A Mother's A Musings...

2011 highlights...

2011-12-28T14:13:00.000-08:00

... and lowlights, lessons learned and resolutions for the sparkling brand new year.

The year has been good to your father and I. It's been very very good to us.

We moved.

A big move it was, Hyderabad India to California, USA. Bidding farewell and making our peace with all people and things we left behind. Looking at our home, the one with all the memories your father and I made, the kitchen disasters, the hand painted walls, the home. We nearly bought that home, baby, we nearly bought that home for the memories.

We nearly did not move.

Mom.

Your grandmother died this June. Nothing prepares you for a loss. It taught me that life is fleeting, that people are precious, that I must seize the day and live my life. It taught me to say I love you more often, to worry less, to live more.

It made me more responsible. It disciplined the vagabond in me to call your grandfather and your aunt more often, it reminded me that you always stick by your family, that we are not isolated islands in ourselves. It taught me never to put off anything for the future, never to live miserably in the present in order to save up for a better future.

It reminded me that I should always be my mothers' daughter: To be hospitable, to be positive, to give more of myself to people.

TB.

Never say never. It was ironic that your mother who swore she'd never ever take medicines was diagnosed with tuberculosis and had to eat ~9 medicines everyday for six months. Six whole months.

It taught me that everyone is vulnerable, that your father is the most amazing patient man in the world who saw me through the endless doctor visits, the unnerving CT scan and a bronchoscopy, it taught me that doctors can make even terrible things feel a little better by talking, by laughing with you, by informing.

It reminded me that a working body is a miracle. When your fingers are too swollen and weak to shake hands or grip objects, when your knees feel like they're giving way, when you're constantly cold, numb and fragile, you realize.

You realize every day you live and breathe and function is a miracle.

A miracle, baby darling.

And work.

Your grandmother taught me to love what I do for a living. She knew no other way. She loved what she did and it took her through all the other crazy stuff that she went through.

And it is true. Love your work for it is the legacy you leave behind.

It may hurt if it's taken away from you but it's really the only real way.

Love what you do.

Money.

Ah, money. Let's just say your mother is slowly learning not to worry too much about money.

Be sensible but learn to reward yourself guilt free.

Being vegan.

You should know this by now even if you're not too perceptive, you should know that your father is always always always right. (He also has the answers to everything, but that's a different story.) So it's quite silly that I argue with him and discover he was right all along. Your mother never ever learns.

That's why it was also silly when your father wanted to be a vegan all along and your mother never agreed! She refused, she cajoled him into eating dairy products, she just didn't get it.

Now I get it. It took a PETA video and some facts to drive home the point.

Don't be too taken in with your inconsequentiality that you forget you can make a difference. You can make a change.

You can take a stand.

Raise your voice.

Travel.

Your father and I did a hundred dizillion memorable trips this year. A two week motorcycle trip around the Himalayas as a farewell to India, our Dandeli island stay, our drives to Lake Tahoe, breathtakingly starry night in Death Valley and adult-disneyland-Vegas, our numerous hikes through forests and deserts, into craters, through canyons.

The travel is as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

The travel reminds you that we are all one.

Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam.

That we must live.

And let live.

Play fair.

Not too long ago, something happened to your mother. Remind her to tell you the story when you're older. But that something taught her that everyone needs to learn self defense. Basic self defense at least.

Among other things, my previous martial arts master taught me that practice doth perfection make, never to underestimate an opponent and yet, to always play fair.

Always play fair, baby boo.

Being good.

Your father is a constant reminder to be a good individual even when no one's watching. My chest bursts with pride every single time he does the right thing. Even when it does not benefit him, even when no one's watching, even if he does not come out looking like the hero.

He's a good good good man, your father.

And read more.
I vow to read more.

What you learn when you intern...

2011-10-20T21:12:00.000-07:00

... for a Culinary Internship at your office kitchen.

Miracles happen when you'reunited.

I'm always awed by a line Irecall from childhood Bible verse recitals 'And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, andthey have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will berestrained from them, which they have imagined to do.'

The gods, my child, thegods declared that if they were one, nothing that they set the people set theirminds to, would be impossible.

But back to the kitchen.

I entered, most nervousand apprehensive, to a kitchen filled with people from all races andbackgrounds. Some of them didn't speak English, most didn't bother conversingbut no one cared. No one cared for they were bound together by a common purpose, a common fascination, a common love; food.

Unity is strength, baby,unity is simple awe-inspiring strength. So pay attention to lastingfriendships, to time consuming bondings, to common interests, to unreliablepeople. Unity is strength. Little drops of water doth an ocean make. The sum isinfinitely more impactful than its individual parts.

Than its individualparts.

You don't have to do itall.

Your mother, dearestbaby, your mother is a firm believer of the fact that you need to be good atsome things, you cannot be good at everything and you don't need to try. Yourmother also believes that what will save you and set you free is not theweaknesses that you try forever to master but the strengths that are partand parcel of who you are and what makes you different. When you’re pushedagainst a wall, what will save you is your instinctive inherent strengths, not the weaknesses you were attempting to better.

You can be the Jack ofall trades and the master of one and that’s OK, it’s really OK that you’respecializing in desserts and you don’t know to cook anything else, it’s reallytruly completely OK. Focus on what you love doing and remember: Chefs specialize.Generalists are all too common. You don’t have to do it all.

Music lightens the soul.

The first thing thatcalmed me when I set foot into the huge kitchen with so many people who knewexactly what they had to do, this seamless clockwork preciseness, what calmedme was the music. Music softened the occasional squeal, dimmed the awkwardsilences and erased irrelevant thoughts, allowing us to focus on the presentand the now: the food we were making, the pleasure in bringing joy to others.

No one can be angryaround food.

At least your mothercan't. Making tiramisu was the most tantalizing tempting sinful chore I'd everbeen assigned and I couldn't have been happier.

So if you've donesomething to make your mother angry, don't think flowers. It's bad becauseflowers have lives and you're endorsing their killing when you get me flowers.

Just make me dessert instead. Just make me dessert.

Consistency especially inmonotony is key.

The sheer monotony wasoverwhelming. I saw the biggest mixing bowls and paddles in my life, I saw morecooking trays than I've seen at retail stores and yet, I saw the chefs applythe same beautiful dedication and perfection in the 3000th cookie he wascreaming or the 5984th tiramisu biscuit he was cutting. Consistency is key.

Everything is betterwith a little loving. Everything and everyone.

Everybody is a genius.

I noticed how they pickedthe biggest guy in the kitchen to mix the biggest mixing bowls, how they picked the tallest to fill the top racks in the baking cart, how everyone was put to their best use, how it reminded me of that beautiful Albert Einstein quote,

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid."

Everyone's a genius, darling baby.

Do what you love and lovewhat you do. And play fair.

Play fair. And befiercely protective/competitive

Which cafe do youfrequent, asked the head chef. It was a valid worry I knew, our organizationhad around 25 cafes and I could pick any of them for my lunch. And I watchedthe head chef frown as I mentioned a cafe that wasn't owned by him.

Play fair. Do what you dowell and by the books, and be fiercely healthily competitive. Your work,dearest baby, your work is the legacy you leave behind.

The legacy you leavebehind.

Play fair.

Work hard. And partyharder.

It seemed like foreversince I'd started and I wearily asked her, "What's the time?"

"Oh, it's just9:30am, it's just been an hour," she said cheerfully.

I sighed.

"You should eat anItalian finger chip. Or some Nachos. They're freshly made."

"Tasting time!"the chef bellowed.

And we all trooped to themain kitchen and proceeded to taste the desserts that the employees were soongoing to be eating at lunch.

These people taught me,they taught me to work really really really hard. And reward themselves aswell. No guilt.

Work really really hard.And reward yourself.

Teach. Share. Pass it on.

"Tiramisu is myfavoritest dessert. All time," I gushed. "Nothing else can remotelycompare."

"That's justfantastic," she said. "And I'll teach you to maketiramisu."

So I wasn't too happywhen later, I was assigned to another bakery kitchen. Now I'd never unearththeir secret household tiramisu recipe!

Much much later, she cameto my kitchen and casually handed me a piece of paper.

"I wrote down therecipe for you. If you ever need any baking/dessert recipes, you email me, youhear?"

Whatever you know andknow well, teach.

Share.

Pass it on.

Chefs know.

I'm convinced that chefsare the next therapists in the making. There's no other reasoning to why I wasquickly scanned and immediately assigned to tiramisu, bailey cheesecakecookies.

And butter croissants.

No other reasoning to why.

Live.

2011-08-28T23:45:00.000-07:00

Darling, you will never have the honor of meeting your mothers' mother for she died.

The evening of June 16, 2011.

I always believed your grandmother was immortal. Many many years of her life were spent in a hospital, in ICUs, in ventilators. Stories had been told and tirelessly retold of her uterus rupturing minutes before my birth, of relatives who thronged into a hospital expecting the worst, stories had been told of her sugar levels reaching unimaginable heights and doctors marveling that her body did not go into a coma, of her lungs normally functioning at capacities of less than 20%, of a body that had acute asthma for 28 odd years, that had slept in many a hospital bed, was pumped with many a medicine and poked with many a needle. But oh, we were convinced she was immortal.

And yet, now I know it was her spirit that kept her alive through years of pain and suffering. That kept her smiling. That refused to give up. Or throw in the towel. It was her spirit. A bright uncomplaining optimistic spirit.

Make no mistake, there are nightmares. Nightmares about hospital negligence being the cause of her death, guilt about being stranded on an official trip abroad when she died, there are nightmares. And one tries valiantly to resist.

But mostly, dearest baby, mostly there is peace. There is peace in memory of a life well lived, of a life of servitude to others in the face of personal health deterioration, a life of unshakable hope in the face of personal breakdowns, a life that welcomed every nervous immigrant whilst we ourselves lived in foreign lands, there is peace in the memory of the miracle of her life, the miracle of her body's valiant victory against continual disease, the memory of her smile in the face of the most acute physical pain. She lived, baby, oh, how she lived her life.

Live your life, dear baby.

Live.

And when you die, as we all will, darling baby, may it be said of you.

May it be said. That you lived.

You lived.

For your sake, I wish...

2011-04-05T00:08:00.000-07:00

Dear baby,

Last week was your father's birthday. For your sake, I wish you will not know that your father means it when you eagerly ask him what he wishes for his birthday and when he says: Nothing, darling. For your sake, I wish you will not know the frustration that comes from growing up in a family where you were taught to spend money on people you loved, the silly frustrations of knowing that your father really needs nothing, of not being Fairy Godmother to someone you love.

For your sake, I wish you will realize as your grandparents did, that your father loves a surprise, that your father appreciates effort before money, that your father beamed at your now three year old cousins' hand drawn and colored card and kept it by our bed. For your sake, I wish you were here when your father looked at your grandmother's hand stitched scenery piece and smiled. Your dear father.

