A maiden journey

I sat on the edge of the bed and raised my feet in air so that the maid could sweep underneath. As she swept, her bangles jingled in sync with her hands. The sweet monotone of glass bangles reminded me of my childhood. I have never told my mom about it, but I can always tell if she's around just by the mere jingle of her bangles. Even today I can recognise her blindfolded, if she just moves her hand (at least so I think). With a half smile resting on my lips, I glanced at my little baby sleeping peacefully and then my gaze shifted to my wrists and the smile vanished altogether. How will the poor kid know that his mumma is around? She hardly wears bangles!

Thereafter another childhood memory filled my heart. I fondly recalled how I used to go to market with ma, holding tightly a corner of her palla. My betu won't be so fortunate, his mother rarely drapes a saree and even her salwar suits are sans dupatta most of the times. Poor darling will not experience the joy one gets when maa's saree caresses his face.

Little sweetheart might  never know how it feels to sit on the fuel tank of a motorcycle and dozing off during the ride with papa nudging him constantly to keep him awake. For that matter, as I continued to dig deeper into my childhood, I kept discovering just so many fond memories which my son will neither be able to experience nor relate to. Just as this realization started to make me gloomy, the little one turned to face me, smiling even in his sleep.

His serene face brought forward a different perspective. There was no reason why his childhood should be a carbon copy of mine. Why shouldn't his ma be just a guide as he ventures on his maiden journey? 

With this thought my heart whispered a prayer. 'Let him have his own experiences and make his own memories. Let his ma be there to watch for him, to keep him on the 'right' path and to hold him when he can't. Let his Ma lets him live his life.'

And just then, he woke up. :)

To Speak...or Not......

Today is more about venting than writing. This urge has been suppressed for a long time with hopes of a natural death, but today I yield to it. More often than not the process of venting is followed by a course of regrets but today I am well prepared to face the consequences.

Logging into blogger after countless days, I realised that 2014 had passed without a post. Even though there was no dearth of ideas to explore but not one of them was pursued sufficiently to make the ends meet. Major excuse for such a lackadaisical attitude is that year 2014 has been the most radical period of life till date. With mixed emotions and an open heart previous year was spent in embracing motherhood. Moreover, with biology playing such a significant role in deciding the fate of even routine activities, writing was often the activity of least priority.

In fact, even the term 'reading' got redefined to strictly apply to medical and child care documents. After initial few visits to the doctor one thing which became very clear was that to expect the unexpected was going to be the norm and that any out of the normal changes in the body were but natural and were reasons for celebrations rather than concern. After basic rules of the above sort had been set, it fell upon the internet’s responsibility to be a guide for preliminary diagnosis. Thenceforth, from the slightest twitch to the largest kick, every symptom was first cross checked on the internet and only after that its seriousness was decided. (In fact, to be honest, it is still the case.) Blame it on human nature, but fact remains that your suffering reduces if it is known that there are other people struggling with similar conditions and it was this reassurance that I was always searching for on the net.

Anyways today’s venting is mainly because there were two particular issues regarding which internet was unable to console me sufficiently. Consequently, I have spent considerable amount of time questioning my stars and alike as to why was I singled out thus.

The first issue which started almost in the first trimester itself and thereafter went on escalating at an exponential rate even after delivery was that of ‘acne vulgaris’. I have had acnes since puberty and had somewhat learnt to live with them. The combo pack of my ‘highly sensitive-oily-unbalanced hormones affected’ skin and my ‘full of dirt, dust and sunlight’ job profile has always done wonders for my face. However, situation was always under control with the usage of some topical creams. The sorry state of affairs was that all these topical creams became a strict ‘no-no’ during pregnancy. Thus the bacteria got the perfect breeding ground for its entire universe it seems. In my younger days, I had read in many articles that the problem of acne diminishes considerably post pregnancy, but no relief was to be found in my case. By the time my post-partnum period came to an end, I looked worse than the sample photographs found in the reception of dermatologists’ clinics. To make matters worse no appropriate treatment (read antibiotics) can be started during lactation especially during the first six months when entire diet of the infant comprises of milk and nothing else.

