An evening at the park

It was a beautiful Sunday evening. It was one of those days when even the least outdoorsy of people would find it difficult to say no to a walk in the park.

A group of young mothers are in animated conversation, seemingly oblivious to the kids that have accompanied them.

A new mom, pushing an oversized pram in one hand and carrying the pram’s 6 month old occupant in the other, is looking harried; the words ‘first-timer’ are written all over her face.

Nearby are a couple of dads, indulging in quality time with the offsprings they barely get to see during the week.

A bunch of tween girls, too old to play on the slides and swings and too young to join their college going seniors at Mocha for coffee-conversations-and-more are looking bored as they hang out on the fringes of the park.

Domestic helpers are squatting in random groups, some on the grass, some on the strategically placed rocks and boulders, originally conceived as landscaping elements, but now just convenient perches for the bored squatters; their expressions alternate between boredom and irritation, waiting for that 7 pm deadline when they could ferry their wards back home.

Everyone is out in the park…Everyone has thoughts on his / her mind….

The 24X7 mom envies the working mom who gets to dress up, get out of the house, and meet people her own age every day, escaping the madness of household chores and errant kids. If only she could trade places with her….

The working mom envies the full time mom her uncomplicated and fulfilling life at home in the company of her innocent little children and not having to deal with errant subordinates and demanding bosses every day. If only she could afford to give up her job….

The new mom wonders how her life has changed and if she has what it takes to give her child the best…

The baby wonders why he cant be left free on the grass to explore and learn….

The dad in the park is eyeing the yummy mummy and wondering what her fitness secret might be. He makes a mental note to make this outing a weekly ritual….

The tween is wondering when she will grow and be able to dress and hang out like her teenage role-models…

The teen-age role-model is hatching a plan to make her coffee-conversions-and-more outing last beyond the 9pm deadline…

The teen-ager’s mother, no longer regular at the park, is sitting in her empty drawing room worrying herself sick about the ‘more’ in coffee-conversations-and-more….

The young maid can’t wait to deposit the kid to his parents, so that she can hook up with her driver boyfriend before heading home for the night….

The driver boyfriend in the meantime is waiting to show off his employer’s gleaming new sedan to the maid and a daring plan is taking shape in his mind. Maybe he could take both for a spin before the boss and his kids get back from the park…

In every way,it was just another Sunday in a leafy suburb of the city…

Maid in Mumbai

In all the years she spent with us, P could never see what the fuss was about this city, variously referred to as ‘maximum city’, ‘city that never sleeps’ or ‘city of a million dreams’. She was after all a Chennai girl and a reluctant immigrant to Mumbai when she first came to work for us. 'People here don’t speak Tamil, how can it be a great place’ summed up her attitude to any city outside Tamil Nadu.

First thoughts

Her first reaction to Mumbai after stepping off the train at CST was not very different from that of any first time visitor to the city– where are the all these people going and why are they in such a hurry. Dirt, squalor and a sea of strangers was not exactly a welcoming sight, I guess. The two hour long drive to the suburbs where we lived took us past slums, gleaming skyscrapers, more slums, 5 star hotels, plush residential towers and then, more slums. We even pass the largest slum in Asia (if you know Mumbai you’ll understand that no statistic about the city can be modest, everything has to be prefixed with biggest, most, longest and so on).

A home with a view

We live on the 27th floor of a high rise in a posh suburb, far from the city, with a view of the lake for which we have paid a handsome sum. Only now, the view is a mere glimpse, that can be had only from a demarcated 10inchX10inch spot in the living room, provided we crane our necks at a 45% angle to get past the new high rise in front. P is amused that we pay a premium to get this high from where everything looks like an ant, we can’t call out to vendors from our doorway at will, and it takes longer to get in and out. And it is not as if you escape the mosquitoes at this height - she has already seen a few buzzing about. ‘Did they take the elevator with us?’ she asks in her own inimitable, wry style, something we get used to in time.

‘In Madras, people pay a premium for a ground floor flat which comes with a small garden.’ I knew right at that moment, this was only the beginning of the Mumbai-Madras comparison saga.

