Mom in the City , livre ebook

Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd. - Kausalya Saptharishi

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

119 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

When single working mother, Ira, enrolls her son, Abhi, at Bumblebees, a posh playschool in Lutyens' Delhi, little does she know what she is getting into. The other moms are everything she is not-impeccably groomed, couture-sporting fashionistas who 'do coffee' at trendy joints, throw lavish birthday parties for their children, and holiday in exotic locales. In her eagerness to befriend these hip moms, Ira inadvertently lets slip a lie about her marriage that could lead to her being ostracized from this clique. When the dashing Vasu comes back into her life, Ira asks him to pose as her 'fake' husband to help her save face before these women. But will her lie be found out? Will Ira and Vasu part ways or embark on a new beginning together? Replete with memorable characters, Mom in the City is an intimate, humorous, and poignant story about contemporary motherhood, love, and life in India. The first-of-its kind in the Indian mom-lit genre.

Informations

Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	02 septembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184004748
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0420€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Published by Random House India in 2013
Copyright Kausalya Saptharishi 2013
Random House Publishers India Private Limited Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, UP
Random House Group Limited 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road London SW1V 2SA United Kingdom
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author s and publisher s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
EPUB ISBN 9788184004748
With all my love and gratitude to my dearest Amma and Appa-the best parents in the world from whom I am still learning the meaning of sacrifice, faith, and unconditional love.
My darling son Antariksh-you are the best gift God has given me. Thanks for lighting up my world and making the beautiful journey called Motherhood immensely enjoyable and enriching.
One
A mmaaa! shrieks Abhi, almost making me swerve the car dangerously close to the road divider. I meet his twinkling eyes in the rear-view mirror and shake my head seriously. His chubby fingers are back to meddling with the toddler car seat harness, his tongue sticking out as he desperately tries to break free from the navy blue Graco. I drive on, hoping he won t succeed in unlocking the triplelocked, Made in Taiwan contraption that serves as a constant reminder of the suburban mom s life in New Jersey I d recently swapped for a vastly different one in New Delhi.
Abhi, no screaming when Amma is driving, I say in my firm mommy tone but he sees the hint of a smile twitching at my mouth corners and giggles like a spring brook. The morning sun casts a honey glow on Abhi s face, colouring his curls a deep bronze and gold. I catch my breath and marvel at this cherubic wonder for the millionth time. He is wearing his favourite red Mickey Mouse T-shirt and shorts after rejecting, with an ear-piercing tantrum, my more staid choice of a blue corduroy shirt and pants.
I give in to his sartorial demands, as I often do with most other things these days. It s the orientation programme at his playschool this morning and I want everything to go without a glitch. I wake up earlier than usual, shower, reply to emails, get Abhi ready, prepare his lunch, chase after him coaxing him to eat breakfast, go trigger-happy like the paparazzi for first-day-at-school photos, and finally wrestle him into the car seat for the ride to Bumblebees.
Vinnie Warsi, my slightly intimidating boss, who had recently brought in her sixtieth birthday at Bali with her girlfriends, was bemused that I would be so excited about Abhi starting playschool. Been there, done that, honey, she d flicked her Virginia Slims and shrugged. It s far more thrilling when you pack your kid off to college; that s when you get to hog the television, she d chortled, while I could only think as far ahead as training my almost two-and-a-half-year-old to aim his pee inside the commode.
I honk furiously at the black Innova in front for abruptly braking to a halt. After twelve years of driving on American roads, I am rapidly learning Delhi s roadside etiquette that also permits cussing till you are blue in the face, skipping red lights, and speeding like a tipsy, sleep-deprived maniac on the loose. I dismally wonder if I would ever get accustomed to driving here. Or stop comparing, ad nauseam, India s evils with America s virtues. It used to be the reverse when I was in the US.
Beep beep, yawns Abhi, gazing at the clogged-up traffic around us. He has momentarily forgotten his battle with the harness. The dashboard flashes 9 am in red. I crave for the cappuccino and velvety blueberry muffin that used to be my morning Starbucks staple when I was a single working girl in Washington, DC. Ah, those were the days when I still had a waistline and stayed up nights watching Saturday Night Live instead of changing soiled diapers. A rising cacophony of horns from behind makes me slam the pedal with such force that I startle Abhi. Sorry! I say to his wide-eyed expression in the mirror. Damn! I missed three seconds of the blessed green light. Two more traffic junctions to cross in this neverending rush hour nightmare.

