Lessons for the future

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.

Wisdom and wit

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 :)

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

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...

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

... 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.

Our newest family member

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.

Oh, the places you'll go!

The Age of Perception

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

The Age of Wisdom

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

Nino: He was naughty.

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

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

Nino: Why do you hit me?

***

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

Nino: When is papa going to come?

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

Nino: What's he doing with Bhagwan?

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

Nino: Mamma must be hungry.

The Age of Gluttony

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

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

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

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

***

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

Nino's Mum: That's bone marrow.

Nino: Like in mutton?

Nino's Mum: Yes, like in mutton.

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

Nino's Mum: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

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

How spring cleaning brought out the south Indian in me

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*

Happy Holi!

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.

Nocturnal Musings

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.

Genes versus Gender

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.'

The age of wisdom - part two

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 weekend of wisdom

He lies in bed, curled up, seeking comfort from the primordial foetal position he knew not so far back. Racked with cramps, he groans intermittently, his favourite snake show on tv not enough to block the pain. Now and then, he props himself up, smiling as he sees the Black Mamba swallow her rodent prey, flopping down again as it slithers away.

I lie down next to him, sighing, lacing my fingers into his, breathing his sick-baby smell. He reaches out to caress my forehead, lingering in the bunch of wild hair.

'My tummy hurts,' he says.

I don't know what to say. I've finished saying 'I know', 'I'm sorry', 'It'll get better', so I just sigh and clutch his fingers tighter.

'It's okay Mama,' he says. 'It'll get better.'

--

We're on our weekly Saturday gallivanting trip, and I've brought him to a marvelous piece of architecture known as Amdavad Ni Gufa. A sub-terrain cave structure, it looks like a mammoth turtle peeping out, and its cavernous interiors are painted with animals, people and trees by MF Hussain.

It's the first time Nino's seen a cave, and he's a little frightened by the lack of light - and the 'funny things that happen to his voice'. We sit on the floor, chatting, and my normally boisterous child is quiet, looking around.

'Are you frightened?' I ask him.

'Are you sure there are no bears in this cave?' he asks me.

'Of course. This cave is for people.'

We move to the the pathway that circles the cave and I peel an orange for Nino to eat. He carefully gathers the peels and seeds and puts them back in the plastic bag I'd brought the fruit in.

'That was a good thing you did,' I tell him.

'I know,' he says, 'Littering is a bad idea, no?'

We're returning from an organic fair on Sunday afternoon, and I've a pretty cactus pot in one hand, warm sun on my back and Nino's hand in the other hand, holding me tight.

'You make me so happy, my heart will burst,' I tell him.

'I'll go home and fix it,' he says.

--

We've been doing phonetics on the laptop all evening, and Nino's Dad calls him out on the terrace for some rough tumble, boys style.

'No, papa,' he says.

'My battery is low.'

A tale of two teachers

So there I was, struggling to keep awake at the dining table, promising the Gods above that I'd bow to them if they'd get me through breakfast, sane.

Nino was not his usual happy self this morning: he's been fighting a stomach bug all week and the cramps have started to get to his chirpy avtaar. A bowl full of strawberries quickly downed, I was trying to feed him the classic Gujarati snack, khakra, when I realised this was the cue for the 'd-act'.

Distraction works wonderfully with kids, especially those looking to chuck their khakra below the table. So I started to talk to him randomly about Shankaracharya - atleast my version of him. I told him how he had gone up north to live on a really cold mountain, and that he had long conversations with god and nature, that he wrote beautiful songs for the Gods and called them lots of names, in love and jest, just like mama and baby.

A little while later, just as we've finished most of the khakhra, Nino turns to me and says, 'Mama, I'm your Ninoacharaya.'

--

My folks are on a holiday to Kerala, and I miss them sorely, especially my Mum, who I get to see almost every other weekend.

I'm missing her so much today, I want to share a bit of her with you. If there's one word that could describe her, it'd be enthusiasm. She's always on the go, working, reading, pottering around, gardening: her many chores united by the fact that she relishes learning something new, every day.

The ability to be the one who teaches/shows someone something new - is a high as joyful as the glee we feel when we stumble upon something unexpected. As a mother, I get to experience that a lot, and often. And as a daughter, my mother still has something new to teach me, everyday.

