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.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVII

Waka waka… whew it’s over!

Off-the-field action gets as exciting, and as tiring, as the real game

It’s all quiet on the home front. Suddenly the remote control lies abandoned, a little lost, and confused about what is expected of it now. The husband and the brother-in-law look equally lost, hovering around a bit aimlessly. There is a sudden lull and a few beer cans are chilling in the refrigerator, untouched. I wonder if something has gone amiss, and although I put up a “yes-I-TOTALLY-understand” kind of glum face, the moment I turn my back to them in the kitchen, I am smiling and humming a happy tune. Albeit softly. But humming nonetheless.
The curtains are down on one of the most spectacular sporting events of the world, which features some of the best-looking men of the world, and yes, the world has changed since. After a month of planning our days and nights around FIFA World Cup 2010, our lives suddenly seem goalless. Umm… you have to excuse the obvious pun. Tell me, who wouldn’t be tempted, and who can avoid talking in soccer lingo after an intensive crash course on everything from corner kicks to the Cruyff turn?
What did you think? My life was untouched by the “Beautiful” Game? My life was thrown out of gear, massacred, hijacked. I began noticing the little things in the first week itself.

Me: “Listen, we have to go for groceries today, in the evening.”
Husband (in dramatic, exclamatory tone, indicating I had said something sacrilegious): “Uh… What? I mean, how?”

Me: “We have to go meet Rina and Sumit at Khan Market for…”
Husband (in a soft but incredulous tone, indicating I was a poor looney woman): “How darling, just tell me how?”

Me (on a Saturday evening): “Hon’, can we go for a movie tonight?”
Husband: “WHAT?” (I think you know THAT tone.)

So I knew, mornings are all work, and evenings, all play. And with play came the appendages. I had to sever ties with my television. I had to almost sever ties with the husband (almost because I had to be at his beck and call.) The boys littered the sitting room with beer cans and bottles till the wee hours; I woke up to the stale beer smell and started gathering up the empty containers and the leftovers of the snacks that I had to serve them like a good little wife should. Well, these, you will say, are part and parcel. What else should I expect during the WORLD CUP?
I know! And I am not complaining! I, too, love the game! I am not an airhead who doesn’t follow sports; I follow, when I want to. But then there was more. Somebody got a free Jabulani. So of course we had to rush to that person’s house. So what if you have come back tired and sweaty from work and hadn’t had time to change and have to wake up early next morning?
Somebody supports the same team as your husband does. So of course you have to pack yourself up and journey halfway across town for two hours to watch a 90-minute match and then drag yourself back with a grouchy husband because the team lost.
Some people support a rival team, so the group piles themselves at our home because the match “gets more interesting” when people break out in fights, with a shower of expletives (I got to learn some very interesting ones, I think some of them got coined there) raining around.
These, as you say, are repeat telecast at every tournament. I was living with them, resignedly. Football fever kept rising and one early morning, 6 a.m. it was, I found the husband all awake. I got worried. Something must be terribly wrong! Or was I hallucinating? Was the clock running right? It was. "Hey, could you make some tea? For all of us?" Okay, so whatever grogginess I had was gone. "All of us?"
"Yeah, the football team," he said casually as if it's the most natural thing that happens to us every morning.
In our drawing room were lined up about twelve boys -- age ranging from ten to forty. All in sneakers and shorts displaying not so appealing legs. I thought to myself, "You guys are no Forlan or Messi or Villa or Casillas or..." Ahhhh, now THOSE are men.
Anyway, I fed them tea and toast, and a friend generously said, "Why don't you come and watch? You may even join us," he winked at someone random. WTF! He thinks I can't play or what? Ego bruised, I trooped out with them to prove a point. World female footballers are thousand times better than their Indian male counterparts.
On the field. "The ball's gone out of the line, can you please fetch it?"
"I am really thirsty. Can you go make us some lemonade?"
"Shanky's got a bad cut. Run and get the Dettol. Hurry!"
"Just stand at the sidelines and kick the ball in when it rolls that way." [Pause] "You can kick, right?"
That was all my participation in the "match".
And then, BAM! I was lying on the ground. "Oops, sorry, happens. Don't worry boys, she'll be fine." Taking a hit from a muddy, smelly football isn't my idea of enjoying the game, and much as I love the adrenalin-rushing, minimal adverts game, I think I won't miss it so much for another four years.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVI

"JUNIOR! Run! Fetch!"

If you are somewhere near the bottom of the stairs... well, heaven save you!

