Love is not Enough

Fiction

How is it possible, I wonder, for a mother to ignore the signs? When it comes to being a parent, love is not enough.  One has to make sense of the sighs, decipher the silences and decode the monosyllables. I think I was a good mother, and if you ask my husband or our daughter, they would agree. I make no excuses for my lapses, but it is also true that the guilt pangs clawing my heart will stay for a long time to come. 

A note from Ananya’s teacher informed that she was bunking classes. ‘She will have to take extra classes after school to cope up with the syllabus.’

Ananya, our first-born turned fourteen last year. Mood swings came with the territory. She became a brooder, immersed in books and cocooned in music. Any attempt to share thoughts met with sighs and groans. She seemed to have developed a knack of appearing to listen while she was lost in her world. Worse, she was neglecting studies and there were moments when I caught her looking vacuously at her text books. 

That day, she kept avoiding my gaze and didn’t quite finish her dinner. I peeped into her room. Slouched on her bed, she was lost in a novel.

‘Ananya… Why aren’t you eating?’

I wondered if I was talking to a wall.

I entered her room, snatched the novel and flung it on the bed. ‘No novels before mid-term. Finish your food. And take out your chemistry book. You nearly flunked this term.’

In a strange way, she looked vulnerable when she looked at me for a brief moment.

‘What is it?’

‘I am not going to school tomorrow.’

‘But why?’

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said defiantly. ‘That’s why.’ 

I walked out leaving behind silence. It was so easy to love my girl when she was a kid. Time was when she shared everything when it came to which dress to wear, how to style her hair, what movies to watch or which cookies to bake. My husband said it was normal for teens to find solace in solitude. I believed him. 

In the following weeks, my girl became a stranger to me. We were drifting apart for reasons beyond comprehension.  I would be lying if I said that I made serious attempts to know what she was going through. Her appetite diminished, and I blamed it on her fetish for a slim figure. She trudged towards the bus stop, and I dismissed it as her revulsion for studies. She continued talking to her friend in hushed tones, and I thought it was girly gossip. 

A day prior to the parent-teacher meet, I received a call from Ananya’s class mate. ‘Did you read the paper aunty? He’s gone. Finally!!.’ 

I scanned the newspaper with a pounding heart. The small snippet on the second page connected the dots. Suddenly I could trace my series of lapses.

A case of molestation was registered against a fifty year old teacher. The chain of exploitation began soon after he was appointed as the chemistry teacher at a reputed school…

When I entered my daughter’s room she was talking to her friend. Her shoulders were shaking mildly. I could sense that she was sobbing quietly. She saw the paper in my hand, turned her head and looked at me. When our eyes met, I could sense both - her anguish and her relief. She leaned towards me hesitatingly. As I embraced her, she hugged me tightly.  It was as if she wanted to hold me forever. 

 (This is a contest entry for Indiblogger Colgate Total Contest - My Healthy Speak Blog.)

Moral of the story - Do not ignore the signs whether it is bleeding gums or simmering emotions.

(Image Courtesy: Google Images lifefamilyeducation.com)

The Uncle Factor

Google Images

At a time when powerful maternal uncles have become increasingly indispensable, I miss a benevolent influential one. Since my mother was not blessed with a brother, I don’t even have an uncle, leave alone a powerful one. When I watch the meteoric rise of the accused Railgate nephew  a sinking feeling engulfs me. Imagine the perks of an influential uncle heading a ministry or a resourceful uncle in the sarkari establishment? I could easily bag contracts, promise lucrative postings and jerk around, ‘Kya kar logey? Mera mamu hai na’.

The presence of a powerful uncle does different things to different people. For a struggling Imran, an uncle in Aamir provided easy access to movie directors. In the case of nephew who allegedly ran a cheat micro-financing company, an aunt at the helm of a state provided credibility. And for Emran Hashmi, an uncle in Mahesh Bhatt presented opportunities to kiss and sell.

Is it any surprise that I am tempted to adopt an uncle who can pull the strings in the corridors of power? I am planning to send letters, requesting for adoption to all the reigning deities (ministers and top bureaucrats) cutting across party lines. With the hike in air fares, my first attempt will be to adopt an uncle in the aviation industry. Imagine getting discounted  fares, not having to pay for extra baggage or an aisle seat. Depending on the clout of my adoptive uncle, I am not ruling out a cut in future aircraft deals – purchase and maintenance included.

