365 Days of Being Amma

 

2019 has flown by in a blur of soiled diapers, baby vomit and the art of learning to say no without saying NO to a chimpanzee of a baby. My entire body hurts by bedtime (which is also a long drawn out process). He is a bundle of exhaustion. Whoever said babies are bundles of joy, clearly had no babies of his/her own. Please spend a day with my son, you nitwit and let's re-write that phrase.

I've lost half my hair, grown one pearly white strand, broken my back, dislocated my left wrist and I live with the constant fear of losing my ear-lobe (thanks to his fascination for earrings). His incessant howling while I'm on the toilet, while I put on my make-up and while I eat my meals, has permanently damaged my brain. He's stuck to me like a small Koala bear 24/7. And while it's nice to be obsessively loved like this, it can get tiring. 

Thankfully, his father arrives dutifully every weekend and all that intense loving goes straight to him. However, that leaves me with two very exhausted babies - my baby son and my baby husband. Suddenly I have two mouths to feed, two little boys whose whims and fancies I have to fulfil and I become mommy squared.

What this year has taught me, is that women are undefeatable. We can multitask like goddesses. We move mountains each day, without even realizing it. The downside of this inhuman ability is that we're dead beat at the end of the day and without 8-9 solid hours of shut eye, we WILL turn into crabby pants. And hell hath no fury, like a woman scorned.

I realized on January 8th, at 12.15pm to be exact, that there was a whole new dimension of my heart that was yet to be tapped. It was dormant until he was born. Even before the doctors told me I had given birth to a son, I knew it was a boy. I knew instantly, that I had to protect him with my life. My maternal instincts came out in full force and with each passing day, my love for him only grew stronger and stronger. 

It's a strange feeling being a mom. Even if you're physically unwell, you put the needs of your child first. Even if you can't eat your meal in peace, you ensure that your child has had his fill. That tiny person takes precedence over everything else. I don't love him, I obsess over him. I can tell if he's hungry, sleepy, crabby, pottied or just about to vomit by looking at his face. 

I had no idea, I had a love like this inside of me until he was born. I don't look at him as a different person. I look at him as an extended part of my body, but with a different personality. I can already anticipate him breaking my heart when he starts school, makes cool and exciting friends, goes to college, gets a job, gets married and so on and so forth.

I must learn to let go, but how? Time will tell. Or, I always have a generation of strong women in my family, whom I can look upto and seek advice from. In my head, I've already chosen his bride for him. She must be a good girl who will take care of him. But he will also take care of her. I will raise him to be an equal partner, not a spoilt brat. He will learn how to do household chores. He will cook, clean and have a flourishing career. Too many aspirations already for a one year old child!

Happy birthday in advance my monkey. Your father and I, waited six long years to have you. You've destroyed us physically and we realize we should have had you much sooner, when our bodies were much more agile and flexible. But you've filled our hearts and lives with so much wonder and excitement,  that we forgive you for breaking our bones. So go ahead and break some more. 

Ammamma

Outspoken, vivacious and bold as brass - this is how I remember my ammamma. She could talk a mile a minute on a myriad bunch of topics. The phrase "good things come in small packages" was most likely coined for her. 

She made the best masala dosas, chicken curries and lime juices. Tea time was also a big affair at Ammamma's house. Plum cakes, achappams and kerala laddoos were a tea time staple. Tea was just an excuse to gobble down these delicious finger snacks. 

Bed time was strictly 9pm whether you were sleepy or not. I carried forth this habit right upto the point I became a mother. Now I hardly sleep, thanks to my hyper 7 month old. 

Ammamma was always curious to know how I fared in school and college. She encouraged hardwork and told me very strictly to get a job as soon as I passed out of college. She herself was a working woman. She was a teacher.

While I persistently fought my battle with the bulge throughout my adolescent and adult years and had self-doubts about my appearance, Ammamma would make them vanish in a second. Her eyes would light up, upon seeing me and she would immediately say, "Sundari kutty". 

She may have been strict and no-nonsense with the whole world, but with me she was always warm, kind and gentle. 

I will miss your soft cuddles and endless chatter, Ammamma. I pray that we meet again, in another life, in another form. I'm not saying goodbye, because you will live forever in my heart and mind. 

My Five Month Old Monkey

Happy fifth month birthday, my little cookie. What an exhausting, yet fulfilling ride it has been so far. I wake up sleepy most mornings and go to bed wide awake. I've never been more physically drained my whole life. Yet, my heart is bursting with love. 

Your conversations with the ceiling fan, while I try to put you sleep, your toothless grin, while I attempt to feed you and that innocent smile which you plaster on your face, after 45 minutes of trying to rock you to sleep are maddening, yet impossible to live without.

When you're awake, I tear my hair out trying to make you sleep. And when you finally close your eyes, I feel completely lost and alone. 

