Life comes a full circle

After all that waiting my express delivery finally arrived….. Healthy and kicking in full gusto.

A baby Boy.

wee bit disappointed since it was a gurl methot all along.

but the lil termagnet already has the whole house wrapped around his teeny fingers.

and lo my world as i knew it has changed.

the kindle gathers dust as the NYT best sellers await my return

the oven lies unused. the fragrance of grilled chicken and cakes replaced by his poopy and his indescribable body scent which even beats the fragrance of the first rains on wet mud.

where an earthquake couldnt rouse me a whimper does

i’m no longer the subject of an envious sigh accompanied by a snide ‘look at her sleep, the sleep of the innocent’ …..

i’m on my bed listening to the sounds from the cherub…heavy breathing, a gargle, a snortle, gentle gurgles

i watch him for signs of hunger and get his pouts and smiles, eyes still closed

a coo

i pick him up to nurse him, wonder if he’ll be thankful for being born or ungrateful for the life given

i wait for his eyes to shut but see him explore the world with round, wondering eyes and a thoughtful frown.

i walk the night

warmth lulling him to sleep

i do what millions of mothers do around the world

what generations of women did before me transgressing continents and culture

i do what women will continue to do long after i’m gone

i’m a mother now

i have come full circle

Short Selling

“I don’t know much.  I’m just a housewife. I’m a mother. I haven’t done anything but cook, clean and take care of you and yours.

I have zero talent.”

And went conversation.

The never ending conversation remained the same. Endless, meaningless talks with no one to argue against her.

Her children had settled down. Her husband had taken up a part-time job as a consultant to beat the monotony of watching endless news debates, empty walls and silence.

She went on long walks in the evening. She opened her mouth to talk to her husband of oh-so-many years but she had lost track and touch with what made them special.

Her kids had moved on to busy lives of their own. A call, a message, a whatsapp forward – their endeth the conversation.

Young couples in the apartment they stayed in looked at the couple with envy and a sigh. Ah, companionship. If we get to that stage of life with a beatific smile. We have arrived they thought.

She was that sprightly 50+ lady, vivacious, gracious and zestful.

If only they knew.

The loneliness.

The lack of self worth.

She opened a tattered cardboard box and pulled out earrings she had made from shards of glass. They glimmered in the sunlight throwing multi-colored diamonds on the wall.

She pulled out the little trinket she had made for her daughter and smiled. Her daughter had worn it for a week before discarding it for another trinket she had created.

The doorbell rang.

“Hello Aunty, we are having a yard sale. Do you have anything you would want to give us? ” smiled the 18-year old girl and her friend from next door.

She turned around and saw the box with all the earrings, trinkets, bracelets and other accouterments she had made over the years. She invited them inside and sat down looking at the box. Abruptly she gathered the scattered items and stuffed them into the box, silently handing it over to the girl. The earring fell out which the girl picked up in wonder.

“Oh my God Aunty. Did you make this? Could you tell us how? Do you have more of them?”

She smiled and nodded her head.

“No beta, these are very old. I made it for my daughters but it doesn’t hold any value now.”

The girl stared at her friend, thanked her and left.

She sighed.

Another part of her had been cut away.

She began to tidy up and begin preparations for the evening dinner. Not that they ate much now. A simple repast of roti and sabzi with some salad was all that was needed. Yet, she found comfort in the ritual of kneading the dough and rolling out the rotis to put them on the tava and watch each roti fluff. How her daughters would gaze in wonder as they saw the roti fluff over the stove. “How do you do it Maa? You must teach us too.”

The doorbell rang. She was surprised. Her husband never came back this early.

She washed her hands and scampered towards the door wiping her hands on the kitchen towel.

She switched on the  lights and peered out of the window. It was the girl next door with someone.

She opened the door and looked inquiringly, “Yes beta?”

“Aunty, this is my friend. He has a boutique and an online store that specialises in handicrafts. I showed him all the trinkets you gave us for the yard sale. He wanted to speak with you.”

“Hello Aunty. I’m delighted to meet you. When I saw the trinkets I knew I had to meet the lady who made it. You wouldn’t believe me but there is a huge demand for products like this, especially among the younger generation.”

She looked on in disbelief before saying, “But beta…..”

