The three blind mice and the rat race- Are you in it?

Had I known that growing up into the future would just mean racing, I would have probably practiced more on my sprinting- abilities and grown up to be an ace racer .  But then the leap towards this kind of present  demands more than what an Olympic sprinter can achieve. It tracks down to the  rat-race mindset, which blindly follows what the other racer does. So, begins  my journey with the three blind mice.
 

They outrun the chase like the rats with no face

As a mother of two kids, with one at KG and the other primary level, I  felt the pulse of the stifling competition, that would even challenge toddlers to scale mountains.  Right from school selection,       academic  goals, extra –curricular activities to futuristic career-paths,  it is the rat-race and it starts early. Blinded by  academic obsession, competition and power , the race sucks in the spirit to excel individually  and brings out the SHADOW of a herd with a single aim:- to beat the arse out of a rival than reaching the peak of performance.

What do the three blind mice say?

• Academic obsession:  I saw the flip-side of  ganging up with mothers’  who had kids of my children’s age. Apart from the usual chit-chat over chores and troublesome maids, the conversation always veered towards the children’s academic progress.

 Where we as the beacons of light and largesse of patience for our little ones, should allow them ample space to blossom in time, we become even more rigorous in pushing our kids to the far-limits of competition. Here, one mother would set the benchmark for other mothers to follow. She would declare that her kid(s) are the performers, par-excellence and eventually share her facebook details , just to show the evidence of performance to all the awestruck and disbelieving mothers.

(Facebook might have  its share of woes, but  for mothers with a singular objective for tooting their kids’ trumpets, it serves the purpose well, as a public platform). It is received with awe no less and jealousy even more  (after all the whole purpose of making it public, is to create the impression of “owner’s pride, neighbour’s envy”).

 Combined with jealousy, frustration and well, the academic rigour, the other mothers are entailed to join the rat race and buckle up their wards by comparing them with the top-graders and later lamenting over the lacunae left by their “ever”-playful kids with lesser academic zest.  The kids are absorbed into the rats’ clan and remain a mould with no shape given to their individual potential.(So, mark it parents, play-zones can become the territory of insidious infiltration by academic-struck parents, hatching plans of increasing the membership of the rat race)

• Competition: Whether you are capable or not, you have to compete. That’s the underlying principle of the rat race. You have to push, shove, jostle in the hustle and bustle. It is part of the game, except that its not played for the sporting spirit.  You won’t be surprised to find blood-thirsty mothers(blood , here refers to the lifeline of the overworked mothers pulsating with t ambition) reining in their children with a whip and a bridle to set them on track and to keep them running. Mothers become the devil’s advocate and propagate the policy of “All is fair in love , war and the rat-race”. Integrity lost, principles compromised  and the individual overshadowed, competition unleashes the herd and takes them to the far-reaching goal of the common.

The roads less travelled are lost in these tracks. Creative ideas die in the stampede and each child like it or not, settles for what every rat cherishes – a piece of cheese even if its found in the gutters of the strip-tease(after all, what is left once you reach the goal, the bare truth that everything is over and there is nothing more). Even as your kids give their rivals the brush-ho, there will be a time when they will not have any one to counter, none to beat. Then you feel the emptiness, the vaccum and the drain-out in your child. Would not it have been wiser, if they had been taught to compete with their own self, extend their potential to self-set benchmarks of excellence, than falling prey to the herd-mentality and suffering?)

 

• Power & clichés : Who doesn’t love to wield power? Who doesn’t like respect? Who does not want have a following? But the most common misconception about power is that we associate it with status and clichés. The generally followed principle is “I shall covet what thou hath”, so that you are hoarded with what the world has, and feel bestowed with power.  Be it joining a recreational activity or enrolling for an extra-curricular programme, there is a stereotype, which all mothers want to follow and which they think provides them the safety-net.  That how it is with cliché – it provides security and with security comes power, assumedly.

Should we blindly copy? Are we just the copy-cats(rats?) of the animal kingdom?

