Dinner with family. Just family. Decorating the tree with them, brother showing up really late, talking to parents, dad dozing off just as I’m getting ready to click, and running out of film just as dad wakes up.
Brother stays over. Driving through streets of Bandra on Christmas eve, watching men looking dapper in suits and women looking chic in dresses and satin gloves. We have coffee at a place over-run with kids in Santa caps.
SS visits, after a lifetime. We window-shop. Hungrily. There’s no store on SV road that wasn’t devoured. Mango was the tastiest dish, though.
J and Cy land in Mumbai. (Cy is all of ‘seven’ now – a figure she announces loud and clear, holding up the right number of fingers for good measure.) SS and I are at the airport to pick them up. Cy sits forlorn on a trolley and tells me, “My mother never gave me any food.” I tell her that I’m her real mother, and J is just an imposter who got lucky. So, she retorts, “You’re not my mother. You never ever ever gave me any food.” I suppose all those French fries that seamlessly passed on from my plate to hers never counted.
Walking with J on Pali Hill, late at night. We took a wrong turn and reached Carter Road to witness a strange sight. Strange, yet exotic and beautiful. Like a Latin poem on a road sign. The moon was halved – looked like an upturned bowl, and it was red. A dusty, gritty red. It seemed suspended in the sky, as if it were just about to get plunked into the dark, inky sea.
J, Cy, and I watched our first play together at Prithvi: Kashmakash. I thought it was quite nice. It tackled the subject of a man who fakes the freedom fighter status to get money from the government. But later, his life takes some troublesome turns, and he is forced to confront his situation head-on. The lead actors gave solid, nuanced performances. But I did think Cy might have enjoyed something lighter than a play on the triumph of conscience over convenience. She wanted to come back, though, for another play, so one can’t really tell.
We went to Juhu beach thereafter. It was around twelve at night. Man! That place doesn’t get old! The beach was lit up and full of people and clean. Cy and I ran around on the beach. The sea looked like it had molten platinum mixed in it. The moonlight was that radiant on the surface. Cy and I splashed about, while J walked along the shore, shivering daintily. How she grew up in Delhi, I’ll never know! (Or as she says, “Not Delhi…South Delhi.”)
The night was cold. Just when one had given up hope of having a winter, it didn’t just get pleasant in the city, it got c-o-l-d! We walked to a portion of the beach where some people were playing football. Cy took some rides. J took some pics. And then we hit the stalls.
Getting to the stalls at Juhu beach is like entering a nightclub. That buzz, that noise, the hurling and shouting, and laughing, and thumping on backs, and cacophony of music…it’s brilliant! We ate hot, spicy, overloaded with butter ‘tawa pulao’, paav bhaaji, ragda pattice…gosh! It was so good!
The air had a bite by then. We walked along some more, I got a cup of coffee, and then came back to my cozy, cocoon-y home!
Next night, J, Cy, and I had sushi at Global Village. It’s a nice place. The sushi is affordable, and they had a Christmas menu with roast duck and all.
Later that night, we walked along the dark streets of Pali Hill. Tumbling trees, cobblestone paths, yellow, wax-type lighting from the streetlights, purple flowers dangling from ivies that resembled tendrils of a young girl. I told them of a spooky incident that had happened to me when I was a child. When people didn’t walk on Pali Hill without lanterns or torches in their hands.
Cy had fun at the play-pen on Carter road. It was filled with kids, some shoving past others to get to the swings, some flapping about to reach the slides faster…and the guard gave up trying to get the kids out by eleven-thirty. So he just went back to his cabin and snored away. When we left around twelve-thirty, the kids were still at it.
We reached home. J and Cy went off to sleep. I wanted to do a little bit of reading. But ended up contemplating instead. As I had another supper of warm sooji-halwa, roti, and strong coffee, I thought of this world, my life, 2009, 2010.
There have been so many moments like this in the past - where suddenly out of a crowd, a few people stand out. Or in a snapshot, every single meaningful moment in one’s life gets captured to tell you something. Time, if anything, blurs. It diffuses. Boundaries melt. Sharp edges get rounded. And you think, in surprise, how over the years – who all became family…and what all became home.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Hail him
In a country called childhood
where he knew he'd be king
He built a palace of sunbeams
And trained nightingales to sing...
...of stories of waterfalls
That fell into the night
And fortresses of dust-storms
of formidable heights
He guarded the valleys
With skies crotcheted like lace
But by the time his country was a republic
Children had left the place
where he knew he'd be king
He built a palace of sunbeams
And trained nightingales to sing...
...of stories of waterfalls
That fell into the night
And fortresses of dust-storms
of formidable heights
He guarded the valleys
With skies crotcheted like lace
But by the time his country was a republic
Children had left the place
Monday, March 30, 2009
Yippee!
I’ll go to sleep on the second of April, all excited and thrilled for my birthday the next day. At night, the Universe will work at bringing me my well-deserved gift. And the next morning, I will wake up to perfect sunshine and perfect skies with this wrapped and parceled next to me! http://www.benetton.com/portal/web/guest/ss09/kids/toddler#gallery_top
Such joy!
Such joy!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Pretty things that lighted up my life this week
A line from the song ‘Yeh Dilli hai…’ from Delhi 6. The line goes: ‘Yeh shehar nahin, mehfil hai.’ The way every little nook in Delhi glows like a jewel in the evening, the way domes and gardens light up like candles in front of a huge mirror, the way every season suffuses the city with easy, fragrant languor, the way you see a myriad interpretations of a poem each time you look up at the sky…this line sums up those traces of Delhi really well.
One of my cook’s latest inventions – adding strong, black coffee to a caramel custard mix before setting it. Tastes heavenly!
The Costa Coffee in Inorbit Mall in Vashi. I love that place…it’s cute, cosy, and a very friendly place to hang-out. Oh, and there’s the ‘White chocolate and lemon muffin’. That is the only dessert I have had in all the Costas I have been to – in Noida, Delhi, and now Bombay. Usually, in coffee places, anything that isn’t made out of chocolate tastes like it’s been prepared out of wet cardboard. But this muffin – it’s soft with a nice, lemony centre and topped with a generous smear of delectable white and dark chocolate. Very, very good.
The second-hand bookstore and library inside Hiranandani. This guy must be scouring the world for some amazing reads. He has a graphic novel based on Homer’s Odyssey.
The roads off Kurla. Man! The things that improve when you aren’t looking!
Amazing cab rides from Vashi to Marol. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone’s eyes light up when I’ve said ‘Marol’ at 9 in the morning. Usually, they pretend as if I have snot on my nose and look the other way and whiz off. Of course, they are all autos! See, cabbies have class.
A sort of a kitty party I was part of quite suddenly. It’s nearly 11:30 p.m., it’s the ladies compartment, and it’s pleasantly full. One woman peels an orange, another one tears up a packet of chips. Since I am sitting with them and looking hungry, they offer me their snacks. I refuse at first, but they insist. So I take some chips. One of them looks at me a little sadly and advises, “Beti, itna fight kyun maarne ka…shaadi karke ghar sambhaal. Aaaram se…” The other one says, “Apun ne bhi toh shaadi kit hi…kya hua?” To which the first one replies thoughtfully, “Yeh marad log bhi na...kya bharosa…” Ah! Kinship!
Cold, cold mornings. There’s actually a bite in the air when I head out at 6 a.m. Just that sharp sting on the face when you run…that makes the horrible struggle to get out of bed so very worth it.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror at midnight while getting water from the kitchen. Do I look good when I’m sleepy or what! Wow! My heart did skip a beat, and this time it wasn’t fear.
