***Should I? Am I ready? What if it doesn’t work out?
My mind was busy fighting these demons, while my heart had just broken into an impromptu jig. Violins were playing in the background as cupid lovingly aimed his arrow at me, while creatures from my mind were engaged in shooing him away.
And then, my heart won the battle. The deal was sealed. I was going to be a bride.***
I woke up, unable to breathe. I fumbled around for my water bottle, trying to wipe the sweat trickling down behind my ears. It was pitch dark. I slid my hand on the bed in the hope of finding my mobile, and instead, I found his hand. He woke up, realising something was amiss. I tried to tell him what happened, but my voice ditched me. He understood. He patted my back till I was fine, rubbed my freezing hands till they were warm and comforted me to sleep.
Nightmares are no longer as scary as they used to be. I know when I am woken up by one, I have someone who’ll say, “It’s alright, I’m right here.” That’s the advantage of being married. Your special someone is always by your side when the times are scary.
That’s the comfort cushion that every wedding comes with. Yes, there are responsibilities, but there’s also someone to share them with. My wedding not just gave me a husband, it also gave me a best friend and a roomie, all rolled into one. There was a time when I would look around for company, eyeing all the coochie-cooing couples with envy. Now, I don’t even notice them. There was a time when what people spoke behind my back used to drive me crazy. Now, I just don’t care. I have better things to do, better people to think about.
I’m not going through the best phase of my life. Financially and health-wise, I’m yet to reach a stage where I can be happy. But, emotionally, I’m in a place when I can take a deep breath and say I’m content. I have invested my love and affection in the right kind of people, and hadn’t it been for my wedding with Harish, I wouldn’t have had such a wonderful family and such a crazy bunch of friends.
I’m calmer now. The storm within me has subsided. I know I am with the right person; someone, who’s stood by my side despite all odds. Someone, who knew me, but still had the guts to decide that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. Someone, I trust blindly. And in the tug of war between ego and relationships, I have my priority list sorted. My family, my husband and my friends come first. Everything, literally everything, comes later.
A year after wearing the garbs of a traditional Indian wife, I would be blatantly lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive at all. Dedicating an entire lifetime to a man seemed a bit bizarre, if not more. Cooking for him, living with him, deciding with him and living for him -- would I be able to manage? But seeing him stand by me through one of the most difficult times of my life, I knew what my heart was whispering to me was indeed right.
Yes, we’ve had our share of fights and arguments. But what’s life without some mischief? But at the end of all of it, when I race out to the balcony when he’s leaving for office, just to wave at him and I see him standing there, looking at me, I know nothing can come between a strong relationship. That’s when you pack the ‘you’ and ‘I’ and replace it with ‘us’.
And despite all the questions of concern that my brain was shooting at me, I’m glad I took the plunge. I’m stronger, wiser and happier now.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Pass, ya fail?
***The buzzing intensified. Paper balls flew around. Little kids dressed in blue and white swarmed in and out of the classroom. And suddenly, the buzzing died; the kids dropped everything and made a beeline for their respective seats. “Good morning, ma’am,” the kids sang. The teacher was in, carrying a bundle of white papers. Answersheets.
I sat, shifting my bum from side to side, meddling with my plait. The class was so silent that I could hear my heart thump violently. One by one, each student was called to the teacher’s desk and handed the paper. As each one of them took that long walk back to their seats, I observed their faces -- some beamed, others hung their heads in shame. Pass, ya fail, what will I be doing in a while, I wondered, making the heart protest a little faster.
“Parvathy, come,” the teacher said, waking me up from my reverie. I walked, my hands freezing. With trembling fingers, I took the answersheet from her. And there it was, inside that big red circle. 49 out of 50. I rolled my eyes upwards and my lips curved into a smile. I wanted to run back to ammai, to show her my marks…our marks, ammai’s and mine.
As ammai came back from office, I jumped like a little kitten and handed it to her. “Ammai, 49 out of 50, see,” I said and looked at her face. She was grinning, ear-to-ear. “I got the highest, ammai,” I said, but quickly corrected myself. “WE got the highest,” I said and the pride on her face made me happier than the marks did. Ammai and I, always a team. She taught, I learned, we achieved…***
Things have changed. The little girl with plaits is now a woman with slightly shorter, layered hair. The lessons are different, and so are the exams. The answersheets aren’t distributed anymore. But one thing hasn’t changed. Ammai and I, we are still a team. She teaches, I learn, we achieve.
In a week’s time, ammai will be in Hyderabad for the first time. Whatever she has taught me over the years, whatever I have learnt by silently observing the way she runs the house, all of that have been tested over the past one year. It’s time for the answersheet, the results. As ammai comes home, she will deliver the verdict, whether I have been able to learn whatever she taught me. Pass, ya fail -- ammai,that you will decide...
