Me time

When I was younger, in what seems like a different era now, those weekends when I got to spend time just by myself were recognised as successful ones. Because that allowed me to read uninterrupted, eat what I fancied, and sleep as much as I desired.

Something changed in the 20s. I craved company, friends, family, anything would do. There was a sense of desperation almost, like I would lose out on something big by being by myself. As if something terrible would happen if I were to be left alone with my thoughts, feelings and wishes.

A loving husband, two beautiful children, a home of my own and more than a decade down the song and dance of life, I again find myself craving alone time. I realise that partly it is a reaction to the intense mothering I am involved in these days, well, for the last 3 years now. The physical and emotional giving of ones self is so much at the moment, I sometimes forget that I am more than a mum. Not that being a mum is bad, or that I have any issues with it. Not to justify but only to emphasise, becoming a mother has been the single most amazing, eye-opening, life-changing experience of my life and I wouldn't want it any other way. But just because I love my kids and my role in their lives doesn't mean I don't want a life for myself. And it is in this vein that I put forth the case for some me time, time just for oneself, by oneself. Just quiet, no noise, silent time. Time to actually listen to the thoughts in one's head, conversing with them, letting them go when one is done with them, sticking with them and going to new places if thats what one sees best.

Sounds good?

Well guess what? I actually had that time recently. 25 minutes to be precise. It was wonderful. Well actually after the first 5 minutes of adjusting to the rather strange environment (inside an MRI machine is not ideal but hey, beggars and everything!) And despite the attendant's warning that the machine makes a loud noise, with a little bit of mindfulness, the machine's white noise was blurred into the background and I actually found my head. Beautiful, fresh, untouched thoughts and ideas.

While this was forced seclusion, I'm only just beginning to acknowledge the importance of time with oneself, all by oneself. After the birth of my son, I met a lot of new mums, did a lot of motherly socialisation and gave in to the popular belief that new mothers are very lonely and therefore must make all possible attempts to meet other mums as much as they possibly can. I agree that that is true to a certain extent, but most of us, including myself, are trying to run away from our realities by trying to pack the day with anything and everything, so long as it doesn't leave us in our own respective companies. We are so scared to just be, just sit, just breathe, just live this time that is right now, the way it is right now. Fear is primal yes, but also socially acquired. Whatever it might be, its best looked at straight in the eyes, isn't it? So I shall just sit, by myself, in this silence, just be, just breathe.

Try it. It works like magic.

So simple. So so simple, yet so difficult to get one's head around. I didn't think of this till I saw my son, just being, just sitting, so in one with his self, truly, deeply enjoying the moment. Why do we lose this ability to be in the moment as we grow up? I'd hate him to, it would be a profound loss.

So that's what on my mind these days. Trying not to get away from anything, just being. For the moment though, Baby M is making the most amazing noises, enjoying her moment. And I am enjoying this moment with her.

Revisiting

I came back to read my blog and was astonished to find that I haven't written a word in over a year. Where have I been? What have I been doing? So much has happened, where has the entire 2011 gone?

Another year, another baby down the line, is there really anything more to say? What I found most interesting, inspiring if you like, has been the chronicling of the big and small events of life. As I read about the books I was reading back then with N and how he was interacting at that time, I am amazed how much things have changed.

Just to document that change, I am going to keep writing.

That's my little girl up there. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, isn't she?!

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