The Nino Effect

Two on top of two

2011-01-17T12:20:00.003+05:30

January 16

(Small Stone # 5)

It's so bitterly cold, but they stand at the gate, still. Waving, even though they can't see our hands through the darkness and the speeding car, still. Shouting back, even though they can't hear our goodbyes, still. Standing, in between the empty nest and the desolate road, still.

January 15

(Small Stone # 4)

Amid a jumble of socks and unfinished craft projects, a small sighting of a hand-written letter in black ink and warm love. Blogmate, friend, aunt, whale lover. Amid the debris of routine, I caress the creases out of promises and take a trip with her words.

Small Stone Project.

A stack of pebbles

2011-01-15T12:57:00.005+05:30

January 14

(Small Stone # 3)

He climbed across the parapet confidently, his agility belying his age. She followed, shy, hesitant, happy to out of the cold and lonely home, onto the open terrace, winds teasing her grey and thinning hair. Once more he will hoist the kite, tug and pull and shape it into soaring greatness; once more she will guide the thread spool, holding back and letting go, picking up and setting free, so he can touch the azure horizon.

January 13

(Small Stone # 2)

Frequently checking to see if there's a mail, tiny words of affection, a smile, a sigh, a feeling of being understood. Blogging again is a little bit like falling in love. No?

Small Stone Project.

Conviction

2011-01-12T23:33:00.003+05:30

(Small Stone #1)

Five fat, thick, uneven arcs
I love how your rainbow is bigger than the sky.

Small stone project

Ayodhya: the Right No

2010-09-29T00:19:00.009+05:30

One of the thumb rules for solving most relationship problems is that you focus on present pain rather than the accumulated slights of the past. Forgiveness is inherent to healing: it is not to be misunderstood as charity. You forgive so you can move on and heal, you gain more from it than the other person does. If we had to go back and make every act actionable, we would find our very definitions of right and wrong, good and bad, human and divine, challenged.

The Supreme Court's decision to allow the Ayodhya verdict to come through on Thursday, brought forth a surge of emotions, not unlike any relationship knot. I am willing to predict what the verdict will be: and it will uphold the respect that our judiciary still deserves, despite its many afflictions. And it will bring with it a sense of patriotism that even my jaded self will not be able to overshadow.

What is the definition of an outsider, usurper? Does it mean migrants - to countries, places, areas, localities, homes? Does it mean assimilation - of cultures, languages, needs, expressions, fears, reactions? Does it mean identity in terms of time - days, months, weeks, years, generations? Who decides when and how we deserve to belong? Whether we add, deduct, embellish or deface: it is our territorial instincts at play, so in a way, we belong to even that which we hate.

The shastras, literally the 'sacred books' of Hinduism comprise of four classes of scriptures: Shruti (the 'directly heard' or 'revealed' scriptures - the Vedas), Smriti('remembered' lores such as the Ramayana and Mahabharata), Puranas (literally meaning 'ancient' allegories), and the Tantra (rituals and rites). As the incredibly wise Sri Paramhansa Yogananda aptly says, the shastras convey profound truths under a veil of detailed symbolism. Never directly: always thought-provoking, letting your soul grow step by step with your free will.

Symbolism. That part of being Hindu that makes us at once pagan and nature worshipers, as it makes us perennial and primordial, to a time before language and culture, civilizations and its various architectural expressions.

The Ramayana has been remembered, quoted, embellished, misinterpreted and cherished for millenia now. Ram, the just ruler, symbolized how rulers/administrators in an ideal world should behave. When we cry for 'Rama Rajya', we don't cry for a Hindu government, we cry for justice, for democracy, for unity. Have you ever heard any Hindu asking for 'Krishna Rajya'? No: the Lord was many things, but he was not at able administrator.

By going back to who built, who broke down, who forced in, who chipped out: are we adding to our learnings from the Ramayana? Must we plunder and burn by placing our convictions on, not the lessons of a 'handed down by memory and recitation' text, but on its geographical interpretations? Who are we battling here? Ghazni died a 1000 years ago.

The right no on Thursday will be a no to Hindu fundamentalists. The right no will be a refusal to spend national time, tax-payers money and satellite feed on a bunch of hooligans who have been deprived of their fifteen seconds of fame. The right no will be to work, to commute, to live, to love and to fight, as always, regularly. The right no will be to make September 30 a regular Thursday. The right no will be making plans to show our children one of the oldest mosques in our beautifully diverse country.

Lessons for the future

2010-09-16T16:59:00.003+05:30

Etched in black ink, a time of my life that I will never forget. That newer memories will never wash away, so that I don't accuse my own short-sightedness for my pain.

A time when I destroyed, constructed and battled to preserve my soul, every day. A trinity of pain, relief and the spasm in between: and because this is a battle that I can win only if I lose some bits of me, I carve it on my body, like a birth mark, so I take its memories and lessons to the void and beyond. I may not take this body further with me, but this is the closest I came to actually marking my soul. Will I remember me still, then?

Nino is very excited about my new tattoo. He's seen the one on my ankle, but that has always been there. This one, this trishul on my back, is new. He's seen it bleed, he's helped me dress it, and rubbed vaseline onto it when the scabs began to fall off.

Why din't you just paint one, he asks me. Well, it'll wash off in the shower, no? I tell him. He watches me answer the many queries the tattoos get. Permanent means what, mama? he says. Permanent is what will be with you forever: it does not go away, I say, and before I can add an example to cement the meaning - that old soul in the toddler's body says, so Permanent is Painful?

I brushed that answer away quickly, saying silly stuff like my love for you is permanent, that tickle in Nanan's nose is permanent... but his answer shook me for a bit. Sometimes I wonder if I teach you the lessons of age too early in life, Nino.

Missing memories

2010-09-06T19:27:00.002+05:30

If I told you that I forget things, you would probably nod with me, and say me too. If I told you that I forget things so completely, that when I do chance upon things I said, wrote, did or clicked, I feel like I'm looking into another person's life, you'd probably stare back, hard.

I don't know how or when this happened: I can only remember bits and pieces of myself over these 29 years,barring the mandatory sharp clear high points, or dull large low points. It has been that way in my relationships as well: I can tell you the firsts, but I cannot for the life of me, map the evolutionary trajectory of how things have come to be.

I spent Janmashtami last week with my folks, dressing up Nino as Kanha, seeking the familiar smells and sights of Mum's much loved silver diyas and jhula for the little God.

As with everytime I stay over, my father tires to pack off some of my leftovers from the house - books, diaries, photographs, letters. He handed me a beautiful spiral notebook that contained a massively long report of the time that I spent as a television production assistant in Mumbai: and I was startled to realise that I had pursued something with such passion once. The realisation was metallic in taste: not necessarily regret, but perhaps an awe of someone who was once me.

A few loose graph papers had angsty poems about love and longing and cigarettes scrawled over them... and again I marveled at this person who spoke her mind so freely, who caved under her feelings, welcoming her weaknesses. I leave you with one such poem.

The Guilt of the Audience.

I left the auditorium,

before you said all you had to say,

munched popcorn outside,

beside sound-proof doors

that closed out your cries.

I walk back in,

to see you gone,

flash-bulb lit empty stage

costumes on the stairs

and trees in the wings.

I can imagine the pain in your face when you turned

to face an empty hall,

the grimace on the face

as you pulled your best mask off -

Had you imagined me cry

as you prepared your part,

smiled as you anticipated my claps

and fierce attention?

I betrayed you then -

felt bored,

got up

stretched a little,

and walked out of the electrocution-chamber.

Horror-scope

2010-08-16T13:41:00.002+05:30

And so it seems, that the stars HAVE conspired to make life tougher than it is.

My father, very nonchalantly, tells me I've a 'ghatak shani dasha'. And that is as heavyweight as it sounds. 'Since you will continue to remain ill, perhaps seriously so, till the middle of 2011, you might as well develop some grace about it,' he says, without even looking away from the steering wheel. No, there's no chanting that I can do, no offerings, no certain colour clothes that will keep me safe. And do I believe him? Considering that I'm ready to try anything to understand why my body is acting as if it hates me, I'm tempted to agree.

Sigh. I've signed up for a membership with the local Planet Health chain. Might as well save some money.

RIP Tejaswee

2010-08-14T13:51:00.002+05:30

IHM (the Indian Home Maker) - a blogger that I have read intermittently - lost her daughter this week, in the kind of unfair, unexpected wham's that make no sense of life, or destiny, or purpose.

Her heartbreaking post, and links to her remarkable daughter's blogs, here.

RIP, Tejaswee, you have a beautiful smile. I hope it continues to light up your mum's world, as always.

Wisdom and wit

2010-08-11T10:04:00.003+05:30

What is stronger than a wall made of bricks and bound by cement and plaster?
A wall built of unheld conversations, bound by silences and regret. Impenetrable has a new definition.

--

Nino, Nino's Dad and Nino's Mum are in the rickety lift, late at night, returning from a party. Cut to sound of jingling beats, drums and voices in chorus, singing devotional songs. Nino's Mum to no one in particular, a rhetoric state of mind: Who's doing the jagran so late in the night? Nino, nonchalantly, in Gujarati: 'The flat where you will see a lot of chappals outside the door.'

Of all my endeavours and intents, raising a practical child was not on the list :)

Of pain, and purpose

2010-08-04T12:32:00.002+05:30

When Nino falls and gets an ugly black welt on his shin bones, he cries rarely, picks himself up quickly, and wears his scar with pride. Male, I mutter, disgust and awe and admiration all mixed up a bit, at a creature who came from inside of me, but is SO incredibly different from me.

But all my life I've met more women than men, who wear their scars proudly, looking down on those, especially of their gender, who break down easily. I'm married into a family that seems to be made only of these emotional amazons, and I've long faced the brunt of my own family's admonitions, that I suffer, because I am too emotional, too soft, and have a low pain threshold.

My first encounter with the female-perpetuated philosophy of 'threshold of pain' came in middle school, with my first period. For a year, I would have five days of near-insanity, with vomiting, hallucinations and excruciating pain. My mother, who has had the easiest hormone cycle perhaps possible, could only look at me in sympathy, as my father nursed me and my sister took days off from her school to make sure I din't die... because trust me, if you could die of pain, I would have.

The 'threshold' got invoked again and again, by female friends and female relatives and female in-laws for the small things like my inability to get waxed, to the 'big' things like how I wouldn't let my cervix open so that Nino could have a normal birth.
It dint' matter that my body too revolted against pain: waxing gave me allergies that lasted for days, so I've shaved almost all of my teenage + adult life, and that perhaps I was too emotionally disturbed when Nino was in the process of being born. My 12 hours of pain, were brushed aside as 'not real labour', because frankly, I did have to be operated later. It was a character badge that I was not worthy of receiving. Adults = Pain bearers, and therefore I remain immature.

I've always felt that my physical pain mirrored a mental state, that the two were complimentary if not conjoined. Over the last two months, living through crazy-ovaries related migraines, and hot flashes, unending lower back pain and vertigo, to a series of incredibly painful abscesses (all first time incidents with me), I'm now questioning what message my body is trying to give me. If it is trying to increase my pain threshold, perhaps it may have moved up a notch or two under the constant onslaught at new kinds of pain. If that is so, I wonder if I'm being prepped for an emotional calamity of sorts - because don't the elders say that you only carry the cross you can bear?

As I spend my nights in pain, crying in the quiet of a room where no one hears me, at an age that by default denies me of sympathy or caring or nursing, I rage against both my pain and my inability to beat it. It follows me everywhere, even inside the recesses of my soul, like a shadow I cannot shake off. And if I hate it so much, how will its purpose make sense to me?

Sweat the small stuff.

2010-07-30T17:24:00.003+05:30

When one is young, one rages against secrecy, sealing love with the promise of no-secrets, all dark nooks and corners revealed and inspected.

As one grows in time, and gathers more nooks, corners, crevices and cracks, some darkness escapes the torchlight of words and intent, and bores itself inside your soul, so deep, that somehow sharing seems like a task unto itself. And maybe perhaps, because with time, the ears that sought your secrets out, change too.

The symbolism enjoyed by pebbles in our collective cultures is intriguing. One of my first symbolic references to a pebble was that of pain: I remember reading in 'moral science' class at the convent I studied, about how Jesus stopped a crowd that was stoning 'a prostitute', with words that forced them to reflect before they act. I did not know Mary Magdalene then, but when I discovered her through Jose Saramago, I often wondered how harsh, the smooth pebble must have felt like, for Jesus.

Whether for anecdotes about how full or free to keep life (friends and family are the pebbles in the jar, work is but the smooth sand around it); to how to be more giving or adapting; from images of smooth pebbles skipping over tranquil waters; to being symbolic of a Zen state in life, the pebble is both humble, and primordial.

Did you know that when Nino was in my belly, and I saw him (at that time I did not know the baby's gender) the first time during sonography, I though he looked like a pebble, one smooth surface, one part rough. He was called Pebble by friends and family for the rest of the pregnancy.

And now, as I sit typing this, next to a glass jar filled with white, grey and black pebbles that Nino has picked over his years, everything, every symbol, every anecdote has come rushing to my mind, tugging me along, making my path.

What stories have the pebbles made for you?

Did-too list

2010-07-28T15:07:00.005+05:30

The past tense to my to-do list for the month.

1) Watch-ed lots of movies.

Curious Case of Benjamin Button (super). 3 Idiots (all over again). Inception (crazy. intriguing. tad over rated). Salt (from the first row at that, the crink in the neck was worth the second half though). The Last Airbender (need to have a chat with m night shyamalan, and rap his knuckles). I Hate Luv Storys (the first time I saw Sonam Kapoor on screen. Pwetty girl. Pwettier Imran Khan). Kung Fu Panda (love it every time). A dozen more, maybe. Also, every single James Bond movie ever made.... seriously. (courtesy the Bond film festival on Star-Movies every night at 11:00pm. With Nino's Dad, this construes part of our couple time. He's a Bond addict, and our arguments are largely Roger Moore versus Daniel Craig versus Sean Connery.

2) Raise-ed a big family

I'm mothering three boys right now. 13, 8 and 4. Over the weekends, I play mother to an adorable five year old girl too. The first two boys are not mine, and neither is the weekend angel :) The two sisters-in-law and a bunch of cousins are tripping over Leh like perfectly post-card Gujju tourists (khakhra and snack boxes and bottomless shopping prowess!). So we're holding the home fort. Between the questions, and the pillow fights, two school car-pools and the trips to the doc for a patch-up or a stitch-up, it's been entertaining :D

3) Play-ed tennis with Nino.

Not the game. The to and fro of the ball. First he gets viral fever. Then I get migraine. Then he opts for ear infection. And I choose dysentery. Then it's his turn for a bad cough and cold. Then mine for tonsillitis. Now he's at laryngitis. And I'm waiting for my turn.

4) Start-ed working again.

Freelancing from home. Translates into crazy hours and alarmingly little money. But also means a little sanity, and 'private space' where Nino can't scream at me!

5) Post-ed on the blog again.

Did-too, din't I? :)

The Hungry Brown Tiger

2010-07-21T13:40:00.002+05:30

Our teenage nephew who lives in the US is currently visiting us: and as with every year I weave through what India means to him through the fast onslaught of his accent, questions and many appointments.

Just a while back we were talking about the inherent 'hunger' in the Indian psyche, that which fuels our economy, keeps us sustained through half-hungry stomachs and parched farmlands. This rush, this hunger is not something he understands very well: but he is a patient listener, and I'm a persistent talker.

Our collective aspiration is a unique and incredible phenomena, perhaps the one thing that is common to the millions that live here, a common ground that has come nearly a hundred years after we found the first one: the thirst to be free.

Wanted to share this blog post by Shekhar Kapur, one that touches upon the entrepreneurial spirit that is beginning to assert itself in a generation that has broken free of their parents 'successful employee' oriented mindset. Good read.

A Blackberry addict discovers grassroots enterprise in India

A greater ‘hole in the wall’ you cannot imagine. A small fading sign on the top saying “Cellphoon reapars” barely visible through the street vendors crowding the Juhu Market in Mumbai. On my way to buy a new Blackberry, my innate sense of adventure (foolishness) made me stop my car and investigate. A shop not more than 6 feet by 6 feet. Grimy and uncleaned.

‘Can you fix a blackberry ?”

‘ Of course , show me”

” How old are you”

‘Sixteen’

Bullshit. He was no more than 10. Not handing my precious blackberry to a 10 year old in unwashed and torn T shirt and pyjama’s ! At least if I buy a new one, they would extract the data for me. Something I have been meaning to do for a year now.

‘What’s wrong with it ?”

‘Well, the roller track ball does not respond. It’s kind of stuck and I cannot operate it”

He grabs it from my hand and looks at it

“You should wash your hands. Many customers have same problem. Roller ball get greasy and dirty, then no working’

Look who was telling me to wash my hands. He probably has not bathed for 10 days, I leaned out to snatch my useless blackberry back.

” you come back in one hour and I fix it’

I am not leaving all my precious data in this unwashed kid’s hands for an hour. No way.

“who will fix it ?”

‘Big brother’

‘ How big is ‘big brother?’

‘big …. umm ..thirty’

Then suddenly big brother walks in. 30 ??? He is no more than 19.

‘What problem ?’ He says grabbing the phone from my greasy hand into his greasier hand. Obviously not trained in etiquette by an upmarket retail store manager.

‘Normal blackberry problem. I replace with original part now. You must wash your hand before you use this’

What is this about me washing my hands suddenly ?? 19 year old big brother rummages through a dubious drawer full of junk and fishes out a spare roller ball packed in cheap cellophane wrapper. Original part ? I doubt it.

But by now I am in the lap of the real India and there is no escape as he fishes out a couple of screwdrivers and sets about opening my Blackberry.

“How long will this take ?”

” Six minutes ”

This I have to see. After spending the whole morning trying to find a Blackberry service centre and getting vague answers about sending the phone in for an assessment that might take a week, I settle down next to his grubby cramped work space. At least I am going to be able to watch all my stored data vanish into virtual space. People crowd around to see what’s happening. I am not breathing easy anyway. I tell myself this is an adventure and literally have to stop myself grabbing my precious blackberry back and making a quick escape.

But in exactly six minutes this kid handed my blackberry back. He had changed the part and cleaned and serviced the the whole phone. Taken it apart, and put it together. As I turned the phone on there was a horrific 2 minutes where the phone would not come on. I looked at him with such hostility that he stepped back.

‘you have more than thousand phone numbers ?”

‘yes’.

‘backed up ?’

‘no’

‘Must back up. I do it for you. Never open phone before backing up’

‘You tell me that now ?’

But then the phone came on and my data was still there. Everyone watching laughed and clapped. This was becoming a show. A six minute show.

I asked him how much.

‘ 500 rupees’ He ventured uncertainly . People around watched in glee expecting a negotiation. Thats $ 10 dollars as against the Rs 30,000 ($ 600) I was a about to spend on a new blackberry or a couple of weeks without my phone. I looked suitably shocked at his ‘high price ‘ but calmly paid him. Much to the disapointment of the expectant crowd.

‘do you have an Iphone ? Even the new ‘4′ one ?

‘no, why”

‘I break the code for you and load any ‘app’ or film you want. I give you 10 film on your memory stick on this one, and change every week for small fee’

I went home having discovered the true entreprenuership that lies at what we call the ‘bottom of the pyramid’. Some may call it piracy, which of course it is, but what can you say about a two uneducated and untrained brothers aged 10 and 19 that set up a ‘hole in the wall’ shop and can fix any technology that the greatest technologists in the world can throw at them.

I smiled at the future of our country. If only we could learn to harness this potential.

‘Please wash your hands before use’ were his last words to me. Now I am feeling seriously unclean.

Free book

2010-07-20T17:40:00.005+05:30

There's nothing like a free ride, my husband assures me, and although most practical logic does rarely apply to the realm of the written word, I'm tempted to state that I haven't read 'The Choir Boats' yet.

But it's free for you to download, seems interesting enough (if you're the kind that finds young fiction interesting) and has a beautiful cover. Oh, and Pratham recommends it too.

Quote - The Choir Boats by Daniel A Rabuzzi has been described as 'vibrant' and rich with 'verve and wit'. It is a seagoing fantasy yarn that is like Gulliver's Travels crossed with The Golden Compass and a dollop of Pride and Prejudice. - Unquote

For downloading a free pdf of the book, go here.

I'm staring to read it now, so tell me if you like it.

Return to Innocence.

2010-07-19T14:33:00.004+05:30

I saw an extremely interesting movie last night: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. About a man who is born old and dies young. It was an intriguing movie: one that touched upon so many concepts that have at one time or the other eaten away at my soul - and the most incredible solution that the movie offered: would it be easier for us, and for the ones that we loved, if we grew older in our minds, but younger in terms of our bodies, as time passed?

There's a dialog that Brad Pitt says in the movie, when he returns to the place that raised him, technically his home, after nearly a decade. Everything is the same, he says, the way the place looked, smelt and felt. What's different, is that I've changed. Reminded me of this home, this blog.

I'm back to writing my 'me-mail', the diary that I'd abandoned when I found this blog. Wanted to leave an excerpt here:

July 19, 2010.

Everyday, a better person and mother. Maybe I’m not ready to be a better wife yet. ‘But I just want to do masti’ Nino's accusing voice and tears still ring in my ears. And I wish for more from him, just as I wish for more from me. Should I work on the more from me part before it is fair to expect it out of him? Or should I acknowledge that both more’s are against what we are, naturally? Motherhood is not easy: childhood even less so.

Hope you're well. Love.

Childhood rhymes

2010-06-07T14:26:00.006+05:30

This post was like time-travel, inspired by the Tullika blogathon, where I've entered Nino's favourite bath-time rhyme.

My favourite one is this: A rhyme that I'm sure is as old as Yashoda and Krishna, one that my mum sang to me, and one that she sings to Nino, still. A popular lullaby too, it is both proud and poignant about all that a child means to a mother.

Tame maara dev na didhel cho,

Tame maara maangi ne lidhel cho,

Aavya tyare, ammar thai ne raho...

You are the gift of the gods to me,

it is you that I've always seeked/wanted/asked for,

and Now that you've come to me, be here forever.

