a mother’s heart

the lover’s longing

an aching heart

a wandering mind

an unsettled soul

 

if you gather them

around a pit of fire

under a star lit sky

 

I tell you –

 it will be a dance to remember.

 

and if you were to only dig a little deeper,

you will find them all

within you

 

like embers.

 

and when the fire is out

and the embers are glowing,

it’s time to call it a night.

 

I hope our silence is worth it.

Perhaps, I should write you a note.

But the wind and the rain and the clouds and the mountains,

carry your voice to me.

===

I feed on  -

a broken twig,

looming dark clouds,

coffee mugs.

 

I see these as signs

of you missing me.

===
 

Scars

Loved twice
Left once
Healed never.

Ode to Kurup's note

Kurup said I no longer have my fangs,

that my fins cease to lift and thrust,

my tailwinds and headwinds are switched.

 
I am Arethea Franklin’s rose,

with Frank O’Hara’s heart.

 

 

Neruda meant my love,

in, if he forgets me.

 

See my notorious RBG pin, on

my starch ironed handloom saree.

 

I wake 48 mins before sun rise,

in my dream.

 

The smell of jasmine is still me,

and in me.

 
I keep house and overwater

my house plants.

 
Tea at 5, coffee till 10.

 

Always, I am my father’s daughter, first.

 
Still short of an orange-robe, while

strumming my sitar.

 

A wizened silk-cotton tree,

on a verdant valley.

 

Waiting and waiting,

and waiting.

 
See, Kurup –

I don’t have to start all over again, for

I was never gone.

 

 

Never Too Late to Take Your Sorry Back!

I don’t remember the last time I said “sorry” to Mr. Upsi. Well, apart from occasions where I accidentally trashed his shaver in a cleaning frenzy (it was such a tiny thing, who would have thought it was an attachment to the shaver plus it was rusted though Mr. Upsi argued that’s the paint coating it came in!) or damaged the garage door while reversing my car (I swear I did open the garage door before backing), or accidentally deleting his “favorites” tab in i-pad (I swear all I did was check the Arlo security camera on how I looked while yelling at the kids to stop playing and come inside) or breaking the wine glass moments after he bought it (well, some people break out the bubbly and I break the glass as well). A sorry, was required because I really and truly did not do any of these on purpose. 

It is different when you actually mean an emotional harm with what you say. Then, saying sorry takes a toll. Of course, there were numerous times in the past where I thought about the idea of an apology in my head but that was swept away in a matter of seconds by the million things he could have fixed (for me!).

However, this morning, I thought he deserved an email apology. Somehow face to face apologies lack a certain seriousness that emails carry. A written note seems more thought out, heck, you do have to think on how to word the apology without sounding too forgiving and simultaneously hide a bit of self-pity sprinkled with i-am-holier-than-you mask. Your apology recipient most probably will read it multiple times, not just to make sure he is not dreaming or re-checking if it really came from you but he would be so taken back and wonder if that particular fight really needed an apology. Because, we have grown so complacent of each other and we know that there are a million things that need spousal support that these fights will have to be buried and swept under the carpet. Gosh, no wonder our carpet looks so bulged these days (J)!!!

So, feeling rather pleased with myself on having practiced an art of living technique in real world, I press “send”. Subconsciously I was expecting a similar reply, generous with praises and loaded with appreciation.

Instead, within seconds of sending, I receive a reply worded thus: “thanku”.

Forget it wasn’t a “thank you”, heck I would have even taken a “thank u” too. Thanku!!!! Jesusbejesus holy moly son of guacamole.

Seething.

You know what! He didn’t even deserve that apology. And to think that this will get into his head when clearly I didn’t mean a damn thing I wrote.

Hashtag #thinksyouwillneverlearn#

2 PM verse

You know, the weight that sits on the vent port of

the cooker that pressure cooks your dal?

I lost mine.

Now its just the steam that vents out 

and I cant wait for it to hush and run out of its own steam.

===

he said to tell him all the truth

nothing but the truth

before I turn 82.

cose that’s when his great granda died

and wouldn’t I too?

82 is the death gauge of my seven year old.

==

he rolls over 

after they make love

and she rolls back

to the memoires that

made her love worthwhile.

