The day after
They are lovely decorations one day and heaps of rubbish the next. And there's only one cleaner
Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. The picture's perfect. You are in high spirits. A smile on your face, a skip in your step, a nod for every passer-by, a hum in your voice. Basically, the Walt Disney version of a classic fairy tale.
Green holly, red ribbons, silver stars, jingling bells. All heaped on the floor. Some sorting to be done -- what needs to be junked and what needs to be stored for next year. Basically, the real picture, the day after.
Wintry morning. It's 7 am and my phone started doing rhythmical gyrations, keeping time with the ringing alarm. I woke up, my head still in a buzz. My throat had also gone a little sore with all that loud singing. We had missed out on a Christmas Eve party but had made it up on the D-day, actually night.
And after a few milliseconds of vagueness on that December 26 morning, the previous night's events flashed before my eyes. So where exactly had Shayan broken that wine glass of mine? I did not remember having gathered and disposed of the shards. 'Scrunch' -- I had just got off the bed and had stepped on some cookies on the floor. My heart let out a silent, agonising groan.
I was scared to leave the bedroom, scared of what clutter had been left around the house. Shiny gift wrappers (I actually love those kinds) lay around. So, like a good girl who has been taught nice, and economic, ways of life. I took each piece, flattened them, folded them and put them away in a bag, sans the cellotapes that were sticking around here and there.
The previous morning, I was decorating the place with carols as the background music. This morning, I had the husband's snores drifting towards me. I went and nudged him, and said in an irritatingly trilling voice, "Honey, wake up. See, the morning's so beautiful." My crooning sent him off to a deeper sleep. Or maybe he knew what was in store for him, and so he just turned to the other side and snored even louder.
I picked up soiled plates, empty wine bottles, the Christmas tree ornaments lying around, green and red ribbons entwined with leftover noodles. I picked out the tiny decorations from the heaps of rubbish and put them carefully back in a jewellery box in which I store such precious little things. By the time I had scrubbed and cleaned, the Christmas spirit had drained out of me.
So, when my husband came up slowly from behind, hugged me (up to this was fine and romantic) and said, "Sweetheart, can you make a nice, warm cup of tea", all I had left to give him was a chilly, icy look. And I think he got the message.
27 December 2009
21 December 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXI
Ca we have some healthy conversation, please?
The one on the operating table is actually fine, sleeping under the effect of anaesthesia. The one waiting outside -- that's the one in real trouble
Have you ever wondered how conversations are customised by the places they are held in? They are kind of like set breakfasts at restaurants. Observe closely and you will notice how ready-made they are, scripted to suit, not the occasion really, but the site.
The point I am trying to make here is simple. If you are in an old, decrepit house, you would be sharing scary ghost stories whose versions become more and more exaggerated with every telling, wouldn't you? Anxious mums discuss the difficulty of Chapter 16 in the science book while they wait near the school gate to collect their wards. As if they are the ones appearing for the exams all over again.
Happens. Automatically. Like a trigger has been pulled. But I figured out the worst place to be at when such overcooked, over-served conversations are being thrown at you, or are carried on in voices loud enough so that you definitely overhear them, is the nursing home. I used to think it's the haunting tales that spook me the most, but I guess I was wrong.
My husband underwent a three-hour-long surgery recently. Well, the time is of utmost importance here. It just translates into that many hours (and some more) of torture for me. I was terribly anxious about him, but now that I think of it, I feel he was chilling under in the air-conditioned OT and sleeping peacefully with a nice high of general anaesthesia.
No one seems to have anything cheerful to say in a hospital. The talk's either about diseases or mishaps. One of the old aunts who appeared to have emerged from the dead herself, and I do not know why she was even there during the operation, blabbered incessantly. "You never know with these surgeries. One nerve snipped, and you are ruined." That was directed at one uncle but I could, of course, hear.
"You know what happened to my neighbour? He lost his eye! The doctor cut the wrong nerve and poof, he was blind." She added in a malicious hiss, "For life!" Then she turned to me and gave me a totally fake smile, "Nothing to worry, okay?" I stopped short of slapping her.
I was also being assaulted by my grandma from another direction. I had been against this close-to-ninety-year-old visiting the place -- one, she was too old for this, and two, I knew this is what I would have to bear. "Make him gargle with lukewarm salt water four to five times a day. Four to five times a day would be good. Lukewarm. Not hot..." You get the drift.
The buzz refused to stop.
"General anaesthesia does not suit every one."
"I think they should have done this at my cousin's nursing home."
"Light yoga after the operation helps."
