Thirty five

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I am thirty-five years old. But I honestly don’t know when I stopped being 25. When I look back, it’s like the last ten years are blurry and yet filled with so much clarity. Make sense? Maybe it doesn’t, I seldom do. Besides fine (and not so fine lines), gravity playing havoc with parts of my body and a few grey hair, age to me, like my father loves to say, is just a number.  

And I thought long and hard about this while grappling with this new number that now defines me as a thirty five year old woman. What does that mean? Do I need start dressing different? Should I fight the urge to say ‘that’s what she said’ at let the sexual innuendos pass without so much as a smirk from me? Should I organize play-dates with tea and cake instead of wine and pizza? Should I stop taking selfies and looking for perfect filters that will make skin glow and teeth sparkle? Should I talk slower and gesticulate less? Should I not about my boobs and orgasms at public places? Fuck that. I will forever be inappropriate, even my number is  88 and my teeth are fake and tits wrinkled.

But also, how can I be thirty-five when I still throw tantrums with my mother? I stomp my feet and hold my breath. How could I be  thirty five when I’ m a teenager when I sit with my friend’s staring intently at instagram stories and talking about mental nights and nursing I am dying, I just did ulti on my pillow hangovers. How can I be thirty five when I feel like a child  when my daughter and I make up dances and songs, colour outside the lines and laugh wildly at nothing at all.

So I am not 35 at all.  I am what papa says, I am as old as I feel.

It’s about how I feel during moments that have woven my life together, creating my story, one stitch at a time. And not every stitch is perfect; in fact so many have come apart... but the number thirty-five has taught me that it’s perfectly fine if they do.

TWO

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Dear Anaya or Nunu that you so proudly call yourself with a mouthful of spit and a baby lisp,

How can a person so little, with such few words, communicate with me in ways no one else ever has? My little girl you never cease to amaze me, and you aren’t even two yet.

Wow, two years.  At the risk of sounding like an old lady sitting on her front porch, cleaning her blotchy spectacles, I will say it nonetheless, it feels like only yesterday when the doctor handed you into my arms. You yelled at your new reality and me and I welcomed you half in awe and half in ‘what the f have I done! Will my life and my once beautiful friend Vaj… um… Vajanti ever be the same?’

But we’ve come a long way haven’t we? I don’t just love you like a daughter, I love you for the little person that you are growing into.

Your love for animals and fart jokes. Your loud laugher and dizzy dance moves. Your tiny kisses and 10 second massages. Your love for noodles and bites of papa’s dark chocolate. Your descriptive eyes and buck- toothed smile.

Oh, how I love you. I want to break into song about my love for you, but I’ve weighed the pros and cons and this lullaby will probably wake you.  In my head it will sound like Madonna in Evita but to you it will sound like a baby seal choking on a gum-ball. Good lord, sorry, I keep going off on a tangent, don’t I?  I hope you have a better attention span than your old woman.

 So where was I….aaah, yes..

As you lie next to me right now, wiggling in your sleep, I’m trying really hard not to drown you in my sloppy mamma kisses. Since you’ve come into my life, you have become my bestest homie…. Homedawg… bff…. Best biatch. And no matter how shitty my day is, even the semi- atheist in me thanks the sweet bhagwan that I have you to come home to.   When you run towards me, yelling  “mamma.. there mamma” every thing negative inside me shrinks. My silly fight with a papa over whatsapp, or a petty comment that plays in my head on a loop… whatever it might be, you and your magnificent baby hugs have the power to make it all vanish. Because you remind me of what’s important. Not pettiness, or jealousy, or anger. But stories, kisses, dances, bow- bows, birdies and the many adventures that lie in the parp (park).

Please don’t grow up, mama needs you.

OK now stop wiggling and go to sleep.

 There are Netflix shows to watch.

Workin' it.

