A heart filled with gratitude

Is it just me or does everybody feel the need to ruminate on a year gone by? But looking back, I realised much of the year was a blur for me. That's what happens, I understand, when you are so focused on the trees that you miss the wood. So perhaps, I should take a New Year resolution to slow down and live the moment.

Some memories stand out in the haze, and most of these are ones tinged by sadness. My good friend moving out of the flat above me into her own apartment many miles away; the move brought about a change even in my daily routine. No more impromptu gossip sessions over plates of snacks and cups of coffee, no more dropping in for after-dinner sweets... Of course, I resumed the coffee sessions with my other good friend-neighbour, both of us sorely missing the earlier livelier and definitely more crowded get-togethers.

Abhi's grandfather's sickness, death and funeral, when realisation of the frailty of the human condition hit me with full force.

It was also the year I realised that depression is not something that happens to someone else; that you can try to erase a sad memory and go about life as usual, only to find tears rolling down your cheeks at unexpected moments. Prayers were often left half-said and family prayer times cut down as I burst into tears at the mere mention of words that evoked a memory...

It was a strange period, especially since I considered myself to be something of an eternal optimist. But out of that time, I learnt a lot of lessons. Lessons of friendship, lessons of gratitude (for my blessings, which I had forgotten in my misery) and lessons of trust (I had always prided myself on my faith, only to nearly fail in this very real crisis of faith).

As life goes on and the New Year rolls around, I look to it with great hope and happiness. I have made some great new friends this year, revived some old friendships, strengthened bonds with family, done some good work (job-wise) and weathered a personal crisis (albeit, not very admirably). Finally, this year, I hope to take strong steps towards a long-cherished dream of doing some volunteer work; the ball is already in motion, in fact! :) (No more 'slacktivism' for me!)

I am also determined to love my body, beyond the boundaries of weight-loss goals. And yes, to the man who stood by me (sometimes tongue-tied, sometimes vociferous but always there), I wish to be a better partner, an easier person to live with, a happier companion... And to my daughter and my future kids (the optimist is back!), I'll surely yell less and participate more!

Give me some space

I've been married for over six years now and incidentally, in love with my now-hubby for 15-plus years. Our relationship has seen plenty of ups and downs; and when you are married, it's easier to keep track of the downs. Sometimes, I feel like taking a breather and running away from the yokes of family, child and anything resembling responsibility. At others, I just want to curl into the secure confines of Abhi's arms.
I hear a lot of my friends clamouring for more space in their relationships and how-to articles in women's mags telling you how to strike the right balance between intimacy and giving each other space in a relationship. Well, yesterday I just happened to get some space.
It's about 11 at night; Abhi is blissfully asleep, even snoring a bit. I don't want to put down my book but I force myself to as I have a heavy day ahead of me. I turn off the lights and turn around. Abhi is facing away from me, lying on his side. I spoon into him and I want to hug him. I put my hand near his elbow, trying to burrow my fingers under his arm so that my arm can go all the way under his. And suddenly, Abhi just lifts up his arm to give me the space I need. The space for me to put my arm underneath his and hold on tight. I peer at him in the semi-darkness of the city night; the lights from the nearby road gives me some light. He is still fast asleep!
It felt so good within; I wanted to wake him up with a big kiss but I just held on. I know how much Abhi loves his sleep. I was just glad that my husband gave me some space of the best kind. I think every marriage needs more of this kind of space.

Decipher that!

One day, a crow was feening very thasty.
He looked for water here 'n' there.
At last, he found a pot wi little water.
But he could no reach it.
He thought of an IDEA!
He picked up some stones put in the water.
Plack, plack, plack
The water rose up...
The crow ran the water and flew away HAPPILY.

Rendition of A Thirsty Crow by Anandita at 3.5 yrs. :)
(Please read all words beginning with 'r' with an 'l' sound for authenticity.)

Walking it off

Thought I'd post this after going at it non-stop for at least two weeks... No, it's not what you are thinking... Abhi's working late nowadays ;)

I'm talking about my at-dawn walks. Armed with my chatterbox-neighbour friend and a bottle of water, I've been doing about 5km six days a week... about 45 minutes every day!! Come rain, shine or hangover, I've been doing it. I hope I can stick at it. Plan to add a few exercise moves to the regime by next week; Saw a ballet-Pilates combination in Prevention mag, certified to tone certain problem areas, in my case my tummy and waist.

