September 17, 2001

10:00 am

New Delhi

She should have been sitting here for the last 10 days. She felt guilty… but it had not been possible. She had been busy with other things, her life to be precise. Why would a 19-year-old want to sit here?

Anyway, her life had crumbled and now she was here, at the hospital. Her mother was under heavy medication and wasn’t conscious, so she couldn’t meet her anyway.Her mother had been in and out of hospitals many times in the last couple of years… this was nothing new. Only, this was the first time she had ever visited her in the hospital. If one would really call this a visit.  

10:00 pm

New Delhi

The doctors wanted to know if they could take the ventilator off. Her mother had had a cardiac arrest that evening and it was only the ventilator that was keeping her going. Clinically, she was dead. So the rituals started. All the relatives were called. Her sister was hysterical. Her dad as usual was hyper. And her brother? He had gone to bring an aunt to the hospital.

And she? She was calm.

It didn’t feel as if anything had changed. She even went for the short walk outside the hospital. It was late and the roads were all empty. Nice clean roads and the air was changing for autumn. “Oh sweet Delhi! How I love you.” When she went in the body, not her mother anymore, was being taken to the morgue. There was that ugly smell coming from it. “Was it something to embalm the body over the night? What is this smell?”

Still no tears. Nothing. She felt as dead as her mother. She went home and slept. It was already 3 am. She was hungry… was there any food? Would be appropriate to eat now?

When she woke up the next morning her aunt had prodded her to cry. “But I can’t just cry, can I?”The body was brought home. It was in the drawing room. She went to see it. She thought she saw it move. “Amma!” She cried. But it must have been her imagination. The body was cold. And then she started crying. And that was the first of many days that she would burst into tears for no apparent reason. Howling for hours as if someone was tearing out a part of her body and leaving it hollow.  

*** 

July 2002

Mumbai

The next year she left for Mumbai. It happened suddenly. She’d gone to apply at some media institutes there. Her first preference had been Delhi. Institutes here were better, more reputed and she loved the city. It was a part of her soul. Yet, she landed in Mumbai one fine day. Bags packed with clothes, photographs, her diary… everything a 20-year-old thought she’d need.

Except one thing. Love. Her boyfriend had got married to someone else that March. It wasn’t as if they were still seeing each other then. They had broken a while ago, but it still hurt. He’d found someone else and she hadn’t.

And then she began to love the independence of not having to answer to anyone. Deciding what time she’d like to return. But her heart ached for the warm comfort of her family. To be able to come back to someone you love and someone who loves you.

As soon as the course finished, she returned home. Jobless, but happy to be back. She got a job in Delhi after a while. It was a dream job. Not the pay packet. That was measly, but it would do. It was the work. It kept her busy and she was finally good at something. And soon she made friends. Good friends. Friends she could laugh with or just sit quietly with over a cup of coffee. And soon everything in life fell in place.  

July 2003

New Delhi

The job was still good and the friends had become like rocks in her life. Whatever hit her life she knew she could turn and they’d still be there. Right behind her, to support her when she needed someone to lean on. Still, she needed to go. She had outgrown her work. She needed more. The world outside her cosy office was calling her. And she needed to leave the city. Fast. Memories of another love lost were too much to bear.

That summer she had broken up again. And within a week, she found a job. Again, curiously enough, in Mumbai. 

July 2005

Mumbai

She was back.Yet this time, she didn’t feel lonely. She had learnt many things in the last four years. How to make good friends was one. Either that, or she had been damn lucky. Whichever, she still felt fortunate.  

3 pm

April 16, 2006

Mumbai

She had been out for two weeks. Back home. And it felt great to be back at work. Just as she kept her bag on her desk, a colleague came up to her. “I have news for you.”“What?” “Remember that story that you did for the magazine?”“Yeah?”“Well, a lady came to office that week. She insisted that the photograph in the magazine was her daughter’s and she wanted to know why we had morphed her face over your body.”

“Why would anyone morph someone’s photo for a bike story?” “That’s exactly what I told her, but she wanted to meet you anyway. In fact, she showed her daughter’s photograph. And she looked nothing like you.”

“Oh Jesus! Is she rich?”

“Nope! At least she didn’t look like it to me.”

“Damn it! I finally get a mom and she isn’t even rich… Anyway is she coming back?”

“Yeah, we told her to come back today to see you. She should be here at 5 pm.”

