Molly

There is an elderly lady whom I see at ARC every time I go there. She is likely to be in her sixties and I've never spoken to her, but she makes me think of Molly. Like this lady, Molly was a Chinese girl who had been adopted by a Tamil family. It was a common practice in the 1950s, I think, but it was startling nevertheless to see a Chinese girl with a pottu on her forehead and speaking fluent Tamil.

Molly was my playmate, my go-to when I needed anything, my smuggler of treats, my story teller. She was also the reason my father first smacked me.

Molly must be in her late seventies now. When she worked as a domestic help for my family she was young, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. I don't know when Molly started working for my family but she is as mixed up in my childhood memories as my mother is. My day would start with Molly coming to work and my first bottle of milk appearing. My day would end with me sitting with my feet sticking out of the long windows that faced the road, waving good bye to Molly and waiting till I saw my father's car turning into that same road. 

I can't remember exactly how old I was, perhaps 5, and one day, Molly did not come in the morning. My bottle of milk too did not come and instead I was told by my sister I should be drinking from a cup. I remember being sad, I'm not sure if I cried. But one day, my mother put on a nice sari and put a dress on me that I did not like. I remember I cried then, because of the dress. I cried throughout the car ride that followed, because of the dress, until we came to a temple. Molly was there! 

There was a huge crowd and I could only see Molly from a distance and she looked different because she was dressed in a sari that was as grand as my mother's. I remember being thrilled when my parents took me closer to her after what seemed like a long time. Molly was sitting on the floor beside a man, and when she saw me she reached out and pulled me into a hug. I didn't like the smell of the jasmine garland round her neck, I didn't like the roughness of her sari, I didn't like the man sitting beside her whom she made me turn my face and look at, but I liked that Molly was back. 

I remember Molly let me sit on her lap, but my mother made me get up. I remember Molly said I could stay, but my father said we had to leave. I remember Molly telling me not to cry, but my mother didn't care. I remember I cried more during the car ride back than I had cried before. I remember I refused to get out of the car when we reached home. I remember my father carried me out of the back seat. And then he smacked me. For the first time. Because I was crying for Molly.

My Pride

I got to thinking about my daughters today and wondered when I was most proud of each of them. 

I remember being proud of J when we were all at the Changi chalet for our then-annual family holiday with the extended family. I don't know how the conversation got to the topic of mobile phones. It was a sore point with J because she wanted a mobile phone and was among the few (perhaps even the only one) in her class who did not have one. My rule was that she could have a mobile phone when she was 17, in Junior College. I can't remember why I had that rule. It was the 90s, mobile phones seemed like the newest distractions and I had decided that she could not have one. 

I remember we were sitting in a circle and she again asked for one and I became angry because she was challenging my rule in public. Her cousin actually said, "Why do you even need permission? Just go get yourself one!" And I was shocked. But my harshness was directed at J because I did not like my rule being questioned. J was embarrassed and she ran off crying. The topic of conversation turned to something else but I couldn't sit there. I felt sorry I had hurt my daughter. Yet I was also angry. Then I remembered what her cousin had said - it was true. She could have gone behind my back and bought a mobile. She could have asked her dad. If she had really wanted to, she could have gotten herself a mobile despite me. But she hadn't. She was 16 years old. Yet she had obeyed. That was the moment I remember about J. And what makes me proud of her is her innate sense of integrity. That she keeps her word. She would rather go without than cheat. 

What makes me proud of R is her tenacity. It started out as stubbornness, but she has a steel inside her that makes me wonder sometimes. I remember she was 8 years old and she had been registered for a singing competition by her Tamil teacher. It was an inter-school competition. R had no proper training and she had rehearsed a song with her dad. On the Saturday morning of the competition we sauntered into the classroom where the competition was and I was shocked by the intensity of the competition. The children there were practicing, some of them even singing ragas with their mothers. I was sure R was no match for them. One child after another began to sing and it soon became clear that the song R had picked was a very popular one. I felt really bad because the others obviously had classical song training and I just wanted to take my baby and go home. Then it was her turn and she stepped up and began to sing a song she had not rehearsed at all! I waved at her frantically thinking she had mixed up her songs but she gave a dismissive wave as if to say "I've got this" and proceeded. When she came back to us I asked her what had happened and she said that when child after child sang the song she had prepared, she had decided that she would just sing something else so that it wasn't so boring. She didn't win that competition, but I learnt something about my child that day. It would take a lot to faze her! I was so proud of that 8-year old I could cry.

My daughters are my blessings. I have made mistakes, punished them perhaps wrongly at times, taken out my anger on them. But they are gems. They are strong, trustworthy, generous and loving. If it were true that God opens a window when He closes a door, my daughters are the windows God opened for me. 

Ir-responsible

What I love most about these days is the irresponsibility. Well, no, that word may not have the right connotation, but I can't think of what the opposite of 'responsible' is, so that would have to do for now :) I love not being responsible. I love waking up in the morning and knowing that if I didn't want to, I needn't do a single thing that day. I love not budgetting.

Perhaps this is a phase of growing up I just missed out on. While I was in school, I felt a sense of obligation; I was reminded on every possible occasion that my sisters were paying for my education. I didn't have carefree days in the Institute of Education because those days consisted of lectures in the morning and teaching in the afternoon - so that meant marking and preparing for lessons during spare time. When I got into university, there was again the awareness at the back of my mind that I was there on a govt scholarship and I needed to keep my grades up. Being accepted into the very first Direct Hons programme didn't help matters at all, because I spent all my time studying and writing papers, always, always conscious of the fact that I needed to keep up a B+ average to stay in the course.

