One of the many reasons I love Facebook is that today it made me feel like a superstar.
I turned 30 today, which in itself is a depressing fact. It was difficult enough reconciling with the fact that I’m no longer a teenager. All of the sudden nature conspires against me by making me 30. Where did the last decade vanish? Oh yeah, I was busy graduating, getting married, learning to cook, finding a job, trying to get pregnant, having a miscarriage, finally having a baby, being terrorised by the baby, moving cities, and finally having a second baby. Whoa! No wonder my twenties whizzed by. I completely forgot to stop and smell the roses.
Coming back to Facebook, I am truly touched and humbled with the numerous wishes flooding my wall. More so because I am very very very bad at wishing people on their birthdays and anniversaries. Firstly, I’m bad at remembering dates. Other than my own birthday, that is. Secondly, I guess I am just plain lazy. I mean, the names are there staring at me every single day on Facebook and I choose to ignore them. Today, was an eye opener for me. Some of the people who wished me are on my friends list, but aren’t really my ‘friends’. You know how it is. I probably just added them because we went to the same school. Or because she is someone’s brother’s wife’s cousin who I once chatted with at a wedding. We added each to our respective friend lists, being happy in the knowledge that our number of supposed ‘friends’ is going up, but didn’t really bother to even say hi after responding to the friend request. Who can say that that’s wrong when the feeling is mutual?
But after receiving birthday wishes from almost everybody but Obama and Sanjeev Kapoor (yes, I admit it, the latter is on my list), I’m speechless. Thank you, everyone. Thank you for the wishes, love, regards, prayers, calls, messages, missed calls (sorry about that), everything that made an ordinary girl feel extraordinary. I now vow to stop being so damn selfish and take some time to bring a smile on my ‘friends’ faces when their big day comes up. I’m hoping these little gestures will help build some bridges and then we can finally stop being just another number in each other’s lists.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Still Alive and Kicking Folks
Life is crazy at the moment. 'When was it not?' I hear you all collectively say. Yes, but only a mom with 2 small kids will know what I'm talking about. Correction. Only a mom who has a child remotely like the fussy, cranky, moody, bossy, accident-prone, hurricane Z has turned out to be, will have an inkling of my whirlwind days.
For those of you who don’t know, I had a darling little baby boy on the 28th of October, 2010. Incidentally, his name starts with Z too so I have to figure out what to call each of them on this blog. Creative suggestions are welcome.
So while I scrounge around for time to collect my thoughts and put my efforts at being supermom up for display through this blog, I’ll leave you all to read a story I attempted a few months ago. Be kind with your comments... I'm a novice, for God's sake! :)Happy reading...
THE DREAM
PARADISE.... I MUST BE DEAD, THOUGHT SARAH.
Everything around was perfect and beautiful. The sky was a luminous shade of blue, expanding spotlessly as far as she could see. There was no sun in sight, yet sunlight seemed to touch everything. A gentle breeze caressed her skin, offering a hint of coolness to the pleasant warmth. She walked barefoot on a carpet of moist grass. Huge comforting trees sheltered her as she walked, urging her on with the gentle sway of their leaves. A clear stream gurgled a few feet away and delicate lavender flowers peppered her path. She could hear melodious sounds filter down through the lush foliage of the trees. She saw tiny bird-like creatures singing to her from the branches above. They chirped and sang their songs to her earnestly from every tree. The melodies reached her ears and formed clear meanings in her head. She understood them but wanted to plug her ears with her fingers and shut out the sounds. She didn’t want to hear… or to know.
The beauty around her did nothing to make her feel better. She was petrified. She wanted to stop, to turn around, to wake up. In a small corner of her conscious mind she was aware that this was just a dream. But a familiar feeling of helplessness gripped her, weakening her belief that this was unreal. As she walked she realised she was silently resisting something... what? She couldn’t see what she was fighting. There was an unmistakable force that made her keep walking. From a distance she saw a tree that appeared to be slightly illuminated. She knew she had to walk towards it, even though she didn’t want to. She could feel a scream threatening to escape her lips. An invisible fist tightened around her heart, intensifying her panic. But her legs continued to carry her forward...
Sarah woke up abruptly. She had an odd feeling of being between two places, between sleep and consciousness. She roused herself slowly, deliberately shaking off the images of her unconscious mind. She was in her bed, fully awake now, lying between her sleeping husband and their baby daughter.
The dream had recurred on and off for about a month. Persistent dreams disturbed her. But this time the dream did more than that. It terrified her. Sarah’s hands were cold with fear. She felt a tremor run through her body at the memory of what she had felt in the dream. It seemed to be revealing something to her slowly - bit by bit. Each time she felt she had walked a little further; seen the surroundings a little more clearly; felt a little more helpless.
Today, yet again, the dream had left Sarah emotionally drained, tired and numb with fear. Instinctively, she checked Nida. She was asleep and probably dreaming of angels, for she had an angelic hint of a smile on her tiny lips. There is a popular belief among Muslims that when babies smile or laugh in their sleep, they are in conversation with angels. Sarah softly kissed Nida’s forehead, reciting a quick prayer for her safety and happiness.
Nida used to wake up several times each night and Sarah struggled through those nights, rocking, singing and nursing her back to sleep. But thankfully, her 10-month-old had recently started sleeping well throughout the night.
Right around the time the dreams had begun, Sarah thought absently.
Sarah turned towards Yousif. He was fast asleep, evident by his snores. She snuggled close to her husband, trying to go back to sleep. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the dream.
Sarah was no stranger to the world of dreams. Thinking back, she believed she had spent half her life in this parallel world. She was both mesmerised and repelled by them. She was fascinated by them from a purely academic standpoint, being a student of psychology. But she hated the fact that they stole her peaceful sleep and replaced it with a cryptic maze of hidden messages that she had no choice but to psychoanalyse. She hated that, more often than not, the dreams tormented her with clear hints of the near future.
She shuddered involuntarily.
She didn’t get any sleep till well after 4 a.m.
“I had that dream again,” Sarah told Yousif over breakfast in the morning. He looked up from his parantha and cauliflower sabzi and raised an eyebrow.
Yousif was a man of few words. He didn’t really air his views unless he was compelled to. But after hearing the intensity of the dream, he was a little concerned.
“Isn’t this the fourth time? Sarah, you should speak to someone about it. At least talk to Ammi. You know how good she is at interpreting dreams.”
“Fifth. And yes, I thought about talking to her but I don’t want her to get worried. Not that there is anything to worry about...” she trailed off, suddenly remembering the feeling of helplessness. Steadying her voice, she looked at him pointedly. “I’ll go see her this afternoon.”
Sarah and Yousif owned an apartment in one of Bangalore’s most upmarket locations, and Yousif’s mother lived across the street from them with her eldest son Qasim, his wife Zeba and their 5-year-old son Ayaan.
Sarah was extremely fond of Ammi and vice versa, a fact that surprised both of them and everyone who knew them. Sarah had lost her own mother when she was five. Though her father took good care of them during their growing years, Sarah and her sister were often saddened by the absence of a mother’s love. This gaping maternal void that Sarah grew up with was easily filled by Ammi’s presence. They shared a relationship akin to that of a mother and daughter who had been close all their lives. They struck a chord from the very first day, when they met at a wedding six years ago. Sarah’s sensitivity and grace had floored Ammi, which led to her playing match maker and getting Yousif and Sarah to tie the knot soon after. Almost immediately they became inseparable friends, confiding in each other. Sarah knew at last what it felt like to have a mother.
It was only a year later that they realised that their camaraderie had more to do with things that did not meet the eye. They both shared a gift. They both saw dreams that told the future.
Yousif’s father had died three years ago. Ammi knew about it a month before that fateful day when he had a massive heart attack. Since she had been warned by her vision, she didn’t go into shock. But it changed her. Once a cheerful, witty and energetic woman, Ammi now preferred to spend most of her time on her prayer mat. After Abba’s death she tried to be happy but it was obvious that she couldn’t get over her loss. Her eyes always had a far-away look and Sarah wondered how often she thought about her own death. It pained Sarah to look into Ammi’s eyes.
That afternoon Sarah made some gajar ka halwa for Ammi, dressed Nida and carried her and the halwa to the building society across the street. Zeba greeted her at the door with strained enthusiasm.
“Sarah! What a pleasant surprise!
Zeba and Sarah never knew what to say to each other. Initially they had tried to be friends, but some things were just not meant to be. Misunderstandings had put a crack in the possibility of a friendship and the undercurrents of tension remained long after the rift was forgotten. What remained was a deliberate formality and an effort to stay out of each other’s way.
“How are you, bhabhi? How is my darling Ayaan? It’s been a week since we saw Ammi. I hope she is fine.”
“Her knees have been troubling her a lot nowadays, especially since these unexpected chilly winds began.”
Just then Ammi walked into the living room with Ayaan pulling at the end of her dupatta. Sarah let her sister-in-law take Nida from her arms, while she hurried to embrace Ammi. Their embrace was warm and lingering.
She laughed as she picked her cheeky nephew up, noticing his Spiderman T-shirt.
“How have you been, hero?”
“I’m fine, chachi. Can Nida play football with me now?” he pleaded.
