Ipsita Banerjee's Blog, page 22

'C' is for CALCUTTA.

It had to be Calcutta, albeit the fact that it has recently been renamed with an ugly K. At the heart of every Calcuttan, Calcutta will always be Calcutta.The city of my birth, the city that is my home. So what is Calcutta like? Hot, crowded, dusty, humid, loud, dirty and full of people who think it's their birthright to spit and abuse. Tempers run high, the traffic will drive you mad and the decibel levels on the streets will surely have you moaning in agony. There are a hundred and one reasons to hate the city, to declare that living here is an utter pain. Yet, I love it.Here's ten reasons why: It's home. I am utterly and totally comfortable in its arms. From the narrow alleys in the North to the lakes in the South. From the Strand in the West to the wetlands in the East, there is no place like home.The street food. Whether you are in the mood for a light snack or a heavier something, there's something for everyone. Jhalmuri to Chaat to rolls to phuchkas to Coolfis. It's all here.The Southern breeze. No matter how hot or humid it, gets. No matter how much you have been sweltering or sweating in the day, every evening a cool Southern breeze will caress the tiredness off your limbs. That's why South facing housing is so important in Calcutta. The connectivity. You don't have a car? No sweat. There are buses, trams, taxis, rickshaws, auto-rickshaws and even a metro to whisk you to your destination. Yes, you may be stuck in traffic sometimes, and you may feel like you almost died but you'll get there with little trouble. Usually. The riverfront. It's a rather nice walk down the riverside all the way from Princep Ghat to the Millenium Park and beyond. And they are proposing to stretch it further. And there are street food stalls nicely interspersed along the way to make the walk more interesting. And if you are really in the mood, a ride on a dinghy on the Hoogly river at sunset might be just what the doctor ordered!The fine dining. Well Calcutta is not New York or London when it comes to food destinations but the food that is served in the restaurants are certainly top class. The Chinese, especially, which is borrowed from China and spiced in Bengal has no substitute in the world!The heritage buildings. Take a tour of the High Court , the GPO and the Raj Bhavan area. If historic buildings are your thing there's a world waiting to be discovered. Just take a walk in the narrow lanes and by lanes of the North. Amid the squalor and the haphazard new concrete blocks, you'll be surprised at the lovely old bungalows! Yes, and people still live there!The cosmopolitan-ness: Yes, that quiet Christian lady lives next to the Sindhi who blasts music every weekend who lives next to the devout Madrasi who lives above the Bong who hates Dings but learns where to get a good pork curry from them along with the fat Marwari lady who hates the smell of fish frying but loves to share gossip and the occasional chicken kabab with the Muslim family across the street who's father officially does not drink but enjoys a tipple with his friend the Punjabi round the corner. It goes on. They are the butt of each other's jokes. They have the bitterest fights but in the end they all live together. It works. The humour: Yes, the intrinsic nature of Calcuttans to "tell you a jokes" and to laugh at everything and anything and specially themselves! The Winters: Calcutta winters are perfect although they last for barely 6 weeks in December and January. The temperature hovers around 10,11 degrees C and the sun feels good on the back. Ideal for sitting in the sun and sipping on that glass of chilled beer or whatever. For a game of cricket or badminton in the lawn. To head to the Maidan or the riverside or further from the city for that idyllic picnic. Yes, had I not been living here, surely I would hanker to return to Calcutta every winter.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Oh, Calcutta!





    

'B' for boredom, blogs and books!

