First fright

     There's nothing more terrifying for a parent than to watch his child suffer. The pain is sheer and the helplessness penultimate. Before you can summon a doctor or even summon the idea of summoning one, panic grabs you by the throat and squeezes out every last ounce of reason from your head. The frantic heart takes over and reels with so many emotions, you don't know what to do with them. Your child cries, you cry. You child suffers, you die. You fear. You pray. Pray that there be one way that will let you take your child's pain away.
     ...All seemed hunky-dory on a regular day of our regular lives - stamped with that regularity which is taken for granted till one of the cogs of the wheel fall out. Jishnu was the model of a happy, healthy baby all eight months of his little life before that horrible retching began. There were no signs of discomfort and like any other day, Viren took Jishnu inside to put him to sleep at about 8.30 in the night. I was in the kitchen readying dinner when Vir started shouting and asked me to come in right away.
     I ran into the bedroom and to my horror saw Jishnu vomiting desperately and Viren looking desperate. I stood there transfixed at the door watching helplessly as my poor baby's body spasmed violently with the effort of throwing up. I stood there paralysed with fear facing something I'd never faced before. I stood there with all sorts of terrible thoughts crowding my mind even as Jishnu wailed in pain and discomfort. My reverie was broken only when Viren yelled, "What are you doing there? Help!"
     The next few minutes were pure hysteria and a frenzy of activity. Jishnu threw up, cried. We cleaned him up and the sheets and the floor and the bathroom and waited. Jishnu threw up again, we cleaned up all again; and Jishnu threw up for a third time. Somewhere in between I found my sense, my cell phone and my voice and called up Jishnu's pediatrician in Nagpur. A few assurances and a prescription later did I feel a wee bit 'regular' again. I cradled my baby in my arms, hushed him, soothed him and cried with him. In the next minute, I turned into a merciless model of practicality as I had Viren pinch his little nose while I forced the medicine down his throat. A few more tears and a phew!
     The medicine and exhaustion soon put Jishnu and our fears to sleep. We spent a partially sleepless night monitoring him, kissing him, caressing him even as he slept between us, blissfully unaware. Morning came and all was well again.
      So, what was the big deal one may ask. It was only a vomiting child for crying out loud (yep, right!). Yes, nothing was earth shattering in retrospect and storytelling. Yet, only a first-time parent may able to identify with this first experience of illness in the most precious part of you. Your world really can fall apart at even the thought of something 'bad' happening to your child. And like all things first, facing this fear as regards your baby is forever etched in your heart.

The Calcutta Chromosome by Amitav Ghosh: Impressions

     Ghosh ne mere hosh uda diye! Gosh!
     Good. My tribute couldn't possibly get cornier than this. Why? Because the book is so deliciously mind effing that trying to say anything intelligent might end up being corny.
     When I picked up the book from a roadside vendor, all I saw was the Elish maach and the word Calcutta on the cover. I thought it would lead me through the narrow golis of Kolkata in yellow taxis on a ride that would connect me to my roots. Thank God, my expectations weren't met. Thank God, The Calcutta Chromosome is another thing entirely!
     Why, Mr Ghosh, you are so cool, so crazy and so out of this world in TCC!! What a read! I'm so excited I cannot help but key in exclamation marks after every sentence! Bravo!
     Finally a book with no answers; a book with a plot so fantastic, so surreal it refuses to let its loose ends be tied; a book that sucks the reader into the dangerous alleys that could be its end. Few authors dare leave the labours of their love into the hands of readers that may not be half as appreciative as yours truly. Thank you, Mr G for letting it be.
     Thank you too for the indomitable L Murugan, the inquisitive Antar, the Rosses and the Farleys and the Urmilas and the Sonalis on missions - all trying to fit into a world where sciences and seances blend. Thank you for blurring the line between the real and the unreal, the mathematical and the magical, the truths and the lies. Thank you for reminding readers that no matter how far we get with our test tubes and gadgets, the only thing we are really looking for is immortality and that the only way about it is leaving behind a book like this. 