A few weeks back, she introduced us to a rare flower known colloquially as the Kailashpati. And while it's religious connotations are big (the flower has a part that looks like the cobra hood over a shivlingum, and a small bud below the hood that resembles the lingum itself: it is offered to Lord Shiva, especially during the holy month of Shravan), it's the botanical ones that are mesmerising.


And while the shape itself makes the flower incredible, seeing the tree was even more awe-inspiring. While the foliage is high up on the tree, the flowers grow on thin, thorny arms (like sticks), and there are a thousand of them, on the trunk of the tree.


The buds hang low, sometimes grazing the ground.

A quick google threw up this: The flower is referred to as a cannonball plant, and is rare, almost everywhere in the world. It also bears a brown fruit - which I have not seen, given that we got to see only one flower. It is considered so auspicious locally, that is plucked the minute it blooms by a long list of the devout.

Incredibly soft to touch, almost like felt/velvet, it has a beautiful and strong smell - but it doesn't last long, a couple of hours maybe when plucked from stem, and after seeing it, I din't quite feel like plucking it: it was beauty meant to be shared by everybody.

My mother's hands, as she carefully opens a part of the flower - the so-called hood -to show me the cause of its legend, the lingum beneath it. Nino in the background, gazing up at the mighty tree.

Book time at bed time

Nino loves books. He loves flipping through them, loves having them read to him, loves to read aloud - though he can't really read, he's got pages memorised.

I started reading to Nino when he was six months old - and got tagged crazy by the in-laws. I'd read anything to him - story books mostly, then newspapers, bottle labels, anything - It was a break from coming up with conversation to have with him, and in a way all that reading aloud soothed me. Then he discovered touch and feel books - and conversation made way for questions of inquiry.

Nino usually likes to read a particular book for a long time - a month or more, everyday at bedtime, sometimes asking for that book to be read several times over. We usually comply, but sometimes when it's getting too late Nino gets down to the kind of negotiation tactics that would make his Gujarati genetic pool mighty proud.

There are no preferred subjects - though I have noticed a leaning towards a 'story' - we do books on mighty movers (he loves diggers, dumpers and their kind), colours, wildlife and even numbers and alphabets.

Story times are serious business: Nino props himself in a particular way, you have to give the book your full concentration as you read - and he expects you to pat your mouth and say sorry if you yawn. There is an undeniable twinkle in his eyes - just the kind that books are expected to bring.

Currently, we're reading Poldy flies high by Felicia Law. It's a delightful story about a scarecrow, how he's built and his winged friends who want him to fly with them so he can see the world. It draws out the distinction between the scarecrow's 'standing firm in the ground' existence versus all the 'wonderful countries far away, delicious fruits and fat, juicy insects' in the birds' lives - without making the reader feel sorry for Poldy the scarecrow.

Nino loved the book instantly, we ended up making a Poldy of our own from his old tee and shorts and he has red pipe-cleaner hair. Our Poldy now stands tall and firm planted in a pot in the garden.

I've always loved books too - and I began to read really fast quite young, because I was hungry for them, according to my mum. Sundays in winter were spent curled up on a massive carpet in the local government library, reading up dust-smothered covers. I could see green, lush, Asopalav trees from the window, and sometimes, I'd snooze off, right there, dreaming of the worlds I'd just read about. Libraries eventually became a sort of home to me, and I'd be lying if I dint admit now that eventually I really hope Nino discovers their magic as well.

Some pictures from book time at bed time a couple of nights back:

Yipee! Book time!

Two times, please. Say it's okay?

Papa forgot to read that Poldy flies high is written by Felicia Law and has illustrations by Steve Smallman and Shirley Tourret

And there, we've lost him to the story. Yes, that's my hairband!

Lessons in anatomy

So I'm putting Nino to bed after a rather long drawn reading of Poldy the Scarecrow, and he lays there in my lap, hugging my belly tires and running his hand over my arms, and well, chest. Yes, I have always called my chest a chest. It is the only way we (the nino family) refer to my rather generous udders.

He gently pats them, chanting "Lumps, lumps, lumps", all to the beat of his hand.

My drowsy ears perk up. "What did you just say?"

"Lumps, lumps, lumps."

There's this very unnerving tune that's running in my head as he answers, and I see Fergie gyrating to My lumps, my lumps, my little lady lumps - and alarms bells start ringing immediately.

"Who says lumps?" I prod gently.

