Another world

I like your world

where duvets are caves

and sparrows talk

and it’s masti ( fun ) time

always , around the clock .

I like your world

where the bed is battleground

where pillow fights always end

with happy losers

and giggling sounds .

I like your world

Of magic , of wonder and of awe

your abracadabra tricks

which bring to life

all that you draw .

I like your world

Of songs on loop

Of stories without an end

Of questions you don’t give up on

Of imaginary friends .

I like your world

It makes me smile

I want you to know

Your little world of wonder

Makes me a child once more .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Forever

Decades later she was telling them a story and each time she took his name , she held back a tear . She hoped he remembered her.

Decades later he was sharing a story and he smiled each time he took her name . He hoped the silly girl had never really been serious and forgotten all about him .

Wooden toys

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They are different from the fancy toys she’s got and she’s fascinated with the set for now . Rolling imaginary chapatis , insisting I eat them ‘garam garam’ , she sometimes struggles to work the atta chakki cause her fingers cannot seem to get a grip . My little one reminds me of my own childhood , I had a red set back then and they always sold wooden toys at little stalls in Bandra Fair . For the last few years , these have disappeared from the fair . Not many takers I was told .

I remember my maternal grandma , about 13 years ago when she was bed ridden and writhing in pain .I went to meet her before a trip to Goa. I asked her if she’d like me to get her anything and she said ‘ wooden toys from Sawantwadi’ . I was surprised but assured her I’d try my best . We stopped by at Sawantwadi which is about two hours away from my home in Goa and that was the first time I got a closer look at what was once my mum’s native town . Wooden fruits , veggies , vehicles and all sorts of wooden show pieces adorned the market place . We picked granny’s toys and once we were back , hurried to give them to her . Her face lit up .Godma , granny and I played like we were little girls and granny forgot her pain for sometime . In a few months , she passed away . The wooden toys are safely kept , memories of granny’s second childhood in little wooden cups of joy !

 

 

 

Baby believes that ….

Christmas is Santa’s birthday . She’s been singing happy birthday Santa , clapping gleefully and kissing her Santa pillow expecting a birthday party and some cake . ( Can’t blame her , everyone we meet tells her Santa is on his way ) .

Frosty the snowman had a very shiny nose ! ( mixing up two songs  , but I love the way she sings it )

Santa lives on the moon and has a cow .

We must keep a glass of juice for Santa instead of milk and carrot/ tomato soup for the reindeer outside the door . I don’t know if they’ll fancy that , but we can give it a shot .

 

 

Christmas without her

My earliest memories of Christmas celebrations are mostly about her . I don’t remember mama ever sitting down to prepare the traditional ‘ kunswar’ ( sweets prepared in a Goan home to be distributed on Christmas Day ) . It was always Mai ( my grandma ).

She was always in control , smiling , singing and getting it all right. The tedious  newris ( coconut filled fried puffs ) , the perfect donuts spiced with the right amount of nutmeg , the painstakingly rolled kulkuls, rose cookies , milk cream and the rest .

Before any of the frying began , some dough would be shaped into a cross and fried in hot oil, which would later have sweet delicacies popping out of it . She explained how it brought good luck . Am not sure if this is a tradition in all homes , but I know I’m going to miss it all .

I miss her voice singing old Konkani songs ,  it’s difficult to cope with the fact that I will never see her dressed in her gorgeous  sarees , wearing her jewellery and reprimanding me for always wearing black . “ Tu chedum bhurgem”, she’d say , reminding me that I’m a girl and must have some attraction to the loud and loved metal that most Goan women hold precious .

I miss her , her hugs , her kisses , her warmth , her love , those morsels of food she fed me , the authority with which she gave me tips on dressing , the way she joked about me always wearing shorts at home and how until the end she tried to coax me into wearing make up , atleast some powder .

This Christmas when everyone expects me to wear black ( that is the Goan norm when one is mourning ) , I’ll don another colour and wear some gloss and may be an heirloom bangle she gifted me a decade ago and then may be when the choir of angels brings in the babe’s birthday  , there’ll be one voice happier than the others .