A pinch of babyness

                                   A pinch of babyness

What does it take to make a ‘pinch of babyness?’ May I tell you the right recipe?

Take a base of innocence and sprinkle it with some fresh tears. Now add cuteness to it. When the cuteness is overloaded, take naughtiness and slice till the base (of innocence) is broken in to pieces. Top it with millions of million dollar smiles, preferably toothless and serve it when it is still young.

Doesn’t it sound delicious? Well, we tried it at home and this is how it turned out.

Icy was in a blissful siesta oozing innocence from every pore of her skin. I couldn’t wait for the waking-up moments, nor could I disturb her nap. When she woke up, she wailed spilling a tear or two and I rushed to give her a big hug. She smiled when I kissed her. She laughed when I cuddled her. She rollicked when I tickled her...and then, she was on her fours, with a glint of playfulness flashing in her eyes. She pinched me. Ouch. I let it go. She pinched me again and it did hurt. I gently pulled her hands away and gave her a toy in an attempt to divert her. She tossed the toy with a roguish grin, sought me and pinched me with a perfect pincer grasp, twisting it clockwise and anti-clockwise until I shed my ‘How-can-I-react-to-a-baby’s-assualt?’ pretence. I wailed and she laughed even more raucously. I learnt the hardway that it is an unbreakable cycle. What resists...persists. Period. So I pinched myself and let out a fake cry. She laughed and laughed and laughed until she made me laugh along with her.

Wiping the tears of joy I wondered if a pinch of babyness could be so overwhelming, How overpowering could a pitch of the same be?

Tug of love

                        Tug of love- The story of how i named my child

I am sure you would agree that 9 months are seldom enough to zero on your angels name. Right? I and my hubby often had a tug of war or rather 'tug of love' in the process of picking a name. I would love to share that story with you guys. 

To begin with we had no clue if it is a boy or a girl. My mind said that it is a boy while my heart yearned for a girl. "Girl girl girl" i would often bicker while he smiles me off with a firm "Boy." So we decided to pick 2 names,, a boy's name and a girls's name. 

Then we rowed on the letter. He insisted that we should name the child with "A" while i strongly opposed it. He said that he wants to name the baby after his mother Anasuya. I am really moved by his sentiment but Being named Aparajitha, i was the scrape goat in all of our vivas. I did not want the history to repat itself. So i suggested to name her with the letter "N" or "s" You see, my husbands name is Nagesh and his fathers name is satyanarayana. We tentatively choose nayan and naina. (Fingers crossed hoping that the baby inherits its 
fathers amber eyes) The names are palindromic. So is my EDD (Expected date of delivery) which is 15-7-15...also happened to be my birthday. 

I wished that the name should be a short and sweet one while he wanted to go for a middle name as well. Uff. We were at the opposing poles and naturally we attract each other.. So I finally agreed to name the baby "Anagha" ( A from my name , Aparajitha and Naga from my hubby's, nagesh) More intrestingly, Anagha is also the name of our family deity anagha laxmi. Anagha means sinless and is the yogic power of lord Dattatreya. My mom is overwhelmed. My mother-in-law is awed. Thats more than i asked for. So Anagha it is! Anagha naina. Those sinless pristine pure eyes of the godess laxmi.

All said and done we call her Icy at home....(eyesy) or rather after all the banana strawberry ice creams she consumed in my tummy. 

P.s: If hit were a boy, we would have named him krishiv nayan...where in, the consuming third eye of shiva meets with the benevolent pecock eye of krishna.

#How i lost it

This write up is penned down for the fitness-blogging-contest at the world of moms. you may also find the same at www.worldofmoms.com. Happy reading.

#howilostit #worldofmoms #fitnesschallenge

“When I am motivated, I can move mountains” I said to my skeptical mom. “But I am motivated not to be motivated” I delivered the counter coupe. Mom rolled her eyes.

“My dear girl! Look at yourself. You look like a potato” she complained.

“And you look like a pumpkin” dad muttered under his breath. My 3 month old daughter laughed. She, more often than not, laughs at the right times and we could never make out if it was just a random laugh or if she really had the comprehension.

“Yes indeed! I look so full and I am damn proud of it” I declared without a moment of hesitation. Hubby gave me a thumbs up. The pregnancy had been kind to me.  I feel ‘metamorphosed’. Remember metamorphosis from the good old biology? Where in the ugly caterpillar transforms in to a spectacular butterfly? I kind of identify with it. From the sleek-bony-spinster to the proud-full moony-mamma. I bear my stretch marks with pride like a tiger. I carry the extra pounds like a blue whale. I radiate happiness like a glow-bee, all day, all night.

“I am sure you are!” mom doled out vehemently. “But darling, if you don’t start a work out now, it is not going to be any easier later.” WORK OUT. Those words sounded too foreign. It took some time for them to sink in. I flinched. Mistaking my silence as a sign of yielding, mom prodded further.