WORKIN' IT

My daughter is now 14 months old, and with a heavy heart, I made the decision to finally join the army of working mammas, as we’re often called. I say “heavy heart” because I felt like I was abandoning her and the wonderful routine we had created for ourselves.
Our morning chai and breakfast with Mia awaiting scraps with greedy eyes and copious amounts of saliva. Our unannounced visits to nani’s house where we’d stuff our faces with mangoes and bang our hands on every piece of thoughtfully placed furniture. Our lazy afternoons made up of stories, seflies and long naps. Our park sessions where we’d swing and slide, pluck the grass, and attempt to kick papa’s deflated football.
That basically sums up my entire year. Of course there were play dates, too. Hers include toys and mine usually include wine, and, well, more wine. So you can imagine how saying goodbye to my baby, for eight hours a day, was going to feel like I was breaking our unspoken pact.
I prepped myself by talking to working moms and also reading blogs about 'mom's who work.' and it actually helped! i got the gentle kick to "get back out there." So the day before my first day, I carefully picked out an outfit for my office that is brimming with twenty something millennial women, with perfect figures and on-point outfits. I began to feel excited about my new job and partly new life. Different than the life I had gotten accustomed to over the last 14 months. So when the day came, I kissed her tiny mouth, fought back the tears and walked out of the door.

It’s been a week and yet I feel like I should get an award. Yes, lots of moms do it but when you do it, you feel like someone should dedicate a novel to you or name a drink after you. Because being a mom is hard enough and then you throw in eight- ten hours of work. And when you come home, you can’t put your feet up and peacefully zone out to a rerun of friends or Seinfeld. You have to be a mom, and not just any mom, but the greatest mom that has ever lived. Because you feel this need to make up for the time that you weren’t around. I am lucky I have help otherwise I probably would be hiding in a dark room or basement without windows. OK, that’s a tad excessive. But what I am trying to say is, and you’ve probably heard it all before, but moms don’t get breaks. Yes, you might physically get time away or off from your child, but your brain doesn’t quit. Why hasn't she eaten today, is she teething? is she constipated? what if she gets sick again or the plant in the living room falls on her, or she slips in the bath or chokes on her pasta, etc etc etc etc and etc!
It’s non-stop, and somewhere in the midst of those thoughts, you also miss your old life and the freedom to be able to have loud sex without worrying about waking up your baby, or lying in bed all day after a cray (yes, moms can say cray) night out or just spend the entire day out with worrying about another human whose entire existence depends on you and the decisions you make. Fuuuuckkkkkhhh.

But, when I’m at work, I can switch off from being a mom. I spend my day using my mind to write and be creative, compete with the hot twenty something year olds, make after work drink plans, and order momos at 5 pm.

But I still wouldn’t trade in the year I’ve had with Anaya, for anything. And though during fleeting moments, I secretly wish that I was a rich person that could stay at home and plan fancy dates where I’d feed Anaya baby caviar, I know I’ve made the right decision.

So if you're conflicted about going back to work or doing something else with your time, don't be. If you have a good support system, just do it. Because honestly just because you’ve pushed a baby out of your vagina, it doesn’t mean that your world has to shrink, in fact it should grow bigger every day. I'm just learning that now.

OK, now I need to go clean a very dirty bum. Toodles.

dear daughter- never be a lady.

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Dear Daughter,

You turn one next month. Yes, I am going to be like every other mother and say that time flies. But it really fucking does.  (Sorry, mamma said a bad word.) But no other word expresses this sentiment better than ‘fucking.’  And just like every other parent says, before I know it, I will be at your high school graduation, with tear-streaked cheeks and a runny nose. Of course there are days when I secretly rejoice at the thought of you going off to school so I can regain some of my freedom, but the rest of the time, I just want you to stay this little so I can always scoop you up into my arms and kiss you relentlessly. I don’t want you to grow up because the world is a scary, scary place and I want to keep you safe, tucked under my armpit forever.

My love, you are probably the most beautiful you will ever be right now. Your inability to see the world for what it truly is makes you so pure. I hope that you retain that innocence so you can always see the world through your baby eyes.

