The Club

I've never before seen so many vacant eyes in one place,

so many people united in purposelessness.

Like a city of ghosts - full, yet empty as empty can be;

like a city of ghosts - frightening.

A pitiable attempt by lonely city souls
to drown themselves in noise

popping aspirins of mindlessness,
hoping for salvation in alcohol-fueled amnesia.

Glassy eyes, meaningless words, hollow laughter
clutching on to their phones like they would a feet of a messiah

begging for a portal to escape this prison of shallow.

Music, smoke, the spirits and strobe lights,

an army of gyrating zombies in a full/vacuous room.

I drank when they drank, danced when they danced,

 smoked when they smoked, dressed like they dressed...

I fell in line; a doll on a carousel of a toy factory; no will of her own.

But before the night wore out and I could be claimed by this city of shadows,

My voice found itself and I ran, screaming "NO NO NO NO"

I will not be sucked into this trance, I will not dance this terrible dance,

I will not be amused by this adult rattle.

The lust for life

It shouldn't have to be so, but it always is. Death to remind one of life. Pauses to remind one of effortless continuity. Adversity to help count the blessings. I've been wanting to write this post for a while, but it took the death of another wonderful person to make me want to do it. To really put my fingers to the keyboard and express this lust for life that seems to be growing on me with every passing day.

I used to romanticise death. Dying early seemed like a fantastic idea. Why would one want to turn into a bumbling old fogey? Why would one want to live past his 'best before' date? Why would one want to carry the burden of a body no longer watered by the fount of health? Not so long ago, slipping away at the prime of my life, my career, my everything - a time when I was wanted, needed most - seemed ideal. But it's changing. I am changing. I am realising my life (and my death) isn't just my own. There's a selfless, hopeless, love growing rampant roots into the deep recesses of my heart, and these are binding me down, down, down. This love has me pinned to the ground, hands tied, gagged, bidding me to do its bidding. No, I cannot, must not die. Love will make live.

But this love hasn't come easy. It has come through nurturing a life with my own blood, sleepless nights, endless annoyances, loves lost, and missed heartbeats at every first. Jishnu, my firstborn, is almost three. As with most 3-year-olds, his zest for life and his neverending reserves of energy are amazing. One moment, I could be tearing my hair out in frustration at his ceaseless string of questions; and crying silent, joyful tears the next just watching him play. He makes me laugh so much. He is such a goofball, an affection machine. I could hug him all day, I could say things about him all day...

How can I leave this? How can I leave him? I cannot bear the thought. I'd even accept a senile, diseased, loveless life if it means I can see him shine, see his beautiful mouth break into a smile that so overwhelms my heart. I want to live some more days, some more months, years, decades. I want to savour the air in which he grows. I want to taste the labour of my love. I want to hold him to my breast in his darkest nights. I want to comfort him, love him, bless him everyday. I want to watch him bloom and smile. I want to be proud at his achievements, shed tears when he fails. I want to watch him sleep like the angels do, to watch him wake up like a thousand rays of the sun. I want to build him, protect him. I want to live; I so want to live now.

You, my son, have given me such lust for life. I now fear death.

Living

(Image source: Seismic_2000's Flickriver stream)

Someone has died.

Someone I know not from too long ago, died. He was a colleague from my ex-ex-workplace, and he died last evening. Young, boisterous, beer-guzzling, kebab-loving AK died of some terrible kind of stomach infection. I find out on Facebook this morning. I am shocked, sad, upset. I leave a customary RIP message on that post made by my ex-ex-boss. But because I am on Facebook, and I have 10 minutes before getting ready for office, I proceed to 'Like' some posts and pictures of other friends. Someone's even had a baby. "Congrats!" I say.

But someone has died.

A mother's son. I am given to tears. No parent should have to live through the death of their offspring. I am trying to remember if he had a girlfriend. I am wondering about crushed dreams. I am also looking at the clock and cursing myself. I could be late. I hate getting late. I run into the shower, and I am thinking to myself how uncertain life is, and how hot the water is. I turn off the geyser. The cold water feels nice on my sweat-dried, worked-out skin. I am reminded of the ritual of bathing dead bodies before clothing them in finery for their last journey. I am also taking mental notes about buying soap on my way back home from work. I like Mysore Sandal Soap.

But someone has died.

AK won't need soap again, or the money to buy soap. He won't need to worry about getting to work on time, or working at all. He won't need to stand in front of the cupboard and decide what to wear. But he must have done it all a week ago, perhaps a month (I don't know how long he was ill). How inconsequential all of it seems now. But the pink skirt is what I choose. It's not ironed, but it's okay; people will be looking at my freshly-waxed legs anyway. Irreverently, 'Yai re, yai re, zor lagake nache re' pops into my head. It is perhaps the skirt that invoked the image of Urmila swaying to music. I brush it off, chastising myself. I wonder at the measure the human mind takes to cope with bad news/grief/disorder. Anything to maintain the semblance of the normal. I wear my Titan Raga watch. It has been nicely fixed now. The glass face was broken. I also wear some dangly earrings - with a heart and a star on it. Must scoot. I wonder about the wisdom of wearing heels today.

But someone has died.

Someone who, just like me, cared about how he looked. He and I won the "Best Dressed Employees" that year on Diwali. He made the effort to adorn his body. But he doesn't have a body anymore. Taken away just like that. With something as 'lame' as a stomach infection. Why, I get those all the time. This doesn't seem real... ("R.K. Studio", I tell the rickshaw wala. These darned shoes are still giving me shoe bites)... Until last week, a young person dying of a heart attack seemed unreal. A junior from college. And until three weeks before that a young person, a college mate, committing suicide seemed so. News-y things happening to people I once shared spaces with. My world has three less familiar faces. These faces didn't mean much while they were living, but now that they are gone, the gap is noticeable. Not for long, though. Perhaps this is what it feels like when a tooth is extracted. You stop noticing it after some days. These guys here, drinking chai and smoking cigarettes, sending admiring glances my way as I walk up the steps of the office building, won't miss me if I stopped coming to office; if I stopped existing. For now, they make my effort to match my lipstick with my outfit seem worth it. I am drifting. I am going about my life, my work, as I would everyday. I am on Twitter, on excel spreads and word documents, on fashion websites and messengers, and good old Facebook, where a picture of AK, along with a condolence post by other ex-ex-colleagues remind me that     

someone has died.   