An uncle in the tourism ministry would provide hassle free visa and an unforgettable stay at the beaches of Hawaii. Come on, it’s not that bad. An all expense paid beach holiday is a small perk compared to the fortunes made by other nephews and nieces, but it’s a good start to begin with.

I also intend to write a letter to the top officials in the  ministry for sports. For all you know, I will be flying business class to watch Olympics along with the Indian contingent. If nothing else, I will get free invites to all the IPL parties where I can shake a leg with Chris Gayle and discuss diamond clarity with Neeta Ambani.

Our Information and Broadcasting minister, they say, has tremendous clout in the corridors of media. If he agrees to be my uncle, I see myself in the DD studious dispensing wisdom on everything - from objectification of women to Talibanization of  society. Courtesy my uncle or his accountant, I can get unsecured loans to start my own news channel. Arnab, calm it down, 'your channel' will have a new rival. Soon.

Since defence ministry is tough to penetrate, I am aiming to adopt one of the top bosses in the armed forces. As defence deals go, a teeny-weeny cut  in helicopter transactions or coffin contracts will ensure bliss for my forthcoming generations. And how comforting is that!

Mamu, where art thou?

To Kill A Rocking Word

Words can kill as good as a gun, but we seem to be killing words minus guns. While most kosher words are dead, others have lost meaning. Some have been mutilated so badly that they have become jokes. For example, look at what we have done to the word enquiry. ‘An enquiry will reveal all’, says supremely efficient Shinde in his signature bumbling style. Hello sir? Even the most naïve in remote Jharkhand is aware that an enquiry equals sham. Despite the grammar and spell check, if any worthwhile fiction is being written today, it is in the fact finding reports of investigations.No wonder people are on the streets and justice is gasping for breath.

Then we have more than generous sprinkling of secularism. Notwithstanding the thesaurus definition, secularism today means appeasement. “We will not allow ‘sampradayik takats’ to come to  power,” say the champions of secularism. Those singing the siren song of secularism have shoved such huge amounts of secularism in our eyes that we are now semi-blind with deceit.

This brings me to another dead gem - Principle. “Those are my principles, and well, if you don’t like them…..I have others,” said Marx. Did he have a premonition or what? The word has been trampled and mutilated so often, that it is officially buried. Try using the word in your speech and I promise you a Lok Sabha ticket from any constituency.

Accountability passed away recently. It was killed with help of a remote control. Accidental leaders say ‘Power is poison,’ and yet continue to hold the remote and drink copious amounts of poison. Since accountability died, we must be the only country headed by a silent man of honor presiding over the most inept government.

Debate is not dead. Yet. But it has lost meaning. Debate is synonymous with trading accusations, ending on a note that several wrongs make a right. If you hear a citizen laughing hysterically, he is either watching a debate in the house or on prime time.

The lashings of morality and integrity are the worst. Morality died decades ago, but has become a joke posthumously. When was the last time someone said, ‘I resign on moral grounds’? According to the contemporary thesaurus, morality equals total, unadulterated, hypocrisy. Try using the word in your daily conversation. People will think you are either an alien or Sherlyn Chopra.

Is it any surprise that after the demise of principles, enquiry, and accountability, governance is missing in action?

While kosher words are dying, rogue words stay true to their nature. Scam, injustice, rape, barbarism, brutality and terror are alive and kicking. Scam being the most popular, it is raining scams. Left, Right and West Bengal. Is it any surprise that the met department has promised a normal monsoon?

Why did we allow this to happen?

We can debate the issue. Or maybe an enquiry will reveal all.


Picture Courtesy: Google Images (www.someecards.com)

Tongue Twitch

One has to hand it to our Rohtak girl. She knows how to grab limelight. ‘I am lonely and looking for love,’ she says. Fair enough. Mallika Sherawat stars in a television show ‘Mere Khayalon Ki Mallika’ which is a spin-off from the American reality dating game show ‘The Bachelor’. The show revolves around an eligible bachelorette and a pool of romantic suitors, including a potential husband for the bachelorette. 

