An encounter with life

 

It was just another Monday for me, with barrage of anxieties. My daughter did not fair well in the first term exam, my 5 year old son, Jai suffered from high fever and the maid did not turn up. The bathroom tap leaked and the plumber did not come after repeated calls, I hardly got time to do exercise and pitied myself as I looked in the mirror. My work did not gain momentum as I expected and all these I could not have shared with my husband since he was posted in the Field Area. I was the Olive Green queen wearing the crown of thorns! First I berated my daughter for her miserable result, went to the Military Hospital again with my son, got back and cleaned the utensils, did the remaining household chores and figured out that my dog, Laila had run away. I endeavored to recollect the last time I saw her. Definitely around 9 in the morning when I gave her food. And it was late afternoon then. I was coping with challenging situation that day and did not notice her absence. 

I couldn’t muster more courage to beat the situation. I slumped on the sofa and wept bitterly. After couple of minutes, I got up and went to check on my son. He lay asleep and is fever seemed to subside. I went to my neighbor, narrated the string of events and requested her to keep an eye on my son as me and my daughter went to look for Laila.

Delhi Cantonment is quite sprawling and our Bakharwal dog was capable to go anywhere. A pure white beauty but fiercely independent and quite known for her Runaway Bride moments.  

Armed with a dog leash we called out her name repeatedly. Some one pointed out the way in which he spotted our dog couple of hours ago. My mind raced with many thoughts – What if she had ventured in far flung area or bitten by pack of strays and left to die elsewhere or kidnapped by breeders or may be hit by a vehicle and lay dead somewhere!

Oh! I forcibly halted my confounded and anxious thoughts focused on what was required on that hour. My daughter and I decided to go towards different directions for a more effective search. In the meantime I called my neighbor and found that my son was still asleep and that the fever had completely subsided.

I resumed the search with more gusto. An hour passed with no trace of Laila. I saw my daughter from afar walking towards me, alone. I was more distraught to see my daughter. She never spoke. But moist, downcast eyes and her dejected look spoke a lot. It was a tough day for her, too. I realized it for the first time, probably in several months. These years, while steering the ship all alone, made me only look at the shore and not the way.

We decided to walk back. There was a quaint charm in the air. The breezy yet silent late November afternoon with rustling of dry leaves,  occasional squeaking of the squirrels and chirping of the birds had a message to convey.

We walked slowly. Partially because I still hoped, though faintly, Laila might surface from somewhere and more because I wanted to initiate a conversation with Juhi.

Earlier that day I was quite peeved with her. But at that point, a calmness descended upon me. Maybe I accepted the situation instead of incessantly complaining about it. I nudged her affectionately and asked her about school and friends. It was her seventh school and she was in sixth grade, she studied in different cities and towns. Its part and parcel of Infantry life. The bag or rather the trunk is always half packed for  us.

‘I don’t have many friends here. Nobody shares anything with me,’ she said in a melancholy tone. ‘Don’t have to be friends with anyone, just do well in studies…be a leader ..you don’t have to follow others..,” I rattled.

‘ But maa..I am alone….,’…she raised her voice, not with arrogance but with a plead to hear. It struck me. I kept quite. After a while I asked her to be my best friend. ‘But you are busy….and I need someone of my age too,’ said Juhi emphatically. This time I did not lecture, instead mentioned that I will always support her. I assured her that all I wanted was to be her happy. She seemed contented and I knew that I was able to build a trust with her.

We almost reached our apartment gate. As we crossed the bungalow on the left with high boundary, we heard laughter and giggles. Nothing extraordinary. A dog barked and the laughter and giggles grew louder. Juhi suggested seeing if it was Laila. I thought it would be inappropriate to go inside. She insisted and I had to go.

We quietly approached the gate. There was no guard. So, we went inside. The beautiful lawn suggested a very well kept house. We tiptoed towards the backyard where the noise came from.