===

I am a supermom, I tell him

to his eyes lit up in wow

at four, he begged for more and more 

of my encounter stories

my night kills and roof leaps

now at seven, he just listens

with sad acceptance and spiritless wows

how do superheroes heal their bruised hearts?

==

Biju Manzil

Dear Gita chechi,

These pictures that you sent reminded me of what we once were and what we left behind!

Look at this picture - the one where I am in a petticoat and ruffled hair, helping Gou with the pookalam. I must have been ten years old. You took this picture, I recall that moment. You smelled of America - I used to sneak into the room Amma had ready for you, just to breathe in the smell that was so American!!! You had a camera hanging from your neck and wore unstriking cotton trousers. Shot at Biju Manzil, our very first home that we rented in Aluva, overlooking the river Periyar. The home with the most beautiful garden ever, and remember the mango trees! Gochi and I used to climb and jump from the braches. And how the mangoes fell during the monsoon winds!!! The oonjal where Gochi and I took turns to push and swing many summer afternoons...

 

The home with the most spacious verandah, creaky wooden stairs and a kinnar/well with crystal clear water that imbibed a life long love of oil baths for me...

 

The home with a huge kitchen and attached patio, where I fought the most with Ammuma...that green wall next to the ammikallu (stone ginder) where Gou drew her "lady". It stayed on that wall all those years we lived there...

The home where we could hear the clang of the elephant chains from the kitchen long before the elephants passed our home. We ran from wherever we were to catch a glimpse of the gajaveeran. I think we even knew their names at one point! I  remember asking for the tail hair once but the mahout rudely refused...

 

The home where Dinu rang the padipura bell every day on his way to school and when Udayan Mammen came to open the door, he hid himself behind the sugar cane branches. We never found out who rang the bell and it remained a mystery until on my 12th grade autograph he came out clean...

The home where bats visited regularly at 7:45 every night...

The home where Ammuma fell on the bathroom and fractured her leg...

The home that I spent many afternoons and evenings in Appupans chaaru-kasera reading Amar chitra katha. I can close my eyes and still feel the breeze from the river..

 

The last home of ours where Appupan stayed with us...

I could go on and on...this home holds so much of our childhood, Gichi!

I heard that the house is long gone and a huge apartment stays there but who can erase the footprints we left on the sands of time?!

Feeling very nostalgic,

Love

Upsi

Ministry of my utmost unhappiness

Dear Ms. Roy,

 

Or is it Mrs. Roy now? But then you never believed in the institution of marriage, did you?

How could you, with namesake lovers and spineless cowards, the nights of anguish and tremor, at times languishing in lackadaisical whimsies but never fulfilled. The knight never came, did he? Ha. And you stuck to telling stores of knights.

I can relate.

 

Where was I now?

 

See, this is exactly my problem with your second novel, the one I waited twenty years. The one that Amazon didn’t disappoint and I couldn’t imagine returning. The one for which I couldn’t wait for my babies to fall asleep, to be transported to your world. The one I read with just four hours of sleep some nights. The one I skipped dinner for and made up with a glass of wine and dark chocolate.

 

Oh, how you disappointed me your loyal fan, Ms. Roy!!!

 

You bring in Anjum brilliantly, I feel her and imagine my own story of her when I finally put the book down for some shut-eye. The next second, you bring in Tilo. Wait! What! Where is Anjum! Who is Hobart and why are we talking about Kashmir and what happened to the graves? The beautiful graves with not so beautiful people in them. Where is Begum? No, stop, wait, Sadam Hussain? Did Tilo love Naga or was it Musa? I know you marched with Maoist insurgents, I know you turned your attention from fiction to real world people movement. I admire you for all that and much more. But can we take a moment to drink in this novel. You mixed so many things into these pages, I lost everything in the end. There was no hang over.

 

I still gave you time to recover and redeem yourself. Maryam Ipe’s monologues helped, Dr.Azad Bhartiya did not.

 

Maybe it is I who have to be blamed. Perhaps I did not grow up with Estha and Rahel. They must be in their late forties now, yea?

 

The ministry that was supposed to provide my sleepless night with the utmost happiness had me looking like a ragged doll with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and blank outs.

 

Love,

Upsi

 

PS: Kazhu Ishiguro Nobel Prize vaangi, kettayirunno? Ningal ingane thanne irruno. Allandu pinne!