I zoom into the parking lot in front of Abhi s playschool. Bumblebees is located in a tony and genteel neighbourhood of Lutyens Delhi where the lawns are always manicured and its residents are mostly elderly people who walk their pedigreed dogs in the mornings, read the day s papers at their apartment clubhouse and go to the nearby park for a leisurely stroll at sundown. Churchill Lane has an old-world charm to it, cocooned in a life cycle of its own and enviably cut off from the rushed existence plaguing less fortunate Delhiites. The ancient red brick apartment buildings look refreshingly quaint and mercifully untouched by the city s real estate developers who seem to have gone into a ruthless overdrive giving a broad-brushed facelift to the homes of Delhi s nouveau rich. Wherever I go, there is no escaping the tacky beige exteriors and cookie-cutter-style architecture dotting the crammed South Delhi landscape. In contrast, though desperately crying for a coat of paint, Churchill Lane s red brick fa ade, high arched entrances, and large white-framed windows tell stories of old money and a glorious colonial past. Tales abound of the famous personalities who have lived and died in these apartments with their cavernous rooms and high-ceilinged bathrooms that are double the size of your average Delhi living room. A recent article on Churchill Lane in Architecture Digest mentioned that some of its oldest residents are the descendants of an erstwhile royal family from Rajasthan and that the granddaughter of a renowned female playback singer from the golden era of Bollywood (who lives by herself in the complex) is grappling with early signs of dementia. A frail old lady with a mop of snow-white hair fixes her gaze on me from a window on the second floor. I can t help but wonder if she leads a lonely and miserable existence. I remember reading somewhere that not all of Churchill Lane s geriatric community lead the charmed life as described in books chronicling the city. There are those who have been abandoned by their children and left to age, along with the peeling walls and stately Ashoka trees that border the property like silent sentinels.
The minute I unstrap Abhi, he sprints towards the lawn glistening with morning dew. His face lights up on seeing the swings and slides next to a jacaranda tree in full bloom. They lie in a state of neglect, their paint chipped, with one of the swings broken. I would later learn that these had been thoughtfully installed by Churchill Lane s residents, anticipating visits from their grandchildren. However, they are now mostly used by the children from Bumblebees or by servants kids. I grab Abhi s hand and purposefully march across the lawn towards Bumblebees; his blue Snoopy schoolbag, his football-shaped water bottle, and my overstuffed handbag weighing on my shoulders.
Amma! Want shwinggg! Abhi shouts, his face scrunched with determination. Oh lord! I know that look. His large black eyes threaten to spill tears. I bend down and kiss him. The smell of baby soap mingled with that of freshly cut grass adds to the redolence in the July air, pregnant with the promise of rain.
Not now, sweetie. Later. Don t you want to have fun in your new school today? I say in my most placating tone, fun being the operative word. Abhi considers this for a moment and nods. I am relieved when he takes my outstretched hand without further protest. The last thing I want to deal with right now is a full-blown tantrum. From the corner of one eye, I see a swarm of well-dressed parents and their toddlers spilling out of their vehicles and making their way towards Bumblebees. The scene appears straight out of a TV soap commercial where everybody looks incredibly fresh and chirpy-attractive moms in chic Western wear and dapper dads who look ready to take on any boardroom in their pinstripe shirts and carefully pleated trousers. Abhi looks with interest at the spiffily attired children who are trying to wriggle out of their parents grasp to make a dash in the direction of the school gate. Had I known my generation of parents resembles Page 3 people, I would have paid more attention to my appearance. My faded kurti-that had once been a great Lajpat Nagar find-pales in comparison to the trendy capris, skinny legging jeans, tight tees, and well-cut body-hugging dresses that make these women look as if straight out of a Zara catalogue. I am tempted to go home, curl up with my child and read 101 Dalmatians to him.
But despite the super-thin and super-hot mommas around me, I m all knotted up inside with excitement and anticipation. After three gruelling months of scouting for a playschool with a difference for Abhi, I instinctively knew I had found the perfect one when I first stepped foot in Bumblebees. It is one of those rare finds in Delhi where escalating real estate prices make it next to impossible to run a school in as enchanting and classy a neighbourhood as Churchill Lane.
Bumblebees is a haven unto itself. It occupies the farthest corner in Churchill Lane and is fronted by an understated black wrought-iron gate with a stylish B looped around it. The school is a duplex-style, red brick structure that squats right in the middle of the property, loo