Motherhood and all that jazz

Memory

2012-02-15T23:52:00.002+05:30

Memories are powerful mood-stimulants. They can seat you on a beautiful, Persian carpet and take you on a magic carpet ride through the rainbows of your past. Then again, they can dig a hole through worm-infested, smelly mud and bury you under the broken eggshells and rotten tomatoes of past pains, hurts and tears.

Yes. Memory can be a teddy bear. It can also be a bitch.

And music, for me at least, is always a trigger-er of past faces, names and places. Most of my memories are linked to music and triggered by music.

This morning, at MaaJanoni's place and we were listening to a favourite music channel of hers. A Bangladeshi couple was singing popular as well as some unfamiliar Bengali folk songs and songs inspired by old folk tunes.

One song reminded me of happier times in JNU, when I was part of a Bangla Band. I associate this song with a friend of mine, who now happens to be my sister-in-law (the MIM's cousin; yes, she is very much responsible for our nuptials).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNM71yMwxcw&feature=related

The other song introduced me to an amazing artist. She is a gorgeous person and I am so thrilled to count her as a dear friend now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BecwNwbgDRA

The songs reminded me of times spent together. The memories made me miss them. The songs and the memories made me grateful to have them in my life.

Today, memory was a teddy bear. A singing, teddy bear, no less.

Ta-daaaaaa!

2012-02-09T15:40:00.002+05:30

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary and the MIM and I have enjoyed 11 years of wedded 'bliss' together -- hehehe! Hard to say that with a straight face, but yes yes, it's been mad, exciting and quite spectacular too along with some near misses!

As an anniversary gift to myself, I am starting a new blog...well, started a new blog would be more appropriate; yesterday I put up an introductory post. This has been an idea I'd been toying with for a long time now. Don't worry, I'm not going here, but I've since the voice of this blog is more personal and has mainly to do with memories revolving around my two boys, I've decided to start another one where the focus is all on WORDS; the written word, the spoken word, the sung word, they typed word -- yes, even the painted word and the cooked word. I plan on doing book and movie reviews, sharing links of interesting articles I've read and songs that have touched the chords of my soul; I plan on sharing recipes and hopefully doing author reviews and getting in guest posts too!

Of course these are all my good intentions and we all know what they say about these type of intentions and since I have no desire to be walking down the pathway to hell, let's take it one step at a time, shall we?

I decided to start off with something fun -- like organise a book give-away! Interested? Then what are you waiting for, head on over to the Chocoholic Bookworm!

With much excitement, pomp and gusto, I present to thee, my new blog and baby -- http://chocoholicbookworm.wordpress.com/

Saraswati Pujo 2012

2012-01-29T23:54:00.003+05:30

DaddyDearest's date of *sob* death, according to the Gregorian calendar is January 20th, 2010. That day also happened to be Saraswati Puja that year.

Now the Hindu almanac follows the lunar calendar system and all festivals, religious ceremonies and occasions are observed accordingly. Auspicious ceremonies and dates of ritual importance are all planned according to the lunar dates called 'tithi'.

So while DaddyDearest's 'D' anniversary will always be January 20th, according to the Hindu almanac, the tithi will always be Saraswati Puja.

Saraswati Puja will never be the same for me again. It's like I get to mourn him twice.

Last year, Saraswati Puja fell on February 8th and we held the first death anniversary rites for him. MaaJanoni and I didn't perform any puja for Maa Saraswati, since we wer so busy with the puja and yagna for DaddyDearest. The date also happened to coincide with my 10th wedding anniversary. Sigh...

So this year, I was actually celebrating Saraswati Puja for the first time since Baba passed away, viz, after two years.

I wasn't too well this year, so I got up late. It also happened to be my birthday the day before...

Anyway, I woke up and saw that my MIL and the SIL were already at work with the puja preps. I sat down with them and watched them decorate the puja thalis and the idol of the Goddess. I remembered I needed a garland for DaddyDearest's photograph. The MIM said he would get one for me.

Things seemeed normal enough. Had the boys take a bath and gear up in their ethnic wear. I bathed and dressed up in new togs given to me by the SIL the day before as a birthday present. As per tradition I made the boys put their school books in front of Maa Saraswati and called up MaaJanoni asking her to put the EO's guitar in front of the idol she had as I'd forgotten to bring it home with me. Out of force of habit as well as love for this tradition, I put some books and a pen in front of the Goddess too -- my Gitobithan (i.e. Tagore's book of songs), a notebook where I write poetry and my editor copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul: On Friendship."

The flowers for DaddyDearest arrived and as I garlanded him I found my eyes watering, but to my immense surprise, I found that I didn't sob like I'd expected to and for some reason that just depressed me. Was I all cried out? Was I *shudder* used to his absence? Had I accepted the fact that the closest relationship that I would ever have with my father from now on would be with his photograph? Had my heart hardened?

While I pondered my lack of tears, the purohit arrived and the puja started.

When time came for the pushpaanjali, I helped distribute the flowers and showed the children how they should stand, holding the floral tributes in between their hands.. We started repeating the mantras as per the purohit's instructions but I already knew them by heart thanks to...thanks to...thanks to DaddyDearest and that's when they came -- the tears. They just started gushing out and I sobbed as quietly as I could so as not to distress the children and cast a pall of gloom on the rest of the family. Memories of the last two Saraswati Pujas came flooding to me as well as a very pictoresque memory of a piece of paper with myDaddyDearest's beautiful, almost Tagorean, Bengali handwriting. On that paper, along with a few other mantras, he had written the Saraswati vandana for me before I'd left for JNU. I could see that mantra in his handwriting so clearly in my mind.

It was a memory that had been tucked away in the corner of my mind and as I repeated those words that day, I couldn't help but see them float before my very eyes. And so my eyes spilled over, along with my heart, with memories remembered, words once oft-repeated on a daily basis and the face of a dearly departed.

The children of course caught on and they looked at me with such love, such tenderness and yes, even a kind of childish pity. When I finally sat down, my YO cradled my head to his chest and gently rocked me to-and-fro while kissing me repeatedly on top of my head.

I'll never forget this.

I'll never forget.

Period.

Thank God.

Music...

2012-01-25T00:12:00.002+05:30

My musical memories are many. Many, many, many. In fact, I associate different people and places with songs and melodies, not to mention occasions and events...

Childhood memories overflow with snapshots of DaddyDearest singing The Bro and me to sleep.

Then of course there's MaaJanoni and her lovely voice humming while cooking, or singing while simply staring at the rain outside the window while a powercut provides the perfect backdrop to her soulful renditions of Rabindrasangeet.

There's me studying for my ICSE late at night and into the wee hours of the morning;DaddyDearest's collection of Hindustani instrumental music surrounding me with peace and calm.

My happiest moments in school during my plus 2 revolve around the choir and inter-house music competitions.

My phool shojja.

Bedtime with the EO and YO.

Even my time with DaddyDearest in the hospital.

There are songs, melodies and lyrics that define these moments and so much more in my life.

Whenever I have found myself to be drowning in extreme excesses of emotion, I have noticed that Music has been my constant partner. Whether the depths of pain or the pinnacles of joy, the right notes have always cocooned me perfectly and like a feather I have floated through different worlds and sensations.

It is through Music that I know that I am truly alive.

Two Years...

2012-01-20T23:48:00.003+05:30

My DaddyDearest,

Two years. Two years today.

You know, just a few days ago, a question popped into my head. I don't remember exactly what, but I'm sure it was something about music, or when you were a little boy, or when we were in America...they usually are. Yes, these questions suddenly pop into my head and when they do, my first thought, the absolute first thought that comes immediately, instantaneously, instinctively into my mind is, "Baba-ke call korey jiggesh kortey hobey." And then of course, it just as soon pours a bucket of ice cold water onto my head while simultaneously giving me a giant kick on my butt.

You see Baba, I still have questions that need to be answered. About you. About me. About our family. About us.

I still have things to share with you. About music. About food. About books and music. About your grandsons.

It's still so hard. So very, very hard. I still can't think about you without my heart hurting. I still can't talk about those twenty days in January without crying. I still can't listen to the music you loved and the singers you worshiped without sobbing loud, long and hard. Often, when I sing your grandsons the lullabies that you'd sing for The Bro and me, my voice cracks and I can't go on.

I still forget sometimes that you're not there anymore.

This afternoon, after MaaJanoni dropped me off on the street corner and I started walking towards home, I nearly froze in my tracks. I wasn't wearing my glasses, but I thought for second I saw you. I stopped and stared. The man walked closer...he wore glasses, had more salt than pepper hair and a nice big bald spot, wasn't too tall, not at all fat, shuffled along slowly, and walked with his hands clasped behind his back and a slight stoop. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me and I started walking towards him in trance, almost expecting him to stop and say something. He wasn't as fair as you and wore his hair slightly longer than you, but as I finally focused on his face, I noticed that he wore a look of intense concentration just like yours. I almost said something to him just so that I could hear his voice and to see if he would have said something similar to what you would have said. Of course, me being me, I didn't say anything (I sooooo am your daughter), just gave him a half-smile instead. He looked back at me and continued walking...even his expression was similar to yours! I stood at the entrance to our house and kept staring at his back as he walked away. While there was a part of me that was disappointed that he didn't say anything, the other part of me couldn't get over his gait and just stood there drinking it all in.

You see, Baba? What I've become? A mad, crazy girl who expects random, old men to burst into words that you once spoke. A distraught, depressed daughter whose heart starts to beat rapidly because she's just seen a man old enough to be her father, walk her father's walk.

Really DaddyDearest, was it so necessary for you to go? Khub ki dorkaar chhilo?

I love you and always will. I miss you and I forever will. I'm broken and always will be.

Your devoted daughter

Hope...

2012-01-19T07:29:00.004+05:30

"Hope in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man." Friedrich Nietzsche

Two years ago today, my father was having a bowel angioplasty.

Just twenty days before that, on Dec 31st, 2009, he had been through an ampulectomy to remove a tumour blocking his bile duct. While there were a few bumps and scares in the OT, the operation was successful and my DaddyDearest was recovering beautifully.

And then, suddenly, a week later, things started going terribly, horribly, frighteningly wrong. From a sudden heart attack to bouts on the ventilator to midnight calls from the hospital asking us to arrange for blood to spells on the ventilator to late night MRIs to an untraceable hemorrhage in the stomach to a lung infection contracted from the ventilator to shifts from one ICU to another...the two weeks that followed were a veritable journey through the different circles of hell.

January 18th was a terrible, horrible day with Baba on a frightening looking ventilator. His body, which had pared down to nothing but scars and bones, looked as if it was being slowly devoured by an alien, blood-sucking, octopus. Just before leaving the ICU at the end of visiting hours, I leaned over to him and said, as I had been saying everyday since his admission to the hospital, "My Daddy strongest." My weak, frail and pain-ridden father, who's eyes had remained closed the entire time we'd been there, lifted his right hand with super-human effort, looked straight into my eyes and gave me a thumbs-up. I think my heart broke just then. That one gesture filled me with infinite Pain...but also a fluttery, frail, gossamer Hope.

That night as well as the next day turned out to be full of infinite possibilities and Hope. The doctors decided to perform a bowel angio the next day to make a last ditch effort to trace and repair the tear in his stomach cavity...something that had refused to come to surface even after two emergency MRIs. 19th afternoon, while my mum, uncles and I were half-heartedly deciding what to have for lunch, I get an SMS on my phone -- the procedure had been successful! The doctors had located the tear and sutured it. My father's vitals were stable and he was recovering well. I think we all let out a whoop of joy and victory in the food court at Mani Square. We all let out our collective breaths which we'd been holding since day-break and finally recognised our hunger and gave in to it, talking animatedly amongst ourselves and yes, even laughing a bit.

That night, I felt so light and free. My father was going to be okay. He was going to be absolutely fine. He was going to come home soon. After all, not only had the tear been fixed, but his latest lung X-ray showed that he was responding to the medicines for the infection he had contracted from the ventilator.

The MIM tried to tell me to contain myself, but I snapped at him, telling him to let me be since I hadn't felt like that in a while.

Two years ago today, I was so many different kinds of hopeful.

The night of January 19th 2010, I was relaxed and chatty and full of positivity. I was all the colours of the rainbow. I was every song I had ever heard, I was a storehouse of unchained melodies. Oh yes, I had charged, full throttle, across the Land of Hope and was heading at full speed to the Continent of Hallelujah!

It was the wrong Hallelujah.

My beloved DaddyDearest died the next morning. He had a heart attack and there was a blockage somewhere in the heart. In an amazing display of irony and what-the-bloody-fuck, the injection that the doctors could give to clear the blockage would also burst open the suture from the angio performed fourteen hours ago.

I am wary of Hope. I don't let it excite me. I don't put an egg in its basket. I don't let it tinge me with stray blushes of pink. I don't let it tap dance within the range of my vision. I don't allow myself to be seduced by its siren song. No, no. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Hope is one helluva mind-f*****.

About My YO

2012-01-13T00:26:00.004+05:30

I am so busy marveling at the similar interests that my EO and I share and going into rapturous ecstasy over his linguistic skills, that at times, I am guilty of over-looking my little one's growing oratory prowess.

Of course, being around the EO and The Nephew has made the YO quite the little chatterbox; he's not afraid to speak his mind, voices his opinions and puts into words just what he's thinking. He tries to copy their manner of talking and likes to use phrases and expressions that the elder boys throw about with such flippant ease. Their play-time together and pretend games have helped his imagination soar and he is also quite a charming and expressive story-teller in his own right. Their company has also accounted for his rather impressive vocabulary...replete with some of the wrong things too, unfortunately, but that is one of the hazards of little siblings hanging around elder ones...sigh...

However, I shall forget for a moment that in a voice loud, proud and clear as mountain water, he spelled out 'a very bad word' to my absolute horror and chagrin. I immediately asked him to spell 'school' and of course the look he gave me was as blank as my Class 9 Maths answer sheet.

But as I said, this is not about that. This is about the time when he was riding his scooty around the house, pretending to be a cool cat stuntman and then came to tell me that he almost banged into the two settees in the living room...

So my YO was riding his scooty around the house, pretending to be a cool cat stuntman when he suddenly charged into my room, full of excitement to tell me about the near and neat miss. "...and you know Mamma, so I wuz riding my scooty so coolly and so fastly when I almosht had an accident and I almost banged so hard into doze two twin brudders sitting over there."

"Huh?", said I, my mind going into stupid mode.

"Doze two twin brudders", he repeated for his poor, old and rather slow mother, pointing in their direction and laughing at his own cleverness.

When realisation dawned, I couldn't help but be awestruck at my little shrimp's imagination.

Sigh...perhaps BOTH my boys will be writers after all!

************************************

The EO is an avid quizzer. Already. GK is one of his favourite subjects and he actually enjoys reading kiddie encyclopaedia and 'Tell Me Why" books. This is another common passion that binds us together.

It was therefore a tremendous thrill for me when the YO, at yesterday's inauguration ceremony of the Apeejay Lit Fest, won a book for a sudden pop quiz that the emcee decided to hold as we waited for the Chief Guest to arrive.

The YO's class had been invited to perform at the opening ceremony of this three-year-old lit fest. They did an adorable dance to this very catchy song on reading. This was after the Chief Guest, tabla maestro Bickram Ghosh -- a musician I just happen to adore -- rapped out a story and a poem, told a few stories using rhythm and tabla bols, played on his cheeks (no, not butt cheeks and yes, really, really hard) and generally enthralled the young audience and charmed the young audience members' mothers as well.

But yes, before dear old Bickram arrived and did his playing and rapping and enthralling and charming, the emcee decided to have a pop quiz. I know, I already said that

Anyhoo, she made it really fun and asked questions like, "All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put WHO back together again?" and "Where did the old woman with so many children live?"

Now as this was rather impromptu, the emcee sometimes forgot that she was addressing a bunch of four and five year olds, and would begin a question by asking, "How many of you have read Hans Christian Anderson?" Naturally she was met with silence. The same happened when she asked, "Do any of you read Enid Blyton?"

Ooof! Woman! They're just about reading number names and spelling out colours and differentiating between January and July! (however, here's a clever tip to keep a bunch of high-energy, excitable, noisy bunch of kids quiet -- ask them difficult quiz questions!)

So, whenever she was met with these spells of silence and puzzled faces, she'd quickly rephrase the question. So the Hans Christian Anderson one became, "Which pretty girl from a famous story by HCA, had an evil step-mother and two mean step-sisters?" and the Enid Blyton q became, "What was Big Ear's good friend's name?"

Many of you might remember that the YO was, once upon a time, hooked on Noddy and even had a Noddy themed birthday party two years ago. So as soon as he heard the name "Big Ears", my little shrimp just jumped up, threw his hand out in front of him with full force and screamed, "NODDY!" Of course there were a few others who also gave the right answer, but luckily the emcee saw my little boy and called him out to collect his prize.

My son was beaming and so was I. He beamed even harder when his Mamma answered a question correctly which was passed on to us after the children couldn't answer it. And his beaming got even brighter when he noticed from where he was sitting, that Mamma's prize included a couple of packets of his most favourite thing to eat -- biscuits!

We came back home yesterday, a beaming mother-son duo.

Sigh...perhaps BOTH my boys will be quizzers after all!

And of course it was the EO who pounced upon his brother's prize and finished reading it in two minutes, but hey, it was my YO who won it after all, naa?

Wishes for 2012

2012-01-03T20:25:00.002+05:30

It's already Day 3 of a brand new year. 2012 is well and truly underway.

I wish you all the serenity of moonlit nights and the joy of chocolate souffle.

I wish you the peaceful moments of reflection, as quiet as the dawn and a cool calm to face those morning moments of madness.

I wish you beauty, I wish you love.

I wish you creativity.

Be bold. Be brave. Be beautiful. Be true.

Stay happy. Stay healthy. Stay hopeful. Stay you.

Of Cakes and Wise Bites

2011-12-12T20:48:00.004+05:30

I baked a cake this evening. For the first time. EVER. I baked a caked today for the first time EVER in my life. Walnut & Cranberry Cake. And I'm thrilled to bits.

I also happened to write a poem on cake this morning. On the Mishti Doi Cheesecake I make. Yes, this one's a frozen cake while the other's a baked goodie, but still, it's got the word 'cake' in it. So there. Coincidence. Prophetic. Or plain, simple can't-get-cake-out-of-my-mind-itis.

Funny time to be baking a cake for the first time, actually. Or rather, the worst possible time. I'm up to my eyeballs in work and am getting by on 3-4 hours of sleep for the past two weeks. I am busy trying to devote every single moment I have to work, but the distractions are many, many, oh-so-many and I'm not the most easily focused of people, so the last place I needed to be was in the kitchen. I should have been working. That guilt is going to eat me up for a good four or maybe even five hours! Sigh...

Well, whatever it was, I baked a cake.

The reason I'm so excited is because I've always wanted to bake. Ever since I discovered the joys of cooking I knew that I would one day bake too. I'd fantasize about baking the best chocolate chip cookies for my boys. I did experiment with a few biscuit and bread recipes and they turned out fine, but for some strange reason, I never got hooked...even though the dream remained. And these past few years, I've been so busy with chicken, prawns, mutton and frozen desserts, that I just never got around to making those chocolate chip cookies.

But now the time has come. Soon enough. For today, I baked a cake.

And I was nervous about it. Very nervous about it.

As usual, whenever I potter about the kitchen, the boys hover about, especially the EO. Bong and foodie that he is, he's always around, asking questions, tasting things, offering to help, offering to help taste things...you know.

Needless to say, the boys and The Niece were very excited about the cake. They kept checking up on it as much as I did.

When it was finally time to take it out, the EO happened to be the only one in the kitchen with me. He was excited. I was nervous. And I said so. Out loud. At least a few times. Out loud.

And that's when I get gobsmacked. My EO, my eight-year-old, little boy said to me soothingly, "Don't be nervous Mamma. There's nothing to be nervous about. Just think that you've done this 200 times before and that's it. Ok?"

When did he grow to be so wise? So mature? My little mash-up of a Jughead Jones and Archie Andrews, was spouting wisdom far beyond his years and it brought tears to my eyes.

And then, when I give him the first bite, he closes his eyes, lets it tease his tastebuds and says, "You've got magic in your hands."

Sigh...some girl is really going to be lucky to get him.

EO-speak

2011-12-03T18:03:00.004+05:30

"Mamma, we're aching to watch this movie!"

"Don't worry mamma, I'm not that gullible."

"The birthday party was block-buster! Maha epic, it was!"

"I'm such a clutz, naa mamma?"

"Ok, ok, enough! I said cut it out!"

"I'm trying to control my expressions, but I'm feeling humiliated."

"Oh gross! That is too revolting for words!"

"Mamma, please! I'm exhausted!"

"See, see? He's being so obnoxious!"

**********************************************

Yes, these are actual phrases said by my son over the past one year. In other words, in the 7 - 8 year-old phase of his life. Out of the mouths of (slightly older) babes and all that jazz.

But seriously, this is what happens when you make a book-worm out of your child. They try and use the words and phrases that they read as part of their normal conversation.

Of course, the flip-side is that they try and use EVERYTHING they read such as "You're such a poo-poo head!" or "Your brain is like mouldy Swiss cheese!", the usual recipients being cousins and younger brothers -- in which case you want to whack him one on the butt (while secretly laughing inside!)

Book Review: Devdutt Pattanaik's "7 Secrets of Vishnu"

2011-11-22T23:34:00.001+05:30

When you are asked to review a book by one of your favourite authors, and that too, on a subject that you have been passionate about ever since you have been a little kid, then the task at hand can only be a pleasant one. Well, that is exactly what reviewing Devdutt Pattanaik’s “7 Secrets of Vishnu” was for me. I have been an avid mythology buff ever since I can remember and the passion has only intensified with time.

I have been reading Devdutt Pattanaik’s work for quite a while now. Not just me, in fact, but my eight-year-old son as well, who is a fan of Pattanaik’s “Adventures in Devlok” series.

The Hindu trinity, as we all know, comprises of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer. The symbols and rituals connected to Each One are markedly different. And why not? It stands to reason as They represent different levels of consciousness. They do not look like Each Other, nor do They behave similarly and They perform different duties. Pattanaik’s “7 Secrets of Vishnu” attempts to help the reader decipher the symbology and unlock the secrets behind the stories and rituals associated with Lord Vishnu.

Through the stories of Vishnu, complex Hindu ideologies and philosophies have been communicated in an easy to read manner. Issues that we have always wondered about have been addressed beautifully by the author. Like, for example, why are the Devas and Asuras, both the offspring of Brahma, always at war? The saga of the never-ending battles between the Devas and the Asuras bring to light the emotional turmoil faced by both; the Devas also represent insecurity while the Asuras embody ambition and thus the constant state of unrest.

The book takes us through the various avatars assumed by Him on Earth. Divided into seven chapters, each one helps us in understanding key concepts and in delving into the mysteries of the Divine. I learnt so many new things from each of these chapters, which is always very exciting. For example, I learnt about Alakshmi, the Sister of Lakshmi who accompanies her Sister wherever She goes and She represents strife. The entire passage about how Lakshmi arose from amrit and Alakshmi from halahala – brilliant! Also the gem about how Shukracharya, guru to the Asuras, lost an eye when Vishnu descended to Earth as Vamana, the Brahmin dwarf, was a new story for me to imbibe and marvel over. The absolute crowning jewel for me was how Pattanaik beautifully explained that Luv-Kush’s victory over their father showed that dharma rests with Sita and not Ayodhya! Brilliant! As one who has always been furious over the treatment meted out to Sita in the epic, this one statement was a fist-pumping hurrah! moment. Yes, it has been explained time and again that Ram put his kingly duties above his personal needs, but that only serves to make him the Perfect King, not the Perfect Man.

The photographs of ancient artwork and temple sculptures help bring the book alive, especially with their little bubbles of explanation. Colour photography would have been greatly appreciated, of course, but that’s nitpicking. An index would also have been of great use, and I strongly suggest the publishers think of adding one in the next edition.

All in all, a great read and one I would urge all mythology buffs to immediately indulge in!

This review is a part of the http://blog.blogadda.com/2011/05/04/indian-bloggers-book-reviews Book Reviews Program at http://www.blogadda.com, BlogAdda.com. Participate now to get free books!

The Things They Say

2011-11-10T23:29:00.003+05:30

We were at MaaJanoni's a few nights back. The boys were spending the night with her while I was going out for a night on the town. MaaJanoni was busy getting them ready for bed and getting them all powdered and fresh and cosy. Suddenly, the little guy looks up at her and says, "Manuku, tumi aabaar biyey koro naa keno?" (Manuku, why don't you get married again?)

I nearly dropped my eye-liner and turned around flabbergasted. Where did he get that idea from? What would MaaJanoni have to say?

She took a few seconds to recover and said, "Keno shona? Tumi toh aachho aamaar jonnyo." (But why my darling, you're there for me.)
EO: Naa. Tumi aabaar biyey koro. (No. You get married again.)

Maa: Kintu, aami jaakei biyey kori naa keno, shey toh buro hobey. (But no matter who I marry, that person will be an old man, naa.)

EO: Tumi biyey korley, aami okey Daduku boltey paarbo. (If you get married, I can have someone to call Daduku again.)

This exchange broke my heart for a million different reasons. First of all, the mere thought of someone replacing my beloved DaddyDearest was too painful to even contemplate. Secondly, MaaJanoni with someone else...even though I know it wasn't a match made in heaven, but still...someone else? And then, was my little boy afraid of losing whatever precious few memories he had of his grandfather that he thought a replacement would make it better? Was he so replaceable in my young son's mind? Was my father already just a mere thought in his memories?

I was a very sad and lost little girl that night.

And then, a couple of nights later, at a friend's beautiful farm-house in Shanti Niketan, we had gathered for an evening of fun and barbeque. The night sky was plastered with a zillion stars and it really was the most mesmerising, meditative and tranquil sight. Suddenly, breaking my world of calm and silence was my YO's voice, full of happy excitement: "Look, look! See? That brightest star there is my Daduku."

Of course I cried. All was right with my world again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The other day, the MIM put on a slide show of the boys' photographs from the time the EO was four-years-old and the YO was a year old. The pictures were a melange of first day at school snaps, fancy dress snaps, picnic snaps and what-have-you. The boys giggled and squealed and recounted certain memories...their eyes shining big and bright. When it was over, my EO sagely remarked, "Oh how I miss those days!"

Oh how I laughed!

The YO then pulled at my sleeve and said he wanted to see the slide show again. I got comfy next to him and kept going 'oooh!' and 'aaaah!' and 'oh so sweet!' I finally said, "Oooof! Just look at my little babies! How sweet they were! Now they've grown sooooo big! Who will be my baby now?"

My adorable little boy just looked at me and said, "Sorry, Mamma."

I think I almost fell off the bed. I looked at him and simply (and stupidly, I might add) asked, "But why, my shona."

And he just simply and sweetly replied, "For growing up and becoming shooooo big. That'sh why."

Awwww!

Happy 5th Birthday YO!

2011-10-17T13:32:00.004+05:30

My babyyyyyyyy!

You're now five-years-old! FIVE!! That's a big boy!

You're truly a big boy now. Over the weekend we picked up admission forms for your brother's school. Yes, this birthday also marks the end of your time at pre-school. You my baby, are now ready for big school. Early next year, I shall have two children in Big School; my days as a nursery school mommy will be over. I haven't stopped weeping since the thought first struck me!