Memories

Memories, I think, form cobwebs in your mind. And eventually, you will get tired of dusting those cobwebs. One fine day, you will just give up.
How else would an aching heart heal?

New beginnings

Nick-man starts school tomorrow. One of his many firsts. I am nervous and feel like holding on to him. As I packed his lunch (two fish cutlets with ketchup and cantelope) and showed him where his snacks were, I imagined him - opening this very same bag in his cafeteria surrounded by new faces. I know he is safe there and will manage just fine, but that does not stop the fluttering of the butterflies in my gut.

Tomorrow is also my first day at my new job. I will miss the familiar faces, my co-workers turned friends whom I shared my bit of life every day for six and half years. I hope I will fit in, fit in quick and hit the ground running.

It bothers me that I am not there to drop Nick-man on his first day of school. As I folded and kept the clothes he will wear tomorrow (brown shorts, orannge tee), I imagined him walking into his class holding his Daddy's hand. Ms. G, his teacher, will greet them both and Mr. Upsi will walk away. Nick, I wish I was there to kiss you then.

I will wait to get back home and share our stories on our first day of school/work.

Alright, my little one - outward and onward. Together let's fly.

Shine on.

വിഷു കണി

ഇന്ന് വിഷു.
സൂര്യനെയും തോല്‍പ്പിച്ച് ഉണര്‍ന്
വിഷു കണി ഒരുക്കി.

മകനും പുരുഷനും
കണ്ണ് അടച്ചു
തോളില്‍ കൈയിട്ടു
നിന്റെ സന്നിധാനത്തില്‍
എത്തിച്ചു.

പിന്നെ, ഇട്ളിയും ചമ്മന്തിയും
കാപിയും പായസവും
കൈനീട്ടവും.
ധിറുതിയില്‍ കാര്‍ ഓടിച്ചു
ജോല്ലിക് വന്നു
കസേരയില്‍ ഇരുന്നപോള്‍
ഉള്ളില്‍ നിന്നും ഒരു
നെടുവീര്പ്...
ഒരു നൊമ്പരം..
എന്തോ മറന്നതുപോലെ....

കണ്ണാ, നിന്‍ മുഖം
ഒന്ന് നേരെ കാണുകപോലും
ചെയിതില്ല.

ജീവതത്തിന്റെ നെടോട്ടത്തില്‍,
കണ്മുമ്പില്‍ വന്നിട്ടും,
കാണാമറയത് എന്നപോല്‍..

In memory of Ashram

From my room, I could see the river Periyar. Sometimes, between the bamboo trees that my father planted on the banks, I could see a country boat sailing by, in a soothing rhythm, craddled by the river. The water, as the oars slide pass through it, made a special rippling sound. I remember sitting on the steps, water gliding my feet, hearing the oars and the distant sound of someone washing their clothes on the banks of the river. No matter how hot a day is, I will be shiedled from the harsh afternoon sun by the bamboo, mango and jackfruit trees. There would be mynahs, crows and occasional kingfishers. All these have now dwindled into the night stories I tell my firsborn, as I struggle to keep myself awake.

I recall the many mornings I woke up, opened the bedroom window and stood there, watching the river. But there were equally (if not more) numerous other times, when in a teenaged hurry, I rushed to my college without a single glance at her. Had I known that within a few years I would be so far away from her, that a gentle afternoon breeze would evoke nostalgia and that to be back again would take weeks of preparation and planning -- had I known all these -- maybe I would have embraced those moments a bit longer.

Ammuma and I shared the bedroom. Our room had two oldwooden beds, kept together, a soft mattress on it and a few pillows. Ammuma slept on the side next to the window facing the river and I slept next to her, facing my study table. There was a small almariah for Ammuma's clothes. It smelled of camphor whenever she opened it. Inside the almariah, there was a chest and she kept old letters and pictures. I loved digging through it every once in a while. There was also the quintessential balm, Bengay, and I used to rub it on her back. My clothes were inside an almariah in a different room. There was also a shelf with my books and on top of the shelf, there was this CD player that did not work properly. A very heavy fluoreschent blue candle holder that Thampi Veliyachan got from his office was kept on the lid of the CD player and that seemed to make it work.

