filthy, funny, flawed, gorgeous

Lost in Post

2008-07-26T11:41:00.001Z

To a father who prefers the company of newspapers to that of his grandchildren

We had a very good time today – the sun was out, the kids were playing, everyone was happy. We went to a park and watched a movie on an outdoor screen. Later we went out for a bite. It really was a wonderful day out. Pity then you didn’t want to spend the day with us. Instead, you left early for the local library to read. The newspapers in this country are wonderful, you’ve often told me. I can spend all day reading the Guardian. And all the time you were browsing the back issues, your grandchildren and I were out gathering memories. Memories, I hope, they will look back on fondly when they grow up.

You know, I can barely recall your father – my grandfather. I have vague recollections of how he used to look. And for the life of me, I cannot remember what he sounded like. This, despite having lived with him for the first seven years of my life before he passed away. You spend less than two weeks every year with your grandchildren. I show photos of you and Amma to my first born and insist that he say hello to you each time I speak to you on the phone. At least that way, I hope he will have some kind of association with you. And yet, for the past few days that you have been with us, you have made it painfully obvious that you would much rather be in the library than be at home with the kids.

One of the downsides of living so far away from India is that my kids are growing up without being pampered by grandparents. There are no paatis to stand at the door waiting with a plate of murukku when they come home tired from school. No thathas to teach them the obtuse rules of lbw in cricket. There is only me and their father. No one else to be proud of them or indulge them or chide them or indeed, love them. May be I am romanticising it too much. Perhaps being a grandparent is not so much fun after all. Having finished your duties as a parent, perhaps you feel that now is your time to relax and enjoy life. And not be burdened with the cumbersome chores of engaging with your grandchildren. Fair enough.

But then I see grandparents all around me. Those who cherish every moment they spend with their grandchildren. Those who were, from all accounts, insufferable as parents but turned over a new leaf as grandparents. Those who cannot stop gushing over their grandchildren’s every minor and insignificant achievement. And I wonder why you could never do that. But then I know these are not things you could teach someone. I cannot force you to enjoy my children’s company. I certainly cannot make you realise what you are missing if you cannot see it for yourself.

There is just 8 days left before your return home. And there may not be another summer like this one. You may well choose to spend these remaining days of your trip in the library instead of being with us. I hope I can accept that and not fight it. But if you ever feel you want to watch the kids play instead of leafing through the Guardian, you can always join us. I may even take a photo, just so I can show it to the kids later.

Memories of food – Modak

2008-07-18T10:22:00.003Z

It was the first time I was away from home on my birthday. I had been working the whole day and for some reason that I cannot now remember, I had not spoken to my parents since morning. As I made my way home that evening, I stopped by at a phone booth and called them. I wished my father a happy birthday and he greeted me back – we share a birthday. We chitchatted for few more minutes and then I hung up. I had never felt worse as I made my way up the third floor to the small flat which I shared with two other girls. One of the few people I knew in the apartment block was a Marathi family who lived on the ground floor. On my way home, sometimes I used to stop by and play with their little two-year old. Soon I was being invited for a cup of tea and poha. And I before I knew it, I was picking up fruit and veg for them when I did my shopping. Their door was always left open and the fruits gave me the perfect pretext to drop by their place.

On that particular birthday however, I didn't feel like socialising much and wanted to slip away as quietly as possible. But the elderly grandmother who saw me pass by, rushed to the door and enquired after me. I told her that it was my birthday and feigning fatigue, I made my way to the flat. No sooner had I shut the door behind me than there was a knock. The grandmother stood there holding an ever-silver tiffin box. It's Modak, she said offering it to me, you told me it was your birthday. It was the first bit of celebration I'd had all day. And I didn't need any other.

A quick tale 210

2008-07-18T10:20:00.002Z

Something to talk about

I walk few paces behind you. Anyone who sees me will think of me as a dutiful wife following her husband. I quicken my stride. We're now walking side by side. Our shoulders graze. But our rhythm is all upset. I lift my leg before you and drop it to sync with you. Left, right, left, right. Like soldiers marching in tandem. I wonder briefly about grabbing your hand. We could swing it up down, up down. We could even hum a tune. If we were children, we would have added a hop. We would have looked like a jaunty pair. But we're adults. A married couple. We're taught to worry about what people say. And what the neighbours think. I cross my arm across my body. Taking it away as far from you as possible. I don't want them to get the wrong impression. We have children to think of. I don't want aunties to wonder if I'm still attracted to you. And I certainly don't want any gossip about possible romance between us.