Save the Olive Ridleys

You can help, too. Join the movement.

Life 'maid' hard

If I start listing the havoc created in a nuclear Indian family (with a baby/toddler and working mother) when the maid doesn't turn up or abruptly quits, I could write an entire book and perhaps extend it to a Volume 2. Why is it so difficult for the average well-mannered family to retain maids? Why do they stick on for years in homes where they are yelled at, given stale bread to eat and not allowed to use the bathroom? And here, Abhi is ready to give bonuses twice a year if the maid just looks after Ditu well, never mind if the washing-up is done in a hurry or the house isn't mopped clean.

Am waiting to greet my fourth maid in as many months... Now I have to go through the entire 'house-training' rigmarole, teaching her how things are done here and if I am lucky, not having to remind her about it every day for the period she decides to stay here.

Keeping my fingers crossed that I get a pleasant lady, who is half-way decent to my baby when I am not here and who can cook and clean passably.

And, God, can she please stay for six months at least? A year sounds too greedy to wish for!

P.S. I believe the maids have a sixth sense about important projects/deadlines/meetings at work... believe me, that's the very day they will announce their 'resignation'. 

Votes please

Yes, I know the elections are nearing but I am not running a Jago Re kind of campaign here (though I do believe we need better representatives).

My friend, Anna, commented that my daughter looks all grown-up in her Annual Day pics. Maybe, she sms-ed, it's time for another. Soon there was a follow-up sms: 'Not Annual Day, but baby.' I texted back saying I totally agreed but Abhi's answering everything nowadays with the stock answer: 'Recession.' Anna suggested I use my blog to bring him to see sense.

So here I am appealing to all my dear readers to support my drive (pun may be intended) for a baby.

Oops!!

A few posts earlier, I had written about helping a retired doc from the Andamans pen his memoirs. Was wrong on a couple of counts: for one, he isn't a doc (but his son, daughter and son-in-law are; close enough, right?); secondly, he was based in the Lakshadweep. Yeah, that's an island, too... so maybe I wasn't that far off the mark. ;)

He's 76 and quite a hale-n-hearty person: he has already written, and I mean hand-written, 165 pages!! Some feat, I think... Though I am a journo, which can be interpreted loosely as a writer, I think it would be more appropriate to call me a 'key-iner' considering my preferred mode of 'writing'.

Annual Day!!

Annual Day... to think that was such a big deal for me a few years back! Well, not quite a few, it's closer to 14 years!! Well, Saturday (March 14) was my daughter's first Annual Day. Her playschool, Jungle Book, had set up an elaborate event at the BTH Sarovaram.

Since she had been ill the past week, I had kept her from school though she had a part in one of the sing-along programmes (where she was to dress up as a flower). But she kept practising her songs at home (on me, my neighbours and on her father when he was desperate for some shut-eye). And I was surprised that she performed well on stage, singing not just her numbers but those of her friends as well.

But her heart was in the dances (Desi Girl and Bounce); though she couldn't dance on stage, she more than made up for it by dancing along in the audience.

Here are some pics of the show:

Writing for patience

Is patience one of my virtues? Let's just say I am learning the art (marriage and mommyhood have helped immensely)...

A friend rang me the other day and wanted to know if I could help his friend's father pen his memoirs. The 'protagonist' in question, he said, is 76, a doctor, with adventurous stories of his service years in the Andamans. "He sounds like a nice person," said my friend. "And I thought of you 'cos you would lend him a patient ear." Now, whatever gave him that idea.

After a lot of hemming and hawing, I've said 'yes' to the project. Yes, it could give me a lot of insight into how different medical practice, and life in general, was over 50 years ago and, as I have learned from my father, old people have a remarkable way of 'anecdotising' their lives, which always seems immensely more enjoyable and exotic than our everyday tales.

I just hope I am able to be 'the patient ear' my friend intended. My dad, who tells interesting stories of his first rubber chappal, first watch and the time he walked from Alappuzha to Ernakulam, would say I have a long way to go. But you have to forgive me for tuning out of his stories at times: he may be recounting it to a visitor but hey, I have been hearing them for the the past 31 years!!

Last year, I told my dad to write down all his childhood tales (which involve a lot of girl-chasing, drinking bouts and general roguish behaviour among the good times like winning basketball championships). he hasn't gotten down to it yet but maybe once I'm done with this project, and with my enhanced reserves of patience, I'll help him do it. Just hold me to my word, guys. 

