The monsoon convert

Everyone in India has a monsoon story. Mostly more than one.

And none of them start with, “It was a windy afternoon and as I looked out of the window while sipping tea, the drizzling started, slowly at first, coming down in sheets thereon. As the rainbow appeared from afar, I contemplated swimming in the brook up ahead, to the pitter patter in the background.”

Because everyone I know has a monsoon story from our cities, our ever-imploding, under-serviced, groaning-under-our-weight cities.

I have one memorable story from each city I have lived in – Chennai, Mumbai, Gurgaon.

And ALL of them have to do with how I was stranded in waist deep water with nowhere to go, and it was dark but not lonely, because there were thousands of others stranded exactly like me. Apologies, my Gurgaon story is a little different. I was stranded but inside my car. I don’t think I would be here writing this post if I had been stranded outside. You don’t know why? Oh, you naïve being, don’t ever get stranded outside a car in Gurgaon in a bid to figure out why.

Anyway, I digress. This post isn’t about run-of-the-mill, cities flooding, cars floating and drowning, sewage dumps opening and devouring people kind of stories.

It is about the spirit of the monsoons. Wait, isn’t that the spirit of Mumbai? It is actually about the spirit of Mumbai during monsoons.

I don’t know if this is true about other cities (definitely not Chennai) but Mumbai wholeheartedly celebrates the rains. And like how! At the sight of the first rains, these mad, mad people are on the roads dancing (to avoid potholes), getting drenched in the rain (because it is too windy to carry umbrellas) and generally getting gleeful and happier (it’s true, the grins are wider).

Come June-mid, consumerism goes to a high, as every store in the city announces a monsoon sale that goes on for at least two months, running up to ‘Ganpati Bappa Moraya’. The roads of Dadar overflow with people holding colorfully large umbrellas big enough to engulf you, your family, and your one room kitchen Mumbai house, as they cross the jammed and crowded roads of Khabutar Khana in a bid to reach the stores. Matunga is a bit saner, as always, the elder sister to its chaotic Dadar sibling, the responsible adult in the works. Here, aunties in Lucknawi kurtas with exquisitely embroidered dupattas get down from BMWs that they hopped into on the adjacent lane, as they make their way slowly across to buy sarees they may never wear in their lifetime (I am your friendly neighborhood judgmental Saree connoisseur). The malls drown under the weight of the early morning shoppers as the trial rooms start overflowing with people and dresses.

My first full-fledged Mumbai monsoon was in 2008. And was it an experience or what. I was scared stiff, tired, and forever damp. Everything got damp and moldy, the furniture, the clothes, the footwear, the books. Even the laptop looked at me with sad camera eyes, begging for a blanket that would keep the dampness away. By day 3 of the season, I started asking around when this would taper off. Remember, I grew up in the Chennai of the 90s and 00s where monsoons lasted all of two days. That’s when some kind soul at work informed me this will go on for 3 months. It was the most horrible time of my life, I assure you.

We are in 2019 now. This year, the monsoons have been quite the rage. Unlike last year and last to last year when we were all sad the lakes (and the city pavements) weren’t filling up fast enough, this year, Mumbai has been in over achievement mode. Potential to be rated 5, in corporate employee parlance. But then again, exceptional rain is only expected performance from Mumbai, hence we will have to settle at a 3 ok.

A colleague of mine who has recently moved from Delhi looks out every day at the rains lashing down outside the office windows, worriedly saying “Aaj bahut kharab lag raha hai. Ghar kaise jaayenge?” A Mumbai boy amongst us assures him it isn’t as bad as it looks, we are on the 17^th floor, too near to the clouds to get an unbiased dataset, and anyway the weather always clears up in half an hour in Mumbai. I am not so kind, nor do I remember I was that scared colleague over a decade back. I guffaw and say, “It is Mumbai. It is July. It is supposed to rain in July in Mumbai. Otherwise, how does the world make sense?”

I am a convert, the Mumbai type, who steps out to get drenched in the rains of the first week, who checks the lake levels and gets happy, as if it is some personal achievement deserving of additional bonus. I am also a convert from the beginning of the monsoon when I didn’t want my Little Person to get any exposure to the rain to the middle of the monsoon when I happily pick her up and take her to school come rain, or pouring rain, all the while singing “It is raining, it is pouring.”

