Flaneuse Rashmee

This is my starting point, Dadar station. Countless times have I passed this place. As a young woman of 18 going off on field trips, or as a young mother, 10 years later with a baby on my hip. And in between those two identities, there was the other me: fearless, drug rep for a pharmaceutical company walking through the crowded platforms, armed with an umbrella, weighed down by samples of tonics and appetite stimulants to be sold into slums where my souls twisted at the sight of empty bellies.

No, this is not the setting of Slum Dog Millionaire, I say to those who ask or gawk. This is my home, this is where I still live. In my heart, in my quiet moments.

Noisy, crowded, busy, Dadar. Mumbai Pin Code 400 014

Come see me sometime, I know the best place for chai.

Stehle, M. (2008). Psychogeography as teaching tool: Troubled travels through an experimental first-year seminar. Journal of educational and informational studies, 4(2), 1-25.

Decolonosing labels-And being Indian

I attended the ImagineNative Film Festival yesterday at the TIFF Bell Lightbox Theatre. I had to accomplish a lot of mothering work in order to get there and as I watched the films and listening to the panel discussions, I was acutely mindful of the privilege of being in that space.

I am currently reading a report on the Canada Arts Council website. As I do so, I am able to see my own work ideas evolve and move deeper into acknowledging the naming of mothers as 'South Asian' in this land now called Canada.

I was Indian until January 16th, 2002 and was unwittingly reborn as South Asian from the day my Landing Papers were stamped at Pearson International Airport. I did not know I was reborn, renamed and recast as the other in a land that had 'welcomed' me with open arms: my fluency in the colonial language was my entry ticket.

Only now am I learning to say that I am not South Asian.

After a lot of thought and soul searching, I am learning to say that I am Indian. This process took almost 11years, this peeling of labels placed on me by someone else's understanding. They can call me what they wish based on their view of the world. I am still who I am, and that me is forever changing.

In my worldview, this is who I am. It may confuse some people, but they will learn.

So also other mothers are who they wish to be when they connect their identities with their own ancestral peoples. And they have that self-granted permission. They need no other.

 I celebrate this moment as I have found my voice and articulation as I have made room for the pain and anger of the people who feel that the voices of their peoples are yet to be heard.

In teaching my computer to recognise words like 'knowledges' and 'peoples', I am decolonising some spaces one mouse-click at a time.

Haig-Brown, C. (2012). Indigenous thought, appropriation and non-aboriginal people. Canadian Journal of Education , 33(4), 925-950.

My learning spaces

Monday was the turning point

I have to sit and
watch the anger
and make sense of it
and let it be

as someone's pain
rips through my efforts to learn more
and deny me the wisdom of my Guru

People reach out their hands in understanding
and they are pushed back- that's the way it has always been

I am not oppressed enough to be an Insider-

My history is down the ladder from that of others
and therefore my need to learn is tokenistic

I know some have said it before, with vested interest

I cannot bear the burden of history because I was not there then...

but I will not leave it there.

I am here now and what am I going to do about it?

Thank you for being you,

one of my very patient teachers.

History books

I am learning about decolonizing research methodologies, or at least trying to. It is an interesting process when I wade through the layers of rage that holds things at arms reach. I have not suffered enough and am not oppressed enough to earn the badge of the Insider. That is  a strange sensation and I observe it, without being voyeuristic. It's me looking at me after all.  Where's the thrill of that?

So I just go back to what I have to do as a critical thinker and work in the space between theory and practice. Before starting with text books, I wanted to get my students to look at what is available in their school library. So off they went to bring books to read and share. I also posted websites that were on the prescribed portal. 

One student was busy working through his reading assessment and he went today.

He came back with a picture book: India and Sri Lanka.

I just smiled and kept on learning.

Butterfly magic

Hello Students,

What a wonderful day of learning this has been ! When I came to work at 6:30 am this morning, I had not even imagined how my life would change. You made it happen.

When I was 13 years old, I lived in a lovely little cottage in Goa, a beachside province in India. I too had found pupae. 5 of them, hanging from the underside of leaves in a field where I was cycling. I knew what they were as I was a student of science and a keen observer or nature all around me, so I brought them home. I made a home for these pupae in a cardboard box that I got from my grandfather. He used to store his medicines in it. It was like a small shoe box, the kind you had for your kindergarten shoes maybe. 

My school was too far from my home. So taking them to show a teacher was not possible.  I took care of them and watched over them before and after school. Then one day, these pupae turned from a shimmery green to a dark colour and then some days later, to a black and white pattern. And I waited some more. At 13, waiting was a difficult thing to do.

Then one day, I came home from school and opened the box again. And there it was, the magic unfolding before my very eyes. I did not tell my siblings as they were 8 and 10 years younger than I was, and we all know what it means.