Theories that can germinate and circulate only in New Bombay. One day, I was chatting with an auto-guy and mentioned that once the Metro is ready, life in Bombay will be superb! He said, “Hmm…lekin ab kya faayda madam, metro ko aur do saal lag jaayenge, aur Delhi-6 to agle hafte release karne waali hai.” I didn’t get the connection. The guy thinks that the Bombay Metro is being constructed for the promotion of Delhi-6. Hee hee hee! Maybe the promotion also involves Sonam Kapur travelling in a lovely yet forlorn fashion from Versova to Ghatkopar up and down the entire Friday that it releases. (And if that is the case, maybe Rakesh Mehra could make another movie ‘Pune Potholes’. We could definitely benefit from publicizing something like that!) So filmy we are!
Line from another song I heard in an ad. In fact, the ad is about a man looking lovingly at his wife while she is buttering toast or something. In the background, there’s a song playing on the radio. It’s sort of a scratchy and Rafi-type number. It goes something like…Tu meri khwaabon ki taaveez hai.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Two of them now
I am the aunt of a little niece and nephew now. The niece is littler as she’s only two days old. The nephew, on the other hand, is a little old horse, considering he’s been around for 7 months now, traveled all over India, and has currently become very adept at changing TV channels using the remote. He takes that after his mother - my cousin. This couch potato behavior is hereditary I think. (Kaera and Suveer are offsprings of two of my cousins.)
My little niece’s name is Kaera. She’s named after an Irish goddess or fairy or something like that. It means ‘the dark one’ and she has been thus named because she has jet-black, poker straight hair and dark eyes. My nephew is named ‘Suveer’, which is quite far removed from Irish nomenclature.
I haven’t yet seen my niece’s photograph, but I have met Suveer once and he is quite a heartbreaker. He is so, so , SO cute! No wonder my cousin decided to stay at home after the baby. Why would you not want to revel in such cuteness every single second of your life? I told her to give him to me considering she or her husband are not very bright. (Oh for God’s sakes – she used keep calling cabs ‘Tasky! Tasky!’ until she was eight or nine. And then when she came to Bombay, she couldn’t even cross the road properly. I taught her.) She declined the offer very graciously and hit me on the head when I wasn’t looking.
Suveer is such a happy camper! He smiles a whole lot and doesn’t cry when he gets carried off by other people. However, he does tend to be partial to well-dressed, good looking ladies. My sister told me he made an exception in my case.
Oh god! When I held him, it was like holding this really sweet-smelling, animated marshmallow. He’s also quite jumpy and post his visit to his grandparent’s house, he has also learnt to spit at people. (My uncle, his grandfather, gets very weird kicks out of teaching kids things like this.)
Sigh! Babies are the bestest people in the whole world. Closely followed by aunts, of course.
My little niece’s name is Kaera. She’s named after an Irish goddess or fairy or something like that. It means ‘the dark one’ and she has been thus named because she has jet-black, poker straight hair and dark eyes. My nephew is named ‘Suveer’, which is quite far removed from Irish nomenclature.
I haven’t yet seen my niece’s photograph, but I have met Suveer once and he is quite a heartbreaker. He is so, so , SO cute! No wonder my cousin decided to stay at home after the baby. Why would you not want to revel in such cuteness every single second of your life? I told her to give him to me considering she or her husband are not very bright. (Oh for God’s sakes – she used keep calling cabs ‘Tasky! Tasky!’ until she was eight or nine. And then when she came to Bombay, she couldn’t even cross the road properly. I taught her.) She declined the offer very graciously and hit me on the head when I wasn’t looking.
Suveer is such a happy camper! He smiles a whole lot and doesn’t cry when he gets carried off by other people. However, he does tend to be partial to well-dressed, good looking ladies. My sister told me he made an exception in my case.
Oh god! When I held him, it was like holding this really sweet-smelling, animated marshmallow. He’s also quite jumpy and post his visit to his grandparent’s house, he has also learnt to spit at people. (My uncle, his grandfather, gets very weird kicks out of teaching kids things like this.)
Sigh! Babies are the bestest people in the whole world. Closely followed by aunts, of course.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
How does that go again? Merry what?
This morning, at the Mankhurd signal, it was hot and dusty and people scowled while crossing the road. Meanwhile, in an auto, a little cherub sat and gurgled in a lady’s lap. He was a smooth, shiny little butterball, all wrapped up in pink and green striped scarves. He had a face that, if tilted towards a dark sky, would part the clouds and let in the gentlest stream of rain and sunshine into the world. His dark eyes shone with excitement, as if he were watching the most splendidly decorated Christmas tree in front of him instead of a rusty traffic light. I waved at him. He looked at me and smiled. He was so cute…so adorable and portly in his yellow jumper that read: “I am a balloon.”
May we all have the sunniness that comes with such leaps of logic.
Merry Christmas everyone! Happy happy HAPPY new year!
May we all have the sunniness that comes with such leaps of logic.
Merry Christmas everyone! Happy happy HAPPY new year!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Epiphony..he he
Just before my holiday, I had this thought –maybe it’s time for me to start from scratch. At least, when it comes to making friends. I think my association with some friends has run its course. There are a few exceptions; there are some people who I’d like to stay in touch with, off and on…because they are interesting people. They do stuff, they make mistakes, win, stumble, laugh, lose badly..whatever…but they live. They’re interesting.
The others, a sadly growing number, seem to be stuck in this whiny hell-hole they call existential angst. I used to be the president of the club at one time. But then, at some point, one discovers sunshine and cable T.V. and fast-food and then, an empty life doesn’t seem so bad any more.
Sometimes I think about things and I wonder who I could talk to. And of late, I’m drawing a blank. Now, I feel as if I know exactly what my friends are going to say, how they are going to react, etc. etc. It’s so predictable. I wonder if any of them are thinking of me the same way.
I guess when you can’t relate to a friend any more, it’s better to just not keep in touch. Maybe some time in the future, times will change and they will become different people, and I will become a better person and then we’ll make plans to go for breakfast and actually look forward to it.
Right now, I think I need to be in a place where I know nobody. I’m a new face to everyone around me. It’s so thrilling..that prospect.
Anyway, I have started thinking about Cy a whole lot now. J and I are planning to go to Puri for the New Years. (We are, aren’t we, J? Or was it some idle chatter…even if it were, think about it. Will be fun…one can never have enough of beaches.) Or else, my roomies and I were planning to go to the Himalayas. Let’s see what works out.
Anyway, here’s an incident with Cy that I just remembered.
Pune Central on a Saturday afternoon. Cy, J and I are at the Food Bazaar.
J, like a total hep yuppy, is reading labels to check for good cholesterol content in cooking oils or some such. (HA HA HA HA, by the way…good cholesterol is a state of mind, in case anyone didn’t know.) Cy and I are pottering about here and there, mostly gearing towards eggs.
“This is allergy, Mukutha”, Cy points out. For a brief while, she called me Mukutha, and not Mukta. No-one knows why. Suddenly she stopped. Again, no-one knows why.
“Yes”, I nod. Cy is allergic to eggs.
“You die if you eat it Mukutha?”, she asks, her eyes getting rounder with anticipation of peril.
“Umm..no…” I say uncertainly.
“I will die?”
“No…you will get very sick..but you will not die”, I reassure.
“Then who will die, Mukutha?”
Oh well…time for distraction.