When I was 10 my dad gave me a diary and asked me to scribble in it…any old nonsense, he said and I wouldn't have to show it to anyone. That idea really grabbed me, that secrecy bit. So day by day I started. At first it was drawings, doodles, even pictures I liked. Then each year got a little complicated. Growing up, secrets shared, first crushes, giggly school friends, the first Harold Robbins (OMG they actually write this stuff!!!), boys, dreams, heroes, nightmares, fantasies, fears, anger, resentment, joys…everything came to be chronicled and by the time I left college I could give you a little detail about each day of my life from age ten…..Amazing. And crazy. I had this little cupboard (locked, of course) in my room at home where I stored these diaries….and I would guard it with my life….the keys were well hidden and in my custody even when I was away in college.Then, one day before I got married I opened that cupboard and spent the better part of the day sitting in front of it. Some of it made me laugh, some made me cry and a lot made me shudder at my own naiveté and idiocy!!! So I burned it all. Dragged out every last bit of loose paper and let it burn. Today I sometimes wonder why I didn’t just seal it all in a carton and bring it with me……but years of my life were gone. I do not know why I did it. Was it to safeguard my own privacy or was it just a ploy to hide what a jackass I could be? And now that I’m older and it has ceased to matter what people think, those are the pages of my life I miss…the humdrum days of a girl growing up slightly confused, slightly crazy and more than slightly rebellious.No, I don’t think I was either unique or newsworthy but that life was mine.                          And later, much later, when I sat with a pen in hand I often found my uninspired writing: “…..went to court and came home…clients in the evening…conference at 8” and wondered why I wrote. Wasn’t all of that in my Court diary anyway, and who the hell cared? Years later if I read that diary would I enjoy sifting thorough pages of a routine existence? Ah but that’s it. It’s our monotony that makes us who we are. And more often than not, back then, it made me bored and crabby and difficult to live with.          So I started writing. On this blog for friends and any stranger who cared to pass that way. And that is what inspired my first book, "A SLIVER OF MOONBEAM".
             Boredom can be very creative, don't you think? 

'A' is for Awesome.

Ever since I decided I would participate in the A to Z challenge this morning, I've been thinking of words with A. I ran the gamut from Apple (predictably) to Adhd (don't even ask!) and got to the club from Court with little else on my mind. Met my daughters after their swim and there it was, the word I had been searching for all day: AWESOME! No, no, don't get me wrong. My daughters do not inspire the thought on sight. It's just that they use the darn word ALL the time. Anything they like, is, alternatively, 'awesome' or 'cool'. I mean anything. Right from the stir-fry you made for dinner to the old shoe that finally emerged from under the bed....only one word describes it all. Right now in Calcutta it is 39 degrees C. The heat is stifling. The spouse has been unwell and is at home so he gets to spend the day being entertained by two teenage girls who are on holiday right now and believe that life begins and ends with the TV. Unfortunately since Dad is home, they are now subject to strict disciplining which is otherwise missing as we both are at work. They are unable to grow roots in front of the TV or the computer and even restrained in their squabbling! Their daily diet of coke and chips have been replaced with home-cooked meals eaten with their Dad. The school reopens next week which coincides nicely with when their Dad too goes back to work....... Me? I go out to work and shut the door quietly on the home front. Its like being on vacation.What's the word for it now? Ah. There it is: Awesome. 

Term break, anyone?

