TAMED BY A HEARTBEAT!!!

This tale commences with a journey that began nearly three decades ago. It tells the tale of a girl; spirited, passionate and unmindful of the perils in life. As youth decrees, she was the mistress of her fate…sure of her powers, aware of her strengths, mindful of the weaknesses that sometimes threatened her independence. Nothing was amiss in her world where every circumstance could be bent to her will and all failures came coated with the promise of tomorrow.

This is the story of every girl…yet it’s my story. This could be every girl we know…yet it’s me! This journey that began with a girl…has become my story and hence the narrative from now on shall be mine. At the risk of being accused of narcissism, I shall proceed with my tale.

I have never really found it easy to conform to norms. When I was younger, the thrills of questioning tradition were often surpassed by the joys of breaking them. As a youngster, I believed that I was infallible…perhaps I still do. I love taking life by its horns and as a girl I did it with a single-mindedness that often made my parents question my genetic lineage! In many ways, I cannot deny that I am wild…not in pagan terms but in the sense of being uninhibited. I am not vain, yet I am proud of who I am. I am not callous, nor am I immune to the prudence of friends and family…yet, I believe in living life on my own terms.

Even my dear room mate has often been flummoxed by my zealousness and my quest to venture into unchartered territories! After nearly four blessed years of marital bliss, his initial sense of alarm has now turned into benign acceptance. I do occasionally bring out some measure of scepticism, but those occasions are few and far in between. Life was chugging along beautifully in this manner when a blast of expected events stopped me unexpectedly in my tracks!

It is perhaps one of life’s little ironies that things always come back full circle. Perhaps our Maker smiles at all our follies, content in the knowledge that he will always have the last laugh. This new twist in the tale is from a seemingly innocuous little identity that would soon be around to enrich our lives! All my bluster, all my bravado, all the mesmerising experiences; almost everything faded into oblivion the day we discovered life had a new gift in store for us. We were going to have a baby!!!

A baby!! As I devoured details from books, websites, doctors and folks, I was enthralled by the transformation that I noticed around me. All imperfections became insignificant. My routine…nee my life now hovered around the middle…my middle…my belly. The sanctum sanctorum of my new-found existence; where I was nurturing life. I never assumed for a minute that things would be any different than before. It was a new experience, no doubt, but like every other thing in the past, I assumed once the novelty wore off, I would accept things more realistically and move on. After all, this is me!

As days turned into weeks, scientific facts became physical reality. Changes to my anatomy were inevitable. I couldn’t refer to my belly as “stomach” any longer. It was now a womb. I was breathing for two, eating to nurture and living to provide for another. I was touched, honoured, awed and extremely humbled. As I grappled with these emotions that were new and totally unlike me…realisation soon dawned that I was fighting a losing battle to hold onto to the girl of the past. The girl was now a woman. And for the first time, I was a willing prisoner to circumstances beyond my control. Indeed, life had turned a full circle.

Every relationship has a turning point. A moment in time that is so significant, it overwhelms us with its poignancy and threatens to choke us into breathlessness. As the weeks progressed, and my attachment to the life within grew monumentally, I believed that I would now be adept at this new phase in life. Just when we decide we have mastered the unknown, the Maker smiles again. This time, when I felt His smile, I lay on the examination table…listening to the medical practitioner’s jargon and content in the knowledge that things were progressing well. My room mate lovingly held my hand in a gesture that bespoke of the joy we were sharing together. It was a scene straight out of a home-made family drama and I smiled as I thought of it.

