Let's talk about the cat pee

Everyone knows the house we bought as the one formerly with all the cats. Each time we've been in there, the air gets clearer and clearer. BUT there is a distinct cat pee odor. We assume that sanding the floors will take care of it -- and painting AND a good scrubbing -- but worry that every now and then we might still catch a whiff. Which will seriously gross me out. Anyone know if there's anything we should do NOW, before they begin sanding etc.

Where we stand...

Considering we just closed on Thursday, we've made great progress. On Friday we had contractors in and out (along with the junk-hauling guys) to give us estimates. Our priorities before move-in are paint, floors, replacement of a lead water main and demolition of a wall in the kitchen. And cleaning!

Because we had to source so many ideas from other sites, here's a breakdown to hopefully make someone's renovation in Queens a little easier. One of my biggest pet peeves of all those sites is that they tell you XYZ is good or great but they never tell you how much they spent. I know houses, sizes and scope of work vary greatly but it's the thing I still want to know most.

Water main -- The inspector found lead content of 15 parts per million - just on the cusp of acceptable. Well, it wasn't acceptable to us so we are replacing the water main. Two companies in NYC that came highly recommended were Harris Plumbing and Balkan. We're going with Balkan for $2,600.

Painting -- We got three estimates ranging from $3,000 to $5,000 to sand the walls, paint them and do all the trims. We're going with a guy named John from Forest Hills who is exclusively a painting contractor and seems to know what he's doing. He started this morning!

Floors -- This is a case where we are not going with the cheapest but the guy in the middle. Estimates to sand and rip up carpets from the floors of a 1900-square foot home ranged from $2,200 to $5,000. We went with Jan Zejia, who did our floors in the coop we just sold. He's charging $2,500.

Demo - Haven't found anyone yet. Here's hoping. Stay tuned. And am still obsessed with finding a matching wooden cabinet for the metal Lyons (thanks, Pam, for identifying)...

Metal vintage kitchen cabinets

We had planned on a gut renovation but a walk-through with our architect and Nitin's good eye made us look at these orange metal cabinets from the 1950s with fresh perspective. We're now trying to figure out whether we can integrate the metal with our very old antique Indian furniture and perhaps some newer cabinetry/countertop to bridge these two worlds. If anyone has ideas, holler. I've been looking through the web site that seems the Bible on this stuff -- run by Pam Kueber -- but am not seeing a blend of the metal "mod" look with the heavy wooden antique style that Indian furniture almost forces.

A new set of insecurities

In keeping with this blog's original and not-yet-ready-to die theme, we're back in our quest to create a home. This time, we're getting a bit more specific: a 1920s Tudor-style rowhouse in Jackson Heights historic landmark district. We are only the third owners of the house, and the seller lived there for 52 years so we have our work cut out for us.

Naya!

Mommy: Do you know what a journalist does? Naya: Ummm... they work really hard.


And then...
Naya: You don't know how to dance. See, I am Hindi. WE know how to dance.

Naya on sleep and politics

Mommy: Children need to sleep earlier. I am not a child.
Naya: You are a child. Your mom's child.

---
Mommy: I don't know which job I should take. Brand X or Brand Y.
Naya: You should just work for John McCain.

Patriotic Naya-ism

Naya: I want to be Assamese president of New York. No, wait, the Hindi one of Orissa.

And then today, a heartbreaking Naya-ism

Naya: Mommy, I want to travel again.
Mommy: Where do you want to go?
Naya: To Kashmir.
Mommy: There's a lot of fighting there now.
Naya: Then let's go when it's over.

Swimming lesson/School issues again

Naya has been taking swimming lessons at the Niti Bag country club. But the other day, she said this:

Are we going to the Lychee Bug Club?

As an aside, I meant to tell you about trying to get our driver's daughters into a government school. If we thought our nursery saga was nightmarish, we got our eyes opened by seeing how much harder it is for lower classes. First he asked me to get a letter from the ministry of human resource development for his daughter. I said that would be a conflict of interest given what I do but that I was happy to go with him to the school and see if I could help in some way. So on a Monday morning, we set out and put ourselves in a live of people at the principal's office. The reality is that the school actually looked clean and impressive (it is a central government school known as a Navodaya, instead of the Municipal Corp of Delhi school his daughter attends now) and the people in line looked well dressed and working class. I could see how this would be a school he and his family aspired to.