Cy spots the snacks counter and clutches onto two big bags of ‘Kurkure’. It’s followed by a nasal whine, “I want…”
Now, I think there’s nothing wrong with a kid having chips on a Saturday afternoon. But the hep, yuppy mom unearthing benefits in fine print may think otherwise. So I desist from making the purchase.
“No…put that back. It’s not good for you.”
“But I WANT!”, Cy screams…just in case I hadn’t understood the first time round.
“Well..no..this is junk f…”
“WAAAAH! I WANT!”
“Stop crying! You are not going to get…..”
“I WANT!” (she kicks me) “BadMukutha!” (kicks me again) “I WANT! I WANT!” (kicks..what else?)
Now I’m embarrassed..so just to salvage the situation, I negotiate with her. “If you can spell it, I’ll get it for you.”
Suddenly Cy stops. She looks down at her packets, moving her fingers across the colourful squiggly alphabets, and looks back at me. Sullen and silent.
Aha! It worked! It actually worked!
She puts back the Kurkure and grabs another big, red packet.
“I want Lays”, she smiles. “L-A-Y-S.”
How could I refuse?
The others, a sadly growing number, seem to be stuck in this whiny hell-hole they call existential angst. I used to be the president of the club at one time. But then, at some point, one discovers sunshine and cable T.V. and fast-food and then, an empty life doesn’t seem so bad any more.
Sometimes I think about things and I wonder who I could talk to. And of late, I’m drawing a blank. Now, I feel as if I know exactly what my friends are going to say, how they are going to react, etc. etc. It’s so predictable. I wonder if any of them are thinking of me the same way.
I guess when you can’t relate to a friend any more, it’s better to just not keep in touch. Maybe some time in the future, times will change and they will become different people, and I will become a better person and then we’ll make plans to go for breakfast and actually look forward to it.
Right now, I think I need to be in a place where I know nobody. I’m a new face to everyone around me. It’s so thrilling..that prospect.
Anyway, I have started thinking about Cy a whole lot now. J and I are planning to go to Puri for the New Years. (We are, aren’t we, J? Or was it some idle chatter…even if it were, think about it. Will be fun…one can never have enough of beaches.) Or else, my roomies and I were planning to go to the Himalayas. Let’s see what works out.
Anyway, here’s an incident with Cy that I just remembered.
Pune Central on a Saturday afternoon. Cy, J and I are at the Food Bazaar.
J, like a total hep yuppy, is reading labels to check for good cholesterol content in cooking oils or some such. (HA HA HA HA, by the way…good cholesterol is a state of mind, in case anyone didn’t know.) Cy and I are pottering about here and there, mostly gearing towards eggs.
“This is allergy, Mukutha”, Cy points out. For a brief while, she called me Mukutha, and not Mukta. No-one knows why. Suddenly she stopped. Again, no-one knows why.
“Yes”, I nod. Cy is allergic to eggs.
“You die if you eat it Mukutha?”, she asks, her eyes getting rounder with anticipation of peril.
“Umm..no…” I say uncertainly.
“I will die?”
“No…you will get very sick..but you will not die”, I reassure.
“Then who will die, Mukutha?”
Oh well…time for distraction.
Cy spots the snacks counter and clutches onto two big bags of ‘Kurkure’. It’s followed by a nasal whine, “I want…”
Now, I think there’s nothing wrong with a kid having chips on a Saturday afternoon. But the hep, yuppy mom unearthing benefits in fine print may think otherwise. So I desist from making the purchase.
“No…put that back. It’s not good for you.”
“But I WANT!”, Cy screams…just in case I hadn’t understood the first time round.
“Well..no..this is junk f…”
“WAAAAH! I WANT!”
“Stop crying! You are not going to get…..”
“I WANT!” (she kicks me) “BadMukutha!” (kicks me again) “I WANT! I WANT!” (kicks..what else?)
Now I’m embarrassed..so just to salvage the situation, I negotiate with her. “If you can spell it, I’ll get it for you.”
Suddenly Cy stops. She looks down at her packets, moving her fingers across the colourful squiggly alphabets, and looks back at me. Sullen and silent.
Aha! It worked! It actually worked!
She puts back the Kurkure and grabs another big, red packet.
“I want Lays”, she smiles. “L-A-Y-S.”
How could I refuse?
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Having a good day
It’s a great day today! Feels like thunder!
Practically glided through Mankhurd and had a pretty neat plate of medhu vada and sambhar for breakfast.
Then I met a friend online who is the father of a very sweet two-year old. (Or “27 months”as he pointed out.)
He told me that he loves spending time with her. Sometimes he puts her on his back and does push-ups. Some other times, she starts jumping on his tummy when she feels Papa needs to do crunches.
Saturday nights, though, father and 27-month old daughter go for movies by themselves.
It’s the last thought that makes me feel so warm.
Practically glided through Mankhurd and had a pretty neat plate of medhu vada and sambhar for breakfast.
Then I met a friend online who is the father of a very sweet two-year old. (Or “27 months”as he pointed out.)
He told me that he loves spending time with her. Sometimes he puts her on his back and does push-ups. Some other times, she starts jumping on his tummy when she feels Papa needs to do crunches.
Saturday nights, though, father and 27-month old daughter go for movies by themselves.
It’s the last thought that makes me feel so warm.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Two babies, two parents
I saw two babies at the food court this Friday. Each of them was being carried by an adult. From the non-grimacing way these grown-ups wiped baby drool and runny noses, I guessed they were parents. Both babies increased their enthusiastic squirming near a Gelato cart.
I suppose they really liked what they saw - a guy wearing a fetching pin-striped hat, grinning and scooping up luscious blobs of coldness and placing them in cosy, biscuit-cones. Now, they wanted a part of the action. One of them was making little leaping actions to grab the hat, while the other made goo-goo sounds at gelato containers.
The parents glowed and beamed at how cute their munchkins were getting. Then they started moving away and what followed was volte face extraordinaire. The babies started screaming – a robust, extended bellow. Both of them. No googoo or cuddly leaping actions. Deep guttural cries because parents moved away from a gelato cart. As I had watched the whole thing, I honestly hadn’t anticipated such a volatile reaction. But maybe, there is no such thing as a ‘disproportionate response’ from someone who wears padded duckie knickers.
The father meekly suggested to the mother that they probably get some ice cream for the kids. The mother refused. The father shrugged and probably resigned himself to the fact that mother knows best.
The kid in the father’s arms started kicking him in the gut. The one in the mother’s arms, completely devoid of an original idea of harassment, copies his brother.
Both parents look at the angry chubby babies – unfathomably agitated – and suddenly, they smile – a little conspiratorial grin.
It’s fun watching young parents bask in the ephemeral happy phase – when they regard their babies as a private joke.
I suppose they really liked what they saw - a guy wearing a fetching pin-striped hat, grinning and scooping up luscious blobs of coldness and placing them in cosy, biscuit-cones. Now, they wanted a part of the action. One of them was making little leaping actions to grab the hat, while the other made goo-goo sounds at gelato containers.
The parents glowed and beamed at how cute their munchkins were getting. Then they started moving away and what followed was volte face extraordinaire. The babies started screaming – a robust, extended bellow. Both of them. No googoo or cuddly leaping actions. Deep guttural cries because parents moved away from a gelato cart. As I had watched the whole thing, I honestly hadn’t anticipated such a volatile reaction. But maybe, there is no such thing as a ‘disproportionate response’ from someone who wears padded duckie knickers.
The father meekly suggested to the mother that they probably get some ice cream for the kids. The mother refused. The father shrugged and probably resigned himself to the fact that mother knows best.
