The Battle of the Board - Behind the Scenes

Ding Liren, Vishy Anand, Vidit Gujrathi, Praggnanandhaa, and I – what do we all have in common? Rain or shine, we regularly attend chess tournaments, sitting through hours of gameplay, and at the end, nodding at people with a smile, irrespective of the result. But unlike them, to move the pieces around on the board, I'd need unnaturally long arms that might have to bend at odd angles and sometimes navigate through walls that separate the players' hall and the parents' waiting area.

Being a chess mom is much less glamorous than one would imagine. For one, you don't get to see your child play as you would if they were playing cricket or badminton. Sure, there are live telecasts on certain websites. However, I learned only much later (than I'd like to admit in public) that such privileges are reserved only for the first 5 or 10 boards. Until your child reaches one of those 'top' tables, you'll have to make do with their hurriedly scribbled, blotched, scratched, and incomplete scoresheets they bring back after the games.

The waiting rooms for parents are usually top-notch – you might occasionally be lucky enough to find a roof overhead or luxurious furnishings such as slightly faded plastic stools or chairs (perhaps standing in solidarity with color diversity?). They might have a slightly broken backrest or armrest, but why would any rational person lean back on the backrest or rest their arms on the armrest, I fail to understand. You can enjoy the comfort of the company of 8 to 10 other sweaty, slightly sunburnt prodigy-producing parents and coaches, seated back-to-back, side-to-back, or even arm-over-arm squeezed under small patches of broken shadow cast by a few parched trees scattered around the venue.

A good number of these individuals can be caught staring at their phones – which is what a good number of any good people are caught doing these days. Some are lost in parallel realms, their noses buried deep in books thicker than medieval castle walls. And then there's the I-must-stay-adequately-hydrated population taking swigs from their own private flasks - or bottles as we muggles call it (I've had my doubts that the flasks secretly contain Polyjuice potion and the drinkers are paid babysitters filling in for the insufferably bored parents/coaches).  Not to mention the I-eat-when-I’m bored lot munching on homemade (that sometimes look like they have been half sat-on) sandwiches or digestive biscuits or toasted almonds or anything else typically labelled ‘healdhy’ as they wait for their cerebral champs to come back with a grim or a grinning face.

Real-life sample of a scoresheet

Once your child is back from the game, you'll have the excitement of decoding the scoresheets. Reading them can be as complicated as the game itself when your child's handwriting makes every alphabet curiously resemble every other English alphabet. Some people resort to approaching their child's opponent to ask for their scoresheets in order to scout for clues and deduce missing bits of mission-critical information. In the chess world, it's often encouraged to convert the game into .pgn files reading the scoresheets by using simple-as-calculus apps meant for the purpose. 

The best part of the entire ordeal is listening to your child excitedly jabber nonstop about how they used a newly learned tactic to capture the opponent's bishop on g3, how the opponent forked their pawn and knight with their queen on b6, and how they still managed to finish off the opponent with a brilliant mate-in-4. Nodding along, throwing in a couple of questions like 'wow, really?' and 'are you serious?!' and occasionally sprinkling in a few deeper questions like 'did your opponent blunder?' and 'what opening did you play?' or 'did you finally get the dream position today?' might make you seem like the intelligent, dedicated Chess Mom that you are.

Image for illustration
purpose only. 

At the end of every tournament, which can run from anywhere between 1 to 5 days, parents (and children) are taught invaluable life lessons of patience and tolerance for hunger, while building resilience among the older population for whiny, grumpy, and genuinely tired children. With grumbling stomachs one must inevitably learn to spar with the tiny, abhorrent needles extending from a mosquito's face while they wait for the trophies and medals (which are, much to everybody’s admiration, distributed well before the clock strikes midnight). And just when you're promising yourself that you won't register for another tournament for at least a couple of weeks (so that you can live the life of a normal parent, pamper yourself with a few late hours of Netflix binge-watching and unhealthy snacks instead of being precariously perched on poorly moulded pieces of busted plastic or on the least dirty patch on the ground), you find yourself making the payment for the next U-07 tournament scheduled in 3 days. 

Behold, what other path shall a parent tread when their child's heart is captivated by the art of chess?

 

F.R.I.E.N.D.S with 6 little dots and all that

 I remember the days when I eagerly devoured series after series on my laptop and hoarded more movies than I could watch in a good decade. It had reached a point where even the boot screen would take an agonizing fifteen minutes to load – forget the home page. One could take a brisk walk, come back home and, off-key sing four whole songs behind the safety of the shower curtain, wolf down an entire pack of chips (some people do this and deserve not to be judged) and lick clean all their fingers one-by-one (again, one should not be judged for what they do when they think no one is watching them) and then come to find my laptop's home page huff, puff, pant, and wheeze into the last bit of loading.

