License to Drive

I am sitting in the waiting area of the DMV office of Tampa, Florida. This is the first time, in all these years, I am actually about to take a driving test on the road. But being born in India, I have had possession of a driver’s license, without having to prove my skills behind the wheels. Ever. Just one of the many reasons why I love my country so. 

But this is the real deal. Here, sitting amongst a swarm of people, counting every minute to my test, I had summoned all the 330 million Gods I have been told since my childhood to have existed. What’s the point, I had asked, if not help me on this crucial day? What’s the point of my Dad being the devoutly religious man that I have always known him to be? Or Mom, who despite her relatively pragmatic approach to religion, has always offered prayers, bending down on her wobbly knees, in our dingy 'goxai ghor' - the size of a full-fledged bedroom of the apartments here? Where idols of Gods in all forms, shapes, and sizes, sit peacefully staring at you and scaring the living daylights every time I stand under the aura of that roof. Not sure whether it is its age or that it rests on a slightly secluded area of our rambling old house, the one where a bunch of Dad’s siblings had lived, and left behind memories. Where vivid memories of my childhood were also being made. I think it’s the intimidating history that this part of my home cradles that overwhelms me each time I step inside it. Memories of pujas, kathas, naam kirtans - so sharp in my memory that it takes a mere nudge down that road for them to come tumbling down over me. 

But today, the patchy black cement floor of that room, which always stays cool, even during the unrelenting hot summer months, is all I can think of for solace. Sitting in the DMV office, typing away on my phone, I am oddly reminded of that house of Gods that had seen me through so many milestones. 

I think of them and beg for a good outcome, feeling the palpitations of my heart every passing minute. I quickly take a picture of me to freeze the moment. And hope that the ‘after’ picture of this event will be a happy one. I send a quick note about it to the brother who is slogging it out at work. Except him, none of the believers in my family know of this day which might be a dog-eared page in my life. I wanted the pressure off me. I couldn’t bear the thought of my dad making a trip to the temple and waiting in anticipation. He had done that for a lifetime. Although I know too well how much he would have liked it. But today, I am on my own, is also what my instructor told me while handing the keys to the car and giving me last few words of advice. Despite myself, I did say a little prayer at that point, although as always, not knowing who I was praying to. Before leaving home, I had bowed down in front of the Buddha idol I had bought as a decor piece from some trip I had made in the past. For the last few months, the Buddha is filling in for the 330 million Hindu deities, since I had been too lazy to take their representatives out of the carton I had packed them in while moving homes. Does my confused agnostic self get worried thinking about how this might amount to blasphemy in my father’s eyes? The answer is yes. But then again, when I close my eyes to pray, I am mostly summoning an inner force, and hardly ever the deities that line the top of his chest of drawers, or the one on his car's dashboard, or the idol of Ganesh stuck with a double-sided tape on top of his desk computer. (Ya, they still exist, those boxes.) The prayers I send out to the universe, in the most fundamentally spiritual way, is the closest I get to God or the idea of him or her. 

While I was lost in such thoughts, a guy in black tee and shorts materialized in front of me. Holding a file that carried my details, and as expected, struggling to read out my name. As usual, I stopped him before he completely and irrevocably ruined my name and invariably called it everything else but how my mom had meant it and had deemed it appropriate for her firstborn. The very reason why it took me as little as Google to come up with a name for my own daughter. Couldn't handle the Yanks slaughtering her name in slow-mo while she grimaced in pain like I do every single time they mispronounce mine. 

We sat inside the car. He made an interesting point about how this test does not expect me to show any tricks. It was a chuckle-worthy moment. Probably he meant it as a joke. Probably he did not. I was too tensed to tell. And he added that he would tell me what needed to be done. And very sweetly asked, if I was nervous. And also that, if at all I was, it was a good thing. I was instantly put at ease. Are the Gods already on my side? I wondered. 

