Gratitude

Nothing comes from nothing

Nothing ever could

So somewhere in my youth or childhood

I must have done something good

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Oh well it is the Birth Day today. 

At the stroke of twelve last night, 3 books, 1 pair of danglers, 1 petite pendant and 1 tiny cake appeared from under the nightshirts of the magician and her apprentice. 

Interesting. 

THREE books. Also other stuff. All out of pocket money. Hm. 

Then the story revealed itself. 

The girls checked available balance from leftover pocket money, pulled out hidden notes and emptied coinboxes to find 700 rupees or so. Then, a public bus was taken to Gariahat followed by a walk to Golpark old bookshops. I took a deep breath picturing them dodging crowds on a super peoply Sunday Gariahat crossing 2 weeks before Pujo. Much to their relief, one Rushdie, One Arundhati Roy and one Murakami, added up to well under 400 rupees, and were purchased quickly. Recounted my school days when price of a book in these shops was directly proportional to the number of its pages and I always looked up thinner books. 

OK then the earrings and pendant were bought from an adjacent seller down the same pavement. Finally, going to Mio Amore (sensibly not Kookie Jar not Flurys not even Cakes) and asking for the cheapest and smallest non-chocolatey cake available. Because mother is not fond of chocolates. Also because at this point, little money is left. Return to home was on an Uber alone. As in just the two of them girls, 16 and 10. Another first. 

After the stroke of twelve, the danglers and the pendant were put on. Looked funny with my night tee and shorts but boy were the jewellery beautiful. I felt pretty without needing to look at a mirror. The candle was blown without making a wish, latter being kind of a lost habit now even though the daughter did remind. A tiny slice was cut out of the tiny cake and shared and eaten. And the books were loved. 

"Will you start reading my one or didi's one right now, Ma, right now ? Achha say you like mine better. " 

"Genius. Of course Ma likes the Murakami shorts better than your fat Rushdie novel"

After an unresolved debate on which book Ma liked better and would start reading, the girls were hugged, but not enough. Not enough.

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For here you are, standing there, 

Loving me

Whether or not you should

So somewhere in my youth or childhood

I must have done something good

Growing down

So I am going to office, and what am I wearing.

Heeya's ICSE art project. A madhubani hand painted t-shirt. Peacock, et al. A mindfully selected pair of ice blue jeans that would go with the t. Heeya's blue sneakers her feet have now outgrown. Finally, Rhea's beach themed kiddo watch like the cherry on a sundae. 

As I looked at the thing in the mirror, yes definitively a quirky mish-mash but looking beyond that, more like who really am I this morning, the only epiphanic morning moment a Monday might allow, I felt I was a sort of product of my kids, rather than the other way round. 

A bit of Heeya's art, her vulnerability turned rebellion turned independence, her awakenings and her depths, her reflections, her criminal laziness, her moments of intense focus, her beautiful quiet. I observe, I marvel, I absorb, as she happens to life. 

Rhea's infectious entropy, her feverishly galloping exhausted, exhausting mind. Her hunger, her anxiety. The limitless curiosity and awe in her deep dark eyes that fizzles out by the time it reaches my spent soul but blazes brightly in her till the day is done, into the next. A bit of that too. 

Sometimes, often, I feel I am changing, growing, branching, rooting, becoming more of me, with the girls. Does it happen with every parent. Or only those who wanted another chance to childhood. Doesn't everyone start growing down at some point to come full circle. 

Rainy School Mornings (or just making memories)

Desperate times call for desperate measures. We got this.  

I sermonise while helping Rhea balance and manage the extra long steps past the interrupting walls between iron railings around the lake. The street was waterlogged from end to end and she was using the high iron fence as a precarious pathway to the main road so as not to wet socks, shoes, trousers and her body parts inside them.

Suddenly there was no fence anymore, because there was no lake anymore and we still had a good 30 feet distance to cover to get to the road where the bus will arrive soon and won't wait if we are not visible and SoS-waving both hands like shipwrecked souls. 

Kole aay. Come in my lap / arms. 

Ma ! I am almost 10 ! That's in years and 30 that's in kgs. You will break your back. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Jhotpot kole aay. Wrap your legs around me you're slipping. Now stay put. 

