Movies: Men love action, women love romance. Think you know why? No, you don’t!


(I break my narrative yet again, because this is something that just had to be said.)

Wonder Woman

So I finally got a chance to watch Wonder Woman (yeah, I always watch new movies way too late) and oh girl, am I thrilled! It is absolutely mesmerising to watch Gal Gadot aka Diana, Princess of the Amazons, unleash her raw power and true grit. Watching the movie made me realise a few things though—namely why I have never been a fan of action movies and prefer mostly romances. I just thought I didn’t like all the fighting —until I saw this woman kicking, punching, lassoing and sword-fighting away to glory. And it suddenly dawned upon me that the reason I—and perhaps most women— do not enjoy action movies so much is because 99 per cent of all action movies only ever have MEN taking part in all the ‘action’.

Think about it.

What makes a good movie —or any good story— tick? How much the audience/readers identify with the characters. When you watch a story unfold, you identify with at least one person on the screen—mostly, you identify with the protagonist. For that brief span of time, you are transported to the screen, you are the person experiencing it all—and you vicariously partake of all the pleasures and pains unfolding before your eyes. That is why women prefer romances—because the protagonist there, the focus of the story, is always a woman. However, in common discourse this is projected as: women are only interested in love and romance.

Not true.

Women are interested in adventure, intrigue, thrill and action as any normal human being, but one look at the ‘regular’ action fare you get on the silver screen (and the small screen too) and you’d know that women would find it hard to relate to. It’s actually not the ‘action’ that puts us off—it’s the fact that every single time, it’s always a man commanding and carrying out the action. True, the Y-chromosome is genetically wired to love combat and destruction a lot more than the X-chromosome—and women definitely prefer love to war any day—but hey, when it’s about being the hero and saviour and fighting evil and injustice, women absolutely love packing in a mean punch.

A pity then, that our choices are so very limited.

All the way through Wonder Woman, I found myself jumping up and down in glee beside my very bemused husband, and almost screaming—“Go Diana! Woohoo! ”

 

Yes, we love it when women throw the punches and absolutely decimate the baddies.

I remember whooping with joy many years ago when Keira Knightley clashed swords with cursed pirates and sea-demons in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End. And I can never have enough of the way she and Will got married right in the middle of slashing up the baddies together!

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But I was severely and utterly disappointed by the post-credits scene in the very same movie—where Will returns after 10 years on the Flying Dutchman, and Elizabeth has been waiting for him, bringing up their son all this while. I swear I felt my heart sink right into my shoes.

All that spunk—all that valour—all the sword fighting and dealing with pirates, demons and sea –monsters—all of that for nothing? No, don’t get me wrong. It’s not the child-rearing part that I had a problem with. Nope.

She got married, she had a kid, great —but nobody said she had to stay right there and give him a super traditional upbringing, did they? His dad was Captain of the Flying Dutchman, for cryin’ out loud! And his mom was King of the Brethren Court, lest we forget! She could just have brought up the boy on a ship, having adventures of her own and being the remarkable, doughty woman that she was! But the message we got instead was that once you’re married and have a baby, you really needn’t involve yourself with anything other than said baby.

But now I am beginning to digress. Where were we? Yes, women in ‘action’.

Women enjoy it when women protagonists ‘do the stuff’. When my husband introduced to me the popular TV series “The Arrow”, my favourite protagonists almost all the time were the fighting females —Sarah Lance aka the Canary, Laurel Lance aka the Black Canary, and most of all Nyssa Al Ghul — the daughter of Raas Al Ghul, Chief of the League of Assassins — but above all a shockingly lethal fighter if there ever was one. It was a real delight to watch these women in action. (Of course, Felicity was a great character too, but her fight was more of mental and digital warfare rather than throwing actual punches.)

Among my favourite kick-ass women characters though, right at the top stands the character of Teresa Lisbon from the hugely successful HBO series The Mentalist. Even though she’s not the central character—which is a man, Patrick Jane, The Mentalist himself—yet she’s not reduced to the status of merely a love interest. She’s a super tough cop—the Chief of the California Bureau of Investigation, a smart, fearless character who knows how to fight like a woman. Yeah, I said fight like a woman, because “fight like a man” kind of defeats this whole post—it indicates that only men can fight.

Again, the remarkable thing about this series was that they didn’t have to show the hero Patrick Jane as a super-macho guy, just because his leading lady was a tough-as-diamonds (why don’t they use that phrase, though? Diamonds are the toughest substance on earth!) cop who really knew how to use a gun. He, on the other hand, never even carried a gun. His super strength was his mind– the punching, shooting and capturing part was well taken care of by the lady.

Eventually, of course, Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon declare their love—and then comes the part where, for the first time, I felt really annoyed and angry at Jane, because he suddenly begins asking Lisbon to quit her job as an FBI agent—which she had by then become. No, of course, it wasn’t because of some kind of inherent chauvinism. He kept saying he didn’t want to ‘lose her’ given her high risk job and the fact that he’d already lost once a woman he dearly loved. Which felt entirely pathetic to me, because she had been a cop and a detective long before he even met her. And all these years that he’d been hunting the psychopath serial killer who murdered his family, she had been his partner and closest friend, always taking the lead in this high risk job. And now suddenly when he declares his love for her, he wants her to throw away all she has built up in life just because he’s insecure about losing her? It made me hopping mad.

Thankfully though, Lisbon was a woman after my own heart and she refused to budge. My most favourite, absolutely cherished scene from this series—and in fact my most cherished scene from any series or movie ever, period—is that of Lisbon in her wedding gown, in typical law-enforcement posture and fearlessly holding a gun at another serial killer.

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A smart man isn’t scared of loving a strong woman

That moment, to me, symbolises the very essence of being a woman: she doesn’t say no to love, she doesn’t say no to marriage, she doesn’t say no to femininity either—but she refuses to let go of her passions, of things that are important to her; refuses to let go of who she truly is. She dons the intensely feminine, sleek and classy wedding gown, but as soon as the baddies appear, she gets all-out in cop mode—whipping out her gun and confronting the psychopath. Even though there’s a whole law enforcement team there, she doesn’t sit it out just because it’s her wedding day. She remains true to herself and her work, her duty.

That one moment will forever be the essence of femininity to me. Femininity is not about being a damsel in distress—it’s about being a damsel that can remove distress.

And that’s who we fantasise about being when we find doughty women in action onscreen.

This reminds me of exactly what I felt when I watched Jean’s character blast out her mutant powers with full force in the climax of X-Men: Apocalypse. Every pore of my body felt like that woman who is trying hard but frustratingly failing to harness her true powers, that somewhere in me those forces are all accumulating to rip out in one great explosion of fearsome power.