But look at you! Look how you've grown! My sun-shiney boy, so full of love, laughter and jumping beans! And so full of naughtiness! Your pictures just shine with mirth, merriment and mischief! (thoo-thoo-thoo!)

You're an imp all right, and your most favourite thing to do in the world is somersaults. You don't know how to sit still, you don't know how to walk; you're always running, skipping, tumbling, jumping and rolling about. It is really, really tough to keep up with you! Your father is constantly on hyper mode when you're up and about, but given your penchant for climbing things and for gymnastics, it really isn't difficult to sympathise with him.

You still have that adorably charming and childish way of speaking. Your l's still have a hint of an r in them and most of your s's are sh's. Sho you shound like thish when you talk. And adorable thought it is, I have been trying to correct it for a while now since, yes, Big School is around the corner and the last thing I would want is for you to be teased. Oh, but the things you say! You want to sleep with your 'weapons' so that they can protect you; you asked your Manuku (grandmother) to get married again so that you can have another Daduku and at your brother's birthday party you sat down with a glass full of Pepsi (after clinking it with your father's friend's glass complete with a "Cheers!", mind you) and asked that you not be disturbed! The other day, you took my face in your hands and kissed me first on my cheeks, then my forehead and finally my chin. I melted at this display of tenderness and you went and added, "That's a diamond for you." If I hadn't frozen in awe, I would have probably fainted. And then of course, you love to ask me, "I am looking handsome? I am looking like a hero?" Arrey, just the other day, you were getting ready for a birthday party, you ayah dressed you up in the clothes that I had laid out and you ran in to my room, all scrubbed and ready, saying, "Mamma! Thank you for this hero-ness!" I think my jaw dropped, because I didn't say anything, so you went on and asked me, "Am I looking hero on my face?" Ooof! Too much!

I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you can actually read! It took a while coming and I have to admit, I was beginning to despair of it ever happening, but it is, it is happening and it thrills me no end! Yes, you still fumble and hesitate, but considering the struggle we had at the beginning of the year, where you are now is pretty much near the top of Mt. Everest. You may not be a bookworm like your brother yet, but there's time enough for that. You love being read to and it's a must at bedtime and that's good enough for me.

And speaking of your brother, you really are his little tail. Your personalities are so different from each others as are your looks, builds, hobbies and interests and yet you two are devoted to each other -- touch wood! Seeing the relationship you share has stirred my pot of mamta many a time, filling me with warmth and love. You are each other's biggest fans, biggest protectors and of course biggest tattle-tales -- as if that could be avoided! You repeat everything he says, often with comical results. One of the virtues of having an older sibling is that you get to see, say and do things sooner than s/he was allowed to. So while the EO was fed on a steady diet of Dora and Diego for the longest time possible, you graduated far too quickly to Transformers, Ben 10 and Beyblades. So while I am totally used to the EO and the Nephew talking about 'killing' each other when they're in the throes of an inter-galactic war (a la Star Wars), coming from you, the death-destruction-and-annihilation phrases are still quite the shocker! And when the shock wears off, yes, hilarious, because of the way you say it! Of course your biggest hero is Chhota Bheem and frequent viewings of Noddy or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse ensure that your innocence hasn't been bludgeoned to pulp by the Decepticons, so I have wearily accepted your all too enthusiastic participation in your brothers' games of mayhem and chaos.

But then again, you do have a set of manners about you, and that's wonderful. You say please, sorry, thank you and excuse me when the occasion demands and I hope this is a trait that you keep with you now and always.

Our battles with food continue; you refuse to eat it and I refuse to let you starve. Look at you my boy! You're a thin little waif! People look at us together and wonder if I starve you just to eat your share! And that's why your nicknames of Tadpole, Chingri Maach and Haar Gilley endure. Please eat, my son! And no, I'm not talking about just sweets and biscuits!

What was it you said to me after you came back from school recently? "I love you outside of the Earth and biggest than that!" Of course I added, "I love you to the sun and moon and back!" Of course you wouldn't let me have the last say; your addition was "And I love you to the entire space including the dwarf planets!"

Of course my jaw dropped.

But then with you, what else is new?

I love you my big-eyed, heart-breaker. To the sun, moon and way, waaaaaayyyyyy beyond!

Happy birthday, my little love, happy 5th birthday!

Yours,

Mamma

The Evening the Vampires Came to Play

2011-09-30T12:36:00.004+05:30

A Halloween birthday party. That's what my EO had been pestering me for, since January!! And each time he'd start pleading, I'd resolutely put my foot down; after all who knew about Halloween here, really? The EO knows about it from the stories The Bro and I've told him; thanks to those infernal cartoons on TV and most of all, because of this blasted book, "It's Halloween You Fraidy Mouse" (from the Geronimo Stilton series which he just adores and devours any chance he gets!)

When I saw how earnest he was about the whole idea I suggested a Monster's Ball and he LOVED the idea. And that's what we'd been planning for the past few months...or rather, he'd been fantasising his head over and sharing those daydreams with me while I distractedly nodded along to whatever he said!

And soon enough, it was two weeks minus D-Day! Yikes! Invites had to be sent out, costumes had to be made, games planned, return gifts bought, food ordered...!!! Yikes, yikes and yikes some more!

So I started with the planning and buying. I had this vision of a Treasure Hunt for the boys with clues that involved lots of thinking and writing -- hey!...when there's a gang of around twenty 5 to 10 year old boys involved, you have to think up creative ways to restrict the mayhem!

Everything was going according to plan and D-Day arrived soon enough. Like always, I had too much crammed on my job list...making the pasta, sausage stir fry and corn salad; wrapping the last few return gifts (I always buy extra...just in case); and putting the clues for the Treasure Hunt together.

As I was making the envelopes for the clues, the finicky, fussy avtaar of me started yelling in my head. She just wasn't cent percent happy with the clues. She felt they lacked something...and she was right, because I had been fussing about it for days. A link was needed to connect the clues and puzzles together and suddenly, the link appeared as if by magic in my head...I started writing small, funny poems to put along with the game/puzzles. The words started tumbling out of my ears and I scrambled to write them all down before I lost any.

The rush of creative energy felt wonderful, but I knew it meant putting me back a bit time-wise. Oh, well, I could just manage by the skin of my teeth. Sigh...why me? Why does inspiration always strike at the last minute.

So in-between writing clues and stirring pots-and-pans, things were falling into place...when something scary happened. Three hours before the hordes were due to descend, my FIL, who had been feverish for a few days, suddenly turned serious. It was frightening and I won't go into the details, but he had to be rushed to the ICU. Turned out that his sugar levels had crashed to 19!! I was all set to cancel the party, but my MIL very sweetly and very firmly told me that we should have the party as scheduled. The good news was, that my FIL had been admitted at the right time and he was already on the road to stabilising.

Unnerved, I went back to party prepping, but I felt unnerved and off-balance by what we had all witnessed and experience, but also grateful that things were not as fatal as we feared them to be.

The party was madness, mayhem, chaos and noise!! It took me three days to recover, but one little eight-year-old's happy face, made it all worthwhile :-)

The invite that went out, read like this:

Ghostly creatures, come one come all --

There's going to be a Monster's Ball!

I've got news that's pretty great --

'Our EO' is turning eight!

There are gory games in store for you,

Followed by gooey treats that you can chew!

So come on over in your scariest best;

It's a time for partying -- there'll be no rest!

And here are the clues for the Treasure Hunt; the boys were divided into four teams -- Team Vampire (red), Team Wizard (black), Team Ghost (white -- duh!) and Team Mummy (yellow)

1st CLUE :

Your first clue is really a riddle --

Discuss the answer in a monster huddle.

The answer to this question will take you to

An envelope holding clue number two!

"We're black and white

and we're called keys --

We don't open doors,

But we set music free!"

(The most common answer I got was iPad!!)

2nd CLUE :

Piano is right! That's very good!

Your heads are obviously not blocks of wood.

Clue number two I now present to thee --

Solve it quickly for clue number three!

If it takes you too long to solve the rhyme --

You just might run out of time!

After 5 minutes, ask the birthday boy's mother,

For hints that'll help take you along further!

(I wrote an 8 line poem with the last words blank. I wrote two lines in green, then two in black, two in blue and the last two in purple so that they would understand that those lines should rhyme. I knew this could provide tricky, so I had a list of clues set up just in case...I handed those out after they spent some time wracking their brains)

Gorby Ghost is really quite ________ (another word for crazy)

He just doesn't know how to be _______ (the opposite of good)

He has long blue hair growing out of his ________ (at the bottom of your face)

And he smells like he lives in the _______-____ (where you throw rubbish)

He is a friend to all the neighbourhood ________ (dog's enemies)

And together they like to chase down fat ________ (cousins of mice)

Rotten cherries and worms are his favourite ________ (Trick or ??)

And eggs that smell like dirty, smelly _______ (what we use to walk with)

(After each team gave me the completed rhyme, I handed them the next envelope)

3rd CLUE:

You've solved the rhyme! Oh yippee yaaay!

You've all made me so happy today!

It's now time for a little mystery;

Solve the secret code -- go on! Do it quickly!

If you can't figure it out, you might need some clues --

I'll help you a bit and chase away those blues.

(The code was a series of numbered blanks, which when solved would read -- "The next clue is with the birthday vampire's aunt." The code was a simple 1=a, 2=b, 3=c... I didn't tell them that; I wanted to see how many would figure it out on their own. Two teams did! We told the other two teams how to go about it.)

4th CLUE:

Oh me! Oh my! You've cracked the code!

I think I feel like kissing a toad!

But no, I won't, because that's really quite yucky!

I'll give you a clue instead --wow! Aren't you lucky?

It is time now, my friends, for story-time ---

But whoa! It's all mixed up! Can you make it fine?

(I wrote a short paragraph and cut them up at various points, which they had to set in order.)

Once upon a time, in a far away land, you've never heard of
there lived a gross, stinky and very fat
Princess.
Her name was Pukerella!
All day long she did disgusting things!
I can't even tell you because you'll faint and then wake up with your brains all scrambled!

(From the clues so far, you can see that I've been catering to the mirth and merriment of young boys, right? Well, once they had the story in order, I handed them the next envelope)

5th CLUE:

You've sorted the story! My aren't you clever?

Can you unjumble these words and make them sound better?

GNORAD _ _ _ _ _ _ Dragon

REPAMVI _ _ _ _ _ _ _ vAmpire

DRIZWA _ _ _ _ _ _ wizardD

The next clue is with the birthday boy's _ _ _ (DAD -- those three letters were circled and numbered. So once the team handed the MIM their solved word jumbles, he gave them their last clue along with a roll of toilet paper)

6th CLUE:

You're nearing the end!

Oh wow! I'm impressed!

It's now time for you

To get one of your own all dressed.

Let's go back to the land of ancient Egypt;

That they liked their mummies is no big secret!

Gather the things that you will need --

To make a mummy at top speed!!

(Considering that I abhor waste and am a big fan of recycling, my original idea was to use strips of newspaper, but unfortunately, I didn't have the time to make them. So it had to be small rolls of toilet paper...one per team. Turned out, there wasn't enough to wrap the little bubs up with, so I had to modify it to an arm and a leg).

TEAM MUMMY won the Treasure Hunt. The reason they did so well was the objective behind the whole exercise -- TEAMWORK! They were brilliant together. The Nephew happened to be in the Team Mummy, but I promise, there wasn't any nepotism involved ;-p They won on their own steam and merit.

The next activity was a Quiz in six rounds. I kept the teams the same and TEAM GHOST won this. The EO, who was in Team Vampire, was crushed because quizzing is really his thing -- he couldn't answer the Sport's Round and that's where they lost. He struggled to fight back tears (yes, he still has to learn to control his temper and his emotions) and said that he needed to have some serious sport-based chats with his dad!

After this, there was a quick game of Passing the Parcel, followed by the cake cutting and then FOOOOOOD! There were two other games I had planned on doing, but for one, the Nerf guns weren't working properly, and the other involved the mothers of which there were only three, so...

But all in all, it was a fun party...which left me partially deaf, totally exhausted and extremely grateful that these things come round only once a year! :-)

Happy 8th Birthday, EO!

2011-09-14T22:30:00.000+05:30

My darling EO,

Ah! My darling boy! Another year has passed and as I sit down to write my yearly letter to you, I wonder, just like in that good song, where do I begin?

Well, since I've begun with a line from a song, I may as well start off with music and you. Last year, your Dida gave you a guitar for your birthday and it's been a year since you've started taking lessons. I have blogged about your latent musical talents before, and this passing year has only scratched the surface of what I believe to be a reservoir of creative energy and spirit. Your enthusiasm in all things musical is manna to my soul. Your taste is eclectic...you still love Jon Bon Jovi and Michael Jackson; a good Prem Joshua or Bickram Ghosh number will have you listening to it on endless loop, and you have some patent favourites from Kabiguru's treasure trove as well. There were times I wondered whether you really had 'music in you' or whether it was something of rote that we were forcing upon you. Well, a few months ago, you unknowingly put that doubt to rest; we were in Shantiniketan and we'd carried your guitar along so that you could practice. Well, during one of your practice sessions in the evening, the lights went out, but that didn't stop you...you just continued playing. That's when I knew... Of course you sealed the deal when you wanted to try making up original tunes and when you declared that you wanted to start a rock group when you grew up. You'd even thought of the name -- Vampire Rock! As long as it's not related to death metal and goth, I think I can live with that name :-)Your guitar teacher thinks you are very talented and says it every chance he gets. I just smile, but inside my heart starts beating like a hummingbird on a high!

You LOVE the spotlight! You are born to entertain. The stage is pretty much your most favourite place in the world and you are very, very comfortable on it. Last year, soon after your birthday, you made your debut in the pada'r natok'er stage (neighbourhood play) for Durga Pujo. It was a dramatised rendition of one of Tagore's well-known, much-loved, epic poems -- "Birpurush". And you my son, were Birpurush. You enthralled everyone...including me. You remembered cues, didn't lose balance when others goofed up, delivered your lines in loud, clear tones and you covered every inch of the stage while acting. You took my breath away and I had to blink back tears of pride when the cheers and thunderous clapping started. That's why I started you off in an after school theatre class run by a good friend of mine. Thankfully, you are loving it and they are loving you. This year, Durga Pujo is two weeks away and rehearsals are on in full swing. The play...a dramatised production of one of Kobiguru's short stories, "Ichchaapuron" (yes, the same genius again...seriously, where would we be without the man? Well, that's a debate I look forward to having with you in the near future). Now, while you do have one of the leads, I have to remind you every now and then to not get too ahead of yourself, to not direct/correct your peers, to not be so full of yourself. So even though you are doing a wonderful job, I don't say it to you too often, because the last thing I want is for you to grow a swollen head. Vanity is such an unattractive quality...

When you grow up, you'll probably look back on your childhood and think that I was a Tiger Mom of the Amy Chua variety...well, maybe not that demonic, but somewhere in her vicinity. I know I'm kind of hard on you and your brother, but it's mainly where discipline and food are concerned. I hate the very thought of food being wasted (the thought of starving children just numbs me to the core) which is why I prefer you taking smaller helpings and not throwing anything away, rather than piling food onto your plate in heaps and then throwing away half of it. And good manners...yes, I'm a bit of a monster in that department, I'm afraid. The thing is, I hate indiscipline. A friend of mine even called me out on it when we went dining out. "You expect a lot [of good behaviour] from your boys, don't you?" I unapologetically said yes. But later I felt guilty...am I too hard on you two? But then, whenever someone compliments me on how delightful you two are, or how well-behaved, or what lovely manners you have, or how well I've brought you up...my god, I just swell up with immeasurable pride! I need no greater validation or certification. Now I know these words may well come back to bite me in the butt, but right now, as of this moment, I have to say it -- you are quite the little gemtleman!

You're quite the gourmand, my child! You love experimenting with your palate and are game for new restaurants, new cuisines and new dishes. You still love my pasta to the point that you would rather have that than go out for a meal, but I love the way you enjoy new tastes and experiences. You are eager to help me around the kitchen and sometimes, you even think that you'll be a chef when you grow up.

Books are a firm love. You would rather read than go out in the evenings and kick a football around. Mythology is your favourite genre, but right now, you are also hooked on the Geronimo Stilton series. You read extensively and that's why your vocabulary and language skills are more than pretty darn good. You won 1st place in the inter-class English Elocution competition and I was ready to distribute laddoos! You ask me the meanings of big words and try to use them in sentences which I think is very good, but I also hope it doesn't make you seem precocious to other adults and a show-off to your peers. Sigh...it's sad, but that is the way that some people will see you and it breaks my heart.

You've discovered a new passion for quizzing and thanks to your bookwormish nature, GK seems to be a subject you're pretty good at. The recently concluded inter-house competition also bears testimony to that.

Of course, it's not all sunshine and laughter with you. You have some flaws which you really need to work on. You can dish it out, but you can't take it. You're a terribly sore loser and you really, really need to learn what the sporting spirit is all about. You have to learn how to play fair and you can't always get your way.

I'm there to guide you into becoming the very best that you can be. You have such a sunshiney spirit and sensitive soul, that I would hate to see you be disliked or unpopular because of your bullish streak. I also worry, very often, that you might be a loner, because I've seen you quite content in your own company. You hear the songs and whispers of hidden voices and I see you lost in your own thoughts, often playing by yourself even when in a playground or room full of your friends, because you have a head full of characters and conversations that have your time and attention. I've been there most of my life sweetheart, and loneliness is a crippling feeling. Embrace life, embrace the people around you, embrace the world...but never let go of your unique individuality. I love your poetic soul and nature...it speaks directly to my own soul, from where I dreamed you up and breathed life into you!

To end with a line from another song, you beautiful boy...you make my heart sing!

I love you endlessly!

Happy birthday, my big boy!

Mamma

BlogAdda's Book Review Program: Musings of a Wanderer

2011-08-22T23:40:00.006+05:30

I signed up for the BlogAdda book reviews program when I saw that this book was up for grabs -- "Musings of a Wanderer" by Shreya Chatterjee.

No, we're not related even though we do share a surname. And no, I didn't choose this book because we share that surname.

I chose it because it's a book of poetry. And I love poetry.

But truth be told, I did not love Shreya's poetry. Not all of it.

Shreya's poetry is mostly an outpouring of her feelings. Now I am all for offerings of these outpourings, because I believe that it is quite central to good poetry. However, having said that, much of Shreya’s work seems to be like a first draft; the feelings that must have gushed within and found an expression in words must have been hurriedly caught and put down on paper before disappearing altogether, for we know how ephemeral a thought can be. But once the thought has been captured, it must be prodded, teased, fretted over and had hair-torn-out-in-clumps until perfection is attained. I know how easy it is to get too close to one's own work and that chopping a word here or slicing a verse there feels like we are butchering a small part of ourselves, but this kind of attachment does not make for good writing. It makes us too sensitive and it makes us stupidly stubborn.

Yes, I identified with many of her thoughts and feelings, after all, poetry is universal and that's what binds us. Some of her insights into the world around us as well as into her own soul are poignant and thought-provoking. You understand what she is trying to say and where she is coming from and you can’t help but smile a little wistfully. What I loved most about this collection is the little foot-notes that she added to some of her poems, giving us a peek into the inspiration behind the poem. Poetry is, after all, very personal, so it's a privilege to be given an insight into what thought, word, picture or moment gave birth to the idea of a poem.

That Shreya has a giant love for poetry is obvious. Unfortunately, that is not enough. She needs to nurture it like a mother nurtures her child and she can't give into it's stubborn, wilful tantrums. She must deal with her poems with a firm but loving hand and do what's best for them. So if words and whole verses need to be dropped, scratched and rewritten, then so it must be, for only then will the end results make us cry with pride.

Shreya has a long way to go, but she has started upon the journey bravely and boldly. Some of the poems written by this Wanderer do show remarkable promise, there’s no denying that. Had she worked on her craft a bit more and had her work fallen into the hands of an editor who understands the craft of poetry, and, more importantly, cares about poetry, this collection would have been far more impressive.

This review is a part of the "http://blog.blogadda.com/2011/05/04/indian-bloggers-book-reviews". Book Reviews Program at "http://www.blogadda.com" Participate now to get free books!

And so I succumbed...

2011-08-17T14:08:00.003+05:30

I just couldn't stand the multiplying strands of white on my head anymore. They had made their appearance quietly enough a few years ago, adding to their numbers slowly and surreptitiously; never meriting more than a second glance or a half-sigh.

They were just waiting.

Last year, Hell's own gift to me, saw me go grey faster than you could say "Boo! Surprise!" Overnight, they attacked and I realised I was on the losing side. But I stubbornly held on, refusing to let them and the Higher Power they answered to, called Vanity, win.

The remarks I received over the past 18 months at my apparently apathetic behaviour towards my appearance ranged from shock to disgust to shattering. What nobody realised was that I was still grieving and while I hated the sad, fat and greying person who stared back at me from the mirror -- sometimes dispassionately, sometimes disconsolately and very often disgustedly -- I was also adamant about not giving in. Not giving in to popular culture's perceptions about beauty; not giving in to what the magazines say; not giving in to my friends's rebukes; not giving in to peer pressure.

I've always known that I'd have to hit the bottle (errr, the bottle of dye) sooner or later and I just wanted it to be later.

But yesterday, I just couldn't take it anymore and so I succumbed.

But it wasn't the bottle I turned to for comfort. It was mehendi.

Sigh...so strike one up for Vanity.

Frogs and Snails

2011-08-09T11:49:00.002+05:30

He stood there in front of me. My seven-year-old son in a pair of worn-out, once-upon-a-time white Crocs, three-quarter pants, an oldish yet very comfy-looking t-shirt, a huge smile on his face revealing an over-sized front tooth next to a gap where it's partner should've been, and a huge bandage above his left eye, shielding his three stitches from the dirt, dust and grime of the world. In his hands, was my iPod; in his ears, were the head-phones.

He was giving me that huge, disarming smile of his because he'd just noticed me standing and watching him jump about while loudly and discordantly singing Jon Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart."

He was the very picture of a boy.

Frogs and snails, indeed.

It's,

frogs and snails

and bruises and stitches.

It's

puppy dog tails

and insects and itches.

It's

dirty hands

and skinned knees.

It's

messed-up paintings

and the summer breeze.

It's

those pretend-to-be-brave voices

in the middle of the night.

It's

those cuddles and snuggles

as you're calming away a fright.

It's

those lullabys they ask for,

those cookies they beg for;

those stories they wait for,

those goodies they crave for.

It's

those gap-toothed smiles

and those sparkly, bright eyes.

It's

those tears that escape

and those sorry faces they make.

It's

lots of lovin' and huggin'

and sticky kisses galore.

It's

these things that make their mamma's hearts

greedy for more.

Little Boys Love Their Mammas

2011-08-05T11:11:00.004+05:30

Totally let down by a movie that I had gargantuan expectations from and reeling from a sudden and totally unexpected fight that escalated to a barrage of rude SMSes, I felt the picture of depression. I must have looked it too, with my drooped shoulders, smarting eyes and hunched back.

I walked in, looking like this, to a room filled with 'strange' women. My MIL was having a meeting of her ladies' association at home. I knew, of course, since she had asked me if I would please make the dessert. In fact, I was rushing home to put the finishing touches on it, but I didn't count on them already being there.

Before I could straighten myself up, shake the blues off, put on a mask and a fake smile, something happened that drenched my insides and left me a gooey pile of love.

My little one, screaming "MAMMA! MAMMA! MAMMMMMAAAAA!!!" appeared out of thin air and faster than Superman came hurtling towards me, throwing himself at me and wrapping his arms around my legs, his face looking straight into my face, his eyes shining with that heart-melting mixture of love and happiness. Not once caring that he had an audience, he held on tightly and wouldn't let go. Of course, since the audience was comprised of women in the Grandmother Zone, they all melted into a pool of mush.

The tight, (teddy) bear hug probably lasted for ten-fisteen seconds and as soon as he got my big, slurpy kisses, he was gone as quick as he came, like a flash of lightening.

A few seconds, that's all it was, but the consequence of those few moments was so blissful, so uplifting, so rejuvenating.

It's this love of this little boy for his mamma, that keeps me going.

Boys Will Be Boys and Thus Give Their Moms Heart Attacks

2011-08-02T21:44:00.002+05:30

Children. They're supposed to keep one young.

At least that's what I'd heard.

Mine seen hell-bent on running me old and ragged.

Once again, due to the antics of a certain almost-eight-year-old, I have aged considerably over the past few hours.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't really his fault. It happened at school and it was a total accident. He was watching a Beyblade match when his cousin ran over, wanting to show him something and excitedly yanked him by the collar. My boy tripped over the tangle of feet underfoot, tried to maintain balance, failed and smacked his forehead on the cement flooring -- leaving a big, deep gash half-an-inch above his eye.

The Nephew was absolutely horrified and traumatised. It was SIL's day to pick up the boys and by the time she went, she found her nephew missing and her son an incoherent, blubbering mess who just kept repeating his cousin's name and showing his mother his bloody handkerchief with which he tried to mop up the blood.

She called me from the car and I fell off my chair. I called the MIM and he rushed home. We waited for the SIL's call to tell us she was close to the hospital near our home and we rushed there.

It was the Nephew who was a mess; the poor boy's face was red and his eyes were swollen from crying non-stop. And the EO? What can I say? He was a trooper. Still jabbering away, nineteen-to-the-dozen, giving us a full action replay as to what happened along with running commentary. When he heard that he needed stitches, well, that's when the cookie crumbled. Having been the recipient of four stitches on the sole of his foot a couple of years ago, he absolutely had no desire to go through the experience again. I didn't either, of course.

But, go through it he did. There were tears and screams while half his eyebrow was being shaved off, while the anasthesia was being injected around the wound and of course when he got a glimpse of the curved needle and thread. But when the actual stitching started and he realised that he couldn't feel a thing, he was back to his normal, chatty self.

Sigh. He's been in perfectly good humour since he's come back. He's enjoying the attention and the cuddles. He's fast asleep now and I've promised to bring him into my bed tonight.

He's fast asleep.

Me. I'm greyer and wrinklier than I woke up this morning.

Sweet Mornings Are Made of These

2011-07-26T07:58:00.005+05:30

So my four-year-old is sitting on my lap, enjoying his morning cuddle. He then suddenly looks at me and in a rush of affection, pinches my cheek and says, "Mamma, you are like a roshogolla; sho shoft." I smile.

Then he pinches his own cheek and says, "I am alsho."

True, dat!

**************************************************************

And in other news, I have finally succumbed to the joys of blasting small green pigs on my computer screen, much to the delight of my two little boys. These 'Angry Birds' are some serious shit! Addictive to boot!

But, what I find most entertaining is noting the looks of respect in my young 'uns' eyes grow bigger and bigger with each bruising, blasting and bombardment of green ham and bacon. With each level I cross, their little chests puff out just that much more. Hahaha! Fun!

"The End Is Here"

2011-07-15T15:19:00.002+05:30

So are any of you as goose-bumpy with anticipation as I am? Have you booked your tickets? Have you been watching the earlier movies or poring over the books once again so that you go into the darkened theatre ready for the Final Battle?

I'm so excited, I can hardly sit still! There are these bubbles of excitement travelling up and down my throat and I feel tingly all over! I last felt this excited about something when the seventh installment of the book was ready to come out.