“I understand Aunty. You must be busy with all the housework. We can look at small orders at first, and then when you are comfortable you can start sending us more volumes. I would also like you to meet two NGOs we support to teach this craft to the women who come there. If all this sounds too much, we can take it a step at a time. But please, please say yes.”

“I have no talent you know,” she began but the girl and her friend took her hand in their own, and smiled.

User Manual: Your Body

So after the dreaded first trimester finally passed I summed up the courage to tackle my fear.

Will my body be the same ever again?

Now if you aren’t a woman or a ubersexual or metrosexual male you just won’t get this obsessive compulsive disorder we women suffer with body image, and usually a bad one.

After tiding over blotched, acne-ridden face and baby fat all through the teenage years to gain some semblance of self confidence well into my late 20s and early 30s (so sue me I’m a late bloomer) my body was finally something I was proud to own.

No I wasn’t still into the ‘my body is a temple’ phase but I was confident enough to wear a swimsuit to show all my curves in its glory, flaunt hot pants (tho’ I don’t claim to own a Kim Kardashian kaboodle) and lounge about in PJs without listening to the voices that inhabit my world.

Ah, I revelled in being a woman.

I was unsullied by the ugly stares, the groping hands, the hoots and the whistles.

After all, if dogs barked would I clamp them with muzzles or ignore them.

I was free to be me.

Wild, Free, Beautiful, Curvy, Independent, Wilful, Boisterous, Careless, Smart, Goofy, Whimsical, etc etc…

And then kaboom…..

I was bloating

I was swelling up

I was cranky

I was hypersensitive

I was ultra emotional

I had weird tastes

I hated myself

I hated the world

I saw a tadpole leering at me from the scan monitor. I saw an alien taking shape living and breathing inside of me. I saw what looked human roll about and wave.

I was caught.

My swollen belly held a miracle that no amount of science could explain. I was overwhelmed for perhaps the second time in my life!

So I get tightness in my rib cage and spend sleepless nights, tossing and turning, my belly cramping at times, my legs swollen, my face looking like a bee-stung disaster, back hurting, standing hours on end to have a normal work life, not giving into my sweet tooth (the worst), eating fruits (even worse) and gorging on greens (better).

Biting into bullet sized vitamins, retching up (the leitmotif of my life now), jabbing myself with injections to prevent hypertension, monitoring consumption, no consumption of alcohol…….is it worth it I wondered?

The net is filled with articles on what to expect week-by-week and month-by-month but it doesn’t prepare you for the reality of it.

I looked around and life was just the same for everyone else except of course the mater who couldn’t but up the care and concern (God bless her). Friends had their lives, holidays and concerts were a part of the normal life; mid night calls and mid night rendezvous still happened, catch ups did as well. I was out of it all.

No amount of empathy can prepare you for the vile bile that rises with rapid regularity every single morning for the first three months and more.

No one tells you about the overwhelming gratitude you feel about being born a woman to experience this phenomenon or prepare you for the anger of having to suffer alone and making you wish men were seahorses. But then it would mean mankind as you know it would cease to exist. Does a man have the patience to suffer through even if he does have humour?

My clothes don’t fit anymore.

I have taken to tracks with a vengeance and stoles too.

Ah, I also discovered I do have a sense of humor for days when things go really wrong, when hemerroids and back pain make you wring and grin like this is something you enjoy in the due process of motherhood; when nightmares haunt you about your state of readiness to be a parent; when news alerts tell you about yet another rape or molestation; when you wake in a sweat to realise this is for real…………………………………… you turn around and you listen to the other half snore, turn around and take you in the arms, you smile.

After all if it were the other way around, you can bet your last rupee or dime or whatever currency you trade in,  woman you would have been up all night nursing the baby carrier (your other half) through all that angst.

So cheer up I say, celebrate being a woman.



And life as I know it has just come to a STOP.

I’m pregnant.

Unplanned, unexpected.

Mood swings.

Dark swathes of depression during the witching hours, is this me? Am I ready for it? Is this my body? Does anyone care?


Wow, so I finally did it (note I don’t say we).

This is it.

Life as I know it has changed.

And I’m still struggling to come to terms with it.

