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Out of India
Published: Verve Magazine, Features, April 2012
It’s best if your kids get trained on home ground to face the intricacies of a splashy European holiday, as you travel in season with the jet setters of the world. But while tossing around the Mediterranean waves, are Indian kids missing out on knowing their own turf, asks Sitanshi Talati-Parikh
It took a leisurely Sunday brunch conversation at Café Zoe, a new Manhattan-style eatery in South Mumbai – exposed brick, metal beams et al – to remind us of what makes an Indian Summer. For those without school-going children, vacations are all about nipping off to the next hotspot all year round. Children tend to make social lives non-existent and travel plans seasonal. In my time, childhood summer vacations expanded into long sunny and muggy days of reading, swimming, learning tennis; the lucky ones travelling to Disney World or coral sighting around the Reef, catching spring on one end and autumn on the other. Now, with the advent of the International Baccalaureate educational system (IB) – prudently adopted by the crème de la crème schools of the country – the concept of a summer vacation (matching the international breaks around June-July) if not travelling abroad, would be incredibly difficult days of watching the rain pelt away and probably kicking around some slimy mush.
No sensible parent would make the mistake of keeping the kids homebound during these difficult months. And so, as a matter of course, summer breaks have changed dramatically to be Riviera cruising or Tuscany villa-bathing. Indians and their little tots are quite in with the European jet set, hopping onto a chartered yacht for a soiree or catching a rave in Ibiza after the kids are snoozing. Not surprisingly, the IB system fits in beautifully with the LV-armed maternistas’ (mothers who are fashionistas or even simply, yummy mummies) idea of a chic vacation. The Far East is suitable for a quick turn during Easter, Europe and its many sophisticated charms make for a cultural rendezvous in the summer break, and Latin America and its mysterious Incas and Brazilian parades fit in quite neatly during Christmas and New Year.
The world is the child’s oyster and you may actually counter: for someone who must surely play a part in global politics of the future in some capacity, is it not important to start the education young? To that effect, it might just be ideal to switch Sunday brunches from chilli cheese dosa to whole-wheat apricot pancakes. From the local Udipi guy to Pali Village Café. Ironically, what we New Age Indians love about these new café hotspots is their intrinsic non-Indianness. You find yourself celebrating the escape from what is India into a safe haven of faux cobblestones, rustic interiors and Latino soundtracks. In any case, it is wise to alter their (the children’s) taste buds to suit the vacation spots, for most ease of use. After all, no self-respecting Burberry mum will allow for her child to demand dal-chawal in Marbella. Popularised by Zoya Akhtar’s 2011 film Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara, children look forward in tangy anticipation to the La Tomatina festival in Bunõl as a wonderful cultural experience to whet an appetite for a freshly stomped meal. It’s not surprising then, that there’s an unnatural buzz in the air about Starbucks finally coming to India this year and Australian coffee house Di Bella making its foray into desi turf. Does one actually expect those little Gucci shoes to prance into a genuinely unpainted local Iranian café when there is an option of a peppermint frappuccino in a Christmas-carol touting, chicly hand-painted coffee shop?
The kids are wonderfully globalised, with curios for their rooms from every part of the world, and possibly a cultural hangover which can be passed off as jet lag. It is unlikely that Mount Abu or Meenakshi fit into the grand scheme of things, unless it’s a part of a school field trip. India is exactly that – a field trip, quite like going to the zoo or bird sanctuary or a museum: to be looked at with wonder, noted for a history or sociology class. You turn away with the first roots of cynicism as you wonder why our monuments can’t be as nicely kept as the ones we see abroad. You come away with a sense of loss and a protective distaste for the sights and smells of the country that will possibly stay with you a lifetime. The same smells that writers of the diaspora sigh about dreamily form a noxious accent to the lives of those who live here. Would we want our children to grow up fondly reminiscing about the urea-scented trips to the Elephanta caves, when they could deliberate on the Mona Lisa’s mystical smile over a Parisian pain au chocolat?
