Thank God for tealights.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Between your legs the whistle blows
Everyone loves to give advice. EVERYONE. In Mumbai, our bai used to tell me on how to make sambar, ignoring the fact that she was Maharashtrian and I was a south Indian. The lady at the salon, who wields that little spool of thread, likes to tell me how to shape my eyebrows (and, that it’s not a sin to wax certain areas). My husband likes to tell me how to arrange the contents of our fridge and dishwasher. Get knocked up and the advice increases proportionately to the size of your stomach. So you can just imagine how much advice a woman carrying sextuplets gets in her ninth month. So when I ‘fell pregnant’ as one friend said, as though my bump was some kind ebola virus I had caught, everyone had some words of wisdom to pass on to me.
“Listen to only good things. It will make the baby happy.” “Don’t watch violent films.” “Listen to shlokas.” “Don’t watch English films or listen to English music.” “Don’t walk so fast.” “Don’t walk at all.” “Don’t wear jeans.” “Don’t cut your hair when you’re pregnant.” And after the baby was out, of course there was more to come. “Only breast feed.” “Don’t look nice so soon after the delivery. People will cast an evil eye.” “Don’t drink cold water. The baby will catch a cold.” “Don’t keep carrying him all the time” some say before scooping my wailing son into their arms. But the best advice I received was just a few hours after my baby was born. There I was, lying in bed. Sore, bewildered and wondering if they administered nitrous oxide post delivery. Wondering when I could get up to pee, what was for lunch and why on earth there were so many people in a room the size of a supply cupboard. And then, in breezed a family friend. Let’s call her Aunty X. Aunty X is lovely. She brought me fresh snacks every week when I was pregnant. She made me kozhakattais and seedai. She was responsible for about three kilos I gained in my last trimester.
So Aunty X cooed at the baby before, snapping “Keep your legs together.” I raised my head a fraction of an inch and gave her an uncertain look. Surely it was too late for that? I mean that advice would have been fine before I got pregnant, but what was the use of keeping my legs together now? “Keep your legs together, or all the air will enter your body. Through down there.” she whispered. All the air? So my vagina in addition to being a human Suez Canal was now a vacuum pump? Aunty X spotted the bewildered look on my face. “I know what I’m talking about. Keep your legs together now or else you’ll be sorry later. You’ll be full of wind and air and then there’ll be whistling.” Whistling? As in the ‘put your lips together and blow’ kind? Aunty X lowered her voice conspiratorially “Whistling…down there. When you sit down you’ll hear this ‘feeeeeeeee’ sound. Now be a good girl and put your legs together. Have you fed the baby?” Of course, being the good Indian girl I am, I listened to her and did as I was told. Now I wish I hadn’t. I should have let all the wind in and taught myself to whistle show tunes. My home could do with some extra income in these credit crunching times and I’m sure Evita could have used me in their chorus line.
****
This piece appeared here.
“Listen to only good things. It will make the baby happy.” “Don’t watch violent films.” “Listen to shlokas.” “Don’t watch English films or listen to English music.” “Don’t walk so fast.” “Don’t walk at all.” “Don’t wear jeans.” “Don’t cut your hair when you’re pregnant.” And after the baby was out, of course there was more to come. “Only breast feed.” “Don’t look nice so soon after the delivery. People will cast an evil eye.” “Don’t drink cold water. The baby will catch a cold.” “Don’t keep carrying him all the time” some say before scooping my wailing son into their arms. But the best advice I received was just a few hours after my baby was born. There I was, lying in bed. Sore, bewildered and wondering if they administered nitrous oxide post delivery. Wondering when I could get up to pee, what was for lunch and why on earth there were so many people in a room the size of a supply cupboard. And then, in breezed a family friend. Let’s call her Aunty X. Aunty X is lovely. She brought me fresh snacks every week when I was pregnant. She made me kozhakattais and seedai. She was responsible for about three kilos I gained in my last trimester.
