Sunshine lady

There is a woman I know. Her name is Christine Grobart. She is blond, cute, has an infectious laugh and is funny, very funny.

I heard about her and met her a few times when our oldest sons went to the same preschool.

That was when I heard about her second born Tim--a little doll of a boy who was born with a rare heart condition.

I remember there was a fundraiser conducted for him a few years ago towards which I donated on a website and sent prayers and good wishes. Sadly, though, I hadn't made much of a personal connection with the Grobarts although I wished them and little Timmy well.

Soon we left for India.

When we returned and my son started school, many times we'd walk to and from school. Especially on bright sunny days. And on every one of those bright sunny days when I'd go to pick my son up after school, there would be Christine sitting under this shady tree outside the school building along with her cherub of a baby girl and Tim fooling around with his bright pink stroller, all waiting for Christine's oldest.

And as if attracted to a honey pot would be around her like a small swarm of bees, other moms and babies.

The laughter under this tree was loud, the mood sunny. And at the center of it all was almost always Christine--saying bright hellos to all, telling stories, laughing.

And to this I began to look forward. If there was no Christine under the tree the day was most likely a rainy or dull one. If she was there, it was anything but.

She became sunshine lady. I looked forward to running into her, sharing some laughs, basking in the bright day, even if it was only for a few minutes. For as soon as the bell rang and the kids began streaming out, the spell would break and it was time to go home.

Christine truly is an inspiration for her positive attitude, her being able to laugh about dealing with Tim's condition, staring life in the face. And often even making fun of it all.

Please if you are reading this, consider visiting her blog (link below). And please also consider making a donation towards the Grobarts' efforts to give Tim the best possible medical attention he can get.

littletimmygrobart.blogspot.com I hope I have told Christine how much she brightened my days this past fall, especially since I was often in dark places pondering the wisdom of my decision of choosing to return to the US after spending a year back in India. And just those few minutes spent laughing with her and her swarm of bees was therapeutic. It is unfortunate how often we don't tell people how much we admire them. And so I am saying this now...Christine, you inspire me to be brave and smile and laugh. It is always a pleasure to run into you and your kids and to share in the banter. I hope to keep doing so as brighter days beckon... From Christine's blog: Tim suffers from a rare heart condition in which the lower half of his heart operates in reverse. Instead of the stronger half of his heart pumping blood to his body, it is serving his lungs. And the weaker half is working in overdrive to pump blood to his body. Tim also was born with other heart defects. A hole in his heart was repaired when he was just 5 months old. During that same surgery, a pacemaker was installed to remedy an irregular heartbeat.... For more please visit: littletimmygrobart.blogspot.com

The blessings of bad skin and frizzy hair

I turn 40 this year.

I already have people asking if I feel old, people are calling me middle-aged. But it all skims off my back like an omelette off teflon.

Ask me why. Because of bad skin and frizzy hair.

I didn't always have bad skin and copper strand like hair. Just in my prime--the time girls are at their prettiest--those late teen years and twenties when the skin can be sometimes problematic but can also be at its most glowing and hair at its thickest and shiniest. When no matter what, just being young makes you look good.

Not me though. I had sun damaged skin ever since I can remember. I had hyper-pigmentation--dark patches--on several parts of my face and then some hypo pigmentation--light patches--on other parts. I was quite the soccer ball. The longer I stayed in the sun--which is sort of impossible to avoid living in India--the worse I looked. People called me smart and confident but seldom pretty. I got used to it. Mostly people looked at me with sad expressions examining all my various patches--tsk tsking at my misfortune. Asking why I had such awful skin, sympathizing, shaking their heads.

It wasn't all bleak. There was one small blip of ego boost I had. It happened on a trip to Germany at age 19. For three weeks there I was called pretty, beautiful, exotic. It was awesome. Surreal. And it gave me the confidence to go on for the next few years at college where I was surrounded by nubile beings by the dozen all with clear skin they didn't have to hide or explain away. And hair they could toss and run their fingers through. Me? If I ran my fingers through my hair, they'd stop after the first inch or so. The humidity made my already frizzy hair a positively razor sharp ball of copper wire.

These nubile maidens got dozens of roses for rose day and friendship day and what have you. I think I got one in my four years in college. But I learned to accept my fate as the one who may not be pretty but the owner of one or two other redeeming qualities.

Those prime years passed. I made pilgrimages to dermatologists. Upon their advice, I changed my religion to sunscreen. The effects were an oily shiny skin that only my sweetheart seemed to think attractive --bless his heart. Give it time, I was told, your skin will improve.

Fifteen years later--in my thirties, I found my skin improved. Vastly. And magically, I discovered hair products that transformed my hair to curly from frizzy. Thank you Ouidad.

It had taken years but finally, I had arrived. Pregnancy reduced my thick storm of hair to a sad mousy tail but at least I had the Ouidad gels to mask that. My skin continued to improve. Yes the years advance and if the only way isn't up anymore, at least it is sideways...for a while...

