How Many More?

I hear of yet another sexual assault in India; this time at 6 pm in Bombay, supposedly one of the only couple of places that was considered to be completely safe for women in the country. There's anger, there's shame, and there's a painful quest for remedies to correct this disturbing rise in such cases across the country.

**********

Each time I interact with people from other countries, the foremost thought that comes to my mind: Which of these is the other person thinking (and their eyes more or less say it)? 

Because I am an Indian woman:

1)      How many times I have got raped in my own country.

2)      How many of those were gang rapes.

3)      How often I have been molested after stepping outside of home.

4)      If I do step out alone, at all, that is.

5)      Did my parents think of killing me before I was born?

6)      How poorly am I used to being treated, in general.

7)      Do I have the freedom to think, decide and act on my free will?

8)      Do I even know what free will means?

9)      Feel sorry for me. And am I not glad to be away from that uncivilized place?

10)   My sheer audacity to even think of discussing misogyny in the rest of the world!

The brutal truth behind, and the myopic dangers of stereotyping and getting stereotyped.  

We are not racists. No. Never.

This post first appeared on Halabol

I’m glad I landed in Africa. It’s the one place where everybody from every other part of the world gets to be unapologetically racist without having to worry about who’s peeping over the shoulder or who’s going to punch a hole through your face for letting certain words slip out of your tongue. You get to call the blacks black because, well, they are black and they are everywhere. How wrong can you go with it? And there is only that much you can talk about Burberry and De beers and trips to Las Vegas and how many cars you have at your disposal. Once bored, you get to talk freely about the things that have long stopped working in these parts (or never worked in the first place), systems that are defunct, people that are barbaric, practices that are tribal, drains that are clogged, governments that are corrupt, minds that are dull, morals that are missing, words that cannot be trusted, and the world that this world is not.

The whites, too, don’t have it easy. In today’s world, the white-man’s burden is in having to tolerate, besides the newly-found economic sprint in the black feet, the proliferating hordes of Chinese who don’t give a damn to whether or not you’re a white, the cunning Koreans who will invariably invade the golf courses en masse, the abrasive noisy browns only too eager to do the white-thing, the nose-in-the-air Arabs who think money is the answer to everything (it isn’t? you think so?), the - phew, there’re just far too many niggling irritants in this world to keep count of now. But as long as there are browns and yellows and wheats and blacks, the whites will remain whites. So they clink their glasses and do their social-cause thingy at the charity events and complain that the pool water has half a percent more chlorine than their skin can tolerate and balk at a pathetic little piece of dry leaf floating in the overhead tank and they make sure their gated compounds are secured and bolted and fastened and electrified and made impenetrable a hundred times over and they go to bed sighing ah, a white man’s got to do what a white man’s got to do.    

But we’re Indians; and we’re not racists. Never. We are simply more of a lion let loose among a pack of wild boars. Naturally, He, the alpha Indian-in-Africa, is invincible, and is equally a She. Never mind the hours of power cut He faced in his city back home, the dark continent deserves its epithet; never mind the unending shenanigans of the corrupt back home, the term becomes synonymous with the people’s intent here; never mind the constant struggle getting and retaining a domestic help back home these days, She won’t tire of waxing brusque of the help here - the wretched lazy good-for-nothing slobs, all. There is an inexplicable joy in calling a black a black in these parts – it allows for a good laugh and some delicious desi bonding rounds of beer and butter chicken. And should you be heard using the b-word, just switch to the uber-safe kalus the moment the house-maid drops that steel tumbler into the kitchen sink to remind everyone of her black presence.     

If one were to go by the colour of skin, I was born nearly white, turned brown by the time I was in Std III A, turned yellow with jaundice sometime later, and am now black, thanks to my midday swims. My locus standi is, therefore, questionable when I mouth platitudes like, but why can’t we just see them as perfectly normal people who breathe and live and think and feel like people anywhere else in the world? So, I need to qualify further. But I like the people here, I say; the happiest warmest souls on earth despite all rotten odds, and I’m cut short by He saying they’re not-quite-human; look at the way they shoot and loot and riot and kill. Yes, but we do that too, in much the same ways, I say, and She says we’re light-years-ahead; there’s no comparison- they don’t have it in them to rise above themselves. Is it, I ask, but just look at all the wonderful talent they have in their midst, and another He and She butt in saying, Frauds-minds and drugs peddling, that’s the talent; their minds work properly only for things they shouldn’t. Is it, I ask and then point out, just look at the women, the strong-willed the women, and all the He’s and the She’s say, the dark ages is where they still belong; look at them take on wives after wives only to have more sons. Yes, I say, but they don’t kill their daughters or burn their wives and… the hostess announces dinner, and our superiority gets suspended. For the moment.

