My kids are always well-dressed. (In bed.)

Fatcat KidsI love to buy kiddy night suits.

Little bodies togged out in – preferably matching – rainbow-drenched cotton checks or wispy cool-as-a-cucumber mul-mul make my day (or rather my evening).

My kids have always been able to boast some pretty smart nightwear (what they wear otherwise is another story!) and so I decided to bring Fatcat back – we used to make the cutest kiddy quilts alive but had to shut shop for many a reason. *Sigh*

Anyway, we’re back now, and Fatcat will now focus on…PJ’s 🙂

Check out my cutesy-pie pamphlet for more details. And come join the fun.

The Bundh

kids chillingThe Bundh

Have the holidays begun today?

No? Then it’s a Sunday?

No it’s not? Today’s a bundh-day?

No wonder it’s feeling like a Fun Day!

No noisy autos, no honking buses

Lets sleep in late Sis, no morning rushes.

No scheduled homework

No painful tuition

We can all just chill now

In a sort-of-nice lazy fusion.

The maid’s not turned up

The driver’s absent

But who cares when Domino’s… is ever present?

I’m off to play now; I just watched a movie

My friends are calling; my life is groovy.

So thank you people for this bonus Fun day

Tomorrow is another one?

Another Bundh day?

What can I say but?

Hip-hip-hurray!

Book readings of another kind…

All set to begin…

Who doesn’t love a good story? These kids sure did – and so did the storytellers 🙂

I’d recently volunteered as a ‘Pratham Book Champion’ (part of a reading initiative launched by Pratham publishers) and have blogged about it here:

http://blog.prathambooks.org/2012/09/pratham-books-champion-zainab-sulaiman.html

Super fun and would do it again in a heartbeat.

Cheers!

Goldy wins them all.

Foxy has to be the most annoying dog that’s ever lived. Foxy is a stray who wandered into my in-law’s home one day and has never left thereafter. My pet-deprived kids are of course ecstatic.

Like almost every other family, we do own a gold fish though: one ferocious individual who prowls his fish bowl all day long and attacks – and annihilates – any poor fool who dares enter.

Goldy Gum (that’s his official name) was Ishaan’s birthday present from Regina (our home-grown Mammy) when he turned six. Goldy came with a mate who looked just like him – but who slowly…before our very eyes… shrank into a feeble nothingness and soon after departed for a more equitable world.

‘Mama, Goldy needs a friend!’ the kids wailed every once in a while, and so one day, ‘Amma’ as Reggy is called at home, went out and bought two jet-black shiny little fellows and plopped them in, to many cheers and much excitement.

In a matter of a few moments though, Goldy began chasing one of them – at full throttle –  around the fish bowl, whilst the other chap tried to keep a low profile and discreetly sink to the bottom. Suffice to say the traumatised guests were speedily evacuated and sent back to the aquarium and Goldy went back to his solitary life.

Time is a great healer, and on Ishaan’s 8th birthday, this time, Amma bought him a pair of goldfish (all the better to be friends with, my dear) and two fresh and shiny individuals were introduced with great trepidation into the murky waters of Mr Gum.

Nothing happened. Goldie ignored them and continued to do his own number. We were not to be fooled that easily though. We watched longer this time, and again, nothing happened. Success at last. Yay!

‘What shall we name them?’ the children launched into an argument about who owns who and who should decide who’s name. I kept out of it and went back to my laptop. Life went on.

Until, about an hour later, I reached for the peanuts and caught Goldy redhanded (he resides next to the snack box).

He was bumping one of the goldfish – there is no other word for it…he just kept bumping him around the bowl…and the poor fellow (who was bigger than Goldy)…just kept getting bumped.

‘Stop!’ I yelled. ‘Bad Goldy!’

Goldy of course, ignored me. The goldfish now began to slowly flop over on to his back – and amidst much excited screaming and yelling – we moved the traumatised newbies to a big stainless steel cooking vessel. Slowly, very slowly, Victim No. 1 opened his eyes and managed to upright himself. He even swum a few baby steps around his new home, and we all breathed a sigh of relief and went back to the fish bowl to scold (and secretly marvel) at our very own in-house thug.

Now Goldy reigns supreme. Amma has finally admitted defeat – especially as the goldfish didn’t make it through the night and were found floating belly-up the next morning in the very dish in which she cooks our rice.

