#kyramything1

A few nights ago, I was grudgingly skimming through the its pages, halfheartedly checking for anything that needed to have been completed by the day before. I look wearily at Kyra's to-do list (who are we kidding here) and it was filled with revisions to be done, pages in workbooks that need to be completed, spell checks to go over, review dates and texts to be memorized.. Those who know me, can attest that I am a horror flick junkie but nothing compares to the aforementioned pages; tis as good as having Emily Rose have one of her fits beside you.

The next page is peppered with meal and snack options and corresponding shopping lists. A far more welcomed, even if innately tedious effort. The final pages have remained the same for the past few months. My personal to do list, my unfinished projects, my task list and goals. All put on hold while I put the daily life in order. An uphill, never-ending, not-even-faintly-amusing chore. Manically repetitive, to be caught in one of those daily housework routines are a special type of hell on earth. The ebb and flow of the passing hours eventually marks every day decidedly over and the wretched alarm a few hours later will gleefully remind you nothing you achieved thus far can be brought to the morrow but that most assuredly life will hand you a dastardly clean slate every morning to labour and cuss over.

As I bemoaned my sorry state of affairs and pledged to climb out of this rut and 'simplify' matters (as a recent houseguest sympathetically suggested), my eyes fell upon some scribbles in the margin. I save that spot for tasks from school specifically directed to the parents.

'Submit Olympiads registration form by so-and-so date'.

It was the night before the deadline and as sleep had yet to knock on my doors, I gathered the circular and the Olympiads registration forms. This was the second batch of forms I had received within a span of 6 weeks. Being the type of mom I am, the first I completely failed to look at and missed the deadline for submission altogether. Dont shudder! 'Olympiads' sound so important, one may be forgiven in assuming its significance. Plus, I was very curious. Where I came from I had not heard of Olympiads being conducted for primary school kids.

The registration forms indicated that these competitions were from children in Grade 1 onwards, listed 6 different Olympiads of different subject matters and included an order form for workbooks to be bought and the amount of registration fees to be paid. An online article warned me parents began preparing for Olympiads 4-5 months prior, the organizer's website clearly states it is in the business of "popularizing competition."

The school circular was careful to mention that this was only an opportunity offered to students but ends it with a grave reminder to 'enroll your child for every competitive test being offered in order to equip him/her for the demands of the competitive world today.'

I consulted my dear friend Google and she drew my attention to a pretty recent article in the Times of India, so aptly titled: 'Olympiads: The new status symbol for parents.' Never mind the reiteration that ours is a competition-crazed society, it makes clear these Olympiads were passing-off as the real deal, when it clearly wasn’t for the actual Olympiads are not meant for little children.

At this, my head began to throb. Clearly these so-called Olympiads were created to cater to the demands of vile concepts such as 'early start' and 'future-ready', and to sit squarely in the eye of a competition-storm gathering momentum. Don’t get me wrong. I loved competition. In school, I use to devise, organize and then participate in inter-school competitions when I felt we needed a healthy dose of it. I had jumped at every opportunity to participate in competitive events at the school, district, state, national and even international level and this continued in university. I was naturally drawn to competitions because I was ready to take them on. Even if I wasn’t quite ready, the thrill of participation would keep me going.

But all this did not start for me till I was close to 11 years old.

As it stands, Kyra: i. spends a lot of time trying to get her head around the daily heap of schoolwork; ii. has swimming almost everyday (completely by choice); iii. has tuitions to attend as I am of no help in Hindi and Malayalam; iv. has some amount of screen time only during weekends; v. Has only about 30 mins of playtime in the evenings (for I am a stickler about an early bedtime) vi. plaintively asks me daily why she is just never left to her own devices (read: do absolutely nothing).

It also stands that her mom: i. may not be as far sighted as some parents when it comes to an early start of competitive events but certainly is in no rush to join the fray; ii. appreciates whatever little time there is to spend on herself and is not intending to reduce that in any way; iii. is already overly involved in Kyra's schoolwork which she highly resents and dreads the time Ezra will walk into Grade 1; iv. will be damned if she can get Kyra to sit and pore over workbooks in preparation for these bogus Olympiads.

