Cutting for Stone – Book review

March 14, 2026 at 11:49 am (books, review)
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I finally finished Abraham Verghese’s Cutting of Stone. 

I thought nothing could equal his book Covenant of Water, which I had read earlier. That book has become my gold standard for fiction. (Note to self: Must do a separate post on this book).

But Cutting of Stone is totally a different experience altogether.

It’s intense.

Took me months to finish. In fact, I left it alone for about 3 months after the first few chapters. It was too dark and was filled with graphic descriptions of surgeries and death.

But I picked it up again as a challenge to myself. I plodded through it, a few pages a day, skipping paragraphs of blood and gore of surgery – determined to finish it come what may.

I am so glad I did.

Simply put, it’s a brilliant piece of writing. A story connecting the lives of so many powerful characters. The nun who dies at child birth, her twin boys, their father – an eccentric genius surgeon, the boys’ adoring adoptive parents, Matron who runs the Missing hospital in Addis, the sub-staff and the wretched patients – all of them make up the myriad characters that populate this book. Set against a backdrop of civil unrest in Ethiopia, I also had a front row seat to their own personal wars, sometime against each other and sometimes against themselves.

The story travels to many parts of the world, but the major part is based in Ethiopia and later in America.

A poignant story of love, betrayal and tragedy.

When I finished the book finally, it left me with an odd sense of contentment.

Not sure it’s because of the (somewhat) peaceful ending of the book, or it totally restored my faith in reading, which has shrunk considerably in the last decade, thanks to social media and OTT.

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Goodwill During Bad Times

September 19, 2023 at 11:01 am (goodwill, groceries, indian, pandemic, shopping)
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This happened in the early days of the pandemic in 2020. None of us had a clue about what was happening.

We were all holed up in our homes, glued to the TV, watching reports of a few cases of coronavirus in the city. Roads were deserted, we stayed in our homes, banged plates, clapped hands… and were generally very confused and disoriented.

While WhatsApp groups were overactive with misinformation, miracle cures, or scary stories, we received information that a neighborhood store had organized a vegetable van at the corner of our street at a particular time, and we could buy pre-packed vegetables on a first-come-first-served basis.

This was a time when most of the supermarkets had their shelves wiped clean.

So, a bunch of us gathered on the street corner, wearing masks and maintaining social distancing.

While we waited for the van that never came, a friend told me that a kirana store a few streets away was open and well-stocked.

That was the store I used to regularly phone-order from, when we moved into this neighborhood 12 years ago. I had never known the exact location of the store. But after 2-3 supermarkets had opened, I gradually stopped using the kirana store.

So, my husband and I drove straight there to stock up. My husband waited in the car, instructing me to remind the storekeeper that I was an old customer, just in case we needed ‘connections’ to get our basic necessities in the coming uncertain days.

So, I waited in the long queue, rattled off my list when it was my turn, and as he got his minions to pack my order, I told him I used to order from him regularly, a long time ago. Without missing a beat in his totaling up my bill, (manually, without a computer or a calculator), he replied, “I know ma’am… house no.9.”

I was gobsmacked! He had never seen me before, had only heard my voice through the phone for a few years, but even that was easily 7-8 years ago. I was wearing a mask too.

How in God’s name did he recognize me just by my voice? And he even remembered the brand of toothpaste I use!

Did any of the swanky supermarkets have this kind of personalized service? Their shelves were empty during the time we needed them the most. Almost every one of them was a part of a corporate chain. And the fact that he was still thriving right in the middle of upscale supermarkets is amazing.

I wonder how many of these connections we have lost in the name of advancement.

From that day on till now, for almost 3 years later, I pick up the phone every week and say, “Calling from house no.9. My order is…”

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An auto salute…

June 25, 2023 at 11:45 am (family, kindness, mind, people, women)
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My aunt recently passed away. She was 86. She died of natural causes, peacefully in her home, in her own bed, after refusing sustenance and drifting in and out of consciousness for a few days.

Her funeral was attended by close family, her maids, the nurse who had tended to her, and a few close friends.

