Me, Liberated? I Think So

I was having a conversation with sup33 the other day about names: maiden names and marital names (if that’s the name for the name of a woman who changes her name to her husband’s name after marriage – if you know what I mean).

I changed my name after marriage; sup33 didn’t. “Well you were only 24,” she said consolingly, implying that at that tender age I perhaps hadn’t quite thought things through.

But I had.

It’s true that I didn’t demand that Amit change his surname to mine; in fact, I didn’t even ask hypothetically if he would if I asked him to. I think he probably would have refused, and probably would have also said that I didn’t have to change my name if I didn’t want to.

But I wanted to.

For me, it wasn’t about bowing to tradition, or to Amit, or being subservient to his family, or to the laws of society in general. It was simply out of love for Amit, a sense of joy in my commitment to him by way of marriage, and a desire to proclaim to the world at large that we were man and wife. The fact that I felt no pressure or expectation from his side, that I felt quite sure I needn’t change my name if I didn’t want to, ensured that I had no qualms about doing so. And now, 11 years on, my maiden name is just a memory, while my marital name is who I am.

I did another little thing along with this change of name which, to anyone who knows me, might appear quite out of character.

Bengalis don’t have a mangal sutra; they have a ring, but it’s not the most important symbol of marriage. What they have is kacha-shaka – the traditional bangles, one red, one white, worn on each hand – that is, two of each, four in all. Well, my white ones got busted on our first night (symbolic, that, but not in the way it is intended to be) and were never replaced. The red ones lie neglected in some corner of some drawer at home. This, I’m sure, is not at all surprising to anyone who knows me.

But what might be surprising is what comes next. You see, Bengalis also have this metal bracelet thingy, sometimes decorated with a thin layer of gold, which is worn at the wedding and thereafter is never to be taken off until death do you part. This I do have. And, for some reason, I made a promise to myself when I got married that I would honour this tradition, and I have. I have never, ever taken it off since that day.

Of course I don’t know what superstitions are attached to taking it off prematurely, nor do I want to know, far less believe such things. Neither do I know or care to consider what I will do in the event that death do us part. But I took that bracelet as symbolic of my commitment, my marriage, and I chose to wear it always. It’s a part of me now, just as much as my hair, my glasses, and my marital name.

My point is that, if women’s lib dictates that I should automatically reject such customs, then I think that women’s lib is as restrictive as the very restrictions it sets out to free women from. For me, being liberated means being free to decide to do something, or not do something, purely based on my own choice. If I am secure about my equality and freedom in my relationship, then I don’t have to question whether taking my husband’s name or wearing a bracelet somehow makes me subservient to him or makes me his possession.

Does women’s lib mean that I have to shy away from doing something that I actually want to do, or don’t mind doing, just because it’s what I’m expected to do? If I am really liberated, can’t I choose to do something not because society ordains it, but inspite of that?

On Losing Someone – 2

People, people, everywhere
They smile, you smile… it’s a mask you wear
Underneath there’s loneliness and pain
The thought of someone you might never see again

It’s been so long… months, maybe years
You’ve quite run out of your stock of tears
Besides, how long can you mourn
For someone who’s not dead – just gone

You hope he’s happy… but then, again
You hope he feels that sharp stab of pain
Something that reminds him of you
And everything he’s put you through

Of course you can smile, of course you’re strong
After all, you did no wrong
And who’s to know, since that fateful day
The song in your heart quite went away

But, how can it be? Can it be true?
That he didn’t stop to think of you?
Or maybe, it’s plain to see,
Some things were just not meant to be.

One day, some day, if fate ordains,
You’ll run into him again
And then, perhaps, maybe, you’ll know
What made him want to leave and go

Until then, you wait, you hope,
You know you’ll get along, you’ll cope.
There’s only one thing you could ask:
The strength to keep on wearing that mask

On Losing Someone – 1

Do you know what it’s like to lose someone
A friend, a love, a daughter or son
To turn around and find they’ve gone?

Do you know how it feels, on that terrible day,
When you say something so wrong, that you send them away,
Or you can’t find the words to make them stay?

