Celebrations!

I realise I’ve really neglected this blog over the last year or two, so time to try and play catch up! First off, the Bean’s 6th birthday. She had just attended a dozen mermaid parties with fake curls, tiaras and mer-tails so she had that playing on her mind when she asked me for a party with mermaids. We chatted about it for a while and I broadened the scope to make it an underwater theme. Not being too committed to mermaids that suited her fine and we soon had a whole underwater theme going.

As luck would have it, I’d just ordered a box from Kukucrate (they make up theme based kits and you can subscribe to them for a funfilled month) for a trial and the theme for the month was Underwater! Such a stroke of luck. The night before the party was spent with the Bean, Brat, and a friend and her son helping me make decorations, wrap return gifts and generally organise things. One of the items in the Kukucrate box was thermocol half-globes that we painted and inserted pipe cleaners into, to make jellyfish. This we hung from a lampshade in the living room and it looked lovely.

Surprisingly I had a lot of blue cushions, blue curtains, blue table cloths and fish shaped tableware so the house was dressed up to suit the theme. We hung green and blue crepe paper cut into strips to look like seaweed and hung up strings of blue and green balloons which burst the moment we hung them in the garden. The children have outgrown their swimming tubes- a turtle and a something-or-the-other that I hung up in the garden. A basket of soft balls was given and the kids had to aim through the centre of the tube. Many of them got it and Cousin K and the OA who suddenly realised they were running out of gifts, began to up the ante. Began to shake the tube so that it was harder to aim at, the kids still got it. Then put the trampoline at the start line and began to make the kids jump on the trampoline while aiming, while Cousin K kept shaking the tube around.

It was hilarious fun and by the end the OA, Cousin K and one other mother who had stayed with her daughter and I, had collapsed in a heap, laughing. The kids of course loved the way the game got tougher and tougher and surprised us with their ability to keep up with it. I picked up some face painting crayons and made tattoos for the kids  - sea themed. I have to say the kids were rather gentle in the way they looked at my handiwork pityingly and said, ‘It’s not too bad, Aunty. You could be a great tattoo artist someday if you keep practising.’ Err, thank you. The OA manned a third corner where the kids were fishing for paper fish on paper clips, with magnets. This too was from the Kuku crate box and very popular with the kids. The fourth corner was a rug with crayons and sheets of sea themed animals for the kids to colour.

The cake was a two tier fresh strawberry cake with crabs and other sea creatures crawling all over it. Fantastic. A lot of the food fit the theme too. I opened up strawberry cream oreos and placed small white marshmallows in them to look like oysters, bought a small fish bowl and filled it with goldfish biscuits, cut a yellow capsicum and studded it with olives to look like an octopus and stuck it in a bowl of hung curd dip. Also had bowls of grapes and pomegranates. And one huge dish of sausages and another of popcorn that was a huge hit. The Bean had begged me with the world in her eyes for Maggi and so for the first time the banned item made it to my dining table in a huge fishy dish. I can’t tell you how funny it was to see the adults dig into it when they came to pick up their kids. I’d honestly imagined I’d be struck off their X’mas card lists.

For the first time this year I politely requested all parents to drop kids and pick them up. We usually like our parties full of kids, parents, a few cold beers and lots of fun. But increasingly I realise kids misbehave when their own parents are around. Left to our tender mercies they play according to rules, don’t push or fight and generally end up being far better behaved. The party ended with a few friends staying back for a drink, the kids sliding into a pile on the carpet and watching some TV and all of us polishing off the simply fantastic cake. Burp. 

Pictures now.

The octopus taking a dip

A huge dish of Maggi with veggies, the oyster oreos, sausages, popcorn and goldfish in a bowl

The jellyfish from the Kukucrate kit hanging from a lampshade

Green and blue balloons and a turtle shaped swimming tube to aim balls through.

The kids spent a pleasant few hours cutting out these sea creatures and colouring them. Then we stuck them on a ribbon. It is currently being used as a banner in the nursery.

Some portions of the house that were in keeping with the blue/sea theme.

The Kukucreate items that worked with our theme – jellyfish made of thermocol and pipecleaners, and the paper cutouts with clips to fish for with magnets.

