Haiku

A fine cup of tea,
A book, popcorn, melody.
The drizzle of rain.

In Deep

Can I wrap myself
in your coffee bean smell
and snuggle in it’s
morning-madness memory,
indifferent
yet routine,
familiar
predictable?

Hang about your neck
like a withered garland,
drained of all fragrance,
a pale shadow
of it’s former glory and beauty,
yet rightful occupant
around the temple deity’s
stone neck?

Can I rip
the buttons off your shirt,
claw your skin,
mark you,
bleed you
and then lick you
till you tingle,
you like it,
you scream?

Can I hate myself
for just,
for just,
for just….

Hell.
I don’t know.

I know.

You know.

For just…

For the sake
of what
it once was.
For the sake
of what
we once had.

Just for that.

Creative Menopause

For a while there,
I was worried.
So
terribly,
terribly worried.

I thought
I’d
lost you.
I thought
I’d
never get you back.

It’s a sinking feeling,
of deep,
dark,
despair.
A depression
which smothers your
soul-breath
out of you.

I’d sit lost
and dumb,
like a lonely semi-colon,
helpless in my
floundering
feelings
of fear
and failure.

But now,
you’ve gushed back
into my life.
You’ve found me
and I’ve got you good,
oh so good! So great!
I’ve got everything!

I can write once again!

Welcome back,
my precious,
precious
words!

For Want

For want of a darling, perfect man;
For want of that exhilaration called love;
For want of a spiritual calling
And heavenly messages from above.

For want of riches, fame and fortune;
For want of sheer earth-shattering genius;
For want of eight more measly inches
And a face that’s truly glamourous.

For want of memories sweet and precious;
For want of unrelenting, creative bliss;
For want of that awareness of being cherished;
And for lack of adventurous, passionate trysts.

For want of feelings of self-fulfillment;
For want of a life that seems complete;
For want of second, third and forth chances
And senses fully replete.

I go the distance alone,
With nobody by my side,
Behind these pieces of poetry
My true feelings do I hide.

So I smoke and fuzz my brain,
I eat chocolate by the tonne.
Were it not for jazz and moonlight,
To emptiness would I have succumbed?

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Okay, let me first get this out of the way…I LOVE HARRY POTTER! I just love the entire series and I was going nearly insane waiting for the last book. It’s finally here, in my hands, my home, my heart and I intend to keep it there forever. I am just waiting for my boys to turn ten so that I can introduce them to Harry (the books, my eldest has already seen the first two movies) and hopefully they will have made a new best friend for life. Somewhere in the somewhat-near, somewhat-distant future, bedtime stories will be revolving around magical exploits in and around Hogwarts. Through my boys, I hope to relive the wonder of these magical tales and see things from their viewpoint and through their imagination.

Man, I love, just LLLOOOVVVEEE Harry Potter! J.K. Rowling, you are a genius!

Phew! That felt good, getting it off my chest.

And now. Book Seven. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Where do I begin? What do I say? Let me try.

Being the Potterhead that I am, I can say with absolute conviction that in my opinion, this is the BEST in the entire series. So much better than a Mission Impossible or a Sunny Dutt ‘action’ movie. In fact, no comparison! This book, peace and quiet, an endless supply of café latte and some huge chocolate bars and you’re all set for the weekend.

Without giving much away, this book had everything and more…adventure, secrets revealed, temper tantrums, sentimental mush, drama, heartbreak and a battle of good vs. evil to end all battles. The most important factor about this book is that it answers all the questions that we have been mulling over for the past n number of months. And these are some great answers that we’re talking about here.

We heartily cheer on our favourite wizarding musketeers, as they try to figure out where the remaining Horcruxes are, how to destroy them and ultimately Lord-What’s-His-Name and his boisterous band of psychotic Death-Eaters, each one a pure study of mad, bad, dangerous evil. Especially riveting is the character of Bellatrix Lestrange, who comes across as a fanatical-bordering-on-obsessive Lord Thingamijig groupie.