A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer: Impressions

Dear Lord Archer,

Sorry, but you're not quite making the mark anymore. Perhaps inspirations are drying up but because your fan following isn't, you are being held a prisoner to publisher demands. You seem to be losing your charisma from your Not a Penny More...days. That chart buster was as riveting as it was real; its plot - gripping; its characters unforgettable. But you may have milked the revenge-plan-that-works a little too much. And what a reader is left with is a been there-done that, mish-mash of a repackaged story in the form of A Prisoner of Birth.

Sure A Prisoner of Birth is a page turner although there are no prizes for guessing what happens in the end. Sure there are some brilliant microplots in the story, but it doesn't make up for the same old poor defeat rich saga and it's unforgivably Hindi cinema like in its courtroom masala. Even the characterisations seem so forced at times, one almost feels sad about the lack of imagination thereof. Which modern author, in his right mind writes, 'Think like Danny, act like Nick' over and over to remind readers with supposed intelligence of what is going through the protagonist's head? And for the formidable bulk of the book, not one character comes out strongly and threatens to stay with you for at least some time. 

And what about the title dear Lord? Sorry, but it's as pointless as the rest of these pages that you call a novel.

Another day, another grey

"Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Please tell me there's no grey at all..."

"pffffbht"

I remember my mom telling me to get regular facials done after 25. I was maybe 16 then. Twenty-five seemed centuries away and blessed with good skin as I am, facials seemed like the thing for 'aunties scared of growing old. as if...'.

Cut to a decade after. Today. That’s me at 26, tagged as an 'auntie' by colony ka bachchas who see me with a bachcha, scared of growing old. Suddenly mom’s advice rings scarily true.

Well, the good news is that the good skin is still holding up and I may have another couple of years before I start making a beeline for the beauty parlour asking for a Shahnaz Hussain ka Herbal facial (yes, salons are still an unjustified luxury as a result of my dad’s commie influences).  

But there’s bad news too. Actually it’s more sad than bad. Every morning as I stand close to the mirror brushing my hair, another strand of grey peeks out, mocking me in all its silver glory. I heave a big sigh, pick up a scissor or if I’m too pissed with it, a pair of tweezers to put in as great a distance between ‘it’ and me as I can. But before I can get happy about having gotten rid of one does another spring right up. "Na, na, na, na, na"....it says and I pick up the scissor again. I'm clearly losing this battle. What chances do I really have? Nature vs. Tweezers.

It wasn't so long ago when I'd noticed the first grey hair on my mother's youthful head and was very upset about it. "How can MY mommy have grey hair? How can SHE grow old?" I remember thinking. All of 8, the universal reality of decay hit me. It made me uncomfortable, but I was cushioned in the comfort of time - time that seemed would never end, would never come.

But time did come. Cut to age 16. A time when I began to think grey was sexy. You know them - that tall, grey and handsome kind - those with slight grey at the temples or a full head of grey and a s**tload of confidence. Sexy, yes, but still meant for the others.

And time did come again. A little too early for me I guess. Damn those genes. But before I let myself wallow in some premature middle age crisis-induced depression, I'll squeeze into some tight tees, some short shorts and dye another day.

End of Project J

I think it’s over at last – my Project Jishnu. But before detractors start crying foul, no, I’ve not disowned my son. What has happened is that I’ve finally owned him. Blame it on post-natal depression or a plainer, ruder habit of ego-centric living, Jishnu felt like an interruption in my scheme of things. He was always my Project J – something that had been thrust upon me, and that I had to grudgingly do. He wasn’t part of my life. All he seemed like was an irritating little distraction that needed to be fed, changed, bathed and occasionally loved. It bothered me to no end when; say a potty call would interfere with my Google chat or Facebook session. Having to get up from my beloved eight hour sleeps for night feeds really overwhelmed me; not so much with fatigue as with anger.

