tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24005984491131494032024-02-21T18:57:21.834+05:30Confessions of an ambitious mother!Raising resilient kids in uncertain timesConfessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.comBlogger317125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-16823230367452964302019-11-12T09:22:00.000+05:302019-11-12T09:40:14.494+05:30The Moves<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">What is that one arena in India where it is perfectly legitimate to be lascivious and come hither? A trifle cheap as they say. Fleshy, undulating and mock seductive. You can throw your head back, tip it one way, or even cock it. The eyes could be dilated under twitching brows, narrowed for coquettish effect or just plain rolled and crossed playfully. No one bats an eyelid! Looking in from the outside, it would appear to be a rally called 'Humans against inhibitions'. It's alright, you can use your handkerchief as a prop. Just bite one corner and pinch the other with both hands. Now swing the head, both arms and the waist to mimic coil uncoil. Don't worry about your appearance. There is sure to be a human snake close by, hands cupped over his expressive head, lunging at thin air. You don't have a buoy, simply imagine one. A stack of currency notes for one. Careful now, this one needs skill. You begin to flick them into the sky with the right index finger and off the left palm, gyrating all the time, bend those knees a bit. Such a suicidal but celebratory sense of abandon, quite un-Indian. It is perfectly acceptable to balance a full glass of the amber beverage on the head and teeter, egged on by bashful beams. This is the safe space for the most part to let the hair down. You are free to cut the rug in multiple directions. Be as jerky, as twirly, as trippy as you like, you know perfectly well that just beyond the floor lies your true, dignified self. This is just pretend. A hark back to our Bollywood subconscious. A glimpse of the play that lurks in the heart. A window to the primal masquerade. And you are in plenty company even as you pirouette around a bellowing dupatta. The spectators! Their mirror neurons are lit and frisky.</span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-33503953523410234602019-11-11T21:34:00.000+05:302019-11-11T21:34:06.622+05:30The Door<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you struggled with a closed door in your house ever? No, it's not jammed. It has been deliberately and firmly shut and latched with an intention to keep you out. Go ahead. Knock. First gently, then insistently, soon with an ear flattened against the wood. Call tentatively to begin with, then louder but the music is insurmountable. Your innards begin to erupt now. Some guests are expected home and you want to forewarn the kid. Perhaps you want the curtains inside measured for a makeover. Quite likely it's the family dog you think has gotten locked in. Even a fire, god forbid! But the door stays in place. You stand rooted one paralyzed</span><br />
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moment then shuffle away in bewilderment. Oh good lord, what if he is writhing in fever! Hope he has not passed out, horizontal in an alcoholic haze. You bolt back at the door. There's a gap between the panels. You grab the handles and apply pressure, sinking to an arthritic haunch. While you are craning to align the eye, the domestic happens upon his crouching Madam. "Dukhi, I dropped the tiny screw on my ear stud, use your broom later alright!" You heave up exhaling an exasperated sigh while he looks on, squinting at you limp off in a cloud of injured dignity. But the needles of suspicion are stabbing at you. Betoo's toe had just begun to come into view when you were interrupted. What if he suffered a stroke having smoked up until dawn with his scruffy bros. Could he have been poring over porn? Beads of sweat threaten your forehead now. You reach for your loyal bottle of Sualin and pop a tablet, wincing at the sickly sweetness. Lowering gingerly on to the edge of your bed you address yourself, "Try looking in from the windows across his room, get up!" Just as you are picking yourself, a disprited young voice comes cutting through the corridor, "Ma, I sent you a Whatsapp message last night to wake me up at 6 am, I just missed an important session. Don't you guys check your feeds?"</span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-88250536176590459382018-07-01T19:35:00.001+05:302018-08-03T16:15:47.606+05:30The Signs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway? The words fluttered and flew in the wind. They entreated as they fought the heavy air in the tremulous room, the words. They cried out to be heard, acknowledged and acted upon. But the listening silence was cautious, wary of committing and implicating the speaker in any manner. It was the calculative smarts of an ambivalent, modern professional. The school after all, ran on donations, its policies and decisions dictated by a cautious environment. There was a ball park figure to chase and livelihoods on the line. It was a standard operating procedure for everyone to watch and wait until pushed by a crisis. The question was, “Did anyone possess the empathy or the vocabulary to know the signs of one?” </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The counselor shifted in his chair, drawing back from the teenager</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> shrinking across his table. Garima Tandon had given up on her gritty brown eyes. The tears slid at speed down defeated cheeks. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, the right toe reaching for the door, ready to bolt. Hers was an earnest young spirit, flickering bravely through the heap of shame and humiliation dumped on her by bullying friends and class mates. “How do you feel at this time?” Her lips quivered at the careful voice of objective professionalism. She dragged her spiky eye lashes and darted an injured gaze at the falling drops outside the office window. Her slender frame snuggled deeper into the chair. “You were saying you feel empty and numb. Have you spoken with your mother?” the counselor prompted. “No. I just don’t see the point anymore. I don’t feel anything at all. I want it to stop.” The two locked their eyes briefly, startled away by the invasive ring of the telephone. Garima made to haul out of the chair, reaching for her knapsack but the counselor waved her back, raising the mouthpiece and banging it down to disconnect. It took him a while to focus back on the distress unfolding under his nose. “I am thinking of ordering the helium hood kit”, the high school senior mumbled under her breath. “What is that? Is it a video game?” He frowned at the curl in the girl’s lips. “Listen, don’t do anything stupid alright. Whatever is bothering you will settle down, I promise. It always does. You are very young. Also, our time is up now. Remember, I am always here should you wish to talk. Come and see me next week, alright? You take care Garima!” <br /><br />Garima labored out of the dismissive office and through the hallway of the school, deaf to the buzz and chatter around her. No one paid any attention to the laden figure as she walked out of the building for the last time. The school guard at the gate nodded at her tentative smile, not knowing the desolation it hid. There were others of significance in the life of this beautiful young woman who had missed the cues. During an exercise in the English class three days ago, the teacher had conducted a poetry writing game. The anonymous pieces of expression were slipped into a small box and students took turns pulling one and reading it out aloud. The teacher had paused briefly at a particular poem that read, “I don’t want to share my life, if I could just give it away” before shaking her head, scanning the faces in the rooms and moving on to the next submission. Garima’s friends were, if anything, even more obtuse. At their after school parties out of the sight of their parents, they whispered about Garima, “What is with her man? She drinks too much and is easy. So ok dude, she is in pain. Well, isn’t everybody? We are all suffering. The earth is crying. Animals are dying. Children are starving. Get over it for heaven’s sake!” <br /><br />“Listen, talk to your parents,” a friend had urged her on occasions.</span><br />
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<br />His suggestion would be met by a sad shake of her head, “They think I am a good kid. It would break their hearts to know I have become the bad kid they always warned me against.” Garima had been distancing herself steadily from her loving parents, their pride and expectations and concern too much to bear. From proactive participants in her life, they had been reduced to being mere spectators. Their child was with them only in a physical sense. They had poured themselves into her upbringing and welfare but unknown to them, she was losing her heart and mind and soul to the perilous labyrinth created by peer parenting and the virtual space. Unkindness online, exclusion from groups, tiny betrayals, emotional rejection and an ever present sense of not being understood would have been enough to break an Atlas. She was only a golden waif. </span><div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“There were no closed doors when we were growing up Garima.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;">What is this personal space and privacy you are constantly haranguing about?” the mother had no clue what more could a young woman want other than a loving family and fiercely proud grandparents. “I don’t want to meet the relatives. They judge too much, ask too many questions. I hate being queried about my life plans. Hell, I am figuring it all out still. What is the tearing hurry?” Mum would screech in alarm, “Language Garima!” The censure would be greeted with a violent bang of the door as the teenager flounced off with a wail, “Have the heavens fallen with one abusive word? There is no freedom of speech in this house. What do you want from me? Did you not take any parenting lessons before having me? Have you any idea what is happening in my life?” The dinner table in their hurting house often creaked under their conscious and manufactured care with words, “Bete, you know you can talk to us. We think your friends are not been responsible enough. Perhaps we should meet their parents. Bring all your friends home. We were always very happy to have our friends meet our parents. Why do you get so upset if we try to connect with any of yours?” The paternal patter would fade away at the horror on their daughter’s face. And for weeks now, she had stopped coming to the dinner table at all. Garima was fighting her demons behind closed doors, her same age peers for guidance and support.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And then one day, the heavens came down. There was no warning. At least the parents were caught completely unprepared. As it happens in such cases, they were the first on the scene. Their daughter did not even leave them a good bye note. She used an orange colored stole that her grandmother had bought her for a school dance drama she was participating in. There was no one at home that morbid of all days. Stealthy as a shadow, death paid the Tandon home a definitive visit that heartbreaking noon and a youthful life full of potential was nipped in the bud. What followed was an avalanche of disbelief and despair. A veritable storm broke around the family and friends. Candle marches, cries for justice, horror and shock on the social media, the deluge of wretchedness refused to abate. T</span><span style="font-size: large;">here was an angry frenzy to the aftermath. How could she be lost forever? She was such a fabulous talent. Where did she get this horrendous idea and courage from? Why did she not share her anguish with anyone? Could the family and friends and teachers have reached out more? What were the pressures she was struggling with? Did she have a school crush? Did anyone shame her? Was she being bullied on facebook? Did she plan the self-harm or was it an action born of impulse? What could her immediate environment have done differently?<br /><br />Stung with guilt and grief, when the parents began to lash out at the<br />school and her friends, the picture perfect life of a young, talented child, deeply loved by her family and studying in one of the city’s best schools began to unravel. The horrific, yawning chasm between Garima’s reality and what her parents fondly imagined her life to be was every modern parent’s nightmare. “We gave her the best of care and opportunities,” her mother wailed. “I never put any pressure on her over her academic performance. She was a gifted artist and we always thought she was quite happy at her school”, her father sobbed inconsolably. “How come we were the last to know that she was facing harassment from a group of her class mates? She did mention once that a couple of teachers had counseled her regarding her report card but we treated it as just and rightful that a teacher confront a student with a constructive feedback. In fact, we made light of it with her, urging her to pay heed to her teacher’s words,” shared the mother. <br /><br />With the case grabbing headlines, the media enveloped the family</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> completely. There were cameras galore and mikes constantly being thrust at their grieving faces. “Did you not meet with the counselor ever?” a reporter quizzed the parents. “Yes, I did once,” relented the mother. “I was concerned about Garima’s growing estrangement from us. She was moving away emotionally. It felt she had found an anchor elsewhere but I couldn’t be sure. We were always confused over the style of parenting she needed. Our parents’ formula did not seem to apply. Where to draw the line, when to concede…these conflicts were crushing us. There was no place to go, no one to compare notes with. Everyone else seemed happy and content with their kids.”<br /><br />The shock and silence Garima left behind was soon taken over by the din of defense. <br />“I had no idea the Helium Hood Kit was a self-help suicide kit!”<br /><br />“How could we know her sadness was sadder than the regular blues?” <br /><br />“We presumed too much, we should have been more alert to her environment?” <br /><br />“Did she have a boyfriend? No way. Not Garima. She was not that sort!”<br /><br />“A lot of young people experiment these days. Could she have been in unfamiliar and threatening waters, with no one at home in the know enough to guide her?”<br /><br />The ache at the criminal waste refused to heal. Lawyers, activists, politicians, loyalists, family, journalists, counselors, policy makers, teachers took up vantage spots in this arena of unbearable loss and sadness. While they wrestled, a powerful phenomenon called ‘time’ stood by and surveyed the maudlin madness. It whispered in the wind, “This is my story India. And I have changed. My values, my aspirations, my expectations are nothing like you could even dare imagine. Hark, my words are fluttering still.” But no one was listening. </span></div>
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Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-20667265178697811722018-03-19T05:46:00.001+05:302018-03-19T05:46:58.057+05:30The Game<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Have you stood on a fairway at<br />
