Its the Goddesses who have curly hair!

It was a hot afternoon in July. The heat inside the school bus was making everyone sweat. The hot air blowing in from the rattling windows was the only respite. A lot of water bottles were now empty. The Delhi heat had turned my cheeks red and my hair was all over the place. Finally, my stop arrived. ‘Maggi, Maggi…your hair looks like maggi noodles!’ someone commented from behind. The rest of the kids burst out laughing. I don’t remember who said it, but I do remember that I did not respond. I would have probably made a face and swiftly got off the bus.

Later in the evening, I sat on the floor, at my grandmother’s feet as she oiled my hair and tied it up neatly with ribbons into two braids on either side. She told me it will help my hair grow. On Sunday, when I shampooed my hair, it took on a totally different avatar. My mother lovingly admired, ‘The curl falling on your forehead is like that of Michael Jackson!’ I smiled. It was a compliment since at that point in time he was quite a star performer with a formidable fan following.

I happily brushed my hair that evening and went to meet my cousins. My hair transformed into a big black halo around my head, bigger and bad-er than a wild Lion’s mane. My cousin looked at me and said, ‘Sai Baba hair!’. All through my teenage years, I mostly hated my hair. Most of my friends seemed to have effortless, silky, straight hair that could be maintained just by combing.

Once I started working and earned my own money, within the first few months I blew up a huge portion of my salary on straightening my hair. My hair was so stubborn that it refused to get tamed in the first go, so I ended up getting it done twice to achieve the desired result. In the middle of the process, I suddenly saw my mother storming into the parlor. ‘What are you trying to do? You will end up going bald!’. Clearly, she didn’t like the idea of me getting my hair marinated in chemicals. She was concerned.

But, at that age and time of life, I was experimenting with my new-found freedom and my own money. I loved my new straightened hair. My curls had been hiding the true length of my hair. I suddenly had long, straight hair that hardly needed anything much to make it look like I had been to the salon. I couldn’t stop admiring it in the mirror in the first few days.

As the months passed and my curls began to regrow from the roots, the straightened part of my hair began to look lifeless. To me, it looked like it was not a part of me, it was fake. One fine day I chopped it all off, leaving me with short wavy hair. I was relieved to touch it and feel the ‘original’ stuff. Ever since then, I never felt the urge to get it straightened or re-bonded again although I did experiment with different styles and lengths. At one point I got it cut into such a short style that my husband said I looked like a boy!

About a year ago, I went for a haircut and the young stylist looked at my damp hair and said, ‘Lovely curls!’ and he styled it beautifully and naturally without using direct heat. I immediately loved the look and realized it was easy to do it on my own. More recently, I got acquainted to the CG methods and started using some of the natural products made for curly hair. While, I am not great at using it and haven’t worked hard at mastering the techniques involved, I do see a change and I like it, since it is naturally me and does not involve using heat and chemicals to punish my hair to become something that it is clearly not.

Even in movies and magazines, the models and actresses rarely have curly hair. They mostly have straight hair or stylish waves. Its only when characters have a wild side or a brave side, they are shown to have curly hair. Think of the red-haired princess in Brave or Tapsee Pannu in Pink. Mostly, straight hair is the norm, just like being a certain size, weight or height is. Anything else feels like being a minority. I do realize that I had been trying to tame and torture my hair to confirm to a certain standard, to make it appear like something which it is naturally not. Now, I have accepted that my hair has a mind of its own and I am learning to give it unconditional love (in the form of CG products).

Last year, during Durga Puja, as I opened my eyes after praying and looked up at the ten-armed Goddess Durga, I noticed her hair. It was long and gorgeously curly. A childish voice inside me said, ‘It’s the Goddesses who have curly hair!’ I smiled and closed my eyes in prayer again.

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.

Planting Memories

I enjoy looking at the few potted plants in my balcony. I water them every morning, look for new buds, smile at the newly blossomed blood red hibiscus flowers, notice the new baby leaves. I observe how the twin creepers of Aparajita are gradually growing and strengthening their hold around the railing. Its bright blue flowers. I sometimes even grind fruit peels and mix it up with the soil.

One morning, while looking at the plants I realized I have subconsciously chosen only those plants which I am familiar with since childhood. A red hibiscus (jaba), a basil (tulsi), Aloe Vera, Curry leaves (kari patta, while is called mitha limbda in Gujarati, although I haven't quite figured out what is mitha (sweet) about it). All the plants I now have were there in our house while I was growing up among a few others which need a little more love and care to blossom. I have chosen ones that are easy to maintain and have medicinal or culinary uses too.

My Guru (Grandmother) had a terrace full of potted plants. Watering and caring for them each day on her own.  She never really liked having a mali (gardener) around even when she was much too old to take care of all the plants on her own. I used to occasionally watch her digging up the soil, tossing in used tea leaves and crushed egg shells into the soil. As she went about her gardening, she spoke about which plants needed more or less water, extra fertilization etc. She expressed surprise about how much water the plant was "drinking" in the summer days, like they were real humans. She even told me about the prohibition on planting too much poppy during the British rule since poppy seeds can be used to make a potent drug (afeem).

