Mambazham

A mango on my table. I look at it, hold it in my palm and suddenly, the key to my cave of remembrance opens thyself and I let myself in. It takes me back to a Malayalam poem that never failed to humble my own existence in this world. Of the need of living each moment of our life, the impact our words have on others, to become effortlessly self less, a compassion for life around us, an ability to forgive and to always carry that beacon of love in our hearts - a love so simple and pure, a love that holds no rhyme or reason, a love that outshines the demons of our minds.

'Mambazham' is one of the famous poem written in Malayalam by the renowned late Sri Vailloppily Sreedhara Menon.

When the first ripe mango falls from the tree in her courtyard, the mother sheds tears. She had yearned for that mango tree to bear fruits for months and finally when it did, her lil one plucks those buds and comes running to her, delightedly telling her that the flowers have bloomed and shows it to her with pride.The mother gets angry and reprimands him. His eyes wells up, his bright face cast down and he tells her, "Amma, I will not come help you pick the mangoes for sure".

'Lil ones, who cannot even string words together, are Gods in their own rights, for they can foresee the future', Vailloppilly writes.

That summer, her lil one, without waiting for the mangoes to ripe, departs from the world.

Now, the mother sees the neighborhood children make merry under the mango tree, building toy houses under its shade, plucking mangoes and savoring them with relish.Darkness envelopes her and tears blinds her sight.

She then walks and stands near the earth where her son is buried and lay down a few flowers and mangoes and tells him that these are for you, my love."My dear lil one, how many times have I scolded you and how many times you have come back to me with nary a sorrow?", she asks."Why can't you come back to me now, my love, my life, my lil one?".

A gentle breeze wafts by and she feels her lil one's soul embracing her....

Being a m.o.t.h.e.r

The few years in to my life as a mother and more the time I spent with my son, I feel that his world is such a happy spot for me to be in. He can be wild and rude at times, but in retro his innocence takes over, his needs and his means to access those needs are direct and straight cut and, his solutions always simple and worry-free. Some evenings, back from my work and his school, I talk to him just like I would talk about my day to an adult. Like the other day, he was perched on the dining table having his milk and I was having dosas (evening snack), I talked to him: that I am not liking the 109 F weather and wish it was winter soon, how it was a slow day at work and I wanted the day to be over with so I could get back home and such. He looked at me straight into the eye, nodded at intervals and asked questions like 'when will christmas come? can we stay home tomorrow?". I answered them, all the while thinking, how I longed for him to grow up so I could really talk to him in an adult-to-adult way. I wondered if he would grow up to be 'always-in-a-hurry teenager' or a 'sarcastic-in-a-nice-way to his mother's whimsies' kind of a teenager his mother was or if he would really listen to what I talk and offer his remarks like he does now in his sweet innocence.

In the evenings, he often talks about what him and Mr. Upsi did that morning after I left for work. On those conversations, Mr. Upsi is portrayed as his possession, as someone whom only he is acquainted with and not as my husband of seven and counting years. He would point to the golf driving range on our way back from his school and say, "My Daad said this golf Uncle is going faaaaaaar away and new Uncle is coming". When I reply that I don't think that is going to happen, he would immediately retort to "But my Daad told me".

Couple of weekends ago, I had to take him to his ice-staking lessons since Mr.Upsi had work to be completed. Now, our little one is not very receptive of strangers and borders on being a 'shy kid'; though if the same strangers were to come to his home, he would be showing off his toddlerish skills and toys to them. I am not sure on how I would categorize him. Maybe, I fear that labeling him so and so, at this tender age when his personality is only taking shape would deter its very growth in some way. I want to be able to provide him with ample space for his growing individuality, without restricting it within a fixed norm. Alright, back to the ice skating rink - the three previous sessions we took him to, he cried his guts out and would not go with his instructor and held onto Mr. Upsi's leg. While I thought the whole scene looked rather cute, Mr. Upsi was stern and being a 'parent'. He cajoled him to just go and grab those bubbles on the centre of the rink, that a Spider man or a Superman would never cry at such events and to please be a big boy. The lil one was having none of it and five minutes before the session ended, I saw him struggling to skate, fall down many times and finally reaching the toys, getting one and crawling back under the safety of Mr. Upsi's legs. On the way back home, I complained that Mr. Upsi was being quite a Hitler and that our son is just a little one and to let him be.