I put you inside your baby-cot last night for the first time, since you were born and I understood the meaning of separation anxiety. It felt so odd to go to sleep, without having your tiny hands and feet, slapping me through the night. When you finally woke up crying in the wee hours of the morning, I  felt relieved and instantly grabbed you and put you firmly back into bed, right next to me. 

Your hysterical screams, petrify everyone. Your father drops you in a heartbeat and your nanny rushes out of the room, like her tail has caught fire. 

Along with you, your mumma and dadda have also become five month old parents. Your dadda is a very patient man indeed. He has to deal with a cranky, sleep deprived mother and a volatile infant. Thank you dadda, for the sweet and salty treats you shower us with, ever so often. Thank you for dragging us out of home, every now and then as well. Bless your soul. 

While I never want you to grow up, for your dadda's sake you must. He wants to have "man to man" conversations with you. You go ahead and do that, but don't forget that I created you. You have my heart, mind and soul. You may look like your father, but you think and feel just like me. You will forever be mummy's baby even at 50. 

That flutter in my heart which I felt on May 20th, 2018 when I found out I was pregnant has turned into a beautiful, podgy little butterfly - you. Mumma and dadda love you immensely. More than each other, more than life and more than anything/anyone in the world. We would do anything for you.  

Just flash that dimply grin at us, be the good little boy that you are and we will forever be your slaves. Love you, our sweet little cookie/chikkie/chunky monkey/baby-pie. 

Mumma

Amma, mumma, meemee, many names one person, Mrs Gita Bhadran. She has been my voice of reason for the past 32 years. My day starts and ends with either a word of praise from her or a proper talking down.  I'm a married woman today, mother to a hyper 4 month old, a daughter-in-law, a home-maker, a naggy employee to all my house-maids, but I'll never stop being my mother's daughter. 

Right from the decor in the house, to what I wear, to what I eat, to the mundane decisions I make everyday such as what type of dustbin to buy for the bedroom, kitchen and for the baby's diapers, are all consciously or unconsciously influenced by her. She is my sounding board, my agony aunt, my best friend and so much more. 

Her signature statement, "When you have a child of your own, you will understand", has come back to haunt me. You truly understand the physical and emotional effort a mother puts in to raise a child, only when you have one of your own. You put aside your exhaustion, your body aches and pains and forget that you haven't slept the whole night, simply to tend to the needs of your child. 

I have always been an open book with my mother. There is nothing that I haven't discussed with her. If I ever attempted to hide something from her as a teenager, she would promptly catch me red-handed and have a frank discussion with me. 

Whenever I felt down and out, felt a bit under-confident or whined to her about something or someone that bothered me, she would say, "You are my daughter. You can take on anything. Be bold. Be strong". I would always snigger internally when she said this, because she has lived with an Army officer for 25 years, meaning she was ready to lose her husband to war or terrorists at any given point in time. 

She would narrate to me incidents of how she had to fight with school principals for admissions, how she had to bathe in a flimsy tent in the middle of the desert, how my brother always fell ill when my father was not around and how she travelled with him to unknown places all across the country. Every 2 years they had to pack up leave, which meant my brother studied in a dozen odd schools. 

Just listening to these stories, brings an ache in my heart for both my mom and my brother. It truly is the lady of the house, who shapes everyone in that household. She took a step back in her career, to allow my dad's career to flourish. She stayed at home to raise my sibling and I. Everything that we are today, is all thanks to her.

If I have any regrets in life, it would be all the times I gave her a hard time, or didn't listen to her or yelled back. All the decisions I have taken without consulting her have all come back to bite me now. 

I love you mumma. I don't need one day in the year to celebrate you. Everyday is mother's day for me. May you live to be a 100!

Goodbye Iron Man

I'm not the biggest fan of Iron Man. Never was. I found him to be too cocky, too arrogant and too flawed. Instead of keeping his identity a secret, he flaunted it to the world with his signature "I am Iron Man" statement, unlike Bruce Wayne or Clark Kent. It's easy to become Iron Man considering your inventor and businessman father left you a legacy, that was raking in plenty of moolah. There was no superhero trait in him. Zilch. Nada. 

But then, as the franchise grew bigger, Tony Stark slowly and steadily began to grow up. Even a non-Iron Man fan like myself, began to respect him. His wicked sense of humour, confidence and witty comebacks have always been a treat to watch. And the final nail in the coffin which brought goosebumps to the mind and body, was his famous "You can take away my house, all my tricks and toys. One thing you can't take away.. I am Iron Man", dialogue which finally got him into the superhero hall of fame. You knew, he was here to stay, no matter what. He was tough and he wouldn't back down. 

He is the funniest Marvel superhero till date. No one can replace him in the humour department. By killing him, Marvel has created a huge void in the hearts of fans worldwide. The physical and emotional pain that one goes through, while watching him die in Endgame is unbearable.

I waited with bated breath, during the end-credits for him to make a dramatic comeback. I hoped against hope, that this was some cruel joke Marvel was playing on us. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. I realized he wasn't kidding when he said, "Everyone wants a happy ending right? But it doesn't always roll that way" 

I will keep his legacy alive, by ensuring that the next generation (starting with my son), know all about him. I'll make sure he watches the franchise in chronological order and I hope to have detailed discussions with him on Iron Man some day. 

