Grab a cuppa, tell a story or listen to one.

Everyone loves stories. Everyone has a story to tell.


Sukanya Bora

Motherhood Lessons From A Novice – Part 2

With Mothers’ Day just around the corner, I thought I’d do an upgraded version of this post. The kids are older with more defined needs. They are definitely  temperamental with moods changing like the seasons except in a quicker and more volatile manner. Precious learning continues as we slowly creep into presumably challenging years of adolescence.

I am torn about this next phase, it’s positively bitter-sweet, forcing Hubbs and I to accept the grim reality that the time we have with them is brief. Below are lessons learned and unlearned thus far. They are my truths about raising two demanding, flourishing kids, who bring me immense joy, happiness, worth, disappointment, pain, anxiety, all in equal measure.

Doesn’t matter how informed you are or how many books and articles you read about parenting, you are never prepared when inevitability strikes. With newer and tougher territories, oh crap becomes the “IT” phrase.
Somehow things tide over. Maybe not the way you expect them to. But they do with happily ever afters. Happily ever afters? Nah. I was kidding. Things end. They just do. And in a few days you will look back at the same instance and marvel at the hold some situations can have on you.
If you are one of those moms looking for details, especially about their day at school, get used to the “nothing much” response. Its starts in pre-school and shows no sign of evolving into an intelligent, detailed, exciting response for a long long time.
“I love you”, a term they learn to say very young and rather frequently or randomly. As they get older, the frequency may taper down but when uttered, it takes on a deeper, richer meaning, one that will leave you feeling incredibly blessed.
“Pick up after yourself” is like a company’s vision. It’s just looks good on paper. It’s downright lofty.
Chores are a hard sell. Unless you add an incentive, they will not get done.
Brace yourself for more laundry. And smellier clothes. Those darn hormones do their thing and kick up the unpleasant many notches up. The personal laundry needle moves from dislike to abhor.
If you want to be remembered as a “rockstar chaperone”, go ahead and knock yourself out with a bazillion after school activities. Also prepare to turn your car into a house and a McDonald’s into a dining room. Trust me, less is more.
Brace yourself for the vocabulary showing off phase. The spellings will remain dismal but catustropi, humeliating, sircastik, pursepective and such get used frequently and with much aplomb.
Hug them tighter, kiss them plenty. Even if they turn away disgustingly. The PDA’s take a whole new meaning for the mommy. One that makes her proud, happy, wistful and sad, all at the same time.
Conversations definitely improve in quantity and quality. You get ample opportunity to ramp up your listening, negotiating, conflict, questioning, probing, asserting and other such skills.  Most force you to reevaluate your credibility as a parent. Each reinforces the fact that learning is always a two-way street.
They may look annoyed with public display of affection but they still yelp like monkeys on crack when you volunteer at their school. They cling to you, show you off like a prized thoroughbred leaving you with an utmost sense of flattery and admiration.
The sibling bond gets tighter, stronger and fiercer with time. I dare you to say anything remotely harsh to one of them. The protective fangs come out in a jiffy to insulate against all things evil.
Mommy is the tech dinosaur. No matter how hard you try to keep up with the rapidly changing world of gadgetry, you are always two steps behind.
Mommy is everything. Nothing feels right or works without mommy.
They fight. They make up. They fight. They make up. They fight. They make up.
And oh, that game called Minecraft. Less said, the better.
“If momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”
Tell us more about your childhood is a request that is on auto play. Stock pile your stories and be prepared to throw one at them at the most unexpected hour. Like “mamma, my poop is not coming out. Can you please tell me one of your childhood stories?”
Apologize when you need to. It humanizes you. They quickly realize you are flawed and they accept you without judgment.
The beautiful thing about kids is they allow you to redeem yourself. To make amends, to better yourself. This is how magnanimous they are.
 Written by : Sukanya Bora. Picture By :Sukanya Bora 

A regular contributor at Chatoveracuppa, Sukanya is a mother of two beautiful growing children and she blogs about her journey as a parent very frequently. If you have a younger child, don’t miss the first part of this post here at Sukanya’s blog. 