As for Foxy, it was soon discovered that ‘he’ was a ‘she’ – much to Ishaan’s disgust and Laila’s delight – and has been rechristened Sparkles (she is only the ugliest dog alive), though she has shown a willingness to answer to any name that falls out of your mouth – including ‘Idiot’ ‘Pain-in-the-…’ and so on – and will jump up at you every two seconds regardless of whether or not you want to pet her or give her a swift kick.

Anyway, looks like we’re stuck with Ms Foxy, especially after she had a small accident (on one of her neighbourhood jaunts) and returned home with half the skin on one of her hind leg’s hanging off – which led to many hospital visits and much bedside care, ensuring that she is now very much part and parcel of the family.

‘Does Foxy drink milk?’ Laila asks me on the way to school today.

‘No, she eats food. She doesn’t really need milk any longer.’

‘But Mama, Doggies also need a milk break,’ Laila replies. ‘They like it.’

And on that note I dropped her off to school.

The Granola story

Ishaan’s off on a school trip on Friday. It’s two days away and he is most excited – especially about the snacks.

‘Can I take chips?’ he asks. ‘And candy?’

The chips are approved and so is ‘some’ candy.

‘I can make you some yummy granola to share with your friends,’ I volunteer. I have been watching too many Nigella Lawson shows and am itching to make something Sweet.

The idea is approved and the next day I get my sous-chef Laila, to help me make my very first granola. I weigh each ingredient out, which she tips into a big yellow plastic bowl. And woe betide anyone who tries to short change her out of even a single step. The honey goes in and the spoon is licked. The brown sugar is thrown in (some of it is quickly eaten behind my back). She discovers she loves the texture and taste of creamy-white oat flakes. The sesame seeds stick to her honeyed fingers and she runs after Amrita, our live-in, and threatens to rub them all over her. The peanuts are shared out amongst us (after all this is hard work) and some of it grudgingly finds its way into the yellow bowl. Then we stir and stir the sticky brown sand till our arms hurt and the dark earthy mass threatens to spill out of the bowl. We dollop the lot into a greased baking tray and pop it into the oven (at 150 degrees centigrade) and sit back and wait.

An hour and fifteen minutes later – the damn thing refuses to turn a lovely golden brown like any self-respecting granola should – I get fed up and yank it out of the oven. It cools quickly and I crack off a chunk.

‘Ooohhh…’ Laila says, not liking the look of it one little bit. ‘It’s black.’

‘But it’s yum,’ I say.

And it’s true. The granola does taste a wee bit burnt, but it’s crunchy and sweet and peanuty – just like Chikki!

‘Try a little.’

She widens her eyes and shakes her head. I keep at it. At last a tiny bit inches towards her mouth. She puts it in and chews.

‘One minute Mama…you stay here.’

She bolts to the bedroom, gives me a smile, and slams the door shut.

Amrita and I look at each other and begin to laugh. She emerges two minutes later, her mouth free of the offensive substance.

‘You spat it out?’ I ask.

‘Ya. It was yuck!’

Ok. Next victim. Ishaan arrives home sweaty and dirty after a lovely romp with his pals. I tell him the Granola is ready and that he can take it on the picnic. But I wisely refrain from asking him to taste it. Maybe someone at school will like it…

In the meantime Rohaan (who is diabetic) and I (who am always watching my weight) proceed to demolish the jar-full of sweet stickiness over the next two days. The Evening-Before-The-Picnic arrives and Ishaan informs me that the granola is off.

‘Don’t feel bad Mama,’ he says with his sweet smile. ‘I tasted it and didn’t like it – so I won’t take it.’

Now who can argue with that? He takes two packs of Poppins instead (today’s kids like Poppins? Yay!) And that’s the end of that.

So I sit down the next day (and as I crunch down a few more pieces) decide on making muffins – a la Nigella – with the remnants.

And guess what? They are awesome! The granola is not over-whelming (for the kids at least) and instantly – with very little effort – jazzes up the rather common-place muffin. I am  convinced that Granola is born to be part of a muffin, and the good news is that the kids walloped it down as well! Success at last.

Now I plan to make Nigella’s Condensed milk Granola bars. I am pretty confident this lot should turn out well – after all, you can’t go wrong with condensed milk, right?