Sometimes I get the feeling that we are being mocked at by statements which are hard to swallow. It all began when Mallika declared, ‘In real life, I live like a nun. I am on the lookout for a man who has more guts than I have.’ Now that she is looking for

love, the tryst with celibacy is perhaps done and dusted. Why else would she dirty dance with fifty-one year old Antonio Banderas? The lady is entitled to her share of fun. No issues.
The lashings of duplicity were  too much to take as I saw Mallika’s interview at the show launch. ‘I am looking for someone who is intelligent.’ What is with girls wanting an intelligent man with a sense of humour? Don’t they finally get hitched by Mr. Money Bags? Laughter, after all cannot compete with diamonds and designer dresses. How many starlets have married stand-up artists or scientists?

Mallika feigned ignorance when asked about her rival Rakhee Sawant’s ‘Swayamwar’ charade. ‘I am looking for someone who is self-made. Someone like Karan Johar.’ Compared to another bachelor who made Himmatwala, Karan surely is blessed with dollops of intellect and fat pockets. However I am not sure of Karan’s self-made status. Maybe Mallika knows something, we don’t.

Before all the self-made, intelligent men begin to rejoice, let it be known that the erstwhile nun is also looking for a vegan, teetotaler companion. Maybe she is looking for a saint. But then she should head towards the mountains and not Hollywood. I loved the bit about considering Salman Khan’s application, if she received it. Our girl knows how to play safe. Wonder why no one wanted to know her views regarding our most eligible bachelor - Pappu Philosopher?

‘I don’t want to do item songs anymore. Now I want to do performance oriented roles.’ Sure. With a riveting performance in ‘Ugli aur Pagli’ the lady has a lot of untapped talent. President Obama was supposed to be present at her Hollywood film premiere. ‘I have told the President that I want him to be present. He very graciously told me to make sure to send the invite across.’ No wonder our girl is proud of her guts.

Finally the erstwhile nun made a fascinating remark. ‘Draupadi, Sita …all chose their husbands through a swayamwara. If they could do it, so can I.’
Wah! Wah! After Draupadi and Sita the list of swayamwar holders has several illustrious women…..Rakhee-ji, Veena-ji. And now Mallika-ji. Those who are naïve enough to believe that Mallika will eventually marry a contestant from a reality show should read between the lines, ‘Sometimes people don’t find true love even after several years of marriage. I am only looking for a companion.’

Since you are one gutsy girl Mallika, why not admit that the show is an entertainer and everything else is blah!

Reference:http://businessofcinema.com/news/karan-johar-is-the-most-eligible-bachelor-right-now-mallika-sherawat/73408

Hype and Hoopla

The trigger for writing this post is a candid conversation with a young man who joined a consultancy firm last year.  While in college, the chap was disillusioned with love and now he is miserable in his job. “I need a change. Pronto,” he says.

Some things in life are so hyped that most of us don’t feel the ‘awesome’ we were supposed to feel. It all begins with college. Remember the urgency to discard school uniforms and whiff the free college air? Once in college, it dawns that college is not about short skirts, toned bodies, dance competitions and endless cups at the college canteen. College is about assignments, deadlines and the anxiety associated with charting a career. Realities of life jerk us when real life Principal is the antithesis of a bumbling Boman Irani or an idiotic Anupam Kher. Girls who scorch the dance floor like a simpering Alia Bhatt or a sassy Sushmita Sen are as rare as Rahul Gandhi’s interaction with the media. As work pressure mounts, is it any surprise that we begin to miss school? The innocence, the disregard for time and the parental protection, all of it.  

Another idea that is least disputed, is the pleasure associated with falling in love. Unable to find beatific, angelic love, we begin to fall in love with the official downer of sorrow - beer. True, there is no lonelier feeling than watching your friend cootchie-coo while you wait for your ‘Bum Chik Wah Wah’ moment. This ‘love shove’ is a certified destroyer of friendship.  It leads to ‘we need to talk’ moments. And ‘we need to talk’ is all about your self-respect going down the drain. Sample the plight of this chap:

‘My girlfriend wants to breakup because I forgot to wish ‘Fudge’ on his third birthday. These days I spend all my time manaoing her pet pug. But my girlfriend ignores me.  She says she will go out with my roommate if I don’t apologize to Fudge in person. I am losing my self esteem. Please help.’