As it turns out, India is merely an option – or more rightly, Indianness is merely an option. It’s like a home menu that reads: Thai Monday, Mexican Tuesday, Italian Wednesday, Indian Thursday and Hibachi grill Friday. It’s not just about the food; it’s about looking at an Indian life. Cosmopolitan India is about rapidly assimilating the lifestyle of the world and making the city more palatable. It is no longer the expats who crave a Chilean sea bass and hop across to their local gourmet restaurant. It is the Indian who craves something regularly non-Indian to make him stay sane in a city that exhausts him with its grey clouds of monotony. If you can’t live abroad, at least the proverbial ‘Chef’ Mohammed can bring ‘abroad’ to your neighbourhood. There may have been a time when Indians just wanted to be cool and try new things. Today, Indians want international flavour with a sense of permanence. Indianness is merely chutney on the Mediterranean focaccia: in turn, layered, dipped into, hidden or wiped away.
Maybe in spirit, a city-dweller is a restless species, an eternal traveller, one who is looking for escape from home before he returns home. Maybe we just need to slow down: the pace of the city – with our always-online work, rapid-fire social connections perpetually drain us, and we need to be recharged often if not sooner. Our children face it from the word ‘Go’ – with their language classes for six-month-olds, baby gyms for nine-month-olds, and birthday parties every alternate day. Maybe it is a genetic illness we are passing along in growing measures down generations – that we can’t quite stop planning the next getaway before the first break has ended. It keeps the adrenalin pumping, keeps up the excitement to land at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport (or your own desi equivalent) with a spring in your step, just brimming with the knowledge that soon you’ll be back here, taking off to another place of intrigue.
An acquaintance points out that her sister has spent five years in the coolest, hippest, buzziest city in the world – New York, and yet, can’t wait to get away occasionally. So maybe it is less that we tire of India and more that we tire in general. It’s just that when we do get weary, we look far away for solace – wine country, beaches of Croatia…. What’s wrong with a neatly reworked heritage place – think Neemrana – in the nostalgic Matheran of our own childhood to build the memories of our children’s youth? As the desis would say it – though I doubt they would be couture (kosher) – ‘Culture ka culture ho jayega, aur holiday ka holiday.’
Baby's Week Out
Published: Verve Magazine, March 2010
Illustration by Farzana Cooper
Singapore – the destination everyone’s been to. Repeatedly. With children in tow. Sitanshi Talati-Parikh keeps a diary of her eventful trip to baby-friendly Singapore with her eight-month-old – where things turn out not quite as they were meant to be
Day 1: Mumbai baggage
It’s a packer’s nightmare. You start by making a list. Until you realise that you could go on adding to-dos, but you may still forget something. And then you start hyperventilating. You take a really deep, shaky breath and realise – ‘Oh big deal – it’s Singapore. They have everything.’ As an intrepid traveller, I’ve battled my roots to attempt to travel light. No longer is it about, ‘What if I need this very pair of understated Anne Klein pumps over the glitzy Nine West ones?’ I am now confronted with packing for an eight-month-old infant. Her suitcase is nearly as big as I am. I’ve called ahead and asked our hotel to organise sterilisers, bottle warmers, baby cot, baby bathtub and stroller…but even so, as a friend once shrugged and said, “You want to travel with a baby, you can forget about travelling light.” And I’ve only taken one pair of shoes – the one on my feet.
Day 1: Flights and bassinet seats
The flight is uneventful, relatively speaking. My darling child dutifully falls asleep in my arms, soon after take-off, I gently put her into the bassinet in front of me. I’m just about to loosen my stiff limbs and try to settle in for a nap, when there is a slight rumble and the harried air hostess requests me firmly, ignoring my appalled expression, to remove the child from the bassinet due to anticipated air turbulence. Baby sets off a heart-wrenching wail at being disturbed from her deep sleep. I shush and rock her back to sleep over the next 45 minutes and hold her in my arms for the hours until we reach, setting off cramps in muscles I didn’t know existed. That’s the eventful part.
Day 2: Singapore and strollers
Landing in Singapore, I smile in the early morning light, dreaming of organic baby food, chic baby-friendly restaurants and malls with comfortable baby-changing stations. I already know that the city is organised around strollers – making it a piece of cake to walk around the wide pavements. Except…when your hotel accesses the main walkway through an underpass. So, I need to lug Baby and stroller down a flight of stairs, walk, and then up another flight of stairs to reach the pedestrian street. Oh no! How many times would I have to do this every day? I spy the biggest Zara on Oxford and a Starbucks right next to it. I can already see many happy hours spent between the two. Both are accessible via a flight of stairs. I’m not really into this lugging-the-stroller-up-to-shop-and-sip thing. I turn away with a sinking heart.