The kid in the father’s arms started kicking him in the gut. The one in the mother’s arms, completely devoid of an original idea of harassment, copies his brother.
Both parents look at the angry chubby babies – unfathomably agitated – and suddenly, they smile – a little conspiratorial grin.
It’s fun watching young parents bask in the ephemeral happy phase – when they regard their babies as a private joke.
Friday, August 17, 2007
An aunt now
My cousin delivered a baby boy after 14 years of marriage. The child’s name is Karan and he is…well, round and pink. As far as round, pink, and little people go, it is difficult to say who they resemble. But speculation has already begun. My brother-in-law is fair and cupid-looking, while my cousin is dusky with excellent thick hair. But neither of them is half as adorable as the baby. The baby, I am proud to say, has taken after our family tradition of eating, sleeping, and making parents feel guilty for not feeding them while they were sleeping. And all this in ten days.
So, now I want a baby of my own, but a girl…because I don’t know what to do with boys. (And as recent experience goes, my ineptitude extends to boys of ALL ages, apparently.) So I would like a little baby girl. Sometimes, around 3 a.m. or so, I actually feel as if there is a baby next to me, sound asleep. If I lay still long enough, I feel soft breath on my shoulder and the cute wangle of plump, little arms. And then I want to wake up and take the baby to the window to watch the dawn. Of course, if my girl takes after me, then a mother who wakes her up at dawn would be first one to be killed off.
But this is something I would definitely do when I have a daughter.
We’d probably vacation in a cute cottage by the sea, and we’d go for walks on the beach and collect shells when the sky is still reminiscent of a sleeping peacock.
I wonder when that will happen. Somewhere deep in the cosmos, where dreams and wishes rest before they rise and fill up people’s lives, my little baby is sleeping. I feel happy and peaceful when I think about this.
Getting back to baby Karan. His uncle, who is a media guy in Bombay, called to give me the good news. And in true fashion of a director announcing a star’s deciding film, he said to me, “The baby…he’s arrived.”
My brother, I think, will be out shopping for custard mix for the child. I don’t know why he thinks that babies will like custard powder, just because he used to polish off 5 bowls of custard at a time.
So, that makes me the most normal relative. I now proudly accept the mantel of being the child’s favorite aunt. Tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.
So, now I want a baby of my own, but a girl…because I don’t know what to do with boys. (And as recent experience goes, my ineptitude extends to boys of ALL ages, apparently.) So I would like a little baby girl. Sometimes, around 3 a.m. or so, I actually feel as if there is a baby next to me, sound asleep. If I lay still long enough, I feel soft breath on my shoulder and the cute wangle of plump, little arms. And then I want to wake up and take the baby to the window to watch the dawn. Of course, if my girl takes after me, then a mother who wakes her up at dawn would be first one to be killed off.
But this is something I would definitely do when I have a daughter.
We’d probably vacation in a cute cottage by the sea, and we’d go for walks on the beach and collect shells when the sky is still reminiscent of a sleeping peacock.
I wonder when that will happen. Somewhere deep in the cosmos, where dreams and wishes rest before they rise and fill up people’s lives, my little baby is sleeping. I feel happy and peaceful when I think about this.
Getting back to baby Karan. His uncle, who is a media guy in Bombay, called to give me the good news. And in true fashion of a director announcing a star’s deciding film, he said to me, “The baby…he’s arrived.”
My brother, I think, will be out shopping for custard mix for the child. I don’t know why he thinks that babies will like custard powder, just because he used to polish off 5 bowls of custard at a time.
So, that makes me the most normal relative. I now proudly accept the mantel of being the child’s favorite aunt. Tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Music Recall
Froth in a pot of fresh milk. Pop of a bubble. Spritz from a water spray. Tickle of a feather. A baby’s nose nuzzling at the neck. A puppy squirming on the lap to find its spot. Snuggle under a fat, cushiony blanket through a bluish, winter night. Patter of babies’ feet. The first whiff of a gentle monsoon through a huge balcony. Jingle of new coins in a well-worn pocket. Jangle of trinklets and madly wound lockets. Whistle of the pressure cooker triggering an evening appetite. Gurgle of a mountain stream. Trickle of a traveler’s dream. Crunching of a hundred stars. Blooming of a thousand flowers. Dancing shadows in a secret cellar. Carefree swirls of the Blue Umbrella.
Vishal Bharadwaj is terrific.
Vishal Bharadwaj is terrific.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Atop the little head
I watched Matrubhoomi last night. Half-way I decided not to. Five seconds later, I decided to plod on. Every fifteen minutes I had an overwhelming urge to vomit. Or scrub my skin raw in scalding water. Or wash my eyes to remove traces of all that I had seen. I was enveloped with a sort of revulsion that I will be trying to shake off for a long time to come.
The movie begins with a man drowning a new born baby girl in a cauldron of milk. It then takes us down a few years when there are no women left in India because of the tradition of female foeticide.
One woman, however, is discovered by a village priest. Her name is Kalki (it is quite telling that we hear her name only once in the film - from her father). She is married off to five brothers for five lakh rupees and five cows. On the first night, the eldest son takes a calendar to mark out the dates each of the husbands will spend with her. Now, because there are 5 brothers and 7 days in a week, two days remain to be accounted for. Their father takes over - being the head of the family, etc. In fact, he spends the first night with her.
So, in rotation, she spends her nights with the six men. One of her husbands likes to dress up in shiny ghagra cholis and smear a fake moustache on her before he has sex. Some kind of kinky reversal role-play. Another one has committed several acts of bestiality with cows after watching porn films. His copulation behavior with her is much the same. However, one of the other brothers (Sushant Singh) falls in love with her. She reciprocates to the tenderness.
On the days that Sushant Singh is allowed to be with her, he reads to her, they talk, they laugh. At night, she responds to him the way she doesn’t to the others. The father and the other brothers peep and watch them getting close. They get jealous and kill Sushant Singh.
Some time in the film, Kalki writes to her father and tells him of her father-in-law having sex with her. Her father comes and collects the additional one lakh rupees and leaves. Kalki is then beaten up by the brothers who tell her that her father is a pimp.
One day, she decides to run away. A servant boy helps her to escape. The brothers hunt them down, shoot the boy, and take Kalki back. Now, because she has become impure on account of running away with a person from the lower caste, she must be punished. So she is shackled and kept with the cows in the shed.
In the meantime, the murdered servant’s brother wants revenge from the higher caste murderers. And there is no better revenge than ravaging the honour of the family, who is lying in the shed among cows and dung.
Later, Kalki gets pregnant. One doesn’t know who the father is, but because the father-in-law had spent the first night with her, he claims that that the baby is his.
News of pregnancy has spread throughout the village. Elsewhere, the lower-caste revenger claims paternity of the baby. So he sets off to get his ‘dulhan’ home.
The higher castes will have none of it. What follows is a bloodbath where all the men are killed (save for another servant boy who has taken care of Kalki during her pregnancy.)
The movie ends with an exhausted Kalki looking down at a beautiful, bawling baby. It’s a girl.
***************
Now, I generally don’t measure a movie’s impact by punishing viewership. I react very badly to scenes of sexual assault. Instinctively, I get my legs closer together, close my eyes, wring my hands, and wish that it would all go away. From the movie, from this world. But this movie pushed me to the rims of squeamishness. I was subconsciously pushing my husband’s hand away every time some-one on the screen exploited Kalki.
