The little ways in which I miss you

This write-up is dedicated to all those whose spouse has a travelling job or are staying in different cities/countries for some reason.


The kids are playing in the park. The little one is counting 1,2,3,4…20. While he covers his eyes with his small palms, he also peeps through the gaps between his fingers to see where his friends are hiding. Every time he peeps his naughty smile gives him away. All the other kids have run away to take shelter behind the bushes and pillars.

It’s beginning to get dark. I look at the time on my phone. It’s 6:50 PM. The mental calculation begins. Another 20 minutes at the most before taking the kids back home. Dinner will be at 7:30pm. They must be off to bed latest by 8:30pm. There is sanity in following a routine. It’s only after they sleep that the house will be quiet again. I can have some time to myself. Work, read, watch TV, or sleep.

I see a man stepping out of the basement parking. Crisp shirt, formal trousers, polished shoes. Laptop bag in hand. Is it you? My heart gets hopeful. Then my mind tells me, ‘No silly, it can’t be. He’s not here. Remember?’ Yes, I do remember. He’s travelling.

Once I clear the table and am ready to switch off the lights for the night, I notice a car from the window. I try to guess the make of the car from the shape of its glaring headlamps. It’s a Honda. Not yours. Then another car approaches. This one looks like yours. My heart leaps up in hope. Then my mind tells me, ‘No silly, it can’t be. He’s not here. Remember?’ Yes, I do remember. You are not going to be back for another few days.

I call you, hoping you are done for the day but we can’t speak just yet, you are surrounded by people.

Our bed has been occupied by the kids. They told me, ‘Tumhe darr lagega akele’. Well, it’s better than going to sleep in an empty bed and feel your absence. Now that you are not here to wake me up in the morning, I pick up my phone to set an alarm for myself but end up browsing through some useless posts on Instagram. In parallel, I think about how much time I end up wasting on the phone, I could do so much more with that time. I am so addicted!

You call, we speak for a few minutes. But, neither of us are good with spoken words. So, we just talk about the kids or what you ate for dinner. More than anything we talk about, I am just happy to hear your voice.

I read a book late into the night, then get hungry. I guiltily eat some ice-cream but tell myself I deserve it. I justify the need for it. I can’t sleep if I am hungry. I read till I can no longer keep my eyes open and then drop off to sleep. Had you been here we would have most likely watched something on Netflix together. I am saving it for when you return. Also, I know that watching TV would make me stay up even longer. I can’t sleep as peacefully when you are not around.

After the kids go to school, I put some clothes into the machine for washing. At the bottom of the washing pile is your off-white shirt. I pick it up and hold it close. It still smells of you. That familiar mix of your perfume and you that I know so well. I close my eyes and enjoy the heady mix for a few moments before putting it back in the basket. I won’t put it for washing before you return. Not for any reason, but only because there are not enough of your clothes to fill the machine.

Later in the day I find a picture of us from a few days ago. I smile. Well, at least in this photo we will always be together. I share it on social media. It makes me wonder how deceptive it can be. When we are apart, I am creating an impression as if we are together. Do people use the same logic when posting photos, it makes me wonder.

For the Love of Heels

When I was just a toddler, I had been so enchanted by a woman wearing a pair of stilettos that I had ended up following her (rather, her golden stilettos) all evening at a wedding my parents had taken me to. I had given my mother such a hard time tracking me that evening that she still remembers, laughing.


My shoe fetish, or rather the love for heels began fairly early. With me as a child, my mother often chose to walk longer routes to avoid passing by a shoe store, lest I enter and insist on buying another pair of shoes. While other kids my age were throwing tantrums inside toy stores, I was giving the puppy-eyed, please-buy-me-this-pair look to my mother in shoe shops. ‘See Ma, this fits me perfectly’ was my justification for buying it. It didn’t make me change my mind even when she said, ‘You have another pair in the same colour at home’.

When I was nine, my father gifted me a pair of glossy, cherry coloured heels from some country he had gone to. Clearly, they were big for me but that didn’t stop me from slipping my feet into them and posing in front of the mirror at home. How I waited for weeks and months till my feet grew big enough to be able to wear them comfortably. I had tried them on every few weeks to check. Ah! Sweet childhood memories of dreams getting fulfilled.


When I began working, it was the perfect time to wear smart heels every day and I did. The neat and clean office environment was perfect for wearing them without risking them getting spoilt or dirty. In my wedding trousseau, there was no place for flats. Lest anyone be reminded of the height difference between Amitabh Bachchan and Jaya Bhaduri when they saw us as a new couple, four pairs of heels in red, gold, silver and pink accompanied me to my new home. The office shoes (black) also joined me a few weeks later. Soon, I had a tall shoe rack exclusively for me.


