You need to have patience..lots and lots of mind numbing patience. You need it when when you have a brilliant film just waiting to be seen, that you have been waiting to see all week, and it is already inserted in your DVD layer, waiting to be played, to be accompanied by a glass of white that has been chilled all day and now has been poured into your favorite crystal wine glass, just waiting to be sipped, and right about now, your 9 month old refuses to sleep. No sleep...wide awake, alert eyed, cute as a bug, wanting to play. You nurse, you rock, you sing lullabies, you curse under your breatht, you hush, you shush, you try to sleep train, you shed a few tears, you scream out loud inside your head, you sing lullabies again. And finally she sleeps. And you sleep beside her. Exhausted. The film lays in the DVD player. The wine just sits.
You need to understand things will not always go as you plan....when you are just laying on your couch on a Sunday afternoon, something you very rarely do, but is what you really, ideally plan to do on a Sunday afternoon, and since today the baby is miracolously napping, you are just laying on the couch, reading this book that is absolutely brilliant and right then when you are at the most exciting part , your 5 year old yells from the washroom that he is done pooing and that he needs to be cleaned up , which you rush to do, to get it over with, so you can come back to your book, and then he insists you look at the poo because it is shaped like a big sausage and how cool is that and you have to analyze the poo with him, the big one and the little ones around it that he thinks look like meatballs and how cool is that and you stand there looking at the poo and talking about the poo and when you are done having that inane converstion about the poo and the 5 year old is cleaned up and you run back to the couch to the book, your 9 month old wakes up. With a poo in her diaper. Not the big sausage and meatball kind, but a messier, smellier , yellower kind.
You need to do what you need to do....... when both the kids fall asleep at a decent hour on a Friday night and you decide to pop open a bottle of wine which soon becomes two and after the third you decide to live it up and do a late night and watch a movie and when you finally pass out at 2 , only to be woken up at 6:30 in the morning by two very energised, very awake kids and you are now completely hung over, and in that state you have to get the two dressed to go to a birthday party , with your head throbbing and your stomach feeling funny, and you are now surrounded by about twelve other high on candy and choclate cake 5 year olds and about 4 of their younger 9 month old siblings, and you have to have conversations with other moms about kid stuff.
You need to be calm....when you are going on a road trip and you are a roadtripper and absolutely love road trips , only now you don't get to drive, which you love doing on road trips because you are sitting at the back, squeezed between two carseats, one with a 5 year old who asks at precise 2 minute intervals if we are there yet and the the other with a 9 month old who dislikes her car seat and is expressing her dislike at the very top of her lungs. And silently in your head, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, Are we there yet?
You need to give up ....trying to make the house look aesthetically pleasing because that's what you are so good at doing , however , now next to your buddhas, there is always a superhero and a teddy bear and on your intellect displaying bookself is always a Duckie says Quack Quack, If I had a Gorrilla and a teddy bear, and everytime you walk through your living room, you always will step on a squeaky toy that will squeak or trip over a hot wheels car that lies next to a tedy bear and when you reach into the sides of your couch, you will pull out half eaten candyfrom last Sunday, a few diapers, numerous crayons, lost socks, pacifiers... and a teddy bear. There's always a teddy bear!
And you need to constantly remind yourself, that one day they will leave, to live their own lives, in their own spaces, with people they will call their own, and then, when that happens, you will sit on the couch in your aesthetically pleasing living room, on a Friday night , watching a movie, sipping a glass of wine , knowing that you can sleep in the next day and then read all afternoon till it is time to get behind the wheels of your car to head out for a road trip.
And finally, you need to know that while you are cruising along, enjoying the drive, there will be a moment when suddenly you will know, that on some days you do miss analyzing the poo that looked like a sausage and how cool was that, singing lullabies, sitting between two car seats, tripping over teddy bears and attending kids birthday parties.
So maybe what you most need to know is that, this is what it is here and now, and it will be no more some day, so no matter how crazy the day, you enjoy it while it lasts.
Oh..and the teddy bear will somehow find a place somewhere in between your intellect displaying bookshelf, maybe next to the Buddhas....just for old times sake.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Am mother. Can multitask.
So I'm on maternity leave for now. So I have to look for a job in August. So given the way things are these days (you know, the big R word , and all) I figure it would be in my best interest to be on top of my game. So I decided to start a little prep. Read up a few things about interviewing. So here I was browsing through a list of possible soft skills questions. This one said:
Can you multitask?