This has got nothing to do with the spirit of Mumbai, which, in probability, doesn't exist, except on sensational TV channels (branded ‘news’). This is exactly what normalizing extraordinary situations looks like. And, when habits get formed across many years, it is hard to remember what your normal was before you got introduced to all this madness.

A periodic forever

I started getting my periods around 1996. Or 1997. Sometime thereabouts. My parents kept it a well-guarded secret for years after, not wanting anyone in the extended family to treat me differently or indulge in difficult conversations. But, the practices I saw around me were all pervasive. Most of my extended family followed a “No kitchen, no Pooja room, no touching bed, not even the sofa, no physical contact with anyone” kind of model those days. I think they still do. Those images have stayed with me for a long time now.

For many years I didn’t believe in idol worship. Then I moved to being agnostic. Now I am a full time atheist, the kind who goes to temples to admire the architecture and then stand and stare as the Aarti takes place. But, I hesitate before walking into the kitchen that houses the Pooja area when I am having my periods.

I am an unabashed feminist. Mostly. I am part of the D&I committee at work, I try to attract all my ex-female colleagues to my place of work so we can be a more balanced organization, I worry about the lack of representation at the head of the table. I am the works. But, I carry my fresh sanitary pad well concealed in my purse from the office desk to the toilet.

Conditioning acts in strange ways. It makes us irrational and illogical, unquestioning of processes that have been followed forever (our own definition of forever) and takes us a step beyond, making us sticklers to follow those processes. Because. Because, we don’t know any other way it is done.

It explains why we don’t put our feet on books, for instance. I try to ‘logicise’ that our feet are dirty because the ground is dirty, because Indian floors always try to attract dirt so it will make the books dirty. But, really? Who am I kidding? I have been told for a long time I am not supposed to put my feet on books because books are a manifestation of “Goddess Saraswathi” and putting our feet on books is as good (or as bad) as putting our feet on the Goddess herself.

Anyway, last week was my first step towards breaking away from this conditioning. No, I don’t think I will ever bring myself to putting my feet on books because that conditioning is too strong. But, after 11 years and roughly 430 period days (adjusting for maternity) in an office environment, I found the courage to walk to the toilet from my desk with the pad in my hand, and not in a purse. Even then, I had it in the inside of my palm so it wasn’t out there in plain sight. But, baby steps.

I dream of giving my daughter a world where she goes about her period days like any other normal day, carries the tampon to the toilet in plain sight, explains to her male friends / colleagues why she looks sick, and thinks of menstruation as the most normal thing to happen to a healthy girl (even more normal than contracting a cold because a cold is really nothing to wear on the sleeve like a badge of honor).

This dream of mine is simple and doable, compared to every other dream, because it is so in my control. All I need to do is to call out ‘conditioning’ to her when she encounters it, so she doesn’t have to work it backwards after 30 years of spending life on this Earth.

Marie Kondo and the joy of pre-love

There is a lot of noise on social media about this Marie Kondo Netflix series on tidying up and sparkling joy. I haven’t watched it yet. To be honest, I got so bored of Bandersnatch that I haven’t logged into Netflix in a while now. It sparks joy in my mind to avoid that app these days.

Anyway, I do not generally agree with this philosophy of saying goodbye to things we love. Or people we love, for that matter. I hoard what I love, and I throw away what I don’t. In fact, I am such a ruthless thrower-awayer of things that I wonder if I love anything at all. Except books. And, I hear that Kondo has suggested we throw away books too. So, I don’t like her. Throwing her away from my mind now.

All this talk about love for objects, and joy in tidying up, sparks a completely different thread of angst in me. Do you know what’s fashionable these days? Pre-loving and pre-caring for things. Darn it, this phrase ‘second-hand’ has been made obsolete and very second-class, no one uses it anymore. Except for with used cars. Yet to hear someone say “My pre-loved car is up for grabs.”

I mean, even grammatically, ‘pre-loved’ doesn’t seem to make much sense. What does ‘pre-loved’ mean? That I don’t love it anymore? That it is pre- my love and I will love it once I sell it to you? That it was created before love came into existence?

