Not Today

Not today, not right now...
Don't ask me to smile.
I'd rather cry a tear,
Let a dark scream settle on my heart.
I'd rather the glass shattered,
The pieces scattered.
A thousand pin pricks on my soul.
Let me fall apart, crash, burn, toss, turn.
Just this once,
Let me be weak. Petty. Small.
I won't be a pillar... No... Not today. Or maybe not at all.

For her

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? – The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

She was as radiant as the Sun itself. So beautiful, so elegant. Almost like a poet’s painting. Not almost, no. A poet’s painting. For when you stood in front of her, you just stood there, awed. I always did.

With didun, it felt like lilies, raindrops, chocolate cake – you know, those nice little things that just light up moments. Sunny Park visits meant happy conversations, lots and lots, AND LOTS of great food on the table, lots and lots of eating under didun’s supervision, and lots and lots of being loved.

I want her still to be a phone call away. I want her still to be treating us like grandmums treat grandkids – like grandkids. I want her still to call me and share her worries. I want her still to soothe me with her voice. I want to be selfish. I want her back, our didun.

Our didun. So rich in spirit. So divine. She was what I dream of becoming. What I can only dream of becoming.

But don’t worry didun, in a not-so-far-away time, we shall meet again, in another dream. And there, you can tell me the secret of becoming you. So long then.

[We lost didun on 25 October 2012. Another heartbreaking goodbye, another vaccum.]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XLI

The boy who never grew up
And that wasn't really cute.

How would you feel if this sight greets you when you come home after a day at work?

A lanky 25-year-old boy/man, who thinks he's still fifteen, sprawled out on your sofa, in a pair of shorts that exposes three-quarters of his scraggly, hairy legs, in full control of your remote control – and of your life... well, almost.

Boy-man: "Hey, how was work?"
Me: "Hmmm... The boss thinks I'm not doing enough. She's a real..."
Boy-man: Had already turned away and was laughing at a disgustingly moronic Hindi sitcom.

WHICH 25-YEAR-OLD MAN WATCHES HINDI SITCOMS??? Apparently some do. At least this guy, who'd parked himself at our place, does. He, some junior from the husband’s college, had written, or should I say FBed the husband one night that he was coming to town. And would like to stay for a few days. Only a few, till his visa gets sorted. Visa? Oh, did he not say? His girlfriend's gone to Portugal and he wants to follow and it's much easier to get visas from here rather than from his city and hence the arrival. Also, it would be SO cool to catch up after ALL these years.

Now, let me tell you, the husband and I... us... we are pretty used to, and good to, guests. The guest room's ever ready for anyone to come and crash. And I! I am the most tolerant and amiable hostess ever. I make sure there's food on the table and water in the loos. A guest doesn't, couldn’t need anything more to subsist.

The problem in this case was that the stranger-to-me, junior-to-the-husband was the quintessence of a Bangali babu. I immediately became his boudi (as the husband was already a dada). And the moment you are designated a boudi, the brother-in-law weirdly gets a preordained right to act like a kid and demand undue pampering.

Boy/man: "Boudi, let's make a continental spread tonight. Please. Please please! Dada was saying how good you are with it. Maybe a quiche, and a meatloaf. Baked veggies, yum! Maybe a cheesecake to end with!" He went off into an orgasmic relish of imaginary food. I chose to glare at the husband, the silence meaning and even imploring, "do not ever dare tell him, or ANYONE, that I cook well. That I cook AT ALL". “Let’s make” obviously implied “you make, we all eat”. I let that pass. Just a night, god, just one night.

Not quite that easy. Bangali babu was used to being served a grand meal breakfast, lunch, dinner. Dal, something to go with the dal, sabzi, fish, and meat. And it being the remnant of the winter season, he needed his coffee, at 6, in bed.

Milk, bread, chocolates, cookies vanished from my food store. (For a lean fellow, he had a ravenous appetite.) His clothes piled in my laundry basket. The television rights gradually went to him. The laptop turned into a gaming machine. He read books halfway through, got bored and let them lie anywhere – I must define anywhere. The ledge on the balcony railing. Rim of the washbasin, precariously balanced. Kitchen cabinet. Under the sofa. In his dirty clothes pile inside the laundry basket.