Giver Of Love

In response to our writing prompt – Share a story of a caregiver who has nurtured and looked after your loved one, Sukanya Bora shares a very personal story. A story of her father selflessly fulfilling his role as a caregiver. 

Just as in “Maya’s Journal“, this story reflects how trying it is for a caregiver but they are never bitter and they rarely give up. 

I remember her screams. The sound of water filling up the steel bucket wasn’t enough to mute them. Then followed the sounds of her thumping him.  She was thin, her arms bony. I am certain he felt the whacks but he kept on. The wails always continued through mid routine after which they became whimpers until they stopped altogether. Soon they would emerge from the bathroom, one looking fresh, clean in a new set of clothes, while the other, drenched, his face weary but relieved.
Mid morning was when this bath routine always took place. Like clock work. I suppose this was his attempt to bring in some semblance to an otherwise uncertain, chaotic situation.
Her bed was next to the window. It was thoughtfully placed there, away from the door directly leading to the exit. From her bed, she could see the tall betel trees that lined the backyard. She could look into the neighbor’s vast yard. Occasionally she would hear children playing.  Those are my children, she would say with a toothless grin.
Her normal was her past. She was happier living in it.
Frequently, she tried opening the door. She couldn’t. It was bolted from outside. She went missing a couple of times. Only to return to the house escorted by a kind neighbor or a local rickshaw walla. Once the local cops got involved and thereafter they were put on alert. The upside of living in a small town.
Leaving her alone became increasingly risky. He kept close, became her primary care giver, regularly monitoring her movement, medication and meals. A role he slid into out of respect to the woman who birthed him. A woman, once active, a proud matriarch but over the years, ravaged by an unrelenting condition. He stood by her like a loyal sentry guarding his king, adequately taking care of her.  He became the giver of love while helplessly watching her regress deeper into a dark, unreachable world.
How is she doing? I asked on long distance calls.
OK, he would respond. It is what it is and I will take care of her as long as she needs taking care of, he would add.

I ended the calls feeling a sense of pride for him.  In his steadfastness and honor for his ailing mother, he perhaps did not realize that he taught me one of life’s key lessons: sense of duty.

Story By : Sukanya Bora. Read more of her posts here

Compassion Trumps Grades. Any Day.

#1000Speak, 1000 voices speak for compassion , is a noble initiative launched by a few bloggers where in they are bringing in 1000 or more bloggers, photographers, artists together to speak about compassion. In this highly competitive world, it is becoming more and more important that we instill the values of compassion and kindness in our kids, the future generation. A mother, a blogger puts forth her perspective and take on this. It is a much needed change of perspective that parents, educators and the society in general must take. 

A few weeks go, a dear friend voiced her disappointment over her son not getting into the middle school’s magnet program. She worried that he will get lost in the public school system, that it isn’t competitive, that eventually his grades and his success will be impacted. Her worries were justified, to some extent.

Her son’s demeanor is very much like my ten-year old. In fact they are best buddies, looking for every opportunity to spend time together.

Without sounding preachy and patronizing I went on to offer my opinion which to hers, was contrary.

Both Hubbs and I are not fans of the magnets. Period. At least not at this stage. Yes competition is important, a unified curriculum is also critical but not in elementary schools. We don’t believe in burdening our kids with unnecessary and totally avoidable pressure this early in life. We believe in exposing them to a less regimented, less structured process that allows more room for fun, creative learning than having their smarts assessed with frequent standardized tests and such. Call it the influence of many studies on this or just our basic, uncomplicated outlook, we believe in, to put it simply, letting them be. Letting them be with a lot of love, encouragement, support and guidance.

