tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46252800817951224642024-03-05T14:14:59.727+05:30This is the new meA cornucopia of thoughts and stories from my everyday lifeAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-91664572252410132262014-03-11T12:57:00.003+05:302014-03-11T12:57:41.281+05:30What’s in a name? A promise, I say. <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-GB">Throw at me a book or a film with an unusual title and I’m sure to grab it. I've had mixed success though. I loved the film How to Lose Friends and Alienate People, but didn't quite enjoy the book <i>The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time</i>. So, when I was scrolling through the TV guide and came across a film called Love and Other Impossible Pursuits, I had to watch it. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I was 30 minutes late to the party, so I don't know how the characters had developed. The TV guide blurb mentioned that it was a film about a woman trying to forge a relationship with her husband’s son. The main character Emilia Greenleaf</span>, played by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Natalie_Portman" target="_blank">Natalie Portman</a>, was trying to be very <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepmom_(film)" target="_blank">Stepmom</a>-esq with a boy of about eight or nine, but the efforts lacked the chutzpah of Julia Roberts. It was more like an Indian-bahu-trapped-in-a-joint-family trying to do something she had been instructed to do. That’s Natalie Portman’s forte, I guess. She’s made a career from playing characters seemingly trapped in impossible situations (often involving the mind), be it The Black Swan or Anywhere but Here. I digress. Back to the film.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">My mixed success with unusual titles continued with this film.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I loved the backdrop – New York City. My heart ached to be there. The sights and sounds of that city call out to me on silent afternoons and chaotic mornings. It’s one of the three cities in the world that I’ve fallen in love with from the word go. I digress again.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">It turned out that the blurb was probably written by a newly hired intern at the production house because the film turned out to be about something different. It was about the internal struggle of a woman who had lost her three-day-old daughter to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sudden_infant_death_syndrome" target="_blank">SIDS</a> to come to terms with this reality. Her grief resonated with me. I ‘got’ it. I’ve been there, although not exactly there – I’ve experienced similar trauma, caused by my multiple miscarriages, that dragged me to the darkest corners of grief, something I hope no one has to go through. I wanted to learn about Emilia’s personal journey. One particular exchange of dialogues that I will remember for a long time was between the main character and her once-estranged father. She said, “I want her [the daughter] back.” He replied, “That’s not one of your choices, darling.” There was no drama, just a conversation between a daughter and her father. I wanted to reach out and hug the character. Again, that’s what Portman does. She breathes life into characters.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Nonetheless, overall the film was a drag. It had a few poignant moments, but there were many more things I did not understand. I did understand Emilia's helplessness and self-blame, but that was it. I did not get the remembrance walk or Emilia’s rage when she discovered that her husband’s ex-wife was pregnant with a boyfriend’s baby. Many things were rather abrupt. I didn't understand how she could go for an impromptu stroll with her then-estranged father whom she had bumped into on the road and frankly discuss her split with her husband and longing for her daughter. I didn't get how the extra-venomous ex-wife of the husband could easily go out of her way to ‘establish’ to Emilia that Emilia was not responsible for the death of the daughter. Emilia’s physical transformation – from long overcoats and lanky attire to fitting pants and jackets, and from wavy hair to a straight, structure tuft – took maybe three shots and less than a minute of screen time. It was just too sudden and rapid to be true to the story or its narrative. The ending was abrupt too. I will not give it out here, but I doubt anyone would watch the movie anyway.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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So, yeah, my unexplained love affair with ‘all things unusually titled/named’ remains unrequited. They don’t always love me back like I love them. Will I stop? I doubt because the book I’m reading currently is an autobiography called <i>Thanks for Nothing</i> and it’s quite interesting.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>PS:</b> I wrote about the film purely based on my opinion. After writing this piece, I ran some internet searches and discovered that the name of the film is <b>NOT </b><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/165145.Love_and_Other_Impossible_Pursuits" target="_blank">Love and Other Impossible Pursuits</a>. That’s the name of the novel by Ayelet Waldman on which it is based. The film is called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Other_Woman_(2009_film)" target="_blank">The Other Woman</a>, a title I think is utterly boring and nearly suicidal for any work of art. There is no mystery left – it gives away the story, all of it. No wonder not many really took the pain of watching the film. </span>Box office collection was rather dismal. <span lang="EN-GB">It was also panned by critics for bad direction and a melodramatic script (I nod in agreement), despite </span>good acting by Portman (another nod from me). Based on the reviews I read, I think the novel explored the relationship between the main character and her step-son in detail, but it got lost somewhere in the film.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Again, will I trust my title-based judgement? Yes, I still will because technically this wasn't exactly a film with an unusual title. The TV guide listing misled me.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-31766341707675716152014-02-28T10:40:00.001+05:302014-02-28T10:40:43.030+05:30Kids say the darndest things. They also ask the darndest questions.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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He was munching on a piece of guava while I looked on
impatiently, waiting for him to finish his snack so that I could take him to
the park. He asked, “Why do we need time?” Patience is not my best virtue and I
snapped, “We don’t need any time. We need to get going.” “No, Mama, why do we
need time? The time on all the clocks?” That’s when it hit me – my about-to-turn-five
bundle of cuteness wanted me to help him understand the concept of time.</div>
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Bill Cosby was right all along. Kids do say the darndest
things. They also ask the darndest questions. I guess I signed up for this when
I decided to become a mother.</div>
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I’ve worked hard on inculcating in my son the habit of asking
questions and he had just made me proud. Evidently, my boy has a mind that is
