As Swadha turns five.

My Swadha has completed five whole revolutions around the sun - she is now a five-year old girl. I wear my motherhood with confidence and pride that is an order of magnitude greater than anything else that I am now or have the ability to be in the future. 

As I sit down to write about this big event in my journals - in Hindi (in my dairy using a pen and a surprised set of muscles in my right hand and wrist); and in English (in this virtual infinite space where the delete button has blunted my sense of frugality with words and offers the luxury of refining a sentence till I hear resonance), I am reminded of this video where a parent expresses the gratitude he feels for his son reaching five years of age by traversing the path to the village temple on his hands. A city girl wonders about the reason for this fuss and is told of its significance. And she nods in understanding. Here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7vZzIjSCoQ

Life has the ability to be so chaotic, noisy and rushed. Swadha changes the aperture and the scene transforms into one of joy, beauty and music. I marvel about how completely she experiences emotions - any emotion she encounters: the happy-hop for her banana shake (with a twisty straw) or her sense of accomplishment for riding her bicycle without her daddy holding the seat, or her annoyance on the three-game limit on a newspaper website or her distress about the flavor of her toothpaste.  

As she opened her birthday gifts, she found her brand new digital camera and a protective case (in her favorite colors). She processed what this meant ("I am now free to take as many photos and videos as I want!" "I don't need to ask about borrowing a phone to take pictures!") and waited patiently while the battery was plugged-in for charging. Then she taught herself the functionalities of her camera within the next hour, with little help from her parents. Her delight as she explores this new medium of self expression is like the rainbow. 

And I sit and watch, and join her in her thrill of discovery. And feel so much gratitude for the chance. 

Swadha is two today!

Have you read this very short story?

A long time ago, in a small village there was a place called the house of thousand mirrors. 

A curious little puppy decided to visit and see it for himself. He peered in through the doorway to see a puppy staring back at him. He pushed the door open and walked in to find a thousand puppies looking his way curiously. 

He was absolutely ecstatic! His excited, happy barks and wagging tail were reciprocated in full measure by all other puppies. He left happier than he had come in. 

Another time, another puppy ventured into this house. He peered in through the door to see a dog looking at him cautiously. The puppy felt threatened and growled, ready to pounce in attack. To his dismay, he was faced with a thousand growling puppies ready to attack. He was petrified and quickly ran out the door promising himself never to return. 

Often, without consciously attempting it, I reflect on life to wrestle meanings out of seemingly obscure events, and I am increasingly convinced about the truth of this story : what you are is what you see in the world; what you see in the world is what you are.

So, the big question is what are you?

Today Swadha is two revolutions around the sun old. ("hapdayswadha" "hapdaybaby"). We were at a bookstore and someone had observed that for a parent the days are too long and the years too short. As I experience this for myself, I am hyperaware of needing to be a good example for her. ("Be what you want your baby to see in you")

I keep coming back to the big question. As I look for a good answer, I ripple into more questions.

Well.

I wish for her to continue to be forthright and brave, poetic and affectionate, musical and curious. I wish for her to teach me to be all those things as effortlessly as she is.

Thank you, little one.

Letting my fingers type this one...

.... I will not let my brain come in the way.

Once, I lent my ears and attention to a civil services aspirant's life snippet. It involved the abandonment of an unfinished examination to take a friend and fellow examinee to medical attention that was suddenly needed. The protagonist later found that his qualification for the coveted spot was left wanting of the paper left behind. I have often, quite often, too often in-fact,  tried to evaluate the heroics and the foolhardy of what had transpired. Also, I have wondered how the situation would play now, and with different actors.

Someone mentioned that her memory of me was that of a person always surrounded with people.    "...in which life?" I asked.

While I grow older and collect more life lessons, I find that my person is in an awkward dance of sometimes an outward unfolding and of others where I crease and tuck away an aspect of myself that does not surface again if I can help it.