She liked to have plants that either had medicinal properties or bore flowers (Roses, Dahliya, Poppy). She took great pride when her roses grew big or had a unique color. We even have a picture of her with her roses in full bloom! If she ever got a cut or a burn from working in the kitchen, she preferred to use Aloe Vera pulp over any of the medicine tubes at home. The hibiscus leaf was a great alternative to shampoo and tulsi leaves were often crushed and used as medicine for me for the common cough and cold that I was very commonly affected with during my childhood years.

At that time I did not know what she was imparting and that I was learning. While she was sowing seeds, nurturing saplings, watering plants maybe even she did not realize that she was also sowing seeds of knowledge, planting stories and memories in a child's mind. It has been over two years that she passed away but I guess she lives on in many such small ways, in the way we celebrate our festivals, the food we eat and even the plants we choose to grow and how we use them.

Sometimes, I look at my children's angelic sleeping faces at the end of a day when they have truly tested my patience ( and sometimes even convert me into a screaming mom-ster), I wonder if I am planting some seeds of knowledge and good memories in their heads. Am I nurturing these saplings the right way? Hopefully!

I guess I would find the answers many years from now...till then, we have two small elephant shaped kiddy watering cans to water my plants with.

Kuch Din to Gujariye Gujarat mein!

It is going to be close to two months since we moved to Ahmedabad but it surely feels like a lot more. It was not easy with kids crying every morning before school, missing old friends, getting small things done around the house, getting used to the new routine, home and neighbourhood. We are still getting there I would say, to still feel like we are 'home'.

In the first month of our stay, we experienced rainfall every single day. It rained in the day, it rained through the night, all afternoon and at times continued endlessly for days at varying speeds. On one occasion, we even had to rush to the kid’s school, wade into knee deep water to get them back home. The week after, the schools remained closed for an entire week!

It made me wonder how much it could rain in one place, when it would finally stop and if the entire country’s monsoon clouds had gathered over Gujarat and to an extent it indeed had and Gujarat was in a state of flood. Parts of northern Gujarat and rural areas were badly affected.

Thankfully, even after torrential rains 80-90% of the roads are still where they were and even on rainy days the area we stay in was not water logged and there were no reports of people being stuck in traffic for hours on end. This was a small miracle compared to what would have happened if Gurgaon/Delhi was to get even a fraction of this rainfall. What was even more amazing is that the first day after the rains stopped, there were people at work repairing main roads that were broken!

 After the first few weeks, I have managed to pick-up a few words in Gujarati, recognise the roads and places nearby (big thanks to Google Maps) and even manged to visit a stepwell (Adalaj Ni Vav) and Baroda, which is just two hours away via the super smooth expressway. During this time I have also come across some nuances of staying in Ahmedabad/Gujarat which might be unique to those coming from outside the state.

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• It is difficult to get a white fridge! Yes, I went to several dealers but it seems there is little or no demand for white fridges. People seem to prefer grey or dark metallic shades. Even a lot of buildings here are grey rather than any other colour. Interestingly, when it comes to cars, white is the most favoured colour. Also, the luxury car of choice here is the grand old Mercedes, rather than the more popular Audi or BMW in comparison to north India.

•  Driving is slightly different too. Even with traffic signals on, traffic police need to be present in person to make the citizens move in a disciplined fashion. Drivers honk so much that I have come to believe that they are probably given licenses based on their ability to honk rather than drive. I really do hope this changes before my ears drums are permanently damaged. Parking is usually a challenge, with a general aversion to park in basements, even when it is available free of charge. Once you drive on the streets of Ahmedabad, chances are you won’t complain about driving in Delhi/ Gurgaon, which is famous for 'roadrage'. Even on the expressway, people tend to take the emergency lane on the extreme left to overtake rather than from the right. Surely, our Dilliwalas wont have stepped off the accelerator if they had access to such a smooth express way, but here people stick to the speed limit of 100 kms/hr. 

• Ice-cream everywhere! The frequency and the ease with which you will spot ice-cream parlours (Havmor) is much greater than ATMs and medical stores. There are numerous stores that exclusively sell ice-cream.

• There are certain unique practices too which are new to me, such as, taking footwear off outside homes, stores and even clinics. Most homes have shoe racks placed outside the entrance and sinks fitted right in the dining room for washing hands.
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• Lastly, there are certain grocery items that I was used to and never could have imagined I would not get at the neighbourhood super market for instance– Nestle Dahi, Ananda paneer, breads from Britannia/English Oven or any of the major brands. But, there are alternatives that quickly take that place and this is the land of Amul, so I have been introduced to a wider range of Amul products than I ever knew existed. Amul even makes cookies...did u know?