I am thinking people become pictures so easily. Like a little hiccup in our routines. Tomorrow, the lame jokes will start. But that's the thing about being alive. About worrying about groceries, and EMIs, an old crush, a new love, illnesses, weight loss, familiar sex, good music, favourite movies, pride, regret, old friends, new friends, and so much more. It is also about getting bugged with interns' questions, as I am now, about getting irritated with the excessive sugar in the watery coffee that this peon makes, about feeling elated at having helped change people's course of life, about sleeplessness that comes when your young children are young, or old. I think I am beginning to shed the romantic notions of dying young. For the first time, I feel greedy about living. There are so many people to live for, and so much in life to celebrate, although

someone has died.   

  

Hit me baby...

Bringing up a baby is hard work, but that shouldn't stop you from laughing about it. Here are 10 things I learnt as a new mother

More than googoogaga: A lot of things change after motherhood, but most of all your perception of babies. No, babies are no rose-cheeked, gurgling angels that make your heart go all warm and fuzzy. Babies are hungry monsters who threaten to bring down the roof with their wailing if you don’t keep them well-fed, fell-slept, fell-changed, well-burped… ah well, you get the picture.

Welcome to zombieland! Since there will be no time to apply any mascara, you might as well embrace those deep dark circles, which will probably remain on your face till your baby learns to sleep through the night. If you are lucky, you can start living and working like a normal person in about 6 months’ time. But if you’re like me, you’ll be bumping into people and furniture throughout the day, even after two years.

The great booby trap: Every paediatrician worth his MD proclaims the benefits of breastfeeding, but it can be a tricky, messy business. So you soldier through hard, swollen, leaky, painful boobs and pray that each time some obscure uncle from the distant tendrils of your family tree comes visiting the new addition, you are not in a state of undress.  

Have crutch, will use: Perhaps not all women are lucky enough to have a pair of fit-enough-to-care-for-your-baby in-laws or parents, but those that do will probably give their right arms in return. I know I will. A support system is invaluable when bringing up a child, and if you must use it at the cost of your vanity, you should. Trust me; some help is better than no help.

No time to rend, no time to sew: A new baby can do wonders for your relationship with your partner. No, really. You can’t ask a grumpy husband for help, so you stop fighting with him over trivial matters. Because hey, eating the humble pie is better than having to do all baby duties alone, innit?

Like a virgin: Okay, but a new baby can do not-such-wondrous things for your relationship too. For example, if you, like me, have your baby sleep between you and your partner in the tiny bed of the tinier one bedroom matchbox of a house in Mumbai, you better get used to living like a virgin. ’Nuff said!

Public property: From the time you get pregnant, you become public property. Any Tom, Dick, Harry and their girlfriends, wives, mothers and sisters will deem it fit to lecture you on good parenting. Smile and ignore, I say. Like every mother, you will want and do only the best for your child. You will make mistakes, but that does not make you a bad mother. There is no such thing as a bad mother, and let no one tell you otherwise.

I’m an emotional rollercoaster, baby! I’m telling you those postpartum blues are bluer than any blue you ever saw. I don’t know about other women, but I’ve swung fast and easy between murderous and maternal, suicidal and soft, lambasting and loving in those first months. I’m surprised I wasn’t thrown into an asylum. Well, it would seem you can hide behind your hormones.

Live life XL size: It took a lot of will, but I finally accepted that I had neither the genes nor the personal trainer of Miranda Kerr and that those tiny-waisted jeans would never fit. I clung on to my pair of skinnies for a while, hoping that one day I’d wake up and the mommy tummy would be gone, but my body would have none of it. The skinny jeans were finally martyred to the cause of house-mopping.

Unto the kingdom of auntyhood: No amount of fashion and make up is going to spare you this one. Once you have a kid on your hip, you are aunty to the world. If being called yummy mummy is any consolation, sometimes you may have that. But to the aam Indian junta, aunty you are and will be.  

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This article appeared in the tabloid The Afternoon on November 10, 2011, in the Women's World section and can be read on page 19 of the e-paper on this link: http://www.afternoondc.in/epaper/default.aspx 

Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss: Impressions

As a Hindu and someone, who takes a deep interest in spiritual/religious/occult studies, Dr. Brian Weiss' super bestseller Many Lives, Many Masters offered me nothing I did not already know. Perhaps 13 years ago, when the book was published, it was an eye-opener to the largely wary Western world, but Indians have always known and believed in the theory of rebirth and karma.

What surprised me, though, was the startling similarity of the ideas in this book and the basic tenets of most ancient Indian scriptures. I've recently read books on similar topics by Swami Vivekananda, his contemporary, Swami Abhedananda, and more recently, Dr. Devdutt Pattanaik's book on Hindu mythology, Myth=Mithya and the ideas are fresh in my mind. The ideas of karmic debt or rnanubandhana, choice of body for rebirth, a nether world or an 'intermediate space where souls stay', the progeression of souls through multiple human births, and the ultimate goal of a soul being merging with the Supreme One are some themes that occur repeatedly in Catherine's (Dr. Weiss' patient whose past last regressions is what this book is about) recall material, and are really similar to what Hindu scriptures talk about.

If the contents of this book are any 'evidence', since it has been written by a 'scientific' practitioner, it proves right most of our Vedic and Vedantic literature. The messages of love, compassion, trust and humanity revealed by the 'Masters' of afterlife via Catherine are exactly what our seers and sages have been preaching since time immemorial. And why only Hinduism? Every religion of the world teaches the humankind these lessons. Today, if a money-driven society, steeped in dissatisfaction, turns to books like these and to ancient spiritual literature to find peace and fulfill the original purpose of the soul, it is only natural.