I noticed a group of men who had offered a garland and stood reverentially for some time, looking genuinely sad and respectful. My other aunt introduced them as the auto-rickshaw drivers who had their stand very close to the house.

Afterwards, when I tried to hail one of them to go home, they politely refused. The main driver informed me in a soft voice that, out of respect for my aunt, none of them would ply their auto-rickshaws that day.

I was truly amazed. She must have meant a lot to them if they were willing to forgo a day’s income to show their respect. Over the years, this diminutive woman had known each one by their names, their families, and had bestowed her usual kindness on them.

When I was a child, she was the aunt who dropped in every Saturday afternoon after work, with cakes and treats… Even on the Saturdays I was at my grandparents’ farmhouse (a 2-hour bus ride away) during school holidays. She was my friend and confidant during my teenage years. Whatever woes I had shared, she was always on my side, and I could never feel judged by her.

She was the most generous person I have seen. She used to borrow money to help those in need. Once she let go of her tenants (which must have been a secondary source of income to her) to accommodate a sister who had tragically lost her husband. And slowly, the rest of the family moved in with her.

Through the years, my visits to her became infrequent. Though living in the same city, I hardly saw her once or twice a year. But she never missed calling me on my birthday.

When I visited her a few days before she passed away, she was barely conscious. I sat by her pillow and held her hand. She opened one eye and greeted me. “How are you?” I asked her cheerfully. “I’m fine. How are you?” she responded. Then she just closed her eye. I wasn’t sure if she was awake, but I still held her hand for a good ten minutes. She passed away peacefully in three days’ time.

Whenever I think of that day, the auto-rickshaw drivers’ tribute to my aunt stands out in my mind.

I don’t think this kind of love and respect can be bought by a fat bank balance or the properties you own.

There are great leaders for whom an entire country pays homage. There are film stars to whom fans pay grand tributes.

But to me, this small band of men paying homage to an ordinary mortal like my aunt is greater than the most flamboyant of homages.

Especially in these times of deep mistrust and rampant insecurities, people with my aunt’s benevolent spirit are too few and far between.

At the end of the day, it all boils down to the genuine affection, kindness, and respect you show people in your corner of the world.

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Nostalgia

October 12, 2018 at 12:40 pm (mind, nostalgia)

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We were walking around a few ancient ruins of a palace in Srilanka.

Crumbling brick structures were all around us. Remnants of the Darbar, Royal Kitchen, Gurads’ quarters and a few more structures were strewn around, in a sylvan setting of giant, gnarled trees.

As we weaved our way through the maze of these buildings, we wondered how life would have been for the inhabitants a few centuries ago, when the palace was at it’s peak.

Of course, these crumbling brick walls would have been painted brightly, adorned with silks and gold.

Royal men and women would have walked through these rooms, dressed in their fineries,

Royal chefs would have prepared delectable feasts in these very kitchens…

“It would have been magnificent!” said my husband. “Imagine! Elephants and horses outside. No cars. No pollution. The air would have been super clean. Their lifestyle must have been so healthy!” he went on.

Suddenly it occurred to me. We always talk about the bygone days with so much longing.

My grandfather used to reminisce to me that a soverign of gold cost Rs. 13 when he was a young man.

My father used to recall a time when he used to go to school 8 Kms from home  in a bullock cart, accompanied only by his dog, who used to sleep under his desk. Apparently, the bull knew the way to his school and back.

I still fondly remember my lunch in the college canteen – masala dosa and a bottle of Gold Spot.

Why is nostalgia such a strong emotion?

Yes, that royal place was a haven of grandeur, but there were also the attacks, wars, conspiracies and all the uncertainties that went with it.

Yes, a soverign of gold cost Rs. 13, but there was also plague, small pox and famines that claimed the lives of thousands.

Yes, riding a bullock cart to school was fun, but there were also robberies and unreported crimes on children.

And yes, Gold Spot was wonderful, but I also faced exams, shortage of attendance and arrears.

Why do we remember only the good parts and conveniently forget the bad, uncertain, scary parts?

