What A Difference A Year Makes

24 Nov

A year. It’s been a whole 365 days since this happened and I played a cheesy Disney song to announce it.  Clearly, I’m not going easy on the cheese anytime soon, for here’s a letter I wrote my baby today, on his 1st birthday, as I watched him sleep and plotted how to sneak in a few kisses while he couldn’t protest. Thanks for being patient with my absence from this blog and coming along on this journey with me. Things will be more regular around here, fingers crossed, because we have a new series starting on the blog next week!


My precious pumpkin, Daddy’s titto tapeto, our babyjaan,
Today is a day I did not dream of. Blame it on your Mummy’s limited imagination. I couldn’t look past my pregnancy beyond the point of your birth. I knew the months that followed would be a whirl, a blur, and require all my resources, so your first birthday wasn’t something I actively thought about. Yet, here we are. And I’m short one infant and tall on a trailblazing toddler.

I have frequently wondered after having you why people (and parents in particular) focus so heavily on the hardest bits of those early months. They go on about sleep deprivation and 360 degree life changes. Nobody actively comes up to you and simply says this:
It will be more wonderful than you ever imagined.

And it has been. It is.
Except for 3 hellish days in the hospital at 9 weeks old, when you smiled at us through a haze of 103 degree fever, every day has been pure joy, every moment a blessing, every smelly diaper as fragrant as Kate Spade’s latest perfume. Okay, I kid about that last one.

From beaming megawatt smiles starting at 6 weeks to calling out to passersby in the park to charming a planeload of passengers, people are your thing. In your universe, there are no strangers, only babies and big people waiting for the immense privilege of showering Your Royal Divaness with attention. First-born much? To steal a line from Plath, you endow the sun with gold, our gleaming California raisin.

Before you arrived, I was convinced you would be your own person, with independent attributes and characteristics. So it came as a surprise (and a burgeoning sense of alarm) to see you were so like me. Not just the shape of my eyes and my poker straight hair and large flat feet, you have a giant dose of your mother’s rather… umm, wilful, voluble personality, and poor Daddy doesn’t know what hit him. Two fire signs in the house are a shade too much roaring for your patient, gentle father, the love of your life and clearly your preferred parent.

I am your dal chawal, your constant, your everyday. You can’t miss someone who won’t go away. But Daddy, he’s your tandoori chicken, the cherry atop the icing atop the butter sponge cake, and my gladdest, most contented moments this past year have been watching the two of you together, mock-wrestling, giggling, grabbing hair and collars and using Daddy’s ears as handles while perched on his shoulders.

You complete us in ways we never thought possible. Physically, Daddy and I are ready to retire and nap for 7 years. As late 30s parents, the relentless exhaustion of it all has taken a toll, to be honest. But we wouldn’t have had you at any other time. Because it is now that we are mature enough to enjoy you without sweating the small stuff, stable enough to be a team and provide well for you, and old enough to know what matters to us without getting into skirmishes with other parents on their opinions and preferences.

With the exception of your refusal to sleep through the night consistently, you’ve been an easy baby, doling out radiant smiles to everything in your path, staying on a schedule like a clockwork mouse, adjusting your own meal and nap times as you grew, and amusing yourself while I tended to chores. You are secure in the knowledge that you can roam free, Mummy is a mere grunt away at any given time, and I love how you look back to check for approval for just half a tick before you hurl yourself into new discoveries or at an unsuspecting person not used to your friendliness.

And this is what I wish for you today, my solitary-candled babe: Fly into this world that so fascinates you, fling your arms around it, I will ardently wish for it to love you back. And when you need the comfort of home, my sweet child, your dal chawal will always be waiting.

Happy birthday, mein Liebling. Mummy’s got the whole world in her hands. <3

Monsieur Monster Of The Two (and a half) Teeth

7 Oct

In California a wee monster roams
Waiting to creep into all of your homes
Flat of foot and frugal in teeth
I can assure you his name isn’t Keith

Explorer by day, hell-raiser by night
This shoe-chomping tot is quite a sight
In the home of the brave and the land of the free
He takes liberation seriously

Screeches and wails
To be released
Tries to eat snails
And every odd beast

He knows how to charm
From here to LA
Turns off your alarm
Then makes his foray

Don’t you be fooled
By the coos and the smiles
His parents are ruled
Until they’re slumped into piles

Before his appearance, Mummy would dine
Without the backdrop of a ceaseless whine
How must silence feel, she’d love to know
But when it’s quiet, it’s alas and oh no!

