WHEN THE LITTLE ONE FLIES AWAY!

He's kinda cute and angelic. Cherubic, cuddly, with an endearing smile and warm eyes which tear right through your heart, ingratiating him immediately. You swear to love him all your life and protect him from the big, bad world. He needs your care, guidance, and support. You resolve not to fail him ever. You are his mother after all, and he is your flesh n blood.

From the feeding and burping days to nappy changing and lullaby rituals, he is the centre of your universe as you are his. You adore him and he idolises you. Everyone else takes a backseat. You see him through his toddling stage, adolescence, the rebellious teenage years and the excruciating slog years when he is at the threshold of starting a career. He blooms into a fine young man in no time. From Noddy to Friends, from Gajar Halwa to Panacotas, from nursery rhymes to Bruno Mars, his tastes evolve, mature and diversify. You come to terms with this gruelling phenomenon rather reluctantly. You are unwilling to untie the apron strings but let him loose just a little so that he learns to stand on his own feet. He makes your heart swell with unbridled pride and love. You want to make choices for him; he indulges you occasionally. You relish your special relationship with your son till its time for him leave school and in most cases, leave the town too.

A shooting pain tears right through your heart! Despondency and helplessness engulf you like a black venomous cloud as you see your child (that little bundle of joy you held close to yourself for 18 odd years) take a stride into an adult world and join a college. No matter how much you mentally prepare yourself for it and esp in the last phase of school education, the reality hits harder than you had imagined.

You go in flashbacks... his buckteeth, curly hair, chocolate smeared hands which you dreaded on your speck free bedsheets beckon you tantalizingly. You stare at your uncreased linen lying in their glory, daring you to spoil them.

You look at the well-organized room, with no wet towels or soiled clothes to mar its perfection!..And the sight of the sanitised, 'too beautiful to be real' look of your home is an eyesore now. It has no vivacity, no stamp of your offspring's shenanigans.

The messy kitchen is so quiet now. The mayhem ensuing after the marathon baking and cooking sessions of exotic dishes is scary by its absence. The innumerable 'farmaish' of eating different cuisines had coaxed you to don an amateur MasterChef hat. Now the pasta and sauces lie on a snooze mode on shelves. Shake it all you will, when the birdie flies back into the nest.

As I sent off my elder one to another city and another world, my mind went numb as if to shut out any mulling over the upcoming scenario. I do have a younger one to keep me company and to still be a hands-on mother. But can anything compensate for the vacuum created in the home when your first born moves out?

The sound of his guitar, conspicuous by its absence, plays in my head nonstop! 'Mummy, sing along as I play,' his insistence to give my words to his acoustics, rivalled my reluctance to croon on demand. The tussle carried on till either of us gave in. The innumerable fights and fracas between the siblings gave the house a ravaged look. I fretted and fumed over the constant head-on collisions for no rhyme or reason. 'Mummy you will miss this commotion later', the wiser of the 2 enlightened me. 'Oh really', I snorted, "I love the peace and tranquillity when both of you are in school!"

How astonishingly wrong was I! The silence in the home is eerie. The younger one misses his partner-in-crime. He is lost and become so well-behaved by default that it's upsetting to watch. 

I miss my powerful role as a referee, possessing veto power, giving out fouls and match points. Both kids vying for my attention and scoring brownie points over the other. 'Mummy, who do you love more?' asked by the 2 Musketeers, often put me in a spot. And I never had any credible answer. How can a parent choose? The 'theory of a favourite child', once brought to my notice to rub a point, I think, has been propagated by a mischief monger to flummox your parenting instincts which act on their own, reflexively and intuitively.

In pursuit of excellence, the good wears out, leaving a bad aftertaste. So I let him go, where his passion lay. Geographical distance may run a thousand miles, but I just need a stroll inside my heart and mind to see him and to feel him. Loving him is of course as natural as breathing.

So, let go, dear parents, esp mothers. Unclip their wings. Let them soar high. Cut the umbilical cord. There may be a little pain, but a much greater joy of delivering!