smarter than I give it credit for. Nonetheless, my challenge was to explain a
universal, albeit complex, concept to a little person. To make sense and to
stay on the same page, my reply had to be simple and short. I gave it a
thought. Then I proceeded to talk. </div>
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“You know the world is a big place, right? So, to maintain
our schedules and to not disturb other’s schedules, we all need to know what
time it is. What do you think will happen if you and your bus driver didn’t
know what time it was? He might reach the bus stand early, wait for some time
and leave, thinking you had forgotten to go to school. On the other hand, when
you would reach the bus stand on time, you would think the bus driver had
forgotten the bus route. Both of you will fail at what you set out to do. But
if everyone knew the time for the bus, we would all reach school on time every
day.” I wasn't sure if my reply would hold water. I waited for his reaction.</div>
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He considered the answer over the last few bites of his
snack and nodded. “I get it now! We all should know the time so that we can do
what we want to. You, me, Papa, driver uncle, all of us!”</div>
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I relaxed my tense back muscles and smiled.</div>
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As an afterthought, he added, “I think I get it now because
I’m old and wise.”</div>
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Kids do say the darndest things, don’t they?</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-70499074604994871682014-01-28T15:15:00.001+05:302014-01-28T15:17:28.716+05:30How the day spent me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bore alert: This is a random post. If you want to go away, now is a
pretty good time to do so. You've been warned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I planned to do yesterday:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Get a haircut (which always
involves submitting my sparse and yet utterly unruly crop over to the
dresser and keeping my fingers crossed) and t</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">ry to sneak in an
unscheduled facial appointment.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Drop a cheque at the bank.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe visit the insurance
office and pay the overdue premium.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe pick up grocery.
Noodles! Definitely visit the grocery store.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe pick up the two
serving bowls that the new dinner set is missing.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the way back, hop into the
library, return the compendium of celebrity interviews that I've
thoroughly enjoyed and get an interesting book.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Take a long, relaxing bath
and adore my new haircut.</span></li>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Play with my sonny boy, help
him with homework, allow him a bit of Jungle Book or Curious George time
on YouTube, read him a book and put him to bed.</span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then the driver called in sick. So, here's what I ended up doing:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Made a copious amount of
pesto and finished it with the help of the hubby.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Taught the boy how to 'run'
a sack race, first with a garbage bag (epic fail) and then with a large
pillow case (super hit). The boy hopped all over the living room and
stopped only when the pillow case ripped. But it was fun while it lasted.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Set up a play tent without
any help from anyone and without referring to the user manual. </span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Helped the boy with a bit of
homework and let him watch TV for an hour. Yes, yes, judge me.</span></li>
</ul>
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<li class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Watched the much-hyped and
much-awaited interview of Rahul Gandhi by Arnab Goswami.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Meanwhile, my hair is a mess and the only thing I've read today is the
newspaper. Oh, the noodles! I'm still craving noodles. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yet in all earnest I don't think I'll ever drive. Really</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-6528866525411664002013-11-15T05:48:00.002+05:302013-11-17T21:34:40.127+05:30The one about the thing called parenthood and a test <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I came across a </span><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2218515/Think-ready-children-Hilarious-new-parent-test-taking-mummy-blogs-storm-MIGHT-just-off.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">new-parent test</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> on the </span><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">Daily Mail</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">yesterday. It cracked me up enough for me to want to laugh uncontrollably, but I couldn't as I was surrounded by a number of unknown faces. So, I launched my body into a shaking fit, the kind that happens when you try to repress a full-throated laugh. I'm just glad that I wasn't eating anything. Choking is no fun, I'm guessing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If you are a parent, plan to become one, have one or seen one, this is for you to read. My favourite part? The grocery-shopping test.</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Go to the local supermarket. Take with you the nearest thing you can find to a pre-school child - a fully grown goat is excellent. If you intend to have more than one child, take more than one goat.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Buy your weekly groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.</span></span></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The writer <a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/search.html?s=&authornamef=Bianca+London" target="_blank">Bianca London</a> has hit the nail on the head. Although there is some obvious exaggeration -- like trying to put a live octopus in a bag when a kitten would have sufficed -- the message is clear. Parenting is not easy (but it can be fun IMHO).</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-34525716402812687882013-10-28T00:01:00.000+05:302013-10-28T07:56:06.321+05:30I'm livin' life in the fast lane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I planned to launch 'That fleeting moment' two months ago, I had no idea how rapidly my life was about to change and days, even weeks, were about to become fleeting moments.<br />
<br />
Days are a blur, and I am having to dive deep rather frequently, come up to catch breath and dive back in. I cannot believe October is almost over. Believe me, it was August just a few days ago. In the past couple of months, I've seen life change course like a flooded river -- I welcomed a new member in the family and lost her (my precious niece spent a mere four fleeting weeks with us before she departed), accepted an exciting job offer, realised (yet again) I don't suffer fools gladly, resolutely changed priorities and made some life-changing decisions. I hope these are the right decisions for me and my family. I also hope I can look back some day and feel proud that I made them.<br />