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daybreak waiting for your golf partner to take their shot? The air is nippy at that hour. There is the squelch of dewy grass. A steady stream of headlights snake up from the front gate. Birds confer and call out to their clans. The trees are still recovering from the night's shadows. An odd dog barks. There is the hush of human application and aspiration. Thoughts of hot chocolate flavoured coffee just two holes down jig about in the pinching air. The metal face of the club lofts the orange ball and the reverie is broken. Everyone resumes their purposeful advance towards the greens . But the opportunity comes up again. For daydreaming. Golf is like that! Punctuated with tit bits of zoning in and zoning out. You can be more alone in company here than any place else. It is an odd space. Your prayers are never answered. You keep hoping to come upon lost balls, they remain in hiding. You are sure to screw up a shot right after the par, they say! Bad behaviour speaks louder on the course than anywhere else. There are a sea of unwritten rules. You must always pounce to take the putt that is conceded. The actual hit will be nothing like the practice shot. You can prepare to feel intimidated by as peripheral a thing as the adversary's golf kit or her powerful drive. But there are aspects, a golfer will insist no one else who has not missed a par will know and understand. The game gets you up early. There is glamour, an eternal degree of difficulty and an exclusivity that humans crave It is a flourishing, prosperous world out there where rules still hold and and boundries respected. Above all, the game is an excuse to laugh at and with each other.</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-36284019733509733182018-03-14T21:42:00.001+05:302018-03-14T21:42:53.239+05:30The Fear<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vWzK3IQbvY6vQRW9GCX4KbmtgHSbsCqmDTwX3eP-mlX3MvqLWDKWGIBPJuN2WuT_PcgTc1CkD916nSLZcCR1Ueb_u82NUsLIaInpFxr-DorL2BmHRZyhFAr6eGJdDHh_Tst3lh8S7G8/s1600/20160223_180320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1vWzK3IQbvY6vQRW9GCX4KbmtgHSbsCqmDTwX3eP-mlX3MvqLWDKWGIBPJuN2WuT_PcgTc1CkD916nSLZcCR1Ueb_u82NUsLIaInpFxr-DorL2BmHRZyhFAr6eGJdDHh_Tst3lh8S7G8/s320/20160223_180320.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you any memory of when this insidious emotion seeped into you? This dark, acidic, bile colored thing called fear. Do you even remember a time when you were young and fearless? Nothing bad could ever happen to you. Then you became a parent! That new little life sucked out all your bravado, turning you into a perpetually on edge, dithering duh. You have lain awake at night since. You have spent hours staring vacantly at the clock, numb at the disastrous thoughts swimming around your head while the kid is out on the city roads in the middle of the night. You have dialled then disconnected their number thirty two times, sick at the switched off tone. The once potent and flourishing you has aquired an abiding faith in the worst case scenario. You latch your suitcase with a thick metal chain in the First AC now. You cover your jewellery with a scarf or a dupatta when out. You submit yourself to medical checks regularly. You track your children like a hound. You plan and string up several standby options. You subscribe to insurance plans. You suffer anxiety at the smallest plan going awry. Some fears are specific in these parts. Your cup of tea may run cold. The gulab jamun may not be served hot. Your weekend movie booking may come up against a houseful sign. Your maid may vanish for days without notice. Your child may be unmarried at 30 years. You just might bump into a relative when between jobs. God forbid, should India lose to Pakistan! What are we to do with ourselves? The air rings with, "Be careful. Don't get run over, mugged, hijacked, maltreated, swindled, rejected, used, abused!" So paralysed are we.</span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-3961462073474561662018-03-13T20:29:00.000+05:302018-03-13T20:29:29.271+05:30The Generation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you met anyone socially and not asked them what their children do? Our </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSxDU8aJrRdYDB0xAJQ9Z36POa7ZXRU-mSH-2Vv-QQ3LQj17N7khtDB1z1G_mBNhRnOGqLfTof3j7XXIPbPIRoq3dPVYeBFhcJ3RP9K0_eTkJI1QUWGVhElWpKCdjvLRRnveyxNfI-1I/s1600/2011-12-23+13.37.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPSxDU8aJrRdYDB0xAJQ9Z36POa7ZXRU-mSH-2Vv-QQ3LQj17N7khtDB1z1G_mBNhRnOGqLfTof3j7XXIPbPIRoq3dPVYeBFhcJ3RP9K0_eTkJI1QUWGVhElWpKCdjvLRRnveyxNfI-1I/s320/2011-12-23+13.37.17.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">culture tells us that the kids are our most visible validation. Their success and failure is ours. Our primary duty is to them, until our last breath. Anything we do for ourselves has to come after their needs have been met. It is fairly common to base retirement plans on the needs of our children. We want to continue to be available to them long past a reasonable expectation and even desire, in some cases. There is an active myopia amongst parents today that will not permit them to see that their progeny may be crying for space and independence and liberty. Freedom to be average. To live life from a back pack. To roam the world. To not shoulder family baggage. To just be, for heavens sake. To shake off the suffocating stranglehold of religion. To run from the forced socialising with extended family. To be released of expectations. To not have to plan, project, invest, save. To not be knocked down by a mace called marriage. To not bring kids into this world and give them the uninformed parenting they were themselves subjected to. To earn just enough. To not repay house and car loans. To not lose steam in the rat race. To not have to worry about standing out. To shun brilliance for contentment. To reject competition for an inclusive mediocrity. To listen only to the music of their own hearts. To drop the mask and be themselves. To be able to scream, abuse, love and experiment. To take risks. What's wrong with that? You grew up in an age of meagre means. They have matured being waited upon by proud parents and grandparents. Don't cry now. You enabled the magnificent millenial. iGen and Gen Alpha to follow!</span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-84315050140614752982018-03-12T11:12:00.001+05:302018-03-12T11:27:31.376+05:30The Expert<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcWGagqoalI_uQr_Af3O-8C-NuG1yRH9Fewgaq_Cb3Y7at5W8hUwSAPZjYoRttqtLSReFnWWdPx_xvUyVmzjAUJSVKUdbDyyJAboQy0P6-PWdbyftcpVtJK7F-eiYgGvkfEA2R8qQMYY/s1600/2017-11-25+14.32.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1205" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdcWGagqoalI_uQr_Af3O-8C-NuG1yRH9Fewgaq_Cb3Y7at5W8hUwSAPZjYoRttqtLSReFnWWdPx_xvUyVmzjAUJSVKUdbDyyJAboQy0P6-PWdbyftcpVtJK7F-eiYgGvkfEA2R8qQMYY/s320/2017-11-25+14.32.16.jpg" width="241" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Have you ever received dieting advice from an overweight </span><span style="font-size: large;">well wisher? A cardiologist may have taken a smoking break in your periphery! How about a real estate broker who has never owned a house himself? There are therapists spouting diagnosis from their personally troubled perches. Even Freud, for all the ammunition he left the Psych community with, could not “cure” his own daughter of lesbianism! Who hasn’t survived religious fanatics at home with hearts as closed as a government office on the weekend? The digital literacy has made this phenomenon happier. Back then, only the Reader’s Digest used to be quoted for illustration and by the select who read it. Today, the experts are crawling out of frames and beadings. We have all “surfed, self-informed, read and converted” in the soft pool of our bedside lamps, hunched over our TABs and Laptops and Smartphones. The virtual world enjoys a greater credibility with us than our own eyes and gut. How many times have you reached a spot and shaken your head in disbelief because the GPS insists your destination is at least 80 meters away? Traditions seem comic, our immediate family is not with it enough, the experts are obviously not practicing what they preach…we place our faith in online wisdom put there by strangers looking for business. Of course, there is a lot of information and ease of transaction and empowering communication Google favors us with. But the monster is not invested in any of us personally. On crucial life conflicts, it will tell us exactly what we want to hear. You can pretty much rationalize any and every one of your pet notions out there in the online court. You come away feeling in the right. This expert is not your grandma to say to you, “Don’t smoke, drink or have free sex!”</span></span></div>
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Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-81371620719821184452018-03-11T12:09:00.000+05:302018-03-12T11:30:37.227+05:30The Zone <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuDf1p6FK-pwrbH_3lAMKJfvHSgWPk3Uf4QKnXnSGlXonuzIsW-3IGbmNsp18yYoAQxYJa0-_6uy-1eR_BBWvAwJK3cy42s3qsZYrBd1Kjsg4xD0922jJVZ7swd42kRRejp278_gRlR4/s1600/2017-11-26+17.58.23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1390" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWuDf1p6FK-pwrbH_3lAMKJfvHSgWPk3Uf4QKnXnSGlXonuzIsW-3IGbmNsp18yYoAQxYJa0-_6uy-1eR_BBWvAwJK3cy42s3qsZYrBd1Kjsg4xD0922jJVZ7swd42kRRejp278_gRlR4/s320/2017-11-26+17.58.23.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you been in the zone ever? The world recedes, a cacoon of intense concentration envelops you, the sense of the moment is heightened and the light is sharper. You could be painting, composing, writing or simply cooking. It is just the two of you…you and the task consuming you. There is an alignment of desire and outcome, a silver amalgam of talent and opportunity. You don't hear someone calling, you chafe at interruptions, you want the world to still. You are creating! You dig deep into the innards of your being and draw out a complex stream of thoughts, emotions and impressions. Was this raw material lying in your head? Or did you pluck it from the air? What levers did you push to synchronise it all into that one melting melody, that life like portrait, that best selling book, that breath taking finish at the ribbon, that gutsy adventure, that defiant flight, that stubborn come back? How does science explain inspired actions? Or emotional drive? Where is man's original stock of humanity? What are we constantly reflecting? Whose manifestation are we? </span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-70557319571537353752017-05-06T19:07:00.001+05:302017-05-06T19:07:28.839+05:30The Remedy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZxChDzTnN3FHQaRKus6AX1DVZUtw07T7uerw9JikI7OkfuWgwxOPkBWPkc7miBd6oeKyR1TMOBU7E4TQ1TC5bboYozNo7wqvux8zQpsFMxgcmDp1qPzmFfpS7N4ybhRVJpZbxVvy4_E/s1600/2017-05-02+17.04.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGZxChDzTnN3FHQaRKus6AX1DVZUtw07T7uerw9JikI7OkfuWgwxOPkBWPkc7miBd6oeKyR1TMOBU7E4TQ1TC5bboYozNo7wqvux8zQpsFMxgcmDp1qPzmFfpS7N4ybhRVJpZbxVvy4_E/s320/2017-05-02+17.04.19.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Have<span style="text-align: left;"> you ever blamed a compliment on your saree for the blob of malai kofta curry you dropped on the pallu subsequently? The evil eye! Your admirer's expansiveness turns to guilty dismay, "I should have gushed less!" You recover shakily to assure, "It is alright, I will have it drycleaned, " but the moment is marred. As a rule, Indians have a colicky equation with admiration. We are spasmodic, both at giving and receiving it. How often have you drooled over a friend's silver bracelet only to be hastily assured it is a cheap imitation? She fears your envy! Or doesn't want you to feel any lesser. "What a gorgeous bag!" you exclaim. The wearer splutters, "Oh, it is very old, a hand me down from an aunt." If sounding ungracious helps save mishaps, so be it. We must be the world's most comorbid race. We acknowledge envy exists and guard ourselves with mantras, chillies, limes, prayers and charms. We spit, make frantic signs, rip white rags into seven strips, swirl camphor smoke and emanate a range of audio effects to banish ill will. Families store and apply these formulas as traditional, customized arsenal. A runny tummy? Out springs a fistful of rock salt. Falling grades? Water and kumkum. Emotional rejection? Wait, we have the perfect poultice of mustard seeds. And the all time, all favourite Indian domestic deterrent to rival the Tsar Bomba? A black dab from the adoring eye.</span></span></div>
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Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-74789195293899412222017-05-05T12:26:00.001+05:302017-05-05T14:06:27.262+05:30The Donkey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">Have you niggled yourself occasionally that you failed in life on</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ4SZYpuBVOQfndGbRJHp8n37KwOHOHBvVOZndc7JktVcLss-ek53k_-Se3JEepZQQ9At9yIIffo79fjTfr6a2_rPOln6jheO9E4_z0EkQY2Yt04ayFvfqCFr1v1QyTgmiiJDWKR4W9A/s1600/Donkey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGZ4SZYpuBVOQfndGbRJHp8n37KwOHOHBvVOZndc7JktVcLss-ek53k_-Se3JEepZQQ9At9yIIffo79fjTfr6a2_rPOln6jheO9E4_z0EkQY2Yt04ayFvfqCFr1v1QyTgmiiJDWKR4W9A/s320/Donkey.jpg" width="184" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> the projection front? That you remained a donkey at work rather than a peacock. All plodding, no show. You were not street smart enough to give your boss a peak into your late night home work and traffic lights notations. You were raised to believe that hard work paid! No one said anything about its qualifying visibility! You laboured over a near flawless report but there it was, your plain plastic cover tucked under your rival's ethnic themed folder on the Vice President's table. While you were racing back from a last minute administration tie up, he was rounding off the "With your blessings" routine. Your sincere interactive sessions with your juniors paled in comparison with his resourceful hobnobbing at the executive table. While you flailed to keep up on a sputtering stream of organizational loyalty, he flew on the asics of unadulterated self-interest. You kicked yourself every September when report cards were being rolled out. Why didn't you update your boss more regularly? Why did you get boxed into a hole? Why did you get defensive when being criticised? Why didn't you raise your head from the grindstone once in a while? Then along came the man himself one day, asking you to stand in for him at a graduation speech while he went globe trotting to pitch business proposals. He tossed you his prepared text, "Here, should you want to use it. The topic is: Hard work does not speak for itself. You do!"</span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-20232754044903797142016-12-29T21:19:00.000+05:302016-12-30T06:25:28.691+05:30Space (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1klHJw0h9KBGuDIbGlbIsRq1vV8LuC1Ff2nxvbgVDU06iPLRIEvs_fWK3v9szIMZseI3d-anMwaoDynRwLgChCx9zvPvndEQeWqDwyDh4wDOZnfTDoPJJ2HMsdpcdeosOpmMq03eDrnE/s1600/2016-12-23+06.46.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1klHJw0h9KBGuDIbGlbIsRq1vV8LuC1Ff2nxvbgVDU06iPLRIEvs_fWK3v9szIMZseI3d-anMwaoDynRwLgChCx9zvPvndEQeWqDwyDh4wDOZnfTDoPJJ2HMsdpcdeosOpmMq03eDrnE/s320/2016-12-23+06.46.34.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Sartaj did not commit. He liked to keep an exit route free.
Was this fence sitting of his out of concern for any disappointment to the
negotiating partner should the proposed plan fall through? Or was it just
self-preservation, honed to a craft! Ira could never tell considering she was a
study in contrast, with her arms held wide open to all that life could bring
her. She said yes to plans, projects, ideas, trips, requests, tasks; quite a ‘bring
it on’ woman. His mantra was, “Count me in, ninety nine percent”, while she was
in the habit of declaring, “Let’s do this!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Darling, the Fernandez’s are inviting us over for Christmas
cake, shall I say yes?” Ira would begin tentatively and pat would come the
response, “Tell them, we will try our level best!” This shadow committing peppered
the mundane of their lives together too. Ira had lost count of the days Sartaj
would first give his word about an evening walk together or a movie over the
weekend only to take it right back as the hour drew close. The reasons could be
anything from, “I have work to catch up with” to “I have to wash my hair” or
just plain “I feel like taking a nap.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Sartaj, we should forewarn the family we are reaching in a
week’s</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJeddS5Wy9EZ0AnhEfWZcJCPj624NvJt1gwgc4gjF8Yvk8gdPrtBc6HRD3CqfKVn-CbjGCH0xbfBvWuN7R5k4-ioCjM9M1DmcTMI1uRkU7VEl_CAo0vJ_b84p-ZYDPohPFtTg2UeRksQ/s1600/IMG-20161211-WA0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJeddS5Wy9EZ0AnhEfWZcJCPj624NvJt1gwgc4gjF8Yvk8gdPrtBc6HRD3CqfKVn-CbjGCH0xbfBvWuN7R5k4-ioCjM9M1DmcTMI1uRkU7VEl_CAo0vJ_b84p-ZYDPohPFtTg2UeRksQ/s320/IMG-20161211-WA0076.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> time so that they can make their plans”, Ira was uncomfortable with the surprises
they routinely sprung on their kith and kin. “I don’t like disappointing them.
What if our plans change at the last minute for some reason? You know what my
work is like!” Sartaj would defend his maddening method. It could be frustrating
at times. Ira came from a family that flirted with plans freely and had no
trouble keeping schedules and coming clean with commitments. It bothered her
that she could not confirm to her mother any vacation plans until they were
actually on their way. “You know how it is Mum, we will let you know as the
trip evolves. But you should go right ahead with your calendar, don’t miss out
on anything just waiting for us to firm up,” she habitually kept her folks in a
limbo.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Their couple dialogue followed a map of maybes and perhaps. Ira
knew better than to get her hopes up or look forward to anything too much.
