New Motherhood - The Spoilers (Series)

There are these defining moments in your life when you realize you've finally got your shit together and you're doing the best you can in your microcosmic world and it makes you feel elated.

If you're a mom and you're reading this, I know what you're thinking. "Pfff...Like that ever happens." 

But if you're going to be a mom, I know that you've been struck by this feeling more than once. For starters, the moment you entered into that comfy zone where you openly started expressing an interest in going at it unarmed (without your birth control ammunition) it was greeted with an unreal enthusiasm and wild cheers from your entourage. Some of them said ," Oh I'm so happy for you dear!" or "I'm gonna be such a cool aunt!". The rest, the ones who were already on the other side, immediately got to the business of referencing formula feeds, stroller brands and words you'd heard for the first time like 'epidurals', 'doulas' and 'lactation' were tossed around. Despite all the mumbo-jumbo, everyone gave you the general reassurance that you're already on top of your game and you're gonna be a great mom! No wonder then, you start anticipating, a bit too obsessively, for those two pinky-winky lines, looking forward to your first pee and candle-lit ovulation nights.

But it also gets you wondering, "Well, I've been an aunt before. I know what's coming. But I mean do I really know what's coming? What are these mums with their dark secrets and darker under-eye pools not telling me?"

And then you think, maybe I'll Google about it, you know, just to get a heads-up. But Google's known to freak you out. Remember the time you typed "Headache" and "Symptoms" into it and you were led to believe you may potentially have meningitis?

Here's what your mommy friends may be telling you: "Motherhood is challenging." Here's what they aren't telling you: "On occasions, it is bone-crushing. And nerve-wrecking." What they're telling you: "Motherhood is empowering." What they're not telling you: "Ever tried negotiating with a toddler for basically anything? We don't know shit girl!"

The truth is we, as moms, may pretend to hold ourselves together, not need help, know everything and have everything under control. To a would-be mother, motherhood looks calming, serene, like in the movies, sitting in a plush garden in the lightness of delicate breezes and baby talc scents. But in reality, you're constantly imploding from within, the cracks of which may come to the surface once in a blue moon, if not in the presence of your loved ones, maybe, in a dark, undemanding closet.

"Becoming a mommy is like being reborn," a wise woman told me in my last few, painstaking weeks before labour. But I didn't get time to reflect on that statement as I was busy lounging in my own hell, like a turtle on its back, all pines and needles, my mind getting bogged down by labour horror stories and medical trivia I didn't need to know about.

From one woman to another, it sure gets unnerving to step into a new role, especially when you're suddenly getting privy to all this information that you don't know what to do with right away. But just for fun, while you carve out your own presence in this anything-but-dull gig of motherhood, I thought I'll give away my top spoilers. Just in case you were wondering what mommies aren't telling you.

Warning: Spoiler Alert!
Disclaimer: But again, this is my experience so it may not be true for you. At all.

1. It's not about you anymore (and yet it is):

When you're in your pregnancy, everyone's wondering if you're well-fed, even if you look like you've eaten for four, and everyone's complimenting you of how your skin's got the peachy glow and how motherhood is doing you wonders. Well, hold on to that. Record it if you want to. Cos the moment your hatchling is out, the universe moves on. The good news is, so will you. You'll be happy to give away the spotlight and everything else (and a little more) for your tiny wonder, whom you're mostly terrified of. But there will be some days you'd hear yourself screaming from within, "Yea, yea, you're cute. But can it just be about me for a little while? How about you give me five minutes to take a shower?" But then again, you feel the tender searching hands of your baby at night, smiling ear-to-ear in her sleep in response to your touch. You overhear your dad saying how much HIS little girl has bloomed and transformed into a responsible adult.

And you know you're not invisible after all.

2. You're gonna hate breastfeeding (at first):

Sure you've seen those pictures of moms oozing with Ambrosia-like energy with their babies latching on, the happy sucklings they are. And you've found yourself, mostly just before labour, staring down at your nipples wondering how it all works. You don't have a goddamn clue but you still think you're internally thriving. Brushing past the awe-inspiring miracle of birth that's left you in a glorious high, when you get to the point of actually attending to your bawling baby's hunger pang, guess what? Neither one of you knows what to do. Enter the lactation specialist. (Thankfully mine was a woman.) She's this stone-faced person who's been assigned and designed to humiliate your upper anatomy any chance she gets. She manhandles them at least ten times a day, prescribes you lactation powders and watches you suffer as you figure it all out. But stay put. Cos once you get the hang of it, you'd find it's the easiest, the most gratifying thing in the world to do. Just pop open your shirt and watch your wailing baby turn into a monk. (Potentially a disturbing visual.)


3. You'll never pee alone.

And I don't mean that figuratively, like "Hey, I can't mentally tune off my baby even for ten seconds to take a piss". I mean the moment you feel a biological urge, it'll be sucker-punched with an equally life-pressing emergency in your household. So, you tell yourself you've been doing Kegels religiously and you can hold it for some more time. You comfort yourself with the thought that you'll make a mini-vacay out of your next bathroom break. You glide into the bathroom after everything has quieted down, the smell of strawberries luring you to wash your hair. But the moment you reach your sacred sanctuary and peel your pants off — I hate to tell you this —you will hear a shrieking voice. Your toddlers will be barging through the door cos they have lost a crayon or your husband will need a baby wipe or when you're alone, the doorbell will ring.

And that is a universal truth you just have to deal with.

4. The moment your baby starts moving his limbs, it's apocalypse now!

Oh what a miraculous thing to witness your little one explore the world on her own! Before you know it, they're already up and about, running off wherever their little feet can take them. Except, they won't be running as much as they'd be running into things. That harmless glass-top table with easy wheels —it's now a death trap. Your open window on a high-rise ushering in that lovely monsoon breeze — now whizzes in an air of premonition. You'd be tempted to gasp every time they just try to cover ten feet of floor space without toppling over like a pile of dominoes. But please. Save the melodrama cos there are still unexplored staircases to fall from.


5. Welcome Guilt trips (And Chocolate-binging)

Mommy guilt is the most common syndrome plaguing mothers. I thought it'll pass as time moves forward. But I'm pretty sure as the years go on, the pain of it becomes overbearing. Some mommies realize that maybe it's time to channel that guilt and pass it onto their kids. That's when you'd hear your mum say, "You don't know just how many sleepless nights I've been through with you." Or, "When you become a mom, you'll know what I feel."
Here's the thing. Most moms feel what they're doing is not enough. If you're a working mom, you're hampering your child's need for affection. If you're a stay-at-home mom, you're not challenging yourself enough. Right from the point when you choose an epidural over natural pain, you invoke raised eyebrows all around you. Even a ten-second elevator ride can have you emerge from the elevator sobbing hysterically cos a neighbour observed  how your three-year old daughter ought to be wearing slips underneath her white tee.

Or not. Cos, you just have to tell yourself everyday that you're doing the best you can. And the only person that you need to be is a happy mom who has it together and knows, or at least pretends to know, what she's doing. Just throw in new statistics in your favour to old-time, judgemental moms and watch them get baffled.

I'd love to go on and tell you more things about what's in store for you. But maybe, you don't need to know this after all. All you need to know is that beyond the dirt and labour, frustration and mood swings are doting scribbles and finger paints, random giggle loops and first words that start with “Ma”, and tiny hands and toes that latch on to you for your every approval. Beyond the wall of judgement, there lies a renewed bond with all mothers and you may find that you have more things in common with your mom than you had ever imagined. 

So brace yourself. For your world is going to go upside down. But then again, maybe it's because you're looking for monsters under the bed with your toddler :).


If you enjoyed this, I'd love to hear from you readers! Be my guest and write in about your experiences and your shared wisdom.

Let's Redefine Manners

“Now sweetheart, let’s revise this. What will you say to every one of your guests as they leave?”
“Thank you for coming. I really enjoyed your company.”
“Good girl.”
“But dad…”
“No buts.”
“It’s my birthday party. Why do I have to invite the entire neighbourhood? I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have fun with the Mathur brats. They’ll mess up my toys any chance they get.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to be polite to our guests. Now let’s do this again. This time, do it with a smile.”

I gave him a forced smile and then stretched it all the way to stress upon the fact that it’s mighty fake.

