#WFHMs and Growing Boys

The boys' holidays have started, unofficially. Exams got over Friday morning and by Friday afternoon they had already managed two things:
1) mentioned the word 'bored' 245 times, and
2) had Mamma wishing she took Valium.

Sigh. This is why I hate it when school is closed...

Yes, I said it. You can hand me 'The Bad Mamma Award' now.

This morning, as I attempted to get some work done, I had the YO trying to snuggle into my lap so that he could carry on a conversation about his love for sports, while the EO went round and round in circles asking me questions about Robespierre and Mary Antoinette. They  effect of yesterday's viewing of "Mr. Peabody & Sherman", you see.

Didn't have the heart to throw them out of my room, because man! They're growing up! I mean, the little one starts Class 3 next month and the elder one, why, he crosses over to the Big School! Literally! It's another building altogether, across the street from their safe little haven. A whole new world, if you look at it.

We've been trying to prepare him for it over the last few weeks. About the big boys, the indifferent teachers, the possibility of bullies and the need to stick with your friends. I think we did too good a job, because the other day when my MIL asked him how it felt to be on the threshold of Class 6 and Big School he replied that he was ready for his "descent into hell." Hmmmm, I think we scared him more than prepared him!

And then, on Sunday, I was lying down on my bed, reading a great book, when he suddenly zipped into my room and threw himself on top of me to give me the tightest, bone-crushingest hug possible, making silly, little boy sounds. My heart over-flowing with love for this beautiful boy of mine who I gave birth to ten years ago, but still seems like yesterday, I asked him, a little scared, "EO, don't you want to grow up?" And he looks into my eyes and says. "No."
M4: Why?
EO: Growing up bad. Me no like growing up. Me stay small.
M4: So you want to be Peter Pan all your life?
EO: Hai. Si. (apart from braces, the boy seriously needs some language lessons as well...he's been wanting to learn Japanese and Spanish since forever. Now added to the list is Greek, for some reason)

Anyway, the point is that I don't want it either. For them to grow up. I'd like to be able to manipulate time. I'd like to be able to bottle up their babyhood and toddlerhood. I'd like them to remain beautiful, innocent and sensitive forever.

And with them, I'd like to be forever young too.

And so I succumbed...

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.

That's Just It, Really

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.

Today...

...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

All For the Flag

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

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.

For the Love of Language

(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.

One Wedding and A Funeral

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.

M4 is in raptures.

They were like gazelles, leaping across the stage. Their effortless grace, youthful beauty and absolute surrender to the supreme artform took my breath away and left me a blubbering, sobbing mess in the auditorium.

I have been so moved after ages.

A perfectly executed Odissi recital does that to me.

It always does.

M4 is lost...

...in the pages of "The Lost Symbol", the latest by Dan Brown.
Regular programming will continue once she has devoured and digested the contents.

However, before I sign off, I would like to tell you all, about this site a good friend of mine has been working on. I think it's brilliant and something we mommies can all use as a reference guide. As a favour to me, please do check it out and if you like what you see, do spread the word. There's a contest going on now too! FUN!!

Here's the link...and remember, suggestions are most welcome! http://www.mummyknowsbest.com/

Sometimes, when you're down and out...

...the magic mix of music, chocolate and a chick-flick is all it takes to get the cool breeze to tickle your eye-lashes again.

My week-end recommendations:
Music --
1) ABBA (Thank You for the Music, Slipping Through My Fingers, I Have a Dream)
2) Bryan Adams (Cloud No. 9, Heaven, Summer of '69, Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman?)
3) Bob Marley (Buffalo Soldier, Is This Love)
...all played on a really high volume.

Chick-Flick --
1) Ghosts of Girlfriends Past
2) Confessions of a Shopaholic

Chocolate --
1) What? Are you kidding me? ANY!!

My Santoor Moment

I went for a superfantabulous Rabindra nritya-natya (Tagorean dance-drama) today. A friend of mine, rather well-known in Kolkata, was one of the PR agents and he organised the passes for Maa-Janoni and me.

