The Girl and the Living Walls

I am 407/4 Pratap Lines, Jaipur Cantt

Earlier this week I was applied double coats of distemper, few furniture were replaced, couple of damp spots in my wall repaired. I can’t tell you how happy I was. I always felt cold with those damp spots in me and it also made me look dreadful and ancient.

I knew I will have a new family soon. I stopped speculating about the kind of people I would have as all these years I had seen a myriad of them. There were people who considered me as a temporary shelter and there were others who called me home. There were people who passionately decorated me, and some who just crazily hammered nails everywhere which made me look puckered than I was. For some, with heavily framed Egyptian paintings and volumes of crystal items I looked gorgeous and for others with family photographs and in an elegantly woven Persian carpet I turned out to be graceful.

But then I could hardly contain the excitement as I heard the footsteps coming towards me. Here I see them. A young officer with his new bride! The Capt wrapped his wife in his arms and walked in. Her fingers intertwined with hers, swinging back and forth. She moved around me with such childish ecstasy; I would be their first nest after marriage. Next few days saw a flurry of activities. My windows and doors were draped in new curtains, (there were huge arguments over the colour of the curtains - well well, there used to be differences in everything- from placement of the utensil rack, shape of cushions, bathroom fittings, placing the furniture, size of glasses, pattern of bed sheets and which dog breed to get!). He wanted the dominant theme of the house to be white. White bedsheets, white dining table cover, white curtains, white buckets, white tea set and even he searched for white gas burner. When she opposed vehemently he just deviated to off white and beige.

Their disagreements unlike their love, was ephemeral. In the morning when the husband left for office, she was there for a loving send off.

She endeavored her best to cut equal sizes of all vegetables in salad and even halved the grapes with such affection. With my experience I could tell that she was a novice in the kitchen. Once she placed a brinjal in the microwave oven. Later, with teary eyes she plucked out each seed from the oven as it had burst into innumerable pieces. The young man on the other hand was an expert cook. He would cook everything with dollops of cheese and butter and loved his wife more than anything in the world.

She was new to dressing up like a lady in the evening for Mess Functions or Call Ons. She had a hard time to clean up the batter from her face, her baking lessons failed , the maiden cake turned out to be hard as a cricket ball and on top of that she had invited guests at home!

Pall of gloom descended and she thought it to be the end of the world.

But again like phoenix she rose, with lot of assurance from her companion and the day ended well with laughter and banter. The guests described their own hilarious incidents about baking and cooking. The young girl felt better. Her husband wittily glanced at her.

The young officer would attaimes narrate the ways of the Army to her. Sometimes she accepted the sermons, but mostly she questioned and revolted. Why would the mandir parade be on Sundays? What is the necessity for strict Mess etiquettes and why should Tuesdays be chhole bhature days and Sundays biriyani days? She questioned about having so many unnecessary uniforms and shoes, and she for the first time came to know colour of petrol to be blue and white. To her utter disgust white, beige and green colours (even clothes other than uniform) dictated his cupboard. She frowned at the saree fetish ladies. She named Sunday as Sulkingday because her man went to office in civil dress and her worst enemy was the fauji phone. It belched out in high decibel whenever possible. And yes, she failed to understand why the call made on ‘Reporting Time’, should be holier-than-thou and that even a mellowed down sneeze (from anyone in the house) would be a criminal offence. She even scowled at the thought and questioned the valid reason behind naming nature’s call as Jungle parade. But she tied the knot not only with the man but also with his profession and she already had the Married to Olive Green book, the Bible, for civilians married into the army. Just one step left - to flip open and read.