So these Fulbright days feel to me like a second chance. To do the things many people did during their university days that I just did not have the courage - or the irresponsibility - to do. I do my readings, but I don't stay up late to ensure I have finished ALL the recommended readings. I do the assignments, but it doesn't matter because they don't get graded. I don't feel the burden of juggling teaching, administrative work, running a household and mothering that I felt when I was doing my Masters. This time, I am in university to enjoy student life - books, cafes, conversations with friends, time to travel, unwashed laundry, trashy tv, drinks at night, meals-for-one, the jangle of pop-Christian-Hindi songs in the apartment. Irresponsible living.

Remembering Appa

Today, I thought of my father a number of times. The second week of June often brings memories of him because his birthday was on 10 June - often this was close to Father's Day - and coincidentally he passed away on 15 June.

This year, I travelled up to Kuala Lumpur on the 10th of June and naturally when my sister and I started talking, the conversation turned to him. M claims that my eldest sister and I were my dad's favourites. I'm not sure I remember being singled out for any such special treatment, but when I think of him, I have a sure sense he loved me. 

Mixed up with that feeling, however, is a strong sense of guilt. Because I also feel I failed him. 

I know I disappointed my father when I married D. My dad was very proud of me. I think my accomplishments were always bigger in his eyes than in mine or anyone else's. He was proud I earned a scholarship to pay for my school fees in Singapore, he was proud I had a bursary to pay for my university fees. He was proud I was a teacher. And when I told him I wanted to marry D, it was the first time I saw pain in his eyes. 

He and my mother had come for a visit to my sister's house in Singapore when I told them. The three of us shared a room that night before I left the next morning to return to my rented room, and I heard him sighing and talking in his sleep. He hardly slept that night. The next morning as I prepared to leave, he told me, "Did you think I am useless and cannot find a groom for you? You have stabbed me in the back." Those were the harshest words my father ever said to me. I have not forgotten those sorrowful words in the past 28 years.

I wonder now at the callousness with which I left that day. How wrapped up I was in my youthful love that I did not stay and at least listen to my father's pain. I wonder what dreams my father had had for me. I wonder what future he had imagined for me. And I wonder if I did the right thing. Every year, when I read Fathers' Day messages in the newspapers and on Facebook, there is a sadness inside me, a regret - for the pain I once caused; for the apology I never made.

Even to Old Age

This morning I looked, really looked, at the bottles and jars of lotions and creams on the shelf in my cupboard. And smiled to see how all of them had one thing in common - they were all labelled "firming" or "anti-wrinkle" or "anti-aging" and my favourite, "age defying"! 

Unfortunately, my body does not seem to have heard the message. Since church camp I have been more aware of the truth that I am growing older. Perhaps it was sharing a room with young C; perhaps it was the ache in my knee that doesn't go away and limited me from some activities; perhaps it was Rod's reminder that we are "jars of clay".

But since church camp, I have been thinking (among all the other thoughts) that I need to shift gears, change the lens I view the world through.

A few months ago I wrote about my anxiety over my ministry with the young adults in church. Wondering what on earth I was doing, turning up on Wednesday nights, but not really achieving anything.

But after listening to Rod at the Leadership Seminar on Sat and during the church camp, I learnt two important lessons - church and ministry are not about meeting my needs and service isn't about counting.

I realise I have been hung up on the idea of leaving a legacy and living a life that counts. I think I had, have, a sense of my own mortality. Especially as it becomes more difficult for me to walk quickly or to carry a baby for as long as I used to be able to, I feel older. And every time I feel that, I have an urgent desire to squeeze more into my days, to learn, to try something new, to make my life count. When I was teaching, I had a sense of satisfaction almost every day. I knew I had made sense of something difficult for my students, I had comforted, I had challenged. But since I left school, work doesn't give me the same sense of satisfaction. Leaving teaching coincided with the season when my daughters left to go abroad and suddenly, there was no one left to nurture - no students and no children.

That's why I decided to serve with the young adults in my church in 2006. It's been 6 years now and I have been thinking over and over again - what have I achieved? Who have I touched? And I kept drawing a blank. To be honest, I did start looking for new areas to serve in. Together with 2 colleagues from work I have set the ball rolling to volunteer with the Singapore Children's Society. I figured I would go where there was a need.

But God has shown me through Rod and C, my room-mate, that ministry is not about 'doing' but 'being'. That service isn't about meeting my needs, but about me meeting the needs of the church. That service isn't about numbers - not how many young adults I have mentored - but about faithfully turning up and letting God make His Divine Appointments.

So, my daughters, I have a new lens for the years ahead.  When I am discouraged again, I will remember Ps 71:18

"So even to old age and gray hairs,

O God, do not forsake me,

until I proclaim your might to another generation,

your power to all those to come."

God counts in a different way.

Changing Faces

This evening we finally bought the dining table. Yes, now we have a place to dump our things on when we get home and a place to leave mail to pile up unopened :) 

Just as we were leaving the shop, I picked up a pretty cushion that I thought would go well with the tangerine wall in our hall; and D said wistfully, "We should have kept the old cushions and not given them away. I could have kept them in the car and when we drive up to Malaysia the girls could use them to nap." I looked at him incredulously. Truly, I think in his mind, my daughters haven't grown up. They are still 10 and 6, curling up each in one corner of the car, or one in the lap of the other, asleep on the pillows we bring with us on our road trips while he drives. 

But our next road trip is not going to be the same. We will not even all fit into the car, and if we decide to drive up to Malaysia, we would probably have to hire a 7-seater SUV. My family has grown - older and bigger. My family has changed - we eat different food, we speak English rather than Tamil, we take turns to watch different programmes on TV, we have different rhythms to our days. 