I also see influence of neighbouring states, Rajasthan and Maharashtra here, in terms of clothing, buildings, and celebration of festivals, but surely Gujarat does have its own distinct flavour.

I am enjoying the benefits of staying in Ahmedabad. Everything is within a span of 2 to 10 kilometres. There are new places to explore on weekends, I am enjoying cleaner air (let me not talk about the hard water here), driving on emptier roads (since I stay in a newly developed part of the city), listening to Gujarati radio (with Bollywood songs), waking up to the calls of peacocks and chirping of birds. I can even hear the train go by on silent nights. Sighting peacocks, mongooses, langoors and even nilgais around the area is not uncommon.

 I am in the mood to enjoy whatever Gujarat has to offer, culturally, historically, gastronomically, and emotionally. And I would encourage my friends to come visit us. Just like Amitabh Bachchan says, “Kuch din to gujariye Gujarat mein!”

Ladies: The shopping is good too, especially for ethnic wear with plenty of exhibitions to go to.

Here's another post on Ahmedabad that I had written sometime ago.

Goodbye Gurgaon!

It’s 5:29 AM and I am awake. Actually, I have been for the last hour or so since he left for the airport. The same feeling of ‘now you are in-charge’ envelops me. It’s the ‘mode’ I put on whenever hubby is away. I tell myself, you can easily sleep for one more hour, but no, my brain refuses to oblige. (Before I got married, I was determined not to be like my mother, a little too alert and anxious when my father travelled, especially though a teen’s perspective. But, as time passes I see myself gradually becoming more like her.)

It’s too early to get out of bed, the kids are asleep, the house and the world outside is silent. With my eyes closed and body still (like I am still pretending to sleep) my mind begins to wander. I think new thoughts and bring back old memories. Some memories are easy to find, like they are on the top shelf of my bedside drawer, but others are lying in the bottom shelf, hard to retrieve, dusty and takes time and effort to pull out.

I think about the last ten years of our marriage and even the time before that. All the years I have spent in Gurgaon, right from the time I was a school girl and Gurgaon was like a budding city with a few residential buildings and even fewer corporate offices. Where finding snakes and mongooses was a common phenomenon. Schools and hospitals were numbered and the bus journey to my school in Vasant Kunj took 20 minutes. The construction of the highway had not begun and to travel to Delhi using public transport (Haryana Roadways) was an adventure in itself. Sounds unbelievable, no?

I witnessed how it grew from being the real “gaon” to the “global village” that it is turning out to be with world class schools, offices, restaurants, shopping centres, hospitals (not to mention traffic and pollution levels). Similarly, it watched me grow from a school girl in uniform, to college student, to office goer, to married woman, to becoming a mother-of two. I have called Gurgaon home for more than 18 years. Right from passing out of school, college, university, job, marriage and motherhood, this has been my base.

I would not have been thinking about it as I had never in all these years, for I had taken it for granted. Even the thought of living in another city never crossed my mind…till a few weeks ago. Soon, it will be reality. It will be time to pack our bags and move. This is more unbelievable to me than the transformation of Gurgaon. Nowadays, I look at everything through the lens of ‘What am I going to miss?’ and I see a lot around me that I am going to miss very dearly, including a lot of friends and family.

It’s 6:30 AM, hubby has boarded the flight and the kids have begun to stir….

P.S: Hubby is moving to a role in Ahmedabad and we are moving with him. The city is not alien to me having visited the city several times (and blogged about it) since my in-laws stay there. My mother says, “After 10 years of marriage, you are moving to your sasural.” Indeed, I am.

The Scent of Love

He came home smelling of perfume...I chose not to question him

The kids had fallen asleep. It was peaceful, dark and cosy in the bedroom. I like this time of the day when there are no more chores, the laptop has been put to rest and I can be ‘me’, relieved of my duties as ‘mother of two’. He was expected to come home late after a daylong conference and dinner at a hotel.

I was blissfully reading The Forty Rules of Love, a book so luxurious and elegant that your life melts as you enter into the lives of the characters, mainly, Shams of Tabriz (a dervish), Rumi the Sufi poet, writer Aziz and a wife and mother in the current day and age, Ella. Right from the beginning I could most clearly picture Ella, her life as a wife and mother of two. 

I had nodded off to sleep while reading about Ella finding out about her cheating husband and her not feeling the need to confront him, even after several hints about his promiscuity. Even without my realising I had drifted off somewhere between sleep and waking, where reality and dreams morph into a weird state of trance. 

I woke up to my reality with a start only when my phone rang and he was at the door. I opened the door with a smile and offered him a glass of water. 

There was a distinct and powerful smell of perfume, too flowery and sweet smelling for a man. It was definitely not what he usually wears. 

Not able to ignore it much longer, I asked “Perfume? This is not yours, right?”

