Believe in your dreams

I’ve been blogging for the last about 4 years. But nothing prepared me for the reach I am now enjoying. 

There have been times when I stopped frustrated at having no readers. I switched topics and tried everything from satire and comments to politics, education, gossip and advices.

Through my experiments, I discovered that it’s when I write/speak about myself that I receive more audience. The more honest I am with myself, the more readers I attract. 

And so almost a year back I changed the name of my blog to ‘Uncensored’ and have been baring my soul out here since. This is shamelessly me. Absolutely no hypocrisy in here.

So much so acquaintances are now guarded in my presence. “Be careful, you’ll be blogged!” is the common refrain I hear now. I intent no harm. It’s only my impressionable heart, which soaks in the human-ness of those around, the lack of it and often the flakiness of it all that reacts with the aim of inspiring eager minds.

But how do I define the reach of this post? 

A coincidence or Universe at its best? Because as a teenager, I wanted my parents known through my words – that was my dream for them. It took four long years for one of my posts to break boundaries and fetch me worldwide readers. And that happens to be one in which I also talk about my parents.

I now say with ever more conviction folks - Dream and believe in your dreams; have faith in the Divine, and just continue doing what you love to do, fruits will bloom when the time is ripe.

I love you all for the time and effort you take to stop by my space.

Ever in gratitude to each one of you!

Lots of love,

To all Non-Resident Indians, with love!

I am back after a three-week break and am called a fool by exuberant friends who are thrilled at working fewer hours. “Why did you have to go this long during the Ramadan month? This is the best part of the year...”

The day I returned, even before I could unpack the goodies I brought, I heard my choking mom over the phone say a cardiac arrest took away my uncle. A rolly-polly man whom I had just seen a week ago. With whom I had sipped a cup of coffee. I dread to think of my two college-going cousins and aunt. I’m glad I met him. I saw him smile. I heard him speak. I’m happy to have seen him alive one last time.

Our neighbour, a paan-chewing retired headmaster and intellectual, who always made me wonder how he kept himself clean ‘cos he spat over his tummy that walked two yards before his feet; who never once missed on advising me on the importance of teaching my girl her mother-tongue; the one who said on every annual trip of mine that my parents are proud of me… that veteran, with whom I had many banters until my last trip, was unrecognizable this time. Lying on a water-bed covered with a loin cloth, just skin and bones, unable to speak or turn without help. I’m glad I saw him. I didn’t know what to pray when I left his door.

My paternal aunt - an authoritative woman with a mind of her own who minced no words in spelling out what she thought – was one who no one in our neighbourhood or family messed with. In her crisp cotton sarees and oiled hair she had an opinion on everything from global politics and economy to temple rituals and young fashion. This time I saw her with a bald head and limp hands on a wheel chair being fed by a home nurse. She looked up at me, when I called out, and her lips quivered. I didn’t know what to pray when I took leave of her.

I’m glad I made the trip now. [More on my reasons on why I do not waste a single day once my daughter’s school closes every year in another post]

This morning a young friend Whatsapp-ed me, “hw was d trip. Ver al did u go.” To my reply that I was at home, she sent me a sad emoticon. :'(

I wish I could write an open letter to all NRIs…

I had a ball of a time with my parents. I watched a Malayalam blockbuster with my dad. Yes, he drove me and my li’l girl and bought us chips, too. I can’t remember the last time I watched a movie at the cinema with my parents.

With my mom and dad

My parents insist of driving the 150km distance to the airport to receive us, this despite my mom not being comfortable on long car journeys. But she was there, as always, her eager eyes maneuvering through the crowd to catch that first glimpse of us.

When I woke up on my first morning, tea with my favourite cake was ready on the counter. I loved plum cake as a child. But I can’t remember being force-fed plum cakes before my wedding. In fact, on February 4, 1999, when I was all set to fly to Dubai for the first time, my dad had rushed out. He returned with two pieces of cake and my mom insisted I eat both. The butterflies in my tummy on having to fly alone, of leaving home, of settling into a new life…had numbed me from seeing the love in my dad’s gesture then. “Never mind. Don’t force her,” I remember him tell my mom.

The cake I could not finish

Last week, when uninvited guests arrived at lunch time and sat pretty, I set out to clean the prawns from the freezer. With a dozen other jobs that required immediate attention, my mom interfered and insisted I leave that for her and do something else instead because “your hands will smell”.

How I wish I could mention every single day’s events out here…

Yes there are differences. As an adult now, I do not buy all of my parents’ opinions. And this time, in particular, I had to voice my stand on a couple of topics. Yet, yes, yet not an iota of their love for me is lost. 

This post is not about me being pampered or about my relation with my parents. This trip was an eye-opener, to say the least. I felt the suppressed pain of the ‘abandoned’ and ‘isolated’ senior citizens [several of them] waiting for those few days they get to spend with their children but, all the same, boasting of their credentials as if in compensation.

 

“How quickly three weeks went off,” my mom sighed when I was packing. She stood by me checking every single item she had prepared went inside my suitcases and not back to the store room. “You hardly stay at home. Don’t you have 30 days leave?” my dad asked breaking the silence that engulfed our home on the last night at the dinner table. 

Now, back to my second home the ‘I’ culture here is nauseating… My job, my friends, my dreams, my passion… my family [read spouse and kids]. 