Do you know how it hurts to lose a friend,
To have something you cherished come to an end,
To not be able to make amends?

Do you know what it means to feel so sad
Full of regret for what you might have had
But lost, though you did nothing bad?

And what can you do, once they are gone?
Once whatever happened can’t be undone?
What use are those tears? Life goes on…

A Sordid Affair

It seems Amit is having an affair. Yes, after ten long years of faithfulness, apart from the odd fling or two, he’s now having a passionate and rather noisy affair, which is being conducted blatantly right under – or rather, right above – my very nose: in the upstairs neighbour’s apartment.

In their bathroom, to be precise.

The object of his passion is the plumber. That’s right, wake up and rub your eyes, I said plumber. The two of them, along with some other young men have been doing a lot of banging in the upstairs bathroom over the last ten days. (Pun intended.)

Ok, if you’re properly awake and interested now, I’ll explain.

It all started many years ago, when the paint started flaking off our bathroom ceilings and walls. This was a clear indication that the upstairs bathroom had sprung a leak. Or two. We could not really blame our upstairs neighbour for this – leaky bathrooms, it seems, are something of an epidemic around here. There has even been some speculation that the workmen, including the original construction workers, deliberately sabotage the plumbing to ensure that they or their brethren are always in demand. If so, their strategy seems to be working admirably.

In the course of the past five years, we have already ripped apart the upstairs bathroom three times, unearthed a leaky pipe – or, in once instance, a pipe blocked by a mountain of cement – fixed it, and covered it all up again. To no avail – the seepage reluctantly decreased, but never really went away.

At last, after delaying the inevitable for as long as he possibly could, Amit decided he would have to renew his long-dormant love-hate relationship with the plumber.

This time, he resolved, he would do it properly. So properly that it would never leak again for the next 20 years or so. The plumber assured him that it could be done and would only take three days. Four at the outside, he said.

That was two weeks ago. They’re still working on it, but things are not progressing very smoothly (to put it mildly). One reason for the slow progress is that Amit and the plumber are both two-timing each other. The plumber has a “day” job; so does Amit. Of late, though, it would have seemed to any impartial observer that fixing the bathroom plumbing was Amit’s day job, while his regular work was relegated to evening hours, or, more often, completely neglected. Despite his putting in long hours on this work, much of his effort seems to be going – so to say – down the drain. The workmen are being lazy, inefficient, uncooperative and playing truant as often as they can – which is to say, they are being workmen.

The first step in fixing the bathroom was ripping it apart and taking out everything that was in it. And by everything, I’m not talking about sinks and toilets; not even about wall and floor tiles; I mean EVERYTHING that was IN it. For five straight days, one or two disinterested workmen with flimsy scalpels scraped away gingerly at about 20 tons of brick and mortar until they had excavated a gaping cavity about two feet deep where the bathroom used to be. For most of the five days, there was a huge mound of debris piled up in the space outside the bathroom, which was at last carted down by the resentful workmen, and dumped just outside the building where it still lies, awaiting a decent burial (or re-burial, in this case).

Following this, there was a series of delays. Some delays were due to the appropriate tools and materials not being available. This was really infuriating for Amit, who, having honed his project management skills to a fine art in the course of his career, had been running around for days trying to procure the materials in time. Then, finally everything was ready for the first layer of waterproofing to be applied. This took about 20 minutes, after which it was left to dry overnight. When the workmen returned the next morning, they found a nice knee-deep swimming pool in the bathroom, rendering the waterproofing a non-starter. How the water got there remains a mystery; some have suggested that it was drainage (or sewage?) water from the bathroom one floor above that had flooded out through the open drain pipe, others said it must have come from the washing machine’s drain pipe – a somewhat less revolting prospect.

Once the water had been bailed out and the area had completely dried, waterproofing was applied in two layers, followed by a layer of cement. Next, the pipes would have to be laid. So, early on the morning of our eagerly-awaited tenth anniversary Amit drove off with one of the workmen, and returned a couple of hours later with a whole lot of horrible pipes and traps and other gory bits and pieces, which were flung into our balcony – and about 200 kg of cement and sand, which was unceremoniously dumped in our study! This material was supposed to keep the workmen gainfully employed for a couple of days, when Amit would be traveling on work. When he returned, he hoped to just check the work and then have the bathroom sealed up and returned to a functional condition in another couple of days.

