In the wake of my mother in law's passing, I was thinking about what I'd like done when I die. Leaving a clear set of instructions here for that day.
1. Harvest any organs that may still be useful after hopefully a lifetime of riotous living and donate them.
2. Cremate me in an electric crematorium so I can leave less of a carbon footprint, and please don't put my ashes in that poor Ganga - she's polluted enough as it is! Bury them in my garden or something.
3. Don't have any long mourning or rituals etc - I may get bored and leave.
4. Throw a big, mad, fun party, ideally a cocktail party. But don't serve sickly sweet cocktails- make them inventive and spicy and fun.
5. Tell everyone to dress upto the nines - you know how much I love fashion.
6. Play some raucous rock and Hindi movie tunes and get everyone there to shake a leg and let loose - I love a good dancing evening.
7. Hopefully one or two people will trip over their own feet and fall down, much like I do.
8.Serve great, creative food.
9. Have good conversations, laugh as loudly as you can, sing a song or two...
Auf wiedersehen!
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Friday, May 3, 2013
I Remember Ajji
If you saw her, she would look nothing out of the ordinary.
Your average south Indian, traditional, religious-minded old lady. Short –
barely 5 feet tall, all skin and bone thanks to her constant fasts for the
wellbeing of someone or other in the family but with gorgeous bone structure
that kept her looking lovely and graceful well into her eighties. Clad in a
traditional cotton saree, usually in a faded colour, with the typical diamond
nosepin and earrings adding their discreet sheen to her face. Thrifty to the
core, someone who’d walk two miles rather than spend the money on bus or auto
fare. She looked like your average south Indian grandmother, and for many
years, that’s all I thought she was, my loving but somewhat boring, somewhat
distant granny.
As a child, I never understood how affectionate she was
inside, though one takes for granted that one is loved by the family in
general. I used to find it very boring to go to her place, where there were no
kids around and not much to do apart from read. There were always cats and
kittens around her house, and she used to feed then kitchen scraps – the cream
skimmed off the milk, curd rice, bits of bread left over from grandpa’s
breakfast…She used to love those old cats and when I was a child, I saw her
petting them till they purred with satisfaction but hugs and kisses to me and
my sister or our other cousins were rare. Her south Indian upbringing didn’t allow
for lavish gestures and hugs and ‘I love you’s, so she showed her love for us
by cooking the most incredible dishes – simple and yet deliciously laced with
her affection so that they tasted extraordinary.
I didn’t have a lot to speak with her about as I grew to be
a teenager – her usual advice at the end of my stay used to be ‘be good and
obey your parents’ – not very conducive to the rebel in the family! Her love of
fun used to show itself in muted ways – the way her eyes would light up when
she saw a nice garden, or her shy laugh when I cracked a joke. She had this
old-fashioned thing about laughing or smiling so hard that her teeth showed J so she would part-cover
her mouth when she laughed. I still cringe at the memory of my 18th
summer – my mom told her I was a good dancer so ajji wanted to see that. The
trouble was that I am good at dancing at parties – you know, completely
unstructured, arms flailing, but it looks alright in a dimly lit room with loud
music. In the cold harsh light of a Bangalore afternoon, with no music (no
music system) except for my discordant humming, no one except a doting grandmom
would have appreciated it – and she did!
She came from an extremely traditional, orthodox family – family
legend has it she once fainted while passing by a butcher’s shop, and she used
to refuse to buy watermelon because it was red like meat. She never ate ‘outside’
food except at family weddings, she never had anything but a lemonade or coffee
when she visited anyone because travelling to their place had defiled her ‘madi’
state. Whenever she and grandpa cam and stayed with us, I used to get a little
tense because I was never sure about all the rules to be followed, though she’d
never have dreamt of telling me anything – it wasn’t her style to complain or try
to change other people, she just followed her rules as best she could.
Given that background, it is incredible to what extent she
adapted with changing times. When I and A were getting married, after her
initial reluctance, she came around and later her biggest regret was that she
had not attended the wedding. Despite her aversion to eating out anywhere,
especially in a home that cooks eggs and occasionally non-veg, she would come
over and eat whatever I had cooked with relish. She’d come out with us to a
restaurant and enjoy sipping some juice and being part of the occasion. I
remember watching Taare Zameen Par and the colorized Mughal-e-Azam with her –
she loved them both. She enjoyed celebrating festivals with us whenever she
visited Delhi, and one of my cherished photos of her is one where she is
cuddling my two year old son and both of them are watching Deepavali fireworks
with identical looks of wonder on their faces. I had written a blog post about
her cooking, especially her Uppittu – self-effacing to the core, she felt shy
instead of proud and wondered how I had found so much to say about this everyday
dish, and managed to even leave a comment on my blog.
She and grandpa came to stay with my parents when my eldest
son was born, and she was just incredible. From bathing the baby or helping mom
to bathe him to helping whip up all the special food that a new mother has to
eat, from giving me the world’s best oil massages to rocking the baby to sleep
for hours, she did it all with enthusiasm. Chubbocks was a very cranky baby and
would barely sleep. One afternoon, I woke up after a rare nap of almost three
hours wondering where the baby was. I found him fast asleep on ajji’s lap – he’d
been sleeping there the entire time, and she hadn’t even moved a muscle, intent
on letting me get my rest.
It was with my children that I saw her really unwind and
have fun, with all the playfulness of her nature. She would hug and kiss them,
play games, tell them stories, listen to their prattle with unfeigned
enthusiasm, chatter away with them, bathe them and generally revel in being
with them. Since she no longer had to be the grandmother, she could be this
delightful older playmate for them, and she loved seeing their photos, watching
videos of them…It was during these times, after I too had become a mother that I
got to know her as a person, not just grandma, and she was truly an amazing
woman.
Her sense of fun and enjoyment that became apparent to me
only as I grew older and able to look past the image. Through her reminisces
about her childhood, I learnt that she had been quite a tomboy in her youth,
climbing trees and sneaking off to learn how to cycle. Carrying that streak to
her adulthood, adventurous and enterprising, she had gone off on bus trips,
crisscrossing the entire south and all the pilgrimage places of the north all
by herself in the 1950s, when her kids were still quite young. She had climbed
up to Vaishnodevi on foot at the age of 68, gone to Tezpur by herself to visit
my uncle when his first child was expected. Though she was extremely religious,
she had a sense of humour and didn’t mind me poking fun at her ‘ekadasi’ fasts
by calling them bhukadasi. She kept herself well-informed about current events
by watching TV and reading the newspaper cover to cover. Watching a cricket
match with her was hilarious – you didn’t know whom to watch and whose
commentary to listen to – the TV one or hers. She was so extremely ticklish
that I could make her scream just by pretending to tickle her from a distance!
She never forgot an anniversary or birthday and would always call me up on
those days, speaking hurriedly to save money on the long distance call.
Her frail physique and mild manner hid a very independent
and self-reliant nature. She and grandpa lived on their own, and even after
grandpa passed away, she lived on her own until last year when she developed a
back problem, doing her banking, going to the doctor and the temple and market
by herself. When grandpa became increasingly difficult to handle with Azheimer’s,
she insisted on looking after him till his last day, though she herself was in
her 80s. Mom remembers that two years ago, when they were staying in Bangalore,
they mentioned to grandma that they were going to come pick her up that evening
to come stay with them as there was a music programme she would enjoy in their
neighbourhood. Thrifty and independent, she packed her bag and criss-crossed
Bangalore in two buses to land up at their place by afternoon by herself, at
the age of 86! She really was one of the last few of the old, hardy stock that
South Indians used to be from – I don’t know if any of my generation would
count among that.
I can’t believe she’s gone forever and that she won’t be
around almost like a benediction in my life. I hope she knew that I admired her
enormously, though she would self-deprecatingly say “I don’t see why’. I hope
she knew how much I loved her and enjoyed having her in my life. I hope she’s
at peace wherever she is now – I don’t know anyone who deserves that more.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Parenting Styles
I didn’t really know how hard this parenting gig was going
to be when I blithely signed up for it. I mean, I’ve raised puppies and
survived a younger sister, how hard could it be, right? And then, the serial
hobbyist in me woke up to the possibilities of this new project in my life, and
I bought all the books from What to expect when expecting, the toddler years and
Dr Spock to Dr Miriam Stoppard, How to talk so kids will listen. Later, Po Bronson’s
Nurture Shock and Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers were added to my bursting
child-rearing library and there was a wealth of information and recommendations,
though some of them clashed with others, and even more of them clashed with my
desire or vision of myself as a parent.
