All for a good laugh

This has been quite the toughest post to write. Each time I have gone to my bookshelf to figure out that veteran among veterans I have been found by my children a long time later sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pile of books around me and one open on my lap. Sometimes they’ve found me giggling uncontrollably, sometimes smiling gently and sometimes with tears in my eyes. Wodehouse, Huxley, Austen, Harper Lee, the Brontes, Margaret Mitchell – who’s been with me the longest?

Pages from childhood: Piggly plays truant...

Talking technically, the oldest books around my house are for the youngest of readers. Piggly Plays Truant, Billy Goats, Cinderella all of my old favourites, were rediscovered and claimed by my four-year-olds at their nani’s house last year. However they have now moved to the kids’ cupboard and so are no longer in the running.

Technicalities aside, the book that’s been closest to my heart for the longest of time (and is still in my cupboard) is one by Gerald Durrel called My Family and Other Animals. It’s quite the funniest of books I’ve ever read. It came to me as part of our school curriculum about a quarter of a century ago in 1985 and has since then stayed with me.



The favourite



Set in Corfu, Greece, the book is an autobiographical account and talks about young Gerry, a natural history enthusiast.. hence the title. The book is peppered with hilarious characters starting with Gerry himself. He keeps a series of peculiar pets including Roger the dog, two pups Widdle and Puke (what’s in a name, yes… but Widdle and Puke?), Achilles the tortoise who loves strawberries, Ulysses the brave owl who would ‘unhesitatingly attack anything and everyone’, a gecko Geromino who ate up Gerry’s other pet Cecily the mantis and Quasimodo the ugly pigeon who thought he wasn’t a bird at all and refused to fly preferring to walk.

Gerry doesn’t think twice before putting his pet snakes in the bathtub when they get dehydrated or housing a family of scorpions in the matchbox. Of course he forgets to inform the rest of the family to hilarious effect.

His family is no less interesting. There’s Larry the littérateur who once set the house on fire quite literally, Leslie who can think of nothing but guns and pistols, Margo who has the uncanny ability to find the most unsuitable of suitors and his harried yet extremely patient mother with a passion for cooking and gardening.

There are scores of other characters too. Some completely lovable and others you are tempted to clobber on the head but I’ll leave you to read about them yourself.

Initially I skipped the parts dedicated to natural history enjoying just the human characters marveling at their eccentricities laughing at the troubles they got themselves into. Much later I delved into the other life forms that Gerry is passionate about and he taught me to enjoy and appreciate them just as much as he did.

Trapdoor spiders, mating turtles, sparkling fireflies, geckos, swallows, magpies -- enchanting treasures, all of them. Even now, years later, I open the book randomly and read it for a good laugh.

Interestingly, I lost the book in one my numerous moves across the country. Such was my yearning for it and so much must I have complained about the loss that my then roomie finally ordered, yes ordered it, as a surprise for my birthday, because it was not readily available. And so it came back to me. Friends really are the best.

For the record I have no intentions of giving it away to anyone. I am however game to share/lend it on a strictly returnable basis…. unless of course Gerry decides to go the Cinderella way and finds his way to the kids’ cupboard. Then of course I’ll have no say in the matter.

Afterword

Incidentally I owe a lot of books to good friends and a doting aunt. Pocket money was an unheard of concept back in my childhood and gifts were scarce. So if a friend gifted a book it was/is cherished forever. Then we had our aunt. Each year she would come to spend the summer with us and each year she’d give us the option of choosing between new clothes and new books. We’d pick books without fail. I remember craving for Gone with the Wind for a long time till my aunt took me shopping. It was priced at Rs 60 and I just couldn’t bring myself to ask her for such an expensive gift. Fortunately she saw me lusting at it and bought it for me. It remains a favorite even today. That year was exceptionally lucky as she also gifted me some other favourites including Far from the Madding Crowd and Wuthering Heights.

Yet I pick Gerry’s adventures as my favourite solely for their ability to make me laugh. I do so like to laugh.

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Friendly neighbourhood

We have three neighbours on our floor. Two of the families comprise elderly couples. They normally bear with the twins pretty well and always have a nice word to offer as we bump into them many times a day.

It is perpetual struggle to rein in the kids from what they consider their birthright.. ringing their door bells, parking cycles at their doorsteps and bumping, by design, into their carefully cultivated potted plants.

