The little boy and his dad


The little boy, nine years old, had recently been admitted to one of the bigger schools in the city. It was in the late seventies, and the little boy had to walk around two kilometres from home to the bus stand, from where he had to switch two buses to get to school. The same process would repeat in reverse in the evening, when the little boy would walk home through the busy markets and shops and small lanes to get home.

On this particular day, the boy woke up with a bad throat; he could feel the onset of a cold. His father felt his forehead, and it felt warmer than usual. Maybe the boy would develop a fever later in the day, thought the father.

The father wanted the boy to take the day off from school and rest at home. But the boy refused, and set off on his two kilometre walk to the bus stand.

Courtesy – Clipartwiki

As the father sat at his desk in office, he worried about his son, and if he was ok. He mulled over this during his breaks and lunch time. After lunch, he quickly came to a decision. He applied for some time off from work and quickly rushed to the bus stand, where his son would arrive at around 3 pm.

He hired a bicycle from a bike rental shop, and waited. Soon, his son got off the bus, his face pale and drawn. The father rushed to greet him. The boy’s face lit up in surprise and joy, when he saw his dad.

The father took him to the bicycle, and off they went. The little boy held on to his father. His fever raged, but his happiness knew no bounds.

The father had a peaceful look on his face, there was a hint of a smile there, as he took his little boy home and tucked him into bed.

And now, the little boy is in his late forties, and recollects this incident as one of his most enduring memories of his Dad, who is no more. He strongly feels the joy and love that he felt on that day, many decades ago, when his father took time off from work to take him home on a bicycle.

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Watching the rain….


I received this photo on our family group yesterday – a picture of my little niece and her grandmother watching the heavy rain through the window.

A baby and her grandma, who are seven decades apart, and are looking out the window. My niece is watching the rain, transfixed by the play of the street lights on the falling sheets of rain. Her grandmother derives joy from watching her granddaughter, reveling in her widening eyes, her cooing and her babbling at the rain.

One is beginning this journey called life, where rain will mean splashing fun, paper boats, samosas and hot chocolate. For the other, who has seen life, the rain evokes so many memories of the past, of being a child, of being a teen, a married woman, a mother and now a grandmother. She has seen rainy days and ‘rainy days’ in this long journey called life.

Time seems to stand still, only the lashing rain can be heard. Just like everything else in nature, rainfall is part of the changing seasons; this is also true of our lives, change is happening all around us.

Life flies past in the blink of any eye, but then again, life also stops for a brief beautiful moment like this, when time and age become irrelevant, when only pure love exists.

When the wind carries a tune…..


It is late in the afternoon, and I type away furiously on my keyboard, my eyebrows furrowed in concentration. After a few minutes, I stretch my neck and back. My eyes fall on a musical windmill that we have in our living room. For the first few weeks after buying it, we would often wind it and enjoy its music, but now it just sits snugly, a mute spectator to our lives.

I get up and wind the windmill. As the blades of the windmill turn slowly, nice tinkling music plays. I am immediately transported to a cold, windy day in Delft, Netherlands, to a pottery workshop we visited. I still remember how our teeth chattered, and how we huddled with the kids to manage the cold. One little musical windmill was all it took to transport me to that beautiful vacation.

We all have these songs and tunes in our lives that evoke strong memories and deep nostalgia. There are some old songs from the 70s, which bring back my Dad’s voice, and my childhood, with such clarity.

There are songs that my husband and I share, which are truly special to us – for they symbolize some sweet, some poignant and many fun moments in our marriage.

Then again, there are the songs with the kids. Nursery rhymes, lullabies, movie tracks of their favourite animated movies and now their favourite bands and albums, songs which float about in our home, creating impressions and memories in our brains, like old records. These songs with the children are the melodious threads that bind all of us, and that fill our home with love and rhythm.

Then there are the songs with our friends, back when we were in high school and belted out popular numbers of the time. There were only cassette players then, no smartphones or mp3 tracks. We couldn’t share music files, but we sure shared time with friends and sang to our hearts’ content.

There are many more such – kitchen and cooking songs that flow with the chopping and the stirring and the boiling and the frying; workout music and the peppy beats to push myself to walk everyday, and of course, songs in the shower! And now, as I cruise through the forties, meditation music has been added to this collection.