There…there she was! And what was she upto! She was jumping aimlessly, rolling over and running helter skelter- matched with her antics was a little boy’s giggles, confined to the wheel chair. His father sitting beside him and laughing heartily. None of them noticed us and we did not want to get noticed. As we stood beside the huge Erica palm, I also became one in their jubilation. Simple yet ecstatic. Common yet heavenly. Celebration without any serious cause or clause. Divinity which ruled over every compulsion. Happiness is not elusive which I thought to be!  I glanced at Juhi, as she watched the scene in front, intensely. Even her little soul was touched.

Laila sensed our presence and ran towards us. We emerged from the shade and introduced us.

The 5 year old, little boy named Naman, blissfully smiled at us. His father mentioned that he was a special child and always confined to his chair. According to him Naman loved dog but taking care of an animal would be difficult since all their attention was towards their only son. ‘His life, dosenot have much variety - after so many days he enjoyed today,’ he said wanly and walked towards his son.  I saw a doleful look in Naman’s eyes as were about to leave. I promised Naman to let Laila play with him everyday.

The sudden radiant glow in his face and gurgling sound which emanated from his throat as he tried to cough up words – all meant Thank You. He seemed elated. He would have ran and kissed me, if he could. But he did more. He was not confined to a place. I was. I was restrained to my unhappy musings, judgments and thoroughly critical of myself. As the sky wore a crimson hue, bidding adieu to the sun, he taught me to be grateful to life and look for happiness- stand taller than your situation-Win over yourself.

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The story of Laila - The Snow Princess - cut short.

The snow princess Laila in different moods and stages. She came to spread happiness and love. She did. She was in excruciating pain due to canine auto immune syndrome but unfailingly wagged her tail when we were in the vicinity. Tranquility pervaded her ever watchful eyes. There was age old wisdom and maturity during her final days. This transformation of someone who always provided us with many moments of outstanding entertainment and laughs majorly as a result of her cheekiness was too much to grasp! She knew it. Probably she knew us more.

As life ebbed away in a cold February evening she gave lives. Clenched her teeth and held on giving birth to wonders and miracles. Licked her pups gingerly, fed them yet all the while writhing in pain. But never once I witnessed empty eyes and broken spirit. She entrusted me with her little ones...and her life faded way in oblivion but not before I read in her eyes...Take Care.
My four legged companion taught me endurance, friendship, trust , value of time and motherhood. I learnt to appreciate life and Never Give Up.
To my children she was their confidante and partner in crime. With her they understood the real meaning of the labelled word " share" sans her meat piece though! She taught them selfless love and in death gave lesson of Dying as no teacher in the world would. Before this, the word "mortal", was a concept but now my kids could fathom the depth. They could gather that eventually one has to die, never to return.
They have learnt to cherish and respect every moment.

Laila in every stage of her life - our life
 

Laila knew many things. She knew her absence will be painful for us therefore while bidding final adieu she presented four snowballs as gifts or remembrance. She left us...but left us with hope. Let the barking , muddy paws marks all over the floor, half chewed slipper scenes continue and so does the legacy of Laila.
Life goes on.
Now I have Baloo one of her pups. We never wanted to part with any of Laila's pups but recurring shiftings and space constraint compelled us to do so. They are in good homes and are called Simba, Dora and Bela. This is my two and half years old Laila's short story...my snow princess.
Click Here for another story on four legged friend

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.

Begin Again

                            

..and then words fell in love with me!

It was indeed a lazy summer afternoon. My little typhoon of five years fell asleep. It's a miracle but I don’t know how it happened. It was not a serious try for me to put him to sleep though I prayed hard for it. And God listened! So myself and my 10 year old daughter engaged in some girlie talk.

'Maa I would like to become a scientist, but then I love hair dressing too…' she started playing with her beautiful curly locks. I knew there was more to come… ‘what if I become an army officer like papa?’…I love history and want to become an historian and after that I will become an astronaut.’ She looked at me and wanted the assurance that I was hearing her with enough seriousness. I nodded and said, ‘’be good in whatever course or career you choose, we will always be there for you.’’ Well this egged her to probe more career options for future. ‘Best is that I become an artist. I love art and painting. I need to go for art tuition from tomorrow.’’ This was a sudden change of plan and I had to act fast. I said her, ‘what if I take your art class?’’