Was most thrilled to find a fishy cushion I’d picked up at Fabindia on a whim.

For those who wanted to sit by the pool and chill.

I have more fishy bowls than I realise!

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The tenth anniversary was supposed to be in Bora Bora. But then we had kids and I stayed home and we were wondering if we’d even be in a position to make it to Baroda. Anyhow, the plan is a convoluted one. A quick short trip with my parents to Orchha, on the weekend pre-anniversary, the day off for the OA and I to spend together in our pajamas and then go for a fancy dinner, on the anniversary. And a slightly delayed big holiday with the kids to Bangkok, again, to celebrate 10 years of being US. People did suggest we leave the kids and go, but as I’ve said often, my kids might be good for nothing else, but they’re fantastic travelers. And what are we celebrating at the end of these ten years if not our love and the product of that love.

It was not the best time on earth to go to Orchha but we’ve been wanting to do it for ages and as luck would have it, the weather was great – grey and a slight drizzle. The OA got me books, flowers, jewelry. I thought and thought and thought and finally thunked. I knew what to get a man who didn’t want anything else for his anniversary – a wife who would drive. Yep, I’ve begun to drive and it was quite useful because I’d barely done ten days when I found myself being shoved behind the Scorpio’s wheel while the OA went off to clear up a traffic jam on the highway. I was terrified as I took the wheel, but I guess there is something to being forged by fire. The kids were majorly tickled by seeing me drive and I guess the only thing left now is to not give up as I have before. It’s killing my knees, but I’m going to hang in there.

My parents joined us for the weekend and it was particularly significant for me because if they hadn’t supported us, it would have been just another quick court registry before we got on with life. They’re still quick to support us in our times of need, tell us off if we’re behaving idiotically and basically be the best support system anyone could have.

So, back to Orchha, we stayed in some lovely tents, visited the Orchha fort, went for the light and sound show, drove to Shivpuri and spent a day at the Madhav National Park  - sighted crocs, blue bull, deer, a variety of birds (all mostly spotted by the Brat even before the guide could open his mouth) and much more. Is it just me or are guides mostly picked for their ability to annoy and patronise? Even a lovely boat ride where we spotted more crocs and birds. Back at the hotel the kids spent a lot of time in the pool while I read a book in peace after a long time.

On the last day we drove into Jhansi and visited the Fort and also Rani Lakshmi Bai’s palace. An old lady sat at the door charging us Rs 2 for entry and taking the tickets back as we left, no doubt to charge someone else. A guide wandered around trying to educate us, mixing up fact with fiction and telling us that Aurangzeb died because Ma Kali appeared before him and scared him to death.

These were the greats of our country. For Rani Lakshmi Bai to do what she did, when she did, was commendable. And now her personal palace lies in ruins, the gardens overrun, a smelly toilet left open, paan stains in the corners and the rooms empty, covered in cobwebs, the building falling apart. So little is left of a life as magnificent as hers, what do you think will be left once we pass on? We don’t even have a legacy such as hers. No poems, no stories, nothing.

Subhadra Kumari Chauhan’s rousing poem (she happens to be from my part of the world!) on the warrior queen came rushing back to mind and even as I wandered around the decrepit building I felt the tears rush to my eyes. Khoob ladi mardaani woh toh Jhansi waali rani thi. I began to recite from memory to the kids, the OA joined in and my voice broke – we both looked away, embarrassed at how overwhelming it was.

It was a rushed trip, all this covered in a mere three days, including the drive. So much of this beautiful country left to see, so little time. And now, photos of the trip.

Different views of the Orchha Fort. Simply stunning.

Because I couldn’t take anymore stairs.

The light and sound show at Orchha.

Can you spot me and the babies?

The Bean admires the view from a jharokha.

You can almost hear the sound of payals down this corridor.

Our hotel was built around ruins. The gardens were stunning.

A ruin right in the middle of the Madhav National Park.

The Bean falls asleep with my hat on her face, as we settle the hotel bill.

The OA tries to make up for me not being able to take the stairs by describing everything to me. This is why I married him.