We have so much more now.

Satellite TV & internet!

We have Tata Sky, Netflix and Amazon Prime!

Everyone is just a whatsapp video call away.

We got rid of polio. Small pox.

Women are no longer hiding in the kitchens, pining to access their true calling.

Researching boredom is a legit job!

There is a #metoo campaign.

Anyone can broadcast thanks to Youtube and twitter.

I read an article a few years ago that now is the best time to live.

We have an advanced medical system.

Women can vote.

There’s no slavery.

Mankind is making giant steps everywhere.

Still, nostalgia has a very strong pull, viewing the past through rose-tinted glasses.

Is it because ensconced in the safe present, we can never go back to the horrors of the past?

Or is it because we can now that we view the past from a safe distance, we focus only on the good stuff and blur out the rest?

Readers’ Digest had a very positive article about how we’re in the right path to save the earth. If we keep up this mindful usage of resources, recycling, reduce plastic, etc., we can avert major environmental crisis caused by greedy mankind in a few decades.

So, yes, the past was a blast, but so is the present. I have decided to open my eyes to the present wonders and enjoy the benefits, rather than long for how things used to be. The present is richer with the lessons from the past.

Here’s to more power to mankind!

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If it’s Monday, it should be Madurai – Book review

September 23, 2018 at 3:01 pm (books, travel)
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I had to drive my son to a book/gift store in search of an action figure.

Once inside, I refused to look at the tantalising array of glossy books.

Thanks to online shopping, I already have loads of books still in their protective plastic covers, waiting to be opened.

I absolutely have no time to get another book to add to that stack.

But after ten minutes of flipping through magazines mindlessly, there was no sign of my son, who was still in the store’s basement looking for his superhero.

I gave in to temptation and walked to the popular books display.

What harm can it do? I just have to look at books for future buying, I told myself. I can be strong. I can overcome the temptation.

But all my determination went out of the window when my eyes fell on this bright yellow book with three saadhus grinning and waving at me.

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover’ a small voice in my head warned me.

I ignored it and picked it up. I couldn’t stop with just browsing. I had to buy it.

I’m so glad I did.

I enjoyed reading this ‘conducted tour of India’.

The author Srinath Perur, goes on ten conducted tours to write this book.

Why conducted tours? Because travelling with a group of people with totally different wavelength makes it all the more memorable.

Not only does he sees the quirks of others, living in close quarters for about a week,  he also forms some lasting bonds, by the time it ends.

From a religious tour of the temples in South India with a pious band of believers where the average age was 55, he takes on journeys to the backwaters of Kerala with westerners, a whirlwind European tour with a gang of Indians who watch only Hindi movies in the bus, ignoring the stately sites outside, a trip organised by a professor to search and showcase local innovations in rural India, camel safaris in Rajasthan, retracing Kabir’s sufi yatra and more.

He even takes us on a naughty, all-men tour to Tashkent where, under the cover of anonymity, certain adventurous Indian men have the time of their lives, under Perur’s watchful eye.

This book makes an interesting read also because it’s so personal. It’s his personal journey of self-discovery as well. His reconnection with music in the Kabir Yatra, for example.

Lounging at home, I got to visit all these places, encountered some awesome characters and glimpsed at different cultures. From hookers in Tashkent to saadhus in Maharashtra, Perur’s writing brought all of them alive..

I realised there are so many versions of India even we Indians don’t know about.

I judged this book by it’s cover. I have no regrets!

Truly “an idiosyncratic portrait of India and her people…”

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Spirits in a Spice Jar – book review

September 19, 2018 at 12:35 pm (books, food, healing, people, women)
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After a long time, I read something so poignant, lucid and gripping.

Spirits in a Spice Jar is an autobiographical account of the author, Sarina Kamini, chronicling a difficult period in her life and how she pulls herself from it by recreating the forgotten recipes of her Indian grandmother.

It reminded me of something I had read years ago on how cooking is so therapeutic to Indian women.

