Rashmi's Space

It was 9:30am. The family was having breakfast. Priti poured out coffee for herself and the husband; and milk for sonny boy.  The husband sat at the head of the table, reading news on his smartphone, absently sipping his coffee. Sonny talked animatedly about the game he had played with his friends this morning. He’d taken two wickets, he informed them; and then all the boys had chatted, he said, sitting around on the lawn, sipping from their water bottles, cooling off.    “What did you guys chat about” Priti asked. “Oh, this and that,” sonny said. “Sharav saw that latest Avengers movie this weekend, and he was telling us all about that. Sandy went to watch the IPL match at the stadium yesterday, only to have the game abandoned due to rain! But then he got to see what the groundskeepers did to clear the rainwater and shit…” “Language,” “Sorry…” Priti smiled. “What else?” “Oh, you know Pranav? He went to this tea estate with his famil...

We are in a huge hall. Spacious, airy, with large open windows. The hall is divided into two parts. One part is meant for the spectators, who are mostly parents. The other part has four large anti-skid mats placed at a distance from each other. At the head of each mat, a little away, is a table with two chairs facing the mat. Towards one end of the hall is a stage which is set with a table and a few chairs. Certificates and large trays holding medals are placed to one side of this stage on a smaller table. At the back, hangs a large banner with the name of a Karate school, welcoming one and all to the District Level Karate Tournament. As spectators settle down, children gather at the other end of the hall, answer the roll call and settle down in the different batches they have been segregated into. Some of them are very young, with barely all the milk teeth in place. Some others are older. But their faces are similarly angelic to the younger ones, yet. And then there are ...

We are all taught right from childhood that being merely ‘okay’ isn’t enough. That we should be first in the race, not be in the ‘also ran’ category, because, of course, there is always room at the top; and that we can get there if we can only push ourselves to the maximum possible extent. And we believe this our entire lives and keep pushing ourselves more and more and more. And when we have children, we teach them the same thing. We teach them to be the ‘top of the bunch,’ to ‘push themselves to excel in whatever they do.’ We tell them, “if you want to do something, do it the best, otherwise there is no point doing it!” We tell them, “no one remembers the second best, but no one forgets the best! So be the best!” We tell them, “It is important to be someone people look up to, and not someone who isn’t even noticed!” But have we, even once, thought if it is really necessary to excel at everything we do? Why is it that we have this compulsion to be ‘the best’? And reall...

This is a sponsored post for Hewlett Packard (HP) as part of their #ReinventMemories campaign and has first appeared on MyCity4Kids.com  “Why aren’t you talking to your mom?” I heard a whisper. “Because she is working, dodo!” this was my little one’s voice. It was a weekday afternoon and he had a friend over. While the boys watched TV and generally hung in the playroom, I was at my desk finishing up an article that was due soon. That is when I heard this conversation. I went and stood close to the playroom door and tried to hear further. “What do you mean she is working? She is at home isn’t she?  My  mom works! She leaves in the morning and gets back only in the night.” “My mom works all day too!” my little one chirped. “What does she do?” his friend wanted to know. “My mom is a writer. She writes articles and stories. I also write stories. I even illustrate them, like Quentin Blake did for Roald Dahl. Only, in my case, I am the one...

“Mum, I want rasam to drink.” the little one declared. “Sure, give me ten minutes, will give you. But why rasam? Are you feeling a cold coming on?” I asked worried. “No, no, I just felt like it. Just for the taste.” he said nonchalantly. I stood in the kitchen, trying to come to terms with the fact that my little one, who has till now never asked for rasam specifically, in fact, who has even refused to have rasam whenever I have offered it to him as a cold or cough remedy, was suddenly asking me for this concoction, no demanding it just for the taste! And even as I was still taking this in, I heard him go out and speak to his Dad. “I am having rasam before dinner Dad, would you like some too? I can tell Mum to make for you as well…” he asked his father. “Sure! Go ahead,” the father happily replied. So in walked my little one again to deliver the order for one more bowl of rasam and as he went out, his father asked him “You like rasam, is it?” “Yes.” ...

It all began when the little one turned five. We owned a home in a wonderful locality town side, from where the little one’s school and the husband’s office were only a few kilometers away. We had been living there since the little one was barely a toddler and it was just the place a young couple like us needed. But being lucky enough to have found a place to live that was within a half hour’s distance to anywhere that mattered was such a huge blessing (especially considering Bangalore traffic) that we did not think that the place was entirely wrong for a child! And so it was, that when the little one turned five and the time came to let him go out to play, we realised it was time to build our nest in a different tree. So the husband and I spent hours scouring the many possibilities, but as is always the case, the wallet wasn’t always happy with the choices the heart made and the heart did the same when the wallet decided to steal the show. So after a lot of (vir...

