The Original First Born - Buchu makes an appearance...

The original first born

It would be a Kunti-style injustice of epic (read: of Mahabharata proportions!) to deny that Buchu was our first born. We believe that he was destined to be a part of our lives – and it is only right that he deserves ample mention.

A month into our marriage, Worse Half and I were in Pune visiting his parents and paying respects to varying family deities. Suddenly, Worse Half said, (divine intervention, anybody?) “I want a dog. I have always wanted one. I have never had one...and… since we are in Pune, I am going to get one,” he concluded with the famous-stubborn-and-smouldering-to-be-later-observed-in-Aarinie. (Let’s just say the look is like a family heirloom!)

Worse Half’s mother, who has always been petrified of dogs, protested vehemently and raised all the practical problems – who would take care of the dog, we were working, we travelled a lot etc. All perfectly logical. And all perfectly valid. I agreed.

Worse Half  resorted to his refer-to-Puss-in-Boots-expression-in-Shrek 2 look and delivered the ultimate dialogue, “My mother has always denied me the joy of a dog. And now my wife…,” his voice trailed away. I sensed a quiver and suspected a tear. Maybe two. After all, we were a month into our marraige. I hadn't even started calling him Worse Half - at that point in time, I thought of him more like Dreamy Half (snickering to myself now!)

So much for being newly married and completely susceptible to emotional blackmail.

I succumbed. I guess it doesn’t hurt to look at what’s available, I said, weakly.

In an hour, we were at a dog breeder’s farm in Pune, looking at a litter of adorable and tiny Boxer puppies. I was still not convinced, the practical aspects running through my head. But there is no accounting for destiny. We were completely thrown when the breeder said that the litter arrived on 24^th January. That was the day that Worse Half and I had started dating each other, all those years ago!

“Of course, we have to get the puppy now,” he said, beaming at me.

And that was that. Practical aspects were thrown out of the window, we called up my unsuspecting parents, informing them that we were buying them a small puppy for company who would stay with them during the week, and chose the largest male puppy, (we thought after three daughters, my father could do with some male bonding!) who was busy smacking the other brothers and sisters in the litter and had handsome white markings on his paws and chest.

Little did we know that the small puppy would transform into a Very Large Dog in precisely six months…and that more than being our son, he would be my parents’ most loved grand-child.

Some people uncharitably mentioned that we had given our parents a grand-child in super sonic time, while my uncle snickered that Worse Half had given my parents a raw deal – taking away a daughter and replacing me with a dog!

My mother, ever creative and resourceful did away with the typical “Tommy, Brownie, Bruno”-type unimaginative doggie name and pronounced that he would be christened, Buchu…which in Bengali means, very aptly “flat-nosed”

We discovered later that Buchu’s birth name as per his records was “Cracker”. And Sprout's Bengali pet-name is “Phuljhuri,” which means sparkler. And together, needless to say, they are dynamite...

Karmic connections, anybody? 

 

A few adorable traits about our first born

 - It's true: He snores. Loudly! Between Worse Half and him, it's a symphony!

- It's true: He does have Flatulence-related issues. Between him and...oh alright, I am not giving away more Family Secrets! :)

- He does not like Dog Food. He looks away in disdain at Purina, Pedigree and Royal Canine.

- His early morning toast has to be lightly toasted just so, with a generoud helping of butter. No butter, no eat!

- He does not like Marie biscuit - but open that special box of Belgian biscuits and he is there by your side, blowing bubbles...

...so there you go...that's our Buchu...

Sprout's out! Now what?

Phase 2: Immediately afterwards and the US Phase!

The first year of Sprout’s life flew by, a few months of which were spent in Charlotte, US, before I gave up on being the wife and mother under house-arrest and headed back to good old Mumbai. My fault, entirely, the house arrest bit, before you start thinking that Worse Half is actually bad. I don’t know how to drive. Correction. I strongly believe that I am incapable of learning how to drive.  So you can see how a country driven by cars, and I, yours truly, cannot really be soul sisters. Give me Mumbai any day. You may have to choke on a mouthful of smoke – often, rather than occasionally – and movement beyond 20 km per hours is perhaps possible only at 2 a.m., but you can afford to hire a driver, a liveried chauffeur even, for the well-heeled. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some spit (increasingly common), some don’t. Some make you thank the stars that anti-deodorants were invented.  Some have driver’s licenses while others prefer a more practical “learn on the job” approach.

