Finding me...

In the rising sun

And interrupted dreams

On cold morning floors

And running tap water

In quiet tea cups

And agonizing yoga poses

In hurried breakfasts

And on narrow winding roads

In incomplete projects

And stubborn writer’s block

In heavy lunch packs

And bad tasting coffee

In tired drives back home

And at long traffic signals

In slow evening dog walks

And during endless dinner menu discussions

In the incessant Whatsapp pings

And on hot chappathi tawas

Between forced playtime sessions

And on the ironing table

In peaceful green tea cups

And incessant innocent questions

On the lonely warm bed

And in the chilly breeze from the AC…

Squeezing in a bit of me into every chore

Searching for my soul in life’s little challenges

Finding me day after day

Even when I feel inundated

Realizing that it gets harder everyday

Yet not wanting to change a thing

My advice to my mother

You must wonder what I’m aiming at. It’s Mother’s Day, and instead of pouring praises over you, mom, here I am, trying to offer you advice! If I weren’t fearful of the splendid lashing I’d get for this, I would have shared this with you…

But hey, I am 33. I am a mother. And I think I am old (and mature…hell yeah) enough to offer advice to someone almost double my age. So here goes…

1. Mom, I love you. I don’t say this EVER. And that’s a terrible thing to do. But I wish you’d understand nevertheless. I mean, c’mon, I am 33, married, independent. You are healthy, independent, comfortable. Why the hell would someone live with their mother otherwise? Love.

2. I am an individual; before being a daughter, wife, mother, homemaker, etc. You forget that; a lot. Please don’t.

3. I am not going anywhere. So if you are trying to test the waters by ‘acting’ obnoxious, I am not buying it. So all that moody, unreasonable behaviour is doing us no good. And whatever you do and say, I won’t leave you alone. EVER.

4. I am not trying to be the best mother ever. I am average, but I am bloody good average. Remember that you aren’t perfect either; so don’t expect excellence from me. I am not even going to attempt it.

5. Yes, I am selfish. Everybody should be a little selfish. You should too. You are too. Please don’t judge me for being so.

6. There are some things I cannot do. Just like you cannot. Please don’t overlook the many things I can do and I am doing for such minor “cannots”.

7. When you are upset or angry, I get upset and angry. Even though I pretend like it doesn’t bother me. Open your heart and you’ll notice.

8. When people leave this world, they leave an empty space that cannot be filled. I am not attempting to take someone’s place or fill that void. I wish you’d understand my limitations and not expect so much from me. I am only human, and quite flawed at that!

9. Make more friends. It can do wonders. A social life does not mean hanging out with the family ALL THE TIME. It means having someone outside the family to talk to. It’s important…very important.

10. You are strong; a lot stronger than I had expected. But strength doesn’t mean closing your arms across your heart. I am 33 and mature and independent and all that, but I am still your child, and I need more warmth. Being warm doesn’t mean you’ll be rendered weak.

Happy Mother’s Day, Amma.

PS: I couldn’t possibly share half of this with you, mom. But I promise I’ll try J

Goodbye, my friend

The pebbled pathways we walked on,
The ones on which we chit-chatted and discovered each other;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The breezy evenings we spent under the skies,
When we shared silly jokes and laughed;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The crazy days when we bought cigarettes,
And giggled while we tried to smoke them;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The mad arguments and fights we had,
When all we wanted was to sort it out and move on;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

Those tables where we piled up empty cups of coffees, 
And shared our deepest secrets and fears;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The long nights we sat up and drank like fish,
And guffawed before we collapsed on our beds;
Let’s look back at them one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

That last holiday we took together,
Where the silences were longer than the conversations;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

The one long year in between,
The longest we’ve not spoken;
Let’s look back at it one last time,
For I want to say Goodbye, my friend.

You will be missed; but I wish you good luck.
It’s sad we are done; but I'm happy you came along.
I have memories of a beautiful friendship; but it’s time to set us free. 
So here I am, saying this one last time...
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye.

The angry young woman

Anger. Women aren’t associated with that kind of strong emotions.

She’s expected to be the epitome of love, patience, sacrifice. And if she is a wife and a mother, the sobriquets just make you want to gag and die. So, while the whole world is allowed to raise its voice and make its grievances heard, the woman is expected to bottle it up and endure.

