Computers and Childhood

 

I was almost six years old when my dad brought home this ‘wonder’. It came in many big and small boxes. Daddy smiled broadly with delight and excitement as he unboxed the various components. “This is our new computer”, he announced enthusiastically.

Standing silently in the corner, I observed my dad and his friend taking out a bulky monitor, a heavy CPU and multiple other components that included a wired keyboard, a wired mouse and two speakers. I watched in awe as they put together the myriad wires and assembled ‘the computer’.

 The respectable computer had a table of its own. This table was different from the other tables in our house. It had a special drawer exclusively for the keyboard that could be pulled out while working. I used to simply pull the draw to see the off-white keyboard with white and grey keys, a slightly heavy mouse with a wire and a grey ball inside.

 My mother selected the softest and smoothest cloth at home to veil the monitor and another cotton cloth for the CPU. They always remained veiled when not in use to prevent dust accumulation. Every day my cleaning-obsessed-mom would dust off the non-existent dust particles from the surface of the monitor and CPU.

The monitor was huge and heavy. It had a curved glass encased in a white plastic squarish case. It looked very much like the television we had in our living room. But unlike the TV, it didn’t show people singing and dancing. Instead, it started with a black screen of only white text and occasional images.

Next to the monitor, sat a large PC that came to life when switched on. It buzzed and hummed, and multiple lights flickered to indicate that the majestic machine has woken up from its slumber. On the side facing us, there was a circular button to switch on-off. It had two slots like a letterbox for inserting floppy discs of two sizes. Floppy discs were today’s equivalent of CDs and USB drives. Back in the day, floppy discs came in two sizes. A large black square of thick paper covering a flimsy circular glossy black disc that had a circular hole in the middle. This came in square white envelopes. I learnt that that larger floppy disc had to be treated with care. It was delicate, easily damaged and contained only a small amount of data. It was as big as one of my notebooks in school. The second kind was a study, rigid plastic box square with an interesting sliding metal shutter on top. My dad told me that the smaller floppy disks are the future, and the larger ones would get outdated soon.

At the rear end was an abundance of vents, perforations and multiple-coloured ports of various sizes and shapes to receive the wires and cables from all the different parts.

There were two speakers on either side of the that looked like identical boxes of plastic and mesh cloth. The speakers were connected to the CPU with a thin wire and one of them had two knobs and a button for switching on and off.

Daddy's work involved making drawings, plans, designs and sketches. Before the arrival of the computer, Daddy worked on a tall sloping desk with a large T-scale. He had dark brown boxes full of tools, Rotring pens and stencils. Dad's work always mesmerized me. I spend hours watching the smooth flowing black ink of his pens create intricate drawings, perfect letters and flawless shapes.

With the arrival of the computer, Daddy embarked on a mission to master AutoCAD. My father believed that computers were the future. He encouraged me to get familiar with it. He patiently explained to me how to operate it.

When I first used the computers, the operating system was MS-DOS. The computer did not speak your language. You learnt the bizarre and aberrant computer language. There was no scope for error. A spelling mistake meant a dead end. Braving to use the computer meant, searching the letters on the scrambled  QWERTY keyboard. 

My mother’s reaction to the latest addition to the house was nonchalance. She remained unmoved by my father’s enthusiasm or my curiosity. She was too busy with cleaning, cooking, feeding the people and running the house. Besides, Mummy owned a Typewriter and she was happy with her gadget. The typewriter was a bulky, noisy typing device with keys arranged three-dimensionally in different levels.  Each key had a letter marked on it. As you pressed a key, a lever attached to it swings into action, pushing a metallic stamp of the letter to fly from one end of the typewriter to the paper mounted on the cylindrical carriage. Sandwiched between the paper and the metallic stamp type was a ribbon. This ribbon was a spool of inked cloth. The carriage moved the paper to the left as the typing progressed. When you reach the edge of the paper, a bell sounds. You have to press the large lever on the left. This turns the paper up to the next line and moves the carriage back to the start line. 

Watching my mom type was like watching an orchestra perform. I watched the keys dancing, making a print on paper, the paper gliding to the left and my mom pressing the keys in quick progression. My mom used to type really fast and she did not look at the keys only at the paper. She knew all the keys of this disorganized set of letters. She rarely made any mistake. I watched in admiration, at her and at the working of the typewriter.

My father insisted that I should use the computer. My mom believed that it was not for children to play. She did not let me touch a key on the typewriter. Mummy always believed that kids had this inherent potential to destroy things and hence everything should be kept safe and locked up. So she locked up my dolls, my toys, my painting sets and her typewriter.