So when I got my chance to take him to the practice solo, I was armed with a cool-mom halo and was all set to just let him be. We got lost on our way and arrived 15 minutes late into the 30 minute session. I did not know what his shoe number was (served me right, right then and there!) and had to call up Mr. Upsi, who without missing a heart beat said, nine. Oh well, he needs to know at least that :) And there we were, the cool mom and her super cool dude of a son, at the entry of the rink waiting for the instructor to come by and see if the lil one would co-operate. She took a few minutes to come and I used those precious minutes to drill to him the hundred and twelfth time, 'hey lil one, take it easy now. look how nice it is. go ahead with your teacher and play with those toys. and if you decide not to, thats okay too'. The teacher came, did her sweet talk to whisk him away and he responded with a plaintive cry that got only louder with each passing second. She left and I found myself fuming intensely inside. The next ten minutes saw me talking exactly what I loathed to talk - bribing him with chocolates if only he would just go with his teacher, comparing him with his friends who were skating, talking down on him, expressing my discontent with his attitude, all the while feeling very furious and I could feel it radiating right through my skin. I finally gave up and told him that we could sit in the gallery and watch the 'good big boys' skate. He agreed and we watched from the gallery. I did not talk much at all and he could feel the tension rising. He kept hugging and I, who always loved receiving those unrequested hugs from him, did not budge and ignored him. He then came to me and said, 'next time, I will go with the teacher, okay Mama?". I melted a bit on hearing that and said a simple plain okay. He then asked, "so mama, can I have a chocoloate now?Jeez!!

Last week, we asked him if he wanted to go to the skating class and if he wants to, will he be willing to go with his teacher. He said, "I think...maybe....not". We left it at that and did not show up for the class. Later, I got to thinking if we made the 'right' move. Should I be taking him to the classes, or the least watch from the gallery? Did I give up too easily? Let him be or prod him more?

Parenting is a sacred responsibilty bestowed on the parents and when you are in a juncture with no clue or a handy book on what to do next, the sacred part gives way to being scary. Twenty years down the line, I know I will be able to look back on these and with a simple gesture of my hand, I will be waving at the simplicity of it all, that looked so complex at that snap shop of my life as a mother to a 3 year old.

On our way

June'09

December'09

For Dummies

Tips for surving a student spouse, who is also employed full time. As a bonus, a toddler tails along (this is important).

• First off, you donot know what mode he is in. He might be tuned in as a student, an employee, a doting father or a grumbled hubby. Learn to pick signs asap. Serious unshaven face - student mode, don't talk unless you want to re-repeat. Picks up the toddler - father mode, your clue for some serious self-time - rush to make lunch/dinner, clean home, take shower. (Rachel Ray just cooks in under 30 mnts. Phew! What a show off!) Poker face - hubby mode - this one is a bit tricky, but with practice you can be a pro. Ask him to take garbage out, clean your car, transfer laundry from washer to dryer. Say all these at once and he will turn into other useless modes. Delegate in intervals. Use your charm, even if you smell of garam masala.
• For your sanity, befriend a fellow such mom. Misery loved company. They are still very much in love.
• If you happen to cross his Advisor on the grocery aisle, resist the urge to throw the rotten tomatoes. Be polite and ask if he needs help bagging some tomatoes.
• When a common friend comments on the hardwork he does, think about The Alpes, the snow covered peaks and the cows with those bells. If you are still out of control, grab your child's rattle and shake it. Under no circumstances shall you grab the friend instead of the rattle.
• When your boss wish you to have a relaxed weekend, don't tell him your relaxation is from 8 to 5, Mon - Fri. He might think you don't work at work.
• If you are overtired, chances are that you may not fall asleep as qucik. Feign interest in his thesis. By the time he explains a theorem, you would be in deep REM.
• Reinvent your culinary skills. Bring out the hidden chef in you. He might be starving by the time he is home that even brussel sprouts-artichoke Gumbalaloob would be appetizing.
• Your toddler will open a book and read, "donot disturb Daddy". Find humor in this.
• Do not vent your exasperation on your child, unless you want to be featured on his biography as the lunatic mom. Chances are that you will characterized so anyways, but why live/die with a guilt.
• Finally, when you are all set to shoot those pigs that will fly (he is receiving a PhD), award yourself with a PhT (Putting hubby Through). It is all together a different matter, if you have arthritis and/or bed ridden by that time. Thank God if you don't suffer from amnesia.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to people in Upsi's household and vicinity could be purely intentional.