I gently maneuvered the car as instructed, towards the right, then the left, making sure I stop at every signal. And generally, drive safely, and give my anxious nerves a break. At that point, my mind was finally cleared off all the cosmic forces I had invoked for this moment, and it was solely focused on the instructions being given out to me. When he asked me to park the car in between two lines, I might have felt a tiny flutter in my tummy, but I pulled that off somehow. The test of the three-point turn, oddly my most favorite thing during practice sessions, was surprisingly precise too. He read out a few more instructions and keenly observed the movement of my eye. I might have gone for an overkill trying to impress him. He, however, maintained a straight face even if he might have wanted to burst out laughing. The next few minutes were just about reinstating faith I suppose when he asked me to simply drive in and around the office. Realizing that now I was at the fag end of the test, my mind got busy calculating the result. The examiner, however, didn't let the outcome show on his face. I was asked to park the car since the test had come to a finish. This time the parking was near perfect since the performance pressure was lifted off me. My roving eyes couldn’t help but sneak a peek into the papers the examiner had been diligently marking on. At this moment I spotted the most coveted alphabet written down under a circle. I instantly felt my heart do a tiny somersault. But I feigned ignorance, lest he changed his mind seeing my excitement. Pushing back a smile that had crept up on my lips, I waited for him to speak first. Stepping out of the car, my eyes searched for my instructor like how a child looks for his parent to show off his trophy. Had he stood there waiting for me, I could have hugged him, causing a little embarrassment for all of us present there. But he had receded to a cooler area, dodging the Florida sun that had shone the brightest. A sign? Well! A cursory glance at me, and the examiner said flashing a smile, ‘you passed.’ 

The post that happens after every vanishing act. Yah, that one.

Those of you for whom nightly retreats mean rummaging through  Netflix ( and the likes...) for few moments of escape, and shutting the world behind you for few precious hours (if you are lucky), you have arrived at the right place. As much I hate the fact that my before-sleep hours are trapped in this unending loop of online movie prowls, another part, the one that gets satiated by the good watches, cannot thank this luxury enough. I call it a luxury, because I am not bound by the rhythms of life that an average mortal is obliged to fall into. With nowhere to head first thing in the morning, or no particular rush to pack a sleepy kid to a real school( just yet), my mornings follow a rhythm of its own. And the late the nights, the longer the morning sleep. 

Sadly enough, falling into this routine has me let go off my late night readings. I see my last purchase, Cynthia’s good looking, and exciting ( from what I recollect from where I left) book, ‘The Nest’, lying unattended on my bedside table, and my heart aches every single time my eyes are drawn to its beautiful egg shell blue cover. Because coax and coax I may, but I cannot even come close to lifting the book, forget reading few lines from it. Let’s just say, I need some time off from everything, some recovery time, from the onslaught of taking off to places. Packing bags, waiting in security queues, marinating my back on car seats, doing the touristy things, eating out, and wiping arse of tiny human in car seats too, if you please. Did that for a month. Non-stop. I want to say I am done, so I can get back to my normal life. Discipline myself to finish the half-done, half-baked drafts, one at a time. That demands time, and focus. But I am afraid, that would have to wait its turn. Because another bout  of Marry-go-round is lurking  round the corner. I am hardly complaining though. I mean who wouldn't like  to be whisked away to exciting places every second or third month? But there is this searing feeling of guilt and worry that’s growing within me - a part that seems to be dissing the 'plan.'  With an increasing fear of losing sight of my goal, I am flirting  with the idea of a writing retreat, from where I can operate as I wish - watch life in  technicolors, dream, create, and dream some more, while remaining invisible to the world - a 'hideout.' Although right at this moment,  my girl’s red and white stripped tent filled with odds and ends, seems like my best bet. Then sometimes, I dream of teleporting to some faraway land, cancelling the noise with ear phones plugged deep into my eardrums, and not caring about thoughts that keep colliding with each other in my mind. But then again, I am a homebody. These four walls that surround me, make me, me! This is who I am. I love this space. I love the snug welcome it treats me with every time I am back from somewhere. 

You wouldn’t believe, but this is what I had set out to do here. To talk about homes, decor, movies, things I have been treating myself to, things that transport me to a world of dreams. Netflix - the friend and the foe. I hadn’t thought of this as the title, but I was headed on that direction I must admit. So, Netflix, Lust Stories, Home decor shows. There. I listed them. This way I will remain more focused. I think. 