However, plumbers make rubbish out of the best laid plans much more easily than they do with the best laid bathrooms. First, the plumber refused to do any work in the bathroom until the layer of cement had been cured. To add insult to injury, he took one derisive look at the pipes Amit had bought on our anniversary day, and declared they weren’t “good” enough. So he went off to buy some better ones – taking cash from me along the way. That was the last I saw of him. When I called him on his cellphone, he said the better pipes weren’t available, so, not knowing what else to do, he did nothing. Great. I tried to break this news to Amit as gently as possible, then I quickly hung up on him. Distance is supposed to make the heart grow fonder, but the last I heard, Amit was expressing an ardent desire to meet the plumber so he could throttle him.

Meanwhile, in addition to his guilt about neglecting his official work, Amit is also suffering from a severe guilt complex at the suffering we are imposing on our hapless upstairs neighbour, given that they have been so good as to allow us to destroy their bathroom. Currently, the seven people in their household are reduced to queueing outside the one functional bathroom, while their washing machine occupies pride of place in the kitchen, effectively putting paid to any efforts to actually do any cooking in there.

I pointed out to him that actually the said neighbour is not doing us any favour, considering it is his leaky bathroom that has completely ruined the paint in both our bathrooms and our dining room. By rights, we could sue him for it. If we were litigiously inclined, we’d have him running around getting his bathrooms fixed and getting our flat painted for us into the bargain. That sounds like quite a good proposition, until I consider that our leaky bathrooms are probably wreaking havoc on our downstairs neighbours’ walls. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea to set a precedent and open up a can of worms – I really, really wouldn’t want anyone doing this to my bathrooms.

I somehow get the impression that Amit has had enough of his plumber too. He does occasionally talk about tackling the second bathroom as well, but hopefully he will not want to prolong this affair for quite so long.

A Few Loose Nuts

Thank goodness for shoddy workmanship.

Our apartment, which is about ten years old and which we own, is if not the epitome, then at least a pretty good example of shoddy workmanship. According to those who know, the foundations and basic construction quality are sound; but when it comes to the plumbing, the painting, the woodwork, even the plastering of the wall, it leaves a lot to be desired. I never thought I’d have cause to be grateful for this.

Typically, I sneak in my shower in after the twins’ bath and before their lunch. I say “sneak in because I have to be pretty quick, else they’ll fall asleep before eating lunch, which is a headache for me.

Today had been a typical day thus far, so I went into the bathroom as usual. What was new was that I decided to bolt the door from the inside – I haven’t done this so far, when if I’m alone in the house with the twins, so that they can see me and not feel worried. Today, I thought they’re well adjusted enough to not notice if they don’t see me for a few minutes, and a few minutes of privacy while bathing is always welcome.

No sooner had I shot the bolt from the inside, than it occurred to me that perhaps this was a dangerous thing to do. The reason is, the bathroom door has a latch on the outside as well, which is just about within reach of the twins if they stand on tiptoe. It’s the sort of bolt that slides into a hole in the frame and the twins have figured out how it works, though it’s not yet in the list of limited activities (such as come, go, give, take) that they can carry out on instruction. We have the same sort of latch on the other bathroom door as well as on the two verandah doors, but the only one the twins can successfully operate is the one on the verandah that opens off their room. On the other doors, thanks to shoddy workmanship, the alignment of bolt and hole is not perfect, so you need to hold the door (sometimes very firmly indeed) with one hand and shoot the bolt home with the other. This is thankfully still beyond their abilities.

Unless, of course, you helpfully bolt the door from the other side. I had never checked this (never having tried to bolt the door from both sides at once) but apparently bolting the door from one side causes the bolt on the other side to become perfectly aligned. Just as I bolted the door on the inside, I wondered whether this would actually make it possible for the twins to bolt it from the outside.