My dad, as we were growing up, always told us how important it was to keep up appearances, maintain relationships, avoid slander at any cost and always be accommodating and respectful.

It is an important time-honoured lesson to teach your kids as they’re growing up. Manners are of utmost significance. They’re a mirror to good upbringing. They’re the one thing that you can depend on to bail you out of most social crises you encounter in your adult life — and, mind you, there’ll be situations aplenty where they’d give you a fighting chance to win.

As Indians, as an inherent part of our culture, we’re just taught to suck it up and be respectful. To mince our words. To open our houses to uninvited guests. To share our small plate of food. To never say ‘No’ to elders, and if it’s absolutely necessary, to soft-cushion the impact of it. To run errands against our will for the pados waali aunty, even though our schedules may be running as crazy as that of a political candidate during elections.

I have grown up keeping this valued, sometimes stifling, lesson in the back of my mind. And it is only now, as an adult raising a child of my own in the big city, that I have to say with gloomy realization: It is time to toss this universally accepted, age-old attachment to manners in the trash.

It’s not because I think my parents were wrong. It’s just that I don’t necessarily think that manners are awfully significant in today’s context. My parents lived in quaint townships most of their lives, with their own circle of people who’d be ready to bail them out of life-altering emergencies (or help them babysit while they enjoy a movie date). They had job security for life, a good work-life balance with no tweets to answer and no self-perceived social media pressures, giving them enough time in hand to volunteer for charity work, social obligations and cultural events. More importantly, getting from point A to B in the towns we lived never took more than fifteen minutes, unless we were visiting another city. Time hardly came into the equation when we had to step out of the house. The only thing that we had to worry about was to be fashionably late cos getting held up by traffic was a rarity.

We had house-parties over the weekend spent playing dark room and Pictionary with our friends, while our parents swayed to the sound of oldies, roaring laughter emerging from the living room as we tried to keep as quiet and still as possible, in the backdrop of large, lavish spreads of home-cooked buffets and shandies. You get the picture. Of course, come Monday and our dads would be dutifully back to their eight-to-five jobs and our mums would be back to their gruelling groundhog days of clearing the aftermath of hosting parties and making mundane life happy and easy for us — while also finding enough breathing space to gossip about Mr.Sharma’s sleazy drunken comment and Mrs. Roy scandalously “smoking with the men”.

What a wonderful, upbeat thing it was to grow in a small township. No wonder we have such good manners.

Cut to today. You live in a big city. You’re a parent who’s constantly racing against time to get your kid to school punctually. You hop on in the elevator of your high-rise building and some random guy holds it up cos his wife’s probably forgotten to pack pickles in his lunch box and she is sorting the choicest ones for him as her morning endearment to him…while we continue to wait. Another girl, probably an alien, is new to the concept of ‘no-network in elevators’ and starts to get really nasal and high-pitched with her Helloooos (which briefly takes you back to Adele’s version of it). When you finally make it to the bottom, as the doors open, anxious disaster survivors (I can only assume) are storming in before you can get out. You fight the urge to tread on their feet with your pointy heels. Anyway, you head out and the first thing you’re greeted by to start your conceivably uneventful commute is a giant stash of dog poop parked right in your walkway. Suddenly, the day is not so uneventful. Now, you’re an avatar in a game involving jumping over puddles, suspicious piles of gunk and in-your-face garbage dumps. As a mandatory Monsoon-level skill in Mumbai, you’re also required to twirl with your kid in your arms to avoid speeding car splashes over your kid’s crisp, clean uniform. You save your hot breath of fire, your choicest cuss words, for His Highness the rickshaw driver who averts his face like an angry wife on hearing where you’d like him to take you. But since you’re taught some restraint on your part, you start with basic manners 101, notching it up to kind pleas, and then in vain you try to reason with him. But hey, how do you even reason with a guy playing deaf? So out comes a stream of words you’d heard through your school cafeteria and road rages for his benefit.

Anyway, you drop your kid to school. Of course, you have been delayed by unforeseen forces and your caffeine urge is now soaring to the skies. So you think, what the hell, I’ll stop for some coffee. Your local barista comes immediately to mind with his “come hither” expressions. You get there, heaving and expectant, but what do you see? There’s a huge line. But you try to empathize. I mean you’re part of the crowd, right? People need coffee to get their motors up and running. So you stand in the queue. When you’re one person away from the counter, the young boy in front of you decides he can’t tear himself away from early morning social media traffic even to place his order. Come on, he’s very important in the virtual world unlike you. So he continues tapping away and smirking to himself. The seemingly miffed barista, who may just wind up accidentally spitting in your coffee instead of his, tries to rush with his order with pointed questions. You’re a well-mannered person. So you look the other way and give the boy a break. But the person behind you is now persistently nudging you to move further, constantly shoving you with their leather bag. Apparently, now it’s your fault that the line is not moving. You give them a nasty stare and a bonus grunt and continue on the journey to chase your golden caramel latte.

Phew…You’ve dropped your kid to school, against all odds, you've had a great cup of coffee, and now you’re back home. You've got that “what do I do next” sort of vibe going on. You gobble down your breakfast cereal with vitamins. And just when you’re settling down to use your precious me-time to do your own work, the bell rings. It’s the neighbour. Well, of course. You’re a stay-at-home mom and you can spare some time for chai and gossip. You nod curtly through the conversations and give monosyllabic answers. Not hint enough. So then you say you really should be getting back to work. “What work?” “Oh, the writing.” “How do you find time for hobbies,” comes the curious afterthought. You explain how it’s not a hobby and that it really is your work. “Well, so are you paid for it?” You’re not one to exaggerate so you’re forced to tell them you’re not. And suddenly, even though, your neighbour’s giving you a pitiful look of understanding, you’re really, really angry. But thankfully, good manners come to the rescue. You bite your lip and shrug your shoulders.

Now here’s the thing. I want my kid to be well-behaved. I do think it is important to reward kindness with gracious words, love with affectionate smiles and thoughtfulness with gratitude. I want them to follow the manual of good upbringing as we did. But I'm not a big fan of it. I don’t hold good manners above keeping your level of sanity or holding your ground. I don’t want them growing up to accept things and keep silent in good manners. I don’t want them to say they’re OK when they clearly aren't.

I don’t want them to be afraid of saying ‘No’ in the guise of not wanting to hurt sentiments, especially when it is imperative to say it. When manners come in the way of honesty, I think in the long run, it’s better to say bitter truths rather than not saying anything at all. Manners may be necessary in a lot of contexts, probably in also learning the art of shaping words that cannot be taken back, but I don’t think they’re the primal end we should be striving for in our kids for this time and age that comes with its own quirky stress inducers and self-proclaimed achievement indices.

So, kids of this generation, here’s a new clause to the manners lesson you have learned in school and at home. Good manners breed good manners. Most of the time. But watch out for assholery and douchebaggery. If you find them, f*** good manners.

Finding Beauty in Slowing Down

There's something magical about watching your kids race to the finishing line. When I went to Saanvi's sports day, I was among the fifty-sixty odd parents, hunched at the edge of my seat, shifting uneasily, watching from a vague distance an adorable line-up of tiny kids at the starting line of their big, or rather, only momentous event for the year. But then a ridiculous analogy danced in my head briefly. It was something I'd read in a book earlier about dancing monkeys.

And that made me feel really uneasy.

I'll not deny it. I did, even if for a minute, ask myself this. Am I pushing my kid, really early on in her life, into getting into the winners' stand, just to prove we're exceptional parents? That morning, I did incentivize/bribe her with a visit to the mall and a surprise gift, if she were to win. I mean, what was really keeping me at the edge here? Sure, I want my kid to win and make me proud. But she's just three and half and it's safe to assume that she's pretty much oblivious to the race of life. So then the win is just for me, right? Is it my need to show to the world, "Oh look what a multi-faceted prodigy my kid is! Or "Well, don't make big of it but yea, she's practically the next P.T Usha." Oh, I'd remember to upload her picture with the winning trophy with touchy-feely messages that'd get all the peer parents saying, "Bravo! Great parenting right there!" Or maybe it's the want of a mushy anecdote on her little win to tell at the family dinner table thirty years from now, one which will get me all teary-eyed on the dinner napkin. And what if she doesn't win? What makes me lose my cool, skip a heartbeat, sink back in my chair in dismay when my child doesn't win? What makes me give excuses for her, blame it on the sweltering heat or even her loose strands of hair that may have doused her otherwise Arjuna's resolve to get to her target? What makes me blatantly call out the cruelty of competitions at such a tender age if my child loses the first three spots on the winners' stand by a small margin?