Frankly, I came to parenthood reluctantly. I wasn’t ready to
give up my inner (or outer) child and become a calm, rational adult at all times,
especially one who was expected to be a role model of the kind of behavior I wanted
from kids. I wanted to continue having my tantrums as and when required. But
there were some things I was clear on from the start. I have a horror of spoilt
kids – right from Duryodhana in the Mahabharata who’s like the poster boy of
kid-spoilage. I can’t bear the specimens of desi kids I see running amuck in
fastfood restaurants and dashing into you as you carefully stagger to your
table juggling overfull glasses of liquids and ill-balanced dishes full of
stain-prone food, making the two yard course to the table like the hurdles at
the Olympics. I hate seeing a family of 1 or 2 kids eternally accompanied by
the nanny whose unfortunate job it is to keep the wailing baby outside the restaurant
while the parents and left-over, non-weepy kid gorge inside. By and large, I
disapprove of the very rambly routine followed by many desi parents at social
events, where kids stay up all hours while getting crankier and crankier, until
everyone is silently pleading with themselves for the kids and their keepers to
leave. And the countless late-night or age-inappropriate movies where I see
parents filing in with kids – don’t get me started. Really, is watching that
movie so damn important that you have to subject the rest of us to the
incessant popcorn, Pepsi and loo demands of your child, or that you have to
subject a 6 year old to a movie about fratricide (Race)???
On the other hand, I didn’t want a routine so strict that I
would feel stifled by it. I didn’t want to be like a strict parent of a school
classmate whose usual rejoinder to anything that sounded even the least bit fun
was ‘Ye hamare ghar mein not allowed hai’! I didn’t want kids so bound by
routine that their routine would ball-and-chain us either to the house, the
same routine wherever we were, or a set of things central to the routine that
we would be doomed to lug around the world. I wanted kids who were adaptable,
fun, curious, independent and yet well-behaved, well-mannered. Yes, I dreamed
of puppets who had buttons for ‘sleep’, ‘eat’, ‘behave’ and ‘be charming’. Well, that was a good daydream while it lasted!
Over the years, I realized that the advice in the books was
mostly being disregarded by me as I went my way, for my convenience. I figured
that I was really not the most maternal person in the world. In fact, sometime
last year, I told A that I’m a bad mother. And then I started to wonder, if I
think of myself as a bad mother, that means I have certain expectations of my
role as a mother that I’m not fulfilling. What are those?
I wasn’t being an active parent, I was quite happy to let
them play by themselves, use the kitchen utensils as toys or musical
instruments while I got on with cooking or whatever. I was really at peace curled up with a
book while they banged their toys around or raced through the house on their
tricycles. Worse, my life doesn’t revolve around my kids – I have no qualms telling them to pipe down if I’m
on the phone and they want to start a conversation at that moment. I have a
reasonably active social life which involves them staying at home, and frankly
I enjoy working full time, traveling out of the city on work or even just to
get away from home for a break, all by myself. I don’t spend all my time away
from them thinking or worrying about them. While they have a schedule, it's not iron-clad, especially on weekends or holidays. Speaking on the defensive, I do
quite a few things with them, from bedtime stories and sing-alongs to picnics
in the park, cooking together and so on. But my entire being isn’t taken up by
my role as a parent, and that seemed to be the fundamental difference between a
good and bad parent. At some level, the fact that I no longer even felt guilty
about those things made me feel worse about my ability as a parent.
Then, very recently, I came across this book called Bringing
up bebe. It’s an account of an American mom who lives in France and
catalogues the very different approach to parenting that she sees there. As per
the book, French parents first and foremost do not believe in feeling guilty
about every activity they perform that does not revolve around kids – the recognize
that parents continue to be people, first and foremost, and they need other
activities apart from child rearing in their lives. So whether it’s work,
socializing or a break and time away from the kids, there’s no guilt or need to
feel guilt about it. Secondly, their approach to parenting is about integrating
the children into their life and socializing them, rather than create a
separate social milieu built around the children’s convenience and fancies. They
teach their kids to adjust, rather than adjusting themselves to fit the child’s
worldview. They have no problem telling a child to wait for attention, if they’re
busy, rather than springing to attention like a toy soldier. They don’t believe
everything a child says or does is worthy of a response, applause or praise…Third,
they don’t believe in ‘spoiling’ their child – they inculcate manners and
courtesy from the beginning, don’t overload them with toys and what-have-you, do
not make special menus for children but teach them to appreciate good food like
any adult would. Most importantly, they do believe in a healthy sense of
independence, responsibility and freedom. So once the rules are set, there’s plenty
of room for free play, curiosity; the kids are taught to play by themselves and
amuse themselves…
Suddenly, a light switched on in my brain. I thought – all the
parenting books I have so far are from America, by American authors! They have
a very different approach to parenting, and that’s why I have been thinking of
myself as a bad parent. When I looked at the French style of parenting,
suddenly it all clicked into place for me. It was a complete epiphany. It also
made me think a little bit about how we new-gen parents approach the whole
parenting thing – a little too seriously, sometimes, and perhaps a little too
much reliance one external wisdom, at the beginning. It’s become like a project
or a sense of purpose for which we were seeking, and suddenly, in our quest to
excel, we become hyper, start reading parenting books from other cultures, and adopting them blindly.
Anthropologist Meredith Small says, "The cultural milieu, then, is a powerful and barely studied force that molds how we parent." Transplanting those parenting codes to a different cultural mileu, without understanding the cultural context, is like learning a foreign language from the dictionary! That was true of me at least – while I didn’t adopt the parenting style, I certainly
started judging myself by those styles and finding myself lacking.
I’m feeling a lot more at ease with my parenting style - I’ve always been a Francophile, so if my
parenting style is a little French, good for me, non? Now if only I could
emulate Parisian chic, my life would be – as zey say – fantastique!
PS. The new book I’m reading: How Eskimos keep their babies warm – Parenting wisdom from around the world. May as well expand my knowledge
base, eh? Hasta la vista!!
Monday, February 11, 2013
Puddi - reading trouble
I'm getting a little worried about Puddi and her reading ability. To put it into context, she is a very bright child, very active, pretty articulate and enjoys writing long, long letters or stories. But put her in front of a book and it becomes a test of patience for both her and me. She doesn't seem to recognise words when they recur from one page to another, she struggles over what I would consider simple words and most worrying of all, she doesn't seem to enjoy the experience. Her resistance is very passive-aggressive but real for all that. he is distracted, doesn't remember from one moment to the next what line she is on...
I don't really know what to make of it. In our house, we are surrounded, not to say invaded, by books of all kinds. I pretty much always have my nose in half a dozen books, Chubbocks is a big reader and A used to be before work pressure got to him. We have a pretty huge selection of children's reading material of all levels too.
What psyches me more, is whether I'm making too big a deal out of it, because my scale is all wrenched out of shape. Chubbocks is an advanced reader for his age and started being a fluent reader by age 5, if I remember correctly - he's now finished all the Harry Potters, the Percy Jacksons and several of the classics and is way ahead of his reading age. Bojjandi too seems to be raching ahead and recently finished reading two full books. More, he is avidly into the experience and whatever he is doing, if there is any object with letters on it - newspaper, carton of juice, packet of tea - he is busy piecing the phonetic sounds of the letters together and making sense of them. he can even read words that I would consider rather advanced for his age, like favourite or dinosaur. At night when we read bedtime stories to the kids, he is often peering over our shoulders to try and read them by himself. My nephew R, too, is a very advanced reader - last summer when I visited him, he raced through The Magic Faraway tree in one afternoon, at just five and a half years old.
Given that, I don't know if I'm making a big deal out of nothing for poor Puddi - for all I know, she may be going at an average speed for her age? Or she may have some sort of learning disability when it comes to letters and needs to get help? Either way, I think it's time to stop worrying and take some action. Planning to meet her teacher next week at school and discuss the issue.
I don't really know what to make of it. In our house, we are surrounded, not to say invaded, by books of all kinds. I pretty much always have my nose in half a dozen books, Chubbocks is a big reader and A used to be before work pressure got to him. We have a pretty huge selection of children's reading material of all levels too.
What psyches me more, is whether I'm making too big a deal out of it, because my scale is all wrenched out of shape. Chubbocks is an advanced reader for his age and started being a fluent reader by age 5, if I remember correctly - he's now finished all the Harry Potters, the Percy Jacksons and several of the classics and is way ahead of his reading age. Bojjandi too seems to be raching ahead and recently finished reading two full books. More, he is avidly into the experience and whatever he is doing, if there is any object with letters on it - newspaper, carton of juice, packet of tea - he is busy piecing the phonetic sounds of the letters together and making sense of them. he can even read words that I would consider rather advanced for his age, like favourite or dinosaur. At night when we read bedtime stories to the kids, he is often peering over our shoulders to try and read them by himself. My nephew R, too, is a very advanced reader - last summer when I visited him, he raced through The Magic Faraway tree in one afternoon, at just five and a half years old.
Given that, I don't know if I'm making a big deal out of nothing for poor Puddi - for all I know, she may be going at an average speed for her age? Or she may have some sort of learning disability when it comes to letters and needs to get help? Either way, I think it's time to stop worrying and take some action. Planning to meet her teacher next week at school and discuss the issue.
Jackie - Oh
Jackie appeared in our house quite by divine intervention.
