My daughters' Mum

Dry drizzle display

2012-01-05T12:00:00.001+05:30

In my dream last night,

there was an aeroplane on the tarmac.

There were bags and Customs.

Packing, unpacking, moving,
being lost,

these are regular themes.

Yesterday there was a house too.

A big house with a double height living room.

Like Guddi Massi's, like mine.

A tall tree growing in the living room,

yellow flowers reaching up to the first floor.

A smaller Amaltas in the upstairs bedroom.

A cover of yellow petals and dry leaves on the bed, the table,

the floor.

My real bedroom looks like that.

Not petals, but clothes.
Scarves, caps, jackets, socks.

A dry drizzle of colours

I have not swept up.

A useful display,
An everyday life.

Messy and story-ful.

Last night I dreamed of roots and branches.

And shedding.

Happiness is a decision.

2011-11-20T23:34:00.001+05:30

I wrote this article for the annual Happiness edition of Outlook. Little Moment Junkie

................

Sometimes misery is a just a faded old security blanket. It has been useful solong, you don’t have the heart to get rid of it. Besides, you might crave forit again.

ApparentlyI am here writing this piece because I am a relentlessly cheerful person.
True to my style, I acted all cool and knowledgeable when the Editor called me.Yes, yes, I am a happiness expert. I manufacture it from thin air. I spreadgood cheer.

I had avision of me driving a noisy CNG van borrowed from the Municipal Corporation.Meandering through streets releasing white clouds of DDT. Sorry, not DDT, thickclouds of happiness. Confetti trails floating in the air.

As I sit to write this, I see that I might be in big trouble. If I am going to confront and accept myhappiness in print, then there’s no going back, is there? Once I write it I will have to be happy. Doomed to be happy. How would you likethat?
No man. No way. I like my happiness in small doses. Or small dosas, as a friendoften corrects me.

The truth is I am a needy, miserable fool. Just like most of us. Only I am worse.
I work from home. No work gets done at home. I miss my friends. I missdeadlines. I want to be at the airport. I want frothy coffee by a window. Ihate netbanking. The doorbell is ringing.
I am depressed, I think. Or shallow. Or both.

There is jalebi in the kitchen. There is a toddler in the house. Her name isNaseem. She is at my knee now.

Mamma, listen, she says, her podgy little hand on her heart.
I put my left hand on her heart, my right hand still on my trackpad.
Dhak, dhak. Dhak, dhak, says Naseem.
What? I ask, almost whispering.
God likes jalebi, she whispers back. I just had jalebi and my heart is beatingloudly. Listen.

What do Ido with this moment? Somewhere in here is the meaning of life. Being handed tome on a platter.

I used tobe one of those irritatingly cheerful people. Turn off your face, Natasha, myfriends would say. It’s too early in the morning.

But I really came into my element in the most miserable phase of my life. I gotmarried to the love of my life. We had children. We moved out of the city to ahouse surrounded by fruit trees. I quit my beloved job. The children went toschool. Husband went out of town.

My internet broke. Who am I? Where am I? Where are my people, I cried.
Fade to black.

It was myturn in the queue to receive the essential lessons.
Nothingis a ‘formula’ for happiness. Not love, not success, not children and not evenpasta. Picking guavas from the tree came pretty close.

Takingdecisions is easy. It’s when they move in and overstay their welcome that thetrouble begins. Not because these are the wrong decisions. It’s the C word. Commitment.
Commitment is hard work. It can make grown people cry.

At thesame time I discovered something peculiar. I may be looking sad on the outside,but I feel perfectly happy from inside. I know Iam in the right place at the right time with the right people. Little beautifulmoments assault me till I celebrate them. Yet, when I do, some of my friendswant to scream at me again. ‘You make it look easy, you idiot.’

I’ll say it like this. Just because you are miserable, doesn’t mean you cannotbe happy. Contrary feelings co-exist.

If there is sadness, there must be a purpose for it. Let me not mess with it too much. There’s awiser, quieter me inside. I let her lead the way. The small joys of everydaylife prop us up to tackle the inevitable problems.

Happinessis a decision. It is an innate need. We are alive because the good outweighsthe bad. We choose to be happy despite reality. In defiance of the ugly worldthat surrounds us. How else?

Wait,there is an interruption. Little Naseem is here with her doctor set.
I want to do your make-up, she says.
Check-up? I ask.
Yes, check up, she says. She uses her stethoscope on me, its pink heart makes abeep sound.
Show me your elbow, she says.
You mean knee, I say.
Yes, she says, I want to pack-up your knee.
Check-up, I say.
She knocks a plastic hammer on my knee.
I am well, it seems.

Miracles stare at us. They stalk us. Creep up on us. In a song, a smile, a playof light.
Let the small moments embrace you. And empower you.

Smiling in Urdu. Dancing in English.

2011-11-03T01:56:00.000+05:30

At breakfast.
An animated conversation, discussion, some disagreement. I am speaking louder, faster, less thoughtfully. Afzal has a certain look on his face.

'For 9 years I have been talking in Urdu with you,' I say. 'Now I will speak like this.'
'Urdu? But you hardly speak any Urdu,' he says.
'Not Urdu words,' I say. 'In an Urdu manner.'
'You mean tehzeeb,' he says.

I get up from the table and go to the kitchen. I speak from there, looking at him across the kitchen shelf.
'I smile in Urdu, laugh in Urdu. Even make love in Urdu,' I say, turning away.

I did not really want to see the very Urdu expression of embarassment on his face. Although I have seen it many times before.

Later in the evening, Aliza and I danced together for 10 minutes. In English. To a Hindi song with many Urdu and Spanish words in it.

Bridges, bridges, bridges. I have a theme in mind for my next column for Mint. That shall be the next post on this blog. With pictures that tell the story on their own.

Tomorrow is Here.

2011-11-01T18:26:00.001+05:30

She was just like me except for the diamond earrings andsolitaire ring she was wearing. We recognized each other instantly. South Delhigirls, modern Indian women, now professionals.

This was my third pregnancy andshe was my ultrasonologist, the doctor who did my ultrasounds.

Well into my second trimester, Ihad been diagnosed with jaundice. Afzal and I were oscillating between theextremes of wild panic and a deep sense of calm. If we move slowly, surely, onedoctor’s appointment at a time, if I keep lying down and solving Sudokus,listening to my children in the other rooms...my parents’ home, our home,hospital... everything will be fine.

Baby kept kicking and movinginside me, reassuringly.

“It’s notworth the risk,” she said to me.

“No, no,” I reassured her, “myother doctors are quite confident we will recover.”

“Oh well, you already have twodaughters,” she said. “I don’t want you to get a shock again.”

Aha, my brain clicked. She can seethat baby is a girl.

“You mean we are going to have a pretty little daughter,” I said to her. Ifelt a surge of pride and happiness, my maternal hormones in overdrive.

“I’m just telling you that thereis no point taking a risk. You will be disappointed.” She shrugged hershoulders and turned away. I remember a hard, unfriendly face.

One part of me really wants totalk about this and another doesn’t quite feel ready. I take many breaks.Shampoo the children. Go for a walk in the noise of traffic. Play Unowith family, then come here to type a sentence. To amuse myself, I thought of atentative title for this article: “One tight slap from a mother of 3daughters”.

But frankly,I’m not really angry. Not even sad. How can I be? Children are glorious, theymake us laugh, they are thoughtful teachers, they protect us from ourselves.Naseem, our bonus love child, is on the floor right here sketching a family offive stick figures. She draws us all with big hair. When she wants myattention, she will make five stick figures on her legs with a sketch pen.

We didn’t plan it this way, butraising children often positions parents in the minefield of political, socialand cultural conflicts by default.

I’ll tell you what I am talkingabout. We had a fairly protected existence ourselves till we were a dinky littlefamily with two little girls. For some reason, the arrival of the thirddaughter seems to shake the skeletons in everyone’s closets.

Here’s what Ilearnt accidentally. I found out that a disdain for daughters and boy-worshipisn’t just the domain of the poor, the ignorant and the illiterate. As abig-city snob, I hadn’t expected any better from maids and villagers, andrandom grandmothers. My illusions were smashed in one thunderous moment when webecame witness to the callous and casual misogyny of my doctors, my cityfriends and general all around posh “people like us”. It was devastating atthat time. Here we were, flushed with joy, holding a miracle of a baby. And yetI felt that I was stranded in a wasteland, surrounded by debris. Even joy needsvalidation, I found out.

We call it violence against women,but this is really violence turned inwards. This is a formula forself-destruction. Do we think we are doing our sons any favours by “loving”them better? By giving them better opportunities, better pieces of mutton atthe dining table and those awesome motorcycles?

No, we damage the humanity of oursons as well. We hurt and diminish them. Children have an innate sense ofjustice. By teaching them to disregard their intuitive feelings, we scar them forlife. Spontaneity is replaced with an unexplained visceral anxiety and anger.Brothers and sisters grow up estranged from each other, resentful of theirparents and confused about their own worth in the world. We negate the power offamily with our ignorance.

That’s all I know so far.

A couple of paragraphs ago, Naseemcame to me with a blue-purple coloured cardboard we had saved from somechocolate packaging. “You said we will cut an elephant from this,” she said,offering me the piece.

“Yes,” I say, still looking at mylaptop screen. “We will make it tomorrow.”

“Par aaj to kal ho gaya,”she says, showing me the morning light all around the room.

Yes, my dear. Tomorrow hasarrived. It is today.

-----------------------

http://www.livemint.com/Articles/2011/10/28193338/Tomorrow-is-here.html This was published in Mint Lounge on 29 October 2011.

Yellow T-shirt

2011-10-30T12:30:00.001+05:30

I am not sure who or what I am missing.

I wear his yellow t-shirt anyway.

In case it is him

that I am missing.

Mother.

2011-10-20T10:43:00.001+05:30

You come this far in life, look back and realize that your mother was an incredibly sad woman.

And that your own sadness is inextricably linked to hers.

That this chain of pain has to heal now. Because my daughters and her grand-daughters deserve better. And they want better for us.

My Daughters' Mum.
http://mydaughtersmum.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-mum.html

Married to a Feminist.

2011-10-14T11:10:00.001+05:30

Nine years later.

'You know,' he said over tea one day, 'you used to say that you are not a feminist.'

'What?' I said. I nearly spurted my chai.

There was almost no context for this. And I couldn't believe it.

'I don't believe this. Why would I say that I'm not a feminist,' I said.

'You did. You also said that you're not a Punjabi.'

I laughed out loud.

'But you knew that I am a Punjabi. How can I say that I'm not one?' (And same for feminist, I thought to myself.)

'You said it. When we first knew each other, you said this to me... Don't believe what anyone says about me. Believe me.'

I said that I am not a feminist. This sounded incredulous.
Then I started remembering. Man, I must have been so desperate for you, I thought to myself. Rather fondly.

It also reminded me that for many years we did not have a language in common between us. You misunderstood my Delhi hindi-english and I misunderstood a lot about you. Frankly, I didn't understand much at all.

I also remembered one more thing. And that made me smile smugly.

Who cares what I said about myself? I always knew that YOU are a feminist.

Deal sealed.

(I think I will elaborate on this post another day. Why would I have denied being from Delhi, being Punjabi and being feminist to impress an Urdu speaking fellow from Jaunpur? As it turned out, he is really from Ghazipur, but at that time it all sounded the same to me.)

Smudges

2011-10-09T02:55:00.001+05:30

The movement of colours,

the lines that cross the light on the wall.

Then there are smudges.

The bird that flew off the branch,

the handprint by the stairs.

So many ways to say one thing.

Or nothing.

LISTEN

2011-10-08T09:47:00.002+05:30

"When I ask you to listen to me
and you feel that you have to do something to solve my problem,
you have failed me,
strange as that may seem."

Letter to a Friend on the Threshold

2011-10-04T18:35:00.001+05:30

http://www.livemint.com/articles/2011/09/30200317/A-letter-to-a-friend-on-the-th.html

My new column in Mint's weekend supplement, Lounge.

LETTER TO A FRIEND ON THE THRESHOLD OF BECOMING A PARENT

We became parents for the first time in Port Blair.
Within a couple of weeks, we were on a beach in Havelock Island. In the photograph from there, I am holding our baby wrapped in my light blue bandhini dupatta. Her father’s shirt on my shoulders, over my sarong. Post-partum afterglow. My wet hair flying.
Romantic, no?
The photo I do not have is the father’s face. But I remember the insane conversation we had.

“In another 10 years or so, I will leave all this and go to the mountains,” he says. Looking gravely at the baby sleeping on a towel over the white sand. Under the shade of a large umbrella.“Why? What?” I ask.
“I can’t deal with all this,” he says, looking around. There are some Indian families enjoying their annual LTA, Israeli tourists, other couples.
“What can’t you deal with?” I ask.
“I know how guys look at girls on a beach. I can never come to a beach with my daughter,” he says. “I don’t want to deal with this, man. I’ll run away.”
I looked around. Fathers and teenage children bobbing in the dazzling purple-blue water of the Andaman Sea. The soundtrack of waves crashing and breeze in the palm trees. Picture-perfect.
And the new father next to me, miserable. Temporarily overwhelmed by fear and confusion and the frightening responsibility of keeping his baby safe. For life.

This is a letter to you, my friend. You, super-cool person on the verge of becoming a parent.

Without love, we are lost.

Your child will change your life. The unconditional acceptance s/he will offer will shock your system and move things inside you that you didn’t know existed. Love and despair, exhilaration and exhaustion will hold your hands as if they are twins, demanding equal attention. You will know trust, you will stare at the serenity of your baby’s sleep and absorb it.

Ultimately that will not be enough. You will find that lost-ness will come creeping back into your life. You will become sad and distracted, addictive and sleepless like you have been many times before.

Becoming a parent eventually demands squaring up to one’s growing-up years. Your childhood will revisit you, and not just as a useful lullaby. You will become your father. And your mother. Together. I know I did. It was scary at first. But it was also a fabulous laugh as I began to identify and unravel the story. Step by step.

Now, for the good news.
Your children will stand up to you. Your authoritarian voice will lose its usefulness. You will pretend to be shocked at the new generation, but actually you will relish this.
Your children will protect you. They will tell you to get off the computer and put your phone away when you are at the dining table.
They will call you when you are stuck in traffic and make you talk to them in your funny jelly voice.

