Are You Home Yet?

The fathers cracked open a bottle of whiskey last night and were high as kites. Surya came to visit and they were ecstatic to regale the youngster with stories of war and government policies. Occasionally, they forced him to eat a paratha, which he refused politely at first, then with a powerful NO. 

Your death has forced my family to fly in from Dubai, Chennai and Trivandrum. Our sweet neighbours from D block (Vaishali, Sony and Rita aunty) have finally visited our new apartment. My building friends have dropped in too. I'm confused. Isn't death supposed to be a period of mourning. Why does it seem like a celebration all of a sudden? Why do I feel like you'll suddenly unlock the front door, grab both fathers by the shoulders and say, "Daddy, Baba, pour me a peg too!"

The baby and I, have always had an active social life during the week just to bide time. I would introduce you to the husband of the newest mommy friend I had made and you would either grunt looking at the gentleman or make polite conversation. Your mood solely depended on your workload during the week. This week feels just like that. Something tells me, you'll be back home for the weekend any minute now. 

I somehow cannot forget the image of you lying motionlessly in a corner of Bombay Hospital. How easily you breathed your last without a forewarning. Your blue lips and closed eyes will forever haunt me. Your green office shirt had been roughly pulled off your chest for the CPR procedure. 

What were your thoughts in your final moments? Your boss said you wanted to come home. I want you home too poopie. This house suddenly has too many empty spaces. It scares and suffocates me. I can't stand it anymore. 

The boys have begun work on your album. I made Kiron share our pictures from '08, our first month together as a couple. It opened a floodgate of memories. Now I'll only have these glamorous pictures of you. You will forever remain young. You always convinced me that you were the better looking between the two of us. I agree. I'll age and look wrinkly.  You on the other hand, will forever be a dimply young lad with the sweetest face in the world. 

Didn't matter if you put on or lost weight, shaved or didn't, you always looked radiant. Your thick eyebrows, beautifully curled lashes and massive toothy smile were more than enough to light up any room you walked into. 

Riaan asked about you today as well, "Why has baba gone without his suitcase?", "Will baba come back?" and "I want baba in every room - my bedroom, your bedroom and the living room". I blinked in response. How am I supposed to play the role of baba and mumma now? 

Tomorrow I will stuff eight years of my married life and three years of motherhood into cardboard boxes. I'm running away from this beautiful house that you made for us, so that I don't have to look at aeroplanes landing from the baby's bedroom window anymore. I instinctively look at my phone to receive a one word message from you, "Landed". And the next second you would call, "Almost home. What chocolates can I buy for you from the airport? Ill pick up a toy for Riaan as well. Is he awake?" 

All these memories and more, will haunt me, till the day I breathe my last. Waiting for God to shine me up to you. You died a natural death. If I must find my way back to you, I must die a natural death too. I just hope it happens quickly. 

The 15th Day

15 days since you've been gone, where have you reached? Are you still with me inside the house or soaring in the skies like a free bird? I felt a boulder inside my heart last night and the tears were never ending. I think you've gone. Will you come back? Can you still see me? Are you happy or sad?

Is there a God? Do you regret not praying with me everyday inside our little home temple? I've stopped praying by the way. I'm still coming to terms with the massive challenge you've left behind for me. Today I'll clean your guitars, amplifiers and wires. I'll store them away in the loft. Riaan can have them when he is ready. 

Riaan asks about you everyday. "Where's baba gone?", he questions. I try my best to explain to him that you are with God, but he comes back to "Where's baba gone?". Do you regret leaving your almost 3 year old behind? I'll design his third birthday cake as "Baba's big blue car".

I've been hearing the words, "Stay strong and be brave", quite a bit in the past 15 days. I'm sick of it. You were my strength. People will come and go, but you and I were forever. Remember? Now I have no one to share that forever with. I hate happy couples, especially couples with babies. Old married couples in their 80s and 90s make me cry. 

Will you always be 35? When I die and go to heaven or hell, will I see you as a 35 year old? You told me, you will wake up next to me, even when I'm old. You promised me several more decades of mad fun, randomness and poopieversaries. I can never go to Bangalore again. Or live in Bombay. Or go to Delhi. Each city has a beautiful memory of you that breaks my soul. 

Our son just woke up, he said you carried him last night. You've definitely left the house. I can feel it. Time appears to be vast, black and never-ending. No one to take me to the mall, to the movies, to restaurants, to the beach or to friend's houses. I can go alone, yes. But it just won't be the same without you. Nothing is the same without you.

I can never go to Starbucks, eat a McDonalds burger, go to Clearing House, Indigo Deli or look at a musician without crying. Why did you leave? I know I'm supposed to pray for your soul to go in peace. But how can I pray for peace, when I'm far from peaceful?

Did we meet as kids, so you'd leave me so quickly? You've left behind a jacket that still smells of you. Your toiletries have your scent. Your gold wedding ring, has become so sharp around the edges, that it pokes me. These material reminders of you comfort me, but only momentarily. I need you. I miss our fights, your laughter, our movie watching marathons in bed, our spontaneous drives that always led to you saying, "We need to plan these things better. Now I don't want to go back home so quickly". 

The weekends have no meaning anymore. I have nothing to look forward to on Friday nights. No one to pull the sheets off me and tickle me until I wake up. No one to wake up our sleeping baby at midnight. I'm so sorry I paid a little more attention to him when he was born. I know you hated it. If I could re-live 2019 all over again, I would have dumped the baby on someone else's head and spent every free minute with you. To hell with his night feeds, sleep schedule and diaper changes. 

I have and always will love you, more than him. He is a part of you, so am I. You created him, you created us. There is nothing without you. Riaan and I are broken. We have no one to mend the broken pieces. You've orphaned us. 

Are you really at peace? Do you have even a shred of regret inside you? Why did you prioritise that murderous job so much? What has it given you? What has it given us? Riaan will never be a management consultant. None of the kids from the next generation will. I'll make sure of it. 

Shame on them for not honouring you, even in death. God is watching everything. They will reap the karma of their actions soon. They have families too. They have the curse of a wounded young widow, following them like a shadow forever. I thank ammumma for teaching me every powerful Mantra in the world. I know what to do spiritually. 

You promised me you would have "the chat" with Riaan, when he reaches puberty. I shudder to think about his teen years now, he has your genes and mine! Double whammy! Yikes! But his mind is yours, for that I am thankful. 

I can't say rest in peace, how can I? You've left so much on my shoulders. I need you, every step of the way. Please stay, if possible. I'll talk to God. 

Being Mrs Poopie

Rajarshi Bhattacharyya, to the outside world was an ace guitarist of some of the most popular underground metal bands in the country. He was a Partner at BCG for the climate change vertical. Some called him a mentor, some a creative juggernaut, some a force to reckon with and so on. But to me, he was always poopie. We met as clueless 21 year olds, who had no vision or mission for the future. The only thing we were sure of was each other. 

We had an impossible love story that transcended geographical, cultural and emotional barriers. We were poles apart as individuals. He had a deadly focus on anything he touched, while I drifted along like a butterfly. I didn't get along with half his friends, didn't like the music he played or listened to, didn't like his taste in food and didn't agree with his spendthrift ways. 

At times he dominated the relationship and at times I did. But eventually, the man always had his way. The house decor, the big spending decisions and how the child should be raised, he merely consulted me in such matters, for ultimately he would take the call. 

We dated for 6 years and were married for almost 8. He promised me 99 anniversaries together. He lied. Or maybe he meant it, now I'll never know, for he literally "dropped dead" doing what he loved the most - his job. I begged him to quit and consider leading a less stressful lifestyle. But he never listened. He missed seven months of my pregnancy due to his international travels and missed my delivery. I reigned down on him like a wounded dragon and he experienced a woman's wrath firsthand. But there was still no stopping that shameless, ambitious, headstrong, driven man. 