On Diwali day the aunties very painstakingly made pretty rangolis. Too old to squat, they sat on stools for ages etching out their designs. Now Hrit has a thing for spoiling rangolis. Each time he sees one he gets an itch to put an end to all prettiness. I really don’t know why nor do I know how to rid him of his yearning. In any case I guarded the rangolis with my life, threatening Hrit of undreamt of repercussions should he as much as go near them. He stayed away for two whole days and watched. It was a week since their holidays started and they were already getting restless. By Sunday evening he’d had enough. I was not too well and my tight hold on his reins slackened. And he gave in to temptation. Then he came and confessed, “I did skating on the rangolis.. but Naisha did it too.” As if that made it any better.

I lost it.. really really lost it. I told him go tell the aunties and ’fess. He agreed most enthusiatically with total lack of remorse, rang the bell and apologised with fingers in his ears. That, BTW, is a Hrit oddity. He doesn’t hold his ears but plugs his ears while apologising. The aunties were superbly sweet.

Then I did what I always do -- had a chat with him. The aunties had taken so much trouble to make the rangolis. How would you feel if someone spoilt what you’d made.. etc etc. I hope it’s registering in some remote corner of his brain.

Then there’s the third neighbour. They have two daughters – a six-year-old and a one-year-old. Hrit treats the younger one with extreme care. He even went to the extent of offering her his gada. He’s terribly curious about her and drives the mother up the wall with his continuous questions. His equation with the older one is rather strange. He fights with her almost as much as he does with Naisha and he misses her as much too. She and Naisha play their girly games for ages while Hrit does what he does best at home -- disrupt their games. Today when Hrit went to join the girls they refused to include him. A miffed Hrit walked away. After some time I get a frantic call from Naisha on the intercom.. “Mama Hrit has locked us from outside.” Apparently he bolted the door and peacefully came home.

Are we in danger of being blacklisted?

Boys and girls

Raising a boy and a girl together is interesting, to say the least. All these years the twins have been almost inseparable, joining in each others games even if one was a bit reluctant. Naisha’s no tomboy yet she does enjoy football and ‘bat ball’. Hrit, though reluctant, joined in celebrating Shanti’s birthday with gusto.

Now however the differences are becoming pronounced and they’re not sure how to handle the situation. Last evening when we came down to play there were a host of girls, 6 to 4 years old, playing together and they asked Naisha, just Naisha, to join in, categorically saying, “Aunty please, no boys.”

Naisha happily went off with them and I took Hrit to the swings. Fortunately he met another boy and they launched off with their beyblades. However, every five minutes or so Naisha would come running to check on Hrit and every few minutes he’d say..”Mama may I go play with the girls?” I tried to distract him because the other girls didn’t want him around. Finally the other boy also gave up the beyblade and they ran off to the girls.

When I reached there huffing and puffing I found the girls shrieking and running around with the boys following them kicking and punching in the air. “Don’t run after the girls, Hrit,” I yelled till I saw the girls were actually enjoying the whole thing. The one who’d asked me to keep Hrit away clarified, “Aunty they can play with us. We are all princesses, they can be monsters and chase us.”

With that I had to be satisfied.. at least they were all having fun together.. so what if the son was a monster?

Afterthought: I can see myself some 15 years hence telling my son, “Don’t run after the girls” while the girls will be having just as much fun as him. I do hope I accept all of that with as much equanimity as I did this time. Just as I dismissed this as part of growing up, hope I can do it then too. My sister's sniggering, already.

King of Geekdom

Picture courtesy Google pics

It’s official. The son is set to rule geekdom. I’d suspected all was not well with his eyes for almost a month now. I’d find him frowning at the telly or watching it sideways. However, I dismissed it as another one of his vagaries. Taking him to the doc just wasn’t priority, what with the over load of work after the maid absconded. Finally, a few days back we visited the ophthalmologist. And sure enough… specs it is!

He has cylindrical power caused by the cornea changing shape from round to spoon due to eyelid pressure. Whew! He’s just four and a half.. was my first thought. How will he handle it in school, in the bus, during play? Then came the worry 'What if the other boys bother him? How will he handle it?’

The optimist in me (normally in hiding) showed up for a change. One, lots of kids wear specs and handle them wonderfully. On the teasing issue .. well he’s just too small.. other kids might treat the whole thing as a great novelty factor. Even as I say that my fingers are crossed. The only thing I should really worry about is the constant nagging I’ll have to do.. but then (thus spoke Ms Optimist), I anyway need to nag him for a hundred things.. what’s hundred one?