Hmmmmmmmmmm...let me see now.
I have nursed a 6 month old cradled in my left arm, and fed a 5 year old with the other hand. A picky 5 year old who wanted me to pick his spinach out of his spinach quiche. Then I have held the 6 month old in the right arm, a very fidgety 6 month old, and cleaned the bum of the 5 year old after he made very big, very messy poo. In a very small, very tiny airplane washroom. On a very long, very tiring 14 hr flight.
I have held a baby in my arms, while stirring the tomatoes for the chicken curry and pureeing the onions for the raita. I have pushed a stroller with one hand, carrying groceries in the other. Through streets laden with snow. I have done up my face, while taking to a citibank cutomer service rep on the phone held between the cheek and the ear, while keeping an eye on the 8 month old on the floor doesn't put any hazardous object in her mouth. I've had one baby in the bathtub, one 5 year old out of it, washing the former, drying the latter.
Oh yes, I can multitask. I'm a mom. I do that.
We do that.
My friend, who has directed films, dealing with everything that goes on while directing a film. Directing, thinking, supervising, managing. Then, on the break, when everyone else sips coffee, she has run to the washroom, got on the cell to check in on her baby. And while on the phone, she is pumping. Pumping with a breast pump to ease the engorgement.
My other friend, who went back to work in three months after having had her baby. Back to work where she had to attend meetings, then dash to the stationery room to pump milk, dash back to her desk to do some R& D, rush home to deliver the pumped milk for the baby, rush back to work, then leave work, dog tired, to again feed, diaper, bath, change.
Don't get me wrong. You don't have to be a mother to be a good multi tasker.
It's just that when you are a mother, you just are a multitasker.
Can you multitask?
Hmmmmmmmmmm...let me see now.
I have nursed a 6 month old cradled in my left arm, and fed a 5 year old with the other hand. A picky 5 year old who wanted me to pick his spinach out of his spinach quiche. Then I have held the 6 month old in the right arm, a very fidgety 6 month old, and cleaned the bum of the 5 year old after he made very big, very messy poo. In a very small, very tiny airplane washroom. On a very long, very tiring 14 hr flight.
I have held a baby in my arms, while stirring the tomatoes for the chicken curry and pureeing the onions for the raita. I have pushed a stroller with one hand, carrying groceries in the other. Through streets laden with snow. I have done up my face, while taking to a citibank cutomer service rep on the phone held between the cheek and the ear, while keeping an eye on the 8 month old on the floor doesn't put any hazardous object in her mouth. I've had one baby in the bathtub, one 5 year old out of it, washing the former, drying the latter.
Oh yes, I can multitask. I'm a mom. I do that.
We do that.
My friend, who has directed films, dealing with everything that goes on while directing a film. Directing, thinking, supervising, managing. Then, on the break, when everyone else sips coffee, she has run to the washroom, got on the cell to check in on her baby. And while on the phone, she is pumping. Pumping with a breast pump to ease the engorgement.
My other friend, who went back to work in three months after having had her baby. Back to work where she had to attend meetings, then dash to the stationery room to pump milk, dash back to her desk to do some R& D, rush home to deliver the pumped milk for the baby, rush back to work, then leave work, dog tired, to again feed, diaper, bath, change.
Don't get me wrong. You don't have to be a mother to be a good multi tasker.
It's just that when you are a mother, you just are a multitasker.
Here's to thinking. And to best friends. And to Grey's Anatomy.
I love Grey's Anatomy.
And I love my best friend for knowing that I would love Grey's Anatomy. And for telling me over and over again to watch Grey's Anatomy. And when I didn't listen, then, for getting me the DVD's for Grey's Anatomy. Then sending my 5 year old with her 5 year old to the balcony to play. And for babysitting my 7 month old daughter. And for bringing me my dinner to where I sat. All so I could sit and watch Grey's Anatomy.
And thank God for a best friend like that. Because I love Grey's Anatomy. I love the drama. I love the interplay of relationships. I love the characters. I love the hospital setting. I love the soundtrack. I love the dialogues. I love Burke and Bailey. And I love Christina and George. I love them all. Yup, even Alex.
And I love the narrative. I, especially, love, love, love the narrative.
It is a well thought of narrative.
It is a well written narrative.
And it is a very well narrated narrative.
It is a narrative that makes you listen.
It is a narrative that makes you think.
