whiff of fresh air

The fingers…….

 Cute chubby fingers that held me, as you suckled my breast and enjoyed the sweetness of mother’s milk.

Cute chubby fingers that held me tight, at midnight, when woken up by a bad dream or the barking of the neighbour’s dog.

Cute chubby fingers that curled up to hold mine, when I held you close to my bosom.

Cute chubby fingers you held my face with, to plant a  sloppy kiss on my cheek. 

Little fingers firmly entwined in mine, as you took your first baby steps.

Little fingers, all messy and coated with the chocolates you ate, that you wiped on my saree.

Little fingers that pointed, with sweet gibberish from your mouth, the ants and insects that troubled you.

Little fingers that gathered the mud from the yard and put them into your mouth.

Little fingers that held the crayons, as I discovered your creativity in the myriad hues splashed across the newly painted walls.

Little fingers that held a pencil firmly, as you started writing your ABCD. 

Small fingers that held the cricket bat as you rushed to play out with daddy.

Small fingers that wiped my tears without a word, but with twinkling eyes, whenever you caught me weeping. 

Teenage fingers that were reluctant to hold my hand.

Teenage fingers that accused me, with fire in the eyes, “You are wrong”.

I watched in amazement the transition. Cute chubby fingers, little fingers, small fingers, teenage fingers and finally they grew up to be normal fingers.

They became invisible as years passed by. Fingers that did not need my assistance.

Every child I saw reminded me of the cute chubby fingers, the little fingers the teenage fingers and then I longed for those fingers that were  invisible to me now.

I am old and frail, my whole body aches. I lie here waiting for a glimpse of those fingers that have become invisible to me.  

Won’t you come to me, my child, for once, let me feel them, the fingers that conveyed so much to me.

Hold my frail face, with those strong fingers …….

Give a gentle touch to these aching limbs of mine……

Feed  me a morsel  to satiate my hunger……

And above all hold me tight to reassure me.

I await you, my child.

This blog is dedicated to all the beautiful mothers of the world.

Of Moanings and Mornings .

Reading DK’s latest post 30 questions tag on iland made me wonder about my mournings …oops mornings.   As I wake up at 5am without any moaning or mourning, I am reminded of all my early mornings of the past years.

My dad was a government servant and his posting as the Revenue Divisional Officer to the remote town of Kasaragod in 1972 (Then in Cannanore district  and now  Kasaragod district of Kerala State) had me shifting to the vernacular medium from the English medium schools that I was studying in, till then. So there I was, learning Abhinava Ganitham (Modern Mathematics), Rasathanthram(Chemistry), Jeeva Sasthram (Biology), Bhauthika Sasthram (Physics), Samoohika Sasthram (Social Science) et al in my mother tongue instead of English. My classmates’  jaws dropped as I spoke and wrote English, their introduction to the language being only for 3 years and I surprised my teachers  as well  by  catching on  quite easily to the science subjects in  Malayalam.

The Madonna Convent school I went to, had both Malayalam and Kannada mediums of instruction, Kasaragod being the border area of Karnataka state.  The school had classes upto 7^th only and my father was unhappy with the government school that my sister went to.  One of my classmates, Jameela,  even got married. She was just thirteen. Education was not given much importance in that town those days. Dad decided to give a better education to his  children and  the next year chechi (elder sister) and I, were packed off to the nearest boarding school at Tellicherry (now Thalassery). 

It was at this school, Sacred Heart Convent Girls High School, that I started my moanings as I heard the nun go riiiiiing riiiiiing to wake us all up at 5am.  Catholics among us were supposed to attend the morning mass at the church and the rest of us finish our bath (we were allotted bathroom  number and a particular timing for bath) and sit in the study room (hehe you can guess whether we were studying or reading comics/ Enid Blytons, under the cover of our textbooks,   which  we couldn’t finish the previous night when the lights went off at 10pm!) So that became a habit, waking up at 5am, without moaning, at the sound of the bell.