“Well, she’s trying to take a few steps herself now. Why don’t you help her learn to walk? Then she will soon be set to play football with you.”
She put Ayaan back down and they all watched, carefully controlling their chuckles as Ayaan held Nida’s tiny hands in his own and urged her to walk, counting “One, two, three....” while he walked backwards.
“Ayyyaaaa. Tu tu tu,” babbled Nida, humouring her cousin.
She tottered after the third step and fell forward squealing with laughter, toppling Ayaan along with her onto the floor. The kids grinned up at the adults and everyone laughed. Ammi held Sarah’s hand then and led her to her room. Sarah glanced at Zeba and noticed a slight frown appear on her face before she turned her attention back to the children and started talking animatedly. It was obvious to everyone that Sarah was Ammi’s favourite daughter-in-law; a fact that Zeba never could come to terms with.
“Yousif told me you wanted to talk to me about something,” enquired Ammi once they were seated in her room. “He didn’t say much so I got a little worried. I hope everything is alright.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Ammi.” She was perturbed that Yousif had made Ammi anxious unnecessarily. “I’ve been having a disturbing dream, that’s all. I didn’t think much of it initially but last night was the fifth time. I can’t see anything of importance in it. But it’s frightening.”
Ammi listened intently as Sarah narrated what she saw in the dream. Sarah told her what she saw, the place that felt like it was God’s paradise, how she felt she was being urged on, and how the dream had ended before she reached her destination. She also told her how frightened the dream had left her, how she didn’t want to reach the destination, but was being forced to, and how each time the dream seemed to take her a little further, closer to the climax.
Ammi looked at Sarah with a puzzled expression on her face. She then asked her to narrate it again, this time slowly, trying to recall any minute details and bits she could have forgotten. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to visualise the dream again. Strangely, she didn’t have to try very hard. She remembered things in startling clarity as she put her vision into words. She began retelling the tale of her dream. She described the beautiful place and what she saw and felt, the sounds, the smells, all in explicit detail. And then…
She was walking on the moist grass once more, among the lush trees, with the pleasant breeze tingling her skin and the sparkling water flowing beside her. She heard the bird-like-creatures and looked up as they urged her on. She wanted to tell them that she was scared, that she didn’t want to go any further. She wanted to turn and run. But she kept walking towards the radiant tree, beckoned by an unseen force. Fear grew with each step, from the pit of her belly, till it suffocated her, clogging her senses and restricting her breathing. She knew reaching that tree would bring her face to face with a certainty she did not wish to realise; an end she was too scared to face. A flash of light blinded her eyes and a single word took its place, forming clearly in her mind. She felt a chill run down her spine.
“Chai, chai.”
Sarah’s eyes flew open and she stared at Zeba with an expression of fear and astonishment. Zeba stood there with a tray of tea, biscuits and cakes. Ayaan followed her into the room, leading Nida by her hand. She looked like she had already gotten better at walking. But Sarah didn’t notice.
She felt she had just woken up from her dream. Her eyes couldn’t see clearly for a few seconds and her limbs felt numb. Her hands were clammy from fear. She felt a little faint. Without thinking, she bent down to touch the soles of her feet. They were moist.
What just happened here? She tried to recall. She had been describing her dream to Ammi and had suddenly slipped into the dream in the middle of her narration. How was that possible? And how much had she told Ammi? She hoped she hadn’t said the word aloud, the word that had appeared in front of her. Ammi didn’t need to know about that.
She saw both Ammi and Zeba peering at her wondering what had happened to her. She blushed scarlet, realising how odd her expression would have looked to them. Ayaan saved her from any further discomfort.
“Look at her walk, chachi. I taught her.”
“Yes, you did, sweetheart.”
She gave the children quick hugs and excused herself to go to the kitchen so that she could warm a bottle of milk to feed Nida. She had to give herself a minute to get composed and stop her hands from shivering. With painstaking care she completed the task without spilling anything. When she returned, Ammi and Zeba were discussing the menu for dinner, but broke off when she entered. They looked at her, Zeba inquisitively and Ammi expectantly. She ignored their looks and told them about a delicious and recently discovered brinjal curry recipe. She did her best to ignore Ammi’s questioning eyes. She didn’t want to think about the dream. Not now at least.
After half an hour of light conversation, Ammi decided not to remain patient anymore.
“Sarah has been seeing a strange dream repeatedly,” she told Zeba. “She was just telling me about it.”
“Oh, really? Do tell me more.”
Sarah noticed the sarcasm. Zeba never took Sarah’s dreams seriously. She laughed at her behind her back, wondering how people could be so superstitious in this day and age.
She had often expressed her thoughts about Sarah’s childish beliefs to Qasim. “I can understand someone like Ammi believing this mumbo jumbo, but Sarah? I thought she had better sense,” Zeba had said incredulously to him one night, after hearing about a particular dream which seemed to hold everyone’s interest.
In the dream Sarah had seen her own sister Mizba browsing through jewellery in a store, but instead of purchasing jewellery, she bought a pair of shiny knives. Mizba was eight months pregnant at that time and Sarah understood what the dream had implied, after discussing it with Ammi of course. Mizba soon delivered a healthy baby girl... through an emergency caesarean section.
Zeba had laughed off the explanation that jewellery meant a girl and knives a C-section. “You certainly have a wild imagination,” she had remarked rudely to Sarah.
“It’s nothing important.” Sarah now brushed the sarcasm aside and got up to leave. “I really must be getting home. I haven’t worked on my thesis this whole week,” she said before Ammi could protest. A few months after Nida was born Sarah had decided to pursue her long standing desire to get a PhD in Psychology.
Once she was home and Nida napped, Sarah busied herself with dinner preparations and then sat down to work on her thesis. The topic of her study was ‘Precognitive Dreams’, something that she felt she needed to study in order to understand herself and how her mind worked.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about what she had experienced in Ammi’s room this afternoon. It had been a first. But what was it? I wasn’t asleep, she told herself. I was narrating the dream to Ammi. And suddenly I was in the dream, going a little bit further....
She shivered remembering the word that had materialised clearly in her mind.
DEATH
Sarah wanted to talk to Yousif about it when he got home at 8 p.m. But what would she tell him? She felt she just needed to give herself a break and not think about the dream for some time. I might soon lose my mind otherwise. Or am I already on the road to losing it? she thought wryly.
She decided not to say anything to Yousif at all. Ammi enquired about the incident the next morning over the phone but Sarah vaguely said that describing it had frightened her again, that’s all.
Two nights later, she was in the dream again.
Everything was the same as before. But Sarah sensed subtle changes. The air was thick with a peculiar scent. It hung heavily around her. It was a smell that she seemed to remember... it had hung around the house when her mother died and again when her grandmother died a few years later. It conjured up images of clean white shrouds, aromatic incense and the recitation of the Qur’an. She could hear the clear recitation now, the song of the birds fading into the background as she proceeded to the tree. It was a young man’s voice; he was barely 20. She knew this even before she saw him. His voice rang clear as crystal in the heavy air, strong and resonant as he recited the holy verses. She followed the sweetness of those verses, of that voice, in a trance. She was engulfed in its melody and wondered why she had been afraid. The heaviness seemed to lift gradually as she approached him. The fear evaporated. A peaceful calmness set in. Sarah knew she had to keep walking and see this through.
He sat on a rock below the luminous tree, the Qur’an in his hands, rocking gently to the rhythm of his own recital. He was about twenty feet away from her. She tread gently, not wanting to disturb him with her footsteps. But he seemed to be unaware of her. He sat elegantly in a white kurta-pyjama with a skull cap on his head. She noticed something else now. He recited a few lines and then turned to his right to speak to someone. He then recited the next two lines and again turned to speak to the person sitting next to him. He seemed to be explaining the verses he recited, smiling and gesturing with his hands. She approached cautiously now, noting that a young girl sat beside the boy. She couldn’t have been over 16. She was wearing a powder blue salwar-kameez with the dupatta loosely draped around her head and over her shoulders. She was listening to her companion in rapt attention, unable to take her eyes off him. Sarah inched closer, not wanting to bother the couple, but she had to know.
She was standing in front of them now, looking down at them as they sat in their cosy nook. They slowly turned their faces up to look at her; smiling, radiant, joyous faces that seemed to expect her and welcome her. Sarah did not flinch in recognition. She began to cry, silent tears falling down her cheeks.
“You’ll be alright, Sarah,” Ammi said. Abba nodded and took his wife’s hand in his.
“Sarah? Sarah, wake up. You’re having a dream again. What happened? Calm down, sweetheart.” Yousif held his wife in his arms as she sobbed softly into his shoulder.
“I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want Ammi to die.”
Yousif continued to hold Sarah as the words sank in.
Facing the next morning was difficult for Sarah. She knew it was just a matter of time. She had no control over the inevitable. How was she was going to live without Ammi? She didn’t know the answer to that question.
Ammi was strangely cheerful when Sarah met her. She went about her tasks with a sudden vigour and swiftness, like she was in a hurry. She laughed often and whole-heartedly, something she hadn’t done in a long time. It was a complete change and it startled everyone. She visited close relatives, spent time with her family and hugged Sarah at the slightest pretext. Once, during an embrace, she whispered, “You’ll be alright, Sarah.”