The book is good for beginners & sceptics, and Psychology & Psychiatry professionals, but for those who already know that death is not really the end of life, it will only be an affirmation of their knowledge.

100

This is my 100th blog post, and for lack of profound titles (or perhaps a need for 'keeping it simple, silly'), I decided to call it 100. But the lack of profundity also extends to my life, and there's nothing I particularly want to write. But because this blog has been a great punching bag, a friend, a diary and a canvas among other things, I feel obliged to write this commemorative post. I should probably have waited till a wave of inspiration grabbed my gut and spouted beautiful words, but I am in a hurry. I am nearing the end of a book, and will need to record my impressions of it. This blog won't let me reserve my 100th post slot, so I've decided to write. And because when I am full of nothing else, I am full of myself, this post will be about me. A 100 odd facts, ideas, delusions, prayers, loves, and stuff about me in no particular order. This is who I am as on August 2, 2011 (aged 28 years, 11 days).
*Afterthought: I will also be able to throw this post at the faces of people (recruiters, I mean) who smile patronisingly, and say, "Tell me something about yourself."

1. I am editing a feature on laptops for Which? Right Choice magazine at Hill Road Media, Bandra. I know very little about laptops and am wondering when I'll get a chance to eat at the famous 5 Spice restaurant across the road from my office.

2. My current Twitter handle is @stormyaffairs. It's kind of corny, but I like it. Reflects my many passing fancies. I also have stuck to a certain DP for a long time. It's a painting of a hot woman from a vintage Coca Cola ad.

3. I like Chicken Chilly (or Chilly Chicken if you please) a lot. A LOT.

4. There is a picture of Lord Krishna on my desk. I've wanted to keep one for a long time. The picture is of the Madhava idol in the ISKCON temple in Mayapur - the place where my love affair with Krishna began about 15 years ago.

5. Jishnu, my son, is nearly two-years-old; his birthday is in September. 2 years seems like such a short-long time.

6. I have a Sony Ericsson Xperia touch phone now. Stupid it is. The touch feature irritates me to no end.

7. I don't listen to music anymore. Not as much as I used to, at any rate. The noise allergy got me when I was pregnant.

8. I hate telephonic conversations. An online chat for me, any day. Long, heartfelt emails, even better.

9. I seem to have developed a sweet tooth, especially of the dark chocolate variety.

10. And mind you, never ever buy me flavoured chocolates. Mint and orange and what-you-have flavours in chocolate are sacrilegious. I like chocolate-flavoured chocolates the best.

11. I wish I could tell everyone to not be parents, because it is one shitty job, but I don't/won't because I know all  about social pressures. I succumbed to it too.

12. I love the person that my son is, but I hate being a mother. I hate more still women who like/claim to like motherhood. But I know there are these virtuous, mother types and the world needs them.

13. Those who have their pitchforks out, wanting to ask me "What kind of a mother are you?", my answer is, "A terrible one." So, STFU.

14. My ideal weight is always 5kgs away.

15. I like gold rings.

16. I am aloof.

17. I am hardworking.

18. I have an invisible sense of humour.

19. I have no secrets.

20. That book, 1984 by George Orwell, has occupied a big fat space in my head.

21. Diet pills aren't doing me any good, but I continue to take them anyway.

22. Will I have another baby? NO. Not even if it means earning a few million dollars or finding a cure for cancer or achieving world peace.

23. I want to buy a house in Bandra, Mumbai. Any millionaires wanna adopt me?

24. I am terribly ambitious.

25. Dieting has become a way of life, because exercising isn't.

26. I have another blog. It's called http://fashionhaha.tumblr.com/ I make fun of people's clothes here. It is quite the opposite of my holier-than-thou Twitter persona.

27. I generally mind my business, and expect the whole world to do so.

28. Latecomers and stand up comedians irritate me.

29. Cooking isn't something I like to do, but if my son asks me for something, I think I'll oblige.

30. Reading is a great love, but writing a greater one (I think).

31. I haven't drawn/painted in a while. I miss it.

32. I miss flirting too. Marriage is a great social dissuader.

33. Cream crackers, IMHO, are stupid. Just as everything else that is healthy.

34. Viren, my husband, is a nice guy. Keeps me grounded.

35. I have the nicest in-laws in the planet. I am blessed.

36. I like Indian English authors, except that Rushdie fellow. Too effin' pretentious, or I am too dumb for him. Most likely the latter.

37. Vikram Seth, on the other hand, I could marry.

38. I could also marry Sufi music.

39. Jishnu speaks a great deal now. Makes adorable little noun-verb-noun sentences. He's been a quick walker, quick talker. I wish he were a quick all night sleeper too. Sigh

40. I like Hindi songs, from Bollywood. (You can snigger all you want).

41. I also like that Tender Coconut flavour of Naturals ice cream. The Bavarian chocolate variety by Baskin Robbins comes a close second.

42. I have no friends.

43. I am still addicted to Twitter, and for a darned good reason too. I've 'met' such wonderful people there. I wish I knew them in life.

45. I've been married for about 3 and a half years now. Marriage isn't as bad a deal as people make it out to be.

46. Destiny and karma and faith are all for real.

47. Anything to do with cult attracts me.

48. I like to study religion and cultures. I think it has to do with an innate human need to know why we do what we do.

49. Don't take me to a South Indian restaurant if you're trying to impress me.

50. Don't send me flowers either. I think they are a waste of money.

51. The only job I really enjoyed was the one at Pune Mirror. I still miss the place and the people.

52. I LOVE PUNE.

53. I'd like to be a cute, snooty newsreader some day, or a pompous ass fashion editor.

54. I'll try to not do the deciding for Jishnu. But I'm afraid the obsessive Bengali mommy blood might be too much to cope with.

