Chithappa and Mahalabhiya

I grew up around a father and mother who were always busy. They were the best kind, and instilled much love and stability in the family – however, they were always busy. Or rather that’s the message that I got as a child. But the arrival of chithappa every weekend was a breath of fresh air amidst the busy working routine of my parents.

He would take me on long walks, let me play video games and ride-on toys. He would answer my funny questions and tell me like a hundred stories. There was one very special thing that we would do together, and the picture is so clear in my mind as if it happened yesterday.

Across the road, we went to this restaurant. Chithappa would always be adventurous and choose strangely named food items from the menu card. One day, we decided to have mahalabiya. We didn’t know what it was but decided to give it a shot. And to our surprise it was fabulous. We enjoyed it so much.

Mahalabhiya with chithappa became a religious ritual ever since. Every time we went out, just the both of us, we would definitely eat mahalabiya together. I enjoyed it so much. We moved out from that state, and soon our eating interests changed too. However, mahalabiya is a desert I can never forget.

Because Mahalabiya reminded me of the many ways chithappa was a friend and someone with whom I could have long ‘point-less’ conversations. Now that I am an adult, I wonder how chithappa had the patience to spend so much time talking to me, listening to me playing with me, and filling my love tank. He was like my best favorite adult friend.

Arpana is fortunate too, to have many loving adult friends, - her athais and her chithi. When she talks with them and goes out with them, memories with my own chithappa flash before my mind – especially the mahalabiya outings.

I was so tied to the context in which I ate this dessert, it became symbolic of my time with chithappa – that I almost forgot that it a desert that I recreate in my kitchen. I took some help from Google mamma, and I made it – and it tasted nice – but I so missed eating it with chithappa.

Maybe sometime soon, I will eat mahalabiya with chithappa and bombard him with more of my pointless conversations.

                                                   The Mahalabiya that I ate alone.

Ammachi's Kuzhandhai Alva

Ammachi would make me a quick snack everyday after I returned from school. The 'snacks' would range from bread omelette, masala dosai, onion pakoda, kozhukatai, and Vadai.

After filling my stomach. Sometimes, I would tell her, 'Sweet a yedhuvum illaya ammachi'. And before I could sip my tea, she would make this Kuzhandhai Alwa. I think it was she who named it. I'm not sure.

Today after a few years of culinary experience. I guessed the ingredients and with the help of Google momma, I figured out how to make it.

However, it didn't taste like ammachi's. Even if she had given me the recipe, it wouldn't have tasted like hers. Because I could never get the most important ingredient of all and that is - her unconditional love for me.

I always loved my grandparents very much. But I never imagined that their memories and impact would be so ingrained in my life. I wish I loved them and appreciated more when they were around.

The 8th Year

And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.