The alarm rings. I look at the time, snooze for ten minutes and turn on my back to see my little one lying next to me. Okay, so he has wandered in during the night and is now sleeping spread-eagled, occupying most of the bed, having kicked my husband as close to the edge of the bed as one can go without actually falling off. I find myself smiling as I pull the covers on them. My little one has his exam today and unless I get started in the kitchen now, he’s sure to miss his paper. I am trudging to the bathroom, dragging my feet and cursing the early hour, when suddenly it occurs to me that it is not only my little one’s exam today, it is his last exam paper! It is the last day of school! I do a little dancing jig and almost trip on the bathroom mat. And then I rush to the bedroom to wake the guys up, with a spring in my step! Oh yes, it is the last paper today. Yay! Another academic year finished! No more worrying about the school schedule, no more ironing the uniform i...

"Mum, do you know the f-word?" asked my little one the other day. "Do you  know it?" I asked him in return. "Of course I do, and I also know the s-word!" he told me smugly, before he was (thankfully) distracted by something on the TV; leaving me to thank my stars that I did not have to go any deeper in that discussion today. Phew! You know, I am often asked by people to recommend books for their children of various ages and in various genres; and I am more than happy to help. I have always enjoyed reading since my childhood and I am only too happy to help others enjoy this wonderful habit too. And what is really heartening, is to see parents being diligent and concerned that their children only read age-appropriate books, preferably classics, by well-heeled authors; and most importantly, with very less or absolutely no swear words. But as delightful as it is to recommend a lovely book; I wish parents also asked for recommendations about o...

Click…attach…send…there, the pic was gone! Swati had just sent her husband a picture on whatsapp. It was a beautiful landscape sketched by their seven-year old. It was a masterpiece, if she said so herself. The boy surely had talent! Swati smiled as she saw the two blue ticks appear in the corner of the sent pic, indicating that Tarun had seen it. “My goodness, this is amazing!” came back the instant reply. “Yep!” she replied with a smiley; and then, “but he has a class test tomorrow, he has not studied for that! :(“ she sent the next message feeling guilty for not making Adi spend more time on studies. But Tarun promptly replied, “Oh, Swats, please don’t worry about the test, he will have that under control, I know; but seriously, I am just happy you see to it that you expose Adi to so many different things and help him discover his talents and interests….”  That evening, Adi was waiting for Dad to come see his beautiful picture! And as the bell rang, he rushed with...

Remember when we were in school? I am talking about the time over a decade earlier – when we went to a school that was the closest to home and was known to have a good reputation (or sometimes, just didn’t charge too much in fees, as no parents had much money to spare for the same). We would mostly walk to school, right? School buses were for the big, fancy schools that we couldn’t afford. So there we were, walking to school, in our nicely pressed uniform (the only other uniform set drying on the clothesline); and carrying our books and tiffin boxes with us in those old fashioned school bags. PE period was for exercise once a week and for play the other two days. And recess was for us to have our snacks! There were no restrictions on junk food then as junk food wasn’t as big a part of our diet anyway, and most of us would go straight from the PE period to the snack break at least three days a week. Of course, we would be told to wash our hands before food; but who had the tim...

This is a sponsored post for Kellogg's Chocos #Khuljaye Bachpan Campaign and was first published on MyCity4Kids.com Remember that scene from the movie Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge where Simran tells Raj about her family? Am not all that sure but I think it goes something like this – “Ghar mein bas hum char hain. Chutki apni umar se kuch jyada hi badi hai ….. Aur maa, friend jyada maa kam!”  (It’s just the four of us at home– Chutki (my sister) is way older than her age…and mom… she’s more a friend than a mother…) Well, growing up, this was very similar to how things were with me and my Mum. She was my trusted friend and confidant. Always the first to know of my new friends, my first crush, my first heartbreak; my favourite actors, movies, books – just about everything!  She was and continues to be the keeper of my secrets and knows of all that really matters to me. Our relationship has been such that I have never felt the need to keep anything ...

They say it takes a village to raise a child. But what do you do when the village turns violent, vandalizing each other’s’ properties and spreading hatred among the inhabitants? What happens when in your own home, your child gets to see televised violence – real time or in a movie format? What does that do to your child? The past few days in Bangalore have been fraught with tension and chaos. Friends and relatives from all over the world are writing in to enquire after our safety and wellbeing and the media has had a field day raising their TRPs thanks to some of the most sensational images in recent history! And in the middle of all this, children who joined their mothers and grandparents in front of the TV to check up on the latest news about the situation outside, ended up seeing some of the goriest images on TV!  I know the issue is sensitive; and I also know the solution isn’t easy or anywhere in the near future. But where does all this violence and chaos leave...

The rain just wouldn't stop! And to add to that, cars were jammed in every possible direction right ahead of him. As Rayan tried to maneuver his Honda through the mess, he spied a harried traffic cop, struggling to manage the chaos but failing miserably. Just then, a mini-bus scraped a Toyota ahead of him and all hell broke loose! Already worked up, the drivers jumped out of their vehicles, itching for a fight; and most of his fellow motorists honked in protest; some even got out of their vehicles to try and stop the brawl.   Rayan looked over at Rishi, his seven year-old sitting in the passenger seat. “Doesn’t look like we can get out of this anytime soon,” he said. “Do you want to hear some music?” he reached out for the radio. “No.” Rishi said, and continued to stare out the window. Rayan sat back, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He continued watching his son from the corner of his eye. Something was amiss, he realised. Rishi was awfully quie...