“Game of Thrones” was all the rage in those days, and so were “How I Met Your Mother” and “Flash” and “Supernatural” and “Arrow” and “Sherlock” and a whole lot of other shows that we had to painfully scour a compatible subtitle file for. Every file was deleted promptly after a single viewing to make room for the next torrent download that was also destined to vanish into the vast digital abyss.

Amidst this digital chaos, there remained one folder in my laptop that stood untouched. No matter how many times the OS threw the Low Disk Space window in my face, begging me and sometimes even threatening me to “Manage” my space. (I was a true Engineer and was not cut out to “manage” things. Pffft.) That sacred folder bore the name 'F.R.I.E.N.D.S,' for it was, in fact my own collection of every single episode of the sitcom F.R.I.E.N.D.S. I wanted my unwavering devotion to the show to be evident, even in matters as trivial as the folder name. Even if it meant typing out 6 extra little dots and having the CAPS lock on and all that.

Many times, I had to make difficult choices between a series and a movie, as my laptop would let me have only either. While I honed the art of deliberation and careful consideration in making important entertainment choices (which subsequently felt like life choices), I continued to let my cherished F.R.I.E.N.D.S take up all the space it desired. If memory allocation had been within my control, I would have gladly granted a few extra bytes to that folder, just for the heck of it.

But was I being an evil stepmother to the rest of the movies and series? No! I regarded this dear little folder as my ultimate source of solace and stress relief. It acted as my personal sanctuary, my sanity-restorer. My own hip flask of Endorphin. I could play just about any episode of any season at any point in the day (or night) and still find it relevant and soothing like the consoling shoulder of a best friend.

The best part is that even though every one of those 6 characters could have been very successful in their lives, they fumbled and floundered their way through life like very real people. At the end of an exhausting day, we didn’t have to begrudgingly watch the extravagant life of a multi-star Michelin chef or a millionaire Hollywood actor or an impeccably dressed fashion icon. We could instead laugh, sigh, cringe, cry and live life in the company of a struggling actor who smelled fart, a boring professor who was very particular about his sandwiches or even a singing masseuse who carried the children of her own brother.

For more than one reason, this show invoked powerful emotions in me and it continues to do so. Because I know that if those 6 could get around to being happy for ten whole years on the screen, I can too, off the screen. If they could get over heartbreaks and failed marriages and childlessness and career struggles and so much more just because they had amazing people with and for them, then so can I. Because even though it hasn’t been my day or my week or my month or even my year and I’ve had a million struggles of my own in my life, I have a million and one reasons to live through them. I have my husband, my son, my brother, my sisters(in-law), my parents, my family, my extended family, and my own F.R.I.E.N.D.S (like the Australian Mahima and Hyderabadi Nireekshana who bully me into mentioning their names in my blogs) who have been and will be “there for me”.

Thank you, Marta Kauffman and David Crane for redefining sitcom. For redefining happiness. For redefining 'break'. And for defining Friends. 

The Printed Horror

 It was going to end here. On this abandoned terrace of a 20 storey building. It started in 2015 and it was damn well, ending today. She was sick of it. Sick of being the only one seeing it differently and being called wrong every single time! And she knew Abhilash was the one who had started it all, all those years ago. And so, he must go. However it happens.

She looked at him mercilessly. Gagged with an old and stinky sock, a tape covering most of his filthy mouth - the mouth that had taunted and tormented her endlessly, for only telling whatever she had seen. He looked exhausted from the dehydration. His eyes were puzzled, begging her to let him go. His focus shifted onto the bottle of cool water that lay on the table. He swallowed his parched throat as he watched longingly at those little drops of water rolling down the sides of the  bottle leaving an uneven wet ring around it. 

Under the sweltering heat, Abhilash seemed to doze off and just as his breath became deep and rhythmic, she smacked him hard on the face, waking him up in a jolt. He began sobbing, grunting muffled requests into the sock as he gagged. She wondered if he was throwing up. And the thought pleased her. He shouldn’t be spared - the little voice in her head kept telling over and over - for all those times. 

She pulled out the decrepit printout from her beige silk clutch. She took her time ironing it out on the table, trying to straighten out the creases that had impinged upon the precious photo. Her coolers were not doing a great job protecting her from the oppressive sun. She knew she would get a migraine if she stayed out any longer. But she wanted to ask him one last time what he saw on the paper. 

She ripped away the tape securing his mouth and watched him spit out the stinky sock from his mouth. No vomit - she noted with disappointment. “Sridevi, please untie me. I won't run. I just want to drink some water”, he croaked. “Oh, you don’t need to be untied for a drink” she smirked. She reached for the bottle and threw the water on his face. He shuddered in shock. But she knew how good the cool water felt against his sunburned face. She resisted her urge to swing the bottle against his head and instead poured some water into his thirsty cracked lips. “Oh, thank you, thank you” he sputtered breathlessly as he drunk up greedily.

