Picking up the prosody again!

For me, the English language has never been just that. 

It's been a friend, a lover, a daughter and a mother. 

A friend to dry my tears of self pity, when I pour those out as poetry. 

A lover- since the time I was about six years old and wrote my first poem about an imaginary dog, the language encases me in it's sophisticated velvet shell, spilling out in the choicest words (yes, sometimes people had to check a dictionary to see what I meant) which make me so proud as they leave my lips. 

A daughter- as I carefully tend to my darling collection of books- dusting and blowing off those fine cobwebs which cover those well loved titles like some filigreed jewellery. 

A mother- guidebooks- how to live books- The Secret- who I would turn to for help in dark times.

And now, after a series of qualifications in Advertising, Sales, Multimedia, Business Administration culminating in a PG diploma in Communication from the country's finest school, I've decided to take the plunge into the wordy ocean of a Master's degree in English Literature. 

Needless to add, I'm loving each page of each text, especially Poetry which is my personal favourite! 

'... I dreamt of Manderley again.'

I first read Daphne dú Maurier's Rebecca (originally published in 1939) when I was in the seventh standard, egged on by my grandmum, who firmly believed that educating a girl in the English Classics was an experience in itself. At that time, I could little grasp the finer nuances and just thought of it as another ghost story. I re-read it in standard twelve and appreciated the language, the descriptions and promptly fell in love with Manderley. Post that, I must've read it at least 5 more times- each time being romanced by the suave Max deWinter and modelling my own knight after him...

Yesterday I chanced upon the 1997 television adaptation of the book and by far- it was the best adaptation I've ever seen. It brought alive the whole book. I loved Charles Dance as Max deWinter again and hated Diana Riggs as Mrs Danvers.

The place, the people- Mrs Van Hopper (Faye Dunaway in a brilliant tailormade performance as the eccentric society lady) Frith/ Crawley/ Beatrice- even Favell- came as waves of sweet remembrance- so well cast and so well played. 

It was a treat, indeed!

Time is a newborn baby

Yes.

Today I was sorting out R's old clothes- newborn ones. And I realised just how tiny she was, when she was born. She was the perfect weight- 2.995 kg - but oh so delicate. One of the earliest pics of Day 1 show a blue swaddled bald doll with piercing dark eyes, looking straight into me as I hold her and talk to her. That was really something. Much as I may enjoy R's growing up now, looking back at those couple of days when we were formally introduced to each other in the real world- were the best of my life. There was so much excitement and tension!

A newborn baby gallops through weeks, months and years.

Time is a newborn baby.

Pass-port

Today we went with an unusually hyper R to get her passport made.. Yes, yes, a foreign vacation is on the anvil. Oh man! What a tedious task. A long wait, an even more cranky R- for how long could I keep her occupied with W (her nemesis) or the Aunty with the boy (who fell down innumerable times on the smooth floor)... She wanted to zoom across the floor and into her father's arms- having missed him sorely the day before. So she devised a game of running around the metallic seats and plopping down on the floor- stopping only when I offered her some 'cake' (brownie) for her effort. The lone shop inside the waiting area is helpfully stocked with pastries of all kinds- lest the consumer experience near-death levels of hypoglycaemia while waiting so long!

I think the whole passport issue-system is a complete waste of time. Especially for mothers with infants and toddlers (there were quite a few)- it takes a long wait to get to each of the four counters even when all documents are in place. I actually expected LoML to get the printed passport in hand after all this Herculean effort- to be told that it will be couriered home God-knows-when.

That's why such a system breeds corruption of agents. If it was shorter and crisper- in tune with the changing times and consumer- it would be so much easier. 

Thomas Friedman may be correct in stating the flatness but what happens if people are hellbent on creating mountains of 'processes'?

This old man's house

Now R has this habit of watching the iPad while having milk. It's a bad habit I cultivated because she wouldn't take to formula and now it's stuck. 

One of the many things she likes watching are television commercials- lots of them- not surprising coz her lineage is from a communications background- but I guess it's more to do with the fact that they're short and snappy and have a new world of characters.

Her current favourite are the Vodafone old man series, where the trespassing boy gets a gift - and later plays carrom with the old guy. Now R's paediatrician bears an uncanny resemblance to this old man- prompting me to compare him with the clearly unfavoured character in R's little brain. But I love this man. Look what a wonderful house he stays in- it even has a garage of it's own- houses that I've lived in all my life- well, majority of my life and that's how dwellings should be- with a garden, a garage, an attic, a storeroom... Part of me feels cheated as I stay in a small apartment. 

This house looks so warm and comfortable. The door is polished a dark brown, the clock in the verandah- God knows the last time I sat in a verandah must have been in the porch of a hotel- looks so old and you can spy an antique radio in the background- so beautiful... 

Blue Beads

R is generally very cranky towards meal-times. At the risk of sounding like a useless mother, I sometimes cannot quite fathom what she wants. More so with my choice of food for her- if I make egg, she asks for sooji. If I make moong dal, she'll ask for rice. If I make.. Well, you get the drift.

During these amazing meal times- lasting well into an hour, I have to find new things/ toys/ products to distract her. She likes kitchen utensils, books, clothes, electronic gadgets but most of all- my jewellery- the large chunky beaded necklaces and earrings being her favourite. Oh and also handheld mirrors and compact mirrors! 

The other day, I was surprised to find her with my drawer open, diligently shuffling through the myriad contents of a potentially dangerous assorted items- basket and finding the glittery I Love NY compact mirror her Aunt had gotten on her last trip..  Girls!

You, yourself?

Last week, R had to get the last of the PCV vaccines. So we took the usual evening appointment and walked into a room full of waiting people. R was at her boisterous best. Screaming, running, laughing- she did it all. Even made up a little game of running between LoML and me across the room with fits of giggles. Which prompted the mom of a rather sad looking nine month old to strike up a conversation with me.

'Is she always like this- so hyper?'

(my maternal instincts so proud) 'Yep'

'How old is she? 1 year?'

'Yep- 15 months' (notice the lack of interest in my tone)

'At home also she's like this? You must have a very clean home!' (laughs)

'Yes!' (I actually DO have a spotless home. I pay my staff to keep it that way)

'You're here for vaccination?'

'Yes. PCV' 

'Oh- he's got a tiny lump where he got his injection- he's 9 months old. Didn't let me massage him. Who massages her? You?'

'Yes, I do'

'You, yourself?'

'Yes, I me myself. Since birth.'

'Really?'

By this time the friendly assistant had shouted R's name so I quickly gathered my stuff and baby.  What did she mean? You, yourself? Just because I was wearing a pair of jeans with a decent t-shirt and had bright red toe nailpolish didn't mean I couldn't massage my baby, did it?  I guess it was the nailpolish. 

The Purity of things

I am a purist at heart.

Yesterday we stopped to snack at Banana Leaf and my over-enthused South Indian alter ego ordered spicy idlis cooked Andhra style. Now, I expected the pristine White mounds surrounded by a bed of spices, instead I was greeted by something so different that I choked at the very first mouthful.

And so I satisfied myself with just the plain old idlis.

I realised that I am a purist then.

I hate combinations, fusions, mixing of foods/ music/ language...

At weddings, my family would eat eloquent off mixed Gulab Jamun and ice-cream and I would hate the thought of it, so much so, I refused to even look at such a concoction.

