20. Black Beauty

Boston, MA

18.11.2021

BLACK BEAUTY

 It was the third time that morning that I’d opened the refrigerator. Nowadays, I tend to forget easily the reasons of my actions. My movements are fast between the fridge and the kitchen, but I have to tread carefully, lest I stamp the 4-legged black beauty watching me open and close the fridge.

Danny expects that every time I open the fridge, it is for him. To feed him something. Even if I don’t give him anything from the fridge, he would continue to sit and watch me earnestly. He never loses hope. No sounds come from him, but his eyes say it all. His eagerness to find out what is in the fridge for him and just by his looks, he sees to it that something or the other does come into my hand and straight into his mouth.

At last, I say pointing my finger toward his bed, “enough Danny. You are done. Now go away and sit”.  He quietly walks away.

Danny doesn’t like the sound of the mixer grinder. Only once I saw him run when I switched the mixer on. From the next time I made it a point to announce, “Danny, I am going to start mixer”. He would run inside to his room, away from the sound of the mixer. I was surprised at his understanding.

Danny came into my life on January 20^th, 2020. I used to and still fear dogs. When Danny arrived, I assumed that the house would be ransacked. He would run here and there, mess up the sofa and spread eatables all over.

I was wrong. When Danny came home, I stopped him at the entrance, did aarti and asked him to come in.  A furry dark black, 45 kgs, huge Labrador. He stepped in slowly and made himself comfortable in a corner. He neither barked nor growled. He walked around tiredly after 25 hours of being on the road from Chennai to Mumbai. I was surprised at his silence.

I went about my work and didn’t try to get to know him or his habits. He was Rahul’s pet and hence his responsibility. Neither was it my cup of tea. So, I carried on with my work over the weekdays and coming home to Kharghar on weekends.

Danny arrived home on Monday night. I left for work the next morning and returned Friday evening to see Danny by the lift lobby. He jumped to show his happiness at my arrival.  I smiled to myself but didn’t even touch him. I kept myself aloof. I was never used to a pet and had never had such an idea of getting close to an animal. It was Rahul’s pet, and my concern was minimalistic.  

Weekends passed like this. Weekdays, I stayed away from Danny and weekends, I watched Danny from far.

In March 2020, while the lockdown was in place, one evening, I was forced to be at home alone with Danny while Rahul was away. I was little scared. Maybe he sensed the fear in me? He glanced at me occasionally and took deep breaths, opening his mouth as if he was trying to smile at me. He wanted to make me comfortable.

It was almost dinner time and Rahul was not back. I got panicky, thinking Danny may bark if he gets hungry. Rahul called and said, “Amma can you please put his formula food 2-1/2 cups in his bowl?”

That was the first time, I fed Danny and looked into his eyes. His eyes conveyed his happiness at the timely food that I served him.

When I think back, I now know that, that was the moment when  our eyes met and our communication lines got synchronised.

In the next 6 months, the 4 of us; Rahul and Danny on one side, my husband and I on the other side of the house. We lived like 2 families sharing an apartment. Danny and I would exchange glances and slowly he drew me into playing with him with his toys. Even so, I couldn’t muster the courage to feed him or take him for a walk.  Rahul and my husband did all of it.

In September, my husband had to go away for an assignment for 3 weeks and it fell upon me to feed Danny and even take him for walks within our society premises. I don’t know when Danny crept into my mind, made a place for himself, and then spread himself in such a way to occupy the whole of space for himself. Not a word. Not a sound. Only the voice of his eyes.

By October 2020, we had to take a decision to move back to our Napean Sea Road residence, as I had to physically be present in office. We mutually agreed that Rahul would visit us at Napean Sea Road twice a week and Danny would live with us, as my husband would be at home all day.

Initially, I wondered whether Danny would miss Rahul’s presence. But he was matured, calm and composed being. He adapted himself to the newer ways of life, the ways his life was taking him. From a big family house in Chennai, to a bachelor pad and then an apartment in Mumbai after a 25-hour road journey with strangers and Rahul with whom he had a short acquaintance. In Kharghar, a high rise bldg. on the 13^th floor, facing strange times of lockdown, stray dogs and new people around and then to be with us in a newer surrounding at Napean sea road away from Rahul too.

