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?
How else would an aching heart heal?
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Sunday, August 21, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2011
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..
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..
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, March 04, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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....
Friday, July 17, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, April 06, 2009
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.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
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?
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?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Daddy's don't love their children every now and then
Mr. Upsi and the Lil One had always shared a corner that I am seldom invited to. Sometimes I get a glimpse of it and my heart whimper to join their jovial company; they donot shoo me away nor are they rude in any way, but I step back and let them be. I have to be honest and admit that this bothered me a wee bit in the beginings, but now, almsot three years into motherhood, I know better. So most times, I stand back and watch the boys, unknow to their very selves fostering their relation. With jealousy behind me, I now enjoy and bask in this glorious father-son affection. I donot know if it is visible and prominent for any passer-by to register and remark on it. Perhpas it is the little observation that comes with constat companionship, that I have made. However, it gives me immense joy and a strange sense of satisfaction.
The Lil One (who is no longer the wee lilttle, but an young man with a whim of his own) had a hard time getting back to his routine of being dropped at school and picked up later in the day, after his month long vaccation in India. I donot blame him, it was such an onus to drag my own weary self to work after the holidays. But there were no time for such whimsies and we had to be back on track and get going. He cried every morning, feigned stomach aches and fever (which is when I realized I had to stop calling him the Lil One), begged and pleaded to be left back home. He even promised that he will cook by the time Maama is back from work. Now, that was a deal sealer and I was tempted, but sigh, those days have to wait. It went on for days and the high fever plus throat infection he had during that time were not helping either. This was bogging every one of us down. The evenings were windy and chilly and I couldn't lure with 'will-take-to-park-after school-if-u-dont-cry' bribes either. With the fever, he lost his taste, he didnot eat, the cough caused disrupted sleeps and his parents were not budging. What a terrible state for a toddler to be in! I tried not to loose my patience (failed), went down to his level (succeeded) and brazed myself for his tantrums.
He cried when the stop light didn't turn green the very second he wanted it to, when I went to the loo, when his toy truck didnt beep when he pressed the wrong button, when...you get the drift.
I was ready for a solo vacation and be back when he is thirty....or sxity.
Two weeks ago, he was back home from school and while he was deciding on a bait to cry for, I warmed up his milk, offered a plate of Parle G biscuits, sat with him with a cup of coffee for myself and asked about his day. He gave me snippets - that he had a lunch of spaghetti and meat balls (his school offers only veg food, so..there!); he worked on colors and glue and oh, R has a guitart (guitar - but he adds a 't' in the end) and mamma, please, I want guitart too. I carelessly nodded, my mind already on what to cook for supper. He told about the guitart again that night, before going to bed and to Mr. Upsi. He remined me the next morning, while brushing, having breakfast and later into the evening and night. It suddnely struck me that this was one of his 'firsts'. Him badly wanting something and conveying it to his parents of his need.
The guitart would cost thirty dollars. Not cheap, but not non-affordable either. I battled on whether to yield or wait a little longer, say, till his third birthday. In the car, on the way home, I told him I don't have enough money to buy a guitart and realized soon after that it was too early for him to make a connection of saving/having money and buying. Nevertheless, I kept repeating 'no money' whenever he asked for it, which was very now and then. A live pop-up reminder that could beat your outlook and such, hands down, any day.
Earlier this week, Mr. Upsi got home from school, weary and with an onset of flu-like symptoms. Oh-ho. The solo vacation should not wait any longer. I should be on board and not chopping onions! "Acha, where is my guitart?", is all it took me to be back. I will have to pass on that cocktail offered by that cool dude on my vacation. I looked up at Mr. Upsi and saw that faint glimmer of his foggier frog eyes melting under his son's plea. I donot recall what he replied. The mustard seeds were burining already.
Two nights later, I tucked the Lil One in our bed and was reading to him when the familiar click of Mr. Upsi opening the front door caught his attention and a gentle smile crossed his face. I was watching him -- his father's footsteps nearing and the anticipation of seeing him anytime now drawing near. Within seconds, he will be smothered under Mr. Upsi's hugs, his tummy would be tickled and laughter will fill the now silent room.