In the evenings, Ammuma will lit the lamp in our pooja room, which was on the upstairs veranda adjacent to our bedroom. On one side of the veranda was our pooja area and a thookumanjam (wooden oonjal/cradle) occupied the rest of the space. The light breeze that swaddled river Periyar would eventually come to us sitting on the thookumanjam. Sometimes I used to lie down on the thookumanjam when she chanted the evening prayers and was always scolded and asked to sit, instead of lying down during the sandhya-neram. We also had a thulasi thara on our front porch and we used to light a small lamp over there too.

I miss her and my home.

Monsoons were extra special. The greenery that surrounded our home, the Periyar that overflowed and gave a fiery look to her, the fury of the winds, the beauty of the rains-- and to watch it all from our veranda -- it tugs my heart and I ache for it..

Ammuma and I stayed together when my parents left to the US after my sister got married. I fought with her every single day, but in the night, I slept embracing her and when she woke me up in the mornings after her pooja, there was a faint smell of bhasmam, saambraani and chandanam. Sometimes I will lie awake in the bed hearing her chants and watching the amber flick that reflected on the glass window from the oil lamp. Sun rise would be a few minutes away and to this day, the calmness I felt on those mornings remain irreplaceable.

Some days, I will decide to go the temple with her and I will promise her so, the night before. I did not always keep my promise. But those days that I did, I would wake up with her, have our tea and take a shower and we would walk to the Narasimha temple or the Manapuram temple. There would be hardly anyone on the streets, a few temple go-ers, early office and tution go-ers. Once inside the sanctum sanatorium of the temple, Ammuma would immerse in her prayers (which I assume were her pleas for a better life for her three children and six grandchildren) and I would stand close to her, letting the peace of dawn engulf me. Sometimes the Nambiar-maash would play his edakka and to stand there, listening to him play was a treat. I am not a religious person, but the divinity I still feel about the temples I used to frequent has been my achor many times afterward.

Not far from our home, but not walkable either, is another temple, supposed to be built by Perumthachan. The temple is beautiful, more so because it remained untouched by Daivasom board to modernize it and retained its original structure. (It has been 9 years since I last visited this temple and perhaps it might have also caught up with the times and would not be as raw as it once was). One evening, I remember being there and the priests were just lighting the lamps on the temple premises. Once inside, it was still a bit dark but that would soon give way to light once the lamps were fully lit. Suddenly someone started singing a keerthanam and I stood there mesmerized. It was most beautiful - something that is still etched in my memory.

There is another memory associated with this same temple: The drive to this temple is a bit tricky and the road (built above an aqueduct) is narrow and allowed only one way traffic. My sister was driving our white Omni van and not being an experienced driver, was a bit fearful of that road. However, Achan asked her to go ahead and drive and not being the one to disobey (that was solely my domain) she did. Half way up the aqueduct, she saw an autorickshaw coming down and got tensed. I wanted to jump out and run, but decided to stay put. The auto driver, seeing a young girl at the wheel, decided to scare her (this is my take on the story) and kept coming forward. My sister was fully tensed and was looking at Dad for advice. I don't recall much what happened afterwards, but our van scratched the auto, a crowd gathered, Dad asked my sister to move and sat on the driver seat and exchanged a few pleasantries with the driver and we drove away.

Sitting here in Dallas, on a bright sun shiny Wednesday afternoon, my thoughts wandered like the floating clouds above me and gave way to this post.

Subterranean thoughts of a mommy mind

A few weeks ago, I went to Nick-man's school for enrolling him into KinderGarten. As I parked my car and stepped out, holding the file with his paperwork, I was hit by an unknown wave. I looked around, trying to absorb everything around me - the play area where you would be running happily, the alleyway where you would walk quietly, the little metal bench where you might sit waiting for me to come pick you up. It is going to be a new chapter in my life and yours. Come August, you will be walking this corridor, with a pace of someone who belongs to the surroundings he is in.

I walk into the suite and I can feel the tremor in my voice as I ask for the enrollment office. A lady (whom I later leant as the school nurse) directs me to the office and I walk in. I look around anxiously, this time though I am trying to see what would capture your eyes and attention in this room. I spot cowboy boots and hat - maybe you will like that. The school's mascot is Mustang - surely, you would be thrilled with that!

I am handed the application papers and I sit down to write your name, your parents name, contact numbers and address; I fill in the immunization part and all the sundry details. I am in the last page and there are two questions (the exact words skip my mind, but in effect, it asks: - what are your child's strong and weak points; is there anything else we need to know of him?

