Venting

Dad (from armchair): “You’re still cooking? You’ve been in the kitchen all afternoon.”
Mom: “I’m almost done. Just a few more things.”
Dad: “I think there’s enough food. Why don’t you stop?”
Mom: “Hmmm ….”
Dad: “You should learn to keep things simple. There’s beer, right? That’s all we really need for the party, along with finger food.”

Dad rises from the armchair and approaches mom.

Mom’s heart skips a beat, secretly hoping dad is about to hug her. “Maybe he really appreciates all I do,” she thinks, berating herself for the uncharitable thoughts that crossed her mind not a moment ago, when she saw him lolling in the armchair, coffee mug in hand.

Dad is now within kissing distance of mom.

Mom pretends to be busy sautéing onions. She keeps her fingers crossed.

Dad reaches over mom’s head.

“Here it comes,” thinks mom, holding her breath.

A sudden roar fills the room. Dad has turned on the exhaust fan above the range.

“Try and leave this on,” he says, before walking away. “The whole house smells.”

One-word review: WOW!

Kissa Kiss Ka

The bile rose in mom’s throat as she watched the lip-locked teenagers leaning against the library wall, tickling each other's tonsils with their tongues.

School had just let out, and the library parking lot adjacent to the high school was filled with youngsters waiting for their rides.

A few kids slouched on the sidewalk, hands in their pockets, swaying slightly to the rhythm of their iPods. But the vast majority was joined at the hip to a member of the opposite sex.

The prude in mom, latent all these years, was suddenly awoken. She wanted to shield her son's eyes, smother him to her chest and say, “My sweet, innocent baby, promise me you won’t be exchanging saliva like this in a couple of years. Please tell me you’ll wait until you graduate from medical school or until I'm menopausal - whichever comes later."

The pimply-faced, overgrown adolescents, with their tongues rammed down each other's throats, would not have bothered mom a few years ago. After all, her own hormones had raged at 14 for Rhett Butler and for Father Ralph at 16.

But now, as a parent, the steaminess on the sidewalk where her little angels were trotting and dodging clinging couples, bothered her. Perhaps this is what her own parents were sheltering her from with their incessant “What, When, Where, Why, How?” questions when she was growing up.

Shouldn't there be a law against public displays of affection on school premises? Seriously, if dog owners can be fined $200 for not picking up after their pets, and women can be hounded for nursing in public, why can’t juveniles be barred from kissing on campus?

Underage necking, you see, is seriously injurious to my mom’s health.

Jest for Fun

Sigh! Just as surely as desi events never seem to start on time, it’s a given that grandma and I do not see eye to eye on many issues. For example:

• Living abroad – “Why slog in a strange country so far away when you can live like a king/queen here?”
• Sleeping in – “Wake up! You’re just wasting your precious life away.”
• Clipping fingernails at night – “There’s a reason why our elders have said you shouldn’t clip your nails at night. What reason? I don’t know. But I’m sure it’s a valid one.”
• Rising early and greeting the day with a smile – Same argument as above.

Therefore, it comes as no surprise that grandma finds certain posts on this blog entirely objectionable.

Grandma: “How can you write such rubbish? Chee, chee, at least have some shame.”
Me: “But, but …”
Grandma: “Where are your moral values? Is this what we’ve taught you?”
Me: “But, but …”
Grandma: “Do you have any idea how many people in our family read your blog?”
Me: “No, but, but …”
Grandma: “Do us all a favor and get two blogs. One decent one that the whole family can read and another one for all your other nonsense. Really, sometimes your blog is as disgusting as a Malayali blue film.”
Me (thinking): “Wait a second! What does she know about skin flicks?”

Perhaps now would not be a good time to let grandma know about that telecommuting position that found its way into mom’s inbox, one that she may or may not apply to:

Feel like you’re going nowhere in your current job? Can you seduce people with your words?
XXX, home of the largest repository of adult literature online, is looking for a motivated, talented and razor-sharp writer/editor to write/edit adult stories, erotic literature and various columns intended for mature audiences only.
You must be comfortable with erotica and adult situations. Great pay. Only serious inquiries, please.

Hmmm, I wonder if this blog would qualify as a work sample.

Turkish Delite

Nobody paid much attention to the singer and the drummer belting out Arabic ballads in the corner. As soon as a song ended, a few people would wipe their greasy fingers on napkins, politely clap and return to their dinners, clearly savoring the lamb kebabs and tabbouli more than the band in the background.

The star of the evening had yet to rise. Patrons bided their time drinking Pepsi and dipping pita bread in creamy hummus.

Mom was at the Turkish restaurant with a few girlfriends on a night out, and the women sat on low benches, next to a table of booze-swigging, leering Turkish men, who clearly did not have honorable intentions.

As the women passed random comments in Hindi about the sullen waitress who served them a bit of her attitude along with the food, the drum beat suddenly reached a crescendo, and the bead curtain in the back parted to reveal a brazen belly dancer who sashayed gracefully into the room.

The restaurant suddenly came alive. Hunched shoulders straightened, eyes lit up, appreciative gasps went around the room and the food grew cold as the brown-haired woman smiled seductively and swayed with the fluid grace of a sea anemone.

The seven women at mom’s table fell silent (a feat in itself) as they watched the ivory-skinned dancer effortlessly roll her belly in sinewy waves.

The dancer’s costume left little to the imagination, and there was so much of her to see and admire. From the rising swell of her breasts to the tattoo at the nape of her neck; from the glistening beads of sweat forming on her hips to the dangerously low-rise skirt hugging her curves, the woman was a veritable feast for the senses - her rhythmic thrusts and gentle undulations promising infinite pleasures and rapturous gratification.

Nervous men with clammy hands gingerly tucked notes into her flimsy garments as she teased them with wild pelvic gyrations. As the night grew and their drinking progressed, the lecherous Turkish men threw wads of dollar bills at the dancer and suggestively tucked notes into her groin, their fingers lingering on her skin a little longer than necessary.

The dancer stopped at mom’s table and expertly moved the muscles in her nonexistent belly, until she realized that the women were more forthcoming with their appreciation than with their money. Mom and her friends stayed until the dancing ended, despite the surly service.

“How was the Turkish food?” Anu wanted to know the next day. Before mom could reply, he rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, never mind, I know what you’ll say …”

East or West, Indian food is best!

Excess Baggage

This time, the humans have started arguing even before their vacation has begun.

Normally, they wait to schedule arguments just before departure.

Dad: “What are you still doing in the kitchen? We’re going to miss the plane.”
Dad: “Everybody in the car! I’m almost done checking my e-mail.”
Dad: “Oof, I told you not to pack so much for a weekend trip. I can hardly lift these bags.”
Dad: “Why do you need three pairs of shoes? It’s a hiking trip.”
Dad: “So many jackets? Please! We’re going to the beach!”
Dad: “Do the kids really need all these snacks for the way?”

Depending on her mood, and how late she stayed up the night before laundering everybody’s underwear, mom will respond with stinging sarcasm or stony silence, so that by the time they’re on their way, the humans are mostly communicating through their kids.

“Ask Amma if she’s hungry. I need to make a quick stop at Starbucks.”

“You want to go pee pee? Go ask Appa to take you. And make sure you go potty also.”