Before I could so much as complete the thought, I heard the bolt outside neatly slide home.

Horrors!

I hastily unbolted the door from the inside, hoping the bolt had missed its destination, but tugging on the door only confirmed my worst fear – it certainly hadn’t.

I immediately called out to the twins, hoping they would obligingly undo the action, but that would really have been asking for too much. I didn’t even know which twin was responsible for imprisoning me – when I stepped into the bathroom, neither one was in the immediate vicinity of the door (which just shows how fast kids can move when faced with an opportunity for serious mischief).

At first, I told myself it was only a minor matter, I’d be out in a few minutes. But slowly, as I looked around the bathroom, realisation dawned: it was very possible that I’d be stuck there till evening!

There was absolutely nothing in the bathroom that could be of the slightest help in my predicament. No phone – who carries a cellphone on them when going for a bath? No pointy metal object that I could slide through the crack where door met frame and try to manipulate the bolt. I tried to use a tube of shampoo as a wedge (why does shampoo come in tubes nowadays? it used to come in bottles), but it was completely useless. I could not see any way that bath soap, detergent, mugs and buckets, or a bath towel could be of any earthly use in persuading the bolt to slide out of its home.

I tried to think things through. I wasn’t expecting any visitors. If anyone did ring the doorbell, it was unlikely they’d hear me shouting from the locked bathroom. There was a window, but our downstairs neighbours would be out, their house empty but for their two dogs. I was due to attend an online meeting at 1 p.m., but my unexplained absence would likely occasion only mild surprise, not alarm. Amit might call at some point, but if he couldn’t get me on the phone, he’d simply surmise I was busy with the kids and forget about it. If I couldn’t find a way out on my own, it looked like I’d be stuck here till 6.30 or so, when Amit would (hopefully) come home and let me out.

To top it off, I was nude, with only a bath towel at my disposal. Even if any alternative manner of rescue could be found, I wasn’t sure I’d want to be rescued by anyone other than Amit.

Meanwhile, the kids needed their lunch, their tea-time milk, and their various diaper-changes.

The worst part was that this scenario was not entirely unforeseen. Amit and I had discussed what we could do in such a situation, and had agreed that we probably needed to get the bolts shifted up on the doors, out of reach of the twins. We just hadn’t got around to doing it.

After thinking everything through, I decided there was nothing for it but to apply brute force. Pity that I’m not (in my opinion) much of a brute – Amit would certainly have yanked the door off its hinges at the first try. It took me several desperate attempts before something gave on the outside and the door opened a crack.

But only a crack – I wasn’t home and dry yet, but at least things were looking more hopeful. I tried slipping my hand through, but the crack was much too narrow. So I applied myself to pulling the door with renewed vigor. All that happened was that, with the next tug, the handle came off into my hand!

This was not so good. There was nothing else substantial enough to tug on on this side of the door. True, I could use the detached handle as a level, but it didn’t look like it would stand up to much. Luckily I could curl my fingers around the edge of the door and tug on that directly, but I didn’t think it would be as effective as the door handle had been thus far. All the same, that’s what I did, bracing myself against the wall with my left hand and tugging with my right.

And a few minutes later, the second set of screws holding the bolt in place came out with a loud pop, sending the bolt skittering on the floor a distance of several feet – and I was out, free.

Which is why I say, sometimes you have to be jolly grateful for shoddy workmanship.

I Still Prefer Nuclear

Man, it’s good to be home.

Having said that, I must add that the eight days of eternity were not that bad… or at least, not as bad as I thought it might have been. Some of the battles were lost, it’s true; some were won; and some were never fought. The “fishes” were not quite as troublesome as I had anticipated; I was very happy to see that nobody fed the kids anything that we said was on the list of banned substances; the twins’ daily schedule was adhered to fairly regularly, with some variations; the language seemed more comprehenisble to me than ever before and I even attempted some genuine communication from time to time; and I managed to get away with only one sari-day.