Loved this train track running through Gwalior, people hopping on and off as though it were a bus.

The aangan in Rani Lakshmi Bai’s palace. I’d love to sit here with a book. I wonder if she ever got to enjoy it in peace.

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The Brat’s 8th birthday was one of the most rushed plans ever. I was supposed to be travelling on a shoot and back in time for his big day, but I was only coming back late night on the 4th and didn’t think I could get everything ready for the next day. So we planned for the next weekend. And then the shoot got cancelled and we decided to let him have the pleasure of his party on his birthday and everything had to be rushed forward by a week – crazy! We hadn’t thought of anything other than the cake and the rest were quickly thrown into place.

Now that the kids are old enough for organised games, we picked a version of Pin the tail, in this case, on a dino. The OA decided to draw a T-rex for his son and I was as usual, shocked by how good an artist he is. He is my favourite example of eldest son primed to become CEO and nothing less. Free of social pressures and patriarchy, this man who never picks up a pencil other than to teach his kids, would have been a good artist. If nothing else, the peace on his face when he sketches, says something. If I could give my husband one thing, it would be a fresh start. One where studies took a back seat to the many talents he has, be it art or cooking or sports. Anyhow, lest you think I’m a fond wife gushing, check this picture out. He drew it without erasing anything and then let the kids colour it.

The T-rex being sketched by the OA. The Brat coloured it after his father was done.

I have become the official tattoo artist after the Bean’s party and have been painting themed tattoos for the kids. Most of them take one look at the tattoo I’ve made, shake their heads sadly at me as though – You poor deluded woman, you call yourself an artist? And then walk away without a word so as to not hurt my feelings. They all came back for seconds, thirds and face painting after a while.

The food was deviled eggs, pancakes, fruit, popcorn, sausages and Maggi – again, since the Bean had asked for it, the Brat had to, too. We made little signs and stuck them on ice cream sticks that were dug into lumps of Plasticine – saying Carnivorous and Herbivorous to mark out veg and non-veg food. We also made up funny names for the rest like Primordial Slime, for the Maggi and Oviraptor Eggs for the devilled eggs. The kids had a lovely time and the OA and I actually finished cleaning, sweeping and swabbing the floor by 9 pm and got into bed in time to watch a few episodes of our latest obsession – Homeland. The Brat got an insane number of books, most of them on animals; clearly his friends know him well.

The OA working on his masterpiece.

We moved pots around to create a jungle entrance to our place.

The OA’s T-rex fruit salad is almost ready. We added some pineapple and mango to the watermelon.

‘Oviraptor’ eggs!

Pancakes shaped like dinos, with marshmallow eyes. These were a hit. 

The cake was fresh mango and sprinkled with cocoa powder. The fossil was fondant.

Some need a little help with conquering the ferocious T-rex.

G’pa gets in on the action while a bunch of pint sized contestants distract him!

Welcome and goodbye

Perhaps the greatest pleasure of ‘growing up’ is hosting your family. And I have that simple joy pretty often. From being local guardian to my cousins in college, to my parents who travel through the NCR every two months or so on business. Friends, family who I have never met before at times and acquaintances who just need a place to crash, at times. But my favourite, by far, is having Chhota Nana and Nani (or my maama and maami) over, every summer.

In their mid-forties, they’re young, enthusiastic and fun. And yet, they’re older so I hand over the reigns of my house to them and party like an animal. The kids sleep with them, eat with them and breathe down their necks, staying out of my way, giving me an illusion of being childless, footloose and fancyfree in the Capital again.

It’s just like having my own parents in town, without the hassle of controlling my temper after day 3 as I always have to do when my father and I are in the same house. Invariably tempers fray and doors are slammed and the foundation rocks, as we scream at each other over something completely inconsequential. My mother and the OA pale and come up with creative ways to dispel the tension.