Next was my stay at the college hostel (junior college, the present plus 2) at St. Teresa's College, Cochin.  Here, there was no   one to wake us up and we had our own, but limited, freedom but again I woke up on my own at 5am, to avoid the bathroom rush and have a leisurely bath, what with the long thick hair that I proudly  showed off  those days! Another 2 years of   waking up at 5am !

Further on, I secured admission to Trivandrum Engineering College as a day scholar and I was happy thinking that I could sleep till  my normal time of 6am. You see,  I rise with the sun.

But the happiness was short lived.  Engineering college was faraway from town, the classes started at 7.45am. To catch the college bus at 6.45am. I again woke up at 5am, bathed and dried my hair so that I could plait my hair in two. ( I was known as the girl in two plaits in college!).

1983 saw me back  in a hostel, this time a working women’s hostel,  at Alwaye .  The rush for the bathrooms had me waking up at  5am again. After marriage, the same 5am timing continued except on Sundays. Sundays I woke up at  6am. Read the newspapers and then after some time I used to poke hubby dear to wake up. “It’s a Sunday , can't you sleep for some more time ” he would retort.  But then Aditya didnt let me na ..neither did  Surya nor  Bhaskara I told him. I had hoped that he would at least open his eyes and ask “who” when he heard all  those male sounding names, but alas! he just turned back and slept, he knew I couldn’t sleep after sunrise.

 The 5am moaning continued and the 5am was preponed to  4.30 am (with more yawns than moans!) when I had kids and  motherly duties were added to my chores.  This continued till 2003.

I resigned my job in 2003, rather abruptly . I was at home free to do my cooking and other house hold chores at my anytime. So again the time shifted to Aditya’s rising. I would get up at 6am and spend 30 minutes, doing jobs in between, and  trying to wake up my kids to send them to school at 7.15am.

Having been used to all those 5am waking ups, now again I have shifted back to the same timings for an early morning walk or a work out at the gym. I see a lot of people on their way to work in uniforms, and some returning after the night shifts.  I wonder how many of them will be moaning  about their early mornings to work! 

Nowadays, with time weighing heavily on my hands I have developed the habit of catching a nap in the afternoons. I am envious of hubby dear, who has the ability to drop off to sleep anytime, anywhere!!! I still have to reconcile to his occasional sleep splurge of dropping into a deep 2 or 3 hour sleep right after breakfast!!!  That too after getting his full complement of sleep the previous night.

He is one I know who has early moanings as opposed to my relishing my early mornings.

Well, as they say opposites  attract, don't they????

 Photo courtesy : Shail - my sister

Cricket, Jadeja and  a  poem

In the early 1970s, I  was a tomboy playing cricket with my younger brother and friends. We had a rubber ball and  a "madal"  (the stem of a coconut tree, freely available in the neighbourhood) shaped as a cricket bat . That was until I was made to realize that I was girl, supposed to be all coy and not to venture out and play with boys. That was the end of my sporting activities in a not so sporting society that makes little girls realize what a bane it is to be born as a girl, when your brother goes around playing your favourite games with his friends, as you watch through the windows longing to laugh and play with them.

Cricket came into my life later when hubby dear (then in college) was an avid cricket player who represented his school in many a championship.  I used to watch him play matches wherein he tactfully blamed his losing the game on my presence at the venue. I still wonder whether that was because of luck or his inattentiveness in the game, seeing his lady love on the stands. Either way my presence at the stadium was to watch him rather than the game. At 47 he still plays the game, despite  the bulk he carries the latest match being at the famous Sharjah Stadium. Later in life, it was our son, who wouldn't pose for any photograph without his cricket bat.  My interest in the game is minimal and I don't understand the craze, hype and hullabaloo created around that game when they say "Eat cricket, Drink cricket, Sleep cricket"

It was around 1999, a few months before the world cup that I was enamoured of  Ajay Jadeja on TV. Two of his advertisements caught my eye, one of them was the advertisement of Head and Shoulders shampoo with Jadeja ruffling his hair and asking " Kyon kehete hai mujhe Mr Cool". Wow he looked really cool and my eyes used to pop out every time the ad was aired on TV. I would just ruffle my sons hair singing " Kyon kehate hai mujhe Mr Cool", much to his annoyance.