In another conversation from the past, I remember mentioning to someone (this is verbatim) "...my honesty is my way of respecting the person that you are..." to which she said (not verbatim) "... not everyone you meet will be ready or able to receive the gift of your sincerity...". I was too young to know fully what that meant.

A few months ago, I confessed to a friend of having forgotten an important piece of news shared with me. While cowering under the fierce lashes of her vitriol, I forgot to provide an appropriate explanation:  that of being overwhelmed with new parent fatigue or of being unable to guess (as I interpret it) that her recent gregariousness was simply an escape.

If you know me well (or know me at all) perhaps you are aware that for me a raised voice is death-by-asphyxiation of a relationship. And that I go to great lengths to protect myself from the possibility of such accidents. So, after about a decade of clean, verbal-conflict-free living, I was trapped and crucified again. The experience was as disorienting as the last one.

In my desperation to recover, I comb through my list of acquaintances, some of whom were perhaps friend once, to find another friend, spreading little electronic notes like spores. It is quite comical - the disconnect between my eagerness and the polite sleepy replies, if at all.

It must be the unnavigable grief of losing a friend that brought me here. I will get better (let me get back to being busy with motherhood.)

noName post

Swadha is 8 months today. I write this as she sleeps on my lap, overwhelmed by the beauty and simplicity of this act of absolute acceptance from my baby.

Such bliss!

I often wish it hadn't taken me so long to appreciate the utility of butterfly-netting thought-butterflies into sentences. Oh well. This moment will have to suffice.

Elsewhere, I feel pressed to release this into the universe, with a hope that I will be able to channel into the answer I get, that I will not lose it in the cacophony of everyday.

Becoming older; it makes the time gone by more distant, like a platform that stays put as the train moves away. With some luck, this space offers the opportunity of dispassionate introspection. I try to connect experiences with life lessons, and to the current version of my being. Sometimes, I am able to make sense of an arbitrary section in my life's tapestry that continues to unfold.

I am often told I am nice. I don't know exactly what that means: am I nice because I am very accommodating of people's interpretation of themselves. Or perhaps I am nice simply because I make room (with space to spare) for HD-display of self-flattering self-images, offering nothing in the form of a challenge.

Recently, I was paralyzed into inaction at a crucial time-point. It is far from a first for me and I am unsure of how much of it is out of concern for inflicting pain or out of an undebatable lack of courage. I also hold myself accountable for legless rationalization for not standing up for myself, or on other occasions, for the person at the poor end of the bargain.

Once, I was onboard a local bus to get to the transport that would help me get to Delhi. The 20- minute bus-ride cost less than 10 rupees. A co-passenger who had paid with a note of much bigger denomination was handed a few coins as change. When he inquired about the rest of his money he was accused of lying and verbally pounded into silence by a volley of insults. I couldn't stop myself from speaking up, having witnessed the transaction. It was followed by a similar deluge of insults and name calling, only now directed at both of us. As a release of my indignance and the shock at the misappropriation, I deboarded the bus.

An earthquake had hit and damaged my innocent confidence in the correct workings of the world. After having reached college, I released my angst in-front of a friend. It was suggested that the victim had it coming to him, given his inability to defend himself. I remained unconvinced and agitated, and writing about it, now, fifteen years since, has airdropped me into my unsettled mind space that I work very hard to keep at bay.

I mention this because I have to find a way to not give this to my baby - the inability to stand up against adversity. It is hard. It needs to be done. 

Swadha

Not too long ago I was big and awkward in a passerby's-delight sort of way. The delight continues to be, except that it is Swadha now. Kindness, gentle smiles and encouraging glances from people not known to me make me happily weepy and my emotional oscillations are conveniently pouched within "it's the hormones".

"I am not convinced about the linearity of time. Sure, it is easier to math with when it is straight and comprehensible. It seems to me that there is a sub-particle-level affinity between time molecules, that they bunch up around some experiences and drift apart around some others. I was in the middle of untangling a handful of thoughts and all too suddenly was filled with a disquiet that moments have been passing too quickly. How do I keep a tiny piece of now, of this day, of this week. I do not want to enshrine anything, nor make a museum of memories for occasional visits..."