Come July, my family sitting round the dining table will be different from my family that sat around our old one when we first moved into this apartment in 1998. I pray, in deep ways, it will still be the same.

Melbourne Day 1

So here I am - in Melbourne! Lesson #1 - never take packing advice from Ganesh Chandran again! I am frozen. This happens without fail - I just don't get this packing for cooler climates. I have a suitcase full of t-shirts because everyone said to "layer" but what I need right now is a thicker jacket than I brought! I think that might be the first purchase I make tomorrow!

Anyway, my departure was a very eventful one. I left home at 4.30pm for my 7.25pm flight, thinking I had plenty of time. But I just couldn't get a cab! After failing to flag one, I tried calling for one but no cab responded to my call and then one finally accepted the call at 5.00pm. But he couldn't find our apartment block and by the time he arrived, it 5.20pm. No sooner had we left Dover Road, we ran into a huge jam. Then I made the wrong call - although he suggested an alternative route, I thought the jam was just at the point when we were turning into the expressway. I was wrong :( I realised soon enough that because of the F1 races, traffic had been diverted away from the city centre and traffic was backed up on all the major expressways! By the time I reached the airport it was 6.25pm and the meter read $32.00.

More anxiety followed at the airport, because would you believe it, the ONLY flight that didn't have a check-in row number was the one I was desperately trying to board. I walked the entire length of Terminal 2 to find the MAS counter was the absolutely last one. I didn't have time to thank God I made it to the airport before the staff said there was some problem with my e-ticket and went off to consult her superior. More anxiety, more desperate prayers. That was sorted out and I was given the boarding pass with the comment, "You must walk very quickly. It is the last gate. Go to the boarding gate now." All my brisk walking skills were tested in the next half hour. 

I had to make a stop though, for a bite to eat. Picked up a nice tomato & mozarella baguette and water for the princely sum of $6.00, and never had a chance to taste it because I left it in the trolley :( I had gone through security and into the boarding area before I discovered this and I actually went back through security again to retrieve my food; but the ever efficient cleaning team of Changi Airport had already disposed of it :(

So it was a very hungry, hassled and mopey Vara who boarded the connecting flight to KL. Fortunately, the rest of the journey was smooth. It must have been all the power of all the prayers that were activated :) I even had an aisle seat on the KL-Melbourne sector, which was a huge bonus - considering how late I had checked in! I also sat beside a nice Australian who helped me with my luggage.

So landed in Melbourne this morning - when the temperature was a bone-chilling 7 degrees C, was met by my good friend Pushpa, with whom I had a nice long leisurely breakfast and drank the first of the many coffees I plan to drink in Melbourne. I've spent the best part of today on the couch in R's living room - because it is closest to the heater. I hope I venture beyond this couch tomorrow :)

Staycation

J and I had a staycation on Sunday. For the uninitiated, that is a vacation in a local hotel, without actually leaving the country. This has been a family tradition for us long before the term was invented and it is something we still like doing, though now we have spilt over from a single room with a king-sized bed to a king-sized bed with an extra bed to 2 connecting rooms :) Strangely, for reasons I can't fathom, I usually feeling a little embarrassed telling anyone we are checking into a local hotel. But we have always had good times during our hotel getaways. 

Even before the children came, D and I liked staying in hotels and the old ANA Hotel (now no longer there, up on Nassim Hill) was an old family favourite because we could get a room with buffet breakfast for $100 a night. When the children came, staycations were a good way to have a holiday, without the hassle of travel, leaving home yet with the comforts of home within easy reach.

And both J & R love staycations. There is something about the smooth luxury of hotel sheets, the thick towels, the bouncy beds, the fluffy pillows that entices. Then there is the decadence of housekeeping and the miracle of fresh sheets and towels every day. For the girls, four stars must be aligned before it can be a described as a great holiday - at least one meal delivered by room service, a bath in the bath-tub, a buffet breakfast and everyone piling into the bed and watching a movie! :)

I was quite nostalgic this weekend. Things have changed, yet not quite changed. The pleasures of the hotel stay were the same - thick towels, smooth sheets, wonderful service. Yet the anonymity of the room struck me vividly and I found myself thinking about others who had lain where I lay, looking out at the skyline. I missed you, R. You would have been appalled at how much of time we spent just sleeping... 

Yes, we slept a great deal, ate the crepes we like at Out of the Pan, tried to watch a pay-per-view movie but that was foiled by a faulty movie and then by the time the hotel fixed it I was too sleepy to watch it (yes, despite all the sleeping done before that), read in bed and talked. It was a good, slow, together time. I'm glad mommy-daughter times still feel the same :)

 The view from our room at Swissotel the Stamford

Our take-out dinner

My Father and Me (2)

Maybe it was my last entry that got me thinking of my father so often this past week. Maybe it was the fact that June is always associated in my mind with my father because his birthday was on 10th June, Fathers' Day falls on the third Sunday in June and he passed away on 15th June.

My father was 90 years old when he passed away and 50 when I was born. My earliest memory of my dad is actually of him singing me to sleep. I remember lying face down on his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breathing. I remember the feel of the soft worn white cotton singlet under my cheek and my father's hand on my back as he patted me to sleep, singing a lullaby he made up. This song was essentially a stringing together of the vowels and consonants of the Tamil language!  On some evenings, instead of singing, he would recite the months of the Tamil year.  And that is how I learnt my Tamil :)

My dad's last years were not comfortable ones because he had Alzeimer's. I wish I had not been so busy, so far away in Singapore. I wish I had made more of an effort to visit him. During my last visit, he was convinced that R who was six then, was me. And he was confused as to who I was. I remember visiting him in hospital and he kept asking me what day it was, what date it was and I cried to see him looking so lost. Immediately, he asked me "Why are you crying? What do you need? Do you need any money? Have you eaten? Don't cry." And I felt six again.