Amit and I even managed to leave the kids alone and go out for walks together a few times. True, it was mostly when the twins were in bed and fast asleep, but once we left them when they were wide awake in the evening. According to subsequent reports, they were not exactly happy about seeing both parents walk out the door, but they did not cry while we were away. When we returned after about half an hour, though, Tara immediately came to me, took my finger in her hand and promptly burst into a flood of tears! Strange…

Anyway, considering we have never left the kids alone with anyone else till now, it was a landmark of sorts. We aren’t really considering baby-sitter arrangements till they are a bit older and able to talk, so it was good to get even those stolen half-hour walks together.

Being in Calcutta with kids was a different experience for me. It forced me to drop many reservations, just playing with the kids and being my usual goofy self in front of the Family. I didn’t feel the need to get away from people and find some space for myself the way I usually do – I could do much the same thing just by getting engrossed in the kids. Plus, of course, the usual activities in keeping the kids fed, bathed, and rested gave me enough time to do “my own thing”.

I, of course, came in for a certain amount of indirect criticism and a certain amount of indirect praise. Everyone seemed to think that the kids were completely under-dressed and that they ought to have been swaddled in sheathes of warm clothing from head to foot. Since Amit and I were in summer clothes, I completely ignored this advice, even though Tara had a cold and Mrini developed one towards the end. They must think I’m the most callous mother ever, but I simply don’t see why I should shroud my kids in warm clothes simply because everyone else thinks it is cold. And runny noses are a normal part of toddlerhood, to be endured and largely ignored, if you ask me. I refuse to be one of those paranoid, hypochondriac parents, or let my kids become that way.

The praise was for a rather unexpected reason. Apparently, it is highly commendable to quit your job and be a full-time mom without an ayah (maid to look after the kids), as opposed to being a working mom, or even a full-time mom with an ayah. And not just “an” ayah, but one per kid. I’m not sure why, but having opted to bathe, dress, feed, and play with my kids seems to have earned me serious brownie points in the Family.

The kids, for the most part, enjoyed the trip. They didn’t get unduly upset by the flight, the change of location, the presence of so many new people, or the frequent outings and exposure to yet more people. They ate well, slept a lot, and were generally happy – with a couple of notable exceptions.

On the day of the big function, the kids’ feet never touched the ground, they were passed around from person to person like cushions in Pass the Parcel. Of course, they mostly enjoy being picked up, so it shouldn’t have been a bad thing, but they also do need to run around and do their own thing after a while – which they absolutely couldn’t. By late afternoon, they were grumpy… and then there was a photo shoot. These photo shoots are those formal affairs where everyone is made to line up and say cheese. With 40-50 adults and several children to arrange, these tend to be noisy and time-consuming affairs. Naturally, the twins were squirming like snakes and demanding to get away after five minutes.

But then, that was only one day. The bigger problem was that on the other days too, there were simply too many people always picking up the kids. I was frankly surprised to see how people will insist on picking up the kids even when the kids make it quite clear that they don’t want to be picked up right then. And then, of course, they mostly do want to be picked up, which only adds to the problem. In just a few days, Mrini became unbearably clingy and whiny, always wanting to be picked up by anyone, but preferrably by me. Over the last few days, this manifested in her clinging to me like a limpet. She howls even if Amit holds her. Thankfully, though she was whining in the taxi on the way home, when we got home, she and Tara plunged into their toy box in utter delight and proceeded to create chaos and pandemonium in the house in their usual manner – so that was a relief.

Naturally, I can see the benefits of having a large family when you’re handling two small kids. Having lots of people around not only lets us get some time to go out together, but also means there are always people willing to feed, play with, or otherwise look after the kids, leaving only the diaper-changing activities to the hapless parents. But, if the flip side is that the kids are going to become whiny and indisciplined… well, I think I’ll stick with nuclear.

What Have I Let Myself In For?

To think that I actually agreed to this! What was I thinking?

I’m talking about the upcoming eight days in Calcutta, of course. As the travel date approaches, the very thought is giving me the heebie-jeebies. I have written before of how I am decidedly NOT a joint-family type of person. But, in those happy days, I reckoned without the twins. Twins add hitherto unconceivable complications to the situation.