East and West don't mingle in my mind.

Similarly, I hate the concept of fusion music. I may listen to it for lack of better aural pleasure but you won't find a single downloaded piece on my playlist.

And how I hate those who mix English and Hindi. I secured really high marks in both Board exams in both languages- well above 95% each and I am in love with English. I have even decided to study further - so you can imagine how I would suffer to see such a lovely language - twisted and tortured to suit the speaker.

So call me old fashioned if you will, but not for me- Indian Ocean, rabri with custard or 'latkao-fying'....

Change of guard

So tomorrow is when the new cook starts full-time and my part-timer graduates to a full-timer. Thankfully there won't be too much to train them on, both having worked hard and long in previous capacities.

I remember my old cook- and chronicled his adventures in Mr. Facemaker, posted here more than two years ago. Since then he has run away thrice and come back twice. Often, with huge sums of money outstanding- not just with us, but with others in the building too.

His lavish lifestyle- he owns a Blackberry phone, sports the latest (so what if it's fake) brands of clothing and watches and eats fish for dinner almost every alternate day. But, ask him about saving and he draws up neat stories of famine in his village and how he has to send money home to keep his family alive. Makes one wonder in disbelief. He diligently watches the Homeshopping  channels for bargains and cuts out the Mumbai Mirror for Readers Offers and has them tucked away on his person to quote verbatim. 

This is consumerism at it's peak. 

It's a girly thing...

Yesterday, I was oiling my hair and took off my flower shaped diamond earrings. Little R started smiling (like she always does) when I started unscrewing the studs. This is a sign that Mamma is about to wear something more glamorous than the boring studs and it means- We're going out!!

So, there she was, my smiling little doll and I ask her- would you like to wear these, Raania? And yes, she nods- so I hold them up against her ear- indeed she does look very pretty. Just like a girl, instead of the imp that she's becoming lately. I exclaim- oh what a pretty girl! and she actually blushes and buries her head in my lap!

I'm so reminded of my own mother and the fact that her baubles look way more attractive and shiny than my own. 

Maybe it's the grace in Ma's earrings, maybe it's the sheen of her persona but I still love whatever she's worn!

Little wonder then, that my own daughter loves whatever jewellery I decide to wear!

Genes...or is this a girly thing? 

Kiddie Birthdays!!!

Last week, the doors of another world were thrown open to me. Raania was invited to a kiddie birthday party by her 'friend' in the building (friend is actually 11 years older than her, but so what- friendship defies age, right?).

And so, with great excitement, we went out to shop for a birthday present and having procured two Enid Blyton books (which I was in two minds about giving away, coz I wanted to read them myself!) and two really cute t-shirts, I proceeded to wrap them up in silver wrapping paper, and to add a bit of jazz, I added some very nice ribbon. R, of course, couldn't understand just why she had to stay away from rumpling up the paper into a ball for the fiftieth time, or why her mum was rifling through her party frocks, hung in daddy's wardrobe. But she soon guessed there was some unusual activity because I kept telling her what would happen in Sania's house lest she be terrified of  those twenty odd voices shrieking 'happy birthday' at the top of their voices.

D-evening dawned and R was suitably rested and fed, and looked every inch the style diva. Carrying off a deep blue silk balloon dress with an embroidered trimming, with matching accessories, she looked so adorable that I wanted to eat her up right there!

She thoroughly enjoyed the party, especially the cake cutting. She wanted to participate in all the games, even though she couldn't understand a thing. And she surprised me even more by actually eating a bit of the muffin and crisps offered to us.  Both her daddy and I are the recluses in the building, but our daughter is clearly the star. Everyone loved her, even the boy who she slapped because he was blowing a balloon in her face! 

This is for you, Papa

Originally written on November 30, 2005

Papa.

The word evokes a series of emotions: super- strong, wordlessly reassuring, sometimes angry, silently indulgent, ferrying-us-to-school, always there and so mellow.

Papa, with his booming big voice, who would always get handfuls of coloured bead necklaces whenever he went touring, who could carry bags of film spools and vegetables with equal élan; Papa, who could shoulder a VHS camera and the payment of utility bills with equal ease.

Papa, who has aged so gracefully in the recent years that he makes my family proud of him.

I remember when I was little, Papa would be the center of every wedding procession, dancing and laughing and coaxing all his sisters-in-law to dance. At the marriage of my mother's cousin, he had managed the entire kitchen and stores, sleeping arrangements, liquor reserves and had yet found time to enjoy himself wholeheartedly in the event, swollen feet (from working too much) notwithstanding, making him quite equivalent to Superman in my eyes.

Papa- who had the most mercurial temper of all- making it rise to the height of slapping an errant auto rickshaw driver, and then calmly get behind the wheel and ask us where we would like to dine that evening.

My sister and I would run to him for solace from mom, when she didn’t allow us to go for that much-envied birthday party, or perhaps refused us the nth Bon Jovi album. He would give in to our requests even before we verbalized them- making my sister quite something of a cross between a princess and a snob.

Papa- who gave me a whole house when I got married- and purchased the most outrageously expensive wedding lehenga without batting an eyelid, because he had meticulously saved for this day, investing all little pieces of savings in long term deposits and bonds all through his life, while he and my mom made those Diwali outfits last a little longer.

Papa- known for putting his whole into any job-and motivating his team to the extent that they would readily lay down their lives for him. We are still visited by his unofficial protégés whose lives have been made successes by my father. And yet, he doesn’t take credit for anything, only happy in the feeling that he’s made a difference to someone, often leading us to exclaim that he should charge consulting fee by the hour.

Papa- who is as happy with a hundred rupee gifted cologne, as a fifteen hundred rupee quilted jacket- because we have bought him that- and he’s content in the knowledge that his daughters care for him and love him.

Papa- who has always encouraged both his daughters to pursue their careers of choice, often calling us ‘better than sons’ and comparing us to diamonds he’s helped to create.

Papa- who is always laughing and smiling, even when his blood pressure is rising and he’s a little fatigued at the end of the day.

Papa- who is the most down-to-earth and upright person I’ve seen, content with his moongi daal and the occasional sarson ka saag-makki ki roti (I still remember the glee on his face when I served him his favourite at lohri this year), who has battled gall bladder stones and three stitches on his head without uttering even a single sigh of pain, who has been constantly by my mother’s side- fretting over her, teasing her, making her laugh- while striving to make her life (and ours) better all the time.

Papa- whose mercurial anger has melted into infinite caring, whose loud laugh has metamorphosed into an omnipresent smile and whose driving zeal to change the world- and the system has transformed into serving the society by doing little acts of charity.

Papa- who always gets a little misty eyed whenever I return to my own home, and who always wants to buy me everything I already have.

This is for you, papa- you are my hero, no matter what I say or do. I wouldn’t be half the person I am without you.

Mom

Originally written on October 28, 2005

“Ok beta, I’ll speak to you tomorrow...’ thus spake my mom…Mom, who was always there -like a pillar of strength for my sister and me. Mom, who was the driving force behind my father, and the silent decision maker of our home.