Which is why you will understand why your mother faked sick the Friday before your father's birthday, to stay home and paint a wall in your fathers' honor. Which is also why you will understand why your mother bought the best chocolate cake in town, arranged scrabble tiles to read, Happy Birthday and decided that your father's birthday would include a motorcycle trip to spend your fathers' birthday night at a luxurious resort nearby.

And dear baby, I wish you knew how I felt when I dangled my toes in the ridiculously expensive private pool and realized how cold the water was. I wish you knew how it felt to have confirmed that the temperature could not be regulated. And for your sake, I wish you were here when I looked at your father and said, Well, let's get hot water from the bathroom and pour it in the pool, and your father said, Yes, let's!

I wish you were here as we mischievously giggled and did just that, as we flooded the pool, as we succeeded in slightly increasing the water temperature, as we splashed around and displaced a lot of water, as we had the time of our lives.

And baby, for your sake, I wish you never yield to the pressure of divulging a secret, I wish you knew how hard it was to hide from your father, the fact that there was yet another trip in store. For your sake, I wish you remember, experiences are priceless, not tarnishable gifts.

And that's how we made our way to Dandeli, and for your sake, I wish you felt the excitement we felt waking up at 7:00am for a morning of white water rafting. For your sake, I wish you knew the nervous giggles that escaped us as we took our positions in the raft, as our guide asked us if anyone knew to swim and as the eight people on our raft said: No.

I wish you saw the look on our faces as the guide explained that our life jackets would protect us if anyone fell off, as he demonstrated with one of the other people in the group, as he politely told all of us to get off the raft. For your sake, I wish you saw your mother say: One minute, please, only to be unexpectedly pushed into the river, I wish you saw your mother flail her arms, feel successive cold waves of panic wash over her, saw her look disbelievingly at your dad who was having fun- lying afloat in the river, his hands behind his back, a picture of serenity and bliss. Your dear father.

For your sake, I wish you live in a tent in a three acre island that's all yours for a night, for your sake, I wish you find joy in making a bonfire and staring at the mesmerizing flames for many hours, for your sake, I do wish you look dreamily at a star-lit night and find peace and contentment and your purpose for living. For your sake, I wish the river is just as clean when you bathe as when we did, for your sake, I wish your tent is just as warm and just as inviting as ours was. For your sake, I wish you share our love for nature and all things beautiful.

On route Dandeli, your father and I saw a lot of forest fires and the driver warily told us how most forest fires were manmade, the flicker of a cigarette butt, kids playing, etc.

And that is how it came to be, sitting outside the tent the next beautiful calm misty morning, I saw your father rush to the river to get some water. Whatever for, I sleepily asked.

'Well I poo-ed in the island, covered it with dry leaves and I thought it a great idea to burn it. Now I'm not too sure, what if we create a forest fire and what if the island burns down?'

Most incredulous.

And that's how, dearest dearest baby, we coined our family motto:

When someone gives you shit, what does the Fernandes family do? We burn it!

When someone gives you crap, what does the Fernandes family do? We burn it!

We don't deal with no shit, we don't deal with no crap, we just burn it, burn it, burn it!

Needless to say, your father's not amused :)

Of losing and weighings

2010-05-31T02:31:00.001-07:00

This happens a lot more when you're a baby girl, girl baby, but even if you're a baby boy, boy baby, I know for a fact that you've contemplated losing weight at some point.

Ah, don't ask me how I know.

Mommies know, baby, so be warned.

Mommies know.

Anyway, this post is in tribute to the noble cause of knowledge sharing, of how your pudgy, dumpy, always-referred-to-as-cute-what-does-cute-mean-anyway? mom lost weight.

RULE #1: Indulge in the highest form of escapism: Focus only on what you love.

I kid thee not, baby, I've tried almost everything. Stints at the gym, vegetable and fruits only diet, swimming, karate, feel-good crash diets, you name it, I've indulged in some such variation.

Didn't work or couldn't maintain the excitement levels.

And that was before I enrolled in.

Dance class.

Jazz, Hip Hop (!), Ballet(!!).

And then, it was no longer about losing weight, it was about learning something new, the mind-consuming music, it was about learning to face the girl in the mirror, about the new people I forged friendships with, and oh, the joy of being flexible.

And before I knew it, I was losing weight.

Life Lesson:

Focus your energies on what you love about what must be done. In the unfortunate situation that there is nothing to love about what must be done, make yourself love it. You either love it and therefore do it, or make yourself love it and do it.

There's no other way to do anything, really baby, no other way.

RULE #2: You treasure more what you pay for.

Now where I work at, we have fitness activities galore. Gyms, yoga classes, aerobics, you name it, we've got it. And it's free. However, take my word for it, it takes a supreme effort of will and self-chiding to keep yourself at it.

Sustainable inspiration? A myth.

And then, I found myself paying for dance lessons. Grudgingly worked my life around the imposing dance schedule. It was no longer about losing some parent-love-induced-fat, it was about getting my moneys' worth, it was about being consistent, it was about finishing something I'd started, it was hoping desperately that classes would not end.

And most mysteriously, I began losing weight.

The corollary:

Most things are valued when they're bought or acquired at a price. Most things are valued only because they're acquired at a high price.

But whilst you remember that, remember more, never ever ever to take for granted those things that come free. Every person that teaches you something, they teach you either desirable traits for yourself or those traits you must avoid. Those bad situations that come unannounced but imparts something. Anything. Those people that love you. For free. And while you're at it, remember to say Thank You and Please and I love you (or even I hate you) especially when it is to your closest friends and to your family. (Why are we more polite to strangers anyway?)

And remember to mean it, baby darling. Mean it most sincerely. There's really no other way, baby, there's really no other way.

PS: I stopped writing this mid-way and now don't recall the rest but when I do, I'll let you know, baby boo, I'll let you know :)

All a Leaking Matter:

2010-05-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

Do you remember, dear baby, do you

when the rain falls soft, wind-kissed, caressing,

do you remember to drink in the scent of damp earth,

do you remember, dear baby, do you?

Do you remember to put your face up to the rain, do you remember of such moments paradise is wrought?

Do you know that such events are labeled sheer ordinaries

because

these are extra-ordinaries that occur

all too often?

Do you remember, dear baby, do you remember, do you

that life is as rain, by washing away it cleanses?

And do you know dearest baby, do you

that it might soon be over, do you

do you know when the gods wake up from deep slumber and remember

that alas, they have forgotten yet again, forgotten to turn

the taps off

do you know, do you know the rains, it will then

all be over?

But

that's why, dear baby, that's why you must remember

remember to drink it all in

soak it all in

feel it

play in it

live it

breathe it

for it might soon

all

be over.

Fact Files:

2010-05-13T21:32:00.000-07:00

Hi there baby dearest:

I'm going to embark on a small mission to negate motherhood feeling of inadequacy and even negligence, to randomly bombard you with facts, from my life, from the world at large, anything. If it counts for anything, it'll be brief ;)

Fact #1:

"..." (an ellipsis) is used in the middle of a sentence, or for a sentence that doesn't end.

"...." is an ellipsis with a period, at the end of a sentence, that shows the sentence is over.

Most people have no idea there's a difference.

The Leap.

2010-04-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

I google-d the phrase, 'The Book of Love' hoping to realize that no one had dared to write a book on such a dynamic topic as love, but I was wrong.

Many have tried.

Baby, I don't know what to make of it. This thing called love.

That many had tried.

I settled in comfortably into the back seat of a lovely car called Betsy, listening to two colleagues. Listening to a girl talk of her sequential three boyfriends and her current two boyfriends, learning of legal issues that stem from buying property with an angry ex-boyfriend. Listening to tales of how the rosy gets ugly, how the familiar becomes annoying, love to hatred. Watched her look laughingly at my Indian friend and say: Well I should have done it the simple uncomplicated way. An arranged marriage.

And watched my Indian friend look at her and say, Yes, you must consider it. Listened to her daily routines with her husband of twenty-five years and a son of nineteen. Listened to her describe in painstaking detail how he was the only one who could manage to humiliate the educated liberal in her. By coming home drunk and beating her up. Every night of twenty five years.

Baby, I don't know what to make of it. This thing called love.

My eyes twinkled as she asked me more about the formalities of an arranged marriage. Well, I said, so the guy's family comes over and then, the girl, oh the girl comes and serves tea, and each observes the other, until the families arrive at a consensus. And they're left alone to talk, like for ten minutes, just the boy and the girl.

And what do they talk of, she wanted to know. Oh, well it is very businesslike, I exaggerated, he asks her whether she knows to cook, if she can bear him five male heirs, she wants to know if she can work/study, wear pants, etc. How extremely crude, don't you think, I asked in conclusion.

And watched her shake her head furiously in consent, stating how it was so much better if they only got to know each other better before their marriage. And listened to her explain how she recently married her boyfriend of twelve years, how it was not because she felt obliged to marry him but because things had always been perfect between the two of them, how she had the perfect wedding story and how things were not supposed to change after marriage because they were living together for the last seven years. And watched her tell me how she discovered recently that they disagreed on very important topics. Like her wanting to resume studying.

Baby, I don't know what to make of it. This thing called love.

That many have tried.

So baby, what does one do?

When there is no formula? No eternally lasting magic portion? When there is no preview into the future? When one cannot be utterly and entirely sure?

Does one furiously guard himself?

Vow never to get into a relationship?

Keep others out?

Shut down?

A very very wise man dared to take a stab at the answer:

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change.

It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

My darling baby?

Take the plunge.

Dare to dream a dream.

Take a chance.

A leap.

A leap of faith.

It's Your Dream.

2010-01-29T02:30:00.001-08:00

Now here's a confession, baby.

Lately, I've been acting more and more like the sacrificial lamb, I attempt to weep at the drop of a pin, I happen to fear that the world is conspiring against me, I seem to feel that the fates are unkind, I increasingly find myself intolerable yet I persist in self-infliction, doubt and pity.

Not any more.

Long long ago, baby, there was this lady.

She was this self pitying martyr of a woman who dreamed one night of this handsome dashing man who was walking closer and closer to her. As the last remaining millimeters were being quickly and most tantalizingly reduced, she shuddered in sheer anticipation and quiveringly asked of him, What will thou doest with me?

And he replied: It's your dream, lady. You tell me.

This story teaches me a lot. It teaches me that there may be high-lying hurdles and overbearing obstacles or distracting distractions or tantalizing temptations, but really, baby, your life?

Your life is what you make of it. It's the dream you craft, it's the painting to which you loving apply brush strokes, it's what you make of it.

You are in charge, you're responsible for its outcome, you're in charge of the everyday decisions you may take, the numerous hearts you may break, the self-driven goals you may make, the loyal friends you may forget, the parties you may attend, the words you may carelessly utter.

You're in charge.

It's.

Your.

Dream.

A Bottle of Ketchup.

