Bust That Stress

There was a time when they goo-ed and gaa-ed.....
A time before the words arrived....
The wheres, whys, wherefores followed....
The fights began....
They learnt to eat....
Also to leap....
Before you knew it they were gone from infancy into childhood.

I miss those days, I really do. Days when they were snug in your arm, when they let out those grand burps after their feeds, when all they did was lie down, laugh, cry, ask for more or wait to be changed.

That's partly why the arrival of each new one is greeted with such fan fare.

Viraj, is the new kid on our block. One we all love. He smiles, his wonderful smile, each time you lift him up. He's one happy baba. He lifts my spirits whenever I'm down. He's dying to grow up, eat stuff, he shouldn't even be attempting to read right now.

He's downright adorable, these pictures are proof.....



Pix Credits: The first one's powered by Nokia N73, the gadget doesn't cease to amaze me. The second one by the proud parents - Adity and Vineet.

Dhruv Eats Car

Speaking of the N73, you can even insert text like this, saving yourself the caption step. Change it into black, sepia or whatever effect pleases your fancy. Push buttons can't get any easier.

Watch the Words

I've mentioned the perils of the over-use of the Queen's English before. Don't know what it is about big words that draws the young ones in. The issue seems even more complex when you think of the energy you've putting in to crack C-A-T - Cat, M-A-T - Mat, B-A-T - Bat.

One day, after Dhruv had finished his fist fight with Aneesha and left an awful scratch on her shoulder, I told him:

Dhruv I am disappointed.

That was just the kind of word he needed for the day.

Everyone he met, heard it a couple of times, if not more:

Aneesha, I am disappointed.
Masi, I am disappointed.
Nani, I am disappointed.
Manju, I am disappointed.
Mamma, I am disappointed.
Rickshaw wallah, I am disappointed.
Bobby, I am disappointed.

There's got to be something about Ds.

Role Reversal

Bala to Aneesha:
How are you Aneesha?
Who is your friend?
What did you eat today?
What did you play?
Did you watch TV?
How long did you watch it?
Did you sleep in the afternoon?
Did you study?
Do you like homework?
Do you like playing tennis?
Do you like swimming?

A couple of patient replies later, an extremely harried Aneesha responds:
Daddy, can you stop asking questions.

There, she almost sounds like us!
Things do come full circle, if only you try.

Say Cheese

He not be minding his Ps & Qs.
Or for that matter his A, B, Cs...
But he's getting fairly adept at using all my cameras....
What say you, about this Dhruv click?

The Water Babies Are Back

And geared for the big plunge....

Looking for Adventure

After getting back to Singapore.....

Wait, don't go anywhere without me....

See, isn't my million dollar look worth the wait?

Old Friends and New

My blog and our sporadic emails that followed helped us stay in touch. We last saw each other in 1991, when we made our way past the hallowed precincts of Panjab University's Political Science Department. He went on to join the Indian Police Service and has done superbly for himself. I'm not surprised. A S Rai, like other civil service aspirants in the class of '91 was focused. After lectures, even the ones who weren't aspiring to be in civil service (like yours truly) made a mad dash for the Department Library or the main campus library. If there was ever a bunch of book worms, it had to be us. We were always the first to find out about the new books, always attempt to be the first to borrow them and studiously work on our notes.

I know our Professors loved us. 'The best class', was a phrase we'd heard often enough. We only made time for 'serious lectures' and ensured nothing was lost in trivial conversation. No cooler talk for us, no time for the Student Centre, no time for relaxed campus walks.

So in the two years that we spent doing our Masters, I knew virtually nothing about Rai, his interests or his family. Catching up after so many years, it was a surprise to learn he did his schooling in Mussorie, to meet his charming wife who studied law and his amazingly well behaved daughter. Seeing her and Aneesha yakking away, after Dhruv was ceremoniously dispatched home, it almost seemed like we'd never been away.

Meeting Mr Ashish

Dhruv talk from Chandigarh to Delhi:
Where are we going now?
To Delhi

Why?
To take our flight but we'll be stopping for a while before that.

Why?
To see Ashish.

My friend Ashish?
No, Ashish Mohan.

My friend Ashish?
No, this is a big Ashish.

Big Ashish?
I mean Mister Ashish.

Mister Ashish, oh we are going to see Mister Ashish.
Where does Mister Ashish stay?
What does Mister Ashish do?
Mister Ashish is in Delhi?
Mister Ashish has a big car?

On Arrival:
Hello, Mister Ashish where is your big car?