He is a flawed role model to look upto, but that is the point, no one is perfect. Our imperfections are what makes us special, which is exactly what Iron-Man taught us. "Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk" and"If we can't accept limitations, then we're no better than the bad guys" 

I can never look at cheese burgers and shawarma rolls again, without shedding a few dozen tears. Come back Iron Man. We miss you. So much.

(Image Source : https://nerdist.com/article/watch-iron-man-armor-up-like-sailor-moon/) 

Happy Two

My baby turns two months old today and I'm celebrating his existence by gobbling down chicken biryani, fudgy brownies, samosas and bolis. What a roller coaster ride it has been so far. I've made my peace with insomnia and keep staring at his little face through the night. When I finally knock off to sleep by 8am, he wakes up promptly with an earth shattering squeal.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur of bathing him, fighting with him to put him to sleep and incessantly cleaning up after his little "mishaps".

I vividly remember his dramatic arrival exactly two months ago on this day. I was terrified upon seeing his puny 2.5 kilo frame and wondered how I'd nurse this ematiated, mousey looking thing to health.

The first month was hard. He clung on to me for hours on end and I wondered whether the rest of my life would go by in that fashion. The next month became easier because I got used to his routine. And now, like every Indian-know-it-all-aunty, I can give sermons on how to raise a child.

I know his potty face, his sleep face and his crabby-crab face. I anticipate his poo, vomit and susu showers and have solid reinforcements in place to tackle each demon.

The key is to have a long afternoon nap, a stomach full of great food and a good sense of humour. Everything else will fall into place.

Oh and WhatsApp/Facebook support groups for new mom's help too. On absolutely frazzled days, I take solace in the fact that there are naughtier babies out there.

I'm off to bed now along with my little call centre employee. My day shift begins from 10pm. Good night!

Riaan

My precious little baby boy,

You are my God-given human toy,

You turn one month old today,

Still as fragile as clay,

Your beady eyes make my whole world spin,

My heart melts watching you grin, 

You are an extension of my body,

I know your little mind, more than anybody,

Your desperate sobs, 

Make everyone's head bob,

As I stay awake with you night after night,

I know that you will grow up to be more than alright,

Your mumma will forever be your best friend,

And that is a fact, which will never go out of trend.

Becoming Riaan's Mom

I had a bumpy pregnancy to say the least. Between one month of bed rest, infinite detailed fetal scans and a dozen throwing up sessions, 9 months flew by in the blink of an eye. People are kinder to pregnant women I realized. Doors were opened faster, chairs were vacated immediately and people just moved out of my path in general, whereby making me feel like a predatory baby whale who may or may not eat all the other fishes on it's path.

My gynaecologist warned me about the possibility of a C-Section, she even narrowed in on a potential delivery date and briefed my family on the admission procedures followed by the hospital. But time, tide and my Riaan wait for none. He overheard our conversation from my womb, let out one sadistic baby-chuckle and decided to pop out one week prior to the decided delivery date.

I woke up at 4am on the 8th of January with a feeling of discomfort. I had a dull, constant pain in my abdomen that refused to go away by 8am. My water had broken and I had no idea. I expected something more dramatic to happen. Cue the scene from Sex and the City 2 where Charlotte screams at Mr Big, "I curse the day you were born" and her water breaks.

My mother rushed me to the hospital without telling me I was in labour, in an attempt to not scare me. By 9am, my doctor and her volley of assistants began trickling in and declared I was in labour. I was rushed to the labour room by 10am and by 12.15pm, my champion made his squishy, squealy appearance. The last two hours of labour were worse than the exorcism of Emily Rose. I was denied an epidural which worsened my grunting, writhing state. I slapped a nurse, clawed a doctor's shoulder blade off and bit my mother's hand. 

The very first sentence that flew out of my mouth when I learnt I had a son was, "Now don't go fall in love with a chudail". My child is almost a month old now. My crazy, territorial, mommy hormones have settled down a little.  Just a little. 

I can safely say, no promotions, salary hikes, gold medals, awards or accolades can match up to the feeling of being a mom. He is my best creation/achievement till date. I'm proud to be his mother. And I know he'll love me just the way I am. 

Sri Venkateshwara Suprabhatam By MS Subbulakshmi

Any self respecting South Indian worth his salt, will know this early morning chant by heart. We are woken out of our sleepy stupors, with MS Subbulakshmi's comforting nasal twang playing loudly and persistently in the background. 

For six years I've woken up to this prayer, while watching my grandfather potter around with his electronic shaving kit. I would stare at him sleepily, as he slowly went about his morning rituals. Right before he would step into the shower, I would drift back into sleep only to be rudely awoken by my grandmother.