Food and culture
She looks at us as if we are traitors who have sold our souls to the enemy when we eat rotis instead of sambar and curd rice for dinner. She doesn’t buy the fact that for even ‘Madrasis’ in Madras have switched to rotis for one meal on health grounds. As for her, P made it clear that neither would she eat rotis nor would she learn to make them while she was here.

Over time P had mastered the art of communicating in sign language with the milkman, dhobi and driver. She had even managed to teach the cleaning lady a few words in Tamil, but not a word of Hindi had entered her system yet. She was a great source of entertainment for friends and visitors who called on us. She always assumed they knew Tamil because they were our friends and unleashed a barrage of greetings on them in fluid Tamil. Anyone who knew even a smattering of Tamil got to sample P’s extra special filter kaapi.

Bollywood
I remember the day Shah Rukh Khan came to our building for an ad-film shoot. There was an air of nervous excitement about the entire building. Everyone from the security guard to the grandmother with arthritis and the blackberry thumbing honcho was dressed in his/her Sunday best, hoping for a photo or at least an autograph opportunity with the superstar. After all, it was not every day that the badshah of bollywood paid a visit to a leafy, peaceful suburb.

If there was only one person in the midst of all this action who was truly unmoved – it was P. In Madras, between the movie stars and the movie-star-turned-politicians, there is enough going on for the average Tamilian to give Bollywood the cold shoulder.

P’s reaction to Bollywood’s undisputed superstar was thus :

‘he’s not dark (=not good looking), he doesn’t have a moustache (=disgusting),he is dressed in jeans and t-shirt like normal people (=hardly the garb befitting a superstar)    'What sort of superstar is he? Give me a Thalaiavar (Rajinikanth for the uninitiated) any day' she says with a shrug and gets back to her chores on the 27th floor, completely unimpressed.

It took a while for me to realise how culturally alien Mumbai was to P. We could have well been living in Papua New Guinea for all she cared. To her it would be just another place that was not Madras.

I realised I had taken P out of Madras, but hadn’t succeeded in taking the Madras out of P. She’s gone now, while all I can do is hope and pray that I find someone half as well-meaning and endearing, to fill the huge void left by her.

The Perfect Holiday

Every summer, when the heat reaches insane proportions, when the kids are school-less and agenda-less for what seems like an eternity, when newspaper supplements and magazines are overflowing with ads for holidays to distant and exotic locations, our family, like every other urban family that is readying to escape the hectic pace and daily challenges of city dwelling, religiously packs up and leaves for a good two weeks, with hopes and dreams, of new adventures, new experiences, quality family time and most of all, change.

This time we choose an exotic country with rolling hills, lush meadows, balmy weather, a lot of history, culture and food that promised to be nothing short of sensational.

Despite how alluring all this sounded, I knew I was being ambitious. The itinerary looked challenging. We were four - a three year old who doesn’t understand instructions, a 9 year old who doesn’t care much for instructions, a 37 year old who doesn’t stop giving instructions and a 38 year old who usually doesn’t pay attention, instructions or otherwise.

But, we each resolved to overcome our faults and make this the perfect holiday.

The first problem of a long holiday – being cooped up 24x7 in the company of the family, sharing living, sleeping, brushing and bathing quarters, can get to you after a few days, even if yours is a lovey-dovey family such as ours!

The second problem – the proverb ‘no more than 5 hours sleepeth the traveller’ does not apply to travellers such as us. The husband is happiest when reclining in bed till the sun is directly overhead, preferably with a blackberry in hand , the kids are happiest when there is a functioning TV within a 500m radius, and as holiday planner and executer I am happiest when I get to live my ‘Discovery Travel and Living’ fantasy. With such diverse demands from a holiday, the immediate future looks rather bleak. Still, we have to complete what we have embarked upon.

Ruins : The first few days are spent in a city with a glorious past that is steeped in culture and heritage. My heart begins to race, not at the thought of walking the very grounds where chariots once raced and where valiant gladiators once tore lions to shreds with their bare arms, but from trying to keep a certain 3 year old from reducing the carefully preserved ruins of centuries past to rubble by alternately climbing, stomping and poking the fragile structures with bare limbs. I feel the urge to flee the eternal city if it is to stay that way for posterity.