Haven’t you seen how at public spaces an angry woman is viewed with disgust? So much so that even other women are embarrassed by her brazen outspokenness. Whether she’s making her dissatisfaction evident with the service at a restaurant or is pulling up a driver for rash driving on the road or is haggling with the guy at the snacks counter of a cinema hall for balance change that is rightfully hers, people around her just want to judge her. “Look at that fightercock!” “Women these days are impossible!” “Gosh, her husband looks so embarrassed, see!” Comments come aplenty.

But clearly, this is the age of the angry young woman. Her anger is fitting for an era that pretends to be modern and open, but its bedrock is still some archaic set of rules and regulations. Women today are “allowed” to be liberated. They aren’t born free. So if their fathers, brothers, grandfathers, uncles, boyfriends, husbands and sons “allow” them to enjoy a sense of freedom, then they can have it. But they can have it only as much as they are allowed to. Anything more, then what was offered on a platter will be taken away as a form of punishment. What a truly enjoyable game!

Why wouldn’t the woman of today be angry then! You say it’s okay to work and earn your own money, but it ain’t okay to choose your life partner. You say it’s okay to be out at night, but you rape her and leave her to die. You say it’s okay to dress the way you like, and then look at her like you are going to tear her apart, and do. You say she can speak her mind and then remind her that women should be mild-mannered and soft spoken. Honestly, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO MAKE THESE RULES ANYWAY? Did she ask you for your “permission” to live her life? And who the hell gave you the right to humiliate her, abuse her and violate her?

Women don’t want your bloody rules. They just want to be left alone. Just don’t pretend to be their benefactor. Don’t try to bottle her into constricted gender roles. Remember, women are unlearning, and it won’t take too long to turn the tables. Don’t push it too far for your own well being.

A note on Father's Day

Every year on Mother’s Day, I’d have a gift ready for mom. And just as I’d give it to her,

Papa would exclaim, “Oh! Sirf Mother’s Day pe gift? What about Father’s Day?!”

His intention? To piss me off! And he would get just that; every single year. I would immediately turn around with a deeply offended look on my face, “PAPA!!!” I’d yell! Of course, he’d be pulling my leg. I’d never missed a Father’s Day either. He’d break into a big, loud guffaw; one I can still hear. 

I miss that.

Fathers are special. Special in a way a daughter doesn’t really realise, until he’s gone. I was a daddy’s girl as a kid. But when teens set it, we grew apart. I never really went back to being a daddy’s girl. In fact, as an adult, we were constantly at loggerheads. We could never really agree on anything. We fought. A lot! The last few years, we went to work together, most of our journeys during our long drive pulled off in total silence, because we had fought. Again.

I miss the fights.

Fathers take care of the smallest thing. Daughters never really have to worry about anything. So if I forgot to fill some petrol into my khatara scooter and was stranded in the middle of nowhere, Papa would be summoned. If I couldn’t stand in a queue to book my tickets from Chennai to Cochin, Papa would mail them to me via post! If I couldn’t find an auto rickshaw after an evening of shopping, Papa would pick me up. I did not ever pay one bill, never did any official paperwork, never stood in a queue, and never cleaned one car or scooter. Sigh, fathers!

And then, he was gone. Just like that.

Suddenly, the leg-pulling is gone. The fights have stopped. The princess-like treatment is over. 

No brother, no uncle, no husband can take that place. Fathers are special like that. 

It’s five years since he’s gone. Many Father’s Day have come and gone. No more for me. Yes, it’s just a silly “day”. 

For me, not anymore.

The quirks of motherhood

• You look under the bed when your hairbrush, sunscreen or deodorant goes missing. If you find it there, you use it and put it back under the bed cuz it’s gonna find its way back there anyway.

• You find plastic numbers in the fridge.

• You get up in between a meal to wipe poop/pee off the floor. Sometimes the second time in the same day.

• You have a little hand wedged in your hair all night.

• Peeing, bathing, brushing your teeth, changing clothes become spectator sport.

• Shopping means looking over your shoulders and playing peekaboo around the clothes stands. And occasionally getting heart attacks when the hider goes missing. For exactly 6 seconds.

• “The Big Video Time” on Boogie Beebies (Cbeebies) makes you jump out of your chair and break into a dance.

• The kid’s meal time makes you feel like an accomplished goalkeeper.