But people, I am complaining. They get me from point A to B in relative safely and after Charlotte, what I really cared about was mobility at will.

 

Time to press the Re-start button!

Dear Readers,

Sorry sorry sorry - have gotten a lof of grief for not putting up any posts the last 2 months (wow that was a long break! - so hear goes!)

Reasons for turning into a Sleeping Blogger

• I got so rejeuvinated on the holiday that I just stopped posting any blogs. (Really, it's true)
• I was struck with Writer's Block (There, I did hear a snigger, I think from Worse Half - call yourself a Writer? a few blog posts make you a Writer not!)
• I simply decided to prioritise sleep over creative satisfaction (Another snigger. Oldies approaching 35 need all the sleep that they can get!)
• I was getting obsessed with checking "how many pageviews have I got today" and that was over-taking the fun of just writing. I didn't want to become a self-obsessed diva even though my reading audience is all of 30 friends and wanted to disconnect! (30? Don't count on it, more like 3, including me and your Imaginary Friend!)
• I was secretly waiting for a publisher, a movie producer and a celebtrity agency to sign me up for being so phenomenally darn good! (No comments this time, cause Worse Half has come to the conclusion that Better Half is delusional and should not be entertained!)

Till such time, readers - it's just you, me and some fun posts :-) - so keep reading!

Pregnancy Diaries 13: No Peeping Down There!

Apologies. My pregnancy diaries aren’t strictly chronological. You can just put it down to the disorderly mind of a creative genius or the product of a generation that grew up on movies that had numerous flashbacks. So you will just have to go through this segment in a oh-Sprout-has-been birthed, oh-now-she-is-back-in-the-womb kinda way. I just write as the creative mood grabs me. Or as a dim memory pops up, I write about it, lest it fades away.

So thunder-claps, lightening and some dramatic music, please. We are now  back to Yours Truly is 9 months pregnant, she has a man's pelvis, and everything else is A-ok! My lovely gynaecologist was doling out instructions by the dozen to us and also praising Worse Half on his “bravery” for wanting to be part of the labour room antics. But his praise came mixed with some serious warnings.

"When you are in the labour room and then the OT, you must be there for moral support. You can hold her hand, you can talk to her...but No Peeping Down There."

No peeping down where, we both thought stupidly, before it struck us both at the same time.

"See, he said, explaining further, "This has happened to me before. Here I was, delivering the baby and there on the other side, the father was fainting at the same time. My responsibility is the baby. I can't be delivering the baby and trying to catch hold of the father at the same time. And if the father is you know, well-built, big-structured (Hah! finally Worse Half's largeness is referred to instead of just mine!), then it's a problem. You know once we had to attend to the father with stitches and he took longer to come to than the mother!"

Worse Half tried to argue that he was not squeamish about blood and stuff, but that was no go.

"You will be provided with a steel stool to sit on,” he said, "sterilised, ok, a sterilised steel stool to sit on. " (lest we doubted that Worse would keep standing for the whole course of the delivery in fear that there were some untreated microbes on this magnificent steel stool!)

And then the final ultimatum.

"If you peep, he told Worse Half grimly, "I will warn you. I am a fair man. I will warn you once, twice and third time you are out." Out of the OT, that is.

So that was that. No arguments, no bending rules. Peeping Toms were strictly prohibited from the Operation Theatre! It was strictly waist-up viewing !

 

Pregnancy Diaries 12: Wanted: A Girl: With lustrous tresses

Does that sound like a snippet from a matrimonial ad? It's not actually!

 

Now that Sprout has officially arrived, head full of hair et al, I can honestly and publicly declare that I desperately wanted a girl.

Of course, throughout the pregnancy, I maintained a strictly politically correct, "It's doesn't matter if it's a girl or a boy. As long as he/she is healthy" statement. But as I lay back and closed my eyes, I kept seeing myself walking with a little girl. With lovely hair, with pretty pink clips. I kept trying to see myself with a cute little boy, without hair clips, but my imagination failed.

I come from a family of girls,  I went to a girl's school and then a girl's college. I come from a culture that worships largely the women segment of the Hindu pantheon. In short, let's just say that I have XX chromosomes oozing out of my ears.

I mean, was I really being terribly bad for wishing for a girl? After all, as a visit to a pre natal class led me to discover, people were wishing for a whole lot more. A whole lot more...