That’s how the rat-race attracts the mass. It thrives on the mindset to “imitate” and as we force our children to reach to the level of another (which according to us, is the pinnacle of excellence), we are unconsciously creating Xerox copies. Well, monkeys are better at imitating and parrots even better at mimicry, so which species  of the animal kingdom we hail from, by joining the rat-race?

But the precedent set by harried mothers is oblivious to these facts, they want their children just to outpace  the others in the herd. Seldom would they have thought, that such herds go berserk without a leader.

Should not we set examples for our children by inspiring them, leading them to take the lead in the direction of where their potential lies, excel and be the leaders of tomorrow?

No, for us, it is a matter of status to establish our prowess over the other boastful mom and shut her mouth out.  In the process, we shut out our kids, from the windows of opportunities, they fail to see in the rat-race rampage!

 The collective spirit but not the herd mentality – Quit the rat-race

The collective spirit but not the herd mentality – Quit the rat-race!
Where, we as a nation can rise to Olympian heights with the collective spirit, the herd mentality throws the spanner in the works. Where the former works on cohesion, the latter only operates on a dysfunctional, clichéd and constricted mindspace.  The spirit and mind should conjoin for progress and that’s the secret for success. If either one gets bound by the norms, statuses and power of the herd, it only creates a destructive force, one which simmers with an individual’s unused potential.
By thrusting our kids into the rat-race, we are only crushing their free spirit to explore, experiment , discover and learn. Well, much as we would like to blame it on the system are we not part of the same and contributing in every possible way to make it the way it is?

It does not need a revolution or Renaissance to create the change we seek.  It needs a beginning- an ignition to kickstart the process towards progressive thinking. Let us not get dragged into the rat-race, rather let us sprint towards new horizons to lead.

As the seeds of the future, our children deserve their individual space to turn into a full-bloom.  They seek inspiration from us to embark on the journey of discovery, which will not only nourish their soul but also sharpen their intellect and broaden their horizons of learning. And yes, in the process, they will blaze a trail and create an aura that  will be unique, distinct and very much the child you have loved and be ever proud of!

My encounter with Bakaasur@Green Glen Layout’- What would it take to go vegetarian?

According to the great Indian epic Mahabharata, Bakasur was a cannibal who terrorized a hamlet, by  gorging on the ‘delicious’ flesh of human beings. The villagers lived in the mortal fear of being consumed live, by the demon.  But as evil manifests, the good has to reincarnate with greater might. As destiny had it, the hamlet was saved from the demon, by the brave Pandava princes(Bheem), who slayed the demon  and established righteousness.

My encounter with Bakaasur@B’lore is allegorical to the above excerpt from Mahabharat.

 

The opening, the hope and the opaque dream to see VEG

 The bustling, self-contained colony, I live in, is dotted with restaurants of all cadres, cuisines and categories. Every new eatery that announces its existence is definitely to be tasted, tested and tried. And so it happened, that the marketing build-up to open a restaurant along the grand entrance of our colony of apartments,  had started to titillate the taste-buds of one and all. I for being a gastronome of the first water, was waiting with eagerness for the restaurant to come live with new flavours and secretly prayed that it would be a pure vegetarian restaurant.

The new and the rising, therefore held promises for me to bring home  a “Khazaana, of shaakahaari Khaana”. But the hope did not last long, when the nameless was finally baptized as “Bakaasur”

 

Did Bakaasur beckon?

Well, needless to say, this was going to be another of those out-of-the-world multi-cuisine restaurants, which Bangalore proudly sports in plenty. After all, the name “Bakasur” true to its origins, could never have evolved to embrace greens and eat from plaintain leaves!

But then the marketing hype around Bakasur could not go waste. It had to be tried and tested, as I was sure that even the NON-veg  doesn’t nullify the VEG in totality(I still hold the impression that some amount of veggies are kept in stock even in a pure non-veg restaurant, to stuff up the poor  creatures before they are drifted into the netherworld of the human gut!)