2010-01-27T07:38:00.000-08:00

"Ketchup has got to be one of the best inventions bestowed upon mankind," he declared, dipping his tasteless sandwich in to a bowl of ketchup.

Of course I had to agree.

I worshiped the thing.

You see, baby, while I was growing up, ketchup was the unwritten remedy for all of life's flaws; cold fried rice, burned noodles, chicken fry, sandwiches of all shapes and assortments, ketchup ruled my turf and rocked my world until I was enslaved, enraptured, a willing captive.

Ketchup made every culinary experience so much more tasty, sometimes edible and other times, even tolerable.

And that is what I wish for you, dearest baby.

I do not wish that recognition or deep awe be bestowed upon you, for seldom is a song sung or a poem written to the praises of a bottle of ketchup.

I do not wish that you be acknowledged for your outstanding brilliance or your individual talent, for seldom is ketchup used in isolation.

I wish, instead, that by your mere presence, you enhance that of someone else, that as with ketchup, you bring out the best in others, that you silently contribute and well.

I wish, that by being administered, you make tolerable that which is not, that you be heralded as every person's savior in times of bad food, bad days or distress, for you are willing and able and more, you are available.

I wish, that while I'm not sure if consistency is always better than being a trail blazer, since it's better you wear out occasionally than rust ever too often, I wish that as with ketchup, you be equal to all, maybe even be predictable as a person. That you do not manipulate, use, rather you grow, encourage.

I wish, also, that you being meek, realize it is not cowardly or being weak, for like with ketchup, being an add-on instead of the show-stopper is not a bad thing, baby.

It really ain't no bad thing.

Of precautions and precarities...

2009-12-07T01:51:00.000-08:00

Each time I was done explaining why I was sporting an elaborately wrapped hand bandage to work, walked with a slight limp and looked sleep-deprived, fluffed up and most ruffled, these were tidbits of the various stories I heard:

"I remember when we were younger, the crazy days when we would drive bikes at 120km/hour. The pillion rider of the first bike dropped his helmet and the second bike hit it, head on and spun in mid air. Twas sheer madness!"

"Oh you were lucky, girl! There was this friend of mine and at a turn, his shoelaces, imagine, his shoelaces got caught in the wheels and he spun out of control and was in the hospital for weeks!"

"You must now know how foolish my uncle felt. He fell asleep riding his Royal Enfield bike and hit into a lamp post! And injured his hands and legs!"

"Oh yes, I agree, I'm grateful for the onlookers. They are most invaluable!

There was this time, some of us friends took a car and a bike on a road trip. We were in the car, saw a bull and applied the brakes, the bike behind us smashed into the car, toppled over it and onto the bull.

People were vocal about the need for the car group to pay the bike pair, and once they realized that we were all together, then they wanted us to pay the bull's owner.

And the bull? Twas bigger than an ambassador, it just walked away."

Nothing prepares you for an actual accident.

Not the countless stories, not the apparently needless precautions, nothing.

Most bad accidents, they say, happen so quickly, you have no idea what happened until it's over.

I remember looking over his shoulder, at the divider that separated the flyover from the road leading downwards, and thinking, 'It's okay. He will swerve the last minute, don't yelp the helpless maiden yelp.It's all good.'

And we crashed.

I remember flying through the air, seeing him on the floor and hoping that I would not land on him. I remember landing on my face and waking up in a dazed attempt to pick up my bag and find out if he were all right. I remember picking up my bag, hearing the screech of an oncoming car, looking into the headlights and muttering Sorry. I remember looking at my bleeding palm and rushing to his side. I remember muttering a prayer of thanks that he was alive and I remember telling him repeatedly that I was fine.

I do remember seeing him tremble like a leaf and being surrounded by helpful people who wanted to know if we needed an ambulance. And much later, I remember someone wheel the Royal Enfield to the side and offer to take us home, drop us to the hospital, park the bike at his home while we made our way to the hospital. I remember their offers for help, for assistance, for general advice.

I remember assuring him that if bones were broken, the excruciating pain would alert us to it. I remember saying 'Emergency' at the reception, I remember the X-ray he was ordered to take and the doctor's hurried prescriptions for medicines and injections. Much later, I remember hearing that his collar bone was fractured and remember our journey back home.

Much later in the quiet of the night, dearest baby, I remembered the man who told me he stopped to help only because he saw the the impact of the crash, saw me fly in the air and was sure I would not survive the fall. Much later, I realized that if the 200+kg bike had fallen on our legs, our legs would not have been whole, in a long long time. Only much later, I remembered that lying on the ground, we could have been run over and been hurt, by any moving vehicle over 20km/hr. Much much later, I realized that having landed on my face and not my back, things would have been messier if I were wearing my spectacles instead of contact lenses. Much later, I remembered that if he had not worn his helmet, his head would have been a fine mash of pulp.

Much later, I realized that while all of us were smashed in some way or the other, him and I and Bully, the bike, I realized that things could have been much worse.

What did I learn, you ask, baby?

I learned that one should be cautious, one should take the necessary precautions, one should deliberate and pass through life with consistent steady calm. But I learned also, that one cannot let the fear overcome him. One cannot let a mere occurrence allow him to take rash decisions like 'No more bike rides' 'I'm not going to ride a bit over 40km/hr'.

One cannot remain sensible forever.

For to do that is.

To remain.

Ordinary.

And while being careful is important, baby, one cannot completely safeguard himself.

It reminds me, baby, of this real story, this interior decorator man who worked himself into a frenzy, having read stories of freak road accidents. He looked at his baby girl and decided he would do everything he could to make sure she was safe. He bought a huge home at the top of a mountain in a remote countryside, he built big neon warning signs at every turn leading to his house, he made it virtually impossible for any vehicle excepting his, to enter or exit the garage, his house was a model of safety, nothing harmful was within his baby's reach, there were safety fences and nets and almost two years later when completed, he was satisfied with the time and the effort he had put into this project.

And watching his baby girl gurgle with happiness made it all the more worthwhile.

The day he moved in to the new house, he had to get to town to buy something, backed up his car from the garage and did not see his baby girl playing outside, he hit her and killed her instantly.

Despite every attempt, my baby, despite every attempt, one cannot completely safeguard himself.

From accidents and hurt, physical or otherwise.

One can only make try and sure that while alive, he lives his life.

Completely and to utmost satisfaction.

Maybe even.

Precariously.

"... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived."

Brace yourself.

2009-12-01T00:15:00.000-08:00

Now baby, if you're cut out from the same stone your mommy was cut out from, attribute wise that is, one thing's sure.

You giggle.

A lot.

A whole lot.

And if, just if though I hope not, you're cut out from the same stone mommy got cut from, physically, you'll have two big front teeth.

Big.

Weirdly shaped.

Two front teeth.

And you'll learn some day, in a desperate attempt to harness them, so much that your journey leads you to not one, but two dentists, you'll learn that braces is the way.

And that losing four teeth is the mandate first step.

And that dentists are a fascinating lot.

Now, why two dentists, you may ask? And you ask it because you'd know me well, that your mother was never one for myriad consultations and varied opinions, why two then, you ask.

Simply because, horror of horrors, the first refused.

He refused.

I meander, but here's how it happened.

There was once this dentist, who was my choice of dentist on grounds of proximity. One learns when she lives around 30kms away from work, one learns that having a dentist close to home is a good idea owing to the relationship one must build with one's dentist when she wants to put braces

A long regular-visits relationship.

The clinic name escapes me, but I took a liking to him the minute I laid eyes on him.

The man was old.

Surely he would treat my teeth with paternal care, surely he would not be rough or coarse in handling them. Surely he would be graceful.

Kind.

Turned out a tad different, though.

He looked at me, and his first words were:

Why do you want to put braces?

And explained,

Many parents drag their kids to the dentist, many teenagers yield to the have-to-be-perfect, many young adults want the slightest correction for their teeth, what's your story?

Honestly.

Now baby, I wasn't ready for that, was ready for the Open-your-mouth, had braced myself for the Let's-remove-four-of-your-teeth, was prepared for the guffaw that would escape when he saw my poorly maintained teeth, for the How-many-chocolates-do-you-eat, anyway?

Wasn't ready for scrutiny about the intent behind my need for braces.

Carefully replied,

Well you see doctor, I have front two teeth that protrude and was politely termed 'cute' for a long time, and thought it's time I do something about it.

And hurried added,

I mean, hey, I'm doing it for myself.

No peer pressure, doctor.

Rambled on for a few more minutes about me being my own person and doing my own thing and he politely interrupted,

Well I think, you know what I think? I think you're right about the teeth, but this suits you. This suits your personality.

And I won't do it.

And that was.

That.

Flustered, I said, But hey, you're a dentist and you're running a business, how can you throw away a guaranteed customer?

I want.

Have to have.
Braces.

No, he said, I'll do anything else, but braces won't be becoming of you, I'd rather not spoil the way you look.

Bubbly, energetic and just you.

And that day, baby, I learned, that there are a precious few people who will not do something, regardless of how foolish it is as perceived by others, something that is not in line with what they firmly believe in.

That not even the age-old enticing money would make them waver.

Precious few people.

I gave up the search for another dentist, thought, Ah, I don't need it, it hurts too bad, I have to put it on too long.

Until around a year later, when a colleague sported her ultra cool, color-wired braces.

And the old gnawing quest for braces resurfaced.

History repeated.

Amid our unanimous agreement about my need for braces and amid misgivings of removing four teeth, I learned a little something about this guy.

Think of it this way, he said, picture the backseat of this fancy car which should seat three people and horror of horrors, there are five people.

They’re cramped up, totally discomforted, and what do you do?

What do we do? I echoed weakly.

You pull them out. The two people. The four teeth. So the rest of them are housed better, seated comfortably and all is well with the world.

Many days later straining through the corner of my eyes, watching the dentist pull out entirely enormous pliers, the tears welled up.

Well baby, you can trust your mommy to feel entirely martyr-like and helpless about some situations.

Trust your mom to feel like the sacrificial lamb.

The tears silently welled up and spilled.

And I promptly felt very ashamed, and pretended like it wasn’t me and hoped he’d go on with my tooth extraction and pretend not to notice as well.

Whoa, he said, grinning down at me.

Tears of joy, young lady?

Uh Ah. I responded, my mouth wide open and terror evident in my very big eyes.

He continued: Tears of joy, ain’t it? You do realize that once you're done with braces, you're going to be a very very pretty young lady, and these are tears of joy at the realization, is it not?

Uh Ah. I responded, grinning in my mind.

This seemingly ordinary doctor taught me a lot.

Cringing through the self-imagined pain of being poked in my gums to anesthetize the area before a tooth extraction, he paused.

Paused while he could have just gone on and brutally ripped my tooth off.

He paused to say.

What you feel on this side of your teeth where I have anesthetized it (to illustrate, he knocked against the numb area of my mouth,) is pressure.