In my case, treatment could be started when my darling was nearing three months. Since my doctor was a man of principles, therefore he hesitated in prescribing the more severe medications right away. As a result my situation was similar to that of a guinea pig. I would try a particular treatment for few weeks and then re-visit the doctor for increasing the severity of the medication. After two months of experimentation my skin has finally started responding positively to a particular therapy. As per the doctor it will take at least 3-4 months of continuous treatment to bring the problem under control. The scars and pits might take over an year to become a little less pronounced. Also, there are therapies like ‘chemical peeling’ to force it into a better shape more quickly. Fact is that in such situations even empathy seems hurtful. It is difficult for people to understand that there is a person behind the face, but then it is for the sufferer to understand and not them. As per medical statistics, the problem that I face is also normal though not common. In a situation as mine, it is important to be patient (and tolerant of others’ ignorance) while continuing to look like a ‘chaand ka tukda’ literally!

Second issue that I faced has some amount of social stigma attached to it. My sweetheart, who turned 5 months today, is a perfectly healthy boy (touchwood) and shows all normal growth patterns, has been formula fed since day one. Whatever may be the reasons, I couldn’t lactate enough to fulfil his needs. I had a c-section after a prolonged labour and there might have been some more inherent minor issues. Even though reasons are still not clear yet the fact remains that my baby never went on ‘motherfeed’ despite numerous written advices by the paediatrician. I guess I tried practically everything under the sun, but what is not to be will not happen! I totally understand that ‘mother’s milk is best for baby’s growth’ but there is a limit to what can be achieved with sheer resolve. Emotions ranging from guilt to concern to depression kept disturbing me heart and soul. The worst part about all unbalanced hormonal issues is that stress worsens the condition and a vicious circle was formed.

It took me almost two months to come to term with the reality and even more time to recover from the guilt. My OB/GYN (a very fine lady with lots of experience) once explained to me that parenting is all about having patience and that formula feeding is as good an alternative as possible. She summed it up (probably just to cheer me up) that ‘male paediatricians can never really understand what a mother has to go through’. This statement in particular became a lifeline for me during the initial period when I was trying to cope up with the negativity building up inside.

With time I have come to understand, what is important and what is not. It is essential for baby to remain healthy, have a normal growth and that his needs (physical as well as emotional) are correctly understood and adequately responded. Devouring oneself in so much grief that even the baby starts feeling the depression is definitely not the right move to take. Moreover it is not a crime (morally or otherwise) to give a bottle to your baby. Unlike acnes, insufficient lactation happens to be a common problem faced by many moms worldwide. It is essential to accept the situation as it is and move on taking the best way out. At the end of the day what really matters is that your baby responds with that exclusive smile reserved especially for you!

This post has been penned with the sole purpose of telling others who find themselves in circumstances similar to mine, that ‘this too shall pass’. With hopes of giving some solace to any fellow sufferer, I end my rant here and now. It’s going to be alright. It always does. Doesn’t it!

 P.S. Thankfully my families and especially my husband have been highly supportive throughout the distressing time.

If I ignore it, it’ll go away

I’ve been feeling a certain amount of shivering since past one hour and a DD filler has been doing   re-runs in my mind, जाड़ा लग कर आये बुखार तो समझो मलेरिया का है प्रहार. However, since there is no bukhaar so I guess I am safe. Trying to emerge from this world of self-indulgence, I just concluded that if I’ll ignore it, it’ll go away. And This has set me thinking.

When was the first time that I learnt this approach and adopted this attitude?