I don’t know whether Matrubhoomi was a good movie or not. The music and the cinematography are impeccable. There are scenes of Kalki (who looks like a pretty, young bloom) in bright yellow cotton sari and a pink blouse. She looks so fragile and innocent. Then, when the idea of it is soiled so brutally time after time...it’s nauseating. There is a very sharp break in the visual syntax that I still can’t reconcile with. I can, however, acknowledge that if flinches and grimaces are benchmarks for influential cinema, then the point was very well made.
But what has twisted my mind is how I reacted to the end, when I saw the baby. The baby, in the movie, is the product of severe, inhuman exploitation. Her mother has been traumatized in so many soul-crushing ways. She, however, never once contemplates suicide. Even when she is pregnant and in bondage, she tenderly moves her hand on the swollen belly - before the men come and rape her.
Throughout the film, I kept thinking about this little bit of ...life; it’s coming into this world that just mutilated whatever essence it stood for...and yet..when one is done is scourging through muck and filth, there is such hope and relief in seeing a baby.
As if the baby comes with a message that as long as there is the possibility of me, things will be okay. As long as life gets cultivated in someone’s body, even one that goes through starvation and horrors, as long as it survives.....as long as that happens, peace can be salvaged.
That is what a baby has come to mean. A little soul, that needs to be cultivated and taken care of, is our license to redemption. It is a sharp stirring of our comatose conscience. It’s coaxes a visceral prayer for the kindness out there.
That is the pressure on a baby. We ruined this world for you, child. Please take care of us.
Gibran said that children were life’s longing for itself.
It’s such a thorny crown to wear.
The movie begins with a man drowning a new born baby girl in a cauldron of milk. It then takes us down a few years when there are no women left in India because of the tradition of female foeticide.
One woman, however, is discovered by a village priest. Her name is Kalki (it is quite telling that we hear her name only once in the film - from her father). She is married off to five brothers for five lakh rupees and five cows. On the first night, the eldest son takes a calendar to mark out the dates each of the husbands will spend with her. Now, because there are 5 brothers and 7 days in a week, two days remain to be accounted for. Their father takes over - being the head of the family, etc. In fact, he spends the first night with her.
So, in rotation, she spends her nights with the six men. One of her husbands likes to dress up in shiny ghagra cholis and smear a fake moustache on her before he has sex. Some kind of kinky reversal role-play. Another one has committed several acts of bestiality with cows after watching porn films. His copulation behavior with her is much the same. However, one of the other brothers (Sushant Singh) falls in love with her. She reciprocates to the tenderness.
On the days that Sushant Singh is allowed to be with her, he reads to her, they talk, they laugh. At night, she responds to him the way she doesn’t to the others. The father and the other brothers peep and watch them getting close. They get jealous and kill Sushant Singh.
Some time in the film, Kalki writes to her father and tells him of her father-in-law having sex with her. Her father comes and collects the additional one lakh rupees and leaves. Kalki is then beaten up by the brothers who tell her that her father is a pimp.
One day, she decides to run away. A servant boy helps her to escape. The brothers hunt them down, shoot the boy, and take Kalki back. Now, because she has become impure on account of running away with a person from the lower caste, she must be punished. So she is shackled and kept with the cows in the shed.
In the meantime, the murdered servant’s brother wants revenge from the higher caste murderers. And there is no better revenge than ravaging the honour of the family, who is lying in the shed among cows and dung.
Later, Kalki gets pregnant. One doesn’t know who the father is, but because the father-in-law had spent the first night with her, he claims that that the baby is his.
News of pregnancy has spread throughout the village. Elsewhere, the lower-caste revenger claims paternity of the baby. So he sets off to get his ‘dulhan’ home.
The higher castes will have none of it. What follows is a bloodbath where all the men are killed (save for another servant boy who has taken care of Kalki during her pregnancy.)
The movie ends with an exhausted Kalki looking down at a beautiful, bawling baby. It’s a girl.
***************
Now, I generally don’t measure a movie’s impact by punishing viewership. I react very badly to scenes of sexual assault. Instinctively, I get my legs closer together, close my eyes, wring my hands, and wish that it would all go away. From the movie, from this world. But this movie pushed me to the rims of squeamishness. I was subconsciously pushing my husband’s hand away every time some-one on the screen exploited Kalki.
I don’t know whether Matrubhoomi was a good movie or not. The music and the cinematography are impeccable. There are scenes of Kalki (who looks like a pretty, young bloom) in bright yellow cotton sari and a pink blouse. She looks so fragile and innocent. Then, when the idea of it is soiled so brutally time after time...it’s nauseating. There is a very sharp break in the visual syntax that I still can’t reconcile with. I can, however, acknowledge that if flinches and grimaces are benchmarks for influential cinema, then the point was very well made.
But what has twisted my mind is how I reacted to the end, when I saw the baby. The baby, in the movie, is the product of severe, inhuman exploitation. Her mother has been traumatized in so many soul-crushing ways. She, however, never once contemplates suicide. Even when she is pregnant and in bondage, she tenderly moves her hand on the swollen belly - before the men come and rape her.
Throughout the film, I kept thinking about this little bit of ...life; it’s coming into this world that just mutilated whatever essence it stood for...and yet..when one is done is scourging through muck and filth, there is such hope and relief in seeing a baby.
As if the baby comes with a message that as long as there is the possibility of me, things will be okay. As long as life gets cultivated in someone’s body, even one that goes through starvation and horrors, as long as it survives.....as long as that happens, peace can be salvaged.
That is what a baby has come to mean. A little soul, that needs to be cultivated and taken care of, is our license to redemption. It is a sharp stirring of our comatose conscience. It’s coaxes a visceral prayer for the kindness out there.
That is the pressure on a baby. We ruined this world for you, child. Please take care of us.
Gibran said that children were life’s longing for itself.
It’s such a thorny crown to wear.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Little writer of T-shirt messages
C got a diya from her school and showed it to me. Pretty little clay lamp attached to a plate with red, sparkly, paint. For some reason, she didn’t trust me enough to hand it over for appreciative inspection.
‘This is the not for you’, she informed. ‘ Yours is in the Mumbai.’ (C is quite fond of the definite article.)
Similar wariness of me handling diyas can be witnessed in my household, but I wasn’t about to let THAT get in the way.
‘Why can’t I hold it?’, I ask.
‘This is the not yours’, she replied and hit me on the hand.
‘Whose is it then?’
‘The Big ban’
‘What?’
‘The BIG BAN!’, she yelled.
‘The Big Ban?’, I’m a little confused now. She’s making diyas for a clock in London? (Yes, I know it’s the Big B-E-N, thank you so much.)
I pull her closer, to follow her mouth (constantly rounded in surprise, anticipation, partial scream, full-bodied yell, etc., etc.).
‘This diya is for…’, I ask slowly, my eyes never leaving her lips.
‘THE’, she replies slowly. Okay, she thinks I’m a dud, but so what.
‘BIG’
Yes…
‘BAN’
‘THE BIG BAN!’, she finally concludes loudly.
Of course, I had made the arrogant presumption that if I didn’t know what the freaky Big Ban was, she wouldn’t either. But humility crept into me like gastro, and I asked her:
‘What’s the Big Ban?’
‘The Big Ban is the big ban’, C replied and touched the diya to her forehead. How we do after a puja.
‘BHAGWAAN!’, I correct her, with relief. So it’s not as if she knew something I didn’t.
She’s irritated now.
‘This is for the Big Ban!’, she says with finality, wondering how this dense woman didn’t get it the first few times it was hollered. She scoots to find her Mommy.