She held up the paper in front of his face and growled “Tell me, what do you see. What do you actually see?”. 

“Argh! Not this again! I see Blue! Blue, blue, blue! I know you want me to tell White. But I don’t care if you kill me. But all I see is Blue!”. 

“What? No! You said it was White! I am the one who saw Blue!” She turned the paper in her hand and looked at the dress again. It was Blue and Black!

“You never listen, do you? I always said Blue and you said it was White!”

Sridevi tilted her head a tad to the left and looked at the paper again. It looked slightly white and gold alright. So what had she really told everyone? She couldn’t remember.

All she remembered was being the only one who saw Blue. Or White? She really couldn’t recall. 

“Lies, lies and more lies”, she screamed as she drew out the huge carving knife. She was putting an end to this and NOW! 

 

He breathed a sigh as he realised he had cut through the entire rope around his wrist with the shard of sheet metal he had located lying right next to him. Swift as a lightning, he pulled himself up and put his entire weight jamming his shoulder into her chest and sending her flying down the twenty storeys. She landed with a dull thud and he watched grimly as the crimson pool around her head seemed to seep out endlessly. 

She woke in horror, trembling uncontrollably. It took her a minute to compose herself as she looked around to find Abhilash sleeping peacefully next to her. Sridevi couldn’t believe that despite the absurdity of it all, she hadn’t realised that she had only been dreaming. She looked down at her hands and saw that she was still clutching her half read copy of “Misery”. She threw the printed horror under the cot and swore to herself to never fall asleep reading another Stephen King. 

The Rail Revelation

 Of late all her travels had been by air - including that one time she flew off the cliff; oh right, that had been a dream. As she walked into the railway station holding her son’s wrist – a tad more tightly that she usually would, she was unmindfully scanning the station for the baggage check-in counter. “Samosaeee, samosaeee” the hoarse cries of the turbaned hawker snapped her back to reality. She looked up at the huge LED display and skimmed through it to find her train number. Argh! Telugu script! By the time she had struggled to read through the first 3 letters on row 1, the display thankfully changed to English informing her train would depart from platform 5 in half hour.

She walked ahead trudging her luggage along. And climbed the almost-vertical staircase yanking her son by his arms. He was still counting the wagons on a freight train exiting the station lazily. She smiled sadly remembering that her little daughter was only a few months old when they last took a train. She tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if her daughter had been with her now. She sighed audibly and kept walking/dragging on till she reached platform 5. Her train was already there and she wouldn’t have to wait on the platform next to the deafening drilling going on in the tracks – what a relief! She located her coach, helped her son up and climbed the coach pulling up with her, her mysteriously weighty trolley – she had only packed in 3 days’ worth of clothes and a couple of towels. She could have sworn the bag gained a few thousand grams with every step she took.

Her son had been grinning bright-eyed, ever since he whiffed the heavenly aroma of ‘bajjis’ as they’d walked past the pantry car. As soon as they plomped down on their seats he darted up to the upper berth (upstairs, he called it). A sweet-looking woman, about her mother’s age, all pink in her face, walked into her compartment, urgently ushering her porter to drop her 3 huge trolleys, get paid and get off the train – he had just under fifteen minutes before the train started! The weak-looking porter kindly offered to arrange her humongous bags below the seats, reassuring her that he will indeed manage to get off the train on time. The Plump Aunty (let's call her PA to ease up on the pronouns) smiled up at her son who was tying the string of his shorts to the safety rails of his berth. “What are you doing beta?” she asked him fondly. He answered her that he is making himself a safety harness in case he falls off. PA chuckled and turned to her “Is he yours?”. She nodded, smiling. “How old is he?” “6, aunty”, she said. 

By the time the train departed, her son had already made over 6 trips between the ground floor (as he called it) and upstairs. And had devoured 2 bajjis, washed it down with one frooti and finished over half of all the snacks he’d carefully chosen for himself at the supermarket last evening. And his every move seemed to amuse PA. It must be the ‘Grandma-gene’, she thought to herself, as she recalled how his own two grandmothers adored him and pampered him to legitimate ‘brat-hood’. But he had always been a well-behaved, soft spoken and sweet little boy – both her kids had been so. And she had always been a proud mother – like every other mother in the universe. 

She heard a child chattering nonstop from a few compartments away. She remembered her own daughter asking her a zillion questions on their walk back home from her school. She missed her like she missed a limb. Her baby girl had gone too soon. Three was the age to play on the swing, sniff at wild flowers, explore nasty looking insects, secretly chew on crayons and cry bitterly on your mother’s shoulder hoping to avoid playschool. 3 was not the age to die of pneumonia. The cold reasoning voice in her head reminded her “Almost a third of all pneumonia victims are children younger than 5”. She had read it up. She knew a lot more about pneumonia than she liked. The comforting voice in her head gently reminded her that whilst the grief will always be with her, life will inevitably grow up around it. She only had to put one foot in front of the other for now, take it one day at a time. 

