deviousways

Think I caught a bug Want to curl up in a rug To get warm and snug. And oh, for some hugs Coz, you see, I feel so ugh! Some days, things go blue Believe me, this is true. Head achy, hair askew Sigh, even a warm cuppa won't do. When you feel you have the flu.

My mother is one of those people who has an opinion on everything. She can discuss cricket like a pro and dissect a game, better than Siddhu. She often corrects my English (usually when I am in mid-sentence) and tells me almost every day, that I fuss over my son. Irritatingly enough, she is often spot on. The other day, when we were discussing the problems new moms face today. I said some babies can be cranky, making like miserable for their moms. So Ma made one of her sweeping statements: "In my time, babies used to sleep more. Babies and children today fuss more, sleep less". Of course, I saw red and we sparred back and forth for a while. "Ma", I told her, you had two helpers (she did too!) to take care of your daughters, so you were able to go work. You weren't really a hands-on mother." But thinking back, I am convinced my mother is right. How it irks me to say that. My own little fellow is a prime example. When he was a baby, I used to walk hol

I always had a belly. In the beginning, it was rather shapely. Curvy, but not outwordly so. Then lil man came along. Suddenly, my belly became The living, growing symbol Of another tiny, living, breathing being. My body became nurturer and nurse. My belly became both nest and nuzzling point. Baby grew out of me, literally. And my belly became an afterthought. You see, my body didn't snap back into shape. My belly stayed on. So terms like 'baby belly' were thrown at me. But guess what, a baby did grow in this belly. And yes, my belly will never Go back to what it used to be. It is wobbly, it's scarred. It has stretchmarks. It symbolises my strength.

I cannot be still. Not in the motionless sense, Rather, I talk of stillness of mind, And calmness of heart. So important, that contentment. So difficult to achieve. At least for me. Instead, my mind scurries. Hither and thither. Rooting out old fears, Revelling in stale thoughts. Leaving me uneasy, disturbed And totally, spent. What is it about the night And the stillness of the dark That makes me so? Is it that the blackness Forms a shroud around me? Then, unfinished tasks, unresolved issues Become insistent companions. I cannot silence these unheard voices. I cannot make my freewheeling thoughts Settle. But perhaps, I can learn, slowly And painfully, To live with my rights and my wrongs. My good and my bad. And then, maybe just maybe, I can learn to still my unquiet self.