Monthly Archives: September 2011

Words Alive

“Mamma, can you keep the night light on so that I can read myself to sleep?”

And I realize that I have waited for this moment, through all these years of reading to him.

The day when he would take over and struggle to keep his eyes open to cover yet another page.

The day I would take the prone book off his chest and place it on his night table before tucking him in.

When I would whisper, “The thinks you will think and the places you’ll go.”

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Filed under Arvind, Parenting

Lost

Tequila shots lined up on the grimy, grey mosaic floor.

“How many for you to take your shirt off?”

“As a matter of principle, three shots after yours comes off, so I have time for a  fuzzy SWOT analysis.”

The pleasurable burn of  tequila rushing through her, his hands through her hair, her face in his unwavering palms.

Move in with me. Stay with me. Be with me.

Her face stilled by shock, unregistering. The darkness of her neck as she flings her head back, laughing.

Not more than a heartbeat or two and the steely chill sets in his eyes, reflecting all that is irreparably rent. The weight of his defeated arms hanging by his sides.

Not more than a couple of seconds lost to her disbelief and mirth in the minute that changed their lives forever.

Tell me not to go, she whispered against his lips months later, as GoodBye Central bustled relentlessly behind them.

Why would I do that, he laughed, easily planting a kiss on the top of her head.

Hopeless seconds when she would greedily memorize the softness of those lips and his leaden heart would lock her scent away forever, in the minute that sealed their loss.

9 Comments

Filed under Fiction, love

You’ve Got A Friend

At the home of superfriend R, in between taking freshly laundered capes out of the dryer and exercising superpowers.

MGM: We have to this discuss this thing.

R: Uh-oh. Better put the tea on then. Rough day? What’s up?

MGM: It really bothers me how even after you’re done having kids, it’s somehow the onus of the woman to get her tubes tied. I mean, shouldn’t men be volunteering vasectomies at this point?

R: Isn’t that their business? Wait. OF COURSE NOT. Because who would we judge then?

MGM: Seriously. Pop one through your hoohaa and its all vulvar distress and no AMOUNT of kegels will help you NOT wet yourself ever so little when you’re jumping up and down, dancing to Song 2. Seriously!!

R: VULVAR? That is not even a word. I just poured tea. Have some mercy.

MGM: Oh, suck it up already. It’s 2011 and we can’t talk about vulvæ over tea? The post-episiotomy monster one deserves a medal for chrissakes. And C-secs? You had one. I had one. Tummies that look like badly set liver pudding. Loose skin that makes your abdomen look like a shoddily stitched bag.  If Ryan Gosling were to walk up to me and say, “Shed your gear, honey”, I would be too ashamed. THE SHAME!!!!

R: James McAvoy? Something tells me James would have a workman’s hands and appreciate a real woman’s body. He wouldn’t go, “Monster vulva. That is just gross.”

MGM: Wait, we can’t derail over gorgeousness. Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t agree? A good man will let his eyes sweep over his gorgeous progeny, take a minute to reflect over the corporal sacrifices made by his lovely, often annoyed wife and instinctively think, “My work here is done. I must stem this bounty at the fount. I must spare her the slightest brush with gynæcology and fix this myself, so as to continue with unfettered monkey business.”

R: You can’t spare yourself a brush with gynæcology anyway. Not unless you want to die of cervical cancer avoiding any brushing. Come on. Maybe it’s not painful. Maybe it’s like a smear. Ok, who am I kidding?  They should so get snipped. At the bloody fount. AND be in pain. Only ripe agony will do.

MGM: I KNEW you would see it. It’s principle. It’s basic courtesy. You tear, I snip. Your pain to get them out. Mine to make sure they stay put as a perfect, phantom third child. Really. Every mother needs to raise her sons to be so considerate.

R: And you know the kind of guy who wouldn’t even entertain the thought when presented to him, right? Yup. Mr. Don’t-Make-Me-Pretend-To-Care-If-It-Was-Good-For-You-Too. Mr. Roll-and-Snore while you turn to James McAvoy in desperation.

MGM: You’re not really sharing, right?

R: Oh god, no. After shoddily stitched bag abdomen, continued and excellent sexual service should be written in stone in the family constitution. As a fundamental human right. Wait. As MY right. So much better.

MGM: Come on. Can’t be anything as painful as labour anyway.

R: Face it. If you were a guy, you wouldn’t go there unless you were taken kicking and screaming, you darned diva.

MGM: *shudder* Not a chance. Not while there was grass on God’s green earth.

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Filed under Self, Things That Make Me Go Grrrr!

Laziness Leads to Poetry

I love this poem to pieces and I would feel greedy if I didn’t share it with you all. And you would not be wrong in assuming that I have an Adrienne Rich habit.

No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No poison cup,
no penance. Merely a notion that the tape-recorder
should have caught some ghost of us: that tape-recorder
not merely played but should have listened to us,
and could instruct those after us:
this we were, this is how we tried to love,
and these are the forces they had ranged against us,
and theses are the forces we had ranged within us,
within us and against us, against us and within us.

– Adrienne Rich

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Filed under Uncategorized

The Thursday War

“Mamma, is it Friday today?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s Thursday.”

The tiny little body stiffens as the fury whirls up within him.

“But Friday is Take A Toy day. And I HATE Thursdays. Thursdays smell like farts. I hate Thursday so much that I will paint it pink, stamp on it, break it into many, many pieces and flush it down the toilet. And then Thursdays will drown in the sea forever.”

Anger Management à la an-otherwise-peaceful and happy Armaan.

Clearly all that Roald Dahl is having an impact.

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Filed under Armaan