Ammi died peacefully in her sleep the following week. Sarah never told her the dream. She didn’t have to.
For those of you who don’t know, I had a darling little baby boy on the 28th of October, 2010. Incidentally, his name starts with Z too so I have to figure out what to call each of them on this blog. Creative suggestions are welcome.
So while I scrounge around for time to collect my thoughts and put my efforts at being supermom up for display through this blog, I’ll leave you all to read a story I attempted a few months ago. Be kind with your comments... I'm a novice, for God's sake! :)Happy reading...
THE DREAM
PARADISE.... I MUST BE DEAD, THOUGHT SARAH.
Everything around was perfect and beautiful. The sky was a luminous shade of blue, expanding spotlessly as far as she could see. There was no sun in sight, yet sunlight seemed to touch everything. A gentle breeze caressed her skin, offering a hint of coolness to the pleasant warmth. She walked barefoot on a carpet of moist grass. Huge comforting trees sheltered her as she walked, urging her on with the gentle sway of their leaves. A clear stream gurgled a few feet away and delicate lavender flowers peppered her path. She could hear melodious sounds filter down through the lush foliage of the trees. She saw tiny bird-like creatures singing to her from the branches above. They chirped and sang their songs to her earnestly from every tree. The melodies reached her ears and formed clear meanings in her head. She understood them but wanted to plug her ears with her fingers and shut out the sounds. She didn’t want to hear… or to know.
The beauty around her did nothing to make her feel better. She was petrified. She wanted to stop, to turn around, to wake up. In a small corner of her conscious mind she was aware that this was just a dream. But a familiar feeling of helplessness gripped her, weakening her belief that this was unreal. As she walked she realised she was silently resisting something... what? She couldn’t see what she was fighting. There was an unmistakable force that made her keep walking. From a distance she saw a tree that appeared to be slightly illuminated. She knew she had to walk towards it, even though she didn’t want to. She could feel a scream threatening to escape her lips. An invisible fist tightened around her heart, intensifying her panic. But her legs continued to carry her forward...
Sarah woke up abruptly. She had an odd feeling of being between two places, between sleep and consciousness. She roused herself slowly, deliberately shaking off the images of her unconscious mind. She was in her bed, fully awake now, lying between her sleeping husband and their baby daughter.
The dream had recurred on and off for about a month. Persistent dreams disturbed her. But this time the dream did more than that. It terrified her. Sarah’s hands were cold with fear. She felt a tremor run through her body at the memory of what she had felt in the dream. It seemed to be revealing something to her slowly - bit by bit. Each time she felt she had walked a little further; seen the surroundings a little more clearly; felt a little more helpless.
Today, yet again, the dream had left Sarah emotionally drained, tired and numb with fear. Instinctively, she checked Nida. She was asleep and probably dreaming of angels, for she had an angelic hint of a smile on her tiny lips. There is a popular belief among Muslims that when babies smile or laugh in their sleep, they are in conversation with angels. Sarah softly kissed Nida’s forehead, reciting a quick prayer for her safety and happiness.
Nida used to wake up several times each night and Sarah struggled through those nights, rocking, singing and nursing her back to sleep. But thankfully, her 10-month-old had recently started sleeping well throughout the night.
Right around the time the dreams had begun, Sarah thought absently.
Sarah turned towards Yousif. He was fast asleep, evident by his snores. She snuggled close to her husband, trying to go back to sleep. But her thoughts kept wandering back to the dream.
Sarah was no stranger to the world of dreams. Thinking back, she believed she had spent half her life in this parallel world. She was both mesmerised and repelled by them. She was fascinated by them from a purely academic standpoint, being a student of psychology. But she hated the fact that they stole her peaceful sleep and replaced it with a cryptic maze of hidden messages that she had no choice but to psychoanalyse. She hated that, more often than not, the dreams tormented her with clear hints of the near future.
She shuddered involuntarily.
She didn’t get any sleep till well after 4 a.m.
“I had that dream again,” Sarah told Yousif over breakfast in the morning. He looked up from his parantha and cauliflower sabzi and raised an eyebrow.
Yousif was a man of few words. He didn’t really air his views unless he was compelled to. But after hearing the intensity of the dream, he was a little concerned.
“Isn’t this the fourth time? Sarah, you should speak to someone about it. At least talk to Ammi. You know how good she is at interpreting dreams.”
“Fifth. And yes, I thought about talking to her but I don’t want her to get worried. Not that there is anything to worry about...” she trailed off, suddenly remembering the feeling of helplessness. Steadying her voice, she looked at him pointedly. “I’ll go see her this afternoon.”
Sarah and Yousif owned an apartment in one of Bangalore’s most upmarket locations, and Yousif’s mother lived across the street from them with her eldest son Qasim, his wife Zeba and their 5-year-old son Ayaan.
Sarah was extremely fond of Ammi and vice versa, a fact that surprised both of them and everyone who knew them. Sarah had lost her own mother when she was five. Though her father took good care of them during their growing years, Sarah and her sister were often saddened by the absence of a mother’s love. This gaping maternal void that Sarah grew up with was easily filled by Ammi’s presence. They shared a relationship akin to that of a mother and daughter who had been close all their lives. They struck a chord from the very first day, when they met at a wedding six years ago. Sarah’s sensitivity and grace had floored Ammi, which led to her playing match maker and getting Yousif and Sarah to tie the knot soon after. Almost immediately they became inseparable friends, confiding in each other. Sarah knew at last what it felt like to have a mother.
It was only a year later that they realised that their camaraderie had more to do with things that did not meet the eye. They both shared a gift. They both saw dreams that told the future.
Yousif’s father had died three years ago. Ammi knew about it a month before that fateful day when he had a massive heart attack. Since she had been warned by her vision, she didn’t go into shock. But it changed her. Once a cheerful, witty and energetic woman, Ammi now preferred to spend most of her time on her prayer mat. After Abba’s death she tried to be happy but it was obvious that she couldn’t get over her loss. Her eyes always had a far-away look and Sarah wondered how often she thought about her own death. It pained Sarah to look into Ammi’s eyes.
That afternoon Sarah made some gajar ka halwa for Ammi, dressed Nida and carried her and the halwa to the building society across the street. Zeba greeted her at the door with strained enthusiasm.
“Sarah! What a pleasant surprise!
Zeba and Sarah never knew what to say to each other. Initially they had tried to be friends, but some things were just not meant to be. Misunderstandings had put a crack in the possibility of a friendship and the undercurrents of tension remained long after the rift was forgotten. What remained was a deliberate formality and an effort to stay out of each other’s way.
“How are you, bhabhi? How is my darling Ayaan? It’s been a week since we saw Ammi. I hope she is fine.”
“Her knees have been troubling her a lot nowadays, especially since these unexpected chilly winds began.”
Just then Ammi walked into the living room with Ayaan pulling at the end of her dupatta. Sarah let her sister-in-law take Nida from her arms, while she hurried to embrace Ammi. Their embrace was warm and lingering.
She laughed as she picked her cheeky nephew up, noticing his Spiderman T-shirt.
“How have you been, hero?”
“I’m fine, chachi. Can Nida play football with me now?” he pleaded.
“Well, she’s trying to take a few steps herself now. Why don’t you help her learn to walk? Then she will soon be set to play football with you.”
She put Ayaan back down and they all watched, carefully controlling their chuckles as Ayaan held Nida’s tiny hands in his own and urged her to walk, counting “One, two, three....” while he walked backwards.
“Ayyyaaaa. Tu tu tu,” babbled Nida, humouring her cousin.
She tottered after the third step and fell forward squealing with laughter, toppling Ayaan along with her onto the floor. The kids grinned up at the adults and everyone laughed. Ammi held Sarah’s hand then and led her to her room. Sarah glanced at Zeba and noticed a slight frown appear on her face before she turned her attention back to the children and started talking animatedly. It was obvious to everyone that Sarah was Ammi’s favourite daughter-in-law; a fact that Zeba never could come to terms with.
“Yousif told me you wanted to talk to me about something,” enquired Ammi once they were seated in her room. “He didn’t say much so I got a little worried. I hope everything is alright.”
“Oh, it’s nothing Ammi.” She was perturbed that Yousif had made Ammi anxious unnecessarily. “I’ve been having a disturbing dream, that’s all. I didn’t think much of it initially but last night was the fifth time. I can’t see anything of importance in it. But it’s frightening.”
Ammi listened intently as Sarah narrated what she saw in the dream. Sarah told her what she saw, the place that felt like it was God’s paradise, how she felt she was being urged on, and how the dream had ended before she reached her destination. She also told her how frightened the dream had left her, how she didn’t want to reach the destination, but was being forced to, and how each time the dream seemed to take her a little further, closer to the climax.
Ammi looked at Sarah with a puzzled expression on her face. She then asked her to narrate it again, this time slowly, trying to recall any minute details and bits she could have forgotten. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to visualise the dream again. Strangely, she didn’t have to try very hard. She remembered things in startling clarity as she put her vision into words. She began retelling the tale of her dream. She described the beautiful place and what she saw and felt, the sounds, the smells, all in explicit detail. And then…
She was walking on the moist grass once more, among the lush trees, with the pleasant breeze tingling her skin and the sparkling water flowing beside her. She heard the bird-like-creatures and looked up as they urged her on. She wanted to tell them that she was scared, that she didn’t want to go any further. She wanted to turn and run. But she kept walking towards the radiant tree, beckoned by an unseen force. Fear grew with each step, from the pit of her belly, till it suffocated her, clogging her senses and restricting her breathing. She knew reaching that tree would bring her face to face with a certainty she did not wish to realise; an end she was too scared to face. A flash of light blinded her eyes and a single word took its place, forming clearly in her mind. She felt a chill run down her spine.
