Perfect Sunday in the Garden

My mind is blank today. The sun shines into my eyes. I see the tops of the trees. The power cables are long and sagging in the middle inviting the birds to swing away. The seat in front of me is empty. The sky is light blue with streaks of white clouds. There are houses veiled by the green of the woods. There are cars dying away in an empty yard strewn with trash. There is no purpose in my writing today. I feel free.

Just this week on Sunday, it seems like eons ago now, I had the sun on my back, sitting on the soft green grass, shelling pungent green onions fresh off the soil, and watching my husband sweat it out on our small kitchen garden. This year we are planting potatoes, string beans, brown beans, okra, tomatoes, asparagus, red chilies, and flowers.

Two neat rows of flowers will be followed by one and half row of potatoes and okra, with the beans sprinkled in between. Beans like to tangle and wrap around a sturdier plant for support. I don’t care much for the flowers. My father in law is the mastermind behind all these details and he directs all of us with the zeal of an avid gardener and an agriculture expert that he is.

We prepared the rows a month ago. One mild evening, we came out and turned the crusted earth top releasing the soft, moist, and fragrant earth underneath. We prepared neat rows of beds for the seeds to come to life. My husband who is somewhat of a perfectionist measured out the rows and tried to keep them parallel but the earth refused and it turned and it flowed whichever way it wanted to.

We made small holes in the rows around eight to ten in each, they looked like small palms cupped for prayers. The seeds were laid to rest cushioned by the dark soft market bought miracle grow filled to the brink. The wrinkled bluish and brown potato spuds; the small green crisp and round okra seeds; and the thin long and fragile string beans; we took them all out one by one and placed them into the soil pockets with reverence.

I see the sun shine on my nine month old daughter’s face. Her cheeks are rosy and her hair is tussled against the early warm winds. I watch over her protectively as a bee hovers nearby restraining myself from sweeping her off the ground and taking her inside the protective cloud of our home.

Nearby the green onions are coming off one by one, it is a slow process, where the clingy earth has to be removed from around the onion bulb. The onions come out with the roots still intact, smooth white bulbs giving way to long green stalks. All graceful, all perfect. Later in the evening, I will run the onions through cold tap water to remove the crusted earth underneath. They will taste nice and fresh fried with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. It is times like these when I feel at peace and grateful for the lives around me and writing about it is one more opportunity to relive it all.





The Ginger Bread Man

My throat is achy and scratchy today; it feels like a bug has found a home inside my throat, squirming every few minutes and prompting me to clear my throat and my thoughts. After a 530 am call this morning, my eyes are groggy and my mouth is dry. I am craving a cup of coffee but there was not enough time to grab one in between the two trains.

The sunlight is streaming in from the wide windows of the train. The hazy, dusty, and yellow sunlight- the kind that makes you think of golden vacation days where the day is stretched out bright and shiny ahead of you. The tall skinny trees are lined up against the train tracks neatly in a row. My mouth is parched and I gently touch the tip of my lip with my moist tongue.

I left my daughter with my mother this morning. She was awake at 6 am, still half asleep, in her baby blue pajamas, and her little white jacket with leaves splashed all over them. When I put her on my mother’s lap, she made noises that sounded like a mouthful of scolding ‘how dare you let me go’, her eyes wide open and alert. She is going to be a bossy baby one day.

The story of the “ginger bread man” walked back into our lives this weekend. Decades ago, my mother bought the ginger bread man book for my sister while shopping for books for the school year. That year we got to buy one extra book each that was not part of our curriculum, a rate treat given how tight our finances were those days. My sister chose a large hard cover lime green version of the “Ginger Bread Man” and I chose “The sleeping beauty” a small dainty book clad in pink.

Years later, standing at the book store in college, contemplating a gift for a two year old, whom I was going to meet for the first time, I was reacquainted with the Ginger Bread man again. I quickly purchased the book, wrote a small note, and packed it for my trip to Washington DC. The year was 2003, and the little girl is now 16 years old and is getting ready to go to high school.