Aww moments

Ever since we've had Ditu, the 'Aww' moments in my life have simply shot up. Earlier it was confined to mushy moments in SRK movies, stray pups and the occasional baby in a pram. Now much of what she says and does makes me go 'aww' even if I am not saying it out loud, even if I am yelling at her, even if it seems really silly. Yeah, I know all parents think their kids are super-great but well, some of her antics are totally aww-inducing. Honest!!

Anyways, the other day, we were discussing a proposal for my sister, whom Ditu affectionately calls Kunjhanjha. Ditu was lying peacefully in our laps, hearing us discuss the merits (and so far, few demerits) of J's profile.

Suddenly she pops up and asks, "Kunjhanjha J-ne kalyanam kazhikkumo?" Now, Malayalam is quite a difficult tongue with words having different meanings in different contexts, and sentences implying more than they mean. Her question translates to "Will Kunjhanjha marry J?". 

When we replied, "Maybe," she asked: "Enikkentha J-ne kalyanam kazhikkan pattathe?" (Why can't I marry J?)

We didn't have to ponder over an answer.

She had her own ready: "It's because my teeth are not strong enough," she said. 

You see, 'kazhikku' also means 'to eat'... And she thought 'kalyanam' (marriage) was something to be eaten (with another person).

If strong teeth were all you needed!!

Secret sorrows

I really admire those who can put up their entire life online... I mean, granted you can be anonymous for as long as you please, but secrets have a way of outing, don't they? Me, I can put much of life out there... maybe more than the average person but even I cannot bare my soul entirely; you know, open that last secret safe door in your heart that nobody has ever entered, and where you don't go too much either. Sharing joys, ups and downs and even a couple of secrets is okay with me, but what goes on in the deepest recess of my mind belongs only to me. In a conversation with Abhi today, I found myself inexplicably tearing up over some imagined slight that tugged at deep-rooted hurts. Abhi was aghast; he had no idea why I was upset (this wasn't the usual 'clueless men' thing; we were just chatting on mundane things). But some of it is impossible to tell, or even articulate. Especially when you are so out of touch with yourself that even you are not quite sure what lies beneath.

It's the time to disco

After months of planning, arranging husbands' schedules and travel plans and arranging for babysitters aka grandparents, we finally made it to Glow. We were told it's the most happening lounge bar-disco in Cochin, and your social life was worth peanuts if we hadn't seen the place.

With a social life that's more active in our imagination than in real life, we girls decided we just had to see this place. What's the point of living in Cochin otherwise? It's like living in Tvm and not having seen the zoo!! It might not be a particularly pleasant/enriching experience but it's kinda mandatory. And believe me, Glow came with all the right recommendations--from the lounge manager who had left the rocking Tandav at Le Meridien to take charge here to 20-something friends who had come visiting from Bangalore and given the place the thumbs-up. So off we went, dragging reluctant husbands along and tucking even-more-reluctant (to stay home) kids into bed! We had visions of quaffing glasses and glasses of bright-hued cocktails, gyrating to earsplitting, hip music until 3 am and generally behaving like reckless teens with not a care in this world. Never mind that once we got there, we checked our mobile phones every ten minutes or so, expecting emergency calls from home about babies with colic, toddlers with fever and generally-unruly bigger 'uns. If the kids behaved well, we thought, we could get down to some dirty dancing.

The lounge was so-so (2 stars for ambience, 4 for interesting names for cocktails... would you like to get your hands on Pink Pussy or Silk Panties?); I would go for Loungevity anyday. All our eyes and hearts were on the clock, awaiting the witching hour... this time, 11pm, when the the doors to the dance floor would be flung open.

Too much hype and too many expectations dashing to the floor... that would perhaps best describe the music in there. There were only a few foot-tapping numbers that you actually wanted to dance to, and I can list them here: Hips Don't Lie, Gasolina, Singh is Kingg, Desi Girl and a couple more that I don't care to remember. And the place shut shop at a few minutes to 1 am, when the DJ was just getting into his groove!! The hotel people mentioned something about complaining residents in the neighbourhood and the like...

Should we have just gone to Tandav (where the only neighbours are the waves in the backwaters) that night? We had discussed that option after getting out of the lounge bar, before the disco opened. Would we have rocked our way into the lightening dawn? With our luck?? Unlikely.

