Bheja Fry

"Beta, who developed the theory of relativity?" 

"Ein-Tine"

The proud nani is crowing over her two-year-old grand-daughter's skills while I agonise over what I am doing wrong with my 16-month-old, who can barely identify her nose.

"I really like the way this play-school operates. They teach Einsteinian theory through blocks."

"The mum-toddler classes that I attend does a comparative analysis of Kant, Hegel and Nietzsche." 

"MY play-group is taking advanced classes in the Japanese tea ceremony as an activity."

I look around at all these wunderkinds who can presumably expound new theories for the destruction of the Indus Valley Civilization and the creation of Black Holes in the same breath and go on to compose an entire set of raginis in the next. I feel overawed and embarrassed for my poor baby, who has just begun to identify her family and a few everyday objects. I am determined to embark on a new course of study to better myself and her. 

Day 1: I begin to furiously research playschools and pre-schools. We will consider only those that have an impeccable academic and co-curricular record. I make a short-list of schools that offer krav-maga, comparative literature, advanced calculus and zumba. After all, I don't want to overload the little tyke. 

Day 2: K and I begin rehearsing for the interview process. Her part consists of looking cute and not making "I want to go potty" faces. I am stressed, though. About what to wear (I can't come across as too casual or too formal) how much of my work to talk about (You're a gender activist and communication consultant? Stay away/ How lovely?) how much emphasis to give to the home atmosphere? In addition to brushing up my admittedly weak General Knowledge (I watch the Alia Bhatt video for tips) I am getting PP to give me a crash course in Industrial Chemistry. 

Day 3: We go for the interview. Only one parent is allowed and PP has frankly funked out. (He claims exigencies of work, but I can tell. Besides, he claims, I have the flexibility to schedule my work a bit. Ok. OK.) I take a deep breath and we walk in to the gate; K hanging on to my finger. The guard at the gate asks me my name, address, mobile number, blood group and Mensa score. I don't have a Mensa score. He gives me a flat look. No Mensa score. No entry. I try and argue and threaten him but he is firm. I am not even sure I possess an IQ after trying to juggle everything in my life. Mensa? Really? 

Day 4: The next school only accepts parents who own at least 5000 square feet of luxury condo space in any major metropolitan city in the world (If it's a Third World country, the space requirements are upped to 15000). Apparently this is so that the child has ample space for physical activity and privacy for introspection. D-uh. We own NO space anywhere. Strike Two.

Day 5: The third one demands that mums be able to look like models straight off runways; hold down a corporate job (VP in an MNC at the very least); cook and bake like a Cordon Bleu chef; handle all relationships including extended familial ones with the ease of a trained psychologist; socialise at least four times a week and spend 24/ 7 with the child. No go. On all counts. 

By now I am desperate. I contemplate taking up teaching so that the brat can be admitted to the same school. But I shudder at the thought of trying to cope with so many kids. I have my hands full with one. All admiration for pre-school teachers, but no aspiration. 

And then a soft cheek rubs against mine... "Ichaaa. Lub-you." (Translation: Richa, I love  you) and I wake up. Thankfully reality is slightly better than the nightmare. If only for the moment. 

hand-me-down; pull-me-up

There is all the nostalgia and emotion associated with wearing or using baby things that have been in the family or with friends for generations. Beyond that, there is the (admittedly virtuous) feeling of satisfaction that I get in not adding to the mindless consumerism/ eco-waste already present in our world. 

The fact that it is economical does help. 

I was a little appalled when I saw the prices (and utter uselessness) of most baby stuff. The five star baby-buggy that PP and I saw when we were shopping for a pram, cost more than I sold my car for and it should have been able to sing lullabies and change diapers at the price. I think parents, particularly first-time parents, get totally suckered by the avalanche of not-so-subtle, guilt-provoking advertising specifically targeted at them.  

Then there are the designer clothes. I felt positively ill when I realised that someone I knew had spent close to ₹100,000 on a garment for her four-month-old who would wear it for all of one grand season. Sure, it's great to indulge your kids and I respect that, even if I don't always agree with the form it takes. But one lakh for a few months? For a babe who actually can't be bothered about what s/he is wearing as long it's comfortable and warm/cool according to the weather?

So I was very happy to take on and pass on stuff. Between two friends whose kids had outgrown their things, I got car seats, blankets, a much-loved bunny and other toys, bathing chair, rocker, high chair, baby carrying ring-sling and wrap, nasal aspirators... My best buddy gave me the cot that both her kids slept in and a pregnancy book that I was the third mom to use...Another two friends gave me a bunch of very useful books.

In turn, I have passed on cloth diapers, feeding pillow, baby sling and wrap, books, mobiles, nappies, clothes, toys, to three other young mums. Old saris found a new lease of life as nappies and clothes for K; Carefully preserved baby clothes were pulled out - mine and  PP's  - for the obligatory airing and wearing.

Do we really need to buy so much new stuff? Yes, there are some things that you want to buy new. But there are an equal, if not more, number of things that can be happily passed around. It's not as though a baby has time to wear them out! 

I already have my eye on these lovely, traditional gararas that my honorary niece has outgrown  and am waiting for K to grow into. 

When things are shared around, they create a sense of belonging and closeness. Especially since everything has it's own history. Such and such cot was made like this and we painted it in this colour, originally... Or such and such sari was bought for the princely sum of 200 rupees by so-and-so and "you just don't get work like that anymore". 

I remember totally lusting for my older sister's clothes and later, for my mother's saris and a lovely, ancient jacket that was older than me and belonged to Dad, which I wore for the longest time. 

So go on, spread the love a little. Beyond your immediate family is great - you end up extending your family through sharing, caring and building memories together. 