And you know where it is used the most? With baby stuff. People are always selling their kids’ pre-loved toys and pre-loved furniture and pre-loved car seats. Now, I have my share of baby stuff. As soon as our kid turned 6 months, V and I promptly landed up at the baby store to purchase bed, high chair, and stroller, without any view of where we will hold it in our very Bombay apartment. While my baby is super special to me and I consider her a very unique being, she is exactly the same as 90% of the babies in this world (the other 10% I am told are raised by parents who read books like ‘How to talk so little kids will listen’). So, coming back to my baby, she is very predictable – doesn’t use any of these new-fangled things mama and papa got her with much love, and a significant pocket outlay.

So, I look at these things with anything but love. That stroller, especially that stroller. It’s this white elephant in the drawing room, only grey in color. I would willingly throw it out with the bathwater (without the baby), especially at the next person who utters the phrase ‘pre-love’. The only thing stopping me is that significant pocket outlay. I am told kids use the stroller when they are 4-5 years old and too lazy to walk, especially on holidays outside India. Maybe, I will wait till then, while building a lot of angst up every time I see that stroller next to my much-loved bookrack.

By the time I internalize the concept of sunk cost and opportunity cost at space wastage, it might become my pre-hated item. That’s at least a differentiated value proposition for a sale, for whatever it is worth.

2017 - Our year in review

This year, we learnt that we don't need TV.

As long as we have internet TV. With subtitles. That can be watched on mute. On TV, laptop, tablet and phone seamlessly. How did new parents in the previous generations manage to take a break without all this? Perhaps, they slept.

This year, we learnt that we don't need sleep.

At least, that's what we tell ourselves. As we rub our eyes through the day ploughing through work, trying to get back home for a night of sleeplessness.

This year, we learnt about science.

Empirically. Over a period of ten months. Survival of the fittest, evolution, how humans grow as they grow. No Desmond Morris could have explained it this well.

This year, we learnt that only two things matter.

Scratch it. Three. Nopes. Four. Feed, pee, poop, and sleep. And were immensely gratified even if two of the four happened in a given day.

This year, we learnt productivity.

Prioritisation, efficiency, focusing on the things that matter. All the management and philosophical jargon came alive in front of our eyes, and made so much sense for a change. 

This year, we learnt to entertain.

A one person audience. With stories and singing, dancing and laughing. Who might, as an outside chance, give us a grudging smile in return. Or at the minimum stop crying. And felt very rewarded.

This year, we learnt to execute our longest and most difficult project yet.

We failed miserably. We succeeded immensely. Failed. Succeeded. Mostly succeeded I think. We get smiles, laughter, babbles, hugs, even kisses sometimes. Surely, that's success.

Exclusive breastfeeding - a special bond of forever

You were a scrawny little monkey when you came to me the first time. Your eyes weren't fully open, your fingers were tightly closed, your neck was inexistent, your head required full time support, and your entire body was invisible, having been wrapped in a thick blue swaddle cloth. When the nurse gave you to me, I didn't know what I was supposed to do, to you, with you, and of you. And, I was terribly scared that I would crush you by holding you too tight, or I would let you slip away if I held you too loose. Would my breath on your face disturb you, would my lips on your head fluster you?

You can read the entire article here.

5 things we can learn from babies

My baby is a 5.5 month old firecracker, like every other 5.5 month old fire cracker baby, I am sure. On most days, I pride myself on having been able to raise a baby for 5.5. months. Surely, I must be a great fount of knowledge by now, ready to spread awareness and give gyaan to every mom to be and new mom on the face of Earth. Ha Ha. Not really. But, I must agree, there is a thing or two my baby has taught me, life lessons really, which every adult would do well to remember, if not be able to implement.

You can read the entire article here. 

Sprinting In A Hurry: The New Parents' Guide To Growth Spurts

It was 2 am. The ragging session had been going on for over 5 hours now. I couldn't understand what exactly was wrong. My 10 day old Very Little Person (VLP) was just not able to sleep, and worse still, she was obsessed with marching on. Left, right, left, right went the nipples into her tiny mouth. How could such a little baby feed for so long, we wondered. Perhaps, I had run out of milk, we worried. Perhaps, she wasn't able to suck because of a tongue-tie, we feared. Meanwhile, my breasts got sore and painful, and I was teary eyed while my husband was looking up every online forum possible to identify a possible explanation to this strange and pretty 'unpretty' phenomenon.

You can read the entire article here.

Z for Zipping up

It's done. And I am a day late in wrapping it up, spilling the challenge over to May. However, as things stand, I am amazed I even got this far. So, firstly, pat on self's back. Followed by a few bullets on takeaways from the challenge.