The husband silently slunk away and spent hours at work. That was the most tortuous part for me. I had nothing to say to boy-man. I was not interested in boy-man's juvenile tales. "When I was 10, we went to Bombay. Oops, must say Mumbai now, no? [Giggle giggle]... yap yap yap..." Dude, what's funny about that??

After an arduous three weeks, he told us he’d got the visa. His work in the city was done. (My) Inference: He’d be leaving the next day. I was so thrilled that I really did cook a huge Bengali meal to celebrate my liberation. He let out a nasty burp, and smiled at me indulgently as if at a cute but errant puppy, “It was all very well, boudi. Thank you. I just thought the ilish could’ve done with a little more salt. And of course, instead of the mishti doi from a shop, you could’ve easily made payesh yourself. No worries. Maybe tomorrow night, huh?”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XL

Not quite without a hitch

Wedding bells, wedding bells, wedding all the way

I wasn't sure at which point I'd been sucked into the vortex of activity. I'd arrived
in my best clothes – well, not really, because I did not care – with my mother-in-law
at her friend's son's wedding. Well, this wasn't exactly the wedding. We were at the pre-wedding "party". There were about a couple of dozen senior citizens, all dashing
in their South silks and tussar kurtas, there was a hassled groom in his jeans and checkered shirt, and... I think that was about it. I plastered a polite smile on my face, stood in a corner, and generally tried to be inconspicuous. I was bored out of my wits. So what I did next was just to kill the boredom. I saw the groom's mother lugging a suitcase full of gifts for the bride's family.

"Uh, auntie, you need help?"

"Huh?"

I should've just left her in her dazed state.

"May I... help?"

Pause... pause... "So sweet of you beta! Yes, carry this upstairs. Keep it in the second bedroom, next to the smaller wardrobe. On the second rack of the bigger wardrobe, you'll see a blue silk stole. You'll find a tiny box of gold earrings wrapped in that stole. Bring the one with the emerald setting. But put the box inside the locker, I'd forgotten! There's so much to do na beta. What can I say! Bring the stole downstairs too. Tinkai [groom's warped Bengali-style nickname] will wear it for lunch. He needs to wear the silk kurta, I've been telling him since morning... Kids these days.... hmpf..." She walked off in a huff. I stood there, sipping my vodka. What just happened?
I hauled the heavy suitcase, plonked it where it was supposed to be plonked, and tried opening the wardrobe that had the blue stole and emerald earrings. I tugged. It was locked. No man!
Climb down flights of stairs to find groom's mom, only to find out she is in the "first bedroom" upstairs. Climb up, but oh, she's left the key with her husband downstairs. Get to her husband... Finally, I did get to the earrings, and the stole – none of which anyone wore.
All the running around had only one result – I got officially recognized as a "very useful person".
So next morning, I found myself making up a rubbish excuse for office, bunking work, and being at the beck and call of every conceivable person at the wedding venue.
A seven-year-old screamed, "Didi, where is my Ben 10 watch?" I ran to find the mama who had the purse that had the watch.
My purple saree had a blotch of haldi on it. My face, too, looked like it'd been dyed in turmeric paste. My heels made my ankles ache. I served tea, I sang songs, I patiently listened to tuneless aunts singing – in fact, I started feeling quite proud of myself!
I was so busy that I didn't quite realize when the day was nearly done and evening descended. I heard someone screaming, "Why aren't you dressed yet? Uff, women. The car can't wait for you all night! We were supposed to be at the bride's by now!"
This was some random uncle, and all the vitriol was intended for me of course. Then he turned to me, and dared to ask, "What were you doing all day???"
I slipped into a party dress – the most time-saving outfit – and slipped into the car. When we arrived at the wedding venue, I slipped to the corner that had the bar. Slipped myself a drink, I needed it to survive. And finally heard, "Girls these days. Acts all good-good in the morning. And look, now she's gone off to the men's corner, and... (sinister whisper) is drinking! Bhagwan!"

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIX

A dangerous game

Kids at play can get on your nerves, and land you in trouble

Summer holidays. Of course not for me! For the cackling kids around the colony. The calm that usually descends in the society after six in the evening – except for the occasional screams from mums at the appalling state of their kids' knowledge levels -- had been plundered. The first few days were tolerable. In fact the giggles and chatter drifting around in waves were a pleasant change from the solemn, pretentious silence that I encounter every day when I return from office. I think I even said this cheesy line to the husband one evening: "Aren't they like little birds chirping? How sweeeeeet... hmmmm (sigh sigh)."