His mom Roohi was owned by our domestic help, and when she fell pregnant all
too early, my sister decided to take charge of her health. Eventually after
Roohi gave birth to Jackie and his 7 siblings, our help decided to gift us one
of the pups and we picked the one living male of the litter. It still seems
like yesterday that all of these tiny little bundles of fur and shrill yaps
were crawling all over our house, piddling everywhere and attacking poor Roohi
with ravenous cries any time she so much as stuck her nose out of doors.
Jackie, though the eldest and biggest, was also the snooziest of the lot. He
seemed to spend all of his time sleeping in the cloth-lined cardboard box that
was his first home. There were Julie – eventually adopted by our other domestic
help; Mooshi – thus named because her tail was bitten off by a rat when she was
newborn, and several others whose names I can no longer recall. Liquid-eyed,
soft, snowy-white, wriggly little creatures who could fit into our palm, and
who spent the day perilously snoozing on top of each other.
Once Jackie moved into our house, he began demonstrating his
personality despite his innate snooziness. He used to love to curl up in the
scant space that my dad, staunchly south Indian, insisted on leaving between
the bed and the wall. I used to worry lest someone should move the bed all the
way back, squishing the poor guy – thankfully that didn’t happen. As he started
teething, he also developed a bit of a temper and hated being left home alone.
In revenge he bit off corners of our rubber slippers – for years we wore shoes ‘designed
by Jackie Oh’ – and on one memorable occasion, ate through the leg of one of
our sofa chairs and a rosewood whatnot. I discovered these depradations in
horror, as the first one home, and quickly set to work with Cherry Blossom
Brown so we could conceal the crime from our parents.
Over time, Jackie grew bigger and bigger – 21 kilos at his
peak, and 4 feet from tip to tail – quite a feat for a pup born of two Spitz
parents. Our ex-army vet figured out that he was a Samoyed – go figure! He was
also extremely emotional, though less demonstrative in his younger days. I
still remember the hunger strike he went on when we left him behind at the old
house for 3 days while we were busy settling the new one – we had to make an
emergency rescue. He was also pretty smart, quite apart from learning tricks
like shaking hands and ‘shitting down’ on command ( our domestic help was
Bengali so his English pronunciation was a bit off; we discovered to our
amusement that Jackie never understood it when we said ‘sit down’ but ‘shit
down’ worked like a charm!). He was an amazing communicator, especially with
Dad who grew to understand his myriad moods very well. Our vet who was very
fond of him, used to call him a real gentleman – he would be super-patient
whenever we took him to the vet for his checkups and so on. He also rarely attacked a dog smaller than
him even when he was attacked, but woe betide a large dog that got across him, Jackie
wouldn’t give any quarter.
When Chubbocks was born, we went to stay at my parents
house, as per custom. Jackie was supposed to stay in the living room, but no
sooner had Chubbocks crossed the threshold, than Jackie adopted him. He
insisted on sleeping in our room. If Chubbocks started crying, Jackie would
stand worriedly by his crib, trying to figure out how to soothe the little guy.
Chubbocks used to sleep in an old-fashion cloth sling, hung above our bed.
Every night, before going to bed, Jackie made it a point to peep in, front paws
resting on our bed so he could get the required height boost, and poke his nose
in to check if Chubbocks was inside, before curling up to sleep himself. In
fact, any time Jackie went out of the room, he would come back and check on
Chubbocks like a mother hen. Once, my grandmother decided to keep Chubbocks
with her since he was a cranky baby, and let me get some sleep in the
afternoon. Jackie came into my room from somewhere, peeped into the sling and
became frantic at not seeing the baby. He paced back and forth worriedly, until
I realized what the matter was. I told him, “Chubbocks is with Ajji in her
room.” Immediately, Jackie made a beeline for Ajji’s room, sniffed her lap to
ensure the baby was there, and only then could he relax.
Not knowing very much about dogs, we had no clue about
establishing hierarchy and so on. I’m not sure he ever thought of any of us as
his master, more as his two-legged equals. He was incredibly protective of dad
and my sister though. Once when dad was out walking him, I caught up to them
from behind. Just as I was planning to pounce, yell and startle dad (yes, I’m
still pretty juvenile that way), Jackie turned around and lunged for me with
his teeth! Suffice it to say I got startled, not to mention a rent in my new
jeans! Another time, Jackie, who was a big, strong specimen, was dragging dad
along and dad tripped and fell. A passerby came up to try and help dad, but
Jackie wasn’t about to allow any stranger near dad, so the passerby had to
retire hurt.He loved eating, that was his big vice. Sweets were an especial weakness, and whenever he heard a mithai box being opened, he would materialize instantly from wherever he was. In fact, once when wehad gotten up and gone to the door to see of diwali guests, we returned to find an entire plate of sweets swallowed up! Biscuits too were a favourite, though he was picky there – he would only eat Parle G – and Mum took to buying cheap local biscuits for my sister and I so she could afford his Parle G habit.
It was one of the worst days of my life when we had to take the decision to put him to sleep – he had multiorgan failure, and while not in a coma, he hadn’t eaten in four-five days. He could barely register our presence and his labored breathing was dreadful to hear. Dad and I were almost forced into it by our vet, who said it didn’t make sense to put it off any longer. He was well over 16 years old, after all. And so we bade farewell to this amazing large-hearted soul who had shared so much with us, unstinting with his love and affection, undemanding yet always there for comfort, to share all our moments happy and sad…I hope he always has someone to pet him wherever he is, and give him his daily ration of biscuits and lots of hugs…
Monday, September 24, 2012
Lost and found
We had a frightening incident yesterday. I was lying prone on the sofa, recovering from a viral that had haunted me all weekend; plus I'd slogged in the kitchen yesterday morning cooking an Italian feast for dad's birthday. The kids were at the park with the help; then the ladies arrived back, with Puddi but no Bojj. They said Bojj had gone to my parents home - they live about 5 houses away.
A and I were reading peacably when he decided to call dad to check on something. "They're not answering", he said. That's quite common when they are out in the garden with the kids so we assumed that's what had happened. One minute later, our blood froze when we heard mom and dad calling out to us and walking in, sans Bojji. "We were out walking", they began. In less time than it takes to write this, I had done a standing jump to the front door and was running down to their house, heart in mouth. WHERE WAS BOJJI?
I reached their house and saw a placid Bojjandi climbing up the inside of their gate to the top. He was clearly planning to climb down the other side and come home. "What happened? Are you safe?" I yelled incoherently, clasping him to me. "Budhmani ( the new maid) just left me here and ajji thatha are not home. I was calling to her but she didn't come. Sho I wash coming home."
The maid had left Bojjandi inside their gate, rung their bell and bolted the gate from outside, not bothering to check whether or not they had taken him inside. Thankfully we live in a gated complex which is quite secure and they live just down the street. But my blood still runs cold at the thought of that poor 4 year old child forlornly wandering in their garden. What astounds me is that when I found him - about 10 minutes after he'd been unceremoniously left there - he wasn't crying, wasn't wailing, wasn't showing any signs of fear. Instead, after sussing out the situation, he had decided the best course of action was to come home and proceeded to carry out the scheme!!!It's a day later, I'm still agonized and feeling guilty over what happened, but most of all so in awe of Bojjandi and cucumber-cool brain!!!
A and I were reading peacably when he decided to call dad to check on something. "They're not answering", he said. That's quite common when they are out in the garden with the kids so we assumed that's what had happened. One minute later, our blood froze when we heard mom and dad calling out to us and walking in, sans Bojji. "We were out walking", they began. In less time than it takes to write this, I had done a standing jump to the front door and was running down to their house, heart in mouth. WHERE WAS BOJJI?
I reached their house and saw a placid Bojjandi climbing up the inside of their gate to the top. He was clearly planning to climb down the other side and come home. "What happened? Are you safe?" I yelled incoherently, clasping him to me. "Budhmani ( the new maid) just left me here and ajji thatha are not home. I was calling to her but she didn't come. Sho I wash coming home."
The maid had left Bojjandi inside their gate, rung their bell and bolted the gate from outside, not bothering to check whether or not they had taken him inside. Thankfully we live in a gated complex which is quite secure and they live just down the street. But my blood still runs cold at the thought of that poor 4 year old child forlornly wandering in their garden. What astounds me is that when I found him - about 10 minutes after he'd been unceremoniously left there - he wasn't crying, wasn't wailing, wasn't showing any signs of fear. Instead, after sussing out the situation, he had decided the best course of action was to come home and proceeded to carry out the scheme!!!It's a day later, I'm still agonized and feeling guilty over what happened, but most of all so in awe of Bojjandi and cucumber-cool brain!!!
Thursday, August 30, 2012
The Just Married Please Excuse bloggers contest
As usual, a little bit late to the party. Actually, I find that when I'm less busy, I tend to sink into a morass of laziness and find it too difficult to do anything, really, whereas when I'm forced to multitask and work 24/7, I get a lot more things done - like blogging, or contributing to a friend's contest, for instance. Of course, meanwhile I have meandered quite off-topic, haven't I? So back to Y's contest, based on her hilarious new book, Just Married, Please Excuse.
