Mar 22, 2017

A percolating jog

A little boy travels on the Commuter Train to Boston with me most mornings. He's about 4 years old and hard to miss once he's on the platform. The toy Thomas trains clutched in each hand (usually James and Percy) are as distinctive as his exuberant little jog. He also has a kind of barely contained energy that convinces you that the only reason he doesn't flat out sprint, is the inconvenient office throng crimping his style. He makes up by percolating between people as Dad does an erratic jog to keep up.

The tousled little head caught my eye again today as it bobbed up and down at knee height. Commuters were bundled-up and be-scarved this chilly first-day-of-Spring but the visible parts of many faces wore grins at the sight. This included a young lady who'd suddenly broke into a jog herself, matching the boy's gait exactly for the length of one whole train car. The smiles she darted at him were impish and joyful, alike.

He'd noticed, because there was no more slipping between people: he stayed with her, side-long glances every few steps infused with serious purpose. The man had a mission, it appeared. My grin had morphed into a burbling laugh at this unconscious display of companionship and I'm afraid it reached her. She whipped her head around with an embarrassed look and settled quickly back into a dignified walk. Her heels clicked formally once more on the concrete as she fell back. The little boy looked around for her, unsuccessfully, since he'd pulled ahead by then and took to percolating again.

I lost sight of him. Soon, the platform ended and I dove into the warmth of the North Station terminal building. Navigating the cross-crossing lines of swift pedestrian traffic required focus and agility and heralded a shifting of mental gear, like every day. I hurried on towards the office previewing the day ahead: triaging and ranking priorities, running through project statuses and making note of calls and emails to make and return. But an old and familiar thought thrummed through my preoccupation, as I knew it would for the rest of my day, brightening it. The thought was: let no one tell another just how to be happy, for our sources of joy are as varied as they are rich.

Feb 10, 2017

Still standing, covered with frost.

Winter Storm Niko, a strange Nor'easter, with relentless winds that whispered,
Not roared.

Minuscule crystals of deep, deep cold outside safe windows,

Frantic, interpretive dances to the purity of fractals,
Or impending Apocalypse.

It passed and most things still stand.
Covered, in frost.

Jan 10, 2017


A slightly edited version of this post also ran on
Fourth grade, 1980, Doha, Qatar.
  On the first day of first grade at the Doha British School in Qatar, I discovered that recess was hot, dusty and not entirely pleasant. What it was not, was Nairobi where I had lived until recently; cool and green. I found myself shunning the overheated, running, shrieking kids in favor of the small playground area where the metal play equipment baked quietly in the desert sun. I was testing the creaky swing with my hand (before trusting it with the rest of me) when my new classmate, Jennifer Bentle, approached. My heart leaped at the thought of making a first friend. I offered Jennifer a shy "Hello" as the swing groaned to and fro on it's own.
     She looked at me with a frown, scrunched up her freckled, button nose and whispered into my ear, "I hate you. You have brown skin."

      I remember reflexively examining my standard issue Indian-brown arm, to see what might be so repulsive. Skin color was an unexamined idea in my life until then so I assumed her distaste was valid, perhaps requiring some action. When the self-inspection yielded no clues, I looked up with an honest query on my lips.
     But I had addressed the back of Jennifer's blue gingham frock: she was walking away, her neatly bobbed brown hair swinging triumphantly with every step
      Maa responded to my tears that night by arming me with a script. It was for the playground the next day. She was driven by a dark, retaliatory rage that I understand only now, as a parent myself. I too have a hair-trigger for aching vicariously for my child. Braiding my long, black hair with extra gentleness at bedtime, she promised that the next day would be better. I wasn't convinced and went to bed with a heart full of dread but mind steeled with resolve to make a stand.

   I still remember the nervous ring of my feet on the metal stairs that brought me from class to the school yard the following day. Jennifer was by the see-saw when I marched up and tapped on her shoulder. She turned around and recoiled slightly at the sight of me. My resolve started crumbling at the imminent rain of horrible words and before my courage could desert me completely, I blurted out:
  "I hate YOU, Jennifer, because YOUR skin is white!"

   It was exactly what my outraged mother had coached me to say. Only recently did it occur to me that she must have also been smarting from echoes of the 'brownie' Colonial insults that had haunted her freedom-fighter father. My mother is not usually given to vitriol of this kind.