When dad recently announced that their Thanksgiving plan this year included visiting family in the Great Lakes region, mom smiled excitedly, looking forward to a weekend of good food, merry company and possible shopping at Ann Arbor.

Mom: “Cool! Now we can get that Ultra grinder I’ve been thinking about.”
Dad: “Are you kidding me? I’m not lugging a grinder all the way back. Those things weigh a ton.”
Mom: “I know, but we’re going all the way there. Why can’t we .…”
Dad: “Just order it online. It’s less of a hassle.”
Mom: “What? And pay needlessly for shipping and handling?”
Dad: “Look, I’m telling you, it’s not worth it. We’re not bringing any appliances back.”

Clearly, dad feels his "coolness" factor would reduce a notch if some babe at the airport were to see him hauling an Ultra grinder. Hmmm, I wonder what the general babe reaction would be when they see him towing a laptop, a camcorder, not one but two cameras, a tripod, a pink sipper cup, a novel, an umbrella stroller and a wailing toddler to the very last departure gate at the airport.

Oh, and notice that woman behind him with the hawk eyes? The one throwing dagger looks at all scantily clad women who give new meaning to the term "travel light?"

Babes, beware; she’s a part of his baggage too.

And here’s to you, Mrs. Sampat

The day started off like any other: the sun shone bright; the sparrows milled around the bird feeder feasting on last year’s animal crackers from Costco that the kids had refused after the first bite; Kuki was pulling clothes from her closet; the table was littered with jigsaw puzzle pieces; and Anu had a few friends over on a play date.

Before the boys started pestering her for television and sugar-laden snacks, mom sniffed her armpits and decided a shower was in order.

While peeling off her clothes, she noticed that she had allowed her legs and arms to grow so hairy she could actually run a comb through the strands. Wondering if she might perhaps turn into an abominable snowwoman if she allowed nature to take its course, mom smeared depilatory cream on her limbs, and dabbed some on her upper lip as well, for good measure.

She ran the shower and turned toward the mirror, critically pinching the layers of fat on her hips. Humming the theme song from Naach, mom idly wondered if Antara Mali had had her chest surgically enhanced. How else could one explain her taut, smooth mammaries that neither jiggled nor bounced, and seemed to have a personality of their own?

Straightening her shoulders, mom turned to her side and sharply sucked in her belly, noting with some satisfaction the inflation of her own chest as her stomach muscles contracted. Belting out a number from the film, she bent down in a graceful plié and stretched her arms out, à la Antara, toward an imaginary Abhishek Bachchan standing on a windy crag in the distance.

And it was in that position that Anu and his friends found mom, as they barged into the master bedroom without knocking. Four pairs of eyes (six, if you count his friends’ eyeglasses) stared at mom, as she stood buck naked in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but depilatory cream and a sexy pout.

“Er … ma, what are you doing?” asked Anu. “And why do you have a milk moustache?”

Caught like a deer in the glare of oncoming headlights, mom froze, unsure of whether to remain in a semi-crouched position with her arms stretched out or to straighten up.

“Amma, you naked!” squealed Kuki, from behind the boys. “Guys, see, my mom’s not wearing underwear,” she pointed out.

“Can we play Xbox, ma?” continued Anu. “Please, please, please?”

Mom nodded mutely. At that moment, if Anu had asked for a hippopotamus for Christmas, she would have assented to that too.

“Cool, let’s go guys!” said Anu, running out the bathroom, followed by a giggling gaggle of eight-year-olds and one three-year-old.

Mom waited until she heard the bedroom door slam behind them.

Only then did she exhale.

Sweet Nothings

You’d think with all the free time she now has, mom would do something constructive – like, say, exercise and lose the flab she gained while warming a swivel chair for eight hours a day the last 13 months? Or maybe clean the gunk behind the refrigerator, wipe the ceiling fans, or at the very least, remove the hair on her legs instead of hiding them under jeans?

But our domestic diva, clearly, has other priorities. She feels she has to somehow make up for all the shopping she missed, all the talk shows she couldn't watch, all the blogs she couldn’t read and all the baking she put on a backburner.

That’s right; mom has recommenced baking with a vengeance. On any given afternoon, the house is redolent with the aroma of pumpkin pie spice, crumbly raspberry bars, melt-in-your-mouth cranberry scones, chewy chocolate chip cookies, etc.

While stirring a pot of caramel sauce with one hand, mom might crack eggs with the other or scratch her head to estimate 1/8 of a teaspoon. Not for her the Rachel Ray method of eye-balling ingredients and randomly throwing things in a bowl, giggling all the while. This woman takes her craft much too seriously and measures out ingredients with drug dealer precision.

“What is half of two-thirds?” she’ll ask dad, when he’s in the middle of writing codes or on a conference call halfway around the world. Unaware of the intricacies of baking, dad will spit out the exact figure, leaving mom to wonder how she could possibly measure light corn syrup in decimal points.

With all the delish decadence emanating from the kitchen, you’d think the family would revel in mom's confectionery creations. “But I want pink ice cream,” Kuki will whine, when presented with a choice of creamy custard or almond biscotti for an afternoon snack. “I’ll take it later,” dad will diplomatically say - his standard phrase for refusal.

Ingrates! One of these days, when the family asks her what’s for dinner, mom will be very tempted to say, “Eat cake instead!”

SAHM* I Am

At about 8:35 a.m. yesterday, mom was granted deliverance.

She was released from her corporate cage and thanked for the last 13 months of hard labor. The security guard handed her a stack of papers and she was wished well.

As the double doors closed behind her, mom emerged into the sunshine and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. She blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the green grass, the swaying trees, the scattered sprinklers and the chirping birds.

In the distance, she heard speeding cars. Men and women wearing business suits and dour expressions, their shoulders sagging with the weight of laptop cases and sheaves of papers, filed past her.

Mom turned her face heavenward and closed her eyes, savoring the warm rays of the sun on her pale, mottled skin. She breathed in the crisp morning air that smelled of freshly cut grass and exhaust fumes.

In a daze, mom made her way toward the parking lot. As she spotted her car, she broke into a sprint. The hairclip holding her hair came undone and her ponytail spilled onto her shoulders. Shaking her hair loose, mom's face broke into a wide grin and she ran through the parking lot, shouting, “Glory, Hallelujah!”

She was free.

*Stay At Home Mom

Fabric of Our Lives

Was your Diwali a happy one? I only ask because mine could’ve been happier.

While mom and the children caught up with friends at a potluck, I spent Saturday night alone, watching an indisposed dad yawning and picking his nose while watching ESPN.

Mom’s idea of celebrating Diwali, or any other festival for that matter, is to have somebody else do all the prep. work. As there were no grandmas around this time of year, she took it easy and just turned on all the interior and exterior house lights and wished everybody a happy Diwali.

“But who is Diwali?” asked a bewildered Kuki, who associates “happy” only with birthdays. “Is it a boy or a girl? And why is there no cake?”

Leaping on the chance to impart some culture, mom solemnly sat the children down to narrate an abridged version of the Ramayana. But before she got to the part about Kaikeyi throwing a fit, the kids wandered off and had to be threatened with cabbage kootu for dinner, instead of pizza, if they did not stand still and look pious while she lit the lamp.