So Aunty X cooed at the baby before, snapping “Keep your legs together.” I raised my head a fraction of an inch and gave her an uncertain look. Surely it was too late for that? I mean that advice would have been fine before I got pregnant, but what was the use of keeping my legs together now? “Keep your legs together, or all the air will enter your body. Through down there.” she whispered. All the air? So my vagina in addition to being a human Suez Canal was now a vacuum pump? Aunty X spotted the bewildered look on my face. “I know what I’m talking about. Keep your legs together now or else you’ll be sorry later. You’ll be full of wind and air and then there’ll be whistling.” Whistling? As in the ‘put your lips together and blow’ kind? Aunty X lowered her voice conspiratorially “Whistling…down there. When you sit down you’ll hear this ‘feeeeeeeee’ sound. Now be a good girl and put your legs together. Have you fed the baby?” Of course, being the good Indian girl I am, I listened to her and did as I was told. Now I wish I hadn’t. I should have let all the wind in and taught myself to whistle show tunes. My home could do with some extra income in these credit crunching times and I’m sure Evita could have used me in their chorus line.
****
This piece appeared here.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
'No. This just won't do' she thinks as she scans the room.
She doesn't want her thinking that the house is a mess. That the newspaper is always left lying next to the bed, its sheets tangled in passionate embrace with her bra. That the grout in the bathroom hasn't been dealt with in weeks. No, months. Years, if she's totally honest. But who is these days?
She can just imagine her finger gliding across the mantelpiece, leaving behind a clear pathway banked on either side by dust. She can see her peeking in to the kitchen cabinets and the fridge, her well-trained eye noting items well past their expiry date. She just knows she is going to look at the drain hole in the shower and grimace at the quagmire of soap scum and hair.
'No, it just wouldn't do' she thinks and sets about cleaning up. First impressions are everything she decides as she wipes down countertops, sweeps the pine floor and fishes out her push up from the sports section.
As she plumps the last cushion, the doorbell rings. Just in time.
She opens the door, a smile on her face.
'You must be Ilia. Would you like to start cleaning up the kitchen first?'
She doesn't want her thinking that the house is a mess. That the newspaper is always left lying next to the bed, its sheets tangled in passionate embrace with her bra. That the grout in the bathroom hasn't been dealt with in weeks. No, months. Years, if she's totally honest. But who is these days?
She can just imagine her finger gliding across the mantelpiece, leaving behind a clear pathway banked on either side by dust. She can see her peeking in to the kitchen cabinets and the fridge, her well-trained eye noting items well past their expiry date. She just knows she is going to look at the drain hole in the shower and grimace at the quagmire of soap scum and hair.
'No, it just wouldn't do' she thinks and sets about cleaning up. First impressions are everything she decides as she wipes down countertops, sweeps the pine floor and fishes out her push up from the sports section.
As she plumps the last cushion, the doorbell rings. Just in time.
She opens the door, a smile on her face.
'You must be Ilia. Would you like to start cleaning up the kitchen first?'
Thursday, October 30, 2008
It's amazing how easy it is for a 28 year old woman to hide behind a 5 month old baby
So here it is, I've been a mother for 5 months now and I'm already using the baby as an excuse. Who am I kidding, I've been using this baby as an excuse even before he was born. Even before he was conceived. My son is the reason I'm always tired. Though of course my mother (who returns home next week) is at the moment his primary care giver with me filling in the evening entertainment slot. My son is the reason I feel irritable and happy at the same time. He's the reason why I reach for that second hobnob. And the third. And the fourth. And then finish the entire pack. He's the reason, I tell myself I haven't written anything in the last six months (and let's be honest, posts on the state of post breastfeeding nipples and my own version of rock-a-bye baby don't count).
I tell myself that I will write when the writing comes. As though the writing will arrive unannounced in a snazzy suit one evening carrying my favourite flowers with a smiley greeting of "So shall we begin?"
I tell myself that I've been through a lot I deserve this time to do nothing, watch Oprah and read new age novels about American women who spend a year discovering themselves through meditation and tagliatelle.
I tell myself a lot of other crazy things too - like I'll write again when I've lost my baby weight... let's be really, really honest, that could take a lot lot longer.