A quick tale 209

2008-05-22T19:33:00.003Z

This product and others like this one

This product was not tested on animals, read the label on the face cream she was holding. She felt good just holding it. Good holding the box that held the cream that was not tested on animals. Though she didn’t know how animals would look with face cream on them. Probably no different to how they looked without face cream. Fewer wrinkles, may be. But then, you would have to get real close to see that the difference. And you wouldn’t want to do that to an orang-utan. Or a rhinoceros. And definitely not a giraffe. As giraffes are reputed to suffer from real bad halitosis. Though that remains to be confirmed. And will remain a rumour as long as no one ever gets close enough to smell its breath. And if they did they may also notice that the giraffe has fewer lines around the eye. In which case it would be safe to conclude that the giraffe has had a couple of smears of face cream tested on it. Which may be good news for the face cream as it then proves that the cream works. But bad news for the giraffe which may not have a say in the brand it prefers. But that is only for animal rights activists to comment upon. And not for ordinary consumers like herself who simply had a few minutes to spare during a Thursday lunchtime and chose to saunter into a shop flogging face cream that had not been tested on animals.

Afternoon

2008-05-10T10:23:00.004Z

If I made a list of things I miss about India, the weather would certainly not feature in it. I never loved the raw red heat of Chennai summers and now that I’m away, I miss it even less. But yet the other day, when I was talking to family back in India and I heard them complain about the ruthless afternoon sun, I realised in a bittersweet way, that it was indeed the sensation of a summer afternoon I missed most. Crisply dried laundry, lone trickle of sweat down the back, drowsy long afternoons. And this week’s Saturday poem from the Guardian captures it effortlessly well.

Afternoon

-MR Peacocke

The wool rolls down. The needless droop

A spider at the corner pane

Schemes for a pittance line by line.

The dull doves in the neighbouring wood

Call Could you do Do do You could.

A wakeless lull that's less than sleep

Brims in her eyes and palms and lap.

Something is finished. Nothing's done.

A lapse, a loss, a truce, a peace.

One lacewing trembles at the netted glass.

~

Here’s what I want from you. Your memories of summer afternoons. Be it a photo, a poem, a story or anything that to you typifies the blessed dullness of a scorching mid-day in May.

Dial 911 for Amma - 4

2008-04-25T14:29:00.008Z

Yes, it was too late to have someone over. And yes, we would do just fine on our own. After repeated reassurances from the husband, the matter of having family over was finally laid to rest and we set about tackling other practical issues. Like packing a suitcase for the hospital. Like arranging for childcare for the firstborn while we were at the hospital. Like buying baby-stuff. When I went in for the 38th week check up, I was told that the baby's head had 'engaged' and that I was officially full-term. I was ready to deliver any day now. I must mention the wonderful support we had from neighbours and friends (many of whom I met through this blog - you know who you are - take a bow) who were ready to drop in at an hour's notice to help out. Though we had gone over all the arrangements, it could still all go completely pear-shaped. It was the unpredictability of the whole situation including that of the outcome, that was utterly unnerving.

Yes, I'd had a baby before and this was my second innings, but there was no guarantee that things would go as well as it had the first time. Didn't someone say that no two pregnancies are alike? Does it mean this delivery would be harder than the first? Did the midwife give me all the pain relief options? Did you watch that show on BBC Three the other day about someone having a baby? I don't remember it being that painful the first time around. Is there something I'm forgetting? What if it's a c-section? Doesn't recovery take longer and isn't it more painful? Oh god, what have I got myself into?

38 weeks and 1 day - At around 5 pm I decide that it's a good time to start stocking the fridge with pre-prepared meals. So the husband and I stand in the kitchen for about 3 hours cooking and freezing enough dal and sambar and curry to last us a week. That night as I hit the sack I ask the husband if there's enough petrol in his car if we needed to go to the hospital later.

