Exception

                                                   EXCEPTION

       “What’s the bad smell, Amma?” Sama held her moms skirt with one hand and closed her nostrils with the other.

     “It’s the flowers of these trees. It is called the Callery tree.” The mother pointed to the row of trees with white spring blossoms.  They lined the divider to the entrance of the community they lived in.

     “Aren’t flowers supposed to smell good?” the little girl asked still holding her nose.

     “ There’s always an exception to everything, Sama dear.”  Maya held her daughter’s hand and helped her cross the road.

     “Am I an exception, Amma? Do I smell bad?”

      Maya smiled. She knew Sama did not understand the meaning of exception.

     “Exception does not mean you smell bad. Exception means someone or something is different from others of the same kind.”

     Maya held Sama’s hand and looked either way to see if there were any vehicles coming.

     “Look to your left, look to your right, look to your left,” said Sama, and they both ran across the road. They were crossing their development to the park.

     Once they had crossed the road, Sama took a deep breath and held out the skirt of her pink cotton sleeveless dress with black polka dots and twirled around.

     Several others were walking in pairs or walking their dogs. Sama's favorite dog, a black poodle, barked and ran toward her as his walker tugged at the leash.

    Sama smiled but moved closer to her mother. She kept walking and waving to the dog. Maya smiled and greeted the dog walker.

    “Amma, is Molly an exception?”

    “I don’t know Molly too well to know if she is an exception. She seems to be like the rest of her breed.”

    “Breed? What is that, Amma?” Sama looked up at her mom.

    “Breed is a group of animals that are the same in behavior and looks.  Molly looks and behaves like other poodles. She is not an exception. ” Maya smiled at the child, who was quietly listening to her.

    They approached the park with the brightly colored swing sets, see saws, slides, monkey bars, and a large sand box. Trees that served like a fence surrounded the area.

    Sama left her moms hands and ran towards the park. Maya loved to see her child’s long brown hair flying as she ran.

    Sama ran toward the swing.

   “Watch out, Sama, for the swing,”Maya shouted. A golden haired boy with a red shirt and black shorts was swinging high.

    Sama was too excited to hear her mom. Sama ran right in front of the boy. Just as he swung towards her, Sama fell to the ground, flat on the wood chips. One of the mothers ran and pulled the swing to a stop.

    Maya and the other ladies hurried towards Sama.

   “Is she okay?” A young lady pushing a gurgling baby in a pram asked.

    Sama continued lying in the same position.

   “Are you okay?” Maya asked as she lifted the child up.

   “I’m really sorry.” Maya apologised to the boy and his mother. “I shouldn’t have let go of her hand.”

     “That’s okay. I’m glad she didn’t get hurt. Your daughter has a very good presence of mind, exceptional for a little girl. How did she think of falling flat on the ground?” The lady was wearing a long colorful skirt and a bright yellow sleeveless top with a wide brimmed hat.

     “I’m not sure,”said Maya and looked at her daughter for an answer.

     Sama smiled at the lady as she tugged her mother down toward her and whispered into her ear, “Did she say I was an exception?”

     The lady had moved away.

     “You fell down under the swing and saved yourself from getting hit, so she said what you did was exceptional. That means it was good and different. You should never run into someone who is swinging like you just did.”

      “I wanted to duck but I just fell down flat.”

        “But why did you do that? It’s not safe. I was worried. You could have been hurt.”

       “I saw it at the circus, Amma.That’s what one of the clowns kept doing when the other clown was swinging. I wanted to try it. I was sure I could do that.”

      “The clown must have practiced a lot. It is only an act in the circus.  Do you remember the man who announced saying that none of the tricks should be tried at home?” Maya looked at the child in her eyes and kneeled down on the grass.

     Sama looked at her mom with her large brown eyes. “Amma, I will not walk on the rope or do anything else I saw in the circus.  I will not do this again. Do not be worried, Amma. “

     She hugged her mother, who picked her up and kissed her on her forehead.

     All the children had lined up at the slide. The swings were now empty, so Maya placed Sama on the swing and pushed her once from behind.

    “Make sure you hold tight,” she told the child.

      Sama pushed her legs and started swinging higher and higher. Maya leaned against the bars and watched the child. 

      “Amma, I want to be an exception. I really want to,” Sama shouted

      “You are an exception Sama. No other child is like you. You are special.”

      “Really, Amma?” Sama smiled and soared into the air.

       

      

Blue Bangles

                                             Blue Bangles

          I hear my cousins calling for me.  I quickly fold and put Papa’s sweater and my small blue bangles away and shut the drawer.  Ugadi, our new year, is next week.  I will buy myself bigger size blue bangles this year.
         Ugadi comes every year around March.  It is a celebration where we have early morning oil baths; deck ourselves with new clothes and bangles, do puja, and have delicious lunch with friends and family.
        The specialty is the bevu-bella, a dish with six tastes. Amma says it symbolizes life - a mixture of happiness, sorrow, anger, fear and other feelings. The mixture has neem flowers, grated unripe mango, jaggery, chili, salt and tamarind. We only have a little bit of the bitter-sweet-sour dish mixture.