Daddy, however, was an optimist. He believed children should be given access to newer experiences.

So, I spent a significant part of my childhood, learning the keys on the keyboard. It used to irritate the younger me, that these letters were not arranged in alphabetical order. 

Over the years, computers evolved gradually. The MSDOS gave way to Windows, the computers got faster and friendlier, the keyboards and mouse got lighter and wireless,  the monitors got flatter and CPUs got smaller.

___________________________________________________________________

Khadeejas- My Mother's Tharavad

Aluva is a sluggish town nestled on the banks of the mighty Periyar River in Kerala. In this verdant town, amongst the lush greenery, in a lovely house clay-roof-tiled house lived the two people whom I loved the most-my grandparents; my grandad whom I fondly called ‘Uppa” and my grandmom whom I addressed as ‘Umma’.

July and August are the months of school vacation in the ‘Gelf’. They are the months of unforgiving summers in Abu Dhabi. It was the time my mom packed me off to live with her parents in Aluva.

In Kerala, July-August is the time the heavens showered its bounty on the earth. The winds bring the magnificent moisture-laden monsoon clouds to the western coast of India, they bring bountiful rains.

Among the houses on Canal Road, there was a house marked by a black marble embedded in the wall with ‘Khadeejas’ engraved on it. Khadeeja was my grandmother’s name. Yes, the house was named after her. The gates opened to a path narrowed by bushes on either side. There was just enough space for the red Maruti 800 to drive through. The path led to the muttom replete with trees and plants.

There were two houses in the compound; an old tharavad and a relatively recently built out-house.

The old tharavad was a traditional building with terracotta roof tiles, partly black oxide floor and partly terrazzo floors, long grilled windows with hook-eye latches, an attic for old unused things, and a chimney. The main door opened into a long and rather narrow living room, that housed the sofas, the television, and a bookshelf brimming my granddad’s collection of English and Malayalam books. The living room opened into another small central room that had a telephone, a telephone book, a mirror on the wall, and two chairs. In the nights during the ‘power cut’ times, we huddled together in this room under the light of an emergency lamp or a flicking flame of a wax candle. ‘Power cut’ was the half-an-hour of previously announced time when the Government of Kerala decided to stop electricity supply to an area. The time kept shifting every week and all residents were aware of when the power would go. This was the time life came to a stand-still. Outside the house, the crickets creaked, the stray dogs howled, the fireflies dazzled. Uppa would tune his radio to the ‘Akashavani-Thiruvanthapuram’ station to listen to the news.  On other days, Uppa told us stories about his past. The time he went to school, the time he married my grandmother, the time in his childhood when an epidemic illness claimed the lives of many of his family members. I listened to the stories with rapt attention. A few daft moths jumped in the flame and the bodies floated molten wax.

On one side were the two bedrooms and the dining room in the front. The fourth side opened to the old part with a black oxide floor that housed an ancient kitchen with the verrag aduppu. Umma had abandoned the verrag aduppu for the LPG gas and tabletop stove. The old kitchen functioned as a storehouse and the new kitchen adjoining the living room was where all the cooking happened. There was a large aluminium trunk in the store where Umma stored the grains. She told me stories of famine and food shortage that happened in her youth and how her Zamindar father traversed the rivers and roads to deliver trunk boxes full of food grains to his daughters.

At the far end of the house, there was a work area with the ammi kall and a toilet. The toilet was different from the toilets in Abu Dhabi. You climbed on an elevated platform and then there was an oval-shaped ceramic ditch with a scary hole on one end. On either side were large rectangular uneven ceramic tiles for placing your legs. You did not sit leisurely. You squatted carefully, with one foot on each ceramic tile and earnest prayers to God Almighty that you don’t fall inside. You finished your business and ran out.

On the left of the tharavad was a recent addition- the ‘outhouse’ with a concrete roof and terrazzo flooring. It had two bedrooms with attached bathrooms and a living room.  The outhouse and tharavad were connected by a curved mosaicked walkway covered with asbestos sheets mounted on a metal framework.  The sides of this walkway were embellished with a series of earthen flowerpots, all containing foliage of different shades of green speckled with hues of purple and wine red. Some pots were on the floor, some were elevated on bricks and some pots were hanging from the metal framework. The pots were full of Umma’s plants.  Plants for her were not inanimate objects that adorned her muttam. For her, it was a significant part of her existence. She watered them, tended them, and spoke to them like they were her kids.  Her mini garden was a treat to the eyes. Every time a flower bloomed in her garden, Umma beamed with joy.