55. I used to smoke. I thought it was fashionable. I still think so. But I don't smoke anymore.

56. I don't thread my upperlips. I'm petrified.

57. I hated school and my younger fatter self.

58. I've studied in girls institutions ALL MY LIFE. Like from KG I to MA II.

59. I don't feel close enough to anybody to miss them.

60. The past is just that for me. How people remember small, insignificant things is beyond me.

61. The waist size of my jeans is 30. Has been so since I was in class V. The first pair I bought was a size 30.

62. I've had one monster of a boyfriend, and an angel too. And so many in between. But I married the sanest.

63. An occasional beer and port wine drinker I am.

64. There is no such thing as too many clothes.

65. I hate maths with a vengeance. Always have. Was a terrible student in school, much to the dismay of my parents. But I did win a gold medal in English at the University, and was second topper too in my BA. That was the greatest poetic justice of my life.

66. Achievement, in the traditional sense, means a lot to me.

67. I am a law-abiding, if indifferent citizen.

68. Cricket and most other sports bore me. I can endure a little football on TV though.

69. Politics, the state of this country, and other matter grave are too taxing for my little brain.

70. I regret doing that MA in Clinical Psychology. I wish I had stayed in the arms of my beloved English.

71. I have a good, shapely bum.

72. I wish I had smaller boobs, a sharper nose and bigger eyes.

73. I dread small talk.

74. Never done drugs.

75. I feel no love for animals.

76. Fountain pens are nice. I haven't written with one in ages.

77. I want to send Jishnu to army school for some years of his life. Rigorous army training make men, men.

78. I tried to write a novel once. I abandoned it; it abandoned me.

79. Sex is overrated.

80. I don't generally feel sorry for or give alms to beggars. But I did donate Rs. 5000 to Red Cross after the Japan earthquake. It felt nice.

81. I can have Maggi more often than most people.

82. Amitabh Bachchan and Daniel Craig are sexy.

83. I haven't slept well for nearly 2 years now. A good night's sleep has become something of a fantasy.

84. I don't respect money enough, but I want lots of it.

85. The only car I've ever wanted to buy was a Maruti Gypsy.

86. I do not hoard things, except maybe books and junk jewellery.

87. Giving up is easy. Things, people - both.

88. I could be mean to a person if it involves free chocolate mousse and chicken sizzler.

89. I am a non-practicing ardent Hindu. More so because I married a catholic, I think.

90. I am a practicing cynic.

91. I sing well, and a career in it would have been nice. But I never cared to finish my formal training.

92. I got my first Valentine's Day card and my first period at 13.

93. Umm... my one favourite movie is 'Meet Joe Black', although I can also watch 'Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam' again and again and again.

94. I heart bags.

95. But I am not a shoe person.

96. I chose the name Jishnu for my son. I heard it first in the movie '15 Park Avenue'. I found out that it means victor in Sanskrit. But one day, during my pregnancy, I discovered that it could also be a wonderful phonetic combination of the words Jishu (Jesus in Bengali) and Vishnu. A perfect symbol of my son's mixed parentage/heritage. So Jishnu it was.

97. My dad had cancer once. That was the closest I have been to death.

98. I cannot stand wet bathroom floors and toilet seats.

99. I love myself, to the extent of a superiority complex.

100. I love Krishna.

The Zahir by Paulo Coelho: Impressions

So, I read a Paulo Coelho book. Are you scoffing already? Good. It won't be wasted, because I won't be reading him again. I told myself the same thing the last time I read one, but when your next chair colleague raves incessantly about a book for 6 odd months, you want to read it, even if to shut him up. So I did. And I reached the same conclusion again. I don't like Coelho. Too preachy.

But The Zahir had its moments. The book deals with the concept of an all-pervading idea, that fills up your entire existence, and won't let you rest till you come to terms with it. And how the author goes on a literal and metaphorical journey to come to terms with his Zahir.

Since I've never had a Zahir, I did not agree with the central idea of the book. But then, I've never had any of those mystical experiences these mystical books talk about. However, I like Coelho's simple idea of unburdening oneself of one's past (self-forgiveness?) before one can begin to 'live' again. It is by no means an original idea, for how many times have you been asked to 'move on'? Coelho talks about moving on too, but not necessarily away from a person or a problem. He talks about embracing the 'problem' or the Zahir, to walk toward it, to accept it wholly, to be truly rid of it. I also like how he fights the notion of sacrificing for others and seeking one's happiness, as much as it is a taboo (I've always believed you cannot make anyone happy, if you aren't happy). There are also little revelations about the lesser known cultures and traditions of Kazakhstan, the lives of celebrity writers and the usual gyaan about human nature.

The book may be a good read for Coelho fans, but don't read it just because someone did, like I did. I'm going to keep only one piece of advice from The Zahir. Answers about oneself are not to be found from mystical sources. One needs only to keep his being open. 

The sardine life

You heard that right. But because my limbs are still aching, from being mangled by people of all shapes and sizes, I'll say it again: Hello, I am a sardine. And by sardine, I mean Mumbaikar. And by Mumbaikar, I mean I have to ask my need for personal space to "Fuck off!" I am learning to say it louder every day.

Yes. I am finally part of this grind. With having to travel to work in buses, I am now one of this giant mass of living, breathing, moving creatures, who operate in such inhumanly small spaces, that even asking for 2 feet of dignity is asking for too much. On every bus ride to and from work, I brush inadvertently against people's bodies and sometimes their minds. I peer and get peered at. I push and get pushed. I curse and get cursed. It all evens out, in this ginormous sardine tin brotherhood. Every bus is full, every train is packed, every road is jammed. But people seem to go on. In their little bubbles, created with newspapers, music, phones, ambition and desperation, they go on. A polite smile exchanged, a seat offered, a seat snatched, a foot stomped, a frustration (of a bus behind schedule) shared. Little rituals exchanged everyday, with scores of unknown faces, in this mad, endless dance called life, in a bid to survive.

Mumbai has a strange way of drawing you in. I curse the sweat in the summer, I curse the incessant rain in the monsoon, and I curse the lack of cold in winter, but here I am. I complain about the size of my house, I complain about the bad infrastructure, I complain about this sardine life, but here I am. Mumbai multiplies. Everything. It multiplies people, but it also multiplies their dreams. I know mine are multiplying. Anywhere else I go now will be a lesser place. Mumbai, I am definitely making friends with you.