Thus we walk and wade slowly through the water. A bundle of mother and daughter and schoolbag and umbrella. An occasional big muddy wave hitting us now and then from all indifferent vehicles of the universe. And then finally, triumphantly, we reach the bus stop couple minutes ahead of time. With a balmy sense of achievement. 

Nice way to start the day. 

Time Trickles

[One]

"This incompleteness is all we have" 

During the last work trip to Munich, I picked up my usual museum prints, among them, a painting from Alte Pinakothek that reminded me of the girls back home. It was titled "Italia und Germania", painted by German romantic artist Friedrich Overbeck in the 19th century Nazarene style. It is an allegorical painting showing two women inclining towards each other, hands intertwined and faces almost touching, symbolizing a warm and close friendship between the two countries and cultures. 

The lady on the left, with dark hair and a laurel wreath, represents Germany. The one on right, with blond hair and a floral wreath, represents Italy. The backdrops, also different in accordance, blend beautifully in a pale blue sky and a range of grey-blue mountains. 

When framed in dark brown wood and put up on the stairway wall, the painting reminded Heeya of a friend she loved and lost. Adolescent losses can be deep. She started sketching it one evening in August when she was missing her friend.  In a couple hours, she created a pencil drawing of what she thought would give her peace and a vicarious feel of being with her friend. It didn't work, like it never does. She cried for a bit and put the canvas away. 

The mid-sized canvas was lying around her room for a few days before I asked her if she would like to complete it maybe. She said she will, later. Months passed, another day she started painting the sketch. Dark crimson, sage green, rich gold, the pensive sketch started looking vibrant. Then she stopped.  Few days later, I gently nudged. Finally, in the last week of December, I told her it might be a good idea to finish that painting before the year ended.  The incompleteness of the thing and the shadow it cast on her mind were disturbing me. For her, I wanted a closure and then, belief in some other new beginning.

Heeya never finished that painting. One day she hid it inside the closet. I took it out and never asked her to work on it again. We put it up above her desk. 

For her to be able to look at, and live, and never be afraid of incompletenesses. 

[Two]

Rhea likes open car windows. She likes the wind on her face. This is usually forbidden due to her proneness to allergy triggered by dust and pollution but she either insists and argues or simply goes quiet and does a silent window roll down on her side when no one is looking.

On one such occasion when I noticed her doing this and demanded she immediately rolls up the window also because the air conditioner was on, she said, calmly -

"Ma. Looking out of an open car window to the world outside is like looking at and feeling life. 

If I look ahead, I see all the places I will be going to. If I look behind, I see all the places and people I have left behind. And I can always choose which way to look when. It changes the way the wind blows. So satisfying." 

[Three]

"Ma. The word child is singular, and children is plural. For plurals, apostrophe is usually after s, like girls', or boys', you know what I mean, so when I write something belonging to a bunch of children, in a sentence ..."

"Children's. Apostrophe before s, Rhea."

"Thank you Ma ! I am glad we understand each other!"

[Four]

Heeya had two favourite lullabies. Years back, I had to sing them many times over till she fell asleep.

She has her Boards exam starting tomorrow, was off to bed early tonight but as I check in on her after an hour, I find her awake and restless. 

Sitting beside her on the bed, I switch off the nightlight and stroke her hair for a bit. 

"Ma - what are you doing. I will sleep on my own."

I start low humming. 

"Ma. Please. I can sleep on my own. Just go !"

"I will. After I sing a song. Two songs."

"What! Ma - seriously. I am sixteen. I don't need songs to sleep! I want to sleep on my own. Please go." 

Regardless, I start with 'ghum jaay oi chnad'. In no rush. And then 'mere ghar aayi ek nanhi pari'. Repeating the refrains, prolonging the outros. All of six or seven minutes maybe. Heeya was in deep sleep. 

'Maine puchha use ke kaun hai tu, Usne bola ke main hoon tera pyar, Main tere dil me thi hamesha se, Ghar me aayi hoon aaj pehli baar'

'When I ask her who she is, She says she is my love, Forever in my heart, Now also in my home.'

......