Tomorrow is another Day! (Fiction)

"Riya, what's wrong with you? You've been acting so strange lately," Mrs. Sinha snapped at her daughter rather irritatingly. "You are getting late for office and haven't even had your breakfast yet!" Riya jumped out of her daytime reverie guiltily. She had been feeling a little depressed and lost these past few weeks. She couldn't pinpoint the exact reason as she herself had no clue about the vacuum setting inside her, a certain melancholy and wistfulness about life in general.

She pretended to fiddle with her mother's painstakingly prepared breakfast and complimented her on her efforts plastering a fake smile which her harried mother bought at face value. Sighing deeply she opened her laptop at her office and stared vacantly at the screen for a few minutes. She logged into Gmail and scurried through the emails vapidly, the marketing gimmicks and promotional messages flooding her inbox bored her to death. She noticed a mail from Neha, her college roommate about their upcoming batch reunion at Delhi. A grand hotel had been booked in advance, a dandiya night had been organised at an ex-classmate's farmhouse. Neha had been pestering Riya to join in their revelry:"Know what, Riya? Tarun Mehta has finalised his presence for our meet," followed by a wink. Riya fell pale, her breath stopped for a few seconds as long lost memories came flooding. 

Tarun, the golden boy of JKT Engineering College, presented a lethal combination of good looks and grey cells in addition to being manor born - his father R.J. Mehta was an influential businessman. Tarun had a swagger and an air of arrogance around him. Riya always felt tongue-tied in front of Tarun while he acted as if she didn't exist for him. Riya was the bookworm kind, nerdy and focused; the boys found her boring and the girls, outdated. Riya's attire of crisp cotton churidar kurti was considered a fashion disaster. Her waist length thick pigtail was a source of much amusement for her classmates. No wonder that Riya felt a misfit in her hip college; she couldn't make even 4 genuine friends in her 4-year stint at the engineering college.

Despite being averse to showoffs and self-proclaimed Romeos serenading the pretty and fair damsels of the college, Riya had felt a quaint pull towards Tarun. His tall, athletic physique, chocolate brown eyes twinkling with mischief and that to-die-for good looks had the entire female population swooning. Riya tried to avoid him at all cost and ignore all mush talks about him but in private she thought about him quite often. She remembered that day vividly. The annual function was a few weeks away, the play 'Pride and Prejudice' had been finalised. Tarun was to play Darcy, Jane Austen's brooding, status-conscious hero. Several girls vied hard for the main female lead role of Elizabeth Bennet, but Mrs Sequeira, the English Professor, chose Riya for the part because she seemed convinced that none of the other girls possessed Elizabeth's intensity and strength of character. Riya had felt goose pimples and refused the part vehemently. She had to give in ultimately and start the rehearsals with the entire cast at the auditorium. 

The first day of the rehearsal, Riya had worn her best pink churidar kurta, washed her hair and tried to look her best. With a flutter in her heart and a spark in her eyes, she'd walked towards the concert hall.

A huge guffaw with someone taking her name stopped her in her tracks. "Where is that mousy Riya, I thought she'd be the first one up here," chortled Tarun. "Oh, she must be getting into the character of plain Jane Elizabeth," chirped the catty Shanaya. "Well, that's no big deal, she has to just play herself and she'll be ok," Tarun reparteed and the entire auditorium gave into unbridled peals of laughter. 

Riya's eyes had stung with an avalanche of tears while her tender heart felt crushed mercilessly. She had run away to home, fallen sick crying for days and only came back to college after a month to giver her final exams and bid adieu to the hypocritical lot.  After that life-changing event, Riya vowed to transform herself. From a simple, mousy dame to a well groomed, stylish maiden, she went on to re-invent herself with a vengeance; coloured and streaked hair, well-toned body with designer clothing and immaculately applied make-up, ultimately being labelled a fashionista in her known circle. It wasn't a very pleasant journey, though. Riya had to surrender a part of her soul and everything she believed in to don a fake persona which won her social approval but depleted her inner peace.