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Whether it’s saving your home or saving the world, we vicariously fulfil all our dreams of superhuman strength and fighting power through these characters. But when those characters are only men, we can just salivate or drool over them as fantasy love interests! (Or just appreciate them as interesting characters.) We can’t actually identify with them —obviously.

So here’s my last word on the subject.

Movie makers, you’ll be opening up a whole new demographic if you just create more intrepid, fearless ‘women in action’ characters. That way, you’ll know that it’s not just the romances that draw women in. We love action too— only you’ve got to have the right person doing it.

Chapter 40: If life were made of moments


March 31, 2014

Another day of lazing in the beach view suite and feasting on the irresistible buffets.  Our travels, though, are being thoroughly affected by the lack of foresight in planning—we’ve booked all three meals at the resort: buffet breakfast, buffet lunch and buffet dinner. So by the time you’re through with breakfast and you think of going somewhere far for sightseeing, you start worrying about getting back in time for lunch. I mean—my man here starts worrying about it. The intriguing part is, he’s not one of those food obsessed guys that give their wives a tough time on a daily basis—we’ve never ever had ‘food issues’ in our home. But every time we finish breakfast and I talk about us getting out of the resort and actually exploring Kovalam and its periphery, I’m greeted by the same reply: “but we won’t be back in time for lunch then!” And when we’ve finished lunch, it’s pretty much the same again.

I’m beginning to suspect this has less to do with his overflowing love for the resort buffet than it has to do with his general weary, morose, dampened mood that I’m observing for the last 3 days. Despite the fact that he’s trying to be the good husband in every way possible, he still feels distant, closed.  I’m trying not to create a fuss about it, but I’m well aware that something’s definitely wrong. There’s a huge build-up of stress inside him, a mental fatigue that transfers to his body and makes him want to just relax and do nothing—find some semblance of peace and calm.

So it’s the beach again for us—and I really can’t complain.

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The waves are incredible today—far more than last evening. I wade into the shallows and sink down to my knees, letting the water envelop me. Wave after wave crashes upon me, sometimes right over my head!

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Hasan sits on one of the beach chairs, gazing at us nonplussed—his mom being buffeted by waves and his dad clicking away happily.  The little one isn’t so keen on the ocean himself—though he loves water, he’s not familiar with this strange kind: the one that’s alive and thrashing around, making a wild din. It scares him. But I don’t want him to be scared, I want him to get closer to the ocean, to touch and feel and smell and explore it. It’s just that parental instinct to have your children love the things that you love—they might not, but you at least want to try.

I walk over to my little boy, pick him up and propping him on my hip, get back into the waves. Since I’m standing with him in my arms, he can observe the ocean at a safe distance: surrounded but not engulfed.

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He’s still not very thrilled, but at least he’s interested and not bawling to get back to the shore. By and by, I put him down on the beach at the edge of the waves. He’s still weary of what perhaps seems to him a watery monster, and I try to distract him with the sand.

He is intrigued. Scoops up a fistful and looks at it with a frown of concentration.

Sajjad joins us, and soon we’re all making little sand hills. It’s a moment I couldn’t let slip away, and I pick up the camera to preserve it forever—this  moment of father-son bonding so precious to me and so utterly gratifying.

Sitting at the shore reminds you how much moments resemble grains of sand. You can gather them in your fists or gather them into little hills, but sure as daylight they’ll slip away. The tides of life reclaim them, leaving a blank canvas behind—just so you don’t stay caught up in one, just so you can create another.

Like the Baker’s Wife sings in Into The Woods:

“..Let the moment go

Don’t forget it for a moment though

Just remembering you’ve had an ‘and’

When you’re back to ‘or’

Makes the ‘or’ mean more

Than it did before…”

————————————————————–

After lunch we go up to the Skybar—which is just an open terrace during the day—and gaze down into the azure waters that turn an emerald green just where the cliffs jut out. The cliffs! They are an amazing sight, and you can just picture the mermaids coming up at night to sing their ocean songs.

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We stay there a long time, watching the waves crash over the cliffs, the rays of the sun on the vast blue further beyond, and the stray speedboat creating a path of foam. I peer out to the right and see a path straight from our section of the beach that leads to some more gorgeous cliffs that we could actually climb. “Hey, let’s go there!” I point enthusiastically. “It’s not far, and we could have a lovely walk all the way along the beach.”

“But the sun’s already on its way westward and by the time we actually reach the spot, it’ll almost be sunset. We won’t be able to take any decent pictures,” says he.

I’m beginning to get irritated now. “Oh, drat those pictures!” I fume, but then mellow down.  “Honey, who cares? Even if we don’t get one single decent photo, we’d at least have seen that beautiful place, we’d have experienced a magnificent sunset, we’d have been on those cliffs for real instead of just watching them from afar. I don’t care one bit about the pictures— let’s just take some memories instead.”

“Hmm…” he says, and that’s all.

The sun goes down into the sea as Sajjad, Hasan and I sit upon the small cliffs and the waves crash all around us. As the light wanes, the tide rises. We head back reluctantly, walking along the water but avoiding the now boisterous waves. The farther we inch to the side, the more the waves reach out to touch us. I laugh in delight. “Hey look!” I tell Sajjad. “The sea loves me as much as I love her! Every time I move my feet away from her, she leaps out to reach them again.”

Sajjad smiles a little. “Hmm…” he says again.

Not for the first time, I feel a sharp stab of annoyance at this extreme taciturnity.

I won’t get angry, I remind myself for the umpteenth time this vacation. I will not spend my time fighting. I’ll just be happy we’re here—all three of us.

I slip my hand into his and he holds it tightly. Perhaps some things just have to be understood without being said.

April 1, 2014

The day of departure dawns. And in the manner of all things whose realisation hits only when they’ve reached crisis point, I’m suddenly gripped by the fact that we’ve spent three days in Kerala without so much as a glimpse of the famed backwaters! Who goes to Paris and returns without visiting the Eiffel Tower? Who goes to Egypt and doesn’t see the Pyramids? Who returns from Agra without a sight of the Taj Mahal? Only the stupidest and laziest of people, like the ones that go to Kerala and return without experiencing the backwaters. Nope, I certainly wasn’t going to be one of them.

And so, after three days of just lazing around the beach and the suite, I decide I’m not leaving without a backwater cruise. As soon as we’re dressed I go up to the concierge and ask them about backwater cruises available. The cruises extend for two hours but we don’t have enough time. If we set off at 10 am, we reach the backwaters by 11, which leaves just enough time for a one hour cruise so we can get back to the hotel by 1 pm, and reach the airport by 1:30. Our flight departs at 3 p.m. Unsurprisingly, Sajjad isn’t charged up at all for the plan—he says that’s cutting it too close. But I’m adamant. Of all things that I’m guilty of being in my life, stupid I will not be.