She blinked away her tears hoping her son hadn’t caught sight of it. She didn’t want to keep reminding her son that he had lost a sibling who had adored him. She looked up and saw that PA had now joined her son upstairs and they were both uttering random gibberish and giggling. It was very sweet. Upon inquiry, she learnt that they were inventing their own language. After a few games of ludo, rock-paper-scissors and uno, and with the snacks bag considerably lighter, her son announced that he was sleepy and was going back upstairs. Soon enough he fell asleep to the rhythmic rocking and swaying of the train. 

She was touched by how much PA genuinely doted him. “What do your children do, aunty? '', she asked. PA smiled at her, “I don’t have any, beta. My son and husband passed away in a car crash when my son was only 7 – about his age” she said beckoning at her son who was now slightly drooling. “And that was over 22 years ago'' It felt like a blow to her gut. And she couldn’t stop her sobs. 

“I’m so sorry, aunty. I truly am. I lost my 3-year-old daughter only a couple of months ago. Life has become a complete wreck.”, she said, struggling to hold back the tears. Before she could stop herself, she had narrated everything from her daughter falling sick to getting admitted to the hospital, to her brain death. PA reached out and held her hands softly in her own wrinkled warm hands. “It’s ok beta. Death is a part of life.” 

“When I lost Sriram and his father, my life was nothing but darkness and turmoil. I was crippled with grief. One day my friend who had lost two of her babies in late pregnancy showed me the two quilts she’d made in memory of her children. She asked if I’d be interested in learning something new. I was willing to give it a go.”

“Gradually the creative process gave me a purpose, an opportunity to chat through thoughts and feelings as my friend and I worked together. As I worked on the quilt, I remember finding the sensation of the quilt on my knee physically comforting. It took me 3 years to finish my first quilt – it was not a quick process! It still hangs on the wall of our house. I hope it remains in the family, perhaps through the generations. I find reassurance in the thought that their memory will live on that way.” PA appeared pensive, eyes glistening with a hint of tears. 

“Birrriyani chapathi, Birrrriyani chapathiiiiii” the spiritless cries of the pantry car vendor reminded her that it was almost dinner time. And just like that, in a beat, PA had bounced back to her former cheery self and was now chatting away on the phone to another beta. 

After making sure that the ‘Biryani’ cries had drowned in the rhythmic rumbling of the train, she woke her son up. She didn’t want her homemade parathas to go waste in all the Biryani frenzy her son would be driven into. He rubbed his eyes and groggily informed her he was starving. She rolled her eyes. He had gone to sleep only thirty-five minutes back and had had a big cream bun just before. She helped him down and unpacked his favourite Paratha-jam combo. In under 4 minutes, he had gobbled down his dinner and was licking his fingertips. 

PA now took out a crumply plastic package from her bag and unpacked it carefully. It caught her son’s attention who was now eagerly expecting the aunty to offer him some of her own dinner. Much to his dismay, the stainless steel dabba consisted of 'boring curd rice' and a soggy Mor-Milagai and the humble dinner was not offered his way. She secretly suspected her son would’ve still liked to have a bite or two of it. When she looked around, she found that he had a scowl of disapproval plastered on his face, as he continued to glare at the aunty’s dinner distastefully, subtle as a gun. She smiled to herself. How was it possible that she loved her son more than she did just half hour ago? She also knew she would love him a little more tomorrow than she did today. 

PA finished up her dinner, and put away the dabba carefully back inside the crumpled plastic cover and into the bag. Eager to entertain him a little more, PA started telling her son the story of how lord Ganesha got his elephant-head. And he was asking why lord Shiva had not magicked a child’s head, what with Him being God and all, instead of beheading a poor elephant calf. PA laughed out heartily and caught her eyes, smiled reassuringly and wordlessly conveying that life would eventually get better. Pain was inevitable in everyone’s life – just like in both of theirs.

Losing a loved one can evoke intense emotions and pain one would’ve never fathomed possible hitherto - having to choose the dress they would be buried in, having to tell a last bye - one last kiss, having to deal with their possessions after they pass, trying to hold on to the memories of their last days, trying to remember every little detail of their lives fearing it would be forgotten forever, desperately trying to remember what they sounded and smelled like, the fear of being stuck in the past and the dread of moving on without them and grappling with the heart-wrenching grief. 

But everything in this universe comes with an expiry date – one likes it or not. And until then, life is all about making calculated choices to become better than we were yesterday. To transform our pain into something meaningful – to be kind and empathetic, to grow through the grief and realise that today is never coming back. 

