Alana is a good teacher

Seasons change and so do people. Pages turn and a book comes to an end. Phases and phases my life seems to be made of. From being a new mom to a well seasoned on has it’s own.

My little one is a feisty toddler. We are at a place where she so wants to tell me what is going on but she doesn’t have the words to. She tries but I don’t understand. It’s a tough call trying to define boundaries. You wonder if giving in to her tantrum would reassure her or make her the spoilt brat you never wanted your child to turn out to be. Would you not reassuring her at such a confusing time of her toddlerhood make her insecure. Mother knows best, they say. And most often they do, but there are times when doubt clouds our judgments. We do wrong by our kids and not intentionally mind you. Like most experiences in life it is either a hit or a miss.

We had an episode with the doctor the other day when the new nurse administered a wrong combination of shots to Alana. Luckily enough, it turned out to be saline water and harmless. Luckily, we got a call from the doctor apologizing about the mistake and asked us to come in to get our shots again. I know I am underplaying the occurrence but my point here is I knew something was wrong, I asked the nurse if she knew what she was doing but I had blind faith in the medical system. It makes me realize that I probably don’t know all there is but I do know best. Best of all the others.

And I need to act on it more often than not.

A lot of women can’t relate to being a mother and understandably so, considering you need to be one to really know. If I had to give a gist of what has happened so far I’d say—being a mother makes you that confused person you were when you first entered a new school or college and then the knowledge it brings through experiences alone, empowers you into being your own person. You know better.

I always told my husband before Alana made it that I never want to be a nag. I hate loud sounds, I hate confrontation even more and although I realize how important it is to be able to do so, I am not there yet. But now I am not afraid to be a nag if it means it will set things straight. I will speak my mind. And, I don’t shun it just because it might lead to an uncomfortable feeling. And I do feel better after because it is out of my system.

There are times when the going is tough as it is bound to be. You are bring up another human being, to be a conscientious person, you are not watering a plant or changing it’s soil or taking care of a pet. I am aware that bring responsible for both the plant and pet have their own set of hardships one has to deal with. Bringing up a child really is far different. Morals and the sense of right is not something you would have to deal with other than basic etiquette. One has to walk the line or rather, practice what they preach when they bring up a child. The tiniest thing can turn out change everything on the agenda. Lets take a tiny example of coughing. I teach Alana to cover her mouth while coughing, which she continues doing, but if there ever were a time when I don’t, it is her ticket to undoing what she had been taught.

What she sees, she does! So… I have to follow suit.

If I speak to my husband in a tone louder than usual, in another ten minutes when all is quiet you’ll hear Alana’s no so quiet monologue often going up to the decibels of shrill.

It is a tough job. A baby sitter can’t do what I do because mom really does know best. The good part of it is it’s making me a different person. She is making me who I want her to be. No school of thought could do that.

Let me state the obvious—

Alana is a good teacher!

Her momma is currently learning a chapter in patience and another on being civil. It is fun being a mother, learning, unlearning and relearning everything there is. It is about making decisions, the tough ones and the other not so tough ones. It is about love, a hell lot of it! It is about unexplainable stuff that one understands but can barely manage to divulge using words. It is intense but it is beautiful.

The picture on my blog is of a painting I began during the last couple of weeks in my pregnancy, Alana is 16 months old now and it has taken even lesson to be able to complete it and then realise that the background is yet to be finished. On a parting note, let me take this opportunity to wish you all a very Happy Easter!

Keeping My Title

My mom used to say it doesn't matter how many kids you have... because one kid'll take up 100% of your time so more kids can't possibly take up more than 100% of your time. 

~ Karen Brown

I never knew this could be true. When I was full term and waiting for my baby to make an appearance, I was pretty verbal about it. A friend told me I needed to get all the rest I possibly could because it gets busy. And I thought how tough could that be.

Yesterday, I watched the show—Tia and Tamera—and it all came back to me.

The last days of my pregnancy were exhausting and I couldn’t wait to be done. And then the moment had come in all its crowning glory, making me “Mom”. The two days in the hospital felt like a vacation before the new job began.

My husband often mentioned new dads in the office looking really exhausted but he didn’t expect it the actuality of it either. We were pooped. Between nursings, diaper changes and trying to keep sane we were in awe of our daughter. We stared at her and despite our individual exhausted states fought over who would hold the baby. We were in love. How can you not be?

Today, I struggled with putting her to bed. She clearly wanted to play more. How could you not take that annoying triangle shaped toy to show her where it goes on the shape sorter. I have a PhD on teething woes, organic wholesome meals, the best diapers and wipes in town and subjects along the same lines. But ask me about the latest music and watch my brain freeze. I’m clueless about the latest clubs. I loved to travel and today, I am afraid of flights that are more than 2 hours long.

I never needed a handbag as much as I do today. Every section of my bag has a purpose. No matter how many naps my child has, I feel like I have a total of ten minutes of ‘Me’ time.

I used to be a perfume person. I never stepped out without wearing some and what I wore depended on where I was going. Now, I don’t remember to wear what I have let alone step out to go perfume shopping.

Today, my mornings start with my baby’s smile. And she smiles every morning when I go to her room to bring her out. She laughs every time Elmo sings. I don’t have baby drool on me anymore and she’s learning the need to be clean. After every meal, she attempts to wipe her highchair tray; she even shows me her hands if she manages to soil them.