Breakfast comprised of delicious fluffy egg appams, steaming hot idiyappams or fresh out of the stove puttu and kadala. In hindsight, I wish I had spent some more time in the kitchen with my grandmother and her maids, instead of behaving like the jungle prince Mowgli. All that time I spent mucking around in the outdoors, could have been utilised instead, to learn some of her signature recipes because I miss home food so much now, that it breaks my heart.

By the time we were done with breakfast, MS Subbulakshmi's chanting would be replaced by other  sweet sounding malayalee bhajans. And my grandfather would be in the prayer room, bathed and ready to take me to school. I would bully him to speed up his prayers, so that I could reach school on time. 

The days I didn't reach on time, I would go home and give him a lecture on the importance of punctuality and keeping time. He would, like all grandfathers, listen to my inane chatter with utmost patience and a sage-like smile, as he slowly yet steadily demolished the contents of my school lunch box, which would drive me even more mad. If I didn't want to eat my lunch, would should he? And that would be our next tug of war for the day. 

My days were incomplete without MS Subbulakshmi, my grandmother's delicious meals and my grandfather dropping me to school. If any of these things were disrupted even for a day, I would be in a very foul mood. 

I relied on MS Subbulakshmi to wake me up every morning, my grandmother's meals to keep me going through the day and my grandfather's hand and handkerchief to wipe my tears and blow my nose into after reaching school. Having panic attacks, being a drama queen and vegetating at home are three personality traits/habits that haven't left me till date.  

I had my grandfather to deal with my meltdowns back then. And now, with him gone, I feel quite lost. 

Mumbai's Kaamwali Bais

Don't underestimate the power of the Kaamwali Bais in Mumbai. Their network is wider than Reliance Jio's and their word is law. If you're nice to your Kaamwali Bai, you have found yourself a friend for life. Be mean to them and no one will step foot inside your house ever. Their word-of-mouth publicity about your character, family history, background, eating habits and husband's behaviour spreads faster than the wildfire in the Amazon rainforests.

These smart saree-clad, tech-savy, Whatsapp dominating, Facebook-friend-request-sending women, trickle into various apartment complexes from 5am in the morning till 10pm at night. They work tirelessly with a perennial smile on their face. Ever-ready to help you and your family with any and every problem, these women are absolute life saviours.

I'm pretty sure the husband and I would have starved to death, if it hadn't been for my smart-mouthed, uber friendly cooking bai. I'm also quite certain we would've lived in a pigsty, had it not been for her network of soft-spoken cleaning bais. She is responsible for finding both my cleaning bais in record time. She didn't get along too well with the first one, therefore quite naturally, she wasted no time in finding another one who she could dominate easily. 

Often times I wonder who the bai is really. Her dominating nature is not just restricted to my cleaning bai, it also spills over to me. And I quietly obey. Afterall, who am I to oppose the maker of  yummy pasta, delicious aloo parathas and smooth as silk sabudana khichdi. 

She absolutely loves it, when either of the mothers decide to pay a visit. She finally finds herself a bakra to chat inanely with, as she simultaneously whips up delicious meals. She is as heartbroken as I am when they leave, as I'm not particularly fun company to be around, (especially not at 6am in the morning!). But her day begins early, she wakes up at 5am everyday, reaches my house by 6am, gives me a nasty stare for still being asleep at that time and then gets on with business. 

She hums a happy tune or two as she works seamlessly in the kitchen, chats endlessly with my other bai in rapid Marathi and before I can drift back into a dreamless sleep, both are out of the house. When I finally wake up by 7.30am, the house is sparkling clean and my breakfast, lunch and dinner are ready for the day.

Kaamwali bais are domesticated house fairies. What would we do without them and their endless Whatsapp forwards?

(Image Source : https://pakaamat.wordpress.com/2015/10/27/why-kaamwali-bai-rules-indian-homes/)

Rude or Friendly

We Indians love our neighbours, co-passengers, relatives, our neighbour's son's grandson, our uncle twice removed from our dad's side and even our dogs a bit too much. In our over-enthusiasm to get to know people, we pry a bit too much. My hairdresser wants to know why I don't have children yet, despite being married for close to 5 years. A bunch of Brahma Kumaris dressed in all white, with a white mask on their mouths, kept asking me insistently what degree I had earned from college and upon learning that I was an M.A in Public Relations, started giving me career advice.

A close friend of ours - supposedly modern, chic and hip, made fun of our decision to have children when she stumbled upon a bunch of particularly screechy kids. I was stunned. When our very own peer group behave like they are from the stone age, how can we expect the rest of the world to be civil?

Is this an Indian thing? Or is this typical human nature? We often fail to comprehend, or conveniently ignore the fact that we are being blatantly rude, while prying for personal information. Unless you are that person's mother, he/she owes you nothing. 

How much a person earns, what his/her current weight is, why he/she has chosen to work or not work post college, why a couple has chosen to have babies or not - none of this is your business. It's time to stick that nose elsewhere, otherwise be prepared to receive the stick. 

