Life Swap - Ukraine Reality Show -https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLVGIdgbmQXl3vASGFAJXeTVejgOcFKxni&si=IxjjFon8SRF1hk5p

Title: Life Swap!

I suppose "Wife Swap" would generate more hits than "Life Swap," but we'll stick with "Life Swap." This is a story I rarely tell, and I've often wondered why. After much analysis, I realized that sometimes it's called "kids." If you know what I mean.

Diving into the Ukrainian Story and How It Manifested.

At the time, I was certain that I did not want to live anywhere else in this world except in my homeland. Even so, I desired to experience a different culture, people, food, etc. I even said out loud that I just wanted to be in another country, maybe for ten days, but not as a tourist – to live with them. It felt like the universe was listening. Voila! Here it was.

I must have had this idea maybe a month or less when one Sunday morning (I remember it was Sunday because it was mid-morning, and I was still in my PJs, sitting with my husband at the dining table), my cousin Nutan called. She said, "Anuma, a friend of mine is working for a reality show in Ukraine, and they are looking for people to participate. Are you guys interested?" I laughed at the idea of "wife swap" and the whole concept of living in another country. It felt like I was on a hotline to the universe. We decided we were going to do it.

There was a series of interviews with the show's producer and the director; it was quite interesting. I remember one particular question they asked me: they were curious about why I have three kids if this was a conscious decision, and why not more, etc. Growing up in a joint family – my mom had 8 siblings, and my dad had 12 – I always wanted to follow suit. I aimed to have 6 children. I'm certainly glad I stopped at 3. They asked me, "How many kids are too many, according to you?" I very readily said, "I think 10 kids are too many." And we burst into laughter about how I thought there was still room for more kids than 3.

We went through a few more rounds as a couple, and then finally, they said we qualified to make the list. The terms of the show were that I would swap places with a Ukrainian mother for 6 days: the first 3 days I would do everything exactly as she does, and the remaining 3 days I would get to apply my ideas to their daily routine. I really did not know what I was getting into.

I had no clue how cold, cold could get. At the time, the only winter I had experienced was in Delhi during the 5 splendid years when Delhi was home. I'm going to skip the part of the few days we were shooting at home and dive straight into the day I landed in Ukraine, at Kiev Airport. There was a short layover in Moscow. I peered out of the airport window; all of this was happening in the month of January. It was late evening, the tarmac was paved with snow, and there were snow shoveling machines making their rounds.

I wondered if I would someday come back to Moscow for St. Petersburg. For a few minutes, I was lost in a whirlwind of thoughts about what I remembered from history lessons – no, I wasn't thinking about communism; on the contrary, I was thinking about St. Petersburg, then Peter the Great, the Russian Revolution... and suddenly, my eyes shifted from the glass window to this woman who was across the room walking towards me. I thought she was TALL – perfectly proportioned, with long dark blonde hair, dark blue denim, a white tee-shirt, sparkling diamond studs, and a beautiful diamond ring. There was so much grace in the way she carried herself; her palm was the size of my face, yet she was perfectly proportioned. She walked to the boarding gate, which was beside my seat. She hardly wore any makeup; her skin was flawless. "Wow," I thought. She disappeared into the walkway, the aerobridge. It was time for me to board. I kept thinking of the woman and the many women I saw; they were all gorgeous.

I had no information about where I was going or what the home was like. I arrived at the airport, and waited at the luggage belt – no sign of my luggage. It was now obvious my luggage didn't make it. The carry-on I had contained some warm clothes I borrowed from friends to beat the cold, which later I figured barely kept me warm. My nose was ice-cold by now. There was a placard with my name on it and a crew with cameras waiting for me outside the airport. I kept saying, "I can't feel my nose, I can't feel my nose." I don't think they could understand what I was saying or feeling; they giggled at the sight of me cupping my nose. A large van, a 10-seater, awaited me and the crew, and I was told we were headed for a 10-hour-long journey south of Kiev.

I was seated all the way at the back of the van by the window, with the camera and microphones pointing at me. They grilled me with many questions: how I was feeling, what I liked, etc., etc. We drove through the city and not very long after, we were in the countryside. It was still covered with some amount of snow, looking very wet. Homes were far from each other, and there was a lot of barren land. We stopped for some food; it looked nothing like a restaurant or any place with a signboard. There was a cluster of cottages, and I was led to one of them. The entrance was small and narrow; we walked into a small room with windows dressed with white lace curtains and a table with a pristine white tablecloth. There was a glass jar with what I thought was milk but turned out to be yogurt. Soon the table was filled with an abundance of food: borscht, fried fish, different kinds of potatoes, bread, cream cheese, and biscuits. This is what a hearty Ukrainian meal feels like, I thought. The yogurt was like no other yogurt I had ever had. I was too full and too tired to ask any questions. There was a more barren stretch of land we crossed; it was close to evening, and there was a sudden stir in the van. They got ready with their cameras and microphones. Meanwhile, I acquainted myself with the cameraman and the assistant, both named Yuri.

Except for the producer, no one else spoke English. And, of course, the gorgeous translator Anya. She was with me throughout my stay. She had been studying Hindi for 3 years and spoke quite fluently. She was quite eager to chat and try her skills at speaking Hindi. I was soon intimidated by her proficiency when she referred to the matchbox as "Agni Petika." They were all genuinely kind. Now, there was this whole lot of confusion about my luggage, so I went shopping to buy some thermals and socks, etc.