When the principal saw me and I said I was there to get the little girl beside me into school, she said: "This must be your maid's daughter."
"Driver's," I responded with a fake smile.
"Does he live in Pushp Vihar," she asked referring to the colony.
He lied and said he did. (Actually it's his uncle.)
She asked why he didn't send his daughter for the admission test held the week previous.
"I didn't know about it," he said.
After about 15 more minutes and my begging, she said there was nothing to do but said the child could appear for another test in a week's time.
Back in the car, I let the driver have it for a bunch of reasons: not taking her for the test, waiting until class 3 to get her schooling together, not considering private school even as his kids qualified to attend for free. "But ma'am, if she does well by class 8, they will give her a scholarship of Rs5,000."
"If she attends private school and does well and then goes to college, she can make that every day," I responded.
Next we drove to the offices of the Delhi BJP rep for that area. Another line and everyone seemed to be there to get a letter for school admissions.
A week later, Shruti appeared for the test.
She failed.
And her father is still being boneheaded and won't even let me pay for private school. If I can get her in on a scholarship somewhere, I think he'd agree... So that's my next course of action. Even though I think there is something to the saying that you value something if you are forced to pay for it...

Two Nayaisms

Naya: H is for horse.
Mommy: So what sound does H make?
Naya: Neigh.

AND

Naya: Barack Obama is better than John McCain.
Mommy: How do you know?
Naya: Bhupen Hazarika's friends told me so.

NRI Sojourn

I am back. One day soon, I will post a recap of the day-by-day, play-by play of my time in Guwahati. Until then, just take my word that it was one of the most powerful experiences of my life--between witnessing someone die and being with all of my family under one roof (which finally happened to be OUR roof). Unlike when I went to the village in my childhood, this time I appreciated the rarity of the togetherness and tried to revel in it (in between enlarging photos, hunting for the right brand of mustard oil for use in puja, sitting on the river bank at 6 a.m. for yet another offering to the gods and grandmothers, publishing memorial books, buying more and more disposable cups and plates for all the visitors--all on a diet of boiled rice and potato once a day, the food mandated by someone long ago for the bereaved.)

Because my father couldn't come for his mother's shradh on the 13th day, nor could my mother come for her brother's, I flew to them and we made up our own US version. Shockingly, it was the first formal prayer I could remember my parents having in our house, Naya's annaprasanna not counting. The picture above is courtesy of dear Stony, a friend of my grandmother too, whom he lovingly called Jumbo Jet. Ironically, the gangly white guy at the ceremony of 70 people was the one, who besides we seven Kalitas or Mukuls, had spent the most time with her.

Anyway, once I hit my 20s, I stopped crying uncontrollably when I left India/Assam because the frequency of visits made that seem silly. When I left Assam last week, I felt like I was 12 years old again only I didn't have that angry question I always posed to my parents on the LOOOONG plane ride (usually the awful Romanian Airlines, remember) back: Why did you leave? I don't understand. Why wouldn't we want to live with our grandparents?

Nope, last week, as my uncles (and I) cried more over my departure than when Aita died, I knew the answer, thanks to living here for the last 20 months in an India better off than the one my parents left. As an aside but totally related, the number of people who want me to find government jobs for them in Assam is up to four... My maternal uncle's wife's brother ... does anyone know anyone in public works and engineering in Assam?

The US was more of a blur, although I am glad I went and felt my place for the shradh was more with my nuclear family than the extended. Nitin's show sold out, my brothers took a day off and we went to the beach to relax, etc etc.

On the flight home, a packed Continental nonstop worthy of a ballad, the plane was defined by NRI kids and their weary mothers, all going back for the summer. The one seated in my row was miserable, her mother told me: She has her friends now and doesn't want to spend six weeks in Lucknow. The two boys before me in the customs line were practically bouncing off the walls, they were so excited to see their cousins. And the kids behind me, upon hearing I moved to India, promptly asked their mom: "Why don't we live in India?"

I miss that innocence, miss having a grandmother to go to, even miss fighting with my brothers on the flight.

Naya-isms to round out your life:

(She remains in the US with Nitin, his parents and mine, busy with museum visits, swimming lessons, story hour at library, dance camp and her new best friend Antonio down the street, whose mother MY mother has been having coffee and play dates with. Like I said to my parents, if you had done all this for me, I would have been the most well-adjusted, all-American gal there ever was... No wonder she doesn't want to come back.)