So why I am not writing? I'm afraid to... a possible interest in my half finished manuscript was later rejected by a publisher. Of course, rejection is to be expected and it would have been very presumptuous of me to presume that I would never have to face that. But it's hard to get over... and it's hard to want to get over it. It's easier to stay scared. It's easier to not write anything. It's easier to not have to think about writing.
I'm not writing because I tell myself I don't know where to start. All my characters seem distant. All my stories seem limp and insipid. My old writing seems stilted.
I'm not writing because it's easier to just load another round of laundry, do another round of dishes or take the garbage out.
I'm not writing because it's just easier to blame the baby.
I tell myself that I will write when the writing comes. As though the writing will arrive unannounced in a snazzy suit one evening carrying my favourite flowers with a smiley greeting of "So shall we begin?"
I tell myself that I've been through a lot I deserve this time to do nothing, watch Oprah and read new age novels about American women who spend a year discovering themselves through meditation and tagliatelle.
I tell myself a lot of other crazy things too - like I'll write again when I've lost my baby weight... let's be really, really honest, that could take a lot lot longer.
So why I am not writing? I'm afraid to... a possible interest in my half finished manuscript was later rejected by a publisher. Of course, rejection is to be expected and it would have been very presumptuous of me to presume that I would never have to face that. But it's hard to get over... and it's hard to want to get over it. It's easier to stay scared. It's easier to not write anything. It's easier to not have to think about writing.
I'm not writing because I tell myself I don't know where to start. All my characters seem distant. All my stories seem limp and insipid. My old writing seems stilted.
I'm not writing because it's easier to just load another round of laundry, do another round of dishes or take the garbage out.
I'm not writing because it's just easier to blame the baby.
Monday, October 27, 2008
a song for deepavali
not really...but here goes anyway...
rock-a-bye baby drooling on my shoulder
when did you get to weigh as much as a boulder?
when your drool breaks my shoulder will too
rock-a-bye baby i'd like a new pair of shoes.
Happy Deepavali every one!
rock-a-bye baby drooling on my shoulder
when did you get to weigh as much as a boulder?
when your drool breaks my shoulder will too
rock-a-bye baby i'd like a new pair of shoes.
Happy Deepavali every one!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
28
Belongs to a decade that no longer allows you the privilege of individual candles, each representing a year. Unless she gets a really large cake. One that she will have to bake herself. And that just means more birthday cake for breakfast, late afternoon and midnight snacks for a week. 28 is also not a 'special' year like 18, 30 or 60, so no joint numeral candles. Instead she has to pick out the numbers separately. There is a 0,1,2,3,4,5,6 7 and a 9. But no 8. She stands before the rack of wax numbers, conflicted. A year up or a year down? Or just a 2? Or no candles at all? Or should she get the lotus that blooms and blares out Happy Birthday on the banjo? Perhaps the universe is telling her not to expect much from this year. That it's going to be another hazy 365 days that she will look back on a few years from now and not be able to remember much from. Why celebrate it at all then? Why bother bringing in another 12 months of bland work days, weekends cleaning the fridge and restocking it, taking bags of plastic bottles and newspapers to the recycling plant and looking for strands of white hair? She would skip 28 she decided. Yes, that was it. 28 was not going to exist. She slips the red candle in to her shopping basket and heads to the till. Her melting birthday gift to herself would be another heady year of 21.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Maybe this will get me writing again
Mslexia Women's Short Story Competition 2009
Judge: Helen Simpson
1st Prize £2,000
plus a one-week writing retreat* at Chawton House Library (accommodation only) and a day with a Virago editor**
2nd prize £500
3rd prize £250
3 other finalists will win £100 each
All winning stories will be published in Mslexia magazine and they will also be read by Carole Blake from Blake Friedmann Literary Agency.
