A long deep one

After my initial feverish blogging, there has been a sudden slowing down in my reading and writing, even though the less developed third r has been mercifully spared. I just couldn't get myself to compose myself my thoughts and my words. While this usually doesn't bother me much as I tend to let it all hang out (like my blowsy untidy hair), this time the thoughts and the underlying emotions were just too chaotic to be captured in any morphous structure. I just let these feeling flow through me , watching, waiting for them to give me a breather. Thats when I visited Scott and learnt about a long deep breath. Its great to 'bangalore' thinking too! Ah! so that's what it was! Here I am trying it out. Exhaling and wondering what apparates...

This goes back a bit. Not neatly and correctly to the beginning of 2005, not even to the end of 2004, but slightly further back. But the same 'mood' lingered and even the beginning of 2005, I didn't know what or where I was. In my head, my thoughts, my feelings, my body, my hair, my skin, my clothes, my work, my home, my marriage, my family, my city, I didn't know where I was. I didn't what I was doing. I didn't know what I was. But in the midst of all this, life was living itself through me, around me. I underwent severe stresses, losses, changed cities, changed jobs, changed the way I looked upon myself, changed the way people looked at me. Yet, it wasn't me who did any of that. What I did was going through the motions. Mouthing the 'right' words, doing the 'correct' things at work, taking the positions accepted of me, generally playing the role of 'Shankari Murali'. The woman, sister, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, 'friend'!? While there remained a huge void which no one could fill for me, because, I wasn't thinking for my self. Through all the foggy drama, the one character who was prominently MIA was me.

There was, through all the routine rush, a tremendous sense of malaise and extreme exhaustion. I just couldn't keep digging into my reserve of behaviour to hand out the appropriate reactions to all and sundry who expected me shed all I had in the manner of a female karna with the multi aspected world of a grasping Indra. I wanted out. I wanted to indemnify myself from these demands by declaring myself bankrupt. Insolvency through insanity. Somehow these easy options are never available to me. Finish it I say, but life propels one forward, even if it were a mere roller coaster which takes you up and down and all around without reaching you in a different place than where it started.

So if thats how it began, what happened? With all extenuating circumstances staying constant, how I did finally cope? Maybe I just got tired of being thrown yo-yo like in the mood of the moment. Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the de-tox and de-stress at the pricey spa I had gone to in 2004, maybe it was just a change of scene at the work place, maybe it was my innate resilience rising to the occasion at long last, or, maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with the miracle drugs I was on tackling my hormones. Whatever I may say, even if I were to ostrich-like deny it, there was a distinct shift in my attitude from mid-May and onwards.

It started with my hair in May! Even if remains as blowsy as ever, I'm much more comfortable with my mane now. I finally realised that my hair isn't merely a defiant statement but just a pretty common part of me like my short nails, flabby abs and all the rest of the physical me. Then came the drug induced health which miraculously included weight loss. It helped me shed more than mounds, it rid me of a lot of my melancholia, though the down side was that I shed hair too! Suddenly I realised the importance of my hair yet again. But enough of these hairy tales. The silver lining is, theres more silver in my hair now! Hullo me! :-)

This has also been the first year in a long time when we haven't been in and out of hospitals, ICUs and such like. The fact that our family conversations about body parts and bodily functions are in the nature of 'dirty' jokes, must be the healthiest sign of the year!

Getting to the more intangible me- I seem to have gained some sort of perspective on these past few years of manic-depressive (I realise the term is not favoured any more, but WTH!) me. I have found help in some chemicals which aren't warping me totally yet seem to soothe and smooth me some. The positives of this change must have been the most deeply felt by my immediate family who may have found me less tortured and more patient with them. I was available much more even if I was always fully there. My frowns started 'decreasing'. I found myself smiling at times for no reason at all. Strangers approached me with tentative smiles and were taken aback at my non-hostile response! Hullo!

And then there was the wedding! The details of arrangements to be made, things to be supervised, lists to be drawn up, flower decorations to be okayed, the house to be dolled up, the 'look' for each event, the clothes, the colours, the accessories! The blouses to be stitched, the dupattas to be matched, the bangles to be tried on, the 'jootis', the nail enamel for each dress, o what a tremendous production it was! The ultimate accessory being a colour cordinated family to match! I tried out colours I hadn't worn in years- pinks and turquoise. I even ventured to wear hues I'd never experimented with- parrot green! The shopping and the entire wedding tamasha kept me in thrall for nearly one month of the year. It was much cheaper and definitely more therapeutic for the tired eyes, listless skin and jaded nerves than the ayurvedic massages and intense treatments of the spa. Thank you, 'Ran-jay' for choosing to get married in Bangalore!

Then I discovered Ellen's book and her blog and got myself some therapy via blogger.

Ok, now for the final surprise! All my dear girl friends who have been confounded on discovering that I didn't have even a handy reel of plain white thread and needles, who had given up on me as a totally undomesticated creature, think again. Spurred on a new friend in my *support* group, Cherubs and encouraged by women like artsymama I embarked on a major endeavour over the Christmas holiday. I started a spring cleaning of the shelves (in December! aided in large measure by the barmy Bangalore weather) and lo and behold, I came upon such a veritable treasure of laces, buttons, anchor skeins of silky threads, hooks, needles, shells, ribbons, of all textures and colours. I actually traced and cut and glued and crafted plenty of cards and gifts to be given away to the kids' friends. I involved them in it and spent surprising hours of 'quality' time with the nearly cynical preteen and the adoring kid. Thank you all for helping me discover this aspect of myself. With all the help I'm getting, I may yet be a scrapper!

