This post first appeared in Indian Moms Connect

Thump! Thud!

My heart skips a beat. I wait for the yell, the scream, the agony, tears that will follow.

In that split second between the thud and the next sound I stop. I mean a complete stop. No skimming through my Twitter timeline, glancing at the Whatsapp group chats, watching the glass of tea spin in the microwave – complete halt. I shut down mentally with my ears open and heart racing. It is like that stillness after a major storm. The eerie silence that highlights my racing heartbeat. A chill runs through my spine and a bone-chilling gust of air seems to hit me.

It is at that these random microseconds one becomes aware of the super computer within. The mind is like a crowded gridlocked traffic disaster and  thoughts are like those two-wheelers that swerve and squeeze through the gaps – between cars and trucks with cursing drivers, buses filled with kids and the lone woman driver debating about dinner. These thoughts are worst-case scenarios. You would be surprised how many of them I could come up with.

May be it is a broken bone (well that is the best of the worst) or did the table fall and crush her? My mind and heart work on overdrive. I try those techniques I had scoured the internet for. Deep breathes, counting to 10, trying to divert my mind. Nothing works. How will it? My feet I realise have involuntarily moved towards the origin of the sound.

STOP! I command myself and I freeze. I stand indecisively – halfway between the living room and my daughter’s room (dump yard is a better way to describe the place honestly). I try to convince myself that I need to check on my daughter. My baby – who could be badly hurt. I fail miserably. Instead I try to find reasons to build a house without corners to bump into and lead a life sans furniture. I know all the arguments and reasonings behind rough play and the need for kids to bump and thud. But it does nothing to my calm me.

I retract my ears still tuned in for a cry or whine. I walk backwards to the living room and collapse on the couch. “Everything fine?” I screech. My voice sounds shaky and angry. It doesn’t show the fear, the pain, the momentary abandon of sanity that hit me a second earlier. Instead it sounds like the voice of a mother – a weary and irritated mother.

“I am fine amma. Nothing broke,” the reply floats my way. I lean back on that couch and close my eyes. I will those scary pictures of blood, gore, pink, purple and glitter to move away. “She is fine,” I say with a sigh and a smile to no one. “She is,” I repeat pushing myself up. I retrace the path and knock at the partially shut door of my daughter’s room. I put my head in and soak in the sight of her. My eyes do a quick scan. All seems fine. The crooked tiara made of floral hair slides decorated that riot of curls, a crazy, off-centered bindi on her forehead, a stack of mismatched bangles, my duppata tied on her waist, a stuffed toy tucked beneath her arms – a normal sight indeed.

“What?” she asks, her little voice carrying irritation. “Want something to eat?” I ask as I feel the guilt of lying to my daughter. “No thanks,” she replies in that accent-laced voice, perfectly toned to imply I-can-see-through-your-tricks. “Have fun,” I say walking away, a smile flirting on my face as I recollect her avatar. My heart is back to normal and there are no chilly gusts of air freaking me out. It is a moment of contentment as I walk away.

“I didn’t get hurt amma. I just fell down and I am fine,” her voice floats down the hallway. I freeze yet again. Am I so transparent? I wonder. Do I wear my worry and concern on my sleeve? Sighing I yell out, “The next time you fall, scream out I am fine before I start worrying.”

I better get working on that house with no corners and furniture soon.