Observing Danny had become my new past time. Very soon, I started to realise how by his calm and composed nature, he can bring tranquillity within his surroundings and spread affection, not by words or any sound, but by just being quiet and observing. Just by looking at his eyes, we could understand what he wanted, and he would be behind us unless and until his needs were fulfilled.

In due course of time, we realised that the park opposite our house had separate hours for pet dogs to socialise. We were making new friends with pets. Wherever we went, Danny accompanied. Our lifestyle had changed.  More than that, my mind changed forever. Danny taught me what is unconditional affection. He taught me that by being silent and observing, one can keep oneself calm and composed.  The let go spirit is easier to put in practice with him around.  He brought about tranquility within the chaos that I get into with all the thoughts and fears in my mind.

He shows his excitement and happiness by wagging his tail at the prospect of walks. He waits at the door and ensures that I join him and my husband in the night walks. He treads between us like a happy baby.  

It’s been a week of being away from Danny but not a single day has passed by without speaking or thinking of him. I call all the dogs Danny, whomever I see on the road and all of them respond affectionately.

Between January 2020 and today, I am a changed person forever. The feeling of being loved and showering love, is an altogether different experience, which I would never have had, if I hadn’t reciprocated Danny’s efforts to come closer to me and adapted myself to Danny. May be in human relations too, we could try and open our minds to accept the people in our lives as they are and make it simple and easy to live with each other.

A big Thank you and best wishes to my dearest Son Rahul, on this 25^th birthday for bringing Danny into our lives. Though, I keep pointing out that in every plan now, we must put Danny on the top and then decide around it, still at this point of time, in the difficult situation of being under lockdown for a long time and having stressful events to face, Danny has been around to help us remain sane. Long and healthy life wishes to Danny and of course to the Dog father Rahul dearest. 

19. A Letter from Danny to Me

 A Letter from Danny to me

My Dearest Amma,

I’ve never had the words — but I’ve always had the heart.

I remember when my world changed… when I lost the person who first raised me. I didn’t understand where I was, or who would come next. Then one day, your son found me — and even though I didn’t know it at the time, my forever family had already started finding me.

When Appa drove all the way to Chennai to bring me home… I knew. I wasn’t just being taken somewhere. I was being brought into someone’s heart.

And then, I met you.

I remember the first time I saw you — calm, observing me quietly, as if wondering what kind of dog I was. You didn’t rush to smother me with affection, and I didn’t rush to bark. But there was a silence between us that felt safe.

Amma, you are my safe space.

I watched you during those months when the world outside shut down. I saw how much you missed your daughter. I saw how strong you tried to be for everyone — for the house, for the food, for the moods that shifted like winds.

You never asked me to fix anything. And that’s what made our bond so special — we just sat beside each other and breathed.

I don’t care for big things. I care for the sounds of your footsteps. I care for the way you call my name gently, the way you look at me before you go to sleep. The way you whisper “good boy” even on the days I haven’t done anything at all.

Amma, I know I’m getting old.

My legs are slower. My naps are longer. My energy doesn’t bounce the way it used to. But every time I see your face, I still feel like a puppy. You make me feel young — because you love me as if I were new to your heart every day.

When my time comes — and it will, someday — I just want you to know: I’ll never really leave. I will sleep in the corners of your room. I will walk beside you on your quiet days. I will wait for you in the wind that brushes your cheek gently.

You didn’t give birth to me. But you became my Amma.

Thank you for giving me my home, my purpose, and my peace.

I love you, forever and ever.

Your boy,

Danny 🐾

18. A Journey Still in Progress

I got down from the train at Karmali station today. The platform was quiet, almost indifferent to the emotional storm within me. Monty was already there, waiting patiently. I called him onto the platform to help with my luggage. Without a word, he hoisted the bags into the car and we began our drive home – 420, Gera Astoria, Caranzalem. As I looked out of the window, palm trees swaying gently under the Goan sky, I couldn’t help but wonder – how did I land up here again?