“Wear the waist belt. Follow diet. Hit the gym and last but not the least, eat these ‘kasturi’ tablets” she injected. I am not a gym person. Nor a salad person. So, these suggestion took me off guard. But the one that made me go bananas is the suggestion to consume local medication.

“Stop it woman!” dad jumped at my rescue. “Are you asking a qualified doctor to swallow the prescription of a quack?” I flashed him a thankful smile.

“But these are good for lactation” she tried to explain.

“Exactly! I am a feeding mom and I should not diet” I reasoned. When mom says diet, it is not the same as the balanced diet advocated by the dieticians. Her so-called-diet includes everything but for the dals because they are gassy, Green leafy veggies as they are hard to digest, Fish as it may cause allergy, Curd because it cools the body, Chicken because it heats the body and I don’t know what else because it does something or the other to the baby. Hubby handed me a bowl of papaya and I wolfed it before mom could think if it was a good idea or not.

“Oh! You are such a pampered wife and spoilt daughter” mom complained.

“But mom, you were the one who wanted me to put on some weight. Remember?” I took her on a trip down the memory lane. She felt irksome to answer the questions of nosy aunties whenever she had to attend a wedding. ‘So when are you inviting us to your daughter’s wedding?’, ‘size zero ah? I don’t know why these lads are so gaga about it’, ‘Does she still look the same?’

I had to explain her, time and again, that I have more of brown fat which prefers to burn and dissipate the extra calories as heat, rather than storing it as fat, That people liked to pick on what you don’t have, That ‘not-having-the-right-weight’ is not as bad as ‘not-having-the-right-attitude’.

“Oh god! Don’t give me that positive-body-image crap once again. Do as you wish” mom concluded. She lost it. I thought ‘Thanks to my hypothyroidism. I don’t look the same’. I tried hard not to smile in triumph. I wore the waist belt in an attempt to please her. I know that the binders or the waist belts have no role in dissipating the body fat. However, in the initial post-delivery days, they may help in ‘involution’ that is pushing down the uterus in to the pelvis.

“Let’s go for a walk. Shall we?” I nudged my mum. “Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh” my daughter cooed at the suggestion. It is our daily ritual. We carry her to the children’s park where she ogles at the kids, coos at the birds and gurgles at the cats and dogs.  A kid zoomed past us at rocket speed before his mum could catch up. Panting for breath as I carried my daughter, I wondered if I could ever dash as fast as these super moms.

"Why not?" protested my ego. I do not have an answer. My thirsty tongue, burning throat, air hunger, aching knees and soles spoke volumes. Damn this hypothyroidism. I was indefatigable before.

"Shall I carry her?" mom asked. "No" ego answered.

Nevertheless I looked around for a bench to relax. Most of them were taken by the elderly except the farthest bench slightly uphill. Heaving with each step, I kept my fingers crossed that the bench should not be taken by anybody else before I could reach it.

Am I the same person who rehearsed non-stop for seven days and seven nights for the fresher's dance performance? Am I the same person who scaled the mountain peaks of Rohan paas? Am I the same person who rallied the whole town on foot protesting abuse on doctors? Am I the same person who worked in the constantly bustling causality and trauma wards?

Sitting on the dilapidated wooden bench I said "Mom lets go shopping."

Mom gave me a supercilious look saying "For what?"

"Buy me a pair of sports shoe. Nike." I declared. ""After all, gym is not such a bad idea." Mom looked flabbergasted.

"I'm planning to partake this fitness challenge at world of moms. I can improve my fitness, if not figure." I explained her.

"What about your motivation not to get motivated?" she asked smiling.

"I lost it" I admitted sheepishly.

Play date

                                                Abhi’s first play date with Icy.

Abhi was told that they are leaving to Chennai soon to see (me) his paternal aunt’s baby. Abhi loved to travel in trains and his fantasy is to travel in a double decker train. This is the first time ever that something else caught his attention better than the prospect of travelling in a train.

“Does atta have a tummy in her baby…oops…I mean…baby in her tummy?” he lost himself in a fit of giggles. “yes nanna! She has a baby in her tummy” his dad confirmed. “A boy or a girl?” he perked up.

“What do you prefer?” his dad side stepped answering his question. “Of course a baby boy” he said without thinking twice, his wide eyes twinkling with anticipation. “Why?” his dad frowned, pinched up with inquisitiveness.

“Look nanna! I know what to buy if it’s a boy” Abhi replied with a casual flick of his hand dismissing any scope for discussing otherwise. “I can gift him James train, Thomas train and those perfect cars. I can teach him about the parts of train, manual brakes, couplings with magnets, cargo bogies and lots more. We can watch ‘how accidents happen?’ videos from you tube. I am clueless about girls” he nailed it. PERIOD.