I didn't get to see my dad before he passed away and that is a sadness I carry. I had heard he was ill, but I did not know how ill he really had been. I would have liked to have said goodbye. My sister tells me he did not recognise anyone at the end; she says that to console me, that in practical terms, my absence did not make a difference. I like to think my father knew how much I loved him; because I know, without a doubt, that my daddy loved me.

My Father and Me

It's Fathers' Day today and we had our usual prayer for dads during church service. But instead of the usual blessing by the pastor, today a dad was invited to pray for the fathers. 

His prayer touched me, because it gave me an insight into fatherhood - which, I admit, I had never spent any time thinking about. I have only ever thought about what it means to mother children, the joys and challenges of motherhood and what kind of a mother I was being to my daughters. But before today, I had not tried to look through the eyes of a father. And I realise, fatherhood is no less challenging.

I remember my own father fondly. Lately, I have also begun to wonder if my sister and I had lionised him, but nevertheless, I know my father was a bigger influence on me than my mother was. 

Interestingly, when I think about my father, the first values and pictures that come to mind are all to do with money. From him, I learnt the importance of thrift and hard work. I remember he gave me a tiny notebook when I started school and in it he taught me to write down every cent I spent from the 50 cent allowance he gave me. My first set of accounts! My dad was an accounts clerk so I suppose he was teaching me the most important life skill he knew... 

At the start of the week, my father would give me a 50 cent coin. He never gave me any combination of coins to make up 50. It was always one big 50 cent coin and I remember feeling really reluctant to part with the coin and receiving many small coins in return after a purchase. Somehow it had the feeling of breaking things up :) At the end of the week, I would have to show my father my little notebook in which I had written down every purchase I had made. 

I remember the first time I broke the one rule my father had about money - never borrow. Never. My downfall was chocolate milk. One adventurous and greedy recess, I bought a whole bottle of chocolate milk to drink. To my horror, I got no change back after giving my 50 cent to the drink vendor! I was terrified because I now had no money for the week and worse, I would have to record one big purchase in my notebook! My dad would know! 

In my desperation, I asked my friend Maheswari (oh how well I remember her name and her face to this day) to lend me 50 cents. And she did. The week passed uneventfully, the purchases were recorded, the notebook was inspected, no chocolate milk was mentioned anywhere...

But my day of reckoning came. Because the next week, my personal Shylock asked me for her money back. Many years later when I read the line "O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive...", this was the incident that came immediately to mind. Because that was when my dance of deceit and counter-deceit began.

I couldn't return Maheswary her money because every cent I spent needed to be recorded and even if I gave her back 10 cents at a time, what was I going to put in my book? It amazes me now to think back and realise the strange adherence to truth - I couldn't bring myself to lie to my father by inventing reasons that could have covered up the cents that could have been trickled back to Maheswary. Yet, I had broken the cardinal rule my father had set for me. Just one rule - and I had broken it. [Yes, this is the account of my personal Fall. The symbolism didn't escape me :)]

The final crunch came 2 weeks later, when tired of my evasive behaviour, Maheswary brought out her secret weapon - if you don't return my money, she said, I will tell my father. The terror that created in the heart of an 8-year old, I cannot describe to you. Maheswary's father had a black moustache and he rode a motorbike. My father was 58 and drove the car very slowly...

I was rescued from being thrown into the debtors' prison at the age of 8 because I sidled up to my mother that night and simply said, "Amma can I have 50 cents?" And my mother said "Go take it from my handbag." That was it. The end of my weeks of misery, my weeks of falsifying accounts, my weeks of terror at the sound of a motorbike. 

To this day, I have an aversion to debts. I agonise when I see J's telephone bill lying on the table. I can't wait for the day the mortgage on my flat will be fully paid. And for 6 months now I have been putting off starting on renovation plans for the flat because I can't bring myself to take out a renovation loan. 

I wonder if my father ever knew about this incident. But he taught me a life skill that has helped me a great deal, as a student, as a young adult in my first job, as a wife and and a mother raising a family. I have progressed today from notebooks to an Excel spreadsheet, but budgetting has helped me keep my head above waters all my life.

And as I think back on this Father's Day about my dad, I also wonder what I would have done if my mother had not given me the money. I don't quite know why she did that. Maybe she was distracted by the television show she was watching. Maybe she didn't quite hear what I said. Or maybe she too had been given a notebook and she knew the folly of  the misspent 50 cents. :)

All Work and No Play

I have been training to be a Facilitator at a course that is run by the Pastoral Counselling Ministry of my church. It's an 8-week course and I've just finished the fourth week. It is a really interesting course called 'Search for Life', originally designed by a church in Australia. It's a fantastic course and created a whole new sense of self-awareness and self-discovery in me when I attended it as a participant in 2009. This time I am attending it to be trained as a Facilitator.

Though it is my second time in the course, I realise there is still more I can learn about myself.  The last session on Family of Origin was fascinating for me. and I realise there are many aspects of my childhood that I have not explored or remembered. Thinking about my childhood specifically this time around has made me both pensive and grateful.

One thing that stood out for me is the realisation that I never played as a child. All the others in my small group had fond memories of playing with their siblings and/or cousins, they spoke nostalgically of games they played, but I had no similar memories. I only remember reading, and reading and reading. Because that was the one thing I could do on my own.