He remained silent, hesitated, and finally said with a smile, “Secret, Secret.”

“This is not yours for sure. Where did this come from?”

“There was a display counter at the hotel and I just tried some on.” There was something about the way he said it. 

“Your story was good, but I can always tell when you lie.” I told him before going into the bathroom. After nine years of knowing him, I knew this was not the truth. It did bother me and I kept thinking about it as I brushed my teeth for the night. But, I was surely not going to ask him about it or argue. Definitely not at this time of the night.

When I stepped into the bedroom and my eyes adjusted to the dim lights, I saw a neatly wrapped pink package waiting on my pillow. 

“Happy Anniversary…in advance!” he said.

“It’s more than a month away…why now?”

“I wanted to keep it hidden and give it to you on our anniversary.”

“Then you should have kept it hidden and given it to me later.”

“No! I know you. You would keep thinking about the perfume on me.” He watched me closely as I unwrapped the package to reveal the exquisite bottle of perfume inside.

“The perfume store is right next to the hotel where we had the conference, so I took the opportunity to buy it today.” He smiled. I was smiling too. Not everything is spoken and words cannot convey everything either. 

I guess the beauty of a relationship is sometimes in knowing the other person better than they may know themselves. 

Feelings are somewhat like perfume, you don’t see them, and you can’t touch them, but only feel their presence and enjoy it while it lasts. 

First published on Bonobology.com. https://www.bonobology.com/marriage/the-married-couple/593-the-scent-of-love-and-the-beauty-of-a-relationship

Would Life Be Different Without Kids?

While driving home last night with my two kids in the backseat constantly chattering and asking questions I snapped.

“Just keep quiet please and go to sleep.” I regretted it as soon as the words escaped from my mouth. Poor kid, he was just innocently telling me that he saw a car or something. Silence descended in the car, but a conversation began inside my head.

Why did you do that?

I am tired, my ears are hurting after listening to the constant chatter, tantrums and fights of two young kids all day long.

Why can’t you be a little more patient?

Work, home, kids, limited support, travelling husband… sometimes it gets too much I guess. It’s not like I don’t try, every morning I wake up hoping to be the best mom I can be, but towards the end of the day I just run out of strength.

Hmm. Tough times, eh?

Yes, indeed. Life is like that, there are times you have so much to do. These are the years of my life I have to dedicate more to my kids than to myself. Sometimes I feel my kids have accelerated my ageing process. 

Would life have been different without kids?

I am sure, yes. Maybe I would have been doing a different job, getting a bigger salary, spent more on clothes and shoes, lived in a smaller house, travelled the world a little more. Life would have been different, but not necessarily better. Life would not have been so colourful and rich. I would never have driven an orange car and worn purple rimmed spectacles had I not had them in my life. They have altered the person that I am. Definitely more patient, forgiving and capable.

Capable? How so?

I would have never known how much I am capable of without them being around. For nothing else would I have multi-tasked and learnt so much. I would not have tried to squeeze the best out of each minute of every day had it . I would probably not have tried my hand at so many other things (including exercising, baking, writing and building a bond with other fellow moms) had it not been for them. They pull me out of my comfort zone, bring out something different in me, make me question what I really want in life and help me choose what I really should go after. They are my strength and weakness all at the same time.

Without them, I would never have learnt what it is to love someone much more than myself.

“Every true love and friendship is a story of unexpected transformation. If we are the same person before and after we loved, that means we haven’t loved enough.”  - Elif Shafak

I Want it All!

I recently read Chetan Bhagat’s latest book, ‘One Indian Girl’. I am not a fan of his work, I haven’t read all his books but I picked this up on a whim, expecting an easy breezy, entertaining read and it surely was. I has an interesting premise, it talks about a young girl, Radhika Mehta, who is earning big moolah at Goldman but at the same time is insecure about herself and is facing the career vs. marriage dilemma.

A lot of women would be able to associate with the predicament that Radhika faces, the internal ramblings of the mind and the heart, the love for your job, the aspiration to grow, do well in your job but also the societal pressure to ‘settle down’, be a good wife and a mother.

A lot of us grow up with good education, dreams and hopes, all set to make a difference in the world, to be the ‘beta’ of the house, to be ‘no less than a man’, but then somewhere along the line most are expected to make all that secondary, take off those stilettos to become someone’s wife or to do the ‘best job in the world’, of being a mother. It is indeed brilliant of Bhagat to have leveraged this touchy topic to his advantage.

While I won’t deny enjoying reading it, there were parts of it that did make me cringe. I did feel that he wrote it with the aim of turning this into a blockbuster movie like some of his other books. I could already envision some scenes from the movie while reading. It has the perfect ingredients for a masala Bollywood flick, one strong female character, three guys, one creative-intellectual, one sexy sugar daddy and one boring husband material type. With a sprinkling of love making scenes, a backdrop of a big, fat, Indian wedding, complete with a filmy dramatic ending it is meant to become a movie.

