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Thursday, December 8, 2016

5 years ago...

A sudden lightness in the lower part of my abdomen woke me in the wee hours of a bright Monday morning a good 5 years ago. I tried to turn to my side, but that was not to be. With some superhuman effort, I heaved my rather heavy frame from the bed and managed to sit upright. There was water everywhere. I rushed to the loo only to discover that my nighty was completely wet. How did that happen? I was unaware of the copious amount of water leaving me. Was it incontinence? In no time, the entire household was awake; my mom reassuring me that it’s all fine, my sister, running helter-skelter, getting me water and some food, putting some stuff into a hospital bag, and R driving at supersonic speed with athai (MIL) to reach home to me. All of us tumbled into our car, and that’s when it began. The first time it happened, I brushed it as some random twitching of some muscle. The second time it happened, the words that came to mind were, “gnawing pain.” In no time, I was fine.

R brought the car to a halt at the hospital from where the hospital staff took over. After some preliminary investigations, the doctor declared that I would hold my baby in my hands today, definitely. But I may have to wait since it was only the early stage of labor and the baby may finally decide to come out only after at least 10-12 hours of labor. What do I do until that time? Can I get a book or something? I swear I was quite serious when I said that. The nurses fixed me an incredulous stare that broke into a reluctant smile and went on with their early morning hospital duties. I decided to twiddle thumbs, literally. 

Then, it happened; rather, it started to happen. The twiddling stopped for one shocking second. It was all normal the next second. I balanced myself on one arm and tried to look around if someone had actually smacked me or something. I fell back on the bed and put my arms behind my neck and tried to think of some nice-smelling biriyani, accompanied by some yum raitha. The next time it happened, I had screamed without even realizing it. I was in trouble. Labor was no joke. The pain that had come and gone like a little cramp on a particularly crabby chum time was now a full blown, gnawing, poking, wave of pain that began nowhere in particular and ended everywhere in general.

And, he came
There were moments when I thought I was having a heart attack or something. Then came the kicks, reminding me of where I was and for what. I could only manage a weak smile in reponse. In no time, I was screaming and raging at the nurses telling them I was in active labor and imploring them to give me an epidural to ease the pain. They couldn’t be bothered. For it was not even two hours since I was admitted, and I was no doctor to advise them. The junior doctor inserted her fingers in and declared it was only a cm of dilation, and that was too little for an epidural and went her way. I had no option but to twiddle my thumbs, only that the twiddling now became more purposeful and was punctuated with balling of the fists.

The contractions were getting intense and came more often. I decided to grit my teeth and calculate the frequency. It was happening once every 5 minutes. All the pregnancy literature I had gorged on until then had clearly said that 5-minute contractions meant the delivery is quite close. I was now screaming my guts out, much to the doctor’s irritation. She got ready to tell me to stop my unnecessary screaming and go back to my twiddling. Instead, she checked me and declared that I was in active labor and had gone well past the epidural stage. WHAT THE HELL!

Me holding him for this first time
She said it in a matter-of-factly way and moved on. Then came many more waves of contractions and pain, and finally one gut-wrenching scream followed by the cry of a new born. The doctors deftly pulled him out as my tummy deflated in one swift movement, as they threw him on my solar plexus. The moment I saw him, all my screaming screeched to a halt at the throat. My eyes took over; they followed the little fellow everywhere. Someone checked his vitals, they weighed him to be 3.082 kg, and finally they brought his face close to mine. His little eyes finally met mine; he had by then stopped crying and had begun to scan the surroundings, and I’d like to think his eyes lingered on mine a little longer. “So, you are Kavin? Welcome darling,” I mouthed and smiled. Somebody freeze-frame this moment for me I thought to myself and let sleep and other recovery mechanisms of the body take over. The rest of the events are recorded in mind in a faint dreamy hue. Ma coming and giving a beautiful hug, and declaring that the infant resembled R to the tee; R wheeling me to the bed; MIL and sis happily chatting away; and me finally falling off into a deep, dreamless slumber. My life had changed forever; I had taken the one-way bridge to motherland.
The infant who could fit snugly in the crook of my arm just 5 years ago, now demands much more than my arm. He insists on his own bed, his pillow, his books, and even his own room. And, yes, it's no wonder he planned his own birthday party a few days ago, invited his friends, and brought the roof down. 

Each December, I make this travel in my mind and re-live this little story of how Kavin entered our lives. And, I must say it rejuvenates me and gets me started for a beautiful new year. 