I remember with clear precision - just like it was yesterday- when Mom had coached me for one of the many English Elocution contests held in my school, and how she had rejoiced when I had won. She was always there- sitting in the fist row of parents- always cheering me on, whether I was Sleeping Beauty or as inconspicuous as one of the many choirgirls in senior school. Dad might not be able to make it to my prize giving ceremonies, but Mom was always there- with a smile for the teachers at Tea held afterwards. She never uttered a single word of protest as she sat up half the nights embroidering my Sampler for me, as I feverishly studied up World Wars. When it was time for the all-important Board exams, she would lie to my Dad, tell him that I was studying, when I had actually slept off with exhaustion. Even though we fought (rather, disagreed) often (on issues as inane as letting me go out alone for my friend’s birthday treat), I adored her, and I secretly stole a picture of her from her wedding album, where she looked as lovely as a princess, glowing with love and confidence. She healed bruised egos when my best friend refused to shower me with the much-wanted attention, and kissed away my sister’s tears when she fell down and hurt her head. The glow on her face belied the pride in her when I ran to her showing yet another article written by me published in the daily newspaper. She was ecstatic when I won awards and discreetly made them the subject of the next teatime conversation with friends.

Once I graduated from school, mom became more of a friend than a parent, as she listened to accounts of favouritist professors and hid more than a bunch of flowers delivered home by some love struck boy. She egged me on as I pursued multiple courses, fought with my dad to buy me a two-wheeler, and wept solitary tears when I had to leave home for post graduation. She tried to hide her excitement and depression over the miles of ether as she called me when I was away from home, and guessed correctly whether I was eating on time, and if I needed money.

I still remember the day I was picked for my first ever job, on the first day of placement. She had told me that money wasn’t important, it was following my dreams that were paramount, and so, when I landed with a plum, but not so lucrative job in Advertising, she was the one who told me that I should never lose sight of my dream.

At weddings, the pride in her was evident as she went around introducing me to fat aunties and balding uncles, who pulled my cheeks as if I was still a 5 year old, showing off the blue saree I had bought her with my first salary. Before such events, while we were dressing, she would look at our reflection in the mirror, and see a younger version of herself, and would sadly exclaim that all her beauty had faded.

Much later, she was the one who silently approved of my then boyfriend (while my dad chattered nineteen to the dozen), and who critically examined him for any faults. Satisfied when she didn’t find any, she proceeded to fall in love with him as if he was the son she never had.

She shopped with magical fervour for my wedding, making tedious to-do lists in her neat little handwriting, balancing between my dad’s extravaganzas and indulging herself only so much as to satisfy every little whim I fancied. When I set up my own house, she thought of everything I might need, and bought me little knick-knacks that only an experienced homemaker can foresee.

Looking back, I think I now realize why people thank their mom and dad while on stage, receiving awards. I could have waited to thank my mom till I received some award, at a socially appropriate setting, where a bunch of people would have heard this and forgotten it…but I wish to thank her, right now, right this moment.

Mom, how could I not have won those Elocution contests, because it was you who taught me all the nuances…Mom, you are still as beautiful as the day you married dad and your beauty will never fade in our eyes, Mom, you are still cook the best kheer and alu-puri in the world, Mom, your being there will always be more than everyone else combined…simply put- Mom, I love you.

Thank you for being there.  

Cogs in the wheel

Life is all about adjustments and sacrifices. It's a great cog wheel, and our experiences and memories are merely smaller cogs which fit onto that great big one. That one big cog is immalleable- unmovable- it just keeps rotating- and we- our experiences- the smaller cogs- adjust ourself to the destined fate of life. 

When we are children, our parents fashion our cogs- making sacrifices on our behalf- so we don't need to adjust. But once we assume responsibility for our actions, we mature, our cogs get larger- and aligned directly to that one huge cog of life.

At all points of time- the serrations in the cog wheel- we have the power to weld that larger cog to fit ours- altering the course of our life. Some of us choose to, majority of us merely click with what's predestined. 

The 'Just Married Please Excuse' contest entry

I've been a follower of Y's blog for long, and I am super thrilled for her book. I followed it's progress for a long time and I'm happy that it's finally out and doing well. A big Congrats, Y, and here's my entry:

Like all just married couples, my husband and I shared not just evenings of fun, pizza and red wine sprawled in front of the TV, but also some potentially life-threatening moments. Allow me to explain.

On a particularly exhausting work day, we both were looking forward to our signature pepperoni-thin crust with cheesy dips and a bottle of red on the side. The Love of My Life (LoML) had already called in for the food while I'd showered and slipped into my most comfortable grey pyjamas with the yellow bunnies. I switched on the TV, and helped bring the plates and glasses to the dining table. While placing the bottle of tomato ketchup, it slipped and the glass bottle landed squarely on the LoML's right toe who let out an agonised howl, which seemed like the painful fracturing of a bone.

Scared and stammering sorrys faster than you could say pepperoni- I made him sit on the sofa, and ran inside for some ice, my heart hammering in my body- 'What if I'd actually fractured his toe? What a way to end the day! What a way to start our life.. What kind of a wife am I? How could I hurt him- how could the bottle just slip? O Lord, o Lord!' spinning fast in my head. While I plonked myself on the rug and gently applied ice to his by-now-bright red toe, I couldn't help but cry- accompanied by his painful moans- and one sad tear splashed right onto his toe. I think that was the point when the LoML decided he'd had enough fun and stopped pretending I'd killed him. He wiped away my tears and gingerly checked his toe- he was fine- it was just a bruise- Thank God- just exaggerated by his larger-than-life shrieks of pain. 

That didn't stop him from bringing up the incident at many family reunions- when Roli Mami almost fractured Mamu's toe- was one of the after-dinner favourites.

Years later, when my one-year old daughter dropped her heavy wooden toy block on the LoML's toe and he let out an agonising yell, my daughter thought it was a joke and started giggling, and she repeated the action several times over. The LoML bravely repeated the howl just to see her laugh and when she finally got tired and walked away with her doll, he whispered softly in my ear- 'like mother like daughter'...

As good as it gets

That's how I feel after LASIK surgery conducted this Tuesday. Despite the claims of being able to see clearly immediately after the surgery, I was a tad disappointed as my vision continued to be blurry and foggy. Now, 5 days later, it's improving, slowly but yes, it's a relief to see the world completely without blurry corners! Strangely I'd thought my transition from specs to no-specs would involve a huge leap of change but I quite expected the clarity. I don't grope for my specs because maybe I'm too terrified to fall into deep sleep and lose my bearings lest I hurt my eye.  Maybe I'll appreciate the full impact a few weeks from now when the world will see my eyes, not my specs and when I'll be able to apply eye make-up- currently relegated to the bottomest drawer of my dressing table! 

The linearity of thought

My nanny (R's maid) thinks only about her boyfriend and Bollywood. At any given time, she can sing most of the film songs- word for word and recite the actors' filmography - down to the last ten years. When baby isn't sleeping- the maid is on the phone- often for spells as long as two and half hours- whispering nothings and everythings into her phone.

Ask her about general stuff and she'll draw a blank. Anything related to politics, weather or common sense is met with a question mark. Sometimes I avoid giving her any work, fearing that she'll mess it up and I'll have to do it all over again myself. 

Her world is tiny- just films and her boyfriend. On the other hand, I have a host of things occupying me. Sometimes I feel my head will just burst with the amount of thinking that clicks on...like cogs turning and re-turning.. Fitting here, there... So I often forget what I was thinking and drafts of great stories are killed before they can erupt.

Such humdrum life.

