Grinning triumphantly in the gilded mirror, the hairdresser threw her hands up in the air in the manner of one who had just delivered a successful theatrical monologue. Antara thanked her with an earnest smile, a lone dimple marking a deep incision on her right cheek. With the unmistakable edginess of someone who isn’t good at receiving compliments, she gingerly fingered her freshly styled bangs. Streaked with tints of fading burgundy, they brought back the memory of a passport photograph of a self-effacing seven-year-old with large, almond-shaped eyes and a demure smile that revealed a missing front tooth. Taken during primary school, it was the only time in the past when she had sported thick bangs. That it was her father who gave her the haircuts for most part of her school life, would often be a topic of much amusement amongst the other girls in her class.

The salon appointments, often unplanned, were a temporary escape from the recurring claustrophobia that took hold of Antara in the tiny north London apartment she called home. For a good hour, between awkward smiles and half-hearted phrases, she had been an unwilling participant in another client’s tedious rants about soggy supermarket sandwiches, dodgy countryside B&Bs, and notorious postpartum hormones. Passing through a vibrant row of vintage apparel stores, Antara stopped abruptly and swallowed a few gulps of the cold, dry air. A strong whiff of coffee distracted her, her body suddenly craving the comfort of a well-heated space. She walked into the nearest café, a family-run bagel bakery she frequently visited, and greeted the girl at the counter with a singsong enthusiasm. Other than two baristas and the rhythmic humming of the dishwasher, there was little sign of business.

The late-afternoon traffic had begun to swell in the street outside, though the commotion was well-muffled by the bakery’s display case neatly stacked with rolls and baguettes. Antara chose a table next to the chalkboard wall that was always doodled with ‘Chef’s Special’ which unlike her order—café latte and walnut cake—changed every day. Up until their move to London, when left on her own, she was plagued by a cloying unease of public spaces. Extremely conscious of attracting another human’s gaze, she would often be wary of doing something embarrassing in the public. But the overwhelming urge to fit in as a pukka Londoner together with the forced solitude of motherhood had somehow liberated her. Amidst the quiet everyday struggles of being a new mother, she looked forward to the multifarious facets of the iconic city that left her fortified and depleted in equal measure.

Antara took out a glossy paperback from her tote and placed it next to the steaming cup of coffee. The torn sugar sachet went next to the cup, arranged in a careless aesthetic. Deliberating on the scene for a few seconds, she switched on her phone and opened Instagram. Holding it steady over the table at a sharp perpendicular angle, she clicked a picture—or ‘flat lay’ as it was called in the social-media parlance. After applying a grainy sepia filter, she posted it with the caption: “Empty café, full heart”. Within minutes a flurry of red hearts made their way into her inbox. A rather impatient message from a reader friend flashed querying, “Hey babe, have been seeing this book EVERYWHERE! Any good?” In a world of mushrooming apps that outnumbered genuine human connections, this was the only platform where Antara found some remote semblance of a social life. Despite the relentless sensory bombardment of too many visuals and opinions, all readily pedaled and as eagerly consumed, she had managed to form a tenacious bond with few kindred souls.

It had started drizzling by the time Antara decided to head back home. Having forgotten to carry an umbrella, the ubiquitous accessory of every Londoner, she began jogging lightly. The caffeine had lent a newfound spring to her steps, and soon she found herself in their living room greeted by a sea of Lego strewn on the floor, a half-built racetrack, and a tent pealing with rollicking laughter. A tiny head peeped out of the cutout window and squealed, “Peekaboo!”. As Neel wriggled out of the door, she feigned collapsing on the sofa before squeezing him in a tight hug.

“Someone had lots of fun, I see!”

The boy raised both his hands imitating a hurrah.

“Wow, who’s this college girl!” Crawling out from the tent, Amit joined them.

Forcing a smile that wavered between a frown and familiarity, she let Neel slide down her legs gently. After resting his face on her knees for a few seconds, the boy got busy with the unfinished track.

“I have kept the chicken out for thawing. Or should we just order some biryani from Rajdoot?” Amit hollered as she walked away toward the bedroom.

Always so saint-like, always so overcompensating, thought Antara while splashing some cold water on her face. Unlike her, Amit displayed no lingering resentment from the fight they had the night before. She needed days to recover from the ricocheting echo of blames they hurled so effortlessly at each other of late. Stepping out of her jeans, she stood in front of the closet mirror in just the jumper. Moving closer to the mirror, she ran her fingers slowly along the furrowed lines of cellulite on her thighs. College girl! The impulsive haircut was a cheaper and impromptu therapy session she had gifted herself a week ahead of her thirty-fifth birthday.