10:29 AM

did I not hurt you last night?

I didn't talk to you,
I was angry and
shoved you into your seat;
didn't let you finish the sand 'appam' you were making,
hurried up the bath you were enjoying
read stories you love in a haste
and lost my patience
over and over.

And this morning:

you called out for me
with kisses and hugs
pats and cuddles.

You really don't remember?

Or this your way of paying me back?

You won.
And I am sorry.

And I wish for you, son
that you win your battles so.

ps: Sometimes, I hate the rat race I am in. Racing against time.
I want to waste time.
I want to lay down on the green grass, face up, with my son and watch the blue sky.
I want to breathe in his baby smell and listen, really listen, to his world.
And do you know? That, I had to set up a time for that? A time to waste time?

Perumazhakalam

Daddy's don't love their children every now and then

Mr. Upsi and the Lil One had always shared a corner that I am seldom invited to. Sometimes I get a glimpse of it and my heart whimper to join their jovial company; they donot shoo me away nor are they rude in any way, but I step back and let them be. I have to be honest and admit that this bothered me a wee bit in the beginings, but now, almsot three years into motherhood, I know better. So most times, I stand back and watch the boys, unknow to their very selves fostering their relation. With jealousy behind me, I now enjoy and bask in this glorious father-son affection. I donot know if it is visible and prominent for any passer-by to register and remark on it. Perhpas it is the little observation that comes with constat companionship, that I have made. However, it gives me immense joy and a strange sense of satisfaction.

The Lil One (who is no longer the wee lilttle, but an young man with a whim of his own) had a hard time getting back to his routine of being dropped at school and picked up later in the day, after his month long vaccation in India. I donot blame him, it was such an onus to drag my own weary self to work after the holidays. But there were no time for such whimsies and we had to be back on track and get going. He cried every morning, feigned stomach aches and fever (which is when I realized I had to stop calling him the Lil One), begged and pleaded to be left back home. He even promised that he will cook by the time Maama is back from work. Now, that was a deal sealer and I was tempted, but sigh, those days have to wait. It went on for days and the high fever plus throat infection he had during that time were not helping either. This was bogging every one of us down. The evenings were windy and chilly and I couldn't lure with 'will-take-to-park-after school-if-u-dont-cry' bribes either. With the fever, he lost his taste, he didnot eat, the cough caused disrupted sleeps and his parents were not budging. What a terrible state for a toddler to be in! I tried not to loose my patience (failed), went down to his level (succeeded) and brazed myself for his tantrums.
He cried when the stop light didn't turn green the very second he wanted it to, when I went to the loo, when his toy truck didnt beep when he pressed the wrong button, when...you get the drift.
I was ready for a solo vacation and be back when he is thirty....or sxity.

Two weeks ago, he was back home from school and while he was deciding on a bait to cry for, I warmed up his milk, offered a plate of Parle G biscuits, sat with him with a cup of coffee for myself and asked about his day. He gave me snippets - that he had a lunch of spaghetti and meat balls (his school offers only veg food, so..there!); he worked on colors and glue and oh, R has a guitart (guitar - but he adds a 't' in the end) and mamma, please, I want guitart too. I carelessly nodded, my mind already on what to cook for supper. He told about the guitart again that night, before going to bed and to Mr. Upsi. He remined me the next morning, while brushing, having breakfast and later into the evening and night. It suddnely struck me that this was one of his 'firsts'. Him badly wanting something and conveying it to his parents of his need.