It definitely had me thinking of which actress would play the lead. Kangana? No. Kareena? No. Taapsee Punnu? Yes, maybe. But then I saw the cover and got the answer….Oh yes, who other than Deepika Padukone. She would be perfect. Do see the book cover, it definitely looks like a silhouette of Deepika.

Well, coming back to the book, Radhika is seen questioning the need to choose between home and career, she’s seen wanting it all, a high flying, demanding job at Goldman Sachs and two messy kids. A much younger me would have agreed with her or felt her pain, but now, I was almost laughing. “Well Radhika, you don’t know what it really is like to have two messy kids. Careful, what you wish for young lady. Do you know how stressful that is?” I wanted to tell her.

Well, some women do manage to do it all, with some (or a lot) of support, some take a break, some become full-time moms. Each one to their own. We all make our choices, walk our paths, find peace and harmony somewhere in between sometimes, but inevitably we all feel stressed, we all feel the pressure, we feel the guilt, whatever the choice maybe. If you are trying to balance a job and kids, I am sure you feel the stress. Even if you don’t, you still feel the pinch of not following your dreams, of ‘wasting your qualification’. You know why?

“I am two women: one wants to have all the joy, passion and adventure that life can give me. The other wants to be a slave to routine, to family life, to the things that can be planned and achieved.” ― Paulo Coelho

Adventures of the New Sofa!

Any new object in the house is a cause of excitement for the kids too, just that they cannot silently admire it and feel happy, they have to touch it, feel it, taste it and even sometimes destroy it in the process to fully enjoy it. Also, greater the need of the parent to keep it away from children, the greater is their need to have it too. Unless it is something small, which can be hidden away, it is at the mercy of the kids.

Even before buying the new two-seater sofa I knew it. I knew that the kids would surely jump on it, they would be attracted to it like moths to fire. We purposely choose a dark purple instead of my usual choice of beige or another light green that looked gorgeous at the store, keeping this in mind.

As expected, they were happy to see it in the house. On the first day, the kids and I sat on it and enjoyed reading a story. I even imagined it being our new ‘story sofa’, where the kids and I would escape into the world of stories every afternoon. Now, I can only laugh at myself for being so hopeful.

On the second day, I found them racing toy cars on the sofa. Cars climbing over the arm rests to reach the top of the back rest and then coming down the other way. Soon, followed by car crashes and what not. I shook my head and ignored it. This is what you expected, didn’t you? Yes, I did.

After a week, they were both gleefully jumping on the sofa.

“Why are you jumping on the sofa? Is it a bouncy?” I asked.

“Yes, it is a bouncy! Yay! Bouncy….bouncy!” replied my little one while continuing to jump.

Another day, just as I emerged from my room after a shower, the maid called out urgently, ‘Didi, idhar aao’. Our two-and-half-year-old had happily poured water on the new sofa! He looked at me with a guilty look on his face, before running away. I tried to blot out the excess water with newspaper, but the sponge in the sofa had already done a better job. I was surely feeling bad. The sofa was not even two weeks old.

“Sorry Mumma” a small voice said.

“Don’t do it again. Okay? Promise?” I said calmly. A little head nodded in response.

While drying out the seats and part of the back with a hair dryer, I marvelled at the capability of our kids to make us think on our feet, solutions to problems we may never even have to think about without kids around. With the sofa dry and no visibly lasting damage, I felt content, not so much for the sofa but for staying calm throughout and not scolding my kid for this. Maybe I was finally getting better at ‘patience’, the greatest virtue for parenting.

Last Saturday morning, I discovered something scribbled on the arm of sofa with dark blue ink! First water and now pen marks! How? When? Why? Which one of the two did it? I don’t even give them sketch pens to colour with. Later, my five year old admitted that he had found a marker somewhere and wrote on the sofa. I let him go after a ‘calm conversation’ and a promise.

The cushions are still played with, they are more exciting than the blocks, cars and toys and are found strewn across the floor more often than they are seen adorning the sofa.

When it came home, it was a two-seater sofa for watching TV, just a piece of furniture, but the kids have claimed it as their own, attached many memories to it. Hopefully, the excitement will soon be over and the sofa will be spared all the love and attention (read, water and ink) it has been getting over the past weeks. Fingers crossed! Anything can happen with the kids around. 

Mystery of My Missing Husband

I woke up and with one eye still closed picked up my mobile phone to check the time. It was 6:50 AM. I would have probably rolled over and snoozed for ten more minutes had it not been for a Whatsapp message from my husband.

There was just one word, “Boarded”.

Boarded? Really? Where? I don’t remember him telling me about any trip. Did he send the message by mistake? By now my eyes were wide open and mind racing. I vaguely remembered him shaking me in my sleep and telling me that he was leaving. What time was that?  He did not mention anything about where he was going or when he was supposed to return. He must have gone to the gym.