For the past few days, I found her quite withdrawn. Attimes she would recluse in a corner, buried her head in her palms and sobbed quietly. I wanted to help but I was helpless. One evening, after being cajoled by her husband she spurted out that she was exhausted and wanted to wriggle out of ‘lady like syndrome act’, she missed being herself. She felt caged in the Cantonment and wanted a way out. She was an aspiring journalist and her aspirations were snuffed out early. Without a job she felt less empowered. She was way too vexed with the people advising her to do B.Ed and teach, or do gardening or cook new dishes and share the recipes or learn stitching. I was concerned about her and with ages behind me I wanted to tell her that with time every crease will be ironed out. It was love at first sight which brought them together and then the love seemed out of sight. The young man, seemed to be powerless against such blitzkrieg. He was visibly distressed. The only happy soul was the four month old mischievous, curious and playful Doberman pup named Ditto. He was found to be everywhere that he shouldn’t have been. From toilet paper to shoes to plants, he spared nothing. But these days even Ditto’s antics failed to lift the girl’s mood. I keep on referring her as ‘girl’ as addressing her ‘lady’ would entail undue pressure on her and expectations would surmount. Even for me. Then, why? Let time take the course. What is the hurry to make a ‘lady’?

After many such gloomy evenings one day she looked content. The man and his wife whooshed out of the door for dinner, they whispered to each other – and I was keen to know the turn of events. With series of congratulatory phone calls that followed the next day I could make out that soon there would be an addition in the family.

Still, when there was no one in the house but myself and Ditto, she would attimes embrace my brick walls and ask - Will I be a good mother? Am I being a good wife? Am I being a good army wife? I am unable to make great desserts and just clueless about rearing a baby. (Her voice would mellow down and anguish resonated – I would have to give up my career. I cannot hop to countless and remote locations and hope to make my byline on the front page of newspaper…) She became thoughtful.  

I replied fondly, have faith in yourself and hold on! Did she hear? I think so, because she seemed pacified everytime after she spoke blankly to the walls. I felt part of this family.

Certain things ofcourse enraged me. Top of the list was when Ditto scratched my walls fervidly in order to dig hole. I don’t know why dogs do that! I despised it and I am sure he felt my indignation because next he did was leaving a crescent shaped mark of on my walls. Uff ! how I loathed such damp and pungent smell. More so, I still cannot fathom the correlation between a soldier and his love for dog.

A beautiful February morning was abuzz with people running helter skelter. The young man exulted and announced that he was the proud father of a baby girl. Oh! How desperately I wanted to see her and the new mother. I saw her later that day. She was adorable. She peered through her brand new eyes at what must be such a strange world after life in the womb. As she cuddled in her mother’s arms her curled pink fingers brushed my walls. I felt she thanked me for protecting her.

With untimely cries, diaper changes, doctor’s appointments, and baby’s babble –the house, rather I, felt lively as never before. Attimes I saw the baby’s mother physically exhausted coupled with sleepless nights, self –doubt, worry and new parenthood seemed a challenge. Everyone, relatives and acquaintances, advised her how to be a perfect mother and that she should follow their examples. I hollered to the self-acclaimed perfectionists – with a new baby a new mother is also born. So let them be! The house was always throbbing with people but I found her lonesome. I saw sparkle in her eyes when her neighbor came. A very loving figure in whom this girl took comfort. Perhaps in her she understood the real meaning of being part of the olive green family. You are never alone even when you think you are. Even then she would have queries about the Army life, but then it was only to understand and not revolt.

With a grin I said to myself – Time and Infantry Life are great teachers, healers and guides.

They organized a dinner to celebrate their new born. This time, I saw her preparing the list of the invitees,  fixing the menu (easy yet with a twist) something she can manage, ensured she had enough serving plates and this time the sponge cake came out better than before.  She fumbled less, except that she forgot to ask the guests for a second helping and also it never occurred to her to show the ‘sweetened sauf,’ at the end, but beyond that she was almost a perfect hostess.

As a soldiers life is always half packed in trunk, I knew it was about time they move on to a different place, a new house and a new life. The young officer got posting orders. He was moving to the borders. The destination of her stay for the next couple of years was unclear. They had to give away their dog as uncertainty mounted. It was difficult to take care of a baby and a dog if at all she had to fall back to her hometown. They missed him a lot. Even I felt dejected.