No more impulsive holidays with just a backpack

No more long drives

No late night meetings

No dances or dandiyas

Pigmentation marks. Acne. Scaly skin. Dandruff. Swollen Face. Fatigue.

And I can’t drink, smoke grass, watch horror flicks, get into fights to chase away these blues.

I’m beginning to resemble a tuber and a rotten one at that.

My stilletoes are out.

Flat shoes keep my swollen feet from getting more swollen.

And heh, guess what?!  I just can’t complain.

After all how many get to be a mother.

With a shelf life nearing expiry and alarming stats (A woman dies from complications in childbirth every minute – about 529,000 each year — the vast majority of them in developing countries not to mention miscarriage, genetic abnormalities, and so on and so forth)

Last count the world’s population was nipping at  1.14% per year, about 133 million babies born each year (123 million and counting this year) and my baby (when it hops out) will be one in the count.

I should count myself lucky, they say….


Eat well

Eat for 2

Eat 300 calories more

And don’t worry the nausea stops

You will get the pregnancy glow

You won’t look like a well-fed sow or cow (choose your bovine)


The morning sickness be damned

The pretty 30-year old neighbour who looks 16 to the jaundiced eye be damned

The gym going other half be damned

The well meaning aunty with the religious texts be damned

As I labour along, the whole world be damned!

Let me wallow in my misery, bask in the miracle of having a child inside, delight in the wonder of how the body changes, frown at the well-meaning platitudes, sulk at not being able to fit in (anywhere) anymore…..

After all I get to be pregnant but once!

Unless of course my body thinks it is an assembly line and the next one is in production……

The Twilight Years

“My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She’s ninety-seven now, and we don’t know where the heck she is.”
Ellen DeGeneres


The first time I read this quote I couldn’t stop laughing thinking what a wit Ellen was and cursing myself for never coming up with anything wittier than ‘mud in your eye’ or a tongue sticking out.

More than a fortnight back this same quote was no longer as funny but just a trigger to get me crying buckets.

You see my 95-year old grandfather, my Nanu, had gone for a walk and we really didn’t know where the heck he was.

What followed was a week of pure torture, much worse than anything the Chinese or Torquemador could have conceived (and from here say they seem to have conjured everything (in)humanly possible).


Well I bet they never imagined what a fevered mind could conjure up.

Those seven days were agonizingly slow in passing. Every passing second seemed to stretch into eternity, every ring on the phone brought us new hope only to be dashed and every passing old man seemed to have more than a smidgen of resemblance to my missing grandpa.

We cursed ourselves for not being mindful enough (when in fact stopping short of strapping him to the bed we kept an eye out for his every movement from the time he woke up to giving him his meals like clockwork to not letting him step out of the house to not letting him have his bath by himself – my mother was the primary and only care giver – to bundling him up like he was headed for the North Pole to regimenting his lifestyle so he hit the sack by 10 every night) , for not getting a leash, for not getting a GPS tracker, for not installing a CCTV camera, for not telling the neighbours about the slow onset of dementia, for not putting him in an assisted care facility that would have had care takers 24/7 and so on and so forth.


And while the self guilt and mental blame game went unhindered we also filed a police complaint.

Surprisingly, the police were very co-operative. They filed a complaint after the stipulated 24 hour waiting period. They issued an all city alert.

We called everyone in our contacts across the country to help us search or aid in the search.

We went on Social media to launch a campaign called Find Nanu on Facebook.

We tweeted.

We instagramed.

We Whatsapped.

We scoured hospitals and police stations.

We went to NGOs (Nightingale Dignity Foundation comes to mind, they are doing a phenomenal job of taking care of people with dementia and alzheimers as also Auto Raja Foundation).

We discovered that there is an elderly helpline  1090 / 22943226.

We discovered that there is RVM Foundation which picks up destitutes on the streets and houses them till they find their real homes or takes care of them until alternate arrangements are made.

We made posters and plastered it all over the city, wherever we thought in our fevered imagination Nanu might have walked. You see we truly didn’t know where the heck Nanu walked to.

We hounded ex-journalist friends to write stories.

We contemplated issuing a missing persons alert on the telly and in the papers.

We planned on inserting flyers and have it distributed through local paper vendors.