I counted days and then months hoping my suffering would disappear one day out of some divine benevolence, but much to my dismay, Project J just got bigger and noisier. I just wanted him to sleep and savour every second of peace and the much missed ‘me time. I gushed about it and gave vent to my feelings on this blog hoping some kindred spirits would empathise (sympathise really) with my pitiable state.

Then suddenly one day I found myself blogging about books, taps and hands and going about my life as if nothing had happened. Jishnu had ceased to ‘happen’. He had, in his characteristic calm, blended into my life without my knowing it. It is said of habits that an act repeated 21 times forms one. I may have taken some 201, but Jishnu’s presence became a habit after all. Feeding him, cleaning him, playing with him, and loving him didn’t seem Herculean any more. Living my life with him rather than around him has become a practiced art form.  In fact, today I can even claim to be able to walk a tightrope carrying him if I have to.

So, it really is the end of Project J. I know because I sometimes actually wait for him to wake up.

Tap dance

     This day, I offer my unconditional apologies to all the makers of those B-grade horror flicks where they confer the shower with the power to kill with hot water. I ask for solemn forgiveness for having disbelieved them all this while. Only this morning when my shower tried to kill me did I realise that life imitates art. Yessir! My shower tried to scald me to death this morning. Actually, it has been consistently trying to bring me to a boil since I came to Mumbai.
     OK, I admit, I did go a little overboard with introductions here, but I cannot for the life of me understand these fancy taps. Like what’s their problem, man? Why can’t the blue tap just deliver cold water and the red one hot? Why do the knobs of the main tap, and the sub taps and the shower and the hand shower and such other of their fraternity have to be turned some forty times before you get what you want? Admit it guys, I’m sure there are scores of ‘untapped talents’ like me out there who just won’t get it. How many times have you meant to get an innocent mug of water from that big tap and been rewarded instead with a bin-badal-ki-barsaat, clothes and all? Or was it the anticipation of a warm stream of water meant to comfort you on a shivering-ly cold day and all you got was a rude cold shock? Or was it an urgent must-wash-my-hands-NOW moment when the taps conspired to mock you dry despite your having turned the tap to its turnable limits?
     Gawd, the pain, I tell you. What happened to our dear ol’ peetal ka nal? You know, the ones that needed their washers changed every other month because no quantities of M-Seal or nariyal rassi could rein in the drips? But, that’s okay. Really. I’d barter my Jaquars any day for the ease of those gold-gone-green taps. I would much rather hear their tip-tip at night than look desperately around for tips to operate a tap.
     I can almost picture Jishnu a few years hence, getting exasperated with me and saying, “What’s so difficult about these taps mamma? It’s not rocket science!”
To that I think I’ll say, “Give me rocket science any day, son. But for now, just tell me which damn way which one turns just so I can fill my bucket in peace.”
     And then perhaps I’ll know what my mother has against computers.