Museums are not free from risk of damnation from us too. The details and imperfections of the human body, masterly recreated by renaissance artists and sculptors are sniggered at and mocked at without discretion. Reason – “Mom! Why are all these people nangu? Why did the artists forget to put clothes on them?” We are left with no option but to flee scene, lest the entire Indian race be seen as philistine.

Forts are dismissed as drab, churches are branded as garish, monuments are written off as repetitive and identical by know-it-all 9 year old. By now my heart has begun to bleed at the hours of research and planning gone to naught, and the pointlessness of the funds sunk into this holiday already.

Ruined limbs :
Museums and ruins are not for us. It has to be the glorious outdoors then. We hike, we bike, we walk, we jog just as the fit anchor on the travel channel does, without messing her make-up or even a strand of hair on her head and after a hard day even has the time and energy to change for dinner. I hold her entirely responsible for the state of ruin we find our delicate limbs in. We city slickers are better off watching the travel channel, exercising our thumbs on the remote and leaving the hiking and trekking to those anchors. They atleast get paid for it.

By now we are whining with nostalgia about home, the comforts of separate rooms for adults and kids, the friendly neighbourhood masseuse, the driver who ferries us all over and above all the din and bustle, smells and sounds of home. Did I say we wanted change? Nay!

Holiday Resolutions
Every year we end the holiday by making a new resolution each.

Husband : Will never do a family holiday again (he finds board meetings more relaxing!)

9 year old S : Will never do a holiday with N again

3 year old N : Will never stop rebelling, mostly without a cause

Me : Will continue planning family holidays...A day will come when holidays will be filled with fun, relaxation, enjoyable family times, picture perfect family photos...till then I shall persist!

Happy Mothers Day

I remember reading Oscar Wilde saying ‘All women end up becoming like their mothers – it is their tragedy; and no man does – that is his’. I can’t comment on the man part, but if someone told me during my growing years that I would end up like my mother, I would have scoffed.

I grew up wanting to be as unlike my mother as possible .Those days I felt everything about my mother was either too much or too little – too much love, too much control, too little freedom, and so on. The onset of adulthood left little time to think about mom – grappling with career choices, managing the widening circle of friends, and the ponderous thoughts of choosing a life partner. But mom continued her relentless micro management of my life – ‘your hair was better when I did the washing’ or ‘your clothes are not appropriate for this occasion or that’ or ‘if you eat like this, you will not be strong enough to bear kids and raise them’.

Marriage happened and with marriage came new relationships and new responsibilities. Yes! This could be the turning point, I thought, where mom lets go of her iron grip. I was after all in safe hands now as she herself admitted – (It baffled me, how she’d rather trust new son-in-law than old daughter).

But habits die hard – my marital status didn’t deter her! She was now constantly coaching me on how handle to each new relationship, especially the ‘other woman’, also known as mother in law. To be honest, I found it easier to handle new mother in law than the old mother.

Was it just my mom or was there some underlying behavioural pattern to all mothers? I simply had to find out, so over a quickly put together crib session cum lunch with gal pals, I discovered that it was indeed a universal phenomenon – moms had to control and daughters had to rebel against control, and they keep getting drawn towards each other for more of the same.

Time took me to the next stage in my life cycle - motherhood. Please note, no amount of reading up or pre-natal classes prepares one enough for the first mind numbing wails of the new born, the first hiccup, the first signs of colic, the first vaccination....the list is endless. I noticed my wall of strength who vowed in the presence of god almighty to stay by my side in sickness and in health and in good times and in bad, was fainting and crumbling outside the delivery room when I most needed him; he refused to hold the baby for the first three months for fear of hurting her.

Suddenly I needed mom. I could think of no one better to turn to but her. Mom’s word is gospel now. I follow her instructions to the t, however archaic they may seem in comparison to the numerous fancy books on childcare I have read in the past 9 months. I bathe, feed, medicate, and even eat as she instructs, all in the interest of the baby’s well being. I exchange notes with her on how she handled my own infant days, what thoughts and emotions went through her then, what dreams she had for me and so many other things that I hadn’t bothered finding out all these years.

As my child grows, I find my dependence on mom only increasing. I start looking forward to her visits more than ever, venting my anxieties, frustrations and fears within minutes of her arrival. The husband points out gently that I have become everything I have always accused my mother of being - hyperactive, paranoid, worrisome and controlling. I shrugged – what would someone without a uterus know about how to raise a child.