Growing up, the only festival mom would look forward to with glee was Saraswati puja. It was a special day of the year because it was the only day her mother would not hound her to bury her nose in her books every waking moment of the day. At all other times, grandma would yell, “Padi; Padi; Study; Study!” from the kitchen, as mom sat with an open book and doodled her and her latest crush’s name on a page, crossing common letters off while softly chanting, “Love; Like; Hate; Adore ....”

The main reason Diwali appealed to her was neither the sweets nor the fireworks nor time off from school, but rather, new clothes.

New clothes were practically events during mom’s formative years – they were considered treats that were doled out only on special occasions. Bought or stitched weeks in advance, their labels permanently stained with dots of haldi-kumkum, new clothes required divine benediction before and immediately after donning.

Old clothes, on the other hand, were never discarded. They were worn until they faded, were outgrown or ripped beyond repair. The outfits were then passed on to younger, shorter, thinner cousins or recycled as pillowcases. As a second to last resort, they were offered to the servant. And if the servant rejected them, as she often did, she was dubbed as arrogant and the clothes, as a final resort, were turned into rags to dust the furniture or swab the floor.

These days, new clothes barely register a blip on my human's excitement radar screen. Outfits have become as ordinary as ice cream in the freezer, as disposable as Styrofoam plates tossed away at parties. Unused and gently used clothes are stored for a few years out of compunction, before they too are discarded.

Mom's wedding trousseau, however, remains intact.

Like Diwali and other festivities, the saris are briefly aired once a year and then stored away, to be dragged out of hidden recesses only on special occasions - like velvety, wispy memories.

Guys and Gals Gone Wild

You usually know what a gathering is going to be like when you view the guest list.

For instance, if A is invited, you know the party will involve dancing. With B around, who knows, even the rasam might be spiked. C will regale the crowd with his antics. D’s eyes will dart around the house, summing up your latest purchases. E will start yawning even before dinner is served. F will never compliment the hostess on the food. G will sail in late, air-kiss her friend du jour and leave early. H will not make eye contact with you or admit he reads your blog. I and J will flaunt their wardrobes, while K will make furtive glances at your chest as he talks to you.

So, when mom received an invite for an adult birthday party recently that included all the above guests and then some, she immediately accepted, knowing that the evening would invariably invoke an ode to Bacchus - and there’s nothing more entertaining for a non-drinker (at least for the first five minutes) than to watch normally sensible people get plastered and completely shed their inhibitions.

“Please be there by 7 p.m.,” the hostess had requested. In keeping with their desi roots and sense of timing, some guests were still streaming in at 9 p.m.

The patio party was just warming up as mom arrived, a mere hour late. It was a beautiful, starry night, the kind of night that makes you forget the summer heat and the scorpions, and be grateful that you don't live in some frigid city on the east coast, where the guests would be huddled inside with the heat on, while 25 raucous kids would be thundering upstairs, causing the chandeliers downstairs to rattle.

This time, while the kids stayed inside and undid all the cleaning done just before the party started, the adults gathered outside, sipping on sangria and catching up with certain people they hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with the last eight months or more.

The party began in earnest once the sets of visiting parents from India had eaten and left. Bellies were sated with Jamaican rice and spicy chicken and bladders threatened to explode with the booze. Bottles of hard liquor were poured down parched throats, Kajra re almost shattered eardrums and body parts jiggled in time to the music.

Maybe a hectic week of organizing and attending Navrathri functions finally took its toll on the women. Maybe it was the fact that 40th birthday bashes roll around only once. It could’ve even been the trifle pudding ... whatever the catalyst was, some of the invitees proceeded to let their hair and guards down, much to the amusement of the sober spectators watching from the sidelines.

The host was thrown into the pool, and in a show of spirited camaraderie, his male friends joined him. An attempt was made to throw the hostess into the pool, but her thoughtful girlfriends, conjuring up visions of a soaked Mandakini in Ram Teri Ganga Maili or a wet Raveena in Tip Tip Barsa Paani, intervened on her behalf.

The party progressed through the night and the alcohol consumption showed no signs of slackening. Birthday cake was smashed in people’s faces, leading certain impressionable minds to ask mom difficult questions, such as, “Why is that aunty covered in frosting? And why is that uncle licking her face?”

Ah, well ... 10 years from now, at the host's 50th bash, mom knows the tables will be turned and she'll probably be looking to her kids for enlightenment.

Until then, cheers everybody!

Pining for the Pater

If you ask me, mom’s been doing really well the last 26 days and 25 nights without dad.

In all the years they’ve been together, nitpicking on various issues, such as the nutritive value of brown bread over white bread and the look of eggshell over semi-gloss house paint, this is the first time the humans have been apart this long.

Dad’s away in the motherland, working. Or, as mom puts it, “I'm here all alone with the kids, while he's enjoying himself over there.”

Despite dad’s assertions that he misses the family and cannot wait to get back, mom imagines him tucking into choice Indian food every day while she makes Subway runs with hungry kids in the car. She’s also concerned that he might be surrounded by nubile, doe-eyed southern Indian women at work, the kind who can talk intelligibly about coding, interfaces and applications and make killer filter coffee.

“My friend mentioned that the women on the second floor are really pretty,” she e-mailed dad, as soon as he landed. “Is that where your cubicle is? And I’ve heard all the Mangalorean girls there look like Aishwarya Rai. Is that true?”

“No,” responded dad quickly, with the perspicacity of a husband who has reaped the disastrous consequences of failing one too many trick questions in the past.

Despite mom’s vain attempts to don the “fun” parent’s hat while dad’s away, the children see right through her façade.

“I want my Appa,” pouts Kuki, when mom refuses to cave in to demands of Popsicle for breakfast.

“Appa would know how to fix it,” observes Anu, as he stands aside and watches mom struggle, with a clothespin on her nose, to fix the toilet handle that he managed to pull out just after he egested undigested matter. “Appa can also help me with my math homework.”

Late last night, when the kids were finally in bed, and mom had finished reading the day’s newspaper, she found dad online for a rare moment.

She instantly messaged him.

“How are you doing?” she typed. “Is your project wrapping up? You must be so exhausted. You’ve been away too long.”

As dad basked in the warm glow of spousal love and concern, mom continued, “Can you come home early? I’m not sure I can manage for much longer without you. I’ve been thinking about you all day."

“Really?” asked dad, still basking.

“Yes,” continued mom. “Hurry back! I really need you ... the toilet’s broken!”

R.I.P.

"It's the oddest thing," thought mom. Just by chance, as she was flipping through today's newspaper back to front, mom landed on the obituary page.

Normally, mom doesn't even glance at the obits, unlike certain senior citizens who daily peruse obituaries with the same interest she normally reserves for malicious gossip and salacious celebrity rumors.

But for some weird reason, mom happened to chance upon the death notice of a former co-worker, a woman she didn't really know and hadn't seen in more than nine months.

It looks like the woman, who used to sit in front of her and munched on an apple every day, succumbed to cancer.

"Kinda puts things in perspective, doesn't it?" mom's co-workers commiserated. Mom dutifully nodded, even though she has no clue what the phrase actually means. (It makes for a good conversation filler, though, especially during awkward moments, so mom uses it from time and time, and people around her nod solemnly.)

Like most savants with a lot of time on their hands, mom frequently ponders on the mysteries of life and death.