Am I nervous? Oh hell yes, I am. I have always tried to be like her, to make her proud. Before putting the dosa batter inside the fridge, I ensure that there’s no batter sticking outside the dabba, just like you do, ammai...Before going on a trip, I clean all the little dabbas in the kitchen, and make sure all the dishes are cleaned, dried and placed in their respective shelves, just like you do, ammai. I place the broom handle-side on the floor, make sure that the dishes are dry before I stack them away. I ensure that the bedsheets have no creases when spread over the mattresses, fold the clothes neatly so that I needn’t iron them. I wash the pans first, plates and cups next and the spoons and ladles last. Just like you do, ammai…
When you step into our Hyderabad home, I hope you see a glimpse of yourself in everything I do. That is what you have taught me, ammai; that is what I have learnt. And that, only that, is what I want to achieve, what We want to achieve.
And even though I have learnt a lot, there’s a long way to go. Our home in Hyderabad is my answersheet ammai, and it waits to you to access it, evaluate it. I’m not expecting a 50 out of 50, I’m far from perfect...But then, we are a team, remember, ammai...Teach me and I’ll learn. And together, the 50 out of 50 will be ours...
I sat, shifting my bum from side to side, meddling with my plait. The class was so silent that I could hear my heart thump violently. One by one, each student was called to the teacher’s desk and handed the paper. As each one of them took that long walk back to their seats, I observed their faces -- some beamed, others hung their heads in shame. Pass, ya fail, what will I be doing in a while, I wondered, making the heart protest a little faster.
“Parvathy, come,” the teacher said, waking me up from my reverie. I walked, my hands freezing. With trembling fingers, I took the answersheet from her. And there it was, inside that big red circle. 49 out of 50. I rolled my eyes upwards and my lips curved into a smile. I wanted to run back to ammai, to show her my marks…our marks, ammai’s and mine.
As ammai came back from office, I jumped like a little kitten and handed it to her. “Ammai, 49 out of 50, see,” I said and looked at her face. She was grinning, ear-to-ear. “I got the highest, ammai,” I said, but quickly corrected myself. “WE got the highest,” I said and the pride on her face made me happier than the marks did. Ammai and I, always a team. She taught, I learned, we achieved…***
Things have changed. The little girl with plaits is now a woman with slightly shorter, layered hair. The lessons are different, and so are the exams. The answersheets aren’t distributed anymore. But one thing hasn’t changed. Ammai and I, we are still a team. She teaches, I learn, we achieve.
In a week’s time, ammai will be in Hyderabad for the first time. Whatever she has taught me over the years, whatever I have learnt by silently observing the way she runs the house, all of that have been tested over the past one year. It’s time for the answersheet, the results. As ammai comes home, she will deliver the verdict, whether I have been able to learn whatever she taught me. Pass, ya fail -- ammai,that you will decide...
Am I nervous? Oh hell yes, I am. I have always tried to be like her, to make her proud. Before putting the dosa batter inside the fridge, I ensure that there’s no batter sticking outside the dabba, just like you do, ammai...Before going on a trip, I clean all the little dabbas in the kitchen, and make sure all the dishes are cleaned, dried and placed in their respective shelves, just like you do, ammai. I place the broom handle-side on the floor, make sure that the dishes are dry before I stack them away. I ensure that the bedsheets have no creases when spread over the mattresses, fold the clothes neatly so that I needn’t iron them. I wash the pans first, plates and cups next and the spoons and ladles last. Just like you do, ammai…
When you step into our Hyderabad home, I hope you see a glimpse of yourself in everything I do. That is what you have taught me, ammai; that is what I have learnt. And that, only that, is what I want to achieve, what We want to achieve.
And even though I have learnt a lot, there’s a long way to go. Our home in Hyderabad is my answersheet ammai, and it waits to you to access it, evaluate it. I’m not expecting a 50 out of 50, I’m far from perfect...But then, we are a team, remember, ammai...Teach me and I’ll learn. And together, the 50 out of 50 will be ours...
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Of Dum Biriyani and Dumdaar Dosti!
“Hey, how much should I pay you,” Harish asks. The guy in the sweatshirt nods his head, looks animatedly towards the ceiling, taps his chin with his finger and says, “I forgot!” Harish looks at the lady, expecting her to give a straight answer. She shakes her head promptly, from left to right, tightlipped. “Hey, this is not fair,” protests Harish, saying, “This is our dinner party, we should be paying for the biriyani!” The lady smiles the best of her trademark smiles. “Tera party, humara party, it’s the same thing yaar. Abb tu hume paise dega, do packet biriyani ka,” she says. The guy in the sweatshirt smiles, ‘#win’, written all over his face…
There are friends who are the typical ‘you pay for what you’ve eaten, I’ll pay for mine’ and then there are friends for whom money, bills, calculations hardly ever matter.