It could all be very well she decides to participate next year or the year after (or never), but it will not be at my behest. Her decision to compete, if ever, will be respected only if she:

i. can prepare for these on her own with minimal external support; ii. will be able to handle commitments to school, home, family, social activities and still be a happy and sane child; iii. will take some amount of pleasure in preparing for these competitions without an unhealthy focus on winning; iv. displays emotional maturity to handle both wins and losses.

A tall order eh? Thus, it will be my pleasure to redshirt her from the Olympiads this year (and for as long as it takes).

p/s: also for those of you who are like-minded, bring along those forms and we will have a little bonfire replete with wine and hor d'oeuvres.

I sighed as her colourful figure darted across the balcony. There isn’t going to be Bharatanatyam nights for Kyra and I, as there are bhangra nights. Not that Bharatanatyam is unattainable but if you have to be instructed in dance, then it becomes a discipline. Any discipline for me is a chore, lazy bum that I am. It thus transcends the enjoyable into the exacting. The structure, exclusivity and sheer restriction of it all is antithetical to dance as I prefer it. Growing up, I took my dancing with a generous helping of unbridled spontaneity; of exaggerated moves and bursts of frenzied movements. We measured dance not by performance levels nor intricacies but by how much fun the dancer has. The bhangra is special like that.

It features in most celebrations held outside the gurudwara. We start days before a wedding, late into the nights. The young, old, sickly, wobbly, awkward, uninitiated, the prudes; everyone joins in. During the sangeet, the ladies gather around the bride and sing unmentionable songs to the beat of a dholki; lyrics that make the older women guffaw and the younger ones blush something pink. That is followed by a couple of hours of dance before the men are allowed to join in and the DJ takes over the reigns spinning both the latest and evergreen bhangra beats. This goes on easily till the wee hours of the morning until exhaustion denies movement to the limbs.

There is something primitive and comforting about bhangra and we danced as we lived; with gay abandon. Every dance opportunity was a performance in itself and everyone present, a performer. But at times we did add a little bit more structure to the otherwise free-for-all dancing. I remember being rounded up every evening for weeks together with at least 10 other girls where we would be carted off in a maroon Mercedes to the designated house for an evening packed with fun, homework-free, dance routines in preparation for celebrations on Vasakhi. Those chortles and giggles are what my childhood memories of dance are filled with.

Exclusion in dance is anathema to me. The Punjabis I know would never suffer through a bhangra performance without the promise of joining in at some point. It also mandatory to insist that everyone else joins in, the question of actually being able to dance does not arise. It is also not just about loud music and singing; we have twirled and whirled to the pulsating, rhythmic beats of only a dhol; trancelike, the freedom of spirit bound in movement almost blissful.

Bhangra is all inclusive; I have had my Chinese, Tamilian, Ceylonese friends in high school perform the bhangra. Bhangra is indulging; we have danced the bhangra to techno music – fed up that we were of waiting for real music to come on.

By the time Kyra was ready with her little tray, I was ready to doze off, spent and exhausted that I was. But as I looked into her colourful tray, I knew couldn’t let this pass and promptly plonked a box of Punjabi sweetmeats on the tray.

A little bit of Punjabi does a whole lot of good.

Apparently, Kyra’s teachers have 2 major complaints about her: “Talks too much and laughs too loud.”

I stare at them in disbelief. Why would anyone want to curb a child’s chatty nature or tendency to laugh even when things are not funny? It goes against nature if you ask me. My mum received the same complaints about me when I was in school, and not once did she admonish me or remind me to bite my tongue.

Kyra can be absurd at times and downright and uncomfortably honest. But she is only 5. She is only finding her voice and trying to plant those baby feet of hers on terra firma while defiantly clinging on to wisps of clouds. She still dances and sings with wild abandon and airs her thoughts for all to see and if I had it my way, I would never want that to change. Her curiosity is sometimes alarming but her spontaneity is heart-warming.