In three to four lines. I need to desrcibe you.

Before I panic and wonder what I should write, I smile, thinking, had we gone with the original plan of Mr. Upsi doing the enrollment, I would have received an impatient phone call asking me to tell him on the phone what he should write.

But it is I who is in the office. Nothing comes to me but images of you smiling, that twinkle in your eyes, the eagerness in which you want to help me (when I least want it), the way you hug me and kiss me. But I don't intend to write all that and let you be stamped as the child of that lunatic mom! There is still time for that. Times that I will be an embarassment to you. I hope I will remember all those times and embarass you further on your wedding day as I give the toast. Oh yeah, baby! I can already see Mr. Upsi's forced smile and pleading me to calm down and take a seat. And don't you dare get married into a family that understands no Malaylam**. Because one of the songs I plan to dance to is a Mohanlal number and the jokes on my toast will have Tintumom and AanaUrumbu series. You betcha, I will have your mother-in-law run for her money! Oh the joy that awaits me..

Anyways.

So I tell them, that my child is a strickler of rules, when it comes from an authority he considers high of (the school being the top one on his list and no brownies for guessing the bottom of his list). That you have good focus and attention and will see to it that a task is not left unfinished ( I wrote this thinking of the many times I told you that your homework could wait and let's go play and you would inturn tell me that you are almost done and will be with me in one minute, mommy). I remember smiling and watching you - in your own world, your face so rapt and occupied. I remember that surge of love I felt you for you then :)
I told them that you would listen to his teacher and will do what his five year old mind can, to please her.

And I told them, that, you migh be the last person to raise your hand when asked for a volunter. That, you are shy and likes to be within a shell you create. I asked them to push you out of your comfort zone, to challenge you and that a poke from his teacher to stand up and face the crowd is all that might take for you to break that shell.

I hope I told them the right thing.

I want to tell them to take special care of you. To not break your wings before it sprouts. I want them to build a confident you. And oh, would they please watch him and make sure he is not bullied. Because you are not going to pick a fight and when faced with one, you will be timid and scared. I do not know what your instinct would be and that unknown scares me. Because I cannot rush to you, snatch you from them and protect you. Because you are on your own and my hands do not always reach you. I will stroke your hair and kiss you good night, but the next day you are the one facing it solo and I hope you are ready for that.
And I want them to make you ready.

But then, this would be what the million mothers before me sat and thought. This would be what the millions after me would think. For you and the ones like you - are all very special.

I hope you enjoy your days in this new school, Nick-man. I hope you make friends and will learn right from wrong. I hope this transition to big boy is easy on you and I hope you will enjoy this journey.

I hope I can guide you well and when you are up there, I hope you will be happy.

Go give your best shot, son.

** To the Danish daughter-in-law who is reading this now: Come on now, you know I always wanted a Danish girl for him. Malayalees are all so pooof! And yes, please go ahead with your plan and bake that orange glazed pineapple upside down cake for me and yeah, barley sticks for your Dad-in-law.

The inner conundrum

So much, so soon.

But before the windy time sweeps away the dust of my memory, I thought I might as well put my pen to paper. Already much have been delayed and the orange hue of dusk vague my clear bright dawn.

My lil one is no longer little; but a lanky soon-to-be five year old. Five years! Damn it. The new one that crawled into the lil one's territory is a bubbly bundle of energy in a fourteen month old form. Between the two of them, I experience the essentials of life - love, joy, wrath, warmth, anger, sorrow, fear, jealously, excitement - all of it wrapped and handed to me in sometimes as less than a minute. Never a dull moment with the two of them, but some days I am so overwhelmed - I feel like closing my ears, shutting the door and sleep undisturbed for three straight hours and wake up to a clean tidy home with healthy meals prepared and stored in the fridge. What? A girl gotta dream, sistah!

My five year old can be the sweetest boy ever to inhabit Mother Earth and don't you dare tell me all mothers feel that way about their offspring. Hey, you have not met my son, have you? He folds clothes, washes the dirty dishes (and I praise him high and mighty when I spot Mr.Upsi within audible range), look after his baby brother while their mom take a loo-break, eager to please, clean up his toys, finishes his home work with the utmost focus and sits quietly reading his book when asked to.
What? You think I am making this up and is in a mother's paradise?
Again, you haven't met my son, sistah!