What I had set out to say earlier (just before the digression) was that, I am again in that phase, that huge part of me that is a home decor enthusiast. Lately, with all of my writing plans thrown out of the window, I have been binging on one show on home decor after the other and like always, my head is amassed with my own decor plans for my rooms. TLC is what I have been hearing a lot lately, and DIY is music to my ear. It is almost a cuss word in my household though, with a husband who is severely allergic to anything DIY. I however, am all for throwing in your own creativity wherever I see a possibility. So there, next thing you know is, I have ordered a bunch of wall decals for a particular sore wall in my girl’s room that badly needed some...another favorite word...'treatment.’ ‘Home Doctor’ should thank me for coming up with all the right words in this post. Alright alright I won’t push it. Okay just one more, ‘I am feeling ‘emulsional’ right now!!’ Heck! 

Then comes Lust Stories - four short films by four leading directors of Bollywood under one banner made for Netflix.  Fortunately, I grabbed it on the very day it was released. God knows how much I hate to wake up late to anything film-related! Particularly when it becomes the talk of the town and I am yet to find out about it. This timely consumption however got me sitting on top of it. Being the selfless person that I am, I instantly spread the word around over WhatsApp groups, barring the family and 'family-like' ones for obvious reasons. These films wiped off most of my frustrations with never finding the right movie to watch over Netflix! Sounds like a familiar scenario? Well, now you know what to watch. Impressed with the great execution of the films, I took to Twitter, well, almost took to Twitter. But turned out, I was probably the last one amongst the early birds. Twitter was already rioting with ‘hashtag lust story’ so bad that after a while my mind got attuned to seeing the two words strung tightly together at all times. ‘Luststories’ is what remained of it. But the good news is, either way, these films will entertain you, engage you, tickle you, embarrass you, try you. But one thing they will never do is - waste your time. 

Interestingly, the stories  have incited curiosity even within the movie-novice circles ( Dear God, how do they live!). They seem to be asking funny, but relevant questions, and so am I. I read a quote by writer Arundhati Roy today in the passing that says, ‘The point of a writer is to be unpopular,’ and I didn’t have to look too far to realize what she meant. Do treat yourself with Lust Stories. They are the forerunners in the unpopular category because they ask the difficult  questions. They throw flood light in places we conveniently choose to overlook. They are worth it because they urge you to think and arrive at your own conclusions. 

Swaying to the tune of Bihu...

It all started over an otherwise ordinary Sunday. Over generous cups of tea, savories, and sweets, erupted a familiar happy commotion. And once we were fed enough to be seated in one place and not scatter around, the agendas of the meeting were laboriously addressed, thoroughly discussed, and dutifully highlighted. Interspersed with shrieks, yawns, and other kind of protests from the younger members of the group from time to time. But we remained largely unfazed by any of those distractions, and carried forward with the discussions before returning to our lives that waited for us the next morning. 

Two months away from this day, was fast approaching the Assamese festival of Bihu, that heralds the first day of the Assamese calendar. The first day of ‘Bohag,’ as we know it. ‘Pohila Bohag’ as Deta would say enunciating each syllable, separating it from the Bengali, ‘Poila Boishak.’ The mere word rushes a stream of emotion through my veins. So many fond memories of this day lived in the Assam we have left behind. And wonder if we would ever find our way back to it again. 

Over that first meeting to discuss the Bihu event, something unprecedented had happened. While the discussions steered towards who would be doing the ‘Bihu dance’, with the previous dancers being occupied, my tongue had uncharacteristically slipped, and uttered, ‘I don’t mind joining, if I have company.’ And I found myself retracting almost instantly, as always, adding, ‘I might not have the right clothes though.’ And wished that no one listened to anything I had said in the heat of excitement. And I can easily wiggle out of it in time. But if only impulsive tongue got a second chance! 

Next thing I knew was, I have been added to a group over WhatsApp, named - Bihu 2018. And that was it. The slippery slope I had set foot on, led me to Orlando one fine morning, navigating a travel time of almost 2 hours, to do what...you guessed it...mark the beginning of Bihu dance rehearsals! The lady who opened her home and heart for the session, also managed to fix a lunch worthy of a feast that day. And our hunger, induced by the sways and gyrations of the first few rounds of dance, was quelled enormously. It also pumped us for another few rounds. And to my utter surprise, I was actually enjoying it. And all my initial inhibition was slowly making room for some confidence. It must be the company, it actually is always the company, that can make or mar moments like these. And I had three fine ladies to share these memories with. Cracking one joke at a time. Sorting one step at a time. 