On that smugly virtuous note, adios.

if looks could kill

"I'm preparing her for the real world."

"That hair looks so ugly, no? Let's get it removed for you."

"You people don't take care of her. She has become so tanned in the sun."

All of this is pretty normal if you're the mother of a girl. Concerns about appearance override pretty much everything, even health. As though that is the passport to a good life. So you have seven-year-olds getting their eyebrows threaded; 10-year-olds getting waxed; four-year-olds wearing lipstick and nail paint and 13-year-olds getting the works - everything from bleach downwards. 

Parents obsess about their children's weight - not because it's a health issue, but because they "don't look good." When exactly did "well-groomed" translate into hair-less, wrinkle-free, shiny, plucked, powdered and painted, botoxed, fair, size 0 bodies? Kids not going out to play in the sun  - not because of heatstroke - but because they will tan?

I would have tanned too - or rather my hide would have been tanned for me, had my parents even suspected I thought about my appearance to this degree when I was a kid. I would come back from sailing camps, tanned and skin peeling  - till where my shorts and tee covered me. 

(I was mortified when I went to the swimming pool after that - anyone would be - wearing that kind of skin contrast :D ) hair bleached and roughened by constant exposure to sun and salt. Or when I was on this camping trip in the mountains and despite the shades and sunscreen we were ordered to wear, I looked a bit like a raccoon in the reverse by the end of it. 

The point is, looks weren't really a big deal back then. Being well turned out was. Which basically meant that you had to be clean, with your hair combed neatly, and not wear torn or stained clothes. And precious little of that ever happened, because one was too busy romping around. And I don't once recall my mother clucking over the impressive collection of scars that I acquired, other than to say that it would make a nice break for me to have a scrape-free knee once in a while.    

My first experimentation with make-up (kohl and lip gloss) came on the sly,  when I was 15-16. Despite never really having bothered with make-up beyond kohl, I do understand wanting to look good or wanting a change (I just bought, of all things a RED lipstick - my first lipstick purchase in a decade or some such - hush - more on that later... But please be judicious in using the stuff since most lipstick brands, including the reputed ones, contain vast quantities of lead). 

I certainly can't claim to be immune to wanting to look good. Far from it. Yet I do feel a sense of responsibility, especially now that I have a daughter who is likely to (hopefully, later rather than sooner) want to subject herself to the trauma of hot wax, threads, the instrument of torture called blackhead remover, harsh chemicals and whatnot, all in the name of looking good. 

Then there is that entire other obsession with body shape - wanting to aspire to photo-shopped bodies which nature never made or intended. Wanting to "fix" parts of your body so that it fits in with a media-hyped image of what the body beautiful should be like.

And of course, being Indians, we have an entire industry dedicated to make you "fair". With ads promising you everything from a good marriage, to a better job to social stardom and a whole new self-confident persona, it's a wonder that we bother with working at anything... why not just buy a bleach or a fairness cream and turn your life around? 

Of course the media is to blame. But as adults, don't we recognise it? Why then, should we perpetuate these myths and ideas of beauty amongst our children? Just because our generation fell prey to these, does not mean that we should lose the next one to them.

And if undermining your child's natural confidence isn't reason enough for you to stop: think about this. Most of the commercial skin and hair-care and cosmetic products on the market are pretty toxic. It might be idea to turn to your kitchen to see what you can rustle up. There are also really safe products like those promoted by Krya which I, for one, use regularly.  

And please, I am not advocating turning into a slob. But there surely exists a happy mean between what we've become and what we can comfortably be. 

Drama mama

"Ma angry. That is not nice."

The brat winsomely pokes her index finger into a nostril and offers it for my inspection after an exploratory journey within her nasal passages. 
***

I am sitting with K on my lap and engrossed in some work. Irritated at not receiving attention, she slaps me. I glare at her without saying anything. She begins humming nonchalantly and patting me (pretending that was what she was doing all along) while grinning like a particularly mischievous monkey.
***
We are at "Nani house" and I am trying to explain to K how nani is my ma, just like I am her ma. I put my head in nani's lap. She pushes nani away. Nani tries to explain that she loves both of us. I try the same. K is having none of it. She slaps herself on her knee; yells "CHOT" and tries to force a few tears out. 

The thing with K is that she has been able to cry tears from the day she was born. (Till that time, I had no idea that babies didn't actually cry till fairly late in the day.) Thanks to her over-developed tear glands, anyone not familiar with this, who has ever seen her cry thinks she is being traumatised brutally and I am a terrible parent. This was in play, even as a two-day-old, when she landed up in the neo-natal ICU under photo therapy lamps, thanks to a bout with infantile jaundice.

The nurses there, all fairly experienced in handling newborns and premature babies, would say to me, "Ma'am your baby has the loudest cry in the entire NICU. Please come a little before your feed is due. Poor thing cries so hard, she has tears running down her face."

Full marks for survival instinct. Extra marks for emotional blackmail. Even Dadi who is fairly inured to K by this point, melts when the poppet sheds a few tears. "Beta, zaar-zaar ro rahi hai. Kya hua?"

"Nothing mamma. I refused to let her have my specs."

So the struggle to raise a child who is somewhat un-spoilt, continues amidst much drama. I think she secretly practices twee faces in the mirror. There was the down-turned mouth just before she cried as a baby. There is the wrinkled nose with wide grin and upturned face now. And the "Peeese?" (Please) that she has mastered. Please note that "sorry" has not been included in the vocabulary despite much drilling.

The effect is pretty impressive when she unleashes her current arsenal on an unsuspecting audience. Everything from offering a favourite toy to force-feeding people (you know she is a typical Punjab-UP product in this respect) to shyly putting her head in my lap and blowing kisses... Come by some day and you'll see what I'm talking about :)