Now here’s the queer thing, this monstrous child
Makes Mummy’s heart sing and her hair look wild
She’ll take no sleep, she’ll embrace a mess
He makes her weep, she will confess
But this ball of Sun, every inch of her heart,
He’s the One, Prince BurpinFart. <3

Friday Feelings (in no particular order)

25 Sep

Poetry sorts my soul. Feeds it morsels of digestible nutrients, just as it is about to keel over from starvation. It swishes in, linen a-flapping, a crisp, brisk Nanny organizing my emotions, clearing out the clutter, neatly labeling, allotting buckets (transparent) so I may remember where I put my feelings.


In a moment of painful revelation, I see. Our love for each other will never be uncomplicated.
Perhaps I err. For the emotion is simple. It lays open unselfconsciously, in plain sight. But far too many feed off our cord. Sating their bloodlust on our abundance.
To the point where intrusion invokes murder.


Along with the gush of blood and birthing fluids came a rush of words. An unexpected side effect of labor. And, unlike the perfectly formed but fragile entity they delivered into my arms, the words they poured strong and insistent. Demanded I pay court. Danced circles around my shadowed eyelids and wouldn’t leave well enough alone.
So I wrote furiously in my head, even as the baby hungered at my breast; scripts and rivers and torrents flowed, swirling thick in the air around me. I breathed out lines. Sent them to live with my now-vanished placenta.

And such is the nature of new motherhood that nobody knew (until now) how much of the blood was the doing of my leech-like stories.

My Brother’s Protector

16 Sep

I wrote this on Raksha Bandhan a few weeks ago, but didn’t get around to sharing it. So I’m posting it today, on the occasion of my brother’s birthday, with a few timing tweaks of course. For another birthday post, read this.


The Parsi community I grew up in and around typically did not celebrate Raksha Bandhan. Seen as a Hindu custom not really applicable to ‘us’, I was looked at with mild amusement, an oddity for wrapping that rakhi around my brother’s wrist year after year. I did it because I liked the sentiment of sibling bonds. In return, I received an occasional cassette (remember those?) of whomever I was listening to back in the day. Frequently, I got nothing but an awkward hug. And it didn’t strike me as the least bit strange. Because the traditional notion of brother as Protector and Provider is, in our context, ridiculous.

Being five years older (and obviously wiser, more brilliant and all the good things that come with being born first), I rescued him from bullies, watched out for him, made up stories to scare the poop out of him, and will still gladly sit on anyone who is mean to the kid. (Note: ‘Kid’ is a 32-year-old married man.)

In my firmly feminist household, our mum didn’t wear the pants, she wore the whole suit. And our precious, gentle father’s ego wasn’t the least bit rattled by it. So nobody told me man = strong = protector, and to be honest, there was nothing much to protect me from in our relatively secure life in 1980s Bombay, where the most violence we saw was eccentric neighbors fighting over the last piece of pomfret in Moti’s basket. And so, imbuing Raksha Bandhan with no more meaning than sibling love, I continued to mail rakhis from wherever in the world I was.

“If anything, he should send you a rakhi,” pointed out the Boy this past Raksha Bandhan, because I am my brother’s protector, keeper of secrets, giver of unsolicited advice, and overall annoying big sister. My peaceful sage of a brother who can’t say boo to a goose isn’t going to rescue me from marauding hordes anytime soon. But he is the one–and very likely the only– person in the world who completely understands my uniquely South Bombay Parsi wear-your-slippers-or-we-can’t-take-you-to-the-Taj upbringing without judging it. He can give the most kickass financial advice, keep his trap shut when there’s something only he needs to know, stands up for me when our parents are being unreasonable pains, and we know we are each other’s family in a way even our parents can’t be.

As for the marauding hordes, they are welcome to try their luck. I foresee a whole bunch of men with excruciating hernias, begging the Boy to take me back.

Some Dates More Than Others

10 Sep

Apologies for being AWOL! I’ve been cheating on this blog with other social media and should really enter rehab. Or maybe just post oftener. Which would you prefer? I hope you enjoy reading this straight-from-my-bleeding-heart piece. And come back after you’ve wiped off all the mushy goop! I’ve got more posts lined up as penance.

In the meantime, I’d love to hear from you. What you’ve been up to, the most annoying thing about last week, your biggest accomplishment since I last posted, to tell me that there’s a universe beyond Baby Pooped Today!!!….or simply to say hi? :)


As teenagers, we would go shopping and she’d rein me in. “No, you cannot buy all seven tee shirts. Choose two.” And I’d grumble that she was my mother all over again.
When I was between degrees and unemployed, I packed up my life in far too many boxes and landed up to share her little room with an eccentric heater in Philadelphia. Freezing Philly winters were no match for this girl’s warmth.
When the Boy and I decided to get married and all hell broke loose, she gave me the confidence that I was doing the right thing. She spent the night before my wedding holding my hand and the morning of shedding quiet tears as I was dressed and made up.
Her hand was on my shoulder as I signed on the dotted line that would legally permit me to torture the man forever.
Her baby is my first baby. Moving away from him was physically painful. Forever a cheerleader for little girls, he taught me how to be mad about baby boys, setting the stage for the full blown Raja Beta Syndrome I now live with.
I informed her I was pregnant using an inside joke we had laughed about since college.

