Hope...

"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*****.

One Year

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.

One month ago...

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...

Why???

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 :-(

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?

M4 is wondering why...

marriage doesn't come with a standard set of computerised compatibility tests...

If We Are Who We Watch...

The EO is Ben10. Ben10 in a Bengali boy body. Really and truly. He lagaos the lingo and dons the designs. All that's missing is the REAL omnitrix. But for now, he's got two expensive, flashy, replicas made in China until he acquires the real thing.

The YO has become obsessed with Noddy. So much so that he has started looking like him...huge, big eyes, an impish grin and a wobbly head.

The MIM, if you look hard enough, bears a slight resemblance to Arnab Goswami. My man's just got a more squashed up samosa for a nose, is a couple of shades more wheatish in complexion and smiles a lot more. Glasses and passionate, argumentative logic firmly in place, though!

So why the hell don't I look like Kate Walsh or Marcia Cross!! No?!? Ok, Suchitra Sen or Sonam Kapoor? Awww come on! At least Kajol!!
***********************************************************
And speaking of Ben10...
There's something that's just so awfully thrilling and touching and enchanting about the fact that sometimes, just the very rarest of sometimes, your five-and-a-half year old chooses Mickey Mouse over his favourite, boy/10 alien avtaar superhero.
Believe me, it's quite a "YES!!!!!" moment.

So Long, Farewell...

Well, that's it folks. All good things must come to an end, they say. And so today, I say "Goodbye." This is one more closed chapter...



in my EO's life. Today was his last day in this school. From next month, he'll be going to that other school. I thought I'd be howling, but because of the viral he missed school from last Wednesday right up to and including this Monday. And then, to top it all, Tuesday and Wednesday were holidays. So, it was basically yesterday and today that the EO had. Not enough time for my hysteria build-up to happen, I guess.

Unfortunately, I arrived a little late to pick him up, and he was standing there with two of his other classmates and his beloved class teacher. She was looking grief-stricken. Now she loves my EO tremendously, and I know it's not fake. I can normally tell if someone's feelngs for my children is genuine or not, and her love for my son is as true as a freshly baked, chewy, chocolate chip cookie...soft, warm, tender and comforting. I felt for her, I really did. She got down on her knees to hug my EO and she had tears in her eyes. She looked at him and lovingly asked him, "Will you miss me?" My son looked deep into her eyes, gave a sad smile and nodded. She said, "I'll miss you more than you'll miss me." And then they hugged. Then she looked at him and said, "Whenever you miss me, just close your eyes and I'll be there." And as soon as she said this, my little boy covered his eyes, a corny-yet-glowing smile on his lips, and then moved his hands away with a flourish...in the same way we play 'tookie' or 'peek-a-boo'. That gesture, so sweet, charming and utterly innocent, brought a tear to mine eye, and his teacher and I looked at each other sadly.

I will be seeing her again, for the the parent-teacher meeting and we promised to exchange e-mail addresses then. I took a photograph of her with my son and two of his classmates who were still waiting to be picked up.

I then needed to go to the main building to submit a request for his TC. Now to go from the primary block to the main school block, you need to cross over a HUGE lawn. The EO took off his bag and started to hand it over to me saying he wanted to run across. I opened my mouth to tell him to carry it himself, but immediately shut myself up, remembering that he wasn't going to get this opportunity again.

It was a bittersweet moment, watching my first-born run as fast as he possibly could over the beautiful, grassy lawn as carefree and happy as should be every child's birthright. I stopped to stare at him running. It seemed symbolic for so many things, but I took it the moment for what it was...my little boy, grabbing an opportunity, making the most of it and enjoying the moment. When he got to the other side, he stood there with his hands on his hips, a huge, goofy, happy smile spread across his face, his eyes dancing with joy. And I savoured that image for a long time.

Goodbye GH School. You've been wonderful to and for my son, and I owe you much by way of happy memories and for embracing my son with love, learning, good manners, good friends and two great teachers (last year as well as this).

Goodbye and thank you.

Miss I'm-Too-Big-For-My-Red-Carpet-Stilettos

Dear Ms. Pinto,

You are just one film old. And even then, your role was pretty blink and you'll miss it. And you weren't great even in those few stills. Let's face it, those kids could run circles around you and you'd get all dizzy and faint.

You claim you're all 'international now'? (Calcutta Times, pg.1, Feb. 26th 2009) When were you even 'national', sweetheart? And just what are you implying...that anything 'national' is not good enough for you?

So after Woody Allen, what next? Pink Panther 3?!?

Bad Men and Their Fast Cars

I read with horror about Kiran's experience with some two-bit actor who puffs his chest out and struts around under the name of Gaurav Chopra.

You worthless a#$&*^@!!! Mere words are not enough!!!

The Belan Brigade

When I first heard about the Mangalore pub incident, I was outraged. I wanted to pull someone's hair out, slap some perv faces and basically have the shit beaten out of the hoodlums. I'm sorry, but that is how I feel.