Hierarchy. A word that seniors love to drop in here and there. And just about everywhere. “Don’t worry, we don’t believe in hierarchy in this organization.” Or something like, “The hierarchy is just like steps. You can always climb up, and always reach the one at the top.” Or even, “We are all friends here. What’s hierarchy?” In the guise of assuring us that there is no pecking order, they make sure the word hierarchy is drilled into us. So that we never forget where we stand, and never dare to cross over.
So I never questioned my role and ‘their’ preoccupations during – photo shoots, tours, assignments, food reviews. So when my boss brought her 10-year-old son, seven-year-old nephew, and 80-year-old aunt to a dinner that was supposed to be for media only, and then started ordering specific food for her guests because “Bittu does not like chicken” and “aunt cannot digest mutton”, I dared not even think that it was improper. But one day, when I took my mum to one small lunch, she hauled me up at office. “since when have we started taking family to business lunches? Have you ever seen any of us doing it?” “Umm…” But she was rattling off in one breath, “Don’t you think you should ask me, who’s hierarchically above you, for permission at least? You cannot breach…” So that is how it is.
Then came my first photo shoot. Don’t get me shot. I wasn’t the lucky one to be wearing great clothes and brilliant make-up. I was the one who carried the juice to the model, got yelled at if the proper outfits did not arrive on time, if the weather was hot and the soup was cold. Anything that anyone else may have been responsible for did not count. They had to glare or shout at me. For my first shoot I was up at 4 am. I had to pick up my boss, then the senior photographer, and another colleague, who was, fortunately, at par with me, hierarchically.
I reached my boss’ home at 4.30 am. Someone shouted from the window, “She’s getting ready.” The clock ticked, 10 minutes, 20, half an hour, 45 minutes. My phone had started ringing. ‘Senior photographer calling’, it screamed at me. “Yes sir. We are on our way sir. Actually sir (please note, sir is like the necessary punctuation marks when you are speaking to the man with the expensive camera), I am waiting outside ma’am’s home.” I desperately wanted to add, that witch had not even called me in for a cup of tea. My emotions dug a grave for themselves and dived in when Mr Sir shouted, “Why are you waiting outside? Don’t you have a responsibility? Get in there and drag her out if you have to.” “But sir…”
Somehow, we reached our destination, 300km away from the city, more or less on schedule. From then to sundown, I was on my toes, getting breakfast, fetching the towel for the model, taking the sweaty towel back, and every kind of job possible. The junior photographer had to oblige to everyone’s whims and whines.
What were the bosses doing all the while? My ‘ma’am’ had brought her manicurist along. She had also booked herself in a bungalow, for the afternoon lunch and siesta. She needs to look beautiful, doesn’t she? And the photographer sir – well, he had cocktails ready and was “briefing” the model throughout, sitting by her all day, under the shade of the fancy umbrella.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXV

Can I take your order, please?

Waitressing has been added to the "skill set" on my resume

When I had asked my team of about thirty people if I could bring coffee for anybody, I was being nice. And I had thought that this bunch of ‘adults’ would know that. Have they not learnt to read the tone of politeness for the sake of politeness? I was actually heading off to CCD in the ten-minute break I had got since I was super bored with my office canteen’s version of the hot beverage. So I asked, “Guys, anyone needs anything?”
“You’re going? Cool! Sweetie, can you please get me a latte? And a brownie? Oh, and it would be reeeeeally nice if you could get a box of cookies too. (Turning to her best friend) You know, I had promised my daughter I will bring a box for her, but never got time. (Turning to me) That’s all.” This was one of the seniors. ‘That’s all’? It sounded like a monthly grocery list to me. All I could do is bite my tongue. I had asked for it after all.
I got up from my seat all grumpy faced. Almost out of the door and I heard a scream, “Stop, stop!” I thought someone wanted to come with me. A smile of relief had just started to make an appearance, when, “Just get me a mocha…” Well, there’s no point in listing the items.
Straddled with more orders, I arrived at CCD. After rattling on the long list, I was asked to wait for “at least half an hour for your order ma’am”. So my ten-minute break extended, and not to half an hour but forty minutes. I came back, precariously balancing coffees and sandwiches and cakes. My boss gave me a nasty look, “We come here to work, not to party.” His mood worsened when he realized that there was all this food with nothing for him. His thunderous look suggested I was going to have a very unpleasant time. Quickly, I handed him the sandwich I had bought for myself.
“I got this for you, sir.”
“Is that chicken?”
I froze. He was a vegetarian. “Um, well…” my mind was racing, it had to find a good excuse, “It is soya, actually, made into a paste.” He was gullible enough, or perhaps greedy enough, to fall for it.
My day was somewhat saved. But I hadn’t seen what was coming. My boss came to think it my job role entailed buying food for him, at least whenever I went out for food, or even a cup of tea in the canteen. In the initial days, he would add a please at the end of his demanding tone. The please vanished gradually, and even specific instructions went away. By the end of a week it was, “Get me something.” And by the end of two, it was just a look.
The seniors took his cue too. They would not even wait for me to go somewhere, but blatantly order. “Girl, get some butter chicken and rotis for lunch, okay?” was the first instruction I would receive in the morning. It went on and on. They even told me what I should cook at home and bring.
So now, I am the official waitress-cum-bearer-cum-cook in the office. And no, I do not get extra pay for it.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIV

Fever pitch

I fall sick. I need care. And he gets all the attention!

