Supermom

Motherhood can be so hard sometimes. When your baby chooses to soil his diaper in the middle of the night, while your doting partner sleeps in preparation for a long day of work ahead, your long night must now begin. The diaper change ends up disturbing your baby and waking him up wide enough to realize that mama is, infact, awake too and can actually play with him. So an hour or so of reluctant playing later, you fix him a bottle and pray for some sleep. But sleep is an elusive little minx that has been playing hide and seek with me for the past one year.

We live close to a railway line so every morning I hear the 4:50 am local train huffing and puffing its way to the nearest station. This gets followed by the 5 am call to prayer from a mosque that's a short distance away. While the azaan only brings me fond memories from the day I gave birth (read this to learn about the connection) it also informs me that morning has officially broken and I have a few hours left to myself to raid my secret reserves of mom-energy so I can take on the day with sufficient gusto to entertain my little angel for the next twenty-four hours.

I am my son's jester, his cook, his doctor, his nurse, his friend, and so very often his enemy (because guess who's the good cop in this family?). I spend my day in ratty old (super comfortable) yoga pants because suddenly, comfort is key to a happy day. I avoid wearing earrings because my toddler likes to grab them and pull them like juicy opportunities he doesn't wish to miss. No perfume for me either because he's teething and loves nibbling on my neck which I am okay with because whatever helps ease his swollen little gums is a godsend in my eyes.

Yes, I know I've made motherhood sound like a terribly difficult job which takes so much from you, but that's the thing- it isn't a job at all. It becomes you in the most organic fashion imaginable. You don't need to make any of these efforts because there isn't anything else you'd rather be doing with your time and energy. At least not me. Our son has become our top priority in such an unchallenged way that you might laugh at us for being such softies. He has enriched our lives in such a holistic way- I try to be kinder, more responsible, more considerate, more educated and more open to change because of this little boy. 

So after those toilsome nights that leave me puffy-eyed, groggy and cranky, I look at his dimples and hear him call me 'mummum' and am immediately recentered. 

He has transformed me and given me the strength to take on this world with guts, gumption and gaiety. 

And of course, the caffeine helps seize the day because even superheroes need an energy source, and who's a bigger superhero than your mother?
(NO ONE).

I Turned Thirty?!

I have always had a hyperactive imagination; as a child, I envisioned a Jetsons-like future with flying cars, vitamin pills for meals and robotic housekeepers who could do everything with a mere wave of their metallic appendages (picture a domesticated R2D2). I used to imagine how I would feel as a twenty year old, how adult that would be! It seemed like something so distant, such an impossible speck in the horizon that it was almost hypothetical, almost unreal.

Twenty came and went, and I have a vivid memory of my twentieth birthday- sitting alone in my college hostel room at midnight, wondering if this was it. It barely seemed as powerful, as glamorous, as fantastic as I had convinced myself over the years it would be. So after that, I suppose a part of my imagination faded away into a haze of grey, grown-up reality. 

Age clearly didn't do much to add or subtract anything from your life unless you had so planned for it to happen. Life is about choices, opportunities, and sometimes a serendipitous twist of fate that gets you to exactly where you belong, I realized.

Looking back at my twenties, I can say that they were happy, colourful, exciting and exactly what I needed them to be. They taught me all the right lessons at the most opportune times, and landed me to my thirtieth birthday which came and went like a happy blur a few days ago. 

They say your thirties bring you clarity, confidence and a calmness that is fueled by self-awareness and a wholesome understanding of the world and its myriad ways. Today, I feel like I have lived enough to know what's good for me, and am young enough to have the zeal to actually work towards getting it. It's a merry combination of youth and wisdom; a comfortable plateau of a certain type of peace that has come with time- seamlessly worked its way into how I conduct myself in my relationships with those around me.

This was my first birthday as a mother, and perhaps that has been the reason why it has felt like the most special one I've had thus far. It has also made me so acutely aware of how rapidly time has flown and how life has zoomed past as I stood watching from the sides. 

