And then they stopped listening...

Last November this blog crossed the third year mark. A day to be fondly remembered and celebrated was eclipsed by a tummy. A really BIG tummy. After all, one does claim to have a real life, right?

Er...um...yeah.

Truth be told, this blog was more an escapist's refuge than an artist's studio. I wasn't anonymous, so I didn't really bare it all. But at times, under layers of fiction and verse, a few home truths did peek out. Some of you might have read the undertones but most of you decided to keep your thoughts to yourself. I thank you wholeheartedly for it.

It made me reconnect dots to form a newer, better picture; it provided a laugh track for my lame jokes, a punching bag for my rage, a sponge to soak up the tears and open arms when silence said it all. This blog turned out to be the best friend, when my best friends couldn't be by my side at that moment. Well, why shouldnt it do so? After all, I've been wonderful company too, right?

Ahem.

Unfortunately, I shared only my disappointments and delusions with the blog. When things were stressed and beyond salvageable, I wrote funny stories and depressing verses. When things were sunny and joyful, I was outside living it; the blog a figment of my imagination. Why should I justify myself to a blog? It doesn't really exist, right?

Wrong.

The other day, I found myself free of chores for a couple of hours. A gold mine, under the given circumstances. But instead of taking a nap as I should have, I sat reading through my archives. I laughed, cried and laughed some more and I thought to myself, 'Darn it! This woman writes really well. At times.' (Well, i don't fish for compliments. I just dish them out myself :)) I can be a narcissist in my own blog, right?

Right.

Thanks to this blog I made some really wonderful friends. Most of whom I haven't met but who I know are just as wonderful, beyond all this ether. Thank you. You know who you are, so I am not going to list names. (Truth is I am scared in my current sleep-deprived mode, I'll miss someone and they'll stop visiting the blog to write lovely comments). I also thank the the few invisible friends who drop by now and then.

Most importantly, thanks for supporting me all these years. In this age of 15 minute fame, 3 years of virtual existence is a huge milestone. Especially for a little girl who refuses to grow up. I've dusted the bike for a whole new ride but it's going to be shaky start. Hoping you'll stay with me even if I meander a little bit.

Here's to another edition of The Midget Diaries.

Mistress of the Basket

Nothing ever is the same once you've jumped off the cliff. Or picked up a wailing baby. The Man felt no different. Princesses may appear magically but sadly there's no magical way to satisfy all their needs.

The entire kingdom was turned topsy-turvy the moment Princess Maya arrived. The best carpenter in the kingdom was beckoned to build the sturdiest and yet the most wonderful looking cradle in the world while the Royal seamstress was asked to weave soft sheets of silk.

The Man paced outside the nursery with the baby as The Little Princess tried to create a whole new world inside. The baby in his arms crinkled its eyebrows and The Man could sense a cry forming. Princess Maya let out a soft whimper. Just when he thought he couldn't hold off any longer, the door opened and he stepped into the nursery.

The Little Princess and her bevy of helpers had truly outdone themselves. The cradle was a masterpiece crafted in rosewood, and the sheets were as soft as satin. The Man softly laid Princess Maya on her bed.

The moment she touched the bed, Princess Maya wailed. The Man held her tight; the Little Princess rocked her back and forth but no avail. Princess Maya just couldn't be pacified. The Queen and The King rushed in to help, but all the lullabies in the world weren't enough to soothe the tiny baby. The Man and the Little Princess looked bewildered.

Then The Man rushed in search of the Royal seamstress. Maybe cotton would be softer. The Little Princess ran to the Royal garden. Maybe a nightingale's song would quiet the baby. The King walked up and down the room, nodding his head as that's what he did best. While they each tried to find a solution, the Queen held Princess Maya and tried to rock her to sleep.

Minutes passed into hours. But Princess Maya hadn't slept a wink. The Little Princess slumped into The Man's arms, unsure of what to do. The King was snoring in a corner, next to a broken basket. The Little Princess used to play with it as a kid. An exhausted Queen slowly placed the crying baby in the old basket and flexed her arms.