And while I breathe out, let me slip out a really deep secret. Even as a child, there would a tingle in my spine each time I passed the Singer show room in Connaught Place. At times I went in and made vague enquiries about models and their relative merits only to walk out bemused and unconvinced that I could actually turn the mean wheel of a machine. Maybe some day not so far away, I may be able to realise that unlikely dream to actually own a sewing machine! With such rose tinted wishes, heres looking forward to a happy and healthy 2006 for all of us!

Whhhew! that was a long deep one, feel much better to have it expelled.

Stray mus(e)ical thoughts

"The Music of love and loss" says the Hindu book review headline on a biography of Begum by her shishya and more, Shanti Hiranand.

Given that I haven't read the biography and that I would be truly put to much grief to obtain a copy in this one-horse outpost, by whatever name you call it, I'd better try to obtain a copy from Darya Ganj when I get to 'civilized' Delhi. (This particular gripe is occasioned by the futile labours I've been put to in procuring Jejuri, which I'll have to buy, in the expensive US edition, from Khan Market next time I hit that haunt!)

I love Akhtari begum. Her voice is the ultimate mirror to her life and her losses (loves?). Could her depth have been in any manner linked to the humble-ness of her origins? Could social stigma have been the only reason for her long marriage to Abbasi? Could her voice have been as powerful and painfully resonant without the turmoil she faced in the traditional 'respectable' joint family she married into? Did it have anything to do with the swinging wildly between spells of domestic bliss and dangerous depravity? Could the diamond studded nose have been truer in leading the listener to musical nirvana if the face behind it did not have the mandatory wrinkles and worry lines of a lost non-belonger? Did she not seek to stray from the path of domesticity to seek a far greater and meaningful role for her powerful and pain-filled voice?

And if any of this is true, what then of the great diamond studded muse of southern India? Was Sadasivam as much a muse for her as Abbasi was for Begum? Did they sing for their husbands? Were their lives and music sublimated to a higher form merely due to marriage to the person who was their ultimate fan and in MS's case, her advisor-cum-manager?

What a lot appears to be in common between these two supreme performers. And yet how did one plumb such depths of raw physical pain and anguish and the other scale the rarefied heights of purity? No comparisons but seeking to observe parallels. Can true musical lines ever be complete parallels howsoever distinct they appear? Don't they all converge at some spiritual metaphysical point?


PS: This post started off very differently but then with the days its been at the edit board, it seems to have acquired its own tone. So there isn't much of my contribution here. Can you see? :p

Currently grounded

There, just as I think I am special, different, differently abled, unique, Biff Loman rears his ugly voice and biffs one at me. No, I'm not dime a dozen I struggle to assert and each time like the Great American Salesman fall back exhausted. (Horrible true confession: I actually first read Miller at age eight. What does that say about my parents and my family? What is the verdict???)

Ok, I'm just an average typical woman well provided (or is it?) for the brief stay on terra firma. But hey, theres something so different about me! I'm poorly wired and badly earthed so that I can get shocked by anything. A PCO phonebox where I need to drop a coin into a slot, the frig which I need to open a number of times a day, the aquaguard which I depend upon for some water when I need to drink it (a glass once a couple days or so), the iron, the underground cable in front of my house, the overhead electric pole- which is a such a reference point on our streets, the car, the kids, or a touch of other people who don't necessarily 'turn me on', I get my shocks from all of these.

Summer, winter, rains, barefoot or well-shod, nine-volt or high volt, horribly leaky or well insulated electric appliances, I somehow manage to 'connect' with them at a certain level. Having spent a long time with myself and my affliction, I realised that there is little I can do in terms of prevention or insulation and I just need to be philosophical, connect and let the cosmic *current* flow through me.

Imagine my shock then, when I came across Gangadhar's post and its comments from o so many people (more than a dozen!!) who are similarly afflicted. Miller, you are my millstone!

A big deal box

Did I ever say I like Ellen? Major correction in place. I just simply absolutely (HEART) her! If I gained much from her little book, this one is even better at making you sane and much more fun! Dare you all to be immune to this ...

Gagged & gagging

I've been gagged.

My freedom to blog has been severely constrained by the dh and dd. The dear husband and dear daughter are getting too dear to support. Every time there is the slightest reference to them in any of my posts, hell breaks loose in our otherwise placid (!?!) place. Point in reference is the cutesy (cute si?) post of the 21st. Which one? you'd ask. Sorry, its not there anymore. And why pray? Becuz' dd thinks it is a tremendous strain on her privacy! How dare you put up my silly stuff on the internet, Amma? Becuz' I'm so heart-breakingly proud of you my angel, I wish to say. But daren't. A pre-teen is, after all, nearly a teen!