I’m left staring at the diya and wondering…
‘Bhagwaan – the big ban’
C should make message T-shirts for agnostics. So what if she’s four? She gets them.
‘This is the not for you’, she informed. ‘ Yours is in the Mumbai.’ (C is quite fond of the definite article.)
Similar wariness of me handling diyas can be witnessed in my household, but I wasn’t about to let THAT get in the way.
‘Why can’t I hold it?’, I ask.
‘This is the not yours’, she replied and hit me on the hand.
‘Whose is it then?’
‘The Big ban’
‘What?’
‘The BIG BAN!’, she yelled.
‘The Big Ban?’, I’m a little confused now. She’s making diyas for a clock in London? (Yes, I know it’s the Big B-E-N, thank you so much.)
I pull her closer, to follow her mouth (constantly rounded in surprise, anticipation, partial scream, full-bodied yell, etc., etc.).
‘This diya is for…’, I ask slowly, my eyes never leaving her lips.
‘THE’, she replies slowly. Okay, she thinks I’m a dud, but so what.
‘BIG’
Yes…
‘BAN’
‘THE BIG BAN!’, she finally concludes loudly.
Of course, I had made the arrogant presumption that if I didn’t know what the freaky Big Ban was, she wouldn’t either. But humility crept into me like gastro, and I asked her:
‘What’s the Big Ban?’
‘The Big Ban is the big ban’, C replied and touched the diya to her forehead. How we do after a puja.
‘BHAGWAAN!’, I correct her, with relief. So it’s not as if she knew something I didn’t.
She’s irritated now.
‘This is for the Big Ban!’, she says with finality, wondering how this dense woman didn’t get it the first few times it was hollered. She scoots to find her Mommy.
I’m left staring at the diya and wondering…
‘Bhagwaan – the big ban’
C should make message T-shirts for agnostics. So what if she’s four? She gets them.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Save the Indian (male) child
This isn't exactly a feminist tirade, but this is written by a woman, and it is written in annoyance.
You raise your girls to be sweet, strong, and independent. (Wise parents teach their children to listen to opinions and discard or heed accordingly. The other ones just teach their kids to bullshit everything that everyone says. Still others bring up girls to be on guard and forget that spine so that everyone thinks well of them. I am not sure which is worse, but I detest people shoving their opinions down other people's throats in a show of liberation, so I'll lean towards the former. But only slightly.)
As the gender construct of being a 'female' is pushed even further, you teach your daughter complicated activities – driving, perhaps, sending them off away from home, wearing a sari (those freaking pleats!), cooking and de-veining prawns for added advantage.
At the end of that, you have a person who genuinely dislikes blending into anything, doesn't like being taken for granted, upholds the notion of having a personality, finds other people’s egos onerous, has her opinions and is sometimes, irritatingly dogmatic about them, and is not pleasant. People who know their minds and speak them aren’t always that.
Now, where are the men to handle these women? Where do the parents teach their sons that their wives are people in their own right, that they may have very sharp differences about important things, and they won’t always be nice and soft-spoken? Why are the sons not taught to see and understand the extra mile a woman has to go through while getting married? After all, leaving behind one’s family, friends, almost an entire lifetime spent in a particular mould – can’t be easy. It is human to resent it once in a while. It is human to wonder if it is being worth it. Why aren’t men taught to be mature enough to confront that?
I’m not even talking about the working-woman syndrome. From what I’ve seen around me, men are definitely much more willing to help around the house than before. And they genuinely seem to be happy if their wives earn more than them. So that’s nice.
But…
Why do they not understand the million little things a woman gives up during the marriage? (No, I don’t know the sacrifices a man makes – and please, fewer evening-outs with friends is not a SACRIFICE.) Not having a support system in a new place is a sacrifice. The pressure of finding a job in a new place after a break is a sacrifice. Relinquishing all comfort of familiarity in the trust of someone else is a sacrifice.
I think it is quite the norm now that when the girl goes to her husband’s house, her parents tell her that if anything goes wrong, she can chuck it all up and come back to them. But I don’t think the sons understand that yet. Somewhere down the line, it has not quite sunk in that the exit option for girls is strong as well.
Why don’t the men understand that for a woman who has been earning her bread, it is difficult to ask her husband for money until she gets a job? (And getting a good job is difficult and takes time.) If a woman hasn’t asked her parents for extra cash to get along, then going to her husband won’t be a blithe transition. It’s not the ego.
Why is it difficult to appreciate that not all women take to the fact that her husband’s friends will be her friends?’ (Personally, I detest that mindset. Hell. I will make friends with the pigeons if I have to, and not just simply tag along like a stupid accessory to all dos. Rubbish nonsense, I tell you.)
Why is it difficult to get it in the head that when you develop a sense of self, you will have these questions? You will have these doubts. And what is expected of the man is some intelligent sensitivity. A little silence when he actually walks a mile in his partner’s shoes and sees things from her point of view.
While we have been focusing on our girl-children, we have neglected our boys. They just aren’t ready to handle who they’ll be with.
One day, Anumita and I were discussing how much fun it is to have baby girls. Cute frocks and little bows and pink drapes in the nursery, her cute passport photograph on her graduation day, smart pants for her first job, etc. etc.
And Chandrika, ever our voice of reason told us, that today it is just as important to have a son and bring him up well – the kind of man we would want our daughters to marry.
She said it.
You raise your girls to be sweet, strong, and independent. (Wise parents teach their children to listen to opinions and discard or heed accordingly. The other ones just teach their kids to bullshit everything that everyone says. Still others bring up girls to be on guard and forget that spine so that everyone thinks well of them. I am not sure which is worse, but I detest people shoving their opinions down other people's throats in a show of liberation, so I'll lean towards the former. But only slightly.)
As the gender construct of being a 'female' is pushed even further, you teach your daughter complicated activities – driving, perhaps, sending them off away from home, wearing a sari (those freaking pleats!), cooking and de-veining prawns for added advantage.
At the end of that, you have a person who genuinely dislikes blending into anything, doesn't like being taken for granted, upholds the notion of having a personality, finds other people’s egos onerous, has her opinions and is sometimes, irritatingly dogmatic about them, and is not pleasant. People who know their minds and speak them aren’t always that.
Now, where are the men to handle these women? Where do the parents teach their sons that their wives are people in their own right, that they may have very sharp differences about important things, and they won’t always be nice and soft-spoken? Why are the sons not taught to see and understand the extra mile a woman has to go through while getting married? After all, leaving behind one’s family, friends, almost an entire lifetime spent in a particular mould – can’t be easy. It is human to resent it once in a while. It is human to wonder if it is being worth it. Why aren’t men taught to be mature enough to confront that?
I’m not even talking about the working-woman syndrome. From what I’ve seen around me, men are definitely much more willing to help around the house than before. And they genuinely seem to be happy if their wives earn more than them. So that’s nice.
But…
Why do they not understand the million little things a woman gives up during the marriage? (No, I don’t know the sacrifices a man makes – and please, fewer evening-outs with friends is not a SACRIFICE.) Not having a support system in a new place is a sacrifice. The pressure of finding a job in a new place after a break is a sacrifice. Relinquishing all comfort of familiarity in the trust of someone else is a sacrifice.
I think it is quite the norm now that when the girl goes to her husband’s house, her parents tell her that if anything goes wrong, she can chuck it all up and come back to them. But I don’t think the sons understand that yet. Somewhere down the line, it has not quite sunk in that the exit option for girls is strong as well.
