Signing back in

Having juggled more demands lately than I ever thought I could, there came one point when I wondered whether it might be time to quit. Throw my hands up in tired desperation and just fall, letting the earth do the holding and the carrying. If I just collapsed in an exhausted, worried, sad heap of maternal love and helplessness, surely someone else would have to take over.

It was at that point, when everything seemed abysmally gloomy, that the fever dropped. He sweated profusely, one last time, and then started jumping, playing, asking for juice. And didn't stop. What joy, to see him eat after four full days. And now he won't stop jumping, exploring, talking. Things are a lot better. We are all a lot better.

So I decided, I shall leave quitting to another day. Today, there is more work to be done.

Picking some gems from the dust of the last few weeks, A and I managed to see The King's Speech. A very good movie, tightly made, beautifully portrayed. When I close my eyes and think about it now, I always see the therapist's office, and the wall with the plaster falling off, shades of old pista greens, yellows and browns behind the old, faded settee, perhaps embroidered, with its off-white now turned almost grey with use. Beautiful.

We also managed to catch Band Baaja Baarat. I agree with you T, I loved it too, for all its Dilli-ness. It was a well made movie too, bits that could have been better, but hey, when its about Dilli, there is a lot that can be overlooked. A great watch overall. Love the Avain Avain song. Even N likes it loads and laughs every time she says 'Tujh ko sudharoon, jutti main utaroon, sar pe na maroon tere...'

Other than that, Proust continues to accompany me on my commute to and from work. I can't quite find words to describe the impact of this book. It's like someone getting into your head, peeling the layers, straightening the wool and putting the chaos right. Will write about it more another time. At a more appropriate time.

Goodbye 2010

It is that time again. Somewhere between Christmas and New Year's eve, I start getting all edgy and restless. It's time to take stock, and I don't do that well at all. I dislike this sense of pending closure to the year. It's not a dislike that stems from a fear of all years coming to an end and death looming mercilessly. It's more like these five-odd days are a sort of efficiency gauge - you were given 365 days, what the hell did you do with them?

And that's where the sinking of the heart starts. Month by month I start marking the list - lost, lost, lost, time lost, never to be experienced again, gone. The list goes something like this:

January: prepared self (read fretted and worried ceaselessly) over resuming work = time lost

February: fell horribly ill = time lost

March: enjoyed work (who in their right mind enjoys work - what nonsense) = time lost due to insanity

You get the picture.

By the time I reach August, I'm ready for a stiff drink. By the time I reach December, with any luck, I'm giggling thanks to the booze. If I happen to be doing this exercise with family or friends, it can be a hilarious, fun-filled method of spending a couple of hours.

I was hoping to be able to do some sensible postmortem for 2010. But it ain't going to happen. If there ever was a year that completely bowled me over, and not in the nice, princess-like fashion, then it is this one. It started on the wrong note, continued giving one nasty surprise after another, and is now leaving with some more serious unpleasantness. Someone very close to me got made redundant two days before Christmas. There was no sign, not one. It came out of the blue and hit where it hurts most.

How do you then assess the 365 you got given? I did x,y,z but... Shit happens. That appears to be everyone's favorite phrase these days. It's supposed to take care of everything, from a miscarriage to nuclear weapons. I must confess, I detest that expression. It's almost as if by using that expression one blurs the line between right and wrong, and suddenly, in this world of 'shit happens' everything is permissible. I don't want my children to grow up in a world where a hug and a cup of tea and a sympathetic ear are replaced by 'shit happens'.

We are all sticking together then. Cooking, cleaning, eating, thinking, breathing together. My grandmother used to say when things go horribly wrong, it's best to huddle close and tight. That's what we are doing. Because it feels like the only natural, normal thing to do.

And we are hoping. That 2011 will be kinder. And a gentle nurse for the hurtful wounds. Because you have to hope. Because after family, hope is everything.

The children are fighting

There's blood on the streets. Once again, politics, economics, and the failure of the systemic confluence of the two is being played out in the open, in the freezing cold this time, on the roads we take every day. It is young blood again. The one that has the courage to brave the weather, and the conviction that protests can change the world.

As I see images of kids, young adults, children of parents waiting anxiously back home, get beaten by the police, my heart is sinking. I am reminded, painfully, of a time when students went protesting, furious with political decisions, determined to change the future by their actions of the day. It all went horribly wrong. It didn't take us long to forget that mothers and fathers lost their children. They probably had hopes for them. And loved them dearly.

In a different part of the world, yes, but the strength of emotions is identical.

Youngsters are being told to get out of their dreamworlds and face today's hard reality. Where is this going to go? They are now talking about trust - trust in politics, trust in politicians, trust in the political structures. They are talking about lies, about broken promises. I am surprised that people are surprised - but then I'm an old cynic. What an eye opener for all those young girls and boys, battling batons and shields, kicks and shoves. Youth refuses to listen. Some lessons are learnt the hard way.

As we sit in our warm living rooms, debating to death in the studios, pacing the length of the front courtyard waiting for the kids to get back home, how are we going to look them in the eye? While we sit and argue about feasibility of systems and entertain ourselves with indulgent blame-games, the children are still fighting. A fight that, perhaps, they should have had more support for.

But we are wiser. Older and wiser. Let us just wait for the kids to get back home, and in time they shall become wise like us.

Beginning Proust, and other recent reads

I have decided to finally take the plunge. I am now reading Marcel Proust's epic work, 'In search of lost time'. What possessed me to embark on this journey that many have avoided, and too many have abandoned mid-way, I cannot explain (may have had something to do with chance encounters with this and this). All I know is, so far (I am half way through volume 1) I have got goosebumps several times as something that he has written has struck a firm cord, or something he's said has thrown a fresher, clearer light on an issue that lay murky and unclear in my head. Several people with interest in literature say they wish they had written 'In search of lost time'. I think I am only just beginning to see why.