When the doctor finally came out and announced the husband was fine, the conversations stopped suddenly. Almost in tears, I ran to hug him. Yes, because I love my husband, of course. But yes, and don't share this with him, also because the doc had come and rescued me.
The one on the operating table is actually fine, sleeping under the effect of anaesthesia. The one waiting outside -- that's the one in real trouble
Have you ever wondered how conversations are customised by the places they are held in? They are kind of like set breakfasts at restaurants. Observe closely and you will notice how ready-made they are, scripted to suit, not the occasion really, but the site.
The point I am trying to make here is simple. If you are in an old, decrepit house, you would be sharing scary ghost stories whose versions become more and more exaggerated with every telling, wouldn't you? Anxious mums discuss the difficulty of Chapter 16 in the science book while they wait near the school gate to collect their wards. As if they are the ones appearing for the exams all over again.
Happens. Automatically. Like a trigger has been pulled. But I figured out the worst place to be at when such overcooked, over-served conversations are being thrown at you, or are carried on in voices loud enough so that you definitely overhear them, is the nursing home. I used to think it's the haunting tales that spook me the most, but I guess I was wrong.
My husband underwent a three-hour-long surgery recently. Well, the time is of utmost importance here. It just translates into that many hours (and some more) of torture for me. I was terribly anxious about him, but now that I think of it, I feel he was chilling under in the air-conditioned OT and sleeping peacefully with a nice high of general anaesthesia.
No one seems to have anything cheerful to say in a hospital. The talk's either about diseases or mishaps. One of the old aunts who appeared to have emerged from the dead herself, and I do not know why she was even there during the operation, blabbered incessantly. "You never know with these surgeries. One nerve snipped, and you are ruined." That was directed at one uncle but I could, of course, hear.
"You know what happened to my neighbour? He lost his eye! The doctor cut the wrong nerve and poof, he was blind." She added in a malicious hiss, "For life!" Then she turned to me and gave me a totally fake smile, "Nothing to worry, okay?" I stopped short of slapping her.
I was also being assaulted by my grandma from another direction. I had been against this close-to-ninety-year-old visiting the place -- one, she was too old for this, and two, I knew this is what I would have to bear. "Make him gargle with lukewarm salt water four to five times a day. Four to five times a day would be good. Lukewarm. Not hot..." You get the drift.
The buzz refused to stop.
"General anaesthesia does not suit every one."
"I think they should have done this at my cousin's nursing home."
"Light yoga after the operation helps."
When the doctor finally came out and announced the husband was fine, the conversations stopped suddenly. Almost in tears, I ran to hug him. Yes, because I love my husband, of course. But yes, and don't share this with him, also because the doc had come and rescued me.
11 December 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XX
In high spirits
It takes one party to shatter a carefully constructed image. It takes one drink to not care about it
It is past midnight. I hear a mouse scurrying by and turn around to see where it is scampering away. It stares at me with beads of eyes, its breaths short and fast, frightened of this stranger in the room. I used to be scared of this fur balls once upon a time, but after ‘Ratatouille’, I have made peace with them – I mean, I have learnt to tolerate them.
It is past midnight. The mouse scurries away once it has sensed that there is no imminent danger to its nocturnal escapades this night. I start to miss it – the soft taps of its paws, the swish of its fur scraping the furniture, a light, nearly inaudible thud where it falls on the rag which we call carpet. These sounds were keeping me company a moment before as I swim in the created delirium. A generous dose of weed and a stiff peg of vodka has set me afloat. I am “so high that I could almost see eternity” – I am, indeed, singing the song in full-throated ease, reckless in my adventure.
You may be wondering what has landed me, who is usually the careful-of-my-image kind of person, in this situation that can kill my character with the slow poison of malicious gossip that will do the rounds for months, getting more coloured with each version, if I am discovered. But do not worry. I have already been exposed and hence, I am not wasting time by caring any more.
This is how I have landed up with the glass in one hand and the cigarette in another. I had come home earlier than usual in the evening to get some things ready for the husband’s birthday the next day. I was about to keep the Black Label bottle in the bar cabinet when the gang of teens from our complex came in. “Didi.” Their sweetened chorus warned me immediately to be on guard, but as is the norm, my heart was melting already, and I was ready to give in to even murder.
“We are organising a party, but you have to tell our parents that you are invitng us. And didi, could you please give us one bottle of vodka? Pleeeeeeeease!” Before a split second, I was in. So I arranged for the chips and the snacks and the alcohol, they arranged for the weed and the music. There is a penthouse on our terrace. I escorted everyone there like a teacher.
