happy birthday cake

every year on my birthday my mother baked me a cake. it was a simple pound cake with a hole in the middle, like an extra large ring or a big doughnut. i loved it. i preferred it to the cakes with icing and still do. occasionally she would also bake it at some random times during the year.

i remember some lady was visiting us, an auntie as we called all women visitors. my mom showed her our oven and the baking pan. it so happened that the pan still had the crust of the cake stuck to it. when i noticed that i took the opportunity to scrape it off and relish it. i really enjoyed the brown crust of the cake and did not understand how i could have left it.

later when the aunty had left, my mother reprimanded me for polishing off the left-over crust in front of our visitor. i could not have cared less, but it was a lesson in social etiquette. possibly my mother was embarrassed by my behavior, which to her indicated that i was just ravenous as it would seem that i was not fed enough. this of course was not true. i had enough and more to eat. most often more as i did not want to eat what was served. i hated vegetables those days. my preferred meal was rotis/chappatis with mango pickle. that is what i took in my lunch box most days and at home i added lentils to that fare. but that is another story.

regarding the cake incident i was a little perplexed as i had not realized i had anything wrong by eating the cake crust. also my mother had not said anything to me while i was eating but much later and the complexities of appropriate social behavior escaped me. i think she might have taken care of her embarrassment by making a joke about the situation, but i guess she did not have the social ease to do that!

inner child work:
my mother shows the aunty her bake pan. i realize there is some left-over crust and i proceed to devour it. my mom makes a joke about how much i love the cake she bakes and how i cannot let go of the last tit-bits. as she says that she also gently caresses my head with her hand showing her understanding of my socially inept behavior. she and aunty laugh in a good-hearted way, as grown-ups do when they find childlike behavior amusing and endearing. i feel seen, valued and learn a social lesson, without any shame or guilt.

the gift of a rose

i am in love. i am in nursery school and i am in love with my nursery teacher. i think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. every day she comes dressed in impeccable saris, smiling her warm smile, alas not at me.

there is a girl who sits in the front row. every day she brings the teacher a rose and gifts it to her at the start of the class and the teacher smiles her thanks. i want to be the recipient of that smile. i want to be the one handing the teacher a rose, at least one morning, if not every morning.

i cannot conceive where the girl gets a rose each morning. i imagine she must be very rich, she must live in a huge house with a wonderful garden. a garden that yields a beautiful rose that she can pluck and bring for the teacher. more likely there is a gardener, who plucks the rose for her and hands it to her so she can bring it to school to hand to my love.

i have no such garden. i have no such rose. i only have a heart that yearns and longs. unfortunately it turns to jealousy as it can see no way of meeting its goal or fulfilling its desires.

inner child work

i get to school. the teacher is standing at the door of the class. she is greeting each student as s/he enters the classroom. as i come to the door she gives me a special smile and caresses my cheek as she welcomes me saying my name. my heart blossoms and i smile at her in return, a smile that expresses all of my love. she sees my smile and gets it. she hands me the rose that has been gifted to her. i am joyfully surprised. "for me?" my wide eyes say, she nods and goes back to her seat. i feel fulfilled. everything is right with the world!

the fall

we are in the city of A, most probably, no definitely. so i am anywhere between 4 and 6. we are walking back home in the dark, my father, mother and i. they do find words to talk. but there is some tension between them and after a while they are silent. so yes now they couldn't find words to talk (a la an old song).

as we walk i stumble over a rock or something. i start crying as i am in pain and i want to be picked up. as they are having a conflict they expect the other to pick me up. i become the pawn in their power struggle. neither of them picks me up as the one to do so will be the loser. so i get dragged home, weeping.

when we reach home they realize that i am, in fact, hurt, rather a lot. my right knee is bleeding profusely. my mother takes me to the bathroom and washes and dresses my knee. my father brings the medicine, the kind that smarts in the beginning but is very effective. they feel ashamed at having neglected me so in their struggle for victory, or at least that is how i imagine it since they were decent people, after all.

i feel a strange sense of vindication. i had been right to cry, i was genuinely hurt. i was not just clamoring for attention, without reason. the wound justifies my crying. i take a little pleasure that my mom feels bad now for not having picked me up when i was asking her to.

inner child work

i am walking beside my inner child. i am holding her hand and chatting with her as we walk in the dark together. i tell her to watch her step, since it is dark and the road is uneven. i ask her if she would like to be picked up. she says no.

after a while she trips and she falls. i am instantly near her and console her. i hold her and reassure her that it is okay to cry, as she might be feeling scared and/or hurt. i hold her close to me, soothing her and quieting her.

when she seems a little calmer i check her for bruises and discover the wound at the knee. i find a piece of cloth to tie as a bandage, then i pick her up and carry her home. all the way back i talk to her and ask her to tell me how she is feeling. she feels cared for and comforted. she apologizes for not letting me pick her up earlier that way she might have avoided the fall altogether. i tell her she could not have known that she would fall so there is nothing to apologize for. it is not shameful to fall down or get hurt, it is a part of growing up and we just need to feel the feeling, let it pass and then to get up and move on, as she has done. she smiles at that.

i know then that even though she got hurt physically she felt nurtured emotionally and so did not suffer more psychologically. she thanks me for carrying her back. i am grateful to her for letting me do that and i hold her close and tell her how precious she is to me.