All the work that I was doing (or the very thought of them) in the maid’s absence got to me, and finally, the thermometer declared it was time I took some good rest. My temperature was quite in tune with the weather outside, but in a way, I was quite glad that the mercury had risen. Fever always translates into two things – holiday and pampering. At least, with my mum and dad around, that was the story of my life. One little sneeze and they ran to me with chicken soup and ginger tea, and tucked me in with new comics. This kind of royal treatment lasted even when I was in university.
So that Friday I happily jumped into bed, pulled a light blanket over me, made a puppy face and looked at the husband with sad eyes. “I don’t think I can manage to go to work today. I’ve got fever,” I said in a whisper. “What? You aren’t going? Wow! Lucky girl!” Naturally, I was shocked by this response. It took me a few seconds only to flare up. “You think I enjoy this?” I roared. Well, I did but what right had he to know that? He was tamed in an instant. “You must be feeling so bad. Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”
With that, he was out. No asking me what I needed -- whether he should brew a cup of tea for me, or get me a glass of water even. So basically I had to fend for myself. I scraped a salad lunch for myself with leftover vegetables. When the husband returned, he came in with a huge box, and a huge smile. “I’ve got biryani. You don’t have to cook.” My face fell. Biryani in this condition? He saw my face, and promptly added, “I mean, for me and James. Did I not tell you he’s coming over? It’s Friday after all.”
I had no words left. I was missing mum. I stayed awake most of the night, with alternating cold and heat waves. My whining woke up the husband a number of times. Once, or maybe twice, he asked if I was all right. By the time I could tell him I would be grateful if he could fetch me an aspirin with lukewarm water, he was asleep.
Next morning, Bhasin auntie came for a visit. Hearing about my illness, she patted my husband on his head. As if he was a kindergarten kid. “Oh son, you must be feeling so sad. Have you had anything to eat? You must have stayed awake all night. How can a man manage if the woman of the house lies down? I will send you food beta.”
My husband caught my glare and quickly said bye to her. From then on, we had a stream of visitors during the whole day, asking how my husband was doing. They brought all kinds of food, absolutely unfit for a patient. I may have recovered faster, but my temper, and my temperature, hit the roof. I packed a suitcase, and went off to my parents’ house. The first question my mum posed to me was, “But with you here, how will he manage? I feel so sorry for poor boy.”
Aaaaaaaargh!!!

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXIII

Terms and conditions

I haven't been to a more taxing interview. Ever.

For the first few days after my maid left me, and left me with an inferiority complex, I went into mourning. So down was I that I started overeating – pizzas, ice creams, chips, chocolates, biryani, and pasta were only some of the things I was gorging on. I blame it all on the blues and not on my lethargy for stepping into the kitchen; ask any psychiatrist and he’ll tell you how thousands of people globally go on a food binge as a reaction to depression.
I wasn’t unhappy with the food, and I don’t think the husband was either. Actually, it often got quite romantic as we were going out for dinner almost every other night (never mind the bickering about where to go and what to eat that preceded the outing). Or we were ordering in food and watching movies together. Needless to say, we were watching it only after a quarrel on which one to see.
To quote the oft-repeated and hence tiring phrase penned by Charles Dickens, it was indeed the best of times and the worst of times for us. We were gradually learning to deal with the emptiness that the maid had left behind, resigned to our fate. I even cooked a few dishes on a weekend.
And they started coming, in hordes. The doorbell rang incessantly. Jobseekers. When the first one arrived, we were elated. We greeted her like a long-lost friend. We were having our morning tea, so I decided to offer her a cup too before getting into the terms and conditions and then sealing the contract. I had foolishly thought that we would strike gold at the first shot.
As I handed her the tea, she turned to me and tabled her first demand, “I eat cream biscuit with tea. Four.” Thankfully I had a few remaining orange cream biscuits in my larder. I fished them out, but I had only three. “I will keep them in stock from tomorrow,” I said, thinking she would definitely join from the next day.
“I will join from next week. I need a week’s rest.” My husband and I exchanged glances; we could sense trouble. I was about to tell her our requirements, when she began rattling off her terms.
“I cook only two dishes a day. Every 15 days I take leave for three days. I will come at six in the evening, if you are not here, I can’t wait. I take bonus once a year. I…” We had to beg her to stop and after that, there was no point in us telling her what we wanted. It was clear we did not want her. Bonus?
It was virtually the same with the dozen others who came. They interrogated us as if we were criminals; they questioned us as if we were appearing for a job interview. Their queries were varied.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Do you plan to have kids soon?”
“How many days a year do you go for holidays?”
“Do you know that from now on maids will take one-month leave every year?”
I guess, we will do fine on our own, for sometime at least.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXII

Better job offer, for my maid

She was the one ditching me, and I was the one standing with my head hanging in shame

