Age is what number?

The 35th year school reunion is coming up (ya, I know, I don’t look it, thanks!) so I reached out to an old class mate to see if she was planning to go. She’s a maybe because her daughter is getting married. I couldn’t resist the MIL exclamations and jokes especially since she’s drop dead gorgeous and will make one sexy mother-in-law. Before long we were commenting on how we can’t believe we’ve reached that stage, age and then she said …50 is the new 35. 

 Bas, my monkey mind started chirping very loudly. 

 How often do we hear that 40 is the new 30 and 50 is the new 40 and ....what complete and utter nonsensical rubbish!!! Because, if this is really true, I'm an early menopaused, body creaking 42 year old (instead of an energetic 52). 

 I'm writing this as I try to recover from having spent last three days playing golf and attending dinner parties. Ya, sure, that's a luxury. I really shouldn't be complaining, and I'm not. I am simply "commenting" on the stupid concept that is constantly being stuffed down our throats(filled into our ears, same-same)!!!

 And also because, my arthritic toe, pinched shoulder and menopaused reproductive system clearly whisper other things into my ear and you can say one can't bow down to one's body or all those philosophical things but the damn truth is that it just isn't the same, 40 feels like 40, 50 feels like 50 and 60 will probably feel like 60 too. 

 Abh, it's not only the aching body na. I started Kathak 2 years ago (a detailed one on that soon) and it took my brain 3 months to teach my body a simple namaskar despite the fact that Shreya, my wonderful teacher, had broken it up into tiny pieces and patiently made me practice it a million times, ok 100 but it felt like a million! No, it isn't because I have 2 left feet. I'm sure that a decade ago, it would have taken me 3 wks while it took my beautiful niece only 13 minutes. 

 The person who came up with these ridiculous phrases was probably a 25 year old copywriter given the task of selling “30 plus capsules*” to a bunch of 50 year olds with not the faintest idea of what it means to get older.( Do you think it was the guy who tried convincing us that 50 year old Jeetendra* was "only 30 plus"?! )

 Honestly, phrases like this seem silly because it hinders more than encourages people to accept the aging process. I'm sure this and the "you look so young" concept helps the pharma companies sell vitamins, cosmetic companies sell creams and health companies sell their drinks but aging is a fact of life. You can't make it go away or help smoothen the path by phrases which constantly remind you that it would be better to be younger. It adds to the stress and I'm not surprised that cosmetic/corrective surgery is on the rise.

 I don’t know about you but I for one would rather hear how at 52 I can do anything I want to do because I have the time (empty nesters are basically vella), with a comfortable income, the desire to learn and explore, and the courage to start new ventures (another blog on this coming soon) within the physical and mental capabilities of a 52 year old. Simply put, I don't have the physical energy or the mental agility of a 40 or 30 year old and that's ok! 

 And anyway, if I really take this phrase to be the gospel truth, and if I were to die at 80 (I don't plan to, have to beat Grandfather's record of 96) which is the new 65 then it will mean that I died so young!!!! Ha ha ha ....

*30 plus – multivitamins/energy tablets advertised in India in the 90s

*Jeetendra – a very popular Hindi film star who looked very young

Women's Day... only two months late!

As 8th March approaches and the Women’s Day celebrations start raising their head, my mind starts to wander.

For a long time, I was irritated, annoyed and almost embarrassed by it. I believed and still believe that I’m not any less than a man and so why should I need a women’s day. After all, there’s no Men’s day. Before you shriek at my mistake, there is one now but there wasn’t one then – at the beginning of my story, before my wonderful awakening.

I spent my preteens roaming about looking “like a boy” with short hair (again calm down, this was in the eighties)and scrapped knees, secretly doing “girly things” like embroidery which I love to date, and making jewellery from eucalyptus cones. I didn’t think any of these things had a gender till a friend of mine who was a whole year older and way wiser, apprised me differently.

And then there was the assumption that I was a boy because of the way I looked and the things I did so I wore earrings and would exclaim in great indignation that I was a girl and with my body language that I was as good if not better than one. Hmm… competing with not only societies norms but also the opposite gender is so very exhausting!

It wasn’t long before my body make it perfectly clear that I was definitely a woman, so I heard the word tom-boy and started conforming to all that defined a tom-boy. I subconsciously assumed it kept me safe from unwanted attention and lewd glances. If only I had known that even a burkha wouldn’t have helped with that!

But as usual I diverse…. And this time with 3 paragraphs…(shocked emoji would be appropriate but my editor raises her eyebrow at the use of such tools).

So, in trying to keep up with the men and fighting my battle of equality (even misplaced superiority), it took me a while to realize that it is not about what we are, the fight was never about being equal. That’s a given.

It was always about not having to prove people wrong by being “as good as a man”, not having to change norms or preconceived notions, not being referred to as the boy of the family, about not being introduced to people as a “woman” golfer, not needing to walk or talk like a man to be taken seriously…

Some years ago, I owned (with my wonderful partners, the majority of them being women), and ran a Professional Mens Cricket team. I convinced companies to sponsor us and negotiated with agents and national sports bodies to hire international players. We got asked many questions – how it is to work with an all-women’s team being the medias favourite. I wanted to tell them to ask the matriarch of a herd of elephants that question, but we needed the media, so I was “nice”! Another time, a player’s agent told me that a very senior gentleman who owned the team had promised to change the players route back home. It made me chuckle when I heard the statement, I laughed out loud after I told him that I was the highest you could go, I was the CEO!

But what took the cake was the interaction with a pair of brothers who represented a particular “big” player. I had been negotiating with Brother A (let’s call him that for now) and Brother B was to travel with our “Big” player X. We had a WhatsApp group and in replies to my questions, B would keep referring to me as Bro. At first I assumed it was a casual way of speaking, irrespective of my sex but then when he said bhaijaan, I said “I think your bhaijaan, A, has forgotten to tell you that the CEO of this team is a woman. bro is good, Bhaijaan is a bit much” I promise you, I wasn’t trying to score a hit or be nasty, I was too busy and I would like to believe, adult for that but childish enough to laugh in glee when there was radio silence for 6 hours and a hurried blubbered apology with a change of tone!!!!

These are just a couple of stories. I, who come from a place of privilege provided to me by my education and socio-economic background have dozens more to relay but mine are probably not as many as most women face in their professional and personal daily life. I am conscious and appreciative of the fact that there are millions of women out there who don’t have the same privilege and are probably fighting greater battles.

I hope that one day and in my lifetime we seize the need for a women’s day but till then I’m going to enjoy the 10% off I got at …..

Aah, my genes...

Since I blogged about Papaji and Munniji, I've got so many positive responses and return stories that it got me thinking more about them. And not only about them but about my great grandparents. 

