Lessons from a cartoon dog

It was my third unsuccessful attempt in the day to shut the clothes drawer. A woolen top was now wedged between two draws and was testing my patience. While I tugged at the cloth with one arm, the other tops were spilling out on the floor. “I am sick of this draw,” I announced. “ High time we stop buying clothes.”

My little niece who was up until then doodling with her crayons quietly, looked up bewildered, on why I was spewing poison at her clothes. With pretty strawberries and caricatures of ‘Hello Kitties’ and Mini Mouse the clothes were in fact cute.

“ Are you irritated Aunty?” she asked.  “ Look at this mess,” I yelled in affirmation.  “If you are irritated, just stop. Breathe. And then think,“ she commented rather nonchalantly.  I was stumped. Say hello to my four-year-old niece Dia. She went back to colouring the ladybird. “What does that mean, Dia?” I quizzed her secretly hoping that it was just something she heard it in passing and was not aware of the gravity of what she was saying. “It means you stop cleaning the drawer. You take a few deep breaths and then think about it. “ It couldn’t have been more succinct. The draw was now fully open with most of its contents tumbled down.  But I had more important things to attend to than a draw to deal with. My LKG going niece who still sits perched on her mother’s lap to drink milk form a sippy cup was giving me life lessons.

“That’s good advice, I will follow it,” I retorted. “But will you do the same the next time you get angry with Amma or Appa?” I asked. I was pushing the envelope. Dia’s tantrums were getting commonplace and she was aware of it herself. “Sure, “she said confidently. “Make a note of it on your cell phone and tell me the next time I get angry,” she quipped gesticulating at my indispensable smart phone.

Later that evening when I slowly cajoled her she revealed to me that she heard this on TV, from a show called ‘Blue’s clues ‘ on Nickelodeon where a big dog called blue with the help of his master Steve finds solutions for everyday problems. The other day she used the word ‘humongous’ to describe the pile of books lying astray on my table and the day before pointed at ‘Cummulo Nimbus’ clouds while peeping out of the car window. Pepe the pig had told her.

 It is true that the adorable Tom and Jerry has a lot of violent content and the infamous ‘Chotta Bheem’ perpetrates gender stereotypes. But sometimes children do seem to pick the ‘right’ portions from their seemingly superficial cartoon shows. Here was a vital piece of philosophy that Dia had not only picked up and absorbed but also learnt to apply at the opportune moment. I am sure I would have failed miserably had I been asked to use Zen to correct her shenanigans! The current fixation for many girls like Dia, in her cohort is Elsa, the snow queen from Disney’s biggest blockbuster ‘Frozen’. Frozen, apart from giving the hit song ‘Let it go’ has also given many young girls a perfect role model. Elsa is the stereotypical princess with a shimmering and enviable blue dress, long hair and pretty face but she is also fiercely independent, with a mind of her own. Instead of flitting around for the euphoria over first love and the perfect kiss from a prince charming, she finds that true love exists outside romance, that for her, it resides in her baby sister. Perhaps it’s sometimes good for health to look at media with a positive psychology spin.  Why go after yogic gurus when we can sit back in our lazy boys and learn how to stop. Think. And Breathe.

-  Originally published in the column 'Pop Pourri', The New Indian Express, Bangalore- 19th Aug 2015

100 Days of Maya

The Summer of 2015- now

Every summer I have a habit. It’s that time of the year, my birthday month when I sit by the swing and do some mental spring-cleaning, i.e. I take a mental stock of things. And given my obsession with making lists, I chalk up an exhaustive one. I make a list of the things I did in the last one year, segregate them from what I did new and the lessons I learnt. The good the bad and the ugly. And then after a good measure of over thinking and over analyzing I firm up my plans for the coming year. That year’s bucket list would comprise of anything, from personal character development goals to outlandish ones like visiting Greece. I then take a resolve to achieve them without cribbing away the rest of the 364 days about how I am getting old.

But not this April 2015. I am now a parent, an official custodian of a tiny little human who is counting on me to make her see that life is beautiful.

This summer has been about nothing else but getting ready to become a parent. I did not do anything. But yet feels like I did so much.