The girls have finished their exams. They are now on what is known as a 'term break' which is basically a device designed by schools to justify every paisa they charge for keeping your children at school. Term break means there are no text books for the new year yet, hence no studies and you cannot scream at them to go sit and do something constructive (read study) for a change.
So what do the girls do during the term break? Why, they have so many options and each one is carefully crafted to make sure the mothers go stark raving mad!
They eat. They eat the food that is in the fridge, they polish off the snacks and cheese and biscuits and cookies and leftovers and the supplies that were supposed to last you the entire month and when you return home they look petulantly and say, 'there's nothing to eat'. They fall sick. After all that coke and chips and rubbish they have been stuffing themselves with, what do you expect? They groan around on the bed and complain of a tummy ache. The only known cure is to switch on the TV.They watch TV. Of course they watch TV. They have roots growing out of their backsides and into the sofa with tendrils reaching into the woodwork. They are rooted in front of that magical box. They eat and sleep and nap and do everything possible in front of the TV. Its like a new religion. Thank heavens we do not have a portable potty in the house! They phone. Do not ever try to call our landline at home, it's always engaged. One girl or the other is constantly on the phone, sometimes two on simultaneous lines. They hang up and call again. The cordless is constantly discharged, the battery has  committed suicide. I do not know what they talk about but they talk to same person(s) over and over again. They must be slow in the head because they have to call the same friend at least six times to finally decide that they will meet for a swim at 11 am!                      They go out. Or, rather, they are constantly making plans to meet their friends. Whether its the club or a friend's house or somewhere else, they have absolutely no concern about whether the driver will be free or the car will be available. And no prizes for guessing who have to reschedule their lives to fit these in! They play games. And it's not the Monopoly and Scrabble kind. Their favourite game is called "Let's get Ma." It goes something like this. They are sitting and calmly watching TV and gorging on food and leaving crumbs for the red ants on the sofa. Obviously since morning when I left the house, they have not found the time to take a shower or change. I enter. They see me and jump up. Soon they are in the two loos while I am standing cross legged outside one or the other begging them to hurry up. They turn on the shower. I'm afraid it is quite likely that my daughters account for half the world's water shortage. Each time they have a shower they also consume a whole bottle of shampoo, half a conditioner and one whole body gel. As they emerge leaving soap suds and water in their wake, you will be forgiven for thinking I live in a soap factory. If they are kind they will have made an attempt at mopping the floor. Then they barely wipe themselves. They chatter non stop about some stupid thing or the other. They pull on some clothes and sit on my bed with big water droplets running down their head and onto my bed knowing it irritates the hell out of me. When they know I cannot take anymore, they ask if they can watch TV. "Anything, anything," I mutter. "Just get out of here."They go online. Yes the wi-fi is perpetually on in the house. So is the computer, the ipod and the tablet. Along with the TV. My daughters are multi-taskers. They have the ability to screw up multiple things at the same time. With their heads full of all the nonsense they watch on TV combined  with the stupid comments on the social networking sites and the junk they watch on youtube, you are forgiven for thinking that glazed look they wear is drug induced! Oh yeah,  they also sleep. Actually to be fair, Amisha sleeps. Isha loves to play her favourite game of "Let's get Ma" early in the morning by thumbing through the T2 in the morning BEFORE I have had a chance to extract my sudoku. Of course she has to know what her horoscope says and which celebrity is doing what at 7 in the morning!! Amisha? Well, that is another story. She sleeps. She sleeps through everything. Including several commands to get up. Even after you think you have succeeded in waking her because she is sitting slumped over her bowl of cereals, you can bet she is back in bed faster than you can say "good morning Amisha!" She does not wake up until her father shouts at her before we leave for Court or her friend calls. Whichever is earlier. Even then I suspect she just goes back to sleep before we are down the stairs! Ah. They joy of term break! I know, soon their school session will start and the little darlings will be back in school and slogging with their studies and books. They will again have to face the tough world of exams and be piled with oodles of homework and projects and all.
Aw, we should just let the poor babies be! You know what? I cant wait for their classes to start! 

In the dead of night.

I rise. The house is sleeping. In the dark I go to the corner of the room where the battered old trunk lies forgotten. As quietly as possible, I undo the latch and creak the lid open. The smell of naphthalene and dried neem leaves fill the air. Softly, softly... I move the old newspapers and they give way with a soft shirr. I rummage through the old saris, shawls and stuffed toys, all souvenirs of the past. I almost pause when I feel my old Teddy but then my hand finds it. Slowly, carefully, quietly I pull it out: an old black telephone. It feels heavy, the cord is tangled around the receiver. I sit there in the dark and untangle it. I pick up the receiver. *Ting*I pause, did anyone hear that? I hold the receiver in my hand and dial.Six numbers. The dialer rotates back with a soft whirr. In the unrelenting dark, a line is thrown.*T-riiing, t-riiing* Somewhere, a phone rings. My trembling hand holds the receiver to my ear so hard that it hurts. *Click* "Hello.""Hello, Baba?""Yes, Ipsy."
No one says my name like that any more. "Baba, it is really you? How are you?" " I am fine. Tell me about yourself." "Baba," I say through my tears, "Baba it's so good to hear your voice. Why don't you call me? I never thought....""We cannot make calls, we can only receive. Tell me, how are you?""I'm okay, actually I'm not okay. I'm just so upset and hurt and nothing is working out....""I know, but you do know that in life, more often than not, things do NOT work out the way you expect them to. This is not the end of the world." I smile through my tears hearing his oft repeated phrase, " I know Baba, I keep telling myself that, but...""But ..what? Look around you, you are blessed with so much. Stop hanging on to what could have been. Be patient. Who said you have to have everything exactly when you want it?""I know, but I feel so frightened, so insecure, so uncertain.""Believe. Remember that poster you put up in your room: 'even in darkness, light dawns...""...for those who believe,' " I finished."You and I, we believed. What happened? ""I just don't believe any more, Baba. I cannot find the strength to go on.""You will. You must. No matter what. Not for Isha or Amisha or anyone else. For yourself." "But, how?""Look within yourself. You alone can bring yourself out of your own misery."I am smarting a little here. "But, Baba, how do I know?" I cry. "You know. You only need to remember. And don't make excuses, one can live with failure, not excuses. I raised you to be strong...." His voice softens, just a little, "and I am always here. You can call anytime you want." "Anytime?""I'm always there, I never left you." A pause. Silence. "But I have to go now." "Baba, wait, there's so much I have to tell you... ""I know. I also get every message you send. And hear every thought, even the ones you try to hide. I'm with you, always, you only have to look. Now, wipe those tears, you know I don't like you crying. I really have to go." "Baba, no, don't go!"
I hear him smile, his voice seems to come from far away. 
"Ah, Ipsy, you have to let go!"  
*click*And the silence of a dead receiver. I press the lever again and again, the line stays dead.