The process of cooking – pounding, grinding, chopping, stirring, etc all these supposedly invoke our genetic or cellular memories from the previous generations.  And this nurturing side of us apparently soothes us and heals us.

This book stands testimony to this very theory.

Each chapter is about a particular dish or an ingredient. She lists it’s qualities, associated memories and marries them beautifully to an emotion. The events unfold so well around the ingredient/dish.

When she was 11, her mother, an Australian, was diagnosed with Parkinsons. It shatters the whole family which consists of her Indian father and two older brothers.

Her father, a pious Kashmiri Hindu, deals with it by turning to religion and rituals.Kamini takes it the hardest. She loses faith and turns away from all that she believed in.

The book begins when she’s 30, married and a mother of two young boys. Though she goes through the motions of a busy life balancing her career in journalism, her marriage and her toddlers, she’s very unhappy, feels disconnected from her mother and tries desperately to come out of it.

For some reason, she feels following her grandmother’s recipe book is the way.

This book is rife with cross-cultural nuances when East-meets-west. A typical Indian father who tries to make everything about himself,  as opposed to her Australian husband, who gives her a lot of space to heal, but never tells her how much it’s costing him, her Kashmiri grandmother, Ammi, rooted in tradition,but welcomes an Australian daughter-in-law with open arms and even teaches her Indian cooking…

The story flows so lucidly, touching lives across continents. We glimpse the lanes of Delhi, dusty roads of Jaipur, a Melbourne super market and even the inside of a psychic’s studio.

Each chapter blends seamlessly with the other and takes us on her journey back to being herself and makes peace with her parents.

Here’s a small taste.

“…the way salt is used is an indicator of the nature of our faith. Mum’s was soft, Ammi’s piercing. Dad’s, strident. And mine? I’m still figuring it out.”

How poetic is that! I have never read anything so beautiful about how someone’s personality shines through their usage of salt in their cooking! How every dish we cook has a little of ourselves in it.

After reading it, I felt very different about cooking! Every dish I cook has a piece of my soul… And that’s something to chew on!

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Diabetic diaries.

September 7, 2018 at 3:07 pm (diabetes, food, healing, medicine)

“MY doctor said when he graduated in 1940, normal sugar levels were 190 and Hb1ac was 12. But American Association of Diabetes changed the values to 140 and 5.6. Overnight, half the world population became diabetics. It’s the biggest fraud by the pharma companies”

“Doctors have been cheating us by saying fruits are bad for diabetes. In fact, sucrose brings down our sugar levels.”

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Saffron Pistachio and Coconut Rice Pudding

As a budding diabetic, I’m assailed by such pearls from well-meaning friends and relatives everyday.

Especially in this era of information and misinformation at your fingertips, the advice I get on a daily basis is staggering.

Six years ago, when I was diagnosed with diabetes and hypertension, (Should I say mis-diagnosed, since I discovered with a second opinion that I did not indeed have it then!) I sat cheerfully in the doctor’s cabin after an exhilarating zumba session. She looked at me and said, ‘Chin up! Don’t be depressed! This is not the end of the world for you! Start taking these tablets, exercise an hour every day & follow my diet plan. And you’ll be just fine.”

Do I look depressed to you? I wanted to yell. Later on I realized this must be her standard dialogue to all her first time patients so they can put her on a pedestal as the god who saved them from damnation.

Anyway, another doctor who is a friend first, totally ruled out diabetes since it was based on just one reading and that too with 75 grams of glucose I was fed instead of the standard 50 grams.

It did catch up with me a few years later, but at least I was not on unnecessary medication that would have indeed made me drug-dependent in no time and the only people benefitted from that would have been the drug company and the doctor.

For the last two years, my doctor has been trying to manage my diabetes with a minimal dose of medication and a safe diet.

A few months ago, a friend dragged me to an alternative medicine practitioner.

He gave me along lecture on how diabetes and hypertension are not diseases, but our bodies’ response to a situation at a particular time. And how we eat at the wrong time, wrong food and wrong way that most of our food stays in the system undigested and becomes sugar in our blood stream.