I can vividly remember that I was introduced to the power of ‘ignoring’ as an attempt to save me from the ‘atrocities’ of my elder brother. When I would approach my parents with a sullen face complaining about the troubles the big guy was causing me, I’d be met with a reply, ‘don’t pay attention to him, that ways he won’t enjoy his prank and eventually let it be’. A very sound advice indeed, but one which seemed pretty lame and biased (against me) then. Those issues were mostly resolved with me crying at the top of my voice and him receiving a good bashing at the most and a good scolding at the least. All because I preferred to ignore the ignoring act altogether.

As I grew up, this attitude slowly seeped into my character towards taunting peers and road side loafers. However, the internal resistance towards the ignoring act remained and it was done more as a compromise than a problem solving (cum avoiding) approach. Had I been privy to Mr. Nash’s insight on people at that time, then probably the internal resistance might have lessened by some degrees. However as the circumstances were, the ignoring act did save me unnecessary frictions every now and then.

As I grew up further and gained financial independence, the confidence level required for executing the ignoring act reached newer heights. In fact nowadays it often borders on being arrogant. I must admit that its true worth is now understood in greater details and this tactic is often a life saver. The only trick that remains is in identifying those situations which truly call for this stance.

However, one application of this approach is still a grey area. How much of this attitude is justified in connection with ignoring health issues cannot be said until and unless the subject is either cured out of ignorance or grieved sufficiently to come out of it.

So, while still pondering over the correctness of my action, I guess I’ll continue ignoring it unless either it or I go away.

Incidentally I do feel pretty cured at the moment. :P

A Wheeled Vision

I want to write about a significant transformation from recent past, but life’s so intertwined that it becomes difficult to cut a long story short! So, as usual, let’s start from the start.

My laziness; this is one endless topic, but the only reason that it finds a mention here is that some four months back I started reading a book, which I am yet to finish. In the opening chapter, the author wrote ‘In a car you’re always in a compartment, you’re a passive observer and everything moves boringly in a frame’. He was trying to emphasize upon the connection with one’s immediate surroundings that can be enjoyed better while riding than driving. Though I thoroughly agree with the sentiment, yet of late  I have discovered a different connect in this regard; one that is formed through the windshield and depends more on the choice of seat than anything else.

It took me all of four years to gather just enough confidence to climb into the driving seat all by myself. And whoa! A whole new world was waiting for me right outside the window. Everything remained the same, yet felt so different. Same old routes were now heading in a different direction. Same old landscapes had new spectacles to exhibit. Even the honking cars and huge trucks seemed atypical. The fact remained that none of them had changed, just my viewpoint had.

The view through my windscreen was magnificent, not because I was driving through the best of terrains, but because ‘I’ was driving. Independence tastes so awesome and the flavour was enhanced further by the fact that I had achieved what I was beginning to think of as ‘impossible’. This tiny step had opened up new forums for my ever-thinking mind. The floods of thoughts that ensued were overwhelming enough to set the practical half worrying. Even a hundred meter of lonely stretch on the road was sufficient to get my mind (and eventually the car) drifting in all possible directions. In recent past, this had been by far one of the most sought after experience that I was struggling for. Once on the road, I saw the fellow cars as the senior more experienced lot, found the SUVs to be intimidating, thought about the bikers as the free birds and realized that trucks & trailers were the most courteous travelling companions.

Of course, in due course of time many of these generalizations have been replaced by more generic classifications, but the most persistent feeling has been that of enthrallment. These twenty minutes of driving in the morning are so refreshing that despite all the honking and chaos on the road, they instill in me just enough joy to start the day on a high note. And for the records, I even found ‘my first’ traffic jam quite delectable!

Though driving has become more of a routine now and sometimes complacency tries to seep in, however, there is a particular view which has retained its exclusivity till date. Most of the roads that I pass through are flanked by high voltage transmission towers. There is a particular left turn, where due to the discordant traffic it becomes obligatory to look into the rear view mirror before turning the steering wheel counter-clockwise. The timing in this activity is normally such that I end up looking at a giant power supply tower intersected right in the middle by a mirror reflecting everything I have left behind. 