“You know what! Karthik tammudu also thinks the same. He says girls like only girls” his dad doled out. “yea” <rolling his eyes > Abhi more than agreed. “But…” his dad continued “you guys could be wrong you know. Nani is a girl. Amma is a girl. Atta is a girl. And they like you” his dad tried to reason with him. Abhi laughed that ‘you-silly-dad’ laugh saying “They are not girls nanna. They are women.”

How can anyone beat that?  It’s like a Yorker. Bowled and sent to the pavilion. However my brother thought that the gender stereotyping is growing out of spiral and is determined to curb it.

“Abhi! Atta delivered a baby girl but she likes you so much. You will love to play with her. She is so tiny you know. I mean really tiny….this small” his dad made animated hand gestures.

“What? A baby girl? Oh no! NO No Nooooo. It can’t happen like this. I am very upset” he said with an almost tearful face. “All my plans are shattered” he wailed like a business tycoon who just lost a fortune. “She does not like trains. I can’t play with her” he complained.

“The baby is very tiny nanna. You have to wait until she grows up to play with her. Who knows! She may also like trains someday” his dad consoled him.

“Tiny? How tiny?” Abhi asked skeptically.

“The size of a rabbit” his dad answered.

“What? Did atta deliver a rabbit?” Abhi asked innocently. Laughing uncontrollably my brother replied “No nanna. She delivered a baby girl who is as tiny as a rabbit”

“A rabbit sized baby? Really? That small?” he was awe stuck.

“yes nanna! You probably haven’t ever seen anybody like that. She is smaller than Aamna and Jeffry” his dad successfully invoked enthusiasm in this revolting kid. 

“okay! Let’s do some shopping for this rabbit baby then” he declared. He spent the best part of the day picking dresses for his cousin which were way far larger for the bub. Finally he zeroed upon a pink onie with a bow and a towel set beautifully gift wrapped with a cute teddie before he called it a day.

                                                                         ***************

An enthusiastic 7 year old Abhi stepped in to the hospital and stood by my bed. I am taken by surprise by his growth spurt. His porcupine-like-spiky-hair looks a little disciplined by the school, however those dennis-the menace eyes look the same. The last time I saw him he lost his incisors. I noticed gap between his secondary incisors which made him look even cuter. I couldn’t stop myself drifting back to the day when he was born. I was in the O.T when he was delivered. I was the first person to hold him and swaddle him. His rooting reflexes were strong and I had to chide him “I am not your mum. Wait baby. Wait.” And here he stands after 7 years which fly away in no time, eager to hold the baby I just delivered. He felt like my first kid rather than a nephew cos in many ways, though I never expressed, I felt more maternal about him.

“Whoa!!!” he exclaimed falling short of words. “woo hooo” he cried sealing his mouth with his palms, his eyes sparkling as if he witnessed a gem.

“How is she?” I asked encouraging him to get verbal.

“TINY. VERY TINY” he parroted his father’s words. He gently touched her fingers, her head, her cheeks giggling to himself. Icy opened her eyes to see who the heck disturbed her in the middle of her blissful siesta.

“Hey look! She opened her eyes. SHE OPENED HER EYES… OPENED HER EYES…O.P.E.N.E.D E.Y.E.S” Abhi shrieked which startled Icy. He was as hyper as an electron in the E1 state. He tried to snatch Icy from my mum. My heart just skipped a beat. My brother jumped at my rescue. He had to wrestle with Abhi and pull him apart. He was ferried to the canteen to chill off, where he had a milkshake and a chicken puff.

Sometime later, when the electrons from E1 state discharged energy returning to E2, Abhi initiated a sober tete-a-tete with me. “Atta! You better think and plan about her schooling.”

“I was planning to send her to your school. I heard it’s the best” I replied suppressing a smile. You see! When he is sober, he behaves like a grown up and he doesn’t like it when people giggle at him.

“Oh no! Please don’t do that” he warned me. “We are a gang of naughty guys. We tease girls of lower classes. What if she happens to be among them accidentally? I can’t promise you that I can protect her.  ” he confessed sincerely. I literally laughed until my sutures threatened to tear open.

“How do you tease them rey?” I nibbled him to elaborate on those juicy lines.

“When they walk by our bus we comment ‘yeh papa LKG da’ ‘yeh papa ukg da’ like that” he said as a matter of fact.

“kay. Chill abhi. I shall send her to karate classes so that she can defend herself” I replied unburdening him of the responsibility to protect her.

“But that’s such a bad idea” he responded. “In the name of teaching her karate, the master fights with her and makes her cry” he pointed out.

“

Is there any other solution?” I asked naively. He never gives a “no” for a reply.

“Do one thing atta. Send her to a different school. Or send her to school when she is older so that she can skip LKG and UKG” he advised me like a pro. I nodded. “By the time she grows up, I will probably be a man” he doled out unexpectedly. His words sent us all in to a fit of laughter. “Wot? Why are you all laughing? Am I not right?” he complained. We agreed that he is right. He continued “And when she grows up, she has to go through all of this like you” he enlightened me.