“Chai, chai.”
Sarah’s eyes flew open and she stared at Zeba with an expression of fear and astonishment. Zeba stood there with a tray of tea, biscuits and cakes. Ayaan followed her into the room, leading Nida by her hand. She looked like she had already gotten better at walking. But Sarah didn’t notice.
She felt she had just woken up from her dream. Her eyes couldn’t see clearly for a few seconds and her limbs felt numb. Her hands were clammy from fear. She felt a little faint. Without thinking, she bent down to touch the soles of her feet. They were moist.
What just happened here? She tried to recall. She had been describing her dream to Ammi and had suddenly slipped into the dream in the middle of her narration. How was that possible? And how much had she told Ammi? She hoped she hadn’t said the word aloud, the word that had appeared in front of her. Ammi didn’t need to know about that.
She saw both Ammi and Zeba peering at her wondering what had happened to her. She blushed scarlet, realising how odd her expression would have looked to them. Ayaan saved her from any further discomfort.
“Look at her walk, chachi. I taught her.”
“Yes, you did, sweetheart.”
She gave the children quick hugs and excused herself to go to the kitchen so that she could warm a bottle of milk to feed Nida. She had to give herself a minute to get composed and stop her hands from shivering. With painstaking care she completed the task without spilling anything. When she returned, Ammi and Zeba were discussing the menu for dinner, but broke off when she entered. They looked at her, Zeba inquisitively and Ammi expectantly. She ignored their looks and told them about a delicious and recently discovered brinjal curry recipe. She did her best to ignore Ammi’s questioning eyes. She didn’t want to think about the dream. Not now at least.
After half an hour of light conversation, Ammi decided not to remain patient anymore.
“Sarah has been seeing a strange dream repeatedly,” she told Zeba. “She was just telling me about it.”
“Oh, really? Do tell me more.”
Sarah noticed the sarcasm. Zeba never took Sarah’s dreams seriously. She laughed at her behind her back, wondering how people could be so superstitious in this day and age.
She had often expressed her thoughts about Sarah’s childish beliefs to Qasim. “I can understand someone like Ammi believing this mumbo jumbo, but Sarah? I thought she had better sense,” Zeba had said incredulously to him one night, after hearing about a particular dream which seemed to hold everyone’s interest.
In the dream Sarah had seen her own sister Mizba browsing through jewellery in a store, but instead of purchasing jewellery, she bought a pair of shiny knives. Mizba was eight months pregnant at that time and Sarah understood what the dream had implied, after discussing it with Ammi of course. Mizba soon delivered a healthy baby girl... through an emergency caesarean section.
Zeba had laughed off the explanation that jewellery meant a girl and knives a C-section. “You certainly have a wild imagination,” she had remarked rudely to Sarah.
“It’s nothing important.” Sarah now brushed the sarcasm aside and got up to leave. “I really must be getting home. I haven’t worked on my thesis this whole week,” she said before Ammi could protest. A few months after Nida was born Sarah had decided to pursue her long standing desire to get a PhD in Psychology.
Once she was home and Nida napped, Sarah busied herself with dinner preparations and then sat down to work on her thesis. The topic of her study was ‘Precognitive Dreams’, something that she felt she needed to study in order to understand herself and how her mind worked.
But she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about what she had experienced in Ammi’s room this afternoon. It had been a first. But what was it? I wasn’t asleep, she told herself. I was narrating the dream to Ammi. And suddenly I was in the dream, going a little bit further....
She shivered remembering the word that had materialised clearly in her mind.
DEATH
Sarah wanted to talk to Yousif about it when he got home at 8 p.m. But what would she tell him? She felt she just needed to give herself a break and not think about the dream for some time. I might soon lose my mind otherwise. Or am I already on the road to losing it? she thought wryly.
She decided not to say anything to Yousif at all. Ammi enquired about the incident the next morning over the phone but Sarah vaguely said that describing it had frightened her again, that’s all.
Two nights later, she was in the dream again.
Everything was the same as before. But Sarah sensed subtle changes. The air was thick with a peculiar scent. It hung heavily around her. It was a smell that she seemed to remember... it had hung around the house when her mother died and again when her grandmother died a few years later. It conjured up images of clean white shrouds, aromatic incense and the recitation of the Qur’an. She could hear the clear recitation now, the song of the birds fading into the background as she proceeded to the tree. It was a young man’s voice; he was barely 20. She knew this even before she saw him. His voice rang clear as crystal in the heavy air, strong and resonant as he recited the holy verses. She followed the sweetness of those verses, of that voice, in a trance. She was engulfed in its melody and wondered why she had been afraid. The heaviness seemed to lift gradually as she approached him. The fear evaporated. A peaceful calmness set in. Sarah knew she had to keep walking and see this through.
He sat on a rock below the luminous tree, the Qur’an in his hands, rocking gently to the rhythm of his own recital. He was about twenty feet away from her. She tread gently, not wanting to disturb him with her footsteps. But he seemed to be unaware of her. He sat elegantly in a white kurta-pyjama with a skull cap on his head. She noticed something else now. He recited a few lines and then turned to his right to speak to someone. He then recited the next two lines and again turned to speak to the person sitting next to him. He seemed to be explaining the verses he recited, smiling and gesturing with his hands. She approached cautiously now, noting that a young girl sat beside the boy. She couldn’t have been over 16. She was wearing a powder blue salwar-kameez with the dupatta loosely draped around her head and over her shoulders. She was listening to her companion in rapt attention, unable to take her eyes off him. Sarah inched closer, not wanting to bother the couple, but she had to know.
She was standing in front of them now, looking down at them as they sat in their cosy nook. They slowly turned their faces up to look at her; smiling, radiant, joyous faces that seemed to expect her and welcome her. Sarah did not flinch in recognition. She began to cry, silent tears falling down her cheeks.
“You’ll be alright, Sarah,” Ammi said. Abba nodded and took his wife’s hand in his.
“Sarah? Sarah, wake up. You’re having a dream again. What happened? Calm down, sweetheart.” Yousif held his wife in his arms as she sobbed softly into his shoulder.
“I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want Ammi to die.”
Yousif continued to hold Sarah as the words sank in.
Facing the next morning was difficult for Sarah. She knew it was just a matter of time. She had no control over the inevitable. How was she was going to live without Ammi? She didn’t know the answer to that question.
Ammi was strangely cheerful when Sarah met her. She went about her tasks with a sudden vigour and swiftness, like she was in a hurry. She laughed often and whole-heartedly, something she hadn’t done in a long time. It was a complete change and it startled everyone. She visited close relatives, spent time with her family and hugged Sarah at the slightest pretext. Once, during an embrace, she whispered, “You’ll be alright, Sarah.”
Ammi died peacefully in her sleep the following week. Sarah never told her the dream. She didn’t have to.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Terrible Tuesday
This morning has been quite a strain on my nerves. I woke up to find that the constant hip ache that has plagued me since the start of this pregnancy has decided to do some more damage. The pain is currently radiating to various connecting bones and stretching right down to my toes. Now my penguin walk (given the size of my ever growing belly) is even more pronounced and I feel like a penguin with crutches. At least that’s the pace I’m walking at.
The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.
My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.
Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.
The pregnancy has been weird for Z. As a toddler she finds it difficult to understand why her mamma is suddenly so tired all the time, why she can’t play wrestle and tickle games anymore, why she can’t sit on mamma’s tummy , why mamma won’t pick her up and carry her around (my heart breaks when she asks, so I do pick her up at times, only to be scolded by those around), among other things.
My lethargy has resulted in Z constantly running late for play school for about a week. The teachers at school usually take a few minutes of tardiness in their stride but today when we arrived a good 20 minutes late, the teacher-in-charge thought it best to bring it to my attention that being late is causing Z to miss out on the funnest part of school – nursery rhymes. I already knew this. But as I heard her gently and most politely give me a lesson on ‘Time and tide wait for no pre-schooler’, the blasted pain in my hips threatened to explode and my legs were ready to buckle. Not to be left behind, the little one growing in my womb decided to make a statement with a powerful kick. I struggled to be composed as I apologised for being late so often and assured her I would try my best to bring Z to school on time. I hope she didn’t notice the tears pricking my eyes, as she enquired about my health and commented on how weak I looked. Unable to handle the sudden concern about how I felt, I quickly ended the conversation and turned to walk back home, tears spilling over. The rain clouds gathered and decided to keep me company with their own tears and I wondered why oh why I was being so silly and full of self pity. The answer lies in this post – I hate messing up what I do and Z becoming a tardy child because of my problems is unforgivable.
