Author: Tulika

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What do you want to be when you grow up?

I thought it was time I introduce this question to the kids. I went on to help them with options. “You can sell scooters like papa or make scooters and cars or you can be a teacher like Nanu and Nani ma and masi, or you can be a singer or a dancer. Or you can also be a soldier in the Indian army,” said I.

Hrit (eagerly): Yes mama I’ll be a soldier.

Naisha: And I can be a girl soldier.

Me: Yes but then you have to eat well because you have to carry heavy guns and walk a lot. You need to be very strong.

Naisha (retracting immediately for nothing is worth ‘eating well’): Then I’ll be a fairy god mother…. Oh but I don’t have any magic. Ummm… I’ll be a teacher.

Having settled one child’s career I turned to the other one.

Me: Hrit what will you be? You want to make scooters or cars or busses?

Hrit: No mama I want to be a bus driver.

Me (Pretending not to mind): Why do you want to be a bus driver?

Hrit: Because it’s so big … and strong (?).

Me: Will it be a city bus or a school bus?

Hrit: ummm… a city bus, because it goes to many places and is red and pretty.

Naisha (Butting in): Mama.. mama… I can be a bus didi.

Hrit: That’s a great idea Naisha.. then I’ll drive a school bus and you can sit near me.

Me (getting worked up by the minute and trying to steer the conversation in a sane direction): Hrit you can drive other things like planes or jets…

Hrit: Yesssss I’ll drive a plane.

Naisha : .. and I’ll be plane didi. I’ll give everyone food and nibu paani and juice.

And so we settled at that — a pilot and an airhostess.

When the time comes for the final choice, I do hope I have the strength to accpet their choices… and to also allow them the freedom to change their minds. Once at least.

I must confess that an unusual career choice would make me uncomfortable…. unusual by my standards of course. But I promise to try.. hard… to let them be.

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When husbands take charge

As the clock started its inexorable journey towards the nine o clock deadline the frantic pace of activity increased. Between wrapping up dinner, clearing the table and doing the beds I was trying to get the kids to brush and wash up before bedtime. “How I wish they would sleep on their own”, I complained.
My normally taciturn husband shifted his attention from the telly for a millisecond to comment on my tirade. “U haven’t trained them well,” said he, “They should have been sleeping on their own by now. You need to be strict.”
That was the fuse for my already frayed nerves.
“Train them yourself. Get them to sleep on their own,” I shot back.

Not one to refuse a challenge my husband retorted with a, “You just watch”. He proceeded to drive the kids to the bedroom while I walked off to my long untouched laptop.

I opened a half finished article I was working on as I heard him launch on a story starting with a, “One story and then I will go out and you sleep on your own, okay?”
I strained to listen to the response, which seemed certainly lukewarm. I firmly pulled my attention from the kids’ bedroom back to my laptop.

I had barely managed to get the thread of what I’d been typing when two tiny hands waved at me from the doorway, “guess whose hands are these,” said a pretend gruff voice and was followed with a bellow “Come right back Naisha.” The hands disappeared instantaneously.

Silence prevailed for some time and was then followed by sounds of loud thumping (apparently my husband was ‘patting’ the kids to sleep, which they’d long outgrown). Predictably enough then came sounds of crying. I blocked out the sounds and doggedly continued to sit at the computer. But not for long.

H was out with the complaint, “papa is smacking us.”
“Tell him not to,” said I as I ordered him back to bed.
Five minutes and it was N’s turn. “Mama can you please put us to sleep?” That, with the sweetest smile ever.
“Sleep with papa, today” said I.
“Papa has ‘germs’ on his face and I don’t like it”, she reasoned, referring to dad’s stubble.
“Well don’t cuddle then, sleep in your own bed,” said I trying to be ‘stern’.
She walked away… then back she came.
“May I give you a huggie before I go, please?” she queried.
“I like your smell,” she pronounced as she extricated herself from my hug. Then with a forlorn look she walked away to the bedroom blowing kisses all the way, which I was supposed to catch and pocket.
From the room I heard H threatening me, “Katti mama.. I’ll never ever talk to you.”

She the ‘poor girl’ he the ‘angry young man’, her pathos his anger – lethal combination. Too much to resist. I put the computer on standby with a sigh. Another year maybe, I promised myself. By five I’ll have them sleeping on their own.

No sooner was I was in the room and daddy was out. As I started on a story I could hear him happily tuning in to his favourite channel.

Back to square one.

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Fat or what?

“Mama all the children are calling me motu”, cried H. His complaint brought an involuntary smile to my lips. It wasn’t that I was insensitive to his pain .. it’s just that it was so incongruous. One he is not fat.. at all, two even if he were, at four years of age he is just too young to start worrying about it.
In any case, he didn’t appreciate my smile at all and added with a wail, “They are teasing me mama.” I quashed the smile, gave him a hug and told him to not bother about it.
Even as I said that I knew I was asking for the impossible. At forty years of age, on the wrong side of 70 kgs, when someone tells me I am overweight it raises my hackles and in my mind that person is forever branded as insensitive and rude. And here I was advising a four-year-old to not mind his friends.
Predictably enough, he wasn’t convinced. “You give them a shout, please.” he then proceeded to escort all the kids in the playground, one by one, to their respective mothers and they were all dutifully admonished.
Kids can be quite ruthless and I do hope this teasing doesn’t stick.. once they figure out how much it distresses H I’m sure they’ll take to it with greater gusto.
What’s worse if it sticks, it stays for life.