In India, this prying business is not just restricted to personal circles, it extends to workplaces as well. God bless you, if you're a woman looking for a job. It's no mean task! If you're unmarried, the recruiters want to know if you'll quit when you get married. If you're married, they want to know if you'll quit once you have a baby. And if you have a baby (gasp! unimaginable!), you're questioned about how you can juggle both. That's my great India for you.

Sadly, this passing of crude comments and prying starts at a very young age. When children ask adults questions on their appearance, their haircut, makeup, clothes and even personal information, all their parents and grandparents do is sit and laugh. It won't be so funny anymore when they grow up to become prying adults. The dirty habit has to be nipped in the bud. 

It's time to live and let live. Let's all try to be kinder, less nosy and less judgemental about people. No one's perfect. Unless you're God himself, you have no right to pass snide remarks, give advice or pry for personal information from anyone.

Peace out! 

The Magic of 90s Boy Bands

Any self-respecting girl-child, born in the late 80s would have heard of Westlife, Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. These bands not just shaped our childhoods, but also influenced major life decisions, such as, do I want my husband to be have a dimple on the cheek or not? And let's face it, these are important decisions. So while our parents presumed we were deeply absorbed in our Maths or History homework, in reality, we had our Walkmans on and had silent tears streaming down our face as Shane Filan, Markus Feehily, Kian Egan, Brian McFadden and Nicky Bryne crooned "An empty street, An empty house, A hole inside my heart, I'm all alone, The rooms are getting smaller" 

They got it. They just got it. They understood late 80s born teenagers, like no one else. They were our best friends. Their music was like balm to our broken souls and their voice, like honey on a scorching summer day. 

So what were our life problems as teenagers? Nothing really. But we loved the drama. We loved amplifying the bite of a mosquito on our raw skin and the taste of vanilla ice-cream on a wintry evening. And these men helped amplify those feelings.  

As I blared Backstreet Boys' "I want it that way" for the millionth time from my stereo system, oblivious to my mother's incessant pounding on my bedroom door, yelling at me to reduce the volume, I would find new layers to the song. Did Nick Carter have a breakup? Is that why they wrote this song? Was he single and ready to mingle? How can one man have such a perfectly blond mop of hair on his head? And that dimple. My oh my!

As my mind worked in overdrive, along came NSYNC with their cheeky "Bye Bye Bye" and that delightful video to go along with it, which showed the band members being strung like puppets, climbing over walls, over a train and just running all over the place, in general. That video and song, gave teenage girls everywhere an ego boost. We suddenly realised that we're apparently "players, in a game for two" and men don't want to become"fools for us". 

So from mopey teenagers, girls slowly transformed into rebellious teenagers who were suddenly too cool for school. This was also the time when Linkin Park was formed. So some of us girls, slowly began to cheat on our boy-band staple, with bad boy Chester Bennington. Here was a guy who was heartbroken as well, but with delightful rough edges, complemented by his million piercings and tattoos. There was pain and rebellion in his voice. What a deadly combination! 

As the noises from my bedroom grew more and more violent and the pounding on my door became more and more incessant, I grew up. I slowly began to listen to heavier and heavier music. The posters of all my favourite British and white American men, were slowly being ripped down from my walls and being replaced with deadly looking posters of Slipknot, Metallica and Linkin Park. 

But I would be lying if I said I didn't go back every now and then, to "Seasons in the Sun" and "Backstreet's Back". Even rebellious teens, had their mopey days. We were allowed one delicious shot of familiar, comfort-music (the equivalent of ear Gaajar Halwa if you may), on the bleakest of days. 

Thank you for the stunning memories Westlife, Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. You've touched lives in more ways than you can fathom. If ever you re-unite and do one last concert, expect to see a whole bunch of women in their 30s along with their babies and husbands at your concerts. We probably married those men and had those babies, because of you. Take a bow! You've more than earned it.

(All images sourced from Google) 

Chocolate, The Elixir of Life

Chocolate, the reason to live. Chocolate, the mood enhancer. Chocolate, the stress buster. Chocolate, the saviour. Chocolate, dreamy chocolate. Creamy, gooey, molten, solid, dark, milk - whatever be it's form, the impact it has on the individual devouring it, remains the same. Pure undiluted joy. There can be no greater love, than the love for chocolate. Wars, marital disputes, familial disharmony, whatever be the problem, chocolate and only chocolate can save the day. 

There was a time (not too long ago) when my husband would not enter the house, sans a box of chocolate in hand. He would religiously buy a gigantic slice of white chocolate coated, red velvet cake and a bag of chocolate coated almonds from Starbucks. "For you my dearest", he would croon lovingly. I would go to sleep instantly with white chocolate dreams in my head, only to wake up to an empty icing ravaged box, stuffed unceremoniously in the fridge, the next morning.

Then there were mornings, I would wake up with a mad desire to drown my soul with copious amounts of molten, hot dark chocolate. We would head out the door, faster than lightening and drive for close to an hour, sometimes more, to reach Chocolateria San Churro in Bandra. We would invariably be the first and only customers so early in the morning. The server behind the counter, would give us a dubious stare, as we placed our orders for black coffee and hot chocolate at 10am in the morning. 