Day 3: The Great Singapore Sale and diapers
Of course, I have unwittingly chosen an optimum time of the year to pop into the city – at the end of the Great Shopping Festival – which means that all the malls are sickeningly busy and crowded, and waiting for the elevator to traverse floors means waiting forever. So Baby is now getting accustomed to travelling at an incline. The stroller is angled onto the escalator, with a bemused toddler strapped in.
I make a beeline for the nearest store to buy all the required baby things. From grocery store to medical store to convenience chain, each shrugs and points to the next one. I find myself amazed. My part of Orchard Street is completely sold out on Pampers’ diapers in Baby’s size. Apparently, every child in Singapore is a size medium. Good Lord, help me find diapers.
Day 4: Jurong Bird Park and lorries
At Jurong Bird Park, Baby discovers the lorries. Startlingly awake from her afternoon nap (as we sweat up and down the park route driving the stroller and a sleeping Baby), she is thrilled to see them squawking away, flying in and perching on our hands and eating off our palms. She laughs and claps her hands at the sheer number of them, gurgles at the happy swish of colours.
Day 5: High chairs and changing stations
If there’s anything that Singapore should get full marks for, it’s the fact that any and every restaurant, even the tiniest coffee shop, will have a high chair. It makes it seem that children are wanted and are meant to be assimilated into the culture and not to be left home, like in India. While shopping for Baby on the fifth floor of Paragon, we take a break at the café nearby. It is also possibly the only one in Singapore without a high chair. A tad ironic, seeing that it is located in the children’s section of the mall!
After a run on the toy train at the play area, I walk smugly to the fancy diaper-changing station. I know this is going to be easy. What I haven’t accounted for is that Baby isn’t taking very well to being placed flat on a cold hard surface for her least favourite moment of the day. She sets off a massive howl that scares the daylights out of the ladies around. I don’t dare imagine what is running through their minds. I move away from the sophisticated station and prop myself onto a sofa and try to change her on my lap. There goes convenience. Not pleased at being huddled about, Baby doesn’t stop shrieking until she’s sitting up. I manage to pacify her with Olivia the Owl – her new best friend procured from the toy store nearby.
Day 6: Tiffany’s lullabies and the many colours of Sephora
I’ve worked out a great schedule based on where I want to shop and eat, so that Baby gets her sleep and meals bang on time. But as I cut through Takashimaya, right outside the understated bling of Tiffany’s, Baby suddenly wants to get out of her stroller and into my arms to sleep. I can’t sing lullabies to her in front of Tiffany’s with a straight face! Finding a quiet niche, I settle her in and tuck her into the stroller. As I quickly make my way to my target, Sephora, she’s up and awake dazzled by the colours and jarred by the music in the store. How will I ever shop here?
Day 6: Dancing rainbows at Clarke Quay
We set off for a quick evening meal at the lively waterside. Baby is quite well behaved, checking out the happenings. How perfect it all is! I excitedly prop open the newly acquired, organic, European baby porridge. I see to my horror that the food won’t mix, it’s coagulating and poor Baby is valiantly trying to chew with distaste. I distract her with the dancing colour water fountains in quiet desperation.
Day 6: Designer indecisions
No one goes shopping in Singapore without returning with a few prized designer goods. Some, like the Verve stylists, pre-decide what they have their eyes set on. For me, it would be impulse buys. My indecision leads me to make the walk back and forth between Prada and Miu Miu – which means Baby comes along for the ride. If only she could help me choose…but she seems content to sit back and listen to the muted music in the stores and eye the expressionless Japanese lady buying six pairs of shoes. A people-watcher, already.
Day 7: Night-time margaritas
Taking a taxi to grab dinner at Margaritas is totally worth it. Great Mexican food and ambience and enough wall paintings to keep Baby busy while I wolf down that enchilada, washing it back with the restaurant’s signature drink. From express dim sum lunches to fine-dining Thai, Baby has settled well into high-chair eating, but doesn’t quite master the patience bit, wreaking sweet havoc with the silverware and table mats. A shoe falls off, a spoon goes tinkling down, a fork spears the tiles, paper napkins find themselves arranged at floor level and a mischievous grin keeps you from tearing your hair out.
And then you take a sneak peak around – other children are equally busy self-entertaining themselves, and the only glances in our direction are indulgent ones. That’s what makes Singapore baby-friendly. Not the availability of baby food and diapers (or not), but the fact that they get it – what it means to be a parent who wants to eat a nice meal out and doesn’t want to leave Baby behind. And for those who do, most hotels in the city offer baby sitters.