My kids get good grades, straight A’s . But this is something I rarely write about. Simply because it is secondary. Again, at this stage. To me, this is the time for instilling the values we want them to carry into the world as adults. This is the time when we talk about the importance of kindness, humility, compassion, love, honesty and all the good that is so badly needed in this world we live in. Something grades, scores and structured curricula will not help us achieve.

We go to parent teacher conferences but we are more focused on asking questions about their emotional, social development than their cognitive abilities. Do they have friends? How many? Do they hang out with the same kids? Do they help out? Do they show kindness? How? How can we get them more involved in extra curricular activities or programs that helps them become more grounded? And when the teacher shares stories of success in these areas, we know we are on the right path.

But it is a long road ahead – there is a ton to learn, much to teach or show them. Because of this seemingly cruel, complex, intolerant , apathetic world we are bringing them into. Of course there is no guarantee that instilling the right values will hold them in good stead or keep them safe. But as parents we prefer to continue on this path of learning, engaging in the most deliberate manner.

I used and still worry about how sensitive my kids are, especially my son. He is quite, reticent, laid back but is thoughtful in the most unexpected way unlike his sister who wears the badge of helpfulness on her sleeve for everyone to see. I worry about how is he going to manage his way in this cruel world. How will he survive people who are just plain vicious? But the more I look at him and his way of approaching life in general, I think he will be fine. In fact I believe his soft heart will be his ultimate trump card.  It will be his badge of courage, of compassion. Of doing the fair/right thing. Of being empathetic.

I worry about my daughter over extending herself to the point that she is perceived as being subservient. That somewhere along the way, instead of helping her develop assertiveness, I have unintentionally made her passive or docile. This is where we need to be intentional in our actions, thoughts and behaviors as parents. Yes we goof up, tremendously so. In fact if we’d get paid a dollar for every parental transgression we have committed thus far, we would be sitting on a hefty bank balance.

I have not enjoyed my role as a parent as much as I do now. We are in that phase of bantering, of having meaningful conversations on local, regional and international events, of sharing our feelings of hurt and joy with equal candor. And of course, we butt heads occasionally. I am more vocal and talkative than hubbs so I tend to engage more than him. I am also more dramatic in the way I approach some things. This is where the ever patient, practical Hubbs provides the much needed balance, perspective.

Teaching and setting the right example of compassion is something I have deliberately taken on. This may take the form of simply having a conversation with them about what is love or kindness or taking them to the local pantry to drop food off or drawing special cards for seniors during the holidays. It is a long journey, one in which the learning is often both ways. A time will come when grades, advanced placement classes, more structure/unified study formats, test scores will take precedence but for now, they aren’t our focus. And I’d like to believe that we are good.

This post has been written by our regular contributor and a dear friend, Sukanya Bora. She is a mother of two, an avid blogger, storyteller, a photographer and someone who always speaks her heart.  Her writings are a reflection of her immense love for life, respect for everything that it has to offer and her candid perspective on things that matter the most in life. 

Chai Connections

My first cuppa before the rest of the house clicks into life.
Enjoy the magic of Sukanya Bora’s writing and her chai connections. She needs no introduction. Get yourself a hot cuppa, curl up your feet on the couch and enjoy this nostalgic journey into the world of chai. You will find yourself in one of the many chai connections here. 