Pondering later, I take what husband says as a compliment - if I turn out to be half the mother to my daughter as my mother was to me, I will have achieved something. I feel (with all due respect to Oscar Wilde) it is every woman’s tragedy if, in fact, she DOES NOT end up becoming like her mother.

Happy mother’s day to all the mothers I know.

Separation Pangs

She has finished a year of school already. It seems like just yesterday that we were busying ourselves for N’s first day. She was all of 2 years and 4 months....

The entire household is a bundle of nerves. The husband has taken half a day off to participate in this momentous occasion, his longest break since an over-zealous attempt to connect with the younger lot at an inter-office cricket match went wrong 5 years ago. The only connection made on said occasion was with the orthopaedic surgeon at the friendly neighbourhood hospital.

Today is a much more traumatic day. Everything little N may need for her 2 ½ hours away from home is packed and ready – finger food, spoon food, health food, junk food, favourite toy, neighbour’s kids favourite toy, first aid kit (like a school with 200 kids would not have considered getting one!), our only family photograph in which all of us are smiling (lest she forget what her parents look like in those 2 ½ hours), and change of clothes that may be considered rather excessive even for a child stranded on a deserted island.

Had N been a little older or wiser she would have suspected us of packing her out of our lives for good!

Despite months of planning and rehearsing this day in our heads, we are running 20 minutes late and accusing fingers are pointing in all directions. With two MBAs and proven organisational capabilities and time management skills between the three of us, the only who appears anywhere close to capable or skilled is the one without the degree or track record. She watches her animated parents in action with the same rapt attention she pays a Tom and Jerry show.

All attempts at creating the impression of responsible and respectable parents are defeated, crushed and thrown out of the proverbial window when we eventually walk into school, 35 minutes late, all nerves and still arguing. To top it, we scrutinise the teachers, staff, other kids, their parents, their hair, their toe nails, spoken language and body language with the same paranoia that one might display when trapped in a roomful of convicted felons.

While we were in the midst of being reassured on the high standards of hygiene and the capabilities of the staff for the 77th time, N has decided to make herself comfortable in a corner of the classroom and was already experimenting with the play-way method of learning : she was studying the combined effect of glue and poster colours on her taste buds. My own taste buds were going into spasms right then. I think I will need to give home-schooling serious consideration.

We are told to leave and to be back two hours later. We don’t. We lurk, first outside the classroom, then outside the corridor and finally outside the gates, till the security guard, not the friendliest I have seen, forcibly removes us from the vicinity. We are left with little choice but to circle the school block in our car. We are lucky no suspicious neighbour had alerted the cops by this time.

Two hours and a empty fuel tank later, we return to pick up what we imagine would be a distraught and crying N. But out walks little Ms Sunshine, after planting a kiss here and a hug there, in no seeming hurry to rush into the arms of the nervous wreck her parents are.

Well, I don’t know what troubled me more – the extent of my separation pangs from the child or the child’s lack of the same!

I had a lot to learn about my kids, but am not sure if  I am ready yet.

Hospital Horror

It is my third visit to the friendly neighbourhood hospital in as many weeks. It is becoming a habit of sorts these days. N has managed it again - the proverbial molehill has morphed into Mt. Everest -an innocuous insect bite has turned maliciously grave. We press the panic button, and faithful driver D who knows the grind by now, weaves past construction rubble, nonchalant workmen and stray animals that have become permanent fixtures en route to the hospital to reach us there in record time. I can’t be blamed if Schumi and his ilk appear like boy scouts to me right now.

Lesson no. 1 : Whether you storm into a hospital unannounced (like we did this time) or with an appointment secured after getting past 2 IVRs with 5 submenus each, 3 operators asking you the same set of 4 questions each, and 10 minutes of instrumental music along the way (like we usually do) – the waiting time is the same. The doctor will see you only when he will see you.

Warning no 1 for potential visitors : if you were not sick before securing the appointment, you most certainly will be in need of critical care by the time you hang up the phone – your BP will soar, your brow will sweat and muscles will be ready to go into spasms (learnt from multiple previous experiences with operators and IVRs).