People have industrialists, freedom fighters, scientists, princesses as great-grandparents but mine was way, way, way cooler. My paternal grandmother's father was a Kabbadiwala. Sounds odd?  I would be right if I said that  he was a sustainability entrepreneur in the business of recycling  previously loved clothes because actually he only had a shop in the Kabbari market but, I like Kabbadiwala. 

Apparently, like the majority of the population then (late 1800s-early 1900s) he was a gentleman of simple means, but also quite ingenious and quite a respected "Dada" in, not only his, but also the larger area around. He would buy clothes from repatriating British soldiers and resell them for a small profit. The business did well for a while but it really took off when on one occasion he found 15000 rupees in the pocket of a coat that had been sold to him for one rupee. One rupee was worth a lot so you can imagine what 15000 was worth!

Apparently, after finding this stash he tried to find the owner of the coat (in true Bollywood style) who had (unfortunately for him) and fortunately for my great-grandfather set sail for the UK.  Then he waited for a few months to hear from him and finally accepted his fate and the gift from the (Colonial) British treasury. 
Needless to say, this money was put to good use, property bought and the rest is history. 

Unfortunately, he didn't live long enough to enjoy his new-found wealth but he was clever enough to educate his sons and  wed his daughter (nope, not clever enough to educate her) to my grandfather (the now famous Papaji).

So why am I sharing this story? Why does it fascinate me so much?  It actually makes me chuckle. Maybe because in a socio-economic strata driven society one is so quick to acknowledge educated or rich ancestors that we sometimes forget to ask or hear about the not so remarkable and simple folks. People who may not have had exceptional enough lives to make a biopic but are definitely heroes of a couple of scenes if not a preface. 

This gentleman's grandchildren include a doctor, a padma-vibhushan educationist, a highly decorated Air Force officer and a highly ranked government servant/UN employee. Did the 15000 rupees do it? Maybe, maybe not. But his clever and ingenious genes probably did - after all, I have them too!

Friendship-Part 2

I was standing in the kitchen cutting papaya and chatting on the phone with my best friend (of 33 years) when after discussing a zillion things including the Vicky-Katrina wedding, the conversation moved to walking and grandparents. She said, "Your granddad was so cute 'coz he really did believe that he was walking fast!"

Very true! For the first few years of my life, even I thought he walked very fast. But that changed quite quickly because we, my grandfather and I, “grew up” rather swiftly. 

We had a 71 year age difference, so by the time I knew him I thought of my grandfather as an old man (no, now I don’t now think anyone in their 70s is old!).

Rai Bahadur Atma Ram Sethi was all of 5 feet, portly and hard of hearing except when you talked about money (so said my 5 ft 9 inch grandmother but that’s for another story). He was referred to as Papaji by his children, grandchildren and since he lived to 96, by almost all and sundry. 

So Papaji went for an hour long walk, every morning and every evening. Armed with his walking stick which went tuk tuk on the floor, come winter or summer, you would find him striding out of the gate and on to the streets of Defence Colony at 5.30 am and 4.30 pm.

As it happens, at 5.30 am other than an odd chowkidar or doodhwala (even they at more like 6am!) there was rarely anyone else on those streets. 

However, sometime in the 80s(his and the century’s), a tall gentleman wearing white robes, wooden clogs and a white mask would be found on these streets too. This was Munniji. He belonged to the Jain Ashram in the same block as where we lived. 

I'm not sure exactly when it happened or how it happened but somehow moan vrat dharan Munniji and my hard of hearing Papaji became walking partners. There was no predetermined time or point at which they would meet but somehow on most mornings they would be seen walking together. 

I think it probably started with an observation of another human being’s presence, then an acknowledgement of a familiar face, and then choosing to walk together in the same direction. Apparently, on one of their earliest walks together, Munniji standing tall at 6 feet, tumbled and was caught mid-air by 5 footed Papaji, catching him just in time and "saving him from what could have been an awful fall.' (Papaji’s exact words). And the partnership was sealed!

Many years passed and Papaji’s health deteriorated due to old age so he stopped going for a walk. However Munniji did not stop his walks, converting a part of it into visits to his old friend. In those two years that Papaji was unable to go for his walk, Munniji came to visit him very often. 

It was a common sight in our home to see Munniji and his young attendant (he had acquired one by now) in Papaji’s room somehow, checking in on him. I say somehow because no words were exchanged, no hand shake, sometimes not even a look passed their way, but I think Papaji knew when Munniji came and more importantly he did! (at 96 there aren’t that many friends left to come. Khurana uncle came too but let’s save him for another day). 

Papaji passed away and I never saw Munniji again. Many years later I read about Munniji’s passing away, being cremated in his ashram and some people objecting to that. And that is when I discovered how famous, for lack of a better word, he was! He had a huge following and people waited for hours for just a darshan of him. Philosophically speaking, he didn’t belong to the ashram but the ashram belonged to him. However, for us, he was just, Papaji’s gentle, moan vrat dhaaran, tall, white robed, simple friend, “Munniji”!

What amused me then and fascinates me now is that a deep relationship blossomed between two such different personalities without a single word being exchanged! I guess conversations and relationships aren’t always indebted to oral conversations. Maybe it's true that actions speak louder than words? Maybe our minds or hearts or brains (or whatever) work at a level that one can’t really fathom. Maybe this is what defines us as social animals or maybe this is the definition of that relationship called friendship. 

moan vrat dharan - vow of silence

darshan – glimpse

chowkidar - watchman

doodhwala - milkman

Aah my fickle mind ...I love you

Isn’t it amazing how fickle our minds are? Or at least mine is! It moves from one thought to another, from one subject to another and we keep trying to train it to stay “focused”. But today I was so very pleased with this flighty, unpredictable mind of mine.

Yaah, yaah, getting to the story. 

So, the day started with a message to my favourite man these days, Paul the physiotherapist, to say that I would be 5 minutes late (the lingerie took an extra 3 minutes to hang). However, as I ran down the metro station steps to my platform, I heard the train approach and it struck me that perhaps I might be on time. I reached the bottom of the staircase and with four steps to go and a clear view of the platform I saw the train emerge through the tunnel and then, right then, a man leapt right in front of it. In that one second, something one hears of, sees in movies, reads in the newspaper, happened 30 feet from me. 

I was frozen on my stair. I looked up and around at the other people, at the train stopping, passengers getting ready to get off, the station master running down--all this in mere seconds because my keds (they are very smart and ideal for the planned long walk) had somehow gotten superglued to that stair. And honestly, I wanted to stay. I wanted to them to say that by some miracle he was alive, the man with the backpack (as I like to call him). 

But then I remembered the waiting Paul, realized that the whole train would have to be emptied, moved, and only then would we know, so I turned around, walked up the stairs and out through the exit door. Somehow while doing this, I also started to feel the urge to cry. Fortunately, as I took the escalator out of the station, I wasn’t alone in this strange emotion and a young girl on the stair above me was weeping.  Everything else was forgotten and I immediately felt the need to make sure she was fine. By the time we exited the escalator she was better, I was better, and we had acquired two other caretakers. 