I could tell we were reaching a sort of village or small township. We drove past a few homes all looked pretty identical, picture-perfect cottages. I was asked to step out of the van and figure out which house I would be staying in. There were homes, and cottages right next to each other, divided by just a small fence. I took a cue from how the camera was pointing to the house closest to me and walked around it. There was a sort of barn and a pen in the backyard. The cottage was really very cute. I was freezing, so I was in a hurry to get inside the house. The entrance was a narrow corridor with what looked like a hundred kids' footwear of all sizes. I tried not to think about the conversation I had with the producer about the kids. Nah, there aren't that many kids. The director promoted the very question: "How many kids do you think this couple has?" I took a deep breath and said, "I don't know." A different kind of math was running in my head. I walked into the room, which clearly was the kids' room. There were three bunk beds. I wasn't going to jump to the number six; I took a gulp when I walked into the couple's bedroom. There were three baby cots. I laughed at the sight, shaking my head nervously. The director didn't let that slide. She didn't waste any time, "So now, what do you think?" I still laughed nervously, found a comfy chair, parked myself, and then looked at her, wiping the smile off my face. "Are you kidding me? Are there 9 kids?" She said, "No," with a smirk, "10," she said. I sat there, holding my head, laughing. I think everyone had a good laugh. I was handed a file with some hard cash, names of all the kids, the routine the mother follows, meal times, recipes, etc. It said the day begins at 5 am: milk the cows. My eyes popped out. I kept giggling at everything else that followed. I was always up for a challenge. How hard could it be, I thought.

Now it was time to meet my new family. I was seated, looking away from the entrance corridor. The door opened, and I was in anticipation. I laid eyes on the littlest member of my family, the one-year-old, followed by two of them, pretty much the same age. I saw Max, and I knew instantly he was going to be my favorite. His eyes sparkled, and his smile was adorable. He walked straight up to me and sat on my lap, followed by the other two, and then there were the rest of them. I could still only count 9. The eldest, who was also Yuri, was living in Kiev; he was 20 and had moved to the city for work. They each introduced themselves. The father of the kids walked in with a bouquet of flowers. His name was Yura. Gosh, I had a lot of these names to remember. In the course of my stay, I learned that only 3 of the kids were their biological children; all the others were adopted, including the 1-year-old, who doted on her father. His love for his kids and the way he cared for them was a wonderful experience for me. His burden would never get lighter, his loneliness was never known until he broke down during a one-on-one time towards the end of the week. He missed his wife very dearly. They worked tirelessly to provide and nurture the kids, finding very little or no time for themselves. I didn't hear anything about it from either of them. Their story was narrated to me by the producer. The kids had their own growing pains, but they were all pretty much together with each other, all had the same privileges and were treated equally. The oldest was 17; we didn't agree on a lot of things. She was trying to take on the mother's role, and I wanted her to just be a teen, hang out with her friends, and get out of the house. I made them shower every day, change their clothes, dress up for the day, and do their own dishes.

I did my first 3 days with much grit. I woke up at 5, and milked the cow that was three times my size – I could not hold the milking gizmo in my hands because those are clearly made for giant hands. But it was a lot of fun, going through the motions. I cooked and fed the kids, went to the community women's singing group, took the little ones to a daycare, went shopping at the market, and had a lot of good vodka and some exquisite pork fat.

The most disturbing incident was still just my ignorance of children who have been in shelters and the trauma that stays with them. I was putting the littlest one to sleep; I had the one-year-old in my arms, rocking her and singing (or rather, humming) some form of a lullaby. Amp was in the baby cot; he was watching me rock the baby in my arms. I knew he was feeling sleepy. He started to rock his head from side to side, almost violently. I didn't get what was going on; I tried to hold him, but he wouldn't let me touch him. He was grunting and swinging his head from side to side, and I watched helplessly, tears welling up in my eyes. I was told that this was their coping mechanism when they were left in shelters. That's how they rocked themselves to sleep. As I write this, I still feel heavy in my heart. In his waking hours, he glued himself to me, showered me with kisses, and didn't let go of my hand. And as night fell, it was difficult for me to see him not wanting to be touched.

There was a pot of soup, and borscht brewing on the stove throughout the day. Though there was plenty of milk the cows gave, the kids all drank black tea, Yura made cream cheese at home and when the littleness got hungry they sandwiched a sort of cookie and cram cheese. When the older kids got home from school they had soup. The kids were absolutely wonderful, and so was Yura. He spoke loudly, often trying to make me understand, or thinking that if he spoke loudly, I would be able to understand what he was saying. He didn't speak a word of English. We gestured most of the time.

My luggage never arrived until the day before I was leaving; it was a great learning for me, I managed out a duffle bag for someone who packed a spare for a spare, I did pretty well. There was just one washroom for the whole lot of us, and I did just a very basic laundry and just one bath every day; it just worked out. There were 3 potty chairs for the little ones, a bathtub with a shower, and one washbasin and pot all in a large bathroom. At a time, there would be 2 or 3 of the kids using the bathroom. Lucky for me, I was given the privacy to use the loo just by myself.

The mother was part of a local club that did some cultural activity and I got to participate in a group song; it was quite fun. I dressed in their traditional attire and sang with two other women. There wasn't much time between the kids and home. But I felt much admiration for the mother for taking the time to be part of the community.

It was now time to say goodbye. Even the 17-year-old, who despised me, was tearing up. We said our goodbyes; of course, I was eager to come back to my kids, but it was kind of heavy to leave them behind. I showered them with kisses and hugs. There was no way we could keep in touch for various reasons. I just don't want to pen it down. The memories of Ukraine will always be cherished. I came back to India feeling full, having lived with different people in a different land yet the colors of love and life were just the same.

Be careful what you wish for! Life will swap you.