My, what a journey it's been. Fourteen years of the books and a decade of the movies. And tonight, I go to bid farewell to the boy wizard who made me wish I was 17 again. Tonight, I prepare to say auf weidersehen to the three musketeers of the wizarding world who made me believe again in magic and fairy tales and friendship ever-lasting.

Is it over? Is it really, really over?

I've been asking myself since the beginning of this week.

And as I sit down with the seventh book once again, to prepare myself for the cinematic spectacle tonight, I see my EO, my seven-year-old boy, settle down next to me with the first book. From the corner of my eye, I watch him get drawn deeper and deeper into the magnificent world created that still holds me enthralled.

And that's when I realise, it's not over. And it never can be. The enchantment will just keep passing from generation to generation.

The Boy Who Lived will live on...

Erotica and the Poet

2011-06-29T22:42:00.006+05:30

(cross-posted here, at The Book Lovers blog).

Chitrangada and Chandalika – Sexual Awakenings of Two of Tagore’s Most Popular Heroines

For Language Day celebrations in our school in Bangalore, my Bengali-speaking friends and I, decided to present highlights from Tagore’s celebrated dance drama, “Chitrangada.” One of the girls in the group, who studied Bangla as a Second Language and was therefore, much more at ease with the literary lilt of the language, clicked her tongue while interpreting one of the songs and remarked what a sexually-aware man Tagore was. At home, while poring over the text, I asked my mother to explain a few lines from another section of the dramatic movement, and I remember clearly how my normally vocal and never-at-a-loss-for-words matriarch blushed and haltingly explained the song in as innocent and simple a manner as possible, stripping the piece of most of its raw, sexual content. The essence of the meaning was not lost, however.

It’s been close to twenty years since that fledgling, albeit exhilarating performance in school, and since then, not only have my language skills greatly improved, not only has my love for Tagore’s oeuvre grown in leaps and bounds, but my two little sons have also taken baby steps into the bright and beautiful world of Tagorean performance.

Being a Bengali, there is just no escaping the mammoth influence of this man. An entire industry thrives thanks to the Bard of Bengal. Had there been no Tagore, the Bengali would have been a much poorer version of his present self...culturally, musically, artistically, academically and yes, in the literal sense of the word, financially.

More than a hundred years later, we are still obsessed with the man, his work and his life. This year being the sesquicentennial year of India’s first Nobel Laureate, there is a frenzy of Tagore-related activities the world over. We create and recreate his works; we discuss, dissect, analyse and philosophise. We study his words in a contemporary context and research his vast oeuvre to find new meanings, to see things with a new eye, to listen through another’s ears and to feel from our own experiences, all the while wondering if there’s any aspect that remains untouched or glossed over.

Well, one such aspect is the erotic aspect of the literary giant’s work. A theme not openly discussed, and I wonder why, since it is agreed that Tagore understood the psyche of women so well; that so many of his heroines are strong and ready to claim their sexuality; that so many of his novels were considered ‘bold’ and ‘daring’.

It’s quite a travesty to the man and his work, to keep this facet of his literary compositions under wraps, considering so many of his love songs and dance dramas were ripe with the themes of desire, longing and the union of not only two souls, but two bodies. What makes Tagore so great is that he did it classily, poetically, taking help from Mother Nature’s bounty and splendour, thus not having to resort to innuendos and titillation. It was always done artistically, using music and metaphor, to create those sensations of urgent longing, naked desire and bodily fulfillment.

This discussion is an attempt to highlight some of the erotic elements of two of Tagore’s sexually-charged masterpieces where we are introduced to two of his most well-known heroines from his celebrated nrityo nattyos, or dance dramas, Chitrangada and Chandalika.

Chitrangada

Tagore’s work is a take-off on an incident from the “Mahabharata”, where the third Pandav brother, the illustrious warrior prince, Arjuna, meets the warrior princess Chitrangada, during his wanderings while on a 13 year self-imposed exile, while practicing, again self-imposed, celibacy.

We are introduced to Kurupa Chitrangada, or Chitrangada the Unattractive, in the first scene of the musical, where she and her friends have gone hunting in the forest. It is here that she literally stumbles upon a saffron-robed Arjuna, her idol, her hero, who mistakes her and her group of companions to be a band of young boys. Kurupa calls out after him, challenging him to a fight so that she may die a brave and noble death at the hands of the legend she has worshiped for so long.

Losing all interest in the hunt, her friend, perplexed, asks her how it is possible for her to lose her sense of identity in the space of just one glance. And thus, Kurupa, for the first time in her life, feels the stirrings of a strange new emotion – passion. Passion for a man, passion for a warrior, passion for her idol. Passion for the soul-mate for whom she has waited since eternity. She acknowledges these hitherto unknown and unfelt emotions in the beautiful song, “Bodhu Kon Aalo Laaglo Chokhe.”

Instinctively knowing that she will never get Arjuna to give her a second glance dressed as a warrior, she entreats her friends to make her presentable. She then goes in search of Arjuna and offers herself to him, but he spurns her saying he is on a vow of celibacy.

Humiliated at this rejection she laments all those years spent in perfecting her archery and building her strength. She sends out a heartfelt plea to Lord Madan, aka Kamadev, the God of love and sex, begging to be morphed into a stunning beauty with seductive charms. That she wants to captivate Arjun with Apsara-like physical charms is no secret as she prays,

“Shudhu ek borosher jonne

Pushpolabonne

Mor deho paak tobo shorgero mullyo

Morte atulyo.”

Hearing her prayers, Madan agrees to change her from her warrior-princess self, to a woman of breath-taking beauty. One who inspires instant lust in a man; one, who even Arjun of the self-imposed celibacy vow, will be helplessly attracted to. Our new heroine, Surupa Chitrangada, or Chitrangada the Beautiful, upon catching a glimpse of herself, is taken aback by her newly acquired beauty. In a moving soliloquy, she realises the transitory nature of her newly-acquired loveliness. She laments that while as Kurupa, she had a history, a background, a lineage, as Surupa, she is nothing more than an exotic flower, whose fragrance once exhausted, will be languishing in the dust. However, she also acknowledges the stirrings of a desire so deep and it finds expression in Tagore’s magnificently worded, “Aamaar Onge Onge Ke.”

Arjuna sees the stunningly beautiful Surupa and forgetting all vows of celibacy, promptly proposes “dushahoshi prem”, in other words, a passionate love affair. Before accepting, Surupa tells him that the affair will be ephemeral, like a dew-drop.

The affair is indeed passionate, explosive even, yet, as Surupa always knew, it is transient. After all, lust does fade. For by this time, Arjuna has heard tales of the brave warrior-princess – “Sneho boley tini maataa, bahu boley tini raajaa” (Her compassion makes her a mother; her strength, a king). She decides to test him and tells Arjuna of Chitragaga’s manly appearance and lack of feminine charms, but that does not douse his resolve to meet this fascinating hero. The shallow nature of their relationship is revealed.

Finally realising the opportunity she has to meet her idol as an equal, Chitrangada once again entreats Madan to change her form...this time from the beautiful, nymph-like Surupa to the plain, almost manly Kurupa. When she meets him in her true form, she breaks into the incredibly moving and thought-provoking aria, “Aami Chitrangada.” In this paean, she tells Arjuna that she is neither goddess, nor ordinary woman. She asks only that he treat her as an equal, to keep her by his side even when danger lurks near-by. She asks only that he treat her as Chitrangada, daughter of a king. This particular song, has long been regarded as an ode to feminism; here, in this one incredible song, Chitrangada rejects the notion that she is the weaker sex and thus an object of pity, rather, she is on the same footing as him, an equal partner at every level.

“Aami Chitrangada, aami rajendronandini,

Nohi debi, nohi shamanyo naari.

Pujo kori morey raakhibey urdhhey shey nohi, nohi,

Helaa kori morey raakhibey peechhey shey nohi nohi...

Aaj shudhu kori nibedon –

Aami Chitrangada, raajendronandini.”

The triumph of intellect over body is indeed a joyful celebration.

This sums up, the bare bones of Tagore’s masterpiece. However, it is interesting to note that in the original Bengali, the Surupa-Arjuna passion play, while tremendously evident, is couched in metaphorical poetics, yet his own English trans-creation, which reads beautifully, seems more sexually charged and explicit. However, Kobiguru never resorts to improper language and yet he leaves nothing to the imagination. Take, for example, the following passage where Surupa recounts to Madana, her passionate tryst with Arjuna:

“The southern breeze caressed me to sleep. From the flowering Malati bower overhead silent kisses dropped over my body. On my hair, my breast, my feet, each flower chose a bed to die on. I slept. And, suddenly in the depth of my sleep, I felt as if some intense eager look, like tapering fingers of flame, touched my slumbering body. I started up and saw the Hermit standing before me... It seemed to me that I had, on opening my eyes, died to all realities of life and undergone a dream birth into a shadow land. Shame slipped to my feet like loosened clothes. I heard his call-"Beloved, my most beloved!" And all my forgotten lives united as one and responded to it. I said, "Take me, take all I am!" And I stretched out my arms to him. The moon set behind the trees. One curtain of darkness covered all. Heaven and earth, time and space, pleasure and pain, death and life merged together in an unbearable ecstasy...”

As in-your-face as sexual desire can probably get without resorting to coarse language and four-letter words. Perhaps, because the original is set to music, Tagore did not need to resort to more explicit language and imagery. After all, the Bengali nrityo nattyo is an auditory and visual delight, with much of its beauty coming from the music compositions and dance performances. With the English work, “Chitra”, one is left with the sensation that it is better left read than performed.

Chandalika

Gurudev’s “Chandalika” is about a low-caste girl, a ‘chandalin’ named Prokriti, and her desire for a Buddhist monk named Anondo.

Spurned, shunned and humiliated by the entire village because of her low birth, Prokriti is found by her mother sitting near a well, cursing her birth and her life. Her mother, Maya, tells her to snap out of it and to get back to work, but Prokriti, still hurting from the taunts and jibes, is still too depressed and angry. Her mother leaves her there to wallow in her self-pity. It is at this moment that Anondo, a Buddhist monk approaches Prokriti and asks for water to quench his thirst. She recoils in shame and horror and brokenly informs him that she is a chandalini and therefore not ‘fit’ to give him water, more so as the water from her well is tainted. Anondo kindly informs her that they are all the same, human beings.

For a girl who has never been treated well or spoken kindly to in her entire life, it is easy to see why she would mistake kindness for attraction, why she would see her own feelings of gratitude as love.

What could have been an innocent infatuation turns into a morbid obsession where Prokriti exclaims that Anondo chose her well over all others because of her. She starts to fantasise that maybe there was an attraction that drew him to her. That the obsession is one of a sheer, physical need can be felt in Prokriti’s intense, longing-filled ballad, “Chokkhe Aamaar Trishna, Ogo Trishna Aamaar Bokhho Jure.” In the song, she likens herself to a “brishtibihin boiskakhi din” – a rainless day in a monsoon month. How beautifully Tagore once again explains a young girl’s budding sexual desire and yearning, while once again taking recourse to imagery from nature.

Another interesting, startling even, observation to be made, is Maya’s willingness to help her daughter reach sexual fulfillment. In a country where the mere mention of the words ‘sex’, ‘lust’ and ‘boyfriend’ are taboo in the living room; where daughters still look at their toes when they confess that they’re in love and want to get married (and thus have ‘legal’ sex), it is definitely a bold overture for a young girl to cry out to her mother that she wants someone, that she really, REALLY wants someone in every which way, and with an intensity and desire so strong, she is willing to drag him, herself and her mother down to whatever level it takes.

Prokriti’s longing soon turns to desperation and like a man-mad virago, she exhorts her mother who is well-versed in sorcery and witchcraft, to bring Anondo to her, wherever he may be. She wants to leave her imprint on him so deeply, so that she will be the face that he sees, the one that he thinks about, wherever he goes and she is willing to resort to depravity if need be as she pushes her mother to use her most powerful, her most cruel incantations.

“Por tui shob cheye nishtur montro –

Paake paake daag diye joraaje dhoruk or monke.

Jekhaanei jaak, kokhono eraate aamaake

Paarbe na, paarbe naa.”

Of course, we are initially shown how a spiritually pure soul can easily rise above the base temptations of the flesh. But, as the incantations become more powerful, Anondo is dragged through fire to meet Prokriti’s mating call. Maya, by now exhausted and spent begins to feel sorry for the monk as she senses his spiritual suffering and turmoil and entreats Prokriti to stop. Prokriti, however, is now drunk with power and on a sexual-high, so she refuses and only pressurises Maya to keep going and to use every spell in the book. Her wild urging is almost climactic in its intensity.

“Oi dekh, oi elo jhor, elo jhor,

Taar agomonir oi jhor –

Prithibi kaanpchhey thorothoro thorothoro,

Guruguru kory mor bokho.”

It is only when Prokriti sees the effects of the spell on Anondo that she finally understands the sheer torture that he is facing and the gravity of her sin; gone is the peaceful countenance that radiated purity that she fell in love with. Instead, his face is a mask of grave pain and self-loathing and so she begs her mother to break the spell, but by then it is too late. Anondo, as if dragged in by chains, stands face to face with her and Prokriti falls at his feet, begging for mercy.

And Anondo, in the true spirit of a monk who has risen above all worldly emotions and passions, readily does so.

I had an enlightening chat with well-known Odissi danseuse and social worker, Alokananda Roy, about the fascinating aspects of these two female protagonists and she asked me to think about their social backgrounds and upbringing. Chitrangada is a royal and thus her desire, no matter how deep, is restrained, refined and couched in flowery language and poetic innuendo. Prokriti hails from the lower echelons of society; her background is that of a tribal girl with no education or sense of refinement and that is why her passion is raw, primal and very in-your-face. While Kobiguru doesn’t use base, improper, ‘unflowery’ language to express Prokriti’s desire, he composes her songs and sets them to a fantastic tempo, almost wild in its growing intensity, just like her increasing passion.

Tagore’s heroines, like their creator, are passionate people. Their desire so real, you can touch it, feel it, almost breathe it. And yet, the beauty of the master’s word play leaves you as in awe with their musical and prosaic enchantments, as do the strength and power of the protagonists’ emotions and ‘realness’.

Father's Day 2011

2011-06-21T11:50:00.002+05:30

Another Father's Day without you, DaddyDearest. They say these things get easier with every passing year. Well, 'they' lied. And I'd like to wash 'their' mouths out with soap and vinegar and chilli powder.

Been missing you something awful these past few weeks. You know I'm doing a play, right? The original play is called "My Mother Said I Never Should", by Charlotte Keatley and it's been adapted into a bilingual play "Maa Bolechhe Korish Naa" by this wonderfully talented girl, Shuktara Lal, who also directs it. It's a four-women play about four generations of mothers and daughters -- their secrets, lies, broken hearts, unsaid thoughts and feelings. Though the men are never shown, their presence very much looms large throughout the play. After all, you can have events happening in mothers and daughter's lives if there aren't any fathers and husbands around, right?

We had such intense workshops before the play, where we delved into our own lives, discussed our pasts and dreams, had emotional breakdowns (breakthroughs?) and drew inspiration from the women, circumstances and events in our own lives.

The relationship my character, Anuradha, shares with her mother, Roma, is so much like the one MaaJanoni and I share. Roma's personality is uncannily close to MaaJanoni's and I feel the same bitterness, hurts and brokenness as my character. It also made me think about and miss you terribly...

This was a scarily accurate and intense play. Rehearsals would always leave us emotionally drained...

And then we came close to opening night -- June 18th, 2011. And I lost it. I couldn't believe you wouldn't be there in the audience and I sobbed.

Were you watching, DaddyDearest? Were you there?

The second show was on the 19th; Father's Day. I woke up with an ache in my heart, but I channelised my sorrows and instead drowned them in domesticity. I sat all four kids down and they made cards for the MIM and BIL-ly Boy. Soon, it was time for me to leave for the show.

Another good show. Did you see?

As we packed up and got ready to leave, 'Roma' gave me a string of jasmine to take home. Without even thinking about it, almost as a reflex action, I put them on your photograph.

It was only yesterday, after the Bro called and we talked about how much we miss you (he couldn't go into work because he was so miserable) that I realised the significance of my actions.

Happy Father's Day, Baba. Still missing you.

Like. You'll. Never. Believe.

That's Just It, Really

2011-06-13T07:45:00.004+05:30

I was walking through the mall the other day; rushing from level 3 to the basement. As I was tripping over my feet on level 1 (yes, I was in quite a hurry), this tantalising force slowed down my steps. I felt myself walking in slow motion, through a bulbous white cloud of warm smells and deep comfort. I inhaled lungfuls of the goodness surrounding me and suddenly found myself being lifted six inches off the ground and floating towards the source of that heady aroma. I'm sure I looked like one of those cartoon characters being pulled towards the apple pie by beckoning aroma tendrils.

Those heavenly smells were emanating from a Cookie Man counter in the mall. Fresh cookies were being baked and I just stood there for a while, with what I'm quite sure was a goofy grin, plastered on my face.

Memories of the number of the scale started pounding my head, but the damage was already done. My senses had been dulled thanks to the heady mix of intoxicating cookie smells; shortbread, sesame, chocolate chip, brandy snaps and even a variety of muffins and brownies.

I was going to indulge. Who was I kidding? I knew it as soon as the first atom of cookie cloud invaded my olfactory nerves.

I placed my order.

Goofy smile intact, a warm cookie in my hands and all thoughts of my diet abandoned. Gone were my traffic tensions and work woes. Bye-bye to my baby blues. So long to the stress surrounding my life and the anxiety lining my face. At that moment right then and there, nothing else existed but me and those aromas and that one, small, round cookie in my hand.

Sigh...happiness sometimes really is just a warm chocolate chip cookie.

The Beauty in Her Soul

2011-06-05T12:29:00.005+05:30

Losing my father last year, was the most devastating event in my life. And I have had more than my fair share of run-ins with Unpleasant Experiences, Nasty People and Heart-Attack Inducing Moments in my 30 odd years of existence upon this earth.

The pain and trauma of those 20 days in January 2010 have left an indelible mark upon my psyche and soul, and I know it will never go. Yes, the wound will heal eventually, but the scar will never fade.

Being the Daddy's Girl that I was, am and forever shall be, I confidently believed that nobody was more affected by his passing than I. No. Not even my mother. After all, I was a witness to their marriage and it wasn't particularly pretty.

But then I saw her break. Her life-partner, her companion for the golden years ahead, the man she had two children with, whom she struggles with, made sacrifices with, sang with, lived with, loved, disliked, bickered and fought with, was gone. Is gone. Forever.

Now my mumma is a strong woman. She is our rock. We draw strength from her and count on her to be steady and solid and to never falter on our behalf. Gregarious and generous to a fault, fearless and fun-loving, she is my strength. My daddy was always my weakness.

I couldn't bear to see her crumble and cry. It broke me. Her biggest wail was, "How can I live alone now?"

Yes. Her biggest fear had come true.

Because you see, this strong woman who battled everyone's fears and forged ahead on their behalves, actually did have one fear. I lied. She wasn't totally fearless. She did have one fear. One she was always worried about confronting and succumbing to -- the fear of being alone.

After all, this was the woman who had moved continents just so that she could be near her brothers and sisters. This was the woman who willingly and happily turned her as-it-is-always-open-house into a big rehearsal space in the months preceding Durga Puja. This is the woman who has myriad friend groups to fulfill her different loves and interests: an adda group, a theatre group, a movie-watching group, a spiritual group, a charity group, a travel group...it goes on. This is the woman you call and call but who never answers her land-line, because she's never at home. This is the woman who's always game to go out. This is the woman who never says 'No.' This is the woman who just can't be by herself.

So when daddy died, who was she going to come home to? Who was going to open the door for her? Would she now, finally have to start carrying around a key?

My husband, sons and I went for a holiday to Himachal a couple of weeks ago. We took my mother along. It was there, near the steps of a temple, that I saw my mother looking at the expanse of mountains before us. The look on her face was serene, peaceful, beautiful. Without looking at me she said, "I think I can do. I can carry on. I can live."

This woman, who was once a calendar girl in her Shanti-Niketan-Bosonto-Utsob regalia; who her nephews and nieces still remember as being the most beautiful woman they'd ever seen when she stepped in as a new bride in my grandparent's home; whom I used to look at with awe whenever she dressed up in a Benarasi silk sari, was glowing.

Those images of the young woman in the calender, the beautiful bride in those black-and-white-photographs, the Benarasi-clad woman just slipped away from the pages of my memory. Before me stood a woman wearing the wrinkles of her life upon her face. The battles she'd fought and won were specks of survival in her eyes.

I saw her wearing her soul that day -- it was an armour of strength; it was a mantle of inner peace; it was a glimpse of real, true, inner beauty.

Lucky, lucky me.

London Cancelled, Hello Himachal

2011-05-15T11:29:00.003+05:30

Thursday, 12th May 2011, the day London was cancelled.

This summer, the MIM, the boys and I were planning a trip to the Queen's country. Yes, the land of Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Roald Dahl; of the stiff upper lip, the cockney accent and the lilting drawl; the batter fried fish, tea & scones, shortbread and what, even curry; the London Bridge, the Big Ben, the Buckingham Palace, Globe Theatre and the Westend -- oh the Westend, where plans were being made for 'The Lion King', 'Love Never Dies' and 'End of the Rainbow'.

Visas had been applied for; interviews given; warm clothes taken out, sunned and packed; gifts bought for relatives and friends; and tickets booked for Saturday the 14th.

Our visas never came. Repeated internet checks and phone calls to the consulate resulted in the same answer being done to death -- Yours applications are under process.

!2th evening, with a birthday party for The Nephew raging in the background, the MIM and I took the painful decision of cancelling our tickets so that we could get back the maximum refund possible -- less than 24 hours meant 50% would have been deducted. We called the helpline in Delhi one more time and they very rudely told us not to expect anything before the middle of next week. That cememnted our decision.

Now we had more than two weeks of vacation time on our hands with nowhere to go. Instantly, I said "Himachal." The MIM had been clamouring to go to the hills for a long, long time and now was our chance.

We knew we wouldn't be getting the best deals; after all, not only was this trip last minute, it was also at peak season. Hours spent over the Net and we finally zeroed in on our route : Delhi -- Amrtisar -- Dalhousie -- Dharamshala -- Palampur -- Amritsar -- Delhi. This was after a lot of permuatations and combinations were checked out.

Next, the hotels in Himachal. In Dalhousie, we got a cottage in a beautiful, recently opened resort called "Amode". Not strictly in Dalhousie town, 7 kms further up. In Dharamshala, we got acco in The Grace Hotel while in Palampur, we got another cottage at a tea estate. Like idiots, we didn't factor in any extra time for Amritsar, otherwise we could have done the Golden Temple and Wagah Border as well. I guess we had to leave something for next time.

So, with the Big Ben, Globe Theatre and the Westend waving a sad goodbye to me in my mind's eye, I readied myself in the heat of Calcutta summers with sweaters and woolens.

And after all that? Midnight between 13th and 14th May, after we got back from a friend's birthday party, the MIM decided to check out the visa status 'just like that.' Guess what?

They'd been approved on the 13th.

So much for paying extra for SMS alerts. Anybody I can write to about this?!?!

The Sesquicentennial Year

2011-05-15T10:22:00.005+05:30

Monday, 9th May 2011 was Kobiguru's 150th birth anniversary. The spirit of the Bard of Bengal is well and truly alive and as each day goes by, it is obvious that Tagore isn't going anywhere. The man, his words, his works, his art, his vision have all become intrinsically linked to the collective consciousness of the Bengali psyche. It is almost as if he has been encoded into our DNA. This past one year has been a celebration to his life and work and the year ahead promises to be the same...not that that's surprising really, considering that Tagore's masterpieces are performed every year regardless. But so much creativity has been flowing in recent times and all sparked off by Tagorean thought, values and oeuvres. He and his works have been performed, celebrated, reinvented, recreated, reexamined, dissected, discussed, dissed even, under a microscope and from every angle possible. Many have been trying to portray his works in a new light, look for a new spark, present another viewpoint, 'contemporarise' him too -- the last one being quite redundant really, as his vision was far ahead of his times and he is still very relevant today.

The YO's school had a special homage to Tagore for their annual day concert, the theme of which was 'The World of Books" and my little boy, (apart from being one of the dwarves of the Snow White skit) was also part of the tableau that offered their respects to India's first Nobel Laureate. And on Monday, some of the students of EO's school were chosen to present a few items that they had been rehearsing for ever since school re-opened. Not just that, but the piece that the EO was a part of, had to perform again that evening for a special programme being organised and presented by the school alumni.

I am but one of millions of his devotees (I don't use the word lightly) and it heartens me to know that the future of Rabindrasangeet and Rabindra sahitya is bright and beautiful.

He Kobiguru, tomaare jaanai, koti koti pronaam.

CSAAM -- April 2011 : A Few Thoughts

2011-04-30T18:16:00.002+05:30

I just can't help but wonder what it is that motivates these abusers. Is it sexual frustration? Is it the thrill of forbidden fruit? Is it pure carnal lust??

What? What?!?!

It’s probably for the psychologists and behavioural scientists to study and figure out, but what kind of darkness might one possess in one’s heart to hurt and forever scar an innocent child?

I wonder about these questions very often, but I don’t have any answers. Not that knowing these answers would in any way help me make sense of what happened to me or help me forgive my abusers; it’s all just a very angry, metaphorical ‘WTF?!?!’

But my rants and raves aside, in hindsight do I really think my parents could have done anything? Did I give them any cause to worry about me? Was there ever any reason for them to be suspicious of anything?

The answer to all those questions is ‘No.’

No, I didn’t behave any differently. I was always the introvert book-worm with her head stuck in mountains of books. I was never given to spilling my insides, sharing my thoughts or having long-drawn conversation with either of my parents. I never had too many friends, was too busy negotiating my place in my different worlds, knew that my parents loved me and yet none of us were ever prone to bouts of physical affection.

I understood the feelings of shame and disgust I felt, but didn’t feel close enough to my parents to tell them. Probably because I understood that if I ‘told on’ these men, the repercussions would be severe, and I didn’t know whether my parents or I could deal with them. After all, it was about calling out the true nature of these men that my parents loved/trusted. How could I do that to them? I guess, I did not trust my parents with the maturity to deal with it. Or maybe I was scared of what their reactions would be.

Do I blame my parents? NOT AT ALL. Not even in the slightest. And I am not saying this because I have seen first-hand the sacrifices they both endured to bring my brother and me up. No, I am not saying this out of some misplaced sense of gratitude. I don’t blame my parents because they are not at fault.

The experts have said to watch out for behavioural differences in your child. Now that is an excellent point. But here’s the thing, I didn’t behave noticeably different. It was probably because the incidents of abuse were occasional and not sustained.

The thing is that you need to understand how your child’s mind works, what his facial tics are, watch out for new vocabulary, intense mood swings or any out of the blue behaviour.

While I did not exhibit any external manifestations as a result of the abuse, I did do one thing... After my uncle abused me, I did something that was most unlike me...I took an afternoon nap and that too with my mother, on her bed. I didn’t take afternoon naps and I had stopped sleeping with my mom for a decade! My mother was surprised and she even asked me if anything was wrong. I lied and said I wasn’t feeling well and she took me at my word. And why wouldn’t she?

