Khoon aur paani

In the last few days, we’ve discovered that it’s entirely possible to feel chilly in Chennai and to crave hot chocolate with a steaming plate of pakodas.

“Your first cyclone!” an aunt said. “See? No power supply, roads have knee-deep water, schools are closed, servants don’t show up, clothes don’t dry, trees land on houses and people fall sick. Oh, and be prepared, malaria usually follows.”

Grandparents, watching weather news briefs and Mumbai mayhem on television from 2,000 kilometers away, call and warn the humans not to go out. “Stay away from 5-star hotels especially. And make sure you don’t order Chinese food or salad in the rainy season,” says grandma. “You’re sure to fall sick.”

With no television and a suspended Internet connection (“What to do? Mazhai, saar,”) the humans learned of news reports the old-fashioned way, unfurling sensational headlines every morning with a side of cereal and coffee.

With the rain putting a damper on MP Kanimozhi’s ribbon-cutting and lamp-lighting ceremonies, the local newspaper filled its pages instead with photos of weary-looking Caucasians exiting the damaged hotels. Prominence was also accorded to a rambling eyewitness account by a Taj guest with such excellent communication skills that his own family was under the mistaken impression he was in Kolkata instead.

For local news coverage, mom had only to look outside the window to see the wind and rain compete with each other to put on a stupendous son et lumière show for three days running.

In between bouts of when-will-the-rain-stop-and-the-maid and cook-show-up, mom was consumed by housewifely woes of the washing not drying. Unannounced guests to our home would have been subjected to the family’s damp underwear spread on dining chairs, moist towels adorning the furniture and door handles decorated with hangers sporting wet T-shirts.

“I miss my clothes dryer,” lamented mom, recalling the sensation of warm clothes tumbling out with bits of face tissue still attached to them.

“There’s no power, Amma,” the kids brought her back to reality, causing her to sigh as she folded the once fluffy towels now reduced to the texture of a coarse loofah.

With no school and no electronic entertainment to fall back on, the kids whined away time by pouting and rapidly losing interest in mom’s when-I-was-growing-up-we-had-no-power-all-night-and-often-had-to-study-by-candlelight stories.

Luckily, a flooded house caused some distraction for the children, who ran back and forth delighted at the idea of a shallow pool in the dining room.

“How do we clean this mess?” panicked mom at the sight of floating computer cables and furniture legs standing in water. “See? This is why you should’ve cleared the drain when I first told you to,” she said, unmoved by the sight of her husband poking and prodding the drain in the terrace with a long stick in the pouring rain.

“Stop making a big deal out of everything,” said dad, equally unmoved by the sight of his wife standing in toe-deep water with her pants folded up, wielding a wooden broom.

Three hours and many wet towels later, the humans restored order to the house and mom wearily went to bed fully anticipating waking up on a floating bed the next morning.

“Do you think the house will flood again?” the children asked eagerly the following day.

“Of course not,” replied dad confidently.

“Wear your swim suits just in case,” whispered mom.

With perverse pleasure she waited for the maid to show. “Now when she gives her standard excuse of missing work because of a flooded house, I can tell her about the flooding in my house,” she thought, looking out the window every time she heard a footfall.

Five days later, the rain abated and the sun shone, but mom is still wringing her hands waiting for the maid to make an appearance.

"I bet you she'll show up on the 1st, in time to collect her salary," said mom, conviction shining in her eyes. Walking into the kitchen, she almost missed dad's response, "There you go again. Making a big deal out of everything!"

Nayee Padosan

At 3:50 p.m. everyday, the generators in the rich people’s houses in our neighborhood roar to life, spewing diesel fumes into the air for the next two hours.

As we leave our own middle class cross streets lined with putrid roadside garbage and walk past these snazzy homes, mom covers her nose with her dupatta while I tug at my leash to go the other way. Since most beach houses already violate the 500 meters away from the shoreline rule, I doubt a small matter such as releasing noxious emissions into the air keeps these homeowners up at night with a prickly conscience.