N.B. Am gonna check my 'clubbing compatibility' on tarot.com before I venture out into the night again. Incidentally, you can check your compatibility with almost anything in the world, from your spouse to your baby to your sibling to your pet on that site. Lay out the deck, please. ;)

Awards galore

For an award nite, it was pretty understated. None of the jhatak-matak dance routines you usually get to (or hope to) see onstage. But of course it was the Times of India Awards for Excellence in Business. Pretty heavy-duty, eh? The ambience on the green lawns of the Ramada near Aroor, Cochin, was wow; so were the yummy aromas floating in from the barbeque...

(Before I forget, the Ramada is a beautiful resort and the pool looks especially inviting. The walkway reminded me of the Bentota Beach Hotel in Sri Lanka.)

The crowd was elite, in parts. But my ogle-stylish-clothes meter was seriously not ticking. Why, oh why, do rich Malayali women think wearing heavily sequinned, flourescent saris translates into good taste?

Do you think there's a market for personal stylists in Cochin?

Malaika???

Do we love Malaika or do we hate her?? Yeah, the one and only Malaika Arora Khan... Perhaps she's the Indian equivalent of the blonde--all curves, no brains. Am I jealous? A teensy bit... Wish I could retain my pre-mommyhood figure just as effortlessly. But did she do it effortlessly? Nah, I think... but she had all the time in the world to look after that particular hourglass (it's part of her job description, after all). Me, I have to squeeze in my dance classes in between bringing out a newspaper supplement and sundry edit jobs, and believe me, the day I decide I'm going back to dance class, I have a morning interview/other assignment that puts paid to my curvy ambitions.

Another model-wife I was really amazed to see on the ramp was Waluscha Robinson: her weight loss took some doing; a whole 22kg! Wow!!

Back to Malaika; she's on the cover of Good Housekeeping, and seems to have dropped the Khan from her name. Proofing error, trial separation or elaborate PR arrangement (remember her last fiasco?)... only time will tell.

My former employer's son named his first daughter Malaika, which is apparently Swahili for 'angel'. The Malayalam word for 'angel' is 'maalakha'. What was that about the continental drift?

P.S. Oh, the continental drift theory reminded me of a joke. I have a very good friend who specialises in dirty jokes. Let's just call him S here, for the sake of brevity (I'm sure he'll have no problems being 'outed'). His theory goes like this: Before the continents drifted apart, Brazil was right next to India, specifically Kerala. Both the places have the same kind of tropical climate, you see. But when the continents began drifiting apart, the Brazilians left all their clothes on this continent. Which explains why the Brazilians wear next to nothing and the Indians (he especially meant Keralite women) wear the sari and a host of other things underneath. 

Back to childhood

My parents are back from a month-long vacation in Pune, visiting my sister. They got here at four in the morning. I was up and had made tea for them, and was generally being woman of the house but the moment they stepped in, something changed. Perhaps it's my perspective: once my parents are here, somehow, sometimes the child in me inevitably peeps through. It starts by my automatically assuming that my Ma will take on my burdens: in this case, feeding Ditu (a laborious three-hour task divided into three acts during the day). Never mind that my parents had just got in after a 36-hour journey.

Usually, I would even hand over the kitchen as well, including preparing the menu. That, I skipped 'cos I have a maid-in-residence who had been briefed extensively the night before. (The maid is a whole other story that I will put down in another post.) 

The contractor doing my new apartment's interior work is presenting the plans today, and guess who's coming with me: my dad!! Of course , I can do it without him... And we'll probably never agree on the design anyway (I'm all for contemporary lines while he half-lives in the past). Yet, it somehow seems important that he sees it.

My mobile phone company's innovations mean that we can talk endlessly on our cell phones (closed group or some such thing) for a nominal 99 bucks a month. So we end up chatting on every little dustball spotted, Ditu's little spills and thrills, maid woes and a whole lot of 'relative' banter, which adds up to more than seven phone calls a day. And some of those calls can go on up to 20 minutes or so! Just thinking of it gives me earache... but this whole month (when their phones were on roaming), it was pure torture not calling them up the moment my maid upped and quit without a notice, when Ditu said something particularly funny and when I had 'in-law' trouble. On second thoughts, maybe I wouldn't have told them about the last even if they were here; it might be just easier for me to forget the whole thing than to erase 'how bad my daughter must have felt' ideas from their minds.

And now, though I'm running tight on an impossible deadline, I feel calm and collected. Mom hai na!