38 weeks and 2 days - I'm up earlier than usual. I ring my mother and tell her that I had a strange feeling about the day. She panics but puts on a brave front (bless her!). She suggests I drink plenty of fluids and go back to bed. Later that morning, I pack the husband and son off, make myself a spot of early lunch, send an email off to a friend about how I thought today might be the day, draw myself a hot bath and then settle down for a nap. At around 1.40 pm, my eyes fly wide open. I check the time in the clock by the bedside. I know right then that the time had come.

I get dressed, come downstairs, ring the husband and ask him to come home. I have my second contraction. They are coming in 25 minutes apart. I call the hospital and inform them of this development. They ask me to ring them when I was having them a bit more frequently. The school was next. Could they please have my son ready at the school office for my husband to pick him up? And why hasn't my husband come home yet? The neighbour who was supposed to care for my son has already left work. So I try her mobile which goes unanswered. She must be on her way home. I leave a message asking her to get in touch with me straightaway. Outside a storm is on its way. I hope it doesn't make driving conditions difficult for us.

It's 2.30 pm, the contractions are coming in way too quickly and I know that we have to rush. As luck would have it, every single traffic light turns to red and we approach it. I grip my husband's so hard, I nearly break his fist (he claims later). But out of respect for my situation, he doesn't complain of the pain. We reach the hospital at 3 pm and I'm barely able to walk. The husband dashes out to fetch a wheelchair. Unable to sit in the car, I start making my way out to the birth centre. I collapse on the ground and am heaved onto the wheelchair by strangers. The contractions are coming in 2 minutes apart.

I reach the birth centre and flop onto a bean bag. The midwives are brilliant in there. I know straightaway that things are going to be alright. It's 4.10 pm and I am beyond exhaustion. But from somewhere deep within I summon this fiendish strength. And with one mighty heave, I push out a tiny little bundle. I'd had just 2.5 hours of labour.

The rest of the procedure is pretty usual. And I'm back home the very next day.

Some 6 weeks later, I have no regrets about our decision to not seek help from our families. It has, by no means been easy going. I have sorely missed being pampered and being fussed over. I cannot even begin to compare the unbridled joyous celebrations that accompanied the birth of my first son with the muted merriment that greeted the arrival of our second. But on the plus side, I have been able to relax and enjoy my time with the newborn without a cloud of anxiety hanging over me all the time. Even small things like breast feeding the baby where I want to in house without having to go into a secluded corner because there are others in the room, have helped greatly. Of course, none of this would have been possible had it not been for the brilliantly supportive husband. I know how lucky I am and what a gem he is! By and large, it has been a much more enjoyable experience this time. And that alone is worth all the sacrifices.

(only just begun)

Dial 911 for Amma - 3

2008-04-23T20:01:00.000Z

Now, where was I? Yes, we were about to tell our families that we would take care of the delivery matters ourselves without seeking help from them. And when we did, I was surprised by the ease with which the news went down with them. It was an anti-climax. Do whatever you think will work, said my father. Alright then, said my father-in-law, you have our blessings. What? I wanted to ask. Are you not going to listen to my list of reasons? My lengthy rant about why I would want things done my way and so on? Oh well, I thought to myself, if you are really fine with it, then it's all sorted.

But as the months progressed and the families realised that we were serious about doing it all on our own, it became a bit more difficult to convince them. My mother-in-law took it particularly hard. Time and again she offered to come and help us. I don't know about you but I find it awkward to turn down offers of help. Like I'm somehow ungrateful and unappreciative of the person's generosity. And to have to do it repeatedly was not easy. There was the added feeling of guilt at not letting her spend time with her son and grandchild. It's just that I didn't think that the fragile and fortunately, good relationship I enjoy with my in-laws would survive the stress brought on by a new born child.