Kissed by Kesey

    Mindblowing - in all senses of the word. For what One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest is, thesis upon thesis will have been written by awestruck readers and critics over the past five decades. And between the pages of this book, I’ve been so tempted to Google it and see if millions of Kesey fans have felt what I was feeling. But I refrained each time, afraid I would mistake others’ observations and admirations for mine. I wanted to savour each one of my ideas about this classic.
     I’m finally through with it and am simultaneously dumbstruck and overwhelmed with words that want to capture the novel’s worth. Yes, I’ve encountered other brilliant books before, but this gushing comes from the resolution of a very personal crisis.
     Since I majored in Clinical Psychology four years ago, I’ve made conscious efforts to stay away from the subject even if it meant wasting two years of sincere academic effort and a career as well. Towards the end of my course, what with visiting mental asylums for case studies, I’d found myself committing the cardinal sin of a shrink – getting involved and getting upset. I kept getting drawn to their part of the world where there was no happiness. Everything I saw was through sombre lenses and for the cynic that I basically am, the world became a darker place. This realisation hit me when on a nature trip, I found my ability to be inspired crippled. I shrunk back in fear of the person I was becoming. I was terrified at the thought that nothing beautiful would come off my pen again. I was scared I would end up knowing nothing but to dissect cases, find reasons and try in vain to be objective towards people’s pain – pain in the deepest, bleakest parts of their minds. I decided that day that the scientist in me was killing the artist in me with clinical precision. The sciences of the mind and the arts of the heart couldn’t co-exist for me – not till I read One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.
     Kesey’s novel showed me that music could indeed emerge from madness if you wanted to make it happen. He shows that beautiful literature could be made by writing about the ugly. Through the larger-than-life McMurphy, he lay open the happinesses of even the most wretched and convinced me that not all was grey. What struck me most was the author’s ease of narrative in flitting between the real and the unreal; especially with his narrator Chief Bromden. How perfectly natural the transitions seemed when Kesey transported the Chief from the real world of the hospital ward to the equally real world of hallucinations. How unclinical and poetic he makes the bizarre seem, when my encounters with the clinically insane were disturbing at their best. How reassuring Kesey is in retaining the humane in these outcasts who are treated no better than animals by those on the outside.
     All these exceptions were made possible, of course, because of R P McMurphy’s exceptional presence. His incessant war with institutionalism personified in the Big Nurse Ratched tickled every last rebellious fibre in my body. Like with any wannabe rule-breaker, McMurphy’s card dealings, and TV demands and glass shatterings and merry making let me live out a great many fantasies. But the book, of course, also ends with a grim reminder of why us wannabes prefer staying wannabes and not try to fly too high above the cuckoo’s nest. 
    PS: The movie's great too, but to say the least, the book's better.

Mum's hands

 I love hands. Nothing kinky – just ol’ fashioned love for hands for purely aesthetic reasons. As an occasional dabbler in the fine arts, the human body inspires me more than anything. But long, beautiful fingers sitting pretty on smooth palms attract me the most. Very often, I look at people’s hands first and their faces later. And God help them if they have handsome hands. I once told my boss that I was in love with his hands (really) and would love to sketch them some day. He blushed so much, it made me wonder…

So when my mum’s hands caught my attention today, I was surprised. Plain hands, non-manicured hands, cracked and even calloused hands. For someone so obsessed with the beauty of these limbs, noticing these ones was a little out of league. But then I realised that the person attached to these non-attractive hands was my mum. Hands that were absently caressing my leg as I lay down lazily on a summer afternoon. The same hands that have been doling out a million little messages of love, care and comfort from the day I was born.

Mum has always admired my hands. ‘You got your father’s limbs’, she has always said. Long, beautiful fingers; fingers that look real good with rings on them. Lovely, shapely nails too. ‘You must paint your nails,’ she’d say, ‘they look very attractive’. I’ve preened and preened for so long and took it that my hands were pretty, unlike her knobbly, stocky things. Her nails were also always chipped and so was that occasional coat of nail paint on them.

As I write this, I take the time to look at my own nails. Nope, no shape, no colour on them. Even a little rough on the tips with doing the dishes I suppose. So, these are a mother’s hands, I decide. Hands so full with things to do for her family that a manicure doesn’t even figure on the wish-list. The fingers are still long and pretty, but someone who notices people’s hands might easily overlook them, just as I have overlooked my mother’s for so long.

Now, in a mother’s shoes, I notice her hands – hands that still have those unfilled nails, hands still adorned with two gold bangles that clink ever so familiarly when she rolls out chapattis for dinner. She’s worn them for years now and been singed over and over when they heat up during her chapatti making sessions. She still manages to forget to pull them up before starting. I never thought much of the burns nor of the many other injuries these hands may have suffered in trying to protect me. Her hands have begun to wrinkle now, not just with age but with service - relentless, thankless service. And I see their beauty now. Not sketched on paper, but etched forever in the fondest part of my memories.

What a mother’s hands do second only her heart.