I sit up in my bed, it is almost dawn. My father's voice echoes all around me.   Tears run down my face, I bury my head in my hands, my palms smell of naphthalene.

Cooking class.

QUICK STIR FRY:
This dish is best if prepared the first thing in the morning or as a nightcap. Can be served hot or cold.
Preparation time: 15 minutes

Ingredients:
Blessings: 3 cups
Silence: 3 tbsp
Rage: 2 tsp
Regret: 1 tsp
Fear: 1/2 cup
Humour: 1/2 cup
Friendship: to taste
Duties: 1 tsp
Ambition: 1 tsp

For the Marinade:
Freshly picked laughter: 1 cup
Fresh tears: a few drops
Belief: 1 cup
Love: to taste (optional)

METHOD:

Count the blessings carefully. Think of them, appreciate each. Marinate it in fresh laughter (when was the last time you laughed?) and a few drops of tears. This maintains sanity and balance. Sieve belief carefully culling all the blind spots and information derived from media and loud talking individuals and add it to the mix. Add love if available. Usually it is, but make sure it is fresh, not stagnant. Look around you, it's out there somewhere: in the eyes of a parent, in the smile of a child, in the warmth of your pet?
Take a wok and heat the silence till smoking. Add rage and wait till it starts sputtering. Make a paste of regret and fears and add it to the silence. Saute well until the pungent smell departs. Add humour and the marinated blessings (along with the marinade) and fry on high heat for two minutes or till the blessing are pliant and kind. Season with friendship and garnish with finely chopped duties and ambition.

Enjoy contentment!

do you really want to know what i'm thinking?

