No, I am just tired," I offered with a big smile. He looked satisfied and I went back to lying down working to hold my teeth from chattering. I again got asked on the bus out to the plane and I repeated my "I'm tired" line. But I barely made it out of the bus without fainting and then I discovered I had to climb the steps to the plane with my suitcase in hand. I gave up and stepped aside, hoping a surge of strength would come. It doesn't but the man returns. Without saying anything he picks up my suitcase, carries it to the top of the steps and puts it down. (When I tell my mom this story later she tells me "That was Jesus!")I somehow found my seat, shoved my suitcase up top and made it to the toilet again just in time. The rest of my flight I spend laid out on a row I was so lucky to find. I tried to wake several times, lifting my heavy head. Every time I did, the Indian lady across the aisle from me was staring me down. Perhaps she thought I was dying or perhaps I was passing gas in my sleep, but by this time I was too ill to care. I was also too ill to care when I occupied the bathroom for 20 minutes and was so hot that I stripped all my clothes off and doused myself (and the bathroom) in water. I was too ill to give the 5 people waiting in line even so much as a look, much less a sorry.

The rest of the flight went about the same-toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out, toilet, pass out. The flight attendant tried to get me to sit up for the landing but after the 2nd time asking and seeing her expression turn to absolute disgust/pity after looking me over I assume she thought even a fall from the seat couldn't possibly do anymore damage to my physical state. I dragged myself through customs, again hoping they wouldn't quarantine me or spend 20 minutes asking me about various forms of mango I might have been smuggling in. This time I had none. I managed to find a Washington Flyer, give my address, pass out, wake up to pay, unlock and disarm my inlaws' house (they were back at my place in Mysore), drop my bags, grab some fizzy water and hit the bed. I spent the next 48 hours trying to recover and saying aloud to no one except myself "I can't believe I made."

Trying to Build Little Open Minds

Oh, the ofuro of Japan! So deep, so warm and so, so lovely.  When we were in Japan, we took a bath every night.  It was like a tour of the ofuros- a traditional hinoki wood tub in Anjo, an almost square shaped, space -saver tub in Tokyo, a modern metal tub in Machino, a peaceful, tucked way in the back of the house so no one can hear you when you are yelling for a towel tub in Wajima, a packed with toys and little girls tub in Hiroshima, and western jacuzzi style tub in Fukuoka.  As most Japanese houses only have one ofuro, everyone takes turns. Every night, as the guests of the house we would be offered our turn first. The girls and I would collect our pajamas and bath things and head for the bath.  Next to the tub there is a place with a shower head and a spout, along with a bucket and a stool, so before getting into the tub we scrubbed and washed the day from our bodies.  Then either as a group or one by one we took our turn soaking in the neck deep water, always feeling like we wanted to stay just a bit longer but knowing everyone else needed a turn as well.  I remember when I lived in Japan by myself, in the winter I would take a bag of mikans (clementine oranges) and just sit in the tub for hours eating, reading my book and soaking.  Pre-kids, of course.  If we ever get the chance I will with out a doubt put a Japanese style soaking tub in the bathroom.  Such luxury!

When we arrived back in India, I definitely did not want the hot water, but I missed the tub desperately.  One morning I was talking to Srinivas and telling him about Japan the topic of the tub came up.  As I was describing the tub and how everyone took a bath at night, I watched his face slowly change into a face of disgust.

"Everyone shares the same water?"

"Yes, but they wash before they get it so it is clean."

"But, Akka, they all get into the same water."

It didn't matter how much I tried to describe how nice the tub is or how Japanese have very strong rules about what you can't do in a tub, Srinivas' face never changed from one of digest.

Later as I watched him remove the layer of fat from the milk with his hands and then roll his finger together to make all the left over fat move down to his fingertips and then scrape his fingertips on the side of the bowl to make sure he got all of the fat into the bowl, I remember how that practice used to absolutely disgust me and make me loose my appetite for a whole day. I avoided the kitchen so I could not have to see people's hands touching and scraping all over my food.  Now, I am amazed by it and I try my best to emulate this only-Indian talent without much success. It saves washing a spoon and it is much easier to get your little finger in and under places to get all the food out of the bowl.

Different is a word we try to use a lot of in our house.  We do our best to not describe things as wrong or right, especially when referring to another person's practices.  We hope it help our kids open their minds to a "different" way of doing something and it constantly reminds Marvel and I that our way is not always the right way.  And we need a lot of help sometimes in that department.  It has taken me years, years I tell ya, to be able to back down from the argument that cold water and ice cream can give someone a sore throat. Biologically, it makes no sense to me. But you know what, it doesn't matter.  I have a bottle of water always in the fridge.  My kids eat popsicles whenever they want.  And no one is forcing room temperature Coke down my throat -eww, the thought! But it has taken me years to get here.  I can't even count the number of times I have probably hurt my relatives feelings dismissing their very real arguments about how they became ill.

