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‘I’


Somedays I want
No food to cook, no beds to make
No laundry to fold, no rugs to shake
No fights to sort of girls and boys
a little respite from all that noise
No kids who slowly drive me mad
Not even their ever wonderful dad.

Somedays I want to put up my feet 
to pick out a book and read and read
to sit in a mess if that’s what I want
to wear raggedy rags I wouldn’t dare flaunt
to swing in a swing or snuggle under a quilt 
to watch mindless TV without a shred of guilt.
to listen to a song and sing out loud
or lie on the grass and watch a cloud.

To rekindle a friendship over a hot cup of tea
A long forgotten friendship with myself and me.
In the books and quilt, the grass and the sky
Maybe that’s where I’ll find a little bit of ‘I’.

Linking to ABC Wednesday for the letter ‘I’ with thanks to Mrs Nesbitt who thought up ABC Wednesday.

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#Make it happen

After a gruelling 16 hour work day she’s packing up. She’s thinking…. cab, home, food, TV, sleep.

She glances at the time – an hour to go for midnight. Nope, no
cab, not safe. The local, it has to be.
She asks for a ride to the station. The ladies’ compartment
looks invitingly empty. Too empty, she thinks.
She heads to the general compartment. She walks in braving
the ‘looks’, ignoring the deliberate brush of bodies against her tired back.
She’s exhausted but she doesn’t forget to keep a hand out near her chest, ready
to ward of groping hands.
She finds a window seat, sinks down, puts her laptop bag on
the other side then shuts her eyes and tries to relax, her senses on a semi
alert. She feels someone’s eyes on her,
snaps open her eyes and sits up straight settling her jacket.  It’s that man across the aisle. She gives him
a dagger look, settles her jacket once again and awaits her station.
She gets off. It’s a short ride home but her watch is
inching towards the midnight hour and she’s nervous. She catches an auto and
gets in pretending to chat away with a friend on her phone, faking a carefree
attitude she’s far from feeling. Ten minutes later, she’s home having spent an hour
and a half on a stressful journey she could have done comfortably in 45
minutes.
She peeks in at her kids and husband sleeping peacefully. Changes,
serves herself, puts away the food. Thinks of switching on the tele then
chooses to crash.
Tomorrow is another day.


After a grueling 16 hour work day he’s packing up. He’s thinking…. Cab, Home, Food, TV, Sleep.

And so he catches a cab, gets home, peeks in at the sleeping
wife and kids, eats and settles before the TV till he crashes out.
To,
The man who ‘does not notice’
The woman who doesn’t protest
The teens who ‘tease’ a girl on the street
The woman who is too scared to step out at night
The man who sees but lets it pass
The aunty who holds the girl in jeans responsible
Take notice, protest, step out, speak up, trust, support.
Only together can we make an equal world.
Together we can #MakeItHappen.

On Women’s Day let’s get together to #MakeItHappen at Blog-A-Rhythm.

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Five Tips to Holi-Proof Yourself!

Tomorrow is Holi. 

Either that thought has you jumping out of your chairs, readying your colour and pichkari and deciding your strategy or it has you scrambling to look for a safe place till it’s the day after.

I am a bit of both. Half my friends know the truth – That I’m s*** scared of Holi. The other half think I’m this fearless Holi player just because they see me each year drenched in multicoloured hues. Should the two groups meet, they’d never agree they’re talking about the same person.

This post is for Type 2 people – the ones who desperately look for an invisibility cloak to get through the Holi madness. There’s something about the Holi spirit that imbues the riotous revellers with much too much courage. That very forbidding expression you have – the one that says “I’m way above this juvenile stuff”? Well put it away – it won’t work. Believe me. I’ve tried it.

So what do you do?

If you are the non-social variety you have hope. Find a safe place, preferably on some haunted, desolate, deserted island, horde those gujhiyas and hide away till the day is through. 

However, if your friends are anything like mine they’ll probably be planning to dig you out just as assiduously as you’re planning to hide away. To begin with, dip yourself in colour before you step onto the battle field. Yeah quash the spirit of Adrian Monk and do it yourself because if you don’t, someone else certainly will. Once on the field remember Never let your guard down. Read on now for five valuable tips:

1. Scared? Who? Me? Nah!!
Bluff your way through. Pretend to be all gung ho about the whole thing. Each time the topic comes up chime in enthusiastically, “Yay! It’s Holi” even while your heart gives a lurch at the H word. Put on a careless, daredevil look and throw out a challenge or two. “Hah! This time I’m not letting you get away”. Once you’ve established your credentials and are no longer on the ‘hit list’ slink away quietly through the proverbial ‘patli gali’.

Caution: Don’t overdo the bravado. Steer clear of the biggies (You’ll know them by the mad glean of excitement in their colour crazed eyes). Pick out the scared ones (Oh you’ll smell them out, after all they’re just like you).

2.Get Your Shields in place
If you’re a mum you have a readymade shield – the kids. Deflect the attention to them. Keep an eye out for the assailant AT ALL TIMES. Just as he/she closes in put on your most loving look, position yourself carefully behind your little one and pretend to be engrossed in helping him/her fill out the water gun. (Do not get REALLY engrossed, okay? This is war, you need your wits about you, woman.) A look at that moving montage might for one, gentle out the attackers and two, the kids are craving it all anyway. They loooove the mess – the water, the colour – the dirtier the better. 

Caution: Don’t overestimate your safety. You’re just as safe as an 80 kg person can be behind a 20 kg person. Twins, that way are handy – double protection, you see.

3. Lie and Bribe
Participate in the preliminary round and just when things are hotting up and the dread in your heart starts to rise, put on your most serious expression and say,”I wish I could stay but my kid, is asthamatic. You know na how it is?? I need to go dry him out”. Believe me, no one will stop you. What? That’s a lie. Soooooo? This is war remember? And all’s fair.

