Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Red Widing Wood. Her Mama sent her to Hyper City to buy grape juice and cake. Her Mama said, “Don’t talk to strangers”. After she buyed her things and was going back home, a big bad wolf stopped her and said, “give me your monies”. And she said, No! The Wolf pulled her bag, so she punched him two. But the Wolf was strong, so she called her friend Spiderman for help. And he came. And they defeated Wolf together.

Finis.

“You’re very different for a Catholic girl.”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re well read, well informed, driven, enterprising. Catholic girls usually aren’t any of those things.”

“I’d like to run a reference check on the lady cooking for you. I plan to hire her. Just so I know I’m referring to the right person, she’s the blackish lady, right? Is she clean?”

People are principled, trustworthy, kind, good, faithful, brave, generous, considerate, honourable, enterprising, decent, honest, noble, giving, tolerant, patient, ethical, ingenious, virtuous, fair.

People are also deceitful, thieving, dishonest, untrustworthy, lazy, racist, cunning, stingy, bigoted, intolerant, scheming, unethical, judgemental, unfair, crafty, unprincipled, treacherous, cruel, villainous, evil.

Race, nationality, community, colour, religious belief – or lack of it, gender, sexual orientation, economic status, have sod all to do with anything.

She never spoke much about those days; always brushed our awestruck questions aside saying she had merely done what needed doing. She laughed at us when we called her a pioneer, our hero. There was nothing heroic about the job of a back office clerk, she’d say. That she was only offered the job because of all the goodwill our grandfather had garnered in his lifetime – they were simply being kind to his widow. The little bits and pieces I know of her amazing life come from her daughters and sons, my mum among them, from friends of the family and even random strangers in the street. She was über cool, my Grams.

My favourite memories of her revolve around my college years, after she retired. I’d come home to find her waiting for me, excited and impatient. “Watch The Bold and the Beautiful with me”, she’d say. “I have to see what those mad people get up to next.” She knew all the characters like they were her own children – and she could unravel for me in seconds, their bizarre, incestuous, complicated relationships. As we watched the show, she’d keep up this half indignant, half amused tirade at the characters’ ridiculous antics, that had me in splits.

Today would have been her 85th birthday. She lived a full life, my Grams – a life that encompassed the complete spectrum of human emotion. She left behind a legacy of strength and determination, a resolute will to beat the odds – a legacy that lives on in her children, her grand children and great grand children.

Life: 0 Grams: 1

She got married a year ago, this sweet little girl.

She wasn’t there when we went in for a trim last month. She wouldn’t be back for a while, her colleagues said, refusing to explain why.  I was annoyed. Thing won’t let anyone else near her hair.

She came back last week. Thing was thrilled. Her friend was back.

She smiled her beautiful smile as we walked in. Her smile was the same and and it wasn’t. It was as if sadness had attached itself to her. Like a second layer of skin.

“Where were you?”, I asked.

“My husband died.”

She teared up as I hugged her.

Then she sat my little girl on the chair and made her giggle.

“Tell, tell, plicklee tell.”

“Mahm, I am becoming a vegetarian tomorrow.”
“What are you today?”
“Sausages.”

A few of her M&Ms fall to the floor. She picks them up and hands them to me: “You can eat them Mama, itsa 5 second rule.”

“A kite, a manja and a giant loudspeaker were having a tea-party. Princess Thing was invited.”
My favourite weirdo tells a story.

“Please pass the silly sauce.”

“First Lulu started fissing, then Bottle started fissing. Only BrusWen didn’t fiss. He mewrowled at them.”

“You must apologise to this stone. You hurt its feelings.”
“How do you know?”
Thinks for a minute.
“AAAPOLLLLLLAGAISE”

“Aday Yaard, kya kartey tum?”
That’s me. Yaard.

“Where is my best friend everywhere?”
Who’s that?”
“Dada!”
“Who am I then?”
“You’re just a Mama.”

“My name is Lola, call me Lola. I am a pink cwockodile. You have to be scared of me now.”

“I’m done eating my dinner.”
“No you’re not, there’s food left on your plate.”
“I’m sacrafycing that for desserd.”

“You are such a cartoon!”
sings: “Cartoon ki kidmat me salaam apun ka. Tane din thanda na.. Dada taught me. You can glare at him and shake your head.”

“Must you always get your way, Thing?”
“Yaah. Itsarule.”

“How old are you, girlie?”
“I’m growing 5.”
“5 what?”
“Years Yaard.”
- The last bit enunciated with utter disdain.

“Now how many stories do I have?”
“35.”
“Oh my, my, thutty five.” giggles like Ranjit

She picks up a fruit chunk with her fingers, spears it, pops it into her mouth.
“Why bother with the pick?”, I ask.
“You. Said. To. Use. It.”

Playing a game of alphabets, ‘nowhai’ comes up.
Because ‘nowIknowmyABCs’.
“STOP laughing at me!”

“You’re not allowed to change your mind. You’re a Dada.”

“Play hide and seek with me Dada.”
“After Mama goes.”
“Go plicklee, right now Mama.”

“What did you bring me Mama?”
“Myself.”
“I prefer presents.”