Just 5 minutes ago, little Naseem climbed into her father’s lap and put her hands on his mouth. “Stop talking,” she said. “Just drink your tea.” He had been ranting in a loop. He stopped.
And those whoops and dance in your honour, as baby runs out to greet you when you return home, that is your everyday red carpet welcome.

You will realize new talents. The excellent father in our home is also an expert baby-burper. Every time we visit friends who have made a new baby, I can’t stop myself from showing him off. “Burp the baby, no?” I will say. He will smile and make the baby burp. The new baby will recognize an old hand and surrender on his shoulder.
On the way back home sometimes he will tell me something I know already. “You know, in my home, fathers hardly ever touched their children. Except my uncle, who whacked his kids once in a while.”

Because, you see, identity is really like a porcelain piggy bank. One day you’ve got to shatter it to start something new. Leave behind the broken pieces. Take the money and run. Free.

Also Read | Natasha Badhwar’s previous columns

Write that down a 100 times.

2011-09-28T11:50:00.001+05:30

I have a feeling that you are a very powerful woman, he said to me. And you are wasting your life, and the life of your children.

Sounds horrible. And rings true.

How do I get this to sink into my heart? Make me get up and change.

Write this down a 100 times?

I am a powerful woman. Why waste anything?

I am a powerful woman. I won't waste this.

I am a powerful person. This is a gift from God.

I am a powerful person. There is a purpose behind this.

I am a powerful person. I can laugh away the blues.

I am a powerful person. I can write a song for you any day.

I am a powerful person. I am a powerful person.

Meanwhile the refrigerator has broken down in the middle of the night and will need to be repaired tomorrow. Any plans to start the new day with a lover's tiff must be put off due to the emergency of the refrigerator.

And we started swimming. I feel like a fish out of water, waiting for an hour at the YMCA lawn as Sahar and Aliza learn to swim. I stare at my book and check my phone too much.

But it a very good start.

For all of us fishes looking for our rhythm.

We are like this only.

2011-08-26T08:36:00.005+05:30

Lil Naseem is now old enough to call me at work.

Mamma, she says, Come home quickly. I want to drink your milk.

Yes baby, I'm on my way, I say.

I am well, it seems.

2011-08-15T11:16:00.001+05:30

I'm typing at my desk. Little Naseem appears with her doctor set.
I want to do your make-up, she says.
Check-up? I ask.
Yes, check up, she says. She uses her stethoscope on me, its pink heart makes a beep sound. I seem well.

20 minutes later, Naseem is back.

I want to do your pack-up, she says.
Check-up, I say.
She knocks a plastic hammer on my knee.
I am well, it seems.

Prescience.

2011-08-12T13:05:00.014+05:30

Afzal's daughters have started to become quite bossy with him. Very bossy.

Naseem just climbs over him like he is a tree and perches on his shoulders, then tries to sit on his head. 'Come and make a puzzle with me.' She has absolute power over him. 'MY Papa,' she asserts.

Sahar scolds him, tells him off, explains things to him very slowly. Sometimes she interrupts our absent minded conversations to explain to Afzal what I really mean. Or want.

Aliza. I used to call Afzal and Aliza twins, when she was a baby. Afzal would stick his face next to her chubby face and ask, 'Don't we look like twins? Tell, tell.'

Many years ago, we were sitting in the front seats of a state transport bus on our return from Dharamsala to Pathankot. The seats ahead of the front door. Real private, except for the bus driver on the right who was too busy honking all the way down the mountains. I had my dupatta liberally over my head and face to protect from the heat and dust. And to soften the light on my face, I'm sure, so I looked pretty to him.

'Why do you want to marry me?' he asked me.
We had been having a rough time. On and off, on and off. Very happy when we were together, but sad in our silences.

'I think you will make a good father to my children,' I said.

He was quiet for a while. Then he told me that apparently in Islam, the No. 1 criteria for marriageability is how good a person will be as a parent.

That may have been the first of many future occasions when he would say (with amazement) that I am a better, more sorted out Muslim than all the 'real' ones he knows, himself included.

But to come to the point, how prescient of me, even in those troubled times. To know the reason why I wanted to marry my reluctant lover.

The man who never wanted to have any children.

Sahar: 8yrs
Aliza: 6 yrs
Naseem: 3 yrs

Weaning Baby Nam

2011-08-08T16:25:00.005+05:30

NamNam, Baby Nam, Naseem.

You are going to be 3 very soon. And you won't wean.

Everybody wants to know why, of course. There is pressure to call this off, now.

Its called extended breastfeeding, I reassure myself. If there's a name for it, then it is OK. If I can wiki it, it is fine.

(Insert Afzal's joke here: If it can be said in English terms, then Natasha can understand it.)

The truth is, I know it is fine.

Every second mother has brought up a kid with an extended nursing story attached. My Nani did. So many of my friend's Mums did.

And I know that Naseem knows what she is doing. What she needs, she asks for. My role is to enable.

Here is today morning's conversation between us. Naseem spoke very politely, very clearly.

Nam: Mamma, will you give me milk? From here. (she touches me)

Me: No, Naseem. This is not the time.

Nam: Then, will you make a drawing for me?

Me: Yes, Naseem, I will.

Nam: I will colour it.

I draw a girl holding 3 balloons for her. This is me, she says. I have 3 balloons in my hand.

Yes, I say.

She colours the drawing.

Her birthday in a month's time. Happiness all around. Already.

(P.S.: In my experience, extended nursing makes the mother's skin glow. I don't know what else it could be.)

P.P.S.: I wrote this post a month ago. I didn't think anybody would be interested in this story.
But I found out otherwise. Very reassuring.

Meanwhile, Naseem turned 3. And invited everyone to blow the 'cangles' with her.

Big girl

2011-06-28T18:43:00.003+05:30

I sat on her, pinned down her arms, grabbed her mouth and poured antibiotic down her throat. Held her lips shut together for a while so that she had to swallow instead of spewing the medicine back on my face.

When it was over, she consoled me with a Mickey Mouse and Goofy joke.

Lil baby Naseem.

Home, it doesn't fit in my backpack anymore.

2011-06-24T01:31:00.002+05:30

I used to carry

home

within me.

It was light.

It made me free

to sleep anywhere

however late.

It was easy to be home

Always.

Then it started growing.

Became heavy

Bulky

Noisy

Interfering

It would ring me in the middle of a conversation

Knock Knock

It began to hurt.

I put it down

in one place

I was angry with it.

I could no longer carry it with me

Yet I needed it

Like a bitter medicine

Home

It doesn’t fit in my backpack

anymore.

Tugs at me in the middle of a conversation.

Calls me back

Laughs in my ear

Pats me to sleep.

Preserving Conversations

2011-05-28T12:57:00.004+05:30

We are in the middle of summer vacation. The last 3 summer vacations have been hard for us. Hot and a handful.

It is Saturday morning, we are at the breakfast table.

Sahar: So, what are we going to do today?

Me: We are going to celebrate today.

Sahar: What are we celebrating?

Me: Ourselves.

Sahar: Oh.

Me: We are celebrating what a beautiful family we are and what a beautiful home we live in.

Sahar: Oh.

On the table, mangoes, litchis, butter, cheese, chocolate cake, parathas, curd, chutney, bhindi and whatnot. In the background, new curtains, glowing as they keep the sun out and let the colours in. We have rearranged the furniture a bit. Afzal is at home, our guests have left.

Meanwhile, I realized another reason that I write this blog.

When I go all wrong and wound up and demented with stress around my children, I try to remember how my mother spoke to us when we were children.

I can't remember much. It is very blank and silent. I look for words and phrases in that darkness and I am amazed at how I cannot find much from the daily life we must have had.

I am the one in the family with the deep memory. I remember and cherish everything. Yet, this gap.

I don't remember and cherish the most important thing. Talking to Mum, being spoken to by Mum.

I suspect that is where I learnt how to be absent.

So anyway, enough wallowing.
Just that I realized a subconscious reason for writing this blog. To preserve conversations. Because conversations are the thread with which we weave. The fabric of our life. Yes.

Almost 40

2011-05-12T09:12:00.000+05:30

I am intolerant, sometimes intolerable.

I am better than I know I am.

I knew this once when I was a child, but it got buried.

The winds were strong, the dust loose.

I know this about myself again.

Almost 40, almost Mum, almost wife.

Almost myself.

#Fail.

2011-04-24T13:15:00.008+05:30

Aliza, sitting on the stairs, banana in hand. Whining sounds. I can't eat this banana.

Aliza, stop this self-victimization. Don’t get hooked to it, I say from the kitchen.
If life had been a cartoon strip, this would at least have elicited a 'Huh' from Aliza.

As it turned out, my lame serve crashed into the net and bounced softly on the ground a couple of times, rolling in the direction of the dust-bin.

Ali made some noise again. I raised my voice.

Just finish your banana or I’ll slap your face.

Sometimes words don't fail me. I fail my words.

Love means letting her be angry.

2011-03-17T17:17:00.011+05:30

Aliza is 6. Sahar is 8. I am their mother.

We were at the school bus-stop in the afternoon today. Ali had to go to school for an evening rehearsal of tomorrow's school function.

Wide empty road, quiet afternoon, birds chirping and the new warmth of spring in the air.

We were sitting on the kerb.

I had yelled at Aliza in the morning. She said she didn't want to bathe, she was whiny, something was bothering her, she couldn't tell me what it was. She was distracted. All this was making me very upset. Or it was the trigger that brought out the upset in me. I sorted it out temporarily by yelling at her.

A few hours later we are sitting at the kerb, away from our home. Home has been full of extended family for the past few days.

Aliza, do you love me, I ask looking at her.

She continues to play with her fingers.

Ali, did you hear me. I am asking you...

Yes, says Ali, looking at her fingers as she winds one little one around another.

(pause)

I think that was a very silly question, says Sahar.

Why was it a silly question?

Sahar gets up. She raises her arms and moves in a circle as if she needs space to say this.

This is a silly question because you already know that we love you very much.

Yes I do, I say. But sometimes Aliza gets so angry with me that I feel confused.

But Mamma, if you get angry with someone it doesn't mean you don't love her. We can love you and still be angry with you sometimes. Sahar is now in front of Aliza and me, using her hands and walking around.

That's right, is it? I say.

Yes, she says.

I nod my head. Aliza nods more vigorously.

That's the end of my speech, says Sahar and sits down next to me again.

Earlier in the morning, I had thought to myself, 'Love means letting her be angry. Her anger is important, powerful and necessary.'
I had been thinking about men and women at that time. How can one be a woman and not feel angry at the blatant, deep, random misogyny embedded in everything around us? Sometimes that anger will be misdirected at the lover, don't take it personally.

The thought came back to me at the bus-stop. Between Aliza and me. Love means letting her be angry. Her anger is important.
She can change the world with it.

For now, think of her as a child in distress. Just comfort her. Don't let your parental agitation push her to fear her own feelings.

Calm down, everybody.

2011-03-12T09:56:00.005+05:30

Frankly, I find this valourization of motherhood problematic, she said to me.

Leave your jargon at the doorstep when you visit my temple, I said to her.

Why I am afraid to write

2011-03-09T14:11:00.011+05:30

I will have to be a good person. Writing is a pious activity, like prayer after a bath. It has to be done with a clean and honest intent.

Being a good person is harder work than just being an okay-okay person.

I will have to live my life more fully. We write from our life, from memories. The memories bit is easier, the everyday moments are tougher. They have to be lived to become write-worthy.

Living life more fully is harder work than not.

I will have to play more, talk more, travel more, laugh more. I might enjoy it eventually, but it sounds like more work than not.

I seem to have run out of reasons to not write. I thought there were more pain points, but I cannot recollect anymore right now. Here are some pluses that come to mind.

I will sleep more. Because I do a lot of my writing in my sleep, I just wake up and type it later. Sleep is a good thing.

I will set myself up for criticism. I'm not sure why this is a good thing but it feels like it is. Criticism is for important people. Criticism is childhood. It can bring out the brave in you.

There will be coffee and cake. I will be a posh writer. Summer skirt and matching sandals. Coffee and cake.

Imaginary cigarette.

Thirty One

2011-03-06T00:42:00.002+05:30

I was single at 31.

I was married at 31.

I was Sahar's new-born mother at 31.

I had nightmares at 31, I had dreams at 31.

That year I went to Trinidad and Tobago, Kazakhstan, Spiti, Adilabad and Port Blair.
That year I went to Gujarat.

We went to the Registrar's office together, we took my parents with us later.

I was beautiful at 31.

I had a lot of ice-cream that year.

I saw a lot of fish.
I waddled.

We packed and moved home.

Chris visited from London, first in Delhi and then in Port Blair.

I was very ill.

We heard a lot of music together.

It was 2002.

People burnt alive in a train, Muslims chased and massacred in Gujarat.

I walked over freshly burnt floors with my camera in Baroda.
A charred refrigerator, a swing, still in the lawn.
I listened to people, I focused on them.
I was in Ahmedabad.
A baby scooped out live from her mother's womb and dangled at the edge of the warrior's sword.

My fingers trembled, my spirit choked, I rolled camera.
We returned to our hotel rooms.

Afzal went to Ahmedabad later as a volunteer, working at a Hindu refugee camp.
He did not tell them his name.

He did not tell me he was there.

We got married. Just like that.

lost and found (in 140 characters)

2011-03-02T19:04:00.002+05:30

He woke up to the sound of rain, all the kids cuddled into their bed. Where did these people come from? Where have u gone? he mumbled to her.

Days are long, months feel safe. But the years, the years seem to be on the run.

When I say I cannot, I really mean, I will not. When I say I can, I often have no idea what I mean.

He is the planner, I am the executioner, she thought as she was doing the dishes. No, I mean, execution-ist. Executive?

If I had a better idea of what I am doing, I suspect I'd have less courage to do it.

Tell them stories, not as you remember them, but as you would have liked them to have been.

Unhappiness is a bad habit.

I know anger, I know hate and sadness. I don't bring them here, they're useless on stage. Here I practice alchemy, I come to meet alchemists.

An Uncertain Lullaby

2011-02-23T14:29:00.011+05:30

This article by me was published in the Express Eye on 20 february, 2011.