I was leaving, honestly. But Sam, that’s Samir really, called out, “Didi, join us for one drink, c’mon.” I don’t quite know how many drinks went down and how loud the music got, but after a while, I found police tapping at the door. I came out of the smoky haze, smelling of every illicit thing. “What’s the trouble sir?”
Seeing a sari-clad lady probably made the officer rethink once before screaming out a threat. “Stop this music right now. And OUT all of you. Think how sad your parents will feel when they see you like this! Shame!”
I don’t why they bring parents into every little thing, but as if the word was an incantation, a few sets of parents arrived. If glares could kill, I would be dead but I am not and I am writing this. The teens were dragged out, the music stopped and a numbing hush fell. The dirty looks at me got dirtier as I stood there, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other.
It takes one party to shatter a carefully constructed image. It takes one drink to not care about it
It is past midnight. I hear a mouse scurrying by and turn around to see where it is scampering away. It stares at me with beads of eyes, its breaths short and fast, frightened of this stranger in the room. I used to be scared of this fur balls once upon a time, but after ‘Ratatouille’, I have made peace with them – I mean, I have learnt to tolerate them.
It is past midnight. The mouse scurries away once it has sensed that there is no imminent danger to its nocturnal escapades this night. I start to miss it – the soft taps of its paws, the swish of its fur scraping the furniture, a light, nearly inaudible thud where it falls on the rag which we call carpet. These sounds were keeping me company a moment before as I swim in the created delirium. A generous dose of weed and a stiff peg of vodka has set me afloat. I am “so high that I could almost see eternity” – I am, indeed, singing the song in full-throated ease, reckless in my adventure.
You may be wondering what has landed me, who is usually the careful-of-my-image kind of person, in this situation that can kill my character with the slow poison of malicious gossip that will do the rounds for months, getting more coloured with each version, if I am discovered. But do not worry. I have already been exposed and hence, I am not wasting time by caring any more.
This is how I have landed up with the glass in one hand and the cigarette in another. I had come home earlier than usual in the evening to get some things ready for the husband’s birthday the next day. I was about to keep the Black Label bottle in the bar cabinet when the gang of teens from our complex came in. “Didi.” Their sweetened chorus warned me immediately to be on guard, but as is the norm, my heart was melting already, and I was ready to give in to even murder.
“We are organising a party, but you have to tell our parents that you are invitng us. And didi, could you please give us one bottle of vodka? Pleeeeeeeease!” Before a split second, I was in. So I arranged for the chips and the snacks and the alcohol, they arranged for the weed and the music. There is a penthouse on our terrace. I escorted everyone there like a teacher.
I was leaving, honestly. But Sam, that’s Samir really, called out, “Didi, join us for one drink, c’mon.” I don’t quite know how many drinks went down and how loud the music got, but after a while, I found police tapping at the door. I came out of the smoky haze, smelling of every illicit thing. “What’s the trouble sir?”
Seeing a sari-clad lady probably made the officer rethink once before screaming out a threat. “Stop this music right now. And OUT all of you. Think how sad your parents will feel when they see you like this! Shame!”
I don’t why they bring parents into every little thing, but as if the word was an incantation, a few sets of parents arrived. If glares could kill, I would be dead but I am not and I am writing this. The teens were dragged out, the music stopped and a numbing hush fell. The dirty looks at me got dirtier as I stood there, cigarette in one hand, drink in the other.
5 December 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIX
Love pangs
Romanticism is beautiful in the pages of literature. But parents of 11-year-olds don't see it that way
'My deer deearest,
You take my love and this perfume. I love you. I and you can together eat icecreem. In my house, my mother can cook icecreem for me and you. You and I, in this biutifull world.
When I and you grow to college, we can marry like mother and father.
M'
"Who is this b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l girl?" I asked, half amused, half bored, spelling the word to see if Minti caught on. “Meenakshi. She has come first also,” the fat kid said with a pout.
"What did she say?"
"She say she will speak to madam." Was that a teardrop I saw glinting at the corner of his eye?
I suddenly felt sorry for the fellow. A bully who thought he owned the world, with no sense of romanticism, lesser sense of the language that the first girl probably excelled at, this boy's world had fallen into pieces when his first love, which he was confident would translate into marriage, had been mocked and thrown into the winds.
It was the first day of my lesson with him, as had been decided the week before with Sonia and Mahesh. After Minti's tearful mother thrust the letter and her boy into my hands and ran away, I wasn't quite sure which mess was I supposed to sort out first -- the appalling state of his communication skills in English or his tangled, hurt emotions. We were caught in this awkward silence when Minti opened his copy to an empty page and took out his pencil. I realised that he takes many tuitions and is used to the routine proceedings. I could see him tremble inside as a sigh rose and fell in his eyes.