Tuesday, October 18, 2016

To the weekend, with love

A week ago, we decided to take Kavin to the beach since it was a long weekend and all. We parked our car and went to the beach, carrying a bag that contained, among many things, change of clothes for all of us. En route, we were accosted by hawkers of all hue, tempting K with their wares that ranged from Captain America key chains to spider man masks. Some brand position and market strategy, I say. Anyway, after sometime at the stalls, we resumed our trek to the beach, lighter by a few hundreds. Only when we started walking did I sense something amiss. My bag was way lighter, not literally, though. My bag didn’t contain my wallet anymore. I was more than one hundred percent sure I had lost it, because the car seat was completely empty when I got off it just a few minutes ago. I didn’t mention it immediately to either of the boys; at least one of them will panic and decide to retrace our steps only to invite the wrath of the other. So, to avert any such altercations, I decided to play it quiet and went to the beach. The perils of male company, I thought to myself, making a face.

I was going over what was to be done with contents of the wallet. Actually, until I came to the point of recollecting every single item in the wallet, I wasn’t too rattled by the loss. What with the blocking options of the cards and other such comforts of the times, I had actually no reason worry about any major financial loss. However, the wallet contained something, which I will never be able to recover, not as long as am on this side of the grave. It contained two of my father’s hand-written letters to me. He had written them to me sometime in 2004 when I was in Delhi and when cell phones and emails hadn’t become so ubiquitous.

The letters did not contain important information, but they did contain my dear father’s own handwriting. He always wrote on one of his factory-issued scribbling pads. In one of the letters he had told me in bullet points the enclosures of the letter; my tax returns, some employment news cuttings, and my train ticket. His handwriting had an unmistakable, confident right slant that will ensure his words followed a straight path on an unlined sheet of paper. And that’s something I struggle with even today. In the other letter, he had listed all the housework he was doing, such as watering the plants, ironing clothes, and many other things, all this amidst a hectic work schedule. He had also strictly, that’s in all caps, told me not to get any clothes for them for Christmas from Delhi. On the very next line, in his unmistakable affectionate, daddyish tone he had asked me if I wanted a saree or salwar kameez for Christmas.


A huge wave washed over Kavin and me. K held on to me and squealed with joy. But my heart was ready to burst with the sadness that was settling in the pit of my stomach over the loss of my father’s letters. Swallowing the anger I felt for my erratic and careless ways, I decided to simply let go. “It should be in the car, woman,” R offered some matter-of-fact sense. I nodded with no hope. The waves kept washing over the shore and Kavin kept asking for more. And, my thoughts would keep swinging back to a post-script on one of the letters; he had said, sorry for grammatical errors, and in fact, it was one of the letters that didn’t have any. I remembered how I was in splits after reading the letter the first time in 2004. The letter had arrived when I was in office, and when I read out the postscript to my colleagues, some of them looked at me with pure hatred (for doing that to my poor father), and the rest decided that they weren’t the the sole victims of my grammar Nazism. I wasn’t exactly crying, but what began with the promise of being a happy, pleasant evening was swinging anywhere between misery and gloom. But, since becoming a parent, I have learned (ok, not mastered it yet) the art of postponing one’s own grief.



With waves gaining speed, Kavin was unstoppable. He jumped, tried swimming, rolled in the mud, and so much more that in an hour’s time when we took him to the nearby shower, he was unrecognizable as our child. Covered with mud and many other things from head to toe, he looked like a child brought up by Tom Hanks in Cast Away, and not by IT professionals living in a metropolis. It took us some effort to extricate the real Kavin from all the grim and sea sand that he was covered in. On R’s insistence, I washed my face. He seemed to believe in the mood alleviation property of washing one’s face. I merely humored him. However, I was instantly refreshed after splashing of cold, fresh water on my face. Male company ain’t all the bad, eh?




Refreshed, but crestfallen, I walked back to our car. My eyes scanned every nook and cranny for the letters, hoping for the thief to have dumped all the unnecessary contents of the wallet. As we drew closer to the car, tears had already begun to cloud my vision. I opened it to see the seats stare back empty, exactly as I remembered them.
I quietly settled in and secured the seat belts for K and got ready for a long, pensive drive through the ECR. It would be almost midnight by the time we’ll reach home. What’s usually a pleasant, chatty drive for HSK seemed to be a quiet and a sad drive. As one last attempt, I thrust my hand into the back pocket of the passenger seat. And, no prizes for guessing; sitting snug in the pocket was the wallet, holding in its safe confines my father’s words, telling me to be careful with my words, with my actions, and perhaps my stuff too.  I let out a huge sigh of relief and smiled, no laughed, and got ready for a long, happy, chatty drive home.