I looked at the message again to check the time. It had been sent at 5:00 AM. I called his number. His phone was switched off. Where did he go?  Unable to believe that he could have flown away to some place I was unaware of, I started searching the rooms for evidence. What should I look for? His shoes? The usual travel bag? Oh! The laptop bag! I looked for it at its usual place. It was not there. Finally, it was confirmed, he had left. But Where?

He travels frequently, although I detest it, I am pretty used to it. But, this was a first. Never in all these years, had he left without telling me where he was going. Even if it was a day trip, I always knew where he was. As I washed my face, I felt the urge to cry. 

How could you forget to tell me about this? You could have told me last night! This is not done. I was already framing the angry sentences in my mind. A tiny voice inside my head smirked, “So, after two kids and 8 years, this is your marriage?” Na, this is just him and it’s a one-time thing.

Really? Was it just him? Or was it me too? Always with the kids or talking about the kids. Did I get so engrossed being a ‘Mom’ that I ceased to be a ‘Wife’? Did we become ‘parents’ and forget how to be a ‘couple’. Did I squeeze my ‘husband’ out of ‘family’? Did I give ‘us’ a fair share of time and attention? Was I really 'listening'?

When was the last time we really ‘talked’ to each other and not discuss the kids? Hmm, I could only remember talking about school, homework, dinner, classes, groceries, weekend activities etc. Somewhat like subsistence communication. Just getting things done and moving on, one day at a time. Well, that’s how real life is mostly. Maybe? 

I don't know the answers yet, but hopefully I am looking at the right places.

Do share your thoughts and experiences in the comments section.

P.S. Just in case you are wondering...he had gone for a short work trip which he had told me about weeks in advance (but wasn't sure of then). While I had forgotten about it completely, he did not mention it even the evening before leaving.

Kem Cho? Maja Ma!

A post on my second home and how Mr. Dutta doesn't cease to surprise. 

An integral part of being Mrs. Dutta is visiting Ahmedabad on a regular basis. It had been home to my hubby for several school and college years and still is home to his parents. Through these numerous visits over the years I have begun to love the city as a second home. Now, if you stay in Ahmedabad you may not notice it but for a person coming from outside there are certain things that stand out and I have liked every bit of it.

To me, Ahmedabad stands out for several things, its plethora of sweet and savory food (mostly homemade) including dhoklas, khaman, khakhra, fafda, kachoris, aamras, shrikhand, chunda and many more. I have found people to be much simpler in their food habits, dressing and lifestyle. Weekends are usually spent with family at the club that have excellent amenities yet an extremely affordable menu. No wonder, unlike Gurgaon, people don’t feel the need to hit the malls every weekend.

In the absence of pubs (yes, it’s a dry state) and ‘night life’ as we typically understand, there is a late night ice cream culture and owing to that the presence of an ice cream parlor at every nook and cranny. ‘Havmor’ is omnipresent, somewhat like Starbucks outlets in Manhattan. Also, the night market at Law Garden is worth a visit. I have enjoyed bargaining and shopping for knick-knacks from there.

To a Delhi NCR person, I appreciate the ease with which women are seen comfortably zipping past in scootys even late in the evening. During Navratris, women are seen freely roaming the streets in backless chaniya-cholis late into the night, without the threat of being teased or ogled at. This is so comforting to see. Doing the same in Delhi NCR would be considered as ‘asking for trouble’.

Gujarat is amazing when it comes to handicrafts and customized clothing. If you can dream it, the boutiques there can create it and improvise on it, even if you are on a budget. Every time, I go to Ahmedabad with some space in my suitcase for shopping, I have often come back with an additional new bag filled with a bit of Ahmedabad in them. I blame it on Gujrat being high on the creativity and entrepreneurship spirit.

In Ahmedabad, I have found the definition of ‘far’ laughable. Everyplace is about 15-20 minutes away at the most, if not less. The roads are better than Gurgaon’s and there is relatively lesser traffic (although this is getting a little like the bigger metros lately). However, driving can be a little scary with an abundance of two wheelers and a total disregard for the traffic signals.

During our last visit, my husband and I decided to venture out in my in-laws car. It was a Sunday with limited cars on the road and like law abiding citizens we stopped at the red light. Within seconds we heard a screeching halt behind us. It was the car immediately behind us. We had been saved from getting bumped by inches. Even with the red light still on, the driver of the car drove away while staring at us and muttering under his breath. It was at that moment we realized that no GJ car finds it important to stop at a red light!

The very next day, while hubby dearest was trying to reverse the car in a narrow lane, a speeding scooter decided to squeeze its way in from behind. While nothing happened, the guy riding pillion started shouting in Gujarati and to my surprise, even Mr. Dutta responded in flawless Gujarati. Words and phrases in a language I never knew he could speak so fluently in nine years of knowing him.