“I’d like to be a lady when I grow up Mama. Who will teach me?”
- 4 years old and already dissing her poor Mum.

“Watermelon or pineapple juice, Thing?”
“Chocolate milkshake.”

“Tell Mama you want peda from Chitale’s”, he prompts her.
“But I want a racing car toy.”

She’s eating ice-cream, relishing every spoon; she stands on her toes:
“See, didn’t I tell you ice-cream makes you taller?”

“I think I want to be Mix’s baby.”
“Should I pack your bags then?”
“Hmph. You must fight for me, Mama.”
- The mind games have begun.

“I’m a grasspopper and I’m going to bug you.”

“ZERO IS NOT NOTHING. YOU ARE MEAN. I WANT ZERO GUMMY BEARS. I WANT ZERO GUMMY BEARS.”

“I’m gonna count to 3 kiddo and y..”
“Count to 6 Mama, it’s so much nicer.”

“Where did you come from, Father?”
“I came from my mama’s womb, baby.”
“Oh.”
“And where did you come from?”
“I came from school.”

I walk in on her peering into the mirror, my lip balm smeared all over her face.
“I didn’t do anything, Mama. The lip balm attacked me.”

Update 28th March 2013: This post was getting way too long, so I’ve given in to my audience of one and moved all our conversations with my mad little Thing here.

She’s never met Thing. She’s seen her pictures. She’s read my tweets about her and my blog posts. We’ve talked about her off and on. She’s laughed at my little mad Thing and her bloodthirsty antics. This is her interpretation of my little girl.

You can see more of her beautiful work on Instagram

P.S. Still very overwhelmed Jo. I will be for a long time. I expected a painting. I did not expect the very essence of my little story-telling warrior.

Today is your first day at big girl school.

Your knapsack is all packed with your water bottle, your wee snack box and raincoat. When your school said you couldn’t have a bag with Baby Goofy, you made sure we got you one with pretty daisies. Blood thirsty little hellion that you are, I half expected you to demand one with crocodiles and sharks. Wouldn’t it be fun though, if we did get you one, just to see the look on your teacher’s face?

Each time I’ve looked at you these last few weeks, all I’ve been able to think of is the first time we met, you and I, on that beautiful rainy day almost four years ago. You were such a delicious baby; well, mostly because you were mine, but also because you were the most fascinating creature in the world. You had us in splits all the time, even then. We called you Genghis those first few weeks – you were so red, so fierce, so bossy and you took no prisoners. Everyone who encountered you was smitten. Not very different from how you are now, except you aren’t so red anymore.

I’m so excited you’re starting school. Your Dada and I were both very clear about the sort of education we wanted you to have, so we went looking for a school that would give you exactly that. I don’t know which of us was more surprised that we actually found one, right here in Bombay. I’m thrilled you’ll make mud pies and play in the rain instead of sitting in a stuffy classroom and learning rhymes and the ABCs like we did. You’ll play with little dolls and kitchen utensils and listen to your teacher tell you fascinating stories. As you grow, you’ll learn to make things with your hands, paint, sew, cook, sculpt, and make music. You’ll learn how things grow by actually growing them. You’ll learn how stuff works by blowing things up. They’ll nurture your spirit and help your Mama and Dada grow you into an amazing young person. Oh, they’ll teach you how to read and write and add, but it’s the rest of the stuff that’s exciting, isn’t it?

I’m sad too, baby. Sad your Dada and I will no longer be the only important influences in your life. That you’ve begun to belong to yourself more than you do to us. Sad we won’t be able to shelter you from the big bad world forever. That you have to grow up. If only you could be my Peter Pan.

I know I tell you this a lot; some day in the not so distant future you’re going to roll your eyes at me each time I say it, but baby, you really did change my life. Dada’s too. I love you with every fiber of my being. I always will. Today is the first big girl day of your life and I hope you enjoy every second of it.

When you walk into that room, I’m going to say to you what your Dada taught you to say to me every morning as I leave for work: Be brave Mama, be amazing.

And sweetheart, while I’m going to do my very best not to cry, if you do turn around and see tears, always know that they’re happy tears. That your silly Mama has finally discovered she’s brave enough to take her first step towards letting you go.

Well, not really. But I’m going to try.

Be brave my baby, be amazing.

Mama.

11.15 am

I cried. There, I said it. I couldn’t help it – she used to fit into the crook of my arm, this small person, how could I not be overwhelmed? I wasn’t brave today, but my little girl sure was amazing.

Here’s what happened at a little girl’s first big girl day.

It’s controlled chaos as we walk in to the school yard. Young people everywhere, in kurtas of many colours. What’s strikes me immediately is how unique each one of them is, despite the uniform. I notice that not one of the boys has a regular hair cut. I turn to a young lady tugging on my arm. With a big smile, she explains that she’s been asking me to excuse her. I haven’t heard her at all. I apologise and move hurriedly out of her way. She waves her thanks and runs to where the rest of her school mates are gathering for assembly. It isn’t like any assembly I’ve ever been to. There’s singing led by this dumpling of a teacher, a lot of laughing. Some teasing. These kids, they all have personality.