"S" (name of teacher)

In the quiet that ensues, I imagine a heated verbal discussion with the said teacher who has been teaching slang anatomy to my not-even-three-year-old.

"S says we breathe with our lumps."

It takes a few second to sink in and then I'm laughing hysterically, Nino looking as me as if he's finally understood the meaning of crazy.

The bloody Gujju kid meant lungs.

"Lungs," I tell him, when the laughter is reduced to a bubbling in my throat. "Lungs."

"Lungs, lungs, lungs," he says, patting softly.

"Why are mummy's lungs big and soft?" pat comes the question.

"I'm different from you and Papa that' s why."

--

I'm a great believer in Freud, especially when it comes to gender obsessions (hello, it's a great conversation starter: plus he laid bare all the 'unmentionable things' about the male pshcye). Needless to say, it was Nino, who proved the law.

When he was about two, we took him to a mall in Chennai while visiting family. While he was being 'minded' by atleast two family members, I took off for the dressing room, to try some much needed bras.

I emerged to find the family in major panic: Nino was missing. Two minutes later, I found him in between racks of padded bras, standing quietly while feeling the smooth surfaces.



Since then, we've had our share of kids-say-the-darnest-things-kind of moments with various parts of the anatomy, though Nino's resolute favourite remain, ahem, my lungs. Told you Freud was right.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It's the proverbial question that's popped to you right through life - at age 3, in kindergarten, middle school, high school and then college. It comes barbed with the certainty that the asker knows you have no real clue, or rather, that you're delusional.

Why else do we have ads on national tv that show six-year-olds professing to want to be beauty queens, astronauts or engineers, followed by a discreet message to parents: what stopped your dreams was a little more than lack-of-talent - it was money/opportunity. Make sure that doesn't happen to your kids. It’s a familiar tale, all through time – remember the much-thumbed-through Great Expectations?

When is it that we forget that ‘what we want to be when we grow up’ is not necessarily definable in terms of a career?

I don't really remember what I wanted to be always. When I read Anne Frank's diary, I wanted to be a famous writer, but not necessarily a dead one. Although I promised my then diary, that I would never spill the beans on who I kissed. Then I wanted to be a open-heart surgeon or a neurosurgeon, or maybe both. I was reasonably good at math, but squeamish when it came to blood, but I'd read a major article in that monthly bible of the bourgeois - the Reader's Digest -about how rare it was to find a doctor like that (at least then it was!) and how I would be saving so many countless lives. I remember I quite felt like Joan of Arc as I told my dad about my chosen profession. In college, of course, I wanted to be a rebel, but telling it like it is, is hardly the hallmark of a good rebel. So I grunted in response to the question, sometimes quoting existentialists such as Sartre to say 'I want to be me'.

During my masters, I chose to major in documentary film-making, because well everyone else had chosen commercial cinema, and well, like, how commercial was that, huh? It was all about comrade days, khadi-hued and marijuana flavoured. I worked on six films, four saw the light of the day, if 4:00 am telecasts on Doordarshan can be called day-time prime time. I gave it my best, than I gave it all up for love and moved to the city where Nino's Dad lived, because well, I wanted to be 'whole and happy', and a broken heart is a lousy excuse of a career.

So what am I doing now that I'm grown up? Well, I write, which I kinda knew I always would in some form or the other, and I'm a mother. That last bit, I did not expect, nor did I hold it in the same esteem, as say, neurosurgeon. Of course, I now know better. I am also happy.

I trudged along with life, fighting the small battles, giving in gently to the big ones, shaping it as much as it shaped me. A few milestones achieved, a few that slipped by and a few that made way for a few others I did not anticipate.

Some guys, aren't however, willing to let life or destiny or pure laziness get in the way. Sean Aiken has chosen to try 52 careers in 52 weeks, all because his dad asked him to choose 'a career he felt passionate about'. So he's tried his hand at being 'bungee-jump operator to talk-show intern to snowshoe guide to florist to yoga instructor to dairy farmer (the stinky job). Marketer, caregiver, framer, talent broker, storekeeper, brewmaster, cancer fund-raiser, bartender, exterminator. He hasn’t been a butcher, but he’s been a baker and a pizza maker. Stock trader. Hollywood producer. Advertising exec. Fashion buyer. Firefighter, Air Force recruit, and cowboy.' He hasn't found his passion for life yet, but he's sure made some money for a few charities. Read more about him here.