A part of my life that would be defined without Kyra, if that was possible. How I sat and wondered did I want the world to recognise me by? Beyond the nomenclature of wife, mother, daughter, friend – who exactly and what did I want to remembered by – was my indecision bound in posterity? I fretted.

I assumed that with 3 hours of guilt-free alone time, the juices of creativity would flow through my veins and I could let Honesty romp about without a care for decorum and watchful, inquisitive baby eyes and ears. But I abandoned Honesty for Reality many, many years ago and like shifting colours on a kaleidoscope, the many hued Reality bound me –one colour to the next – there was no escape.

I looked hard – an answer could possibly lay in my Doppelganger. Everyone has one did you know? The one who constantly watches you from behind the mirror– she mocks and ridicules you yet urges you to strive harder. The one who you always think you have to be, the one who you would have merged with when you finally arrive in life.  The harder I looked the more I realised she was nothing more but a collective reflection of all my dreams and hopes – I birthed her, clothed and moulded her and now when I turn to her for help, she burst into angry ashes of one disrobed.

Disillusioned once more, I retreat, bereft of even the bare skeletal scaffolding to climb heights I only dreamt of. Where were the Confidence and Vivacity of my childhood? Were they not my allies, ones I could count on to see me through this period of life.

I travelled through many of what could and should have been momentous occasions in my life without pomp, seamlessly, one chapter to the next, the Reader of my life not even hearing the written words, so that she wasn’t reading at all but skimming, eager only to move one, eager to arrive when Life would actually begin for me.

And Life as it was meant to be, will never truly begin unless you invite her into your heart and home. That is why rituals are important – the human body must be made aware of when Life turns the pages on each Chapter. It must be tricked into believing that all that is Good from the previous Chapters will follow faithfully into the following Chapters. That is why we celebrate birthdays and puberty, marriage and birth, new years and festivals.

We send the stars of these occasions proud and stoic into the next, for after the celebratory euphoria dies down, all that remains are mere mortals suffused with magical dust who will feed buoyancy to the Soul until the next Chapter tolls another Ritual.

Daily rituals provide stability and certainty, but occasional rituals splash colour on the canvas of life. Kyra has been received with kisses and a small gift everyday after school – and though the gifts will ebb, the kisses will not. Once she settles in, journey to school is strictly Appa-Kyra time and we will celebrate any and all victories in school – meaningless or otherwise. And when she seesaws to the other side to meet hurt, sadness and grief, as life is wont to introduce her to, it will be met with the same level of attentiveness and love – just so she knows that in all phases of her life, it is not so much the consequences that matter but how we deal with it.

As I walk to school with a tiny box of crayons to meet Kyra, I realise I need a ritual too. To mark my journey as another of an infant to that of a toddler. From a career woman who had KPIs set for her to a stay home mum who must now decide and set goals for herself. I needed to remind myself of the gifts Kyra gave me when she presented Motherhood to me and the lessons I learnt when her sibling was not to be. That if I took in my stride the battles and journey of Motherhood, ignorant imbecile that I was, then what could the next Chapter present me which I was not already prepared for?

after a crazy morning of trying to run errands in New Delhi, a city that is just about as familiar to me as my neighbour’s bathroom, I sit and ponder (Kyra’s asleep mind you otherwise there will only be pounding not pondering). I tried to shift focus on KV (the husband) for a change and I conjure up images of what a (relatively) perfect evening would be like. But my stubborn brain keeps reminding me that there’s no way a romantic evening is possible, not today, not in the near future. But I persevere, ‘The Secret’ prodding me on – I could achieve anything I just set my heart and mind to. Right.

So all afternoon and the evening that follow, I repeat like a mantra in my head, that Kyra will sleep on time today, she will not fuss today, she will get her routine back today, I just have to be positive, today, today, today. I have to make mention here that while I was in KL, and my husband in New Delhi, Kyra use to have a routine that any parent would kill to have. At 7.30 (on most evenings) she was out like a switch. And I would freely and happily plan my evenings out with my mates – a drink here, dinner there, late night movies… no problems. Nanny was at home to keep an eye over the sleeping child and mommy would be out gallivanting. Perfect.