RRV[Credit: Raja Ravi Varma, Lady Holding a Fruit]

I named my son in her honor.
Considerate even as a zygote, she arrived on the planet 10 months ahead of me to vet the place for suitability. “It’s fine,” she yelled, giving me two baby thumbs up, “head on down!”
This girl I met a month shy of 16, I don’t know how I would have lived these past 21 years without her. But thankfully, I don’t have to know. Because we’re going to grow old and crotchety and annoy the eyeroll out of each other across the continents, an Indian in America and an American in India, for that’s how we roll, her and I.
Happy birthday, my J.
I thank the powers that be for September 10th, 1977.

Platform Three, Part Two

6 Jul

For Part 1 of this story, go here.


Kem chhe, Persis,” he asked gently, his eyes never leaving hers. Persis stopped to breathe deeply. In that breath, she traversed half a lifetime, to a place when, in their early twenties and giddily in love, Lohrasp had expressed his desire and devotion, and she had reciprocated fervently. He was her college friend Hutoxi’s brother, and Persis had amazed her parents, first with her dedication to studying for her B.Com. examinations at Hutoxi’s home and then by the poor percentage she had earned in spite of it. Secure in a moderately-paying job at State Bank, Lohrasp had brought up the issue of marriage with his widowed mother, to be met with hysteria, refusal, and emotional blackmail. ‘That colony girl’, Mrs. Dubash had ranted, was not good enough for her son, and he had no business picking his own life partner without his mother’s approval. Which girl from a decent family went and got herself picked by a boy instead of his family was what she would like to know, and nai jee, didn’t she know these aaj kaal ni chhokriyo with their short-short hair and midi skirts, fasaaoing poor innocent boys from good homes.

Persis had, at first, believed him when he assured her that it was a matter of time before his mother relented and saw her for the loving and beautiful girl she was. “Give her time, darling,” he’d whisper, stroking her hair and the nape of her neck as she buried her face into his chest on the rocks at Scandal Point. She wanted a life with this man who looked at her like the universe melted from around them when they were together. She wanted to wake up to the bob of his Adam’s apple each morning, hear him imitate Elvis and call her Priscilla; she wanted to cook akoori for their children on Sunday mornings and mock-scold him for leaving his shirts hanging on the backs of chairs instead of in the bathroom bucket. What was a little time when there was love to be won? They were young, they would wait.

Mrs. Dubash turned out to be made of sterner stuff than both her only son and his breathlessly waiting lady love anticipated. As Persis rejected many an admirer-with-a-willing-mother, waiting for her man to step up and make an honest woman out of her, Lohrasp battled cold wars, suicide threats and ultimatums from ‘the poor lonely woman who had brought him up as both father and mother’. Over the years, it dawned on Lohrasp that no woman would ever be good enough for him in his mother’s eyes, and she appeared happiest when he was within lilting distance, readily available to consume her elaborate meals and ministrations without a murmur. With his sister now living in America, Lohrasp was left with the sole responsibility of caring for their mother, which made it harder for him to take a heart-over-head decision. Still, Persis waited, but the wait lengthened into shadows and unspoken words and disappointment lingered at corners of her mouth, the weight of unendingness sagging her skin, small joys unnoticed, a slow shut-down of the heart. Then, there was silence.

Two decades later, when she heard from common friends that the old lady’s heart had given way, and, after her death, Lohrasp had shut the house and taken up a position as manager of a dharamshala in a small town near the Gujarat border, the details merely skimmed the surface of her thoughts. She had shut that chapter a long time ago and made peace with the circumstances of her life. Persis was not a woman of vociferous opinion, but she held a firm belief that Lohrasp was the only love of her life.

But now he was standing in front of her, still awaiting a response. “Hello,” she said quickly, in a voice that sounded like somebody else’s, his question left unanswered. They assessed each other, cautiously, then affectionately, letting little smiles slip through the tightness of their mouths. Him: Of medium height and muscular build, with darker skin than she remembered, his clean-shaven face framing a crooked-toothed smile. Her: Short, compact, with still-unlined creamy skin and tired grey eyes, gentle curls resting neatly around her earlobes, her clothes less fashionable than in their youth. Wordlessly, he unlatched the gate and gallantly stepped aside for her to walk through. Closing it behind him, he fell into step with her and they made their way to the beach.