I dropped in to a pre natal class which I mistakenly believed was about meditation and about being positive during pregnancy. It turned out to be a bunch of over  zealous parents who were trying to produce Super Baby! The class encouraged expecting parents to have positive thoughts and beliefs which could influence the child, while still in your womb. Which is really a great idea and concept and one that I believe in. However, while I was thinking along the lines of, happy, well-adjusted, healthy baby – and please dear God, if it’s not asking for too much, a head full of hair – you had to be present in the class to understand that competition began in the womb!

There was a couple who wanted to focus their energies and learning techniques on ensuring that their child got into the Indian Institute of Management (?)

There was another couple who was planning to conceive. You read correctly. They weren’t even pregnant and they were at a pre-natal class. And their wish list for the baby goes something like this. (I kid you not)

"I want my child to dance like Hrithik. Play cricket like Sachin. Be a leader like Dalai Lama. Be as pretty as Aishwarya. Play tennis like Leander Paes. Be as famous as Amitabh Bachchan. Be as kind as Mother Theresa. Be as peace-loving as Mahatma Gandhi. Be as well known as Lady Diana"

This list went on for 4 pages. And this couple wasn't event pregnant! (I tried very hard not to laugh during this 4 page recital, but a few muffled gurgles did escape)

So when I came out of the Operation Theatre, still screaming, “I want anaesthesia, somebody give me anaesthesia”, somewhere in the haze, when I was told it was a girl, I was thrilled. May be this positive messaging stuff worked.

Hmmm...

IIM individual who break dances like Hrithik-Roshan and paints like M.F. Hussain, anybody? Or how about a peace-loving leader who also doubles up as an IPL player in season and perhaps a bartender when not…

The world, as they say is full of possibilities.

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Pregnancy Diaries 11: I cannot hear your bowel movements

When I tucked into my Goa Fish Curry on October 7, 2007, I didn't realise that that was the last solid meal I was going to have for quite some time. It was almost like the Last Supper, and my doctor, sniff was Judas!
 

The baby had arrived, I was kicked to my gills that it was a girl and that she had a headful of curls. Otherwise, I was in pain from the stitches, overwhelmed and exhausted.

My gynaecologist told me, "I would have been able to finish the C-section earlier. But I had to stick back 4 layers of fat you know.” He paused. “Actually, five layers of fat if you count the layer on the epidermis. So it took time." I did wonder why he stitched it back. Couldn't he have just parcelled it and thrown it out?  Then I could have just had the delivery and a partial liposuction for the price of a single operation. I thought he would be more far-sighted!

Well, now he seemed to be trying to do his bit to reduce my layers of fat.

Here I was weak and overwhelmed and practically wasting away, I thought, melodramatically to myself, and he would come every day, check my stomach and proclaim, "No solids for you today. I cannot hear your bowel movements."

On the first day, I was too tired to protest, so that was fine.

But on the later days, not only was I feeling better, I was also feeling Hungreeee. I had already started feeding super hungry baby, and doing that on an empty stomach was NOT fun.

Finally on Day 4, when he said, "I still cannot hear your bowel movements," I thought I would cry. I wanted to ask him how my bowels would move if there was no food in the stomach.

I told Worse Half that if he didn't sneak in some food, I would run away from the hospital. Without the baby.

In panic, Worse Half swung into action and scoured the landscape for Emergency Rations. He managed managed to sneak inChocolate Chip Cookies…the first bite left me dizzy with delight. It was like manna from the heavens…

 And sure enough, the  very next day, my doctor beamed at me and said “You may now start eating solids.”

A thousand Chocolate Chip Cookies points for the Worse Half.

And about a million brownie points for the bowel movement inducing Chocolate Chip Cookies. The way I attacked them, I may have added an extra layer of fat - but fortunately the doctor wasn't about to slice me back open to check!

I started feeling more cheerful, immediately.

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Pregnancy Diaries 10: Checking in & the Labour Room with a view

Ms. I-will-try-for-a-natural-birth-because-I-have-a-high-threshold-for-pain-and-how-bad-can-labour-be checked in to the hospital. Feeling particuarly cheerful after an afternoon with the masseuse.

I have to make a special mention of my dear cousin Roshni who while expecting her baby Minty started having contractions, but decided to go out for a Chinese meal in any case, since she hadn't been out in a while. Such misleading stories make one think that labour is but a breeze.

I tucked into my Goa Fish curry rice and waited for the "procedures" to induce labour. I was pleased to see fish - after all a symbol of both good luck and fertility for Bengalis...all seemed to be going well...