Thus, was born 'Mister' Ashish. Dhruv passed it off as his name in the two hours we spent with him, his patient wife Ritu and his Mum at Defence Colony. Ashish happens to be my rakhi brother, our childhood neighbour from Doon, our best pal who always won all the games we played. We scaled neighbour's roofs, jumped off them, got smacked left, right and centre by our parents who witnessed the scary sights. We hadn't even heard of Spider Man or Superman then and we behaved like them. What were we thinking? We hated home work and were duly punished for the extra play time we indulged in.

It was great to look back at those times, playing stapu in the rain, with our rain coats on, cycling to the river, fishing in the stream that barely had fish. It was great to relive those days, with my children rolling their eyes in awe. The ordinary sure seemed a little extra-ordinary.

Lull before the Storm

These moments were rare....
Yet they made up for all the cat fights....

Love Is In The Air

They chewed her brain and deprived her of sleep.....
They read stories through the night.....
They wanted nothing short of her special parathas....
They groaned when the glasses of Bournvita showed up, two in a tow....
They lunged for the mangoes barely off the trees.....
They shouted, they screamed, they yakked like today was their last day......
Not once she complained.....

No surprise it was smiles all round with Masi for company....

Gardener Dhruv

With a hose in hand, he's more than ready to green the grass:

From the Valley

In Dehra Dun with Dad, where it all began with a scooty ride:


Where he liked flashing his camera skills:

To take pictures like these:

It's time to go, but we hate goodbyes:

History on The Wall

Sharing family history is often fraught with the usual dangers. Sharing it with a four year old makes it the proverbial Pandora's Box. You draw the family tree, then you fill in the dots and explain it as best as you can. It doesn't help when visits to the family are far and few between. Many explanations later, here's what happened:

Dhruv (in Dehra Dun): This is my Nanaji, where is my Naniji?
Me: (in an emotionally controlled voice) Bachche, she died.
Dhruv: What, she died, what happened?
Me: She was sick.
Dhruv: The doctor didn't give her medicine?
Me: He did.
Dhruv: What happened, Mamma, I want my Naniji.
Me: Me too.
Dhruv: Then bring her back.
Me: But she is in heaven.
Dhruv: Heaven, where is heaven?
Me: Can we stop now?
Dhruv: Heaven, where is heaven?
Me: Where God is.
Dhruv: Where is God?
I pretend I can't hear anymore as the drone of what, where, why continues.

We head to Chandigarh next and here it's my Nanaji's potrait on the wall in the drawing room that stirs his imagination:
Dhruv: Who is that?
Me: Nanaji
Dhruv: But Nanaji is in Dehra Dun?
Me: Not your Naniji Dhruv, this is mine, your great grand Nanaji.
Dhruv (faking the all knowing voice): Ooooh
Me: He died.
Dhruv: He died! What happened?
Me: Please ask Masiji.
I am hoping to avoid an interrogation Doon style and I imagine since the wheres, whys and where tos aren't thrust on Masi everyday, she will be patient. I hear the voices of shock, disbelief and awe wafting through the kitchen together with the fragrance of the tadka. The story of the war, the brave soldier that Nanaji was, the medals of honour, the walk in the mountains, the fall, the blood, the injury, the death, the sorrow. I am tempted to put my book mark in and warn Masi of the perils of spinning real life tales with Dhruv, they always have the potential to take on some rather serious forms. This one does the very next day.

We are at Sindhi Sweets in Sector 17, where Dhruv is delighted to order his plain dosa. I'm hoping that coupled with the mango juice will restrict his table talk. If wishes were horses..... Dhruv is in full chat mode, fluttering eye lashes, naughty eyes, the works. Soon the family on the next table is engaged in an animated discussion with him. It all seems to going fine, with his school, his Roshmi Mam, his playground, then out of nowhere, he swerves:

"You know, my Naniji died. He went to the war. Boom, boom, there was guns. Big fire. Then he went on the mountain, he fell down. The blood came out, he died. They gave him medals, he is hanging on Naniji's wall now."

The story begins and ends like the rapid fire round. I know the hanging on the wall sounds so darn wrong, I want to explain but I resist. Sheepishly, I tell the lovely folks who are eyeing the nearest exit and want to keep their kids at bay from us: "Just ignore him, he talks too much."

Hoping against hope, I believe this is all over. I tell Masi about it and she is merely amused. That is till the phone rings the next day. Dhruv wants to answer it and he does:

Hello, who is calling?
(silence)
Mamaji?
(silence)
Where are you?
(silence)
Oh, Allahabad....
(silence)
Are you dead?