Closing date: 23 JANUARY 2009
For more details, go here
Judge: Helen Simpson
1st Prize £2,000
plus a one-week writing retreat* at Chawton House Library (accommodation only) and a day with a Virago editor**
2nd prize £500
3rd prize £250
3 other finalists will win £100 each
All winning stories will be published in Mslexia magazine and they will also be read by Carole Blake from Blake Friedmann Literary Agency.
Closing date: 23 JANUARY 2009
For more details, go here
Friday, October 10, 2008
Garden shed here I come...
So our home has been taken over by the boot and his things. Any more additions (and by that I mean the boot's things, not another boot) and the sherpa and I will have to move in to the garden.
Interior design forecast for 08-09 is bright, quirky accessories....
the baby is optional...
Interior design forecast for 08-09 is bright, quirky accessories....
the baby is optional...
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
questions motherhood makes you ask
* when did i last wash my hair?
*did i brush my teeth this morning?
* is that the boot's snot?
* do they make post pregnancy bras with built in iron girders for support?
*if breast feeding burns calories can i eat all the chocolate hob nobs i want? no? why not?
*how many crying babies does it take to make you wish you'd taken a vow of celibacy? (Now this I know the answer to!)
*When will the baby wake up and can I make it to Fuerta Ventura by then?
*did i brush my teeth this morning?
* is that the boot's snot?
* do they make post pregnancy bras with built in iron girders for support?
*if breast feeding burns calories can i eat all the chocolate hob nobs i want? no? why not?
*how many crying babies does it take to make you wish you'd taken a vow of celibacy? (Now this I know the answer to!)
*When will the baby wake up and can I make it to Fuerta Ventura by then?
Friday, September 19, 2008
The series in developing baby's intelligence
Instruction manual for a musical, Made in China mobile.
"We are sure that all toys made by us will cause somewhat elicitation for the exploitation of baby's capacity.You will find that your baby is more clever and cute"
Indeed.
"We are sure that all toys made by us will cause somewhat elicitation for the exploitation of baby's capacity.You will find that your baby is more clever and cute"
Indeed.
Saturday, September 06, 2008
So my 8 months of 'maternity leave' draws to an end. Tomorrow I return to London with the Boot. It's been a wonderful stay and as much as I look forward to going back to London, I'll miss Madras. Thanks to all my friends who cheered me up and took me out to lunch when I was feeling blue, who chauffeured me around town when I was fat and couldn't move, to the aunties who made me besan ladoos and payasam and contributed to the fat and to the wonderful Madras that helped me sweat the weight away... and most of all thanks to Amma and Appa who helped put the Boot to sleep, changed nappies, sang him silly family songs, found everything he did wonderful and fascinating when I was too tired to and generally took him off my hands whenever I felt an aneurysm coming on.
See you all next year!
See you all next year!
Wednesday, September 03, 2008
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
just to clarify things...
breast feeding is NOT the most satisfying thing i have ever done. it's pretty boring, sometimes painful, my butt cheeks fall asleep and the entire process makes me feel like a very large, unattractive jersey cow. now, eating an entire packet of chocolate digestive biscuits by myself... that's pretty satisfying.
cut grass and kutchi ice
when i'm in london i miss everything madras...the sun, family, friends, vazhaithandu, clothes drying on a line in our kollapakkam, milk cookers that stand in as roosters with their early morning screechy cock-a-doodle whistles, bad tv, the thwack of newspapers hitting the floor as delivery boys do the rounds, the reassuring thud of the nightwatchman's stick as it hits the neighbouring compound walls.
that i've been in madras for the better part of the year and i miss london. the sherpa, the quiet, my blue elephant and mouse, bad tv (i missed an entire season of big brother gasp!!!), my desk, the fat squirrels in the garden, that lovely blue the sky is in summer..and my home. my desk, the very uncomfortable couch and the fireplace with the brass frame thingy that keeps falling off...
i'll be back in london in less than a month. and i'll probably be wishing i had a milk cooker.
that i've been in madras for the better part of the year and i miss london. the sherpa, the quiet, my blue elephant and mouse, bad tv (i missed an entire season of big brother gasp!!!), my desk, the fat squirrels in the garden, that lovely blue the sky is in summer..and my home. my desk, the very uncomfortable couch and the fireplace with the brass frame thingy that keeps falling off...