After some general man-handling by an unsympathetic Resident doctor and a few blind jabs from the nurse, that was that for the night. The nurses appear to have perfected the art of "Let's just poke around and if the Good Lord above so wills, the vein shall be found." Next time, I am going to PAY a doctor to find my vein. A little bit extra even, given that apparently my fat makes it difficult to find the vein. (Please note: by next time, I mean the next time I am in hospital. Not the next time I am having a baby! That is ruled out...)

The morning dawned and nothing much had happened. I am going to skip the squeamy bits now, because they sure aren't much fun to read.

Cut to - I am wheeled into the Labour Room. Let's just say that I was in a lot of pain and mentally sending death threats to everyone that I knew who said natural childbirth was apparently possible, in my head.

Worse Half trying to be cheerful, and positive, pointed outside. "Look, you can see the sea from here. Isn't that a lovely view?"

If I were a donkey and Worse Half standing behind me, I would have lifted both my legs and kicked. Very hard.

Given that I am human, Quick Gun Murugan's famous words "One tight slap!" definitely crossed my mind.

Finally, I announced that I couldn't do it. And after that, I went into a kind of trance, where my favourite phrase every 5 minutes was, "Give my anaesthesia." I asked the doctors, nurses, Worse Half, my mother, the walls, even the dratted sea view, "GIVE ME ANASTHAESIA" I think I empathise with those in re-hab. This is how it must feel when you desperately crave the not-so-legal substance.

My gynaecologist also realised that there wasn't much point in putting me through labour since my "man's pelvis" was making the whole thing difficult.

So C-section it was...

And there I was in the Operating Theatre with the floodlights on my face. My gynaecologist, ever the "patients must make informed decisions" individual that he is was giving me a structured deep-dive analysis of the pros and cons of General Anaesthesia vs. an Epidural.

“My ex-wife, for example, suffered from continual backaches after taking an epidural.”

I was beyond understanding and comprehension and kept chanting, "Give me anaesthesia. GIVE ME ANAESTHESIA"

...which is what I was mumbling even after I came to, 2 hours later. As I was being rolled out of the Operation Theatre, I told the ward boys, "GIVE ME ANAESTHESIA"

Somehow, in the chaos of child-birth, I had missed the part where Sprout Pradhan, chubby cheeks and lustrous hair had arrived! On 8th October, 4:07 pm!

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Pregnancy Diaries 9: Finding out that I have a man's pelvis

Week 40. The finish line was near. Strangely enough I wasn’t feeling heavy and weighed down, something which most women complain of at this point in time. Maybe having been heavy and weighty throughout one's life, one didn’t feel any additional burden during pregnancy. So there! One of advantages, I thought to myself gleefully, of being on the larger side as I mentally threw a shoe at all the Super Slim I-am-still-Size-Zero-in-Week 40-and-please-look-at-my-designer-baby-bump Mothers.

I was happy and active at Week 40. I had been religiously doing yoga and sending out positive signals to the universe about having a "natural pain free delivery" (ha ha HA HA) and was feeling swimmingly well. I would later think to myself that obviously my positive signals  to the universe were blocked by the excessive pollution layers, BECAUSE IT DID NOT HELP AN EENSY WEENSY BIT!

In anticipation that post delivery I would be holed up at home, I scurried around visiting last minute exhibitions and buying a whole lot of completely unnecessary but feel good items - saris, bits and bobs of furniture - in addition to frequent visits to the masseuse for head massages and general pampering. In short, my delayed "going into labour" was proving to be rather expensive.

However, a visit to my lovely gynaecologist dampened the feel good a bit. The baby's head had not moved down an inch and he was thrown by why that should be since I was fit, active and doing well.

“An x-ray, he said, grimly. That's the only possible option now. That should give us the answer."

He, of course only trusted his "Sir" in Dadar to do a proper X ray and we headed there, anxious to know why Baby dearest hadn't moved down.

We went back with the reports and my gynaecologist studied them in great detail and sighed.

"It's as I thought, he said grimly. I am so sorry."

Worse Half  and I almost passed out in worry. Personally, I think my gynaecologist should write a suspense story!

 

"It's very unusual in someone your height and broad structure (here we go again, size-ist world!), but you have "fjfjfjfjffj" (some un pronounceable medical term). In lay man/woman’s terms, you have a man's pelvis,” he concluded sadly.