Simple endurable pressure.

If I were to pull out our teeth on the area not anesthetized (he knocked on the other part of mouth and I yelped in response), well then, you’d faint from the pain of it all.

Simple pressure, young lady, not pain. You can handle that, can’t you?

And I nodded in response, completely at ease.

This seemingly ordinary doctor taught me that it is important to oblige people.

Not in a condescending, sarcastic, self-important way.

But when life deals out some haphazard combination of weird people, do.

Oblige.

In a fashion where you acknowledge the silly nuances of the person you are dealing with, where you stoop to their level, where you talk their language, where you probably even baby talk.

Patiently and surely.

Explain.

And oblige them.

So you see baby dearest, I'm not just weird anymore. I'm wired too.

My mouth, at least.

Stop.

2009-10-26T01:13:00.000-07:00

Twas one of the most recent fluttery work-dotted days, days when I've walked faster than I usually do, when my mind thinks in a ten-pointer format, and when I sport the determined-cut-through-the-frills look.

Twas also one of those days that I was sternly asked to be met for a cup of coffee at Barista. And baby, I had to.

I went.

Amid gushing about the latest project hiccups, my phone rang. Now, I kid you not baby, my phone almost never rings.

Spoke into it, hurriedly: Yes?

And the syrupy prerecorded marketing voice responded with gusto. In Telegu.

Slammed the phone down, and muttered to myself: This always happens! Mutter mutter.

Hate it especially when I'm picking it up at a meeting!

Mutter mutter.

Or, worse, when I'm on roaming!

Mutter mutter.

Phone spam, I explained.

Amused, he replied: You do know there is a phone spam blocker, don't you? Activate it via the customer care number and soon, you won't have no more random marketing calls.

Does it work, the skeptic in me asked.

Worth a try, ain't it?

Pick your battles, baby.

The self-imposed martyr in all of us hardly struggles to survive. Most of the times, you feel tortured and tormented, the world seems to be resting precariously on your weary shoulders, you seem to be fighting against the current. You are tired, irritated, grumbling and complaining. So much so, you do not realize most battles are self imposed, that some are simply not your battles and there is respite from others.

Stop.

Breathe.

Pick your battles.

And fight them to the finish.

If it never did add up.

2009-10-09T06:23:00.000-07:00

Baby.

T'ain't all easy

Ain't all black and white

Ain't completely about finding your thing

Or 'bout being wholly, truly and completely sure.

For sure, t'aint about what they say

More, sometimes t'aint about what you feel

Sometimes, something distinctly shows the way

But don't educate you, the replacement. A gaping hole.

How does it add up when you're the one beaming

And stories innumerable, you recounting, regaling

And he's the one collecting the fragments

You've moved on but he's crippled, maimed, repeatedly tearing.

How does it add up when you're a thriving

Prospering, allowing, the vision unfolding

And he's the one with eyes carved out

And can never not ever see clearly again?

Ain't all clear, that they say

Life ain't fair, boundaries never defined

It will pass, just wait a while

But if it never could add up, what good does it do, the waiting.

Baby?

So be it.

2009-10-07T00:32:00.000-07:00

Rs.400, said he.

Best price.

For you.

The usual tried I.

Laughed at him, a mockery laced laugh.

100.

That's more than it's worth. And you know it, said I, accusation evident in my laughing frown.

Well, said he, 200, finality ringing clear in his voice.

Sighed I and said.

110.

150, said he again. That is it, glared he, his eyes warning me: No more.

Well, if not 110 said I, lips pursed naughtily, 100 then.

Snorted he, pffftt-ing aloud. No winning with you, is there?

140, madam. It's the cheapest it can go. Take it or go.

Unwilling to relent, pouted I to say: 120. No more.

140, madamjee. What difference does a few extra ten rupee notes make?

Exactly my point, retaliated I again, for it now 'twas a matter of having the last word, what difference does it make? 120. Final deal.

140, said he again. And stretched out his hands.

Dug around in my jeans.

Got out a 100. Two tens.

Here you go, said I, beaming up at him. 120.

His hands stayed that way.

Outstretched.

Well, said he again, be nice and give me two more tens. And we'll be done. 140.

I bent my head sideways, looked at his hands, my one hundred and two ten notes placed on it, pulled out the two tens from it and put them back in his hand.

There you go, said I, here are your two more tens.

He snorted again.

Not *these* tens. Two other tens.

Did it again.

Pulled out the tens from his outstretched hands and put it back in them.

Two more tens, said I, smiling to close the deal.

Here's your two.

More.

Tens.

And that, my dear baby, is how I came to be sporting big rocksta sunglasses to work, shades that I bought from a road side shop in Bangalore for Rs.120.

You win, said he laughingly. I give up. Take the shades, you deserve every bit of them. Every bit of them, said he, eyes a twinkle. And remembering the elaborate show to con him of his two extra tens, snorted he again: You deserve them.

You really really do.

And that incident, it reminded me.

Of.

Another day. A familiar he.

What's that theory you have about energy, begged I, I'd like to hear it again, please.

Said he:

"It's quite simple really.

There's this something inherent in everyone, people call by different names: energy, life force, kundalini, et cetera. There's the acknowledged way to increase one's own energy: Food, creativity, the usual. But people, you see, people also are a great source of whether your own energy gets depleted or rejuvenated. Some people are natural energy depletors. They'd surround you with bad vibes, get your blood boiling, your defenses high, your ears tingling, your fist a clenching.

Said he smilingly, and then, there are some others like you, natural energy renewers.

Surround yourself with such, advised he, paternally, and you will generally be positive, on top of things and happy."

This post, dear baby, is simple reminder.

To be a positive force.

To spread cheer.

Good vibes.

Happiness.

Bring a crack of a grin on someone's face. A sparkle of a twinkle in someone's eyes. A cackle of hysteric laughter in someone's day.

Surround yourself with.

Optimism.

Magic.

Sunshine.

The world has enough affliction, misery, grief and heartache, tribulation and woe of its own, and fretting or sulking never did anyone no good.

And baby, if it must take spontaneity and relentless bargaining on a shady roadside shop in Bangalore, late one night for a needless pair of ridiculously huge shades, so be it.

So be it.

What settled it.

2009-09-30T03:00:00.001-07:00

Twas a tug of war, baby, an energy-draining exercise trying to explain to him why I've always wanted to adopt.

Not adopt versus give birth to. But adopt and have children of my own.

What sense does it make, he said, to take care of another person's DNA-an unknown entity?

Is it not enough, he insisted, that you replicate your own?

Now no offense to you, dear baby, but there is a 50% probability that you're 'my own DNA' vs not, but it got me thinking.

And this story, in part, is what settled it.

The conflict in my head.

It settled it.

The year: 2005

I had been selected to study abroad for a semester on an exchange program, something I attributed to luck and 'being in the right place at the right time.'

Alive.

Young.

Exhilarated.

Entirely liberated.

And on my way to another city to finalize mandate visa procedures.

A bus journey would bridge the gap between the cities.

I embarked.

Snuggled in the seat.

Settled in for the night.

And noticed, to my surprise, my reflection in the bus window.

A cursory examination ensued.

Evaluated my smile, the slant of my eyes, the turn of my head, the curve of my shoulders, the way my hair arranged itself. Against my face.

All angles.

Pouted.

Beamed.

Frowned.

And suddenly, somehow, for the first time in a long time, baby, I didn't like what I saw of myself.

Suddenly somehow, it seemed.

'Not' great.

Flimsy.

Would it do?

In a new country?

I felt.

Lacking.

Inadequate.

Substandard.

And almost the very same minute these thoughts merged to concrete formation, almost immediately I saw them.

Kids outside.

Lying on the pavement.

In the cold.

Alone.

Cold.

Veronica-sobbing-about-broken-fingernail image came to mind.

Sensibilities hollered at me: Perspective, girl!

I mean, baby, here I was, having scaled a hope mountain that others dream to conquer, complaining about the pebbles that fell my way. Here I was, utterly and entirely blessed, lamenting about the curly locks that crowded my face. Here I was, given an opportunity of a lifetime, fretting about the intensity, or the lack of, in my eyes.

And almost immediately it reminded me of a favorite story. One, I'm sure, baby dear, I've recited to you, many a night.

There once was a man, a man who walked down the beach, observing to his horror, the starfishes that had been washed ashore. And thus he began a thankless task, of picking them up one by one and throwing them back into the ocean.

Along came another man who observed from afar and mocked him.

Hah, he said, have you noticed how many there are on the beach? How would you ever be able to throw them all of back into the water?

He turned around and said, and he, dearest baby, he was a wise man.

And said: But it makes all the difference to that one starfish I threw back in.

It makes all the difference.

And there you go, baby.

The dream I dream.

The need to make a difference to someone.

Anyone.

Somehow. Anyhow.

That image of those children on the pavement, that cold September night,

that, amid my crowding thoughts of inadequacy and self depreciation, that.

That settled it.

He listens.

2009-08-16T06:48:00.000-07:00

Dear baby, a wise man once told me that the actual winner in a group discussion or a debate is not one who articulates well, who defends his point of view, not even the one who attempts to listen to the other side or the one who moderates the discussion and summarizes it to perfection.

The winner is that guy in the group that everyone is trying to convince. He is the one everyone has unconsciously assumed and heralded the leader, so much so that his nod to their argument is almost a point scored. More applaudable, since he is one among them, he is but an equal.

Then, it was all a matter of testing the theory.

And dear baby, the minute I deemed it a worthwhile theory, it then became a matter of unearthing how one went about being this person that everyone wanted to convince. What were those vibes he radiated, what were those signals set him apart, what did he do different, what were those covert signs.

Turns out, as with the answers to all those profound questions life throws at you, it turns out, the answer, dear baby, the answer was simple.

This guy. He listens.

I mean, it ain't too hard to listen when you've got nothing to say or you're not interested or you're overwhelmed and don't know how to say what you want to say.

But this guy, this guy's different.

Cos he knows what to say and how to say it. Cos he's as alert as a predator stalking its prey, he's listening intently, to both sides of the argument, cos he's nodding his head, assuring them he's hearing them, allowing them to feel for that brief instant, that he is one with them, that he feels the same way they do, that he cares.

He listens.

It's been a fascinating study, the study that anyone, regardless of age, gender, circumstance, inclination, ambition, want.

Wants.

To be listened to.

And baby, this post is a tribute to one such person.

This person who.

Listens.

This post is in acknowledgement of the infuriating amount of patience in this man I call anna, of the pain (and he can testify to this) your mother can be, of the fact that you almost certainly know him for he made me promise that he would be your godfather, of the genuineness with which he listens and the events through he has seen me with calm rationality, of the pillar of strength he has proven to be-time and again, of the simplistic yet incredible trait he possesses in infinite abundance.

He listens.

Tomorrow.

2009-05-28T06:02:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow this post will be gone.