The Prelude

It was my turn. Lying in the stretcher with a nine and half month belly partially obstructing the face of my husband, I held his hand and whispered, “ I think it’s a girl”. 

“I think so too,” he smiled. Almost like a scene straight out of a movie, I was wheeled into the operation theatre just as he was escorted out.

After many months of gravity- defying- record vomiting sessions, (aptly named ‘hyperemesis gravidarum’) that pushed me into the depths of depression and occasional suicidal thoughts, I had reached the day that I was counting down for. The birth of my first child. The little baby who ate nothing but idly in utero during the three months of relentless vomiting. The baby who had made me smile, wiggling her tiny little fingers in the third month scan, just as I was losing hope.

 Pregnancy was never fun. They weren’t my days of glory. No pampering and no days of glowing. It was instead punctuated with “will I -wont I” anticipation of vomiting, excruciating gas trouble that poked at the ribs and adding cherry on the cake was a surgery to remove an ovarian torsion. She was a precious baby. A brave one who slept inside her mother’s tummy oblivious (or maybe she knew) of the surgeons slowly maneuvering a probe beside where she lay to remove a hemorrhaging ovary. She probably heard me whimper "Please don't die on me," just as I was losing consciousness.The nine months had been a life changing experience. The toughest that I had ever gone through, that no amount of pouring over pregnancy books, instant googling, or listening to worldly advice from every other person with or without uterus had prepared me for.

But it was getting over. They said I would forget everything when I see my baby’s face.

25^th Dec 2014, at 8:45 she was out. Our little ‘Christmas Miracle’. Bundled in a red fleece wrap, a squishy little pink face hidden under a white woolen cap, she was there. Our gift from Santa.

Maya. Magic. Illusion. My reality.

During the second half of my pregnancy, in those rare moments when I made a feeble attempt to enjoy it, we whiled away our time debating over the sex of the child. In fact it seemed like a national past time, with every other person who had   up until then doled out advice on vomiting, now had a theory backing their choice of gender. But for some strange reason, a reason foggy to me, I was convinced that I was carrying a boy. Perhaps it was a dream, of a green-eyed husband lookalike baby who gurgled in my sleep. The husband opined, “Raising a boy was easy work.” He would grow up on his own he said. With recent stories of child abuse and rape, to which largely girls were prey to, bringing up a girl will be a nightmare he believed. “I will have to invest in a gun,” he announced, rather dramatically. Maybe a tad sexist but definitely realistic.

 “But having a girl will build character. It will be a good learning experience for u,” I chided my husband who had grown up amidst boys and whose only experience living with a girl came after marriage.

But on the eve of the surgery, as I lay on the hospital bed staring at the fetal monitor that was blinking at 155 beats per minute, I caught my Doctor father hiding a smile, a wry smile that seemed to suggest that he knew the big secret.

 “ A 100 illustrated stories,” a fat cream book in faux leather that I had bought for my unborn child, in a rather crazy whim, flashed past my mind. “ To Maya “ I had scribbled in pencil, and stuffed it in my bookcase. It had been collecting dust for two years now. That was the moment of truth. Its Maya I said to myself.

Her

When I looked at her for the first time, groggy, eyes, shutting involuntarily under the effect of anesthesia, she looked like a little monk to me. A Tibetan monk with slit like eyes and puffy cheeks. I wanted to say “Dalai Llama” to the next pesky relative who asked me whom she resembled. This little human had come out of me. It was hard to digest. Combating my feelings of disbelief, and worn out by a gripping pain, my head was reeling.  The world seemed to be moving in super motion, with a steady stream of visitors trooping in unannounced and nurses barging in one after another and violently squeezing my breast to induce breast-feeding. All this while a family was busy laying claims on Maya’s nose, eyebrows and what not. I was sitting there feeling alone; amidst all the pandemonium with waves of confusion that were hitting unaware. Why am I sad when this is supposed to be the happiest day of my life? I questioned myself.  I am thrilled. Definitely. But why am I not flooded with affection for this little screaming monk? Am I weird? I pondered, wiping away the gush of tears. It seemed like a faucet was opened.  Can I do this? I still need my mother when I am sick, how can I be a mother now?