But sometimes and this 'sometimes' can vary from 3 days at a stretch to weekday evenings only to weekend afternoons only to all day long. OK, I got that covered alright! So, 'sometimes', this very same gangly five year old can beat the tantrum record of all five year old's combined world-wide. He shouts, disobeys, shows-off, back answers, trigger my this-is-it pulse, whines and cries with that most unpleasant noise ever to trigger my this-is-it pulse again and I cry and plead to God on - why oh why did he inherit all of Mr. Upsi's genes and not an ounce of mine, for surely, mine is far superior than Mr. Upsi's and surely, I do not whine and cry and trigger Mr. Upsi's this-is-it pulse, ever. Like in, ever ever. Do I?

So you are telling me that five year old's are individuals in their own right, albeit a few feet smaller, but that they have their own brain with functions and emotions just like yours and mine? That, they are not an extension(they were, until we cut off the umbilical cord) of parents and that they are not robots to function according to our needs and necessities?

That sounds so wrong, doesn't it?

Surely, kids need to follow the rules and God forbid, they put their thinking shoes on (never mind, we ask them to). They make it sound like our rules were never clear in the first place. Now what - they are questioning us? Such cheekiness.

No, I am not, as a parent, going to change my stance. Uh-ha. Not me. I am the SuperMom and supermoms do not change rules, but stand by their rules. So when my five year old beg and plead with me to stay with him for -just five more minutes mom - and blow the bubbles for him so he could run and burst as many as he can; surely I need to stand by my own rules that it is dinner time and we need to get inside the house NOW and RIGHT now. Succumbing to his pleas is surely a sign of my weakened parenting style and I am not going to burst that bubble of mine, am I?

This is where I am caught most days.

The new age parenting dilemma. Some days I do not even know what the rules are to begin with. I want the best for my boys, no doubt. But that does not come down to providing them with the very best. Sometimes I need to let it all go and teach them the great ancient art of Indian Leisure.

The thing though, that haunts me every now and then, is the self-doubt. Deny it and I am lying. When he is all bright and cheery, I don't even bother to do the self check. But when he is on a tantrum drive and I hear his unreasonable arguments; the monster creeps in. I shout at him not to shout at me. I whack him when he is kicking me. I tell him in the most authoritative way that it is NOT acceptable behaviour.

Moments later, I bathe in guilt and shame. The fear in his eyes when I strike with anger, the way he crouches his scrawny self -- somewhere in between, the uncomfortable feeling of having crushed his spirits. Surely there is another way to get across my point. So I look ahead and wait for my next turn (I don't have to wait too long:)). To be a better person so I could be a better parent. To shield him is to guard my own tongue. To be gentle, for he sees me for what I am and not what I tell him he ought to be.

But whom am I kidding. This cycle will continue but as long as I pause and ponder, I should be good. Maybe it is when I think I cannot change any more and parenting can go to hell, maybe that is when the royal screw goes missing and comes to me in all its glory.

As for my babies - the older one has figured me out, the younger one is learning. We will continue blowing bubbles in the sunshine, we will chase the rabbits and butterflies, we will yelp in joy when the flock of birds pass our sky, we will play tag and hideandseek and ball, inevitably one of us will fall down and cry; and the rest of us will back him up and get him back to his feet....



p.s: this post started with an objective of writing silly little things about my children. But since it is all about me, it ended on a very me-note.

Mambazham

A mango on my table. I look at it, hold it in my palm and suddenly, the key to my cave of remembrance opens thyself and I let myself in. It takes me back to a Malayalam poem that never failed to humble my own existence in this world. Of the need of living each moment of our life, the impact our words have on others, to become effortlessly self less, a compassion for life around us, an ability to forgive and to always carry that beacon of love in our hearts - a love so simple and pure, a love that holds no rhyme or reason, a love that outshines the demons of our minds.

'Mambazham' is one of the famous poem written in Malayalam by the renowned late Sri Vailloppily Sreedhara Menon.

When the first ripe mango falls from the tree in her courtyard, the mother sheds tears. She had yearned for that mango tree to bear fruits for months and finally when it did, her lil one plucks those buds and comes running to her, delightedly telling her that the flowers have bloomed and shows it to her with pride.The mother gets angry and reprimands him. His eyes wells up, his bright face cast down and he tells her, "Amma, I will not come help you pick the mangoes for sure".

