The morning after the firing started and schools were declared closed in Bombay, a friend told her eight-year-old to stay in bed as there was no football practice and no school either. 'Why, is there a bomb blast?' he asked.

Yesterday's Hindu had a picture of the Taj on its edit page. The standard beautiful tourist pic, with the sea in the foreground and the Taj looming large. My son, who was playing nearby had a glance and asked, 'Mamma, where's the fire?'

What's the world in which our children are growing up?

The third birthday was very happy indeed...

And that's the ear-splitting but much loved 'Budday gift!'

One of those Dear God moments...

Dear God,

In my next life, please let me be born as a woman who is putty in a man’s hand…oops…no make that a man who is putty in a woman’s hand. Drat! I got it wrong again! No of course I don’t want to be a man in my next life but a woman who can make a man turn complete jelly in her hands. Yes, I know that sounds gross but that’s not what I meant and anyway you know what I am talking about, don’t you? You see, all my life I have wanted to be one of those women. You know the kind who just have to bat one eyelash (or is it the lid?) and have a line of men ready to climb the Everest or scale the Great Wall of China or basically do impossible things like that. Have no idea if Great Wall climb is improbable but you get the gist again, don’t you God?
I of course don’t want anything so far reaching. Just everyday normal stuff would do. Like dozing off while putting the baby to sleep and not having to worry about rinsing the dishes coz the man would SURELY (and not when he feels like it) do that; like being able to make the man put away his socks EVERYDAY WITHOUT FAIL. Being able to stop the bugger from going to a boys’ night out on the day when I don’t want him to. You see, very simple, homely stuff. Utterly probable.

I also want to be rid of this insane belief that I can take care of myself and turn into a similar version of my neighbor Nita in Delhi. You see, Nita’s husband would drive all the way to DLF in Gurgaon from Rohini in North Delhi, crossing his office at Essex Farms in South Delhi on the way, simply because she had to work so far. He would repeat the process in the evenings. I on the other hand would take the Rs. 25 chartered bus and on certain forgettable occasions, even the deathly Call Centre Sumo. All because the man thought I could take care of myself and so, tragically, did I.


So Dear God, in my next life turn me into a woman who can doze off at 8.30 PM with the sound knowledge that her husband has cleared the kitchen and put the dishes under the sink. Turn me into a woman who only has to say stuff like ‘stay with me baby’ or some such dialogue to make the man forget a night of boy bonding. And grant me the ability to shiver at the thought of taking an auto after dark. Amen.

Ammi's saris

This is from Subs...

I finally picked up the courage to clean out ammi's wardrobe.

It used to be an annual winter ritual -- my time with her, when she'd take out all her saris, old angarkhas, fragile chiffon and tissue dupattas and sun them.

Each one had a story woven in it.

The stunning orange and black tissue dupatta interspersed with silver threads and a silver brocade border, which was specially woven by the Banarsi neighbor at the behest of ammi's dada for her initiation into reading the Quran, when she just about turned 4.

Or the delicate gold sari which her nani left behind as inheritance. Her nani had nobody to support her financially, but the stroy goes that each night as she prayed the "tahajjud" namaz, she'd find 3-4 gold coins under the prayer mat.

The peach gharara with a velvet top and silver gota work on it still retains the nawabi look.

Each sari was hand-woven for ammi's trousseau, the silk is tattered now in some but as I held it against my cheek, I could still remember each story.

I hope this does not end with me.

Subs and I met while working for the girlie mag and have been gossiping ever since. I have only met her mum once, when I went over to Subs' and aunty fed me the best biryani ever. Aunty wouldn't recognize me if I were to visit now, in fact, there are days when she has difficulty recognizing her own daughter. I can't even imagine how difficult it is sometimes for Subs, who bravely battles it all and hasn't lost a bit of that infectious giggle of hers.

At the Diwali party, a perplexed aunt watched some of us move mouths, heads and butts to Peechle Saat Dinon Mein and finally asked:

Ye laundry ka gaana kis film ka hai?

Sigh! I'm going to think of it as The Laundry Song from now on of course.