Skip to main content

Too Many Things in Too Little Time

Seconds are melting into hours and hours getting lost into days, Nonu's third birthday is so very close around the corner, that even if I slightly crane my neck, I can see a baby getting converted into a kid, and enthusiastically cutting the cake. 
The recently passed worldcup, which India won with the precipitation of huge sense of patriotism, has showcased to me the great times which are there waiting for us, father-daughter duo. As she would look on the television screen at anyone with a bat and know that there is a match, and without much prompting, when asked, Jeetega? (who will win), she would say..India. 
The tiny, pink thing which could well fit into my palm, three years back is now a thinking, ideating individual. At times, I see her pain and effort so obvious when she tries to explain things to me like when she has her bottle of milk and wants me to lie down next to me, she would say, "all good babies lie down to have milk" with her utter surprise at my lack of understanding of basic social norms of decency and my inadeptness to address my well-being, one being lying down while having milk, not venturing out on the terace in dark where some imaginary bear is all the time lurking to catch. Another thing, that she has taken to so lovingly is a new fashion statement as a part of which she takes my Tee Shirt as a new age bathrobe, which she wears after shower everyday and wants to keep wearing itl, till she could get away with it. 
Today, at this moment, as she lies next to me in the morning, telling a lot of things on her mind, I feel heavy in my heart for being part of a sweet conspiracy being cooked up which would end up with Mundan, a ceremony of shaving of head for the first time. The ceremony comes from the days of old Aryan tradition of begining of education, after which kids in ancient days were sent away to the Gurukul, a kind of residential school, for learning the arts, science, the way of the world and the art of warfare in the old days. As it went into tradition, several other stories and ideas came up, for one it said that this event marked the kid coming into this life as her own individual with all connections with her earlier births totally erased. It for some, is also a way of celebrating, as relatives and families come together with festivities marking the shaving of the head for the baby. The same was planned for my daughter by her grand-parents as well but could not happen for the reasons which could have watered down the festivities. Now, as she approaches her third birthday, after which she will enter into her fourth year (this activity can not for some reason be done in the even year). Thus not wanting her to face being the subject of ridicule in her fifth year, by when she would most likely be in school, the event is being arranged for in a hurry. She stands in front of me, still in my Tee, offers me an apple and runs her fingers in her flowy, long hairs, little aware what has been planned for today. I do tell myself, it is no big deal, but then why do I feel so heavy in my heart. I do not know how she will react to loosing her hairs, and worse still, I do not even know how I will react to it. Why every small thing in her life is such big a matter to me. I also do not know how her grandparents are going to react to it. But one thing I do know, I would not want her to face ridicule at an age when she can remember it and will stand by her for protecting her. I am her savior and protector, at least till the time she does not mind my being so, and when she outgrows it, I will be happy to move to the back of the stage and back in the glory that she is.
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Bahubali 2- The Conclusion- Movie Review

We are living in an extremely cause-heavy world where causes - real and imagined cloud our minds. I saw this in the case of the movie - Beauty and The Beast. There the quarrel of the social commentators was that it explored the gay angle of one of the characters only briefly, only fleetingly. There can be nothing more absurd than that. You are demanding more from an artist than possibly he can offer. Art is a profession of lonely persuasion, and it serves the purpose its creator desires it to serve. Nothing more and nothing less. It is sad and unfortunates that the liberals, which in Indian context largely translates to Leftists, insists that art is nothing but a vehicle that should be provided to them for their political agendas and narratives to ride on. It is like insisting that the reference to the Negroes in the "The Great Gatsby" should have been expanded to cover racism in detail. The brief episode was merely to substantiate the character and nothing more. Just as cre…

Resurrecting Hinduism- Without Embarrassment

I have been pondering about the sense of despondency, the sense of shame which has been imposed on the Hindu thoughts in Indian society. Every act of faith has to be explained, justified. When partition happened, Muslims fought and obtained an independent Nation, while the other large chunk of population, which, in spite of numerical supremacy, was subjugated for centuries, got India. In line with inherent openness and flexibility of Hinduism, India became a secular nation. This is a matter of pride, since it acknowledged the basic secular nature of Sanatan Dharm. However, as things would evolve, vested political interests considered India as unfinished agenda standing in the path of a religious empire being built world-wide. Through a well-calculated intellectual conspiracy of neglect and vilification, it came to a stage that modern Hindus where embarrassed of their religion and apologetic of their faith. This neglect also resulted in the religion being left to the guardianship of un…

The Unbearable Agony of Unwritten Words

The weather has changed. Skies are clear once again, fog lifted. Azure, cloudless skies; trees bare. The dawn descends with the shy, blush of a fair, newly-wed woman. The days are not yet jaundiced with the pale, bright yellowness of the summers. There is a distinct hint of red in the yellow. 
Writing is sporadic, very less. A few intermittent blog post. Unwritten words sit heavily on the soul of a writer. To accept oneself as a writer is to embark on a dangerous path. It is a solitary profession and a hard one at that. 
I read to prepare to write. I tell myself. Be at some point, even reading has to make way for writing. Writing is not a quick job. It takes time, time and sitting all agitated inside and all peaceful outside, the incongruous internal and external world pulling one apart, in diverse directions. Writing takes time. One needs to tie that heavy stone to the neck of a reckless, wandering mind and allow it to sink to the depths. Bubbles of air escaping to the surface, a brief…