Trouble is up!

 "Poor elemen

Elemen got boo-boo

Poor elemen

Elemen pink

Elemen go walkie?

Dora come

Elemen go

Dont cry..

Dora cry..

Mommy! Mommy!"

"Argh! Why is there a child in our house?!" Peter groaned in the master bedroom. Neil was not the types to stir.

"Someone please stop the cries!"  

Peter's request went unanswered. 

"Mommy  Elemen

Mommy Dora boo-boo"

" Oh! That's my child!" Realization hit Peter. 

Parenthood was new to Peter and Neil. Eight years of paperwork after revolution, Yes votes. Even more effort into being recognized as responsible parents. The savings needed. Neil had bit down the humiliation and stayed in his job just for Dora. Somewhere in the fight, Peter forgot the end goal. He was not ready to be a mom. Neil loved children. He loved Neil. But your own child? That was so far from his own comfort zone.

"Ma..... ma.. ma..."

Marriages are just painful. Where was the partnership when you really needed it? Peter was groggy and irritation was waking up in him before his brain was. He saw the clock turn the numbers to 3:00 AM.

"Why 3:00 AM?!

Do children come pre-programmed to wake up in the devil hour, or are the horror movies real?"

Neil, snored. Peter knew his sleep was now a dream. He sighed. Accepting his reality. Not all acceptance needs to come with grace.

The cries were now in F-sharp.

"Alright. Alright!" 

Peter stepped onto what he thought was solid floor, but the sharp pain shooting up his foot said otherwise. 

He screamed matching Dora's F-sharp. 

"Fucking Danes and their god-awful Legos!"

His curses followed him to Dora's room.

She stood holding the slats on the crib. Her big beady black eyes in their narrow eyelids held just one drop of tear precariously. Her straight black hair, messy with the stirring in the crib. She held her pink elephant in her right hand. Her pink and blue onsies matched the bedsheets dotted with elephants.

At the sight of Peter, she resumed her cry.

"Mommy mommy Dora boo boo"

"Yes sweetie, mommy is here." Assured Peter picking her up. In his half draped navy robe Dora found a spot to snuggle. Her snot warmly dripped onto Peter's shoulder.

Strangely Peter didn't mind. Eight months on, Dora finally had chosen to call Peter and Neil mommy. Both were happy with just the acceptance. Whatever the parent they were, she was finally their daughter.

Tonight he was happy that all he had to do was hold her. And soon Dora fell asleep in her mommy's arms.

"Yes sweetie, sum of all my troubles you are. Now go to sleep."

Peter was a happy mommy.

To my dear EX

 I sure wasted tears.

Many a nights in fear.

A life without you. Unimaginable!

Oh! The future, the loneliness. Terrible.

Faint signs at the start.

Your words could cut my heart.

Guile was mastered to an art.

We were falling apart.

What wasted times!

The end was milk and limes.

Cacophony, fights, woe my precious prime.

Even this poem has better rhyme.

Sure, you will say you are better.

I never knew such an expert quitter.

At size XXL, you claim to be fitter.

Your kind words sour and bitter.

Ah! look. Thank goodness I got away.

Leave, don't leave, perennially I would sway.

Air fresher, life lighter, better days.

Goodbye! Live! Don't ever cross paths - I say.

Let's talk about Emma

He was not ready. He knew she was upset, but not in a million years would he have guessed Emma would be the cause of any trouble in his life. He was bewildered and at a loss of words. Well he wasn't at loss of words, just that any word would spell doom for him in this present moment. Jenna was in one of those moods. He was sifting through his list of escape tactics in his mind. His aloofness was starting to drive her up the wall. Her growing impatient had reached her foot and it started tapping ominously against the tiles. 

Tap, tap tap, tap, tap tap.. 

Time was ticking, he knew it, more he delayed, more volatile the situation was bound to be. 

He felt parched of words, parched of spirit, parched in general, stranded in a desert of the right thing to say.

" Baby..." he started.

" Baby.. why do we have to talk about Emma?". He looked at her sheepishly, large puppy eyes should have diffused the situation, but not today.

"On a first name basis are we?" she knit her bows so tight, her hands fishing, defences engaged, missiles getting ready, waiting for a trigger from him.

Oh! SHIT - was all he could think to himself now. The sirens were blaring in his mind. Fidgeting, sweat pooling in unspoken places. 

MAY DAY MAY DAY! - He heard his alter ego and his sanity huddle into the imaginary situation room. He knew she was wrong, but he would dare not utter that phrase unless he wished an early grave for himself. He decided to use sweetness as his last defence.