During the early days of marriage, I found it very hard to call the husband the husband. I even referred to him as my friend while booking a table at a restaurant.  (He is a friend also isn’t he?)  Friend ok. Boyfriend perfect. Husband? It felt odd and old. I looked at Maya and the same feeling tugged at my mind. Do I have to call her my daughter?  It felt strange. Do I have really have a daughter?  Of my own? Did god really trust me with that?  It was perhaps too late to philosophize or conduct post mortem.

If pregnancy was life altering, post delivery seemed like after-life. I plodded around with almost no recollection of how I lived prior to the birth of little miss. Everything was a blur. Of course the unsolicited advice that I had grown accustomed to, now quadrupled, but fortunately there was hardly any time to get irritated. Days blurred into nights and nights seemed longer than before. It did not take hours, not days, but weeks for this conundrum of mixed emotions to settle down, as I sat dealing with the excitement and more importantly the chronic lack of sleep. Meanwhile our poor unsuspecting Maya fed, pooped and slept on loop.

Mother

It’s been 100 days now. The more I get to know Maya, the more I get to know myself. I have forgotten what sleep is, I don’t remember the last time I savoured a meal in silence and my body aches to go to the spa everyday. However I seem possessed by a strength that I never knew existed and despite all the laboring for love, there is so much to look forward to. Maya’s swollen and slit like eyes have fanned out wide. Dense wisps of black hair have mushroomed on her forehead and she now breaks into a toothless, silvery smile. The feeling is ineffable.  Every time I get accustomed to her antics, she grows up a wee bit more, adds a new skill to her kitty and breaks into a smile again. The adventure begins all over.

In the process, I have also discovered a newfound appreciation for mothers. Mine. Yours. Every mother. The cynical daughter, who dismissed Mother’s Day as commercial and hypocritical, now feels good about being mother and overwhelmed on having an entire day dedicated to her. It dawns on me that one of the nights when I sat rocking little Maya, I have magically transformed into my own mother. I hold Maya the way she does, I sing the same lullaby. I am her. If I could muster up even a measly 10 % of the mother she is to me Maya would be lucky.

Life since Christmas has been a series of firsts. The first time she rolled over. The first time she responded to her name. The first time she flung her arms towards me, and first time I felt like a person who can brave the world and take care of this little person.  Beyond the button nose that curls like mine or the eyes that slant like the husband lies a beautiful little person with her own tiny personality. Her whims. Her fancies. She is exploring the world quietly. With each passing day I get to see a little more of her personality unfurl in front of me. Will she be stoic like the husband or bear my sentimentality? It waits to be seen. But mostly I hope she is like herself. Unique.

Motherhood for me has not been a flooding of love, but like a gentle fragrance that slowly wafts into the room and immerses one it, silently, peacefully.

The Future

As I stand in the balcony holding Maya, helping her soak in all the myriad sounds, sights and smells of the world that she has fallen headlong into, that would soon dissolve her into its wonders and predicaments I realize one thing. No amount of information (including this post) can ever prepare one completely for being a parent. You can never be totally ready. For good and bad, life changes forever. And strangely it has just begun.

Muse

Every writer needs a muse. Here is mine. A mango wood writing table that begs to be written on.

My own little space.

To sit ,shrouded in a swarm of memories.

To ponder.

 To doodle.

 To gaze in a state of limerence.

To chase the fireflies.

 To quilt my own chaos.

To forget.

To be free.

Turning a little thirty..

Three decades. It feels like the end of an era. The carefree life flits past the window. In a rather uncharacteristic manner I start mulling over things like paying tax, and begin to contemplate on mutual funds. Cynicism and disdain for society adds fuel to the fire.

 I don’t know what scares me more; the glorious and yet scary uncertainties of life or the crushing monotony when everything seems to be in its rightful place. Succumbing to the latest trend in new media; the obsession with making pointless lists, I decide to write my own. You can call it random ramblings, ‘pearls of wisdom,’ or simply, the musings of a finally awake 30 year old who is desperately trying to romanticize the milestone.