Thursday, October 13, 2016

Chennai-Denmark 3: An Affair with Aarhus

The wide, wide roads started to narrow down as we entered Aarhus. The sun was bidding us adieu after hanging out with us for over 20 hours straight! We hadn’t seen darkness for a long time. G drove through roads paved with cobblestone, buildings built with exposed bricks (didn’t they know any cement or concrete?), and long, beautiful alleys flanked by greenery on either side.

We finally came to a halt at nice little rectangular enclosure of three-storeyed houses. The doorsteps of each house had pumpkins that had been hollowed out. Now, this was a scene straight out of Hollywood for me! We had landed right in the middle of Halloween. Smiling ear to ear, I joined the guys in rolling the 3 humongous suitcases into the large elevator that would take us to the pretty home of GSG.
The rectangular enclosure that housed GSG's home.

We knocked on a glass door that hardly belied what it held behind. “Welcome, welcome,” squealed Sumi only to be hushed up by the men who were balancing a sleeping Kavin and 3 large suitcases between them. I quietly let myself into the warm interior and gave S a bear hug and found a warm spot for K so that he could sleep on, uninterrupted. The pleasant smell of sambar wafted from the kitchen stirring in us an until-then dormant ravenous hunger for the good old kozhambu saadam (rice and curry). In no time we freshened up and had one of the most sumptuous and tastiest dinners ever. Am still not sure what happened after dinner; staying awake for over 24 hours straight comes at the price of some memories, I realized much later.


The morning sight that greeted me.
 It should have been 4 am in the morning, when K started shifting next to me on a warm bed. My dreamless slumber was slowly wearing off. “Have we reached Denmark, Ma?” Kavin asked. I smiled to myself at that realization myself and turned over to him.“Where are we ma,” Kavin persisted. “We are in Denmark, darling,” I replied, already giggly with excitement.“Then, where’s Gugu, I must play with him,” said Kavin and off he ran without any socks or any winter enforcements that we lugged all the way from Chennai. He rebounded in exactly the same velocity with which he ran out and screamed,“Amma it’s so cold, give me my sweaters.”In no time, the entire household woke up, the boys met each other, and  we began making plans for the day.

Tiny pots with so many flowers.
 After a quick breakfast, all of us set off to check out the world best library, Dokk1 in Aarhus. Sumi packed some sandwichs and carrots for lunch, and off we went on cobblestone roads, clean, tar roads lined on either side with green plants, apple trees in full bloom swaying in the wind, and vast grasslands almost beckoning you to curl up with a book in hand or even to gaze forever at the clear, blue skies and ruminate on the question of existence, consciousness, gravity, love, or any random thing on earth! The beauty of the land assaulted one in every possible manner. Tiny pots had bouquets of flowers blooming, and back home, my plants demand an arm and a leg for as much as one bud per week!

Sumi and K inside the 8:02 bus.
S and G were walking us to the bus stop through various inner roads of the area they stayed in. And, suddenly they declared we were at the bus stop. Except for the passenger shelter there was not one thing to indicate a bus stop; no vehicles (except an occasional cyclist or a car), no garbage, and most importantly no crowd to jostle you into a wrong bus. The bus was supposed to arrive at 8:02 am; yes, the Danes seemed to be sure about their lives to the very minute. Whoa! Really. These people must be something. As predicted, the bus arrived and all of us tumbled in with our babies in strollers. 

I kept looking around as much as possible to take in every single sight of Aarhus. S kept pointing out places for us; there was the queen’s bungalow, the seashore, and a huge mall that had recently come up. For all the technological development on which the country sat on, its appearance belied nothing; everything was wrapped in medieval European architecture, speaking of which, I do some
Me figuring out Romansque and Norman architecture
research and discover words like Romanesque and Norman architecture. How much more prettiness can this world throw at you on a day? It was akin to travelling back in time to a beautiful, unpolluted, pristine world, but with the civilizational progress and development of the new world! We had not just gained 4 extra hours in our life; we had gained 4 centuries of life experience. Ok, exaggeration apology!

We got off at a bus stop and we had to walk a kilometer or so to reach Dokk1. But, no one was complaining, or rather didn’t have the luxury of complaining. You get a stroller until you are about 5 or 6, after which you completely rely on your two legs for such things. Everyone kept walking. Public transport was available only thus far and no further. Young and old walked. Young people sprinted, older people walked fast, and the very old people walked slow and steady. But, walk everybody did.