Also it was just one of those days. The combination of physical discomfort and sleep deprivation was getting to me. Not to mention, the frustration of dealing with a tantrum-throwing toddler and the jitters of knowing that I’ll soon have to handle and be responsible for two children (not counting the hubby). Also, today is the day my feet have started to look a little swollen. I can only pray that I don’t end up with elephant feet like the last time I was pregnant. Lastly, I’ve been waiting all these months for the shiny and luscious head of hair that pregnant women can flaunt, but it just didn’t happen this time. *sigh* Okay, I’m done with wallowing in self pity.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Wedding Anniversary Special
I completed five years of marriage today.
Last night I revisited the Sumira who existed 8 or 9 years ago. Hubby and I took a trip down memory lane. We went through the numerous cards and letters we had given each other during our courtship. It was a wonderfully sweet experience to relive those first flutters, those hopes for the future, those tender, earnest and heart-breaking young promises. The words we chose in our correspondences made me smile at their innocence, laugh aloud at the lovey-doveyness and get all teary-eyed at the journey and the story behind it all.
It’s the story of two college kids who fell hopelessly in love. It’s the story of two individuals who come from starkly contrasting environments and cultures, who met in Mumbai and decided to spend the rest of their lives together... It’s the story of a boy and girl who came face to face with plenty of opposition to their union, but overcome it all and finally won everyone over. It’s a true story. A happy story. A story that came rushing back in all its beauty at 12 am, 5th September 2010 as the couple sat on their bed and tried to read the cards and keep their impish 2-year-old daughter’s hands from destroying them. You know that feeling makes you feel warm and safe and happy? The one that tells you, right now, in this moment, all is right with the world and that you are truly blessed to have what you have? That was the feeling that enveloped this small beautiful family last night.
********************************
After getting all that mush out of my system, I think I should end on a cute note. Z was feeling a little left out as we were reminiscing about our wedding day. She was wondering how she wasn’t a prominent character in the story. If you’ve met my daughter, you’ll know how much she loves being the centre of attention. She decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. She must soon say something to divert the family attention and conversation back towards herself, and fast. She picked up the nearest cell phone and pretended to make a call. This is what she said, with a dead serious and straight face.
“Hello? Ummm... mujhe aapse shaadi karni hai”
(English translation: Hello? Ummm... I want to marry you.)
She then looks at the phone with a shocked expression and says, “Arey! Ye tho band hogaya!”
(English translation: Huh? The line went dead!)
Last night I revisited the Sumira who existed 8 or 9 years ago. Hubby and I took a trip down memory lane. We went through the numerous cards and letters we had given each other during our courtship. It was a wonderfully sweet experience to relive those first flutters, those hopes for the future, those tender, earnest and heart-breaking young promises. The words we chose in our correspondences made me smile at their innocence, laugh aloud at the lovey-doveyness and get all teary-eyed at the journey and the story behind it all.
It’s the story of two college kids who fell hopelessly in love. It’s the story of two individuals who come from starkly contrasting environments and cultures, who met in Mumbai and decided to spend the rest of their lives together... It’s the story of a boy and girl who came face to face with plenty of opposition to their union, but overcome it all and finally won everyone over. It’s a true story. A happy story. A story that came rushing back in all its beauty at 12 am, 5th September 2010 as the couple sat on their bed and tried to read the cards and keep their impish 2-year-old daughter’s hands from destroying them. You know that feeling makes you feel warm and safe and happy? The one that tells you, right now, in this moment, all is right with the world and that you are truly blessed to have what you have? That was the feeling that enveloped this small beautiful family last night.
********************************
After getting all that mush out of my system, I think I should end on a cute note. Z was feeling a little left out as we were reminiscing about our wedding day. She was wondering how she wasn’t a prominent character in the story. If you’ve met my daughter, you’ll know how much she loves being the centre of attention. She decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. She must soon say something to divert the family attention and conversation back towards herself, and fast. She picked up the nearest cell phone and pretended to make a call. This is what she said, with a dead serious and straight face.
“Hello? Ummm... mujhe aapse shaadi karni hai”
(English translation: Hello? Ummm... I want to marry you.)
She then looks at the phone with a shocked expression and says, “Arey! Ye tho band hogaya!”
(English translation: Huh? The line went dead!)
Monday, August 23, 2010
Kashmir
Yes, I'm back to blogging. What have I been up to during these 3 months of hiding? Well, mostly procrastinating, among other things. But I thought it was about time to get cracking with my blog again. Lots of things to talk about. Today, let me tell you about Kashmir.
The family and I visited Kashmir in June to attend a wedding. This was my second trip there and I was so looking forward to be steam-rolled by hugs and kisses from the family, as well as by the overwhelming beauty of the place, people and culture. The first time I visited the valley, last year, I was highly apprehensive, being completely aware of the extent to which I would be scrutinized. You see, a girl from Goa visiting her Kashmiri sasural is a big deal. Aunts, uncles, grannies, distant cousins, neighbours and probably even long lost relatives flocked to see the spectacle of a ‘South-Indian bahu’ in their midst. I do believe they were half expecting me to show up slightly intoxicated, in beach shorts, sporting tattoos and a phoren accent. But I disappointed big time by showing up as plain old me; someone who easily blended into the Kashmiri background, except for my complexion and inability to speak the local language. I like to believe I warmed up to them and vice versa. And I truly enjoyed the entire experience. I soon realised that all the descriptions I had heard of Kashmir, from hubby, in-laws, friends who had visited, travel shows, websites, and books, did not do a shred of justice to the place. Their traditional houses, their rich food, their over-the-top hospitality, their elaborate handicrafts, their immense pride in their culure and roots... everything about them is wonderful and unique. I tried my best to not let the 'daughter-in-law visiting her sasural' factor colour my obsevations. That helped me completely appreciate the depth of culture I was experiencing.
This time round, the Goan bahu was familiar with the drill. So I was going there minus the anxiousness and without a fear of the unknown. I was merely going to visit family and get drowned in the splendour that is Kashmir. Anyone who has visited Kashmir will know that it is not just the natural scenery that makes the place special. Kashmir resides in a world of its own. It belongs to another time. It is a place that has been blessed by many many wonderful things. Except peace.
The situation in Kashmir took a turn for the worse while we were there. Due to which we didn’t get to see much of Kashmir, but we thoroughly enjoyed the elaborate and expensive Kashmiri wedding. Unfortunately, Z got a raging fever bang in the middle of the merry making. Once she was a little stronger, curfews kept us indoors. We heard of several lathi charges on the stone pelters, and even on innocent residents trying desperately to get along with their lives in the midst of a crippling situation. If we had stayed longer than we had, we probably would have been witness to full-fledged protests and clashes, for shortly after arriving in Mumbai, we heard that more and more people were braving the bullets and the beatings to protest against the way they have been treated and continue to be treated in their own land.
I am not going to discuss right and wrong here, nor am I inviting debate. All I know is what I’ve seen and heard from the Kashmiris themselves, and I pray with and for them for peace. For freedoms that we take for granted every day. For freedom of expression, for freedom from fear, for freedom that allows their children to play in the streets without fear. For development, for jobs, for opportunities, for growth. For the things that have been denied to the youth and thus forces talented, educated and bright individuals to search for opportunities elsewhere. After years of being ignored, I see subtle signs of progress. This 15th August, when my daughter was waving the tri-colour she brought home from play school, I caught myself instinctively thinking about her cousins in Kashmir, a generation that was born into turmoil. Freedom. A word that will come to mean so much to Z a few years from now, as she grapples with what it means to be a Kashmiri.
The family and I visited Kashmir in June to attend a wedding. This was my second trip there and I was so looking forward to be steam-rolled by hugs and kisses from the family, as well as by the overwhelming beauty of the place, people and culture. The first time I visited the valley, last year, I was highly apprehensive, being completely aware of the extent to which I would be scrutinized. You see, a girl from Goa visiting her Kashmiri sasural is a big deal. Aunts, uncles, grannies, distant cousins, neighbours and probably even long lost relatives flocked to see the spectacle of a ‘South-Indian bahu’ in their midst. I do believe they were half expecting me to show up slightly intoxicated, in beach shorts, sporting tattoos and a phoren accent. But I disappointed big time by showing up as plain old me; someone who easily blended into the Kashmiri background, except for my complexion and inability to speak the local language. I like to believe I warmed up to them and vice versa. And I truly enjoyed the entire experience. I soon realised that all the descriptions I had heard of Kashmir, from hubby, in-laws, friends who had visited, travel shows, websites, and books, did not do a shred of justice to the place. Their traditional houses, their rich food, their over-the-top hospitality, their elaborate handicrafts, their immense pride in their culure and roots... everything about them is wonderful and unique. I tried my best to not let the 'daughter-in-law visiting her sasural' factor colour my obsevations. That helped me completely appreciate the depth of culture I was experiencing.
This time round, the Goan bahu was familiar with the drill. So I was going there minus the anxiousness and without a fear of the unknown. I was merely going to visit family and get drowned in the splendour that is Kashmir. Anyone who has visited Kashmir will know that it is not just the natural scenery that makes the place special. Kashmir resides in a world of its own. It belongs to another time. It is a place that has been blessed by many many wonderful things. Except peace.