With my plate in hand, I saunter into the balcony where a part of the gathering has moved. Before I’ve taken my next step to join them, I hear someone say, these kalus really have no brains; all they’re good at is singing and dancing and running and voodoo and drugs. A wiser one makes His valuable contribution to shared delight, junglees, all! And the gurgle of sated chuckles turns into a howlarious laugh.    

We are not racists. No. We are just being ourselves. 

Shona Raja Beta

This post first appeared on Halabol

I look at my shona baby and feel my heart melt like the thick blobs of Haagen Dazs Cookies and Cream that he has left uneaten on the plate in front of him. How adorable he looks slumped in that chair hunched over my iPhone, lost to the world. On the spoon remains an untouched apology of what had been a firm tiny scoop that I had cut out for him a little while ago and begged him to eat.

He doesn’t like eating on his own, my shona baby. And I love to feed him. Makes for such great bonding. I pick up the spoon and take it to his mouth. Eat it, my Raja beta, I say. He grimaces, as if about to puke. My darling shona baby will eat it now and make me feel so proud na, I cajole him. He seems not to have heard it, so I give him an emotional bait of eat it my darling baby, just a little, a teeny weeny bit, and make your mamma feel so proud of you. He shakes his head and flicks his locks with reckless abandon that captures the madness of Maradona and sinisterness of Shoaib. Little bit you eat my shona baby, I egg him on. Kill it fucker, hisses shona, scoring another goal on my iPhone and squinting harder for a clearer view of the scores. He’s such a fine player, my boy, that he’ll put any other child his age to shame.

I’m bored now, he says throwing the mobile phone towards me. He reaches across the table for my iPad, but I say No, a firm NO. Then I am not going to sit in this stupid place, he says stomping and rising up. I know what he wants to do. He wants to sit in the car and play on his own iPad which I refused to be brought up to the parlour. You’ve got to be strict with children, you know; I’m not the one to spoil my child rotten. But look at him, what anger, re baba!

Eat some ice-cream, shona, I say. At least taste it. You were the one who wanted to come here all afternoon. He grimaces again in that awfully cute way. Ufffo, leave me, Mom. I don’t care about this stupid ice-cream and I don’t want to speak to you now, he screams and kicks the chair he was sitting on and topples it over. I’m afraid he may have hurt himself. He isn’t even wearing his shoes; he’d told me before leaving that the only condition he will come with me is if I let him go in his Crocs. Of course, my shona silly, why should I ever have a problem with that?! 

The waiter runs to us to ask if everything is all right. Get lost, you idiot, my shona yells. What rage, at this age, imagine! And all this because I didn’t let him carry his iPad! Children these days, they have a mind of their own! Mine is total CEO material, I tell you.

I ignore the waiter and tell my shona to calm down. Relax, my baby, I say. It’s all right if you don’t feel like having ice cream now. Don’t get worked up; how will you do your homework in this mood? Accha listen, how about popping by at some toyshop in this mall and you pick up something for yourself? That’ll make you feel better, na? Let’s go.

Shona’s eyes don’t lighten up much but he looks a lot less grumpy now as he heads for the door. He is refusing to walk with me, how cute! He picks up some game CD in the shop downstairs and looks okay now, thank God! I tell him he will not get to play with it until he has finished his homework. He makes a face and says I am always unreasonable; his friends get to do whatever they like. I laugh at the big word he just used and tell him I am so because I don’t want to spoil him silly. I see him drag his feet to the car and can quite sense his disappointment. I’m his mother, after all. My poor child has had a long day. And I know I am being too hard on him.

And so, Surprise! I say as I unlock the car door. Today my shona is going to drive us out of the mall! Oh, that spontaneous hug from him is worth the priciest of possessions in this world! I adjust the seat and place him between my lap and hand him the steering wheel. Don’t worry, I am pretty much there with the other controls; he is a bit short for his age, so his legs don’t reach down there yet.   

He turns on the ignition, and we are off. Seeing him handle the steering wheel with such ease and confidence, my heart swells with pride a hundred folds. Look at him, my big boy. Just ten, and how matured, how able! He’ll grow up to be an invincible young man, this, my darling shona baby.