From day one, Sanjay, her senior at the multinational she worked in, was enamoured by the impeccably groomed and sophisticated diva look that Riya bore with aplomb. He had been wooing her persistently for a year and she was on the verge of relenting and giving into his proposal, more so for her parents' happiness and because she couldn't find anything wrong with Sanjay. But was he her Mr Right? she often questioned herself.

Neha's mail opened an emotional pandora's box for Riya. Shaking off the heavy overload of the past from her mind, Riya decided to attend the college meet and show Mr. Perfect how far she has travelled from those 'mousy' days.

The Rennaissance banquet hall sizzled with the hustle-bustle of ex-JKT students. The in-form rock band 'Jashn' was belting out their hits to the rousing crowd. Riya paused at the entrance to draw a long breath. She was both tense and exhilarated. She saw him immediately. Tall, imposing and quiet, listening to the senseless chatter of the people around him, he turned his head as if he sensed her and gave a long hard look at the vision in front of him. Gorgeous in gold, she looked stunning in her off-shoulder dress barely reaching her mid thigh. Her shoulder length hair had streaks of gold highlights while her lips shone with a crimson gloss. She was a stranger but looked oh so familiar. Tarun stared hard disconcerting her. 

Neha's shriek 'Hiiiii Riya, why are you so late?" was a saviour.

Shocking recognition dawned in Tarun's chocolate brown eyes and he looked flustered for a second. Riya gathered herself and moved with a perfected swish towards the group, deliberately ignoring Tarun. 'Let Mr Perfect rue his loss', It's my day today!' 

"Hi Neha, sorry yaar, the meeting with the French delegation got over just an hour back," Riya stated gloatingly.

"Hi Riya," Tarun's soft voice cut through her monologue. Riya gave a long disinterested look to the man of her dreams and belled a loud, "Oh. is that you Arun, sorry Tarun? Nice meeting you after ages."  Tarun gave an amused, wry glance, "Likewise. How are you Riya? You look very ... different I must say." 

"Well, it's been five years, people change you know," Riya said pointedly. "And some more than others," Tarun quipped. 

After an hour of usual chit-chats all around, Tarun walked off with an "I'll take leave now, nice seeing you again, Riya." Feeling as if she'd been rejected a second time, Riya too said her goodbyes.The evening had gone horribly wrong. Tarun hadn't seemed impressed by her at all and she felt fake inside. At home, in bed, Riya relived the past few hours and consoled herself that they had at least exchanged phone numbers.

Ping! Lost in her thoughts, Riya saw a message on her phone from Tarun Mehta; 'Sorry for hurting you that day. It was rude and unbecoming of me. Waited for five years to say in person but the one I wanted to say it to has gone and you have taken her place. Please pass on my apologies to my Elizabeth, the one who I could never forget. Tarun.'

Shock, disbelief, rage, and an inexplicable emotion filled Riya. How dare he? After all these years, he had the gall to say sorry!! Her sleep gone, she paced the room back and forth. Hypocrite, Liar, Brute....muttering all the profanities, Riya picked up her phone and typed her response, 'Mr Mehta, that girl is dead. You murdered her simplicity and innocence in one cruel stroke. Apologies not accepted. The door for forgiveness closed a long time back. Ghost of Riya.' Pressing send, Riya exhaled deeply..."Don't cry, baby," she told herself, "Let the man stew in his guilt, he deserves it!'

It was Wednesday evening and Riya was tired. Mulling constantly over their last exchange Riya wondered if he will ever get in touch with her again. She willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his 'last seen at' status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn't stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous.

And then, just as she sat down in her chair, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message. But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn't know if he was joking or not. What was this?  

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admired and loved you." Tarun had quoted Darcy from the novel! Riya almost wept at the sheer wonder and futility of it all.

Trembling, she wrote her favourite quote from the novel back, "I could easily forgive his pride if he had not mortified mine." Sent.