"It doesnt take a ROAR"

When I was a kid, I used to lie, cheat and steal. Now I have found out that I was imaginative, innovative and appreciative.

It is a useful perspective to hold onto as a parent. There’s not very much my daughters can do that I have not already done, I reassure myself. Their adventure-hunting father has covered the rest of the possibilities. I bite into some fruit and nut chocolate for added comfort, just in case.

Then came the time, when I began to find things in my daughter’s pockets. Crayons from school. Some money. A packet of biscuits in the drawer of her study desk.

I stay calm. It’s all right, all kids steal. I recount to my husband that I once got home a whole classmate with me from school, just to check the outer limits of my power as a 6 year old. It’s no big deal.

‘It is normal for a very young child to take something which excites his or her interest.’ Google coughed it up in .27 seconds.

Yet, there is the unmistakable soundtrack of panic galloping towards me. Despite my highfalutin decisions to rewrite the family script, I must be doing something exactly like my parents, for my child to be behaving exactly like we did at her age. I walk out into park next door to breathe out the silent screams that are beginning to choke me.

A few weeks ago, I read the first excerpt from Amy Chua’s book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, where she explains the how Chinese parents produce successful kids. Her bluntness and clarity was a hook, but I was also amused by the self-parody and the wry humour. I shared the article online. That is when I began to realize the enormity of what this piece was doing to its readers. It was dredging out anger, fear, self-doubt, judgements and passionate counter-arguments.

‘I threatened her with no lunch, no dinner, no Christmas or Hanukkah presents, no birthday parties for two, three, four years. When she still kept playing it wrong, I told her she was purposely working herself into a frenzy because she was secretly afraid she couldn't do it. I told her to stop being lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic,’ writes Amy Chua, describing how she pushed her 7 year old Lulu to master a piano piece.

Amy Chua clarifies that her book is a memoir, the story of her own eventual transformation as a mother. She says on the cover of the book that she has been humbled by Lulu, who became cold and angry towards her.

Tiger Mom. At first glance, it may appear that the parent in the trenches with her kid is doing all the hard work, and lenient parents are just plain lazy. It may seem that her kids are soaring, while others are still playing in the mud, their potential unrealized. The truth is though, that it is easy to be a tiger. It is so easy to be a tiger. You are the boss, you set the rules, you roar. The little ones get in line. But not for long.

It is the Mother part that demands courage, as Chua is discovering as well. Parents make mistakes, they are vulnerable. They learn to back off and secede territory. They face up to their own baggage of hurts and seek healing. Parents need the courage to fail without feeling like a failure.

It is an intricate web, this parenting. We source the design from deep subconscious wells, from our memory and experience. We repeat patterns from our own childhood. We are the agents of our culture. Chua decided early that her daughters would play the violin and piano and excel academically. She is the daughter of Chinese immigrants, in single-minded pursuit of praise and admiration in America. She is not sacrificing fun and games, she has no idea of their value.

Most Indians will recognize the type of tiger mom Chua is. The word love was never used in Chua’s childhood home. That sounds familiar too. It is no wonder then that she does not know her gentle side. Tiger parenting is a desperate model, perhaps it works in desperate times. When Chua asked her 15 year old to suggest a book title, Lulu said, ‘The Perfect Child and the Flesh-Eating Devil.’ Sometimes, it is not so complex after all. Ask a simple question and you might get an answer that will reveal a lot.

Think of it as an extra-large jigsaw puzzle. The only way to begin to see the big picture is by focusing on the small details. Yet, everything one knows with absolute certainty can come apart in minutes. It hurts. So what? Happiness is not always fun. Sadness, not always unwelcome.

Self-esteem is another destination that Amy Chua prescribes the route to. After being abusive, angry and pushy for hours, she snuggles up with Lulu after the child has delivered the results her mother demanded. The same Lulu has now given up playing music and plays tennis instead. Don’t ruin tennis for me, she asked of Chua. ‘Mine is a cautionary tale and I am the mad woman in it,’ Chua has said in an interview.

My brothers and I were high achieving children of strict parents too. When I was 12, I pasted an article in my diary. It was titled, ‘The greatest gift you can give your child: Self Esteem.’ I don’t think I knew what self-esteem was, but I must have wanted it badly, because we were not allowed to cut up Reader’s Digest.

As an adult and a professional coach, I know that self-confidence is not something anyone can give you to keep forever. It is like a lake in the mountains, a valley of flowers that must be discovered again and again. Take the beaten path or make your own way, it is there for each one of us to find. There will always be fresh challenges on the way.

With 3 young children, we get enough opportunities to move gently, to stride fiercely, to trip and fall, to wipe tears and snot. Sometimes the chaos, the din and disappointments cross the threshold quite unexpectedly. One evening, at my parent’s place, I raised my voice and delivered some cutting edge dialogues to achieve a stunned silence from my kids. My father was watching. He will be proud of me, I thought. I’ll show him who is in control here.

Mum called me the next day. 'Your father was saying, talk to Neeru. Tell her not to be so harsh, these hurts are not easy to heal. Relax, calm down. Why repeat our mistakes?'

The voice of Gabbar Singh whispered in my ear, ‘Socha tha sardaar khush hoga? Shabaashi dega?’

So you thought the Don would be pleased, did you? He’d applaud for you. You scumbag!

I believed my father was the real thing, as far as tiger parents go. He was telling me differently. He spoke through my Mum, yet something inside me healed. My father was giving me permission to be the change.

Sometimes the scenic route is the only way. This is one of those journeys.

The story of Naseem

2011-01-17T17:55:00.005+05:30

One day I’ll tell you the story of how we came to name our baby Naseem.

It is the story of India. Of its partition into India and Pakistan. Of being uprooted, massacred, looted, raped and killed. Of love that survives. Of love songs and poetry.

Mosques demolished by young men, a baby cut out of his mother's womb and dangled on the tip of a sword in broad daylight.

Of a young man who was deported from an airport because he is a Muslim.

Of love. Love that survives. That builds, rebuilds. A story of poets and activists.

Of humanity. Not one that is invincible, no. But humanity that will not die.

Naseem ~fresh breeze of morning.

Love Child

2011-01-17T16:01:00.019+05:30

I thought I’ll write about it when I feel less angry. When the shock wanes. When I don’t feel so gobsmacked about it. When I become coherent again.

I don’t know when or if that will ever happen. I don’t dwell on it. I’ve been told I over-react. Its not personal. These people are all nice at heart. I stay quiet.

Today, I was nursing Nam to sleep, music was playing on my phone. First Bhimsen Joshi, then Amit Trivedi. Words welled up unexpectedly, wanting to come out.

By the time I reached a keyboard, the picture seems fogged up again. But I’ll go ahead anyway.

When we conceived Nam, when our pregnancy became threatened because I got jaundice, and then when Nam was born: the most unexpected people reacted as if Nam’s life was not important. As if her life was something that could be shrugged off. As if a third daughter was just bad luck. To be mocked, judged or commiserated. As if Naseem, our child, is unwanted.

I’m not talking about random, illiterate, conservative, stupid 'other' people here. I am talking of people like you and me. Our friends, my colleagues. My doctors.

My social, cultural, familial delusions were smashed in one thunderous moment. It was the loudest crash I had ever heard. It was devastating.

I was holding a miracle of a baby, my body and soul flushed with joy. Yet I felt like we were stranded in a wasteland, surrounded by debris. It made me confused and angry.

Even joy needs validation, I found out.

A few months after Nam was born, my grandmother visited me in my dream. My Nani. She was alive, living on a green island, like the Andamans, in a locality of narrow streets like Lahore. She was listening to the music of Indian Ocean on high volume. She said to me, 'I am alive, I am well. I didn't die. I live here.'

In August 1947, Nani had been 8 months pregnant with her 7th child. As one of the millions caught in the bloody turmoil and violence of the partition of India, my grandparents also left behind their home and life in Lahore and migrated to refugee camps with their family. My mother was 4, their youngest child at that time.

Nani had 7 daughters and 2 sons. Nana was a robust entrepreneur, building and rebuilding his businesses as they migrated from Lahore to Amritsar to Delhi. I never knew him. I have heard of Nana and opium. I have heard of his adventures, driving from Berlin to New Delhi in his newly bought Mercedes, via Iran and Afghanistan. He was 55 when he died. Only 55.

Later, both their sons became alcoholics and died. From alcoholism. Their daughter, Kanchan, my mother's elder sister committed suicide in her 20s.

Despite being surrounded by family, my grandmother always seemed ill and tired to me. She died when I was 7 years old. I know her through her daughters. My mother and my aunts.

In my dream, my Nani said to me, 'I am alive, I am well, Neeru.' Don't think of my struggle, recognize my triumph. See my peace.

I started recovering. I talked less to people. I wrote more. I shut some doors offline, I opened some online. I sought help.

Two years later, I am surrounded by a community of people who love Naseem like we do, who love me for loving Naseem. Who cheer with us, share our happiness.

I am recovering, I shall be restored.

Does it always work? Of course it doesn’t.

2011-01-04T16:18:00.006+05:30

I wrote this article for Express Eye, the Indian Express sunday supplement published on 2nd Jan 2011.

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/medium-range-parenting/731253/

I spent a good part of the last decade getting into the role of a parent. 8 years on I can confidently label myself as an earnest novice.

I had imagined I would raise my kids on the side, like an intense hobby that I’d be really good at and really involved in. When I found out that this was a hobby that clung to my knees on the days that I wanted off, I became confused. The camel had entered the tent, woken me up and demanded to be patted to sleep.

Delusions have their uses too. Today we have 3 kids. We could say, 3 kids have us.

We are a generation of very self-conscious parents. We read, we research, we buy, we collect. Later we stand amidst the clutter and realize that it is just that: Clutter.

Finding one’s balance as parents is a unique journey for each person. I look around at my friends’ lives and see very contrasting choices.

Pooja’s job as a cameraperson requires her to travel frequently without her child. Geet is single, has a fulltime career and has adopted two daughters. Between Geetika and Haider, he was the one who took a year off from work when their kids were younger. Rajnish and Harnit had crossed 40 by the time they adopted their first child. Sushmita and Shilpa quit work when their babies came. My husband and I work in relay, juggling our assignments so that his work starts when mine finishes. I miss him, but we chug along.

At a fundamental level almost everyone is trying to work out a system that allows them to preserve their own sense of self, nurture their family and forge their relationship with the wider world.

Does it always work? Of course it doesn’t. It needs constant hammering and negotiating. Partners turn adversaries, friends wander off and beloved jobs become oppressive. Or vice versa.

Yet, historically, we have never been better placed to confront the cultural baggage and aggressive consumerism that surrounds us.

Somehow, we still seem to fritter away our advantages. In casual analysis, we often treat choices as something that can only be traded. If you have a demanding career, you must be a neglectful parent. Not having kids is selfish. Single parents can never get it right. A non-earning parent is alternately noble or lazy or enslaved. Mommy blogger is the new self-obsessed gossiping housewife.

What a waste of energy directing our anger towards our own! In my journey, after a few initial crashes, I figured that the onus to create a cohesive identity for myself had to be my own project.

When I refuse to accept judgements, I defuse them. When I hold on to my power, it grows. It influences and it creates change.

The global consumerist culture is relentlessly marching into family spaces seeking to diminish the power of the parent, to define our desires and needs. Yet, as adults, it is for us to define boundaries. To defy standardization with our own imagination.

Just like that, the earnest novice gains confidence. And she spells out a few mantras for the next decade.

Let's not be passive consumers, let us be disruptive. Feel the dissonance, ask questions.

Let's climb out of the pressure cooker and be medium-range parents. It is OK. Remember how resourceful we were as kids; we can give our kids a chance too.

Let us light up our relationships with renewed energy to love, care, protect and nurture. Be overenthusiastic, inappropriate and foolish. Laugh too much. Be a happy kid. That will be the spring of our wellness.

Band Baaja Baaraat

2010-12-23T21:25:00.003+05:30

In the middle of the film, I leaned over to Afzal and asked, "Why is she so angry with him?"

Young woman heroine had fallen in love with young man hero and he didn't really feel a thing. Except some jitters. She wanted to make love to him and he would not seduce her. They had lost their casual sense of comfort and joy in each other's company.

She waited. She was frustrated. She became angry. It wasn't that he was doing anything to hurt her. Just that he was doing nothing to love her like she wanted.

I leaned over to Afzal and asked him in his ear,

"Why is she so angry with him?"

"Same reason that you get angry with me," he answered.

Bread pakode ki kasam, I really did not know that he knows!

Look at me.

2010-12-22T14:06:00.006+05:30

"Stand at the door. Look at me."

Nam's precise instructions to me as she is sitting on the pot in the bathroom. Making faces. Pooping.

I stand on the stone border at the door, my shoulder resting on the door frame. I'm holding my morning cup of tea, sipping. If Nam says, look at me, then I must look at her.

A few days away from the kids and this feels like a privilege.

Note: To whomsoever it may concern.
When your toddler first starts using the pot, you may find yourself staring. Gaping. Awe, disbelief, fear, pride, whatever.
Catch yourself in time. Stop. You don't want to get instructions like I do when yours starts to speak.

The Happiness Key

2010-11-15T18:07:00.003+05:30

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/growing-up-with-my-kids/710682/0

Growing Up With My Kids

Sorry, Mamma, sorry,” Aliza came running to me one day, holding her ears. “I’m sorry for all the wrongs I have done so far.” In one clean sweep, our four-year-old cleared out a year full of tantrums, the year her little sister had been born.

We’ve been growing up with our kids.

It’s been eight years and we have three children. So right away, you can stop to wonder what kind of people we are. Fairly unthinking in our actions, somewhat inspired in our decision-making but generally quite foolish.

Our friends have written us off, my aunts have accepted me in their fold. Of course, I put up a big fight in the beginning as one does when the contractions first start. But if you resist the flow, you start drowning. Let go, let go. The baby knows her way out, cooperate with her.