I saw the beautiful butterflies emerge one by one from their cramped home of the past weeks. They came out and crawled out of the box, one by one. Just as Ms. W helped Buddy today, I had stood there, many, many years ago and watched them move their wings.

I had watched in wonder as each one crawled on to my hand; one perched on my watch strap, two on my wrist, one crawled up my arm and the fifth stayed on the lid for a while. Then one by one, they flew away.

Today, 33 years later, I witnessed that magic again. And it was more beautiful than the first time.  This time, I was not alone. I was with Ms. W and Ms. M and above all, I was with you. 

Through your oohs and aahs, through the gentleness with which you carried the jar, the way you looked at the sky wishing Buddy a safe flight, through your joy and your sadness, I realised once again, how thankful I am that you are with me this year. 

You teach me to see magic, you teach me to be honest, you teach me to speak my mind. ou teach me to hope. 

And above all, you let me into that special, precious place: the mind of a child. 

Thank you for being my teachers today. Happy Teachers Day to you.

Anniversaries

10 years. They pass in a flash. Or is it time that compresses in retrospect to present that illusion? I think it is mostly the latter. Those were long and difficult journeys.

 

September 26th, 2002 was a very special day; I know that now.

After ruminating for a long time, and taking inspiration from many, I had finally decided to go to the York University Information Night for the Faculty of Education. I did not drive, I barely took public transit. In spite of my admirable fluency in the socially dominant language in my new home (Ahem, English: this is my attempt to activate academic language at 5 am, just to prove that coffee works magic after 4 hours of sleep), I was apprehensive.

I was going to a university in Canada to get information for my next steps.

I did not know who I would meet, what I would ask, what they would tell me.

I was well into my third decade and I had a dream...

 

I wanted to go back to pick up the dropped thread of my former career: I wanted to take from my corporate experience the job skills that would help me find work and 'settle' into my new life. After my long break from paid work ( thank you Drs. G and S for that lens), I was not ready to move back into juggling multiple roles. I was mindful of the monetary needs of the future and I wanted to do something about it with a field I loved.

 

I took a bus from right outside my street and went to Finch Station. From there, I took a crowded 60F. As the bus turned the corner into a tree lined boulevard, I was aware that this was a special place. Ahead of me lay a yellow domed building. I got off the bus and asking some younger people where to go, I made my way to a lecture hall, the fragrance of pizza wafting around me.

 

In true keener style, I took a seat in the front row. The lecture hall filled soon and a woman entered.

She spoke of the facts: the degree requirements from other universities, transcripts, letters of recommendation and spaces available for the programme. Numbers are frightening at such times: Over 7000 people apply, of these we shortlist 1500 and admit 750 people she said.

 

Then she said something that I will forever carry in my consciousness: "Do not limit yourself by thinking about other people's qualifications", she advised. " Just put together all you need to submit and do what you have to do. Do not feel intimidated by what you think is in your way. You don't know what the application pool is like."

 

And I did. Apply that is. It was not easy, many helped. My siblings who made countless trips to the university to coordinate the long process of transcript aquisition are the first in my gratitude list. They have always been my lifeline and they still tease me that had I done it right the first time, I wouldn't still be going to school. Cheeky but oh so dear !

 

I applied, and yesterday, 10 years after that day, I stood on that hallowed ground and spoke of Rethinking Urban Spaces. I stood on land the gift of which has not been acknowledged by everyone who walks it.

 

Yet I know that to be there, in that space, on that land is a privilege. I thank all who walked with me and who nudged me to take one more step. Through that one step and the encouragement of that one woman, I have found my life's work. I have met her this summer to thank her and miraculous, or shall I say by strong spiritual connection, I was in the same space that day when she mentioned she was moving to another area of work in the university. And I wished her well, knowing she would go on to touch lives just as meaningfully.

 

This, was the turning point in my life. This day, ten years ago was the milestone that marked perhaps one of the first points of my journey. There are two more I can think of, but those are other stories for another 5 am tryst with memories.

 

Today I am blessed with many brothers and sisters who nurture my spirit in this journey. And I have many Gurus who touch my life with their magic.

 

I keep walking...

Signature day

He waits by the door
long after others have left

a sheaf of papers in his hand
that his parents have signed in pencil

"I have to sign this and give it in,
it's due today" he says

But I need help...
"To read what's in it?" I ask

No, he remarks, looks down at me
as he towers over
and whispers

'What is a signature?
I don't have one'

So we get to work
I explain the concept to him
Unique
A combination of his first and last name
that he can repeat over and over
if required:
so the driver's licence and the bank card
look the same
and they know it's him

He nods
and doodles
and leaves

And that afternoon he tells me
triumphant

I did it
I handed it in
I wasn't late
I have a signature

FY is out into the world
And he is smiling.