So these times with Chhota Nana and  Nani are some of the best times as a hostess (if you can call me that, when I am barely surfacing before 9 am each morning!). Chhota Nana walks around the house pulling at door knobs, knocking against walls to check for termites, servicing my AC, hanging up the last few pictures we’d dumped in a corner, adding a little block of wood under a shelf that has a broken leg and fixing my cooler for better cooling. Chhoti Nani reads to the Brat and Bean, stitches little satin roses on to anything the Bean produces, cooks up the most delicious kebabs and biryanis and comes carrying jars of mango chutney. By evening Cousin J and I share a Breezer and are quite giggly and the whole family sits around roaring with laughter and cracking the silliest jokes. Cousin K turns up his 21 year old nose at his two drunk-on-a-shared-Breezer sisters and dutifully helps the OA get my kids into pajamas. All in all, a brilliant situation.

Socialising while they are here is fun too, because most of our friends are in their late 30s and early 40s, with kids the same age as ours. And then there are these youthful grandparents who confuse them – should they call them Uncle and Aunty, considering there is not more than 3-4 years of age difference? At a party last week, Chhote Nana carried the Bean around on his shoulders while the other dads hung around sipping their drinks and saying it was too hot to be bothered. They were fine when they met this young, slight, fit man in his jeans and tee, until the OA made the mistake of saying this is his uncle in law. An awkward pause followed by the sudden realisation that they should call him Uncle. And then my as-yet-not-greying Uncle looking at me in barely disguised horror as many bigger, paunchy, grey, men began to call him Uncle. I teased him about it for days. At some point they began to discuss bikes and I think they forgot to call him Uncle after a cigarette had been passed around.

It’s an odd situation because their own daughter is 20 and studying, but I am their daughter too in every way that matters. Thanks to me they’ve had the pleasure of grandchildren far earlier than anyone in their group of friends – and my cousins who have barely left their teens are disgusted at how besotted their parents are by my kids and wonder aloud why they were not allowed to get away with murder, the way mine are. The oldies (if one can call them that) love our new house and I love walking into their room in the morning and watching them read the morning papers, framed against my backyard and the lilies in the pond. I love the sound of their voices over a cup of tea while we go about our daily business. I love being their child who is now old enough to take them out for a meal or drag them away from their own house for a bit of a break. Of course they are unable to sit still here either, but it’s a little better than being home and working.

When they leave, after the mandatory 2 weeks that I insist they must stay, I feel the light go out of the house. They fit so beautifully into our home, complementing and supplementing, without ever making me feel like I need to do anything, that I feel the void intensely. For days after they leave, the Brat and Bean mope. Which is not something they do with anyone else, other than Baby Button. Thankfully this year they’ve left and barely two days later I have followed and dropped the kids back home.

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I’ve left the babies with my parents year after year since they turned one, for an annual break (they as well as we, need it!). It’s a great idea because the two sets of grandparents – Nana-G’pa and Chhota Nani and Nana, get a chance to spoil the kids rotten without me hovering over them, looking like a thundercloud each time a Kachcha Mango Bite is offered or they watch an episode of Doraemon. A time of absolute freedom, not hampered by the sandwich generation. I know its important for kids to get a break from the schedule of home, that they get to throw routine to the winds and unlearn order. That they realise TV is not the enemy Mama makes it out to be and eating a chocolate before breakfast will not kill them. All very important childhood lessons I am sure. My son is playing cricket with the boys on the street this summer and my daughter is sitting on (not at) her grandfather’s desk, telling his staff that will one day she will run G’pas office. Thankfully its a small town where people find that rather amusing.

Each year I tell them that I’m leaving them there and going off with Dada for a break. This is the first year that the Brat objected. He is Baby Button-crazy and after the first few days of nodding, he suddenly snapped and said – But why can’t we go. Err…. good question. Because its expensive and because your father and I haven’t had a good old holiday since I was expecting you – X’mas 2004in London. Because there will be lots of walking and with two torn ligaments and a bunch of missing cartilage in my right knee, I’m going to be hard pressed to carry myself, let alone anyone else. He agreed and floated off, albeit rather morosely.