THE LEADS (false but keeping hopes up)

And we waited.

That first call came from a girl who called at 1 am to inform us she saw someone looking like Nanu at a spot 8 kms away from our residence. SO rush, rush. Only to find it was a drunk who looked a lot like him.

Next came a call from the railway station and the hunt was on. Not him.

Then was the call we dreaded (or thought we did) from the morgue to identify an unidentified corpse. The good samaritan cop volunteered to check the body and thank God, it wasn’t Nanu.

We realised what was worse was the Not Knowing, the tormented imagination of a overtly stressed mind and emotional heart, the fact that we were snug in our beds while some one we loved and cherised was all alone battling a strange world, loneliness, hunger and thirst.



We got a message on Facebook from a stranger who urged us to go to a spot 22 kms away from our residence along with the stranger’s number and contact details.

A call ensued.

Hope had slowly receded but not quite.

We put out a message asking for volunteers so we could have more legs to cover a vast area that was park land, wooded and dark. Friends came, family rushed, acquaintances called, good samaritans volunteered.


seven days after he had disappeared, my 95-year old Nanu was finally found.

Here is how….

Bangalore Mirror covered the story, the before and the after.


Always treat the Elderly like you would a teenager: Tell them the Do’s and Don’ts but equip them to cope (in our case we mollycoddled Nanu so much that we never bothered telling him the location of where we stayed or the address in the belief we would always be there to take care).

Quit with martyrdom and guilt, if assisted care or old age homes will keep your elders in safe environs, so be it.

Invest a little time and effort in making sure they always have an ID card on them (a friend told me how her mother had stitched an ID tag on all the clothes that mentioned the name of her dad, who had dementia, with address and emergency contact numbers).

Invest some time in getting to know your neighbours, the local cops and the hospital. Had we told our neighbours about my Nanu’s condition of partial memory loss perhaps some one would have brought him home the minute they saw him sauntering out alone on a walk.

Invest some money in getting a GPS tracker or a CCTV camera.

And yes, social media is great to get the message viral but what clicks is Good old Print……

And the most important lesson, BELIEVE IN THE GOODNESS OF PEOPLE.

What we received throughout this terrible ordeal has been overwhelming support from friends, acquaintances and strangers. People who called and messaged each day to enquire about the progress of the HUNT, about help they could provide, who gave us tips and leads and always, always kept out hopes alive.

THIS IS MY THANK YOU to all those out there who prayed, supported us and helped us sail the tide of bad karma.




Facebook Fatigue


Gorgeously dressed bodies lolling about on beaches, canoodling in night clubs, more selfies

People I remembered as hunks having balding pates and bigger paunches strolling down beaches and puffing up hill

Once hot women trying to look hotter and younger

Ibiza, Shanghai, Scotland, Paris, Tanzania, Ivory Coast, Washington, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Macha Pichu, New York, Himalayas, Ladakh, Uttaranchal, Uzbekistan, Gobi Dessert, Dubai, Turkey, Afghanistan (yes that too)

Lovey dovey couples striking poses, once-self-proclaimed enemies now bffs

Change the world, stop the war, stop rape, conserve the environment, feed the hungry, liberate the inner child

Sign a petition

Join a movement

Like even if you don’t like to



even it just means telling the whole world and the Martians (like they care, yes they do exist havent’ you read, really where were you) that you are happy/sad/lonely/hurt/intelligent/bitch/asshole/loaded/mental

that you burnt your biriyani

that you can boil water

that you can cook maggi noodles

that you woke up early to make breakfast for your lovely wife

or you stayed up late to make out with your doofey husband

Ah facebook

life doesn’t exist outside of it

friends don’t exist without it

you fart, you sneeze, you orgasm, you burp, you are alive

Yay facebook

So what happens one fine day when you wake up and see your life has passed you by on facebook

where everybody has travelled everywhere


had kids

got divorced

got promotions

lost jobs

lost lives


RIP facebook


Still Alive










“Well one thing I realised I have had my share of ups and downs like most people in life but I have always found myself bobbing along happily just like driftwood,” I said with great emphasis on the word driftwood to a colleague who asked me how I had coped with a lay off (more on that in another post).