A real fine man. Yes. 

I'm Going To Love This, I Say!

The aircraft wheels touched the runway at 7:15pm. At 7:14pm, half the passengers had already unfastened their seat belts. At 7:14:04pm, one half of the other half had the overhead lockers open. At 7:14:45, one half of the last half had started talking on their mobile. And the last quarter of the quarter (or whatever, pardon my weak maths) sat back and soaked in all the action, bracing for the touchdown.

I'm going to love this place, I say to myself. Just as I love all the madness back home, I'm going to love it here...

Here?

We've just landed in Lagos for a short looksie reccee, and I already kindof know what's in store.

Or, do I?

I walk out of the aerobridge and look in the direction of my co-passengers gliding down the escalator. Cool, I think, and I step onto it. An Indian in Nigeria, what cause should there be for concern? Only to realise, in that split second between my cock-sure confidence and  a frantic groping for some support, that the rails of the escalator are not moving, but the steps are. So if you haven't tried stepping onto a moving object, while holding on to a stationary object on the side, I'd say, do try it once to appreciate my cause for panic. It's like seeing your torso move forward (and downward), but your hands firmly in place, tugging at the body in motion. And the many more (smarter) passengers who did not hold on to the side rails for support add to the forward thrust from the rear, leading to a near stampede-like situation. My panic, as you can see, is not misplaced. By the time I've figured out the cause for this pandemonium, I've already stumbled on the steps a couple of times -  fallen, got up, fallen again - and made a complete fumbling-ass of myself. Not a promising start to a new place.

But I find my optimism intact; I'm going to love this place.

The airport terminal is hot, humid, and crowded. The ACs aren't working today, someone cribs. That's reassuring. It tells me simply that on most other days, the ACs DO work. That's quite okay. Just the other day, IGI plunged into total darkness. I have no reason to crib.

'You're welcome!' A jolly protocol officer welcomes us with warmth and helps us with the immigration formalities and we chat about this and that. It takes forever (an understatement) for our suitcases to arrive on the baggage carousel, but that's okay. Until a couple of years ago, most airports in India functioned on the same premise of non-urgency. I look at the other seasoned passengers who seem unperturbed. Every one looks happy and so so content. 'You're welcome!', gushes another officer on duty. I'm going to love this place, I think, and bend to pick up my suitcases. 'You're welcome!' says another official, helping me with my bags. 'Only two pieces?' he asks, with raised eyebrows. I nod. 'You sure?' I nod again. 'Wow. You're welcome!' I hear, and we move on.

By the time I've cleared the customs (and yes, they do ask for the yellow yellow-fever card, so I didn't get poked in vain) and stepped out of the terminal building, my ears are choking with 'You're welcome's. When a police officer from the siren-screeching security escort van (you'll need two, one each in front and behind your car, if you're any true blue expatriate in Nigeria) nods his head and says, 'You're welcome,' I give up. It's more of a pleasant endemic here, and I realise they probably do genuinely mean it.

Outside, the daughter cribs. 'I don't like the people here.'
Is this the moment of truth? Have I failed as a global citizen? Have I  bred brats who are racists, despite the best of my intentions?

'Why?' I ask feebly.

'I feel scared at the way everyone's talking here. Why are they fighting?'

I heave a sigh of relief. So it's something that innocuous. I squeeze her paws and reassure her. ' Don't worry darling. It's just that they have a louder voice. Don't you see them laughing?' That's true, actually. Look around you anywhere in Lagos and you'll see everyone happy. Happy and jolly and cheerful and merry. Yes, even the poor (much like in India, you see them everywhere) laugh a lot, and they mean their laughs.

I'm going to love this place, I say to myself and sit in the car. 'You're welcome, madam,' says the driver, and we drive on.

The streets are more-or-less dark (the entire nation runs on generators, so the late evenings belie the robustness and the throbbing feel of daytime). Most houses look like Osama's Abottabad compound with impossibly high boundary walls topped with barbed wires. The escort vehicles are doing their job well. In about 20 minutes, we are there at the hotel.

'You're welcome, madam,' say the guards in the escort vehicles as they leave.
'You're welcome, madam,' say the hotel guards and waiters, as we wheel in our suitcases.
'You're welcome, madam,' says the smartly turned out person  at the reception as he hands us room card.

 The hot-bod Nigerian men will put the Greek Gods to shame, any day, even with their clothes on.Oh yes yes, I'm going to love this, I secretly salivate.