I quickly realised when our son was born, that I had two babies to take care of. My baby husband and my baby son. He may have been a maverick to the world, but at home, I couldn't differentiate between the two. The competition between them got hilariously ugly. The conversations between them were, "I came first, therefore your mumma belongs to me", "I will sleep on Mumma tummy, you sleep elsewhere", "Go away Riaan", "Be quiet", "Pinch your cheeks" and so on. 

The silly games they played, shocked, appalled and amused me. They would both watch my face intently as they swung from one daredevil stunt to the other. "I'm so glad, we have a little boy. He is so tough and can be flung around in any direction", he would say and throw the baby around like a pair of dumbbells. 

He was a perennial fence sitter. He would express a desire to buy something for the house or himself and would take a year to finally purchase it. House and baby related matters, were strictly not to be discussed with him on the weekends. He didn't like it. "Figure it out", was his life advice to me, each time I went to him with a problem - personal, professional or house related. 

I love my grandfather and brothers so much, that I ended up marrying someone just like them. Especially my grandfather. Poopie and he had the same qualities - quiet, humble, passionate, dedicated, hardworking, hugely successful, minded their own business, didn't like gossiping and had hearts of gold. I performed his 11th day puja yesterday and the Pandit-ji told me that I prayed with all my heart and that I pronounced difficult Bengali mantras better than even a Bengali speaking person would. Then he re-assured my mum-in-law that poopie's soul has attained Moksha, that there would be no re-birth for him. I wasn't surprised upon hearing this. That's exactly how my appuppan took his last journey as a soul as well.

Now I have so many stars in the sky, watching down upon me, I know. But this pain in my heart, will it ever go? Each time my son or I reach a milestone in life, will poopie experience it? When the baby and I are in pain, will he feel it? Does he still love us? Does he regret leaving us so suddenly? Does he wish to come back? So many unanswered questions. 

Float Among The Clouds

Single mom. Young widow. 30-something dying of a cardiac arrest. These were alien concepts to me until four days ago. I was mid-way through my evening walk on 6th December, when I received a startling phone call from my husband's boss. He told me that my poopie had collapsed midway through the presentation and that I must rush to Bombay Hospital immediately. He told me it would take a bit of time and advised me to keep the child at home.

I rushed home, informed my in-laws about what happened and jumped into an Uber. I was all set to spend the night with him and dressed accordingly. My mother in law was in tears and my father in law was breathless. But I was at peace and was sure that he was just plugged up with wires lying in the emergency ward. I was all set to give him a whack on the head and a pinch on the bum, telling him to stop working like a machine, at least now. 

We hardly had a married life. I met him on the weekends. He was flying to another city on Monday and that's how our life was for eight years. We long distanced before marriage and even after that. It always pinched me. But I tried my best to look beyond that. I cribbed to all and sundry about how I was left to fend for myself on the weekdays. But come the weekend, my poopie would be home with his signature brand of mischief. Those sparkly eyes and naughty smile was a forewarning that he was about to do something nasty. The child and I were his eternal targets. 

I digress. Coming back to that fateful day, we reached the hospital and ran to the emergency ward. Someone caught hold of me and said, "Gayatri, sit down". It was poopie's boss and colleague. I vehemently shook my head and said, "Just tell me. What's going on?". He replied with, "Rajarshi is no more". I lost balance and howled on the floor holding his shoe. My mother in law, looked at him and said, "You killed him". I didn't argue. I was glad she said it. I screamed at them to take me to him. They took me to a corridor and there he was, my beautiful beautiful poopie, covered under a white sheet, eyes closed, blue lips. I hugged him tight, he still felt like my telly tubby man, the one I had hugged all night long just a few hours ago. I cradled his head in my arms, kissed him and told him to wake up. But he didn't respond.

My world had ended. There is no God. How can there be? Why did he take my perfect perfect poopie? We had a son to raise, a life to live. I took my mother in law and son to see him. My son didn't understand much, or maybe he did, afterall he has the brains of his father. He frowned and looked away. The formalities took forever to end and we finally brought him back home. 

I didn't sleep on the first night. I slept next to the icebox he was placed in. The following day went by in a whirl of activities. I kissed his cold face repeatedly and wiped the liquids flowing out of his nose. The crematorium had too many flies, so I swatted them vigorously off his face. I rubbed ghee on his hair, face, chest, hands and feet. His hands especially I rubbed a little more, because I knew that would be the last time I would ever hold hands with him. I also wanted to lessen the unnatural stiffness on his hands.

I pushed him towards the fire along with the crematorium workers, prayed for his soul and watched him go up in flames. Two days later, I collected his ashes, inhaled it deeply and flowed it away into the Banganga Tank. That was that. 

My poopie who filled my life with laughter, madness, dirty jokes and immense joy, was dust. He was finally asleep after years and years of slogging like a machine. He didn't love his job, he inhaled it. Climate change, hydrogen, green energy and natural gas were his life. On weekends he brought books from Amazon on the topic and watched videos on Youtube. Our romantic drives were filled with conversations on climate change and him clicking pictures of piped gas and green vehicles. His passion killed him.

Riaan, our son, will never forget his father. I will make sure of it. He will be raised exactly how his father wanted him to be raised. I only live now to continue his legacy. I will keep the professional, personal and musical beacon flying high. Mrs Rajarshi Bhattacharyya's work is just beginning. A full life to lead keeping all his goals in mind. But after that, I will find him and never let go. 

If there is another life, I want to be born again only as Mrs Rajarshi Bhattacharyya. I'm conflicted between letting your soul go now or hanging on to you. But as always, you will decide. You lived life on your terms. And I will respect that even in death.

Riaan and I will love you forever. 

The Escapades of Ducky, The One Eyed Duck

My grandfather, aunt, cousins and sibling have been animal lovers, for as long as I can remember. We had a tortoise, a rabbit, some hens, dogs of course and then came the icing on the cake. My cousin, added a one eyed duck and a squirrel to this mix. Her lifelong dream was to become a veterinarian. 

Summer holidays, were always spent together in our grandparents house. On one of those holidays, she was accompanied by this screechy, one eyed duck. It was constantly attacked by our pet dogs. We always knew the exact location of the duck thanks to the dogs' desperate and relentless barking. They simply, couldn't stand the duck! 

Her parents finally had to intervene. They advised her to give the duck away to a nice homely farm, where she would be looked after well. She agreed reluctantly. So when the summer holidays came to an end, Ducky exited our household without much ado. A few days later however, we heard from the farm owner that Ducky had been murdered by a bunch of stray dogs. Her parents and our grandparents shuddered upon hearing this ghastly news. More than the Duck being murdered, their concern was how to keep this information hidden from the original Duck owner, aka my cousin.

I was the first person they caught and warned to keep mum, for nothing stayed in my stomach or mouth for too long. It was already overflowing with so much bakery food. I agreed reluctantly. I met my cousin a few months later and kept grinning like a Cheshire cat. Now how and when do I explode this bomb, I wondered devilishly.

The opportune moment came all too soon. All the adults were busy shopping for clothes. I caught hold of her and uttered only three words. "Ducky, your ducky", and I shook my head vigorously, feigning fake sadness. She immediately burst into a loud, blood-curdling howl and the waterworks began. The adults came running. One look at my face and they knew what had conspired. 