Working class heroes

I refer to the domestic helps here- the cooks, bais, cleaners & drivers here. Over chopping vegetables for salad my cook (who also doubles up as a handyman for LoML's various tasks like dry cleaning etc) narrated the sad story of his Mama running from pillar to foundation to get his flat- part of the slum rehabilitation scheme- and that he's completely unsuccessful. Said the poor have nowhere to go. Their slums are being taken over and no accommodation being given in it's stead. How so many of his own ilk are forced to sleep on the road/ platforms etc. Even though I wanted to help- he was talking about a few lakhs here- I couldn't. Instead I silently prayed to God and thanked Him that my everyday battles were at least, not about a roof over one's head and then I wondered- was I really lucky?

Flight

A golden particle

Fell down to earth

Enveloped in freshness

Surrounded by sounds of

A schoolbus honking

Crows in midflight

Brooms sweeping yesterday's pieces

Men reading fresh newspapers

It continued to fall

Below and away it went

Unmindful of it's path

Making it's own road

Deciding it's own destiny

A golden particle fell from the sky

And bathed itself in the warm rays of the sun.

The humble mobile phone!

The other day the LoML's mobile phone rang while he was in the shower. My dad, who was visiting us, said maybe I should pick up and tell the other person that he would call back and take his message. I was horrified to say the least. Then I gently told him that this wasn't a landline where you were bound to answer and not only that, LoML would call back at his own convenience. I realised then that the mobile phone is not just a phone anymore. And we've become quite arrogant about who we want to talk to.  Take the instance, of the time when I wanted to check the status of sales targets in the North region. After repeated attempts, a small voice answered that the Manager had left his phone at home, could I please call one of the ten shops to see which one he was in? Or the instance when after listening to 'tum to thehre pardesi' some fifty times on my cook's phone, I was told in a stern voice that the phone was in the Police Station as was the cook- he was fined for crossing the railway track and was without a ticket. 

The phone has become a tracking device- well, it is, if you consider how cleanly LoML sometimes lies- saying he's in Andheri when he's actually in Bandra- saying he'll reach there in just ten minutes (when even a chopper would take more than twenty to reach).  It even becomes a playful companion to the longest of drives.  It's also fills in for a computer- surfing the net, writing journals, creating and editing presentations can all be done on the phone.  I'm a staunch iPhone loyalist and I wouldn't dream of using any other phone. 

It's my best friend apart from my 1 year old daughter! 

I can't breathe!

These three words, spat out breathlessly by Donkey at the end of Shrek 1- actually hold true for me not just sometimes but often.

For I can't breathe in a room with closed windows.

Let me explain- I need to have some fresh air in the room. If not, then well.. let's just say I can't breathe.

Now imagine my plight when I spent close to 3 years in a glass boxed cabin with a lone artificial tree for company. You can be sure I pulled my window blinds way, way up so could see the wind/ breeze, if not feel it and kept my room AC on high all times. I also sat glued to my laptop so that I wouldn't notice the walls starting to close in and kept my eyes firmly on the glass door and waved a cheery hi to anyone passing by (it really did help that my cabin was right in the centre, flanked by the IT head and the MD's cabin)

But we recently took Raania on her first holiday and though the suite/ villa was very luxurious with it's own swimming pool to boot, at night we had to sleep with the windows shut, blinds drawn because of the heat- and I tricked myself into believing I was asleep in my own bed with a sliver of fresh air brushing against my face.  However, with Raania one can't sleep uninterrupted and as soon as I got up in the middle of the night - I felt that familiar 'can't breathe' feeling. I realised that hubby dear had switched off the AC, thinking it was too cold for the baby. With floods of relief washing over me I notched up the dial to the highest permissible temperature and once I felt the cool blast on myself, drifted off to sleep.

Was I glad when we returned home to my own room with the French windows and basic curtains instead of blinds where I could leave a slight bit open for some raindrops and cool breeze to populate my room and my soul!

Responsible parenting

It took me quite a while to realise that motherhood is not a full time job. It's not a job. It's a state of mind. In a job, you can take off and leave when you want to. When you are a parent, you can't not decide one day that you've had enough and call it quits. It's like saying you're bored of your husband and want another. True, there are times when a) you long for your pre-mommy days, for some precious 'me-time' but if you're smart enough you can build your me-myself-I time into your baby's schedule- i.e. when baby sleeps. True, it may mean sacrificing a bit of your own sleep but hey! everything in the world has it's price! and b) you pull your hair out in frustration if baby refuses to eat- making you wonder if it's all that difficult to be a mom?  It's really not- and the best judge of what and how your baby feels is your experience.  I keep wondering if I'm teaching my 1year old the correct things. Is it too soon to teach her good values, to respect Gods and elders?  And then a small voice pipes up inside me and tells me - yes, I should. I should bring her up the way my sister and I were.  With love, laughter and respect. 

Twelve months...

Raania turned one year old this month. Yes a complete twelve months have passed since my world was turned upside down with the arrival of a pint sized tiny red-faced doll. I still remember the feeling of unsurety I had while she lay with me in my bed in Breach Candy, just three hours after being born. I was filled with a)wonder, that she was real and not a toy and b)fear, that I might accidentally turn over on her. Of course b) didn't happen as she dozed off in some time- and I slept fitfully besides her, in the same position for a good two hours. What a delight to wake up to a new born! I still remember that feeling of amazement that she was finally here after that long wait (I'd so wanted a girl while the rest had rallied for a boy- Raania had the last laugh- as always) as my husband sleepily rubbed his eyes and got up from the sofa and immediately ran over to my bed and we both gazed adoringly at the miracle we'd created. Now, twelve months hence, I always say time flies after the first six months, life is getting into a pattern around Raania. My day is her day. She fills up my waking and sleeping moments and everything in between. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Lucknow Musings: Pappu

Pappu wasn't his real name. We didn't even know if he had a name or not. He just sat behind the counter which stacked fragrant erasers, sharpeners in different shapes, pencils of all brands and other stationery knick-knacks designed to delight a fifteen year old and an eight year old's collective sense of wonder (my sister and me). From precarious strings of threads hung various notebooks and other paraphernalia which could be termed as a school-goers wish-list. Along the Walls of his tiny four feet shop were shelves stacked with paint tubes, pots of water colour, wooden rulers, plastic rulers, lead boxes (that's all I remember but am sure there were lots more) on one side and great sheets of cardboard, colourful wrapping paper, cellophane, thermocol and what-have-you's. We always took a little while to absorb in the newer products, displayed proudly in the transparent counter or hung up right in front. This was Pappu's stationery store- adjacent to another stationery shop, of equal measure, manned by Surly Man (you can guess who's shop was more crowded).  Of course Pappu had learnt his lesson in retail really well and chosen the strategic location of being right next to Arya Kanya Pathshala and stocking most of their course books. Once this school got over, all students made a beeline for Pappu's shop- needless to say he minted cool money the day a new textbook was announced. The beginning of a new term spelt brisk business for him- and us- as we bought new fountain pens (yes, I do belong to that old generation who were taught to write with fountain pens only) and new Chelpark ink pots- it was only later that we migrated to Pilot pens (most frowned upon by teachers) and much, much later to Reynolds (Goodness! Is that a ball pen you are using?!). Pappu was the sole provider of paint brushes, art sheets, hard boards and files for exams as well as the sundry pencils, pens, erasers and sharpeners. Not one exam was complete without his blessing- even the dreadful Board exams! We stayed faithful to Pappu through college and even frequented his shop when we'd return home during MBA vacations. But sadly, this link also expired once I got married and shifted base. Now that I'm a stay-at-home mom, the only time I use a pen is to write down my request for the driver to buy from the store. My vast collection of pens languishes in one drawer. What would Pappu have said had he seen the state of the Parkers, the Mont-Blancs, the Cross', the Sheaffers?  Why nothing, of course. That was his most endearing quality. To be there and just acquiesce to our demand. Never speak. Never offer any opinion.  We miss Pappu.