P.S. Thank you, Anna, for pushing me to post. Love u

Cutting edge of depression

Some people shop when they are down in the dumps; some, I hear, can't stop gorging on calorie-rich goodies. I do things to my hair that I normally wouldn't dream of.

After more than a week of feeling out of sorts and snapping at Ditu and Abhi (but never at the maid), I just had to do something to feel better: so I went out and got a short haircut; I wanted a short-short one but my hairstylist refused on account of may hair's propensity to turn African bush on me. And I also got some reddish-brown highlights... forgot to check out the shade name in the Szchwarzkopf (did I get that right?) shade card or else I could have flaunted names like chestnut brown or golden blonde. Let's just say it looks something like plum mixed with walnut and a pinch of crimson... name it what you will.

Do I look good? Yes, say my gal pals; but after all, they are my friends and i am trying to come out of a depression... so do I believe them? Well, I want to...

I am happy seeing myself in the mirror, though; so that's something. Waiting for Abhi to get back from work: I've already warned my neighbours to ignore loud noises from our flat tonight in case he thinks I look like something the cat dragged home.

Whatever. I feel better; and if it takes some fighting to prove it to hubby dear, bring on the boxing gloves. 

Mommyhood: the difficult times

What is the most difficult part of being a mom? For a new mom, it may seem like it's the endless sleepless nights and the seemingly endless, designed-to-irritate-the-hell-out-of-you wails and colic... Oh, and the guilt afterwards (when baby's fast asleep) for thinking badly of the little angel. But what gets me nowadays is the back-to-work dilemma! Being a freelance journalist, it sounds as if it must be easier than for say, a teacher or a lawyer who has to be at a specific place at a pre-appointed time, and no, you can't bring baby along.

For me, it's just as difficult to leave Ditu home for those few hours that it takes for me to get the pages laid out at office or when I am out at an interview. It's okay when she's at playschool... Going out to work then is hardly heartwrenching; per haps I think she has less fun at home with the maid than at school with her peers. Yet, if I am home working on a story, she rarely disturbs me and is content most times to play in another room... until she wants to know what colour dress her imaginary playmate is wearing (and God forbid if you say red when she's actually 'wearing' blue!!).

I totally admire those seeming supermoms who seem to have it all: a career, a social life, lovely children, loving husband and great in-laws, to boot. Was I daydreaming when God was handing out the good bits of kismet?

Do I have school today?

Most times, that's one of the first questions my three-year-old asks even as she's opening her eyes. Tell her 'yes', and she'll snuggle back into her pillow for some more shut-eye (or a rendering of what she considers 'deep sleep'... and I'm supposed to be taken in by the act!). Answering 'no' inevitably elicits the difficult-to-turn-down request: "Mumma, come to bed..." I wish!
To think all this melodrama from someone who basically likes doing her yogasanas and practising her Shut Up & Bounce routine at playschool. Sometimes, I want to tell her, "Baby, this is not even school... Just some version of fun, where you sing, dance, swim and drive toy cars." Some days, she wants to hop on to the 'big yellow bus' and buzz off to school with the big kids... That kind of school is okay, she seems to think. She's always trying to get hold of a neighbourhood seven-year-old's schoolbag... just for the sheer fun (?!) of toting it around on her back.
"Mamma, read me this story," she yells, while I try to get a morsel of mashed idli and chutney into her never-still mouth. And then: "I want to read it myself." Are those the words all moms want to hear? I don't know.... Oh, I am sure I want her to read and write and be an achiever and all that... (I also get my kicks out of making her say 'Czechoslovakia', like in the ad) but I also want her to be happy. And happiness seems a more distant dream every day. the more you know, the more you want; your needs are more specialised and ever-evolving... 
Will I be able to nurture her spiritual self even as I queue up this year with the hefty admission fees for a seat in the kindergarten at the city's most elite (and with a seemingly refreshing, liberal approach to the curriculum) school? I don't know. Will she lose herself so in her textbooks that she won't have the time to enjoy the Famous Fives and the Harry Potters that I did? I hope not.
 In the interim, I now have to find an answer to her most pertinent question these days: "If Cheryl's [her best friend] mom doesn't go to office, why do you?" Some day soon I'll probably have to go into the intricacies of choosing to work because it's your passion. Right now, I have to deal with a whimsical little onw who insists she will not take an afternoon nap 'cos the moment she closes her eyes, "Mumma will go away to office". Aww, baby...