I don’t worry much about my fancy peers anymore. We have faulty memories and short attention spans. My pals are forgiving by nature and some of them, they never change. So I know I can take eight years off and still find some of my dear friends sipping the same chocolate drink in the same cafe, talking about similar things. I could take 16 years off, and they’d welcome me back as if it had been 16 days.
We are parents of three children, but don’t let the number distract you. The more they are, the better pictures they make. The more they are, the more time off a parent gets. The higher the sense of achievement when one gets anything done at all. Like being on time for the school bus. Noticing that one has forgotten one’s phone within 10 minutes of leaving home.

Like everyone else around me, I embarked on parenthood with my own set of delusions. Eight years into the game, I’ve lost a lot of the wisdom that had seemed a natural gift. I feel lighter. My learning is inconclusive and contradictory and doesn’t work all the time. Quite like the children I learnt them from. After all, it’s still early years.

I call it a game, because that inspires us to play. Play demands creativity, one gets better with practice and if one keeps up the spirit, then laughter and fun comes along. Play can get difficult; it requires fitness and training.

We used to stay up nights sometimes, well into our twenties, playing carrom or Bluff Master, a group of cousins and friends. Partners would devise elaborate codes to communicate, we’d scrutinise adversaries, looking for clues in their every expression and move. Endless jokes designed to distract others, that was the real game. Every night, the same jokes would entertain us.

The same formula works with raising kids. Listen to them. They tell. We may need to learn their language and codes. Sahar has mostly spoken to us in words, except when she was drawing black flowers and playing with imaginary mice. Aliza has less patience, she will lie down on the floor and flap her arms much sooner. Naseem is only two, but she’s got her own agenda. As if she looked at them and thought, “Never mind your head start, girls. I’ll catch up soon.”

When they figure something out, children will often let us know. “When Mamma is sad, she looks upset, but when Papa is sad, he gets angry,” Sahar informed her father one day. This pleased Papa so much, he quoted her to all his friends, making some of them a bit angry.

At about the same time, Aliza invented a happiness key. She would jump behind me and wind up an imaginary key in my back. “There, I’ve wound your key, now be happy,” she would command. Off with whatever mask I might have been wearing.

Parenting demands that we have to be more present, rather than absent. It’s easier to be away at work, far easier to be stuck in traffic every day. Parents love Mondays. If you work at home, you get to send the kids away, if you work outside, you get to send yourself away. Monday is parents’ secret Saturday. But eventually, our children will give each other what they get from us.

A couple of years ago, I had two lovely kids and a television job I loved. The kids and job loved me back. Yet, it didn’t feel so good. I suffered from separation anxiety and felt like a fool for it. Confusion descended like a fog. I had no idea where the controls were.

I had never really felt lonely in life before. But loneliness was not the whole truth. It was more like I had had to stop drinking abruptly, and a lot of bad stuff came up.

Our life had been full of noise. Fun noise, work noise, traffic noise, and then when I was with the toddlers, the soundtrack would change in my head. I had spread myself too thin and it was no longer effective. The urban myth of the supermom had trapped me, as if in a hot air balloon. I looked good, but no one could hear me. It was supposed to be great, but it felt terrible.

Parenting proved to be a test of my loyalty. Was I willing to be loyal to myself? I didn’t have much practice. It had always been easier to be loyal to friends, trends, TV shows and gadgets. I knew how to be cool and with it. But cool wasn’t so hot anymore.

I came down with a thud and learnt to spell out my own set of grand truths. We would be able to raise our kids well only if we first raised ourselves well. The same rules applied to adults and kids. Sleep on time, eat well, don’t make it a habit to get stuck in peak-hour traffic.

Pamper the child in you. Love her, appreciate her, make her happy. When the parents are happy kids, the kids are happy. And vice versa. I discovered that if a child is not okay, I can be sure that I’m not okay. It’s a terrible thing to hear or accept when one has to run through the day meeting deadlines and appearing at meetings on time. But when the tantrum is behind you, pay attention to yourself. To myself.

So I make a game out of this too. We are all crew and cast on a film set. Sometimes I am allowed to raise my voice because I am the Director. I always make up for it with my crew and actors afterwards, because you know, I need them on the sets tomorrow. This film depends on their motivation, I couldn’t pay anyone to act in this one.

I smile sweetly at the Producer, sometimes I crib behind his back. Recently, I put away the camera’s battery charger somewhere safe. I can’t remember which safe, but never mind. I don’t need gadgets in my hand. I want, but I don’t need.

I do what I am good at. Well-balanced meals bore me, but I can take photos. So I do. We regularly hang out at the dosa corner in the market, but the photos I make myself, with my own loving hands. Those are as much a magic box of moments and memories as the meals might have been. “I love Nani’s rajma, Kanta Mausi’s roti and Mamma’s Maggi,” says Sahar.

I learn to receive. Compliments and love. Adulation and gratitude. I start to believe.

I give myself permission to be important. You are important, you matter, I say to myself. That’s the only way I can make them believe that they are important.

I listen to myself, I listen to the kids. I let the phone ring. We negotiate. They are fair.

They remind us of what we were like when we started out. What we can be like, what can be reclaimed. Babies, toddlers, children. As Aliza once put it gently, “I know everything already, but you have forgotten some things, Mamma.”

(The writer is an independent filmmaker and media trainer based in Delhi)

Adharshila

2010-10-05T13:56:00.006+05:30

What if you like it very much there? he asked me.

The problem will be if I don't like it there, I answered.

Why?

Because I don't like it here either, my dear.
I want somewhere to go.

Fold my hands in prayer

2010-09-12T16:25:00.006+05:30

I can do without religion, leave that space blank.
But I need prayer.
I need to fill that space.

How do you mourn without prayer?
How do you ask for forgiveness?

Whose hand do you hold when there is no other hand?

And who do I thank
when I want to go down on my knees and thank
For the miracles, the justice, the gifts, the love.

Its in me,
its in me,
its in me, alright

I fly with the wind, I am a dupatta ~

2010-08-19T12:53:00.006+05:30

~
Amna Ahmad writes Where I'm From
Then asks, where are you from?

So, as Nam lay in my lap nursing to sleep, I typed this out with the index finger of my right hand:

I am from Ranchi,
I’m named after a Russian.
I am from Pakistan, which was then India,
I am from the border village which is now rubble.

I am a Qawwali, sung in Punjabi,
I am an Awadhi song, sung by a Punjabi.

I am a dupatta,
you can see through me,
I am the breast
that puts baby to sleep.

I am from Him,
I live with them.
They are from Him,
so He can get some rest.

Whose wife is it anyway

2010-07-26T09:19:00.001+05:30

.
8 years.

Finally I have a sense of why I don't use the word 'Wife.'

Husband-Wife doesn't seem to be a relationship between two people. Its a social and cultural construct. Loaded with expectations, rules, code of conduct.

Thank you very much, appreciate the hard work everyone has put into creating this corporation.

For now, I am friend, lover. Lover, friend.
I give, I receive.

I love, I am beloved.

.

Imaginary friends never die.

2010-07-21T14:48:00.006+05:30

The little girl was very sad. She could not tell why. She made an imaginary friend. He was lovely but he died. Now she knew why she was so sad.

Ah, imaginary friends never die. But this one left the little girl with a reason for her inexplicable, tearful sadness. Now she felt better.

I was 13, then 15. At 16, he died.
He really was the nicest person who ever lived.

Strong and Soft

2010-07-16T14:09:00.000+05:30

A mother of 3 kids isn’t afraid of anything. Except traffic, maybe. I wrote to another Mum of 3 today.

Yet, I remember, when I was a kid, I longed for my Mum to be vulnerable. To be softer, to break over something, sometime.

To ask for help.

We are family

2010-06-26T11:50:00.001+05:30

One is wise and irritating like me.

Second is vulnerable and charming.
Like me.

Third is just a crazy bundle of fun. Like me.

I am all of them.

In Conversation with Roger Ebert

2010-06-19T14:54:00.008+05:30

http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2010/06/tweet_tweet_tweet.html

Roger Ebert started it.

He wrote a straight from the heart piece about why he tweets and how it is a positive force for him. It is a substitute for something he lost, and a darned good replacement it is.

"I am in conversation. When you think about it, Twitter is something like a casual conversation among friends over dinner: Jokes, gossip, idle chatter, despair, philosophy, snark, outrage, news bulletins, mourning the dead, passing the time, remembering favorite lines, revealing yourself."

Then he mentioned people he follows on twitter. Gave me some generous compliments.

"I said it was impossible to think of great writing in terms of 140 characters. I have been humbled by a mother of three in New Delhi.....

In the morning, I'll find a poetic tweet waiting from the wonderful @natashabadhwar, who is a filmmaker and photographer in New Delhi and most of all a mum of three....

I picked up paper and pen in Village Adilabad, District Ghazipur, India and wrote him a reply. It is posted in the Comments section of the link mentioned on the top of this page. It goes like this:

By Natasha Badhwar on June 18, 2010 7:15 AM

Dear Roger,
Hi, this is the mother of three from New Delhi. We are far away from Delhi, I am typing from a borrowed internet connection. It is late in this hot, dusty, quiet village in East UP. We are in one of our homes. Summer holiday.

I came to Twitter to find a quiet private place where I could put back the pieces of a self that felt broken and bruised in many places. To climb out of the dark hole in which I found myself.

I had turned away from the wonderful world around me, a world that I thrived in, succeeded in, and one that I was hooked to. Yet it was also a place that was superficial and hollow; where truth had been painted over in dark colors. Where it seemed forbidden to raise questions, make inquiries and seek change. (Among other things I had been working in news television for longer than necessary.)

I found that I could not be a mother to my children in this world. I did not know how to nurture myself and those I loved. I did not know how to reconnect with the God who had bailed me out so many times in my teens and early youth.

“Lie fallow. It is vast, empty, raw and sore. But it is fertile.”

Everything seemed alright and yet it did not. Beauty ruled our senses, yet it was not enough. I missed my friends, yet I needed something else more urgently.

“The only way to begin to hear my voice was to walk towards the silence. http://twitpic.com/1jn9jr ”

“The view from the surface was fine, it was even beautiful. Yet, for reasons unknown to herself, she took the plunge.”

Tweet by tweet, update by update, I began to create a world that I could live in, that I did live in. I wrote to console and entertain, to live in the moment, the moment that in itself was the meaning of my life. I wrote dreams and memories, I began to share and expand my world. I sent out, I received.

“Baby Nam sleeps in my lap, her cheek listening to my heart. Good night for now”

“Mamma, there are many different worlds out there, but the same one sky for all. Aliza returns from her travels.”

“The little girl was very attached to things. She realized that it seemed silly. She transferred her love and loyalty to imaginary people”

For a while I lived at home with myself and met the outside world via internet. I needed to build spaces where love, beauty, humor and inspiration would dominate. I needed to replenish and nourish. To shed my defenses and rip away the cloak of timidity. And bring to the fore everything that I know matters.

“Confidence is a paper plane. It soars, it crashes, I fold a new one.”

“I know anger, I know hate and sadness. I don't bring them here, they're useless on stage. Here I practice alchemy, I come to meet alchemists”

Eventually, my alchemy began to work. Eventually, I found other alchemists on Twitter.

Thank you, Roger Ebert, for your smartness and generosity, for your childlike wonder and joy in the world around us. Your confidence in your sixth sense is so inspiring, I’m afraid I’m going to end up doing some very foolish things soon as I resolve to follow my own sixth sense.

"6 year old's today what-to-do list http://twitpic.com/1iormg "

“Ask Baby Nam what Papa did when the monkeys sneaked in today, and she will raise her arm and throw imaginary shoes at you”

Love,
Natasha

Ebert: Natasha, you are my shining light on Twitter. You showed me what could be done. You make 140 characters into a universe. I am not surprised that you could have had a period of unhappiness and discontent. Anyone who evokes the joy in what you write could not do so without a deep sense of gratitude.

Readers: I know what you're thinking. It is:

http://twitter.com/natashabadhwar

Be beautiful, Love will follow

2010-06-02T11:58:00.001+05:30

http://kalpanasutra.wordpress.com/2010/06/02/food-for-thought/

I visited this photo blog by Mandira in Cincinnati. Beautiful food photographs.

I'm taking away a lesson from here. When nothing else works for me, I need to take a camera and make photos. That's always my first step to recovery.
Since I have such a cooking block and my kitchen is an alien planet..... maybe, maybe the trick is to do what Mandira has done. Infuse beauty into the ingredients.

The love will follow.

(on that note, I am off to start cooking for today's very formal dinner)

Add green chilly
according to taste,
At your own risk

HAPPY KID = HAPPY KIDS

2010-05-28T15:15:00.010+05:30

Don’t wear silk.
Don’t even think of having your tea while it is still hot.

Say Yes to all invites… parties, weddings, housewarming. Who knows you might even make it.

Say Yes to everybody who says, ‘I want to come over and meet you..... and your lovely family’
Chances are most of them won’t make it.

Be beautiful because there is no time for make-up anymore.
Anyway you don’t know when you may rub your eyes absent-mindedly and see a raccoon in the bathroom mirror later.

Use a cellphone with a camera. Besides the baby photos, take lots of self-photos. Don’t delete. Sometimes you look nice three years later.

If you snap at someone unexpectedly, go to the loo. You definitely need to pee.
Keep a book in the bathroom.

Go for hurried baths, then forget all about hurrying.

Don’t try to remember everything. I know it makes you feel foolish, but while you were away it became fashionable to be forgetful.
Just do it in style.
While we are on the topic, forget about sales, discounts, flea markets. Be Zen about it.
Spend more money in less time. Its your promotion.

And the kids…… they are your mirror.
It doesn’t always make sense, specially in the middle of a tantrum, but one day it will.

When your friends say, ‘Wow, I don’t know how you do it,’ Smile. (and keep quiet)

Think of it like a toy museum instead of the art gallery it used to be.

If you have daughters, wear their clips. If you don’t, buy yourself clips with butterflies, flowers and fairies. Wear them.

Cry freely.
Old toys, colourful sandals, the pajamas she wore when she first started walking……give them all away.
Cry freely.

When you feel exhausted, remember you don’t need more strength. You need more rest.

Be a happy kid. Be overenthusiastic, inappropriate, foolish and whiny. Be a happy kid.
That's the spring of our wellness.

Sometimes I ring
the bell and run away
Today I’m home

Love you too, Natasha.

