Take a dollop of good intentions, what MM calls neeyat in poetic urdu; throw in a dash of vodka/whiskey/old monk or whatever rocks your world for good measure, add a bit of conversation and get it over with quick and fast. Because Murphy's Law rules in this house and the monkey is sure to get up even if he sleeps 9 to 9 all the other time. That's why I was tempted to say, post baby passion, what's that?

How many of you can sing the National Anthem correctly?

All of you I hope.

But there are children in my building who can't. Because as one of them told my friend, who along with few other people, is organizing an Independence Day function tomorrow, he kind of 'muttered it in school and his mom didn't know the entire lyrics either.'

The kid is probably nine or ten. Out of which he's lived abroad for about five six years. It's the mother I'm wondering about.

She'd be what, 33? 34? Maybe younger? In any case that's not an age when you usually start forgetting. And how do you forget the words of a song that you sung every morning in school, unless of course school was in some part of Manhattan? And for that matter, I know several people who've grown up very far away from India, who can sing the Anthem perfectly.

In this case, the mother grew up in Mumbai.

Leave aside patriotism. Just think simply. Isn't Jana Gana Mana embedded in her mind, like so many nursery rhymes, ABCD, multiplication tables, old ad jingles, basically things we grew up hearing and often singing along?

My friend, a very curious (and mischievous) person, couldn't contain herself and told the kids to tell their parents to write down the words of the National Anthem for them so that they could practice at home. One dad was honest enough to call her up and check whether it was Punjab, Hindu, Gujarat, Maratha? No, it's Sindh or Sindhu, she corrected him.

Thanks a lot he said. The wi-fi isn't working properly and the internet connection is pretty dicey these days.

Plea

Dear Over Zealous New Age Dad,
I'm so glad that you're here, finally. Frankly it was getting too much for us, both moms in-the-making and ready ones, to handle everything, from selecting the right gynaec to dealing with being a 24-hour milk production unit. But now that you are here, it's much easier. You call friends and random strangers for info on the best docs in town, register at babycentre.co.uk even before we've checked the lines on the preggie test and know more about baby burping techniques than Dr Spock. But sweetheart, will you do me a favour? Will you please, please, please spare me the 'her cervix didn't dilate beyond three centimeters' conversation?
You see, it's alright if I'm discussing her extremely tricky and (to you) toughest- in-the-world-labour with your wife. She is after all a WOMAN and it is absolutely okay for two women who have once been pregnant and poked to discuss their very private parts. But you, my dear, are a MAN. Even if you hand held your wife through the 20 hour labour, breathed lamaze techniques into her ear as she tried to murder you with one hand and looked on lovingly as a small, wriggly, muck-covered thing emerged out of her. Yes, even if you did all those things, it still doesn't qualify you to discuss cervix openings and feeding techniques with me, a woman.
Oh yeah, I know times have changed and we are all liberal, open minded people and yes, we appreciate your efforts, more than you can imagine. But could you please limit the 'how my wife emerged victorious after the world's longest labour' story to the soft, glossy, mushy parts (There are some. Ask your wife. She's forgotten everything by now) and not go into details about the exact position where she got the epidural? Don't edit the breathing-in-ear-murder-attempt-bit. It's good comic relief. In fact, it's my only relief. And excuse me if I'm laughing so hard at it that you are left wondering when I will shut up and you'll finish your story. Please don't.
As I said, some things are still best left to be discussed between women.

Roots to branches...