Lately a lot has been said about chai and its merits. Thanks to the ladies over at Chatoveracuppa who launched a thread on FB asking their readers to post photos of their cuppas. What started off as a tiny spark has now developed into an exquisite tapestry of pictures from all over the world. Beautiful photos of cuppas accompanied with equally beautiful captions.
Every time I see a new photo. I get excited. Every time I read the supplementary caption, my mind takes off on a tangent. It departs on a journey of nostalgia, packed with memories that I still hold dear. Of countless cuppas and the stories around them. Endearing, priceless memories to say the least.
Like the time while on a hike in picture perfect Mukteshwar, I stop and sit down with a local to share his tea and beedi. This simple, elderly man squatting on the edge of the narrow, mountain path, sipping tea out of a kulhad resembled nothing short of utopia for this out-of-shape-desperately-needing-a-break-faux-hiker girl. He notices me eying his tea hungrily and from no where pulls out a small kettle, smoke blowing out of its snout and another fresh kulhad. Soon we are bantering, he in his Kumaoni accented Hindi and I, in my broken, utterly useless and incomprehensible variation of the same language while sipping our chai and sharing a smoke intermittently. The morning mist dissipates, thick fog gives way to clear skies. Just across the valley, the majestic Himalayas stand dauntingly tall with glistening snow peaks, signaling the beginning of a sun kissed day.
Or the sound of the chaiwala on countless train journeys. Chai garama garam chai, is the refrain we will hear out for. The ‘garam’ almost sounding like an engine revving into life. We will board hastily, settle into our seats or bunks but remain restless until we hear his loud, enticing sing sung voice. It doesn’t matter that it is perhaps the most unhygienic concoction of tea leaves and milk. It doesn’t matter that he is the most unkempt man with long tangled hair, stained clothes and dirt filled nails. The second the hot, sweet and milky liquid kisses our lips, we are filled with a sense of calm, the kind one needs to endure long, tiring journeys to far flung places.
Or the many lazy Sunday afternoons of long naps and listening to favorite radio shows, the help ordered to make a potful of aromatic Assam chai for my folks and everyone else who happens to be there at that fateful hour. The chai is accompanied by trays of sweets and biscuits, the latter, we happily dunk so they melt into our mouths. Conversations flow as cups after cups of tea get polished until someone sensible reminds us that we have other important things to take care of.
Or when with dear friends, each of us waits until someone offers to become the designated chai maker. While we engage in endless chatter on topics both silly and significant, tea mugs get filled continuously, samosa, bhujia and milkcakes are devoured and we lose ourselves in fits of laughter and mindless repartee.
Needless to say, there are numerous anecdotes to be shared. This is the beauty of chai and or coffee. They are bonding agents, ego inhibitors, good times catalysts that bridge people together. Nudge them to bond, share and create connections that are to last for a lifetime.
Story and Photo Credit : Sukanya Bora  


Authored by Sukanya Bora, this post was inspired by a talk she attended on ‘Domestic Violence’ at a local event. We must all acknowledge that it takes years of courage to come out and stand up against domestic violence. It isn’t easy to live the nightmare. It isn’t easy to break free either. What goes on in a victim’s mind as they live through things……..
I should use a pillow. But then, he is bigger and stronger than I am. I may not be able to hold it down, squeeze the life of out of him.
How about poison? The real stuff. I can mix it slyly in his drink, the one he religiously pours into his coffee mug. The stiff ones he makes for himself. Every single night.  How many, I lose track of after sometime because I am closely following every move of his, making sure I am not in the vicinity when he becomes maniacal.
No, let me just get a baseball bat and slug the crap out of him. I can do this when he is in the tiny back room, on the computer checking nude girls. He wouldn’t know. I will quickly sneak up and do what I need to do. Also thrash the darn computer while I am at it.
How about if I run him down with my car? Like that jilted wife who is now serving life without parole after running over her dentist husband. But I can’t be as careless as her. I want to spend the rest of life in peace, not in a four by four cell.
Well, perhaps a gun. Just shoot him at point-blank. It will be quick and easy. You filth, I will scream as I pull the trigger just as he does when he beats me to a pulp.
I should kick him, and shove him just like he did to me last night. I should use his fancy golf clubs, ones he spent my earnings on to pound him until every cell of his sick being disintegrates.
Hey, there you are, he calls out as he steps into the small kitchen on this bright, sunny weekend morning. He lightly touches my shoulder and heads over to the coffee pot.  What’s your plan for today, woman?
Nothing, really, I respond. Breakfast? 
Yes. I don’t know why but I am famished, he says, grinning foolishly.
Don’t know why? I smirk, almost. Of course you are famished. You spent all your energy beating the crap out of me last night in your drunken stupor. That’s why, you sadistic, heartless bastard, I think.
Well, then, you have come to the right place, I say instead. I made some eggs and pancakes this morning. 
He attacks the food as soon as I place the plateful in front of him and makes those disgusting sounds like he always does. He is lost, in my food. The food I cooked after I sat under the cold shower to nurse my bruises, after I cleaned up the mess of broken glass and alcohol in my bedroom, after I used up all my energy to cleanse myself out of my miserable existence.
Today is a new another day. I will contemplate other ways of ending his life tomorrow.  Just like I have, every morning, for the last nine months.