Baby levellers
To save time, we chose, on the spur of the moment, to go to the local park nearby instead of our country club. By we, I mean hubby, baby and I. As we got out of our chauffer-driven car, assembled our one-touch baby travel system in front of curious eyes and strolled into the park, I could see what a picture we made. Designer shades, sundress, chi chi baby outfit...it felt incongruous among the many who strolled along people-watching by the sea. As I reached forward to wipe some baby drool, I looked up and met the eyes of a simple, sari-clad lower-middle-class lady, who was resting her feet at a nearby park bench. She had a baby tucked into the crook of her arm.
There would be many differences between the upbringing of that child and mine, largely those material in nature - those of opportunities. And yet they looked peaceful. Flashback to a conversation with a few new mothers, who spoke in feverish agony about the sorry state of schools in the city - the horrendous situation of demand and supply, where their kids may not make it to the best schools, may have to do with second tier and even then wheedle their way in. How different is life for a person with means and one without? Both often need to snatch opportunites and push to get in - just to different places. One believes that the best is a basic right, the other hopes that somewhere along the way a better life may appear.
What is a better life? A bigger classroom, a fancy school bus, a posh car, smarter teachers? Life itself is a great teacher and sometimes, we forget the most basic of lessons. We are all born with the right to live. How we choose to live is a complex twist of fate, luck and opportunity. Motherhood can't be that different across the board - every baby will poop, cry and laugh while learning to crawl. Possibly one will poop in the comfort of Pampers and soft linen and soundless airconditioning. But at the end of the day, each process remains the same. Their self-worth should be independent of the qualtity of their lives, rather should depend upon their desire to be someone.
Can the two be separated? Aren't we constantly defining ourselves by our ability to attract wealth and power and the symbols of such derivates? I believe a society's material image emerges from the "best" that we want to give our children. We believe that a fluffy eiderdown will make a better person or human being, when maybe a hard bed is what is required. (I don't mean that one should make a child suffer the rigours of life when there is no need to.) The fancy trappings are - if we admit it - for ouselves. To make ourselves feel better about being parents. In our desire to provide the best, we often create the worst. A society of weakening self-worth. All children need love, affection and food. The rest is - as the word states - immaterial.
The Mad Maid Brigade
The moment the world discovered I was expecting, the most common and oft-asked question was, “Have you got help? Have you found a maid?” Apparently, maid-less in Mumbai equals having no life.
It’s trite that on my sabbatical I would be reduced to writing about baby maids, but there is a point to the rant. Pritish Nandy’s recent column on the greed of people (A Nation of Banias) echoes what I have been thinking for the past few weeks. There is something strange happening to the world of working people – and that defines our new middle class. The best comparison is to the maid market.
At a recent evening tete a tete, a friend advised me about a maid, Suvidha, affectionately known as Su, who is magical with babies, but just needs to be given a sense of importance. “Without you, I am nothing – you are my whole and soul, you make my world go around….” These words must be in effect repeated often to the said maid, to ensure that she sticks around. Or there’s Deepali, who came from a Calcutta bureau to take care of Baby, began fighting with the entire family after a fight she had with someone one the phone (love gone bad?), slammed doors around the sleeping baby, banged Baby’s legs, shook her head when holding her, and made her wail no end. We happily bought her return ticket and couldn’t wait to see her go. Another day maid, Sushma, lied about her hours of work on the very first day – because she got a call for another night job. So, she planned to abscond early, go home take care of her kids and then run a full night duty elsewhere. So when would she sleep? Would she manage a baby on no rest? Valentina, came with references and a well-stamped passport. She had just flown down from Switzerland the night before, and after touring much of Schengen world, was looking for a job that would take her to greener pastures yonder. Another claimed to be a governess, she wouldn’t clean, she would play with the baby. So was the mother supposed to clean while the governess played? Another one called Deepa came with emotional baggage from a bad childhood and child marriage (scary stuff), but touted working at ‘big houses’, name dropped and spoke about how she would work where there were at least 3 maids handling one baby. The mother would watch or party. Not used to being responsible, she brought with her a boisterous temperament, mood swings and a dollop of immaturity an carelessness. Another young girl hopped onto a train from Calcutta, begging and pleading for a job (she had no experience) because she needed the money. And then there was Manu, dear Calcutta Manu, who spoke about perfumes, matching nail polish, gold jewellery, mobile phones and air tickets.