There was something calming in these largely cynical reflections on children that barged in through my unsuspecting mind, one after the other. You may wonder why I let myself get swayed into such pessimistic thoughts moments before my little girl, in the midst of all the buzzing excitement and ceaseless laughters, ran to the finishing line. Of course, as parents we want to inspire and encourage our children to find their potential, give everything their best shot and hope (and cheer violently) for them to succeed. And the inherent goal of being in a race is to taste the glory of coming first (or atleast in the first three spots) at the finishing line, right?

But something took over me that morning and the uncomfortable bolts of anxiety that ran through my body gradually died down. The atmosphere became a little too subdued for a racing event. The little kids stood in the heat, squinting at the sun, their attention directed to every little thing but the race. Some even did this little jiggy to the popular runner ballad that was playing at the time. And then it all began. The shrill whistle woke me up from my meditations.

But the rush to the finishing line was only a haze.

Instead, I slowed down. I watched the kids sprint as fast as their little feet could take them. They kept looking out for each other on the way. When they reached the mid-line, they had to pick oars made out of cardboard, hang them around their neck and sprint forward. They were so determined to do it right that some double-checked to see if it was hanging right. They looked out for each other yet again. Some dropped it on the way as they sped through the track again, but they went back coolly to pick it up. While these little unfortunate mishaps paved way for clear winners to emerge, the ones who were left  behind, continued running as fast as they were instructed to do and finished their race in the shadows. The world looked past them and cheered on to the winners, who were getting rewarded with medals and wild applause. I looked at the children who were left behind. They had finished the race too. They held a vibrant smile on their faces. Of accomplishment. Of doing everything they were asked to do. Of running alongside their friends. My daughter was among them.

And I cheered wildly for them.

It's remarkable how these kids took the pressure off of winning for me at that very moment. I looked around to see if other parents had witnessed what I had. Some were celebrating their kid's win with triumphant selfies. Some were immersed in some sort of psychobabble to the effect that winning or losing is part of life and it is participation that matters. Some just sat looking at the field, maybe lost in their own childhood or enjoying some quiet reflections of their own.

I, on the other hand, waited with bated breath for my little girl to come to me. I saw her from a distance, looking a little frazzled. I wondered if she had somehow got the sense of losing in the participants resting camp, so early on in her life. She came up to me and said, "I didn't get the medal mommy."

But I looked at her with pride and said the six words that I had read about in an article a long time ago. The six words that every parent should say to their kid after a competition, irrespective of the outcome. The six words that carried more meaning to me than any words of exaggerated motivation or consolation. The six words that made her smile.

All I said to her was, "But I loved watching you run."

2015 in Memorably Cute Conversations With My Three-Year Old

Hello readers!
And a happy 2016 to you! Well, I meant to ring in the year with beautiful memories of 2015 earlier but then as usual, time has been scarce. Scarcer, especially when it's spent arguing (or to put it constructively, discussing) with your three-year old about trivial things like how bright red mittens cannot be worn to school, no matter how well it brings out your pink sweatshirt. (Considering also that it's January in Mumbai and it's still 30 degrees C outside.)

2015 has been a long and fabulous year. It was the year when my brother got married to his best friend. It was the year when I thought we were going to be struck down by an earthquake. It was the year when we travelled to new places, of which Singapore took all my wide-eyed, mouth-aghast, shopaholic fancies in just about three hours. It was the year I stopped staring down at my belly flab and decided it's had a solid three years run and it's time to bid it farewell, hence yoga. Of course, the year-end pigging out just fuelled to its unwelcome tenant streak and I find that it's right where I left it. It was also the year when I finished my first short story (however lame it reads now) and started a book. Remind me to get back to writing it.

Above all, it was the year Saanvi grew from a cutesy, chirpy kid to a chatty, sassy, a-liitle-too-earnest-for-her-own-good drama queen. And it's a pity that I haven't quite captured that side of her on my blog, when in truth, I have new material everyday! Let's not forget that memory is far from being my strong point and the fleeting nature of it demands that I pen it down right now before new memories erase the old ones.

So here's 2015 in quirky conversations (mostly fledgling memories that left an impression long enough to be scribbled on a notepad or on Facebook) with my spiritual guru meets queen of sass. They left me stumped, in splits or just frozen for an inordinate amount of time in a curious puppy expression, wondering did she really just say those things or is it my mommy, wannabe writer's imagination gone too far?

2015 in Memorably Cute and Awkward Conversations With My 3-Year Old Princess

1. Early in the year, I had started understanding the gravity of potty training for Saanvi, when it had finally dawned on me about how simple life can be after your kid discovers the magic toilet bowl. So I took her off diapers. Here's what happened the first day I took her to the playground sans a diaper.
Unfriendly Guy in the Elevator [clearly not engaging in or inviting conversation in any way]: Hmmph.
Saanvi: Helloo Uncle.
Guy in Elevator (Don't know what it is about elevators that makes people put on their best poker face): [Half Smiles]
Saanvi: Aaj maine diaper nahi pehena hai. (I'm not wearing diapers today.)
Guy in Elevator [doubletakes]: Huh?
Saanvi [louder]: Aaj maine diaper nahi pehena hai.

Hiding my face.

2. Just about the time she had started developing an unnatural fondness to Halloween:
Aunty in the playground [going round asking every kid]: Sweetie, what do YOU want to be when you grow up?
Saanvi: Umm, can I be a vampire?
Aunty [looking at me with burning judgement]: Haha...How did she come up with that?
Me [scarlet]: Yea, whatever happened to doctors and pilots right?
Saanvi: I can be a zombie. I like zombies.

3. You know how, when you follow fashion blogs, you want to embrace one of those new fashion fads that could potentially look outrageous to everybody else? No? K, just me then.
Me [excited to wear my new fringed jacket but appraising my profile with a raised eyebrow to the mirror]: How does this look?
Sumit [trying to say something diplomatic and husbandy]: Umm...isn't it a little too much?
Me [launching into an irrational argument]: But I never get to wear these kind of clothes!
Saanvi [entering the room]: Oh mommy, you're a jellyfish.. I want to be a jellyfish too.

OK, problem solved.

Move Over Duck Face

4. Like all moms and dads, we personally screened all the cartoon videos that Saanvi gets to watch and among them, Charlie and Lola was my favourite. Well, until one day:
Me [with a plate of food of Saanvi's regular go-tos: roti, dal, subzi, shrikhand]: Saanvi, food's ready.
Saanvi [pointing to carrots in the veggies]: What's this?
Me: Naatak nahi karo. It's a carrot.
Saanvi: I will NEVER, not ever eat carrots
Me [Aila, ab ye kya naya but too tired to argue]: OK, I'll give you only aloo.
Saanvi: I will NEVER, not ever eat aloo. No potaytoes. (In a brit accent.)
And that went on for a while...
Me [cursing under my breath]: Lolaaaa, teri....

5. Saanvi started getting oh-so-neighborly and visiting the neighbors a little too much for our liking. So she insisted one day to spend the day there after having broken the curfew at their place the previous day and I was about to lose it and yell at her in my standard high-pitched voice, "You're not going anywhere. You can cry all you want." But Sumit, the rational, marshmallows-interior dad steps in and takes me to the side and says, "Let me deal with it."
Saanvi: But I want to go to Saloni di's house.
Sumit: Look Saanvi, you've been going there everyday and it's not nice. Let Saloni di call you. She'll be busy.
Saanvi: But I will go only for five minutes.
Me: [uggh...this could go on. Let me take a shower]
After fifteen minutes:
Saanvi [crying]: But I want to go to Saloni di's house. I will not disturb her.
Sumit: But we just went over this. You have to let her call you.
Me: [ OK, I'll go cook lunch till then.]
After half an hour:
Saanvi: I want to go to the temple with Saloni di's dad.
Sumit: Saanvi, you're a good girl. OK here are your options. You play with your toys now and then in the evening, I'll take you to the temple. Or you can go to her house and stay there.
Saanvi: But I want to go to Saloni di's house.