It’s been a month now that my evening schedule is somewhat like this: climb four flights of stairs, have a quick wash, rush to the kitchen, put the kettle on boil, start cleaning utensils while you gulp down the tea and burn your throat, start cooking, then wash the soiled utensils yet again, sweep and mop, dust and dump…. I think I have bored you enough with this tedious description, but what to do, that’s how my life is at the moment – tedious.
My maid was on one of her disappearing sprees, or so I thought, four weeks’ back. On the fifth day of her absence, I could sense there could not be good news at the end of this. I felt giddy with joy when she did return after a week. It was short-lived of course. “Didi, I won’t come to work from tomorrow.” She announced this without a jot of regret or remorse. “Why? What happened?” For a moment I even felt pity for her, thinking she may be in some sort of trouble; perhaps one, or all, of her five children were unwell, or maybe her husband in an extra-foul mood, maybe… I had already cooked up a number of ghastly possibilities that she could be going through.
But the look she gave me was condescending. “You see that bungalow opposite?” How could I not see the ‘bungalow opposite’? It isn’t a bungalow, it’s a mansion. They have five guard dogs for heaven’s sake. “Yes,” I murmured. “I am going to work there from now on. They will give me Rs 5,000,” a two-second loaded pause, “for the same work I do here. They have seven big cars. They also have lift inside house. (This to emphasise that our apartment does not have one.) My husband will be their guard.” She had swollen twice her size with pride. She raised an eyebrow and smiled at me, as if to say, “Unke paas gari he, bungla he, tumhare paas kya he?” This is an old Bollywood film clichéd, legendary dialogue. But the thought of it hurt, quite bad.
And I stood there as if I had done her some wrong by asking her to work for a small fry like me. Her monthly salary at my home was Rs 1,000. Quite a hike she had got! After she just left, leaving the room filled with the smell of her cheap perfume and haughty air, I thought to myself, “Hrmphf… Their house is ten times bigger than ours. You’ll get arthritis sweeping and mopping every day. They have ten people at home and receive hundreds of guests. Your hands will go from coarse to coarser washing utensils. Good for you!” But what was the use. I hadn’t been able to throw those words at her face. At least that would have made me feel we were even. Instead, I had meekly let her treat me like a doormat and leave.
In fact, she had won by a huge margin over me. She had got a huge raise. (I have to tell my boss that.) She had made me feel puny when it was she who should be feeling sorry for ditching me. To top it all, she had left me with piles of housework to do. I just slumped on my almost flattened bean bag. I needed a good cry.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXI

Little packet of trouble

I smile at my neighbour's two-year-old thinking she will be a stressbuster. All she does is add to my miseries

Has it ever happened to you? You come back from work late in the evening, somehow drag yourself up the four flights of stairs since the lift refuses to cooperate, and then… and then you catch a glimpse of your neighbour’s two-year-old. She is a sweet little doll, really, and she turns to you with the most adorable look in her beady eyes and giggles like a brook suddenly. Her gurgling laughter hits you like a refreshing gust of breeze and, even after the grey day you’ve had at office, you manage a tired smile. “Helloooo chweetheart,” you croon with babytalk.
And that is it. You have invited your own nemesis, with a red carpet welcome. The baby looks at you and holds her arms out. What do you do? Ignore her? Of course not! I mean, you can’t. There’s no escape, because her mother is also looking at you and saying, “Oh, she is so fond of you! You looove your auntie, no baby? You want to go with auntie?” By this time, the warning bells have started jangling in my head. I can sense rapid signals of confusion like an erratic seismograph shooting through my head. While I grope in the deep recesses of my mind to find a plausible excuse, my husband comes and calls. “Hey princess (don’t mistake it, the loving address is not meant for me, but for the baby). Come with us.” My last hope is that she will not be in the mood to leave her mum, but it looks like she is as tired of her mother as the mother is of her.
The mother almost pushes her towards us. "Go baby. Uncle and auntie are calling you so lovingly." Whatever second thoughts Guddi (that's "princess's" real name) may be having melt into oblivion, and she walks towards us in her yet-to-be-steady steps. Shoulders slouching, I follow her inside our apartment.
Her being there would be fine, only if it is just being there. But it’s not. I have to cook – as in, cut vegetables, ready the meat, prepare the spices and then cook. But she drags me out and almost starts sobbing if I ignore her, which I can’t risk. Her mother will instantly spread stories about how I tortured her child around the apartment complex. I sit by her as she bores me with her vaccination card and some old bills, which I have no idea why she is carrying in her toy pouch.
There’s a Hindi movie showing on TV. I change the channel to a news programme and she screams her lungs out. Then, she sits on the remote with the excruciatingly painful Sunny Deol movie on. At my wit’s, and patience’s, end, I have a brainwave. I knock on my neighbour’s door and ask her, politely, and as if I am overtly concerned about Guddi, “Isn’t it past her dinner time? Poor thing, she must be feeling sleepy and tired. Should I bring her over?”
Promptly comes the mother’s reply, “Little Guddi, will you like to eat with auntie? Will you feel bad if I bring you home now? Do you want to stay a little longer with uncle and auntie?” To which questions Guddi keeps nodding a ‘yes’, vigorously. I stand there, flummoxed, and stranded with a two-year-old who’s more than a handful, and who’s now tugging at my skirt, shouting, “Auntieeeeee, Guddi eating!”

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXX

The day the driver drove me nuts

You know the times when you employ someone’s services? And then end up asking yourself why you ever did it?