Now, because this happened to me, I tend to obsess over the slightest deviation from usual, everyday behaviour in my sons’ expressions and body language. No, of course I don’t go all crazy and third-degree on them, but I do set aside some quiet time to find out if anything is bothering them. And I’m glad that I do, because I’m never wrong...there’s always been something bothering them – whether a fight with a friend, or something a teacher said, or even fear of admitting to me that they lost something in school.

So my piece of advice is, get your children to open up to you. A mother’s instinct is one of the strongest things there is. If your gut instinct is saying that there seems to be something not quite right, persist and find out what may be wrong. It could be as simple as a bad day at school. But you’ll feel better for asking, your child will feel better for getting it off his chest and most important of all, you’ll have laid down the foundations of a circle of trust for your child; a place where he knows he can say anything without fear and where he’ll know he won’t be judged, but rather, protected.

It’s what every child deserves.

CSAAM -- April 2011 : A Survivor's Story -- Mine

2011-04-04T10:51:00.003+05:30

For years I have wanted to talk about this. I didn't know how. This initiative has given me the space and the courage to do so. If my story can help even one person, my effort will not be in vain...

The Repercussions of Abuse

A paying guest. My father’s friend. And a blood relative – my own uncle. What do these three men have in common?

Me.

All three of them are guilty of sexually abusing me.

All three of them are guilty of robbing my childhood.

Growing up in the States in the early 80’s and in Bangalore in the late 80’s and early 90’s, CSA wasn’t really talked about. Probably because people didn’t think it existed. After all, monsters like that belong in hell. Unfortunately, they take a stroll through Earth first.

What were the repercussions of my abuse?

Well, the first time I was abused, I must have been around six or seven years old, and it was by the paying guest we had at home in the States. It was a few times, but it was blatant, disgusting, rough and enough. And I was not alone. I know the monster pawed at my friends and at my parent’s friend’s children too. I didn’t understand the full import of it, but I do remember feeling terribly, terribly dirty. I felt unclean for a long time and I hated that feeling, so I did what I thought best...I blocked the memory out of my mind entirely. I forgot it ever happened until...

I was fifteen, living in Bangalore and an uncle abused me. It was just the one time, but it was all the more devastating because it totally shattered my self-esteem. He didn’t just sexually abuse me, but he played sick mind-games as well, commenting on my body, my puppy fat and my propensity to put on weight.

And a few years later, when I’d finally shed the fat and turned into a decent looking bird if not exactly the beautiful swan, my father’s friend tried to kiss me...a big, fat, slobbering smooch which I couldn’t wash off me for days.

The effect of each abuse was severe to the point of being extreme. As a result of the first episode in the States, there’s is a huge gap in my memory. I just can’t remember what my childhood was like. Yes, there are a few hazy memories, but nothing which stands out like a bright light; nothing that comforts me. I don’t even remember our trip to Disneyland. When the second episode with the relative happened, it brought all the terrible memories rushing back...along with other sad memories.

Today, I am severely, emotionally crippled as a result of this. I can only remember sad and unhappy things that have happened to me. My happy memories are non-existent. It’s almost like nothing good ever happened to me in my life. I am constantly depressed because of this.

It kills me to hear my family and friends reminisce about their childhood as they back-slap, guffaw with raucous laughter and hold their sides from laughing too hard. And there I sit like the harbinger of gloom; a person so mirthless she can only remember being teased and taunted throughout her childhood; a person who so looked forward to her wedding, desperately wanting it to be the happiest day of her life, except now when she thinks back she can only remember an aunt making her cry and other cringe-worthy episodes; a person who tries to write down every little moment of happiness she shares with her sons in the frantic and desolate hope that at least the written word will help her recollect the sunshine moments her boys have given her.

The other damage that is a direct result of the abuse, especially by perpetrators two and three, is that I have a terrible image of myself. I have a distorted body image, I have never felt pretty enough, I have always been on the plump side with no intention of trying to correct in my younger years and I have a depressingly low sense of self-esteem. I’m not worthy of anything good. When my uncle told me that I was too fat and that I needed to lose weight, I deliberately chose not to do anything, thinking that if I was fat, I would be too repulsive for him to want to touch me again. When the puppy fat finally shed of its own accord and boys began to give me a second glance, it felt nice. More than nice actually – it was a huge ego boost. So I started to take a little interest in what I wore and how I looked. But then that old man had to go and kiss me – and it shattered me once more. If looking pretty and having a sense of worth about oneself meant inviting the lecherous paws of men old enough to be your father, I wanted no part of it.

I’m in my thirties today. I don’t have any friends from my school days. I have just one bosom buddy from my college years. I am closer to my virtual buddies than I am to the people I socialise with. And it’s all because I have nothing happy to talk about. I have scared away many potential friends because I unburden myself way too quickly and share episodes from my life which should probably be reserved for the 100^th meeting or so.

I want my childhood back. I want my happy memories back. I want to be that sunshiney girl that I knew I once was.

Those bastards stole more than my innocence. They stole the very essence of happiness from my soul and everyday is a living hell.

'Flame & Grill' and other such memories

2011-04-01T17:20:00.004+05:30

Took the boys out for lunch today. The MIM also joined us, he just wasn't in the mood to work. The EO had been talking about a place called 'Flame & Grill' for the longest time. The last time we went there was over two years ago and yet he recalled every little detail; right down to the chair his brother was sitting in and the food he ate. Sometimes it amazes me what they remember and what their 'happy memories' can be.
My three 'boys' loved lunch today. For the MIM, the impromptuness of it made it all the more special. What I won't forget is how the YO wolfed down piece after piece of fish tikka, asking for more -- yes, the same boy who sometimes needs to be force-fed most kinds of fish preparations at home! After a sumptuous dessert of ice cream and bite-sized gulaab jamuns, he actually sighed!! Now, I've seen him enjoy meals before but this was the first time I'd ever seen him actually sigh with delight after a meal well-devoured!!
After lunch, the EO decreed that all future lunch outings are to be conducted in 'Flame & Grill' and only 'Flame & Grill'. The YO declared that the food was the "mosht delleechioush ever". While leaving, the EO patted his stomach and in all seriousness said, "What a feast!"
The YO is still experiencing a happiness hangover and as I type this, he is fawning all over me. He has showered me with fifty "I laabh you's" and remarked what "byutifull nail polish" I'm wearing, what "byutifull handjj" I have and also "such byutifull face" I have. I have obviously melted into a puddle of much mush.
The piece de resistance however, came while he was hugging me. He looked up from where his head was nestled (my chest region) and inquired about the purpose of my now defunct pouches since I didn't have babies in them anymore. He wondered whether Takur (Bhagwanji to some, Godji to others) would put another baby back there anytime soon. And FYI, the 'pouches' he was referring to are in fact my boobies!

CSAAM -- April 2011, Kicks Off

2011-04-01T12:04:00.004+05:30

And the first post kicks off. A truly moving, first person account by a victim of CSA. Read it and discover why we, as parents, need to educate ourselves. http://csaawarenessmonth.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/csa-survivor-story-1/

This is followed by another victim's story. Read the powerful post written by one of my favourite bloggers ever -- The Mad Momma. http://themadmomma.wordpress.com/2011/04/01/csaam-april-2011-my-story/

Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month (CSAAM) - April 2011

2011-03-31T12:16:00.005+05:30

There are monsters who walk amongst us. They prey upon the innocence of our children. They destroy their very childhood.

How can we make sure that they are not allowed to damage our children?

We can speak up about it. We can share stories and traumas. We can educate ourselves and in turn empower our children.

We can try.

Many of my blogger friends and I, have designated April as Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month.

If you would like to add your voice, or if you know somebody who would like to, please do any of the following:

a. mailed to csa.awareness.april@gmail.com OR

b. posted as FB notes and linked to the FB page OR

c. posted on your own blog with the badge and "CSAAM April 2011" in the heading and linked to the main blog OR

d. linked or posted on Twitter tagged twitter.com/CSAAwareness OR

e. sent via some/all of the above methods

Some topics are suggested here. Anonymous contributions are accepted and requests for anonymity will of course be honoured.

You can also show your support by displaying our logo on your website.

Please do support this initiative. Because unfortunately, monsters do not exist in fairy tales alone.

Just One of Those Days

2011-03-17T10:17:00.009+05:30

It was already turning out to be one of those days.

Again.

At 8.30 in the morning!

Damn!

Meltdowns should really come scheduled and never so early in the morning...or in a public space...or when one was headed out...or before bedtime...or ever, really!

The little boy stood his ground, engaging his mother in a staring match. He was a little bull. But she was his mother after all. He could have been a big, raging bull on a rampage, but that wouldn't change the fact that she was big mamma. Her bovinity trumped his bullishness any day!

The four-year-old mite had an opinion on everything and strong ones at that; be it clothes, food, toys and even TV shows, he had a strong set of likes and dislikes. Today, he wanted to take his other bag to school; the yellow one. It wasn't even his, literally speaking; it was a hand-me-down from his elder brother, that's why when he'd started school, Mamma wanted him to have a new one. But this morning, the little boy had decided that he'd been carrying Mon. Lightening McQueen for long enough, and it was now Master Mickey Mouse's turn. Plus, it was a bright, sunshiney, yellow -- his most favourite colour of all! Didn't his Mamma get that?

His Mamma lovingly pointed out that the chain was broken and needed to be fixed. If he took that, his water bottle, tiffin box and napkin would all fall out. Didn't her little boy get that?

When he continued to stand his ground, she tried a different track -- all his friends would laugh at him. Nope, that didn't seem to dint his innate sense of self-confidence either. "So what?" his eyes challenged her. "You're not taking it!", she glared back.

Sigh! Terrible Twos and Threes is what anybody ever talked or wrote about. They were absolutely no bloody match for the Furious Fours!!

By this time, the night ayah and the day ayah decided to join in Operation Logical Might. The morning didi showed him over and over again that the chain just wasn't working. He got that, but he didn't care. The night didi said she would take it home with her now, get it fixed and bring it back with her that very evening. But he wanted to take it to school NOW! He looked at these three women, perplexed and a little angry, didn't they understand anything??

Finally, Mamma's patience, having been stretched to it's very possible end, snapped and she gave him his marching orders. He was to put on his Lightening McQueen schoolbag, march down the steps, go give his Baba a kissie and leave for school; with a smile if possible, if not, well then just leave anyway.

He marched down the steps. Sobbing his little heart out. If there was one person in the whole world who would melt at his sobs and shivers, it was his darling dad; a man he had so tightly wound around his little finger that all he had to do was raise his wail to a C sharp and it would transform his father into a snarling, growling beast ready to mow down anyone who had dared do his precious cub wrong.

Papa Lion immediately roared for Mamma Lion and she came down, pinned Papa Lion with a glare and explained the situation, then she wearily sat down at the breakfast table and picked up a newspaper, hoping that the headlines would be less frustrating than the battle royale being played out on her domestic front.

The little boy waited for daddy darling to order someone to go and get the bag from upstairs, but this time, even daddy darling spoke the language of the three thick-headed women. That same old spiel about the chain not working. He wailed harder, but daddy didn't budge; instead, he grew more firm and fixed him with a I-know-better-than-you-so-stop-crying look.

By now, his grandmother, who was sitting and having breakfast and watching the entire drama unfold, finally went to pieces and gathered her cherished cherub to her breast and tried to calm him down. With soothing words and dulcet tones, she also tried to make him see reason. From the safe haven of his grandmother's arm, the little brat continued to give his mother the stink eye. Next, the chacha came out of his room, picked up the little boy and tried to distract him with hugs, cuddles and kisses.

The night ayah came downstairs to say 'bye' to the brat and she even showed him the plastic bag in which she was carrying the offending piece that had generated so much heat, tears and tantrums, with the promise that it was going to come back all fixed and in working condition. By now, the chachi had come out to take him to school, where she happened to teach. She gave him a big squeeze, dried his tears and proceeded to walk with him towards the door. They were followed by a chorus of "Bye! I love you's" and "Have a nice day's." Just one voice was missing.

The Mamma's.

She said it softly, under her breath. He turned at the door, looked straight into her eyes and...slowly lifted his little hand, curled up in a fist save the littlest finger of all -- katti, the accepted and acknowledged gesture for the silent treatment; to say as eloquently as possible, "I don't like you anymore" without actually saying it. In other words, the equivalent of giving someone the finger -- in a totally innocent and child-like manner, of course.

Mamma felt sick. Not because of all the high-voltage drama that had been packed into the space of just half-an-hour, but because she hadn't been sleeping well the last few nights. She felt a fever coming on. She drained her tea down to the dregs, excused herself and went to her bedroom. She called her yoga teacher and cancelled; told her husband that she was going to bed, put the phone on silent and tried to drift off to sleep.

Of course sleep did not come easy. She kept drifting between the hazy world of dreams and the harsh sunlight of reality and in both it seemed as if she was being haunted by a pair of big, brown, beautiful eyes, brim full with tears, sadness and accusations, "How come you couldn't understand me, Mamma?"

She remained in bed, flitting unhappily between both worlds, an unwanted visitor in either, when she heard the doorbell ring. She registered it as belonging to the corporeal world and realised that the day ayah, not wanting to disturb her, had gone to pick up the young one from school. She heard the door open. She braced herself to face those eyes again.

"Mamma??! Mamma!!?" she heard him call out. She heard the ayah tell him that his Mamma was in the room. She heard his footsteps approach her bedroom door. Through the haze of her fever, she saw the shape of a little boy standing there, bright, perky, happy.

And then she heard him say with every ounce of feeling that he possessed, "Mamma, I love you now again."

Book Review: Chanakya’s Chant, by Ashwin Sanghi

2011-03-07T14:14:00.000+05:30

When I read the first chapter of Ashwin Sanghi’s latest book, “Chanakya’s chant”, my jaw had dropped, my eyes were bigger than rasogollas, I was breathless and I was hooked! The words ‘fast-paced’ and ‘thriller’ seemed woefully inadequate, absolutely akin to calling Madhubala ‘cute’ or Van Gogh’s painting’s ‘nice.’ I thought to myself, how the hell was I going to write a review for a book that just bloody grabs hold of all your senses and plays puppet-master with you, using your guts entrails as puppet strings; sometimes words fall short.

The brilliance of this novel lies in the fact that there are two stories in this book, from vastly different epochs, with a common theme treading through the two narratives...political lust.

The first chapter takes us all the way back to 340 BC with an event that ultimately leads to Chandragupta’s coronation – the assassination of Paurus, emperor of Magadha. The subsequent chapters go further back in time, from the moment Chanakya, born Vishnugupta, India’s very own Machiavelli and father of the Arthashastra, vows revenge against the corrupt and debauched king Dhanananda for the brutal murder of his father, Chanak. The political cunning of Chanakya and his abetment in establishing a unified Bharat under the able leadership of his hand-picked protégé, Chandragupta, forms part of the novel. Running parallel, in interspersed chapters, is the story of Pandit Gangasagar Mishra and his machinations to make Chandni Gupta, a smart, lovely slum child from Uttar Pradesh, into the most powerful person of the country – the Prime Minister of India.

Sanghi demonstrates that the core of political thought and strategy hasn’t changed much over the years. So while Chanakya had a bevy of Vishkanyas at the ready, Gangasagar enlists the help of dancer-whores and B-grade film starlets. While Chanakya sends a tantric with a penchant for theatrics into the court of Mallayaraja, Gangasagar deploys a pavement astrologer to ‘prophesise’ future political events in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Blackmail, misrepresented facts and figures, gossip, torture and the bumping off of inconvenient human obstacles are all old hat in the art of statecraft and still remain popular means by which to run/rule a country. After all, human flaws and failings haven’t changed over the centuries...if anything, they have just gotten worse with time. And this is what Sanghi brings out brilliantly in “Chanakya’s Chant.”

But having said all that, I have to say, that after a while, the story, or rather the stories, become predictable. I guess the predictability stems greatly due to the fact that we are a nation bred on the greatest epic of all time, the Mahabharata, and the greatest entertainment industry in the world, Bollywood. The Mahabharata is undoubtedly a masterpiece and as anyone who has read it knows; it is full of political intrigue, treachery, trickery, lust, betrayal, revenge, blood and gore. So thanks to this and Bollywood’s obsession with political pot-boilers in the recent years, such as “Hu Tu Tu”, “Gangajal”, “Godmother”, the “Sarkar” and “Rakhtcharitra” series, and the blockbuster, “Rajneeti”, to name a few, after a point in time in the book, the twists turn out to be less ‘twisty’ and shocking, and you actually begin to not only expect them, but to predict them. And yet, despite this predilection for predictability, at no point does the book get boring. You still find yourself turning the pages in a reading frenzy, just like you would while on your 51^st Agatha Christie.

There were some gaps for me which caused much crinkling of the forehead. While Chanakya’s bloodthirstiness is properly delineated, Gangasagar’s lust for power remains a head-scratcher, as does Chandini’s. A glaring incongruity in the book is the many 21^st Century-isms mouthed by Chanakya’s contemporaries, inducing many an eye-roll and sigh of “Oh come on! Really!?!” Case in point? Well, phrases like, “The problem is that most things in life that are pleasurable are usually illegal, immoral or fattening”, mouthed by the repulsive, two-faced Rakshas, minister to Dhanananda. Or another ‘gem’ said by Chanakya himself, “No one’s a virgin, Nipunaka. Life screws them all.”

Two things I sorely missed in the book, were a list of the characters and a map of ancient Bharat. These two appendices would have greatly assisted the reader.

But there is a treat in store for the reader – a track of Chanakya’s chant, the Shakti mantra that appears throughout the story. Recited in Vedic tradition by Kushal Gopalka, the track has been composed in two parts; the first part with traditional Indian classical instruments and the second part, a more electronic take with fusion elements to give it a modern touch – very much in keeping with the structure of the novel, where modern mirrors the ancient. The track can be downloaded from www.chanakyaschant.com.

It is one of the many joys of this wonderful, double-tale of political savagery and intrigue in India. The final moral of the story? Some things just don’t change.

Kricket Krazy Kid!

2011-02-19T17:26:00.003+05:30

It feels kind of appropriate that this happened today. After all, today is India's first match of the tournament in the 2011 World Cup. They're playing Bangladesh.

The the EO, The Nephew and three of their friends from the neighbourhood have been going to cricket classes for over a year now. They stopped in the summer months and started again after the Puja break.

Now ever since they started again, the YO has been pleading with me to let him join his brothers. It's no secret that out of all the boys in the family as well as the EO's friends, my little runt of a YO is the one with the sporting talent. The EO is not a sports fan at all; he's all about music and acting and the stage. The Nephew is a brain, but he LOVES playing cricket and tries very hard. He can play for hours! The EO? Nope, he'd rather read books.

But it's the little guy with the the naughty smile who will stand at the pitch in a perfect stance with his bat at the ready like a junior Tendulkar. It's the skinny kid with big ears and sparkling eyes who will tackle the big boys and manoeuvre the ball away from them with the speed and finesse of a young Messi.

So finally, finally, after months of putting it off, I let the YO go to cricket class to watch his elder brothers in action. The coach invited him to join the game and he was stumped! "Where have you been?" he exclaimed.

Don't worry, Sir. He's here now.

One Year

2011-01-20T13:50:00.004+05:30

One year. Today.

One year, today, since you've been gone.

So much has happened in this past one year, Baba, do you know?

Both your grandsons made their pada stage debut during Durga Puja. The children put up Kobiguru's 'Birpusrush'. We incorporated the poem into a script, added some Rabindrosangeet and voila -- a 40 minute skit was staged with your eldest grandson in the titular role and he rocked! The younger brat was in a dance, if you please, "Megher Kole Rod Heshechhey" and he was adorable, especially the bit where he pretended to play the flute as 'raakhaal chheley' -- "jusht rike Krishnaa!" No, he still can't say 'l' so it's herro (hello), raabdu (ladoo a la Chhota Bheem) and I raaabh you! (I loooove you!)

The EO has started guitar lessons and I know how thrilled you would have been, music being your biggest passion.

You know I got a by-line for M&B magazine; unfortunately you couldn't read my first article. Haven't written for them in a while now; my heart's just not in it.

And of course, I got the amazing contract to compile and edit two CS books for the Indian Soul series. I've finished the first one. I just can't believe that there's finally going to be a book with my name on the cover and you won't be here to see it.

Oh, and I got selected for a bit part in a Hindi movie, but they wanted to shoot in Jamshedpur on the 1st of January, so unfortunately had to turn them down.

And I finally, FINALLY got round to those dance lessons. Three months and counting and I'm loving it.

Of course you know all this Baba, because I kinda have a feeling that you engineered a lot of this stuff from where you are right now, you know, close proximity to The Pantheon and so on.

I've learnt some stuff about me too, this past one year.

Have suddenly realised that most of my memories with people are either food-related or music-related. And so, I've been cooking a lot more, experimenting in the kitchen a lot and hating the fact that you aren't around to try everything. Maa's no fun ever since she gave up meat. Thank goodness for fish!

I've begun to feel and experience song lyrics much more keenly now. I can't tell you the number of musical concerts I've bawled my eyes out at. I guess I've become more acute to pain, 'dard' and 'bekhudipan'...help! I've also come to the conclusion that Kobiguru was and continues to be THE BEST!! Nobody, absolutely nobody can touch him.

I've learnt that where you're concerned, my source of tears is bottomless.

And the single, most heartbreaking thing of all, is that I've learnt that I can live without you after all.

Here's the thing.

2011-01-16T20:47:00.003+05:30

Here's the thing. Here's the thing.

And the thing is,

is that I am a volcano of rage right now.

I am a mass of rage,

of anger,

of pain

right now.

These were the last few days of my dad's life last year.

I am reliving those moments,

those words,

the looks,

the fears,

the utter

and complete

devastation

all over again.

The last cup of tea

I fed you with my hands.

Your desire to get out of there

and write about your hospital experience.

Do you remember daddy?

You had even thought of the title --

"From Doom to Room."

It turned out to be just the opposite.

How ironic.

How fucking,

FUCKING

ironic.

Except.

I can't laugh about it.

I have no sense of humour about this.

He wanted to get out of there

and write about it.

He thought he was getting out of there.

He believed he was getting out of there.

He wanted to write about it all.

About being stuck in a hospital,

in ICU,

about being shifted around many ICUs,

about having all those painful MRIs

and surviving it all --

except,

he didn't.

He never saw it coming.

And neither did we.

And I ended up doing his last rites.

How hard I tried to shake off

all the shittiness

of last year

with a nervous stray thought of hope

only to start off the first day of this year

with another death,

another farewell,

another funeral.

I walked around my grandmother's home

searching for the ghost of my little girl self

in the peeling paint of the walls,

in the faded black-and-white snaps,

the old hibiscus tree from where you got your flowers to adorn your Gods.

They're undressed now,

the Gods

without Their floral tributes.

The flowers hang loosely

and forlornly on the shrubs,

while in the kitchen,

there are memories

of your hustle and bustle

as a lonely cloud of forgotten aromas and fragrances

hovers about in the corner,

trying to keep alive

the love that you dished out to us,

didu.

That house

was where I felt safe,

loved,

pampered,

adored

and so happy.

The emptiness in that house

is so enormous

and never-ending

that there's no way to escape it

and even then

it can't swallow me whole

for I am bigger than that emptiness;

I am full of red-hot rage

and inky-blue pain.

I am a volcano of rage

right now.

I black hole of grief.

Of sorrow.

Of anguish.

Jan 2011...once again, a final farewell

2011-01-02T13:20:00.007+05:30

It is said that what happens on the first day of the new year pretty much lays out what's in store for the rest of the days ahead. If this be the case, then 2011 looks like another 2010.

Yesterday, January 1st 2011, at 8 a.m., I lost my sweet, gentle, darling dida (nani). Yes, I am broken once more, lost yet again. Beloved wife of an upright police officer, adored mother of three girls and six boys, the much pampered baby sister of six elder brothers and of course wonderful, special, loving grandmother to eight granddaughters and two grandsons. Why yes, great-grandmother to two great-grandsons.

She was purity personified and I don't say this just because she was my grandmother. I say this because she had a heart big enough to fit in the whole world with space for another. She had an innocence that remained intact till the very end. She saw no evil, heard no evil, spoke no evil, knew no evil; believing in the innate goodness of all God's creatures and creations. Her smile was guileless and her home an open house.

We knew she was dying. It was long over-due; her pain and suffering were unbearable. Bed-ridden for six long years, the last two years were terrible with the last two months being torture. This death is a happy release for she is now eternally free from the pain that she suffered wordlessly, with only a prayer on her lips.

Her powers of memory and recognition had begun to fade a few years ago and in the end, it was just the one son whom she recognised, my mama who lived in The House that will always be to me my Maamaa'r Badi. It was heart-breaking to be addressed as 'Didi' by her and many a-time I brokenly asked asked her, "Dida, can't you recognise me? It's me, your Laali (her special name for me), your first grandchild." She would screw up her face in concentration, trying to drag back memories of that once much-loved name and face, and drawing a blank, she would look up at me with an intense pain in her eyes, almost a guilt at not being able to recognise me...and that would kill me even more.

This is not the grandmother that I would like to remember. The grandmother that I remember delighted in a cup of tea, sitting out in the winter sun. The grandmother that I remember was a jolly, plump woman always wrapped in a red-bordered, white sari with oiled hair pulled back in first a plait and then a bun; hair which was still richly jet black even while her three daughters and long since started colouring their hair to hide the greys. The grandmother I remember was an endless supply of nimki, naarkoler naadu, tiler naadu and chirer mowaa. The grandmother I remember personified Kali Puja for us and she lived for it...it meant a huge, yearly family reunion; it meant working tirelessly yet joyfully, to appease the Great Goddess; it meant song, dance, laughter and adda. The grandmother that I remember meant a bosom full of warmth, a smile full of love and a treasure-box full of stories. The grandmother that I remember was full of blessings and good wishes for all who came her way.

However, I can't help but remark, that while her own world slowly faded away from the pages of her memory like delicate watercolours left out in the endless monsoon, she never once let go of the three names she held most precious to her heart and existence, her 'Takrur, Maa aar Swamiji'...known to the world as Sri Ramkrishna Paramahansa, Maa Saroda Devi and Swami Vivekanand. Every free moment would be dedicated to Them in prayer and song; she would go about her daily household duties with Their names on her lips; and finally, as she lay in bed, bereft of the power of memory, it was Their names that she chanted over and over and over again.

And that is why, I will pray that the loss of Jan 1st 2011 does not foreshadow the events and emotions of the year to be. Jan 1st for all the disciples, believers and followers of Sri Ramkrishna's Vedanta Mission is an extremely holy day known as Kalpataaru. So it is only fitting that my dida's soul took flight on a day when Takur granted His disciples bliss and benediction. My grandmother's soul received the same.

And not just that, but her shraddho, the ceremony conducted by the sons of the deceased, falls on the 11th of January...the day before the birth anniversary of one of India's most beloved sons and Sri Ramkrishna's most favourite disciple, Swami Vivekananda.

Yet again, I am so intensely awed by the soul's journey. My father passed away on Saraswati Puja, his soul received water from my hands on the birth anniversary of his idol, Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose and water from my brother's hands on Maghi Purnimaa. My dida passed away on Kalpataru and her soul will receive water from all my mamu's close on the heels of Swamiji's birth anniversary.

Two blessed, gentle and pure souls. Can it be any more clearer?

