Being a Parent

When my first born was born, I discovered a 'variety' of love--the love for her, so different in depth and quality than anything I had ever known in life till then. She became the most natural recipient of all that I had worth giving. And I often heard myself saying, "really, is this what 'love' is?" I know hubby changed as a person too, he grew into a strict yet fuzzy person he never knew he could be . And then my belly started to grow with another little one growing inside it. Hubby declared that I could love whoever I wanted as much as I wanted, but his love for Miss Sunshine will remain 'unchanged and undiminished'.

That was then. And now as three of us surround the cradle of our littlest five month old buttercup, each of us trying to draw her attention as we clench our fists in almost uncontrollable spasms of emotions of 'cho chweet', it surprises me how much unquestionably we love her--I love her, he loves her, and she loves her too. Most importantly, I realise that parenthood is about learning that there is this 'one variety' of love that actually has this ability to duplicate, multiply and keep growing with each heartbeat. I now know that 'there is no favorite child'. Our children are us, and there is no choosing between my two kidneys or my two ears, and that is what our children are...they are the eyes and ears and mouth and mind and all that, that we will leave behind us, and we love them all just as we loved the first one alone.

Bring my my Rainbow

Pick up a pen from the pen-holder closest to you, yes, any random pen (no, not a highlighter, just an ordinary pen), and I CHALLENGE you, that that pen writes in black ink.

In our house this is always true----all the pens create black print. And I ask---where have all the colors gone? Granted, that we hardly ever use the humble pen now days----we gladly type away on our keyboards. But even then why did we stop appreciating colorful script? Ok, not 'colorful' but at least script written in more than just black ink? Long long time ago, I used to be a teacher, and I would actually sit down with exam sheets and term papers, and check them and leave comments and grades written in red ink. Those words and points written in red, meant a lot to the reader, and I could see how anxiously the receiving student would scour through the sheets for all things in red. In those days itself, during office hours, I would make detailed graphs on white paper, indicating different things on the picture in different colors---I often used the red, black and blue, but also had the pleasure of using yellow and green inks on occasions, to point to some overlapping portions of triangles or axis. And all those pens were just there----in my pen holder, a mere hand stretch away.

Today, I was drawing a technical picture (don't ask me why), and needed to draw something in blue over a graph I had already made in black---and I COULD NOT come across ONE SINGLE blue-inked pen. It annoyed me no ends to see that even pens whose bodies had all blue on them, actually wrote in black.

Only teachers care about the different color pens now? I will have to trudge across to my toddler's room and rummage through her pen-caddy for some sketch pens to finish off my current task. And note to self: when in walmart next, grab a set of pens of different color inks....if they still make those pens.

WRITE NOW

I read this person's blog, and he had written, right on the top right corner of the blog screen---his name and underneath 'author'...just that---that was his plain and simple introduction, and indeed that was the reason I was on his blog page to start with--his novel and his novel writing tips and all that. But those six letters in black on a white background--A U T H O R....wow those left a mark on my mind...and I actually looked at that word for more time than it takes an adult literate person to read and understand a simple english word.

What I would do to get that title for myself (I mean writing would be a good starting point, but then that ain't happening as much!). I did manage to convince (actually convincingly say to) two important people of my life that I am a 'writer'---one my three year old toddler, and other my semi-literate household helper--a Tibetan refugee lady who barely speaks english and of course given her super enslaved work hours (she works very hard for various employers), she almost never reads any book. The latter's significance in my life comes from the fact that if it weren't for her ceaseless some hours of all the chopping and other basic house work, I would have literally no minute to sit down before a computer, and my husband for sure would have no chapatis to eat AT ALL. Anyhow, getting back to the gist of this blog, when one day the helper asked me all too innocently if I worked too, I took a moment's silence to frame the sentence for myself, and then spoke aloud, "I am a writer." I imagined she would not ask me the details, and she obliged by moving on to the next chore without any curiosity on what, why, who for, do I write? Or those even more difficult questions: "have you published?" "when will you publish?" "what are you writing about?" She moved on, and I heard the echo of my own words for the whole day that day.

Likewise, once when I sat my toddler down to teach her the whole meaning of the word 'occupation', I ran her through the various kinds of jobs the different people she knows do...like her dad, and uncle and that aunty and so on. And then I declared to her, and to myself, "and your mumma is a writer." I was in the business of explaining occupations that day, so I had to add for my daughter's sake, "I write." Pause, then "I write stories and will write a book and so on....". Of course for the kid, her holding a pencil to start to write the first letter of her name, V, too makes her a writer. So she gleefully said, "mumma see I am a writer too." Being a parent, I of course said "Amen"..... truly wishing upon her countless years of satisfying writing. And I also wish that we will both graduate to 'author' too.

Author, who are you?

When you read literature, of any kind, once the story has ended, and you have put the book down and you casually cast a glance at that small black and white picture of the writer on the back cover of the book, and you notice that this writer was just as much a person as you are, you are sometimes stirred to realise that this same person like you, had so much story to tell! For me, the greatest curiosity is always about when in the day did the author find the time to write.....I figure its my own quest at prioritizing my time, that must spark such queries, but I think its more than just that. I have this great desire to somehow plant myself, ghost-like---invisible, behind the author as s/he writes away on white sheets of paper, or pecks away on that overused keyboard. I want to examine the surroundings of the author, those stray empty cups of coffee/tea/water, those dust-lined book shelves, those wilting/blooming potted indoor plants, and perhaps a small bound planner beckoning the author about upcoming engagements and errands. Navigating through the circadian rhythm, and creating stories or penning memories, this author is just as much a human as I am, and I like to have lived a life in the day of....