I was sitting at the edge of the bed, trying not to slip and fall. I had nudged and pushed the clothes and books aside to create just enough space for me. As I sat there sorting out the pile, humming to myself, I heard a creak and a groan. I slowly looked up, and saw the mountain of clothes falling over me. Before I could run for my dear delicate life, I fell on the floor, submerged under a huge heap and gasping for breath. My arms flailing, I tried to call for help but the more I tried, the more the clothes seemed to weigh down upon me. It grew darker around me and I could hear or see nothing. Then it felt like I was being pelted with bricks. I wanted to scream, my throat was dry. Who would want to throw bricks at me in my own home? With the last remaining shreds of sanity that I had left, I realized those were the books pouring down on me. I lost my strength, and just lay there, sweating and out of breath.
After a little while I woke up from this nightmare, still sweating, only to find the mound clothes and books still intact, with me lying on the floor. Must’ve slept off, I though to myself and then moaned. Still so much work left! We were moving houses, not miles away but to a better (a.k.a. more expensive) flat in the same complex. But things had to be packed nevertheless. The movers and packers were on their way. Or so they were telling me from ten in the morning. The clock had ticked to one and there was no sign of them. I kept calling them, and explaining the directions, but somehow, these talented folks had mastered the art of losing their way. Madam, we are at CV Raman Nagar, they would say and I patiently sketched with my words the next seven kilometers for them. After 20 minutes, my phone rang again and I heard the same droning voice telling me they had managed to travel seven kilometers all right, in the opposite direction.
And yet, the gooey politeness from my voice refused to disappear. I spoke to the driver as if I was speaking to a kindergarten kid who is a slow learner and needs my love and support. “Don’t worry,” I told him. What was I saying? Why would HE have to worry? I was the one stuck! “Just stop for a while and ask somebody the way to Fraser Town. Once you reach Fraser Town, call me and I will tell you the directions.” Yes madam, he said every time I gave him some instruction. And then calmly did his own thing, which was to ignore it and get lost. Worse, half the time he could not even tell me where he was.
So finally, when they did give me a landmark, I went to pick them up. Yes, I took an auto, paid one-and-a-half in the afternoon, went to the place, hopped on to the truck with the packers and came home. Guess what I did when we reached. I made tea and toast for them and served them in my drawing room! Well, it was three in the afternoon after all. And then the driver tells me, “What madam, where you staying? Whole day going round. Give me 150 rupees at least.”

[NOTE: Don't get excited by the 'XXX' in the title]

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIX

A vacation of chores

You don't know people till you stay together. The same goes for friends

It was a beautiful spring morning and the sun was not too warm. My husband and I were in good spirits. We were on vacation. It was a lucky break we had got. Some holiday had fallen on Friday and we had clubbed a few extra days with the long weekend, making good use of it by visiting some friends in Mumbai. Would you believe it if I told you that till then I had not seen India's busiest and most vibrant city till then?
So, the thought of exploring an unknown place and of getting together with old friends got me really excited. We arrived at Mumbai on Friday evening. Our friends (they are a married couple, Rishabh and Rumi) had even come to fetch us from the airport. We were seeing one another after five years and there were shrieks of delight as we hugged each other and opened the floodgates of all the little trivia and tidbits that somehow we had not been able to exchange over the long, long-distance phone calls.
As we bundled into the taxi, Rumi shot, "Hey, you'll see the way to our house now, right? So next time please come from the airport by yourselves. I hate travelling in this traffic such a long way." Stunned for a while, I managed to smile weakly, more embarrassed than angry, since these were really my friends and I couldn't figure out how my husband would feel about that sudden declaration.
But that passed in the rush of life that was all around us. We reached their home, hungry for dinner. They served us piping hot food. Leftovers. A little of this, a bit of that and we had to decide among ourselves who would get what, the portions being too small to share. Well, Rishabh and Rumi are busy professionals, they wouldn't have had time to cook for us, I reasoned with myself. "Thank you for the delicious dinner," I still said, after which Rumi made me do the dishes with her as her 'bai' would not be in the next day.
The following morning was a fresh start. The four of us went out on a city tour, hogged pao bhaji, lazed on the beach and although my husband and I had to shell out all the money at all the places, it was fun. We were about to head home when Rishabh told us that they had a party to attend and could not be home that night. We, my husband and I, stood there expectantly, like little children waiting to be invited to the party too. That didn't happen. Not that we didn't have fun by ourselves, with dinner at a fancy restaurant with a sea view. But their going away made us feel betrayed.
Of course, like a good little girl, I woke up early to make tea for them when they returned just after dawn break. I even fixed breakfast for all of us. The next few days, I was cooking and cleaning and scrubbing at their place as they went about their work and other commitments. In between my chores, my husband and I would go around Mumbai.
On the last day, I said, "I'll leave a thank you note." "Thank you? After this?" my husband could not fathom my 'generosity'. "Well, they let us stay at their place after all," I tried to reason. "Hotels let you stay too! You write thank you notes to them for all their hospitality?" he shot back, exasperated. "No, but we pay them money." With this, we looked at each other and silently agreed that we would settle for the thank you card.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVIII

Living a nightmare

For the four days she was with me, she held me on a leash and took advantage of my kindness