 

My earliest memory of monsoons was sitting on the cemented side wall of the car porch with Umma, listening to the raindrops falling on the corrugated asbestos sheets and watching them make a neat line of equally spaced tiny circular dents on the sand. The chilly winds teased our faces and hands with a few drops of the rain. Growing up in the arid desert and the scorching sun, I thought, the monsoons were the greatest miracle of nature.

The downpour of water enraptured me. The shapes the rain drew on the sand fascinated me. Mild drizzle would texture the sand and heavy downpours would dig large round ditches exposing the pebbles underneath. The trees danced to the winds, the earth absorbed all the water, and the well filled up.  I loved to walk in the rain, holding an umbrella, splashing the rainwater with my Hawaii chappals.

 

When the dark clouds hovered in the sky announcing the imminent downpour, Umma used to run to the cloth lane to gather the clothes hanging outside for drying. 

Umma would not let me out during heavy rains or during thunder and lightning. “Dubai kids catch illness quickly”, she would say. “What will I tell your mother if you become sick?”. She would make me a hot savoury snack and switch on the TV. She was the best cook in the world.

On rainy days, I stared out of the window, amazed by the drops kissing the earth, drenching the soil in the flowerpots, and splattering on the mosaic walkway. I revelled in the luxury of nature, in the beauty of the greenery, in the love of my grandparents.

The smell of the rain on the sand always reminds me of my Grandparents home. 

 

My Grandparents were early risers. They woke up before the sunrise, in the silence of the last part of the night and prayed Tahajjud together. This was how they began their day for all the time I had known them.

Uppa would lead the prayers as the Imam. Umma and I followed his actions standing behind him. On some days I prayed, on other days I fell asleep on the prayer mat. My grandparents were kind they never forced me to pray or scolded me for sleeping off during the prayer.  

 

I used to wake up the sight of Uppa slicing vegetables for Umma. Uppa was a cute, petite man. He was mild-mannered, extremely courteous, and seldom got angry. When he smiled, his eyes were reduced to slits, the corners of his mouth pulled up revealing his pearly white, squarish teeth and the midline diastema between the upper central incisors. He smiled with his heart, his round nose and bald head shined. His eyes sparkled when he looked at Umma. After the vegetables were sliced and the chopped pieces were approved by Umma, he got dressed to go to the chanda (market) carrying a large canvas bag with wooden handles.

On other days Uppa went to the backyard with his white towel tied as a turban over his head, his lungi folded up with a mammaty (spade) over his shoulder. He would go to his maavu, plaavu, tengg, vaazha, perakka, chambakka marrams (mango trees, jackfruit trees, coconut trees, banana trees, guava trees and rose apple trees). He removed the weeds, dug the soil around and reshaped the soil to form a circular embankment around the trees.

After the arduous labour, he headed to bath. Lunch was usually served after Zuhr prayer.

Umma was a beautiful woman, with glowing porcelain skin and shining hair. Draped in a cotton sari, she ran the house with an authority that was rarely questioned even by Uppa. She was a domineering woman who could command her sons. She bullied the ladies who came to work for her. Helpers in the house rarely persisted for long.  But to me, the grandchild who came to spend the vacation with her alone, she was the sweetest grandmom.

She oiled my hair with a self-made concoction of hair oil. She fed me food enriched with homemade ghee. She told the milkman to get extra milk for my boost and curd. She made her special Beef Achaar. Steaming hot puttu with a dollop of ghee and a generous amount of Umma's beef achaar was my favourite breakfast. Her vacation agenda was to fatten me. She was an amazing cook and loved to make special dishes for me. Uppa was diabetic, hypertensive and hyperlipidaemic with a history of bypass heart surgery. So, his food contained no salt, sugar, or fats.

When Umma cooked, she prepared a special portion of every dish for Uppa. Seeing Uppa eat was a pleasurable event. In reality, Uppa ate bland food. But he enjoyed every morsel of it. He started with a loud ‘Bismillah’, relished every bite, praised my grandmom abundantly, he would wipe off the plate with his fingers, lick all the fingers of his right hand noisily and then let out a loud burp. A rather loud ‘Alhamdullilah’ followed the burp. Then we would get up and go to the washbasin outside to wash his hands and mouth. He swished and he gargled. And then he did something very funny. He sat on top of the slab near the washbasin and brushed his teeth looking into a small hazy mirror.

Uppa came inside and opened his box of medicines. It had multiple small brown paper envelopes with strips of tablets. He meticulously selected the drugs and gulped them down with a glass of water.

