Today is not my day!

I don’t care if people find me smart or inept

Call me rude, polite or modest

I’ve played the roles as the world defined

For over three long decades

And let honour, love and betrayal

All take their toll on me

Lack of identity and living others’ lives

Was my doom, I learnt

It’s only when I shed them all

That I was re-born a

WOMAN!

That was not a moment, nor a day

It was a process, a gradual evolution

It is a feeling, a sensation

I experience every waking second

Now I am a daughter, sister, mom, wife

Neighbour, citizen, colleague and more

But I live as ME in all my roles

I love myself and celebrate my uniqueness

Every single day and night

And not on just March the 8^th!

Mom’s quandary: A question I don’t have an answer to

 

Birthday girl ready for school

Okay. So this is me. As in, me, myself, because I do not have answers to [read hate to address] some questions.

I celebrated 12 years of motherhood yesterday.

It was wonderful. I woke up, got into my slippers, switched on the heater, washed my face, brushed… did all the rest like anyone else’s all other days... then plonked on the sofa and my man gave me my undoable cup of hot tea. I gave him company before waking up our excited girl.

The dad handed over the gifts and I cheered. Unbelievable excitement followed and I ran to grab the camera to capture her wide eyes popping out wider as she unwrapped the first one. By the second one, I heard a voice in me ‘you idiot don’t lose the moment’, so I handed over the camera in reliable hands.

Being a special day, I didn’t have to pack breakfast. Gave the birthday girl some cash to enjoy with her friends. Used that time to scrub my feet and posed beside my beautiful girl, who by then had helped herself into her B’day gear.

Then set about to execute The Mom’s duty.

Drove her to school… as in sat along with her in the car… and again walked along rubbing her waist. At the steps, I did the honours of taking each item from the dad and stringing it up on her. First strapped the bag on her back, then adjusted her pull-over and set her hair. Then handed over the chocolate box, and finally, precariously placed the box of cake on her other forearm and kissed her a good day.

Meanwhile, my dear friend had volunteered to bake cakes to celebrate the birthday. I being me myself, I said, “yes, please. Drop in at your convenience and I’ll have the things ready.”

She was on the dot. And the oven was in the pack. Had to be installed. Did the only thing I do in times of emergencies. Dialled my man’s number. Assured it’ll be done, I asked her to get, set, start.

That’s when my friend asked for ingredients. So very kind of her, I happily agreed when she volunteered to buy the same for me.

My lil girl’s excitement knew no bounds and she already smelled cupcakes. She recited the list of  how many she’ll give her best friend the next day and how many she’ll save for the weekend party and how unbelievable it is and…I couldn’t ask her to shut up as it was her day!

“Get the moulds ready.”

“For what”, I asked busy clearing the dishes.   

“Oh mama!. Where are you lost”! sighed my girl.

“But…aa..moulds..”

“You didn’t buy Mo..o..u..lll..dds!!!! Wwhhoaat!!! And you set out to bake!!!! Mammmaa!

I had taken a day off from work, to make the day special for my girl!

PS: At night when she kissed me goodnight, I said, “We’ll do the baking next week darling. So your birthday celebration will last that much longer, too. Isn’t that exciting!”

“Yeeaah! How cool no!” She hopped off, with a zillion springs in her steps at that wee hour. At the door, she turned to ask, “But mama, why do you hate cooking so much?”

My husband’s woman friend

The first person my husband introduced to me, soon after we became man and wife was a woman.

He waxed eloquent about her efficiencies. His comments did little to arrest my sultry senses despite the cacophony at the wedding venue. If my disdain did little to stop her monologue, the wedding protocol failed as much.

Within minutes, I learnt she was a mother, a wife, an employee and, of course, was to be the default family friend.

Yes, ‘educated’, too.

My initial reservations about her were misplaced quickly as she took it upon herself to settle us into our married life. On hindsight, I guess, it was more of the casual I-don’t-fancy-older-women statement by the husband that made me like her.

She ensured we visited her every week, which I obliged as I had no other acquaintance in the new city. And she quickly put me at ease with her nineteen-to-the-dozen talks. From where to shop the best linen tops to which supermarket sold tomatoes at a cheaper rate, she knew it all.

Yep, she also detailed me on which banks offered the least-risk-associated credit cards.

Thanks to her, I cultivated a tolerance for numbers, a task even my best Math teacher failed to achieve.

A health freak, she had only salads for dinner, and forced us to eat the same, too, on our weekly visits. If we missed out on a week-end, she expected a convincing excuse.

Every weekend morning, as an alarm clock crying, would come her call. ‘You guys still sleeping?

You may please look for us in this picture

A month later, she landed home with a couple of guys and had the husband enrolled with the local cricket team, which played only over the weekend. “Exercise is the last thing on your mind, when you are newly-wed…” she reprimanded.
When I started job-hunting, she whole-heartedly took over the project. Decided which interviews I would attend and what salary I should negotiate on. “You’ve got media experience, then why the hell should you take up any job. Wait for a media opening,” she counselled.

Meanwhile, she introduced me to the local reading club and got me membership at the library.

I began admiring her. A super woman, indeed!

She has influenced my current home management technique as well. Every Saturday she planned what would be cooked the entire week. Cut onions; made ginger-garlic paste; cut at least three different vegetables; marinated meat & fish; made dough for chappatis… all went into the freezer in small containers marked for each day of the week.

On week days, she took a half-an-hour break after she returned from work at 5.30pm. Kids’ study-time, which she was hands-on, was from 6pm-8pm. By 9.15pm dinner was served for the family. Washing clothes was also done after the kids packed their school bags for the following day.

Not one school programme of her kids would she miss. “These are all memories for them.” She would avail leave on loss-of-pay or compensate by working over the weekend, but she ensured she was present to cheer her children.

I turned to her for any small hiccups I faced. I trusted her completely. She became my role-model!

A couple of years later, when I was expecting my baby, she took over the role of my mom. From cooking my favourite dishes to shopping for maternity wear and giving me the only-women tips, she was the one-stop guide that I looked up to. 

I secretly wished I could be a woman like her.

During my last trimester, as we sat chatting, she causally asked, “So Nisha, have you decided on a name for the baby?”

After a few minutes of baby talk, she said, “I pray that you have a baby boy.”

Excuse me!

At my puzzled stare, she took my hands in hers and said softly, “If the first child is a boy, then there’s no tension, you see. The second can be any.”

I didn’t know if I was carrying a baby boy or girl at that moment. But I knew I had lost my respect for her - That woman.

[Wedding cake and picture by Priya Sheen]