Mom, you rock my world

I will let Rudyard Kipling start this article for me – “If I were damned of body & soul, I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine.”
I think all daughters have a love-hate relationship with their mothers. During their teenage years they are busy squabbling. As I grew up, my greatest joy was to do precisely what my mother did not wish and had anxiously tried to prevent. I spent all my life resisting the notion, and sometimes vehemently denying it, that my mother is my friend. But now, having come out of the hormonal cross-fire of my adolescence, I can honestly and boldly accept it that she really is my best friend.
When I say I am proud of myself, it is not self-praise. It is infact, a compliment to my mother. She had the greatest contribution in my upbringing, instilling in me the sense and perception of things and giving me an individual identity. The most solid pillar of strength, she showed me that it pays to stick to your convictions. It is wrong to say I am something today because of her. I am today because of her…
When I was a kid, while going to my school’s parents teachers meet, I would always insist she wear her yellow saree because my friends loved her in that colour. Yes, I was a show-off…I was showing off my mom! I used to be a picture of concealed glee & pride, walking hand-in-hand with my mother.
My eldest brother always claims he is daddy’s boy. Well, for me, let me put it on record that I am happy to be my mamma’s little girl. But hey Dad, don’t lose heart, maybe I’ll do a write-up on you on Father’s Day!
A couple of years ago, while giving an interview in Welingkar College, Mumbai, I was asked by the interviewer who I thought was the world’s best manager. I still remember the look of relieved surprise on his face when I replied it was my mother (for almost all the other candidates it was either Jack Welch or Warren Buffet!).
It is her care and unconditional love that enabled us to never realize how difficult it must have been for her to juggle between us and her teaching profession. If I, being a daughter, can get all tensed and panicky seeing my parents’ ill, I shudder to think what hell my mom must have gone through raising the bunch of us. Everytime my elder brother used to have asthmatic attacks, her blood used to run dry, though she did a great job of masking her fears and rushing him to the doctor. That is taking control of the situation. That is fighting back and never giving up. Kudos to you mom. Will I ever be as dedicated & persevering as you, I don’t know. But I would certainly like to show the same prudence & be as respected in the eyes of my children one day as you are in mine.
My mom rocks! How else do you justify her frolicking on the beaches of Goa with her two daughters-in-law in tow, having a girls-day-out? It is her all-encompassing warmth & affection that never lets her differentiate between her daughter and her daughters-in-law.
Coming to an end, I am going to give you one honest confession…Mom, you rock my world. Mother swear!

Good to be gleeful

Caught in a horrid traffic jam; cars at a virtual standstill, bumper to bumper. Wait! Do I detect a movement ahead? I’m not too sure…it’s difficult to say, with my windscreen and windows fogged up with vapour (courtesy, a humid atmosphere after daylong rains). Don’t want to get my hopes too high. I quickly switch on the vipers to clear the vapour from my windscreen. Yeeees….the traffic is moving. Inch by measly inch, but moving nonetheless! Sending a silent prayer heavenwards, I shift the gear. One…two….HALT….one….two….three…..four….HALT…. and so it continues; the numbers are “inches” by the way, and the halt is “me applying the brakes…quite unceremoniously”. The drive - or the march - continues at a sluggish pace, marked by the usual routine of brake-move-brake.
To add to the woes, there are the ubiquitous motorcycle riders, tilting so precariously towards my car that one would think the car has a bloody gravity of its own! I see the bike to my left jerk forward diagonally, and instinctively swerve my car to the right. Won’t give you the satisfaction of putting a scratch on the car body, you jerk. Other bikes close in, smothering my pretty car from all sides. I look around, beyond the bike riders, and every other car is suffering the same misfortune. Some car drivers are lucky and keep on swerving left and right to avoid jerky bike movements, while others are…well, not so lucky. A bike leaps ahead and makes a fresh scratch on the white Alto directly in front of me, another one bumps softly against the SX4 up ahead, while a third one zooms past (I don’t know how, considering the space-crunched road and traffic jam!) and makes a forceful contact with the side-view mirror of a red Maruti 800, dislodging it from its carefully-arranged position.
Same old sight. I begin to get bored. Still forging ahead at a painstaking pace, I idly switch on the car radio. The songs being played are about as uninspiring as they get…
Suddenly a silver Sumo overtakes me from the wrong side. The modus operandi is almost “bully-ish” in nature, taking no more that a second! In the blink of an eye, I’ve got a gigantic Sumo (which is, incidentally, the vehicle of choice of criminals and B-grade politicians in my city) in front of me now, completely blocking my view of the road ahead. I look in my rear-view mirror; there are two more similar Sumos tailgating me. Perhaps a motorcade of a wannabe politician, I surmise. I am almost on the verge of forgetting about the offensive overtake when Sumo no.2 (just behind my car) does an encore! The second Sumo too does a dangerous overtake- routine from the wrong side, effectively sandwiching me between the second and the third Sumo. I’m almost blind with rage. I will not let them get away with this. My Chevy Aveo may be a delicate white sedan and no match for these callous Sumos, but she deserves a lot better!
Swearing under my breath, I shift the gear back to first and plunge headlong into the fight for supremacy. Spotting a small, clear area on the roadside, I accelerate with a vengeance and take over the Sumo ahead from its left (that’s the wrong side). Needless to say, I make a clean takeover, my rear bumper missing the front bumper of the Sumo by barely a whisker as I over-take it and swerve sharply to the right directly in front of the Sumo. There….that’s better. Look who’s the master of overtaking now! To add insult to injury, I make sure I keep my car bang in the middle of the congested road, giving no leeway to the Sumo behind (which must be reeling from a hurt ego right now) to try and pull off another under-the-belt takeover like the last one. It’s immensely satisfying…almost poetic. The short drive home has suddenly acquired so much more meaning and become a novel confidence-building exercise.
I don’t know what reactions my unnecessary act of bravado are earning me - did not care to look back into the (humiliated?) faces of the Sumo’s driver and passengers - but I know one thing…I won’t tolerate anyone bullying me, literally, or figuratively. I will give back as good as I get, maybe more so. It’s good, at times, to make your point. You feel confident… Happy…. Rrefreshed…. And… a bit gleeful.

