A picture is worth a thousand words. And 20,000 pictures?

Our kids generation is going to be the most heavily photographed one. Its mind boggling sometimes. The amount of energy we devote to clicking them, sorting through the pictures, sharing the 10 amongst 1000 clicked on various social media, online and offline family albums, tracking likes/comments.

My father enjoyed photography and bought a Mamia camera back in the late 70’s. Thanks to his love for the camera, we were lucky to have few albums of our early years.  I always thought my Dad was surprisingly missing from most pictures. I now know that he was on the other side of the lens.

The story repeats 32 years down the line. My son will find his mother missing in most pictures. It might take him another 30 years to realize she was behind the lens.

In the frenzy of all this clicking, I am beginning to get somewhat dis enchanted with pictures though. They seem to hide as much, sometimes more, as they reveal. They seem to create a delusion that all was good “back then”.  They perpetuate nostalgia.

Will my son think of his first birthday being only about cake, candles, lots of smiles, beautiful resort and, tuk-tuk ride?  When it’s his 17^th birthday and he is feeling crappy for some reason, will these pictures make him feel worse?

What if we gave our children a thousand words instead of a 1000 pictures for each birthday? Telling them how we felt at that time. About them growing up, our journey as a parent, our highs but also our lows. Along with a few pictures, maybe that’ll be a bigger treasure for them? I am sure it would have been for me.

Quality of Life

We are always in the pursuit of a better “quality of life”. Coming from a developing country and a middle class upbringing, a better quality of life has the predictable hallmarks. If I were to sum it up, it would be really boil down to – good amount of money. Enough to live in a nice house, spend on entertainment, leisure, shopping, eating out and, afford quality education and amenities for our children.

I know I am lucky to be enjoying this quality of life early on in life. But having it and living it everyday, I am beginning to question its definition. We live in this city – husband, wife & child – with no family or close friends. Bangkok has been better to me than any Indian city I have lived in on several counts. Yet, I don’t belong here. I miss a sense of connection. Sometimes, I simply miss pain. Seeing and feeling it.

Years ago on a Mumbai sub-urban train, I found myself face-to-face with a girl with unending streams of tears down her cheeks. We sat quietly for the length of my 20 min long journey. She did not try to hide her tears. I neither pretended to ignore them nor did I reach out to comfort her. A few months later, I found myself making the same journey back home, this time the tears gushing down my face. On board a packed local train in Mumbai, I could weep without feeling embarrassed or being comforted by strangers. I thought it was the most considerate gesture. As though the city itself was comforting you by being comfortable with your pain.

Flash forward 6 years. I am cocooned in a nice big house and in a car when I step out. On the metro system, all of us are glued into our smartphones. Lots of emoticons, very few emotions. We are always polite and friendly to each other, always smiling in this Land of Smiles. You need to be a "happy and positive” person to make new friends in this new city. You need to sound happy to your mother over phone or else she’ll simply say “I told you not to leave home”. You need to maintain a happy front for your husband for isn’t this the good life we wanted – nice house, cool car, exciting foreign city, good disposable income?

I am struggling to understand this still but its becoming clear that comforts and convenience alone do not define quality of life. There needs to be a sense of connection beyond your immediate family. With the city you live in, the people around you. In my case, even a need to anchor myself to a city. I am thinking of an old Dido track –

“If my life is for rent and I don’t learn to buy,

                        I deserve nothing more than I get, for nothing I have is truly mine”

Arms like Michelle, Knees Like Jodie

I know what I want.

Arms of Michelle Obama.

Knees of Jodie Foster.

Hairstyle of Demi Moore in Ghost.

Lifestyle of Tim Ferris.

Parenting cool of Sandra Dodd.

The unsettling thing is that I seem to be getting closer to what I want. And it makes me question if that is really what "I" want. Would it be fulfilling to become a collage made up of parts of different people, however awesome they might be ?

In the quest for assembling this collage, am I missing out on connecting with myself ? Understanding what constitutes me, nurturing what's unique within, learning to express myself ?

At what point does inspiration from others cross the line to become an excuse for avoiding getting to know your self ? I seem to be past that point.

Thankyou "HER" for making me see that.

My Mother. My Hero.

My mother is going through one of the hardest phases of her life. She finds herself alone, helpless, bitter, humiliated, angry and, clueless. It’s a dark storm that she seems to have decided to bear out, hoping that like all storms- this too shall pass.

I find our roles reversing, me always trying to help sort her way through this hellish chaos. It’s been going on for a while. Long enough for me to start thinking of her as a child who needs constant guidance and support.

I couldn’t be further away from the truth.

Well, you see, my mother, she’s tough as nails. She’s the reason I am the person I am.  At those critical junctures in my life, she is the one who has taken stands and made decisions that most parents won’t for their daughters.