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What lies ahead? Life in the fast lane, at least for some more time. Then, I will stop and smell the roses. I know it'll be sooner than later. Once again, I'll cruise on auto-pilot.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-32548038841052923342013-09-02T01:30:00.000+05:302013-09-02T01:30:26.177+05:30Get off the pot<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "Oh, your warm and soft fingers. The son likes them very much."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hubby (looking smug): "Really? Why do you say so?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me: "I can think of no other reason for him to ask only you to wash his bum after he has done the job."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hubby (looking crestfallen): "You are disgusting."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just another conversation between a couple trying to teach their son how to clean his own butt.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It doesn't escape my attention that when we achieve this goal, we'll be cutting off the last tissues of the extended and invisible umbilical chord we share with him, setting him free from any physical dependence on us. </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nonetheless, it's not really a shit-or-get-off-the-pot
situation, but a shit-</span><b style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and</b><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">-get-off-the-pot situation for now.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-70505165160382976742013-08-25T20:00:00.000+05:302013-08-25T20:00:08.065+05:30That fleeting moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
This blog hasn't been my most-loved child and it's so blatantly obvious that I cannot even afford to make a fool of myself by offering an explanation. I've been thinking about ways to <strike>force </strike>motivate myself to be more regular in visiting my little nook on the internet and here's my fix - <b>That fleeting moment</b>. The plan is to post a picture every <strike>other </strike>week with a brief description. It sounds doable even though I'm not big on photography and own an ordinary point-and-shoot camera. Nonetheless, I'm going to make a jab at making this project a success. So, without much ado, here's the first installment.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Si2DatbRnzs/UhjcYbHIx7I/AAAAAAAABJQ/4vlCNVdqA-8/s1600/IMG_6136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="That fleeting moment - Aug 2013" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Si2DatbRnzs/UhjcYbHIx7I/AAAAAAAABJQ/4vlCNVdqA-8/s640/IMG_6136.JPG" title="The rain drops fall on my window pane" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;">The </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;">rain drops</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"> fall on </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;">my window</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"> pane</span></b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The landscape in this part of the country is a far cry from the landscape I'm most fond of, the Himalayas and its foothills. A recent road trip to Coorg made me change my mind, though. I think it was the rain, which had the magical effect of making the landscape look prettier than ever. I whipped out my <strike>poor-man's</strike> camera and started clicking. I love this picture because the lens decided to focus on the foreground, which explains the sharp rain drops and the dull scenery. Who would have guessed I clicked it on a lark?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-75363322522095885532013-07-22T00:05:00.000+05:302013-07-22T00:53:14.679+05:30Hooked I am (or once was) to...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It wasn't until 2007 that I started reading blogs.<br />
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On a rainy day in 2007, a colleague mentioned that one of his college classmates had a widely read blog, but he didn't think it packed much punch. I decided to check it out. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got hooked to the blogosphere. Over time, I've shifted loyalties with impunity. Here's a gist of how it all started and where I am today.<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><a href="https://twitter.com/reddymadhavan" target="_blank">She</a> started the fire. <a href="http://thecompulsiveconfessor.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Her blog</a> was the first I ever read and I was instantly hooked to it. I lost steam after a year or so, around the time her first book came out. I read it with religious reverence. I don't read her blog any more, but I do follow her on Twitter.</li>
<li><a href="http://clairebidwellsmith.com/" target="_blank">Claire</a> makes me cry (or smile) with her writing. I found her around the time she lost her father, her only surviving parent, and like a devout pupil, I followed her through the sometimes-sad-sometimes-exciting journey of her finding her feet again, finding true love, and becoming a mother and a published writer. She doesn't write a lot these days. I don't know why, but I'm guessing the movie deal for her autobiography is keeping her busy. She's also the one person I've never met in person that I am most comfortable communicating with. Also, she always replies.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.mamasaysso.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Rohini</a> hasn't written a whole lot this year, but whenever she writes, she makes me happy.</li>
<li><a href="http://themadmomma.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">This blogger</a> is one mad momma and I love her for being exactly that. I like reading about how she's raising her two kids. I am also jealous of her tastefully done house. If only...never mind.</li>
<li><a href="http://nothingbutbonfires.com/" target="_blank">Holly</a> is one of the wittiest persons I've discovered on the internet. Until last year, she was writing about mundane things in her signature witty style. The she got pregnant and the blog became all things pregnancy. She had a baby last week and hasn't blogged since.</li>
<li><a href="http://15minutelunch.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Johnny</a> is a funny, funny writer. I love how he describes even the most inconsequential things in a way that can make you choke on your saliva. </li>
<li><a href="http://stupidusmaximus.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Ashish</a> is a stand-up comedian and a 'seriously serious funnyman'. </li>
<li><a href="http://mumbaiboss.com/tag/the-vigil-idiot/" target="_blank">Sahil</a> writes film reviews in a comic or graphic novel style. Sometimes, his reviews are way better than the films.</li>
<li><a href="http://www.postsecret.com/" target="_blank">This</a> is my Sunday morning fix. </li>