She knows my brothers will let her dress any way she wants so as she wore a yellow-and-blue Fab India kurta with a pink and purple skirt, she did a curtsy before me and said, "In these clothes, I look like a stepmother!"

"Ata (grandpa) eats with his hands so he belongs in India, but I eat with a fork so I will stay in America."

Her pronunciation of binoculars is the definitive Indian accent - BINO-coolers...

And she also has taken to imitating my parents now on the phone. The other day, she sat behind the couch on her play cell phone and said, in Assamese: "Yes we are all fine. Only my mother died."

On that note, I am outta here...

Column on Aita

Hers was a wonderful life

MINT


Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita


We had a tradition, my grandmother and I. Every few years, during childhood trips to her village of Sadiya on the banks of the Brahmaputra, I would spend the last night with her. She’d scratch my head and my back and mosquito bites. Often, I sobbed, sorrowful over my impending departure.
She was stronger.
And so last week, it seemed only fitting to be there for her last night, along with about 35 other relatives huddled around a bed in my home in Guwahati.
By coincidence or calling, I was there from the beginning of her end. She saw me, who had conned her way into the intensive care unit before visiting hours, and asked if I wanted to sit, have a cup of tea.
A few hours later, she slipped into a coma.
We were told nothing could be done, so we brought her home.
Even as I write this, I feel numb at what it means to lose the only person who so represented my connection to this country in its reality. Like 40% of India, she was illiterate.
Like about half the population, she was married off before 18 (11, in her case). Like nearly two-thirds, she made her living primarily off the land.
And yet, she was one of a kind.
Over the last week, the stories have come tumbling out.
How she threatened the district’s most infamous dacoit, known as Hemen-goonda, with a kerosene lamp at night and called him a dog.
How she got around her illiteracy by lining the girls on the veranda and having them recite their studies to keep each other in check.
How she ensured the household and farm workers always toiled on a full stomach; “that way, they don’t really care if I yell at them”.
How she told my cousins to stop watching the World Wrestling Federation on TV after she learnt, on a trip to America, that it was really all fake.
Deceit, even as entertainment, had no place in her life. I mourn not as much the loss of the person—at 86, she had had a full life— but the loss of a generation that we can never get back.
Their values, however, are something I suspect to which we will, rather must, return.
Just two months ago, when my grandmother fell and broke her arm, I dropped everything and packed my husband, my daughter and a video camera.
As I wrote in a recent column, this tough-as-nails lady grew tender for the first time and thanked me for coming, told me how much my family and my alleged success mean to her.
She spent some time detailing her life’s philosophy, which—given her background and achievement, in spite of it—might hold some secrets for others.
Namely, she was thrifty. She bargained, counted her money every night, reined in extravagance.
Last week, as I rode autos and taxis to get around Guwahati, I could just hear her cringing that the Rs11 bus would have been a much better option.
She defined family broadly, forced others to think beyond their front gate, and in doing so, stirred them to action. She was often the voice called upon to represent civic concerns. In the 1980s, when a politician and singer and artist Bhupen Hazarika came to call, she chastised them for the sorry conditions of roads, schools and health care in Sadiya (as lore goes, she first fed them, then yelled).
By not being educated, she served as the ultimate example of why it matters. During family gatherings, it was often said: “What would have been if she had learnt to read?” The lack of an answer kept her children and grandchildren always reaching for more.
She was a big believer in long-term planning, even for her own death, from heavy gold bangles cut into eight pieces for each of her children to Rs10,000 she donated for the final shradh’s feast to a cream and gold mekhla chador (Assamese two-piece sari) left for my daughter.
When I contacted local newspapers to run her obituary, one editor told me he didn’t think my grandmother met standards; they preferred business leaders, politicians, “people who have made a big difference”, he told me.
“If she were alive,” I retorted, “she’d say that her life might not amount to much, but people like you will serve her dinner in her next life.”
He laughed and relented.
My obituary included these lines: “It was the end of a remarkable journey that began with her birth in the Kamrup village of Gorput to marriage in Baranghati to settlement in Sadiya, where she spent most of her life. In recent years, Mrs Kalita divided her time among her family’s homes scattered across Guwahati. Her heart—and stories—however remained in an India fast disappearing...”
As I wrote, I shed tears of regret. For so many questions and untold stories remained.
Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com