I had written these sentences as part of an unfinished post when Swadha would send movements of varying intensities at various times in the day for me to know she was there and she was coming. I had been overwhelmed by the fear of being too busy to allow myself to fully experience her in a way that was mine and mine alone. In retrospect, perhaps, I have been too busy to have savored the joy or too burdened by the physical exactingness of the process to find the mind space. Then again, the act of retrospection itself is often an exaggeratedly romanticized version of what was.

Swadha is just shy of four months; my island of happiness in midst of all that is physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting; being a mother being one of them. I find myself going back to and rediscovering sound snippets I held dear as a young person. We share the joy of listening to them together through smiles and on some occasions with a gleeful chortle. There is so much beauty and truth in the time one gets to spend around little children and one should be so lucky to be able to witness the blossoming of an infant into a person.

Thank you, universe.

Vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce.

I am conflicted about writing, it requires focused soul searching, it leaves me out of breath, panting for air like immediately after a long intense run. Everything/everyone requires nurturing and affection - even your sub aspects - like your ability at sentence formation.

It's almost the end of another new year - moments get woven into hours that get twined into days that become yarn-ball of years in a mix of colors - red green yellow white grey blue - often blending into new colors when thought about retrospectively. Sometimes though, incidents are able to keep their original color even in the light of perceptions altered with the burden of life experiences.

Someone observed (and was harmlessly envious) of my life-pattern having very few, if any, soft turns - mostly I am seen navigating around and about acute-angled maneuvers in the 3-dimensional space. Things are not offered the luxury to become comfortable before they are flipped over and you have to start from (0,0,0) again. It is unsurprising that the (0,0,0) point is also a variable. One can argue that it keeps one agile, nimble on the feet, like a ballet dancer forever posed for her next pirouette. And then, also, a sapling trying to bloom into a tree in trans-planting pots. Where next? What next?

I forget what I started to write - I find myself being extra-contemplative lately, perhaps as a foolish escape from the urgency of work that I am running behind with or that I feel ill equipped to handle.

We lived in a small snooty island of Type5 officer's flats in Gol Market in midst of Type2 flats. Apartment2 had an open door policy for students linked to an adult in the family for upto n-degrees of separation. There was lots of room and little furniture, and therefore plenty of space for people. If you needed to be in Delhi for any reason (education-related reasons were priority), for any length of time (days-weeks-years) you could find food and board here.Very few questions asked, and parental supervision provided without asking.

The bustle was often that of a railway platform moments after the arrival of a train. People getting in or getting out at the same time, frayed nerves and a strong smell of urgent hanging in the breathing air. Having temporary family members was the norm. Perhaps it is the reason why I have not had trouble trusting and liking strangers till faced with a compelling reason to not. My current physical setting is in such contrast to my positively skewed comprehension of life that it makes me quite uncomfortable when cornered into providing reasons for being trusted. I don't do well in those situations.

The household operated on a threadbare budget of an honest government employee salary supplemented with that of another working adult employed in a government-owned company. I was too young to calculate, comprehend or care about the economics of running a household. The mothers of our big family seamlessly led us from one financial year to next. This involved a weekly trip to the local vegetable wholesale market at daybreak, around the time when street dogs chose to huddle around rags to keep warm instead of investing energy to intimidate passers-by. The blue scooter would come home laden with sacs of fresh vegetables that would be washed, dried and put away for use during the week. There was also a time when none of us in the family were averse to eating meat - which was expensive and unaffordable, however. When Ma's younger brother worked in Delhi and was naturally living under the shade of freely provided parental supervision, and would sometimes happily splurge to pamper the collective palate of us kids.

For a few years, my school had a policy of sending report cards through postal mail prior to meeting with the parents. So the weeks between the end of exams and declaration of results were full of worry for us students. Unsurprisingly, my sixth grade results were stellar without a lot of hard work on my part as I had had the advantage of ICSE schooling up-until class 5th before being suddenly transported to Delhi over a weekend. That year, a local ice-cream parlor ran a promotion that entitled students to two scoops of ice-cream for good grades.