After a few minutes as she bent down to lift the baby, she found Princess Maya fast asleep, her tiny hand tightly clasping an old blanket. The little one had drifted to sleep in the comforting smells of old wood and worn down wool.

Little Princess smiled at The Man. Raising a princess wasn't a new tradition to be learnt. It was simply forgotten and need to be remembered.

Who makes the mundane, magical?

You

Image Right

Hidden in every fold
is the reason
to live another day.

Through the third eye

We got married in 2005, right around the time when Anniyan hit the theatres. You know, how most poignant moments in movies have something dramatic associated with it to not-so-subtly point out its importance; like waves crashing against rock, thunder or 100 violins screeching nonstop.

Well, our married life didn't have any of the aforementioned. Though at times I think thunder and rain would have suited it quite beautifully. The only music CD I bought as I crossed the Atlantic was the Anniyan soundtrack, especially since it had a song to my name. Everyday after The Mr went to work, I would sit with a plate of toast and omelette and watch Becker re-runs on TV. Right after Becker, I would pop the Anniyan music cd, get into the kitchen and cook lunch. A simple meal of dal, rice and beans would take me a good 2 hours to cook as one had to spend 30 minutes between taking the dal and placing it in the cooker, reminiscing about Madras to an invisible husband.

It's less than 3 years since we've been married but The Mr claims it feels like 30. Can't blame him. When you're married to a woman who speaks dime to dozen any given minute and now you have a 3 month old who takes after her mom in that aspect, every second seems like a lifetime.

I digress. Anyway, the point of the post is, i don't have many photographs of our life in that one bedroom apartment. There was never an urgency coz there was always a lifetime to click snaps. But whenever I listen to Anniyan songs or hear the soundtrack of Becker, I feel myself looking in on our life then, as a series of snapshots in sepia tones; of a starry-eyed girl lugging 2 pounds of sugar and 2 pounds of flour up a steep climb to bake her newly-wed husband a birthday cake, waking up to the sound of birds and The Mr walking in with coffee, cuddling up on the bean bag, sitting on the floor and watching 'Anniyan' on the internet...so many moments made lovelier by a wonderful soundtrack.

Our voices.

Identity Crisis

I've been trying to write a blog about me for the past 2 hours. A post that does not talk about Maya, my motherhood or sleep-deprivation much less in the same sentence. All I could manage was that first line.

I've always wanted to remain Kumari. I told The Mr pregnancy doesn't take away Kumari. Motherhood is just another facet and it shall not rule my life. Or my blog.

The toothless smiles, the gurgles and the coos, soft kicks of her tiny feet, the way her little fingers hold onto my dress as I try to place her in her crib, her beautiful eyes and the way they light up when I pick her up, her cries for me....she is mine. All mine.

That is why this post makes no sense. Coz I realise, there is no longer any me left. I am all hers. I am Maya's mom and that's who I will be. Now. Always.

And you know what, it's wonderful just being her mom.

One Giant Disappointment

Well, I couldn't get to it any sooner. Not when one is mourning the end to a 'perfect season'.
The Superbowl came and went. Gosh! I still can't believe we didn't win it. The pressure and strain of going 18-0 finally took its toll. Damn the perfect season.

This so reminds me of the tortoise and hare story. But I guess deep in my heart, I just knew this was coming. Especially when you see I-have-no-idea-what-to-do Eli Manning pull a Bradyesque 47 second drive before halftime to tie the game against Cowboys, you just know Superbowl isn't going to be a walk. It wasn't as thrilling as their regular season matchup and if I wasn't so invested in the Patriots, maybe I would've enjoyed the game. The Giants brought everything to the table and were truly deserving winners.

The NE Patriots lost to the underdog by 3 points. The irony of it is not lost on me.
Aah well, maybe next year we would go 18-1, with a 4th Superbowl title. Till then I shall watch re-runs of Moss and Brady touchdowns :)