Meet Sangee (Sangeeta) and Srikkanth, two of our closest friends in Hyderabad. Yes, of dum biriyani and dumdaar dosti. Here’s where it begins.
Hyderabad. I’d heard a lot about it, and I couldn’t wait to finally start living here. Afterall, ‘home’ is where the heart and the sweetheart, both of them are. As we inched closer to my ‘new’ home, I couldn’t conceal the excitement bubbling inside me. I didn’t know how it would be. Two feet-like floral patterns on the floor (one big, the other, slightly smaller) greeted me as soon as I was ushered in. A beautiful cake, a big bottle of mineral water and a decorated bedroom...I looked at Harish, puzzled. Yes, friends...they were the ones who had arranged my ‘homecoming’ beautifully!
When the first weekend plan was rolled out, I was a bit sceptical. “Will they like me?” was a question that kept bugging me. Over the next few crazy weekends spent digging into biriyanis, rumali rotis and other sinfully edible stuff, I discovered home. A home filled with peals of laughter over dumb charades, anecdotes and food. A home filled with friends.
When a friend spends her entire Sunday baking a cute little cake for your big day,
you’ve got to understand that you’re talking about someone who’s just a part of ‘guestlist’. She’s family. When a friend travels three hours one way from Warangal after a two-hour class early in the morning, just to honour your invitation, and rushes back to another three-hour journey to teach at 6.30 the next morning, he’s not just another friend. He’s a yo-bro! When a new friend takes all the liberty to walk into your kitchen to conduct a raid and then emerges with a victory sign pasted on his face saying, “Look what I found here -- toffees!” you can be sure he’s in the league of these special people. Sangee, Srikkanth, Avinash, Avinash Chapter II, Rajgo, I dare not call you ‘just friends’...
And then, there is an extended family. The Abhyaas family. It’s like my second home. From a welcome lunch to get-togethers celebrating every milestone that Abhyaas crosses, I’m never left out from any activity that Abhyaas conducts. Enough for me to smile the biggest of my smiles when I see Abhyaas ads anywhere on the streets. Naresh, Sirisha, Rakesh, Sahitya, Padma, Sonal, Venkatesh, Sahiti, Hari...thank you for welcoming me to the Abhyaas family with so much of warmth.
And then, I bumped into this wonderful lady, Bhavana. Warm, caring, vocal, knowledgeable. The activist. She’s inspired me to be like her -- fearless and fantastic!
Yes, Hyderabad is a great place. Great because I no longer feel alien here. Great because it has given me great friends. Great, because it’s home.
There are friends who are the typical ‘you pay for what you’ve eaten, I’ll pay for mine’ and then there are friends for whom money, bills, calculations hardly ever matter.
Meet Sangee (Sangeeta) and Srikkanth, two of our closest friends in Hyderabad. Yes, of dum biriyani and dumdaar dosti. Here’s where it begins.
Hyderabad. I’d heard a lot about it, and I couldn’t wait to finally start living here. Afterall, ‘home’ is where the heart and the sweetheart, both of them are. As we inched closer to my ‘new’ home, I couldn’t conceal the excitement bubbling inside me. I didn’t know how it would be. Two feet-like floral patterns on the floor (one big, the other, slightly smaller) greeted me as soon as I was ushered in. A beautiful cake, a big bottle of mineral water and a decorated bedroom...I looked at Harish, puzzled. Yes, friends...they were the ones who had arranged my ‘homecoming’ beautifully!
When the first weekend plan was rolled out, I was a bit sceptical. “Will they like me?” was a question that kept bugging me. Over the next few crazy weekends spent digging into biriyanis, rumali rotis and other sinfully edible stuff, I discovered home. A home filled with peals of laughter over dumb charades, anecdotes and food. A home filled with friends.
When a friend spends her entire Sunday baking a cute little cake for your big day,
And then, I bumped into this wonderful lady, Bhavana. Warm, caring, vocal, knowledgeable. The activist. She’s inspired me to be like her -- fearless and fantastic!
Yes, Hyderabad is a great place. Great because I no longer feel alien here. Great because it has given me great friends. Great, because it’s home.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Connected virtually, dis-connected literally!
She looked at the teenager with her inquisitive eyes, the lines on her forehead becoming even more prominent as her eyebrows came together, expressing her disapproval. She tilted her nodding head and tapped her on her shoulder with her trembling fingers, asking, “What are you doing?” The teenager didn’t bother to look up. “Uff, give me a second, daadi. I’m facebooking,” she said. The wrinkles on the forehead had curiosity written all over it… “Face WHAT,” the 70-something asked and the teenager just got up and walked away. The inquisitiveness vanished as her eyes softened and became a shade blurred with the tears that were pooling inside...
Technology. It brings us closer, it seems. Really?