So here we are in the backwaters of Poovar— aboard a small, covered motorboat, in the greenest of canals fenced in by lush, tall coconut palm and banana trees.

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Image from keralatravelpal.com

As the boat chugs slowly across the mangroves into ever narrower meandering streams, even the sunlight turns emerald green, slipping in through the sieve of dense green foliage and reflected by the mysterious, somewhat intimidating murky green of the water. Fishing boats lie moored along the edges, and a coconut-selling boat passes us by.

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We take a left turn and enter a very narrow gully, hemmed in by emerald shrubs on both sides, the foliage almost cutting off the sunlight. The boatman abruptly cuts the motor, indicating that it’s the perfect spot for pictures.

I’m rather fed up, though, of this constant touristy fixation with clicking. We’re not there, it seems, to look and feel and drink it all in; everyone just appears to be travelling for the sole purpose of clicking pictures. Nope, not me.

We just get one customary click, and then ask the boatman to stay put.

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What we’d like more is to revel in the thrill of it all.

Complete silence envelops us except for the incessant cawing of crows and the calls of birds we can’t recognise. It’s a scene straight out of a Discovery Channel documentary on the Amazon River. Delicious thrills run up and down my spine, because I feel exactly like an explorer of the wild. Eyes wide with wonder and mouth agape in smiling fascination, I drink in my surroundings entirely.

Then my gaze falls on the man beside me, and for once, I am utterly satisfied.

Sajjad is as fascinated and mesmerised by it all as I am. Being too much the ‘Man’ though, his mouth isn’t open in amazement —but you can see he’s relishing it to the core.

“Isn’t this exactly like a documentary of the Amazon? Perhaps there’s an Anaconda slinking in the foliage all around,” I whisper conspiratorially to him, “…or maybe a huge croc just lurking under the boat…” I narrow my eyes dramatically for effect.

“Don’t you ever put your hand out to touch the water, then…” he replies with a wicked grin, playing along. We laugh.

The boatman turns on the engine again and the boat purrs out into a wider stream. That’s where we spot a Snake bird and a Brahminy Kite, and I regret not having a professional guide around for bird watching. These backwaters are definite bird-heaven of all sorts.

The stream widens, the boat turns and suddenly we’re into an estuary, where fresh water merges with salty waves. Up ahead the wide shoreline comes into view—we’ve reached another beach: The Golden Sands Beach.

True to its name, the sand here is an arresting shade of pure gold. But even more arresting are the absolutely gigantic waves smashing upon the shore. This is one beach with no gradual undulation into the depths; the earth just sinks abruptly into the ocean’s arms, like the exhausted lover seeking the comfort of familiar embrace. The dance of the ocean is an absolute delight to watch and though we’re standing far off to be very safe for our little one, the waves just close the distance with one mighty leap. The foam swirls around my ankles.

I could just stay here forever.

However, the very pragmatic man beside me reminds me that we’ve a flight due in a couple hours, so I must quit thinking of forever. Sigh.

We head back to the motorboat. The boatman takes us a little further, and presents us with a scene that can only be described as a microcosmic representation of the cultural and spiritual beauty of India. Up ahead is a statue of Jesus & Mary, standing majestically upon a cliff. And just a little beyond that, stands what is called the ‘Elephant Rock’—a natural rock jutting out of the estuary, looking remarkably like the outline of an elephant, which is a particularly revered and sacred animal among the Hindus of South India. Jesus and Mary, in the company of the Elephant Rock—particularly in an estuary— beautifully mirror the ethos of India. In a divinely beautiful spot on earth, where salt water and fresh water mix with utter ease, we find these symbols of the confluence of cultures and subcultures, religions and quests of faith. Can it get any more poetic than that?

“We have an hour and a half more of sights ahead of us. But I was instructed to take you back after the first hour. Do you want to move ahead, or would you like to turn back?” the boatman enquires.

I can’t believe how foolish I’ve been to wait for the last day before booking this cruise. Who knows what sights lay ahead of us? Who knows what paradise awaits us? But then something’s better than nothing I suppose—and if I hadn’t been a fair bit stubborn, we’d never have seen this little slice of heaven either. I feel pretty contented as we head back, from a different route this time, even as the boatman points out floating resort cabins at a distance and quite a few floating restaurants. How I longed to have lunch in one of these!

Driving back to the Leela takes us across the unbelievably green tropical paradise that is South Kerala, the rows upon rows of palm trees with their fringed tops framing the sky. All you can do is sit back and sigh or gape in wonder and delight. On the way we stop at a souvenir shop and I find something just perfect for my mantelpiece back home—a model of a typical ‘Snake Boat’ – a paddled war canoe used in the famous canoe boat races of Kerala—complete with tiny rowers all ready to zip to the finish line.

The rest of the hours slip by in mad frenzy as we race to make it in time for the flight—with a very annoyed and vexed man beside me, who detests nothing more in this world than being late.

As our flight from Thirvananthapuram takes off, we catch our last glimpse of the palm trees spreading out in a frilly emerald carpet beneath us, and a little off to the side the foamy blue of the Arabian Sea. God’s Own Country, as the tagline goes.

And now everything is obscured under a layer of clouds tinged golden with sunlight.

Ascent, descent. Isn’t life always like a plane journey? For a moment you’re soaring in the sky, and before you know it, you are back on earth. We’ve been soaring high for the past three days, between the sand and the sky, in a shimmering bubble of raptures and delight. And the time for descent has come at last. Time to return to the solid ground of everyday life, time to tread the earth complete with its rocks and thorns. But the fact that we’ve had these ‘moments’, that we experienced this bit of untouched bliss, lends a beam of light to whatever darkness that may lie ahead. It presents images of joy to relish, and hold onto, in all those moments when the mind clouds over with doubt, and grief and despair.

 

“Oh, if life were made of moments

Even now and then a bad one!

But if life were only moments

Then you’d never know you had one…

 

..Let the moment go

Don’t forget it for a moment though

Just remembering you’ve had an ‘and’

When you’re back to ‘or’

Makes the ‘or’ mean more

Than it did before…”

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Chapter 39: Splitting the bill— the worry bill


March 30, 2014

4 pm

Private beaches at five star resorts are almost all the same: sparsely peopled with resort guests lounging in the serene company of the sea. Of course, it’s the natural differences that make each one unique—the sand colour, the marine life, the water clarity. But the Kovalam beach is different in myriad other ways—because it is only partly private. The other half is public property, and there’s just an invisible demarcation—aside from the guards —that separates resort guests from the local public.