Selling the idea
The tough part was selling the idea to him. “Not everyone gets glasses, it’s ‘special’ (Ah the magic of that word!)”, “It’s a very grown up thing, Papa wears them and so does Mama”.
Such are my marketing skills that not only was he sold on the idea.. his sister was too. She got majorly envious and went into thoughtful mode then pronounced, “From now I’m also going to watch the telly from close, so I get specs too.” Kill a monster give birth to another one. The irony of two .

The test
I’ve had specs for nearly two decades and never did I give the eye test a thought. With Hrit however it was quite a test.. a test of patience for the doctor. He’s often such a good boy but when he really needs to be good.. he just won't. Remember the photo shoot ? At the docs he refused to sit still, refused to look where she asked him to and kept blinking when she tried to test him with the comp. When she asked him to read the alphabets he deigned to read one or two and then launched off into a musical rendition of ABCD…
The doc gave up after a while and allotted him a number by tempering the computer reading.

The fitting
The fitting of specs was another issue. First we couldn’t find the right size.. they kept slipping off his nose. “His nose is too flat,” said the frustrated optometirist. Well well well… so the Japanese don’t wear specs, protested I silently, taking umbrage at this insult of the flat-nose heirloom my genes had passed onto my son. Finally we found the right size and Hrit, who’d sat through the trials patiently and become quite adept at them, shook his head vigorously, looked up and down and jumped over and over again.. “Look mama they aren’t slipping”, said he happily. “Can we please now take them home?” Not yet, said I to his total disappointment. I tried to explain the process of making the lens … then gave up. The lady said it would take three days and Hrit was ready to wait it out right their at Vision Express.

Another day to go before we finally get the specs. I so hope Hrit’s enthusiasm remains and Naisha’s dampens.

Getting artsy craftsy

I'd actually been meaning to do this post on kid crafts for Diwali. I'd written part of it too then just felt too lazy and gave it up. Thanks to Mindfulmeanderer  here I am doing it finally. Thanks Shruti for the push.

Designer Diyas

What we need: Plain diyas (they come at a rupee a piece), Acrylic paints, Rangeela glitter tubes.

What we did: We began with washing off the diyas so they absorb less paint. Then I got the kids to paint them.. you'll see a lot of blues because my son was the more enthusiastic one! Then we did some simple designs with the glitter tubes. The nozzles are quite kid friendly but I did lend a hand.

We also did some diyas with sequins. The kids used toothpicks to apply fevicol and then stuck on the sequins. Kept them busy for hours while I got my cleaning done.

 

Diya streamers

What we need: Sheets of plain white paper, Oil pastels or water colours, Rangeela glitter tubes, Gota/ribbon

What we did: I drew a simple diya then cut it out. (I folded the paper over before cutting it out so I got multiple cutouts in one go). Then I got the kids to colour/paint them. Oil pastels work better than regular crayons. Then we outlined them with the glitter tubes and left them to dry. Finally, we punched holes and strung them out on the gota or ribbon.

Diwali cards

What we need: Paper, Oil pastels

What we did: I drew simple designs.. diyas, flowers, stars ... sometimes I threw in a basic border and got them to colour it. Simple.

All for an authentic Maharashtrian thali

My BIL has a penchant for all things authentically Maharashtrian while the husband and I have a liking for all things culinary (provided of course I’m not doing the cooking). When the BIL offered to take us all out for lunch at an old-time thali joint we happily agreed. On a Sunday afternoon we set out … seven of us, the twins and my niece included, to a place called Durvankur in the old city.

Pic courtesy Google images

We were taken aback at the crowd waiting outside.. it was like a wedding reception.. There were over fifty people dressed in all their finery waiting around chatting in groups. It seemed like we’d chosen the wrong day for our foray in the city – it was Bhai Duj plus Padwa and the entire city was out for lunch.

The husband and the BIL were undaunted. “This is normal.. the place is always crowded,” said they elbowing their way into the joint while the SIL and I waited outside with the kids in order to spare the other diners.

“10 minutes,” said the maitre d. The men waited patiently while the SIL and I struggled to lighten up a grumpy Hrit. (As always the one-child-happy-one-cranky rule applied) After about 15 minutes the two men came out with the husband in a bad temper.