 Paul was once again remembered, the young girl handed over to the young caregiving couple and I went looking for an alternate mode of transportation. My wonderful mind, however, needed to offload all this on to someone, so husband got a call. Sister got a call. No. Paul did not get a call. He got the whole story because despite being 30 minutes late, I made it there and what else does one discuss during a physiotherapy session other than suicides?! 

 I did also talk to my Dad but somehow didn’t feel the need to share the story with him. I guess bonding over our respective annoying and painful backs was more interesting. I had a long chat with my Masi on the way back home. I didn’t feel the need to tell her either but that might be because there is something extremely engrossing about recipes which taste equally good if not better with chicken stock. Recipes of dishes which I “should” be making for my son as he recovers from his meniscus surgery, next month.

 The rest of my day was spent with my lovely friend Virginia, discovering the wonders of “Le Semaritaine" (just google it!), eating copious amounts of tagliatelle, shopping and buying 'the' purple trousers so the mind was too busy to ponder too much on Monsieur Backpack.

 Which is not to say that I haven’t done so. Through the course of the day, I have thought of the incident and of Monsieur Backpack. One thought was that it was rather unobliging of him to have jumped in front of the train instead of just eating some pills or some such thing in the privacy of his home. Horribly callous na. But think about it. His one action has probably scarred the train driver for life, made many people late for work (or physio appointments), stressed out the station manager and pushed who knows how many to a therapist (and some to blogging in the middle of the night), not to mention the pain that his family and friends must be experiencing. But a few seconds later, my heart would go out to the tremendous mental trauma and stress that he must have been experiencing to actually take this step.

 Another time, as I described it to my son, I said “it was quite an amazing dive. Rather graceful, though it might have been better if it had been into a swimming pool”. My shocked son exclaimed “Mom!” Arre but I was just stating a fact. 

 And then there were moments when I wondered if he had planned it or was it a second of complete and utter despair. A place of no return that I cannot even imagine let alone understand. Unanswered questions popped up – if he had planned it, why did he have a backpack?  If he hadn’t planned it what was the last thought that made him do this? 

 Which makes me think that it’s so wonderful to have a capricious mind! One that is so easily distracted not only by various things but also views the same experience in so many different ways. (The psychologist reading this can now start naming the syndrome and explaining the reactions).

 A few years ago, my friend Priya had a Hanuman Chalisa ka path and at this paath, the wonderful Swamini Supriyananda, (she’s such a cool monk that I begged the producer of the radio show that I was interviewed on to let me interview her), talked about why we like (ok worship) Hanuman. According to her (I hope I get this right) our brain is akin to monkeys. Like monkeys move from one thing to another, our brain flits from one thought to another. However, Hanuman was an exception. He was able to control his brain/ actions and stay focused on only one thought/idea/concept which was Ram (ok, Lord Ram) so we revere him and hope to, like him, control our mind and thoughts from wandering. Pretty cool concept, haan?  

 But today I was so happy that I am not even like the speck of dust on the tiny birthmark (trust me, he has one) on the pore on the left lobe of Hanuman and have a flighty, unpredictable, unfocused mind that strays, wanders and meanders …and keeps me sane (almost!)

Masi – Mother’s sister

Hanuman Chalisa - (Wikipedia says it is) a devotional hymn in praise of Hanuman 

Hanuman - Worshipped as a god, the (monkey) companion of Ram in the epic Ramayan. According to Hindu mythology, the son of the Wind god, Vayu. 

Paath - Recitation of a holy text

And there is always a story...

I just got off the phone with a school mate who confirmed what I have been telling everyone. I've become a cocktail party story. Or rather my story has! 

Pretty cool na. I, for one, think so!

 They say what goes around comes around, and since telling tall but truthful stories (that's not an oxymoron and completely possible) are my forte, I was bound to become a 'tall' tale  someday!  But again instead of getting to the point, I'm meandering. So here is my story. 

My 50th birthday was on the 21st of December so husband dearest, while sitting in Paris, very enthusiastically and more than ably supported by my best friends, sisters and nieces (please to note mi'lord, girls only girls and actively so!) planned this large celebration in Delhi which included a party (obviously), a golf game, a book, a lunch .... yeah pretty much the works. 

 Lekin, paruntu, but, as you know, these days, man proposes and Covid disposes so when  my older son and husband tested positive everything was cancelled. As if that wasn't enough, when they recovered and returned to their respective caves, I tested positive too. But wait, this is hardly a fun narration. 

 This is more like it: Can you imagine, this guy from Paris planned an entire celebration for his wife's 50th. They live in Paris lekin it was all supposed to be in Delhi. They had family and friends coming from everywhere...sabh-kuch booked - venue, DJ-sheeje, golf, but when they arrived,  the son tested positive and went straight to the hospital. Just as it looked like he would come home, the father tested positive and he was taken to the hospital. Completely asymptomatic and he had to stay there for 10 WHOLE days. Just imagine! Crazy rules na (this is usually followed by discussion on the government rules). Sabh-kuch cancelled. But that's not all. He came back from the hospital, spent three days at home and then left for Paris with his sons. The wife stayed back in Delhi and that night she tested positive too. Unbelievable na?!!! This is the skeleton. Details or masala get added depending upon whether you share one, two or more degrees of separation with the main characters.

 Actually,  I don't know if the story is being portrayed quite like this but when I laughingly related this to my friend, she burst out laughing and said that she had been talking about it for the last two weeks and had narrated it to at least 15 people who in turn must have gossiped it forward and so and so forth going through friends in Paris, Mumbai, HK and everywhere else! 

 Family and friends discussing it isn't surprising. After all, they were a part of the journey and the love and affection that flowed was and still is overwhelming. But honestly, I'm not making up the spread. I believe we were dinner party conversation in Philadelphia where my husband's class-mate met my Masi's best friend. Last heard, both were fact checking. 

 The interesting part is that it goes beyond. As I type this, my friend's friend or friend's sister-in-law or brother's friend's Mamaji or some such person might be narrating it in some part of the world. And it makes me think, isn't this what connects people? Stories and experiences? Good, bad or indifferent!  

 Do I give myself too much credit? Naaah.... because it's not me that matters. It's the story! Believe me, I know because I'm still retelling the saga of the "chunni function" of my college friend's, cousin's, sister-in-law (it's an incredible one with number restrictions and cars as return-presents so call me for details).

*Sabh-kuch – Everything, Masi - maternal aunt, Mamaji - maternal uncle, Chunni function-one of the many events at a North-Indian wedding 

Uff Nostalgia Again....

A day for whatsapp messages and that too nostalgic ones. The first one had photographs of wonderful things from our childhood, which included a telephone, one of those round, black dial ones. It's been so long that I can't even remember what they're called! Another said, "If You Grew Up In The 80s ..." and listed things that we did and yet another one said, “Nothing Can Beat This Childhood”!