“Sweet!” 

5:00 pm

She was working at her desk when she felt a tap on her shoulder. “Your ‘mom’ is here,” her colleague informed.

She went to the reception and saw a woman standing there. Her back was to her. “Excuse me, I believe you are here to meet me.”

The woman turned.

Her jaw dropped. It couldn’t be. After so many years of clawing pain. After finally getting over her loss. But she was dead. So who was she?

“Beta when I saw your photo I knew it was you. All these years I thought you all were a dream. But when I saw your photograph it was real. Beta..?”

“Amma!” She hugged the woman. “Oh Amma! We have all missed you so much. How is this true? Who will believe us? Oh ma! Oh ma!”And new tears ran down her cheeks. But these were tears of joy, of relief.

Of finally being in the arms she had craved all these years. Tears of comfort.

After a long while, she withdrew from the embrace. “But your face? Your body? I know it’s you. But you look so different.”

“It’s a long story… It just began making sense to me two weeks back.” 

*** 

10:00 pm

September 17, 2001

Mumbai

A patient had had a cardiac arrest at 9.30 pm. Her condition was fatal. Doctors were trying to revive her but with very little hope. And then miraculously, her heart beat became steady.

With a sigh of relief, the doctors announced to the family that the patient was out of danger. She’d be kept in the ICU for the night. She would be conscious the next morning. They could meet her then. In the ICU the next morning the woman finally regained consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw her family — a husband, two teenaged daughters, and a 25-year-old son.

“Naan enge irken? Neengla yaar?” she asked.

“What is she saying?” the husband asked. “I think she’s talking in Tamil. She’s asking who are all of you,” one of the present nurses said.

“But we are Maharashtrians. She doesn’t speak Tamil!”

Mumbai: A 25-year-old resident of Bandra was yesterday ordered to be sent for psychiatric treatment by the district magistrate court.

Jahnvi (name changed to protect identity), it is reported, may be suffering from acute schizophrenia and may have a multiple personality disorder.

Jahnvi’s plight came to light when she registered a complaint at a local police station, two weeks ago, complaining of a stalker who would send her messages threatening to kill her. She had said in her complaint that she did not recognised the number from which the messages were sent. She also mentioned that the messages would usually come at night, while she was asleep, the messages would be accompanied by phone calls but as she was asleep at the time, she could not pick up the calls.

Jahnvi said she replied to some of the messages asking the person who he/she was but she would never get a reply. After suffering such messages for around a month, Jahnvi decided to lodge a complaint at the local Bandra station, hoping that police would trace the calls and end her misery.

However, what police investigations revealed came as a shock to Jahnvi. Police sources say investigations revealed that the number from which Jahnvi would get the calls had in fact been purchased by a woman from a Hill Road shop. The papers related to the sale of the SIM card suggested that the SIM card had been bought by Jahnvi herself. A copy of her passport was attached to the SIM card.

The sources further add that Jahnvi told cops that she had no recollection of buying the SIM card. She suggested that perhaps someone else had acquired her identification papers and had used them to buy a SIM card in her name. The Hill Road shopkeeper however, insisted that Jahnvi had bought the SIM card in person.

Jahnvi requested the cops to trace from where the SIM card was used. Probes revealed that the messages too were sent from the same area that Jahnvi lives in.

This prompted the cops ask Jahnvi to undergo psychological tests. Sources say that the tests revealed that Jahnvi suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder, the medical term for a multiple personality disorder. Apparently, Jahnvi’s second-personality would take over while she was sleeping and would send her the messages after changing the SIM card on her phone. Since Jahnvi’s ‘true personality’ was asleep at the time, she would neither realise the loss of time, nor have any recollection of sending herself the messages. The other SIM card was kept at a place Jahnvi would not access while in her original personality.

Jahnvi, who was unavailable for comment, is originally from Dehradun and lives alone here. Her family has been informed about her condition and her mother who landed in Mumbai last week says that she’ll live here till Jahnvi’s treatment is over and then will take her daughter back home.

I am 4 month old, but my mental age is greater than that. I have a secret. I’ve met “adults” who’ve had the same mental age as mine. That’s no secret you say?

I have no toys. My parents get me toys and I give them to my toy-hungry day care friends. If you ask me, I don’t belong in day care with a bunch of “same-age” kids smelling poop all day.
I also want my own room. I don’t want to sleep with my parents snoring by my crib all night. Other times, I would prefer the snoring.

