Marijuana and Me

When I was but a fledgling blog writer, I wrote a post telling people a little about myself, in which it found a mention that I like looking at fish swim. That fishes are my marijuana. Having never experienced the effects of the latter, I can use the word loosely, and feel happily cool about my choice of relaxation and a hallucinogen. I have no choice but to feel happily cool at this moment, because if I don’t, I won’t, since there are innumerable reasons for me to feel unhappily grumpy. One of them being that the parrot fish couple in our aquarium has lost not one, not two, but all of their 15,000 eggs. Another could be that I am shooting away this diaryesque post here instead of either translating a file, or cooking, or sitting with my mum or brushing my hair (it is 3 days overdue from my got-very-lucky weekly brushing). I am doing so, because I feel at the end of my tether.

Mothers are meant to be over-worked either in the body, or llll-./0mind, or both. I am one of the trillion exceptions. I am over-worked in my body, mind and soul. The only way out of it, it seemed this morning, was to indulge in a little, mindless marijuana of writing to you, reader. I feel my limbs relaxing already. It could be the very-sweet ginger tea, but I don’t care, as long as I am not only sipping it, but also the looking at these words form on my screen, releasing a little of this pent up frustration, this indescribable feeling of inability.

One of the parrots from my aquarium. Thought I’d introduce.

Inability. I can see your mind race with ideas to swiftly type down comments or mails about how it cannot be defined as inability. I know it isn’t. But it is my definition. Anything I do that is less than what I can is my inability. And since I can improve the quality of my routine existence, there is much more to do. I feel so overwhelmingly inadequate on the days there is a freelance work to send. Even when things are functioning as well as they can under the circumstance, I perish all chances of relaxing and go on to batter everyone and everything in my way to panic and rushedness, including my old, very-missed calm. Consequently, my work suffers, the people around me suffer, my little baby doesn’t suffer, but she could’ve had better. My inability to be as efficient as I was earlier is only a small part of this confused agitation. Another aspect is that even as I am struggling with the daily demands on my time, energy, love and understanding, I want to sit down and write. I imagine myself sitting somewhere quiet, and writing, and feeling every bit of this darned tension getting released from my body. But it doesn’t happen. Largely because during Bela’s waking hours I am either with her, or translating, or cooking or carrying out hopelessly insufficient measures to bring some order to my shabby home, thinking all the while that all I want is to go to my daughter, while my mother or my husband take care of her. And during her sleeping hours, I am doing the same, except taking that chance to take a nap, too. Where does the time to write come?

It came this way today, when I gave up everything and just began writing, forgetting everything, including the endless list of drafts in my Dashboard. I am back again after 3 hours. Bela woke up,  I spent some time with her, all the while fretting that I had to deliver professionally rendered work, delivered (hopefully) professionally rendered work, ate (hallelujah!), saw Bela doing her Bela things while my mother was actually participating in them, prayed that Bela went to sleep, and after she’s gone to sleep, I am back here, typing garble.

Since I am a new mother, I am not sure this happens to every one of us, but I suspect it does in one way or the other. But we look so cheerful and happy and in-control. It might be because of our Mini Me babies, reflecting a lot or a little of us. That can be relaxing, too. Very relaxing. When I look at my baby’s face lighting up soon as she sees me, nothing else matters — not writing, not money, not a pee-visit. I suppose there isn’t anything to complain about except my state of mind.

And that’s where the churning cogwheels stop and take a deep breath, and say, “Oh yeah!”

The job of a mindful mind is to let the heart relax enough to allow it (the mind) to feel. There is bound to be an imbalance somewhere in this very tricky and ill-conceived situation. Funnily, unlike other ill-conceived inventions, this one doesn’t come with an antidote. At least not a universal one. All you can do is to keep fretting and yelling and doing what-finally-makes-you-bang-the-door-shut until the sound of that bang makes your mind find your heart’s marijuana.







Note: The blue letters in the middle are what Bela wants to say to you. I suspect she meant something like, “Hey, you!” And they are in blue, because it is her favourite colour.

10 thoughts on “Marijuana and Me”

  1. It’s the hardest thing in the world to be totally responsible for another human being, caring for their physical and emotional needs, and continually adjusting to their gradual growth. The fact that you feel at the end of your tether is not the thing to focus on, but rather the fact that you continue to do whatever must be done — even while dangling at the end of your tether.

    Please tell Bela I said “Hey, you!” (In blue.)

    But what happened to all those fish eggs?

    1. I have a feeling she’d have liked “Hey, yourself!” better. In blue.

      My internet research tells me that fertile eggs become infertile because of the conditions of the aquarium. That is largely responsible for it. Not all are supposed to hatch, anyway, I think. We watched as the clear eggs turned pink one by one every day. And then, one day, they were all gone, probably eaten by the fish. It later occurred to me that I could have removed the rock on which the eggs were laid, and put it in a different aquarium. But the parents would’ve been frantic!

  2. Reading about how your daughter made you feel good, reminded me about something that happened a little while back.

    Kids usually hate me… so I was pleasantly surprised when the little girl who lives one storey above us asked in the most innocent childish voice ‘didi kaan hai’. I looked outside and she immediately fell silent. I went back in, and she repeated her question. It was as if she was playing hide n seek. It really made me feel good.

    I hope the fishes are coping well with their loss… hope you feel a little more relaxed… and I hope Bela won’t cry if I said Hi…

    1. That’s lovely. I was awkward with children. I remember once pinching a particularly nasty one. Sure enough, she went and told her mother “Didi ne chyunti kati!”. Having become a mother has improved my child-skills considerably. If you’ve been able to attract a little girl so much before that, congratulations! Enjoy.

      I am feeling more relaxed, Kasturika. Thank you. Bela says hey to you! With a big smile.

  3. No babies in my life, but my experience of caring for my mother as she came to the end of her life gave me some insight into the complexities and frustrations of your days. My wisdom on the matter? Do what you can do, and not what you can’t.

    Love the blue letters! Say hi to Bela. If you can speak in green, that would be good. That’s my favorite color.

    1. I am only doing what I can do, Linda. I suppose I begin to compare the panache and poise of people around me, who already have kids either old enough to clean their own poop, hence giving their parents the time to clean the muck they create at home. I haven’t been a neat and tidy person. After Bela was born, my desire to keep my nest clean has become a necessity. Since this is precisely the time, when I cannot be doing everything, I feel frustrated. And the fact that my dear husband is a lost case when it comes to moving a finger to do anything, I become furious. So.

      But I’ve got my marijuana! Yippie! And I said that in green, because it’s one of my favourite colours, too. Orange and yellow being the other two.

  4. How strong your need to write, to communicate; it rises above all the other terribly compelling things that scream for attention, and in doing that writing and communicating you somehow find your base and earn a bit of tranquility. It is a form a magic…for you and for us lucky ones who get to read your magic.

    1. The terribly compelling things are loud when they scream, Linda. And I usually shut them up by obliging them. This urge to write is a polite one. She whispers until I can’t help but mollycoddle her a little.
      Thank you for all your words and concern. 🙂

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