I pity the teenager. A phone with a camera, andriod ‘kit kat’ (whatever that means), games, a plethora of applications. Fancy. I still pity her. She has no idea how special the conversations with grandmums are. The stories that they tell can’t be bookmarked for a leisurely read. You’ve got to go with the flow, honey. I pity the teenager, for she has no idea how great she would have felt had she spent some time with her grandmum, making her feel wanted. That’s what they want. They’re not asking us for expensive gifts or world tours. All they want is some time with us and that’s probably the least we can do for them.
Time. Comes with a pretty heavy price tag. We have all the time in the world to sit in front of the laptop for hours, liking photos and updating silly status messages, but time to spend with our loved ones? Heavy tag dangling? “Sorry, a little busy, ‘GTG’, TTYL”, is our standard reply.
The smileys have replaced the oh-so-enchanting smiles that used to trace their way to the twinkling eyes. Fun is ‘funner’ only when shared on facebook. Weddings aren’t solemnised until the facebook relationship status confirms so. Wooing, weddings, engagements, honeymoon -- facebook is a big slice of our lives.
Having a once-upon-a-time-fancy phone, I can easily connect with the daadi above. While every around is busy glued to their phones that come alive with a touch of their fingers, ‘connecting’ with people over WhatsApp, BBM, WeChat and what not, I sit, gazing at the ceiling, admiring the cobwebs in the corner with new-found interest, the frustration inside me bubbling and ready to burst like a volcano. I too want to ‘connect’, but these fancy applications, I have not. Am I not eligible for a ‘real’ connection, instead?
I try to talk to people, but end up talking to their heads instead, their faces, buried
inside their laptops, tablets or phones. I fidget. I don’t know what to do. I feel out-of-place, most of the times. I remain offline on chat, both on facebook and gtalk.
I have phone numbers of people I want to connect with, and so do they. Chats are tricky, as I have learnt the hard way. Once bitten, twice shy, I stay away from these virtual modes of communication.
Life is not all about telling the world ‘what’s on your mind’. Sometimes, the eyes say it all, but only if the other person can tear his or her eyes away from the phone. Talk to your mum, tell her what you’ve been upto. Walk over to your dad, tell him what you’re planning. Have your dinner from your grandmum’s hands, they’ll taste delicious. Go over to your friend’s place, gossip over a steaming plate of maggi. Take a walk with your husband, cook with him. Ditch your fancy gadgets and look around, you’ll hear birds chirping, kids laughing and you’ll see time slowing down…
Technology. It brings us closer, it seems. Really?
I pity the teenager. A phone with a camera, andriod ‘kit kat’ (whatever that means), games, a plethora of applications. Fancy. I still pity her. She has no idea how special the conversations with grandmums are. The stories that they tell can’t be bookmarked for a leisurely read. You’ve got to go with the flow, honey. I pity the teenager, for she has no idea how great she would have felt had she spent some time with her grandmum, making her feel wanted. That’s what they want. They’re not asking us for expensive gifts or world tours. All they want is some time with us and that’s probably the least we can do for them.
Time. Comes with a pretty heavy price tag. We have all the time in the world to sit in front of the laptop for hours, liking photos and updating silly status messages, but time to spend with our loved ones? Heavy tag dangling? “Sorry, a little busy, ‘GTG’, TTYL”, is our standard reply.
The smileys have replaced the oh-so-enchanting smiles that used to trace their way to the twinkling eyes. Fun is ‘funner’ only when shared on facebook. Weddings aren’t solemnised until the facebook relationship status confirms so. Wooing, weddings, engagements, honeymoon -- facebook is a big slice of our lives.
Having a once-upon-a-time-fancy phone, I can easily connect with the daadi above. While every around is busy glued to their phones that come alive with a touch of their fingers, ‘connecting’ with people over WhatsApp, BBM, WeChat and what not, I sit, gazing at the ceiling, admiring the cobwebs in the corner with new-found interest, the frustration inside me bubbling and ready to burst like a volcano. I too want to ‘connect’, but these fancy applications, I have not. Am I not eligible for a ‘real’ connection, instead?
I try to talk to people, but end up talking to their heads instead, their faces, buried
I have phone numbers of people I want to connect with, and so do they. Chats are tricky, as I have learnt the hard way. Once bitten, twice shy, I stay away from these virtual modes of communication.
Life is not all about telling the world ‘what’s on your mind’. Sometimes, the eyes say it all, but only if the other person can tear his or her eyes away from the phone. Talk to your mum, tell her what you’ve been upto. Walk over to your dad, tell him what you’re planning. Have your dinner from your grandmum’s hands, they’ll taste delicious. Go over to your friend’s place, gossip over a steaming plate of maggi. Take a walk with your husband, cook with him. Ditch your fancy gadgets and look around, you’ll hear birds chirping, kids laughing and you’ll see time slowing down…
Friday, November 22, 2013
My First Liebster Award!
