Mrs Mathew

Tiger Tiger Burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What fearful hand or eye,
created thy Fearful symmetry

I watched mesmerized, as Mrs. Mathew read out the verse. Her voice resonated, her intonation was somber and her expression grave. But her eyes seemed fiery, almost reflecting a zealous intensity. An English Literature period; that took place 21 years ago, but I have since recalled it many a time. Each time the memory is crystal clear and sharp as a razor. Just minutes before she had recited the poem, she had addressed the class in her inimitable sing song ( it wasn’t lilting..) but authoritative tone urging us to understand that the poem was not about the Tiger but its creator, its maker. She exalted William Blake’s probable reverence in writing such a powerful tribute to The Almighty. Like many of the girls in class, she had my full hearted attention for all her English literature classes. She had been teaching us for 2 years now and it was a honour to be taught Shakespeare and Panorama poems by her.

Mrs. Mathew, my school principal, of St Mary’s School, Pune ( SMS-School of Million Snobs, and we obviously proudly bore that title) was 5 ft 4 inches but like all authoritative figures who earns and commands respect, she seemed much taller; especially to a bunch of school going girls, who unknowingly sought a role model but refused to accept her as one. She ruled the school with an iron hand and the sight of her walking to her office from her on campus residence still makes me want to, first, disappear OR if there was no escape- stand ramrod straight. She caught me once- banging on the chapel piano and good girl Bhavna, faced, public humiliation for the first time in her life. I mean, what is worse than your name being announced in the School assembly, for BAD behaviour. The teachers were closely watched and each passing batch was meticulously primed for the ICSE exams. The school gained an unholy reputation of being very academic focused but still we had star players in some sport, elocution or debate competition. She expanded the school from a small prestigious British sister led academy into a large, high quality and reputable institution. She was feared by student and teacher alike, but the teenaged girls loved to hate her. Commenting furtively on her sarees, her lack of another life beyond St Mary’s, her obsession to keep us away from, ahem, boys. (You couldn’t doubt her administration, EVER)

It won’t surprise me if many others claim that their school principals were similar. But Mrs Mathew stood out because she loved teaching English Literature. Indoctrining her students to love and revere the power of expression, the power of words, the imagination of a writer, a poet. She stood out because she taught many of us the importance of discipline and hard work. She stood out because she would never accept less than the best. She was fanatic about it and disdained any people who were less than ordinary.

I met Mrs. Mathew 3 years ago, just before my 2nd child was born. She had been suffering from acute arthritis and had recently been diagnosed with cancer. It was an Old School Girls reunion. She had been associated with St Mary’s for more than 30 years now. It was her life, her passion, her everything. And in the large auditorium we chatted: some awkwardly trying to place each other and some whose friendship had withstood the passage of time, it wasn’t unusual to see a mother daughter, both ex students of St Mary’s. And then she entered.

I’m not sure what I was expecting when she made her entry. I thought we would all revert to our put on masks, clap politely and then move on with our business. I still cant forgive myself for being so petty at that point of time.
I didn’t know that I would stand up and look at her. And be filled with grateful thanks. For having a great hand in making me the woman I am. And making me proud of what I stood for. And developing in me a sense of passion about everything I do. For inculcating a need to make a niche for myself wherever I went. For being able to do make that a reality. For being a role model Leader. For wanting to emulate her behaviours in all aspects of life. For being finely turned out. I suspect each woman in that room- be it a Dr, journalist, a veterinarian, a chef, a professional, a housewife, 60 year old or 20 years old ..stood just a little taller than the rest of the crowd anywhere. And I didn’t know that my palms would become sore because I couldn’t stop clapping…and I didn’t even know that I was a part of the reverberating applause. And that I wouldn’t ever have words to describe the adulation in the room. And that she would be overwhelmed but still meet each one of us. And while she couldn’t make conversation with each one of us , I know she recognized me when I went to meet her.

Mrs. Mathew passed away yesterday and I didnt know that I would shed tears for her. But today, each girl, now woman, of St Mary’s School Pune, will be just a little sadder. But our voices ring today in song for a school so fine and true. And more importantly for the woman who selflessly devoted herself to a calling in a way that many of us still aspire to be but cant. I do hope that St. Mary’s traditions’ continue the way they always did but it will NEVER be the same.