Apparently their turn had come and the maitre d allotted them the table then asked where the rest of the ‘party’ was. The H explained they were waiting outside. That didn’t go down well with the maitre d. Apparently, we ALL were expected to be waiting right at the table ready to jump on our chairs at his bidding. He promptly allotted the table to another family and extended our wait.

So much for Puneri hospitality! A rude maitre d is such a total turn off. He wouldn’t have been bothered though, what with the kind of crowds the joint was drawing. I guess some would take it in their stride, however brought up in the nawabi culture where people are polite to you even while shooting you in the head, rudeness is just not our cup of tea.

The H walked off in a huff and we all followed with the howling kids who were getting hungrier by the minute. I had a good mind to let loose the kids in the restaurant and watch the maitre d handle that. He had no idea of the mayhem they are capable of in crowded places with no aisle space and busy waiters walking around with food.

Anyway, we then went from joint to joint only to find all places choc-a-bloc with hungry people. We finally caught lunch at about 3 pm that day.

I wasn’t however able to get the thali thought out of my head. Last Sunday the SIL and I found ourselves making our way to the old city again for some shopping. By the time we winded up it was past lunch time. It really is rare that we find ourselves minus kids and husbands footloose and fancy free. My thali longing took us back to the same joint again.

The first floor has the kitchens and we got a gilmpse of the huge cooking utensils. However, it was the second floor where we were headed. This time round we were prepared for the rudeness. The maitre d however was more business like than rude. “Two people?” he asked and then pointed us to a seat right away. How’s that for luck!

We dodged rushing waiters and closely-laid out tables to our place. Even before we could take our seats thalis and bowls were planted before us. A waiter threw (Yes threw) napkins in our plates and disappeared before we could see where he came from. Then came the food… two gravy veggies, dahi vadas, potato bhaji, bhajias, dhokla, chips, jalebis and the crowning glory Sitaphal rabadi. Add to that a selection of five or six pickles and chutneys plus a huge bowl of koshimbir (a cool cucumber concoction with curd and groundnuts with a dash of salt and sugar....ideal on a hot afternoon). Mmmmmm…. There were puris and rotis to choose from plus a choice of rice served with a dash of ghee.

Ambience and frills there were none but the food was well worth the trouble. The Sitaphal rabadi alone was sweet enough to wash off last times rudeness. The service was almost military in its precision. The moment you emptied a bowl you’d magically get a refill. It seemed some people of the staff had the sole responsibility of peering into plates and beckoning the food-carriers as soon as they spotted empty bowls.

We were out in less than half an hour with a large packet of Sitaphal Rabri for the hungry pack at home.

At Rs 150 a thali --- it was a deal.

Afterword

And we forgive the maitre d, he really just doesn’t have time to be nice. He’s too busy seating hungry people and ensuring he feeds as many as possible. If he does annoy a patron here and there … well never mind he'll come back in his own time. We did, didn’t we?

Diwali is where the home is

Yessss! I won. The kids did it for me this time. Here's what the judge Bhawna of An Indian Summer had to say about my post.

Tulika: I relived my train journeys to Lucknow as a child through your post. Not that I travelled without a reservation , but the experience of taking a night train and then taking the rickety auto rickshaws (what are they called again?) once out of the railway station – all came back to me. The fact that you made it for Diwali as a surprise – I am sure, it must be your family’s favorite dinner table story . But the winning stroke of your post was the gorgeous handiwork of your four year old twins! Thanks for sharing the early works of the two very talented artists currently residing in your home! ”

Pic Courtesy: Google Images

There’s something about Diwali that makes me want to go home. And each year I did, for many many years. All was well till I was in Delhi.. home was a night’s journey away and life was cool. Then I moved to Bombay. I thought I was all grown up and could handle being away from home. A few weeks to Diwali and the longing started. I can handle it, I reiterated, I’m a big girl. Diwali got closer. Activity in office hotted up, more so because I was in the business of stocks. Brokers poured in with gifts and sweets. Everyone, yes everyone seemed to be headed home. They waved their reservation tickets proudly. Everyone else seemed to be perpetually on the phone checking their reservation status. I didn’t even have a ticket. The longing kicked in real bad.