Hell hath no fury like a three-year old with a stubborn streak.

Welcome to my show!

6. As I've already mentioned and I need that comforting reaffirmation of being on the divine path of spirituality and fitness, I started doing yoga! While trying a really complicated yoga pose (for me anyway) and looking more like I got electrocuted on the wall as opposed to the half-moon I was going for, I hear Saanvi giggle in the background.
Me: Oh ya! Why don't you also try it?
Saanvi [rolling her eyes]: Main to already hundred times school mein spiderman ban chuki hun. Translation: I've already posed as spiderman like a hundred times at school.

Hmm, not as funny in English.

7. We discovered the joy of bedtime reading and it doesn't matter how long the story is, Saanvi is a rapt listener. We curl up in bed together and switch from classic tales with a twist like Rapunzel and her Ever So Shiny Locks to Enid Blyton's Bedtime Stories to pictorial books, the works you know. But just the other day, Saanvi discovered a running theme. And a deeply unsettling observation.
Me [reciting Rapunzel]: "She was jealous of all their friends. For the first time in her life, Rapunzel felt lonely."
Saanvi [interrupting]: Why is she lonely?
Me: Well, she doesn't have any friends.
Saanvi: Like Anna? (Anna is this sad character in an Enid Blyton story who wants her doll to come to life cos she doesn't have any siblings or friends.)
Me [anticipating her next words to be the likes of wanting a baby brother or sister]: Yea sort of like Anna.
Saanvi [looking dejected]: Everybody is lonely sometimes.

That got me misty-eyed and sniffly.

What We Do Best

8. In that little space between being a mom and being a girl craving alone time with soul sisters, you've gotta make amends and take your kids along to your girl dates. And pray that your kid is well-behaved.
Me: Rant, rant, gossip, rant rant...
Friend: I hear ya sister. Gossip, rant, rant...
Saanvi [taking her scheme of entertainment to the next table with a group of young girls all belonging to a dance troop]: Hello!
After a much-needed one hour of ranting and gossiping and keeping a vigilant watch on Saanvi, who only came to our table to eat bites of cake in between and went back:
Me [ hollering to Saanvi]: Will you get back here now sweetie?  It's time to go.
Saanvi [to the group of dancers] [animated laughter in the background]: OK, I'm going now. I'll meet you here Wednesday.

Did she fix a date with her new pals? And that's how instant and obvious making friends is for her. Lesson Learnt: Adults are just a bunch of picky prudes.

9. How to give compliments in disguise:
Saanvi [applying talc all over her nana's Santa Claus chest and grunting]: Uggh...oh. This is hard work.
Nana: Very good Saanvi. Thank you!
Saanvi: Nana, jab mai baby thi, to meri bhi tummy golu thi. [Translation: I had a round belly like yours when I was a baby.]

10. Getting to school late:
Teacher [to Saanvi, but obviously directing her cross remark at me]: And you're late again Saanvi!
Saanvi [dramatically swaying her hands in despair]:  But Papa is always getting up late.
Teacher: Errr...mummy drops you to school, right?
Saanvi [missing the connection or strategically showing her dad in a worse light]: But papa is always getting up late. He sleeps late. He gets up late. He's a bad boy!

Nice save, Saanvi!

11. On getting money from her grandpa, Saanvi comes rushing to me:
Saanvi: Mummy, mummy!
Me: OK, what did you spill now?
Saanvi [handing me the money]: Yeh lo, meri shaadi ke liye. (Here, save it for my wedding.)

Only if we had some tragic background from Les Miserables to match.

12. Me [to Saanvi]: God, why are you growing so quickly? Please. Stay a baby.
Saanvi [diverting all her attention to my new-found inches from my brand new high-heels] But my head is not growing like your head, mommy. Why doesn't it grow?

Umm. Of all the things that are growing, definitely not my head, hon.

Radha In All Her Antics

Some of these conversations really had me wondering about the darndest things kids can say. Well, here's to 2016 and all the funny, quizzical moments with my girl I can only anticipate for in mixed feelings of awe and dread.

Would love to hear from you about your funny conversations with your little ones. Do share in your comments below.

Well Barbie, We Meet Again

Photo Credits: Her Uncle, Surya Chaturvedi

Is there a girl on this planet who hasn't been moved by the appeal of Barbie? Either it tugged at all your heartstrings until you broke into a Barbie ballad or it vexed you to the point of chewing off her head. And her beautiful shoes.

Or like me, you were somewhere in between. I was sorta a doll person but I was an easily distractible child. My interests kept moving from skinny, poker-faced dolls to congenial-looking, fuller puppet dolls and robust superhero figures; basically whatever lent to the tone of my tea party, life-saving quests, tree-climbing escapades and other pastime lures. I didn't really idolize Barbie too much, but I gotta say her glimmering mermaid gowns and lulu skirts were too haute couture to resist. Add to that an unattainable hourglass figure, a smashing boyfriend, a dream shoe closet and knees that bend both ways and you know you want to grow up to be just like her!

Obviously, for those very reasons and her annoying 'come hither' expression, there comes a time in your life when you loathe her with all your might. And poor Barbie still struggles to prove her worth to the world at large, including feminists - that she's not just a pretty face living in a fancy bubble. She took her exact same measurements and doll face across diverse, smart professions. She was a photographer, an astronaut, an US presidential candidate, a rock diva, a doctor and thanks to recent commercials, a professor, a soccer coach, a vet, well everything that you could possibly want her to be. And if parents like me are getting peeved with her empty stares, Hola new Barbie! The Hello Barbie series is programmed to have intelligent, politically-correct conversations with children belonging to various ethnicities, recording their responses and leading with new questions. Of course, the immediate concern with that one is won't her engagement come in the way of her role-playing ability in child neverland?

When I look back at the journey of Barbie, I feel a bit sad for her. I wouldn't say she's necessarily a bad role model. In fact, I'm even tempted to go ahead and say that the reason Barbie is trying so hard to please everyone is because of her to-die-for figure and her beautiful face. Had she been a little hard on the eyes, or carrying a bit of holiday weight every now and then, or sporting some occasional acne like us lesser mortals, she wouldn't have to try this hard to prove her worth. She wouldn't go on to fight against phrases such "You're such a Barbie" to imply insipidity, narcissism, an all-hair-but-no-brain existence and above all, a woman who's perennially a damsel in distress. Maybe it's her trademark commitment to flawlessness and anorexic waistline that make us feel threatened. We fear that our little girls would in some way internalize that perfect, skinny ideal and not appreciate any other shape as acceptable. Barbie, frozen in her utopian bliss, could potentially be tipping little girls over to the real world of body shaming, low self-esteem and food abuse.

Nevertheless, I feel for her, for as far as I can recall as a little girl, she was super-fun. And yet, when I see my three-year old girl slowly edging towards the 'Barbie world', only to linger on with her for hours, I am a bit wary. Cos now I'm an over-analytical, paranoid parent who believes that little children draw lessons from everything around them. So if I watch her play with a tad too many pink princesses, I fight back temptation to throw in a scientist doll. I try to bring in a bit of diversity in the hairstyles and dresses she sports and when Peaches fusses over her hair, I emphasize that she doesn't mind frizzed-out hair once in a while.

And then I think to myself, "What the f*** is wrong with me? She's a plastic doll. Peaches plays with her the same way I did. She's mesmerized by her tiny bags and shoes and little pets. Her body proportions and appearance make for a cute playmate but they don't really matter to her that much. Barbie in an emerald mermaid gown is dragged into a diaper-change situation or a hill-climbing adventure in much the same way as she's cordially invited to a tea party with bunnies in tuxedos. Sometimes, Peaches insists she wears her baby tees cos she thinks her dress is not too comfy. Sometimes, little Barbie falls sick, even though she couldn't look less airbrushed to perfection, and she's administered orange juice in a dropper. And while trying to slide on a pair of jeans on her that Peaches has washed for her benefit , I realize that even poor Barbie has 'real' moments when her jeans are too tight to go over her hips.