Come now girls, get up ....It has indeed been a privilege to be led and taught by her.

My Little Adult

"The chemist salesperson looked at me strangely when I asked him for a small size diaper pack and home pregnancy test in the same breath." The hubby was teased mercilessly amongst his pals and I was quite a balloon, but there was no way out : yup, it was a miracle pregnancy barely 4 months after Avyukta was born. Since the 1st one was an IVF, one attributed the good news to God, Dr. Nalini Mahajan and hubby( and in that order.) Paradoxically, even after wanting the pregnancy- I almost resented the new life within me- for taking away the attention from my precious 1st born, for having to wean him early ( secretly I couldn’t have yelped louder with joy- I hated ‘breastfeed is the best feed’ prophesying that I heard everywhere.)
Softer movements in my tummy, an extremely uncomfortable pregnancy; I became gigantic and got used to being asked ‘Are you sure there not 2 in there?’ I would spend hours watching my tummy- was it different from the 1st time, even strangers were stopped to ask " Whaddya think- girl or boy?" My Dr and family waited anxiously outside the OT ready with fetters coz I had threatened to run away if it was another boy.

My little adult was made her angry appearance on 3rd Feb, 2005 exactly 1 year 1 month and 8 days after my 1st baby. Fiercely red, she fed , burped and slept with frightening proficiency. I had no guilt in offering her the bottle by the 2nd day ( albeit when the Dr was away). I mean it was OK, na? I had a small baby to look after as well. So as I was gratefully playing with baby Ta on the 5th day after popping out another one, my hubby who was tending to her came in rushing and gasping ‘ Look at her…’ I hurried into the room and there she was : HOLDING ON TO HER BOTTLE with firm hands and staring defiantly at me. While the others oohed and aahed about this ‘bahut tez hai hey ladki’ I stared back at her and that moment defined the future of our relationship.

I mean, I know, I am her mom. I have a C sec ( read ugly, fat and strech marked) tummy to show for that and all the necessary proofs but truthfully, I am still trying to figure her out. She doesn’t look like either of us ( this wasn’t an IVF baby so no room for error) but she is a lot like me. Only it took me about 30 odd years to show defiance, like myself, dance in front of the mirror and sulk manipulatively.
Talk about High Emotional Intelligence- there is not a person Mimi cant get along with. Her gleefulness and joy is infectious and she has her Dad wrapped around her little finger. I am usually at the fringes of their affection but she knows when Mama needs that special hug. As irascible as me, I am the only one who can calm her. For the record, Mimi doesn’t respond to baby stuff and talk and she skillfully palms off some chewing gum off me and chews it like any teenager would.

My Mimi detests wearing anything frilly but cant be called a tomboy. I anticipate she will never grow up to be a tomboy. She could successfully defend her elder brother in a fight with any other children but loves to wear my lipsticks and now eye shadow. ( I swear I bought my 1st one just 2 years ago). She cycles like a pro and carries off my high heels with equal ease. As I tease her about her growing bum ( the glorious inheritance of the Chopra khandaan) she stands in front of the mirror and critically examines it. She has a fantastic sense of humour and responds sportingly to Mama calling her ‘Padduraam ‘ or ‘Donkey’. In fact, whenever we spot a Donkey on the road, she is the 1st one to point out’ Look Mama, there is Mimi’.

Mimi (touchwood) has no fears. She can be locked alone in a lift without electricity and she walks out with nonchalance- why did you lock me up? She jumps from the highest point in the house with aplomb and doesn’t even wait for applause before trying another one. Her first stint at the beach- she was almost swept away with a large wave and when she emerged coughing from the water, I could see it- the thrill in her eyes of having experienced something exhilarating. If I try to stare her down or scold her , she shouts back and informs me that I shouldn’t be shouting at her. ( I have finally figured out that the best way to deal with her is to shout back and tell her that I don’t appreciate her treatment of me). It takes her all of 2 minutes to recover from pain and despite usual childhood sicknesses , she is remarkably healthy.

