Mrs Goody Two Shoes - III

Living in adland

My eyes fill up with tears when these ads show the wives washing, cleaning, caring all day. How well they know my life. Except I can't do all that with their robotic smiles

7 a.m. Lights, camera, action. I wake up, slip on my milk white silk gown, run my fingers through my hair in this indolent, sensuous sort of way, and head for the bathroom for the early morning beautification process.
Cut to Scene II. My lustrous hair is tied neatly in a bun and I splash water on my face in slow motion, and then look up in all splendour, smiling at the mirror as if to brighten up the whole world.
Scene III. I have strolled into the kitchen with my gown swishing in an early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight falls angularly on my face as I put the water on boil, dip Tetley green tea in it and then, with the tray in my hand, lovingly wake up my husband with a mint-fresh kiss. I smile at the world (again) and say, "I make sure that my husband begins his day in a healthy way. Do you?"

7 a.m. The alarm goes off. I am all groggy but there's no way out. There's no real Tetley in my kitchen, I look a mess from last night's movie marathon and drinking binge (yes, I do that, although the neighbours don't quite know), I feel pretty much like scum, the sun actually never peeps through my tiny kitchen window... but my life still feels like an ad film.
Come on, we know the kinds. It is a world where shiny, happy wives wear lipstick at home, are dressed in their wardrobe best and are running around to make sure the husband stays healthy and happy. When the husband fails to run the race in the son's school, it is time to change the oil she uses, of course. (Or was it the sugar? Or the cereal?). Then comes sorting and cleaning piles of laundry, making sure that the cuffs and collars of the husbands are squeaky clean (is that an expression the wife is allowed to use with reference to clothing?) or vacuuming and cooking.
And I stare at them with bewilderment. How do these guys know my life so well? When I'd rather be manicuring my nails, I am stirring the soup. Then I am scurrying to wash, dry, iron, arrange in neat stacks.
After all this, chachiji next door gives the husband a sympathetic look, throws me a lovingly admonishing look, "Look at the boy [she calls him a BOY for heaven's sake... ugh!]. He's looking so dry [chachiji, that's because he isn't drunk] and thin [you mean, not overweight, right?]. Feed him properly beta."
That's not where it ends. She has a dose intended specifically for me. "And you look so dark. What is that, a pimple? Arrey apply some cream-shreem. How haggard you look beside this young boy."
My temper had hit the skies by then. "Sure chachiji, I will do that," I give a saccharine smile. And loathe myself for doing that.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes - II

Adjust maadi with canines and felines

There is only so much one can do for them. Alley cats and the stray dogs, but can one go any further than that?


In our home, we had eighteen windows and four doors on the groundfloor. And as happens in houses with a dozen people living there and dozen more walking in and out daily, those windows and doors were never shut. So along with the dozen visitors came in the alley cats and the stray pups who gradually overpowered our senses and usurped our lives. These smooth operators used only heavy doses of emotional atyachaar so that the items on the top of shopping lists changed from sausages for me to fish for the cats and meat for the dogs, the first morning chore became mixing a huge bowl of chapatis with milk (full of cream), and every outing was planned around their convenience.
I have invested my emotions and time in them, adored them, been blinded in love. So no one, no animal rights activists, no ardent dog lovers or cat followers, NO ONE, can ever say that I do not know how to adjust maadi with these animals around. Well, but one must accept that I am human, and even if they say I have a big heart and am a kind soul, there is no way I could shower my love unquestioningly on the universal set of animals.
I mean, when this (senior) colleague of mine would passionately show me images she has downloaded ("I have chosen the very best ones" and oh, that gleam in her eyes) of snakes, she was testing my patience, my courage, my being-grossed-out quotient. No offence to charmed-by-snakes people, but I was traumatised by those images hours after there had been a slide show of the reptiles in the office which I had to politely watch.
Well, as I was saying, I do tolerate dogs and cats. And one day, I got talking to generous, rotund Latika auntie in our complex, who loves feeding all around her, which would include us and the large family of strays right outside the gate (who get double treats since the food she brings us also mostly go to them). So as we were having a 'conversation', she manipulated me into her ritual of giving breakfast, lunch and dinner to the animals. My grocery list now included four liters of milk instead of two, 2 kg of meat instead of one and so on and so forth. I began living with it. Until, one morning... "Beta, bring some bananas and apples also na." "Vegetarian canines and felines?" I wondered in my drowsy, fuzzy mind. "Look who I have brought. Are they not beautiful cows?" Hold it, HOLD it! I didn't bargain for this! Fresh fruits for my morning salad, being chewed by cows as they put their heads through my balcony railings. And in return, they turned their backs, liberally sprinkled their 'holy water' right outside my home (with some sprays hitting me) and left without so much as a thank you...