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That’s why Kovalam beach in daylight is miles away from the Kovalam beach of the night past. Before our eyes lies a scene bustling with activity and brimming with the typical flavour of South Kerala. Rows upon rows of catamarans with fishing nets dangling from them, young boys lolloping in the waters at a distance and families strolling along the edges of the waves. And speedboats lined up, awaiting their passengers. It’s a cheerful slice of everyday life—not everyday life for us, though, and we bask it all in. But it’s the speedboats that are most tempting. The owner of the nearest one watches me give it an eyeful and immediately comes over to give us the pitch. Since he’s seen us wandering over from the resort side of the beach, he quotes a price that is double, if not triple, the usual amount.

Negotiating prices is sort of my Achilles heel—I’m terrible at bargaining. Worse, if I really like something, I’m willing to be ripped off just to get my hands on it—call it impatience or gullibility or both. Sajjad’s a lot better at it, and he tries to use his skills now. But the speedboat owner has far greater skills for he has seen the look on my face—and he, like all men, knows the power wives exercise on their husbands. Nope, he refuses flatly. Take it or leave it.

Fine, we leave it, says my guy coolly, and turns his back on the speedboat. Oh no, we don’t—I put my sulky face on, draw him to the side and tell him: “I’ve never been on a speedboat before and I don’t know when I ever will again! It’ll be sunset soon and then we’ll lose all chance of doing this!” I hiss from between clenched teeth.

“Just give it 5 minutes! He’ll come around—I’m sure of that. He’s seen us coming over from the resort side, that’s all,” Sajjad tries to reason.

“I don’t care what side we came from!” and suddenly, “You’ve been on all those water scooters and jet skis in Oman so you couldn’t care less for this speedboat ride. I’m the one who’s going to miss it.” Darkness clouds my mind again, bringing back the reality of our situation—so easily obscured in this paradise. I cannot see reason. I go cold. “We were splitting the bill, remember? I’m paying for this. Just say yes to the man.”

I see it. I see the Silent Sajjad face come back on, and I know he’s miffed. I ignore him and walk over to the speedboat guy myself, quoting a slightly lower price. Take it or leave it, I tell him. And he agrees.

As we’re strapping on our lifejackets, we realise there’s no lifejacket for the little guy with us—the one and a half year old. The driver is most apologetic, he says we don’t have lifejackets this small. Sajjad and I exchange glances. His glance says: I don’t think we should do this. Mine says: Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

The driver looks from one face to another, watches his prospects dwindling and immediately assures us that he’d go very carefully and slowly and we needn’t worry at all: people with kids do it all the time.

And I’m desperate. I’m hanging onto life with this vacation—outside of these golden sands and swirling waters I see nothing but bleakness. Sajjad sighs. “I’ll hold him tightly,” he offers, giving up. We position the kid between us, each with an arm around him—and I have a sense of déjà vu: from the time we did that elephant ride in Jim Corbett National Park. But our boy’s grown up since then—and I utter a silent prayer that this doesn’t turn into a disaster like that time.

The boat takes off.

There is something unimaginably enthralling about the sea, about whipping across untamed waves, about your hair—or scarf—billowing in the wind, about bouncing wildly from one wave to another like a dolphin gone somewhat mad. With each bounce the boat whacks on to the water, our bottoms being thoroughly smacked on the hard-as-wood seats! I am whooping with joy, open-mouthed and screaming—clutching at my scarf as the wind tries her best to snatch it off. I glance at Sajjad, then—and though he’s enjoying himself, he looks uncomfortable and a little strung up.

“What’s the matter, are you ok?” I ask him.

“Yes, fine. The boat’s bouncing too much. I’m worried for Hasan.”

And he is. He’s clutching the boy tightly to his side, and his attention is all but focused on keeping the boy safe. The boy himself isn’t scared—he’s enjoying the ride. But I feel a surge of warm feeling for this father-son duo once again. The fact that Sajjad is worried about Hasan isn’t just about this speedboat ride. It’s a small, mostly unnoticeable detail that the ‘worrying’ has been taken over from my hands—if only temporarily. After a year and a half of incessant, solitary worrying, I’ve just been given a break. From the moment we began this journey, this man has made it his job to do the worrying (with my job being just the feeding.) Perhaps that’s the reason why I feel so much at ease, so free, so devoid of cares. In his own unspoken manner, he has split not just the money bill with me—but the worry bill too. The bill that counts as much, if not more.

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Almost as if on cue, the speedboat slows down. We round a cliff and come to another beach, the famous Lighthouse Beach with the Lighthouse perched upon a rocky hillock. Beyond that, the Hawah Beach—Eve Beach, literally—peppered with fishing vessels of all shapes and sizes. Just as we’re turning back, a military looking vessel approaches the beach— and we’re thrilled to know it’s the smaller patrol vehicle of the Indian Coast Guard.

The boat finally turns and speeds off back across the open sea, slowing down alongside the crimson ball of fire that’s the sun setting into the waters. Sajjad relaxes visibly once we reach the edge and his darling is safely out of the water’s reach. We frolic in the waves, gentler this time, long past sunset.

This holiday is paying off far more than I’d expected. Once again, I remember my promise to myself—the promise that brought us here and created this little patch of happiness. But now, today, the moment in the speedboat brought home a simple truth.

You can’t create happiness from thin air. You could surround yourself with objects that signify happiness, you could create situations conducive for happiness, choose locations that perhaps deliver happiness. But happiness only arises from people willing to be happy. It only arises from people willing to bend a little for each other, from people wanting to make each other happy. From ‘splitting the bill’ together—the money bill and the worry bill—and making space for each other.

Because even for something as simple as a hug, you need to curve your arms, loosen your body and make space for another to fit in.

Kovalam enhanced

Chapter 38: Two’s a cuddle, three’s a huddle!


March 30, 2014

Breakfast at The Leela Kovalam is an elaborate, sumptuous affair, their buffet tables absolutely loaded with all kinds of delicacies, making you feel like Asterix and Obelix feasting in their Gaulish village. And you, of course, are not Asterix but Obelix, stuffing yourself silly. Now, I’ve been known for being a picky eater—a trait I annoyingly passed on to my son—but hotel buffet breakfasts trigger a metamorphosis of sorts. And here I am, combining South Indian Idli-Dosa-Sambhar-Vada and regular potato wedges with completely non-Indian croissants, muffins, gingerbread cakes and chocolate Danish pastry, with some mango yogurt thrown in for good measure. All of this finds its way to my plate, and no—I waste none of it. If I could have these breakfasts every day, I’d be twice my current size.

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As for the husband, he used to be a lot more cautious in his food choices. Now he’s more open to experimentation—not least because he inevitably finds himself at the receiving end of the exotic dishes I order on our vacations (halabi kebabs in a Lebanese restaurant on our honeymoon in Malaysia, which he never fails to remind me of), dishes that I invariably push aside after little more than two morsels. Being the kind of guy who can’t stand to see food wasted, he plies through them with utmost perseverance (and a fairly murderous look on his face).