Riya was startled by her doorbell ringing an hour later. Almost expecting him but still taken aback to find Tarun at her doorsteps, Riya let him in. They savoured the next few minutes of silence, each lost for words. Giving a long sigh, Tarun spoke,"Pride has no place in love. But it wasn't just my pride but also your prejudice which stopped me from approaching you. Your lovely, quiet eyes looked at me with disdain, your disapproval of my wealth and lifestyle emanated out of you strong enough. You avoided me as if I had the plague and that incensed me no end. I wished to impress you but only ended up distancing you from me. That day I was waiting so anxiously for you to show up for rehearsals, but I daren't reveal my excitement publicly hence I chose to take the sarcastic path. I deliberately mocked you because I was fighting my growing feelings for you. When you didn't turn up I thought it was because you couldn't stand the sight of me. I went to USA soon after and met Neha at the same institute who told me how hurt you were by my insensitive remarks that day. I swore then to meet you as soon as I return. Our college reunion party was a Godsend but the one I wanted to see wasn't there. You can't begin to fathom the depths of my anguish and regret at hurting you but I'm even sorrier now that I drove you to become what you always detested. This is just not you, Riya!", Tarun ended passionately.

Riya felt numb and drained as if the wind had been knocked out from her lungs. She needed time to process these startling revelations. "Will you have some coffee?" she asked more to buy time than politeness. Tarun was stumped but agreed. "You were the hero of the college and I felt so pedestrian next to your glory. Hence, I always kept out of your way. I've never felt as low as I did that day listening to your description of me," Riya's voice broke with remembered pain. Tarun cursed himself and took her hand in his, "I know I have a lot to answer for. Let's have dinner tomorrow, PLEASE!" he begged. Riya relented. She had never felt more stirred and alive as she had the past one week. She needed a closure on this relationship either way. 

Tarun sat tensely at the exclusive restaurant and the private table he had booked for the girl who captivated him all these years. He didn't know which direction this evening will head but he was willing to give it his best try. She deserved this courtesy. A few minutes later his heart glowed and he found himself grinning; as fresh as a dew, raven-haired radiant beauty wearing a pink chiffon churidar kurta entered the place and sat smiling in front of him. 

"So what do you recommend to encourage affection?" Tarun says softly. Riya laughs gleefully after ages, "Dancing, even if one partner is barely tolerable." "Oh Riya, how I missed you all these years," Tarun waltz his lady away onto the floor, bridging the distance between the past and the present with one sweeping motion.
****************************

PADMAVAT Protests- Does it herald the death of democracy in India?

After months of endless debate, speculation, baseless rumours, violent protests, delays and cuts, Padmavat is about to hit the screens across India today.

Already, there is news of widespread violence in major states of North India. Even a school bus carrying children to school wasn't spared by the mob protesting against the release of this movie. To give a background to the controversy, this magnum opus is directed by one of India's finest moviemaker in contemporary times. He has been a tried and tested movie mogul with aesthetically shot movies under his belt. He is not some sleazy, slimy third rate director out to sully or distort historically revered figures.

Even if one discounted his credentials as a respected and admired filmmaker, his product should be dissected on its own merit. Civilized society does not function in the barbaric fashion that the protesters are adopting. They are dishonouring the valour of Rajputs themselves by their vandalism, erroneously equating the two as a substitute of one another.

So much agrression and controversy over a mere movie?

I wish people had better causes to champion and channelised their aggression productivel.

The vested interests have no longer any valid opposition to the film in question. Only imaginary slights and conjectures are fuelling the animosity and anger. Even when proved wrong, by the vast majority of media and intelligentsia who have seen the movie and vouched for it, the protesters go on a rampage like insane bulls with no respect towards the law of the land.

How the government deals with these hooligans, remains to be seen. It ought to set an example. Strict state action would act as a deterrent to those who try to curb voice of free expression with their cacophony.