When my parents are busy downstairs, I turn off the “baby monitor”. Whoever came up with that invention…I then lock the door and turn on the TV set. I love television. I keep current with shows like Scrubs, ER, etc. The hospital scene amuses me. The first time I was there, I had loved it. The doctors’ flirting with the nurses was the most fun part of my stay there.

My father has a laptop that I used to type this up. I get to express how trapped I feel in my life. If you’re out there and you’re reading this, help me. HELP ME! I need to be rescued from the constant agony that I face posing as a 4 month old. How can I change my life? I am open to suggestions on how you can improve your life too. Write me.

My fake life consists of:

sex food music movies sex sex food music sex food sex food sex music
movies cats food sex sex sex music websites sexsex food music movies
sex sex food music sex food sex food sex music movies cats food sex
sex sex music websites sexsex food music movies sex sex food music sex
food sex food sex music movies cats food sex sex sex music websites
sexsex food music movies sex sex food music sex food sex food sex
music movies cats food sex sex sex music websites sexsex food music
movies sex sex food music sex food sex food sex music movies cats food
sex sex sex music websites sexsex food music movies sex sex food music
sex food sex food sex music movies cats food sex sex sex music
websites sexsex food music movies sex sex food music sex food sex food
sex music movies cats food sex sex sex music websites sexsex food
music movies sex sex food music sex food sex food sex music movies
cats food sex sex sex music websites sexsex food music movies sex sex
food music sex food sex food sex music movies cats food sex sex sex
music websites sexsex food music movies sex sex food music sex food
sex food sex music movies cats food sex sex sex music websites sexsex
food music movies sex sex food music sex food sex food sex music

… and also videogames

My parents were good people. I was brought up to be a good boy. And now 30 years later I am paying the price.

That was how my stream of thought was flowing as we waited at the traffic light. Me, my good wife behind me, leaning against me after a day of shopping at the mall, thus pushing me further forward on the bike on which I was hunched over at an awkward angle to ensure that my chin didn’t bang against my good son’s head.  

I was ‘settled’. At least, by my parents’ standard, I was. I had all the elements of ‘settlement’ ticked off on their list. Good job (so what if I was stagnating in the post of manager and felt like I was riding a merry-go-round in slow motion each day), a good wife (of course, they would think so, they had picked her. I am not saying she isn’t good, only that a woman who is obsessed with shopping and television serials isn’t a very interesting companion), a boy to carry on the family name (only is the name worth carrying forward and must I sacrifice the 20 best years of my life merely to ensure that the name of my father, who hasn’t done a thing worth mentioning in his life, isn’t forgotten 60 years down the line and in the process wean a complete brat to turn 30 someday and rue his existence.)  

But in my mind, which rattled like a box with dice in it after having banged against the rather hard head of my heir, I was completely ‘unsettled’.  

I woke up each morning, to be greeted by the same newspaper and weak, watery tea and a woman who looked harassed because she thought the role of wife demanded it — for heaven’s sake, there was a maid who came in each morning to cook and clean. All my ‘darling’ had to do was wake me and the boy up, serve breakfast and usher the boy to speed through his morning tasks so he could catch the school bus, the woman had no excuse for looking harassed. 

If work was enjoyable, life would have been slightly more bearable. But working as floor manager of the women’s wear section, meant dealing with more women — women with 38-inch waists who tried desperately to fit into 36-inch skirts and then called for the manager to complain because the brands the store was stocking were all wrong since they had always managed to fit into 36-inch skirts, women who dragged along short-tempered husbands who yelled at the female shop assistants who then cried and whom I had to offer tea and a kind ear, women who… ah well.  

And then on my way home, I had to stop at my parents’ place where mom would start off on how I looked thin and wasn’t my wife feeding me anything (wasn’t she the perfect woman you picked for me, mom?), how although they didn’t ask for my money to run the house, I didn’t seem to have enough money to buy a new pair of his shoes (muddy from a bike ride on the city’s roads) simply because that spendthrift of a wife of mine was wasting my hard-earned money on her whims (again: your choice mom), how my brother’s wife was expecting again and wasn’t I thinking of giving my son a little brother or sister (one, begetting kids didn’t seem like a competition I wanted to enrol for and two, that selfish brat of mine had never asked for a brother or a sister with whom he would have to share his worldly goods).  