The Bible - Colossians 3:14

On 11th August, we celebrated eight years of marriage. The day when we were head over heels in love, dreamy and all set for a great future. It suddenly dawns on us that we got through eight years of our marriage. When we just got married, I thought we would sing together, read together and dance in the kitchen. I thought I’ll get to wear a pretty dress, and go to one those romantic dinner dates. But it turns out that most of the time, we settle for ad-hoc eating stops in the middle of an errand trip, at the Karambu juice kadai, Yelaneer kadai, chicken Pakoda kadai, Idly Beef curry kadai and the Aavin milk parlour wearing flip flops and work clothes. These places don’t set the mood for romance, but we feel like college buddies hanging out and having fun. He listens to loud preachers, and I go and shut the volume down. I switch on the music to sing along, and he sings along in a teasing voice to shut me up. I pick a book to read, and he switches off the light. I’m riding on the bike with him always talking about something, and he’s saying, ‘Angu paaru pudhu Biryani kadai’. He’s told me like a zillion times not to leave the clothes on the iron table, but I make the poor man repeat it. We have petty repetitive fights, which neither of us can let go off. My brain functions better if my room looks like Saravanna stores. For Dawson, the room must be dim-lit like a Chinese restaurant even if it means that he has to search for the keys on the keyboard. I don’t notice the tiny things that need attention around the house. A domestic disorder doesn’t bother me. I don’t enjoy cleaning. Whereas, the mop is the first thing he notices when he steps inside our home. I hate the mopstick in my house so much so that she feels like the other woman in my husband’s life. After a conflict, I usually get silent for a couple of days. Because, during that time, I carefully plan my conversation. I ensure that I deliver my words with enough persuasion to coerce him to into seeing my point of view. However, I rarely succeed. Despite my careful choice of words, Dawson sticks to his worldview. I feel defeated, frustrated me and a million miles away from him. But then, he picks up my hand and squeezes it, saying ‘sorry’ because he does not know what else to say. That’s enough for me to understand that though we see things differently, he still cares. Though he doesn’t get it, he is always open and receptive to my feelings. I need something between nurturance and romance to fill my love-tank. However, Dawson sees parenting and domestic help as his way of showing love. I’m always looking for an opportunity to reconnect and remember the time when we were just married. I am quick to recognize such moments; however, Dawson can’t. I cannot understand why He uses up all our quiet moments in other activity, or listening to political opinions, or mopping the floor or cleaning the car, rather than investing it in me. Suddenly, I feel like a third wheel, his shadow and his useless sidekick. When I talk to him about it, he says, ‘You are important to me, and that is the truth. You have to believe it.’ Though I’m hurt, I see the truth in what he says. He always carries heavy bags after shopping. He checks on my parents even when I forget. He’s entirely transparent with all his spending. In addition to all our joint account plastic money, he puts extra cash my purse when I need to go somewhere without him. One day he hands me a Red Bull can because I was complaining of low energy for the past week. He’s not great with words. But for my sake, he gives me beautiful cards and fills up the whole space with sweet words. When I’m rushing to pack lunch for my daughter after waking up late, instead of scolding my lateness, he offers to buy her lunch on the way to school. He puts up with my chaos most of the time. The food I make is not always pleasant on the taste buds, but he never complains. He can eat anything I put on his plate and drink all the strange herbal decoctions I make him. Though I do not make any monetary contribution to the family, he doesn’t make any financial decision without my consent. When kids show any disrespect to me, he is quick to correct them, ‘Amma kitta yenna sathum?!!’ When I bring him coffee, he never forgets to ask, “Where is yours?” Dawson does not always meet my more in-depth needs. But through the years, I have learned to notice and appreciate how he expresses his love for me. I celebrate how we have so much in common such as our core values, our parenting goals, our moral outlook. Both of us are deeply spiritual, and our spiritual worldview enlightens all our perspectives. We have the vision to serve God by serving people, and this overrides all our differences, our most significant investments are on people, relationships and young kids. Though the wires in our brain are different, our love for God and our commitment to Him brings us closer to each other and enable us to see the beauty in our flaws.

Our marriage is far from perfect, but we depend on Grace to see past our expectations and appreciate each other for who we are. Happily Married to an amazing man -Cynthia

How does ambiguity cause stress for pastor’s wives?

The idea of working with people, serving those in need, praying with the sick and the confused, sharing the gospel and teaching the depths of Christian living to others always fascinated me. I thought of myself as an all-rounder who will use my giftedness in many ways. However, real church service presents a different picture. 

In church work, the ‘system’ is not straightforward. You don’t get to do the same work every-day. At least the pastor has a preaching routine - he preaches three times a week, teaches at bible study and leads worship. He has a structure to follow, a task to accomplish. But, not so for the pastor’s wife. Sometimes she is expected to support things directly, sometimes indirectly. But whether she’s wanted or not, she needs to show up. 

I am not a person who takes unrealistic expectations on myself in terms of my outward performances as a pastor’s wife. However, it stresses me when I am unable to make conscious choices in my daily work that will bring about divine qualities. Sometimes, it feels like the day drowns in doing mundane things with no specific goals. 

Sometimes, I become an extension of my roles. Instead of asking myself, ‘What is the best way for me to fill this particular role?’ I get stuck inside another world of ambiguity by asking, ‘How should this role be performed?’ or even more, ‘How do they want me to perform this role?’