I've had an amazing life so far and have had little to complain about (knock on wood, please!). But perhaps if I had to nitpick, I'd say that the one thing I wish to be able to do more of in this shiny new decade would be to write. No impostor syndrome, no abandoning projects halfway through, no distractions. All my self-analysis over the years has pointed at one thing and one thing alone- this is what I'm good at, and this is what I'm happiest doing. It isn't a hobby, as some might suggest; I find that an offensive, frivolous term to associate with what I'm so dearly fond of doing. It seems more like an involuntary act to me, like blinking or breathing or loving your child. It is far too personal to me and has been so since I first learnt to write at the age of five. The past year saw a much laxer version of me as a writer because I was mentally, physically and emotionally too busy being a giant pregnant whale (read as 23 extra kilos) and then raising a baby! I hope to change that this year, although I suppose I'm going to need a lot of good luck (and noise-cancelling headphones) for that considering how we now have a naughty little toddler in our midst.

So I guess it's not really much of a big deal that the future is less like a Jetsons episode and more like a dystopian nightmare with climate change and air-filters in your bedrooms. This lifetime is what we've been given, and what we make of it is in our hands alone. It's not about how long you live, but about the legacy you leave behind you, the number of hearts that beat for you and the lives you end up touching.

I have great dreams for myself and I hope that I get to fulfill them one at a time.

Like Ruskin Bond said, it isn't time that's passing by, it's you and I.

To Your Lover, Whoever He May Be

Life is very often murky

With curves and lines

That confuse or divide;

There is quite often

War

Raging in some land,

Or in some homes,

Or at least in several hearts.

There is quite often

Despair

Drenching blue skies

And washing away 

A happy flush from a young face. 

Life is often unfair

Handing out problems to you

Like an unforgiving mistress.

So if you find a lover

Who gives you a kiss

To welcome a new morn,

Who rubs your shoulders

When the cold winds strike,

And who smiles the widest

When you win 

Hold him by the hand

And carry him to eternity

Because we don't know 

About afterlives,

But we do know of today. 

And love is the language

That happiness speaks. 

Thirty

Soon it shall be

My thirtieth winter;

The thought makes me look up

To the heavens,

Outstretched hands 

Like an albatross of the seas,

Eyes round like garnets

On a Persian crown

With a reluctant crinkle

That protests against the sun-

I look up at God-

Or at least the version of Him

That I know and live with-

And he tells me

To turn over to the next page

And fill it with a riot

Of brilliant ideas,

And raging madness,

And flowing ink,

And thirty more reasons 

To announce to the world

Why I am his favourite child.

This is about gratitude

As much as it is 

About age.

Bed

The last thoughts from the day
Leave my head;
The lights are off,
The curtains are drawn-
We don't need dawn
Disturbing any dreams.

Blanket over my body,
Eyes blind without my glasses;
I'm ready
For a night of heavy dreaming
And then
Waking up
To the sound of your soft kiss
Leaving your lips
And settling on my neck.

Triumphant

A head-shake here,
And a dismissive wave of the hand,
And there's that look of disdain
That paints me wet
With discouragement and doubt.
Perhaps my ideas
Aren't golden enough to please,
Not bourgeois enough
To raise eyebrows
Or draw envy from the first row snobs.
You keep saying it with your silence.
Not good enough.

But art isn't meant to appease;
It confounds,
Discombobulates,
Questions,
And eventually triumphs
Even when you don't understand
That the big red dot
Was never just a dot.
The black canvas
Was the universe as the audience
And the big red dot was me-
Victorious in my battles,
Blushing brightly
In the face of universal applause.

Sunrise, Everyday

Another pretty sunrise-
A flirtation of pinks
With the darkness
That's in denial of its departure;
An early bird is the spectator
To this little exchange
Of colours in the sky-
As am I.
Sunrise after sunrise,
I watch and I learn-
For the darkness to leave
The light must remain persistent,
Positive,
Unyielding.
My battles are my own,
But so are my victories;
And for now, this sunrise
Is victory enough.
Yesterday is over.