Their friendship had taught her a certain equanimity of excitement. She had
also started to break away from the socially prescribed couple theme to assume
responsibility for her own fun and pleasure. They had begun to settle into a
rhythm of an easy and unfettered individuality. It was not unusual for her to
watch a movie alone when he perceived a threat to his pressures. She did not
seek his approval for every action of hers, at times he learnt of her
adventures after they had been had!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“When do you two meet at home guys? You always seem to be at
two different places! I see you walking alone too,” their friends were fond of
observing. They might even have suspected a fault line somewhere. The two would
joke about it, “Sartaj, we should occasionally act lovey dovey in public, the
next you know there will be talk of our divorce eligibility!” and “How about
you seeing me off to work lovingly and being home when I return so the
neighbors get the right message!” The pair had trimmed their togetherness to an optimum functionality. What had begun as
varying energy levels for living had ended up giving each the permission to
plug into their personal selves in a safe space. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ira discovered a hidden talent for linguistics; Sartaj found
he had</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbw1rP8yjxWQ-zfWGZMQaCpHo4ipieqKBTcYpHjXNvv6aDY1jd_4eRAY0TRmCNq2Nj4mRQa21ysoEyiCSFL30jMnTY5muUgg6ef5H-RUktSjOatTdvGR3iCdOB0yd_vo_QVZ8tWh9YKQ/s1600/IMG-20161030-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbw1rP8yjxWQ-zfWGZMQaCpHo4ipieqKBTcYpHjXNvv6aDY1jd_4eRAY0TRmCNq2Nj4mRQa21ysoEyiCSFL30jMnTY5muUgg6ef5H-RUktSjOatTdvGR3iCdOB0yd_vo_QVZ8tWh9YKQ/s320/IMG-20161030-WA0007.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> the notes for some stunning vocals. They used their time and energy away
from each other to expand and grow. It added rich and authentic nuances to
their hours together. “I have to wait for my husband. He hates going anywhere
without me. I so love lazing in my bed first thing in the morning but he
insists I come out and have bed tea with him in the lawn!” Ira had several awe
struck friends, they marveled at the autonomy she had found in her marriage. “You
are so lucky Ira to have such an understanding and accommodating husband,” they
were fond of reminding her. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ira would nod with the same vigor as she would
use to reach behind and pat her own back, “Hats off to me! Rather than bemoan
the perfect dancer, I did good to learn the dance!”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-85502170174753575142016-12-27T19:23:00.003+05:302016-12-30T06:30:20.492+05:30Peripheral (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4qe9QvStLjmya7Aq9f9hwnSM5LuHQUnuU3MIPf4AukO1bpsXbOG6DFfZcB0FptSWdMm-S8TkRAHVjI9fWR0vcMVK1YEMHTY2ZY43sbzPsf0fDea9BEzf1BRrmjN6oAxW48S2slxSKuc/s1600/2016-09-30+19.41.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4qe9QvStLjmya7Aq9f9hwnSM5LuHQUnuU3MIPf4AukO1bpsXbOG6DFfZcB0FptSWdMm-S8TkRAHVjI9fWR0vcMVK1YEMHTY2ZY43sbzPsf0fDea9BEzf1BRrmjN6oAxW48S2slxSKuc/s320/2016-09-30+19.41.21.jpg" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-size: large;">“You are the closest to me my girl, the only one in this
world who has heard the sound of my heart from my inside!” Rupika shifted
weight on her aching legs. Her twenty five year old daughter Maira was walking
away into the international terminal to check in for an outbound flight to New
Jersey and the parents were merely awaiting her security clearance now. There
was no place to sit it out; the only bench in the vicinity was loaded with
Canadian Sikhs. “She has checked in Rupi, shall we start back for home, she has
her cell phone in case she needs us?” the father asked tentatively. He knew his
wife would not only wait for as long as feasible, she would be on edge for the
entire duration of the flight, tracking it online and constantly checking for
word on Maira’s safe arrival. Her protective antenna stopped quivering only
when Maira confirmed she was safe and sound in her American apartment.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgidYF1jgm6sH1972AVlhRdcaBgD_GNp4-SEhLsXSp6h66_Cd1E-LMV5HSYx-z55UR6OdGIRHq3ycFAMw2SELauBYvESg5AWJzgF2qxiqbUX7PEy5XegC7Kg6su1_EThM082ei1ul2eY/s1600/2016-09-28+06.25.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwgidYF1jgm6sH1972AVlhRdcaBgD_GNp4-SEhLsXSp6h66_Cd1E-LMV5HSYx-z55UR6OdGIRHq3ycFAMw2SELauBYvESg5AWJzgF2qxiqbUX7PEy5XegC7Kg6su1_EThM082ei1ul2eY/s320/2016-09-28+06.25.11.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Mum, you have to stop imagining the worst, it is bad
energy,” Maira would often explode with annoyance at her mother. “Fear is a terribly
low emotion; you attract disaster when you rehearse tragedies like this!”
Rupika usually reacted to these outbursts with silence. She knew of no words to
describe the debilitating singeing that happened to her innards at the thought
of Maira leaving her side. How do you explain the urge to reach out and grab
her back? What cursed emotions were these that caused her knees to dissolve at
the very thought of her child being in any kind of peril? Was it nature’s way
of ensuring the survival and continued protection of the species? Or was it a
cultural conditioning? She did not care. It was alright so long as she knew
where Maira was and her voice sounded cheerful on the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This has to be the most non-reciprocal love affair in the
world,” Rupika laughed at herself with her husband. “I see you bleeding for her
Rupi, you have to step back a bit, start taking care of yourself,” he would
often advise his wife. “Let her be, she has to live her own life, make her own
mistakes and grow. You cannot “fashion” her after your own heart. She too is a
guided soul who has come with her own destiny. You have done your bit by
raising her with values and giving her a good chance with stellar education.
You need to disengage a little now. Give her space!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I would dive under a car for her, I could give her any of
my organs</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gBGySB2yLR2Vmx_814iVc0PZxo0vo9XP6mvdn4KMs_RJnlFbhT_QlwBoSk1yDJwrFEqwByrTN_WYwo8LSwpWkezyWZ4XP21i1i3UTpNt6uxoMyF7BPtEcNhTo-AghCZQVvjqBKLwG1U/s1600/2016-09-24+15.50.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gBGySB2yLR2Vmx_814iVc0PZxo0vo9XP6mvdn4KMs_RJnlFbhT_QlwBoSk1yDJwrFEqwByrTN_WYwo8LSwpWkezyWZ4XP21i1i3UTpNt6uxoMyF7BPtEcNhTo-AghCZQVvjqBKLwG1U/s320/2016-09-24+15.50.29.jpg" width="246" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> if she needed, I would fight any force for her survival, I would
never ever give up on her,” Rupika talked to herself. Vignettes flashed through
her mind’s eye of the hospital stay during Maira’s birth, the sleepless nights,
the inoculations, the school years, Maira’s High School angst, the pressure of
her own vision for her daughter, “Don’t try to live your life through Maira!”
she had heard that over and over. “You are obsessed, you are taking her around
to too many classes, she needs a break Rupi, this rushing around is hampering
her creativity. Let her taste the world at her own pace!” there were so many
well-wishing friends.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The world, it was a toxic place! The environment was
anything but enabling. Eve teasing on the roads, bullying in the cyber space, a
nasty competitiveness inside the workforce, ideas of sexual revolution and
myopic feminism on the TV, any number of video games and interactive fora in
her digital vicinity, easy access to alcohol and marijuana and friends that
were all too often, fair weather creatures. “I must be a low, malevolent
creature to have such pessimistic views,” Rupika berated herself. She had
instead driven Maira around from one stadium to another dance studio to a music
centre hoping that she would grow up with life affirming values of discipline,
inspiration, skills and human interactions based on awe and admiration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHLzZXdTYaAdqzus9uA2-lRJLZBqkY6W2FS9Q9QNF0-HSYvEUNZ3ZJPAIdca3q8WA_0CYKABjmelylkV-dhiPiTaHpDfoL_IXREivrnfG2n4-C9Cl7ZerlMT99aPrdriyfgnWuLQmC7U/s1600/2016-08-14+08.39.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHLzZXdTYaAdqzus9uA2-lRJLZBqkY6W2FS9Q9QNF0-HSYvEUNZ3ZJPAIdca3q8WA_0CYKABjmelylkV-dhiPiTaHpDfoL_IXREivrnfG2n4-C9Cl7ZerlMT99aPrdriyfgnWuLQmC7U/s320/2016-08-14+08.39.43.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">She dialed her mother’s mobile standing there, “Yes Mum,
Maira has checked in, I don’t know when I will see her again. She never calls
on her own. She is forthcoming on the logistical front but as soon as I begin
to ask more, she says she is very busy! You know, we were driving past the
stadium last evening where I have spent hours in the parking whilst she trained
inside. I would carry all kinds of nutrition for her, don’t know what she fills
up her stomach with now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I am listening!” Rupika’s mother was soft.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s funny how I have avoided calling her in the past just
so she does not get homesick for us! I have told myself it is better for her
not to go close to those feelings even though I would love to know what is
going on in her life.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a long sigh at the other end, “Don’t take it
personally Rupi! Maira is central to your life but you are only peripheral to
hers. You are navigating a painful separation; let her take the lead I would
suggest. She has to extend into her future…without you Rupi! Just as you did!"</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-80526769646679288422016-12-25T22:43:00.000+05:302016-12-25T22:43:39.601+05:30Birthday (Micro fiction 2) <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Monisha looked at the birthday cards piled high on her writing</span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSueAH2A-V-XHXeN52I5Ji8DCmWdlV6UTbon9bV-q8hNqb4MisWJSIxSKMM6jDyNX4tJgqk1DoQpaWqUbmaQ3bNXZcCsSmH-AZgWMakKhLwfAEMzaf3Z1SwHIf1R40CGH4_1XJOWYz6Ss/s1600/2016-12-25+22.15.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSueAH2A-V-XHXeN52I5Ji8DCmWdlV6UTbon9bV-q8hNqb4MisWJSIxSKMM6jDyNX4tJgqk1DoQpaWqUbmaQ3bNXZcCsSmH-AZgWMakKhLwfAEMzaf3Z1SwHIf1R40CGH4_1XJOWYz6Ss/s320/2016-12-25+22.15.35.jpg" width="320" /></a>table, the morning after. “Have a great one; many happy returns; pamper
yourself; may you have a great day”, the wishes were pretty much predictable
and safe. They were standard messages and exactly the strings she used when
greeting others. But what assailed her at the sight of the left over birthday cake
and the wilting flowers was social fatigue, a form of weariness with platitudes
that everyone routinely mouthed. When she herself put pen to a greeting card,
she tried to summon a congratulatory emotion from really deep within so as to make
the experience more enjoyable but it reverted to a mechanical exercise quickly
enough. Wishing, both giving and receiving had become chores, quickly to be done with
and on time, the earlier the better.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHpUPq49_M8GyKBLQrSCBuiULe-Vq6SuUehHn6wJV_TOe2s4lRftkz6ZcFY4vX33tqcipPHbyvSekkAZN-LMyY-0Ybmv9HINHilSJ1syX-fazogwG3pdsjmnlmUZX1zlKW7m6JeF5vuE/s1600/2016-12-24+13.51.26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgHpUPq49_M8GyKBLQrSCBuiULe-Vq6SuUehHn6wJV_TOe2s4lRftkz6ZcFY4vX33tqcipPHbyvSekkAZN-LMyY-0Ybmv9HINHilSJ1syX-fazogwG3pdsjmnlmUZX1zlKW7m6JeF5vuE/s320/2016-12-24+13.51.26.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">But had she had a special day? She sat swinging in the bright
green front lawn, staring at the palm leaves bordering their neighbor's garden. The lady was moving about on her terrace, yanking crisp laundry off the
clothesline. She waved out at Monisha, “Where is my birthday cake?” Stung with neighborly courtesy, the birthday girl grinned and nodded vigorously with just
the right amount of saccharine cheer expected of her, “Oh I have saved some for
you, coming up right-away!” she scurried into the indoors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Barring half an hour of cake cutting with her immediate
family and some fancy snacks, her day had been usual. Yes, some flowers and
gifts had trundled in but she had not unwrapped anything as yet. “Change the
water in the flower vases,” she instructed her attendant and walked out into
the patio with a Tupperware box. The sun was an affectionate golden,
tiny rainbows winking up from the dew on the lush grass. The bird houses rang with
excited chirps and warmth snaked over her limbs. “Take this cake across,” she
handed it over to the guard, returning quickly to her favorite wrought iron
garden chaise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqFnl-Pm55WvWCASkTHpPtF5ekY7m85StbAAJw-O3p2YKQJ-4PFIhlZ90ZzLhMdA2GBeKQSX5WJ_BR3s4oAYoDLd5gbzo7wmz8W3XZyX81ScGymkpnNYzpR32HKFecpz5S9ujbDDmwfc/s1600/2016-12-25+22.10.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJqFnl-Pm55WvWCASkTHpPtF5ekY7m85StbAAJw-O3p2YKQJ-4PFIhlZ90ZzLhMdA2GBeKQSX5WJ_BR3s4oAYoDLd5gbzo7wmz8W3XZyX81ScGymkpnNYzpR32HKFecpz5S9ujbDDmwfc/s320/2016-12-25+22.10.33.jpg" width="259" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">There were Facebook notifications to clear, she copy pasted
her gratitude to friends who had responded to the app reminders. She fought
unsuccessfully the residual guilt she had felt at her anxiety over fake smiles
and compulsive birthday surprises, she did not enjoy them and thankfully there
were none the day before. “Am I abnormal to feel so empty about my birthday?”
she asked herself silently. "I am supposed to be joyful and excited…this feels
nothing like the childhood birthday mornings! Where has the magic gone?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYxZ0ZToDM3FeigFu8wnMzeUKZ5eVH6-8Vue6s06TKxaAGQrUPOpNreSfaqXDJQLg2536SskHCEUIxQnjCNOEQP2eeXN0p-sSDDqyE_yeZnpV2_1_6rmoP0Fj27fGNanN9C1wihomGfY/s1600/2016-12-25+21.14.33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYxZ0ZToDM3FeigFu8wnMzeUKZ5eVH6-8Vue6s06TKxaAGQrUPOpNreSfaqXDJQLg2536SskHCEUIxQnjCNOEQP2eeXN0p-sSDDqyE_yeZnpV2_1_6rmoP0Fj27fGNanN9C1wihomGfY/s320/2016-12-25+21.14.33.jpg" width="303" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Monisha’s head fell back on the chaise; she gazed at the
garden Buddha. There was an imperceptible half smile on the restful face. It was
just clay but the particles were reaching out to her, she quietened and sat up
straighter at the streaming presence. Her eyes squinted at the suddenly
luminous leaves. A calmness had descended on the garden, it filtered the
cacophony of life around her. She dragged deeply at the vast confidence and
certainty of the presence that had spread out in ripples from the statue to as
far as Monisha could see or hear or sense. Why, everything was perfect, in place and
exactly as it should be! A butterfly described an arc across her eyes. She had
never registered the rugged beauty of the tree trunk. There was something
terribly potent and abundant in the diversity of life around her. The pigeons
cooed, her pet dog sunbathed and a peacock went treading through her poinsettias.
She marveled at the order and discipline and contained infinity in the air.
There was no room for an iota of doubt. She felt connected, uplifted, charged.
