My photo album - The arrival of spring in Brussels - Belgium - Europe

finally seeing the sun 

Magnolia in bloom

a beautiful hideout

I get all the attention when the sun's out

Framed and guilty of beauty 

Steely sunshine

I show off my beautiful coat while my friends have none

 

The Chronicles of the youngest Child - Part 3

Pic courtesy S. Libert 

When I was about five years old, I had gone with my parents to our native village. This was a month or so of very hot summer vacations. I was the youngest of four children and was born very late to my parents. Even though I always felt I didn't have any luxuries growing up, I know I was very lucky compared to my older siblings.

During our vacations we stayed at the homes of our relatives who lived all over the state of Kerala. I remember being asked to walk with my parents in the hot sun. For some reason, I was very cranky. Probably thirst, hunger, the heat and the travelling had gotten to me. I was walking alongside my father and my mother was a few meters behind us. All of us were sweating a lot. The heat was omnipresent and there seemed to be no cool, shaded area on our path. 

Suddenly, I started feeling really upset and asked my father how far we needed to go. He was someone who was very calm and he smiled and said, "not far". I continued walking for what seemed to me like an eternity. I caught up with my father and asked, "can we talk a bus?". He replied, "We are nearly there". We walked on. I turned to look at my mother, who was very slow and probably felt as hot as me. I thought of walking back to her and trying to get her to find a faster solution. Even though I was very young, I knew that my father would decide what we were to do at that moment. I repeated pleading, " Can we take an auto-rickshaw?". I was only five years old, but I knew my parents never took any public transport that cost a lot of money. I don't remember getting into auto-rickshaws as much as getting into trains and buses. 

As expected my father said "No". There it came, the No. I knew that once my father said No, he rarely ever gave in. I knew that I had lost my chance of getting what I wanted. On top of that the heat was now unbearable. In normal circumstances, I would have just not asked him anything anymore. But I found myself in this fit of rage, hunger, tiredness and overall uncontrollable helplessness. I started throwing a tantrum. I jumped up and down on the side of the road. I screamed on top of my lungs. I went on for long enough for my mother to reach my father and me. My father had not stopped walking, he just had slowed down, turned around, looked at me once and not said or done anything. 

I was now in a fatigued state of having given out the final drops of energy that were left in me. I asked my father, sobbing, "Can you at least carry me?". He didn't say anything. He continued walking. I dragged myself behind him. The world was so unjust, my daddy is ignoring me. I now felt that the top of my dress was wet with a mix of sweat and my tears. I had stopped wailing, I was just sobbing, there were sad sniffles in between each breath. I asked him to hold my hand. He didn't. I started wailing again.

We were now on the street near my uncle's home. My uncle's family lived in an independent house which had a porch which led to a front door. But on the side, there was a stairway that led up to the terrace of the home. When we reach the gate, here, my dad held my hand and firmly led me upwards towards the terrace. My aunt had noticed us enter. She saw my face all shrivelled and my father's silent and stern look. She sort of understood something was amiss and started following us upwards. I looked back towards her and beyond. I saw my mother enter the gate of the property. She looked at me. I didn't think she would follow us up as she was already exhausted. 

I was now crying with a sort of fear and foreboding. I wanted to run free into my aunt's arms. But when we went upstairs I knew I was alone in this. No one would be able to help me. My father had been the father figure for everyone in our family. He had brought up even my uncle. I saw my father switch on a tap at the side of the terrace. He looked at me and I looked at him, howling. He filled the bucket and switched off the tap. 

I was unprepared for what was going to happen next. My father lifted the bucket of water and poured its contents all over me. I stopped crying. I felt cool and nice. I was stunned. My father walked away into the house and I felt my aunt’s arms around me. All was calm again.

Note :- I would like to add that I never felt that any of the punishments my parents ever gave me were traumatic. Their intention was very clear and my naughtiness was constantly at heads with their idea of proper behaviour. I share these stories with a lot of love for my parents.  

How I trained to run and complete my first 20kms Half Marathon as a person who didn't run regularly.