I wasn't too happy with Mr. Upsi's timing. A few mintues of delay, the Lil One would have slept and I could have moved on with my kitchen chores. But whom am I to come between the unconditional love! They hugged and rolled in the bed and Mr. Upsi went to change.....or so we thought. Because he was not seen in the closet where he usually changes. I was just about done replying to the Lil One that Daddy might be in the office room, when along came Mr. Upsi with a screech of "Loook...Guitart!!!". HA!!
I was not the least surprised and let myself be a silent spectator of what unfolded before me in the time that followed.
The Lil One was taken back for a few seconds - on seeing something he longed for, but unsure whether he would ever receive. Then he jumped up and down, pausing in between, marvelling at what is in front of him and back to his monkey dance again. He waited ever so patiently for his father to open the box and untwine the plastic wrap, where he could lay his hands on his much beloved guitart. Mr.Upsi, always the silent keeper of emotions, I watched his face, now a mirror of selfless pride on being able to offer his son a fulfillment. Their eyes matched -- brimming with happiness - one to give and the other to receive! Their hearts matched -- beating as one -- love in its most simplest form! It lasted for a few mintues, but I knew it will be etched in my memory forever.
So I am writing this down, for posterity. Because soon, my Lil One would have lost his childhood innocence. His wants and demands and needs will not be met by his father (a balded professor by that time) with the same intense. There would be fights, slamming of doors and days of no communication.
.....And maybe, at that time, this lengthy note will come handy. Reminding them of that winter night, of a much simpler age in time. And I want them both to know that "daddy's donot love their children every now and then......but that, that love is an endless one".
Much love to the boys.
The Lil One (who is no longer the wee lilttle, but an young man with a whim of his own) had a hard time getting back to his routine of being dropped at school and picked up later in the day, after his month long vaccation in India. I donot blame him, it was such an onus to drag my own weary self to work after the holidays. But there were no time for such whimsies and we had to be back on track and get going. He cried every morning, feigned stomach aches and fever (which is when I realized I had to stop calling him the Lil One), begged and pleaded to be left back home. He even promised that he will cook by the time Maama is back from work. Now, that was a deal sealer and I was tempted, but sigh, those days have to wait. It went on for days and the high fever plus throat infection he had during that time were not helping either. This was bogging every one of us down. The evenings were windy and chilly and I couldn't lure with 'will-take-to-park-after school-if-u-dont-cry' bribes either. With the fever, he lost his taste, he didnot eat, the cough caused disrupted sleeps and his parents were not budging. What a terrible state for a toddler to be in! I tried not to loose my patience (failed), went down to his level (succeeded) and brazed myself for his tantrums.
He cried when the stop light didn't turn green the very second he wanted it to, when I went to the loo, when his toy truck didnt beep when he pressed the wrong button, when...you get the drift.
I was ready for a solo vacation and be back when he is thirty....or sxity.
Two weeks ago, he was back home from school and while he was deciding on a bait to cry for, I warmed up his milk, offered a plate of Parle G biscuits, sat with him with a cup of coffee for myself and asked about his day. He gave me snippets - that he had a lunch of spaghetti and meat balls (his school offers only veg food, so..there!); he worked on colors and glue and oh, R has a guitart (guitar - but he adds a 't' in the end) and mamma, please, I want guitart too. I carelessly nodded, my mind already on what to cook for supper. He told about the guitart again that night, before going to bed and to Mr. Upsi. He remined me the next morning, while brushing, having breakfast and later into the evening and night. It suddnely struck me that this was one of his 'firsts'. Him badly wanting something and conveying it to his parents of his need.
The guitart would cost thirty dollars. Not cheap, but not non-affordable either. I battled on whether to yield or wait a little longer, say, till his third birthday. In the car, on the way home, I told him I don't have enough money to buy a guitart and realized soon after that it was too early for him to make a connection of saving/having money and buying. Nevertheless, I kept repeating 'no money' whenever he asked for it, which was very now and then. A live pop-up reminder that could beat your outlook and such, hands down, any day.