<li>When it comes to food, the oddly spelled <a href="http://www.thekitchn.com/" target="_blank">the kitchn</a> gives me inspiration. If it's Indian vegetarian food that floats my boat on a given day, I go to <a href="http://www.archanaskitchen.com/" target="_blank">Archana</a> or <a href="http://nishamadhulika.com/" target="_blank">Nisha</a>, or just attend of the many classes <a href="http://www.deepalisawant.com/" target="_blank">Deepali</a> conducts (she's the reason my pesto or Hubby's carrot cake is a raging success every time it's put on the table).</li>
</ol>
Talking about food, I'll leave you with a picture of what I made this morning -- a layered chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and sugary decorations. The boy was so excited, he had only cake for breakfast and lunch, and asked me to pack some for his school lunch tomorrow. So, yeah, I guess it was a success.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5JR--dL65o/UewoZlLF5yI/AAAAAAAABIc/bPmyuUJKIac/s1600/cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Cake chronicales" border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_5JR--dL65o/UewoZlLF5yI/AAAAAAAABIc/bPmyuUJKIac/s640/cake.jpg" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-45965223454145354712013-06-04T17:40:00.000+05:302013-07-10T08:19:10.690+05:30The one about the guy upstairs, or fairy tales <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not a closet atheist. Never was. I’m not agnostic. I’m
not sitting on the fence. I’m an atheist. I grew up without religion, without the
notion of god or a superior being. I’ve always questioned things around me – from
the everyday mundane to the great mysteries of life – and I’ve always found rational answers. When I’ve not found answers, I’ve found credible explanations of
why an answer may not exist.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I respect others’ religious beliefs, but by announcing the
lack of mine, people assume I’ve opened myself to scrutiny at all times by all
and sundry. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only a few times have I met people who have accepted my
beliefs without questioning them, who have chosen to value our friendship and ignored
the lack of harmony in our religious beliefs. Mostly, I’m questioned
relentlessly – for years, in some cases – to the point of intrusion of
personal space, to the point where I am left with the only option of choosing
my beliefs over that person. People are downright disrespectful, and taunt –
oh, yes, the taunts! They never stop – me forever.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not being defensive about my beliefs. I will defend them
until the day I die. At the same time, I don’t go about questioning others’
beliefs, and I don’t understand why I should be at the receiving end every time
I meet them.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One’s fairy tale cannot be better than another’s. Some people don’t believe in fairies.</span></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-46809856885123800202013-05-14T09:45:00.002+05:302013-05-14T09:45:47.632+05:30Holding on, regardless of who we are and where we come from<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hold on to him,” called out a warm voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turned around clumsily, trying to balance the weight of my
almost-four-year-old son in my arms. I had just alighted from a cab and Hubby
was piling up our bags on the airport trolley. It was a magnificent day – the sun
was shining softly and a cool breeze was flowing effortlessly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hold on to him.” I heard her say again and, this time, I
saw her. She was a smart-looking middle-aged woman and she was talking to
me. We smiled at each other.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m usually not one to carry kids, but I do make an exception
once in a while. My little boy had spent the better part of his day in his
stroller, which we had pushed for kilometres trying to catch every sight of the
beautiful town of Niagara. His body had become supple and malleable with
slumber. So, I had picked him up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know how they all need a few hugs some times,” I smiled
back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, they do! But this will last only so long. He’ll grow
up and pull himself away,” she said with warmth. There was not an iota of melancholy in
her voice or facial expression. Surely, this story had a sweet ending.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That really happens?” I was curious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, wait until he’s a teenager. Mine would just not let me around
him when he was about 15.” There was something about her that was drawing me to
her. I wanted this conversation to continue. Her warmth was contagious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow! Really?” I heard myself say. We were already standing
together, like people who knew each other for a long time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But they come around. He is 22 now and I get a kiss from
him every day.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I smiled. I wanted to steal her effervescent smile and make
it mine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, hold on to him while it lasts.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart found its feet again. I grinned again; only this
time, I was reminded of my teenage-self and how I thought my folks ‘didn’t know
anything’. I had come around too, albeit in my late twenties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hadn’t realised that we were already walking together,
physically and metaphorically. We were two women – both mothers – from
different generations and cultures, linked by an invisible bond. I saw Hubby waiting
for me at the gate. I looked at her and she nodded. I smiled and started
walking faster. At the gate, I turned around, waved at her and said the customary
‘Have a nice day’. She waved back. I entered the airport to board the flight
that would take us to New York, a melting pot of cultures. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That was the last time I ever saw her. Our interaction had lasted a minute or so, but it had given me the opportunity to partake in the wisdom
of a seasoned mother.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m glad that I had an opportunity to experience a culture where people lack inhibition in talking to strangers. Now I know that
regardless of who we are and where we come from, some things don’t change.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-53313736259759160362013-03-06T21:35:00.001+05:302013-03-07T03:25:30.940+05:30I was that Mom on Monday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
On Monday, I picked up my son from day care at 1pm and took
him to a McDonald's nearby. We chatted while we stood in the queue. When it
was our turn, I asked him to place the order. Big responsibility for a
three-year old, but we were at McDonald's. He chose to have ice cream for
lunch. When the cone was handed to him, he was overjoyed. His eyes
had a twinkle and his walk, a bounce. It’s an ordinary thing to take place,
right? Wrong. Not all kids experience this.<br />
<br />
I had an unconventional childhood. My parents believed in empowering
kids as early in life as possible. Add to that my mother's acute
arthritis, which she got when she was just 26 years old, and you get a bunch of
self-reliant and go-getter girls. As soon as our folks felt we were
capable of doing something on our own, we were made responsible for doing it.