The days wore on, the novelty factor wore off. The constant prattle from the playgrounds below became like a machine droning somewhere far away, but not quite far enough. Or a mosquito buzzing in your ear. Or a spluttering radio trying to catch a signal. And cricket balls started landing in our balcony til way after sunset, sweaty kids running up the stairs to fetch the ball and ask for "auntie water", and then indignantly "auntieeee, COLD water". "Auntie five minutes cartoon network", "auntie chocolate biscuits", "auntie you are BAKING? Mmmmmm!", "auntie angry birds on your phone, pliss pliss pliss pliss, waaaan time, one time only!" – the entreaties became more demanding with the passing days, days that passed real slow.

I wanted to say "Shoo!" Don't pretend, you would too if it became a nagging everyday thing. But they are neighbours' kids. Only once I told a kid not to bring her dusty shoes on my carpet and made her stand outside. She went and squealed! Asha, the mother of course, caught me at the supermarket the next day and gave me a lecture, cynicism dripping off each word – "Oh, I am soooo sorry my little Nikki walked into your home in her three-grand Gucci pairs [ya, like I would've died if she hadn't given me that piece of information]. Your poor carpet, is it Cashmere?" "Cashmere"??? Who says "Cashmere"? And yes, I got her point. She might as well have pinched and drawn blood from me. My carpet is a Delhi Haat buy, in which even your bare feet won't sink in. Definitely cheaper than the three-grand over-top-top footwear that a five-year-old spoilt girl was sporting.

From then on, I've been super careful. Just supply the pesky things with anything they want. From helping them do potty in my place to letting them play with my Swarovski decoration pieces. I greet them with sugary sweet smiles. Supply them food at regular intervals. Even buyt them cricket balls! And then...

Admonition: "You gave my hunny bunny banana walnut cake? He is allergic to banana! You have to be careful, no?"
Condescension: "I know you don't have a kid yet, I understand. But, um, you should know, that much cold water has given Rajat a soar throat."
Outrage: "That woman gets these kids the damn cricket balls to break our windows! Why do you have to get involved in their silly games??? ARE YOU NOT OLD ENOUGH????"

ME? GET INVOLVED? You've got to be kidding!

When will these summer holidays end?

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVIII

Leaving on a, well, aeroplane

In this day and age of globalisation, I would have never imagined someone moving to the US could be such breaking news

There was a sudden flurry of activity in our colony. The news caused a massive stir the moment it arrived; in fact, the very manner and method of its arrival was quite dramatic. It was like an anthill shaken out of its stupor by the first droplets of monsoon, and then, the little insects, with something bigger to do (read, talk about), were running helter-skelter, stopping to exchange a few hurried exclamatory sentences when they bumped into one another, quickly moving on to the next gossip columnist.
Phones had started ringing every few seconds across the complex — Mrs. Bhasin to Sushila auntie; from there to Latika auntie, then to Sujata auntie to Shefali bhabi to Meenakshi. Even the men, huffing and puffing in their shorts during their extremely short evening walks, were heard discussing the matter. "Hmmm... my Mrs was saying... you have heard?" From this cryptic dialogue by Binoy uncle, Mr. Bhasin gathered all the world's knowledge. "Oh yes yes... A-25's news you are talking about, right?" (Yes, like in prison, in our complex, families are labelled by their flat numbers.)
My phone and doorbell had rung simultaneously that evening. I had returned at eight after a particularly horrific day at work. The cellphone displayed "Shefali bhabi A-16". I squirmed. "There goes a good 45 minutes of my life," I thought. I answered the phone while attending to the door. And two shrill, shrieking voices swamped me at the same time -- the phone one excited, the doorbell one indignant.

Shefali bhabi (phone): Have you heard?/Meenakshi (door): Am I the first to tell you?

Phone: Our little Sheila and Rahul... (Ahem, little?)/Door: That Rahul and Sheila, hrrrmpf...

Phone: ...the sweet lovely husband and wife.../Door: ...the silly, idiotic wife and husband...

Phone: ...are taking aeroplane to go and live in America!!!!/Door: ...have landed a gig in the US!!!

Phone: Praise God!/Door: Fuckin' Lord!

