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Spice of Life | Celebrate all seasons for change is only constant
How I miss the chaos now. The light and fragrance of our lives gives it a purpose to be. Husband dear still calls upon all my reserves to measure up to his endless demands. May he never grow up!
For the past few days, Omar Khayyam’s quote keeps coming back to me. “The moving finger writes and having writ moves on.”
One has seen decades of productivity, creativity, losses and even accepted changing priorities. Yet, few of us, have the ability to move on with unflinching faith, each time life propels us along a different path. We never stop seeking familiar zones. The recognisable garden with our favourite bloom. A re-peopled world is normally an exercise that requires effort. But change is the law of life. Just soak in the present, the now. Soon it will become a memory.
Most of us looked forward to becoming ‘big’; growing beyond parental restrictions and becoming our own masters. Now, most of us look back fondly upon the yesteryears of reprimand and discipline. The independence, the liberty of being in charge is no comparison to what the cocoon of care gives us.
Our generation generally accepted the benchmarks the elders set for us. There was nothing known as, ‘this is what I want’. Who trusted you to want anything better than what one was firmly handed over! So, like my kith and kin, I too married early. Soon found myself balancing post-graduation in literature, kitchen, two bundles of endless energy and a husband who mercilessly believed that Nature had bestowed me with superpowers. Hands traded ladles, pans, diapers with books occasionally.
The mind was overburdened with unspoken words. In a traditional set-up, there’s little room for personal opinion. The children, however, defying all norms, had an opinion on everything and the energy to put it all into action. My Milton and John Keats was what I managed to read through doodles. An upset tummy was eventually discovered as their adventure to try out dog-food. Swollen eyes meant they were playing doctor and administering each other grandma’s eye drops. The younger one ensured that the school principal had a summoned regular visitor for her entire school term, me.
What topped it all was their granny’s natural connivance, as I saw it, with them. She protected them ferociously. When, oh when, would they grow up! They did. Beautifully so. Flew into their own nests. As I frisk stuff, in their rooms, in the parental house, off and on, I still discover one odd secret that was meant to be hidden, for my sanity, I guess.
The elder one, the writer, began her journey with her daily confession recording in a diary. I finally get a peep into the mysterious whodunit of many a thing. “Mama is desperately looking for her brown shawl. She says it cost her a fortune. The one in which we wrapped up Pogo after bathing him, in her tub. His paws tore it. We had to throw it out. One day we two, will pool in our pocket money and buy her one.” She always had a conscience, I muse.
Their in-house defence counsel, their granny, went away years ago. They mother me now. I wonder why couldn’t I enjoy their antics then. How I miss the chaos now. The light and fragrance of our lives gives it a purpose to be. Husband dear still calls upon all my reserves to measure up to his endless demands. May he never grow up! A child in the house keeps yesterday alive in the today.
Once in a while, one looks back fondly at the days that drove one crazy and realises that there’s only one constant to life. That is change. We ought to celebrate all seasons.
The writer is a Chandigarh-based freelance contributor and can be reached at bubbutir@yahoo.com.
