Maha Mom

If you want my opinion, a single day dedicated to mothers doesn’t quite cut it. For all they do, celebrations should last at least a week. Or, in my mother’s case, over her lifetime.

I can’t begin to tell you how this amazing woman enriches our lives. As I watch her go about her daily duties with a quiet sense of determination, I marvel at her steely will and positive attitude in the face of adversity. I silently shed tears of blood when I think of all the sacrifices this matriarch has made for her family.

Born in a traditional Iyengar household in circa 1922, Smt. …. oh, wait … wrong story …. I somehow got a few generations mixed up; but you catch my drift, right?

Mom is so marvelous that without her our house would not be a home - it would still be an apartment, and dad would be green in the art of making money disappear in the blink of an eye.

Besides, any woman who deliberately consumes all the cookie dough bits and leaves behind a near-empty tub of vanilla ice cream in the freezer to save - yes, save! - her family from the ill effects of trans fatty acids merits a special chapter in my book.

Wouldn’t you agree?

Rest in Peace, Bud

Mom sat at her desk wallowing in self-pity over a looming deadline when she learned that Newcastle, my pal of eight years, passed away yesterday from liver failure, a year after he relocated to Bangalore.

When mom read the e-mail, she felt as though she had been punched in the guts. The news was not entirely unexpected - NC was a senior citizen and had had a string of operations recently - but the wave of sadness that engulfed her took her by surprise.

Of course, we feel horrible for NC’s human who’s traveling and won’t get home for another month. If mom, who only watched him while his humans went away on vacation, feels so badly, imagine how the people who shared their lives with him must feel.

Newcastle’s demise also brings home another harsh reality that mom would rather not face – my own ageing.

I recently crossed my 10th milestone and am slowing down perceptibly. Mom checks my gait every day, and worries when she catches me limping. She doesn’t want me bounding down the stairs in case I sprain my back and is most loath to take me for a dental exam because it would involve anesthesia.

She hugs her fears to her heart as she watches me pant after walking around the block. Just as she does with her children, she stands over me before she retires for the night and watches my body softly rise and fall in rhythm with my breathing.

Mom came home with a heavy heart today and hugged me. As I tried to lick her face, she thought of Newcastle’s pink nose, drooly breath, knobby tumors and saintly patience whenever the children climbed on his back or pulled on his ears.

She buried her face in my neck and prayed silently, sorrowful at Newcastle’s demise but palpably relieved by my warm, goofy presence.

Hush, ma, I'm still here.

Don't Have a Cow; Have a Pretzel Instead

It’s not a good sign if you’re in a room of 300 people, and the only person awake is the guy on the podium delivering the presentation.

Wedged like a canned sardine between a heavyweight Texan and a woman with a noisy stomach, mom tried all she could to stay awake and appear mildly interested as bar graphs and flow charts flitted on giant screens around the banquet hall, and the presenter droned onstage about revenue and product strategy.

The granola she had eaten for breakfast had long been digested and mom idly wondered what her slim pickings for lunch would be in steak country.

In Omaha for a three-day conference, the vegetarian choices around her were as dull as the cloudy weather and as drab as the gray landscape outside. The people around her seemed to be built like the cows they consumed, and mom stuck out like a sore thumb trying to find something green to graze on during meals.

Her first night at a steakhouse, she looked at the hearty portions on the table and almost fainted face-down in the gobs of butter served scooped like vanilla ice cream.

Feeling like an orthodox Brahmin in a mosque, mom pulled the waitress aside and apologetically asked if there was anything remotely vegetarian at the restaurant other than onion rings and twice-baked potatoes. The woman helpfully pointed to the seafood section. Mom explained her dietary restrictions and resignedly waited for a bowl of steamed carrots and peas while her dinner companions tucked into half a cow each.

When her special order did arrive, she was pleasantly surprised to find the steakhouse chef a lot more imaginative than the kitchen staff at her local Olive Garden - an establishment that has not changed its vegetarian offerings since 1985.

The next day, mom was delighted to find aloo-gobhi and rice on her plate, while the other conference attendees chewed on T-bones and mashed potatoes. The Gujarati lady at her table complained, “What is this strange rice? Must be South Indian, hmmph!” but after subsisting on continental food for three meals, mom would have happily consumed even the kohlrabi kootu and karela curry she wouldn’t normally touch with a barge pole.

The first day away from home, sitting at a swanky restaurant surrounded by a corporate crowd, mom was asked if she was missing her children. Searching deep in her heart, mom realized that she wasn’t even thinking about her children. Given the time difference, she calculated dad would be driving home with the kids and dealing with a cranky Kuki in the throes of a “gimme candy”-induced rage.

The same question the next day had a similar reaction. Mom dutifully called home at night, but truth be told, she was savoring the unusual quietude and watching Roseanne and Friends reruns in her hotel room until late night.

The third morning, however, mom awoke to a gentle tug at her heart strings. Her room was a little too quiet and orderly. There was no dog hair floating around, the beds were creaseless, the place didn’t smell of stale sambar and she could walk around the room stark naked without any pressure to suck her stomach in.