Although this was pre-meditated, yet I consider ourselves lucky to have a fabulous Bihu dancer to show us the way to what seemed like a very intimidating road ahead of us. She had promptly shared her dance video over WhatsApp so that we came prepared on the first day. The sign of a great teacher lies in simplifying things for her students. And far from making things appear daunting, she broke it down to us like taking a toddler though a maze of new words. That must have added the extra boost that our moves dearly needed. And in our head, we were ready to fly! 

This is only the girls’ part of the story though. The men had their own sessions going on over other premises. A ‘Husori’ must first set the mood for Bihu, and serenade the ‘nasonis’ to join them in the celebrations. So the boys had gone on with their part of the rehearsals, well ahead of us. Despite  failing to turn up on time, and sometimes to turn up at all, their spirits however, were always high. 

The second round of rehearsal was when the men and the women came face-to-face. Not exactly for a face-off, but to merge steps wherever they presented a possibility. And our very abled choreographer made sure we tamed the brisk steps, till our ankles ached, our legs gave up, and our heads felt nauseous. But this was crucial, this last leg of the song that we were struggling with. For it is always the last beat of 'dhol' and 'pepa', ending in a thundering climax, that decides the success of a Bihu performance. So there was no question of slacking, but to keep pace with a stead-fast determination, with our master’s words echoing, ‘faster..faster..’ in the air. And faster it got, with each round of practice. Or, that is the goal we are dancing towards. The other goal is to not create a stampede in the process. 

Come Sunday we head to yet another venue, for yet another round of rehearsal. Which might just be the final one before the main event. And come to think of it, if we can pull this off in rehearsal worth of three days, it will be an accomplishment in my tiny book of achievements. 

I have never danced Bihu before this on a stage. Atleast not as far back as I can remember. Thought it might be useful to divulge this crucial piece of information right at this moment. But at the same time, I can almost never hold myself back to the sound of its beat, when I am in a safe enough zone. So here’s to the first of firsts then, to friendships forged over unusual terrains, and to life, that holds surprises in each turn. 

That reminds me, we must turn really fast in the second last line, you hear me, ma girls? 

Of milestones...and of letting go.....

The late morning sleep had to be interrupted abruptly. The languid heads had to be wrapped around heady mornings. Mornings like these I had known not too long ago. A time when I would start the day by throwing a Kurti in the direction of the iron board, with the assurance that an angel would descend, and miraculously iron out its creases. Fortunately the angel in the form of a husband never failed me in this mission to reach office in impeccable time. But things are not the same anymore. Now it’s not just about me, or him. It is about our girl. Lately, everything is about this tiny human that rules our lives. And this is about her first morning of ‘rushing to’ her very first school. The first step to learning while playing - a play-school, as they call it. If the first day speaks of the fate of this adventure called play school, then I am certain there will never be a ‘going to’ school. They will always be accompanied by whizzing heads and murmured cursing, yelling instructions and loving caresses, some sobbing, and eventually, ‘rushing to’ school. Mornings, from here on,  would look like thus - tossing on the bed while resolutely ignoring the shrieks of the alarm clock, then jumping out of bed while coaxing the kid to wake up, pleading to brush her tiny set of teeth, force some food down her throat, forced dressing, forced hair, forced everything, and finally, strapping her to the car seat, and bidding bye while trying to fathom where did all the time fly! This, in short, is how my mornings are going to look like from now on. We have umpteen references of such mornings in the films we watch, the soaps we are hooked to, of haggard, over-worked mothers, who would finally catch a breath when the entire household is packed and sent off. I had waited for my turn too. Of few hours to myself. Of not having to respond to the innumerable questions of a curious toddler in barely discernible language.  And then getting yelled at, if I slack even once! Don’t get me wrong. I am as troubled and concerned like any other parent to allow a piece of my heart step into this uncertain world. But one has to let go, doesn’t one? The famous refrain about cutting the umbilical cord and be okay with it. Of dropping the over-protective shield we subconsciously build around our kids and letting them face the world. Of allowing them the space they deserve so they can blossom into the person they are dying to be. All this sound so fantastic in theory. Books and news feed on my phone have made a habit of sneaking these nuggets into my head over the last few days as an attempt to prep me for the emotional upheaval that lingered ahead of me. They even managed to fool me to believe that I was prepared for it. 