One lazy Sunday morning, when all the family were together  joking about my new found "idol worship", out popped an idea from my brain. Why not ask my son to write a poem, send it to Jadeja and get his autograph?  I cajoled him into it. Write something like My mom's not a cricket fan, neither one of . The words just gushed out of my mouth, and left my family scraping the collective jaws from the floor!!! I reproduce the result of my Jadeja fever, below.

To Ajay Jadeja

My mom’s not a cricket fan

Neither one of Jackie Chan

But she is a fan of Ajay Jadeja

And her name is (Mrs.) Shivaja

I want to write a poem about you

But I just cant continue

For she is my mother, very dear

And her birthday is very near.

I want to give her something nice

For she is the centre of my life

So please send me your autograph

Along with your photograph.

.

PS

Sadly my busy schedule didn't help me to get this through to my idol and it still lies in my poem collection.

Now that no restrictions are imposed on me and I am free to play the game, I have tried, but  then find myself defending my body from the ball, rather than hitting the ball with the bat much to the amusement of those who bowl  !!!!

SMILE


Her face reminded me of my granny. The toothless grin (scarce to find nowadays with the advent of dentures), grey hair, thick lens glasses and a simple sari worn in the typical Gujarati style. I spotted this lady in front of her house during one of my early morning walks. She waved at me smiling. I too smiled and waved back.

Kem Cho? (How are you?) she asked me the next day. Saru che (I am fine ) I replied, smiling. We became friends through these warm smiles, that invariably lit up my days. Further down the road another smiling face met me. The municipal sweeper, with his wheel barrow, on his daily duty of cleaning the roads. He gave me his toothy grin and I smiled back.

As I hurriedly walked forward I met this fat gentleman walking his fluffy white Pomeranian dog. " Good Morning" he called out smiling. I smiled and walked on lest he start one of his boring lectures. I walked towards Kamati Baug the large, beautiful and lush green park of Vadodara ' the delight of joggers, morning walk enthusiasts and young lovers alike.

The fresh air blew across my face. The rays of the rising sun filtered through the tall trees. People from all walks of life, young and old, men and women, kids, all enthusiastically doing their rounds on the jogging track, waving at familiar faces with a smile on their lips. Happy couples were seen walking in quiet conversation lost in each other and basking in the glory of the morning sun. A dull ache enveloped my mind as I wistfully remembered the time when I walked along the same place with hubby dear, exchanging intimate conversations, until his posting abroad.

Feeling a pair of eyes on me, I glanced sideways to see a group of monkeys squatting on the lawn. Were they grinning, I wondered, reminding me of Darwin's theory of evolution? Or were the simian cousins amused at the madness of the men walking in circles for no obvious reason?

I walked back home refreshed, ready to start a new day. Behind me I heard the tinkle of a cycle bell. I made way for the cycle and looked back to see another smiling face " Good morning auntie". It was my neighbours daughter on her way to school. I smiled as I said "Good Morning Beta ..Have a nice day"

Smiles, smiles all through the way. The milkman, the watchman, the newspaper boy each in their own inimitable style.

It brought to my mind the thought I had scribbled in my diary many years ago.

Smile a while .

And when you smile, another smiles,

Soon there are miles and miles of smiles

And life is worthwhile because you smile.

JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ

KEEP SMILING……………..

When your husband becomes your boss .Part II


(My thanks to a friend for fuelling my imagination that lead to writing this article when he suggested writing about role reversal after reading Part I)


It’s not fair, I had complained to my GM.