Sometimes I say grandmother when I refer to her

2010-05-26T11:49:00.009+05:30

My mum-in-law reminds me of my Nani. My mother's Mother. Mataji, her children called her.

Nani was from Lahore, now in Pakistan. Ammi is from Jaunpur in UP, India.

My grandparents migrated to Amritsar from Lahore in 1947's Partition. My mother-in-laws family did not migrate to Pakistan.

All this helps. Somehow.

The pieces come together. Life makes sense. We carry on.

Sometimes Ammi admires me for being beautiful, sometimes she scolds me for looking like a shrunken ghost. She often accuses me of being a fashion victim on a diet.

Before I got married, I used to fantasize about the food on their dining table. Wow, I'll put on weight eating that lovely rich food. I added that to the list of fringe benefits I hoped for.

Now I make diet charts for Ammi and advise her: less salt, little oil, lots of fibre. She listens. She likes the white oats we send her in multi-national packets. She sends us channe ki dal ka halwa. Smooth, rich, delicious.

Sometimes Ammi blesses me with elaborate words in Urdu.

Sometimes she keeps it short. 'I wish for you a long healthy life so that you can take care of my grandchildren in the way they deserve.'

Ask me who I am

2010-05-26T10:10:00.001+05:30

My parents are Hindus, my children Muslims. My teacher is a Jesuit priest.

Do you want to know me?

Forgiveness

2010-04-21T14:43:00.003+05:30

Aliza came running across the house yesterday, hands folded.

Sorry, Mamma, sorry, she said, Sorry for all the wrong things I’ve done so far.

We laughed and hugged.

gentle question mark

2010-04-16T15:49:00.004+05:30

the first time I saw
my Mum with a mud pack
on her face

(I thought, I'm the one who should be taking a photo of you, babe)

Letter to baby PoPo (Sahar before she was born)

2010-04-16T12:43:00.005+05:30

I have copied this post from an old mail from the bottom of an e-mail box. Sahar turned 7 years old this month. I wrote this when I was 7 months pregnant with her.

23 January, 2003

Babee,

I was so busy when we were together, trying to get well, trying to get

married, trying to look good, trying to please the new family, trying to work, but I was happy most of this time.

I go to the loo a lot and there is this mirror in which I can see my

watermelon stomach when I begin to undress. Whatever may be on my mind when I enter the loo, I always start laughing when I see you inside me.

The sight makes me laugh, grin idiotically. I am very happy with you, you are going to change my life completely. Hopefully we will always

remember the footloose times of my twenties (of course we will, there is no need to

be paranoid)

I was saying, you are going to change my life completely. We are

going to make sure that we have a lot of fun together. There are two very

strong images in my mind. You and I running on a beach and kicking a ball

around. Daddy, Abbu must be sitting somewhere nearby watching us or

maybe not watching us. He's an old man, maybe he will grow younger as we go along.

The other image is also playing.

There used to be a very sentimental maternal poem we learnt in junior

school. About a mother reliving her childhood all over again as she

brings up baby. Just remembered it as I write to you.

And did I tell you, whatever mood I may be in, specially these days when

Afzal sees a mixture of exhaustion, frustration and anger in my

expression......whatever mood I may be in, however upset, when you move

inside, I smile. And feel peaceful. Its a way of being reminded that nothing else matters. Just relax. Cliched but true.

I met Rubina today, she's a new Mom. She suggested Rifa. Apparently it

means dignity. I like the meaning, am not totally satisfied with the

sound. I like the sound of Fiza.

How about Nargis ?

Now we are going to be travelling to a beautiful place. Stay warm inside

me, be comfortable and relax, we are going to take care of you, my

sweetheart.

What are we going to call you if you are a boy......MY BABYLOU?

Sahar was born in 2003. We were in Port Blair, Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Afzal, my Mum and I.

Don't be stupid, be an Idiot

2010-04-05T20:27:00.009+05:30

The first film we saw together was called Hero No. 1. In Uphaar, a cinema hall that was destroyed in a fire a year later. Neither of us particularly wanted to see Hero No. 1 with Govinda and Karishma Kapoor in it, but it was a convenient date to set up. Early days, we were still quite awkward with each other. The absolutely first date together had been a Puppet Show at the IIC Annexe. I think we reached too late to catch it, which must have been more of a relief, than a disappointment.

The next film we saw together was The Truth About Cats and Dogs with Uma Thurman. Atleast this time I was really interested in watching the film. Manu, Manisha, Afzal and I. We rode Manu's light blue Maruti which was so low, it felt like we were practically sitting on the road with 4 wheels around us. Manisha came on her scooter. Was it in PVR Naraina or Satyam Cineplex, Janakpuri?
Year 1997.

Anyway, here's the reason I arrived to write this post in the first place.

Finally we saw a movie together in which he cried more than me. Rajkumar Hirani's 3 Idiots.
5 or 6 times during the film, I turned to look at him after a big scene and he had wet eyes shining behind his glasses.

'The only film to have moved me so much after Shakti,' he said to me later.
'I cannot place my finger on it yet, but it will come to me in a while,' he said. 'there was something in this film that touched me very deeply.'

Then he recounted that he had seen Shakti as a teenage schoolboy in Jaunpur. He was so struck by it that he returned to the movie theatre for a second time, alone, to watch the film again.
The only film he has seen twice in a theatre and the only film he has ever watched alone.

We watched 3 Idiots almost 4 months after it was released. Afzal had been going on all this while about wanting to see the film, jokingly pestering me to take him for this film. Finally, 4 months later, we handed over the children to Ammi, Bajjo and Saida Aapa in Lucknow and saw the film together.

A comedy with the central message: Follow your heart, when it come to choosing your calling in life. Be honest, love freely, give of yourself without fear. LAUGH.
(Based on Chetan Bhagat's book, Five Point Someone)

It took me half and hour's rickshaw ride to reach the Mall where the film was playing. On the way I admired Lucknow and noted roadside tenements, one of which had doors and windows painted Purple. A well-dressed woman wearing large dark glasses, buying plants from roadside nursery and getting back into the driver's seat of her car.

Afzal was waiting for me at Saharaganj. Felt like a date again, except that this time he had bought the tickets.

Today what-to-do List

2010-03-30T11:34:00.000+05:30

Sahar Beg, 7 year old planner

My Love Story: to live and to write

2010-03-16T17:57:00.006+05:30

Where is my love story, I thought as I sat in a corner in the garden, crouching under the guava tree, hidden from direct view by a shrub.

The love is all around, the story carries on..... its the conflicts, loss, confusion, the inabilities....that baffle me.

I saw Afzal walk out of the main door with Naseem in his arms... calling out to me. Searching for me. It was a lovely low angle shot from where I sat, foreground of leaves, dappled light, the two of them looking for me. I did not answer.
I took some more time to calm down and then walked back into the house. Sahar had been worried. She had seen me get exasperated with half-dressed Nam and walk out of the door. Afzal was angry.
I stayed calm, but I guess I had said a lot to Afzal without really using any words.

I expressed all this in a light-hearted way in my FB update of the day:
We were doing excellent timing, girls to be shampoo-ed, chasing baby with a dropper full of antibiotic, marinating the murgi.....till we walked into a slushy, sloppy, muddy-fuddy, splattering us all over

Comment 1 by me: gender roles debate.
(should have scheduled that for wednesday.....after hours, I think)

Comment 2 by me: wednesday, after hours, Year 2040, I mean

Love Poem

2010-03-16T11:32:00.005+05:30

like freshly washed hair
like a drizzle in a breeze,
I feel light and wavy

moving gently
to a rhythm, not mine,
but yours

poetic, lyrical, musical

2010-03-12T19:15:00.003+05:30

My FB update: "She's our Haiku, he said, adjusting Baby on his shoulders."

My own Comment: Doesn't make much sense, but she feels good. Baby played with his hair, woowoo woo"

A friend's comment: What do you mean makes no sense of course it does. I think 'haiku' describes her just perfectly. Just as the other two would completely fit 'sonnet' and 'prog rock'!!

His dream

2010-03-12T15:07:00.004+05:30

Two mornings ago, Afzal woke up and narrated his dream to me. He rarely remembers his dreams, that morning he did.

He said that he dreamt of Ammi and me. Often in the dream, it would be Ammi, but she had my face. Then he looked at me and I had Ammi's face. It kept changing.
Sometimes it was Ammi, then again when he looked at her, it was her, but with my face.

(Always quick to interpret everything for everyone, I wanted to whisper to him, 'that's right, Afzal, Ammi and me are the same....there's no contradiction between us. Accept that...'
However, I did keep quiet and just listen.)

The last time he spoke of Ammi and me together in this way was when he was narrating his worst trauma to me. His journey back from Chicago to London, after he had been deported from the airport in November 2001. Two months after 9/11. Coincidentally, I was in London, filming a documentary when he landed there.
He told me that when he was being interrogated at the airport, all he was praying for after a while was to be deported. Just send me back guys, I don't have any answers for you.
On the flight back, his recurrent thought had been, 'Ammi and Natasha.'
'I just want to go back home to Ammi and Natasha.'

We got married 8 months later.

Sahar turns 7

2010-03-11T19:47:00.001+05:30

Looking back, I think getting pregnant with Sahar is the line that divides a major before and after in my life. Ceratinly it is THE one line drawn in the middle of Afzal’s and my time together.

On this side of the line, I have often been very agitated, I have run back and forth, I’ve crossed back to the previous side, stood on the line a lot. I have felt anger, frustration, loss, confusion.....I’ve not always been good but I have been determined to deal with it. I have figured out that the only way to love my children well is to love myself well. And my parents well.

Sahar has been my perfect companion. She can see right through Afzal and me, often she pats us with love and tells us we are fine, we are beautiful, we are good.

Thank you Sahar, my baby, my baby, my baby.

Romeo and Juliet: the balcony scene

2010-03-04T13:37:00.006+05:30

Veins like those
on my mother’s hand,
Antennae as alert

Angry and Fragile

2010-03-02T11:26:00.006+05:30

One Saturday afternoon, in the summer of 2009, I said to Fr. Os, Aliza is so fragile. The smallest things make her breakdown into extreme reactions. (Like me suggesting a different sandal or offering a pink bottle instead of the leaking red one she wants)

Fr. Os interrupted me sharply and said, Aliza is NOT fragile, its YOUR Child Ego state which is fragile.

I understand that a little bit, but not totally.

It does help me turn the focus back to myself, though. If Ali seems to be in trouble, look into your own state of mind first.

The other question I want to go to Fr. Os with is this: Why is Sahar so angry? Not all the time, in fact when the stress levels are high, she puts up a great Adult performance, sometimes Parent too. But when everything seems to be normal, sometimes without reason, she seems to wake up crabby and return from school angry. And she lets me know by pushing Aliza around, so that Aliza will ring the alarm bells...Sahar is pushing me, she took away my crayon, she called me crazy.....something like that.

So I suppose the question is likely to turn around to me: Why do I think Sahar may be angry or dissatisfied?

Or, what am I angry about?

I think part of the answer may be that Sahar holds up so well under stress and looks out for me and Afzal so much (being the one gifted with extreme empathy) that we tend to take her for granted too much. We forget to appreciate her and cuddle her and thank her in time....which leads to a neglected Child in her who then becomes resentful-deprived Child.

The first year of her life, when I was a somewhat timid, tense new Bahu, holding on to my baby for comfort. The second year of her life, when I was expecting Aliza and frustrated at work. The third year of her life when Ali was born, Afzal had a bad accident, we moved to Greater Noida and I lost myself somewhere.

Baby Sahar, I OWE you.

DOSTI

2010-03-02T03:50:00.018+05:30

It was fabulous.

Later one part of me wanted to get down on the ground and bang my fists on the floor….in protest, in rebellion. Why, why, why?
But we’ve got to focus on the positive, don’t we?

Yesterday I met an old friend of mine after a gap of 15 years. We had gone off on your own after college to make our own lives.
We have a CHILD-CHILD connection….. he’s a barrel of fun and he has a vulnerability that my Child is fiercely protective of. Like we were two kids with similar troubles and I was the stronger, older kid….so I looked out for him. Or I wanted to look out for him.
But mostly just fun and laughter and being naughty and laughing our guts out at our own slyness.
And so innocent….that’s my abiding memory of my times with (A). We roamed around the streets, way past go-home time and walked and talked and sometimes had rum and coke on the sly and laughed over it…..but so innocently. With such clean hearts and minds.
You’d never believe the miles we walked together if I ever told you.

15 years later, we met at IHC last evening. My three daughters and I. And (A).
I was a bit nervous, every now and then I had to look back at my expression and check that it was OK. If not, then relax it.

It was fabulous. For the first time in my life I met a friend of mine who was genuinely interested in my kids. I’m not complaining, its just that all others are more interested in chatting to me and the kids have to be on the periphery. I often find myself totally exhausted after I’ve been with any Friend and my kids together. Both parties WANT my attention, and I'm not good at juggling. Besides I don’t know too many people who can go beyond do-you-like-mummy-or-papa-better kind of questions in their small talk with children. (ShefB, I'm not talking about you!)

Last evening for the first time it was different.
Sahar and Aliza got talking, they talked about themselves. Their best friends, the boys in their class, their Mum’s activities at home. Their poems and jokes. Even if the punch-lines came out awry, for lack of practice.
They ordered French fries and Pizza and sucked as much sauce out of satchets as their little tummies allowed. Sahar made a goody bag for herself: Two plastic glasses with two satchets of sauce in them. Noone judged them.

A couple of times when noone was looking, I’d make a sign to myself, zipping my lips up. Keep quiet, don’t interrupt. Let everyone have fun, we don’t need a Chowkidar from you, Nuts.

After stuffing themselves, they went off to play video games. Another first. They played that game where you have to pick out stuffed toys and toffees by maneuvering a mechanical hand with a lever. They won many toffees and a strange stuffed toy. Aliza’s fantasy of fun.
She asked me herself. Mama, I can see some toy things on that side, I want to play there. She wanted to play the motorcycle racing and car racing video games too.
I greedily asked (A), Can you take them to that corner, woh sab kaise khelte hain?
It was a blast after that!