Masi grabs the receiver, I give her my I told you so look, we know the battle has only just begun.

You Know You Are Back

From India, when:
- Your kids don your Vietnamese straw hat on their neck, then start beating it like a drum and sing the swan song "Aam le lo, kelay le lo, Pyaaz le lo, Nimbu le lo..."
- They keep opening and slamming doors and re-orient themselves to the fact that only one door holds the window to the outside world.
- When they start looking at trees and wondering why there are no aams falling off them.
- When everything comes prefaced with Aaraam Naal and ends with Nahin.
- When the search for rickshaws continues while being seated in their taxi.
- When they mercifully putting the calculus embedded in their brain cells to good use by converting dollars into rupees and telling you "Wow, that's expensive, that's a lot of rupees."
- When they start looking for coolers in their air-conditioners.
- And continue gazing into their pocket map to figure out how much more they have to travel.

Water Baby

When she is not standing in the middle of a fountain, she takes to water like a fish.
30 laps in a row, she packs twice as much energy as I do. She can beat me stroking hollow. After a bout with her weak lungs, she has survived swimming. A bronze down the road, she's at work on her silver.

Yes, when she started it was endless visits to the paediatrician. Once the breathing was sorted out, her lungs emerged stronger as did her spirit.

For that and for many other non-competitive facets of her life, Aneesha does us proud.

Mind Your Language

"X says gusting things..."
"Y says gusting things...."
"A says gusting things...."

What's gusting, Dhruv?

"Mamma, that thing you say to me everytime. Don't be gusting Dhruv."

Ah disgusting!

"No, no, gusting, Mamma, gusting."

Dhruv is Four

They do grow up in no time.....
Enjoy them while you can....

Question Time

"Can I ask you a question?" my fireball of energy shoots off the minute he's past the door.
"Sure..."
"Dhruv, what's the question?" I say after the initial excitement about being interrogated ends in a pregnant pause.
"I don't know. Teacher says must ask question."

Life is about Make-Up

As kids we'd done it.

No sooner did Mum and Dad get dressed for their evening party, of which there were plenty in the Indian Army, my sis and I would get cracking on our plans for the evening.

We loved that feel of chiffon, that sophistication of the pearl string, the whiff of the eau de cologne, the puckered pink lips.

Each time they stepped out my Dad was handsomeness all round, Mum perfection personified.

We wanted that look oh so badly. The minute they put their feet firmly into their two-door Black Standard, reminding us to be good and get to bed early we'd be happily saying goodbye.

Those were the days without television. Even when it arrived, the only entertainment was Krishi Darshan.

Yes, reading books was an option, though not as attractive as making a go of Mom's dresser.

We'd perch ourselves on the stool, staring lovingly into the mirror before starting off with the pressed powder compact, followed by the Kajal. Though the look would be incomplete without the lipstick. We'd pull out one Lakme after the other, paint our cheeks pink, followed by our lips. We'd then pull out one of Mum's many gorgeous dupattas from her wardrobe and make some real efforts to drape it like a saree. Then we'd strike some poses before scrubbing the paint off our faces.

It was all going perfectly according to plan, till one day, Mum and Day decided to head back a good 20 minutes after they'd left. Mum had forgotten her purse. As she unlocked the door of the 63/1 Bharuwala barrack and almost tip toed her way into her room - what does she see?

Two faces, definitely not pretty in pink. Not an amusing sight when you've been guarding your make-up as a national treasure.

Mum was livid and as the shouting began, we nervously tried closing the lipsticks, smudging four beyond repair in the process. We just didn't have time to roll it back before putting the lid on.

That effectively marked the end of our brush with make-up. For the next two weeks, we had our punishment meted out army style. It was being locked in the back seat of the Standard Herald, while our parents went to their dinner dos. Not that we minded that even. We loved the car which called for pulling of seats to step into it. We loved curling up in the back seat with our favourite razais.

Now, our kids do just that. Their pillows, comforters, stuffed toys, cars, Peter Rabbit take up half of the Nissan Latio, effectively robbing it of its sporty touch. That's not all.... each time I as much as attempt to step out of the door for a night out, there are broad grins "Bye Mamma, have a good time."

I thought it was all for TV, till I went to use my lipstick the other day.

A brand new Body Shop buy, it had been squashed in the case. It was beyond repair.

I should have been livid. But all I could do was laugh when Aneesha told me about not hers, but Dhruv's creative brush with my make up.

"He took that stool and painted his whole face brown."
"You did that, Dhruv?"
"Yes, can I show you again?" he beamed, brown with pride.