Will keep you posted 🙂

Recipe for Nigella Lawson’s Granola Bars (my slightly modified version) 

Makes enough for 2 greedy adults and 2 reluctant kids.

Oats 150 gms

Peanuts 100 gms (roast them slightly on the tava for more crunch)

Cocoa 25 gms

Sunflower seeds (or any nut) 75 gms

Sesame seeds (til) 50 gms

Apple sauce 50 gms

(Slice & peel 1 apple, put in a covered dish, add just a little water, and microwave for a couple of minutes. Let it cool and blend for applesauce.)

Ground ginger 1/4 tsp

Cinnamon 1/2 tsp (I left it out as I didn’t want it too spicy)

Honey 50 gms

Golden syrup 75 gms (can substitute with honey)

Raisins or dried figs (chopped up) or any dried fruit 75 gms

Oil 3/4th tbsps

Brown sugar 1/4th cup

Salt 1/3rd tsp

Method

Mix everything together. Grease a tray and bake @ 150 c for 45 minutes to an hour. The granola should turn golden brown – though mine never did and still tasted nice. Cool, break it up into pieces, and store in a jar. Tastes great with curd and a generous dob of jam, honey or any fruit preserve thrown in for flavour. Or simply eat plain.

Granola Muffins 

Makes 10 big fat muffins.

Flour 225 gms

Baking soda 1 tsp

Salt 1/2 tsp

Egg 1

Buttermilk 250 ml (mix together 200 ml curd and 50 ml regular milk)

Oil 75 ml

Brown sugar 175 gms

Method

Fold in all the dry items (flour, soda, salt). Keep aside. Fold in all the wet items (including the brown sugar to allow it to dissolve a little). Now pour the wet ingredients into the dry ones and fold in till the dough is a little lumpy (no need to do it with the electric whisk as it will become too smooth). According to Nigella, lumpy muffin dough makes for light and lovely muffins. And she’s right (of course!) Fold in 250 gms of granola. Bake @ 200 c for 20-25 minutes.

The many uses of a younger sister

‘I hate cricket,’ Laila proclaims.

Ishaan doesn’t mind. He’s too busy playing with his rowdy friends to care. Then one summer, all the friends vanish. Some have gone away on holiday, some are visiting grandparents, others are busy with various camps. I encourage brother and sister to play together: it’s high time they learn to play with one another.

That night we are watching the IPL.

‘Why don’t you both play cricket?’ I suggest.

Daddy objects. The rules of the house prohibit flying objects. But for once, I plead for leniency. Ishaan promises not to hit any sixes.

Laila picks up a red plastic bat that, if you believed her brother, belonged to him a few decades ago. Ishaan finds a yellow plastic ball. He promises to bowl ‘softly’.  We use the doll’s pink pram as wickets.

Ishaan bowls. Laila gives the ball a whack and it hits the french windows at the other end of the room. Ishaan’s eyes widen and he begins to laugh: he’s impressed. Sister doesn’t take her eyes off the ball. Sixes and fours fly off the old bat. Brother keeps laughing. I can’t help but laugh as well. At last, Sister is bowled – but not without some friction.

Three times Ishaan claims he’s got her ‘leg before wicket!’ Three times the umpire turns down his appeal. The batsman remains stoic through these ups and downs. At last though, she’s out.

Now she bowls. The ball flies through the air: steady and true. He’s clean-bowled on the third ball.

The whole of the next day is spent at my in laws house and is devoted to cricket. I speak to Ishaan on the phone that evening.

‘No Mama,’ he says, ‘we didn’t watch any TV. We played in the compound all day. And Mama…you know…I made 200 runs today!’

‘Wow Ishaan,’ I smile into the phone. ‘You must be really tired.’

‘Ya,’ he says proudly.

‘And what about Laila? How many runs did she make?’ I ask, my voice casual.

‘None,’ he answers. ‘She only bowled.’

Tuition travails

Ishaan has Hindi tuition twice a week. ‘Miss’ Vasanthi is his tuition teacher. She is an old lady, slim and grey-haired, and extremely serious about the progress of her wards. She is the only teacher I know who has chosen to take on just one child for each class (they last about half-an-hour). She says the kids fool around when they have company. She likes to concentrate on each child for only then can she see results. All of this attention and dedication comes for a princely sum of 300 rupees per month. Suffice to say I adore Miss Vasanthi – though she has expressed her dissatisfaction at my apparent indifference to the methods of teaching at Ishaan’s school.