Lucknow Musings: The Post Office

The Post Office was located a little drive away from our house, but it was (is) a noble structure- quite like a doll-house- with a steep flight of steps on each side- leading to the main landing and then a few more to the iron- gated office. Once inside, you were greeted by a neat row of counters- each with their teller window - numbered and labelled- don't remember what they actually said but there was one for stamps, envelopes and inland letters which we frequented the most. So we had to patiently (or impatiently) wait our turn in the queue and softly whisper our requirement- for the whole area in an atmosphere of high ceilinged fans and airy large windows seemed more like a library- it was always so quiet. If you had a special request like a registered letter, you had to fill up some forms- on a clean mica table with some pens and a few writing boards left specially for this purpose. No one ever thought of stealing such things and they lay there- unfettered- quite like the place itself- languid, quiet and reassuring. In front of the Post Office were three post boxes- tall, round and wearing the typical round hats- one for local letters painted green, one for domestic mail painted red and the other for international mail painted yellow. We always read the label carefully each time- even though we invariably used the familiar red box- and felt excited when the postman opened the box and a barrage of letters fell out (these were the days pre-mobile phone and pre-e-mail) and he stuffed them into his brown rucksack gleefully. We always looked for Noddy's Postman- like behaviour in all postmen. Many a stamp was bought at the old Post Office and many a registered form sent off to the prospective MBA college. Needless to say, the staff was always polite, respectful and helpful. Such was the courtesy of a doll-house like Post Office. In a tiny lane leading upto the Arya Kanya Pathshala was a postbox- hammered to the wall- and it was here that the monthly bulletin to the Delhi Mausi was dropped in. Earlier Granny used to do it, our hands never quite reaching so high- later we used to drop other people's letters for them. It was such a joy to see the envelope slide into the mouth of the postbox- greedily- as if he wanted more! In today's age of emails and mobile phones no one bothers about sending snail mail. A couple of years back, Papa had visited the Post Office at Mumbai for some work. He rued the fact that it was populated by brash, fast talking people who were always in a hurry to get to the last of the waiting queue. I miss the languidness of the old Post Office and all that it stood for in my life.

Lucknow Musings: Mota Halwai

Mota Halwai's shop was really a couple of mud thrones. There was a gap between the two platforms which led to a pucca room- here he kept the tools of his trade- great kadhais, ladles, cans of vanaspati (remember these were the days pre-Saffola) and the ubiquitous aluminium trays which held his wares. He himself sat on one of the mud embankments - fat, brown, glistening with sweat and wearing only a small loin cloth. His shirtlessness could put Salman Khan to shame. He would often be seated in front of the great fire- which held a massive black kadhai- and seemed to be perpetually frying oil- and here he would design some of the most delectable jalebis, imartis, samosas and namkeen-pare (slurp!). The other khoya sweets were kept in greased aluminium trays in  a large glass counter on the other side which also served as the cash counter. One had only to point to the besan ke Laddoo, nariyal barfi, pede, Bengali mithai or motichoor Laddoo and his help would swiftly pick out the pieces and put them in those red-gift papered bandhini print boxes that we even till today associate with mithai ke dabbe. Usually we would pick just before tea-time for our visit to his shop- adjacent to Munna-ji's- and stand in the heat, waiting for fresh samosas to be fried- somehow the rivers of sweat trickling down our backs seemed to evaporate as we fed in the first mouthful of this treat. There was something opulent as well as basic about his shop. The trays of mouth-watering delicacies, prepared in such humble conditions. He was regaled in many a tea-time conversation- the tea made so much sweeter with one of his trademark samosas accompanying it. Such was the cleanliness around him that never once had we fallen sick after eating from his shop. Now, we buy from the air-conditioned Brijwasi Sweets across the road. The namkeens are untouched by hand and hygienically packed. The helps use tongs to pick out the desired sweets and place them in logo-bearing cream coloured boxes. The whole experience is so... so... sanitised that even the samosas are fried in an electric kadhai, drained on slotted sieves and then eased into pre-sealed packets.  There is no Halwai. Only a clerk in a crisp uniform. I miss Mota Halwai.

Lucknow Musings: Ashok ki Dukaan

His shop was located a little way off the Arya Kanya Pathshala in a street bustling with vegetable vendors, stationery shops, the odd-cake shop, a photo-studio-cum-video library and a few residential houses. His was the shop my parents most frequented coz he was the old avatar of the modern day Big Bazaar. He stocked everything- from grains to pulses to shampoo to maggi to dusters and mops. It was amazing, how he stacked the shelves with almost everything a household would need in a month (mind you, these were pre-liberalisation days and choices were a tad limited). To the untrained eye it looked like clutter but once a customer had placed a request, one of the shop boys would clamber up or down the product labyrinthine and produce just the desired thing- right down to the correct size.  Ashok ran the dukaan with his elder brother Pradeep. It was a decent sized largish shop- about ten square feet both ways- made attractive by the varieties of brooms and mops and plastic pails hung about the entrance. Some days we would see their father- a fat old sharp gentleman- a true Lala in the whole sense of the word- and some days we'd see their sons- who studied in one of the finest schools in town- helping around.  It was a convenient shop- and almost everything we consumed was provided for by Ashok. That, and of course the local going-ons with a liberal sprinkling of news on the corporate front (HLL was going to drop the prices of detergent so buy it next week- or- a new combo pack of Maggi had just arrived- P&G will offer a free soap next month...) We witnessed the spread of the Ashok empire. He bought the store adjacent to his own, and soon even started occupying the pavement with grains of rice and dal.  Then one day we were shocked to see a wall go up between the shop. Both brothers had decided to part ways. Most blamed the feisty Ashok for this wrongdoing as the stoic Pradeep bore it all tight lipped.  After this development things were nearly not the same anymore, as both brothers found loyalties divided weren't so good for multiplying profits. A lot of the neighbourhood sided with Pradeep which led to Ashok's dwindling misfortunes. Anyhow, he continued. Last I heard was that Pradeep had started free home delivery within half an hour to counter the Big Bazaar menace. He had even started heavily discounting some items but Ma had already shifted to Big Bazaar. True, she found great value and variety there, but she missed the gossip factor. That, and Pradeep's smiling face behind the counter. 