Like it did for me. Never in my life have I been able to consider myself ‘not fat’ – thin is of course a dream. When I look back at some of my school pictures I realise I wasn’t really fat at all then.. but at that time I remember being constantly distressed about the weight — right through adolescence to — now.
I lay the blame squarely at the door of my sister and cousins. All of you guys, it is just because of you painfully thin, malnourished creatures that my chubby frame was so conspicuous. And the teasing… I don’t even want to start thinking about it.
I am having the last laugh, however. As we’ve grown older the ‘fat’ has caught up with ALL of us and ALL of us are having to work equally hard to keep it off. Hah. For me it’s an old enemy, so old that it’s almost become a part of me, a friend almost, by long association. I can handle it so much better. Double hah.
But don’t worry.. being a better human being than all of you I shall share my experience and wisdom. Write in for advice.

But I digressed… about H .. I do hope he never ever gets stuck in a body image like I did. I do hope he learns to be happy the way he is. But I do do do sincerely hope he NEVER EVER becomes overweight. Oh and N too.. though she’s so on the other side of the spectrum I don’t think I need to worry. Ummm… not yet at least (one can never tell with the evil ‘fat’).

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Grouchy brothers and pretty sisters

Festivals, for N, are purely an occasion to dress up. Those who know her would of course know — that would mean wearing a chaniya choli. When Rakshabandhan came up her first question was, “May I wear a Chaniya Choli.” Before I could nod or shake my head she lifted her forefinger at me (both kids have picked this rather unpleasant habit of pointing their forefinger from me.. sigh) and said, “You said I could wear it for festivals and pujas.”
A nod it had to be, then.
I had seen this coming (smart mum) and I had her ensemble ready, or rather, their outfits ready for if N wears a Chaniya Choli, H must follow in his Kurta Pajama.
Quite in keeping with his stereotypical male genes H is hardly bothered about what he wears … of course as long as it is in tune with what N wears. Then there was the issue of the gifts and much much against my better sense I went out to scout….

I must take a flashback break please…
When we were growing up the excitement of a festival was about being together.. papa coming home early, accompanying him to the market with lists of shopping, decorating the house, making cards, helping our grandmoms and mum with the cooking.. and yes yummy food and sometimes, new clothes.
I do make an effort to involve the kids in the decoration, the shopping and the cooking but the special food and new clothes are a given. What I’ve failed completely at, is the issue of gifts. Gifts have become the central theme, whether it’s a birthday, diwali or yes Rakshabandhan. Gifts take centre stage sidelining everything else .. the emotion.. the togetherness… the prayers and puja.. the excitement of doing something special together.

And I have no one to blame, except me.
My promise to myself for next year…
I WILL stress on making them do something special for each other on Rakshbandhan..
Maybe a ‘no fight’ pact (difficult of course.. but no harm trying)
Cards for each other
And maybe just token gifts
Suggestions invited for more ideas

This year I got them both gifts. Then with the major issues out of the way I went about the rest of the mundane stuff like buying rakhis and preparing for the ceremony! Finally it was all done and I peacefully looked forward to the big day.
Rakshabandhan arrived and brought with it a wonderfully excited N and predictably enough (Remember the rule: I have to have one child happy and one crabby) a superbly grumpy H.
Well I got them dressed.. they looked sweet.. I have to hand it to N – she does look delightfully cute in traditional clothes. When she was all done H thought she looked quite pretty and promptly asked me if he could please marry her. I recovered my composure in a matter of minutes (experience!) and explained that he couldn’t and that he’d have to find someone else for himself. He seemed a tad miffed but agreed.

Their cousin came over and as the time of the puja approached H got more and more grouchy.

Sometimes I wish I had the power to look inside their heads and hearts so I could understand why Why WHY they get crabby.

In the absence of any such powers all I could do was try my best to pacify him while holding onto tightly to my short fuse. He refused to get his picture clicked.. then refused to get the tika put.. then he said he didn’t want any rice on his tika.. when the sisters tried to give him mithai he covered his mouth with both his hands. When N started tying his rakhi he totally rebelled, “I won’t tie two rakhis,” he bawled.. that, when it his favourite Ben10 rakhi.
Then it was time for exchanging gifts and H chose that time to launch into a full fledged tantrum. He snatched at the gifts saying.. I want this one…. I want the big one… mine is not nice and on and on. He completely lost it.
And so did I
I know. I shouldn’t have. But I did.
And so Rakshabandhan ended up a not-so-nice affair. If only I had had more patience!
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Before I was a mum…

I never

Learnt to connect with the entire baby tribe dismissing them as a noisy, demanding bunch of inconveniences.

Stared back indignantly at co passengers in the flight who seemed to think of kids as a noisy, demanding bunch of inconveniences.

Opened the door with a gada in one hand and a dupatta in the other when the bell rang.

Answered the door with my hair in multiple ponytails because my daughter was practicing ribbon tying.

Slept with a gada, a tiger and a doll on the bed.

Danced around the fire at Lohri. 

Lay down on my stomach in the society parking lot to pull out a ball from under the car.

Habitually interrupted phone conversations to yell at the kids like a typical ‘smug married’.

Asked the pani puri wala for ‘just puris’ or the icecream man for ‘just cones’.

Walked with 19 kgs in one hand and 13 kgs in the other, on cranky days.

Rejoiced at a one hour window shopping opportunity ALONE…

… Then became deliriously happy when I reached home and was greeted with two very warm hugs.

Cried copiously while watching films like TZP. 

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