Then, home to where my wife would take one look at my face and ask why I had to meet my mother everyday when she harried me so. Of course, she would say, your mother must have had something nasty to say about me, she always does. Has she forgotten that I bought four tolas in gold as dowry, while your bhabhi got only two and my father gave us this flat, while bhabhi and bhaiya are still living with your mom and dad, but since he is the older son, your mom cannot see any fault in his wife. She keeps getting herself pregnant and has a dozen people to care for her while I have to run around doing housework. She is only SSC passed. I am a BCom. I could have worked and made so much money, but I gave it all up to look after you and what thanks do I get. When she says these things about me, do you ever tell her to shut up…. 

(I have wondered what it would be like to have been homosexual or even sexless. There are too many women in my life.) 

My son was supposed to be my solace. But from the time he kept me up at night changing his diapers and cramping my arms swinging him to sleep, I have not been able to find the s of solace in his presence. Now aged six, his favourite line begins with Daddy, I want…. And his wants seem to keep increasing in proportion with his age. He has a tutor to teach him and I wouldn’t be in that poor chap’s shoes for all the wealth in this world. I feel the prophetic spirit come upon me — I can see that in another 10 years, I will need to pay a lot of people to convince them to let my son enter their prestigious medical college. I hope my father-in-law’s many tolas will come in handy then.   

I know my life is disintegrating, I am falling apart, but I am stuck like the reflection in a cracked mirror, like the man on the shore who feels each wave sweep away some of the sand from under his feet but who knows he won’t drown soon, not soon enough at least. I know no other life. I know no other manner of living. I know I am lost but there are no signboards and there are no maps and there is no one to direct me. I am sinking in the quicksand of my life and contrary to its name, the bloody thing is taking it’s time.       

On Thursday, I woke up to find my roommate metamorphosed into a dog. When I opened the door for the milk and paper, she ran out and stood panting on the road. Which was a good thing, for it meant she wouldn’t (couldn’t) borrow my clothes for days on end any more.  

There was a big crowd in front of the office. It looked like my roommate was not alone in her metamorphosis. Many other people had also been turned into animals. I recognized at least three of my colleagues walk into the building- a duck, a camel like animal that could have been a  llama (I’ve never seen a llama), and a long green snake. They were completely unaware of how they were looking. Did they even realize that they were animals now? I was enjoying my little secret so much, I almost choked on laughter and died. Just as I entered the elevator, a lizard jumped from the ceiling and landed on my right shoulder. I was worried. Was it a lizard, or was it my manager? Could I flick it off, or should I wrap it in my handkerchief and put it in my purse? What if I did something disrespectful; and she axed me later? I could feel my heart thumping. I almost died of fright. I peeped into my manager’s cubicle. She wasn’t there. By now I was certain that the lizard was my manager. I unfurled my handkerchief and gently placed the lizard on the desk. As soon as I did so, the desk shook for a second or two, and the lizard changed back into my manager and she jumped down onto her chair. From there she eyed me disgustedly. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, stealing sugar sachets from the office? Your purse is full of them!” It was true. I had the habit of picking up a little something from the office every day. I got very red in the face and nearly died of shame. Because of all the animals, and their special needs, no one was paying any attention to the usual work at the office. For example, we had a penguin, but we also had an African elephant. There was a tiger who had sensibly come in his own cage, but now he was becoming restless, and his roars were shaking the whole office. HR was running around trying to order dry ice and raw goat meat all at the same time. I felt so jealous that I nearly wanted to die. That would get me some attention, I thought bitterly. Anyways, the novelty of the animals soon wore off. There was no one to gossip with. Some of my colleagues came by my desk, but I just could not understand what they were neighing or bleating or screeching out to me. I played Scrabble all day. I couldn’t find anything else to do. Around 2 pm, I had had enough. I was nearly dying of boredom. I started back for home. I reached home quickly. There was no traffic jam, since all the people who had transformed to birds were flying to their destinations. As I started crossing the road, the school bus came round to deposit the children. This time it was too fast, and I was too late. It ran me over and squished me into the curb. As I felt my life trickle out, I heard the guard say, “Terrible! Just terrible! So what if it was only a cat.” Only then did I realize that I was now a cat, and that I had almost died, of various causes, six times today. It also dawned on me that I was finally dying, completely and for the seventh time, now. I had not even had a chance to live the nine lives I was entitled to. I realized that even in my brief life as a cat, I was a complete loser.

