After more decades than I care to recall of rinse, lather and repeat, I can now say for a fact that mornings are not my thing. Clarity has no fixed timeline. But this much I know; if waking up is hell, Monday mornings are the cherry atop the icing on the awfully-tasting cake, I prefer to call office.

But it’s all good. I’m a pro by now. Even if my physical body consistently rejects the process, muscle memory helps me do the bare minimum to make it through the day. Heck, way before ‘quiet quitting’ was a thing, I was already doing the beta ​version. But I digress, back to the morning ordeal. Before I decide to haul myself out of bed, my mind is the scene of an epic courtroom tussle. The last few minutes before wakefulness are spent in a straight-to-DVD (dream video drama) version of the a courtroom drama in which I’m judge, jury, plaintiff and media. It’s no Depp v Heard but it’s still riveting stuff. The fate of my day hangs in the balance as ​the defense and ​a seasoned attorney inside my head argue both sides of the case. Who wins or loses is a toss-up between equally valid arguments.

Each morning, before I’m fully awake, a dapper-looking D.A., who resembles me on my best days, argues with the defense, a blood-shot-eyed, ruffled hair version of who I look like on most weekdays. In scenes reminiscent of the best John Grisham court cases, the banter usually goes something like this:

D.A. Your honor, the accused is intentionally trying to be late for work, it’s going to take him ages to shower and change and then there’s the forty-minute commute even!

Defense (scribbles something on the yellow legal pad and passes it off to me, I nod): Your honor, Zzzzz….hmmmm…five more minutes.

D.A. ​Objection your honor! ​*kicks me*

Defense: OUCH!! Son of a b@#$!! Your honor! Harassing the witness.

Me: Watch it counsel. (As clichéd as it sounds, almost in all of these dreams, I’m the judge, jury and execution too.)

D.A. Hehe *adjusts tie* my apologies your honor. *Turns to me* come on! Rise and shine Princess!

Defense: But I could say, I’m sick.

D.A. Nope, you did that last week.

Defense: My car broke down.

D.A. Been there.

Defense: *trembling voice now* I have to take my father to the hospital?

D.A. Done that.

Defense: Ok Ok! I’ve got it.

D.A. A dead relative?

Defense: Yeah! Brilliant, eh?

D.A. *grins*

Defense: Don’t tell me. I’ve killed them too?!

D.A. Uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbours. It’s been a genocide already. They’re calling you the ‘Butcher of Officeville.’

Defense: But-but.

D.A. Think of what Mom and Dad would say? They have high hopes for you!

And that does it. With a last mouthful of choice profanities, the accused is dragged off as I get out of bed.

One more day. Ready to join the rat race.

Every morning, before leaving for work, I drop by to check in on Mom who is asleep in her favorite chair by the window. The 24/7 news channel playing in the background with its constant drivel of sensational breaking news coverage of how the latest influencer used old discarded tea bags to rejuvenate her skin.

Dad is propped on his tower of pillows as he sips from his tea in bed, the morning’s papers spread before him like a military tactician assessing the battlefield. Sensing my presence, he looks up and grins, giving me the thumbs up and then peeking at his partner of almost fifty years.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

I muster a smile. Sometimes, seeing my parents like that teleports me down this rabbit hole of memories of times and events.

It seems like only yesterday that I, along with my siblings, were the ones being dragged out of bed by Mom. If Dad ever had to be called into our room, that was it. It basically meant that you had already missed the school bus and would most probably miss morning assembly too and face Dad’s own unique brand of tough-love. We would have given anything to trade that for Mom’s straight-from-the-hip shooting.

However, there were still little loopholes for that extra five minutes of sleep. You could either be the first one to occupy the bathroom. That way, you got a hot shower, and you could also spend some extra minutes in front of the heater while the rest got ready. Or you could sleep with one eye open in front of the heater and reconcile yourself to splashing cold water over your face and pressing down the stubborn tufts of hair, sticking out at weird angles.

The long walk, which sometimes used to turn into a no-holds-barred, all-out sprint to the bus stand. The smirking, gap-toothed grin of the boy in the back window of our bus as it sped away, leaving us panting and doubled up by the side of the road.

It was always my youngest sister who got deputed with the task of conveying the news of our failure to catch the school bus to Dad. We reasoned she was much too small to risk receiving a serious beating(there would be not enough surface area for the slap), not that there was ever any danger, but we tended to cover our bases. Plus, she was still too young to understand Dad’s biting sarcasm, so it was a win-win situation, we figured.

There was always an ulterior motive too. We figured that since me and my sister had become seasoned veterans by now, it was best to send in the youngest. Who knew, maybe the sight of her flushed cheeks and dishevelled ponytail might make him go easy on us. The faint hope of missing school that could open up a whole morning of opportunities beckoned at us like a mirage in the desert, throwing reason, past history and logic out of the window.

The unbridled joy of watching TV, knowing that at that very moment, there were children all over the world, some of whom we knew and envied, standing in the morning assembly. Worries about that math quiz that I hadn’t prepared for were momentarily forgotten as I watched Tom and Jerry.

Watching anything on TV really, just for the sake of being able to boast about it to our friends the next day. Peace in the Middle East never sounded more interesting than in those five minutes.

And then watching our hopes go up in smoke as the car came to pick us up.

*siiiighhhh*

The Roles Have Reversed

As I watched Mom sleep that day, all these thoughts flashed before my eyes. Life had come full circle. We are born as these tiny, helpless beings, totally at the mercy of the world. And the only two individuals standing in the way of any calamity are our parents — a scenario that I touched upon in my debut novel and which frankly, I keep coming back to.

They raise us, shield us, protect us and bring us up.

Instill values and principles.

We can afford to throw tantrums, break rules, and be irresponsible, sleep in late, miss school. Do anything. We know they will make it ok, eventually.

What we sometimes fail to realize at times is that slowly but surely, the wheel is turning and the roles are being reversed. Life has a way of creeping up on you and blind sighting you. Suddenly it’s you who’s raising a couple of babies.

Fifteen years ago, Dad had an accident that almost took his life. That was my ‘wake up’ call. I became aware of the two babies I had to take care of. The rocks and support that I had been leaning against all my life were starting to wobble a little. It was time for me to get my act together and prop them up a bit too.

Parents are bound to grow old. It’s how life is. Each day we have to make little adjustments in our own routines and personality, to accommodate them, just as they have been doing so long for us.

Frankly, it’s hard as hell. Missing out on watching Wimbledon just because some re-re-run of a drama is being shown. Or the countless times they want you to take them out for a drive.

Even though it’s because you’ve had a bad day at the office in reality, but when you’re home you realize that every frown and furrow mean the difference between a good or a bad day to your babies. Just like it did for you when your whole world revolved around them.

Now it’s you who has to keep a constant lookout.

Make sure they eat their meals and take their meds.

They’re not watching TV too much.

They’re not dialing the wrong number because they refuse to wear their glasses.

Picking out new dress combinations for Dad whenever we have to go out.

It is time to put your own preferences, moods, likes​ away dislikes away for the time being. When you have kids, they come first, no questions asked.

And I’ve got two.

A reckless sports fan, who refuses to heed calls to hang up his boots or watch out for his back. And a tantrum-throwing, sensitive, careless girl who keeps losing her glasses.

I can’t afford to miss the office and not go to work. What example am I setting for my ‘kids’?

Until and unless I can come up with a move to counter that argument, sleep comes second best.