“what do you mean? I didn’t get you abhi” I replied genuinely puzzled.

“I mean when she grows up she has to carry a baby in her tummy just like you did” he patiently explained to our ignorant minds. That was the final straw. I laughed and laughed and laughed until I was literally in stiches and those stitches threatened to burst open forever.

A bottle of love

The Stories of sore nipples start with a bite and end with a burp. There is another “B” somewhere in between. Either a ‘bottle’ or the ‘breast’. The choice is the mother’s very own. Few mothers choose to ‘express’ their love and bottle it up. And these expressions are inexpressible.

These stories are often spoken in hushed tones behind closed doors. They never claim the lime light unlike the birthing adventures and the heroic bearing of labor pains. Even if a woman, working and dynamic, does cross the line and dare to speak of her feeding experience, she coats it with a little of butter and sugar, perhaps to enhance the palatability. But if we shed away those rose tinted glasses, feeding pains can be worse than the birth pangs, especially for those who skipped the pains of NVD (normal vaginal delivery) in this era of epidurals and caesarians. However, most mums choose to embrace these pains with tears of joy. And that precisely is why all the breast feeding mothers are hailed super heros without caps and shields.

If I were not a pediatrician, if I haven’t won every seminar during the breast feeding weeks in my post grad years, if I haven’t encouraged women of our RHC to breast feed during my years after my post-graduation, if I haven’t pledged my life to endorse breast feeding to all of my patients, I could have gave up breast feeding with a hypocritical “I wish I could breast feed but I don’t have enough milk.” But I know better. I know that breast milk has no replacement. I know that it is better to shield my baby with the immunity imparted by the breast milk than throw her susceptible to infections stomached by the pretty feeding bottles. I know that the breast fed babies are smarter than otherwise (they have 7 points of IQ higher than formula fed babies).

When I held my baby for the first time, I had zero doubts with cent confidence. Little did I know that the volumes of textbooks could not prepare me enough for the practical. The nursing staff had been great with rooming in and helping the baby to latch. I was ecstatic when I witnessed little pearls of colostrum beading up within an hour of my delivery. The baby latched on perfectly. I wondered if god gives them a tutorial on survival basics before bundling them up.

The baby was all calm and comfy. She was peeing throughout the day as if saying “Don’t worry mamma. I have enough water in my system.” So, I hardly thought of a top up. I was on my feet in less than 24 hours after my c-section despite the pain. I was served palak soup and a glass of milk with a spoonful of galactules. By the end of second day, she needed a top-up despite my 2^nd hourly feeds. It was kind of expected. I asked the nurse to give her 15 ml of formula feed with a syringe. I made sure she is not given a bottle which can potentially confuse her. You see! Sucking at the breast and the bottle aren’t the same and it can end up in nipple confusion. I was served delicious soft solid diet and I kept my fingers crossed for the surge of lactation.

As promised I woke up with a heavy bosom on day 3. I fastened the feeding pillow around my waist and took the baby to feed. She was hungry and very happy at the prospect of a feed, kicking her hands and feet in excitement. She just couldn’t wait. I latched her on. It was then I experienced a pain like never before. I yelped and pulled her off in a reflex. That was another mistake in the hind sight. She held on to the tip of the teat with her gums which worsened the pain. I gave up feeding for time being. The top ups escalated from 15ml to 30 ml and then from 30 ml to 60 ml. By the end of the day my nipples appeared red and sore and my breasts were engorged. The milk inside the glands felt like a bunch of pins and needles, fighting for a let out. I expressed it and bottled it up.  It was a tedious task.  My neck, back and hands started to hurt. ‘How did my mum handle all of this when I was born?’ I thought. I remember one of my friends, Sailaja quoting, “once we experience motherhood, we realize how priceless our mothers are”

The next day I tried again. She held on to the boobs tightly with her gums. May be she felt they might slip away otherwise or that I may pull away like I did before. I howled in pain but this time I didn’t pull away. By the time she is done I was in tears. This went on for a couple of days. I tried to feed her despite my sore nipples hoping that it would get better any time. Unfortunately nipple shields didn’t work with me (Later I learnt my technique was wrong. There was air between the shield and my teat which should have been filled up with milk. So it didn’t adhere well to my skin and the baby was biting at the tip of my teat again). Nor did the breast pumps (high voltages blew them up).  I applied Lanoshish cream to soothe my sore nipples. As the older bites healed, newer ones appeared. What can be worse than a combination of sore nipples with breast engorgement? You can’t feed. You can’t stop feeding.