On the weekend just after having received my result, Papa took me to Cafe 100% in Connaught Place. I  stood next to a very proud father and fished out my report card to show it to the person behind the counter for the (anticipated) yummy prize. As I write this, I can taste that particular bowl of vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce. It was my first time eating ice-cream with any topping and I remember how beautiful it looked to me. It was an experience of complete happiness and contentment. So real and so precious.

Thank you, universe.

did you write something yet? --3

It is getting really easy to name these posts (hehe!)

The 'hehe' in the end is a complete lie. Not sure if I am the only one who has to trudge through the slush of serious birthday/newyear/some-arbitrary-point-on-the-calendar related blues wearing cotton socks. My cerebral cortex activity takes me on these exhausting treks and I am an unwilling puppy tugging on the leash in my attempts to release free.

I write this to snuggle in the warmth of a life excerpt (I discovered my fascination for stories dating back to when Siddharth and I would hold our badi dadi (everybody calls her Didi) hostage for them while lying width-wise on a khatiya. The dimensions on the jute-rope cot were such that while us little people fit just fine, our badi-dadi was forced to curl her legs awkwardly while keeping mosquitoes at bay with the back and forth of her palm leaf fan. We would be all-ears-aboard shrouded in the octopus-ink darkness and far-far away glow-worms of the sky. It was fantastic. Sometimes, I can still manage to haggle out stories from her.)

And suddenly, academic noose became tight enough to be noticeable when we stepped into the Board exam year. Up-to that point, I was a decent student who coasted along with less hard word and ambition than her peers; and had fuzzy life plans based on meaningless data from Hindi movies (Only now, much later, I realize why TV curfews were implemented with such rigor at home.) My pre-Board math scores didn't quite match up to the expected and I remember being pinned down by Tr. Chari's unhappy-accusing-eyes and later bawling myself inside out in shame. I had no training in working hard for doing well at tests (!) and was often careless in my hurry to complete answering an exam (!!)

On that day, the day of the exam, I was yoked to my anxiety and my disquiet while I attempted to recollect everything I had studied at a per second frequency. On the first page of my Math question paper was a 'prove:' problem whose solution did not jump out at me and I decided to save it for (as advised by Math practice books) when I was done with the rest of the questions.

My panic had started cutting the oxygen supply to my brain as the allotted time drew to a close and I could not get back to the skipped questions (a total of 8 marks of the maximum 100) before my answer sheet was taken away. My world became viscous and I waded out of the classroom alone with the reverberation of having done badly.

My comprehension returned to focus on my father's face in the crowd. He was there, standing at the gate("wait, why isn't he at work?"), sparkling with ("but how did he know?") and actually radiating confidence and pride ("perhaps our umbilical cord attachment tugged at him to come and see me at the exam venue") . My countenance, a tightened grip at not giving away how mulched up I was peeled away to show the crumpled, defeated and lost me. Papa wrapped me in a giant hug and I let myself be the little girl I actually was. Together we walked back, with my school bag slung over his arm. We stood under the big tree near home to discuss the question paper, and assessed that I would score a 91. By the time we arrived, I felt less dispersed and the world took on her hues again.

Later, Soumya mentioned to me that she couldn't imagine the possibility of being hugged amidst people if she dared cry in public.

My brother and I have had the fortune of sharing our parents with a lot of people and have grown up thinking that it was the way. I have kept this story (and a few others) within several memory folds lest I am tempted to share the bits that I am fiercely possessive of.

Perhaps I have grown up. Oh well.

For the sake of your curiosity, it was 79 for my math exam. I spent the first few months of 11th grade skirting around Tr. Chari, afraid of having let her down too. One Friday, she smiled her compassionate smile at me in the second floor corridor. I could not walk up-to her, thinking I would on Monday. But that was too late.