Umma was a diabetic with a strong appetite for sweets and chocolates. She had a secret stash of chocolates in the storeroom and lots of ice cream in the freezer. She ate to her heart's content and not the doctor’s instructions, much unlike Uppa.  Post lunch when Uppa napped we enjoyed our ice-creams and sweets.

Umma made me rub her aching back with my then tiny legs as she laid down on the mat in the veranda. After a while, she told me stories of her childhood and I told her stories from my school.

Often there would be visitors in the evening. Mostly it would be my cousin brother Nabeel who came after school to watch television, play with me and gobble Umma’s delicacies.

The TV in my Grandparents house had only channels- DD1 and DD2. Together we saw Sakthi man, Duck tales and other cartoons. Sometimes there were grown-ups as visitors who came to see my grandparents. Some people came with wedding invitation cards.

Some visitors would drop in to see Umma. Often, they would ask her for a part of her beloved plants. Umma judged people on their ability to grow plants. And based on that judgement she decided to share a plant part or not. After they left, she would reveal. “That woman is a plant killer. She has killed all the plants that I have given her. Why does she keep asking me for more?”

If you are a plant grower, Umma would part with her plant pieces with pleasure and pride.

An obnoxious relative, once asked, "Which is your home?". I replied, "This one". He said, "How can this be your home? You are the daughter’s daughter. This house belongs to the sons”

A ten-year old’s heart did not love according to the rules of patriarchy. A ten-year old’s heart gravitated towards where there was love. Today at 35 years of age, this house in Aluva is still the place where a part of my heart belongs.

In the evenings, Uppa sat on his desk and wrote a page in the diary. Without fail, every day, he chronicled the events of the day in his personal diary. After that, he heard the news on the radio, ate his dinner and went to bed early.

Uppa was a religious man. He was diligent in his prayers and raised his kids well. He did not force religion on his kids or grandkids. The choice to pray, to cover one's head and to practice religion was left to each individual.  He feared his Creator, led by example and advised with love. Uppa read extensively and had a broad-minded approach to religion and the role of women.

Once I overheard him rebuking my oldest uncle for shouting at my mom. Uppa advised, “Women are like crystals. They are innately beautiful. But once you drop it down, it shatters into many pieces and then you cannot fix it back”.

And that is exactly how he dealt with the women in his life. He treated his wife with love and respect. Over the years, I have never heard him belittling my grandmother. He always held her in high regard, no matter what. He was always appreciative of her company, support and efforts. 

For his daughter, my mom, he was the strongest pillar of support. He was the voice telling her to go ahead and prove herself. When my mom wanted to study, he encouraged her to. When my mom wanted to work, he took pride in it. When her older brother protested against my mom going to work, he told him that if her husband did not have a problem with her working, nobody should. He wrote letters to my mom frequently with words of love and optimism.

For his granddaughter, me, he was the best grandpa a girl could have. He was a patient listener, an empathetic guide and a wonderful pen pal. He used to write to me, in a language that I understood, encouraging me to overcome obstacles in my life.

In a society teeming with misogynistic men deciding women's clothing, limiting their education, and clipping their wings, Uppa was a class apart. 

My grandfather died in 2003 after losing a battle to oesophageal carcinoma. His loss left my mom with a vast emptiness and pain that took years to heal. 

Umma was an indomitable spirit. She lived her life on her own terms and not by societal standards. She did not change her behaviour to please anyone. She did not mince words. Often, she used to lash out bitter truths like a slap on the face. Behind this imperious exterior was a soft heart. I remember her tearful face when she had said goodbye to her youngest son as he prepared to go to Dubai. Good-byes were always a sorrowful affair. 

She used to judge people for what they were and not what they pretended to be. She did not judge people by their attire, modesty and piety. She knew it when pious words were mere pretence. She had this sharp eye to see directly into your living soul. 

I had learnt very early from Umma that modestly in dressing is not a measure of goodness of heart. I had also learnt that it was impossible to win a debate with her. She always had the last word. 

She was a tough mother-in-law. She loved all her grandchildren dearly. 

"I pray for all my grandkids in Tahajjud prayers. I remember you, as well", she would tell me, on phone, in her feeble voice. The last decade of her life was troubled by a neurological movement disorder. She stopped living alone in the Tharavad a few years before her death when the tremors and muscle stiffness robbed her of her independence. She started living with her son's wife and kids. Her frail health did not stop her strong mind. 

My grandmother expired in 2016. A bit of the house died when she moved out. I found it painful to visit Khadeejas after Umma died.  The house has withered with age and was damaged by the 2018 Floods that wreaked havoc in Aluva. My mom tells me that the house will be demolished soon.