So there we were, Queeny and me, the most incompatible of companions. The husband had slunk into the shadows, overpowered by the presence of a dog who was the monarch of all it surveyed. It was four days of trauma for me and four days of malicious fun for Queeny as her mistress, Mrs Mehrotra, partied away in Goa.
Queeny's eyes had been so sorrowful as she bid Mrs Mehrotra goodbye that even I had almost bought the act. The moment Mrs Mehrotra's car zipped out of our front gate, she tilted her head towards me and I saw it again, that evil glint she had given me when she had first heard she would be our house guest for a while.
I pulled at her leash. She did not budge. I tugged one more time. She growled under her breath. Cautiously, I bent a little and patted her head. She snarled and snapped at my fingers. I felt like giving her one tight slap, except that our guard was watching and he is a big tell-tale. His voice oozing with sarcasm, he told me, "Madam, it is clear that you have never handled such a good breed of dog. It's okay, I understand. Usually, middle class people don't have such dogs. Anyway, she does not like walking all the time. Carry her upstairs."
I felt like I would blow my lid. Gritting my teeth, I lifted that pesky little creature.
I remembered how I had crooned "they are so cute, I wish I could just cuddle them" while watching the spa-going, diamond-wearing little pups in Beverly Hills Chihuahua. I had stared wonder-eyed as these dogs went through their schedules and appointments, parties and preening sessions. Their rosters of a week's fun and activities were way longer than my year-long plans. Yes, the movie had been fun to watch. Living in it wasn't quite the same though I thought as I cradled her in my arms. I held her like a baby, with all gentleness, in mortal fear of the invisible Mrs Mehrotra -- she had warned me sweetly, "Make sure you take proper care of her."
As these words buzzed through my head, I felt a trickle down my elbow. That dog had peed on me! Just a few drops, which infuriated me even more since I knew she had done it deliberately. I kicked my front door open and was about to throw her down when those words returned to haunt me again. I placed her on a cushion I had kept for her on the floor of the living room and ran to the bathroom to have a shower.
I came back. She was gone. I was so frightened. I cursed myself. How could I have left the door open? I ran downstairs and seeing me panic, the guard sensed something was wrong. "What happened madam? Queeny is okay, no?"
"Yes yes. Why should she be not okay?" He was so annoying. I ran around for a while and confused about what to do, ran back upstairs. There she was, covered in mud and filth. Covered in mud and filth and on my prized cream-laced bed. I stifled a cry. She had had her adventures in the garden and grabbed the choicest spot in my home. I went to the kitchen. She had overturned my milk carton and rummaged through the dustbin.
The nightmare that begun went on. I would take her to the spa and she would escape from my grip to roll in the mud. I would feed her, she would go and steal from the next door neighbours. I do not know how I survived through the days. But I still tried to be nice. But that ungrateful dog tricked me on the last day again. I bathed her and dressed her nicely as we waited for Mrs Mehrotra's return. I took my eyes off for one moment and she overturned the dustbin, rubbed herself in the waste and presented herself with a meek, docile, lost expression in front of her mistress. Mrs Mehrotra nearly fainted. So did I.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVII

Mid-life masti

While the fat woman went off to Goa, hips swaying, I was left stranded with her 'baby'

Mrs Mehrotra was all packed. Two suitcases and a very 80s, cherry red vanity case (with her lipstick and nail paint to match it) stood in the lobby as her driver got the Accent out of the garage. The clacking heels and the sudden gush of perfume smell announced that her ladyship had finally come down from her flat after a two-hour make-up session in front of her dressing table. She was off to Goa with her kitty party club, those 'ooooh' and 'aaaaaah' ladies.
Two suitcases for a four-day trip, I rolled my eyes while talking to myself in my mind. The vanity case was right out of a cheesy movie with a cheesier airhostess as the heroine. "Oh darling, sho shweet of you to see me off," Mrs Mehrotra trilled. I quickly snapped out of my musings, looked up and displayed my teeth in a frozen grin, that is until I realised she was addressing Queeny. Did I not introduce you to Queeny? The Mehrotra woman will chop me to pieces and feed my bones to that bitch (every kind of pun intended) if she knew I forgot about her.
Queeny: the most ill-mannered, ill-tempered, spoilt, high-handed female dog ever. Queeny: the dog who pisses everywhere except her mistress' home. Queeny: the cunning shrew, who would steal from you and act all innocent in front of Mehrotra. Queeny: the one I, her temporary guardian, was holding on a leash right then while the 65-year-old went off to chill out on the sunny beaches.
The week before she had called me to see her shopping. I had thought, poor widow (Mr Mehrotra had passed away ten years back), she needs someone to share her little joys. I had expected saris and salwar-kameez sets, demure even if not classy (class was beyond Mrs Mehrotra.) But I gulped when I saw what I saw. Skinfit slacks in shiny colours, tube tops, flowery bikinis. The picture of her flabby tummy and not-so-appealing buttocks in the bikinis flashed through my mind. I tried to shoo the image away.
"Look at you, all skin and bones. Men will drool and fall when they see all this mutton (ahem, she meant her physical self) in these clothes. Just let me hit the beach baby!" She sounded so excited that I nodded along, praising each of the XXL items, bored to death by the end of it, but smiling in encouragement still.
As I slowly edged away, having spent nearly three hours with her, she said she had just one "tinsie-winsie" favour to ask from me. "Look after my Queeny while I am away. She is such a good little girl. SHe will miss her mommy..." I suddenly realised what she was actually asking of me. "What?" I stood there helplessly. "Come on, you can't do this much for your Mehrotra auntie? Anyway Queeny is a jewel." Jewel she is indeed, I thought, as I caught the evil glint in her yes. Was she smiling at my predicament? Was I hallucinating? I was petrified of that dog and I whimpered a "yes auntie, of course auntie", almost as if Queeny was holding me at gun point. For the terror of a time I had with her, you have to come back to this column next week.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXVI

Finishing school disaster

Some people just don't have it. No matter how hard they try, etiquettes just elude them