For

tomorrow I will remember why it is important to wait, why it is important not to want to throw away the little we have,

why it is necessary to breathe, relax, to sport a brave face to the cynical world.

Today,

I will let the tears fall,

I will hate that which makes me stick to loyalty and sensibilities,

Today

I will not hide myself behind a mask of reason and good natured humor.

Today

I will quit being infuriatingly patient

I will concede defeat

And

today only

I will be more human.

PS: Dear baby, sometimes wisdom appears in the face of great distress, pain and turmoil. But sometimes, just sometimes, the sad moments turn up, all by themselves.

Sans an altering life-lesson, sans confusion-clearing clarity, sans anything.

This poem was written during one such time.

And this is to tell you that, baby, it's okay. Not to learn anything from something. To be numb, shocked, alone.

Sans.

The Morning After.

2009-05-27T23:40:00.000-07:00

The pain

The hurting

The dull physical ache

The head throbbing

The groanings

cements the foundation

the decision

that

I will slowly and steadily

starve

you

baby dear

from the time you are born,

than

let you

allow you to

permit that you

grow

fat

bloat

expaaaaand

become

"all-round-er"

and

start

gymming

aged

23.

This is. It.

2009-05-25T02:43:00.000-07:00

Traveling has that fond way of reminding me of the dizzying effect of a world at large, people, cultures, things. And dear baby, of the quietening gratitude that there is warmth, escape and familiarity back home.

Some people do that to me as well.

Random strangers who make me wonder why I did not discover them earlier, the surge of excitement in the uncertain steps to getting to know them, yet close friends with whom I revel in the words unspoken, in the comfortable silence, in their understanding of my unexpected tears or my outbursts.

And friends of long standing who still surprise me with their unpredictability.

I do not think I want to forget that night. I will, most undoubtedly, but I do not wish to. A flight back to an airport conveniently located more than an hour away from home, and he insisted he would come drop me home. I hesitated, the self inflicted modesty in me denying the generous offer though I knew I needed it.

Midnight.

Tired. Sleepy. Falling apart. Quiet. Irritated.

Long flight. Delayed. Noisy. Turbulence.

And he still waited.

Predictable.

Three am.

We cruised along the highway, me trying to close my eyes through the cold air, the hunger and the sleep deprivation.

Predictable.

Sudden break and the bike squealed.

I opened my eyes, slowly and deliberately. Irritated. Not ready for an excuse of any sort.

This better be good, I thought.

Predictable.

"Ice cream?" he said with an endearing lopsided grin.

Unpredictable.

I almost grumbled out loud. Lots and lots of kilometers to go before we reached home. Cold and sleepy to a point to rolling into a ball in the corner of the road.

4:00 am and work at 8:00 am the next day.

Then thought, What the heck? Bought butterscotch ice cream from a dear old man who dragged out chairs from the neighbouring shop, laughed ourselves senseless over old stories, his and ours, slurped our ice creams, huddled in the cold, quenched our thirst from a dirty tap that was. Available. Vigorously waved our byes and parted ways with him.

Totally unexpected and very warming considering it was ice cream, dear baby, considering it was ice cream.

Another day, another friend.

Early evening.

My friend and I were trudging the long way that led to a mall.

Ideally, baby, ideally, I would never waste time shopping and/or walking. Not unless I was emotionally blackmailed into it. Like this time. Like when she said without me, she'd never find something for her mother. And her sister. Like when she gushed how good I would be at selecting the perfect something.

I yielded with a huff and a puff.

Predictable.

Skipped through the roads, hand in hand, giggling, talking about nothing in general.

Predictable.

Huge set of rocks/boulders near the road, and I glanced around and muttered, Someday. Some day I will climb that.

And baby, you'll get to know how typical that is of me. To look at dare-devilry things and sigh. To hear someone travel around the world and look wistful. To see someone do something spontaneous and say, That will be me. Someday. Though not now.

Predictable.

And she looked at me and said: 'Well, go climb it. Now.'

Unpredictable.

Well I hemmed and hawed and I was like 'Nah, I did not mean it that way. And by the way, won't we, like, uh waste a lot of time climbing rocks? Don't you have to, like, shop? For your mom? Puh-leeze!'

'Go climb it. Now.'

And we did. We did, dear baby, we did.

Left our bags, unattended, a pile near the rocks, and went a-climbing. The thorn-scrapping bruises on our fingers did not linger, but the memories will, baby dear, the memories will.

And after the racing heartbeat got back to normal, after the flush in my cheeks began to blend with the rest of my coffee brown self, after the plastered foolish grin faded, I guess I learnt, dear baby, that.

It is very impressive indeed to have a goal.

And.

To know exactly where you want to go. To know precisely what you want to achieve.

To be commited to the outcome.

But every once in a while, it is important.

To stop.

To breathe.

To drink it all in.

To apply the brakes.

To slow down.

To stop.

Cos' this is it, baby.

This is the one life you'll have.

The one life you get.

This is.

It.

All I can do right now.

2009-05-17T02:45:00.000-07:00

So baby, it was a hot day, one in a long string of many other hot days, and one in which my general happy outlook towards life was fast disappearing.

It was earlier than my usual timings but late per the world's biological clock.

Life seemed to be an emergency.

Traffic jam.

And I was in an auto rickshaw. Not the very convenient cab that would allow me the comfort of a nap, but an auto rickshaw.

Where.

The man was a complete stranger and the meter kept ticking.

An auto rickshaw.

And.

It was hot.

The constant horning all around me and the quick peep to guage the length of the traffic did not help.

Rolled my eyes.

Muttered to myself and settled in for the long wait.

And he started humming a tune.

Loud.

Quite pleasant.

Surprising me in the deal.

I closed my eyes and let myself soak in his song. And quickly opened them again, and asked him, a curious frown crowding my face.

'Why?

Why are you singing?

Its hot and its irritating, and oh, the traffic ain't going to get better not in the next two hours, and its sticky, and tempers are on the rise, and I'm on the flare, and.

Why.'

And he said:

Because that's all I can do right now.

And right now, thats enough.

It's all I can do.

Right.

Now.

And baby, I guess all I want you to remember is that the best you can give is enough. It may not be the best, but if it's your best, and if it's all you can do right then, it is almost always.

Enough.

No matter what anyone else says.

My love.

No matter what anyone else says.

Let Me Be.

2009-05-15T15:46:00.000-07:00

He was so like me, so alike me, that I knew he would stiffen sooner or later. And he did, baby, he did.

You know baby, there are these people that you know t'was fate who threw them at you. There would have been no possible chance under heaven that you would have met, that you would talk, that a connection would be established, a pattern would emerge, a friendship would blossom.

He was one of them.

His league was levels higher than I am at. His was the league that back slapped the directors and the VPs of the empire I worked for, his was the kind who had seen the rise and fall of many a product more recent that his latest role was. One of the most respected and well known people in our company, he was one who I'd easily never have gotten to meet. Never have had a reason to chat. Never have had a need to nod in recognition. Always have a reason to slip past. To feel dwarfed by. To be in awe of.

And by some gentle nudge of fate, I got into a role where he was one in the three member team. He happened to work off the US branch, and our introduction was a three hour long phone call. Purely work.

Purely professional. And.

Completely.

Refreshing.

What is that happy skip in your heart, when you are finally face to face with the childhood celebrity of your thoughts and dreams, that thrill in your heart when you've realized the respect and the single minded devotion you had for him, was earned, that happiness knowing that the love and the admiration you had for him was deserved, was warranted, wasn't hyped up? That the experience with the god did not disappoint?

Needless to say, I thrived. My manager reminded me that I was chatting on a day to day basis with one of the legends in my company, that his time was precious, that he was arrogant for a reason, that he'd get bored with mentorship, that he would not oblige a mere apprentice.

And surprisingly, he did.

Oblige.

Chatted every day. Emailed almost every day. Watched hawk eyed, my work.

Commented. Deliberated. Argued. Articulated.

And somewhere somehow through those days of mentoring, he opened up. I learned he was a dear old man with a bitter past. That he still used an antique typewriter. That his girlfriend of many years left him for the workaholic he was. That her parting words were 'Your company has gotten the best of you. Not me. And it will never change.' That he had an ailing mother. That he was lonely. That he was worried I showed all the signs of turning out to be someone like him. That he refused to get himself a mobile phone.

And in that concern, I moved to familiar terrain. I worried for him in return, for his health, for the acute length of hours he worked, of the migraines that showed up unexpectedly, of the meals he never ate.

He withdrew into his cemented shell as quickly as he opened up. He would back off the minute he sensed sympathy. He would use professional competence in the face of personal failure.

Work was his therapy, his ailment, his excuse, his god.

He appreciated the gesture of concern when he logged into work way too early or a tad too late, but stiffened at any signs of questioning. He was hard to figure out, hard to derive trends from, hard to please. He read vivaciously, was fascinated and neck-deep in antique things and principles, had little tolerance for the established norms and was never afraid to be vocal.

And today, he was vocal.

Said, Stop worrying for me. Just like you, I do what I do because I choose to do it, because I love it, because there can be nothing else. Let me be.

Let me be.

2009-05-10T04:58:00.000-07:00

The blackness engulfed

The night chill embraced

The cold breeze

Teased

Caressed

Surrounded

The world was.

Still

Unmoving

T'was nice.

This quiet.

This.

It felt

Like.

The song would never end.

The fairy tale would materialize.

The dream would unfold.

The calmness

deliberately acknowledging

I had spent yet another night at office.

Yet.

Another.

Night.

Of highway chronicles and complex beings...

2009-04-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, baby, again I was stuck in that same familiar position, back from work, in the comfort of the car, myself for company, blitzing through the highway, lost in thoughts or the lack of them, looking out the window.

I noticed her only for her body language. She was comfortably tucked right behind him on the bike, her body pressed against him, her head easy on his shoulders, her hands possessively wrapped around him.

Somehow, commonality as it was, it made me look, and as I watched her, she reached out to tug her t-shirt down. Her t-shirt which had shrugged its way up, the winds be blamed.

And I smiled.

Girls are a complex being.

Him.
I could almost reason out his beaming self. He was on the roads, the winds complimenting the ease in which he zig zagged through, with his bike. And she. She was pressed against him, he could feel her body, her shirt buttons giving a dull pleasant hurt, he could smell her freshly washed hair, he could smell. Her. Her voice caressing his ears, her hands around him, bringing life to the most tantalizing senses and sending tingles down his spine.

And her.
Here she was, closest that she would get to the actress-traversing-the-highway portion of the movie. Wind through her hair, boyfriend, boyfriend’s bike, chattering away about her day’s happenings.

Her mind wandering, she looked about her. The wind was especially pleasant. Hmm, it must be the evening breeze. Evening, already? She had to go home, cook and catch some sleep before the morning. Mind wandering again, she realized her t-shirt had flown up. Thought, what the hell, and timed her move to talk in continuation whilst tugging it down. Impatiently.