Pic courtesy:- a proud me

 

In the beginning of 2003, I was not the fittest version of myself. But, yes, I had the luxury of being a young woman. The young woman I was, discovered that in Brussels there were several chances for ordinary people to participate in different sporting events. Amongst these were runs of 5kms, 10kms, half or even full marathons. I took this as a chance to be able to tick off at least one of the dreams I always had had on my bucket list. So, as soon as I could I started training for it. I had an indoor elliptical trainer that I used daily and on any sunny day, I was outdoors trying my best to see what I was capable of.t-variant-positio 

Sports had always been important to me during my teens, mainly because I was always on the chubbier side. But I never had had any actual training in sports and even when I did participate in school, I was not good. Luckily, I never let that deter any personal plans I had at self-improvement. I was good at getting others to work as a team with me and often did all kinds of exercise at home either with some friends or even alone to improve my flexibility. 

I remember some crazy challenges I had made up for myself. During one of the phases when I was busy learning what exercises existed for someone to do at home, I discovered that I was pretty good with a skipping rope (jump rope). So, I took up the challenge to do at least 1200 skips every single day for at least a month. I didn’t have any teacher; it was just me telling me what to do.

So, fast forward to 2003, I took up a challenge to run a distance of 20kms. I was already dreaming of holding a medal at the end of that distance. It would be my first ever medal for anything related to sports. This time there was no way any of the past lazy, procrastinating or bad-at-follow up versions of my younger self would be allowed to come into the picture. I somehow felt that it was a turning point for me and also a welcome gift that I would give myself for having survived my first European winter. 

So, after celebrating the exciting moment when I actually secured a place in the race, I started running regularly. However, I had no idea what sort of training to do. The internet was not a big part of people’s lives those days. Or at least not of mine. My goal was to just finish the race. The training generally meant I would plan a time to leave the house and a duration to keep running on the go and stick to it. I would train at home on the elliptic trainer or be outside putting one foot in front of the other. I did that for several weeks, I fail to remember how many in fact. 

Finally, the week of the race arrived. I received a notification to go and pick up my race number. I still remember thinking ‘oh wow look at this. My number is 30000 something. That means there will be at least 30000+ people running with me.’ The number humbled me. I felt part of a huge community who probably all had a similar goal and at that moment it didn’t matter that this would be my first time. I was now even more excited to participate and see the people and all that encompassed the event. Waiting for the D-day became difficult. 

Of course, time goes by in a wink and I found myself standing at the starting line. We were divided into four or five groups of people. Each group contained people who had a similar estimated finish time. I had no idea about my speed and so I had put down 4 hours. Which was what I thought I could do in the worst case if I walked. Let’s not dwell on the fact that back then I hated walking. I preferred running.

Our group waited in the cold, chilly weather while we heard the gun go off for each of the groups that preceded us. Then I heard our gunshot and that’s when the reality struck me. Here I was, really, really trying to do what I had prepared myself for. While it was difficult to think of anything at that moment because of the number of people I was running with, I soon found my head flooded with doubts and fears. I had decided to keep a strict ‘no exit’ policy. Ok, the thought was here and was telling me that I would probably be in pain or that I would never be able do it. But the voice in my head and heart said ‘there is only one finish line’. There was no way I was going to give up without putting up a huge fight. There was no way the older version of me, who as a child didn’t have what it took to be a sportsperson, was going to get her way again. 

All I remember today is that the first 10kms were pretty easy, I actually hadn’t felt any pain yet. Since I had had only a few weeks of intense training and no real method to follow, around the 13km mark I started really feeling the effort I was putting my body through. Running with so many other people in the beginning of the race also pushes one to go faster than training speed, but, since it was my first race I didn’t know that. I was starting to feel the strain of those initial kilometers. 

What one must understand is that the last 4 kms of this  Brussels race is totally uphill. Since it’s really a hard part of the race for everyone, most of the families and friends who come to cheer are found in this area. There are stalls to take a small break of water or grab some fruit at this point. One can find ‘help stations’ with Red Cross staff for people who have any issue to be looked at. There are several musicians who line the street and cheer the mass of runners with upbeat music and dance. Their energy helps immensely.