But one thing was clear. For next couple of years they will stay apart. In the remaining days they marveled me more. They thanked their first house and called me a part of their life.

Trunks got a new black coating, hiding the word CAPT. Instead with fresh white paint, the word MAJ showed prominence. She carefully put the belongings in designated numbers given to the trunks and meticulously mentioned every item in a list. (Here, I remembered how on the first day she came, rummaged her suitcase to take out her favorite pair of jeans!)

The truck got loaded -not only with trunks but also with memories. The officer with his wife and daughter for the last time came inside. They went to the rooms, touched me (walls) and bid adieu, with a promise to visit me sometime in future. I wanted to hold on to that moment and never let them go. But I am a fauji house and for me as they say change is the only constant thing!

Many years passed. I had so many families reside in me. But I always wondered about the young officer and his wife. Is she lady like now? How about her sponge cakes? Can she manage her life, postings, separation, home, career-all too well or whines helplessly?

Today I got my answers. It was dusk and a couple walked towards me. I am quite old now, with new construction towering over me, I could hardly see them. But the sound of the steps was familiar. Oh! how happy I was to see them again. The young officer was not so young, with gravitas in his voice he ushered his wife and the little girl to walk fast. They also had a son who clutched his mother’s hand firmly. The new born girl is a teenager now. Of course it is been thirteen long years! Children seemed to know about me, the place and Ditto! Curiosity gleamed in their eyes. They came inside and introduced themselves to the lady who opened the door. They were unexpected but welcomed guests. The mother of two shared about her stay here more than a decade ago. I listened to every word carefully. I was happy to know that she writes, takes care of the home, manages all her commitments, keeps up with erratic postings and even plays the role of both parents when her husband is in field area. I learnt that she took up teaching briefly and found it equally satisfying as journalism.

For an army wife, it dosenot take time see life in a different and new perspective. Just like tallying of the ribbons in their husbands’ crests, they become dynamic, versatile and remain unruffled even when facing formidable situations. Ask me, I know all about them.

The officer and his wife frequently looked at my walls, probably trying to find any memorabilia. She went to the terrace and touched the iron loop which was firmly drilled in the wall. It was where they attimes tied their dog when guests came. The loop was probably the only tangible thing, besides me, left of their time. Politely they took leave. The indomitable spirited girl I knew paced graciously towards the door. The confounded maverick was more resolute now. I admired her but somewhere I had started missing the wide-eyed artless new bride.

 Just then, she touched my walls once more and muffled something. I felt the warmth of her palms and heart. I could not hear what she said. But I knew she whispered that she will always remember me.

I saw a lady being born but the girl is still alive in her.

The Colonel wrapped her in his arms, looked deeply in her eyes and walked away with his family.

Love peeps...

The morning rush was on. I scurried around the house for meeting various deadlines. Making sure bread pieces do not get an overtime in the toaster, pulling out my son from the shower, looking for my daughter’s school diary as she was unable to find it and all the time straining my ear to hear the first beep of her school bus.  My husband was completely aware of the conundrum between 6 am to 7 am. When at times he called during that period my so called “Love You, ”seemed to be like a howling on the phone.

“B—Y—E ..”..I said aloud from the kitchen as I heard a loud thud. My daughter left for school.  So now I geared up for Act II. V-r-o-o-m v-r-o-o-m ..aa-cc—ii---dd-e-n-t…my son screamed as he was busy playing with his hot wheels car. He was quite unawares of the time schedule. Its so natural for a five year old, yet I try to bribe God by offering extra ladoos and in return ask Him to make my son grow up fast.

It was almost 7 o’clock.  I had to keep pace with time. I fed him with one hand and buttoned his shirt with another. Well as you grow in the vocation of “Motherhood” you can master many such things. I call it Art of Motherhood- it just makes me feel better.  Next moment I was almost dragging him through the door and just then in the doorway the smell of rotten flowers hit me. I grabbed the bunch of yellow roses from the vase and prepared to throw it in the dustbin, just adjacent to the corridor.  