'Lil ones, who cannot even string words together, are Gods in their own rights, for they can foresee the future', Vailloppilly writes.

That summer, her lil one, without waiting for the mangoes to ripe, departs from the world.

Now, the mother sees the neighborhood children make merry under the mango tree, building toy houses under its shade, plucking mangoes and savoring them with relish.Darkness envelopes her and tears blinds her sight.

She then walks and stands near the earth where her son is buried and lay down a few flowers and mangoes and tells him that these are for you, my love."My dear lil one, how many times have I scolded you and how many times you have come back to me with nary a sorrow?", she asks."Why can't you come back to me now, my love, my life, my lil one?".

A gentle breeze wafts by and she feels her lil one's soul embracing her....

Being a m.o.t.h.e.r

The few years in to my life as a mother and more the time I spent with my son, I feel that his world is such a happy spot for me to be in. He can be wild and rude at times, but in retro his innocence takes over, his needs and his means to access those needs are direct and straight cut and, his solutions always simple and worry-free. Some evenings, back from my work and his school, I talk to him just like I would talk about my day to an adult. Like the other day, he was perched on the dining table having his milk and I was having dosas (evening snack), I talked to him: that I am not liking the 109 F weather and wish it was winter soon, how it was a slow day at work and I wanted the day to be over with so I could get back home and such. He looked at me straight into the eye, nodded at intervals and asked questions like 'when will christmas come? can we stay home tomorrow?". I answered them, all the while thinking, how I longed for him to grow up so I could really talk to him in an adult-to-adult way. I wondered if he would grow up to be 'always-in-a-hurry teenager' or a 'sarcastic-in-a-nice-way to his mother's whimsies' kind of a teenager his mother was or if he would really listen to what I talk and offer his remarks like he does now in his sweet innocence.

In the evenings, he often talks about what him and Mr. Upsi did that morning after I left for work. On those conversations, Mr. Upsi is portrayed as his possession, as someone whom only he is acquainted with and not as my husband of seven and counting years. He would point to the golf driving range on our way back from his school and say, "My Daad said this golf Uncle is going faaaaaaar away and new Uncle is coming". When I reply that I don't think that is going to happen, he would immediately retort to "But my Daad told me".

Couple of weekends ago, I had to take him to his ice-staking lessons since Mr.Upsi had work to be completed. Now, our little one is not very receptive of strangers and borders on being a 'shy kid'; though if the same strangers were to come to his home, he would be showing off his toddlerish skills and toys to them. I am not sure on how I would categorize him. Maybe, I fear that labeling him so and so, at this tender age when his personality is only taking shape would deter its very growth in some way. I want to be able to provide him with ample space for his growing individuality, without restricting it within a fixed norm. Alright, back to the ice skating rink - the three previous sessions we took him to, he cried his guts out and would not go with his instructor and held onto Mr. Upsi's leg. While I thought the whole scene looked rather cute, Mr. Upsi was stern and being a 'parent'. He cajoled him to just go and grab those bubbles on the centre of the rink, that a Spider man or a Superman would never cry at such events and to please be a big boy. The lil one was having none of it and five minutes before the session ended, I saw him struggling to skate, fall down many times and finally reaching the toys, getting one and crawling back under the safety of Mr. Upsi's legs. On the way back home, I complained that Mr. Upsi was being quite a Hitler and that our son is just a little one and to let him be.

So when I got my chance to take him to the practice solo, I was armed with a cool-mom halo and was all set to just let him be. We got lost on our way and arrived 15 minutes late into the 30 minute session. I did not know what his shoe number was (served me right, right then and there!) and had to call up Mr. Upsi, who without missing a heart beat said, nine. Oh well, he needs to know at least that :) And there we were, the cool mom and her super cool dude of a son, at the entry of the rink waiting for the instructor to come by and see if the lil one would co-operate. She took a few minutes to come and I used those precious minutes to drill to him the hundred and twelfth time, 'hey lil one, take it easy now. look how nice it is. go ahead with your teacher and play with those toys. and if you decide not to, thats okay too'. The teacher came, did her sweet talk to whisk him away and he responded with a plaintive cry that got only louder with each passing second. She left and I found myself fuming intensely inside. The next ten minutes saw me talking exactly what I loathed to talk - bribing him with chocolates if only he would just go with his teacher, comparing him with his friends who were skating, talking down on him, expressing my discontent with his attitude, all the while feeling very furious and I could feel it radiating right through my skin. I finally gave up and told him that we could sit in the gallery and watch the 'good big boys' skate. He agreed and we watched from the gallery. I did not talk much at all and he could feel the tension rising. He kept hugging and I, who always loved receiving those unrequested hugs from him, did not budge and ignored him. He then came to me and said, 'next time, I will go with the teacher, okay Mama?". I melted a bit on hearing that and said a simple plain okay. He then asked, "so mama, can I have a chocoloate now?Jeez!!