A humble request to all NRIs – those caught in the race of livelihood and have no budgets and to those who use their free time to catch up with worldly offers and materialize their dreams – please take time to visit your folks often. Your money, your passion, your aims, all that you claim to be YOURS could never be yours if you were nipped before birth. No matter how much they claim to understand your busy schedules and your need to work away from home, it’s those seconds that you spend with them that they look forward to. It’s those moments that heal them. Not your lip service or bank accounts.

And to the other exotic breed who find it shameful and/or obligatory to acknowledge or visit their family, remember irrespective of where we go and which passport we hold, we will remain Indians - emotional souls with a heart that aches when ignored by our own. Time does catch up, don’t wait until then.

 

Morally conscious papas and mamas @ work

Becoming a parent is bliss. The act of nurturing the bundles into young adults is a blessing.

Tradition, culture, values, beliefs, faith, empowerment, education, vocation, passion… name it, we guide our kids the best way we can in all ways we can at all times we can until we ever can. I know of mamas and papas who are so obsessed with parenthood that honorary doctorates would fall short for their priceless research on offspring rearing. From the best curriculums, the best teaching methods, the best schools in towns, the best extra-curricular activities that can put the kids directly on that spaceship…they know the best.

Here are some comments of such ethically and morally conscious parents I have been privy to.

“Oh! **** ***school. I don’t like that. Have you seen their uniform? You just need to look at the way those students walk.”

“I’ll never look at *****. Do you know they hire housewives as teachers there?”

‘Children should settle abroad. They have no future in India.’

Interestingly, these are parents extraordinaire who will wash down culture, manners, ethics and morals down their kids’ esophagus with their daily Bournvita.  Check these out…

“I punish my son, if he doesn’t do his bed every morning before going to school.”

“I call my neighbour’s kids every weekend to play with my daughter. It’s important she learns to share her toys and space.”

“I ensure my girl washes her undergarments herself.”

“I reward my son with an ice-cream every Sunday, if he keeps his toys in place through the week.”

Courtesy: TFW

Now, these mamas and papas after disciplining their wards and planning for their future, when they turn up at workplaces, play brooders. Place a clutch of eggs under them and rest assured your tea-time sandwich is taken care of.

The office boy should collect the print-outs from the printer. ‘That’s his job’, they remind you and yell,  ‘where the hell is that idiot!’

He should offer coffee, guessing their sugar swings, at regular intervals without being told. That’s his job. ‘How many years, you’ve been giving me coffee. You still can’t get it right!’

The cleaner should wash their lipstick-kissed or cigarette-smelling cups after their last sip. That’s his job. Otherwise, the stained cups will accumulate beside their keyboard for days!

If newcomers commit an error, they are corrected loudly and clearly. ‘We also started like this!’

If juniors show enthusiasm, then they are passively bullied. ‘He needs to be shown his place now, else tomorrow he’ll shit on our scalp!’

Once they are done with disciplining co-workers they get down to executing their own future plans…They will block all calendar holidays in advance and if an emergency befalls any colleague during their pre-planned holiday, they will fall ill with a contagious disease!

And, yes, when they sense work pressure increasing or deadlines nearing, their kids would be performing in a surprise orchestra and they would have to be present at school right away...'to boost their morale'!

M...orally-conscious florals!

When a daughter calls her parents ‘naughty’…

If your pre-teen walks into your bedroom one morning, stands imposingly, looks at you with a slanted head and queries, “So you guys are getting naughty, aah!”, how would you react?

At least I missed more than a few heart beats. I also squeezed hard at my husband until he shrugged and moved away, adding to my discomfort.

 

“Where are you going?” I snapped at him, feeling rather exposed by his assumed abandonment more than the situation we were thrown into together.

 

“You are hurting my armpit!” He whimpered.

 

Was it the pain I inflicted or his lack of coherence in stringing thoughts of the previous night, I couldn’t exactly place.  

 

My poor man! His underarm was the closest of him near me that I could grab for support before my balance threatened to leave me after our daughter’s broad daylight accusation.

 

I attempted to speak and thought it was wise to play coy this time. Dads are better at handling daughters, I’ve learnt with recent experiences. Especially pre-teen girls are to be precariously dealt with, I have been advised by my friends, too.

 

So, I drew closer to his new position, on the bed, and nudged, “What is she saying?” Before, he could answer, our young lady replied, “Oh! Oh! What ignorance!” Now her hands were on her hips and one foot stepped in front of the other. She guarded a sly smile, which unsettled me.

 

“You can’t be walking into our bedroom like this,” I blurted throwing my resolve to the wind.

 

“Whoowaat!” she drawled and I pressed myself beside the husband as if his touch will transfer in me some courage to handle the situation.

 

“You like to sit cozy, cozy like this, yeah. And do all naughty things?”

 

The husband picked up his mobile in an impulse as if an earth-shattering bulletin was waiting for his attention. I grabbed the phone from his hand, “This can wait.”

 

“Remember, the phone rang early morning. Let me check who it is.” He was wriggling out. No way!

 

“This can wait,” I ordered.

 

“Let him check. May be it’s from his office. The server might be down, you never know,” our girl philosophied.

 

“Yeah, beta. Your mama can never understand such things.” He sat scrolling the BB screen.

 

And I followed suit. Sat still, gazing at his mobile screen, like an athlete concentrating to take off on the field.

 

“Hello! Leave Papa alone. You tell me. Why were you both reading my friend’s message yesterday night?”

 

Phew!!!

 

So much for giving kids your email id!