A week before, I became desperate. Of course by then reservations were full and there was no chance I was ever getting home other than by travelling on the train roof, something I wasn't really keen on doing. Then, like a messenger from God, I got a call from an ex classmate who was also going to Lucknow and had tickets to spare. I shamelessly piled on along with another friend, double pile on. Then I discovered all his tickets were waitlisted. “They will get confirmed”, he assured us, “my uncle’s in the Railways”. The three of us reached the station only to find the uncle had failed us – just one ticket had been confirmed.

Interestingly, the moment other passengers realise you do not have a valid ticket you become an outsider and they tacitly gang up against you, and so they did. Oh I’ll never forget those scornful stares that seemed to say, “Aajkal ke ladke ladkiyan….” followed by thoughts of unmentionable things they were capable of. They checked the locks and chains on their luggage as if we would make off with it all. We sat through it, closing our eyes and ears to everything, chatting about our respective jobs and reminiscing college days.

Then the TT came along and we seemed to be in imminent danger of being thrown out. We talked and pleaded, argued and haggled to be allowed to just sit in the compartment. We did have one seat, didn’t we? The ‘uncle’ came to our rescue. Name dropping does wonders in India and we had our permissions. The TT retired grudgingly saving the worst stare for me.

That 26 hour journey squeezed together on a single seat with two boys is unforgettable.

I was given the privileged window seat by my chivalarous friends. By 10 the co-passengers switched off the lights and by 10.30 I was nodding off too. By 11 I was longing to stretch my legs and by 11.30 I was wondering why I came at all. I rested by head at the window and stretched out my legs sprawling on my one third seat. My head rolled with the train's pace and its steady rhythm seemed to say.. sleep sleep sleep.. except there was to be no sleep.

The night was interminable. We got off at every platform through the night, welcoming the sounds of “chai chai”. Drinking endless cups of tea gave us something to do. Somewhere during the early hours we all fell asleep in one tired heap. We woke up on Diwali day with the muted morning sun upon us through the dark glass windows. The co-passengers seemed in a much better humour. Perhaps the morning cup of tea had warmed them, or maybe it was just the relief that we weren’t the goondas they’d thought us or was it simply the miracle of Diwali… they struck up human conversations with us. By 9.30 the train ambled onto the platform. We said our goodbyes and hopped onto rickshaws. That was another first.. a pampered me had always had my dad receive me at the station.. but this was different.. it was meant to be a surprise.

Anyone who’s sat on a cycle rickshaw knows of its dawdling nawabi pace. By the time I reached home I was almost hopping on the seat from frustration and excitement. That homecoming will always be very very special.

I don’t think I have it in me to do it again, ever. But that year I did get home.... and it was well worth it. The look on my mom’s face when she saw me made it MORE than worth it.

Afterword:

I kept up the trend for many years even after I was married. Diwali saw me making my way from Delhi, Mumbai, Bhopal, Pune.. wherever I was, all the way home and it was always worth it.. always. Things changed only after I had my twins. I leave you with some pictures of their handiwork this Diwali.

Hard at work

The finished products

A diya streamer

Some of their Diwali cards

If this seems a tad drab remember it was done entirely by the kids (other than lighting the candles) for I was down with fever on Diwali day this year and couldn't leave the bed

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It's a tough road to travel

Try anything worthwhile and there are a hundred roadblocks and so it is with trying to stick to a sensible diet. Here’s my list of the toughest pitfalls.

Picture courtesy Google images

Kids.. They are the biggest roadblocks of all. It was all much much easier before they came along. I’d simply NOT keep fattening stuff at home. Our fridge never had butter or cheese or chocolate sauce or Nutella (yum). Not so now. I have to keep the fridge stocked with all of those plus mithais and sweets. It’s so easy to pop in a chocolatey, gooey éclair each time you pass the fridge. What’s worse, I have to make stuff they love which is invariably fattening.. aaloo paranthas, French fries, puri-aaloo, pastas loaded with cheese, groan…. And then I have to say ‘Eat Eat Eat’ to them while saying, “DON’T EAT DON’T EAT DON’T EAT” to myself. What a trial.

What do I do: Well I make watered down versions for myself. A muli parantha for me when it’s aloo paranthas for them.. a pasta dish heavy on veggies minus the cheese for me while they tuck into the cheesy version.