This tower speaks a million words to me and every day I hear a newer version of its tale. Some days it’d talk about my childhood. Sometimes it’ll be about the present life. On other occasions it’d set me thinking about the different mindsets and our secret monologues shall carry on. Every day that I bid adieu to this tower, I find myself making a different excuse for not clicking it yet and yet another promise of taking a snap soon enough. Somewhere deep inside there remains a fear that our tete-e-tete might lose its magic if I tried to capture it any more than is appropriate, like a soap bubble perhaps.

Another mesmerizing moment that I enjoy truly and which I’m afraid might become the root cause of a future accident, is the deep blue sky littered with fragments of white clouds. Even though it seldom rains here, yet the kaleidoscopic clouds are always at their best and this beauty gets magnified tenfold when watched from the driver’s seat. After zigzagging through the city traffic towards the highways surrounded by wilderness, littered with trucks and reaching out towards the horizon where only ships and cranes can demarcate the boundaries between sea, land and sky, the sudden change of view is a pleasant surprise.

A typical journey would start from jostling amidst the vegetable market right outside the colony and is followed by a sprint between Auto’s, few more trucks, a decent amount of traffic trying to move in or out of the railway station and myself. After this sprint, most of us find ourselves suitably placed upon the road and moving with the uniformity of a conveyor belt. The view during this mechanized part of the journey comprises of concrete buildings on one side and an under-construction flyover on the other. However, by the time we are nearing this factory’s exit, the world’s perspective begins to change.

Similar to a child in her formative years, we are gradually introduced to wonders of this planet. The amount of concrete surrounding us decreases sufficiently to be just stroking the wheels and the sky thrusts upon us its entire enormity. Interestingly, despite its vastness, the sky never seems intimidating. The beautiful hues of blue almost always make me want to hit the brakes right in the middle of the road. Fortunately, the howling compatriots save the day for me.

The sad part about driving is that it needs me to tame the wandering mind. As a result, I no longer observe the transformation bridge; instead I am on a lookout for the speed breakers. More aware about the obstacles than the end results, my wheeled vision keeps me grounded as well. Striking a balance of course remains to be the prime concern, but independence is definitely worthy of this all, and more.

I Won't Take A Day

I won’t take a day.

I want the complete year.

I don’t want to be pampered for the sake of my gender.

I want to be treated as an equal.

I don’t want to be looked down upon, for my constraints.

I want to be respected for my strengths.

I don’t want celebrations for my mere existence. Yes, I do matter and I do make a difference, but that is limited to my close circle. And that, I believe is a personal thing. My loved ones don’t need the 8^th of March to celebrate my existence! They already have the 26^th.

Is that too much to ask?

And frankly, why this helter skelter about celebrating womanhood for a day, when we are not going to remember it till next 11 months. (Of course, the ad agencies and the marketing companies will get into their act a month before. And that is a reminder good enough.)

I don’t want to draw the attention to the extremities. I am not going to talk about exemplary ladies who have brought laurels in their fields. Nor am I going to talk about the unfortunate few, who have faced atrocities of the worst degrees, because one lot has been unusually talented and the other lot has suffered exceptional misfortune. And exceptions don’t govern general guidelines.

I want to talk about myself; a girl with a comfortable middle class urban upbringing, good enough schooling and availability of the right opportunities at the correct times. I cannot claim that life has been a bed of roses for me, but it has been manageable.

During school days, differentiation on the basis of gender was limited to school uniform and assembly lines. And that made a whole lot of sense too. It was never a basis for judging one’s potential. Sadly, this mythical world was lost along with the carefree nature of school days. (Or what could be more likely, is that I didn’t open my eyes to face the real world until I passed out from school).

