Oh, not again. Why can’t she sleep soundly at least for an hour? It’s 3 in the night. I’m still on duty.
Stop sucking my blood at the wee hours, brat. Aargh, the snoring. Does he even know how many times I wake up every night? Deep sleep or a clever act? Highly doubtful.
Who are the girls who shout about equality? Do men bleed each month? Do they get pregnant? Do they have to cling to their babies like a shadow? Huh, so much for equality. They can never match us. They can only rule us.
What am I thinking? She’s a baby. My baby. Love her. She’ll be a baby only for a while. Already two. One more year and she will change for the better. I hope. Hope is an elixir. Hope is the only way out. Sigh.
Checking FB can divert mind. Aargh, again the lady has posted thirty pics of her trip to Goa. Monotonous. Irritating. Why do you show off so much woman? There are people like me. Stuck to bed, baby, potty, hubby. Have mercy on us.
Scroll. Scroll. Boring stuff. Scroll. Scroll. She is a good writer. Can check her story. A masterpiece again. Why do I even dare to write? No, should rest my eyes. The brat is quiet now. Counting can help. 500, 499… no, will start from 1000.
Beep Beep Beep Beep. Hmmmm…. What? Already 7? Can’t be. Let me pull the rug and doze off till eternity.
Oh, whom am I kidding? Brat will be late for her playschool. Visiting washroom is a luxury. Shut up organs, you have a poor rating in the list of priorities. Wait.
Need to get to work.
Aah. The smell of brewing tea. Heaven. I’m awake now. Now some oats for her.
Time for daily Drama. The mushy porridge. Can’t really blame her. Baby food sucks. Time to call the man of the house. Oh, how he took the control. Love this man. A sudden glimpse of the old days. The two of us. Am I blushing?
Come back to present, you mom. Clock is ticking. Can’t let her tantrums win. Finally, the brat is ready. Adieu.
Ah, three chores engulfed, but heavenly hours now I have. Can enjoy my morning tea. A cup of cold drab liquid that is. Fate is rationing too much.
For breakfast, instant noodles will do. My savior. What did he say? Aloo paratha? Didn’t I just make it? Like only a month ago? Suit yourself Mr. Or brace yourself. You don’t want to mess with a tired mom of a menacing toddler.
God, how come he never finds his stuff? My toddler will grow up one day. But this man-child? Never.
A peck and adieu. The cyclone passed. Phew.
Oh, the post-war, battered house. Two more hours. I can manage.
Have to finish my story too. Why do I even write? Among those great writers’ roaring stories, I am like a puppy. And the prompt, ‘change the game in the very last line,’ who does think of such prompts? Isn’t my life already enough twisted?
My poor brain. Can’t even say talent has left the building. It just never entered.
Oh, one more hour is gone. The maid is as usual late. I, at times, genuinely envy her. I dance on her terms. She comes or not, she decides. Masters in Literature, MBA with HR, now only remain on papers.
Fifty minutes. No more playing with words. Need to clean the mess and get ready to bring the brat back. Run mommy run.
On time. Thank God. And there they are, the mommy gang. Until my girl comes, have to participate in their never-ending chitchat on the same topics.
The new type of facial.
Then the usual.
“My baby is a genius. He can sing rhymes too. And he is just two”.
“I have started collecting the brochures of big schools. It’s so hard to find a good school and crack the interview you know”.
“I have appointed a tutor for my li’l one”.
My, my! The race has begun and how?
God has mercy on these moms. Why do they push those poor little souls to become Einstein at this age? Ah, thank god. Here my brat comes. Take your time girl. Mommy is not gonna put you in a race.
Stop. Don’t run on the roads. God, she doesn’t miss a single opportunity to annoy me. Can’t be good with her even if I want to.
Oh, 11.30 in the night. The day just passed in a jiffy. God must have installed some invisible battery in her. Still dancing on the pillow. She just doesn’t get tired. Or is she? What did I see? A yawn? Have to grab that opportunity. Come here, girl.
Feeding… Feeding… Feeding…
Ah, nirvana. She is asleep. Bangles… careful. Breathe quietly. Lights off.
The back is badly aching. Shut up. Don’t complain. Now is the time to nurture the poor writer in me, hidden somewhere underneath the humongous responsibilities. Have to scribble the story.
Hmmm… the twist at the end…. Well, how about a baby who is a pure menace and becomes a saint at the end? Oh, that doesn’t even happen in fairy-tales. Shall I try a horror fiction this time? But, horror is so horrifying. And I’m so scared of ghosts. At 12:30 in the night, who wants to create horror?
A block. Black. Blank. Couldn’t write a single line.
I’m a failure. A failed mom who thinks her baby is nothing but a brat. A failed wife who can’t even make aloo paratha in breakfast. A failed homemaker who is overpowered by her maid. A failed writer who hardly finds time and ideas to scribble.
A hand on my shoulder. Oh, my man is standing behind. His warm hands wiped my tears. Finally, some solace in his embrace. Am I shivering? I am shivering as his arms circled me and I felt his breath. Then his soft wet lips.
“Love you girl. You and kiddo, you guys are my universe”, his words cascaded down through my ears into my soul.
I am blank. I am melting…. in love? Joy? Acceptance? Doesn’t matter. We mattered.
The feeling of failure disappeared.
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