I was so sure, so mentally prepared, that I would be transferred back to Mumbai or perhaps get some faceless posting that would allow me to finally work from Kharghar. That was the plan – or at least the hope. A quiet transition, a gentle exit, maybe even a subtle way of quitting Goa without announcing it. Instead, here I am, back to the same demanding HQ posting under the PCIT, and now poised to move to the Investigation Wing – an entirely new chapter.

The work here is relentless, a 24x7 affair. It keeps me engaged, and truthfully, I find satisfaction in being of service and knowing my work makes a difference. Yet, the cost is heavy – on both body and mind. And still, I carry on.

But I didn’t begin writing this because I dislike work, or because I can’t manage. That’s not it. It’s the weight of a thought that has stayed with me for nearly three decades: that I would quit this job someday. A thought seeded when Jahnavi was born, watered with years of intention, yet never fulfilled. Now, I’ve begun to believe that one cannot leave a job merely because one wants to. A job must let you go. It must release you.

I remember when I was about to be engaged, my would-be mother-in-law had gently warned me: “You must be prepared to quit your job anytime. My son’s career will take him places.” And I was ready. After all, I had a modest government job, earning Rs. 1900 per month, while Krishnan earned four times as much. I imagined a life where I stayed home, raised children, and did not leave them to the care of others as I had once done for my nieces and nephews.

But life had other plans.

Post marriage, we moved to a small flat in CBD Belapur – a name unfamiliar to me then. I had been a western suburban girl, used to fast trains and the hum of Mumbai. The slow trains from Belapur and the long, exhausting two-hour commute to South Mumbai came as a shock. Still, I adapted. We bought a home in Kharghar, and my journey stretched by one more station.

Through all this, I held onto my job. Friends on the train, especially the senior women, were my voice of reason. One said, “Bacche bade ho jayenge, lekin government naukri chodogi to phir se nahi milega.” I heeded their words. Work continued, life continued. And then came the Child Care Leave – a blessing I hadn’t anticipated. Just when I was considering quitting again, the system threw me a lifeline.

Jahnavi and Rahul grew up. Responsibilities changed shape. Parents aged. In-laws passed. Krishnan’s job took him to Nagothane, and mine to deeper corners of Mumbai. I juggled everything – work, family, and health – with a kind of strength I didn’t know I had.

Somewhere along the line, loneliness crept in. When I shifted to Ghatkopar to reduce travel, I realised my childhood home didn’t feel like home anymore. The innocence of memory clashed with the present’s harsh reality. Government quarters were dilapidated, and I missed the cleaner, more peaceful life in Navi Mumbai. Still, I hoped. I hoped Jahnavi would return for her M Pharm. I hoped we’d buy a flat in Chembur. But none of that happened.

When Rahul came home in 2017 and Krishnan secured the Wadala flat for us, I thought – this is it. This is home. I was happy. Healthier. Even more optimistic about a future together under one roof. But life, once again, had different plans. Krishnan needed to quit his job. Rahul moved in new directions. Jahnavi settled in the US. The Wadala chapter closed.

By the grace of the system, I got a quarter at Napean Sea Road. It saved us. Financially, emotionally. That year, I too had thought of quitting but one of my colleagues told me to be a little more patient. He said the bosses will be transferred out sooner or later, but once you quit a government job, you won’t get it back. So, I waited. And continued.

December 2019 brought Rahul back home. He left his job to join a startup and brought Danny along. With Ram, our trusted house help, I hoped we’d finally live together in a central location – all of us under one roof, reducing travel and sharing life. But the dream remained a dream. Rahul had other plans, and Krishnan didn’t share my urgency or vision to buy a flat within city limits.

In September 2023, fate brought me a full circle. My office shifted to Vashi, and I got the chance to live in Kharghar again. I was close to home, close to Rahul. But quitting again didn’t seem practical – Krishnan had retired, and Rahul’s business hadn’t yet taken off. I was the only regular income.