PS: Jishnu has my beautiful hands.

First kiss (and other firsts)

Before you get any ideas from the title, my dear readers, bored as you are, this is about Jishnu too. All first-time parents think it a great deal each time their child does something for the first time, and I am no exception. And how could I not be overwhelmed when this first something is a kiss! Jishnu is six months old today and has declared himself a big boy with a celebratory kiss. All the obsessive kissing by all and sundry seems to have finally taught him to reciprocate, because when I kissed him yesterday and then held his mouth close to my cheek, he half opened it, poked out his li’l pink tongue and gave me a little licky-kissy!! I was overjoyed! But, wait a minute; was this behaviour just part of his put-everything-in-mouth repertoire? Viren and I decided to repeat the experiment and this time, the J-by-now dad took his turn. Vir kissed him and Jish kissed him right back! Yippee! But hey, Vir and I will stick to our solemn promise that when he learns to point to his body parts and say ABC, we will not bore our guests with demonstrations. For a third party, seeing a baby point to his toesies and belly and nosie and stuff is utterly boring, while the doting parents coo with pride.
But, the incentives are starting to roll by. Though I still may not be at the point where I can claim that it was all worth it, I sure am beginning to collect my reward points. Wonder when I’ll be able to accumulate enough and claim that big gift. Although it is already kind of rewarding to see others covet what I own. My bundle of cuteness seems to win most hearts and leaves them wanting for more, especially my parents. My father is reportedly losing his mind in pining for his grandson and is apparently often caught talking to himself reminiscing about the time Jishnu and I spent there. He, of course, is getting ‘impatienter’ by the minute as the day of our visit to Nagpur comes close. We’ll be there on March 24, 2010 for his annaprasan that will be held the next day. I hear the obsessive grandparents have managed to increase the guest list from 100 to 200 already. Phew!
Even as I get ready to pack my bags, it seems surreal that my baby is already 6-months-old - old enough to be offered rice and a dozen other goodies and have a huge function in his honour. When I was spending those difficult first days, it seemed like he’d never grow up. But he has, and so have I. I am a 6-month-old mom too and no one’s congratulating me. Not fair!

The last six months have been the most eventful months of my life. Even as I fit into most of my pre-pregnancy clothes again, I don’t seem to fit into my old skin anymore. My being in now full of Jishnuisms and has been emptied of all sense of false ego. It hurts to falsify my very own, my precious ego, but once a baby comes into your life, there’s very little space left for anything else. The first thing to go out of the window is ones luxury to ‘eww’. Dude, when you gotta clean smelly shit every day off the baby’s bum and then his nappy and then perhaps the bedsheet, there’s no ‘ewwing’ away. Another luxury that is taken away is procrastination. You cannot not sterilise his bottles, you cannot not feed him, massage him, bathe him and of course, you cannot not wash his nappies. When a baby is hungry, he is hungry. Boss, you just have to get off your arse and feed him, even if it is bloody 2.30 in the morning and perhaps again at 5.30!
  Also, time takes on such value that you can never imagine as a non-parent. You sleep when baby sleeps, and of course finish as many chores around the house as you can. There’s little or no time left to sit back, relax with that proverbial cup of coffee or curl up with your favourite novel. Heck, there’s no time to even fight with your spouse. I’ve surprised myself so much with a change in attitude that sometimes I find it difficult to believe it is I who buries the hatchet so fast and easy. I could nurse a grouse for weeks before Jishnu was born. Now, I just get on with an argument and pretend it’s all over in a jiffy just so I don’t lose out on Vir’s help with the babyworks. I mean, there’s no point anymore in carrying on with an argument if it means I have to do the ‘night duty’ everyday. I know now where and when all mothers acquire the skill of making peace. Lack of time, my dears, teaches it all.