Now my mom is a very open, warm, gregarious and friendly person. She attracts friends like I attract cellulite. She can talk to anyone and everyone and people tend to open up to her very easily. I am so the opposite of her that growing up I got and still do get, very often, "I can't believe you're her daughter!" Yup, shy, reserved, timid wallflower -- that's me. But then, I'm also Daddy's girl.

But I digress.

So, we're sitting in the auditorium. My Ma-Janoni in the meanwhile has managed to get chatty with her neighbour. My friend has just made a speech in perfect Bengali followed by excellent English. The two women start singing his praises and Ma-Janoni tells the woman that he's a friend of mine. Woman looks over at me, takes in my appearance from over the top of her spectacles, and then smiles.

Woman: Tomaar bondhu? (Your friend?)
Me: Hein. (Yes.)
Woman: Bhishon talented chheley. (Very talented young man.)
Me: Hein. (Yes.)
Woman: Khub bhaalo gaan korey. (He sings very well.)
Me: *Nods and makes a note to make him sing the next opportunity she gets*
Woman: Toh, kono future-ttuchure kichchu achchey? (Toh koi future-wuture ka chakkar hai?-- the 'with him' is implied.)
Me: *Totally albeit pleasantly zapped!!* Ki?!? Aamaar? Aamaar biyey hoyey gechchey aar duto chcheeley achchey. (What?!? Me? [the 'and him' is implied] I'm married with two sons!)
Woman: *Totally zapped and open-mouthed*

Hehehe! God bless oily skin! I cribbed throughout my adolescence, but it sure is coming to good use now!
(Aur bure nazar waale and jealous cats, tere chehere pe 100 pimples!!)

Shantiniketan and Party Time

So the MIM and I went to Shantiniketan. Suddenly. An impromptu but much needed trip. I won't say much about why we went, except for the fact that a project very close to our hearts required immediate attention. We were supposed to go two weeks ago, but what with the boys being ill, that obviously didn't happen.

So when friends of ours called Friday morning to tell us they were going and would we like to tag along, the MIM jumped at the opportunity. I declined...too much to do here. But an hour before they were scheduled to leave, I felt guilty about letting the MIM go and tackle everything on his own, so I called him up at work and said I'd go too. He was thrilled :)

I quickly coordinated with Maa-Janoni about my kids and I knew they'd be fine. Finally, sometime after one, the PJ couple and their two adorable sons, S1 and S2 arrived and we were on our way. Seeing S1 and S2, both of whom happen to be near about my boys' ages, made my heart ache for my little ones! This was the first time I had ever left both of them behind and gone off somewhere with the MIM. I am hoping this will be the last! ('hoping', I said 'hoping'! Don't want it to turn into a case of famous last words and jinx the proceedings now!)

Shantiniketan is glorious and peaceful and beautiful. It's just nature all around, nature and an awe-inspiring sense of creative energy. It's not beautiful in the picture-postcard sense, but there is that je ne sais quoi about it. A feeling, I guess. Moments waiting to be inhaled in deep lungfuls until it becomes a part of you. My words here cannot begin to do justice to the feelings I associate with the place...it just awakens the poet in me, the country-lover, the nature worshipper, the absolute pagan, Wiccan, songbird that my soul believes itself to be.

Here, I become a Tagorean song. I am batik and kantha and Santhali jewelry. Aami ghono megher chhaya, aami mishti haowaar chhowaa. Aami paakhir daak, aami maatir meye. I start wondering what I'm doing with my life, the sheer materialism of it all and worry about not nourishing my spirit enough. *sigh*

So last night, while one part of me drank deeply of the soil, the other part missed my boys something fierce...especially when I saw the way S1 and S2 were hugging each other in their sleep. Even the MIM stopped short in his tracks as he passed by the doorway and saw them sleeping. He stood there for a long time, looking at them wistfully and smiling a sweet-sad smile.