I think, secretly every woman yearns for a daughter. And while ostensibly all people claim ‘it would be so nice to dress up a girl’; I don’t think its about that. ( if your 2nd one is a girl, you would empathize- they’re always in boyish pants and T shirts). Girls have a way of giving a part of them to you। They hug just because they want to; they know that its time to buy a pink lipstick ( not brown again, Mama) ; they pick up your latest dupatta and admire it; they share a chaat with you ( even at 3); you can finally gnaw at a chicken bone without discomfiture ( for the new comers the Lord still stays vegetarian and the son inherits abhorrence for killing anything moving); Mimi will not accept a chicken piece without the bone and prefers the tougher meat morsels. And like any other woman, I want to bring up my daughter to be everything I wanted to do but couldn’t do .
As my hubby and I worry about the times ahead and wonder how many men is she going to drive crazy coz she is an exceptionally spunky girl, I sing softly to her 'राज कुंवर जी आयेंगे, मिमी को ले लायेंगे’ she looks at me and confirms 'U cry? When Mimi goes?' I look at her mistfully and tell her I will miss her terribly and she…looks back at me her special look ( reserved for Mama) and then jumps up in glee ‘ And I ‘m not gonna come back’.

Memories of a Museum

Recession brings on strange justifications; a visit to the mall is a boring indulgence and cooking a stroganoff (y’all are invited) at home is far more worthwhile than a dinner at the fancy restaurant. Entertainment for the children acquires educational aspirations and we all packed off for a visit to the ‘Rail museum’ yesterday. We get off the car and rush to buy the entrance tickets but there is a horde of school girls in serpentine queues waiting. Dressed neatly in their uniforms, the queue threatens to disband itself with excitement. Ah the joy of licking ice lollies while waiting, the teachers capping the energy with their stern glances, some of us munching on obviously unhygienic bhel puri- others postponing impulsive pleasures- rationing money for a glorious end to an exhilarating day, the giggling among friends..

I enter and on a track that ends abruptly a grand decrepit train has been embalmed …awaits a second glance. My children run away fearing that the train will start and the lonely train is desolate.. its time has gone long ago. Its only fault is that it is mediocre, at one time it was a regular motley of engine and bogies, of passengers and officials, of economics and emotions, passion and boredom, commitment and joy all onward to their destinations – some to home and others to pastures that seemed greener. I move on ..but glance back, does it give me a wizened smile?

Centre stage, where stars jostle for space..There’s a grand saloon ; a dusty signage claims it was used by Prince of Wales (Edward VII) while he did his tour of India . Did Royalty get rickety or is it just a sleight? Did he sit on this white leather sofa drinking tea while commenting on the deplorable state of the triabalistic Indians or did he soak in the landscapes, the toiling white clad farmers and the cotton fields in the black soiled Deccan plateau? Did they come to revere him at the next station ? What about the Princess ? Where was she …charmed by their strange ways or was she home where her Ayah fanned her and allowed her lover the surreptitious visit. Was the lover as skilled? Or more?

There is a steam engine; have I become so old that my early childhood companion now stands in a museum? The excitement of a 2 night train journey, the visits to the grandparents, my mom’s joy at meeting her father and sister after a year, me reading all the grown up books of my grown up cousins, all of us going for a treat visit to the Rose Garden. My mother stealing away 2 more days by staying on with her father incurring my Daadi’s wrath. But we’ve barely started- Dad waves us goodbye. Water campers, a huge food basket laden with milk bound parathas and aloo mutter subzee, the dirty toilets , the strangers who become instant food offerers and bedfellas..I love the window, I can gaze out the whole day at the dirt, filth, naked bathers, wondering where Gabbar Singh was hiding in the Chambal mud dunes..the steam engine chugging away, whistling its presence, our arrival at New Delhi Railway station and our journey back in 2 months, blackened sooted faces, wondering who the new class teacher was going to be , Agra ka petha and hijras ( my college friend sliming away from giving them money by saying that ‘we are only students’, the dressed up hijra clapped and moved on- was it so simple? All those years of furtively handing them a 5 rupee note….) The Dhaund station where the train would turn back reneging on its promise to take us onward but miraculously reach us to the intended destinations. The hand pump at Dhaund, me scrubbing my face with the travelling soaps, the cool breeze of Pune welcoming us home.