Buffets are perfect in this regard, though. You can sample whatever catches your fancy without having to cope with dishfuls of something whose taste entirely belies its looks. But the buffet table isn’t the only thing taking our breath away at breakfast here. Morning light has drawn back the curtains from what the night had concealed. An endless stretch of the bluest blue, the sea merging with the sky, the waves twinkling merrily with sun-sparkle and the occasional speedboat weaving patterns of white foam on azure fabric. We’re not just having breakfast here; we’re having an entire ocean for breakfast.

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And for the first time since we arrived in Kerala, we’re having an extremely and utterly peaceful meal, without any interruptions and tantrums. The little monarch is still asleep as we’ve wheeled him to the restaurant in the baby stroller. (This stroller has proved to be the best investment of my life!) But once he’s awake—stroller or no stroller—we’re going to have to be at the mercy of the monarch’s whims and fancies. All things said and done, it’s not funny or amusing to have a moral policeman accompanying you all the time on vacation, putting his stern little foot down on each and every public display of affection. Oh, forget PDAs, this policeman stays right inside your freaking bedroom, for heaven’s sake! Talk about inheriting absolute desi genes from his father’s side.

Something needs to be done about this, and pronto.

Meanwhile, there are some other ‘pressing matters’ that need our attention. With breakfast finished, it’s time for us to head out for sightseeing. Only thing is, we’ve both stuffed ourselves so full we’ve got the exact same feeling one might observe in an over-fed, pampered tabby cat—curl up, purr and snooze like there’s no tomorrow. The idyllic, all-blue setting doesn’t help either—it lulls the senses into a hypnotic state of calm, a state where the world seems to have slowed down and paused, where nothing exists except the whispering sound of waves swaying somewhere far below.

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Oh well, we’re on holiday— we get to decide what we’d like to do. Cuddling up in the middle of the day in a super-soft, super squishy hotel bed with fluffy, downy pillows  and a heavenly view of the shoreline directly from the bed—that’s a pretty tantalising option, so we decide to take it. But that brings us back to problem number one: the anti-cupid who won’t let us snuggle or cuddle or get comfy at all.

And then suddenly, just like that, we have a lightbulb moment. We pull the little one close to us. With one hand, we hold his hand, and with the other, we hold each other’s. Mumma loves Hasan, and Mumma loves Baba too. Baba loves Hasan, and Baba loves Mumma too. And Hasan loves both Mumma and Baba. “We are a family,” we tell him slowly, smilingly. And then, very deliberately, we proceed to hug each other—a group hug, like a sportsmen’s huddle. The little one takes to it instantly, and we’re treated to excited, delighted little shrieks and gurgles as he discovers the joys of everyone hugging each other. This is the moment when we all laugh together. It’s also the moment when I realise, painfully, that this little boy has had so few moments with his small family, that he needs to be shown what it’s like—how we can love several people at the same time, in different ways, and it would not take away from our love for each other.

Children have an infinite, unfathomable ability to understand abstract concepts; all they need is to see the context. When they see it, they know it. They see a hug and they understand love, they see you offer a biscuit and they understand sharing. They see you smile and they understand joy, they see your face crumple and they know that is grief. When they see you hit and shout they understand violence, when they see you throw seeds to a bird they understand kindness.

Little Hasan was only a year old when he understood what ‘brave’ meant: it is to get up when you fall down and not worry about a small bruise. And now little Hasan has to slowly understand what ‘family’ means: it means more than just one person to love, more than just one person to hug. It means that love could be shared among everyone in a family, and it wouldn’t divide—only multiply.

And I, I have learnt something too. I have learnt that when you’re two, you cuddle. But when you’re three, you huddle.

Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is not to go through it, but around. Literally.

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Chapter 37 (ii): Midnight at the beach


The Tides

 

29 March 2014

9:45 pm

The day’s not over yet, folks.

Just as I’m finishing up my dinner alone by the pool, the shuffle of feet makes me look up. The guys are back—the big one and the little one, the latter looking decidedly chastised. Sajjad comes and takes his seat beside me.

“What happened?” I ask, looking from one to the other, for they are both rather sombre.

“Well,” says Sajjad, “Hasan and I had a long chat about how his behaviour was completely unacceptable and why it is very, very bad to keep irritating mummy like that.” He looks sternly, meaningfully at the little boy who hangs his head in shame.

My mouth falls open in amazement and I gape at both of them, father and son. Has he really been having this stern “long chat” with this 15-month old boy, and has the boy really understood? By the looks of it, it seems he has! But then they’ve always shared this bond. When Hasan was only a month or two old, Sajjad would take the crying baby in his arms and speak to him directly, looking him in the eye. He would speak to him, not coochie-cooing like people usually do with babies, but speak gently, wisely, like you explain something important to another person. And the baby would stop crying and gape at his father, wide-eyed at first, and then with rapt attention. They really do understand each other.

And so, finally, we finish the dinner in peace, together at last, all three of us—sans tantrums, sans annoyance, sans bitterness. A moment of beauty is a joy forever.

 

10:30 pm

We’re back at the Suite and the little one is finally asleep. Standing at the terrace, I take in the silver-tinged waves in a frame of swaying palms trees, and I’m hit by an idea: why don’t we take a night stroll on the beach? Why wait till morning?

True, we’ve had a tough and tiring day, true we need to get some rest. But hey, it isn’t every day you come to Kerala, do you, and we have just 2 more days here.

“What are we gonna do with Hasan, though?” Sajjad looks at the boy sleeping on the bed.

“We’re going to put him in the baby stroller and wheel him all the way to the beach.” I smile triumphantly.

There’s a direct path just below our suite leading to The Leela’s private stretch of the beach, a sloping paved route on which we push the stroller now. Well, ‘we’ wouldn’t be the correct term, actually, because I queen it all the way to the beach and Sajjad obliges like a gentleman. Hasan sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of his surroundings—blissfully for us, that is!

A gateway leads to the shack-shaped beachside sea-food restaurant of the hotel—The Tides, as it’s called—and beyond that, the beach. We slip off our footwear and leave it at the edge of the sand. But now we have a little problem. It’s impossible to drag the baby stroller over the sand. My plan has just backfired. Nonplussed, I wrack my brains for a solution; we’ve come this far, we’re not going to just sit at the edge and watch from a distance. There’s a whole ocean waiting out there. And then I spot the hotel’s official guard standing nearby—a uniformed guard, because this is a private beach—and I have another idea. Walking over, I ask him if he would please keep an eye on our sleeping baby while we dip our feet in the sea for a bit. Of course, he smiles. No problem at all.