And it got me thinking. Was it really as wonderful as we believe it was? Was it really way cooler than today? 

Because for starters, making an international phone call was damn difficult. I remember that my parents were stressed when it would take hours to connect a "trunk call" to my Bhua in California, if it did at all. Now, my 93 year-old Dad talks to the same Bhua every day, and, that too on a video call!

"We played outside" -- no, not all of us. I did. My bookworm sister sat on the same sofa for hours reading book after book. I know that’s considered a quality or a skill these days but it smashes that “we all played outside” theory to pieces. 

"We took off our 'school clothes' as soon as we got home and put on our ‘home’ clothes'." This one brought back memories of sweaty shirts in the summer and cold legs in the winter. Delhi School classrooms can get very hot in the summer and who liked wearing the scratchy stockings that were a part of the winter school uniform. 

"We didn’t have Amazon Prime or Netflix, we had only one channel to watch, Doordarshan!!!" And so, we hardly knew what was happening in the world and our view of events everywhere including our own country was coloured by what the government led us to watch. Ask any journalist worth her salt and she will tell you how painful the constraints were! I dislike the shouting journalists and some of the visuals on the news channels these days as much as the next person but it's much better than no news or only news about the PM's day (yes, yes, some channels still do that but ...)

"We waited for gifts from overseas especially chocolates etc etc etc”. Yes and also spent so much time and energy in trying to figure out how to procure sports equipment which was not available at any price. It could only be imported. Now, it's a click away. 

"Music was heard via vinyl records or by recording music on cassettes" and we were therefore either exposed to what our parents liked or what we could afford to borrow or buy. The easy availability of music has bridged the gap between countries, between the have and have-nots and between generations. Isn’t it amazing that we have K-Pop in India, Bollywood music in Paris and a Sri Lankan song going viral all over the world...and this applies to cinema, art and travel too. 

One WhatsApp message said, "Bottled water was luxury, we drank it straight from the tap. Even at a train station”. This is great for someone like me because I hate bottled water and have a strong stomach for the tap-stuff but for others it's a nightmare. Is it any wonder that such a large percentage of the Indian population suffer from IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome .. and my prudish editor just fainted).

Another one said, "We watched our mouths and behaved or our parents would give us something to cry about!” Honestly, giving us something to cry about is why half our generation needs therapy!! 

Yes, playing Antakshari when the electricity went was great fun but the heat and mosquitoes of those nights weren’t. 

“Family ties and friendships were deeper”. Really? I met my cousins, aunts and uncles who lived in different cities/countries once every couple of years and hardly spoke with them while family chats these days ensure that I know what’s cooking in my sister-in-law’s house and what my nephews wore to the New Year's Eve party (One is in New York and the other is in Pune). I’ve even reconnected with the same cousins and constantly bore them with my Paris videos. Zoom birthday parties, school groups, Facebook have not only reconnected people but have kept the friendships going. At my wedding sangeet, my Dad's best friend and one of my favourite people, Inder Uncle, and I walked into the venue together. He hadn't seen me in years and when I said"Hi Inder Uncle", I got a weak "Hello beta". I remember laughing and saying, "Inder Uncle, it’s me Urvashi!" (And no, the make-up did not make me look like a witch or a Noor Pari). Fortunately that won’t happen when I go to my friend’s son’s wedding in December. Let alone the groom and “our” side of the wedding party, I’ll probably be able to recognise the bride’s family from all the photographs that my friend has been sharing.

So often I hear the phrase “those simpler times”. But getting foreign exchange when you travelled was a pain, getting good lingerie was like winning the lottery and public transport was, pretty much non-existent! So, how were they simpler times? Isn’t it like saying that an illiterate man is a “simple” man?!

So was our childhood a disaster - no, not at all! It was great. Pretty awesome actually, we had loads of fun. Our circumstances and experiences made us strong, resilient and at the same time flexible but it just seems so odd that as we get older everything in the past is viewed with rose-tinted glasses and everything today or in the future has a hard frame of reality. 

Maybe the answer lies in Rabbi’s song 'Gill Teh Guitar' 

milya kal ek raahi mainu
kahnda gal sun meri tu khol kan
jado na kuch age dise
tahiyo banda vekhe pichhe

I met a traveller yesterday
He said, listen to me carefully,
When you can't see anything ahead
you turn to see what's gone by

Surely, if we keep looking back, we will fall into that ditch but if we look ahead, we just might avoid it. Having said that, the Balushahis when my grandfather was alive were something else and nothing we get now comes close to them…

I'm a Snob!

I just realised that I’m a snob.

 On the way to Golf, my husband and I stopped to eat our Sunday croissant from our favourite boulangerie (a walk from our apartment) and sat in the car commenting on the quality of the croissant and how the texture of the croissant in the boulangerie in our building has changed.

Yes, you read right, we have a boulangerie in the building so we wake up to the aroma of freshly baked French bread. How wonderful na? Not At All! Believe me, after the first two weeks  it’s not a pleasure, it’s a curse! Try knocking off the Diwali or Christmas indulgences while waking up to the smell of freshly baked bread. It either makes you hungry first thing in the morning or makes you crave for bread the whole day.  

But as usual, I’m meandering. So as we ate our crispy croissant the conversation moved to baguettes and croissants from different boulangeries and what is better where. During this conversation a thought suddenly struck me and I said “Atul have we become bread snobs?”! A moment later I laughed loudly because I realized that I am not only a bread snob but I do have a tendency to become a food snob.

So to begin with, I’ve always been a Gol Guppa, Kebab and Roti snob. Nothing compares to “what we get in Delhi”(Those from Lucknow can stop rolling their eyes). I lived in Chennai for 2&1/2 years and during that time and even today, the idli and bissibelabaath is never perfect (except in HK when my friend Laxmi made it or now in Paris if my friend Bharathy makes it). The Sarvanas and Sangeethas (outside Chennai) don’t come “naak  ke neeche” (meet the standard). I loved Sagar (in Delhi) before I moved to Chennai and still like it but “it’s not quite the same”.

Nor is the Bhel and Saiv puri from South Extention (Delhi) worth the upset tummy after you’ve lived in Mumbai and eaten the real thing almost every day for three years. And let’s not even discuss Dim Sums. Twelve years in HK and I’m spoilt for life. Just nothing anywhere else compares to it unless you pay an arm and a leg to eat at the (Paris) Peninsula.

 Oh ho... such a tough life. No, I’m not a foodie. What a plebeian thought. I’m just a food snob!

Whose reality is it anyway?

Heard that Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for ”The Father” so my interest was piqued. Then two days ago, a film buff friend saw it and in his words, it was ”too good! Must watch. Very touching”. So today, armed with a charging laptop (coz only OCD people have charged ones ) and a huge bottle of pistachios I decided to see it. Husband isn’t a fan of cinema but joined me (the things some people do to make up for ruining a date night) and so to avoid the after - movie complains I googled the movie and skimmed through the plot. The word Dementia popped up and down went the plan.