   Thankfully Jennifer didn't hear my hateful little speech. She was, at that moment, blurting out her own nervous script right over mine. More than one mother had been coaching the previous night, apparently. It went something like this: 
"I don't hate your skin! I was nervous about the first day of school yesterday and grumpy. I'm really sorry, Chandreyee: I didn't mean it! My Mum's SO cross!" 

   The fact was that six year old Jennifer Bentle had just come from England to this bright, hot, desert country and was utterly unnerved by the otherness of everything. This included her first day of school I know this because of many subsequent recesses worth of chattering, games and playdates. She became one of my best friends for the next 7 years I spent in Doha. Our fathers knew each other professionally so polite notes inviting each to the other's home passed between our moms. She came to my birthday parties and I, to hers. In the photo at the top of this post, she's wearing two ponytails (just like my two braids) and is seated next to me. It was my last day at that school before I moved to Saudi Arabia.

   That was my first brush with empathy: a look at how feeling for someone else can turn perceptions on their head. If Jenny's words scarred, they also showed me that first impressions are not always the whole ball game. As a bonus, my accidental discovery of empathy and understanding showed me the path to coping: with the otherness I would face as well as being the 'other'.

    The fact is, we are each of us, 'other' to one another: urban/rural/ex-urban, black/white/shades-in-between, white/blue/pink colors-of-collars, all degrees of ability/disability and the spectrum of sexuality. Whichever groups we occupy, the others are different, discordant in the moment, with our worldview, values and lives. But only until shared human experience cuts through the noise, reducing the primacy of differences, rather than their existence.

    My friend Jenny was undoubtedly parroting over-heard racism. What's significant in this story is her self-awareness of being wrong and most importantly, that she communicated it to me. Before Jenny apologized, I had been on the offensive and thus, on the path to hostility and division. My aggression was for the sake of my dignity and understandable, but had she not spoken up and I, listened, ours would have been a familiar tale of division and hate.

    Since the 2016 Presidential election, I find myself continually revisiting these twin ideas of
 'otherness' and communicating: of the need to open ourselves to similarities as well as differences, to ask, respond and engage so we can understand what can be understood and co-exist with the rest of it. Neither gloss over 'otherness', nor pretend to accept it fully, but to know that we all have the capacity of holding more than one opinion in our heads without shuttering our hearts. 

    I'll never forget my first day of school and I hope you who are reading this, don't either. If for no other reason than when you meet your Jennifer Bentle and hear her hard words, you will ask, or at least think, "Why?" and try to understand, rather than dismiss, her. 

You might be surprised at what happens next.

Chandreyee Lahiri is a geographer and GIS Specialist (Geographic Info. Systems) who works in environmental conservation. Originally from Kolkata, India, she made her way to the U.S. via Africa and the Middle-east, making 'home' a slippery idea. Right now, home is Waltham, MA with her husband and 10 year old son. Chandreyee dabbles in short fiction, children's literature and story telling and believes that Faith in human goodness is the only kind she needs. Her blog, focuses mainly on valuable moments that fall between moments. She hopes we'll all keep trying to reach and help one other because even 'a little bit of something is more than a whole lot of nothing'.

Nov 16, 2016

#OneWaltham against hate

Address to the School Committee for Waltham Public Schools during the public comments period of their bi-monthly meeting on  16th November, 2016.

Good evening.

My name is Chandreyee Lahiri. Our son Oyon Ganguli attends 4th grade at Fitzgerald Elementary.

First of all, thank you for all your hard work in determining the future of our high school. An updated building is key to a strong future for our kids. Before you proceed with this important work tonight, I'd like bring up anti-hate programming in our schools so that we're strong on the inside too.

Since last week's presidential election the Southern Poverty law Center has tracked over 300 hate crimes nationwide. Against Muslims, the LGBTQ community, people of other ethnicities and other minorities. Many of these hate crimes played out in schools. Some were even directed at the winning party, proving how ill is this wind that blows. We in Waltham have been safe so far (I think), but I can’t help but worry. 

So I reach for Hope.

Oct 17, 2016

Out of synch

One misaligned spine in a tidy row of 'books' drew me.
To a cliched metaphor about Conformity. 

Then the host of the yard sale ambled over.

He spoke of his father:
of neatly bound 'books' of 45 rpm records.
of a love of music.
of the promise of promotional singles.

$300 for the lot.

Priceless treasures likely lurked in this carefully curated collection.
If the close of day didn't bring a sale, they'd catalogue. And Research.

I looked down at the mug of cooling coffee in his hand.
Up, at the faraway eyes beneath graying hair.