The situation in Kashmir took a turn for the worse while we were there. Due to which we didn’t get to see much of Kashmir, but we thoroughly enjoyed the elaborate and expensive Kashmiri wedding. Unfortunately, Z got a raging fever bang in the middle of the merry making. Once she was a little stronger, curfews kept us indoors. We heard of several lathi charges on the stone pelters, and even on innocent residents trying desperately to get along with their lives in the midst of a crippling situation. If we had stayed longer than we had, we probably would have been witness to full-fledged protests and clashes, for shortly after arriving in Mumbai, we heard that more and more people were braving the bullets and the beatings to protest against the way they have been treated and continue to be treated in their own land.
I am not going to discuss right and wrong here, nor am I inviting debate. All I know is what I’ve seen and heard from the Kashmiris themselves, and I pray with and for them for peace. For freedoms that we take for granted every day. For freedom of expression, for freedom from fear, for freedom that allows their children to play in the streets without fear. For development, for jobs, for opportunities, for growth. For the things that have been denied to the youth and thus forces talented, educated and bright individuals to search for opportunities elsewhere. After years of being ignored, I see subtle signs of progress. This 15th August, when my daughter was waving the tri-colour she brought home from play school, I caught myself instinctively thinking about her cousins in Kashmir, a generation that was born into turmoil. Freedom. A word that will come to mean so much to Z a few years from now, as she grapples with what it means to be a Kashmiri.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Introducing Z
I have been putting off writing about my daughter Z for a long time. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I preferred being seen as a ‘writer’ blogger as opposed to a ‘mommy’ blogger. Yes, shallow, I know. But I think that could be a reason. Another (more justifiable) reason would be that I’m a little weary of writing about my family. I wonder if it’s fair to lay specific characteristic details about them bare for all to read just because it’s my blog.
Damn, I now wish I had an anonymous blog. Just think about it. I would never fall short of post topics. I could happily wax eloquence on the eccentricities of practically everyone I know, myself included, of course. And people would think “Wow, this is interesting stuff.” But instead (shallow person that I am) I bully my friends into reading my blog, as well as publicise new posts through my FB account. In the bargain, I chose not to be this wonderfully mysterious blogger who people stumble upon suddenly and get hooked to. Frankly, I don’t think I’m good enough for the latter to actually happen much. I know because most of my readers are my friends. Or friends of friends. Or my mom. I think I’m depressing myself.
So, as I was saying, I was worried writing about Z’s shenanigans would be like asking her to just hate me once she is old enough to read her mommy’s far-from-anonymous blog. Crappy old age home guaranteed, I thought. But what I was doing was just putting off the inevitable. I can’t continue making myself believe I currently have a life outside my home. And how can one not write about something or someone who consumes one’s thoughts, hopes, dreams, and worries so greatly?
Taking care of Z, listening to her non-stop banter, chasing her around the house with food, stopping her from finding strategically stashed away chocolates, singing songs with her, listening in awe at her rendition of ‘Give me some sunshine’ from 3 Idiots, watching her dance to every kid’s reality dance show on TV, obsessing about how she’ll fit into play school, among other things, is what my whole day is all about. As I type this, she is stripping the pants off her rag doll and applying generous amounts of Johnson’s Baby Powder to the doll’s butt. How can one ignore that, tell me?
So, it really is the easiest thing for me to write about Z. Yep, I think she’s ready for the spotlight now. I think I can manage a decent job of it too, and thus, spare myself the crappy old age home.
Damn, I now wish I had an anonymous blog. Just think about it. I would never fall short of post topics. I could happily wax eloquence on the eccentricities of practically everyone I know, myself included, of course. And people would think “Wow, this is interesting stuff.” But instead (shallow person that I am) I bully my friends into reading my blog, as well as publicise new posts through my FB account. In the bargain, I chose not to be this wonderfully mysterious blogger who people stumble upon suddenly and get hooked to. Frankly, I don’t think I’m good enough for the latter to actually happen much. I know because most of my readers are my friends. Or friends of friends. Or my mom. I think I’m depressing myself.
So, as I was saying, I was worried writing about Z’s shenanigans would be like asking her to just hate me once she is old enough to read her mommy’s far-from-anonymous blog. Crappy old age home guaranteed, I thought. But what I was doing was just putting off the inevitable. I can’t continue making myself believe I currently have a life outside my home. And how can one not write about something or someone who consumes one’s thoughts, hopes, dreams, and worries so greatly?
Taking care of Z, listening to her non-stop banter, chasing her around the house with food, stopping her from finding strategically stashed away chocolates, singing songs with her, listening in awe at her rendition of ‘Give me some sunshine’ from 3 Idiots, watching her dance to every kid’s reality dance show on TV, obsessing about how she’ll fit into play school, among other things, is what my whole day is all about. As I type this, she is stripping the pants off her rag doll and applying generous amounts of Johnson’s Baby Powder to the doll’s butt. How can one ignore that, tell me?
So, it really is the easiest thing for me to write about Z. Yep, I think she’s ready for the spotlight now. I think I can manage a decent job of it too, and thus, spare myself the crappy old age home.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Introspection is not always a good thing
The blasted nausea and dizzy spells have me lying in bed for more hours than I like, every evening. Apart from a break from work, and time to read, I have been able to think and introspect. A lot. Which is not always a good thing. One of my introspection sessions led me to compose a list of random things about myself. And I decided to put it up for everyone to see. *Gulp*
Please note that the points listed below are just random things about me that came to my mind. The list, in no way whatsoever, represents who I am. Okay, so with that important bit of information in mind, you may proceed.
10 random things about me
1. I adore cats. I don’t know why I have this of all things on the top of my list, but here is it. I really wish I could have a pet kitten, one that my kids and I could cuddle and take care of. But considering the rest of my family’s aversion to pets, I don’t see that happening. And I am not an okay-I-guess-a-gold-fish-will-do kind of pet lover.
2. I hate messing up what I do. I know nobody likes doing things wrong, but I obsess with things that don’t go my way. From failed culinary attempts, not-good-enough writing assignments, bad shopping choices, to the inability to handle certain conversations, I grandly obsess and obsess about how I could have done it better. And in the bargain I drive my hubby crazy. He happens to be the opposite of me. He not only spews lines like, ‘Let the past go; move on,’ but he actually can move on. Okay, why am I writing about my him? This is supposed to be a list of things of me. Which brings me to point number 3...
3. I have the attention span of a 5-year-old. Even in the middle of an important assignment, I need to go and read someone’s blog or check my email. After half-an-hour of procrastination, I need to slap myself and say the word FOCUS three times, aloud. I am generally a good listener, but when the person on the other end of the phone starts prattling endlessly about things I don’t really need to know, I will drift off to la-la land.
4. I don’t believe a lie has a colour. White, black, grey, they are all lies to me. And if there is one thing I can’t stand, it is dishonesty. I realise that this is in stark contrast to the way the world works. Everyone thinks a tiny little white lie to make someone feel better is okay, right? I don’t.
5. I believe in the goodness of people. Despite the weight of evil crushing everything good and right in the world, I desperately cling to the belief that there in a glimmer of hope, of light, of goodness in every heart. I will still teach my children to be careful of trusting too easily (we’ve burnt our fingers too many times with trust), but I will also teach them to give the good in people a chance. Once I figure out how to explain this delicate balance. *Sigh* Thinking about this reminds me of what a cruel, untrusting, difficult world we have built for ourselves.
6. I always wanted to have four kids. I love the idea of large families, siblings growing up together, a noisy household, filled with love and fun and games, a big pot of chicken stew bubbling in the kitchen (did I read that in a book somewhere?), homemade pizzas on weekends, the six of us stuffed into an SUV, picnicking in the park... okay, you get the picture. But after having one hurricane of a child, I decided I didn’t really need to add to India’s burgeoning population woes. I was happy with a one-child family. A few weeks ago that changed as well. Ho hum. I just can’t seem to stick to my own plans.
7. I hate travelling. Don’t get me wrong. I love seeing new places. I love going out. I love trying out new flavours, experiencing new cultures, and all that jazz. But what I don’t like is the process of getting there. The main reason being - I have motion sickness. I’m sure I would get sick travelling by Floo network (Harry Potter) too.
8. I can cry at the drop of a hat. I can see many people who know me nod their heads at this and smile as they recollect the countless times I have embarrassed myself. Happy, sad, hurt, angry, touched, sick, hopping mad, flustered, cranky, nostalgic, bored (?!!), you name the emotion, and I have the tears to go with it. I know. Tch tch.
9. I have no sense of direction. I am horrible with maps. I can’t remember routes to places, unless I’ve been there at least 10 times.
10. I think ephemeral is a beautiful word, even though it means fleeting, transient, momentary, brief. I recently learnt that change, however scary or intimidating, is actually a wonderful thing and it always happens for a reason. Be it a job change, a friend moving out of your life, a death, a birth, change in lifestyle, whatever. Life teaches you to grow with change.
My list has more negatives than positives. That doesn’t make me feel any better. So much for introspection. *sigh*
Please note that the points listed below are just random things about me that came to my mind. The list, in no way whatsoever, represents who I am. Okay, so with that important bit of information in mind, you may proceed.
10 random things about me
1. I adore cats. I don’t know why I have this of all things on the top of my list, but here is it. I really wish I could have a pet kitten, one that my kids and I could cuddle and take care of. But considering the rest of my family’s aversion to pets, I don’t see that happening. And I am not an okay-I-guess-a-gold-fish-will-do kind of pet lover.