It’s 2 in the morning. Mitali, aka SuperCopyIdiot swings into her colonial mansion somewhere in south Bombay after a hard day of fighting crimes against animals. Really cute animals.

And investigating paranormal activity.

And fighting bad taste. Some really awful taste.

The mansion was really quiet at this time of the night. She had five hours before she caught a plane to the UN headquarters to discuss new laws against poaching and for wild life conservation. And 30 more before she had to appear at Yale to lecture on the symbolism and pun in Milton’s poetry.

Her last paper on lewdity in Alexander Pope’s works had been well-received. The world was close to believing that the masters were actually just writing a bunch of dirty limericks under the guise of religious and political propaganda.

This gave her enough time to write her scathing editorial.

She changed into her pyjamas and padded softy to her study. It was her favourite place in the house. It had been camouflaged to look like a walk-in closet so that Tushar would never bother her there.

He, in retaliation, had built a game room behind the kitchen. You needed to make tea on the gas to get in. And carry it to Tushar.

He was in there now, engrossed in the new gaming thingummy she had bought him after she accidentally let their elephants play with one of his more expensive toys.

It had been rather hard to get out of that one.

She tapped the red sequined Dorothy sneakers on the foot stool to the beat of the Birdie Dance, and a door slid open exposing the impressive study.

It had huge bay windows with seats overlooking the Bombay skyline, and it’s mini-skyline of slums. The walls were lined with hardbound Terry Pratchetts and several collections of poetry.

On one wall, hung a large painting of a chocolate cake.

After spending years pretending she could understand high-brow literature, Mitali had given up and accepted that she understood chocolate better.

BooBoo bounded towards her as she entered, parking his nose into the back of her knee. Science had been kind to him, and he would always remain the overgrown pup she had rescued from the petrol pump.

He was the perfect sidekick to her superhero alter ego. By day he was a playful black dog, by night he was a sleepy black dog.

Even superheroes need a nuzzle.

Just as she was settling down in front of her really tiny, shiny black laptop, she spotted a beacon in the sky.

She sighed. She was really against all these trappings, but Ahmed had insisted that it was Tradition™. As she watched, the beacon changed from the small ‘m’ that stood for merlin, to a joystick, to a PDA, to naked Minnie mouse.

She waited for Andre’s response. Soon enough, from the western suburbs came the beacon of a rainbow. Only it was dark and gothic.

Jaison alias Deer Huntar sent out his beacon of a maki roll.

That was the sign for the Black Labradors to convene. It really was a lame name. But Andre had been really enthusiastic and the gang didn’t have the heart to shoot it down. And Tushar had said that all superheroes needed to have silly names, like Birdman and the X-Men. That too, he said, was Tradition™.

At least it was better than being called X-Rated Men/Women/Andre.

She wearily head out of the study and went to the game room. She didn’t bother with the tea and used the knob. Tushar didn’t notice her come in. “Hi stupid dog,” he called to Boo, putting out his arm for a wrestle.

“A call has been sent out,” she said. “You coming?”

“Naah,” he said “I need to finish this level”.

“Okie, I’ll be back soon”

“Have you got your phone?”

“Yes”

“Wallet?”

“Yup”

“Umbrella?”

“Yup”

“Gun?”

“Yep”

“Did you remember to load it?”

She shot back a stare that saved her from the embarrassment of having to answer that.

“Did you smoosh the dog?”

On cue, Boo offered his face. Smooshings over, she headed to the basement garage through the hidden elevator.

In the black beetle she had carefully restored from her childhood, she didn’t drive as much as sputter towards the meeting place – Ahmed’s house. The others were already there.

“It’s a vampire,” said Ahmed.

“Yeah! A real live undead,” said Andre. “This is so dark and gothic na?”

“So what do we know about him?” Mitali asked, though what she was really thinking was “What do I wear when we stake it?”

“Well… I’ve already Googled him. He has a blog, and a Flickr account. You better come see this Mitali. It’s really bad. He writes poetry,” said Ahmed.

“Groan,” said Mitali. “That’s all we need. Is it any good?”

“The usual ‘the neck that got away’ types. Seems harmless.”

“Does he mention any sisters?” asks Andre.

“Harms animals?”

“No da. Has adopted a kitten”

“Cousins?”