The first step he suggested was an enema, which will detox me. I literally ran out of the door. But my friend had my hand in a firm grip. Seeing my reluctance, he said we’ll get to that later, but I can start with reflexology and a diet plan.

The diet plan consisted of eating uncooked breakfast. Fruits and nuts basically. And to avoid white rice, white sugar and all dairy products at all other times . The tablets I have been having are also supposedly causing a lot of congestion in my body.

And by feeling the soles of my feet he diagnosed me with Vitamin D deficiency, poor sleeping pattern and a liver congestion.

I was shocked since he was bang on.

Of course how anyone can diagnose maladies from feeling the soles of one’s feet is up on a heated debate in my rational group of friends.

After a month of following his diet (almost!) and painful weekly sessions of reflexology, my sugar levels had reached an all time high.

And I broke a crown chewing on almonds and walnuts.

So I said my good byes to him, despite my friend saying I was so wrong in not believing in him and going back to allopathy.

The problem with me is that I have no control when it comes to food. Rice is my staple and my sweet tooth has no conscience when someone offers me a jangiri.

Just when I thought I had everything under control, I go on a holiday where the desserts are the most memorable part of my trip.

Imagine my joy when a well-known nutritionist hailed rice as a super food! I read the book eagerly and discovered I can eat rice at night. I can have cane sugar with my tea. They’ve been our staple for centuries and just because the west maligned them, why are we spurning them now?

It’s those packaged food like biscuits and chips that are loaded with hidden sugars that spike our blood sugars. And fruits are so good for you in so many ways that even mangoes are good for diabetics.

So rice was back in my dinner plate and I enjoyed mangoes last summer.

Of course, my sugar levels spiked again.

A good friend told me about this keto diet for diabetics.

For the uninitiated, it’s a low carb diet with no rice, wheat, millets or dal. But fat is totally allowed. My friend who recommended this was gushing about it’s benefits not only on her sugar levels, but on her thyroid too. And she had lost 8 kgs in the first week.

I checked it with my doctor who was all for it. “Give it a try,” she said. “Another patient of mine with levels much higher levels than you have totally reversed it with her low-carb diet”.

“But I cannot live without rice!” I whined. “Can I have rice only for lunch?” I begged.

“Sure”, she agreed, “Since your levels have never been alarmingly high, try it for the next 3 months”.

My god of nutrition asks her readers to follow a sustainable diet. Something we can follow our whole lives. So I was happy to give this a try since I can still have my fill of rice once a day. I had nuts and whole milk for breakfast and salad and buttermilk for dinner. But for a vegetarian like me who has eggs only in cakes, it was a tough act to follow.

I did lose some weight and was happy with it. But looking at my husband’s and son’s plates in the dinner table, I felt like an under-privileged kid staring through a 5 star hotel restaurant window every night.

Plus I stared getting frequent headaches. Or wake up hungry in the middle of the night.

So I had some carbs once in a while.

Last week, I met my doctor socially for breakfast with a gang of friends. My plate was loaded with Masala Dosa and vada. She sweetly promised me to look the other way, saying it’s okay once in a while.

“Hey, I hate this dieting!” I whined to her. Why don’t you up my tablets instead?”

“God! You’re impossible! Some people just can’t see sense!” She said, in exasperation.

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Actually, it’s all very confusing.

What Allopathy says is refuted by Ayurveda.

What Ayurveda propagates is refuted by Naturopathy.

What Naturopathy recommends is refuted by Homeopathy.

All this conflicting information is constantly thrown at us through the social media gurus.

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Now I try to maintain a balance. If I crave rice, I serve myself some. I try to eat a filling dinner with or without carbs by 7.30 pm.

I downloaded this wonderful app for meditation on my phone and diligently meditate at least 5 days a week.

I go to my Yoga class regularly.

My 3 months is almost up. Let me see what the verdict is.

 

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A complete Italian experience

May 24, 2018 at 10:53 pm (people, travel)

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When a friend suggested an Italian holiday this summer, I was thrilled.