My girl turned 2 and a half last month. And even though we are not exactly great sticklers for milestones, her restlessness and boredom at home told us it was time we sent her off to a play-school. The daycare/play-school at husband’s office was a no-brainer, it meant pick up and drop was going to be a breeze. And more importantly, they had a spot ready for her, which could normally be the first hurdle to overcome, and everything seemed rosy thus far, and things fell in place perfectly. We went ahead and made that important call to the person concerned, and were asked to come in for a ‘meeting’ on a certain day. We agreed to a certain time of the day, and reached the venue with the pupil, and were rather pleased to explore the school that sprawled infront of us. The silly little two to three years olds were bouncing about goofily in the classrooms, and the perky colorful room filled with well-thought-out playthings kept them busy. I imagined my girl in this small class of five to ten people and the prospects it held for her. And I beamed to see her excitement just to be in the corridors of what was going to be her first school ever! Which we would be talking a lot about in the future to her embarrassment. The school explained to us the system, the rules, briefed us on their security, and assured that the transition from home to school will be a smooth one. We signed forms, shook hands, and left the school premises promising we will start school the following week. Waiting for the first day of my girl’s school was undoubtedly the most amount of anticipation I had experienced in recent time.  

We were still a week away from the terrifying ‘first day’. While the kid was blissfully ignorant of what is coming her way, I, on the other hand, would feel a slight twitch in my tummy every time I would think about it. With each passing day, I would pray for a ‘smooth first day.’ The irony of the phrase was not lost on me, but I was a grieving mother, who secretly struggled with ‘letting go.’ Asking questions such as - is it tad early, can I stretch it for few more months, will she cope, will she get used to the food, and so on and so forth. But never wound I ever  let it show. I would mask it with a ‘she has to get used to it.’ Or was it me I was referring to? But the father was worried no less, and it was reassuring to see that we were both on the same page. Only till the kid would start acting up, and we would slump our favorite line at her, ‘just few more days honey, then show this attitude to Miss Micky.’ And even as we would say this, our smiles wouldn’t match our thoughts. 

And then just two days ahead of the day, the kid smells danger, and decides to cough so hard that she would throw up everything she had eaten towards night when it would get more intense. It was as though God had heard my unspoken wish. He could tell I needed more time. We decided as responsible parents that we cannot send an infected  kid to school. Phone call was made to inform them about it, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The delay - an extended holiday for the three of us. My days of tender afternoons with my girl were now counted. I asked myself what was I going to miss the most about this time. The answer lied in the numerous moments of inexplicable love she would shower on me when I least expect it - ‘I love you mommy’ at the drop of a hat, ‘aww u r so cute mommy’( in a phony way she picked up from youtube videos), and the hugging and the mischiefs, and the singing and the dancing. Sheer bliss! And then the monstrous yells when things wouldn’t fall in place, quite literally. When she would fail to stack up colorful rings systematically, or something she was building with blocks, would come knocking down. 

After few bumpy days, and a lot of emotional prep, we finally begun school on a Tuesday. But unlike last time, I was at a much better place emotionally. What’s the worse that could happen? She would refuse to let go off me and howl and cry and create a scene and that might be a recurring thing for the next few days and then finally, one fine day, just like that, she would look into my eye, and bid bye willingly. I toughened my heart, and swallowed the tears that was welling up my eyes. 

When we entered the classroom, within seconds, our little girl to our utter surprise, forgot about us, and ran to explore her classroom. She made it seem so easy, like a veteran, embracing the rite of passage with utmost ease. And we were immensely relieved, and we fled, sneaked out as quietly as we could when she was not looking, not because we didn’t know better, but that was the best we could do when things were still looking rosy. Only that I hung out outside the room lest she decided to bring the roof down soon enough. And I was amazed at how well she was holding up. Soaking up the excitement of a new place. And I started typing this, not knowing how else to let this whole experience sink in, and also to while away the hours that stopped for me. 