There is the Fairy Queen..bringing its memories of Deccan Queen. The delectable mince cutlets, the office goers catching up on their sleep, the more ordinary bringing forth a foldable table, engrossing themselves in never ending rounds of playing cards, the familiar waiters, the fancy dining car, the Parsi kulfi still ticking the taste buds alive. Old world charm and contemporary fashion, intermingling to lend a unique snobbery to the DQ regulars.

The toy train. The kids want to take a joy ride and so do I. College trip , some 30 odd students make the best of last few days at freedom, from Kalka to Dharampur. Gola- stout and blue track suited new college star, the recipient of calls from all 4 IIMs, the cynosure feeling cocky, feeling exalted gets off the train striving for another accomplishment that will prove his superiority -promise to catch it running. We egging him on (GOLA GOLA..GOLA) and then Gola experiences failure staring at him. Chain pulling, the TT ticking us off, envious all of us getting our petty revenge, GOLA learns from failure ?. Chail and the first ever snowflakes on my eye lashes, the RD Burman songs which have become a soul companion, the purani jeans song playing again and again and again, silence and tears in the rooms, empty promises to be friends forever. The snow fight with the locals..


Maharaja of Mysore ’s saloon..capable of running on broad and meter gauge. Only Maharajas could afford a battery of slaves who would physically lift the bogey to shift it, THE Indian Railways is the world’s largest employer- still! The coal loaders, the coolies, the black suited grim ever greedy TTs, the attendants all saluting, guaranteeing a seat for a few bucks, the guard with his signals, still the final authority ..how many people ?
The delightful Rail museum has the skull of an elephant, the poor thing was on its way in its own territory when it caused a train to derail. The skull, along with an untidy collection of crockery, the cutlery, the clocks , the lamps, the metal passes, all testimony to 150 years of history.
The mono rail, the Maharaja of Patiala, the toy model trains, the throng of people jostling for space, the romance of train journeys, the serenity of passing landscapes’, the Indian cacophony at its best on platforms, the instant bonding or dislike, the fierce attachments to ‘my space’, complete nonchalance for respect for others, our lack of basic hygiene, the blankness in the eyes with few aspirations for tomorrow , the reliance on karma, .. where is it more typified than at this pulsating entity.. where reflections whirl past, where freedom struggles love stories have borne fruit… I chug ahead, hoping my children someday experience this romance.

Mama's Boys

‘Ah he cant let go of his mom’s pallu- the umbilical chord wasn’t ever cut’

As the years progress and the mind blurs out details, no woman ever hazes out the memory of that irritant somewhere along their whole wedding process- where the mom in law showed you who IS the boss and directly challenged you ,the greatest War in mankind history gets launched once again!. For example, mine took place pretty upfront- 2 days after meeting –‘Aunty’, when the Lord & I exchanged rings. A sultry Delhi evening, a cramped, badly ventilated DDA flat and the meeting of 2 completely different cultures. My relatives- all Punju, mostly Delhiites, many businessmen- unhappy that true camaraderie would not happen since Damaadjee did not eat kukkad shukkad, his all Maddu ( ok ..Tamilian Iyengar Brahmins, if you please..) a little taken aback by the characteristic Punju loudness and the brashness. So our man 'rings' me as the Pandit asks him to and then proceeds to turn his back completely on me. Me in that ghastly ‘rani pink’ saree ( why the hell do they call us North Indians loud?), sweat streaming down and feeling completely out of control with mostly strangers- desperate for his confidence inspiring warmth, his tingling hug and those eyes which still ..sigh, DIDN’T GET ANY. The Lord needed to impress his and my relatives ( he continues to hold the trophy for 'Model Dammad' in the Chopra/ Kapoor khandaan) and then Amma decided it was time to go home and so off we got into the hired taxi waving a bye to everyone except of course me – I stood there gaping and seething. NOTHING? NOTHING! NOTHING …F@#$ing NOTHING.
I have never professed to be a low maintenance person- (high performers always take a lot of energy) and The Lord understands that very well NOW. But obviously the rosiness of the dating had not prepared him for the harshness of Real life. The downside of a completely ebullient personality is that the intensity of anger can be pretty vicious. As he dutifully dropped in the next day- he experienced temper for the first time in his life. (The Rangarajan family is like all the noble gases put together but the Lord is NEON, though mom professes I have, with my tantrums- managed to make him reactive). Honestly I wasn’t even interested in scaring him- I WANTED OUT...my parents begged me not to call it off (Eng, IIMC, good looking, small family, educated, .et al) but I was on a roll. So as he stared dumbfounded at me – first trying to figure out why he was still his Mama’s boy and then trying to quickly remedy it- how he could become his fiancée’s. Obviously, no clear instructions were offered ( Falling in love is always life's early lesson in learning to deal with ambiguity) and all frantic attempts felt flat. A precarious peace treaty ensued – rocked by the occasional erupts of violence usually triggered when the visits happened ( Have you noticed that they NEVER pick up the dinner plates when their Moms are around?) .