When my father thought it wise to handle the tantrums of a 12yr old me with the choicest expletives delivered amongst an audience, my mother told him in private to hold his tongue going forward. To me she said to not approach him for money anymore. She became my ATM for next 9 years till I could fend for myself.

When my father questioned my request to go out for a movie with classmates after our board exams to celebrate with a “Why?”, my mother swiftly responded “Why not?”.  Thereafter, my brother and I were equally, not differently, questioned about our outings.

She made sure I was treated equally so I feel like an equal. I have always taken it for granted. This sense of freedom, of self-worth, of equality.

The more I look, the more I see women being given a raw deal. What is most frustrating though is their acceptance of the deal. I am coming to realize that they have been raised to accept sour deals. To not think of themselves as deserving something better, to always compromise and keep their voices low. We are all the victims and beneficiaries of our upbringing.

I see my own mother struggling with her raw deal, trying to salvage it for what its worth. I ache seeing her repeatedly get wounded, knowing that it’s her private battle. I just need to stay put and lend her an ear or a shoulder or both, whenever she needs it. And need to keep reminding myself, that it is SHE who is my mother, my hero.

The Maternal Instinct Bunkum

I must be a bad mother.

I have had a baby inside/outside of me for 20 months now.  But am yet to feel those sweeping insurmountable surges of love for my son every now and then. Am yet to know instinctively how to tackle his painful bouts of constipation, disturbed sleep, fluid intake level, introduction to solids and other such countless decisions that are best left to a mother’s instinct.

But I am not a bad mother. I know that now.

I have stood by and let my life be turned upside down in unimaginable ways. I have endured, mostly smilingly, the sheer monotony of being with a small baby day in day out without a single night away, without a single night of uninterrupted sleep. His smallest discomfort agitates me till I can make it go away. I have made those countless decisions for him based on tiresome iterations, research, networking and doc consultations, no thanks to an elusive father and the even more elusive instinct.  I have seen the dynamic of my marriage change oh-so-quietly in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

And yet.

Life without him is no longer an option. He is a part of me. He smiles and everything seems a bit brighter. He poops, and my body feels a bit lighter.

I have consciously taken up the responsibility of bringing him into this world. And I will play my role well.

But don’t try to con me with the maternal instincts bullshit. It’s just a term this male dominated society has coined.  To keep women feeling perpetually guilty and striving harder to be that perfect mother who does not and cannot exist.

I have waited patiently for my maternal instincts to surface. They haven’t come knocking yet. I am no longer expecting the doorbell.

Marriages...like business after all

They say businesses can be set up as partnerships, limited liability companies, private or public limited companies. I say so are marriages.

Partnerships: Partners come together of their own will predominantly. They make big decisions together. If their partnership succeeds, they benefit equally. If it doesn't, they suffer equally. Commitment to each other is absolute and foremost, no boundaries drawn.

Limited Liability Companies: Just a weaker partnership, not necessarily a weaker marriage. Some boundaries exist. Partners are committed, yet withhold some territory as theirs alone. Like a private nest egg, veto rights on big decisions, an ex they still want to keep as "friend". Think love marriages with pre/post nuptials coded in.

Private Limited Companies: I think of traditionally arranged marriages as best fitting this format. The broad framework is drawn up beforehand between families, not the partners. These relationships operate as conglomerates. Marriage is less of a relationship between two individuals than an alliance between the families. Ledgers are maintained judiciously and accounting is sounder, not necessarily fairer than partnerships and LLCs.

Public Limited Companies: These are the real jewels in the basket. Auctions are set up and the highest paying bidder who benefits from this alliance wins the catch. Think middle class families raising their boys to be IAS officers in the hope of escalating their economic status in one marital sweep. Think marriages between business houses. Public offerings done not so privately.

I thought I had registered my marriage as a partnership. Am finding out it really is an LLC.

In which format is your marriage registered ?

 

Garam Masala

I have my favorite food columns. Jamie Oliver is so cool. The few recipe books collected over the 5 years of marriage are filled with enticing recipes. Yet, its another matter altogether to actually step into the kitchen and take charge of your food, three times a day, day after day. I am fighting my inertia to become friends with the kitchen. We are a bit awkward with each other right now.

You dig out a recipe. It seems so simple when you read it. When you actually set about it, atleast some ingredients are missing. You set about making tandoori chicken, and land up making garam masala. So you dig up a recipe for garam masala. Sanjeev Kapur says 10 things are needed. To hell with 10 things, you'll make it with 6.

You measure, you roast, you grind. You take off the lid and the magical aroma of freshly ground garam masala hits you. Sweet success.

The kitchen and you could be friends after all.