How does a soul enter the body? Did Patrick Swayze's character really enter Whoopi Goldberg's body to kiss Demi Moore? Do ghosts float around like they do on Pac-Man? Can mom's ancestors see her while she's on the throne? What about when she's making love? Did her cherished childhood pet be reborn as one of her children? And, come on, do they really have Philadelphia cream cheese in heaven?

Her imagination being what it is - combined with an overdose of Lifetime TV - mom tends to be a little jumpy around things that go bump in the night: The ice-maker in the kitchen sounds like a dying man's gurgle; the wind against the back door signals a possible intruder; she's afraid to look out a dark window for fear of seeing Cathy's pale face as did Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights; and the shrill ring of a telephone causes her heart to momentarily leap out of its chamber when she's watching a thriller on television well past midnight.

Given her somewhat delicate frame of mind, it should come as no surprise that mom feels that Halloween should be banned. "I can't believe they celebrate ghosts, goblins, witches, spirits, aliens, vampires, phantoms ... Freddy Krueger, and think we're backward for worshipping cows," she thought, when she first landed here.

Before she had children, mom would turn off the lights, draw the blinds and pretend nobody was home on Halloween nights. These days, she can be found traipsing around the neighborhood with her children, instructing them to pick more of the chocolate she likes and less of the jawbreaking Tootsie Rolls they invariably collect.

I should also mention that the woman is afraid, very afraid of shower curtains - especially in lonely hotel bathrooms.

Is she pyscho, or what?

Bewafaa

In the last few days, mom has been reminiscing a lot about her first love.

Perhaps it has something to do with dad being away on the road. Perhaps it’s the fact that when she looks in the mirror each morning, an exhausted, wan face peers back at her, making her feel older and less secure than she did the week before.

Or perhaps it was that carpe diem e-mail she received again recently, the one about life being too short to live on regrets. Whatever it is, mom is starting to have serious second thoughts about this marriage of convenience she consented to.

She was happy in the beginning. Her family was thrilled for her, and she vowed to make a clean start and give it all she had. There was little to complain about; others would have happily traded places with her: she was mistress of her domain and she was free to do as she pleased, within reasonable limits, of course.

Gradually, the euphoria faded, and a jaded resignation replaced the initial enthusiasm.

Mom realized that she was in the relationship solely for material purposes. Whatever emotions she had invested had long faded, like dust in the wind, and she now finds herself pacing like a caged lion, waiting for a suitable opportunity to break free.

As she watches people around her, mom wonders if she’s alone in this situation. Are the smiling, happy faces of her friends and co-workers, people she interacts with regularly, belying their sense of ennui and despondency? How do people find the strength to persevere in relationships when they know they’re dispensable?

And what of dad, who is an unwitting spectator in this drama? If he’s aware of mom’s conflicting loyalties, he masks his emotions behind a layer of detached stoicism. Not one to judge people or impose his opinion on others, he waits for mom to wrestle with her internal demons and make her own decisions.

Perhaps it’s time for her to leave before she’s shown the door. Mom feels she has invested enough of herself in this loveless association to walk away with her head held high.

Before she gets any older or bitter, before it's too late, she wants to return to her first love.

She is well aware that the adjustment will not be an easy one. She’ll have to adapt to the penury, the irregular lifestyle and the eccentricity that often accompanies creativity. But she might regain that sense of gratification that is missing in her present passionless union - that glorious, heady feeling of building hope in a heart, of bringing a warm smile to a face or an unbidden tear to an eye.

Mom is thinking of going back to journalism.

A Change of Heart

As grandma’s return to India fast approaches, mom finds herself in a familiar funk again. The petulant child in her does not want her mother to leave.

Despite grandma’s constant observations on how careless mom is about her things, and how she still hasn’t returned her aunt’s phone call since May, mom wants to cling to her sari, with tears streaming down her face, and beg her to stay. She wants to lie on her lap and feel her chapped, work-worn palms stroke her hair. She wants to go on long walks around the neighborhood with her. She wants to tell her how sorry she is when she snaps at her. She wants to make her tea flavored with cardamom and ginger. She wants to pluck the moon from the sky and bring it to her….

Not for the first time since she moved here, mom wishes she were Mexican. Just so she could visit her entire family by hopping in her car, like her former neighbor regularly did, and drive across the border with her kids and dog during school breaks.

“Can’t you get an expat assignment in India?” she asks dad, as though his company hands them out like mithai during Diwali. “That way, we can get a taste of living there.”

“Well, can’t you?” counters dad. “And what do you mean by getting a taste? You know exactly what it’s like in India.”

True. Mom spent her formative years dodging killer traffic, creepy crawlies and groping men. When the time came to look for a husband, she unashamedly asked for a groom abroad – a non-demanding type who could conform to her late-to-bed-late-to-rise lifestyle and wouldn’t annoy her by playing Suprabhatam by M.S. Subbulakshmi at 7:30 a.m. on a Sunday, as her parents sometimes did.

“Do you like to do breathing exercises in the mornings?” she had asked dad at their first meeting. "Do you find it mentally relaxing if you jump-start your day by waking up at the crack of dawn and bathing in ice cold water?"

“You're kidding, right?" dad had asked quizzically.

It was a match made in heaven.

For the most part, mom adores her lazyass laidback lifestyle here, where she doesn’t have to boil milk on a daily basis or haggle with vegetable vendors over the price of tomatoes. She likes living in a place where she can publicly argue with dad in a language that people around her wouldn't understand.

At other times, however, such as when she hears her daughter gurgling with her grandmother or watches her son locate his grandfather’s misplaced reading glasses so they can solve a Sudoku puzzle together, she longs to return to that familial fold she left behind more than a decade ago.

She yearns for that place she once called “home.”

Yanking the Chain

I wonder if there's a polite way of letting my family and friends know what exactly I think of the chain e-mails and mass messages about friendship and love, with images of cute puppies romping in daisy fields and plump babies sitting in sudsy tubs, that they send my way?

What perverse pleasure do these people receive by forwarding me religious rants or graphics of a gaudy Radha-Krishna with an inspirational message about divine love and a dire warning at the bottom that the memo better leave my hands in the next 24 hours or else?

Folks, I understand that you don’t want to tempt fate by deleting chain messages, but why send your trash my way? This is like cleaning your compound and depositing the garbage outside my front gate.

The same goes for e-cards. I don't want to click on links and watch pink candles flickering on a cake or listen to fireworks in the background. I’d rather you sent me a one-liner on my birthday and major festivals; or better yet, just send cash or edibles.

Therefore, unless the content is R-rated or the joke uproariously funny, I humbly implore the people in my inbox to stop forwarding me tales of spiders under toilet seats in Florida or prayers invoking the 108 names of Lord Ganesha.

Please, no pooping on my property. Use your cyber neighbor's litterbox/inbox instead.

Marital Musings

Observations from the other side (as interpreted by me):

(1.) Wife constantly wants to know what I’m thinking about. Somehow, a truthful “Nothing” seems to infuriate her.

(2.) Wife has an inordinate amount of family members. She expects me to remember the hierarchy of all her uncles and their offspring, and to recall the names and relationships of half the people I met at our wedding.

(3.) Wife conveniently claims she cannot make coffee because she doesn’t drink it.

(4.) Wife spends an hour in the bathroom getting ready and emerges looking pretty much the same as before she went in.

(5.) Wife demonstrates the intelligence of a hirsute mammal that brays when it comes to driving a stick shift.