The short stroll of less than a mile felt like a long walk home, with brief forays into unpleasant emotional alleys. Searing their silences were memories, reproaches, disappointments, and a litany of barely awakened what-ifs. With no immediate family left in Bombay once Mrs. Dubash had passed on, Lohrasp sought a change of scene in a bid to put his past behind him. The bitterness that was his mother’s legacy lurked in the corners of their lace-curtained home, and made him want to flee. Putting in his papers for voluntary retirement at the bank, he accepted a position at the Gholvad dharamshala and had been its manager since. He liked the solitude, the passengers who floated through, and grew accustomed to stars and waves for company. He would think of Persis now and then, a dull ache compressing his heart, as he wondered how things could have turned out differently. And now here she was, in the flesh, and his tongue had decided to play hide-and-seek.

They sat among the rocks, pretending neither recalled other similar evenings from a long-ago youth, and reconnected hesitantly. As Lohrasp stumbled over half-regrets, Persis spoke up quietly and without recrimination. Life had moved on, she pointed out, but it hadn’t completed passed them by. It was to be lived, no matter how late the chance was presented, and really, did affection and companionship have an expiry date? As Lohrasp raised his eyes to meet hers, he felt a spark of hope for the first time in decades, and allowed it to ignite a little Bunsen burner in his spirit. There was much to be said, pasts and futures to be discussed and debated, but for now, it would keep. For now, the present was plenty. Finally, he had a passenger who wasn’t just a passerby. And with that knowledge, Lohrasp and Persis made their way back to the dharamshala, where a just-roused group of tea-demanding neighbors were making plans to brighten up the evening.

~The End~

The Blog That Keeps on Giving / Platform 3

1 Jul

This blog, Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas Version 2.0, completes 7 years today. I began blogging on this platform at a time when I didn’t know what I’d be doing the next weekend. Years into the future was not even a consideration. I’ve written about it here, but pardon my middle-aged nostalgia–this little space of mine of the internet, carved out 9 1/2 years ago, has given me the community of a lifetime, and the older this blog and I grow, the less I take this blessing for granted. Even as I type this post, I am excitedly looking forward to meeting one of my earliest blog friends for the first time–9 years after we connected!

So thank you, all of you who show this corner of my world your love and appreciation. So much has changed for me in these past 7 years that it is reassuring to have a constant. These days, I choose to spend long, sunny afternoons snuggled with my Gummy Bear on our vast bed over hammering out a post (you have no idea how many times I’m tempted to write for all of 3 seconds before I go right back to inhaling that baby scent), I spend my days in endless cycles of three-hour blocks, I prefer to sing Five Little Ducks no less than 17 times a day rather than generate fresh content for this space, but I love this blog, I do, for it is the gift that keeps on giving, and I’m so glad to return to it again and again and again.

And now, because I must drop dead in the next 13 minutes if I am to survive tomorrow, without further ado, here is a little present. It’s a story I wrote a couple years ago and held close to my heart. It’s time now to let it go. Enjoy it, and for the sake of continuity–because it’s the third in a series–read Chapters One and Two first.

Adios, my dearies! Until we meet again.

Platform Three

Dawn came early to Soonawala Colony one April. Lights were switched on a full hour earlier than Alamai’s 6 am prayers, and sounds of sandwiches being wrapped and bags being zipped echoed across the chipped-tiled corridors. Persis Kerawala stood deep in thought in the middle of the obsessively tidy bedroom she shared with her older sister and lips pursed, tapped them with her forefinger. She went through a mental check-list of items and anxieties, shrugged off whatever was bothering her, and walked into the kitchen to share a cup of choi and a khaari biscuit with Dolat. Ten minutes later, bags zipped, front door locked (and checked thrice), hats on their short wavy hair, the Kerawala sisters were the first ones ready to join the Pardiwallas on the short drive to Bombay Central station. Across the hallway, they could hear Khursheed Madon goading her teenage son Daraius to pack his chappals, lest he roam around like a ghata-ghariya in Gholvad.

“Packed the pora-pao?” called out Sarosh, whose once-fit but now-generous frame was proof of his love for this Parsi breakfast staple. His wife assuaged his fear of going breakfastless on the three-hour train journey, even as Dolat and Persis listening outside smiled and rolled their eyes. As girls growing up in the colony, Sarosh had been their little errand boy, the one who ran down to the corner store to get soda for their father’s evening drink, passed on notes from admirers who wrote forced-rhyming lines to Persis in her younger days, appreciating her grey eyes, marble-like skin, and, although only the boldest mentioned it, her compact, pert figure, draped in the latest cuts from Maganbhai darji’s ‘foreign’ catalogs. It was a mystery to many why Persis had chosen to remain unmarried, because she certainly had her pick of the field at a time when the colony boys were angling to make her their wife.