It is a narrative that makes you question.
And it is a narrative that makes you introspect.
It is a narrative that provides you an intelligent perspective.
It is a narrative that gives you an insight.
And it is a narrative that throws questions at you.
For instance, what would you do if you knew this was the last day of your life?
Think about it. I know I will.
And I love my best friend for knowing that I would love Grey's Anatomy. And for telling me over and over again to watch Grey's Anatomy. And when I didn't listen, then, for getting me the DVD's for Grey's Anatomy. Then sending my 5 year old with her 5 year old to the balcony to play. And for babysitting my 7 month old daughter. And for bringing me my dinner to where I sat. All so I could sit and watch Grey's Anatomy.
And thank God for a best friend like that. Because I love Grey's Anatomy. I love the drama. I love the interplay of relationships. I love the characters. I love the hospital setting. I love the soundtrack. I love the dialogues. I love Burke and Bailey. And I love Christina and George. I love them all. Yup, even Alex.
And I love the narrative. I, especially, love, love, love the narrative.
It is a well thought of narrative.
It is a well written narrative.
And it is a very well narrated narrative.
It is a narrative that makes you listen.
It is a narrative that makes you think.
It is a narrative that makes you question.
And it is a narrative that makes you introspect.
It is a narrative that provides you an intelligent perspective.
It is a narrative that gives you an insight.
And it is a narrative that throws questions at you.
For instance, what would you do if you knew this was the last day of your life?
Think about it. I know I will.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Red Red susu in the bed
Green green fairy queen
Yellow yellow dirty fellow
Brown brown let's go to town
Black black hay in the sack
Pink pink think think
Blue Blue I love you too
White White turn off the light
Gray Grey springtime in May
Just one of those days. Feeling wonderfully poetic!
Yellow yellow dirty fellow
Brown brown let's go to town
Black black hay in the sack
Pink pink think think
Blue Blue I love you too
White White turn off the light
Gray Grey springtime in May
Just one of those days. Feeling wonderfully poetic!
Casa
Today, I counted a blessing. For having a home. And then I felt even more blessed. For having three.
My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.
23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.
Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.
White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.
Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.
FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.
A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.
Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.
Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.
Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.
Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.
Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.
Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.
Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.
Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.
And music. Always, music.
It all comes together to make this home.
Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.
The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.
Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.
The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.
The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.
The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .
The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.
And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.
I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.
And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.
Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.
I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.
The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.
Sunil's fish.
Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.
The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.
The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.
And the music. Always, music.
The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.
And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.
My home in Toronto. The first house that me and my husband bought together. The home where the three of us, Rajesh, Rohan and me moved into, last year. The home that Gia was born into, to complete us.
23 Carlton Street. Downtown Toronto. 3 and half bedrooms. Two washrooms. Open kitchen. Hardwood floors. Steel appliances. Washer Dryer.
Bright cushion covers. FabIndia. Yamini. Oranges. Pinks. Lime greens. Blues. Cotton . Silk. Changed every Saturday. To set a mood for the week.
White curtains in the living room. To open up the space. Beige, with whiteouts, in the bedroom, to darken it, for afternoon siestas. Bright colored ones in Gia's room. To liven it up.
Table mats. Chatai. Colored jute.
FabIndia bedspreads. Green to calm. Orange to awaken. Blue, for serenity.
A little temple. Sai Baba. Guru Nanak. Prayer beads.
Buddhas. 4 Buddhas and counting.
Incense. Sometimes, Nagchampa. Sometimes, Lavender or Opium. Aroma oils. Always Satsuma.
Plants. Everywhere. Living room, bedroom, washroom. Fresh flowers, now and then. Tiger lilies.
Books. Lots of books. Tarun Tejpal. Manju Mathur. Arundhati Roy. Paulo Coehlo. Marquez. Robert Munch. Dr. Suess. Sandra Boynton. Fiction. Non fiction. Stories. Philosophy. Poetry.
Art on the walls. A large Indian painting. My first art buy at an art gallery. From Dhoomimal's in Connaught Place. Art from Dilli Hart. Series of three. Tribal. A few Ikea prints. Contemporary. Kamal's painting. A recent addition. Sunils. To come.
Photographs. Lots of photographs. In magnetic frames on the fridge. Kids. Family. Friends. Memories. Moods. Emotions.
Lots of kids stuff. That gets tidied up every night. Teddy bears. Super heroes. Puppets. Choo Choo trains. Swords. Transformers. Ben Tens. Rattles. Lego. Puzzles. Bouncers. High chair.