The door doesn't open with the card. We try again. It doesn't. Someone (this time, an even hotter Lebanese) comes, fiddles with the door for fifteen minutes. I don't really mind the sweet delay. I'm going to so so love this place, I say, and go back to ogling.

We hear a beep which means that the card and door contraption are working.  'You're welcome,' says the chikna Leb, and ushers us into the room.

Once in, all four of us make a mad dash for the loo. The quickest, my daughter, breezes in, only to be out in a second announcing, 'The door has no lock.'

'Maybe it's the style, you idiot,' butts in my son. 'What would you know about boutique hotels?'

'It doesn't matter,' I say. 'We'll manage. Let me go in.'

'No. We'll have to get it fixed. This is not acceptable,' says the Mister, checking out the door.

'Let me go, will you?' I shout and push my way in to the swanky lock-less loo. I am reminded of all the bytes floating around the virtual world about Lagos, and I know that if there's any truth in them, try as he might, the Mister will never succeed in getting the lock fitted.

I'm going to so so love this place...I say with utmost bliss as I go about my small business.

The Mad Dash for Ash...

'You have only two options', the Dott announced. 'Either you make me Aishwarya Rai's daughter or you become Aishwarya Rai. Bas, no more, no less.'

'Neither is possible, dott dear, come drink up your milk,' I said.

'No. I'm either a born-star or I choose to die this moment. No more, no less,' she said. The Dott is just about six (days, of course). It's but obvious that kids these days have their facts of life, at least the basics like born-die-star baby-star mommy, right early.

'But you are my star, my darling girl, come drink it up.'

'I am not a star. Don't lie. I didn't hear songs being played for me on the radio, I didn't see pujas being done for me on TV, nothing moved on Twitter, not even one out of the one-billion congratulations were for me, no laddooos, I didn't find bets being placed on me, nothing nothing not one thing happened in my honour. What does that bitch of the other newborn have that I don't?'

'Oh my darling baby, come let me hug you tight. We are private people and like to keep to ourselves sweetheart. You are my star, aren't you? Now come on, drink up the milk like my precious precious gem.' 

'You can't fool me mom. I'll either have Aishwarya feed me, or I starve myself.'

'I'm not even sure if Ash will choose to breast-feed her baby, so stop fussing. Come on now, be a good girl and drink up the milk.

'No. I don't like your milk. I want Aishwarya's. No more, no less.' 

'Don't act difficult girl. Okay, let me ask the doc if they have a way of getting some yummy Bournvita pumped in here. Maybe you'd like that?'  What all must we moms do to keep our kids happy.

'You're a disaster mom. Aishwarya would never even dream of something like this. She is just so perrrrrrfect in anything and everything. Take me to her this minute. I know she's in this very hospital. Take me to her NOW or I'll start wailing.'

'Oh, no no no. Don't do that. I find it impossible to handle you when you do that. Listen to me. I've no idea which room Ash aunty is in. Now be a good girl and...'

'SHE'S NOT AUNTY,' bellowed the Dott. 'She's my man-hi-man ki Maa.'

Ma? My dott calling that dumb plastic-doll Ma? I wished the hospital bed's mid-hinge would collapse that very moment and the bed engulf me in its folds. Oh why did I live to see this day.

'Stop grimacing,' said the Dott, trying to wriggle out of my arms. 'If you can't do it, I'll find a way to get to her. No one can come between a true-super-daughter and a true-super-Ma. Maaaa...I pine for your arms and your cuddle...'

'Fine,' I said in exasperation. There was little point in showing the ungrateful brat any reason. Imagine my flesh-and-blood doing this to me! That, when she knows the entire list of terrible things that can happen as part of post-partum blues (she's seen me devour preggy and post-preggy books by the dozen). And even then, to be so so insensitive. I had half a mind of disowning her then and there, but as parents, one needs to be generous to a fault. 'Your wish. Go. But don't you come back to me if she refuses to take you as her dott. Remember, there can be only ONE star baby in this country, and that is already born and registered. You're in for a rude shock girl. Go.'

'What do you know,' she retorted. 'Ever since I heard that Ash and you were to deliver around the same time, I prayed to God every single moment of my foetal existence that I get her eyes, her hair, her skin, her beauty. See my blue eyes? That's the degree of my connect with my real-Ma. We are made for each other. One look at me and she'll run to me.' The Dott jumped off the bed and started her slow waddle towards the cabin door. Kids these days, I tell you. They learn everything right in there. 