 I had promised myself that whatever happened throughout the race, I wouldn’t completely stop running. So, there I was at 16kms, having not stopped for a minute in those ‘God knows how many’ hours, still moving. Shuffling upwards, I really thought, ‘ok, now is when I’m going to pass out. Now I will start having a problem’. I countered this thought coming back to the fact that since  I had endured all this time, I just couldn’t give up at these last few kilometers. I needed something to give me a boost. But I didn’t have anything on me at that moment. I had already passed all the stalls and had decided to avoid going next to them. I had avoided any sort of excuse that could crop up in my mind which would put an end to my dream. 

Like a beacon of hope, I saw a lady cheering me on, on the left side of the road and she had something in her hand. It was a paper box full of sugar cubes. She placed a couple into my extended hand as I passed her. When I put one in my mouth, I felt a buzz of energy. This helped me hold on for about a kilometer. At around the 18km mark, I saw runners who had medals around their necks who were running towards us. These people had finished their ordeal and were running backwards to cheer on  people like me. ‘These people are heroes’, I said. 

That’s when I saw the Arc of the Cinquantenaire Park in the distance and knew I was close. That’s also when I felt this huge cramp envelop my right leg. I tried to move forward but found that I couldn’t run anymore. I was 600 meters away from the finish and I decided to walk. If one could call that walking. Limping and struggling with all my might, I moved ahead. People around me were falling like flies. There were so many fallen over, giving up. There were spectators trying to get those people to stand up. I said, ‘ok, it’s not just me who is finding it super hard right now.’ But no way was I going to crumble so close to the medal holding image of me, that I saw in my mind. I just kept ignoring the cramps which were now all over both legs. Kept ignoring people looking at me and kept ignoring the tears and the pain that I felt all over. I dragged myself to the finish line and I made it. I hobbled to where the medals were being placed on the finishers. Now, I had mine. And my medal met the new me.

Complaining seems like everyone's constant companion

Somewhere in France, 
pic courtesy B.Libert

 A complain is airing out plainly in view, 
that you don't like what's happening or what's coming to you.

You still hope to edit or tweak the idea,
that doesn't sit your way.
Break someone else's will and conquer,
Just a figure of speech I say.

Breath in, breath out,
there's so much to say.
Our wounds need healing, 
we can't wish them away.

I work on my healing, 
My mind learns not to yell,
I'm hoping all this will take me 
To a time I feel really very well.

Hurray, we reach a time when my mind is now at peace,
But what do I hear now,
someone's complaining about me!

The Chronicles of the youngest Child - Part 2

Somewhere in France
Pic courtesy B. Libert

 In my childhood most of the ladies of the house didn’t work. It was no different in my home in Mumbai. My Mummy stayed at home and my Daddy went to office. I had learnt about their youth as I started asking questions to them about where they came from. I had a mental image about my father being very able, social and the one who handled the outside world well. At the same time, my mother who was the whole day at home, was an amazing homemaker. I knew that as every meal was made with love, every part of our home was clean and her presence gave us a sense of security. For many things, I thought of them both as equal. But, the reality was, I didn’t have many examples of their roles being reversed. I had never seen mother travel alone or go and handle any bank or school work. I had not seen my Daddy cook or clean the house. Their roles were well defined and consequently, we as spectators had certain ideas in our heads.

One day, I was travelling back from a party with my parents. It was around 10pm and we were heading back home by the local train. Usually, women and children travel back by the ladies compartments that are present in two parts of each train. One is situated in the middle of the train and one at the end. However, those days, at 10pm, the compartment in the middle of the train became a general compartment to allow for men too. 

We reached the platform and found ourselves standing at the opposite end to the ladies. Frankly speaking, the general compartment was not very crowded, but getting into the train was difficult. Too many people were blocking the area at the entry, I noticed , while boarding the train just after my father. Soon enough, the train started and I turned behind to look for my mother. There were several people there, but no Mummy. I felt this deep fear while I kept looking for her. “Mummy’s not here Daddy!”, I said loudly. My father was very calm. He always treated every situation without any quick reactions. He told me to be calm and that we would find my mother together. We got off at the next stop, while our final destination was actually five stops away. 

I was slightly upset that he didn’t even look worried. When we got off at the next station, we went to the Station Master’s office. We got the person on duty to make an announcement that stated my mother’s name and asked her to come join her family at the station where the announcement was being done. 