Last week, we asked him if he wanted to go to the skating class and if he wants to, will he be willing to go with his teacher. He said, "I think...maybe....not". We left it at that and did not show up for the class. Later, I got to thinking if we made the 'right' move. Should I be taking him to the classes, or the least watch from the gallery? Did I give up too easily? Let him be or prod him more?

Parenting is a sacred responsibilty bestowed on the parents and when you are in a juncture with no clue or a handy book on what to do next, the sacred part gives way to being scary. Twenty years down the line, I know I will be able to look back on these and with a simple gesture of my hand, I will be waving at the simplicity of it all, that looked so complex at that snap shop of my life as a mother to a 3 year old.

On our way

June'09

December'09

For Dummies

Tips for surving a student spouse, who is also employed full time. As a bonus, a toddler tails along (this is important).

• First off, you donot know what mode he is in. He might be tuned in as a student, an employee, a doting father or a grumbled hubby. Learn to pick signs asap. Serious unshaven face - student mode, don't talk unless you want to re-repeat. Picks up the toddler - father mode, your clue for some serious self-time - rush to make lunch/dinner, clean home, take shower. (Rachel Ray just cooks in under 30 mnts. Phew! What a show off!) Poker face - hubby mode - this one is a bit tricky, but with practice you can be a pro. Ask him to take garbage out, clean your car, transfer laundry from washer to dryer. Say all these at once and he will turn into other useless modes. Delegate in intervals. Use your charm, even if you smell of garam masala.
• For your sanity, befriend a fellow such mom. Misery loved company. They are still very much in love.
• If you happen to cross his Advisor on the grocery aisle, resist the urge to throw the rotten tomatoes. Be polite and ask if he needs help bagging some tomatoes.
• When a common friend comments on the hardwork he does, think about The Alpes, the snow covered peaks and the cows with those bells. If you are still out of control, grab your child's rattle and shake it. Under no circumstances shall you grab the friend instead of the rattle.
• When your boss wish you to have a relaxed weekend, don't tell him your relaxation is from 8 to 5, Mon - Fri. He might think you don't work at work.
• If you are overtired, chances are that you may not fall asleep as qucik. Feign interest in his thesis. By the time he explains a theorem, you would be in deep REM.
• Reinvent your culinary skills. Bring out the hidden chef in you. He might be starving by the time he is home that even brussel sprouts-artichoke Gumbalaloob would be appetizing.
• Your toddler will open a book and read, "donot disturb Daddy". Find humor in this.
• Do not vent your exasperation on your child, unless you want to be featured on his biography as the lunatic mom. Chances are that you will characterized so anyways, but why live/die with a guilt.
• Finally, when you are all set to shoot those pigs that will fly (he is receiving a PhD), award yourself with a PhT (Putting hubby Through). It is all together a different matter, if you have arthritis and/or bed ridden by that time. Thank God if you don't suffer from amnesia.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to people in Upsi's household and vicinity could be purely intentional.

10:29 AM

did I not hurt you last night?

I didn't talk to you,
I was angry and
shoved you into your seat;
didn't let you finish the sand 'appam' you were making,
hurried up the bath you were enjoying
read stories you love in a haste
and lost my patience
over and over.

And this morning:

you called out for me
with kisses and hugs
pats and cuddles.

You really don't remember?

Or this your way of paying me back?

You won.
And I am sorry.

And I wish for you, son
that you win your battles so.

ps: Sometimes, I hate the rat race I am in. Racing against time.
I want to waste time.
I want to lay down on the green grass, face up, with my son and watch the blue sky.
I want to breathe in his baby smell and listen, really listen, to his world.
And do you know? That, I had to set up a time for that? A time to waste time?

Perumazhakalam