And so, the next time the wind gently blows your way and brings with it some beautiful melody from your past, stop and relive those wonderful memories – for in those musical notes lie the very stories of our lives – of those halcyon days of our youth, of times with our friends, of some moments that transformed us from within; of music that made us new parents, of music that made us parents of teens, and of music that defines who we are!

A sister reminisces…


It is late in the afternoon, and my mom and I are stretched out on the couch in our living room. My mother is visiting, and we use this time to catch up, sharing things that we miss out on, when we talk on the phone.

Our conversation meanders through the lanes and bylanes of our lives, and we find ourselves reminiscing about the past.

My mom walks further down memory lane, and smiles wistfully, as she fondly remembers her childhood, especially her three brothers, two older and one younger.

Image courtesy – http://www.clipartimage.com

She shares pages from that time in her life, when she was a young girl with long braids and colourful ribbons.

Her older brothers would come home from college or work, and call out to my mom to help park their bicycles inside the compound. This was one of the highlights of her day. From her height, the cycles appeared enormous, and she would step on one pedal and push the bicycles inside.

My mom recalls how she was tasked with the job of picking up a Tamil weekly magazine from the small shop at the end of their street. This magazine was eagerly awaited every week, and all the siblings devoured it with fervour. My mom knew that once the magazine went to her brothers, she would not get to read it for a couple of days at least. So, right after she picked up the magazine, she would sit in the verandah of her neighbour’s home, and quickly read her favourite sections, which included jokes and a short story series. And only then would she pass on the magazine to her brothers!

Later, when she joined the National Cadet Corps, and had to leave for training early every morning, the eldest of her brothers would buy a take away masala dosa for her to eat after training, just so that his sister would not be burdened with the task of carrying a lunch box. The masala dosa was usually packed in a banana leaf, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, which she could easily throw away.

My mom’s eyes mist over as she recalls this – a simple gesture from her brother to make his sister’s life easy.

The other brother, my mom recalls, would give her a crisp ten rupee note every morning, when she left for college. Come rain or shine, the money would always be there on his table, even if her brother was not in town.

When my maternal grandmother was pushing my mom to get married early, as was the norm in those days, my mom was strongly supported by her brothers in her desire to pursue her education in university.

As for the younger brother, who was much younger to my mom, he was her pet, and she fondly recalls how she carried him with her wherever she went, when he was a baby!

Both her older brothers are no more, and she closes her eyes, recalling their love and unconditional support.

For just a few moments there, my mom became a little girl in pigtails again, feeling secure, indulged and loved by this special love that brothers and sisters share.

We Indians celebrate this deep and special bond today, where the sister ties a rakhi on her brother’s wrist, and he in turn promises to love and protect her.

A pair of black pumps


I am peering at my laptop screen, my eyebrows furrowed in concentration, trying to comprehend what I am reading.

My phone is on silent mode, but from the corner of my eye I can see the screen lighting up – it’s a call from my daughter.

She is out shopping with my niece for a formal event at school.

I pick up the call. She says, “Amma, I’ve sent you some pictures of formal footwear. I have marked the ones I really like, I am unable to make up my mind. Please see if they are ok.”

I quickly open my messages to check. The black pumps that my daughter seems to like look elegant, but I am worried about the height of the heel.

Image courtesy – http://www.shutterstock.com

My daughter has never worn heels before. I call her and ask her if she’d tried them on and if they were comfortable. She replies in the affirmative and says, “I have to get used to them, Amma.”

Motherly love and practical concerns about posture and back pain run through my head, but I realize that I have to let go.

In a few hours, she comes home, bubbly from all that shopping. She puts on her pumps and walks up and down the living room.

She suddenly looks so tall. She walks – awkwardly at first, and then finds her rhythm. There is the odd, shaky step where she fumbles for balance, but she manages. Up and down she goes, getting more confident with each step.

As I watch her, I walk down memory lane to the time when she was a baby. I was at work one afternoon, when my father-in-law called to tell me that my daughter had taken her first steps, his voice suffused with excitement.

I remember rushing back home from work that evening, eager to see this little miracle for myself. But, it was another two days before my daughter attempted to walk again.

And then, over the next few days, she would constantly attempt to get from one place to another – wobbling and stumbling frequently. I stood and watched, clapping and encouraging her each time she made it from one sofa to another, or from the living room to the study.

I come back to the present. Nothing seems to have changed. Time seems to stand still. And just as I did then, I let go now, so that my daughter can walk into the world confidently.

