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Ameeta Agnihotri

Chennai, India


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It all started with my mother-in-law. Serious. She was impressed with the letters I wrote to impress her!! I loved (and continue to love) her son, so tried to woo her into thinking I was ideal daughter-in-law material, which I was not. Anway, she thought I wrote very interestingly, and kept telling me I should pursue it.

Finally, 12 years later, I got the chance and did the needful.

Viola! It got published with my pic too. Thrilled, I asked for more work, and got it.

Earlier, I wrote for whoever asked and some who don't too. Most of my meanderings have been published, and I now have a H-U-G-E portfolio of articles written over ten years.

Working out of the house drove me batty, and I usually started late, past 10 pm....a time when the world unwinds and sleeps, I woke up and worked.

Right now I love my life, but there are times when my brain goes on strike and I hate every moment of it, till I hit the computer keys....again.

Maybe I am crazy, maybe I am not, but I certainly am one heck of a writer, and meet deadlines every time.
That is perhaps why I call myself Silent Sensation.
Oh, and I love doing funky writing, reality writing and my editor tells me my writing has an intrinsic twist of humour to it.

In the past couple of years I've worked at an 'irregular' job. I write and edit a magazine I conceived on Fitness and Health called F3 - Energy. You will find the latest copy on

Here then is an article I wrote some time ago on parenting, rather Fathering.

This one got published in the Deccan Herald based in Bangalore.


Often I wonder if all mothers are as obsessed with their kids as I am. I know one father who is far more obsessed with his girls than I can ever dream of being. For I am ‘mom’ or ‘mama’. He, on the other hand is super protective, super conservative and super worried about ‘his girls’.

Picture this. Both girls want to go and have pizza with friends at the nearby Pizza Hut. Actually, it is not so near either. But hubby being Dad has one thousand questions on his mind, and voicing them is no problem. Really.

“Who all are coming?” Translate that into “are there any guys?”
“Oh, its just Prerna, Sweta, maybe a few more kids from the building. Adnan and Karthik may come along.” That gets his antenna up.

“How are you going?” The look in his eyes says: “I hope not pillion riding with the guys on their bikes.”

“Which Pizza Hut are you going to?” This one is simple enough. He wants to judge how long it will take them to reach, order their pizza, eat it, pay the bill and return. In his mind all of that should be complete in one hour. By the way, it takes at least fifteen minutes to reach the place.

Time 9 pm. The girls are not home yet. We have eaten our dinner. “How come they haven’t come yet?” Since I am the mother I simply have to know.
“Dunno.” I mumble, knowing what his next words will be.
“Call them.” He hardly ever disappoints.

Never once has he picked up the phone and called my teen who he had bestowed with a mobile phone, way back when mobiles cost a lot. Just so we can call her every ten minutes that she is outside the house to check if everything is normal, and fine. If by any chance, she is unreachable, panic buttons are pushed, and I become the victim of his worry. “Why is she not reachable? Haven’t you told her never to switch off her phone?” I get the “you’re such a careless mother” look.

Since I am used to this I and secretly I like to behave like a ‘hip’ mom just married to this over protective man, that I do it without so much as a token of protest.
“Your father wants to know when you plan to get back,” I tonelessly say when we connect.

“Maaa, we’ve just reached,” teen wails. “ We were stuck in Shweta’s house, as they had guests.”
“OK,” I sing.
I am about to disconnect the phone, when he frantically signs to me, “ask her to hold.”
“Hold on,” I say.
“Ask her how long they will take to return.”
“Your father wants to know how long you will take to order you pizza, eat it and come back. He is threatening to land up there if you don’t return in forty minutes,” I add, just for effect.

“Wait,” my daughter says, “the signal here is weak.” Read, she wants to talk to me out of earshot of her friends.
A few moments later I can hear cars in the background. She is outside the restaurant.
“Ma, please tell Papa I cannot rush people into ordering their dinner, everybody has a right to decide what they want to eat.”
“Ok, hold on,” I say and convey the message word for word.
He nods, and I say, “Fine, bye.”

Hubby is sitting in front of the TV surfing channels, one eye on the clock. It must move really slowly for him, I think.

Finally, exactly fifty minutes later, the doorbell rings, and his precious girls are home. I can see the relief on his face as he throws the remote on the bed and bounds to the door, throwing it open.

“Come and tell us what you did,” he tries sounding casual.
“We went by bikes,” my little one, who is 12 says innocently while he looks horrified. He hates the idea of his girls going on two wheelers. Fears for their safety. “Papa it was so lovely. We went through a short cut – through a narrow gate and a nice road.”
“Who took you?” He asks.
“Shweta took me, and Prerna took Mihika,” she trills.
“And the guys?” I ask for him.
“Oh, they came on their own bike.” Thank God.

Its over. They’ve had fun, and are home safe. We finally go to sleep but not before he gives both girls a hug. I get one too, as bonus.
“Mom, you’re the best,” my teen says. I glow. “Yes, ma, you are.” My 12 year old adds, she hardly disputes what her older sister says.

“I am?” I ask, wondering what I’ve done to deserve this. Then I think, “I am a great mom. Not an obsessed one.” As I finally shut my eyes on the world for the night.

Ameeta Agnihotri.

Interests: Mainly features, travel, lifestyle and liesure. Also love writing about the quirks in a relationship, marriage and kids. Edit a college newspaper, and let my hair down doing it...

Published writer: Yes

Freelance: Yes


Published works:


  • Nonfiction

  • The Home That Was
  • Other

  • Aireal Views