What’s in a name? A promise, I say.

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 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. 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. 

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, played by Natalie Portman, was trying to be very Stepmom-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.

My mixed success with unusual titles continued with this film.

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.

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 SIDS 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.

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.

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 Thanks for Nothing and it’s quite interesting.

PS: 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 NOT Love and Other Impossible Pursuits. That’s the name of the novel by Ayelet Waldman on which it is based. The film is called The Other Woman, 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. Box office collection was rather dismal. It was also panned by critics for bad direction and a melodramatic script (I nod in agreement), despite 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.

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.

Kids say the darndest things. They also ask the darndest questions.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

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!”

I relaxed my tense back muscles and smiled.

As an afterthought, he added, “I think I get it now because I’m old and wise.”

Kids do say the darndest things, don’t they?

How the day spent me

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.

What I planned to do yesterday:

• Get a haircut (which always involves submitting my sparse and yet utterly unruly crop over to the dresser and keeping my fingers crossed) and try to sneak in an unscheduled facial appointment.

• Drop a cheque at the bank.

• Maybe visit the insurance office and pay the overdue premium.

• Maybe pick up grocery. Noodles! Definitely visit the grocery store.

• Maybe pick up the two serving bowls that the new dinner set is missing.

• On the way back, hop into the library, return the compendium of celebrity interviews that I've thoroughly enjoyed and get an interesting book.

• Take a long, relaxing bath and adore my new haircut.

• 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.

And then the driver called in sick. So, here's what I ended up doing:

• Made a copious amount of pesto and finished it with the help of the hubby.

• 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.

• Set up a play tent without any help from anyone and without referring to the user manual. 

• Helped the boy with a bit of homework and let him watch TV for an hour. Yes, yes, judge me.

• Watched the much-hyped and much-awaited interview of Rahul Gandhi by Arnab Goswami.

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. 

Yet in all earnest I don't think I'll ever drive. Really.

The one about the thing called parenthood and a test

I came across a new-parent test on the Daily Mail 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. 

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.

• 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.
• Buy your weekly groceries without letting the goat(s) out of your sight.
• Pay for everything the goat eats or destroys.

The writer Bianca London 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).

I'm livin' life in the fast lane

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.

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.

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.

Get off the pot

Me: "Oh, your warm and soft fingers. The son likes them very much."
Hubby (looking smug): "Really? Why do you say so?"
Me: "I can think of no other reason for him to ask only you to wash his bum after he has done the job."
Hubby (looking crestfallen): "You are disgusting."

Just another conversation between a couple trying to teach their son how to clean his own butt.

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. Nonetheless, it's not really a shit-or-get-off-the-pot situation, but a shit-and-get-off-the-pot situation for now.

That fleeting moment

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 force motivate myself to be more regular in visiting my little nook on the internet and here's my fix - That fleeting moment. The plan is to post a picture every other 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.

The rain drops fall on my window pane

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 poor-man's 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?

Hooked I am (or once was) to...

It wasn't until 2007 that I started reading blogs.

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.

1. She started the fire. Her blog 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.
2. Claire 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.
3. Rohini hasn't written a whole lot this year, but whenever she writes, she makes me happy.
4. This blogger 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.
5. Holly 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.
6. Johnny 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. 
7. Ashish is a stand-up comedian and a 'seriously serious funnyman'. 
8. Sahil writes film reviews in a comic or graphic novel style. Sometimes, his reviews are way better than the films.
9. This is my Sunday morning fix. 
10. When it comes to food, the oddly spelled the kitchn gives me inspiration. If it's Indian vegetarian food that floats my boat on a given day, I go to Archana or Nisha, or just attend of the many classes Deepali conducts (she's the reason my pesto or Hubby's carrot cake is a raging success every time it's put on the table).

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.

The one about the guy upstairs, or fairy tales

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.

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.

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.

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.

One’s fairy tale cannot be better than another’s. Some people don’t believe in fairies.

Holding on, regardless of who we are and where we come from

“Hold on to him,” called out a warm voice.

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.

“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.

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.

“You know how they all need a few hugs some times,” I smiled back.

“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.

“That really happens?” I was curious.

“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.

“Wow! Really?” I heard myself say. We were already standing together, like people who knew each other for a long time.

“But they come around. He is 22 now and I get a kiss from him every day.”

I smiled. I wanted to steal her effervescent smile and make it mine.

“So, hold on to him while it lasts.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

I was that Mom on Monday

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.

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.
 
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.

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.

On Monday, I picked up my son from day care and bought him ice cream. I was THAT mother.

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.

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.

Lost

I suffered a miscarriage on Tuesday.

                                                                                       

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.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

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.

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.

Nature had picked the one on which wanted its resources spent and it wasn't 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. 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.

If my life were a movie, this would be its trailer

I wrote this piece in early October 2009, but never thought of posting it (until now, that is).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

People I'm most likely to slap when I meet them

• Arnab Goswami for being in love with the sound of his voice. That and his sub-standard, rhetoric journalism
• Nandita Ghosh for trying to be the female version of Arnab Goswami and almost succeeding. What a waste of a pretty face!
• Gagan for being the chauvinist he sometimes is
• The makers of Huggies nappy pads. They suck. Yeah, the pads and those who make them
• Cousin C for screwing up his life and his parents'. He is the inspiration behind our resolution to have more than just one child
• A few nerds from work, but only on some days

Wow, only a short list after raking my brains for a while! I must be peace-loving.

I get to meet the crème de la crème of the retard world at work every day

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.

Someone: Now-self (of course, they call me by my official name, but you’re not getting that here), got a minute?

Me: Yes, what is it?

Someone: Are you leaving for the day?

Me (looking at my bag, proudly hanging by my shoulder): Umm, yeah.

Someone: I had a one-pager for you to edit and was wondering if you would be able to do it today.*

Me (abusing in my head): Sure, but I have shut down my computer. Can I use yours?

Someone: Yeah, that’ll be alright.

Me: So, where’s the piece?

Someone: Actually, I haven’t written it yet, but was wondering if you’d hang out in the office until I’m done.

!!!???

* 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!

Random thoughts

• 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.
• I love you, but cannot understand why you're subjecting me to the stress of bringing up our [OUR, not just my] child alone
• Baby, why are you pushing me against the wall?

When was I myself last?

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.

Meeting Hubby, falling in love and moving to a new city introduced many changes in my lifestyle. Marriage changed a lot too. It ended my, in words of a dear friend, ‘sophisticated wildcat’ days.

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.

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.

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…?

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!

* 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.

Bébé, bambino or just baby

I've been away for the longest while.

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.

Saumil* 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.

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.

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!

* 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 chuda. We went to Manali (duh!) and every second girl did flash chuda!

Thus spake the one who is still unborn

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.

"Yeah, but not our baby" was all I could manage to say before breaking into fits of uncontrollable laughter. Hubby didn't react. 

A few seconds later, two toddlers sauntered into the hall, all happy and playful. 

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.

I went home and allowed Ma to pamper me

Trips 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.

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).

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.

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).

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.

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.