(6.) Wife pointedly asks questions about her appearance but seems upset at my honest answers.

(7.) Wife also does not appreciate my frank appraisal of her friend’s long legs.

(8.) Wife wants a bigger house, preferably like the one her successful surgeon uncle who’s been living in this country for 30 years and is married to an equally successful specialist, has.

(9.) Wife does not think Shawshank Redemption is worth watching 167 times.

(10.) Wife shows a preference for soft rock and for music by long-haired gays…sorry guys…like Michael Bolton, Kenny G and Yanni.

(11.) Wife thinks I drink too much.

(12.) Wife thinks my friends drink too much.

(13.) Wife makes way too many phone calls to her parents in India. Worse, she thrusts the phone at me when they enquire how I am.

(14.) Wife does not have lesbian threesomes in mind when she says she likes movies about women.

(15.) Wife likes to experiment at restaurants but usually ends up eating from my plate.

(16.) Wife asks me to fetch a movie of my choice from the video store but will invariably criticize whatever I pick.

(17.) Wife does not roll over and disappear until next time after lovemaking.

(18.) Wife cribs a lot. It seems to be one of her principal hobbies, second only to picking jeera out of her food.

All Hail the VIP (Very Important Pet)

“It had to happen,” thought mom wryly.

Such is her luck that not one, but both her friends who watched me whenever the humans went on vacation, relocated. Both families packed their bags, sold their homes and left the country, forever.

“We should also move to India,” said mom to dad, envisioning a charmed NRI life in a luxury apartment with a cook, a nanny, a maid and a chauffer at her beck and call. However, images of slithering, beady-eyed lizards and inadequate indoor plumbing filled her mind in the next instant, and she quickly recanted her statement.

“We can always go for a visit,” suggested dad.

As the children yelled in glee, mom, the party pooper, asked, “And where would we leave Terri?”

At $20 a night, kennels are an expensive option. Besides, the last time I stayed in one, I came home with diarrhea.

Mom pointed to the once-yellow-now-black-with-age spots on the carpet after my last visit, and reminded dad about my explosive anal ejaculations that lasted four days. (And not one to let an opportunity slide by, mom also brought up the fact that the carpets REALLY needed replacing. And while they were at it, perhaps they could gut the kitchen and completely remodel it, as well. And, maybe, add another room in the back, and turn the patio into a sunroom. And would dad like to hear about her plans for the backyard….?)

“Anyway, I can’t leave my Terri in a cage for three weeks, even if they watch him for free,” said mom, kissing the tip of my nose.

She presumes that since she wouldn’t like to spend time in a cage, I wouldn’t like to, either. Somehow, the same reasoning doesn’t apply to furniture or pizza. I’ve been sternly told that the couches are off limits, and only constant whining and staring will score me a measly slice of pizza.

Mom is now on the lookout for a local ‘nutcase’ like her to trade dog-sitting duties. A like-minded individual who doggedly ignores barbs from petless people, such as:

“Your priorities are screwed up, you know?”
“You should have thought of this before you brought the dog home.”
“You’re nicer to that dog than you are to me.”
“What? You’re leaving the party early because your dog’s alone at home?”
“Please! He’s a dog; treat him like one!”

Know what I mean?

From the Mouth of Babes

Mom: “Kuki-pie, you should start sleeping in your own room now.”

Kuki: “No.”

Mom: “See, you’re three years old. You’re a big girl, right? Look at Anu; he sleeps all by himself.”

Kuki: “What about Sydney? Does she sleep by self?”

Mom: “Yes, she sleeps all by herself. Not with her mommy and daddy.”

Kuki: “Um ... Zion?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Chloe?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Kyle?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Bethany?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Pramath?”

Mom: “Yes! All the kids in your class, in fact, everybody you know, sleeps alone; in their own rooms.”

Kuki: “But, why you still sleep with daddy?”

Forty Winks

It’s that time of the afternoon when your eyelids begin to close involuntarily and you resist stupor with every fiber of your being, not because you want to but because you have to.

Of course, you’ve tried everything. You’ve pushed lunch back by an hour; you steer clear of curd rice; you blink very rapidly; you call your brother to gossip; you check the Web; you stand up and stretch; you take restroom breaks; heck, you even sit on the toilet and lay your head on your knees. You’re so desperate, you’ll do anything to stop your face from crashing onto the keyboard.

The dark space under your desk looks mighty inviting. You can reposition some of those computer cables, spread a charpoy and curl yourself into a fetal position. Hell, if they allowed you, you’d happily drool on those useless reports and cookie crumbs that litter your desk.

Instead, you suppress yawn after yawn and watch the clock, willing it to move faster, so you can go home, get a good night’s rest and go through the same motions the next day.

God Save the Plebeians

Princess Royal Kuki, supreme sovereign of our hearts, was thrilled to receive the personalized invite, hand-delivered to befit her regal status.

“Come to my princess tea party to celebrate my 4th birthday,” the crown-shaped foam card from a fellow princess read. The pink invitation was accorded pride of place next to Ballerina Barbie and Baby doll and examined daily by her royal highness.

The day of the magical tea party dawned, and her eminence rummaged in her closet for a gown to wear. After rejecting a half-dozen frilly party frocks with satin rosebuds and silken bows, she settled on a pair of frayed, faded jeans two sizes too small to be considered capris.

The royal queen and queen mother collectively clutched their hearts and gasped. “Surely, child, you’re not going to wear that to the party?” they exclaimed. “What about your beautiful ball gown with lacy ruffles and silver sparkles? That’s what our very own Cinderella wore to her first ball.”

The pint-sized princess proceeded to throw a royal tantrum, complete with Jumping Jacks and dramatic shrieks and collapsed in a sobbing heap on her pink bed.

The king, awoken from a slumber, gently suggested that the royal offspring be allowed to wear whatever she wanted. A withering look from his consort silenced him, and the king retired to attend to important matters of the state, such as checking the status of the duel between the warring Cardinals and the Patriots.

After close to an hour of negotiations, entreaties, recriminations, threats, tears and promises of unlimited cherry-flavored Popsicle, a chastened, red-eyed princess allowed herself to be dressed in a wispy, Pepto-Bismol-colored gown, sure to draw the envy of her peers at the tea party.

As the queen and queen mother hovered anxiously over her, the princess ordered her nails be painted a mixed hue of pink and silver to complement her outfit. She pointed to her mother’s maquillage and demanded the same shade of lipstick and blush on her cheeks.

Crystal beads from the far corners of Asia graced her neck, and silver bracelets adorned her petal-soft arms. Her majesty’s sweeping ringlets were teased and tied back, and a pink tiara, matching her outfit, was pinned to her hair.

An hour of primping, fluffing, preening, spiffing and cajoling later, the women stood back admiringly and declared that the fair child was the prettiest princess they had ever seen.

The Princess Royal twirled in front of the mirror a final time, collected her pink purse from a waiting knave and emerged from the dressing room to the sound of coos and excited calls.

Waiting paparazzo at the foot of the stairs went into overdrive and camera lights flashed to record her grace’s every move.

The pretty princess floated toward the garage door, where her carriage awaited. She paused in front of the shoe rack and surveyed her assorted collection of pink pumps, silver heels, Mary Janes, patent party shoes and Dora the Explorer athletic sneakers.