On Sunday, my daughter received a copy of the “The ginger bread man” – the same one that I had gifted to the little girl who is now in high school. Under my 2003 note, there is a fresh set of note that says “To Avni baby, I hope you enjoy the book as much as I did”- the dates are now 2016. My daughter swiped her tiny palms on the writing, and the black ink smudged across the page, as if on cue recognizing the importance of this moment, she was determined to leave her tiny marks on the page. Who knows where the book will go next.



The mother that I was going to be

As I rushed out the door this morning at 6:30 am to begin my two hours commute to work, I took one last look at my eight month old daughter. She was sprawled on the floor on her back getting her diaper changed by her grandma, throwing hands and legs in the air, eyes wide awake, ready to play. I looked into her eyes when I said goodbye and blew kisses at her across the room. I tried to squeeze in as much love as possible into that gesture to last us through the day.

As soon as I reach the office, I call home and if she is awake, I will hear gurgling on the phone. Then for the next 4-5 hours I switch into my work mode until the afternoon when I call her again. When I can, I dash out of work early, but most days I do not get so see her until 11 or 12 hours after. Sometimes I see a small child on the commute back and everything in me twists in a visceral instinctive want to see and hold my daughter.

In the evening when she sees me, she puts forth a little energy dance, her hands and feet shaking not unlike the wagging tails of a happy puppy dog. We hug, we kiss and we make up for the long hours of separation- or at least I do. She is perfectly happy at home with her grandparents. My mother then brings forth the tales of the day, the new tricks she learned, what she ate, how many hours she slept, the number of diapers she went through and I savor these like little pieces of treasure and quietly tuck these away in my box of memories to be pulled out and examined later in detail.

My parents are taking care of my daughter full time. Yes I am very fortunate. This is the genuine unbridled and unconditional love, the kind that only grandparents have reserves of. They wake up well before her, change her diapers, coddle her, play with her, prepare her food from scratch, put her to sleep, give her an oil massage and warm bath most days, and everything in between.  All of this happens while I am sitting at my desk answering emails and dealing with situations at the other end of the world.

When I was pregnant, I had several ideas about what kind of mother I was going to be. I was going to be that mother who would go through the pain of labor and push for a natural childbirth. I was going to be that mother who would only breastfeed her baby exclusively for six months. And when she is ready for solid food, I was going to feed her organic only. I was going to be that mother who would keep her away from TV and phones. I was going to be that mother who was going to send her daughter to day care when she reached six months.

One by one I had to let go of all these standards. After three hours of labor, I broke down and took epidural- some would say the easy way out. Breastfeeding was painful -she did not know how to latch on and once on she did not want to let go. My back was on fire most days and I did not produce enough milk.

Once I started working, I could not keep up with the milk demands and after several days of guilt tripping myself, I finally broke down and introduced formula. She was exclusively breastfed for three months only. She is eating her solids now and these are by no means organic but at least they are all homemade for now.

To soothe her from time to time, we give her a good dose of you tube and Television. The ‘animal songs’ and the ‘old mac Donald’s’ and all other baby songs are on repeat on our phone. And I did not have to send my daughter to day care at six months after all, her grandparents agreed to take care of her for six more months.

So what kind of mother have I become? The kind that knows she is missing out on her daughter. Yet if I were given the opportunity of becoming a stay at home mother, I will still not take it. I know that I am not a home maker by any means. I need my job but it is more than just a means to pay my bills.

I have become the ‘do it all, have it all, and be it all’ mother where life most days becomes a logistics, a juggle to find the right balance, cutting this out and adding that in, to keep moving. The mother who is bursting with pure flashes of love and longing and sometime there is a crushing pain of separation and guilt. Sometimes there is a sense of balance and Zen and have it all, sometime I feel like I am failing at everything. Increasingly I have learned to let go of definitions and standards and expectations and make peace with this messiness, this roller coaster ride.

The only standard that I am keeping to these days is that at the end of each day is to spend time with my daughter, we sometimes take walks together, or play with her favorite toys, or I sing or read to her, or if I am too tired, we lie down together in bed watching you tube videos.