The kindergarten parents all huddle together. Looking around you can immediately tell the newbies from the seasoned pros – parents with older kids in this school. The newbies all have this ‘deer in the headlights’ look, so conditioned are we to fears, sending children to a regular school bring.

Her teacher walks over to us, smiling. She says hello to Thing, asks if she’ll help take care of some of the other small people, hold their hands and walk with them to class. Thing is thrilled to be asked for help. Walks off with her new friends, looks back just once, with a look I know so well. She’s apprehensive, but a walking time bomb of supressed excitement.

Yes, I’m crying. But you knew that already.

We’re asked to stay close today, her first day. We sit on steps that face a paved courtyard. There’s a playground to the left, with a nice big tree a little to the side. Goal posts have been marked on both sides with white chalk. There’s a little wooden tree house in one corner of the courtyard with a plank bridge connecting another wooden tower. What an amazing place to play dungeons and dragons.

It’s been half an hour and it doesn’t seem likely Thing is going to pitch a fit, so we decide to take a stroll. It’s not yet 9 am and a cup of coffee seems like a good idea. Not too many restaurants near this school though, so we settle for Coke and puffs at the local bakery.

We walk back three quarters of an hour later and the courtyard is transformed. Little people everywhere. One little person has a broom and is diligently sweeping up a square of the courtyard – whirling up a dust storm; another is rolling a small tire. Three of them are jumping in mud puddles, one looks like he’s digging for worms. We look around for our small person, for that signature shock of curly hair. There she is, on top of the tree house, making her way across the bridge to the other side. Fearless. She sees us and breaks into that special smile usually reserved only for her father. “I’m having so much fun Mama”, she yells.

We settle back down on the steps. She won’t be done for another hour. I’m smiling. We both are. I’m still a little sad, and I know the sad will probably never go away completely, but I also know it’s going to be alright. I know my baby will always find her way.

If you’d like to know more about the Rudolf Steiner / Waldorf experience, this video, Why Waldorf is a great place to start.

This post bothered me enough to show it to V, who is by far the most dispassionate, logical man I know. He laughed. A whole lot. Words like attention seeking, pseudo intellectual, stupid, sociopath and other less polite words I won’t repeat here, were said. “This is like one of those ridiculous ‘Is there a God?’ debates we used to have in college”, he said. “We had nothing better to do with our time. Seems like these guys didn’t either.” I laughed. It helped.

As a student of history, if I’ve taken anything away from the histories of nations and mad men, it’s that there is something very seductive about this form of irrational thought. Through the centuries, it is this sort of faulty reasoning that has been used as a premise to kill one or millions.

That people in my frame of reference believe the systematic annihilation of female foetuses deserves a logical counter argument, is to me, the scariest, sickest thing in the world. Especially when all you need is an internet connection and Google to tell you that almost without exception, countries with higher (or normal) female to male ratio have much lower population growth rates.

To the ‘well respected’ anonymous sociopath, I have this to say: you belong in an asylum for the insane.

And to Tarun, who enabled this aberration, unwittingly or otherwise: You’re right, I don’t know you. You’re probably the nicest guy on the planet. But I can’t help but judge you for what you’ve brought into my frame of reference – the company you keep.

I came back from work a few hours ago, bone tired. It’s been a long week, and since V is away at a conference and Thing at my sister Mix’s, I was really looking forward to a quiet evening with a couple of DVDs. Getting on to the elevator, I ran into one of the ladies in my apartment complex – she has a little girl too, close to Thing’s age. She’s one of the few people that I’ve interacted with in the four years we’ve been here – just a few minutes in the elevator, every other month or so. She always struck me as sensible. Until today. Until she kindly asked me why I needed to work when my husband had such a great job? Didn’t I realise it was more fulfilling to stay home and be a full time mum to my little girl? That she was sure my child sucks her thumb because I am a working mother!

I’m still blown away by the fact that a few minutes of superficial interaction was all it took for this lady to accuse, try, judge, convict and sentence me – all for being a parent who also had a job outside her home. What is a full time mum by the way? Does anyone know any part time mums?

She isn’t the only one with this sort of an opinion though. I have lost count of the number of times I have been judged for my choice. You’d think with all the grief women get from everyone else, they’d cut each other a little slack.

It has not been without challenges, my choice. Finding a balance between my job and my family has been extremely difficult at times, but we do ok. Besides, I’d make a terrible stay-at-home Mum. I tried it for a year and a half after she was born and a part of me was absolutely miserable. Maybe it’s because I am the daughter and granddaughter of working mothers. Maybe it’s because I find work outside the home fulfilling and it makes me a better parent. The point is, how does it matter? My Thing is a happy, healthy, well adjusted, bright, articulate small person, who just happens to suck her thumb. Hopefully, she’ll stop someday. If she doesn’t, we’ll end up with an epic bill from the dentist.

And if you want to know what I said to the lady, I have no answer. I spent those brief minutes with her, my mouth open like a fish, looking like an absolute idiot. Not my finest moment. If someone invents a time machine though, I’ll go back and tell her this with a big smile: I sucked my thumb until I was eleven and look how amazing I turned out.