Like every mother I boast about my daughter and the new things she learns everyday. We quarrel when she pulls my hair, which she does when she is sleepy or annoyed. We have already begun our bickering. But she’s a joy that I cannot explain. I have changed. My life has changed. Priorities walked in while maturity sneaked in. I miss my 17-year-old self and at times I wish I could hit rewind but I wouldn’t give my princess up for it. Not ever.

I would fight till the end of the world and beyond to keep my ‘Mom’ title, if I had to. I still need to pull out the stuff I have let take a backseat in my life and I’m working on it. At present, I am working on creating an enriched space for my family.

One step at a time; Supermom is in the making, I hope!

Dagabaaz

Today's post is for those who aren't exactly the focus group of our lives but have yet somehow have managed to share some unforgettable moments with us. They touch our lives without really intending to. It could be a kind word or gesture or just that comforting smile to asking you to go that extra mile.

One such person is Sir Bilal Abid, a teacher of mine from my days studying in NIFT. He taught me for a module, I think it was Design Studies. We were supposed to pick a form from nature and create something contemporary using the material of our choice. While the world around me went nuts with little fishes in glass bowls and pet rabbits, I picked ginger.

The form of a ginger intrigued me. The formless shape depicted connectivity to me. During the research process of figuring out it’s attributes. Abid Sir was my mentor during this design methodology and he agreed with whatever I had to say. He watched me create the form he had approved with.

Then came the day we had our Jury. The most dreaded of days when at the end of the module, several teachers on the judging panel would question and reason our choice of project and it’s outcome. While other teachers tried to make sense of my assignment, Sir spoke against my logic. The next day when I saw him without the others I told him, “Sir, aap toh dhokebaaz nikle!!”

Literally meaning – You turned out to be a cheat.

Since then, Sir would keep calling me dagabaaz. It is another word for cheat in Hindi. He taught Accessory Design and many of my friends belonged were in his class and each time I entered I would be referred to as Dagabaaz but in an endearing tone.

I miss it today. Although funny, it was the sweetest thing.

Not very long ago, I connected with Sir on Facebook. I learnt he had just lost his wife and had a young daughter. He cooks really well too. All my information comes from his pictures and posts. On seeing an image of a spicy fish, I requested him for the recipe. It was one of his late wife’s and yet he didn’t hesitate once to share it. In fact at the end of it, he enquired about my daughter and had a little line of encouragement which said, ‘Don’t give up, go for a second try.’

Reminded me of the dagabaaz episode.

I tried the recipe today and it worked, the first time. I like to think that it worked the first time because Sir wanted it to work out.

Thank you Sir. 

She's Gone

She’s gone! Six men brutalized her.

What were her chances?

She had none.

I’m tormented thinking about what lies ahead. I had plans of moving back to India someday but this makes me rethink my intensions. I lived in India two years back, but it was all safe and comfortable to live with my parents.

But, it wasn’t always so.

I lived in Delhi for four years and there wasn’t an entire day when I felt safe. Not from the neighbor next door, not the guy who served tea in the tea place across college, not from the auto rickshaw driver and not even the lecherous policeman.

I thought I was just paranoid. Some of the people involved in Delhi gang rape case are a bus driver, a fruit seller, and a gym assistant. These guys could be anybody you’d encounter on a daily basis. There was a point when I was afraid of living a life of routine because I’d see the same people everyday.

I had my share of followers. Middle aged men in cars followed me--when I walked back to the hostel after dark, a drunk man in a car who followed a friend and me on our way back from the movie hall. Once I was followed when in a cab on the Worli sea link in Mumbai, the least expected of spots.

It could have been me.

I thought I wouldn’t let everyone calling Delhi unsafe stop me from doing what I wanted to do or go where I wanted to go. By a stroke of luck I am alive and in one piece. But someone isn’t.

I moved back to Bombay, back into home with my folks and I forgot. There were times I remembered but mostly I forgot. I forgot the ordeal of living by myself not because of anything but because of the way the men around made you feel.

Today I have a one-year-old daughter. I shudder at the thought of being that girl’s parent. Her mother must have mollycoddled her as a baby as I do mine. She must have held her close, rocked her to sleep, taught her her first words, and helped her take her first steps. And today, she was silenced.

She won’t walk through the door again.

Her smiles will be a memory that will haunt forever.

There are people who pray for the accused to be given a death penalty, there are those who want them to be tortured and everyone wants the judicial system to address it and not banish it as a trivial episode in a stranger’s life. There are cases in India that are not reported because of the stigma that is associated with it.

India is not the one country where rapes are reported. It is being dealt with in the richest to the poorest countries.

But I’m ashamed to know about what some of our political leaders had to say about the other young girls who protested so they or their friends or relatives weren’t next on the list. Like the revolutionary group Mumbai Unite’s poster famously said, “I like to party does that make me a whore?”

When will all our judgments stop? When do we rise above the communal bullshit stop? Can we be humans now?

Where then will you raise your girl child?

Will you ask her to not board a private bus or not take the shorter route home? Will you ask her not to wear certain kinds of clothes or give her a lesson on not being the cause of provocation to the other sex? Will you not allow her to look pretty like she wants to?

Will her decision to put on makeup--whether it is to hide her flaws or accentuate what she has—be your call?

Would you want your child to live the life of a prisoner because you are afraid?

What will you do? Doesn’t the word ‘humanity’ come from the term ‘human’!

Have we forgotten how to be human?

Is our real issue, the fact that there are one too many—one blending into another and unexplainable.

--Deeply disturbed and enraged Indian mother of a girl child