With a defiant glance at the assembled adults and a contemptuous flick of her mane, she proceeded to slide her dainty feet into a pair of Finding Nemo flip-flops that the royal canine regularly used as a gum cleanser.

Her Royal Highness was now officially ready for her social engagement.

Reality Checked

Mom’s been in a dream world the last few days.

It doesn’t take much for her mind to start meandering, and ever since she watched Hyderabad Blues-2 over the weekend, she’s been humming and smiling to herself.

No, she’s not dreaming of Nagesh Kukunoor, thank goodness. It’s that haunting Mora Saiyyan song in the movie that she’s fallen in love with.

Mom has now replayed it on our PC at least 186 times.

“It’s so slow,” complains Anu, rolling his eyes. “Can’t we listen to Dhoom Machale, instead?”

“You should play something devotional, like Vishnu Sahasranamam,” suggests grandma. “Fill the house with good vibes.”

Their pleas fall on deaf ears.

Mom flits around the house with glazed eyes, imagining herself as the ingénue in the music video. She pictures herself as a misty-eyed maiden draped in billowy silk and organza dupattas, running across the rain-drenched courtyard of her palatial, yet empty haveli.

She tucks away the loose tendrils of hair around her face and her kohl-rimmed eyes anxiously scan the horizon for her prince, who’s actually a poet at heart, to arrive on a white horse and whisk her away to an undisclosed location.

Clutching sheets of love poetry in her hand, she watches the steady downpour outside her window and imagines her prince riding his Arabian steed. White dupatta trailing behind her, she walks through the candlelit haveli and throws open random doors only to find dusty, slip-covered furniture inside. She lies back on an antique bed framed by white sheers, quivering in anticipation and ardor like the red rosebud she clasps to her bosom.

As the guitar strums in the background, startled white doves fluttering in the courtyard hearken her prince’s arrival. A sudden gust of wind scatters his missives to the floor, and as she bends down to retrieve the sheets, a shrill voice from the bathroom shatters the soft strains of the melody and calls out to her....

“Ammmaaaaaa? I’m done. Can you come and wipe me?"

Family Dishonor

Grandma: “Has that blog ban been lifted in India? Will I be able to access Indira’s blog when I return?"

Me: “Yup. You can read all your food blogs, and mine, too.”

Grandma: “You know, I seriously think you should change the way you write. Look at all these recipe sites, for example - they’re so decent. Why can’t you do some research and write something meaningful for a change? Why do you have to write trash?”

Me: “Trash?!! My blog is full of candid, and oftentimes, satirical observations on human and bestial nature, written straight from the heart.”

Grandma (shuddering): “I just hope none of our relatives and family friends ever catch wind of your site. What will they think?”

Hmmm … I wonder if she has a point. Past experience suggests that grandma is usually right. Maybe I shouldn’t be revealing my humans’ boudoir behavior anymore.

Maybe I should concentrate on solemn subjects that touch my readers’ hearts and make a difference in their lives - like penitentiary reforms among inmates in the Samoa Islands or the importance of secondary school female education in Gansu or ageing population and demographics in sub-Saharan Africa.

You all would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?

Back to School

It was Kuki’s first day of school, so why was mom bawling like a baby?

Perhaps it was the fact that Kuki ran into her classroom without a backward glance and settled down on the floor to listen to a story. Mom hovered by the door, willing her three-year-old to look back so she could wave and blow her a kiss, but the child had forgotten about her mother’s existence - so engrossed was she in discovering her new surroundings.

Mom could hear wailing kids in other classrooms, and her lower lip quivered. She forced her leaded legs to walk toward the school gates, turning back ever so often to see if Kuki would run out and look for her.

Why, mom had even chosen her work clothes with care that morning - anticipating buckets of tears and snot as a weepy, heartbroken Kuki would be wrenched from her arms and dragged away kicking and screaming to her preschool classroom.

“Couldn’t you have picked some other day to go out of town?” she had remarked irritably, when she realized that dad wouldn’t be in town for Kuki’s first day of school. “I really wanted you to drop her off. Now, she’s going to cry and be clingy, and I’ll be late for work.”

As mom pulled out of the parking lot with a heavy heart, she glanced at the school gates one last time in the rearview mirror. Parents of all shapes, sizes and colors trailed in and out. Mom did not see Kuki, or any other child for that matter, dramatically dash toward the school gates, wailing for a familiar figure.

Mom drove slowly through the residential neighborhood. At the first Stop sign, she braked, and broke down.

Please, Do Me a Favor ...

Isn't it annoying when people use expressions like "We'll see" or "I'll think about it" for something they want to put off?

I mostly mean you, mom. Why do you have so much trouble making up your mind? If you want to do something, why don’t you go ahead and do it? What’s there to “think about?”

You’ve been “thinking about” getting a swimsuit all summer long, and when you finally go to the store, you find that swimsuits have been relegated to the clearance racks to make way for fall fashions.

You see? I know fall won’t hit us for another four months, but procrastination has saddled you with a limited choice, and it’s a given that you won’t find a style you like.

Similarly, what’s there to “think about” when it comes to pampering yourself? Just walk into a nail salon already for a manicure-pedicure. You know you want to.

Granted, you don’t like to grow your finger nails because you end up slicing them when you chop vegetables, and your heels are so dry and cracked, you don’t want those east Asian women with soft hands to touch your feet, but you know you can’t paint your own nails to save your life - especially the ones on your right hand.

When you can make major life decisions - like whom to marry, what to study, when to have babies, what color to paint the house, etc. - without dithering and second guessing yourself, what makes you so indecisive when confronted with 31 ice cream flavors or a restaurant menu with more than two vegetarian choices?

And, why, for goodness’ sakes, do you always feel you should’ve ordered something else as soon as you dig in?

Do You Laugh or Cry When …

(1.) You start tidying up the house and your child asks you, with a quizzical look, "Who's coming over?"

(2.) You time visits to your local Costco around noon, when they have the most free samples?

(3.) You spend an hour straightening the house before your cleaning lady arrives, lest she pass judgment?

(4.) You don't make payasam on birthdays or holy days because nobody eats it except you, but you tell your mom on the phone you did, anyway?

(5.) You turn off the lights and peek through the blinds at the pool party going on in your neighbor's house?

(6.) You eat all the cookie dough and Oreo bits in ice cream and leave the rest of it for your family?

(7.) You rely on your eight-year-old for basic numeric information, like passwords, phone numbers and gate codes? Once he starts calculating tips, you'll be a happy camper.

(8.) You attend poojas only for the food?

(9.) You smile at random strangers while out shopping, but go out of your way to avoid people you know?

(10.) You fart and then blame the dog?

Cultural Difference

She sees him almost everyday. He drives in to work at 8:30 a.m., parks in the same spot by the mailroom, always walks in with a grande something from Starbucks with his name written on the side.

A casual acquaintance for 10 months now, he and mom usually talk about reports and deadlines because they have to, but once in a while, something personal slips out - like the fact that mom thinks the Veg Out sandwich at Einstein Bros. Bagels is a little overpriced, or that she cannot listen to an audio book and drive at the same time because both activities require intense concentration.

On his part, the co-worker mentions his adopted children from Russia and China and family outings to the zoo or ChuckE. Cheese’s.

On the way to the restroom yesterday, mom saw him surrounded by a gaggle of cooing co-workers and two shy children clinging to his legs. Mom joined in the general coochie-cooing and smiled at the plump little toddler holding her dad’s hand, and her shy brother.