Dealing with ambiguous feelings – like everybody else, a pastor’s wife like me deals with different emotions. And because I have a mental image of myself on the pedestal, I must try very hard to be honest about myself and my own struggles.

I get impatient, angry, irritated, and like every other wife, sometimes I even hate my husband’s work. However, in other jobs, it is relatively easy to say, ‘I hate this job’ and get back to work, with no qualms. But it is indeed very difficult to say the same (without feeling guilty) when you work in a church.

It is a blessing in many ways when the church and the home are on the same premises. You have a lot of space and you save a lot of time. However, where do work end and home begin? That is ambiguous. Work-life balance is indispensable for everyone. But, in church work, it is tough to draw the line. 

Is my pastor husband, my pastor?  I admire my husband and affirm his calling as the spiritual head of my home. I am often amazed at his wisdom in offering spiritual counsel, his foresight, his determination to stand his ground. However, most times, when it concerns me, he naturally tends to be more of the husband than a pastor. Instead of a lengthy conversation with the wife congregant instilling hope and inspiration, coupled with scripture and prayer– it usually becomes a short, ‘hey! Come on; it will all be fine! God is in control’. 

Frustrations occur everywhere. But it does not negate the joy of serving God through the lives of people he sends our way. I have cried happy tears when I saw answered prayers for people who were not my family. I have had the privilege of seeing the hand of God in deep places of the heart. I have seen faith heroes stand by me and encourage my gifts. I have enjoyed peace and contentment that I cannot explain. Despite the ambiguity, I know that Christ is clear about His purposes and each day I move forward on the path that I am ordained to take. 

-Cynthia

Hot Lunch

I nag my children so much about eating. After Arpana returns home from school, I check her lunch box and see if it is empty. If it is not, I grill her with n questions. Sometimes, I annoy my entire family concerning food. 

But I know of a mother, whom I will call Wari amma.  She’s a widow of 60+ years, poor, with a heart condition and not many people to call family. She also struggles with bouts of depression. Her only son is a Schizophrenic.

He is a well mannered, pleasant young man who tries to lead a normal life otherwise. However, sometimes the psychotic symptoms become too much for him to handle. This causes him to become withdrawn completely and refuses to go to work. Wari amma runs from pillar to post and meets every high official in his line of work to make sure that he gets leave sanctioned, and she then runs to every department in the hospital to ensure that he gets treated. Sometimes, the doctors  of this overcrowded hospital help her, sometimes they think that she’s lying about the symptoms. But she’s persistent, she is always determined to get help.

She doesn’t even know to read, but gives every medicine perfectly without missing a single dosage. I’ve seen the medicines' names scribbled in her son’s medical record notebook, with many revisions done in subsequent visits,  it is pretty hard to decipher. But thanks to Wari amma's skills, the medication he takes is always prescription-perfect.

Few days back, he had a relapse of some delusions and hallucinations and he stopped going to work. She came to our house and gave my husband her son’s phone and asked to look for some higher official’s contact number. My husband fished out some probable numbers, she patiently called each person and tactfully explained her son’s condition and requested leave. Then, she put herself together to plead her son to come to the hospital. He refused, and she continued to beg him. He scowled at her and he went away. That’s when she got a call from work, saying that they can’t sanction leave until they get a medical approval. And if it doesn’t happen he will lose his job.

Wari amma, was stuck. A son who refuses to go to the hospital, and a situation where he’s going to lose his job. She has to act, or else her son would face the consequence. She left her son in our premises and asked us to keep an eye on him. It was a rather hot day, she scurried to the hospital despite the blazing sun, without an umbrella, and pleaded with the doctors to give a medical leave approval. The doctors refused. With a heavy heart, she wondered what could be done. When suddenly she remembered that her son hadn’t eaten lunch.