• Friends matter. Friends who care about a blogging challenge that the general populace might find silly matter even more. However, friends who care so much about your challenge that they remember it more than you do, pushing you to deliver every day, matter much much more. Thanks Ramya, for the encouragement and push. I am so terrified of you now that I will zip up and refrain from mentioning any such challenge to you ever again!
• Thanks to everyone on my Facebook friend list who diligently followed the blog from A to Z, 'like'd when the posts were nice, commented when they were better than nice and chided me when I wrote utter crap. Your views and reactions kept me going as much as Ramya's pokes did.
• I hate to admit this, but it was a difficult challenge. And, I was supremely stupid to even attempt it this year. Which meant I churned out a lot of posts in which my heart wasn't. It has been a satisfying challenge in that I managed to complete it (credits to mom for sharing the load so beautifully), but in terms of quality... nada.
• And, the quality question brings me to the most important takeaway. I believe that my best writings are ones where I am most honest. There are testimonies to that in the past. But, it has been difficult for me to be open and honest in writing this month, save for this one post. Given the new entrant in our life, my days are filled with Little Person (LP), and hence fodder for the posts are restricted to LP rather than the whole wide world of work, working and the works. But, my heart hasn't been in it. Writing about LP feels like a violation of LP's privacy, and has stopped me from writing honestly. That feels quite disheartening, to say the least. Maybe, a personal diary is the way to go, to open the faucet and let out all those emotions that are dying to join this world of words.
• I think I will take this challenge up next year too, it does add meaning in a strange sense to my life. Perhaps, I will try my hand at a particular theme so that the randomness is reduced and I have more discipline in writing something useful.

P. S. This post is the twenty sixth and last in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

P for Performance Pressure

Pressure is real, performance pressure that is. I have felt performance pressure all through my life. Sometimes, I have performed well, sometimes I haven't. However, conquering performance pressure isn't a test I have passed ever, forget winning. And, it has never bothered me much, the fact that I suffer from performance pressure, though the pressure itself is quite a deadly thing, leading to, amongst other things, severe anxiety, unending headaches and a constant fear of under-performance and ridicule.

The one common thread to all these situations is that they have all been under my control - school tests, exams, interviews, excel models, presenting to CxOs. If things work out, I know it is because I put my best foot forward. If things don't work out, I know I should have put a better foot forward.

However, pregnancy changed all of that. It is obviously an unknown, but the actual experience makes one realise how much of an unknown and erratic nine months it can really be. Every blood test became a make or break, every scan a do or die. I would beat myself up for every increase in blood sugar level, blame myself for any scan that showed any of the measurements of the baby outside of the normal range. I couldn't rationalise the pressure I felt because it was not rational. There was no explanation because I was doing all that was under my control right - healthy food, exercise, check-ups, supplements. In fact, I once asked the doctor what exactly I had done wrong to have ended up with this scan result. She looked at me as if I had walked down from Mars, and told me, in that matter of fact tone she used for pretty much any explanation, "Has nothing to do with you. Each female body is different."

And, I know it is just the beginning. There is a long road of pressure to be handled, longer pathways of irrationality to overcome. Then again, that's the thing about irrationality. There is no rational way you can overcome it to become a saner person.

So, cheers to irrationality and erm... motherhood.

P. S. This post is the sixteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

M for Miniature

I have a fascination for miniatures. I think all of us who have played with some doll or the other (even a teddy) as a child would, for that matter. More so for me because we have been ardent celebrators of Navratri or the doll festival since I was born. For those not familiar with this festival, go right here. 

A few years back, when I happened to visit Amsterdam's Rijks' Museum, I was fascinated by the collection of miniature doll houses there. Apparently, it was quite a tradition amongst the rich households of yesteryear Amsterdam to commission and design miniature doll houses of their own houses. It was a favourite pastime of the lady of the house. In fact, calling it a pastime seems to trivialize the money, time and energy they put into getting it done - replicating the curtains, carpets, flooring, furniture to the exact fabric, marble and wood used in the actual house. 

Look at this one I caught in Rijks'. Isn't it beautiful?

Very recently, I read this book "The Miniaturist" which is set in seventeenth century Amsterdam, and while the premise borders on a miniature doll house commissioned by the lady of the house, it does eerily get into how whatever is designed for the doll house happens in real life. The miniatures have minds and souls and lives of their own, living on in that little doll house, directing what happens in the real house. Almost!

