Tag Archives: snippets

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.)

 

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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.

Truesday Tales 1.3

19 Jan

Dear Dr. Martin Luther King,

I’d have a dream too–if I ever got some sleep!

Yours hopefully,

A (still somewhat) new parent

 

#SleepDepYo #MartinLutherKingDay

~

Since Truesday Tales is a collection of snippets from the past year, (and the one above was written today,) here’s one from January 2015:

All this love that’s entered my life, I wish it didn’t come with handles attached. ๐Ÿ˜

 

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.

Reheat, Serve

30 Oct

This past month, I’ve been revisiting definitions of home. Specifically, how my notion of the word itself has changed, from an intensely familiar brick-and-mortar space bearing my history and tales of generations of family, to new lands: both geographical and synaptical, and finally to the person I come home to roost with each day. It’s a fascinating concept, this little word, but I have no bandwidth to say anything new about it presently. So here’s another reheated (read previously-published) piece from India Currents magazine about home, histories, and belonging. What do you think of when you think of home?

~

Three Fates

We sit at a table crowded with spiced, steaming tea cups, a study in diversity. One whose bronzed, gleaming skin carries tales of her ocean-framed ancestors. Another, pale, fair, with whispers of ancient Persia in her veins, and the third, of the same people, her bloodline mapping the landscape of two great nations.

Between us, live roots and displacement. Among us, rock movements and plane rides and boat journeys from 1200 years ago. We are of people who have shifted. Whose sensibilities and histories have shifted. People who once belonged, then belonged again, spun in cycles of precarious identity. Ripped from their homeland by threat, under duress and desire to build a life beyond living.

Around this table covered in cheap formica we sit, the Buddhist from Colombo, the Parsis from Karachi and Bombay, who have known other lands as rank strangers, then intimately, as a secret shared on a one night stand. We congregate our beings around disposable cups of chai and unleash our stories.

Time, it melts away. We jump off a cliff in the 10th century, swing past invasions, conversions, and long bloody, migrations, crash land into civil war and hurried overnight departures, past the smell of burning flesh and singed spirits, yank and sow roots stripped to rawness, touchdown in subcontinental cities where lineage marched to a temporary tune, then continent-hop over to Africa, to North America, the luckiest among us belonging only to two places,ย  now gathered here in these cities around the Bay, where a microclimate, a microculture, a microuniverse of one can safely exist.

Turning around in unison, we nod to our waiting ancestors. Itโ€™s alright, we say, you survived, and then revert to the vapors rising out of our drinks, to punctuate our sagas with a period.

Through the hollows of their eyes, Fate stands silently by, eraser in hand, knowing her day will come again.

 

Foam Warrior

6 Oct

You may be a gentle soul, but let it not stop you from rising to lifeโ€™s challenge when it arises.

Fight, even if only that you may reclaim your gentleness when the war is over.

The New Doormat

1 Sep

“Our family doesn’t have a head.

Only an expanded heart and two bums, typically waggling in time to a tune.

Patriarchy is best parked at the door.”

~ A sign I’m considering putting up at the entrance to our home