For example, when I was in class 4, I was made responsible for fetching the
milk from the dairy. I remember going to the bank on my own when I was in class
8 or so, initially to have the passbook updated or to deposit a cheque, and
then to withdraw cash, etc.<br />
<o:p> </o:p><br />
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. On the contrary, I'm glad I
received this upbringing, however unconventional, because this has made me the
person I am. I attended tons of hobby classes, went swimming and skating, and read
at numerous libraries either by myself or with my sisters or friends. My father
often took us to the zoo, the planetarium and the Museum of Natural History, and
for movie screenings at the dozens of international film festivals New Delhi
plays host to. <br />
<br />
Nonetheless, the child in me sometimes wanted the life that everyone around
her had. For example, the seven-year-old me yearned to be taken out by her
parents for maybe a cup of ice cream or be read stories at bedtime. I dreamed about how it would feel to have a parent pick
me up from school or look us over while we played at the playground. At
the local bus stand, I would see mothers buying their toddlers ice cream. These
are mundane, everyday acts that nobody notices, except a child with a longing. <br />
<br />
On Monday, I picked up my son from day care and bought him ice cream. I was THAT mother. <br />
<br />
When I was growing up, I decided that when I would become a mother, I'll be
a combination of what my parents were and what they couldn't be. They were
always there for me and so will I be for my child(ren), but I promised
myself that I will be around for the mundane, everyday tasks as
well.<br />
<br />
So, if you see a mother out with her son, arduously trying to
avoid stepping on the red-coloured tiles because ‘hey, Mom, they must never be
stepped on’, don’t think about how silly she looks, but about how her innocuous
hopping fills her child’s heart with joy. Some kids don't experience this.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-54426959150699244242012-09-14T15:39:00.000+05:302013-08-25T20:00:47.700+05:30Lost<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I suffered a miscarriage on Tuesday.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We did a pregnancy test at home on Saturday. When the imperious
second line appeared, I was excited and happy, but not surprised. I had known that
the baby was coming. There were signs – the backache, tiredness, sleepiness,
tenderness in breasts and lower abdomen, where ovaries reside, the heightened
sense of smell and the frequent mood swings.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it wasn’t meant to be. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">On Tuesday, I started to bleed. A few frantic calls to the
obstetrician and a blood test later, we were told over the telephone, and rather
rudely, that the pregnancy had failed. It was one of the most difficult days of
my life. Our family had unexpectedly lost a member, and all that was left was the
long shadow of grief. I was living my nightmare. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Men and women react differently to situations. While I was
grieving and crying, Hubby was concerned about my physical well-being. Later he
would tell me that even though he was sad that the pregnancy was over, he couldn’t
feel my heartache, anguish and sorrow. Nonetheless, he remained with me for as
long as I wanted and let me be. I talked about the baby, how excited I had been
about being pregnant with our second child and how miserable I felt now that it
was all over. The healing had begun.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nature had picked the one on which wanted its resources spent
and it </span>wasn't<span style="font-family: inherit;"> my child. It pains me to think that my child was perhaps genetically
inferior. I feel as if I have failed. I feel judged, by myself. But the past
few days have taught me a great lesson – even the best laid plans go awry. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The natural order must be maintained, even though a
mother has to grieve the loss of the one who could have been many things. Many.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-38501550541831683052010-01-11T15:59:00.007+05:302013-09-02T01:58:25.362+05:30If my life were a movie, this would be its trailer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I wrote this piece in early October 2009, but never thought of posting it (until now, that is).</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Since your birth, our – your Mummy and Papa’s – every day has begun and ended with planting a kiss on your body. You are only 10 days shy of your 5-month birthday and you have already taught us lessons of a lifetime (all so nice and sweet) and introduced us to emotions we didn’t know existed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart breaks every morning when I leave home for work. I hug you and kiss you, but mostly you are not interested in this attention. You prefer to drool, try to control your tongue that you discovered only recently, look the other way while enjoying attention, or just make use of your high vantage point to look around and smile at things we had not yet seen, like a crack in the plaster or a patch of dirt on the table. You love your Mickey Mouse cutout and also your two caretakers, Geeta and Shayamala aunty, who you would one day call Ajji. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The day we met you for the first time was not the day of your birth, but the day when we discovered you were hiding inside me, just a tiny cluster of a few tissues, but growing. It was Sunday, 21 September 2008, exactly 15 months since our wedding. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been feeling a bit odd for a few days and Papa fetched a home pregnancy kit. At first there was nothing and we were disappointed, and then you showed up, in the form of a bleak second line on the panel. I saw that first and didn’t believe it. I said, “Is there really a second line or am I imagining it?” The line blurred, and I was convinced it was just my imagination. Then tears rolled down my cheeks and there you were…the line had darkened in the few seconds tears welled up in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. A firm announcement that we had created something that will stir, move, kick, swim, sleep inside me and move, cry, smile, laugh, giggle later. Papa was happy beyond words. We hugged kissed and laughed through wet eyes twinkling with joy and anticipation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We then called your grandmothers, Nani first, followed by Dadi. Nani would later tell me that she knew I had called to tell her I was pregnant. She said it was obvious from the tinkle in my voice! She told me to take care and see a doctor. Your Dadi did not react first, but asked me to take care of myself and not see a doctor.