I spent a great deal of time on my own because although I was the youngest of 9 children, there was a big gap in years between my siblings and me. The sister just ahead of me was 8 years older and my eldest sister was 25 years older than me. Most of my sisters had left home - either because they were married or for their studies. And sisters in their teens and twenties had no time for a child.

Because I belonged to a small community called the Brahmins, playing with neighbours was out of the question. The other Indians were considered 'unclean' because they were of a different caste and children of other races were 'unclean' because they were meat-eaters unlike my strictly vegetarian family. And unlike the others in my discussion group, we did not live in a 'kampong' where there were common play areas for neighbourhood games. My one highlight was the monthly prayer session that my parents would go to - at  the Samajam, a  place specially built by the Brahmin community for them to have their elaborate prayer rituals far away from the masses. Here I would meet my cousin Jeya. And while the adults prayed, we  kids would talk. But there was no rowdy play. We were, after all, at a mass prayer session, and clad in our long 'pavadais', there was  little room for boisterous behaviour.

Thinking back, I feel a sense of loss that I never played. I think I just accepted such social isolation . Perhaps that's why books feel like companions. Perhaps that's why I like to be quiet and listen to people talk. Perhaps, that's why when my baby was born, I had no idea how to entertain her, except by reading. All the parenting I did was by reading as well. I read books on age-appropriate play for children and religously followed the suggestions. I read about how babies needed to be talked to, how to make mobiles, how to sing nursery rhymes. It was your father who played catch, who played ball games and taught you to ride a bike. And it was me who picked your books :)

I feel sad for that little girl who didn't play. But I marvel at my God who caught that little girl. I look back now and wonder at how I managed, at what I learnt. And looking at the two of you now, my daughters,  I feel sure God was watching over us, giving to you what I didn't know I didn't have. I learnt to play because of you :)

Back at Blogging

Helloooo blog!! I have missed you! I don't think I have gone so long without writing before! I've been waiting for Friday evening the whole week, waiting for this pocket of time when I can once again write. Life has been mad for me since December and so far, this year has been a bleah.

So, let's see what has happened since I last blogged. R came home for the summer holidays. - and in 2 weeks she would once again be off. C was in town for 2 weeks for a visit and we went to Bintan. We stayed in the bungalow we usually rent; I like it because it allows all of us to be together, cook what we want to and I make believe that it is my seaside holiday home :) I realised the Israel trip had exhausted me and the most strenuous thing I wanted to do was to get a massage. I think it was a good short break and with each visit C seems more relaxed and fits in with the rhythm (or lack of it) of our home. I'm glad.

Christmas was awkward with the changes in the family dynamics and so was New Year. But I really appreciated the girls, Prav and Srawan making sure that we celebrated :) 

So 2010 with all its ups and downs is over and looking back I realise that the 2 phrases God had given me for the year held special meaning - "Build authentic relationships" and "Simplify your life and enrich others'." The year has indeed been one where my relationship with God has become more honest and toxic relationships have been cleared out. I have not been successful in making my life simpler  though :) Unfortunately, I have developed a new penchant for Kate Spade bags... I blame the girls at work for this totally!!! :)

This year, I have also started a new job. I am now a Master Teacher and that exalted-sounding name means that I will be doing teacher training instead of the research and policy work that I have been doing for the past 7 years. Unfortunately, I'm not particularly enjoying my new job as yet. The happiest time for me these 3 weeks was the one afternoon when I ran a workshop for Econs teachers of a JC! I struggle to manage my mood every day and I know what exactly is wrong but I don't quite know what to do about it. Up till now, the work I have been doing isn't different from what I was doing in my last place and I am disappointed because I was looking forward to teaching again. But I know this is temporary and that once the courses have been developed I will be able to teach. I wish I had more structure, clear timelines, time to read and plan instead of the numerous "by tomorrow" and "by the end of the week" deadlines which make me dissatisfied because I don't feel I have given off my best. 

This month,too, R turned 21 and we had a small do for her friends. It was quite fun actually, as she had arranged for a Bollywood dance class for her friends before we adjourned for dinner to an Arabian restaurant. 

Birthday dinner at chili's...

Dinner at Nabin's

 We also went on a short family holiday to Phuket which was marred a little by  first R being sick, then J; a stinky air-conditioner in our hotel room and weather that was so hot that we could feel our skin burning just walking down the road to the beach! Needless to say we spent around 5 minutes on Phuket's famed beach :) Nevertheless, I was glad to be able to spend some time with my daughters so the holiday wasn't as bad as it seems...

The other exciting thing that happened is that my dear friend Mini gave birth to a son. Mothering again at 42 is going to be a challenge but all of us are excited about it. He feels like a joint project :) 

 

Well I suppose a lot more things happened, though nothing else comes to mind now. I guess this has just been an update of sorts, not really blogging my thoughts. But it has been a long week, and right now, my mind just feels mundane :)

It Takes a Village

I read today about a book called The Council of Dads by Bruce Feiler. It is about a young dad who is diagnosed with cancer and decides to rope in 6 of his friends to be 'dads' to his daughters in his absence. The concept touched me.

I have often felt parenting is a tough job and especially hard to do alone. Yet, it is very difficult to find like-minded people who share your values, philosophy and faith whom you can trust to help you with this important job. It also takes a special breed of friends who would agree to look out for your children as well as their own. This is especially so in Singapore where many parents struggle to make time for their own children and balance the demands of career and family.