Her throat ached and hot drops stabbed her eyelids, “I am so very glad to
be alive!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Happy birthday to
me,” she sang to herself as she vended her way to the writing table inside and
pulled out her leather bound diary. There was no fear; she had a task to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Birthday resolutions 2017” she inscribed carefully. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-64331228559305808742016-12-22T20:13:00.002+05:302016-12-22T20:16:46.542+05:30Forgiveness (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqZGvYwkPW4qtyvA5dYVITj0xybDcSywgnnXD6WbVDkzcjHgV2DVaxtcL5a5u_SYkY9Aaz2MsXf1Cr_ZWogrDOSWL9PG2_FH0G3dLEG2PIhufJpiRR7-eVtdy_CRTOEhHdghfBEAoklQ/s1600/Forgiveness3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqZGvYwkPW4qtyvA5dYVITj0xybDcSywgnnXD6WbVDkzcjHgV2DVaxtcL5a5u_SYkY9Aaz2MsXf1Cr_ZWogrDOSWL9PG2_FH0G3dLEG2PIhufJpiRR7-eVtdy_CRTOEhHdghfBEAoklQ/s320/Forgiveness3.jpg" width="269" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“The Forgiveness Prayer is extremely powerful! It works.
This is </span><span style="font-size: large;">that one part of healing that can be said to have guaranteed results.
You must repeat this daily for forty days at the least,” the Healing Class was
in the midst of a Level 3 session. There was the waft of lavender oil; someone
must have scrubbed salt and a drop to ward off negative energy after their
bath. There was no telling how many of those present sported rose quartz
medallions under their shirts to nourish and brighten their heart <i>chakras</i>. These
sessions were conducted in a semi-formal manner, there was so much personal
accounting to do that the sobriety of reflection just did not sit well with
regular cheer and bonhomie. The students sat still with their eyes closed while
the Master moved about, blessing them with energy unlocked from his own
channeled reservoir. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Forgiveness is essentially a letting go, a releasing, and a
stepping back. Not only do you make a gift of forgiveness to all those who have
caused you pain, you ask it of them for yourself. So often, we knowingly or
unknowingly hurt others, with our voices, our bodies, our thoughts, our
intentions even…living is such a process of evolution, there are bound to be
mistakes. And don’t forget to forgive yourself. Often times, we are the
harshest on ourselves! Let it all go; wash it off, scrub the grief and sense of
betrayal clean. Forgive!” the teacher intoned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For several minutes, only the chirping of birds and the
stray honk</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLcrTQKSopTeyyHfUXnt5fO1hS59vBed71aekMG81_0zhzmhNQSPaM5hV1ay_FFNno7eiVGdeiNZiqrTuys2HyQCz7klyyReXzTnnovIWDVmqo2k3_oXz11g6YMbyhGW-RcmQHcDP5HU/s1600/Forgiveness1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJLcrTQKSopTeyyHfUXnt5fO1hS59vBed71aekMG81_0zhzmhNQSPaM5hV1ay_FFNno7eiVGdeiNZiqrTuys2HyQCz7klyyReXzTnnovIWDVmqo2k3_oXz11g6YMbyhGW-RcmQHcDP5HU/s320/Forgiveness1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> of a passing vehicle punctuated the peace in the hall. While the
bodies sat still, minds took flight, there being no telling as to the distance
and direction they anguished over. Was there regret? A sense of satisfaction
with the way their lives had turned out? Did anyone experience a Eureka moment?
Yes, some Adam apples bobbed and a few throats swallowed invisible pain, helpless
salt water sneaking down resolute cheeks. No one intruded into this spiritual
nudity, everyone understood and felt connected. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Where is Charu? She hasn’t been attending even though she
gave her assent in the beginning. This is the third time she has renegaded,
seems she is not able to organize herself and keep a commitment. Has she been
visible on our WhatsApp group? Any information, anybody? Do check what is up
with her?” Master had hurled a pebble into the energy flow of the room. Eyes
flickered open, foreheads went burrowing and heads nodded perceptibly before
peace regained lost ground. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTOduMCGFqGvbRpLzOwXDlax9hVNTQX93pFRvs0CWSruKkI3VpwLPya-qTt87bD3LGxbozWNRGGq9dTaDoQX7FOFfGdos50vZdFTLrwHQfLdvD8ccRMRBdMYasC4j4QzDJQOTI56qwoU/s1600/Forgiveness2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBTOduMCGFqGvbRpLzOwXDlax9hVNTQX93pFRvs0CWSruKkI3VpwLPya-qTt87bD3LGxbozWNRGGq9dTaDoQX7FOFfGdos50vZdFTLrwHQfLdvD8ccRMRBdMYasC4j4QzDJQOTI56qwoU/s320/Forgiveness2.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Alright, rub your hands together, pat your eyes and face
and remember to practise the Forgiveness Prayer tonight,” people had begun to
gather up their mats and bags. Some lingered longer for social exchanges.
Master had flipped open his diary and was running down figures in columns. He
looked up, “Charu has not submitted the fees too, and this is not the right way
to go about earning entitlement. Do convey this to her, those of you who know
her,” he addressed the room at large. This caused a slight break in the
departure rhythm, only the slightest, the hall emptied soon enough but for Nisha
who also happened to be Charu’s neighbor. She approached the Master earnestly and
began in an apologetic tone,”Charu in fact has sent an envelope for you Master,
it slipped my mind to hand it over
before the class began, I am so sorry!” Master plucked it out of her
outstretched hand, “Thank you so much!” he took a deep breath. The two remained
silent for some moments, him out of reflection and her out of reverence. Master
resumed softly, “Sometimes I feel my impatience with Charu has something to do
with her name. Charu Smita used to be the CEO of the company I resigned from
fifteen years ago. I remember, to the date, the humiliation of being superseded
by a younger man.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">“Forgiveness Prayer Master,” Nisha whispered under her
breath on her way to look for her footwear on the shoe rack.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-51141318093168594012016-12-20T22:23:00.001+05:302016-12-20T22:23:15.447+05:30Secret (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP92brY7yvB1_FtIP1bROXjpbtoCetbt8I9suMVSqjfzikrSMLgPUKR790ceu_YkJmPAai-qRFe86umkWYHL9ad5iUbndgJWhR4VWVEqgRjE-fe31wYEtw88ZFs-x8_4IrMQ0_bFp4XZA/s1600/2016-12-17+11.37.17+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP92brY7yvB1_FtIP1bROXjpbtoCetbt8I9suMVSqjfzikrSMLgPUKR790ceu_YkJmPAai-qRFe86umkWYHL9ad5iUbndgJWhR4VWVEqgRjE-fe31wYEtw88ZFs-x8_4IrMQ0_bFp4XZA/s320/2016-12-17+11.37.17+%25281%2529.jpg" width="175" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You are chattering with your fingers! Are you trying to
keep down a secret?” Manyar remarked with a frown. Henna, her childhood friend stopped
plucking at the lint on her trouser and shifted weight in the cane chair. She struggled
to rearrange the grimace on her beautiful face, “I have bad news and it hurts!”
Manyar was dismissive, “It is not the
news as much as repressing it that is eating you up. Come on, out with it! Tell
me what happened.” Just the bow of betrayal had begun to emerge from the fog of
anguish in the room. “I swore to my friend it would remain between us. You know
how gossipy people can be!” Henna mewled. “Yes, but we are not being malicious,
it is just sharing so as to feel lighter.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The two women sat in respectful dilemma, unable to break away
from the spell of a secret. They were like sailors, marooned on a desert
island, their throats parched for succour but staring at a mashk that did not
belong to them. Their eyes met! “Alright, just between you and me. Not a word
to anyone else,” Henna entreated. Manyar was beside herself with curiosity, “What
could the matter be?” She leaned forward unconsciously, trying hard to sit
still just in case her friend changed her mind about sharing the titbit. She
waited while Henna exhaled deeply around the waves of guilt assailing her at
the impending treachery. She leaned back, an arm over her eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Listen girl, gulping down a secret requires constant
effort, it will cause you unnecessary tension, in fact it might wear your body
down. Have you heard of how people come down with common cold just because they
are sitting on a piece of news they have been forbidden to share. The more you
try squashing it down, the more it expands, takes too much mental space Henna.
You want to be careful there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Alright then, make a
pinky promise to me. I have only shared it</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirimFuEBwJnWlbl0HxhwdCzCG0CETsZvjcZkw8s-py0RDfQHN8ZPr4FxudLb391uytXhFjUUVQY0CgoS9fYaoKqYCj9ebKnJ6qu18DCZtXJX1MQmF3GFcMmyoWywMVJhlTY8_f71lxDis/s1600/2016-12-20+22.00.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirimFuEBwJnWlbl0HxhwdCzCG0CETsZvjcZkw8s-py0RDfQHN8ZPr4FxudLb391uytXhFjUUVQY0CgoS9fYaoKqYCj9ebKnJ6qu18DCZtXJX1MQmF3GFcMmyoWywMVJhlTY8_f71lxDis/s320/2016-12-20+22.00.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> with my mother so far!” responded
Hennna.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What? You mean you have already broken your promise?”
Manyar was incredulous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh come on, telling my Mum does not count. She can be very
tight lipped about my affairs; she does not give out much to any outsider. Yes,
she is close to her siblings but that is about it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That makes it four people already in the know," Manyar ran
her thumb over the fingers, counting. “And if each of them is close to four
other people in turn, that is a whole bunch there. Your secret is no more one!”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Henna was dismayed, “My family is default ear for all my
secrets Manyar. I would come down with depression and loneliness if I did not
let them in on my emotional quicksand. I get migraine if I do not confide in
them. It is not about just being better than only one other person on the
planet, you understand I am sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh absolutely! Sharing secrets teaches empathy and social
skills moreover. Now tell me quickly, you were saying?!”</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-5766140831657739382016-12-17T18:33:00.000+05:302016-12-17T18:33:07.332+05:30Alone (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nzy5pQjc1FSTmRq5yWVjBjjaxfa4Kplmaad0_wT5aZQANrRoChg8stIdoGUS-93ehccY1S6UYr1WcPfhH1RGYufxGHhO17NX07ZOOqpbm7qbrjMtTg8TX6tSvTgv6MLoSn_spiTmD8Y/s1600/Alone3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nzy5pQjc1FSTmRq5yWVjBjjaxfa4Kplmaad0_wT5aZQANrRoChg8stIdoGUS-93ehccY1S6UYr1WcPfhH1RGYufxGHhO17NX07ZOOqpbm7qbrjMtTg8TX6tSvTgv6MLoSn_spiTmD8Y/s320/Alone3.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">“I want to leave this town with a grand signature. Have you
seen</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> how smooth and open the roads are? How about 100 Km on my Road Bike?”
Dilpreet announced to her group at a party. “Are you crazy? Who bikes that far
out? I haven’t driven that distance in my car ever!” the social space broke
into a howl of protest. “Be careful alright. Don’t go riding out onto the
highway, the traffic is crazy. Will you be riding alone?” There was another
attempt at dissuasion, “What are you going to do if there is a puncture? Does
your bike have tubes in those tyres?” There was no abating this flow of dire
prophesies, “Just do loops girl so you stay close to help. Toilet facilities is
another problem, public spaces are so filthy. I have a friend who got a urinary
tract infection just from using the staff washroom at her office.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dilpreet retreated into her sanctum sanctum against this</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5gZj8U_JElY-umIgMhwAdolQ899LvatSGN2tXYZowsUtAEUHJJnt2wqMQcyqPfB9J9k8hQI-NThTMVV0AZ2JeNmkorfXrI2sCfEOx5BAn4RcAZ6nwNwcmC4b4a5HaVzkvnx9pI5abs0/s1600/Alone4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5gZj8U_JElY-umIgMhwAdolQ899LvatSGN2tXYZowsUtAEUHJJnt2wqMQcyqPfB9J9k8hQI-NThTMVV0AZ2JeNmkorfXrI2sCfEOx5BAn4RcAZ6nwNwcmC4b4a5HaVzkvnx9pI5abs0/s320/Alone4.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
pandemonium of concern, the little private space inside her heart and mind. A
bit of an achiever, she was used to treading a path of her own making. Sure,
there were constructive inputs and critical feedback she fed into her journey.
As to the automatic words of caution that arose from those who had not even
entertained mentally what she was threatening to do, she often wondered, “What
is the emotion behind all the doomsday predictions? Is there fear of being
blamed for encouraging her just in case the project ended badly? Did her intention
threaten their self-concept with a tinge of guilt over not trying hard enough?
Were they really thinking of her inconvenience and safety or their own degree
of comfort with the status quo? It could just be plain and simple inertia!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEutyhFGBoEY__MSiasykKkp4tFPypKfy8K3P3oSvUFqWWRSkccOQMtUgS7W3W2qhbUMNPMMJ14x1Z6FCrLwQVg4Tu3rmJvFiYOX61OJGlkni74_Gj9sNos7wKoSh4qiYyOUy-gO9dusA/s1600/Alone1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEutyhFGBoEY__MSiasykKkp4tFPypKfy8K3P3oSvUFqWWRSkccOQMtUgS7W3W2qhbUMNPMMJ14x1Z6FCrLwQVg4Tu3rmJvFiYOX61OJGlkni74_Gj9sNos7wKoSh4qiYyOUy-gO9dusA/s320/Alone1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">She was at another gathering later that evening.
Dilpreet had done her online and telephonic homework and settled on a model of
the Road Bike. “Look, the way I see it, a bike is for exercise right. Why spend
so much money on just a bicycle?” the unsolicited onslaught took off all over
again. “What if there is no riding space in the town you go to next? Such a
waste!” With all the risk assessment and abundant precaution happening around
her, Dilpreet took her thoughts to the week of riding pleasure she had found
astride her rented Road Bike. It had been a suggestion from a competitive
cyclist, “You will never know the difference unless you ride one, the thin
tyres, the body frame, the gears…it is a technological marvel, this bike. Take
one on rent for a week and use it. It will help you make up your mind about
changing your Firefox!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Exercise? How do I explain the liberating emotion of
gliding</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5JuRXnC8Y1N6oi592Mp79REKYQCR3T-sU5ZPz4C1ISI4H1bV6-KhDm9ExFQ8axRwQJvFyWvT8f9hDefsgceze9wbDqxdq_6u5VrF71DHDg7004O6Drro6XrxCzjJwVHQRgDny16P27Q/s1600/Alone5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu5JuRXnC8Y1N6oi592Mp79REKYQCR3T-sU5ZPz4C1ISI4H1bV6-KhDm9ExFQ8axRwQJvFyWvT8f9hDefsgceze9wbDqxdq_6u5VrF71DHDg7004O6Drro6XrxCzjJwVHQRgDny16P27Q/s320/Alone5.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> powerfully on a well surfaced road stretching into oblivion ahead? What
price would you put on the pleasant stretch in the muscles, the restful
domesticity of the countryside and the wondrous look in a street urchin’s eyes
as he ogles at your machine? There is a particular sting to the early morning
air that rejuvenates the skin and mood like no salon spa. The occasional tear
in the eye with some stray particle in the rushing breeze adds to the heroism
of the mile munching odometer. There was expansion, a reaching out, a
stretching of the spirit, the sweetness of meeting a self-declared challenge; yes
right, cycling was not just about exercise, it was about godhood!” Dilpreet
clearly had the inclination to be independent of the good opinions of others.