Two weeks down the lane, I was feeding her round the clock but with great apprehension and with a lot of yelping and howling. Everybody including my mum, dad and hubby recommended a feeding bottle whenever the baby cried. They would often say “perhaps you aren’t secreting enough milk.” That would piss me off for sure. What can be worse than a combination of sore nipples with breast engorgement? This demoralization! PERIOD.  The feeding bottle creeped in to our household despite my disapproval. The baby had a distaste for the formula milk. So, I continued to express and bottle it up whenever I can. I call it “A bottle of love” while the formula felt like “A bottle of helplessness.”

Meanwhile mum brought up the suggestion of “Patyam” – the fancy word for food faddism. “Play along with your parents. Fighting against them makes you suffer alone” advised my fellow pediatrician Dr.Deepthi Florence. Initially Mum suggested me to eat a lot of ginger-garlic, badam, beads and oats, fenugreek and few other galactogogues which enhance milk production to which I agreed. She suggested some kasturi tablets from Ayurveda to which I disagreed. We had tiffs every now and then. The baby developed colic. I found suggestions pouring in. Our cook says “Amma! Avoid lot of dairy products”, The neighbor says “mutton is good for wound healing but chicken makes you hot”, the maid says “avoid brinjal, snake guard, cauliflower, cabbage madamji”, aunt says “avoid gassy foods like dal and green leafy veggies da.”

People seemed to forget often that I was a pediatrician. I have put a strong foot down. I always advised my patients to eat healthy and I have a clear idea on what healthy is! I took milk n badam twice daily. Dates were never to miss. I made sure my diet is balanced with proteins and fibers. The colic regressed on its own despite me sticking on with my NON-PATYAM DIET.

I took the reins under control. It’s time to master the art of feeding. “Practice what you preach” I told myself. I would wait until the baby cries with her mouth wide open. I would protect the tip of the nipple with thumb and index finger as I insert it in to the baby’s mouth. Over a count of 10 the pain recedes. I stare at the ticking minute’s hand of the wall clock. After 20-30 min I burp the child, change her diaper (as her bowel is too twitchy at the moment passing stools with every feed), and then change her to the other side. She would drift to sleep while sucking there. While removing the teat, I would again take care that she doesn’t bite me, by inserting a (clean and washed) little finger in to her mouth. Hurray! I would pat myself on the back after each feed as the baby smiles in her blissful siesta. The baby aroma in her burp is so intoxicating (like entanox- inhalational nitrous oxide) that it makes pains pleasurable.

The baby is now a month old. The pains are history. This experience definitely makes me a better doctor. Maternal instincts spreads the knowledge beyond the horizons of the textbooks. “you are not a complete pediatrician until you experience motherhood” says my fellow pediatrician Dr.Swetha priya.  The feeding bottles are now locked up in the cupboard. They can wait for half a year before I sterilize them again to bottle up my love.

Dear budding mommies, if you want to choose the best for your baby, kindly choose B for breast feeds rather than B for bottles! PERIOD. 

P.S: I resigned my job (I worked as a senior resident of pediatrics in Apollo Cradle, Chennai) to be a full time mom. When I go back to work (that is after six months) I intend to work on hourly shifts. The hospital is quite nearby my residence. I could either come and give her a quick feed or pump and refrigerate the milk.

This article was written on the eve of word breast feeding week august 2015 and shared on the FB page "world of moms." kindly like it.

https://www.facebook.com/WorldOfMomsIndia?fref=ts

Milk pilli

My nephew Karthik calls in saying that he wants to talk with Icy. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Icy is still a baby and that she can’t talk yet. So I adopted a baby voice and softly cooed a hello. He was over joyed. He replied “Helloooo cutieeee” going weak at the knees and blushing like a bunch of roses.

“Are you shy karthik?” I heard his father question him.

“Just a little bit” karthik replied. My brother laughed heartily. Fatherly pride echoed in his laughter. 

“you should not be shy nanna. Come here. Talk to Icy. She is waiting on you” he said encouraging his son to get vocal.

“cuite, how are you” karthik strikes a conversation.

“I am goooooooooooood” I replied in a mock Icy voice.

“What do you like cutie? I like cars, trucks and sky scrapers” karthik shared his interests.

“Wot aare sky..scra..pers? I questioned innocently on behalf of Icy.

“Come to Canada. I will show you” he offered. “We can go on a picnic.”

“Ooooo…kay” baby icy replied. “mayyyy..beeee…neeext…yeeeear.”

“You know Cutie! I can speak te-lu-gu too” he boasted. “Niku te-lu-gu vas-ta-da?” he questioned.

Icy “Ummm”ed.

“What do you like to eat?” he asked perhaps to make sure that he serves her the same when she shows up at Canada as their guest.

“I? I eeeeaaat oooonly miiiilk” icy replied.

Karthik guffawed for what felt like eternity. Finally when he was catching up on his breath I asked him “what is so funny nanna? Why are you laughing so much?

“Cutie sounds silly atta” he chuckles. “She says she eats milk” he giggles again. Addressing Icy he says “cuite! We don’t eat milk. We drink it.” That made all the three of us go bananas once again.