I have little person in my hand as I type this, and it is fascinating to note how babies are miniature versions of human adults - mini hands and legs, mini mouths and faces, mini mini fingers and toes. But, it is also equally fascinating to think of how they are not miniatures in every other sense of the word - the amount of time, energy and love they consume and absorb is quite unparalleled really!

If I were a theist, I might even call babies miracles. But, since I am not, I will just leave it at calling them babies, absolutely adorably cute miniatures that are infinitely better versions of what human adults corrupt themselves into becoming in the course of a lifetime.

P. S. This post is the thirteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

H for Horlicks

What with the maternity recovery in progress, my mother has found a great reason to revert to her former bully self as far as my food habits are concerned. No cold drinks, no chocolates, no ice creams, no onions (really?!) - I didn't even know so many food items can be "no"ed. But, that's not what gets my goat. It is this:

Me: I am tired.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am sleepy.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am hungry.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

Me: I am going to die.

Mom: Drink Horlicks.

For heaven's sake mom, have you secretly become the brand ambassador for Horlicks? How much are they paying you? More importantly, can you give me a cut, if you are going to force me to drink the damn thing all the time?

P. S. This post is the eighth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

E for Elephants

Late last year, I promised myself that I will put my story writing skills to good use and cook up many a good story for Little Person (LP) when he / she arrives. While I haven't really put my head to it and thought in detail, and neither is LP of an age ripe enough to listen and imbibe the goodness in morally uplifting stories, we did try one story a few days back. I started off with no agenda but for one character (everyone's favourite - the elephant) and ended it with a moral (voila!). It seems a promising beginning to a one-person audience career in children's story-telling. Even though it is nowhere near perfect, here it is (translated from Tamil in which I narrated the story to LP), for I am mighty proud of having come up with it impromptu!

There was once an elephant calf, called Eleph, in the big, wild forest. Unlike other elephants, he was thin and scraggy. In fact, if not for his long trunk, everyone would actually mistake him for a small donkey. Eleph wasn't happy with this state of affairs as he was always the odd one out being teased by all and sundry. 

He decided to ask his neighbour Foxy Fox for advice. Foxy Fox, acting all smart and knowledgeable said, "Hey Eleph! I will tell you the easiest way to become fat. Instead of having the leaves and shoots in the forest, munch on some of the yummy stumps. Have a target of five stumps a day and see the difference in five days!" Eleph, without giving the advice a second thought, started on his mission immediately. By the time he took the second bite off the first stump of an abandoned tree in the forest clearing, his teeth started paining profusely. He howled in pain but pulled himself together to go for a third bite. 

By that time, Kawy Crow came that way, saw what Eleph was doing and started laughing. Eleph, taking a minute off his mission, explained to Kawy why he was sacrificing his teeth. Hearing his sob story, Kawy said, "Eleph! You should be smarter than this. There is no need to change your diet. You continue eating leaves and shoots. But, don't move or exercise once you are done eating. Every time you eat, just lie down right there and sleep deeply for a few hours. The food will have nowhere to go, and you will have a big tummy in a week." Eleph found this idea to be brilliant and implemented it at the first big tree he came across.

As he started snoozing after a hearty meal of leaves worth 10kgs, he heard what sounded like a roar. He opened his eye but a wink and looked around, only to notice Fiery Tiger approaching him from a distance of 100 metres. Scared but not at his wits' end, Eleph got up and rushed out of harm's way. By the time he stopped, he must have easily put 20 kms between his hunter and himself, while losing 5 kgs in the ordeal. 

As he panted and stopped to collect his breath, Brainy Monkey jumped from a tree to land in front of him. Brainy Monkey was concerned as he saw Eleph, tired and weak and most probably crying. After hearing the entire story, Brainy Monkey said, "Eleph. Do you realise what helped you escape Fiery Tiger today? It is this figure and size that you hate so much. If you had been heavy and slow, like the other elephant calves, you would be dead by now. Why do you want to become like others? You be yourself, that's the best gift you can give yourself." 

Eleph, having finally understood what he should do, thanked Brainy Monkey profusely and walked back - this time with his head held high, his trunk swaying from side to side, proudly carrying his lithe and strong figure home.

P. S. This post is the fifth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.