Pregnancy was the game changer. Right from the beginning, I was cautioned about wearing heels. I wondered if my sudden shift from heels to flats would be the big give away even before I shared the ‘good news’ or my belly began to show. With the expanding size of my waistline and clothes, my feet expanded too. Even after months of having my baby, those shoes were too tight. I was no longer size 37. Slowly and gradually, all my heels were replaced with comfortable flats. With the need to run after and carry my child, followed by another pregnancy and baby, comfort was essential.


With the birth of a child, a mother is born. She makes a lot of changes to adapt to her new needs and that of her baby. Habits, lifestyle, food, daily routine, everything changes. New responsibilities, duties and caring for the newborn are prime. Footwear was not even the last thing on my mind. That I enjoyed wearing them once was long forgotten. History.


One year ago, something caught my eye as I passed by a fancy shoe store. I tried on a pair of shiny stilettos after a long time. I found it odd to wear them. The arching of my foot inside them. It was a strange feeling. It was like my body had forgotten how to walk in a pair of heels. I walked like a woman who had never worn heels in her entire life, somewhat like you would have seen in some old Bollywood movies. Nothing like the girl who dreamt of wearing heels.


Now that my children are no longer toddlers and are too big to be carried, I have gone ahead and indulged myself. I have gifted myself two pairs of stilettos for my birthday. One red and another in gold. While the red one got an outing recently for a dinner, I am looking for an apt occasion to wear the one in gold. And, guess what? This time around it didn’t feel weird. It felt good to wear them like
I was getting back to being somewhat like my old self. To top it all, I found out I am finally back to my old shoe size too.


Most women make changes when they become moms. Some big, some small. Did you make such a transition with pregnancy and childbirth? Do share your thoughts in the comments section.


Post originally shared on Momspresso https://www.momspresso.com/parenting/from-a-moms-heart/article/for-the-love-of-heels

The Invisible Burkha

“How come you are not taking any pictures today?”, he observed. I did not reply. Instead took out my phone to click a picture of the floral jali of the Sarkhej Roza.

“These type of floral motifs are not commonly used in Muslim art and architecture.” Does the mosque have a story like the Taj Mahal and the mosque in Mandu? I wondered. Was this too originally made by someone else that we are not aware of? Maybe. Maybe not.

I saw burkha clad women all around. The black of the burka covering everything except the face. Unifying them or should I say ‘uniforming’ them? Robbing them of their uniqueness. Hiding them. Maybe confining them? Restricting them? Or did they feel differently. Safe, covered inside the burkha? Guarding themselves from prying eyes. Some of them looked at me. Noticing that I clearly didn’t fit in. Even in a pair of jeans, short kurti and a dupatta to cover my head that I borrowed at the entrance (women must cover their head while entering) I felt exposed.  

The place is beautiful and a must visit for tourists and lovers of history and architecture. It no doubt adds to the history of the city and justifies why Ahmedabad earned the Heritage City label. But, somehow, I couldn’t completely soak in the history and beauty of the architecture. The thought of taking pictures wasn’t on the surface of my mind. My mind was preoccupied with some other thoughts.

At a large courtyard surrounded by pillars all around, a young lad in jeans and a T-shirt, sporting the latest undercut hair coloured blonde at the front told me “You are not allowed here”. When I asked him “Why? Where is it written?”, he went and checked on the board at the entrance which read something on the lines of “women with uncovered head and uncovered legs not allowed”. He left without saying anything else.

Moments before that, as I was about to enter the dargah, I was told, “Ladies not allowed!” I had backed off and busied myself looking at the multi domed ceiling while the men of my house disappeared inside the dargah.

There was a woman selling flowers for those who wanted to make an offering. I asked her, “Aapka ek photo le sakti hu?” She was surprised. Waving her hand, she told me to take pictures of the structure. She wasn’t sure why I wanted to take a picture of her and not the monument we were inside. When I did not move and pointed the camera at her, she gently smiled for the photograph. Her flowers can enter the sacred room and the flowers she touched can touch the mazhar but she cannot enter. Clearly, I found that more beautiful. 

Man enters the world through the womb of a woman and then bans the entry of women to a place of worship. What an irony.

On the way back home, while swiping through the pictures of the Sarkhej Roza a few questions came into my mind. There are so many rules for women. Restrictions. Boundaries. Dictats. Unsaid expectations.

“You are not allowed here!”

“Don’t go out at this time of the night!”

“Come home before dark!”

“Don’t wear that short/tight dress!”

“When will you get married?”

“Your biological clock is ticking. Don’t you want to become a mother?”

The list goes on.

It’s not just the cloth burka that stifles, some burkhas are invisible but heavier still. They are not seen, they can only be felt. Its weight on a woman’s shoulders. Restricting her and stifling her nonetheless.