Sorry for getting soppy. My nose is already watery and I’ve swallowed a few gut wrenching sobs. But my darling daughter, when the inevitable does happen, remember that you never have to be “lady ladylike.”  The world lady has been misconstrued, manipulated and shat on by men and women who don’t like other women. “They” think that you should sit with your legs crossed, talk in polite whispers and never say fuck out loud. That’s bullshit. I want you to be loud, opinionated, and sit like a contorted circus freak if that’s how you like to sit. I hope that you’ll have broken nails and scraped knees from playing outside all day. I want you to curse loudly if the situation demands it, and curse in your head if you can’t do it out loud.

I want you to love yourself, and that doesn’t mean your boobs or the curve of your back. I want you to love the person you are. My love, forgive me for sounding like a cliché but it is so important to love the things that make you YOU.

But go ahead and love your body, your face and your hair too but remember darling, your laugh will always be more beautiful than a perfect pout.  

Also, I don’t want you to be perfect. Just always try to do the best you can, love the people who love you and stand up fearlessly to those who don’t.

As life continues to weave you into its web, you’ll make some bad decisions and that’s okay because those eventually lead you to the right ones.

You will also fall in love and probably have your heart broken by self loathing asshole who didn’t know good he had it. (Sorry, that’s the mamma in me getting ready to beat the crap out of the hypothetical dick head.) But I promise that you’ll recover because you have so much more falling in love to do. Also, vodka helps. (Kidding. Sort of.)

So these things will happen. A lot will happen, and to quote another melodramatic cliché “life will happen.” And even though I might not be there to help you meander through it all, my daughter, I will, with every bit of my existence prepare you to grab life by the balls.

 Oops, I did it again.

I love you.

Your mamma and your best friend.

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That five letter word

There’s a five letter word that I have grown up with but I have grown to hate.

A word that rolled off my tongue effortlessly, when I saw a lady that fit my definition of old which usually meant she wore lipstick and had breasts. I instantly rechristened her Aunty.  The world seemed just as normal as mamma, papa or bhaiya.  I never thought  that this seemingly innocent word could redefine you. Aunty =officially old.

Even though I am at a legit aunty age, I casually use this noun as an adjective that describes other women that aren’t “cool”. No, you can’t wear that. Do you want to look like an aunty? * Friend throws dress in the corner and opts for the sluttiest outfit* We air high five, she takes a selfie.

I decided I didn’t like the word anymore when I became an aunty. I admit that it’s been happening for years now. A cherub girl, toothless with an adorable lisp will turn into a demon child the second she tugs on my sleeve and says, hi aunty. Aunty?!  I look over my shoulder. Was she talking to me? When the hell did I became an aunty? Aren’t I still young-ish? Do I not have that youthful glow. Oh wait, that’s just the instagram filter.  Dang it.

 My beautiful cousin was recently reduced to an aunty by a man who looked like, well, an uncle. She was taken aback and immediately pulled her hair into a tight pony tail and muttered fuck you and stabbed his left nut with her stiletto. (That never happened but I would have clapped.)

She has kids and aunties of her own but when she’s got red lipstick on, the last thing she needs is AUNTY raining on her parade, reminding her that she is in her fifties.

I doubt  that I’ll ever come to terms with that word and respond with a gentle yes, beta. I think it will always sting. I'm all about aging gracefully without ever feeling like an “aunty” although chances are I'll hear that word for years to come, until I reach the maata phase. Then aunty won’t sound so bad.

Bikes and babas

I had the most wonderful afternoon and it all started with falling off my bike and twisting my knee.

Let me back track a little bit.  Five months ago, my husband, two close friends and I decided that we were going to be bad ass mountain bikers. So we made a trip to a bike shop on MG Road and after a brief test ride, I was most comfortable on the Cannondale and my husband on the Merida. We ended up switching later because turns out, I meant to point at the Merida when I pointed at the "white bike with bigger wheels."  I didn't know anything about bikes and it took me a couple of weeks to learn that MTB was an acronym for Mountain Bike.