“Who lives here, Amma?” the children ask, looking at the tall black gates that hide these homes from public view. Other than the security guards out front, most of these palatial homes built against a backdrop of sand and surf seem empty and bereft of life.

An occasional gate opens to allow a luxury car with tinted windows to drive in, revealing winding driveways that culminate in a hotel-like foyer. Most of these homes have no name boards out front, like an exclusive restaurant that doesn’t post prices, and rumor has it that celebrities and industrialists use these homes at times for nefarious parties, the kind my humans would not get invited to.

Mom was fortunate enough, however, to step into a hallowed portal recently. “My friend lives in that house,” a visiting aunt informed her. “Shall we drop in and see her?”

After a 15-minute wait by the front gate in the afternoon sun while the security guard received clearance from the main house, mom stepped into a Dakshinchitra meets Gurjari via Spain kind of edifice, complete with antique furniture, ornate brass jhoola, heavily carved wooden doors, dark red floors, a sunken courtyard and Alibaba-style planters by the front door large enough to hide the entire Trojan army.

Despite the unannounced call, the house was camera-ready, with nary a spot of dust on any surface, including the manicured lawn. A phalanx of silent servants flitted through the home, clearly outnumbering the residents - a grand total of two people.

“Sorry, my husband isn’t here. He’s gone to play golf,” the hostess expressed her regrets.

“Wow, in this weather?” volunteered mom.

Turns out the man of the house was playing golf in New Zealand.

Ah!

Mom found her voice again only after the front gate clicked shut behind her.

“This is nothing,” said the aunt, dismissing mom’s visions of massive Tanjore paintings and a garage full of vintage cars. “You should see my other friend’s house. I’ll take you there next time.”

Evening walks around the neighborhood have helped us spot a famous sports star, known for his down-to-earth demeanor and a pretty wife who designs sari blouses that retail at Rs. 1,000.

“Why don’t you go up and introduce yourself?” suggested grandma. “He’s supposed to be very friendly.”

“What on earth will I say?” asked mom, whose only knowledge of the sport is limited to the fact that players rub their favorite spot in full view of the spectators under the pretext of polishing the ball.

“Just tell him you’re related to him. After all he’s your grandmother’s sister-in-law’s youngest sister’s husband’s second cousin’s nephew.”

Right. Of course. That kind of introduction is sure to get my humans an immediate listing on the man's iPhone directory and a standing invitation to dinner.

Master of his domain

Mom’s been taking Shashi Tharoor to bed lately.

Of course, he’s no replacement for that warm, snoring body next to hers, the one that pokes her in the eye at times with his long nose, but for the past week, Shashi’s been leaving mom with goose pimples on her skin.

Her first encounter with him was as a teen, and she thought of him only sporadically over the years, until she ran into him at the library last week. There was something about his ruffled hair and white kurta with the top two buttons undone that called out to her. She was reminded of a memory long ago, the first and last time she saw dad in a cotton kurta, before he started wearing those horrid plaid pajamas and faded T-shirts from the 1990s to bed.

“Why don’t you wear cotton kurtas at home? You look nice in them,” mom has remarked a few times.

“I don't like them,” dad has replied tersely, putting an end to any discussion.

It goes without saying that if dad had even hinted that a certain article of clothing suited mom, she would’ve run out and bought the said item in every color and hue of the rainbow and paraded herself in nothing else.

For the past week or so, while dad sits with his laptop on the couch working into the wee hours of the night, mom allows Shashi to seduce her with his words, until he lulls her into a sweet slumber where she dreams of faceless characters exploring each other with their tongues in the same fashion that the writer so eloquently describes.

“Why are you smiling, Amma?” her daughter asked, jumping on to the bed one afternoon, shattering mom’s spell. “Are you reading a funny book?”

Years from now, if she ever chances upon the passage mom was reading, Kuki might discover that the flush spreading on her mother’s face had nothing to do with riotous comedy after all.