It's a scenario I've seen repeated once too often. Mothers and daughters falling out during the period immediately following childbirth. Really, could I hold my temper and not lose my cool with my mum-in-law? I didn't think I could. And so the last few months of my pregnancy were spent trying to reassure families back in India that we could manage on our own. Our families weren't entirely convinced that we could pull it off. Someone who was going to be visiting us was asked to submit a 'field report' on his return to India. Had we cracked under the pressure? Was the strain starting to show yet? I must admit that some of their misgivings did worry me. But the rock that is my husband was more than convinced that we would fine. But as we grew closer to the due date, I started to panic. Was it too late to call someone over from India?

(to be continued...)

Dial 911 for Amma - 2

2008-04-21T10:11:00.003Z

My mother has always expressed her reservation about going abroad to help someone during delivery. Even if that someone happens to be her own children. While I respected her view, I couldn't help wondering why she was so averse to the idea. When other mothers seemed perfectly happy tending to their grandchildren and helping their daughters during the early months of the baby, why was my mother not keen on it at all? I suspect that her judgment on this issue was coloured by her dislike of her sisters-in-law (who did it all the time) and also with mild envy that she would never be called upon to do a service like they were. Well, little did she know!

Now, I knew from previous experience that childbirth is a time of great stress. I had my first son in India and it was an overwhelming experience. A combination of sleepless nights, turbulent hormones, physical and emotional exhaustion and the constant, stifling attention of family left me feeling utterly frustrated. I had had a perfectly normal pregnancy leading to a 'textbook' delivery. I had had a 4-hour labour (very rare in a first baby, apparently) and the baby was as normal as could be. And yet, all I ever heard was an exhaustive list of do's and don'ts that was designed to scare the toughest among us. Let alone a first-time mum. Not one smidgen of it was reassuring or calming. It was almost all bollocks in a well-meaning tone.

I knew from the outset that I had no chance of having it my way. Because I was up against the culture behemoth. The constant line I heard was that this was how things had always been done. After all, did they not raise us and countless other children this way? Frankly, what chances did I have against practices that went back hundreds of years (allegedly)? It reminded me of a story about a priest who used to go around a village performing ceremonies. An apprentice used to tag along with him in the hope of learning from the master. One day, when the priest had gone to a house to perform a ceremony, there happened to be a black cat in the house that kept running back and forth. The priest, being a superstitious bloke, ordered the cat to be tied to a pillar before he began performing the rituals. The apprentice made a note of it and years later, when he started practicing, refused to perform rituals unless there was a cat tied to a pillar!

When I had my baby, nearly everyone in the vicinity had an opinion on what was good and what certainly must be avoided. Don't go near this. Don't ever do that. Beware of this. God forbid should you ever do that. Yes, yes, I know they had my best interest at heart. But boy, was it relentless! To be fair, I tried to listen to every bit of advice that was thrown my way. Quite simply because it was hard to dodge them. And even harder to reason with. It was much easier to simply submit to it. But after about a month, I'd had enough. I hated the whole thing. And I swore to myself that if there was going to be another child, I would try and have it my way.

So this time, even before we'd picked up the phone to call India with news of the impending new arrival, the husband and I had made our minds up. We were going to manage things on our own. The fact that my mother's health wouldn't permit her to travel or to be of assistance to us made it an obvious decision. But how would the family react?

(to be continued...)

Dial 911 for Amma

2008-04-19T17:04:00.007Z

There was a time, some years ago, when nearly every other month would see some aunt or the other jetting off to the US to assist their daughter during childbirth. The process would start with announcement of the good news followed by frenzied months of preparation. It would kick off with applications for passport and visa. Every new development would be discussed, debated, put to vote and finally taken a decision on. If there was a small item in the Hindu on page 14 about restrictions to the number of visas being given out that particular month, favourite gods would be invoked, sacrifices promised and fasts undertaken in order that such a decision not affect the concerned family member's application.