I am sure it is a beautiful film but when you are living the reality do you really need to see it? My mom has 7th stage Alzheimer's so I reckon I could do without a reminder. Some months back my wonderful French teacher recommended another movie to my sister and I (Yes, group class of 2 with the teachers-pet older sister, I’m damn brave). She thought that we should watch it ‘coz it’s about a family dealing with Alzheimer's and we would relate to it. Our loud and vociferous “No" and "No thanks" took her by surprise.

Don’t get me wrong. Its not like I don’t like realistic movies. I looooove cinema (and television). All kinds. It’s been my constant companion - before exams, after exams, in happiness and in sadness, through breakups and during dates, while delivering my babies - ‘Parvarish’ (perfect for 50 hrs of labour but thats another story). And realistic movies are up there with romantic comedies and suspense but interestingly for the last few years dementia/Alzheimer’s/ageing realism has been shunned. Give me a realistically made and/or slice of life film anytime but let it not be about mine.

So, it got me thinking…am I doing what the majority of Indian do? Watch films that don’t portray their lives and steer away from those that do. If our old helpers Narsinghji, ever saw a non-masala Bollywood movie he would say to my sister “arre Belaji, yeh kya picture thee? kuch naya nahi dekha. Koi nayi country ya sheher nahi dekha. Yeh toh flop hai”. (Oh Bela, what was this movie, didn’t see anything new, no new locales or new countries. It’s a flop!).

But isn’t that what fiction is meant to do. Take you away from your reality and make you live one that you couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to or are not living at this moment. Isn’t this what we did when we read Enid Blytons, Harry Potter, Amar Chitra Kathas and Pride and Prejudice? Or watched Dil Chahta hai, Chennai Express and Mirzapur.

So, maybe 10-15 years from now, I’ll watch "The father” but tonight …. Back to the search button.

Achievements?

The big 50 is coming up soon and I was playfully lamenting to my husband how I have no achievements to show for the years. I don't quite believe that but it sounds dramatic enough to get me some attention and yes, I had been watching some video clip about an overachiever. I don't remember in which field but must have been sports ‘coz they inspire me the most.

But I meander... so as I lamented my husband turned around and said, "arre you have one son doing...and the other doing...." and listed my sons' academic achievements. My instant reaction was "how do their achievements become my achievements?"!

I often read, see and hear that having successful children is an achievement and it always bothers me because since when did our children become our goal, or work?

Sure, being able to instill in your child your value system or strong principles is an achievement. Being able to teach them how to balance fun with work or pride in their wins with humility is an achievement. Providing them with an environment that is safe but doesn't smother them or with opportunities that encourage them to think and question and making them understand when they need to fight and when they need to walk away are achievements.

Getting teenagers to hear you (listen is too high a goal), a 4 year to wear a sweater without running away or an adolescent to clean her room without sulking are even greater achievements. And for some of us it's getting them to not hate you for making them learn Hindi (taking a 6 hr exam did almost shake that!) and loving Gol Guppa as much as you do is exceptional!

However their academic successes, their sporting victories and professional triumphs are their own. It is their hard work, value system and experiences that play a role in helping them choose their path and excel in it. Everything is not hereditary or provided by a parent. Teachers, friends, extended family, team mates, aquantances and strangers consciously and subconsciously influence the choices they make. We parents play a large and significant role in it but to call our children’s achievements our achievements would be the same as a film director claiming that the best actor award that the lead in his film won, is his achievement.

And honestly, I have nicer achievements - ones that don't talk back, sit in a cabinet...

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To Believe or Not to Believe...

We went to the hospital because the older one seemed to have caught the flu. The first thing we had to do was fill a form and when we got to the "religion?" question my son said, " leave it blank". I smiled, said "ok" and left it blank but the wonderful lady across the counter was not going to let us submit an incomplete form so we were asked to fill it. When I said that we didn't know, she was perplexed and irritated with the reply. She had the "how can you not know" look. The son just shrugged, we insisted and she scribbled something - empty answer box obviously made her very uncomfortable.

Now, that got me thinking - had I done a good job as a parent? Is questioning his religion and God a good thing? Or had I made a mistake by not instilling a sense of my religion in him? I think he believes in god or maybe not. He says the Gayatri Mantra, will happily visit a gurdwara and quietly visit a mandir. Will light a candle in a church and go through the motions of putting a chaader in a Dargah, so...?

I guess it was time for me to question myself. Am I believer or not? I say the Gayatri Mantra (was taught before I could speak) and pretty much do all the above. The gurdwara, the mandir....I even have a puja on Diwali with all the Ganesh statues in the house, my silver Lakshmi and silver coins. But do I really belive that the Ganesh statues suddenly morph into God that day or that putting a tikka on the coins will bring financial prosperity during the year - not really! But then am I not a a believer?

My mother is a firm believer and a Sanatan Dharmi. Dad is an Arya Samaji whose mother was a Sanathan Dharmi and father read the Jabji saab every day. I grew up in a house where my grandmother woke up at 5am with Akaashvani and it's wonderful tune followed by Vande mataram and the Ram Charita Manas. The Ram Charitra Manas was my favourite. It took her close to three hrs to finish her morning prayers and a mid day nap was required to recover. Her Krishna stories were fascinating as were my grandfather's narration of the Ramayana but the wonderful stories did less to instill faith in God and did more to ignite an interest in Hindu mythology.

Funnily, at age 11 I didn't have any such dilemma. I went to the temple in Khan market almost everyday. But then, it might have been because it gave me something to do and the boondi Prasadh was yummyi. I would zip to the market on my bike, say Hi to all three gods - Hanuman, Ram-Lakshman,-Sita and Shiva, ring the bells and eat boondi prasad. Actually, now that I think of it, it might have been the boondi that attracted me because I wasn’t particularly pleased with the pandit when he distributed Patasas,. I would occasionally buy mithal and offer it at the mandir and I think therein lies the start of my love for mithal - all gods fault! I really think that at that time I believed, though I should mention that it was also the time when I bought a lottery ticket every month. So when and how did I start questioning it all….

I've seen what faith can do for you. When my grandmother was dying the only thing that gave my aunt solace was praying. My best friend found Buddhism and it transformed her life for the better. My other best friend hardly went to the mosque when I first met her. I think I had a hand in encouraging her to visit the mosque (selfishly hoping that it would lead to Kebabs and/or Saivaya on Eid) and it seems to have brought positivity into her life but no Kebabs or Saivayya into mine. My inlaws believe in Sai baba and my sister is a practicing Sikh. I only see positive influences of their faith on them. But my biggest moment of belief was at the Maha-Kumb Mela in 2000.