And it occurs to me that all the Barbie-bashing and stereotyping actually happens in my mind as an adult. The real problem is not Barbie's fake eyelashes and unrealistic body image. The problem is that I read too much into it. Cos as parents, we either probe something too much to the point of irrationality or we just stare at it blank-faced in incomprehension; right before falling into an awkward slumber, exhausted from thinking, manipulating and pointing cautionary fingers.

The truth for now is that my little girl is discovering a world of her own, alongside Barbie - a world where everything goes. Where a head-turner doll in high heels and short skirts could very well be a palaeontologist if she wants to. And a world where Barbie doesn't get her way just 'cos she's pretty and she'll still have to wait for her turn to go on the slide next to pudgy piggies and slow turtles.

So, quite contrary to my beliefs earlier about not wanting Peaches to get swayed by dolls and runway dresses, I've decided I'm gonna let her keep her Barbies and dollhouses. I'm going to let her pretend-wear my lipstick once in a while and watch herself in the mirror, etching her grown-up diva self in her reflection. I'm gonna let her get caught up in designing her own wardrobe (well in her case, it's going to be the shoes that come first) and every candyfloss reality that she cares for. For, as long as I can remember, girls have had a vision of an enchanted life in which all eyes are on them. I read the classics as a little girl and imagined myself in one of those lacey, lilac, tight-corsetted Victorian gowns, even if it meant getting nebulized in them later. I imagined how it would have been to go to one of those ball dances and be the center of everyone's attention and then sneak out to have my own after-party with a select fraternity later. Girls need their excuses to dress up and have everyone swooning after them and their magical existence.

However, I am going to keep a watchful eye on the saturation level. And maybe direct her penchant for fantasy and attention-seeking to dance, music and theatre. And if she gets a little too involved in her appearance, so beat it. It doesn't mean she can't have other interests, such as animals, food and the world around her. Maybe, there'll come a time when she'll echo the beauty and popularity ideal dictated by the instagram of the fashion brigade. As being the turf of those who fit the Barbie image of being slender and tall and goddess-like. She'll probably even paint their reality as idyllic with their days filled with rosy escapades of shopping, fine dining, fitness routines and high-flying parties with tiny, vibrant-looking canapes and selfie props. Of course then, I'll have to try harder to ensure that this obsession of superficial gloss of it doesn't stay with her for long and she can move on to more constructive things in life.

But aside from this grim, adult vantage point of her fake charmed life, let's not forget that Barbie, to a little girl, remains a dedicated playmate who is true to her self and is venturing out on her own into a world of possibilities. So she does it with extra sparkle but that couldn't hurt anyone.

Thus I vow to not give Barbie any more flack for her itsy-bitsy waistline and bunion-giving shoes. Sure her choice of make-up and footwear seem a bit impractical, especially in a lab coat. But she wasn't really meant to mimic real life and I'll let Peaches call her bluff by herself. Whenever she's ready.

But sure as hell, I'm going to be a total grinch and say no to Barbie-themed parties, oreo cookies for Barbie, Barbie bathroom sets and pink furry pencils with lil Barbie mascots.

That's where I draw the line on the Barbie infiltration...

Mon Enfant Terrible

A lot of mommies, especially mommies to little boys, have come up to me and told me that I have it easy and that I have such a darling of a child. Like just the other day, I was talking to another mum, my chest swelling with pride, as she told me how I'm doing such a great job raising my little angel.

This is what I recollect of the conversation. Let's just call the other mom the house-favorite variable, X for the sake of the story.
Me: Hey X! How's it going?
X: Oh hey you! Just the usual, going nuts chasing my boy here and there. I need a break!
Me: Yea, I hear ya. So do I!
X: No, you don't. I mean I've seen you. You're so calm and collected around Saanvi. She's such a darling.
Me: Oh, come on. I lose my temper too, you know.
X: No, you don't know the half of it. Saanvi's such an angel. You know, you're very lucky. I wish I could also be as laidback and cheerful as you are.
[I'm drinking in the appreciation. At the same time, from the corner of my eye, I see my sweet little angel climb on the slide, shoving and pushing other kids aside. She gets up there, removes her dirty sneakers and bam! They go trickling down the slide onto the kid happily lounging on the edge of the slide, busy showing off his brand new watch to another kid.]
Me [gritting my teeth but managing a smile]: X, you know that's not true. Saanvi's been giving me a hard time too. I can totally relate to what you're going through.
X: Oh yea? She gives you a hard time? Like by doing what? Pulling out her ponytail and messing up her hair? Please! Baby girls are the sweetest damn thing on earth.
[Saanvi, meanwhile, who has clearly crossed that kid, is now jetting down the slide. She's kicking the boy, testing his patience a little more. She lands and directly moves on to her business of coaxing her arch-rival off the swing. That goddamn swing, which when is empty, has no takers. Of course, one thing leads to another; they're wrestling each other and screaming on top of their lungs!]
X [totally oblivious]: And then you have such a sweet temperament too. You know that helps. Hey, are you ok?
Me [ losing all my "sweet temperament", flashing my teeth bare]: "SAANVI! Stop that nonsense right now! I'm coming for you!

What happened next wasn't pretty.

And now I know what they mean when they say I have it easy.

Correction. I've had it easy. I think the terrible twos have finally caught up to me. My voice is usually croaky from yelling. My hair's frizzed out when I come back from the park. No, not from the cool breeze in my hair. But from scratching my head so hard in contemplation of the darndest messes that kids can find themselves in - everything from walking straight into a swing rocking high and hitting that sweet spot of a chin to petting dead birds lying in isolated corners.

As a new mum, and I know most new mums are prone to getting frazzled and overcautious, I never took any extra precautions. My house was never that baby-proof. I have a glass-top centre table. With wheels. I have a glass top many things. I have a water filter on top of a bookshelf. When other first-time mums visit me, I can say that they're thinking I'm like a crazy woman. One even told me that I still live like a teen. I smiled and told her that Saanvi knows her limits. To which she laughed. Really hard.
But that was pre-November. Before she turned two and half. We had the most adorable, happy exchanges in my mild tones and her sweet munchkinny voice. She responded positively to all my instructions. She took her own precautions. To watch her climb down the stairs was like being in a really slow time warp, where you could literally see all her cute pink toes make contact with the floor. She made the cutest, most hospitable host. I let her help me serve and she knew she was not supposed to go near a piping hot bowl of dal or rice. One time she felt so bad that everyone was eating and her Uncle Vicky wasn't, she went into the kitchen and got him two chapatis on a plate. And everybody gasped. It was pretty awww-y.

And people continued to look at me like I'm a weirdass mom. That something isn't right. All this while, I was wondering why're they so uptight. (Lame attempts at poetry continue.)
The onset of a wintry November must've probably brought in a rebellious wave with it. Maybe, my sweet daughter woke up one day, and said to herself, "Hey, ofcourse I'll continue to be told what to do, probably till I'm 18 and beyond. But wait a minute. What if I choose to ignore that once in a while?"
"What's the absolute worst that can happen if I choose to ignore mommy and daddy's explicit instructions?"

And so she test-ran that idea. She scanned the house for inaccessible objects. She chanced upon a beautiful glass bowl. Her eyes zoomed into a polka, stringy headband peeping out of it. She'd built up towers of anticipation about reaching out for the bowl herself. Maybe a dim warning danced briefly across her mind, "Do not touch that bowl on your own! Ask mummy." But then she had to assert her new-found independence. She disregarded the warning bell and tugged at the string ever so hard, consumed by a sense of adventure untameable. The bowl came shattering down with a screeching sound crossing every acceptable decibel level in a crammed apartment space. I almost had a stroke but I managed to come to her rescue. What? Why? How? I looked at her puzzled. She was inconsolable. But luckily, she was scratch-free.

After some therapeutic cleaning-up and calming the f*** down, I realized maybe I'd been making too many assumptions and I had better get started with some child-proofing. So off went the glass-top possessions and out came the wheels on the glass table. But Saanvi, ingeniously, found new games on her own that created bigger mysteries to unravel. Like playing an elf and scrubbing every corner of the house clean....each time with a new tissue, TP-ing the entire house. Or using the stool to get her tiny hands on every forbidden item in the house, including knives. Or even poking her hand into the elevator door when it's closing.

