Morning Raga

The Morning Raga

It is the same story every morning

The same song I sing

“Up and out, in and spit”

Whisper and shout, love and rift.

I threaten the son

Cajole the daughter

The boy obliges

The girl can slaughter.

I raise my voice

There’s a wailing noise

From “Don’t you dare” to “won’t you please”

These so-called angels bring me to my knees.

I’ve supplied all toothpastes

The red and pink and white and blue

They sampled and experimented

And each one they eschewed.

The milk temperature is never right

The taste always terrible

Bournvita, Horlicks, Boost and Amway

I’ve got it all on the table.

One wants it warm

The other likes it cold

There’s no one package

In which it can be sold.

Between the microwave and the ice

The egg half-boiled and fried

I roar, “Sip and gulp, chew and swallow”

I am all-agitated, down to my bone marrow.

But I have to smile and nod

And learn to spare the rod

The clock is ticking away

And I have to keep the mutiny at bay.

Milk and egg, is only half the marathon won

And another half, yet to be run

There’s the bath and the school dress

And until then, I live under duress.

The bath is not a shower

Between mother and son, it’s a game of power

He says, “This cut on the knee, and nick on the shin,

A drop of water there, and up will go my chin”.

I sigh and tell him, “The soap’s a car

And your limbs the highway

As it negotiates the distance

It’s only I, who will have a say”.

I scrub him with soap and let him mope

“It’s almost eight, you’re going to be late”

That’s my standard battle cry

Win or lose, I have to try.

Somehow the soap is washed

The little body towel wrapped

Now’s the turn for my second one

The same bath story in a different format.

The soap becomes Barbie’s chariot

The horses galloping fast

As this pixie of mine rebels

Once more the die is cast.

There’s not a trick in the book

That works with this adorable imp

Explode or implore

All efforts simply leave me limp.

So I play to her tune

For so long as I can

Father, mother, didi, bhaiya

She’s the ring master for the whole clan.

If it’s my good day

She will accept my act

And if the entertaining not good enough

There’s no absolution, use force or tact.

Some formula I desperately fit in

And this one joins the brother in the towel

With the TV now on

There’s no mindspace for either to grovel.

On come the shirt and tie, tunic and shorts

The TV’s on, no room for rebellious thoughts

Pogo and cartoon send them into a trance

Suddenly there’s a magical change in their stance.

Whoever called the TV an idiot box,

It makes it easier to get on the shoes and socks

But it’s not all cakewalk

The TV’s off and they begin to balk.

Gently I push them

Towards the exit door

While answering at least 10 questions

Or perhaps even more.

In their pickup they’re about to leave

A sigh of relief I am about to heave

When out comes my son and runs into his room

With what speed – zip, zap, zoom.

He is a man on a mission

His face is fraught with tension

It’s like looking for a life jacket on a capsizing boat

As he excavates amidst books, toys, sweaters and coats.

I fret and fume and raise all hell

When out he comes carrying his Ben Ten satchel

He wears a guilty look, he tries to hide a smile

How could I remain angry with someone so without guile.

His satchel has goodies,

He gives his sister some

And once in the vehicle,

He has earned a hero’s welcome.

They pop their head out of the window

And throw their arms around me

It seems like a 6-day and not 6-hour parting

But I’ll love this feeling for so long as a mother I’ll  be.

So we hug and exchange our muaah-muaahs

Soak in every bit of the emotional opera

We could make a perfect picture

For an ad film’s camera.

Love, anger, powerplay and subterfuge

We play this morning raga each day

A perfect combination of devilry and angelhood

I wouldn’t have my children any other way.

In the high and lows of our morning raga

The heart’s lute strikes many a note

God’s blessings to me in real live form

These sun’s rays, on my children, I’ll forever dote.