And then Ta happened- conceived on my 31st birthday in a fertility hospital in a petri dish- the fusion of a purrfect egg & sperm, he changed my life forever. The first 6 months were the adjustment period- I resented him- for making me fat, for changing my body forever, for making me feel like a milk machine, me sitting there every night awake and eyes burning- waiting for him to stop that annoying, shrill wailing so that I could pop him out of the balcony..My first baby is beautiful. He is kind, generous and understands me like no man ever did. Protects me physically as well as emotionally– doesn’t like me wearing anything short and skimpy –‘Meri mama ka shame shame kisi ko nahin dekhna chahiye’ , if tears swell in my eyes- he just sits with me and holds my hand till I feel better. His genes reflect my sense of empathy and his Dad’s sense of logic- many a time his rationale helps me to get a control over my anger or sadness. He is super protective about his sisters and loves to dance with me. He hugs me tight in the blanket these days- coz his Mom can freeze even in a mild winter. Just the suggestion of a ‘new mom' who will feed him chocolates everyday and not scold him- angers him. My eyes flaring up in irritation are sufficient to indicate looming danger ( The Lord still does not learn), he is ever be mindful of pleasing me. He amazes me with his agility to tune into emotions and his immense respect for anything living.

Now comes the crucial question that I have been contemplating for the last 2 years- will any woman ever be able to befriend him, to make his hurt better, to kiss him when he needs it, to smother him with love, to know what he likes to eat, to sing to him like I do, to tell him its OK to attack once in a while-especially when he is attacked, to change his sadness into happiness in a jiffy, to make him feel like the greatest gift to mankind- like I do?? Lord o Lord (no pun intended) –that is an impossible feat. My little baby who turns 4 in a few days has really become the handsomest boy in the whole world. As I urge him to stuff himself with another paratha coz his ‘bumpy’ is too small for him to attract any girlfriend and he dutifully tries but argues with me that it doesnt matter since he is going to marry me – I am so grateful for the invisible umbilical chord that will always exist. Coz he can never be anyone’s but his MAMA’s boy.

So Miss ‘Oh I know just exactly how to handle him’ wherever in the world you are right now – Ta’s Mama KNOWS BEST. The bugles are sounded -This is a warning issued with sufficient notice period.

Lost For Words..

I was spending my time in the doldrums
I was caught in the cauldron of hate
I felt persecuted and paralyzed
I thought that everything else would just wait
While you are wasting your time on your enemies
Engulfed in a fever of spite
Beyond your tunnel vision reality fades
Like shadows into the night

To martyr yourself to caution
Is not going to help at all
Because there'll be no safety in numbers
When the Right One walks out of the door

Can you see your days blighted by darkness?
Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?
Stuck in a world of isolation
While ivy grows over the door

So I open my door to my enemies
And I ask could we wipe the slate clean
But they tell me to please go fuck myself
You know you just can't win

(Pink Floyd- The Division Bell)

Gurgaon Condominium living is convenient and from what I gather, pretty aspirational too. ( It’s most liberating to be holed into 1000 sq ft houses, amidst a complete concrete jungle?) Basic necessities are taken care of, you can isolate yourself or choose to participate in all the insignificant social activities that take place. If you’re as lucky as I am, you may actually find a genuine friend. But for most – you could take me to court for this- its secure, mind free, sterile though a trifle expensive. However, for the last 7 months- the jungle has taken slightly more realistic dimensions- there are 5 monkeys that have taken over the complex.