She trusted herself. She had the desire and the yearning. She had a crystal
clear notion of herself pedaling down new paths, a rose red scarf trailing
from her neck. She was bent upon celebrating life! </span></div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-84986727129632399952016-12-15T20:46:00.004+05:302016-12-15T20:52:23.507+05:30Syndrome (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1S9cnW98TRHF__8HSqyU-JZWmifxTcC42gcYjBTE5ihOGdtPU6KCe3jtpeIP0wNBDDAJRLi5OrhPCC49djqYMAGp03VFHVF4yKglq4pYa8e382eJxfTu6HBRQhXqwPtlR3hjH0OND4A/s1600/Syndrome1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1S9cnW98TRHF__8HSqyU-JZWmifxTcC42gcYjBTE5ihOGdtPU6KCe3jtpeIP0wNBDDAJRLi5OrhPCC49djqYMAGp03VFHVF4yKglq4pYa8e382eJxfTu6HBRQhXqwPtlR3hjH0OND4A/s320/Syndrome1.jpg" width="320" /></a> <span style="font-size: large;">As a rule, Kavneet avoided medical camps. There was no
knowing how thorough the medical examination would be. In any case, she was
fairly confident of her general health and doubted she was the ideal candidate
to be benefitting from the exercise. Being the senior most bureaucrat however,
she had no choice but to lead by example and there she was, stretched out on
the examining table of a young gynaecologist. “She must be an intern, these
preliminaries can’t be all that demanding,” she thought idly, more to distract
herself from all the probing going on at the tail end. She sensed a sudden
pause, her thoughts broke abruptly and she had to ask the doctor to repeat
herself, “Sorry! You were saying?” Kavneet
raised herself on her elbows at the ensuing silence. There was no one with her,
only hushed whispers behind the green folding screen. She sat up hurriedly, flicking
her clothes down to cover her legs. Her heart had begun a slow drum.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ma’am, when did you hit menopause?” the doctor’s voice came
up muffled from under her head, bent over Kavneet’s medical papers. The patient
hemmed and hawed, scanning the years gone by, trying to make up her mind as
accurately as possible in the now urgent air around her. “I don’t remember
exactly but maybe a year ago,” the response was tentative. “There is no need to
worry Ma’am, I don’t want to alarm you,” the doctor tried to recover lost
ground with resumption of a classic bedside manner, “ but we will have to take
a sample for biopsy to the Shah Cancer and Research Institute Ma’am, it is a
routine procedure.” Fully aware of the need for dignity given her official
status, Kavneet put on a brave, even nonplussed face, ‘Sure, you need to do
what you need to do. But what is the symptom you are basing this investigation
on?” The doctor was young and slightly awed at having hit a diagnostic gold
with none other than Mrs Kavneet Kaur Ahluwalia, Principal Secretary (Higher
and Technical Education). She gabbled, “Fresh blood! I had barely begun the
internal examination Ma’am!” There was her entourage peeking into the door,
Kavneet just decided to cut her losses and take it forward after perusing the
papers thoroughly. On her way out to her waiting beacon vehicle, she overheard
her PA instructing the medical professionals, “Madam’s investigation must be
thorough and prompt. She is a very senior IAS officer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkSZSTBXMrdSIkZbGElhm512TYh8_8ADKKwQ7BzxfEvAryxSjgW5YsCQH_NWRw83Tu0ECjZgIt6FlUf4NjsdtXraZEzCuYwHmOhzO5Of1FMDhyphenhyphen4JnGI3Epms3M0VYN-FGcWuZOhiDgSw/s1600/Syndrome2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidkSZSTBXMrdSIkZbGElhm512TYh8_8ADKKwQ7BzxfEvAryxSjgW5YsCQH_NWRw83Tu0ECjZgIt6FlUf4NjsdtXraZEzCuYwHmOhzO5Of1FMDhyphenhyphen4JnGI3Epms3M0VYN-FGcWuZOhiDgSw/s320/Syndrome2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Back at her favourite couch in the beautiful Lutyens’
bunglow, Kavneet typed into her Dell’s search box, “Abnormal vaginal bleeding.”
Ten minutes of skimming and she was picking up the telephone, “Schedule an
appointment with the senior most gynaecologist at Shah immediately”. It wasn’t
long before the officer arrived at the hospital for her pre-procedure
anaesthesia and other relevant tests. The nosy hospital staff and her own
underlings had been busy, the “VIP aboard” cry had gone out and about. “Relax Mum,
it is a routine procedure, in fact in several civil hospitals, it is done in the
OPD, they don’t carry out a dilation and curettage any more. I will be back
home in half a day on the outside.” Kavneet’s WhatsApp was choking with
messages of concern from friends and family. She assured her mother as best as
she could and followed her PA towards the Surgical Wing on the designated day.
Just as he was stepping back to let her into the revolving door first, she spoke
up, “Oh no, I think I have left my spectacles in the car. Can you fetch them
for me please?”’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAvqoSMs0SYmVb2G0mEqAnjt7Qs4_7IH5drqlG8a8X7GW11AP1RqHcl19WiKJDu23b5HR1epPuCcDcsalbwVra1GgF45MIomZmNLiSO-DJHtvlnWuPcNLpHHgK8oyzHfSd62Dvx1OCuw/s1600/Syndrome6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIAvqoSMs0SYmVb2G0mEqAnjt7Qs4_7IH5drqlG8a8X7GW11AP1RqHcl19WiKJDu23b5HR1epPuCcDcsalbwVra1GgF45MIomZmNLiSO-DJHtvlnWuPcNLpHHgK8oyzHfSd62Dvx1OCuw/s320/Syndrome6.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">There is no way Kavneet would have known that the wheel of destiny was about to turn. A mangy cur, curled up under the Principal
Secretary’s car took umbrage at the disturbance to his snooze and lunged at the
PA’s unsuspecting ankle. An ugly crunch resounded in the afternoon quiet as the
angry canine ravaged human flesh down to the bone. The dog jangled at the leg
and shook it like a stuffed doll. Her PA’s terror stricken howl went crashing at
Kavneet’s ears so that she did an instant about turn. By the time she reached
the car, her PA was on the emergency stretcher and being rapidly wheeled away
to the ICU. The vicious bite had severed his ankle and there was no stemming
the blood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstaeWCOJz1XWxz0pF2509z0X24CWE8uZnxWojFGBwd7CdjKWBm0FQikbvBuaFAOXKzrgD_fXgIe9mN5UhD_To01j3OvumCBcsEVoDsMS17xCE00XGFKmBjmfjgV9eu7wxnYZfHomRuAo/s1600/Syndrome5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstaeWCOJz1XWxz0pF2509z0X24CWE8uZnxWojFGBwd7CdjKWBm0FQikbvBuaFAOXKzrgD_fXgIe9mN5UhD_To01j3OvumCBcsEVoDsMS17xCE00XGFKmBjmfjgV9eu7wxnYZfHomRuAo/s320/Syndrome5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A month later however, the very same car was back in the
hospital parking bay. The PA had repaired beautifully, thanks to the standard hospital
protocol and was back in the saddle, fit as a fiddle. Kavneet on the other hand
was undergoing yet another investigation on another accidental discovery. Even
as she lay down to succumb to the radiologist’s administrations for the third
time, he couldn’t help but exclaim, “Please don’t mind Ma’am but the menopause
transition takes several and highly individual courses in different ladies. For
some, it is stormy, others barely notice it. I believe your Gynaecologist is
treating you for an altogether different syndrome.” He waited for a prompt then
placed the camera head on her lower abdomen with a definitive wave, “It is
called VIP syndrome Ma’am!!” </span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-28278790576293774132016-12-14T10:58:00.001+05:302016-12-14T10:58:48.616+05:30Worrywart (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is an emotion to run from, that guilt mixed anger; it comes</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTddKSRZ3oawjiisUAjhk9ro-rUf9Sl04R_8lBYpDkCVbwmg-fN2tRBdkpIzzf35NV4glZpK0uJyZ5iRaTjyq0L__l0PMrNR0P8TDggf1EBgPe-mDexrf_kgs_n6zX4gvPM4cpjftjXqA/s1600/Worrywart1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTddKSRZ3oawjiisUAjhk9ro-rUf9Sl04R_8lBYpDkCVbwmg-fN2tRBdkpIzzf35NV4glZpK0uJyZ5iRaTjyq0L__l0PMrNR0P8TDggf1EBgPe-mDexrf_kgs_n6zX4gvPM4cpjftjXqA/s320/Worrywart1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">welling up at the parent’s mention of worry. “Oh baby, where are you? The
weather is packing up. Hope you are warm and cozy at home! Please don’t be
wandering around at this unholy hour. Did you remember to charge your phone
before leaving for the airport? Have you got a copy of your ticket? Where have you been, your phone was switched
off, I was dying here with worry!” The media fed fear in the air had made
dithering blubbers of Gurjeet and Ajrawar. They were driving their young
daughter up the wall with their ever present and bilious concern. “I am alive
here Mum, can’t you see? And I am keeping you informed, what is the panic
about? Why is everyone forever rehearsing tragedy?” she was furiously impatient with their stalking and tracking on occasions.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTTlYkVMXyiKS14FttPorAOVakaKzFOesUoKKj5TNEr9ZdIIhM_hdSNzuuBTV0FrB2w0Uiqt2GlaxAlTaIhRjgiZ3_LXMAc2UtMbEnWmX69X4un27EZ7O-2ETPL82QJQ5a90O-3180_Y/s1600/Worrywart2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaTTlYkVMXyiKS14FttPorAOVakaKzFOesUoKKj5TNEr9ZdIIhM_hdSNzuuBTV0FrB2w0Uiqt2GlaxAlTaIhRjgiZ3_LXMAc2UtMbEnWmX69X4un27EZ7O-2ETPL82QJQ5a90O-3180_Y/s320/Worrywart2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Having raised their darling girl in the so called “Rape
Capital” of India, the couple was on edge as a matter of course. Any call from
an unfamiliar number on their mobiles was enough to set them off like a pack of
firecrackers, “Has something happened? Is this a bystander calling them with
some devastating news?” Primed for emergency responses and dreading the worst,
their busy adrenaline had given them permanent goose bumps they were forever
rubbing their hands down, over and over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The family had survived many a battle royal on tense nights
when Pia would be out flouting her curfew hour. It would begin with, “I am
starting back in fifteen minutes,” and eventually dissolve into a countdown ending
with, “I am crashing here for the night. Don’t wait up for me.” If only she had seen how the air went out of
her parent’s rigid frames before they collapsed with fatigue into their cold
beds. It was harrowing for them to stare at the front door for hours on end
only to pretend nonchalance at her footsteps outside. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps it was only to stem the overzealous parental concern
but Pia had gamely tucked a Pepper Spray can into her bag and dutifully carried
a nunchuk below her driving seat in the car. “Never look into the eyes of other
drivers on the road. Keep your windows rolled up at traffic junctions during
the wee hours. Keep our numbers on speed dial. Text while setting out, will
you? Avoid deserted roads and highways. Ask a male colleague to tag along after
unusually long hours,” Pia had pretty much heard it all. “Mum, you think a
guy’s mother is any less worried about her son!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This parent child tug of war assumed new heights when Pia
took</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTGkPWJxxZiEYGBCTchyphenhyphen5GtySuKG8ztrsVE5dv76yp-8VxcneYJbKIOu_jFnnk-KlUTRcR70Xdm0Rib0ddGT9rAcJPIpfwW8yre5zMWGRaDOmAg2uhcbinl9G8OreRKPn0DESvuKOXgw/s1600/Worrywart3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTGkPWJxxZiEYGBCTchyphenhyphen5GtySuKG8ztrsVE5dv76yp-8VxcneYJbKIOu_jFnnk-KlUTRcR70Xdm0Rib0ddGT9rAcJPIpfwW8yre5zMWGRaDOmAg2uhcbinl9G8OreRKPn0DESvuKOXgw/s320/Worrywart3.jpg" width="179" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> off for the Big Apple to pursue her undergraduate studies. Her parents now
exported their imagination to the digital maze. There was the social media, the
digital banking and Whatsapp for remote assurance as to her wellbeing. But of
course they did their weekly FaceTime, the disparate time zones notwithstanding.
Imagine the rock in these happy waters one day when Ajrawar got an SMS alert on
his Android phone. Pia had apparently swiped her TCDC card at a chemist’s for 4
USD. Chemist?! Oh good dear God!! He
called up Gurjeet at work, “Could it be her eye that is bothering her? She had
mentioned her wisdom tooth beginning to throb a bit! With the harsh winters
coming on, one never knew with the central heating, her landlord was not
accessible enough at times.” <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Not one to wait for the other part of the world to wake up,
Gurjeet typed out a message, “Pia darling, is all well?” Back came the cryptic
response, “Why do you ask Mum?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, Papa got a bank alert for 4 $, shall I ask the Aunts
to contact you for any medical follow up? Papa knows the Defence Attaché posted
there?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What are you rambling about Mum?” there was the faintest
growl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You swiped the card at the Chemist’s, right?” Gurjeet
raised it a notch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A nano pause and then a delighted cackle ballooned at
Gurjeet from across the international ether, “Mum! Your default setting needs
rebooting. It was at Medici, the café round the corner! I had a croissant on
your dime parents. The week’s dose!”</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-89477609930490965652016-12-13T16:50:00.001+05:302016-12-13T16:53:48.286+05:30Enemy (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KcCnINCs_G6wIcYl7XW-y7JwaqMjrcBbrWXGk7juMX-CbDQv0NQQjsJgXLPhnCeDeuZ7IcR5jMPj28Zd39nyGbkjoXYUihzWIGZ9u87I6TgMJrt5Adk-5KxopmlVFKP7-b-YwRYAEXQ/s1600/2016-12-12+10.31.24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0KcCnINCs_G6wIcYl7XW-y7JwaqMjrcBbrWXGk7juMX-CbDQv0NQQjsJgXLPhnCeDeuZ7IcR5jMPj28Zd39nyGbkjoXYUihzWIGZ9u87I6TgMJrt5Adk-5KxopmlVFKP7-b-YwRYAEXQ/s320/2016-12-12+10.31.24.jpg" width="205" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It is not visible to the naked eye but there is a furious
amount of self-talk going on inside golfing heads just before a tournament.