Never again. *sigh* Never again. I HOPE, I HOPE!! (jinx, anti0jinx, counter-jinx and whatever other jinx-nix there is!!)
******************************************************************
I was in a rush to get back! The YO had a birthday party to attend, at 4.30 and I really wanted him to go. It was his first, official invitation, after all. The first, classmate's-birthday-party! How could he not go? And he was so excited about it too!

Things got off to a late start, we barely finished what we had come for, had lunch and by the time we set off, it was past two! Three hours is the bare minimum that it normally takes...without pee-breaks, cha-breaks and the like. That meant reaching the city by five...if we were lucky!

The MIM flew the car on the highway. Really! And we combined the breaks into a one-stop, do-all break and set off again. We reached home at 5.15! I literally jumped out of the car, made a mad scramble for the flat, changed and wrapped the birthday present in 15 minutes flat! A record! I'm sure!

It was almost 5.40 by the time we left and my little one could hardly contain his excitement! We reached at around 6.10...we had just missed the cake cutting :( but we were just in time for the khoi-bag. I had made a mental promise to my son that I would take him to his very own, first ever officially invited party, even if it was for half-an-hour. And I thank God that I was able to keep my promise to my little boy!

We were there for over an hour and I watched in wonder and happiness as I saw my little boy socialize with his friends, his peer group, his world away from home. I was filled with an indescribable sense of joy that I could do this for my son and be a part of it as well.

I had a lovely time as well and now, I'm finally feeling the strain of the last 48 hours and I'm ready to collapse. Let's not forget the pilates class that I attended before deciding to zoom off on the little road trip! As I feel my butt turn numb while my bones slowly turn to mud, one of my life's greatest truths comes crashing down on me...I'm so not a spring chicken any more. I'm all freeze-dried and rock solid. No amount of thawing is my salvation. I'm old, I'm old, I'm old.

Well, I'm just not young anymore. *sigh*

Building the Body Beautiful...or, How to Die a Slow, Painful Death or The Fat Busting Diaries, Contd.

I am pretty sure that 'pilates' were some sort of medivial torture-chamber routine designed to crack women, centuries ago. And I'm sure pirates were the preferred Masters of Death Ceremonies carrying out said torture. How else do you explain the one letter difference? (accent be damned!)

In my on-going quest to lose weight, I have joined a 'Body Balance' class at the swankiest health, fitness and beauty centre in town, 'Solace'. Although after today's back-breaking session, the place offers anything but! Once again, a little gem for my collection of 'The Bitter Ironies of This, My Life'.

My earlier venture did not bear fruit and was quickly abandoned. A lot of money, sanity and good humour was lost. I kid you not, but a law-suit was also considered for unethical practices, but I ran out of steam and patience. I still do think I'll write about my experiences to save others the trauma as well as a helluva lot of money, but who's gonna print it or believe it? You, my good friends and gentle readers, just believe me when I say, VLCC is all fraud. It is just a money-making machine -- STAY AWAY!!

Diets don't work. Except for one...water and one square inch of steamed tofu a day. But since I love food too much and hate tofu equally, we all know that said diet isn't even a consideration for moi.


At the ripe old age of 33, I have finally discovered the truth. And the truth is this...to lose weight, one must grant oneself a slow, painful, tortuous death. In other words, one must exercise.


Exercise is the key to losing weight. And that's why, two months ago, I renewed my love affair with the water. That's right, I started going swimming, 3 to 5 times a week.

I enjoy swimming. I love it. I'm a water-baby. A mermaid. A siren with a song. And the results showed! After three years, I finally had a waist again! Oh indescribable joy! And waist meet sari petticoat and bust-line say goodbye to sari petticoat! That's right people, the sari is being worn at it's righful place on this particular female form again!

And here's the thing about losing weight. When it starts to happen, I mean, really, really happen, it makes you hungry for more. I have always wondered whether after babies, boobage and blubber, you can ever be what you once were? Or are you reduced to a wardrobe of black for the rest of your days? I don't know, but I knew I wanted to try. Even if not what I was eight years ago, maybe what I was six years ago? And so when a friend of mine said she was going to join pilates class, I jumped on the band-wagon with a yee-hah and a vision of me in white, sleeveless dresses!