Finally look at the way, the idea of a job is sold. Click on the career options and organizations lure with phrases like ‘It’s all about you’; ‘Explore yourself as you grow with us’.  The problem with such sentimental marketing is that it fogs the realistic picture. The truth is that companies need motivated people to meet targets and stay afloat, while we need work to pay for our bread and butter. Yeah, that’s it. Simple. The emotional pitch of ‘Reinvent yourself’ heightens expectations. 

All too often the promised salary hike is delayed. The media blitz rarely gives the impression that while we will slog to meet targets, our boss will play Solitaire on his lappy.  More often than not, we  oscillate between two power centers at work. And chances of beer buddies back-stabbing for promotions are almost certain. Fifty bucks on this one.

Along with the first job comes the notion of independence. Yeah. No time limits, no sermons, no begging for car keys and no hiding the beer bottles in undergarments. So far so good.  But what about piles of laundry, tut-tut with the maid, absence of dabba wala, survival on Maggie, and sneering of neighborhood aunties? “Never let out your apartment to bachelors. No sense of time. No sense of cleanliness. And why do they need a water connection? Beer is all they drink. This generation is doomed, I tell you.”

 

Soon you begin to miss your mom who says, “Tedha hai par mera hai.”

So where does all this ranting lead to?

Well, it leads to a Zen like realization that when we make frequent changes, the next wish is to change again. Any change brings a new set of problems. Each moment is distinct and not comparable to another for a particular reason. 

Time to wake up and smell the coffee. Before it gets cold and you want tea again.

Picture Courtesy: freedigitalphotos

Look What I Found!

I am sure it happens to you. There you are cleaning your cupboard and you unearth old trivia which transports you to another time. Like when you come across an autograph book with emotional farewell notes from school buddies or when you find a handmade card crowning you as the world’s best mommy! Suddenly your heart gets wrapped in nostalgic mist of distant memories.

I don’t usually enjoy nostalgia. It’s imprisoning. It makes me sentimental. Though it doesn’t surprise me one bit. For as long as I remember, I have always been a sentimental person. Simple things for me can be strangely moving. 

 

My throat tightens when I see an old picture of my father as a young hockey captain. The picture is a reminder of life’s impermanence.  Also the fact that there is no way I can rewind the reel. 

I find myself filled with longing when I discover little booties of my son but can’t really tell why I feel the way I do. Sometimes words desert you in strange ways that you begin to wonder if any writer can ever describe what you are feeling.

Today I stumbled upon an old college notebook. The last page of the notebook is full of mindless scribbling and doodling.  Perhaps, a boring lecture on a late summer afternoon led me to spew angst and anxiety on paper.

It s a trivial but have you ever wondered why boys tend to doodle geometric shapes while girls draw faces and flowers?

And why it is so satisfying to doodle when we are on the phone?

Apart from doodles, my notebook has some juvenile poetry scribbled on the last page. There is something about adolescence which makes us poets. And it doesn’t really matter if the poetry is awful. After all, it’s our little secret. Crushes, heartbreaks, longings, frustrations, confusion and rage find vent through verses. Interestingly when I try to write poetry today, it eludes me completely. And the last page of my diary today has e-mail addresses, telephone numbers of electricians and plumbers and carelessly scribbled grocery lists. Sigh!

While rummaging through papers, I came across my school report card. The general remark section says: It is a pleasure to have her in class. She is neat and does her work regularly. However, she is a shy child and needs encouragement to speak in public. 

Some things never change.Speaking in public remains my worst nightmare.

Picture Courtesy: Google Images/Policymic.com/allisalearntowrite.blogspot.com

I Me And Myself

‘Great minds talk ideas, average minds talk events and small minds talk people’. 
Call me what you want, I am going to indulge in some people talk. Chances of upsetting relatives and friends are high, but I hope to sail through  privacy settings. Now don’t get all judgmental, it is human to crib about something which repeatedly tests your patience. 
That John Abraham’s movie ‘I Me Aur Main’ is ready for release and that Sajid Khan has declared ‘Himmatwala’ as is his best film ever, are coincidences. 
Yes, I am talking about people who are so full of themselves that they can burst any moment. Let me bracket such lovely people into following categories for easier understanding.

Smug Braggers: They are a classic example of an obsessed psyche in an overdrive - my achievements, my kid, my house, my dog, my root canal. In short, they are in a perpetual self-congratulatory mode.