If we are matured as an audience to handle debates on religion and God in PK and Oh My God, surely we can allow a filmmaker to interpret history his way particularly when 'his way' has been applauded by the media as one of restraint and utmost reverance, almost like an ode to the beautiful Rani Padmini.

How about not choking democracy full throttle and letting it breathe??

Sigh.....

When Routine becomes Special!

How are you doing? What's up? Kya chal raha hai ? Sundry polite queries and chitchat begin with the above. My humble, slightly sheepish response is ..."Oh! just the routine" where the routine implies...home management, looking after the needs of hubby and kids, maintaining a functional, thriving family life interspersed with a paltry social life and other obligations. 

As a woman, and an Indian woman in particular, especially who is a homemaker/ stay-at-home mum/ non-career, female member of the household...at times I do find myself trapped in the monotonous routine. 

The routine of daily chores, the routine of performing upto the expected standards, the routine of being held responsible if something goes amiss, the routine of being a pillar of strength even in times when you need a shoulder to lean on. 

This routine of waking up to the shrill alarm bell to get the kids ready for school till the time when you hit the bed, exhausted and spent has its fair share of moments. The sense of fulfilment at being the centre of universe and the fulcrum of your home, to being the indispensable entity in the lives of your loved ones, gives an immeasurable high and joy.

But despite all the accolades and love which is showered upon a woman for all that she does for her family, a part of her craves for something more, a tangible, concrete evidence of her self worth and unexplored potential.

This craving gives way to wanting to do something more than the mundane, something more worthwhile than the 'routine'.

I look around and find lot of women staying abreast of the routine by doing stuff which is for their own pleasure. Developing hobbies and pursuing them with full gusto and dedication is an option being widely explored. Then there are the kitty parties! Often housewives go on a guilt trip if they indulge their time and money in seemingly frivolous stuff like shopping or kitty parties, both looked disdainfully at by their families. 

There has to be a life beyond these necessary outlets of pent up emotions which women need to tap at the right time and place in life. How she manages her 'routine life' depends on her skills and temperament. 
Each woman has her own family graph and unique set of circumstances which may dictate her actions and choices accordingly. 

Now choice is the key word here. The 'choice' to make her decisions regarding her home, family and financial matters, social life etc. is what makes her routine special. 

 From the 'The big choices' of being a stay-at-home mum or a working mum, the choice to live in a nuclear family or joint, the choice to have 1 or 2 kids etc to the small choices like deciding the family menu, holiday trips, planning get-togethers, shopping trips etc, all of the above make the monotonous, humdrum routine life of a woman truly special. This is what makes her feel relevant in the family structure.

And this power of choice emboldens her to make her routine very 'special and unique' in its own fulfilling ways.

PADMAVATI ROW--Much Ado About Nothing

History and fantasy are a heady mix if the cocktail they brew is intoxicating enough. Why not take a sip and then decide?

Art is an expression of free-flowing ideas and creative imagination, unhindered and boundless, limited only by the law of the land. Why force it to tow the line each time, to please all, on mere conjectures and preconceived, ill-informed, beliefs? Why not celebrate the grandiosity depicted tastefully -- as evident from the visuals released so far? If past performance is any indication, Padmavati promises to be a feast for the eyes and the ears. Savour it as such! 

In any case, valour and vandalism are not each other's substitute and those who equate the two are masked cowards. No sane society should encourage such people. 

Pride and prejudices have been mankind's bane for a long now. Time to conquer them like a true warrior! That'll be the ultimate victory for civilization.

Newton- new age cinema

To be honest, I hadn't heard about the movie 'Newton' until last week. Someone recommended it and upon probing I found that it was a movie about a government clerk trying to run a free and fair election in a conflict area in central India.

The brief seemed singularly lacklustre.  Starcast was minus stars. What would it be like, I wondered? Political, trite, edgy, preachy and dark, sans the colour and razzle-dazzle I was clamouring for after a month of gruelling chock-a-block exam schedule of kids? Why not Judwa 2, a definite holiday bonanza, I asked my family but they unanimously voted for Newton and I went in with the least expectations. But as the story unfolded, the magic began. 