1. 1. Small is beautiful. For instance, kurtas with pockets make me happy. Thus ‘ Fab India has me,(amongst many others) an enthusiastic patron and pauper therefore. Don’t women have things that they would like to slip into their pockets, like a car key or a cell phone perhaps? Pockets seem to be made only for repulsive cheap plastic combs with black and greasy edges and parker pens. Patriarchy or the basic lack of creativity, either ways it doesn’t make sense. Savoring a rainbow cake, peeling layer after layer, colour after colour without a thought of remorse is unadulterated pleasure. A good dump in the morning provides clarity that even days of meditation or jugs of tea cannot (definite sign of old age!). The familiar arrival of a book from Flipkart. Though it would be no surprise, given I would have not only placed the order but also seen it through its entire delivery chain, nothing quells the happiness of tearing open the brown packet and smelling the new book. I seek happiness through the extra five minutes of sleep, the empty auto waiting right outside my house, a telephone conversation with a best friend after eons and the discovery of a weary hundred rupee note in my sweat shirt pocket 
   
2.   I regret not taking all those naps in childhood that I could, when I could, but for some inexplicable reason; maybe a warped sense of self-righteousness or plain defiance, wouldn’t. Not that I discovered the cure for cancer or trained for the Olympics in those hours that I didn’t sleep. 

3.    “ Are your anti—social tendencies the product of your berserk pituitary gland?” Calvin asks Moe the school bully. I think anti- social tendencies develop with age and ripen in the thirties, equipped with fully functional bullshit detector. You realize that making new and deep friendship has become incredibly difficult. Your circle becomes smaller and for the precious few you try and break the geographical barriers.  I have no time for fake conversations, meaningless friendships and forced interactions. I would rather sit by myself and spend the day dreaming into vacant space, or wait for substance, than spend it air kissing and exhibiting fun in the form of selfies.

 

  4.  The greatest form of high is the creative high. The tingle after watching a movie that stirs the soul and haunts your imagination for days. The song that runs in a loop for hours, while driving, while working and taking a bath. The joy when you can write a full sentence in Spanish, or read one un-encumbered.  The sweet smell of baking your first cake, and watching it rise through the oven door. The cathartic satisfaction of writing a story that spells out every thought, with every word perfectly in place. Lying awake in bed because the brain is still flashing with ideas, while the limbs beg for some rest.

5.    Love comes in all shapes and sizes Some times distorted, and most of the time oblivious to the naked eye or guarded heart. The mom says ‘I love you’ every time she nags you to eat breakfast, the partner says it when he chooses to ignore your follies. The best kind of love is finding a person who one can talk for hours and be comfortable sharing silence.

 

6.    The plain old common cold is the worst form of illness. You are neither too sick to take the day off nor do you have the energy to sail through it. And the worst, when you do turn up for work, after guzzling bowls of soup, nobody can make out that you are sick unless, you expose your runny nose, or punctuate your conversation with some coughs.

 

7.    Certain things never change- Feeling grumpy on Monday mornings, cinema and popcorn, summer and mangoes, last minute assignments and annoying songs that become earworms.

     

8.    My mother gave me a bookmark on my 25^th birthday that read, “ The grand essentials of happiness are someone to love, something to do, and someone to look forward to.” Every time I feel low I run through this tiny little checklist and then things don’t seem too daunting. 

 

9.    Why do we tout the day we get/got married to be the most important day of our lives? Our's was fairytale romance that culminated in a big beautiful wedding. But the thing about big beautiful weddings is that almost all of us will fail if asked to recall the details of our wedding day. If anything it’s just a blur.I remember more from the day that I taught semiotics to an enthusiastic bunch of students. Marriages are nice only when they are not yours. The caterer was being checked on, the guests were escorted to the hotels, the saris were getting packed and the photographers were waiting. Amidst all the chaos and happy pandemonium, there I was, sitting in a corner, feeling terribly lonely and harboring a potentially dangerous thought. What if I walked away from home? Would anybody notice, though I am supposed to be the ‘protagonist’ of this extravaganza?  How long would it take for them to realize that I am gone? Not that I didn’t want to get married. Just that it no longer seemed to be about me.