TAKEN OVER. Scrounge for food in each of the 400+ flats’ kitchens, have learnt to slide open the doors from the outside, learnt to ignore the poisonous food laid out in an effort to trap them and lately after having declared to the world their own state of well being- have even reproduced, their snarling has acquired a completely new menacing message. So I waited for ‘them’ to do something- ( THEM… you know- them, the system, the people in authority, the President). Mr. Gupta, the president, is a geriatric man with babu ancestry and took action by sending a circular: ‘People are requested not to make eye contact with the monkeys, please keep a toy snake in your house and use it to scare monkeys when they come into your house’. So I timidly tried to explain to my 3 year old that she could not ‘make eye contact’- trying not to make her permanently scarred/scared of monkeys. ( This new age parenting - balancing approach is tricky & testing. )

So I took matters in my hand (occupational hazard) and one Saturday-marched to the tiny Condominium Association Office. I can assure you I let Guptajee have it- I have journalist friends I threatened, we will not pay maintenance- I said, you are all incompetent fools- I said, mere chote bachhe hain-kaat liya to- I said, will you repay me for the vase that they broke on their last visit-I said, Dad pulled his back while shooing away a monkey- I said. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. I said. Pretty Good , would you say? I had personal interest and also the conscience to know that I needed to help the old man, who feared the wrath of Maneka Gandhi. I took away the numbers of the relevant contact people in Wildlife Ministry , Forest Officials and marched home. Over a good drink with some friends that night, I narrated the incident. Will you support me – I asked? Yes Of Course. Damn Good-Bhavna they said. We admire you- they said, you have chosen not to comment from the sidelines. Good Work they said . We will shoo these monkeys out together. Its our safety. BTW- It gave me a huge sense of purpose, more meaning ( don’t laugh- I swear, it did-I am really anticipating that they will attack my children next). Monday morning- I misplaced the number. Work was damn busy that week. Then the economic meltdown happened. Monkey mania can take a back seat, my job is under threat here. Did I say ‘sense of purpose’?

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH- we say. Security we say. Fire the Damn politicians – we say. Light candles we say. United in love we say. Bomb the neighbors – we say. Carry out genocide – we say. Wipe them out – we say. The icons of India- we say. The incompetent should be fired- we say. Heads should roll we say. Held Hostages in our own country- we say. Hand over the guilty- we say. Politicians should be accountable- we say. Dont vote- we say. Don’t pay taxes – we say. We need a man of action – we say. Get Modi – we say. Some of the innocent will go with the perpetrators – we say. So WHAT – we say….

I cant face myself in the mirror anymore- the happy , cheery me is replaced by this incompetent, persecuted, paralysed , guilty, fearful, insecure, scared and angry person- but mostly full of derision & contempt. I shed tears some of sadness for the tragedy that this nation has witnessed- but mostly for me…for being the worst kind of citizen that this country has produced. For having the lowest self esteem that I have had for years. For not bothering to get my voter card made. For having a driving license without undergoing the test. For thinking that I contribute by working in a cushy job. For feeling that I cant make a difference. For telling my children that its better to become a Doctor rather than a soldier. For asking for accountability rather than being accountable. For never having taken an interest in the way that the political system runs in this country coz it wasn’t worth it. For thinking I am doing my bit by lighting the candle or contributing some miserly amount. For never having worked for social causes coz I was too busy wrapped up in my comfort zone. For still wondering how I can make a difference.

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Didi-kaun hai?

O man- I am the quintessential Taurean Bull ( no guy ever wooed me with Linda Goodman charm, no wonder I cant boast of a string of men)- practical, dependable, strong and ..the broad strong shoulders.