But ever since we landed in India, all hell broke loose for me, from all fronts (I’d get into that some other time). Kyra sensed that daddy would be all fun and she struggled to keep those eyelids of hers open longer and longer every evening until eventually sleep only beckoned when KV and I were ready to drop dead close to midnight.

Anyway, getting back to the evening ahead. I had planned to have dinner, drinks and movie with KV (at home, mind you). I do apologise if this is what your regular evening already sounds like but you did not just leave your job, family and friends and relocate to a different country with a toddler in tow did you now?

So I am all geared up now, I settle Kyra in the kitchen with some toddler-friendly utensils she can bang around without hurting herself, while I whisk up KV’s favourite Malaysian dish – chicken rendang. In the background, I can hear Kyra beginning to cough and I attribute it to the pungent dish that’s simmering away. Hell, even I am all teary now, but maybe that’s because I am so touched with my efforts for the evening! Next thing I know, Kyra’s retching all over the kitchen floor and one look at her and I know she’s beginning to run a temperature. Automatically my mind starts conjuring up various illnesses and diseases that she could have possibly contracted from playschool, with ghostly echoes from mothers I have met in Delhi warning me against letting Kyra out of the house before she’s two. I know that to have any semblance of a normal evening whatsoever, I’d have to bring her to the doctor – to at least be relatively worry-free. So I try calling the doctor from a phone and connection KV has so graciously provided me with – except that perhaps this connection was meant for the moon as I could never get it to work in any earthly manner! So I am now running around the house with Kyra hanging on to me for dear life, trying to get a signal good enough for a conversation with the doctor as I needed directions from her, all the while trying to muffle my panting. I try bravely not to think about the feat that lay before me – manoeuvring a car in the manic streets of Delhi.

Armed with medicines now (and very much in one piece, thank heavens), which I always pray will make her drowsy (yes, yes I am that kind of a mother), I change her into her PJs and tuck her in, my body now weary but my heart still hopeful that my evening could be salvaged. She eventually slept off, after I had rocked her to sleep until my biceps had expanded by a good inch.

Twenty minutes later and with not a peep from her nursery, I allow myself a drink while KV begins to settle on the couch. The movie begins and we were set for the evening. Drinks by our side, lights dimmed, chicken rendang waiting in the kitchen…aaah, bliss!

“Mommy, come here! Mommy!” came an electric voice from the baby monitor. I ignore it. Maybe she was talking in her sleep! I prayed fervently.

“MOMMYYYYY, nice to meet you Mommmyyyyy!!”

Silence. Dare I hope?

“Appa, Appooo, Appa, Appoooo.”

KV signals that we should ignore her. But I have done that twice before only to find:

She had puked all over herself and was having a go at the food she had recently eaten; and

In my frenzy of potty training, I had forgotten to put on her diapers to bed and she had pooped all over her crib!

This time I had images of her tasting her poop so I ran into the room. Wincing against the sudden bright light, Kyra looked fine to me but very much awake, having taken a power nap and now ready to take on the rest of the night. I wanted to get back to my comfortable couch so I release Kyra from the confines of her crib and she plants her bottom in between KV and I on the couch. You know what it feels like to have to cut a good movie short I am sure, but do you know what it feels like to have to do that and then watch doped out colourful stuffed monsters prancing and mewing on CBeeBies? Thirty minutes later, all three of us had our jaws dropping open:. Kyra because her nose was completely blocked and KV and I because we were systematically being put in a semi comatose state by these… these things on TV.

           Dinner is then served and we pounce on it, as perhaps the only thing we could salvage from the evening. By this time Kyra has decided the sofa is a trampoline and we let her be as hunger takes over our almost-dead brains. Maybe Kyra has secretly watched ‘The Exorcist’ who knows, but 10 minutes into our meal, she does a Linda Blair on us, coating the food and us with curdled milk and yellow phlegm.