I don't know why, but even now as I recall this incident, all I can do is smile wholeheartedly. Ducks are good on the plate. Roast duck, Japanese duck, duck fry, duck curry, so many ways to eat the creature. How can you possibly think of petting one? Would you pet your pepperoni pizza or your lamb burger? Serious answers only, please. 

(Image Source : https://montreal.ctvnews.ca/duck-duck-poop-driven-by-tik-tok-trend-spca-sees-surge-in-abandoned-and-messy-ducklings-1.5521702) 

Being a Public Relations Professional

My mother's dream for me was to become a doctor, my grandmother told me to become a lawyer and my sports teacher was convinced I would become the next Badminton sensation with the right training. I nodded along to everyone's suggestions as I had no fixed ambition or goal in mind. I was simply an innocent people pleaser. But through it all I always knew that I loved people. I loved forming friendships and I fell madly in love with whoever I met. According to Google, this obsessive nature of friendship means I'm a deeply lonely person. Perhaps, I am.

When school ended, I still had no idea what I wanted to do. So I enrolled myself for a B.sc Electronic Media course, which was a mish-mash of all the forms of media available. Did I want to be a journalist? Did I want to be a news anchor? I was still confused. So I dabbled a little with print media, didn't like that, packed my bags and went back home. Next, I enrolled myself for a Masters in Public Relations, the course was easy and mundane. 

The first job I picked up after finished my Masters course was a dealbreaker. I loved my bosses, my colleagues, the work environment and my clients. I finally found my ocean to swim in. I was a happy little fish. I loved my job despite it's myriad challenges.

The good days were really great and the bad, absolutely lousy. And i miss it. I wonder when I'll be able to get back to it with a hyper toddler at home. Do I want to get back to it? The work hours with my last agency were erratic. They expected me to work endlessly, like I had no one waiting for me to get back home. 

Do I get back into P.R or a purely content writing role or should I dabble in teaching? I'm at a crossroads. One thing I know for sure is that whatever I do, it must involve an interesting set of people. Colleagues make everything livelier. Without them, what is the point of going to work? 

(Image Source : https://digitaluncovered.com/best-public-relations-agencies-in-india/) 

 

Mumbai's Kaamwali Bais; Boon or Bane?

It was during the Covid lockdown that the whole of India began to really respect their domestic help. We realized the amount of work they do, quietly and tirelessly in our houses, to keep it spotlessly clean. The kaamwali bais in Mumbai however are a different breed all together. They have the confidence of a lion in an urban jungle. The prey they hunt is you and me. With so many high rises built in a 1 km radius, it is but natural that they have a sense of pride and high self-esteem.

No house in Mumbai can function without the help of bais. Two and three per household is the norm. One for cooking, one for cleaning, one for dusting or looking after the kids/aged parents. The requirements are aplenty. High-rises are always surrounded by a thriving community of slum dwellers. The two worlds co-exist peacefully, for they depend on each other. 

The bais I've dealt with have been hardworking, kind, sly, lazy, nosy, neat, punctual, late, greedy and so on. I just had a tussle with my newest hired help, a dusting maid. She is always late, more interested in gossip than her actual work and is constantly asking for favours. We got into a war of words today, as her work has become shoddier and shoddier by the day. She has a justification for everything and has a tailor-made answer, for every question thrown her way.

At the end of that useless battle, I felt like a pig in muddy water. She is not going to change, I realized. She might quit before I fire her, only to be employed in two other houses. The way my bais talk to me, has me wondering whether I've hired them or they have hired me.

The longer they stay with you, the more they take you for granted. The power is always in their hands, because we can't live without them. Well, we can, but with a lot of backache, knee pain and sore-throat as we are not used to cleaning our toilets or sweeping our floors. 

I am grateful to my existing domestic help, who cook and clean for me. I never take them for granted and almost always give in to their demands, even if it is unreasonable. So yes, I am personally responsible for their reckless attitudes and over-confidence. I try my best to maintain a good relationship with them. And, I sort out all their personal issues as much as I can. 

(Image Source : https://www.shutterstock.com/image-vector/indian-housemaid-kamwali-bai-cartoon-character-1434258044) 

Mumbai, No Man's Land or The City of Dreams?

Eights years since I've lived in Bombay. There are days when I'm madly in love with this city and then there are days, when I just want to run away to a remote island and never return. Is this really my home? Or a city I'm merely transiting through? Only time will tell, I suppose. 

Work friendships are just that - bonds you form at work. Not with everyone of course. You do remain friends with 2-3 good souls who genuinely want to form a bond with you, beyond work hours. My first job in the city, was with a dream boss, Mary Oommen. The work environment was a cozy little cocoon, that she had built to help us succeed. She had personally handpicked us, we were Mary's angels (like Charlie's angels of course, only we didn't have to save the world). 

She was our work-mom. She pushed all the right buttons and threw us outside our comfort zones. Mary was the first non-family member, who called to congratulate me on the birth of my son. She gave me subtle parenting tips and told me in plain words to quickly get back to work for the sake of my sanity. She still calls me once a year, to check up on me and keeps throwing job offers my way, to get me out of the house!  

The next organization I joined was where I truly experienced the harsh world of corporate politics, Mumbai's corporate politics, mind you. I cried in the office and I cried at home, everyday without fail. The travel time to work, didn't help either. One hour in the morning and four hours in the evening. Looking back, I wonder if it was even worth it, going through all that travel sickness and dealing with a toxic work environment. My colleagues however, made my time worthwhile. I had multiple shoulders to cry on, at least.

Fast forward to five years, I'm deep in the throes of motherhood, raising an unreasonable toddler whose only answer to every question is "No" and "Don't talk". I'm laughing my way through this phase as well, for I know he will soon grow up and go to school. I pray hard to every God I know, every night, for schools to reopen quickly.

Through each of these experiences, I have seen firsthand, the resilience of people and faced their wrath/cut-throat behaviour. I have also seen their friendly and approachable nature. A city is made up of its people. And this city has a mixed bag of folks. Sometimes they disappoint you, with their cold behaviour and sometimes they overwhelm you with their kindness. 

The past five years, have given me a lot of time to form friendships in my immediate neighbourhood. I've had the chance to interact with toddler moms, moms of twins, moms of teenagers. And the conversations have always been refreshing. I look forward to playdates everyday. A day without a playdate, is a day wasted. 

So coming back to the question in my mind, is this my city, now that I've lived here for close to a decade? Can I call myself a Mumbaikar, even if my heart is still in Chennai? Let me just leave it to time, to unravel these answers. All I can do is sit back and watch. 

The Fear Of Driving

I got my four wheeler driving license on 30th November 2009. I have a two wheeler license as well, but that's another story, for another day. The common thread between both my licenses have been my patient mother. She took me to the driving school, stood in the heat watching me drive with instructors, took me back to the hot non air conditioned government RTO to collect my license. And, she constantly reminded me of how i rammed into her leg, during my two wheeler license test because I was so nervous.

So after my mother acquired lots of grey hair and one nearly amputated foot, I finally got both my licenses. (I'm talking about 2009 when one license wasn't valid for both two and four wheeler vehicles). I remember that hot sunny day, like it happened yesterday. I had to take half a day off from my working day. I was working with Amazon then. I wore a white, flowery chiffon salwar kameez with dupatta that didn't help with the blistering hot weather. By the time the whole affair of getting my license ended, I was a sticky, sweaty, sun-tanned mess. I rushed back to office and to my workstation with my newly minted driving license.

Flash forward to a year or two later, when I had finished my post graduation with Stella Maris College and had picked up a job with Hanmer MSL, my father made me drive everyday to office. I would stop the car at a bus-stand opposite office and daddy would drive the car back home. 