Actually I have no idea why we’re not taking the kids other than sheer tradition. This annual ritual is usually a 3-4 day one where we take a break and spend sometime just being a couple. Having had them so early in our married life, the OA and I have been parents almost our entire relationship. We come back refreshed and ready to handle the rigours of parenthood for the rest of the year. And the kids have by that time ingested enough sweet to keep them bouncing off the walls for the next month or two. They show no grief when I am leaving for the station, they’re too busy screaming and running around the living room with some family member. (Actually they’ve never cried at a single parting, be it starting a new school or leaving for a holiday – makes me wonder if I’m such a bad mother that they’re happy to be rid of me. But that is fodder for another post!). Last night was the first time they came to the railway station to drop me. On the way, the usually vague Brat looked up and under cover of darkness, said, ‘I’ll miss you, mama,” out of the blue. I was shocked.

My poor kids have had to live with an overly emotional, extremely expressive mother. I spend at least 20% of my time rolling on them, squashing them, squeezing them and telling them how much I love them. The Brat takes after his father, solemnly accepting his fate and suffering in silence. The Bean takes after me by knocking on the bathroom door about 3 minutes into my bath and saying, “Hurry up and come out, Mama. I’m already missing you.” You get the picture.

This year too, they planned excitedly for their summer break with the grandparents. Packing a bag of things to do on the train, helping me pack their suitcase, calling the grandparents twice a day to remind them that they want to do X,Y or Z once they’re there. The Bean has held back on her haircut for the last 2 months saying she will only get Aunty P in Allahabad to cut it. They’re going to go swimming with my parents, and will be off to Banaras this weekend and Madras the weekend after that for 10 days, sun, sand and egg dosas.

Friends who don’t have parents to leave the kids with, envy us. I on the other hand envy friends whose parents live with them and take care of the kids while they work. Anyhow, the point remains that next year I think we might not be able to leave them behind. Not because they won’t agree to stay. But because I don’t think I can do it anymore.

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And here’s a sample of the idiocy we’re busy with when we’re home. A picture of the feet of three generations of women. They get progressively fairer (my mother is strangely dark for being the product of a pink and white Garhwali-Punjabi father and light skinned Bengali mother) starting with my mother’s dark but beautifully shaped foot, my medium toned but very plain foot and the Bean’s fairer foot – but she, poor child has unfortunately got the OA’s really ugly feet.

Girls just wanna have fun

Endless summer afternoons

It’s 48 degrees in the shade and Delhi is not baking but burning to a crisp, like bacon. The proof is the oil dripping off my face. I do my best to not fight it, to embrace the heat. I try and remind myself that there are people across the world who yearn for a bit of the bone warming sun. And I do my best to make the home comfortable, with thick drapes, chilled aam panna, cool creamy lassi and the good old desert cooler that fills our home with the lovely fresh scent of khus. But it’s an undeniable fact that the North Indian summer is deadly and kids on a school break feel trapped inside the home.

For years I’ve flip flopped between summer camp or not. Last year a friend ran a special summer camp at a very special school and suggested I send the kids with her. It suited me because the kids travelled both ways with her and I didn’t have to organise the logistics. Her kids and mine are friends and it worked out well for everyone. I’d even sent them in the earlier years in Delhi because we were locked into our third floor house and the kids couldn’t get out of the house until 6 pm. It just seemed cruel.

This year, now that we’ve moved into our lovely little house with a garden, I decided I’d keep them home. The entire point of a summer break is to give them a break from routine. To let them lounge like lizards and come up with something of their own to do. To let them whine, ‘I’m bored, mama’. And then tell them what my grandmother often told me – ‘Only boring people get bored; interesting people have a whole world of fun going on inside their heads.’ My brother and I hated it when she said that. And yet it taught us so much. We learnt to entertain ourselves. And we learnt to be still.

They say an idle mind is a devil’s workshop, but I disagree.  Left to themselves kids can be amazingly creative and I’ve been pleasantly surprised with some of the things they’ve come up with. It’s not easy, particularly since I work from home and that means the kids bang on my door ever so often with a ‘What shall we do?’ or a quarrel to settle. But I soldier on without succumbing entirely to the tempting air conditioning of malls. Remember this post on keeping kids out of malls?