That seems to take care of our little one for a while, but we’re both more than a little apprehensive at leaving our baby there. Nevertheless, he is well within our field of view and we keep casting glances in that direction just to be doubly sure.

And now, the ocean. Dark, mysterious, foaming at the edges and stretching as far as the eye can see.  We stroll over to the edge and let the water cover our feet. Feels like heaven already. A bit of sand gives way from underneath our feet with each wave, shifting and shimmering like silk. We walk in farther until the water swirls around our calves—the waves are boisterous and splash right up to our waists. The shore is absolutely calm except for the ocean’s incessant sighs.

Slowly we walk back onto the sand and park ourselves on the beach chairs. The stars peer at us from every direction. We sit there drinking in the scents, the sounds and I savour the feeling of lying back on these deck chairs in silence, side by side. Silence that marks the ease of togetherness, silence that doesn’t hang heavy in the air. And yet, some part of him feels far away, some part that I can’t really pinpoint. I just hold his hand, and ask him nothing. We all need our spaces and our silences.

Hasan is still asleep when we walk over across the sand, and we thank the guard for his kindness. Casting our gazes back at the shore one last time, we begin the uphill climb.

It’s almost midnight. I look again at the ocean, and make a wish before the clock strikes twelve, before the magic ends.

All I ever wanted is right here before me. The only thing I want is for this to last forever.

Chapter 37: Candles, waves and truffle cakes


March 29, 2014

We’re on a connecting flight to Thiruvananthapuram, and it’s a very long one—6 hours. After the wearing off of the initial excitement at being in a new place with ever newer things to experience, Hasan has dozed off. The first two hours have been mostly peaceful, but now he wakes. We still have 2 more hours to go before we switch flights in Mumbai, and then two hours from there to our destination.

I’d come prepared for this, of course. The baby-bag is filled with new toys and picture books purchased especially to be sprung as surprises at just the right moment. What I hadn’t come prepared for is the level of possessiveness my baby has inherited from me. Not for the toys, no. For his dad.

Boys are usually seen to be more attached to their moms. My boy is an exception. Much before he set his tiny foot in this world, much before his tiny eyes opened to perceive his father’s face, my boy was responding to the sound of his father’s voice.

Scientifically speaking, babies in the womb begin to hear and respond to sounds as early as the second trimester. Initially they only detect low pitched sounds, so the earliest sounds your little one recognises are the grumbling in your belly, the whooshing of air in and out your lungs and yes, your heartbeat. There’s something so warm and gooey about learning that the first thing your baby learns is the sound of his momma’s beating heart.

By the time the little one reaches the third trimester, he can already recognise your voice and begin listening to things you say, read and sing to him. (Hence the recommendations to read out verses from the Holy Book.) But equally important, he can also hear other sounds from the environment, particularly ones that are loud and clear.  Studies of newborn behaviour have shown that babies get used to the sounds they hear often in the womb, and once born, respond more alertly and attentively to those.

But I can solemnly swear that my baby has responded to voices other than mine even before he was born.

Ever since we started feeling the movements in my belly, Sajjad and I noticed how hyper-active the kid was, kicking away with aplomb. Sometimes I’d feel four simultaneous kicks at once and we’d wonder how he was managing to bang on the “walls” with both hands and both feet. Sajjad would jokingly wonder if he was “constructing something” inside! Over time, though, I began to sense a strange pattern to the hyperactivity. It would occur mostly in the presence of his dad. The little guy’s movements would be steady and rhythmic throughout the day, but come evening and as soon as the big guy entered and greeted me with his deep, gruff baritone, the movements would go into joyous overdrive. Like a playful kitten frisking around with happiness, Little Hasan In The Womb would literally turn summersaults at the sound of his father’s voice.

I do suspect that my own excessive, obsessive attachment to his dad played no small role in this development.

One way or another, Little Hasan In The Womb developed an umbilical connect not just with his momma but with his baba, too. A connect that only grew stronger out of the womb; a connect that enthralled and fascinated me.

And later, also irritated me.

Right now on our plane to Kerala, every time I try to get comfortable and snuggle into his dad’s shoulder, he pushes my head off. When I give up the shoulder approach and content myself with holding his dad’s hand, he pushes my hand away too! We’re amazed at first, and infinitely amused.

Somewhere in my heart I know where he gets this from.

Parents hardly ever realise the things they pass on to their kids. Not just hair colour, eye colour, height or build, not even susceptibility to hereditary diseases. Parents pass on, inherently, unknowingly, traits they wouldn’t perhaps even acknowledge in themselves. Perhaps a bit of strong-headedness, a bit of over-attachment. A bit of greedy loving, with attention-seeking thrown in for good measure.

He may look like his dad, but his stubbornness is all mine.

Ultimately, though, there’s only so much amusement to be had in being prevented from holding your own husband’s hand on a holiday that you created, for your own benefit. But you sure can’t reason with a one-year-old, and I sigh and let him have dad all to himself. And occupy myself with gazing out the window.

Thirty minutes later, Hasan has decided aeroplane time is over. He reaches over to the window, begins feeling it around with his little fists and suddenly demands:

“Darwaza kholo! Baahar jaana hai!”

We chuckle. As do people sitting around us. For the poor kid, though, the situation is far from humorous, and he repeats his plea with increased urgency.

Open the door! Want to go out!

We try, in vain of course, to explain slowly that we’re way up in the sky—showing him clouds up ahead, and trees way down below. Yes, I know, he’s only one year old, for goodness sake, but you always need to try, right? Doesn’t mean trying always works.

The next two hours until we reach Mumbai, and then another two hours till we reach Trivandrum, are peppered with frequent remonstrations and tantrums to open the ‘door’ followed by frenetic efforts to involve him in picture books and musical toys.  It takes quite an effort to remember, as we finally descend from the airplane onto the tarmac, that we’re here on holiday. Seems like a battle mission instead, where you end up dropping dead from sheer exhaustion.

4:30 p.m.

Exhaustion makes way for elation as we descend from the Mercedes Minibus that brought in all of The Leela’s guests from the airport, and make a grand entry into coastal opulence.

The Leela Kovalam, here we are.

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I’ve experienced some extremely gorgeous five star hotels and coastal resorts in my life, among them The Marriott at Dead Sea, Jordan,  Movenpick Resort at Aqaba— Jordan again; the Trident at Jaipur, and The Leela’s own luxuriant property at Goa. And yet, I fell for The Leela Kovalam at first sight, and fell hard. The resort possesses all the quaint charm of a mermaid home atop a cliff, elevated from its surroundings and wreathed in the ocean’s embrace.

Leela on the cliff

Our first glimpse of Kerala’s coastline had been on way to the hotel when the ocean suddenly burst into sight with a simple left turn, and welcomed us with rows upon rows of fishing boats rocking gently along the shore.