Thup Thup Thup! Thup Thup Thup! Thup Thup Thup! I almost shot off the examination table. The hand that clasped mine, momentarily clenched with surprise and alarm! The doctor smiled knowingly and confirmed what we had briefly suspected. Twice as fast as mine, the staccato beats were assurance that our little one was fine. It was our first brush with the baby’s heartbeat!! We heard the little heart galloping away, singing the rhapsody of home-coming, telling us we had made magic possible. We heard it together, my room mate and I, holding each other’s hands, soaking in the sound and sending silent prayers to the Maker. I forgot him then, I forgot the world and I forgot my existence as I knew it; wanting only to listen to that heart-song forever. I knew then that life would never be the same; I would never be the same. The magic that had touched our lives that day still lingers and awes us. I cried copiously on that examination table, uncaring for eyes or ears that would perhaps belittle me later. My room mate sat there with a grin so infectious, it made the doctor comment that if it wasn’t for his ears, his grin would have gone right around his face!

I am amused by own gentle caution now. Every waking hour, every conscious thought, every desire, every action is now dictated by a love that has transcended the realms of choice. I am now a willing slave to a lifetime of possibilities. The impulsive girl has taken a backseat. In her place is the woman who has been tamed by a heartbeat!!

CAVEATS, COOKBOOKS AND CONDESCENSION

I am perhaps every mother's (and mother's-in-law's) worst nightmare. I HATE cooking! There, I have admitted it. I do not feign to be part of the growing breed of the new age women, who proclaim their apathy to culinary skills as part of a self-righteous, liberating experience. My lack of culinary skills stems from a pure indifference to the tastes and flavours that are essential in grooming one's palate.

Innumerable reel space is nowadays being devoted to the fact that girls are shunning the kitchen space and sweating it out in places other than over the kitchen stove! I gloat and giggle, each time I see these frivolous elucidations on what the current generation of damsels revere. It justifies my stance and lulls me into a comfortable haze where I do not stand alone in my vicious dislike of all things culinary!

Whenever I try and conjure up a memory of my childhood, I recall my mother, cooking up some delicacy with steamy precision and loving fervour. Her kitchen was her shrine and my playground; where I twirled with girlish delight to tantalising aromas which were as heady as any liberating elixir. I always assumed that I was destined to bask in these flavours from afar, only dive into the comforts of victual ecstasy as and when desired.

Cut to the present. I share dwelling space with a room mate who was pretty sanguine about my cooking skills. He never took it upon himself to put culinary skills in the fine print of our marital agreement. When I repeatedly washed my hands clean (literally and figuratively) of all trysts with the ladle and stove, realisation slowly dawned that I was a lost cause.

Having a cooking handicap is not without its fair share of benefits. Nobody expects a gourmet meal where I am concerned. When people visit us, they always enter with trepidition; send silent prayers to their guardian angels, whenever there is a dinner/lunch invite involved. So anything that is better than a disaster is lauded and commended in a manner that would make my neighbours believe I am a prodigy (I still think of myself as a babe in the woods as far as cooking is concerned.) of some sort!!!

Over the years, I have been gifted with scores of cook-books. "Basic Cooking Skills", "Cooking Tips for Amateurs", "Easy Microwave Cooking", "Cook Books for Bachelorettes and New Brides", I can probably open a bookstore of my own. I have them all, courtesy of well-wishers who pity me enough to try and save my soul (via the stove, of course!). But by far the best gift that I have received has been from my loving room mate; a list of all restaurants in the neighbourhood with home-delivery services!!! Whoever said "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach" is sadly mistaken. I believe the adage should be, "The way to a man's heart is through home delivery!"

I know I stupefy friends and family alike, with my imprudence in the cooking department. My lack of judiciousness is often viewed with derision and sarcasm. I do believe it is a personal choice. I appreciate all those men and women who can conjure up some gourmet delight without batting an eyelid or breaking out in cold sweat! My expeditions into the kitchen have always been accompanied by some disastrous calamity. The nimbleness with which my fingers can type this verbose eulogy to cooking is a far cry from the gauche manner in which they approach the goods and goodies needed to make a meal. I flit and flitter, curse and mutter, run and ruin, boil and burn, all the while dropping precious ingredients onto the floor and precious moments from my life. What is the logic behind slaving for hours to cook a meal that is usually devoured in less than half an hour?? One of life’s little ironies that I refuse to succumb to…Perhaps I sound foolishly pompous. Indeed, I have given “cooking skills” more than its fair share of credit just by devoting so much literary space to the same.