I had a tough task at hand. But I had a plan. “Minti,” I said as softly and lovingly as I could, considering that till a day before I had hated the kid, “why don’t I read a few love letters to you? Famous ones? Then you can see how to express your feelings with flair. F-L-A-I-R, the word means something like talent or skill at something.”
The lesson had begun. Minti was not in a state to agree or disagree, engrossed as he was in self-pity and melancholia. I read from Keats and Byron. After a minute or two, I didn’t much care whether Minti was listening, or appreciating. I was on my own trip, absorbed in romanticism when suddenly, “Oh auntie! I can’t take dictation fast! Cannot also understand all words. Slow please. How will I give to Meenakshi if I cannot copy down the notes?”
He will approach the girl yet again! I was alarmed. To avoid an immediate calamity I told Mintu to take a few more lessons, get good at the language, and then we would decide on the next course of action.
Unfortunately, there could be no ‘few more lessons’. Mahesh walked in with a serious face that night. He did not speak to me and addressed my husband. “I feel sad that this has happened.” (What again?) “But I don’t think we can entrust Minti to your wife’s care any longer.” He looked at me with a sad expression, like I was a promising child gone haywire and as if the husband was my guardian who he sympathized with.
Annoyed, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I though you will teach Minti some good behaviour. Instead, I feel embarrassed to say this,” and he turned to the husband again, “she is teaching him about dirty things like love letters and romance!” He walked away in a huff, and I stood there, appalled. “Good riddance,” the husband smiled at me and winked.
Romanticism is beautiful in the pages of literature. But parents of 11-year-olds don't see it that way
'My deer deearest,
You take my love and this perfume. I love you. I and you can together eat icecreem. In my house, my mother can cook icecreem for me and you. You and I, in this biutifull world.
When I and you grow to college, we can marry like mother and father.
M'
"Who is this b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l girl?" I asked, half amused, half bored, spelling the word to see if Minti caught on. “Meenakshi. She has come first also,” the fat kid said with a pout.
"What did she say?"
"She say she will speak to madam." Was that a teardrop I saw glinting at the corner of his eye?
I suddenly felt sorry for the fellow. A bully who thought he owned the world, with no sense of romanticism, lesser sense of the language that the first girl probably excelled at, this boy's world had fallen into pieces when his first love, which he was confident would translate into marriage, had been mocked and thrown into the winds.
It was the first day of my lesson with him, as had been decided the week before with Sonia and Mahesh. After Minti's tearful mother thrust the letter and her boy into my hands and ran away, I wasn't quite sure which mess was I supposed to sort out first -- the appalling state of his communication skills in English or his tangled, hurt emotions. We were caught in this awkward silence when Minti opened his copy to an empty page and took out his pencil. I realised that he takes many tuitions and is used to the routine proceedings. I could see him tremble inside as a sigh rose and fell in his eyes.
I had a tough task at hand. But I had a plan. “Minti,” I said as softly and lovingly as I could, considering that till a day before I had hated the kid, “why don’t I read a few love letters to you? Famous ones? Then you can see how to express your feelings with flair. F-L-A-I-R, the word means something like talent or skill at something.”
The lesson had begun. Minti was not in a state to agree or disagree, engrossed as he was in self-pity and melancholia. I read from Keats and Byron. After a minute or two, I didn’t much care whether Minti was listening, or appreciating. I was on my own trip, absorbed in romanticism when suddenly, “Oh auntie! I can’t take dictation fast! Cannot also understand all words. Slow please. How will I give to Meenakshi if I cannot copy down the notes?”
He will approach the girl yet again! I was alarmed. To avoid an immediate calamity I told Mintu to take a few more lessons, get good at the language, and then we would decide on the next course of action.
Unfortunately, there could be no ‘few more lessons’. Mahesh walked in with a serious face that night. He did not speak to me and addressed my husband. “I feel sad that this has happened.” (What again?) “But I don’t think we can entrust Minti to your wife’s care any longer.” He looked at me with a sad expression, like I was a promising child gone haywire and as if the husband was my guardian who he sympathized with.
Annoyed, I asked, “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I though you will teach Minti some good behaviour. Instead, I feel embarrassed to say this,” and he turned to the husband again, “she is teaching him about dirty things like love letters and romance!” He walked away in a huff, and I stood there, appalled. “Good riddance,” the husband smiled at me and winked.
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