Well, to be very honest, the crescendo to which everyone's excitement had risen, I had expected something bigger. Massive, in fact. This was kind of a dampener. Who does not go the States nowadays? Actually, I was quite happy for them, maybe even thrilled -- perhaps a bit tired to assess the level of my exuberance. But I could understand where all this was coming from. The auntie clan had something new to discuss, and they still were in awe of AMERICA. And I should think, they were also making lists of gifts they wanted from there every time the couple would visit home. For Meenakshi, exactly the opposite. Rahul is the oiled-hair, roti-sabzi eating, never-overspending, good-boy engineer. Sheila is the stay-at-home, sometimes-gym-visiting, saas-bahu watching, incapable-of-doing-anything-worthwhile wife. So, it pinched Meenakshi. I understood.
The next evening, dutifully, I went to Sheila's house to congratulate the couple, with flowers, pastries et al. Rahul opened the door, the oil from his head seemingly dripping on his cheeks, he was glowing so much. Sheila was -- well, I think I can safely say I was blinded by the dazzle of all the yellow and golden. She was draped in a shiny South Indian silk and was wearing at least half of her wedding jewellery. She was surrounded by a bevy of not-so-beautiful but also grossly overdressed aunties.
I entered with a Cheshire grin. However, the moment their gazes turned to me, the scene froze, for a good two minutes. I got a curt, “Oh, you. Um, come, sit”, (with an implied “if you must”) from Sheila’s mum-in-law. I tried to dodge a few dirty glances from the rest of the troupe. Still trying to figure out what I had done wrong, or rather, what I hadn’t done right, I turned to Sheila, “Hey, grea news, congratu….” I was cut-off by the oozing-with-pride mum-in-law, “Did you not get news yesterday?”’
“Um, yes, I did…” I trailed off, desperate to say, “It was hard NOT to get it, the way you guys had sounded the drumroll.”
“Meenakshi came yesterday only,” mum-in-law snidely added. WHAT?
“Even Rinku came, after college and all,” announced Mrs. Bhasin. (Rinku’s her daughter, and her affair with Ronnie was still hot by the way.) College? COLLEGE? I WORK!
Suddenly, the Queen Bee, Sheila herself, looked at me with a smug, arrogant expression. “It’s okay everyone. What will she know of America? She only knows Indian Standard Time, no?” Everyone cracked up, guffawing like this insipid line was the best joke ever cracked. I stood there sheepishly. And, to my shame, even gave a guilty chuckle.

In Memory of the Woman Who Loved Sweets

Mornings in our home started with Mini – scraggly stray tomcat we had adopted from somewhere – tapping on the kitchen door, and thakuma making a concoction of mashed bread, milk, and water (only a little) for him. This was accompanied by thakuma’s threats “I won’t give you anything to eat from tomorrow” or “you dirty cat, I will throw you out”. Mini was unruffled.
Because she knew, none of those words mattered. Thakuma would come downstairs early next morning, lay out the food on a plastic milk packet, and make sure Mini finished the last morsel.

Then she launched into the garden, with her flower basket, plucking flowers for puja. I loved watching her sweep the puja room with water in a tiny bucket, and then lay out the flowers diligently for every deity. But we actually waited for the next bit – the long meditation she used to plunge into. That meant, we could raid her cupboard for the extremely tempting mint and orange toffees she used to store. Well, she knew, of course. We couldn’t blame Mini of the fast emptying glass jars. But she never said anything. She just made sure the jar got refilled.

I cannot think of anyone else telling us the story of Alibaba and the Forty Thieves in a more colourful manner than her. Chiching phak”, she said very sweetly. I liked my lunch a little better on the days it was accompanied with this story. I do not know of any other thakuma running around the courtyard and playing “lock and key” with her grandchildren. I wonder how many thakumas are caught redhanded at the sweet shop, mouth stuffed with roshogolla, when her diabetes report had, yet again, warned her to stay away from sugar.

This winter, my visit home will be different. There will be no more dressing up for wedding parties half an hour earlier than I need to because thakuma would want to see me all decked up and chat about the sari before I leave. I wouldn’t be watching Bama Khyapa while she very nearly dozes off in front of the TV. I won’t even need to wake up on time to run upstairs before her morning siesta begins.

Things change. But memories don’t. Love, certainly, doesn’t. And I love you, thakuma.

[Thakuma passed away on November 20,2010.]