I wonder if Sean represents what is referred to as the ‘now generation’, whether he represents me. I've quite a few passions - words, art, music, food - but none drive me, intensely, separately. All of these, jointly define me, mingling and merging with the other roles that have also come to be a passion of sorts. Are we more likely to answer the 'so, what do you want to be question' by saying one of these: Rich or Happy?. And does that splinch us into two categories - the end-means-more ones and the-journey-means-more others? And what about wanting them both – aren’t they interchangeable?

--

I’m glad no one asks me that question these days. But I did pop it to Nino the other day, despite promising myself I would never ever ask him the loaded wish that it is. I mean I want him to be successful, and happy, and a good human being, and a non-chauvinistic male, and a well-read person, and kind, and gentle and a good singer, someone who can cook with a smile, has great taste in music, films, knows his art from the trends… But of course, I’m a democratic parent, I would never tell him about my great expectations!

‘So baby, what do want to be when you grow up?’

He’s still stubbornly weeding out the imaginary plants in the moneyplant pot.

‘You know, like mumma is a journalist, S aunty is an artist, Foi (bua) is a designer, Maharaj is a cook….’ I added what I thought were his coolest professions to the list - driver, mechanic, fireman, engine-driver.

Met with unrelenting silence, I give up thinking I’m not getting through, that he’s not yet looking at role-playing as keenly as a choice-making procedure yet.

‘Maare Karanbhai jetla thavu che.’ Roughly translated into, ‘I want be as old as, or like, Karan bhai.’

Karan is Nino’s Dad’s nephew. He is also six years old, has a big bike and runs faster.

Breakfast Mahabharat

I dressed Nino this morning in a lovely cream Bengali cotton jhubba and red dhoti for a garba programme at his school. He was very excited about the dhoti and I loved the jhubba for its soft, transparent look and beautiful green ikkat border.

As we walked down to the dinning room, I told him to be extra careful with the jhubba while eating his breakfast. We managed through boiled egg and ketchup just fine, till the doorbell rang and I got up to answer it. There was a bite left, and I told him to take care that the ketchup doesn't stain his jhubba.

The man at the door was haggling for some unpaid bills, and just at that moment Nino ran to me saying something about ketchup, jhubba - I didn't pay attention, but when I finally turned, I saw two perfect oval stains on the cream fabric. I snapped, yanked him hard to the washbasin and screamed at how often I've told him to use a napkin instead of his clothes.

Nino looked at me, dazed for a second, till tears pooled in his eyes, and he began to cry in earnest. I was unable to stop yelling - but when I did finally calm down, he told me how he had reached for the water and the plate stained the jhubba and that he came running to tell me, but when I did not listen, he wiped it with his fingers.

As I walked him to the lift, I said sorry. He turned to me and said, very simply, 'It's okay mama, but I was trying to clean the jhubba.' I wanted to sink to my knees and cry, and apologise for transferring my irritation over unpaid bills to him. But I waited till he was gone and then locked myself in the bathroom and cried, unable to forget how betrayed he looked when I hurt him - with my words, and my touch.

You've always been gracious with forgiveness Nino - quick to say sorry, quicker to say 'It's okay'. It can't be easy saying sorry to this shrieking woman who towers over you, bellowing about something that you did not set out to do in the first place. And yet, you do, with more grace than me. I have more of what constitutes wisdom under my belt than you do - years, education, fat - but it is you who embrace me with my faults and uncompromising temper and quick-on-the-move hand. Even if I leave you smarting, hurt, unhappy and vulnerable.

I know when I come to pick you up at school today, you will run out into my arms, talking excitedly about school, pulling me towards the car. I know you will ask me as my office approaches, as you do everyday, 'Mama, are you going to office?' And I know your smile will falter and then pick up again when I say yes. You have already forgiven my trespass this morning, you forgive my abandonment of you everyday. And I know I will add this story to my guilt collection, promising to myself as I toss and turn in the night, never to yell at you again for a stained piece of cloth.