Why don’t the men understand that for a woman who has been earning her bread, it is difficult to ask her husband for money until she gets a job? (And getting a good job is difficult and takes time.) If a woman hasn’t asked her parents for extra cash to get along, then going to her husband won’t be a blithe transition. It’s not the ego.
Why is it difficult to appreciate that not all women take to the fact that her husband’s friends will be her friends?’ (Personally, I detest that mindset. Hell. I will make friends with the pigeons if I have to, and not just simply tag along like a stupid accessory to all dos. Rubbish nonsense, I tell you.)
Why is it difficult to get it in the head that when you develop a sense of self, you will have these questions? You will have these doubts. And what is expected of the man is some intelligent sensitivity. A little silence when he actually walks a mile in his partner’s shoes and sees things from her point of view.
While we have been focusing on our girl-children, we have neglected our boys. They just aren’t ready to handle who they’ll be with.
One day, Anumita and I were discussing how much fun it is to have baby girls. Cute frocks and little bows and pink drapes in the nursery, her cute passport photograph on her graduation day, smart pants for her first job, etc. etc.
And Chandrika, ever our voice of reason told us, that today it is just as important to have a son and bring him up well – the kind of man we would want our daughters to marry.
She said it.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Here comes the baby
One of my exes just informed me that he is now the father of a bonny baby girl. He sent me a snap which basically has him hogging the space, with a little bundle somewhere in the picture. (To give a little background, he had come to Mumbai to be an actor at some point in time. Instead, he became a software engineer after friends dutifully helped him through the shakal versus akal debate.) On sending him an admonitory email, I receive pics of the little baby. And she is such a darling! In the 15 pictures that RK sent me, she is yawning in 14 of them. (In the 15th one, she is fast asleep.)
To top it all, the baby’s name is ‘Araya’ – a name I had reserved for my daughter. I would spell her name as ‘Aria’ because that’s what I want my little girl to be like – the aria. Complex, expressive, melodious and dramatic, but more than that, above everything else, a solo pursuit.
To get back to the little baby – she is only a week old but has a lot of hair. And her tiny mouth is shaped in the form of an ‘O’, rather than an ‘AAA’. So she yawns a little differently. She has pink cheeks and two chins. Gosh! She looks warm and sweet-smelling. Like a freshly baked vanilla muffin. I wish I could hold her right now and take her to Carter Road. I don’t know why. It would be so nice to snuggle up to a baby by the sea.
In the background of one of the photos, I see a Tinkle comic. I am quite sure that was RK’s reading release in the stressful time of childbirth.
So, I am not quite sure how much more mature RK is now than when I knew him (The email specifically mentions – ‘Please come to visit the baby. She is accepting presents.’), but he is the father of a girl. And that’s the first step to being a whole lot selfless.
It’s amazing how you see the picture of a child and suddenly start loving your unborn baby already.
God bless us all.
To top it all, the baby’s name is ‘Araya’ – a name I had reserved for my daughter. I would spell her name as ‘Aria’ because that’s what I want my little girl to be like – the aria. Complex, expressive, melodious and dramatic, but more than that, above everything else, a solo pursuit.
To get back to the little baby – she is only a week old but has a lot of hair. And her tiny mouth is shaped in the form of an ‘O’, rather than an ‘AAA’. So she yawns a little differently. She has pink cheeks and two chins. Gosh! She looks warm and sweet-smelling. Like a freshly baked vanilla muffin. I wish I could hold her right now and take her to Carter Road. I don’t know why. It would be so nice to snuggle up to a baby by the sea.
In the background of one of the photos, I see a Tinkle comic. I am quite sure that was RK’s reading release in the stressful time of childbirth.
So, I am not quite sure how much more mature RK is now than when I knew him (The email specifically mentions – ‘Please come to visit the baby. She is accepting presents.’), but he is the father of a girl. And that’s the first step to being a whole lot selfless.
It’s amazing how you see the picture of a child and suddenly start loving your unborn baby already.
God bless us all.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Happy Birthday, O Wise One
Today, C, J’s daughter, turns four.
Last night, I stayed over at J’s place and wished C at midnight. Since C never really bothers with looking at the time, she was thrilled when Mommy and her seemingly homeless friend suddenly woke up from their lazy slumber and started singing enthusiastically. Then we lifted her and gave her birthday bumps. That too C didn’t know anything about, but the idea of being swayed and gently lowered to the floor was a hit. She didn’t want us to stop. I patiently explained the concept that she was four and that’s why she would only get four birthday bumps. She wisely informed me that she was actually six. It may have been a very well kept secret but I didn’t buy any of that.
She then sat on my lap and we watched a few stupid moments of Baywatch. (I hasten to mention here that this infernal choice of program was J’s choice. I, like my more discerning counterparts around the world, watched Baywatch only for Pamela Anderson. I think David Hasselhoff is a radish. But J ‘follows the plot’ apparently. Sigh!)
I have known C since the last 10 months. And it is still a mystery how she has come to know the things she does.
She knows that when her Mommy buys a bar of chocolate, she will have half of it.
She knows that when I buy her a bottle of Pepsi, I will have half of it.
She knows that when her Mommy and I get her a packet of chips, both of us will have half of it.
She knows that when we tell her that McDonalds is closed or they are out of French fries, we are lying.
She knows that when I ask her to change the channel, I’m ready to have tea.
She knows that when I say I won’t have tea, I will change my mind two minutes later.
She knows the distances she must stoically walk, and the distances she can rick.
She knows that I am probably the only person in the world who will gladly give her my no-nonsense, archaic mobile. In fact, she has entertained more imaginary calls on my cell than I have in my cellular lifetime.
She knows that the word is ‘scarf’ even though she resolutely pronounces it as ‘carf’.
She knows that when her mother is watching some horribly mundane film on T.V., and I moodily stare out the balcony, something is a little amiss. She comes and together we probably look at the pool or the dust rousing in circles in the construction site or a train passing by. She tugs my hand and asks me, ‘Aapko Bombay jaana hai, Mukta?’
She knows. And for now, I’m happy not knowing how she figured out that one.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Ready, steady.........wait
Since J and I are practically neighbors (apart only by a shoddy, dark, rocky lane), I spend many happy hours with her daughter. Because C is only three and I have given up alcohol this birthday, happy hours have got nothing to do with consuming liquor at student-budget prices. A good thing because the Pogo channel needs to be viewed with acute sobriety, else you may completely miss the chump’s motive to woo the serpent. A lot has changed in the animal kingdom since ‘Jungle Book’.
When you spend so much time with a child, who innocently asks you why her mother is working so hard when you are not (an anomaly I hasten to rectify), I wonder what it takes to be a parent.
It’s not what I had imagined – financial security, unreasonable levels of compassion, physical endurance to go without sleep for days, so on and so forth. All this is necessary, but you could have it all and still not be ready for parenthood. I now understand that what is actually required is a thick skin.
Last evening, J was late at work, so I decided to troop over to play with her daughter. Usually I try to read C a story but it’s no fun anymore. She doesn’t focus on the story at all. Instead, what she really wants to know is why the pink elephant is such a loser that it got featured in a book instead of dancing on T.V. And there’s just so many ways you can defend a pachyderm’s career choices – pink or not.
However, last evening, instead of playing hide-and seek with her shadow in the house, C was playing in the building compound. I think she was staging a little dance for the two aunties and was ably supported by another skittish young girl. I expected her to see me and come running with the boundless joy I thought I evoked in her. But she saw me with mild surprise and asked me if her mother was still working. I said yes. ‘You left early?’, she continued. Again, I said yes. Truly, I don’t seem to be working as hard as her mommy.