'Ha! Run! Not with her stitches!' I smirked.

'Ha! What do you know? Ash can do anything. She can even fly in like a superwoman and rescue me from your clutches.'

'Oh well. Soon you'll know. But don't even think of coming back to me when she refuses to change your nappies. Madam Ash can't possibly be doing the menial jobs herself!'

The Dott stood there for a few seconds, and then turned around. 

'She won't? You think so?' she asked.

'You bet!' I could sense the tides turning!

'Hmmm...then who do you think will do it? Jaya-dadi? I'm petrified by her stern look. Daddu? Ooooooohhhhhh, I'd LOVE that! But then he'll be too busy caring for his bahu. Oh gosh, you think the maids will change my nappies? I so HATE the thought of that...'

'Why? You're forgetting the other Bacchhan man in the house?'

'Who?' she asked.

'Abhishek. Your adopted D-A-D!' I taunted her.

'Who's he? How come no one ever spoke about him? But it's okay, I can do without him. I just need my super-real-Maaaaaaa. I don't need anything else in this life.' The Dott turned back around towards the door and started waddling all over again.

'You can't wish away Abhi, girl. For all practical purposes, he's the one who'll bring you up. Beginning with the nappies.'

'You think so?' the Dott said, looking in my direction again. 'You mean, Ash will not have time for me?'

'Nopes. Not with all those signed contracts already waiting for her.'

'You mean I won't get to be on magazine covers with her?'

'Unlikely. The other kid will have that privilege, I guess. I told you, she's already the original registered star-entity, not you.'

'Hmmm...okay let me give it one more shot. What if that bitch and I were to get exchanged in the nursery? You know, I've seen such things happening in the movies...maybe you could help me there. Imagine, you'll end up having Ash's baby!!!' the Dott suggested, with hopeful, even pleading, eyes.

'Oh no no no. I am doing none of that. For me, it's only you or no one else. You were the one who's kicked me that long in my tummy, not Ash's child. So, you are free to go. I'll be quite fine without any baby. Badly need to catch up on sleep anyway. Been days.'

I picked up the day's newspaper and slid down to a comfortable position to rest for a while.

'Will I be able to walk the red carpet with her?'

'Again, unlikely. The world knows of only one star baby, she can't suddenly strut down the Reds with two.' 

The Dott stood there motionless, deep in thought.

'And listen. You can call me anytime, in the odd chance that you miss me.Good luck, my darling girl...muuuuaaaaahh!'

Silence in the room. Nothing stirred, not even the sterilised dust particles.

And then it happened in slow motion...the tilt of the head, the torso, the legs, the entire body, the tears trickling, the bald head bobbing, the arms open, the mouth contorting, the feet toddling, and a shrill cry piercing through the concrete walls of the hospital...Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...my Maaaaaaaa...I have started missing you already...Can't leave you and go...Maaaaaaa.' She ran towards my bed and stood at the foot. She'd managed to jump on her own, but climbing on to the bed wasn't exactly her cup of tea. They haven't yet started training kids in this department while still inside the tummy.   

'Oh, oh, what about my sleep then?' I said, a bit disappointed, having mentally prepared myself for a good restful snooze. I lifted her off the floor and placed her next to the pillow.

'Don't worry mom. I won't trouble you at all. You cuddle me and we'll both sleep tight!' the Dott said, kind of smothering me with a thousand kisses.

'Sounds like a plan! Good, come into my arms rightaway and drink up the milk first!'

'Sounds like a great plan, mom, okay!' 

And we both slept happily ever after. Until the next radio jingle blessing the OTHER blessed new-born, that is.

'Mom...?'

'Yes, my darling?'

'Why can't I be Ash's baby-girl?'

And it started all over again...

Will the insane one billion let me enjoy my little one in peace, please?

Education...

bridges gaps on the one hand and furthers divides on the other...

It includes and isolates at the same time...

It makes you feel big, and it shows how small you are...

When Enough is Not Enough...

A fraction of a second is what it took my kids on the back seat of the car to tear open the neatly wrapped return gift and compare the shades. A minute is what it took them to start a fight over which one's was better. Five minutes is what it took them to come to an amicable conclusion. Ten minutes is what they spent playing with their respective gifts in the car. Twenty minutes later, by the time the car had been parked in front of our house, the toys lay half-broken, fully-forgotten on the car floor.  