Edited to add, the lullaby that Papa preferred :)

Raate vehela je suve,

Vehela uthe veer,

Bal, buddhi ne dhan vadhe,

Sukh ma rahe shareer!

Roughly translated, it's the Gujju version of Early to Bed, Early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

Grace is a matter of perception too, right?

2010-04-15T18:49:00.004+05:30

Whatever happens in your life,

Is nothing but My wish.

So do sit back,

And do not question My will,

For I always take care of you at the end

This is my divine message for today. And although it feels good to read it on a day that has been trying and tiring and frustrating, I'm oscillating between thanking God for reading the sub-text to my trials, and raging about the fact that He is, more often than not, a high-handed feudal landlord. But as T would say, any conversation is good news, right?

A year older, and wiser

2010-04-07T11:35:00.005+05:30

There was a list of things I'd jotted down, eight years ago, giddy with youth and possibility, the things that I wanted to do before I turn 30.

Yesterday as I turned 29, I realised that while I still have most things on that list unchecked (except this one), I'd experienced somethings that I'd never imagined. Things on my checklist that say, sistah, big plans don't always work and that achievements can come in unexpected disguises.

So here goes, a list of the cool things I DID NOT plan on doing, before I turn 29.

1) Being a wife.

2) Being a mum - and this includes everything: cleaning someone's poop with utter love, early mornings, upside down schedules, merged identities, et all.

3) Attending my kid's graduation day. (Honest! Nino graduated from pre-school yesterday!)

4) Being gifted something in size L and feeling good that I'd shrunk to an M.

5) Having girlfriends galore. Okay, this thing needs an explanation: I've had several good guy friends, and a couple girl friends, but never the whole girl-gang-goes-giggling jingbang. I have that now, and man, have I missed something! I adore my girls and I've giggling prowess I never knew of! The therapeutic effect of a good 'bitch' session is undeniable!

6) Being friends, as in the soul friends category, with people I've never met :) Some of the most incredible blessings in my life are people I've met through this blog, it's an in-your-face sign from above that's like a life-buoy.

7) Having an absolute random stranger write me a song! An adorable young thing yesterday, sitting across our table at a cafe, penned me a beautiful verse in Hindi, wishing me a happy b'day and a happy year ahead and it was an awww and hilarious moment at once, because I felt totally flattered and felt like mothering him, all in one go!

8) Catching up with old school friends, along with our kids

9) Writing this list. Being an adult rocks :) hahahaha!

While I scrummage the husband's drawers for that original to-do-before-30 list, tell me yours. the to-do and the din't-plan-to-do as well. :)

Zen and the Art of Nesting

2010-03-12T12:01:00.006+05:30

Long before the pigeon finds a mate, she begins to check the nooks and crannies of towering skyscrapers, spending a few days at seemingly appropriate locations, waiting to find out if the servants shoo her out or if the children in the house are too hands-on.

Then, when she has found that Shangrila in concrete, she begins a journey that is instinctive to her. Drawn to certain twigs and sticks and leaves, she picks them, painstakingly, not yet knowing that that choosing and discarding would be called love in another language, ready to build a nest. She builds it herself, before she finds a mate, before her babies come calling. This need to build, this building, this trust in a promise not yet made - is a fulfillment of a inner need, a craving that is part physical and part spiritual.

There will be many trials: many broken nests, trampled eggs, trappings and hurt, and the pigeon knows of these, but her routine never wavers, guided as she is by a need so personal, a meant-to-be that brings a wisdom unlike any that she has learnt.

For me, this need for nesting has come after I found my mate, and made my baby. My twigs are not made of wood or bark, but I still choose and discard, painstakingly, building a nest that is not tangible, and yet one that is real enough to shelter and nourish, and strong enough to help set free. My trust too is not dependent on promises made.

"Your life is your practice," says Zen writer Karen Maezen Miller. I build and I savour my efforts and my mistakes, the knowledge in my weary bones and hopeful heart that I'm building something I needed to.

Money, Money, Money...

2009-12-15T11:54:00.004+05:30

... must be funny in a rich man's world.

Well, even Abba can't make me smile today.

If I had to look at my relationship with Goddess Lakshmi, I'd say she's been around, benevolent, but we haven't really gotten to know each other. I remember, even as a child, I'd ask for Goddess Saraswati's blessings first, even though my mum would says that Lakshmi only 'comes' to those who seek her. It was never money I asked for, it was always, always and irritatingly always, wisdom. Make me wise, I'd say, ever since I was six I think. 22 years later, I've been put face to face with the inescapable fact: what I know versus what I need are two completely different equations.

Nino's school admissions are on: and we've several options lined up, all the lesser of the evils that are home to the school system in my city. I've considered boards, teachers, first-hand experiences, my gut instinct, other people's freely doled out wisdom - everything - but for the fees. For long, I've been torn between knowing what can make my son happy and make him bloom, versus the fears (some mine, and mostly fed by others) of 'elite' groups, Nino growing up with complexes, about us having just one car in a 'social group' where every family has an obscene number of cars for itself, yadda, yadda, yadda. I've always believed that my socialist attitude to life would be helpful in shielding Nino from the trappings of economic status, but I've been told again, and again, that I'm not being entirely practical in my outlook.

The better of the schools are also expensive and my dad often points out that I went to a regular state board school and did pretty well for myself. And I'd always counter-argue that if we removed fees out of the equation, we'd still choose a particular school because it was so good for Nino. So why should lack of money prohibit me from giving my son the kind of education I want him to have? Because, dad reasons, there's no guarantee the brochure will be as good in real life. Be practical, he said. That's one refrain I've heard my entire life - I guess it is the one virtue I've missed out on entirely.

Today, I've been handed a fee slip for a possible admission that will break my already weakened financial plan. As I frantically thought this morning of what I'll borrow from whom, perhaps sell all those silly gold coins that I received in the wedding, I've been feeling like someone socked me in my gut. There's a voice in my head that says impractical idealistic fool, and I can't help the anger that stems from within me, for me. For all the books I keep spending money on. For being completely clueless when it comes to money, planning, saving.... Perhaps it is true: they were right about me. And yet, there is also this voice that asks me why would I mind being a fool for my son? He may not need it, or like I'm always told, he will not know the difference, and yet...

My childhood was filled with stories of heroism, of people who were brave and foolhardy who went forth to fight for what they believed in. These stories features mothers and women too. In a way, perhaps, this will be a heroic battle on my part. I too am brave and foolhardy, so what if my fight is monetary in nature.

I don't know if this time around I'll say 'Buddhi' before saying 'Lakshmi' when I pray, as I invariably do when I think of what I truly want from the Almighty, but I hope the lotus-wielding goddess is listening: I do want her too.

When you have the time to stand and stare...

2009-12-09T13:11:00.001+05:30

... You sleep in the afternoon, cuddled next to the warm body of your child, breathing in his hair in a calm sleep that usually evades you in the night as you race against time.

... You eat a lot :) Because at 4:00pm, there are just too many options in the fridge waiting to be cooked.

... You read a lot. Old stuff mostly. But I'm back to my 400+ pages in a few hours timing. Feels good. Feels like I'm 'back', somehow. And the genre doesn't matter. I did Potter's 7th book yesterday, for the nth time. And I still felt the same panic and thrill when he met old Voldy. The day before yesterday? The Other Side of Midnight. Today, I hope to conquer My Name is Red.

... You walk a lot. Errands. Evening walks. Nature trails. Feather hunts. Track the tailor/electrician/carpenter tags.

... You talk lesser. I'd so much to say and seek in the two-hours I got every evening when I got home from work - from everyone - and now I see and hear my answers in real-time: being present is an efficiency that makes me feel like I've a massive boulder off my shoulders.

And God called the light day, and the darkness He called night

2009-12-01T09:01:00.004+05:30

So what do you do on the first day of not being employed?

Well, I'd planned to go back to bed once Nino goes to school. But my body clock is still hard-wired to the mad rush to head to work once his car-pool departs. And so I sit here, at 9:00am in the morning, blogging :D

I hadn't told Nino I would be 'more available' to him. I told him last night that you know, I'd be around more. It started out with his favourite question, 'so what stories did you do today'... and I did not quite know how to sum up my last day at work - considering it had been emotionally exhausting. I've been working there for three years now... and when I took the rickshaw home last night, after a full-day of goodbyes and goodlucks and confidentiality agreements being signed, this was playing in my head. I'm many things we could argue about, but there's no denying I'm a good girl .... who's free falling.

Anyways, so when I said 'well I did not do any stories, just checked other people's work', he groaned and said 'you've been checking for days now'... That's when I said that I don't think I'll be writing any stories now. And he sat up in the dark and asked why. I did not want to literally say I gave up work... so I just said I'm cutting back and I'd enjoy being there in the afternoons instead of getting home in the evening.

He heard me out, quietly. Then he made sure. 'So you'll be there in the afternoon'? Yes, I said. 'Not evening'? Evenings too, I said. 'Working from home?' Hahaha... my smart kid. 'Maybe' I said. 'But mostly not. Gonna do things with you'. With me and Gitaben, he prods... 'Yes'.

And then, just as quickly came his 'Yahoooo' and 'Yippeee'. And a flurry of activities got planned, including a visit to a nearby garden that he loves. Show me the way, I said. Then maybe you can show me what you guys (Nino and Gitaben) play in the afternoon... and then we could paint that board we've been meaning to, stick those wooden cars.... And the list went on.

Goodnight Nino, I said, finally prodding him to go to bed. But I can't sleep mum, he said. I've to 'teach' you so much...

Regret. Refresh. Rejoice. Reload.

2009-11-28T11:13:00.005+05:30

Gosh, I have typed and erased an opening line so many times now, its ridiculous!

It's our wedding anniversary today. Five years. And I decided to begin it (well precede it) with a fight. Because I suffer from this 'occasion' trap syndrome. And I let my doubts over our differences swirl around my head with cigarette smoke. Thought of really cruel things to say, said some as well. From a smiling face, Nino's Dad when to a rather familiar place, silence. And as I sat twirling rogan josh on my plate while Nino chattered nineteen to a dozen, I realised how I'd come so close to not having a wedding anniversary today. How grateful I was that we were still together, still a family, disjointed and imperfect perhaps, but a tangible part of each other's lives.

Nino's Dad doesn't get ticked off too easily, and when he does, his forgiveness or peace takes a while to come. Just one of our many differences. When I hugged him and said sorry, I counted the 20 seconds it took his arm to come around and hug me as well. But it did. And it stayed there as I muttered my sheepish self-analysis. And my heartfelt gratitude that he'd walked those necessary steps towards me when we were faltering.

I wanted to share this with you - you know, because well, you've had a sorta ring-side view to the venting of my pain - and I realised I'm awkward, gauche when it comes to writing about the good stuff.

Maybe it is easier for me to share my pain. I know it well, and I've words and songs and silences that give it a familiar form. Joy? Ah, that. See, pain is one complete, all encompassing feeling. Joy is schizophrenic. There's happiness, glee, joy.... it's too dependent on someone else to be truly mine.

But that is where I'm wrong. I've read and known enough to know both pain and joy come from within us - someone else is just a convenient tangent.

As I sit here on my bed, still in pj's, a nicely scrubbed up Nino staring at the tv with an open mouth, and Nino's Dad sleeping through the noise, I'm happy. Not the delirious version. The content, calm one. Perhaps happiness has as many versions as me!

We plan to spend the evening with the one thing all three of us love: food. Nino and Nino's Dad will cook, mumma will play dj. In between I will groan about how long the food is taking, how the two chefs only want me to chop and clean but not stand with them. Then I'll sulk out of the kitchen and fight back that stinging happiness in my eyes as I hear them chuckling with laughter together.

Salaam Bombay

2009-11-26T09:33:00.005+05:30

How does one fall in love with a city?

It's pretty similar to falling in love with someone actually. First there's the idea - the misty, subconscious conditioned tinted glow. Then there's the actual tangible meeting. There's like and dislike, strong like and strong dislike, and then the succumbing to the fact that despite and inspite all that you can put down on a two-page list, there's no escaping this person. Love it must be then, for the lack of a more evolved word.

That is how it is with me and Bombay. Or with any small-town kid and India's only true metro. It was Rushdie who stoked the first sparks of love - till I came to see it and got all run over by the dirt and the smells and the people who seemed so 'lost' within themselves and their city. I worked there for a bit - and learned to love the smell of sweat, the pushing and shoving on the local trains, the sweet Muslim cab-wallah-uncle who ran up three floors of the TOI to return my recently-acquired solitaire engagement ring. I remember the first time I was robbed, by a friendly faced girl on the local, how I sobbed all the way to Powai, and how the rickshawallah offered his silent looks and patient wait till I hounded down acquaintances for fare money. I remember walking out of a theater by myself at 2:00 in the night, feeling the same kind of security as I felt back home, the fact that this is perhaps the only other city where I'm safe despite my gender. Mistaken fact, but still, almost true.

I saw its glitz and glamour, its astounding riches and it's quiet alleys of pain. It was the pace that took my breath way - the purpose in the walks of the hordes who met me at CST. The talks of the women who left home at 5 every morning. The reason for all that jostling for space. The need for self-survival. I marvelled at its pride, and I understood my antagonism of how every Mumbaikar I'd met could not look beyond their city - and I understood why. I loved it and then I couldn't wait to get away from it. And it remains, like a dear ex-lover, with enough warm nostalgia to make it my own. They say if you can recognize and reconnect to someone through an insipid and stupid name-change, you're meant to be connected.

Mumbai, I mourn you still. The scabs over your wounds maybe falling off, but I feel your pain still. The pace was soon set, but I honour your pause still. The despair must make way for determination, because I remember your fear still.

--

OJ, whose twitter feed on 26/11, connected all of us who were away from Mumbai to its fears and hopes and tears, writes about picking up the pieces, here.

Prasoon Joshi and Amitabh Bachchan's plea to stop, to pause, to question, directed to a city that tends to pick itself up easily, here.

Mothers and Daughters

2009-11-24T11:30:00.003+05:30

These days I'm in a 'gratitude binge' on Facebook. It's a tag started by T, who said to list what you're grateful for every single day till thanksgiving.

My first thanks went to my mum. Who remains my guru, teacher, friend and general rock. For her calm amidst my rage, for the lovely songs she sings to me over the phone to pep me up. Yesterday I came across a lovely poem written by a dear friend to her (future) daughter.

Henri has been a late entrant in my life - we studied together in school, but never really knew each other. This Diwali, we met and bonded, and I've discovered a dear friend, someone who Nino and I adore. Henri's mum had Alzheimer's: and her struggle with her illness and eventual demise when Henri was a teenager is a major contributor to the energy Henri finds within herself to work with those that society shuns. It has also given my friend a large appetite for life - and all of life, its ups and downs - and her letter to her as-yet-unborn daughter is testament to this joie de vivre. It reminds me so much of my mum - whose advice is generally a mix of emotional intelligence and large swathes of common sense.

A Poem For My Daughter

My mum was never around to give me advice on life’s problems. I learned things the hard way. I never want to be in a position where my wisdom doesn’t pass on to my children. Life is uncertain, so here is what I’d like to tell my daughter.

Dear Darling Baby Girl,

Pick a wild flower in my name,
Wear white and dance in the rain,

Eat ice cream on a winter night,
Kiss passionately after a fight.

Play word games to sharpen your mind,
Say sorry if you’ve been unkind.

Love deeply, but be your own girl,
Feed the crows and tame a squirrel!

But never have pets, they die and make you sad,
When in doubt, wear jeans, they’re never outta fad.

Marriages are made in heaven, but they break here on earth,
Don’t fight over petty things, value love’s worth.

Always eat breakfast, it keeps depression at bay,
Always keep chocolate just an arm’s length away.

Drive slowly, and enjoy the ride,
Visit beaches often, worship the sea-side.

Never waste water, or food or good wine,
Make your own mistakes, but also learn from mine.

Climb a mountain, swim in a river, row a coracle,
Read fiction, write poetry, language is a miracle.

Don’t just donate money, also volunteer time,
Leave your windows open, make your own wind chimes.

Friends are like crystal, tend to them with care,
Don’t just play to win, and always play fair!

Be the life of the party, but stay home when you like,
Enjoy good food, exercise, and you’ll be fit and fine.

Be proud of growing older, and you’ll remain in your prime,
Eat bananas to beat a hangover, for nausea use lime.

A person who breaks your heart, needs your prayers the most,
Believe in God almighty, but don’t believe in ghosts!

Love your parents, but know they can be wrong,
And never ever believe you’re gonna live long.

Remember life is transient, things never remain the same,
So when you miss me, my baby, pick a wild flower in my name!

Your Loving Mom, Henri

A thing of beauty...

2009-11-19T18:04:00.003+05:30

... is a joy forever.

It's true: I've willed it be wrong and false and foolishly romantic and therefore fated to an early death - but it will not escape me.

I remember reading sometime back this article about a woman whose husband is her better (looking, in this case) half, and all the funny and no-so-funny things about this situation. It was an article I instantly connected to - and I read it with relish, imagining all those mean aunties (most of them on the husband's side I bravely admit, and some silent ones on my side as well) who muttered 'wonder what he sees in her'.

I've come back to this situation often. I did not blossom into the proverbial butterfly, I just became more comfortable with what I looked like. I was a typical geek in school - all gangly limbs, braces and glasses, longer-than-long oiled hair with plaits. And I went to a typically trendy convent high-school. And I was put down directly and indirectly about how I looked. And now when I meet ex-classmates, it's the pretty ones who say - oh, you look nice! - like it's an unexpected shock. I'm dramatically different from before - but it's not the difference so much as the adjective they use.

Although I don't subscribe to the theory that things are easier for pretty looking people, why in some case beautiful women are taken to be dumb and it's pretty frustrating for them - but I do know sometimes it is easier for them. A traffic snarl that can be solved with a smile. A crabby fight that just needs a certain look. This feeling of coming home dead tired and feeling better by just seeing someone's perfection. I also know you get immune to beauty when you live with it for too long - but never really immune. Beauty is the best epitaph.

Why am I here, writing this? I just came across someone from my school who I don't really remember, but who used to play Mary in all our Nativity plays. Because she's got glorious skin and is angelic and cherubic. Every year. Who said Mary was beautiful? The subconscious treatment that equates beauty with being above ordinary starts in school. Why don't they have a random straw poll and pick a Mary in schools? Why not the short one or the dark one or the one with the pug nose? It takes no acting talent: she just needs to sit there and smile, so I don't believe talent had anything to do with it. We've conveniently equated beautiful with the divine. Hence anyone else is lesser, mere mortal. Little girls with pink frilly frocks and cherubic cheeks versus little girls with broken hearts wondering why they can't play princess.

Is this the same thing as picking the best speaker for the debate competition? No. Talent can be nurtured, developed, everyone has a shot at it. Beauty? Why that's the one damn thing that's not really in your hands. You can go as far as well-groomed or well-turned-out or well-dressed, but beautiful? Not even under the scalpel.

When I saw her today - Mary from school - and I looked through her photographs from school and I sat bewitched and saw her beauty - and felt very frumpy myself. And sorta felt cheated. And a little hurt that my 'blossoming' never came. And worried how I'd react if I saw my son being held back from something he wanted to do because of how he'd look. And grateful that perhaps he'll have to put up with it lesser because he's a boy. Maybe. Big maybe there.

Ofcourse I do believe that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. I just wish all the beholders were are short-sighted as Nino's Dad.

An update and a bribe :)

2009-11-17T09:19:00.005+05:30

You know the most amazing part about trying to fix something? It's your best chance to experience an out-of-body feeling, one where you're watching yourself first break and then try to mend stuff.

Nino's Dad and I are mending stuff these days - and I've consciously stayed off the blog because I won't be able to not write what I feel: and I know that he would hope that these revelations come to me, in a well, less public way. But we're getting better *fingers crossed*.

In between all this conundrum, we've grappled with several illnesses between all of us - including Nino, who went from a completely toilet trained individual to someone who would wet his bed more than a couple of times in the night. Docs thought it was juvenile diabetes, and that was quite a scare, but that's been ruled out now. Then it was a urinary track infection in the sense that his foreskin was way too tight for him, and now, as of last week, he has been listed as a possible suspect for ADHD.

I must admit I haven't been the most ideal mother. I haven't stood up for my son. I have panicked, got him poked and tested, convinced my upbringing was wrong and had harmed him for life. ADHD took the cake, literally. I was looking at my bright, boisterous, opinionated boy and wondering if he had internalised all our troubles, stuff that we tried so hard to shield him from. And then a few sane voices reared their heads, including a friend who has worked with ADHD kids. She listened to me, poked big gaping holes in my fear psychosis, and then told me point blank that she thought Nino could have HD, but not AD, given his absolute concentration when he's doing stuff. But there's no denying he needs more time from me - absolutely needs it.

So, I'm quitting my current job. It's a huge thing for us financially - considering we're the worst example of credit security you could ever give anyone - but there. Ofcourse I'm going to try and work part time. For the money and the sanity of it. As I took the decision to quit last week, I felt this incredible sense of relief wash over me - like I knew, really really knew, what I was doing. I've been working since Nino was 9 months old, and several of you are aware that I've grappled with guilt a lot. It's not a great job, not even creatively, but I did it for the money. And well, like that really helped :)

Some of the good things? Well, we've been partying like... like... when we were young! Diwali brought friends and family from abroad, then Halloween brought Nino's friends and ever since, we've promised to entertain atleast twice a month - and not let routine wear us out.

As a bribe, I'm leaving you with some pix from Nino's Halloween party. We had proper monster food, a sit-down 'three course dinner' (menu decided by Nino ofcourse), some games and a reading of our current favourite book, Where the Wild Things Are. It was soo-per fun!

--

on an aside, hope you've noticed my updated 'Top Clicks' section *sheepish* . I did that a few days (or was it weeks) back - and it's our (Mine and Nino's) ode to the Cauliflower. Yes. We've a chef in the making here, so what if mumma can't cook to save her life!