I'm thinking of life in the hills somewhere far from this city. Far away from routine and normalcy, from the noxious fumes that assail me on the street. I fling open a window and the room sweetens with the soft cold smell of dew glistening in the sun. I'm sharing the room with two girlfriends and eating off the paper boxes the food came in, with no concern about plates or cutlery.
Actually that's not a thought, it's what I dreamed the other night and cannot shake off. The idea has taken root in my head. The dream grows till I can actually imagine the craggy peaks outside the window and see the toy-train as it chugs past. 
Move to a normal morning. It  starts early. Wrapped in a fog of grumpiness  I rise to make breakfast and pack lunch for two errant children, self and  spouse. I don't know why I do it: I have a perfectly capable maid who would do the needful but I insist on it. Maybe it's my way of shaking off the cobwebs of the night. So I rattle the pans, trim the bread and  prod the girls to hurry up. In my mind I can hear the little stream bubbling its way over the rocks, the water is crystal-clear and I can taste the crispness in the air.
The newspaper and the morning chores take over somewhere and the next time I am alone with my thoughts I am in the car on the way to court. The spouse maintains his usual uncompromising silence. The driver is giving me a heart attack with his usual reckless driving and even more reckless braking. I have shut my eyes in an effort to shut out the clutch-plate that is screeching in protest and somehow hang on to my sanity. The train turns effortlessly into a tunnel even as I watch the hills turn green in the rain that suddenly falls like a thin curtain made of the finest lace.
In Court I wait my turn, for my case to be called on. Sometimes it is and sometimes it isn't. I busy myself with boring drafts and paperwork. I am trying to shut the window on the birds cheeping as the sun bursts though the clouds and a rainbow slants over the hills heading the other way. I catch up with pending work in the Bar library after wasting an appropriate amount of time on social-networking and trying to decide on my next holiday destination. A friend calls and worries worry me. Some real, some imagined. Some of which is my business, some of which is not. I share my witticisms and add my own two bits. All the while the grass is soft underneath my feet; tiny red wild flowers wink at me through the undergrowth.
The day passes. To that magic hour when I go home and there are two girls waiting for me, their faces and buried in the computer or the Tab or the iPod. That's when the dream starts to disintegrate; that dream I had been clinging onto throughout the day. The air turns balmy, the clear skies disappear. Reality strikes and how. I am transported to a war-zone where the only sound in the rat-tat-tat of heavy machine gun-fire which sounds something like this:  "Why aren't you studying?" "Who put the broadband on?" "Why is this room such a mess?""Pick your uniform off the floor!" "Move your shoes from my room!" "Hurry up, you'll be late for squash!" "Get off that phone this instant. Now!" ....The replies are sometimes shrugged, sometimes mumbled, sometimes I think everything I say fall on deaf ears.
After dinner, I finish my work for the day: I tie up the loose ends, finish whatever it was I was doing and start to feed that hungry monster: my writing. It's ten pm. The girls perk up: Hallelujah, their faces can be seen, they are not hiding behind some mechanical device! They've had dinner and done their routine, they have changed and they are on their best behavior! Are you surprised?
Obviously, they want something. Sweetly, too sweetly,  they waltz up behind me and give me a hug. They linger over my table. They wait till I am distracted enough and I shoo them away. As a parting shot I hear something that sounds like "we're watching some TV, okay?" The 'okay' is just for effect, no one waits for a response. I mutter under my breath: the magical allure of TV. "One Tree Hill" to be precise. I have never watched a single episode but from whatever I have gleaned in passing through the room, I have to insist that almost-13 and almost-14 are no ages to be watching that trash! My criticisms fall on deaf ears. I bully them, I bribe them, I explain why they do not need all this additional information disbalancing their already fragile mental database. They are too involved in the idiot-box to pay any heed. With an irritated flourish I snap the TV off. More gunfire and static. They sulk and go to bed. Oh horrors! Because of me they have missed seven precious minutes of their dysfunctional story.
"Until tomorrow night," I think, as I give up on whatever I was doing and try to settle in for the night. Soon the cool mountain breeze brushes over me, I open the window and the hills are soothed in a moonlit glow, the brambles scratch my shins as I walk into the night wishing I could get lost there forever.....

My little girl is leaving home........

I stand outside the gate and gaze at the sea of faces coming out of the school gate. And then I spot you, busily talking to some other girls as you leave school for the day. You catch my eye and your face breaks into a smile, "Chachiii," you explode with joy, as you rush to the gate. I bundle you and your sisters into the car and we head out for a bite to eat.
How many times have we done that, Zim? And in how many places? Haldiram, Raj, SatC, even that lousy Govinda's and the dhaba where the bedbugs bit you, sometimes even Mainland China.... places I cannot remember now. I treasure the times we spent together, all of us, tearing down the roads music blasting, the swims, the drives, the mela where Dada and Isha were too scared to get onto the giant wheel, the phuchkas, even the rickshaw ride we went on the other day. So let me get that out of the way first. I will miss you. 
Cut back to 1996. You were not yet two when I saw you that first time, big button eyes peeping at me from under the curtain, yes, you were that tiny. Forever braver than your brother you never hung back, your welcoming eyes and welcoming smile made me feel at home. I warmed to you instantly. And that hug and the smile you always, always, greet me with make my world that much brighter, that much warmer. I was lucky to have you and Rubic in my life. Back then,  who else could I bundle into the dicky of the van and carry along on my hare-brained adventures? (And a word here for your Mama and Baba who never stopped me from doing it!) You both were and still are the first children in my life. You always will be. And no matter how tall you grow or how much bigger Rubic gets, you'll always be those two tiny faces peeping at me from the door. Little Ziggy...cute little Ziggy with the bright smiles and tiny feet that never bothered to step on the stairs relying entirely on the hand she clung on to to get her to the next landing. I feel blessed that often, that hand was mine. Little Ziggy who almost gave me a heart attack by biting down on a glass and having it break in her mouth! Sweet Ziggy with whom I played chor-police and hopscotch and dark room and football and other strange running-catching games on the terrace. Ziggy of the toothless smiles and warm hugs. Ziggy of the "ho gaaayaaa .......". The treasure hunt, crash Maths, looking for DVDs and watching them together, Mary Poppins and My Fair Lady. The Hindi songs you were not supposed to listen to, the elocution contest where I was one more proud face in the audience, the glares I got from your Dad for giggling with your friends at the others....getting wet in the rain, "Winds of change" (that will always be your song along with the other ones we scream our heads off at!). I have to thank you for all the times you looked after your sisters, albeit teaching them more than they really needed to know. You made parenting that much easier for me. I have this huge cache of happy memories that I can call upon.....and I am certain there will be many, many more.
Yet, when I think of you leaving, why does the house seem more quiet, why does my heart hurt, why do my eyes mist up? 'Cause you have always been my first little girl (yes, Isha has that in writing now!). And much as I want my little girls to grow up and spread their wings and fly, something in me also wants to hold on to those wonderful years that will never return. So here's to the Ziggy that was and the Ziggy that will be and the Ziggy that's in my heart for ever more. I will not give you gyaan. You will get enough of that from everyone else. And I will not even say that if you should ever need me I am always there for you. For you already know that.I'll just tell you one thing: be happy.Much love. 