And I know that I am indeed fortunate to be able to call these two spotless souls my family, for have I not been touched by them? Blessed by them?

Goodbye my darling dida. Did you give baba my message? Are you part of the heavenly choir that breathes sweet, cool winds onto Earth's brow? Did you know that you were loved till the very end and beyond?

Bombai Se Aaye Hum're Doston...

2010-12-21T09:16:00.003+05:30

Last weekend, two bloggers whom I admire and have long wanted to meet, came for a quickie visit to our fair/foul city -- Lady K and Ro. With offspring.

To say that I was excited would be an understatement! I only had the privilege of spending a few hours with them as they were on a rather tight schedule. I invited them and a few of our city bloggers with assorted spouse and spawn, namely the Sue, Dipali and Eve's Lungs over to my for dinner. I agonised over what to make and serve. Of course I had decided that everything would be authentic Bengali, but what, what, what? Then there was also the matter of giving my lovely guests a bit of Calcutta to take back home with them, but what, what, what??

The menu was finally sorted out, I decided to go with traditional fare made for special occasions:

Steamed rice
Salad with pomegranate
Moong daal with peas and coconut shavings
Dhokaar daalna (sort of like a badhi curry) --Veg, courtesy MaaJanoni
Potoler dolmaa (stuffed parwal) -- Veg, courtesy the MIL
Aalur dom -- Veg
Bhetki paturi (fish fillets in thick mustard sauce, wrapped in banana leaves & steamed) -- Non-veg, moi
Golda chingri malai curry (tiger prawns in coconut gravy) -- Non-veg, moi
Koshaa mangsho (bhuna gosht) -- Non-veg, moi
Mishti-doi cheesecake for dessert, moi

As for the gifts, I decided to play it safe and consulted good ol' Sunny about what Krish and Ayaan were into, since I wanted to give them things that they enjoyed. Lady K and I discussed it over SMSes too. She also sweetly asked me what I would like from Bombay. In all seriousness I asked her to bring Orange Ice Candy, babies et al. Alas, twas not to be; too big for suitcase said she. So I guess I shall have to make that trip to Bombay after all, as tuning into the Radio just ain't enough!

Unfortunately, since tis the season to be getting married, Evie couldn't attend, but I got to meet the wonderful Radha instead. The Sue came with the V and Bhablet, the SRE accompanied our lovely Dipali, K brought Jr K and Ro was with Ayaan and Tarana.

While the others have written much more interesting and well-worded posts about said weekend, I'm going to tell you what I learnt that Saturday evening.

To never take Lady K's 'fat posts' seriously again. I swear!! This woman is the epitome of sizzling, hot momma!! She's all curves and elegance and Dimple Kapadia hair! In short, she's gorgeous!!
That Ro has a height, nose, smile and daughter to kill for. Again...I swear! What a lovely, lovely lady!
That Super Brat Krish is actually a myth and in reality he is Boy-Gentleman Krish.
That Ayaan is one of the sweetest, most intelligent little boys I've had the pleasure and wonder of meeting in a long time.
That the Bhablet's eyes will be my undoing one of these days!
That the blogging gig?...it so rocks!! What a wonderful community!

I wish they could have been here longer, longer, longer...

*signs off and throws tantrum*

Last year,

2010-12-09T22:03:00.000+05:30

this day, was an ordinary enough day. The Bro was a-visiting and due back in the States a week later. The boys and I were staying with my parents and the MIM was over; we were going out for a movie. He wanted my parents and brother to join us. MaaJanoni decided to stay back with her sleeping grandchildren while the Bro, the MIM and I headed out for what would be the last ever movie we would ever see with DaddyDearest. Incidentally, the movie we went to see, was 'Paa'.
Yes. Last year, on this day, my beloved baba was still alive.

I love winter. I love winter in general, I love winter in New York, I especially love winter in Kolkata. That also means that I am a big fan of December.
This year, not so much.
This year, December brings back memories of DaddyDearest and his jaundice, DaddyDearest and his never-ending tests and scans, DaddyDearest and his first stint at the hospital, DaddyDearest and the tumor.
This year, December brings back memories of the January that followed last year's December.

There is a huge part of me that can't wait for this year to get over. That one month, and especially that one day in that one month, ruined 2010 for me forever. Yes, there have been many blessings and things to be grateful for as well. But first and foremost, 2010 will always be to me, the year I lost my father. My DaddyDearest. My beloved baba.

But here's the strange part. In a crazy, twisted and weird way, I don't want this December to end.
It's because I can still feel my dad's presence in my life, as if he's hovering over me, watching me, protecting me, loving me.
It's because I can say, "Last year, my dad was still alive."

Six weeks later, I won't be able to say that anymore. And my father will seem so far away. Really, really far away.

And I'm just not ready for that.

Their New Love

2010-12-06T19:13:00.004+05:30

I sometimes wonder if I'm losing my touch, or my will.

I mean, I was the mom who knew all about Transformers -- the valiant Autobot side as well as the evil Decepticon side. I knew their histories, their back-stories, their names, and most important of all, I knew how to put them infernal things together! The MIM would give up after 65 seconds of concentrated effort and I soon became a pro at it. Even the Nephew would bring his pieces to me. And it wasn't just the Transformers; I knew all about Ben 10 and his alien avatars, different Hot Wheel attractions, the Chota Bheem gang, the Panga gang, etc.

But now with this new Beyblade obsession that has the boys of this household firmly in its grip, I couldn't be arsed. My eyes just seem to glaze over when the B-word is mentioned and I've even vetoed the boys from watching the corresponding cartoon on TV.

But, as I said above, the B-fever is raging in full blaze and hourly prayers are being made to Santa for said toys to be wrapped in cheerful paper and kept under the tree. The boys are intent on educating me yet.

Now while I know that Santa's definitely going to answer their prayers, I'm not so sure whether my brain has any space left for assimilating info about their newest and latest turn-on. After all, the Bakugan craze died a natural death along with all my crisp rupee-notes at the mall, spent on accumulating those insipid, unimpressive-looking-yet-freakishly-expensive, miserable excuses for toys.

Aah well. I make up for all this mindlessness at story time. Thankfully they both love listening to the good stuff! Long live the Panchatantra, the Hitopadesha, the Jataka tales, Aesop's fables, Enid Blyton and Mother Goose!!

Sex Ed 101

2010-11-29T09:52:00.003+05:30

EO: Mamma, if a boy golden retriever marries a girl dalamayshun, then can they have babies?

M4 (anticipating question about mixed-breeds and hybrids) : Yes babu.

EO: Can the boy dog also have babies?

M4 (realising it was straying closer to sex ed territory): Errr, no...

EO: Then in Lady and the Tramp, how come Lady has babies who look like Tramp?

M4 (wondering how to explain genetics to a 7-yr-old): That's because Tramp is their father naa? Don't babies look like their parents?

Silence from the other side of the wall (he was in his room reading and contemplating while I was in the sitting room). No further questions. Satisfied with my answers, my son continues reading, while I heave a sigh of relief that the questions-that-could-have-been-but-weren't, did not crop up.

Safe...for now. But how much longer? *shudders at the mere possibility*

A Walk Down Memory Lane

2010-11-23T15:30:00.004+05:30

Ever since I was a tween, I wanted to visit Shanti Niketan with my mother and her younger sister, Choto Mashi, my favourite aunt. The reason I love Tagore, Rabindrasangeet and Shanti Niketan so much is these two lovely women in my life. Why, I fell in love with Shanti Niketan before I ever even visited the place! And all thanks to their stories, their memories, their songs and reminiscences.

MaaJanoni was was there for just two years; she did her MA in Bangla Literature there. A phenomenal actress, MaaJanoni was well known for her histrionics and was very popular. She always was and still is one of the most gregarious people I've ever known. The Bro takes after her; I'm a wallflower just like DaddyDearest (was).

My gentle, sweet, introvert of a Chota Mashi studied there for five years; BA (Hons. Bangla) and like MaaJanoni, MA in Bangla literature. My Mashi was known for her vocal talents. Now I may be biased, but I think she is one of the best Rabindrasangeet singers I know!

During Basanto Utsab (i.e. Holi in other parts of India), all the students of the university used to get together and sing and dance. The campus would be aflame in gorgeous shades of yellow and all the girls would don floral ornaments. The tradition was started by Gurudev (Tagore) himself. A photographer's and tourists delight, the popularity for this festival has grown in leaps and bounds. One year, MaaJanoni and her friend were laughing and talking when a photographer came up to them, complimented my very lovely mother on her unusual flower-seed jewelry and requested their permission to take a snap -- they both obliged. By June that year, my mother was married and soon after, she was living in the US with her husband. In a letter from one of her cousins, the following year, the cousin had stated that he wasn't missing her at all since he saw her everyday. How? There she was, in the March section of the 1975 calendar! So that's explains where the photographer was from!

That picture still hangs in my parents' home today. Growing up, listening to these and other such stories, how could I not want to visit this place which held such an important place in my mom 's and aunt's hearts?

So it was always a dream for me to visit Shanti Niketan with them and to see 'their' Shanti Niketan. I wanted to see it all through their eyes.

And finally, two weeks ago, this little dream of mine came true!

I cannot even begin to describe the immense joy and pride I felt as I let MaaJanoni and Choto Mashi take us on a walk down their memory lane. I saw the stage where Mashi received her degree and my mom's degree on her behalf, during convocation. I walked about in their lovely outdoor classrooms. My sons walked upon the open-air stage where their grandmother had once performed.

I had goosebumps as MaaJanoni showed us the famous Shaalbithi, the tree-lined avenue, where Kobiguru would walk, always lost in his magnificent thoughts, hands clasped behind his back. To think that I was walking on the same path...*shivers delightedly*

We clicked so many snaps, they relieved so many memories, my sons ran about reveling in the greenery and fresh air, my cousin and I laughed to see our moms so happy...

It was one of the nicest days we had in a long, long time. Truly a day to remember.

This Beautiful Love

2010-11-12T00:37:00.003+05:30

Darling EO and YO,

Today I really lost it with the both of you. And over school-work.

EO, your grades were appalling and even though I have said to myself over and over again that I would never let grades, marks and percentages be benchmarks in how I judged you, I was crazy let-down by the test marks you came home with. What really got me furious was that you knew EVERYTHING...you made careless spelling mistakes and couldn't finish.

YO, you just, you just...gosh, I don't even know where to begin!

After a lot of screaming and crying (oh yes, I cried too, big bucketfuls of tears I wept!) I went out of your room to calm down and to get us some chocolate --yes, yes, me too.

As I left the room, I banged the door shut but something made me stop and look through the crack. EO, you were sitting at the table doing your homework, YO, you were sitting on the carpet clutching your classwork in your hands. What I saw next, made my knees give way...

EO, you turned around on your swivel chair, YO you looked up at your big brother; next, you held out your hands to each other, clasped them tightly for a few seconds in silent solidarity...and then quickly looked away for fear that the harridan would storm into your lives yet again and wreck havoc with her insane fury.

Your wordless comfort to each other shattered my heart into a million little pieces. Yes, it shamed me into feeling like something worthy of being flushed down the toilet, but it also comforted me in a strange way.

That one little gesture just reaffirmed, all over again, that the YO was the best possible thing that I could do for you, EO. I gave you to each other and even though you are as different as Jupiter is from Neptune, you are both bonded to each other forever. By blood, of course, but as you grow older, also by shared experiences and moments. I want you both to love each other because you just do and not because you have to, and often, because you are so different from each other, I worry about your own love growing.

But there are moments like these to reassure me that maybe I worry needlessly.

Like last week at your friend's birthday party in McDonald's, EO. You boys were playing a rather fast and furious game of musical chairs, with the YO being somewhere towards the bottom of the age chain. The first time the music stopped, EO, you managed to sit down and with one hand you 'saved' a seat for your cousin and with your other, you grabbed the YO, pulled him to you and made him sit along with you on your chair. Ok, technically I knew that wasn't allowed, but I just had to let it pass, because I though it was the sweetest thing. The music began and the next round started...this time, you managed to save the YO but not your cousin. By round four, just as you managed to pull the YO onto your lap, a much bigger, taller and very obviously stronger classmate of yours called you out on what you were doing. You tried to shout him down, but when he tried to drag your brother off the chair, you lost it! You put an arm around the YO's shoulders and wagged your finger vigourously under your friend's nose, screaming, "Don't you dare touch him! Don't you dare touch my younger brother!" You, YO, had your arms around your brother's waist and had snuggled your head into his chest all the while. EO, you were amazing.

My darling boy, you could have easily been beaten into EO-jam by this much bigger boy, but that thought didn't enter your mind at all as you donned your mantle of a big brother looking out for his younger sibling.

Of course, in the interest of fairness, I did have to pull you, YO, out of the game and you were both upset with me about it.

Sigh...

I guess if nothing else, you'll both bond over the how-Mamma-was-so-horrible-to-us-and-that's-why-we're-so-screwed-up stories when you're in your teens.

Just remember, even when you're both hating me, I gave you each other.

And also, that I love you both more than you can even begin to imagine.

Forever and always yours,

Mamma

Teacher, teacher

2010-11-01T19:26:00.003+05:30

The EO is big on corrections and pointing out mistakes...of course he isn't very good when it comes to doing his classwork corrections back at home unless repeated warnings, pleadings and finally dire threats are issued! Sigh! Boys!

Anyway, you all know what a bookworm the boy is turning out to be. No? Well here's how much --

98% of the time, he would rather read a book of his choice than go play outside. We have had quite a few battle royales during many an evening where he has tearfully begged me to allow him to stay cosied up with a book upstairs rather than run around with his brother and cousin. Believe me, nobody understands his passion for the written word more than me, but sometimes I have to channel my inner bitch-mom and snatch said book out of his hands and force him to go downstairs and get some fresh air. It's for his own good! I swear! Exercise...free-play...fresh air...strong legs -- yes, yes, my son will thank me later on. He will, right? Right?!?
Bed-time is always, ALWAYS preceded by Story Time. If I am going out, I have to read to them first; if I am out, then dad has to do it. Story Time is truly our time. We bond, we laugh, we snuggle and cuddle and giggle and wriggle! I make funny voices and faces and get all dramatic and try to make the story come alive for them. If nothing else, I hope my boys will always remember me fondly for our Story Time together. I hope the memories of our special time will be strong enough for them to forgive me for whatever it is that I will do to earn their ire in the Adolescent Years (shudder!!)
Anyways, back to stories, book, reading and the EO. One story is never enough at bed-time. Two, three, four...nope, simply not enough. He would ideally like me to read to him till the birds are ready to take on the early worm. Well, on school nights, I usually read out two stories to them...one of each boy's choosing. Then, after the good-nights have been said, the cheeks been kissed, the noses been rubbed, the ears nipped at and the tummies tickled, it's lights out and doors closed. However, after I leave the room, I can hear voices coming from the room and I catch a sliver of light from under the door. Yup, it's the EO who's convinced the night ayah that he needs to go potty...all so that he can spend some more precious minutes with a book.

So, back to the EO and his penchant for correcting mistakes, which can be pretty embarrassing if he decides to correct a grown-up in front of other grown-ups!!

We were off to lunch at Cafe The with dipali of 'of this and that', The Sue of 'Sunny Days' and Eve of 'Eve's Lungs'. I carried his latest fave along, "The Puffin Book of Classic Indian Myths." Now he's reading a story in the car and he suddenly asks me, "Mamma, what is the English for Maa Durga's trishul?"

"Trident", I replied.

Then he shakes his head and gets all serious. "Mamma, there's a mistake in this book. I think so the people who wrote this did not know the correct word for trishul and so, in the Ganesha story, they wrote that Shiva took out his sword and cut off Ganesha's head. That is not right, naa Mamma?"

Awww! Not only is he a book-worm, but he knows his mythology as well! He soooooo is MY son! Take that MIM!

********************************************************************

And today, after school, when we were coming back home, he said that his teacher had written something incorrectly on the board. They had finished a chapter and were given a fill-in-the-blanks exercise and she had written:

'She live in a -blank-'

So the EO tells me, "Actually Mamma, that's incorrect, naa? It should have been, 'She LIVES in a -blank-', right naa, Mamma?"

Sigh! And this from the boy who sometimes say 'mistaked' and 'tooked'!

Poetry and my boys...

2010-10-31T21:50:00.005+05:30

The boys were looking at the night sky and suddenly the YO turns to me and says, "Mamma, d'jyu know, the moon ijj majik."
I'm like, "Huh?!?"
And the MIM helpfully explains, "He saw a cloud passing over the moon."
Excitedly I turn to my little boy and say, "Lovely, my baby! Yes, the moon disappeared behind the clouds...majic!!"
Sombrely and sincerely my EO pipes up, "The moon is playing hide-and-seek with the clouds."
While coming back in the evening a few days ago, I showed my boys the setting sun. It was gorgeous, as if burning with colour. The EO put it best..."like a golden ball of flames."

Yup, my poetry loving soul is loving it!

Today...

2010-10-25T22:15:00.003+05:30

...was a 'kaalaa teekaa' day.
I want to savour it...

Bubblegum.
K-Sen. Praise. Personal invite. Birpurush.
Munni mashi. Nov 2nd...first. Bi-weekly.

thoo-thoo-thoo

Happy 4th Birthday YO!!

2010-10-17T16:45:00.004+05:30

My darling little YO,

You're four years old today! Do you know what that means, my sweet? It means your toddler days are now behind you. It means officially you are a big boy! It means that I am now a mamma of two big boys -- in other words, I am now an old lady and can proceed towards vanaprastham!

Ok, ok, my wrinkled skin, wheezing lungs and creaking joints aside, let's look at you my little dynamo.

Dynamo. That word describes you perfectly. You're a power-packed, high-energy, bundle of zip, zap and zoom. You are always up for a game or two...especially if those games involve running, jumping and yelling out loud.

And, fearless -- that's another word for you. Nothing seems to faze you; you run at a crazy speed, you do somersaults, you climb up and stand on the window sill and pretend you're Superman, and you love jumping from the steps which gives your dad quite a scare -- so you do it when he's not around! You've gotten quite good at it too, with all the practice that you've been sneaking in! You go about it pretty wisely too -- you started off by skipping the last step, which quickly became the last two, then three and now four. Last seen, you were trying for five. I like the way you go about it; smartly and not like a fool rushing in. You set your sights on the step, practice jumping from it over and over and over again, until you are absolutely confident and then once you are sure that you have thoroughly mastered it, you then set your heights higher. Those are two very important lessons you've taught yourself -- take things one at a time and practice makes perfect and I really hope you're like this about everything you choose to do in your life.

You know you're seriously skinny, right! In fact I call you my little shrimp, my chingri maach. Your father is very, very worried...but then what else is new, right? Ok, I am too, a bit, so will you please eat already?!?

You are so loving it actually takes my breath away. When you were younger, you were actually stingy with your hugs and kisses...the few you chose to dispense were usually meant for your father. And now, you are so, soooooo generous with your 'huggeejj and kisheejj' that you dole them out to one and all...even grannies, aunties and didis you've known for just a few hours. And your kisheejj! Oh, but they're the softest, gentlest, sweetest things on this Earth and they just make me greatly greedy for more! I can never have enough of them and your "I laab jyu's!" And luckily you're ever ready with a supply whenever I demand it. If I step out of the house even for five minutes, you throw your arms wide open and come running to me yelling, "Mammmaaaa...huggeeeeejjjjjj and kisheeeeeejjjjj bye-bye!!" It's the same when your brother leaves for school and your dad leaves for office.

I love the way you play. You're open to all kinds of games. When you're with your cousin sister, the two of you are busy playing House, Doctor, School and all sorts of other role-playing games. But of course once the big boys are home you're ready to be a super hero or Chota Bheem and of course fight with the EO over who gets to be Krishna. Often your games to save the world end up destroying the living room but your laughter makes my universe spin!

Oh, and this has to be recorded for posterity...when you grow up, you want to be Noddy!! How adorable are you?

Sigh...my little pixie prince, my adorable imp, do you have any idea how much you've changed my life? You've filled it with energy, life-affirming laughter and precious, priceless laughter.

I am so, so, so blessed to be your Mamma.

Love you forever and ever and ever!

Your Mamma

By The Water Cooler

2010-10-11T11:11:00.004+05:30

Presenting...(drum-roll please...)

Parul Sharma's new book, "By The Water Cooler"!!

Ok, you all know the delightful blogger of the delightful blog formerly known as "Bringing Up Adi", but which has now been rechristened as the delightful "Radio Parul". I love her and her blog because she's witty, pretty, funny, loves star-gazing and writing about it, has an Adi, a Ragini, writes the most beautiful letters on the planet and because she's utterly delightful!

We all read and loved her first book, "Bringing up Vasu -- That First Year" and have been waiting ever since for book two. Well thankfully, the wait is about to end because it's coming, it's coming, her second offering will arrive shortly in just a few days! (*Tries to launch herself in a click-heels dance*)

Set out the wandering minstrels and harken unto all who shall hear, that the lovely Ms. Sharma has also organised a contest! And we all love those, don't we? I certainly do and because I do, I am putting in my entry right here, right now!

Contest Entry:

I started my career in the FMCG sector. I was the Branch Sales and Training Executive for the international cosmetics brand 'AVON -- The Company for Women', in Bangalore.

During my 18 month stint in the company, I saw two other branches being set up in South India, one in Madras and the other in Hyderabad. I got very pally with the two girls in my position in those cities.

One morning, we get a call from the Hyderabadi BSTE. She's in tears. She was working late at the office, when the phone rang. She picked up the phone and cheerily answered, "Hello, this is AVON, how may I help you?"

The male voice at the other end said, "Aaah yes. This is AVON right? The Company for Women?"

"That's right," our effervescent BSTE replied. "What can I do for you, sir?"

The voice continued, "I just wanted to know how much you charge for your women..."

Our dear BSTE banged the phone down, locked up the office in a jiffy and high-tailed it home! By the time she finished narrating her tale, we were sharing in her tears too...tears of laughter!

So end's my little true story. Got funnier stuff to regale the blog-world with. Well then, you know where to go. Click here for contest details. Put it up on your blogs...PLEASE. And tell everyone you know about it. And most of all, get ready to buy the book!!!

It promises to be more than just delightful. It promises to be hilarious!! And we can all do with more laughter in our lives, right? Right!!

Happy 7th Bithday, my precious EO

2010-09-15T21:17:00.004+05:30

Dearest EO,

Seven years, baby. You turned seven-years-old yesterday. Where did the time fly, my darling, beautiful boy? I still remember our first day at home as a mommy-and-sonny-boy couple, when I sit with you in the chair, cradling you in my arms and crying big, fat tears as I stared in wonder at your sleeping face. Your father walked into the room just then and alarmed at seeing the tears (fearing post-natal depression, I suspect), worriedly asked me, "What's wrong?" I remember looking up at him and smiling. I said, "Nothing. I'm just so happy."

And that's the way it's been, ever since. I've been crazy happy about the thought, fact and reality of you being my son.

Seven years old. You are truly a big boy now. I can't say it enough, but you really are my soul's song and my heart's delight. And oh the myriad ways in which you delight me, my darling boy!

You've inherited my love for books. You can spend hours reading and it fills me with such peace and pleasure to see your nose buried between the pages of something that's got you hooked hard. And I'm not just talking comic books and Noddy stories. No, you're in it for real! I had invested in a set of Children's Encyclopaedia called "I Wonder Why" when you were just a year old. Yes, one thing that I was adamant about was the fact that my kids would have a well-stocked library, so I started building it up, bit by bit, even before you were born!! Anyway, back to "I Wonder Why" -- you are fascinated by them! You actually sit and read them, paying great attention to the words, pictures and captions. One of your favourite books is this huge tome on animals that your mamu and baba bought for you this year from the book fair. You can while away an entire afternoon just with that one book. You love going to book stores; you even start to read something that's caught your eye standing right where you are! You love reading so much that if you're entwined in the fabric of a story so completely, you HATE going downstairs to play in the evenings...and even though I sympathise (being like that myself when I was your age) I insist you go out and get your evening quota of fresh air and running around. A couple of months ago, you sat down with the children's section of The Telegraph and finished it in one go. You get excited whenever I get you the latest edition of The Magic Pot. And what brought a lump to my through was when you sat down with an edition of Mother&Baby magazine and read my column from start to finish and after you were done, you looked up at me and smiled. Sigh!! And that's why, even though many people would probably be horrified and aghast, I knew your father and I were doing the right thing in gifting you a treasury of Disney Tales (from your brother) and a big, huge, encyclopaedic atlas (from us), this year for your birthday. And yup! True to form, you LOVE them!! (Of course, your father wants to give you something 'fun' as well, but I'm good, 'cause you're so happy with what you've got.)
Music is your other great love and it's not surprising considering the genes you've inherited...from both sides! You have a good ear, a wide range of likes and loves, a sweet voice and are quick to pick up the words to a song that grabs your senses. It thrills me no end to hear you sing and then to have your kaka and baba react with surprise, "He knows the words to this song?" Recent cases in point; we were driving back from Shanti Niketan and you were sitting on your kaka's lap and when "Shot Through the Heart" started playing he exclaimed in surprise and delight, "He knows the words to a Jon Bon Jovi?" You continued to astound and delight him by singing the words of the chorus to popular numbers from Three Idiots, Queen, Micheal Jackson and Abba. And then, last Sunday, at the dining table, while waiting for lunch to be served, you suddenly started singing the 2010 FIFA anthem by K'Naan...you're father couldn't be more surprised and delighted; I couldn't help my heart swelling. Even before you turned five, your Junior Music Class teacher from CSM told me to enrol you for instrument classes. I'm sorry it took me this long, but better late than never. Your loving Dida has given you a guitar for your birthday and classes start tomorrow. It's the start of a whole new chapter in your life, darling!
You love acting and are very comfortable on stage, just like me. Durga Pujo 2010 promises to be interesting. I'm holding my breath and walking on eggshells...
You have a fascinating imagination and are creative with language. You say things that take us completely by surprise and have your father and me looking at you in wonder! Your sense of humour also borders on the sarcastic...kinda a la Bing! (When you grow up, you will know what that means, because you're my son and there's no way you can't not know!)
I love watching you get big-brotherly with the YO; how sweetly you looked after him and comforted him at that big b'day party in Sat C, when I had stepped out to take your cousin to the loo and he started crying because he couldn't find me; how instinctively you try to shield him from my anger when he's done something naughty and scolding-worthy. Yes, you are a good big brother and may this bond and love only grow stronger with every passing day.
I absolutely LOVE the fact that you love my cooking. You love it to such an extent that you actually do a happy dance yelling "Yaaayyy!!" when you see me sweating over a stove in the kitchen!
Sometimes, when I go to pick you up from school and you see me from a distance, you come running towards me at full speed to envelop me in a giant hug. You don't care who's watching, you just do what you have to do. I revel in that and I enjoy every moment and nano-second of it, because who knows when the taunts of "mama's boy" may start and then those public displays of love, emotion and affection, just may come to a grinding halt. Hug away, darling, hug away. I'm you're giant, squishy pillow to hug and hold.

