Don’t let it in

 

An infant births, attempts to feed

A toddler watches, attempts to reach

A child comprehends, attempts to imitate

All attempt, fall then attempt again

Their minds alert

Their minds ready to try and learn

To fail and learn

The guardian stands tall, smiles and urges on

Attempts build confidence, ambitions gain strength

 The world is an oyster,

It is then explored; it is experienced

Years pass on

Novelty wears off

The child grows into a person

The person is now the one

With doubts, flaws and no-shows

 As the one attempts to thread a needle to embroider a fine silk,

To navigate a new car out on the road

To put pen on paper

A shadow peeps from the sleeve,

Its grisly red eyes condemning, admonishing the very effort

Struggle to dust it away for it crawls into the mind

Eats into ideas and shatters self-confidence

Criticism, you evil oppressor!

You spew venom before an idea can rise and flourish

The seed of doubt though dormant is now watered

In the creases of the mind wherein lies a grain of hope and of self-doubt

Criticism, crushes the hope, breeds the self-doubt

You let criticism in, you kill your skill

Kill the creations the future yet to behold

Stay strong, Let it sing

But don’t you let it get you

Flood it with your ideas, blinden it with your vision

Don’t you let it in

Let it parch on the confines of your mind,

Shine your ideas on the darkness, let it fade

Shine away

Think more

Create more

In the creases of the mind wherein lies a grain of hope and of self-doubt

You let one grow, you let one die

My makeup lives with me

Another day on its knees, headlights streaming the home bound streets, pretty faces rushing past; smiles galore never mind their fading makeup. I pull out my compact for a look; kajal descending from my eyelids, lipstick nonexistent, sweat lines gathering dust, hair flying out of the bobby pins. My makeup witnessing yet another long day for it worked itself dull through meetings, arguments, tea time napkin smudges, tears trickled during disappointments and pen lingered while in thought. Makeup working as hard as I do.

Oh, how the greasepaint crept into my life! The excessive talc and kajal dots of infancy were replaced by the daily dab of talc, only to be wiped off by the sweat and the downward glide of the oil from my head full of hair. School plays brought about excessive talc and lipstick overriding the tussle with parents at the advent of the greasepaint on my face and into my life.

Makeup was yet to arrive home.  

Till one day, a cousin came and got the innocuous eyeliner along. My eyes suddenly radiated more beauty from being darkened more than nature intended them to be. Then came the euphoria of the first mascara, thrill of a new shade of lipstick and the choice of a new nail paint. Makeup to enhance, makeup to cover up. The whitening talc, shades of lipstick, glossy glitter, deepening blacks; the scented cosmetics gradually - one cosmetic at a time.

The struggle of pulling the eyelids for the straight line or the right mix of light and dark lipstick shades to match the dress, the effort of applying makeup though time consuming was always desirable

The novelty of wearing makeup turned into routine over time. Adolescent years to now, from experimenting to necessity. Now my makeup lives with me, neat layer of foundation, talc patted in, thin line of eyeliner, kajal maybe, and a carefully applied lip colour with a hint of gloss. I peer into the mirror before leaving home. Happy? Confident? Feel Good. What does this greasepaint stand for? I’m looking good. I’m feeling good. Healthy to take on another day? The right makeup colour merging with my skin tone. A brush of talc, line of kajal and a dab of lipstick; my made-up face is as real as I am. My image to world, my identity among people and my feel good when I look into the mirror.  Makeup defines us as much as the choices of the rest of us lipstick shade no darker than your skin, a line of kajal as straight as it can be, bindi or no bindi. Subtle, gaudy, natural, glossy; one for every occasion. How it defines us, the excess of it or the lack of it.

Makeup has a say in the world. My makeup lives with me and works as hard of I do.

Why the need to build up a face? What does a clear, glowing face with pink lipstick say? What is about the plain face? What does a rich red colour lipstick say? Does dark kohl appear vampirish? Would I wear a blue eyeliner and green nail paint? Would I wear a dark brown lipstick? I do draw a line there. Why do I? Because makeup does define us. I carry my mood and my look together. As whole as I am in my one physical self, I look a certain way on a date night and altogether different on my way to the beach. My face is a palette of subtle pinks and nudes at school for my children’s school meeting while it is a party of vibrant red and gold during festivals and occasions.  

My makeup is part of me; living with me nurturing me through cold winters and scorching summers. My makeup has hid my blemishes growing up, adorned me as I turned from a maiden to a married woman, streamed from my eyes when touched with sorrow and left a sign of love with the perfect pout of a kiss.

 

 Anuradha Miraji

Every child is different

“My daughter didn’t sleep if hungry. Didn’t sleep at all. While my son seems to be sleeping through everything,” I was looking for some kind of an explanation from the doctor. “Every child is different, madam,” and that sealed it.