'Khadeejas’- the house where the eponymous matriarch lived with her loving husband during the last lap of their lives. The place where they sent their sons off to U.A.E for better prospects, the place where they married off their last two sons, the place where they entertained their grandchildren. This place will soon be memories for everyone.

HOME

 

Home is where Mummy is,

Where attention is showered without bias and prejudice.

Where you get scolded for missing your Fajr irrespective of how old you are.

Where you can dress like a homeless drug addict and still be accepted,

Where you can dress like a Hindi Serial Bahu and still be roasted.

Where your tea addiction never questioned,

Where your hair and scalp get oiled without being requested.

Where you get unlimited supply of  your favourite Beef achar,

And you can lick the Nutella off the jar,

Where the pazhamporis are so perfect that they just melt in your mouth.

Where all your absolutely-unnecessary-impulsive-buy from Amazon get delivered.

Where even you tiniest complaint is heard.

 

Home is where Daddy is,

No man's love can be compared to his.

Home is where a girl can dream,

And she is treated with some esteem.

Where she is not constantly reminded that ‘A Woman’s place is in the Kitchen’,

Where her opinions are valued and she loosens her inhibition.

Where a girl can eat with the rest of the family,

And not nibble on the leftovers silently.

Where the love is unconditional,

 And the admonition good intentional.

Home is where the mind unwinds,

The body rejuvenates and the soul rebinds.

Exploring a few Oxymoronic Malayalam Phrases

Both my parents are from Kerala, and I have been spoken to in Malayalam since Day 1 of my existence.

I speak this language with fluency; but I am no linguist or philologist. This is not an academic exercise but rather a layman's recollection of a few humourous incidences involving some Malayalam words and phrases.

Word 1 : 'Sugaprasavam'.

Labour wasn't a pleasant experience for me. I was screaming in the hospital room as each wave of contraction crushed my insides. I wasn't prepared for this kind of pain; intense, prolonged and agonizing.

Dressed in hospital gown that exposed more than it covered, I wobbled, waddled and wailed. The misery seemed to be unending. The ordeal lasted 28 hours; I hadn't slept and hadn't let anyone else sleep.

My worried and tormented mom asked me to pray. The pain had turned me spiteful and asked her why was God  punishing me for. She shuddered at my blasphemy and asked me to pray. Only God could bring ease. 

"Am I going to die?" I asked the midwife. "I cannot do this anymore. Can I have an epidural?"

Libiya, my midwife apologized, "You have progressed so much. It is not possible to give you an epidural now"

A few hours later, I pushed out my baby girl and my body lapsed in exhaustion. "Alhamdullilah! Alhamdullilah!", my mother and mother-in-law exclaimed.
Praise be to Allah! 

It wasn't over yet. I felt another contraction squeezing my insides. 

"Is there one more baby inside?" I got up and looked nervously at the doctor.

She smiled and replied "The placenta has to come out."
I cried and clasped my fists as the doctor sutured the tear and the episiotomy incision.

My baby was wrapped in a white cloth, covered with bits of blood and lots of creamy white fluid and placed over me. I saw a tiny head with black hair covered in goo. She opened her eyes and I looked at a pair of tiny eyes just like mine. She sneezed and I noticed that her nose was just like mine.

"Feed the baby", the midwife instructed. She brought the baby to my breast and the latter latched on to me. I had imagined this to be a magical moment. It was indeed marvellous. But I had not foreseen the spasms and the soreness. As the baby sucked hungrily and intensely, my uterus quivered and danced to the flood of oxytocin released. With every spasm, clumps and lumps of afterbirth flowed out.

Childbirth is barbaric, so raw, so full of blood and bodily fluids. It is harrowing and excruciatingly painful.  

After I was shifted to the room, I heard my excited mother-in-law speak to someone on phone.
"Sugaprasavam aayinno" she beamed.

"Sugapravasamo? Etho?", I flummoxed.

Everyone in the room erupted in laughter.

Confessions of an Abu Dhabi Born Confused Mallu #2

Confession 2 : The Inquisitive Malayalee and the Endless Interrogation.

My parents raised me in the pre-social media era. They were very unlike the modern parents who capture numerous snaps of the children every day and post the geotagged pictures online so that the whole world including dacoits and predators know the exact geographic latitude and longitude coordinates of their home, child's school and vacation places.

Mine was a generation that was taught to fear strangers. My mom would panic if I came home 5 minutes late and she did her best to protect me from her own imagined fears.