Yet, I am convinced of the wisdom of having a council of dads or a council of mums. There is an African proverb that says 'It takes a village to raise a child' and I tend to agree. Parenting is often a case of trial and error. You have never done this job before, you try to equip yourself for it by reading, talking to friends etc, but there will always be moments when you catch your breath and wonder - did I do that right? I would have liked to have had a village at these times.

I thought about the concept of a council of dads / mums for a while. But I came to the conclusion that Feiler was really very, very blessed to have 6 friends who readily accepted the responsibility he offered them and stepped up. I can only think of one - and a very, very busy one at that! It speaks first of all of the depth of his friendships. These are friendships cultivated over a long time and at a meaningful level. There must have been time and love invested in building up such friendships and I wonder whether in busy Singapore, there are men and women who value this and are able to do this. It also requires giving of oneself (on the part of the friends) and asking for help (on the part of Feiler) - both gestures of humility that I think are possible for many of us here only when the imminence of death is real.

Many times I have offered to baby-sit for young couples but I don't quite know what it is - an innate shyness, a fear of obligation, maybe a reluctance to accept a favour? - but no one has actually taken me up on the offer :) Maybe they just don't trust me :) With my family, I have tried to be involved in the lives of my nieces and nephews, and their children, but to varying degrees of success. Mostly my young grand-nephews and nieces live too far away for us to connect meaningfully. It is sad, but I also realise that only 1 of my sisters has the opportunity to see her grand-children daily as almost all of my nieces and nephews live abroad and one sister is even estranged from her sons.

So, I wonder what the future holds for me. Right now it looks like I might be doing long-distance grand-parenting too :)

My 53rd...

Every year I gain 2 kgs in the week of my birthday. This year has not proved to be an exception :) My fondness for chocolate has become too much of a common knowledge and so yes, there has been an abundance of chocolate, chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream...

The best cake award of this year goes to the yummilicious cake bought by my CYAN cell group - a creation called Grand Cru Royale by Centre-ps which is a cakeshop in Tiong Bahru. They have an irritatingly slow website so I am not linking, but the cake was superb. It had a hazelnut praline crunch base and a chocolate mousse top and was absolutely delicious :) Thus began my eating odyssey on Wednesday, 4 days before my birthday...



On Friday, 5th Nov, which was also Deepavali Day, Johnson, Yvonne and Freya took me out for dinner at chili's. I have been wanting to try this restaurant for a while but just didn't get around to so I enjoyed the experience quite a bit. Dear Yvonne arranged for a surprise song from the restaurant staff and I got a birthday balloon too :)

And flowers, and books and a fridge magnet :)

On the eve of my birthday, I went on a day spa trip to Batam with my sister, J and Kelsey. It was a quaint place called Tempat Senang and we booked in for a 3 hour spa session. It felt like a mini holiday, boarding the ferry and getting picked up and driven to the spa. The spa owner had arranged for a birthday cake for me but it was delivered in such an awkward manner that it was laughable rather than a touching gesture!

I was quite disappointed by our reception because no one seemed to notice we had arrived. Then a lady came and asked us to choose our treatments and while we were looking at the spa menu, the chef came and said there was a cake for us. The lady was very puzzled and said she had no idea what that was about, she asked the owner who came and said vaguely, "Oh you didn't ask for a cake? Ok then" and wandered off! So we left the cake alone and went off to have lunch. During lunch, the cake made an appearance again. This time it had been cut and we were served 4 slices with a candle stuck on! Hmph! Like I said, a little more panache would have made it a thoughtful gesture instead of the awkward one it turned out to be :( That said, the masseuse was awesome!

My birthday was on the first Sunday of November so all of us with birthdays and anniversaries in November got prayed for at the E2 service. I was really glad my sister came to church with us and liked the sermon as well. Here I am with CYAN people and dear Emma and Ale (that baby is growing fast!)

I must say I had a GREAT birthday. Because J arranged for surprise visits by my friends. I must confess I messed up her plans quite a bit by refusing to have dinner and insisting on watching a movie at 7.30 pm when she had arranged a surprise dinner for me :) Poor Jen.

After church we went to Krish for tea but J wasn't done with surprises yet and I had 3 more surprise visitors for tea, bearing cake from - where else - Awfully Chocolate :) My dear friends, who shall remain unidentified and unnamed by request, I appreciate you :)

And my darling orchestrator of my birthday, thank you. I love you.

We went to watch 'It's a Wonderful After Life' in the evening and I liked the movie except for one sequence at the engagement party which was too long and too ridiculous to be funny. And ended the day at Swenson's... I should have taken the pic BEFORE we demolished the sundae instead of after it ;)

My birthday celeration did not, however, end on Sunday. My CYAN cell celebrated my birthday jointly with Emmy at Penang Kitchen on Monday night... Embarrassed me no end :)

Following this, my old friend Andy bought me lunch at Thai Express on Tuesday and I celebrated a joint birthday with my friend Fiona whose birthday is today by having brunch at Dome...

I think I'm done now... It has been a week of excesses :)

Reflection

MM Lee has been on my mind this week. It has been more than 20 days since his wife passed away and the public spotlight is no longer on him. No more public scrutiny of his grief, his stoicism, his pain. And I feel drawn to pray for him.

He is a man I have admired for a long time. J laughs at me for this, but despite all the criticism I have heard, read and voiced myself, at the end of it all, I would still say I admire him. While I have long admired his political acumen, decisiveness, foresight and high standards, events in recent months have revealed a more personal side to him and I have come to respect him not just as a political leader but as a husband.