The guitart would cost thirty dollars. Not cheap, but not non-affordable either. I battled on whether to yield or wait a little longer, say, till his third birthday. In the car, on the way home, I told him I don't have enough money to buy a guitart and realized soon after that it was too early for him to make a connection of saving/having money and buying. Nevertheless, I kept repeating 'no money' whenever he asked for it, which was very now and then. A live pop-up reminder that could beat your outlook and such, hands down, any day.

Earlier this week, Mr. Upsi got home from school, weary and with an onset of flu-like symptoms. Oh-ho. The solo vacation should not wait any longer. I should be on board and not chopping onions! "Acha, where is my guitart?", is all it took me to be back. I will have to pass on that cocktail offered by that cool dude on my vacation. I looked up at Mr. Upsi and saw that faint glimmer of his foggier frog eyes melting under his son's plea. I donot recall what he replied. The mustard seeds were burining already.

Two nights later, I tucked the Lil One in our bed and was reading to him when the familiar click of Mr. Upsi opening the front door caught his attention and a gentle smile crossed his face. I was watching him -- his father's footsteps nearing and the anticipation of seeing him anytime now drawing near. Within seconds, he will be smothered under Mr. Upsi's hugs, his tummy would be tickled and laughter will fill the now silent room.

I wasn't too happy with Mr. Upsi's timing. A few mintues of delay, the Lil One would have slept and I could have moved on with my kitchen chores. But whom am I to come between the unconditional love! They hugged and rolled in the bed and Mr. Upsi went to change.....or so we thought. Because he was not seen in the closet where he usually changes. I was just about done replying to the Lil One that Daddy might be in the office room, when along came Mr. Upsi with a screech of "Loook...Guitart!!!". HA!!
I was not the least surprised and let myself be a silent spectator of what unfolded before me in the time that followed.

The Lil One was taken back for a few seconds - on seeing something he longed for, but unsure whether he would ever receive. Then he jumped up and down, pausing in between, marvelling at what is in front of him and back to his monkey dance again. He waited ever so patiently for his father to open the box and untwine the plastic wrap, where he could lay his hands on his much beloved guitart. Mr.Upsi, always the silent keeper of emotions, I watched his face, now a mirror of selfless pride on being able to offer his son a fulfillment. Their eyes matched -- brimming with happiness - one to give and the other to receive! Their hearts matched -- beating as one -- love in its most simplest form! It lasted for a few mintues, but I knew it will be etched in my memory forever.

So I am writing this down, for posterity. Because soon, my Lil One would have lost his childhood innocence. His wants and demands and needs will not be met by his father (a balded professor by that time) with the same intense. There would be fights, slamming of doors and days of no communication.

.....And maybe, at that time, this lengthy note will come handy. Reminding them of that winter night, of a much simpler age in time. And I want them both to know that "daddy's donot love their children every now and then......but that, that love is an endless one".

Much love to the boys.

Crisp white cottons

The whole thing confused her. She was never quite sure which ones went into the white batch and the other bright batch. At every load, she heaps them all onto a pile on the floor and begins to separate the whites from the brights.
The pure white ones were always easy, she found out. White under wears and t- shirts. Then comes the neutral tone ones, the ones that give her a headache. Neither bright nor too dim - the average ones, the typical ones. The ones whose place she is never sure of. Which pile do they go into? And she makes a separate heap for those.
In the end, there would be about ten whites, a few more neutrals and quite a bit of the bright ones. She puts the bright ones first; but there is so much space left in the washer. In a moment of insanity and indecisiveness, in goes all the three. And she watches them mixing, twirling and whirling around. Sigh. Life is such.