Actually, we had so much drama for so many years before we actually got married that I think our married life is actually pretty tame by comparison. But just before we got married, after opposing the concept for several years, my parents finally came around, just about a month before A and I were to take off for INSEAD in France. And they obviously wanted to meet A's parents and discuss arrangements. We decided to do it on neutral ground and halfway between the two parental homes, which were really far apart - for those who know Delhi, A's parents lived in the Univ area and mine live in Gurgaon! So we decided on IIC as a venue. His parents, mine and A and me were to converge there after A and I finished work one evening. I was quite nervous as to how this meeting would go off, whether they would hate each other at first sight...let's say I was like the anxious mother of a potential bride in an arranged marriage seeing-the-girl situation.
That cold winter day, I had worn a very chic black and white wool dress to work. While I was out for a meeting, as I stepped out of the car, I felt a super-cold draught of air riding up my back. 'Wow, really cold day!', I thought to myself in typical late-bloomer/ tubelight style. Then suddenly it dawned on me. The hip to neck zip of the dress had parted way, all the way!!! My entire back, including..err, innerwear, was on display! Thankfully I had also grabbed a matching cape that morning so I slung it around my back, Jayalalitha style and marched regally to the meeting. By dint of moving slowly and carefully as if I had a ramrod up my a**, I managed the meeting without the client realising that anything was wrong with me apart from an unusual stiffness.
I hunted frantically for safety pins back at office but in these modern days of western wear, nobody was wearing anything like a mangalsutra with a chain of safety pins slung on it. How I missed sari-clad women that day! It was already going on afternoon on a really busy day, so I couldn't slink off and buy a new outfit so I dialled mom and told her to schlep an outfit for me when she arrived at IIC that evening.
As it happened, A's parents, mine and A and I converged upon IIC at the exact same time. By this time, the discomfort of officially meeting my inlaws with my back hanging out of my dress was too high to be borne. Muttering a hasty hello, I grabbed the pack of clothes from mom and disappeared in the direction of the rest room, leaving it to poor A, who hadn't even officially met my parents yet, to manage all the awkwardness of introductions and greetings. What my parents in law thought of me disappearing, in a chic dress, and reappearing in a demure salwar kameez, courtesy Mom, I can only imagine! Must have been a rude shock for them later, methinks :)
My parents, sister and I are very fond of pranks, puns, jokes and so on. Shortly after A and I got married, we moved to my parents place to stay for a few days. The first night, as dad left our room after seeing that we had everything we needed, I called after him, "Good night. Sudarimasu!" That was our elongated family version of 'Sweet dreams'. A looked at me, puzzled, and asked what I was saying. I told him it was Japanese for 'sleep well'. He was maha impressed by my family's ability to assimilate foreign languages into our daily routine :)
Within ten days of marriage, A and I were living in a suitcase-sized apartment in Fontainebleau and enjoying the experience. It was a very social campus, and everyone either threw dinenr parties or attended them every night. A few dinner parties chez nous later, A felt rather apologetic about the fact that we didn't serve non-veg, since veg moi was the chef on offer. He finally decided the situation was too embarassing and decided to cook some chicken.
Having first sourced the recipe from his mom, he considerately asked me to stay away and chill in the bedroom while he took over the kitchen/ living room - he knew I might feel sick at the sight of raw meat. A few minutes later, he dashed in. "Do you know what's cumin? And what does cloves mean? Do we have any? What is cinnamon - is it a vegetable?" I took pity on him and offered to lay out all the necessary spices for him, and then retired to my solitary splendour.
About fifteen minutes later, when my eyes and sinuses were on fire from the smells emanating from the kitchen, he dashed in again. "Mom said to cook the onions till they turn brown. What share of brown - should they be light brown like sand or dark brown like chocolate?" I ran to the kitchen, took one look at the pan and collapsed. There were onion cinders at the bottom of the pan!!!
Having said that, with a little help and an inspired addition of yoghurt by me, the chicken dish actually turned out to be delicious and is still remembered by our friends. (I have to say this else A may kill me!)
Sometime later, when we were back in India, we attended an art exhibition at the Habitat center, and A really liked some paintings by an artist called Dhananjay. Since we had decided to start collecting art in a modest way, we made the artist an offer in his visitor’s book and left – the painting would only be delivered after the exhibition was over. Some days later, the artist called and said he’d come over and deliver the painting that evening.
He turned up clutching two paintings under his arm, and we started talking about this, that and the other. Then he turned to us earnestly and said, “I’m going to show you two paintings from my collection. Yeh pyaar hai. Isko aap separate mat karna. Is pyaar ko aap ikhatte rakhna.”
A and I rose up in each other’s estimation as people capable of having a somewhat metaphysical discussion on the nature of love with an artist, and this conversation continued for a few minutes more before it dawned on us. The artist happened to be Bengali, and what he was really saying to us was, “This is a pair of paintings. Please keep the pair together!”
Actually, we had so much drama for so many years before we actually got married that I think our married life is actually pretty tame by comparison. But just before we got married, after opposing the concept for several years, my parents finally came around, just about a month before A and I were to take off for INSEAD in France. And they obviously wanted to meet A's parents and discuss arrangements. We decided to do it on neutral ground and halfway between the two parental homes, which were really far apart - for those who know Delhi, A's parents lived in the Univ area and mine live in Gurgaon! So we decided on IIC as a venue. His parents, mine and A and me were to converge there after A and I finished work one evening. I was quite nervous as to how this meeting would go off, whether they would hate each other at first sight...let's say I was like the anxious mother of a potential bride in an arranged marriage seeing-the-girl situation.
That cold winter day, I had worn a very chic black and white wool dress to work. While I was out for a meeting, as I stepped out of the car, I felt a super-cold draught of air riding up my back. 'Wow, really cold day!', I thought to myself in typical late-bloomer/ tubelight style. Then suddenly it dawned on me. The hip to neck zip of the dress had parted way, all the way!!! My entire back, including..err, innerwear, was on display! Thankfully I had also grabbed a matching cape that morning so I slung it around my back, Jayalalitha style and marched regally to the meeting. By dint of moving slowly and carefully as if I had a ramrod up my a**, I managed the meeting without the client realising that anything was wrong with me apart from an unusual stiffness.
I hunted frantically for safety pins back at office but in these modern days of western wear, nobody was wearing anything like a mangalsutra with a chain of safety pins slung on it. How I missed sari-clad women that day! It was already going on afternoon on a really busy day, so I couldn't slink off and buy a new outfit so I dialled mom and told her to schlep an outfit for me when she arrived at IIC that evening.
As it happened, A's parents, mine and A and I converged upon IIC at the exact same time. By this time, the discomfort of officially meeting my inlaws with my back hanging out of my dress was too high to be borne. Muttering a hasty hello, I grabbed the pack of clothes from mom and disappeared in the direction of the rest room, leaving it to poor A, who hadn't even officially met my parents yet, to manage all the awkwardness of introductions and greetings. What my parents in law thought of me disappearing, in a chic dress, and reappearing in a demure salwar kameez, courtesy Mom, I can only imagine! Must have been a rude shock for them later, methinks :)
My parents, sister and I are very fond of pranks, puns, jokes and so on. Shortly after A and I got married, we moved to my parents place to stay for a few days. The first night, as dad left our room after seeing that we had everything we needed, I called after him, "Good night. Sudarimasu!" That was our elongated family version of 'Sweet dreams'. A looked at me, puzzled, and asked what I was saying. I told him it was Japanese for 'sleep well'. He was maha impressed by my family's ability to assimilate foreign languages into our daily routine :)
Within ten days of marriage, A and I were living in a suitcase-sized apartment in Fontainebleau and enjoying the experience. It was a very social campus, and everyone either threw dinenr parties or attended them every night. A few dinner parties chez nous later, A felt rather apologetic about the fact that we didn't serve non-veg, since veg moi was the chef on offer. He finally decided the situation was too embarassing and decided to cook some chicken.
Having first sourced the recipe from his mom, he considerately asked me to stay away and chill in the bedroom while he took over the kitchen/ living room - he knew I might feel sick at the sight of raw meat. A few minutes later, he dashed in. "Do you know what's cumin? And what does cloves mean? Do we have any? What is cinnamon - is it a vegetable?" I took pity on him and offered to lay out all the necessary spices for him, and then retired to my solitary splendour.
About fifteen minutes later, when my eyes and sinuses were on fire from the smells emanating from the kitchen, he dashed in again. "Mom said to cook the onions till they turn brown. What share of brown - should they be light brown like sand or dark brown like chocolate?" I ran to the kitchen, took one look at the pan and collapsed. There were onion cinders at the bottom of the pan!!!
Having said that, with a little help and an inspired addition of yoghurt by me, the chicken dish actually turned out to be delicious and is still remembered by our friends. (I have to say this else A may kill me!)
Sometime later, when we were back in India, we attended an art exhibition at the Habitat center, and A really liked some paintings by an artist called Dhananjay. Since we had decided to start collecting art in a modest way, we made the artist an offer in his visitor’s book and left – the painting would only be delivered after the exhibition was over. Some days later, the artist called and said he’d come over and deliver the painting that evening.