I am NOT a woman meant for all the crappy , sentimental lines that people seem to be using everywhere. I hated reading Mills & Boons even as a hormonal teenager (never missed one though, coz you never knew which one would describe the most delicious kiss ever..some were steamy enough to move further), while Erich Segal, Danielle Steele are mucho recognized authors – I secretly love to scorn at their readers. Meanwhile, due to life’s constant pace, I do miss out reading the everyday newspaper – so many times, while people are having intelligent conversations about current affairs, sports, or whatever- I’m usually yelping away like a little puppy-‘Hello- I have no clue about Nuclear deals, IPL/ICL – can we change the topic please’. But in this new avatar of ‘devoting time to me’ (French manicures are my latest passion), I do read the Delhi Times (especially daily horoscope) and the Front Page of the TOI.

Apart from some depressing news about the Finance Minister finally warning everyone about the impending recession, today’s newspaper carried an almost half page advert of some bank that had a few lines about ‘Didi’ and how she saved ‘choti behan’ a seat and all that other emotional jazz. ‘What has that got to do with choosing a bank?’-I scorned at the ad and scooped out more yellow from the perfectly done sunny side up and indulged in a little Amul butter- after all – this is life, na?

I’ve gone about my usual work life today but the flashes don’t stop. Of her and me in 2 pigtails. Of me being the perennially good girl and she being the more popular one. Of she being small & delicate, of me being overgrown and awkward. Of her having a host of friends- I immersed in my story books. Of her proudly announcing how she was 3rd from the bottom in class ( like a state rank holder), I ,ashamed to tell my parents that I hadn’t made it to the top 3. Of me lugging her tiffin box to school ( coz ‘behan to choti hai’, na) and she completely carefree. Of me desperately changing the bedsheets when she wet her bed and not letting mom know, of her squealing in an instant- Didi ne pinch kiya. Of my Dad’s silly supplier who visited our house and proclaimed seeing her that ‘yeh ladki aapke liye bahut lucky hai’ and me looking on from the corner, distraughtly wanting to be the one that my Dad would favour. Of me finding my own hubby and then making sure that I found her one too.( that’s one of the few smart decisions of my life)
Somewhere along the way-I grudgingly accepted Neha as a good friend. Confiding in one another about boyfriends, first kisses and the frustrations of teenaged life. She learnt how to drive a car before me, managed to charm all my in laws at my marriage and indulged me with her first salary. Always a phone call away- she was a good vent for all my frustrations.

Today, Neha lives a few kilometers away from me. Like any mom, I live with the insecurity of who would look after my children, if ever anything happened to me- Neha hai na. When I am overwhelmed, she just completely takes over- I don’t think I can ever do that for her. She is a bundle of energy and can be irritatingly obliging. She marches me into a cosmetics corner and buys me the lipstick that I always wanted but thought it was just too expensive. She has dared me to find my own life- one that is not just about my husband & children, encouraged me to stop feeling weighed down by the responsibility of being the eldest child, she forces me to take the Friday evening off just to be on my own- she gave my hubby & me our 2nd honeymoon, by adopting the children completely for 10 days….oh the list goes own.
No – I don’t get senti- most of the days I just get irritated and boss over her, we bang down the phone on one another- atleast once in a week…do I love her? Yes- like any big sister should, but somewhere along the way she has turned into a wonderful friend, a great human being, a fantastic person- I am so proud of her.

Union Bank of India- here I come…

Of Overgrown children and Little adults

Update
Hello…Update on where have I been ( not that too many people have asked) ---Its been such a long time , I wrote- please blame it on the maid saga. My brother in law has nicknamed me ‘PKD’ – Pyaar Ke Dushman and of course a natural corollary to that is – Asha is GONE. I have once again started a new chapter in my life. Rest of my time – had been pushing the Superwoman act too far, it finally caught up with my ‘Maslow’s Needs Hierachy- level 4, that I seemed to have reached’ – life is all maya. But no maid, Ta’s impending school admissions, Boss giving me improvement feedback everyday, sulking team members… it was bound to tell. And to cope with it all- what better way than feel completely guilty for being hopelessly inadequate & to compromise on your own needs- my need to vent, tell, preach – my blog suffered silently. But I created it, na- its got to have ALL my qualities. So it went silent, sulked but it decides to bounce back.
Here is one of my latest experiences..