And today, despite the best efforts of my parents, I'm sad to report, I'm still a shaky driver. My BP hits the car's roof each time a biker or an autorickshaw tries to overtake me. My incessantly nattering toddler doesn't help ease my mind's stress. The hubby encourages the tot's behaviour and ignores me fully. His explanation is, "Our lives are your responsibility now. So you can either kill us or take us home alive. No pressure!"

I'm determined now to master this beast. I will not allow my fear to overcome me. I will drive confidently, even if it means that I may have to forgo with the last bit of my thinning postpartum hair. 

The Movie Hall Experience

I've been a lover of the big screen for as long as I can remember. One movie a week was a necessity ever since I started my undergraduation. My friends were subject to it, my parents and now my husband. But ever since we became parents, this exercise seemed like a distant dream. The pandemic didn't help either. 

Today however, we decided to step out for a movie after what seemed like an eternity! We left the toddler behind with my ever-helpful in-laws. Our departure from home depended on the toddler's eating schedule, so we didn't pre-book a movie. We drove to R City Mall, Ghatkopar (the closest mall from our house) as fast as we could, rushed to Inox and booked ourselves two tickets for Marvel's newly released movie "Eternals".

I'm a big Marvel and DC fan, but I had no idea Marvel had released a new movie. The biggest advantage of the pandemic was that, the movie industry had to release everything on streaming platforms (which I lapped up eagerly for the past 2.5 years). To save time (we're toddler parents, so time is everything. Leaving a toddler at home is a ticking time bomb, that's just waiting to explode!) I told my husband to book tickets while I select snacks. He looked at me with amused eyes and said through his mask, "Poopie, you've forgotten how it's like to watch movies in the theatre haven't you? Who is going to allow you inside without the tickets?"

Fast forward to three hours inside the movie hall; my mind was blown away with the storyline and visual effects of Eternals while my husband grunted a few times, staring at his phone impatiently. "When will this end?", he kept muttering under his breath. The minute the movie ended, we rushed to the food court, gobbled down two burgers and proceeded towards the car.

Not a spectacular day, I agree. But a completely out of the world experience for us as we had no screechy toddler to deal with. Just two messy burgers, a Tandoori chai and an imaginative, nicely shot movie. I reminisced about Tony Stark, Captain America and Black Widow for there was plenty of mention of Thanos and the Avengers throughout the film. 

I reminded the husband about the tears I shed when Tony Stark died and how I hated our son to grow up in a world without the Iron Man. He quickly told me to grow up. I said I will not for there is no shame in shedding tears for superheros.

Do watch movies in the big screen. It really is something! Take it from a tired toddler mom and a movie enthusiast. 

The Death Of A Friend

9th July 2021 left us all with a gaping hole in our heart and lives. Akshay Deodhar. My husband's friend and bandmate from Hellwind. When I first met him in 2014, I perceived him to be just another random bachelor friend of my husband's. We met occasionally. His smile and endless chatter bewildered me. It seemed humanly impossible for one person to be so happy and so chatty. 

Things took a turn in 2018, when I was seven months pregnant and home alone. We had shifted to Powai and Akshay lived five minutes away. I developed a complication and dialed Akshay's number without giving it too much thought. Listening to the sound of my voice, he reached home in a jiffy. He rushed me to the emergency ward of the hospital and stayed with me the entire day, until my husband reached Bombay. 

Akshay soon became a household fixture after this incident. We became very close. We had "kitty party" like lunch sessions, where we bitched about people and cracked lame jokes. He was the first friend to hold my newborn baby. He was subject to all my post partum whining. (Poor thing!) 

He was a breath of fresh air and much needed respite in the middle of soiled diapers and endless feeds. Although, he didn't get half of what we were going through as a couple with a newborn baby, he was always around for a patient hearing and some words of wisdom.

Before he left for his M.B.A course in Scotland, he met us, gave us the warmest hug and said "Do you think, I'd leave without saying goodbye?". Who knew that would be the last time, we would ever meet him.

His death has left us in complete and utter shock. We think of him every time, a friend gets married or we have get-togethers. I even dreamt of him last night, where he told me with that giggly look "Come find me Gayu, I'm right here. Come talk to me." 

We miss you Akshay, today and everyday. We know you'll be waiting for us up there and perhaps even watching over us, when shit hits the ceiling. You were my confidante, Riaan's godfather and our extended family in Bombay. 

Appuppan

2nd February 2004 changed all our lives forever. One minute I was in school and the next I was attending my grandfather's funeral. His death came as a shock to us, as he was so active. He was still going for his morning walks, driving his car and shopping for groceries. His last meal was a biryani at a cousin's wedding, which he thoroughly enjoyed and then the chest pain began. I wasn't physically present for his final moments and that's something which will crush me forever.

He was more of a friend than a grandfather. If he had any grandfatherly instincts, he showed very little of it. He got viciously bullied by his grandkids and he bullied back with full fervour. He slept all day and stayed awake at night, like an owl. But his eyes would pop open, the minute he heard the Baywatch theme on TV, however sleep deprived he was. 

He had his weekly quota of scotch or whiskey along with salty fried peanuts, which he hid very meticulously from me. But I always found his stash hidden deep beneath his clothes. On one particular Sunday, he discovered an empty jar of peanuts and instead of scolding me, he threw his glass of liquor on my face. I was shocked at first, then I viciously pulled his neatly gelled hair in rebuttal. 

Before ammumma could lay out the table for lunch, appuppan and I would step out and eat a Kalavara burger, Sharjah shake or medu vada from the road. She would be furious as we didn't have an appetite for lunch. 

We had a mild water shortage problem, as our house was built atop the hills, Dhalavakunnu hill to be exact. So Appuppan's idea of conserving water, was to pee in the bushes. There was one particular tree that faced the brunt of his ideology and it died in no time. His explanation was that he was providing it with nutritious ammonia filled fertilizer. 

When we had the occasional house guest, he wouldn't budge from his rocking chair. He left the socializing to his wife. Perhaps, I take after him, because even I hesitate to talk to strangers. His driving skills were far from extraordinary. He drove his car, like it was an autorickshaw, recklessly and without concern for pedestrians and other cars on the road. On one of these escapades, he scraped the car against a relative's vehicle, that was parked outside their house. My sister and I yelped from the backseat, but appuppan assured us that no one had noticed what we did. 

We drove back home with utter confidence, only to discover the aforementioned relative's car parked in our driveway. The rest as they say is history. Fireworks blew all night, as my grandmother gave him a shelling of a lifetime. We almost got away with our crime, unfortunately ours was the only car in Trivandrum which had a distinct maroon paint, towards the bottom. The paint scraped off on the relative's car, which blew our cover. 

17 years have passed, since he passed away, but these memories are still so fresh in my mind. I'll always be Captain P Thyagarajan's granddaughter first and then come all the other relationships in my life. I feel so heartbroken that my husband, my son and even my sibling's spouses and children, didn't have a chance to ever meet him. He was one of a kind. A diamond in the rough. I can't wait to meet him in the afterlife. 

Riaan Is Two

My newborn baby is not so new anymore. Infact, he is not referred to as baby anymore. He is a toddler. An adamant, highly opinionated and dominating one at that. He decides his mode of transport for his evening walks, he decides the shoes to go along with his attire, he decides his night suit and has a scream so loud, it would put the thunder Gods to shame. 

I'm slowly adapting to this new personality. In a battle of parents v/s toddler, the toddler always wins, so best to give in and best to sit out their tantrums. It is hard, VERY hard, to have someone scream at your face 24*7 simply because his Peppa Pig t-shirt has gone for wash, or the stool to climb over the sink to play with water is missing. You either stay calm or lose your cool. 