He turned up clutching two paintings under his arm, and we started talking about this, that and the other. Then he turned to us earnestly and said, “I’m going to show you two paintings from my collection. Yeh pyaar hai. Isko aap separate mat karna. Is pyaar ko aap ikhatte rakhna.”
A and I rose up in each other’s estimation as people capable of having a somewhat metaphysical discussion on the nature of love with an artist, and this conversation continued for a few minutes more before it dawned on us. The artist happened to be Bengali, and what he was really saying to us was, “This is a pair of paintings. Please keep the pair together!”
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Chubbocks is 9
How time marches on. It seems like yesterday that I was freaking out at having gotten pregnant, obviously without any planning ( in fact A and I joke about it being an immaculate conception given how stressed both of us were with new jobs at the time, but that's really not material for a mommy blog, now is it?). I think Dad had figured it out much before it dawned on either of us. And now he's 9. Almost a teenager, and by the behaviour, sometimes I think he's in his early teen years already.
When I look at old photos of his, I almost can't recognise the chubby-cheeked character who peers out, I'm so used to his gangly, bony form with its jeans falling off the non-existent backside.
But despite his terrible temper - inherited, I shan't say from which side of the family - and occasional tantrums, he is for the most part a really simple little kid. A couple of years ago, he commented that we couldn't get him a Wii or Playstation 'because we don't live in an apartment or a hotel. If we did we could afford it", and has hardly ever pestered us about it. He is a fashion disaster in the making, so eager to go out and play that he wears his jeans back to front and Tshirts inside out and doesn't even notice, and whinges to be allowed to wear his battered crocs because they are 'so comfortable'. He begs and pleads to be allowed to download a new computer game that costs about a dollar and then doesn't even bother to ask for a proper birthday present.
I find that quite amazing, given that I read about kids decked out in designer labels from head to toe, or overhear them compare their father's car brands and rag each other about it.
For Chubbocks, all is well in his world as long as he gets his quota of screen time and a stack of books to read. He still insists that we read out a story to him each night, though his reading level is advanced enough for him to have finished the Harry Potter series already. He's developed a really good sense of humour and creates little riddles and jokes all the time. He's known as the little encyclopedia in school because of the facts he has at his command about any topic. And he's the evolving elder brother, sometimes bossing over ( or trying to boss over) his siblings, and yet super-protective of them, always ready to intervene with us when we're getting upset with them.
I think we're in for a few challenges going forward though. The first signs of rebellion and angst are already in, as evidenced by his tantrums. He's no longer content to obey instantly, or unquestioningly. There are times when he insists something is true/ he's done something correctly despite all evidence to the contrary. He's unfortunately a very bright and talented child - unfortunate because things come so easy to him that he hasn't needed to work hard at them, and being patient or persevering doesn't come naturally to him as it does to Puddi.
He's also going through a phase where he feels more controls being put upon him - more homework, more expectations in terms of behaviour at home and at school - whereas he sees his siblings get a freer rein. In his mind, there are no distinctions between him and them so he's getting very angsty about it. We've seen more tantrums, some instances of defiance and many hyper-emotional moments - "This is the worst day of my life, I wish I was never born" type. I was hoping we had a little time before we got to it. I've lived through my adolescence and let's just say, I don't wish myself in my parents shoes!
Anyway, I guess we'll get through - everyone does. Meanwhile I'm just going to enjoy the good moments, of which there are many!
When I look at old photos of his, I almost can't recognise the chubby-cheeked character who peers out, I'm so used to his gangly, bony form with its jeans falling off the non-existent backside.
But despite his terrible temper - inherited, I shan't say from which side of the family - and occasional tantrums, he is for the most part a really simple little kid. A couple of years ago, he commented that we couldn't get him a Wii or Playstation 'because we don't live in an apartment or a hotel. If we did we could afford it", and has hardly ever pestered us about it. He is a fashion disaster in the making, so eager to go out and play that he wears his jeans back to front and Tshirts inside out and doesn't even notice, and whinges to be allowed to wear his battered crocs because they are 'so comfortable'. He begs and pleads to be allowed to download a new computer game that costs about a dollar and then doesn't even bother to ask for a proper birthday present.
I find that quite amazing, given that I read about kids decked out in designer labels from head to toe, or overhear them compare their father's car brands and rag each other about it.
For Chubbocks, all is well in his world as long as he gets his quota of screen time and a stack of books to read. He still insists that we read out a story to him each night, though his reading level is advanced enough for him to have finished the Harry Potter series already. He's developed a really good sense of humour and creates little riddles and jokes all the time. He's known as the little encyclopedia in school because of the facts he has at his command about any topic. And he's the evolving elder brother, sometimes bossing over ( or trying to boss over) his siblings, and yet super-protective of them, always ready to intervene with us when we're getting upset with them.
I think we're in for a few challenges going forward though. The first signs of rebellion and angst are already in, as evidenced by his tantrums. He's no longer content to obey instantly, or unquestioningly. There are times when he insists something is true/ he's done something correctly despite all evidence to the contrary. He's unfortunately a very bright and talented child - unfortunate because things come so easy to him that he hasn't needed to work hard at them, and being patient or persevering doesn't come naturally to him as it does to Puddi.
He's also going through a phase where he feels more controls being put upon him - more homework, more expectations in terms of behaviour at home and at school - whereas he sees his siblings get a freer rein. In his mind, there are no distinctions between him and them so he's getting very angsty about it. We've seen more tantrums, some instances of defiance and many hyper-emotional moments - "This is the worst day of my life, I wish I was never born" type. I was hoping we had a little time before we got to it. I've lived through my adolescence and let's just say, I don't wish myself in my parents shoes!
Anyway, I guess we'll get through - everyone does. Meanwhile I'm just going to enjoy the good moments, of which there are many!
Friday, March 2, 2012
Life with Jerry
As a friend sternly pointed out to me recently, “I don’t know if it’s third child syndrome, but I feel I hardly know Bojjandi, whereas I know the other two rather well through your blog”. Duly guilty and chastened, I have finally sat down to fill the gap. Especially since the primary reason for starting the blog was so they would have reference material in case I was gaga by the time their kids came around - and the way the three of them behave sometimes, I hope I will be!
So…Bojjandi really reminds me of Jerry from the Tom and Jerry cartoons. I don’t know whether it’s because of his hyper-energetic body language or his chubby cheeks, pointy chin and cheeky expression which remind me of Jerry’s looks, minus the big ears. He’s an action mn from the minute he wakes up in the morning, and quite stubborn about what he wants. His day starts with plaintive wails of ‘Abba, take me down’, and he gets quite annoyed if left to sleep in. Next comes a run into the kitchen and a perch on its counter for his Yakult – since our pal has given up milk since he was weaned off the bottle about a year and a half ago – talk about stubborn! Thankfully he loves Yakult – so much so that he’s constantly pretending he hasn’t already had one, so he can have another bottle of it!
He’s a real mischief-a-minute baby, constantly looking for the next thing he could get into trouble for. Jerry, excuse me, Bojji is happiest when he’s scurrying around at a fast pace – whether he’s running around the house on his tiptoes, jumping off furniture perilously close to hitting his head on a chance occasional table or so, zipping around the house on his scooter, or ramming his bicycle into walls when forbiddenly riding it indoors. He’s a crazy chatter-box, whose stream of commentary, plaintive pleading, arguments and general purpose chat don’t stop even when he’s asleep.
I expect a flock of penguins to come take up residence in our house any day now, given his habit of opening the fridge every 15 minutes to sniff out a new snack. He’s also the supreme techno-freak in our house, even more than his dad and elder brother. As soon as his eyes open in the morning, he’s plaintively asking for the mobile phone, dad’s new galaxy note or the iPadeesh as he calls it. If thwarted, he stands on tiptoe on top of the sofa to reach the iPod and starts spinning through the tracks. In fact, I’d say he’s better versed in the technology than me (no great accomplishment J) – he’s the one who figured out how to switch on the iPod on the iPad first. We joke that he’s the kid easiest to kidnap – all it takes is a fancy mobile phone!
He loves music and any time he hears a tune, starts wiggling his bum in time to the rhythm immediately. One of the cutest things I have seen is that he’ll turn the iPod on to play a favourite song (currently Sadda Haq), switch on a blue spotlight in our living room and start dancing underneath it all by himself. It really reminds me of those T&J sequences where J is dancing ecstatically. In fact, he amazed me during a concert at Chubbocks’ school, when he identified a song within the first bars of it playing!
He thinks he’s no less than either of his siblings in terms of size or ability and constantly psyches me out by trying stunts that a toddler really shouldn’t be. He turns wheelies on his cycle or balances his whole body on the crossbar of it while I watch, my heart in my mouth, thinking he’s going to tumble off and hit his head. He keeps telling me he needs to ‘feed my neopets’, an activity actually done by Chubbocks and he has no clue what it means. He constantly argues with his siblings as to the rights and wrongs of whatever game they are playing, and watches Oggy and laughs right along with the elder two at the jokes. In fact, he’s got a definite sense of humour and loves knock-knock jokes.