Barack Obama wins the Nobel Peace Prize

2009-10-09T16:17:00.003+05:30

I remember shadowing Hillary Clinton for a race that - even with its most obvious diplomatic connotations - did not matter to the average Indian me. And how I was a bit bummed when this chappie called Barack Obama eventually won the Democratic nomination. Then I got to know him better, read him a bit more, understood why people got goosebumps everytime he spoke, had stingers in my eyes everytime I saw him and when I realised what he stood for: for America, for the world, for every individual, if you looked at it in a really intent way. When he won, I was proud - proud unlike how I've ever been for any Indian election winner - and I cried.

But I felt no pride or tears of joy today when I read that Barack Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. There was shock, disbelief and anger. Shock at how much this puts into perspective the fact that what he signifies to me and the world and his country has done little actual, real-time difference, when compared to those who won the Nobel before him. Disbelief that Oslo, one of the world's few 'fair' awards, would spark such a massive international debate, honouring a serving president, one whose country is waging three wars currently, someone who has yet to cross even one major foreign-policy milestone. Anger, because there were far more deserving candidates: peace means and demand much, much more today. Anger, because this award has stinted Obama's chances of making real change happen - he has been stymied by this medal, which will take his every future effort to the bottom of the diplomatic cess-pool.

Give the Nobel back, Obama.

We've got incoming!

2009-10-07T11:59:00.004+05:30

The cat-lady's just gotten a baby girl! yay!

Please head over and wish her, and the adorable Veeru and Basanti, a very very happy first step into motherhood!

I'm celebrating with lemon tea shots (Gujarat is a prohibition state - well, what the hell, actually I can't drink at work), but jeez, join me!

*skip, hop, skip, hop, skip, hop, wheeeeeee*

A breakthrough, and some thank-you's

2009-10-01T00:34:00.003+05:30

"Remember, the desires that are in our souls do not come from the nothingness; someone put them there. And this someone, who is pure love and only wishes our happiness, only did it because he gave us, together with these desires, the tools to make them happen."

- Paulo Coelho

I've, for a large part of my life and perhaps subconsciously, without giving it much thought, tied my 'identity' to what I seeked at that particular time. Seeker of wisdom, then love, sometimes strength, often patience.

Some searches seem eternal, overlapping with other things in life, sometimes they lie hidden underneath circumstances, coming up for air just when I'm concentrating on other things. That is why perhaps I feel like I've always been a mother, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law. My searches transcended my social or cultural status - and they remained, even when tags changed.

Love, of all these searches, remains one of the most perplexing ones. It's not easy to seek it, neither to ignore it, neither to remain unaffected by it. All of us give love our heart, our soul, our best shot: I give it my rage too.

I've been raging in love for what seems like forever now - actually if I read my diary it'll number in years, but I'm too scared to look back and actually acknowledge how long - and I've raged against and for, both.

I seek it all, in one person. Not an easy burden to bear, but one that Nino's Dad wore with ease once. Somewhere I changed too soon, and I felt he'd remained the guy I dated and fell crazily in love with. Perhaps that was the beginning of the rage, of my search for what I perceived as understanding of my changed self. Perceptions of change, change more frequently than change itself, so it was a flawed premise to begin a search on. Something like using multiple compasses, when often, it's the milestone on the road that you miss.

Over these last few months, the rage turned from supernova to black-hole, eclipsing my other searches, bits of things that make me the whole that I am. There were several precipices, and last week, a turning point like never before. But there was a breakthrough - one in which we resembled silhouettes of the same two people who'd first started out, acknowledging our differences and attracted by the learnings in them, sharing a cold kota-stone bench on a windless night. And we remained there sitting together, even though the silhouettes had changed so much in these eight years.

I wouldn't call it a truce. Far from it. My rage to fight for love remains stronger than ever. I don't know the directions ahead as well, but I know that for now, I'm in an oasis, after a blistering journey. One where I learnt to take the wisdom of the wise, and pick the lessons that fit me - not the lessons that were guaranteed to work, just the lessons that let me remain a seeker, and yet, sane.

I don't believe the breakthrough was co-incidental. Read Paulo Coelho above? In these last few months, unacknowledged searches had come to the fore - searching for purpose, for meaning, for friendship, for spiritual guidance. And I'd found my tools too: both within and those outside.

We call them different names perhaps, tools or angels or friends or guiding spirits or the yings for our yangs. And while I found a few, a few found me. T. Suj. MinM. Nitya. Swati. Dipali. Sole. And also Anjali, Chox, Ra, Alty, Broom, Neel Kamal, OJ, GonTB. And me.

I thought of some of you during the 8th day of Navratri, before the breakthrough (I like how I call it!) on Saraswati pooja day. A 28-year-old who din't need her pens, books, laptop blessed as much as she need some names on her blog-roll blessed. Blessings of the divine spirit for these givers of the wisdom that I've needed to remain who I am truly at heart: a perpetual, tireless, seeker.

Thank you. I wouldn't have made it this far without you.

Goodbyes

2009-09-28T11:44:00.004+05:30

Sometimes it's the most unexpected things that can bring you down... like the every night ritual of popping Femilon. Yesterday I just stared at those pills wondering at the automation of the routine, willing them to defend their existence in my life, loud, threatening-to-be-thunderous sobs racking my body.

And sometimes, it's the simplest things that can prop your defeated soul up... like two heads entwined, gurgling with guffaws, a male bonding that I can never possibly recreate with Nino: and understanding a lesson that is painful but pertinent - that there is a purpose in being lost and lonely as well.

--

We gave Sneelock the snail away yesterday... actually I did. Sneelock laid over a hundred eggs last month and nearly half of them popped out into tiny, beautiful, awe-inspiring babies. The terrarium would eventually be very small for all of them - and snail babies need a lot of calcium for their growing shells... something they best get in the wild. Nino and I'd spoken about the babies: I thought we'd keep one or two and put the rest away, carefully, in a place where they'd be safe. But Nino turned around and said very matter-of-factly that we'd have to give Sneelock away as well - Why, I asked - and he said, Well, the babies need Sneelock, right?

We thought long and hard about where to put Sneelock - snails are pests, technically speaking, so they wouldn't be very welcome in someone's garden. They needed to be safe, where the earth is moist, but where water is not very close - because they can drown, safe from dogs - because dogs can crack their shells.

So yesterday, when Nino was away at a b'day party, I picked up my gentle friend, and his/her babies, put them in a tiny box and drove a morose five minutes to Sundervan, a beautiful haven in the middle of Ahmedabad's concrete mayhem, where snakes and porcupines, geese and crocodiles make for one happy family. Trudging through the dense vegetation, in a area where visitors are not allowed to step in, as my dear father-in-law kept a watch, I settled Sneelock and the babies by a fallen, hollow tree trunk. I felt foolish at the sting of my tears: and I muttered a hasty goodbye, but I did take a picture of this beautiful creature that came home for a few days, and its babies, who'd climbed all over its shell, ready, for yet another adventure.

I will miss you, brave Sneelock, soo-per, stoo-pendous, mighty Sneelock. Just like your namesake, you were an unexpected entertainer and friend.

'Things to teach your sons about women'

2009-09-24T13:23:00.003+05:30

I remember reading an email (years ago) by a friend who said that people must all opt for the gender detection test during pregnancy and abort the foetus if it is male, to set off the female foeticide guilt, and I remember telling her (no, I did not tell her she was off her rocker, because I know she din't mean it as it seemed, and she's a very kind woman, thankyouverymuch), that I would be glad to have a son, so that I can hopeful make sure he's a sensitive and non-chauvinistic male.

Well, so I got one. And now CNN's telling me the 18 things that mothers must teach theirs sons about women, and while it's a very trendy (read superficial, but very feel-good) read, they have a couple of good points:

1. Pick your battles. - Oh SO true.

2. Walk on the outside (closer to the street) of your female companion.

3. Saying "You're being crazy" is never an appropriate response, unless you want her to go postal on you.

4. Cooking, cleaning, and taking care of kids are things men can actually do as well as women. - Ditto

5. Keep backup supplies of quality chocolate in the house for her to raid.

6. Buying tampons and other feminine products shouldn't embarrass you: everyone knows they're not for you.

7. Women like compliments and gifts.

8. Earning less than her shouldn't be emasculating. - You know this seems like the simplest thing, but its a complex so deeply hardwired into their brains that it almost seems like part of their DNA.

9. Be on time, even if she usually isn't.

10. Don't be a pouty puppy when shopping with her.

11. Find out what her favorite flower is. - Mine's Daisy. What's yours?

12. If you like her, then don't buy her shoes; it's bad luck. - Damn. Nino's Dad's bought me tons and tons and tons of shoes. Seriously, how difficult is it to say Red, Size 5, Heels everytime there's an occasion to celebrate? Nino's learning this one for sure ;)

13. Smiling and nodding aren't the same as listening.

14. It's OK to cry in front of her, but keep the blubbering to a minimum.

15. Personality goes a long way.

16. At some point she'll be more important than your mother.

17. You will never completely understand women.

18. Oh yeah, and no woman will ever be good enough for my baby! - no way
--

I'd add a couple more, but right now they'd be pretty morose, so instead why don't you tell me which ones work for you and which ones don't.

You know you're raising a foodie when...

2009-09-22T10:46:00.004+05:30

... Nino, dressed as a little brahmin, invited to a shradh feast at a relative's place, gingerly picks up a nice, ghee-dripping malpua and says, 'Can I have a regular puri, please?'

... your three-and-a-half-year-old takes a spoonful of the salad that mumma made, then runs to the table to add a dash of salt and a big squeeze of lemon to his bowl, and tucks in, wordlessly.

... your son's favourite toy is a cardboard kitchen with mud-utensils and lots and lots of Ikea ladles and stirring spoons.

... the first word your son wants to learn to write is sss-ooo-ppp.

... he can tell you that you made doodhi three days back, and that only bhindi is welcome twice a week.

... Doctor J, who's trying to keep Nino occupied while trying to find the softest part of his bum to jab, asks him what he wants to be when he grows up. I hate that question, but I think Nino is likely to say Superman. He doesn't even take a minute and says Mongilal.
Mongilal is the name of our maharaj.

One quick question...

2009-09-20T10:17:00.002+05:30

... as my faithful pc gets a new lease of life, as I finally get around to finishing Chox's handmade tag while wondering why dumpers must always be in plastic, and as Bejan Daruwala finally has something nice to say about my week after what seems like horror-scopes for months, I've one quick question...

CBSE, ICSE or IB and why?

Laying the rumours to rest

2009-09-16T15:31:00.003+05:30

The cellphone ringing on a deadline day: but it's a regular enough call, so I pick it anyway.

It's a pleasant surprise, an old colleague from the newspaper I worked with, he's calling to say Hi, he said. So he said hi, and I said hi, and I made my small talk and then I, said, Ok, need to go, so bye.

That's when he stalls, and there's a lull in his voice, I know he's got something to say.

How are things with you and him he says, you guys doing okay? It's the regular comment most married women get, so I say ok. But there's more to come.

I've heard you guys split, he says, is it true? Hahaha, I laugh, 'I wish.' But the concern in his voice just won't go away.

Why're you asking me this, I said. Well I heard it from someone at work, he says, and all those days of fighting and door-slamming and the despaired sighs come flashing back, sweating my nape, wetting my eyes. It's bad, but gosh, how did the world come to know?

No way, and soon I'm rubbishing talks of strife, joking about Nino's antics in life, talking of life and budgets and wives.

How often did I want to run away? Twice, already, this week. None the week before, a dozen times before that. But today I collect my coterie of wounds around me, covering it with my arms and shoulders and elbows, away from everyone else, who must please remember, I'm still the happily married lady.

My gospel of love

2009-09-13T12:58:00.003+05:30

For T.

--

Did I know that love could be so strong,
And yet, so asexual?

That I yearn to touch you,
Hungry and impatient,
But unlike any other touching?

That I yearn to heal you,
You who I’ve never seen?

Did I know that it was you I’ve always waited for?
The you of words and wisdom,
Of pain and patience?

That my search for meaning
Would have such a beautiful face?

Did I know that He would walk you through the valleys of thorns,
So that I may watch and learn from your grace?

And did I know that for me to heal,
You would bleed from every pore?

If I could, I would push you away.
If I could, I would undo knowing you.
My pilgrimage is not worthy of you:
I love you too much for you to be my lesson.

The lessons a weekend can teach you...

2009-09-10T09:42:00.010+05:30

.... That sometimes it truly helps to have an endless sky to set your soul free

... That new friends - two legged and four legged - can sometimes be just as much fun as Mama 'Best Friend'

... That sometimes letting go must be spiritual, emotional and physical, all at one go

... That deep gulps of air and a faith in more mature powers above are a good armour against most fears

... That 28 is not too late to have your first camel-cart ride

... That sometimes all it takes to let a loved one go is three balls of rice cooked in milk, a silver thread and the feeding of seven men. That flowers and tears make for as good a goodbye as words themselves.

The Funeral Diaries - Part II

2009-09-03T11:09:00.002+05:30

It's been a week today since Ba passed away, and the condolence e-mails from friends and family far away continues.

I remember feeling relieved when Papa called to tell me that she has succumbed early that morning. The last time I saw her, four days prior, she had not recognised me. Her breath was jagged, with the rough, scraping sound of a body that was giving up, her words indecipherable. After a while, she thought I was my sister. Her favourite grandchild, the one who looked like her and was as good a cook. She smiled repeatedly at Nino, questioning eyes looking at me, recognising him perhaps, but not able to place the context of that memory. Do you live closeby, she asked me, playing host, her way of thanking me for coming to see her. I told her where I lived, and she nodded politely, and then suddenly she asked if my mother-in-law was back: and for a second I knew that perhaps she knew, but that moment passed away and I left, her light-grey eyes imprinted in my memory. I shed tears for her pain, for her skin that was peeling away, for the ghost of the woman that she'd become.

That day, as we sat around her body, crying in turns for her, for us, for the others before her who have left us, I saw faces and names I've never met. People who trooped in from the far away ancestral village, travelling in jeeps and buses to come meet her, one last time. I heard tales of how she'd protected women from errant or violent or drunkard husbands, how she'd helped girls get married by shouldering responsibilities, by cooking for hundreds of people, by singing all night long. How she raised her children, on her own.

She died on a very auspicious day, I was told repeatedly. Radha Asthami, the birthday of Radha, the Lord's consort. There would be prayers and donations everywhere, it couldn't have been a better day for a Brahmin's soul to depart. Her last month, by when she was just having a few sips of water and perhaps half a cup of milk, was coincidentally Shravan, the holiest Hindu month, wherein fasting is considered the quickest elevator to good karma. In a way she too fasted, they told me, it couldn't be better. Her soul passed away from her mouth, I was told, the second most auspicious kind of death. As they placed gangajal, and tulsi leaves and little bit of gold wrapped in tulsi leaves in her mouth, I learnt that Hindus believe the soul 'escapes' from several 'openings' - inlcuding the eyes, nose, mouth, genitals - perhaps signifying the chakras. The 'port of escape' according to some scriptures offers a clue about the next birth and likely karma of the deceased. Her eyes were open when she died, and so was her mouth - and because her breath was the last thing that my uncle heard, they said her soul had passed out of her mouth - very lucky, they said.

It was a macabre word to use that day - luck - and yet as I sat through my irritation at the statements, I realised the simplicity of the message - the need to see the good even in something as destructive as death. These were simple folk, those who knew no fancy words that could make it into condolence-cards: this was their way of giving us support, of letting us know they wanted us to get through this. And I was humbled by the love she received, by the love we received, by the love that I received. They knew me by name, had heard of me from her, and they called me by a name my childhood has long buried - and the memories came flooding back - of her, and her warm lapsi, the walking in a blue banarsi sari to see her on New Year's Day, hands firmly clasped on my ears to shut out the Diwali crackers, stopping in the narrow lane because of cow-dung cakes - I would have to set one hand free to lift my saree to jump over, but I was too frightened of the crackers. I was less than 10: and she had laughed uproariously at first and then seeing my tears, shooed the pol boys away.

For the past few years, I'd viewed her through my father's eyes and my mother's eyes, perhaps because the roles of daughter-in-law and mother came to the fore: and I used my own yardsticks of being a happy daughter-in-law and a new mother to compare, to make judgements. And yet I saw her daughters-in-law as devastated as her sons when she died, they cried over memories that were far more forgiving that those that I remembered. I remembered a dear friend that day, one who recently taught me that people do the best jobs they know how to - in all their roles.

In this past week I've discovered a woman who was not unlike me - a woman who spoke her mind, who had strong likes and dislikes, who fought to keep her family together. I discovered a woman who made the best of what life gave her - her moments of grace far outnumbering the others. Whose expressions of affection were just different from what I expected.

Forgive me, Ba, for days when I was quick to judge, quicker to criticise. For my fights - verbal and silent - and for my tears of anger that I knew you sensed. For the love that I feel now, too late. I hope you're happy and at peace, and I hope to meet you again.

The Funeral Diaries - Part I

2009-08-28T11:34:00.007+05:30

Om taccham yoravrini mahe

gaatum yajnaya

gaatum yajnapataye

daivi svastirastu naha

svastir maanushebhyaha

urdhvam jigatu bheshajam

sham no astu dvipade

sham chatushpade

Om shantih shantih shantihi

We worship and pray to the Supreme Lord for the welfare of all beings. May all miseries and shortcomings leave us forever so that we may always sing for the Lord during the holy fire ceremonies. May all medicinal herbs grow in potency so that all diseases may be cured. May the gods rain peace on us. May all the two-legged creatures be happy, and may all the four-legged creatures also be happy. May there be peace in the hearts of all beings in all realms.

She's watching them, and they her, although it is two different things now. Her sons: the eldest, the middle one and the youngest. The fourth is far away: separated by time, distance, words and circumstances.

She'd cradled all of them once: bathed them, massaging them, rubbing hard against the hair to give them the creamy, hair-less, soft skin that is their surname: the fair one. The middle son is bathing her today: he anoints her with sandalwood, tags her with abil, gulal, kanku. There's a slow, methodical love in his hands: how does he know this, she wonders? It does not come naturally to his gender, and yet, he knows how to prop her head up, how to drape the clothes on her, how to arrange the flowers. He's chanting too: and she knows her husband is watching too, flushed with pride. The pandit with four sons, named after the Gods themselves: three atheists and only one believer. The other two are watching too: working in a tandem that beats age-gaps, egos and beliefs.

Om sahasra shirsha purushaha

sahasrakshaha sahasrapat

sa bhumim vishvato vritva

atyatishthad dhashangulam

The Purusha (the Supreme Being) has a thousand heads, a thousand eyes and a thousand feet. He has enveloped this world from all sides and has (even) transcended it by ten angulas or inches.

What are they thinking, she wonders. Do they remember my anger? Piercing words. The rolling pin, the kitchen utensils that were an extension of my arm, and my anger. Once, a hot pincer that had found its way to the eldest one.
But he bothered me so, the eldest one. A naughtiness and boisterousness that defied his asthma-racked body, malnourished from the hand-to-mouth existence that marked my youth, my middleage.
Do they remember the love? The going hungry to feed them food? The walking barefoot to chosen deities, scorching sun and blistered feet? The fasts, the giving up of favoured things, the countless nights spent, stroking, sighing, sitting? The warm, ghee-soaked sheera that I fed them before I offered it to my Lord?

purusha evedagam sarvam

yadbhutam yaccha bhavyam

utamritatva syeshanaha

yadanne natirohati

All this is verily the Purusha. All that which existed in the past or will come into being in the future (is also the Purusha). Also, he is the Lord of immortality. That which grows profusely by food (is also the Purusha).

Me, the shipping magnate's daughter with rooms of my own, watching the waves roll in from my window to the endless. Me, the pandit's angsty wife, raising four sons and two daughters and one more in a one-room house, designated corners to cook, to pee, to bathe. Me, the woman who put her youth and her beauty in the aluminium trunk I carried my wedding clothes in, and locked it in for mothballs and silverfish to enjoy.

Me, the creator of my own destiny. Me, the forger of my own fortune. Me, the mother of four sons. One who I drove away with my words. One who lived with me, but who still seeks a semblance of happiness from a life in which I weed-ed out love. Wife to a man whose malaise was generosity, whose curse was his concern for other people, whose gifts were only for the hapless.

Me, Prasanna Gauri, named after the Devi who is both happy and gracious, benevolent and serene.

--

to be continued...

Michami Dukkadam

2009-08-24T10:59:00.002+05:30

I've always been a great believer in confessions: maybe all those stories of Hindu mythology where repentance equalled a spiritual and karmic cleansing, coupled with my convent education, have super-glued it to my sub-conscious.

When I was a teenager and did things or thought of things that I was too embarrassed or afraid to tell my mum, I confessed to my diary, spelling it out frankly, sometimes hoping that mum would pick the diary up, and read it, and I would be absolved of all guilt. That she was fiercely adamant about giving me my own privacy, is a different matter.

Marrying into a Jain family, and living with Jain in-laws (I live in a joint family: you do know that right?!), I've come to value the ritual of Michami Dukkadam immensely. On the eighth day of Paryushan, the Jain festival of fasting, on Samvatsari, Jains wish one another, big and small, with a firmly clasped Namaste and a body posture bent at the spine, asking for forgiveness, for hurt caused through thoughts and deeds, knowingly and unknowingly committed. One day when you must ask for forgiveness even from your enemies. It's a gratifying scene to witness grandparents bowing to grandchildren, young children bowing to their friends. There is no age for the asking of forgiveness, no gender, no economical or social status.

My sincerest Michami Dukkadam yesterday went to Nino:
For those first five days when I made him feel unwanted, unwelcome and insecure. For my lack of patience; for my inability to understand that his boisterous ways are not as much a lack of discipline as it is in his nature; for exposing him to the complications of adult relations and for taking it for granted that he does not understand the undercurrents of tensions. For my inabilities, for my excesses, for my demons, for my errors and for my tears: Michami Dukkadam, dearest son.

Amma always said bending makes you stronger: and yet I failed to bow yesterday and respond to Nino's Dad's greetings of forgiveness: there were too many currents flowing within me and the froth of the churning waves refused to let me surface and reciprocate, perhaps because I knew the gesture was only ritualistic. And yet, it deserved a reply, because I too have much to be apologetic for, my whip-lash of a tongue being predominant. It is not easy to live with someone who is a fierce critic: I've seen it too close to not know how damaging words can be.