The Ideal Idle

I have this signature quote on my mails, which I am so aptly fully feeling today than ever before: It is impossible to enjoy idling thoroughly unless one has plenty of work to do. There is no fun in doing nothing when you have nothing to do. Wasting time is merely an occupation then, and a most exhausting one. Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen. -Jerome K. Jerome, humorist and playwright (1859-1927)

Today for the first time my toddler starts to be in school for a full 3 hours....which leaves me with enough time for my infant and for myself. When the tiny buddy is asleep (like right now), that leaves me with just me----that cherished 'my time' is finally here, and it's not even dark outside...in broad daylight. Oh how I have missed this time forever. And look at me now---for the last one hour, ever since the debut my-time, all I have done is.......since we are confessing.....Facebooking! I have peeped into tons of people's holiday, birthday and just life pictures, I have learnt that one 'facebook friend' (now isn't that a different species of friend than the friend that we actually connect with in the good old 'friend' definition?) is leaving for Cancun in precisely four hours from now, and that another one's cat drank the milk that she had kept for herself. I have even searched and found and sent friend requests to two 'names' that I recalled from some twenty five years back. Is this what I am going to be doing in these pristine hours of solitude..and facebook isn't even paying me for this!

To make my 'idle time' ideal, I would like to make it 'sweet' by doing what I truly cannot do when either or both of the kids are around and buzzing---writing. But look, how I failed the first test of discipline.....by being seduced by facebook. Time to close the windows (on the computer), and open the mind. Wish me luck.

Beatles and The Dad

I have lived with him all my living life----perhaps not always in physical proximity, but surely always, and always, he is part of who I am, and what makes me. He is a septuagenarian now, so you assume that loosely speaking he has been a senior for way more than a decade who has had all these years of retirement to repeatedly go over his life and narrate the remarkables and the highlights to everyone who has cared to listen. You have spent countless hours conversing at dinner tables or over phone, to start to feel that your old dad has by now pulled all the tricks from his hat, and told you all his life's stories, over and over and over and over again. But just then, as a matter of fact, he comes up with this anecdote, that casts a sliver of a spunky new light on what you knew or thought of your dad.

So, here we are on a Saturday morning of the East coast Fall, sitting on the couch and the carpet--dad, hubby and I, soaking in some much needed sun, as some music is presented to us by Pandora music (from its music genome project), supposedly selected on the basis of my husband's prior choices of music. I flaunt a supposedly educated guess--are they the Beatles? And before my husband can reply, my dad comes up with the answer---no this doesn't sound like them. And he is right! How does, he know the Beatles music so well....I begin to think, and then I notice this wistful look in his eyes, and savoring a memory, with a smile in the corner of his lips, he tells us about how he actually witnessed the craziness around/about the music group, back in the days when they were alive and kicking. I had never known that my dad was part of those teeming thousands who had flocked to Rishikesh, in India in 1968, when the legendary quartet had visited to attend Maharishi Mahesh Yogi's ashram. I have as it is always been amazed that so many people had known about Beatles in the India of then (when phones, TV and even radio, were few and far between). But who had known that well, news has always had a way of traveling, and that whenever there are stars, there is paparazzi and fan-following. So, my dad--the young, handsome, non-dad of then, dressed in his bachelorhood and youthful excitement, was one of the so many who had tried to catch a glimpse of the musical genius of that time. He admits that there were a huge number of Hippies, and the zombies who knew who Beatles were but probably didn't know who they themselves were, and then there were the shoeless beggars and the clothes less sadhus and yogis, who were just a regular part of the landscape of the Indian pilgrimage place then, and who surely did not know Beatles, and cared less for them, but who were interested in being in the crowd, just like that. Amongst all these, there he was, just moving as the volume of crowd moved in Rishikesh, everyone being told that the Big four were somewhere there. He stood there, fidgeted, moved, and even when the sun beat on him for a couple of hours, he eventually..... never saw the Beatles. That was it. Just like me today, he never saw the Beatles. But unlike me, he was a part of the making of the mega machine that Beatles were.

It still surprises me sweetly that the sombre dad of mine of today, has untold stories of light triumphs and defeats to share with us still. As they say, the aged are full of wisdom and wit---they may display them sparingly, but they have it all the same.

And you still care to read me here--Thanks

Gosh, I had not realised that despite my shameless infrequency of writing, there is one dear friend who still has my site on her 'following' list. What a show-down I am for her----not that she is crazy about my writing, but, and a big but, I have this lone 'follower', and she must occasionally browse here, and what do I have for her? A big blank.....no, not right. Life is happening with me full throttle----yes, that's a lovely excuse, but then dear 'follower', let me not lose you---let me keep something coming for you---perhaps you will be my 'dedication' when that masterpiece comes along-----for you I will write here, and perhaps there too!