"Baby, I was 15... Emma was the poster. 

She means nothing to me darling. 

If I had met you, I would have never seen Harry Potter. 

You are so much beautiful than Emma, honey. 

You are a complete woman, you are independent, strong, talented and drop-dead gorgeous. Baby, you mean the world to me. 

You complete me." He had even used Tom Cruise on her today. He bravely looked at her.

She burst out laughing! 

He had been played! 

They both laughed. His more nervous. 

Was it really over, or was it a practice session? He would know soon enough.

Brown soul shoes

 Everything was suave and chic and a good dose of bling. Glamour suited her. Every word uttered was precious reinforced by the thumbs ups, the likes, the hugs & kisses. All virtual cheers, all showing the world how wonderful, charming, cute, happening she was. This was her world. She ruled this space. She mattered. She was the trend. And she wanted more.

She sat up on her bed hugging her knees in indecision. Her pink sheets with unicorn motifs complimented her new silk jammies. The coordination was deliberate, designed and well executed to look effortless. A hip song of some man and his car being the largest in the city, of him being the dirtiest man played loudly in the background. Her short-shorts were the newest on the block with the ripped back pockets. Save few threads, the structural integrity of the shorts was a point which was under deep research by some physicists.  A lock of hair protested in her hands and she won the battle putting it aside and taming it with a clip.

"What to donate?" she  declared to the empty room. 

"Right, lets see .." Pointing an imaginary gun at the series of cupboards, and aiming at each row and making  mental note. 

She felt magnanimous. She could already see the poor girls wearing her super-trendy clothes and feeling awesome about themselves. She thought of giving up the green one, the one with gold prints.  Oooh! the purple ones with silver fishes on them, everyone would love those! The cause was floods or fire or something in some part of the world she had never heard of. That never mattered. She would ask her manager. Maybe she could pack some water-proof gear that were so-oh!-last-year from a brand that had troubling image these days. Their lead designer was caught with some child. That fool! He ruined a good contract for her. 

Her thoughts switched through her wardrobe faster than light could reach the corners. She remembered them all. That was her special talent. She was lucky with picking the next trend. She looked good in everything! 

Her moderate fame and jingling posh money had given her the confidence she never had. Her own narration however varied from reality, well rehearsed and well vocalized a million times even before she ever got to narrate her story. 

She had already made herself the princess Di of our times. This donation, with the right coverage would put her on the same career path as Oprah! It was about playing the game right. Keeping the right image.  But, that's the thing, all the jazz aside, true character shows through the shoes you wear. Her true character lay hidden in a box. Still stained with grass and pigsty stains. She hid those shoes, too common, a dull brown, too country. They reeked of a the country air, fresh and green and unscented of Chanel No.5. There was no character to them, too innocent looking, especially the discolored light pink threads that made her fall in love with them the first time. Too guilty to part with her true self, betraying all those who put her here. Nana who gave all her savings for the trip to the city and Marcus who promised to wait. 

As she scrutinized every nook and corner in her room, she never touched that corner. Even as she piled and piled things for donation, she deliberately ignored that part of her soul. 

Hidden in a large cardboard box with gold motifs and light pink hearts lay those shoes. Those shoes loved the sun as much as her. They could hear the rustle. Many days had past, months or years, The shoes couldn't count. But, they waited with patience for a chance to step on soft grass again, breath fresh air again, feel the muddy scents again. Though they detested the filth of the pigs, but after this much time away, they even missed the scent. They lay there, hearing the rustle, hoping it was their day. They missed her little feet. She had very tough nails. She never cut them correctly. They might have pushed back on her nails with an intent once or twice. They did not regret that at all. One should know to cut their nails!

More rustling.

They became even more attentive. Closer than ever. 

Thud!

She was surely very close now! They tossed and turned and tumbled. They were ready for their moment in light again!

They found themselves rolling, banging against the walls of the box.

The light never came that night. Silence gain. Somehow it was warmer tonight. But still no light. Their heart sank, aching to be on their ground again.

Tonight, she lay there, curled up, on the pretty pink unicorns and her glossy silk jammies hugging her shoe box. Far more tightly for her comfort.  Still not ready to admit to herself that she wanted to go home.