The present.

My mind wanders.

Him.
I could reason out the logic for his decision to ask me to marry him. It was right. He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I made him happy. He made me laugh. We could talk, hours on end, about any topic, relevant or not. We brought out the intensity in each other. We made each other want to live fully, love to the ends, argue to the fullest, laugh to the throatiest, cry to the sorest. We fit perfectly. He and I. We were parts of a two piece puzzle. Nothing else would match. It was uncomplicated. It felt right. And so. He asked me.

And I.
Here I was, closest I would get to the actress whose mouth dropped at the most unexpected yet desired question he put forward.
The moment was perfect, he was as eager as a boy face to face with his legendary soccer hero, he was sincere, breathless and waiting. For my reply. He was perfect. He brought out the woman that was hiding in me. He made me blush, he made my heart beat faster, he looked into my eyes, and I felt bare.

My mind wandering, I realized his blue eyes meant my parents would not agree, his Australian accent implied he did not speak my mother tongue, his parent’s immediate consent of our love reminded me of my parent’s ignorance of it. And their immediate most vocal disapproval when they would.

And I opened my mouth to say: I frankly do not know.

Girls are a complex being.

And baby, I do not know if that’s a good or a bad thing, this mind wandering, this over analyzing, this unconscious defaulting into worrying about the future, this make-complex of simplicities, of being unable to see just the moment, this restrain.

I do not know.

Ignorance is bliss... But what of knowledge? And its partial acknowledgement.

2009-04-14T06:37:00.000-07:00

Oh baby dear, I remember the first time like it was yesterday. As an aside to my usual hurried routine, I carefully handpicked picked out a presentable plus ironed attire that would introduce me as a credible somebody, I brushed back and restrained the naughty locks of hair that threatened to cover the serious determined look my face carried, I actually mulled over wanting to emphasize being one who was amiable yet serious and focussed about being there.

... And yes baby, for all those signboards that caution you against sweating the small stuff, I could not help but. For it was the first time.

And that was the first time I went to an orphanage. It was interesting how I've always wanted to do it, but when confronted with an opportunity, the heart willed yet the body was on unfamiliar ground.

But the heart won, and thus chanced the first time I was surrounded by thirty children.
Every one of them.
HIV positive.
The very first time.

It was the first time I was deeply moved, when a boy reached out and carefully wrote with a pen, his name on the insides of my hands. Was he not almost certain that the words he engraved on my hand would stay forever? That nothing would erase it? That he would not be forgotten? That he was not just one in a crowd? It was the very first time.

It was the first time I picked up a girl and held her close. Playfully. For I wanted her to forget what was, her fate. And it was the first time, that when I tried to get her back on the ground, I felt resistance. She did not want to let go. She craved the warmth, the love, the acceptance, and she silently lay there, her hands wrapped protectively around my neck, her breath both caressing and tingling. It was the first time I felt a child quieten in my embrace. The very first time.

It was the first time that when I lined up these kids for an amateur caricature, and when I had to run all around the small playground to catch the last boy who absolutely refused to sit still and let himself be drawn, it was the first time I heard a child say:
But I don't look.
Nice.
Enough.
And that was the first time I felt the tears threaten to overwhlem. The absolute first time.

Ignorance, I still maintain, is bliss, partial knowledge is a curse.

And these kids knew. That theirs was a sadistically timed and rapidly eaten up life. That it was fading away. You could see it in their eyes. Empty. Quietened. Sombre. Void of hope. They had watched their friends die. They knew immediately what to do when a friend got hurt in a game and there was blood. They knew.

And that.
Was.
Their curse.

How he met my mother.

2009-02-23T23:15:00.000-08:00

Baby, this is the story of how he met her. How it transpired, the details to its finesse, how they came to be together. An ode. To them.

People say one can never knows. One can never be completely sure that a relationship will work, that a marriage will sustain, that you will grow old together.
What is that word he says that pacifies the butterflies in your stomach and settles the pounding heart and makes your mind say He is the one. What is that thing he does that finally quells all the zillion things you make up in your head that could go wrong, but he does it and you think. I have arrived. He is. The one.
And how much more difficult when in an arranged marriage such as the one my parents had, where you have ten minutes to talk and decide if you want to place your carefully dreamed future in his hands, capable or not. When you are allowed a few minutes to decide if you will spend the rest of your life, differences et all, with him.

For my mother, it was the simplest of things that decided it, that make me question to this day, how she could have gotten it right on such a flimsy foundation as that.

It was a normal day as any others. Not for him. This was the day he would see her, his mother had been singing her praises all month long, it was hard to remember that she had not seen her as well, and this was the first time they would be setting eyes on this self made girl.

Her reputation preceded her. She was a nurse, trained in the one of the best military school in the country, her diplomas and additional qualifications acquired from all around India were testimony to the fact that she was a girl with a mind of her own and quite a successful one at that. At an age and time when parents refused to let their daughters study and imagined it to be an indulged-in luxury, she had come a long way, and today, he would see her.

It was a day as any other. Not for him, though.
He kept telling himself that he had a noteworthy job, that he was self made, in a different sort of way, and that he could strike some cord. Having his three giggly sisters accompany him to her nurses hostel did not help. He was afraid they would ruin it. They would ruin the calm portrayal he intended to maintain in front of her. They were most definitely thinking up some of the worst childhood stories to tell her. Argh! And that would be the last he saw of her.

He dressed carefully. He sidelined the advice free flowing from all directions on what color would best suit his complexion and the dances his sisters made him the center of. Carefully. Picked a rich maroon shirt that would show off the tan that had intruded into his previous fair complexion, and picked a white dhoti to go alongside.
It would spell prosperity, money, class, all the things that any normal Indian girl wanted.

Did he mention that the sisters accompanying him did not help? The entire car journey was pure torture.They refused to stop teasing him, they were reciting tidbits of what they knew of the girl, and they were succeeding in getting his mind a scatter and his heart a flutter.

It was a day as any other. Not for him. Nope, not for him.
They reached. He climbed out, waiting for the whole episode to get over, wishing fervently he did not have to put up with any of this farce. He was not himself, this was not the man who toiled every day in the scorching heat, a mechanic in a shipyard. This was another side, one that never surfaced, and one he hoped she would like.

Disaster struck.
The warden took one good look at the giggling sisters, looked him up and down and said: But this is a girl's hostel. There is no way we are letting you into her room. The girls can go in, though.

His worst nightmare come alive. Was it possible that his sisters would get a chance to see her first, talk to her first, brainwash her mind and then bring her to him, in the common lounge area?
He was so dead. Screwed up.
A normal day? Hah!

He found himself nodding. It would have to do. He looked at them sternly, and said, Go bring her.
Not a day he would forget in a hurry.

It was a normal day. For her.
The night before was a day nurses hope and pray will never ever descend upon them. Late night, emergency cases, she managed to hit the sack at 3.00am. And managed to forget she had to meet a complete stranger the next day, one she may have to marry.

She had thought a lot about the proposal when her family bordered on the topic. He was an interesting man, but apprehensions were clouding her judgment. She was not like most girls her age, having traveled, studied and worked, she wanted more than the basics that every Indian girl demanded. A home to beautify, a husband to reproduce for, a marital status to make her family proud.
She wanted someone who would understand her, respect her. And having ten minutes to decide that, was equivalent to digging herself a well ornamented grave. She made up her mind. She would say no to this guy. Say no and then buy some extra time and tell her parents what she really wanted.

However, that night, the night before he was to meet her, she forgot. She forgot he would come the next day, she forgot that as with every guy-meeting-girl tradition in India, the girl is decked in her best clothes and her best jewelry. Any less is blasphemous. She forgot.
A normal day, just as any other.

And so she was sleeping when his sisters came a knocking. She was sleeping when they impatiently banged the door and demanded to be let in. She was most sleepy when she answered her door, most sleepy, until she heard why they were there.

And suddenly her head cleared. She looked down at her nightgown, flimsy and hardly adequate, she brushed her hands through the curly tangled mop that was her hair, and felt. Lost.

Until his sisters took over.
The oldest, having sized up the situation took control. Dragged her to the shower, flung open her wardrobe, found an appropriate sari, and looked into her own purse for make up, for jewelry, sprinted outside to buy jasmine flowers and got back just in time.

To this date, mom tells me that made her decision for her.

She looked on amazed, as his sisters, these girls she had never seen before in her entire life, these girls dressed her up, draped her sari for her, transformed her. She looked on, as they instructed her, pout those lips, now blink your eyes, more, do NOT tear up, the kohl does that to people, put these flowers on, try this perfume, smile, flutter those eyelashes, for the love of God!

And she was sure. Before she even saw him, that with sisters like the ones he had, she would be grateful just to be married into the family.

And he got to know, so much later, so much later, that the pretty girl who radiated confidence and looked so china-doll-perfect he was scared to talk and break the magic spell, that she, she had been sold in, before he uttered a word.

Sold in to his sisters.

The Friendlies Virus.

2009-02-18T02:13:00.000-08:00

... Now as you may have well guessed by now, this can safely be labeled as a confession, so baby, I know you're already smirking and waiting for the worst, so I'll try and get to the point, aka, the moral of the story. Duh, baby, like you didn't expect that of your mom!

Here goes. Well you see, baby, I'm generally a very friendly person. Sometimes, to the point of freaking out the recipient. New people and new situations almost never scare me and it is an almost guaranteed task that the other person is soon at ease and very comfortable with the conversation. I mean, really comfortable to the tongue wagging, secrets spilling, fashion-tips sharing, want-to-date-boyfriend's-eligible friend? stage.

Yes, yes, its gotten me into a tad bit of trouble sometimes, but I valiantly persist. And you know why. Its not complete trust in a total stranger. Its called giving the other person the benefit of the doubt. Its remembering that everyone, my baby, everyone has a story to tell, if only you will listen.

STORY #1

There was something about this cab driver that I sniffed, as I climbed in to the cab. Now, if I get in to work on a weekend, I am usually assigned to a driver at random. And thats exactly what happened. Yet, I could sense the mood in this perfect stranger. Restless. Shifty. Rash.
And so I defaulted to my normal sense and got talking.
And this is what I learned.
That he was a new father, that his son was just a half day old, that his wife was still in the hospital, that their parents did not have the money to be there with them, that he was driving having left his wife and the baby in that dingy local hospital alone, only, I repeat, only, for the money.

It wasn't much, he could hardly afford the rent let alone sustain his wife and a kid, yet given the circumstances, that was. The only thing he could. Do.
Each person has a story to tell, my love, each person.