In a while she reached our place, she told my husband, ‘Avana konjam saapida sollu pa(please ask him to eat)’. After some team-persuasion, Wari amma’s son sat on the couch and decided to eat lunch. I was startled at what I saw.  She took something from her bag, it was a three-tier stainless steel lunch box filled with piping hot white rice, beans and potato sambhar and vazhakai poriyal.  Each food was freshly cooked and sizzling hot. From the hospital, this frail woman went home to cook her son a meal.  She placed the plate before him and served the rice, when she was about to serve sambhar, he shoved the plate away, shouted at Wari amma and sped away in his bike. My husband rushed behind to make certain that he doesn't go too far. 

For the first time in a long time, I saw tears swell up in this strong woman and with a broken voice, she asked me "Avan ippidiyae thaan irupaana ma? (Will he always be like this?) ”

I didn’t know what to say. I compelled her to eat and just when she finished, her son returned. In a while, we could persuade him and finally got him to eat. The mother sighed a little relief. We got some other wonderful people to help and together got him admitted in the hospital. He is getting treated and we are praying that he will get better soon. But I can never forget that hot lunch box.

You know they say food is an emotion. I saw so many of that in that hot lunch box.  I have seen hot biryani, hot idli and the magic that hot tea and coffee can do. But Wari amma’s hot lunch box is the greatest, costliest and most delicious food I have ever seen. When I’m cooking for my children I’m thinking taste and nutrition. I wonder what goes on in Wari amma’s mind when she is cooking for her son. She is a petite ordinary woman, a woman of few words, she doesn’t even know the name of her son’s condition, but I doubt that even a learned woman will give him the kind of moral, physical, and spiritual support that she gives. I haven’t seen a moment when she’s tired of taking care of him.  She fights so many odds every single day to ensure a safe future for her grown up son.

Her real complete name means ‘The Great Ruler’. She is petite figure with a small voice. But in her heart, she is one Great Ruler fighting Schizophrenia alone with her son and I am sure one day they will rule over it. 

The helper who dressed my daughter

Arpana had a fancy dress competition and she wanted to act like a teacher. She is so sure that she is going to become a teacher in the future. 

I had to drape a saree on her and also do her hair. My fingers are dreadfully clumsy in doing these things.  I decided to take 2 dupattas, make pleats with one for the base and another dupatta for the thing that hangs over the shoulder. For a moment, I was so proud of my plan ;) but then as a matter of fact, I'm not a pro in draping sarees even for myself. I do a very mediocre job. So you can imagine how hard it would have been for me to do this for my high-energy daughter, when at the same time, my 11 month son kept clinging to my legs. 

I did a bad job, but anyways we started off. My kind husband saw how hard I tried and said, "Arpana, you'll ace through because amma taught you awesome diaogues!" what he really meant was, you don't stand a chance with the kind of costume you are wearing, maybe your speech will win you something. :) We took the bike to school and by the time we reached school, man she was messed up.

I fastened random safety- pins in different parts of the saree and we rushed to the classroom. I felt small and inferior, when I saw well-dressed kids sitting in the classroom with high-quality hired clothes and beautifully done makeup. There were doctors, deities, police, princesses, leaders even Big Boss Oviya! My unassuming Arpana teacher went to her place and as usual was in deep thought. We were waiting outside, and I was pretty upset that I was bad at this and decided to start seeing YouTube videos or sari-draping. 

 The program was getting delayed, so we decided to get Arpana some snacks. When we called her outside, she was happy to see food. She was munching on the chips and she said, "Amma, Deeksha said that my dress looks bad". I was heartbroken. Such a bad mother I was. I told Arpana,  "No sweetie, you look perfect, she is not speaking the truth." As a matter of fact, she was.

I redid the sari, but actually it was worse than before. I was about to send her back to the classroom. Suddenly, a kind looking lady who works as a helper in the school, asked me if she could help dress my daughter up. She was actually observing me for sometime. I was so relieved, I said, "Sure ma, please do". 