Lucknow Musings: Munna-ji

His shop was a tiny four feet square with a wall mounted noisy fan for company. His wares- bread - mostly the White maida ones(remember these were the days untouched by the calorie- conscious brown revolution) and trays of eggs balanced precariously on top of each other- dominated the sole counter, which also doubled up as a till. The third ware- packets of milk- were kept outside the shop in blue or red trays- according to the 'tone' of the milk- we used to get Parag milk- blue for toned and the dangerous red for full cream - conveniently- so all one had to do was to walk upto his shop- located just off the crossroads in our neighbourhood- pick up the desired milk packets and bring them to his counter for payment. If we were on time, we'd actually see the big blue and white Parag milk van driving away after depositing fresh trays of milk packets outside the shop. Needless to say, most of the neighbourhood congregated just around the time of the fresh milk delivery- at about four in the afternoon - to exchange gossip over this daily household chore and the delicious samosas of the halwai right next door (he's going to feature in one of the other posts too) with chai.  The anda-bread shop was manned by Munna ji, a God-fearing Muslim with a voice as thick and warm as fresh hot bread itself. He was (is, I hope still) such a contented man selling just these three staples to the entire neighbourhood- yes, Sir- there was no other shop in the vicinity of at least five kilometres who offered the same spread with a liberal sprinkling of gossip- as Munna ji- that never once in my life of twenty one years there, did I see him stock or sell a fourth thing. His shop had a few shelves along the side wall, but these were always empty- dusted well - though the glass doors bore faint yellowing stains- but always empty.  He had a regular register- long exercise book - in which he noted the wares given on credit and at the end of the month- I went with Papa just to see him do it- draw a line across the account and sign his name with a flourish, accompanied by Papa's rather authoritarian scrawl at the bottom.  His shop was adjacent to a clean, small, White washed house, with a green iron gate. It bore the 'Mullick' nameplate but we'd never really seen anyone step out or lounge about the house. This was a good topic of gossip- as well as the trifle goings-on- which progressed in subject just as we grew in life- earlier revolving around the main bread-earner of the house- to where his offspring had been selected to study- and later to the sad fact of houses being sold and people moving out of the city. Though Munna ji always had some nuggets of information- he never added his own bit to it- he was merely a messenger spreading knowledge around. On the other side of his shop, separated by a crisscross bamboo curtain was a halwai shop, from which emanated decidedly mouth-watering aromas all times of the day. A trip to buy 'anda-bread' was never complete without peeking across to see what was being fried. Sometimes Munna-ji even worked on telepathy- keeping aside two packets of milk for us when we were unable to make his shop on time. His shop and he, had no phones of any kind. So he sat there, for a couple of hours morning and evening, satisfyingly talking with his few customers and being enormously contented.  I rue the fact that there's no Munna-ji near where I live. True, there's an Aarey milk centre which drops in a packet of milk in the morning at home- but no gossip, no warm thick voice welcoming us to his shop. Bread - brown bread- is bought at the downstairs grocery store and eggs- farm fresh vitamin enriched ones- from Natures Basket across the road.  We may be eating healthier but we've lost the human touch.

Icy moments

Last evening, on a shopping spree in Raania's paternal hometown of Jaipur, we decided to treat ourselves to ice- lollies- the magnificent barf ka gola. Oooh and what a treat it was right from the word - ice.. As the 'bhaiyyaji' shaved off the sumptuous brick of ice (hubby decided to look the other way all through my misdemeanour) and patted it into shape, my mouth had already started watering imagining the many flavours plastered across the signboard. Finally I settled for a mix of Rose and kala khatta. The amazing masala added onto the ice cone made it even more enjoyable as I slurped up the delicious bit of ice and liquid down to the tiniest speck! Hubby of course, laughed all through and Raania looked positively amused seeing her normally stolid mum melt like the ice herself into a puddle of enjoyment. Oh, for life's silly small joys! 

Of Sunday baths and stone bathrooms!

There was a time when the word 'shampoo' was synonymous with Sunsilk- in it's pre-highfalutin avatar. It was a simple bottle (don't remember though, how it looked) but shampoo usually meant Sundays. Mom would massage amla oil into our hair the night before and we'd take enormous joy in the washing off ritual. Our bathroom (pre-renovation) was a little stone alcove with a wooden door, with a straight built in shelf which housed the basic- shampoo, soap. It had a bulb for no-nonsense lighting and a lovely stone lattice high in the wall which acted as the exhaust - with those old golden aluminium taps you see only in school books and villages now. We loved the bathroom.  But more on the shampoo now- Sunday morning baths were a little longer, as we scrubbed out the oil and toweled ourselves dry. Those were the days of no-conditioner and air-drying the hair. So all of us would comb our hair and dry it under the fan or under the sun- in winters.  Alas. When we renovated our house, the little stone bathroom was demolished and in it's place was a spanking new one- with tiled floors and walls and metal shower heads and a matching exhaust fan. It also had a big built in shelf with compartments for everyone's soaps and shampoos and conditioners- yes- by this time those long sleek tubes had made their way into our bathing routine- as well as sockets for the hair dryer. No more drying hair under the fan or sun- we could have beautiful salon-like hair in a matter of minutes. Though we were awed by such opulence (it took very little to amaze us in those days), guess which room my sister and I most missed? The little stone bathroom and it's fond memories of the Sunday bath!

A Mother's embrace

With li'l Ms R becoming cuter by the day- she's learning our language fast- there are so many times when she just wants to hug me. And boy O  boy! don't I just live for those moments. I know that she feels secure when I hold her tight in my arms, but does she know I feel more secure knowing that she's mine? Its the same feeling that I get- when I used to collapse in my mum's outstretched arms and know that everything would be fine- all problems would solve themselves...

Home!!!

So here we are- finally- in R's maternal gramps home. The trip- a much postponed and long awaited one has finally reached fruition- especially at the hands of R's Nanu- whom she can't bear for even a single minute- starting her whining weeping as soon as he even looks towards her. Poor Papa! Nonetheless he's not giving up trying- even suggesting that he will visit a temple if she starts liking him & coming to him in godi. Last evening R jumped out of my lap and onto the carpet where a freshly laundered sheet was laid, for her crawling benefit. She started pooping and later we realised that she had created quite a mess while jumping and pooping. This now makes officially everyone in our house a member of 'Washed Raania's Poopy clothes' club. On a separate note- ten long months ago- yes- it seems like a lifetime because I feel R was always around- with me- I had just started experiencing labour pains at this minute. Fool I was, to think it was a cakewalk- once the bag burst there was no end to the misery- for 7 long hours! But all was justified- I got a darling in the end!!

You and I

Just how do I know that you're hungry for another ounce of milk? How do I know when your crying is because of hunger, or when you just want a hug from me? Or how I love the way you utter an AH! on seeing me after ten minutes of playing in another room with your maid? Or the way you look at me with achievement shining through in your eyes- when you finish a bottle of formula? Or the war cry you emit when you sneak up on me and pull my hair? Or how you pummel me with tiny feet and fists while sleeping and I do so love it that I actually look forward to it each night? And how you listen to the mindless gibberish I make up about other kids in the building while feeding you lunch... And how you listen to all those funny sounds in nursery rhymes that I make- you've been laughing at them for a few months now... You and I go back a long way, my baby!

And off we go!

The first of the two semi annual visits to the maternal grandparents side starts tomorrow. This visit has been marred by so many postponements- that it took us an entire month to finally revv up and fly. Most excited is, of course, little Ms R- she can't figure out whose suitcase she likes better- her own Raani coloured one- or her mum's dark pink one- and wants to climb into both to check how it feels to be a packed item. Packing for an almost ten month old is easier than packing for an almost four month old- the age when R went on her first domestic holiday to the grandparents.  Guess it gets better with age. However, the quantum of clothes/ nappies/ washcloths/ bibs/ blankets/ sheets / accessories don't come down just coz she's older. If anything now there's shoes, matching hairbands, teethers and favorite toys also to pack! 