A door opened upstairs and the sound of luggage being thumped down each step echoed across the corridors. Sanobar and Homyar appeared at the bottom of the stairs, bickering about the pros and cons of leaving the toilet window open. “Chee! Muo vaas-e-vaas aavse!” grumbled Sanobar, whose sensitive nose was perennially at odds with her spouse’s borderline agoraphobia. “Better than getting the house looted,” countered Homyar, who insisted it was only his cautious nature that made him want to shut most access points to rooms, and winked in greeting at the waiting sisters. Shortly after, the Madons—Sarosh, Khursheed and Daraius—emerged from their ground floor flat, the scent of freshly cooked omelets trailing them. Off they went, huddled in the Pardiwallas’ Scorpio, or, “packed like sardines”, like Sanobar liked to giggle. She had schooled at Presentation Convent in the southern hills of Kodaikanal, and never missed an opportunity to toss morsels of nun-crafted similes and proverbs at her friends and neighbors.

At Bombay Central, they joined other folks from the colony, also climbing out of taxis and cars, the men hoisting bags as the women took a head count of the younger children. Daraius kept an eye out for Jamasp Patel’s daughter Sanaeya, while hanging out with Khushroo and Feroz, his college-going—and therefore cool—buddies from building number 12. Once the list of picnickers had been called out and checked off, they hurried to Platform 3 to board the Saurashtra Express. “Roomal mooko, roomal mooko,” advised Silloo Damania, in an attempt to bag all the seats in the completely empty compartment. After much bustling, rearranging of luggage and silencing of whiny children, the group of 25 settled down, and the train gave a lurch and rumbled off to Gholvad—the destination of the annual Soonawala colony picnic.

Just past Dadar, the omelet packets were opened, passed around, their contents devoured in a matter of minutes. By the time, Andheri arrived, Roshan’s freshly made bhakras were being passed around and complimented on between mouthfuls. At Palghar, tender young coconuts, their mouths agape and spilling with sweet water, were passed through window bars, into the hands of waiting children first and their parents afterwards. Boisar brought the scent of fried chilies and crisp, spicy wadas stuffed in chutney-smeared pav, the vendor’s tray emptied by two dozen greedy mouths who smacked their lips and settled down for the remainder of the journey. The train slow-chugged into Gholvad, past sentinel-like banyan trees that gave the place its name, and, wheels screeching, came to a halt. The boisterous group, back to their pre-food coma-induced levels of excitement, tumbled onto the platform, and piled into autorickshaws and trr-trred away toward the blinding mirror of the sea.

Alighting at the Gholvad Dharamshala (for Parsi and Irani Zoroastrians only, announced a faded plaque on a crumbling wall), they lugged their bags up the steps into cool, white rooms with high ceilings and the sounds of pigeons gurgling outside the antique-paned windows. The manager was out, explained the local lad who served as Man Friday, and would be back by tea time. The group didn’t care, as they devoured a lunch of fried fish, prawn curry and rice, and fried papads before settling into their beds for a long siesta. The younger ones gathered on the long, sun-baked verandah for a game of Monopoly, and Persis could hear them giggle and bicker as the afternoon wore on. She sat up in bed with the latest copy of Reader’s Digest, flipping through articles on medical miracles and ordinary heroes. Dolat lay at the other end of the spacious room, gentle snores emanating from beneath the white sheet. The afternoon streamed in through open windows, the sound of the sea coming into shore, the chirp of a solitary bird, the forthright sunlight with no pretences. Feeling restless, Persis got out of bed, stuffed her feet in slippers, and decided to take a walk around the property. Stepping away from the old white bungalow with its red tiled roof, she walked in the orchard that lay sprawled on either side. Low chikoo trees and groves of guava and litchis formed a cool respite from the summer heat and she was grateful for the solitude and shade. Her feet crunched on a carpet of dry leaves and she walked leisurely toward the gate at the other end. Emerging into the sunlight, she saw a fence with a white gate. Beyond that, was the sea.

“It’s low tide right now,” spoke a voice behind her, as her heart lurched and her feet stayed rooted. She slowly turned around to find him watching her calmly, the love of her youth, his boyish crinkled-at-the-corner eyes belying the touches of grey at his temples.


To be continued…..


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,639 other followers