On one particular Friday night, the husband landed in Bombay at 10pm and wanted to head out immediately. I resisted at first, but he lured me with the promise of chocolate. He would soon eat his words, as we drove for close to 3 hours, to reach Sweetish House Mafia in Lower Parel. By the time we reached the joint, half their decadent cookies were over and the servers looked at us in astonishment, as we placed our cookie and coffee orders at 1 am in the morning. 

I celebrate Easter every year, just to gorge on a gigantic chocolate Easter egg. Not the marzipan one, the thick chocolate coated one, that can be broken in half. But of course I never broke it in half, I would always stuff the whole thing inside my mouth and then attempt to break it, with a  mighty crunch. One time I almost broke my teeth and dislocated my jaw, but it was absolutely worth it.

Is this normal behaviour? Without a speck of doubt in my mind, I'd say a resounding yes. All is fair in love, war and chocolate. If you don't eat that delicious looking piece of chocolate, someone else will. Embrace it, celebrate it, drown yourself in it. Chocolate is your best friend. Always was, always will be. 

Bad day at work? Stuff your face with some chocolate. Crazy fight with your better half? Grab that spoon of Nutella. Can’t loose weight? Eat some dark chocolate and then go for a run. Can’t wake up in the morning? Grab a piece of Ooty chocolate already with a steaming hot cup of black coffee and get moving!

(Image Source : https://www.google.co.in/search?q=chocolate&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwidwpWEvZ7bAhWBq48KHT_SAFYQ_AUICigB&biw=1280&bih=611#imgrc=1Y65lrutcwulvM:) 

Konna Poovu

There are certain aromas, food items, music and inanimate objects that have the magical ability to throw you right back into your childhood. Some of these memories are happy, some nostalgic and some bitter. The happy, nostalgic ones are the best. You're taken in back in time and your eyes instantly get that hazy, faraway look that most often, puzzles people.

The Konna Poovu (Cassia Fistula, in Malayalam) does this job for me. Each time I see a Konna Poovu in full bloom, my heart does a happy flip-flop and my brain goes into a nostalgia overdrive. I'm overcome with a mixture of happiness and sadness, all at the same time. I'm happy, because it reminds me of my ammumma (grandmother in malayalam) and the gorgeous Vishu Kani (Vishu arrangement) she would meticulously set up in the prayer room, every single Vishu season. I'm sad, because I can never be that carefree, overweight kid again. 

Vishu is the Malayalee new year. Every year on Vishu day, I would be woken up between 4 and 5 am, with a blind-fold on my eyes and only my grandmother's hands, to guide me into the prayer room. The minute I enter the prayer room, she would remove the blind-fold, whereby allowing me to feast my eyes, on the beautifully arranged Vishu Kani. A typical Vishu Kani, comprises of copious amounts of Konna Poovu, decorated imaginatively around the idols of the Gods, along with  offerings of fruits, flowers and money. 

When the start of the day is so beautiful, you just know that you're going to have a splendid day. The rest of the day, post the Vishu Kani goes by in a blur activity, comprising largely of eating a senseless amount of food and receiving clothes and money from all the elders in the house. A couple of visits to relatives are also squeezed in, depending on the amount of Sadhya (a large celebratory Kerala meal, typically eaten on a Banana leaf) you've thulped down. 

Each year on Vishu, I would roll around proudly with a large leather handbag, stuffed with notes of money. Just for that one day, I would feel like an important banker, who had the responsibility of safeguarding, collecting, counting and re-counting the notes, to ensure that no-one pinched anything from the precious bundle, each time I took a pee, lunch or siesta break. 

I would dream of all the burgers, medu vadas, Kerala fried chicken and Sharjah shakes I would devour with my Vishu loot. Unfortunately, that dream would only remain a dream, because my clever mother would lure me into her bedroom by nightfall and tempt me with shiny, jiggly coins. She would convince me that Re 1 equates to a Rs 100/- note. I readily believed her each year, because coins anyway had more weight than untidy, smelly notes. I would quickly shove the bag of notes towards her and greedily bring out my pink piggy bank, from the hiding spot in my closet. I would watch her like a hawk, to ensure that she puts me in the right number of Re 1 coins into my piggy bank. Rs 5000/- meant she had to put in fifty Re 1 coins and Rs 10,000 meant she had to put in a hundred Re 1 coins, and so on. After counting and re-counting the notes and coins, I would have a sound sleep with my piggy bag, placed next to my pillow.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end. So does Vishu. I would wake up the next morning, with my Vishu hangover blaring in full blast in my head, and try on all the clothes I would have received from my family, only to discover that they would all invariably be either too tight or too lose for me. Typical fat kid problems. Sigh! 