I dare to  venture into the forbidden @the Bakasur’s cave

The night, self and family decided to dine at Bakasur was one of those nights, which did not behold any special occasion.  But pressing  demands had drained out the last ounce of energy from my body, to even think of mustering some strength to cook and satiate some one’s appetite.

So with hunger pangs, striking us from all directions, we decided to make our maiden culinary journey through Bakasur.

The ambience was dark like a cave and I suddenly felt the presence of weird cave-like creatures around. They were the torsos of fierce animals, stuffed with the pride of man's victory over animals. I could anticipate  what was in store for me.

 

The aromas from the COOK’s lair

The ambience was complemented by the distinct aromas of lively creatures getting appropriately juiced and dressed up. ( being a vegetarian all my life, I could never fail to recognize the NON part of the whole affair, anywhere, anytime. It has always left me to wonder, as to how the dead could be spruced with such rigour by master chefs -after all even animals have a life- but then these chefs do it for a living). Just as doctors who whet their knives to cut, slice and layer, to prolong life-span; the chefs work in anti-parallel to add spice to the rather insipid dying and snuff their breath out!

 

On a platter

It took a long time for us to excavate something VEG in the non-VEG infested menu card and finally when we did, it looked like it would take eons to deliver the goods. But to keep us entertained, were the ongoing services to other tables, who were being served grilled chicken, mutton curry, fish-fries and a melange of other delicacies that sizzled to bring live the taste-buds from the mortal remains of another living creature!

 

Watching the fellow cavemen digging in

Well, we call ourselves the most evolved of the animal kingdom and the human in every aspect. Yet when I saw my fellowmen digging into their trough with such unrestrained enthusiasm,  i noted that:

1)      When a chicken thigh or breast  was bitten into, there was the savage look, that wanted to dig deeper into the flesh and proclaim “ I ain’t chicken and I will squeeze out every drop of blood from you”. Yes, it looked a battle for a cause, unknown . And the "blood-stained" lips that were licked to wipe out the last trace , made it look like I was witnessing a vampire still on a hot trail.

2)      The lamb chops were shovelled in with no less frightful zest. If the chicken did not satiate, the lamb chops, was the means to ultimate revelry. “Chomp and Crunch”, and one could discern the cavemen surging forth, to participate in an orgy(after all when ba-lambs are plucked from their moms, with a killer instinct, what comes in succession is a burning desire to display lust and therefrom  spring into activity )

3)      Meats and sorts: My lack of roots in non-vegetarianism thwarted any further classification  of the variety- fare around .  One thing that I found in common was the barbaric spirit  brought out in the so-called refined and reputable entities of society, all set to strike, with no strain of mercy!

Where art thou, human?

  Anything that crept,  crawled, slithered or flew as part of the diverse fauna, had found its way to Bakaasur’s belly. Here, they were squashed and churned through a wide array of techniques, in a way that could have provided ample stuffing for a crime-fiction thriller. 

But then, they were animals - the quadrupeds, whose free spirit was imprisoned in man’s territory. The very  man who evolved from these animals, with a higher intellect, a finer instinct to rise up to a humane soul that would protect and sustain life than destroy it. Even if eating non-vegetarian foods was a matter of personal choice, it did not justify the cruelty meted out to animals, in order to make them fit for consumption.  

I felt the same demon surfacing from the  “soul-less” blobs of flesh(not to affront my fellow humans), who were blissfully unaware of the crime they were perpetrating and the precedent that they were setting for the future generations – an inhuman act that would only leave behind a blueprint for regression. Were we falling back to the old stone age?

And so mulling no further, I declared Bakasur as the underbelly of predators, to be given the heave-ho, in no time. I left the place with a heavy heart and an empty tummy.  But then, I resolved with an iron will, to rise as a HUMAN for the meek quadrupeds and, speak!