And I got my first Liebster Award! yayy..!! Thank you so much Preethi VenuGopal
So, here it goes! Once someone is generous enough to present you with the Liebster Award, here are some steps that you will have to follow:
- Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog, linking their blog.
- Copy & Paste the award to your blog.
- Answer the questions the person (who has given you the award) has asked you
- Nominate 5 blogs to receive the award who have less than 3000 followers.
- Inform them of their nomination by leaving comment on their blog.
- Frame 11 questions for them to answer.
Here are the questions Preethi asked me:
1) What is your favorite place on earth?
My home. :)
2) What is your favorite colour?
Blue
3) Tell the first joke that came to your mind.
A husband takes the wife to a night club. There's aguy on the dance floor giving it big time. Break dancing, moon walking, back flips, the works!
The wife turns to her husband and says, "See that guy? 25 years ago he proposed to me and I turned him down!"
The husband says, "Looks to me like he's still celebrating!!!"
4) What do you tell people who dives in to give an advice which you do not need?
I smile politely, and say I'll try it. (But I try it only if I want to...what's teh harm in making people happy?)
5) What is your most cherished dream?
Becoming a good writer
6) Which fictional character do you find adorable?
Mr Bean :D
7) If you had the power to change a thing in this world what would you change?
Discrimination against women
8) Write the first two lines of the song that is on your mind now...
Oh ri chhori chichori chede hume chingam chabake
9) What is the one thing that you wish you had done differently?
Nothing. I have no regrets. :)
10) Why do you write?
That is the only one thing I ma supposedly good at! :D
Here are the bloggers I would like to nominate for the award.
Aliasgar Mukhtiar - http://farzanaaliasgarmukhtiar.blogspot.in/
Harish Bhardwaj - http://bhardwajharish.blogspot.in/
Nikhil - http://aficionadolog.blogspot.in/
joshi daniel - http://joshidaniel.com/
Aadil Bandukwala - http://bandukwala.org/
Sakshi Nanda - http://sakshinanda.blogspot.in/
Anuradha Khanna Pentapalli - http://www.fibromyalgiaawareness.com/
Purba Ray - http://www.purba-ray.com/
Gowtham - http://easyaptitudes.blogspot.in/
Preethi VenuGopal - http://tulipsandme.blogspot.in/
These are my questions for them:
1. What is more important -- being competitive, or being compassionate?
2. Why did you start blogging?
3. How does blogging help you?
4. If you could change something about you, what would it be?
5. Who is person you think about when you close your eyes?
6. What is your favourite dish?
7. Which is your favourite sitcom?
8. Which book are you reading now?
9. What are your hobbies?
10. What does this award mean to you?
So, here it goes! Once someone is generous enough to present you with the Liebster Award, here are some steps that you will have to follow:
- Thank your Liebster Blog Award presenter on your blog, linking their blog.
- Copy & Paste the award to your blog.
- Answer the questions the person (who has given you the award) has asked you
- Nominate 5 blogs to receive the award who have less than 3000 followers.
- Inform them of their nomination by leaving comment on their blog.
- Frame 11 questions for them to answer.
Here are the questions Preethi asked me:
1) What is your favorite place on earth?
My home. :)
2) What is your favorite colour?
Blue
3) Tell the first joke that came to your mind.
A husband takes the wife to a night club. There's aguy on the dance floor giving it big time. Break dancing, moon walking, back flips, the works!
The wife turns to her husband and says, "See that guy? 25 years ago he proposed to me and I turned him down!"
The husband says, "Looks to me like he's still celebrating!!!"
4) What do you tell people who dives in to give an advice which you do not need?
I smile politely, and say I'll try it. (But I try it only if I want to...what's teh harm in making people happy?)
5) What is your most cherished dream?
Becoming a good writer
6) Which fictional character do you find adorable?
Mr Bean :D
7) If you had the power to change a thing in this world what would you change?
Discrimination against women
8) Write the first two lines of the song that is on your mind now...
Oh ri chhori chichori chede hume chingam chabake
9) What is the one thing that you wish you had done differently?
Nothing. I have no regrets. :)
10) Why do you write?
That is the only one thing I ma supposedly good at! :D
Here are the bloggers I would like to nominate for the award.
Aliasgar Mukhtiar - http://farzanaaliasgarmukhtiar.blogspot.in/
Harish Bhardwaj - http://bhardwajharish.blogspot.in/
Nikhil - http://aficionadolog.blogspot.in/
joshi daniel - http://joshidaniel.com/
Aadil Bandukwala - http://bandukwala.org/
Sakshi Nanda - http://sakshinanda.blogspot.in/
Anuradha Khanna Pentapalli - http://www.fibromyalgiaawareness.com/
Purba Ray - http://www.purba-ray.com/
Gowtham - http://easyaptitudes.blogspot.in/
Preethi VenuGopal - http://tulipsandme.blogspot.in/
These are my questions for them:
1. What is more important -- being competitive, or being compassionate?
2. Why did you start blogging?
3. How does blogging help you?
4. If you could change something about you, what would it be?
5. Who is person you think about when you close your eyes?
6. What is your favourite dish?
7. Which is your favourite sitcom?
8. Which book are you reading now?
9. What are your hobbies?
10. What does this award mean to you?
Homecoming...