Then, in December 2023, came the promotion – Assistant Commissioner of Income Tax. In February 2024, I was moved to Goa. And within days, the thought to quit returned. But this time, a real estate broker, of all people, stopped me in my tracks. “Madam, be here for a week and you’ll want to settle down. Don’t quit. Yours is a government job. If you leave now, you won’t get it back. What will you do at home, now that the children are grown up?”

His words echoed a truth I knew too well.

2024 brought travel, adventure, and unexpected joy – a seven-week IRS training, a tour through Bangalore, Andamans, Mysore – an experience of a lifetime. But even then, when I discussed retirement with colleagues, they advised me to wait for our promotions to be regularised. Otherwise, pensions would be fixed at lower grades. So I waited. And on 01.01.2025, our batch was regularised. A relief.

I decided to resign on 30.04.2025, retire by 31.07.2025. But once again, a colleague advised patience. “Madam, just wait till January 2026. The 8th Pay Commission is declared. If you’re in service on 1.1.2026, your pension will increase significantly. Just a few more months.”

So now, I wait again. I wait for March 2026, wondering if I’ll finally gather the courage to quit. Or will I convince myself to stay one more year, until AGT 2026, hoping to be posted back to Mumbai, and then take VRS?

It’s been nearly three decades of wanting to quit and never really doing it. At this point, I don’t know whether I’m incredibly patient or simply caught in a loop of duty and hope.

But I do know this – I’ve lived a full life in the margins of decisions not taken. I’ve found strength in staying, and sometimes, quiet grief in not leaving. Sometimes, I think I’ve stayed too long. Sometimes, I feel I’ve stayed just right.

And still, I’m here. Working. Waiting. Wondering.

17. A Piece of My Heart

 

It all began one luminous morning when I was twentyfive, confident in my shoes and determined in my stepping—yet something stayed behind the moment I kissed Jahnavi goodbye and left her at home with her grandmother. I was off to the office, believing I’d built a strong heart—but a little piece of it, fresh and bright, refused to come along.

When she turned one, the day I dropped her at the crèche was another parting—but this time, the weight was different. She hadn’t quite learned to eat by herself, didn’t babble the big words yet—and oh, how my heart thudded as I walked away. I would still discover that morninglight in her smile waiting for me after work, like a little sunbeam just for me.

Year after year, she became my courage, my calm, my cheerfulness incarnate. She was my daily dose of Purpose and Hope and Giggly Fun rolled into one. And when my son followed her into this world, she stepped up so naturally—as if she woke up one day and said, “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ve got him from here.” She took care of him at home, in the crèche, in school—practically the first parent he saw.

Her teachers, time and again, would ask, “But where was Jahnavi yesterday?” — “Why was the class so unruly without her?” I admit I used to chuckle: someone had paid to teach that class, yet they depended on my little girl to sort things out! When I wondered aloud how she kept forty kids in check, teachers simply smiled—as if to say it wasn’t magic, but matteroffact control. I believed it because at home, I needed her laugh to keep me going.

She also became my little schooladministrator: fee payments, diaries, holiday lists, exam rosters, sports day timelines—Jahnavi handled them all. She told me the schedule ahead of time, I just followed—she practically ran a school from the backseat of our car.

After she finished 12th, the farewell ceremony made her classmates tear up (and yes, my son too—when he realized school wouldn’t be the same without his sister). He somehow made it through another year without even buying a school diary—his handmedown of her organisation skills.

When it came time for her to stay as a paying guest at a friend’s parents’ home, I felt another piece of my heart being carried off—but I believed in letting her learn how to stand on her own. She always kept us looped in on her world—her routine, her updates, her triumphs—while growing stronger each day.

I had my dreams mapped out: she would come home after her undergraduate in Mumbai, do postgrad here, find a lovely life—maybe meet someone special when the time was right. But then she announced: “Mom, I’m going to the U.S. for my PG.” Another part of me flew away, but only in the physical sense. I’d loved how school taught her to spread her wings. I couldn’t clip them now—even if my heart ached.

I remember packing for that international trip: I was confident we had three suitcases covered at 23 kg each. Two of them maybe totaled 69 kg in my head—but oh, the airport scale threw them off. She had to buy another suitcase, shuffle everything, and I swear even the conveyor belt was judging us. I stood there and didn’t realize half my heart had slipped into her suitcase.

