37

37 today,

A year older than yesterday,

Woke up with a twisted and strained back,

I could almost feel my bones crack,

There's no escaping old age,

So might as well turn that page,

Of pretending to be young and fun,

Perhaps I'm not quite done,

But the aches and pains,

And the inflamed veins,

Remind me to slow down,

Gone are the days of being the class clown,

Say that to my mouth though,

And you will know,

It's hard for me to shut up,

So 37 only for the body, the mind is still a pup,

Curious, loud and annoying,

Happily destroying,

Peace in a room,

I specialise is shooing away gloom and doom,

Perhaps I should stop bragging,

And choose to start dragging,

My broken back to the cosy confines of my bed,

Where I shall finally rest my 37 year old head. 

Vada

The humble golden delight,

That instantly makes the world feel right,

Deep fried or dunked in curd,

Don't pluck on it like a bird,

Gorge, gorge and gorge,

Like Peppa's little brother George,

Snort it, sniff it, polish it,

But make sure you finish it,

In the dozens,

Don't think about the repercussions,

Enjoy it while it lasts,

The crispy, crunchy rapid blasts,

Exploding in your brain and mouth,

It's best made in the South,

With sambaar and chutney or curd and boondi,

Spice up your afternoon tea,

Or every single meal,

Munch on it with zeal,

I'm all out of words,

Go grab that Vada now, before the night sky gets more blurred

Happy and Sad

Some days are happy, some sad,

But there are zero days that are bad,

Sadness is like a dark cloud burst in your brain,

But why cry in vain,

When you can have a Shree Mithai, paneer-aloo sandwich,

And allow all that anguish,

To just leave your body,

Like it was nobody,

No point being sad,

Just be glad,

That food exists,

Eat, eat and eat if the sadness persists,

Tomorrow is another day,

Bad things ultimately go away,

Patience and time,

Much like subtle, yet aromatic thyme,

Heals all bumps and bruises,

So simply refuse,

To feel sad,

There is much food to be had. 

Mischief Maker

 

Once upon a time,

There lived a little girl who loved to rhyme,

She scribbled notes for her granny,

And destroyed pearl necklaces that belonged to her nanny,

She ate too much,

And spoke too much,

She wasn't too naughty,

Perhaps a wee bit haughty,

For the longest time, she had no sense of being a little lady,

She wore boxer shorts and fell off her bicycle like crazy,

A bump and a bruise,

A lady bug and some mud, all came to her use,

Alas, one day, puberty caught up,

And momma told her to sit up,

No more torn boxers and behaving like a boy,

No more plastic guns for toys,

Behave, behave, behave,

Ultimately, she had to cave,

But under all the sparkly eyeliners,

There still lives that crazy little girl, who loves burgers and milkshake diners,

She continues to eat too much,

And talk too much,

The world can align,

For she ain't falling in line!

Life And Death

 I've seen both at close quarters,

And I'm happy to report,

Neither has made me bitter,

Or made me a quitter,

The empath in me became stronger,

And colours suddenly appeared brighter,

Picture Daredevil, with the heightened senses,

I no longer have the patience for pretenses,

In widowhood was born,

A version of me that didn't want to mourn,

My mind has erased all the trauma,

I have undergone,

A full cleanse,

Almost telling me, that my current existence,

Is how life has always been,

And I can't seem to remember any other spin,

I'm told I'm a fighter,

And that I bounced out of this brighter,

Someone called me a light,

That dispelled the night,

Someone even called me a museum piece and claimed I made her laugh,

I'll own this last one, wholeheartedly on my behalf.

Morning Cuddles

Morning Cuddles with my "son"shine has become an unspoken golden ritual in our household ever since my boy was zero years old.

I'm an obsessed mother by the way. Can't get enough of my son. And I'm already planning his wedding - either on a beach or on a mountain. Did I mention he's 4.5 years old?

Every decision I take involves my child. Be it moving away from Bombay when his young father passed away, stepping out to work full-time and re-building our life from scratch. The last bit couldn't have been done without the support of my parents. 

I'd like to believe I'm a good mother, because I was raised by one herself. Infact she was more self sacrificing and more dutiful. I'm merely going with the flow of juggling work, raising my child and trying to have a semblance of a social life. 

It's not hard. It's what every 36 year old must strive to do, without hitting an early mid-life crisis. 

Coming back to our morning cuddles, I need it more than him. I breathe him in and thank God everyday, for blessing me with such a beautiful child. He loves me unconditionally (for the time being). I'll miss this devotion in just another 4-5 years. They grow up too soon. 

My mother gives me dire warnings everyday to seperate work from home. "Don't take out work frustrations at home. Keep your office inside your office. At home you're a mother and a daughter. Please behave like one" She's right as always.

It's hard, striking a work-life balance. It's a myth really. There's only work and life is lived on the weekends. This is the reality, without white washing it. Take it or leave it!

Our children keep us sane - most of the time. For the remaining time, let's rein in our tempers and try not to unleash our entire personalities into the world. It's too much for the person sitting opposite you, unless it's your best friend or a close colleague, who can give you a beating and keep you in check.

To all the women in my life - my mother, my bosses and all my lady colleagues - thank you and you're awesome! 

A Fluey Weekend

 

A Dolo induced weekend,

Is how my time is being spent,

Eat, sleep and repeat,

I can barely stand on my two feet,

A complete loss of control over the body,

I feel rather shoddy,

I wake up in a sweat,

And momentarily forget,

Whether I'm supposed to wake up,

Or grab another hot cup,

Of fluids and tablets,

Or go back into my bunny hole filled with imaginary rabbits,

I hardly feel like Alice,

My home feels far from a palace,

With the absence of my little pest,

He is the best,

But his presence would hardly give me any rest,

So I'm stuck inside a lonely fluey weekend,

I pray it soon comes to an end,

And I reach a triumphant bend,

One where my silly flu comes to an end.