Last weekend, the husband and I got all dolled up to hit a hip new restaurant in town, when little sir, decided he wanted to wash his toy cars in the sink for one hour. Each time we dragged him outside the bathroom, he cried until his entire body became red. We sat through that tantrum patiently.

Privacy is an even bigger issue now, as he can open doors. Just when you're about to let a big one drop in the potty, he comes barging in and says, "Move! Clean bum, now!" and hands me the health faucet. I have a habit of watching soaps and thriller movies on my mobile phone, while on the pot. In the midst of one of those scary scenes, a small figure silently crept inside the bathroom, stood in front of me and whispered, "Mumma, chuechue" and peed on my legs. I almost had a heart attack. I was convinced my bathroom is haunted by a little boy ghost. The warm liquid on my toes, the eerie whisper, it was straight out of a Stephen King novel. 

Taking him down to the park on his cycle has become an ordeal, as he moves the handle around like a crazy drunk. The "parental control" handle is a joke, as we keep bumping into walls and people. The pram is a forgotten antique now. God bless the souls of people, who want to take a leisurely walk with him. He almost plies the fingers out of your hand as he walks confidently in whichever direction he pleases. More often than not, he wants to walk on the main road, in the middle of heavy traffic, because hey, see-saws and swings are so 18 months old! He's a rebel two year old, without a cause. Get with it or fall behind. 

Muddy puddles are another fascination, thanks to dear old Peppa Pig. He jumps in them, sits on them, pushes his cycles around in them and if nothing else, he vigorously washes his hands inside them. I'll need a lot of wine and coffee, to survive this year and perhaps the next, the way things are going. 

A Series Of Unfortunate Events

In the past week, our life has eerily resembled Lemony Snicket's, A Series Of Unfortunate Events. It all began on Saturday evening, when we decided to go on a short drive with our baby monkey. When we stepped out, it was raining torrentially with very low visibility. Still, we decided to be Khatron Ke Khiladi for the baby's sake as he loved these short drives.

For the first half an hour, it was smooth sailing. Out of the blue, the husband rammed the car violently into a divider, as he was trying to swerve away from a cement mixer. Our hearts were in our throats as we were a little distance away from home and getting technical help at that hour, in the middle of a downpour would be close to impossible. 

He stepped out of the car to examine the damage. The bonnet had dislodged itself and was jammed inside one of the wheels. He drove very slowly and we somehow managed to reach home. Unfortunately, the baby's head got a little wet in the rain, as we stepped out of the car and into our apartment complex's lobby. We didn't think much of it at the time, as the priority was to wash his hands and change his clothes ASAP, as we might've potentially exposed him to Coronavirus. 

The next morning, he woke up with a fever of 101° F. We quickly administered Calpol drops, but his health deteriorated through the day. Our mind raced to the worst possible scenarios. We blamed ourselves and our domestic help, who may have given him Covid. When he woke up with the same fever the following morning as well, we decided to change his medication to something stronger (Ibugesic Plus) by looking at his doctor's prescriptions. His condition improved instantly. Our moods however were still on edge and we had the worst possible war of words. 

Three harrowing events within 48 hours. Call it a stroke of bad luck or if you are a believer of old wives' tales, somebody's evil eye. As we had stepped out on Saturday evening for our drive, I sensed at least 20 pairs of prying eyes on us (residents of our apartment), watching us curiously as we stepped into our car with our baby. I could see the shock in their eyes, seeing us dressed up so nicely, like we were ready to go for a party. In reality, we just wanted to breathe some fresh air and give our baby some respite from the four walls of our home. 

It's so quick to pass judgements on people, without knowing their life's realities. Evil eye or not, it's rude to gawk at people. When will we Indians ever learn this? We've had a hard 48 hours. Hoping for a quick turn of happy events now. *fingers crossed* 

(Image Source : https://www.123rf.com/photo_71203031_stock-vector-bad-luck-rubber-stamp-grunge-design-with-dust-scratches-effects-can-be-easily-removed-for-a-clean-cr.html)

Baba's Boy

My baby is clearly a "Baba's boy". While I do the heavy lifting of changing soiled diapers, cooking, feeding, bathing and napping,  Baba gets all the loving. Baba is a tall, dark and handsome mysterious, stranger who flits around the house, at all odd hours. He just cannot get enough of Baba or in his words, "Baaaaaabaaaaaaaaaa". If we were on the sinking Titanic and the crew told my son to choose between both parents, he would choose his father in a heartbeat and leave me to die, like the frost bitten Jack. 

Initially, this bothered me a lot. I wondered why the fetus I grew so lovingly in my womb, for nine painful months, didn't want anything to do with me. When I ask him to kiss me, he kisses his Baba. When I ask him whether he wants to sleep, he pulls his Baba's t-shirt down and clings on to him like a Koala bear, when I ask him if he wants to eat, he screams for Baba some more. 

Clearly Baba is the fun one and I'm the "naggy Nancy". Not my words, Baba's of course. Baba in the meantime, is just loving the attention and says things like, "Both my babies, can't get enough of me", "It's hard to resist my charms" and "Come for some McLoving" and more cringey one liners. The only time I've seen Baba's enthusiasm fade a little, is when baby leaves a big fat poo-poo in his diaper. Then he looks at the baby like a radioactive missile, which will explode upon touching. 

Most days, we find a way to peacefully co-exist with one another under the same roof. But some days, I'm really pained by both my boys. One morning for instance, I woke up with sound of persistent snoring by the big one and the little one, had head butted me out of my pillow and was blissfully occupying my side of the bed. Annoyed with this unreasonable behaviour at 4am, I stormed out of the bedroom and lay down in the guest room. Ironically, I couldn't sleep there, as I bitterly missed both my Chetans (Chhota aur Bada). Then I waited patiently for them to wake up, so that I could prepare a delicious home cooked meal for them.

Yesterday afternoon is another instance when the little one, refused to leave his Baba's side and take his afternoon nap. So I let him be and tried to sleep on my own. But as usual, I couldn't and found my way back into their room. I was pleasantly surprised to find them both in deep sleep. One lying on top of the other. The sight just melted my heart. 

The dynamic of a married couple changes with the arrival of that little third wheel. There is no longer a hormonal induced crazy romance, a gradual slowing down of things happen. Our idea of romance now is sitting together as a family and playing monkey games with our little chimp. 

Parenting In A Pandemic

The Covid induced lockdown has been the hardest on children. Especially, the smaller ones like my son. He is always high on energy and gets easily bored with his toys. To capture his attention for more than five minutes, with a book or a puzzle is an achievement. Pre-lockdown, he went on hour long walks and occasional play dates, with my neighbour's baby daughter. 

Our apartment, has one case of corona per week, two wings were sealed overnight and my neighbours have vanished into thin air. Everyone's doors are sealed shut, like Borosil's food jars. Forget conversations, they don't even let air enter their houses. Four days ago though, I met them all standing at their doorways. We conversed for over an hour. I could sense the fear and hysteria, in their voices. The mood seeped into my mind as well. 

We have slowly started going on short drives in the car and I take my baby for hour long walks in his pram. The mild exercise tires him out a little, whereby making him a tad bit easier to handle. The change of scenery does a world of good for his psyche. Staring at my face and the four walls of the house all day, can get boring.

Last weekend, the husband suggested we step into Starbucks. I was a little taken aback by the suggestion, considering we had our baby in toe. He persisted, stating that the store was not very crowded. So I stepped out of the car, with the little tyke and my worst nightmare came true. A couple standing in line behind us, didn't follow the rules of social distancing, clearly demarcated by the store. I tugged at my husband's arm and pointed to the offending couple. He didn't say anything at first. But when he noticed that they were edging dangerously close to us, he turned around and told them politely to follow the rules of the store. 

