Of flying and other things…

Most people who know me, know my proficiency at acting totally gawaar-like or for the lack of a better word, country bumpkin when it comes to things like big cars, celebrities and the other such high-flying things. I cannot help it. There are still jokes about me staring agape at Manish Malhotra, for a good five minutes, mind you, no words coming out of my mouth when I saw him in a five-star hotel in Bombay, when I was eighteen. Or the time, just a couple of years ago – I spotted a red Lamborghini – and I forgot to cross the road, a friend had to drag me across, and later give me a giggly hug, because my response to her screaming was – “But it was the first time I saw a Lambhorgini!” You get the picture.

As usual, I digress – so when it comes to flying in a plane, the first time I ever flew was for our honeymoon – a naive child-bride of 21. I swear my face was glued to the window the whole time, I was beyond enthralled. And the best part is, I still am. It’s been a good 12 years since that day, but I still ask for the window seat, when given a choice and even fight with H for it. Flying is something that I still haven’t come to in terms with, in my head. Everything, from the rumbly take-off when I see buildings and houses become tinier and tinier and then disappear into nothingness, making up stories about who live in them, the sheer fluffiness of the clouds and the blue skies, I can never get enough of that view. And no matter what happens, I hope to God I never lose this sense of awe and weightlessness that I feel when the plane takes off. I’d much rather be the country bumpkin than a person who’s jaded to see the beauty in the small, tiny things, any day.


What they *don’t* tell you about motherhood…

They don’t tell you how blessed you truly feel from the moment you feel your heart beat outside of your body.

But neither does anyone tell you how frustrating it is to constantly try to be a role model, and an anchor.

They don’t tell you that you’re going to see magic, every day, shine upon you, and take you into another world, with milky breath and hair smelling of strawberries.

But they don’t tell you that you can feel your heart break into a million pieces when you see tears in your child’s eyes, either.

They don’t tell you that you will feel your heart soar and fly when you see achievements that you’d never expected.19029380_10154501239591128_2037376005600248749_n

But they don’t tell you how you’ll beat yourself up to death over an anger episode that the child’s long forgotten, but you haven’t.

They don’t tell you that you, who you thought were self-centred,  would willingly walk across fire, a million times – just to see the happiness light up in your child’s eyes.

But they don’t tell you about the countless nights you’ll lie awake, wondering if you’ve made the right decision.

The best part about motherhood is not in the happy parts, it’s in the beautiful heartbreaking moments when you realise you will never be the same, ever again.


Fiction 116

“Can you *ever* eat without spilling something?” he asks, a mock frown on his face, wiping the pasta from her chin.

“Nope. Neither is that one of my aspirations in life. If it spills, we wipe, and move on, no?”

“Like you seem to be doing everything these days.”

“Pretty much. But this is so much better than living a stupid, guarded, controlled anxiety-ridden life anyway.”

“And you got all of that from pasta-spilling.” he laughs.

“You think of me as a bumbling idiot don’t you?”

“Yes, but my favourite bumbling idiot.”

“Thanks for making me feel so good about myself. You should try volunteering for a suicide helpline sometime.” she snarls

“For a woman who pretends to be sweet, you sure have the temper of a lioness,” he says, wiping yet another trickle of sauce.

“Exactly. Do you see lionesses wiping their faces with napkins when they eat?”

“How can anyone be so adorable and crazy at the same?” he laughs, pulling her into his arms and kissing her pasta-smeared lips.


Of Thankfulness & Friends

And gratitude. And counting your blessings. There have been times over the last eight months when I have wanted to give up and give in. And throw in the towel and say – “That’s it! Am done, thank you!” But life unfortunately, does not work that way. It eggs you to go on, do the right thing, do the proper thing and get up and face your s***.

Just like so many of my truly lovely friends have. For prioritizing me over work and God knows what else and driving down in the middle of the night to fetch me my favourite tub of ice cream, thank you.

For taking over my house when I didn’t have the strength to have to face one more day, and ordering in food and stocking up the kitchen for me, thank you.

For painting my nails when I didn’t feel like taking care of myself, for dragging me to the parlour to get my eyebrows which had grown to forest levels, trimmed, thank you.

For holding my hand through what seemed like the thousandth anxiety attack over lost school uniforms, thank you.

For booking a table at a pub and asking me to come for a beer, in the middle of the day, and making sure I came and ate a whole bowl of mashed potatoes, and being motherly hens and surrounding me with your love and laughter – thank you.

For looking after Harshitha while I tried to combat yet another deadline, yet another appointment, yet another god-knows-what-now, thank you.

For knowing when I was the saddest, without even having to tell you – for ordering in ice-cream and binge-watching chick-flicks with me, thank you.

For celebrating each holiday with me, making sure am not alone – For Christmas, New Year’s, Sankranthi, Valentine’s – thank you.

For being my family when I had none around  – thank you. Whatever shitty hand life has dealt until now, I sure lucked out when it came to the kind of friends I have around.


Of Silence

Most of you who know me in real life know that silence and me do not go hand in hand. We’re poles apart. I’m fidgety and always mostly talking about three different topics at once. To be calm, to actually listen, to be silent – these are things that I could never make my peace with.

I’d fill my silences up. With the T.V. blaring random songs, with music constantly running on the phone if not the T.V. With chatter over the phone if none of these.

These days though, I hardly switch on the T.V. I hardly even touch my phone if not for work – and I really really have started to appreciate the blissful silences in my life.

I used to be scared of silence before, forever scared of thundering footsteps, of doors slamming, of my own voice, losing it’s sweetness and turning into a vile, vindictive screechy one. Of even the sound of a curtain slowly fluttering.

In the midst of typing this post out, the shrill jarring sound of my phone ringing irritated me – and then, I faced the worst fear a mother would wish upon herself – I heard a stranger tell me my daughter’s fainted and is having difficulty breathing.  Everything was on auto pilot then – booking a cab, figuring out the nearest hospital to the school, frantic calls to make sure she’s okay constantly, through this.

And then I sat in the cab, in Bangalore traffic – wanting to somehow transcend time and just appear next to her – see her, and I touched my phone, wanting to call a friend – the thoughts that were spiraling needed to be voiced. But then, I remained silent – kept the phone back and tried to breathe through what seemed like a century but was only ten minutes.

And then I realized silence is not my enemy. Not anymore. Silence is a friend now. It engulfs me and hugs me and comforts me. Tells me there is nothing wrong with the world. Tells me it’s all going to be okay – only if I silence the rambling.

P.S. She fainted because she was too excited talking about her day that she didn’t have lunch. She’s fine now 🙂  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.