“I finally get to meet your children,” she gushed. “They’re adorable! Look at those pretty eyes and that bright smile. And they’re so tall!”

“Thanks,” he replied, pushing his son forward to say hello.

Mom shook the boy’s hand, straightened up, and peered over her co-worker’s shoulder. “Is your wife here?” she asked, curious about the kind of woman this Richard Gere look-alike was married to. “I’d love to meet her.”

Suddenly, the room became deathly quiet. The telephones stopped ringing; the fax machine stopped spitting papers; the clock on the wall stopped ticking; the computers stopped humming; the coffee in the kitchen stopped dripping; the gaggle of cooing co-workers sharply sucked in their breaths.

“Actually, my partner, Ken, is over there,” the man calmly pointed to a short, balding, bespectacled guy in baggy jeans. “I’d be happy to introduce you to him.”

Huh?

It’s three in the afternoon and you’re sitting in a dimly-lit conference room listening to your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss deliver a presentation that, quite frankly, is flying over your head.

You’re having a hard time staying awake after your aloo parantha-raita lunch, but the room isn’t dark enough for you to nod off. Besides, your co-workers seem to be all ears and are nodding brightly.

You steal covert glances at your watch willing time to move faster. You swallow simultaneous yawns and pick imaginary lint off your pants. You draw flowers on your notepad that gradually morph into stars that morph into tendrils that morph into arrows that look like cricket bats; you draw balls to go with the bats and color them in. One thing leads to another - the cricket bats start to look phallic, and your mind is soon filled with images of Halle Berry and Billy Bob thrashing around in Monster’s Ball, a movie you rented solely for that one scene. You hastily scribble over your doodle on company stationery and look at the PowerPoint slide show with unseeing eyes.

Across the gleaming mahogany table, your group’s admin. is seemingly unaware that her blouse is dangerously low-cut. You idly wonder how many pencils she can hold in her bountiful cleavage. At least three, you surmise. Maybe even four.

Apparently, the head honcho said something amusing because, suddenly, everybody laughs. You join in, even though you didn’t hear what he said, but don’t want to look like an idiot.

The presentation continues, and you jot down a grocery list on the margin of your notepad. “Upcoming baccha birthday this weekend,” you recall. “Buy gift.”

You suddenly remember that you forgot to call your cousin on her anniversary yesterday, even after your mother reminded you a half-dozen times. Now, this cousin will bitch about you to her mother, who will then update all relatives worldwide about the snob you have become.

“Any questions?" the big boss asks, interrupting your rêverie, and signaling the end of the 45-minute presentation.

“Just one,” you want to confess. “What the heck were you talking about?”

Grandma (to mom): “This Nilanjana Roy? Have you been to her blog? Show me how to get there.”
Mom (who suffers from foot-in-mouth disease): “Nilanjana? Oh, she and I were English lit. batch mates.”
Grandma (visibly impressed - not by the name dropping, but by Nilanjana’s literary stature): “And she's a writer today, eh? See?”

Somebody, just shoot mom.

How about Green Eggs and Ham?

Somewhere between reading The Cat in the Hat aloud for the 1,986th time and wiping Kuki front to back for the 9,362nd time, mom wondered if, perhaps, the phrase “spending quality time with my children,” was a tad overrated.

Goodness knows she had invoked the cliché for years, using it as an excuse for her supreme sloth and lack of motivation to find gainful employment. “I love shopping at Wal-Mart,” she’d tell herself, unable to afford Nordstrom, where even the shoe salesmen are dressed in suits.

Finally, after years of mooching off dad, mom looked at the price of daycare and decided she needed a job if she ever wanted to spend quality time with herself. And a few months later, a bewildered Kuki found herself in daycare, while her mother trotted off every morning to warm a swivel chair in a cubicle for the next eight hours.

The first few months, mom was so thrilled to be on a company payroll, she vowed never again to quit working just because she didn’t feel like it, or make some other lame excuse, such as:

• I hate driving more than 10 miles both ways
• My company has too many desis
• I can’t find a radio station I like during rush hour
• My car pool buddy passes gas and cracks corny jokes
• They’re paying me too much
• I’m the only vegetarian around
• My boss keeps looking at my boobs when she has a perfectly good pair of her own
• My in-laws are visiting and I have to do seva
• I miss Oprah
• My dog needs me

Lately, though, mom’s honeymoon phase might be tapering, especially as she finds that people younger than her are ascending the ladder quicker because they were concentrating on their careers while she was busy birthing babies.

And so, as mom congratulates a former co-worker on her newfound managerial status, and helps herself to another slice of celebratory cake, she idly wonders how many senior leaders in her company have read Dr. Seuss aloud 1,986 times.

On the one hand...

You’re glad you live in Sleepyville, where most calamities are rare and natural. Your Tuesday is as predictable as your Monday or Wednesday. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, coffee’s brewing, you received a dinner invitation, your family’s visiting, you know people from Bombay but nobody in Bombay, and everything’s all right in your world.

On the other hand…

You devour news reports and feel useless that you’re sitting warm and dry in front of a computer terminal. You feel roused to action and want to sign up as a Red Cross volunteer - you should be donating blood or on the streets helping victims. You should've been a reporter writing meaningful stories that touch people’s hearts, instead of churning our corporate crap. You hope Hindu-Muslim riots don’t break out and that it stops raining.

You feel pathetic that all you can do is link to a Web site and thank god that your family’s safe and sound.

Little Buddha

Our family’s resident angel, Anu, turned eight on a public holiday.

You’d think a child would be happy to share his birth date with a nation's.

“No fair,” whined Anu, “I can’t have a party because my friends are never in town. This is like the worst day of my life!”

Ungratefulness aside, this youngling is a true gift from the gods above. The humans are still bewildered as to what they did to deserve such a treasure. Anu was born mature, calm, patient, accommodating and easy-going.

Misled by his placid nature and innate composure, the adults willingly ventured into parenthood a second time, naïvely believing brats only happened to other people.

"Well, you started off the same way," observed grandma, massaging hot oil onto mom's parched scalp one Sunday morning. "You were such a pleasure until the day your brother was born. That's when you turned into a rakshasi."

Family lore has it that mom, who ruled the roost for four years until her baby brother stole her thunder, repeatedly pinched the little one while he gurgled in his crib and begged her parents to give him away to a passing beggar woman.

Dad, apparently, has no such skeletons in his closet. "Such a wonderful boy," avows his mother. "A real gem! And I'm not just saying that because he's my son."

Mom has often wondered who her little one most resembled. When Anu was born, both grandmas instantly found quirks and features from their sides of the family. “Great grandfather’s eyes; father’s mouth; grandfather’s color; grandmother’s cousin’s chin; second cousin’s eyebrows .…”

Mom would stare at her bonny baby for hours, trying to find a vague resemblance to her. “Do you think at least his fingernails are like mine?” she’d ask dad, worriedly holding out the baby’s balled-up fist.

Finally, a trip to the neighborhood grocery one fateful day confirmed her nagging apprehension that other than the rolls of fat on Anu’s body, mother and son had little else in common.

“Aww, look at him,” the cashier cooed, as Anu drooled on a teether. “What a sweetheart! Hey, big guy, you sure are cute! I tell you darlin’, he’s gonna be a real heart breaker.”