Aita - More later

By S. Mitra Kalita

Jambowati Kalita, wife of late Mohan Chandra Kalita, mother to eight,
grandmother to 20, great-grandmother to four and memorable to everyone
she met, breathed her last on 9 June in her son's residence in
Panjabari, surrounded by family and friends. It was the end of a
remarkable journey that began with her birth in the Kamrup village of
Gorput to marriage in Baranghati to settlement in Sadiya, where she
spent most of her life. In recent years, Mrs Kalita divided her time
among her family's homes scattered across Guwahati. Her heart—and
stories—however remained in an India fast disappearing, where
elephants paid respects before reporting to duty, where households
grew their own food and spun their own clothes, where family was an
inclusive word that meant neighbours and extended cousins.
Despite never attending school and being married at age 11, Mrs Kalita
managed to run several enterprises from home (tamul-paan, vegetables,
eggs, pigeons, cow's milk, bamboo), handle her husband's accounts and
even travel to the US and Canada with her thumbprint image as
signature on the passport and visa. She often detailed what she
learned in the West, from the efficiency of roads and cleanliness to
the tangible loneliness ("Sometimes all you will see the whole day is
one bird," she'd say) to the culturally profound ("Wrestling is fake.
Everyone in America knows.")
During World War II, Mrs Kalita recalled, she would run into an
underground tunnel with her family as soon as she heard the planes
overhead. She lived through the earthquake of 1950, playing a role
with her husband in the rebuilding of a ravaged Sadiya. In the 1980s,
when an MLA came to visit with the singer, artist and Sadiya native Dr
Bhupen Hazarika, Mrs Kalita sat them in her drawing room and listed
all the ways they needed to improve conditions: better roads, schools,
health care. Frequently, she was the voice enlisted by the local
community to articulate their demands. Mrs Kalita feared no one, not
the frequent dacoits and thugs omnipresent in the India of then and
now; at night, if they tried to threaten her neighbours, she would go
out with a kerosene lamp and yell, "Who is this dog who has come?"
(Fittingly, she died on the day of an Asom Bandh.)
She straddled traditional values with modernity and advocacy of
progress. Her three daughters never felt their gender was an obstacle.
Because her illiteracy prevented her from supervising studies, Mrs
Kalita forced her children to shout answers from work tables on the
veranda so they could check each other. Today, each daughter—Nirupama
Mahanta, Bimala Deka, Jyosna Deka—is working professionally.
With each of her sons, too, she shared a special relationship. Her
eldest, Mohesh Chandra Kalita, retired as a vice president from
Citibank, and lives in New Jersey. Her next, Krishna Kanto Kalita,
retired as general manager, Numaligarh Refinery Ltd, and currently
works as an adviser with the ministry of health and family welfare.
Her next three sons carried on the family's businesses: transport,
cultivation, contracting. She cared deeply for her middle son, Jogen
Chandra Kalita, treating each of his three children as her own. Her
next son, Dharani Dhar Kalita, inherited Mrs Kalita's curiosity, love
of storytelling and being with people. As for the last, Mitra Ranjan
Kalita, Mrs Kalita most likened her own temper to his, although she
also passed on decency and a sense of humour.
For her grandchildren, Mrs Kalita served as the ultimate source of
inspiration and a reminder that anything is possible. Like all
grandmothers, she indulged them but, unlike many, was not
materialistic in her demonstration of love. She sought to remind each
of them of their rural roots, how lucky they were but how far they
still had to go—always with hard work and honesty. At family
gatherings, people often remarked: What would have been if she had
been given access to education?
The lack of an answer implicitly conveyed the importance of
learning—for one's entire life.
Her words and ways could be harsh and damning, yet honest. She
remained calculating, shrewd, highly observant, frugal to her last
day.
Yet Mrs Kalita never let a visitor leave without sharing a cup of
tea—and a trip down memory lane. In her final months, her own memory
failed her but she resurrected images of pre-independence Sadiya as a
British outpost and the details of each of her children's births and
temperaments as babies.
While movement to Guwahati was a necessity for the family, it was
clear Mrs Kalita preferred the days where all lived under one roof and
could be self-reliant. Ironically, in death she was granted that wish
as everyone—from seven of eight children to her American-born
granddaughter to her sister-in-law, who once lived down the road in
Sadiya—was by her side as she passed.
Her larger-than-life presence is missed but her family takes solace
and inspiration from her longevity and strength, a purposeful but
divergent path. In her children, grandchildren and the countless
people she impressed and touched, her lessons and stories will always
endure.

Mama Mia...