“Can we spot him for some blood? You can make this really good smoothie with it,” said Jaison looking up from his buffalo meat casserole. He gave the team a bad name, but he was good with his hands. Many an offender had been kneaded into dough by them. A light and fluffy pastry base was made from them later.

“Bad fashion sense?”

“Nope, classic black velvet cape wardrobe”

“Ex-girlfriends?” Andre was beginning to sound depressed now.

“Maybe he knows where we can get fresh blood”

“So why did you boys send out the call?”

“Erm…The thing is we don’t hang out any more. It’s always work. We need to meet and just chill you know,” said Ahmed.

Mitali gave them the look she used to point out grammatical errors that weren’t her own.

“Andu broke up. He’s kinda depressed,” said Jaison.

“Guys, I need to be at the UN tomorrow. It’s a really long flight. Not that I don’t want to hang out. And I really am sorry about Carmen, Andu.”

“Her name was Karen,” said Jaison.

“Really? What happened to Carmen?”

“She dumped him last week. Karen’s her cousin.”

“I need to go,” said Mitali.

“Me too. I’m hungry,” said Jaison.

They both ignored Ahmed’s silent plea. He’d have to handle Andre alone.

“Look at this shiny elf, Andu,” she heard him say as she walked out the door.

Back home, it was almost time to leave for the hangar. She called the butler to bring around the aircraft.

“Tushar, we need to go. C’mon” He raised his sleepy head. “C’mon, I really don’t want to be late. I hate walking into a full room. The Gen-Sec’s been giving me the glare. It makes me feel so guilty.”

As she waited for Tushar to wake up, she walked to the closet that was filled with the kind of clothing seen only in magazines. Rows and rows of designers she didn’t know how to pronounce. Vintage items bought from flea markets around the world.

Silently, she picked the jeans handed down to her by her brother. Walked over to Tushar’s shelf, and took the black tee he had worn on every single date with her. The corduroy jacket from Colaba was next. And the man’s Swatch she had nicked after she cut off the hand that wore it.

The man was her first. He thought stoning animals was a sport.

She headed into the dawn to her waiting plane that was filled with marzipan and raspberry soda. Simon and Garfunkel were playing in the backround. Live.

Tushar was walking the Boo. He too was wearing a black tee.

They headed to New York wondering if they could get chai and khari before the meeting began.

6.00 am: My alarm rings… I lounge around in my bed till my handsome hunk of a husband gets up and prepares my morning coffee just the way I like it — hot, creamy and just slightly sweet. He serves it with a bowl of fruits and the morning’s newspaper

7:00 am: I go for a one-hour long swim in my personal swimming pool — in my palatial house at Malabar Hill,
Mumbai, India

8:30 am: My maid asks what clothes would I like to wear to office for the day — I pick the Versace ensemble I picked up last week on my trip to
Milan. I had wanted to wear the Ritu Kumar sari I had bought yesterday, but it seemed too loud for a rainy day

9:30 am: I get a manicure, pedicure, massage done at my personal salon

10:30 am: I don’t think I will make it to office by 11:30 am if I drive to work so I get on to my helicopter and am dropped off at my office building at Nariman Point

11:30 am: After checking my emails — it takes me two hours — people at my post — editor of the WORLD’S biggest newspaper get so many mails you know

1:30 pm: I have a meeting in my office lounge with my team — and leave everyone amazed with my super-intelligence and my awesome beauty and of course my awesome clothes

2:30 pm: After the meeting I have a quick bite and head for my latest story — Suzuki has launched an upgraded version of the Hayabusa and wants me to test it for them. It’s an exclusive. They want my opinion before it hits the market.

8:30 pm: After a short test run of the Busa in a specially-constructed track on the outskirts of Mumbai, I head back for home

9:30 pm: I am tired, it’s been one packed day… but I walk into our drawing room and I see my children (two of the world’s naughtiest twins) playing with our dog — Courage. My husband also arrives. We know we are both tired and want to just hit our bed. But then Iti —my two-year-old daughter — looks at me and laughs as Jayant — my two-year-old son — pulls me to play with him.

We play tag for half an hour and then settle down for dinner

10:45 pm: After dinner my husband and I sit with out kids and tell them stories. Once the babies fall asleep, we put them in bed

11:30 pm: We’ve had a tiring week and only a couple of hours with our kids in the whole day, but it’s okay ‘cause tomorrow’s Saturday and we will have the entire weekend with our kids