“Mumma…no don’t do. Papa sent those roses, you cannot throw them. You have to keep it,” pleaded my son. “But dear, the roses have withered away now, and we have to put them away,” I said as I firmly walked towards the dustbin. “No. Papa will be sad. ..if you throw it then I am not going to school. Those are papa’s flowers..my papa…,” he almost started crying. I was startled and in a fix. My husband sent the bouquet of beautiful yellow roses to me four days back. We celebrate every little event in our lives starting from the day we first held hands or first kiss. ( I know it sounds clichéd...) But now in such bustling life these have become a mere calendar events. Where we say things or just perform but neither hear or feel.

“Okay, I wont,” I told my son. He wiped his tears and almost instantly his face beamed with joy. As I dropped him at the bus stop my mind raced through different phases of my life.  I walked back into the house and placed bouquet where it was. The flowers have faded away, the stems have taken a brown colour from green. I looked at the flowers for an extra minute. Not even I enjoyed the sweet fragrance or marveled at their beauty when they were fresh.  When I received the bouquet I diligently put it in the vase. Ensured that my crystal vase should be kept in a safe place out of my children's reach . Every day we focus on living life, rearing up children, and even expressing love or making  phone calls - with a dash of perfection and sense of duty.

Until a voice , here my five year old son- urged me to feel the love he felt in withered away flowers.

Four legged Barbie

It was a sheer nightmare to dissuade my little daughter to stay away from puppies on streets. Specially when Giggly, the name which Juhi and her friends gave to a street dog, delivered six pups, all my daughter wanted was to be with them all the time! Well out of six four survived. Giggly got the much needed attention from the kids. Juhi ensured that the pups get enough milk albeit from her own share. She emptied her glass of milk faster than ever!

The four pups were named as Sumo, Wrestler, Mickey and Barbie. The four legged creatures gradually also got fond of the kids. Juhi exactly knew if all whereabouts of the pups. As days passed I also grew less concerned and occasionally asked Juhi about the pups. She described their activities in the most animated way...I enjoyed it!

One day she quiet sadly mentioned that Wrestler had gone missing. A few days after Sumo was found dead in some one's garden. But the sight of Barbie cheered her up. Barbie gave Juhi the great attention as she wagged her little furry extension while Juhi came back from school or followed her to the park, too. "Maa, Barbie seems to be sad today, I think she is missing Sumo and Wrestler, or 'Maa Barbie fought with Mickey today, or, 'Maa, Barbie is hungry today, we must give food to her....," was common observations.

One morning Barbie was found dead in front of our house. She lay motionless beside a bush. I wanted desperately that her body be removed before Juhi arrives from school. But Juhi saw her friend dead on her way back from school. 

She didnot ask me anything. To my surprise she said,' Maa, Barbie has met her other siblings in Heaven", and continued in unfaltering tone "I have to love Mickey more now, she will be alone". I thought, my daughter has the insight of life and death already. Relieved too, because I was worried that she would be shocked and it would be difficult for me to make her understand the reality.

So,life went on usual for the day.

At midnight Juhi woke me up. 'Maa, I will punish the car which killed Barbie...how can I get her back?...Will she never come back?...May be she is living...

All through the day my little girl tried to be brave but with the advent of darkness her little soul was awakened.I presumed her to be pragmatic. But I was wrong. How can a seven year old be so? Could we understand the meaning of the cycle of birth and death and accept death? 

  Her grief knew no bounds...she couldn't any more wear the garb of maturity...she is a child and will always be ...so are we. It will always be difficult for us to accept the vacuum created by  someone's departure forever.

Radio of my Childhood

 A simple box from where I heard sounds -- magic I thought it to be when I was little. And to me my grandmother was the magician. With simple tuning of the knobs she could vary sounds and programmes from the box. What a wonder! And that wonder box was called radio.