Happy 2021

 As the year 2020 draws to a closure, we look back and it's been anything but an easy journey.

What burnt all its rage as bush fires, poured down mercilessly as flash floods, swirled and swept over as violent hurricanes, swarmed in as hungry locusts, began melting the world's largest iceberg. Is there something I've not mentioned? Ah! The most unprecedented health crisis of our times, the deadly Corona. Nonetheless, we as humans have fought tooth and nail to scrape out of this disastrous year.

What has Corona and the year 2020 showed us? That the worst brings out the best in us. That humanity shall prevail despite the growing distance among fellow humans. That kindness is even more infectious than this disease itself.

Not only the rich and the wealthy, but even ordinary citizens are getting in on the act and are going out of their ways in helping the distraught, the homeless and the hungry. The unwavering optimism of humanity has swept across the globe with waves of solidarity. The stories of nurses singing for the birthdays of their patients at the ICUs, and doctors holding hands of their patients in their last hours make our hearts swell, our eyes well up with those sweet happy tears. We might be tired. But we are not at the end of the tether. We have learnt that doing good doesn't require fame or privilege.

2020 has shoved in our faces the unfairness and the vulnerability of the basic system. But today, as we walk into 2021, let us remember, we still have time to repair and heal; the power to move through our present adversaries and get to the other side, hands held.

Let us sit up and take note of this wake up call to build a world out of the shambles that it is in, into one that is sustainable and compassionate. Because we deserve it. And we owe it to the generations to come.

A very happy new year.

Thank you.

Aishwarya

Dogma of Dogs

Dogs, who doesn't love them. Those furry tail-wagging pet delights bouncing up and down at the sight of their family, leaving merry trails of dollops of drool, wolfing down their dog food, non dog food and sometimes even non food, messily lapping up from their bowls, and sometimes (much to the mortification of the housemates) toilet bowls..

My brother and I had always wanted a pet dog and have many a times futilely tried to coax our parents into letting us have one. My mom would cheerfully agree how adorable dogs are. But just as we got to discussing about adopting one she would suddenly remember a saree she had to iron or a plant that was wilting bone dry from not being watered for over four hours and swiftly rush to the obviously more important tasks that was keeping our house together. And my dad would open the newspaper and shake it up a bit and get to reading the editorial section as soon as he heard us mentioning dogs. And that was that.

As a child, I grew up watching Scooby-Doo, Goofy, Pluto, Droopy, Courage The Cowardly dog, The Popeye Show, SpongeBob SquarePants, Dexter's lab… Alas, I digress. That's to say, I grew up enticed by dogs and pups. I would pet random stray dogs, share my lunch with a couple of dogs that roamed inside my school campus, rub the belly of my friends' pet dogs, you get the picture. 

But like every good piece of literature, my story also has its peripeteia and my pronounced love for dogs has now turned to flat-out petrification. 

One late evening, after a hectic day at office, I was enjoying the smoky, dusty, chemical-laden "fresh" air outside our office. That is all was one to expect at Jigani industrial area, Bangalore where my office was at. (I am a bit popular among my friends for making most of what I have, and cheerfully so. *Beams proudly*) 

So as I stood there, with my best friend Mahima, my other colleagues, and my then boss, Fitze, abusing our lungs, waiting for the already late cab to carry us back home, I saw this handsome mighty adorable collared dog walk our way. Dark as it was, I couldn't immediately make out what breed he belonged to. Now i am someone who believes, a breed is to dog as caste is to man, darn it, that's right! So a complete no no for discrimination of dogs based on caste.. er i mean breed. 

The muscular build, the short broad muzzle, the softly floppy ears, the careful, calculated, steady strides towards me, all of these must have been screaming caution at me. But my slightly intoxicated state, thanks to the "fresh" air and my yearning for a jolly good playmate just until I got into the cab quite tilted away my caution antenna, which was now feeding a soothing white noise to my brain. He, the fellow dog, reached me. I must admit, I was a tad taken aback as he walked closer and I assessed, his snout would reach well above my waist. I couldn't also help think that he could go for my throat if he wanted to and he wouldn't even have to sweat for it. And I wouldn't really have a say in it, would I?

What should've been adrenalin pumping in my blood, mistakenly turned out be to oxytocin. All these scary thoughts that just flashed in my head made me want to pet him, rub behind his ears, cuddle him and noshey-kisshey him all the more. And I paid heed to my instinct. Obtusely. 

The reluctant beast shied away from my pats on his head. From behind me, Fitze was calling out to me telling it was a Rottweiler and that they are known to be ferocious. And that I should walk back when I still could. But me being me, gently, lovingly, totally unnecessarily, convinced him I wasn't trying to hurt him. Pfft. Yeah. Right. He took a step back. I took a step forward. He bowed down, I took it as an okay from him to pat him. I touched him. Once. Twice. I reached behind his ears slowly to rub him some. Sounds almost romantic, doesn't it? It was everything that wasn't. 

