(Cream, Linen) Curtains

31 Dec

hello from the other side

Helloooooooooo? Can you hear me?
I’m in California dreaming about who we used to be….

Okay, fine, the Adelegend sang that, I’m just fluffing the lines. But I’m here to say a Very Important Thing:

Goodbye.

[For now.]

Thing is, there’s no point having a blog that was once alive and chattering languish like a Limp Thing (yes, I’m up to my eyeballs in Sandra Boynton, can you tell?) when I’ve clearly moved on to Web Affair 2.0 with other social media (looking at you, Instagram!) The 3 seconds it takes to click a picture, add a filter (or not), and upload it, is all I have to give of myself presently before hollers of “Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!” come seeking my bone marrow.  (Here’s a fun fact: In the time it took me to type this post, I was interrupted 9 11 13 times, and not just by the bebe.)

(Here’s a second fun fact: I’ve gone dotty with the parentheses and haven’t the foggiest why.)

Or maybe that’s just an excuse and I don’t have anything to say anymore. Whichever way I look at it, I think closure is good manners. I may well be back when my brain returns to its skull. Or not. But ten years is a decent run in the world of blogdom, and it’s been a good decade, non?

Thank you for all that you’ve given me. You have my love and gratitude, all 3½ of you still glancing at this blog. I’ll draw only the lightest linen curtains for now, and you can continue to visit and make yourselves at home if you would so like. And come say hi on Instagram and Twitter (find me on the sidebar)!

For now, here’s my final post, a little something I wrote earlier this month and had vaguely referenced some years ago.

Happy New Year, lovelies! May every blessing be yours in 2017. ❤

On this day, nine years ago, I managed to lock myself into the restroom of a posh South Bombay hotel. I’ll just pee really quick, I had thought, before taking the elevator to the rooftop lounge for my date.
And there I was, trapped by an errant bolt that wouldn’t slide back. My heart sank. He sounded amazing in all our communication so far. He knew and loved my music, we got each other’s puns, and–best of all- he texted with zero spelling and grammatical errors!
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a stupid door get in the way of meeting this intriguing man,” I gritted my teeth. There was a considerable gap between the door and the floor. I could crawl through, but that wouldn’t be too dignified. And the germs, ugh.
Thankfully, I’m big and made with a fair bit of physical power. “Here goes,” I inhaled, and my shoulder made contact with the door.
Don’t tell the Intercontinental I owe them a latch.

~

Nine years later:
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, tying bows to the backs of dining chairs, the quiet rumble of the dishwasher in the background. Outside, the streets are wet from a quick drizzle. The lights on our Christmas tree glow as I work silently, grateful for the peace of a sleeping household. It will be a while before I finish tidying up, set the vacuum loose, and leave a (somewhat) uncluttered room for the farishtas to visit at night.
Right before he went to bed, tired from a business trip, I received a bear hug and thanks for making him a home, family and life.
All I know is, I’ve never been gladder to bust a darn door. And never in the history of humankind was lard put to better use.

Adieu and kisses! Time to give these soft, faded jammies a shelf.

 

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Don’t Wish Me ‘Happy Women’s Day’

8 Mar

Stop.
Just don’t.
I see your mouth beginning to form the words, readying to trot out utter garbage.
Halt!
Don’t do it.
Tell me to celebrate being a woman on a measly day eked out for my ilk and I’ll ask you why. How do I make joyful noises about being female in a world where my gender is relentlessly at the receiving end of systemic hatred? When our heads are constantly dunked and held under water, only to be permitted half a breath before being choked again, but look, you did get that teeny window to inhale! To which you’ll look exasperated and say “But nobody is doing it to you!” And I will begin to enumerate:
1. The number of times my body was touched without my permission, how the semen stain on my school skirt remains as dark as ever, how pain feels as a 14-year-old when there’s a thrust, a gasp, and then he flees the overflowing bus.
2. The number of times my daylight hours and nighttime hours and spaces to just be were policed: by those who birthed me, by a system meant to educate, no no, you are a girl, bloomer check! We’re going to lift your skirt to ensure your modesty lives in granny knickers.
3. The number of times I have heard “nobody wants a girl who…”, “nobody marries a woman who….”, 5 kilos less and you’d be perfect, one cup size larger, you can wear any color, lucky-lucky, your hands are so soft, your boyfriend will love them, don’t ever cut your hair or I’ll be sad.
4. The number of times “good” girls don’t sit this way, don’t wear shorts outside PE class, because the men, oh the men, the men! All males, absolute strangers included, are given shares to my anatomy, only I’m not invited to the feast.
“Excellent mother”
“Obedient daughter”
“Ideal daughter-in-law”
Until I want to stitch your mouth shut without anesthesia and scream TROPES!!!
TROPES, TROPES, TROPES!
You’ve drowned in your paltry puddle and think you’re in St. Tropez, every utterance further plasters you to your pigeon poop ridden cubby, how does it feel inside that cage you’ve built, do the bars come out at night to play?
Rapes and moral policing. “Just jokes” and unoffered opportunities. Wage gaps and a permanent seat to butt and breasts on the buffet, let’s not serve brain today, rather pointless wouldn’t you say?
Not a chance in hell at life, and if lucky, then an education is all too much good fortune.
I’m a ‘happy California mum’, I was told in summary, a catch-up call that ended in a pert label, even as my vocal chords shut down in outrage.
No women are free until all women are free, I scream at you in my fantasy. While you suck on patriarchy like a lozenge and I pause to watch you choke. While you make plans to shop sales and celebrate having internal plumbing and paint your nails as the platitudes dry.
Happy Women’s Day, you say, expecting a smile in return. I smile, as I smile for many senseless things and inane people, and quietly wish you sight. And maybe someday, if it happens to be in stock that season, even a modest serving of sense.

