The crosses that we bear

It's been so long since I wrote here: and it seems even longer considering how much my earlier posts seem so much different to who I am these days.

How often I have thought of all of you in these past few weeks: tossing over in the night, everytime Nino said anything funny, everytime I made a memory that made life worthwhile, with all its precipices.

I'm an honest wordsmith - my words are my confession-box, and they are perfectionists when it comes to exorcising demons, those that dwell within each one of us, that push us and despair us in equal measure. It is this - this cross of truth that I will have to share if I write about it, but can't because it is not fair - that has prevented me from writing here in this space that I share with you.

All is not well: but perhaps you know it, women tend to have a sixth connection with the not-so-happy things in life. I can't show you my sorrows here: not so much because I sometimes suffer from my mother's inherited don't-wash-your-linen-in-public values, but because it is not fair, not to the one who will inevitably be crucified on this cross.

I have tried - even gone so far as to starting to write a post about other things - before giving up. I'm not a small talk woman (something that has made me hugely unpopular at the school gate mums' club!) and I can't escape this sadness that pervades my body and my soul, my words and my secretly-shed-in-the-office-bathroom tears.

Thank you for checking on me time and again, for investing time and affection, for reaching out to check if things were okay. I'm empty and battered right now - and even the deep recesses of my being are empty and bereft of things to say to you, although I want to, so badly.

And unexpectedly or perhaps as the cliches predicted, Nino continues to make me marvel at my own resilience, my survival instinct that kicks in everytime, albeit with a timing that's slightly off. He is testament to my faith that life will find me once again.

I hope I have tided over my reluctance to come here: and I hope I will now come here more often: to talk to you, to hear you and to be healed by what you have to say. Much love my dear friends, much, much love. You, every single one of you, is my thoughts. Big hug to all the babies.

Oh, the places you'll go!

The Age of Perception

Nino, to Nino's Mum, who is trying to get her son to sleep before she falls asleep in exhaustion: Where's Dad?

Nino's Mum, trying her best to keep the irritation out of her voice at the daily ritual question: At work (silent #$%&*!), baby.

Nino, very matter-of-factly: Is he poor?

Nino's Mum, caught between guffawing and concern at her son's perceptive economics: Why do you think he's poor?

Nino: Well he works hard all the time. He's working all the time. Yesterday (Nino's concept of 'when I was younger' is usually yesterday) he din't work so much.

I liked the fact that Nino thought only his dad was poor, and 'we' were not (must have been all the books I bought!), but I thought it was time to explain to him time difference and the consequences for working for an American company.

***

Nino, spying Nino's Mum watching bits of some random movie on HBO in silent mode, smiling away: Are this kaka (gujarati for uncle) and kaki (gujarati for aunty) married?

Nino's Mum, wondering if her son's moral standards are her punishment for her belief in live-in relationships: No, baby, they're just friends .

Nino, after having watched the uncle and aunty in question, kiss and embrace: They're definitely husband and wife, mama.

The Age of Wisdom

Nino's Mum, walking in on Nino and his cousin, viciously caning a plastic dog-toy: NINO! Why are you hitting the dog?

Nino: He was naughty.

Nino's Mum launches into this great-big explanation how animals can't really express their pain and they're ours to look-after, much like babies.

Nino's Mum: We can't hurt babies, can we?

Nino: Why do you hit me?

***

Nino and I are parked on the side of an extremely congested road, waiting for Nino's Dad to come. Honks abound, and so does guilt, I'm obviously contributing to the congestion.

Nino: When is papa going to come?

Nino's Mum: Bhagwan jaane. (A often-used Gujarati curse, that means God only knows).

Nino: What's he doing with Bhagwan?

Nino's Dad finally arrives and I rant and yell and nearly explode. Nino's Dad catches Nino's eye and grins.

Nino: Mamma must be hungry.

The Age of Gluttony

We're at this nice restaurant for a Sunday brunch along with my sister and nieces and we're oohing and aah-ing over the perfect consistency of the risotto and the melt-in-the-mouth ravioli.

Nino, making clean work of his spaghetti aglio olio: This is impeccable work.

Nino's mum, wondering where Nino picked up the adjective from: What do you mean impeccable work?

Nino: When we do good work at MM (name of school), S (teacher) says impeccable work because impeccable work makes her happy.

***

Nino, pointing to the sponge-like substance inside the picture of a bone in his anatomy book: What's this?

Nino's Mum: That's bone marrow.

Nino: Like in mutton?

Nino's Mum: Yes, like in mutton.

Later that night, Nino's Mum is trying not to smack her son who is blowing, sucking and drooling on her elbow. Attached to the elbow should be the new phrase, she mutters to herself.

Nino's Mum: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Nino: Your bone marrow's very yummy, mamma.