And all of them have one thing in common – they are interviewing you. You may well please yourself thinking you are maid shopping or looking for the right fit, but there really isn’t much in your hands – they are house-hunting (size does matter), and will take the call depending upon the wealth, material comforts and perks offered by the house. Not only have their salaries tripled, as a prerequisite, they want to be provided with additional help for themselves – watch them boss over the rest of the household-, a mobile phone, jewellery, perfume, saris, the same quality soaps and such as used by the mother, air tickets to be ferried back and forth from their home as and when they please, frequent and fancy trips (preferably abroad, but if in India then exotic places only). And only the best must be used for Baby – they even judge you on the brands of products and appliances you use. “The one from ‘foreign’ is the best didi. Don’t use ‘local’ – ask someone to bring it for you.” If you can’t provide any of the above, you are on probation. They also want to know how many people in your house, what age group, what kind of child (temperament and such) and how often the child wakes at night. As 27-year-old Deepa openly said, “I am looking to buy a house in Calcutta. I give myself five years in Mumbai – and am looking around for the perfect house to spend those five years in, before I make my move back.” She also (two days into work) yells at the household help (who’ve been around decades) to keep the noise down, buy a pressure cooker that makes no noise, and in effect ensure that she gets ‘rest’ since she’s been so baby-busy. Surprising, when she sleeps more than the mother.
At the end of the day, you need to market your house, family and child to them, to lure them into staying; and thereafter begins the rat race to keep them happy. If you suggest a method to the madness of keeping your baby clean, happy and peaceful, they take objection and feel insulted. Of course they know better what is best for your baby. Even if they have just arrived the previous day. If you think otherwise, and dare to show it, they walk.
I’m told, maids have certain predefined lines: if they have scoped the scene and don’t wish to work there, they invent an excuse of a cold (so they can’t be around Baby) and beg off time to start. They then disappear. Or, if they’ve worked with you, they speak about their child’s wedding so that they can get you to gift them stuff like gold or money.
Also, they are trying to one-up the mother. They think it is a job well done if the baby responds to them rather than the mother. Deepa proudly told me, “The baby would eat from my hand only. If the mother fed her, she would turn away and look for me. The mother begged me to stay, to not leave, for the sake of her baby; but I couldn’t handle her mother-in-law’s interference any more. It was a perfect place, otherwise. So I moved on. And yet, I love children – I’m very attached to all of them. I got so much love there.” See the irony there? From all the gossiping (read: bitching or showing off) about other houses these maids are wont to do (annoyingly in the middle of burping or putting Baby to sleep), you realize that there is a trend of women, who quit nursing, who want to get back to their own lives and who then become highly dependent on their hired help. It gives the help an unhealthy sense of importance, and the effect on the child is something for another blog post. But who’s to judge a parent’s choices?
One realizes that a woman resuming normal life after motherhood is as good as her hired help. Does that mean that we must join the race to keep the maid? At what stage do we succumb to the insanity that has become a part of the child-upbringing-world? As I shopped for maids (or so I thought) a friend remarked, getting someone to help you get a maid is worse than getting a friend to help you with a guy you’ve both fallen for. No one likes to share maid numbers, what if they need someone too? Demand exceeds supply and people tenaciously and jealously guard their maids (from poaching) and refuse to give out any information, lest they may need one in the future.
It has given rise to the Bureaus. Whether they are formalizing a system for the better or leading to a lot of issues, is yet to be seen. These are offices of great self-importance, they run a maid delivery system based on the insane demand and take commission on every placement. Some even ask for a non-refundable registration fee up front and then keep you on your toes, calling them for a maid – a few times a day, everyday. There are contracts, they interview you, they check YOUR credentials…there are even scams galore, eating into the desperation of harassed new parents. And what do you know about the women who are given access to your home and child? Who knows where they have been, what they are carrying, what issues they are harbouring? Suvarna, my local masseuse maid points it out – “You need someone you can trust, bhabhi. We know the local maids, who knows about these bureau ones? You know what the world is like, nowadays….”
A few days of the runaround, and I gave up. I believe there be a greater joy and more peace in raising your child yourself, rather than having the stress of finding the right help. So what if it leaves you knee-deep in diapers and burp cloths? Parenting is all about learning the ropes the hard way. That’s how nature intended it. Maybe that’s the way it’s meant to be. And besides, I hear it's uber cool to be managing Baby yourself, having a maid take care of Baby is so not nuclear-21st-century-gobalista.