An auspicious day would be chosen and packing for the trip would commence. Sarees would be chosen, suitcases dusted off, woolens borrowed and dry-cleaned. Contents of the suitcase would be constantly rearranged like a loose-limbed jigsaw puzzle. Half a kilo of thuvaram paruppu would take the place of a sentimental maroon saree when a casual mention during weekly phone calls to the US would reveal that dal prices had risen sharply in the preceding months. There would be the mandatory horror story narrated by another US-returnee who would recall how a ghastly black customs officer refused to let a pack of rasam-podi enter the hallowed grounds of America. And as the big day drew close, the pace would be stepped up. Like a bee hive, the would-be passenger's house would buzz with activity surrounding the trip. Finer aspects of the visit would be nailed in place, numerous rehearsals of the procedure - from check-in to immigration - carried out, farewells would be bid and just as you begin to wonder if they would ever leave, they would. Over the next months, we would hear all about trips to Niagara falls, dollar conversion rates, massive supermarkets, twin SUVs at the garage and 5-bedroom suburban houses. Some years later, when the cousin was having another child, the whole procedure (with the exception of passport application) would be repeated all over again.

Sometimes I wondered why the aunts and uncles were never invited to visit their children at times other than during child birth. Did my cousins not think their parents (particularly the girls') deserved a holiday in the land of milk and honey? And why did the aunts and uncles, despite whispered stories of endlessly lonely days stuck in the house with an infant while the parents went out to work, always seem eager to jump on the next flight westward? Is it because this would be their only chance of visiting the promised land? And a rare opportunity to spend time with their grandchildren?

Such were the thoughts crossing my mind when I called my parents in India last year to tell them that there was to be an addition to our family.

(to be continued...)

Must read

2008-04-19T08:32:00.001Z

A wonderfully honest post.

Just a walk in the park

2008-04-13T11:26:00.005Z

Good luck to all those running today's London Marathon. I use this opportunity for my shameless annual plug. My own moment of fame when I ran the 26.2 mile/42 km course 4 years ago. It feels like yesterday, in fact it still hurts. Here are some images.

Soundtrack of the moment

2008-04-07T17:54:00.005Z

I absolutely love this song. It was used brilliantly some years ago in the excellent (though ridiculously titled) C4 documentary 'The boy whose skin fell off'. And now it's been used in the latest Cadbury's commercial. What's your soundtrack of the moment?

Penmani and other things

2008-04-04T09:44:00.003Z

A couple of new and interesting questions are up on Penmani that you might have an opinion on.

And I'll be announcing a new participatory exercise soon. It should keep the blog ticking over nicely while I get some semblance of normalcy back into our chaotic existence now. So watch out for that.

Also, please join me in wishing my dear friend Anouradha Bakshi a wonderful birthday today. Happy Birthday, Anou!

Saturday Poem

2008-03-19T12:53:00.006Z

Still taking questions for Penmanis. Please send them in to ammania@gmail.com. Thank you!
-a

The Woman who Worries Herself to Death

by Kathryn Simmonds

She wasn't robbed or raped or made a scapegoat of,

she didn't take ill-fated flights on shaky planes and

no one splashed her house in paint. Kids with hoods

and sovereign rings and hates left her alone. That twinge

she sometimes felt was just a twinge. Her fillings didn't leak.

At office dos she danced and no one laughed.

Her children didn't have disorders, fail exams, take smack.

Her husband didn't love his secretary

or get the sack. But, if you saw her fidgeting

towards the dawn, her breathing playing tricks,

a thousand what ifs snaking in a queue, you'd feel for her,

you'd wish she had something to pin her torment to.

Courtesy: The Guardian

Thank you

2008-03-17T12:50:00.001Z

...for all your wonderful wishes. Is it me or can anyone else smell a wet nappy?

Say hello to...

2008-03-11T18:16:00.003Z

...little Tikku, younger brother to Jikku (aha! you thought the names couldn't get sillier). Born March 10, 2008. Both mother and newborn are doing well. Now, if you will excuse us for a little while...

A quick tale 210

2008-03-10T10:51:00.002Z

Concerns

My son says that his friend would look after Jimmy. Which friend? I ask. A college friend, you don't know him, he replies. That's true. I don't know many of his college friends. But my son has promised me that Jimmy will be well cared for by the friend. I hope the friend – what is his name? I enquire. Ramanathan, he says. But I thought he mentioned Srinivasan early on. My memory must be playing tricks on me. Anyway, I hope the friend remembers to take Jimmy for walks every day. Once in the morning and once in the evening. The vet said that apart from a slight liver engorgement, Jimmy is in good condition for a dog his age. He is coming up to 78 in human years, would you believe it! We're about the same age and he is in a much better shape than I am. My diabetes and arthritis are worse than ever.