Meanwhile the husband called from Office, and I must have gasped at how well she is doing on her very first day. And hung up saying, ‘she could have at least cried a little, you know.’ He let out his ‘cannot believe you’ sigh and hung up. I stepped out of their meeting room, which was made available to me by a very cooperative staff. And I peeked into the classroom from the glass windows. She was so busy, my God! I was equal parts proud, and equal parts hurt. How smooth the transition had been. How she proved all my worries unreasonable. She had always been a people’s person. She was going to take it all so well, dad had told me. I should have known better. With such reassuring thoughts, I slowly started walking away from the door. And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I heard a familiar shriek from across the walls. I turned to look what it was, and to my horror, a pair of tiny eyes had caught me peering in. She was staring right at me. And when our eyes met, she broke down in relentless tears, and kept calling my name. And my heart sank, and settled at the pit of my stomach. I could go in and hug her and say I am right here. But what would happen after that? What would happen of severing the cord? Wouldn’t she get used to  having me around? Or is it futile asking such questions on the very first day? And just when I was debating it in my head,  three staff ladies came to my rescue, and started making funny faces at her through the window. Miss Emily picked her in her arms, and I could hear her deep sobs and tireless cries, but she calmed down eventually. One of the teachers added as reassurance that she is even smiling now. I was back in my seat. But my heart ached. And reason gave up on me. And I had to go back and check on her again. This time more cautiously. She was still crying, more sharp and acutely, at the verge of a melt down. Her voice went hoarse calling my name, and that was it. I had to intervene. And the teachers were happy to let me in. The moment I stepped into the classroom, she ran to me and grabbed me like she would not let go off me today or ever. And it was funny how her incessant  cries melted into warm smiles in seconds! I looked around and found a tiny spot  to make myself comfortable in the classroom for the next two hours. I must have been a source of great curiosity and amusement  for the rest of the class. Proving me right one particularly friendly kid swiftly planted a crown on my head. While another ordered me to tie his shoe laces that came off. And I felt instantly at home - the queen and the slave, all at once! Oh! motherhood! I searched for any strain of jealousy in my girl with all the attention I was showered upon. But all she cared about was to have me next to her. Soon it was time for some outdoor activities. Where the entire group march out singing ‘we are the dinosaurs marching..marching..’ And that was it. The song stuck, and she must have sung it for the rest of the day on loop. Dinosaurs being her thing lately. 

At 5 pm, when the father showed up at school, she turned into an excited nut, bouncing and squealing, and eventually hid herself behind my legs while looking at him shyly. When he pulled her in his arms, she kept holding me with one hand. Just making sure. The eventual day finally came to an end. And we were heading back home quietly with a bitter sweet feeling. 

Tomorrow will be another day - another fresh attempt at settling down, at making a habit of school, of being away from mummy. And who knows, the trick could very well lie in the second day. And before we know it, she would grow out of the shell. The wiggly little worm would blossom into a confident butterfly, and  fly out of the comfort of the cocoon, and like nature, I would have to be okay with it. ‘We’ would have to be okay with it. 

The birthday that was - the uncut version

Roughly two months back, on an utterly ordinary evening, in a particularly inspired moment, I had sent out a message on my favorite WhatsApp group – a group with us few women sharing a common thread with Buffalo. And although with new commitments, we set off on different paths, the warmth of friendship nurtured through the cold months of Buffalo, was carried forward over this group. The message was an invitation to my daughter’s second birthday, and to make sure the invitation was received with the same eagerness with which it was extended, I had thrown in the temptation of a trip to Miami, if they cared to show up. That trip to Miami never happened, but they came anyway. And a tide of effervescence swept across our lives and reached every corner of our hearts, from the time these women, and the men folk too, joined us for our girl’s special day.