The Ocean is symphony to my soul. Passionate, unruly waves pull me towards them with all the enigmatic power of a lover from a previous incarnation. Every time I face the ocean its roar reverberates in every pore of my body,creating an inexplicable urge to walk straight ahead into the depths, savouring the feeling of being slowly submerged until I am no more separate from it. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing suicidal about this. It’s an ancient, primeval mating urge, the desire to be destroyed only to unite with your lover—what the Sufi would term ‘fanaa’.

The ocean accompanies us all the way to the hotel and inside it, because The Leela’s most fascinating trait is its ability to bring the outside in. From the lobby to the restaurant, the infinity pool and everything in between, everywhere you look, the ocean is there for you to behold. You can’t step around in here without being conscious of the ocean’s massive embrace, and to top it all, our accommodation is the gorgeous Beach View Suite with its spectacular view, framed by blooming bougainvillea on the balcony.

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One look outside and I have forgotten the annoyance of the past 6 hours. Most literary descriptions of Heaven and Eden depict mountains, fruit orchards and flowing rivers. But if ever there’s going to be a Paradise for me, it would never be one that lacks an ocean.

———————–

7:00 p.m

After the calm, the storm

Back in Battle. The son decided, within about 30 minutes of arriving in the room, that he was in ‘displeased monarch’ mode, which would be kept on for another hour or so. Tantrums accompanied by non-stop wailing and of course, woe betide the woman that dares come close to his father! (He seems to have completely inherited his grandfather’s dislike for romantic displays.) Had I not got my hair cut right before this vacation, I think I might have pulled it all out in sheer desperation.

My sister in law calls to wish me Happy Birthday, and I am beside myself with indignation. Happy Birthday, indeed!

“Oh come on!”  I rant into the phone. “It’s been a whole 6 hour flight full of wailing and tantrums, and a lot more of it since we arrived. I think I’ve just laid a whole lot of my hard-earned money to waste…!”

She laughs at my comic indignation, while my attention is briefly diverted by the sound of the bell ringing at the door. Sajjad goes ahead to open it. Just as I am opening my mouth to rant further into the phone, a brilliant bouquet of blooming red roses appears before my eyes. Followed by a totally tempting, small but shiny glazed black truffle cake.

Everything else is forgotten.

I had asked for the cake in advance, but the roses are unexpected. I’ve just been given a birthday surprise by the hotel staff. Now that’s a first! I wrap up the call pronto, and we’re ready to celebrate.

The sight of the flowers and cake have calmed the kid and he watches, fascinated, as his dad lights up the candles. And then we all bask in the warm glow together.

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8 p.m.

Time to head down to the restaurant for dinner. As we step out from the elevator, an incredible sight awaits us: the entire lobby shimmers in whispering fairy light. Corridors, corners, niches all decked with floating candles casting glorious shadows, making you want to talk in hushed tones or just sit and sigh.

In a minute, we find out the reason for the hotel’s innovative lighting: they’re observing Earth Hour tonight. By delicious cosmic coincidence, on my birthday night.

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We move toward the restaurant and take a seat just by the pool, looking over farther onto the ocean, pitch black now. It’s an unbelievably lovely night.

I’m ravenous, and just as we are about to begin eating, the displeased monarch decides he would rather stand in the lobby watching candles. No problem, we tell him, go watch the candles and we’re watching you from here—our seat is at the very entrance and we’d have a good view of him. But wouldn’t you just know it, mumma MUST stand there in the lobby too, he insists. I do stand there with him for a few minutes in the flickering lights. But we can’t stand there endlessly, which is precisely what the little boy has decided. And he unleashes his determined wail, throwing yet another tantrum for mumma to keep standing there with him, watching candles for as long as he wants.

After one whole day of non-stop tantrums, I have reached the edge of my patience. Here I am, all the way from Aligarh, sitting beside a glorious pool in a splendid hotel, with the most scrumptious spread awaiting me in the most romantic ambience possible. And beyond that, much beyond that, I have a chance to share this blissful evening that I’ve fantasised about all my life, with the man I have so desperately yearned for all these months. And it’s being ruined completely.

Sajjad has been trying to assuage the little one, all in vain, and now he takes one look at my clenched teeth and gobbles down whatever’s on his plate, swoops up the bawling boy in his arms, and takes him away from the table. They stay a few moments in the lobby, and then turn a corner, and disappear. I’m left at the table to finish my dinner in peace. At least, I’m sure that’s what Sajjad had in mind by taking the boy away from here. But all of a sudden every morsel is bitter and my mouth is filled with an acrid taste.

I am alone again. After all these months of loneliness, bitterness and coping with a headstrong child, every new second tests my patience, every new moment spent alone pulls at my anger strings. I am suddenly reminded of all the reasons why I didn’t want a baby so soon. I’m reminded of our neighbour whose anniversary dinner was ruined by her bawling son. The bitter Mrs Hyde in me simmers dangerously close to the surface.

I gaze at the candle flickering on my table, at the faintly glimmering pool, and beyond that, at the ocean as black as the sky, flecked by slivers of moonlight.

Suddenly I remember the promise I made to myself: I will make this day fabulous, no matter what.

And I have. I made this day fabulous by deciding to come here, I made it fabulous by bringing my family here—here beside the ocean, here amid the candles. And Sajjad—he made it fabulous, too. He made it fabulous by his very presence.

The universe itself has made this fabulous, by soaking everything in the radiance of a thousand flames dancing together.

No, I will not ruin this by my anger, by the piling up of months of negativity. And if I’m dining alone, I will be happy alone.

I tilt my head back on the chair, close my eyes, take a deep breath. And smile.

“Happy Birthday girl,” I tell myself. “You did it.”

Candle light dinner

Chapter 36 (ii): How to create Happiness— Part II


March 28, 2014

1 p.m.

Gurgaon. The name literally means “jaggery village”, which you could, if you’re so inclined, also interpret as “sweet village.” (Alternative meanings from history make it “village of the teacher” or ‘Gurugram’ as it has recently been renamed—appropriately, if you think about it, because the teacher’s village could definitely give other places a lesson in ‘upgrading’ themselves.) Now, this sweet little village got lucky when the gods of construction (read real estate giants) decided to look kindly upon it. And so from simple desi jaggery (Gur), it went straight to donuts and macaroons and truffle pastry. The place is now recognised by its imposing glass-fronted, imaginatively-designed high-rise office buildings, malls dripping with luscious labels and swanky residences peopled with humans sporting the most perfectly straightened and artificially coloured hair and the most insanely expensive cars.