It might be her daughter's turn to blush then, especially when she recalls that brief look of concupiscence that flitted across her mother's face that muggy afternoon.

Kabhi khushi, kabhi gham

Six months into the move, mom wonders how long she can play the “I don’t feel settled yet” card to get out of commitments.

Aunt: “You must drop in sometime.”
Mom: “Of course, as soon as I settle down.”

Grandma: “You should invite XYZ home for lunch one of these days.”
Mom: “I’ll call them as soon as I settle down.”

Cousin: “When are you coming to Bangalore? It’s only a few hours away.”
Mom: “I’ll visit as soon as I settle down.”

Dad: “Maybe you should start looking for a job now.”
Mom: “But I don’t feel settled yet!”

Really, when does one feel truly settled? Is it when the humans finally run out of toilet paper from Costco? Or when mom remembers that the passenger side is on the left of a car? Could it be when the kids stop asking for Post cereal for breakfast and switch to local corn flakes or when the humans throw their first banana peel or shiny wrapper out the car window like the locals?

“I feel like I’m still on vacation,” says Anu, despite a grueling schedule at school punctuated by daily homework and frequent exams. Listening to the sound of the waves as we walk through our quiet neighborhood, mom feels the same way, preferring to keep reality at bay by biding her time as a housewife.

“When are you going back to work so you can buy me pretty things?” her daughter asks.

Mom looks around to make sure dad isn’t within earshot. It’s probably the only aspect of her old life she doesn’t miss at all – being cooped up in an office for nine hours a day. Any feelings of guilt that she’s mooching off dad are quelled by valid internal arguments such as, “The school doesn’t have extended day.” “The maid won’t show up at dawn to clean the house.” “Who will feed Terri?” “How will I get to work?” “Do I even want to work?”

“But aren’t you bored?” asked a friend. “What do you do all day?”

Mom is busy living life as a lady of leisure – a role that comes to her somewhat naturally as it involves nothing more stressful than instructing the cook on the day’s menu. Once the household help leave by lunchtime, and her daughter settles down for a rare nap, mom is free to pursue activities that bring pure pleasure and zero monetary compensation, such as reading Indian fiction, writing, arguing with dad, and best of all, napping the afternoon away. How many times in her past life would she have killed to catch 40 winks in the afternoon?

As a true hedonist, she hasn’t taken the wheel in India, preferring to allow dad to deal with traffic, while she sits nervously on the edge of her seat, digging her nails into the upholstery.

“What do we need a driver for?” she justifies. “I’ll start shopping then and spending money.”

For the time being, dad is her designated driver, and mom watches in amazement as her mild-mannered husband expertly dodges bicyclists, aggressive auto rickshaws, straying animals, uncouth drivers, stubborn pedestrians, and navigates potholes and general lawlessness without leaning on his horn or letting loose a volley of choice words that would make her blush.

Perhaps the greatest pleasure of moving back, on par with the children spending time with their grandparents, is having dad home all day. An unexpected bonus, albeit a short one that lasts only until the end of the year when he loses his old job, the past few months have seen dad make a permanent indentation on the couch as he sits Ganesha-like with his laptop and clears his throat occasionally to let the family know he’s alive.

If my humans were the amorous kind, they would use the time wisely. However, circumstances in the form of the cook, the maid, the courier guy and the postman warrant that dad and mom are never left alone until the children return home from school. Moreover, daily arguments over trivial issues such as “What? Rice again for lunch?” ensure that one party is always sulking and not talking to the other.

Close on the heels of the “Settled aa?” question posed often to the humans, comes another one that makes mom squirm and sound slightly apologetic. “How are the children doing?” people on both sides of the continent want to know.

In a pinch, the children hate it here. “But the five-year-old should’ve adjusted beautifully,” they say. “She’s so young.”

A casual observer might not know that the five-year-old is actually going on 15, and was born with strong opinions that she isn’t afraid to voice. Her vocabulary may be limited, but constant refrains of “I hate it here; I wanna go back!” reveal her true feelings.