But only if things were as smooth and simple as it came off sounding. Particularly not, when friends are scattered across different cities, and have to work out dates around their busy lives, which translated to chaotic planning over the phone. And hence, to work out a method to the madness, a WhatsApp group was promptly created. And with that, any last vestige of intelligible conversation was put indefinitely on hold. Because, one could only get so far, when the discussions ranged from one’s sartorial preferences (over other things), to another’s concern with a certain ‘Game of Thrones’ episode, to another’s work pressure, to anything anyone fancied, but the ‘planning’, which was the sole purpose of the group. Hence in hindside, I am just grateful that the stars finally aligned, the clouds parted, and this scattered lot, with even more scattered ideas, landed just in time for the day. 

But from the day their visit was confirmed, till the day they finally arrived, as you would know it, the ‘Monica’ (as enquired by a friend) in me, was doing overtime. My phone’s battery would run out faster than ever with me raging down to-do lists on my phone’s Notes. From creating more room to accommodate everyone in the house, to acquiring air-beds and mattresses, to stocking up food and water, to sprucing up the place in between picking after toys and tantrums, to fixing meals, the tasks saw no end. And inflicting more pain upon myself, I quite uncharacteristically, turned up for most social events, even the ones we had a choice to pass. And this turned out to be the sole reason for the last-minute fixes which I could have so done without. But I must admit, the thrill of boarding the last train was a great high, and putting the welcome note on the main door, practically split seconds before the first guests arrived, was insanely exciting. Although in the two-seconds break I managed to steal to straighten my weary back, I had made a solemn promise of never losing touch with myself, ever again. And with that, as the guests started pouring in, the house echoed into the familiarity of a happy commotion, as suitcases settled in corners, and friends picked up from where they never left. And the balmy August night played perfect host to this bonhomie.

We had half a day to spare before the day of the Birthday party. Hence the next day towards evening, battling fatigue, and the infamous Florida rain that was hammering down in its most notorious way, we headed to the Clear water beach – the pride, and the saving grace of Tampa. But the rain thwarted any last desire to witness the glorious sunset from pier 60 which was the sole motive of the drive. Failing to catch any major activity on either the horizon, or the beach, we huddled inside a seafood joint and spent the rest of the evening juggling between food and conversations, and me with crayons, to keep the kid occupied. While another guest joined us straight from the airport. Although a fat dinner is known to induce lethargy and sleep, not quite, when ‘poker’ was in the agenda soon after we returned. And the supreme guardian of the ‘Game of Poker’, dear husband, saw to it that the game was treated with the same reverence with which he has been treating it, and earning a steady ill-reputation. And as the men and the ladies settled down for a game of Poker, I grabbed my favorite blankie, and collecting myself on my favorite spot, did what I do best – watch. As they continue with the usual ribbing and jibes.

The next morning was the birthday morning. And it was also the morning when I survived a fatal heart damage when the husband hurled me out of the bed like a maniac, and leapt out of bed himself, when he saw a baffling number of missed calls from the hotel which was the venue for the birthday. The manager was asked to inform us as soon as they were open so that we could spruce up the place and make it birthday-party ready. But when Poker pushed sleep to the wee hours of the morning, birthday plans had to go for a toss. And when our eyes reluctantly opened, it was close to 11 am. Making a dash to the rest room, and hissing and cursing at himself, he got hold of all the decor items that were arranged in various boxes and labelled (ahem!), and taking three trusted people, who can very well run an event company of their own, vanished in thin air.

But this is not how things were supposed to go as per the original plan. Besides the venue, food, photographer, cake, dress and accessories, we had a decor team in place too. Who, after raising our hopes to a record high, came back at the last minute, and slumped the most annoying, ‘due to unforeseen circumstances’, and left us in a lurch. But hold your horses. Before you put two and two together, and decide on the emotional turbulence the news might have caused me, you, my friend, is gravely mistaken. This new person that is talking to you, this one has long left her fastidiousness way behind her. Falling back on Plan B is her new thing. And hence, she landed firmly on her feet even at the face of such depravity. She flicked her hair, twitched her neck, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, and together with her partner in distress, summoned the messiah of the 21^st century *drumrolls* – Amazon. And together they shopped the shit out of it. And once satisfied, depended on prayers, for timely delivery of the stuff. And since they already blindly clambered on the ‘theme and color’ train, they picked the ‘Peppa Pig’ decor items (the character their girl is hooked to), and settled for a pink and gold color palette. This was their brief to the decorators too, and when the task fell upon them, they groaned under the weight of the overwhelming amount of work. And at once, bid bye to elegant drapes and balloon arches, and shook hands with kitschy DIY decor.