Behind the bonhomie and all the cheerful exclamations over the lovely weather,
there are these inaudible voices in the air, “Oh no, we are teeing off from the
first one, I better not mess this up, there is too large an audience!” Another
voice will whittle away, “Inhale, exhale…just one shot at a time, remain
focused on your own game; don’t fret over your cheating buddy!” And, “Silence
is golden on the course, ration the words and for heaven’s sake, don’t lose
your cool with your caddy.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It was the inaugural Coast Guard Golf Cup and the players
were going about their business at a civilized pace. Nidhi watched Tara busy
herself with photo sessions. A stunning woman in her thick auburn mane, Tara had
the height and that great eye to hand coordination of a good golfer but more
often than not, she struggled to convert her talent into winning scores. Her
apologetic air and under confident shots spoke of a diffident and divided mind.
The other women golfers were used to seeing Tara hurry and skip after her long
suffering caddy chanting, “I am sorry Mahesh! I don’t know what is happening. I
usually don’t play this badly!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A stoic player by contrast, Nidhi was averse to playing with
women</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbJI0zN6lYjd37Wque0KhTavrjvXa6uH724N6DyU2gbUdPAr_jTWeaK7iPd38Ia9pCn3fyv4PKIK3HeL-JZDKvjApxcbz6othrNezOMWz6b2D86SOcHUHH_DY2JdpL4Nx1gzQjetOLww/s1600/2016-12-11+13.58.34.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbJI0zN6lYjd37Wque0KhTavrjvXa6uH724N6DyU2gbUdPAr_jTWeaK7iPd38Ia9pCn3fyv4PKIK3HeL-JZDKvjApxcbz6othrNezOMWz6b2D86SOcHUHH_DY2JdpL4Nx1gzQjetOLww/s320/2016-12-11+13.58.34.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> for this one reason; they wanted too great an emotional management from
outside. It irked her when lady players tried to play down a brilliant shot
with a quick reassurance to the rest that it was just a fluke! She couldn’t
stand the self-berating and regular guilt trips that routinely unfolded on the
course. And woes betide anyone who chattered too much during a tournament. “No
histrionics please,” the other women were used to her forthright manner, “let’s
get on with the game, shall we?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The goody bags were being handed out. Their four ball made a
beeline for the washrooms in order to change into their spanking new T-shirts.
“I love the shoe bag, and look at this sleeve of balls. So glad I took up this
game. To think I had nothing but contempt for this game once upon a time and
not too long ago!” The women chatted easily and exclaimed over the colour combinations
of their golf attire and whether the caps matched the rest of the ensemble. “I
have not played in days Nidhi but you have been practising regularly!” Tara
complained. “I just hope I don’t mess up my chipping today. You have so much
more tournament experience than me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiU9NUpQvQWrXZcnQ4FrExLapaV3SKAGeDkDtBGONFaS5EVjCnELtK7zZ8K3vnswThT4_4eCCWbxafuVyE5Mi1-hIgo0vfDJb-2d2LMQWbU_dd7WJO0KVl1W0dglJ-JU_6cIgIOaAqB8/s1600/2016-12-13+14.59.53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiU9NUpQvQWrXZcnQ4FrExLapaV3SKAGeDkDtBGONFaS5EVjCnELtK7zZ8K3vnswThT4_4eCCWbxafuVyE5Mi1-hIgo0vfDJb-2d2LMQWbU_dd7WJO0KVl1W0dglJ-JU_6cIgIOaAqB8/s320/2016-12-13+14.59.53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Nidhi fought her annoyance at this emotional encroachment on
her presumed magnanimity. Genteel courtesy now demanded that she bolster Tara
with, “Oh no, I am as moody and unpredictable with my shots. Don’t worry! My
short game is equally temperamental and about the fairway, have you not seen me
in the rough skulking under the bushes for that ball of mine? Relax. You will
play fine.” Nidhi kept silent instead, taking a step back from the usual,
pre-tournament drama. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">As they emerged from the Golf Hut, they heard crisp metallic
sounds from the Men’s tee. It was their turn soon enough. Nidhi drove her ball
into a spectacular flight; it seemed to sail along the white marker for the
straightest drive. There was peace for a while as the foursome worked their way
through the front eight holes, building their scores in relative silence, Nidhi
refusing to be distracted with self-recriminating debris from Tara. She would
not acknowledge the missed shots, the penalties or the sand skill with anything
other than a poker face. At one point Tara stunned everyone with the longest
yet driver shot, it went tearing towards the green to some 200 yards. Nidhi
applauded but retreated immediately. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Nidhi’s caddie was placing her T when she heard Tara mutter
under</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqa519fvpQ3x4wHhP9Yrzz7NhND4DeNm2G1i8I_8aNwD7VTzrtoA51ivBaMLfo8fWIfaoEN2m4VeiT_4w1BZqJDJZl1_1IiK7hq-pdkfmk6TCF5_ofuzGM4DCkdHjZUJwPtAxb8gj9aV4/s1600/2016-12-13+15.00.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqa519fvpQ3x4wHhP9Yrzz7NhND4DeNm2G1i8I_8aNwD7VTzrtoA51ivBaMLfo8fWIfaoEN2m4VeiT_4w1BZqJDJZl1_1IiK7hq-pdkfmk6TCF5_ofuzGM4DCkdHjZUJwPtAxb8gj9aV4/s320/2016-12-13+15.00.41.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> her breath, “My three wood is giving me heart burn. Last time we played
on this course, I lost two balls in the water. And three holes here have super
high trees overlooking the greens.” Nidhi pulled her glove off and stepped back
from addressing her ball. She tugged at Tara and gently pulled her under the
shade of the small tree close by. “Look into my eyes Tara. There are so many
ups and downs while playing golf, it can drive anyone crazy with emotion. But I
am telling you, each one of us here is autonomous and the responsibility is
highly individual and personal. The challenges are not out there on the course.
Your tallest Everest is in your mind! Quieten those thoughts. Let’s just mind
our own minds! Play, shall we?"</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-45426966260495490322016-09-11T22:22:00.000+05:302016-09-11T22:22:18.617+05:30Integrity (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7dMp1WZXbZTzlruaT6V_XsX6p4TTXWJl2aGUihkUg6JH82f_xLbO_fG7GS4Vz6-EIq-47BIl-lgief6X-wgkEYrh7Wp4POYA9xc2VmEzQ2Y4Nz6hsufNH5TvFhQoT9QiP2K5O7cQ__g/s1600/Integrity4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp7dMp1WZXbZTzlruaT6V_XsX6p4TTXWJl2aGUihkUg6JH82f_xLbO_fG7GS4Vz6-EIq-47BIl-lgief6X-wgkEYrh7Wp4POYA9xc2VmEzQ2Y4Nz6hsufNH5TvFhQoT9QiP2K5O7cQ__g/s320/Integrity4.jpg" width="209" /></a> <span style="font-size: large;">Anureet caught herself listening to her guest’s monologue a
bit dispassionately, “Mrs Gill, what did you do to get your son into a
university like Princeton? It has been my daughter’s dream for the longest
time. I know I would be imposing on your time but if you could help with the
essays and the LORs, you will know just the right words, your vocabulary is so
good.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">An inexplicable silence mushroomed in the predominantly
white living room. The guest waited for a response, just like a devotee
expecting a revelation. Anureet drew circles in the thick Persian rug with her
pepper pearl toe nail. Seconds dragged and the anxious mother resumed, “Her
school has agreed to co-operate fully. They told us to draft the letters of
recommendation and the teachers will sign them. My daughter’s extracurricular
accomplishments are virtually non-existent; she has been a bit of a nerd. How
do you suggest we make up for it? I can get some certificates issued, what do
you think?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyCb-QwVDG8ZVFzS3uq3bQHFTz9L-6-8dT9Zx6p04MyDN2fbQSHygxGGE7VuojoleAhFxP8xXuJYyaZ7aZ9sBpim7OiLFRPfuLP6tpYpjfWz8U0hA2ZhbHdwdXnompU6HZQ8oHQ-i988/s1600/Integrity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFyCb-QwVDG8ZVFzS3uq3bQHFTz9L-6-8dT9Zx6p04MyDN2fbQSHygxGGE7VuojoleAhFxP8xXuJYyaZ7aZ9sBpim7OiLFRPfuLP6tpYpjfWz8U0hA2ZhbHdwdXnompU6HZQ8oHQ-i988/s320/Integrity.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Straightening up with a deep breath, Anureet began in a
deliberate tone, “Most of my family was against sending Rohan for under
graduation abroad. In retrospect now, they may have been right. An emotional
distancing happens, kind of willy-nilly; you miss out on major chunks of each
other’s lives.” It was clear that the fired up parent would not be dissuaded
off her track, “But what about the financial aid application Mrs Gill? Did you
submit accurate and authentic papers?! I am paying some fifty thousand rupees
to have professional admissions counsellor dress up her application, the
acceptance rate is so scary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You know, we send our children so far away from home, all
by themselves in an unfamiliar culture, there are challenges we should think of
and prepare them for,” Anureet made another attempt. “But Mrs Gill, what is
there in our country worth staying on for, there is so much favouritism,
corruption and unprofessionalism, at least out there, it is her merit that will
get her places.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Take some time, give it more thought,” Anureet’s note of
caution</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdp9JzCFxsblpiEIDxmTJUCkU-bynXTPwj74fOuHwQi-t-UtJio-Sv4jniGu2z83R4eVDkNy521Frmicodx8p2vC9hn6ZFGStjXnzZuaY-olQRCQbvhOTsb9dR1gUYAhpAuz8mHezc-S0/s1600/Integrity2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdp9JzCFxsblpiEIDxmTJUCkU-bynXTPwj74fOuHwQi-t-UtJio-Sv4jniGu2z83R4eVDkNy521Frmicodx8p2vC9hn6ZFGStjXnzZuaY-olQRCQbvhOTsb9dR1gUYAhpAuz8mHezc-S0/s320/Integrity2.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> was promptly dismissed with, “Is there any way we can correspond with
Rohan? Get a first-hand sense, you know. My husband will have some questions,
the entire family, extended included is involved in this admissions project.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anureet had to smile. It took her back to her days of
sweating over FedEx packets and the cumbersome labels. The whiteboard over
Rohan’s study table used to be plastered with document lists and deadlines.
Graded analytical essay, senior secondary forms, teacher evaluations,
transcripts, art portfolio, TOEFL and SAT exams, it was all a breathless whirl,
followed by that interminable wait to hear back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How does Rohan like it there? He must be really making the
most of an Ivy League education. Lucky you to be such a proud parent,”
Anureet’s visitor began gathering her folders to back out of the room towards
the front gate. The hostess followed, coughing and clearing her throat to get
out some more advice but in vain, the caller’s rosy spectacles were firmly in
place. In the still dread that ensued, Anureet pulled out the orange and black
envelope from under the mantel for the sixth time. It was from the Academic
Integrity Office of the university, informing that Rohan had been found guilty of
plagiarism. He was being suspended from Princeton for one year, with censure
having been added to his punishment for being dishonest with them. There would
be a note on his transcript saying as much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk3yCnPi7RA7oUH5L5pqO76xXDvrVXkSgP-h0QQgrdngSwv_hW6QX5v75ko59wfqC1l5W_V_GWF6s5g8rglzhIhPRnM7WEbhzjjZz8xeK_cYtjBhkD31ywVb0uxWNMvALmdLMRNR34sk/s1600/Integrity1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk3yCnPi7RA7oUH5L5pqO76xXDvrVXkSgP-h0QQgrdngSwv_hW6QX5v75ko59wfqC1l5W_V_GWF6s5g8rglzhIhPRnM7WEbhzjjZz8xeK_cYtjBhkD31ywVb0uxWNMvALmdLMRNR34sk/s320/Integrity1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Mum, Mum…hello, are you there?” Anureet jumped at the sound
of his disembodied voice emanating from her face down Galaxy Tab. She fumbled
the gadget open, heart heavy with grief. There he was, the pride of their family,
reduced to tears. “I am sorry Mum, I know what all has gone into my coming
here. We have this Honor Code we sign during our orientation. I believe I have
indulged in “unpermitted collaboration”. I have breached the culture of
academic integrity here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“But how, what happened,” his mother spluttered, “You are
telling us now!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Rohan’s voice dipped and climbed, “Mum, a friend told on me.
We are morally obliged to report perceived unfairness. The exams here are not
proctored. I told them that in India, students
score more for reproducing verbatim from notes and books rather than
paraphrasing. But they say ignorance is no excuse! What would you call my
superhuman admissions effort if not collaborative Mum? I am sorry but I am
coming home for the remainder of this term and the next year!”</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-18044700764439830012016-09-01T21:50:00.000+05:302016-09-01T21:50:38.618+05:30Meltdown (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K3btWb9b61wKBLqhIInH9B5lrFDh1yXmtb9dWQ9sIHmCoRu7HaYKBlpwuosSe9Vm85qaWSAsgJ48-bVTQ2BMlEFt1Mg6GF2y5C8U_Jfs6oaHmUfhmsX-dNBjcBGvDjqNssWbNXFDDUU/s1600/2016-08-24+19.12.36.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-K3btWb9b61wKBLqhIInH9B5lrFDh1yXmtb9dWQ9sIHmCoRu7HaYKBlpwuosSe9Vm85qaWSAsgJ48-bVTQ2BMlEFt1Mg6GF2y5C8U_Jfs6oaHmUfhmsX-dNBjcBGvDjqNssWbNXFDDUU/s200/2016-08-24+19.12.36.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Kira’s mind was abuzz. She had fixed a flag on the course
with her gaze and was directing a silent monologue at it, “Have you ever been
on the inside of a golf tournament? Behind the order and the fluttering flags
and those neatly made up quote panels you see, there is a world of inner
turbulence. Golfing minds are beset with the inherent imperfection of the game.
No matter how competent and skilled a player is, the winds and the turf make
for fickle friends. The ball has a mind of its own. Mistakes are inevitable and
outcomes unpredictable.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dzH1M00yHy-hBGENw6xBflVYZQ_2sYO4bhEcqzZiFCl9mlITyg7jgb7j_OQ9ZjfnrF7-_2FO08w7ncmoCH1AyE6q-BKD4Bb3ckhGfgzzUuP0V7HnUTiU6VSZzks-hiDcw7LFkb3fths/s1600/2016-09-01+21.30.57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dzH1M00yHy-hBGENw6xBflVYZQ_2sYO4bhEcqzZiFCl9mlITyg7jgb7j_OQ9ZjfnrF7-_2FO08w7ncmoCH1AyE6q-BKD4Bb3ckhGfgzzUuP0V7HnUTiU6VSZzks-hiDcw7LFkb3fths/s320/2016-09-01+21.30.57.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I must not lose myself in the woods or the pits today!”