This low budget, offbeat movie with fine actors and riveting direction has proved that quality can never be the exclusive domain of showbiz's big guns. Devoid of razzmatazz, any gravity-defying action scenes (Isaac Newton would be happy) or romantic escapades, it shines beautifully on its own. The backdrop is Naxalite insurgency but the focus is on the dutiful, stern, living by the rule-book, election officer called Newton, enacted masterfully by Rajkumar Rao. Intense yet funny, it makes you don your thinking cap while enjoying your giggles. 

The apple has fallen. But it hasn't bitten the dust. The great scientist won't stir in his grave. 

FABULOUSLY FOOLISH! (IGNORANT IGNORAMUS OR DELIBERATE DUNCE?)

"Looking smart!" You lap up the comment with a glee unmatched even by the TV series of the same name.

Is it really so important to 'be' smart and more importantly, 'look' the part? It sets me rolling on a path to decipher the differences between the Smart Alecs and the Foolish Peters of this world. The Alecs have it good initially, the claps of schoolteachers and the laps of mummies, a generous salary, an indulgent boss, and a preening girlfriend. Then the pressures build up, the expectations skyrocket and the demands quadruple.

Contrary to popular opinion, it is not always wise to project yourself as smart and intelligent. The more capable you project yourself, the greater the onus to prove yourself worthy every single time and be a picture of sanity and sagacity forever. The challenge to maintain your gray matter in peak condition can be exceedingly taxing at times. Keeping yourself abreast with the changing winds and the meandering currents in the ocean of knowledge is no mean task!

It is in this context that the stress-free life of the fabulously foolish folks can be envied. They can be just themselves...normal, grounded, partially ignorant, funny at whim, openly inquisitive at times and completely imprudent at other times, rejecting the expected standards of intelligence. This elite group has members from all cross sections of society and cuts across the gender barrier. It can be anyone....an ordinary office or college goer, an average shopkeeper or a self-contained homemaker or a retiree.

Well! What are the perks of being Fabulously Foolish?

For one, you live life on your terms. You are carefree. You don't live to please people. You don't have to 'be' smart or 'act' smart all the time. Ignorance is bliss and who better to testify to this than our FF. You don't give opinions about issues not concerning you.You avoid trouble and confrontations. You are forgiven all misdeeds and faults because you are, after all ....'foolish' !!

Another category is of Smart Alecs pretending to be foolish to suit their purposes. They are the cunning and conniving foxes hiding under the garb of simplicity and faking foolishness for ulterior motives. They plot and plan their own games and if it backfires they feign innocence and pass the buck to their sweet foolish selves which erred unknowingly. Normally such tribes aren't taken seriously because the human mind is conditioned to be cautioned and challenged by intelligence and ingenuity but ignore and overlook the witless and fatuous lot. This tendency abets the nefarious mindset of wily folks.

In stark contrast to the Fake Foolish are the genuine ones, those lovable, trusting simpletons born with a silver spoon. They are fabulously rich and fabulously foolish too. They have a coterie of chamchas and Man Fridays around them. They thrive on sycophantic chatter and can be likened to the Emperor-with-no-clothes.

A lot of so-called intelligent crop has grown recently courtesy the blessings of Baba Internet. The homilies and sermons are coming our way at breakneck speed. Every Tom Dick and Harry is now a preacher teacher. It's easier to pass on knowledge especially when it's abundant and freely available. Jai Ho, Whatsapp! It is a breathless time catching up with the world buried under the information onslaught. There no time to pause or ponder. No urge to internalise. No knack to sift the sacred from the profane. Just playing carriers of 'passing the parcel' of borrowed knowledge (real or fake) and thriving on it, inadvertently giving rise to the faux news syndrome.

The challenge is to remain 'intelligently innocent' so that you retain rational mindset without having to surrender your soul's simplicity at devil's doorstep.