MY Drawing

I once again remembered the time when I had made a drawing. I think it was a picture of a woman and I was very proud of it. I showed it to my mom and then to my dad. Then I went off to play or some such thing. A while later when I came back I went to look  at my picture again, expecting to find it as I had left it and was horrified to see that it had been altered. Not beyond recognition because I could still make out my lines in it, but the face I had drawn was no longer there. I was very upset and asked my mom what had happened and she told me that my dad had reworked it. I was so mad, so bloody angry, but I could not vent my anger of course, otherwise I would have gotten beaten on top of everything else. So my fury turned into tears and I sobbed my vexation and frustration. 

I remember we were all three of us lying on the cot, mom in the middle, dad on one side and me on the other. I was crying, sobbing and sniffling, as I tried to come to terms with the fact that my darling picture had been changed such that it was no longer mine. Mom tried to make things between us better by saying that dad had just tried to improve it, she thought that would appease me, but it just made me feel more frustrated.

I wanted so much for dad and mom to see it and appreciate it, but dad went and changed it, corrected it thinking he was making it prettier. So that meant that what I had drawn was not good enough. It had to be modified to meet his standard of acceptance; underlying message 'I was not good enough and had to be modified to be acceptable'.

I remember how my parents told me to rub the sides of my nose so that it would not be so broad. Fucking shits! My nose was and is good enough. I was and am good enough. My drawings and paintings were and are good enough! I am an artist and I do not need their and/or anybody else’s appreciation or approbation for it.

Inner child work

already began that with the expression and allowing of anger that i felt at them especially at him.

the little girl says "why the hell did you alter my picture? i want the image i drew. that was the better picture coz i had made that and i was and am proud of it. there was no need for you to improve it. if you wanted you could have made another drawing. i want the picture i made. you had better erase the changes you made and give me back my drawing"

and from a slightly older place, but still somewhat angry "If you are a good parent you will appreciate my drawing as it is and put it up some place in the house."

In fact I will do that for my inner kid. I will make a drawing with her now and I will put it up on the fridge and give her all the love and appreciation she needs. 

and i do just that. my little girl feels appreciated now and loved. she is an artist. she loves her picture. and it hangs on the fridge. if she feels like it she might color it some time. for now she likes it just as it is - MY drawing.

the house on mango street

just read "the house on mango street" and it has inspired me to blog my memories. currently working on a painting all in blue, a continuation of my mandala series, this one will deal with the inner child and healing.

an ice-cream cone.

sitting in the movie theater with my parents watching a movie, some typical Indian Bollywood masala film. post intermission i have an ice-cream cone in my hand filled with softie ice-cream. this is a rare treat, i have never had an ice-cream cone before. i have had ice-cream of course, on sticks, my favorite being choco-bar.
i enjoy my ice-cream cone even while watching the movie in a mesmerized state. i dig in to the cone with my little tongue, deeper and deeper as far as i can go. finally i cannot reach any deeper and in frustration i throw the cone away. a few minutes later my mom asks me what happened to my ice-cream. i tell her i finished it and i point to the cone on the ground a few seats away. she shakes her head and tells me the cone is edible too. 'now she tells me' i think 'well too late'. but for the rest of the film i watch the cone from the corner of my eye half wishing i could pick it up again. but i don't, more because if mom notices me eating the cone from off the ground she would definitely scold me.
now as i recount the tale i feel more ashamed about the unabashed littering i did back then. not my fault that is what everyone around me did, back then. yet there is a wistfulness for the uneaten cone and the little girl's ignorance.

a piece of inner child work
little girl i see you now. it is not your fault that you wasted the cone. you did not know that it was edible. you had no previous experience with it. i understand that you are sad that you got a rare treat but could not enjoy it fully. your parents ought to have told you before you threw the cone away that you could eat that as well. i understand too that you feel you cannot be mad at them because they gave you the cone in the first place. i understand your conflict in wanting to pick up the cone and eat it to find out what that hard cover shell might taste like. you were intrigued, how can cardboard be edible? sweet little girl, enjoy your movie. you will have plenty of chances to eat all kinds of ice-cream cones and there will even come a time when you will prefer to eat green vegetables like broccoli rather than ice-cream!