There is, first, the usual matter of logistics: where do we sleep, when do we sleep, till when do we sleep, how and with whom do we sleep… and so on down the line, substituting “eat” “bathe” “use the bathroom” etc for “sleep” (try it, you;ll get a better idea of what I mean.) To this, we need only add the various considerations of keeping the twins safe (from staircases, for instance) and keeping the house relatively intact (glass-fronted cabinets, TVs in various rooms at various heights and so on).

Then, there’s the matter of various minor battles. Foremost, is the battle of the fishes. I say fishes, because there are so many of them that simply using “fish” just seems plain insufficient. For me, as for the twins, one small, boneless piece of fish is about the maximum one can stomach. The battle begins at the second piece and lasts all the way up to the fifth piece. Then there’s the matter of the million bones per piece – I will, no doubt, have the pleasure of removing the bones for not just my own benefit, but worse, for the twins. Worse, because for them, every tiny mistake could cause a crisis.

Another battle is of time. My preferred timings for meals is roughly 8 – 1 – 8; for the twins, it is 8 – 11.30 – 4.30 – 7.30. In Calcutta, the default is something like 9.30 – 2.30 – 10.30. Naturally, sleeping and waking hours get pushed out accordingly. This absolutely wrecks my biological clock and now with the twins to cater to, it is going to wreck my central nervous system as well. I hate being so, but the fact remains that I am an extremely time-oriented person and it is quite (inordinately) important for me, where it concerns the twins, to adhere to some sort of schedule in the interests of health (theirs) and sanity (mine).

Horror of horrors, we will also have to face the sweet battle. I, of course, have 32 sweet teeth, so it shouldn’t have been a problem for me – except that 31 of my 32 teeth seem to prefer cakes and ice creams over mishti. Mercifully, my lactose intolerance provides a handy excuse to get me out of the 823 sweet-eating opportunities per day that I would rather avoid. Unfortunately, it also means that the 215 opportunities for yummy sweets like gulab jamun and mishti doi must also be passed up with an expression of stoic regret. The twins, who have not been fed much sweet by us thus far, will also have ~1000 types of sweet thrust down their little gullets. Doubtless, they will love it… and therefore refuse to eat anything that’s not sweet not only for the eight days there, but also for the next two months back home.

Dressing is another battle I am bound to encounter. Of course, the entire immediate family (only about 20 people) knows that I wear jeans about 95% of the time. The extended family (the other ~60 people) have seen me only on formal occasions, when I’m dutifully bound up in a sari. This was just about manageable for special occasions when we didn’t have kids – now, with two, it is almost entirely out of the question. I mean, just imagine diaper-changing with a sari flowing all over the place for the twins to play with… Luckily, there’s to be only one function which involves the entire extended family, and I’m considering giving in and actually wrapping a sari around myself for that day (or half-day, if I have my way); but for the other 7.5 days, I’m hoping to get away with jeans, or at worst, a couple of salwar-kameez. This is sure to ruffle some feathers, as we’re going to have to make a few social calls, which ideally should not be done with the smiling mother wearing jeans… but it really is beyond me to manage two small kids and a sari (all the while conversing fluently in Bengali) – something’s bound to come undone!

The biggest problem, which, as of yesterday evening is causing me seriously sleepless nights, is of the relative-naming convention. I have, of course, faced this problem on many occasions already, and have just about come to grips with who’s who to whom… but that was before the advent of the next generation. Now, everything’s changed – not for me, but for how each uncle, aunt, cousin, grandparent and their sisters, brothers, parents and children should be addressed by the twins. Inevitably, there will be situations when somebody is calling the twins, and I am expected to tell them, “Go on, your such-and-such uncle/auntie/whatever is calling you, go to your uncle/auntie/whatever…”

Yesterday, I spent an hour after dinner quizzing Amit on the manner in which each type of relation would transform into something else for our kids – for example, all older brothers (about 43 of them if you count only first cousins) become jethus and all younger brothers become kakus; except for an older brother-in-law, who becomes a pishimoshai, despite being habitually addressed as brother. You’d think that someone who’s been brought up in this system would have all the answers down pat – it is the same set of transitions for every new generation, after all – but no; Amit actually had to have a 15 minute discourse with his father to clear up some of the finer points. Then, what hope is there for me, who’s not yet got past first base even after ten years of marriage???