         

10.    Ever noticed how our body language changes with age? The sprightly little kid who came bounding down the corridor for no apparent person, drags his feet in college, disinterested and bored, and hunches as he sits plodding on the computer, frustrated with work.  Is it because we have too much at stake, too much to worry about, as we grow older, or are we merely over-thinkers who now know the “ price of everything and the value of nothing”?

 

11.    Alcohol and I share a very interesting relationship. I must be an endangered species; one who always refuses a drink much to the disbelief or dismay of fellow companions. Not to take the moral high ground or act like a prude, but I have never enjoyed the taste of alcohol nor have had the patience to acquire it. Also, it fills my stomach, which instead digs the lemon cheesecake or would rather gorge on the plate of French fries. However fortunately, it has, on the very few occasions that I have been briefly inebriated, brought out my sparkling best. I was buzzing on a glass of Long Island iced tea when I met the love of my life after a 7-year hiatus. I wrote the painful All India UGC exam on a hangover, that in the history of this 'school and college topper' caused her to sleep for half an hour in the examination hall. Sacrilege! I aced the exam. In conclusion, my career graph, my ‘love life’ and my superlative dancing skills have all peaked in the loving presence of the long island iced tea. Cheers!

       

12.    It is impossible and possibly even naïve to attempt to make sense of the world. For the longest time this was my biggest preoccupation. It was perhaps a result of the tussle between the scores of childhood lessons in karma and finding my feet in the ‘big bad world’. There were more contradictions than corollaries. But I learnt that there are no answers for everything; why do innocent people die, why do the unethical remain happy, why do the corrupt go smiling to the grave? The design of life is bewildering and exasperating.  I have devoured tons of philosophy books hoping to find an answer. I have struggled to connect dots in my own life and attempted in vain to interpret situations from varied perspectives. In the end I have thrown my hands in the air and given up in a huff. It dawned on me that there is no definite set of good and bad and my sense of right and wrong may not be universally applicable. 

 

13.    What is the hurry to grow up? I want to ask the growing generation. Why the rush to become adults.  To date, to drink, and to deal with problems. Why hurry when you can go out and jump into a puddle of water with uninhibited joy, when you can sleep in the afternoons without a care in the world and you are in the best years of your life.

 

14.    Buddhism is a beautiful perspective of life. I would buy Buddha figurines whenever I saw them until I read that Buddha never wanted people to revere him, and this act was going against one of the most profound tenants of the religion. The message was more important than the messiah. When Buddhism talks about ‘detachment’, or the lack of desire, it doesn’t translate into renouncing possessions and living the life of a saint. That is unrealistic. Detachment is not let anything own you. Be it relationships or your cell-phone.

               

15.    What is romance? A secret smile. Staring at the phone to ring. Feeling alone yet not lonely. Sitting in a crowded room, immersed in thoughts. Snuggling into bed weaving a dream in mind. A phantom kiss. A stolen glance. It is becoming a nicer person.

16.    Stephan Hawking said  “The greatest enemy of knowledge is not the ignorance but the illusion of knowledge.’  I couldn’t agree more. Narcissism seems to be at an all time high. The least talented are one of the most over confidant.

17.    Children are some of the most logical of beings.  There is a lot that we can learn from them- How to be busy, how to be happy and busy with simple things like a stick. Life instructions are simple; wonder at everything that you see, question everything and definitely make sure you do exactly what you want to do.

 

18.    Marriage was not scary when I was 20. I wanted to have children when I was 22.  The years whisked by. I was 27 and earning my living. And then one idle Tuesday afternoon, as I sat watching some mindless television, I felt a sudden spasm gripping my throat and parching it dry. Objects in the distance seldom look scary.

 

19.    There was a time, and a very beautiful time I must say, when I would station myself in front of the television with a box of fresh Badam halwa and religiously lick each spoon dry and yet continue to be the thinnest girl around. But there is something magical about turning 27. At this ‘ripe’ age, along with a newfound ability to continuously rant about the absurdity of societal pressures, comes another talent, the art of putting on weight. Two spoons of Nutella washed down with a harmless (until recently) cup of vanilla milkshake send the weighing scales tizzy. Karma makes a vicious come back to not bite, but plant itself. One unsuspecting night, as you are busy drooling on the pillow, a couple of kilos seem to slowly crawl on the floor, slither up the bed, and attach themselves on the stomach. T-shirts pinch at the bust; one cannot pose for a picture without tucking in some breath and definitely not sit on a sofa without feeling the fat flowing down.