I heard so much about the Maha-Kumbh when it was on that finally towards the end of it we went decided to go to Allahabad to see what the hype was all about. Won't bore you with other details but one incident is vivid in my memory. We were in the boat at the holiest spot contemplating whether to go in or not when a man from another boat jumped in carrying his 90 year old frail mother. The look of first happiness and then peace on the face of this old and almost shrivelledup lady was the most beautiful and fascinating thing I have ever seen. It was difficult for us, especially me to stop staring. One would have thought that I had spotted God.

And maybe I had. Maybe this is what religion was invented for, why people believe! Faith gives them a focus, a purpose and above all, peace. It's hard to believe this when the world is burning up but hey we're discussing able minded people and not deranged fascists. Maybe it’s faith that gives hope when there is none left.

And my faith... Oh well, like a friend said when as a young 15 year olds I was vociferously questioning it all, "see, if you believe and there is a God, great. If you don't believe and there isn't a god, great.  But, if you don't believe and then it turns out that there is a God there might be a bit of a problem na so may as well believe!".....

Lessons in friendship and love...

I was in the shower (amazing how hot water gets your brain and memory ticking) when suddenly I thought of friends, friendship and PP uncle - actually, I'm not sure which came first....

PP Uncle was one of my Dad's closest friends and the class clown. I think they joined the armed forces together and I believe PP Uncle had a joke a minute. He  left the forces very early and settled down in Calcutta (now Kolkata) making pens( to simplify his business).

I first met him when he had had an operation and stayed with us in Delhi. I don't remember - might not have ever been told what operation it was but what I do remember is that it was summer because the Air conditioner was on and so the door was always shut. I used to sneak into the room to play ludo with him or just talk to him. Mom would come and shoo me out coz he was supposed to be resting. On one of these afternoons he asked me what I would like best for a birthday present and for some reason ( I don't really love either) I said, pens and balloons. I didn't at the time know that he made pens.

PP uncle got better and went home and we moved to Banglore. And then in December of that year came my 6th  birthday. A few days after my birthday I was handed a parcel which had - two pens and balloons of every shape and size. I still remember the largest one ( I had never seen a balloon that big) - it was green.

Now, the story doesn't end here - it carries on. Cut to about 10  years later. I walked into the drawing room see my Dad and Mom talking to two really pretty "Didi types"( about the age of my sister Bela Didi). One was PP Uncles daughter Neelu and the other his daughter-in-law Richa. I sat there for about 10 minutes (I was about 15 years old with the attention span of a goldfish and the wasn’t really interested in anyone other than myself) listening to the conversation and only when they left did I discover they 'belonged' to PP uncle and the pens and balloons were immediately remembered....

A few years later, I went to Calcutta for a Golf tournament and Dad gave me PP Uncle's number saying that I 'must' call him. Now, which 19 year old  would want to bother with calling her Dad's friend when she can hang out with your own?  I  kept postponing it also because I wasn't sure what I'd say. Then after much rehearsing what I would say, I called. I was invited to dinner and not knowing how to say no, I accepted. And I am so glad I did!

PP uncle was by now suffering from Parkinson's so he didn't quite recognise me but till date it is probably the nicest evening I have ever had in my entire life. I met Aunty (PP Uncle's wife), Richa (the daughter-in-law who I had met but didn't remember), the grand-daughters and last but definitely not the least, PP Uncle's son Bunty. I might have met Aunty and Bunty before toobbut I had no memories of having done so. What amazed me was that I became a part of the family within two minutes of entering the house. The girls ( 8 and 10 years old) took me to see their room and to meet their new turtle ( it was the first time I saw such a tiny one). We talked a lot but I'm not sure about what. Then we all ( except uncle of course) went off to eat my favourite Kathis at the 'real' Nizams. While we waited to get a table, the girls wandered off to look at bangles in the shop opposite the restaurant and out of politeness, I followed. Lots of oohing and aahing, laughter and giggles and 15 minutes later , courtesy Bunty,  all three of us had a box of bangles each. We ate the yummiest Kathis - Bunty told 'his guy' (he's a regular at Nizam's and like every true Calcattawala has a waiter who knows his preferences) to make the 'special' one for me. Aunty and the girls were dropped home after dinner and then they proceeded to drop me to the guest house I was staying in. On the way I happened to mention that I liked Paans and so the car was turned around and 5 minutes later I was eating, the softest and creamiest Paans I had ever eaten - Gul-paan. It is aptly named coz it really did dissolve in my mouth. I still remember the sweetness and softness of that Paan and also the disappointed of it getting over too soon. 

What I remember even more clearly about that evening is the warmth and 'apnapan' I received. How at that awkward age I went to meet a man I vaguely remembered but instead ended up finding a bunch of people who although I had never met (they had probably met me when i was born)  seemed to remember me and love me. They made me the VIP for the evening without making me a guest. They made me feel so comfortable and special (I hate this beauty pageant word ) that I still remember every detail of that evening. 

Many years have passed since. Bunty and I kept in touch and I met them every time I went to Calcutta and on one such trip he gifted me a silver pen. I still have it - kept in my safe with Atul's silly Mount Blancs. When I didn't go for a while, we lost touch but then came Facebook and we got back in touch ....thank god! We met again last December. Calcutta is now Kolkata, the girls have  grown up to be beautiful women and I have two young sons. I hope that they too will be friends one day or at least that their paths will cross...



P.S: PP Uncle passed away some time back and I don't know if he left a mark on anyone's else's life or not but I do know that he made one little girl very happy!!!

Toilet Paper...

When I headed out on day one of a probable lockdown to buy groceries I was amused to see empty toilet paper and pasta shelves. I was particularly amused because if you eat large quantities of pasta you won't need the toilet paper unless of course, you are Indian and add copious amounts of red chilli flakes to it! (but then we Indians aren't TP dependant - more on this another time). I wasn't particularly interested in the pasta, as most Indian households usually have enough dal-chawal-aata (pulses-rice-wheat) to last two months and so it was easy for me to be amused. 

I had seen numerous videos and jokes on it, so I wasn't surprised but it did get me thinking. At first I shook my head at "this selfish behaviour" and compared it to stories from Japan during the tsunami and the malfunction of the nuclear reactor in Fukushima. In particular, I remembered an Indian friend recounting her supermarket experience – how she picked up a dozen bottles of water and then saw people pick up 1 or a maximum of 2 at a time and immediately put 10 bottles back. In her words – "I felt so embarrassed. Felt like a fool."

So what made the Japanese behave differently from the rest? And did all the others behave so differently? I don't have a definite answer to the first question. Maybe because they're such a close knit society courtesy their history. Perhaps they're just a more disciplined community (which they are), or maybe they're just more secure in the knowledge that their government will take care of them, or confident in their own abilities as a population to survive anything. 