In moments of five-year-old angst, she turns a tear-streaked face to mom and blames her for disrupting her old life. “Who told you to come here?” she asks plaintively, while mom clutches at straws and talks about grandparents who love her and people who come visit and spoil her. “I don’t care! I wanna go back tomorrow!” stomps the little diva, sorely missing her old school, her old friends, her room and some old toy that didn’t survive the move.

The 10-year-old is stoic, already turning into his father and hiding his true emotions. “India is OK,” he says when people ask him his opinion. Press him a little and he confesses that he would love to return to the land of his birth.

The family has survived six months without television or Taco Bell, but the children are no closer to conversing in the local language other than saying “Hetch” instead of “H,” and have only one friend each, a brother and sister duo, to play with in the afternoons.

“Gosh, where did the time go?” the humans wonder as they look back on the last six months and look forward to the next few months with festivals around the corner and more time with family.

Despite the feeling of being on vacation and an experience that’s filled with more positives than negatives, mom’s emotions are somewhat on par with her children’s. “Don’t cry, Kuki,” she listens to her son comfort his little sister. “We’ll go back in two years. Amma said so.”

Indeed, the humans have given themselves a ballpark of two years to live and love in India. “You’ll need at least that much time before you can make a conscious decision,” friends have advised. “The first year’s the hardest, guys, and then you slowly adjust.”

For now it seems, those friends are right on track.

Invoking Ire

Since mom specializes in going through life with her head buried in the sand, she needs the help of her astute readers to answer the question at the end of this post.

Before she moved to the bastion of TamBrahmindom, mom was under the impression that only members of her rice-eating community were slightly wary of members from that other rice-eating community - the one known for their razor-sharp brain.

However, two recent incidents have left mom looking for answers from unbiased, third party members – namely, you.

Scenario I

While interviewing a potential maid one day, the woman suddenly asked mom about the previous residents of the house.

“They moved away. We live here now,” said mom.

“Oh, that’s good,” said the woman, sounding relieved. “I wouldn’t want to work for them at all. You want to know why?” she asked, curling her lip.

“Not really,” mom was about to say, eager to cut short any idle gossip involving the homeowners, a very dear couple.

“They called me one day and asked me to clean the whole house top to bottom,” began the woman, jumping into her narration with great gusto. “I slogged like a slave, cleaning heavy brass vessels and what not from morning to evening. My hips hurt,” she pointed. “My back was killing me, my head was reeling … They didn’t even offer coffee-tiffin … At the end of the day, they gave me Rs. 50 for my efforts. Rs. 50 for a whole day’s work! Can you imagine?”

The woman took a breather to wipe her face with the end of the sari. “You know what I did? I threw the 50 rupees in their face and walked away!” the woman concluded triumphantly.

“Seriyaana Iyer,” she spat on the side of the road. “They even looked like Iyers. How much are you offering, Amma?”


Scenario 2

As regularly as the surly crows like to puncture our milk packets in the morning, mom finds tufts of curly hair billowing across our backyard like tumbleweed blowing through a desert town.

“How come you never sweep the backyard?” asked mom irritably, cornering the maid one morning. “Look at all this hair. Where do you think it’s coming from?”

Lest the maid presume that the hair, voluminous enough to line an eagle’s nest, came from her employer’s head, mom hastened to add, “It’s not my hair. Can you make sure you sweep the yard everyday?”

“Aiyyo, I do, Amma,” the maid swore. “They must be throwing it over the wall,” she said, pointing to the house next door.

“Well, you work there also, don’t you?” said mom. “Can you ask them to stop throwing hair over the wall?”

The maid nodded. “It can’t be the people downstairs,” she said. “They’re the homeowners. Very nice people.” Lowering her voice she added, “It must be the renters who recently moved in upstairs.”

“Well, whoever it is …” began mom before she was cut short.

Pointing to the second floor, the maid added in a complicit whisper, “They’re Iyers,” as though that explained everything.

Can somebody help us? What are we missing here?