She quickly unfastened all the safety pins, her fingers danced on the fabric and she made beautiful pleats, precise tuck-ins and in a moment she transformed those ordinary dupattas to a beautiful two-piece saree. I was SOO thankful, while I kept saying like a 100 thank yous..she said.."Do you have a comb ma'm?", "Oh yes" and I gave her one. She twisted and curled and did a beautiful style on Arpana's hair. Then she went to some room, got some face powder and brushed her tired face with it. I was amazed. She transformed my daughter to a sophisticated-looking well dressed teacher.

This lady doesn't know me, nor my daughter, I didn't ask for help. She sensed a need and took action. She could have sat back and made a nasty comment or commented on my bad parenting, she could have said how lazy I was, how I didn't care or so many things. But she didn't judge me, she helped me. 

I wanted to click a photo with her, but she fled away I don't even know her name. But I can't forget her face. And her benevolence. She made my daughter feel special and she taught me a lesson for a lifetime. I hope sometime I return that favor by showing some random kindness to another random stranger, just like her. 

Sometimes when I think of charity, I think of big things; feeding the poor, paying for education, teaching the unprivileged, caring for orphans and so many more. However, you don't really ahve to wait for times like that. Doing things like what this precious woman did for me can make a big difference. 

"Do to others whatever you would like them to do to you. This is the essence of all that is taught in the law.." Matthew 7:12

End of day, by daughter did a super cool job at the competition.  And I learned a valuable lesson. 

The legacy of my grandparents

Joel 1:2-3 (NLT)

Tell your children about it in the years to come, and let your children tell their children. Pass the story down from generation to generation.

I never got a chance to see my paternal grandfather Gnana sundaram thatha. But I have heard so much about his great life. He was a devout Christian, a registered medical practioner, a teacher, church-musician and a voracious reader. He served the people in his village by providing free medical service, education and lots of love and care. He died early, but left back indelible memories of exemplary living. When we were younger, we used to visit my father’s village often. The friends and family there always had wonderful stories of the impactful life that he lived.

My paternal grandfather Gnana Sundaram thatha, my father on his grandmother's lap.

However, I was blessed to see, cherish, live and observe closely the life of my maternal grandfather VG Williams thatha. If there’s one person I know who doesn’t have one mean bone in his body – it is him. 

He was a very influential man, holding powerful titles throughout his life. He even met with the then President of the United States Ronald Raegan to discuss affairs of the poor in India. He could stop by and chat with the then chief ministers of Tamil Nadu (I have seen pictures of all). He had the capacity to amass huge wealth and fame. But he gave it all and shared it all. 

When he was working, he adopted many poor children and made his home their home and gave them the gift of family. After he retired, he used all the money that he had to serve the poor and underprivileged. He started a small school for the poor. When he died, all that he had was a basic 600 sqft house, he didn’t even own an air-conditioner. 

Sometimes, I think that my grandparents should have been better financial planners, and invested their money to ensure a fortune for the future. But then they left behind something that all the money in the world can never buy – an imperishable spiritual legacy.

I remember seeing my thatha pray every morning at 5 am, knees bent on the floor until 3 months before his death. He died when he was 98. I have seen him write the names of friends, family and strangers for every date in a daily bread book. After finishing his morning devotion, he would give them a ring, pray for them on the phone and wish them well. He wasn’t church leader or anything, just a lover of Jesus. 

He prayed so much for me, I would never go to school without his prayer, and a cross marked on my forehead with his frail hands. I don’t know what he’s doing in heaven now, but I wish that God gives him a chance to look down at me, my husband and my little Arpana. 

I have this photo on my wardrobe door. I stare at it every day and thank God for the life of my grand-parents and the godly heritage that I enjoy.

Me and my thatha VG williams praying before going to school yr -1990

And now, I see this scene everyday morning, and I know that one day Arpana will thank God for her godly heritage.

Arpana and her thatha Amos Thatha praying before going to school yr-2016

We are all so worked up to give the best of education and exposure to our kids, but what about their spiritual inheritance? Are we doing enough? How many hours of school-education, tuitions, coaching, extra-curricular? How many hours of talking to our children, praying with them, praying for them, and influencing them to live as children of God?  

I hope that I will one day leave a legacy for my own.