Monday was supposed to be the first class, but since I had a fever, I skipped it. This morning, I had a body-ache thanks to the viral, but other than that, I was okay. So I thought, let me give this body something to really ache about.

So mon amie and I, along with her really sweet mom, went for pilates today. As we stated working out together, side by side, I felt like I was in a chick flick movie :)

And then...OH MY GOD!!! It was sooooo intense!! My body hasn't hurt like that in years! And the poetic names for those poses, like Reverse Swan, Equestrian, Submissive Warrior and Rag Doll, did nothing to make the process easier.

I'm up for eleven more classes. My body feels like it's was used in a game of football by a team of rhinos and elephants. And yet I feel like I'm on a happy high.

Maybe the endorphins have something to do with it, but I know for a fact that I am happy with myself. Proud of myself. For actually trying to do something about the thing that's been keeping me down and depressed for so long.

I owned up. I took responsibility. And I'm fighting to get fit. So three cheers for me!

Next visit to the torture chamber, Friday. Oh, and we'll be working with balls.

Hehehe.

Stability balls, y'all.

Music to Touch my Soul

Some of my most magical memories involving the EO, the ones that make my heart sing like a songbird, have 'music' as an integral theme.

Now good music can make me oblivious to my surroundings. A haunting melody can have me slowly drowning within its intrinsic beauty, like a marble in molasses. A peppy tune can have my insides dancing to its earthiness and richness of rhythm. And songs with deep meaning and soul-wrenching lyrics are my undoing. They unravel me, slowly, sensuously, pain-stakingly, like a single silk thread from a heavy Kanjeevaram saree.

That is why, it is one of my greatest joys to watch the EO develop a taste and fine ear for music. It thrills me no end when he listens to some of my favourite tunes, entranced, enraptured, engaged.

I remember how one day, I was listening to one of my most favourite songs, 'Slipping Through My Fingers' (originally by ABBA, but I was listening to the 'Mamma Mia' version). I was lying down on my bed, my eyes closed, silently mouthing the words, feeling the feeling and floating away somewhere else. I suddenly felt a presence next to me and I opened my eyes to see my EO lying down next to me, not looking at me, his eyes telling me that he was drowning deep in the song as well. I watched his angelic face as he took it all in. What was his understanding of this song that seemed to echo my soul's thoughts about watching my babies grow up? Did he feel the intense maternal love dripping from the song? Could he connect it in any way to how I felt about him? And then, when the song finished playing, he looked at me and said, "Mamma, please play the song again." I happily did so...again and again.

I adore Rabindrasangeet. It is one type of music that can define me. The EO has discovered the beauty of a particular favourite of mine, 'Aaj Jyotsna Raate'. Maa-Janoni was singing it to him one day while telling him a story and he fell for it like a ton of bricks. And now that he knows that I know it too, I have to sing it for him on demand. As a result, he's picked up most of the song.

It really is a gorgeous feeling to listen to him sing when he thinks that no one is listening. I stop whatever it is I'm doing and drink in the sight, sound and sensation. For me, the bliss of these musical moments is akin to religious ecstasy.

That's because a perfect musical moment always and unfailingly helps me remember the Divine. And to watch my son take part in this type of worship is no less than exhilarating.
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Of course, no musical memory is complete without its set of funnies.

So while on the one hand I have a son who is trying earnestly to perfect, "Aaj jyotsna raate, shobai gechchey bon-ey. Bosonter-ei maataal shomiron-ey..."

On the other hand, I have another son who is singing, "Aaj jyotsna raate shobai gechchey bon-ey. Bosonter maathaa khaaraap hoyey gechchey..."

I don't even know how to begin to translate this! But trust me, it's hilarious!
My Bengali-speaking blog friends are welcome to try ;)

My Boys and I

For some spontaneous reason, July has been turning out to be my 'Get Long Overdue Things Done' Month. Whether it was pending tasks, articles and blog posts, it just started happening that way. Very uncharacteristic of me since I am the world's biggest procrastinator. No, it's not a fancy name for a dinosaur. It just means that I'm a lazy bum.