Caution: This is a tricky one since it depends on the cooperation of children who at such times never rise to the occasion and might suddenly refuse to go along with you. Keep a bribe handy.

4. The Photographer
Carry an expensive looking camera. “Looking” being the keyword. Or simply whip out your phone and declare yourself the official photographer. Each time an assailant approaches ward him off with, “Aww you look lovely… Give me a smile. Watch out for your pictures on facebook.”

Caution: Use a dummy camera/phone. Keep the really expensive ones away from the battle field. The fanatics are not to be trusted.

5. The Foodkeeper
Become the official food supplier. Make sure you go for the preliminary rounds which are often gentler and get yourself suitably coloured, then stand behind the food counter or actively start handing out the samosas, gujhiyas and thandais. Who wants to mess their own food? 

Caution: Make sure you disappear before the food does.

Distract, Deflect and Defend. If nothing works and you’re caught – well then, cross over to the enemy and Drench, Dunk and Douse.

Remember it’s Holi!!!

Bura Na Mano Holi Hai!

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When hugs get few and far between!

Sometime back I needed to pick up a gift for one of the kids’ friends. I took the children along with the understanding that we WOULDN’T be shopping for them. However, the obvious happened. H found something he just had to have. N somehow never troubles me as much as he does. While she sulked quietly H threw a full fledged tantrum. We had a big blow up and walked out of the shop. A few slices of pizza later, when all was forgiven I put out my arms for a hug. And H refused. Simply refused.

“No hugs or kisses when we’re out of home, mama,” said he biting off a huge slice of pizza. “Only high fives,” he added putting out his hand as a concession to my bewildered look (or was it to ward me off?).

This is H – the cuddle freak. H who could be soothed with a hug even at few weeks old, who would sleep for hours on end as a newborn as long as I held him tight, who would snuggle endlessly and when I’d try to move he’d say ‘I can’t let go we’re in a permanent huggie.’ And my heart would totally melt making me wonder why I ever wanted to get up at all.

He was refusing me a hug. My son has officially entered the tweens and he’s not nine yet.

It’s strange how kids change. While H the born hugger is suddenly conscious of his big boy status N, the one who often howled to be put down in her crib and enjoyed being left to herself as a was baby, is growing more and more cuddlesome, even in public.

For now, I’m just glad I get to hug both my kids at least at home. Mercifully H’s hug embargo doesn’t exist at home. However, this does make me wonder if sometime in the distant future there exists a day when he’ll say no to hugs completely. That will be a sad day indeed, though I have no intentions of going down without a fight.

Wonder if they turn back into huggers once the awkward teens are through. 

Linking to ABC Wednesday for the letter H. Do drop by to see other H posts.

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Grandmas are special

A few days back I was telling the twins about my grandmoms. That brought on a wave of nostalgia. We had two of them, amma my dad’s mother and chachi his aunt, who was just chachi to the whole world. They were inseparable yet squabbled all the time. My dad teasingly christened them Gulabo-Sitabo.

We had the best of both worlds – a strict mom who disciplined us all the time and the two doting grandmoms who more than balanced her out. Though it’s over a decade since they left us, somedays seemingly inconsequential occurrences bring their memories flooding back.

When I’m pushing the kids to have their milk I think of amma who was hopelessly fond of it. Whether she was ill or tired or not hungry at all – offer her a bowl of milk and she wouldn’t say no. It stood her in good stead when well into her 80s, she had a fall and even the doctor couldn’t believe that she had come away without broken bones.

She was a snorer – a loud and consistent one. She would be snoring loud and clear, yet if one of us asked ‘Amma are you asleep?’ she’d wake up with a start, “Of course not,” she would say indignantly. That turned into such a family joke.

She spoke chaste Awadhi (that’s a Hindi dialect), one of the sweetest tongues to me. And whatever she said was peppered with the richest collection of age old proverbs and sayings. She had the perfect one for every situation.

While amma was the religious one doing puja twice a day, Chachi was a young girl trapped in an old woman’s body. The high point of her routine was TV time. She had a fixed corner which she’d take right from the time transmission started. Those were the pre cable days yet she’d watch everything the television dished out – from programmes on agriculture and industry to the single weekly Bollywood film. She loved Bollywood.

She was the one who mended our clothes when the seams came off. She was the one who trawled markets looking for the perfect colour of yarn then figure out the ‘latest designs’ and knit sweaters for us even while pretending to complain about ‘these new fashions’. She would much rather chat up our friends than women her own age.

She’d haggle shamelessly with the man who came around to buy off old newspapers. Whatever she made by fleecing off the poor man came to us. Back when pocketmoney was unheard of, those few rupees were quite a treasure. She had the best stories to tell. A bit of mythology and a bit of legend with enough twists and turns and drama to satisfy the most demanding listener.

And she loved my sister – beyond the rest of us. Of course she’d never ever admit it even while blatantly favouring her. My sister was a complete potatorian, she loved potatoes to the exclusion of most other vegetables. Chachi would avoid mom’s eagle eye and dish up her favourite for her while the rest of us ploughed through the greens. If mum asked my sister to cook something, there was Chachi quietly and efficiently doing it for her and handing her the tray to go out and take the credit.

Of course it was completely another matter that our mum was a regular Hercule Poirot. She just knew everything. A royal battle would ensue but it didn’t stop her from doing it again.

How I miss them. With due apologies to my kids’ grandmoms, they just don’t make them like the old ones these days.

Come now, it’s your turn. What’s your favourite grandmom story?

Linking to ABC Wednesday for the letter G. Do drop by to see other G posts.

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