Delivering on Expectations
So, I just realised that my last post, about expectancy and waiting was written on the day I went into labour. Little did I know then, what to expect. It may sound cliched, but a saying posted on route to Bandra from SoBo: "A child gives birth to a mother" is actually so true. I may have given birth to a lovely little baby girl, but she has changed me from that moment on in ways I can't describe. Never actually being heavy on the maternal gene-thing, there is sudden shift when you hold your own child in your arms, and feel her take a breath of air, open her eyes and try to focus at the world around. It should be an experience every woman should experience once. As you watch her form actions, movements and expressions, you find yourself and your husband reflected in her - she closes her eyes like him, she sleeps like him, she looks like me.... It is like a part of you has begun existing independently - and all the rigours of mothering a newborn seem immaterial in the face of such wonder. It takes nine months to create a baby, and nine seconds to create a mother. She takes bits and pieces of you and forms a personality and persona of her own. An entire person with a full life ahead of her.
Expectations of Expectancy
Nine months later, it seems a distant memory finding out that you are pregnant - bringing in a child to this world. After all the range of emotions you go through - if you are not one of those girls-just-waiting-to-be-a-mom, you really do go through mental, physical and emotional upheavals. At no stage is it easy, but definitely there comes a time when you can actually feel a sudden shift and your mind says, admits - "it's all worth it." Suddenly priorities change, people around you change and your thinking changes. I'm guessing it's a different experience for every expectant mother, but though I always believed I lacked a maternal gene, or thought I would never really get it, there came a time - surprisingly - when I did get it. I got how cool the whole deal is - building a little human, watching it grow - limbs, fingers, toes, organs, systems, spinal cord, brain, features… and to think your body is capable of doing all of that! While intellectually we know it, to actually feel it as a process is an entirely different feeling. When your baby starts moving inside, and you feel life forming, you want to hold onto that feeling. It's surprising how quickly you get used to it all - carrying the baby, feeling the movements…it becomes something you often don't even think about. One of nature's most basic processes, and it is a marvel how efficiently the system works all on it's own to get it all done. And then it all boils down to the last few weeks, days, hours, when you wait to actually meet the baby you've created face to face. There is impatience, there is trepidation, there is anxiety and there is a whole lot of excitement. And are there expectations? Possibly a lot - expectation that your child will be everything that you are dreaming it will, expectations of those around you. That's a heavy load for a little tot! Possibly why I am not a fan of the term 'expectant mom' -- it's like you're waiting to fulfill expectations. When you should be waiting to simply add a positive burst of energy into the world.
One baby, Lonely baby, Two baby...Um, Population control?
So the latest buzz I've been hearing is that people should never be that cruel and have just one child. (I know, all you smart people worried about population control and all associated evils are probably asphyxiating right now, but hold on, it gets worse). So, you should ALWAYS have more than one child - why? - get this: so that your first baby "doesn't get lonely." It's apparently just plain cruel to put your child through that kind of torture. I can't even begin to start on how many things are just plain wrong about that. First, if you bring your child up right and he/she has enough things to do and hopefully enough friends, why in the frigging world would (s)he get lonely? Being an only child I really don't recall feeling any moment of regret getting exactly what I wanted, and feeling a sense of responsibility for being the only child.
That brings me to ridiculous reason no. 2: 'When we have lotsa children, we ensure that they will be around to take care of us in the future.' Ahem. Red alert - most kids fight over who shouldn't take care of the parents, and try to steer clear of duty as much as possible. And with more people living all over the world (not in the farm that these thoughts seem to be stuck in), who's to say any of the 15 kids will be around to man the parent's problems? In fact, if it's just one child, (s)he knows that his/her responsibility from day 1 and works towards it.
Hell, it's a selfish world, but don't be selfish by killing the world's resources and taxing everyone by wanting to provide entertainment and fight-club company for your kid. In fact, the more crowded the world is, the less likely your kid is to have a chance to do something or even have a good quality of life - and heck with overpopulation, (s)he gets his pick of company!!
Sure, I don't deny that having a sibling is special, the bond is special and irreplaceable, but is it worth it in the long run? If every parent in the world thought this way, what in the world would the world's population look like? Forget the world, just think India. I mean we do have some form of civic responsibility, right? Or should we all stop thinking about the consequences of our actions and just let the world go to rot? Or wait, that's IS exactly what we're doing anyway - for everything else!