As I reached college, I found myself in a place where girls were supposed to sit in the front row during classes and to stand in front of (and away from) the experiment setups in labs. The fact, that I wanted to hammer my own bolt in forging workshop might raise eyebrows, was novice to me. As is always the case, I got accustomed to the changed circumstances pretty soon (and vice – versa). By the time college life was nearing a close, I found myself to be more aware about my gender but never in a negative way

However, my first posting was indeed an eye opener. Even during the orientation training, there had been a few hints, however, I found them easier to ignore than explore. My first posting was in a department which by default spelled masculinity and I was expected to be that simple and docile girl, of which we usually read about in matrimonial ads. This indeed was shockingly new and absolutely unacceptable for a person as uncouth, headstrong and firebrand as me. (And I am sure, my true self came as a big shock to my colleagues as well.)

Anyways, bestowing me with a ‘namaste’ while shaking hands with my colleagues can be a matter of personal choice; not remembering my name can be attributed to having a poor memory; however, adjudging me to be a lesser mortal than my male counterpart is definitely not acceptable by any logic. 

I might not be the strongest person physically, but then manual labour was perhaps not a prerequisite of the job. Also, I might have certain ‘safety’ concerns associated with me, but that I believe should reflect more upon the society and the guys rather than my existence. I might also have ‘family’ responsibilities attached, but so is the case with the guys as well (Here, I do assume that my male counterparts are not ignoring their personal lives for the welfare of their employer). Hence, for these cases, I would prefer to plead ‘not guilty’ rather than giving others an open ended permission to undermine my capabilities as per their convenience. Moreover, if genes (specifically presence and absence of the ‘Y’ chromosomes) were to be the sole deciding factor in defining one’s competence, then life would have been so much simpler.

Thus, when these seniors and colleagues, after challenging my existence in the corporation for 364 days, suddenly decide to celebrate ‘International Women’s Day’, then things do feel extraordinarily fishy.  And that is why I won’t take a day.

Judge me for being insincere, for being inefficient, for being unintelligent and for the umpteen flaws that exist in me; but don’t go about stereotyping me for being a woman.

All I want is to be treated at par.

Regards,

A Female Subordinate & Colleague

P.S. This year, 8^th March went very peacefully indeed. Heartfelt thanks to everyone for not isolating me on this account. :)

Testing the Limits

It was never a rare or a difficult-to-gather experience. However, in my particular case, fate had been eluding me this chance since last seven years. In fact, as a friend correctly summarized, being a female is somewhat disadvantageous in these matters; mainly because, so many factors need to fall in place, before a ‘Madam’ can be declared ‘fit’ for being a ‘blood donor’.

So, when this Sunday morning, Aks casually mentioned a blood donation camp being organized in the neighbourhood, my mind immediately worked out all the statistics to evaluate my fitness. With an affirmative reply from the fitness section, I called upon all the ‘sweet-girly’ powers of conviction in order to obtain the requisite NOC from my dear hubby. Eventually, a deal was struck, but at the cost of a ‘Fast ‘. I was happy nevertheless. After all, this experience had been on my wishlist for a long time.

For me, experiencing the phenomenon of donating blood, was somehow never associated with the social welfare part of the issue. Neither was I concerned about the reported corruption prevalent in this sector. For me, it was all about testing my limits. It was all about getting a confirmation about my strength.  It was only about answering whether I could.

With all these thoughts in mind and with Aks doubting the righteousness of his NOC, we reached the venue. We were amazed by the number of cars parked outside the small wedding pandal which was serving as the camp site. There were at least ten folding beds lying on one side of the pandal, making it resemble a make-shift accident relief camp. On the other side of the pandal, two counters had been set up for registering the volunteers and for the elementary medical checkup. As I went through the formalities, many ‘well wishers’ came forward to assure me that ‘ghabraane ki koi baat nahi hai’ and ‘dariye mat’. In response, I smiled politely and tried my best to hide the curious-excited expression. It was pointless trying to explain the selfish intent behind the noble act.