2. I hate messing up what I do. I know nobody likes doing things wrong, but I obsess with things that don’t go my way. From failed culinary attempts, not-good-enough writing assignments, bad shopping choices, to the inability to handle certain conversations, I grandly obsess and obsess about how I could have done it better. And in the bargain I drive my hubby crazy. He happens to be the opposite of me. He not only spews lines like, ‘Let the past go; move on,’ but he actually can move on. Okay, why am I writing about my him? This is supposed to be a list of things of me. Which brings me to point number 3...
3. I have the attention span of a 5-year-old. Even in the middle of an important assignment, I need to go and read someone’s blog or check my email. After half-an-hour of procrastination, I need to slap myself and say the word FOCUS three times, aloud. I am generally a good listener, but when the person on the other end of the phone starts prattling endlessly about things I don’t really need to know, I will drift off to la-la land.
4. I don’t believe a lie has a colour. White, black, grey, they are all lies to me. And if there is one thing I can’t stand, it is dishonesty. I realise that this is in stark contrast to the way the world works. Everyone thinks a tiny little white lie to make someone feel better is okay, right? I don’t.
5. I believe in the goodness of people. Despite the weight of evil crushing everything good and right in the world, I desperately cling to the belief that there in a glimmer of hope, of light, of goodness in every heart. I will still teach my children to be careful of trusting too easily (we’ve burnt our fingers too many times with trust), but I will also teach them to give the good in people a chance. Once I figure out how to explain this delicate balance. *Sigh* Thinking about this reminds me of what a cruel, untrusting, difficult world we have built for ourselves.
6. I always wanted to have four kids. I love the idea of large families, siblings growing up together, a noisy household, filled with love and fun and games, a big pot of chicken stew bubbling in the kitchen (did I read that in a book somewhere?), homemade pizzas on weekends, the six of us stuffed into an SUV, picnicking in the park... okay, you get the picture. But after having one hurricane of a child, I decided I didn’t really need to add to India’s burgeoning population woes. I was happy with a one-child family. A few weeks ago that changed as well. Ho hum. I just can’t seem to stick to my own plans.
7. I hate travelling. Don’t get me wrong. I love seeing new places. I love going out. I love trying out new flavours, experiencing new cultures, and all that jazz. But what I don’t like is the process of getting there. The main reason being - I have motion sickness. I’m sure I would get sick travelling by Floo network (Harry Potter) too.
8. I can cry at the drop of a hat. I can see many people who know me nod their heads at this and smile as they recollect the countless times I have embarrassed myself. Happy, sad, hurt, angry, touched, sick, hopping mad, flustered, cranky, nostalgic, bored (?!!), you name the emotion, and I have the tears to go with it. I know. Tch tch.
9. I have no sense of direction. I am horrible with maps. I can’t remember routes to places, unless I’ve been there at least 10 times.
10. I think ephemeral is a beautiful word, even though it means fleeting, transient, momentary, brief. I recently learnt that change, however scary or intimidating, is actually a wonderful thing and it always happens for a reason. Be it a job change, a friend moving out of your life, a death, a birth, change in lifestyle, whatever. Life teaches you to grow with change.
My list has more negatives than positives. That doesn’t make me feel any better. So much for introspection. *sigh*
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Random Notes: Nausea, the Reading Habit and a Big Heart
I haven’t gone in for the check up with the doctor yet, but thankfully things are looking hunky dory. That is, if you consider constant nausea, wild cravings (yes, this early on!) and miserable mood swings to be normal everyday behaviour. Just another mad pregnant woman with hormone levels rising...
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A friend of mine in Mumbai always carries a book with him to work, so he can read during the one-hour journey in the early morning local train. Why not on the one-hour journey back? I ask. Because I’m too bushed to read and prefer to doze, he says. Anyhoo, he said he noticed something different among Mumbaikars lately. Every day he comes across people who want to know what he’s reading. Every day there are at least three inquisitive people in the train.
If you’ve lived in Mumbai, you know how Mumbaikars don’t give a damn about the throngs of people they meet every day in their travels to and from their work places. So it’s quite strange to have random people strike a conversation with you every single day. And all because you carry a book. He says this never used to happen about 8 years ago. I find this wonderful. It means more and more people in Mumbai are getting interested in books.
My friend says some enquirers even ask him what the book is about and if it’s any good. He says Chetan Bhagat’s book (he read Two States recently) has generated the most interest, hands down. That’s what I love about Bhagat. Purists can scoff all they want at his writing skills (lack of?) but ultimately, he is one of the few writers doing a great service to the common man, namely pushing the reading habit in India.
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I was reading this post on adoption which got me thinking about something I’m sure a lot of us have thought about sometime or the other. When I was younger I was almost certain that I would adopt a child one day. But the problem is we grow up and as we do, we rapidly shed ourselves of courage and idealism, preferring to link ourselves to things more within our comfort zone. Oh for the strength, love and determination to happily go through all the sticky issues that come with raising an adopted child! Especially when one already has biological children. I know no one is perfect and we are only human, so it is hard to imagine parents being completely unbiased all through.
Then again, I know there are exceptions. The following example is not really about adoption but it comes close, I think. Growing up in the Gulf, my family was very close to this family with five kids. We never realised till years later that the older two kids were products of their father’s previous marriage. They were only toddlers when their real mom passed away and their father remarried. No one in our circle of friends knew this bit of history, and the amazing woman who became their new mother never gave anyone a reason to doubt that all five kids were her own flesh and blood. We came to know the truth much later when the eldest child was in med school. I do remember when I was probably only ten years old, my mother remarked to this fine lady how much her eldest daughter resembled her and she only smiled in response.
**************************
A friend of mine in Mumbai always carries a book with him to work, so he can read during the one-hour journey in the early morning local train. Why not on the one-hour journey back? I ask. Because I’m too bushed to read and prefer to doze, he says. Anyhoo, he said he noticed something different among Mumbaikars lately. Every day he comes across people who want to know what he’s reading. Every day there are at least three inquisitive people in the train.
If you’ve lived in Mumbai, you know how Mumbaikars don’t give a damn about the throngs of people they meet every day in their travels to and from their work places. So it’s quite strange to have random people strike a conversation with you every single day. And all because you carry a book. He says this never used to happen about 8 years ago. I find this wonderful. It means more and more people in Mumbai are getting interested in books.
My friend says some enquirers even ask him what the book is about and if it’s any good. He says Chetan Bhagat’s book (he read Two States recently) has generated the most interest, hands down. That’s what I love about Bhagat. Purists can scoff all they want at his writing skills (lack of?) but ultimately, he is one of the few writers doing a great service to the common man, namely pushing the reading habit in India.
**************************
I was reading this post on adoption which got me thinking about something I’m sure a lot of us have thought about sometime or the other. When I was younger I was almost certain that I would adopt a child one day. But the problem is we grow up and as we do, we rapidly shed ourselves of courage and idealism, preferring to link ourselves to things more within our comfort zone. Oh for the strength, love and determination to happily go through all the sticky issues that come with raising an adopted child! Especially when one already has biological children. I know no one is perfect and we are only human, so it is hard to imagine parents being completely unbiased all through.
Then again, I know there are exceptions. The following example is not really about adoption but it comes close, I think. Growing up in the Gulf, my family was very close to this family with five kids. We never realised till years later that the older two kids were products of their father’s previous marriage. They were only toddlers when their real mom passed away and their father remarried. No one in our circle of friends knew this bit of history, and the amazing woman who became their new mother never gave anyone a reason to doubt that all five kids were her own flesh and blood. We came to know the truth much later when the eldest child was in med school. I do remember when I was probably only ten years old, my mother remarked to this fine lady how much her eldest daughter resembled her and she only smiled in response.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Family Expansion in Progress
The assistant at the doctor’s office took down my history. “29 years old, third pregnancy,” she said aloud while scribbling on a notepad containing other important details.
I suddenly felt quite old and wise. I repeated the words in my head. Third pregnancy. That would make me a pro by now, right? Something I can probably just breeze through. Never mind that my first pregnancy lasted only two weeks or so (after I found out I was pregnant, that is) and ended in a heart-wrenching miscarriage.
It was a beautiful two week period. The excitement of finding out that a life was growing within me was overwhelming. Countless plans and expectations soon came crashing down and I spent my first wedding anniversary flat on my back, hoping against hope that somehow, the life within would put up a fight and sustain. It was not meant to be. Thinking back, I now realise that it was for the best. I grew, professionally and personally, in leaps and bounds the following year.
The second time round, praise the Lord, it was meant to be, and I delivered a beautiful bundle of joy, complete with powerful ear-splitting wails. I had a harrowing C-section experience, followed by night after night after night of trying to constantly coax, sing and plead the wailing baby to please, please go to sleep. She was a very light sleeper during the day too, so you can imagine how much rest I got. This went on for over a year. She is almost two now but still wakes up twice at night. Despite being a complete brat from day one, our daughter enveloped our lives with love and a warm, cosy, baby pink feeling of fulfilment. I don’t think I have experienced anything as beautiful as the feeling I get when my baby girl puts her chubby little arms around me and says “Love you, Mamma.”