A few years after college, I fell in love with and married Afzal, a teetotaler. I gave up drinking. To guard against my potential alcohol-dependant gene, I suspect. (A) wrote to me once recently referring to himself as an alcoholic.
I asked him at the dinner table, Won’t you eat anything?
He replied in gestures. Two glasses down his throat type of gesture. I’ll go back to my hotel, down some drinks and then have dinner.

When (A) first resurfaced a couple of months ago (On FB, where else) he wrote, why don’t you invite me home and cook me a good meal?
I thought in my head, “What if I start crying when I see you? What if I hug you and refuse to let go?”

I guess Child wanted to do that. On my way to IHC yesterday, I spoke to my Child, I held her hand and then we were calm and fine.
I could cry a bit now, though. Certainly I feel like shutting the door of this room and letting some tears roll.
So I did.

(arre baba, khushi ke aansoon hai, khushi ke)

depression is good for you

2010-02-28T15:12:00.001+05:30

Today I read a 7 page article on how depression makes you a better person and sadness should not be stigmatized. Which was a lucky break really because the time I’d have wasted moping around, I spent reading this piece, and in the end felt smarter (for being sad), bored (same old same old) and ready to do some real work

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/magazine/28depression-t.html

2010-02-25T09:55:00.002+05:30

She drinks her milk,
lets go with a Smack!
Puts her hand on my cheek,
turns my face sideways.
New orange and silver earring,
She smiles

Funny Bones gets some rest. Shares it with all

2010-02-17T14:54:00.001+05:30

February sun
stays out longer, hanging
on, looking in

Conversation: fighting like children

2010-02-12T14:07:00.009+05:30

We are building a home. We are raising three little children.
Its exhausting, exhilirating, tiresome, mind-numbing......it's what WE have chosen to do. We like trouble, we take risks.....they just don't appear to us to be either trouble or risks when we jump into them.
Who knows, maybe they aren't!
Maybe it is all fun and beautiful like we first thought it would be. (Plus we never do our maths in time)

A: People fight like such small children at work.... the plumber, painter, carpenter, mason
N: :Hmmm
A: Well, even we fight like small children over the house, don't we?
N: :(she smiles)
A: You don't take enough interest in the house
N: You spend one hour with the kids everyday, being all lovey-dovey. I spend one hour with the house everyday, pretending to care about the tiles and stone
A: What!
N: My project is the kids, your project is the house. We treat each other's project the same way.....little contribution, full interference (she smiles widely)
A: ha ha ha!

Fathers and Sons

2010-02-12T14:00:00.003+05:30

Oye Lucky Lucky Oye and Dev D.

Desperate attempts to watch a film.... saw both on bad monitors, bad audio and in the case of Dev D, such a bad DVD copy as well.

Both films made me think about fathers and sons. About loving so hard and yet not knowing how to love.
Seeming cool on the outside, but being on the run inside.
Wanting to give, give, give...... having nothing to offer.

Reminded me of Bhai, Fahad, Sarfaraz and closer home, Afzal.

Pictures help

2010-02-10T15:19:00.004+05:30

Sometimes I ring
the bell and run away
Today I’m home

Toy train,
Window looks in
at Aliza

Two Versions

2010-01-27T12:01:00.004+05:30

Two versions. Papa’s and Mine.

Two paths diverged in the woods. Dad took one and I took the other.

We were both looking for the same thing.
'You matter, you are important, I love you.'

And eventually we were looking for each other.

Slow Coach

2010-01-27T11:37:00.005+05:30

I’m slow.

Say something begins to happen now. I begin to note the symptoms in a few months.
Takes me 6-8 months , sometimes over a year to figure out that I may be depressed. Or angry.

Then 2-3 years, sometimes 6 to figure out why.

Most other things that I’m doing meanwhile, I’m pretty fast at. Fast girl.
Say that again, properly, slowly: I'm pretty fast at most other things I'm doing.

I didn’t used to be so slow. When I was 11 and then 12, I knew I was sad, I even found out I was depressed, and I knew I needed help.

I suppose I finally figured out why we live so long..... we get 50-80 years to amble along slowly, figuring out whatever we want to figure out.
I guess I would like to thank God for that.

Meanwhile there’s a really posh Slow Movement growing really fast in the world. But I want to be slower right now.

Aapa nahi raheen

2010-01-24T22:31:00.007+05:30

Afzal's Bua died yesterday. I overheard Afzal's father tell him on the phone, 'Aapa nahi raheen.'

She was the most powerful frail old woman I have met. We were in Adilabad for 10 days this winter. She seemed quite ill, but still very strong.
We called her Phuphu. For my daughters, she was Toffee wali Dadi. The grandmother who gives toffees.

Everyone admired her strength and will a lot. Papa was devoted to her.
Her going away made me cry. Thinking of her grand-daughter, Rini who was on a flight to DC, brought on the tears.
Ammi's lifelong pain and longing, her strained relationship with her sister-in-law, the sudden hollowness she might be feeling...... it made me want to send Afzal home as soon as possible. I imagined a sudden vertigo, a feeling that one better sit down, or one might collapse.

Phuphu was widowed in her twenties, had one daughter. She lived to 90.
A powerful woman.

Blindfolded

2010-01-22T11:27:00.004+05:30

he tiptoed from behind me
hand over my eyes
warm silence
snug womb

Papa and Me

2010-01-13T17:47:00.007+05:30

A large part of the story is about Papa and me.

Talk to your father, Fr Os said the other day. Not the person he is, but the person that you have imagined and built and held on to in your head.

That clicked for me, slowly.
Why I feel and try to articulate the two sides of my father... so much.

It started with a song from Chak De India. November 2007. (before Naseem)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B5zIocgRm

I was travelling by car to Tees Hazari (district court) with Aliza by my side.... to be company for a friend stuck with a bitter custody case. I was already feeling very emotional, both parents have been my friends and I have loved them dearly. And now having to take sides and watch him helplessly from a distance without being able to reach out.

The songs from Chak De India were playing in the car.

teeja tera rang tha main toh - 2
jiyaan tere dhang se main toh, tu hi tha maula tu hi aan
maula mere le le meri jaan - 2) - 2

Just like that I started crying.
I was listening to the song and tears started rolling down my eyes.

I was early for the court, so I went to IP College with Aliza. Ali was 2 years and 8 months. We walked around the campus and went to the canteen. The canteen man, my one-time crush was there, looking tired and middle-aged. I looked at him from a distance. The girls cooed at Aliza, I noticed that they seemed more behenji than in my time, 15 years ago. I sms-ed Harleen and Geet, we had not traced Rachana Pandey yet.

Later in the day, the song played again, I felt the pangs again. Tears came again.

Who is this person, I thought?

I lived my life coated in your colours
I lived my life exactly as you wanted me to,
You were my God, you were my pride
Oh my God, take my life, if you want, Oh my God, take my life if you want.

Our relationship with each other, no one else can understand it
Its with you that I fight, its with you that I want to make peace
(tujhse hi roothna, tujhe hi manana).

We kept that cassette in the car for days, the girls loved all the other racy songs, specially since they had seen the film with us.
The question came back again.... my brain strained itself. Who is this person in my life, whose approval was so important, who was I willing to die for?

Afzal?
I have struggled for, fought for, yearned for acceptance from him. But it didn’t fit. There’s a lot of love and peace in our relationship, this pain doesn’t fit.

NDTV?
I had recently quit my 13 year old beloved job. NDTV is the only institution I have adopted in my life, I nurtured myself there. The break-up had been painful, for me. I seemed to have both very high idealistic expectations from my workplace and a sense of loss and betrayal from it. I was too independant within it and yet I demanded acceptance and love from them...... something allegorical to a family situation.
But it was not that serious. No, not at all.

I think the answer came in my sleep, some 2 weeks later.
It is Papa.

My father. The person who I decided to be like very very early in my life, I think.
It was me at 12 years of age, trying to reach out to Papa.
Something like that.

green curtains with gold borders

2010-01-13T12:50:00.004+05:30

I used to carry
home
inside me

It was light
It made me free
to sleep anywhere
however late
It was easy to be home
Always

Then it started growing
Became heavy
Bulky
Noisy
Interfering
It would ring me in the middle of a conversation
Knock Knock

It began to hurt
I put it down
in one place
I was angry with it
I could no longer carry it with me
And I needed it
But like a bitter medicine

(yet unfinished)

Busy Busy

2010-01-06T19:25:00.007+05:30

He's a gambler, I'm an addict
We keep busy

Both of us seek reform
Rehabilitation
Regeneration

We tell
each other
stories

We keep busy
He Adventure Hunter, Risk Lover
Me Challenge Addict

Where am I?

2009-12-17T19:12:00.014+05:30

I stay in one place
Anchored
I wander near home
Come back to myself

Found tears, kept in a box
Lost under a heap.
Some I tried on,
Like old earrings.

Blurred vision,
Wet cheeks,
Letting go of pain
Small bits, one at a time.

Post partum Depression

2009-12-06T13:34:00.006+05:30

He became numb, he ran. He ran in circles, he was exhausted.

Whatever he started doing, he took twice, thrice as long as he needed to.
He fell asleep. Deep, early sleep in which he did not hear any sounds.

He booked tickets, he got on trains, night buses, flights. He visited friends, stayed in hotels, looked a bit lost.
Discussing baby names became a chore.

He held the babies, rocked them, burped them, shaved their little heads with his own razor. He called everyone with the news. He helped me.
I helped him.

He had post-partum depression. It was depression all right, and it was post the partum.

My Silent Brother

2009-12-04T13:16:00.017+05:30

Bhai didn’t speak to me for 11 years. From 1984 to 1995.

It was very hurtful but we got used to communicating by not communicating. We were in the same school, same bus-stand, school bus. Even when we went to college, the bus-stand and U-special was the same. We had common teachers in school. Very few people knew we were siblings, from the same family.

Now I feel it was such a smart thing to do. I think we got out of it alive because he decided to shut shop as far as the two of us were concerned.
So that in the small space in which we were temporarily stuck, we could be islands. We could go our own way, be our own selves, grow and explore without having to bite off chunks from each other's territory.

We were both very troubled teenagers. We needed help. Mum and Dad needed help too. But we did not know how to reach out. There did not seem to be any time and space in which we could.

Between Bhai and me, it was a bloody mess. Neither of us had any grip on it..... we loved each other dearly and hurt each other deeply.
By the time I started college, I began to call him my other brother.
(in the context that Manu was my brother, the one all my friends knew and loved, and Bhai was the other brother. How hurtful that sounds. I made a joke of it. Black black humour.)

Bhai seemed to have the paranoid idea that I was always poking fun at him with my girlfriends. Always trying to get too close to him. Too interested in his friends.

Mum and Dad were out of their depth..... they had no clue about this sibling business. Maybe they did, perhaps there was nothing constructive to do about it at that time. Maybe it was good parenting to just let us be, I don't know yet.

Everyone could see it, but only once Dadaji brought it up. ‘I never see the two of you talking, what is the matter?’ he asked.
Silence.

Now Bhai has crossed 40. I am still 3 years younger. He calls me sometimes when he is on his way to work. We are good now, brother and sister, sharing stories, photos, being loving and encouraging to each other. Sometimes sharing our incredulousness at how life as a grown up is a bit of a shock. None of the movies we saw together, silently, prepared us for the confusing, complicated reality of marriage and parenthood.

One of my sharpest memory with him is in a dark room in the middle of the night. We used to quietly watch late night films together on Doordarshan on friday nights. Parents, Dadaji, Manu sleeping. The two of us sitting close to the TV on very low volume, lights off, reading subtitles off the Polish, Chinese, Russian and Indian film classics. This memory is from watching Meghe Dhaka Tara together, the scream in the end piercing through our hearts. Both of us crying in the dark. Separately. I986

How did he come back to being my Bhai?
He called me one day from NY. I was in a hotel room in Mumbai, at work. June1995, we were filming the pilot episodes of Chhupa Rustam.
He said he had met someone. Would I write to her and tell her what a good sort of a lad he was? He wanted her to know his family, where he was coming from.

I had sworn many times till then that when he was going to get ready to marry someone, I’d write to her and warn her off. His rejection of me hurt a lot and I masked my pain with smart alecky plans. And words.

And now this request from across the seas, after 11 years of silence.

I did write that letter, I’m sure my sister-in-law still has it somewhere. I took 3 days off from work and went to stay at an Aunt’s place. Her kids had grown up, the house was quiet and empty. There were lots of comics around. Asterix, Tintin, Mandrake, Archie, shared bits of our childhood together.

I wrote a testimonial for my silent brother from that space.

(that's Bhai with Ananti, his 6 month old daughter. I look at this photo and the line in my head goes, that's Bhai with a new Neeru in his arms)

The man who never wanted to have any children

2009-12-03T13:40:00.010+05:30

I know a man who never wanted to have any children.

He takes very tender, loving care of his wife when she is pregnant. Foot massage and fresh jalebis, if that's what she wants. Jamoca Almond Fudge, in cone from Nirula's. The larger she gets the more he beams, tells her she is beautiful.

When his daughters are born, he looks lost, miserable, sleepy. Tired. Gets ill. Takes, trains, buses, flights to get away. Runs.
He even seems mean, sometimes.

At some point, a few months later, he begins to recover.

He is an excellent father.
Brushes their teeth, washes their feet and then massages their soles as they are lulled to sleep. If he tries to read them to sleep, sometimes he falls asleep slurring on his own story..... while I find the kids fresh and awake.

(that's all I know so far)

A couple of weeks later, I showed this post to the man its about. He saw the title and commented, "Not only never wanted to have any children, still never wants to have any.....write that there."
He's mean.

Lunch with Manu

2009-11-23T13:48:00.005+05:30

Manu is my little Bhaiya.
We grew up together.

Sheetal and Manu have 2 year old twins. Busy, busy.
I am an angel attendant in my own right.

2 Sundays ago, by some twist of events, we found ourselves, Manu and I, having lunch together in a coffee shop. Just us. Rare event.

On a table nearby were a family we know. Couple and two beautiful teenage kids. (media celebrity couple, our colleagues)

Manu made some comment about their marriage being not so good. Too much public display of not-love.

The boy had a beautiful shy innocent half smile on his face. I had just embarrassed him a bit by telling him that I had shot an Ad with him when he was a precocious 4 year old.

N: He's so beautiful, it hurts a little when I look at kids like him.