I wasn’t asked to join in the seemingly complicated sequence. C and her friend would jump from one rock to another, twirl and skip for three steps, and then roll on the grass. One of them would act injured and the other would get all concerned, only to laugh at the other one on the face. It went on like this for 15 minutes.
Well, I did feel a bit ignored. I mean, just the other day I was telling her things about how animals, like people, make career choices and why someone would want to be associated with Puffin Publications instead of Pogo Channel. In fact, I also got eloquent about how there’s no shame in turning down a lucrative option for a more fulfilling one. Not to mention, there was some other semi-autobiographical mush thrown in for good measure. And now it turns out, I’m not good enough to be rolling in the grass with.
But I decided to bide my time. There was a lovely breeze and flowers were gently flaking off trees. There was all this moon-shimmer in the clouds but I couldn’t exactly spot a moon anywhere. It was the perfect setting for a girl on a rock to be looking beautiful – resplendent in the simple beauty of a summer night.
C and her pal looked at me and whispered to each other. Maybe they wanted to play Snow White or something and wanted me to be the lead. I was just getting ready to say yes, when C and A ran towards me shouting ‘Bhooot! Bhooot!’
‘Where?’, I asked.
‘You bhoot!’, said C emphatically.
‘Yes….you!’, giggled her companion, ruling out any possibility of error my ‘in-denial’ mind may think of.
I thought of just turning my face and sulking alone on the rock. But, well, they looked really cheerful. What the heck? May as well join them.
‘So what do I need to do?’, I asked the two twittering girls.
‘Nothing’, said C shaking her head placidly.
Great. So now I was a natural in that role. Why even bother building self-esteem?
They romped around by themselves for a little while. Then they’d go up to some uncle who’d be passing by and point me out excitedly, ‘See uncle, bhoot!’
After the third uncle had squinted at me and commended the kids for the appropriate identification of the after-dead, I told C to come home. She agreed.
Of course, I had half a mind to not read out any stories anymore. My ego was so sore and all, but I couldn’t stay away from C’s storybook. I have begun to feel rather affectionately towards the pink elephant now. I can’t forsake it. It’s so much prettier than that stupid penguin on TV that C likes so much. He really does look creepy.
Anyway, C and I sat down and started looking at pictures. We then decided to sketch.
Sketching with C means that she uncaps ten sketch pens, uses one, and keeps the others out of my reach. I have doodled several Canadian sceneries in royal blue…and only in royal blue.
Anyway, while I was sketching my nth mountain in blue felt pen, I caught my reflection in the window pane. I thought I looked good. I had definitely lost weight – those 30 crunches a day were paying off. The legs looked toned and the face didn’t resemble a soyabean chunk. Hmm. Nice.
I snapped out of my reverie when C jabbed her sketch-pen (green) onto my thigh.
‘Can I sketch you?’, she asked.
Ah! Finally! The child-like adoration.
‘Of course! But tell me, how will sketch me?’, I coo.
She takes a pink sketch pen, thinks intently, and tells me. ‘One round, then another round.’
I’m not ashamed to say that I may have fought back tears then. No point in having flat abs if circles are all one needs to draw me.
And of course, there’s definitely a bit of a wait before I have a daughter.
When you spend so much time with a child, who innocently asks you why her mother is working so hard when you are not (an anomaly I hasten to rectify), I wonder what it takes to be a parent.
It’s not what I had imagined – financial security, unreasonable levels of compassion, physical endurance to go without sleep for days, so on and so forth. All this is necessary, but you could have it all and still not be ready for parenthood. I now understand that what is actually required is a thick skin.
Last evening, J was late at work, so I decided to troop over to play with her daughter. Usually I try to read C a story but it’s no fun anymore. She doesn’t focus on the story at all. Instead, what she really wants to know is why the pink elephant is such a loser that it got featured in a book instead of dancing on T.V. And there’s just so many ways you can defend a pachyderm’s career choices – pink or not.
However, last evening, instead of playing hide-and seek with her shadow in the house, C was playing in the building compound. I think she was staging a little dance for the two aunties and was ably supported by another skittish young girl. I expected her to see me and come running with the boundless joy I thought I evoked in her. But she saw me with mild surprise and asked me if her mother was still working. I said yes. ‘You left early?’, she continued. Again, I said yes. Truly, I don’t seem to be working as hard as her mommy.
I wasn’t asked to join in the seemingly complicated sequence. C and her friend would jump from one rock to another, twirl and skip for three steps, and then roll on the grass. One of them would act injured and the other would get all concerned, only to laugh at the other one on the face. It went on like this for 15 minutes.
Well, I did feel a bit ignored. I mean, just the other day I was telling her things about how animals, like people, make career choices and why someone would want to be associated with Puffin Publications instead of Pogo Channel. In fact, I also got eloquent about how there’s no shame in turning down a lucrative option for a more fulfilling one. Not to mention, there was some other semi-autobiographical mush thrown in for good measure. And now it turns out, I’m not good enough to be rolling in the grass with.
But I decided to bide my time. There was a lovely breeze and flowers were gently flaking off trees. There was all this moon-shimmer in the clouds but I couldn’t exactly spot a moon anywhere. It was the perfect setting for a girl on a rock to be looking beautiful – resplendent in the simple beauty of a summer night.
C and her pal looked at me and whispered to each other. Maybe they wanted to play Snow White or something and wanted me to be the lead. I was just getting ready to say yes, when C and A ran towards me shouting ‘Bhooot! Bhooot!’
‘Where?’, I asked.
‘You bhoot!’, said C emphatically.
‘Yes….you!’, giggled her companion, ruling out any possibility of error my ‘in-denial’ mind may think of.
I thought of just turning my face and sulking alone on the rock. But, well, they looked really cheerful. What the heck? May as well join them.
‘So what do I need to do?’, I asked the two twittering girls.
‘Nothing’, said C shaking her head placidly.
Great. So now I was a natural in that role. Why even bother building self-esteem?
They romped around by themselves for a little while. Then they’d go up to some uncle who’d be passing by and point me out excitedly, ‘See uncle, bhoot!’
After the third uncle had squinted at me and commended the kids for the appropriate identification of the after-dead, I told C to come home. She agreed.
Of course, I had half a mind to not read out any stories anymore. My ego was so sore and all, but I couldn’t stay away from C’s storybook. I have begun to feel rather affectionately towards the pink elephant now. I can’t forsake it. It’s so much prettier than that stupid penguin on TV that C likes so much. He really does look creepy.
Anyway, C and I sat down and started looking at pictures. We then decided to sketch.
Sketching with C means that she uncaps ten sketch pens, uses one, and keeps the others out of my reach. I have doodled several Canadian sceneries in royal blue…and only in royal blue.
Anyway, while I was sketching my nth mountain in blue felt pen, I caught my reflection in the window pane. I thought I looked good. I had definitely lost weight – those 30 crunches a day were paying off. The legs looked toned and the face didn’t resemble a soyabean chunk. Hmm. Nice.
I snapped out of my reverie when C jabbed her sketch-pen (green) onto my thigh.
‘Can I sketch you?’, she asked.
Ah! Finally! The child-like adoration.
‘Of course! But tell me, how will sketch me?’, I coo.
She takes a pink sketch pen, thinks intently, and tells me. ‘One round, then another round.’
I’m not ashamed to say that I may have fought back tears then. No point in having flat abs if circles are all one needs to draw me.
And of course, there’s definitely a bit of a wait before I have a daughter.
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