Truesday Tales 3.1

1 Mar

[From around this time, last year]

Q. Which silly goose toots so loudly that he startles himself awake?

A. My silly goose.

And, just like that, we graduate from Newborn to Infant and bid adieu to the Fourth Trimester. I can’t take it, this time whizzing by faster than light. It’s breaking my heart. Slow down, let that baby scent linger!

~

Madness is being passed out on the recliner after a nonstop day of solo caregiving, missing him acutely as his Daddy puts him to bed.

#WhereIsOJAndWhoIsThisFreak #NeedOneMorePeek #BringBackMyBaby

~

‘Tis true, men with Parsi mothers are the yummiest creatures to walk the planet. Case in point:

1) Farhan Akhtar 2) Rahul Khanna 3) John Abraham 4) My son

Q.E.D.

(P.S. Rahul Khanna responded, saying his mother will be absolutely thrilled to hear this. Guess who was absolutely thrilled to hear from Rahul Khanna.)

 

In An Anthology

26 Feb

A post I wrote on this blog more than 7 years ago took on a life of its own and first made its way to an online journal. I have the vaguest memory of receiving an email from the editor last year, mentioning it was going to be published in an anthology, to which my very enthusiastic response was:

“Oh, that’s wonderfzzzzzzzzz…..”

And so, when another emailed arrived two weeks ago, saying the book was now out, I had the pleasure of surprise all over again. It could be my family history of Alzheimer’s. Or the fact that I haven’t slept in 15 months. But yes, the anthology of which my piece is a part:

our stories too

 

 

Here is the link to the Amazon page. And here’s what the book is about:

Our Stories, Too is an eclectic collection of personal narratives by women from around the world: America, South Asia, Europe, Africa, and Australia. You will see in these stories how the very ordinary threads of our lives are interwoven with the grand tapestries of world history. We are all, the famous and the unknown, part of the fabric. Gathered from 2013 – 2015 on themes of home, place, belonging, trauma and life change over time, these stories will take you behind the scenes into the lives of thirty three women.

Among my deepest beliefs is that we are made of water, cells, and stories. This, combined with my lifelong interest in gender, makes me honored to be a storyteller among women sharing their histories.

Okay, thank you, byebye! See you next week with Truesday Talezzzzzzzz……………..

Truesday Tales 2.3

18 Feb

Thursday is the new Tuesday: old jungle saying blogger coming up with new rules.

Let’s just say Mummy is losing a million neurons for every tooth baby sprouts. Onto this week’s Truesday Tales, served up from last year.

~

In which Senor Baby tries to stuff a binky in Mummy’s mouth, since she realized it’s only Tuesday and needs pacifying.

~

In which Mummy informs Baby that Itsy Bitsy Spider probably had a touch of OCD, given his penchant for climbing the darn water spout on repeat mode.

~

In which we deconstruct Itsy Bitsy Spider and conclude that:

a. He is training for a Himalayan expedition

b. He has a touch of OCD

c. He runs a thieving arts academy

d. He is likely to develop identity confusion because Mummy calls him Itsy and Daddy thinks he’s Incy

e. He is not a California resident (hello, down came the rain??)

f. All of the above

g. This family needs help

 

#ThisBabyLife #TheMummyDiaries #WhatDoesYourTuesdayLookLike

Truesday Tales 2.2

9 Feb

Snippets from last February:

I have killer abs too. Anybody who sees them will die of shock.

#TheMummyDiaries #PSA

~

In which I optimistically set an alarm 6 hours into the future.

Hahahahahahahahahaha!!

#YeahRight #DreamOnFool #NoSleepNoDream #NeverMind

[P.S. Nothing has changed on this front a whole year later. It’s official: I’m a bot.]

~

Finally tossed my empty prenatal vitamin bottles today, after sentimentally holding on to them for the last few weeks. I had those tablets religiously for a whole year, through so many changes of body and circumstance.

It’s the end of an era.

#TheWholeSoLongFarewellSong

Truesday Tales 2.1

2 Feb

[First shared in February 2015]

I stand over him, watching him sleep, gushing about the perfect curve of his cheek, loath to go to bed. Daddy is under the covers with his tablet already, rolling his eyes at Mummy for being this besotted. I ignore him and continue to gaze at Mr. Bean, soaking up every centimeter of his babyness.

Until, something occurs to me and I realize that the pater hasn’t been reading at all. He’s been admiring the 3000 pictures he clicks of our son each morning. While the fruit of his loins is 4 feet away.

But I’m the besotted one. Right.