And while you can still throw a tantrum to rival the best of a two-year-old's, I've seen you learn to toughen up a bit and learn to defend yourself...and for that I'm glad. Yes, you're still given to tears (sigh!), but you're trying to bring that under control too. And while I encourage your sensitivity and your sweetness, I need you to be able to give it back to those who do you wrong. The world is full of mean kids and bullies -- you've seen that for yourself -- you cannot let them see you crying. It's sad. And heartbreaking for me too, to think of you developing a think skin, but it's for your own good, so that those mean words, cruel jibes and ugly insults can bounce off your back and not make a dent. All I ask is that you leave a flap open for our words and energies of everlasting love, support, encouragement and comfort to find their way into your heart.

Maybe I'm worrying unnecessarily, because your guileless laughter and endearing innocence still fills our world everyday. They have the power to turn me into liquid pools of mommy love. You can't sleep unless I've read to you; you love it when I sing to/for you; you throw yourself into me, often knocking me off my feet to give me bone-crushingly tight hugs; you love to remind me a couple of times a day that you love me most; you ask me again and again who I love most; you sometimes ask me when your dadu will come back; you still ask to sleep in our bed; you love and fight with your brother and cousin, over the chance to 'be' the hero of whatever latest movie or cartoon you've seen; and, one of the most telling, compelling and beautiful proofs of all, is that after the party yesterday, when I was putting you to bed and you were wondering which new goody you could sleep with, I suggested that you sleep with the present the night didi (ayah) gave you and you immediately agreed.

So, my beautiful, precious son, last night you slept with a stuffed Ganesha toy, made in the image of the God/Hero of the "My Friend Ganesha" movies. You made a hard-working woman who loves you, very happy and made your mother's bones, yet again, turn to oatmeal and her heart to slush.

I love you, my big baby. I love, love, love you...biggest, widest and heaviest.

Happy Birthday!

Forever your Mamma

It's Time for the Happy Happies to Begin

2010-09-08T23:29:00.002+05:30

On 4th September, my first baby crossed a milestone. He left his twenties behind and entered the big 3-0.
No. I'm not talking about the EO.
I'm talking about my 'Baby' Bro.

Now while the bad rhyming was completely unintentional -- but once I realised that it was happening, I just went with it -- the sentiment is 100% big sisterly and true.

My baby brother; my source of wide-eyed wonder and delight; my first, biggest fan; my comfort zone...is thirty years old. The mere thought of it just boggles the mind.

Once again, I lament the geographical distance; that he is so far away from me/us. For twelve years now, he's been celebrating his birthday away from family, which means he's missed, or rather we've missed, quite a few milestone birthdays of his...18th, 20th and now, 30th. There's something rather heart-breakingly sad about watching an adored and once-upon-a-time-totally-doted-upon younger sibling, grow up and become a man, far away from you.

And what a terrible 30th year this is...minus one of our parents.

We all know that this time is an eventuality in our lives, but there's such a heaven-and-hell difference in the abstract concept and the actual reality of it.

But knowing the kind of person that Daddy Dearest was, I'm sure he spent the 4th popping open a bottle of champagne, pouring out a few pegs for his new Friends, and smiling down gently upon his one and only son.

Happy birthday, baby Bro. A sucky year for all of us, my pet. Next year, may you get the happiness that you so richly deserve.

Fights...Funny Fights

2010-08-29T15:07:00.002+05:30

Sunday morning. When I tend to relax the otherwise strict TV rules I have for my kids. My boys, thanks to my mythology loving genes which have passed on to them, love watching Amar Chitra Katha, Tales of Krishna and Balaram, and Chota Bheem (ok, so the last one bears no reference to the hero of Pandava fame). Oh alright, they love watching TV and going out for movie dates in general, but they DO love their mythology...especially the EO.

The Nephew joins them. Suddenly I hear him and my EO arguing. And it's one helluva verbal duel. I'm working on my comp in the bedroom and because there is no physical violence involved with the usual karate, judo and guerrilla warfare tactics, I refrain from butting in, wanting them to sort it out themselves. Statements such as, "But you're my big brother!", "Just let me finish my sentence!" and "I don't like you anymore!" have been exchanged. The argument reaches its crescendo and I hear the door banging shut -- the Nephew, fed up, decides to walk away. But, the EO isn't done saying his piece so he runs after him. I can tell that a certain level of hysteria has been reached and I shout out for him to come to me. I was right. There are tears of rage pouring out of his eyes, his cheeks are flushed and he's shaking. I ask him to calm down and tell me what happened. In a hysterical, high-pitched voice, the EO, still shaking, starts off with, "WXYZ is so dumb! He's as dumb as a fish! When he grows up he's going to become foolish!" I tell him to calm down and tell me what happened...a simple argument where the EO is trying to guess the ending to the story and the Nephew doesn't want to hear of it. He's still in a rage after this narration, so I tell him to listen to some music. He shakes his head and says he wants to finish his movie instead.

So I let him, thinking that it'll help him cool off. But no. My EO still has some rage to expend and who better that his little brother to take it out on? So I hear him admonishing my little shrimp to throw WXYZ dada into the dustbin! Not content with that ruling, he then forbids him from going downstairs to even see and play with WXYZ dada.

And my shrimp decides to do exactly that! He scampers out of the room and I hear the EO yelling after him in frustration.

Sigh! Don't you just love peaceful Sunday mornings?

A Letter to my Blog

2010-08-13T23:33:00.002+05:30

Dear Blog,

1) You probably think I'm treating you like Lady Tremaine treated Cinderella. Yes, I googled her name, because I still have a responsibility to my readers...

...those who are left, anyhow :-(

2) You probably think I am taking out my DaddyDearest's death, on you.

3) You probably think I don't have anything to say or record anymore.

4) You probably think I don't love you anymore.

Well, to all that, let me assure you that nothing(s) could be further from the truth.

No, you're not some thingummy that I got forcibly stuck with. I created you because I wanted to. I'm sorry about the neglect. With Baba gone, I seem to have lost a huge sense of drive and motivation. I am guilty of being lazy at the best of times; couple that sin with the meh-blah feeling of pointlessness, then my world will suffer. I'm sorry it had to be you.

I seem to have driven all my faithful readers away...which hurts, and it's all my fault. I hope one day I can rise again from my ashes. I will resurrect you then and hopefully all our old friends will be back, and some new ones too!

I just wish I knew when that day was.

All I can say to you, dear Blog, is, keep singing "I Will Survive"; just that one line, over and over to yourself again and again. Let that one line be our anthem.

Love always,
M4

Sweet Sunday Somethings

2010-08-01T12:09:00.006+05:30

Of course the Universe will take a big bite out of my giant a**. Of course it will. With pointy, razor-sharp fangs, no less.

Just when I write my last post, something like this happens...

It's a lovely, monsoon morning. The type where the world looks like a faded water-colour and the poet in your soul feels restless. It's a Sunday morning too, so that means the house is over-flowing with the male presence. The MIM decides it's time to rock 'n' roll with the boys and puts on loud music in the bedroom. He mixes it up with the boys' favourites and his. So while our sons go beserk to "Aal Iz Well", they also learn to apprciate the fine nuances of a Guns 'n' Roses composition. The number in question? Well, as the MIM explains to his heirs, "This song is called 'Sweet Child of Mine'...'Mishti Bachcha Aamaar'." I guffaw while sitting in the other room, but of course there's music coursing through my veins by now and I am supporting Axl Rose's vocals with my back-up act, all the while, nose buried deep in a book. After the song, I suddenly hear the sweet voice of that 'sweet child of mine' trying to sing the chorus...in his own tune. I laugh. I call the EO to me and sing it to him so that he can pick up the correct tune. He loves it, throws himself into my arms, sits on my lap and buries his face into my neck as I sing "Oh-oh, sweet child of mine" over and over again. After I finish, he looks up at me and says, "I'm a happysaur!"

Thankfully, my little boy still hasn't outgrown his love for dinosaurs. Thankfully, he still likes to make up stories and words and images, giving vent to his creative, imaginative side. Thankfully, he loves the music his parents love and is inculcating a distinct taste of his own...an eclectic mixture of Rabindrasangeet, Biddha Bar, Bollywood, Disney and Rock.

And most of all, thankfully, my little boy is a little boy yet...definitely 'sweet child of mine.'

Boys Will Be Boys

2010-07-31T13:18:00.003+05:30

Every now and then, I am struck, rather slapped in the face, by the realisation that the EO is in an ALL BOYS school and there is every chance that he is going to turn into a pig, a monster, an ass or maybe a combination all three. Then there's also the small matter of genetics...I have forbidden the MIM and BIL-ly Boy from telling my sons, their tales of derring-do, asinine idiocy and assitude (my word...meaning 'attitude of an ass'). Now those boys (the MIM and BIL-ly Boy) have stories that would curl your hair and leave your jaw on the floor.

The horror of watching my imaginative, story-telling, rose-cheeked son with sparkly eyes and a voracious appetite for books and stories, turn into a foul-mouthed brat sometimes has me staggering about the house, one hand clutching my poor heart and the other stuck to my forehead, going "Naaahhhhhiiiiiiiiii!"

Think I'm being melodramatic?

Well, here's a fine example of a snippet of a conversation that happened in the car yesterday after I'd picked him, the Nephew and Car-Pool Boy up from school. The three of them are having an animated conversation about this naughty boy and that teacher's pest, when suddenly the EO excitedly turns to me, eyes shining with laughter as he remember's something he wants to share with me, "Mamma, you know, today XYZ was drawing a sexy-sexy girl in his note-book..."

I gasp and interrupt him right there, how does a six-year-old know the existance of 'sexy-sexy'? Does he even know what it means?!?!? So I ask him, "A sexy-sexy girl? What's that?"

The EO explains, "You know, a hawawali girl."

At that instant I laughed in my mind. There was something innocent about the way he said it. I knew he meant "Hawaian" but I still decided to press further, "A hawawali girl? And what's that?"

"An island girl."

Yup, the boy had his concept right and it was oddly sweet too, his understanding of it and ensuing explanations...but yes, I still worry. He knows the word 'sexy'; a boy in his class draws 'hawawali girls'; the boy who draws it also knows that it's inappropriate and that he will get a 'jhapad' from his mothers so he erases it and draws Goku instead. (Goku, for those not in the know, is a character from the boy-testosterone filled cartoon series called "Dragonball Z").

I know they grow-up. I know boys will be boys who will eventually be dogs, pigs and any number of other creatures from the animal kingdom...but can't they be litte boys, baby boys and sweet innocent boys for a while longer?

July 23rd: Griho Prabesh

2010-07-25T14:48:00.003+05:30

Over the last one-and-a-half years, the MIM and I have been building a dream, vacation home in the idyllic town of Shanti Niketan. Yes, of Rabindranath Tagore fame.

Two days ago, on Friday, 23rd July, 2010, we finally had our Griho Prabesh. It was a dream come true for many there.
For my mother, who did her MA from Bishwa Bharati University in Shanti Niketan. Even after she and my father were married and had moved to the States, a huge part of her remained behind in Shanti Niketan. She always knew that she was going to come back to India. She had even started making queries about purchasing land and building her dream home there, way back in 1974.
For the MIM's late tamma, or dadi. She was Rabindranath Tagore's student. In fact, he had composed his well-known song, 'Godhuli Logone Meghey' especially for her. She was the first to be conferred the title of 'Geetashree', the female equivalent of 'Pandit' or 'Ustad'; lesser known than it's Hindustani counterpart of 'Vidhushi'. She always wanted her own place in Shanti Niketan. Her daughter and son (my FIL) watched proudly, as the Grande Olde Dames wishes were fulfilled via her grandson (the MIM).
For the MIM and me. He wanted a holiday home. I wanted a place that I had a deeply profound, almost spiritual connection too. And thanks to my intense love of Rabindrasangeet, that place was Shanti Niketan.

However, for me, the ceremony was incomplete.

No, no. Everything took place and the pujo was beautiful. But BIL-ly Boy, SIL, the Nephew and the Niece couldn't be there thanks to the viral. The Bro, because he's busy earning a living in the States.

And most of all, because my DaddyDearest wasn't there.

At least not physically.

But he was there with me in spirit. I felt him traveling with us in the car as we drove down from Calcutta to Shanti Niketan, as I carried his photograph with me. I saw his face in the clouds as I looked out the window, at the sun-dappled tree-tops. I remembered him standing next to me, proudly and happily when we had gone for the Bhoomi Pujo, last year in February.

And I remembered the last pujo I sat for. For him. On 23rd January, 2010. Exactly six months ago.

The man worked his magic with dates once again, just so that he could be with me, somehow.

Father's Day, 2010

2010-06-23T19:28:00.003+05:30

This Sunday was Father’s Day. June 20th, 2010.

Father’s Day.

This Sunday also marked five months of my Baba’s passing. Exactly five months. To the day.

At first, I thought it was a cruel, cosmic joke. Maybe the heavens really enjoyed seeing me weep till my heart was dry, wait for it to replenish and then weep again and again and again till my eyes were swollen shut.

Friends sent me warmth, kindness, words of love and wisdom. It helped...greatly.

When the rage of tears finally abated and I sat wearily by myself, curled into a ball in the bean-bag, looking at the green trees framed against a cloudy, grey sky, I let myself feel again.

From the time he went to the hospital and continuing, Baba has woven some kind of magic with and around certain calendar dates. There are messages intricately linked with those dates. I keep telling myself that it is his gift to me, to us, but mostly me, to tell me that he’s fine, he’s ok and he’s still here with me.

I have always believed that when it is a person’s time to go, he will go. The date and time have already been pre-ordained and there’s nothing that we can physically do about it. We may rant and rave and scream till our hearts, lungs and vocal chords burst at the unfairness and injustice of it all, but that can never change anything. No matter how untimely the passing may seem, it was time.

And it was my father’s time. I know that, I believe that, I just can’t accept that. Logically knowing and understandingly accepting are two different things altogether.

And I also believe that when a person dies, they go to an infinitely better place; the best place. I don’t believe too much in rebirth, but I do believe in heaven. Actually, let me rephrase that. I don’t believe that the rebirth is instantaneous. I believe s/he goes to heaven for a year, to be able to look after his/her family and also to be able to indulge in all his/her favourite past-times till it’s time for the soul to enter a new body. And that’s where my father is right now. In heaven...healed, healthy and whole; drinking his favourite tea, listening to endless sessions of classical music and finally learning the truth about his idol, the man my father literally worshipped while he was alive, Netaji Subash Chandra Bose.

It’s we who are left behind who are consumed with guilt, grief and endless questions that will never be answered.

Did my father have any regrets? Did he know at any point in time that he was not going to make it? Did he ever feel pain? Was there ever a point when he just couldn’t stand it anymore?

And of course the all important, burning one – did he know, did he have even the slightest idea just how much I loved him? With all my heart?

I have the answer to that one and it’s all linked to the dates on the calendar.

December 31st, 2009. The day I came home from the hospital to find my contributor’s copy of “Chicken Soup for the Indian Armed Forces Soul” waiting for me. Also, the date of my father’s operation. There was a point when his heart started fluctuating on the table, but he didn’t die. I now think it’s because he didn’t want me to associate New Year’s Eve with his passing. He knew me well, my father. He knew that if he left on this day, I would never celebrate another New Year’s Eve with family and friends again. And that’s why he held on till...

January 20th, 2010. Saraswati Puja. If there were two things my father held above all else, it was education and music. He himself had three degrees but he was never fully satisfied with them. He was in awe of anyone who studied ‘difficult’ subjects and who did PhD’s. And music! Oh music was his all-consuming obsession. It actually seemed appropriate for him to pass away on Her day.
It’s funny; no matter how faithful we are to God in our day to day life; no matter what our religious convictions and beliefs; even non-beliefs, for that matter; we all become our most religious selves when we see our loved ones suffering. Those last few days, when my father developed one complication after another and when we could see him shrinking before our very eyes, I think I called out to every God and Goddess in our pantheon. I made innumerable mannats and promises to All of Them...except Maa Saraswati. I don’t know why I didn’t call out to Her. And even though She called one of Her most dedicated devotees to Her side on Her special day, a day dedicated to Her in worship, prayer and song; I bear Her no grudge. I am not angry with Her. It’s as if She didn’t let me down; instead it was Her way of telling me, “I’ll look after him from now on.” As for the Others, I am still not on ‘speaking’ or rather praying terms with Them. Yet.

January 23rd, 2010. Netaji Subash Chandra’s birth anniversary. Also the fourth day after my father’s passing or the ‘chautha’, the day when a married daughter conducts a puja for her parent’s departed soul. Yes, on the day of his idol’s birth anniversary, I gave jol (paani/water) to my father’s soul.

January 30th, 2010. Maghi Purnimaa. A day so auspicious in the Hindu calendar that many homes and temples all over the country were having Satya Narayan pujas and havans. There was a havan in my parent’s home too, that morning. The one where my ‘baby’ brother gave jol to our father’s soul. After all, it was the 11th day after my father passed away; the day Bengali Brahmin families conduct pujas for their dear departed.

The significance of these dates have not escaped us. Everyone around us also told us what a good and pure soul my father had, for its journey to take place on such holy and highly significant dates.

I agree.

But I still didn’t need my father to pass away to know what a good soul he was.

And it hasn’t stopped there.

Since my father passed away, he’s been sending me all sorts of signs that he’s still with me. I think he knows how much I loved him; warts, faults and all, and he’s trying to tell me he loves me back. And his blessings, somehow or the other, always seem to find me on the 20th of the month.

“Chicken Soup for the Indian Romantic Soul” had already hit the bookstores, weeks in advance. I hadn’t received my contributor copies, until...that’s right, February 20th, 2010.

In the meanwhile, I got a lovely offer...a dream come true; to compile and edit two of “Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul’s” forthcoming titles. A few phone-calls, many e-mails and some contract signing later, I got my cheques on...April 20th, 2010.

Which brings me back to Father’s Day, 2010. It fell on June 20th. Exactly five months after my beloved, beloved Baba passed away. And now I know it wasn’t the fates mocking me. It was my father hugging me and calling my name to tell me that he’s still here; he’s still around, looking out for me and after me.

And I know he will. For the next few months at least. I know he will be hovering over us making sure we are ok and fine and whole again. Until it’s time for him to live once more.

In fact, I even know the date my father’s spirit will leave his final kiss on my forehead before he parts for good, leaving his memories and blessings behind.

It will be next year. Not on January 20th, 2011. I know my father well enough now, to believe that it will have to be a special, significant date.

It will be during next year’s Saraswati Puja; a day of worship and blessings. A day that will be forever and inexorably linked with my father from now on.

And according to the lunar calendar, next year's Saraswati Puja falls on February 8th, 2011.

Also my 10th wedding anniversary.

All For the Flag

2010-06-16T17:59:00.009+05:30

This morning, I witnessed something beautiful. It was a moment from last night's Brazil vs. Korea FIFA 2010 match. The MIM told me about it and I immediately youtubed it.

I watched dewy-eyed as Korean striker, Jong Tae-se fought and failed to hold back his tears at the start of the match when the band played the Korean national anthem. I don't think anyone who saw that could possibly remain unmoved.

His emotional downpour during the anthem immediately became one of my favourite moments of FIFA 2010. I don't know if anything will be able to top that...

Yes, yes...I am woman, hear me roar, see me weep...

But all said and done, it was a heart-touching moment on so many levels. To see such raw emotion on display, and from someone who is 'supposed to be' all alpha-male, is always a powerful yet humbling experience. Not to mention over-whelming. This man must have dreamt about this moment ever since he was in school playing in the dusty fields with his friends. He must have skinned his knees a gazillion times, maybe even broken his nose and a few bones some countless times. Dirty shirts and socks that made his mom scream in frustration; inter-school and local club tournaments where he may have sometimes soared and triumphed or tripped and crashed; kicking that ball an inch closer to his dream with every match.

And then, on June 15th, 2010, there he was. Right in the middle of his dream. Except, it was all true. It was a reality. We were in the midst of that dream coming true for him and to see him embrace it in the way he did, was almost to be a part of it; on the fringes in a voyeuristic way perhaps, but part of it we were, helplessly entwined.

The other thing that always gets me choked up is seeing such an overt display of national pride. It's no secret that I love my India, even though on paper I do not belong to Her. But I am a part of Her. And She is a huge part of me.

That's why, when anyone shows Her or Her symbols, raiment and accessories the slightest bit of disrespect, my blood begins to boil.

Like to the National Anthem, for example.

I have to say, right at the beginning, that I don't approve of the national anthem being played in theatres. It's a beautiful song and the piece that is played is inspired. But the theatre is not the place for it. I must say I appreciate the thought that went behind it, but I still feel that the cinema hall is an inappropriate place to stir up nationalistic pride. You have people trying to shush crying babies and excited kids, juggling trays of ice-laden cold drinks, hot coffee and tubs overflowing with popcorn. You can forgive them for being distracted, but the anthem is the anthem. And to be honest, once the first bars of the anthem start, these tired and stressed out parents will grab their kids, stand where they are, clutch onto dangerously wobbly and over-loaded trays and desperately wish for the next few minutes to speed on by. But they show respect. What is going on in their minds is a different conversation altogether.

But it gets distressing and upsetting to pick out a verbal duel with the set of nonchalant 'cool' dudes who sit there smirking away, munching their popcorn while others stand around them and sing.

I've always tried to remain true to my beliefs. Hypocrisy turns me off. So I've taught the EO all about respecting the national anthem; not just his own, but any and every, single one in this world. It's about respect. It's about peace and brotherhood. It's about what's right.

Before going to Singapore for our holiday, I took the boys to see "Shrek 4." There were four people sitting down when the anthem started playing, a scruffy, unwashed, hippie, blond, back-packing couple and a pair whose facial features led me to believe that they belonged to the North East.

My six-year-old son, having learnt to respect the National Anthem and Flag without question; having picked up the Sense-of-Outrage gene from me; and even before I could deliver my looks to kill and swoop down on the unworthies, started to head towards the sitters saying "Excuse me!"

I grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt collar and he turned to look at me, bewilderment and confusion writ large in his eyes, "But Mamma, they're sitting for the nashnul anthum!" I reassured him that I was going to tell them, he was just a little boy after all and they probably would not appreciate it.

I first turned to the foreigners. "Excuse me", I said coldly, "but would you mind standing please? This is our national anthem playing." They looked at me, took two seconds to decide whether to stand or not, and finally did.

I next turned my attention to the pair from the Seven Sisters (I dislike the term 'chinks'). I looked at them and said, puzzled, "Excuse me?" And they looked back at me. I said, "It's the national anthem." The look they gave me was a challenging one that said, "So?" And I said, exasperatedly, "So please stand." They had these wry smiles on their faces that were hard to define. I almost thought that maybe they weren't going to stand after all, but a few seconds, they did.

I went back to join my sons and my mother. I sang along loudly but my mind was swirling with uneasy thoughts. The blond guy looked back at me a couple of times and I was rather perplexed with their attitude. I would totally stand for their country's anthem, why couldn't they stand for ours? And didn't they get a clue that a country's national anthem was playing when the notice flashed in huge letters across the screen and everyone around them stood up?

And as for my North-East sisters, maybe they were making a political statement. Did I goad them into doing something that they did not believe in?

That day I was really confused by my actions.

But in my son's eyes, I had done the right thing. I walked the talk.

And I had also preserved the honour and integrity of my country's anthem.

Or had I?

I had tears in my eyes that day as I stood up singing our country's anthem in a darkened theatre hall.

But they were not of the same weight and value as Jong Tae-se's.

Just Because

2010-06-12T14:53:00.003+05:30

Yes, I am writing. Yes, I am travelling. Yes, I am singing, reading, watching movies and eating chocolates. Yes, I did Jaipur and Singapore and had a blast doing them too.

Yes, I am breathing.

And yes. I am still crying myself to sleep every night.

And I guess that's why, we sometimes need to do things, 'just because'.

I went to see "Sex and the City -2" yesterday and on me were two of the three la-di-dah, branded, designer names I own. Anyone who knows me, knows that I am more boho chicca than haute couture diva. But yesterday, I carried my new, white Espirit bag (courtesy SIL) and wore my fabulous, new Guess shoes (courtesy recent trip to Singapore) to last evening's show of "Sex and the City - 2".

Just because.

P.S. Movie review : Good time-pass. Horrible clothes. A nice evening out with the girls.

June 6th, 2010

2010-06-06T02:35:00.000+05:30

...would have been my parents 37th anniversary.

Instead...my mother is now minus a husband. I can't think of anything lonelier or sadder.

Of Fancy Elephants and Schmancy Superheroes

2010-05-26T11:35:00.003+05:30

Today is the last day of summer camp. There's a fancy dress party. It was announced a week ago and straight off the bat my EO said he wanted to go as Krishna. I groaned thinking of all the costumes that are lying in crumpled heaps at the bottom of the cupboard and tried to get him to change his mind. But he was adamant. Krishna is his favourite God, after all! Yes, his and the YO's as well, which is why even the YO joined the chorus and demanded to be Krishna as well!

Well, this Mamma wasn't going to give up. She was going to fight on behalf of all those unused, unhappy costumes lying listlessly in the dark cool of the cupboard spaces. There were various remnants of various Superheroes and bits and pieces of jungle and farmyard animals scattered all over the place.

Winning over the YO was easy. She picked up an elephant costume that once belonged to his elder brother which he wore for a school concert when he was the YO's age! It couldn't have been more perfect and luckily, my little one agreed!

Now the EO was a tough customer. I tried tempting him with the stock pile at home. I reminded him how much he loved being a prince, but he shot that idea down saying the prince costume was too small now. I sighed, thinking that he did have a point as the concert was over two years ago, but then again, that doesn't really stop him wearing it at home. I then asked him if he wanted to be a superhero. Bad move. He immediately responded with "YESSSSSSSSS!!! I want to be Iron Man! With his special armour and helmet and this thing and that thing (clasping his wrists where the hand plates or whatever they are, are meant to be) and everything!!"

Well. I led myself into that one. I'm totally to blame!

I agonised over what I was going to do, until, quite literally, lightening struck!

My boys were pretending to be superheroes and attempting to save the planet (read, destroying my living room!). The EO was wearing his prince cape, since that still fits, duh! And the YO was using a scarf as his cape. They were both wearing the eye masks that they had made in camp.

Suddenly, the sky became overcast and we could hear deep rumbles coming from within the clouds' bellies. With a matter of minutes, there was a fantastic thunderstorm, with heavy winds, flashes of lightening and the works. I revelled in it while my boys did the scaredy-cat act...pretend, of course! We huddled together and watched the lightening when it happened...I was struck by a bolt from the deep grey-blue...figuratively speaking!

I turned to my EO, all excited and said, "Why don't we make you into a new superhero?" Doubt streaked across his face but he gave me his attention. "You can wear this blue cape, this blue eye mask with blue jeans and a blue T-shirt. You can be Blue Thunderstorm! You can control the winds with your eyes and make tornadoes which can lift the bad guys off their feet, swirl them around till they're dizzy and then drop them right inside jail! And from your hands, you can zap out lightening bolts! How do you like it, Blue Thunderstorm?"

"No!" my six-year-old said, and my face fell. "I'll be Blue Lightening-Storm!"

I was beyond delighted and seeing my first-born's eyes sparkle with excitement, thrilled me even more.

I played out the idea in my head over the next two days and loved it more and more.

So this morning, I got up early and went into my boys' room. I sat down with blue art paper, a pencil, ruler, scissors and silver/gold gift-wrapping paper. My boys hopped around me in excitement. My EO squealed with delight, "Oh Mamma, really you're so creative!" I should've hugged him, instead I got all shy and said, "It's part of my job, you know. Not just my writing job, but my job of being a mother." The EO looked at me soulfully. Either he was thinking that some great secret had just been shared with him, or he was thinking that his Mamma had gone loco!