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Papa was so happy, he doled out warm hugs every few seconds. We went out for lunch to Bon South, a new up-market South Indian restaurant near his office. Then it was time to buy new, flat sandals. I wore a black suit with maroon piping and papa wore jeans. We will never forget this day. It was the happiest day of our life until then. I regret not taking any pictures of us, but we did take a few of you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You arrived on a Tuesday morning. You were in the doctor’s arm, crying like someone had punched you. My first words when I saw you were “he’s just like his father”. They took you away to a table not more than four feet away and I saw them cleaning your windpipe, throat etc and you oscillated between protesting and allowing them to clean you. Then, they wrapped you in a green sheet and brought close to me, close enough for me to see your watery skin and the folds under your eyes. I planted a kiss on your cheek and off they went to show you to your dad, Papa.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-1593696470112168472009-10-07T20:43:00.004+05:302012-09-14T15:30:31.246+05:30People I'm most likely to slap when I meet them<ul><li>Arnab Goswami for being in love with the sound of his voice. That and his sub-standard, rhetoric journalism</li><li>Nandita Ghosh for trying to be the female version of Arnab Goswami and almost succeeding. What a waste of a pretty face!</li><li>Gagan for being the chauvinist he sometimes is </li><li>The makers of Huggies nappy pads. They suck. Yeah, the pads and those who make them</li><li>Cousin C for screwing up his life and his parents'. He is the inspiration behind our resolution to have more than just one child</li><li>A few nerds from work, but only on some days</li></ul><div><br /></div><div>Wow, only a short list after raking my brains for a while! I must be peace-loving.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-19044996632340048252009-10-05T18:54:00.005+05:302009-10-05T19:29:26.289+05:30I get to meet the crème de la crème of the retard world at work every day<p class="MsoNormal">It is Friday evening. I have finished ‘editing’ a very dull, long piece of equity research with my hands tied, ie no changed unless absolutely necessary. I look at the clock and the hour hand is close to seven. I save the document, email a copy and shut down. I pick up my bag and am half way across the floor when someone calls after me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>Someone: Now-self (of course, they call me by my official name, but you’re not getting that here), got a minute?</o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Me: Yes, what is it?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Someone: Are you leaving for the day?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Me (looking at my bag, proudly hanging by my shoulder): Umm, yeah.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>Someone: I had a one-pager for you to edit and was wondering if you would be able to do it today.* </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Me (abusing in my head): Sure, but I have shut down my computer. Can I use yours?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Someone: Yeah, that’ll be alright.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Me: So, where’s the piece?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Someone: Actually, I haven’t written it yet, but was wondering if you’d hang out in the office until I’m done.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">!!!???</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">* When this guys says a one-pager, he usually means a five-pager in Greek, written in English script. If you all must know, his three-pager finally arrived in my inbox at 12.23pm on Monday and this guy came over at 12.35 asking if I was done!</span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-14987852189391186402009-09-18T14:41:00.004+05:302012-09-14T15:33:01.312+05:30Random thoughts<ul><li>I wish I were not a strong-willed, self-reliant woman. Then, no one would have expected this much from me. In fact, some might have even offered to help.</li><li>I love you, but cannot understand why you're subjecting me to the stress of bringing up our [OUR, not just my] child alone</li><li>Baby, why are you pushing me against the wall?</li></ul>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-70838034425058530032009-09-15T19:17:00.002+05:302009-09-15T19:23:41.222+05:30When was I myself last?<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Many a moon ago, when I felt strange about who I had become, I created this blog – I used to be myself. Little did I know of what life had in store. If I had had even a remote inkling of what was to come, I would have either not created this blog or chosen another name for it. Life has now changed so much that I have forgotten what it was earlier – the life I regretted losing when I created this blog. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>Meeting Hubby, falling in love and moving to a <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">new city</st1:city></st1:place> introduced many changes in my lifestyle. Marriage changed a lot too. It ended my, in words of a dear friend, ‘sophisticated wildcat’ days.</o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>Motherhood, however, is an altogether new ballgame. It is a divine feeling, but being responsible for another person is overwhelming sometimes. Add to that my life as a wife, a single parent (we are neither separated nor divorced. It is a lot less complicated than that. He is away on work) and a career woman, and you have the full picture. Well, not exactly. In less than two weeks, I have to go back to work and I still do not have full-time help. There is someone who comes in morning and leaves after eight hours, much before I would usually return. I need someone to stay with me 24 * 7 or at least until 9pm. </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p>Until last week, I was sure that getting help was the biggest problem, but how wrong was I. I had fully discounted that Li’l Bunny is a person (not a plant that has to be watered a couple of times a day) with definite likes and dislikes. He has to like the person with whom he would spend his entire day. Also, he has to get used to that person. As luck would have it, my first two tries (yes, I have tried two full-time maids already) have failed.