Mrs Goody Two Shoes XXXVIII

Leaving on a, well, aeroplane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Memory of the Woman Who Loved Sweets

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

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

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

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

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

[Thakuma passed away on November 20,2010.]

Chill

Just made myself a vodka - a dash of lemon, a broken green chilli, just the way I like it. Nothing to romanticise. It's just to beat the cold that's creeping up through my toes, and settling down on my nose tip. It's not exactly as I had pictured such a night as a teen. Then, there would be a soft-glow neon light and Chopin, I would be in something silky, skimpy - certainly not in blue socks and cheetah pajamas - and my job would be way better. I guess dreams (the day kinds) come true in a warped way. The two things that are same are the glass of vodka and the slight tipsy-typing on the comp. Except that, back then, I was penning (read typing) a story, a classic. In reality, I am still not in bed because the sheets will be so cold that I'm scared, and because, for the third day in a row I had dinner alone.
Which should also be fine, because in that beautiful imaginative picture, too, I was on my own. As of now, I don't fancy that so much as I did in my head. So, a little while ago, I stood out on the balcony, feeling all mystical staring out at the fog blanket. Got bitten by a few mosquitos, and froze. Decided that fog looks sexy in Wuthering Heights and Harry Potter. And faraway flickering flames lit by someone trying his best to beat the cold - they look awesome, spellbinding - just would've been better without the smoke drift.
To be honest, I love it all. The smoke that chokes me, the chill that scares me, the fog that can cause traffic delays, the icy bedsheets (not so much the mosquitos). Together, they make a crazy mosaic of life. Soft wool, socks with five toes, hot chocolate, dashing in and out of the shower, tracking the dropping temperature graph, sudden peek of the sun usualy once a week, an odd drizzle that sends the mercury zipping down even more.

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!!!