My Daddy Strongest!!!

I suppose it’s completely understandable to be filled with doubts and apprehension when you are about to become a parent for the first time. Am I ready for parenthood? Will I be a good mother? Because even being a parent has become a competitive sport. The supermoms and superdads with their superkids fill mere mortals with dread even before baby is born. Insecurity, thy name is a first-time-parent.

Something happened a few weeks ago that opened my eyes to the truth about being a parent. Something sad. One of my uncles died suddenly of a heart attack. All of us were grief-struck, but especially so his three daughters. The younger one couldn’t stop talking about how much she’d miss her dad. How he was her pillar of strength, how much he had believed in her, how he encouraged her to be the best she could be. How he was the best dad in the world. And as I listened to her, it hit me like the proverbial bolt out of the blue.

He wasn’t the handsomest man in the world. Nor was he super qualified, super successful, super anything. He was a normal, everyday guy who led a simple, uncomplicated life. But to his daughters, he was the best. They wouldn’t have traded him for anybody else. Because ordinary guy that he was, he gave them extraordinary love – the kind no one else could have given them.

That’s all that’s needed, I realized. To love your children unconditionally, to believe in them, and to be there for them.

You don’t have to know all the answers. You don’t have to be on the Forbes list or possess an Ivy League degree or even be the smartest person they know. All you have to be is the most loving person they know. The one who kisses their boo-boos and sends them back to play. To be the one they can come to with their boo-boos or a first greeting card with a stick mama, papa and baby. Clichéd maybe, but it’s true nevertheless : Love really is all you need. After all, you are the only one who can love your children the way they deserve to be loved.

Long Hair, Oil and English

The other day, Hubby came home with a little plant in a plastic container. One of his patients had given it to him as a gift. He crushed a leaf and held it under my nose and said, "See this thing. It has such tiny green leaves, but such a strong spicy smell. " The spicy scent hit me like a shot. I exclaimed "Arre, it's marwaah."

In a nanosecond I was transported back to my childhood in Belgaum. I saw us girls sitting in the courtyard on warm summer evenings and weaving long colourful garlands with yellow, pink, white koranti flowers interspersed with tiny marwaah twigs. Fingers worked nimbly weaving the stalks of flowers together without the aid of threads or needles. And then those fragrant garlands adorned long hair plaited after a generous application of coconut oil.

Today, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a smart short haircut. Heaven forbid that even a strand should look oily! A slight 'chipku' look will mean a major gaffe. How much appearances have changed and how much we judge and are judged on the basis of how we look!

Don't get me wrong, I like myself the way I am now. But, sometimes, I wish a smart haircut had less to do with what's in and more with personal likes. That people didn't look surprised to hear a woman in salwar kameez and sporting a long plait speak in fluent english. That wearing a sari didn't automatically invite a label of 'Aunty'. That being typically 'Indian' was not perceived as being less progressive or hip.

Hearts Grow by Vegetative Propagation

A close friend of mine moved away a few years ago. Initially, we spoke often over the phone and stayed in touch with emails, etc. Slowly, the replies became shorter and phone calls rarer. Now almost an year has gone by without a word. It hurts to not receive a birthday wish, to hear about achievements from common friends, to be forgotten completely. It's not simply a continent that divides us now.

Then one day, I was reading up on the methods of propagation of house plants (I am a budding gardener). If you take a cutting from a plant and stick it into soil, very often it will take root. But you need to take care of it. It has to be covered with a clear plastic bag to retain moisture. It has to be shielded from direct sunlight else it will wither in the heat. If you care for it, you are rewarded by a beautiful new plant to cheer your garden. If you are careless, it will die.

Suddenly I was struck by a thought. For every friend I make, I break off a piece of my heart and give it away. It is they who nurture it. It is a pleasure to walk into their garden and see it grow. If it dies, I am saddened by the loss of its promise. But I can do nothing. After all, it is their garden.

At the end of the day, I walk back to my own garden. My tree may have lost a few leaves, but it keeps growing. In one corner is the plant my friend gave me long ago. I water it regularly with memories of happy days. And I prune the dead leaves of bitterness. In my garden it thrives and blossoms. And then there are all those beautiful tall trees that are gifts from other friends. I feel blessed. I am at peace.

A Little, or A Lot?

Recently, two wonderful things happened to me. One, I saw Aamir Khan's movie Taare Zameen Par and two; I read the book The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. Both affected me deeply.
The title track of the film is beautifully written, composed and rendered. It touched my soul, not just my heart. It filled my heart with love. It made me cry and paradoxically it lifted my spirits. It also made me grateful for all the things I’ve been blessed with. For parents who care and for a happy childhood.
It seemed almost eerie to then read The Secret. Because Rhonda Byrne says in the book that to attract good things, first be grateful for what you already have. And feel good about yourself and your life. She suggests that we keep a few ‘mood shifters’ up our sleeves to get us out of the blues. A song, a favourite memory, a picture of happy times.
The song does it for me. It reminds me of all the good things in my life… the little things that really count but never get counted.
a hot cup of coffee on a chill evening, cold lemonade on a hot afternoon, a book to curl up with, a pat on the head as Dad walks by, a little tweak on the nose by the husband, the little baby next door twirling a strand of my hair on her chubby finger, a home made sweet offered by the elderly neighbour, the first ray of the sun after a rainy night, a cold sip of water after a long dusty trek, grandma’s hand-woven quilt, the sticky sweet taste of candy-floss, a golgappa filled with cold spicy pani, a favourite movie watched over and over, and cuddling under a cool blanket to watch the bright summer stars.
I think I have all I need. Thank you, Rhonda Byrne and thank you, Aamir Khan.