It looked as if the sky had wrapped itself with an expensive, sequined velvety black shawl. As we whirred off on our bike, I couldn’t help but fall in love with the beauty that was delightfully spread up right above my head...The sky, the stars, the moon, they commanded my attention, and I obliged, happily. As I was gazing at the sky, awestruck by it’s mesmerising beauty, I noticed a couple of flickering lights. “Is this some heavenly body,” I wondered, still in the trance that the movie Gravity had left me in. As I observed it for a while, I realised there was nothing heavenly about it, after all. It was more of an earthly object; it was a flight…
“It must be someone’s homecoming,” I thought, as I saw the flickering lights incline towards the horizon. “Someone would have returned home, someone would be rushing into the arms of their loved ones. Someone’s wait must have been over,” I thought, the lights disappearing from my vision. What a joy it is, to see the faces of loved ones, we have been away from for a while. The butterflies begin to flutter with new-found energy; the heart becomes an Usain Bolt, racing away...
I was back home, with my parents, for the first time after my wedding. A year. I had been away for a year and I just had a week’s time at my disposal. One week for one year. Unfair, isn’t it? And while I was getting fatter and lazier thanks to all the ghee-laced miracles that my mom and grannies whipped up for me in the kitchen, the dreaded Mr Time made an unwelcome appearance. He was looking at me, raising his eyebrow, wagging his fat finger at me saying, “Pack up, buddy, it’s time to go.”
“Time to go, already?” I protested, unable to bring myself to pack my suitcase. But, pack-up, I had to, for home, hubby and duties had come calling. He was alone, eating unhealthy stuff that the curry-points dished out. A part of me was longing to see him, while a part of me was crying. A part of me couldn’t wait to land in Hyderabad, while the other part, she dreaded the take off…
And Mr Time showed smirking face again. It was time to say the teary-goodbye. I tore my eyes away from my parents as I dragged myself into the glass structure, thinking, “Why, why? Why can’t I stay back?,” trying to gulp down that lump in my throat that threatened to snowball into a big one. My phone beeped; his picture flashed on the screen. “Haan ji,” I said, and I could trace the eagerness in his voice. “Done with your boarding,” he asked, and I said, “Almost.”
I looked behind, and I could see them, ammai wiping her eyes, appa, fidgeting. I wanted to rush back to them, but the eagerness in his voice was pulling me away…The duality in me couldn’t have been more profound…
As the houses in Guwahati became tiny dots from up there, the clouds eventually shielding them from my view, I suddenly couldn’t wait any longer to be with him. I touched down in Hyderabad, my ever-smiling husband ready to whisk me home. As we drove back, I realised that a bit of me lives here and a bit of me will live there…I was a daughter, a wife at the same time...
Homecoming, it was, indeed...
“It must be someone’s homecoming,” I thought, as I saw the flickering lights incline towards the horizon. “Someone would have returned home, someone would be rushing into the arms of their loved ones. Someone’s wait must have been over,” I thought, the lights disappearing from my vision. What a joy it is, to see the faces of loved ones, we have been away from for a while. The butterflies begin to flutter with new-found energy; the heart becomes an Usain Bolt, racing away...
I was back home, with my parents, for the first time after my wedding. A year. I had been away for a year and I just had a week’s time at my disposal. One week for one year. Unfair, isn’t it? And while I was getting fatter and lazier thanks to all the ghee-laced miracles that my mom and grannies whipped up for me in the kitchen, the dreaded Mr Time made an unwelcome appearance. He was looking at me, raising his eyebrow, wagging his fat finger at me saying, “Pack up, buddy, it’s time to go.”
“Time to go, already?” I protested, unable to bring myself to pack my suitcase. But, pack-up, I had to, for home, hubby and duties had come calling. He was alone, eating unhealthy stuff that the curry-points dished out. A part of me was longing to see him, while a part of me was crying. A part of me couldn’t wait to land in Hyderabad, while the other part, she dreaded the take off…
And Mr Time showed smirking face again. It was time to say the teary-goodbye. I tore my eyes away from my parents as I dragged myself into the glass structure, thinking, “Why, why? Why can’t I stay back?,” trying to gulp down that lump in my throat that threatened to snowball into a big one. My phone beeped; his picture flashed on the screen. “Haan ji,” I said, and I could trace the eagerness in his voice. “Done with your boarding,” he asked, and I said, “Almost.”