Noises

The strange thing about jarring, disturbing and even mind-numbing noises is that they eventually assume the pristine of white. Once noise becomes white noise, it becomes comfort, safety and then need. A classic case in point is made in the sweet exaggerations of the only silent Hindi movie - Pushpak. When Kamal Hasan, a poor, jobless young man from the chawls, lands on the cushiest of beds in a 5-star hotel, sleep evades him. His personal Hypnos has been left behind in the strays' howls and the drunkards' brawls and the open-theatre's excited crowds. You titter when you see a helpless, sleepless Kamal Hasan going back with a tape-recorder and bringing back a track of the crazy noises that will drown his tiredness.

The irony is funny; but only that. We are all bound to sounds. Whispers, conversations, arguments, rages, reconciliations. Barks, moos, mews, crows. Claps, slaps, gasps. Tings, tongs. Breaths. Beats.

I'm bound to my repertoire of noises too. The last year of my life has been marked by a marked sensitivity to sounds, or lack thereof. Before Jishnu was born, the dhuk-dhuk of his strong kicks was the only real bother of my life. After he presented himself to the world, his cries drowned everything else. All the happy sounds that a young girl’s free-spiritedness, joys and freedoms makes, were gagged. Only a drone of morbid seriousness and grave responsibility filled my days and nights. I was consumed by the spirit of an all-controlling parent who wouldn’t let me be anything else. Every slight whimper of the new, attention-hogging life snapped me out of any crime of a reverie I may have been committing. Thereafter, my life became a cycle that whirred with every round of feed-pee-poop-sleep. Repeat. Feed-pee-poop-sleep. Waah-waah-waah-waah. Repeat. So compulsive was my conditioned attendance to him, that even music had to be sacrificed. God forbid if I missed his wails. Since headphones were out, I could have killed for a 'legitimate' pair of ear plugs then. And escaped into luxurious silence.

And in the middle of all that racket, the move to Mumbai happened. The summer of 2010 was marked by sweat, tears, groans and moans. But time ticked-tocked, Jishnu grew a few months and inches, summer gave way to monsoon and Mumbai seeped quietly into my system, just like the water in these musty walls. The five-times-a-day azaans from the neighbouring mosque began to envelop me protectively. Jishnu’s pitter-patter, babbling and gurgling became comforting too. Music came back. Noises have become nice.

I now fit snugly into the wheezing lungs of this choked city, yet feel the better for it. Silences, when they catch me unawares, feel deafening, threatening. When I woke up last night to give Jishnu his bottle, I felt oddly thankful for the beeping and the honking that goes on in the city even in the dead of the night. This is now my horn OK please zone.

Meeting Jishnu

Being a mommy – day 3

Sept 24, 2009

Painkillers and nature have given me enough respite by today to be able to sit up and type away at my laptop.
Our son (what an unbelievable expression!) Jishnu, was born two days ago on the 22nd of September, 2009 via a caesarean section. Before my days and nights are consumed by this adorable little creature sleeping on the cot right now, I want to capture what are perhaps the most poignant memories of my life, in words.

The day before (Sept 21, 2009)
Mum and Babu had reached earlier that morning loaded with boxes full of yummy fish. Despite all my fears of a major surgery the next day, I ate a hearty lunch after my check-up at Gupte Hospital. Apart from the greed of it, a morbid fear of that being my last good meal egged me on. I laughed, joked, talked through the day and generally managed to hide my fears. Each time my baby kicked or moved, I touched my tummy trying to file away the memory of that sensation knowing that it was one of my last ones. Each time I felt afraid of what was in store for the next day, I took comfort in the thought that it would be the beginning of the return to my ‘earlier self’. As much as I wanted time to stop and save me from having to face my biggest fears, waiting to go to the hospital seemed like forever.
Finally, the time arrived and we headed to the hospital to get me admitted. Loaded with the ‘hospital bag’ that had been packed and kept ready for weeks, we proceeded. My Radha-Krishna picture also, obviously, went with us.
Chaos greeted us at the hospital. After asking a million questions to the dumbest admin woman in the world at the reception desk, we gathered that there were no rooms at the hospital! That day, there had apparently been an unprecedented number of emergency cases and therefore all rooms had been occupied. After they conducted the NST (Non-Stress Test – an ECG of sorts for the baby), we were offered two choices. I could either go home and come back at 6 the following morning, or put up in one of the rooms at their old hospital which was a few blocks away. Viren and I didn’t want so many weeks’ worth of mental preparation to go waste and decided to put up at the old hospital. Sleep came easy to our weary minds, breathless with the anticipation of a brand new life at the other side of the night.

D-day (Sept 22, 2009)
‘Mavshi’ (one of the ayahs at the hospital) had told me she’d come to get me ready at 5 in the morning and there she was precisely by the clock armed with razors and an enema kit. ‘Great!’ I thought, ‘here begins that infamous string of humiliations’. Gritting my teeth, trying to be as objective as I could be, I let Mavshi take over as she went over the rituals with the most convincing poker face I’d ever seen. Feeling like the lamb being readied for the sacrifice, I sat there ready for the call from the hospital. They summoned me at around 7.30 am. I called my parents, who were at home, and went into the pre-op room. After I got into the hospital gown, I sat on the examination table clutching a small bronze Krishna statue in one hand, and Viren’s hand in another. It was only a matter of some minutes now. Soon, Vir was sent out and I was taken into the operation theatre. Lying there on that cold steel table, looking up at the arc lights, I awaited my turn for what seemed like forever even as docs and nurses flitted across the room to the two other OTs on either side of my OT.
At about 8.20 am, the nurses started cleaning me up with their lotions and potions and seemed to sweep me clean of whatever little modesty I was left with. I lay there, mostly bare, trying to smile back at docs offering polite introductions from behind masks. How I wished the masks would cover their eyes too. Months of going specifically to a female gynecologist seemed like a joke, when the roomed was swarmed by an all-male bastion of specialists for my surgery. The anaesthesiologist, the surgeon, the paediatrician, all of them – men!
I was given the spinal anaesthesia at about 8.30 am and within minutes the lower half of my body was as good as gone. The docs put a sheet to block my view of their ‘work area’ and after about 10-15 minutes of what seemed like gentle poking and prodding, they pulled out my baby and announced that it was a boy. It was 8.46 am on a Tuesday, the 22nd of September, 2009, when I became a mom.

