Heart at home

In a couple of hours from now, before the Sun gets his chance, Ammuma would be up. She would bathe and lit the lamp and chant the slokas. But today, it would be slightly different. She would pray more, kneel down a little longer and read a few pages extra from the Bhagavad Gita. By that time, Ammayi would be up, boiling water for tea and switch off the verandah lights.
Then the children would wake up, one by one, and the household would turn into a beehive. Bath and breakfast. Idli sambhar chutney. With their new clothes on, they would then go pick flowers, in blue red white purple green and yellow; yellow always dominating.

Ammuma would sit in the corner of the verandha, watching the ruckus - how the flower colors should be co-ordinated, what the design theme should be and the associated hubbub. She would sit in that corner, and think of you and me. She would close her eyes for a moment and remember how little we were and how soon we grew up. And grew away. She will think of each one of us, longing and yearning to see us all. Missing us dearly, wishing us the very best in life.

For, no Onam is ever complete without a thought to the loved ones in our life.

Happy Onam.

Midnight junk

There is something about the rain, something in the rain. Maybe it is her force and power to unabashedly leash her sorrow, desire and longing. No one asks her why. Her heart brims in abundance, washing away all that she sees, all that comes her way, until she finally reaches her one true love.

"I am sinner, I am saint. I am the beloved and the betrayed.
I have no joys which are not yours, no aches which are not yours.
I too call myself I".

I silently cheer her, longing to be her.

Motherhood, questioned

I've tried to keep our fights blow up after the Little One is fast alseep in his bed. In effect, first we'll let the tension brew, then we slowly simmer our anger and finally it pours down pipping hot, when he is tucked away and safe from the fury of his parents bickerings. Unless one of us find humor in the way our nose turns up or our lips quiver, and points it out to the other. The build up melts and harmony and much teasing ensues.

But sometimes, in our rush and hurry to satiate our egos, to decide who really was right, in our greed to outrun the other, we forget the Lil One, watching us from the corner. I catch sight of him, for a split second, his big beady eyes trying to decipher what's going on. I fail to register his face, lost in the war of our words.

This has happened rarely, but then he is only two, plus a few months. First when we lost our cool in front of him, he was way too little to chew solids, but I remember him wailing his guts out. Second time around, he watched us with a stern alert and cried copiously as our levels buzzed up.

And then, there was yesterday. Mr Upsi seated in the couch, yours truly in the kitchen and the Lil One caught in between. This time however, I registered his presence and knew clearly well that he was watching. That we were being watched. Since it was only an argument and no one was at gun point, I let it brew. Thinking it was okay for the Lil One to see his parents argue respectfullly, mind you and within boundaries the Lil One can decode.

At some point of time, Mr Upsi (it's always him. if he wants to protest, he can start his own blog) raised his voice. Since I did not have much points to butt heads to begin with, I let it pass. I was sinking it in and suddenly, there was a little finger holding onto my hand. I looked down and saw the Lil One looking back at me with such fondness that I picked him up, not knowing what else to do. He let himself be picked up, let his limbs and arms loose and rested his head on my shoulder. That snippet of time, I wished myself to be a good mother, if not the perfect. A quick kiss, and I put him down and went to bed to rest for a while. He followed me, asking 'why why'. I asked him to go out and play, not to disrupt me, not to cause a headache.
He okay-ed, laid down by my side only to sprint up a few seconds later and ask, 'mama, why?'.
I lost my patience and asked him to just get out. Mr. Upsi came by and picked him up.

Rest of the evening, I was at the back stage, not playing with him, but kept an eye for him all along. It was a much happening night to say the least, and when bed time came, I was only too happy to snuggle beside him and let everything pass.

I have seen him imitate raising voices and direct reprimanding at us, recently. Those times, I question my nurture. On what I impart. On the values. On the way I am bringing him up.

Years from now, I want to see him as an young man, who would offer his hand for a cause and always be good at his heart. Hopefully, I wouldn't frail away from offering him roots and a platform to spread his wings....

The white petticoat

Sometimes all I want to do is go back in time. Back, when I was the little girl with nary a care for the world, holding onto Amma's finger tip, wearing that white petticoat and watching the world with awe.

Now, life sucks.

I lost that petticoat and with it, my innocence.

Riddle-me-Ree, Who can she be?

Greetings wonderful MTBs!!!
and good work to all of you!
For having solved the riddle before
I give you all this clue.