Fast forward to five months and many rides later, here we were trying to conquer Mangar forest, third time for me, and fifth time for the hubby and our buff biking buddy, Ricky.  Riding with the boys isn't easy. They pedal fast and hard, and I am often left behind. I try to keep up by pedaling harder, changing gears faster than I should, and scrunching my face into a distorted, hideous expression. I desperately want to be one of the boys, I don't want to be left behind nor have them think that "this chick is slowing us down."  I do slow them down and they are kind enough to wait at turns and bends. They are also worried about my safety, since it is Gurgaon/Faridabad and they are probably rapists lurking behind trees with their pants down, dick in one hand, weapon in the other.

The ride started at 6:15 AM and the next 45 minutes were pretty fucking rad. I was sailing over rocks with the ease of a young Lance Armstrong, my tyres were responding well to the sandy parts of the trail, and the sun was roasting my brown arms sparingly and I was smiling to myself and thinking " I is a legend."   But that was rather short-lived. Like a happy movie that takes an unexpected turn where one minute the couple is driving down the freeway singing Old MacDonald had a farm, and the next they find themselves slaughtered like the animals on MacDonald's farm.

The trail meandered downhill as most trails do but this was a lot more challenging as the surface was completely covered in rocks, big, small and turbulent. The boys were out of sight and I got off my bike initially and then I thought to myself- "If they can do it, so can I." Just then, the boys shot me a warning and told me to get off and push my bike downhill instead. I pushed aside their warning, scrunched up my face and got back on. Half a second later, I was flying off my bike. My knee decided to cling to the bike and in the process it twisted in mid air. I landed ass first, knee later.

The pain was excruciating at first, and involuntary tears streamed down my hot cheeks. I was lucky, the pain subsided quickly and with the coaxing of my husband I wiped away my tears, grunted and got back on the saddle. 

We reached our destination, stuffed our faces with watermelon and bananas, and drowned our insides with water that had now turned warm. I tried to get a cab back but no radio cab comes to dum duma lake.  I had no choice but to ride back. After about half an hour of struggling, more from the heat than the pain, I finally admitted that I couldn't do it.  My arms, knees, legs, ass cheeks had given up.

We spotted a white mandir, in a semi fenced compound. A baba lay on a charpai   under a large, chirping Pipal tree.  I demanded to be left there while the boys got the car, but of course my husband stayed on with me while Ricky, hopped on to his bike and promised to come get us as soon as he could.

The baba awoke, thin but not frail, expressionless yet kind. He instructed us to put the charpais under the Pipal and Neem trees so that we could rest. He was happy to host us and didn't care who we were or where we came from. He moved around his little compound, watering something, barely attempting to fix something, smoking something and taking periodic naps. The baba slept to my right, my husband to my left, on charpais that creaked under our weight.

The blue sky, tent of green leaves, and warm wind, eventually rocked me to sleep. I have never felt so comfortable at a stranger's home. And this home didn't even have a roof.  He had such little to offer but he offered it anyway. Water, thandai and a delicious soup and noodle concoction called chow chow prepared for us by another baba who emerged an hour later. Shorter, with golden dreads, and a lot more energy. There was no way the Musafirs could leave hungry. In between hot mouthfuls, we thanked the babas. They smiled, not understanding why we were so grateful.  But we couldn't get over how they let us invade their sacred space for two whole hours. We didn't need to make small talk nor did they ask invasive questions. They simply cared about my leg and our comfort.  

Two hours later Ricky remerged in his white swift, dark from the sun and limping from a fall.  I was a little sad to bid farewell to the two babas and their dog Kutti who loved my tickles more than I loved the chow chow.  They promised to visit us if they ever made it the concrete jungle called Gurgaon. Although we warned them against it. 

As I limped away, the baba sank back into his bed, lit a biri and closed his eyes and the Pipal tree waved  goodbye.

And that's what I call a perfect afternoon. In the middle of a jungle, somewhere between Mother Nature's mercy and baba ji's pity.