This time feels nothing like the previous two. Our future plans didn’t have a second child in it. But there I was, in the doctor’s office talking about nausea, tiredness and the other baggage that comes with pregnancy. And here I am, announcing my pregnancy to the world through my blog. :)
It’s elation I feel again, but from a different perspective this time. My daughter will have a sibling. I can be a mom to one more little person. It’s uncanny that one can have enough love to go around no matter how big a family one has. It’s still a strange feeling though, the love that I’m feeling, having not being in the scheme of things for us. I’m still trying to come to terms with it. My thoughts and feelings are a little too disoriented right now, but that could be due to the hormonal rollercoaster my body is experiencing.
A minor complication put my doctor on high alert. She tells me it’s too early to know if the foetus is strong enough. We’ll know after two weeks. If we can detect the heart beat at that point, things should be fine. Until then, I’m told I need to put my feet up and get some rest. I’m nervous. I hope the little angelic life within will pull through. And when we are back at the doctor’s office in two weeks I hope to see that miraculous heartbeat flutter on the ultrasound.
I suddenly felt quite old and wise. I repeated the words in my head. Third pregnancy. That would make me a pro by now, right? Something I can probably just breeze through. Never mind that my first pregnancy lasted only two weeks or so (after I found out I was pregnant, that is) and ended in a heart-wrenching miscarriage.
It was a beautiful two week period. The excitement of finding out that a life was growing within me was overwhelming. Countless plans and expectations soon came crashing down and I spent my first wedding anniversary flat on my back, hoping against hope that somehow, the life within would put up a fight and sustain. It was not meant to be. Thinking back, I now realise that it was for the best. I grew, professionally and personally, in leaps and bounds the following year.
The second time round, praise the Lord, it was meant to be, and I delivered a beautiful bundle of joy, complete with powerful ear-splitting wails. I had a harrowing C-section experience, followed by night after night after night of trying to constantly coax, sing and plead the wailing baby to please, please go to sleep. She was a very light sleeper during the day too, so you can imagine how much rest I got. This went on for over a year. She is almost two now but still wakes up twice at night. Despite being a complete brat from day one, our daughter enveloped our lives with love and a warm, cosy, baby pink feeling of fulfilment. I don’t think I have experienced anything as beautiful as the feeling I get when my baby girl puts her chubby little arms around me and says “Love you, Mamma.”
This time feels nothing like the previous two. Our future plans didn’t have a second child in it. But there I was, in the doctor’s office talking about nausea, tiredness and the other baggage that comes with pregnancy. And here I am, announcing my pregnancy to the world through my blog. :)
It’s elation I feel again, but from a different perspective this time. My daughter will have a sibling. I can be a mom to one more little person. It’s uncanny that one can have enough love to go around no matter how big a family one has. It’s still a strange feeling though, the love that I’m feeling, having not being in the scheme of things for us. I’m still trying to come to terms with it. My thoughts and feelings are a little too disoriented right now, but that could be due to the hormonal rollercoaster my body is experiencing.
A minor complication put my doctor on high alert. She tells me it’s too early to know if the foetus is strong enough. We’ll know after two weeks. If we can detect the heart beat at that point, things should be fine. Until then, I’m told I need to put my feet up and get some rest. I’m nervous. I hope the little angelic life within will pull through. And when we are back at the doctor’s office in two weeks I hope to see that miraculous heartbeat flutter on the ultrasound.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I Just Discovered I Will Never Be a Genius
Last year, I watched an online video of Elizabeth Gilbert on this wonderfully refreshing site. The American novelist and widely successful author of Eat, Love, Pray spoke about the disturbing observation that creativity and suffering are inherently linked. This is probably a fact everyone is familiar with. For centuries, artists – from actors to writers to painters to musicians - have fallen prey to depression and often died young because of it.
Gilbert says that this is due to the enormous pressure creative people have on their shoulders to perform, to delight their audiences, to move mountains maybe, to keep going a step ahead and better their previous works of art. Something that they might never be able to do, and which therefore leads them spiralling down to the depths of despair and is ultimately their undoing.
The author said that to protect herself from going down a similar path she looked at how ancient civilizations had dealt with creativity. This led her to a theory that she believes in strongly. The theory, in brief, is that creative people are not geniuses, but each of them have had a genius. She likens it to having a house elf (or a genie) who appears magically to complete all the housework. She believes that the reason a creative person can create those rare marvellously magical works of art is because of the presence of a divine spirit who decides to send a message through the artist.
The fantastic work, therefore, is not the human being’s at all; rather he or she is just the vehicle for the work to reach the world. So if he or she is never able to match that quality of work again, it isn’t his or her fault – the spirit had moved on to another artist.
When I saw the video last year, I was a struggling freelance content writer (I still am, mind you) who wasn’t giving as much thought to creativity as I was to paying the monthly bills. All I thought was, ‘hey! that makes sense’ and equated it with something that I believed in – that everything we have is on loan to us from God; it can be taken away from us at any point. I don’t think I gave it much thought after that.
Cut to today. I am still a struggling freelance content writer but I’m not as worried about paying bills so I’m using my few hours of daily joblessness (“It’s the financial year end,” my clients tell me, “bear with us.”) to indulge in my long standing fantasy of becoming a story writer. A few days ago I wrote my first short story. Yes, first ever (not counting the one I wrote for this blog). I’ve never had the nerve to do it before since I never thought myself capable of it.
Anyway, I wrote. And I surprised myself. For a first attempt I think it’s pretty good. And a few other people who read it said they love it (my husband actually got goose bumps reading it last night). But when I read the story today I still feel I am incapable of story writing. I have no idea how that story formed in my head and how I could make it so interesting to my readers.
Which made me think of Gilbert’s suddenly-everything-falls-into-place theory. I’m NOT saying my story is so wonderfully brilliant or that I am the next bestselling author to look out for. Nor am I saying I am suddenly being visited by God’s little helpers. What I am saying is I completely believe that without the presence of a divine something I would not be capable of writing a single word, let alone writing a whole story, and one that a few people find interesting at that. This makes complete sense to me. Keeps the pressure off the artists and keeps them sane.
So twenty or thirty years down the road, I’m not sure if I’m going to be a hugely successful author or not, but I do know I will be always be a writer, a sane one who is not contemplating suicide. I won't get all depressed when people say "Sumira who?" and I’ll have God to thank for keeping me sane. Oh yes, and Gilbert and her theory too.
P.S.: Don't forget to watch the video and tell me what you think of her theory.
Gilbert says that this is due to the enormous pressure creative people have on their shoulders to perform, to delight their audiences, to move mountains maybe, to keep going a step ahead and better their previous works of art. Something that they might never be able to do, and which therefore leads them spiralling down to the depths of despair and is ultimately their undoing.
The author said that to protect herself from going down a similar path she looked at how ancient civilizations had dealt with creativity. This led her to a theory that she believes in strongly. The theory, in brief, is that creative people are not geniuses, but each of them have had a genius. She likens it to having a house elf (or a genie) who appears magically to complete all the housework. She believes that the reason a creative person can create those rare marvellously magical works of art is because of the presence of a divine spirit who decides to send a message through the artist.
The fantastic work, therefore, is not the human being’s at all; rather he or she is just the vehicle for the work to reach the world. So if he or she is never able to match that quality of work again, it isn’t his or her fault – the spirit had moved on to another artist.
When I saw the video last year, I was a struggling freelance content writer (I still am, mind you) who wasn’t giving as much thought to creativity as I was to paying the monthly bills. All I thought was, ‘hey! that makes sense’ and equated it with something that I believed in – that everything we have is on loan to us from God; it can be taken away from us at any point. I don’t think I gave it much thought after that.
Cut to today. I am still a struggling freelance content writer but I’m not as worried about paying bills so I’m using my few hours of daily joblessness (“It’s the financial year end,” my clients tell me, “bear with us.”) to indulge in my long standing fantasy of becoming a story writer. A few days ago I wrote my first short story. Yes, first ever (not counting the one I wrote for this blog). I’ve never had the nerve to do it before since I never thought myself capable of it.
Anyway, I wrote. And I surprised myself. For a first attempt I think it’s pretty good. And a few other people who read it said they love it (my husband actually got goose bumps reading it last night). But when I read the story today I still feel I am incapable of story writing. I have no idea how that story formed in my head and how I could make it so interesting to my readers.
Which made me think of Gilbert’s suddenly-everything-falls-into-place theory. I’m NOT saying my story is so wonderfully brilliant or that I am the next bestselling author to look out for. Nor am I saying I am suddenly being visited by God’s little helpers. What I am saying is I completely believe that without the presence of a divine something I would not be capable of writing a single word, let alone writing a whole story, and one that a few people find interesting at that. This makes complete sense to me. Keeps the pressure off the artists and keeps them sane.
So twenty or thirty years down the road, I’m not sure if I’m going to be a hugely successful author or not, but I do know I will be always be a writer, a sane one who is not contemplating suicide. I won't get all depressed when people say "Sumira who?" and I’ll have God to thank for keeping me sane. Oh yes, and Gilbert and her theory too.
P.S.: Don't forget to watch the video and tell me what you think of her theory.
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