I looked behind, and I could see them, ammai wiping her eyes, appa, fidgeting. I wanted to rush back to them, but the eagerness in his voice was pulling me away…The duality in me couldn’t have been more profound…
As the houses in Guwahati became tiny dots from up there, the clouds eventually shielding them from my view, I suddenly couldn’t wait any longer to be with him. I touched down in Hyderabad, my ever-smiling husband ready to whisk me home. As we drove back, I realised that a bit of me lives here and a bit of me will live there…I was a daughter, a wife at the same time...
Homecoming, it was, indeed...
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Stubbles and sensitivity
A man stands next to me in a crowded bus. My heart begins to thump loudly against my chest...from the corner of my eyes, I watch him, scared that he'll touch me or something. I bring my legs together, closer, tie my body into several knots to escape the creep, paranoid about my safety. Suddenly, I feel a brush against my shoulders; I turn around in a flash, only to notice that it is a woman’s handbag. I feel another contact on my shoulders, this time, it isn’t a mere brush...it’s more of a tap. I prepare myself mentally to beat the crap out of the creep...I’m sure it’s him. Making the angriest of all faces, I turn around, fuming, only to see a smiling face greet me. “Madam, yahaan seat khaali hain, aap baith jaiyiye,” he says, and then gets off. The guilt pangs are stronger than ever before.
We almost always give men suspecting glances. For us women, any unknown man is potential danger, most probably a pervert. But do we realise, that our husbands, fathers and brothers are also unknown men for other women? How would we feel if our brother got slapped by a woman, only on the basis of suspicion? Terrible, isn’t it?
Yesterday was International Men’s Day -- a day to celebrate the existence of the men folk. We often crib about them, wear the garbs of the bra burning feminists, but do we do much to appreciate them? Maybe we do, but I decided that I want to dedicate a blog post to some of the most important men in my life. They are the ones who pamper us, make us blush, protect us and lend their strong shoulders for us to cry on.
Dads are the little girls’ first and most favourite heroes. More often than not, they paint the picture of their dream man on a canvas with their fathers as the model. I did, too. My dad is the quieter one in the family. My mom and I, we are chatterboxes. He isn’t too ambitious; he takes life as it comes, sans expectations from anyone. While ammai would be very strict and particular about my grades, appa would just say, “Try not to fail!”. Being the only child, who was born to them after four years of their wedding, appa never missed out on any chance to play the doting dad. Everyday, when he returned from work, there would be a little packet of goodies for me. Big, small, expensive, cheap -- it didn’t matter; he would get me something, every single day. Without fail. One day, as he walked into the house, he didn’t look at me, at all. I looked at his hands, there was no packet. There was nothing for me. My heart broke...you know why? Not because appa didn’t get me anything, but because, I saw him crying. For the first time in my life...he cried because he didn’t have the money to buy even a toffee. I cried because he cried…
The other day, one of my worst fears came true. I realised I was jobless, again. I didn’t know what to do. The tears started streaming down, silently. My husband walked upto me, gave me a warm hug and sat beside me, patting my back and stroking my hair, till the lips stopped quivering, till the tears dried up and till he could hear my croaky voice again. He didn’t say a word, he just smiled at me and that spoke for him. He makes me feel beautiful (even though I’m not), he flaunts the lunch I cook for him, and encourages me to do whatever I enjoy doing. He lets me be the child I am, pampering me, loving me and understanding me…
Being a single child, my cousin is the only brother I have. We might not share the bhaiyya mere rakhi ke bandhan ko nibhana moments, we don’t even call or text each other regularly. But I know one thing for sure, if I am in a spot of bother, he’s one of my safest bets for help. I might have never told him this, but he’s special, very, very, very special!
My stint in Bombay was a success, at least, I would like to believe so. In a city as vast and alien as Bombay, I would have struggled to find my footing, had it not been for family. My aunt (appa’s sister) is settled in Bombay, and Sundays would be devoted to family. That day, there was just one dosa left...and uncle (athimbare) promptly split it into two and made sure both my cousin and I got an equal share. Although it was a very small incident, yet, it left a deep impact on me. I was touched that there was no discrimination…
Whoever knows my in-laws, wouldn’t probably need an introduction to my dad-in-law. He’s the roly poly, happiness exuding man, who can make any sullen face burst into peals of laughter. There’s never a dull moment when he’s around...seems like he’s got some magic potion to keep everyone in high spirits. The mirchi bajji and tea time that we shared during their trip to Hyderabad, our pandal hopping and ‘vettilai pakku’ collection rounds in Calcutta are just a few of the many beautiful moments in have shared with him…
Coming from a small town, I never had guy friends when I was in school or college. It was only in Delhi that I found my first guy friend, Sandeep, who’s like an older brother. He’s guided me, protected me and pulled my ears when I have made a mistake. And talking of friends turned brothers, how can I miss out on Avinash aka Sheela aka Nasheelee, my little brother, who leaves no chance to annoy me? Be it calling me weird names like Chollamma or Kuntalakeshi (refined version of Harish’s nickname for me), Sheela has managed to dispel fears that I would never have friends in Hyderabad (I do have friends in Hyderabad, awesome ones at that!!)