Two days ago, a young girl approached me with a toddler in toe. They wanted to say hello to my son as they had observed him walking with me. I mumbled a quick hello and went my way. I'm sure the little girl and the toddler did not have Coronavirus. But the protective mom instincts in me (and WHO guidelines), told me to retreat. The only way to beat this virus, is to assume that everyone has it. 

It's been a hard year. Social distancing has made us emotionally distant as well. I love conversing with fellow mums and enjoy watching my baby play with other children. But now, I run, like my tail is on fire. The paranoia of our helpless little children potentially catching the virus, has us all on our guards. Praying for the world to heal and for normalcy to return to ours lives, most importantly the lives of our children, who have so much ahead of them. No virus should stand in the way of their dreams. 

(Image Source : https://www.ucdavis.edu/news/survey-topic-parenting-pandemic/) 

Selling Broken Dreams

Almost seven years since I’ve left home and relocated to an alien city, which I’m forced to call home. Mumbai is not too bad, except for when the monsoon season hits or if you commute by trains. Bless your soul, if you belong to the latter category. The memories of being pushed and shoved mercilessly, along with having things stolen are too fresh in my mind. 

The next issue I have with this city, is the lack of authentic South Indian food. No, idli sambar and dosa alone do not compromise South Indian food. That’s like saying Punjabis eat only Butter Chicken and Shahi Paneer all day.

My quest to find authentic Malayalee food, began the minute I settled into my new home and life. I’ve stumbled across a myriad of Mumbai’s version of South Indian food. I’ve gone to hole in the wall places, high end restaurants and even road side shacks, but none could satiate my craving. 

I finally came across an Instagram profile of a chef, who put up stories faster than I could change my baby’s soiled diapers. He seemed legitimate. He claimed to be from Kerala and had items on the menu such as Amma’s Karimeen and Ammumma’s Ada Payasam. The images to go along with these dishes looked mouth watering as well. I was sold. I convinced my non Malayalee husband (who hates most Indian food, including that of his hometown) and we ordered food from this restaurant not once, not twice, but thrice!

There was nothing authentic about the food, it was far from being Malayalee food. It gave us bad stomachs and it costed a bomb. Triple whammy! I was gutted, to say the very least. To that chef selling broken dreams on a plate, may you also get diarrhoea like we did. And may you also have your culinary heart broken, the way you broke mine. 

Your knowledge of regional cuisine may be spot on, but your handling of each delicate ingredient is absolute rubbish. This entire episode has taught me one very important lesson. Time to turn to every Malayalee's favourite family channel, Asianet and watch some good old fashioned cooking shows. 

The legacy of people live on in their food. Time to create my own. Onwards and upwards! Or in this case, kitchenward. 

(Image Source : https://images.app.goo.gl/mRtNQAh3tWyLWncr5) 

Don't Grow Up So Soon

My baby turns 20 months old in two days. And as I say that out loud, whoever hears it, responds with, "Oh, almost two". That stops me in my tracks and I find myself examining my once little baby, who is growing up too soon. For 20 months straight, he couldn't sleep at night, without stuffing his face against mine. But, for the past two nights he has become an overconfident Keanu Reeves, pulling Matrix-like moves in his sleep. I find an arm or a leg on my face. If I try to cuddle him, he violently shoves me away and goes back to his corner.  

I reminisced about the time, when he would sleep under a mosquito net triple his size and a clean cotton sheet exclusively meant for him. He would lie there, still as a snail, with very gentle body movements, staring at the strange new world around him, with unfocused, gawky eyes. Overnight, he has developed a distinct personality. He says "no" at the drop of a hat and a more emphatic "no", with the waving of the hands. 

I know you'll soon bring home a girl whom you want to marry, go to college, get a job and have an independent life away from us, your parents. But for now, please slow down. Don't grow up so soon. Please be our little baby, who babbles all day and gets excited, at the prospect of going on drives and strolls in the pram. 

As you tumbled between us today, rubbing your pee filled diaper on our faces and head butting us occassionally, your father and I unanimously agreed that having you was the best decision of our lives. The violent games that lead to bloodshed (only for us of course, you seem absolutely fine!), the extreme hyper activeness, the sleep and food rebellion, can be extremely painful to handle, especially on days when we are tired. But overall, you have us neatly wrapped around your smelly little pinkie. In other words, you get away with cold blooded murder, all day, everyday simply because we are suckers for your baby gurgles and incomprehensible babble. 

I can't believe you are almost two. It feels like we brought you home from the hospital, just yesterday. We want to smell the top of your oily little head just a little longer. We want to squish you senselessly, just a little longer. We want to be the centre of your universe, just a little longer. Please slow down. Don't grow up so soon. 

The Tricky Business Of Motherhood

The pressures put on a new mother's shoulders, are immense. You are expected to juggle work, household chores and the grinding routine of a newborn baby, all at once. It's only natural that most of us succumb to Post Partum Depression. 95% of new mothers, are hit with PPD the minute a baby is born. Your mind and body are a hot mess, literally and figuratively.

My baby was one week preterm and underweight. Double whammy! Therefore, he demanded feeds by the hour. I was so disoriented, Batman would have given me his cape in a jiffy. I was conflicted whether to be the sprightly, businesslike Bruce Wayne of the day or the dark, brooding caped vigilante of the night, the Dark Knight. The hero, my newborn deserved, but not the one he needed right now. Wrong! My baby needed a 24*7 Mother Dairy milk farm.

My pediatrician was an impatient Heath Ledger (from the Dark Knight), who kept telling me, "Let's put a smile on that face". The decision to exclusively breastfeed, exclusively formula feed or be a combination feeding mother is purely a personal choice. But no, everyone including my neighbour's dog, was interested to know how much milk I made, to feed my hungry child.  

Next, the identity crisis hits. Who am I now? Just a mother? A woman with one pearly white strand of hair, post delivery? Still a wife? Just two seconds ago, I had an enviable social life, where I partied till 2 am in the morning, had a fairly decent job and could eat anything I wanted. But now, I had a tiny human who clung on to me for dear life. His very existence depended on me. (No pressure!)

His hysterical sobs, would leave a bad chemical reaction in my brain. I would immediately get a throbbing migraine and try my best to soothe him (shut him up ASAP, if I have to be brutally honest). Looking back at those first six months, it was not too bad. I was just being a drama queen as usual, I realize. Because, right now, is when I need backup. And by backup, I mean call the fire department and the police station, the baby is on the move. I repeat, the baby is on the move! And he is a house on fire. Anything he touches, breaks. Anywhere, he climbs, he falls. Hell, try carrying him on your shoulder and he will bite you so hard, it will put Romeo and Juliet's hickey marks to shame.

Truth be told, I love being a mom. My maternal instincts kicked into place when I was 4 years old. I had a room full of little dollies whom I dearly loved. I never slept without them at night. I have a real life doll now. Just as cute, but with a stubborn personality. You either give in to him or end up playing Tom and Jerry games all day. 

Best to give in, for everybody's peace of mind. And best to listen to your own gut instinct, because no one knows your child, like you do. There is a reason why God chose YOU to become the mother of your child. So the next time your well meaning neighbour says, "Oh, why does your child look so skinny?", or a pleasant relative says, "Oh 9pm is too late to make a baby sleep", just ignore with a massive I-G-N-O-R-E.