And dh? He is a man of the world, adult, self-assured confident successful responsible resourceful a leader of men (& some women, too!), why would he deny me a few mentions in my posts? Why does he think that my routine insignificant rants are a major attack on his performance as a husband provider and father? Merely if I post them on my blogs? C'mon, what rants could I have against them, I who do not claim myself to be free of tremendous shortcomings of laziness; lack of focus; an opinion on everything; a cavalier attitude to all I have be it love; affection or money; a tendency to be truthful when tact would be advised; a prickly hedgehog who loves people but is uncomfortable with individual specimens and is extremely likely to poke quills into the softest of targets if they stray too close; an indifferent cook; and a lousy home maker who would lean to Erma Bombeck than Martha Stewart. Just some among these flaws of mine which Ellen has so comprehensively enumerated, and dh and dd are so apt and prompt to point out to me?

People who know us would know better than to judge herr or her on the basis of my rants alone. And those who know me alone would provide for the characteristic all pervasive modesty(!). If he is a golfer, then isn't he being true to type of being a golfer, in making a golf-widow of me? Isn't he, inspite of all his stupendous awesome talents in and off various fields, merely a *typical* husband to me? Does any code of privacy exist which could gag a wife and a mother? Does normal domestic talk assume such significance if it is posted on an informal chat spot? After all this is my private space and not a fencing ring(?) in which I thrust spar and parry over socially economically politically significant issues? Can I talk of me without talking of them who are such a part of me? Can any comment I make on them ever be more relevant than the fulsome admiration they get from the resident chief fan and side-kick???

Anyway, after this brief venting session, I get back to my in-house intubation...

PS: This has been vetted!

The first and the earlier Rebecca

The other day Tani sent me a message. Not much of a message, just a forward, but a sharp, smart one which gave me something to smile about in the midst of my blues. I smiled and moved on. Till it hit me yesterday. Tani's messages, I ought to know by now, have a lot of message in the message. So it wasn't a mere forward, was it? It was a kind of course correction to me who had strayed from matters literary and cerebral to mere prosaic stuff about men women and, crassly enough- a silly sentimental mother ! I got thinking about how I could attempt to redeem myself to that companion of many nights spent sleepless in spooky sweet Shimla. I thought for a moment and I knew I had to talk about the other Rebeccas- the first Rebecca and the earlier one. This ones for you Tani, hope it measures up. (Now, those who know Tani know, this a very tall order!)

The preoccupation with the name Rebecca. Tell me, I'm not being paranoid about this. Why is it that the most memorable strongest female characters have old testament names? Wonder what Le Rouzic would say about this association here.

Rebecca- the second major matriarch of Israel in the Old Testament. From the Hebrew name Ribqah, possibly meaning "a snare" or "fat and full" in Hebrew, or perhaps derived from an Aramaic name. She was the wife of Isaac and the mother of Esau and Jacob who is later called Israel in the Old Testament. She is described in Genesis 24:16 as :

"The girl was very beautiful, a virgin, untouched by man."

She is the most clever and authoritative of the matriarchs, and yet she epitomizes womanly beauty and virtue, most notably her virginity, her actions at the well, in her energetic speech, thoughtful courtesy, and her self-assurance.

The story goes that Rebecca is married to Isaac, and is barren up to the moment when she prays God to deliver her from that sterility. She bears twins who seem to constantly battling each other in the womb. To her query on this, God is said to have responded that it is so as they are going to lead two separate nation. She then gives birth to Esau and Jacob, but has a special preference for the younger, weaker but brighter Jacob. It is through her devious intervention that she wins for her favourite Jacob, the blessing of the aging and near-blind Isaac. But then Jacob has to flee from Esau, thus creating a separation of the mother from her preferred child. Her story is the conclusion of the Abraham saga.She is a major actor in this saga much to the bewilderment of many Christians who continue to wonder at her Grace and how and why God worked through her devious ways to favour Jacob who had sought to outwit his own father and elder brother!

Thats for the first Rebecca! The other one now.

I embarked on reading Vanity fair when I was a teenager, shortly after I'd read Rebecca. I was immediately struck by the common name and a lot of other resonance between du Maurier's creation and Ms. Becky Sharp of Thackeray- the Victorian who sketched a Bohemian, the wickedest woman of 19th century literature.

While I was, and who wouldn't be, impressed by the sheer size of the tome, I found it extremely readable and was going through the detailed chapters with as much relish and as little time as perhaps dd does through her Potter volumes. But little did I know then of the significance of the sub-title, "A Novel Without a Hero".

Each time I read and re-read this masterly tome, I learnt more of the "dismal precocity of poverty" which makes a woman of a girl of eight, "I think I could be a good woman if I had five thousand a year.", of her relationship and association with the "poor innocent creature" Amelia, of conquests of "the Servants hall" and the "Drawing Room".

How Becky conducts herself with aplomb : "seeing that tenderness was the fashion, ... kissed him in the presence of all the ladies... to which he said "You never kiss me at home, Mamma,", "To be a wicked woman -- a heartless mother, a false wife?... her soul is black with vanity, worldliness, and all sorts of crimes."

Her persistent dissatisfaction at every stage of her upward trail - "As Becky gains more of the externals which are the object of her conscious desires -- material luxury, status, the fashionable diversions of balls and suppers, even the appearance of respectability -- she becomes less and less satisfied", "yawning in spirit".

And the ultimate ambiguous denouement: did she or did she not commit a homicide? Did her corruption extend to murder to protect and re-equip herself, was she actually capable of such a devious plan?