Grandma's favorite programme was Bibidh Bharati in the morning. Where she listened to news bulletin and then songs. She placed the radio atop the window pane in the kitchen. I think it was merely an attempt to put it out of my reach! I was her blue eyed brat...
She woke up everyday at 4 o' clock in the morning, busy herself in 'puja' and then get involved in kitchen. She had a penchant for cooking a variety of dishes and that too in limited resources. How could she do it..well that's a mystery because now even amongst plenty, attimes I fail to choose. She cooked in typical Barishal style, a district of Bangladesh, where she got married at the tender age of 18. 

Grandma kept track of time while working and tuned in the radio on time. My immediate interest was morning delicious breakfast as she would oblige to any of my demands while listening to her favorite programmes. I knew names of all newsreaders by heart-amongst all Debdulal Bandopadhyaya was my favorite. His profound and heavy voice was quite appealing and he had the power even to arrest a child's attention. 

Though grandma endeavoured a lot to put me to sleep in the afternoon so that she could relax while hearing the audio drama, I always feigned sleep and took interest in her radio programme. I still remember couple of audio dramas which etched an indelible mark in my childhood memory. 

Though in regular circumstances radio timings were fixed in house, during election period and announcement of poll results radio had a extended run. Mood of the house changed constantly after each announcement. I didn't understand anything but that radio was on for a long time gave me immense pleasure. Reason still unknown to me. It may be that I had a good escape from my studies and everyone ignored my mischiefs.  Whatever it may be, I give  radio the ultimate credit.

I secretly tried to tune the knobs attimes but most of the time caught by grandma. Invariably my efforts gave away to some cacophonous sounds while grandma always could tune into proper stations. 

I was close to grandma and her radio too. She hardly berated me, just gave a slight pat on my back...more of love than anything.

My magician was gone on 1st July 2002. Ten long years have passed by. Radio programmes have undergone varied changes and so is the look of radio. But till today, whenever I hear a sound from a radio I visualize my grandma tuning on the knobs and  then the magic began.....

Times when childhood memories ruffles my otherwise calmness and I miss the loving ones I feel may be my grandma is still listening to her favorite radio programmes and somewhere I can pass the message how much  I love and miss her...

Journey of a Love Mug

          

We all do crazy things when in love! I did too. Once I bought a white mug and secretly took the same to the bathroom. Reason - my mom was still unawares ( I deliberately kept her in dark)  about my whirlwind romance. 

              I diligently and meticulously took pencil, rubber, paint, brush, nail polish, cotton and hair dryer inside the loo. I wanted to put a personal touch to the mug. Special gift to be sent to Kashmir and that too from Kolkata. I drew lips (indicating kisses), painted hearts, wrote love messages with nail polish and dried all quickly with full blow of hairdryer. Under wraps I kept it in my bag and en-route my college I halted at Post Office. 

 Contrary to belief the postal department helped me! The hard cardborad box was stuffed with cotton, and newspapers. As I mentioned on top as fragile glass item I sealed it with a kiss...and glue too. 

With assurance it would not break on its journey I set off for my class. 

After a few days an excited and happy voice from the other end of the phone confirmed the receipt of the love mug in one piece. I was delighted. Mom took notice of the same!

We got married. As true to belief in Infantry we got transferred to almost six stations in nine years. Created a happy family too with two additions. A daughter and a son! 

While shifting trunks I stumbled upon a hard stuff very patiently put inside in pair of socks. I felt it so that I can judge it and not take the trouble to take it out. Accordingly either I will keep it or throw it and reduce the junk which keeps on mounting during every posting. Failing to guess, I took it out and to my utter surprise IT WAS THE LOVE MUG. 

My daughter asked if she could keep it on her desk and my son wanted to play with it. I politely said 'NO'...I looked at my husband and said." we must keep this in the showcase in our bedroom...so that everyday we can feel the warmth of our love.." My voiced trailed as I went back to past. "Hey but it has crack and to better keep as a pen stand. It must be used.." my romantic husband sounded practical..." It can be a spoon holder too, didi..".wisely commented by my house-keeper...I retired from the scene placing the mug on table.  