The best gift from God!

God gifted you to me to fill the void in my life which was getting unbearable.  God gifted you to me so that I feel complete with your tiny hands in mine, the way you seek me out at night, touching and clinging onto my arm- I bet you feel reassured by my presence but let me tell you- I feel reassured by YOURS. I love your furry head tucked against my arm- I love your slightly long nails scratching me as you look for my hand in the dark. God gifted you to me so that my days and nights are filled with a peace so tranquil that I feel I'm floating sometimes. God gifted you to me so that all my other past achievements pale in comparison. God gifted you to me so that I am a better person. God gifted you to me so that I can work hard at leaving a legacy for you. God gifted you to me so that I dont feel lonely anymore. You are the best gift I could've ever asked for. My queen- Raania

Sigh

Sigh Parents and children should never fall ill. That quite covers the whole population of the world- doesn't it? Yes- it's difficult when a part of you is writhing and crying in pain and you can only watch helplessly. More so when they can't speak and can only cry for communication. Even worse is the fact that you've to steel yourself to push some of that yuck tasting medicine into their mouths- why is it that what's good for you tastes so bad, and even when it tastes bad, there's no guarantee that it'll make you better? So's life. The experiences that are bitter make you better but not necessarily so... For if the bitterness is persistent then it makes your life a living hell, filled with suicidal thoughts. Sigh.

Perfection

You are so perfect Your glowing skin Your golden brown hair Your curly eyelashes Your full cheeks Your rosy lips Your tiny hands Your manicured nails Your light pink soles Your cute little teeth I could go on and on...  But there's perfection in each feature I love you, my angel 

A few White hair

Today R's maid (I've converted my super efficient cook into R's nanny, given that she had had prior experience of babies and gotten back my old experienced cook- well, he just presented himself one fine day and the temptation to have a few minutes to myself once again proved to be too much, so now we've got a couple of hands helping us) pointed out that I had several strands of White hair on my crown. So? was my first and natural reaction. These selfsame strands had once freaked my mum out- a couple years back I think- she had sadly rued the fact that her just-30-year-old-daughter had about 10-15 White hair... It's all those chemicals- the rebonding, the colouring, the zany cuts... Well- my mum just needs an excuse to take off on my choice of hair and just because I had a few uncoloured ones, I wasn't going to let her trample over my yearning for a fringe again... It's the genes, I told her then, silencing her but only for the time being. Now, when I meet her next, I'm going to conveniently heap the blame onto R and my pregnancy- I've had the best textbook pregnancy- stiff fingers, bleeding gums, high BP, high weight gain, high sugar levels... So what's a few White hair? Eh?

Age

And now, I fall asleep a little more often, want to just stay at home for the precious weekend, let the shower run a little more on my sore back. I also tend to overlook the cook's misdemeanours- putting it down to lack of rest on her part (she travels from Virar to Andheri) and be a little more tolerant of the dust mites behind the sofa (that's till baby hasn't discovered the other world there)... I'm also a little more patient with my sister and a lot more patient with in-laws. Is it some Disease? No, its Age...

White sheets

Don't use White bedsheets. You have a baby and it'll get stains on it. So? I bought White bedsheets because I love all things White. They look so pure. So unadulterated. So summery. So beautiful. Was I going to be scared of stains on the sheet? Isn't that what a sheet is for- to absorb the stains - physically manifested and not- the stains of hard work of the day? I went right ahead and used the sheet. My room looked lovely and the bed looked twice it's size. Life is like White bedsheets. Often we keep quiet because we don't want to taint ourselves with the brash tag. We like to be the ideal, the  unsullied.  But guess what- it's fun only if you have orange ice-cream on your White bedsheet. Later, you can sit back and attribute all those myriad stains to a happy memory of life. Not a regretful memory which holds you back!

Nanny gone away!

And so it's back to only R & the cook & me. Nanny lasted all of three weeks, the first one of which was spent in training her. And then, I caught her trying to fit 12 bottles into a steriliser meant for only 6- and washing R's teethers with normal tap water. Was good,the luxury of sleeping in the afternoon, while it lasted! Sigh.

Nanny travails

So now I'm trying to wean little Ms R onto a maid, brought in for the purpose of catering exclusively to R. Of course, as luck and fate have it, she hates the sight of her maid, preferring to smile toothlessly at the cook and other help, completely ignoring her own nanny. Maybe because she reads the sweetly-false voice of her nanny too well? Or maybe because it's an unfamiliar hand over her mom's- which she's had sole right to, for the past eight months? So it's back to rocking till my back feels numb, losing whatever vestige of sleep creeps in at odd hours, yet being thankful for her in my life.

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In the depths of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer- Albert Camus

Why

Why do you hurt me so much Why is there blood running down my eyes instead of tears Why do you pick at the scabs of scars And refuse to go? Why do you make me cry each night Why is it so long since I've had a smile on my face Why does each day seem like a bother This life a burden Why does my heart still beat Why do the pieces stick back together All I want right now is to just fall asleep And stay asleep.

When the heart cries...

When the heart cries Do the tears fall down or within Is the echo heard soft or clear When the heart cries Does it erase everything dear? Do the bruises take forever to heal The scars an eternity to mend Your lips, they are- a forever sealed Destiny, fate, karma- we all must bend  When the heart cries Who hears it so When the heart cries Why must it be so...

Vive lè greeting cards!

Just the other day as I was brushing my teeth, I remembered an obscure aunt's postal address- word for word, pincode et al. Result of sending new year greeting cards year after year- for maybe ten-fifteen years in a row?  I remember the excitement around the New year. It started from the first week of December when my sister and I would decide (rather fight) on the theme for that year's cards. Often I won, not because I was older and my mum entrusted this responsibility to me, but because my sister's themes were downright baby-ish and immature. The task of getting the card supplies would be accomplished next. Shiny card paper, new brushes and paints were always required each year. With great excitement we'd start off- the first batch of five, ten cards would turn out super and after that both my sister and I would invariably fight and it would end in either the remainder of the cards being bought from CRY or HelpAge or Archies or yours truly struggling to fill up the quota by sketching at midnight. A parallel task would be to organise mailing lists. Great importance would be given to reciprocation (why send a card to great Aunt Meera when she hasn't sent us one for two years now?) and condescension (come on, poor lady will cheer up on seeing your card). In the end, we'd sort about fifty- seventy five odd recipients. Then came the onerous task of slotting the correct postal addresses. Since there was no google in those days, the ol trusted thumbed down government diary would be dug out to confirm the pin codes. Dad would be chided for not buying the correct denomination of postage stamps and Mum would fume about the delays in posting them (those were the days when all of us relied on that relic of a post office and kept them darned busy). Once the cards had been sent, we'd eagerly await the arrival of other relatives' cards. Those, and Dad's colleagues cards would be strung up in the living room- giving such a bright and jovial farewell to the old year. We welcomed the new year in style! Sadly, no one sends greeting cards anymore. SMS and e-greetings and phone calls have all chased the humble card to a precipitous death. The greeting card is dead. Long live the greeting card!