Atta, dal, spices, pastas. Pressure cookers, pots and pans. Coffee maker, Juicer, blender, mixie. Bounty, toilet rolls, cleaners, linen spray, laundry detergents.
And music. Always, music.
It all comes together to make this home.
Then there is my parents house. Sector 37. House # 142. Noida. The first house that my mom and dad bought together. Finally , home. Not like the army houses that needed to be moved out of every three years.
The house my parents renovated last year. Their big creative project. They put their heart and soul into it. They shaped every dream they had. A kitchen like this, a living room like that. Bay windows. Bigger bathrooms. Bigger bedrooms. A veranda. Acess to the terrace, so the grandchildren can play.
Dad's den with his TV to watch National Geographic and CNN. With all his books and a proud display of his army mementos. Mom's room with her TV to watch Sony and Star Plus. With her sewing machine and ironing board.
The house that houses mom's crystal. Antiques. Hand crafted Kashmiri furntire. Mom's china cabinet. Dad's bar. With liqour bought from the army canteen.
The house that houses their memories. Of their children having gone to college. Done their MBA. Got married. Gone abroad. Had children. A house full of memories. Of a life lived. Bustling in the morning. Quieter in the evenings.
The house where now their children come home to. And their grandchildren .
The house that I moved out of to find my own. The house that I now return to, every now and then.
And as soon as I get to that house, after a very long flight from Toronto to Delhi, I know I am home. My room on the second floor. My closet. My dressing table. My favorite place, the garden. An oasis in the city. Lots of plants. Lots of trees. The magnificient palm. The little bonsais. The small tree in which the birds nested last summer. The waterfalll my dad built. The fish he added to it.
I am home to conversations with Dad. To mom's cooking. To Dad's breakfasts. To endless cups of chai . To random trips on the rickshaw to Atta market. To the joy I see in their eyes as they interact with Rohan and Gia. I am home.
And then there is the third. In Bangalore. Alpine Court. Koramangala. My best friend's home. Roohi, Sunil and Amay's home. Where I always go. No matter how tired I am of having made the long flight from Toronto to Delhi. No matter how fearful I am to undertake a trip, yet again, with the kids in tow. I go. And I'm glad I do.
Because as soon as I enter the house, I feel the energy. The creative energy. The surge. And I feel the the love. The warmth. And the joy that I am here. I feel the welcome. Real, genuine welcome. And I feel the comfort. Of being there.
I see the colors. Oh, the colors. Oranges, lime greens, blues, magaentas. All thrown in together. Without a thought to coordination. Effortlessly. By the undisputed queen of color.
The lights. the colorful twinkling lights. That magically lit up my 6 month old daughter's eyes everytime she looked at them.
Sunil's fish.
Art. Kamal's. Sunil's. Amay's.
The Fab India furniture. Tasteful as hell. The books. The Buddhas. The photographs.
The dining table, that draws people to it. That people sit around and eat. Have endless cups of chai. And endless glasses of beer. The table that makes people talk. That conversations happen around.
The kitchen. The functional kitchen. The kitchen that never runs short of food. Ever. The kitchen with the little temple. The kitchen where Roohi and me have rolled out a chatai and had the most amazing conversations. Bared our souls. Poured our hearts out. Spoken secrets. Discussed life, film, books, people, family. Laughed. Really laughed. And in doing so, created the most amazing memories. Of friendship. Of sisterhood. Of being best friends.
And the music. Always, music.
The little balcony. With the plants in their pots that the monkeys sometimes break sometimes. The balcony where I sat everyday with Gia and soaked in the Bangalore sun.
And sitting there, I know. Yet again. That I am home.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A good start
Wake up early. 6ish. Before the rest of them. I lay in bed a few minutes. Just . Eyes open, mind calm, sleep slowly receding. I linger in the warmth of the rajai just a little bit more, then peel it off. Hoist myself off the bed.
Walk to kitchen. Squeeze half a lime into a glass of warm water. Sip, sip, slowly. The sourness tingles the taste buds. Tea or coffe, I think? Always, a decision I make in the morning. It's a mood thing.
Turn the cofee maker on. Set the coffee to brew. French Vanilla. Sometimes, Colombian dark roast. Tetley Orange Pekoe, if tea.