STORY #2

A guy. Its a crazy story. So there was a trip. Three girls on it. Destination. Bangalore. Mode of travel. Sleeper bus. Between the three of us, this was the first time we were on an adventure trip. Purpose. Shopping. We fell over in splits as we explained to our colleagues and everyone who cared to ask, how we were going shopping. Just to Bangalore. Which is more than an overnight journey. Just Bangalore. Like it was a hop skip away. (Oh, we shrugged when we said it, making it sound like a trip to a mall. We couldn't let this pass.)

We were in top form. Giggles escaped us at every point. Our wittiest best. Nothing could break our unquenchable irrepressible high spirits.
The fates conspired. Rickety roads. Hard sleeper beds. And the number three. The three of us would have to be separated. Two of us would have to sleep together. And one of us would share the bed with a stranger. Sigh.
It was easy. The two of the lot, the actual-girls-at-heart who had to be discussing world altering decisions like nail polish, bags, shoes and boys were clubbed together. And I got to share my bed/seat with another girl.

Now, when the guy got into the bus, for a scores-low-on-the-dog-in-heat--tendencies type person like me, I casually glanced up from my highly absorbing novel. And looked twice. This guy smelt delicious. And looked. Greek God-ish. Hmm. Try that as understatement of the decade.
I let it pass and resumed reading, but from behind, could hear my friends coughing quite indiscreetly and very attention-grabbing-intended. I smiled to myself.
They were not going to let this opportunity slip.
Co-incidentally, his bed on the bus was opposite theirs, and soon they got a chatting. Now, baby, I was getting ready to sleep, having dozed off a couple a times just to wake up to the sound of the aftermath of a witty comment shared or a new most-awkward-situation shared with the Greek God Guy.

And then, they called me over.
Minor correction.
Dragged, hauled and reeled me in, rather.

So suddenly I was part of the conversation, and whats interesting was the conversation actually got boring for my we-want-more friends. He wanted to talk about work, they wanted to know more about how he got around getting to become the embodiment of all that is delicious and wrong. He wanted to talk new endeavors, avenues, merger, acquisitions, they wanted a piece of him.
I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation. At the end of it, I was hanging on to every word, formation of his company, various processes they undertake and cost cutting measures they undertook to handle the spirits-plummeting recession.
And I learned through the night, he was more than that. He was a masseur, very surprising since he hailed from a small village, he was an expert at almost all martial arts. A lot of Chinese sounding names were thrown about, and he had been to most competitions. And won. The body did not just come by. The bruises were there to prove to my incredulous eyes. The its-a-fact-Duh! intonation he used, calmly reciting the routines they followed, the diet he swore by, the different kinds of swords that were used, it taught me, baby, that though he was an arrogant prick, he totally earned his right to be one.

Totally.
Every person, my baby, every person. Has. A story to tell.

STORY #3

Train to Kerala. It was a tiresome 30ish hour journey to get to my hometown from where I work at, and yielding to these economic modes of transport always made me contemplate why I was working in a place that far away from home. By hour 24, I had read my novel thrice to completion and to the point of being capable of reciting parts of it, I was done with music, with looking out the window, with the back-aching jerks, with new random conversations, and I settled in for yet another doze.
And then I saw her.
There was no reason I would have talked to her. She seemed comfortable alone, the dingy hot sticky climate made her shift her burqu'ah quite a couple of times, and we acknowledged each other with polite smiles each time our eyes met co-incidentally.
And when we got talking, this was her story.
A conservative Moslim girl, she was brought up learning marriage and offspring were the be all and end all to life. Literally.
And that became her woe. A long story short, she discovered, quite painfully, that she would not be able to give birth to children. It was her undoing. Her community thrived on marriages as a means to male children to bear the father's name. And therefore, no one would marry her.
Long after she was gone, baby, you know what hit me. That this was an instance where I was unaware that I was dabbling a finger into her gaping wound. Before she opened up, we discussed family, children, joys of motherhood and pretty much everything else. And nothing prepared me to realize I was embarking on a painful story of hers. And that I was reminding her of her inevitable future. I guess I learned one is capable of hurting someone else without having the least intention of doing so.

I hardly know what I am hinting at, but baby, I guess I will sign off saying this much. With the core of your heart on guard, try and err on the side of breaking the ice and coming across as friendly to strangers that traverse the road you find yourself on.

Each person has a story to tell, my love, each person does indeed.
If only. You. Will let him.
And in hindsight, considering you ain't getting access to this blog until you are like, 22, I guess its pretty good advice :)

Sol·i·tar·i·ness \ˈsä-lə-ˌter-ē-nəs\ noun

2009-02-16T02:55:00.001-08:00

I heard this little something, and baby, at the risk of appearing feministically inclined, let me quote it for your eyes to read. 'Men regret the women they did not sleep with, women regret those they slept with.'

It set me thinking on a tangential variation. Let me explain.

Two eventful days. New Years. Valentines.

New Year, 08. Delhi. Boastings of being an Indian twenty one years yet the first time to this capital city set my heart a racing. Picturesque, cozy, it fed the artistic side to me I almost quelled in my quest for corporate furtherance. Breathed architecture, dreamed new heights, knew no one yet felt one with everyone. My eyes drank it all in.
In actuality, I was there on a mission. Work demanded that I be there, a new city, and on New Year's eve, there was no one in the city that I knew real well or wanted to be with. So baby, you need to know that your mommy stayed indoors on New Year's eve, at the guest house, having declined not-so-tempting offers from well meaning colleagues to party the night away.

Valentines 08: Still Delhi. My infatuation with Delhi just blossomed into simple pure adulation. The romance was still exciting and new, there were new sides to this city I was discovering, and I was soon becoming a glowing dreamy eyed babbling lover.

Two separate incidents. Alone. But my reactions was as different as night from day, baby.

On New Year's, I actually cried. For no reason. I realized how empty the whole wait-up-for-12-to-dawn-upon-us routine was, when one is alone. There is no reason to be staying up. One says Happy New Year to oneself, and goes to sleep. Yet the very exercise of being alone in a huge bed, no familiar faces around me, the loneliness of the past few months catching up was all too wary and I wept. Just like that. And promptly went back to sleep.

Valentines was any other normal day. Went about brisk with work, the day was hectic, tedious, racy, quick, breath catching.
Any. Other. Normal day. Not an ounce of self inflicted misery.

Nothing.
I felt nothing different. Wanted nothing different.
Regretted nothing.

I guess, I realized that in hindsight baby, I do not regret not having a boyfriend. Now don't get me wrong kiddo, I believe in the institution of love, I never doubt, for an instant, that true love and a deep rooted desire to make things work and see it to completion, goes a long way. One is never alone, there is someone who always will care about the sweet nothings, the meaningful pauses, the manicured hands, the carefully picked attires, the toyings with your hair. There is one who will always share, his laughter, his sorrows, his pain, his anger, his frustrations whether you contributed to it in the first place or not, and you will get past it. Big or small. There is one other who will care that you were crying, there is one number you will always store on speed dial and one that you will never hesitate to call, whatever unearthly hour you decide to feel childish and unreasonable. There is one you need not fear will mistake your over enthusiastic pushy self, or to whom you need not explain why you do not want to talk. For the next few days.

But I guess, your mommy grew off on the teen anthem of Leave Me Alone. I felt stifled when I was asked to give tabs about my whereabouts, it was not tagged thoughtful in my mind. I loved my free space. I loved working late and not having to quantify why career was a worthwhile investment of my time. I loved the late night talks, but had bouts of wanting to be with myself. Baby, I suffered from commitment-cold-feet. Yes, your mom. But yes, in case you wanted affirmation, yes, it did have its moments of utter desperation, of unexpected tears in the middle of the night, of loneliness descending like an ominous thick fog.

But I'm intact now. I realize I actually like this phase. When I make flamboyant tosses with my career, when I do what my heart dictates. When I can dream, plan, execute, see to fulfillment, and not worry about gambling with anothers' life. When a family is not left hanging with every turn I make.

Stay fiercely independent when you can, baby. And when, in love, breathe deep into it. Large refreshing gulps.

You see baby, at the end of the day, I do not regret the opportunities I missed or the countless men I could have dated, or the new and varied lessons that would have dawned upon me from each love and loss or the vast pool of male resources untapped.
I regret the one that never materialized.

Uninhibited.

2009-01-28T07:07:00.000-08:00

That’s the word that crossed my mind when I saw them, baby. I was living the American dream, as some may call it, on my way back home from a mediocre day at work, in the office cab, by myself. This was one of those days where you should have caught a glimpse of your totally narcissistic momma. I totally felt self important and pompous. My usually curious and open eyed expression was replaced with a smug and an on-top-of-things look. I almost had it all. At 22, a man driving me home from work when the economy was on the downturn, life seemed perfect.

And then I saw them, baby. Two boys on a motorcycle. I heard then before I saw them whizzing past me. They were yelling aloud on a quiet highway, screaming into the air, almost telling the world: We are young. We are alive. Turn around and take notice.

Many looked at them, in the wake of this very outlandish performance and thought with disgust: Coarse.

And all I could think, baby, all I could think, was: Uninhibited.

They reeked of the joy of being alive, of vigor, vitality, youth, eternal optimism. They could care less about what the world thought, about customs and dictates, they did what they wanted. To hell with frigid, classy, ice queen like.

That’s how I want to be.

Uninhibited with my dreams, my wishes, my aspirations.
Soar and never touch the ground with my feet.
Head in the clouds.
Perpetual dreamer.

of Magic and Mishaps

2009-01-18T00:58:00.000-08:00

So here's the story, at least, my side to the story. There once was a bottle, baby, the prettiest that ever lived in the bottle kingdom. It faithfully sat by the princess' throne, where it was fiddled with and played with, tossed and turned, filled and emptied, re-filled and reused. And one bad day, the princess could feel it in the air, the air was musty and the birds refused to chirp, the leaves were unruffled.
And then it happened, the princess was tired and her servants, bless her soul, were dismissed for the day, and lo and behold, she was thirsty. And there was no one would would travel the distances, to fetch her water from the magic steaming well. Now, remember baby, its not just you, all princesses have to drink hot water when they are sick, and princess told her best friend princess to get her some hot water from the steaming magic well. And princess realized that she had to give best friend princess her favorite bottle to fill in the water.

Little did she know that bottle was looked at, with the weight of the envious eyes of the entire kingdom, and what happened afterwards was inevitable.

Whilst the best friend princess tried the new and very different task of filling hot steamy water, the poor blue splendid bottle, under the weight of the jealousy, hatred and spite, melted.

And when, princess heard of this heart wrenching becoming of her most favorite bottle, she could not help but show her immediate disapproval of her soon turned ex-best friend princess. She forgot, as we sometimes do, baby, that people are infinitely more important things than things themselves.

And she openly frowned and mumbled and grumbled and hemmed and hawed, and she set the ex-best friend princess' heart a weeping. But princess that she was, her good heart got the better of her and she set herself writing a letter to her soon-to-be-restored-previous-status best friend princess.

And this is real, baby. The best friend neighborhood princess was Aswathy and the princess was your mother. Yup, thats right, your mother. And this. This is the letter.