Onam

Onam, my most favourite festival. Ona Sadya, the best meal in the world. I have fond memories of thulping down mountains of red rice with freshly fried pappadums, parippu, avial, erissery and pachadi. The payasams deserve another banana leaf altogether - paal, ada pradhaman and parippu pradhaman. 

Typically, a fully vegetarian meal, to celebrate the arrival of the mythical King Mahabali. However, the shameless food obsessed family that we are, we always had chunky pieces of fried chicken or fish to go along with the meal.

I've lived away from home for a very long time now. But the happy memories of Onam are still fresh in my mind, like it all happened yesterday. The sadya overdose, the long afternoon nap that followed and visiting close friends and family, all while wearing our brand new Ona Kodis, were an integral part of our celebrations.

With the onset of social media though, the pressure to eat a fantastic Ona Sadya (whichever part of the globe you are in) is intense. Year by year, I see a lot of non-Malayalees, thulping down our traditional sadya. And each year, I attempt to lay my hands on one, to relive my childhood and fail miserably. This year, I had zoned in on a restaurant we had visited four years ago, pre-booked our Ona Sadya and they pulled a Harry Houdini on us. 

The husband was fuming, I was heartbroken and we ended up eating a home cooked meal. The restaurant owner got back to me by 6pm, with a sob story of why they couldn't deliver our meal. I gave her a patient hearing and then told her politely about how she had ruined this special day for me and that she had lost me as a customer forever. 

The heart wants what it wants though. So, I looked up Swiggy and ordered an Ona Sadya from a reputed  luxury hotel in the city. The packaging was impressive, the food however was absolutely dismal. I miss celebrating Onam at home. The week is not over yet though, I will examine Swiggy in detail, like a thesis paper.  

(Image Source : https://indianexpress.com/article/lifestyle/food-wine/the-back-burner-how-to-serve-onam-sadhya-6576148/) 

Tough Love

What a crazy day of mothering I've had! It started with my drama queen son banging his head on my face and throwing it back hysterically, simply because I did not give him his bottle of water. Finally I relented, as I could not take the emotional blackmailing anymore. The very next second, he turned it upside down and rubbed the nipple all over the balcony floor, whereby flooding our once dry balcony. And before I could react to that, he was swimming inside the little puddle he had created like a starfish. 

Once I cleaned up that mess, I took him to another balcony in our house. He played there for a little while and then I decided to take him down for a walk. The thirty minute exercise did him a world of good, as he came back home a little sober and sleepy.

I quickly gave him his lunch and took him to bed, for his afternoon siesta. As I walked around our bed to draw the curtains in our room, champion climbed up the headboard and did a dolphin dive. The distance between our bed and the curtains, can be covered in less than five seconds. In this time, sir had done the deed.

It then took me one hour of pacifying, to make him fall asleep. I had to take him to our living room, turn on Alexa with Cocomelon nursery rhymes blaring in full force and rock him atop me. In that semi sleepy state, I quietly lay him down on our bed. But, he quickly sprang open his eyes and clambered back on me, like a komodo dragon. 

So there I was, lying crushed under my 10.7 kilo child, sleepy and tired. I wondered when the day would end. By evening, I was too tired to go for my evening run. So, the husband decided to take us for a short drive. The little devil was pleased with the sights and sounds outside the car. He bounced on my lap excitedly and tugged on his father's face, from the backseat.

We reached home by 8pm. I quickly whipped up a meal for him and sat down with him to offer it to him. Three bites and ten "NO"s with the emphatic waving of the hands later, my husband decided to chip in. We distracted him with my jewellery. But before we could finish the meal, he threw up on our bed and my precious collection of junk jewellery, which I had been collecting ever since I was a little girl.

Exhausted and ready to give up, we resorted to Cerelac. It was 10pm when he finally fell asleep and we heaved a sigh of relief watching his calm breathing. What a day! What an afternoon! And what a night! When exactly does all this get better?! 

The Nostalgia Of Malayalee Cuisine

Almost a month, since my grandmother passed away. I keep seeing her face in flashes, just before I fall asleep. Along with the regret of not being able to spend enough time with her, in the last couple of years, I also regret not sitting down with her to take down some of her signature recipes. 

When I think about my childhood in Kerala, the first thing that comes to my mind is the food. Kappa and Meen Curry, Kothu Porotta, Pappadam, Naadan Kozhi Varutharachathu,  Puttu, Naadan Beef Fry and so on. No Malayalee household is complete without one or two of these dishes on the dining table. I remember being greeted into my grandmother's house with a mountain of rice and spicy red fish curry with Pappadam. 

I had a particularly tiring day of mothering yesterday, with the child being a crank as usual during meal times and to top it I decided to go for an hour long run. So I came back home dead beat and none of the food at home could satiate my hunger. I quickly looked up Swiggy, zoned in on a newly opened Malayalee restaurant called Theeram and placed an order for Appam, Kozhi Varutharachathu and Chicken Dosa (?), only in Bombay will you find these golden gems. We don't eat Dosas stuffed with chicken, perhaps on the side, yes. But never inside. And nope, we don't eat Chinese Dosa, Manchurian Dosa or Cheese Dosa. In fact, they don't exist!

Anyway, coming back very quickly to the topic in hand; Malayalee cuisine. There really is no better food on the planet. Period! But, I've cheated on it for the past two decades or so. Although, the mind craves for it and it brings back a flood of memories, the body is not too kind to accept it anymore. The spice and grease (especially in the restaurant made Malayalee food) is a bit too much.

Still, Appam and Stew is my go to meal on particularly gloomy mornings. Kerala Porotta with a generous side of prawn, fish or chicken curry is all I need for a sound sleep at night. I have been on a quest to find my piece of home, each time we explore the menu of a new restaurant. The further away from home, that I am, the pull to go back, becomes stronger and stronger.

The last time I ate an Ada Payasam must have been in the early 2000s, for one of my sibling's weddings. Ever since, I have been dreaming a sweet little dream of laying my hands on it again. It hasn't been fulfilled till now.

Malayalee food is so much more than a hunger saviour. It's an emotion. The bits of coconut cut into neat little rectangular pieces inside the meat gravy, the smell of freshly fried Pappadam in coconut oil and the aroma of Kadala Curry is enough to bring a tear to my eye.

Kerala is so much more than it's backwaters and beaches. The unique food of the region is what makes it stand out from the rest of the country. I think I might make some Pazham Pozhis today just for old times sake. 

(Image Source : https://food.ndtv.com/opinions/10-things-you-must-eat-in-kerala-695529) 

The Lonely Journey of Motherhood

Nineteen months, since I've become a mother and each month brings with it new challenges. I feel like I'm inside a video game for life, where I've crossed Level 1 so far. My baby is Super Mario, my husband and I are player 1 and player 2. His tantrums get worse by the day and his cuteness increases. So we tend to overlook his hideous behaviour of shouting, beating, scratching and biting.

We are fried at the end of the day and look like we passed through an electric fence. By we, I mean my husband and I. The baby is just fine. He gets louder and faster with each passing day. Only couples with babies (especially two babies, God bless their soul), understand the tragedy we are in. Grandparents empathize upto a point, they are always on the baby's side. Grandparents are like biased Sherlock Holmes, they've already solved the case for you. It's not the baby's fault, it's yours. Okay then. 

Close friends make suggestions like, "You have to find "me time" and train him to play on his own." Very well meaning, I know, but let's have that conversation once you have a baby of your own, my dear. Until then, hold my hand as I chug through this phase or don't. I'll understand, either way.

There are not enough online parenting articles and recipes in the world, to raise a child. You're never ready and it's always going to be hard. So let's save all that literature, for another day. Also, each child is different. What works for one, will not work for another. 