The book was extremely well received given that Thackeray had embellished it with not only the most impressive heroine but all manner of Victorian 'snobs' and had illustrations in it too in his clever fashion. By exposing the crass commercial hypocrisy of Victorian era, by setting the plot among the British traders who interacted with the world within and outside England, of a social climber posed against the nouveau riche, the counterpoint offered by Ms. Rhonda Swartz, the exotic yet financially sound third woman, he definitely blew a breath of fresh air into the Victorian novel. This book has a tremendous effect on the contemporaries of Thackeray who either criticised it or were influenced by it in their own writings. All except of course, his leading rival Dickens. In fact, it earned him revenues and readership not only in England but also crossed over the Atlantic to win him accolades in the Americas. It has gone on to spawn two movies(neither of which I have seen) and the magazine and other such trivia. How telling that the blurb of the magazine still says People, Personalities, Power, Politics! Just the kind of things which were relevant for Ms. Rebecca Sharp in 19th century England and now equally so in the 21st century web enabled worldly women (and men)!

So then is there any of the Biblical Rebecca or Ms. Becky Sharp in Mrs R. de Winter???

Paranoid in Bangalore?

I'm paranoid.

I'm paranoid about things which are most important to me. Like my freedom. And security. Not about the details but the overall idea of freedom and security. I may do zilch with my freedom and may actually stupidly surrender the freedom too, all voluntarily, but, the principle is so important.

Soon after I shifted to Bangalore some two years ago, I had this most irritating incident. A gentleman came to meet me at work. He had come to meet me and knew who I was. I, on the other hand, was at a disadvantage. But I knew that I'd have to travel with him soon and I realised that he was overawed by me. (BTW, thats standard, because its the usual effect I have on most people who meet me for the first time!) I set about in my professional manner trying to put him at ease by indulging in a little of chit chat. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that that person knew just about everything about me, my family, where I stayed, when & where my parents had shifted to in Bangalore, who their neighbours were, details of my family in Delhi and what have you. And all this gathered from a garrulous old couple who were my parents neighbours- whom I'd never met! I was horrified. What kind of a place was Bangalore that total strangers could know so many 'irrelevant' details about me even without ever meeting me. I longed for the anonymity of Delhi, where no one bothered to know to you and no one cared. (It is another matter though that I had a perfectly cordial time with that person on our subsequent trip and I found him to be curiously non-curious in that he never asked me any questions about myself!)

Delhi, ah! its home to me. Its there in my very being. Being in Delhi is exhilarating. Knowing each alley and lane and having my own special memories associated with each of those places, the people who I spent time with in those haunts, the things I did there, all these populate my intensely detailed mental maps of Delhi. But being in Delhi also means that you are on your guard, especially if you happen to be female. Whether a child or an old woman, Delhi treats all its female folk to its worst behaviour. Female foeticide, eve-teasing, rape, dowry deaths, these are the very fabric of the gaudy glad rags we wear in Delhi. You could be anywhere with anyone and yet feel extremely unsafe as a woman. We may have had a woman Prime Minister there, we may be having a woman Chief Minister now, but you could be walking in the University campus, outside your house, at a cinema, in a marketplace, and of course, the ultimate, in a DTC bus, and you'd be unsafe. With such a high level of danger ever present, you are ALWAYS on guard. Whether you be a child, a labourer at Noida 'mod', a student at Dhaula Kuan, a housewife, a successful young politician, women are always at risk in Delhi. In Washington, DC, some years ago, some locals tried to frighten me by saying that it was the Crime Capital of the US and I'd better watch where I go. I retorted that I had supremely attuned antennae to pick up signs of danger and that all my training in DTC buses would not let me be caught unaware or unprepared. Delhi has, undoubtedly, some of the most aggressive women in the world- but then there you need to be aggressive to survive. One needs the armour of a robust self esteem, well-developed reflexes, extremely active antennae and high decibel vocal chords to able to steer through the days and the evenings. If you're out at nights, you're more than fair game, you're bait, waiting to be attacked.

By and by, gradually over the two years, I learnt to be a Bangalorean and not to mourn for the loss of the freedom of anonymity. I went with the flow and I realised that in small town Bangalore, everyone knew each other and yet, no one really would gossip to me due to the aforesaid effect I had on people. I began to feel insulated and safe. My paranoia was decreasing, my adrenaline levels didn't hit the roof each time I stepped out of the house. I was feeling good that I was raising my kids here than elsewhere.

Till the other day.

There have been various horrible things which occur in this city as happens all over the country- boy electrocuted, rains cause a deluge of problems , politicians do their thing, sons of soil want their bit of the earth and sky, cities get renamed, but not rape ! On a visit from Bangalore to Delhi, a friend had jokingly mentioned that it was good to be in Delhi. Men looked at you as a woman and not merely as a person. I remembered that yesterday when I thought of how little I want to be looked at as a woman by all and sundry men- the vegetable seller, the plumber, the milk man, the postman, the washer man, the bus driver, the man on the street, the neighbour, the colleague, the boss! Hey, Bangalore had invaded my privacy in a certain way, but at least I was always on the edge for being a woman. The freedom which I felt in Bangalore, when I travelled to Mysore, Hassan, Chickmagalur, vacationed on my own in Malpe beach, spent time in discovering Belur, Halebid, Mudigere, Giris, Sringeri and all those precious pearls of Karnataka, that freedom seems to be under threat. The rape has really been a jolt. Measures of course would now be put in place to avoid such things from recurring. The repercussions would go beyond the boundaries of Bangalore to all places where call centres are being set up. But the effect I saw was also on the pretty and petrified girls in the salon, who were nudging each other and whispering- you saw that news? HP, call centre... On the beautiful girl in smart pants who changes every evening to go home in her hizaab. I sensed it in the tense knots of girls and women coming onto the Mysore road in the late evening from god- knows- what manner of factories and establishments. I saw it in the crowds gathered on MG Road seeking capital punishment for the rapist. I felt it in the tremendous threat to my freedom and security as a woman.