The birth place of renaissance great masters, Michaelangelo’s David, Pieta, the Sistine Chapel ceiling…

I used to dream of seeing all this and more since my under-grad days of art classes.

And Italy did not fail. The vatican museum was breath-taking. Corridors and corridors of brilliant art. And Pieta..

And what is with the Italian skies? Cerulean blue with puffy white clouds, the sky looked like an enormous, ever-changing painting I could look at all day.

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In Florence, which was the last leg of the trip, we had booked an apartment on a busy street.

We were two families of six, including two kids. The owner of the apartment, who was barely 17, opened the front door on the said busy street and led us in.

We trailed behind him, up a narrow staircase, while one of us stood on the pavement guarding the luggage. A man who was standing beside us, as if we had been blocking his way, got into the open apartment. My friend who was guarding the luggage assumed he was a fellow guest.

He went up and stood by the door, just behind us, again giving us the impression that he was part of the apartment.

The owner had assumed he was part of our group.

We entered the apartment, set our bags on an ornate bench outside the kitchen and followed the owner who showed us around the place. When we got back in less than two minutes, my husband’s camera bag with his phone was gone.

Though he noticed it immediately, he wrongly assumed that the owner had simply kept it inside one of the rooms.

It took us a while to make the owner understand what we were looking for. But by the time we realised all of us had been tricked by the artful stranger, it was too late.

And the whole thing happened in under 5 minutes.

What a clever planning that must have been. I’m sure there was more than just the stranger whom we saw. It must have involved a few accomplices waiting outside.

My husband, along with the owner rushed to the police station to lodge a complaint.

It was disheartening to see there were so many people like us waiting to lodge complaints and most of them were senior citizens.

The police were friendly, took our complaint and bid us good bye. No cop came to the crime scene like in India, no cop wanted to check the security cameras on the pub downstairs and no assurances were given.

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But life goes on. Still a bit rattled, we walked to Uffizi Gallery for our appointment to stand in a mile long queue which resembled the crowds in Thirumala or any other religious hotspots in India. The fabulous art from renaissance was well worth it.

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And to the Academia the next day. I had goosebumps when I saw David. His sheer presence was truly a magical.

The Duomo was magnificent.

Cobbled streets dotted with cafes were a joy to walk through.

Though we thoroughly enjoyed Florence, the aftertaste of the theft was always in the back of our minds.

Even my 14 year old jumped up in his sleep that night asking “Does he have a gun?” before muttering something incomprehensible and going back to sleep.

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When we narrated the story to a friend on our return, he said after a few choice word for the crook, “So, now you’ve had the complete Italian experience! I guess getting robbed is one of the must-have experiences in Italy. It’s so common place”.

It is.

We hear of pickpockets in Rome, bag snatching and even mugging all across hot tourist spots in Italy.

Just underneath the beautiful exterior, the grand structures and high art, there runs a parallel network of artful and deft band of prowlers and swindlers.

If tourism is indeed their main income, shouldn’t tourists be their most preferred clients?

Then why do they shrug off thefts? Why aren’t they equipped to protect innocent tourists from miscreants who are brave enough to steal in broad daylight?

I guess for the fantastic, life affirming experience one gets looking at all the art & architecture carefully preserved over centuries, a camera here and a mobile phone there is a small price to pay.

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Ministry of utmost happiness – Review

September 9, 2017 at 11:27 pm (books, review)
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04SMministryjpgThe latest book book by Arundathi Roy is not what I expected at all. Though I enjoyed her previous novel ‘God of small things’ for the brilliant play of words and superb portrayal of the characters, I was bitterly disappointed by the bizarre ending. I thought that was a very forced and desperate attempt to get attention.

So I braced myself for a similar disappointment when I started ‘The ministry of utmost happiness’.

But thankfully, the ending was a good one.

The book is a dark one, though.

It tells us the stories of the neglected and the marginalized.

The novel opens with a middle aged transexual taking up residence in a grave yard. How she came to live there is her riveting story.