Next day morning I went to brush and surprisingly saw the Love Mug as a proud tooth brush holder...It's been put to practical use after nine long years! Its the first thing in the morning I can see. I felt cheerful that at least it is in prominence and out from oblivion after so many years. But Bathroom! May be Every Luv Mug has its own fate..

Letter to God

Letter to God

         Wish I had the magic wand or what if God granted me three wishes right now...I would only want one and return the other two! I felt so when my two year old son unintentionally broke a new toy car (which  became his favorite within an hour) and brought it to me.

Silently gave me the car and the broken part. Ambivalent feelings going through him which prominently writ on his innocent face. He was sad because of the state of the car but he believed that his mummy can make everything all right! Alas! No way, I could not put the pieces together. The expression on his face changed. He was hurt more than angry. His faith had taken a hit. How could Mummy fail?

So God just want some spare magic to be given to mummies...at least to make a toddler believe that his hero would never fail him and that he can have complete trust.

Wait son till God receives this letter...              

Vanishing promises....

     

       I don’t deny the fact that I’m the typical woman who just poses to be the best in all roles yet very vulnerable and anxious about everything all the time. True. I confess.

As the mother of two young and terrible “little rascals” I always get the perfect opportunity to play a disciplinarian and which secretly I flounder ( at times). As the elder one tries to defy my words with a smile (devilish) the younger one...barely two years..puts up his index finger , sways it and utters ‘No No’. Remember he hardly spells out few mono syllabic  words ! 

 

I summon God and ask Him to give me the power to bear these creatures...

All change when your children fall sick. My elder one , Juhi almost 7 years...was down with fever and my son Jai was also unwell.  Almost a week both the kids suffered. More so I did. All mothers do. Specially I remember the times when I was harsh with them and promise myself to be the best Mom ever born on earth.  Juhi wanted permission to watch TV as being in bed for days turned boring...and when I agreed she promised me to be the best girl ever born on earth.

 Well,  fever subsided. Asking for permission replaced by stubbornness. And all promise from both the parties vanished. Does it only happen with me?

Whats in a name?

Though one might think like Shakespeare , "What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet," 

I beg to differ. Bongs are very particular about names, pronunciation and their meaning, though when we traverse outside Bengal border it gets distorted. For obvious reasons. Like my name Palashpriya became Pluspriya, Poolshpiya, Plaaseypiya, and some were loyal even to excuse from such tongue twister of a name (they thought) to “Can I call you just Plus..please?”..My hubby initially started with Priya...obviously during courtship PRIYA to PRIYEE becomes easy, Agree? Then when some asked me about the meaning of my name I courteously take the pain to explain...its called so because Saraswati Goddess loved Palash or Polash flowers and her worship is incomplete without the same. So Saraswati Devi’s another name is Palashpriya. And then someone would definitely be intelligent enough to say, “To ji aap ki maa appka naam Saraswati kyun nehi rakkhi?’’...I felt like banging my head.

Then when I chose my children’s’ names it was also the same herculean task. Names had to start with A because my hubby’s name starts with the same alphabet ( My husband felt better too) and then Priya was must to rhyme with my name (booster to a mothers ego). So AALIYAHPRIYA  sounded perfect and unique for my daughter!

With my son the same problem arose but it was little easy because in no way any name could rhyme ‘Priya’..We chose the name ARIHANT. Sad for me that he didn’t have any part of my name, but I felt better when people claimed , “ oh your boy resembles you so much”....as if they discovered a hidden treasure! Thank you anyways. I was sure to have found the most unique and uncommon name unless one day......

 I saw an Advertisement in the news paper on  ARIHANT Cement company. I was shattered only prayed  that my friends would not be able to trace it. Until then came a call from my best friend, “Hi Palash saw the news paper..ARIHANT..bla bla cement yaar..bla bla”...I barely spoke and couldn’t take the joke and my dear friend Moushumi  knew it. She thoroughly enjoyed the moment. Crestfallen I was!

