My mother: She was the one who taught me to pick myself every time I fell, but was always there to kiss away the tears and nurse the bruises, that always kept up my zest to keep going anyway, without a fear of falling. She was also the one to snap me out of my sloppy, slovenly self after my baby was born. If it wasn’t for her, I would probably still be in my yoga pants and oversized tshirt 24*7, no makeup, tousled hair, sprawled out on the bed. She dragged me out of the chronic laziness, helped me buy fancy clothes that actually fit and pushed me out back into that part of the world again where there were no diapers or drool or spilled milk. Thanks to her, I didn’t have to forget what it was like to watch a movie in the theater, or go for a nice meal or to a party and basically, feel like a normal person again, while she smilingly shouldered the unenviable job of babysitting.
My father: He is not the kind of person to go screaming down the street in zest when he is happy or talk about his plans and achievements till he is blue in the face. He is the kind of person who quietly gets his work done. It’s his zest for life, his annoyance at wasting time, that makes him fix broken things lying around, create new, lovely things out of junk, and never miss an opportunity to learn new things – from a new language to how to spray-paint. Leading by example, he taught me to find fun and happiness in simple things – be it writing a small poem or painting your front door yourself instead of hiring a painter – because earth-shattering incidents were not going to happen everyday and you can’t wait for them to happen to be happy.
My baby: Zest is his middle name. He cried in zest when he was in infant, proving with every passing minute how strong that tiny pair of lungs was. He crawled in zest for hours on end, ignoring blackened knees. He taught himself to stand and finally walk with indomitable zest. And now, on the threshold of completing two years in the world, he giggles and babbles and runs and plays with the kind of zest that is so infectious that it’s impossible to not hit the floor with him. That is why even after a long day at work, I find myself kicking around balls with him or piggybacking him without feeling any intense desire to collapse from fatigue.
My husband: He was the one who made me feel beautiful even after I had gained 15 kgs during my pregnancy, and didn’t take his eyes off me even when I was going through that forgettable phase of losing hair by the clumps. He zests up the mundane monotonies of everyday life by springing little surprises – sometimes in the form of my favorite muffins and sometimes, on a more generous scale, weekend trips. He is the one who reminds me that there will be good days and there will be bad days, but they are all worth living, just because we have each other.
My God: In very difficult times, I have leaned on Him and in good times, I have often forgotten to thank Him, but He doesn’t seem to mind. I believe with all my heart that I am His favorite child and he is always looking out for me and He will show me the right way. He builds my confidence to march ahead, leaving it to Him to decide what’s best for me.