Did i really write about mosquitoe last weeks? Mosquitoes? Seriously?
The mortification...of being knocked down in the middle of the street, and the requiem of words past including an ode to the bane of Nimrod’s life. This beats the time I had argued for us to go easy on the mosquito as its not that it has some other purpose in life, koee alternative livelihoods scheme bhee nahee.
So the countdown to Year One begins. And as mothers, very well meaning mothers before me have wondered, where oh where did where did time go?. Kuch ishq kiya and sadly bahut kum kaam kiya. So I escape you sweet child while you dream and retreat to my cloister of words, and the keyboard and the dim light of the screen. I potter around the house, this past year you gave me the gift of peace and slumber when my head hit the pillow but somehow as we approach your birthday I feel my body breaking free of the skeins of sleep. It has been a beautiful year I admit, of wonder and laughter, of comradeship in spaces I never imagined. And there have been days of tears and frustration and what my sister labels the Bad Farent Fairy visiting us. And than the personal and political overlapped, but you precious waded through those pools as well, and I am hoping will not hold it against me. And now we have Wilco to share, these past three days have been good as we have found our groove you humming away as I play with words (Thankyou Parul, remember Mama Ka Top pehna chahiye? We have now the case of Mama Ka Laptop chahiye... so he is pounding away at the keyboard of a spare laptop furiously trying to figure out why it doesn’t sing out to him as mine does. Yes yes hamarey waqt may we only had a spoon and a piece of string to play with but if we are to bequest a shittier world to you Arhaan let me make some things nicer for you).
Kiran had tagged me to write some honest stuff about ourselves and I am thinking about taking it up as a First Birthday present for you. OK, confession time. For all my talk about tolerance and pacifism, I leave your dad all flustered with my cajoling him to go out in the balcony and scream at the noisy people in the street, Im really trying to build a solid reputation as the Crazy Woman who Lives Upstairs so no one disturbs your sleep precious. I fantasize about vats of hot oil that will go splish splosh over the railing, sigh. And though I am my own competitor( Im constantly in a race to better my record) what impressed me about your dad was how he was nonchalant even when he lost a game. People can live like this as well, kamaal hai.
I was always one for the underdog but I hate Susan Boyle. I cry every time the little boy in the detergent ad straightens up his school tie to prove a point to judgmental old man . Kahan Kahan Sey Aajate hain, but cant warm up to someone who did clearly move places.
My favourite part of the day is when we picnic in front of the TV lunch time. Partners in crime we go through each other’s lunch plates , you polish off what looks good on mine, I am satiated with a mishmash of baby hugs, kichdi and gulab jamans.
My excitement when you plonked down to watch Sesame Street, and my alarm at the desi pronunciation on the street. I bow my head in shame, how duplicitous of me to be get you messed up with the currency of accents and accumulating social capital.
And some years from now when you look at your birthday party pics (which is over the weekend) you will look back at me and whisper You threw this carnival? And I will sigh and tell you about all my well meaning intentions, and how your father teased me that I was being very Bachchan. Do masti magic all year long and when it comes to inviting people groan about a sick parent, (the state of health of my country in my case). So dear dear mothers stop fighting it, you may protest and declare that it will be just baby and baba, but come the First Birthday there will be two hundred balloons in your living room waiting to be blown up.
To be continued.