For me visiting Ahmedabad is Awesome, hearing Mr. Dutta arguing in impeccable Gujarati Super Awesome! 

I Wished to Fall Sick

Wish I could fall sick, at least then I would get a break from the busy daily routine. The constant running to keep up with the clock…meals, school pick-up and drops, kids classes, my own work and so on.

Yes, it sounds silly but sometimes the idea of falling sick seems inviting, so I could stay in bed all day, be cared for and get pampered for a change instead of taking care of everything and everyone in the house. But, alas, we can’t choose the timing of falling sick, it just chooses us.

My silly little wish finally came true one night, accompanied with a sore throat, cough, runny nose and fever. However, the timing could not have been worse with hubby travelling and children still settling into their new classes. I was left with no option but to operate on “business as usual”, popping in more pills and gulping in way more tea than I would have done otherwise.

I found the otherwise sweet questions and calls for “Mumma” annoying but had to respond with a “Yes, Baby!” in as sweet a tone as possible, while I otherwise sounded like a croaking frog.

For a Mom, falling sick is a luxury. Hopefully next time I fall sick, it would be on a weekend, or at least when hubby is around to get the kids ready for school, pick and drop them, feed them, clothe them and patiently deal with all their demands and questions.

For now, I thank Crocin for helping me stay on my feet and helping me get through the week.

Stay Well, Stay Healthy fellow Moms…and if by any chance you are fancying the idea of falling sick, just take a break. You deserve it.

Touched by God on Shivratri

Today being Shivratri, a lot of Hindus visit the temple to offer milk, water, flowers, fruits and Lord Shiva’s favourite Bael leaves, Bhang and Dhatura. Somehow, I do not enjoy visiting temples on special days since it gets too crowded and noisy with devotees rushing to get their share of blessings first. Visiting a temple on festivals is akin to visiting stores offering big discounts. People enter in hordes, offer their prayers in a rush while jostling for space and then leave content with Prasad in their hands.  Some even push and elbow others to make their way first, yes, even the seemingly ‘educated’ and ‘cultured’ ones.

While I also visit the temple, I don’t always feel touched by divinity on these ‘special’ days. I much rather enjoy visiting temples on the “non-offer days” when there are few people in the temple. It has mostly been on those occasions that I experienced much greater peace, energy and joy, when I could pray as much or as little as I wanted to without having to save my toes from being crushed or getting nudged in the ribs.

Sometimes, I also experience divinity outside the temple. Last year, while purchasing flowers, bhang and dhatura from a woman sitting outside the temple, I saw a lady, dressed in a crisp white salwar kameez, probably in her early sixtees get off her Honda City, rush to the makeshift flower shop. There was a sense of urgency about the way she went about selecting what all she wanted.

“Kitne hue?” she demanded.

“Tees Rupaye (Rs.30)”, said the flower lady.

“TEES Rupaye!” The woman complained about the exorbitant price and claimed that what the lady was selling was probably not even worth ten. She dropped her basket of flowers and leaves angrily and got up to leave.

“Kya hua Mataji? Bhagwan ke liye le rahe ho, le jao”, the poor, most likely uneducated woman said politely.

I don’t remember the prayers I said that day, but I shall remember this instance for sure.

Today, I chose to go to a temple slightly towards the village, accompanied by my two little boys, I hoped for less people at the temple. My elder son spotted a balloon vendor outside and demanded one. I promised to buy him a balloon once we came out of the temple.

Although it was crowded with people mostly from the village it was well organized. I managed to get my three minutes with the Lord and came out without getting nudged, poked or stepped upon. Happily, I bought the balloon I had promised. Within a few minutes, even before we got to our car, the balloon burst. The other small children around him laughed. Before my son’s eyes could well up with tears I took him to the balloon vendor again.

“Bhaiya, wo to phoot gaya. Dusra de do” I said. Immediately, he handed me another one with a smile and refused to take money for it. Only after much insistence he took it.

Sometimes we are touched by God inside a temple, but mostly, outside it.

Being 4-Year- Old Again!

I had an opportunity to join my four year old son at school for his morning circle today. While I was in two minds to attend, I finally decided to go. As I entered the classroom, I spotted my son sitting at his desk, interacting with fellow students. He saw me and smiled, a smile that acknowledged my presence but also told me that he was not just my son here, he was a disciplined student of the class.

Within minutes, the educators began to sing a song and almost as if by magic, the children came around and settled into a circle on the floor to listen to a story. The story was of a seed that grew into a strong tree. Although the story was simple and meant for an audience of four-year-olds, I enjoyed it too and added it to my list of stories that I could tell my kids at home.

Once the story was over, the teachers again sang a song and got the kids to form a circle and moved out of the class for their morning prayers and circle time. It was remarkable to see the four year old students of Nursery conducting themselves in such a disciplined manner. I was also in awe of the educators for managing a class of almost thirty students so seamlessly, without a single instruction.