Just fooding around

Ever wondered what is the best food for weekends? Probably something outstanding, to remember the weekend by. And something that gives you enough courage to face the prospect of the dreary Monday that would relentlessly follow suit. So what are we having for dinner today? Why not compile a bucket list of all the dishes and do a selection by elimination routine. Potatoes, paneer, fish, cabbage, chicken, ladyfinger, and the list continues. Now why don’t we get on with the elimination part. Potato is too dull, cabbage is too leafy, chicken is too cruel, ladyfinger is too sticky…thus continues the ditching, and we are left with a handful of tasty options. Hardly do we notice the amount of effort that we put in this culinary selection. Our mental mechanism is so much in its comfort zone where food is concerned that it is hardly taxing for us to make food decisions. Or rather, food decisions are always made to maximise pleasure, thus they are always a welcome respite.
What is it that draws us to the notion called food? Why this obsession? When we are working, we are constantly perceptive to our food requirement of the day. When we are not working, we are busy planning our food itinerary for the weekend. Even in the 3 things essential for survival, roti, kapda aur makaan, food comes a lofty first! So how to justify this web of unexplained association with food and taste? I believe it is a futile exercise. Psychologists would vouch for that. We live, breathe, smell, feel, eat….. No need for justifications here. Research has also proven that our memory is immediately trickled by smell of certain food items. Infact, I am not the only one who uses food as a barometer of emotions and personality. One of my friends went to Goa recently and upon returning posted his photo album on Facebook. It was amusing to see page after page on his travel album, not the stunning landscape nor the new friends he made, but beautifully arranged meals. His method to chronicle the trip, to best recall happy memories, insisted he capture every meal in picture perfection, lovingly preserved in his travel album. Depending upon our individual disposition, we choose to be vegetarians or non-vegetarians. But that still does not take away from the joy of experiencing culinary delights. In India, the culture of food penetrates deeper that its physical consumption. There is scope of wisdom too in the gastronomical world. . "Enjoy meat and dairy products," centenarians would tell us, "but combine them with the use of lemon, vinegar, garlic, fresh green herbs, yogurt and pomegranate juice to dissolve fat that could be harmful to the human organism." Infact, anyone thinking that food is an innocuous subject would soon discover that politics, history, economics and religion have been mighty forces in shaping the cuisine of the region and in determining what people eat. Food is not simply a question of climactic or agricultural feasibility.
So I have made my choice, I will have palak-paneer today. And let me pour rich cream on top, because it is nice to remember there is still a bit of Sunday left.
Bon appetit!

What good father? Each one is good

There is no good father. No, do not be scandalized. What I mean is that every father is good. So where is the need to add another `good'? It only makes the adjective redundant. But since I am the one writing this article, I believe I can afford to show a bit of corruption and say that my dad is not just good, he is the best! As a daughter, I have felt relief in the cocoon of my father's love when I thought no one in the world understood me.

My dad says that I am the only one who understands what he wants without him saying it. The reality is that he dotes on me so much that he chooses to acknowledge only me as the person who understands him, even when my mom and brothers are equally good at reading his thoughts! I love him for this; it makes me feel super special.

How much does a dad matter in this day and age? A lot, I would say. I believe the love of a father has been grossly undermined. A father is the provider of the family, not necessarily in the material sense, but in a more all-encompassing way. A father is the balancing factor in a child's life. Mothers have their favourites, but one rarely hears of dad's faves. Fathers are those pillars of strength which support best when they are camouflaged. We rarely sit back to think over the entity which keeps the intricate network of our social and personal life intact and stable. That entity is our father. Goes to show how understated fathers are and how overstated they deserve to be.

My father could not be with me on Father's Day as he was out of station. But then, I know nothing matters to him more than me. The secret to our bonding is knowing that we love each other even when we are apart. The satisfaction in knowing that yes, my father has yet again forgotten my birthday, is poetic irony! I am assured that he has not changed, not even a bit, and I can rely on him to forget special occasions. I would, in fact, be alarmed if he remembered to wish me on time! His absent-mindedness makes him real to me.

I have tried hard to figure out the evolutionary trend of fathers in general. Earlier fathers used to be reserved in showing their love for their children. Not that they cared any less for their kids. But gradually, there has been a creeping change in their temperament. Fathers have become friends. Showing uninhibited love for your kids is no more a taboo. They have become more involved in their kids' lives. It is a pleasant sight to see the new daddy getting up in the middle of the night to change his kid's nappy!

What is there to be surprised then when kids say `My daddy's the best'!