Keeping Them Alive

Losing a loved one is always extremely painful. Dealing with such a loss at a young age is even more traumatic. Mortality, separation, agony, orphaned are words not meant for a child’s comprehension. But life is cruel at times. Today we share one such story on a subject that we have never delved into before. Sombre it is but there are many who live through this pain, their story too needs to be told, heard and felt. 

I am twelve. With one bare foot touching the floor, I am sprawled on the couch, a wicker contraption with bright green pillows that resembles a relic. It is in the middle of summer, hot and humid. The coolness of the marble floor provides insufficient respite. I fan myself with an Outlook magazine, my rapid, jerky movements loosening the pages off its seam. I am here because I like to contemplate. Sit idle, stare blankly at the white-washed ceiling or at the slow-moving dusty fan but mostly contemplate.  I like to believe I am laid-back unlike my overly active counterparts. But people think I am indolent. People like my grandmother.

“There you are, spread across the couch like marmalade again,” my grandmother says as she floats in and out of her favorite spot in the house-the tiny, box-like kitchen where she spends a good chunk of the day cooking, baking, cleaning.  In a long, flowing patterned skirt and a purple blouse, she looks younger than her sixty years. She wears this outfit combination rather frequently. It was a gift from my mother, hand sown and all. “Why don’t you ride your bike or go over to Bobby’s and play instead of lazing around like this?”

I don’t enjoy riding. Last time I rode, I fell and bruised my knees and palms. I was miserable. My limbs covered with band-aids remind me of a board covered with countless notices. My bruises are still raw and nasty looking.

I am not lazing around. I am thinking. Thinking about how I can preserve the memory of my parents. I feel they are slipping away. It has been six years since the accident. I only had a handful of memories to begin with and I want to hold on to them as long as I able. So here I am, lying in the couch, replaying the memories of my past.

My brother who is older to me says nothing. He has become quieter since the accident. He also thinks a lot nowadays, but his are mostly angry thoughts. He is still angry with everyone including God and the cops, though they caught the guy who in his drunken stupor took a wrong turn that day. The punched hole on one of the walls in his room is a reminder of the turmoil he is in. Of that cataclysmic day when everything changed. Forever.

My grandfather returns home after spending a few hours away. He plunks himself in front of the TV for the five o’clock evening news. Retired and with a frail heart, he is active with a local non- profit that does rehabilitation work for alcoholics and addicts. He signed up two weeks after he lost his son and daughter-in-law. He has always been a kind man. Strong too except on nights when I hear him weep in the darkness of the garage.

“Mimi, do you want to come along with me tomorrow? We have a luncheon, you can perhaps help us out?” he asks in his polite but pitying voice.

He pities me. More than he pities himself. I know he worries about my brother and I. Who will take care of us after he is gone? He is unsure of us just as he is unsure of his longevity.

“Nah,” I reply. “I have stuff to do.”

Stuff for me is pulling out my handmade carved wooden box full of trinkets. My father’s company photo ID, my mom’s pearl earring, tickets to a historic museum we once visited together, a sepia colored photo of my parents in their wedding finery, a battery that belonged to my father’s super durable flash light. Things I hold on to. Things I look at for hours on end to keep my memories alive.
Bobby, my friend comes by. She is a year older but calls me her twin. People around us also think we have a striking resemblance. Bobby could be my tiwn but she isn’t.