“I eat pizza, macaroni, pasta, cereal, lemon chicken, eggs, prawns, pappu annam and pe-ggu annam” karthik showed off.

“When you were a baby you too had milk all the time” I spoke up in defense of my daughter. “Icy is too little to eat these stuff karthik. Her tiny tummy cannot digest anything but for milk” I explained. The word milk hangs in the air for a sec before karthik cracks up again. 

He thinks of Icy as a mini version of Tom who fights with Jerry over a bowl of milk. The wise mouse puts a straw-in-a-straw and drains out the bowl of milk in a single gulp. Tom wakes up just in time to find a last drop of milk hanging from the whiskers of Jerry. He hurries to mouth it banging pots and chairs on the way but jerry manages to suck it back just in time. Karthik rolls on floor laughing at his imagination.

“you know what? I am not going to call you cutie anymore. I am calling you milk pilli” he rechristened her.

It's her first time

                                                                 It's her first time

Vihaana rolled in her uncomfortable bed with a fore boarding that consumed her like wild fire. She opened her blearily eyes reluctantly to face the fateful Friday. Tonight is the night. Will she be alright? Phew! She hardly knows. She is twenty and one. And it's her first time.

"Don't you worry sweet heart. I had been there where you are. I know how you feel but it's going to be fine" her sister coaxed her. She spent the rest of the day with her kin, behind the mask of a smiley face. As if she has not a care in the world. As if she is totally upbeat with the whole thing but doom clawed at her like a crab that refused to let it go. She felt a jitter creeping down her spine as she witnessed sun dipping at the horizon. She braced herself for the longest night of her life.

The clock spread its arms welcoming her to a hug. 9.15pm. It's about time. Her chaperone, the dame in a figure hugging blue frock walked-in to "prepare her". Whatever it meant! Before she drew the curtains and stripped her, vihaana chanced a glance on the blades of the razor and a spray. Vihaana cursed this royal treatment. “Heck! I can dress myself” she thought acidly but she never voiced it.

Dressed in the pink gown vihaana felt anything but beautiful. Yes! It's a skin friendly fabric, the kind her wardrobe is piled with, the kind which never beg for attention but this backless pink gown ensured the mandatory skin show. "Will it hurt when he puts it in? May be just at weeny bit". She kept her fingers crossed.

Vihaana sat bolt upright as he traced her spine with his fingers. She could not remember her zombie walk or the sealing of the doors. His smile should have pacified her twitching nerves but she is far too calamitous for that. The walls seemed to zero on her, knocking the very breath out of her. She felt a chill running down her spine, more out of fear than out of cold. The lights were blinding when she squeezed them shut sending a pearly tear drop on a voyage down her cheek.

'Why can't he put me to sleep before he proceeds with his ways?' she wondered for she heard of the ways to put a woman in to a deep slumber so that she cannot perceive anymore pains or fears. 'May be they aren't safe' she had an afterthought. She gripped herself protectively.

"Relax vihaana" he said in his best soothing voice. She tried with not much of success. "Trust me! It is not as bad as you think it is" he cajoled her. She did not trust him but she felt her shoulders slackening nevertheless. "Let me play you some melodious music. Won't you like some Ilayaraja hits?" Without waiting for her response he added a few romantic numbers to his playlist. But all that she could hear is her own heart plummeting in her ears. He encouraged her to wipe her tears and to curl in to a ball. She felt a jolt of pain but then a warm tingling numbness engulfed her body. She lied down safe with the knowledge that it is just a matter of minutes before she can hear the cries of delight.

When he is through with her vihaana knew that he is right. It is not as bad as she thought it is. Yes! She couldn't double over her ballooning tummy. How the hell did she curl in to a ball? God only knows!  For a moment there she had to grind her teeth when he inserted the needle in to her spine. But then, the med took over. Vihaana thought "This doc knows his stuff right". She spent the next few minutes truly without a care in the world, trusting the docs with her life and as she predicted she heard the delightful cries of her newborn who is delivered the same way as Julia's Caesar- A caesarian section. 

It's not the END.

“This post is a part of #UseYourAnd activity at BlogAdda in association withGillette Venus. 
 +Srilakshmi Indrasenan  Thanks for the tag. So, here it goes....

“Can I have a volunteer please?” asked our Art-of-living instructor. I heard a ripple of sarcastic laughs which translated the earlier request as “Can I have a scrapegoat please?” I chuckled unable to imagine what the next gig is like. For the past couple of days we were goaded to perform Navasana, Makarasana so on so forth that we dearly longed to perform nothing more than a prolonged savasana.  Not to mention the ego busting program. Men were asked to enact like hijras and women were asked to wrestle like Japanese sumos. We all had belly bursting laughter until it’s our turn. On a second thought, it’s not that bad. In fact it’s been great fun like our good ol’ college days. Before I could recoup I found my hand flying high in the air.