The more I think of it, the more the eight days seem to stretch into eternity. Perhaps it would be easier to break a leg and call off the entire trip.

Wash Mach Woes

I’m not going to grumble about how my washing machine (wash mach to friends and foes alike) eats up socks and throws up Election ID cards and sometimes launders a bit of cash along with the clothes. Let’s take those routine events for granted.

But when it starts refusing its regular diet of water and detergent powder, I am forced to sit up and take notice. After all, there’s only so long that a person – even a person as slovenly as I – can go without clean UGs.

It had been off its feed for a while, truth be told. The last couple of times, its consumption of the detergent that was diligently served up had been well below par. But this time, when I opened the detergent tray to give it its usual dose, I saw last time’s complement lying there untouched and – what’s worse – not even mildly damp. Now, I’m not too finicky about how much detergent my clothes get (as long as it’s not too much) so I shrugged and closed the door and started the machine.

And then, I wandered off as usual, to do something more interesting.

A long while later, when I happened to pass the wash mach, it occurred to me that it was strangely silent – and had been for some time. I pressed my ear against its belly for several seconds, but caught not the faintest sound of it digestive juices doing their job. Hmmmmm – it was beginning to look like I needed to get involved.

First, I turned it off and left it to cool down. After a few minutes, it allowed me to open the door and I found, unsurprisingly, that the clothes were bone dry. I scratched my head for a few minutes before it occurred to me that maybe I should check whether there was any water in the tap. We had been having an extremely intermittent water supply for a few days. (We thought it was because of the reduction in Cauvery water supply, but it turned out it was a defective valve somewhere up the line.)

So, I unscrewed the attachment that fits around the tap and boom! A whole Sankey-tank-ful of water came gushing out. Well, that answered that question: water in the tap? Affirmative.

Those who’ve visited our home know that the wash mach top is the repository for all of Amit’s most valuable and also most useless paperwork. The valuable and the useless lie around in complete chaos, mingling freely with phone chargers, ancient rolls of film (from the days before the digital era!), functional and dysfunctional pens and various other odds and ends that have no other home at home. All of these, the valuable, the useless, the functional, the dysfunctional, the ancient, and the electrical, in short order were given a thorough drenching.

After a few minutes, I, having been given a fair share of the drenching, recovered myself sufficiently to utter some strong curses and set about doing some damage control. After 30 minutes, some sort of chaos was restored, most of the wet things from the wash mach having been provided temporary refuge on the dining table, which, therefore resembled a war zone. What next?

Let’s see, I thought to myself, whether water goes through the stupid hose and into the damn machine. So, I tried pouring some water slowly into the top of the hose, which was currently disconnected from the tap. No luck – it just came dribbling out. That was the extent of my attempts at diagnosis and repair. Clearly this was a task for the professionals.

I located the service centre number and lodged a complaint and was assured that a repair man would visit me tomorrow.

Then, I made the mistake of bringing my dear husband up to date on the sequence of events. The man, being in Beijing at the moment, was prompt in telling me what I should have done, what I should not have done, and what I should do next.

“Clean the filter,” said he authoritatively.

“What’s the filter?” said I, mutinously.

“Pull out the hose from the machine end, not from the tap,” he instructed.

“You pull out the hose from whichever end you want! I have better things to do,” I retorted hotly.

He did convince me to check the filter, but I declared it clean enough to drink from and refused to implement any more of his inane suggestions.

The next day, the repair man duly turned up and tackled the machine. In between talking on his phone and listening to FM on earphones, he pulled the hose off the tap, fiddled around with it, and put it back on. As far as I could tell, he did nothing else. But, when he turned on the tap, the machine responded with alacrity and the water gushed in with an almost alarming vigour. In minutes the machine was gurgling away happily to itself, and the repair man was 400 buck richer.

Huh! I could’ve done that!

Never Say Yes

On Monday, Amit, who was recuperating from home, and I, who was working from home, sat down to a simple homemade meal at lunchtime, when the phone rang.

