Confessions of a Mother

I see that the children we have are miracles like any other. Like the bluish green tinge of the backwaters, like the blazing mighty sun taking its daily dip, far out in the sea, like meteors from space falling, sparing skyscrapers infested with all kinds of people, like the many acts of kindness that is bestowed upon us each day, we have nothing do with creating them: our children. Our job is to stand and wonder. Our job is to marvel and love. What has been given to us, as an ultimate act of mercy.
Today, my son walks up to me and hugs me tight, and said "Amma, I like you." His arms went around my waist and his cheeks rested on my stomach. He is all of five years. There in his eyes was a look of undivided, unadulterated, love. Just admiration and gratitude. As my eyes welled up, looking down at him, I wondered, do I deserve this. Like flashes. Quick repeated flashes, I remembered the moments I failed him. Failed him so completely. Like the time he came to me with his water colour painting of the scary deep sea monster, I looked at the pool of paint on the floor and big stain on my durrie, instead and said, can’t you be more careful. Or the time he came and said "amma, I want to take flowers for my teacher, she hugged me for naming all the animals", a pang of sheer jealousy and insecurity of the attention getting divided, I dismissed the act telling him, that she’s just doing her job. And many other thoughtless, cruel acts later, here is my son, hugging me and telling me I am the best.
My son is a good-looking child, well-behaved, courteous, loving and selfless. I look at myself everyday and wonder where he got all this from. Not from me. Not even from my husband. I look up heavenward again with tears and in silent awe, do I deserve this? I ask again. Then in an instant I get the answer. It doesn’t matter if I am worthy, it’s all love. My son loves me; it doesn’t matter if I am worthy. He loves me because the hand that made him is love itself. And today I saw the face of my God in him.

Romancing the monsoon

When I look outside my window...I see it raining in the sea. My face brightens, just when the sky darkens. The dark clouds gather far beyond the horizon and it slowly moves forward...like an African American model sashaying across the ramp. With her long legs deliberately and sensually , one, put in front of the other. Left and right. Left and right. Pitter- patter. Pitter- patter. A slight jig. Somewhere the music dances with her movement, not the other way....From afar her blue dress caresses the floor and then bounces off and swishes when she stops and takes a swift turn and glances at you in the centre. Her body turns away from you while her eyes still holds your stare. And she turns her head away almost reluctantly...and walks away, making way for the other raven beauty...
As much as I curse the rains when it finally arrives, there is nothing more romantic than the monsoons. Inconveniencing my daily routine, the lover (the rain) has arrived, nonchalantly, arrogantly, unapologetically at my door. You smile within. Can I imagine the clouds not gathering in the sky, as it hides the sun and my entire universe takes on a pale indigo hue? I smile and wink at the gloom for it does lighten my mundane existence. The habit of routine is broken, I need to change everything. I am forgiving for the break in my practice. I Wonder how my life would’ve been, if not for this visit, how mysterious, the plain and the simple looks now, as the atmosphere so pregnant with rain in its belly, waiting to wet me with its showers. When the rain reaches my vista...I run to my window stretch out my hands to capture the first shower....like satin it caresses my skin. I step outside, like a reluctant, shy, wanting bride...the cool breeze and I gasp. Then the spray. And then the torrent. The thunder and then the lightening...what a ruckus, chaos, madness....but such beautiful method to it all....teasing you, egging you forward and you feel so dangerously alive. Livid but nevertheless alive!
Next time I see my son dancing in the rain, I will tell him, “dance, dance all you want...for when you grow up, this becomes an indulgence and you become the mad one for wanting to court the downpour of God’s apparent blessing.

Fred Quimby, How could you?

There's a rat in my kitchen. and I need brilliant suggestions to exterminate the rodent. I am open to all kinds of devious, cruel and inhuman (oops! we are talking about a rat here) I mean inrodent methods. I just need to kill it. Whatever you suggest has to guarantee instantaneous death.
Between. I have tried RAtol...the rodent's too smart. It just runs past it. It has sneaked away, everything I have delicatley placed on the rat trap. Ranging from cake to banana....and considering Jerry's craving for cheese, I tried Cheddar as well. Believe me that is a just a myth propogated by Fred Quimby. Rats liking cheese is a big fat lie. As big as the rat in my kitchen. They don't like it. To make matters worse, my five year old son looks at me in disgust, each time I suggest the rat's assassination. Thanks to TOm and Jerry. Jerry and everything that resembles Jerry is a hero. Though he doesn't say it, I can see it in his eyes, 'My mother is a witch. Rat killing witch.
Fred Quimby! how could you?? My son thinks i am the worst! and all because of you.