She studied her face in the mirror.

Writing prompt: She studied her face in the mirror.

Asha studied her face in the mirror. "Why did it look so different?", she wondered. She still had the same dark complexion, small black eyes and not to forget the double chin that made her neck disappear inside the collar of her shirt. But her face was shining and eyes were sparkling, and she could not help smiling in front of the mirror.

Everything had changed for her in the last couple of hours.

Asha, who was the oldest amongst the Mathur sisters, was always reminded of her plain looks by everyone around her. Mrs. Mathur, her mother, looked a wee bit uncomfortable when she had to introduce her in her fancy social circle. Asha, purposely stayed away from these gatherings allowing her younger and prettier siblings, Abha and Nisha, to hog the limelight. While her sisters would spend hours getting dressed to please their mother's friends and receive compliments from them, Asha would sneak into her father's study and pretend to be studying for her college exams.

 Mr. Mathur, was the only one in the family who did not care about Asha's dark complexion. "Even Shanti, my sister is no beauty but look at her brains. She has studied at Oxford and is now teaching there. My daughter, Asha, is brilliant like her. How can anyone  miss her intellectual spark," he apprehended his wife, whenever she cribbed about Asha's looks, and how difficult it was going to be to find her a groom.

 Asha was sitting in the lawn with a book from her favorite author when Anant arrived unannounced. He had come to drop a package which Shanti had sent from the US. With no one else in the house, Asha had no choice but to entertain the guest. The discussion started with the book she was reading to the courses he was pursuing in the US. Somewhere in-between their animated conversation the Mathur family arrived and found Asha completely engrossed, chatting with a stranger. Something they had never imagined in their wildest dreams.

Anant, had been taken by surprise. He had lived abroad most of his life. He had never expected to meet an Indian girl with so much knowledge and intellect. There was an unusual honesty in her opinion, she spoke her mind with ease and what a lovely smile she had, it made her eyes sparkle, he thought to himself. Anant seemed to be completely under her spell.

Mr Mathur was quick to notice the change in Asha too. She looked radiant. He smiled quietly to himself. While his wife fidgeted around Anant, confused seeing Asha so confident and charming in the presence of a young boy, he sent a message to Shanti, "Your mission has been accomplished". He knew Shanti had set the stage for Asha to find her groom.

   

Red beads bracelet

Another story created on one of the prompts.

I saw the box in the corner and the red beads bracelet with a little metal hook. The old woman saw the curiosity in my eyes. "Do you want it?" she asked, taking it out of the box and placing it in my hands. "The family across the road  were vacating and they left a dresser for the garage sale. I found this in one of the drawers."

For a moment I had goose bumps. Weren't those the beads I had given to Rani,  my seven-year-old playmate,  when she moved out of Delhi. She loved the red color and the smooth shining texture of the beads. She would borrow it when we enacted the little skit, "Lal Pari" and it was her turn to play the Pari.

Rani had promised to write a letter to me once a week when she left. The yellow postcards with barely legible scribbles came regularly for the first couple of months, then the frequency decreased and slowly the letters stopped completely. I continued writing but got no replies. Though I missed her terribly I was lucky to find new friends. But no one played the same games with me anymore. No one wanted to jump over the gate or walk on the pile of pipes lying in the vacant ground or enact stories made-up  in flat five minutes. "Who wants to decorate an ugly tall cactus plant on Christmas", I was told. But my argument that this is the one we have decorated for the last two years fell on deaf years.  

The red beads had brought back my childhood and my friend whom I had loved so dearly. But look at fate, she lived across the road, in the same neighbourhood, and I had never met her. Perhaps, met her but did not recognize her.

I put a hundred rupee note in the old woman's hand. "If anyone comes to claim it send that person to me. I live in the last house down this lane."

The sun was setting behind me as I walked away with the red beads bracelet in my hand and a little hope in my heart.              

Speaking doll

A couple of months back, Sonali discovered "online writing  prompts", an interesting way to let your imagination run. The prompt gives one line of the story and allows you to weave a story around it. Hope you enjoy reading it because I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. I felt as if I was back in school.

    
Speaking doll

I was in downtown one summer morning looking for a few pieces of antique furniture for the new sitting room I was redecorating. Anita, my interior designer, friend  had suggested, "Magical Collection", a new shop that had opened up recently and had got raving reviews in all magazines.

The shop was like a small museum. There were beautiful pieces of old furniture and other antique pieces on the shelves. Surprisingly, the collection had something for all ages. I was fascinated by the old toys lying in one corner. "Are these also antique pieces?" I asked the old sales woman.

"Of course", she replied. "They have been collected from different countries. look at that pretty doll with dark brown curly hair. She has travelled all the way from London. The collector got her from an old English family, he was closing shop so I bought her from him. An ideal gift for a small girl if you have one."