Top Clicks

2009-08-21T16:52:00.003+05:30

I wish I could write this in the dockyard-stamp font that is used on notices!

Anyhow, I just wanted to draw attention to the Top Clicks section on the right-hand side of the page, just below Nino's age-tracker, and to the subject, before I change it.

We're massive fans of whales here: I believe Nino picked up his first adjective, gentle, thanks to the great giants of the sea. His first fact for show-off is also associated with them: they're the world largest animals, some as big as two buses parked one after the other.

For me, it has always been like seeing the starry sky on a cloudless night: the sheer size and beauty of it makes you and in a way, your issues, insignificant.

The first link is the incredible story of a man, who has travelled the world and spent his life, seeing, understanding and chronicling these treasures. I always thought I'd have the balls to do something like that: to not worry about money or stability and follow a dream till it soaks into the very bone of my being, and I can exorcise it. That I din't is another story, albeit adventurous in its own way :)

The second link was the result of one day's frantic googling on 'tips to make baby sleep'. Whale sounds can be beautifully soothing and eerie as well: I distinctly remember the hair on my nape standing up when I heard their distress calls to each other. They're a great way to teaching kids how animals converse as well: how they love, and ask for help and show anger or happiness.

-

I've loved using the whale to explain to Nino the concept of power, and the choice of how to apply/use it. I don't know if I've gotten through to him, but I work on it regularly: it's a lesson for life.

If you're going to be talking whales with your little one, maybe you can try listening to Baby Beluga by Raffi. It's the easiest song in the world to fall in love with: and so happy.

We don't have any specific whale books: Nino has nature encyclopedias, painstakingly separated into various animal/element kingdoms by Naani, and he just keeps on looking at the whale pages and asking me to 'quantify' their size and power. You can also try Edward Lear's A Was Once An Apple Pie - The whale is the only animal in reference to whom the world 'little' is not used, and surprise, surprise, a couple of repeats later, the young ones will spot that out real quick.

I'd loved reading Moby Dick when I was a kid - I don't remember how old - but you know how Montessori believes education must be muscle memory as well as mental learning? Well, that book made the sheer size of these creatures a muscle memory for me. This way, even old age can't take it away! There are lots of abridged versions available for older kids, although, if you can, you should read it too.

We also loved Free Willy: but I will tell you we'd a few tricky patches with it. You might have to face questions on exactly why Jessie is living with an 'uncle and an aunty' instead of his 'mum and dad', and why Willy is sad in the aquarium, and what Jessie will do without Willie, his 'only friend'. Nino literally sobbed through the movie: and he remembers the oddest thing about it today: that Willy's fin was 'bent' because he was unhappy. It also helped him differentiate between fishes and mammals, and why whales can stay out of water for a bit.

If it's a 'compare' day: just 'how big' Mama - see these pictures.

And here's a free pdf on how to make an Origami whale.

I hope you have fun!

Things I Googled This Week Vol.1

2009-08-20T18:49:00.003+05:30

You know how it is, that when you've said something really personal to a someone you're just getting to know, conversation and contact become painfully embarrassing... well something like that, so small talk to fill the shy gap...

--

1) Snail and slug care in India.
Mr Sneelock has me reading up on the uses of different kind of compost, why snails need their daily calcium dose too, and the wonders of that shell he carries on his back.

2) Put pockets.
What's the opposite of pick pockets? Apparently '20 former pickpockets in London have turned over a new leaf and are now trawling tourist sites slipping money back into unsuspecting pockets' - atleast the economic crisis brought about some good.

3) B12 deficiency.
Nino might have one: he's been very fatigued lately, and has the most perplexing nerve-cramps: I thought only pregnant women or middle-agers got them. His toes just tremor apart every time he has a bath: and he's up most nights with nerve pain in his calves. Apparently drinking RO water gives your a B12 deficiency. More digging needed.

4) Merritt Malloy
Her Epitaph reminds me of my grandmum. She passed away last August.

5) River cruises on the Bramhaputra.
Beautiful, untouched and incredible. Also, unaffordable at this point in time. Still, I looked and imagined all the conversations I'd have with Nino on the cruise boats, on seeing the one-horned rhino, on waking up to fresh fish on the deck. And the pictures I'd take.

--

The inspiration of the list comes from here.

Our newest family member

2009-08-18T09:48:00.002+05:30

Meet Mr Sneelock, our mighty African snail. He (well Nino insists he is a he, although snails can be hermaphrodites) loves potatoes, moneyplant leaves, lettuce and doodhi, in that order. He's a very curious guy and makes a lot of poo for a little fella. Slightly bigger than my palm when's he out and in his form, Mr Sneelock, says Nino, loves boys who do acrobatics. He also loves to walk, sip water from his leaf-shaped private pool and pee on the walls. Plus he has 'suction cups' on his belly, just like Spiderman, adds Nino.

He's our newest family member: and perfect entertainment for too hot weekend afternoons.

Footloose Fridays - IV

2009-07-24T11:55:00.004+05:30

I've never really wanted to relive my life: transport myself to my childhood/adolescence/teenage/college life with a sigh, saying life was much simpler then.

I've evolved several times over in my life: physically, emotionally and spiritually - and each phase has its own particular memories, good and bad, humourous and absolutely cringe-worthy. I wouldn't want to trade what I am now for what I was, neither would I want to wish away what I was because that's part of the ever-shifting puzzle called identity.

But there are times, and oh yes there are, especially when you've just read someone whose words act like a time-travel portal, when you wish, you could chuck it all away, for a few moments of footloose, flirtatious fun.

What does a time-trip mean to you? Is it a song, maybe a season, food, or an occasion? Is it someone else's present that sends you spiralling into nostalgia? Your turn to spill the secrets!

As for me, I did the jig in the bathroom to this, giving gravity a pudgy miss. Enjoy, loud, really loud, please.

--

For the original Footloose Fridays, go here.

The crosses that we bear

2009-07-13T13:13:00.004+05:30

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!

2009-06-16T11:46:00.004+05:30

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

2009-06-08T16:18:00.003+05:30

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

2009-05-25T17:20:00.003+05:30

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

2009-05-22T16:05:00.004+05:30

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

2009-05-18T21:33:00.003+05:30

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 <

2009-05-18T16:52:00.006+05:30

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

How spring cleaning brought out the south Indian in me

2009-05-14T16:02:00.003+05:30

Okay, so you can say I've been inspired by these two lovely ladies: OJ on the Boy who brings out the American in her, and the tempesty BrownGirls on he who brings out the UPwali in her.

First up, it's very difficult to put in me in any demographic. Apart from brown and female. And mommy. And foodie. Wait. I just rubbished my premise, din't I?

What I mean is, no one really knows that I'm half Gujju and half south Indian. I know, I know, south Indian is five states, but what do you call a lineage that is Mysore Ayyangar, claims to be both Kannadiga and Tam Brahm, and speaks a dialect that no one in the two states understands completely?

What people do know is that I'm neither Gujju nor south Indian. I stand up to bullies for either, for neither and for nor. I can rave endlessly on varied regional cuisines and cultures, diss anything remotely generalised (Sardars have a great appetite for sex, you say, ha! ask me, and the like) You don't say, they tell me, when I let them in on the secret. They don't call me Mother India behind my back for nothing. It's not always a good thing: that I don't really fit in with sets of cousins on either side is a post for another day.

For now, let me tell you, that I'm slightly blue (yes, yes, post-menstrual cravings for progesterone and all that), plus I miss my in-laws (yes, yes, they're away, it's been almost two months, I have no one to talk to at home, I miss my mum-in-law and I almost sob when I see their empty room, so go on, shoot me) and I seem to have sauntered into a spring-cleaning epidemic on the web. Every site I turn to, has spring cleaning advice: for home, for relationships, even for your ovaries.

And while it may not always seem so, I am quite sane. I do know what I can't possibly spring clean without a miracle: my home, my relationships and my ovaries. So I picked the one thing that is totally and completely in my control: the obese 'Favourites' section in my browser.

'Favourites' is my prescription for reality: all that I am, all that I want to be, all that I want to be seen wearing, all that I'd rather not be seen wearing publicly, the books that should have been written by me, the jokes that save the day, the stuff I want to do with Nino, the stuff I want to do when I'm rich and don't have to work for a living - part escapism, part existential, part inspiring, part worrying, part fun, part day dreaming.

On day two of the mammoth task, I've been told that my lilt has turned surprisingly Mami, even as my ay-chch has turned into hech-ch, (perhaps why I misheard the H Stern link and keyed in Heads Turn), why I'm looking into tayir sadam recipes instead of the mutton roganjosh that I usually turn to on Thursdays in prep for the weekends. Or why Chox is the only gujju on my blog roll, as compared to Suj, T, Nithya, MinM, Broom, GonTB, SGM, Ra...

My dad's DNA is going to be seriously upset.

--

Trust the son to turn the cart upside down. Staunchly Gujju, he insists on saying eh-pple, jay-c-b, and his latest favourite: jokering. Hho-nest. He even likes jaggery in his dal. *shudders*

A Grasshopper's Pilgrimage

2009-05-09T12:49:00.003+05:30

For Manju.

I don't want to call this a book review: I'm not reviewing Manjushree's book A Grasshopper Pilgrimage, as much as I'm writing about how the book has affected me. I am also heavily biased: I love this woman, and like with all love, my vision is fixed on the things that uplift my soul, that reach into a part of me that life otherwise will just pass by. Is that why love is such a necessity? It brings those parts of your soul alive that otherwise lie uncharted, unmapped, undiscovered, it makes you notice things about yourself, and in a very Jerry McGuire way, it completes you.

A Grasshopper's Pilgrimage is a love-story: the love between a woman and a mountain. There is so much in the book that is metaphorical, so much that is symbolic, that at the end it is no longer the woman and the mountain, it is you and me, it is that boy and that girl, it is her and he.

There have been several books that have become transcribed in my subconscious, Midnight's Children being one of them. This book also did the same, maybe because it came at a time when I was tiring of my direction-less search for emotional identity, for the meaning of spirituality as it applied to me, for my connect with the purpose of my existence.

Gopika, the novel's lead character, is both relate-able and a revelation. First on, the author deserves a kudos for writing a genre that has been classified as 'fiction-spiritual', a first of sorts. The search for the physical and tangible itself is so confusing, that the thought of a woman who wants that thing that sets her soul afire, is both brave and foolhardy.

There are several instances when Gopika speaks out to the reader, when she spoke out to me, the medium of typed words on paper dissolving with the frankness of her thoughts, with the weight of her questions. We're all screws in the big machine of life, she says. Just screws. Turning clock-wise and anti clock-wise, part in destiny, part in our own efforts.

Her parents, her sister, Sujatha her friend in Bombay, her grandmother and her lover - these have all been beautifully detailed, fleshed out so that you almost feel them breathing down your neck, you can hear their opinions as you prepare yourself to make the decisions that Gopika made. They even word the same doubts, the same questions that arise in your head as you read Gopika's seemingly unshakable faith in her search for something she doesn't know, but can only feel.

And yet, these characters remain inspiring, because the reader wants to read about people he/she has not experienced. Gopika's parents are communists who don't believe in religion: a perfect backdrop explanation for a young woman who is so easily able to separate religion and spirituality. Her grandparents are adorable and taxing at the same go: but her grandmum is a jewel, one who eventually returns to tell Gopika her path is not all that different from others. That she dishes out advice on how to best achieve an orgasm, and makes food that is a balm for a wanderer's soul, is among the facets of this myriad and wonderful character. Fareed is adorable - a man who loves Gopika with his soul, who holds on and keeps his distance, not out of habit or circumstance, but out of understanding, out of respect. There is none of the teenage-ish trappings of a relationship, there is none of the struggles that make the early ground of an affair. There is the mating of two evolved beings, you're allowed a sneak into a love where two souls come prepared, come aware, come confident.

Gopika's life is not elitist - she struggles with love and money and despair and direction - including all of us in her challenges - it is different because she's trying to put a finger on what drives her, who drives her. Gopika is astoundingly trusting of others ofcourse: and you wonder if she has no fear to begin with, or if that is a requisite for this indescribable fountain of knowledge and love that she is looking for. A couple of places in the book, my mum popped up in my head, muttering about how late it was in the night, about the generalisations of the hippies and the god-men that most of us have been fed upon.

Her love-making is both erotic and poignant, her conversations like the millions you have everyday, or eavesdrop upon. Her infatuations are spiritual, her disillusions are real. There is a beautiful sense of the place when she talks about her beloved mountain, it is almost as if you can feel the sand grains and tar below your feet too. It is also guarded against pop-spirituality: against fasting and penance and the trappings of religion. She is a bohemian spirit - and there are no drugs or smoking or medication that she uses to get here. Her inhibitions have not been shed under duress or a wannabe state of mind, there simply don't exist for the same reasons as they do for us.

There is much dry wit and humour through the book, delightful sketches of holy men on the roadside, of the rigours of an American visa, of frequent load shedding, both electricity induced and emotional. This sort of forms a backbone of Gopika's life: her sarcasm for herself and others, a gentle ribbing that lightens a sombre mission.

There is no grandiose word-work here: no intellectual word play, no perception-altering philosophy. There is plenty of food for thought and plenty of questions that come in once the book is over. Isn't that half the work done? That once you put the book down, it leaves you with questions that are beyond the marketing yardsticks of 'shelf-life'?

What struck me the most was how simple life can be when you know what you want - no, not simple in the sense that everything falls in its place, that it definitely doesn't, not even with Gopika - but maybe it's like this: you've got blinkered vision set on your goal. And one of Gopika's greatest teachings is this: this goal is achievable, you've neared the destination by the very virtue of realising you're headed that way.

They say the artist bleeds his soul into every creation, they say the first book is always autobiographical. Manju has been brave enough to say her book is almost completely autobiographical (70 per cent, if you must have exacts). It makes you wonder at the courage this woman has to strip her soul and her search, leave it hands of unknown readers who can construe whatever they will, who might just look at her wanderings as trampling. And then you realise, she is Gopika, and the inhibitions that hold you back, have already been faced, labelled and set aside for another day's lessons, by her.

Around the world in 80 clicks

2009-05-04T11:46:00.002+05:30

First, apologies. I haven't been away, just in a place within myself where I'm observing my own life as a spectator, part amazed, part amused, partly soaked in hindsight wisdom.

It started last month, when I turned 28. I've never been a happy b'day person, and I generally use the days and the lead up days to the d-day to maul over my spiritual and emotional achievements (lack of them, mostly) in the year. It irritates the husband to no end, and I must admit it can be quite masochistic. This year, something changed. Maybe the butterfly finally bloomed free of the tightly wrapped cocoon. This year, I was at peace. With myself. With the fact that it was a Monday, that meant I spent the evening alone with Nino, Nino's Dad busy at work. I won't say I'm content with who I am, but I will say, I've realised I'm walking down the right path, and someday, I will get to that answer. I don't know what sparked this new me, but I do know all of you had a role to play. Really. And I knew you'd be here when I get back. Hugs girls.

--
Now, for the tag.

This is a tag from VJ, Chox, Tharini and Momstir. It originated at HBM's who is hoping to connect blogging Mothers all over the world in 80 clicks.

Here are the rules: Just write a post of your own (5 things that you love about being a mom) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country - and link back here and leave a comment.

5 Things I love about being Nino's Mum:

1) I get to play creator here, for real.
I've never experienced such an utter and unquestioning power to actually 'make' a person as I seem fit. True, there is nature to contend with, but there's so much shaping left to me, with all my limitations, that even as I add and chip away, marvel at my child's growing body and soul, it's a heady feeling, one that is inspiring, humbling and absolutely irreplaceable. Before you think I'm a power-hungry freak, I've a few good reasons coming up! This absolute power had made me a better human being, one who admits her own limitations, one who thinks twice about passing on a conditioning, a blinkered view.

2) A fresh set of senses.
Know that phrase, seeing through a new set of eyes? For me, being a mum has been exactly like that. I look/feel/hear/touch/experience everything anew, seeing it through mine, my past's and Nino's eyes, all in one go.

3) A heightened quest for spirituality.
No, not god-fearing. (Although you guys would crack up silly if you saw me driving, because I chant every know hymn, sloka, mantra from every religion I know. And I chant it loudly. Somedays Nino can be heard chanting it too, as he aligns his train tracks for a 'really big accident, mumma!') Let's just say my quest for spirituality, that has so far been more Signs and Contact kind, is as much looking inwards these days. It's something I read at Tharini's a few week's back: about being blessed with the kind of child you were intended to raise. Someone who'd push you, make you discover new areas of yourself, stock up on those nice virtues you'd previously given a miss (aka patience). Something like that.

4) I'm the cool one.
I'm looked up to, I make the best dough ornaments, I make good orca drawings that make up for my 'rubbish' robots, I may sing off-key, but I'm still better than Uncle Raffi. I cook well sometimes too :) Plus, ever since Nino discovered that Superman moonlighted as a journalist, I couldn't get any cooler.

5) I've re-learnt how to make friends.
I wouldn't be here if I hadn't happened to become Nino's mum, right?!

--

Most of you have already been tagged with this, so I'm going to look around for five mommy bloggers to tag. In the mean, I tag

Jo in Japan
Laura in the US

I've been tag-ed and I'm contagious

2009-04-24T14:18:00.003+05:30

VJ, Chox and Tharini tagged me last week to list the five things I love about being a mum, and I just want to tell the girls that I'm going to do this tag pretty soon, just as soon as I'm done doing the things I seem to be doing endlessly these days.

I've almost written and re-written the post in my head, mostly while drumming my fingers on the irritatingly insufficient Times of India while on the pot, but getting the right words to queque up for the keyboard is taking a while. Hunting for five women in five different countries is part of the problem, but only a teeny part of it. Like the rai ka dana in my sabzi this afternoon. Sigh.

Chin up, Nino's Mum and girls, thankoo. *tight hug*

In ode to the zzzs

2009-04-16T14:10:00.003+05:30

Have you ever had that feeling that you're ready to crash, curl up and sleep till eternity, but you have no place to do it? It happens to me a lot - always in the middle of the afternoons on days that define the term 'bone tired', usually in the middle of the week when the deadlines are over and the next ones have not begun looming yet.

What keeps me in my fake-leather swivel chair, surfing the net to keep my eyes open, is that I don't want to go home. I can't crash there: Nino's nap times are non-existent, and going home in the middle of the day is like a treat for him: he wants to do so much stuff with me, I can never get over the guilt of closing the door on his face and going to bed. Who am I kidding. Closing the door on his face? He'll barge right in with his questions. (Did I tell you the cousins call him Mr 20 Questions? I think its mean, but sometimes I say it to him too.)

My bachelor pads were the perfect places for a snooze. Dark, empty, music if you please, with just the right small snack left in the larder. Quiet and devoid of people and children. In shady lanes of old localities, far away from the traffic and yet, close enough to hail an autorickshaw. Friends would pop by all the time, looking to recuperate bodies and minds and sometimes weary souls. For two hours, and a cup of tea shared with me. I often left my key under the doormat: I worked long hours in college and I knew the importance of an afternoon nap, given the emotional torments of a not-yet-adult heart.

I miss those places and spaces today, miss having something similar, not really mine, but open to me, to use. To curl up and sleep underneath blind-darkened windows, not worry about the cook, the kid, the boss or the help. Life can be faced after it's 4:00pm.

Everyone in Mumbai, listen up!

2009-04-14T12:28:00.005+05:30

A dear blogger friend has just written her first novel and it's being released in Mumbai at the Juhu Crossword tomorrow.

Manjushree Abhinav's A Grasshopper's Pilgrimage, which I'm still reading, having picked it up on Sunday at a delightful read-meet which left me in tears of joy, is a beautifully honest book. It's resonance with my current state of soul was unnerving and humbling - it joins me and defines parts of me in my quest for labelling this 'quest'/'search' for the purpose of my being, that has gnawed at my soul since I could think and pen words down. The writing is so simple and lyrical, you'd think Manju is speaking to you from across the table over some hot coffee. It's the story of a young woman's search for spirituality and her love for a mountain. I haven't read it entirely yet, and I'm hoping to do a post on both - the book and the experience of the read meet.

In the mean, if you can, please go see her and say hi at the launch. It's at 7 pm, on Wednesday, 15th April, at Crossword, Dynamix Mall, Near Chandan, Juhu, Bombay.

You're likely to meet a mix of celebrities - Manju's a documentary filmmaker plus her sibling is a best selling author herself - but you're most likely to see a beautiful woman with auburn hair, most probably in a white sari and a big bindi, her face lit up with the most benign smile ever and wet, expectant, eyes. Give her a hug from me.

Summer Camp for kids in Ahmedabad

2009-04-14T11:42:00.003+05:30

CEE, the Centre of Environment Education, is one of Ahmedabad's most cherished institutions. I've had several chances of working with the people there, and the campus, designed by the delightful Professor Neelkanth, is a treat to explore. With its ramps and dense foilage, the campus can transform into an oasis of quiet. Its easy for me to believe I'm trekking the Amazon here, so I assume Nino's imagination runs riot here. I take Nino there very often: they've a pond full of mouth-breeders, and Nino can stand and marvel at them for hours together. 'They really bring up their babies in their mouth?,' he asks everytime we go there, subconsciously lingering his gaze at my mouth.

CEE runs some fantastic camps for kids in the summer, and for all my enthusiasm and Nino's as well about the trees and the birds and the bees, the camps are for kids aged 6 years and older. Filled with hours exploring flora and art, there can't be a more satisfying pursuit in the city's notoriously hot summer afternoons.

If you're going, do let us know what it was like!

A selective epitaph

2009-04-04T13:45:00.003+05:30

While compiling the details of a calender of prints by Indian masters, I was intrigued by the lack of details about the artist, P.V. Dongare.

A quick google of him yielded little. As I struggled to come to terms with the fact that I'd several paras on the other artists including Amrita Shergill, Chugati, Raja Ravi Varma, B Prabha and NS Bendre, but none on Dongare, I expressed some of my angst to the team.