Then what about "the others"? Do they not trust their governments? Do they not trust their communities? Or could we possibly be seeing it wrong? The optimist in me fought its way to the forefront of my mind as I gave the whole scenario a longer think. Could we be confusing hoarding and stocking? While they are often used synonymously, the dictionary defines hoarding as “to accumulate (money or valued objects) and hide or store away”, and stocking as “to have or keep a supply of/amass supplies of something, typically for a particular occasion or purpose.” A fine line divides the two and therein lies the difference.

Is everyone really hoarding or are they simply stocking? Buying one or two extra? My 17 year old son kept insisting the I "hoard" because it’s a “dog eats dog world” (his word’s exactly!) It’s probably because he just likes the phrase and was very eager to use it but I on the other hand kept telling him and all the others on the family chat group that I "refuse to hoard". I felt so holier than thou while doing! Now, I live opposite one super market and next to another, with at least 4 others within a 200 metre radius. I usually go out and buy toilet paper (ha ha… using it as an example proves that I am now truly Parisien) when I have two rolls left and buy oil when I have about half a bottle left. However, I always have 6 bottles of a mystery Chinese oil (a miracle healer for muscle pain) and 3 bottles of Ayurvedic hair oil, while my husband has enough dental floss for the entire arrondissement. I can be forgiven for the former because you don't get either in Paris and my husband too for… well… I'll think of something! 

So what happened to me when I went to buy groceries on Day 1? I bought an extra bottle of oil, a packet of salt (my present one is on 1/2 not 1/4), double the amount of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, garlic and ginger (I'm not only Indian, I'm Punjabi Indian!). On one hand I was not going to hoard but on the other hand I instinctively bought more. My son was coming home from boarding school and my husband was going to work from home. From one meal a day and so an average of 5 meals a week (no, not 7, we do eat out!), we would be moving to 2 meals a day and the possibility of 8-10 meals a week (mind you, 1. we weren't at total lockout at this point, 2. son number two arrived later). Did I do all these calculations when I did the grocery shopping? Nope. But like any person who runs a kitchen/home, I didn't have to. I just knew! So I guess its okay for the pasta shelves, the oil, the vegetables and sauces to run out, though, I'm not so sure about the toilet paper.

What's not ok is for me to judge anyone for taking more than one packet of pasta or to shake my head at the empty pasta shelves and think that an entire community is full of selfish people or to assume that everyone lacks a sense of community. How can I judge a 75 year old man, a family of 6, a woman who lives far from a grocery store or a young working couple with the same yardstick? How can I just assume the worst of people at a time when I really need to be kinder and spread kindness?! The stories and videos might be of people in other cities or communities or in circumstances very different from mine. 

Grocery shopping continued on day 2, day 5 and on day 8, I am pleased to report that the toilet paper shelf isn't empty. The world is sane again!

More than a match....such a learning for every sportsman...

Just finished watching "the boys" beat Bangladesh…heart beat is slowly returning to normal, my body has finally stopped shaking, fingers can just about type and there is a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. I don’t want to pay attention to “ we almost lost that”, “undeserved win” and yes - “both teams tried to lose”.

Oh for heavens sake! No sportsman, professional, amateur, weekend or of any other kind ever wants to lose. Sometimes the players preparation, training - technical or mental might not be enough. Her gut might be giving way, the heart might not be playing fair, anything….just about anything could be happening but I repeat “ NO ONE WANTS TO LOSE”. Don’t believe the commentators when they say it. They need to say things to fill airspace/airtime - ab itna mehenga contract sign kiya hai, mike haath mein hai, kuch toh bolna hai na. Those 22 boys on the field today and the 8 sitting in the dugout with their innumerable support staff all wanted to win and the 22 did what they could to win. 

And, what happened? Experience won! How many times have we been in this position and in the position that Bangladesh finds itself in? I’m sure if I wakeup my 13 year old son (who has finally gone to sleep) he’ll be able to give me the statistics. Every defeat tastes like shit (not that I’ve tasted shit but the smell is bad enough) and you never want to taste/feel it ever again. Every win feels like pakoras on a rainy day or hot chocolate on a cold one and you want more of it. 

"Never say die” won! No, Pandya didn’t win it for us. Burma’s 19th over, Ashwin’s last, Jadeja’s catch, Dhoni’s run out …. I could go on. At all times everyone was in there - thinking, strategising, agonising, focussing on just one thing - how to win the match.

Doesn’t the cheshire cat smile on Pandya’s face, the focus on Nehra's, the “I want to punch someone” on Kohli’s say something as do those excruciatingly long conferences over each ball. My older son said “Now what are they saying to him(Pandya)? Bechara! Dhoni, Nehra, loh now even Rohit - what can he advice him?” It wasn’t so much a case of advising as a much as a show of support and belief, as if to say - kiddo, you can do it and we’re going to make sure you do. And, hey, he did - they did!

So Thank you Team India - for the near heart attack, the ruined manicure and the lesson in Self Belief! Just one request…please can you dig a bit deeper against Australia? I don’t think my heart or waistline could take another…..

Home is where the heart is.............

A few days back I was driving out of the Cricket Club and a flowering Bougainvillea bush caught my eye. The big bush with bright red flowers is difficult to miss so noticing it wasn't a big deal but what surprised me was that I exclaimed aloud "reminds me of home".

Where did that come from? Which home did it remind me off? My parents present home doesn't have Bougainvillea bushes and nor does my sasural (parents-in-law's home). Was I thinking of Mumbai - where we've moved from or Delhi - where I grew up? And in Delhi - Lodhi Estate where I spent my childhood or Defence Colony where I went from being a teenager to a mature woman? But the visual in my mind was of a street lined with Bougainvilleas on either side somewhere in Rajasthan where I have never lived and at best, made a short visit.

An Air force brat, I moved about a bit but managed to get 15 continuous years in one city (Delhi) before being whisked away by my prince in shining armour (more like young Man in Benetton T-shirt, driving a blue Maruti) across 5 different cities in 18 years. Eight (the longest stint) of these have been in Hong Kong.

The journey has been and I'm sure will continue to be exciting, exhilarating, exasperating, with anxious, bitter-sweet and happy moments.

If the sadness of not being able to defend my national title engulfed me in one moment, the excitement of seeing Greg Norman overjoyed me in another - both courtesy Melbourne. If not being able to speak Tamil was frustrating, the simplicity of the people in Chennai was heartening. The anxiety of getting a child into the school of choice came with work opportunities never envisaged. Furniture covered with moss was exasperating but discovering a cleaning service and lime furniture polish, elevating (honestly, it's the best smelling polish/cleaner ever!).

Each time we moved it's been the same - arrive, discover city, find people you know (a bit easier if you're Indian coz if no one else, Rakesh's sister-in-law's, brother's best friend's sister-in-law can be depended upon), make friends, find a job/ occupation, settle in and make it home.