Judging by my expression and seeing my plight my hubby came to my rescue. You got to be proud, our boy will be rock solid as cement! Okay I take it!

Blink of innocence

How many times can you look at the same stuff? But seeing the unrelenting enthusiam of your better half attimes reluctantly you have to comply. Specially I have to compel myself when my husband, Ashish wants me to watch his favourite program with him on TV or downloaded in computer, repeatedly. Sometimes, he excitedly called me “Ooh its the Superstructures,” or ‘you can’t miss the Wings,’ or “Yeeeessss its Future Weapons On , come over darling,’ the euphoria in his voice would soon recede if I refused to be the spectator. Poor me. I had to bear it as I couldn’t hurt his emotions. Apart from this, he watched the video of Lorito many a times where in a Parrot mimics sound of other animals.  Every time he saw it, he would roll in laughter. How come everytime it evoked the same emotion in a person? I failed to understand.

Yesterday when I was occupied with daily work again he called me to watch Lorito. “Spare me this time, I am busy,’ was my desperate reply. ‘Come on, or you will miss it,” there was an urgency in his voice. What would I miss? I thought. Unwillingly I moved towards the drawing room where I knew Ashish was glued to the computer. Sensing me behind, he almost whispered...”Can you see?”

See The world As I see, will you?

I saw my one and half year old boy watching Lorito. He was awestruck.   His expression is inexplicable in words. The voyage from curiosity to discovery was discernible.There was something blissful about his wonder. His lips showed signs of slight curve and amazement written all over his face. His eyes spoke a thousand words.

My husband was correct. Had I not seen this I would have missed it. I saw Lorito as I have never seen before. All through my son’s eyes.

Packed the moments in the trunk, too

Mountains kissing the sky 

 Day started as usual and my approach was even more casual. All changed with a phone call.

‘Hi pack up Darling’, my husband sounded excited on the other side of the call. I gasped to listen to the place of our new posting as it was due. He played with word before uttering the most coveted word and destination for next two years. My mind rehearsed all the names to my knowledge which only attimes I find Army wives know of. The finally he said, ‘Arre stop thinking about Timbaktoo, we are going to DELHI’...I could only reply with ‘aaaah..how come, serious?’ He assured me that he was.

My mind raced through many things. We were expected to move as my husband’s ‘unit ki naukri’ as they term it, was over. But Delhi! Too much to digest. Huge trunks are a threat as again its time to reopen them and pack according the numbering and list. Though every station I vow not to increase my items and to husband’s horror, it does. Well I am still thinking of items I missed out which marks “as exclusive Pathankot stuff” and only bad news it’s just the middle of the month!! Afterall these days I visit the market and try to sound like a localite though the shopkeepers could point out but I discovered or rediscovered shops which gave better discounts and I take pride in that. All army wives do.

Family outing

     Well, after the initial excitement ebbed away, I somehow felt a bit dejected. Now this is also too hard to handle. As an infantry officer’s wife half the house always remains in the trunks, we move with our husbands wherever possible and surprisingly leave the heart there.

Juhi and Jai at their favorite spot 

Even in the remotest places where initially nothing else but serious cribbing takes all time, the day we hear about the posting we suddenly discover the hidden love for the place. When I came to Pathankot, last year in July, though with others I appreciated the scenic beauty of the place yet I actually compared it with Kolkata all the time and spared no aspect to prove it insignificant and uninteresting. I complained about the weather (though Kolkata was sultry and humid), the condition of the house I found pathetic (though I got one of the best houses in the station) the people ( here people do care) at times limited variety of fresh vegetables, (vegetables in Kolkata are more rotten) market ( distance and cost are  more in Kolkata) -well every thing seems to be exorbitant, the schools appear to fall below expectation ( class I studies are manageable anywhere) and above all the working class seemed to be incorrigible as well as irregular ( this story is same everywhere). The heap of utensils and husbands office hours seems to rise every day. Juggling the needs of a 6 yr old and an infant every thing seemed to  be appalling.