Roll out yoga mat. Position feet. Raise arms over head. Nice and long. Streeeetch. Slowly bend . Touch my toes. Up again. Hands to namaskar. Prostrate. Get into downward dog. Then, mountain pose. Back up again. One cycle of Surya Namaskar. 30 seconds break. Then, repeat. No counts. Keep going till the mind and body know to stop.
Sit myself on the yoga mat. Half lotus. Back straight, stretched. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Inhale . Exhale. Slow. Keep the focus on the breathing.
End with the child pose. My favorite. Has always been.
Then I saunter back to the kitchen. Which is now smelling of freshly brewed French Vanilla. Mmmm. Pur myself a cup. A little bit of cream. Lots of sugar. My only sugar fix for the day. Hence, sweet as hell.
Light an agarbatti. Some days, lavendar. Others, nagchampa. Or occasionaly burn the oil lamp. Always, satsuma.
Sit on the couch. Mentally make a note of the day. Things to do, meals to make, people to call, stuff like that. Sip, sip. On some days, pick up a book. Start to read.
Then, Gia starts waking up. Soon, Rohan and Rajesh. Diaper change. Rohan's breakfast. Put on some music. Good morning world.
I am a morning ritual person. I love my morning rituals. It's my thing. It's that time of the day, which is just mine. Sometimes as short as 15 minutes. Some lucky days, longer. Whichever one, I'm just happy sto start my day that way. My way. With the cleansing of the lime water , the energizing of the yoga, the taste of the beverage, the aroma of the incense, the calming of the Pranayama.
Because I never know what the day will bring. Excitement, bad news, good news, fatigue, peace, tension.
But I do know that I had a good start.
Walk to kitchen. Squeeze half a lime into a glass of warm water. Sip, sip, slowly. The sourness tingles the taste buds. Tea or coffe, I think? Always, a decision I make in the morning. It's a mood thing.
Turn the cofee maker on. Set the coffee to brew. French Vanilla. Sometimes, Colombian dark roast. Tetley Orange Pekoe, if tea.
Roll out yoga mat. Position feet. Raise arms over head. Nice and long. Streeeetch. Slowly bend . Touch my toes. Up again. Hands to namaskar. Prostrate. Get into downward dog. Then, mountain pose. Back up again. One cycle of Surya Namaskar. 30 seconds break. Then, repeat. No counts. Keep going till the mind and body know to stop.
Sit myself on the yoga mat. Half lotus. Back straight, stretched. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Inhale . Exhale. Slow. Keep the focus on the breathing.
End with the child pose. My favorite. Has always been.
Then I saunter back to the kitchen. Which is now smelling of freshly brewed French Vanilla. Mmmm. Pur myself a cup. A little bit of cream. Lots of sugar. My only sugar fix for the day. Hence, sweet as hell.
Light an agarbatti. Some days, lavendar. Others, nagchampa. Or occasionaly burn the oil lamp. Always, satsuma.
Sit on the couch. Mentally make a note of the day. Things to do, meals to make, people to call, stuff like that. Sip, sip. On some days, pick up a book. Start to read.
Then, Gia starts waking up. Soon, Rohan and Rajesh. Diaper change. Rohan's breakfast. Put on some music. Good morning world.
I am a morning ritual person. I love my morning rituals. It's my thing. It's that time of the day, which is just mine. Sometimes as short as 15 minutes. Some lucky days, longer. Whichever one, I'm just happy sto start my day that way. My way. With the cleansing of the lime water , the energizing of the yoga, the taste of the beverage, the aroma of the incense, the calming of the Pranayama.
Because I never know what the day will bring. Excitement, bad news, good news, fatigue, peace, tension.
But I do know that I had a good start.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Three mad women. One crazy dog. A rickety old car.
Memories. Rock solid things. Escpecially the good, happy, crazy ones. Those are for keeps. Those are the ones the ones that find a special nook in the chambers of your head and then just lodge themselves there. For good.
Of course, the details get fuzzier as you get older, but the essence stays.
And everytime you decide to visit that little nook in your head, you remember. And you smile.
I want to pen those memories down. I want to dig them up. And smile as I do.
I want to save them before the nooks get all taken. And the details get fuzzier.
So here goes.
It is only fair I start with a very happy one. It features three mad women, one crazy dog and a seriously old car.
Like I said, the details get fuzzeir, so I am not sure why we made the trip. Was it to drop me off? ? Or pack my stuff for the night and head back to G's house? We had a purpose, I know. But it doesn't matter. Becuase I am just glad we made the trip.