I was told that strangers were abductors and was warned against getting friendly, accepting treats, and disclosing personal information to strangers. So I grew up minding my own business, not engaging in conversation with strangers, getting away from situations where I sense discomfort, not answering the doorbell when alone and believing that is how the world operates.

I wished someone would have cautioned me that as adults we need to talk to strangers every day to function in this world. Even today if someone looks at me and smiles, my initial response is to recoil instinctively. Starting a conversation with an unknown person is a skill that I never acquired.

Hence when I come down to the God's Own Country I stick out like an odd socially awkward specimen. My dad's village and my husband's place are lands with no stranger danger. Families know each other since the dawn of civilization and think it is commonplace to ask each other highly uncomfortable questions.  

The Aunties have an unnatural interest in getting you hitched and once you are married their curiosity shifts to the contents in your womb. I have had a tough time responding to all the 'When is the baby coming?' queries. 

In every social gathering I meet this one Malayalee Uncle who is fixated with finding who you are, what your linage is and determine your taxonomic position in his mental family tree and then ascertain the exact geographic location of your ancestral house. As the interrogation proceeds, the Mallu-in-me cuts a sorry figure of utter ignorance much to annoyance of the questioner. 

 

"You MUST know your family history!", a displeased uncle exhaled in annoyance.

 

The only history I know are the medical conditions that run in the family. I know of the malignancies that my grandads succumbed to. I know of the degenerative neurological disorders my grandmas had. I know what medical troubles my parents have. The things I know may be of use someday. 

Uncle looks at me disapprovingly and tells his friend. "Kids these days, don't even make an attempt to know anyone". 

I smile graciously and slowly get away from the overly inquisitive uncle and his endless interrogation.

Back to School!

 

Today I sent my first-born to school after 18 months of distance learning. Today was my little boy’s first day of going to school in a school bus.

 

Over the past few weeks, I had been excited to send Saira back to school. As a working mom, I was unable to keep track of her online learning. My repeated calls from work reminding, requesting and reprimanding her to join the classes, switch on the camera and complete the assignments were not entirely fruitful. I had come to the realisation that perhaps face-to face learning with the teachers is more suitable for my girl.

This morning, we revisited the much forgotten ‘morning- hustle- and-bustle’ but this time, with two kids. The two of them in new uniforms, new facemasks, new school bags and new lunch boxes boarded the bus and drove off to school.

After they left, I was met with an unexpected silence. My home suddenly turned lifeless! There was no teacher lecturing in the background, no piles of cluttered books, no messy beds, no cute toddler talks and no sibling fights to disrupt. The cushions were not on the floor and the toys were not all over the place. The house was exactly what I wanted it like, yet I felt empty inside and a lump in my throat. I sent two kids to school in the middle of a pandemic. I wondered if I did the right thing.

 

I remembered the first day I dropped my anxious, recently-potty-trained three-year-old Saira at the nursery. She was apprehensive and I was heavily pregnant. She did not want to go alone, and I knew I wasn’t allowed inside. She told me a million times that I should sit with her in the class. At the gate when the nanny clutched her hand and stopped me, Saira turned around, looked at me with a face full of fear and tears. “Umma.. Don’t go..”, she wailed. I bit of my metaphorical heart broke off and I was left speechless. I felt the lump in my throat and I wondered if I did the right thing.

 

I guess this is what motherhood is. Weighing the odds and evens and deciding what is best for the little ones that God entrusted us with. Then silently, tearfully wondering if you did the right thing. Why does the right thing have to be so difficult to do?

Remembering 2020... A Year of Resilience

 A short glimpse of our lives, a year ago...

I exhaled and my vision was obscured by the fog. This fog was my new companion, that arrived as I started a dental procedure. I blinked and squinted to see through the film of tiny droplets. 'Was it on my glasses? Or the face shield?' I wondered as I gasped for air in the N95 mask. 'Does this renowned respirator save you from the virus or gradually suffocate you to death?', I mumbled to myself.

I grimaced as I endured the itch and sting on my face from all the new PPE gears. Oodles of sweat dripped down my back. I squirmed uncomfortably as my damp attire adhered to my body. Shrouded in the blue PPE gown and an abominable head cap over my hijab, drenched in the perspiration and blinded by the fog, I felt exhausted, distressed and helpless.

Much had changed in the last few weeks. COVID-19, a new disease had emerged and we were still learning about how the virus spreads and the severity of illness it causes. The virus had shown to persist in aerosols for hours, and on some surfaces for days under laboratory conditions.