 

 

 

 

 

The mystery of the colourful c*nd*ms

Along the drab roads of a concrete jungle , rainbows are a welcome sight. There is vivacity, a resurgent spirit that comes with a mix of the earth’s elements- something like fire and water coming together, sizzling and then splashing into colours in the name of a RAINBOW(and of course, rainbows are harbingers of hope as well, that despite all the tussle between man and nature, the latter endures and showers whatsoever for the parched earth )…

 An apartment for a home – “Vasudhaiva Kutumbhakam”(it means- “the world is your family”)

In the midst of this concrete jungle, self and husband  and my six-month old daughter took up residence in an apartment, which not only promised comfort but also projected a strong sense of community-living.   It celebrated neighbourliness in all aspects and, much to our surprise, when people preferred to shut themselves in to avoid nosey parkers, our neighbours welcomed the “aamney-samney” with open doors and open arms as well. The community spirit always rose above the skirmishes and the clashes prevalent in a cooperative society. After all, conflicts were pertinent to keep the bonding live.

Nurturing the family, within a larger family

It had been two years since I had become a part of this community living. It was therefore less wonder that there was much fanfare with a new addition to my family. Neighbours poured in, to bless the baby and extend a helping hand, for any impending crises bound to erupt with two kids with a small age difference, who could wreak havoc on a mother’s enduring power. Some did not hide their curiosity and astonishment for bringing in another member, too soon. I could never stop amusing myself, when my dearest neighbour and friend, would even hint at family planning and protected s*x  measures not being fool -proof. (seldom did they realize that freak accidents took place even while getting physical for “love”, with the least intention of bringing out an offspring from the whole affair )

 In cahoots- Colourful condoms - which colour do you choose?

Then, one fine day, my neighbour buzzed in, in an agitated state. There was severe blockage in one of the drain pipes. In rhythm with the daily maintenance of an apartment, one of the main drain pipes was found to be blocked and that threatened to put a stopper to the water outflow. To put  a lid on the burning issue, was the discovery of condoms, that were callously flushed down  the toilet and was termed to be the cause for the block. My neighbour was looking for a reaction, while narrating all this. I cautiously and calmly reassured her, that self and the husband, were leading the life of hermits, and neither of us wanted to test the virility of the male or the fertility of the female entities involved here.

 With all our energies exhausted  in fielding the demands of duelling siblings , could there have been any room for THIS?   That was reason enough for my neighbour to strike us out from the blacklisted suspects. 


The needle of suspicion – caught in the act!

With a hullabaloo centred on the source of colourful condoms, many residents gathered outside in the common area. Heated discussions went on  about the callousness of the culprits in the whole affair. One elderly lady blatantly declared that condom packs should neatly come with detailed instructions on their disposal(for a small pack, will they focus on lurid depictions to kindle the fire, or write boring lines of text, to turn- off a prospective consumer?).  Another piped in saying that it was a shameful thing to flush them down the toilet, rather than neatly packaging them in newspapers and trashing them. After all,  the contention was, if love-making was a secret affair, the assortment of techniques used to make it protective and non-procreative, should be even more secretive.

As the atmosphere was heated with discomfort, with shifty looks passing from one couple to the other, I threw myself  into convulsed  yet silenced laughter(which my fellow neighbours, sure would have perceived as shivers of exhaustion of long and lively nights). That was when the gathered residents blurted out with plausible and justifiable explanations. A few excerpts:

• The lady from the next block who had wrapped up her family-raising with a single child told  “I had got myself operated  long while ago. We don’t have use for condoms in our household”.(Well, if you go by the ads, there are those fancy condoms, which are simply used for pleasure. Now, we did not have evidence enough from the salvaged lot, whether they were used for pleasure or protection. So, she was not refuted)

• The elderly couple present were squeamish about the whole affair muttering about the over-indulgence in physical pleasures and bringing down the reputation of a respectable community. They started to recall the old days, when such things never left the premises of a bedroom. Their conclusion was that the modern age was getting saturated with the “besharam” couples.