(Image Source : http://decodingeswari.blogspot.in/2018/04/blog-post_27.html)  

My Teddy Bear Dowry

I was 12 years old, when my mother brought home an adorable, teddy bear shaped, Salt and Pepper shaker set. The ceramic duo, looked like they had tumbled out of an Enid Blyton novel. Instead of sitting daintily, on a prim and proper British family's high tea table adorned with muffins and croissants, they were stuck in front of my dad, who was at present, viciously murdering a fluffy, vegetable stuffed omelette, with his fork and knife. I was appalled with the way he was vigorously shaking the teddies, for a generous dose of salt and pepper on his already sodium-overdosed, deep fried egg.

"I want these teddies to be sent along with me, as part of my dowry", I blurted out to my mother, without thinking. My father put down the shakers momentarily and gave me a dubious stare. My mother just ignored me, as always. "Mumma, I'm serious. I don't want them to be used until the day I get married and go to my new house", I persisted. "Don't be ridiculous, Gayu", she replied promptly and went back to sipping her morning coffee. 

When I came back home from school the next day, I observed that mom had washed and put away the shakers in her kitchen cabinet. I hurriedly opened the cabinet doors and smelt the shakers, to ensure that it was thoroughly clean. Satisfied with the odour that wafted up my nostrils, I walked into my parents bedroom and planted my mother with a huge sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. "For rescuing the teddies", I explained, while she stared at me quizzically and tried her best to wriggle out of my iron grip.

Fast forward to present day, I'm much married and have set up a house of my own. The very first curio set I put up in my house, were the teddy bear shakers. There is almost always, a single tear drop, that fills up inadvertently in the corner of my eye, each time I clean them.

My sofa cushions, eerily resemble my mother's. I'm endlessly wiping and dusting my house from top to bottom, all day, everyday. And my kitchen counters, sparkle like diamonds. If you stare at them long enough, you can see your face reflecting right back at you. While I made fun of my mother's obsessive cleaning my entire life, I realize I've become just like her. 

I've always been the most punctual person in my class, office and among my group of friends. I deliver promises, even before I can make them. Once I've made up my mind, on getting a task done, I'll do it faster than spandex wearing superhero Flash. My punctuality annoys people. My habit of getting things done, faster than I can think about it, irritates my husband. But I can't help it, I am my father's daughter. I'm a stickler for routine. I'm in bed by 9pm everyday, out of the house by 7am latest for a jog/walk/run/swim or a quick workout in the gym. We're restless beings, my father and I, but we're disciplined, restless beings. There is always a method to our calculated madness. 

Our parents try their best to inculcate in us, excellent habits. So the question is, are we ready to face the world, all by ourselves with these values ingrained within us, subconsciously? I would like to believe, yes (with a generous dose of "occasional" babying from mom and dad of course). 

Judgy McJudgerson

Ever had that hair-raising, goosebumpy feeling, of having two eyes pierce down your soul? And just when you turn around, to catch their gaze, they look away? But it begins again in less than 5 seconds? Welcome to the world of Judgy McJudgerson. 

Married but don't wear a mangalsutra? Hawwww! Coloured and cut your hair so short? Hawwwww! Wearing dresses with sneakers? Hawww! It's time for the "Hawww" to STOP! My body, my choice!

Just because a woman is married, doesn't mean she has to look like a Christmas tree everyday. She can keep her hair as long as Rapunzel or as short as Peter Pan. Her choice! She is a girly-girl and a tomboy, so she can wear dresses with sneakers or saree with sneakers if she wants to. Her damn choice!

It's time for all the Judgy McJudgersons in the world, to snap out of it and grow the hell up. While women demand equal rights at workplaces, do they treat their own kind with dignity? I'm afraid not. It is women who put down other women everywhere. And I mean, literally everywhere! Be it at home, at work, at beauty parlours and even in the 2 second ride up the elevator. 

You don't have to squeeze out personal information from a person, however close he/she is to you. If someone wants to talk to you, they will. Poking and prodding incessantly, just makes you less approachable to them. When will people understand this?

I've never been clingy. I never call my husband during the week, even if all hell breaks loose. I don't understand clingy people. When people ask, "Oh no Gayu, how will you manage without Raj for the next two months?", or "Don't you feel lonely, with Raj in another city altogether", my response is, "Firstly, I'm not two years old. Secondly, if my mother in her early 20s could live all by herself in god-forsaken hill stations, plagued with panthers that too, had no clue about when my father would return or even where he was, I think I can survive in a metropolitan city." 

Being independent and staying in a positive frame of mind, is all in your hands. Man comes alone in this world and goes back to his creator alone. So, you could have 20 children and 5 husbands if you like, but you are alone in this world. And that, is completely okay. 

Stop judging, stop criticizing, stop prodding for information and most importantly stop with the incessant staring. It's not cool. NOT. COOL. 

Poetry In A Ceramic Mug

Four years since I discovered the bliss of sipping on thick, molten hot chocolate. My life has never been the same since that fateful, sweltering hot afternoon in Mumbai. Whoever says hot chocolate should only be had in freezing winters, should be shot in the head and punched on the face, twice, by Hulk.