This is the story of Anjum – the hijra, Saddam Hussein, Tilo – a rebel south Indian woman, Musa – Tilo’s Kashmiri militant lover, Naga – a diplomat’s journalist son, Garson Hobart – the diplomat and many more people who live in a parallel universe that we, the regular people look right through everyday.

The story seamlessly travels through the by lanes of old Delhi to affluent South Delhi enclaves to the beautiful Kashmir Valley where death, blood and gore are part of daily lives of people. It takes us briefly to Gujarat when the massacre happenes, to Kerala where Tilo’s mother dies and to rural Andhra rife with naxals.

The prose is beautiful and spell binding, but Arundathi Roy does not shirk from telling the brutal, bitter lives of these people.

This is an account of the misfits. The story exposes the atrocities committed by the government on innocent people and the unnecessary lives lost in the process.

This is a grim book, each tale sadder than the other, and each character with a heartbreaking sorrow.

But underneath all the gloom, I could sense a deep anger at the present government. She openly criticizes the ‘orange parakeets’ and ‘lalla of Gujarat’ in many a paragraph.

She does paint a very bleak picture of the future in India, hinting we’re about to self-destruct.

A haunting book, but a bit excessive in the political flavouring.

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Lessons in history

July 13, 2017 at 1:04 pm (family, kids, parenting, schools)
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“Social activities in the Neolithic age included FaceBook, Whatsapp & Google Plus.” 

“A mummy is a dead body covered with toilet tissue paper and more toilet tissue paper to preserve it.”

  

I was baffled with the answers in my son’s history class work notebook he had got on the last day of school.

My son goes to a school that encourages freethinking and does not believe in pressurizing kids with exams. While its fabulous news for his creative side, my son takes total advantage of the system when it comes to serious studying. His main objective to go to school is to meet friends and play football. Oh and the studies just happen on the side.

This point was brought home strongly when we got his year-end report.

All the teachers had just one thing to say. He’s not attentive in class and does the barest minimum work needed and runs out to play.

Though it was pretty much the same report we’ve been getting since he started school, it’s no longer cute when he’s almost a teenager.

So this summer holidays, I decided take charge of his academia. No more easy-going mom who lets him get away with vegetating in front of the television the whole day.

I decided to start with rewriting history. Going through what he had done his notebook all year either sent me into a fit of rage or rolling on the floor laughing. He just did not have a clue.

In an ideal world, we would probably sit together companionably, go through the books with his full cooperation and my son would be an ace in history in two weeks.

But since we live in a world where a PS4 and football are the reigning gods, the television full of fabulous programs, we start off the morning bickering about setting the time for the lessons. And at the agreed time, he flies into a rage because I’m causing him to lose a virtual football game.

When I try meekly after an hour, I’m met with the same resistance. By then it’s time for lunch.

When I check with him after lunch, it’s the same tantrum. I’m at my wits end now and go into my momster mode. Then he swiftly changes his tune and with a woebegone face, starts on how he hates summer holidays and how I torture him with studies.

After all this we manage half an hour of sitting sullenly with each other and go through the books. But instead of focusing on the core of the lesson, we get sidetracked with so many unimportant details. Why isn’t the statue of the dancing girl in Harappan Civilization standing like a fashion model and not at all like a dancer?

Or he comes up with the profoundest of questions like “At what age do you reckon I’ll get married?” To which I replied scathingly, “It all depends on how good you study. If you’re going to goof off like this, you’ll never graduate and you’ll never get a job to support a wife and family!”

Stung, his bonhomie changes to open hostility and we continue the rest of the lessons with barely masked anger.

Of course most days are interspersed with me running behind deadlines, him busy with play-dates and we don’t even touch the books on those days.

It has taken us almost a month to cover 3 chapters. And there are still math & science books to open.

Oh how I long for those far away summer holidays of my childhood where clocks did not exist!

But, despite the tantrums, despite my working hours going crazy, something tells me I’m not going to like the strangely quiet, neat and tidy house, once the school reopens.

A wise man once told me, “There’s no quality time or quantity time when it comes to children. There’s only time.”

 

 

 

 

 

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