Of Overgrown Children and Little adults

In this country where people pay Municipal Commissioner offices few thousand rupees to postpone date of birth dates so that they can therefore push retirement age by one WHOLE year and somehow add on to their children’s pension money ( ha- who said Indians don’t plan) , Lord and I stand guilty of making a huge parenting mistake right at the start. Avyukta made the mistake of being conceived in April ( don’t you smirk), so therefore is Dec born and therefore is eligible for school admissions only this year- he will be 4 years 3 months when he goes to school, a little older than most other children in his class. Yes- that’s another sin added to ‘My Book of Guilts- sins that I must atone for’, but we were suitably focused in knowing what’s best for our child and therefore applied to only one school. How clever is that? In hindsight, a smart – money saving action- but till 4 days before- I was ready to divorce my husband because he just didn’t care whether our child got schooling or no. Kaise baap ho? (If it was upto him, Ta would go to an only sports facility, where he would play football, basketball, hockey, tennis- the whole day long). My son thankfully, definitely shows more inclination towards academics and is truly his Mama’s boy.

Heritage School at Gurgaon is a unique one- it is the only school that I have heard of which truly practices its philosophy of ‘Each child is equal but unique’. So they have progressive learning methodology but admission is completely based on lottery. We went, all suited booted et child, got ushered into a meditation centre- after we removed our shoes outside, there were comfortable carpets laid out, where we could squat in as dignified a manner and we needed to send our child back home- coz he was not needed. I felt suitably foolish but sat down to participate in one of the most informative 2 hrs of my life. The process : the school reps educated us on the school philosophy and then asked another 3 year old to draw out lots- names of children who were through!
Highlights :
All Children learn differently- some through singing, others through reading, even others through drama. ( I have been thinking that is principle of Adult Learning)
It is not easy to sing ‘baarish aayee cham cham cham’ in front of 40 others parents, especially when you enthusiastically volunteer to do something and feel like a complete idiot pretending to hold a chaata.
The little 3 year olds are the most mature people around – ask completely relevant questions and once they get satisfactory answers turn around and start playing/ colouring/ dancing- whatever they feel like doing.
Most of the 30 + people that you see sitting around you- long way to go before they reach basic levels of maturity- for example
School rep: We believe in project based learning and no exams till class 4th, we believe children learn better when given a context. Ours is a different system, not perfect but evolving- if you believe in it- stay with us, else don’t apply

30+ year old 1 : What – no exams, don’t you think that they will never learn to cope with stress in life?
30+ year old 2 : How will they prepare for CAT / IIT admission in this scenario?
30+ year old 3 : How will they learn to write?
30+ year old 4 : Will they ever learn to read?

School Principal: Only stress I know of is in Quantum physics, CAT exams do not require writing, they test conceptual clarity, and that too the student is expected to circle the correct answers, …….and so on. (Parents , as you can imagine, thought he was a little mad, disconnected from the real world- especially when he spoke of a vision of developing future citizens who were driven by passion, logical reasoning, conviction and not just rote learning)

Most of these parents got through, paid up the fees, quickly blocked up someone else’s seat ( at the expense of people who really wanted to send their child here) and left after clarifying that they only stood to lose 45k if they wanted to withdraw admission. While I can understand that in this land of limited quality supply and a relentlessly increasing demand for meaningful education- I cant understand why we have this constant pressure & need to ‘prove oneself’.
The parents were all sitting on high alert- waiting for the next question from their peers and enthusiastically volunteering to answer it on behalf of school authorities.
Many of them were well prepared and had the next 20 years planned out in detail, on their child’s behalf. ( another one of the sins for which I may need to atone for- when asked what I want for my child , I give Miss Universe pageant answers ‘ A responsible human being, at peace, capable of making his own decisions and so on…).
I am a relieved person and my son is a happy boy- coz he is looking forward to playing with the ducks in the school pond. Hubby is so happy- Heritage has a football league. I don’t know whether this is the best school ..but I do know that life is only as good as one makes it to be.
Paul Theroux in one of his travelogues about his train journeys through Asia, starts his chapter on India with ‘ The problem with India is that there are too many Indians’ touché!! To be fair to us – this best school need, the need to predict and make the future happen…what to do- we have a long way to go before we move beyond maslow’s first 3 levels of needs..there are too many Indians