So I don my armour? Do I go back to being paranoid? In Bangalore??

Who'd you be?

This is for all Potter maniacs-

Came across this in the Harry Potter Fans UK group ( a great group for kids as well as the *older* pottermaniacs) and really like it:

which animagus would you be?
what form would your patronus take?
what what shape would your boggart assume?

Shan't let the cat out, looking for your takes on this...

A window to my existence - *WARNING* Seriously sentimental & Long

The theme this week is Window says mamasaysom. So I play the usual word association game around the house. Start with dh. Window, I suggest. Hmm, he says, while attempting feebly to move his nose from the book its placed in. And quickly re-adjusts the nose into the next page of the first part of his discourse with the spiritual being! Window, I hint at dd, she immediately rattles off a long winded and extremely imaginative spiel which I can't do justice to in this post! Suffice to say that she is likely to blog much earlier than her tired old mum. Window, I ask my 6 year OLD baby. I'll open a 'window' and go to www.beyblade.com he fantasises even as he's gazing into the distance outside the window! So much for the family.

Reflecting inward, I didn't hesitate for a moment in recalling the most significant window of my life. It was the NICU window through which I saw my baby for the first time.

A baby whose birth was so different from the previous birth experience I'd had. Every woman who gives birth to a baby does so thinking that she alone has had to undergo the birth process and she is uniquely placed for that special reason. Later, when the collective wisdom of womanhood dawns, she realises the bond she shares with all the women of the world- whether or not they have birthed, they have the power to do so. Having once proved my capacity to give birth to a baby, I swung to the extreme of complacency. Things went right the first time, didn't they? I had a classic text book first pregnancy with the most perfect baby at the end of it. I thought I was through with the baby business, but then...

I'd borne the second pregnancy for nine months with an extremely relaxed attitude, bordering perhaps on the casual. I already had a child, who was the epitome of perfection- my daughter, my flesh and blood, my genes, my baby. Another baby? Would 'it' not intrude on our perfect relationship? Maybe they'd be good *sisters* like me and my sister!?

I had as many as 5 ultrasounds to tell me that I was growing a BIG baby within me. Very reassuring, na? Cricketer or cheerleader, what do you want? was what my radiologist used to ask. Considering it extremely infra dig to engage in such sexist talk, I'd keep a stiff upper lip even while my expanding middle was exposed to his scrutiny. Is it twins? Aren't you already due? others would ask. And yet unmindful of all this talk, I went about this pregnancy absolutely normally. Worked till the last week, was extremely uncomfortable but was actually blase about being pregnant. Been there, done that, hadn't I?

I had my bags packed, the baby clothes washed and just about everything under control. The baby just wouldn't come. Finally, I was induced, but still no go. When labour didn't progress and I was really done with waiting (!), I signed the papers for me to have a C-section. I was in control! Wanted the baby OUT! Then things totally spiralled out of my hands... I had anaesthesia which was NOT an epidural. I was OUT!

When I came to later that evening, there was something rather ominous. Instead of being reassured by all the women folk for the fantastic feat of birthing, I had solemn looking men- my brother, my brother-in-law and all manner of uncles around. Where was my mother when I needed her? And where the h**l was dh?? Everyone spoke to me as if I was still unconscious or dead- talking all around me, trying hard to be calm and even cheerful about my having a baby boy with thick black hair. None of them would look me in the eye, tell me where dh was, or for that matter, why my baby was not being brought in to be shown to me from the nursery they said he was in. Still my N2O dimmed mind did not draw any dire conclusion. I was just angry.

My doc. came by and she was very sweet, yet, nothing by way of any explanation. It was only much later that dh came by and told me I'd had a very sick baby, whom he had got admitted in another hospital and that they would 'repair' the baby, on the fourth day, if he survived for 3 days. The ped. came by next and thankfully, he told me things the way I like to hear them- straight. He also told me there was a 20% chance of my baby's survival and also that statistics were for the studies, for my baby, he would live or die. Can't say which way.

There was nothing I could do lying prone there after a c-section, which I had so badly wanted. Waiting, to see the baby, I'd borne, felt within me, talked to, but never seen. Or, may never see. Three days and nights, when my life was NOT in my hands or my body. When I was sponged, my clothes changed, my hair combed, my bowels opened for me, while I just lay prone. Wondering whether I'd get to see my baby, to touch him, hold him, smell him, kiss him, feed him like I wanted to. My arms did ache as the rest of me.

On the fourth day, in the morning, Baby of Shankari (as his identity was) went under the scalpel for the first time. Heavily drugged, heavy doped, with morphine, dopamine, dobutamine, lasix being micro-managed and injected constantly through the IV pumps, his respiration and aeration controlled by the ventilator, and all manner of pipes and tubes stuck into him and sticking out of his little body, carefully nurtured by the NICU 'sisters', kept ALIVE, when I actually glimpsed him from the NICU window that evening, I knew I'd been revealed a major miracle. A life over which I'd never ever be able to claim any control. A personal glimpse of heaven!

