Seven Ages Of a Woman and More

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother "what will I be…?” I am far from humming the Dorris Day popular number, instead recollecting this question which I asked my mother especially on my birthday and that too a zillion times.  I thought Birthdays to be magical days, whatever you wish was granted and I surmised that by next birthday I would grow up enough to be what I wanted to be! During childhood my birthday was just my day, I was the crowned princess on that day. From distributing toffees in school, to surprise presents, dress and card - all was mine. Until, I came to know that it was my maa’s birthday too. Oh! It’s a little uncommon but not strange though. All these years maa patiently, meticulously and ardently prepared for my birthday. Why didn’t she mention that before? Because she wanted me to be the cynosure of all eyes on that day, probably that’s how she celebrated her own.

So, for me it was ignorance, whining and then acceptance that I have to share my day, or I thought so! Seems hilarious, now. Then, during teens, with hope, vivacity and sparkle in my eyes I was happy to exchange wishes with maa on our birthday. The day whizzed past with hosting friends, trip to movies, a touch of glitz and glam and ofcourse breaking the rules without worrying for penalty.

Back home, maa and dida waited to have the special meal with me. Oh! I did oblige them..(haa haa) ‘Payesh’ prepared by my dida with jaggery and a typical fried rice and chilly chicken, an exceptional dish by maa, made me feel on cloud nine. They were happy to see me share a meal with them, even though it was the fag of the day. A gift of giving, I couldn’t fathom it completely at that point of time.

As I grew out of teens and paraded towards maturity, my excitement knew no bounds on our birthday. The paradigm shift from birthday being my day to devise ways to surprise maa on her birthday and scouting for the best possible gifts with my permissible pocket money.

“…..Oh forget my birthday, you are young, it’s your day. I am quite grown up,” was her sheepish response. She never used the clichéd word “old”…the trait she got from her mother. My octogenarian dida detested if someone called her old lady. What amused me then…even amuses me now. Earlier I thought it to be humorous not to accept one’s age, now I glean how positive, energetic and young they were at heart!

Then came a day when I had my Birthday to myself again. Not to share with anyone, not even my mother. I reminisced quietly, wanted to hold on and go back to days where we blew out the candles together. Never counted the candles, probably merged with ageless love and affection.

A mother and daughter or creator and creation being one, all in revelry and celebratory mood.

I was pensive and huddled in a solitary corner as I missed my companion in celebration. When my thoughts drifted to faraway land,  I heard a loud thud as the door opened with utmost might. A cacophonous Happy Birthday song, in high decibel and in chorus-by my kids. My daughter darted in the room and hugged me while my son sprinted in and nestled on my lap. They gave me cute presents for which they saved their pocket money. My daughter placed a flower beside her nini’s photo and wished her Happy Birthday.

Who said I lost my companion in celebration? Part of me is gone but part of me is here too.  I was the world for my maa and now I am the world for my kids.

So, from ignorance, whining, acceptance, jubilation, contemplation, giving up and now celebration again…This is Seven Ages of a Woman and still to be continued….

Today I again celebrated…I celebrated the Relations.

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.

My precious gifts are with me, I donot have to hunt happiness

We parked the car in Gopinath Bazaar and went to buy my favorite brownie. It was just one of the easy and lazy late evenings in otherwise demanding life of Delhi. The weather was perfectly romantic in the late October, or atleast my husband and I thought so!

After taking the brownie and ofcourse added sandwiches, patties with it, we hastily went into the car as we were excited for a drive towards the India Gate. Something caught my attention.

An aged lady sat on the footpath, the area mostly deserted at that hour, barring a few shops. Her frail body was covered with a worn out blanket. A stick was placed near her. My husband asked me to give a packet to her containing the food we just bought.I took out some money as well. I fumbled yet grabbed the packet as the lady’s calmness bothered me. I expected the usual begging for food or money, or both. She stared at me from a distance, but her facial expression didnot change much. Again I expected her to be elated while I stepped near her, as it obviously meant that she would gain something.

I faltered back as a dog barked. I failed to notice its presence as he was happily sharing the blanket with the old woman. I was determined to be the so called ‘giver’ and therefore I mustered courage and went near her though the dog grumbled.

       “Mere paass kuch khana hain, aap rakhlijiye aur paisse bhi le lijiye,” I extended my hand to reach her. There was no reaction from her, just about a slight hint to the four legged pet of hers to be quiet. I reiterated my offer or rather request, should I say?

Her lips parched and I felt happy that ‘for today I have done a good deed’ as I knew she would take the packet as well as the money and would shower a set of blessings. Its almost an everyday affair in Delhi streets.

"Mujhe koi cheese ki jaroorat nehi hai, main thik hu,” she said. Her voice had the right mix of tenderness and strength which stopped me from repeating my request. She took out a broom and cleaned a small area near her and made arrangements to sleep. I was surprised as well as bewildered by her denial. The dog grumbled again and I thought I must leave and let this happy family to take rest.

With sluggish steps I moved on. She had a dog to give her company, a broom with which she can clean up her place and make it liveable for the night, a blanket to protect her somehow from the cold, and an open sky that she called home.

In every moment in life the role of the giver and receiver changes. I went to give her mere food and money, but I received profound wisdom. To be contended in life either we need very little, or the list goes up everyday.