"A man's pelvis," I shrieked, wildly, completely thrown, "How is this possible?" (Is this what people meant when they said that they felt that there was a man trapped in a woman's body?)

Worse Half gave me the I-always-knew-there-was-something-wrong-with-you-look.

"It basically means THAT your pelvis is more slimly structured, like a man's. It's not broad and spread out. So your baby doesn't have the space to move down."

Oh great, I get to suffer being fat and be accused of not having them famous child bearing hips!

"In short, you have only a 50% chance of a natural delivery. So would you like to try or go in for an elective C-sec."

"Of course, I would like to try a natural delivery," said I, very brightly, with My Moral Conscience well in place.

Having read reams of literature around it being better for your body, that every woman can do it and it’s the Right Thing to do meant that I volunteered to put myself in extreme pain. I do accept that there are greater risks involved in a surgical process. However, I fail to see the correlation between experiencing labour pain and bonding with your off-spring.

If a man stabs you and leaves you to die, would you say that you had developed a special bond of love with your murderer?

I think not. Sorry for the tangential argument.

Back to my recent discovery of being a man-trapped-in-woman’s-body. Scarred with the knowledge that I had a man's pelvis in spite of being tall and wide, Worse Half and I proceeded to make arrangements to book into Candy One Hospital on Sunday, October 7, 2007.

Not before a quick dash to the Salon where I got my last massage in the reliable hands of Shallini, the wonder masseuse woman!

A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do...

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Digression Series 2. The specific challenges of being a Bangali Jamai

If you have the good fortune of being a Bangali Jamai in this life, you can safely assume that it is God or rather Goddess Durga’s way of blessing you and saying, “There Son. You will never ever see another hungry day in your life. Your bank account may often approach zero and your assets may look meagre – but your plate shall always over-flow. With your mother-in-law’s ador(affection). With your bou’s (wife’s) love. And more specifically, with luchi and aloo. With illish (this fish has a God-like status among Bengalis) and mangsho(mutton). And mishti (sweets) And yes, aloo again.”

And so, there you have it. It’s not a job for the faint-stomached. There arcertain elixirs to help you through this extreme gastronomic journey. Namely, Neo-peptin and Joaner Arak (an ajwain based-medicine). Never, ever attempt a journey into Kolkata as a Jamai without first packing generous portions of these two magic potions!

Worse Half believes that our excessive need to eat and feed has psychological roots in the Bengal Famine of 1943 and before that in 1770. Such was the trauma that the Bengali community suffered, that there has been a deep-rooted, irreversible impact in a Jungian unconsciousness kind of way. We are subconsciously storing up – fat literally on our bodies, and food in the store cupboard – preparing for the next potential Famine. After all, what can see you through another Famine if not a bottle of Jharna ghee (another brand that has God-like status among the Bengalis!)

The next specific challenge. You will never actually know what your wife’s relatives are a called. Familiar faces will swirl in front of you in a haze of Panchus, Babus, Rajas, Bapis, Mamunis, Shonas, Poltus, Tukis, Tublais et al. You will know where they work, where they live, who they are married to and how many children they have. You will have cups of tea with them and more luchi and aloo. But you won’t know their actual names. That’s just the way it is.

On to the next challenge. Your name will be changed too. Forever. Whatever your name may be, we have a better, Bonglified version of it. Worse Half is now, suspiciously called, Omit. (veiled suggestion, somewhere? J)

What is not a challenge, however, is winning over your Bengali relatives hearts. If you go a-visiting to Kolkata during Durga Poojo, this is all you need to do…

·         Eat Well. Specifically, this means the following:

–     Luchis for breakfast in multiples of 4

–     Mishtis for dessert in multiples of 2. Desserts may be served at any meal. This includes breakfast and tea snacks

–     Fish pieces. 2 and above. Never a single piece. Unless you really want to attract dark and dangerous bad luck.

–     Nothing less than at least half a kilo of mutton whichever meal it may be served at. This includes breakfast and tea snacks.