A communion in anger management

I've a confession to make. I'm a short-tempered person: and I lose my head quickly and often, and I can be very cruel with my words. And because this is a confession, and it involves being honest - even though the truth makes me squirm like water got into my leather pumps - I don't necessarily spare Nino the brunt of this. And yes, I've smacked him - good manners are very important to me - being kind, saying sorry and the like - though Nino's Dad says it's not the lack of manners that bothers me as much as the fact that Nino is a 'different' person than I am.
I remember when he said this, I felt like my stomach fell to the floor - and though I've made a personal commitment not to loose my head on Nino, it's happened today.
He's ill - fever, cold, cough, the regular seasonal side-effects of pollution that today's kids have to be put up with - and unlike other kids, or unlike me, it's very difficult to make that out. yes, you can feel the temperature rise and fall - but otherwise he's the same, not necessarily crankier, as exuberant, and as pause-less as ever. And getting him to rest - because that is as important as medication, in my opinion - has been fruitless and therefore, irritating.
Now I made him a paper plate game a few days back with numbers from 1 to 5 pasted on the plates. A small bag accompanies the plates and it has sets of various objects (stuffed puppets, pebbles, rocks, shells, animals, etc) that are 1 to 5 in sets. The aim is to match the number to the number in the set. Three pebbles go on the plate with the big number 3 pasted on it, and so on and so forth. It might be a slightly complex game for a 30 month old, but Nino's been showing an interest in numbers and often counts out aloud. So I figured he'd love the game and be good at it. Somehow however the sorting hasn't gone well. Perhaps it's because it's the first time he's trying to match a number with the word he reaches when he finishes his count. I've done the routine with him several times over, without the toys, first checking the numbers and the succession they are placed in; then seperately counting the toys; and then counting and placing on the apporpriate plate.
It's not worked and when he was unable to do it again this evening I lost my head and I told him to pack the plates up and put away the toys or play by himself. 'But I want to play with you,' he said. 'No, you don't know how to, you're not ready to listen to Mama who's telling you how to, so we can't play.'

He looked down, and must have been crestfallen, if I had looked into his eyes. With a trembling lip he muttered, 'Somebody bigger will have to beat Mama.' I would have smiled, burst out laughing, but I know I would have hurt his ego. And yes, kids do have egos. If you believe otherwise, please, let's take this outside the blogworld one of these days. He remembered my rule that he can't hit elders - including and especially Mama. But Mama hurt him, and he wanted to hurt her back. As my anger melted away, I wondered how when Nino was born, and motherhood brought forth all things nice, I resolved to be a better person for him. Eventually that philosophy moved on to not hiding my real nature from him, to let him see his family with all their faults. I wonder if this is truly a healthy choice, or whether it's an easier one to make. I don't ponder if his affection towards me gets affected with my temper - everyone around me believes and makes a point to express that they think I'm too strict with him - but I do know that not hiding it under the perfect mum tag and just expressing it doesn't make me feel any better. I've tried everything - counting to ten, even writing it out line by line - and yet there are times when the situation gets better of my intent.

If you want to know, I did apologise for screaming. I always do say sorry. Because I usually am. And he said 'It's okay Mama' even before I finished explaining why I got angry. 'Let's colour now.' He forgives and forgets far more easily than I do.

Role playing

I walk into home, dead beat after a really nasty day at work. 'Mother me, Nino,' I say. It's a role he loves to play: 'I've two-two babies' is his constant refrain when he's playing with Nino's Dad and me. I want to put my head in someone's lap and have my hair stroked.
Me: 'Mama do nini (sleep) in your lap?'
Nino: 'Yes.' 'Mama come.'
I lie down carefully in the tiny lap he has made from his crossed legs. He begins to stroke my hair the way I stroke his.
Nino: 'Mama?'
I'm thinking he's going to tell me he loves me, the way I do everytime he tumbles into my lap. I can feel that glow of motherly love coming.
Nino: 'Mama hair dirty. Sweaty. Chalo, come, I'll do shampoo.'

--

A few nights later Nino and I were colouring with crayons when he suddenly looked up and said, 'Mama, I'm Vincent and you're Theo.' Nino's dad looked up, surprised, 'Does he have new playmates at school?' Sigh. If only the in-laws hadn't sent him to St.Xavier's Loyola Hall.

I bought Vincent Van Gogh's Colors from the Met Museum in New York for Nino this summer. The preface talks about how the celebrated artist used to write letters to his brother Theo describing and depicting through sketches all that he saw during his travels. Nino loves the book, but we hadn't read it in a while, so I was surprised he remembered. It's a beautiful book - a great way to show some beautiful art and the words (by Van Gogh himself) are simple, with a music to themselves. Just a sentence per page - and so much fun to read aloud.