The next day, I was in my office, screen blinking with live flight status updates. My beloved Jahnavi was soaring above oceans—building a life of her own. Though she wasn’t physically with me, my best wishes circled her like confetti clouds.

In May 2019, we flew out for her convocation. I hugged her tight—felt her presence like sunshine on a chilly morning—and when she left us again outside the Fairfield Marriott, standing for her car pickup, my feet turned to jelly. Another piece of me went with her.

Since then, every airport goodbye, every time zone crossing—my heart still gets slightly numb for days. We visit Boston sometimes; she visits Mumbai a couple times a year. Each reunion fills me with sunlight; each departure leaves me missing.

I whisper to the sky whenever I see her off: “Be safe. Be happy. Be brilliantly independent. And come back soon.” Because my heart knows it's always safer when held in her embrace.

I’m waiting impatiently for the day when it’s just she and I, windchimes and laughter and maybe latenight chai on the balcony—maybe when she becomes a mother herself and relives the magic of being in my arms again. Those few days together will be when I reclaim all those little pieces of my heart I left behind. Until then, I rest in the joy of watching her fly—my toddler turned strong, brave woman—knowing that even above the clouds, our hearts keep beating in tune.

16. Mumbai- Boston Travel Experience

 Mumbai -Doha-Boston Qatar airways November 10th on B2 Visa

At Mumbai - checked vaccination certificate and returned it. Then asked for one copy of RT-PCR report, Qatar airways Passenger Consent Form duly filled in and CDC forms 1&2 of USA requirements. All documents submitted. Checked in 2 luggages (23 kgs each). Was allowed one cabin baggage of 7 kg and my hand bag with laptop in it ( around 2 kgs). Security Check done. Boarded flight - 3 hrs to Doha At Doha - international transfer - went through and waited. The layover was for about 8 and half hours At about 5.50 am gate number was announced for 7.50 am flight to Boston Asked for vaccination certificate and passport and checked laptops, jackets, watch, belts, shoes etc. Selectively. Not everyone was told to remove shoes. Ready to board. Landed one hour early at Boston. Immigration - they asked how long is the stay, what have you brought in your luggage and how much cash you have? Baggage claim - tool an hour for baggage to come in the conveyor belt. Got luggages. 6$ for trolley. I didn't take trolley. Came out. In short - comfortable and no difficulty journey from India to US.

15. The Wait

 The Wait

In the womb, you wait to be out into the world. Once outside, you want to turn around, crawl, stand, walk and then you cant wait to run. 

Once into school, you wait for holidays. When in holidays, with all the new books, new uniforms, new pencil box, colour box, new water bottle, lunch box and of course new shoes, you can but wait for the school to reopen. 

While a student you wait for exams.  If it is your favourite subject you wait. If it is not your favourite subject, still you wait for the exam to be done and over. Once exams are over, you wait for the results. Results out and you wait for admission into a college of your choice.  For that you wait for your name to appear on that list, in which you want your name to be in. 

Slowly you grow up and realise that by now, you are waiting for multiple things. You wait for exams, results and also wait for someone to come into your life and bring in fun, happiness and feeling of adulthood. While at it, when you fail in an exam or when you have a heart break, once again you find yourself waiting for better times to come. You work harder and again start hoping and waiting for better grades and a better person to be your partner for life. 

In the meantime, at home, your parents are waiting for you to complete your graduation, then post graduation and then a job and then a job with a very handsome salary. 

The more handsome the salary, the faster the wait for expansion of the family.  Your parents wait to hear from you that you are ready for marriage while you wait for that someone special to enter your life,  like in the movies. 

Cut the scene. Nothing happens in real life like movies. The parents fix your marriage to their choice of a groom or a bride, as the case may be. They then wait for the engagement ceremony, plan for the wedding and then again wait for the wedding functions. Ofcourse, you are now with them into this, so you also wait for the next, next and next. 