Well if he's not on Google, he's probably not that important, they said.

While my glare was enough to silence that irreverential thought, I was left wondering if google is the latest of the hierarchies, the new great divider. Obscurity, importance, popularity, worth and influence - all decided by the a simple statement: are you on google?

--

ps: Anyone have any info on PV Dongare? One of the few advantages of this new hierarchy is that it can be suitably altered. I want to make sure he's on google.

The fear of fear itself

2009-04-02T13:02:00.006+05:30

Motherhood is synonymous with change, and with that I mean more than our bodies and schedules.

With Nino, one conscious decision I've made, is to never transfer any of my fears onto him. No stray dogs, creepy crawlies, leaping off the bed so precariously close to the wall, kind of fear. Also, water. And running so fast that the only thing that is likely to stop him is gravity itself.

I'm wondering today if I made this choice because my parents were very effective in transferring their fears onto me. Both, Mum and Dad. I can't swim, even though I learnt how to. I've never fallen down hard in life (literally, although life tends to even things out emotionally) - yes, never more than one scrape. Mum's fear of animals transferred onto my sister, who can actually have a meltdown when faced with an exuberant pet dog. And this is inspite of the fact that Mum is one of those people whose childhood was filled with more animals than people. My grandad was a veterinary doctor and every possible animal lived in their huge government house.

One of the biggest fears ever, for both me and the elder sibling, is driving. My sister conquered that sort of, when she moved to Gurgaon, with a husband who's travelling for half the month.

I conquered that fear three days back. Don't be mistaken. I know how to drive, I've even got my license, even though it's long expired. I dread driving. In my youth, I fantasized about driving down long undulating highways in a red car, my favourite music and the wind in my hair. But I couldn't actually do it in real life. I've never driven a two-wheeler, even when friends my age were driving one to school/college. My dad forbade it, he insisted I'd get into an accident everytime I'd drive. It's not you, he used to say. Other people don't drive safely.

Nino's Dad taught me to drive the car sometime after we got married, and I'd mustered up enough courage to venture to work, run errands. Then, I banged the car. Nothing major, just rammed it into the gate when I was trying to park at too fast a speed. That was the bit I needed to let my fear conquer me. I soon got pregnant and gave up on driving amid juicy taunts from everyone else who knew me. I tried to make it cool, I even made it sound socialist and idealistic. It was easy, because I din't need to depend on anyone. I'm the unofficial ambassador of the humble rickshaw, and I've taken it everywhere I needed to go, and at every time conceivable.

And yet, I've learnt with time that it's not convenient. I now live in an area where getting a auto is as much luck as it is timing. Fares can be astronomical. And they refuse to wait till I fetch Nino from school. If he has playdate with friends, some of whom live on the outskirts of the city, I can't get a rickshaw to take me there. It was a handicap, in several ways, because it was a fear, a dread of trying, of doing something, and that's not a good thing to have in you, is it? Most of all for the fact that Nino had realised that it was 'odd' that his mother din't drive. He heard the ribbing at home and from my friends. And he sensed my fear.

All this time, in these four years since I've been married, my father-in-law filled in for me, quietly, unlike the rest of the family who goaded me to conquer this 'stupid' mindset. Whatever his work schedule, whatever his plans, he worked them around mine and Nino's needs. It was something given, something I din't even have to ask for. He never joked about my fear, never mentioned it. I know it must not have been easy, but he did it with a big wide smile, always, and everytime.

He, and my m-i-l, left for the US this week. Three months of a holiday, together, perhaps for the first time, by themselves. He was very concerned before he left about how I'd manage Nino's school, my work, the errands. Maybe you should give it a try, he finally told me, before he left.

And I did. I tried it. I survived. I haven't hurt anyone so far. Ofcourse when I get down from the car, I'm shaking. I can't type for several minutes. And I still panic, preparing myself mentally way before I'm actually going to walk down towards the car. Its not a bit as relaxing as people make it out to be. I'm sweating huge streams even though the a/c draft is on full force.

But it has been a milestone for me, one I hope to keep. I've earned my son's respect too. Very good girl, mama, he says, leaving me to wonder if he does realise what courage this has taken. I called my mum up last evening, wanting to tell her that I'd begun to work on beating this irrational fear. I wondered why I was telling her so late, so many days after I'd already begun. As she heard me out, she exhaled and I knew, right then, that my delay in telling her had been a subconscious reaction, because I was afraid she'd shake my resolve. She doesn't approve of my driving, thinks its too dangerous and that I'm putting Nino at risk. I was hurt and I din't say much, something maybe she also realised, because she told me before I put the phone down, that I must avoid telling her 'such things'.

I wanted to tell her it was unfair that she was shackling me with her fears and then I realised there are several such things that I've manged to break free off. I've never blamed them for my handicaps, but I got too comfortable with these fears and that has been my individual cross to bear.

Today, as I look at my son's shins and elbows and temples, all covered with multiple grazes/bumps everyday, I marvel at how he nonchalantly brushes my concern aside. Even when he dislocated his elbow as a two-year-old, he told me how to hold him so that I don't hurt him. He asked me to stop crying. He catches and studies lizards and bugs and spiders and I study them with him, hovering around to make sure his touch is gentle, and that he doesn't hurt himself. I've never shown him my grimaces, and I'm the first one to push him when he hesitates to try something new, something different. Because it is the unknown that is forbidden and what we fear, right? When it is known, it becomes a decision of choice. And then, no matter what you choose, that decision is acceptable, because you've been there, and you've learnt the lesson.

Most people don't put driving their own cars on lists of things they hope to do before they die. I did. I've ticked that out, one big bright red tick, and I'm a proud woman today. I dont' know if Nino will ever remember this week, this time when I pushed my boundaries, and faced my fears. When I changed, for the better. I know I will, always.

--

ps: my father-in-law is elated I'm driving. He said 'good girl', too. :)

Happy Ugaadi!

2009-03-27T12:04:00.003+05:30

(pic courtesy my grand uncle Sanmama)

May there be much and many to cherish, may the bitter always come with the sweet and may you and your loved ones bloom with health and joy!

Turn off the lights

2009-03-26T14:41:00.006+05:30

OJ Masi first turned the light on, here.

--

March 28, 2009, 8:30pm to 9:30pm. Try it. Turn off your lights at home for an hour. It should be particularly interesting and of importance for those of us with children. It's their future at stake, right? Ahmedabad has almost no powercuts, so the idea of a blackout, even if for an hour, should be fascinating for Nino. He knows he's got to save 'elecktricity', but well, does he know how different life would be for him without it?

Have a candle-light conversation with you kid. Sing aloud. Make shadows on the walls. Step out on the terrace and hear the sounds of the neighbourhood. Make dinosaur shapes from star constellations. Listen to heart beats. Whisper. Say a big thank-you to the lightbulb in the sky. Use a handmade fan. Blow on tiny curls that bounce back with such joy. And may be, if you're this side, you can watch a flock of egrets soar high above our high-rise, white lines of beauty and power, of white light amid a tar-grey sky.

The original sin

2009-03-25T15:03:00.007+05:30

I've sort of lived with a certain regret that I was unable to have a normal delivery, not because of medical reasons, but somehow because I was not strong enough to bear the pain, to let my body 'open' for Nino. Even though this may not technically be true, the mutterings of the elderly in my family has seeped into my sub-consciousness. I am suddenly this low-pain-threshold person, this softie, you know what I mean?

Almost everybody I know has had a normal delivery, with and without pain medication, and I've listened in detail to the different types of contractions, the focal points of pain and the sudden plop of relief or lack-of-pain, kind of like blank sound, when the baby eases out. But I've never heard of an orgasmic birth, having an orgasm or a series of orgasms while giving birth. It's a theory that 'natural birth proponents' talk about: a birthing process that has no pain medication, little or not grunting or screaming, lots of breathing and physical touch with the partner/father, and where contractions are acutally orgasms.

Amber Hartnell did not intend to have an orgasmic birth - it just happened. "Trying to have an orgasmic birth defeats the object," she says, "I just got into this ecstatic state where I had these peaks of orgasm. There were these rolling waves coming through me where I was laughing and crying. I didn't feel like I was having contractions. They were more like rushes. I did not actually experience pain, I experienced intense sensations."

"It was the most overwhelming pleasure I have ever felt in my life," Hartnell says.

First up, let me be honest that the idea is mildly offensive to me. Maybe I'm being a prude, but while sex can be and should be recreational, the process of pregnancy and creating a life and a soul transcends mere procreational needs. An orgasm seems so, trifle, considering what it is being associated with, somehow. One of my concerns during pregnancy was related to breastfeeding: how would it feel considering I'm very sensitive in that part of my anatomy? Breastfeeding was a delight: and I actually felt 'useful': if you can understand that. It was as if discovering the real purpose to having a particularly shaped body. It was in no way titillating, and the pleasure I derived from it was emotional, rather than physical, given how painful it can be sometimes.

That's why this whole theory about orgasmic birth is intriguing, for the lack of another word. It's not sado-masochistic as it seems - believers say this is not an instance of deriving pain through pleasure. Maybe what bothers me is that it sounds like there is an underlying expectation that birth should be pleasurable, that it is a choice between pain and pleasure. It questions my needs to screech, to feel fear, to rant about my gender and it's afflictions, to given in to my limitations as a human being: it lays yet another brick of guilt on top the many that entomb mothers.

But is it really such a loony thing? The Bhagwad Gita's Sundar Kand describes Devaki's labour in synonyms with nature, and her relief in Krishna's birth also, with similar simile that could be construed to mean that she felt absolute pleasure when he was born. There are many, including Osho, who believe there is a thin line between spiritual pleasure and sexual pleasure, and that an orgasm is close to meditation: its a split second where the mind is completely blank, devoid of any negative thoughts, immersed in pure pleasure that by its lack of negativity, becomes a positive source of energy. Several streams of medicine including Acupressure and Homeopathy believe that a child experiences physical, medical and spiritual side effects of his/her birthing: there are afflictions associated with how long the labour lasted, how the head was positioned, was it an easy plop or a major push-and-grunt affair. Does this then mean that having a pleasurable birth affects the child too?

What do you think: Before you classify this as a loony new trend that's taken Western imagination by storm, read the article and try and watch the video (it's a bit graphic for office/kid viewing). Have you experienced an orgasmic birth? Or a feeling similar to pleasure, that you're unable to tag as an orgasm? Does this disgust you, like it did me, when I first read it? Or is it one of those metaphysical cum spiritual things about motherhood and the gift of creating life that we're only meant understand when we are ready?

Mutiny

2009-03-20T11:33:00.004+05:30

She's lying down on the bed in the room down the corridor, and I can smell her even as I walk towards her room.

It's a smell I've come to associate with old age: a putrid mix of medicines and urine, of foul breath and incense sticks. It invades my nostrils and I'm startled for a bit, resisting it's strength and the need-to-escape that it brings, all in the same moment.

The floor tiles are cool beneath my bare feet, and my black toe-nails seem ominous. Her room's less than 10ft away, but I'm already reliving words I've heard dozens of times before. If I could run away now, I would, but there are several pairs of eyes following me, and they anchor me down.

She coughs as she sees me enter, a frown creasing her proud and wide forehead, then a momentary lapse of a smile, as she sees the grandson-in-law behind me. She shifts a bit in the bed, adjusts the bedcover over her, clasps her hands on her abdomen: 'how are you', she asks him, pointedly ignoring the girl who has sat down next to her, in four measly inches of urine-stained bedsheets.

'How are you', I ask her, gingerly reaching out to her now-lined but beautifully fair hands. 'Just surviving', she says, 'you finally found time to ask how I was doing?' It's the patent first jibe as always, and I can feel the husband's uneasy eyes on my face, I know he's asking me to keep my armours up. This looks like its going to be a long afternoon, followed by an evening of tears as I will try and salve my wounds. I wait, a sigh of resignation escaping me, for more word-lashing.

None follows. In that word-less few minutes, I'm pained by how grayish her eyes appear: a decaying spirit that shows itself in the spots around her pupils - and how strong this smell of despair is around her. I caress her partly grey hair, without thinking my act through, and she turns to me, startled I think by this act of affection: there is no one who has the courage to come this close, or perhaps there is no one who feels this affection for her, a mothering feeling of wanting to protect. She has always been the indefatigable one: the towering loud-voiced woman who braved straying sons and 'exotic' daughters-in-law, who raised her fours son and two daughters on nothing more than pittance and raw nerve. She was the protector, the hunter, the procurer, the final word, the chieftain. She knows she no longer is, and she will never forgive time for that.

Her chin shakes with the tears her ego won't let her shed, there are a few stray grey hair there and I'm suddenly in need to hug her, with the abandon that is characteristic to my love: reason has no place in it, neither does memory no matter how painful. 'What's wrong', I ask her. 'Why won't you get up from the bed?'

There's the back that hurts, a right leg that won't listen, a swollen ankle. 'Remember last year', I prod her. 'It was the same thing, you just need to start walking, you need to get up and get about', I say. She pushes my hands away and turns on her side: 'No one tells me what to do', she says. 'You don't know what I'm going through'.

I joke a bit, telling her about Nino's crazy antics, some real, some made to seem more funny. I know she's listening, I can see her smile. 'Is he eating properly', she asks me. 'Yes, Ba', I say. 'He's eating just fine'.

My aunt comes in and we discuss what the doctors have had to say, and she tells me, in a voice that I know is meant to carry its message to more ears than mine, how difficult Ba's been, how she screams viciously everytime they try and take her to the loo. 'She throws all her weight on me and I can barely walk with her nails digging into my shoulders', my aunt says, 'I'm too scared to be with her alone'.

Fear. I can smell it in Ba's breath. In my perspiration. In my aunt's constantly flitting eyes. It's a feeling that's at home with my grandmother. Her tales of oppression are legendary: there is not a single person in my family who has not been afraid of her, who has not been subjected to her rage, at some point in their lives. Rebellions were squashed with a force so brute that a few damaged specimens in the family are still trying to piece their lives together.

There is talk of how her sons have no time for her, the daughters-in-law are good and serve her well, but hell, they're someone else's blood at the end of the day. The stench of bitterness is so strong, remorse has no place here, nor does nostalgia. Does she ever wonder if they will cry after she has departed? It's a thought that has no place in this time and circumstance, and yet, I can't help but marvel at her. There are reasons for this version of her: I know the hows and whys that my father patiently explained to me once, his words perhaps echoing those that a little boy and then a young man must have said, over and over again to himself, as he searched for a little love and a mother's soothing touch.

I can't help the words of advice that occur to me: I'm driven to frustration by a situation that I know a few answers to. 'Wriggle your toes', I tell her. 'Try and sit up and move the right leg a bit.' 'She only needs to keep herself occupied', I tell my aunt. She gives me the knowing 'empty mind is devil's workshop' look coupled with helplessness.

I know Ba hates to read: I think she went to school only for a bit, and the written word has always irked her. Perhaps it was among the few things she was unable to conquer with the brute force of her tongue or the bitterness of her heart. I see the marble devghar right next to her bed, lined with fresh dust, no fresh water or fruit in front of the Gods, as is her customary offering.

The answer to the need for religion is something only old age offers. At that time, as you grapple with a body that is giving up and a mind that is no longer in control of its place of residence, religion becomes less of a ritual and a name, and more of a spirit-building and will-strengthening exercise. The old turn to chanting and praying sometimes out of fear of the outcome of death, but there are also some who truly discover a meaning and sub-text to life through it.

'Why don't you chant His name', I tell her, 'count the rosary beads a hundred times over'. Just another routine to take her mind off her pain, both real and spiritual, I think to myself.

She turns around with a vengeance that scares me. 'I will never take His name,' she says, in a half-scream. 'I walked 400 miles barefoot for him. Fasted half my life. Bought Him new clothes and beautiful jewellery even when I din't have enough to spend on me,' she seethes. 'And look at me now. He doesn't even look at me, doesn't even ease my suffering. I walked 400 miles and I can't walk a step now.'

'All my life I prayed to Him, I sang His songs, made Him the food He likes. For what? For this pain? For this humiliation?'

Ba makes a brushing-away movement with her arms, looking at the devghar. 'Take Him away,' she tells me, as her tears finally begin to flow. 'I can never forgive Him. I don't want Him now.'

The ten things they never told you about motherhood

2009-03-19T11:46:00.005+05:30

It's going to be Mother's Day in the UK soon, and we've been (I work with a British Asian mag) ploughing through mothers day messages by the truckload. Apart from the fact that I think mums need to make their kids spell better (I mean the grown up ones) and that flowers are so bloody expensive in the UK, I might have just given the whole festival a miss, till I received this in a forward.

Interestingly, it's from a dear friend, R, who is single, and who surprisingly gives the most sane advice on balancing kids and married life and sanity, ever. This is one of those irreverential lists, the one that cocks a snook at this life-changing decision. It's a good laugh in places, and comes especially recommended for new mothers. Us old ones, well, we're too jaded with removing curry stains from hair and clothes and sofa to eek a smile.

The things I personally related to, are points 4, 5 and 7. I'm a beached whale with whiplash-like stretch mark scars: and I haven't fit into anything remotely S in three years. This was a big part of my lows after motherhood: I remember walking into changing rooms in malls armed with only XS and S (my size before Nino came along) and then crying for hours in the changing room. M was for Mum, and well, that was what I was. Though I try to crack a joke at it now, my weight affected my disposition, my drive for physical intimacy, lead to huge fights with the husband whose every 'but I think you look great' snowballed into his being an insensitive jerk. I'm not completely okay with it, yet, but I'm getting there. (who am I kidding?!)

Then there's school politics. Tales of wit, wisdom, brilliance and otherwise, as I've tried to bond with the folks who send their kids to Nino's school. I've managed a few friends, and that's because we're not talking about our kids and their capabilities.

Finally, one serious recommendation I'd make you, is to have a friend who is single. Preferably a woman. Needless to say, she needs to be prepared for your Momzilla side, but heck, her importance in your life is one of those things that they don't tell you about motherhood.

Tell me what clicked with you on the list and what did not. Or do you have your own list? And if you're a single friend to a mommy, what's it like for you to be surrounded by poop-tales and teething-worries? Tell, tell, tell!

--

Ten things they never tell you about motherhood

- Sarah Vine

There's a conspiracy of silence about motherhood, argues our writer. From schoolgate gossips to bed-wetting, here is her guide for Mother's Day...

Motherhood is one of the great obsessions of our age. Everyone seems to have an opinion, even those who will never experience it (men), and those for whom it is a distant memory (grumpy old ladies). Whether you breast-feed or bottle-feed, give birth naturally or deliver by Cesarean, stay at home or return to work, the impression is that whatever you are doing, it's almost certainly wrong.

The most curious aspect of this is that much of the pressure comes not from some patriarchal conspiracy, but from women. Even the National Childbirth Trust recently stated that it wants to see the use of epidurals during labour reduced by 40 per cent to “boost traditional births” - aka “agonising pain”.

Most confusing of all is what a friend of mine calls “the conspiracy of silence”: the abyss that exists between what people will tell you about having children and what it really entails. The truth is, as my mother once remarked darkly, that if women thought properly about having children, no one would ever give birth again.

Here then are ten things about motherhood that no one will tell you.
1. Bottoms
Motherhood, especially in the early years, is a scatological business. You will find yourself responsible for more dung than the keeper of the elephant enclosure at London Zoo. As a result, things that would once have made you gag are now mild inconveniences. At 3am, when your youngest, all snuggly next to you, covers your side of the bed in a wet, warm pool of wee, you don't leap out and strip the sheets. Oh no: you stagger to the bathroom, grab a few towels, cover the wet patch and go back to sleep. You get to the stage when having “a little bit of wee, Mummy” on your trousers is normal. You will get used to sharing a lavatory cubicle with at least one other person, sometimes two or three on an outing. With a son you will, at some time, have to hold his willy when he goes to the loo.

2. Partners
You know those frazzled couples you used to see around at weekends? The ones who don't appear to have washed or ironed their clothes? They call each other “Mummy” and “Daddy”, even though they once had names of their own. Their vocabulary now consists of a series of stock phrases: “You can't have another Lego Star Wars Space Ship”; or “You can have an ice-cream, but only if you eat your broccoli.” Don't get too cross with these couples. Remember, they've been up since 6am and they probably haven't had sex for, ooh, about a thousand years. And crucially, one day that might be you.

3. Making a fool of yourself
It doesn't matter how cool you are, once you have children you will snort like a piggy-wig, neigh like a horse, run through the park shouting “Here comes the wibble-monster”. Sometimes this can be liberating. Other times it's just very, very embarrassing.

4. The body
Despite what the manuals tell you, pregnancy is not a return journey. Your back may go; your arches may fall; you will get brown spots on your skin. There may be whole areas of your body that you no longer recognise: Cesareans leave you with a weird stomach overhang; a natural birth means you will never again perform star jumps with confidence. Pilates, yoga, Power Plate. All these help. But unless you work at it like Madonna, you will never be box-fresh again.

5. The school gate
For some, an opportunity to display to the world their offspring's brilliance. For others, a Dantesque vision of Hell. You'll know which within seconds of your child's first day at nursery.

6. Celebrity mothers
The only secret to the marvel of the celebrity mother, with her flat stomach, her 6in heels and her sexy husband, is this: 24-hour childcare. Don't believe the hype.

7. Single friends
It can be hard, not to say very dull, for your childless friends when you turn into a milk-obsessed insomniac whose idea of spontaneity is giving her baby puréed avocado instead of banana for tea. Your friends' obsession with the banal issues of life, such as whether to invest in this season's new jump-suit, can seem absurdly indulgent. Besides, you are secretly jealous. Yet if you can both curb your tongue, a childless friend is often the best a mother can have - someone to talk to about the important issues in life; someone who will remind you that you once had an identity of your own and that there is more to life than school admission procedures.

8. Sleep
Unless you happen to be SAS trained, there is nothing that can prepare you for the effects of the prolonged sleep deprivation that comes with having children. They will wake you once, twice, three times in the night; if you have two, they will wake in relays, so as to inflict maximum damage. Should you attempt any sort of alcohol-based evening celebration, you can guarantee that the children will wake an hour and a half before they usually do, with twice the energy.