I get very militant when I hear about these kinds of injustices meted out...especially to the 'weaker sex'. I want to scream, lash out, morph into Jhansi ki Rani or Devi Chaudhrani and attack the scumbags.

When the Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women first came into existence, I yelled out a 'Hallelujah!' and joined with great gusto. I am a proud sister and am glad I'm part of this motley crew of creative, intelligent women (and yes, some men too, I believe!)

Then, they came out with the brilliant Pink Chaddi Campaign. With a war cry, I signed up. I thought the campaign was cute, cheeky, creative and oh-so-unique. I still do. But, at the same time, and over the past 48-hours more than ever, I feel that it is not enough.

Mystic Margarita and Emancipation of Eve's JB have put into words, brilliantly, my other feelings about this campaign.

Like Mystic, I am wondering about whether these illiterate dolts will get the sarcasm and spirit of our message? Will they wither at our outrage? Will they change their worthless ways? And most importantly, will they care?

I'm afraid not. They have already started collecting saris as a counter-attack. They are using our underwear as fuel for thier hateful fire and ire and using it to show their supporters that we are the cause for the morality spiralling downwards in this country.

And I love the points JB has raised as well. We have to fight back. We can not let them squeeze our breasts and 'get off', all in the name of protecting 'our' culture. 'Our' culture talks of protecting women, their freedom, their dignity, their femininity. We can not let them tear at our clothes and maul us, saying that they are doing it for the good of Bharat Mata. It is a symbolic rape of the daughters of the very Mata you are trying to keep chaste.

On the day of the pub-bharo andolan, I think along with our pink chaddis and Scotch on the Rocks, we should turn ourselves into a 'Belan Brigade' and arm ourselves with belans. Symbolic weapons of protest and protection. You so much as point a finger in our direction, I will break said bloody finger, even the whole hand, in self-defence.

To all my sisters ready for battle in the upcoming pubcrawls, remember ours is an act of defiance. But these goons have already shown that they will not think even once before slapping a woman or pulling her by her hair. Protect yourself and others too.

I raise a toast to you, your bravery and your wicked sense of humour! I will be with you in spirit, hopefully in some bar/pub in Kolkata, drinking my share of the bubbly and saying a prayer for your safety and the success of the campaign. May it be peaceful, may it be overwhelming, may it be successful!

CHEERS!

Pretty in Pink...Undies!

Pink chaddis. They can be very feminine. In a totally sex kitten kind of a way. Or in an innocent, baby-doll kind of a way. They can tell us what kind of a mood you're in too...sexy, naughty, raunchy, caught up with domesticity, blah, experimental, trendy...and rebellious.

Today, thanks to the initiative of some very cool, creative and outraged women, the pink chaddi has taken on new meaning. It has come to symbolise women asserting their individual right to freedom as citizens of this country. It is a symbol of our rage, our disgust. It is our voice, dressed up in a pretty colour and stitched into an intimate garment that expresses us in a unique and sit-up-and-take-note-you-bastards! kind of manner.

Join the Pink Chaddi Campaign. Today.

We are not airing our dirty underwear in public. We are hurtling our strong, worthy statements at those who are trying to carry out the equivalent of castration on the 'weaker' sex!

Take that, you neanderthal! And that, and that....

Fellow sisters in thongs, granny-pants and and other assortments of lingerie...
Bohemian Rhapsody
The Mad Momma
Anindita Sengupta
Within/Without
Indian Home Maker

Still Depressed...

So why did I slap my beloved five-year-old? Because he's forgotten how to add and spell 'number-words'. Cruel, cruel beyotch of a Mamma am I.

I should never have sat down with him yesterday to "see how he's doing and what he's up to", just out of the blue, and that too when I was already so cranky and irritable from the illness. Needless to say, he mucked up, I shouted, that flustered him even more and he messed up even more and I just slapped the boy silly and told him I'm going to throw all his toys and precious movies into a big bonfire. And when the YO came running to his defence, beyotch that I am, I yelled him into a shocked and stupefied silence.

I have been hating myself since the incident. Yes I'm sick. But instead of turning on my babies, I should have locked myself in the room, banged my head against the wall to get the pounding in m head to stop and knocked myself out cold.

And what happens? After the EO comes back from karate class, he wraps himself all over me and says "I love you my Mamma" about a zillion times and the YO has only hugs, giggles and smiles for me.

How easy it is for them to forgive and forget. They don't know what it is to hold grudges...why can't we take a leaf from their books?

My tears of guilt, shame and remorse have made a mighty river, yet I still don't feel calm.

You all hate me now, don't you? I don't blame you...I hate me too.

Depressed

~I've got the viral and the heaviness in my chest has set in. My body aches all over, it hurts to breathe and kills to cough.
~I just lost one of my regular, freelance projects. Damn this recession!
~I hit the EO and scolded the YO. I hate myself!