‘What do you mean they don’t have exams?’ she gasps. ‘How will we know what they’re learning! And what about knowing where he stands compared to the rest of his classmates? And where are his textbooks and notebooks – doesn’t he bring them home? What! No homework! WHY?’

Good point, I murmur, not daring to admit that it’s for this very reason that I decided to put him in this school in the first place. Anyway, Miss Vasanthi (for that’s what we call her – tried Aunty, Ma’am, simple old ‘Miss’ – but nothing else suits her as much), has made amends for this by going out and buying Hindi textbooks and workbooks and notebooks and doling out weekly spelling tests. And of course – she sends back homework.

Now the object of all this devotion, is strangely enough, not as gung-ho as one would imagine. He’s got a minor tendency to avoid as much work as possible, and so, Miss Vasanthi’s homework was being dealt with in his own special way.

Miss Vasanthi called me. ‘He’s not doing his homework,’ she complains. ‘But you don’t keep at him – let him take responsibility and do it himself.’

So I dutifully took him to task, but did not ‘remind’ him to do his homework (ok, I did, but not as much as I would have otherwise) and he began finishing it on time. Or at least that’s what I thought.

Regina, my maid, who in our home is the equivalent of Mammy, accompanies Ishaan to tuition. She tells me a different story. So one time Ishaan decided to bunk class when I was away in Jaipur, and of course, no one thought of informing Miss Vasanthi about this (which is a sure-fire way to piss her off).

Anyway, come next class, and Ishaan’s begging ‘Amma’ as he calls Regina – who is his nanny, friend, foe, and confidant – to tell Miss Vasanthi that he was ill (‘I did have fever that day, no Amma?’).

He’s also scribbling away into a notebook, as they’re been driven to class in an old beat-up jeep by our gardener.

‘Then why were you cycling that evening? And is that your homework?’

‘Yes. But leave all that Amma…just tell her I wasn’t well. Please!’

Amma takes a deep breath. ‘Ok’, she says, ‘But just this once’.

They enter.

‘Why didn’t he come that day?’ Miss Vasanthi asks.

Regina steps forward. ‘Err…he was not feeling well…had fever,’ she says.

Something sprints past them. It’s Ishaan. He’s heading for the bathroom.

Miss Vasanthi and Regina look at each other. They burst out laughing.

‘He’s quite a khiladi, eh?’ Miss Vasanthi says looking amused. Then, she drops the subject.

Amma goes down to wait, and Ishaan saunters out half-an-hour later: the worst behind him. He’s free as a bird, and is now looking forward to an evening of much cycling, fighting and general merry-making, that all little boys of seven live for.

I want an Egg!

He comes home from his regular play date, angry and mutinous, almost crying. The watchman had been sent to the neighbour’s house for the second time that evening, with clear instructions to ‘drag him back’ if required. This seems to have happened.

‘Why do I have to always be the one to come home first?’ he yells at his mother as soon as she opens the door. He’s not even inside yet.

‘It’s not fair! I’m always the first to leave. Chinmay is going to Ishaan’s house now!’

The latter is improbable; there is however, no time for arguments. It’s a quarter to seven already.

‘Come in before I slap you.’

His mother is in the midst of baking fifty cupcakes that have to go out first thing tomorrow morning. She’s running low on patience (and flour! she realizes).

He comes in and glares at her, and the maid, who is hovering around.

‘You have to let me watch TV then – before I go to bed!’

‘Ok, come in and wash up.’

‘And there better be non-veg for dinner!’

Mother and maid look at each other, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

‘There’s no non-veg tonight, I’m sorry.’

His scowl deepens.

‘Then I want an egg!’

Kids know how to make things better. All you need sometimes, is an egg.

p.s. Thank you Ree, for sharing this story with me 🙂 I can’t stop laughing every time I think about it.

Change? What’s that?

I’m talking to the man in the mirror,’ I warble as I soap her little brown body; her soft curls are safely ensconced in a green frogie shower cap (she hates head baths and soapy eyes).

I’m asking him to change his ways…oh yeah!
No message is going to make it any better,
If you want to make the world a better place,
Take a look at yourself – and make a change!’ (Ok, this is my version).