90% of my day goes in cooking and feeding. I have not met a fussier baby, when it comes to food. And I'm in utter shock. I wonder how, my own flesh and blood, could be so violently opposed to eating, when I myself am a big foodie. I just need to smell hot bhatoores to eat like a pig. "These are your brother's genes, he was also a very difficult eater", says my mother reassuringly, as another piece of ghee fried paratha comes flying to my face. 

Let's not even get started on diapers. The minute I let him diaper-free to air his bum, he poops an entire load. Until then, no poop. Not even a whiff! As for his sleep, it's all over the place. However late in the day, I put him to bed, he will wake up by 5.45am sharp and if we're very lucky, on some rare days, 6.30am. He wakes me up with a slap on the face or a whack with my mobile phone. 

We'll need coffee, lots of dark chocolate and on really crazy days, some red wine, to get through this. Nobody told us, it would be this hard, when we signed up to become parents. We were expert arm chair advisors and loved playing with other people's children, BEFORE we became parents. Now we look at other parents and give them an all knowing smile, indicating, "We know. Let's just hang in there." 

Make no mistake, we love this baby very much. We yearned for him and struggled to have him. We cannot imagine our lives, without him. But on some days, we wish we lived on an island far far away from him. His naughtiness cannot be described in words. You have to experience it, first hand to understand. He would put a monkey, living inside the deep jungles of the Amazon rainforest to shame. That's how maddening his antics are. 

Our house looks like a war zone, with toys and books strewn everywhere. The food he eats, is plastered on all our furniture. He has recently started self-feeding, now that's another level of mess, which takes hours to clean. 

Fellow parents, we got this. Let's give each other a mental high-five and get on with our action packed days. 

The Maddening Mumbai Monsoon

The Mumbai rains are back. So are the memes and the hilarious whatsapp forwards. This time I got one from my brother in Dubai, which compared the rains to Adlabs Imagicaa's water rides. I laughed for a good two minutes and then replied to him saying, "Same story, different year." Each year, the rains are more torrential than the previous and the water logging is more tragic than the sinking of the Titanic. 

For the past two years, I've been missing out on this circus, thanks to my son. I've taken a temporary work sabbatical and am enjoying the madness from afar. But being a Mumbaikar, it's hard to miss the rains completely. Just as I step out of my house for a quick jog, looking at the clear skies, it rains. I come back home looking like a washed out whale, I get yet another shelling from my husband and my son looks on in wonder at the sight of me.

On one of these "clear sky" occasions, I stepped out of home, with the overconfidence that I look absolutely stunning. Like I never gave birth to a child. Almost diva-like. And as I walked down my locality with these dreamy thoughts in my mind, I suddenly heard, "O aunty! O aunty! Aunty-ji!". I walked on thinking, no no, it can't be me. The child must surely be calling someone else aunty ji. Afterall, I was wearing such a flattering, age reducing top. But no, horror of horrors, he looked straight at me and yelled once again "Time kya hua, aunty?".  I jerked to a halt, almost threw a stone at him and mumbled "4.15pm". 

I quickly overcame my depression, by hopping into the local kirana store. I picked up two Amul dark chocolate bars, (because no sane, weight reducing, 33 year old, round person should eat full fat chocolate) and decided to head home. Just as I stepped out of the shop, it rained. And what a torrential downpour it was! As I stood there, like a helpless frog in a storm, all I could think of was, whether to eat the chocolate right that instant or wait till i reached home. 

I gave it a nice deep thought and then decided to save it for home, as I was going to be welcomed with more shelling and "I told you so" anyway. As I reached home and saw my husband's annoyed face, I quickly handed over both chocolate bars and reassured him, that I was walking as fast as I could. However, being the loving wife that I am, I could not come home empty handed, to my sensitive husband, who baby-sat our child, for one whole hour because I wanted to exercise. 

He smiled angelically and pointed to our son, who was now dripping in mango. There was mango everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean even under the sofa cushions. Listen to me very carefully when I say this, never and I repeat NEVER, allow a man to feed your child. Half the food is wasted and everybody has a field day, except poor mommy who went through the toil of preparing the meal.

Coming back very quickly to the rains now, I've piled on 2 kilos of weight by eating whey protein bars very enthusiastically and waiting for my gym to re-open. I continue playing hide and seek with the rains. The rain Gods decide to open their faucet, only and only when I want to go for a walk. Otherwise, it's always a bright and sunny day. 

Mumbai rains, I don't love you. Never have and never will. Please go away with the same speed at which you came. Thanking you in advance, yours forever, not a fan.  

(Image Source : https://www.ndtv.com/india-news/mumbai-rains-colaba-records-heaviest-single-day-rain-in-august-in-46-years-2274977)

Arjun Kanungo

Arjun Kanungo, a successful non Bollywood singer. He has an impressive line-up of hit singles to his name, starting with Fursat, Ek Dafaa, Woh Baarishein, Aaya Na Tu and Gallan Tipsiyaan. His voice is best suited for songs on heartbreak and loss of a loved one. His party numbers are groovy and will make you hit the replay button, over and over again. 

Predominantly an underground Hindi musician, Kanungo has a few movies under his belt, such as Go Goa Gone, The Sky is Pink and Remo. The internet describes him as a "Youtube sensation", but I think he deserves a much bigger label.  

He reminds me of an Indian Enrique Iglesias. Similar to the King of Latin Pop, Kanungo almost always has one sultry babe featuring predominantly in his videos. His collaborative numbers such as Aaya Na Tu with Momina Mustehsan, La La La with Neha Kakkar and Tum Na Ho with  Prakriti Kakar also have a nice ring to it. 

Whatever be your mood, Kanungo will cheer you up in an instant. He sings with a lot of passion and soul. His voice truly moves you. Can't wait to see him live in concert. 

The Toil Of Quarantine

I don't know about the rest of you, I really missed my domestic help during the lockdown. I truly understood their value, while washing heavy kitchen utensils in the sink, while sweeping and mopping the floors and scraping grime off my bathroom tiles. My back pain worsened and it officially sunk in, that I'm an old creaky maid, with stiff bones. 

I wrote imaginary love letters in their name and waited to garland them back with roses, upon their return. Domestic help, what would we do without them? Huge respect to the people living in countries abroad, without househelp. I don't know how you do it. Both my body and soul broke into smithereens, doing housework everyday. 

Luckily for me, my in-laws were around to help during those wretched four months. Still, on some evenings my mother in law and I would just look at each other blankly and say, "Let's sleep immediately". That's how tired we were. While she cooked, I cleaned. While she played with the baby, I made his meals. On the days I couldn't mop the house, she would step in. 

On weekends, we played games together as a family and ordered restaurant food. From being social butterflies, who met people, did elaborate workouts and went out often, just for fun, we were forcibly stuck at home because of Covid-19. If the disease could be shot in the face, with a gun, my in-laws and I would have done it in a jiffy. 

The only silver lining, to this forced self quarantine was that we bonded as a family, we ate some great home cooked meals together, thanks to my mother in law and we invented games to play together as a family.

The day our maids came back, we were over the moon. We tried to play it cool, in front of them (like every self respecting Indian family), but were delighted to have them back. I had to force myself to stop cleaning heavy utensils in the sink and mop the house, as it had become a rigid habit for four months.  

Sending out prayers to the world to heal soon. I hope we never have to face these dark days again. Go away Corona, we are so tired of you. Leave us in peace.

Image Source : https://www.wilx.com/content/news/Hundreds-of-Michgian-residents-being-home-quaratined-for-possible-Coronavirus-568146151.html