Aah, but we're back to home. "L.A.'s fine, but it ain't home. New York's home but it ain't mine no more..." Every time I leave India and come back to Hong Kong, this song by Neil Diamond plays in my mind. I'm always a mess at the airport - the boys treat me gently and tiptoe around their agitated, uncharacteristically sensitive mum. Even the generally matter of fact checking in staff sense my grief and the immigration officers usually manage to say something nice. And then, I arrive in Hong Kong - the roads from the airport feel familiar, Andrew limping over to help us with our bags as we get out of the Taxi is normal . I fix the African neck piece that lies on top of the shoe cabinet at the entrance of our apartment and hey... I'm home!

So I guess my heart is a fickle little organ that likes to be where my body is.....

And the Bougainvillea, well, may they continue to flower..........

I love being 40...........

Around my 41st birthday, I went to visit my sister in Mumbai. And for a change, I agreed to try a new restaurant. I don't usually have enough number of meals to allow me to try something new. After all, I don't want my old haunts to feel neglected.

But I deviate from my story. So we went to this fine dining Molecular Gastronomy restaurant, and while the food wasn't particularly tasty the presentation was great. What with foamy desserts and sizzling sticks -  Indian food looked funky and fascinating.

And then it happened. A big bowl with one small mint was placed before me. I thought, " Oh well, nothing unusual about this except that Indian restaurants don't usually have individual helpings of mouth fresheners"and picked up the mint and in one stroke popped it into my mouth. Just as I did so my sister exclaimed " what are you doing?" and the startled waiter reached out to me. Too late, it was in my mouth and immediately out of it.  Only, it wasn't a mint. It was a napkin! The waiter having recovered from my faux par poured water over it, and the mint grew into a lovely wet wipe type of napkin. At this point I burst into a loud guffaw, my sister giggled and my brother-in-law shaking his head smiled indulgently.

If this had happened to me in my teens, I would have been mortified, in my twenties, embarrassed and in my thirties very self-conscious of my mistake. I don't think I would have thought of it as a really funny incident nor would I have related it to my children.

I honestly don't know what it is, but there seems to be a sense of freedom for lack of a better word to describe the 4th and 5th decade of my life.

I vacillate between going without a speck of make-up or lots of it. And when I do use it, it's reds and bright pinks for me - after all, I need it more now than ever before. There is a desire to be slim and fit, but it ceases to obsess me - might have something to do with the fact that I can now afford to buy clothes that are well cut. But, it could also have to do with the fact that I have accepted the reality that I like. It's more like love, food too much to ever be able to make the sacrifices required to be a size 0. Having said this,  I'm still obsessive about my nails and can't bear to see them chipped or rough. After all, I've discovered "free will" not achieved Nirvana (Thank god! but then that's another discussion  for another time )

The desire to learn and study is greater today than ever before. Saying " I don't know" is so much easier as is admitting that you vaguely remember who Jane Goodall is (saw some documentaries on Doordarshan years ago but nothing since). And while opinions are stronger (and more vociferous) than ever before, the desire for all and sundry to adhere to them isn't as crucial.

 All this makes me wonder how I got here. Is it just an age thing? Is it experience? Or is it upbringing? Is it an indication of changing society or an age old reality?...............................

Digging into Parental Instincts

An evening not so long ago,  I was at a dinner party and the conversation as usual moved to kids and their antics. We were discussing weekend activities and the pains of having to wake up early on a Saturday morning......and not sure how but a friend said " a mother's hand should be on a child's head from age 1-6 yrs and then the father plays a role". Rather surprised,  I raised my eyebrows asking for an explanation to which he said " and so my wife tells me". The wife sitting right next to him said " I read it somewhere".

Natural progression - we were discussing books on parenting. And it had me thinking what a strange existence we must have that we need books to teach us how to be parents - the most natural instinct of a human being, especially a mother, has to be 'learnt'. 

There are self help books in the market, there are books on marriage, books on parenting books on sex, books on.......but the one that bother me most are the ones on parenting.

A friend asked me - "why parenting and not something like marriage?". Well, marriage is an institution conceptualised and conducted by a developed society. But being a parent and now I'm only going to talk about motherhood (because that's what I know) is instinctive. As soon as your baby is born you know what to do. It might take some practice to get it completely right but you do know how it's done. Every animal does - a dog or cat or pig doesn't need a book to tell them how to clean their baby or put it to its breast and come on aren't we supposed to have highly developed brains?

So what's happened to natural instincts? Why have we lost it? what happened to learning from other people - (not just an experts) experiences?

Atul and I did natural birth classes when I was pregnant with my first baby - taught by a calm serene and wonderful Gita Pandit. We did private classes and I learnt loads - from facts about my body to breathing techniques. But I sometimes wonder if things would have been any different if I hadn't  attended those classes. Wouldn't I have naturally breathed deeper and longer ( When we're tired or stressed we do, don't we?). Wouldn't a conversation with my mother (3 kids) or grandmother (5 kids) taken away any fear I might have had - after all, they had natural births 50 years before I was having my baby. Did I really need to know all those details about my body? It's funny how all the natural birth classes, "What to expect when expecting books"and Dr. Spock made me think that despite never having had a baby I knew more than them ( ya ya I'm a Miss know all but.......). I thought I was the quintessential "cool " pregnant woman - I  played Golf till I delivered and believed that "bachche to khet mein bhi paida ho jate hai" ( Children can be born anywhere, even in a field ) and wanted desperately to have a baby through Natural birth (had two C-sections!) but I still read as many books as I could..........

And the same thing with parenting. I wonder if there's a book that will tell me how to tell the difference between a tired 12 year old throwing a tantrum or a defiant 12 year old throwing a tantrum! I do however know that when my son gets into the car after a long session of Rugby, Cricket or Tennis and wants to either sit glum or argue unnecessary it's either because he's exhausted, played awfully badly or well, not got a chance to bat or bowl or something like that. Doesn't one just need to let ones instincts take over and then 'You know'?!

One can get it wrong (I certainly do) - often because one is influenced by circumstances, our own state of mind or physical being (Ah, PMS) but seldom because of our instincts. 

I joke that the maternal instinct having so far escaped me - I never cooed over my kids when they were babies - sincerely believed they looked like little rats, but there is more to the maternal instinct than hugging and kissing your kids. Isn't it about knowing when your kid is about to fall sick, knowing when he's sad or happy, throwing a tantrum because he wants his way or throwing a tantrum because he's so hungry or tired that he doesn't know what he's doing, knowing that A not S is the special friend, knowing that the repercussions of some foolish action have frightened him, knowing when to warn him or stop him and when to let him make the mistake, knowing the sport he loves, the books he'd like, the food he loves, when to cuddle and when not to ..................Not sure which book could tell one this? But surely a parents instincts could!

 Note: The reference here is to able minded parents and children. Psychological issues would require the expert advice of a Doctor/Councillor/Therapist..