***

“Do you know the muffin man, the muffin man …”

It was only after asking for his favourite blueberry muffin for the fourth time, that Neel had begun humming the song. Antara scampered along the sidewalk to keep up with his speeding scooter. She missed his pram phase that he had only recently outgrown, the luxury of having one’s own mobile cupholder while clicking a picture or two along the way. Even after living in the neighborhood for more than two years, she could never get enough of the quaint, tree-lined streets with rows of picturesque houses. Pearly blossoms were beginning to appear in nooks and corners lending everything a very surreal charm. As she made a mental note to take a few pictures on the way back, they had arrived at the pedestrian crossing.

“Slow down, dumpling. Remember, you gotta wait here for Mama and the walky-walky man.” The boy paused reluctantly, his gaze fixed on the traffic light, and then looked at her questioningly when the sign of the green walking man appeared.

 
Bathed in nascent rays of morning sunlight, Hampstead Heath shone in its early spring glory. Even though most trees still stood bare, clumps of green seemed to have sprouted overnight across the sprawling meadows. Walking through a cluster of skeletal willows, Antara realized how different everything looked in just a few days. She preferred this quiet time of the day unlike the evenings when the entire neighbourhood flocked to the heath to cough out the day’s fatigue. Except for a few toddler moms like herself and the occasional dog walker, it became their personal playground. Neel led the way in the direction of the duck pond, his favorite part of the heath. Arriving at a gentle slope from where he was unsure to scooter further, he paused and looked back. Watching him exhibit his first signs of independence with such thoughtful restrain, a rush of motherly pride overpowered her momentarily.

“Mama, look! The sun! The golden sun!”

“Yes! And who’s Mama’s sun?”

“Golden Neel!” The boy let go of the scooter in a fit of euphoric clapping.

“Alrighty! Let’s leave your scooter here.”

They parked the scooter beside the lone bench overlooking the pond. While reaching for the muffin bag from her tote Antara found the red Hot Wheels which, after a futile search for days, they had declared lost.

“Dumpling, look what Mama found!”

“Red Ferrari! Red Ferrari!”

Already half way down to the pond, the boy scrambled back up the slope and almost snatched the little car from her hand. His deep brown eyes sparkled like two dollops of molten caramel in the mellow spring sun.

“Run along, then! And look, the duckies too are here today.”

A big paddling of ducks quacked noisily as if expressing the collective relief of all Londoners that came with the thawing of a rather endless winter. The boy ran giddily towards the pond, clutching the car tightly in his tiny fist.

As Antara settled down on the bench, the motherly pride revisited her. In moments like this, she marveled at the fact that her baby boy was almost three and was fast learning the ways of the world in his own little ways. That he could string together words to make a coherent sentence and memorize song lyrics after watching them just once, seemed no less than miracles to her. A reassuring smile spread on her lips, the warmth of which radiated through her exhausted body. She clicked a few pictures of Neel calling out to a pair of ducklings. Two adult swans who had joined the cacophony soon became her next favorite subject. Occasionally, when one of them glided terribly close to him, he turned around flashing a nervous smile at her; in return, she gave him a high-five in the air.

A new Instagram notification flashed on Antara’s phone screen—she had been tagged in a post, a feature she hated with all her heart. A university friend from Bangalore who later went on to work at the same publishing house she previously worked for had posted a picture. Taken during her last India holiday, it was captioned “Throwback to the day when this lovely gal was in town”. Antara tapped the screen perfunctorily and a red heart flew across the picture. She then doom-scrolled through her explore grid—a kaleidoscopic hodgepodge of floral still-life, postcard-perfect countryside cottages, mom fashion, and snippets of Urdu poetry. Lost in little windows of worlds so removed from her own, she was interrupted by a loud fluttering of feathers. A few seconds of rushed scanning later, her eyes could not locate Neel anywhere near the pond. Making it to the pondside in two giant leaps, she found him behind the straggly curtain of reeds, squatting waist-deep in the water shooing away the frenzied ducks. Though her legs felt like two wobbly mounds of jelly and her heart thumped outside her body, she combed through the reeds and reached for him. The cold water numbed her to the bones, sending ripples of rage pounding through her entire body. She felt as if she would either explode with a loud bang or quietly disintegrate into a puddle. Mustering every ounce of her patience, in a shaky voice she asked, “Dumpling, are you okay?”

“Red Ferrari fell in water!”

Holding on to the car in his tightly clenched fist, he clung to Antara, his little body quivering with feeble sobs. Pressing him to her bosom, she kissed his disheveled curls breathlessly. His joggers, soaking wet and now double their weight, stuck to his limbs stubbornly.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. We gotta be more careful next time, okay? Now let’s get you out of these wetty-wetty pants.”

