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.

Ink story

                                                                     

The Indian handmade paper welcomed him with splayed arms. Unlike the machine mades she might not be smooth and bright but she enthralled him like the Banaras saree draped Indian beauty personified. Her aroma, the scent of a freshly unrolled parchment, is intoxicating. Yet he is not bewitched by her charm today.

The pen perspired as he thought ‘Creative writing is nothing but an art of spinning something out of nothing…. But…How am I to do that today?’ Of course he knew he doesn’t need a wand to do some magic. With a single flick he can conjure either a Hogwards school of witchcrafty and wizardry or a ‘nothing-so-special-about-me’ Esbella swan who dies to live with a vampire with frozen heart.

A fat drop of ink sweated out through his pores and slid down to the waiting parchment before he could wipe his brow. She imbibed it like it were the first drop of rain. No pertrichor.

“Ouch” he yelped. “Never mind” she reassured.

Moved by her passion and patience he reached out to nuzzle her with his words of love. She blushed like the newly wed. Though it tickled where he touched she didn’t wither away. He did. He shook his head, as if trying to shove the apparently-not-so-good-idea at the back of his mind, splashing more drops of ink. She smiled as she danced in the pitter-pattering shower. More pertrichor. 

‘To write something you must risk making a fool of yourself’ The American author Anne rice quoted quiet aptly. He gathered courage and raced head-on to pen down his pent up thoughts. He ran out of ink. The empty ink bottles, black and blue, mocked him from the desk. He drank gustily from the bottle of red ink instead.

Recapitulated, he touched her eagerly. A blotch of red ink spread over her like wildfire. She appeared to bleed. She never winced. He did. She bore the sindhoor ka tika like a tiara However he backed away from her as if he were charred holding red  hot embers. He plonked himself on the table hiding his shameful face under his cap, knocking the remains of the ink bottles all over her.

She is no more a white paper. His signature is all over her. Yet he disowned her. She would have crumpled….but she is not a toilet paper to be treated like S***. She held her head high with a pride that never edged on arrogance. She did what she always did. Awaited patiently, whether white or not, for the priceless moment of triumph.  

Then she met him accidentally.  The waters colours were his world in his youthful vigour. For reasons known best to him he preferred to step off the pedal. He retreated to a dark colourless world that seldom sees through the day light. A look at her and she brought the memories flooding back. He thought she looked like a lady doused in a curve hugging, wet, shiffon, white saree on the eve of Holi, the festival of colours. He brushed her. She Blushed. A delicate shade of baby pink. They made up with each other. 

She had her priceless moment of triumph when the pen signed “A creative mess is better than a tidy idleness”.