From what I could gather from the remains, each piece of what-was-junk-now looked terribly terribly expensive. A lot of thought must have, of course, gone into the careful selection of the return gift. For most of the birthday parties these days, it's the single biggest make-or-break measure of its success, so no parent wants to take a chance with it. But frankly, I don't think our children deserve to get anything more until we have succeeded in teaching them them to value what they already have.   

And so, yet another birthday party, yet another mockery of the simple act of giving for pleasure...not that I have not been party to the crime in the past. I'm reminded of this mail I had sent out to a bunch of parents at the end of my son's 8th birthday party three years ago. Reproducing it here in the hope that my sentiments find resonance somewhere... 

Hi all,

A big thankyou to all for having made Anav's 8th birthday celebrations enjoyable and memorable. Given our packed and rushed days, it's indeed an extra effort to fit in these frequent parties, so I was overwhelmed by the manner in which you all went out of your ways to send your kids over (or tried your best to make it possible); made for a beautiful lifelong memory for Anav! For him, the excitement continued well into late evening as he eagerly unwrapped his presents, squealed in delight at each one of them, and then sat with his little sister exploring/ playing with/ reading them all! Thanks again for the absolutely lovely, thoughfully picked up stuff, every single one of them.

I'm not sure why I'm sending this mail, but certain thoughts have been playing on my mind for a while, and I guess today's party gave me the necessary impetus to piece it together coherently. Having briefly interacted with you all on the phone adn in person, I feel confident that you are a bunch of parents who will appreciate my concern. Year after year, we see our kids getting loads of stuff at parties, both as birthday presents or as return gifts. While every item holds a special meaning for our kids, I feel uncomfortable by the way we are loading children, both ours and their friends, with more and more. Please dont get me wrong here, I am not the one to champion the cause of austerity, certainly not at birthdays! But what does bother me is the way we are aiding in our kids' increasingly failing to value things - far less than how we as kids used to feel about any new acquisition. We do it all the time - just look at the way our kids' rooms look these days, cupboards, cabinets, drawers, spilling over with stuff, and yet, our children never seem to feel it's enough. As parents, we perhaps will be guilty of bringing up the most matarialistic generation of kids the world has seen so far. 

Since we'll continue to interact with one another the rest of the year, most certainly in the context of birthday parties, I am taking the liberty of suggesting that we keep the exchange of gifts and presents simple. There's very little that our kids dont have these days. Can we at least aim to reach a situation (an ideal one, in my view) where our kids get equally thrilled unwrapping a small pencil box and a boardgame or a book. I have tremendous faith in the openness with which our kids' minds work. I know they like simple stuff as much as those terribly expensive and involved gadgets, but it's unfortunate that we often feel hesitant, even embarrassed, buying the not-so-expensive stuff for the birthday child.  

I have been party to this crime year after year. Often, I've gone overboard with presents and with return gifts, though I must admit that it's always been out of an actual joy of picking up more and more of those cute little stuff for kids, and never due to the compulsion of having to compete with others. But I'm not sure how many of those things kids would have cherished beyond the initial few minutes of thrill. And so I felt that a beginning has to be made somewhere. As Anav's happened to be the first birthday in class, purely as a precedent, I'd thought of keeping everything really simple this time. So I picked up those sarangis from Delhi Haat as return gifts, at Rs35 per piece (bulk rate), and felt rather happy doing so. My kids have always enjoyed playing it, and i was reasonably confident that most of his friends would like it too (though not without annoying the parents with all that noise!). But moment I put them in each of the carry bags, I felt it wasnt 'enough', sadly, undoing the one step I had earnestly hoped to take this time. So a hurried last minute trip to the mall, and the bags got a little weightier with those tennis balls, drawing books and the chocolates. At Rs 100 per child, the bags looked slightly more 'acceptable' than before, though it was still far less than what my kids returns with from most of the birthday parties. 

The party's over, the rooms have been cleared, and the birthday presents have been stacked in Anav's cupboard, some intact, some with contents already missing. But I've been feeling rather disappointed at having failed myself. Why couldnt i go ahead with my initial belief that the inexpensive, but incredibly delightful piece of instrument was all that the kids would go back with. Perhaps if the same item came for Rs200, I would not have had a moment of doubt.

As I said, I'm not sure why I'm writing to you all, but maybe, just maybe, it will help at least one parent not make the mistake I made this time. That, in itself, will be a BIG step.

Thanks again for having made Anav's party incredibly fun. The kids were great, and I look forward to seeing most of them again in the years to come!

Warm regards,

Richa