i'll be back in london in less than a month. and i'll probably be wishing i had a milk cooker.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
happy birthday to madras
So, some very cool people are getting together and celebrating 369 years of the city with photowalks, photography exhibitions, open mic sessions and much more. Head over to Chandroo's site for more details about events, venues and timings. I've had to skip all the photowalks Chandroo and gang have organised these last seven months due to a)morning sickness b)laziness and c) my inability to photograph anything without i)red eyes b) being off centre... I will definitely be there at the sessions at Vanilla which is so close to home that I can jump over a compound wall and be there... the rest of you who are free from caterwauling babes have no excuse. See you there!
Monday, August 04, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
long distance drishti*
'You look terrible...look at those dark circles under your eyes. You were fine till yesterday... Ssss... your forehead is so hot. It's all kannu*... what else can it be? You were glowing I say... everyone has been saying that. Why, even your Chitti in Delhi saw those pictures you sent her and went on and on about how healthy you looked. I'll tell Anbu to buy a big pooshnikkai in the evening. "
'Yes, yes you're right' she agrees nodding her head in agreement 'It's all kannu'. And eight appams, four kozhakattais and three mullu murukku. And two servings of arisi uppuma.
*drishti,kannu - evil eye
'Yes, yes you're right' she agrees nodding her head in agreement 'It's all kannu'. And eight appams, four kozhakattais and three mullu murukku. And two servings of arisi uppuma.
*drishti,kannu - evil eye
Monday, July 21, 2008
look in to my eyes...and made up rhymes...
Can I hire this guy to hypnotize the baby to sleep? My own beseeching requests seem rather ineffectual...
Apart from not knowing how many days old the baby is (Nurse: How old is the baby? Me: I think about 40 days... could be 50... Amma, how old is the baby?)my other failings as a new parent include not remembering a single song or nursery rhyme. I refuse to Google for them, since I'm sure they'll come back to me at some point of time, and so till then I make them up...
Incy wincy spider climbing up the spout
down came the rain and washed away his brussel sprouts...
Hush now baby don't you cry
mommy's going to buy you A Pocket Full of Rye
and if that pocketful of rye isn't funny
daddy's going to buy you From here to Eternity
And if that movie doesn't end quick
Mommy's going to buy you Moby Dick
and in other news... Aardvarks spotted on Old McDonald's farm... what noise do Aardvarks make anyway...
Apart from not knowing how many days old the baby is (Nurse: How old is the baby? Me: I think about 40 days... could be 50... Amma, how old is the baby?)my other failings as a new parent include not remembering a single song or nursery rhyme. I refuse to Google for them, since I'm sure they'll come back to me at some point of time, and so till then I make them up...
Incy wincy spider climbing up the spout
down came the rain and washed away his brussel sprouts...
Hush now baby don't you cry
mommy's going to buy you A Pocket Full of Rye
and if that pocketful of rye isn't funny
daddy's going to buy you From here to Eternity
And if that movie doesn't end quick
Mommy's going to buy you Moby Dick
and in other news... Aardvarks spotted on Old McDonald's farm... what noise do Aardvarks make anyway...
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
long before that pregnant dude on Oprah
Shyam has passed on the Page 123 tag to me, so here goes.
These are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
The book: The Pregnant King by Devdutt Pattanaik. (Read a review here)
The extract:
'I am Sumedha, a Pujari from Pratishthana,' he said.
Simantini noticed he was tall with fine wavy hair falling on his shoulders. His shoulders were broad and he was thin, with sunken cheeks and full lips.
'And hers?'
These are the rules:
1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge the person who tagged you.
The book: The Pregnant King by Devdutt Pattanaik. (Read a review here)
The extract:
'I am Sumedha, a Pujari from Pratishthana,' he said.
Simantini noticed he was tall with fine wavy hair falling on his shoulders. His shoulders were broad and he was thin, with sunken cheeks and full lips.
'And hers?'
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