M: What?

N: You know kids whose parents are not good to each other. The pain shows on their faces. And then the over-compensation to hide/drown that pain.

M: Hmmm

N: I think something breaks inside you.
I feel that I have many broken bits inside me.

M: (looking down at his plate)

N: That’s what I am doing these days. Finding the pieces, putting them back together...... sticking them with fevicol and putting them in the sun to dry.

Manu nods slightly, looking down.
I don’t make eye contact, either.
Both of us pick up our phones and check mail. He office mail, me Facebook.

Its a very happy moment for me. Having lunch with Manu.

(Later he told me many blood-curdling inside stories from 26/11 Mumbai while we were stuck in traffic together. Manu works for news television.
I used to as well, but now I can afford to nurture my weak heart, short temper and high standards. So I almost never watch TV)

Connecting the dots

2009-11-23T13:18:00.018+05:30

I saw a film called Khamosh Pani once. I was pregnant with Aliza, our second born. We probably had two more weeks to go. January 2005.

At some point during the film my identification with the central character became very deep.
In a flashback in the film, we saw her as a teenaged girl. Her Punjabi father and younger brother were trying to drag her towards a well and make her jump into it. Asking a 12 year old daughter to jump to her death because they would not be able to protect her from dishonour, as they themselves left home to face violence as they crossed the border from Pakistan to India.
Horror story from Partition. She escaped from her father’s grip and ran back to the village. Her family abandoned her in Pakistan and crossed the border to India.

She survives, marries a Muslim man and we see her as a middle-aged widow with an 17 year old son. She now has a Muslim identity. She never goes to the village well to get water. A young girl brings her pots of water everyday.

Towards the end of the film, General Zia-ul-Haq is in power, her ignorant fundamentalist son is likely to reject and betray her, her Sikh brother will return to claim her allegiance to the family that abandoned her as a child. Thereby exposing her original Hindu identity in the village.

In the end, the spirit of the brave valiant woman breaks, she jumps to her death in the same well.

By this time my hormones and other melodramatic parts of my brain had completely taken over. I was holding my belly with Aliza inside me, I became aware that I was carrying a daughter. My entire body had become very tight, there was a horrible scream stuck in my throat....... I was crying from very deep inside me and on the whole I felt that I was just going to die. From the tightness in my heart and lungs.

5 years have passed since then.

In 2008, following some incredible sense of intuition I managed to organize a creative Screenwriting Workshop with the writer of the film, Paromita Vohra. In Goa, I sat in class as Paromita spoke to young writers about the process of screenwriting. I heard that one needs to zero in to the central philosophical question being asked in every story.... right in the beginning of the writing process.

Three days later, the connection poured out on paper. Why was I holding Aliza in my belly, choking from crying and feeling like I was going to die...... just from watching a film in PVR?

The central philosophical question of Khamosh Pani is the same as was the central philosophical question in my life when I was 12.

If you feel that your family/parents have given up on you and would rather see you dead than disgraced...... would you agree to kill yourself?

Conversation: Go back to being Mama and Papa!

2009-11-15T10:08:00.013+05:30

Breakfast Table.
Af is building a dream home for us. And I am getting to colour it. (she swoons.....)
My colourful, somewhat eclectic dress sense is going to get translated into a colourful home. Co-ordinating my clothes is all the training I have. Not even designing, just buying haphazardly and then co-ordinating.

Af seems to be addicted to building homes. Built one for his Mum. One for Bajjo. Keeps wanting to trade the ones he has built to build a newer, better one for the same people. Always slows down the car and looks dreamily at the ones they built and sold to other people.
Is struggling, suffering to complete this magnum opus we started building 3 years ago. And is already talking about the next one he will build for our family. Same size, open inner courtyard, bigger plot.

I grew up in flats, so I'm pretty slow to catch on to this mania.

Anyway, Af is sitting at the breakfast table and swooning over the wood that he has got for the doors of this house.

Oh Natasha, the wood, the teak, the polish, the grains...... after the doors are put in nothing else will matter. No one will look at anything else…….We will stop looking at each other. We will only look at the doors.

I lean forward towards him and whisper, “So long as I can still touch you in the dark….”

I have barely registered the twinkle in his shy eyes, when Ali cries out loud:

GO BACK TO BEING MAMA AND PAPA!

Oh my God, how does she know!

Just because I make it look easy, doesn't mean its not difficult

2009-11-13T09:39:00.003+05:30

This conversation took place somewhere in the middle of the 25 day adventure trip that Afzal had gone for. From Benaras to Gangasagar on the Ganga: to cleanse, refresh, rejuvenate his exhausted and cluttered life.
Little women and I were adventuring on our own at home.

Madhab called. He wanted me to see and give feedback on the 3 minute trailor for his new film, Main bhi Kalam.

Ha ha ha, for a mother of three, you spend a lot of time on Facebook, he said

Maddy, sometimes I wake up in the morning and first thing, I feel like drinking half a bottle of whisky, neat.
Is it such a bad thing that I log on to facebook and check my notifications instead?

Ha ha ha, he said

Get out of my house right this minute

2009-11-10T19:12:00.001+05:30

My therapist/trainer is called Fr. Os

I said one day, I seem depressed. I have no energy, where's my spirit?
He said: Ask the depression what it wants?

So I did. Depression, what do you want?
The cheeky bastard, it said, I want to defeat you. I want to show you up for what you are. Incompetent, lazy, incapable. A failure.

Mera pride jaag gaya.
You good for nothing cheeky two faced dog, I said. Get out of my house right this minute.

(to think that I once thought it was a friend. to be nurtured, fed and fattened up)

Find a way to change the story, Mama

2009-11-08T17:08:00.006+05:30

Radhika and I
Exhausted in the late afternoon heat
On a news shoot.
Can’t remember right away where we were
Not Banda, not Muzzafarpur, not Raipur
Seems somewhere in Rajasthan.

I remember the hut.
Long, not square like children draw.
Big shady tree outside
Men sitting on a charpai
Invite us to sit with them
A large open space
Our taxi nearby.

We walk into a dark, cool hut,
low door
Small children with pieces of dry roti in their hands
Big brown eyes.

Women offer us food
Roti and something wet to go with it.
No water, thank you, I say.
Even though my eyes are watering
Hot spicy food
For a hungry camera team.

I take a few shots afterwards,
A dramatic plough in the foreground
Famine
Others in the village
have gone
Migrant labour on city roadsides.
Silence all around

Our hosts, the amused, generous women

They are wearing the big ghera skirts
Just like the tribal women at Delhi intersections
With starving babies clutching them
A dirty empty milk bottle in their hand
Pleading, Begging

It hurts to look at them
To even think about them as I see them
I look away and
Try to shut my mind

Even though Mother Teresa
explained, Give to the poor,
Its better than giving to the rich
Any day.

The car moves again
The girls will say
Mum, you said you will tell us a story
after we take this turn.

In their village
They were gracious hosts
In my city
They are beggars
(Find a way to change that story, Mama)

My Mum

2009-10-30T19:04:00.008+05:30

This visit home I understood something a little better.

How she coped with everything putting her best efforts into it, because she tried to give Dad everything like he wants it, she tried to keep things peaceful for us, and she insisted on surviving.

I think her childhood script is: Make the best of it girl, Survive.

Strange that her daughter should have come so close to Giving Up.

She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t protest or complain...she almost never has throughout her life. I wish she would break a little sometimes, we’d hold you, Mama. We’d hold you.

She almost never smiles for photographs anymore.... I took some recently, almost always with a new grandkid in her lap. I ask her to smile. A very feeble movement of the lips that stops too soon. She never looks like that in real life.

Or at least I don’t see that expression.

Dad was showing me some figures on an excel sheet, stating some financial facts, asking me some questions. Savings. What I have, what I don’t.

Tears welled up and started rolling down my eyes. Quietly.

Papa continued to say and show what he had to.

Mum tried to stop the proceedings. What happened? What happened to you? Why are you crying? She expressed as much agitation as sweetly and safely as she could.

“Nothing, Mama, nothing.”

Later she followed me into another room. Explaining.

“Listen, its just the way he talks. You know how loving he really is. What can I do, I’ve coped with it all my life.

You tell me if there is another way.”

“He gives me everything he earns. Then he speaks harshly about what I do with it. But he’ll still hand over everything.

And this big Diwali gift that we’re giving to all three of you this year. Its his own idea. He got it from the bank himself.

Then he’ll say I don’t know what you do with all my money.”

“If I started taking all this to heart, Neeru, where would we all be.”

Filming Bodies after a Massacre

2009-10-29T10:41:00.009+05:30

Among other roles, I have also been a Cameraperson with a News Channel. Thankfully I burnt out of that role early enough. Climbed out of that hole and lay vertical on the ground, looking at the sky, till a crow flew by.

Composing pictures of dead people, and doing shot breakdowns of the details of air crashes, bomb blasts, massacres and other disasters were some of the unexpected things I found myself doing. My bigger shock was not having to do it, but how fairly simple and automatic it was. Even if I would close my eyes after composing and roll camera with eyes wide shut.
Sometimes I would come back to office, lock myself in the washroom and cry till I felt better. (and then proceed on the next shoot). Sometimes it took 8-9 years before a few words agreed to come tumbling out and at least describe the actions. Not yet the feelings, though.

Mumbai Rajdhani arrives in Delhi,
Straight to work from a holiday

Natasha, you have a shoot with Sanjay Ahirwal
Drive to airport
Board Airforce flight
with George Fernandes
Other men
What’s the story, Sanjay?
He’s distracted
I’m exhausted

Indo-Gangetic Plains from my window seat
Wheat squares, meandering river, shades of brown

Patna airport
disembark, chopper waiting for us on same runway
Gaps in the chopper floor
Green countryside, rivers
Fertile lands

Hovering over a village
Crowds
Dust
Bodies
There was a massacre last night

Bodies in lines
Gashes, big wounds
kept on display
for ministers, media
Dead faces, dead eyes
hand held camera
the STENCH of death
flies buzzing so loud
women crying
wailing, singing

Being jostled,
Jostling to get the shots
LS, MS, CU
Roll camera, close my eyes
hold my breath

Sound of another chopper
Run for the shot,
sound bite of minister
I’m walking backwards, running backwards, getting his shot as he walks towards the
Display
Plug the mike, get the bloody audio
Sanjay holding me
Holding me

Lens full wide, focus on minimum,
Cut aperture
George mumbles something
Looks adequately stricken
The noise

My face. My face.
Something died in me that day

But I lived.

Cameramen Make Good Mothers

2009-10-29T09:44:00.022+05:30

Of course it takes practice. You can do your courses and frame your certificates, but like any other craft its the on-the-job training that really brings out the inner expert.

Everything I know about being a Mum I practiced in the years that I was a Cameraperson, lugging my equipment and travelling the world.

Its not a limelight kind of role. Childhood uncles who watch too much TV will express disappointment in you. Your mother will have difficulty explaining your choice to her friends. What a waste of good looks, they’ll mourn!

As for you, however much fun you are having, always keep the camera and accessories in mind.

Others can hold it.... but take it back soon enough. Strangers, no please.
Don’t leave the camera in the car ever.

Best to clean everything and everyone at night before sleeping. Wake up happy in the morning.
Charge its batteries in time, talk to it lovingly.

How come your hair is so funny?

Charge your own batteries. (for emergency keep fruit, biscuits, painkillers and other useful substances)
Don’t mix your drinks when you are out with the baby.

Watch out for sudden changes in temperature. Protect it, carry raincovers and extra clothes. It may catch a cold and not switch on at the last minute.
No point yelling at the camera, it doesn’t have brains. Your job to think precautions and backups. Don't bother with performance anxiety, this baby knows its role.

We rolled the credits on this shot. Oncoming traffic silhouetted against a setting sun. Starburst from headlights. Reunion of Rhythms

Having a friend for a partner makes all the difference. That's Radhika, my Co-Director, soulmate, shielding the lens from the glare of the setting sun. After the shot she will replenish me with a lime drink.

Tourists will take photos of you. Make no mistake its the baby they want to show off later. Manvi and I were treated like mini-celebs outside the White House by Japanese tourists, all thanks to the DVC-Pro camera we were wielding.

Everyone loves cameras. Armymen smile for them. Airline staff always pays extra attention. You can ask for the seat of your choice. Confront customs, visa, immigration, security and other bullies by planting the camera on their desk first. When the baby makes eye contact, something changes. In the confusion, you might be able to get away with what you want.
On a night train, sleep with the camera towards the wall. Hug it. Cover it.

In my glorious years, I’ve driven off twice forgetting the camera behind. Once in Yangon, once Delhi. (don’t panic, soon enough, I reversed and picked it up from exactly where I’d left it)
Lost 1 tape, in St. Andre, Reunion Island.
One camera lost consciousness on me, in London.
One fell from the tripod in Pokhara, Nepal.
(what do you think I did? In fuzzy slow motion, I picked up the baby, returned to my resort room and hung myself by the 5 mtr. XLR cable. Went shopping the next day.)

Once, after a fashion shoot, I topped up white wine with red, they had run out by the time I came around for a second glass. It was messy.

In the last 6 years, twice or thrice I have forgotten to appear at Sahar’s school bus-stop to receive her. Ok, thrice.
Naseem fell once from my arms. A few times from the bed. Sometimes Ali’s batteries run out.
(yes, bring on the firing squad, shoot me, shoot me!)

You work with TWO cameras... wow, you are so awesome. Three cameras is a bit MUCH. You will be mocked.

years of practise

Pack carefully, pack yourself, make lists. Unless you have the blissful childcare staff, I mean camera assistant, of course.
No bliss is as much bliss as the good camera assistant.

All camera assistants want to grow to be cameramen. Learn from them, teach them well. They’ll never forget you.
(And vice versa)

Be prepared for new technology and trends. (oh we hate change)
You don’t want to be stuck on location trying to figure out what this tantrum is all about. What is this new language in the viewfinder? How does the menu come on?
(It happened to me once, in Delhi's Tihar Jail.)

When in trouble, call a colleague.
Be friends with enough colleagues, who else knows the pain or the highs? Who else will you call from Tihar Jail?

If you stick around long enough, you either evolve to a higher form of being or become a crabby alcoholic.
Some switch from one to the other between dawn and dusk.