The beast suddenly looked up at me. Slightly baring his teeth. From behind me, Fitze was cautioning me. Almost shouting at me to move back. But no. The sweet dog was just puppy-eyeing me. Or was he? 

Before I knew it, the dog had taken a giant step forward and half leaped on me, front paws on both my shoulders. He was looking at me dead in the eye. My adrenal gland woke up from its slumber party. But now my muscles were locked up. Nah ah. Wouldn't move. **Great loud thumps of my heart and a lot of blood rushing to my ears and my head that I hadn't been using until a minute ago**

Buuuut....Fitze man to the rescue! He glided behind me unnoticed and slowly put his hand out to me. I was still gaze-locked with the he-dog. Tongue wagging, drool dripping, his breath warm on my terror-stricken face.. Fitze casually asked me to take his hands. The last thing I wanted was the scar of the dog's teeth mark running across my cheeks and nose. So for once, I finally did as I was told. 

Fitze held my hand gingerly and started walking towards the cab that had arrived by then. That darned driver had chosen the right evening to be late. Curses on him. I followed Fitze. As did the dog. He was hopping with me, paws still on my shoulders. Still looking at me intently, as if to dare me to approach another random dog ever again. I tried not to break the glance, lest he pounce on me or chew away my nose or do something more horrific. 

In a swift movement, Fitze pulled me free from the dog, pushed me into the cab and closed the door right behind me, walking away coolly puffing out rings of smoke. I have never thanked the man enough for saving me that day. Outside, the dog tried to determine what really had happened, paced right outside my window a couple of times before walking away. I breathed out. I was alive. Ah.  

I turned around to understand what else had happened by then and realised everyone had been laughing their heads off at me the whole time. Especially Mahima. That mean person was still laughing, face flushed, tears rolling down her cheeks, holding her stomach and rocking back and forth in her seat. She was laughing so hard, I almost found myself questioning why I became friends with her in the first place. Someone else even walked up to me and showed me a photo of mine that he had clicked while the dog was still cuddling me. Yeah, it turns out the nasty beast was trying to ahem-ahem with me. My ears were hot with embarrassment when Mahima, amidst her breathless guffawing croaked out that the dog tried to lurrve me in very special ways. My throat and lips parched, my eyes refusing to shut and my hyper dilated pupils refused to shrink back to their normal size. At the end of it all, I was monumentally grateful to my stars that I didn't get a very public dose of the unspeakable dog-love or lose a chunk of my face to some macho looking punk-dog stranger. That was enough for a life time. And some more.

And so dogs, stay away from me while I stay away from you. Shoo. 

Look who's talking!

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the steam..” Of late this has become one of the numbers I am caught crooning of the various other nursery rhymes there is no dearth of which in my YouTube home screen. In all fairness Siddharth Gautham does not own a device that could host a YouTube playlist full of these rhymes for him. So, for now, what’s mine is his. My phone and my YouTube subscriptions. Also deserving mention, my handbag (it’s more of a duffel bag these days), my side of the bed, my pillow, my eat-time, my sleep-time, my bathroom time, basically, anything that was once uncontestably mine alone.

Siddharth Gautham is my twenty month old toddler. I write this as I rock him on my lap putting him to sleep. I know he is a tad too old to be rocked to sleep on a lap. Alas, he doesn't know that. Nor is he willing to learn this for a fact. This and few others.

Toddlers are naturally deceptive. They look unbelievably adorable, cushy cushy: like you could hug them n squeeze them all day long. That is until a preposterously strong heel whams on your jaw. Whilst you are still collecting yourself from the pain and recoil, the source will essentially have wriggled away from your arms – most likely with a devilishly cute giggle that will leave you grinning through your teary eyes. (Overcome by love, at this point, I bent down to kiss my ever-so-awake son – been rocking him for the past half hour now. He smiled at me and poked my eye. So I go back to rocking him, leaving him alone).

Toddlers are these marvellous little people that are made of sugar, spice and everything nice with a dash of sweet sweet nectar from satan’s most favourite flower blooming in the great and terrible gardens of the underworld.

They are known to be quite the talkers. The transition from imperceptible babbles and sweet cooing to tiny broken words  understood only by the Ammas and Appas, is too subtle, it almost escapes your notice. The gradient was so gradual, even though I had  made it a point to document every new move of Sid, (every sneeze and barf and laugh and poop and anything remotely associated with him) I can't tell for sure when he spoke his first word and what it was.

Sid was an early talker; that much, I can vouch for. He was only around 10 months old when he started banging on closed doors baby-yelling 'opeyyyy opeyyyy' and if you got him mad enough, he would emphasis on his desire to get the door open and squeal 'opiyaaaa opiyaaaa'.