Ken says I should not hold LKY as a standard to measure men. He thinks LKY set too high standards that other men cannot measure up to. But I am tempted to ask, why not? LKY is right to say "Don't judge a man until the coffin has been closed on him". No one is perfect. But as men go, I think LKY is someone who has lived right. He may not always have done right, but it is very hard to say what decisions we ourselves might have made in the heat of political battle.

Yet as his life winds down, I feel I like him even more. His recent interview touched me in its honesty, humility and doggedness. What touched me most of all was his devotion to his wife. How many men will sit by the bedside of their comatose wife and read her poems she loved? To me, just this one act of love redeems him. And the opening line of the ST article on Mrs Lee's funeral said it all - "In the end there was just a man who loved his wife till the end." That's it.

Who Tells You the Truth?

I have been thinking about this since J and I talked about it on Sunday... Should the truth be told? Why? Sounds like a GP essay topic, doesn't it? :)

I used to find it hard to tell the truth, especially when it concerned telling unpleasant truths. I also found it hard to tell the truth about how I was feeling and I admit that I have chosen to take the easier way out of situations by lying or mitigating the intensity of what I really felt. It is a hard thing to do - telling the truth - and many people (me included) cop out, because telling the truth is often hurtful.

Since our conversation, I have been paying attention to the times I have not told the truth in the past 3 days. It is not a pleasant experience, hearing a lie come out of your mouth and recognising it, saying to yourself "ok that's a lie" and then saying it anyway....!!!! I'm not going to tell you the actual number of lies I caught myself telling, but I realise that on all the occasions I caught myself lying, it was either because I cared what the other person thought of me or because I was afraid of the other person's reaction. Once I lied (this was absolutely the worst one!!!) because I did not want the other person to think I was a bad Christian (hang head in shame, yes...) and twice I lied because I was afraid of the other person's anger.

Interestingly, not wanting to hurt the other person's feelings was not high on my list as a reason. And I asked myself why. Was I such an uncaring person? Surely it would be better to lie if telling the truth meant hurting the other person?

I think there are 2 reasons to this aspect of me. One - I am a teacher. It is important to me that others learn. There is no desire or intention in me to judge the other person when I point out things. Setting wrong things right, correcting misconceptions, pointing out alternative viewpoints, suggesting a better way of doing things - this is what I think I need to do as a teacher. An occupational hazard, I suppose.

Two, I feel, if the people around me don't tell me the truth I need to hear, how will I know? Who will tell me "you are wrong" or "you sounded arrogant" or "you should apologize" or "that doesn't look good on you" or even "you have put on weight"? Only people who love me. Only people who are courageous and honest and care for me more than they fear my anger or hurt. I have such friends and for this I am truly grateful.

The bottomline is this - it takes courage and love to tell the truth. Jesus said "I am the Truth." And every time He encountered half-truths and lies, He gently persisted till the truth emerged. Go and bring your husband He said to the woman at the well; go sell your riches and follow me He said to the young man; you won't have the courage to stand with me He said to Peter. I'm sure all of them cringed or felt embarrassed or got really angry. Yet Jesus spoke the truth.

I know I have grown because many people spoke truths into my life. Many of these truths embarrassed me or made me feel defensive or angry. But I also know that each person who spoke the truth I needed to hear was used by God to grow me and growth comes through pain.

There is another aspect to this, of course. And that involves how we receive the truth. If we lash out at the person who tells us the truth, if we belittle them, if we react by turning on them and listing their faults to get even, then, my dears, you will be lied to. Who speaks the truth to you? Cherish them, for they love you much. Because, only very few people will speak the truth to you without fear or favour. May God bless you with such friends :)

The Horror! The Horror!

I googled myself today and guess what I found? This:
"Vara" by Charles Spiteri is the AHWA 2006 short story contest winner. In the short story category, the judges felt that "Vara" displayed great strength of narrative and characterisation, and gave a fresh resonance to some classic horror themes."

AHWA by the way, is the acronym for Australian Horror Writers Association. I suspect ALL my students. I know one of them is "Charles Spiteri". But I am not above suspecting my friends either. I am the horror that stalks you by night. And day. Beware.... :)

In London

I thought last year had been a year of much travelling but this year has turned out to be just as mad. This month especially, I have felt quite disoriented because I literally moved my clothes out of one suitcase into another. I was in Depok, Indonesia for a conference til Fri 9 Jul, then moved into an overnight bag for my weekend in Bintan with the girls on 10 Jul, and then into a bigger suitcase for my trip to London on 15 Jul.

I feel out of touch with what is going on at office and am quite ready right now for the routine and normalcy of the work week. Makes me wonder - would I chafe if I were to retire? I keep talking fondly of looking forward to retirement, but sometimes, I am not so sure I would enjoy days of nothing but leisure. And there is quite a bit of truth, I have discovered, in Paul's words in 1 Tim 5:13 - talking of the idle women in church he said "And besides they learn to be idle, wandering about from house to house, and not only idle but also gossips and busybodies, saying things which they ought not" . Hahahaha. This I must not become :)

So what have I been up to in London? There was the baptism of my newest grand-niece, Marisha...



Catching up with family...



Great Quiet Times at Maya's dining table with this lovely reminder of God's creation...



Many cups of cappucino (skinny!), many many slices of Maya's chocolate cake.... Watched a movie (Inception) that messed with my mind in an exciting way... Watched a play (War Horse) that was a technical wizardry where the life sized horse puppets outshone the human actors hands down... .

And celebrated my niece Vidhya's first wedding anniversary at a fantastic Italian restaurant... To think it has been a year already since I last was here for my sister Su's 60th birthday and Vidhya's wedding!