We. G, me and Roo. And one crazy (God bless his soul) dog named Paoli. G's adopted stray, Poali. Sweet Poali. Moody Poali. Crazy Poali. Poali, who also has a special nook in my head.
From G's C2 in CP to my 142 in Noida.
Late night.
In G's serioulsy old, yet dependable Fiat. Oh, the memories I have of that car. All good.
Gray, I think it was. Vintage, definitely.
So we head off. I think it was Roo and G in the front. And me and Poali at the back. Well, me at the back and Poali pretty much all over me at the back.
And here's the thing. All through the drive, we laughed. Man, we laughed. At silly , inane stuff. Office gossip, life, ex boyfriends, current crushes, colleagues, silly jokes, this, that and this. We talked and we laughed.
Roo also sang. A lovely hindi song. Very seriously. And G and me laughed. We thought she was being funny. But she wasn't. And she was upset. And we felt bad. And made it up to her. And then she laughed.
We even invented a word. Mountaaaaains. We still say it. After all these years. And we laugh.
At one point, Paoli stuck his bum right in my face. He also stuck it in Roo's face. We had a dog stick his bum our faces. And we laughed. It was outright gross. But we laughed.
And if you ever had that happen to you and you were in the company of some really good friends, who have a kickass sense of humor, you'd laugh too. Trust me.
Then we got to Noida. And as the door to the car opened, Poali jumped out and ran. Away. Into the Sector 37 streets of Nodia. In the middle of the night. Like any crazy , wild , happy dog would.
And then the three of us, in our nightshirts and Pj's chased him on the streets of Sector37 in Noida. In the middle of the night. Like any three seriously crazy, mad, happy women would.
We fnally got Poali. Leashed him up.
We were still laughing.
Man, what a trip . What a night. And what a rock solid memory.
Oh, and we never ever laugh when Roo sings now. Never.
Of course, the details get fuzzier as you get older, but the essence stays.
And everytime you decide to visit that little nook in your head, you remember. And you smile.
I want to pen those memories down. I want to dig them up. And smile as I do.
I want to save them before the nooks get all taken. And the details get fuzzier.
So here goes.
It is only fair I start with a very happy one. It features three mad women, one crazy dog and a seriously old car.
Like I said, the details get fuzzeir, so I am not sure why we made the trip. Was it to drop me off? ? Or pack my stuff for the night and head back to G's house? We had a purpose, I know. But it doesn't matter. Becuase I am just glad we made the trip.
We. G, me and Roo. And one crazy (God bless his soul) dog named Paoli. G's adopted stray, Poali. Sweet Poali. Moody Poali. Crazy Poali. Poali, who also has a special nook in my head.
From G's C2 in CP to my 142 in Noida.
Late night.
In G's serioulsy old, yet dependable Fiat. Oh, the memories I have of that car. All good.
Gray, I think it was. Vintage, definitely.
So we head off. I think it was Roo and G in the front. And me and Poali at the back. Well, me at the back and Poali pretty much all over me at the back.
And here's the thing. All through the drive, we laughed. Man, we laughed. At silly , inane stuff. Office gossip, life, ex boyfriends, current crushes, colleagues, silly jokes, this, that and this. We talked and we laughed.
Roo also sang. A lovely hindi song. Very seriously. And G and me laughed. We thought she was being funny. But she wasn't. And she was upset. And we felt bad. And made it up to her. And then she laughed.
We even invented a word. Mountaaaaains. We still say it. After all these years. And we laugh.
At one point, Paoli stuck his bum right in my face. He also stuck it in Roo's face. We had a dog stick his bum our faces. And we laughed. It was outright gross. But we laughed.
And if you ever had that happen to you and you were in the company of some really good friends, who have a kickass sense of humor, you'd laugh too. Trust me.
Then we got to Noida. And as the door to the car opened, Poali jumped out and ran. Away. Into the Sector 37 streets of Nodia. In the middle of the night. Like any crazy , wild , happy dog would.
And then the three of us, in our nightshirts and Pj's chased him on the streets of Sector37 in Noida. In the middle of the night. Like any three seriously crazy, mad, happy women would.
We fnally got Poali. Leashed him up.
We were still laughing.
Man, what a trip . What a night. And what a rock solid memory.
Oh, and we never ever laugh when Roo sings now. Never.
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