I was referring to the office order asking me to report to my husband, when we have the same seniority.

That’s how I shot the first salvo on my own foot! GM in all his fairness immediately issued an order, making me in charge of the office. I was thrilled to think my hubby dear will be reporting to me.

And look at the trouble it landed me in. I could not have dreamt what I was letting myself in for! Little did I know the thrill would be short lived, and my tale of woes would have a longer life?

I had to stay back after office hours to attend a meeting and I sweetly reminded HD, who was about to leave office, to get some vegetables on the way home. Why don’t you make out a list lest I should forget some items, his words were sweeter
still. I found myself hurriedly scribbling a list even as the office peon announced the arrival of the persons I had to meet. He ushered them in as hubby dear sauntered out, murmuring to himself - most probably memorizing the list.

I was left with a bunch of would be clients, distractedly worrying over the fact that I had not put in Milk in the list. Did I imagine it, or was there a self satisfied smirk on HD's face, an extra spring in his walk??? Shrugging it off, I turned my full attention to the visitors.

Meeting over, I landed home at 8.30pm.

My son opened the door. To my query “where’s Dad?” he replied “Asleep”. My daughter came running with a load of complaints. She was crying. I just wanted to bathe, eat and hit the bed. But here she was, weeping and as a mother I had to console her first.

” Amma I asked Achan where Cape Town was and Achan asked me to go and look up in the atlas. I was hungry and he bought me samosas. I don’t like samosas. Amma .and you know, chettan ate 5 samosas amma..( small rounded eyes conveyed her horror at this violation of Amma's sacrosanct orders to stay away samosas).

I consoled her. A few words, a smile and a loving kiss were enough to bring out a smile on her face. (And, of course a promise of a family pack of icecream the
next day!!)

I started my routine. Cooking, overseeing the HW, folding clothes, tucking kids to bed and it was almost midnight when I could finally sleep.

The shrill trill of the alarm woke me up at 5am. My head was drowsy but still the thought of the day ahead and a lifetime of habit woke me up. The milkman would be here any moment and if I was late he would wake the entire neighbourhood with his sonorous voice “Beeeeeeen Dhooooooodh…”.

I started my daily chores hoping against hope that He would help..but alas!!! some mountains not only never move, they pointedly ignore you! One hour later, cooking done, I went to have my bath with HD still nursing his morning tea and face buried in the newspaper.

“Can you make some dosas for me?” I asked him sweetly “Chutney and sambhar are ready”. “Consider It Done” he said as he folded the newspaper. Out from my bath I could
smell something burning and called out to see HD scurrying to the kitchen.

As I came out dressed up for office, I found the table laid perfectly and HD standing a la the waiter of a fivestar hotel with the plate of dosas. My! Was I impressed ??

But for a short while. I looked at the shape of the dosas as he grinned and
commented “Looks like Africa isn’t it? That’s because I taught Molu about Africa yesterday. Sure, Africa was called the dark continent na..? I joked as I turned the dosa to see the burnt side.

The first thing that I did on reaching office was call up my boss and request him to withdraw the order. When asked to cite reasons for this change of mind, I unabashedly took refuge in the umpteen mysterious female ailments, that are quite convenient for just such a situation.

I realized that it is better that hubby dear be my boss in office..,,,After all hadn’t the good LORD made me the boss at home???

PS. Don’t be fooled into thinking that my HD cannot cook. Oh dear, he is an excellent cook, but…..the dosas still remind you of all continents/countries in the world. After all I am yet to see a man (and a few women too!!) who can roll out dosas in a perfect circle.

Prologue (April 1997)

I was transferred to our regional office at Baroda which required me to report to my husband.

Wowieeeeeeee …. I thought .

But then come again I know him as a husband but what would he be as a Boss???