You have your dream job.  Its appraisal time and you wait for your scores. You wait to hear some recognition and praise. Alas, that wait never has never ever made any person the happiest yet in this world.  So naturally, you think about the change of job.  You give interviews and wait to hear from them. You get a new job and then you just cant wait to get there as soon as possible.  If you have a transferable job, you wait for the transfer orders. If you get a posting of your choice, you just cant wait to be there soon. If you get a posting other than your choice, you just wait to finish that tenure. 

In the meantime, domestic progress is expected too. The family is waiting for  your family to  be  made. Thats hard work and the ultimate test of your patience.   You have to work on the economical, social and emotional aspects.  If you invest, you have to wait for your money to work according to your expectations, if you look to buy a house or build a house, you have to wait for the construction to be completed.  If you have one child, you are expected to have another. So you wait for your first child to grow up little faster. And while at these things, not a single moment you can become emotionally weak.  Whatever ups and downs, come and go, you have to keep hoping and waiting with an attitude   that “This too shall pass”. 

In the household, you wait for the delivery, if you have purchased a TV set, or a refrigerator, or an air-conditioner or some furniture set.  You wait for the plumber or the electrician or the internet service provider after you have made a complaint.  Why nowadays, one  even waits for the food to be delivered home. Online orders for clothes, medicines and even garden implements and plant seeds.  Yes, anything under the sun can be delivered to you and your home.  But ………. you keep waiting for it. 

Just a year back, you were dreaming of a world tour and the pandemic arrived. Now you wait for the pandemic to end and you wait for normalcy to return. When you plan a trip, you cant wait to start your journey and while your trip is nearing the end, you cant wait to go back to your normal routine.  

When you are sick, you wait to recover soon.  When you are terminally ill and undergo treatment, you wait for death. 

But but but…. of all the waits you patiently wait, all the time throughout your life, the wait for that one beep of sms or a whatsapp message of something that is bothering your mind at that particular moment about that specific person, is the worst time of the wait, I believe. What you say? 

Life is just waiting and you thought it was a mystery to be solved :)

14. Mothers - Then and Now

 MOTHERS- THEN AND NOW

The other day, my daughter called me from Chicago, “Amma, I am having a terrible headache”. Another day,”Amma, I feel cranky”, and yet another day, “Amma, my periods are getting delayed”.

So as a mother what am I supposed do from here in India, more specifically from Mumbai? I am helpless. Nevertheless, its just those few words like “ Drink some warm water” or “ have a banana” or “ its just that you are worked up, relax a bit, take a shower, eat something and remember amma, loves you loads” or go to sleep and morning you will feel better or just an “ok, I am listening”, that makes the trick and then the next phone call comes a l voice telling that she is fine. 

Born in the 1970s, I have this opportunity of being with my mother, who was born in the 1930s and my nieces, born in the 1980s.  So then, I sure have been able to observe the vast difference in the role of mothers, their activities, their responsibilities and their struggles to do their best for their children. 

Back then, girls were not allowed access to higher education and were impressed upon to be married, do household work and raise children, as many as they could.  If we see around, families which started around the 1940s and 1950s had atleast 5-6 siblings on an average. The mothers would cook, clean, communicate with their children in their mother tongue, teach them whatever they knew and tell them mythological stories and significance of various festivals and rituals  that happened in their families. 

The families that started in the 1950s belonged mostly to a similar income group.  The rich were very few and the very poor remained unknown and were left to fend for themselves in order to survive. Only this group being neither poor nor rich nor lower middle class nor upper middle class, just existed trying to manage their ends meet by working hard,  day and night to provide two square meals and basic education for their brood. 

My mother was a stay-at-home mom, who kept herself busy with cooking, house work, stitching, reading and learning hymns and bhajans and shlokas.  As a child, it was taken for granted by me that mother would be at home at any time of the day and night. I went to school without any anxiety knowing that I just have to return back home after school and mother would have kept lunch ready for me. Even if I had to attend any extra classes or sports practice at school, I could just go home after that.  Mother would be at home.  For any project work, I could depend on my mother for some ideas and most of the time, she would help out with some of the waste material lying at home. She would be an expert for best out of waste ideas. 