Earlier this week, Mr. Upsi got home from school, weary and with an onset of flu-like symptoms. Oh-ho. The solo vacation should not wait any longer. I should be on board and not chopping onions! "Acha, where is my guitart?", is all it took me to be back. I will have to pass on that cocktail offered by that cool dude on my vacation. I looked up at Mr. Upsi and saw that faint glimmer of his foggier frog eyes melting under his son's plea. I donot recall what he replied. The mustard seeds were burining already.
Two nights later, I tucked the Lil One in our bed and was reading to him when the familiar click of Mr. Upsi opening the front door caught his attention and a gentle smile crossed his face. I was watching him -- his father's footsteps nearing and the anticipation of seeing him anytime now drawing near. Within seconds, he will be smothered under Mr. Upsi's hugs, his tummy would be tickled and laughter will fill the now silent room.
I wasn't too happy with Mr. Upsi's timing. A few mintues of delay, the Lil One would have slept and I could have moved on with my kitchen chores. But whom am I to come between the unconditional love! They hugged and rolled in the bed and Mr. Upsi went to change.....or so we thought. Because he was not seen in the closet where he usually changes. I was just about done replying to the Lil One that Daddy might be in the office room, when along came Mr. Upsi with a screech of "Loook...Guitart!!!". HA!!
I was not the least surprised and let myself be a silent spectator of what unfolded before me in the time that followed.
The Lil One was taken back for a few seconds - on seeing something he longed for, but unsure whether he would ever receive. Then he jumped up and down, pausing in between, marvelling at what is in front of him and back to his monkey dance again. He waited ever so patiently for his father to open the box and untwine the plastic wrap, where he could lay his hands on his much beloved guitart. Mr.Upsi, always the silent keeper of emotions, I watched his face, now a mirror of selfless pride on being able to offer his son a fulfillment. Their eyes matched -- brimming with happiness - one to give and the other to receive! Their hearts matched -- beating as one -- love in its most simplest form! It lasted for a few mintues, but I knew it will be etched in my memory forever.
So I am writing this down, for posterity. Because soon, my Lil One would have lost his childhood innocence. His wants and demands and needs will not be met by his father (a balded professor by that time) with the same intense. There would be fights, slamming of doors and days of no communication.
.....And maybe, at that time, this lengthy note will come handy. Reminding them of that winter night, of a much simpler age in time. And I want them both to know that "daddy's donot love their children every now and then......but that, that love is an endless one".
Much love to the boys.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Crisp white cottons
The whole thing confused her. She was never quite sure which ones went into the white batch and the other bright batch. At every load, she heaps them all onto a pile on the floor and begins to separate the whites from the brights.
The pure white ones were always easy, she found out. White under wears and t- shirts. Then comes the neutral tone ones, the ones that give her a headache. Neither bright nor too dim - the average ones, the typical ones. The ones whose place she is never sure of. Which pile do they go into? And she makes a separate heap for those.
In the end, there would be about ten whites, a few more neutrals and quite a bit of the bright ones. She puts the bright ones first; but there is so much space left in the washer. In a moment of insanity and indecisiveness, in goes all the three. And she watches them mixing, twirling and whirling around. Sigh. Life is such.
The pure white ones were always easy, she found out. White under wears and t- shirts. Then comes the neutral tone ones, the ones that give her a headache. Neither bright nor too dim - the average ones, the typical ones. The ones whose place she is never sure of. Which pile do they go into? And she makes a separate heap for those.
In the end, there would be about ten whites, a few more neutrals and quite a bit of the bright ones. She puts the bright ones first; but there is so much space left in the washer. In a moment of insanity and indecisiveness, in goes all the three. And she watches them mixing, twirling and whirling around. Sigh. Life is such.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, August 08, 2008
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.
"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.
Monday, July 07, 2008
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....
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....
Thursday, June 19, 2008
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.
Now, life sucks.
I lost that petticoat and with it, my innocence.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
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!
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!
Friday, March 28, 2008
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.
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.
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