I think every parent has a dream for their child. They want their child to succeed at something they themselves were not able to do.  For me, I want my children to be more flexible in their thinking.  I want them to think of ideas as "different" and ways they haven't learned yet.  I want them to want to try something new before thinking of the reasons it won't work or how it is flawed.  I want them to want to say "I told ya so" a little less.  

The Busy Days of Summer

April and May have been insane. The girls got out of school and just as we were getting in our summertime groove we took off for 2 fabulous weeks in Japan. 2 days after we returned Avva and Taata came. 5 days later we had a 70th pooja for Marvel's dad. 12 hours later I left for the US. (While 2 days later Marvel, parents and girls left for Goa.) 6 days later I met my dad in DC. 1 day later we boarded a flight to India. 24 hours later we stepped off the plane in India. 2 days later we had 20 kids packed in our place for a pizza and movie birthday party for Star. 10 hours later we put Marvel's dad in a cab for the airport and then home. 2 days later we drove to Coorg for a lovely little stay in a resort. 2 days later we returned to Mysore. We did a bit of shopping and then 5 hours later we put my dad in a car heading to the Bangalore airport. 2 days later we put Marvel's mom in a car heading to Bangalore and then the airport. Yes, I believe a bit more coordinating on the return flights would have left more dough in our pocket and a little more tred on the tires.
So here we are, back to us 4. The girls are tired from all the traveling and out of sorts from all the candy-giving, gift-receiving, attention-getting, and instant give ins that came with 3 grandparents in the house. We have one more week of summer vacation, but Marvel has already hopped on the work train trying to make up for 2 months of frivolous fun. The girls have their new backpacks, snack boxes and water bottles and they are ready to return to school. I think school will do them an enormous amount of good as 3 good byes in such a short time is making them deeply homesick. Flip asks everyday when we are going home and Star made a hankie out of a corner of Avva's old sari to wipe her tears. And I am ready for an hour or two to myself in the morning. I have many blog posts floating through my head from the past 2 months so give me a week or two and then start checking back in. I promise to be a more reliable writer as it makes me so happy to know so many of you are journeying along with us.

I am sad...

Today my grandmother left. I was very sad. I went down to the car and we were crying our eyes out. I am so sad but at the same time I am so excited to go back to America. We are going to get a shirt made out of her old clothes, so I am excited about that. I am hoping that my sadness will soon go away.

School is starting soon. I am excited for that, too. We have two and a half more months in India!

I made a joke up with my cousin it goes like this:
Do you know Satvik?
Yes.
Well, in Satvik's class there is a girl named Thrisha. Do you know Thrisha?
Yes.
Thrisha's friend is named Shalin. She is living in Mysore for two and a half more months. She is studying at I-Can school. She will go back to America, Michigan, in August. Can you guess who Shalin is?
(Tee-hee-hee)

It's me!

That's it. Have a nice day.

Star

What I do....

Today my mom got new shawls. Today I got a pencil case, a water bottle, and a lunchbox. Today, my sister got a backpack and a little froggy lunchbox. Today, we got some bangles to give out to my friends. Today, I dressed up in my mother's shawls to make it into a sari, which is what women wear. It is a big long piece of cloth with a skirt and a top. First you put on the top then you put on the skirt and then you take the big long fabric and you fold it into the skirt and then you take it and wrap it around your body and then you PUT it over your shoulder.

I am reading lots and lots of books now. In our apartment complex all of the girls each have a name according to our talent. All of these names come from the series that Enid Blyton writes. One of them is called Mallory Towers. The other is called St. Clare's. They are both boarding schools. My name is Felicity, the head girl of Mallory Towers. Her talent is that she is a kind-hearted loving person that is especially good at science. She has an older sister named Darrell. Darrell's best friend is named Sally Hope. In the last book when Felicity becomes the head girl, Sally's little sister Daffy (Daphne) arrives. She is quite naughty at first, but then Felicity and June the captain of sports who has a cousin named Alicia, who was in the same class as Darrel and Sally soon put Daffy in her place....

My grandparents came to stay. First my dad's parents. With them we went to Goa, then when we got back my Mother and my mother's father arrived from the USA. Then with all of them, my father's father left and then we all went to Coorg. We just got back. It was really fun. Now my grandmother is still here, but both the grandfathers have left. My grandmother is leaving on Saturday. I am so sad, but I am so excited as well, because I will be going him soon too. I can't wait to come back to Michigan to see you all. I am so excited. School is starting June 4th. We have got our supplies. My sister says she wants to go home this very second.

Going Back

When I was 3 years old, I started Pre-K at Court Street Academy in Portsmouth, VA. I met a friend in that class named Rebecca. We cemented our friendship by swinging on the swings and singing "Kiss on List" every day. We spent 2 years of kindergarten together before my family moved back to SC. Somehow, Rebecca and I stayed in touch. We wrote letters back and forth. Rebecca held onto one of these letters. It was typical little kid writing- big and messy. It read, "I hope we move bake soon." There were of course no plans to move back to VA, but as a little kid I didn't know that.