Then in the 80s, I saw my sisters treaded the same path as my mother.  But they had to balance home and work as they were all in full time employment.  Since in many households, still there were siblings yet to be married, the nieces and nephews could be taken care of by the maternal or paternal grandparents and aunts and uncles.  Still the mothers in the 1980s had to manage home, in-laws, formalities and also be punctual, sincere and adept at their place of work. Moreover, those days, there were internal examinations for promotions.  So there was this added opportunity to move ahead at work simultaneously with managing family, of course with the support of the extended family.  Women were slowly getting access to better opportunities but home management was still on their own shoulders.  Men were becoming aware of the changes and they started doing their best at house management.  I would see my brothers-in-law take up the job of laundry and ironing the school uniforms, dropping children at school, wife to the railway station or place of work etc.  Times were changing. 

But sooner, the trend of unprofessional day care homes started to emerge. Working mothers would throng to let their children in a household with children of other working mothers, with the hope that their children could get a hang of living at home like how they had in their childhood.  But for this too, the mother’s heart needed to be worked upon to make it as hard as a stone.  To facilitate travel and to help them be away from their children for minimum time during the day, came the concept of learning to ride a two-wheeler or drive a car. 

The late 80s started seeing many Indian mothers on their two wheels, with 4 bags around them ( 2 for themselves, 2 for the children at the creche).  Once home, they tried to emulate their own evenings spent with their mothers and followed a ritual of lighting the lamp and saying prayers together.  

The world was moving at a fast pace. The 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s were being left behind with many new inventions, new technology, higher education and new opportunities becoming open to women.  The unprofessional homely daycares started to turn into professional creches.  The need was felt that children need to learn more life skills to deal with the outside world. 

Well into the 1990s, the families started to become nuclear.  The parents of the 1960s started to realise that they had a life of their own.  Their dream was to travel the world, learn new things of art, music, dance or improvise their own in-built talents (which they were denied  opportunities when they were young).   Fair enough.  But that left the mothers of the 1990s in lurch without support from family to help them make a family of their own. 

The mothers in the 1990s, were faced with a larger responsibility of juggling between in-laws, parents, work and house management.  Added to this, was the new trend of developing the personality of their children.  Their children needed to be competitive to remain in the competitive world.  The children were expected to pack their own things, they had to understand the meaning of different touches on their bodies  at the creche, they had to learn self- defence techniques like karate and taekwondo.  The inner strength and alongwith physical development  had to be worked upon.  So swimming, cycling and skating were a must.   Mother had to run around buying groceries and vegetables and shopping for the home essentials, so for that duration the children spent some time learning art, drawing or math. 

The children were left anxious for most part of the day.  They went to school in the morning in a bus and after school they took a different bus to reach their creche. They could not share their thoughts immediately after school with their mothers.  They would have to wait till their mother returned  from work in the evening.   Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, they had Karate classes, Tuesdays and Thursdays they had music and dance classes.  Some children had to juggle from one class to another. Saturdays were drawing and art classes, Sundays were swimming lessons. The children were getting used to remaining in an anxious state of mind. 

And how could I not talk of food  yet.  Yes, after the shopping, the housework of arranging the purchases made.  The 1990s was still seeing every household have normal indian food of rice, dal, rotis, bhaji, salads and chutneys, curds and pickles and papads, puran polis, vadas, idlis and dosas too. The guests too could be expected to have whatever the host has prepared.  More or less, the concept of food remained largely alike in the friends circle or office get-togethers or family functions. 

The working mother was aware of the food choices of the family members and she could definitely manage with a one-time maid to clean and cook for her family.  Some special dishes, she could herself  make, to give that personal touch to her children.

Definitions such as quality time, emotional quotient began to appear.  Many children were started to be dealt with as slow-learners.  Had the same children been around in the 1970s, they would have just enjoyed learning things at their own pace.  But no, we were in the 1990s. The world was moving fast.  How can we let our children lag behind? So new professionals who could read stories for children started to emerge. 