What is lovely about the new locality is that there are so many parents who parent just like I do. We may have nothing to say to each other (but funnily we do!) but we agree almost blindly on matters of parenting. So each morning the kids go off to have lunch with someone and every 3rd or 4th day I have about 4 kids at mine. They play hide and seek around the house, they paint, they create entire farms of playdough, they lose their tempers and throw the ludo board at each other with accusations of CHEATING!, they drag bedsheets over chairs and create castles and pirate ships and put on feather boas and masks and create stories. On a Saturday the OA plays math games with all the kids while another mother runs them through their Hindi workbook for a quick revision. I do a storytelling activity followed by a quick art and craft session. In case you don’t know how to come up with stories, you can take a little help from this game the kids were gifted (thanks Aneela!) that I thought I’d share with you. It is called Shape Your Story and is very handy to keep the kids entertained. There is a set of cards, a dice and a marker. All you need to do is add to the shape and create something. And that is the starting point for your story. Much fun and much inspiration for the wildest of stories.

What is nice about this system is that each house has it’s own set of games and at another home located at a dead end, they play cricket and football. A third home is  bang opposite the park so they run out and play in the shade. The kids learn to eat pure vegetarian at one home while the vegetarian kids learn that meat will be put on my table even though I will ensure that they don’t touch it. But every single one of these homes offers only healthy homecooked food and fresh fruit. And very limited TV viewing. I couldn’t ask for more or better.

In another two weeks the kids are off to spend 3 weeks with my parents while the OA and I take a much deserved trip to Istanbul and the US. Before we know it, these long lazy summer vacations will be over. Real life will begin and they will never know more than a 20 day break in the year. Until that happens, I want them to know what it feels like for a day to seem endless, a night to be cool and restful, a break to be never ending and a week to be full of possibilities.

I leave you with some pictures of what they’ve been up to.

Breaking a lump of clay to discover Dino fossils. Some of the toys you get these days are amazing. Just right for my geeky son.

The Brat creates an octopus from a couple of sticky straw thingies.

The Bean draws the Taj Mahal from memory on the chalkboard I’ve painted in a corner of their nursery.

The Brat’s latest obsession – big cats. I think he was trying to copy a Serval or something here.

A friend joins them on the mess mat for an afternoon of finger painting.

The Bean’s ladybird on canvas

Planting veggies for the summer

Of chicken and pork – II

If I’d thought that the Bean getting chicken pox was the worst of it, it wasn’t. Keeping the kids away from each other was a Herculean task. We entered the house and both kids flew to Button – I screamed, “Don’t touch him!!” They came screeching to a halt and remembered everything I’d coached them all the way from Delhi.

At this point everyone in the family rushed in to ensure that their feelings weren’t hurt and I lost track. The basic rules were that we were to sanitize our hands with bottles lying around the house in between touching my two and the Button. Button had also been given a homoeopathic antidote and I don’t care what people say about the system, it worked, and how!

X’mas at our place has always been crazy. Throw in three kids who have to be kept apart and a bout of chicken pox and the crazy quotient sky rocketed. On the whole it wasn’t too bad because the Brat had his shot and the Button had the antidote. So the whole family did their best to entertain the Bean and not let her feel unloved each time the Brat and Button cuddled. If I had a rupee for every person who said it was unfair to expose the Button to CP, I’d be a rich woman. But I think we’re all a little richer for having spent that time together. The Brat and the Button were soon inseparable. The Button actually believed he was the Brat’s equal and would keep beating him up, pulling his hair, crawling all over him, and finally pushing him over, all while the Brat lay on the floor laughing helplessly and hugging him.

We had our annual X’mas party planned so it seemed only fair to call and tell everyone who had kids to keep them away from mine. Dutifully we called up and told everyone that we’d understand if they didn’t show up. I was surprised by the number of people who showed up anyway, some without their kids and some with. The kids had a blast and I hugged the OA through the last dance that night, grateful we’d come home. I can’t imagine what we’d have done stuck in our flat in Gurgaon, unable to take the kids to the common park, to the grocery store, unable to have friends over. A shitty X’mas that would have been.