Mom-paedia


I have just gone in to take a shower. My son seems to have this uncanny ability of sensing this precise moment, and chooses it to ask questions across the closed door – over the gushing sounds of the shower water.

There is a sharp knock. I pretend not to hear it. My son repeatedly hollers, “Mom, mom”, till I give in and answer wearily.

“Mom, where is the cordless phone?” asks my son. I tell him that it must have gotten wedged between the two seats of our sofa.

I come out of the shower, and in just a few minutes, my daughter asks me if I know where one of her workbooks is! Sigh!

And this is an integral part of being a mother – the skill of knowing where every article in our home is at any point in time. But, I do also know that every mom is blessed with some form of sophisticated MOM-GPS that thankfully helps her remember and identify the precise location of her daughter’s favourite hoodie, or her son’s graph notebook that has mysteriously disappeared from his school bag, and the hundred other things that go missing in the house.

And then again, most moms are also walking Mompaedias, for they need to answer questions that straddle many levels. From answering questions about why rainbows are formed to answering questions about the purpose of life (to a teenager), to answering questions about fashion, which are immediately deemed as being outdated, to answering questions about the little bird that visits the plants on the balcony – a mom needs to have answers to simply everything.

A mom also knows that while her sub-ten year old will cling on to her every word, her teenager will probably listen with a disinterested look, or with an expression that says, ‘Can’t wait for you to finish, mom’.

But from all these years as a mom, I do know that children listen, even when they don’t want to be seen as listening. They watch and they learn.

And they do love their moms, for no one in the world could take her place. When she is not around, they even miss her nagging. The energy of the house is pure mom. And come Mother’s Day every year, they pack all their love into their lovely cards and gifts, and make the day super special for her.

My daughter has already given me a beautiful coffee mug; my son is giving me knowing and secret smiles, and is slinking from one room to another, planning his big surprise.

There was a time, not many years ago, when the excitement of keeping the mother’s day gift a surprise was too much to bear for my son. But he has now transformed into this big boy, who is able to keep secrets.

So, I wait patiently.

I think of my journey as a mother and what it has meant to me. I realize that this is a love so deep, which only keeps growing with time. I wonder how one heart can hold so much love. But that is who a mother is – every pore of hers filled with love. A love that comes camouflaged in many flavours – happy, sad, silly, proud, angry, irritated and nagging, but all of them mere manifestations of that one all- encompassing love.

Happy Mother’s Day to you all.

Image courtesy – http://www.pinterest.com

Thatha (grandfather)


He was six feet tall, and she was a tiny two feet. At precisely four pm every afternoon, after their siesta, the pair would leave our home. The grandfather and his three-year old granddaughter.

Courtesy – http://www.istockphoto.com

He would wear a cap to protect himself from the afternoon sun, she would carry a water bottle slung across her shoulder, her mushroom cut gently bobbing up and down.

Soon, they would go exploring the complex. The grandfather would patiently point out ants, beetles, insects and plants. He would share anecdotes from his childhood, and relate it to the plants or birds that he pointed out to his granddaughter.

They would observe neighbours’ pets, and talk to other children. Playtime for this little girl would come later in the evening, but this walk with her grandpa was sacrosanct. They would stroll to the neighbourhood market to pick up vegetables or fruits for the house. The grandfather would indulge his little princess with chocolate or cake from the local bakery.

After about an hour of this, they would walk home, each revelling in the company of the other.

Back home, the pair would play board games and jigsaws, and read books. Before their walk, the grandfather would patiently prepare a small cup of dry fruits – almonds, pistachios, dates and cashew nuts, which the little girl would eat with relish.

The granddaughter grew into a school girl, and moved away to another city, but telephone calls and video chats kept this very special bond alive.

Where once the grandfather taught his granddaughter many, many interesting things, it was now the granddaughter’s turn to teach and welcome her grandpa into the world of smartphones and computers.

They would exchange calls frequently, and they would laugh at silly things. She would regale him with stories of her high-school life and her studies. He would always ask about her future plans.

And now she stands, looking at his empty bed, knowing that one of her best allies has gone – the person who rooted for her all through, who showed her unconditional love, and to whom she was always a princess.

She has brought back one of his caps and has placed it on her study table – a symbol of the love they shared – my daughter and her grandfather.