He didn't want a sale.
He wanted his father.

Jun 2, 2016

Odometer Clicks

This piece will be performed as a piece of oral story telling at a public production called 'Voices' on June 4th and 5th (2016) at Somerville's Davis Theater (near Boston). Loosely modeled on the Moth Radio hour, this is the debut story telling event of the Bengali Theater group 'Off Kendrik'. It is themed 'Immigrant experiences' and will hopefully be repeated to capture more 'Voices' from the diaspora. 
Event details and theater company info here.

Odometer clicks by Chandreyee Lahiri

Did you ever watch your car odometer for a milestone?

100,00 miles?
200,00 miles?

If you did, chances are, you were young.
In that excitable phase where Life is charted with symbolic milestone.

Let me take you back to one of mine.

Apr 22, 2016

"The Cleaner": birth of an idea

We were spending a lazy summer weekend at our neighbors 'camp' on the shores of a New Hampshire lake when my friend Anu's FB tag showed up. It was the ALS Ice-bucket challenge that was swamping everyone's news-feed, inciting equal parts amusement and annoyance. I've done my share of ranting over armchair activism that breeds complacence and indifference but jumped happily at this one.

That afternoon on the O'Connors' dock by the glassy, peaceful lake our friend Michele filmed as my 7 year old son Oyon dumped a bowl of ice water on my head and we made our appeal for research funding to cure this awful disease. 

Apr 20, 2016

Other mothers, 2015

(Written May 2015 but published April 2016) 
We had just finished up at Oyons doctor yesterday afternoon. On his way out, Dr. Biller paused in the doorway, twinkled briefly and said "Happy Mothers Day!". As we drove home, the car radio burbled its support too for this sentimental occasion: WBUR's alliance with Winston flowers, please your mom and support public radio.

Like last year, my thoughts wandered from the fanfare around this holiday to those who are deprived of it:
- Mother's who have lost their children
- Mothers whose children cannot (or will not) come celebrate like in years past
- Single mothers whose kids may not have father figures to orchestrate the celebrations that young kids cannot wing on their own 
- People who are struggling to care for and celebrate their mothers
- Women who wanted to, be could not become mothers 

Jan 22, 2016

Empty threats

As I collected my 9 year old from school, he excitedly whispered in my ear...."The dog ate my biscuit!"

The bright little face turned up towards me was expectant. The problem was, as with most of Oyons non-sequiturs, I had no idea what he was talking about! 

Dec 17, 2015

Santa: out of the Chimney, into the fire

"M told me the truth about Santa, you know." he mumbled from atop his bunk bed. I only caught the glint of wet eyes because he was above my eye level.

"What Truth about Santa?" I asked, nimbly skirting accidental disclosure.

"His mom said she bought the Santa gifts. And Baba said yes too in the car when I told him…I knew it!!!" he said in a voice wobbling with indignation and grief.

My little human's despair has never before taken my breath away like this. I should have expected it though. In the two years since his suspicions about the Tooth Fairy were confirmed (at age 7), he's been stewing over the Santa Question. 

Oct 7, 2015

Tom, who feels fortunate

Last night a friend was bemoaning the poor state of her focus that prevented her reading "100 years of solitude". It just took too much thought for her current mood for amusement and escape.

Books that require the exercise of emotion in addition to thought, can take more than they give sometimes. They are eventually the books most worth reading, though what they bring to the reader is less easily identified than the sobs triggered by a tragedy or the sighs from a steamy romance.

Oct 5, 2015

Tooth Fairy in a tutu

Just before Christmas, the Gingerbread man shaped box had called out "Stocking stuffer!" from the grocery store end-cap and slipped into my grocery cart. It then proceeded to lounge idly at the bottom of the kitchen drawer and mock me for months after. It had after all, only space to hold about 3 Jelly Beans. Find me a kid who'll settle for that few and I'll give you mine in exchange. The kid, not the box.

Sep 24, 2015

Of demons & monst-ahs

Early this morning, a horrible nightmare that had wound itself around my sleep receded quickly as consciousness dawned. Something about a baby, I think, though it's too dim now to know for sure. I've been on pretty strong drugs for a while (for a terrible cough) and am convinced they are taking a toll.

Headed towards oblivion, but in clearer focus was another bad dream from a separate portion of the night.

Sep 11, 2015

Not remembering

On this anniversary of the 9/11 terror attack on NYC, I am able to neither respond nor subscribe to the requests to 'Never forget'.  Like every year, I wonder 'why?'