And in all this we’d wake up each morning and frantically examine the Button to make sure there were no spots on his little dimpled self while he’d look at us with his curious, big bright eyes, convinced that he’d left the comfort of his home only to end up in a madhouse. It was almost like having a third baby and the OA and I kept him with us as much as we could, washing his little butt, changing diapers and feeding him his bottle. Everything but his meals – only his mother could manage to make him finish his entire portion. It was also her job to feed the ultra fussy Bean who can drive a saint to crime. I have no idea what she did in there and I don’t want to know. All I know is that she made insanely huge portions and got them down the Bean’s throat while I enjoyed the respite from begging, pleading, coaxing, screaming, threatening to feed her to crocodiles and finally attempting suicide.

And then of course because all of this was too good to last,  we woke up one morning to find spots all over the Brat  -he’d got the bloody chicken pox after all. I’ll never forget the betrayal writ large on his face, ” YOU said if I got the vaccination I won’t get it!” Oh well, we tried, I reasoned with him, but the doctor said you might have already been in the incubation period.

But a child who has had a poke in his butt and still gets CP is not to be reasoned with. He got it worse than the Bean. At least a 100 little boils all over his body and we were back to the neem leaf and oatmeal baths and slathering on calamine by the gallon. On the bright side, his bout barely lasted a week. On one occasion, while trying to make sense of the unfairness of getting it after having had the poke, he seriously explained to a visitor, “I got it because Nani cooks too many things for dinner. We had chicken as well as pork at the same meal. So it turned into chicken pox.” Errr, okay, whatever helps you make your peace with it!

The Bean was torn between relief and remorse. “Now he won’t leave me to go play with the Button!” and “Maybe he got it because I was teasing him and saying I’m coming to lick you. I’m very sorry now.”

But honi ko kaun taal sakta hai yaada yaada and we couldn’t have got it in a better place. All day they played across my parents’ and my uncle’s homes, swinging, cycling, climbing trees, sitting by the pond and watching fish and even going boating to the Sangam. None of this could however make it up to the Brat that he could no longer touch the Button. And we tried hard, I’ll tell you this much. In fact many weeks later, we were back in Gurgaon and the Bean casually asked, “Mama, how do you know when you love someone?” And the Brat responded gravely (he thinks he’s an adult now that his permanent teeth are in), ” When you love someone you want to play with them all the time, you share your toys with them and if you have chicken pox you don’t touch them.” I thought that summed up love pretty succinctly.

Of chicken and pork

When your children get chicken pox, the world quickly falls into two categories. Those who look terrified and take one step back and those who step forward to lend a hand and go, ‘Poor baby..”.

The Bean got chicken pox 3 days before we were to go to Allahabad for X’mas. Yes, that is why you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of me in a month. Dad’s big birthday bash. X’mas. Precious nephew visiting India. Moving house. Every single thing blighted by the damn pox.

My first thought was, Why me?! A second later I remembered I was the adult in the equation and it was the poor child who was suffering. Not literally though. The vaccination she’s had as well as the booster shot, ensured that she didn’t get a particularly bad case of it so there was no fever and none of the listlessness and cough and what not I associated with it from my own childhood bout.

We’d attended a birthday party the night before and I sent out mass SMS to all the mothers asking them to check their kids before rushing her to the doctor in our apartment complex. She confirmed that at least 7 other cases had already been reported over the last couple of weeks. Subclinical she called it. Not infectious, but it would be best to give the Brat the vaccine booster since he exhibited no signs of having it, she said. I went home and sent a mail out to the complex google group warning them. While a few people mailed back thanking me for the warning, others mailed telling me not to go the ‘American way’ I quote. That kids will have ailments and will pass them around and there’s no reason to quarantine or warn. Um. Okay.

Either way, I knew our holiday was over. My chance to spend time with my brother and nephew, lost. I cancelled my tickets, then called and told my mother and SIL that I was not coming because I didn’t want to expose Baby Button to the virus. And then I settled down to do art and craft with the kids so that they didn’t go downstairs and infect the entire community. My phone didn’t stop ringing that day. Uncle, Aunt, parents, SIL, everyone kept calling. I have no idea what we spoke of but apparently we couldn’t stop. I have the bills to prove it.