I knew then that whatever this baby (and life thereafter) were to offer, I'd be blessed to accept!

PS: Theres a brief version of the story (factual and with lots of medical jargon) here.

Men, marriage and mardaangi in hapless Haryana

Uups! Just when everyone around me is excitedly discussing the addition of 'u's to Banglaore and other Karnataka towns (I HAD to choose a DH link for this over the rest), I start on my post on a totally different part of my universe.

I dedicate this post to all the bhayas (a typically crude but surprisingly non-rude Haryanvi term for brother!!!), with whom I've have had occasion to interact with (rather closely!) over the years...

The December 3-9 2005 issue of EPW , has an interesting article on the 'masculinity' of haryanvi males in the absence of enough females to enforce suitable masculinity. The article is refreshingly different in that instead of being a demographic discourse on the adverse sex ratio or a gender gripe, it just talked of things as they are.

How marriage is as important for men as for women in (esp. rural) Haryana and getting sons married is one of the vote planks used by Chautala in his election campaign. How in the absence of eligible marriageable girls, caste lines are being blurred and may be resulting in the kind of recent regressive caste violence Haryana has had. Or the fate that awaits the progeny of the alliances between the Haryanvis who have b(r)ought in females from other States and cultures. How the aged, the unmarried and the unemployed are the major problems of Haryanvi society incurring scorn from all. And how a man cannot be a Man without a job and a wife! Yin and yang? Bicyles and fish anyone???

But then again, at the risk of repetition, a good read bringing out the male perspective on what has been seen for long as a 'woman's problem'. Heres to you, bhayas.

And just in case you thought Prem Chowdhry was a man, think again.

N/S Assam & Meghalaya

From the heights of Aizawl, after only a short break for sweet chai at the CIJW canteen at Vairangte, we plummeted to the nether world of Silchar- reaching shortly after 6 pm on a dark shandy evening, teeming with shoppers, who wouldn't budge an inch even in view of the big bus bearing down on them. Goodbye mountain air, free people and lofty views, we seemed to be trapped in the sub terrain.
A long drive through the commercial hub of Cachar took us to a seedy hotel in Vakilpatti. Nothing remarkable about Silchar except the Barak which was pretty impressive and the omnipresent posters put up by various Tarun Mitra clubs exhorting all and sundry to vote for local hero Debojit who is a finalist in the popular TV show. Amazing how this has seemed to bring the local pride back to this dusty commercial town. There were plenty of interesting and rather typical local stories about the MP and the mafia during the dusty and back breaking drive into the hillocks of Cachar. But none of that here.

A quick detour to Agartala- a far more cultured city, a capital, which unfortunately is dealing with its own set of problems of ultras. The youth are equally proud of the Palace as they are of the new Cricket Stadium but there is an underlying palpable sense of disquiet and violence, even if the State has been 'developing'.The city's youth , who don't support Debojit as much as their Assamese neighbours, do, however, love the Kashmiri icon Qazi. What an amazing country this is!!

Onward to Guwahati, aw, I don't need to write about it. Kamakhya was HER gracious self even amidst the filth which abounds. And the Brahmaputra, he can only evoke vivid impressions of Bhupenda, where even Begum seems to lose her hold over me. Missed going to Diphu due to the Karbi Anglong tangle, which seems to be poised for further trouble. Kaziranga, ah! I had neither the tools (a mere mobile camera) nor the skills (I have a terrible tremor, which gets worse every time I try to "Steady"!) to go clickety-click, so just find your pics elsewhere. It was awesome though! And all my words and my pathetic pics wouldn't do justice to the Elephant safari. It was something to be experienced by the senses- the early morning feel of the cold and then the warmth of the rising sun, the sounds, the sights, the smells, esp. the smell! ;)

Onto Meghalaya. Didn't get to visit Shillong at all. And quite relieved for it cuz the traffic was most annoying. Stayed at a lovely lakeside resort at Bara Pani, on the outskirts of Shillong. The starry sky, the long lonely walk in pitch darkness, the sharp nip in the air... Early morning, I walked down to the lake and sat and watched till the fishing boats came back. Long day ahead with visits to some really far out, interior villages in the East Khasi hills, one of the milestones saying 'Sylhet 36 miles'! Did Cherrapunji but was absolutely enthralled by the karst topography at Mawsmai. The mighty stalagmites and the impressive stalagtites were really worth more than the missed lunch. Coudn't make it to Tura, which is a hotbed for all kinds of tribal trouble now.

Everyday was packed with a lot of tough travel through troubled areas, lots of work and yet was FUN!

The third and the laaast is...

me.

Started this morning with checking up the status of my fav. people in the world. Scott seems to be fine, Ellen seems to be getting her votes, garnet has gone into self proclaimed hibernation, *hey* how did I leave you out Becky (defiantly, a mistake, hahaha) and so on, my friends on my various lists seem to be doing good too, but verymom had a 'blue' day in the midst of her babymoon. Coping with a second child's second birthday with the third around and during the babymoon too! Set me thinking about me being the third kid ...