Stress…. And there is plenty of that thanks to Point No 1. Each night after we’d put the kids to sleep the husband and I would order tubs (yes tubs) of Natural’s Ice Cream (isn’t it heavenly?) and demolish the entire tub between the two of us. That was our way to relax. As soon as the kids were asleep we’d crave something scrumptious. That’s when the kgs started piling on.

What I do: Plan. I now keep something low fat and delicious for the night. I get the maid to chop fruit or I make some yummy honey/lemon tea. Well it’s not a Natural’s tub but we make do.

Weekends: All week I’d be carefully counting calories… avoiding anything that was remotely fattening. Then along comes the weekend and I think I can relax a bit and bang… my dieting takes a plunge. All my calculations go for a toss.

What I do: Again, planning seems to make it better.

Parties… All those birthdays I go to thanks to… yes once more it’s Point No 1.. and the yummy foods on display… all of it necessarily fattening. Tough to resist.

What I do: I choose the lesser evil… Make a beeline for the salads, pile up the raitas, missi roti over puris, mixed veggies over koftas.

Formal dos… These are worse than regular parties where you can hide and escape.... Husband’s boss’ party or at the in-laws (specially if they’re new ones), and the boss’ wife/MIL saying -- Why aren’t you eating? Oh come on.. you can diet another day. Have some kheer, na. Dead dead dead.

What I do: I load my plate with everything on offer.. yes everything. Then I eat just the healthier stuff while letting the dangerous things rest on the plate. Then when the dinner is winding down I quietly dump all of it. Wastage ..I know. But then I read somewhere, “It’s better to let food go to waste than go to waist.”

That’s it then for now… eat well and eat carefully.

PS: Incidentally one of my favourite quotes is "Everything I like is either illegal, immoral or fattening"

BTW there's a page on FB by that title too. Talk about like-minded people.

Copying is not all easy

My copycat son picked up a bad one yesterday. He saw someone at school licking their fingers to flip pages… that’s a lousy one and yes I’m sure it was at school (We had a dragon of a librarian and even now if I ill treat a book her disapproving face swims before my eyes, so no chance of that happening at home).

He, however, didn’t quite get the hang of it. Yesterday during homework time he was busily turning pages.. licking the fore finger of his left hand and turning pages with the fore finger of the right hand.. lick with one turn with the other.. lick n turn… lick n turn.

Just Naisha

Naisha the adult

The maid is leaving for the day… Bye didi.. apna dhyan rakhiyega.

Papa’s leaving for work… Papa bye.. Be nice. Then to me… 'Be nice' means don’t do anything naughty.

Sonam Kapoor on the telly. Pretty girl.. isn’t it mama?

++++++++++

Naisha the responsible girl

The power goes off. She comes running in.. flip flip flip.. she runs around the house switching off lights and fans. “Mama,” says she, “Quick switch off the lights and fans.. power’s gone”.

It starts raining.. she runs from room to room checking if all the windows are shut.

When did she get so grown up?

++++++++++++

Naisha the mama

The kids come out from their room with bags slung on their shoulders and move purposefully to the balcony..

Me: What are you doing?

N: I am going to the gym and bhai is going to office.

Me: Why aren’t you going to office?

N: I have small babies at home.. I can’t go to office till they are older.

Back from a trip I’m tired. I put on the television for the kids (who are of course NEVER tired) and lie down to rest. Naisha saunters in, “Mama mama, oooh mama is sleeping”, she whispers.. She walks out on tiptoe shutting the door behind her. “Bhai I think mama is tired… don’t make a noise."

+++++++++++

Naisha the baby

N: Mama I don’t think I’ll have children

Me: Why?

N: Because when you have children you have so much work. I’m so small I’ll get tired.

Me: You don’t need to have children right away. You can wait till you are older..

N: Okay then.. but mama you must promise that when I have a daughter you’ll get an empty frock for her.

Me: Empty frock?

N: Yes so that I can draw something pretty on it with my glitter pen.

+++++++++++++++

Naisha the drama queen

Brother-sister have a fight. He bites her on her shoulder. She bawls. I rush to the spot, scolding him applying cream to her. After eons she gets up… "Oh mama it hurts.. I can’t even walk straightly. I can’t even sit.. I can only stand".. pause for effect… "on one leg".

Happy birthday Shanti

It was the kids’ masi’s birthday and I decided to take them shopping for her. When you have kids.. anything you do… anything .. might have repercussions you haven’t even dreamed of.