She was quiet. I tried to guess her reaction. Finally I said…’well then you are not keen to learn from me?’ ‘’Yes I am. Maa you were a journalist but hardly I see you write. I love to read the stories you wrote, but rarely you hold a pen now. Like my friends bost about their parents, I would also like to tell that my mother is a journalist, or a writer. I miss your unique stories..But…,”she fell quiet. But there was question in her innocent looks. I was stumped.

Late at night when children went off to sleep, I took out my old diary, moved my fingers on the worn out pages where I once wrote stories. I almost felt the words. I remembered my daughter’s curious and puzzled looks in the afternoon which silently asked me “Why?”….

In the starry and stilly night, I got the answer. My pen moved ..” It was indeed a lazy summer….

 

for another moving story on my dog- click here

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.

A bit of Reír en voz alta

…..With zest and confidence he uttered ...”I will ensure that no one in this world gets away from me..” There was an obvious spark in Rob’s eyes and poise in the manner he spoke. As he was speaking Vivan entered the room and was quite taken aback by Rob’s words. He quizzically asked. ..Whats wrong with you Rob..”why such vengeance against the world? Planning to kill all?”

Ha! Ha !

We rolled in laughter sensing the humour. Vivan still stood dumbfounded and crossly looked at us. Rob was laughing hysterically. It all happened during the recess of our Spanish Language Learning Class. Rob controlled himself with great difficulty and said… “yaar dekh..they all asked me (pointing to us) why are you learning so many foreign languages?”

“ I can speak German, Italian, French, Russian and of course English Hindi and Punjabi…so I gave them the reply that I am eager to know all people in this world and if I donot know their language how do I communicate with them? So I am learning languages so that no one can escape from me..I gotto know all! Talk to all the people in the world..”…well ,  Vivan  gave a pleasant smile, too.

Nice way to put it Rob.

 

Brace for the odd ball

No one said that being a mom is like a windmill

Most of the schools ensure that vacations to be a torture for the parents. After my childrens’ vacation started, there was not a square inch of the floor left without cello tapes, chart papers, drawing sheets, erasers, pencils, sketch pens, marker pens , glue sticks, scissors and  colour pencils in all sizes. We live in a super modern world where in a corner laptop lay open and from within that Google kept on staring at me! Another corner and almost under the table I found Jai dabbling with water colours. His tiny hands were riot of colours. I dashed towards him with a squeal when he slyly attempted to make his handprints permanently on the wall! I was successful in thwarting his attempts on the wall but not on my face and just washed mane.(Atleast being spared the agony of answering the MES, the civic body responsible for maintaining Army Quarters). I felt happy and sad at the same time. No, sad actually. I felt yelling, “ooooooooooooofffffffffffff..noooooooo……MUUUUUUMMMMMMMYYYYYY.”..Just hoping magically maa should  appear from above and give me the manual to rear up my brats!

Just then, my daughter, scratching her head and with a painful look came up and asked,” Mom I have to write an essay , but I am unable to elaborate on the topic, so will you-----------” she stood there expecting me to fill in the blanks.

“What is the topic?’

“What will you do if you were a bird…”, she said in the most uninteresting voice.

“But dear can’t you write a few lines on that? Use your imagination..its not tough,”..she still stood leaning to the refrigerator and staring outside towards the balcony where a pigeon happily moving around bobbing its head.  Probably she was thinking of asking the pigeon that what is it like being a winged creature…well the dreary look in her face atleast suggested so.



Eggs of fancy and heartbreak

The confidence about my children were about to hit rock bottom ( attimes I felt that they would do great, and mostly though I thought they are hopeless, helpless), my son with a shockingly painted face came out from under the table. Sensing the trouble he wanted to win brownie points (he very often does the same), “ Mummy, you know if I were a bird what would I do?,”. Interestingly I looked at him and somehow thought that this boy will make me proud with his imaginative power someday. I noticed Juhi . She was looking at the ceiling (what was she thinking?). Just then Jai blurted out,…..''If I was a bird I would have laid eggs, many eggs, many many eggs..see maa..I am looking like a peacock now, with so many colours on me and now I am laying eggs…see …,'' and he posed for the act.  Juhi burst out into laughter and with a double blow in my heart…I laughed it out too.