I love MJ. So do the kids. Ishaan used to break into some mean dance moves when he was about 5. He shocked the daylights out of me once, when he came dancing onto stage at school (to MJ’s Beat It), the obvious star of the show. I was so excited that my hands started trembling, and the video I was trying to record came out all wobbly and shaky. He’s too cool for all of that now.

‘What does it mean, Mama?’ she asks, opening her mouth to collect the water raining down on her from the shower. She likes to have enough water in her mouth before she takes aim at the drain and launches a watery-spit missile.

‘It means that if we want to make the world a happier place, we must change our behaviour. We must do nice things for other people, listen when we’re told and be kind.’

Silence. She knows when she’s been lectured to, and today has been an incredibly tantrumy day.

‘But who is the man in the mirror?’

I point to the foggy mirror in the bathroom and explain about men in mirrors. She understands. She asks about change again, and I explain again. She mulls it over.

‘You must also change your place.’

‘Your place?’

‘You must change your hiding place. Rahul hid in the same place and Ishaan and Chinmay shouted at him. It’s not nice to shout at anyone, no Mama?’

Poor Ba. In the end Mimi always manages to make him the villain of the piece.

I bundle her up in her pink butterfly towel and carry her out of the bathroom, humming, this time, to myself.

Who needs parents?

‘Beat it Ishaan! I can see the fish!’ a vindicated voice exclaims, from the back seat of the car.

Brother is also in the back of the car, leaning forward between the two front seats, minding his own business.

It’s the Pog. She’s been trying hard to focus into her viewfinder (the eye that is peering into the camera is scrunched up tightly; the other is open) and suddenly – eureka – she manages to see something (a fish we are told), and Ishaan is her immediate target.

‘So who cares!’ he snarls, hurt and indignant at this sudden attack.

‘Talk to her nicely, Ishaan…’

‘So who asks her to say ‘beat it?” he demands.

She’s quite unconcerned of course, and continues to squint into the Dora camera. Brother glares ahead. After a while though, they forget about this little altercation and things go back to normal.

Another time, we are watching Masterchef Australia, Ishaan on my lap, and Laila on the carpet, playing with the Woody and Jessie dolls that belong to Ishaan and her respectively. Billy, one of the contestants, is on his way out.

‘Ishaan’s name is Billy…’ she says; his nickname amongst some friends is Billy.

Ishaan says nothing. He has come to terms with this other name of his, some time back.

‘Billy Bumpkin!’ she laughs, ‘I will call you Billy Bumpkin, Ishaan.’

‘Like Billy the Kid,’ Dada’s lying on the sofa and turns around to look at Ishaan.

‘He was a famous cowboy Ishaan – like Woody. Ishaan’s like Woody.’

‘And what about me?’ Laila wails.

‘You be Jessie…or Mimi the Kid,’ I suggest (she’s called Mimi sometimes); secretly happy for poor Ba aka Billy.

‘Nooo….’ wails the Pog, ‘I dn’t want that name.’

She sulks for a while and then forgets all about it and runs off with Ishaan to brush her teeth – ‘by herself’.

It’s like this a lot. She tries to boss him and thanks to her loud screechy voice, she often gets her way. But only for the moment. He has his ways of getting back at her: he’ll refuse to play with her; he’ll ignore her (this really riles her up) or he’ll threaten to *not share* his latest plaything/candy/gadget that automatically becomes the one thing she wants most.

Not to mention the countless times he will try to get her into trouble: ‘Mama, Laila is writing on the wall’ – when all she is doing is walking around with a pencil, in search of a book.

Or he will yell: ‘Laila! Stop doing that!’ and reduce her to tears (‘Mama, Ishaan is talking like an adult’) making me super guilty as I hear myself in his loud voice.

But the fights, the tears, the whines and complaints, they rarely last long. Often, when I step in and begin to shout down the villain-of-the-piece, the victim turns the tables on me –  ‘Don’t be so mean to Ishaan, Mama!’ – and I am left in the cold, as they walk away from me, united once more.

But I don’t mind. That’s what the fabric of this relationship is all about. The fights and squabbles, tears and laughter, naughtiness and mischief, are sewn together over the course of one short childhood; until a beautiful patchwork blanket emerges: all the better to wrap around oneself on cold, stormy nights, that ever so often threaten to engulf us in this big, bad world.