I thought about my five-year-old daughter, Shubhi and all her dolls in the pink doll house. But none of them looked like this one with the brown curly hair like a Golliwog.

When I got the doll home, as I had expected Shubhi was thrilled and she quickly gave her a name."I want to call her Brown Curls", she told me. The doll had a fair and pretty face with little red on her cheeks. Her mouth appeared to be big as if she had opened it to say something and it had frozen.  

For the next few days I saw little of Shubhi. She spent most of her time in her playroom with Brown Curls for company. Infact, I even found the doll snuggled in her bed one night. This was surprising because Shubhi never played with a toy for more than a couple of days.

"Why don't you watch some cartoons for a change. Aren't you bored with your new doll by now"? I  asked Shubhi one morning after she returned back from her nursery class.

"Why should I be bored. Brown Curls tells me better stories than you", she replied angrily "So your doll talk to you also", I said teasing her.

"Yes she does I know all about the English girl and her family that she belonged to earlier". said Shubhi without batting an eyelid.

Knowing Shubhi I knew  she could weave stories within stories. Not wanting to curb her story-telling ability I pretended to believe her.

However, I was in for a surprise the very next day. I was knitting a yellow sweater for  Shubhi sitting in her playroom when Brown Curls suddenly said "You knit so well!" She was in the little bed Shubhi had tucked here into.

"Please make me a wig with the yellow wool. I too want golden hair. I hate my hair. In the toy factory where they were assembling me this stupid and silly old woman stuck Brown hair on my head instead of  golden by mistake. I think her eyes were bad. Betsy that little English girl never played with me. she got all her other dolls new clothes but never for me. None of the other dolls liked me. They called me Golliwog and teased me. I am happy that Shubhi loves me even with my ugly hair and so I tell her stories."

I could see her eyes brimming with tears  and her mouth drooping. Now I was not prepared for this. Shubhi's endless chatter was enough in this house and now her doll turning into her clone.

"I will knit you a golden cap and stitch you a new dress if you promise to stay quiet , " I said pacifying her.

Shubhi was delighted to see Brown Curls in her new polaka dotted dress and her hair in the yellow wool cap. "Wow mom she looks amazing. Just like an English doll now". she squealed.

However, next day she had removed the yellow cap. "I  love Brown Curls with her brown hair. We discussed last night and Brown Curls and I decided that with her brown hair she looks even better."

Brown Curls continued to be in Shubhi's life forever. She even accompanied her to the US when Shubhi left for her undergrad.

Interesting, the doll never spoke to me again and Shubhi never mentioned any of their conversation to me either. I often wonder whether the doll really speak to me or was it my own imagination running wild. But even now I give myself the benefit of doubt for finally I did pick her up from "Magical Collection".                

Do I need to justify?

Every morning I tell myself that I lead a semi-retired life. I do not have to send children to school nor leave for work at nine in the morning. These little thoughts help me relax. Of course over two of cups of tea, I read six newspapers including the magazine editions that they carry, before I leave for work.

Today I read Namrata Zakaria's article on staying slim. She admits how everyone around her comments on her being thin." Being slim does not mean you are sick or anorexic, "she says. Yes, it is un-nerving when those around you start chasing your weight. We have all gone through that uncomfortable feeling while growing up but as adults it is embarrassing. Specially coming from people you barely know.

Recently, one of the most awkward questions I have encountered is "at your age how do you stay trim? I could be at a wedding, at a friend's place or a formal get-together, the barbs continue. And often my inquisitive audience goes into a clucking session, "very well maintained ...must be spending a lot of time in the gym.. must be dieting". The answers come without me getting in a word.

Now, do I need to respond to these! I did earlier, looking unsure because my doctor still thinks I need to lose more weight. "Being a diabetic it is important to protect your organs and weight can cause havoc on your system", repeats my diabetoligist each time I visit him.

After two babies my waistline did increase by four inches and weight went up from a mere 48kg to 72 kg. For a five feet, four and half inches tall person it showed in all places. I stayed like that for a long time till I turned 40+ and was thrown into an exercise regime by my daughter. More to keep her happy and less for myself I fell into it quietly. It is easy to lose inches, do away with water retention but that is only one part of fitness. The most important I feel is keeping stress levels low.

When in my early 50's I was detected with diabetes, I was in for a rude shock. I had done everything right so how did I get into this. But frankly had I really? A sweet tooth that runs in the family added to the stress of being an entrepreneur's wife, was my undoing. Mid-night meals of chocolates, Indian sweets, pasties is what led to my ailment. It is two years now and after giving up sugar, my diet has changed completely. It has helped me lose the extra pounds gradually. Proper meals and regular exercise is what has resulted in this trim look.

As Zakaria says in her article, they criticize Aishwarya Rai for being fat after delivery, and compare her with Lara who is back in form within two months of giving birth to her baby. The whole conversation is about weight loss. Yet, thin women are looked at with suspicion.