But....

When did I fall in love with the place? I have grown fond of my Mamun Cantt address. I got so attached to the house that if  MES ( Military Engineering Services) dosen’t turn up even after repeated complain I laugh it off and resolve the trouble with some other alternative. (This was unthinkable at the beginning as MES was at the receiving end).

Juhi and Jai at Go-Carting

I roamed around the house recollecting wonderful moments. I touched the wall which supported my son for his first step. I found the green paint splashed on the cream coloured wall of my daughter’s room and the corner where she once stood for hours since I berated her for some mischief, all these are part of their growing up. The small balcony presented the scenic view of the mountains afar and at times we raced who would be the first to see the mountains today! The terrace is where we spend hours sitting together or even secretly dance in the rain.

Its a huge Military Station and love hate likes and dislikes amongst ladies continues, but where it dosen’t? And I am just carrying the goodness of everybody in my heart. The place, the people all seems to be a part of me. The Mess Functions, Officer’s dining in or dining out, Dinner Nights, Raising day, Social gathering, Ladies Club , Family Welfares, picnics, movie outings, small gestures, funny discussions, altercations and mild misunderstandings all seemed to instantly flash and melt in a bigger smile. As an army wife I learned to love the place where I live. Like the trunks, I open a small closet in my heart and keep all in here, to relish and cherish them forever. Pack up and move to a new station for more fond memories.

Second Devil is a better bargain!

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Is it...no it can’t be..might be..NO NO..I am yet to identify myself as Mrs Jaiswal..Palash sounds cool to me and I am not prepared for the “motherhood”...it was my reaction when I conceived my elder one. I felt I was the only one cornered by God!...my demanding moods coupled with equally demanding job as a subeditor in Evening Shift squeezed me out. I wanted to eat n hated it too...wanted everything yet hated everything..such a paradox..(I look back and think..God grant every Husband Himalayan Patience as He did to mine)....well I had counseling sessions by friends and words of sympathy from young lovers and advice galore from all “mothers”... scenario was even bad after my daughter was born as I tried to take up every advice and not listen to my heart and reason out everything!

Paranoid I was when Juhi refused to eat even for one time or if she defied the routine sleeping programme set by me. A child must have vegetables, vitamins..etc etc....the race for the best mother and healthy baby continued. At times you forget that a child has her own wish and taste. Mashed food and juices are not THE THING...and timings can be varied....if a child refuses to have a certain thing she might be feeling bored or uncomfortable and that is not the end of the world..I use to go crazy if she missed her fruit one day! Why didn’t it struck me to grant the little angel her wish..or I was scared to be tagged as ‘indisciplined indulging Mumma’ as a first timer I wanted to be the best pressured from all corners and expectations not realising I was at my wits’ end...

but things changed drastically after the second one.

The other one! 

When I conceived I thought it was “cool”...when people came in for advices I gave the look , “I Know it all man” ..when some alerted me about sibling jealousy and rivalry and termed it as healthy and constructive. When my son was born , changing nappies all night yet getting up early for my daughters school and tutoring her all continued with equal élan.

If my son refuses to eat or sleep on time I take it as a gesture of growing up...I stress myself less and the pressure of becoming the perfect Mom is vanished. When he refuses some stereo type food I take it as a mark of change for better!...I give due regard to his mood, appetite or expression and I guess my daughter benefits from the same...I have learnt not to overstep the boundary and nurture natures gift without imprisoning the same. Every child, every mother is different..and human nature is expressed right from the start. When a child is born mother is born too...mistakes are granted but be open, change..and constantly review yourself - are you hanging your child by the clock?...Tick Tick..Its time for Mashed Potatoes....Tick Tock...3 hrs sleep .’What will Mrs Sen tell me if she gets your noise in the afternoon? Afterall her son sleeps for 4 hrs.Tick Tock....Hey..Stop the clock...

Sorting each other out

Happy in each others company