And it is this evil that makes me wonder if this can be classified as children’s literature at all. Yes it’s true that the books have been getting darker and darker as Harry and his friends grow up and make that transition from tween to teen to young wizard adult. But how much violence can an immature, impressionable mind take in? Do they fully grasp the meaning of what it is to take a life? The word 'kill' is never a word to be taken lightly.

So who is this book for? Not ten and eleven year olds, surely. Fifteen plus? Yeah, I guess, but even then, will they ever be able to fully take in the complex emotions etched out so brilliantly by Rowling? Will they ever appreciate how instinctive it is for a parent to sacrifice his/her life for their child? Will they recognize the compelling and overwhelming power of love and how it can make you do anything? Will they understand that even when the world seems like the worst possible pace to live in, there is reason to carry on, that there are some things worth fighting for?

I am not trying to sell this book short at all. Never. In fact it is a book that all (gasp, dare I use the term? Ahh, what the heck?) elderly teens should read, because it is thought provoking and there is so much to be learnt here. The wonderful thing is that Rowling thwacks us with these lessons in a delightful, unpreachy manner, which makes the whole process entertaining. Valuable lessons in friendship can be imbibed from Harry, Ron and Hermione’s commitment to one another. We learn that we have to live with hope, because without hope, there can be no way to carry on and life not only becomes meaningless, but truly desolate and utterly empty. We are faced with the truth that even our heroes and our icons have flaws and are not infallible, it’s what being human is all about. We learn not to judge a book by its cover and so many other valuable life lessons. Clichéd, maybe, but lessons that can never be taught enough.

So to all you fans, who have started reading it or are still waiting to read it, ENJOY! Savour it, keep those hankies ready, maybe a huge bowl of hot buttered popcorn or onion bhajis and keep a friend handy too, in case you want to rant, rave or simply talk about it all. To all you Potterheads, I wish you everlasting bonds of friendship, the Harry-Ron- Hermione kind!

Yeh Lazy Lazy Mummy!

Shame on me! Just shame on me! It's been how long since I've registered to be on this blog? And how many blogs have I posted on it? You count...I'm too embarrassed!

I can't even plead 'busy with kids' as an excuse! I have recently come across this wonderful woman's wonderful blog, TheMadMomma, and she does it all! She has shamed me good and proper. If she can handle house, hubby, two kids and job, then why can't I do it? All it requires is discipline and organisation right! Well, I have been trying for the last few days...and I've failed miserably! How does The MadMomma do it? Simple...I'm convinced she's Wonder Woman!

Anyway, I may not be able to type a blog a day, but I promise to be more regular than I have been this past one year. I'll start off by posting some of my old writing, even if it doesn't fall into the 'mommy category'. At least I'll be posting and sharing...and at the same time, archiving!

But in the meanwhile, if you want to read a superbly written blog...this isn't it, just yet! Skip on over to http://thebratthebeanandbedlam.wordpress.com/ for a good laugh, some serious thought and a great read! You can all thank me later!

Motherhood Inc.

This is from my archives. I wrote this over three years ago. My take on what being a first-time mom felt like. I hope you enjoy it!!
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Motherhood Inc.

Around six months back, I had reached the pinnacle of my womanhood. I had finally fulfilled my biological destiny. I had metamorphosed into a Hipmokanlicow.

What’s that? Oh? You thought that I was talking about my entry into that celebrated and renowned global club, “Motherhood Inc.”? Well yes, I am. But didn’t you know that there’s a special name for all its’ newest members? No, no! Not ‘mother’, that’s the generic term. It holds good for all the living, breathing, breeding female of the species. The newest incumbents are called ‘Hipmokanlicows’. We aren’t human. We are a hybrid of all those creatures you see on Animal Planet. We are a special breed altogether. Let me deconstruct us for you.

The ‘hip’ comes from hippopotamus. You do not need to be Einstein to figure this one out. What with all the extra padding that balloons out and attaches itself to us and that ungainly gait that defines us, it is only understandable that we are ‘hip’.