One woman's heart.....

A woman’s heart is as complicated as her handbag. There are compartments and there are compartments. There are those usual odds and ends which constitute daily living, like that engagement diary or the notebook, the wallet, the chequebooks and the n number of pens, even a few glittery ones she will never use, the sunglasses, those cloth bags she will need in the supermarket to save Rs 2 on the plastic ones. Then there is that old face powder cracking away at the edges along with that barely used lipstick and comb, all left there for “just in case”. And of course there are those safety pins, toothpicks, congealed throat lozenges, dried face wipes, keys, a lighter, a pen knife and that pack containing three cigarettes she has been planning to smoke someday. Then there are the odd bits of paper, a bill from the tailor shop promising delivery of an item she collected six months ago, the credit card receipts she has been meaning to throw away and that ticket stub from the first time she took her toddler on a ride in the metro. A flat round stone her three-year-old gave her for safe-keeping “for always and for effer”. And there’s that old picture of her dad and another frayed one of some God that someone gave her and she does not believe in, yet cannot throw away. And then there’s a special compartment for the smiles she reserves for her children and the one that holds her fears. The fears of a young mother who is afraid to sleep for she thinks she might smother her new born baby, the fear of going too close to the balcony for fear her child might slip from her arms, the fear of letting the child’s fingers lose hers in a crowd, the fears of anything, ANYTHING bad happening to her child, which she would happily take upon herself to spare her children. Today I sit and imagine that poor mother who sits beside her five year old daughter brutally raped for no reason and I can feel her fears biting into me, gnawing at my very core. Although I do not pray what I am doing now is akin to prayer: hoping the reconstruction surgeries will come out successful, that she will recover, (physically at least) and the scars will fade somehow…..Thankfully none of our clever politicians or erudite fellow countrymen have come up with any enlightened comments on her dress, choice of life style or have said she was asking for it. Not yet. My heart goes out to the parents who were offered a bribe by the police who wanted them to hush up the case. To the angry young girls who demanded an explanation and were slapped by the cops. To every person who is helpless in their anger and want these crimes to stop. To the little girls mouthing prayers on TV not understanding why their mothers worry about them the way they do. To every person who is outraged and is protesting in whatever way they can: begging that somehow, SOMEHOW these heinous crimes must stop. “Stringent rape laws”, “Capital punishment for rapists,” they are screaming from the streets. Again. Only no one’s listening. What happened to our humanity? What is wrong with our men? What soulless creatures reside in these rapists who portray themselves to be normal, God-fearing, sometimes even educated persons and integrate themselves into our lives and neighbourhoods and even sometimes break bread with us? I see reports that the rapist had raped his wife and had been ordered by the Panchayat to marry her. What kind of people think that is a solution? Where does the madness start and where does it end?All my answers have no questions. All my questions are a shout in the dark. All I know is that my fears have raised their ugly little heads and are threatening to slither outside its’ compartment. And I am afraid. Afraid for my sons and daughters who are still testing their little wings, who are still learning how to fly. Shall we shoot them down mid-flight or shall we let them soar? Answer me, dammit! Or have I said too much?

