My mum-in-law sounds edgy and complains of her ninety year
old father not abiding by her instructions on a torrentially rainy day in
Kolkata.
'Dear, I repetitively asked him to hand over the list of groceries
to the maid, yet he didn't listen. What if he slips on the footpath and hurts
himself?? You know how scary the manholes can turn out during Monsoon right?'
The idea of hiring a helper for him is to ensure the senior
citizen at home does not need to take the pain of going out when it comes to
such trivial requirements. But our daadu is a kind of a person who even though
not in the pink of his health, would prefer to do his own things. That certain
amount of space, liberty and psychological independence is so very precious to
him, that our sense of concern and restrictions often seem to be clapping him
in irons.
I, pretty much instinctively craft a justification to make
my mum-in-law's life easy which in due course might reduce the risk of a possible
wrangle with her dad over his movements outside the house, solely keeping the unfavorable
climate as well as the shoddy road conditions in consideration :
'Why don't you simply tell him - The maid is literally
making a hole out of our pocket. Please utilize the services baba!' And I snort.
My mum-in-law is highly impressed with my people skills and
believes I can handle old people much better; in fact, to the extent that
drives rest of the house at their wit's end. So it is invariably expected of
her to want me do my bit of coaxing
daadu not to exert himself unnecessarily as there is someone else to assist him
all the time.
2.45 pm - I catch up with my bestie in Delhi for an unusually
long prattle on her birthday. Thanks to Whatsapp instant messenger and her hubby's
cellular device loaded with tons of games to keep her awake in the middle of
the night! I recapitulate those heavy duty hours in our office where we trained
communication and soft skills together a couple years back - and how at times
she'll feel dizzy over her long-term affair with a not-so pleasant smelling betel leaf which I am sure she must not have
got rid of even now. She has been the light of my life stuffed in a jam
roly-poly with her endless supplies of Bengali ghar ka khaana. As and when
possible, she helped me with a welcome change for my palate to eschew my regular
diet of raajma chawal and aaloo ke paranthe in a Punjabi vegetarian
surrounding. She was a total savior in such
scorching and sultry season of the capital region, and sometimes her handbag
will fill up with fresh aloe vera plants from her garden rather than her favorite
munch-on-mania of Lehar Kurkure and Hippo Chips. The heat and the intermittent
power failures made my skin underneath those heavy corporate attires erupt every
now and then. As I served well in my attempts to cushion the blow for her extra
lengthy and over time working hours, her soothing home remedy nurtured me to heal from my
generally crusty temperament owing to the inexhaustible dog days.
As I re-live my golden maiden phase
with her, she goes on saying - 'I seriously need to get hold of a shorter
version of Uddalok!'. I was like 'Whaaaat?? Why?? Why does she want the man of
the house to transform into a goblin and be on the trot to round off a perfect
comedy of errors featuring himself and a comparatively larger-in-frame wife?
The stills might very well start showing up in the daily American soaps that sings
'Heigh-Ho'!! She retorts -'No no! I meant his name is unique yet very long. May
I also start calling him UV?' I fortify her simple logic whole-heartedly as
nobody knows better than me what can happen with an atypical name like that of
mine in this land of milk-and-honey! 'Yes dear! You can surely call him UV.
Even I had to cut Ushasi short into Ush/Payal permanently here. Yikes! Sounding
out such etymological trials can play a havoc on the Yanks for sure!
3:30 pm - Indic words, as they
might be grueling for the Caucasians, the spice from a land of infinite variety
and diversified cultures definitely has the power to add some piquancy to the
lives of many out here. It so happens that I start casting fairy tales about my
parenthood that is yet to come into existence, right after getting enlightened
with the interesting story of a nine-year old Illinoisan genius who has
recently created magic on our President's gastronomy. Someone has rightly stated that the way
through a man's heart is through his stomach, and Obama knows it the best how
to alter a plain vanilla Healthy Lunchtime Challenge into a culinary talent
hunt. My overtly ambitious mother instinct seems to have found its wings and
little Shreya Patel whose Garam Masala Quinoa Burger has been doing rounds is
the reason behind it. Who knows few years down the line some spicy execution
from my kitchen bowls over another Kids State Dinner at the White House only to
have the head of the state and the First Lady drool over my baby's aptitude?
4:30 pm - At the very thought of
good food, the only craving I feel, happens to be for a Masala Dosa. I look up
on the Yelp, miserably fail to find a decent option wherein they would agree to
deliver anything below the amount of $30. Not even 'Madras Masala'! A joint
that claims to serve the best Dosa in entire Toronto! As I meticulously go
through the menu so as to figure out where else can I set my eyes on except for
the fermented rice pattered crepe, I accidentally stop at 'Methu Vada' ( Fried
Lentil Donuts) and 'Rasam Soup' ( Traditional South Indian Soup With Tamarind).
The husband will simply go bananas if I ask him to share any of these with me, and
with the very reference of Thayir Sadam (Yoghurt Rice), I shudder, there might
be a possible case of homicide on the thirty sixth floor of the hotel due to a
brawl over his most detestable cuisine! At the same time the idea of swallowing
anything from the menu other than what I was giving my eye teeth for now feels
like biting a bullet and starving myself for next three days in order to put
the taste of coconut chutney in shade. However, with extra delivery charges and
a whole lot of cajolery, here arrives my dosa!