The square

It was daunting to walk across that square in those first weeks. This square lay in the middle of the city, surrounded by a place of god, and behind the place of law. The gray imposing walls matched the gloomy, gray Irish skies more often than not. They grayness was a far cry from the crisp,warming months leading to sultry Indian summers that I had just left behind.  A sunless chill hit me every time I walked through this square. It was not as much the square, but that it led from a very broad, open streets to a series of alleys. At the first glance, it always felt like a dead end. Whenever I walked into this square, the street seemed to narrow in on me and the dark pubs and alleyways exiting the square made me feel even more claustrophobic. On most of those early days, backed with the weight of prejudice and typical Indian upbringing,  I could feel my body tense with anxiety of an impending attack by a wayward drunk. I would scurry along, in a hurry, to get out of there, reach wherever it was I was sleeping tonight, back to warmth and bright electric lights of my current AirBnB. Temporary accommodation days.

Two years, to this St. Paddy's day, I could remember my trip from India. My entire comfort zone was packed in my 23 Kilo suitcase. It felt heavier with the memories. Scared, determined for a new start I had left my life I had known and built over 30 odd years. I swiped and swiped through the old albums I had scanned in the days leading to my departure. It was a desperate, last minute attempt to pack all the memories of my entire life on the 15 GB free space provided by Google. Sadly, there is no storage for Amma's idli, cutney and kaai haalu (coconut milk side-dish, sweet and fragrant), or for Anna calling me "Putta (little one, I am 30+, but my dad still calls me that)! Putta!" every morning, or for the baby smell from my 3 month old nephew. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw and heavy cloud part and blue-green waters appear. Then, I saw the emerald island. Much of it is blur now, but not the friendly banter of the immigration officer. 

He asked -"How ye doin'?"

I almost blurted my entire life history and emotional health, surprised by his kindness to actually care about my well-being. I would learn over the years that this was very Irish, you are not expected to reply to the question at all, simply consider this as an exaggerated hello, and ask the same question back, and say - not too bad if you feel too energetic that day. 

Even before I even summarized my life history in an audible reply he went on.

"Oh! You here from India, are ye? Here for  much sunshine?"

I replied, despite my internal doubts that a wrong word here could send me back home, worst get me arrested! My sarcasm leaks out when I am nervous. Despite my best efforts, I heard my sarcasm replying.

"Ya... and I am here for sunshine & warmth for sure". 

We both laughed and I warmed up in my heart under the four warm layers for the first time since I had left home.

I was in Cork, Ireland. Walked out of nearly empty airport, saw nearly empty streets, swaying drunks here and there. Wondering if I was truly in the most drunk country in the whole world. No, it was just after Paddy's day parade. I was lucky I got a taxi! Irish flags were here and there. I tilted my head 90 degrees and saw Indian flag, felt a little relieved.

Slowly, warmed by the heater my kind AirBnB host had left on for hours expecting me, I realized I am finally in Ireland! Enthusiasm filled me, I looked into my little notebook where I listed all the things I wanted to do. Then, the fear of being in a new country with new culture took over. Over the next days, the enthusias­m would wax and wane in a battle with anxiety and fear. I would walk across the gray square on the way to work, coming across many strange faces, still unable to discern their features. Being an Indian woman,  I was trained in stranger-danger. I would stare down at every stranger, especially a man with laser-eyes. A warning look to not try funny business. Strangely I got a -" hello! how are ye! ", at times. I was left bewildered. Did I know them? Was I expected to answer to strangers? My instinct would blare out my mental alarm system - STRANGER-DANGER!! Do nothing! Do not engage! Do not look! Walk away as soon as you can!

Who would have predicted that I would come to love this Irish quirk of saying hello to all. You never knew if you were running into a cousin here.

Another Paddy's day is here, two years on. What changed between now and then is perhaps time, and me. Last Sunday, I found myself walking down the same gray square. There are far fewer people for a Sunday, thanks to the lock-down. I look up at the impressive church and the swanky Sunday crowd catching on local gossip after Sunday mass. On other days I see the neatly pressed suits and stylish dresses of the litigators out for a smoke behind the courthouse. I look ahead and invariably taste in my mouth the sweet, sour and nicely spicy, hot pad Thai from Malay Kitchen, closest thing to homemade rasam (spicy, tangy and sweet broth soup from South of India, very specific to each home). In one of those narrow streets sits my favorite charity shop, Irish cancer Society, showcasing all of my current fashion sensibilities. Many a winter nights have been spent in the cozy pub Raven, around the corner, with warm people having a bit of craic. On this Sunday, I find myself rejoicing the blooming daisies in the little garden of St. Francis church, on the corner of the square. On my previous trips in these two years, ever so often, I have run into a friend or the other, or made a new friend here. I have enquired of many a strangers on how they were doing, without expecting a reply. How very Cork-ian of me! 