Kira’s mental chatter got acuter. Matches against strangers gave her the cold
sweats, particularly when she played as a defending champion. She tried to distract
her nasty self-talk by calling out to her caddie, “Nassir! Have you cleaned my
bag and marked all the balls? Keep track of the score card alright; there was
also some mix up last time with the yardage calculation and yes, we will use my
pink ball on the greens.” She thus extended
her anxious shroud as she fought the onslaught of other people’s natty golf
clothes, branded kits, their formidable handicaps, tales of the hundreds of
balls they hit in practice and their impressive tournament experience. “Dear sweet God, let me not make a fool of
myself today!” went her silent prayer as the others stretched, hydrated and practice
swung their drivers in the air around her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Asked, Kira would be hard put to answer why she was there in
the first place. Initiated into the sport by her parents, she liked it well
enough; it was the patronizing magnanimity shown her gender and the lack of
quality training that chafed. Of the only other woman she knew to be a
champion, she had heard the gentlemen say, “But she plays off the ladies tees!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I hope I don’t mess up my fairway woods today. My drive has
too</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGe3uDJG_Z88C9k0khOCUMMiImcgiNMHfF_c7cRygQBgrwaFoj5977WnsfTCB9bhHCZnfvD7AI23iFcapS4YCXkgQtwli0iwNtosXVITFKe1xODrFgwL_Yo9enIZZon91pM1wiO3x-2M/s1600/2016-08-28+12.19.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihGe3uDJG_Z88C9k0khOCUMMiImcgiNMHfF_c7cRygQBgrwaFoj5977WnsfTCB9bhHCZnfvD7AI23iFcapS4YCXkgQtwli0iwNtosXVITFKe1xODrFgwL_Yo9enIZZon91pM1wiO3x-2M/s320/2016-08-28+12.19.56.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> big a slice. If I end up missing any of those stupid two foot putts, I’m
done!” Kira’s fidgety fingers flew over her T-shirt, patting her shoulder
blades and the back, “Oh thank god! I am wearing my sports bra. My tatas get in
the way of the swing, can do without all that bouncing and jouncing.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Neil, her husband, was approaching her from the practice bay,
“Just enjoy the game Kira. You look tense, decompress a bit. One shot at a
time, remember. There is no making up in golf!” She nodded absently, almost
dismissing the counsel, “Will you be following me?” She wanted to tell him that
his body beamed the quality of her shots and that amplified her fear and
frustration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Something was amiss today. Kira’s emotions were stealing up,
almost taking over. She walked towards the washrooms, conscious of jittery
limbs and a humming pinball in the stomach. “It is only a game,” she whispered
to herself, “nerves are good, they are priming, I am ready to go.” Fielding myriad thoughts, she stepped into the
shaded confines of the Golf Cottage. She was reaching out for the towel when a
stabbing pain lit up her chest. Her throat closed and she hunkered down slowly,
breathless and shivering. Dabbing at the sweat welling on her face and neck,
she pulled out her phone and dialled Neil’s number.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZCMGn0FpX8fsFDeREmCAhwej2bIYxgjccqokioAdWkCXcSlmgvmp1P8OvMbVDlKCeCU-MMumxgVEjuCEExeuP-JxXAwJZ_sxNL5wX4WKdCDCpaKojtCJrIlFQ6zh-YbequMbsBfQYvU/s1600/2016-08-09+10.37.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNZCMGn0FpX8fsFDeREmCAhwej2bIYxgjccqokioAdWkCXcSlmgvmp1P8OvMbVDlKCeCU-MMumxgVEjuCEExeuP-JxXAwJZ_sxNL5wX4WKdCDCpaKojtCJrIlFQ6zh-YbequMbsBfQYvU/s320/2016-08-09+10.37.38.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Having materialized besides her in a jiffy, Neil took complete
charge. Soon enough she could hear her sports doctor on the phone loudspeaker,
he was responding to Neil’s description of her symptoms, “You are looking at a
full blown panic attack. Don’t worry; she is healthy and quite safe. Her
perfectionist attitude and competitive spirit have precipitated this crisis.
She must have stood there, reviewing her worst moments of play. Bad strategy!
Give her fifteen minutes.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kira lay down on the couch, taking deep breaths. “I want to WD!”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Withdraw?!” the doctor cheeped. “Now listen to me. You have
the cognitive wherewithal you need right now. Remember the two seconds rule, no
more than that on bad shots then turn to your mental pre-shot routine.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Kira pulled together her floundering muscles and
straightened up at the memory of her coach’s words, “There is no other way. You
play through misfortunes. That is the essence of golf!”</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-66308098704161867762016-08-27T00:00:00.000+05:302016-08-27T00:00:23.004+05:30Identity (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuNznc4RsN7xQEXEBpXBPGqi-u0k2G3WV9DW3Od8YPzIRmW9rXiSUthY0H9-Ao3PSrnbVcpPSyGgtYLeHVkg6TX-w-WPvTowBDxnqWWXJ2pnGr7A8zuYbOGYe7-AIU-UuVTBis_AGyrQ/s1600/Cycling5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAuNznc4RsN7xQEXEBpXBPGqi-u0k2G3WV9DW3Od8YPzIRmW9rXiSUthY0H9-Ao3PSrnbVcpPSyGgtYLeHVkg6TX-w-WPvTowBDxnqWWXJ2pnGr7A8zuYbOGYe7-AIU-UuVTBis_AGyrQ/s320/Cycling5.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">“About saddle
discomfort, opinion is in favor of going natural </span><span style="font-size: large;">down there, in the nether
regions, you understand? It gives good cushioning, don’t go shaving, it makes pedaling prickly,” Ajooni had to smile at how upfront sports persons were with
their anatomical tips. “And girl, bacteria loves Lycra, wash and dry and wait a minute!” her team cyclist cast a surreptitious look about before dipping her
voice, “There is a cream called ‘Ass magic’, it is all about loving your bum if
you want to haul 100 Km daily on that road bike you fly upon. Get going now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A tiny push and spring, Ajooni had swung her right leg over
the saddle expertly, eyes watering with merriment behind her custom glares. As
soon as the bike gained momentum, she threw back her slim neck and hooted out an
unladylike guffaw at the name of the chamois cream. Ass magic indeed! Had her grandmother
even an inkling of this cycling culture, Ajooni would be home, honing her <i>rajmaah</i> and <i>aloo gobhi</i> skills.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWe8Iq0V-KmlQqb_QLV83749oXYD6S0CljOTe3Rnz0dk4sFNWMYOXJTlbKVOHwhDj0o3wVc3qmv3IbOpY4QVWhJCpWQJebHE2hfwmPvYE7oBI8ITnBE8ZkEPC6aHHnh6RrwB1TUD6fRs/s1600/Cycling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWe8Iq0V-KmlQqb_QLV83749oXYD6S0CljOTe3Rnz0dk4sFNWMYOXJTlbKVOHwhDj0o3wVc3qmv3IbOpY4QVWhJCpWQJebHE2hfwmPvYE7oBI8ITnBE8ZkEPC6aHHnh6RrwB1TUD6fRs/s320/Cycling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What kind of a mother are you, tell me, letting your young
daughter roam around long distances alone? And on a cycle?! What if the tyres
punctured out there on some deserted stretch? She could be knocked down or
worse, kidnapped. Mark my words, that cycling club she is so fond of is an evil
influence on her. Our Ajooni is too naive!” the home of this adventurous
cyclist was thick with these hyper cautious notes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">They were three generations living together and it was the
middle one that bore the brunt of foretold tragedies. Ajooni’s mother played
buffer as best she could but Bebe Ji was if anything, as stubborn as her
granddaughter. The two often argued over their Sikh identity. “Puttar, it is a
privilege to be born a Sikh. We have some unique concepts of the Saint Soldier,
the Guru, our Mul Mantra, Naam and Hukum, let me give you some books on Sikhism
in English, it is important to have a sense of who you are and where you come
from.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The intensity with which Ajooni tuned out this
indoctrination was in direct proportion to its frequency. An Ivy League graduate, she was a do-it-yourself
millennial, not exactly trusting of institutions that had let down her
generation more often than not. “Bebe Ji, we just need one religion in the
world, that of humanity,” she was fond of cutting short her grandmother’s spiel.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Brought up by progressive parents in a liberal environment,
Ajooni </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxqJrlsNEJbs2XFb82BGtyYpzsOWC9WlARY1skRhg8dRnRX7Q3jPfccAP48wS6usRBKBNL4LlryoEB4Mpkpe5rLXCZibHMoXGzlA-XNhXeDChKH9A6RIcdVmET-cipsr3xX3GvDAWc7w/s1600/Cycling4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxqJrlsNEJbs2XFb82BGtyYpzsOWC9WlARY1skRhg8dRnRX7Q3jPfccAP48wS6usRBKBNL4LlryoEB4Mpkpe5rLXCZibHMoXGzlA-XNhXeDChKH9A6RIcdVmET-cipsr3xX3GvDAWc7w/s320/Cycling4.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">was used to following her heart and mind. At the dinner table one night,
she made a declaration of sorts, “I want to cycle across India and document the
ride, more as a campaign to highlight women’s safety issues on our roads,” The
table clatter braked all of a sudden, multiple goldfish mouths of her family
members, sucking on air in abject panic. “Oh my God, I warned you she was being
given too much freedom,” Bebe Ji’s body quivered with concern. Using the dismayed
silence as a cue, Ajooni expanded on the theme, “I want to prove that it can be
done and that it is safe. My aim is to encourage and motivate more Indian women
to step out of their fear zones when it comes to solo traveling. I have picked
a challenging route from Leh to Kanyakumari, about 3000 plus kilometers. I may
need your inputs Dad and Mum on budget breakdown and route plan. My fitness
preparation is going well.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP7SWQIS113EZ5LaxzoMav5LOzXRnylIGXlJgdXQ4Aay06fngVPlDeDY9chgWeZ6i6o7_r_Km2QUf5SsSU2JkRvD1xZeUyddvAidMh4qV1JurMguYn9Is2IH033wq1_TcS6tbPpBaHTU/s1600/Cycling2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHP7SWQIS113EZ5LaxzoMav5LOzXRnylIGXlJgdXQ4Aay06fngVPlDeDY9chgWeZ6i6o7_r_Km2QUf5SsSU2JkRvD1xZeUyddvAidMh4qV1JurMguYn9Is2IH033wq1_TcS6tbPpBaHTU/s320/Cycling2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That’s it. Just like that. There was no time for dissuasion.
A lot had to be done. Bicycle accessories, tools, kit, spares to be bought.
Ajooni’s father got busy booking her one way ticket to Leh. Her Mum pitched in
with the media coverage material. And Bebe Ji settled down for what she knew
would be a long haul in her tiny Baba Ji’s room. Ajooni was looking at about
two months of cycling to cover the route.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Their hearts in their mouths and prayers on their lips,
Ajooni’s family ticked off the days, one at a time on a special calendar Bebe
Ji insisted they hang in her room. She would take the broad red marker pen and
slash the date cross ways with a vengeance. Weekends came and went. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The day she was to launch on her final leg, Ajooni called to
speak with her grandmother. Tears rolled down the aged eyes, as she pressed the
phone to her ears, “Bebe Ji, do you know what kept me going on this ride, your
Gurudwaras… our Gurudwaras, they became my default plan of action, such
stunning, unhesitating, unrivalled hospitality Bebe Ji. They met my requests
with good will and chai! I slept and ate there. I experienced charity first
hand. This trip has changed me. You were right about spirituality being in
giving with no expectation of a return. Wahe
Guru ji ka Khalsa, Wahe Guru ji ki Fateh Bebe Ji!”</span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-65823860232769347862016-08-25T13:50:00.000+05:302016-08-25T13:50:37.043+05:30Dignity (Micro fiction 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_gfB0dw_U6zAlB-L94_GKqS9bG52NPTS1RPtSm7L-xQMjDb-tVtpM0UJezhs9vReAZUjjYC33W5X3Cs0CM0XQzw60nbug6VAMQpFMdB28QTq3TjJVxJDtKu6BDDZNqdv9Y17KGF7Dak/s1600/Dignity2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic_gfB0dw_U6zAlB-L94_GKqS9bG52NPTS1RPtSm7L-xQMjDb-tVtpM0UJezhs9vReAZUjjYC33W5X3Cs0CM0XQzw60nbug6VAMQpFMdB28QTq3TjJVxJDtKu6BDDZNqdv9Y17KGF7Dak/s320/Dignity2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Preminder dived into Dr Neela’s eyes, there was no resisting
that merry twinkle, a wholly infectious smile, beginning over the incisors and
stretching into her petite, pearl studded ears. “You are a most healthy sample
Ma’am, no diabetes, no blood pressure, haemoglobin is twelve plus, you are into
quite a bit of physical activity, don’t worry. Just let’s get this pre-anaesthetic
check-up out of the way and we will schedule your surgery. “</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The patient gathered up her papers and backed out of the
doctor’s room, marvelling at the brilliant young professional, “So much joie de
vivre! What an amazing woman!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Quiet as a graveyard, the hospital stretched around her.
There was sombreness to patients milling about in the waiting areas and the
dispensaries. Even the cafeteria smelt introspective, knitted brows hunched
over plates of food. People sat in a common shroud of silent acceptance and
grim fortitude. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Images of Dr Neela’s smile kept Preminder company on her
trudge to the parking lot, “I am lucky to hit upon such a positive
gynaecologist. It is a minor procedure. I am in confident and upbeat hands.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyuX2G5R0pUSkhIT3KUx1_SSMu5zC0EjtrIfgsqItZEw2aWiboSb2E6NHflS-g1Bhl8Ldea8tXY6gHnKr7rqWI1TeW_hMvsVlZQujxlhhbbsQm7-62IlHbBgjerr7MBIi6vEL3vMxjhk/s1600/Dignity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyuX2G5R0pUSkhIT3KUx1_SSMu5zC0EjtrIfgsqItZEw2aWiboSb2E6NHflS-g1Bhl8Ldea8tXY6gHnKr7rqWI1TeW_hMvsVlZQujxlhhbbsQm7-62IlHbBgjerr7MBIi6vEL3vMxjhk/s320/Dignity.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At a social event later in the day, Preminder could not stop
talking of her happy doctor and the affirmative energy she exuded. “Woman troubles
anyone? Neela is your saviour,” she
urged her friends. There was interest, ears perked up; this was after all, the retired
uterus community. Hot flashes, post-menopausal abnormal bleeding, generic
fatigue were their staple diet of conversation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn’t until five days later, having completed the oral
medicine dose, that Preminder texted Neela, asking for the tentative surgery
date. There was no response. “That’s strange! Neela is a very prompt and
courteous doctor,” Preminder cast about for possible reasons other than an
ongoing operation or an outpatient visit or a ward round. “Doctors keep terribly busy,” she decided to
wait a day. But the silence extended into the long Easter week end and then beyond.