• You realize why patience is a virtue when you answer the billionth time what colour a flower is. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink. Pink.

• You get kicked in the groin, slapped on the face, poked in the ribs (and then the little hand enters your mane) before you fall asleep, dead beat.

• Weekdays mean sleeping till 9am, and weekends start at 6.30am. Sigh.

• Social outings without the kid mean looking at the watch every 10 minutes.

• Alcohol is consumed only in strict quantities (if consumed at all) to ensure minimal hangover the next day. Especially if the next day is a weekend. Sigh.

• You cringe when your kid gets beaten up by another kid. And cringe even more when your kid beats up another kid.

• You forget to pick up milk at the supermarket, but remember to stock up on packets of Gems.

• Cuss words like shit, fuck, goddammit are replaced with shucks, oh no and oh god. Sometimes even AAAAaaaarrrrrrggghhhHHH.

• Reading a storybook means putting a mimicry artist to shame with voice modulations every 0.03 seconds.

• You get away on a romantic 24-hr holiday without the kid; and all you can talk about with your spouse is, yes you guessed it, the kid.

Despite all the quirks, when the day is interspersed with enough BIGGA's (kiddie for Big Hug, thank you Teletubbies) and Kissies, it just makes all the quirks worth it. 


Photo courtesy: Saritha Rajagopal

Share, magar aaraam se…

You know how it is—people log into Facebook for different reasons. To find old and new friends. To socialise with total strangers and find dates. To find out what’s happening in people’s lives without anyone knowing how close to being a stalker you are. To show off your happy lives. To moan your sad lives. Blah blah and more blah.

But I am sure there are friends that really get your goat with their irksome sharing habits. Here are some of my observations of people who come online only to:

Share life advice: Smile, be happy, love your family, forget your sorrows, tread the path of life with hope, look forward to good things in life, life is a blessing, respect your life, ra ra ra. You get so tired reading it that any picture with a sun in the horizon and a road going right into it makes you want to quickly scroll down so you don’t accidently learn a new lesson about, well, LIFE!

Declare their love: I love you is passé. Hearts, forlorn lover girl (usually a sad looking blonde teenager girl), flowers, park benches, and candy sweet wordings—You are my life (AGAIN!!!), my heart beats only for you, thank god you are in my life (I can’t do this anymore), I am committed to you, my life would be meaningless without your love, why did you break my heart (I think I can finally forgive Annu Mallik)… I know you love your boyfriend, fiancé, husband, wife, whatever. I do too. But please, this Fb PDA is just insufferable.

Display their piousness: This one needs special mention. There are FBites who live just so that they can spread the word of God. He will come to redeem you, Don’t lose hope in him, Share this picture and you will blessed for life, He will never let go of your hand (Good he won’t, or I’d thrash you). The worse—it all comes in a barrage; like ten photographs in one go and you’re ready to unfriend your pious friend for good.

Show off their anatomies: I am fed up, and I can say this again, FED UP, of looking at the close up shots of your eyes, your nose, your lips, your hair, your whatever the bloody f***, just get off my page you narcissist. I’d appreciate your lovely DP or that amazing cover photo, ‘like’ it and even comment on it if it really moves me; but please—I don’t want to see (again and again and again) how lovely (or so you think OBVIOUSLY) your anatomy is. Spare me the entertainment.

Share pictures of really, really sick people: I welcome your compassion behind the ‘share’, but seriously, if you think Fb is going to offer $1 for every share to the baby with the heart outside his body or the lady with the burnt face, you need a reality check. Creating awareness is one thing; causing emotional distress on an enjoyable platform like Fb is not cool, man, not cool at all.

Voice your “mammoth” opinions: Fb is sure a democratic platform for opinion sharing (although a lot of people in India don’t think so). But when your opinion about the turn of events in a political scene, a major sporting event or a religious event spans three paragraphs and has obscure words that one has to look up the dictionary to understand, it means just one thing—you are showing off, buddy. There is a reason why the “Share how you are feeling today” status bar is just one line. Try to be concise. Or better still, turn to blogger.com. Please.

Family photos, pictures and messages about get-togethers and parties with friends, travel plans and excitements, even those awkward amateur pictures are fun! Of course, in the end, to each his own. After all, every post offers some sort of entertainment to someone. The ‘Likes’ say it all…