First borns

There will be more children after Raania but there's something so magical about first borns.  They arrive all swaddled - a gift from God, and like a tiny puzzle, you try to decipher the meaning of their cries and feel elated when the result is a content baby. They reinforce your faith in life and give you a reason to live again. They recreate the reality of dreams and gift you the opportunity to dream further.  They keep you alert- with the second-born you aren't as scared/ hyper as you were earlier. With the second baby, you know what to expect so that takes away the thrill of discovery that greets you everyday with your first born. Of course, first borns are also more loved (I would know, being one myself)- being the sole recipient of their parents' love for the first few years of their lives. But all this love and democracy with the parents translates into a heap of responsibility on the first-born's shoulder- to take care of the parents when old and to love the siblings unconditionally. But, nothing can compare with the aristocracy of arriving first into your parents' lives!!

60/ 24/ 7

Mothering isn't a full time job. It's not even a job. It's a state of mind which consumes you all 60 seconds to the hour, all 24 hours in a day, all 7 days of the week. There's not a single second in which I don't think of my first and best love- my most prized creation till date- my sweet seven month old daughter. So much so, that even my husband, a self- confessed obsessive-to-the-point-of-ridiculous father says i am an obsessive mom.  Why wouldn't I be? I've asked for this tiny curly-eyelashed, sweet-fisted, plump-cheeked cherub from God. Why shouldn't i obsess over her? Attend to each whimper of hers with lightning fast speed? Not let her cry even for a second? Feel guilty when she doesn't eat? I didn't make her so I could mistreat her. I made her cause I loved her even before she was born. My small miracle from God. Raania. And about the state of mind- well- comes with the territory!

'What plans for weekend?'

Is an oft repeated phrase if  a) you have osmosised the corporate  culture so well that this phrase escapes your lips without you realising it b) you have relatively little to do on Thursday/ Friday Never mind the fact that since most working couples just get a breather of 48 hours before the mad conveyor-belt rush begins again - they spend most of those precious few hours just sleeping and recovering from the onslaught of last week- and the remaining hours wasted in front of the tv or mall- hopping for 'groceries'. But- it forms an integral part of work-life. If you work, you must weekend too. When I was younger and secretly glamour- dosed on the occasional Filmfare/ Stardust lying around, I'd be mesmerised with the thought that young actresses would be 'spending the weekend with oil in my hair'. Really? Raveena Tandon with oily locks? While I would be secretly pleased on one hand- coz that's exactly how my weekend would also pass- I'd often wonder on the authenticity of it later...was it even possible? When I started working mad six day weeks I realised how important just that one day would be. From cleaning to cooking to lunching out and socialising, I'd often need a weekend to recover after the weekend! Now that my daughter has graced my life, I look forward to an occasional hot oil massage, and just ten more minutes of me-time when I can shampoo my hair twice. What a luxury!

The fullness of contentment

I lie here, with my baby sprawled on top of me. She's seven months old now and her feet dangle precariously out of reach - they don't fit like they used to - when she was three months old and her favourite sleeping position was on top of me- but there's the same fullness I feel when she's in my arms.  Time stands still when she lays like this. My world is within me and it feels really good.  I am content. I am full.  My baby and me.

First time Mommy

When you are pregnant, you don't want to think beyond the little bundled joy that you will hold in your arms, hopefully by your due date. As your due date approaches and you fob off irritating 'you-haven't-delivered-yet!' and 'get-yourself-induced'  all you want is to somehow get the thing called labour and delivery out of the way and just fast forward time to holding your baby. What happens AFTER you scream your innards out and experience the most painful episode of your life is something that not even the best parenting book describes/ prepares you for. You learn to gingerly swaddle your baby, give her a bath with trembling hands, burp her as tenderly as a doll and cradle her head with a grip as soft as a cotton ball. Since you are a first timer, advice flows in freely and thick, and sometimes you have no choice but to accept it, even though it sounds and feels ridiculous. As the months progress, you gain more confidence and are able to gauge your baby better than any well- meaning relative.  The best gauge is, of course, when the doctor gives you an 'excellent weight gain' report after months of struggling with top feed, bottle- acceptance and the stress of unwarranted advice. The thrill of knowing what your baby wants, and being proven correct is better than being treated like a one-sided warm pot of soil those nine months!

Obsessive Mom

Yesterday was Raania's routine height- weight check at the Doc. This day always reminds me of examinations at school, where no amount of preparation before hand would prepare me for the actual two hours of pouring all I knew onto those White ruled sheets of paper. I still feel the same- making baby drink as much milk as possible two days before the D-day and grinning helplessly when baby helpfully poops a huge block just before going to Doc.  This is one exam where month long preparation gives result in just ten minutes of entering the doc's cabin. And, just like that, you're either happy or sad. The tempo of the following month is also set by this Doc visit. If result is happy I can relax just a teeny weeny bit and not be as high strung about her diet as before. If sad, then all my waking and sleeping hours are dictated by ounces of milk. I obsess if she eats. I obsess if she doesn't eat. I'm obsessed with my baby and I love it!

Ephemeral existence

(Inspired by a chance conversation with an acquaintance at baby's doc) Babies live in the present. They don't remember what you said to them two hours ago and they don't remember to frown at life's impossibilities. They don't fret on missing birthdays and they don't care about forgetting anniversaries. For them their world is NOW and it could translate into a hug now, milk now or pick-me-up-else-I'll- scream now. It's so refreshing to live without any hang-ups of who said what when they actually mean something else. So different to live without continuously being evaluated for your actions, to live in the freedom of thought and action. Why do we build fractious Walls around ourselves? Why must we always conform to 'society'?  Why must we be made topics of conversation if we deviate even a bit from the 'accepted'? Why this hypocrisy? 

Postponing Happiness

Strange isn't it, but as we grow older we tend to sway more and more towards postponing our happiness for the sake of others. It could be a well- deserved one hour nap, a quick destressing trip to the parlour, that book we've heard so much about but not read, that off-White kurta you've always wanted to wear with the bandhini dupatta.  Yet somewhere, duties towards spouse, kids, family, extended family reigns over the need to grab that one tiny speck of happiness. And then you either start eroding or melting into the common happiness pot for all. Where does that leave YOU?

Bette Davis eyes

Sometimes they sparkle with a hint of mischief Sometimes they twinkle with a knowing smile Sometimes they speak to me with an unfathomable sadness  Sometimes they look at things with a wisdom far beyond your months Sometimes they evoke fear in me Sometimes they thrill me with your unexpressed laughter Sometimes they are quizzical Sometimes they are appreciative Sometimes they are determined But  they are always full of love I love your eyes.

The first post

There's something so appealing about firsts. The first day of the first month of a new year. It holds so much promise. It beckons you with possibilities, the opportunity to make them reality and offers you the chance to keep that momentum going by further dreams. A vast 364 days to live all that you couldn't. Do all what you didn't. Say all that you couldn't. It reminds you there's so much life in life. And that you, can make that change - to live, and not just exist.

2012

Well a new year is upon us. This year its different. I have the one thing, i've longed for the most and now cherish the most, right here in my lap - my very own baby. From the time of secretly admiring other friends' babies to playing ruefully with nieces and nephews, from reading The Secret twice to wondering how long it would take for my own visualisation to become reality, i have worked hard to get this dolly in my life. I will ensure that i spend every minute of my life caring for her. And that, is my goal for 2012.