Once my family had a cookie jar that was shaped like a gingerbread house. My sisters and I collected all the change in the house and put it in that jar. It was for a return trip to P-town. And one magically day, we found $100 bill in the bottom of the closet. My mom let us add that to the jar, so we finally had enough money to make a road trip back. We piled blankets on the floorboard and that was where middle sister rode. My oldest sister got the backseat. I sat in the middle of the front with my parents. I remember wondering, "Why does my dad always get my feet but my mom always gets my head?" We drove the 7 hours, which seemed forever away.

We stayed with old friends. We saw our old places. My sisters even got a tour of our old home. Our home was a 3 story pink house in the historical district. It had 2 sets of stairs- one curly and one straight. It had a big tree with a rope swing in the backyard. I used to put on my Wonder Woman underoos and my buddy Mitchell used to wear his Spiderman underoos. We would swing on those ropes for hours. I am still hoping underoos will make a comeback while my kids are young.

I visited Rebecca during this visit. She didn't know I was coming. I gave her a Christmas present. She didn't have one for me. She quickly scratched someone's name off a poster with 3 puppies and added my name. I kept that poster in my room for years.

As Rebecca and I got older we continue to write letters and we started making long-distance phone calls. Her parents let us talk for as long as we liked. My parents cut me off after 30 minutes. We also started spending a week at each other's houses in the summertime. These visits were a year in between, so it would always take a couple of days to warm up to each other. About mid-week though, we would find ourselves either curled up on the couch or snuggled in bed telling stories.

We would take turns telling stories about when we were little, each time adding details. Over the years, we told those stories so many times they were no longer Rebecca's memories or my memories, but they were our memories. I can't remember which ones I actually remember and which stories I have heard so many times it is just a part of me.
Next weekend, Rebecca is getting married and I am traveling back to stand up beside her. I get to give a speech about her. I am still not sure how to sum up our friendship, make her feel how special she is to me, make people laugh and toast her new husband all in 2-minutes. I am sure the folks working out with me in the gym are tired of hearing me practice my various speeches. I get the chance to express my love for her to her. And for that opportunity I am glad.

Forced to Cook

You all know we hired a cook named Srinivas. He comes in at 9am everyday to make lunch and dinner for us. He used to come in at 8am until we were bested by a neighbor who offered him breakfast in addition to his pay if he came in early to her house. Srinivas is cheerful. He likes the children. He speaks English. And when I give him negative feedback he takes it in a way so that I do not feel so bad. When you go to someone's house in India it is a major affair. They make the most elaborate dish they can and they pile it on your plate. There always seems to be an unending pot of whatever your stomach desires. It is fabulous to be a guest in India. Well, it is fabulous to be a guest in India as long as you aren't doing it every day. If you come for a short visit from abroad family and friends soon get wind and begin calling you to their homes, which is lovely, but after a couple days of being served like a queen you also begin to feel a bit like a stuffed Christmas goose. It is always my habit in India to try to be out of the house for one meal. If you can skip a meal, cause there are 4 meals a day here, then your tummy just might not pop. So I would like to say I had this in mind when my in laws traveled nearly 24 hours and awoke in my house. They drug themselves out of bed, coerced Flip into hugs and then looked around for breakfast. I offered them freshly cut mango and homemade yogurt with granola, joking that I am still part American and I need my morning cereal. But the truth is I do not have the work ethic of the Indian woman. Most of the woman I know cook 3 meals a day from scratch. They serve everyone and eat last. But me on the other hand- if my feet hurt, I try to figure out exactly what I can make from a seated position. If I am tired, I pull out a box of Mac n Cheese. And if I just don't feel like it, I force the saddest looking leftovers upon my family. This is why I have Srinivas. So I quickly tried to correct the situation by telling my in laws Srinivas was coming soon and he can make anything they like. I unfortunately am not too versed in Southern Indian cuisine so my menu ideas are limited. I also promised them a lunch of mujjige huli, carrot paliya, puliyogare rice and chapatis. When lunch time rolled around they seemed very content with the food. And true to form, my in laws assured me anything I serve is ok and they don't expect me to make anything special or slave away in the kitchen for them. They came to see us and plenty of people will have them over for meals. Let it be known I love my in laws and I have always appreciated their acceptance of me just how I am. And so I sighed a big sigh of relief. And then we started planning all the foods they wanted Srinivas to make the next day. But the stars were not with me. Srinivas had a death in the family and was out for 2 days. I had to cook! And Mac n Cheese was not going to cut it. I did pull out left overs, but I did manage palak paneer, a couple of salads, homemade chapatis, and bindi paliya. And while it was not that good, it was not that bad either. But luckily for me and the rest of my family Srinivas came back today to make yummy dosa, 2 kinds of chutney, sambar and paliya. We can all eat again.