While waiting there for those difficult and long 20 minutes, I was very scared. I kept looking at the door hoping to see her come in. However, after the half hour was up, my father asked me to follow him and we took one of the next trains back home. I spent all the time back home aboard  that train,  worried and with a knot building up in my tummy.  

When we got off at our station, we had still to take a bus to reach our home. At that moment, I remembered that my mother never carried a handbag. I didn’t know if she had some cash or small change stuffed in her clothing. Some women carry their change and cash in small purses that they smartly hide either in their blouses or the material of their saris.

This increased my worry and on the route back home, I kept looking out of the window searching for her on the streets. However, this was of no use as I couldn’t really see everything in the darkness.

The moment we reached our building, I ran up the stairs, entered my house and saw my brothers and sister there and searched for my mother. She wasn’t home and I started crying and tearily told them what had happened. My brothers immediately left the apartment together taking the motorbike we owned to go search for our mother.

Sometime passed and while I was being consoled by my sister and father, one of my brothers reached home. My mother had apparently entered the first train that my father and I had gotten into. The only thing that happened was, since the door was too crowded, she climbed into the compartment using the next door which had more space for her to enter. She reached our destination stop easily and quickly. But since she didn’t have any cash and those were the days that transactions happened only with cash, she couldn’t take the bus. 

They found my mother walking home slowly, wondering all this time how we had got lost.

Life in Belgium as a foreigner - No More Secrets!

When I shifted to Brussels, I was 24 years old. So, I thought I knew the ways of the world and had some work experience too. However, getting married to a Belgian man in India and living in India was surely different from the first few years of life in Belgium. Nothing could have prepared me for the culture shock that awaited me. He and his family were all native French speakers. I had never learnt French as a child or in school days. Even at university, there was French as an option, but I never thought that I would have any use of the language in my life.

Reaching here in Brussels, i realized that even though Brussels was an international city and a hub of Europe few people on the streets really spoke English. I had time on hand and within a few days, I joined a French class. It was a great way to meet new people and have a social life. It was nice to see that others like me had it hard with this new environment. That others like me, had to start again to make friends and learn the ways of life in a new country.

Looking back, youth definitely helped me. I didn’t find the process of learning this language difficult. I spoke English with my husband, so I practiced my French with his family whom we met on the weekends. I used to listen to what was being said, repeat their sentences and try and make sense of it. Body language is such a fantastic tool when you are learning a new language. So many things like encouragement, affirmation, approval or disapproval and impatience are displayed on the faces of those you interact with. Eyes shining up because they were surprised to see me try their language, a nod of the head showing that they were starting to understand me, a frown if there was a word that I hadn’t really pronounced well or a giggle because there had been a mix up in the sounds I had used were a very common occurrence. 

Very often, I would start on a topic when I met someone from the family and they would encourage me by being patient and entertaining my efforts. But, in Belgium or anywhere in the world, I notice that people speak for an average of ten minutes slowly and patiently in an informal setting. They then quickly start speaking at their normal pace of communication. When this happened, of course, I couldn’t keep up. Instead, I found myself having a debate in my head about what they had just said and what would be the correct word and correct order of words to choose to reply them. So, funnily in most cases I would talk about something that was already ‘old news’ to everyone else in the room by then. They would stare at me weirdly, their minds trying to make sense of what I had just managed to utter. They had no idea of the difficulty with which I had managed the feat. I could hear questions being asked and then, suddenly the person most in tune with me and my language skills would remember the subject from some minutes ago. 

As months passed and I completed more than one academic year in my French school, I started to notice progress. I would find myself being able to hear the ‘liasIons’ that link the words to each other in the language. I could actually remember difficult words and even form sentences that were different from just the basic ‘I’ and ‘me’ ones.

One day, I reached my in laws’ home where the entire family was gathered. As they all greeted me and everyone settled in, I declared loudly in French, « From today, there will be no more secrets ».

My father in law smiled and said, « Oh, what an intelligent girl she is » !

PS. I encourage everyone to continue to learn languages, it’s such a great way to understand another culture and really integrate into a new society. You understanding them well means there is a chance they understand you well. 

Quote 1

Pic courtesy- me

 No one is allowed to put out my inner flame,
they don't have the key to that place.