Years on, and my children demonstrated this theory, each in their unique way.

My daughter started school, excited and happy. New uniform, big pink bag and new friends. Little did she know that soon, the teachers are going to shout down her tiny frame “S write S”. “E within the two lines”. “Fast, you have to finish 2 more pages”. While she only wanted to share her drawing with her right side nieghbour and pinch her left side neighbour, who was nagging her for her eraser. Soon she disliked going to school.  Finally, they resigned in one PTM meet saying, “Your daughter is unable to write. See how the other children write. At this rate, I don’t think she’ll be able to fit in.” The other children in question went to pre-school, while my daughter was at home with mom busy with her baby brother.

Not that the comments deterred my outlook towards her education, I happened to read about, ‘Tiger Mom’. The Chinese style of parenting, where you (the parents) expect the child to (simply put) buck up with practice and rote if need be.

Well, before another teacher could point out what my child couldn’t do and worse still, in front of her, I started her lessons.  And not just practice or rote. Understanding.” How do you write, ‘Den’? - ‘da’, ‘da’.”  A change of school happened and we came to colourful classes, friendly faces, fun events and less shouting. As she progressed to higher classes, “Your daughter finishes her notes first and helps everyone in class, to complete their notes.” Phew!!! Smile! A silent pat on my own back ☺

She not only improved her work and grades but just breezed through activities and competitions. Not necessarily winning but without anxiety and always taking initiative (in class or birthday parties). In the process, she does more in a group and comes back more fulfilled.

And it translates to rock climbing, swimming, dance and play.

My son the ever enthu, bundle of joy simply tires me out. ‘Run, jump and climb’ is his mantra of childhood. And water is irresistible. But the routine of the swimming pool bores him. He has broken more toys than he has played with. But he will all by himself, unlock a tough automatic door lock and slid the gate backwards to climb to the top of the car. These can’t go on a report card and I’m glad they are not going for any kind of evaluation.  Some attributes, like moments, are for living and not to be put on a scale. So when he prefers to sit on the edge of the skating rink and play with his skates instead and watch the crowd skating by; I don’t worry cause he knows what the sport is and is there to enjoy it.

All of four and his teacher tells me, he doesn’t write and he only scribbles with his crayons without colouring. ‘Ok, a four year old, better scribble.’ I smile and not think about it. A year passes on and he’s scribbling in his sister’s old Maths workbook. The scribbling goes from page to page and finally he starts copying the 1,2,3 in the big empty boxes next to the numbers.  God, I couldn’t be happier or relieved for that matter. I thought to myself, ‘Let the child be.’ Each to his own. Without any acknowledge or discussion on what happened so casually in front of me, I knew my child will do just fine without the pressure, the nagging or the rigorous study routine; I had to use with my daughter. Soon, the teacher observed and his ‘I, 2,3’ shone bright in class.

When I stand by my children in their classes, give them pep talk and look around for engaging things for them to do; I also remind myself. ‘Art for art sake.’ Classes for joy, making new friends and being part of a team / a routine. Whether you want to stand out, let the child decide.

Life without a smartphone

First time, I panicked. How will I be in touch with – so many people without my smartphone? What if my kid’s school van calls? How will I know if the sky is hailing storms and I need to get into some bunker? The second time, I was genuinely stressed as I needed the smartphone to co-ordinate with a fellow mom for a school thing; pick and drop.

The third time, well, we just adapt. Don’t we? I don’t miss the smartphone. So I got a primitive phone without internet; for the necessities and mailed (from my laptop) the ones expecting or wondering why I wasn’t on chat. Luckily kids were home after exams and weren’t out of reach.

Apart from the necessities; I wasn’t surfing unnecessarily or for information. I didn’t immediately check on Angkor Wat in Cambodia for ‘1000 places to see before you die’ on TLC said it was a Hindu temple. Nor did I check a hundred times, for people responses on my Facebook posts and profile picture.

The phone didn’t fall several times with me carrying a child, water bottle, craft paper and the remote – all at once. Didn’t have to pull it out of my child’s reach and then search where I had put it safely.

I got time, I got peace of mind and a conservative thought that things/life/ emotions can wait. Was I more aware / alert in the moment? Well, have to check with my kids. Did I miss out on some jokes, positive thoughts, moral stories, lessons on humanity, nostalgia? Naaah!!!

Did I miss out on taking some pictures, worth remembering like the peacock outside my son’s karate class? Oh yes! But my conservative take on it – We saw it first hand J

Well, life without a smartphone. Living one hassle less, less charging danger, no censoring. One fragile companion less to take care of!