·     Eat at all times: This is a Very Very Important Aspect. We don't eat in between meals. We have meals between meals! We have adapted the dietician's advice of eating 6 Small meals through the day to 6 or greater Big meals through the day. The problem is further compounded by the fact that you need to meet immediate and distant family members, all of who are close, within a limited time-window. You naturally cannot pick between Mashis (Wife's mother's side) and Pishis (Wife's father's side). So you just resign yourself to eating multiple breakfasts, lunches and dinners :-)

·    1000 brownie points if you wear a dhoti. Which I have to concede that Worse Half does swimmingly well. For those days only, I call him Better Half :)

·     Another 1000 brownie points if you can smile and say, “Aami ektu ektu bangla bolte paari” (I can speak a little bit of Bengali) in response to relatives asking you if you have (finally) learnt Bengali. Applicable to jamais who are non-Bongs themselves!

So there you have it. The life of a Bangali Jamai. And in case Bangali Jamai complains on Day 4 of visit to Kolkata that he will positively die of over-eating, this is what I say as I hand over the bottle of Neo-peptin. “Would you rather have married Pop-eye’s daughter? Or a fruitarian – and waited under a tree for the fruit to drop?”

In the face of such irrefutable logic, Worse Half meekly glugs down half a bottle of Neo-peptin. And revives aka Asterix.

Which is just as well…because it’s time for tea snacks, yet again!

 
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Pregnancy Diaries 8: Gadgets, gizmos and heartbeats

I do think that a lot of gadgets and gizmos that have been created around pregnancy are by fathers who felt that there were not involved enough in the pregnancy.

To be completely fair to him and give him due credit, rare though such occasions are, Worse Half bought lots of really useful and cute things for the baby.

But he also fell prey to some pretty pointless objects which as a typical Indian husband-worshipping wife, I have chosen to highlight :-)

Useless Gadget one: The Baby Monitor

Undoubtedly this has great use if you are staying in a sprawling bungalow in the American Suburbs or a massive ranch in Texas.

Why pray, do we need a baby monitor, when the baby can only be in one of the 2 rooms in your “super” spacious 880 super built up apartment, which includes the non-completely legal encroachment in the bedroom and the space squeezed out by breaking an addition layer of the wall in your bathroom? Not to mention 2 sets of grand-parents, a motley crew of support staff and an even greater hub of friends and well-wishers on hand. Chances are, your baby will never cry alone, as at the first whimper, any or all of the above will rush to the room to see why “shona” is crying.

And there was  Buchu (our four legged first born), who proved to be the most effective monitor of all, barking loudly whenever Aarinie cried and giving us baleful looks as if to say, “Guys, do something!”

Useless Gadget two: Listen to my heart beat gadget

Worse Half also bought a complex looking gadget which guaranteed that you could listen to the baby’s heart beat post 3 months. By the time Worse Half arrived it was already the 9^th month, so we were sure that we would be able to hear the baby’s heart beat.

Worse Half placed it lovingly on my rather large belly-welly. We listened at the other end, which were like the ear-plugs of a stethoscope.

And...

We heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time - or so we thought. Amit and I held hands, just as they show in them romantic movies and I tried to smile coyly (as in them romantic movies)

The heart beats seemed quite adult and developed and in good shape. After 30 seconds, we stopped listening and holding hands and smilingly coyly. I mean, a heartbeat, is a heartbeat is a heartbeat. Couldn’t  really expect to break into a hip-hop beat or a tap dance.

We looked down at the USD 130 dollar gadget.

“Let’s put it on my stomach,” said Worse Half suddenly.

I guess the 130 dollars for 30 seconds of Dhak Dhak wasn’t really seemingly like value for money.

And so we plonked the gadget on Worse Half’s very marginally less large belly-welly.

And there it was. The same unmistakable heart-beat emanating out of Worse Half’s belly.

“How can I hear our baby’s heartbeats from my stomach,” said Worse Half, totally freaked out.

“I guess this means you have a womb and are experiencing a sympathetic pregnancy and we can hear sympathetic heart beats,” I said drily.

A hundred and thirty dollars to listen to our own heartbeats. Wow.

Worse Half finally got to hear the baby heart beats at the gynaecologist's clinic. He whipped out an old fashioned instrument (undoubtedly approved by the British Medical Association) which looked like a trumpet and placed the wider mouth at a particular part on my belly.

And there it was, a fast moving, quick footed, a frenzied yet mild heartbeat. It was the heartbeat of someone working overtime to grow to its full potential. It was the heartbeat of someone bursting to get out, pretty soon.

And it was the heartbeat of someone who definitely had a headful of hair and chubby cheeks. In that, I had an  unshakable faith, a resolute belief.