I was never very high on etiquettes. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was trying to break the norms and the shackles of conventional codes of behaviour. I was doing no such thing. I admit that I loathed pretty much everything that the finishing school rule book had to say. But then, I had to live by the book, didn't I? That fetched me comments like, 'what a well brought-up child' or 'she is growing up to be a lovely young woman'.
But such remarks came my way only occasionally. As I said, I was never too good with niceties. Perhaps my true self was a bit troublesome to control. As a child I hadn't become efficient enough in acting and pretending. I tried very hard though. Like, I would hold the door ajar for some nasty distant-relative aunt and even hold her sweaty palms to haul her up the stairs of our house as she was a little too fat (I called her a big fat hen behind her back and she heard, as I said, I was not too good at the act) to climb without effort.
And, as I held the door and she had barely squeezed in, I thought she had made it through the gap and let go of the door and it slammed on her bum. I told you, I was not too good at the act. So, no matter how hard I tried, I slipped and failed. But I never gave up learning. At five-star hotels, I dropped forks. At classy congregations at the elite clubs, I pronounced English words incorrectly, and that, in an effort to sound like BBC. At classical concerts, I asked aloud who was 'that guy' singing.
But I trudged on and gradually, I thught, I had minimised the number of faux pas. I even learnt to wear heels without tripping and people began considering me as quite a prudish, classy lady. Mission accomplished!
Then came a luncheon invite with a retired colonel. That too with one of those foreign-returned aunts. We sat at a garden table on a very primmed lawn, the colonel impressive, and gaunt, in his crisp jacket and tie. The servant brought shandy for the ladies. And I was so parched (for a drink) that I just took my glass right off the tray before the servant could place it, the proper way, on the coasters on the table.
The colonel, being a gentleman, had to overlook his lady guest's utter lack of education. My aunt pinched me under the table. And I said, 'whoa'. Actually, I nearly yelled it. The colonel cringed, the aunt glared, I apologised. Profusely. We went inside for lunch and I was already a little heady with the shandy, the summer breeze, the intoxicating smell of garden flowers. I was loving it, as they would say.
We were seated at the table, happy and all set to satisfy my famished self. Then it dawned on me. I was Vivian. From Pretty Woman people. Of course, not one jot as prety as Julia, but I was her. I had no freaking idea of what the food was, or how to use my spoons (if they could be so called) or when to use them. After a little struggle, with the servants smirking at my predicament, I just dug my fingers into the food-like thing. I was helpless, but they were unforgiving.
A servant walked up and offered to clear my plate and show me to the restroom. Which was also all right. But as I got up, I saw him struggling with my plate and glass and bowl and whatever, and, out of old habit (remember?) held the door open for him. I could hear silent shrieks from every one. That was an absolute disgrace of a conduct. I had broken all idioms, all ethics, all hierarchis that had been carefully constructed by man over centuries. I had breached the border. After a few more strained moments of politeness, we were expelled from the house, never to return again.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXV

Not the sunny side up

I will remember this eclipse for sure. For all the wrong reasons

This has to be about the eclipse. There is no other way it can be. And by this time, I am so done with the whole 'the-longest-one-in-the-millennium' line that all the excitement by scientific communities and the fawning over the sun by laymen is irking me to no end. Switch on the television and you hear the same droning sound on every news channel, "We are getting you live pictures from... And we have a special guest from some scientific organisation... Do not see the eclipse with your naked eyes..."
You try to take an auto to office and eclipse intrudes again, "Madam, 15 rupees extra." You ask, your eyes having already popped out of their sockets, "Why?" "Sun eclipse madam." And you scream, "WHAT??" I mean, what bizarre kind of excuse is that? The driver acted as if he was a martyr doing me a favour, risking the danger of the eclipse to take me to office. I kept thinking, he should be the one thanking me since I was the only passenger he would have got with the streets nearly empty. Eclipse, of course.
In the morning, when I just was not prepared to get out of bed, there was a knock on my door. My 50-year-old neighbour's 80-year-old father-in-law had a plate of flowers, incense and sweets. He walked in coolly, after having shoved a sweet into my yet unbrushed mouth.
"You cannot eat anything after this till 3 o' clock. I will empty your fridge because after the eclipse you must cook fresh food and have that." My senses were still not awake and I could not figure out what was happening. He took the incense around all our rooms, driving whatever he though was impure or evil away.
In between, he looked at my book shelves, ran a finger on them, looked at the spot of dust on his fingertip, and gave me an equally dirty look. He went to the guest room, saw the clothes heaped on the bed, got scandalised by my lingerie peeking out from underneath and shot a disgusted expression at me. This is MY house. "I LIKE living like this," my brain screamed. My lips said nothing.
Then, all of a sudden, he ordered in a solemn voice, like he was passing on a family secret to me. "Go and have a bath. Before Rahu swallows the sun." (Rahu indeed!) Then looking at my nearly bare legs (I was wearing shorts), he muttered, "Modern. Bah! No sense of tradition." He turned, "Just go!" Eclipse, of course.
I still don't have any idea why I was actually listening to him, but by the time I had showered, he had cleared my fridge of the food I had planned to eat before leaving for office. I had once tried to pop some biscuits but Jalal auntie spotted me through the window and shouted at me. "You have no respect for elders and tradition. Has your mother not taught you this much? Stop eating!" Tradition? Respect? My mother? What's the connection? Eclipse, of course.
I rushed to office, angry and hungry. So hungry that I was eager for the office idli and coffee. I ran up. A poster screamed at my face in bold letters. 'CANTEEN IS CLOSED FOR ECLPISE. WILL OPEN AT 4 PM.' How could I expect anything otherwise? It was out to eat me. What? Eclipse, of course.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIV

Not quite on the wanted list


What do you do when someone clings on to you? Run


"Didi, can I sit beside you please? I want to see how you write."
"Umm... sure, why not?"
I have to admit that I am totally averse to someone staring while I am writing. Although some, even if just a handful, would eventually read the rapid-fire words I type on my computer screen, sometimes doing it so mechanically that I can even doze off while at the task, I don't like it a bit if someone sees it during the process of creation. I feel violated, like someone is encroaching upon my private space.
But I made this one exception. Since the intruder was a junior, just starting out in the professional jungle, I thought it was my moral responsibility to take her under my wings and give her some invaluable guidance.
So she sat there, and after almost every few lines, she had a question. Which was all right since she was there to learn, wasn’t she? But after a few further lines, the questions were gradually metamorphosing into comments.
“You know what, I once wrote a travel piece like this (excuse me!) and I would never put that line like that” or “Don’t you think that’s too poetic?” followed promptly by “Oh, that sounds so dry!”
See, I don’t shout, usually. I try not to be rude, or should I say, honest, putting in a lot of hard work and sweat to be this Mother India prototype and balance and juggle and act to be on everyone’s good books. But even I, the epitome of saintliness, draw a line. With every increment in her familiarity, my jaws hardened, my expression turned from patronising to distant to stony.
Before an eruption though, she had to leave, and I tried to forgive her. She was but a puny, inexperienced nobody. The problem was, she returned, every day and began feeding on my mothering instincts, clinging on to me like a leech.
I was her “role model”, so she would go with me everywhere, to the canteen for a coffee, latching on if I went out for a story, sometimes even waiting in the office till I finished work and tagging along with me saying “I stay only a kilometer from your house" (trust my luck). So, being the 'elder', I had to drop her home first, almost every other day, and throughout the auto ride, I had to listen to her sagas of boyfriends, achievements, illnesses – the last especially for my benefit so that she could go "such a headache", or "I couldn’t sleep all night" any time I assigned her some work. Also, so that she could drain every ounce of my sympathy from me.
The danger signal beeped really loud the day she asked me, "What are you doing this weekend?" "Not too sure. Guess I will go out with my husband." "Oh, okay, I had thought you and I were going out," she said with a pout and an attitude as if I was breaking a vow.
Saturday morning, and I woke up with a smile. I was lazing on the rocking chair with a book, when the bell jangled. There she was. I froze on the spot. "You, what… wow.. how..?" I was stammering as if in an interview."
"I thought you said you wouldn’t be home," her cold stare was killing me, “Anyway, I was just passing, so just thought will check (check what, if I had lied?). Gotta go now, since you are ‘busy’ and all.” The sarcasm oozed out like pus from her mouth.
Next day, at office, she was there. She did not look at me and asked Disha if she was interested in a coffee. “Anyway, I don’t like hanging out with people who fib and act smart," I saw the arched glance she threw at me. I typed away furiously.

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXIII

It's all in the brotherhood

We may be into 2010, but all modernism evaporates when we are accosted by some old hag

12 o'clock is always my Cinderella hour. And it doesn't change even on the last day of the year. Or on the first. As the seconds hand inched towards midnight, a sudden hush fell in the otherwise really noisy party. Everyone took deep breaths so that they could shout their loudest when 2010 finally arrived. So we all did that, the whole routine -- the "woo hoos" and "haaappy new yeeeear guys" and the hugging and the drunk "oh people, don't go back to Delhi (or wherever else), we miss you sooooo much!"
But the moment the digital clock flashed 12:01 -- no, things did not change drastically, the music was still on, we were doing the wild dance, and glasses were clinking endlessly; but still, the moment it was past 2009, the thrill we were all waiting for had come like an mischievous nymph, who teased us for a while, eluded us and slipped away. The Cinderella hour was gone, the magic was over, life was going to be back to normal.
Absolutely back to normal is what I mean. A few more minutes, and I was giving my friend J a tight, emotionally-charged, happy-new-year hug. That was it -- the last straw for Mrs Nair auntie, who had been spying on us from her balcony all the while. She knocked, and I was so pleased to see this otherwise superciliously preachy and uninteresting lady coming to wish us at the right time of the night.
"What do you think you are doing?" she said in a stern voice. The question was intended for me, and although I am nearing 30, I whimpered like a school girl, clueless, "New year party. Why auntie?"
"You drinking? You making noisy music, we did not say anything. Everyone sleeping, and yet you do all this, we did not say anything," her livid voice was rising in a crescendo above the loud music.
"But, do you have husband or what?" she screeched at me. The question sounded to me like whether I have an iPod, or the plate in which she had given us gobi sabzi last week. My vodka shot filled mind was utterly at a loss -- why was she asking this when my husband was standing right beside me? "You hug another man like that! How, how...phht?" So scandalised was she that she was at a loss of words.
I could have, and should have given it back to her. But, I had to redeem my goody girl image. "He is my brother auntie." Well, J is a blonde American, so Nair auntie's suspicions rose. So, "My uncle married foreigner. He is the son," and I gave her an entire choclate cake as a new year's gift, and sent her off while she keot on saying, "Oh beta, what's the need for this? You enjoy, enjoy..."

Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXII

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.