At the end of the day, it is entirely a parent's choice, but what bothers me is when they make important choices that affect people around them based on inane reasoning. God help us and the children we seem to be so heartily planning for!
Trust-fund Trysts
Published: Verve Magazine, Musings, December 2009
Oh how we long to be young! Ironically, the young long to be mature and sophisticated. Mud wrestles and creamy cakes are not child-friendly anymore – the quotient has been upped with designer parties, kiddie spas and island hopping on private jets. The one-upmanship is like parental roulette and the trust-fund babies hold the strings to throwing a mean party, Russian circus et al, finds SITANSHI TALATI–PARIKH
I COME FROM THE ERA OF BRIGHT balloons, candy floss, Goriawala’s chocolate cake and deliciously buttery Camy wafers. It sounds like a cliché, but I don’t know where in the space of two decades childhood became a cliché and sophisticated maturity became the new youth buzzword. Recently, at a Verve A-lister party, I was amazed to see that these Chanel-bearing, Choo-tapping and Vuitton-wearing younglings (under 25, mind you) carried themselves with an air that made them out to be well beyond their years. They eyed the paparazzi through the fringes of their long masacara-ed lashes, simpered and smiled, posed and pirouetted with feline grace. I was almost embarrassed to think back to the gauche teenager I used to be. Carrie and Samantha – the ultimate echelons of style and sophistication – shared my concern in Sex and the City. Where the Hamptons are taken over by beer-spouting kids and ‘grassy’ romps on the beach, childhood has entirely gone to pot. Besides ruminating on questions like ‘where has the childhood gone?’ and ‘why must everyone be in such a tearing hurry to grow up?’ we arrive at the things people are doing to grow up super fast.Ever heard of the ‘sparty’? Let’s take it a step further, ever heard of a ‘sparty’ for eight-year-old divas? So, you pick a cool spa like Rudra, Myrah or your favourite deluxe hotel, pack off the little pretty-somethings for a day of relaxation and detoxification – because of course education can be so stressful nowadays. Primping and softening the tresses, pedicures and manicures, will have them looking the best for their play dates. It’s a fabulous way for the little girls to bond and create lasting friendships. After all, every girl worth her bath salt knows that the secrets shared at the most vulnerable – attending to the most exquisite feminine rituals – are secrets that will last a lifetime.That’s probably still rather tame compared to having an entire Russian circus troupe flown in for a birthday – I mean you can’t get more global than that. But then, Raj Kapoor was a trendsetter in many ways – though the poor chap may be turning over in his grave at the thought of the fresh age group his ideas now cater to. So custom-made Hello Kitty invitations-and-theme-parties probably don’t stand a chance against a Russian circus, but then what are the less fortunate to do?Pyjama parties – sleepovers – are still in, apparently. It always helps to read the updated fine print – because you might find your knickers in a twist when you realise that sleepovers come with a spanking new avatar. I may have studied at a co-educational school, but believe me, my mother would have not stood for mixed-sex sleepovers without parental control (she probably wouldn’t have stood for it even with parental control). The buzz is in on a recent sleepover of seven-year-old boys and girls at a premium luxury hotel: a heavy-duty suite booked to accommodate the growing demands of the kids, who probably enjoyed an out-of-control and slightly racier version of not-so-Home-Alone part deux. I’m guessing they weren’t just painting toenails, or is that just me?For the concerned parents who prefer chaperoned luxe, they are careful to plan a trip for the mommies as well as their darlings – all flown out to an exotic locale – logistically preferably to a nearby country, like Koh Samui, in Thailand – to bring in the birthday of their special little someone amid Thai massages and palate-stinging curries. To be honest, however, birthday bashes at luxury hotels are passé unless they happen to be an entire island – secluded and completely private. American reality show Paradise Hotel comes alive with a private jet flying the closest friends of the 16-and-18-year-olds to the Vivanta Coral Reef (by Taj), Maldives – the latest hip resort perfect for the swish set to unwind with tantalising curry Martinis. The new avatar of the resort sits well with those willing to party hard rather than just sunbathe. The long weekend is sunny and bright: with a private cruise liner floating around, just waiting to be boarded and there is no better way to get the perfect tan that will be flaunted when back in the city.iPhone-wielding kids in the age group of four-10 are generally used to being cajoled with TAG Heuer watches and Mercedes cars – because toys and books just don’t cut it anymore. BlackBerry phones are the order of the day for the busy eight-year-olds because they can always get a ‘BlackBerry thumb’ massage to release the stress from their little fingers at a ‘sparty’ later. And the outfits are chosen with determined precision and care – a pre-planned outing to Emporio in Delhi (or the equivalent in your urban centre) is required to make the spectacularly difficult decision between a chic Moschino and Marc Jacobs outfit for the little one who has about a decade to go before her debut into haute society.So it is not exactly surprising that these kids as teenagers frequent hip nightclubs for their exclusive private parties – tables booked, champagne flowing, and an open tab running – where the kids I’ve seen, look no older than 12. Okay, they’re probably 14 or 15. Where celebratory escapades to Alibaug homes, on daddy’s private jets to Jaipur, Goa beach houses and Ibiza raves are the flights of fancy, I’m guessing this is the point where parents stop being too concerned about their ‘naïve’ kids taking a wrong turn when headed abroad – like making headway during Spring Break at a Cancun foam party or breaking the ice when at a semester-at-sea course.At the end of the day, it’s not just about throwing the party of the century. The cyberworld, paparazzi and glossy magazines should all be buzzing with reverential whispers of your budding creative genius. In whichever way you choose to package your baby’s luxe bash (no pressure, of course), ultimately it is merely a test of your imagination, creativity and trust fund that gives it the right touch of extraordinaire. After all, it is going to set the standard for your child’s future endeavours.Fashionista Baby
Published: Verve Magazine, Fashion, April 2008
Fresh out of a designer baby soirée, Sitanshi Talati-Parikh contemplates the exclusivity of a generation soon to be born, who will probably never feel the warmth of a granny-crafted bootie or bib
I gasped the very instant I got a formal, evite to a baby shower. The little brats were crawling into my inbox now? The cutesy, ballooney, floral evite exploding with colour was reminding me that the clock was ticking – my grandmother-in-law’s reproving face hovered before my eyes, and I sighed, replete with the knowledge of the irrefutable truth that the pressure would mount and until I either became one of those aunties-that-never-had-kids-but-kept-attending-baby-showers, or even worse, one of the radiant, peachy-pink mothers that had cutsey baby showers thrown by a bunch of excited girlfriends. Ick. This was what life was reduced to. Shopping for babies and attending haute couture baby parties.Mustering up courage, and looking like this was just another day, I spent my only free day of the week shopping for the tiny tot. As I entered the shop that held promise and words of encouragement for the little-somethings soon to bless your life, with absolutely adorable Anne Geddes’ baby pictures floating enticingly on the walls (wreaking havoc with your sanity if your baby dared to look any less cute), I was accosted by long counters that stretched before me and I suddenly felt a strange discomfort. Sliding down the nearest aisle, my jaw dropped as I looked at a myriad range of baby products that seemed to leap at me from the shelves. Juniper bath wash and serendipity powder, fluorescent rattles and luminous baby oil; help!Flash forward into a chic SoBo home, where a baby shower is being organised – with larger than life helium balloons in every kiddie shape, little soap bubbles floating around, and guests floating around in bandana bibs sipping passion fruit champagne from Vera Wang crystal flutes. The celebration is under way! As I sit down, I am accosted with large 24-carat gold-tipped diaper pins, and told to get in the groove with all the baby games that have been cleverly concocted by the discerning would-be mama’s coterie. I can only think of the fact that as the baby enters this world – she is certain to be a part of the imported Russian-performer-and-celebrity-lion-birthday parties and potentially even worse, salon-and-spa bashes for the precocious five-year-old.Nudged into sipping some sugary concoction out of baby bottles and match-ing baby names against celebrity mamas, in a test-your-celeb-prowess-contest, I quietly conceal my ignorance by downing one more flute of the bubbly and practising recently acquired knowledge of a yoga relaxation technique. My creative friend concocted a time capsule for the baby – all the invitees arrive with something of a landmark nature and surrender this to a little capsule that will keep time stagnant – until the baby is old enough to figure out what shattered the earth in the Year Of Her Birth. Bless the child that discovers that just as she was about to step into the world, daffodil yellow rocked Spring-Summer catwalks and Tamil Nadu gave way to the third sex, ForceIndia came into being and SRK got his own IPL. Whoo-hoo!