Even my cook (to cater to our hunger pangs) scorns and scoffs at me whenever I declare that some of her preparations do not taste the way they are supposed to. She remains unmoved and unapologetic about her transgressions with the ingredients/spices and I hold my peace because frankly, I do not know what ingredients are truly required to make the said dish!!

Till date I fail to comprehend the differences between the varieties of pulses, rice, and vegetables that flood the grocery market. One would think that buying groceries would be a fairly simple job… I used to think so too, till I headed out on my first solo shopping expedition. I am quite popular with the vegetable and commodity vendors in our district, since I am probably the only person in the vicinity who is the source of some wonderful entertainment…all at my own expense of course!

I will never be a good cook, much less an expert one. It suits me well enough, this image of being the millennium’s worst culinary project. Over the years, I’ve had my share of showdown’s and burnouts in the kitchen space. For the peace and well-being of all those involved and interested in the serenity of my humble household, I have cheerfully relinquished all the commodities and the claim to the gastronomic quarters to my cook-in-need! And for those who plan a dining visit, this declaration comes with a monumental sense of relief!!

FROM AMRITSAR TO AMERICA!

Most Indians are infatuated with the west. This statement in itself does not invite any contradictions, I am sure. The level of infatuation varies from person to person, so it would be a tad bit unfortunate if I were to generalise. This post is a not-so-sombre ode to the wanna-be's and the not-so-fortunate never-will-be's.

I visited the US for few days recently, for official reasons, of course. (Now that I am deriding the wanna-be's, I cannot seem like one myself, can I?) Trying hard to overcome the disorientation that accompanies long flights, I managed to drag myself to work during the first few days. I was comforted by the soothing presence of my fellow compatriots and revelled in the fact that I would feel right at home, amidst them all.

Even my travel induced stupor could not protect me from what I was in store for. "Yo Dude!", said my very desi friend! "Whatcha doin?". I leaned in for a closer look. The accent was wrong, but the guy was not! Here we were, all born and bred desi's, and the accent was just shining through! I assumed he was just putting it on to entertain us, so I shrugged it off.

Surprise, surprise! There was more of the same to come! I have a friend whose kid has recently started going to playschool. Apparently the playschool teacher is a Mallu. The kid now says "Twingle Twingle liddle star! " aka Mallu's version of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I was amused by the story and amazed at the way a child absorbs things. As we grow up though, we stop retaining as many words and phonetics. So, it was incomprehensible to think that any grown-up could start emulating words from a foreign land and in a foreign accent!

Each day there was more of the same. "I ain't comin" "Give me five dude" . "Good Morning" had been replaced by "Hey there!" . I was transfixed! This northy friend of mine had been to the US for a shorter span of time than the time he had spent while commuting between home and office in India. Yet the trappings of the west were loud and clear. With a "Starbucks" coffee mug in hand, (coffee that he now swears by) this munda had now graduated from "salwaar clad behenji's" to "bikini clad 'babes'(!)"

The talk around the lunch table now hovered around visa stampings, US universities, soccer matches and beer. The swagger was American and the clothes even more so! The glint in his eyes (I cannot call it a twinkle and make it seem romantic) evinced his conviction that he had arrived.

Most of my north indian friends cannot complete a grammatically sound sentence in English, let alone converse in the language. They talk in Hindi, think in Hindi and even walk Hindi, if such a thing is indeed possible. Yet here he was, our very own munda from Delhi, talking the Talk, walking the walk and trying to be Mr.America. Even as I walk away, I know this synergy will transcend back home, compelling yet another genaration of Indian's to become "wanna-be's".