I was born when my parents were past their mid 30s and this was back in the late 60s! When by 40, people became grandparents, atleast here in India. As a result they had kids in school for a looooong time. :) I joined school the year my eldest sibling had passed out of school. So often I felt I was an afterthought, the child which was allowed to stay (NOT as in left behind, but just stayed). Having seen my parents as always serious and 'old' compared to those of my friends. I would often ask this of my mother, why did you have me? And she'd look kindly at me (she is NOT a very physical person!) and say, because I had to, I wanted to, you are so important to me, blah blah. She was not a SAHM and she really had to work VERY hard to care for her home and kids in addition to her career. Each pregnancy was a tremendous drain on her feeble health too. So why?

Liberal, I am! Prochoice and actively following the pro life/ pro choice debates at various fora, an excellent one here , but isn't all because, I am, I think?!

Do you vote?

If you do, would you consider doing so immediately and every day upto 15th December, 2005, for the Queen of blogs, (umm, no, i don't canvass for royalty as a rule, but this special royalty), Queen Ellen who is a terrific blogger, woman, wife, mother. Foremost, I should say, Blogger! She also has a tremendous little book for all those who yo-yo between the highs and the lows or those who permanently inhabit the nether regions and it did help me when I was in one of my troughs, enough, in fact, to start me blogging.

Given that I have but a fledgling blog which may(?) be seen by a couple of otherwise unoccupied folk, who don't even leave their comments on my blog, I don't have very high hopes of diverting much traffic or votes for Ellen, but hey, I try!

SAHM- A note

Ok this note is for all you geeks and others who don't know what SAHM stands for!

SAHM is but mere modern-ese for what IS the oldest profession for women even if it was never acknowledged so - from the hunter-gatherer stage of *men* and onwards. The appellation may change through the ages- housewife, homemaker being the kind of accepted terms to politely state the gender role so succintly stated by de Beauvoir:

I cook; I wash; I bear; I rear; I nag; I wag; I sulk; I sag.-

Stay At Home Moms, mothers and sisters, more power and visibility to you!

Wheels under everything

My love for micro design I definitely (defiantly ?) is something I get from my mother. Each item had to be customised for our house. Not that it meant that it was fancy, just different. And a major item for all items of furniture was the wheels under them. All those carpenters would get quite flabbergasted about providing heavy hard wood stuff with good quality long lasting wheels and couldn't really appreciate the need for them. But how to move them without wheels? was the response which left them more flummoxed than before.

So it is with me... Got to have them wheels to move and rearrange ad whim/wheel(ium). This does create quite a problem at work b'cause every office room which was just so forever would be re-arranged and some by yours truly. And everyone really missed those wheels!

Is it not a wonder that I finally changed the look-feel of this blog after ONE month? Hope you like it. I do.

Getting back

Life has strange ways of getting at you. On one of my numerous flights a couple of weeks ago, just as I was manoevering myself, my woman-sized handbag, my awkwardly shaped shoulder bag past the narrow Y-class aisle and past 2 well settled folk into my window seat, I was assaulted by one of the shrillest Shankaaaaareeeeeee.s I've heard in a long time! It was one of my gym mates and don't ask me what she was doing in that neck of the woods! Just my karma, I guess.
She was rather glad to see me 'cornered' finally after 3 months of no-show. She took me task about being irregular, made extremely detailed enquiries about me(!) much to the obvious embarrassment of my fellow travellers and me and ordered me to get back - into shape.
And finally, this morning I went and presented myself to all there, the 30, 40 & even 50 pluses, mostly SAHMs who continue to care. To admonish, advise, cajole me to care for myself! Its good to be back!

Mizo post

Mizontium, me is likely to say. Perhaps it was the fact that it was the first leg of my travels that I felt fresh enough to fall for Mizoram. Or perhaps it was the exposure to the Lushai (Mizo) hills for a city weary hill hungry Bangalorean. The high from clean crisp air, the stars I could see from about 6.30 pm (ref my post on Time), rolling hills appearing like thick mossy crumpled velvet from the air. (Google Earth anyone?), entire hillsides covered in thich profusion by bright yellow wild sunflowers (the English 'sunflower' doesnt half say it like 'surajmukhi' does, does it? Sun face is so much more beautiful than a mere sun-flower), proud beautiful people in a setting so perfect for them. But then its not merely the tremendous natural bounty which makes one love it so.

But at the same time, that sure is no country for old men. (PLEASE follow the link!) The Irish analogy is not too misplaced, I think. A strip of land between Bangladesh and Myanmar, the land of Mizos (highlanders) is very distinct from the Indian socio-political mainland, a remnant of bygone times and a forerunner of times to come! The blend of proud animalistic headhunting tribal traditions and contemporary consumerist modernism is confusing but evident. Wherever one looks, there are young men and women- inside shops at the counters and not just loitering outside shops. Amazingly, all unmarried young men are called, believe it or not, Mama! So nearly every shop sports a board proclaiming it as a Mama Shop. In fact everyone one in Mizoram is a youth as told to me by a retired army Major, in that they ALL can and usually do belong to the Young Mizo Association, an organisation which is typically tribal and Christian, public and paragovernmental, with over 3 (or is it 2!) lakh members, all pervasive and all powerful in Mizoram and all young!

Some of my other impressions are of the impressive and pious Aizawl Theological College set up in 1907, the fact that an flat airstip could actually be created in those totally undulating slopes, the ugly conveyor belt that is the Burra Bazar of Aizawl, the auto repair shops ALL along the route between the airport and Aizawl city, the good roads- "Pushpak & Mizoram made for each other", the lipstick fruit, the sweet mandarin oranges, chow-chow or scut as its called, the earnest and devout priest from far away Salem, Tamil Nadu, a Principal to boot!