• There was this newly moved in married young people. Pretty-looking wife, handsome hunk for a husband and an endearing 3-year old, who according to neighbourly wisdom would have never been ready for another sibling.  She was much abashed, when one naughty neighbour, teased her, whether she was still  “in-progress”. (it’s a shame that the Indian mindset still brands well-dressed women of any age, as the roaring flames of the night. For them, there is not even the narrowest escape from the route to seduction).  I could only sympathise with the young wife, as a deep colour rose to her cheeks, to match with the well-smeared kumkum on her forehead.

• A wise and wily neighbour pointed out about a newly married couple, residing in the floor just below hers. She said that there was all possibility, they were the ‘progenitors’ of the colourful condoms, as she had seen them engaging in foreplay(which according to her, was pinching the butt, and stroking the cheek), during every  “private” moment, stolen from prying eyes . Why could she not perceive them as mild or mere expressions of love? To add conviction to her theory, she mentioned about love bites(with the mosquito infestation in the place, it could have very well been the bugs' doing ) and faint moaning sounds that have stirred her awake.(all for the impervious and sound –proof nature of concrete buildings, I am sure she was blessed with bat-ears, or that she herself was making her nights live to be imagining on the same wavelength!),  which precisely pointed to a singular source- the newly- weds right below!   

(With the evidence and deliberations of the active neighbours, Hercule Poirot, had he been roped in to solve the mystery, would have employed his little grey cells to the greatest measure with no less twirling of his moustache)

At the outset, it was no less than King Arthur’s round table conference, the only difference being that there were no chivalrous knights gathered for a noble cause. But scandalised residents, who wanted to bang their heads about “undercover love” and its exposure, treating it like one big scam of the century!

As the afternoon sun hammered down on the anvil of the  condoms’ episode, the assembly started to show  signs of restlessness. But they wanted a resolution to prevent the recurrence of colourful condoms, captured agape in their sorry-full state.  The blockage issues apart, they wanted to highlight about the best disposal mechanisms of colourful condoms. They wondered if they could use the association forum, and put across their communication in black and white about the  incident and its disastrous consequences. Someone else suggested a call for a meeting (as if a collective body could influence individual tastes/lifestyles, by bringing about a depiction of the kama sutra or the modern erotica that would understate the need for colourful condoms)
But they shirked from making it  public  (what privacy was left in the whole episode, I wondered, the colours of the night had come to light).

Later, it was  decided, that we would rely on the old reliable “word-of-mouth” to spread  the news  to the blissfully unaware residents. After all they too needed that bit of  colour in their life. I personally was of the opinion that the condoms should enjoy more spotlight, after being the hotbed of discussions for almost a week.  More so, they were plumbed out from the deepest annals of Love in the Making. Where did those annals lead from, still remained a mystery but the colours it brought out still remains green and vivid in the memory.

Supernova Mothers(Exaggerations from an exasperated mother!)

 
 Even before the dawn breaks, our body clocks start ticking, to gear us up for the day-ahead, with a zillion tasks lined up. We forgo external battery chargers and rely on self-purposed motivation to keep us going.  After all, as women, we have attained the ultimate fulfilment of life, by delivering to the even more supreme role of procreation. The epitome of patience, a paragon of virtues, and the all-encompassing love,  the quintessence of sacrifice-what more do we need to sustain us?…. Welcome to motherhood! 
 
Whether it is handling one or more kids, mothers have reincarnated to assume different roles- from a homemaker, to a working professional, the expectant and the experienced mother; you can visualize a juggler, standing on a narrow ledge, trying to satisfy one and all in the family-framework.
 
We don different hats, step into different shoes and kickstart the day’s marathon with a supernova of energy.
 
  
 
The morning Rush hour
 
Sweet slumber and even sweeter chill mornings of the Bangalore climate…who would want to peep out from beneath the coverlets?  Yet we rise, and set a precedent for a quicker sunrise. But kids fail to see light in this whole affair, especially during school days. The sweet-natured mother first gives out cuckoo calls to awaken the sleeping devils. The cooing slowly rises to a crescendo of full-blown lung power( which has all the power to bring down the roof of the house). All failing, a poke, then a prod, a stir and then a shove to dislodge them from bed, is the technique which sensible mothers deem best.
 