“There! There! We got a pretty volunteer. Please put your hands together and welcome her” I heard an excited instructor announce. I walked amidst ridiculing laughs and pointing fingers. “I would ask you some questions. Would you kindly close your eyes, dwell deeply in to your mind and answer them satisfactorily?” she asked me. “Satisfactorily? What does that mean? And what is with this closing of eyes? I can answer them with open eyes as well” I thought. However I agreed and closed my eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked me in a pleasant monotonous voice. I heard the jeering and cheering audience in the back drop. “Oh that’s pretty easy” I heard a gentleman complain as if he was denied his rightful share of property.

“I am a Doctor” I replied without a second thought

“Who are you?” she repeated. More jeers, less cheers.

“I AM A DOCTOR. A PEDIATRICIAN” I replied again.

“Who are you?” she asked as though she never heard me. This infuriated me for a second but then her clause jumped at me. SATISFACTORILY. So, my answer never satisfied her. What the hell should I say to satisfy her?

“I am a daughter” I replied thinking of my dad. That’s the role I like the best out of my life – being dad’s lil princess, throwing tantrums, giggling, cuddling…Oh I love you so much dad. I noticed my lips stretching in to a wide smile.

“Who are you?” she questioned again.

“I am a sister” I said as my Fred and George weaslyish brothers jeered along with the crowd.

“Who are you?” she repeated patiently.

“I am an artist, a painter” I replied running through the pages of my art journal.

“Who are you?” she asked with a sense of urgency as if I were facing a rapid fire round.

“I am a writer” I said happiness overflowing me as I browsed through the posts of my blog in my mind.

“Who are you?” she rushed me.

“A gold medalist”

“A book worm.”

“Who are you?” She never gave me time to think.

“A movie buff.”

“A foodie.”

“A cook.”

"A travel freak"

I am running out of answers as well as my breath. I heard people gasping “This is not as easy as we thought it is”

“Who are you?” “Who are you?”

I am not my profession. I am not a hobby. I am not just a relation.  I am not what people admire me for. Nor what they envy in me. Who Am I? I thought.

“I am a doctor and a daughter and a painter and a writer and a cook and a friend and a sister and a wife and a mother. I am a complete woman. There is no end. There is always an “and.” I said feeling content with myself. I heard the best applause of my life that refused to die out.

Blues in the greens (1) - A soul ride through god's own country.

The girl with the most itchy feet Vaidu, once mentioned there is a certain difference between touring and travelling. When you plan a tour, the commute, the stay, the activities and the meals are all orchestrated and executed. While when you travel to a place, you just pack your bags and go to the core lure to know the soul of the place, the way people live, the way it existed since eons. Honestly! I prefer comfortable touring over the adventurous travelling but I did try my best to read the soul of God’s own country. Let me give you a virtual ride through the streets of Kerala.

Kochi:

The climate is humid as we landed in the heart of Kochi, a city bustling with activity unlike the rest of Kerala. We met our cabbie, Basheer a 60+ man who has kind eyes and a warm smile. Without wasting time we had our lunch at a road side eatery before we took off to the hill station Munnar, a 3 hour drive, some 120 kms away. I was told that it is a ghat road and I held on to my medication dearly. I don’t enjoy Ghat road drives. I throw up or I may land in one of those spells of vertigo. So, I braced myself for the worst.

Munnar:

Roads:

As we snaked through the labyrinth of roads of this hill station, I realized how wrong I was! This is like no other ghat road. It did not have those hair pin bends that wrench your guts. Even if it had, they are barely noticeable in the overwhelming picturesque landscapes. The ghat road is least intimidating with a fence of palm trees planted by god with his own hands across the valleys. Pepper park, cardamom country, cinnamonin bars, Elachi gardens, Misty mountains, Spice valley, Silver oaks, Tea and you, Every now and then hoardings entice you claiming they are the best. “Sharukh and Deepika stayed over at silver oaks for a quarter month while shooting for Chennai express” boasts our driver.

Weather:

SEPTEMBER, the month of onam. The predictions call for no-sun screens, No hats and coats, No umbrellas. Yet it rained cats and dogs throughout our stay. We are not those kinds who frown at the mud soiling our shoes. Instead we are among those who would love to dance in the rain. Clouds passed right under our feet giving us the ON-TOP-OF-THE-WORLD experience. 

Rain lashes at us when we take a turn on those serpentine roadways, only to vanish by the next. The breeze is so soul soothing that it feels as if a woman you dearly love is caressing your hair with her arachnoid fingers. It’s truly a day out of my book of fairy tales.

Trees:

When I said palm trees, I did not mean those petit 12 foot ones but these are thrice as much taller. The tree trunks aren’t nude unlike their sibling all over the country. They are either covered with moss and ferns or entwined with the creepers of pepper and vanilla. Bamboo shoots greet you every now and then.