Women

She woke up thinking of her eight birthday,

Her mom bought her red bangles and

fresh jasmine flowers;

The sun had been pleasant and so

the water at the stream.

The sun was still pleasant but

now beckoned of work;

Of bricks to be laid and gallons to be filled

Gita yearned for the mornings with her mother,

Green fields and quite waters

Her son cried in his sleep;

She woke up in the dark

She changed his nappy

Wondered if he was happy

Cause wet it had been in her hut

Where huddled together,

Meeta with mother and brother

While on her rounds, selling tampons

and large size panties,

Little did she wander; to be back by sun down

For Deeru needed his scrub and a bowl of grub

She burned her hand, third time on a Tuesday

For she fried phulkas, one to a hundred

And butter did she melt,

On a hot summer’s day;

For her mother spend time for crime

Sheeraj fried phulkas in the day

and read History till late

Cause she hoped to get a job

and rise above the daily chore

Dark kohl and a strong scent;

She lingered in her broken high heel

Streets lit with lamps yet too dark for the eye

Long hours did she work,

with the crooked men

and clever miscreant agents

On days of spare, she tried to forget

Days of despair and gloom

Of school dropouts and swindling thugs  

For she had to work to fix the roof

And to send them to school

For Tyra, Meera, Hema and Sheena

Knew not of a father but of a sister

Who knew life could be darker

than down in an alley

The Train Station

She came to the train station

Looking for her path ahead

The morning dew had left the leaves; and she knew not if spring will come

Her hands were bruised, her palm held a silver

Eyes filled with pain but no time to cry, no shoulder to lean

The station was busy, the air was rough

Each train chugging by, each traveler hurrying past

Potters heaving, hawkers peddling

Not one did see the little girl

Not one did stop and ask

She sat in a cabin with powdered faces and hard looks

All she could do was move her hat and close her eyes

Before she could dwell in the loneliness of her heart,

she heard his voice;

‘Warm and concerned; genuine and dignified

Of happy thoughts and pleasant mornings

Sea gulls and wood fire ovens

Made of life, experience and wisdom

 Little did he care; for he could trade them for the sea ’

He looked into her soul and knew she had been waiting all along

Her smile warmed his heart, made him turn around and care

For she showed him, days of merry and dreams of cheer

The train chugged on

Leaving one station for another, one story for another

But little did they care for they found each other:

To seal a promise of love and care

To cherish each other with love and respect

Together they nurtured, together did they build

On hot summer days, as heavy fish he hauled,

Her smile made him smile, her call made him return

Cooking is a lot like love!

Dinner time and kids cry out, “No more the same ‘boring’ food.”
So out comes the Master Chef cap to try out new recipes. Part taste buds, part TV channel ‘Food Food’ and part healthy innovation gives rise to Chole Burger and Lip-smacking Cheese Macaroni.

Cooking is a lot like love. Deciding what to make, choosing ingredients is like falling in love. Regular pakoda or healthier chole burger vis-à-vis dinner date or movie night.
Well, for the chole burger, it’s very simple. Soak some (chickpea) chole over-night. Take these chole, one small onion, salt and chilli powder and grind in a mixie. Then shape the batter as medium sized patties, dip in cornflour paste and deep fry.

Now this is the exciting, ‘being in love’ part as the anticipation is just brimming. The mouth watering wait like the dreamy smile evoked by the lovely memories and the skip of the heart as the clock ticks towards the next date.

As the cutlets cool off on a tissue, I call to my daughter to assemble the burger. My daughter is only eager to do her bit in the kitchen J. Add the cheese slice for extra love and you can choose healthy green chutney for the tomato ketchup. Much like the dark brown eye liner instead of the killer pitch black one. Don’t forget the dash of lip gloss for a simmering date!

Daughter settles happily with a burger she assembled. I cut the tomatoes smaller as they are easier to bite.
Then comes the third part of the love relationship. The cleaning up, phew! This is where the beauty fades off and stains are hard to remove. Habits are seen clearer than the mole of the soft silky cheek. The complaints simmering like the hot oil in the pan and batter sticking everywhere like the incomplete words after a bad fight! Well, a cleaning up it does take and a good scrubbing too!
So you clean the kitchen, family helps with the table. Healthy meal for the kids, sweaty brows and a tiring smile.
A love affair like nothing else!

Another mouth-watering love affair!


With cheese, broccoli, pasta, olive oil, red peppers, salt, pepper, atta (for good health), butter, milk and lot of cheese again. A simple white sauce with atta frying on warm butter dissolving into milk and cheese. Sauté broccoli and the peppers add the boiled macaroni and veggies before you let more cheese melt in.
The plain macroni with cheese with for my cheese loving son!