It started on Monday night. My temples throb as I stare at the blank screen, which in return shrieks at my inertia-laden mind. After a two-decade hiatus from writing, I had decided to enrol, with great gusto, for a non-fiction writing class, not expecting to attend lectures with kids, all half my age (and literally half my size) and further being plagued by decaying brain cells while assignment deadlines would loom precariously.
I hurl a crumbled paper ball at my husband who is sprawled on the bed watching TV. “My life is so mundane. What do I write about? The last assignment is due on Thursday. Why couldn’t you be a spy or I be a super model gallivanting around the world? Did you know a recent bestseller is about a wife having a psychopathic husband? And just look at you lying in bed. Even my parents are boring business people and so my childhood was always uninteresting. Maybe we should move to a tribal village. That can make a good topic, in fact a best-selling novel. What do you think?”
He looks at me with a blank expression. “Do you have menopause? I have heard stories about women in menopause.”
“No, you idiot, I’m not even that old.”
He shrugs his shoulders, only to be attacked a minute later by a violent volley of paper balls.
Now it’s Tuesday. The rain visits our city with extreme enthusiasm. I play ninja-lady all day, my weapon being the humble broom, gallantly fighting water leakages. The final resort was my husband’s towels, all meticulously laid to soak in water. Well, if a celebrity wife can do it, so can I.
Later, I pick my daughter and her friends from school, spending four hours stuck in waterlogged roads. The first hour passed by peacefully. I almost applaud myself for being a Good Samaritan, but within minutes my back seat turned into a fighting club with one child climbing on top of another and punching him. I quickly bring the situation under control, only to hear that at that very moment all the children want to use the bathroom. I start doing pranayam exercises.
On Wednesday, now, the city is at a standstill and my help doesn’t show up. I spend the entire day cooking, cleaning, more cooking and more cleaning, simultaneously seeking gyan about the purpose of my life. At night, instead of writing, my mind digresses into making devious cheating plans. It is at these times of gloom, I hope that I was some sort of baba who could mesmerise the professor in believing that the assignment was perfectly done. Abandoning all hopes, I trod wearily towards my bed.
It’s Thursday night. D-day is here and we have to email our final assignments before the midnight hour.
“Mama, look,” said my six-year-old daughter.
“ Shoosh , not now.”
“But look Mama, I have finished your homework for you.”
I stare at her incredulously while she shoves a paper into my hand scribbled with simple short sentences. “You said you have no ideas, so I wrote something for you.”
I hug her tightly while my heart melts into a gooey substance. It is small moments like this that make being a mum the best job in the world.
Later at night, I yet again sit with my computer. My husband comes up behind me. Irked, I sneakily make another paper ball, but he places a mug of hot steaming liquid on the desk.
“Coffee for you, as I know you will stay up late.” I’m speechless, the second time that night.
As if on cue, my phone beeps with a message. My mother has graciously cancelled her plans, to help take care of my daughter while I am attending my last lecture. I am chocked with emotions.
What is love? It is simply putting the other person’s needs first before your own. It is so simple. My family had just showered me with love, each in their own way.
While I type out my assignment that day, my heart cheerfully rejoices at the abundance of love all around me. I am grateful to the universe. And that was indeed the topic of my final assignment.
sdivecha@yahoo.com