There are scores of Indians who aspire to visit the "land of opportunites". Even as I pen this, a friend plans the birth of his child in the US of A. "Its a bid to give the unborn child, access to opportunities and facilities that I have never had", he assures me! I marvel at them all. Their reasons, justifications and self-consoling ruminations!

There is a whole breed of them. The ABCD's (American Born Confused Desi's) are now being seconded by the new ABCD's (America's Breed of Confused Desi's). The former has no sense of belonging and the latter do not belong. From Krishna to Chris, from Amritsar to America, the story of a thousand words has only just begun!

THE OTHER SIDE OF MIDNIGHT!

This is not the corny title of a Sidney Sheldon spoof, nor is it a sequel to the original. It is as simple as it sounds...the other side of midnight... Call it what you may, "dawn", "sunrise", "early morning" or whatever else may suit your fancy. To me, it is a time of sweet succour.

If I sound repititive, it is owing to the fact that I give such a lot of importance to the wee hours of the morning! The time of day, which most people proclaim , is the most productive. Personally, I believe it is the most beautiful time of the day. Before we digress, or misunderstand each other, I am most enamoured with it, precisely because I spend most of it sleeping! In those last few moments of stupor, when the morning sun beckons us all, the urge to pull on the quilt and sink into a few more stolen moments of obilivion gives me the biggest rush of all. This is the most tangible feeling of spiritualism that I shall ever achieve, in fact the only one that I want to.

Mistake me not! There are those (unfortunate) folks who revel in their new-found early-morning productivity. I have the privilege to share my humble lodgings with such an inspired soul. He thrives on rising bright and early and takes immense pleasure in his early morning chores. I am aghast! I bemoan the fact that those blessed few moments of early morning bliss are so contemplated, derided and then cast aside! It is an unspoken pact, tenuous yet permanent, wherein we let each other be. There have been occassions when I have peeked out from my cushioned, quilted, comfortable haze to see this enlightened soul questioning the lethargy that engulfs my waking(literally) hours. I have listened to discourses on the twittering of birds, the blissful sunrise and the unadulterated healing powers of the wind god, all in an attempt to help me awaken(sigh) to the merits of rising early!

I am nocturnal! I say that unabashedly, gleefully and with some amount of vanity too! I have grown up to stories like Cinderella where the midnight hours bring disaster if little girls and budding princesses are not in bed. There must be a valid reason for this element of caution in this fairy tale. If the fairy godmother did not deem it fit that her god daughter should stay up till the wee hours of the morning, she must have had a valid reason for doing so!

In the last few moments before mortal compulsions drive me out of bed, I meet my maker! I meet him in the sense of serenity that engulfs me in my personal space, in the languour that makes me defenseless against the world and enables me to relish it, in the sun-kissed patterns that draw visions across my bedroom floor and in snuggling into the covers when a peek at the clock gives me a few more minutes of slumberous solitude.

We amass wealth, build palatial homes, spare no expense in the decor and make our personal living spaces as comfortable as possible. Then we contradict all that we have done thus far, by spending minimal time enjoying these worldly comforts. I love all the trappings that allow me to to pamper myself. And then, sleeping my worldly worries off is therapeutic.

On the other side of midnight, a new day takes shape, with a sense of purpose, with new promises and with everything to offer. On the other side of midnight, the world is mine for the taking, awaiting my moves and beckoning me to give it all I have. On the other side of midnight though, the world can wait. Its my world and I shall decide when to meet it. On my own terms, in my own time , with a spring in my step and a song in my heart...

On the other side of midnight, the sun awaits my approval. On the other side of midnight, I rise and shine and the world welcomes me. I let in the sunshine, welcome the wind god and with heavy lidded bliss, I am the mistress of all that I see. On the other side of midnight, I dream anew. I awaken to life, love and hope. With the last embers of sleep that I dispel, I am replete. On the other side of midnight, a new world is at my feet!