I am going home this day. It is warm. Spring is here. Home, not an AirBnB, well lit and feels like my space. I see another face, fresh off the boat. Much like my two-year past self she is scurrying along this square, avoiding eye contact. She gave a sheepish smile of familiarity to me. I returned a big smile, knowing exactly what she was going through, having an imaginary conversation with her, telling her- "It's going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You are in Cork now. Give it a little time. It's all going to be grand."

[The opinions here are mine and mine only. I do not intend to offend anyone. This is not a reflection of any class of people. The writing here, is in good faith.]

Festive feasts

 

I could hear the plonks & clanks in the kitchen. It is the wee hours on Ganesh chaturthi - the festival of the elephant headed god with a bursting stomach. 

"Shree!" Amma is calling.

I sneak in deeper into my blanket. I am awake, but I just want to snooze.

"Shree! Wake up it is 6am already!"

"Argh! Why do I have to wake up at 6 am! Why do Indian gods have to have everything at sunrise." I protest from my bed. Arguing with Amma. Hoping my reluctance annoys her and she lets me be.

"Shree! You need to wake up before the pooja (prayers) start. Clean up, wash take a bath. Come help me out."

She never needs my help & I don't want to help, I wish my sister was never married, I would have another lazy soul to compete against.

Its 6:30. After a few more reminders I am up. Oiling my hair. Readying for a bath. There are rules. Dad is donning the silk panche (dhoti/ waist cloth) and a shalya (shawl). He looks handsome as ever. Mom is still in her nightdress, which has been transfor­med to the holy clothing which is clean & pure to cook the food for gods in. 

Mom hands me my new festival clothes. She keeps them with the ceremonial vermilion in the bathroom.

"Don't touch them till you have had a bath Shree!" She reminds me.

I am ready. I bow to the gods. I feel pretty. I am signed up as a solider and help dad and mom with odd jobs. Mostly dad. Mom has always been a one woman army.

Hunger is difficult to battle. It has been six hours since that sole glass of milk, a poor substitute for my daily breakfast. Why do Indian gods like hungry cranky devotees?

Ah well. I can smell the fried sweet stuffed flatbread. Now I see fresh fruits. So difficult to listen to dad chanting in Sanskrit all the glorious names of the god when all I want is a bite of all the food on offer to the gods placed inconviniently in front of me.

Dad says the last chants. Mom and I stand besides him looking perfect in our new festive clothes. We are missing my sister again. 

He blows the conch, sounds the bells and ends the prayers.

It is now time to feast.

The banana leaf is laid out. Mom serves everything. I am overwhelmed. An hour back I wanted it all. Now I am just too tired to eat. 

All that changes the minute the sweet payasam (rice pudding) touches my lips. I eat in the order I am taught. rice pudding, spiced rice, rice with lentils & ghee, the chickpeas and pomegranate salad, beans, fried papad followed by a generous serving of sweet stuffed flatbread with milk. The list goes on.

I cannot eat a morsel more.

Amma serves rice and curd on my banana leaf.

"No more! Amma!" I look pleadingly at my mother.

"Eat Shree. Today is festival." 

My protests are in vain.

Slowly, steadily, sometimes forcibly, I am done. I wash my hands & clean up after everyone reluctantly.

The banana leaves are in the bin.

I sit now, solidly, resonating with the overfed elephant headed god with my full, nearly bursting tummy. 

Thinking to myself, with satisfaction - the best feasts are the festive feasts.

Summer Mangoes

 I ran shouting -"wait for me! wait for me!"

Disappearing feet were all I could see.

Feeling the pebbles under my naked feet,

sweating, rushing in the sultry summer heat.

Panting I looked around. No one.

"Anna! Seetu! Anyone?" My heart sinking hoping for someone.

I would not cry, I am big now.

No. No! Amma will hit me, I have to hold my tears somehow.

I walked and walked to the lonely mango tree.

In my moment of privacy, I let my tears free.

Under the shade, a line of ants.

Up in the tree the sun enchants.

Thru my burning eyes, I see them bursting with life.

Green, a tint of yellow. Five for me, for them five.

Mouth is watering, Oh!  The joy!

They left me, so now, only I will enjoy.

The green one.. bitter skin, but the electrifying sourness!

Oh! I look back at that mango tree with a mischievous fondness.