So here I am, going to pack in a bit, getting ready to go home. I pray I will have as enjoyable a flight back as I did coming here. I pray I don't get another kiss-y couple in the seats next to me! Pray all the babies will sleep. Oh yeah - pray for journey mercies :)

Not-So-Simple Rule #8: The Mettle of a Soldier is Tested in Battle

I have neglected this list for a while now and it has been bugging me. So, here we are, my daughters, at the end of my list of Not-So-Simple rules – No. 8. And what does it mean to test the mettle of your date as a soldier? That when you choose a man to date, my daughters, you must watch how he fights with you., for it will save you many tears in the years ahead.

Last month, I read about a young actress who got married in South Africa; she cooed to the media about how she and her husband had fought only six times during their courtship. Perhaps that was a sign to her that the life ahead was going to be one of marital bliss. If I were her mother I would have been seriously worrried. Because, my daughters, if you and your date do not argue or have full blown “I’m so going to kill you” fights at all during your courtship days, be wary, for it is a sign of dishonesty or disengagement; not perfect harmony.

My daughters, all of us are fallen beings. None of us is perfect and when two complex human beings come together, it is unnatural for them to have an intense relationship without ever having conflicts. The best of friendships are the ones that survive misunderstandings, fears and tears, and, my daughters, I really do pray that the one you date is first and foremost, your best friend. Just as in deep friendships, in a dating relationship, a lack of conflict is not a healthy thing.

Each one of us is uniquely made and each one of us has a personality, a plethora of likes and dislikes, values, opinions and habits. If you analyse the different romance novels and movies, you will find a kernel of truth beneath all the fluff, and that is that many people are attracted to someone quite unlike them. It is immature to expect your date to be like you and to have the same personality as you. Yet many couples of different personalities have a successful relationship because they have learnt to celebrate their differences, to build on each other’s strength and compensate for each other’s weakness. Far from being an ideal partnership, a relationship that has no conflicts is, most likely, not an honest one.

My daughters, it is important for you to talk about issues that matter. It is important for you to be able to disagree and hold different views. It is important that the man you date respects your mind, your opinion and your dignity. It is important that he fights fair. The relationship, my daughters, must not be an issue of control or power play because if one has to win, then it can only mean that the other has to lose.

For some men, the fear of conflict is so great that they withdraw from anything that has even a vague whiff of confrontation. They will not be happy with the situation, but they will not express their real feelings and so you will never have a quarrel. To outsiders this might appear to be a perfect relationship, but danger can lurk beneath the calm surface. The soldier who is afraid of conflict has no mechanism to handle conflict and represses his feelings. Repressed or ignored feelings, my daughters, do not just disappear.

Some men see conflict as threats and feel a need to assert themselves most often through anger; they raise their voice, they intimidate, they insist on being the victors. In such a relationship, my daughters, you will find yourselves trying to keep the peace at all costs. You will be looking out for trigger points, you will accommodate his needs and you will be fearful .

Some men sulk. They mope around, waiting for you to cajole them out of their unhappiness, baby them out of their sadness and nurse their hurts and you will be the one to give in. This , my daughters, is emotional manipulation and your conflicts will not get resolved because the issues will simply tire you out.

My daughters, which type of a soldier will you date? Some soldiers avoid fights; some soldiers rush into battle and lose their heads; some soldiers retreat and nurse their hurts in silence; some soldiers will fight to win at all cost, no holds barred. And when the battle has been fought and won, my daughters, ask yourself, how is peace restored? Some soldiers are grudging and take a long time to make peace; some soldiers will want to rub their opponent’s nose in the mud and remind them of their lost battle every chance they get.

My daughters, the mettle of a soldier is seen only when you are able to see how he fights, how he wins and how he loses. The good soldier does not shy away from battles that need to be fought. But the good soldier respects the courage and strength of his opponent and gives his opponent the dignity of a fair fight. The good soldier is gracious even when he wins and the good soldier will treat the vanquished with dignity.

It is natural to think of dating and courtship will be an exhilarating time. The movies always end at the point when they kiss or when they get married.; the media has definitely created enough make-believe. But real life begins soon enough and when it does, I pray, that you will be blessed with good soldiers, my daughters.

I love you both very, very much.

Back from Melbourne

Sooo... I am back! I left on 31 March for a conference in Melbourne and came back on 12 Apr so that accounts for my long silence.

It was a good trip. I actually managed to spend 12 days in Melbourne with just 2 days of vacation leave because I could take conference leave for the days of the actual conference and the Easter weekend gave me a few extra days as well. I love it!

I stayed with my nephew's family and spent time catching up with my grand nephew and grand niece. R was on Easter hols so I got to spend time with her as well. Also met up with old friends Neena and Bee. Drank many cappucinos. Met old friends Pushpa and Ganesh, sadly didn't spend as much time with their children as I would have liked. Ate many chocolates. Visited a church that met in the sports hall of a school and had the strange experience of seeing a basketball hoop every time I raised my eyes to worship. Went on a hyped up, overpriced Hangman's Tour of the Old Melbourne Gaol - do not, do not waste your money on this if you are ever in Melbourne. Also did a day trip to Mornington Peninsula with my nephew's family and wandered around a maze which made me err.... a little claustrophobic... just a little :)

The Conference was a little bit of a disappointment. The quality of presentations was uneven and it appears as if the schools were all at different levels of competency where the infusion of ITC is concerned. But it was still a learning experience and I particularly enjoyed the school visits we made as it is not easy to get to visit schools.

All things considered, I had a good time. The past month has been a trying one for me on the home front and the trip to Melbourne gave me a chance to get away and rest. The time I spent with family and friends also left me feeling loved and supported. In the end, this is what matters - the people I love and who love me back.