It is nothing short of a wonder that while I fully understand what Sid baby-talks, I have to look to my brother and SIL to decode everything my little nephew says. Despite the magnitude of the population speaking it, it is a shame that baby-ese (as I would like to term it) is not yet a globally recognised and understood language. It does not have a grammar or vocabulary of its own. No SI units. No ISO standards. Each toddler makes up a language as he/she darn right pleases. How convenient. For them.

A deft communicator that Sid was, (and is) from an early age, he learnt to get things done his way with his vocabulary constituted of barely half a dozen words. His most favourite word, as I recall, was 'opey'. He got us to understand he wanted to go for a walk - all he did was bang his tiny fists on the front door and cry 'opeyyyyy opeyyyy'; if he got thirsty, he would simply pick up a water bottle, toss it across the floor and 'opeyyyy opeyyyy’; and when hungry, the refrigerator door would be yanked off its hinges with a bawl of ‘opeyyy opeyyy’. You get the idea - effective communicator.

One of my favorites was when my mom taught him to tell ‘aamaam aamaam' in response to any question he was asked. It was the most adorable thing watching him respond to a question with 'aamaam aamaam' in baby-talk. His whole tiny body would be speaking the word alongside his tiny mouth. His little head nodding, his knees springing concurring with his each nod, his eyes open wide enough to cover his face.

Sid’s vocabulary grew expeditiously. For example, by when he was 13 months old, Sid could identify at least 5 vehicles. Though his bus and bike were both 'bae’ and his lorry was 'noyee', he got ‘car’ and ‘auto’ right. And to this day, I cannot remember when his 'noyee' became 'lorry' or his 'bae’, 'bus'. (That he can now identify about fifteen types of vehicles is the one of his latest shticks up his sleeve).

Sid has this really disquieting habit of eating anything in his vicinity. Doesn't matter how small it is, or big. He sometimes even flaunts his half chewed content to me and says ‘ennamo’ (meaning 'something’), leaving me running behind him in horror trying to pull the whatever off his mouth, jamming my finger into his mouth, getting bitten royally while magnificently failing to prevent him from swallowing a significant chunk of the ‘ennamo’. So me, in all my likely brilliant farsightedness, taught him to drop anything that is in his hand if I told 'Dhoppu podu' (translates to drop it *dhop*). The idea was to utter the magic word before he tossed his floor-pick into his mouth. He caught up with this pronto. In fact he went a step ahead and started saying 'Dhoppu podu’ on my behalf and started flinging things around. So now I have two things to worry about when he picks something off of the floor or a shelf. The contents of the lower shelves have now been hastily shifted to those that he can't reach. As for the floor, I wish I could do the same without us falling through.

Over time Sid has refined his pronunciation – close to perfection in some cases. What was once ’whee whee’ – his all-time fancy – is now ‘wheels on bus’. ‘Shomae’ has become ‘snowman’. ‘Thoothaaa’ to thootham, ‘miyam’ to Milan, and ‘shenjin’ to ‘fire engine’ are some of the evident changes of a whole lot.
It's been a while since he started using two words at a time; Amma phone, Tata polaam, thootham venum, thoongi venum – many more. He has also stated asking decipherable questions – ‘paati enga?', 'enna saththam?', 'enna aachu?' and the sort.

Of late he has been surprising us by singing some random nursery rhyme. I still remember how one day, out of the blue, he started singing 'Nonny, nonny, yes papa!'. Twinkle Twinkle, Baa baa Black sheep, ABCD are some of the other rhymes he can sing these days. Although, I am starting to think only my husband, and I can actually make out his singing. But who cares?! My baby is a talker, and how!

“குழல்இனிது யாழ்இனிது என்பதம் மக்கள் மழலைச்சொல் கேளா தவர்”. For those of you who can't read/understand Tamil, the above quote is an excerpt from Tirukkural and translates roughly to 'he who has not heard his child’s baby-talk shall claim that the sweetest sound is that of a flute or a harp. And there is nothing more relevant for me at the moment.

Sid just fell asleep, as did my legs. I better go. Good night y'all.

Things to do when you have a Heartburn in the dead of the night

This piece of writing will predominantly be helpful if you satisfy one or more of the following criteria:

1.       You are a girl.

2.       You are a pregnant girl.

3.       You are a pregnant girl in her last trimester.

4.       You are a pregnant girl in her last trimester with indigestion and acidity issues.

5.     You are a pregnant girl in her last trimester with indigestion and acidity issues who wants to make most of the pregnancy woes.

With the prerequisites in place for this think piece to be of any notable use to you, let us ponder on this disquieting malady and the ways of dealing with it. 