After my husband passed away in 2004, I became even more reliant on Jimmy for company. I didn't want to move in with my son but my fall last month has left with no choice but to pack my bags. My younger grandchild is asthmatic and her mother reckons dog hair might aggravate her condition. That's why I couldn't take Jimmy with me when I moved.

Where does Ramanathan live? I ask. Who? my son wonders. Ramanathan, you know your friend who now has Jimmy…where does he live? Ah, him, very far away. About 3 hours' drive from here. Are there vets nearby? Jimmy is due for his monthly check up on the 25^th, I remind him. It's not a village, you know, he sighs. There are supermarkets and restaurants and internet cafes and schools and hospitals and I'm sure, vets where he lives. But how would I know about it? I've no clue where his friend lives. I wonder if I should ask him if Ramanathan is a vegetarian. Because Jimmy eats meat three times a week and I don't want him to miss his treats. But I'm sure my son would have told his friend that. Does Ramanathan live in a flat? I ask. Because Jimmy needs some space to run around. He's never been a dog to sit still or sleep all day. My son doesn't answer. His back is turned to me. So I ask him once again. No, he replies. Ramanathan lives in a large, towering bungalow with a 50 feet garden at the back. Jimmy would like that.

Penmanis!

2008-03-04T10:45:00.006Z

Ladies and laydaas! I often have a lot of burning questions and issues (okay, some rather dull and pedestrian stuff as well) that I would like to have opinions on. Most of them relate to women. So I thought, why not start a separate blog dedicated to asking questions and uncovering answers, however uncomfortable? So that's what I've done here.

Remember the 'the bee in my bonnet' series? And how much fun it was? Why not run it along similar lines? If you wish to contribute, then please let me know by writing to me at ammania@gmail.com

The way it will work is we pose a statement or a question relating to women - like for instance, "why do even so-called feminists feel the need to go on ridiculous diets?" and invite responses. All set? Let's get going!

update: First posts up! Check this out

Mother's Day

2008-03-02T09:58:00.002Z

A varied selection of letters on Mother's day. You can read them all here.

Thank you!

Mother's Day Letters - Final Call

2008-03-01T09:37:00.003Z

Send your letters to ammania@gmail.com marking Mother's Day in the subject line. Word limit: 200 words.

Further details may be found here. All letters will be published on Lost in Post on Sunday, 2nd March 2008. Thank you.

Triolets - top three and then some

2008-02-29T11:44:00.003Z

Well over 30 entries for this competition. Ranging from dead pets to murderous lovers. Favourite themes seemed to be ruminations on nature and lovers.

I strongly suggest that you go here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here to read all the entries. Please also read the comment section in each post as some entries are in there as well. Finally, it'll be nice if you can pick your favourites. Please mention the ones you liked in the comment section.

Thank you for taking part. Here are my winners.

Third place

I made you thirunelveli halwa

On our last Valentine

Singing songs from Jalwa

I made you thirunelveli halwa

While you were out bonking Alpa

So I added a pint of turpentine

I made you thirunelveli halwa

On our last Valentine

- Shoefiend

Why? I like the silliness of this triolet. And how the last two lines, when repeated, take on a dark turn.

Second place

The Good

Mummy, I will return.

But let me leave now.

Of course I'm your only son.

But let me leave now.

I should step out and learn.

I beg you, please allow.

Mummy, I will return.

But let me leave now.

-Vatsap

Why? There’s a desperation that comes across when the last two lines are repeated. It goes from being just a refrain. Also, use of the childhood word ‘mummy’ (and not mum or amma) suggests that the person pleading has reverted to the earlier adult-child relationship. Nice!

Top Dog

A TV show is boring, let me bring

A little variety to the room

No. no. let the phone sing

A TV show is boring, let me bring

You a hat, shoes and bling.

Let's go out, in the car – vroom

A TV show is boring, let me bring

A little variety to the room

-Ravages/CC

Why? I like how line 1 flows into line 2 and again smoothly flows into line 5. It hardly feels like repetition. You can almost hear the clink as a charmer goes to work.