9 Birthing pools
If you like the idea of sitting in your own bodily fluids, then fine. If not, well, not. I know a man who had to perform an unpleasant fishing operation using the kitchen sieve during the later stages of his wife's labour. He has never recovered.

10. The Fear
The most agonising aspect of motherhood is the terrible fear that you may lose your child. With the fear comes guilt, worry and, occasionally, panic. There is little you can do about this, except push it to the back of your mind, avoid listening to certain news reports - and pray that it never happens to you.

Top Clicks

2009-03-16T10:56:00.003+05:30

I've put up a Top Clicks section on the right-side column of the blog, just below Nino's b'day ticker. So often through the day, I stumble across a story/an incident that just grabs my attention and my soul, and I can't get it out of my system, purely because I believe it needs to be heard more.

I work with a magazine, that like all of them out there, has its own agenda and a soul that is more market-driven than cause-oriented. I can't put these stories there, and so I put them here, hoping you will read it, hoping the word gets spread.

And even though we may not always be in a position to effect a change, I believe no story, no life must go unheard. These are my recommendations. I don't know how often I'll change it, I was looking at once a week, but some stories need to stay on longer.

Like this one about lesbian women in South Africa being subjected to 'corrective rape' by men who believe that freedom of choice is basically a lack of experience in the 'straight fine thing'. The video (linked in the third para of the Top Clicks) section is heartwreching - you've a young man saying that while he wouldn't commit 'such a rape', he's very happy someone else is doing it, because the women need to be taught a lesson. The story itself, as reported in the Guardian, is so heart-breaking, it left me feeling with what I've come to term as 'arm chair vulnerability'. Its so shocking it gives me jitters just thinking of it, forget putting myself in those women's battered and bloodied shoes. Please do read. And remember.

Umm...

2009-03-15T11:24:00.004+05:30

...My post on the World Wide Web's 20th birthday, was selected as one of Blogadda's five 'Spicy Saturday' picks for last week.

If this is a hoax, don't tell me. I'm enjoying it immensely :)

Small town girls

2009-03-14T11:50:00.002+05:30

I'm a small town girl. Born and brought up in Gandhinagar, a dusty and shady small town, where only bureaucrats and government officers/officials live. Growing up, surrounded by friends from the same family background of hard-working parents, book-filled homes and serious political discussions over endless cups of tea, it was like an extended family, where everyone knew my folks, and they'd know if I'd been in trouble before even I knew about it. And like everybody else, I couldn't wait to escape it.

The capital of the state it may be, but Gandhinagar has always been what other city residents call it, 'an old age home'. We had no places to shop for the kind of clothes we wanted, no places to pick interesting hair accessories. For everything, even a fairly decent dressing sauce, we'd all troop into the car and drive up to Ahmedabad. When I go back today, I barely see any young people there. There are the school-going kids and then there are the parents whose nests are empty and whose children have long flown to more interesting pastures. There are things about it that I loved, and love still: like how it just smells so clean, so green. Driving down from Ahmedabad, a mere 40 km away, I roll down the windows as Gandhinagar appears and just take in deep lung-fulls of air, the smells of childhood that I've come to miss: the smell of dusk, a mix of dust and cow dung, called godhuli so beautifully in Hindi.

Of course I loved my schooling years there: and it is here that I found my first friends, faced my first bullies and had my first few crushes. Last night, a few of us classmates met again, nearly ten years after we'd parted.

After a long time, I dilly-dallied over what I'd wear, knowing the guys would surround me and rib me silly about going from Somalian to gargutan. I settled on jeans and a silk paisley top, low-slung enough to fit my more feminine state of mind now, and yet, comfortable enough to face people with mindframes I'd no idea of.

There were meant to be 11 of us, but only four of us turned up. Most of the class doesn't live in the state/country, and reunions have somehow never worked out because of those logistics.

Last night, as we three girls and one guy chatted, we relieved those small town memories, recounted to exact and embarrassing details by D, the only guy who'd come. Like how I once wore a mini-skirt to a friend's birthday party, and had probably never realised that my then-hair, were longer than the skirt. Or how the first time a guy 'proposed friendship' to me, I'd burst out in tears leaving him and the class wondering if I was a lunatic.

And like all friendships, it got cemented over some skeletons. Some of them our own, some of those who had not made it to the reunion. One of the girls has been through a physically abusive marriage and is now living in with an Australian guy who loves her to bits. Another classmate ran away from home and community and married a guy who she later discovered was already involved with another woman. Another had an abusive father who'd beat her in such a way that we'd never be able to see it, but the bruises and welts would all be there, hidden beneath her school uniform. Or like how the guy who was a write-off was running an uber-successful ad agency, the guys who were the flirts and mr-commitment-phobic's were the first ones to get married. There were the regular juicy bits of affairs and divorces, success stories and unfathomable failures. Open, frank discussions of sex and what works and what doesn't. Random kaleidoscopic insights into the one-dimensional memory I had of the faces I grew up with.

It was vaguely unsettling: more so because one of the reasons I wanted to run away from my city was because of it's 'simple' residents, their 'boring and uneventful' lives. All this while, there was an underbelly to these residents that I'd not noticed, in my immaturity, in my need to get away from it all. It was also ironic, that I'm one of the few that still lives in the vicinity, when I'd been most vocal about my need to get away and see the world, while everyone else lives in countries I'd not even heard of when I was a kid.

Without Nino, and Nino's Dad, it was also my first time, in a long time, meeting people only I knew, who were in no way involved in the social circle I inherited when I got married. It was refreshing re-living school stories, crushes, laughing at the absurdity of teenage and its short-sightedness, of mourning friends and friendships that had passed on. It was humbling knowing that while our girths had changed (some of us, some are still lucky!), our faces hadn't, our expressions hadn't. We still punched and kicked and laughed raucously, ate from each others plates, enjoying a camaraderie we probably din't even have a decade back.

It was a trip back in time, a flash-back, but not grey or ochre, instead brilliantly hued and humbling in all the wisdom and hindsight it brought.

Wired, weird and wonderful: Happy 20th to the WWW

2009-03-13T12:09:00.007+05:30

When I heard the news, I was a bit taken aback. I mean, hasn't the Internet always been there?

Apparently not. The world wide web celebrates it's 20th birthday this week, 20 years of changing lives, generations, countries even.

I can honestly say, that life as I know it today, would be very difficult without the Internet. Apart from all the information it feeds my insatiable curiosity, it's rubbished its touted abilities of alienation and given me friends, and I'm pretty sure those handles are actual people, most of the time.

I've lived long distance relationships through it, shopped and escaped the cash guilt through it, discovered the wisdom of authors I would never have found in Ahmedabad's less than five bookshops. I've visited places, shared forbidden conversations with interesting males, shown complete strangers my baby's photographs and have them gush over him with me. Google's next to God (why God why has effectively been replaced by tell me why google, no?), blogger's replaced the bedside diary. For my every why, how, when, where and why not, it's there, with its million reasonings and offerings of choice. Once I believed that I could travel the world through a book, needless to say, the Internet belongs in that category too.

My profession has changed outright because of the Internet. I now have to 'unlearn' writing witty and catchy headlines (after all the grief it took to get to that frame of mind in the first place), and make my content 'search engine friendly'. I'm in a bit of a time wrap reading papers in the loo: I've read most of it the evening before. News is updated constantly: 24/7 has made way for the ability to see change happen every few seconds.

It's also served some global good. A platform for mutiny, the Internet has spread the word quicker than a dozen marches or protest strikes. For the planet, for people, for a bear in a Russian Zoo, sympathy, empathy and concern are truly glocal thanks to the WWW. It's made heroes out of ordinary folks we'd typically miss, and it's pulled our Gods down, shown us more than one pair of dirty feet.

Personally, for me, one of the greatest highs of the Internet is that it has been a technology that women have embraced fully: in all our torrential glory, stamping our identities, both good and bad, all over it.

I'm not the sort that gets addicted to things very easily - and I'm having a slightly uneasy feeling saying this, but I'm totally addicted, dependent and lost without the wired world. I like that I don't always like what it throws back at me, and I'm comforted knowing there are so many things I've yet to see, yet to learn, yet to experience.

Happy 20th. Tum jiyo hazaaron saal.

What makes you go whoopee for the WWW?

Footloose Fridays - II...

2009-03-12T15:55:00.005+05:30

...in advance, and you can track the original perpetrator here.

--

For those of us stuck in a marital/relationship rut, here's a revolutionary product that promises to offer renewed 'security, commitment and shelter.' There's just one hitch though, it's an airborne missile.

Israeli arms dealer Rafael, currently trying to sink in a few teeth in India's every expanding defense pie, has made a Bollywood-style video (complete with backless cholis, gyrating dancers with just a tad too much flesh, and a hero and a heroine promising each other the earth).

Don't miss this, because if the babus in India do get to see it, we'll be using Rafael in family planning soon. (Warning: you will fall off your chair, so dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dinga dee, don't tell me I din't warn you. Oh and it's safe for office/kid viewing.)

Happy Holi!

2009-03-11T18:33:00.003+05:30

Did you have a good time? We tried to. Nino hated getting coloured, hated anyone colouring me and the only time he din't cry was when he sat down to play 'dhobi' in the wash area. Sigh. So much for spending a bomb on organic colours.

Monday Horrorscope

2009-03-09T18:19:00.004+05:30

What is: Bad, bad, bad day at work. Deadlines that leave me very-near-dead. Mean, rude emails. A major gaffe on Friday that comes back to haunt me. Reminder to self: Must never let weekend euphoria get near me again.

What it looks like: I'm the sassy chick who struts fast in corridors, I'm the babe who has everything under control. They can say when I'm in a spot of trouble, but they'll never know how much. Now I'll go home and fix the kid's dinner, chat with the in-laws and nod dutifully. I'm infallible, un-get-able, never fatiguing.

What is needed: I want to curl up and sob, tell someone what miserable people exist in this world. Eat greasy chinese food and drink a whole-glass of Thums Up. Watch lots of tv. Not have to worry about school night. I don't want to read Poldy learns about Place for the 78th time. I want to be rescued, shining knight in armour/sari and all that, and cocooned till I'm healed again.

The first time I walked down this road...

2009-03-07T12:21:00.004+05:30

... in more ways than one. This tag talks about Nino who is my first born, (and if the damn husband has his way, there will be no more Nino clan to write about, grrr) and it's also my first tag, thanks to Tharini and one that I've absolutely loved doing. I will also do this with absolute honesty, and I'm not proud of all my answers.

1. WAS YOUR FIRST PREGNANCY PLANNED?
No. Nino also was not planned, not expected and not wanted at that particular time.

2. WERE YOU MARRIED AT THE TIME?
Newly :)

3. WHAT WERE YOUR REACTIONS?
I cried my eyes, heart and lungs out. Huge, embarrassingly loud sobs that seemed deafening in the silence that Nino's Dad greeted me with.

4. WAS ABORTION AN OPTION FOR YOU?
Yes and No. It's complicated. The line between the right no and the wrong yes.

5. HOW OLD WERE YOU?
25.

6. HOW DID YOU FIND OUT YOU WERE PREGNANT?
My periods are timed. They even stick to the very second they're expected to arrive. Needless to say I knew within 24 hours that it was time for a test kit. Even though I never really expected to see two lines.

7. WHO DID YOU TELL FIRST?
The husband obviously, who was waiting impatiently outside the bathroom door. He checked the kit instructions several times over to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing!
Then the sister-in-law, that is, the husband's sister. This was right after the test. We were driving down to a much awaited sale, and I told her and she whooped and gave me the first of many sane advices I was to receive from her. 'Don't buy the belts and the heels,' she said.
Then I saw the doc. Then I told my mum. I was really really worried telling her about it, and her hesitation in answering killed me. She thought I'd been too careless, too young. I thought she was right.

8. DUE DATE?
January 8, 2006.

9. DID YOU HAVE MORNING SICKNESS?
Nope. I had nothing. I was working with a newspaper at that time, heading a team of four people, and I did 14-hour days most of my pregnancy, happily.

10. WHAT DID YOU CRAVE?
Okay, this is corny, and not inspired by movies. Very Berry Strawberry ice cream by Baskin Robbins. At about 11:20pm every night.

11. WHO/WHAT IRRITATED YOU THE MOST?
Three suspects here. The only possible negative side-effect of the pregnancy was that I completely and totally lost my sleep. I must have slept six hours across nine months. That irritated me a lot. And the fact that I couldn't wear the kind of clothes that I was used to wearing. Somehow that bothered me to no end. I have always been a top-heavy girl, but I discovered the pain of an abundant bosom far outweighs the seeming attractions during this time. I was in pain, no bras would fit me, I'd have deep gashes on my shoulders from the straps weightlifting.

12. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST CHILD'S SEX?
Male.

13. DID YOU WISH YOU HAD THE OPPOSITE SEX OF WHAT YOU WERE GETTING?
A bit. Though somehow I always knew I was going to have a boy. I think I just like girl's names better. I had already chosen Radha/Uma in my head :)

14. HOW MANY POUNDS DID YOU GAIN THROUGHOUT THE PREGNANCY?
I was 45 kilos when I got pregnant, and was strictly instructed to put on some serious weight. I put on no weight in my first trimester, worrying the family to no end. Then the kilos started piling on, and have yet not left! I put on 20 kilos.

15. DID YOU HAVE A BABY SHOWER?
Yes, two of them! One for friends with all the typical baby shower games including a sipping-from-the-nipple beer competition. And a traditional one organised by my grandmum. Lots of flowers in my hair, green bangles on my wrist, and a lap full of fruits :)

16. WAS IT A SURPRISE OR DID YOU KNOW?
I knew about both - and I planned the first one to perfection!

17. DID YOU HAVE ANY COMPLICATIONS DURING YOUR PREGNANCY?
No, it was as smooth a run as could have been. Though I did spot a bit in my first month and was given a bed rest for five days out of which I worked for four.

18. WHERE DID YOU GIVE BIRTH?
In a hospital's cold, colour-less and disinfectant-smelling room. I will never forget how cold it felt.

19. HOW MANY HOURS WERE YOU IN LABOR?
I think six to seven hours. My water broke at 6am, I was induced at about 9, the contractions started kicking in at about 11. They kept coming till about 6:30pm, but were not strong enough, medically speaking, although they almost killed me. In those hours, I'd dilated only ONE measly centimeter. The old matron on duty told my mother I was not letting my body open.

20. WHO DROVE YOU TO THE HOSPITAL/BIRTH CENTER?
The family. Husband, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, father-in-law. My parents, who live in a neighbouring city, joined me an hour later.

21. WHO WATCHED YOU GIVE BIRTH?
My sister-in-law. The doctor was adamant that nobody would be allowed in the operating room, and I was shrieking my head off, calling out to Nino's Dad. They finally came out to call him, couldn't locate him, and the sister-in-law held my hand instead.

22. WAS IT NATURAL OR C-SECTION?
Unnatural c-section.

23. DID YOU TAKE MEDICINE TO EASE THE PAIN?
I was squashed into a foetal shape and jabbed. So I guess, yes.

24. HOW MUCH DID YOUR CHILD WEIGH?
The weird part is, two days before I went into labour, we'd gone for an ultrasound, where the doctor said the baby's weight was 2.7 kgs. The doctors were a little concerned about the weight when I went into labour. As he pulled Nino out of my belly, the first thing he said, no, slightly screamed was, 'It's a big baby, oh my god, it's a big baby.' Nino was 3.6 kgs. Very chubby. He had layers of fat on his thigh that I kept kissing! You can hardly say the scrawny thing that stands next to me as I type this had such a deliciously cuddly beginning.

25. WHEN WAS YOUR CHILD ACTUALLY BORN ?
Two days after Christmas. One of the first sms-es I received for his birth came from a colleague I despise who wrote: 'Do din se mother mary hote hote bach gayi.'

26. WHAT WAS YOUR REACTION WHEN THE DOCTOR ANNOUNCED THE SEX OF THE BABY?
They din't announce it, I actually had to ask them! I said oh, and gave in to the anesthesia and slept for the first time in months.

27. WHAT WAS YOUR FIRST REACTION ON SEEING THE BABY?
I din't know what to feel. I spent the whole night checking if 'it' was alive and breathing. And then I started to cry because I had never felt this torrent of love and protectiveness that has started to claim my soul.

28. DID YOU CRY?
I just gave the answer away!

29. WHAT DID YOU NAME HIM?
His alphabet was chosen according to the Hindu Rashi calender and its Sanskrit root means ascending.

30. HOW OLD IS YOUR FIRST BORN TODAY?
Three years and almost three months.

--

Phew, what a bag full of secrets to let out. Very vindictively, I tag Swati, Momstir and Manjushree, if they'd like to take this up. I love these three women and their ideas, and I'm dying to know how they walked down this road that has bound us all, the first time!

Nocturnal Musings

2009-03-05T16:22:00.004+05:30

Nino's Dad has had a shift of working plans, and ends up working through the late evening and night since the past two weeks. It's taken a while for both Nino and me to get used to not having him around for our post-dinner fun, and it will take me longer knowing the right side of the bed is achingly empty.

As I tuck Nino into bed everynight, in my room, we lie with the windows open and the fan in all its whirring glory, the scant sweat of still-not-arrived summer sweetened by the fan's breeze. Somehow, that half-hour or 40 minutes that we spend together - once the books are done and the lights are out - has turned into a complete connection time between me and him, and we talk about school, the stories I did at work (his favourite one so far has been the RSS idea to make a cola out of cow's urine), his playmates in the evening. Sometimes he asks me to sing, and I sing much slower, knowing he's trying to understand the lyrics. Perhaps that's why he loves the R. Kelly number's chorus so much. Even though he insists I can't fly. In between every line, we make our own rap number. I say I believe I can fly, and he says I can't.

I've come to feel very satisfied, very elated with these noctuarnal musings, perhaps because I feel like my son is really talking to me. I've felt very guilty about not being there when he wants to talk about something, and trying to get him to speak about his day only when I arrive every evening. Maybe it gets easier in the dark for him to say stuff - maybe he's not afraid of my expressions/reactions, or maybe he's holding on to our conversation because he's still a little afraid of the dark.

As we watch the shadows of the car windows from the neighbouring compound that get reflected on our ceiling, I try to assuage his fear about the dark a bit. We talk about nocturnal beings, the owl and the panther, some snakes and his favourite, the bat. Sometimes when he says, 'I can't see you mama,' I widen my eyes and smile a toothy grin so he can see bits of the white reflected off the light that comes in from the window. Sometimes I forget to do this, when I'm lost in my own thoughts, and he'll prod me again, 'Say cheese, mama, I want to see you.'

The other day he told me a kid in the batch elder to him had a 'really bad day'. Was that why she was crying when I came to pick you up, I asked him. He was quiet for a bit. 'Can I tell you a secret mama,' he said. 'In your ear.' Apparently the kid had been having an emotional meltdown and ended up doing her big job while her clothes were on at school. Nino laughed once he said this. I was quiet for a bit, and then I told him I thought it was perfectly okay for such 'accidents' to happen, and that it was not funny to me. He thought over it a bit too, and then asked me, 'if everyone is laughing in class, should I laugh?'. It seared my heart to know that he went through peer pressure at such a young age, and that while I was quick to jump the gun and suggest that he must not always follow the heard (and honestly only because I've never followed it either), maybe suggesting otherwise would make things a little easier on him. He's not taken to school very well still, and I do know for a fact that a couple of elder kids are bullying him, ever so slightly.

These days he's very frightened of being bitten by a tiger or a lion as he's sleeping. So I went into a labourious explanation of what separates a jungle and a city, all the traffic manoeuvring the animals would have to do, the security guards they'd have to get past, and the ten floors they'd have to climb, because well, they don't know how to use the lift. He thought about it for a while and then said, ever so quietly, 'If they (the tiger and the lion) don't know how to cross the road, they will get hurt. And then what happened?'

Sometimes I do this whole mock-prayer pose, especially when I've had a not-so-great-day, and thank God with a big list of what-could-have-beens. Just makes the whole ritual a little less sacred, and I think he secretly enjoys it, though I've never forced him to be a part of it. The other day as I finished saying my prayer, and thanking God and telling Him he had fantastic taste in flowers, Nino muttered, 'also thank you for the teti.'

Nino's a budding-foodie, one who takes a lot of interest in the meals that are being fixed for him. He can roll out a perfectly round chapati and insists on standing right next to the gas till it becomes 'hot, round and puffy'. He remembers exactly what his classmates got for lunch and he makes sure he knows in advance what I'm giving him the next day. Their teacher has taught them about junk food, so the kids are very aware that the chips and colas are trouble. One of his classmates got 'wafers' this week, and even though they're 'junk food', he liked them very much. 'Can I have a little bit of junk food,' he said. 'I like the wafers A got.' I said okay, and he said, in his secret, hush-hush-give-me-your-ear tone, 'Good mama, I won't tell S (name of teacher).'

In our 'secret' time together, these few minutes of motherhood assuage so much of my pain and fatigue, making for so many memories that I cherish, that I hold on to, and that keeping me going, until the next night's conversation time.

Eerie, destiny or plain coincidence?

2009-03-04T11:39:00.003+05:30

I've a few random things that happen to me often, that make little or no sense to me and the few people I tell: there seems to be a pattern, a message, but it also leaves me feeling foolish every time I try and put it in words.

Like the fact that whether I travel by train or by air, I'm always, invariably given a seat next to the emergency exit. Always. ALWAYS. The few times when I had a seat that was nowhere near an emergency exit, I've ended up swapping it, either with a couple that wants to be together or an old uncle who wants a lower berth. And that swap too has lead to the emergency exit seat or the seat right after it.

No, I don't ask for a seat with more legroom. I'm a midget, and I barely manage to get my feet to touch the floor of the plane. I told the husband this once, when he was not my husband, and we were flying back from Delhi. He looked at me as if the previous night's tequila shots were dancing over my head. And then said that thanks to me, he had more legroom and a stiff back - because emergency exit seats don't tilt back. That was the last time I mentioned it to him, and to anyone, till a friend sent me something that jogged this memory afresh.