I wonder, whether I am thin or fat. Do I really need to justify my weight to all and sundry..

Musing to find a muse

Does every writer need a muse?

It was Shovana Nararayan's ballet "The Poet's Muse" that made me realize that even Tagore needed a muse to become a prolific writer.

The performance by Shovana and her team of dancers was wonderful but the story of Tagore and Kadambari, his elder brother's young wife is what got me thinking. As the story goes, both were only a few years apart and Kadambari was very fond of poetry and literature. She edited every piece that Tagore wrote while her husband was desperately working away to bring out a newspaper. It was her loneliness, or perhaps her thirst for literature that brought out the best in Tagore. Yet, it is surprising that she never wrote herself. Perhaps, she too needed a muse.

When Sonali, my elder one was around I wrote so often. There were so many little incidences. Either she was arguing, lecturing me or fighting with her sister, Shubhi. In short she gave me lots to write about. It was an exciting and interesting phase in my life.

Then my muse flew off to America but surprisingly, Shubhi and my niece, Tuks continued providing me with masala . The former was an interesting subject, totally disorganised, lacking in any kind of normal perfection. For a mother it was discomforting to observe her, however i could have written a blog on her every day.
Tuks was another interesting subject. A gentle and kind person. You can put her in any situation and she will come out a winner. Her positivity made me look at her cousins differently and that too helped my writing.

Shubhi went off to Upenn, Tuks got married in Bombay and Sonali and her cat, Noami, live in New York. I now talk to Shubhi's answering machine and Tuks regales me with her stories from Mumbai.

Surprisingly, Sonali and i have started chatting again and we have a lot to share. She adores her dad, calls him Cute, ofcourse I have not told her that i have nicknamed him Mr. Fuse. She has Noami and her ailments and I have Mischief my dog's endless trips to the vet to discuss. She finds it difficult to leave NY because her cat suffers from separation anxiety and I am stuck in Delhi fearing Mischief might succumb to some infection. I call it the fear of the unknown but finally my pet does keep me engaged and I owe him this much.

At the end of the day, I find it difficult to accept but I might have to manage with a "no muse" situation in my life.

 
 

A second Childhood

Some years back mom had fractured her arm and to make things worse, her live-in maid had gone to her village for a vacation. Thus, unable to manage on her own she reluctantly came to stay with me. I was working from home during that time and had only a computer paper to write for, leaving me with a lot of spare time to spend with her. We often went out for evening walks though she hadn't recovered completely. This piece I wrote after one of my usual evening trips with her to the neighbourhood park.

A second childhood

Walking along with mom in the park the other day, I was suddenly reminded of my childhood. Often, mom took me to the Children’s Park and stood around while I played with other kids my age.

Interestingly, after so many years we were together once again however, now our roles had been reversed.

“Mom why don’t you sit on the bench and rest a little”, I said. “Who said I am tired. When I was younger I was on my feet from six in the morning. We knew how to use our hands and keep active. We didn’t need a gym to burn calories”, she retorted.

Of course, she was rebelling the same way I did at the age of five. It was a hard task for mom to stop me from going wild. By evening most days my legs would hurt and somehow I knew, that by the end of the day, I would have a similar situation on hand.

That night, when mom got into bed, I quietly slipped in a heating pad. She looked relieved and did not protest. I remember, years back her handing me a glass of chocolate milk and saying, “Kids who drink milk at night have strong bones and can play longer in the park.”

During my school days, breakfast had always been an ordeal. I often tried to step out quietly, leaving half-finished food on the table. Unfortunately, I always got caught. For, mom would scream from somewhere in the house, “Eat the porridge and finish the egg”. It was as if, she had X-ray vision.

Now, it is my turn to coax her to eat her meals properly. “Mom, try out this. It will not be heavy. I will only serve a small portion”, I hear myself say, at meal times. Some days she obliges and other times, no one can reason out with her. “Don’t pile my plate. I know what I should eat. You know my stomach is sensitive. Look at my age and leave me alone,” she snubs me outright.

Off late, mom’s obsession with her live-in maid, Santosh brings back my daughter, Shubhi’s childhood. The little one was so crazy about her maid, Izabella, that when she went home once a year Shubhi scribbled letters to her.

Twenty-two year old Santosh, has become my mom’s constant companion. Santosh, a rare human being takes care of her day-to-day needs. I often see her in the afternoons, huddled with mom, with lots of wool and knitting needles. Only during these brief sessions I see mom assuming the role of an instructor and I see a hint of her old self in her.

My niece, Pallavi recently sounded a bit disturbed. “Mausi, nani keeps misplacing her things. She needs a search party all the time.”

Deep down I know something has changed in our lives forever. It is not easy to watch mom grow old. However, trying to calm down Pallavi, I said, “Enjoy her the way she is. You saw her commanding, organising and taking care of the family. Now it is her turn to take it easy. Let her enjoy her second childhood.”