5:15 pm - I call up the room
service in need of a plate and a bowl to pour in the crystalline Sambar which I
wonder would be better to sip in from a tumbler. The amicably prudent hostess
puts an irrefutable question over the phone - 'Hello Mrs. Vasu Mallik! It'll be
my pleasure to inform you that there is a charge of $5 for a room service
delivery of crockery and cutleries, so should you wish to sign on the invoice
now, I can send it across to you or do I directly post it to your room?' Being with the hotel industry for
several years in the past, it doesn't really bring much shock and awe to me,
however, the inevitable no ifs and buts that I am going to face from my hubby
dear for genially submitting to such odd policies starts ticking my mind. I
disprove - 'This is the first time I am being charged for something
unreasonable. No leading hotel does that. The other day I asked for Wine glasses
too and the Front Office never seemed to have a problem with that. How can you
not waive it off for a regular guest even though you adhere by such a stupid
service guideline?' She meekly mumbles -
'Ahh well ma'am! I do waive it off for you today as a gesture but going forward
it will be difficult for me. I understand : had I been in your place, I would
have felt equally angry on being asked to pay for such small things. I don't
know why our managers superimpose these codes and we are instructed to tell so
to our guests'.
My tongue-in-cheek response to
this makes her giggle! - 'The thing is, you will never be able to decipher the
riddle behind these brand standards until you get up from that chair and swap
your position with me. I , could never do that either.'
6:00 pm - The man of the house is
back from work and now heading for an elaborate business dinner. He asks me to
help him with the selection of a suit and a tie and quickly reverts to a couple
of official emails while I snuggle up on his lap after a day's severance. After
listening to our Haryana puttar now turned into one of the most sought after
(currently held in Padukone captivity) Bolywood hunks - Ranveer Singh's Dubsmash video, I am
always looking out for an 'eye-to-eye' contact with my better half. With the
slightest absence of that I feel like a 'butterfly....without fly'.
I have known Pakistani singers to
be endowed with a knack for extremely soulful music which stays with us for
long after it is heard. Likewise, Atif Aslam's 'Doorie' makes us forget
everything else in the world till date. But it looks like as much as Ranveer
has stolen our hearts with his troll, the target of this lampoon is shot to fame overnight for
being the new butt of a joke. As per the rib-tickling lyrics, Shah janab wants to
'make love with the eyes' and those eyes are of course 'human eyes'! 'Essential
sensational eyes', 'Your eyes and my eyes'. On showing the original clip as
well as Singh's meme, the husband asks me - 'Is he trying to dedicate this to
his beloved or someone has conveniently run away listening to his mambo-jumbo
leaving him at the mercy of Singh's parody?'
7:00 pm - My partner in all crime looks strikingly dandy in his Armani and is ready to leave only after
planting a routine peck on my forehead. Dripping with curiosity he asks - 'Today ain't Tuesday right? It's definitely not your Hanuman ji day. What is it with
the awful vegetarian choice for a dinner?'
How do I explain him my apparently purposive decision to detox has an imperative bearing on the appalling accounts
of what is going around the world every day? I mutter - 'Can you imagine how
heinous it could be for organizations like Planned Parenthood shipping aborted fetus parts? Ughhh!'.....
He swiftly ripostes - 'So by
refraining from meat you will spread some positive energy globally and stop
such ill practices from continuing further right?'
I take a pause for a fraction of
a second sighing over how the poor dog must have whimpered at being tortured
brutally by the ogre whose temerarious visual evidence of the violence has gone viral on social media. Regardless of reading about it, I deliberately avoided envisioning the macabre contents as animal
sadism of such kinds breaks me into pieces. But that doesn't take away the
constant tribulation I underwent until the brute was detained. Are these the manifestations of a bona fide member of an equivocal and mightily sensitive tribe of women hailing from The Age Of Aquarius?
Ah well...Ever since I was a child, I have been a bit different. Faintly
weird as I term it, failing to fit in anywhere! What brushed off others and withered
in dust easily, has always touched me. It has been some sort of enigma for me - Why is it so - What the world at large witnesses today,
overcomes and forgives effortlessly, gets tugged at my heartstrings. All I knew is - I never wanted to be in control of my emotions. I wanted to use them, to enjoy them and to dominate them. Boo-ya!!
I promptly vent in utter relief - 'That
beast is arrested! You know that? Men won't be called dogs now onwards. They
are switching roles you see!' .....
The love of my life can feel my
discomfort and pulls me affectionately towards him : 'Why do you wish to
deprive yourself of something that is not going to help those victims stand
up for themselves? Be it the dead baby or an animal in pain, a child trapped
in trafficking or a woman in marital abuse!'....
Sometimes all you need is someone to tell you that such weirdness is in fact, positively brilliant.
And I so feel like huddling up in his
arms wishing I could turn back the clock! Sigh! The cocktail is about to start! Hastened with remorse, I mumble - 'It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything
so very deeply'..........
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