 
 
 Breakfast time
 
Break- the- fast or break- your- neck routine, it is feeding time for kids, and it can’t be escaped. Here, no amount of experience serves the fussy eaters. You need to be creative, with the food preparation and the feeding technique. The hunger pangs from the night-long fast,  cower down before the rebellious spirits to eat what the mother wants to feed.    Yet the morsel has to go in. We coax, cajole, wheedle and whimper through super-hero stories(for boys) or delve into the secrets of Rapunzel’s long hair and pink cheeks(for girls). Or, as the last resort turn on the idiot box with the hope that it will turn on the “open” and “shut” mechanism of their mouths, and that the plate full of food slowly empties. All mothers, I am sure, secretly pray that the idiot box’s dumbness does not rub off on their children. But then  much as we would love to, should we spank them juicy and red, on their buttocks and unleash a cyclone? I would rather not, but cling to the hope that  “tomorrow will be another day” with the kids.
 
 
 
Potty, mothers go dotty.
 
 
 
I can never imagine as to why the expulsion of wastes from the human body is an exacting endeavour for children.  They simply don’t understand the deadly impact of controlling their potty, further piling on their mom’s aggrieved state of mind.  They would rather squirm and do a sitting snake dance than paying heed to their bowels. Potty time is never a whole-hearted endeavour. Where we adults would love to meditate and settle down with a book or  paper on the basket and release the saga of toxic thoughts from our bodies, kids think it’s a sheer waste of time!
 
 
  
 
 Bath time
 
There is more, a mother has to wade through, to help her kids out of the grogginess. In the bathroom, if it’s a trying time for the mother’s temper, its experiment time, for the ever playful kids. All scientific observations from why the water drains out with a hissing sound to the sinking and floating properties of empty and filled-up mugs, are carried out, when time is running out. You either patiently answer or satiate their scientific temper or risk facing a situation of watching tiny-things dropped in the potty basket. Well if the bucket of water cannot reason out with Science, the potty basket does the job successfully. The mother yet again yields.
 
 
 
Teddy-bears off to school
 
Ironing to polishing(self or outsourced) duly done, they wear their uniforms with crispy newness.  Last-minute search missions, threaten to strike, especially with the small- nevertheless- important essentials, which are sneaked out from a mother’s vigilant eye and are used as night pass-times. All for being organized, I guess the law of nature forbids too much of orderliness at one time, and chaos always has to reign in the kingdom of motherhood.
 
 
 
Mothers off to work
 
New space, new people, some pleasant, some obnoxious but the change is welcome, even if it means having a boss who is as stinky as a skunk or is as quick-tempered as a fire-breathing dragon. There are colleagues, who can offer empathy and keep you winding through  a wide range of gossips.  Join the merry-go-round and feel dizzy or simply watch the fun as the cheering spectator. You are out of the confines of your HOME and that is solace enough . After all, there is empowerment at the end of it all, a sense of “independence” to keep yourself groomed(workable) with your earnings
 
 
 
Teddy bears back, mothers all wound up
 
No afternoon siesta or power naps for worked up mothers. In the wink of an eye, its pick-up time for kids, refreshing them, feeding them yet again, getting them to do their homework. No period. That’s the biggest of them all: studying for the sake of their studies. Researching on the net, or shop-hopping for models and charts,  drafting worksheets, we are ever in tow with the kids, even in the academic front. Pushing them to the far limits of the rat race, we keep wondering  whether our “little rat”(not being abusive, after all our kids  do bound away, when we want to catch them the most) will get the prized cheese. But it is our energy that plays the driving force to lead them  and in the process,  drives us up the wall!  Cheese or no cheese!
 
 
 
 Playtime, terror strikes!
 