Out and about
I was stitched up and wheeled out after being left alone in the OT for a long time. The availability of rooms at the hospital was still a problem. So, I waited there on the table thanking god that everything had gone well, pining for Viren, trying to move my toes and being pleased about my ‘empty’ tummy.
Once out of the OT, I was greeted by relieved smiles from my husband, my parents and my parents-in-law. Baby had been shown around and the healthy, 3-kg baby boy seemed to generally have met everyone’s expectations. We all proceeded to room no 207, a super deluxe type.
The last set of ‘humiliations’ came to pass through the rest of the day in the guise of bedpans, gigantic sanitary pads, adult diapers, nipple pinches, tummy presses and inspections down under. But I braved it all (not that I had a choice) and having some visitors after a spate of SMSes did help my cause. After eight bottles of IV, that memorable day drew to an end. Exhausted, Viren and I retired to our first night of sleep or sleeplessness, as parents.

Day 2
Though sleep was punctuated by a couple of night-time feeds and clean ups, I woke up rejoicing in the fact that IT was all over - I was pregnant no more, the operation was successfully over, the baby was fine and I was on my way back to being ‘normal’ again. I took my first painful steps to the loo, but it was definitely better than having that disgusting pan to pee in. I was then sponged by one of the mavshis (sigh, modesty is kind of tough to maintain in a hospital), but I sought happiness in getting out of the ‘bare-in-the-back’ hospital gown.
Parents, doctors, nurses, visitors did their rounds through the day, while baby had his first bath and his first injection. Among his other firsts was me trying to feed him. I also happened to cry quite an eyeful when faced with the apparently common problem of a slightly delayed lactation. I was tired of not being ‘perfect’ for the last nine months. Some more imperfection was definitely not appetising.
Day 3
I took a short walk in the hospital corridor today with my son in my arms and felt rather proud of it! Tired and kicked at the same time with my feat, I sat down to document these days - days that will probably become a blur by the time we celebrate Jishnu’s first birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be discharged from the hospital and we’ll take our son home to begin a brand new episode of our lives.

Krishna Charitra by Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and Chowringhee by Sankar: Impressions

Pregnancy does strange things to you. And the bloating body is the least in consideration in this context. With such a huge responsibility lying within you, the need for protection, for safety becomes prime. Me turning to 'religious' and 'regional' books is one example. Now, whether I sought them out because I'm pregnant, or they just happened to be in that place in that time...we'll never know. But, why let go the opportunity of hiding behind this once-in-a-lifetime experience to explain everything unusual? So, call it pregnancy we will, and perform a critical (C) - section on the last two last books I've read.
1) Krishna Charitra - Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyaya - translated by Alo Shome
The first of the two Bengali translated into English books that I've recently read. My need to buy this book was prompted by it being a book about my favourite Lord and it being a book by a famous Bengali author. As the day of my baby's birth and its impending baptism come close, I frantically cling to the strings of my ethnicity for fear of being a 'minority' in my own home.
So, I started with the book, and disappointment greeted me right in the first pages, where the translator, in her footnote, mentions leaving out biggish bits of academic arguments made by the original writer. Hah! Some cheek to assume that a reader of translation wouldn't be interested in those. Anyway, since the stories being told were about my Lord, I flipped through. The one interpretation of common lore that will stay with me forever is that of the Putana demoness sent by Kamsa to kill baby Krishna. Since the author tries to analyse everything in the context of plausability, his explanation for this incident is that, at the time when krishna was a baby, an epidemic of sorts had struck Vrindavan. The disease rendered babies so weak, they would be unable to suckle and eventually die of malnutrition. Krishna, being a fairly superior human baby was strong and could manage to suckle hard and therefore stay alive. The explanation is perfect. Putana was a metaphor for a disease -- as it would be for any unexplained phenomena in the olden days -- and was conquered by Krishna. Alas, all other babies born around the same time fell prey to 'Kamsa's wrath'.
From one lore to another, the author takes one on a demystifying journey, but fails to impress, since the interpretations become very subjective: exactly what the author accuses the various writers of Mahabharata of being. Discussing the similarities and discrepancies is the actions of Krishna-the man, what the reader is left with is some very dry commentary. Whether the dryness is the author's fault or the translator's, I shall never know. But, comparing all of the author's said glory in bengali literature to what my experience was, I will always blame my inability to read the original text and the translator for perhaps not doing justice to me.

2) Chowringhee - Sankar - translated by Arunava Sinha
In continuing the same set of motivations, another Bengali classic translation was called to the altar of my criticism for an unworthy sacrifice. Growing up, I'd heard the praise the original deserves from my mother - an avid reader of Bengali literature. And whenever I chance upon classics such as this, translated in English in one bookshop or another, I buy it without a second thought. It feels like a chance to reclaim part of my mother tongue heritage. And after one disappointing translation, I think, I'd pinned too many hopes on this one to salvage my opinion of translations.
Sadly though, Arunava Sinha didn't show any more promise than Alo Shome. Not in a first few pages, the next few and neither the few after that. There were glimpses of 'root recognition' once in a while, when the author speaks about familiar landmarks in the place of my birth, but the narrative is as slow as the period in which the novel is set. Dragging my feet through its pages, I come by the many 'characters' across the reception desk through the writer-protagonist. Most of the situations that these people are described in, are too far-fetched to be true, or so it seems in comparison to the real writing of the modern authors I'm used to. I didn't find anything about the book agreeable - neither the style, the language, the plot, the characters...nothing at all. At least not till the last three pages. Unlike the pace of the whole novel, the plot's crescendo is suddenly peaked, and before you know what's happening, it's over. All the major characters just suddenly decide to leave or die or get kicked out from the glittering existence of the Shahajahan hotel and you're left wondering again, how much of the book was lost in translation.