Escape to Adventure

While I was growing up I was the swashbuckling heroine of many a thrilling adventure involving brutal killings, kidnappings, piracy and war. Dressed all in black, with or without a black cape with red lining, I would fearlessly fight my way through disasters, lead loyal men in uniform (who  owed allegiance only to me)  into the jaws of death  and emerge unscathed. Of course I wasn't short and fat, I was tall and slender and most men and women alike looked up to me in admiration and wonder while I would send villains to their death with a careless wave of my hand. Of course a husband, family  or (God-forbid!) children never featured in any of my adventures save to be stunned when they came to know about my secret life as I raced off on my sturdy motorcycle, yacht or private jet (I disliked horses, I could never visualize myself elegantly or smoothly jumping onto one!) headed towards the Himalayan dirt tracks or rain forests or into the open sea in the eye of a storm to rescue the world or whatever... you get the drift? Now having said all that, marriage was obviously not a feature in this long running fantasy. I imagined a steady stream of boyfriends and lovers who I would discard at will. Love, commitment, romance were trashy emotions for the weak-hearted and feeble-minded. So when I met my husband and found myself actually contemplating a commitment, believe me, I almost disowned myself!  But the fancy stuck and there I was, slowly adjusting myself to erratic domesticity. Yes, it got to me, that marriage thingie and that violent leading lady  raised an eyebrow and retreated into the wings. Before we had kids, understandably, I thought about it for a while. I saw those cute little cherubs in ads and in movies and I decided I wanted them, not just one, but at least two, maybe three. Preferably twins. Two little ones smiling cheerily in the crock of my arms, sitting on my lap while I effortlessly went about my chores, smiling at me through their meal, running about in the tall grass with me, snuggling up to me and sleeping contently smelling of soft love and baby powder.....I was ready for kids. Yup. Two little angels who would love and cherish each other and be friends and companions through life.....Now firstly. I did not have twins. I had them one after the other though and that made me feel as though I had twins so it had the same maddening effect of twins. And they did not smile cheerily from the crock of my arm. More likely they were bawling in my arms, after having pulled my nose and brought up milk in my hair. They never sat still long enough for me to get round do any chores with them on my lap and more likely spewed food and spit out of their mouths while at their meals.No. I never had kids like the cherubic angels on TV but they were cute enough. And I loved them. Most of the time. Okay, as long as they were not smelling of puke or poo. But yes, they were sweet, I had my 'aww' moments and 'let's melt mommy' smiles. I will not forget how each one felt in my arms when I held them that first time or how their tiny fingers felt on my cheek and I wish that I could hold on to each smile and each hug from those tiny arms. I remember when the older one, Isha, started going to school. The younger one, Amisha, who was just 13 months younger would toddle up to the head of the stairs and wave and their baby voices would go "ta-ta, ta-ta" till they could not see each other anymore. Then Amisha would run to the window, clamber on to the sofa and go on saying 'bye' to her sister and her sister would reciprocate with equal enthusiasm. See, a mother's heart can swell with all those baby coos and all the sisterly affection spilling out.More than a decade has passed. This morning Isha left for some social service thing she goes to sometimes. She is  grown-up now, about my height (which isn't much) smartly dressed in jeans and kurta and dangly earrings that  I swear I have never seen before.  Amisha had just  woken up and was yawning her way out into the living room. I suddenly remembered my babies from years ago. "Ami", I said,  "Isha's leaving, say bye". Isha didn't wait, she just left, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath.  And Amisha? The one whose adoring eyes followed her older sister as a baby?  She didn't even stop rubbing her tummy over her shorts, much less run to the head of the stairs. She just pulled a face and loudly said "Bye, Isha...diidii," sarcastically. Very sarcastically.
You see, there is no one quite as awful as the other sibling. There is never any real peace in the house. Always, whenever both girls are at home there is the constant low hum of "stopits" and "shuddups" interspersed only by sounds of slapping and kicking. And then there is that special whine saved specially for me when I return home after a long day. Along with that high pitched shriek that is for my ears only ...should I make the mistake of imagining that they are doing something peacefully together.
I should just kick start my bike and drive into the wild to save the world, it's friendlier (and quieter) out there!