Quite liked these too….

You did not woo me

You did not woo me

With pretty words and flowers

You just let me be:

You did not woo me

You just talked to me

Of all you thought, for hours.

You did not woo me

With pretty words and flowers.

-Unmana Datta

The Bad

Yes, I killed your cat;

never liked it anyway.

It was ugly, it was fat.

Yes, I killed your cat.

Why did it enter my flat?

Thought it could get away?

Yes, I killed your cat;

never liked it anyway.

-Vatsap

Writing triolets is good fun

So I am trying to write one too

I hope I come up with a decent one

Writing triolets is good fun

I am glad that I am almost done

I just have to repeat line one and two

Writing triolets is good fun

So I am trying to write one too

- Divya Iyer

Triolets 7

2008-02-29T10:38:00.002Z

Okay, time's up. Here's the final instalment of triolets. My top three announced shortly. Come back soon!

-a

Daily Walk

I walk every day,
To keep myself healthy and fit,
I don't ever miss a day,
I walk everyday,
If I do miss a day,
My daily glass of milk is forfiet,
I walk everyday,
To keep myself healthy and fit.

-Abha Venu

Entry fee: I always give up my seat for old women or pregnant women in the bus.

Absence

Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is
While I stir stories for you
Brew the bru
While I try to convince you
Of my absence that is
Brew the Bru
Oh, instant coffee it is

-Kshama Anand

Entry fee: Gave something to eat to an old lady, donated some money.

Corn Chilli Bisque

Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!
It's about lunch time!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
With a hint of fresh lime,
Piquant, scrumptious!
Corn Chilli Bisque-
Hot, sumptuous!

-Sumithra Bhakthavatsalam

Entry fee: I hand-painted a get-well card for an ailing teacher of mine.

Triolets - two days to go

2008-02-27T10:16:00.002Z

Not long left for you to send in your triolets. Top three announced on Friday.

Check out the entries so far here, here, here and here. Details of the competition may be found here.

Good luck! Now for the latest entry.

----------

For every single day

For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after:
Till we grow old and gray…
For every single day
As long as we both may
Live: may there be joy and laughter
For every single day
Today, tomorrow, and after.

You did not woo me

You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers
You just let me be:
You did not woo me
You just talked to me
Of all you thought, for hours.
You did not woo me
With pretty words and flowers.

-Unmana Datta

Entry fee: I'll give the son of my domestic help notebooks/paper/pens for his schoolwork.

An Imperfect Business

2008-02-25T17:33:00.006Z

It's not easy or fun. And it often leaves you feeling miserably lonely. But we all fool ourselves into saying how much we love it. Being a mother is probably the toughest and the least rewarding job on earth. And yet so many of us choose it.

This Sunday is Mother's day (at least in the UK). And this is what I'd like you to do. Write a letter to a mother. Yours, your child's, your partner's, Bharat mata...any mother. Telling her something that'll make her happy. Send a photo, if you wish. Or go anonymous. Please stick to a 200 word limit, marking 'Mother's Day' in the subject line. Send your letter to ammania@gmail.com

All letters will be published on Lost in Post on Sunday, 2nd March 2008. Thank you.

Edited to add: After some thought, I've decided to rephrase my request for letters to mothers. I realise that it'd be much better if you wrote a letter to your child's mother. That is you, if you are woman. And your partner, if you're a man. And if you don't have children, then you could write a letter to your own mother or to anyone else you consider deserving of being celebrated on Mother's day.

I figured there's enough pressure on mothers to be these perfect people. After all, we live in an age of supernannies and their ilk telling us off for not doing a good job. I often feel like I don't come up to scratch when it comes to raising my child. And god knows, I could do with a pat on the back for what I do manage. Even if it's just from me.

So mothers, write a letter to yourself expressing your appreciation for a job well done. And if you're still not convinced about it, then just have a look at those stretch marks. Now get writing!

Triolet - final call

2008-02-25T10:13:00.002Z

The challenge is almost up. You've only got till Thursday to send in your triolet. My top three will be announced this Friday.

For inspiration, please go here, here, here and here. Details of the competition may be found here.

Good luck!