</o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As I have mentioned earlier, the thought of leaving my coughplushcough job has crossed my mind, but that is not a healthy solution. Also, this past week we bought a very nice, huge, up-market apartment. It came at a cost…all our life’s savings and ridiculously high EMIs each month for 20 years. Obviously, we also want posh interiors! We can manage with Hubby’s salary, but only if we give up all nice things in life (and dinner every Wednesday). Therefore, I must go back and leave our Li’l Bunny with…?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a young child, I firmly believed that nothing in life could be more dreadful than having to prepare for and take quarterly, half-yearly and annual examinations and the results thereof, and wondered why Ma and Papa sometimes spent hours discussing things in slow, worried whispers. I mean, they did not have any exams to take. Alright, no annual vacations, but no exams!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>* </b>I just proof-read this piece and realised how unconnected the last para was to the opening para…a striking proof of the dishevelled state of my mind. Wish I could just take an exam. I’m not even looking for any holidays. I have to go to office. Ah.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-44760850470748502552009-08-21T17:24:00.004+05:302009-08-21T18:17:26.718+05:30Bébé, bambino or just baby<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt;font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black">I've been away for the longest while. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I'm now a brand new mommy with a brand new baby, who likes to sleep in his rocking basket (Thanks, Menakshi and Mudit) and giggles when he sees the Mickey Mouse cut-out we picked up from a roadside shack in Delhi. He hates to be put in a pram or a baby carrier. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Saumil<b>*</b> was born on 19 May 2009, and Hubby and I are delighted to have him in our life. He has always slept through the night, doesn’t throw tantrums while being fed and enjoys conversations, even if he doesn’t understand a word of it.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Parenthood is the best thing that has happened to me (Hubby is a close second). It is rewarding in ways that cannot be explained. I plan to return to work in a few weeks' time, and my heart explodes at the thought of leaving my li'l bunny at home with the caretaker. The thought of taking a sabbatical has crossed my mind a couple of times, but I'm not up to it. I'd like Somi to be indpendent. In any case, I'll be a nutcase if I stay at home for more than a few months.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When I was young(er), I used to get bored of people who'd talk about their kids forever, stopping only to have water. Therefore, we're off this topic for now, unless you want it otherwise! </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b>*</b> We didn’t want to have an unusual name, but here we are. Just like our honeymoon. I didn’t want a destination where every second girl would flash <i>chuda</i>. We went to Manali (duh!) and every second girl did flash <i>chuda</i>!</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-49329880818927306692009-03-03T20:21:00.006+05:302009-03-03T20:47:43.140+05:30Thus spake the one who is still unborn<div><div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I had to get a few blood tests done last Saturday. It was around 7.30pm and we were sitting in a huge, but empty waiting hall, waiting for the reports. At one point, we heard the chuckle of an infant and Hubby jumped, "Did you hear that? The baby made a sound." I turned to look at him. He was sitting with his finger pointing to my 28-week pregnant belly and a look on his face that can only be described as a mix of amazement, surprise, happiness and similar emotions.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia;mso-bidi-font-family:Tahoma;color:black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Yeah, but not our baby" was all I could manage to say before breaking into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Hubby didn't react. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A few seconds later, two toddlers sauntered into the hall, all happy and playful. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I cannot even begin to tell how cute Hubby looked then. Meet the guy who, as per my mother, will most definitely be a Dad, not just a father.</span></p></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-74478980308363237882008-12-07T15:39:00.005+05:302008-12-07T16:15:20.872+05:30I went home and allowed Ma to pamper meTrips to Ma's place (and by necessary implication, Delhi) have always been fun, except this time, when I was too tired and pregnant to enjoy myself or offer an enjoyable company. However, I did enjoy a brief dinner encounter with the neighourhood aunties and Bhabhis, who wasted no time in sharing their experiences and telling me what to do, not do, eat, not eat etc. That was the only time since we got pregnant that I enjoyed being pregnant, and although I was feeling tired and sick, I quite enjoyed the experience. Maybe because this may never happen again to me as we stay in Bangalore, with only two (currently childless) couples for company.<br /><br />My three-week break from being a career woman and a wife was spent mostly eating and sleeping and feeling sick and crying and watching live coverage of the attacks on Mumbai and feeling sad and angry, but I was happy (those who've been here, done that know what I'm talking about).<br /><br />I've never been the sentimental types, but I felt so guilty about leaving Ma that I cried my heart out at the airport and continued till I reached Bangalore, where I was very unceremoniously greeted by a bout of influenza (or common cold. Choose whichever you prefer. It makes no difference). This indeed was the last time I visited Ma 'alone'. The next time (and thereafter) I'll carry my 'bundle of joy' with me. I miss Ma.