Tag: writing

The Lady with ‘THE BAT’

Like all mothers, I too have lived through those small but unmistakable moments when your child stops asking, “May I?” and instead says, with calm authority, “Trust me.”

One such humbling moment visited me again last month when Tanvi, our daughter, came visiting along with her four-and-a-half-year-old son Arham.

Mother and son soon fell into a pattern. Every evening, they would glide around the house; she, brandishing an electric mosquito bat — gently shaking curtains, peering into corners, scanning ceilings. The little one, eyes shining, pointing out the prey.

A slow-motion sway. A delicate flick of the wrist. And then —

Zzzzt.

A tiny spark.
A faint pop.

And then the triumphant whoops of mother and child, celebrating yet another glorious victory over the bloodthirsty mosquitoes of New Delhi.

*

And I would watch this dance of locate-flick-pop with considerable amusement…

Now trust me, I have survived Delhi summers.

I have clapped mosquitoes mid-air with my bare palms; flattened them with rolled-up newspapers and books; even hurled slippers at the arrogant ones perched high up on the ceiling.

Over the years, I have perfected the art of waiting in the dark, lying still as the buzz hovers just behind the ear… closer… closer… until —

Whack! Even if it lands on my cheek!

And then the quiet triumph of viewing the casualties in the morning — on walls, on the backs of books, the headboard, the bedsheet, the counters…

*

And now my daughter was telling me cheerfully, “Mom, you have been doing it wrong all your life.”

Wrong? Really?!

Why, one summer, when I was a teenager, my mosquito tally had reached the majestic figure of 525. Not bad, I said, for a season’s work.

“No. there’s no need to be so primitive, Mom. You need the electric bat. It’s so satisfying,” she declared with the utmost conviction.

*

Honestly, I must confess — I was impressed.

The first time I picked up the bat, I was hesitant. Then I heard that crackle.

Sharp. Decisive. Oddly musical.

And something inside me unlocked. Ah. So this is what justice sounds like.

Needless to say, I am undeniably hooked to this crackling, neon-lit, homicidal bat!

*

Indeed, the mosquito bat has altered the psychology of our household.

With the Bat in residence, the balance of power has shifted. Once, mosquitoes were the predators and we the prey. Now, as evening falls, I arm myself with the bat and the faintest buzz is met with calm confidence—and dealt with swiftly. Clinically. Best of all, there is no blood on my hands. Literally.

Undoubtedly, I am now the official Lady with the Bat.

*

And this is how, I realize, traditions evolve.

From folded newspapers to rechargeable rackets.
From frantic swatting to strategic maneuvering.

Civilization, after all, is simply the story of better tools.

And of course, wonderful daughters.

From Nothing to Something

From Nothing to Something

“Gently… gently,” the potter murmurs, as if speaking to the clay itself. My fingers follow his lead — a press here, a soft release there. The wheel spins, the clay rises, and slowly, a tiny pot takes shape. With a loop of string, I cut it free and hold it up, smiling with the quiet wonder of having made something from nothing. Not perfect, not polished — but unmistakably mine.

Creation is like that. You begin with something raw, unformed. You work on it, and with time, it becomes something meaningful.

Creation is in sowing seeds and watching them push through the soil.

In nurturing children as they grow into themselves.

In turning a handful of ingredients into a meal that warms the table.

In arranging a room until it feels like home.

In filling a blank page with words.

In knitting a scarf or painting a canvas.

In growing an idea into a thriving venture.

In building relationships.

In shaping our own dreams into reality.

In each act, something shifts from nothing yet to something now. And no matter how often it happens, it never stops being wondrous.

We humans are, at our core, makers — not just of things, but of possibilities. This is our greatest shared heritage: a restless, hopeful urge to create, improve, and leave behind more than we found.

And we have carried this impulse across millennia. From shaping clay pots to building cities. From planting seeds in the soil to sending seeds into space. From stringing beads into necklaces to stringing satellites across the sky. From inventing the wheel to developing code that will power superintelligence.

And the wonder isn’t in the pot, the meal, or the invention — it’s in us.

In Praise of the ‘Nod’

In Praise of the ‘Nod’

I am sure the universe knows exactly what it’s doing when it brings people together. It rarely pairs like with like. More often, it brings opposites into the same orbit — people different in a hundred small ways, who, somehow, make perfect sense side by side.

Take my husband and me.

I like to share. Everything.
What I did. What I didn’t.
Who I met, what they said, what they didn’t (but clearly meant).

The blog I’m writing.
The butcher who messed up my order. The stray dogs in the colony. The cook who staged yet another dramatic exit. The cousin whose cousin is now somewhat famous…

And him?

He’s a man of few words.
But… many nods.

Let’s be clear — these aren’t the tender, attentive, “yes, my dear, I agree” kind of nods.
These are the absent-minded, default nods — dispensed while checking emails, reading the news, or scrolling through WhatsApp groups.

Over the years, we’ve settled into a rhythm.
I talk. He nods.
I throw up my hands in mock exasperation.
And then — eventually — he looks up. Fully present. Curious. As if hearing it all for the very first time.

*

It’s not perfect. And yet — there’s something oddly comforting in this dance of words and nods.

Because I understand where his mind is… It’s somewhere between a delayed shipment at customs, a lost pitch, the latest dip in stock prices… and a hundred other quiet battles he fights daily.

And still — his nods, even if distracted, tell me something.
That my words have landed.
Somewhere. Softly. In that busy, burdened, but deeply dependable heart.

It’s hard to explain. It’s not logical.
But in those simple nods, I hear this:

“I know you need to say it.”
“I know it matters to you, even if it doesn’t matter to the world.”
“I trust your instincts, even if I missed the details.”
“And I’ll always be here, nodding along — because I love how your mind works, even if I can’t always follow where it’s going.”

It’s his way of showing up — with a nod.
The smallest, quietest act of partnership.

(Though at times, he does surprise me. Like the time he suggested we holiday in Bruges — something I must have mentioned, sometime, somewhere. He had remembered. Even if I’d forgotten I had said it.)

*

So here we are. All these years later.

Me, still talking.
Him, still nodding.

A marriage where one partner needs to speak — and the other gently makes space for it. And in these little spaces between our words and nods, we’ve built something whole.

And honestly?
That’s more than enough.