And then the crayons. There are crayon marks everywhere! Everywhere but her coloring books. And it doesn't matter how many times I show her how to color. She finds her inspiration in real forms. Like real expensive forms! If it's not art and craft projects, it's DIY make-up tricks. Did you know you could conceal under eye circles with scarlet lip color? I saw this video and thought wow, who'd have discovered that?  I mean who in their right mind would put some bright coral lipstick under the eyes?  Until make-up artist Saanvi thought that neon, traffic-stopping orange kohl art will bring out the color of my eyes. (By the way, the concealing trick - it really works.)

The past few months have been like scientific experiments and there are a lot of things that I've witnessed and gone, "Now, what in God's name is that? Oh, sure that could happen...Hmm...."
These things include:
1. Abandoned cream biscuits on the corners of my futon - after months of people rubbing their ample bottoms all over them.
2. Knitting yarns entangled into spider webs. (OK, I may have been responsible for that.)
3. A suspicious looking bowl with a pasty white powder. And a crocodile next to it with paste smeared all over its mouth. (Thankfully, it was only talc.)
4. Pieces of ripe tomatoes in my lower wardrobe shelf fermented into ketchup. (Experienced moms, explain that.)
5. Missing idols of ganesha and bal krishna mysteriously found days later resting on the arms of her plushy teddy bear.
6. Shrikhand icicles - it's what you get when you have undiscovered swabs of shrikhand under the table.

I get it. She's changing. She's discovering the world on her own. Maybe I'm not changing fast enough. I'm only growing old and weary and irritable.

And thank God for pre-school! I'm so happy to get my little demolition woman out of the house for two hours - that time of the day where my cleaning efforts are not futile and the house actually looks livable.
I couldn't agree with Oscar Wilde more when he observes life imitates art far more than the other way around.
Mine resembles a freakin' video-game right now (an educational one at that.)

But then I speak to other mums and I'd have to agree; it's still set to a moderately easy level.

The Initiation

Me: Hey, what's up?
Sumit: Same ol', same ol'. So how was it?
Me: Oh very good! I loved the homey atmosphere, the bright and colorful classrooms and the teachers are extremely friendly...Peaches had a ball!
Sumit: That's awesome!
Me: Yea... and she was also saying that by the end of playschool, kids can not only identify animals but they can also tell you what kind of animal they are, like monkey's a wild animal,  dog's a pet,  cow's a...
Sumit: Wait a minute. What are they going to be tellin' my kid? Monkey's a wild animal???
Me: Uhh, yeah.
Sumit: Ridiculous! That's exactly how they instil fear in children. I don't want my daughter going to a school where she's taught monkeys are wild animals!
Me:  Moving on, they've got this kickass pool where...
Sumit: I want Peaches to be able to hug a monkey if she wants to...I mean that's how I grew up. We didn't have any fear.
Me: Uhhh...is that why you were bitten by a monkey?
Sumit: That's not the point. You just don't teach kids monkeys are wild animals. It's outrageous! You remember Gir? Lions and men cohabit peacefully...The perception that we create of wild animals......And kids absorb.... we're responsible for bringing up this generation the right way!

And that went on for a while....

As it goes, we've been window-shopping  for schools for almost a year now. Talking to other parents, visiting schools, consulting our family...When we started looking out for schools, it felt almost like a ridiculous exercise to look through so many options...I mean when we were growing up, our parents picked the school closest to our house...hygiene, a bit of sunlight, bright classroom walls, and amicability of teachers were probably the only considerations for a pre-school. But now, you need to back up your school choice with a solid pedagogical direction, right from pre-school. Do you want a focus on academics or well-rounded development? Do you want to have her follow an IGCSE board curriculum or ICSE or IB? (Whatever happened to state board, I wonder.) And adding to the complexity of it all are the new age international pre-schools with real-life contexts ranging from food appreciation and table manners to junior couture dress-ups and art exploration and on to the other finer things in life.

Peachy Pie - All Grown Up

The more we explored, the more frazzled I got. You see, I have very few expectations from Saanvi's pre-school experience. They are:
1. She won't wake the entire neighbourhood with her tormented screeches while going to school. (I lived next to that when I was young and I often wondered which concentration camp the wailing kid was enrolled in.)
2. She'll get to keep her internal world and the freedom to learn and explore on her own, and do all sorts of things that make kids kids, including getting mud and paint all over her face. (So table manners, you're gonna have to take a back seat right now.)
3. She'll get to be in a comfortable mixed-bag atmosphere with a bit of sun and sand and water and large picture books and songbooks and easels and what the hell, some cartoons too.

Of course, I do feel the pressure of this decision mounting every day, and not just in the financial sense. That said, I have chosen a pre-school close to my house that meets all of the above criteria and am feeling pretty kicked about Saanvi starting school soon! It's this pretty little space of over-the-top color explosions, kidsy art, backyard pools, and cute, shiny-yellow classrooms. I even sat through a demo class where the kids sat and identified fruits and veggies. And I found myself struggling, for the oranges looked like cantaloupes and apples looked like tomatoes. And I think I made a pretty lousy audience cos  I laughed out pretty loud at this one shy kid who sat tight-lipped through the whole class but the moment the teacher got out papaya, he yelped out horrified, "Paa-paa-yaaa!" (Clearly some force-feeding going on there.) And while I was observing and also controlling Saanvi as she could not keep her hands off the teacher's big basket of fruits and veggies, I was also discovering for myself how Saanvi's penchant for socializing and her natural curiosity for learning new things was getting her all glee-eyed. So I tuned off from the rest of the world and watched her.

And she was happy....She was in her element here. I could picture her jetting down the slides with her friends, giving very specific instructions to everyone on what order needs to be followed. I could hear her singing on top of her voice all sorts of uptempo rhymes and songs, hopefully not the ones that I am wary about. (You've heard them too, I'm sure. See the list here.) I could see her play with glitter and abstract-paint her canvas while also trying to paint her nails with them. I could see her splashing in water with her friends...and throwing a tantrum when asked to get out.

Peaches- the waterbaby :)

This is going to be her new play zone - with a theme. And I get it. Learning needs to have a structure but it also needs to be fun. Maybe not in an obviously boisterous, chaotic fashion but just some good old loud cackles and bursts of energy directed at creating a new world for kids, a new language of their own- one that they're just beginning to grasp.

And Peaches is ready. More than ready for a stab at the world outside her cocoon. And I know her entire existence now is going to revolve around her school - her daily routine, her conversations, her moods, her choice of wardrobe, her social life...Her school's going to be a shifting source of pride, joy and anguish for her in the next couple of years. Pride when she discovers her natural proclivity for things and uses them to excel in something...Joy when she knows that as soon as she gets to school, her friends will be waiting for her to share the highs and lows of the rest of the day with her. Anguish when she gets bullied by a bunch of quacks for being different or for being smarter than them. Pride again when she asserts her will and outsmarts them to emerge as a role model for other kids. Anguish when she has a monumental fight with her besties and spends the rest of the day sour-faced, writhing in her ego. Joy when she makes up with them and realizes how inseparable they are and how ridiculous their squabbles are.

OK....I know I'm getting ahead of myself. You see, I've had months of preparing myself for this day and I've got my imagination and school-time memories playing havoc on me. I do have that undying faith that Peaches is going to be brilliant. She has a photographic memory, she's somewhat of a word-smith and her untouched curiosity and sensitivity to others all whizzed together create a pretty smart kid, one who'll hopefully build a fat wall of achievements and awards, as annoying as that could be to her other siblings...

Peaches - The Selfie Queen

And yes, I'm puffing with pride with such inspiring thoughts. But what if she lags behind? What if she's not challenged enough to learn new things or her motivation and zeal to learn are put to test by unfortunate circumstances? I don't know the answer to that question. As long as Sumit and I, as parents, can see her potential and mould it in a way that's just right for her and not overbearing, and we find an environment that brings out joy in learning something new everyday, we're good. As long as we don't impose our own insecurities and let her follow her own proclivities instead of wanting her to seek our validation, in the mad rush of branding her as an achiever, we're doing fine.