Then, I quickly wrote down a poem for my EO to memorise and taught my YO what to say, as I made three silver lightening bolts and a single golden one for the EO's accessories. I made a head band and two wrist-bands, and adorned each with a silver bolt. The golden one, I stuck on to his silver belt.

Our little boys all dressed up and ready, the MIM and I had our camera phones at the ready. We recorded them saying their lines to us, before we sent them off to camp. First the YO gushingly said, "I am jungel animol. I have a beeg earjj and twunk. I am en elefent!"

We cheered and roared our approval.

Next, the EO. And this is what he said:
"I am a secret superhero;
My name is Blue Lightening-Storm.
I can ride up on the clouds
In my super hero form.
I have lightening in my hands
And tornadoes in my eyes,
And using my special powers,
I always catch the bad guys!"

I had tears in my eyes as I looked at my creations.

And I'm obviously not talking about some silly bits of glittery-paper lightening bolts.

Bum Bum Baaje

2010-05-24T16:51:00.005+05:30

A couple of weeks ago, one rather early Sunday morning, I suddenly found myself surrounded by four little monkeys -- my EO, YO, the Nephew and the Niece.

I was still asleep when I felt a weight on my back. It was the Nephew. He was having a rather genial conversation with the EO from his comfortable perch, while the YO plastered my cheek with wet slobbery kisses, with the Niece saying, "Aee! Tumi tomaar mamma key lipsh-ey kishhie korchho!" (Hey! You're kissing your mum on the lips!) The YO glares back at her and says, "Naa! Lipsh-ey! Dekho!" (No! Not on the lips, see!) and proceeds to demonstrate.

Quite enjoying the attention and also curious to see what lay in store, I pretended to be fast asleep. Suddenly, snatches of the elder boys' conversation drifted towards me. The Nephew is heard asking my EO, "EO, why does your mum have such a big bum?" And before the EO can answer, he chooses to answer his question himself, "Oh I know! I know! It's because she's big and big people have big bums, that's why!"

As I smirked to myself I suddenly felt not one, not two, but FOUR PAIRS of hands playing my 'big bum' like a tabla. Yes, my bum is just that big...big enough to accommodate four pairs of hands to beat out a tune as funny and delightful as their giggles and squeals of delight.

And no, the treadmill is not going to be my new best friend. How else will my children play the tabla?

Calling All Bloggers!

2010-05-03T09:47:00.005+05:30

A very close friend of mine needs people to write. And she's not talking about professional writers...she's talking about folks like you and me. But if you are a professional writer or an author-type-person...well, that's fine because she needs you too!

She'd compiling two books for Westland Publishers - "Chicken Soup for the Indian Friend's Soul" and "Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul: Celebrating Brothers and Sisters."

She asked me to put this up on my blog and to spread the word. Please write...we're all bloggers and it's what we do, right? And we mostly blog about our lives, right? So it should be a piece of cake!

And pass the word along to your bloggy friends, un-bloggy friends, family and colleagues. And tell them to spread the word too!

Her mail id is in the info in this link. She wants lots and lots of stories, so go on, indulge her!

Poila Boishakh 1417

2010-04-25T18:55:00.003+05:30

April 15th was Poila Boishakh. Bengali New Year.

The night-before, I was feeling depressed. The next day, I was going to go through another one of the dubious first's...my first Poila Boishakh without my DaddyDearest.

But I do wish everyone a Shubho Naboborsho. Forgive the delay. May you and yours have a year full of love, laughter, good health and make precious memories.

I made one on that day itself...

Both my boys are huge Krishna bhakts. I think all little boys are. They identify with his naughtiness and impish escapades.

Now, as is the trend in these parts, whenever the boys in this house watch a movie or hear a story that they like, they argue amongst themselve as to who is going to 'be' the hero of the piece. The most brutal fight my two sons have going between them most days is who gets to be Krishna. The fights involve a lot of kicking and screaming and the end result is someone often ends up in a bundle of tears...not me, I'm usually reduced to a mass of electrocuted, frazzled nerves by the end of their matches. This is one fight that The Nephew stays far away from. He has wisely chosen to 'be' Balaram, or rather, the EO 'suggested' that he be so since he is after all the eldest, and he sweetly complied.

Anyway, on Thursday, I was lazily moping around the house. After I finally got my butt into the shower, I wore my bright, new bandhni, skirt from Jaipur; sky blue and sunny yellow with big silver chumkis all around. When I opened my bedroom door, my little YO came rushing in excitedly. Why? Because he had (or rather his ayah had) tied a tuft hair on the top of his head. He loves doing this whenever he gets the chance. Why? Because he is Krishna of course!

So, he rushes in excitedly to show me his Krishna-style and stops in his tracks, totally thunderstruck. He looks me up and down...totally in awe. He then asks me, "Tumi ki poyeychho?" (What are you wearing?) And of course he answers it himself, "Shkaartsh?" (Shirt?) He can't take his eyes off my and gives me his shy, imp grin.

What he does next, stuns me. He shyly takes my hand and says "Esho, esho" (Come, come) and leads me out into the sitting room, to show me off to his brothers, who are engrossed in TV. Then he tells them excitedly, "Dekho, dekho! Amaar mumma ki pohechhey, dekho!!" The EO and The Nephew give me a cursory once-over, smile and zne out again.

The YO, still with a goofy, shy, adorable expression on his face; still holding on to my hand; softly says something which I can't catch. I ask him to repeat it and he says just a little bit louder, for my ears only, "Tumi maiyaa aar aami Kanha." (You are {Yashoda} maiyaa and I am {Krishna} Kanha).

Tears sprang to my eyes at my little boy's sweetness and innocence. No wonder he was so dumbstruck when he saw me in a skirt that he immediately identified as typical of what Yashoda maiyaa would wear. And the coincidence that I should choose to wear exactly that, while he chose that precise moment to channel his inner Natkhat Kanha, was too overwhelming for him.

His joy and innocence just bubbled over that day and made me warm and tingly all over.

May the year bring on many such moments for us all.

And with that, I wish you a Shubho Naboborsho once again.

Aar Ek Cup

2010-04-20T18:28:00.004+05:30

We've all heard the story about the devout man whose faith in God was so strong that when his village was flooded, he turned down a raft, a boat and a helicopter by saying, "God will say me." When he drowned and went to heaven, he wailed, "God, I had dedicated my whole life to You, and yet, in my hour of need, why did You not save me?" God smiled sadly and said, "My dear child, I tried to save you three times, but you turned me away each time."

Just remember this tale when you get to the end of this little narrative of mine.

I you had ever spent a night in my parents' homes in Bangalore or Kolkata, and if you had ever slept in the bedrooms near the kitchen, then chances are, you would have been woken up in the morning by a rather terrible clanging and clashing. Not even a pillow over one's head was enough to drown out the quite-deafening sounds of the pestle and mortar being made to work by my father, a couple of hours after sunup. Every morning, without fail, my father would crush a combination of herbs, spices and ginger to brew with a spoonful of tea leaves for his early morning cuppa. This trusty concoction, he claimed, was his health tonic, and in my twenties, I got hooked on it too.

Tea. My father's absolute favouritest beverage in the world. And I don't use the term 'favouritest' lightly. Any time was tea time for my father and he could happily have ten or twelve cups of the brew throughout the day. Even though my silent, introvert of a father didn't say much when friends and family were over, he looked forward to them coming with great delight and an air of anticipation. We'd tease him saying that it was because he was guaranteed another cup of tea on their arrival.

My mother would often get exasperated with my father's frequent demands for "aar ek cup" through the day; not that her irritation bothered him...if it was tea he wanted, it was tea he would get. My father credited tea with many things. He claimed that tea was the reason behind his fair complexion and that drinking tea in the summertime kept the body cool. My mother would snort in disbelief, but maybe the man had something? After all, he was incredibly fair and also the most even-tempered man that I've ever known in my life; uncomplaining, humble and never, ever given to fits of rage. My mother? Well, beautiful, wheatish and passionate about everything and everyone in her life. Also, not a tea lover. So...

I love my aadaa-chaa, elaichi-chaa and flavoured teas as much as I love my cafe latte and hazelnut-flavoured cappuccino. But often I would ask for a cup of tea in my parents' home whenever I went to visit, just so that my father could have another cup. I wonder if he knew that?

I made my father his last ever cup of tea while he was still in the hospital; in the ICU. I had said my goodbyes for the day and visiting hours were almost over. A friend of my father-in-law's was with Baba while I waited in the lobby. He came down and said that my father was calling me. With just a few minutes to spare before the guards came around asking visitors to leave, I ran upstairs as fast as I could. My father was sitting propped up in bed, a flask of hot water, an empty cup and a tea bag kept on a tray in front of him. I asked him if he was feeling alright and whether he needed anything. He shook his head and just asked me to make him a cup of tea. Relieved and happy, I not only made him his tea, but I fed it to him as well, spoon by spoon; the security guard even gave me ten extra minutes to do so. Baba relished each and every drop and let out a sigh of contentment after we were done.

That night he was put on the ventilator. Three days later, he died.

I swore off tea forever. I couldn't even look at a cup without feeling the twin emotions of absolute anguish and irrational rage.

Well-meaning family and friends tried to get me to change my mind. I was stubborn in my refusal. My mother, however, understood.

The fourth day after a parent dies, according to Bengali-Hindu customs, a married daughter as well as her children, perform a puja for the departed parent in the daughter's marital home.

In accordance with these traditions, I woke up, had a bath, shampooed my hair, wore a new sari and fasted until the puja. Certain things are supposed to be given to the departed soul for his journey to the after-life...such as rice, fruits, vegetables and other things, like a bit of bhoomi (earth), an umbrella, some loose change, and five items that the person was fond of eating, amongst other things. Of course it may vary from one household to the next.

I saw all these items placed in front of my father's garlanded photograph. Yes, there was a packet of tea leaves there as well.

After the puja, whilst I was mingling with my family and friends who had gathered round me in my time of grief, I was given something to eat and drink. Famished, I wolfed down the food on my plate and drained the contents of my cup within minutes.

It was only after everyone was gone, while I was sitting with my sons, playing back the mornings' events in my mind that I realised what had been in the cup...tea!

I burst into tears. Not tears of grief at my father's memory or tears of remorse for a broken promise, but tears of awe and wonder.

It was my dad.

It was my dad's doing. He made me have that cup of tea. It had to be. No other explanation will do. How could he bear his beloved daughter giving up something that he loved so much? And that too, for him?

When I told my mother what happened, tears streamed down her face and she softly said, "He's fine. Your Baba is fine."

I am sure he is. And I am sure he is having "aar ek cup" while watching over us from wherever he is now.

It's three months today, Baba, since you've left. And even though I know you're fine, I'm not. But with you watching over me, I kow I will be. Eventually.

Raising a cup of tea, brimful with my tears, to you.

Your Attention Please...book-review coming up

2010-04-10T01:43:00.003+05:30

Let me go on record saying that I do not worship the Great Bong with daily visits to his blog and leave behind offerings of salubrious, sycophantic, witty or engaging comments.

No. I'm not a groupie.

But I am a fan. And an earnest, honest one at that.

And so, when I heard that The Bongness was writing a book, I was full of eagerness and anticipation. And then, when I heard that The Bongness himself was going to be in town for the book launch, I did what any earnest, honest fan would do...I took my ample butt over there...an hour early.

So yes, this earnest, honest fan was sitting in row two, demurely waiting for an autograph -- not gushingly, cause that's what a groupie would do -- and waiting for His Bongness to address his sea of devotees, fans and family (lots of family, I might add; very sweet!)

The man is funny. And great. We all know that. That's why he's won so many Indiblogs, which, as we all know, is the Booker of Blogdom.

He's funny. Witty. And very genial. He's the guy you want to invite over to a home adda and make the centre of attraction; not that he needs anyone to make him the centre of attraction, he just is. He's a natural and comfortably, amiably so. You want him to regale you with all his stories, witticisms and hilarities. You want to bombard him with questions, but you don't for fear of interrupting his flow of talk and thereby, inadvertently missing out on any nuggets of humour and astute observations of this human condition called life -- and Bollywood, and politics and teenage, sexual awakenings in middle-class India.

After that most lively session at Crosswords, I came back and eagerly attacked his book, "May I Hebb Your Attention Pliss?" And my one-line review of it would be...hehehe-hahaha-hohoho-meh.

Ok, ok, now that all the stones and rotten eggs have been disposed of, may I come out from behind my laptop?

Look, I'm still a big fan and I always will be. He's a keen observer of randomness and a fantastic raconteur. I'm not saying I didn't like the book; I did, I did. Very much! Heck, I even loved it in parts and chortled out loud while in wide, open, unempty, public spaces.

Here's the thing; it was way too similar to his blog. In fact, it was kind of like a well-compiled, well-edited "Best of..." paper-back version of his blog. Not that he promised anything else, and not that I didn't know that, which is why I wasn't bitterly disappointed.

But here is where I would give more points to a Parul Sharma, author of "Bringing Up Vasu" and Sidin Vadukut, author of "Dork: The Incredible Adventures of Robin 'Einstein' Verghese". Yes, even Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan for her "You Are Here". All these authors are also writers of immensely popular and funny blogs. Yet, when it came to writing a book, that's exactly what they did. They didn't dip into their old faithfuls to rehash any of their published content. They stepped out of their comfort zones and rose to the challenge of telling a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end; complete with plot, drama, conflict and trademark styles of humour. Did traces of their blog surface every now and then? But of course! That would be impossible to steer clear of. But at the end of the day, the final product was entirely different from what their hoards of readers are used to.

So am I saying I am disappointed with Arnab? Not at all. Did I expect different? That would again be a 'no', simply because he didn't promise anything different. Do I still think he's great? Oh absolutely! He is the undisputed Great Bong. And finally, would I recommend his book to others? Highly.

It definitely "deserves your attention, pliss."

All Growed-up Now

2010-04-06T07:42:00.002+05:30

Today the EO starts Class 2. Tomorrow, the YO starts Jr. KG.

SIGH!!!!!!! Where did my babies go?!?!?!?!?

While I'm busy shaking my fists at Father Time, I leave you with some EO and YO-speak.

1) The EO sees a bullock and very excitedly (having just gone for a bullock-cart ride the previous evening) points it out to the MIM and me. "Look, look! That's a bhrosh!" The MIM and I are thoroughly confused. We try to figure out what it is that he's saying and keep asking him in vaious ways to explain. Finally, the MIM asks him, "Do you mean 'mosh'?" (bangla for buffalo, but we figured maybe the EO had got his cud-chewing quadrupeds mixed up.) The EO violently shakes his head and for some reason is most irritated with his Mamma for not understanding. He then bursts out, "Ooofff! I think so you don't know Bangla!!" The MIM bursts into laughter and a truculent Mamma does the only thing she can think of to soothe her bruised ego; she pouts and says, "Hmpf! I'll ask MY mamma!"

2) We went for a short trip to Jaipur (the bullock-cart ride mentioned above was one of the momentous events that took place there, for reasons that will be detailed in another post). After coming back home, the four of us are lounging about on our bed. It's bed-time. In other words, it's time for them to shift their cute lil butts into their room and zoom off to la-la-land. Suddenly, the EO proclaims, "I wish we were back in Jaipur only. There it is so nice."
The MIM seems to understand where this is coming from, "Why? Because all four of us could sleep on the same bed?"
The EO nods his head vigourously and I grudgingly give the MIM marks for being so astute. The EO continues, "Why can't we all sleep together here in your bed?"
The MIM laughs and says, "You're right, we need to get a bigger bed."
Suddenly, the EO loudly exclaims, "OOOHHH! I know why we all can't sleep in this bed together..." And before I can put forth my theory, he carries on with his Eureka! moment by proclaiming, "it's because Mamma you've become fat!"
I was actually going for, "It's because you've both become so big my babies!", but the MIM seemed to love our elder son's explanation much better and started guffawing really loudly! Too loudly, I felt. And so did the EO, for he turned to his father and said, "Don't laugh so much Baba! You also have become even fat!"
Guess who couldn't stop guffawing after that!
MIM, darling, I say this because I love you, "Nyah-nyah-na-nyah-nyah!!"

3) So I'm taking a nice, leisurely bath. Suddenly there's violent banging on the door and a loud, "MAMMA!!!"
Said Mamma nearly chokes on shower water and slips on dropped soap. "Ki?!?!?!" (What?!?!?!) she shouts back, hands tremblingly reaching for the towel as she envisions all kinds of ghastly terrors waiting to meet her eyes.
The EO continues, "Mom, can you please call me Tom from now on?"
Mamma chokes again. "What?!? WHY?!?"
The EO: "Please Mamma, I want you to!"
Mamma, not at all pleased with the idea: "You want the same name as a cat?"
The EO: "Oh Mamma! It's not just for a cat, it's such a nice name! Any boy can also have it! Please Mamma, call me Tom!"
Mamma: "What if I call you 'xyz'? (his original pet-name, chosen so that it would match The Nephew's name, but it never really caught on).
The EO: "No. I like only Tom!"
Finally I got to the bottom of it; he was playing the video games that come with Tata Sky Plus and he wanted to type his name into a box and he couldn't figure out how to from a remote control. After all, the remote buttons ain't laptop keys!
Oooff! Logic, I tell you!

4) The YO looks to the EO for wisdom and knowledge in various subjects, especially music. Whatever songs happen to be the EO's current choice are by default the YO's faves too. So it's no wonder that my house is always reverbrating with high-pitched version of the "Three Idiots" soundtrack. However, I couldn't stop laughing when I heard my three-year-old YO singing, in all earnestness and seriousness, "...Gibb me anudder chence, I wanna gilow (grow) up onesh agen!"

Yup, they're growing up, my boys. Way toooooo fast, if you ask me!

Butt-bitten

2010-03-30T22:46:00.003+05:30

So I write my last post and immediately the Universe conspires to bite me in the butt. Or perchance my DaddyDearest sets out to prove me wrong...oh so terribly, terribly wrong I am.

1) My MaaJanoni teaches my EO Bangla. It just makes absolute sense. Now thanks to term break, the EO has happily forgotten all the knowledge he has painfully gained over the past one year. So, I sent him over to Maa's yesterday, for a refresher course. This morning when I went over, she told me how my precious son had picked up a hand-fan and started fanning the photograph of DaddyDearest's that we keep on his desk...it's very hot here after all, hain na.

2) I recently put up a photograph of DaddyDearest as my profile pic on FB. While I was checking the site today, my YO comes and plops himself down next to me. "Ki kochho tumi?" he sweetly asks. And then he sees my DaddyDearest's photograph and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. "Daduku!" he screams, smiling broadly. And then he turns to me, eyes full of sadness and says, "Daduku kobey aashbey? Aami okey miss korchhi!" (When is Daduku coming back? I'm missing him!)

3) This evening, while I'm working on the comp, the EO suddenly, while in the midst of play, bursts into my room and asks me, "Mamma, what kind of a prayer I can say so that Daduku will be able to hear me nicely?" Taken aback, I told him that all he needed to do was talk to him, the same way he would have talked to him had he still been sitting in his favourite chair. He understood and then stood up on my bed to open the latch to the balcony. "What are you doing?", I exclaimed, "It's night now."
"Oh" says my blessed son and goes instead to the windows and opens a pane. "I want to talk to Daduku." And then he looks heavenwards and starts talking to his Grandfather in earnest. "Daduku, tumi kobey aashbey? Aar koto deri? Aar tumi jokhon aashbey aami tomaakey jorey dhorbo aar chhaarbo na, chhaarbo naa, kono dino aar chhahrbo naa. Tumi aar jetey paarbey naa!" (When are you coming, Daduku? How much longer? And when you come back I will hold on tightly to you and never, never, EVER let you go. You will not be able to leave again.)

Now here's where it gets freaky...I was too shocked and touched to cry. But as my little boy was talking to his Grandfather, I got the most amazing fragrance of agarbattis (incense sticks) wafting into my room. I knew immediately that my beloved Baba had heard his little grandson's prayer and was hugging him tightly in return.

Remembering Their Grandfather

2010-03-28T21:17:00.004+05:30

The MIM was six years old when he lost his maternal grandmother. The same age as my EO when DaddyDearest passed away. The EO is even younger; just three.

The MIM's memories of his Dida are very hazy; BIL-ly Boy's, who was four, even more so. That's why, I often worry how much my boys will remember their Daduku (what they call my DaddyDearest) as the years go by. It hurts me greatly to think, "Not much."

We've told the boys that their grandfather has become a star and that the sky is his new home now. They took it surprisingly well, but then they never really got the concept of forever. Once, the EO asked me if Daduku would come back when he was older. On the day of the 'Chautha', when I did a puja for my DaddyDearest, I asked the EO whether he would also like to participate. He immediately agreed and asked me what he should do and I said he had to say a little prayer and whatever he wanted to his grandfather. So he asks me very seriously, "I'll ask him to come back fast?" But how beautifully he played his part...repeating the purohit's mantras verbatim and precisely. He prayed for his grandfather with sincere devotion and took everyone's breath away. On the day of the 'Shraddh', the EO seriously sat through the beginning of the puja and made offerings to the fire. At one point in time, when he saw his beloved Mamu sobbing, it broke his little heart and my SIL had to quickly take him away from there.

But that was then...two weeks after Baba's passing. And now it's been a little over two months and they hardly refer to him at all. I sometimes wonder if he's already begun to fade a little bit from their memories. For me, not a day goes by when I don't think of him and my eyes well up. I cry every, single day and each time there's this horrible tightening in my chest that almost threatens to suffocate me when I sit up at night thinking about him.

Now, obviously, that kind of pain is mine. My MaaJanoni and the Bro are perhaps the only other two who feel this way. But yes, sometimes it amazed me when my two little boys stopped mentioning this man who was so much a part of their lives, altogether.

But I was wrong.

Little instances over the past few weeks have shown me that my DaddyDearest lives on in their memories yet. For how long, I don't know, but the fact that he does so for now, is good enough.

1) I remember sitting in my bed, crying one day, not too long ago. The boys were playing with their cousins and I thought I was alone so I could give in freely to my grief. Suddenly, the YO rushed in and jumped onto bed. I quickly brushed away my tears, because he hates to see me cry. But they're smart, these little ones and he caught me. He asked me why I was crying, and I told him I was missing my father. He immediately reassured me and told me to wait until nightfall and once the stars came out, I could see him there.

2) Normally, the EO absolutely love, love, LOVES going to MaaJanoni's house. In fact, he asks to be taken there and allowed to spend the night...or at least he used to. The other day, I told him to pack some of his favourite books because we'd be staying at his Manuku's place (what he calls my mum). Normally, this piece of news would have been greeted with a big whoop of delight. This time, he just buried his face deeper into the book he was reading. I gently asked him what was wrong and whether he didn't like going there anymore. He replied, "It was more better when Daduku was there." Aaah! So he missed him too! And we had a little chat about what he missed and it was mostly my dad cooking for them...his special omelets, french toast, sausages and of course, pizza! That little chat filled me with lots of warm memories and made me feel so much better.

3) The EO and YO were watching "Grandpa in my Pocket" on Ceebeebies and thanks to storyline, the EO was prompted to ask me, "Why was Jason worried about his Grandpa?", and as the EO is wont to do, he answered his question himself before I could, "Oh. Because he loves his Grandpa?" and then he looks at my DaddyDearest's photograph nearby and says, "Just like I love my Grandpa."

Always know this my sweethearts, your Grandpa loved you both too. Very, very much.

For the Love of Language

2010-03-20T17:39:00.006+05:30

(This post was written for the Tulika blogathon.)

Let me first start by saying that I consider Bengali, or Bangla, to be my mother-tongue. Even though I think in English.

But the above is totally a result of my environment. Born in the States, I was exposed to two languages; English outside the house and Bangla, inside. My mother, so that I would be in touch with my mother-tongue and also so that I could write letters to my grandparents in Bangla, began to teach me the script at home...during weekends and holidays.

And then, during my pre-teen years, we moved to India. And not to West Bengal, but down south. Bangalore, to be exact. And I was exposed to two new languages...French and Hindi. Funnily enough, I never needed to learn Kannada. And so, Ma stopped teaching me how to read and write in Bangla. But, now I wanted to desperately learn...so that I could write letters to my Baba who was still working abroad.

Here's the thing, I can't help but wonder if my personality is a huge part of why I love Bangla so much... Can that have anything to do with your love for a language? Your willingness to learn it? After all, lookit my brother and me...

We were brough up in the same environment, but I am the totally arty type, whereas my brother is the sporty type. I love Bangla culture, music and movies. I feel bereft that my literate Bangla isn't so fluent, because a vast and rich source of literature is closed to me...and for a book-worm like moi, that's a huge loss. My conversational Bangla is pretty darned good, if I do say so myself; my brother's is passable, at best. But having said that, I can't exactly enter into a political debate in my mother-tongue either. Why? Because, as I said right in the beginning, I think in English.

English has been my primary language throughout my growing up years. I read books round the clock in it. I sang songs in it. I conversed in it, dreamed in it, fought in it, wrote poetry in it.

And yet, at home, the environment was typically Bengali and I enbraced that too. So much so, that I knew I wanted to marry a Bengali boy...and I did.

And look at me now. An American-Bangalorean-Bengali living in Kolkata and bring up two boys, aged six and three.

My Elder One has been learning Bangla for two years now. He is fluent in his mother-tongue, as well as English, because I spoke to him in both right from the moment we met, and Hindi, as a result of his environment. Now the younger one, well, up until a year ago, it was primarily Bangla for him since he was with an ayah a lot. And it used to worry me, whether he would ever be up to speed in English...and I balmed myself. But I needn't have worried. The English and Hindi have kicked in and he's as fluent in both as any three-year-old can possibly be.

Despite knowing how to read and write Bangla, I prefer my mother teaching the EO Bangla and helping him with his homework. After all, she knows the rules of grammer; she can answer the why's and the why-not's; demonstrate the how-to's and correct the how-not-to's with confidence and without thinking twice. Trying to teach my son Bangla only brought my turmoil and confusion to my mind about the why's and the how-come's.

For example, do we really need three letters to denote 'sh' in our language? We don't have a 's' sound, which is why most Bengalis wear "shoks on their feet". We don't have a 'z', and therefore we watch the 'newjj' and read 'newjjpapers', sometimes while sitting in the 'joo'. Many letters are redundant, and grammer is turning into a joke.

However, I really want my boys to learn the language. Just in case one of them turns out to be a book-lover like me, I would love for him to be able to pick up a Tagorean classic or a Sunil Gangopadhyay masterpiece or a Satyajit Ray "Feluda" mystery or an anthology of Jibanananda Das poetry or even a "Handa-Bhonda" comic.

The list is endless. And it's there. And I want my sons to know that and take advantage of it.

So what do you do...

2010-03-18T22:53:00.004+05:30

...when your six-year-old EO keeps asking you to play music videos of Queen and MJ on youtube? And when, while watching a Queen video, he informs you that the name of the guitarist is Brian May? And then, one fine day, while playing a video game and he 'loses a life', he musically laments, "another one bites the dust"?