We are different, fundamentally so. She has parents, I don’t.

“Hey, do you want to go and get an ice cream?” she asks. “I am craving a Cornetto.” As we head out to the ice cream store, her father waves at us. “Just one ice-cream OK,” he reminds us in his strong voice, flashing a wide grin.

“Yes Pops”, Bobby yells back. And in that moment as I watch her banter with her father, I think to myself, do I remember the last time I had ice-cream with my father?

I would like to think I do. But I am not sure anymore.

Story Credit : Sukanya Bora. Picture Credit : Soumi Haldar. 

Choices We Make

Photo Credit : Sukanya Bora

I rediscovered Bond on my recent trip home to visit my aging parents. No, not James. Ruskin Bond. This is an author who reminds me of the power of simplicity. That brevity is underrated.

Continue reading “Choices We Make”

The Dying Art Of Letter Writing

Source WWW

If you are trying to figure out a gift for Dad for Father’s Day, we suggest you do something very simple for him. Send him a hand written note. Write anything that you wish to say. We are sure he will treasure this most among any other thing that you gift that day. Sukanya Bora writes about this dying art form and what it meant to her to get a hand written note from her 83 year old dad on her birthday. We are sure this will inspire you to write too.
I don’t remember the last time I hand-wrote a letter. A simple note for that matter. Do you?
The art of letter writing, sadly, is approaching its demise unless we make concerted efforts to keep it alive. I speak for myself when I say I have turned into a letter writing snob. A useless being when it comes to putting pen to paper. The more I nudge my weakening grey cells to bring alive memories of the bygone when I used to dig letter writing, the sadder I get about my laziness, my ‘going green’ mentality, my technological (un) savvyness. Yes, we are saving trees, becoming environmentally conscious. Yes, we have become adept in living life in the fast lane, of cruising the information super highway effortlessly but at what expense?
Of tucking our beautiful fountain pens away in some obscure places never to be discovered. Of losing our alacrity in writing a three line thank you note to someone. Of relegating this beautiful art form / habit to writing those darn cheques.
I am out of practice, completely and totally. To come to think of it, my 4 year old’s handwriting is better than mine. Her’s is legible and mine, not quite. Her’s is child like, so is mine. I look at my 83-year-old father’s handwriting and I am shamed to bits.
I complain about my parents being behind times. They are technology dinosaurs with no access to anything that involves the internet. I am forever indebted to Alex Bell for his invention as this simple contraption is what keeps me connected with my folks. I pretend to write letters to them and I do but do I really write them? Of course not. Hallellujah MS Word and all things Microsoft.  
My folks have become lax too. I have stopped receiving elaborate letters from them for several years now. Gone are the days when a thick envelope would arrive addressed to me in my father’s beautiful handwriting, filled with news of family, paper/magazine clippings of must read articles and at times snippets of my horoscope. Ones that proclaimed that I was born to be a star (fodder for another post). I looked forward to them, read and re-read them like a zealot catching on to every consonant, reveling in their purity. I stored them away like any beautiful memory for posterity, bringing them out as and when I needed some TLC. I replied to them with equal enthusiasm, detail, length of each letter topping the previous one. It was a simple yet powerful exchange, one that solidified our closeness and connectedness.
Life was good until my parents got old and I succumbed to the www.
This summer, as I celebrated my fortieth birthday, my father took out his favorite Parker pen and jotted down a few lines for me. Of all the generous gifts, this little handwritten note was the best possible gift I could have received on my special day. The gesture, to put it simply, blew me away. My father’s beautiful, heartfelt note in his wise, mature, handwriting did it for me. As I pored over it , a little voice kept reminding me, hold on to this one for good. You never know, this may just be the last one you get from him. 
Holding on to it. I am. Like a child holding onto her blanket, for comfort, for strength. This personal note has found a permanent place alongside others I have cherished all along. It served as a fantastic ‘perker-upper’ just the other day when I was down and out. Nothing like good ole handwritten notes from loved ones to soothe your worries away. My father was many miles away, but I felt his presence right there, next to me, his note written with his strong fingers, lifting me out of the gloom instantly, gently reminding me of the power of this medium. One we ought to preserve, vitalize before it completely fades away.