The letter " K "

Write it down, add it on...
And let's move on to the next little song.

“A peapod she nurtured
A jelly bean she adores
Packing a mystery into an enigma
How entertaining she is, everyone knows”

Solve it and you get your lead
Misguess, and you lose your speed
Solve it slow but solve it now
And before you go, take a little bow

Go to 'Comments' and leave me a clue
Tell me which blog you are off to.
Good luck! Good luck! Be on your way.
You have your work, cut out for the day!

Stop. Please honk.

Among the lot, I like V the best. She borders on insanity and that by itself, scores her my brownie points. Plus, she shares her cinnamon rolls with me and if there is only one left and she is equally craving for it, she will 'accidentally' cut it unequally and offer me the bigger 'half'.

And today was her birthday. Which we knew atleast a month ago. As is the norm on birthdays, the girls will get together, pick a place for lunch and another place for 'deserts only' and crawl back to our office space after two hours of official lunch break. But V, being V, proclaimed that she wanted her 54th birthday to be special. I asked her if she is dying and if so, what her last wish would be. Not her last wish, but one of her wishes, she said, is to visit India. With me. I told her that is not happening, she can go to India, sans my company. We left that conversation at that, to proceed to the details for her self-proclaimed special birthday. This time, she wants to take us all, to a surprise location. She will drive and we will haul ourselves into her wagon to be driven to this rendezvous lunch place.

No post on V will leave the box without the mention of her husband, Kev. An established lawyer, pots of money. Mentioned his obsessiveness with Indian food. Oh really?, I asked. And then offered onion-methi bajji's, that I prepared. Used crushed red chillies and fresh green chillies. After a good greedy bite into one bajji, his whole face turned beet red. Mango laasi was then hurriedly offered, which he gulped in two seconds. Spoonfuls of sugar, and lamaze breathing. He forgave me. A sweetheart of a man.

V mentioned that she is also inviting Kev, his law partner Stacey and her new boy friend, Ryan for the birthday luncheon. So there I was, thinking she is taking us to an expensive sushi joint or maybe a high end cho-co-lat factory....some place, where I was sure I will be billed half my monthly salary. That evening, I casually mentioned to Mr. Upsi that, 'oh btw, I will be going out for V's birthday lunch tomorrow", dripped in pomp and splendour.

I chose my attire for the day carefully. Don't want to look too Average Jane, do I? A little blush and heels would help me blend in to the crowd she will be taking us.

It was noon already and we were jam packed in her car, cooing 'oh where are you taking us?, pray tell!". I noticed that the rest of the girls were also dressed up for the occasion. Ha. I am smart, afterall.

The car screeched halt. "We are here, ladies". I look around, and see trucks all around. Dusty road. Viola! She took us to a truck stop. Truck stop - where the truck drivers, the truckers, stop by for rest and relaxation. Of course.The food, I was later told, was invarialy good at truck stops. V and Kev come here often, it seems.

We walk in to the front door, and is greeted by smoke. And men, middle aged men with pot bellies, beard and a cigar. Another few with one foot already on their graves. Couple of cowboy boots and hats. Most probably took a shower when the Halley's comet was last spotted. A whistle or two, as we walk past these gentlemen. "Sit wherever you feel like, y'all", I turn back to find the waitress. A well endowed woman (front and rear) in her forties, wearing a super tight Tee, five sizes too small, exposing most of her mid section, juggling mass of flesh and oh, the Tee bursting with her buxom, says "wish you were here". Which I am sure, most of the patrons did. I might have had that deer-in the-headlights look, when V shook me and asked me to place the order. The other waitress was better toned, and kept calling me 'honey' and 'chica'. The only thing, I think, the place lacked,
was a good defeaning dose of 'choli ke peeche'.

And I tell you, y'all, what a boost of cofidence you acquire, after having a couple of these real tough truck men call you, hot. Just what a mother of a 2 y old with sagging unmentionables should hear. They might be a little over the hill, so what, so is George Clooney.

C'est la vie.

Open wells and broken hearts

With cupped hands, I hold the water
and I find you, my darling daughter
your eyes, your nose, your lips and your chin
I tremble and the water spills
with it, my heart shreds

I go back,
to my chained life
the sun rays through the creaked window
reminiscing my life with you,
my darling daughter...
===

Wells left carelessly open. When will you start paying attention?