Knock-knock
Who’s there?
Ach
Ach-who?
Thatsh a nashty cold!
Knock-knock
Who’s there?
Mister
Mister who?
Mister Plod
….and so on an infinitum, with all the characters from his favourite books and TV shows.
At bedtime, listening to stories, he’s hugely inquisitive, asking dozens of questions about every word he doesn’t understand, or the motivations of characters. He can never wait for the story to be told and keeps flipping forwards and back through the book, exasperating Puddi and Chubbocks no end. He grouches about the fact that we don’t sit on his bed ever ( it’s a crib) – in our highly litigious household, we have regulated that we will sit on a each child’s bed to tell bedtime stories alternately; we have also legislated that the child whose choice of story is told first will be the last to get his/ her back scratched.
And then, as Morpheus gets closer, he turns into a confused little cuddle-bunny. He keeps repeating a catchphrase over and over – it could be ‘abba, abba…’ or Mamma, mamma…’. He makes a deal with us every night that if he has a bad dream, he will come into our bed. And 6 nights out of 7, as A and I prepare to sleep, there will be a polite tap-tapping on our door. It’ll continue despite our shouts to ‘come on in and close the door’, and one of us have to ceremoniously open the door and invite the polite interloper in. At which point, he promptly demands my favourite pillow, lies down smack bang in the middle of the bed and shoved his chubby little arm down my sleeve. Caressing my arm makes him sleepy, apparently.
So…Bojjandi really reminds me of Jerry from the Tom and Jerry cartoons. I don’t know whether it’s because of his hyper-energetic body language or his chubby cheeks, pointy chin and cheeky expression which remind me of Jerry’s looks, minus the big ears. He’s an action mn from the minute he wakes up in the morning, and quite stubborn about what he wants. His day starts with plaintive wails of ‘Abba, take me down’, and he gets quite annoyed if left to sleep in. Next comes a run into the kitchen and a perch on its counter for his Yakult – since our pal has given up milk since he was weaned off the bottle about a year and a half ago – talk about stubborn! Thankfully he loves Yakult – so much so that he’s constantly pretending he hasn’t already had one, so he can have another bottle of it!
He’s a real mischief-a-minute baby, constantly looking for the next thing he could get into trouble for. Jerry, excuse me, Bojji is happiest when he’s scurrying around at a fast pace – whether he’s running around the house on his tiptoes, jumping off furniture perilously close to hitting his head on a chance occasional table or so, zipping around the house on his scooter, or ramming his bicycle into walls when forbiddenly riding it indoors. He’s a crazy chatter-box, whose stream of commentary, plaintive pleading, arguments and general purpose chat don’t stop even when he’s asleep.
I expect a flock of penguins to come take up residence in our house any day now, given his habit of opening the fridge every 15 minutes to sniff out a new snack. He’s also the supreme techno-freak in our house, even more than his dad and elder brother. As soon as his eyes open in the morning, he’s plaintively asking for the mobile phone, dad’s new galaxy note or the iPadeesh as he calls it. If thwarted, he stands on tiptoe on top of the sofa to reach the iPod and starts spinning through the tracks. In fact, I’d say he’s better versed in the technology than me (no great accomplishment J) – he’s the one who figured out how to switch on the iPod on the iPad first. We joke that he’s the kid easiest to kidnap – all it takes is a fancy mobile phone!
He loves music and any time he hears a tune, starts wiggling his bum in time to the rhythm immediately. One of the cutest things I have seen is that he’ll turn the iPod on to play a favourite song (currently Sadda Haq), switch on a blue spotlight in our living room and start dancing underneath it all by himself. It really reminds me of those T&J sequences where J is dancing ecstatically. In fact, he amazed me during a concert at Chubbocks’ school, when he identified a song within the first bars of it playing!
He thinks he’s no less than either of his siblings in terms of size or ability and constantly psyches me out by trying stunts that a toddler really shouldn’t be. He turns wheelies on his cycle or balances his whole body on the crossbar of it while I watch, my heart in my mouth, thinking he’s going to tumble off and hit his head. He keeps telling me he needs to ‘feed my neopets’, an activity actually done by Chubbocks and he has no clue what it means. He constantly argues with his siblings as to the rights and wrongs of whatever game they are playing, and watches Oggy and laughs right along with the elder two at the jokes. In fact, he’s got a definite sense of humour and loves knock-knock jokes.
Knock-knock
Who’s there?
Ach
Ach-who?
Thatsh a nashty cold!
Knock-knock
Who’s there?
Mister
Mister who?
Mister Plod
….and so on an infinitum, with all the characters from his favourite books and TV shows.
At bedtime, listening to stories, he’s hugely inquisitive, asking dozens of questions about every word he doesn’t understand, or the motivations of characters. He can never wait for the story to be told and keeps flipping forwards and back through the book, exasperating Puddi and Chubbocks no end. He grouches about the fact that we don’t sit on his bed ever ( it’s a crib) – in our highly litigious household, we have regulated that we will sit on a each child’s bed to tell bedtime stories alternately; we have also legislated that the child whose choice of story is told first will be the last to get his/ her back scratched.
And then, as Morpheus gets closer, he turns into a confused little cuddle-bunny. He keeps repeating a catchphrase over and over – it could be ‘abba, abba…’ or Mamma, mamma…’. He makes a deal with us every night that if he has a bad dream, he will come into our bed. And 6 nights out of 7, as A and I prepare to sleep, there will be a polite tap-tapping on our door. It’ll continue despite our shouts to ‘come on in and close the door’, and one of us have to ceremoniously open the door and invite the polite interloper in. At which point, he promptly demands my favourite pillow, lies down smack bang in the middle of the bed and shoved his chubby little arm down my sleeve. Caressing my arm makes him sleepy, apparently.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Kids...
are so complex, they should seriously come with an instruction manual. Take Puddi, for example. She's a complete Chulbul Pandey, mad as they come and with a snappy answer for everything. And then there's the opposite side, soft as a marshmallow, soft as her pillow lips or her fat cheeks...
One night A had taken Chubbocks and Puddi up to bed and left them there, while coming back down to haul Bojjandi up. Chubbocks was fast asleep when A left them there. When he went back up, Puddi had put her head onto Chubbocks and was stroking his forehead where he lay. "He was tired so I'm just rubbing his head".
She's enrolled in Kuchipudi classes which take place within our gated community. I use the kids' park time to finish work so I said I'd leave her there and pick her up after class. Her eyes filled up with big fat tears...and this is the same child who doesn't get fazed while being left in ballet class, which takes place well outside and far from home. The same child who insisted on trying to light all the fountains and chakris at Diwali...go figure!
In other news, Chubbocks has now enrolled in tennis lessons and seems to have some aptitude for the game. He also had his second sleepover - his first was when he was 5 - too young - and enjoyed himself thoroughly. Though, as usual given his temperament, he vacillated for days before deciding to go ahead and would have backed out even on the day, given the option. In fact he asked me to go drop him rather than going to his friend's with the driver, which is the norm. But thankfully, had a great time, the same friend also came over and had a sleepover chez nous later, so my little boy is growing up!
Bojjandi meanwhile continues to be a nutcase, very active and full of beans. Chatty as soon as he wakes up, with long, long sentences, paragraphs rather , of chitchat. He's rather adorably enamored of me at the moment, so I get chortles of glee when I go pick him up from school: mama you came to pick me up yourshelf!; or, if I ever have a lie-in in the morning and come down late: Mama, I wash misshing you...I'm storing it up for the day, soon enough, when he turns his cheek away from my kiss!
One night A had taken Chubbocks and Puddi up to bed and left them there, while coming back down to haul Bojjandi up. Chubbocks was fast asleep when A left them there. When he went back up, Puddi had put her head onto Chubbocks and was stroking his forehead where he lay. "He was tired so I'm just rubbing his head".
She's enrolled in Kuchipudi classes which take place within our gated community. I use the kids' park time to finish work so I said I'd leave her there and pick her up after class. Her eyes filled up with big fat tears...and this is the same child who doesn't get fazed while being left in ballet class, which takes place well outside and far from home. The same child who insisted on trying to light all the fountains and chakris at Diwali...go figure!
In other news, Chubbocks has now enrolled in tennis lessons and seems to have some aptitude for the game. He also had his second sleepover - his first was when he was 5 - too young - and enjoyed himself thoroughly. Though, as usual given his temperament, he vacillated for days before deciding to go ahead and would have backed out even on the day, given the option. In fact he asked me to go drop him rather than going to his friend's with the driver, which is the norm. But thankfully, had a great time, the same friend also came over and had a sleepover chez nous later, so my little boy is growing up!