Pregnancy, ah! The miracle of genesis, life, birth, nausea, backaches, sleep deprivation, abdominal swelling of unnerving proportions, eternal hunger and nonstop pregnancy harangues from every mummy, aunty and granny you bump into.. 

Now then, when the design and specifications of human reproduction and conception were being schemed carefully, God deeply reflected upon the values of life, space-time continuum, the volume of cosmic dust, the fundamental role of a mosquito in the expanding universe and various other eminent affairs of prodigious order (because He is the God, duh!) and then thought to himself, “Embodiment of indigestion and heartburn into the data package must make for a holistic concoction of all the pains in the rear end. And, mwahahahaha”. From then on, these two afflictions have been prime co-conspirators in disrupting the already-scanty sleep of a pregnant girl in her last trimester. 

An online search for relief from heartburn offers numerous futile remedies that are known to be effective to degrees ‘diddly-squat’. Hence, I am going to list down the more pragmatic things to do when the demon strikes.

1.   Wake up with a start as soon as you feel that corrosive liquid itching its way up your oesophagus. Look at the time and cringe. 

2.       Suppress the nasty wet burps. On second thought, let it out rather noisily.

3.       Look around to see if your husband has woken up to your noise. 

4.       Fake a hiccup. Fake a noisy hiccup. 

5.      If (husband==asleep), repeat actions 2 and 4. 

6.    If step 5 is ineffective, open the water bottle and drink a couple of indecently loud gulps of water. You could accidentally hit the bottle on your bed stead on purpose when you put it back in its place.

7.   If there is still that obstinate snore rumbling, it is time to give up on your innocuous attempts at waking up your husband. 

8.      Very loudly, get off the bed and walk out of your bedroom. 

9.      Sit on your couch and sulk a bit. 

10.   By now, it is already time for the acid to make its second ascend up your throat. 

11.  Rush to the kitchen and gulp down some cold milk. It helps – for about 2 mins. 

12. Noisily straggle through the contents of your refrigerator till you reach a pack of biscuits. Even if you know the exact location of the pack, move around and shuffle the stuff inside the fridge a bit. If you have not woken up your mom yet, the next morning she will notice the holy mess on account of your mid-night snack-attack and fuss over you and pamper you a little more acknowledging your lack of sleep. 

13.   Unhappily, groggily munch on a couple of those biscuits and go back to the couch. 

14.   Suddenly think of a wise-ass quirky status for your Whatsapp and update it.

15.   Ponder over if the status is good enough for the bigger social networks. 

16.   Reluctantly decide to browse through Reddit. End up looking for the r/Funny subreddit and fortuitously spending over half hour dry-retch laughing at the ever-so-funny images. 

17.   Get the shock of a lifetime and have your heart skip a beat when you hear your parents’ bedroom open. 

18.   Throw dismayed looks at your mom who walks in on you laughing at your monitor, sitting all alone in the dark, in the dead of the night.

19.  Listen to her rants about how you are going to go unquestionably, unconditionally, positively blind if you keep doing what you were doing in step 16. Half dazedly squint as your mom turns on the light. 

20.   Simper a bit. 

21.   Sheepishly inform her you were unable to sleep, thanks to your acidity and heartburn. You could also think of replacing your abashed looks with those of a puppy dog – whichever works best with your mom.  

22.   Listen to her nocturnal diatribe as to why you should rather be sitting on the floor, in your pooja room, meditating and praying for better health for you and your baby and how it will inadvertently relax you enough to get you sleepy again. 

23.  Wait for your mom to take a pause and most respectfully, fake-yawn. Announce you are finally sleepy.

24.  Hug your mom (you will need to. You cannot afford to walk out on her now and not expect to wake up to grim consequences the next morning.)

25.   Take another gulp of cold milk and head straight to your bedroom with an apologetic look.

26.   Be greeted by your husband’s loud snores.

27.   Sulk more on your bed till your heartburn subsides.

28.   Get back to sleep.

Following this religiously might help alleviate the distress your sleeplessness shall cause. 

But be warned. Your mom walking in on you doing the same thing unceasingly every other night, despite her relentless insistence on the need for your spiritual inclination might not go down merrily. You might have to think of varying your routine a bit so as to not get caught doing the same step every night. If for instance, your mom walks in on you noisily shuffling through the fridge, she might offer to make you a nice bread toast. You will have at least 3 months of this misery to put up with – enough time to figure out more fun stuff to do. Afterall, Reddit is not the only heartburn-haven. 

Enjoy every phase of the pregnancy – people say. If only they could also offer a  canny and reasonable piece of advice of how exactly one could do it! But, it definitely is fun feeling the squirms and wriggles inside your tummy knowing that there is a little you, waiting to impound on anything that could remotely be termed your life, your privacy and your routine for an eternity. 
Can't wait to hold you in my arms and adore your little yawns and hiccups. Love you, my baby!