The grandparents were torn. One set of grandkids having to stay away for the sake of another. The SIL was upset that we’d not get to be together. I was hopping mad at the timing. In general we’d all have been fine with the Button getting it if he’d been older, but he was only 11 months old and they had to travel back soon. Of course plenty of others saw it in black and white – if your kids are sick, no point risking another. But for family it’s never so simple. We all wanted to be together. We have only ONE f**king festival in the year to look forward to, this would be Baby Button’s first X’mas and this was the only time we’d get to be together as a family. X’mas is not about Santa and gifts – it’s about sitting around the fire ribbing each other and making your mother pull her hair out in bunches by only settling down for dinner past midnight.

By night the brother had woken up in the US and heard the news. He rushed out of a client meeting and called me – The kids have what? You’re not coming? This is not happening.

I shooed him back to work and went to bed only to wake up the next morning to a call from the SIL. Chicken pox or no, I was to haul my butt to Allahabad, not because they wanted to see me, but because the poxy kids were the Button’s cousins and he had a right to spend time with them. Secretly I was dying to hold and kiss him and didn’t care who caught what in the bargain, but the adult mask I sometimes like to prance around in dictated that I behave responsibly.

No no, I said seriously.

Yes, yes, she said firmly – Kids get chicken pox. That’s what kids do. We’re enough people to handle the kids and its not fair that you should be holed up in a flat without friends and family through X’mas season. Yes, yes, I bitterly cried inside my head. The Uncle and Aunt called – You come and stay with the kids at our place. Yes, that was all very well but then what would be the point? We’d still be together for meals and exposing the baby to the germs.

The OA came home from work and said – Am I the only adult in the family? You’re not going. We’re not going. We’ll figure out what to do to have a fun X’mas without infecting either your family or the entire apartment complex.

The kids were blissfully unaware of the change in plans.

And while we argued and debated, time sped on in that nasty fashion that it tends to when you badly want something. It was almost X’mas Eve and the brother was landing in Delhi and heading on to Allahabad. I went to the airport at 3 am to pick him up and till 7 am we sat in my living room, sipping on hot coffee and chatting. I savoured the time I got uninterrupted by kids and husband, just us siblings catching up, completing each others’ sentences.

Tambi woke the kids up before he caught the flight home and they tumbled out of bed in excitement. Tambi Maama was here!!!! It was all I could do to convince them not to hang on to his coat tails and go off with him. It was also heartwarming that they remembered him and were falling over in excitement on seeing him. Perhaps babies have a little sensor that tells them which people make their parents happy. Tambi dragged me out of the room and I wilted under his fierce glare as he bit out – You ARE bringing them home, chicken pox or no.

The OA kept rolling his eyes but we ignored him. I was sick of my kids being locked up in a flat like criminals, specially when the Bean felt perfectly fit and was running around making me dizzy. I was sick of being locked into the house myself with them and not having even a ten minute break because the conscience demanded that I don’t even get out to buy groceries taking them with me. With no house help I had no one to leave them home with either. I was so grateful to go home where there’d be others to share the work load and the joy err.. pox with. And I was so glad that the Bean would have people willing to touch her and cuddle her and hold her and not treat her like she was untouchable. It was the season of joy but the joy had been sucked out of her little touchy-feely-cuddly baby life. To go back a bit – after we got the Brat his shot the Bean asked sadly, “Mama, can I hug him now? I’ve been missing him.”

And so it was that two days later we got into our little coupe, and rattled away down the train tracks, the wheels chanting home, home, home. Sometimes you need to be at the end of your tether to appreciate what you’re getting. And this X’mas I learnt that family are the people who will hug you, kiss you even when you’re infectious and want you home even if they have an 11 month old being put at risk. Because the spotty 4 year old is as precious to them. And that  God is rarely unkind enough to take away your 2 weeks of being aunt to the most beautiful, dimply, bundle of joy ever.

Home, home, home…. The train pulled in late thanks to fog, but on Christmas Eve we tumbled out onto the the grey, cold platform and straight into the warmth of excited family. Yep. Twas certainly the season to be jolly. Hope yours was too.

PS: This isn’t the end of course. Stay tuned to know why the title is called Chicken and Pork!