Today I had planned, in my head, that I was going to write two more movie reviews as my post. But then I read this and I changed my mind.

Tharini's post today was like a mirror being held up to my face. The honesty part that is...not the awesome part. (With apologies to Abha who tagged me weeks ago, I am still having trouble locating my awesomeness...)

I have been doing a lot of introspection about my relationship with my boys lately and I've come to the conclusion that it needs to be and can be a whole lot better, a whole lot funner, a whole lot wholesomer.

When the EO was a baby, I was clued into every facial expression of his, every sound, every movement, EVERYTHING. That's because as a first-time mom, I was obsessive, possessive and fierce! And I wanted to do everything for him myself. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. I kinda touched upon it in this post here, but really, you have no idea.

But here's the thing. I ENJOYED it. I was so into my baby bundle and the motherhood jazz was my favourite tune. I taught him rhymes, told him stories, played with him, took him with me wherever I went. Oh the bond we shared! The feeling is indescribable!

But, I didn't do the same for my YO. Call it the Second-child Syndrome, or the First-time Mommy Effect, but there are gaping holes in my mommyhood the second time round.

While my EO was bilingual from day 1 on this Earth, the YO is still more comfortable in Bengali. That's because he is around the ayah most of the time.
The EO's education -- nursery rhymes, the alphabet, numbers, you name it -- was more complete, because I had immersed myself into it with full enthu and gusto. With the YO it's been more of a laissez-faire attitude, "meh, he'll pick up as he goes along." And he has, but with little thanks to me.
Also, when it was just the EO and me, I hadn't gotten into working too much. Just the occasional write-up here and there. But now, I have more writing assignments (for which I am truly, truly grateful...Thank You, God, Thank You!!) and I have discovered the joys of blogging and Facebook. On top of that, for my birthday this year, the MIM gave me a BlackBerry. I am so addicted to my laptop that it's not even funny anymore.

Seriously. It's not.

And that's why I've decided to change.

Lately, my relationship with the EO seems to revolve around homework and unit tests. His childhood is crumbling before my very eyes and the other day he actually started crying and said, "Mamma, you don't let me play anymore!" I felt so terrible, so sad, so miserable. Drat these damned unit tests! Drat this school system! Drat the education board!

So, I've been putting my laptop away when my boys are around so that I can enjoy them. After all, they still enjoy me and my company and who knows for how much longer that will be? I have some special YO time reserved just for my little one and I know how much he cherishes it, how much he looks forward to it...and so do I!

I still have time to blog. My working is more paced (not all the time though, after all, I am the original procrastinator, am I not? I need to live up to that by letting my work pile up sometimes, right?) I have also discovered little pockets of me-time as well. So it's okay. It's all good.

It's just that I've realised that I don't just NEED to be in the moment, I WANT to be, and the only way I can allow that to happen is if I let it. Me. It all depends on me.

So here's to my attempts at being a better mommy. A journey I started a long time ago and which I intend to see right till the very end!

These are a few of my favourite things...

As all of you have noticed, I've been in a deadly, depressing kind of funk the last two weeks and all for reasons domestic. Let's just say that I let this certain person get the better of me all the time and I invariably end up drowning in negative energy and self-pity.

Also, my FIL had to be hospitalised while the MIM, boys and I were on our first ever trip abroad. We went to Phuket on the 31st and were due back to Kolkata, via a three-night stop-over in Bagkok on the 10th. On the 2nd, he was very critical and my MIL told us that she thought it best if we came back...just in case. The poor MIM was distraught and I was shaking with fear. We couldn't get a flight on the 3rd, but landed back home on the 4th. Luckily, and with greatest thanks to God above, the FIL came out of it, weak, but at least he's back home now.