'The crash in Amsterdam appears to support the theory that the safest place to sit in a modern aircraft is in, or close to, the emergency exit rows over the wings.'

A study by the University of Greenwich found that between two and five rows from the exit, passengers have a better chance of escaping in the case of a crash, even if there is a fire. Six or more rows from an exit, and 'the chances of perishing far outweigh those of surviving'.

If there's supposed to be a message in an unorchestrated event's repeated occurrence, I'd like to tell God that I'm not too keen to prove this study correct. Thank you destiny, for your signals, but I'm hoping to age into a tottering old lady who has no teeth and farts on demand and whose greatest adventure in life has been raising Nino.

In which Nino's Mum rues her timing...

2009-03-03T15:38:00.006+05:30

And why din't I think of this?

After all, 'There's no child exploitation involved. The kid is doing what he does best anyway, crawling. But with Baby Mop he's also learning responsibility and a healthy work ethic.'

Baby Mop from Chris Milk on Vimeo.

Genes versus Gender

2009-03-03T10:00:00.004+05:30

So we were driving down to an exhibition gallery in the outskirts of the city, run by parents of Nino's friend at school. The path was dust-battered and bumpy, with lots of village nativity scenes thrown it for good measure. The perfect way to spend a Sunday evening.

Somewhere between a bump and the changing of the radio station, Nino goes, and I quote verbatim, 'Aww, mama, look, a baby buffalo. So sweet!'.

I'm about to agree when there's a screech of tyres and the normally reticent husband turns in his seat to give me a venomous stare.

'What?' I say.

'Look what you've made my son into,' he says. 'So sweet?'

'He could have said anything in the world. How tiny it is. How brown. How delicious it would be if we had it for food. But awww, how sweet?' Nino's Dad rants.

I'm tempted to reply, but am too shocked and humoured by the insinuation that I've turned my son into a 'not boy' kind of a boy. Good thing I din't tell him about what Nino said on Saturday, I thought.

--

On Saturday, a whole jhing bang of us travelled to my city, Gandhinagar, where a spring festival held amidst the valley banks of the barren Sabarmati showcased some of Gujarat's and India's tribal life and art.

There were a lot of tribal weapons on display, including the famed bow and arrow, slingbacks and some really fancy swords. Nino and Karanbhai were totally awed by all the fine display of swordsmanship and they both took turns at using a proper bow with iron-tipped arrows. Surprisingly, Nino hit bulls eye, and the old uncle who was manning the shop was mighty happy.

He'd persuaded Karanbhai to buy a nasty looking dagger (quite like the one Arnold Schwarzenegger carries in the eminently re-watchable Commando), a fake, not-sharp one with a maliciously curved blade, and Nino was adamant that he wanted one too.

I'm not one for buying them 'weapons' and I admonished both Karanbhai and the shopkeeper, but Nino was growing more vocal and I wanted to see the remaining half of the exhibition without a cranky child tugging at my already loose pants. So I gave in and bought it for Nino.

'Is it really sharp?' Nino asked me, the gleam of having being handed something forbidden shining through his beady eyes.

'Yes,' I said. 'It's sharp, and mighty and very dangerous.'

Karanbhai was already showing his 'moves' with the dagger and talking in his 'dhish, dhish, dhishum' language about the thieves he's going to beat up and the bad people, and all that ilk. The shopkeeper asked Nino what he would do with his dagger.

Nino swayed his dagger with a flourish of his hand, the kind that would have made his dad proud, and said, 'I'm going to chop some gajar.'

Crippled inside

2009-02-27T15:36:00.005+05:30

For Solilo.

"In India's most populous state of Uttar Pradesh, where most of the nation's polio cases are reported there have been rumours that the polio vaccine is part of a plot to sterilize Muslim children."

India polio survivor stars in Oscar-nominated film

Amid all the hoopla over the Oscar winning sweep by Slumdog Millionaire, there's a touching real-life Indian tale of beating the odds that was also vying for the prized golden statuette in the short documentary feature, one that was eventually one by Smile Pinki.

The Final Inch is a 38-minute US film that documents global efforts to finally eradicate polio and profiles one of those stricken by the paralysing illness, 25-year-old Mohammad Gulzar Saifi, from the north Indian city of Meerut, AFP said.

'Polio is not a disease, it's a disaster for many,' said Saifi, who wears leg braces and moves with the help of a battered metal walker too small for his slender five-foot frame.

'I was lucky, I had a good family who looked after me but what about those who don't, those who are abandoned? I appeal to everyone to get their child vaccinated against polio,' he said.

The title The Final Inch refers to the fact that health officials say polio, which can paralyse a child for life within hours, is on the brink of being eliminated, thanks to mass immunisation.

But the illness is proving tougher to wipe out than initially expected and remains endemic in India, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Nigeria, where 1,643 cases were reported last year.

India reported the second highest caseload at 556, according to WHO's Global Polio Eradication Initiative.

A key hurdle to combating the disease in densely-populated India is the fact that tens of millions of children live in unsanitary conditions where diarrhoea is rampant, health officials say. Polio is spread through faeces.

Also in India's most populous state of Uttar Pradesh, where most of the nation's polio cases are reported and where Saifi's city of Meerut is located, there have been rumours that the vaccine is part of a plot to sterilize Muslim children.

A number of Muslim clerics have joined a government campaign to fight polio, saying there is no truth to the rumours.

But while the rumours have played some part in the difficulty in combating the disease, poor hygiene and logistical problems - making sure the multiple-dose oral vaccine gets to every child from the dense cities to the remotest regions - are the biggest hurdles to eliminating the disease.

Saifi hopes his central role in the documentary, made by Oregon filmmaker Irene Taylor Brodsky, will help in the eradication efforts.

'Polio has no religion, it is religion-less. It doesn't just affect Muslims, it affects Hindus, it affects everyone,' he said.

'Not to take the polio vaccination is wrong. Polio is an incurable disease but if we have prevention, we don't need a cure,' he said.

And like Slumdog Millionaire, Saifi's tale is also about overcoming challenges and turning adversity into success.

Saifi was raised by his mother and five brothers who supported him after his father became ill and was unable to work.

'I was the only one of my family to receive an education,' said Saifi, who graduated from high school and speaks English fluently.

But after graduation, as for many of India's 70 million disabled who are often reduced to begging at traffic lights, there was no employment for him.

Instead he created a job for himself coaching neighbourhood children, first in a tiny room at his home in a poor district of Meerut.

Then, as the numbers grew, he rented a larger room which proudly bears a signboard declaring it the 'Meharban Coaching Centre' - named after his late father - and the inscription Every child is special.

He tutors 60 children in English, maths and other subjects, charging Rs100 a month for classes, though he adds: 'I don't charge those who can't pay.'

Thanks to his film role, Saifi has become a celebrity in Meerut, a two-and-a-half hour drive from New Delhi.

But he's still not famous enough for the local administration to grant him his most cherished wish - a three-wheel, hand-operated cycle to help him get around more easily.

'The government is supposed to give them to physically challenged people like me, but all I've had is promises, promises,' he said with a wry smile.

(words and picture by AFP)

Two close acquaintances of mine have polio, one of them, is in his early 40s, which in the context of the article above, implies that, it lurks in my generation too.

While his one-heavy-one-light tread has become familiar to my ears, and that of Nino's, I can imagine how frustrating school and growing up must have been, even though he does play some mean table tennis.

A is unmarried and I've always been too afraid to ask why, afraid I might hear that no one wants a mis-shapen partner. Though polio has done little to dent his personality in spite of being coupled with an educated but absolutely insensitive family, it has left him vulnerable physically. He suffered polio on the left side of his body, leaving one leg shorter. He suffered a heart-attack when he was in his 30s, even though he was a teetotaller. Two years ago, he suffered a stroke to the brain, the left him handicapped once again: not physically or mentally, but verbally.

A now suffers from Broca's aphasia, a disorder easiest explained as trying to communicate while using English in Paris or Hindi in Chennai. A case of lost communication.

"'There are patients who can fluently say something that sounds like a sentence, but it's just garbage,' said speech language pathologistPaul Rao, vice president of clinical services, quality improvement and corporate compliance at the National Rehabilitation Hospital inWashington, D.C.

'It's one of the least understood disabilities in the world, because these people cannot communicate for themselves.'

The worst part is, cognition is not affected. People think as clearly as they ever did. They simply can't communicate.

Aphasia is believed to affect about one million people in the US, according to the National Aphasia Association."

I've come to believe, as have some doctors, that Polio left A vulnerable, not just outside, but internally as well. His left leg, the heart attack, the stroke on the left side of his brain.

He once had a fantastic voice: full, warm, emotive. Music used to set him free, he used to say, from his bent and de-shaped body, from that disfigurement's social and personal ramifications. When A used to sing his favourite song, Man re tu kaahe na dheer dhare, there was bound to be a lot of sniffing in the room. Today, with his two-word and four-word sentences, A manages to run a successful computer training institute in Jaipur. There's little that's changed in his life, his routine or his family's lack of support. What has changed is that he can't hum his favourite music anymore. He will never be able to sing, even though the tunes play in his head, again and again, ceaselessly.

My favourite bits of the Oscars

2009-02-24T14:12:00.004+05:30

The story of 1 Oscar: No. 3453 Bollywood bound

Once he was simply known as Oscar No. 3453 but now the little gold man has a new name, 'Best Original Score,' and he's Bollywood bound.

AR Rahman, India's revered film composer, collected Oscar No. 3453 on Sunday night and will be taking him home to India.

And just to make sure No. 3453 won't be a lonely expatriate, Rahman won a second Oscar, for best song. Both were for the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

'I want to thank the Academy for being so kind,' said the composer known in his native country as the Mozart of the Madras.

In a way, the trip to India is only fitting for an Oscar that from the beginning just seemed destined for life on the road.

Unlike its 51 counterparts at Sunday's show, Oscar No. 3453 missed its flight a week and a half ago from Chicago to Los Angeles. It was photographed with the others at the R.S. Owens factory where they were cast, but then was somehow misplaced.

Quickly located, it was packed up and sent solo to Los Angeles.

It arrived at the Kodak Theatre no worse for wear. Once there, Steve Meisner, Hollywood's Keeper of Oscars, buffed it to a fine shine and placed it on a table with its brethren.

From there it was handed off to Rahman who will ensure that it becomes one of the world's most traveled Oscars.

--

And then this:

Dev Patel helps co-star Rubina Ali, 9, work her way around unfamiliar food, as Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail, 10, (far right) figures out the cutlery.

Everytime I saw them, either on stage or in their seats or on the red carpet, the team of Slumdog Millionaire was all in it, together. Scores of photos that show Danny Boyle and his team especially Dev Patel, hugging, hoisting and clutching the children from Mumbai's slums who are perhaps the real heroes of the film. Among all that Oscar finery and stiff bow-ties, there's the unmistakable feel of watching a bunch of people whose heart is in the right place.

Monday Morning Music and Oscar happiness

2009-02-23T14:37:00.003+05:30

If my life was to be a movie, it'd be endless, only because I'd have a soundtrack that runs into days!

I've always had a song for every situation/mood, or maybe a situation/mood for every favourite song, actually make that a couple of songs. One of my most precious gifts is a cassette given to me by a friend I was dating in college, a compilation of his favourite mood-songs, with handwritten labels. There's also no better way to beat Monday Morning blues than have your favourite numbers belt out from the ipod, and opening the bathroom door to catch your three-year-old shaking his booty, Masai style.

Here's what I'm humming to today: My favourite song from the Jungle Book, that I was reminded of gently, and unexpectedly by Momstir. Also, such an apt way to begin a week that celebrates the winning of the underdog, Slumdog Millionaire and the uplifting, Smile Pinki.
'The bare necessities of life will come to you... oh They'll come to you!'

Also, the more the merrier, and more choice maketh for a happier woman, and all that jazz, that's why this one: because sometimes all you need to get through a day, is just plough through it. 'I'm still trying to get on the hill of hope.'

What's your salve song for an instant pick-me-up to prepare you for the week ahead?

The depravity of desire

2009-02-20T14:40:00.006+05:30

Desire squats on her life like the brown wedges with turquoise stones on the t-bar strap she picked up last week: not needed, but hard to not need.

She rummages through the internet everyday, like the chest of drawers at home, pulling out things and lives she likes, stuffing the rest back in, haphazardly, in an orderly chaos that always lets her pull the right rabbit out of the hat.

However snazzily she cloaks it, hiding it under different needs each day - this voyeurism is starting to smart at her conscience now. Peeping Tom, she chides herself. Peeping into lives that she wished she was living. Homes she wished she had helped build. Food she wished she could cook and serve and gloat over. Jokes she wished she could've used to break up the thick silence at home.

And all that, that is around her, the dependable life she is living, the home with its klutzy inhabitants and inherited furniture, the greasy food of the age-old maharaj, the efficient conversation of discord-free days, all that is so hard to need.

She has learnt to make the right choices, the ones tagged practical. She even knows the right things to say, the right time and the right people. But her betraying words are like her shoe-choices: they are not what she needs, but so hard to not need.

There are voices in her head today, some have always been there: washing dirty linen in public. She wonders why these words won't go, why her ears are hot, why there's a squeamish feeling of having stumbled upon something putrid, private and not needed.

Sign Language

2009-02-18T12:44:00.005+05:30

You say and do so much with your eyes, Nino, you know?

Where should I put the plate? Two keen eyes that point out a barely-there space next to your book.

Hidden dad's Harry Potter? The widening and then the quick blinking of the eyes, followed by a smile that reaches the lips later.

Can I get you some more dinner? The easy-to-miss shake of the head with the eyes closed.

The mums at school tell me you've naughty and expressive eyes, that there's a glimmer of mischief there at all times.

At all times, except when you drop me off to work after school. Because then there's a thin film over them, and I take turns guessing if you're sad, hurt, lonely or just resigned to the fate of having a mum who's never around.

New pinch!

2009-02-13T12:34:00.007+05:30

I love my new header - all thanks to Sujatha and Preeti :) You guys are the best, like totally. Thank you so much and big, big, big, giant hug.

--

Edited to add:

It has just occurred to me, and yes it is one of those days when light travels slower than sound, that there just might be other mums like me who're currently obsessing with the alphabet. Nino's trying to learn his abc's right now, and I've wanted to show him the alphabet in so many shapes and different ways and you know, cloud formations, that well, I'm almost dreaming of it.
That's also the reason for the new header, see?

That's why I loved the Spell with Flickr link. Photographs of letters based on the names you enter, with a database of millions of Flickr photos to choose from. Don't like how A looks? Click on it till you found one that feels just right.

The time I spent spelling the names out was a nice reminder to adolescence when I'd doodle names on a paper for hours :)

Links to the original photos with larger sizes are available and this means you can print them out/ frame them for some educational wall art - just what I'm planning to do for Nino as a get-well-soon gift (After about three illness-free days, we now have an ear infection). Although, I must add, I don't think this is legal for commercial purposes, that is selling this idea as a product. As long as it's between the baby and you, have fun!

What if God was one of us...

2009-02-08T18:29:00.008+05:30

I see him often, walking purposefully in the flat compound, a smile ready to show up under the thin moustache.

I smile and say kem cho, a generic greeting that means little but just hello. He smiles back, making me smile wider and more honestly in return.

Three times a week I meet him in the lift, at 6:00am, as I head out for a workout, a broom and a plastic bag in hand. He collects garbage from the flats, picking up the those remains of our lives that we've thoughtlessly discarded.

Sometime back I was at a mall close to where we live, struggling with bags of groceries, a very cranky Nino refusing to walk unless carried. I was flustered, tired and hoping for a miracle.

Bhabhi, Bhabhi, he yelled, running towards me in a clean yellow and green tee-shirt and cap, the logo of a shop on the tee, worn like a tag of acceptance. He helped me towards the car, God-sent in his timing and enthusiasm. You work here, I asked him, and he smiled and said, here and four more places.

This Friday, I opened the door to a lobby littered with garbage - street dogs had come looking for their food and the dustbins are an easy prey. There's dog shit on the door mat. Cursing, I get a plastic bag and wear in my hand, intending to pick up the crap, unaware that he's already at work in the dark corner of the lobby.

Rehva do, bhabhi, ae to maru kaam che, he says.
Leave it, bhabhi, its my work.

He smiles and gets back to picking up the litter, the shit, scrubbing the gravy stains, pushing the vegetable peels into his bag. Thank you, I say. Tamaru naam shu che? What's your name? Bhagwan, he says. God.

Later that morning, in the parking, I see a middle-aged neighbour screaming, 'Bhangi, bhangi'. I'm a little shocked at the use of the word, shocked more to see Bhagwan running towards the man. Sweepers and garbage-pickers are always a particular caste here, a vocation that is thrust upon them by destiny.

Bhangi's have been India's worst-kept tradition since the medieval times. 'Untouchables' delegated to cleaning toilets, collecting garbage and handling dead bodies. It's a malaise that cannot be cured - it's a caste you're born into, that no amount of prayers or education can wish away or change.

Mahatma Gandhi coined a term for them, Harijan, people of Hari, or God, but the words did little to dilute the stigma, the vicious racism that they live with everyday.

I wonder what his parents thought of when they named him Bhagwan. Generations of people who had accepted or given in or were forced into their fate of being the keepers of India's dirt, tangible and that of our minds. Was it hope for a better future, faith in a God who treats them no better than society does?

It's an irony that is more cruel than beautiful, and I wonder if he hated the name growing up, in municipal schools with classmates who were perhaps only reiterating the jokes and the slurs they picked up from their parents. He's a young man, less than 30 I guess, and I wonder if he's married, has children of his own. I wonder what he tells them, segregated so deeply from society, with a sense of submission so subconscious that they probably know no other way of life, have never had the freedom, the undeniable right of a human to 'choose', to make a choice. What has he named them, they who have a future that has been pre-determined before they were born?

Slumdog Millionaire: Freida Pinto's red carpet reign - Also Footloose Fridays - I

2009-02-06T14:16:00.014+05:30

Okay, *confession coming up* the the words in the post title are a perfect way to tell you I've an OCD with alliteration.

I haven't' seen Slumdog Millionaire yet. So if you're looking for a review, I'll be able to point out to some really good ones. Here, Here and Here. Whatever your rationale is on what should be depicted as India's reality, you're likely to find some provoking thoughts at these blogs.

I'm not likely to see the movie in the near future either. Considering that the only nights free for movies are no-school nights aka Friday and Saturday, considering that all the goddamn night shows in Ahmedabad for the movie are called Slumdog Crorepati, aka, Hindi version, and considering that the husband would rather not spend Sunday afternoon locked up in a auditorium filled with Gujjus who're talking nineteen-to-a-dozen, I'm very likely to be the only person who gets to watch the movie next year, when it goes on DVD.

So what am I doing here? Try this for a mix. Throw in an inclination to climb onto the Slumdog blog bandwagon that's in full force right now. Then stir in some serious reading time spent on following leading lady's fashionable antics, thanks to the delightful High Heel Confidential and the formidably informed Catherine at Red Carpet Fashion Awards (Both links show the complete fashion evolution of Freida since Slumdog started garnering eyeballs). And then, garnish, with an idea picked up from Sujatha's blog: 'Fridays are those kinds of days, footloose and fancy free, deserving of total timepass posts'.

I've always cringed seeing Indian actresses on red carpets abroad. Even Aishwarya Rai, who could have the world's best stylists fighting over her, has always looked a tad uncomfortable in western wear - though I must say her recent appearances have shown a new confidence with low necks and drapes. Preity Zinta gets it right sometimes with the glamour quotient, but she insists on dressing down and wearing off-the-rack pret too often. The other set includes the likes of Nandita Das who, admirably wear traditional stuff and come off looking gorgeous most of the time, but for a dowdy moment here or there. There's no experimentation, no tease, no awe, no thankgod-no-Dior/no Channel/no Versace/ no Manish Malhotra moment.

That's why pretty Fredia Pinto warms the cockles of my fashion-loving heart: From the predictable classic brands to new emerging hot names, from simple silhouettes to draping ones, to a bold move with a Christian Lacroix that looked like a bomb but got her kudos for her bravado - she's made the clothes work for her, wearing them, instead of the other way round. Unlike the Indian press, the western press can be quite unforgiving, splashing errand-running-outfits on front page, sealing the epitaph on most actresses. But even here, she's managed to emerge fairly unscathed, bucking the diktat here and there, wearing the trends instead of just following them. Maybe it helps to have a good stylist, but there are plenty of examples around of people who've had the best and come off looking like prom queens.

This girl is comfortable in her skin. She doesn't do makeup that's shades lighter or ages her up too much. She's 23 and looks like it. There's no gauche-ness with western wear, and hair piled up, left down, or pulled up in a ponytail, her smile wins more fans than critics.

Freida is one of the most watched, clicked, google-ed actresses today, and there are more reports and forecasts about what she'll be wearing to the Oscars, than there are about Hollywood's mainstream actresses.

Red Carpet's Catherine sums up the western press reaction towards Freida's fashion choices pretty well: 'How this new kid on the block is getting couture for her first red carpet season, is nothing short of outstanding.'

And the last word in fashion in blogworld, the Fug girls, have this to say about her: 'We love Slumdog's meteoric rise for giving us Freida Pinto. Six months ago, we hadn't even heard of her; now she's dominating the industry's highest-stress period of endless junkets and red-carpet appearances. And instead of cracking under pressure Pinto is delivering a master class on how to step into the spotlight with grace, an infectious smile'.

Here are some of my favourite dresses on her:
(Pictures courtesy: High Heel confidential - in some pictures the pic on the right compares the dress as worn on runway/designer's website. Click to enlarge pic)

And the only time I've absolutely hated what she was wearing, is when, unfortunately, she was in traditional wear.

I doubt she's going to be wearing any Indian designer to the Oscars or the BAFTAs (this Sunday), but I will join the world in scouring for her face on the red carpet melee. Shine on Freida! And then perhaps I could raid your closet.