         My little cousin comes running into the room.

         “Come, Sheema, everyone is waiting for you.” He tugs at my hand.

          My cousins and I run around the large, blue pillars bordering the veranda and the cemented yard. We jump on and over the white washed parapet wall. Renu, my cousin, who is eleven and just a year older than me, is ‘it.
     My uncles sit on the other edge of the large rose garden watching the game. Amma and the aunts are inside in the kitchen and the smell of obbattu, sweet roti filled with lentil, sugar or jaggery paste hangs in the air.  Papa and I loved the sweet treats that could be eaten only on the festival day. I live in a joint family in the ancestral home with my mom, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
      As she chases us, Renu trips and falls.  She runs crying to her dad, who sits her on his lap and rubs her bruised hand.
     “You’ll feel better. Go play.” Her dad hugs and pats Renu on her back.
      I remember Papa- the times I would sit on his lap and slide down onto his ankles facing him, and he would lift me. Whenever I was hurt or bruised, he would do that to make me laugh. I feel a lump rise in my throat.  I don’t feel like playing anymore. I want to sit in a corner and think of my papa.
     Suddenly one of my cousins shout, “Look! It’s the bangle seller!”
      I see the bangle seller coming down the mud road wearing a white kurta and dhoti.  His huge white bundle hangs on his left shoulder. He comes every year around the same time to sell us bangles for Ugadi.  My chest hurts. I feel sad. Why can’t papa be here?    

    “Wonder what kind of bangles he has,” said Ram.
      My mother, the aunts, the servant girls who are washing clothes, and the boy feeding the cows all rush to the veranda.  Amma has a calm expression on her face. I run to her.
     “I'm first! I'm first!” shouts Ram. Everyone starts laughing except me.  I hug Amma tight.

     The bangle seller gives his wide grin, teeth all stained with betel paan. Betel leaf and betel nut when chewed give a red color. His black slippers are dusty from walking the dry rocky road, and he wears a white turban. He places his bundle down and sits next to it.
      “I have lovely bangles this time, gold flecked, purple, dark red, yellow, lots of different colors and also metal bracelets for the little boy. Plastic ones too,” says the bangle seller.
     He sees me sitting with Amma and calls me to his side. “Sheema, I have blue bangles which I brought from Mysore just for you.” He smiles. I am not able to return the smile. I have chosen only blue bangles the last couple of years, and the bangle seller remembers.

        The color of Papa’s sweater that Amma has kept tucked away in the bottom drawer, wrapped in a soft white cloth, is blue. It has been three years since Papa died in a car accident.  It was a month after Ugadi and I was still wearing the Ugadi bangles, only then the bangles were purple.

     My aunts’ hands jingle with the sounds of the bangles.  My mother is the only one who doesn’t buy the bangles.  After Papa died, Amma never wears colorful bangles.  Amma’s glass bangles were broken at Papa’s funeral by some ladies. That was the custom when a woman’s husband dies. I do not like it. I shouted and cried asking those women to leave the bangles on Amma. “A widow does not wear glass bangles,” they had said.  How I want Amma to adorn herself like the other aunts

      “Go, buy your bangles,” says Amma. I don’t feel excited about the bangles. Amma’s eyes do not shine the way they did when Papa was there. I don’t want to refuse and make Amma sad. I hold back my tears. I sit in front of the bangle seller, hold out my hand to him, and watch him as he carefully slides the blue bangles I selected into my hands.

     “You love blue bangles, don’t you?” says Amma. 

      I do Namaste to the bangle seller, a gesture of respect and thanks.

      After the bangle seller leaves, I run to my room. I hold my wrists against Papa’s sweater in the drawer–my bangles are the same blue as the sweater. I miss you Papa. Somehow it will never be the same without him. I hold the sweater to my cheek. Now I let my tears roll. When my sobbing stops, I wipe my face.

    Just then I hear my cousins shouting in unison, “Sheema! Let’s start our game again.”

     Amma, cousins, my aunts, and uncles all care for me. I love them, too. Papa is no longer here, but I know everyone loved him and still misses him. He was a wonderful man. We were all sad and cried when Papa died.  Amma says Papa’s memories will always be with me and all of us. The thought comforts me.

      I jingle my new blue bangles and run out to play before my little cousin comes looking for me again.                                     

Glossary:

Oil baths – the body and hair is massaged with coconut oil or sesame oil before a hot water bath or shower.

Puja – prayers and offerings to God.

Jaggery - unrefined sugar.

Kurta – traditional loose fitting shirt that falls below or just above the knees.

Dhoti - a cloth of 4.5 meters wound round the waist

Betel paan – betel leaf, areca nut, and a bit of slaked lime are rolled and chewed. It stains the mouth red.

Namaste – a gesture of welcome, farewell, and thanks - hands pressed together, palms touching and fingers pointed upwards, in front of the chest.