My uncle died yesterday. He was my mother's elder brother, with a daughter exactly my age and another boy. My paternal grandmother, who could never keep track of my mother's seven brothers by name, used to call him "engineer mama". We called him Naupa Mama.
I didn't know him as well as my other mamas who used to take me to get Thums Up across the street (Bapu Mama) or bring me Gems candy regularly (Deep Mama) or stick his finger in my mouth to tell me he knew exactly what I had eaten (Bapkhan Mama). But he was definitely a fixture in our visits to India. Last week, when my aunt called and told me his kidneys had failed and the dialysis wasn't working, she told me they were pretty much just waiting for the end.
So last night, as I was at my friend Himanshu's for dinner, the call came and I knew as soon as I heard my aunt's voice. He had just died 10 minutes ago. I glanced at the wine in my hand and had a lump in my throat but didn't cry.
The calls with bad news, of course, have been coming as long as I've been alive. And I could always tell you where I was. When I was 7, it was my maternal grandfather -- and my mom was pregnant with Rahul; I was upstairs when the call came. When I was 9, it was my father's cousin, a murder detailed in the economic space of a blue aerogram; I was in the hall where we kept the crib and I started screaming. When I was 10, it was my mom's elder brother and I remember I was reading one of the Babysitter's Clubs where Claudia was the main character (was it number 2) and my mom fell down on the stair landing of our house in shock. That one, I think, hit us hardest, most unexpected, a heart attack, a scurry to the hospital, finally death in an auto rickshaw. When I was 13, my grandfather died and I remember feeling intensely sad because I had spent most of my childhood afraid of the funny way he talked, due to paralysis; it was the middle of the night and I remember my cousin was staying with us and I was embarassed to cry in front of him so I poured water into a steel glass and covered my choked-up-ness by taking sips. Six months later, my maternal grandmother died and I remember how much harder it seemed to strike my mother than when her father died. In between, there were a few baby cousins, a few close friends and neighbours from Assam. Common to all was the absolute helplessness with which we grieved and watched from afar.
I thought moving to India might have made things different but if anything it makes me ache for the family literally on both sides of me -- my maternal extended family in Assam and my mother in New Jersey. She has been counting down Nitin and Naya's upcoming visit and isn't coming here for the funeral and last rites. So I will likely go and represent for the 13th day of mourning - shradho - next week. And then the week after, I think I will go to the US for a few days. Expensive options but possibly best for the mental health, which really is beginning to wear and shouldn't be alone for a six-week stretch, I have decided.
As we did in the US, we turn to ritual to get us through-- we will be vegetarian for 13 days (or less). We will pray and light incense sticks stuck in a banana. We will call our relatives every day and ask for details and they will offer others we didn't ask but are curious to know. My aunt: They dressed him real nice. I gave him so many kisses before they took him off. Your other uncle waited till his body had entirely burned before they left. His wife was sound asleep when we got there; she then bathed and dressed in widow white and still seemed very despondent.
Today I left work early to get the details and my aunt described the day; as she told me everyone arriving by dawn to begin dressing the body and preparing it for cremation, I finally broke down. For my uncle's loss, of course. But also that I missed out on the remaining seven siblings coming together for the first time in a very long time. Two have died. And one, my mother, remained in America.

Nayaism

Naya: When I grow up I want to be a painter and a Mint worker.

And then this morning...

Mommy: What colour are your eyes?
Naya: Black and white.

Iowa sounds just like India!

This sounds more like a worker in Delhi than Des Moines...

“Do they have a free gym, dry cleaning, Starbucks on site?” he said. “What are they doing to make the community better? And once you’re there, companies know they have to promote you to keep you. We’re a little spoiled in our opportunities here.”

See story here.

Cricket

This week's column was inspired by a trip the three of us took last week to a cricket match between the New Delhi Dare Devils and the Mumbai Indians. We were prepared to have to shove through crowds and ask 38 people which way to go but were amazed at the signage, cordoned-off areas, orderly lines and cops who actually knew where gate 6 was. I think the Republic Day parade needs to ask the cricket folks to handle their crowd control. Nitin printed out pages on "how to follow cricket" from some web site. Naya kept saying she was looking for Dhoni. I thought we might get bored halfway through but about 20 minutes into the game, thanks to our friend Seema's commentary and the hordes of people around us, we got really into it. Definitely faster than baseball--which makes me wonder what the heck people are talking about when they say it's a cross between baseball and sleeping or such nonsense. I loved it and even yelled "VIRU" for the star Sehwag... but once Delhi's fourth batter scored low, we thought our team was doomed--and we left. Big mistake. While we were in the car, some guy came to bat and scored 56 runs! Oh well, we learned a few lessons.

naya

The other day in the bath:

Naya: Mommy, when you want something, you just have to ask God. Like, God, can I please have some toffees. And then he will give you toffees.