Peaches - The Shoeista

And so I enrolled her in a school with an integrated learning approach, packaged in a fun theme every month, be it pets, food or even fashion. It may not be the best in the locality but I think it'll bring out the best in her. And I can feel the colossal weight of that decision. I mean, sure I want the best for my child but I'm also pretty clueless. I don't have ten-year plans for her and I don't know what curriculum I want her to follow.

All I have then is now.. And for now, I think this is going to be worth it. Every penny of it.

That Odd Thing Called Life...And the Circle of It

I look at the mirror and throw a question, "Yo, do I look fat?" But I have no time to wait for the answer as I'm shoved away by the more persistent tugs of my two-year old. 

So as it goes, I've been dwelling on a subject that seems infinitely important and yet so fleeting and changeable that sometimes it feels like it holds no weight at all. Well, I guess it all began when I headed home to reunite with almost all of my family, with the exception of my little brother. Meeting my sister, Meeta didi, is kind of a big deal as it's not often that we get to see her and this incredible woman, a constant source of fun, love and discipline, practically raised me, so it's natural her visits bring with her a lot of sweet and stirring nostalgia.

She took the mother-figure spot for me when my mom passed away. I don't know why it is so but with each passing year, my mother, whom I love, whose voice I vividly recall when she reprimanded me, in whose embrace I found all the gleaning comfort that rumbled through my entire existence, continues to slip away from me into the shadows from where I can only hear the hum of her soothing voice, watch her silhouette at a distance working in the kitchen, and feel the rustling of her sari brush past me. But I can't place her face, well I can only reproduce her face in the pictures that we have, and I constantly struggle to put myself in her shoes, as she remains somewhat of a mystery to me. That, perhaps is the most regrettable thing of a parent who was always there for me and it fills me with grief that I've lost those pieces, and they've become irrevocable forever, not even in memories.

But Meeta didi... Her I know. Well, at least I know she's capable of looking all cool and dignified when serving you a meal but also snatch your plate away if a gagged compliment doesn't follow between the next two mouthfuls. I know that she was the only one in the family who could chastise me into behaving like a girl...'cos oh....I was a testy kid. (I mean I remember me and even I wouldn't mess with me, if you get what I mean.) I know that she, till date, lights up the moment any solemn dinner conversation takes an unlikely diversion into some form of sleazy gossip and she'll appreciate and nudge you to go on... in all the right intervals. I know for a fact that she was a die-hard fan of Nagarjuna ( a famous South-Indian actor if you're wondering who he is), cos he epitomized the tall, dark and moustached, manly men genre that her generation of girls was so obsessed with. And I know that she's the most doting, most loving mommy figure there is and even in the reign of gritting anger, she can coolly steer you out of your peak tantrum (and if that doesn't work, then God help you).

Me with my older siblings

The thing is I have always looked up at my sister more as a mommy-figure than anybody else.

So it came to me as a surprise when our relationship took an unprecedented turn. You see, up until I became a parent, my sister's life, to me, was very different from mine and a bit strange, so to speak. She was the one who woke up early to finish all her household chores, cook lunch, dress up her kids and feed them the most nutritious option of breakfast that is fathomable at 7 am; while I stayed under covers until the guilt of sleeping became overwhelming. (Well, to be honest, there are not many changes in that department as Peaches is still to start school.) The point is I've seen her fussing over her kids 24/7, chalking out their routine, being the world's fastest Indian to take a shower, even then to be interrupted by a loud whack on the door with a louder yell that goes, "Maaa!!!"; while I allowed myself a luxuriant shower with bonus time to recuperate from the horror of her disturbingly short one.

Meeta didi with her twins - Saarth and Riya

 But her chores went on...rationing out TV time for her kids, screening what they read, feeding them what they demand and probably even going to the extent of programming her sleep to be light so that she can be at her children's every beck and call. I watched her and thought to myself, "Good God, why is she doing that to herself?" "Why can't she take a chill pill?" (I know that phrase's so 90's but I'm bringing it back.) From where I saw, as a cool aunt who thought she'd be a totally easy-going parent and feed her kids dollops of ice-cream every time they were feeling out of sorts, my sister was going way too overboard.

 

Me - The Cool Aunt

But one fine day, I became a mommy and that didn't only mean stretching my lady parts beyond imagination to let out a brand new life but also going through the unspoken rite of passage from being a carefree girl to a kinda-responsible adult.... which has gradually unravelled the mystery of her life for me. Now I know why she takes charge of things the way she does. I understand why she would wait patiently to eat her favourite food at leisure and even then drop it half-appreciated to appease a ridiculously heated argument between her twins over whose turn it is to sleep on the right half of the bed. No matter how much she does for her kids, there'll always be something she thinks is missing, and even when it's way past her bedtime, and the dawn of the morning will come early and will bring with itself new challenges, she won't sleep until her kids are tucked in their beds and safely lodged in their serene slumber-land.

Me - The Mommy

Strangely, this visit of hers wasn't so much about catching up with each other or bridging the gap between the ups and downs and the mundane bits of our lives. Frankly, it wasn't the perfect family vacation. We whined about the weather that ruined all our outdoor plans, we took turns to fall sick and were completely sleep-deprived the entire week (as there was only one right side of the bed.) 

Yet we bonded, like we're finally in the same sorority or something. We were able to relate to each other as parents, as women, and as individuals.     

All of my family - except my lil brother

Mostly, it was because of our kids.

Of course, I am nothing like my sister. I am still clutching pretty hard to my old self and which is why sometimes my priorities get mixed up. Blow-drying my bangs, one time, came before scurrying off to change Peaches' wet pants, made so by her intentionally pouring water all over them. Well, later I felt terribly guilty about it. And every now and then, I let my daughter trash my living room, continue doing whatever I'm doing and ignore the mess until I trip over something, which is when I grit my teeth and really take stock of the disaster. Cleaning the house still finds itself in the bottom half of my priority list.

So yes, I'm not a model-parent like my sister. In fact, I'm still a parent-in-progress psychologically and I still have a long way to go, but every now and then I have a test-run into being a responsible grown-up, to which I respond fairly well.  And if I have trouble, I have other grown-ups - my husband and my selflessly loving in-laws and dad to put things in perspective for me.

But what marks this encounter with my sister as strange is that in a span of two years, I can feel the mommy-figure in her slowly fading, only to be replaced by a close friend, to whom I can relate in more ways than I ever thought. Despite the fact that not so long ago, I watched her and I was almost certain that I'm not going to turn into a paranoid and strict parent like her...or my dad for that matter. And yet here I am, shaking my finger violently at my two-year old, threatening her to let go of my cellphone, bribing her to perform on stage, telling her when to sleep, when to eat, and when to play.

I've often wondered, while ambling through life, when is it that we actually cross the threshold from being an adolescent to an adult; when is it that we turn into our parents? 

So this is it then. This is when I become an adult-in-charge. Just like that.

And just the other day, while I'm sitting by myself, quietly mourning the loss of the "20-something, clueless" me and trying to embrace the "I got it all figured out" 30s, my niece walks out of the bathroom, wearing the dress we bought for her, looking stunningly gorgeous and beaming at me with pride. She goes in front of the mirror and a shadow of doubt looms over her confident expression. She takes her sweet time to study herself carefully from every angle, gives me a sideways glance and goes on to ask me this.

"Maasi, do I look fat?"

And then suddenly her face changes and she's staring at me, looking utterly confused.

For I can't help laughing. Laughing hard...

Of Bullfights and Women's Rights

I was in Spain two years ago. And I happened to watch the decline of the bullfights in Madrid. I didn't do it because you're in Spain and you just have to watch one. I did it because it has been on my to-do list ever since I first read "The Sun Also Rises." Hemingway has a way of putting experiences in words that makes you want to get a first-hand view. He described a bull fight as, "Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor." Yes, aficionados of the bullfight will call it an art, not a sport.

As we sat in the arena, watching the sun shine on brilliantly and then mellow down to veil the gory bloodshed that was to follow in an ombre tint, we could listen to the dull murmur of anxious people all around us and at some point, we could smell that raw animal scent, which seemed oddly familiar. The high-spirited opening music, which subsequently introduced all the participants,  gave us a sense of the vigorous drama that was to unfold. When the first toreador threw his hat  and it all began, I found myself climbing out of the jumbled-up mental collage of that intensely psychological and brutal sport of toreo and watched it just as it came.