...when your three-year-old, cricket-crazy YO, keeps shouting "Good shot!" along with a huge grin, each time he manages to connect bat to ball, thwack it hard and miss the TV set? When suddenly, he holds the bat differently, starts to air-guitar and sings, "We Are the Champions"? (just the one line...)

...when said little fellow marches purposefully to his cupboard to pick out his own clothes (standing on tip-toe) and picks out a combination that works? And when he takes the t-shirt from your hands and says, "Aami nije kobbo!" (I'll do it myself!)

Choose the right answer:
a) you sniff-sniff and cry buckets.
b) you prepare for vanaprastham.
c) you drink Strawberry Daiquiris or Cosmopolitans all day wrong.
d) you pay heed to the whispers of your uterus.

Anybody who knows the right answer will get a box of liqueur chocolates.

I'll need lots of convincing, though...

Thoughts for Women's Day

2010-03-08T21:51:00.006+05:30

A few days ago, Sagarika tagged me to write down my thoughts for International Women's Day. According to her post, "Gender Across Borders is hosting a new event this year called "Blog for International Women's Day". It commemorates the United Nation's 2010 theme, "Equal rights, equal opportunity: Progress for all!"

I don't know how much my ramblings are going to tie in with the theme, but these thoughts have been swirling about in my head for a while now.

After DaddyDearest passed away, the issues that I have with certain aspects of my religion and of Indian societal norm, just came thundering to the fore, leaving me full of simmering rage and a sense of disquiet. I won't go into the specifics and the who-said-what's, but why is a married daughter's relationship with her parents so insignificant? Why are our rights and rituals so few? Why is our mourning period so short? Are we not allowed to grieve?

And what really gets my goat is that "it's all over", I have to start thinking about my "real family" and take care of them. My MaaJanoni, who has just lost her husband, who abhors being alone, has to learn to fend for herself; after all, her daughter "can't just throw everything aside and go running to her" whenever she needs her.

I really don't know how this post of mine transcends boundaries, but it definitely hits home where equality is concerned. Until the norms of patriarchy are overturned, we cannot be an equal society.

Most urban men these days think that marrying a non-virgin is a sign that they are not an MCP. Yet, these very same men expect you to put their family before yours, without returning the favour. Chauvinism lives on...

This Women's Day, my thought for equality is that all children, regardless of gender and marital status, be accorded equal relationship status with their parents. That they be given an equal opportunity to serve their parents as they wish to and not according to how society tells them to.

One would think...

2010-03-05T23:00:00.003+05:30

that after the hell that I've already been through this year, that I was done for the time being. That I've had more than my fair share of hospitals.

One would think wrong.

Every evening, the EO, YO, the Nephew and the Niece go downstairs to play, accompanied by their very watchful ayahs and household help. Often friends send their kids over. Occasionally the SIL, FIL and I check up on them whenever decibel levels reach the third and forth floors of our building. Mostly there are screams of joy, but occasionally there are those of frustration and pain as well.

Now my YO has an extremely high threshold of pain. Whenever he falls and hurts himself or cuts himself or scrapes his knee, he just picks himself up, dusts himself down and joins the fray once again.

But not this Wednesday, 3rd March. In a rather stupid and aggressive game of cops and robbers, my little boy was pushed off his cycle. He landed with full force on the back of his head and the cycle came crashing down on his forehead.

He just lay there whimpering and in pain, asking over and over for me. When he came to me, he was still whimpering and just couldn't sit up. He was yawning continuously and kept saying that he wanted to go to sleep. I recognised the danger and called the MIM who was luckily in office and therefore just five minutes away from home. We started off for the hospital where the boys' paediatrician sits, in that evening traffic. When he started vomiting in the car, I lost it and said to hell with the hospital and we turned the car around to go to the emergency room of a hospital nearby (where both our sons were born actually). The Emergency doctor had a look at him and said that we required a paediatric neurologist and helpfully gave us the name and number of somebody he knew. In the meanwhile, the YO's paediatrician told us to move to another hospital, also thankfully really nearby and to get him checked out.

To cut a long story short, there were more episodes of vomiting, a CT scan, admission procedures to take care of, a channel being put into a frightened little boy's hand to administer the drip and subsequent injections and the most frightening four hours of my life.

We came back home this morning and I am beyond thrilled to say that my son is fine. According to the docs, it was "a massive concussion. The impact of the fall shook his brain." We still need to be careful and he still needs bed-rest for the next 48 hours (like that's gonna happen!), but he's his normal jumping-bean-self and for that I am truly, TRULY grateful.

But those four hours, when he was drowsy, couldn't lift his head and was vomiting...I spent in hell.

My YO is incredibly brave. He's my courageous little tiger cub and I am so very proud to be him Mamma. After those four initial hours, when his normal temperament started to surface, I saw no trace of pain, anger, frustration, no incessant whining and crying...yes, he did want his father and brother, and he did want to go home, but those moments did not leave me tearing out my hair in great, big handfuls. He was so easy to manage, a delight to be with and chatty with everybody.

But, I never want to go through that again.

Somebody, please say that I'm done for the year. I don't think I have an ounce of strength left in me...

One Wedding and A Funeral

2010-03-01T15:20:00.002+05:30

My Baby Cousin got married less than a week ago. The wedding and all the ceremonies leading up to it were a combination of nerves, laughter, chaos, tears and fun.

Yes, I had fun, but, and I am ashamed to say this, not in the beginning. When my Mashi, Mesho and cousin sisters arrived from Delhi for the wedding, I was too full of angst and pain to let myself feel any fun. And then one day, I saw how much they were hurting too and for God's sake, it was my Baby Cousin's wedding. It was her day; her special day. These same people were ready to postpone the wedding indefinitely until we were ready to cope. My MaaJanoni, my brave, strong, greiving, hurting, family-loving mother said "Nothing doing! The wedding's happening and it's happening here!"

So yes, the wedding happened and it happened here in Kolkata. We were making the arrangements before DaddyDearest went in for surgery and after my family arrived, we continued with the preparations. There were many, many, oh-so-frickin-many moments when despair took over, but I grieved in private or with The Bro, away from the festivities.

Anyway, this is not what this post is about. It's about watching my Baby Cousin cry during her 'aashirwaad' ceremony after she was welcomed into the boy's family. The same girl who was so exxcited about finally getting married and who couldn't wait to start life as a married woman and who didn't sob during her 'bidaai', finally started crying as the car pulled away and then once again in the boy's home (The Bro, Baby Cousin's sis and I all accompanied her). Seeing her cry, her sister started sobbing and seeing the two of them weep, I started.

All this crying reminded me of my DaddyDearest's funeral, where, at one point, The Bro, MaaJanoni and I were doubled over in pain and crying as if our collective hearts were breaking.

Why all this crying? At the funeral as well as the wedding, besides the obvious reasons of sadness, albeit sadnesses of different kinds. Past regrets and moments we wished we could take back, swim in front of our eyes. Things we could have done differently, opportunities to say things left unsaid, moments of meanness and pettiness...so many what if's that seem to swarm our heads and cloud our eyes.

Sigh.

One thing that I know and which has been played out to me with such absolute force in these past five weeks, is that life goes on. Sad and Happy are a couple walking side by side, each having their moment to shine in the sun and when they shine, they can be pretty blinding.

This is something DaddyDearest believed in very strongly; and now he's making me live it.

It won't stop me missing him, though.

One month.

2010-02-20T15:41:00.003+05:30

It's been one month, DaddyDearest, since you've been gone.

One month and there have been days when I felt like I was going to die from the pain; die by drowning in my tears; die of my heart exploding; die from the scream going on inside my head, my chest, my lungs and just not stopping.

One month and there have been moments, many moments when you gave me signs that you are ok. I have felt your presence in my life in ways that have awed me and comforted my soul.

One month and you have shown us so clearly, so perfectly that we must carry on and continue; that we must laugh and live.

One month, my beloved DaddyDearest, since you've been gone and it still hurts like hell...sometimes more.

One month, since my world has changed...forever.

One month ago...

2010-02-12T15:22:00.005+05:30

today, Baba, you were sitting up in your hospital bed and having soup. Your first taste of 'food' in twelve days. Visiting hours were over; on special request they let us peek through the door as you had your first sip. You saw us, grinned and gave us a huge "thumbs up" sign.

That evening, I went back and made you your cup of tea. Tea. Your most favourite beverage in the world. You were so happy. You looked at me, yours eyes shining bright, and said, "Today is the best day!"

You said a lot of things to me that day, DaddyDearest. You talked about your experience of being shuttled from room to room through never-ending corridors. You said you were going to write about your entire hospital experience and had even thought of the title -- From Doom to Room.

It was the last time you were so chatty, Daddy.

Exactly one month ago, today.

What do I write about now, DaddyDearest? "From Room to Doom"?

Missing you something awful today, Baba...

Words that begin with D...

2010-02-01T10:31:00.006+05:30

Dear DaddyDearest,

Devastated.
Depressed.
Doomed.
Desultory.
Despondent.
Dejected.
Disheartened.

Dead. So very DEAD inside.

This is how I'm feeling, my darling, DaddyDearest, without you here. We've entered a new month...the first without you here. So many of such painful firsts. It was my birthday on the 27th...the first without you here and I can safely say the WORST ever. The Bro is here and this was the first time you weren't there to pick him up. So many people you loved and haven't seen in years came over to the house for you...and for the first time ever, you were not there.

They say it gets easier, but right now it seems tougher. Unbearable. Every second of every day, my heart explodes anew.

Daddy. My favourite 'D' word. I miss you so. More than you ever thought possible.

Love forever and ever and ever,
Your devoted daugther

For those of you who have been praying,...

2010-01-25T23:29:00.003+05:30

...you can stop now.

My father passed away on Wednesday; 20th January, 2010. Saraswati Puja.

There is much I will need to write so that I can remember. Because I never want to forget.

But right now, I am devastated. It hurts like hell. There's a scream that's going on and on inside me and I don't think it'll ever stop.

Ever.

It's a New Year...

2010-01-01T00:53:00.003+05:30

...full of new hopes, dreams and prayers.

But as we move into 2010, may we not forget the blessings of the year gone by.

I have much to say, but for now, I just want to thank you all and wish your and yours, a wonderful year ahead full of light, love and laughter. Make new memories and friends. Do something you've never done before but have always wanted to. Forgive someone. Get in touch with a relative you haven't seen for a while. Have that extra piece of chocolate, do ten extra push-ups. Sing, dance, write, paint, create...and above all -- LIVE!!

M4 needs...

2009-12-23T00:56:00.001+05:30

prayers and an endless stream of positive energy. Above all she needs faith. And HOPE.

For she is floundering.

Please. PLEASE help...

They said...

2009-12-19T22:10:00.004+05:30

...that it's obstructive jaundice, caused by a blockage in the bile duct, which therefore causes bile build-up.

He'd been looking sick for a while now. It was as if he was shrinking in front of my very eyes. It's so difficult to watch your parents age. It's even more difficult to finally acknowledge that fact to yourself.

Now the blockage can be caused by either a stone or a tumour. 95% of the time it's a stone.

My father is not in the 95%.

Why???

2009-12-17T16:15:00.003+05:30

Why is it so hard to be honest?
Why speak in half-truths?
Why insult my intelligence?

I'm kinda heart-broken today...and hating it :-(

EO Speak & YO Speak

2009-12-15T22:18:00.005+05:30

M4 is lying down next to the YO and getting in as many cuddles as she could get.

M4 (mushy-mummy-ly) : Tumi aamaar ke? (exact translation coming up so it does sound icky: Who are you to me?)
YO: YO (says his name)
M4: Naa, tumi aamaar chhotto baby. (No, you're my little baby.)
YO: Naa, aami tomaar YO. (No, I'm your YO.)
M4: Taaholey aamaar chhotto baby ke? (Then who's my little baby?)
YO: EO dada.
M4: Naa to. EO dada aamaar boro baby, aar tumi aamaar chhotto baby. (No...EO dada is my big baby and you are my little baby.)
YO: Naaaaaaaaa! Aami ekhon boro hoyey gechi, aami chhotto baby naa! (Noooooooo! I've grown up now, I'm not a little baby!)
M4: Tumi koto boro hoyey gechcho? (How big are you now?)
YO: Eto, dekho... (This much, see...) {and he proceeds to extend his arms above his head, hands spread the width of a full-grown cat, apart} Aami puro big boy. (I'm totally a big boy now.)

Ok my baby, even though you have no concept of size, length and width, if you insist, then you are a 'big boy' now. Sigh!!! :-(
****************************************************************
M4 treated her boys to a Domino's Pizza dinner, since they were sad about their Mamu leaving.

At the table, EO, though stuffed, is eyeing the last two slices of pizza in the box.
EO: Mamma, can I have that for tiffin tomorrow?
M4: No baba, you've already had too much. Tomorrow, I'm packing a banana in your tiffin box.

A debate ensues over which fruit to pack. Then the EO pipes up again, but naturally, since he's a fighter that one, and will keep trying with various lines of logic. Also, he loves getting in the last word...

EO: But Mamma, pizza is full of vegeytebils and cheese. So it's healthy. It's a healthy junk food, ok Maa?

Aaahh, my little one! You have no idea how many people, the world over, are waiting for the creative discovery of this wondrous thing called 'healthy junk food'...your Mamma being one of them!

So Says the EO

2009-12-14T22:46:00.002+05:30

"But why does Mamu have to go back? I don't want him to go!", states a very teary-eyed EO.

M4: Because he needs to go back to office, my shona.
EO: Then I'll go to Ameyrica and bring the full office to here.

M4 sighs and says o herself,"If only, my sweet. If only."
******************************************************************
The MIM, to EO: You know naa, that your Mamu is leaving tomorrow?
EO: Yes. And I'm sad. I'll miss him for ONE HUNDRED days!!

M4 overhears the conversation, sighs and says to herself, "Me too, my sweet. Me too."

My Vision of India

2009-12-12T12:21:00.002+05:30

Ten years down the line, India will be a country boasting 1, 533 states, with the demand for 453 more on the table. Yes, just a mere one decade later.

To the supporters of the Telengana movement...congratulations. You should be ashamed of yourselves!

Sports and the Elder One

2009-12-07T22:26:00.006+05:30

So yesterday, Sunday, December 6th, was the EO's first Sport's Day in Big School.

Now, I know, as do you, that I am not the biggest fan of the EO's school and the 'old, traditional schools' in general, but they have one huge plus point. A point that is of enormous significance in my life in general. And that is TRADITION.

There is something about the way these schools go the whole nine yards and then some, when it comes to their events and special days. It's what kick-starts those old stirrings of pride in the four chambers of the heart. Something about the familiar grounds, experiences and yes, the school song just puts one helluva goofy grin on one's face. Yup, there is something about all that ceremonial splendour that touches the core of me.

So, yesterday, was the EO's first Sport's Day. And we were a big gang, cheering the EO and the Nephew on...my MIL (for whom the day brought back many, MANY memories of her two little boys and their Sport's Days on these very grounds), the Bro, my SIL, BIL-ly Boy, the YO and the Neice. The MIM was busy partying with models in Mumbai. Harumph!!! 'Nother story!! Ok, the party was on Saturday night. Geez!

Now the jocks in my family are basically the MIM and the Bro. They have drawers and cupboards full of medals, certs and trophies. Sport's Day was always THEIR day. That's why the Bro was sooo looking forward to watching his beloved nephew, while the MIM kept calling and speaking to me in whispers from his conference in far away Bombay.

What a grandiose atmosphere, in terms of energy, excitement and spirit. Wow! The bands, the colours, the march-past and the pledge...ooooohh! Thoroughly goose-bump inducing!

And what of the two budding sports-men? Little flash-back first. When the Nephew and the EO first started walking, they both had very unique and yes, hilarious individual styles. The Nephew would walk on tip-toe, his arms held out at each side for balance, with his thumb and forefinger joined together and pointing downwards. Dainty? Deliciously so!!
Now the EO, well, he had this rather wild swagger with arms flailing from side to side and a very stompy Bharatnatyam placement of feet. Kinda like tipsy baby gorilla meets sozzled Friar Tuck.
Seeing these two very unusual gaits, the SIL's younger brother christened the bearers of those swaggers, the French Barmaid and the Drunken Monk. Guess which one fit whom...

Cut to five years later. Said cutie-pies with the weird walks have evolved into pint-sized heart-throbs with even stranger running styles. My brother didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He finally settled on joining in on the belly-aching laughter.

The Nephew has finally managed to pin those arms down to his side now instead of somewhere mid-air. So now, he had morphed into the Penguin. My EO has taken on the mantle of the hoppity-skippity French Barmaid with gazelle genes in it's DNA.

But you know what, hopping and skipping aside, the EO had a blast! I could see the sheer joy on his face as he ran and to me, that was all that mattered!

The other highlight...my YO, despite being quite ill, participated in the visitor's race, little boys under ten. He was definitely the smallest and youngest in the line-up, but he finished the race. He finished. And he was so proud of himself. As was I.

I was proud of both of my boys.

Now it's time to teach them how to run.

Of Music, Old Age and Contests

2009-12-01T15:21:00.004+05:30

The Bro is in town! Yaaayyyy! He arrived on the 25th, a little before midnight. So the boys and I are currently at the 'maike'! Bigger 'YAAAYYYYY!!!' Of course the weekend saw us back at the sasuraal because it was the FIL's b'day bash and plus an adorable and gorgeous SIL was in town, but as of today, we's back at the parents'! So allow me to say it again -- yaaaayyyyyyyy!

It was beyond touching to see the way the EO behaved when he saw his Mamu. He woke up to find himself sleeping next to my mom (which he normally looks forward to, but not this Thursday!!) Disappointed at not being next to his Mamu, he shook MaaJanoni awake, reprimanded her for not depositing him next to said beloved Mamu and then proceeded to run to that same beloved Mamu's room and wake him up with little brother in tow. The Bro very sleepily hugged his nephews and then I shushed them out of the room to start off with the business of the daily grind. Two minutes later, my sleepy Bro walks into the room and a very, very, VERY thrilled little EO shrieks with delight and launches himself at his Mamu. The Bro picks him up and my EO hugs him with all his might, refusing to let go, for a full five minutes, until I had to finally pry him off! The EO then proceeded to do a happy dance :-)

The YO didn't behave as enthusiastically, observing the Bro for some time before he decided that he was alright. Hes, the pack of Hot Wheel cars definitely helped!! But I can't really blame my little one, after all 'Mamu' was just a concept to him, someone his big brother, mother and grand-parents spoke about with great love and affection; someone whom he had no memories of at all, being just a year-and-a-half when he was last here. But here's someone who has the good sense to bring him cars and chocolates...what's not to love?

As for me? It's great having him back! We've already had our chats, heart-to-hearts and many conversations. One of the more memorable ones ran thus...
After coming back from a day trip to Shantiniketan with the MIM, MaaJanoni and MY iPod, the Bro, who has always loved my taste in music, says to me, "Dids, good collection...some great music there...but why does everything have to be so slow?"
Me: Slow?!? Have you seen all my playlists?!?
the Bro: Oh yeah, I have...hence the 'slow'. And old.
Me: (sputtering) But it's got the Scorpions, Bon Jovi, some Deep Purple and Guns 'n' Roses on it!!!
the Bro: Yeah...slow. And old!!

That's it. I've done it. I've actually lived long enough for 'The Scorpions' and 'Deep Purple' to be declared slow and old!! And no...I'm not even remotely interested in what's on the Bro's music list!
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I'm a contest junkie. The SMS and online kind. Remember that site that I had asked all of you to visit a while back? Mummyknowsbest.com? Well, the good folks there are back with another great contest...this one's for the bookworms!! Trust me, you'll love it!! Please do go and check it out folks! Go, participate, win!! Click here for deets!
And if you find the time, let the gals there know what you like, don't like and would like to see on their site! :-)

Spread the Love, Please

2009-11-25T16:06:00.003+05:30

I love the blogworld. I love reading blogs, discovering new ones and adding my own two bits too. I love it so much that I kick myself for not finding myself a place on it earlier. Anyway, better late than never.

Now, there are a few blogs out there that put the 'zip' in my 'zippety-do-dah'. Parul's blog is one of them and it has been nominated in the Best Personal Indiblog category. Do go over and vote for her. PLEASE!! If anyone deserves it, she does!

While voting for her, I noticed two other nominations that deserve all the support that they can get; Indian Homemaker in the Best Humanities Indiblog category and IndieQuill for the Best Entertainment Indiblog category.

Lots of other popular blogs are up for nominations in various categories. Go on and show them all your love. Here. Please. Thanks!

The One With Noddy In It: The YO's 3rd Birthday Party

2009-11-24T14:54:00.008+05:30

Sigh...

That's right, I'm starting off this one with a sigh.

This is the long over-due birthday party post. The one with Noddy in it. The one where my YO turns three. The one where my little one leaves his toddlerhood behind him.

Before I start describing the party, I need to draw out a little table. Of birthdays in my family. Birthdays that are celebrated before the YO's birthday.
September: Bro, YO, SIL, the MIM
October: the Neice, Maa-Janoni, BIL
That's seven...yup, count 'em, SEVEN big birthdays, bashes, cake cuttings, Happy Birthday 'singing' et al, that happen before the YO's, (Okay, maybe not the Bro's but the rest...yups!) Add to that the fact that the entire population seems to have procreated during the winter months (finding pleasurable ways to keep warm, I'm guessing...what, blankets not enough for you folks?!?) and thus spawned in the fall, the majority of birthday parties seem to fall in the fall! So with all these birthdays happening all over the world and Jupiter, the YO was getting desperate for his own bash...with his own friends and his own cake and his own khoi bag, with a 'Happy Birthday' song just for him.

Words can not do justice to portray his impatience. Everyday he'd wake up and ask me, "Aajge aamaar budday?" (Today's my budday?) The same question, at least 150 times through the course of the day. His little face falling each time he was told it wasn't but not enough to deter him from asking me yet again after fifteen minutes. As if by sheer dint of his perseverance, the answer would be different this time round.

And then, it happened. After more than a month of being told, "Naa babu, aajke naa, aashchey" (No sweetheart, not today, it's coming)...it happened. The sparkle left his eyes and the anticipation died.

When he woke up that morning and I kissed him and hugged him and wished him a big, jolly 'Happy Birthday', he just asked me, "Aajge aamaar budday?" and I squeezed him tight and said "Yes, my baby, yes!! Aajke tomaar budday!!", he just nodded sagely and got down from my lap. I think I died a little.

The YO's birthday is on the 17th of October. This time, it coincided with Diwali so we decided to have the party on the 15th, even though Maa-Janoni and the MIM's parents weren't in town. It was the MIM's decision actually. It was breaking his heart to see how badly the YO wanted to celebrate his birthday. I now think we should have celebrated it two weeks earlier, while he was still excited! Anyway, while I had taken Diwali into account, I'd forgotten about Dhanteras, which explains why 70% of the YO's class was MIA. I'm not ashamed to say that I was upset and angry as hell!

We had chosen Timezone as the party venue...a place kids LOVE!! Video games for different age groups, a toy train, rocking animals, cars and planes, a minuscule bowling alley, a tiny merry-go-round and a small kids area.

Now normally, the YO runs amok here. But somehow, that day, his heart just wasn't in it. He saw his friends come in bearing gifts of love, but all he wanted was to be carried by either me, the MIM or his ayah.

It was killing me to see him so distant, cranky and disinterested. All the kids and their parents!, were playing the various video games and having fun. All the kids except my little one. Wasn't anything going to change his mood?

And then...it happened! The smiles...the whoops of delight...the sparkle in his eyes and the excitement. When my DaddyDearest walked in with the cake. One look at the pastry pieces of Noddy and Big Ears sitting in a marzipan and chocolate sponge Noddy car cake and my little boy was jumping up and down with excitement. He refused to leave it's side and watched over it...as if he was guarding over the treasures of Fort Knox; as if he was an M4 watching over her EO and YO.

When it was finally time to cut the cake, I was actually a bit worried about the YO. I was hoping and praying that we be spared a tantrum of YO-tuan proportions when it came to the actual, physical cutting of the cake...and luckily, the gods heard my prayers! Amidst much clapping, singing and blowing of candles, and with loving help from the EO, the Nephew and the Neice, my YO happily cut his cake. He was now ready to eat and party!

Aahhh! Happy times were here again! The menu was simple...pizzas, non-veg momos, veg spring rolls, veg noodles with a non-veg or veg side-dish, and of course, the cake! After the eatings and drinkings there was much more playings to be done and this time my happy little YO joined in with great gusto!

So many friends made this day special. A big shout-out to bloggy Sue who was there with her Vicks and the heart-meltingly gorgeous Bhablet, as well as to the MIM's BFF who happened to be down from London. Equally special mention to me made of friends P and J (hehehe...PJ!), who catered the food and more so to J, whose birthday it 'really' was! (See! Another one of them fall babies!)

Back home, the presents were attacked with much respect. The MIM had gone out with said BFF and I looked on indulgently at the mess my boys created, their shrieks of delight like music to my ears, especially the YO's.

It was a happy birthday after all!

A Birthday Wish and a Thought

2009-11-17T22:38:00.004+05:30

Happy birthday to the first man in my life -- DaddyDearest. Having you live so close to me is knowing that my slice of peace and bliss are near. You're the bestest, daddy, and I wish for you a life free from aches, pains and worries. I wish for you peace of mind, contentment and huge large chunks of happy! Love you!

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Dear YO,

You know, today you are exactly as old as your brother was when you came into his life. I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking about this little statistic and it's been on my mind for the past few weeks.

Perhaps it's because that time is a blur to me. I was so busy wrapping my brains around the fact that I was a mommy of two, that I seem to have missed out on precious moments with the both of you. Looking at you now, I seem to be getting a sense of what your brother may have been like at that time.

Or perhaps it's because you suddenly seem to have gone baby-crazy. You see a baby on TV and you're riveted. When you can finally tear your eyes away long enough, you shriek at the top of your voice, "Dekho! Dekho! Baby, baby, BABY!" Then this time at the pujo pandal, and even more recently at a birthday party, you just wanted to be with the baby there. You wanted to pick her up in your arms, carry her around, sit her down on your lap and just plain drink in the essence of her delightful baby smell and revel in being the big boy. It's almost like you're trying to tell me that you're ready to be a big brother.

Or perhaps all this wistful reminiscing is because you're growing up WAY too fast for me, my little one. I miss your chubby hands and dimpled thighs. I miss the gurgles and the coos and the cuddles.

I miss your babyhood, my baby.

Love,
Mamma

I Wish I Had a Camera Today

2009-11-16T22:08:00.004+05:30

Which is very ironic, as I was wishing this wish in a photographer's studio where I had taken the YO to get a passport-size snap clicked.

I think the photographer clicked about a dozen snaps before she finally got one right (or rather, one which I half-heartedly approved!!) All the ones before deserve to be put up in a Funny Faces Hall of Fame...each expression more Court Jester than the last! And what comedic timing! Just as the photographer would say, "Smile" and press down on the shutter, he'd transform from well-behaved school-boy complete with side-parting in hair, to YO the Comical, YO the Horrid, YO the Prince of Imps. Either he'd squint his eyes, roll his eyes side-ways, give us a toothy grin complete with a thumbs-up sign or he'd squeal 'Cheese' or 'Banana Pudding' and then break out in a buck-toothed grin!!

Yes, yes! It all sounds delightful and adorable and oh-so howlarious! But you should have been there...

to see just how much!