We wait. We observe while we wait. Doctors in white coats shuffle purposefully in and out of consulting rooms; nurses without white coats shuffle even more purposefully than the doctors. A flat screen television repeatedly plays images of the hospital’s 5star facilities and imported equipment and a voice over tells you why this should be the preferred choice for all your healthcare needs. Those FMCG marketers could take a tip or two from these business savvy doctors.

Well, there is good news and bad news for us. The good news is that Mt Everest would after all be sorted with a course of antibiotics and a preventive TT shot. The bad news is that N  doesn't take to injections well. She usually brings the roof down even before the injection is unwrapped. Today was no exception. A small crowd has already gathered outside the treatment room and diminutive, edgy Dr. D, having experienced the wrath of this phobic child in the past was praying for an emergency in the labour room or even a phone call that would take him away from situation at hand.

When gentle pleas, authority and good old fashioned humour failed to cut ice with the insurgent child, the seasoned mother in me recommends the use of brawn power. It takes four healthy nurses 25 harrowing minutes to pin down one limb each, before the deed is done.

I’m surprised that the doctor hadn’t collapsed in a heap yet. Now, if there is one person who deserves a wellness holiday in the Himalayas, it is Dr D from the friendly neighbourhood hospital.

The doctor checks our vaccination calendar and heaves a sigh of relief that there isn’t one scheduled for another three years. He has enough time to think about his course of action for that day in the distant future. Maybe one of us would have relocated by then or a well-timed flu or a well-planned holiday would keep him away.

Till then, peace and quiet reigns.

Right and Wrong

Right from childhood you are taught the difference between good and bad; between right and wrong; how important it is to make the correct choices, not necessarily the easy choices in life. You diligently teach your kids the same values.

You are a darn good preacher. Are you a good practitioner?

Commandment no 1 : ‘Do not use bad words’

It is a Monday morning (not the best part of the day or week for you) and your under five is already running late for school. Just when you think you are going to make it past that last signal and through the school gates in time, a wretched #%*#*$ auto rickshaw springs out of nowhere bringing you and a strings of vehicles behind you to a screeching halt. About the same time, the signal turns red. The first commandment is broken, and how! Years of carefully controlled emotions and words that have never gotten past the tip of your lip gush forth with unstoppable speed and clarity. 5 year old gets a first-hand experience of the choicest expletives, straight from the perfect-until- this-moment parent’s mouth.

Someone sure had a lot of answering to do to a certain 5 year that night.

Commandment no 2 : ‘Do not lie’

It’s that time of the day when you are just about to hang up your boots for the day and go in for some well deserved me-time. The phone rings. Oh no! it’s that 9 pm caller who is certain to stretch the call until midnight; taking a hint has never been this caller’s strong point .What choice do you have but bring out unsuspecting 5 year old to the rescue.

‘Tell her I am not at home’ you instruct, standing right in front of the phone, in full flesh and blood.

‘My mom tells me to tell you that she is not home’ the bewildered kid parrots, in all sincerity.

Later that night, an anxious parent will be heard frantically explaining the concept of white lies to an already confused 5 year old.

Commandment no 3 : ‘It is the participation and not winning that matters’

This works well for normal everyday events...but don’t anybody dare remind you of that on sports day when you are screaming out from the stands to your first born on the field, ‘Kill him! Cream her! Faster! Faster!’.

Next to you in the stand is your second born, who has had no trouble understanding the third commandment, but is suddenly struggling to understand who this new monster sitting next to her is.

Commandment no 4 : ‘Share your things’

But all hell breaks loose at home the day child puts this to practice by generously distributing her lunch to friends and enemies alike in school; caveats and clauses are added – thou shalt not share lunch; thou shalt not share school books...

Commandment no 5 : ‘Do not cheat’

If greasing palms, fudging forms, deflating income, evading tax, buying pirated software, watching pirated CDs, breaking traffic rules when cops aren’t looking, binging on chocolate cake when family isn’t looking etc. can be excluded from the list, then you are doing fine on this commandment.

Point to ponder

You wonder why that 5 year old looks confused, distraught and world-weary most of the time? And you think it is because of the faulty education system, corrupt political system or perhaps the inescapable peer pressure (seriously? at 5?)

Maybe it’s time you added a new name to that list. No prizes though for guessing who!