Today:
When I am on laptop...
Naya: Mommy, you should write about mommys and papas who play ball with their baby.

Nayaisms you might not like

Girls only fight with girls because boys are more important.

Mommy: Naya, what should I write my column on?
Naya: Ummmm. How about "good people who eat cheese?"

Is it a happy mother's day?

www.livemint.com

Is it a happy mother’s day?
Working parents in one survey spend just a half-hour a day nurturing their own kids. It's time to wake up
Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita
I know you think it’s you. But it’s not.
The award for Worst Mother of the Year goes to…me.
I turn my laptop on the minute I get home. I pretend to listen to my daughter’s stories as I frantically volley replies on BlackBerry. On weekends, I relish the chance to sleep in and let the maids deal with bath and breakfast and the most dreaded chore—brushing little teeth, especially those hard-to-reach, squirm-inducing back ones.
Two days before the world celebrates the joy and wonders of motherhood and thanks us who have dutifully filled and then emptied our wombs, I hang my head in shame and hardly think I deserve any special attention. Really, as a mother, I am a failure.
Well, sometimes.
Because that’s just the way parenthood is. Unlike our daily jobs, there are no benchmarks to success. Just when you think happy kids are the goal, a child psychologist or teacher will instruct you to let sadness occasionally wash over them, “so they can learn to deal with it on their own,” as one educator recently told me.
Nobody ever chastises working parents. We pat each other on the back, then say: “She’ll be fine. You’re doing the best you can.” Experts advise parents not to give into guilt.
I disagree. It’s time.
This week, The Times of India reported the results of a survey that find working parents spend only 30 minutes “nurturing their own children”. Not surprisingly, more than 85% of the 3,000 working couples in the study gave themselves a negative rating as bad parents. “Parents are working not only out of economic compulsion but also to cash in on their technical and professional qualification,” the study said. “Parents that work long or irregular hours are not available for children after school, and especially to help with the homework, ...and not able to do things together at weekends or eat together.”
Even on Sundays, when companies are allegedly off, working couples report being consumed with the endless tasks involved in running a household: paying bills, cleaning, going shopping.
The study illustrates the net effect of several societal shifts in the middle class. More and more couples are both working. Fewer families have the grandparents around. The demands at work are enormous: first, to sustain the growth in the economy and now to ensure all is not lost in case of a slowdown. Sadly, childcare has really not caught up; due to the sorry state of education in rural and poor India, most people’s maids have not even the nurturing instinct of one Mary Poppins bone. Creches are a fast booming business, but concerns over hygiene, safety and space persist. Parents who spend Rs5,000 on a meal quibble about spending half that to keep a good maid around.
In 10 years, will the neglect show? Is this study foreshadowing a future generation of kids who are needy, lack confidence, resent our success at their expense? Possibly.
Every now and then, when my mothering sinks to the all-time low I describe here, when my husband and I are both on deadlines and our daughter seems to crave even just a glance from us, something more powerful than the desire to achieve and excel washes over me: Mommy Guilt.
It is a most powerful and necessary warning. It inspires me to leave the laptop behind (or at least the cord so the battery dies in an hour). It forces me, no matter how pressed for time, to incorporate my daughter into my daily activities, if only to spend a few more minutes with her; we bathe, we brush, we banter. We reconnect.
This week’s findings, released by trade chamber Assocham’s Social Development Foundation, must inspire collective guilt, triggering changes at home and work. If reducing hours is not an option, children must be more effectively integrated into our lives, shopping to dining out. As parents have moved towards managing without their own parents around, so too might they learn to manage sometimes without another appendage: maids.
The rearing and nurturing of children in India is in crisis. Besides parents taking responsibility, workplaces will need to react quickly with flexible scheduling, not just to watch children but to take care of chores such as doctor appointments and car servicing. The risk of not reacting is to lose a diverse, necessary part of the workforce; according to Assocham, just 21% of mothers with young families want to work full-time, with an overwhelming majority preferring part-time work alongside raising their children.
Even as us working parents beat ourselves up, there’s some irony in what most motivates us: our children. To provide for them, to make the world a better place for them. Working mothers like me, with girls, try hard to set an example of the type of women they can be.
But in the end, our long hours and business plans really mean nothing without ensuring growth and vitality— of our most precious assets of all.
Your comments are welcome at widerangle@livemint.com