For the circle time the parents were also encouraged to participate and I, along with the other parents joined the circle just like the kids and their teachers. I recited all the prayers and songs and tried following all the hand and body movements too.

What I experienced at the time was indescribable. The energy, intrinsic joy and peacefulness I felt was unparalleled. It wasn't like anything I had experienced in a long time. I felt as if there was electricity running in my veins. Maybe, I felt like a four-year old child myself. I felt like spending the rest of the day in the class again, but unfortunately, that was the only glimpse I could get.

By the time I left the school, although I had a lot of questions on my mind, I felt a certain calm take over, a need to stop rushing my kids and myself all the time and believing that small children are capable of a lot more than we can ever imagine.

Momster!

Mostly parenting is joyful, rewarding and wonderful, just like the way we hear often, but there are also those days when patience wears thin, you have a million things to do and it takes just something seemingly trivial to tip the delicate balance of sanity.

There are times when you get tired of picking up the same toys, repeating the same instructions (a few hundred times), answering the unending questions and resolving quarrels between kids. There are times when the mantras of “Keep Calm, you are a Mom” and “This too shall pass” turn into, “I am a human being too”. There are the times when I find myself turning from Mommy to “Momster”, when I want to be mean, yell at the kids or ‘teach them a lesson’ the old fashioned way.

Earlier today, when my five and two year old boys got into a fight, the Momster in me unleashed itself, but within minutes the loving Mom re-emerged, cuddling and hugging my boys and calming them down.

Later, while scrolling through some old photos and videos on my phone I chanced upon a few moments from about a year ago. I was surprised to see how little my kids looked. I realized how much my children had grown in just a few months. My elder son had begun going to a proper school and he no longer looked so young. My younger son who had barely started walking a year ago is already speaking in sentences. He too joined a play school. I looked at them and my little kids suddenly looked all grown up.

I showed one of the old videos to them and we all burst out in peals of laughter. Just watching that video was a total stress buster and my heart was once again reprimanding me for being harsh on them earlier.

Parenting is not always fun, rather it is tough, it is full of ironies and paradoxes, compromises and trade-offs. And yes, it is also about turning into a Momster and then melting back to being Mommy again.

Many years ago, when I was fairly newly married, I happened to meet a simple man from a village who said, “In the village, we measure how rich a person is by the number of kids he has, not by his money.” I had found that statement amusing at that time. It did not make sense to me. But now, I fully understand what he said. If you are a parent, I am sure you understand it too.

What I Learnt From My Grandmother

In a home with working parents, my grandmother was my companion and caregiver from the day I was born. She did everything that a parent would and maybe even more. Apart from the usual things, she taught me Bengali poems, ensured I learnt dancing and singing and forever kept a watchful eye on me. As a little girl, I ran to her for comfort and every night I fell asleep with her hand on my back, breathing in her cool scent while listening to Bengali folk stories. With her passing away, I lost my childhood companion.

The day she passed away, my four year old son was miserably sick with dengue and I found myself torn between the ‘granddaughter’ and the ‘mother’ that I am. I felt as I could not even fully mourn her loss. As the days and weeks passed I kept thinking about her and even now sometimes it is hard to believe that she is not here with us in person. I also realize that her beliefs, teachings and blessings will always be with us. I can often recall her voice and even the phrases she would have used for certain situations.

From her, I learnt many things and here are a few I thought I will share with all my friends and family:

 Invest in your Health: Even up to her early eighties, my grandmother exercised every morning and strictly stuck to her routine meal timings. Even with age, she never gained any weight and maintained herself at 40kgs. She never suffered from diabetes or high blood pressure either. Her morning cup of tea included four teaspoons of sugar! 

Eat Well: Although she ate small portions and at fixed timings, she was particular about the food she ate. She was an excellent cook and prepared various delicacies and even her ‘khichdi’ tasted better than a lot of ‘biryanis’ available in the market. She had a special dish for every occasion and festival which she made herself till a few years ago.

The Fighting Spirit: She was strong willed and having single handedly brought up my father, she had learnt never to give up. She always encouraged everyone to work hard and move ahead in life.

Immense Love for your Children: Her love for her only child, my father was exemplary. Even when my father was turning sixty and she was over eighty, she went to sleep only after ensuring that he had returned home. To me, her primary parenting advice was, ‘Love your children whole heartedly’.

 
Speak Your Mind: She always expressed her thoughts openly. If she disliked something, she said it upfront. This sometimes made others unhappy or angry but her feelings were never hidden, be it praise or criticism. Sometimes, her words were bitter but at least she was not hiding behind a mask of falsehood.

I shall always feel my grandmother’s presence with me. Only the physical form wither, the person stays alive with us forever.

You may also enjoy reading another post on her I wrote earlier: Mother Extraordinaire