The sisterhood of the travelling word

2009-02-03T11:23:00.000+05:30

They’re not mere words to me – their names and pseudonyms each carrying a face-less image of a person laced with intricacies. The ‘handles’ that we use to address each other are tightly woven with our ideas and opinions, conjuring up caricatures of our lives in tiny, rapid bursts of colour. Some are names I love. Some are denominated by cities. Some with their memories, some with colours, and some with the kind of humour that makes life seem sane. And would I seem like a sentimental fool if I said, I was, in a way that words refuse to reveal, blessed for them all?

I realised it last week, in a flash typical of clichés, when the husband asked me what I was doing as I frantically typed my previous post in the dead of the night. My loved ones were around me, and yet, I had to reach out to you, to share my pain, knowing somewhere, you’d understand. I’d found and realised the joy of female bonding after what seems like ages.

I grew up with a bunch of boys, and though all of them are dear to me, we shared a bond that had a time and a place and has refused to grow out of that teenage leg-pulling we still indulge in when we meet. I’ve several close girl-friends, and our friendships have evolved to adjust changing roles such as marriage and motherhood, separated as we are by distance. Lately, there’s always been something missing in the equation, a small, but open-gnawing gap in how we connect, and there are bits of my soul I’ve never been able to fuse fully with another in a long while. The closest friend of course, is Nino’s Dad, but there are as many pitfalls to marrying a friend as there are comfort areas.

Here, in this bit of my world, where I play strip-tease with my emotions, where I display the fears I usually cloak so well otherwise, where my ranting has a purpose, where you leave me equally moved, inspired and rolling on the floor with laughter, and where I have your listening eyes: I have found and devoured greedily the depth of your thoughts and the comfort of your words, the pleasure of your company. Thank you, for this unexpected gift, and for teaching me that the time to make a friend is never past.

There will be no white flag upon his door...

2009-01-27T23:00:00.008+05:30

Holding his hot palms in mine, his tiny head cradled in an indigo lap, my tears racing time with the ice-pack drippings. Half-open eyes, flushed cheeks, the tiny sighs, and the constant, sandpaper sound of wheezing. I breathe deeper myself, willing my lungs to work for him, pushing the air into his tiny, and now tired, body. His fever seeps into my thighs, branding its presence: this fight will take more than my prayers.

The speedometer says 120km, and yet, the world goes by in slow motion, the mountains towering before choosing to fade, vast desolate stretches dotted here and there by the flaming kesuda flowers. Even there, in that panic, that fear, in that vast expanse of waiting below an unforgiving sun, the orange bursts from the black shoots seem strangely symbolic.

Short, staccato conversations that plan routes to match with hospital timings, a quick stop to get some more ice. There's more than one laboured breathing inside the car. He sighs, not very often, my lap speaking to his needs, shifting and slackening on its own, seamless in agony. And yet, he will not moan. For a while, I will him to complain, to cry, to shriek, like I want to, but can't. He doesn't protest it at all, he's meeting it head on.

What was meant to be a long weekend of family bonding, some serious fun and adventure, has turned into a trial, by bedside. What was a five-hour ride filled with wheeees at the undulating roads two days ago has turned into a deafeningly quiet ride towards an answer, and a solution.

In these last two days he helped build his first bonfire, raced up a stony hill, felt the might of the wind and heard it move, marveled at the 11 and 20 stars he could see, the loud drone of the crickets at night. He, who lives surrounded by glass and concrete mountains, woke to the gentle warmth of the sun creeping into the window. He picked flowers, rode horses, danced with tipsy adults to loud 70s Bollywood music, made peace and war with cousins.

In these last 24 hours, I've discovered a part of my son I've not fully understood. I met with his will, all three feet and three inches of it, battered, but not broken. I met his strength, not tagged in kilos or how many jumps he leaped, but in his grim countenance behind the nebulizer mask. I stood in awe of its bright orange brilliance, not dulled by physical pain. In these last 24 hours, I now know, for today and through his life, he will not go quietly into the night, ever.

The age of wisdom - part two

2009-01-23T12:39:00.005+05:30

I'm babysitting two kids - Nino and his elder cousin and role-model, Karanbhai - and we've played and read, and watched Tom and Jerry and there's still ages to go for bedtime, so we start to talk. We're talking of different places of worship, as in a temple, a church, a mosque, etc, since Nino recently visited a Church for the first time. And just like that, conversation takes a turn...

Karanbhai: I'm Jain, what are you?
Nino: Random muttering about the church and the baby Jesus he saw there.

Karanbhai, persisting: I'm Jain, and you are?
Nino is a bit flabbergasted. Eventually he says, I'm people.

--

Today when I pick him up from school, he's chattering excitedly about some Inden Fly. I don't get it, frankly I think it's a montessori method I haven't read up on, and the worry starts to set in.
In the car, the muttering continues.
On the top there is saffron. In the bottom green. Middle is Ashok Chakra. Inden Fly.

OMG, I want to scream, I din't realise he's talking about the Indian Flag. So we open up his bag and see the painting of the flag, just single strokes of the three colours on paper. Beautiful painting Nino, I tell him. Its not a painting, he says. Its called republic.

A tyrst with destiny, once again

2009-01-20T23:51:00.002+05:30

He's done it. Barack Hussein Obama is the 44th President of the US - a man who won his people's vote for his dream of equality, peace and justice.

Follow the best of what happened and is happening on inauguration day through Sujatha's collage of words as she paints a kaleidoscope of images that we here have not been able to see on beamed images. And her hope and the hope of millions with her, drips through the keyboard, seeping through monitor screens, entering our lives and ideologies as well. It's going to be tough sleeping tonight.

Congratulations, America.

Mr Roncon take a bow

2009-01-19T11:38:00.005+05:30

I've never attached a lot of importance to my name. My identity of myself was always very distinct from it, maybe attached and coloured by it at times, but never truly defined by it.

My name today carries my maiden and Nino's Dad's surname. That's how Nino, who is currently in the phase where he refers to everyone in their 'full name', no doubt inspired by roll calls at school, calls me. Why? Perhaps because my father's name represented the culture I'd come to be familiar with while the husband's stood for a culture I was willing to accept. It's a odd thought coming from a person who has survived mix-breed parentage, because the fact that you grow up on the borders of two totally diverse cultures should be a life-long reminder that tags hurt, tags type-cast and tags build barriers.

My name now often attracts two distinct sets of attention: there are those, including the husband's sisters who 'appreciate' it and then there are those who seek to define it in terms that are usually enough to get any sane person's heart-rate high. Surprisingly, the husband and I have no take on it. Neither on the fact that I use my maiden-name passport or bank under two identities. There is so much more to me and my opinions than the name that you use to refer to me, that it honestly does not matter if I'm Acme, you know? As women, we tend to understand this more. The roles we play, sometimes define our existence and frame of mind so completely at times, that our multi-faceted personality is at peace with the one facet that is visible at that time.

I've seen fiercely independent and identity conscious friends simply change names after marriage and I've seen friends add in their maiden name years after having carried their husband's name. What sets them apart, is that either ways, it was a decision of choice, not a social/cultural/family diktat.

Which is why Sanjay Dutt's quote that 'girls who become part of a new family after marriage must assume their new surname and all the responsibilities that come with it', really ticked me off. This is what this man had to say about his sister, who still carries her maiden name, a fact, the actor says, 'maybe fashionable these days, but is dis-respectful to the person she married.'

Stopping short of calling Priya Dutt a fame hanger-on who uses her father's famous surname for her own benefits, Sanjay, who has recently entered the political fray, also manages to rubbish her identity - as someone's daughter, as a wife, a politician and a mother. It's alright that Sanjay uses his nomenclature heritage: his father's goodwill has managed to save him from conviction even.

What gives a son the right to use a particular name, while the same is denied to a daughter? This reformed junkie/gun-loving social deviant believes there's only one Mr and Mrs Dutt, and that's him and his latest wife Manyata, someone who carries as many dubious distinctions to her credit, as her latest husband. Not considering that she has changed names several times over to suit her divorce statuses and starry aspirations.

With his regressive views and criminal background, Sanjay seems the likely choice for Amar Singh and his party. And as for Priya's husband Owen Rancon, may his I-don't-give-a-damn-what-my-wife's-ration-card-says tribe increase.

Happy Uttarayan and Pongal!

2009-01-14T11:33:00.004+05:30

You have to hold it in your hands to feel it: the tug on the thread spool by the kite that's soaring in the sky. An unequivocal message: its time to let me soar. Let me go, I belong here.
Very few things in life are as obvious: a diamond shaped piece of paper that was meant to fly - and knows it purpose. When the north winds begin to blow, it's the call of rustling paper dreams that begins to play first, the war-cries come much later.
A true kite-flyer is mesmerising when you watch - the symphony between man and object, the former helping the latter get to horizons that have fascinated mankind since we began to write our own history. There's a joy in the tugs and pulls, silent effort in the navigation, and the thrill of feeling the wind play along. It's a journey and a destination whose celebration is very quiet, and very personal. It's a rare meeting place of man and nature and philosophy: the azure blue above waiting to be touched, its improbable physical frontiers broken by the humblest of all things - a scrap of paper.

--

My earliest memories of Pongal were that nobody in my class knew what it was. Surrounded by predominantly Gujarati friends and family, there were about five people in my life that I could wish a happy Pongal. Squatting next to my mum in the garden, next to the Tulsi shrub, I'd see her roll small mounds of pongal khichdi, speaking to her ancestors, and to the dog, crow and cow. Small yellow mounds on green coconut leaves, the aroma of food and foliage and mud mingling into memories that are now tagged as childhood. Today, only for today, I pray only for my family, she'd say, her nose and cheeks reddening in a sign I deciphered quite early on, that meant she was home-sick. Seeking her parents, family and language in a foreign land, far away, further than just distance measured in miles. She, who had atleast two dozen people on her daily prayer list, who'd hear a moving story and add the characters to her prayer marathon, she, would then close her eyes and remember the siblings who nurtured her, the parents she hurt when she ran away to get married, the grandmother she never knew, the temples she visited when she was a child, her silk skirt rustling as she raced the younger sibling up the stairs. It was one of the few times when my mother was inaccessible to me - her pain and nostalgia was for her alone.

Today, I still have less than five people to wish happy Pongal. I have much lesser faith in God than I'd like, more questions than conversations with Him/Her. But when I squat down to do the ritual that comes to me in automation, I will put aside thoughts of the son and the husband, of my life and it's tiny trials, and think of my family not so far away. Parents, sibling, cousins and grandparents here and those watching from above. And the dog, crow and cow. My nose is reddening too, and my pain and my nostalgia is for me alone.

Old friends

2009-01-13T13:44:00.001+05:30

It’s still a familiar sound
after all this time
the tiptoe of melancholy
behind the hum of everyday life-
a long forgotten song
on a stranger’s ringtone –
background score to my tears.

Discarded dreams
crunching beneath my feet
like fallen yellow leaves:
old,
and yet, with enough life for one satisfactory stomp.
My first sprouts of hope
that made way for our big, grownup shoots.

Old friends with whispery hellos and my smiles,
as I duck behind age and maturity, embarrassed
how they still stick around.
Don't they get the point?
I know better -
silly dreams now discarded for big, grownup shoots.

Quiz time

2009-01-08T17:43:00.004+05:30

If there's one thing that I hate about Facebook - apart from the fact that it makes my life seem much more mundane and boring compared to what friends are doing - it's the various requests from friends to match scores on quizzes such as those where I get to find out what kind of a person I am, what colours define me, what I am most likely to say to get easy sex, how will I handle a breakup, what film character I am and the kind.

Hot-tempered but considerate. Orange. Please can we have some sex before the kid wakes up. Five shots, a weepy movie and two of my best friends who bring the tissues. Scarlett O'Hara.

I know my answers, even if I do whine that I am yet to fully discover myself. And considering my belief in the philosophy of the unique, off-beat, off-the-beaten-track and sundry, I refuse to believe a bunch of generalisations can offer to sum me up. At least I hope I'm not as predictable.

So it is with slight moral trepidation that I took this particular quiz that I found on Seher's blog - just the kind to do with a cup of tea in hand, although I must say, some of the options are very America-centered: What Font Are You? *drum roll*

I can understand that very few will feel the leap-right-out-of-my-chuddies kind of anticipation I felt when I read those four words. I've fonts for most of my opinions, fonts for fashion, fonts for business, fonts for humour, fonts for tragedy. Teen audience? Try Cherry Bomb or Jokerman. Writing on the magic of the ages, the movies? Try Budmo Jiggler. Flashbulbs going off, very Moulin Rouge, I assure you. Interviewing Waheeda Rehman? Try Kaufman.

They carry weight, they carry the message, left hanging or underlined, given a shadow or just left stark, fonts give the reader the gist before you begin to read. They can even kill a really good copy, like a great song with dismal cinematography. Sometimes, I fall in love with their names. Take the money 1. Universal Jack. Biting my nails. Multiple personalities for my words.

And the result is:

"You are the Times New Roman.
Some call you timeless - others call you a snob. Either way, you're a class act all around. Just don't take yourself too seriously."

Sigh. If there's one font a journalist who's been warbling with words long enough considers straitjacketed, its the Times New Roman. It's what my words begin with, before they are polished and hewn and then crafted into something more magical. Basic, easiest to work with when trying to pick errors, easy on the eye, decent on printer paper. Sounds increasingly like me.

--

ps: Try the test. And tell me if the readings were close!

Writing Prompt # 1

2009-01-06T11:50:00.002+05:30

"Write about a sleepover, a slumber party or the time you stayed somewhere overnight. " - Sujatha. 10 minutes, timed.

--

It was the first time I had taken an auto rickshaw at 7:00 in the morning. I’d stopped at the general stores and picked up a bottle of milk before I went home, the neighbours merely assuming I’d walked out 15 minutes back to get myself some breakfast.

Of the first time that I slept over at your place, without intending to, before name-tags entered our spaces and feelings, before the need to touch replaced the need to connect, of that first time, I remember the morning the most.

I don’t know when I went to sleep. I know we were arguing about something, there were a couple of other friends in your room. Your room, all amber glow, low mattresses, cigarette haze, Pink Floyd-tinted. Some time later, we were alone, talking about boyfriends and girlfriends, listing the 30 things-we-wanted-to-do-before thirty (I still have that paper, your signature scrawled over it, handwritten in short exclamations like the ones we shared with classmates in annual slam books), lying low, propped up by soft, decade-old cushions. Talking, discovering, flirting with our boundaries, flirting with a reality that was about to change in ways we never really expected.

I remember waking up on the floor, my back hurting, while you were asleep on your stomach on a bed close-by, Wish You Were Here still playing to the fall and rise of your breath. I remember smiling, and then laughing uproariously at this unintended sleepover, the taste of independence, the tang of having done the forbidden. I remember waking you, and you brushed my hand, muttering, no pretence of manners on display, just a regular, ‘bye, see you.’ I had walked out of your sleeping house to an already awake morning, humming, trying not to catch your neighbour’s eye.

And while we would eventually turn into lovers, we became friends that night.

Five things I don't tell you I do when you're gone

2009-01-06T11:02:00.004+05:30

Wear one of your tee-shirt's to bed.
Sleep on your side of the bed.
Never empty the ashtray.
Keep your slippers neatly arranged right next to mine in the bathroom.
Miss you. Because after eight years of a relationship, it's not the easiest thing to say.

Letting go

2009-01-02T18:45:00.005+05:30

I gave up my Gods today.
Reached out through the clutter, cleaned away a fortnight of dust, anointed them with just a dab of vermilion.
I held them in my hands for a long time, not knowing how to apologize for seeking them and then abandoning them and then seeking them all over again, at will.
Some went into soft jewellery pouches. Some in hard cardboard boxes. And some lay bare, their eyes boring into mine as I pushed the drawer shut.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T23:03:00.005+05:30

The Nino Family wishes you a year that's filled with love and joy, and with hope that survives the darkest hours...

I Am Completely Different

By Kuroda Saburo

I am completely different.

Though I am wearing the same tie as yesterday,

am as poor as yesterday,

as good for nothing as yesterday,

today

I am completely different.

Though I am wearing the same clothes,

am as drunk as yesterday,

living as clumsily as yesterday, nevertheless

today

I am completely different.

Ah -

I patiently close my eyes

on all the grins and smirks

on all the twisted smiles and horse laughs -

and glimpse then, inside me

one beautiful white butterfly

fluttering towards tomorrow.

The Boy Who Turned Three

2008-12-31T12:42:00.013+05:30

4:30am 27 December, 2008
She has just finished sketching the clue cards for the treasure hunt the Boy will do when he gets up. There's some finger paints hidden behind a photograph of him and a friend. A painting in his tent. A few books below the Christmas tree. Lego construction blocks below the table. A cardboard kitchen, handcrafted by dadda and two favourite uncles, in the kitchen. And out in the balcony, nestled in between the pigeons and the plants, a slightly crooked alphabet formed by wheat grass grown with love by Nani and Nana.

5:00am 27 December, 2005
She's feeling drugged today, drugged, but not sleepy. The baby too is uneasy, poking its knees and elbows out of her taut, and tired belly. There's no sleep to be had: her belly is so big she's afraid her skin will snap. And then there's the urge to pee, again and again, again and again, one more time. Dadda sleeps less than a foot away, his hands propped on a pillow, having spent half the night stroking her hair so she could sleep. It's awfully quiet - and the silence seems deafening that morning.

5:30am 27 December, 2008
She and He look at the sleeping Boy, marvelling at how he slumbers through jumbled limbs and three blankets. The Boy's smiling now, dreaming perhaps of diggers and dumpers, and the two of them hold hands, an unspoken need to reach out amid the torrential wave of love that has begun to rise. The love tinged with disbelief at having helped create a living, breathing, and opinionated little person. He is ours, truly? Truly.

6:00am 27 December, 2005
She's just managed to lose herself and sleep when she wakes up frantically, ashamed at her inability to control her bladder, she's wet the bed. She leaps out, as much as she can, tears streaming down, wondering how pregnancy has robbed her of the last dignity - the ability to hold her pee. But the pee just won't stop. It's cascading now, tinged with blood, gushing around her bare ankles, seeping under the bed. She doesn't know it yet, but her water's broken.

6:30pm 27 December, 2008
There's a cacophony of sounds around her, children talking, screaming, adults chatting, music blaring from loudspeakers, and yet, strangely, it's like being on a hovercraft: you're buoyed through it all. She marvels at the many friends the Boy has made, the ease with which he joins and adds to different groups of little people, different ages, different genders. He's been so grown up today, saying his thank-yous, carrying the gifts and leaving them on the table, inviting them to paint with him. He looks bigger today in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to this elbows, smiling to the camera, saying cheese.

6:39pm 27 December, 2005
They're finally wheeling her into surgery, loading her body into the stretcher, dumping it before it has gotten time to get accustomed to the feel of the cold steel. It has refused to listen, that body of hers, to drips, to medicines, to prayers, to hope. It will not open up. Frightened, it has decided to hold in tight the little being it tried so hard to reject once. It cannot let go, not yet.
She's muttering a name now, calling out to the one man she wants to hold hands with. She refuses to let the doctor inject her, she wants her Da. A doctor rushes out, unable to see the Man sobbing quietly in the corner, his tears and fear drowning the announcement of his name. They cannot wait anymore, she must go through this alone.
There's a spurt of blood now, she can see a them slice her belly open, and she gasps. And then the man with the cold hands and white mask, looks at her and his eyes are smiling. It's a big baby, he says, really big baby. She wants to know who it is, it's gender becoming its first identity, but her lips are not moving. It's a boy, he says, and then finally, the sleep she's been missing for months, comes calling.

10:30pm 27 December, 2008
She's still in her party clothes, diamond earrings all jumbled up in a hastily tied ponytail, the Boy snuggled close to her on the bed. She's ready to put him to sleep, and then get on with the cleaning, perhaps take a drink, let the blur of the last three years sink in, so she can make a permanent memory of it, one that time and new milestones cannot dent. The Boy is not ready to sleep yet. Can we chat, he asks. And then the questions come tumbling out. Am I three now? he asks. When she nods yes, too moved to mouth a yes, he looks down at his body, and asks simply, Where? Where am I three, mama? Where am I two? He wants to hear the names of all his friends who came, wants to know how he spent the day. Tell me, mama, he says, how did we find all the gifts in the morning? They talk for an hour, words helping both of them assimilate the meaning of that date. Happy Birthday baby, she tells him, just as he's nodding off to bed. Happy Birthday mama, he says.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-24T16:46:00.002+05:30

May there be lots of sweet memories to savour...

May wishes, said and unsaid come true... and may the good man with the jolly laugh and endless generosity bring peace and goodwill to us all.

And if you're this side of the world, on the 27th, please join us for Nino's 3rd budday!

And the double of all that you want...

2008-12-24T16:24:00.009+05:30

... Is one of my favourite wishes, one that I use liberally for b'days. So it's no surprise the good wish has come back to greet me, even though it's six months late!

Thank you, MG, for this: I'm honoured, truly. I love the name - Proximity Award - Here's to friendship!

About the award: This award is given to a blog that invests and believes in PROXIMITY - nearness in space, time and relationships! These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind of bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers!

--

Edited to add:
And the Proximity award goes to:

1) Jo - Hers is an interesting life. A Brit married and living in Japan, raising a multi-cultural kid, Jo does the most interesting montessori activities with her adorable son. She also organises 'culture swaps' bringing together mothers from all over the world, defining proximity in her own way. I've yet to participate in a swap - not too sure of my craft abilities ;) - but I love her motivation to make the world, one big meeting place.

2) Laura - Because she so defines the award citation: she truly invests and believes in striking a chord with her readers. And because she has some of the best ideas for things to do with my boy.

3) Cassi - She's putting bits of the world together, one stitch at a time, one fantastic idea at a time, hot-gluing the joints with some of her unique inspiration and effortless creativity.

4) OJ - not in a quid pro quo sort of a way, but those who know (and here I mean all of us who read her delightful blog), do know that she totally fits the award. I'm so glad I found you on the world wide web!

5) Maid-in-Malayasia - Because humour truly makes the world go round and stay steady at the same time. Sometimes there's this thought cloud that comes up in my brain, as like with Bart Simpson, especially when I'm thinking about someone. It could be about a word, a colour, or a memory. Her's is c-section-stitches-splitting-funny, ochre yellow and her posts on her children.