With so much happening, I found myself sinking in a quagmire of nasty emotions and misery. And the feelings stuck to me like the humidity, sweat and grime of Calcutta's pollution, so I just couldn't seem to shake it off...until two things.

I took my mom to a place called Dakshinapan...this is a lovely, shopping complex where all the emporiums are. We went to Rajasthali and somehow, seeing the fabrics there and the colours and the prints, vivid memories of the girl I used to be just came rushing back. I was flooded with the person I was and how I used to dress...khadi kurtas, ethnic prints, handloom materials, tribal jewelry, big bindis, boho skirts, colourful jholas... I rocked that look. It was me, all me, pure and unadulterated ME!! Why did I let her go? I don't have a penchant for labels and designer names, so why do I get excited whenever certain items at Ritu's are in discount...and that too, the ugly ones?!? Why do I get upset that I can't wear noodle-straps and boob tubes? I never could! They don't suit me or my personality. I'm a very Indian-looking girl, oops, woman. I should just stick to what suits me best. Are my khadi kurta and faded jeans days over just because I left JNU a decade ago? No, not if I don't want them to be. Not by a long shot!!

The second incident happened when I was passing through Saturday Club and I got a whiff of chlorine coming from the pool. I actually stopped and breathed it all in...deeply, almost sinfully, like a lover's scent. And I got such a high! It made me feel vibrant and alive and I realised just how much I love and miss swimming. It rejuvenates me, it makes me feel whole and fresh. I should start swimming again, not just for weighty reasons aesthetic, but because I love it.

So now that these two incidents have kicked me out of my abyss of despair for the time being, I've decided to make a list of some of my favourite things. Things that put the sun into sunny-side-up...

~ My sons' laughter. A tickle fest, or a round of funny faces and the sweet sound of their pure, innocent laughter takes me straight-away to Mommy Heaven.
~ Chocolate.
~ Music, Music, Music. Specifically jazz, Rabindrasangeet, Masakalli, Prem Joshua.
~ Poetry.
~ Sweet, juicy strawberries; ripe, tangy kiwis.
~ Boiled corn. Roasted corn. Corn.
~ Cooking and feeding other people.
~ Rainy days.
~ Black'n'white Bengali movies, especially the oeuvre of Satyajit Ray.
~ Chick-flicks.
~ Art-house cinema.
~ Art.
~ Books.
~ Perfume. Especially from Lancome and Estee Lauder.
~ You. Yes, you all, my blog friends. Even though I may not have been blogging, I faithfully followed you all. Thank you for letting me into your lives and sharing. Without you all, in these past few days, I may not have recovered my sanity.

And now, won't you share your lists with me?

I'm still here...

but crumbling away inside, bit by excrutiating bit.

Have so much to say, don't feel like saying it.

Is this what dying feels like then?

Andamans Again: Part 3.75

To Me: On My __ Birthday
January 27th, 2009

Dear auntyjis of flabulous proportions;
with thunder thighs
and quadruple bums;
sporting cellulite
and wobbly tum-tums --
to you all I owe an apology,
and this I offer most sincerely.

I've often snickered
and rudely smirked
at your flowery swim-suits
complete with skirt.
The frilly ruffle
meant to hide
jelly thighs
and buttocks wide,
has many a-time,
I must admit,
been a huge source
of entertainment.

Even I, with my
not-so-perfect body,
found the look
disastrous and shoddy.
Looking at you
dressed in water-proof shroud,
of my more-than ample
curves, felt proud.

My pride has now
crumbled into the dust,
as my sniggers have come back
to bite my big, fat butt!

Oh how I've swallowed
all my pride.
When I looked in the mirror,
I nearly died!

I now understand,
oh I truly do,
why that frilly ruffle
is like a friend, true-blue.

It tries to shelter
and protect,
even offer you
a little self-respect.

Gone are the days
when you could cavort
in a sexy one-piece,
or even a bikini, sport!

So take heed,
all you stick insects.
Yes, you with those
boobless chests.