The ‘mo’ from monkey. This stems from the desire to swing from the ceiling fan by a non-existent tail or to hang upside down and make ludicrously ridiculous faces and noises to get our little ones to smile. Once you see those smiles and hear those chuckles of pure joy, you will want to devote your eternity into making your baby give you those heart-melting, toothless, gummy grins of delight. And if that means performing the tricks of a circus monkey, then so be it.

The ‘kan’ comes to us from kangaroo. This is a rather new development. It evolved over the last few decades. This character trait belongs to those of us who use slings to carry our young around. A useful feature, but slightly painful with each kg our young add on. And when they start to thrash about in excitement or anger --- ouch!

The ‘li’ bit is from lioness. This ferocious, innate, beast-like trait is inbuilt in our hormones. We will rip off any predator’s head with unremorseful viciousness if they so much as make our cubs squeak in pain or fear. We are ever watchful, ever protective and if we think that you are going to drop our precious cargo, then it’s hands off! Plain and simple! That includes the baby’s genetic half, a.k.a. the sperm donor, alias hubby.

The ‘cow’ is self-explanatory. A walking, talking food factory. An unconventional looking fridgidaire. The original, ready-to-eat, instant meal. The first few discordant notes of an ear-piercing wail will stir our mammary glands into action. Mother cow. That’s us. By God, we should be worshipped! Gai suchmuch tumhare mata hai!

And there you have us --- Hipmokanlicows. We don’t live on Old McDonald’s farm, nor do we come from a distant planet. We moo, roar, waddle and jump all around you.

I was wondering if I would ever feel like a female form of the human species again so I was comparing notes with some other club members who have passed through the Hipmokanlicow level and transgressed to the next level in the Motherhood hierarchy.

“Oh sweetheart, don’t worry”, my friends tell me with unmasked glee, “the best is yet to be! You’ve got is easy now, you do! The hard parts are in store for you!!” When they talk in rhyme, I worry! Oh, boy do I worry! They, who have all been there and done that, are super-quick to reassure me that I will all too soon morph into a human being once again, But the catch there is that I will have to transmute into the multi-tasking, all knowing supercalifragalisticexpealidocious woman! In other words, my entry into the Supermom level.

I will have to become a linguist so that I can decipher my son’s gurgles and baby talk into a grown-up level of understanding. And while at it, I will have to quickly acquire a PhD in everything so that I can answer his never-ending and relentless “Whys” and How comes” with a reasonable modicum of intelligence.

I will have to acquire the speed and agility of an Olympic level athlete if I am to race across the room, sprinting over toys, coffee tables and sofas to reach my son just in the nick of time before he either breaks his little nose or a beloved crystal swan. I’ll also need an athlete’s level of energy and stamina to be able to play 25 different games in the space of an hour.

I will have to gain the skills of a nurse to dress those cuts and bruises and at the same time probably become a pharmacist and open my own private drug store. Cough, cold and de-worming medicines for my germ magnet and stress relievers and headache tablets for me.

I must obtain the secrets of a master chef and learn how to transform ‘icky’, ‘yucky’ and ‘boring’ foods like carrots, spinach, milk and bananas into creations of yummilicious delight so that my son’s food intake meets with his tongue’s approval as well as my concern for his dietary needs. If I do not, I must endure watching the fruits of my labour being regurgitated or flung across the table as if they were hand grenades.

Listening to them, I think I’ll just enjoy my stage for the time being. So while I lumber along, swinging by my imaginary tail, protecting, feeding and carrying my bundle of joy, I tell those who are waiting to be initiated into this most wonderful of clubs, what an enchanting experience it is. After all, it truly is. The side effects and the add-ons they can discover along the way.

In any case, it’s a good looooooong while before I reach the exalted status at the top of the hierarchy. A position from where all I am required to do is dole out armloads of chocolate and oodles of love ---- the story-telling, spoiling and pampering kind. That’s right, the Grandmother level!!