Book-lovers beware

The scene: A beyond crowded CG Road, one of Ahmedabad's only so-called high streets, at 9:00pm on Sunday evening. Roads choc-a-block with traffic, haphazardly parked cars, commuters in Sunday slow-driving mode, benign chaos, and the like.

The characters: A hungry Nino, Nino's Mum on a mission, An irritated with traffic maneuvering Nino's Dad and a very entertained Geetaben, Nino's care-giver.

The premise: A book fair.

Ahmedabad suffers from a frightening paucity of book stores and book fairs. So when a really good book fair came along, I was not going to be one to miss it. I'd wanted to have a go at it alone, so I could pour over the books without Nino's patience wearing out or for that matter of Nino's Dad's as well. Somehow I couldn't work that out and we ended up going to the book fair, all of us together.

The unity of the Nino family however, was doomed given the timing and the various moods of the characters. So eventually I stayed at the book fair and Nino's Dad drove Nino and Geetaben to a takeaway place where they grabbed some food and decided to pick me up on the way back. Unfortunately, I wasn't done. So they parked the car and fed themselves, arguing over spilt food, traffic rules and why three-year-olds-cant-have-chewing-gum. Atleast five irritated and abrupt phone calls from Nino's Dad later, I emerged from the book fair at around 10:30pm, sweaty but grinning at the lot I'd managed to pick up for Nino.

(Nino's Mum, walking towards car, struggling with jhola, and two very heavy plastic bags, phone ringing in her butt pocket): Hi! I'm back.

Nino's Dad: (to no one in particular) She's back.

Nino's Mum: Sorry, it was just too good to be true, I picked some great books for Nino, lots of Eric Carle...

Nino (interrupting): Mama, why can't three year old's have chewing gum?

Nino's Dad (before Nino's Mum can answer her budding 20questions champ): Did you remember to take the credit card back?

Nino's Mum: Yes, of course, what do you mean, the last time was an accident. All right and then I spent....

Nino (interrupting): Why is it called chewing gum, mama, can we really eat gum?

Nino's Dad: Why don't both of you get settled so we can get going?

Nino's Mum, who is quite dejected at the lack of interest in the books she's picked up, turns to Geetaben and says, with big smile: I got lots of books Geetaben, some 80 per cent off! 14 books for Nino. Some to keep for later... some I ....

Geetaben: You din't pick up his shampoo and soap?

The 100th post

My son and I had our first heart-to-heart talk today: we talked about life, its tough parts, the goal at the end of the road. I, the mother, the more knowledgeable adult, talked about the journey being important, the silver lining, the possible outcomes. I was not speaking from experience: don’t I ask myself these same doubts each day? I was speaking from the collective wisdom of those before me, around me and inside me. It is what I feed myself too, this pep talk that I gave him. He, the younger one, the innocent one with a trembling lip, reiterated what I said and went to sleep - the carefree sleep of the trusting. And I, the one who had shown the path, will experience a doubt-riddled and guilt-heavy slumber. He rests, knowing his pain is right, because I say so. And I wonder if I am.
My son is 23 months old and he hates going to playschool alone.
- Wednesday, November 21, 2007

A page from my diary. It lies unused now, having been morphed into this, electronic avataar. Nearly a year in the making, resting on the remains of two hastily-abandoned blogging attempts, with the fledgling confidence of a someone who's finally found her playmates, happy 100th to me. And thank you.

Kite runner

Pliant
Silent
Kaleidoscopic
Round and round
The threads spin
Overlapping
Vicious
Sparkling.
A hundred piled on.
Churning
Waiting
For a hundred more
Dizzy in anticipation.

Old memories
Away from sight
Frayed, yellow
And still potent.
I stumbled on one today:
Me and you
Years ago
And all that stood with us.
Like a stranger
Sneaking up
On a couple in love -
Unwelcome
Unwanted
Unknown.
It wasn't that far back in time:
And yet all that stood with us
Now stands between.
You’re still the face I love:
And yet -
So many new expressions
Like a new language
Learnt on the sly
While I sulked.
Who sleeps beside me tonight?
Friend, spouse, father:
Or stranger?
A conversation of breaths -
All ragged peaks and unending abyss.
We talked of conquering mountains
And swimming the seas -
How did the plains wear us out?
Time refuses to turn back:
Adamant
Like proverbs and my mother’s sayings.
And if time won’t stop to heal,
Will you?

The Signs

My motherhood milestones - feeding, solid foods, diaper weaning, first bloody cut, first dislocation, first serious illness, first serious injury - have all had one big thing in common: Nino's guiding spirit.

Most of my stumblings through these three years have been made simpler, because when it was time, I listened to my son, his silences first, then his cries and now his words.