This phase went on till, maybe mid 2000s, when the whole concept of a responsible mother went through a sea change. From mothers being the first teacher to teach kindness, compassion, sharing, honesty and sincerity in the 1950s, the mothers in the 2000s had to do this and more. While they were to teach the children good virtues and attributes, they were also to sensitise the children about the bad and cheaters out there. The children were to be adept at multiple skills and also top the class with good grades in all subjects. The timid, loving and caring picture of a mother turned to a tiger-mom.  The mother had to herself learn newer things to direct the energies of her children in the right directions.  There were no elders at home, who could teach bhajans or narrate stories to children or share the responsibility of bringing up the children.  The whole onus was on the mother alone.   

The kitchen took over a massive change. The traditional dishes were now time consuming and quick 2-minute ready to eat became the trend.  The rice and roti took to the back stage too. The mothers realised the traditional food was suitable for that particular time and nature of activities then.  They were not conducive enough for todays’ activities.  For example: though the traditional vegetarian meal has a lot of simpleness and is a healthy diet, it has been realised that the diet includes more carbohydrates (which help people doing physical labour) and less of protein.  Whereas the generation today have more or less a sedentary lifestyle and their activities relate  to usage of technology through digital devices.  So only carbs in food only made them heavier and sluggish.   Moreover, every mother now had to necessarily  have knowledge of baking and making international cuisine which could range from chinese, japanese to italy, mexico and puerto rico or australia.  This, because children discuss in class what they have in their lunch boxes.  The normal roti sabji was looked upon by peers and so the lunch boxes had to be trendy with such international cuisines. So the mother had to learn new recipes, lest they lag behind. 

Did i tell you about the preferences of food of the guests in the late 2000s? 

No ?

Well,  when i was young and whenever my aunt or any relative visited home, mother would make poha or upma or any other south indian snack. In case anyone visited late at night without notice, the guest would be happy to just have curd rice with pickles.  But in the 2000s, the scene was different.  The non-vegetarians look lowly upon the vegetarians and may ask what was for them among the various spreads on the table.  Within vegetarians, most people have different choices of vegetables.  The traditional ones don't suit a dinner table, for example broad beans or snake gourd.  The names of the vegetables need to be trendy, say like bell peppers, capsicums, tomatoes, spring onions etc.  normal white rice too is not trendy enough. It should either be a biryani or a pulao or quinoa or brown rice or millets. 

When you go out for a picnic or a social do, the vegetarians are treated like an outcast and are sneered at and teased for not having tasted the flesh and the bones.  

Be that as it may, the world has surely undergone a massive change in terms of lifestyle, food habits, recreational activities and communication languages.  There is no more space now for sitting together and having the same food by all the family members.  The mother tongue cannot be spoken any more.  Because most parents come from different regions and have different mother tongues and there is no time to converse the same sentence in multiple languages.  The smses, emails, and WA texts in English as a common language is enough for communication.  What has one to achieve by learning the mother tongue?  The roots and familial bonding are a thing of the past. To bring that into our lives now, is too much hard work with no real benefits.  

All the same, one  cannot tell that the 1950s was better than the 2000s.  It is just that time flies, the world changes, one has to find ways to survive in the world and feel reasonably comfortable.

Life has changed more, since the pandemic of the past one and half years.  The mothers have to help children in their homeschooling - taking note of the time tables, scanning and uploading answer sheets, maintaining files of the test papers apart from their own busyness of working from home.

The mothers. Yes, the mothers, they take the blame for all the changes in the world and all the drifting that happens by the men of the family.  But mothers being mothers, their love towards their children does not change whether it is 1950s or 2000s.  It is just that they can't afford to remain like a mother in the 1950s, whose work revolved only around the house and children.  The mother of the 2000s needed to know how to ride, drive, shop, be a financial manager, a secretary to the family,  a cook, a teacher and also know the language of her children to communicate and the knowledge to operate devices with new technology.  

A mother’s journey never ends.  Once a mother, the journey that starts keeps on and on. On her deathbed, my mother called me one night and said,’I am worried about you.  You have to take care of yourself. You are juggling too many things at a time. Eat well.’