Its not a limelight kind of role. But I swear it makes you SEE the light.

Differences. Well, cameras never cry. They stay in one place when you ask them to. Alas, they get obsolete.
As with all love stories, the memories acquire a warm glow.

(And on a good day, someone would say, “what’s a little girl like you doing among men like us? Ha hA ho Ho”)

Ladakh Scouts. Anything to get close to the lads

You call that LUNCH?

2009-10-26T19:37:00.005+05:30

Table for two
Actually one chair, one table needed
I take off her shoes, park her on the table

The intimacy at lunch
when its just the two of us

She licks my fingers, I suck hers
Dal dripping from her chin
Tomato seed in my hair

Whose spoon is this?
Ok you take it

One bite me
One bite she

Oops sorry
Was it your turn?

Thack!
She throws something on the floor
and looks at me querulously
(whatever that means)
to signal that she is done

Done with this game.
Ok, then I’ll put you on the floor
Go.

I eat, wipe, slurp the rest

In a little while, we’ll curl up in bed
Nursing her
We will doze off

Tomorrow Kanta Mausi will return and separate us
Both of us will have a meal at mealtime.

Without you at Home

2009-10-15T15:04:00.004+05:30

The morning tea tastes like dirty water. But I still drink it in your memory.

Kanta mausi’s super-healthy sparkling, colourful veggie lunch...... seems like I stopped at the wrong dhaba on a dusty highway.

The newspaper is meaningless without someone to fight over it.

I eat haphazardly, I sleep bad.

But take your time, sweetheart.
Go far away enough, slow enough, deep enough.
Drop your phone in the river. Spend enough time gazing at the stars, laughing with the lads. (If Andy is really such a dude with women’s stories, learn some tricks from him)
Take care of the cuts and bruises I hear all of you have.

http://www.ribexpedition.com/projects/Ganges-expedition-2009-online.php

Of course, its easy to be generous when I’m ahead in the competition anyway.

Its a much bigger adventure being home with the little women.
Oh we get along so well, when we have to!

What are you doing, hiding behind him?

2009-10-15T13:07:00.014+05:30

I’m hiding behind him because the superficial world, the chamki world, the world of aggression and competition tempts me too much. I love it, I thrive in it.......... but I don’t want to spend all my time and life there.

Its empty and it also depresses me.... a lot.

I’m using him as a shield.

I’m also saying Protect me, Hide me, Take Care of me.

Sometimes he does.... sometimes he says, Honey, I gotta go right now. (or something like that!)

I’m also hiding because I feel too thin, too flat to come out and be photographed.

Besides its a great way to touch him, to hug him. He makes me desperate, what can I say.

(Photo taken by Jyotindra at Sushmita’s Chittaranjan Park home in early 2002. Much before Shaadi)

In November 2008, 2 months after Naseem was born, I retrieved this photo from a heap inside a drawer, dusted it and put it up on my notice board. I could see it when I was nursing the baby, after I had yelled at my daughters, when I felt lonely, lost, hungry and angry.

I looked at it and wondered why I had put it up. There was a reason why but I took my time to understand what.

It was a cross connection time.

Last year, after NamNam was born, I needed to hide, to hold, to be protected. I was exhausted and weak, happy and disturbed. I wanted a shield.

Last year, after NamNam was born, he really had to go. (Maybe he had to run, that might be how he felt. To his credit, he didn't)

That's Naseem, cheering us along, as we pick up the pieces and get our act together again.

Karela is good for Health

2009-10-10T12:09:00.008+05:30

Sahar’s tearful confession.
And mine too as I record this. (Confession, yes. Tearful, no)

It happened a few days ago on a Saturday morning. Three kids awake and active as well as Afzal at home.
I snapped at Sahar over something, nothing big. Just too much stimuli and I raised my voice to shut down the noise.

How could she not take it personally?

I left the room. After a while, she came to me with a tearful confession.
“Mama, sometimes when you scold me, in my head I say to you, ‘Sadi hui karela wali Mamma!”
And she cried and cried.
“I get angry with you but I don’t say this to you, because once when I had said something bad to you, you went in the bathroom and cried. I don’t want to hurt you.
I feel so bad later..... after I have thought about you as a Sadi hui karele wali Mama!”
She cried.

“Its, OK, baby..... its okay to be angry with Mama. I’m sorry”

(rough translation: ‘Rotten Karela of a Mama.’ Karela is a bitter tasting vegetable. Not popular at all in most households, but very good for health. I’ve inherited the habit of karela for lunch from my parents.)

Sahar is 6.5 years old.

5 reasons to RESIGN

2009-10-08T12:47:00.004+05:30

I resigned from my Dream Job three years ago. The separation still hurts very much.
In casual conversation I hear myself say, "I quit 2 years ago." As if decreasing the distance in time will make us sound less apart.

I once wrote to the Boss (asking for extra leave to complete a separate teaching project): 'My office is my playground'
In another industry it would have been a horrifyingly unprofessional confession. In our office, at that time, it was a compliment. This is before the competition and global recession killed our joy! And woke up everyone's bad temper to face reality.

At about the time I was getting ready to resign, I wrote a mail to a wise, elderly friend in England. I was staying at the Hilton in Manhattan at that time and buying fruit from the street for my breakfast... to purge the yucky child meal pizza I had had for dinner. (the beautiful plastic looking fruits were a big sour flop as well, I remember)

Thank you for the digression, Natasha...... please don't tell us what you were wearing at that time as well!
Actually it was April, the sun peeped out for a few minutes and miraculously I found myself surrounded by people in the skimpiest of shorts and banians. And I still in overcoat, scarf, trousers, boots. Welcome to the desperate city!

Anyway, I wrote to Ian these reasons for finally resigning after preparing for it from the day I had joined work:
1) Love my job, always have. Lucky to have worked with them, they do set the highest standards in creating a nurturing, positive and fun workplace.

2) I want to stop working completely for a while. I want to lie fallow for a while and do only self nurturing things like gardening, cleaning, mothering, writing to friends and blogging.

3) I want to be available to everybody that I have been unavailable to: my kids, my mother, my husband, my home

4) I want to stop because I have never stopped and I am exhausted. And I am fulfilled as well.

5) Other Natashas: the ones who drive, nap in the daytime, cycle to the gym, cook a meal..... let those Natashas out.Those are photos of me taken by Afzal, as I type my last resignation mail to Radhika and Prannoy from Portu Maga in Sardinia. Just before going out for a day of sightseeing. Using Steo's laptop and fragile net connection, standing behind the sacred counter of the restaurant. That's Steo in the background, Aliza in the foreground.

Nursing is Erotic

2009-10-08T09:22:00.011+05:30

I read in a book last night what I knew all along but was afraid to say.
And had no one to say it to, as well.

I was browsing through The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf last night in an exhausted but sleepless state of mind and read this line:
Feeding is erotic.

Opened a Pandora's box.
I searched in the morning and found this:
http://www.womanthouartgod.com/breastfeedinglovemaking.php

If it puts you off already, don't click on the link.

Just enjoy my photograph.... thank you friend who took it !

Sahar is the KEY

2009-10-07T16:18:00.007+05:30

SAHAR is the key

If Sahar is okay.... we all okay.

If she loved, we all loved.

She content, peaceful, we all.

We are the cause of Sahar and in return she is the effect on all of us.

There I have simplified it for you, Natasha

(Sahar, my first born. Victim of all my aspirations. )

Aliza, Gurudev, aapke paanv kahan hain?

2009-10-07T15:07:00.009+05:30

Aliza has some gifts and talents that are actually unfamiliar to me. I don’t recognize them at first sight, even as I see them.

Happiness first. Beauty first.
CHARM.

Confront, protest, negotiate, dig your heels in,
express yourself. Tantrum

Laugh, play, sing, explore.
God.

See, I still have difficulty articulating the speciality that is Aliza.

Kids Clothes Salesmen

2009-10-07T14:41:00.002+05:30

contrary to expectations,
kids clothes salesmen don’t like me.

they want to know the age of the child I’m buying for
Correct answer is 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 9.... some of them girls, some boys.
So back off salesmen and just answer my questions.

Ananti, Naseem, Janki, Madhav, Mannat, Soledad, Aliza, Zara, Sahar, Aiman, Areeka.
This is just FAMILY! From 0 to 9 years old.

LOSS IS GREAT. Its fantastic.

2009-10-07T14:31:00.005+05:30

Something is missing.
I look for it in my eyes, in my e-mail and on my home page.

I do not know what it is. (Father Os would say that I do know what it is. And I would agree with him)
Something is not there and I look for it.

I will never find it.
I have to clean up the empty, hurting space and substitute something else in its place.

Freud called it sublimation.

(1 hour later)
I got a clue.
It’s the lost part of me- my Delhi girl girlhood. (something like that)
Some of it I gave up to be with Afzal, more of it to have children and the rest of it to live in Greater Noida with Afzal and the children.

So its true. It isn’t going to come back.
I just have to clean up the space and re-do it. The chief components need to be FUN, HUMOUR, LAUGHTER, TOMFOOLERY, IRREVERENT JOKES……..

It’s the funny Natasha, the one who makes her friends laugh and the one who laughs the LOUDEST and LONGEST herself.
She’s the one.

I need her. I miss her.

I might even know where she is.

( what the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls a butterfly....I had quoted Richard Bach in my school diary)
17 September2009

Leisure Pleasure

2009-09-30T13:32:00.002+05:30

Ever since I married this man, I’ve started drinking tea and eating rice with my hands.
A more pleasure oriented life, lets say.
(next I might start eating some of those toffees I stash away in my wardrobe)

Notes on M A B

2009-09-30T13:22:00.005+05:30

MAB: I don't know why I love you, but Damn! I do

Makes the most atrocious (embarrassing) PC. Unapologetically.

Is masseur par excellence.

Expert at cleaning the bathroom he uses.... he dries the floor with the wiper.... even if the effort makes him bathe with sweat.

Hates make-up. (But not made-up women)

Is excellent with our children.... even though he insists vehemently that he “Hates” children related chores. Brushing teeth, going park, attending school functions.
(‘Why should I travel by bus when I can afford a car? Get a maid, Natasha!’)

Has a special something with Nam Nam, although he dismisses it as my desire so strong that I imagine it.

Worships his Ammi.

I told him today that he is a conservative liberal.

Dreamer-doer.
Dreams up what Chris (our XXLsize English friend) used to call Beg Plans.
Dreams up these dreams and while others are silently praying that he may get over it, embarks on doing them........ and pain or no pain, gain or no gain ends up doing them.

Some kind of a financial maverick. I cannot elaborate on that yet.

I’m beginning to realise that he has some strengths and talents of genius proportions (calibre)
I can’t quite put my finger on it yet...... but I am slowly getting a sense of it.
(partly from all the suffering he himself endures.... and partly from the suffering caused in me as a side effect of loving him and being true to him as intensely as I am)

Sounds a bit off, I know, but I am saying that even all this misery, pain, heartache and hidden diseases point to something big brewing inside. It wouldn’t hurt so much if he weren’t aiming so high and working so hard. And stretching himself all the way from Adilabad to God knows best where.
It may well be that in some way he is stuck. On his own, he is not being able to make a breakthrough. Or he isn’t ready for it, yet.
We’ll find out.

So what the hell are we two doing together? We don’t know yet, but we’re keeping at it. God guiding us.
He is so silly, he doesn’t even know yet that we have the same God. I mean Af is silly, not God, of course.

Is an artist. People artist. Self trained. Sometimes frustrated, but then this path is hard.

Meanwhile he continues to make atrocious PC.
And brush their teeth at night even as he can’t stand anymore with that pain in his legs. Then massage three pairs of little feet to put them to sleep.

Sasural: Visiting In Laws

2009-09-30T12:54:00.004+05:30

Be yourself.
Be aloof.
Be quiet.

Smile readily.

Its easier to smile readily if you have been aloof and quiet for a while, conserving your energy.

how can I escape from here? asked the rabbit

2009-09-15T15:31:00.000+05:30

World Peace

2009-09-09T16:15:00.009+05:30

This is my world, I say.

This is my world, he says.

Two circles.

Sometimes they intersect and make a cosy little nook with a rainbow above and the gentle soundtrack of a gurgling brook in the background.

Sometimes, they just touch. We can reach out to each other and hold hands.
Happy.

Sometimes the circles float away, independent, but within sight.
I love you, A. I love you too, N.

Sometimes, collision.
Hurt.
The impact sends me off further. After a while, I have to stop, pull the brakes, float about in space for a while. Find my way back. At least to where we can see each other, even if from a distance.
(the melodrama of this journey..... my hurtling away and then returning, exhausted, but calmer.....I could be in one of those movies that I cannot watch anymore)

We are doing something very Important together.
I’ll tell you about it another day, when I find the words for it.

Create New from Old Waste

2009-09-09T12:32:00.005+05:30

Sahar received a Certificate from school for this project. Third Prize.

Create at least two furniture items etc. from household waste items like cartons.
I have to admit I hijacked the project. I should be apologetic but honestly, I enjoyed myself too much. Also, it was somewhat out of the scope of 6 year old Sahar.

The BIG saving grace is that I did not know that the project was competitive. I am so glad for that. I would certainly not have enjoyed the experience then. I know I would have gone either into Competitive or Rebel mode.
That's my training from my student days: Either fight to be first or reject the game altogether.
Both NG responses, waste of energy and goodwill.

So I enjoyed this project because I did not know that it was competitive. Thank God the tests and grading system model has mostly been abandoned by schools today. Atleast the one we have been lucky to choose for our kids.

Next step, Unlearn and Retrain. Because I don't want to pass this on to my children.

Btw, do you like the yellow cupboard and blue house we made? There are red shelves inside the cupboard. And the flower detail on the house. :^)

my dear Nephew

2009-09-06T15:21:00.002+05:30

My idiot nephew is a bit of a copy of me when I was younger. (like till about 6 months ago)
So charming and full of smiles for the rest of the world and so NASTY to his mother.

I hope life kicks him in the butt soon enough to knock some sense and dignity into his head.
Though I've noticed that men are not as lucky as women in this regard. More cushioned.

I hope I will be revisiting this post soon and updating. Either my views or his behaviour towards his Mum and sisters.