As it turned out, he was the best boss I ever had. Many a time I found the clients who came into the office eyeing me warily and the neighbouring offices talk about the boss and subordinate affair ! The last straw was when a guy mentioned to my hus that he was seen in the park with "office ka madam"

You should have seen the guy's face when hubby dear mentioned that the pretty lady he was gallivanting with, in the park on that beautiful Sunday just happened to be his wife as well .!!!!!!

What follows is a piece I wrote six months into working with him in our relatively new roles as Boss and sub-ordinate . Please read on .

When your husband becomes your BOSS

I didn't know whether to jump with joy, or cry, when I learnt that I was to report to my husband at FEDO (Western Region). Let's wait and see how the new boss is, I thought.

Like the traditional Indian wife I don't call him by name. My! Initially how difficult it was to speak out his name to others.

I would just enter his cabin, oops I forgot to knock! (It's Ok, he didn't mind it). There I am beside him explaining some details or getting a cheque signed, when I feel the peculiar look of the guest seated opposite.

My boss introduces me. "She is Ms. Shivaja, Manager ' Civil ". I look at my boss to complete the introduction, he continues " Incidentally, she is my wife ". I am relieved. Thank God! The guest needn't go back with a misplaced feeling. Remember to keep a respectful distance in office, says my hus . sorry boss! Having been with him for 20 years (includes our days in College too!) how can I be so unnatural.

While going on leave, I don't have to explain the reason to my boss. He understands perfectly well, you see, he's my husband. But, I better submit my leave application on time or else an endless lecture follows.

The most difficult part is when he forgets I am his colleague. File these papers, give this to Mr.X, call Mr Y, remind me of the meeting tomorrow. I look around. Am I at office or at home? It's really difficult to draw the line.

" . " he calls me. "shhh someone might hear my pet name". I say. It's fun too. I can see him daily, every minute, every second. I just need to open a door.

Tour..!!! Not again!!!!??? Grrrr . I'll miss him. Both in office and at home!!! Earlier the missing was restricted to home alone. Now its at work too.

So you see, I am his wife-cum-secretary-cum-assistant-cum-colleague-cum .all mixed in one.

Epilogue (September 2007)

Good things never last longL As months passed, all the clients, neighboring offices understood that we are an engineer couple. Then it was "ahhh great !!! You work together .same office .so nice."

Nazar lag gaya and now we are miles apart for 7 years not to count the earlier 9 years separation before 1997.

Miles apart ….yes physically ..but then the closeness is so much I feel he is with me all the time…every second, every living moment of Life

Thank you God J

The crowning glory

My teenage son spikes up his hair, twists it this way and that, colours them red, blue, purple and many other hues the maker did not intend it to be.' Although I am old fashioned and cannot digest all these, I let him do as he pleases. I call him and his friends the Hair raising generation.

Talking about this 'crowning glory', reminds me of an incident in my younger days. It was during the vacations, we had gone to our ancestral house at Quilon. Our grandfather (we used to call him Hitler secretly for his penchant to disrupt our games/antics with total insensitivity to our needs), noticed that my elder sister had cut her long hair shoulder length. He didn't like it (neither did my sis like his interfering in her personal matters as her facial ex-pression showed) and questioned her on that. Next was my turn, rolling his eyes he asked me 'Did you cut yours too?' '' No ' I answered meekly. As if he didn't believe my words, he ordered me to untie the knot and let my long tresses down.

It was a known fact among us that my grandfather fell in love with my grandmother's hair. Her long raven black tresses were really a delight to watch and she definitely had passed on the hair growing genes to the next generations. It was like a family heirloom. No wonder my grandfather was hell bent on preserving it.

My friends used to think I had three or four sisters when in reality I had just one. Your sister with the short hair, one with the step cut, and the other with long hair''.they used to comment. They were not aware that my one and only sister used to change her hair styles to suit her moods.