By now, a peevish cloud had begun to gobble up Preminder’s good natured acceptance
of Neela’s preoccupation, “How can a gynaecologist take off on a pleasure trip this
long?” she grumbled to herself. “There are alternatives available, we can go to
another hospital,” her husband suggested. But Preminder had taken to this
doctor and would not hear of trusting another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ma’am, yours is not a medical emergency. We can perform the
procedure when convenient,” Neela had assured her, she recalled. And so the
wait turned into a month long drag. Life put Preminder on the roller coaster
that it invariably does and before long it was time to move out on a transfer.
In that all too common panic of gathering up the most one can, when leaving a city,
thoughts of Dr Neela came bubbling up Preminder’s busy head like flotsam.
“Better get this done here before moving to a new place.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAIBTzFK4G7hxhoSQazBapA93aX_Xw3KBpEqUIxAhWvJ8uOvqjbdTP-5OY-shZ974NpBnAHAwQWNeE02rIq8qJ5YqUzhhYEuJ70hTLheI8DX1Fv_jJL8rzZDeNetA6E7KuRJMPzNAMsa8/s1600/Dignity3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAIBTzFK4G7hxhoSQazBapA93aX_Xw3KBpEqUIxAhWvJ8uOvqjbdTP-5OY-shZ974NpBnAHAwQWNeE02rIq8qJ5YqUzhhYEuJ70hTLheI8DX1Fv_jJL8rzZDeNetA6E7KuRJMPzNAMsa8/s320/Dignity3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Preminder placed the call. “Dr Neela? Ma’am, you mean the
late Dr Neela?” the voice at the other end echoed out and amplified back in
over Preminder’s stunned ears. She slumped into the sofa, her hand stiff on the
earpiece. The hospital receptionist had handed the phone over to the
supervisor. A politely impersonal tone was launching into an explanation, “Mrs
Preminder, I am so sorry to inform you that we lost Dr Neela to pancreatic
cancer this Friday past. We can schedule you with another gynaecologist.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Pancreatic cancer? I had no clue, she was so full of life,”
her new doctor smiled gently at Preminder’s agonized incredulity across her table.
She waited for the words to wash the distress away before holding out a metal
badge. It had ‘NO CODE’ embossed on it. Preminder turned it over with a frown
as the doctor spoke, “Some of us in the business of saving lives choose to die
differently Ma’am. This here is a wish expressed, negating any CPR or
cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Neela had done her paper work. She did not want
any chemotherapy, radiation or surgical treatment.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Preminder couldn’t believe her ears, “But how could a doctor
not want the care she administers others?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You are right Ma’am, Neela had access to the best
oncologists but she wanted to go gently, knowing modern medicine’s limitations.
No heroics, no life support, no futile care for her. She chose to manage her
pain and spend time with her family, dying in peace, at home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The two sat in silence for a while. “She used to say Ma’am, that the state-of-art
of life’s end is death with dignity!” </span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-88492747935083320282016-08-24T09:02:00.000+05:302016-08-24T09:56:28.538+05:30Believer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIigIlL7EjSrQnZZkfZUGCWiYIHYIQnpsSvLKtLqyig6XqBCloq8ZoF_WOcKF_kyry3fn2-o3wsC_T-cK1lA5WnHL5UEREgCQzsvO9olQO5y5zTAdbYEPY-m2iLCgTLWmn1XdABY75bno/s1600/Believer1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIigIlL7EjSrQnZZkfZUGCWiYIHYIQnpsSvLKtLqyig6XqBCloq8ZoF_WOcKF_kyry3fn2-o3wsC_T-cK1lA5WnHL5UEREgCQzsvO9olQO5y5zTAdbYEPY-m2iLCgTLWmn1XdABY75bno/s200/Believer1.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">One of our
greatest fears is purported to be that of dying. The thought has come to me,
unbidden, as much of my own end as of those I love and live for. I have stood
idly, gazing at roads and trees and structures around me, “These will remain
here, long past my exit from this space.” While watching movies of the yesteryears, I have wondered, “I did not exist when these stars were singing and
dancing. Where was I?”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then,
another of those stray thoughts, quickly brushed away, just in case it brings on
its wings any bad luck, “How will I die? Who all will cry? Have I not moved on
with my life after such losses, my family will too?” Morbid meanderings yes, but
so real, so inescapable, so defining of our fragile humaneness. And the quick
reassurance “It is not happening yet, that is somewhere in the distant future,
right now there is a list of things to do, the day to get through, events to
attend, health and finances to care for!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Am I alone
in this cyclic, cerebral, futility? Why do I tell myself pretty much every
other moment of the day, “I am not passing this way ever again?” There is a
sense of a steady inching forward and that vast swathe of time gone by. And
since no astrologer commits on one’s “ayush” it has certainly occurred to me,
“How much more do I have to run down my bucket list?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1TEpXyl6VV014WTZ-SoWdVHll1pulLnAm7v_LSCcXHvSLv9q97FVsSKfSU70dGz4K1LPhXPvyciAeWi8oz2pmau9DQTvFstruYwnrBDZyMfcO2a11xgRi2AJLr2yHmzPmywRMjZlAuY/s1600/Believer3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm1TEpXyl6VV014WTZ-SoWdVHll1pulLnAm7v_LSCcXHvSLv9q97FVsSKfSU70dGz4K1LPhXPvyciAeWi8oz2pmau9DQTvFstruYwnrBDZyMfcO2a11xgRi2AJLr2yHmzPmywRMjZlAuY/s320/Believer3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Some of the unease
attached to these ruminations could be eased off if we just became as matter of
fact about death as we are about birth. Were it to become more acceptable to
speak of the unmentionable, even plan for it, we would free ourselves of the
pall of unsaid things and oozing fears. Half the heartbreak at sudden exits
comes from this sentiment, “I did not say a proper goodbye!” There is a sea of
difference between a heartfelt farewell as against a sudden wrenching away and
the lifelong agony of having had no closure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have
pledged my organs, my Mum has divided her jewelry but we have not sat down
with our loved ones to share thoughts and feelings around the inevitable and
eventual separation. I know it would calm my mind tremendously to air out my
misgivings. I want to be able to say to them, “Forgive me for my mistakes. I
wish we could be together always. I never want us to separate. But remember me
when we split. Think of me when you are eating a crusty, cheese laden pizza. Hug
the silly dog for me. Picture me when you are sitting across my favorite
swing. Look closer at the grass on the golf course; it probably has my DNA on
it. I don’t know where I will be when not with you but hold on to me. I will go
with peace, knowing I have said all I had to say to you. Give me a hug, look
deep into my eyes so when the time comes, we go where we need to go,
in peace and on a wing.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">It cannot
be… life cannot be a meaningless accident. There is too much heartbreak, far
too many ecstatic moments and pure frames of joy for this journey to be so
random an affair. I therefore choose to believe!</span></span></div>
</div>
Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2400598449113149403.post-31315338167313134622016-04-12T23:00:00.001+05:302016-04-13T21:42:46.972+05:30Caddie (Fiction)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhisY8zyXzG7Y3jLGIl1orfDXnoHS2kdMboLM7FeLJFK4U_R0T0-YOGzFAhyADcoX-p4Mch1haUHsgJ3TW6pD6WeqlJNf7fZeQNzjKTkQbVLOVUMMggUaYo7YwbMdGC5vuOt0Rzle_QmCo/s1600/Caddie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhisY8zyXzG7Y3jLGIl1orfDXnoHS2kdMboLM7FeLJFK4U_R0T0-YOGzFAhyADcoX-p4Mch1haUHsgJ3TW6pD6WeqlJNf7fZeQNzjKTkQbVLOVUMMggUaYo7YwbMdGC5vuOt0Rzle_QmCo/s320/Caddie.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shamminder
Kaur had started playing golf at thirty years of age. It made her stand out
amongst the majority Indian women on the courses around the country who were
either in their late teens or past their forties when they first picked up a
club. “Don’t copy me, I have learnt it all wrong,” she was fond of saying. Her
self-deprecating statements confused her playing partners; the words just did
not go with the spectacular flights she sent her drives on from their flying
tees. Many a mouth would follow agape the stunning trajectories her driver
smacked the balls onto.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">They made
for a brittle bunch, the women pushing against the velvety fairway with bodies
past their primes, spongy egos and spirits leveled by life’s ravages. Barely
beneath their polite masks lay something raw and stinging. It called for a
curious mix of stubborn courage after all and bruised sensitivity to step onto a public
space such as the golf course, a complete novice. For even in the civilized
world of the gentlemen’s game, there was caddie chatter, stolen looks assessing
one’s golf swing, triangular updates on how the game was progressing with the
others and unsolicited advice from the male golfers. For the odd woman that
flowered, she did so under a cloying cloud of low expectations and that
indulgent air. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOplTFsGZt5ggjiK_8-DB1f5cbjjVOdfvsX52Xk9_fHSJS-2S5xGYFBnLUBqVKZ5EFBp_fswotuV3AQGlRhFBzmHSU-yLUfDUH16PO59gh2vGg9CzTq5ZqToCOGE6iZstZ6u_-2Fyp1I/s1600/Caddie1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNOplTFsGZt5ggjiK_8-DB1f5cbjjVOdfvsX52Xk9_fHSJS-2S5xGYFBnLUBqVKZ5EFBp_fswotuV3AQGlRhFBzmHSU-yLUfDUH16PO59gh2vGg9CzTq5ZqToCOGE6iZstZ6u_-2Fyp1I/s320/Caddie1.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You know,
they should have prizes for every lady in a tournament. This way, everyone goes
home happy. Better to distribute it all than to give only one lady the trophy.”
In this conspiracy of the mediocre, it suited everyone to keep peace, for women
did make for bad losers. They came to golf at such established phases of their
lives that it made it difficult for them to come to terms with their temperamental
golfing. Many preferred to play with the non-judgmental men for this reason rather
than with another woman and her strong sense of the right and wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">So there it
was, one pearly daybreak on the Clover Greens, a drama unfolding in this world
of unmet challenges. The polished exterior of the Golf Club just about kept from
the public view, the gladiatorial desire of everyone from the Manager downwards
to see Shamminder pitted against Aarti, the only other woman golfer of
self-belief there. A late bloomer, Aarti negotiated the golf ball with pure
will, no skill for her. “Just keep hitting, I barely spent one month in the
practice bay, it comes by playing,” the feisty one was fond of sharing her hands-on
experience with the tentative new entrants to the game. Having played several
years as the club’s sole woman golfer, it had become hard to tell self-delusion
from an undeniable talent. “I carry home most of the trophies,” was a refrain
of sorts with her. Blessed with a tenacious desire to win, Aarti had one flaw. Even in a game where players blamed any and
everything for a bad score, Aarti had made an art of dumping each of her
golfing misfortunes on her caddie. Little wonder that Teepu’s face had come to
arrange itself in five dimensions, each of them confused on what to hold and
where to stretch. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEB4bS8g3PTLGfqZU153RPXhQDQ4_-VdzZEgIryY3MLkCeApvp79S62bWnRjpsUuvOr4XNjmVZOpjPCfeTDdmzp3Z-gap7jhXhNAENgbhaLPdXXBTN2rRXKkGJIc2svoKjiGmfkedc-8c/s1600/Caddie2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEB4bS8g3PTLGfqZU153RPXhQDQ4_-VdzZEgIryY3MLkCeApvp79S62bWnRjpsUuvOr4XNjmVZOpjPCfeTDdmzp3Z-gap7jhXhNAENgbhaLPdXXBTN2rRXKkGJIc2svoKjiGmfkedc-8c/s320/Caddie2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Like two
combatants fighting for the post of Prima Donna, Clover Greens, Shammi and
Aarti would stalk each other on the course most days, assessing and waiting to
prove their superiority. Before long, the opportunity presented itself in the
form of a Pink Golf Tournament for a Cause. The club inhaled deeply, then waited to
exhale. Would Aarti take the bait and pair up against Shamminder?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone got
to work, forces were drawn up and the penultimate day schedule launched.
Adequate rest, special putting ball, sunscreen in place, glares firmly sitting
on the noses; the two took their places in ceremonial golf slacks. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I want a
caddie who will not open his mouth at all today,” Aarti faced the Caddie Master,
a fidgety Teepu skulking near the tournament bulletin board. Shammi’s regular
caddie was accompanying her; a buzz had begun though, over Teepu’s replacement. Equally
suddenly, the din subsided around the ongoing arbitration. Aarti interrupted
the Caddie Master’s embarrassed stuttering rudely, “It’s alright. Let it be. I
will take Teepu but he better not squeak today!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">And the game
was off the tee with two clean, metallic notes. Like the two seasoned golfers they were, Shammi and Aarti made
rhythmic progress. One played with joy, the other with a burning desire to win.
Shammi had to curb her usual impulsiveness whence she would stop and wave at
the wild life on the beautiful landscape. Aarti staying focused, swinging and pitching with power
and precision. A day would come, like it did for every golfer, when their
bodies would not cooperate but in the heat of the competition, that sobering
thought was farthest from their minds.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even in the
tense scribbles on the scoring cards, the meditative nature of the golf course
reigned around them. A fuzzy rich moistness curled upwards to their nostrils,
the sun dithering in the wings, not ready to step out in all its golden glory
yet. It was a charmed hour and all was right with the world.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGgQybTzzXZ5NnhYzOewMJ6bvsB0Tv7_b6-l8jyVLDO7bfptuJksdS_mUMwPfKoSJ4g4fdaao-tvM6YHdSfoWPg5-KTR2ElobYQPhS0skPzPy8yjGHekv8WeT5HW9SvIwP3FvzqqFeOU/s1600/Caddie3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGgQybTzzXZ5NnhYzOewMJ6bvsB0Tv7_b6-l8jyVLDO7bfptuJksdS_mUMwPfKoSJ4g4fdaao-tvM6YHdSfoWPg5-KTR2ElobYQPhS0skPzPy8yjGHekv8WeT5HW9SvIwP3FvzqqFeOU/s320/Caddie3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Aarti drew
in a sharp gasp all of a sudden; the ball had caught the shaft end,
ricocheting into a dismal slice. She glared at Teepu, her eyes flashing. “Run
ahead and wait for me near the ball!” her voice commanded with urgency. The
caddie scrambled ahead in a mum flurry. His player though had beaten him to it and was already addressing
the wedged in ball, “Watch me now, I am going to punch it well out then hit
past that tree ahead to take the dogleg,” she called over her shoulder.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">True to her
word, Aarti went to work, executing her plan with force and resoluteness. Releasing her breath with relief as she looked up at the ball in flight, she turned to Teepu with an
uncharacteristically goofy grin, “How about that? You can speak now. I give you
permission. Come on, how did you like that shot? Speak a bit louder. I can’t
hear you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Teepu
cleared his throat and repeated himself, a shade louder the second time, “That
was not your golf ball Mayam (Teepu lingo for Ma'am)!”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Confessions of an ambitious motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130215843909551381noreply@blogger.com0