The force of vacuum

26.9.07

I’m back to my baby again…my journal I mean. It has been quite some time since I’ve written. Feels like homecoming - homecoming for comfort, for refuge. I’ve come back to my journal to seek refuge. Come back to it, pressed by the force of vacuum.

V left for Bombay (yes, I prefer it to Mumbai) today. My confidante, my confession box, my punching bag…GONE! For two whole weeks!!! It was only natural that I turned to my journal for my release. I wonder if it is this way with all writers. Are inspirations always had in moments of crisis or emptiness? I’ve not written in a while (just turned the pages to see that it has been a precise two months and a week); didn’t feel the push, not even slight traces of that mad urge that I’ve sometimes experienced. The spoken word has taken precedence in V’s presence. With him, everything felt is almost immediately ejaculated in words – spoken ones, heard ones, understood ones.

My relationship with V has obviously changed in the last couple of months since we started seeing each other. Only yesterday, we were discussing how the frequency of our written communication has reduced to a zilch in so short a time. I was fretting over how the nature of our communication has changed so rapidly implying perhaps that we don’t communicate as much as I would like to. Only a day later, today, I realise where my argument was flawed. As V points out too, only the mode/style of our communication has changed; the volume hasn’t. It has increased rather. Today, when he’s not around, my awareness of his absence overwhelms me so much that it has pushed me over the brink and made me gush on paper. And as always, it’s proving therapeutic.

This gap, this vacuum – his absence has also made me see clearly what he has come to mean to me. Beyond that breakneck speed that our relationship is moving in, beyond those plans of a proposal/engagement/parents-meet-parents/and wedding, beyond my defensive statements of “It’s not like I can’t live without him, blah, blah, blah, beyond it all, I realise that V is much more. I love him. I respect him – immensely. Respect him for what he has become, for what he is and what he chooses to be. I adore his openness to the new, his willingness to learn. There is so much promise in imagining a life with him – a life of learning, a life of teaching. A life of looking forward to a myriad possibilities, encouragements, criticisms, fulfillments, pride, and not to say the least, a life of mature love. I love him for questioning me till my confusions have cleared. I love him for not allowing me to take for granted even those things that I rightfully own. I love him for making me constantly compete with myself – to want to grow, to be smarter, funnier, better read, more knowledgeable. I love him because he taught me his not-so-good jiving and admitting and admitting that he doesn’t know it too well. And well, so much more. This is what I miss – this is the name of this vacuum.

Huh? (Undated, untitled and…incomplete?)

Sometimes I wonder if my bouts of restlessness represent anything greater than the classical example of an idle mind leasing itself to the works of a devil. It has gripped me again today – that unnameable, inexplicable restlessness - a restlessness that gives rise to unreasonable irritability, causeless questions and useless feelings. The devil’s workshop theory came about because today has been one of my perfectly idle days – not one thought worked upon, not one word written. The urge to write here, in ink, in this journal makes itself felt as and when these spells make their rounds.

It started quite early this day, as I was riding back home, I guess. First it was just some memories of A that floated up to my consciousness as casually as much as my being is capable of casualness. I started from being mildly amused at their appearance in the first place and more so at their timing. I was just returning from V’s place and my head was ‘supposed-to-be’ filled by his thoughts. Yet, A continued to insist on being present on the first line of my thoughts, leading to my amusement turning to discomfort. “He must be thinking about me…it’s just those vibrations...” I offered to myself my current favourite argument, but in vain – I realised a little later. I busied myself with getting ready for work and got to office in seemingly good spirits; and must have pushed A to the back of my mind for a while.

With the passing of those unbearable empty hours, the thoughts re-emerged. This time around, the form of the thoughts had apparently changed and with it had changed the accompanying feelings. It wasn’t A anymore – not at least distinctly. I cannot quite place what thoughts might have buzzed in my head then, but I know I can tag those feelings as a mounting irritation - irritation and anger and malice towards everyone and everything. No one’s crossed my path hence and has therefore been spared of my reasonless ire – no one but V. One fearfully innocent message stating a fact was enough for me to explode and spew it all on him. I used the same tricks I’d learnt from him and regressed through the day asking a series of “whys” till it brought be back to the ride home. So, I find myself asking the question if it is a case of comparison.

(Dunno what I was thinking and the last bit makes no sense to me.. The facts are lost and so are the feelings..but the words remain – and I like them)

WHOOPIE!!!

17.07.07

I can’t stop smiling, giggling actually; and feeling ticklish in the tummy and silly. It must be happiness in all its splendour. Pure joy this must be. V said the words this morning. I knew he would eventually, but like all other things he does, he managed to throw me off guard this time around too. J That’s his style: inconspicuous, jet-speed hints (ones that you miss if you’re not on tenterhooks all the time), and a no-drama delivery. And it hits you like, BANG! When you’re least expecting it.

We were talking only last night about it; and he got me to believe that I was risking a premature admission or worse still, a belief of prematurity when he did say it. Yet another of his defences was that I was supposedly pre-empting his wanting to say it. Hah!

Um…well, guess I was, and I decided to stop doing whatever pre-empting means. I told him that it was hurting for me to love him and not have him love me back; but I didn’t say the words; haven’t said them yet, tra la!!!

I wanted so much to share this joy with someone and the effective choice turned out to be, as it always does, V. One call later, I’m settled. We have this strange trade of calm and restlessness that comes from him being inherently rational and me being inherently emotional. He gives me the calm, and I him the restlessness. He injects a thought, and I a feeling. Fair play and perfect foil.

But there are flashes of fear. But well, what joy hasn’t fear mixed with it? The fear of losing the worth of something attained so laboriously, the fear of altered meanings and the fear of an expected routine. I hope the ‘I love you’ doesn’t become as meaningless as a “heyyy” for me; again, for him too, again. I’m hoping with all I’ve got that V is not another one of those guys who become uninteresting the minute I get them to say the words. Damn! What am I saying? I know he isn’t one of them. This, as he puts it, is just one of the tinier missions of mine to get the whole of him.