Revel in your
size-zero status;
your flat abs,
your pebble-like breasts.
For before you know it,
(it'll hit you hard!),
you'll be making friends with frills
that cover lard!

I've donned the frilly garb, you see,
at the ripe old-age of 33.
Yes, oh yes, I've also become,
a very ruffled auntyji!!

Five Small Things About a Big, BIG Love (a.k.a Around the World in 80 Clicks)

I have been tagged by the sunny Sue and the joyful Goofy Mamma to do this beautiful tag. Thanks guys! When I saw it doing the rounds I kept thinking to myself, impatiently like a child, "Mera number kab ayegaa?"

The tag is: 5 things that you love about being a mom. Next, find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (let them know that you've tagged them!) - and link back here and HBM and leave a comment.

Now I know some of the things that I feel and will write over here may sound like I'm parroting others' feelings about this blissful state of being, but that's just the thing about motherhood, isn't it? The sense of universality that it encompasses. In fact, if you sit back to think about it, it's one of the more major factors that have brought us together and made us bond. Hell, we even have a community all our own -- 'Mommy Bloggers.' I am so proud to be a part of this sorority. It's an honour, a priveledge and a pleasure.

You all know that I love being a mom. I harp on and on about it enough here ;)
Motherhood has totally and absolutely changed me. In good ways and yes, bad as well (but I won't dwell on that here). I feel as if I was put on this Earth to give birth to and mother these two little bundles of neverending joy and mischief that I've been so incredibly blessed with. I still do have dreams of my own, but I don't mind putting them on hold while I delight in the company of my children. My children. My sons. My boys. I am still overwhelmed whenever I say these phrases, whether out loud or to myself. So much so, that I actually stop and repeat it to myself a couple of times in my head just so that I can savour the beauty, wonder and bliss that these words fill me with...my children, my sons, my boys.

But having said that, am I a great mom? No, no, hell no! And when they grow up, I'm sure my boys will tell you the same. But I am a mom. Irrevocably so. Do I love being a mom every single second of the day? I'll honestly say "No", because motherhood comes with its fair bit of trials, tribulations and frustrations. But then again, those are only momentary. At the end of the day, I love being a mom every single day. And that's the truth too.

And here are my top five reasons for revelling in motherhood:

1) The act of creation. I am overawed about how I helped make these two little people and that they lived inside me for nine months each. For nine months they were nourished exclusively by me, grew in the coccoon that I provided, were comforted by my heartbeat and had their lives intimately intertwined with mine. The thought still fills me with absolute wonderment.

2) Linked to the above is that they have brought me closer to God. I don’t pray ritually everyday. I don’t go to the pooja room everyday. But I have a closer relationship with God today, than I did before motherhood. I just need to look into their eyes or hear them laugh to bring me closer to Those Above and feel grateful and thankful. I also feel anchored, which is how I pray my boys feel towards me.

3) I have learnt to see the world a-new through their eyes. A bird’s feather, a crawling ant, the setting sun look; everything seems fresher, brighter and newer when you look at them through the eyes of a child.

4) I have rediscovered the world of books. And music. Old favourites have made their presence felt in my life again, and I am not going to let them get away this time. Not just that, but my children have also helped reignite the flames of creativity. I was going through such a bad dry spell where writing was concerned. I thought my pools of imagination had dried up; that I’d lost vision and direction. But motherhood inspires me on a daily basis and in doing so it has brought me back to life.

5) Motherhood makes me want to be the best that I can possibly be. Not just as a mother, but as a woman, as a person – as me. I try to teach by example. I use the ‘magic words’ more often now, than I did in my entire life. I try to reach for the stars…I do fail, but it makes me try harder. Twenty years down the line, I want to be able to look them in the eye and say, “You know, I gave it my all and I’ve done the best I could.” And hopefully, they won’t fault me for that.

And now, I tag:
Mystic Margarita (US)
Preeti Sharma (Mumbai; not really a ‘mommy blogger’, but a mommy and a blogger, so…)
My Namesake (Bangalore)
Shankari (Chennai)
Karma Calling (US)