All of us at Dokk1
We finally reached our destination. An exhibition of making useful stuff out cardboard boxes was on. Sumi had displayed her work there, and the library had even featured her (as perhaps an artist to look out for; just in case, you are interested in her work, go here) on the big television installed outside Dokk1. That was just the first floor. Huge, room-sized elevators transported us to the next floor, which was just one sprawling hall covered on 3 sides with just glass, giving you the most amazing view of the harbor. We sat there gazing at the sea and chomping on the carrots and cheese sandwiches as the boys played on, much like the rest of the kids, without disturbing their parents. Was it the same K, who needed, no demanded, my attention every single minute? Was it the place or the people that taught one to appreciate individual space, even to toddlers? R and I behaved like a couple on honeymoon, clicked some silly selfies, and laughed like kids, unlike the kids in Denmark. 

K outside the stall displaying Sumi's work.

Dokk1 is in itself one of the best hangouts in Aarhus. With entire floors dedicated to children, Dokk1 seems be a major draw for the locals to unwind in peace by the riverside with books and books and books. However, we didn’t quite explore the books for want of time. I made a mental note about the place: sometime in the future, when I would have the luxury of spending entire months in writing in a city of my choice, I would spend at least a few days in Dokk1, gazing at the North Atlantic sea and sipping hot, black coffee.

By the Catholic Church of Our Lady

And there was evening, and there was morning, a day was about to pass. Had so much time really passed? I hadn’t even touched my lipstick once; we were still as fresh as we had started in the morning. I’d attribute that to the excitement hormones coursing through our veins that applied the brakes on the body’s natural resting cycle. We came to the city square lined with fountains and other pretty sights. The boys began to have a ball right on the road, only that this time we, the moms, simply looked on indulgently than screaming at them to stop playing immediately or to face ear-splitting music. Whoa! A few more days in similar circumstances, I might as well become a monk mama, than the mama on edge K deals with every day. Amidst all this, someone pointed at a nearby church, which needless to say was handsomeness carved in stone. Completed sometime in 1880, the Catholic Church of Our Lady, Wikipedia informs, is 53 meters tall and designed with 3 naves and a Gothic vaulted church room 40 meters long and 7 meters wide. And apparently the church is quite well decorated with stylized greenery, flowers, angels, devils, dragons and birds and has glass mosaics focused on the birth of Jesus Christ. We’ll perhaps have to wait for our next trip to check out all these ourselves.

Fountains in the city square.

The next morning dawned bright and clear. I tried to venture out of the house barefooted, only to realize what bacteria perhaps go through during pasteurization, a process by which warm milk and food products are instantly cooled to kill pathogens or bacteria! Some man was Louis Pasteur to invent such a particularly devious, blood-free way to kill a life!

After a languorous coffee, lazy conversations, and yum breakfast, HSK decided to take a stroll to the nearby super market, Fotex. The super market per se wasn’t very different from the ones here in Chennai, but it was definitely far less crowded and had just about everything from innerwear to Halloween pumpkins! I would be doing a huge disservice to the country that played a brilliant host to us for so many days if I didn’t mention its casual attitude to liquor. Budweiser, Corona, Carlsberg, and many others sat on huge shelves looking as innocuous as perhaps your Thuvaram paruppu (arahar dal) or an Aachi sambar podi! Just to see all these together in India in such a casual setting might cost a woman of my age a lot more than a flight trip, actually. So, since we, R &I, are law-abiding citizens of any country, we decided to be Danes in Denmark and casually picked a beer can each. Ok, it wasn’t that casual; I went back and forth before finally giving in; much like our popular Tamil proverb used by meat eaters to justify the killing: Kondral pavam, thindral pochu (Slay the sin; eat the kill).

Need I say, what this is?
We walked out of fotex holding hands; something we hadn’t done in ages. Little did we realize that we were hovering over the most memorable moment of the entire trip! Right out of the supermarket, looming out of nowhere was a beautiful church built much like the one we saw earlier on the city square, but quieter and amidst more greenery. A park bench sat there completely oblivious to the way it was completing the picture perfectness of that sight. We sat there for a good half hour savoring the little drinks in hand and wordlessly spoke a million words to each other.In sometime, we made our way back home. We had to unpack and repack our bags, for in less than 20 hours, we would be boarding our flight to the land of the pope, pasta, and pizza!

video
Ps: R made a pretty, vintage-looking video of this little stint of the holiday; you can watch it here.