Finally, as I lay on one of those beds and the sister struggled to find a suitable vein for pinching the needle, the long awaited moment had arrived. With a 350ml pouch attached to my left hand, the procedure commenced. In less than two minutes, even before I could intake the complete experience, a fellow donor exclaimed ‘bhar gaya’, which was slightly disappointing. However, just then I felt dizzy and it took all my willpower (and a lot of effort) to keep the eyes open. It was then that I truly understood the meaning of the phrase ‘to suck life’s blood’. This struggle between the mind and the heart continued for another fifteen minutes, after which the eyes were able to remain open on their own and I was back on my feet.

As I rose from the test bed, the reassuring well wishers were back at work. However, as I made my way towards the exit, there was a beaming smile inside my heart. 

Now I knew, for sure, that I CAN.

The Bridge That Transforms

There is a bridge, which owns the responsibility for the transformation that I go through on a daily basis. There is a creek underneath, which clearly demarcates the two lives that I juggle between. And there is a part of me, which silently believes that if only I could cross that bridge blindfolded, perhaps I would be spared from the pressures of duality.

Last Saturday, I woke up to the realization that Diwali festivities could no longer be extended any further and it was time for me to be on my way back to Gandhidham. The true affect of that journey started to seep in gradually, as the train traded green fields of Indo-Gangetic plains for the undulating topography of the north western region of the country. As the temperatures continued to rise, my happiness continued to fall at a subconscious level.

I was sad to be leaving home, but I was happy to be reaching home as well. The only part I was not really looking forward to was the re-starting of the routine I had happily fled from in the name of Diwali. However, even though my heart was silently monitoring the conflicting emotions fighting amongst themselves, it didn’t deem it necessary to trouble my happily engaged mind about it. Not yet that is.

I reached home and since it was a not a Sunday, thence, there was this automatic understanding that I had to rush to office. Consequently, there was an urgency of getting through the mandatory routines of a homemaker ASAP. One of the major benefits of being in a pressured situation is that it makes one forget about all other impending issues. Thus, the office worries (read the second life) got another push to stay in that remote corner of my mind, which is fitted with the strongboxes of the highest quality. They simply didn’t stand a chance to start troubling me.

Having fulfilled the compulsory duties, I was left with no other valid reason to lengthen my leave any further, so I started the ride to Kandla. However, since I had dialed up my Maa’s number, so mentally, I was more at Lucknow than elsewhere.  Sadly enough, it was a working day for Maa as well. As a result, the call ended sooner than later. After putting the cell phone back in the purse I lazily looked outside the window, to realize that the car was just stepping on the ‘bridge’. I could feel the hustle bustle of the city life and make out the dense skyline. While I was busy observing and absorbing the scene, suddenly without any prior notice, the skyline changed.

There was no way in which I could now ignore the rising tank farms and the spanning salt pans in front of me. The port cranes loomed dangerously in somewhat near distance. Abruptly, the scene outside and the thoughts inside went through a whirl wind. The safety vaults unlocked themselves and all thoughts pertaining to all the pending (and probable) issues started to rise. The worries, the stress, the angst, the feelings of not achieving the self designated targets, of not fighting enough, of helplessness, of lack of understanding, all got into a cat race to reach the top. Suddenly, I was a ball juggler trying to do the act with 20-30-40 (and counting……..) numbers of balls, and the balls were continuously falling on the ground and dying like droplets of rain falling on a parched earth.

The site of those tank farms was a sufficient reminder. If the morning routines had seemed tough, then I was in for a reality check. The morning was just a clip, the film was about to start. I started to make a mental list of all the documents I had delayed processing in the name of Diwali. I began to recollect, without much effort, all the devices which were seeking my attention when I wished them sayonara. Also, all the mails, waiting for their replies started thrusting their ‘flags’ right in my face.

My ‘daily’ second life had started.

I had crossed the bridge that transforms.