In the next one week, till the birthday, the stuff started coming in, and each knock at the door, each trip to the mail box, would get my heart racing. And out would come one item after the other. Since pictures from the event are more important than the real event in the post social-media scenario, a photo booth (O dear lord!) became almost inevitable (After all, how does one look ‘hot’ or ‘sexy’ or even ‘yummy’, without the props saying it for them?) And that’s exactly how I ate my words about never indulging into things like such and what not. And even went on to break the rules a little, and in my attempt to customize the props, lost few good nights’ sleep to put together a half-decent photo booth.

While giving the bats and the owls of the world company, as my pair of scissors would give shape to my ideas, a part of me would yearn for the simpler, the un-demanding birthdays of yore. Much like our lives then. When home-cooked food and home-baked cakes would do just fine. When year after year, the same streamers would miraculously re-appear, and hug the walls of our living-rooms. And even then, the fun would not be compromised. My aunt would whip-up some of the most memorable cakes for us, in the shape of a rabbit, a cat, a flower basket. A far cry from the snooty fondant-laden cakes that seem to have become the thing today. Hence, when my girl walked up and down around the cake, going, ‘Peppa, Peppa’ with excitement, it was almost a consolation for our efforts.

But it was not all hard work and no play affair, this.  And with that, we have arrived at the most notorious part of the event - the ‘getting ready’ bit. O. MY. GOD. (borrowing my girl’s favorite phrase), it’s incredulous, how much can one procrastinate, and delay things. Therefore, the night before the birthday, I summoned my most military face, and announced in my most commanding voice, that, anybody failing to arrive in time at the venue the following day would have to face serious consequences. And maintained a pretty straight face throughout the delivery. I think. And the next day when I woke up at 11 am, after everybody else had woken up, I wanted to dig the proverbial hole, as quickly and widely as possible, lest someone barged in with accusing glances. Guilt-ridden, when I came out of my room, I darted aimlessly, mostly to dodge eye contacts, and managed to drop an entire tray of knick-knacks! Which instantly broke the ice, besides breaking other items.

As I got on with the flow of the day, the decor team was decking up the hall, and me, and a special guest – a friend’s mom and savior, prepared lunch for everyone, and waited for the whole bunch to return, who had skittered across the city on various pretexts. Once lunch was done, and failing to force-sleep the birthday girl after numerous attempts, we started to get ready. And slowly and steadily, the house began to submerge under a sea of beauty products - hair blowers, hair straighteners, pins, clips, foundations, powders, lipsticks, liners, things-I-don’t-know-names-of, mascaras, discarded dresses, glimmering jewelry, a puff here, a whiff there, a frown here, a satisfied glance there, and it went on like an unending saga. And the chaos that had settled in, brought with it an odd happiness that surged and reached every corner. While the women didn’t have a moment to spare, the men folk nervously maintained that, they would wait for the tension to subside, because all they need to do is throw on a shirt and head out. And to think that I fell for that claim!

Once the first batch was ready, and we drove to the venue, miss birthday girl, dressed in her fine clothes, was partially dozing off. And on arrival, she had to be carefully balanced on my arms, as my high-heels were put to test that evening. When I walked into the venue, I was pleasantly surprised by the feat these guys had pulled off in such a short duration. And few minutes after our arrival, entered the legend of tardiness, who had set a record by arriving on time, thanks to blatant lies about the actual time of the event. Slowly the other guests started to fill the hall, and the last time I had felt a similar kind of tingle in my tummy was at my brother’s wedding. And the rest of the evening, as you can guess, was spent doing the usual shebang around a birthday party.

We have so many reasons to cherish the memories of this birthday in the years to come. But most of all, for how it became a pretext to reunite friends. Which is why my fondest memories from this day would be the ‘before and the after’, the ‘behind-the-scenes’, the ‘rough cut’ of the celebration. The ones the camera fails to capture, but the heart forever treasures.