The new clothes made Naisha decide that her ‘daughter’ must have a birthday too and hence new clothes. And so we are today celebrating Shanti’s birthday. Since she came to us when Naisha was two… she is today, two and a half years old.

We had some Diwali finery left over and I could fashion a skirt quite bridal in its glory and a scarlet dupatta too. It was some achievement considering the only stitch I know is the running stitch.

To my credit Naisha was almost crying from happiness at the ensemble. She pestered me for an earring and when I pointed out Shanti doesn’t have ears I was firmly put in place saying “It’s not for the ears it’s for her forehead.” Shanti has to wear a mang tikka for her birthday.

She looked quite pretty, really.

Little mama made much of her darling hanging all over her saying “Shantu which is your favourite colour?” Shantu what gift do you want?” then collected an assortments of gifts.. a chocolate, a pair of chappals, a pack of bindis, a mask left over from a birthday party, the drawing of a cake, a piece of ribbon which is Shanti’s ‘dupatta’. She then asked the brother, “What are you getting for my daughter?” to which he replied rather rudely, “Main kuchh nahin de raha hoon.” He had been pestering her for ages to come play ball with him and she hadn’t seemed keen what with the preparations for the birthday, so I can’t blame him for being a bit put off.

‘Shantu’ was then put on the ‘wheel chair’ and taken for a ride. A friend has been invited over to help. Streamers are being torn into confetti which will be thrown over Shanti as the caravan passes by. I have been called in to click pictures of the birthday girl.

The Barbies have been mercilessly thrown out of their pride of place and Shanti sits like a queen with bits of streamers all around her. The house is resounding with the birthday song.

The festivities continue…

It's diwali and I have a cold

Diwali’s a day away and I’m nursing the worst cold of my life. My nose drips, my head is heavy, my temples throb, I’ve sneezed about a thousand times and I’m grumpy as a bear.

Called up a friend in desperate need for a sympathetic ear and she brushes me off with a, “Can’t talk now… am getting my house done… the workers are all over the place.” Called over my sis-in-law, “Sorry, says she apologetically.. we’re getting our doors polished… no time.” Logged onto Facebook and a friend’s status message reads, “Carpenters everywhere.. jazzing up the house for Diwali.”

Humph!

I get on with breakfast and lunch.. sneezing all the way. I try chasing away the cold with a bout of steam and endless cups of bitter ginger tea. The day is half gone. By now I have also swallowed a Crocin, a Wikoryl and an Avil and am a tad wonky from the last one. Yet the cold refuses to go. I really need to do something. Desperate, I call up my doctor sis-in-law. “Where are you?” I ask. “Shopping for Dhanteras. What happened to your voice?” “What antibiotic can I take for a cold?” I demand brushing aside the niceties. “Do you have fever, bad throat? No? Then no antibiotics. Just wait it out.”

Damn! Say I, wishing for a more colourful vocabulary that would have allowed me to express myself better.

Might as well get on with the Diwali preparations, I decide. I climb up precariously on a chair and start hanging out kandils.

Interesting how unlike real women Diwali never turns the telly women into dust hating freaks, just shopping freaks. Dressed up in bridal finery they rush around armed with fancy shopping bags.
Even if they do try their hand at cleaning all the dust they find must be somewhere really high up. As they balance on their delicate toes they must come crashing down right into the arms of a waiting stranger who is necessarily handsome and adept at the deep-in-the-eye look.
I let out a deep sigh… and that dislodges a rather large blob of dust that sets off a sneezing spree and I come crashing down. Even as I try to steady myself, laughter bubbles out. So much for handsome strangers! Not even the faithful husband is around, who by the way has been dispatched to get some sandes and samosas following the adage ‘feed a cold starve a fever’.

The laugh feels good.. it saves me from turning into a Scrooge.

The door bell rings. The husband and kids walk in… I look at them ruefully. I’ve spent the day groaning and sneezing, yelling at everyone. What a waste. I bring out the special Diwali hugs.

Later I happily watch my diet blown to smithereens as I dig into the gorgeous samosas and crisp chillies. “I didn’t even go to the gym today,” says the small voice of the conscience. I stifle it with a huge bit of the delicious Sandes. It’s Diwali.. and I have a cold.

Time enough, later.

PS: Whether it was the laugh, the hugs or the samosas... I do feel better already.