My Rainbow

(A guest post by my mother Chandrama Anand.)

I happen to have three colours in my original rainbow but all the colours have been subtly interwoven in them. They are like arrows in my quiver which shoot out and quaver from time to time, painting my horizon bright and blinding. They are my three children, Anu, Arun and Puja.
One boiled egg with a side dish of chat masala on day one replaced by plain salt next time. But surprisingly, I liked taking egg with chat masala. Great recipe by serendipity (grateful to the computer to check my spellings simultaneously).  

Anu

I wake up to find my daughter, my colour number one, giving me bed tea, something I am not accustomed to. But I love it all the same because I feel pampered and loved and most of all wanted. Very few lucky parents can boast of being wanted when they are a spent force, especially when their arm is in a plaster cast.

Then at 8 am I descend with an intention to go to the kitchen to find that I need not. Folks my breakfast is already laid out in inexplicable detail and splendour. 

     Place—left side of dining table where I always sit.

A bowl of bland oats cooked in milk, covered with lid (because I hate sugar in oats).

A bowl of diced mango pulp to be added to oats /or be eaten with oats. Choice is mine.

A cup of milk which was hot to begin with. Bland again for the same reason.

Wish to stop here as I have to describe the next colour.

Arun

I am travelling and all my friends who have never thought of calling me while I was in town wake up and want to chat and reminisce. The clock is ticking and my mobile ticks like the Singapore taxi leaving me completely stripped of my charge, both pre paid and battery.

At this time I happen to be talking to Arun and hear the warning tone of my mobile, so I say, I need to recharge and, lo and behold, Arun has already recharged for me to talk for a month at a stretch. Actually my vocabulary is at fault but what a boon all the same.

I keep hopping in and out of Delhi several times and need to book Shatabdi tickets, plane tickets, taxi/or to be dropped to airport or station at all Godly and Ungodly hours. My colour in the middle is ever there to light my way to my destination, with a smile and a bow just like the Maharaja of Air India of the past (now bowing in shame because of the long strike of the silly pilots)

I forgot to mention the sandwich to go with the budget flight, lovingly wrapped in foil to satisfy my hunger prepared with the loving hands of my 2^nd colour.

Puja

Message beeped in my mobile (mobile itself is curtsey Puja) and it says “Read my blog and why no comments to previous one?” Keeps me on my toes, rather on finger tip/s because that is how I type on computer.

I have seen myself in the mirror a myriads of times but what I see of myself on her blog is simply unbelievable. The joy, the glow that emanates from every pore of my skin is brought out by the flick of her brush on the word page.

I am sent packing to the art class with Prashanti escorting me to the bus and the metro to school. I do need to polish my strokes and my admission fee is already paid for.

My travel bug seems to bite her too and my 3^rd colour scours the internet to arrange for my journey by the highest train in the world to Lhasa.