It's all about who you know

http://www.livemint.com/2008/05/01230250/It8217s-about-who-you-know.html

Wider Angle | S.Mitra Kalita


All he did was “put in a word”.
That is how Union shipping, road transport and highways minister T.R. Baalu defended his move to procure gas for two companies owned by his two wives (yes, two) and sons, companies that happened to be previously headed by him.
According to news agency Press Trust of India (PTI), Baalu admitted he had spoken to petroleum and natural gas minister Murli Deora to ensure gas was allocated. “I put in a word with the petroleum minister,” Baalu told Parliament, according to a PTI report. “What is wrong with it?”
He didn’t add what he very likely also felt, what many of us realize on a day-to-day basis: That’s just the way life goes in India. Everyone uses connections or else nothing gets done.
Right?
If you’re squirming with discomfort, recognition, uncertainty, you’re not alone. For, many of us—from salaried professionals to the working poor —largely accept that bribes are wrong: Paying or gifting someone to grease the wheels is immoral, corrupt. But pulling a favour to get the job done?
It happens.
Think about it. Need to get your three-year-old into nursery school? One after another, the calls go out to principals and board members of elite schools—or their friends and family. Attached to applications are the letters vouching for your child and your character from Prominent People.
How can a retail entrepreneur secure the licences needed to stock yarn, put up signs or even play terrible background music? It’s time to make rounds among The Influential.
This deep tapping into networks is especially acute in this connection-conscious Capital, but other cities certainly suffer their share, too. By no means is India alone, but the problem worsens here because connections, often, must be relied upon to get the littlest thing done.
It is not just the government to blame. Even as the growth of the private sector has spoiled us for choice, it has created new hurdles to getting services smoothly. Well educated and intentioned they may be, but bank tellers rarely have a clue about foreign exchange or money transfers. The cashier who fields your mobile payment has little power to do much else, like print out a bill statement from six months ago. And so we seek out those second and third cousins who work at Citibank and Vodafone for rescue.
Every time I raise this issue, old-timers shrug, saying: “It used to be so much worse.” One writer on the blog, Mutiny.in, reminds, “In the ’70s, if you wanted to buy any car anywhere in India, money wasn’t the problem. The waiting period was. It ranged from a few months to a few years depending on the model and your political connections.”
But guess why he raised this point? Recently, the blogger noted that folks eager to book the Rs1 lakh Tata Nano were already in queue, buttering up dealers and plastering automobile websites with their emails and phone numbers so they could be first.
So, how much has really changed?
Are there just shades of grey between paying a bribe and invoking a connection? In many cases, the answer might lie in our professions. Politicians, journalists, government contractors should be held to higher standards because for them, a favour is rarely just a favour (for a copy of Mint’s code of conduct, visit www.livemint.com).
The more important question is why the straight and direct route is failing so many Indians. Crumbling schools, tight regulations, lack of access, crooked civil servants, all of the above? As with much of middle-class woe, if it’s tough for us, the poor and lesser connected are the real victims.
“The normal systems have collapsed in most spheres in life,” says Arvind Kejriwal, the former bureaucrat who pioneered the right to information movement. “If you normally apply for something, you wouldn’t get it, even if you deserve it, so you need connections or money. The people who have connections feel comfortable about it. But if I don’t have connections, I’ll say it’s a rotten system.”
In Baalu’s case, it has been revealed that Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, master of the art of crafting a squeaky clean image—even in India—made “certain references” on the shipping minister’s behalf to secure gas. Of course, the implication of the Prime Minister’s Office getting involved is more damning: Give this guy his gas—and whatever else he wants.
The actions in regards to Baalu and his family’s companies smack of nepotism and cronyism. If only the elected would show so much concern over the public they represent. We wouldn’t even need 10,000 cubic metres, as Baalu requested.
In fact, I think most Indian households would settle for just a letter from the Prime Minister’s Office guaranteeing steady power in these summer months.
And maybe, for good measure, he’d throw in an extra gas cylinder?
Your comments are welcome at ­widerangle@livemint.com