BANG! - A - LORE !

I live in Bangalore! Perhaps that declaration should suffice. Without mincing any words, however, as usual, I have to get into a detailed account of what has prompted this onslaught of words on all those least suspecting the same.
I thought that I had seen all that the city has to offer...but wonders never cease, do they? Each morning I see the Garden City in a new light! Every pothole, every new crevice on the road is a new discovery. Whosoever said the path to success is full of hurdles, must have envisioned the city as it is today. But hey, aren't we supposed to see the silver lining in everything we come across? Yeah, so we are all being trained to be cross country race drivers! Narain Karthikeyan may have the distinction of being the fastest Indian in the world, but we Bangaloreans will definitely be acclaimed for our motor skills! We should be grateful to the government for giving the ordinary denizens of Bangalore this unique opportunity!
Each morning I wager with myself. Will I reach office on time? Perhaps, perhaps not. Then there is the thrill of racing against time. Against the nameless, faceless enemy that pushes us all beyond the realms of reason. Its an absolutely fascinating experience. Honestly, who would want to miss out on all the excitement of horns blarings, drivers swearing, pedestrians doing feats that would put Olympic Athletes to shame and most of all, the tenacity of the govenment not to succumb to public pressure. Truly, it happens only in India!
I am now adept at identifying traffic jams and can classify them into clear-cut niches. There is the omnipresent "His car hit mine" jam, the highly frustrating, "I do not follow lane discipline" jam, the "traffic police has disappeared from the junction" jam and so forth, to name a few. Each new day, I see a new form of "jam" and I am thankful that that I am able to add a few more to my repertoire.
Then there are the trenches! Can any write-up be complete without a mention of the same? I take the liberty of calling them "trenches" because I perceive that as a more romantic embellishment of the word "ditches". Every road must have a trench. I firmly believe this is a better constraint than having a speed breaker and adds to the allure of driving. It tests your skills, perseverence, patience and most of all lets you know if your vehicle can endure the duress! In a few years, we can build that underground train that everybody is whispering about! Think of that! We will save ourselves years of digging and plodding through layers of debris! Cost cutting and planning at its best folks!
Then there is the employment issue. If people at the helm were to build a road that was uniquely efficient and which able is to stand the test of time, what will happen to the scores of labourers who earn their daily wages, every time there is any construction activity undertaken? Where would our contractors go to earn that little extra revenue if not by siphoning public funds? And how would our governments afford their international sojourns (for bilateral trade and diplomacy of course!) if not through contracts such as these?
Let us not forget that we have come a long way since the stone age. Just as fashion trends revert to the classic styles of the past, so should civilisation. After all, we have to experience the thrills that our ancestors had. This not only leads to bonding with the forefathers, it will also give Bangalore the distinction of being the only society that lives in a time warp. Think of it, we have no need for a time machine...a few more years and we will sufficiently cross the stone age as well.
I wonder what this hue and cry is all about? Crumbling infrastructure? Chaos in the streets? Inadequate disaster management resources? What is all that about? I think we expect too much. If only we did not covet so many things at one time. Who says there is government apathy? Most certainly I do not! If the government was indifferent, would it have gone public trying to identify which political party was to blame for the so-called misfortunes of the city? Would there have been so many telivised programmes highlighting the so-called "mess" we are in?
The government is taking action...its just that the action is intangible. When one can belive in the almighty, why can't we believe that our politicians are doing good work? So we will hear of it in five or ten years? So what? What's the hurry? We all have to live here anyway. Besides, its not like we can get anywhere fast even if we wanted to...remember the "trenches"?
Well this is more than what I am willing to say about the issue...if ever it was an issue. We need to move on people! Get on with your lives! The city is beautiful...and like most other things, the beauty is the eyes of the beholder. So, don't play the blame game...visit the ophthalmologist! Perhaps he can clear the haze that has clouded everybody's perception....perhaps! God Bless!