Indeed, not for the old!

Saw Virrudh last night on TV -Wouldnt have but for my mother who rang me up and ADVISED me to see it as she had already seen it on another channel and was actually settling in to see it back to back on the next channel!!
First things first. John Abraham is just TOO good, cute , hunky & all (I don't share the mother- daughter crush on him with my mother, its with my preteen! My mother can't see beyond the Big B anyway) But why do we have to see John dying in his movies??? Given that the movie was telecast on 2 channels on the same day and half of the TV watching Big B adoring nation would have seen it by now, this doesn't count as a Spoiler, does it?
Having said that, the casting was PERFECT! Sanjay seems to have perfected the good hearted baddie character by now. Sharmila was fabulous- her graceful dignity seems to get better with the years. BTW, I did see some traces of that Manasi character from one of her old movies where she was the complacent housewife who transformed herself to face the threat to her marriage from a 'fresh' Sarika. Can't remember the name of that one. And the dialogues were really good.
But of course, the STAR was Mr Bachchan himself. Anyone who still hasn't seen it, is strongly advised to do so imm.

Happy Birthday Tweedletom and Tweedlejee!

Happy birthday to you...!

On a cold (and cheerless) day of December, of the year of the Lord, 1991, I met these two adorable people. They brought such warmth and friendship and light into my life that I feel blessed.

So dissimilar are they physically that there wouldn't appear to be much in common and yet so similar in spirit that I (and indeed quite a few people who know them) would reach to one when wishing to talk to the other. So tremendously individualistic and opinionated yet so sharing and considerate. One a morning lark while the other definitely owlish. The booming (stomach?) laugh, the shining twinkling eyes, the sound advice, the technical thoroughness, the caring attitude, the convenient chocolate and other such treats, the early morning walks, the late night prowls, the intellectual discussions, the idiotic puerile jokes, the rapid generation and transmission of gossipy stories... the list is too long! They enriched, all of us, in our stay in Shimla.

Over the years, we have drifted. We have changed. While I like many of us am carrying the onerous burdens of family and parenthood, they remain as unattached yet attached to all. While most of us seem to have taken our burdens quite literally physically, they seem to have shed more weight than they started with!! But, lagta hai, the bond endures ...

I hope you both see this post and receive my best wishes!

Enabled Persons!

Today (3rd December) is the UN International Day of Persons with disabilities.

While the international agencies, enlightened and socially aware individuals may glorify the day and mark it with numerous celebrations, spread awareness, promote understanding, seek support for dignity rights & well being for persons with disabilities in every aspect of political, social, economic and cultural life, me, I just like to salute the men and the WOMEN who have first given opportunities to 'differently abled' babies in the family. The women who have borne these children and abided by them throughout, I'd like to dedicate this day to them.

I'd like to rely on the words of a person who herself has been a mother 'superior' and has guided many women through motherhood, Erma Bombeck. Have laughed with her through all her 'family' moments and remembered her through so many of my own. Her Special mother may not be rib-tickling funny but touches some place in the chest just as much!

A matter of Time

Time!

October, I was in warm western Goa, with family on a holiday. One evening my little one sobbed as it was already evening and the sun, the horrible sun had set into a cloudy haze in the horizon over the Arabian Sea. When all our endeavours at explaining that the day was over bounced off his exhausted brain, his sis intervened with that special magical gift of hers! She soothed him and said "If the sun doesn't go from here, how will be day in other places, where other kids would also want to play at the beach?" The logic was too strong for him to resist and he finally bid a happy farewell to the setting sun.

November, I was in the North East, though the eastern most part of my trip was Kaziranga (not Mizoram!) It was one month further into the winter, we WERE in the East, but hey, it was so unfair! By 4 pm, it was DARK. By 5, the stars used to be out and I did feel lost and deprived like my little boy!

How unfair it is that across the width of our country we have but 1 Indian Standard Time! Its drawback has been pointed out but for some silly (sentimental?) reason, we equate the time in Arunachal Pradesh with Kutchh. It is another matter though that our management of time has always tended to be loose and elastic.
Meanwhile, who better than Browning to sum it up for me:
There may be heaven; there must be hell;Meantime, there is our earth here--well!

Big *A*

Reading today's dailies has left me in total shock. Yes, I realise that Big B is BIG news and that the nation (across international boundaries) holds its collective breath if anything were to happen to Him! Even as prayers are being said for his speedy and complete recovery from his surgery, I'm filled with personal dread. That his abdominal surgery in 1982 could result in complications in 2005 is chilling to say the least.

My little one underwent major abdominal surgery at birth for repair of a cdh in 1999. By age of two, we were lulled into complacency inspite of the repeated episodes of 'colitis'. Within a fortnight of his second birthday party (the first party he had) he was hospitalised for a week before an 'exploratory' abdominal surgery was performed. It lasted much longer (nearly 9 hrs) than the initial surgery, was much more complicted and ofcourse huge Adhesions were seen with the original scar tissue...

The operation was reportedly a success BUT we were warned that Adhesions *could* develop anytime during his life. Another ('minor'!) surgery and 4 years later, I am filled with dread... am living in hope...