Apart from Proust's absorbing tale, there is little time for anything else. I did manage, however, to finish some stuff that was being recommended at work. It started off being interesting, but the idea of allowing employees greater autonomy over their work is not entirely revolutionary. It has been around for a while, only now some handful of organisations are actually doing something about it. Till such time as there is greater trust that every employee can and will take care of her work without having to be 'managed', lip service is all we will ever have regarding greater work autonomy.

But then, management was never my cup of tea. So, pursuing things more amenable, here is a book that just makes you fall in love with winter. Because it gives you a reason for wanting to create these beautiful patterns and cosy knits. It is the idea of gloomy, wet, cold winter evenings magically transformed into those of endless possibilities and creative pursuits. Just the thought of having a gorgeous yarn to keep you company makes the prospect of winter, dare I say, enjoyable. So much can be done, not just to satisfy one's innate need for creativity, but also to engage the mind in the process of making something beautiful, yet functional, with one's hands. The only time I find my mind relaxing into a cheerful hum is when I am knitting a familiar pattern - of course, after I have resisted the urge to compete with myself and make even the most calming act of yarn over needle into a race against time.

In other stories, N and I are reading lots of lovely picture books. Some super favorites are:

• Babies love books
• Stones
• I took the moon for a walk
• Say goodnight
• Ten little fingers and ten little toes

He is going through this phase where on a given page in a book, he will point to every little thing (cat, tree, sock, ball, whatever) and then ask "Eeya?" which is his word for "What's that?" And then I have to say "That's a duck!" and he goes 'Ya! Ya!". Like he knew all along and was just testing me! It is so much fun!

Happy reading to you!

Just being

*

I have lost track of the time that I have been away from this space. The trouble is, when there isn't much activity on the blog, there is usually a lot happening in the background. So much that there isn't the time or the energy to make time to blog.

So the last couple of months have been about a pressure cooker situation at work, parents over from India, a holiday in the Peak District, N coming down with yet another gastro bug, and A and I losing sight of what's important, and losing it over and over again. And before I knew it, it was Diwali, yet again catching me totally unprepared.

Two aborted desserts and one banging-head-against-wall-in-tears-session later it was time to pull oneself together. There were four hours to go before the guests arrived and I had a lot to get through. I will not lie, thirty minutes before their arrival I was once again in tears, frantically trying to get the besan to mix with the spinach and the onions.

I remember being told that the pakoras came out well. It was already half way through the evening before I decided to forgive myself. I don't do forgiving myself well. It was a call that had to be taken at that moment - forgive self for not being the ultimate-well-planned-party hostess or lose the night forever in blame and remorse.

I chose the former. I think it has to do with age. And with trying to learn from previous mistakes.

It was a great party, I'm told. I wouldn't know, I was too busy just being, not judging myself, just having fun.

* Two beauties at The Heights of Abraham in the Peak District

Must remember...

It has been a very different weekend from the ones that I usually have. I mean, from the ones that I have gotten used to having. I mean, the ones where being a mum just spills over from weekdays into weekends and back into weekdays. From nights into days and back on into the nights. You get it right?

So it's been a bit different. Got a few hours out to do some no-running-after-toddler adult conversation. It felt super amazing to just be able to talk about something without a thousand interruptions. Or without the fear that the boy is going to walk into traffic. Or fall into the river. Or try to eat a brick or something. You get the picture.

So having had some time out, one came to the conclusion that one makes decisions and then one forgets to stick to them. Like the decision to not get too worked up by the slightest of provocations. Therefore, a 'must-remember' list is in order I'd say.

Having had some time to reflect upon what this list should comprise of, I think I can, pretty much, distill it down to one little thing.

I must remember... to forgive. Not just verbally, but mentally.

And cut the people who are doing a fair job of allowing me this much needed 'me-time' some well-earned slack.

Must remember to do that.

Of trust, and the like

What is trust? Do we really know at all? When we were younger, in the comforting days of life in school, we played a game.It was called the trust-game. You had to close your eyes and face your friend. Then, with your eyes closed, you had to fall into her arms. Easy.

Not quite it seems. The trouble is the mind. It won't let you let yourself fall. It takes a lot of trust in the other person to be able to fall into her arms, with the confidence that she will hold you and not let you fall.

Now let us imagine, you have worked hard with a friend on this game. And you have brought yourself to let yourself go. Slowly and gently you have built your trust in her, to the extent that you know that you can safely leave yourself in her hands.

And then, one regular day, in a fairly normal session of the trust-game, she backs off. You fall flat on your face. Both body and pride are bruised extensively, pride more than anything else. What do you do? How will you react? What's the status of your trust?

Once the shock of the event and the bodily pain have gone, how do you deal with the injured sense of self? You ask your friend why she did what she did. She had her reasons - you had wronged her, in her opinion, the day before and so she decided to hurt you. When you explain to her your point, she apologizes and promises never to break your trust again. All is well in paradise and she is keen to resume the trust-game.

What do you do? No, seriously, what do you do?

I have been away, mostly battling medical issues and thwarting life's cruel plans to make things more and more difficult. Can't say I've had much success, but hey, I'm alive still. And N gives me a few reasons to smile everyday. He is now saying 'Mamma' and melting my heart constantly. The one silver lining to what seems like a thunderous jet black cloud ready to explode without warning.

Actually, make that one of two. Couldn't have survived the last few weeks without this brilliant man.