No, let me be honest, actually. There is no princess, and certainly no magic bottle. However, there was a friend who unknowingly melted a favorite bottle with hot water, your mother reacted heartlessly and un-forgivingly, and this was the actual reconciliatory letter your coward mother sent the friend pretending to be from a plastic bottle factory.

Dear Aswathy:

Thank you for your letter of desperation that reached the Plastic Bottle factory late yesterday night. We are extremely sorry for the impact that hot water has had on the bottles that we have manufactured, but I am sorry to inform, on behalf of the Plastic Bottle factory, that we will be unable to replace it with an aluminum 2 liter bottle. After much thought, we owe this decision to the fact that we are a plastic bottle factory and this request is a little, no let us be frank, way off the mark.

Since your letter is wrought with guilt that you have done this unknowing mistake, I have forwarded it to the victim in question, and she-who-shall-not-been-named has consciously consented to forgive and most important, forget.

We at the Plastic Bottle Factory hope that all will be well, and that your conscience is finally, at ease.

Keep us posted.

Now, you can tell all your friends how cheesy your mother actually is. Sigh. I just ended a sentence with a preposition.

Peace out.

Nothing is so bad, baby..

2009-01-13T08:42:00.001-08:00

.. nothing is so bad, that a hearty laugh and an undying grit cannot better.

The heart was shattered, the mind gave up, the will said: I am done for, the shoulders slouched, the knees were bruised, the pillow wet, the eyes wouldn't make contact, the back wouldn't straighten, I was finished, used up, rusted, worn down, but the rebel in me said No.

Change is inevitable..

2009-01-12T02:45:00.000-08:00

... I had to keep a straight face and gulp down tears, baby, and hear a friend of a good many years tell to me: Girl, you've changed, and you reek of it. You've become a total bimbo (read: all external appearances and no depth.) Completely with the urge to conform, you've given up the real you and blended so well, flown so well with the current that you've lost out on the real you.

I walked away ashamed, baby, because I knew it to be true. I just did not realize it was so obvious or that I was that see-through-able. Ah, yes, change is most welcome and is required, a United States campaign was won on the same principle, but this was not the same change that occurs with time and with experience or plain growing up.

This was a change from a need to blend well, to understand and laugh at the same colorless jokes they said. This was a hard pressed attempt to nod my head in understanding of the complex girly meanings they put to simple words, to feel part of the group, to belong. And in that mad rush, I forgot to retain the true me. In that urge to erase the dividing line between them and me, I lost on the actual border that existed.

Do not ever get there, baby, and if you do, I hope to God that you have friends who identify the change in you, and more, have the nerve to tell you to your face.

I hope to God, baby.

If you're happy and you know it...

2009-01-08T20:22:00.000-08:00

B: Are you happy, R? Like truly madly deeply happy?
R: Thats the eerie part, all I ever wanted in the guy I am to marry, was that he make me happy. And I am. I have never been happier. And it scares me, that I can be this happy. It does. What if it does not last, what if we get old and hate the very sight of each other, what if I get bored, worse still, what if, he gets bored...

Baby, with some things, never analyze. Never question when you are happy, or be paranoid and waste your time wondering why you are happy, worrying that it will end. Never.

Trust mommy on this one.

... of New pledges and past Nuances.

2009-01-08T07:13:00.000-08:00

Dearest baby:

The few people I let into this secret correspondence with you, asking them to pledge everlasting silence, they think I have been quite sombre and solemn with you. The last thing in the entire universe, I want to be accused of, is sulkiness, grumpiness and the like, therefore, this post is about the New Year I have stepped into, the new resolutions that many believe are already on their way to eternal damnation, and five things I am grateful for, the past year. One could say, I am trying to instill in you a sense of gratitude, of analyzing, the past, that is. Of looking forward and of new beginnings.
In fact, one could begin to complicate anything simple. But what I am really trying to do, is just share this year with you.

Before I share the resolutions for the year, and the various sub clauses to it, and the different ways it can be interpreted and expanded to suit anything I am itching to do, baby, I must begin by declaring that this year seems magical. Most years flow into the next. An actual 10-items-or-more list of resolutions are written on paper, I give myself two days before I declare that I have lost the paper, oh the paper, and darn, in a week, the resolutions are forgotten, the guilt subsides, life goes on.

This year, I did not think too much. Purely by instinct, I had two resolutions. Somehow baby, it seemed like there could be nothing else. It seemed so natural that these had to be my resolutions. And without further ado baby, in case you're choking on your food quivering with anticipation, here are my resolutions. Subject to your critical viewing, baby dear.

Resolution 1: Lose weight. To my utter dismay and for your general knowledge, I have always suffered the battle of the bulges, baby. (You know now, who to blame, if your friends label you as very healthy :) or better still, an all-rounder.) Yet, it is interesting, even to me, that I have never cared for what people thought, since I have always been comfortable with myself. Comfortable enough, to keep my head straight and look on in the face of hushed snickering or raised eyebrows.

Baby, be comfortable with yourself. Love yourself and take pride in the person you are.

But well, this year, what has changed, you may ask? Well, I do not know if I can define it but it is a combination of learning that being fit helps, certainly when you are puffing and panting wondering why you live in an apartment like I do right now, on the fourth floor with no elevator that will take you there. It is learning that working out does wonders for the mind, in terms of clearing out the garbage and keeping your mind active and alert, of seeing a flush to your face and sometimes, just one of those reliable things to look forward to or a much needed distraction. It is celebrating the fact that you are not feeling slouchy or sluggish but racy and optimistic.

Resolution 2: Do most of what my heart dictates. I still think I was quite smart when I added the clause 'most of.' I could think of many things that my heart was inclined towards, but I would not either find wise, or ethical or economical :) to do.

Now for the sub clauses to this. Whee, this is the nice part where you will desperately wish, dear baby, you were around, this magical year, around to savor the moments with me. I have pledged to take a trip once every month. Do not look disapprovingly at me, baby, for I know it sounds very spendthrifty of me and very flamboyant, but trust me, its not. This is solely (I have an honest-to-God poker face as I say this) to see places within my scope and to photograph like crazy.

It is late, I am at work therefore, the top five things I am grateful for, they will form part of my next post. And baby, you should know that I have already planned my trip for this month. I am dying to spill the beans and get it over with, but will not until I have passed the been-there-saw-it phase and have photos to prove the land my wanderings have led me.

Bye bye baby, I can bet my wealth, riches and fortune of these 22 years, negligible as they are but painstakingly accumulated nevertheless, I bet it all on the motherly intuition I have, that you have the wandering-minstrel spirit in you as well.

May the winds be kind, baby dear.

~Mother

Dear Baby:

2009-01-08T01:48:00.000-08:00

From today on, I will write you life's little lessons as I learn them. Trust me baby, I would love to imagine that you will one day, be eternally obliged and grateful to me for the effort I am taking today, taking the time to write you, smack in between work, and at the risk of having you confirm that your mother is a loony duck whose rightful place is at an asylum, either way, this is just a legacy. A tale of sadnesses and woes, and of unexpected flutters of the heart and of wistful thinking. This is just sharing. For those stories I may forget as I get older, for those moments that my words may not adequately describe, for those priorities that may not seem important later on, for the change that is inevitable in me yet the desperation that you should be introduced to this side of me, this blog is for you.

Lesson 1: Inner strength comes naturally in the face of adversity.

Hear me out. A friend of mine has broken up with a boyfriend of 10 years. She was at a happy innocent 14 when she met him, she basically grew up with this boy and imagined none other as her husband, and now, in the face of a confrontation, when demanding the guy in question to approach the topic of their marriage to his parents, he backed out. Without batting an eyelid. With a helpless shrug. Hey, don't get me wrong here, baby, any good mother will tell you that indeed, parents take predominance and they are the central piece to your existence and all of that utterly dramatic theory. Was he wrong to have placed his parents before her? No one knows, and no one will tell me. But nothing, I mean, nothing in the entire universe, prepares you for the emptiness. For the morning after. For the vast amounts of time you are now in possession of. Alone.

Another friend, S met her husband outside a pub. She was 16. A group of giggly friends that were deliciously contemplating getting in the pub. A first time. They were scared. Excited. In it together. And he looked at her and casually asked them to join his group. Nothing to lose, they nodded. She, a little too quick. Heart beat a little faster than normal, face flushed, body sweaty from the subsequent dances, the sways, the loud music and his eyes.
Fast forward.

Marriage. It was supposed to go down in history as a typical Moslim wedding.
He did not let it be.

The wedding car pulled up in front of her, she was tearful, hopeful, bashful. In a split second, a quite-ordinary car pulled up instead, her to-be husband at the wheel, he dragged her in, and zoomed off. No one knew where to. For a good one hour, they were missing, parents were all smiles but worried, people were talking. But she would never forget.

Her hero.

He did not let it be.
Present day reality: Two years and a kid in tow, the man in question, this hero salivates over every girl that crosses his path, forgets his baby boy's birthday, drinks so much so that his boss begs that he takes a leave and stay home.

Divorce: This lady S came to me, and asked me if it were better that her baby saw his parents fight every night even as they try to portray a feeling of oneness and love, or that her baby had one parent that genuinely cared and loved him. I did not know, baby, I frankly did not know. And at 26, she is getting divorced. Good riddance to bad rubbish?

But you know what, baby, it broke them both, both these friends, they were sad, miserable, racked with guilt, plagued with could-I-have-done-something-different's, they had sleepless nights, tried drugs, curled up at nights, begged for company.

Yet they survived.

Baby, I may not always know the pain you are going through, or the questions that torment your mind, I may not figure out that you are lying awake under your blankets at night, unable to sleep. I may not be able to ward off all the pests that you fall prey to. Mother ain't God, baby. But remember, always, look within yourself.

This too shall pass.

The success, the failure, the head spinning happiness, the heart wrenching tears, the disappointments, the victories.

It shall pass.

A Mother's A Musings...

2011 highlights...

What you learn when you intern...

Live.

For your sake, I wish...

Of losing and weighings

All a Leaking Matter:

Fact Files:

The Leap.

It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

It's Your Dream.

A Bottle of Ketchup.

Of precautions and precarities...

*Brace* yourself.

Stop.

If it never did add up.

So be it.

What settled it.

He listens.

Tomorrow.

The Morning After.

This is. It.

All I can do right now.

Let Me Be.

Of highway chronicles and complex beings...

Ignorance is bliss... But what of knowledge? And its partial acknowledgement.

How he met my mother.

The Friendlies Virus.

Sol·i·tar·i·ness \ˈsä-lə-ˌter-ē-nəs\ noun

Uninhibited.

of Magic and Mishaps

Nothing is so bad, baby..

Change is inevitable..

If you're happy and you know it...

... of New pledges and past Nuances.

Dear Baby:

Brace yourself.