The Digression Series – 1. The family responds

Now that I have shared with you that Bengalis have a genetic pre-disposition to digression, I can happily blame my DNA and proceed to do so. Ask the coffee shop intellectuals. The conversations around the primary conversation are far more err stimulating. If not more productive!
 

Showed my parents the blog today – they were delighted that I was back to “writing for pleasure”. They were possibly not so delighted with the blog title, however. They read out – Of Nappy Rash cheerfully and ended the Beer Bellies part in a whimper. My parents are simple like that. Alcohol in all shapes and forms are the root cause of all evil from poverty and global warming to inflation and drought. They stole a feel surreptitious glances towards Worse Half, Sprout and me – sending up some fervent prayers I am sure,  that at least Sprout’s Ganapati like belly was because of luchi and aloo and not Beer J.

Worse Half, of course, has a different thought process altogether. He believes that Beer is the root cause of all things fun…that coupled with cricket – any cricket and all forms of cricket.

There are occasions when Sprout has got us into trouble. For example, she sat perched at the restaurant table on my parents’ anniversary, all of five, tucking into a large bowl of dessert and sighing dreamily like a seasoned connoisseur, “This tastes just like wine.”  Lucky she didn’t follow that through with a “And I think it’s a 2005 Château Mont-Redon, Côtes-du-Rhône Rouge!” I conveniently disowned her with immediate effect, while Worse Half gave a false laugh and blamed our trip to the vineyards…

“Over 2000 page views,” I beamed at Worse Half, “in four days. Isn’t that cool?” (yes, readers, of course, I am checking my blog stats every second. It’s the initial adrenalin! And I check for comments. And oh-my-god-I-am-joining-the-populist-band-wagon, I do check for “likes” on my facebookpage. Sheepish grin.)

“I think you should have at least 10,000 page views,” barked Worse Half. “And about 5000 likes. And, where’s the money?”

“The money, the last time I checked is over…till salary day tomorrow,” I responded cheerfully.

And there’s Sprout of course, who doesn’t know that there is a blog about her. I think I will share the link with her when she is finally allowed to use the internet without supervision. That’s should be when she is hurtling towards 40. That’s also about the time, I will let her have her own mobile, let her wear heels and her father will re-think his strategy on “The Appropriate Age to Date”

Till then, I write. Or blog. With an open heart, a free spirit and a mother’s pride!

Pregnancy Diaries 7: Imagine. Imagine. Imagine.

While I was already safely back home, Hard-working Husband (kinda Hard-working..o.k. I tried to be nice to Worse Half, but it doesn't come easy after all these years :-)) came back just in time during the final month of the pregnancy. Just in time, in case the baby decided to arrive early. He had missed all the earlier sonographies and we went together for the final one.

There are all these cool new machines, 3-D, 4-D and what not where you can see the almost finished product (and probably add 2 weeks life to the current image and tell you exactly how the baby would look at birth!)

Naturally, my Anglophile, by-the-book-gynaecologist wasn’t interested in all this posh-tosh. Neither was my mother for that matter, who said, “You will be seeing the baby in two weeks. And then you will have to keep seeing it,” she concluded darkly “for the rest of your life. Whether you want to, or not.”

My gynaecologist believed in the Power of One and only One sonographer who could do the job perfectly. Only with her was he in perfect synch and only in her readings and images did he have faith.

Except that she worked in this not-so-great hospital with a not-so-great machine. Although I am sure both were perfectly fine from the medical point of view, the problem was you could see little, apart from large blobs and patches. It was largely left to imagination, which the doctor herself admitted.

“Look , here, just here is the spine,” she said.

Really, I thought, peering at an oval shaped blob. Gosh, how can the spine be oval?

Worse Half in the meantime was trying to earnestly figure out whether the blob had that-organ-that-defined-manhood-or-not and told me authoritatively later that the blob definitely had it. I had almost resigned myself to having a son called Sachin...

Hah!

“You have to imagine it a bit,” she said finally, looking at our blank faces.

But even among the blobs, the patches and the supposed-organ-that-defined-manhood, there were two things that even this old-fashioned and out-dated machine could not hide.

An extremely chubby cheek and a head full of little strands of hair.

Awwww. This was cute.

No. It was more that cute. It was very very cute.

I admit it. I almost shed a tear.

No, stupid. Not because I got sentimental or anything like that. Just plain relief that the blob, (with or without that-organ-that-defined-manhood) had not inherited his/her mother’s scanty hair gene. At least the fund I had started for my hair transplant was mine alone...