That was how it was when he first broke his hand. He cried himself to sleep. Nino never cries more than five minutes, perhaps the ingrained dna of having to show he's tough because he's a boy, perhaps because he wants to go back to what he was playing. That night, with a swollen arm, I rushed him to a doctor who x-rayed him and convinced me I was an over reacting mother. All night Nino slept in a peculiar position, only saying, ever so gently, mama, don't cover me, my hand hurts. The next morning, the swelling was there, and I was muttering about what to do as he sat cradling his hand, watching me trying to pour Ibugesic, and he said, can we go to the doctor again, my hand really hurts. It was a dislocated elbow with a muscle injury, we found out later that day. A pop, a cry, and a lollipop later, my son was back to his trucks.

That is how it was again, this evening. I reached home earlier than usual and was pacing the terrace hoping to catch him as he came back from play. I shouted and he looked up, one tiny figure from ten storeys down and he ran towards the lift. When he came up, he looked crestfallen, and I thought maybe the maid had a go at him because he'd been naughty. My eye hurts, he said, dust went into it. I kissed and hugged and said all my silly names to him, but he wouldn't smile back. So I splashed some water in his eye, dabbed the lid with soft cloth, splashed some more water. But this tiny speck of white over his iris just wouldn't go away. As I put in him my lap, swinging, singing, thinking the tearducts will clean the speck away, he said, ever so quietly, maybe we should go to a doctor. I'd told him not to itch, and he was holding back, but there was something in that tone that shook my gut.

Finding an ophthalmologist at 8:30 in the evening in notoriously laid-back Ahmedabad is difficult. Nino's doc finally gave us a reference, a sweet doctor who first dissuaded me saying it was way past his closing time, and then, perhaps hearing my panic, said yes. All through the rickshaw ride to the hospital, Nino kept his eyes closed, the wind hurts he said. The white particle was a speck of plaster, the kind they put on buildings, in his eye. If it had stayed overnight, it could have damaged his eye permanently. Through the anaesthesia drops and the short sharp-scalpel and some forceful holding procedure - he was obedient, quiet, co-operative. Not the son, who I've lately claimed, never listens to me. The doctor said Nino was very brave - words I've come to associate with doctors in reference to my son.

You're lucky, the doc said, you came at the right time. And I wondered about how I'd almost thought the spec would go away, that it was just, you know, dust. We've five days of drops and pain killers to get through, and one very red, but totally mischievous eye.

Right now, he plays near my feet, lining his trucks for a race, happy, singing his favourite song in a totally off-key but saccharine-sweet voice. Listening to our kids is something we all promise ourselves we'll do, putting that milestone at school, teenage and youth. I'm grateful Nino's teaching me this lesson early.

> or <

What is it about love that is so vulnerable to change? Expression, yes. When you've been together for so long, the frenzied clutching of hands gives way to the glances and then to the quiet comfort of presence that does not necessarily register itself.

But when its very premise changes, do you take heart in the notion that it could be worse?



Mujh Se Pehli Si Mohabbat
- Faiz Ahmed Faiz

mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maang
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love

mein ne samjha tha kay tu hai to darakhshaan hai hayaat
I had thought if I had you, life would shine eternally on me
tera gham hai to gham-e-dahar ka jhagdra kya hai
If I had your sorrows, those of the universe would mean nothing
teri surat se hai aalam mein bahaaron ko sabaat
Your face would bring permanence to every spring
teri aankhon ke sivaa duniya mein rakkha kya hai
What is there but your eyes to see in the world anyway

tu jo mil jaaye to taqdir niguun ho jaaye
If I found you, my fate would bow down to me
yun na tha mein ne faqat chahaa tha yun ho jaaye
This was not how it was, it was merely how I wished it to be

aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
There is happiness other than the joy of union

anaginat sadiyon ki taarik bahimanaa talism
The dreadful magic of uncountable dark years
resham-o-atalas-o-kamkhvaab mein bunavaaye huye
Woven in silk, satin and brocade
jaa-ba-jaa bikate huye kuuchaa-o-baazaar mein jism
In every corner are bodies sold in the market
khaak mein lithade huye khuun mein nahalaaye huye
Covered in dust, bathed in blood

laut jaati hai udhar ko bhi nazar kyaa kije
Still returns my gaze in that direction, what can be done
ab bhi dilkash hai tera husn magar kya kije
Even now your beauty is tantalizing, but what can be done

aur bhii dukh hain zamaane mein mohabbat ke sivaa
There are other heartaches in the world than those of love
raahaten aur bhi vasl ki raahat ke sivaa
There is happiness other than the joy of union

mujh se pehli si mohabbat meray mehbub na maang
Don't ask me for the love I once gave you, my love