Me: You have a lovely house. 
Smug Bragger: I know. We hired an interior designer. Gave him a free hand – no budget. 
Me: Someone I know? 
Smug Bragger: (Gives a dismissive look) He's expensive. I don’t think you can afford him.
This actually happened when we moved to Gurgaon.

Me: I want to visit my brother residing in Chicago, but look at the air fares! 
Smug Bragger: Frankly, with the kind of money I make, air fares don’t bother me at all. 
Neither does inflation, I am sure.

Me: So how was the company picnic? 
Smug Bragger: I couldn’t go. But it was a flop. Natural hai. Without me, the organization feels headless. 
I am sure they had a gala time.

Me: What’s your house number? 
Smug Bragger: Enter the block and take my name. Everyone knows me. Just say Audi waale sahab ke ghar jaana hai.
Simply Audacious.
 
Name Droppers: This is a skilful art – The art of name dropping. The bomb needs to be dropped casually with indifferent ease. To be fair to the fairer sex, this category is specific to men who are on the upper rung of the ladder. Here are a few gems.

Name Dropper: After the meeting, Mukesh said, yaar, why don’t you join me for dinner? I refused. I had a flight to board. 
Poor Nita Ambani! She was waiting to serve, dal dhokla in gold plated cutlery.

Name Dropper: Murthy was after me to join his organization. I told him, I am happy where I am. Anyway, you rise ahead of your peers and people tend to resent you.
No wonder Infosys slipped from its highest perch.

Name Dropper: Arnab keeps inviting me for his debates. What’s the point? He is always interrupting.
Yes, it takes some swallowing.
Such people are great entertainers if you treat their ego trip like a pleasurable game. Give them a long rope and have fun. 

Nosy Snoopers: These people are interested in every minute detail, including the price, the size and the brand of your undergarment. Some do it out of sheer inquisitiveness. Some wish to fish in troubled waters. Some derive sadistic pleasure by watching you squirm.

Nosy Snooper: Did you pay for your daughter’s medical admission? US vacation kitne ka pada? Did you take a home loan for the house? Only one son? Doosra hua nahin, ya kiya nahin ? (Couldn’t conceive or didn’t try?). 
Me: Please mind your own business. We are not even friends. 
No, I couldn’t say this. 

When your reputation and upbringing are at stake, you try to mumble an incoherent reply. Or wish you didn’t exist. The good thing about such people is that they are willing to divulge their  personal details- 85.3 K for the sofa,10.2 L for son's admission and 12.3 K for the dress. Favorite position, frequency, fantasy – everything from corny to crass is ready to tumble out. 

Fake Boasters: These people rise from modest backgrounds but sudden name and fame results in severe indigestion. Bloating and gas actually. A stint abroad alters their accent and speaking in their native language is akin to blasphemy.

Fake Boaster: After the show, the reporter asked me a question in Hindi. You know my Hindi na? I could barely speak.
 The lady belongs to Lucknow and her father was a Principal at a government school.

Fake Boaster: I cannot survive a minute without air-conditioning. 
Were you conceived in Kashmir, is what I want to ask.
 
Nay Sayers: These people are always right. So they will disagree with whatever you say. Contradicting gives them a social high. Nothing personal. It's just a habit.

Me: Nice weather. 
Nay Sayer: Nice? It’s damn stuffy. 

Me: Ms X is looking lovely . 
Nay Sayer: After a visit to the spa, who wouldn’t? 
Benii Prasad Verma.

Me: Food is amazing.
Nay Sayer: Huh? The dessert is too sweet.

Know-It-Alls: These people are real sweethearts, helpful to the core. They are like vending machines. You drop a coin and they are ready with opinions and solutions.

Me: We are thinking of disposing the ancestral property. 
Know-It-All: You should sell it off and buy on the Dwarka Expressway. No need for a broker. Main hoon na. Vaise I know one buyer. (Takes out his phone and begins calling.) 
Wait!! Hello? I am yet to take a final call.

Me: I have adenofibromyoleptotitis. 
Know-It-All: Now listen carefully. You should take 650 mg cipronorfloxodoxycycline thrice a day, before food. Take it with warm milk. It comes in brown and white cover. Remember to take the brown one.

Antibiotic prescription. Dosage? 
Seriously!

Am I cynical or have you met such people?



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