Babies also teach you patience. They teach you that even life seems like it’s offering you no choices, it’s not so bad; because every now and then there is a first that you can fawn over. Ever so often you realise how priceless the exclusivity of those first moments is. Whether it’s your baby’s first chin up, first roll over, first sleep on his own, first intentional smile, first crawl, first sitting up, first snuggle, first tooth, first standing up, first solid meal, first chuckle and a myriad other firsts, each one of them is special. As you scramble to get your baby record book to pen in the date and time of seemingly irrelevant information to a stranger, they become your most prized possessions.

And then one day, there is your first realisation that life without your little one isn’t quite fun.

Dearest Jishnu...

     

My dearest Jishnu,

the use of this superlative endearment has never sounded so apt before. Yes, I may have used it for certain persons I've loved before, but I know now that it'll fit only you for the rest of my life.
       It's 2 a.m. of  a hot night of my first month in Mumbai and having woken up for your midnight feed, I can't go back to sleep. I have a rather vicious pain in my neck (literally) that even your daddy's magic massage couldn't drive away. It's good in a way 'coz it has my head swarming with thoughts that I need written down. And these thoughts, my son, happen to constitute the first love cum apology cum confession letter of your life.
This letter also happens to be from the first woman of your life. (I'm smug at the thought that I shall forever be the mistress of this title, whether or not you, your girlfriend/s and your wife like it).
       Yes, my darling, I love being the first woman of your life, but it has come with a lot of pains...in my neck and otherwise.The list of my complaints up to this point about pregnancy and parenting have been endless, but you know what sweetheart, if it were between your life and mine, I'd give mine away without a moment's consideration (yes baby, I know mamma's being a li'l dramatic, but that's her). I love you a lot now, even when you've not shared six whole months of your life with me and by the time you read and truly understand these words of your 26-year-old mother, she will have loved you a hell lot more.
        Anyway, coming back to this pain in my neck that led my train of thoughts from bad to real bad. I wondered what would happen if this pain were the result of some brain tumour and I died before I could tell you how much I loved you. I wondered what i would do if someone told me that tonight was my last night with you. And believe me, my light, I couldn't bear the thoughts. We all take relationships for granted, and you tell me Jish, how can I think otherwise of you when I made you, when you're part of me? Yet sweetie, life is unpredictable. If there were indeed no tomorrow, mamma would like you to know how precious you are to her.
         Mamma loves you Jish; but she'd like to add that she loves herself too. Your Diva (maternal grandma) taught me this valuable lesson. If you're not happy, you cannot make anybody around you happy. And my happiness, my love, lies in my work. It defines, to a huge extent, who I am. It gives me an enormous amount of self-worth. So, sweetie, each time I go to work leaving you behind, don't curse me. I know, there may be times when you don't want me to go, and I'll have to break your little heart; but when I am back from a fulfilled day, I'll enjoy every second with you. I don't want motherhood to be trap for me, sweetheart. This might sound incredibly selfish to you before you are, say, 25; but I'm sure you'll understand me and forgive me for the times I wasn't around when you needed me.
         These are the extents of my presumptions darling. These are the things I take for granted. I'm presuming you'll need me, you'll be angry with me, you'll forgive  me and at the end of it all, you'll love me. I hope for all this and more than these pages can hold. Jishnu, firstborns are always burdened by the biggest of their parents' expectations. And because I know that you'll never have any siblings, you'll have to deal with being an only child all your life. I also know that it will put on me the expectation of being the 'only parent'. I'll try to fulfill them all. I promise. Trust me, every mommy wants to be a good mommy. But I want to be one on my terms. I don't want you to idolize me. No, that's too great a responsibility. I'll love you and protect you with all my might, but I want my inner being to be content too. I don't want to go on making those sacrifices for you that will hurt my spirit, those which will make me want to ask you to return the 'favour', those which will make me wonder what happened to my life at the end of it all.
          Jish, I'm scared of the day I feel I've forgotten myself in raising you and find you retorting "I didn't ask you to". But, I'll try my best to never let that day come...if there is a tomorrow. For here and now,

I love you lots!
Mamma