This is where I am today, and the reason I’m here is that a certain flight from Oman is due to arrive in a little over an hour. Yep, you guessed it. I’m here to receive my man at the airport. And at first light tomorrow, we’ll be heading to the airport again, this time to catch a flight to Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala.

I tell Hasan, all of 15 months, that we’d be seeing ‘Baba’ now. Of course he can say ‘Baba’. All kids can say Ba-ba, and mine is a born chatterer. At 15 months, he can speak rudimentary sentences that use about 4 words. Things like: “Bahar jaana hai.” (Want to go out.) “Khul nahi pa raha” (Can’t open it), “Baby so rahi hai” (the baby is asleep) and so on and so forth. So yes, of course, he can say Baba. But whether he can relate the words to the actual person remains to be seen. It’s been 5 months since he last saw his dad, which had also been for just 5 days after another gap of 5 months. And because we’ve had zero access to video calling, he hasn’t seen the man on screen either. I look at him, and in exactly four words, tell him, “Baba aa rahe hain.”

Baba is coming now.

3 p.m.

Indira Gandhi International Airport, New Delhi

From a long way off, I spot Sajjad in his grey, green and coral panelled t-shirt and dark glares. I cut across the crowds, deliberately moving in from behind. I want to surprise him the way he always surprised me—stepping quietly from behind and poking a finger in my waist. It always worked. I jumped hard each time, caught off-guard, before realising who it was that had “groped” me!

I poke a finger in his side now, and he jumps a little but swivels round and catches me quickly in the crook of his arm, pulling me briskly to his side. We laugh. “Where’s Hasan?” he asks, looking around. Hasan is just a few steps behind me, being carried by our driver.

Greedy woman that I am, I wanted this embrace to be mine first—not my son’s. But now, Sajjad holds his arms out expectantly. I wonder what the little one is going to do. The little one, though, has no such doubts. He wastes not a second in leaning over eagerly into his Baba’s arms, and once there, wraps his tiny arms around him. He remembers.

I see the smile of complete satisfaction on the young father’s face, and I am struck by how little thought I’ve given to what this man is facing out there. It’s not just me who’s been left alone. He is all alone out there, too. No wife, no child. No family. He has fathered a beautiful little boy just about a year ago, and all this time he’s been deprived of the chance to witness the baby’s milestones. The chance to hear his baby’s first word, to watch his baby’s first step, to hear those little squeals of delight and laugh at his innocent mischief.

I am struck by the realisation of this loneliness. But then I remember all those pictures of him dipping in hot water springs, walking along silver shores, feeding turtles and riding water scooters, and I can’t help but wonder why I must be the one carrying sole responsibility of childcare while he leads the “bachelor life”. I feel my own loneliness more deeply, more bitterly than any other. Light fades, darkness closes in.

As the car meanders through the lanes I glance sideways at his face, and it seems to be the face of a stranger, a man I do not know.

This is when I’m supposed to feel happy. This is when I usually feel happy. What I feel now, though, is just this: indifferent. Numb, the way your tongue is when the dentist injects anaesthesia in the gums. You can move it around but you can’t feel a thing.

7 p.m.

“Sajjad is unusually quiet…” observes my aunt, at whose place we’re staying right now. “No jokes, meagre conversation… he’s quite cheerful normally. What’s wrong?”

If only. If only I could know what on earth was going wrong. Even though the man is generally more of an introvert, he’s unusually morose today. Not in a persistently sulking kind of way, but in an absorbed-in-thought manner, feigning cheerfulness when asked. After all these years I have come to associate this with “something on his mind, but he’ll never tell you what.” Sigh.

What is it with husbands and their absolute fear of transparency? You never share your actual problems with your wife because you don’t want to “burden” her or make her “worry”, when in truth she would be more than happy to lend you a sympathetic ear and more than eager to help out in whatever way possible. What worries her more, ironically, is that you don’t trust the relationship enough to be frank and open about your problems, that you don’t consider her competent enough to support you or help you out. Most husbands think they’re protecting their wives this way, when in truth they’re just isolating them. If you’re a man reading this, know that in most cases, the biggest thing your wife wants is your time—and more than that, your trust.

If only. If only it were this easy to explain.

There is a pattern to this pre-occupied, intermittent gloom. He’s trying. He’s trying very hard to stay cheerful—and often succeeds, because after all, he’s back where he belongs. But then there are those tell-tale intervals of vacant, abrupt silence. Most markedly, the complete absence of his trademark quirky humour, his dry wit and the crazy imagination that would rival JK Rowling’s. All those quirks, the most endearing of his qualities, are missing. There’s no roughness in his demeanour; he’s more tender and loving than ever. But there’s a pensive edge to it all, like he can see something profoundly sad that you cannot see, and because you can’t see it, he can’t tell you what it is.

A terrible burden to bear alone.

But he’s not the only one with a burden. The piling up of days and nights has left me with more frayed edges than tolerable, and I am beginning to unravel at the seams. Inevitably, the eruption occurs.

10:30 pm

I’m in the guest room, putting our son to bed. Sajjad is upstairs, conversing with my uncle, and I stay awake a long time, waiting for him to come down. I can’t leave Hasan alone, for this room is two floors down, and if he woke up and cried, we wouldn’t even be able to hear him. The clock ticks steadily. I wait. And wait. The magma rises.

After five whole months we finally have alone time together, and all this man wants is casual chit-chat. The magma rises further.

I pick the sleeping kid (who promptly wakes) up in my arms, march up two flights of stairs, barge into the room, and blurt out something curt and snappish. My uncle is appalled and clueless. Sajjad looks blank and baffled. He has no idea what I’m going on about. The reason is simple: Earlier in the day, it had been decided we’d be sleeping in the room on the top floor, but post-dinner, the guest room on the lower floor had been cleared for us. The guy had somehow missed the post-dinner development, and even as I waited for him downstairs, he was actually waiting for me to get back upstairs.

Of course, within a minute my uncle realises what is actually going on, and speaks to me kindly, soothingly—at which point I just burst into tears.

Tears are cathartic. The rest of the night proceeds in harmony.

March 29, 2014

8 a.m.

It’s my birthday and we’re at the airport, all set to fly off to the coast.

As we enter through the glass gates, there’s a palpable change in the air. It gets lighter, fresher, easier to breathe — with a whole load of emotional magma suddenly cooling, crusting up and falling off both our shoulders. We’ve left the world, the real world with its punches and whiplashes somewhere behind, and entered a happier sphere, a sphere of airplanes and sand beaches and lighthouses and cliff-top resorts. A sphere with just the three of us, a happy little soap bubble so fragile yet so glorious with its kaleidoscopic shimmers. We hold each other’s hand and savour the bubble.

Sometimes, that’s how you create happiness— purposefully, when it’s not naturally abundant. That’s just one of the ways.

 

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