Oh such lovely, black, curly hair'.people used to comment. 'If only they knew the difficulty in maintaining long hair that gets all tangled even in the gentlest breeze. 'Shampoos were a strict NO-NO. On Sundays there was this elaborate ritual of washing off the liberally applied Gingelly oil (til oil) on the hair with the fresh juice of Hibiscus leaves and shikkakai powder. On weekdays it was massaging homemade herbal coconut oil on the scalp and hair,'drying (no hair dryers please), plaiting them (again, no loose hairs please)'and what not. 'I envied my friends who could just brush their hair in a few strokes.

The one good thing I remember about having these raven black tresses was that it formed a part of the poems written by my hubby during the courtship days!! Oh was I really proud to read those poems. Made me feel like Rapunzel and him my prince.

Recently I spotted my cousin brother, settled in London, sporting long hair. Wonder how my grandpa would have thundered if he had seen him!! It tickled me to read what one of the male models recently commented on growing his hair ''Most men get bald after a certain age, so why not grow them when they are in plenty '. 'Letting your hair down or wearing the crown as long as it lasts?

Nowadays they have a crown on the head sans the crowning glory. Balding men, not to be left out, are having a competition for the best crownless head. 'They come in all shapes and it would be great to see a perfect round one. Wasn't it' the great poet Kunjan Nambiar who sang about frying corns on such a head walking' in the scorching summer sun?

Grey hairs remind me of our chemistry professor Mr.Gopinath at engineering college. He didn't have a single black hair on his head and the students used to call him Naresh Kumar! (Nara in Malayalam means grey hair). How dignified he looked with those 'grey hairs compared to the wrinkled faces of the present, with their 'godrej' looks.

Being such a hair raising matter, I have conveniently decided to let my kids wear their hair long or short, keep it black or green.. I have found out this is the best way to raise my Heirs !!!!!!!!!!!!!

My Simian Cousins

"I do not want my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed. I want the culture of all lands to be blown about my house as freely as possible. But I refuse to be blown off my feet by any of them. Mine is not a religion of the prison house. It has room for the least among God's creations. But it is proof against insolence, pride of race, religion or color." Thus spoke the father of our nation, the great Mahatma Gandhi.

I am not a Mahatma, but I too didn't want "my house to be walled in on all sides and my windows to be stuffed" for quite a different reason. I love the fresh air and nature. Being cooped up in a house where all the doors and windows are closed suffocates me. Hence I had a penchant for keeping my doors and windows (of course except the entry door to the house) open during the day time. This landed me in giving "room for some beasts among God's creations".

One day, all the household chores over, I was waiting for my kids to be back from school. Welcoming them back from school, serving them food was a dream come true for me after the busy working life. I still remember those days, with pain, when my daughter used to cry over the phone " Amma, please come home. I am lonely." or "I am hungry" or " Chettan fought with me, I don't like him".

Comfortably lying down on the sofa I dozed off watching the TV. The ringing of the doorbell woke me up. I opened my eyes Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeek .I shrieked loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood from their afternoon siesta. There, perched on my dining table, were two Langur monkeys with a half eaten banana in their hands. I looked at the fruit bowl. One Kg of bananas and the only piece left was held by my simian cousins who were watching me nonchalantly, finishing off what was left in their hands.

My daughter was frantically knocking the door. "There are two monkeys in here" I shouted. "There are two waiting outside too" joked my son. Luckily I managed to lay my hands on a matchbox and the simians zoomed away as soon as they saw fire.

After this incident I didn't have any choice but to keep my balcony doors closed since I realized they were regular visitors to our neighborhood filled with guava, chikkoo and mango trees. It was fun watching their antics through the window. Many a time their swinging on the cables disconnected my telephone. I envied the way they could jump from tree to tree and across terraces (monkeys don't need a civil engineer to build bridges for them, right?)

They used to come in groups, sit on the trees, pluck and eat the fruits at their leisure and then push off, maybe to their next destination. The baby monkeys hanging on to their mothers looked really cute. Any sign of danger and the mothers would clutch their babies tight. The little ones would explore a bit, but not more than a "tails" distance when the mother monkeys would pull them back by their tail. ( Oh, I wish our kids too had tails that we mothers could pull!!)