And no sooner had this confession slipped out, well what with us sitting in a corner conference room with no windows it did feel like a confessional sans the ‘bless me father I have sinned routine’, I startled myself.

For here I was, all along believing I was this super hero survivor who went through catatonic events without so much as a flushed brow (and point out where I get my metaphors mixed my dear reader. At moments of great excitement I screw them all up)

But mark this, my subconscious just thought I was a lowly drift wood!!

now how low can that be!

i thought I thrived despite my oscillating fortune including heart breaks and near penury and my sub conscious thought I am driftwood!



The Equation of Loneliness

“I hate this city,” he said. I looked aghast at him. “How can you when everybody who comes here never wants to go anywhere else?” I asked.

He got up, gave me a fierce look and walked away.

Had I done anything wrong?

I was new to the place and just trying to make polite conversation, perhaps trying to get to know him better. After all he would be my family too.

I turned around to find a neighbour look at me knowingly, come over and sit down at the just-vacated space.

“What do you expect?”

“He has no one here. No family. No friends.”

He gestured, “he has built a cocoon around himself.”

“He is a prisoner of his own making,” I said.

Why doesn’t he open up? Why doesn’t he talk to people instead of snarling at them ferociously, ready to bite their heads at innocuous remarks just as he had done.


Reach Out

The results are out. The games have ended. It is Abki baar Modi sarkaar (the war cry of the Baajpaa). A self-proclaimed chaiwalla (tea vendor) has led his party to a thumping victory – the first in 25 years- and is the star of the moment. While the reasons for the party’s victory and more importantly, Narendra Modi’s ascendancy to success is obvious ( the erstwhile ruling party’s bumbling blunders/corruption notwithstanding/nonchalance to public opinion/weak strategy/etc..etc…) what is interesting is the way Modi has reached out to the masses. A mass that was skeptical and disillusioned in the face of never-ending & never-fulfiled promises, nay rhetorics. A man who till five years back had never registered itself on the collective consciousness of a nation whose subconscious was filled with dynastic rule & the politics thereof. A man smeared with accusations of conducting a pogrom(s) in  the state he ruled. Yet such a man reached out to the masses, the aam aadmi ( the mango people?!) and the business community not only touting the development card but showing the human touch. And today, Modi the challenger has become Modi the conqueror.


A dear friend is a huge Madhuri Dixit fan so much so that he fills his Facebook wall with pics of the Bollywood actress, tweets and blogs about the icon.  And no, he isn’t a stalker but for sure he is a walking wiki on Ms. Dixit. He  regularly gets cited in news articles on the actress. Well, what do you know! Last year, he was one among a handful who were chosen to interact with Ms. Dixit in person at her dancing show. He truly reached out to live his dream. You can read all about it here….


” When I studied at the university Girish Karnad, you know the famous playwright and actor, visited our campus. Everyone went after him but I didn’t. Really, who cares and what’s the big deal,”  thus spake a scathing BB when I went chasing my favourite HOMP guys for a selfie this past week.

Undeterred, I beamed and cornered Rocky, the pony-tailed,  crack-a-minute host near the wash basin and gushed, “I’m a big fan of your show.  Neither my family nor I have ever missed a single episode of HOMP. You mind if I take a picture of us together.” He looks at the gushing, starry eyed woman and smiles, “No, it would be my pleasure.”  Before I could swoon overwrought with emotion I got my family to click a few snaps, dragged them out of the eatery for a few more and then introduced my 95-year old grandpa to Mayur and Rocky.

Well, blow me down. They took a soundbite from my beloved gentleman, declared he was their oldest fan to date and even went on to tweet it. For some time that day, my grandpa was trending on NDTV newsfeed. Now how cool is that?!

Nana_HOMP_May 12 2014



For those who wondered where all this took place it was at Vidyarthi Bhavan, Bangalore’s iconic dosa joint located in Basavanagudi. And for those who don’t know who these guys are, it is Rocky and Mayur from NDTV’s Highway On My Plate, one of the leading cookery travel shows playing on the telly these days.


My lessons learnt:


Reach Out and Seize the Day.


Keep your misplaced sense of self importance aside and cast out your net to reel in opportunities.


Never be afraid to dream the unthinkable, do the impossible.