I raise a toast to these wonderful men in my life, who’ve filled my life with colours, annoyed me, teased me, made me laugh, cry and feel good. Cheers to all the men, because they are the ones who pamper us, make us blush, protect us and lend their strong shoulders for us to cry on.
We almost always give men suspecting glances. For us women, any unknown man is potential danger, most probably a pervert. But do we realise, that our husbands, fathers and brothers are also unknown men for other women? How would we feel if our brother got slapped by a woman, only on the basis of suspicion? Terrible, isn’t it?
Yesterday was International Men’s Day -- a day to celebrate the existence of the men folk. We often crib about them, wear the garbs of the bra burning feminists, but do we do much to appreciate them? Maybe we do, but I decided that I want to dedicate a blog post to some of the most important men in my life. They are the ones who pamper us, make us blush, protect us and lend their strong shoulders for us to cry on.
Dads are the little girls’ first and most favourite heroes. More often than not, they paint the picture of their dream man on a canvas with their fathers as the model. I did, too. My dad is the quieter one in the family. My mom and I, we are chatterboxes. He isn’t too ambitious; he takes life as it comes, sans expectations from anyone. While ammai would be very strict and particular about my grades, appa would just say, “Try not to fail!”. Being the only child, who was born to them after four years of their wedding, appa never missed out on any chance to play the doting dad. Everyday, when he returned from work, there would be a little packet of goodies for me. Big, small, expensive, cheap -- it didn’t matter; he would get me something, every single day. Without fail. One day, as he walked into the house, he didn’t look at me, at all. I looked at his hands, there was no packet. There was nothing for me. My heart broke...you know why? Not because appa didn’t get me anything, but because, I saw him crying. For the first time in my life...he cried because he didn’t have the money to buy even a toffee. I cried because he cried…
The other day, one of my worst fears came true. I realised I was jobless, again. I didn’t know what to do. The tears started streaming down, silently. My husband walked upto me, gave me a warm hug and sat beside me, patting my back and stroking my hair, till the lips stopped quivering, till the tears dried up and till he could hear my croaky voice again. He didn’t say a word, he just smiled at me and that spoke for him. He makes me feel beautiful (even though I’m not), he flaunts the lunch I cook for him, and encourages me to do whatever I enjoy doing. He lets me be the child I am, pampering me, loving me and understanding me…
Being a single child, my cousin is the only brother I have. We might not share the bhaiyya mere rakhi ke bandhan ko nibhana moments, we don’t even call or text each other regularly. But I know one thing for sure, if I am in a spot of bother, he’s one of my safest bets for help. I might have never told him this, but he’s special, very, very, very special!
My stint in Bombay was a success, at least, I would like to believe so. In a city as vast and alien as Bombay, I would have struggled to find my footing, had it not been for family. My aunt (appa’s sister) is settled in Bombay, and Sundays would be devoted to family. That day, there was just one dosa left...and uncle (athimbare) promptly split it into two and made sure both my cousin and I got an equal share. Although it was a very small incident, yet, it left a deep impact on me. I was touched that there was no discrimination…
Whoever knows my in-laws, wouldn’t probably need an introduction to my dad-in-law. He’s the roly poly, happiness exuding man, who can make any sullen face burst into peals of laughter. There’s never a dull moment when he’s around...seems like he’s got some magic potion to keep everyone in high spirits. The mirchi bajji and tea time that we shared during their trip to Hyderabad, our pandal hopping and ‘vettilai pakku’ collection rounds in Calcutta are just a few of the many beautiful moments in have shared with him…
Coming from a small town, I never had guy friends when I was in school or college. It was only in Delhi that I found my first guy friend, Sandeep, who’s like an older brother. He’s guided me, protected me and pulled my ears when I have made a mistake. And talking of friends turned brothers, how can I miss out on Avinash aka Sheela aka Nasheelee, my little brother, who leaves no chance to annoy me? Be it calling me weird names like Chollamma or Kuntalakeshi (refined version of Harish’s nickname for me), Sheela has managed to dispel fears that I would never have friends in Hyderabad (I do have friends in Hyderabad, awesome ones at that!!)
I raise a toast to these wonderful men in my life, who’ve filled my life with colours, annoyed me, teased me, made me laugh, cry and feel good. Cheers to all the men, because they are the ones who pamper us, make us blush, protect us and lend their strong shoulders for us to cry on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)