A spiritual journey is what I’m offering him: a quest for him to integrate his self as a whole. I’m afraid there too. He’s rather complete as a man already. What if he needs me no more after completing his soul? But do I want him to need me? Or simply want me because he wants to. That has been a great honour and I reckon it will be so. I hope I also love him because I want him and not because I need him. Love ought not to be price paid for ones needs. I’ve paid it once. He’s paid it too. Thus, this time around, these words bring about a great deal of responsibility with them. I hope we’ve understood each other enough to respect that.

For this time though, I’ll just sit back and be happy, knowing that it is not premature.

The Curse of Goodness

(written sometime back)

I am home now for sometime and back to doing what I do best here - talking to Ma. Hour after hour of talking - those platters of thought:made up of experiences, replete with the flavours of love, hatred, humour, joy, sorrow and such other familiars. Our tete-a-tete got us to look back at may last year as we sat over a cup of tea this morning.

The months of May-June are the foot loose months for us. That time of the year when the mountains beckon and take us backpacking from one hill station to another on a family holiday. They always made for wonderful memories...until May last year (2006).

The trips always begin with Delhi and end with it. The trip last year also ended with the capital and so did a life. R kakima (bong for aunty) committed suicide...

Our family had befriended the S's on a March eight years ago. They almost instantly won approval from all of us (Ma, Pa and I); and before long, congenial family dinners became a weekly ritual. S kaku (bong for uncle), was, of course, the biggest hit among us. But then again, he always is one with everyone. An IPS (postal) officer of a high rank, extremely humble, educated, soft-spoken, cultured - polish and finesse personified. What could stop us mere mortals from being bewitched?

His wife was of a slightly different strain - on the outside and a different tune altogether on the inside. R kakima was also educated, intelligent, cultured, and all that jazz. For some reason, she cooked chana almost each time she invited us for dinner. Besotted by her son, mildly indifferent to her daughter and quite unhappy with her husband. And yes, chronically depressed.

The son, A, could be described completely in one word - 'eccentric' and the daughter D as 'mild'.

We socialised with happy fervour with this 'nice' family during their three years in Nagpur and intermittently after their transfer to Delhi. Of our personal little triumphs during their stint in Nagpur was having slightly lightened that dark cloud of depression that always loomed large over R kakima. She seemed to have learned to smile more and needed her anti-dep pills less. S kaku constantly kept up his diplomatic stance; and we never quite understood what R aunty had against such a 'good' man as her husband.

S kaku was my ideal - the seemingly perfect son, husband, father, friend, professional and all other roles he cared to get into.

One could worship him, but not love him for he didn't love back. With all his honey words and good intentions, he kept his distance. Ever the diplomat/bureaucrat, patient and controlled; an impossibility of an entity to love, to be thought of as ones own. But we kept brushing the lovelessness under the carpet, so overwhelmed we were by his perfection; and kept pretending to not understand why R was unhappy despite her 'good' husband's 'goodnesses'.

Over the cups of tea this morning, in retrospection, a flash of insight made the truth appear as it always was - as we had never seen it. His 'goodness' had killed her.

He'd always refused to fight her. No denial could have been crueler. His lack of acknowledgment was the greatest of insults that one human could inflict on another - a human, otherwise equal on all counts. His was the cruelest way of torture- that of being so good that one couldn't take it. He was no wife-beater after all - how could she or we or anyone blame him? All the silent violence she kept turning inside - sinking deeper into the dark depths of depression while he kept collecting kudos for being the good husband with a difficult wife. No one understood her. Not until she made that final statement last summer.

As we thought about it, a wave of guilt swept over us as we realised that we were just as much partners in crime. Not only did we not understand, but we failed to acknowledge as well. We took sides with the good and forgot the humane. The curse of goodness claimed a life and a handful of consciences.

Taller than all

There are the many glories of nature and men that inspire awe; that force one to acknowledge that ‘greatness’ really is not easy to court and definitely not easy to conquer. All celebrations of the heroic in man can well be counteracted upon by still greater heroics; but it is death that takes the cake. Almost always successful in humbling men, death fails not even with the most realised of men, to humble. Whether it is wailing women with beating chests, brave tears, sympathy and solace or turning to the divine or philosophy for comfort, death surely makes itself manifest. Of all beings – good and bad, poor or rich, vain or humble, winners or losers, the big or small – death stands tall - taller than the reaches of most human vanities. For a while, it shattered mine too…today.

One of my students from MIT-SOG died today. He’d been in the hospital in coma for a while due to brain haemorrhage and passed away this morning after unsuccessfully battling for life for ten days. Death is mightier than all weaponry of all the life support systems of the world put together. Even the strong arm of Robert Svoboda (author of the book Aghora III – The Law of Karma that I’m reading now) hasn’t been of much help for my psychological leaning. I’m not as ‘objective’ as I thought I was on the way to becoming.

A young guy he was – called J K. The kind of stuff that rural backgrounds, big dreams, low self confidences and much lower than average looks are made of. Twenty five odd years and the pride of being the only barrister in his family - all gone to the dust in a matter of days.

Of my limited memories of him, one scene keeps flashing again and again before my eyes. It was one of my counselling sessions with him. Like most Marathi-medium students, he was terrified of English and I was trying to boost his confidence with English speaking. I remember I was telling him, “There are a million possible personas in an individual. Each time you find that the fumbling and nervous J is taking over, rouse the powerful J in you and kick ass.” He smiled the smile of confidence and I returned it with a smile of contentment.

I believe this one incident keeps coming back to me because it was the only real exchange of honour – much greater than words. In the following classes, I saw him internally kick his fears as he rose to face the class and speak in wrong yet brave English. There could be no greater tribute paid to a teacher. It’s time I return those tributes. These words I write for you J, as those words that you spoke for me.