This post has been contributed by Sukanya Bora. She is a mother of two, an avid blogger, storyteller and is extremely passionate about photography. At her blogs, she write about life, photography, children, motherhood and lot more. This post has previously been published on her personal blog.

My Take On Motherhood

We asked everyone on our FB page to mention the first word /phrase that comes to mind when you think of your mother or own motherhood. We transformed the wide range of emotions heard into our picture of the day. And with that, here is a take on motherhood by Sukanya Bora. Her thoughts will resonate with most mothers out there. Here is what she says. 
I have lost count of the number of times I have attempted to start this post. Let’s just say I struggled writing about motherhood. Yes, me. The woman who considers birthing babies her single most defining moment in her life. The woman who believes her identity at this juncture of her life is that of a mother.
Putting motherhood into words is tough for me. For there ain’t no standard, one size fit all definition for it. It is unique as you make it to be. To me at the very least, it is like a roller coaster ride, where the highs and lows bring immeasurable thrill and grief in equal measure.
To eloquently articulate the pains of motherhood is demanding. No joys, you ask? Even the joyous, proudest moments are painful for me.  The emotions run so deep and strong that I am left feeling raw. My heart feels like this naked lump of flesh that is beating outside my body. Underrated is the power of maternal emotions.
As a kid, I don’t recall ever wanting to be a mom.  I wanted to travel the world as a photojournalist or become a television news personality or Stefan Edberg’s girlfriend.  Never a mom.  But then all of this changed when I met my hubby.  Finding my partner was the second most defining moment in my life. Soon I wanted us to have a brood, someone to carry on our legacy, someone I can coddle to my heart’s content. And this need to love, protect and care for someone became more pronounced when after hours and hours of prolonged labor, I find a pink blob of flesh in my arms. All the pain I endured dissipated instantly as I locked eyes with my first-born. I couldn’t help notice how beautiful he was. I remember thinking – do I really deserve this perfect baby? As poignant the moment was, it was equally terrifying. Suddenly the weight of responsibility dawned on me. Nothing is as unsettling as not knowing what to expect. I bought a baby into this world. Now what?
Blindly I plunged into the challenging somewhat abstruse world of mothering, caring for a new-born. I was clueless but quietly determined to be the best mommy I can be to this helpless but absolutely adorable tiny soul. Needless to say, I fell madly in love with my baby.  And it was this deep, unequivocal love that pushed me through sleepless, colicky nights, painful feeds and countless bugs.
Motherhood has turned out to be a tenacious teacher and I, its shaky but eager pupil. Like a dedicated savant, it is relentless with its tutelage. It continues to teach me patience, something I am gravely challenged with. It is frequently testing my usefulness, my worth. It celebrates my wins with an abundance of joy and honor. It chastises me for my transgressions, pushing me to dark, upsetting places I don’t wish to go. It is at these places where I anxiously second guess my actions. It demands yet fulfills. There are days when I feel I am the world’s most blessed, rewarded mother. Days when I bask in the glory of love- the luscious and profound variety that gives me such an emotional  high that I am left breathless.
It is transient, dynamic, this motherhood. What was anxiety causing a few years ago has now become a memory that provides comic relief. What is stressful now will turn into an easy habit few months later. It’s needs, expectations, norms are in a constant flux and it is in this fluidity that I find clock work synergy. It is in its complexity, I find clarity. Clarity of thought, action and my purpose – of nurturing and respecting. Of loving and being loved. Of raising kids richer in compassion and stronger in values.
This post has been contributed by Sukanya Bora. She is a mother of two, an avid blogger, storyteller and is extremely passionate about photography. Her blogs are a reflection of her immense love for motherhood and all the joys and challenges that is brings along with it.

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