It was 10 p.m. Sheena’s daily going-to-sleep routine had been longer than usual tonight. She had stared at me with her large, round eyes even as I sang nursery rhymes and patted her head just as my mother had said children liked to be patted. My limited stock of nursery rhymes was exhausted after singing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, “Hush-a-Bye Baby”, “Mary had a little Lamb” and “Buy a Pancake”. The formula was not working. Sheena was wide awake.
“Aren’t the words of the rhymes scary? How can they expect children to sleep if they have words like ‘when the bough breaks, the baby will fall?’” you asked me as you walked into her room.
“Valid point, Mr. Know-it-all. “ I was already feeling exhausted. Sheena was still smiling sweetly at me, her tiny hand reaching out to catch my hair; she probably thought it was her latest new toy. I bent down and kissed her nose.
“Here, I found proof. Article on the sinister origins of nursery rhymes. See. No wonder they don’t put her to sleep, Suja.” You already had the Wikipedia page open, living up to your nickname and your insatiable need for knowledge.
“Maybe I’ll try singing classical music tomorrow,” I joked. “The long alaap might put her to sleep.”
“Ok, now you take a break. Let me try telling her a bed-time fairy tale. I thought of a new one during the long client meeting today.” You sat with me at the edge of her crib and chuckled as she smiled her toothless smile at us. Blissful, happy, sleepless.
We had refused to tell her any damsel-in-distress stories. And we had vowed that we would invent our own stories full of inspiring morals and nuggets of wisdom. Of course, your knowledge of fairy tales was not much better than my singing. Each day, we were learning how to be better parents; Sheena was teaching us, helping us more than all the free advice we were getting.
You started your story.
Long, long ago, Snow White and her step-mother were the best of friends and entrepreneurs who had invented a new, weight-reducing apple. The magic mirror was their business partner, showing them pictures of new, obese patients who needed their help. A fat, overfed Prince, who was a little too fond of doughnuts, was their first client.
But eating was only 70% of the weight loss formula. For the remaining 30%, one needed exercise. Snow White and her step-mother interviewed hundreds of potential applicants and finally employed seven dwarfs. Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Doc, Sneezy, Bashful, and Sleepy –seven gym trainers, one for each day of the week, depending on the mood you were in that day. Push-ups, skipping, aerobics, Zumba… they had it all covered among the seven of them.
They had strict rules for the prince – no more than one doughnut per week, one royal soup and salad everyday, three magic apples to munch on. The magic mirror monitored his weight loss and gave regular updates to Snow White and her step-mother. Within a year they managed to make him a new person – less of him, more to him. And they saved more fat princes happily ever after.
Your version of an old fairy tale. And then you shared the moral of the story: Eat healthy and keep inventing. You can be anything you want, and you can rescue fat princes too!
“And just what part of the story do you think she could even remotely understand, Auro?” I asked as you finished the story and gave me a long hug.
“Most of it, I guess, see how she is smiling. She must have got your sense of humour, Suja.”
“Aha Auro, if only she had inherited your sense of sleep!”
Today’s story must have been particularly bad because she still stared round-eyed at both of us.
We both needed inspiration. Wasn’t there a self-help book on how to put children to sleep?
“Maybe we should sing a Bollywood song. Remember the first song you sang for me, Auro?” I asked, ready to try anything, something that would make her sleep.
“Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein…” You needed no invitation to sing the song again.
You bent your head and sang, holding Sheena in your lap and staring at me, your mellow voice casting a spell on my sleepy mind.
And then we both smiled. For Bollywood worked when everything else had failed. We laid her gently on the cot, the glow-in-the-dark stars casting a soft light on her sleeping face.
“Shh…” I warned you as we both stood up quietly. “We have a drama queen in the making, you think? Or she likes Papa’s music more than his stories.” Today’s sleep routine was finally over.
“How much time do we have till she wakes up, Suja?” you whispered.
“I haven’t yet mastered her sleep prediction model. A few hours at the most. What do you think, Auro?” I was whispering too.
“Come here then,” you said, reaching for me, kissing me on my neck, caressing my shoulder. We couldn’t speak. You pulled me towards the carpet in the living room.
You trailed your fingers down my cheek, gently removing my glasses even as I kissed you at the nape of your neck, where you hair curled slightly. I loved kissing you there; you loved it when I did that.
We didn’t dare switch on any lights for fear that she might wake up.
And then your Blackberry beeped. Your hands had left my face by then, your fingers tracing a slow, tantalizing line downward.
“Trust Hari Sadu to remember just the right moment to call.” Your laugh was a whisper; your fingers didn’t leave my breasts.
“Won’t you answer? It’s your boss, Auro, might be important?” I moaned.
“You mad? That man needs to get a life.” You reached over me and switched off the phone.
We turned to each other again, every minute a reminder of the time we needed to be with each other, a reminder of how much we missed being this close.
Your fingers traced my scar, the long scar across my belly. As if you had all the time in the world, as if time itself had stopped and the two of us were floating, together, lost to everything else but each other. Each touch, each kiss, each cry, a known memory, a new dream. We wanted to savour each precious moment, snatched between fitful snatches of restless sleep and uncertain, long hours of wakefulness.
“Pains still, Suja?” you asked, gently, as gently as only you could, your hands circling it with infinite care.
“No, but it remains a scar for life, Auro.” I replied, bringing your hands back to my face again.
“But it’s my favourite part of you. A sign of how much pain you happily bore to give us our own bundle of magic.” You were kissing me there now, slowly, softly even as my hands were running through your thick, dark hair.
It was magic. It was a dream. It was real. I wished it would never end. I closed my eyes. I woke up to the strains of classical music wafting through the air and the sounds of happy laughter, yours and hers, mingling together.
She smelt of milk, of oatmeal and of baby soap.
You smelt of me, of unfinished passion, of desire and love that grew through diaper changes and lullabies. I took Sheena in my arms. We both cuddled her and then hugged each other.
“I thought of a new story. Cinderella and her wonder sleep-yoga cure. For tonight,” you whispered in my ear.
“And I am making a list of 70s Bollywood hits. Get ready,” I retorted. Just then Sheena burped. And our day started.
Debleeena blogs at debleena-roy.blogspot.in and has had articles published in Chillibreeze and eZinearticles.
Pic by Fotalia