Missed my 'Jan 1st' Post...

because I was a greey little sow who had to hog the 3 a.m. biriyani that everyone else was wolfing down.

My tummy avenged itself the whole of yesterday, by keeping me moaning and groaning on bed and away from my precious laptop.

Not a happy start to the year! :(

The Rock of All Things

I hang your name
about my neck
and it dangles
between my breasts.
Sometimes a pendant;
beautiful
light,
inobtrusive
yet reassuring me that
it's there.
Sometimes a boulder;
burdening me
with the very idea of
your existence.

Rock,
boulder,
diamond
or coloured glass,
it changes face
with the varying moods
of my love
and indifference
and reminds me
of your place
in my Book.

Fat Poem

Hey diddle, diddle,
The fat and the frizzle...
My thighs shake all on their own.

My tummy's all lard,
Of the jelly-type, that too...
And my hips are way past over-grown.

When Fat Cells Eat Up Your Grey Cells...

...you become an idiot.

And I, dear friends, am an idiot. Of the biggest kind (a certain pun intended...) Carry on gentlefolk, to read my story of how I allowed myself to be absolutely and thoroughly bemuddled into joining a weight-loss centre.

I got a VLCC gift voucher as a gift from a credit card company.

Now, everybody knows how much I crib about my weight...and why not? I am fifteen kgs overweight. I was never slim and trim, but I was never such a hot-air balloon like figure either. It's one of my major causes for depression. (Yes, I do suffer from depression...there! I've said it out loud and I feel strangely lighter...but the battle with the little demons that surround me, leave me feeling tired, unhappy and soul-less. {I can't believe I've just admitted all that!})

But as I was saying before I started rambling, I am overweight and I have tried to do things about it before. I started going for walks soon after the YO was born, and everybody said that the results were showing. And then, I just stopped. The only available time on my hands was the evenings, but that time is heavy traffic-time for me...chasing after the kids, sometimes dropping & picking the EO and my friend's sons from karate class, feeding my boys, putting them to bed...I felt very rushed. I know it's not a good excuse, but it's the truth.

Next, I joined a gym for a month. I didn't even go regularly, but in twenty-one days I lost three kilos! That should have been incentive enough for me to keep going, but I didn't, because the gym timings were in the morning and that meant I had to go after dropping the EO off to school and before picking him up. That meant, the being away from home during the only exclusive time I had with my YO. And I thought bonding with my teeny-tiny babe was more important than those then 10 extra kilos.

But now that the YO has started school, I have been toying with the idea of going back to the gym. And then this voucher fell into my lap. It gave me a 30% discount on slimming or beauty packages, plus Rs. 5,000/- worth of treatments free. Never one to pass up a freebie and considering that this was also going to help carve a slim-waisted figure out of a lumpy mass of fat and flesh, and also not to ignore the fact that there's a VLCC centre just half-a-kilometer away from home, I decided to drop in.

The lady, sales rep, centre manager or what-have-you, knew her spiel backwards. And even though I am not a naive bumpkin and went in there knowing that to avail of those beautifully-worded freebies I'd have to shell out some amount from my pocket, I never imagined that I would be thwacked in the face with the astronomical figure of Rs. 40,000/-!! This, Ms. VLCC claimed, was how much it would cost me to lose a measly five kgs (hah!) and to tighten my tum-tum and thighs (that had me really interested) in x-amount of sittings. I shook my head politely and said that thanks, but no thanks I would just take the weight-loss package that guaranteed to have me 5 kgs lighter in time for Christmas.

But Ms. VLCC was not to be outdone. She carried on trying to convince me to go for ten sittings, instead of 20, for the thigh and tummy toning thingamajig. That still meant Rs. 20,000/-. Her well-toned upper arms, which she purposely flaunted in that sleeveless kurta, obviously worn to woo desperadoes like me who craved for an unflappable pair, seemed to mock me. My resolve was weakening, I could tell, but to my credit, I sat firm.

Finally, a last ditch effort by Ms. VLCC....and I caved. The thought of slimmer thighs and being able to fit into a pair of jeans that didn't have an elastic waist-band to accommodate a growing person inside of me, was just too good to pass up.

Yes. I am indeed walking around with a post-it stuck to my forehead, loudly proclaiming me to be a "SUCKER!!!"

And thus starts the story of how I allowed myself to be bamboozled into joining a weight-loss and slimming centre. Just so that I could get some freebies. And hopefully feel lighter around my 'problem areas'.

And I must say, it's already working. My bank balance is already feeling lighter by several thousands of rupees! And so is the inside of my head...those grey cells must really be dwindling in number!

Empty

You said you would
drink from my eyes
and sip from my soul;
so I offered you both
asking nothing in return.

Bankrupt
now,
and broken,
I hope you rot away
to food poisoning.