We detoured through a spice garden. It felt as if I were walking through the pages of a botany text book. I got to breathe in the aroma of fresh spices and condiments (cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, pepper, Hinge, Vaamu, turmeric) as our guide explained me about them in great detail. I witnessed coffee beans sprout and jack fruits ripe right in front of my eyes. 

I got to see ayurvedic saplings like insulin and Sanjeevini. Yes! The very sanjeevini which Lord Hanuman bestowed upon an unconscious Laxmana. My jaw dropped to the floor when I learnt that the plant glows with a red hue at nights but I was not lucky enough to witness it in the broad day lights.

Housing:

I loved the houses of Munnar. They are built on the very pillars of keralan architecture. Each house precisely speaks out its age. One has to walk up a ramp or take stairs to reach each of those road side dwellings. None of them had picket white fences. All of them had green carpets of moss, cushioning the stairs, welcoming the guests. The railings are rusted. The houses are either too eye catchy or silently merge away in those misty mountains. The walls are either painted with ‘jatang yellows and fluorescent pinks’ or build with rock cubes without a white wash. The stone manors stand boldly, their heads held high, against the constant rain lashings. The roofs are slanting and covered with red tiles, again an arrangement to beat the rainy weather.

Onam:

I noticed each house welcomed their guests with an artistically decorated floral spread called as “Kolam”. Being an art enthusiast, I asked our driver about the kolam of flowers and the festival of onam. Dusting his memory he recited us the tale that dates back to vamanavtaar. Bali was a great emperor who treated his folks with great generosity. He refused to rule Paatala loka, the underworld, where Asuras dwelled in chaos. When lord Vishnu approached Bali chakravarthy in the disguise of a petit bramhin boy, he was granted three steps by the mighty king. In the first step he occupied earth. In the second he occupied the skies.

“Raja! Where shall I place my third step?” the boy who is an incarceration of lord Vishnu questioned the king.

“Place it on my head o lord Vishnu” Bali replied. And thus he was grounded to paatala loka where he brought order and discipline among the Asura kinship. Once in a year, that is on the festive day of Onam, Bali is welcomed back to earth and treated with delicacies like pala payasam for the sacrifice he did. Women decorate their houses with kolams and sing and dance around it welcoming their king to emerge out from the worlds below.

Huggables

Every girl needs a BF in her life. And I met my girl on the very first day of her life. I was there right beside her when her mom placed her in the crib. But she never noticed me. She was in a blissful siesta. It took a couple of months before she rolled over to smile at my face. Patting my face she cooed a merry hello and that’s how we made up. If you r wondering whether I am a boy or a girl, I am a pillow and this is my story. Now ‘Don’t piss me off with those ‘Do-pillows-have-a-story?’ looks. You guys are just envious ‘cos I am more huggable.

Yes! She hugs me every night and I kiss her a goodnight. She grew up playing princess in this pillow castle and I cushioned her every fall. When the war breaks lose it’s with pillows after all. She dresses me in these fancy pillow cases. I’m a Tweety a day and a smiley the other day, A heart a day and a rose on another day. We play peek-a-boo and pass in the parcel all day long and climb up the slumber world to claim dreams by nights.

Her teens were the best years of my life. Extravagant hugs and kisses made my toes curl. Thank god! I don’t have fins and bones or they would have surely snapped in one of those bears hugs. All those late night talks and mid day naps....we could as well have been Siamese twins. I may not have the feel-good-hormones firing in her veins but HECK! I felt GOOD. Really good.

Rainbow bows might fade away but it certainly never marks the end of the day. Her turbulent-teens gave way to more-mature-mid-twenties. She lapped books and laptops, but I was always there cushioning them all, through spring and through fall.

I thought that she is sweet until I tasted the first of her tears. I took in a truck load of salt as I nursed her through a major heart break, then the other and then another. I decluttered her dilapidated heart as she patched my tattered covers. How I wish she could be the same old ‘smile-all-day-long’.

She must have had her fingers crossed when I made my wish for it was granted very soon. She entered wedlock with this handsome marquis who made her smile like never before. He tickled her merely with his eyes and I could never figure out how, for I had to close my eyes whenever he inched closer to her. If I was a tweeny bit envious of him it would fade away too soon in the rosy blush of her cheeks.

One day she took me in to her hands and stuffed me in her pajamas. I could not make what the hell it was all about in the suffocation but he did. He hugged her crushing me in the process overwhelmed by the news she delivered. “Can somebody explain me what’s going on?” I barked but no one bothered. They left me guessing at it pensively for 9 long months as she stuffed me under her back or belly, or sandwich me between her legs at times. I found this weird but nevertheless I did what I always did. I cushioned her, comforted her and supported her until I met her once again in the same old crib. She is in a blissful siesta and I know I have to wait for a while before she rolls over smiling at my face.