And I was transfixed.

I watched the matadors engage the bull in a dance of death choreographed so flawlessly that at some point, it seemed like they were one. There was an odd slowness to this dance, which riveted the tension even further. Sometimes, the matador came so close to getting hammered down by the bull but he never flinched, instead he skittered back gracefully, ever so narrowly, as though he had choreographed the entire routine, and spectators cheered wildly.  But ironically, every bull and matador couple elicited a peculiar, irreproducible performance that can only be summoned at the spur of the moment. The bulls at times outshone the matadors in their bravery and indomitable spirit, much to the applause and relief of the onlookers.

However, the end of a bullfight, when the bull, exhausted in body and spirit, accepts his dreaded fate and comes crumbling down, only to be met by repeated gores and lashes until his very end, is heart-wrenching, to say the very least.

To have witnessed this, I can only say I'm grateful that it's all over now. Bullfighting aficionados to this day believe that even though bullfighting had been corrupted into a cheap spectacle over decades, in its pure state, it's a passionate struggle between man and beast in all its grace and heroic value. Bullfighters even go on to say that nobody loves the bull more than them but it's their responsibility to kill them....That those bulls are fated to die.

And I think that's what makes the bullfight so repulsive. This line of argument that defeats all normalcy - the reasoning that we, as mere mortals, can not only seal the fate of those deemed as less fortunate, but turn it into a humiliating, sleazy spectacle for any-said purpose, be it even art, entertainment or social awareness. That is really what makes us glorify a bullfight as an art form, the matador a noble and poised artist and that's really what makes us label a bull who, despite its quizzical nature, fought to protect its honour and precious life, a hero (when in truth it really had no other choice).

And strangely, when I watch news coverage of rape cases, which has nothing in common with a bullfight, except the victim in question, I am revolted the same way. The event of a rape, apart from the excruciating trauma that it bears to the victim and her family, is indignant and disturbingly invasive on its own. We're repeatedly given information about how it happened, the girl's exact whereabouts, interviews of people who give us empathetic details of their last encounter with the victim or how a secluded area such as the spot of crime is no place for a girl to be. Why is it that the media leaves no stone unturned to characterize the rape victim? Who is she? What were her aspirations?  Did she know the assailant? If yes, how? What are her parents like? And often questions that infer culpability, such as what was she wearing and why was she out so late?

What I can understand is that a ghastly, inhumane crime such as this needs to be brought to public attention and it naturally incites agitation in everyone, especially when there's a threat to the female population's safety and a more pressing concern about the deliverance of justice to rape victims. And of course, we have an appalling apprehension about the frequency with which our memory is refreshed and haunted by such inconceivable monstrosity. There's no doubt that we need a sustainable campaign against crimes against women.

What I cannot understand is why we need to delve into the horrific details of the crime over and over again, speculate whether she knew the assailant or not, ask why she was out so late, and go to the extent of circulating pictures of her violated body. Why can't we instead pose questions to why the frequency of such crimes remains undeterred despite there being so much social awakening in the country? And isn't it also time that we bring to centre stage other crimes against women, such as dowry deaths, acid attacks, eve-teasing, marital rapes, public groping and many other acts of violence that women bear in silence and accept as a part of life, either because they have been intimidated into keeping mum or for fear of losing their social status?

For if we did discuss these issues more frequently, we would shift our focus from the horrific details of an extreme act of violence to a fundamental spectrum of thought.

"Why do men rape?"

Can you really just blame it on a psychological aberration or link it to pornography or blame the justice system for not expediting action against criminals and leave it at that? We lash out the sternest capital punishment ideas for rapists on public forums but have we ever stopped to consider that it could be a part of a more plaguing cultural misogyny, which is why we don't see a decline in rape crimes despite widespread protests and public outrage? Misogyny is evident in the mildness with which the police deal with crimes against women that are reported, let alone the fact that sometimes they are willing accomplices. Misogyny is evident in the way such acts are even hushed up and even when they get to limelight and justice is delivered, we can't know for sure that another potential criminal will have learned his lesson and will not savagely assert his power on a woman or even a minor, for that matter, in a fit of rage.

As I read more and more about it, I realized that sexual crimes against women have multiple folds and until we make conscious, widespread efforts to check symptomatic traces of these crimes, they are not going to decline.

According to an article in the Guardian, poverty, lack of education and the skewed male-female ratio in the lower classes is one. Usually when we look at the criminals involved in gang rape, they come from poor economic backgrounds, are usually unemployed and uneducated. Even when there are stringent rape laws in place now, they are not afraid of attacking a lone woman for they have found an obvious loophole - that they can escape identification by attacking younger girls in a mob and torture them into death.

The other imminent issue is public apathy about crimes against women. We've all seen this video of a social experiment conducted in New Delhi in which a white van with black screens was parked in a public area with belligerent screams coming from inside but attracting a scant reaction from passersby.

Why would that be, I wonder?

Simply because people don't want to have anything to do with the cops, unless it can't be helped. And it's outrageous to see the insensitivity with which they handle a rape case, most often alienating the victim in a state of despair, by attaching blame to her, from questioning her walking the streets at night (obviously, she wants some action) to the length of her skirt. While I do get that the nature of investigation is such that they have to ascertain that the act was not consensual but how is it that an investigation that is supposed to deliver justice to the victim turns into another haunting memory of harassment? Because some of these esteemed guardians of law and propriety subconsciously have the same medieval thinking as the rapists - that you're in a jungle and the same laws apply so don't do anything that asks for it. Don't wear short skirts, don't go out at night, don't have boyfriends, and if you've been drinking, it's consensual.

And it all boils down to the simple fact that we as a society continue to burden the female population with all the sexual responsibility and awareness. We'll pass on the sacred wisdom of our traditions and morals to our girls so that their virgin character always shines through. We'll sternly educate them on all the precautions that they need to take for their safety to avoid going through the trauma of rape. "Who are you going out with?""Why do you have to step out so late?"  "Are you really going to wear that shade of lipstick?""Is that boy from your class going to be there?" "Be back before 10 and give me all the phone numbers." "Did I raise you so you can shamelessly go to a pub and smoke cigarettes....?"

What we don't do enough is teach our boys how not to turn into rapists. Maybe because we just assume that they're not capable of such monstrosity, given our values and traditions. And it's a good assumption but can you say for sure that even when their values will never permit them to commit such a ghastly crime,  the next time they hear of it, they will not be subconsciously thinking that the victim deserved to be raped? Unless ofcourse the girl was a minor, was out with her husband, dressed appropriately and/or took all the precautions to avoid being assaulted.

So maybe it's not such a bad idea to educate our boys too. About how a girl dressed in a short skirt in a pub or anywhere else is not asking to be lecherously stared at and no, you cannot assume she's a slut. About how a girl rejecting your advances is not secretly expecting you to try harder....and harder. How power, money and social standing doesn't translate into sex on demand. How mothers and sisters are not frail creatures needing to be protected at all times and to be watched over. And that rakhi is a bond of love between a brother and sister and not a contract of guardianship that needs to be exercised when you see your sister asserting her choice of wardrobe or male companionship.

Undoubtedly, we can ask for the cops to show some basic humanity while handling rape cases. We can also ask for unforgiving capital punishment for rapists, a fast-track criminal justice system and a dedicated anti-rape movement that checks aggressive acts and attitudes hazardous to the safety of women. Undoubtedly, we need a safe place for women, from all castes and classes, to come out and share their stories without the fear of indelible shame and we need to extend all the necessary support and compassion to them.

But at an individual level, we need to stop making excuses for people who force a woman into sex, no matter how she was dressed, where she was located and whether or not she knew the assaulter. We should not be afraid to speak up against all propagators of a gender divide that is urging to be filled, more than ever before.

For we are not just spectators this time but also potential victims.

Sources / Recommended Reading:
http://india.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/12/20/understanding-the-psychology-of-gang-rape/?_php=true&_type=blogs&_r=0
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2014/jun/17/sexual-violence-india-patriarchal-narendra-modi-women-reform-rape
http://www.womenundersiegeproject.org/blog/entry/why-steubenville-is-not-delhi-how-we-are-failing-in-this-country