20.    There is something ethereal about the Indian monsoon; the contrast between the green and grey, the smell of damp earth, and the sight of vegetables washed bright by the incessant rain.  Conjuring images of multitudes of people minding their business, clambering buses, children in rain coats, droplets of rain lining the ledges of windows and the occasional romantic soul, walking slowly, hugging a bag, drenched from head to foot, unbridled and free.

 

21.    I have decided not to read out any fairytales to my kid. How do I explain who a ‘step-mother’ is or rationalize the violent behavior of Hansel and Gretel as they shove the witch into a hot oven? I don’t want my little girl to say that she wants to be a princess. Princesses are vain and need to be saved.  Seemingly cheerful songs in catchy tunes about the bubonic plague, throwing a priest down the stairs and chopping mice’s tails aren’t working either.

 

22.    There is a lot that one can learn from a dog. Especially from one who believes that he is the master of the house? You can bring home a trainer to make him sit when told to, wait for food, extend his paws as social courtesy and trot by you in obedience, mastering every little instruction with proficiency. But who says that one must practice what the trainer taught once he is gone? I do love you. I will be loyal to you. But I have a mind of my own he seems to say.

 

23.    For me, the biggest take-away from education was inculcating the importance of being original. Rat race, cut throat competition, survival of the fittest, big bad world may scream at one’s face but they are merely terms. They fade into oblivion when you do what you want to do, in your own way, and to the best of your ability.

24. The biggest decision in life is not saying ‘I do’ or getting a dog, but deciding (in some cases you may not even have that luxury) to have a baby. The clock is reset. Nature works in new and mysterious ways where one relegated to the background and she does everything to keep her progeny alive.  A silent promise that says that from now on you will put another life ahead of yours, every single moment  

25.    What is the point of a Women’s Day? Why vociferously debate on the need for women’s empowerment through innumerable farcical conferences and discussion forums? Why settle for so- called smart one-liners and silly idioms on how men need women for their success. The world will be a better place only the day the word feminism’ ceases to exist.

 

26.    Most women, suffer from a delusion, a misconstrued idea of love thanks to picture perfect rom coms, set in the world’s most marketed city, New York. Not my proudest moment, but I have cried and felt good watching ‘ My Best friends wedding’. However thankfully evolution occurred and nowadays I seek for the melancholy ones, the dark movies that have layers to dissect and make you sob. Women have high expectations out of love, just as men have about women, and their bodies.

 

27.    I have a lot of questions. If we were to study the horoscope of 50 people who died in a train accident will all of them show a similar pattern; ie warn a downfall? If we evolved from apes, are there still apes in the jungle that are enroute of becoming humans? I think about how the plot lines of movies of the last ten years would change if one of the characters had a cellphone? There would probably be no movie to begin with. What if Ryan Gosling and Rachel Mc Adams had a phone? Would their love story have been the same? 

 

28.   To die, to sleep;

        to sleep, perchance to dream: ay there’s the rub;

        For in that sleep of death what dreams may come. “

       What happens to us when we die? Does that infamous light and long                   winding tunnel really appear? Does it pain?  Do we see our loved ones around?  I read somewhere about what if the light at the end of the tunnel is actually us getting pushed out of a vagina into a new life? This reincarnation if it does exist, is a funny thing. Notice how old people seem to be completing the circle of life, behaving like little children as they near the end.  Alice Sebold, in ‘The lovely bones’ conjures a vivid concept of heaven; as a place filled with all our favourite things. Mine would have a huge tree and a long swing tied to it.

       

29.    It is true. Life is what happens when we are fiddling with our smart phone. Until Facebook and Whatsapp happened I loved sitting in airports for hours, for the sheer people watching potential it offers- the whole gamut of human idiosyncrasies and relationships on display. A digital detox is certainly the requirement of the day.

30.  “ I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious”, my epitaph would read.  Thanks to Albert Einstein.  I hope I never lose my sense of wonder.