Chocolate by itself is a divine thing. Imagine it being melted just the right amount, to give it that beautiful, thick, slurpy consistency which of course must be relished slowly and deliberately, in a pretty looking, thick, ceramic mug. I shiver just thinking about it. There’s nothing a well-made cup of hot chocolate can’t solve.

If only Adolf Hitler had been served hot chocolate during World War I and II, if only Ed Gein was given a cozy cuppa split seconds before he committed those heinous murders and closer to home, if only the Stoneman or even Gandhi Ji had one sip of hot, heady cocoa, countless lives could have been saved, wars could have ended and the history of mankind as we know it today, could have been re-written. Who knows! 

A well-made cup of hot chocolate, is potent. It lingers in your mouth and lives on as a happy memory, long after you’ve consumed it. You could even call it a beautiful dream, which you wish never ended. But end it does, unfortunately, like most things dreamy and too good to be true, in this cruel, unforgiving world. And all you can do, is wait helplessly for your next cup of steaming, hot, molten cocoa.

I’d like to believe, hot chocolate is 100% fat free, because it has zero carbohydrates. It’s always best to drink your calories, than to gulp it down, because then the fat flows straight out of your body, as opposed to accumulating in god-awful nooks and crannies, you didn’t even know existed. This is what I tell myself, each time, I drink a sinful mug. 

Whoever invented this glorious dessert, deserves nothing less than a global recognition. If ever mankind ceases to exist, hot chocolate is what we should be remembered by. This is our legacy to the world. 

Life Lessons from Beauty and the Beast

As little girls, we were continuously spoon fed, larger than life, syrupy fairy tale romances that almost always had a happy ending. Then how can you blame us, when we grow up and want the same in real life? Each fairy tale, taught us that prince charming was head over heels in love with the not so financially stable girl. He fought against the world for this girl and he changed completely for her, sometimes from a beast to a man. And we lapped it all up, with absolute glee.

If we look at relationships in the real world, it's sadly a whole different story. The girl is expected to sacrifice her entire identity, starting with her name, her lifestyle, her home, her likes and her dislikes. Suddenly, there's an overbearing man in her life who doesn't want to change the way he lives. Why should he, he is the breadwinner and the man of the house, correct? (Indian logic!) 

The little girl is suddenly told to "adjust", "give in", "sacrifice" and "blend in", while her whole life she has been reading stories about prince charming who will and can be changed. While the Beast doesn't exist in the real world, I think he is symbolic to ego, selfishness, being stubborn and self-centered. For a relationship to work (any relationship - be it friendship, family or with work colleagues) one has to let go of these wonderful beastly characteristics. 

Before we talk about equality at work, let's re-look at the equality in our own homes. Let's raise feminist sons and all rounded daughters, who have the empathy to play ball from both sides of the gender. After we achieve that, we can talk about catching up with Japan and truly stepping into the 21st century as a broad minded, technologically advanced nation. 

(Image Source : http://movies.disney.com/beauty-and-the-beast)

Farewell Sridevi

24th February 2018, was a dark day for cinema lovers. India's dream girl Sridevi passed away due to a massive cardiac arrest. She was India's most successful multilingual, multi-generational actress. She broke the North-South divide with absolute ease. The notion that all South Indians are short, curly-haired, dark and unattractive was broken down by her with multiple, swift whiplashing strokes (imagine that crazy whipping scene from Chaalbaaz right about now)

While much has been written about her success in the movies, let's talk about Sridevi, the mother. How could she possibly give up such a well established place in the movies, just to raise two children? That's called the power of motherhood. Even the thought of becoming a mother or having a desire to have children, brings out in you, your most protective instincts. If you thought, you're a killer at work, try being a mother. You will stand up against the whole world, for your child. 

So coming back to that question, of how she could give up her entire life for her children, it's simple. It's called love. Unconditional, undying love a mother has for her flesh and blood. 

Her death felt personal. I felt a dull ache in my chest, that lasted for 48 hours straight, after reading and re-reading all the pieces of news that kept pouring in about her final moments. I felt sad knowing that I'll never see that raw, versatile talent, lighting up my television screen again. I cried along with her in English Vinglish, when her on-screen daughter made fun of her broken English and watched with eyes wide open, her suggestive "I love you" number. 

Sexy yet innocent. A helpless mentally challenged child one minute and hilariously funny, the next.  A meek, ready to be dominated upon doormat and an opinionated, head-strong fighter of injustice, all in one frame.  There has to be a better word than "versatile" to describe her effortless, flair for acting. 

We will miss you and your big expressive eyes, Ms Hawa Hawai. Women everywhere have lost a  beautiful, strong role model. But like you rightly said, "Jeevan ke kis modh pe, kab koi mil jaaye, kaun keh sakta hai?" So, hoping to catch you in the afterlife. Rest in peace, India's forever Chandni. 

(Image Source : http://www.rediff.com/movies/special/sridevi-the-10-best-songs/20180225.htm)