Before the day draws to an end, there is more in store- the much awaited playtime- a battling of  energies, which kids are so amply supplied with these days.  All the combatant forces converge in the playzone and then the battle begins- who wields the power, who is the better and who comes first, and stepping into prohibhited zones(the line of control simply disappears into the high-spirited escapades). The bullying, the bullied…
 
In the midst of all, a singleton mother becomes the SUPREME mother HEN for all kids, keeping a watchful eye, hearing out their grievances and pecking on the wrong-doer and making a desperate attempt to bring them together.(And in a flight of time, they might get holed up in their favourite hide-outs. Have they gone missing, you would think. Rest-assured, you will get a tinkle from a perturbed parent, who was forced to give them shelter and is rendered paralysed by the action-packed scene in her/his sweet home)
 There is no sign of the aggression abating and the mother HEN still maintains her stature and status as the indomitable, even as twilight sets in.
 
 
 
Star-spangled sky, mischief in the little twinkling eyes 
 
As the nocturnal creatures from the bats to the pesky mosquitoes, leave their nests, the kids still do not want to nestle in. Extricating kids from the playzone,  can be as tough and tricky as extracting a wisdom tooth. There is a catch, a dentist succeeds at all times but a mother probably will need a reorientation program to deal with the same situation. The best bargain you can strike at is give permission for an “in-house”  camp for a short time. Off the bounders go to a buddy’s house,  with promises to come back soon!
 
 
 
 In-house camps(When outdoor play is not enough!)
 
What happens on the new premises, only the gracious hosting mother knows. And I bow to that saving grace of a mother with all humility. As if one’s own offspring weren’t enough to manage, there are his/her buddies all set to act as artful as a cartload of monkeys, within the four walls of a house. Neatly set beds serve as the best trampoline () as they go about like jumping jacks from one end of the cot to the other. The sofas on the other hand, become the ground for acrobatic leaps and the whole house is turned  into a gymkhana of sorts. Praise be to all those mothers who bear it with aplomb!
 
 
 
 Time-out, bed time
 
With all their Energies spent, and their endless escapades, sleep kicks in but not without prodding.  Through  the eyes of a child, there is still so much to do, so many pranks to play and so much energy to drain out of their poor old mother. But they yield, for once and plonk on the bed. Beware, closed eyes do not indicate deep slumber. So I make sure that they are read out some stories that would sedate their excitement levels and bring them down to peaceful slumber. Once you hear the faint snoring(it is pronounced for kids with adenoids), you then know it is your time of the day.
 
 
 
Where was the better half all the time????
 
Time to catch up with your partner, hey?  You can sure catch up on the  inscrutable higher-ups or  wasteful wastrels at work or on the manipulated games of cricket played with no sporting spirit. Husbands are invariably the “angry young men” , whose assumed primary duty is to bring about a change in the system. They fail to understand that HOME is the first chrysalis of change, for which they are never willing to take charge.  Why bother, anyways, there is someone to take care of all the chores and his children after all, when fathers dearest are hell bent on making  the entire universe align  to their vision,. And if things don’t work out, who takes the brunt of it all?
 
  
It’s the meek WIFE, who tactfully turns a deaf ear to all the complaints about less salt and more spice in the sambar(and all this while I thought the right amount of salt was necessary to bring out the other flavours in a dish… talk about the blame game)
 
Women, luckily come in layers of packaging from the soft/supple crust to tough interiors. Oh they can withstand the hard blows of life much better. From love to love-making, they look beyond pain to give pleasure ….it is the SUPERNOVA mother,  to the fore again who never ends up mothering and taming the angry young man in her husband!
 
 
 
SUPERNOVAS after all
 
After the marathon run for the day, you end up tuckered out. You realize that the little bundle(s) of joy, who you had so much fun cradling, and who was your sole source of bliss, is/are growing up,  with each phase of growth demanding the same burst of energy, patience and level-headedness.
 
Well I do explode, many times and I love the spell of temporary calmness it creates. For once I manage to exercise control and that can be some respite for a freaked out mom.
 
 How often would have I sought that peace! But in retrospect,  when peace reigns and I slump back, I feel the unbridled spirit of childhood embracing me, to go bouncing with my kids on an expedition, where I will get to discover and learn as much as they do…and be the universe of energy bounding and rebounding… Are not we the supernovas after all?