Fighting a fast-solidifying blob in her throat, Antara took off her sweatshirt and tried fashioning it into a makeshift pair of pants by scrunching up the waist into a clumsy knot. When she tried putting Neel’s legs into them, he did not yield easily.

“Not Neel’s joggers!”

“I know, dumpling. But we don’t have a spare pair.”

“Not mine!” He began kicking his legs frantically.

“Look here, there’s your muffin waiting.”

The boy paused for a moment and looked about the bench searchingly. After the initial struggle, Antara was almost done getting him into the makeshift pants when a robust Rottweiler leapt into the scene from nowhere. In a matter of seconds, he grabbed the muffin bag lying on the bench and darted off like a bolt of lightning. Before she could comprehend what had just happened, a man came jogging near them shouting, “Frodo! Frodo! No!!” Holding a twig and panting heavily, he continued, “I’m so sorry! He has never done that before!” Just when she was about to respond, the man sprinted off after the dog who was now a moving brown speck in the distance. Visibly overwhelmed and perhaps wanting to chase after the dog, Neel tried getting off the bench but ended up landing awkwardly on the ground. 

“How about we get you a fresh muffin, hmm? A warm, gooey-ooey blueberry muffin!”

Although her cheeks felt flushed, Antara realized she was cold in the cotton T-shirt. The temperature had risen to double digits but the cold breeze never quite left London alone. Swearing under her breath, she balanced the scooter in one hand and let Neel hold on to the other. Her breasts, that were already tender from a lingering PMS, felt heavier with every step while her frazzled mind replayed the morning’s squabble with Amit. Quite nonchalantly he had remarked and not so much as asked, “Oh, is it not early this month?” She could not tell if she was relieved because he could finally gauge the emotional edge in her behavior, or because even her valid reactions were now to be blamed on hormones and dismissed as simply another mood swing.

***

“Let’s find out what happened to Peppa on the moon … How about some yoga with Duggee?”

Sensing a tantrum midway, Antara desperately tried shoving some of Neel’s favorite cartoons his way. Though the walk had calmed her nerves, the boy had become increasingly restless. Scouring through a jumble of YouTube videos and unable to make a choice, she put one hurriedly. A dog with a posh accent was baking a carrot cake for a bunch of hungry bunnies. On the verge of breaking into a wail, Neel suddenly sat up, his tear-stricken face layered with confusion and exhaustion. Scooping him on her lap, Antara gently yanked the makeshift pants off his waist. Within minutes he dozed off, his face at once calm and body suddenly grown heavy with the weight of sleep.

The sunny, promising morning had given way to a gloomy afternoon. The sudden overcast skies accompanied by a light drizzle called for some strong masala chai. Antara decided to make some macaroni and cheese; it was Neel’s favorite. As she stirred the bubbling cheese, her mind kept playing the pond mishap on repeat till it was mapped with little tributaries of what ifs. What if the pond was full? If only she had been more vigilant … The guilt came in dull pulses at first and then washed over her with huge waves all at once. She contemplated calling Amit but then just as immediately shrugged it off. Reminded of the hysterical fit she had thrown the week before when Neel had bruised his upper lip during a park run with Amit, she concluded this would be another incident that had to be filed for posterity in her motherhood journal.

The kitchen window looked out to a freshly manicured yard bordered by bright forsythia hedges and an old mimosa tree. Distracted by the mini daffodils on the windowsill, Antara felt something small and hard in her jogger’s pocket. It was the Hot Wheels she had found wedged in the wet ball of clothes that were tossed into the washing machine a while ago. A searing flash of anger roiled her guts, rising like a sour aftertaste inside her. Sighing deeply, she paused for a few seconds before flinging the little car out the window with all her might. At once bursting into tears, she slumped by the whirring washing machine. It was the only time of the day that was hers—the two hours of Neel’s nap when she could take a guilt trip around the whole world, break herself to pieces and then glue herself back in time for his evening play.

Collecting herself, she reached for her phone from the countertop and scrolled through the pictures she had taken in the morning. There was one where Neel was pointing at the swans, his brown curls and red sweatshirt in a beautiful contrast with the serenity of the pond’s surroundings. She opened Instagram and ignoring the awaiting notifications, posted the picture.
Caption: “Happiness is this.” Hashtag: #letthembelittle

Mickey Suman

Mickey Suman is an independent editor and writer. Her work has previously appeared in Kitaab, Muse India, Punch and other literary publications. When not dabbling in the world of the written word, she enjoys conducting storytelling sessions for curious young listeners. Mickey currently lives in Bangalore and is working on her first collection of short stories.
She can be found on Instagram @scatteredpoems_

Anxiety domestic life friendship Identity London Loneliness motherhood performance