Bojjandi meanwhile continues to be a nutcase, very active and full of beans. Chatty as soon as he wakes up, with long, long sentences, paragraphs rather , of chitchat. He's rather adorably enamored of me at the moment, so I get chortles of glee when I go pick him up from school: mama you came to pick me up yourshelf!; or, if I ever have a lie-in in the morning and come down late: Mama, I wash misshing you...I'm storing it up for the day, soon enough, when he turns his cheek away from my kiss!
Monday, August 8, 2011
A subversive manual for my kids
Kids, you’re only going to be reading this when you’re 18, not before!!! So, I feel I can pass on some words of subversive wisdom from my experience as a teenager and beyond, though as the parent of an 18 year old, I may not be that happy at you following through!
At 18, the country thinks you’re old enough to decide its future, by voting. And that you’re old enough and mature enough, physically and emotionally, to be legally married. I’m assuming that by the time you’ve spent 18 years under my roof, I’ll have done as good a job as I’m ever going to do in terms of teaching you the right values – respect for others, tolerance, integrity, being sensible, not drinking and driving, not doing drugs, safe sex…I also hope I’ll have taught you enough about thinking for yourself by then.
So, if there’s a conflict that comes up between us from here on, be it in terms of what you should study, how you should dress, whom you should fall in love with, what kind of career you should choose, whom you should marry, where to live…listen to my opinion – as someone who loves you beyond belief, I deserve that respect – but make up your own mind on what’s important to you. Make your own decisions. I hope I’ll have become mature enough to let you go and not try to force you into obedience, but in case I haven’t, ignore me. And yes, you can refer to this blog post and hoist me with my own petard at that point.
Here’s why I think it’s important that you should make your own decisions:
1. It’s your life. You have to own it. It’s better you take responsibility for it sooner rather than later and shape it as per your dreams…I’d hate for you to turn that around at some ripe old age when you feel you haven’t lived it as per your dreams and hold me responsible for ruining it.
2. As a parent, it’s possible I might be over-protective, like my parents were of me. I might want to spare you from the consequences of your choices, emotional, mental or physical. But here’s the thing. Experience is something that can’t be passed on, it can only be personally bought, and usually at the cost of some pain. If I try and spare you that pain in a misguided effort to keep you safe, you may never learn how to deal with pain that comes at a time that I can’t protect you from it. The only way you’ll learn to survive in life is by taking risks, emotional and physical, and dealing with the fallout.
3. Your life and your growing years are in a completely different milieu than the one I grew up in, and the world you live in is very different. Try as I might, while I may understand some parts of it, I can never comprehend the whole of it. In a way, that’s what the generation gap is all about right? Firstly that I can’t be 18 again and feel the same emotions again, and that therefore my perspective on what you’re going through is different. And secondly that society and the world have changed from the time I was 18. Therefore if I try to guide you based on my past experience, my point of view is bound to be either outdated or unrealistic on many things. You really think Sergei Brin’s mum told him to start Google? Or Amelia Earhart’s dad told her to go fly a plane?
And here’s some advice for me:
1. Be proud of your kids not for achieving things that you wished for them but for achieving their dreams
2. Be happy when your kids are happy, not when they are following your wishes
3. Don't feel hurt if they decide to do something contrary to your advice - they're doing what they need to do
4. Be grateful that your kids can think for themselves and that they dare to counter your point of view. It’s going to be critical for them as they grow up and go out into the world that they be able to challenge the establishment and have independent ways of thinking.
5. Remember to have Band-Aids(physical and emotional) and champagne, both handy at all times
5.
At 18, the country thinks you’re old enough to decide its future, by voting. And that you’re old enough and mature enough, physically and emotionally, to be legally married. I’m assuming that by the time you’ve spent 18 years under my roof, I’ll have done as good a job as I’m ever going to do in terms of teaching you the right values – respect for others, tolerance, integrity, being sensible, not drinking and driving, not doing drugs, safe sex…I also hope I’ll have taught you enough about thinking for yourself by then.
So, if there’s a conflict that comes up between us from here on, be it in terms of what you should study, how you should dress, whom you should fall in love with, what kind of career you should choose, whom you should marry, where to live…listen to my opinion – as someone who loves you beyond belief, I deserve that respect – but make up your own mind on what’s important to you. Make your own decisions. I hope I’ll have become mature enough to let you go and not try to force you into obedience, but in case I haven’t, ignore me. And yes, you can refer to this blog post and hoist me with my own petard at that point.
Here’s why I think it’s important that you should make your own decisions:
1. It’s your life. You have to own it. It’s better you take responsibility for it sooner rather than later and shape it as per your dreams…I’d hate for you to turn that around at some ripe old age when you feel you haven’t lived it as per your dreams and hold me responsible for ruining it.
2. As a parent, it’s possible I might be over-protective, like my parents were of me. I might want to spare you from the consequences of your choices, emotional, mental or physical. But here’s the thing. Experience is something that can’t be passed on, it can only be personally bought, and usually at the cost of some pain. If I try and spare you that pain in a misguided effort to keep you safe, you may never learn how to deal with pain that comes at a time that I can’t protect you from it. The only way you’ll learn to survive in life is by taking risks, emotional and physical, and dealing with the fallout.
3. Your life and your growing years are in a completely different milieu than the one I grew up in, and the world you live in is very different. Try as I might, while I may understand some parts of it, I can never comprehend the whole of it. In a way, that’s what the generation gap is all about right? Firstly that I can’t be 18 again and feel the same emotions again, and that therefore my perspective on what you’re going through is different. And secondly that society and the world have changed from the time I was 18. Therefore if I try to guide you based on my past experience, my point of view is bound to be either outdated or unrealistic on many things. You really think Sergei Brin’s mum told him to start Google? Or Amelia Earhart’s dad told her to go fly a plane?
And here’s some advice for me:
1. Be proud of your kids not for achieving things that you wished for them but for achieving their dreams
2. Be happy when your kids are happy, not when they are following your wishes
3. Don't feel hurt if they decide to do something contrary to your advice - they're doing what they need to do
4. Be grateful that your kids can think for themselves and that they dare to counter your point of view. It’s going to be critical for them as they grow up and go out into the world that they be able to challenge the establishment and have independent ways of thinking.
5. Remember to have Band-Aids(physical and emotional) and champagne, both handy at all times
5.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Carefree summer
remember my summer holidays, like they were yesterday. The long, fun train rides down south, for close to 2 or more days. Lying on the hot upper berth, with the fan throwing more hot air around, in a languid daze. Making friends with ramdon people in the compartment, teaming up with new kids and becoming instant best friends, chasing each other up and down the bogie and playing card games. Looking out of the window at the passing procession of India, state after state, tunnels, rivers, forests and towns...Sharing food with people from across the country, eating a variety that one never got at home...
And then, getting to our destination, the sense of growing anticipation as we got closet to the station. Peering out of the window to see which of the relatives had come to receive us and take us home. Hanging out at my grandparents' house in Bangalore, reading my way through Oliver Twist and other classics, and years of issues of Reader's Digests from the '50s onwards.Then Mysore, where my favourite cousins lived.
We spent the whole day doing God-knows-what, with little or no adult supervision or interference. Our 'park' was a tiny temple opposite our house, and we spent the day swinging on the vines of the Banyan tree that grew there. We spent hours chatting and giggling over each meal, so much so that the adults would finish their meal and only then serve us, so that they could be done fast. At night, dad and uncle would get ready for the invasion of their myriad cousins and friends, who'd drop by to supposedly say Hi, then stay on for a meal, then drinks and endless games of 28 interspersed with airings of many old skeletons. Family gossip sessions were another highlight, and we kids would desperately rub the sleep out of our eyes and stay awake to hear all the anecdotes.
I'm a working mom, and though my parents live just down the road from us, they have been away almost every summer since I had kids, visiting my sister in the US. So my kids, starting with Chubbocks, have been enrolled in summer camps. They have been great fun, from dramatic activities to an 'Around the world' series last year, arts and crafts, games and so on. And they have helped my kids stay busy and occupied at least for part of the day, given that both A and I would be out most of the day.
But I've always felt a little bit guilty and somewhat sad thinking of their summers. To think that they'll never understand the concept of unstructured time that they get to decide what to do with. To think that they'll never figure out what's it's like to create their own amusements and occupations, from fighting with each other to playing, getting up to mischief, gossipping, reading and all the rets of it. To imagine that they'll never have a time to remember when all the kids crowded into one room and slept huddled up together on mattresses on the floor, giggling helplessly at silly jokes and staying up late to play pranks on each other.
And so this summer. My parents are here until a week before the kids school reopens. A and I have to go to France and decided to go solo, sans kids, so they'll get a real experience of 'staying at grandma's, rather than visiting back and forth as they do everyday. I have consciously not enrolled them into any summer activities, hoping that they'll soon get into the rhythm of keeping themselves busy on their own. And later when my sister comes over, we're doing a weeklong family vacation, starting with a train trip to Bangalore with my parents and then a visit down memory lane to Mysore, where we all plan to stay together.
I guess the cousins will have many differences, from age-group to accents, disciplines and schedules. But I'm hoping that we parents can find it in ourselves to let it go and chill, and let the, find their own levels. I want to give them a slice of my own childhood summers to remember.