Yet another day I saw this young monkey climbing up, holding the telephone cable with one hand and the TV cable with the other. "Oh no not again" I sighed. The thought of getting the lineman once again to repair the cable crossed my mind, when I saw it answering natures call from above. The droppings fell on the poor unsuspecting maid who was washing the vessels at my neighbour's house!

They caught me unawares once again as I left the door open, when a monkey came into the kitchen and left with two potatoes. After chasing it away I closed the door when I saw another one peeping through the window grill. He seemed to be telling me " My friend has got something delicious, where is my share?"

The monkey menace continued unabated with them practicing long jumps and high jumps on my maruti car, dirtying my balcony. I called up my hubby dear for advice " These monkeys are troubling me " I wailed over the phone. " What again? Last time I had advised them, just give one of them the phone" he ordered. I laughed out as I said " I am talking about the real monkeys not our children".

On my mothers advice, I even made an offering of a large vadamala to Hanumanji at the nearby South Indian temple. As days passed I got used to their monkey ways and we learnt to live in peaceful coexistence. I took solace in the fact that as per Darwin's theory of evolution, they are my ancestors.

One day as I picked up the phone I heard my hubby dear asking " Shiv who is chattering away on your mobile?" As I looked through the window there perched on the branch of the guava tree was a monkey with my mobile in his hand!!!!

COWS PLEASE MOO          .

Times change and so do our attitudes.  A few years ago, I was the  

leave-the-men-to-do-the-driving type person. Happily being chauffeured 

around by hubby dear was enough for me! I was carefree and least 

bothered to learn the art of driving a vehicle.

Hubby dear had other plans. Running around to pay the electric bills, 

telephone bills etc., dropping kids to school (my excuse was that I 

didn’t know how to drive), and at his wits' end, he hit upon the idea 

of teaching me the delicate art of driving.  

Thus one day I found myself in front of the steering wheel all 

ready to master the art of driving, which till then, I had put aside

 as a masculine feat. It was fun learning. He would say turn left 

and I would turn right. Any firing from him I would either giggle

 or let my tears flow.  Finally, exasperated at my disinterest, fear 

and giggles he enrolled me in a driving school. 

Chandran mash, as I fondly call him, started my lessons. I started 

very well and thought “oh my looks easy”, but the moment I spotted 

any other vehicle in front of me I would get jittery.  It meant that I 

could drive without any vehicles on the road. A preposterous idea 

indeed !   I continued cajoled, threatened and what not. Finally I 

passed the test and became the proud owner of a driving licence.

My transfer to Vadodara and the chaotic traffic around here 

gave me the next nightmares. Kids as young as 14 screeching around 

on two wheelers, college students on two wheelers driving parallel 

to each other making a four wheeler effect and chatting away to glory, 

people literally signalling right and left turns with their legs, monkeys 

jumping  out of the blue  and cows forming traffic islands on the road. 

These cows gave me a lot of problems when I used to drop my kids to

 school and they used to say “Cows please move out of the way our 

Amma is driving”.

Hubby dear being hospitalised, and being away from native place in this

 alien land all alone to fend for myself, did the trick.  Dropping kids to 

school, going to hospital and back home to the kids and managing the 

entire show alone gave me the much needed confidence. I had to get 

the things done and drive I did. It was a smooth transition to my present 

level of skill at driving.  

I always thank the Almighty for the thoughtful husband who helped me 

master the art of driving by his relentless efforts, as well as the patient

 Chandran mash who definitely must have worn down a tooth or two 

silently gnashing away his anger at my stupidities.

Now when my kids  see  cows on the road and Amma driving perfectly

 well they sing in unison   

“Cows !!! please MOO     ..!!!   (not move!!) ”