<br /><br />I'm back in Bangalore and feel miserable and have become quiet (which is of much concern to Hubby because I have gone Q U I E T).<br /><br />Sorry people, I cannot think of anything more interesting than mundane pregnancy talk as that's the only thing happening in my life. Rest all has taken a backseat.<br /><br />We have started looking for names, and have finalised one, should a baby girl make her debut. If you have a nice name for a boy, please write in. Nice, BTW, does not mean names like Hritik and Hrohan (yuck) and also does not include names with any, however remote, religious connotation.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-37677615528493174942008-11-10T08:43:00.004+05:302008-11-10T08:51:08.876+05:30It was my Happy B'day dayYours truly is now 31.<br /><br />The night of 8/9 November was spent partying and playing cards and the day (birth-DAY) was spent recovering (pregnancy changes more things than non-pregnant people can imagine), sleeping, missing all phone calls etc, and feeling irritated and groggy for no reason (thank you pregnancy harmones). Thus was celebrted my most non-happening and boring b'day.<br /><br />Spoke only to Ma, Li’l and elder, and was made to speak to mother-in-law. Humph.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-54704760025627931832008-11-06T08:57:00.005+05:302008-11-06T09:22:04.692+05:30A funny thing from the past just popped up in my memory<p>We had been married just a few weeks, and spent most of our time, well, setting up the house, getting to know more of each other, checking out furniture in every store in town etc. Soon after the house was all set up and nice and sexy, we had a free weekend. Hubby went to work for a few hours and I decided to clean the house, cook and have a bath (much against my no-bath-on-weekends principle).<br /><br />Just as I was done with the work, Hubby arrived with a bunch of lovely gerberas, which he gave to me, along with a sexy kiss and a hug.<br /><br />I asked, waiving my arm across the super clean, shiny living room, “Notice something?”<br /><br />Hubby, “Got a haircut?”</p><p>Men!</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-34805808367951279362008-11-02T07:39:00.002+05:302008-11-02T08:03:57.633+05:30I'm back on my feet. Yey!I woke before 7 am today (it's Sunday!) to say bye etc to some guests (who had long overstayed their welcome), with a foolproof plan of getting back into my pajamas and hitting the sack for at least three more hours. But, people, I'm so excited at finally being on my own in my own house, being able to wear my pajamas and walk all over, being able to feel and enjoy the quietness around the house, not having to engage in random, boring coughbelowparcough conversations that I'm not able to sleep. I'm checking out my favourite blogs and announcing the news of our pregnancy to those who've been hiding under 100-ton rocks, with the sound of the (new, shiny, FULLY AUTOMATIC) washing machine washing the guestroom's bed sheet and towels in the background. I can now actually eat whatever I want to, so to celebrate my new-found freedom, I've already had a custard apple for breakfast. Oh I love my day already! It's a bright, sunny, happy day. Maybe I should get out of the house.<br /><br />I've been up for over an hour and have already eaten something and there's NO sign of morning sickness. Savitha was right, maybe all this sickness was an outcome of stress.<br /><br />Bonus, people, bonus...I'm going home. I mean, Mom's place, where I can allow myself to rot, not move a finger, command Ma and Li'l and the maids to do anything for me, and catch up with friends, go to Dilli Haat, Sector 6 Market, Nirula's (HCF ahh...mini orgasm here), Cafe 100 (CP), Corriander Leaf (Gurgaon) and Noida and meet up with ex-colleague-cum-friends and ignore ex-boss. And...experience another season, winter. Delhi has seasons. One more point for <em>meri Dilli, meri jaan</em>. <br /><br />La la la. I love my life, and will love your's too, if it were as nice as mine today. Love, hugs and kisses :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-53726078251570020452008-10-06T18:17:00.002+05:302012-09-14T15:35:06.710+05:30May not digress todayRemember my last post in which I wrote about either being pregnant or having worms crawling inside me? As it turns out, we are pregnant. So, yeah, life is indeed taking shape in my belly. I 'saw' the heartbeat today, and cannot believe there's actually someone, a person (OK, a tadpole-like thing, which will most definitely grow up to be a cute, healthy baby) inside me. Pregnancy, however, has not been all that kind to me. Morning sickness (which BTW lasts ALL day) and shortness of breath make me want to kill myself every few hours. And why do women not talk about scans more often? The least they can do is hang banners in each city warning new moms about the scans, and also the fact that an ulrascan is actually carried out in TWO parts, external (the kind we all know about) AND internal! Moms...you owe it to new moms and women planning a family.<br />Love Hubby even more when he sits with me helplessly, watching me fight the urge to throw up. Love him for all the smallest things he does to ensure I'm feeling ok. Makes me want to give him hickeys all over his face.<br /> So people, I didn't digress today. Am I going to be an obssessed mother?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4625280081795122464.post-5305872379266500792008-09-07T11:39:00.004+05:302012-09-14T15:33:22.705+05:30Random thoughtsI had forgotten how it feels to laze around doing nothing. Love the feeling<br /><br />I've been eating like a maniac for a week. Either I’m pregnant or I have worms in my tummy. In any case, there's life taking shape in my belly. Cheers!<br /><br />People I can ask to make tea for me any time of the day: Hubby, Ma, Li'l (but she started obeying my commands only after got married; marriage is good!), Older<br /><br />Wasn't I supposed to start working on my CV last weekend? And create an account with naukri etc? Why have I not done it? Am I really taken in by a comfy work life and a handsome package? What's wrong with me? Get your ass (actually the keys on your keyboard) moving, Babe.<br /><br />Moment on Truth is a great show.<br /><br />I miss Delhi. Sigh. Maybe I should find a job in Delhi.<br /><br />That's it people. Can't think of more things. My mind keeps digressing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18378578906633357591noreply@blogger.com0