Mr And Mrs Sniff

Late one evening, my better half says, "Hey, I forgot to tell you. One of my colleagues and his wife may drop in later for a coffee." I don't know the guy, but, no problem. Friends often drop in unexpectedly at our place, so that's fine.
We are both wrapped up in our respective books when the doorbell rings. She sniffles as soon as she steps into the living room. "I smell a rose, please, throw it out. I'm allergic to roses." Heck, I can't throw it out. It's attached to the stem of one of my prized rosebushes. But I do ask the better half to temporarily shift it to the far corner of the terrace.
She is a schoolteacher, I find out. (Some poor kids must be traumatized for life!) "Children these days are so precocious, you know. When I was in school..." I kind of tune out a little after that. I'm thinking of my rosebush out in the cold.
Would they like to have some snacks, I ask. There's this delicious thing I bought from Indore. "Only if it's not made from gram flour. My husband gets this reaction, you know. Itching and stuff." Eeyuck. How about a slice of cake instead? "Eggless, right?" Right!
After the (thankfully eggless) cake (she prefers pineapple,actually) she gets up to wash her hands. In 2 seconds flat she's outta the loo, a finger daintily tucked under the tip of her nose. "Tch, sandalwood freshner makes me sneeze. Got out in time." Well, she can use the loo in the master bedroom. No, wait, it has a rose air freshner. Ok, the one in my office upstairs. That one, has a lemon scented freshner. Will that make her disappear? No, unfortunately not.
Time for coffee to wash down the cake. "None for me, actually. It keeps me awake all night, you know". Hot chocolate, I offer. Host's duty and all that righteous crap. "Oh, that will be fine."
One sip and she says, "Full fat milk, huh? Tastes good. But you really ought to switch to low fat, cow's milk, you know. Low cholestrol, much healthier."
Much later, that night, the better half quizzes me, "Was that really an accident?"
I turn to him with wide, innocent eyes and say, "Why, honey, I genuinely caught my toe on a thread in the carpet. Do you think I'd purposely hit a guest on the head with a tray?"

A Sparrow’s Wedding and 21 Cheerleaders.

A sparrow gets married in an arbor of flowers in the jungle. The guests include parrots, squirrels, rabbits and deer and peacocks and a lot of other animals. That, was the theme of one of my drawings. Cut me a little slack, ok, considering that I was only 8 years old at the time.
Apparently, the judges of the competition found the drawing cute. The prize distribution ceremony was to be held in a big auditorium and every child who won was given 2 passes so the parents could attend. I suppose other guests had to buy the tickets. How many people do you think went with me to the ceremony? That’s a good guess. The afore-mentioned 21!
My parents, 1 set of grandparents, 1 great uncle, 1 great aunt, 3 uncles and 2 aunts with their respective spouses, and 5 assorted cousins.
When I went onstage, the uncles whistled, all 5 cousins yelled while the women in our group sniffled. Did I mention I got a silver medal? Along with approximately 30-40 others who also got silver medals? The only thing that set me apart was this huge personal cheerleading squad that went with me. If I had been older, I would probably have cringed with embarrassment. Thankfully, I wasn’t!
I no longer remember where I put the medal. I suppose the certificate must also be lying around somewhere. What’s never left me is that warm glow of affection. I was a princess, surrounded by so many loyal admirers.
Thank God, for loved ones who help make molehills out of mountains of difficulties, and mountains out of molehills of happiness!

Tall People Don't Look Down Upon Short People.

Trust me, I know. At 5 feet nothing, I've spent ages sitting on the front benches, standing at the head of almost every line in school and college - be it the morning assembly, or the PT class or school choir. I've heard everything from, "Hey Shorty", "Hi Thumbelina" to "She's vertically challenged" (followed by a guffaw). Or the sympathetically disguised, sugar coated insult "You would have been gorgeous if you'd been a little taller". What the heck does that mean, anyway!
Funny thing is, I was always expected to be unhappy about my height, or the lack thereof. The fact that I'm not bothered about it, bothers people.
Most of the comments I've heard, and mostly ignored, have come from people who top me by about two or three inches. The really,really tall ones? They never stooped so low.
There was this girl in my Xth std tuition class - Varsha. She must've easily been 5 feet 10 inches or so. We sometimes walked together to class. We probably made a funny picture, but, she never once said a word about my 'handicap'.
It just goes to show, that people who are secure within themselves are happy to be and let others be. It's the ones who lack something, that pick on others' weaknesses to make themselves feel tall. Pun intended!