I sail into my forties therefore not at all unhappy for being older. I'm wiser thank heavens. My anger and angst have dimmed. And thanks to my two boys my sharp edges have been reasonably blunted.

Hey on my good days, I'm even called pretty.

As far as I am concerned, the only way is up!

We called her Aaji, we called him Bapu

Aaji--meaning grandmother. She wasn't my grandmother.

She was the wife of my music teacher--my Bapu. Bapu was as big an influence on my life as my parents. He gave my fledgling voice loving training for close to twenty years, and as a result, he gave it the ability to soar, the ability to produce music that makes me feel close to whatever higher powers there may be whenever I sing well.

People often ask me what I do with my music. I sing for myself, I say, for my kids. I don't perform in public--don't look for venues to be heard--as a struggling writer, I'm afraid in the quest for recognition I might lose the pure love and beauty of my music. And that is far too dear to me. It is my lifeline. My music is my religion, my meditation, my nirvana, and thanks to Bapu I will have this one thing until I die to give me pure joy.

But Aaji gave me something even more valuable than that.

As I stand at my kitchen sink now scrubbing two brass pots that once belonged to her, I wonder if I can make them shine like gold using lime juice and salt and a lot of elbow grease--like she used to. Her kitchen shelves were always lined with brightly polished brass vessels. Like orbs and cylinders of gold they would gleam from their perches.

I scrub hard, then harder and the shine comes through. The pots are gleaming. I beam...proud, happy.

I rinse them and keep them aside to dry. I think about her. She died a year or so ago. She was almost ninety.

All her life she lived quietly, giving Bapu and his students love, support, wondrous goodies to eat.

Aaji was not highly educated. She was not well traveled or worldly in any way. It was only in her seventies that she saw the ocean for the first time while on a holiday with my parents in Kerala. I was so moved by that fact--it had taken seventy years for her to see this wondrous thing--the ocean--while her reaction to that was so what? I am here now aren't I?

What Aaji was, was perhaps the most successful person I ever met. Successful for having fulfilled what she come on earth for. She lived life to its fullest. She gave joy to all that knew her and came in contact with her.

She taught me that the only way to live was by enjoying the smallest pleasures. And by a lot of laughter. And by not whining about things. I may not have been so mature a person--correction--I am not such a mature person that I can take in my stride every single thing that happens without breaking a sweat, without wanting to fight to change it. That is perhaps something lost in our generation of less tolerant people--the ability to just accept certain things.

However I did manage to take from that great woman, the ability to appreciate those small things. She never said, Now dear, you must learn to appreciate..." No, she never shelled out platitudes, she merely demonstrated them.

Because of her a cup of tea in the afternoons still gives me pleasure at that first hot sweet sip-- every single day. A spoonful of ice cream on a hot summer day, the iciness lingering on a parched tongue--she taught me to know that.

And it was magical that the scoops of ice cream she served us tasted so much better than any I have ever had eaten out of her small stainless steel bowl on her wobbly table, surrounded by her amused voice asking me what I cook for my poor husband who she was often convinced I starved. I have learnt so much from you Aaji, I used to say. He won't go hungry. And she'd nod with satisfaction and ask me if I knew how to make a pancake using chick pea flour. Tell me, I'd say and pull out a pen and paper.

Life was all about living graciously, simply, and most importantly, lived slowly. In their home, time wasn't an enemy to be conquered. There were things to do but a cup of tea would not hurt before rushing off to do them.

At Aaji's and Bapu's home, I felt like I had access to all the answers--the answers we all look for all our lives--I felt like I could just reach forward and grab those answers to the tough questions. But when I left their home, the questions continued to rage, the doubts continued to haunt.

Today I know that in that home, in that lifestyle, in their stoic happiness were the answers. They were meant to be emulated in order to be duplicated.

I wish I still had that place to go to. But they aren't there anymore--my Bapu and Aaji.

Bapu was the only grandfather I ever knew and how privileged I am to have known him, learnt from him, loved him. Bapu's music resonates in my home. The aching beauty of his compositions keeps him alive within our walls always. Between those few things I feel like I have the answers. I only have to find a way to not let my fears and insecurities overshadow those simple solutions to life's questions.

Aaji had no grandkids of her own but at least a hundred or more of Bapu's students called her grandma. And they speak of her with love still. Her recipes for life and meals keep her close to my heart. Aaji was a third grandmother to me but not in the usual way. She didn't tell me stories or kiss a bruised knee. She wasn't even much of a hugger. I don't think she even patted my head once. When Bapu died and I cried over the phone to her, she said, "First stop that crying then we talk."

Because of them, today I don't need someone to tell me what is important, what is meaningful and what is not. What makes life worth living. What I do need is someone to remind me of what I already know...during the tough times.