There was absolutely nothing noteworthy about this, because the phones – all four of ‘em – had been ringing off the hook with worried family members demanding hourly updates on his health. On this particular occasion, it was his Calcutta Aunt, who, yesterday, had wanted to know why our household hadn’t a thermometer to its name and had made it plain that this was a shortcoming to be rectified at the earliest opportunity. He therefore hastened to assure her that a thermometer (a digital one, with read-outs in both C and F) had indeed been procured, and, what’s more, had shown him (to my utter disbelief) to have no fever.

The Aunt, thereupon, suggested that a distant (not very distant “relatively” speaking – nor, unfortunately, geographically speaking) branch of the family resident in Bangalore be informed of the situation, so that they could provide succour – or something like it.

The thought so scared Amit that he immediately resolved to get well without further delay.

The situation with these rellies is such that when DDB visited Bangalore, though he is equally related to them and to us, he not only didn’t stay with them, he went to great lengths to stay away as much as possible. A great deal of energy went into plotting, scheming, and strategizing devious ways and means of encountering them for the minimum possible period of time. The main intention was to “drop in” without notice, create a lot of noise and confusion, and escape quickly before arrangements for a meal could be made. This escapade would also have to be carried out at the last possible moment in his stay, to avoid invitations to subsequent meals together that would inevitably ensue should they be given any advance notice of his presence in town.

In these endeavors, Amit was a willing and active participant. Though he sometimes agrees that we “should” be more sociable with this branch of the family, he never goes so far as to actually act according to this good intention. On the rare occasions that he is called upon to explain this reluctance, he says that developing any kind of warm relationship here would upset the delicate balance between various other factions of the family, including incurring the wrath of his father – something to be avoided at any cost as it always results in great damage to the phone bill and the ear drums.

So, he vehemently assured the Aunt that he would doubtless survive the day and it was only merely a small, tiny little passing flu and there was no need whatsoever to call in the heavy artillery and that he would call and tell her the moment he felt better or worse or just the same, so why bother these other folks.

The Aunt, who has learnt a few tricks to justify her white hair, demanded to speak to me.

The problem with my conversing with any member of Amit’s family is that they thoroughly overestimate my language skills and assume that I understand everything they say, when in fact my comprehension consists of 10% understanding, 80% inspired guesswork, and 10% non-committal replies to mask a total lack of comprehension. So, when the Aunt admonished me to keep her updated on the situation (or that’s what I thought she said, using inspired guesswork), I readily agreed. Only after a few moments did I realize that what she was actually asking me was whether I would update the distant rellies on the situation – and I had agreed!

I hastily recanted, and handed the phone back to Amit to do further damage control.

Moral of the story: Inspired guesswork is all very well, but never agree to do anything!

Surviving…

…but only just.

The family came and went. The computer workstation finally arrived in a nail-biting climax minutes before I left for the airport. Amit was sitting (dharna) at the shop in Comm Street threatening dire consequences if the damn thing, which was supposedly sent by auto ages ago, did not land up at our house in very very short order.

That apart, the weekend went off peacefully, with only

• two sessions of waterworks (three women under practically the same roof for three days, what do you expect?)
• three meals out
• four trips to the malls and MG Road (each lasting about 5 hours; with cumulative damages somewhere in the range of a million dollars, or so it seemed)
• half-a-dozen squabbles about picking up the bill (my father’s totally pig-headed, and so am I)
• about a dozen bottles of alcohol down the collective hatch (beer, wine, vodka, whisky, and occasionally a mad mix of all of the above with a dash of orange juice!)

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts at forcing it down everyone’s ungrateful gullet, only half the frozen meat was consumed, which leaves my fridge still overloaded with two giant boxes of roast turkey and leg of lamb.

We dropped them to the airport yesterday morning and now, a scant 24 hours later, the house is back to its usual state of controlled chaos, the guest bedroom is as messy as ever and its little luxuries have been carted back to their rightful abodes in our bedroom. The washing machine is chock-full of bedsheets, as usual. All’s well with the world.