As she sat in the airport later in the day and watched a pair of children shrieking and running around while their mother calmly nursed a third child, the gentle tug in her heart grew to a violent jerk and she felt a familiar longing. “What if we had another baby?” she mused, making a mental note to broach the subject with dad.

Five hours later, mom was enveloped in sticky bear hugs at the airport curb. “We missed you,” cried Kuki, refusing to get back in her car seat. The children prattled nineteen to the dozen and fought over the single pretzel packet mom had received on board.

As she strapped herself into the car, mom glanced at dad, who had played single parent the last three days. With an eye on traffic, he watched the children bicker over the pretzels in the rear view mirror and let out a deep sigh.

Now was not a good time to talk about filling that empty middle spot in the back seat of the car, concluded mom.

Well, what do you know?!!

No sooner do I void mom's aspirations on a public domain that she receives a phone call from an old friend, entirely out of the blue, asking if she would be interested in ahem, ahem, helping her proof and edit documents and develop her fledgling freelance business.

Not only has mom not heard from her friend in awhile, but the woman left her country and a remodeling business to settle down under the Alpine sun for a slower pace of life.

You could’ve knocked us down with a feather when we heard from Karen. Now, if that’s not a sign that the universe is rearranging itself for mom, I don’t know what is.

Although mom isn't about to quit her day job yet, the fact that an opportunity presented itself is enough to make her smile and believe in the power of the law of attraction.

And as if that's not precious enough, she made a virtual friend in the bargain - a skilful raconteuse who spins tangled yarns with mere words.

Not to piss any naysayers off, but at this rate, the art of positive thinking is threatening to take over mom’s world.

Angels & Demons

Usually, mom does her best to stay as far away as possible from exhibition-cum-sales at private homes. She has no intention of buying, and finds it rather embarrassing to look-see and walk away, thus wasting her time and the eager seller’s.

Last weekend, despite her vociferous protests and better judgment, mom allowed herself to be dragged to one such exhibition at an acquaintance's house. She expected to find the usual mishmash of jewelry and saris and sterling silver religious items, but was bowled over by the seller’s artistic abilities. The girl’s a budding designer with an eclectic taste and a keen eye for style. Mom could only stare open-mouthed at the tasteful jewelry she had designed and the clothes she embroiders and sews on her sewing machine.

Not only is the girl highly talented and extremely smart, she’s also very attractive and particularly pleasant. Try as she might, mom couldn’t find anything to hate about her, and jealousy was quickly replaced by admiration.

As she joined her friends and oohed and aahed at the girl’s creations, discreetly eyeing the price tags all the while, mom wrestled with her inner angel and demon, weighing her wants and needs versus the “simplify my life" theory she has recently espoused.

Demon: “Look at that gorgeous maroon sari! It will look so good on you. Go on, touch it, you know you want to.”

Angel: “Do you really need another sari? You barely use the ones you have.”

Demon: “Come on, your friends have seen all your saris. You need a serious wardrobe update, honey.”

Angel: “Think about it. If you buy the sari, you’ll be tempted to buy that gorgeous semi-precious set that matches it. And the next occasion to wear a sari is Diwali, a long way away.”

Demon: “Bah, you can create an occasion! Throw a party and invite all your girlfriends and tell them to dress up. You can show off; they can show off; everybody will be happy!”

Angel: “Aren’t you running late? We should leave now. The children must be getting antsy and you still haven’t made lunch.”

Demon: “Oh, come on! The sari’s calling out to you. Hey, you can get a halter neck blouse to go with it … like Rani Mukherjee’s blouse in that song from Hum Tum.”

Angel: “Right! How are you going to get a halter neck blouse past your parents? They frown at even sleeveless clothes.”

Demon: “Why do you care about what your parents think?!! You guys don’t even live on the same continent, for crying out loud! You really need to grow up.”

Angel: “Be practical. Do you really want to plunk down hard-earned money for a sari and jewelry that will sleep in your closet until the next wedding in the family, whenever that is?”

Demon: “Hey, you can afford it. Go ahead, you deserve it!”

Angel: “Don’t you think you should run this past dad before you decide? I don’t think you can return purchases.”

Demon: “Oh, and what will dad say? No? When does he ever say, ‘No?’ And how can you walk out empty-handed now that you’re here? That would be downright embarrassing.”

Angel: “You should never have come. Think about it, do you really need it or do you want it?”

Demon: “Now, there’s no need to get all philosophical about clothes and jewelry. It’s not a major life decision – it’s just stuff. What’s wrong with wanting pretty things?”

Angel: “All right, I’ve said my piece. But I think you should get only one item. Pick either the sari or the jewelry, not both.”

Demon: “I think you should buy a third item. What about this pretty lehenga? Kuki would look like a doll in it.”

Angel: “Suit yourself, but before you make a final decision, tell me … do you think you’ll make a greater impression on dad when (a.) You’re decked in an exquisite sari and heavy jewelry or (b.) When you’re wearing absolutely nothing, yes, I mean nothing, but a smile?”

Her priorities firmly in place, mom rushed out of the sale empty-handed.