The previously ubiquitous aerosols were now a great imminent threat to public health. Aerosols were always a part of dentistry. Aerosols were generated during tooth preparation with a rotary instrument or air abrasion, during the use of an air-water syringe, during the use of an ultrasonic scaler and during air polishing.

In the pre-COVID era, as dentists we recognized that aerosols carried a potential for transmitting infections and engineered controls to reduce that risk. Unfortunately, we were unable to practice cutting-edge dentistry without producing aerosols. For me, it was like turning the clock back to a century. Without aerosols, all I could do was to either extract a tooth or write a prescription!

The plethora of dental procedures that I took a decade to learn and another half-decade to master was now listed as 'aerosol-generating' and hence prohibited to carry out.

My once busy practice was now reduced to seeing a few patients. I spent more time on the meticulous donning and doffing of PPE than performing procedures. I yearned for the good old carefree, COVID-free times where I could see, I could breathe and I could still practice dentistry.

Every evening, as I left my clinic, I uttered a silent prayer for the Frontline Heroes working tirelessly to fight the pandemic. I sympathized with the brave doctors and nurses working round the clock in COVID wards around the world.

As a working mother, I had always craved to spend more time with my kids. When my working hours were reduced, I regarded it as a blessing in disguise, little did I know that I was no longer, just a 'Mom' to my kids. From being a fun parent, I transformed into an over-enthusiastic tutor teaching a first-grader English, Math, Hindi, Arabic and Quran. Back in school and college, I had enjoyed explaining difficult topics to my friends. I perceived Grade 1 would be a cakewalk. The unfortunate truth was that I had forgotten all the Hindi I learnt in school two decades ago, my Arabic enunciation was rudimentary and I had an awful struggle to tone down to the level of grade-1 English and Math. In short, the home-schooling situation was a fiasco!

"No! Saira!" I fumed, thumping my fists against the table and letting out a loud sigh. A tiny pair of eyes behind ruby pink glasses looked up from the notebook and glanced at me, bewildered.

Her little life had changed drastically in the past few weeks. Two months ago, Saira was going to school, playing with her friends in the park, swimming on the beach, going to movies with her grandparents and enjoying random outings in the mall. Quite abruptly everything changed. Her school shut down one week before her KG graduation and the event was cancelled. The malls were closed, the parks were closed and so were the beaches. Her mom did not let her step out of the house.

She wanted to cycle outside, build sandcastles on the beach, chase her friends in the park and go to the mall with her Grandad. She missed the bus rides with her friends, the sleepover with her cousins and the car rides to her favourite confectionery. The new academic year of Grade1 began. To her mega-amazement, she did not have to go to school. She would be at home and her teachers would come on the computer screen. Computers were for grown-ups to work and kids to see cartoons occasionally. Till then, she was not allowed to play with her dad's laptop and now suddenly she owns one!

"This is Saira's laptop", her dad announced, with a smile, on the day distance learning started. Saira was super thrilled that she could sleep longer in the morning, grab a bite stealthily during class hours and wear a color dress every day. The teachers would not check her notebooks, she could talk in class if she clicked on the magic mute icon and she could even disappear if she clicked on the awesome camera icon. However, there was a teeny tiny issue. She wasn't enjoying the company of her new classmate, her mom! Mom was unpredictable, would occasionally shoot the stare-of-impending-doom and for reasons unknown to her, kept on calling her name in varying decibels... "Saira... SairA.. SAIRA!!..."

As Ramadan 2020 started, an utterly-baffled Saira and a tea-deprived me meandered through the humongous pile of school assignments.

As education progressed, I recognized that my role wasn't to teach but to facilitate learning. I realized later, that my 6 year-old had a better mastery of the nuances of vocal articulation of Arabic. The truth is that I learnt more from my little girl than I expected.

Two-year-old Zayed was the happiest toddler in town. His days were filled with ease, adventure and fun. On weekdays, he woke up to the morning cacophony of his sleep deprived mom- 'Umma' waking up his sleepyhead 'Sairathatha' for school. Umma wanted Saira to wake up but she wanted to snooze some more. Umma buzzed around Saira as she reluctantly brushed, got ready, refused to eat all the breakfast and finally picked her bag and ran off to the honking school bus.

After Sairathatha was packed off to the school; Umma fed, oiled, bathed, dried, moisturized, combed and dressed Zayed. Umma disappeared to get ready for the clinic. Zayed would stand on the day bed, press his tiny palms against the glass pane and peep out of the window into the parking lot across the busy street as he impatiently waited for his best friend to arrive.