Crossposted at desimoms
And then, getting to our destination, the sense of growing anticipation as we got closet to the station. Peering out of the window to see which of the relatives had come to receive us and take us home. Hanging out at my grandparents' house in Bangalore, reading my way through Oliver Twist and other classics, and years of issues of Reader's Digests from the '50s onwards.Then Mysore, where my favourite cousins lived.
We spent the whole day doing God-knows-what, with little or no adult supervision or interference. Our 'park' was a tiny temple opposite our house, and we spent the day swinging on the vines of the Banyan tree that grew there. We spent hours chatting and giggling over each meal, so much so that the adults would finish their meal and only then serve us, so that they could be done fast. At night, dad and uncle would get ready for the invasion of their myriad cousins and friends, who'd drop by to supposedly say Hi, then stay on for a meal, then drinks and endless games of 28 interspersed with airings of many old skeletons. Family gossip sessions were another highlight, and we kids would desperately rub the sleep out of our eyes and stay awake to hear all the anecdotes.
I'm a working mom, and though my parents live just down the road from us, they have been away almost every summer since I had kids, visiting my sister in the US. So my kids, starting with Chubbocks, have been enrolled in summer camps. They have been great fun, from dramatic activities to an 'Around the world' series last year, arts and crafts, games and so on. And they have helped my kids stay busy and occupied at least for part of the day, given that both A and I would be out most of the day.
But I've always felt a little bit guilty and somewhat sad thinking of their summers. To think that they'll never understand the concept of unstructured time that they get to decide what to do with. To think that they'll never figure out what's it's like to create their own amusements and occupations, from fighting with each other to playing, getting up to mischief, gossipping, reading and all the rets of it. To imagine that they'll never have a time to remember when all the kids crowded into one room and slept huddled up together on mattresses on the floor, giggling helplessly at silly jokes and staying up late to play pranks on each other.
And so this summer. My parents are here until a week before the kids school reopens. A and I have to go to France and decided to go solo, sans kids, so they'll get a real experience of 'staying at grandma's, rather than visiting back and forth as they do everyday. I have consciously not enrolled them into any summer activities, hoping that they'll soon get into the rhythm of keeping themselves busy on their own. And later when my sister comes over, we're doing a weeklong family vacation, starting with a train trip to Bangalore with my parents and then a visit down memory lane to Mysore, where we all plan to stay together.
I guess the cousins will have many differences, from age-group to accents, disciplines and schedules. But I'm hoping that we parents can find it in ourselves to let it go and chill, and let the, find their own levels. I want to give them a slice of my own childhood summers to remember.
Crossposted at desimoms
Long overdue updates
I have hardly been blogging of late, but decide it's high time I wrote down what the kids have been up to. Chubbocks has finished Class 2 with his usual effortless performance so far ( brags moi :)) and moved up to Class 3. He's now 8, supposedly grown up. But the boy is a marshmallow inside.
We were giving up our Photon connection because it gave us dismal connectivity. Chubbocks mounted a full campaign asking us not to give it up. Finally he came down to begging us that even if we disconnected it, we should keep the modem somewhere safe, "else it's feelings will get hurt." I was cleaning out the kids playroom recently and came across a box full of soft toys, which the kids have hardly ever played with. I had the maid put them into a bag, preparatory to giving them away. That night I found Chubbocks, soft brown eyes full of concern. "Please don't throw them away. They are my babies!" Now that bag has been transported into an attic, half the contents piled on Chubbocks' bed, with barely enough space on the bed for him to be able to turn over.
Puddi is another thing altogether. She's crazy about art and runs riot with paint, crayons and colour pencils. She spends hours every day quietly engrossed in making a new work of art. I get the distinct feeling she is artistically gifted, going by her efforts so far. She's also an enthusiastic performer on stage. Her puppet dance came in for an encore on the day that we had PTA meetings, and she performed with the same gusto as she had done on stage. Last week she had a ballet performance. Her bit was pretty minor, but she was hilarious. The child next to her had forgotten her steps and refused to stand up on cue. So Puddi just reaches over and hauls her to her feet, gesticulating wildly to remind her of the steps :)
She's also growing into a lovely sister and a great middle child. She's equally happy running riot with Bojjandi or with Chubbocks. She plays board games, argues with Chubbocks, has long arguments and nonsense conversations with him. They fight all the time and irritate each other, yet her eyes well up when he gets scolded. He gets rather hyper at bedtime and competes fiercely for who will get Abba to sit on their bed first, and she's so quick to give in to keep him happy! Then, with Bojjandi, she's riotously running and tumbling around the house and making him laugh. We were out for dinner the other day, and Bojjandi wanted a bite of her dessert. Not only did she readily agree to share but she maternally and responsibly told him to sit down neatly next to her and fed him with such loving care.
And then there's Bojjandi, the most mischievous, rascally urchin in our house. His speech, both in English and Hindi, has grown by leaps and bounds, and he rattles off long sentences, even paragraphs. His communication skills are terrific and he is easily understood by all of us at home, even if newcomers find it hard to figure him out. That's because his 'r's and 'l's are still 'y' sounds, which is adorable and I really want him to stay that way fro as long as possible.
He's like a dashing movie hero - dashing around the hosue at all times. One of the loudest voices in the house too. Very fond of opening the fridge and scavenging for anythign interesting that he can find, from dahi to chutney, chocolates to cheese. Stubborn as a mule, he still hasn't touched milk after we threw away his bottles six months ago! Assertive and more than capable of holding his own against either Chubbocks or Puddi. And when he gets really affectionate towards you - watch out. He'll come and 'kench' you ( pinch) realy hard, with a fierce expression and gritted pearly teeth. or launch himself at you like a missile and pound away with his chubby fists. He loves his Noddy scooter and his favourite thing is, at night after he's changed into pajamas, to come riding into the family room on the scooter, long, unruly curls blowing behind him, like those old-fashioned Bollywood hero-introduction shots :)
We were giving up our Photon connection because it gave us dismal connectivity. Chubbocks mounted a full campaign asking us not to give it up. Finally he came down to begging us that even if we disconnected it, we should keep the modem somewhere safe, "else it's feelings will get hurt." I was cleaning out the kids playroom recently and came across a box full of soft toys, which the kids have hardly ever played with. I had the maid put them into a bag, preparatory to giving them away. That night I found Chubbocks, soft brown eyes full of concern. "Please don't throw them away. They are my babies!" Now that bag has been transported into an attic, half the contents piled on Chubbocks' bed, with barely enough space on the bed for him to be able to turn over.
Puddi is another thing altogether. She's crazy about art and runs riot with paint, crayons and colour pencils. She spends hours every day quietly engrossed in making a new work of art. I get the distinct feeling she is artistically gifted, going by her efforts so far. She's also an enthusiastic performer on stage. Her puppet dance came in for an encore on the day that we had PTA meetings, and she performed with the same gusto as she had done on stage. Last week she had a ballet performance. Her bit was pretty minor, but she was hilarious. The child next to her had forgotten her steps and refused to stand up on cue. So Puddi just reaches over and hauls her to her feet, gesticulating wildly to remind her of the steps :)
She's also growing into a lovely sister and a great middle child. She's equally happy running riot with Bojjandi or with Chubbocks. She plays board games, argues with Chubbocks, has long arguments and nonsense conversations with him. They fight all the time and irritate each other, yet her eyes well up when he gets scolded. He gets rather hyper at bedtime and competes fiercely for who will get Abba to sit on their bed first, and she's so quick to give in to keep him happy! Then, with Bojjandi, she's riotously running and tumbling around the house and making him laugh. We were out for dinner the other day, and Bojjandi wanted a bite of her dessert. Not only did she readily agree to share but she maternally and responsibly told him to sit down neatly next to her and fed him with such loving care.
And then there's Bojjandi, the most mischievous, rascally urchin in our house. His speech, both in English and Hindi, has grown by leaps and bounds, and he rattles off long sentences, even paragraphs. His communication skills are terrific and he is easily understood by all of us at home, even if newcomers find it hard to figure him out. That's because his 'r's and 'l's are still 'y' sounds, which is adorable and I really want him to stay that way fro as long as possible.
He's like a dashing movie hero - dashing around the hosue at all times. One of the loudest voices in the house too. Very fond of opening the fridge and scavenging for anythign interesting that he can find, from dahi to chutney, chocolates to cheese. Stubborn as a mule, he still hasn't touched milk after we threw away his bottles six months ago! Assertive and more than capable of holding his own against either Chubbocks or Puddi. And when he gets really affectionate towards you - watch out. He'll come and 'kench' you ( pinch) realy hard, with a fierce expression and gritted pearly teeth. or launch himself at you like a missile and pound away with his chubby fists. He loves his Noddy scooter and his favourite thing is, at night after he's changed into pajamas, to come riding into the family room on the scooter, long, unruly curls blowing behind him, like those old-fashioned Bollywood hero-introduction shots :)
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