His best friend was his maternal grandad whom he fondly addressed as 'Daddy'. Daddy had arrived in UAE, 4 decades ago with more responsibilities than dreams. The journey of 42 years was filled with ups and downs. He witnessed a dry-arid desert city transform to an ultra-modern commercial hub. Working in the energy sector, he contributed to various onshore and offshore petroleum projects. He was dedicated and hardworking and with an energetic and enterprising wife, they raised a family, strived to educate their two daughters, supported many relatives and bit-by-bit build a stable and secure nest back home. Daddy had turned 61, when he retired from his service. His wife was shining at her workplace. So he decided to enjoy his retirement and let his workaholic wife pursue her banking career. Daddy valued every minute of his day during all the working years. Leisure was a new experience in his expat life. Zayed was the luckiest grandkid to experience this side of Daddy.

Daddy came to pick Zayed up and together they would spend time on the road, in the mall or outside. Zayed was still learning two languages, Malayalam and English. He did not know how to address himself and called himself 'Boy'. In his world, Daddy and Boy were thick as thieves.

They went shopping together and he knew all the items in all the aisles of Lulu. Daddy was the man who never said "No" to anything Boy asked. This was the man who bought him doughnuts, M&Ms, candies and things his mom disapproved. Boy pointed and Daddy abided.

Two-year-olds want what they want when they want it. And nobody entertained Boy like Daddy. Together they went to the movies. Daddy would buy a tub of popcorn and they would munch in the theatre. When Boy was bored, he turned to Daddy and said, "Movie.. velly bad..poya" ( which translates to the movie is bad, let us go). Daddy would take Boy to Sparky's once a week and Boy would have a blast.

On days that Daddy had errands to run, places to go or people to meet, Boy would tag along. The back-seat of his Daddy's car was his happy place. He snacked, he saw sights and he slept. He was familiar with the streets and alleys, shops and showrooms, workshops and baqalas, coffee shops and cafeteria they frequented. He knew more places than his mom.

On March 2020, when the government shut malls and imposed a curfew, the happy routine of Zayed's life came to a standstill. Previously, he was the king of his castle and he basked in the attention everyone showered on him.

Strangely, something had changed. Uppa would lock himself in the room with a laptop. Boy was not allowed inside as Uppa was working-from-home. Umma stopped pampering him in the morning. Umma was always sitting with Sairathatha and the laptop.

Sairathatha stopped seeing cartoons on the laptop and playing with him. She spent her mornings looking at the screen with various people in multiple tiny boxes. "I am in Class, Zaydu. Don't come here", she rebuked when he went near.

Boy did not understand why Daddy stopped visiting him. Sairatha, Umma and Uppa were home all the time and on all days. "Is it Friday?" he questioned. Fridays were the only days when Boy saw everyone home. But unlike earlier Fridays, these days were no fun.

"Did Daddy go to Naadu?" he worriedly asked his sister one evening. The two weeks that Daddy had travelled to Naadu, a couple of months back, were the most problematic days of his life.

Umma had enrolled Zayed in a nursery near her clinic and he had developed an instant dislike for their discipline and order. The teachers made him do art when he wanted to run around; they made him sit on the chair when he wanted to stand on the table; they made him draw and colour but he wanted to play in the playground. He was a free spirit imprisoned in this preposterous place. No matter how much he cried, protested and requested, his mom would mercilessly drop him off at the nursery gate. The ordeal ended when Daddy returned from Naadu.

If Daddy goes to Naadu, his small mind reasoned, he might be in trouble.

On a video call with Daddy, he complained, "No fun, Daddy. Come... Letsss goo tto Sparkysss".

Daddy laughed and replied, "Sorry Boy! All shops in the mall are closed. There is Corona outside. Daddy is also just like Boy, sitting at home..." Boy's eyes widened with concern.

"Eppo malls open ava?" (When will the malls open), he questioned.

"Daddy does not know. Pray that Corona will go away". Boy's face dropped in dismay.

He wanted to smash the bad guy Corona and save the day like the pups in Paw Patrol.

As night fell, Zayed stood on the day bed, pressed his tiny palms against the glass pane and peeped out of the window into the deserted city. A police vehicle, flashing blue and red lights drove by, instructing the residents "to stay at home". A white sanitization truck hissed noisily as it sprayed out clouds of disinfectants.

Umma picked him up and planted a kiss on his chubby cheeks. He was fed, showered and dressed up in pyjamas. Tucked up in his bed, with his teddy in one hand, he lay near Uppa who was reading aloud his favourite book on dinosaurs. Boy drifted off to sleep dreaming about dinosaurs and rescue pups and happy kids playing in beaches and parks.