“Why, thank you,” beamed mom, proudly.

“Look at those pretty eyes! And that killer smile! He sure is a handsome fella,” continued the saleswoman.

As mom collected her purchases with a pearly smile and was about to wish the cashier and everybody else within earshot a wonderful day, such was her happiness, the woman asked, “Does he take after his father?”

Tag that!

My first tag! Coinciding with my first anniversary! And I owe both to the same person.

Thank you, Arati, and everybody out there, for never tagging me with inanities like ‘How many blogs have you read?’ or ‘Five indispensable items in your glove compartment.' Wouldn’t you rather know what I think of your spouse or what kind of birth control my humans use?

But, wait, the first ever tag I receive wants me to list how weird I am. Hmmm …, in the spirit of good sportsmanship, I accept the challenge as a perverse testament to my popularity, rather than presume a good friend is extracting revenge for all the times I was unconsciously snotty to her.

I have to confess, though, that I spent a sleepless night trying to find something weird about myself. I asked around, but didn’t get a straight answer.

Me: “Dad, do you think I’m weird?”
Dad smiles, opens his mouth to say something, but shakes his head, instead, still smiling.

Me: “Anu, do you think I’m weird?”
Anu: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Mom?”
Mom: “Come here, my cutie pie, let me give you a kiss. You’re such a good boy; you’re the only one in this house who listens to me.”

See what I mean?

I had no problem, however, coming up with weird things about the humans I share my home with. And since I’m generous, I give you two for the price of one:

Dad

• While on vacation, he prefers to relax on a hotel bed all day with the television on, rather than sightsee.

• Always orders the same dish at a restaurant. (For that matter, he even likes to frequent the same restaurants.)

• Will not throw away textbooks from his undergraduate days, but will hoard them in cardboard boxes in the garage. Would rather throw away mom’s India knickknacks to make room for books “I-might-need-someday.”

• Will not discard ratty T-shirts and sweatshirts from his alma mater.

• He can live without water, but he cannot live without yoghurt. The man can finish a whole tub (32 oz.) of yoghurt in one sitting. Poor mom slaves in the kitchen all evening preparing dinner, only to have dad add spoonful after spoonful of yoghurt to his moru kozhambu or pasta or noodles or pizza.

• Seems to be content with what he has (provided a tub of yoghurt's at hand).

Mom

• Can live without yoghurt. (Hey, for a south Indian, that’s beyond weird!)

• Has absolutely no interest in any sport, other than lovemaking. People around her can be thumping chests and swinging from the chandelier when their team scores a goal or wins a championship, and she’ll wonder if they realize how stupid they look.

• Cannot fathom why Shahrukh Khan is such a superstar. Or Amitabh Bachchan for that matter. Would rather watch Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi stare at each other for two hours in utter silence.

• The orthodox community she belongs to traditionally eschews meat because “it’s a sin to kill animals,” but they have no qualms about hoarding or paying big bucks for silk. (Hey, don't blame mom for being weird, blame the community!)

• Will not eat before her children do, and will offer them the fleshy parts of a mango while reserving the stringy seed for herself - something she swore she would never do while watching her grandmother and mother do the same.
  

• Mixes miscellaneous food items from the refrigerator or pantry - anything going waste - into atta and rolls out rotis for her unsuspecting family. Mix-ins include, but are not limited to, orange juice, flat Coke after a party, flavored yoghurt, tamarind/green chutney, sambhar dregs, leftover curries, Complan, liquid eggs, puréed papaya, Priya pickles, pasta sauce, mushroom soup, etc. (No, nobody’s caught on, yet. Weird, isn’t it?)

If this tag is like a chain letter that needs to leave your hands before Ganesha gets angry and your head starts to roll, then Shoefiend and Mint Chutney, I'm afraid you're it.

I would tag Alpha, but I’m afraid to see what else she might reveal.

Lemme ask you...

The humans are thinking of going to San Diego for a getaway. I’m not sure what/who they’re getting away from since they’re all going together.

Mom wants to stay at a beachfront property, like the one at Rocky Point. Anybody have any suggestions?

As is typical, the humans have no itinerary. “Just chill,” seems to be the attitude among the males. Of course, they’re referring to chilled beer in the evenings and nothing else.

Mom’s been scouring the Internet to find something to do in San Diego other than watch killer whales turn tricks for food. I have a feeling the only useful thing they will do is have bajji on the beach.

Anybody have other suggestions?

One-up

8:30 a.m. Company parking lot.

You notice her confidently strutting on the sidewalk in strappy four-inch heels.
(You only wear flats because your husband is short.)

Her grapefruit breasts strain against her black stretch top, the alabaster-smooth cleavage rising almost to her chin.
(Nursing has reduced your breasts to the size of droopy nimboos. Even the most expensive push-up bra from Victoria Secret cannot create a cleavage for you.)

A gentle breeze billows her gauchos around her smooth calves and you notice her delicate toe ring glinting in the sun, drawing attention to her painted nails and smooth heels.
(Your toe rings are neither delicate nor pretty, but they’re fine silver and have a resale value – at least that’s what your mother said. Your last pedicure was two years ago when you went to India, and your heels have cracks in them the size of the Grand Canyon.)

She tosses her blond mane over her shoulders and adjusts the studded black belt accentuating her concave stomach, its shiny sparkles matching the oversized dark glasses framing her oval face.
(You’re afraid to color your thinning hair lest it all fall out, so you hide the grays with henna. You can balance a laptop and a cup of coffee on your convex stomach.)

You fall in step behind her, both of you headed toward the same building.
(She works with similar-looking women in HR on the first floor. You’re surrounded by gult IT guys in a tube lit basement.)

Her delicate perfume trails her, its fragrance reminding you of a lush forest with a babbling brook.
(You took a shower less than an hour ago, but can already catch a whiff of your underarms.)

Your eyes are drawn to the gentle undulating of her narrow hips and you unconsciously mimic the rhythm.
(You just know that she likes being on top and has the expertise to reduce a man to a gasping beggar with a slight thrust of those very same hips.)

She stops to retrieve a buzzing cell phone from her purse and that’s when you see it - a broad band of elastic peeking from the top of her gauchos proclaiming, “Hanes Her Way.”
(You smile. That’s why you only wear dress shirts that reach your derrière.)

Dad's Day Out

You’d think at least on Father’s Day a woman would be sensitive enough to keep the kids away from dad and let him flop on the couch in his pajamas all day, with the television remote balanced on his belly.

But no, mom had to turn the occasion into a family affair. She set the agenda early in the day by asking dad to pick a restaurant of his choice for lunch. She even guaranteed herself an outing by whispering “restaurant” in Kuki’s ear as soon as she woke up, so the little princess danced around the house shouting “westwont” at the top of her voice until dad picked up the car keys.

“Sorry, madam, only Father’s Day special buffet today,” mom was informed, as she tried to order off the menu at the local Udupi café. Ditching her intention to eat sensibly, mom filled her plate with food and proceeded to dig in, only to discover that coconut-laced beans poriyal tastes rather like pepperoni when it’s been lying on a chafing dish for six hours.

Mom toyed with the idea of informing the owner that the beans were spoiled. But not one to call attention to herself, she pushed the offending beans to the edge of her plate and helped herself to a rubbery dosai.

“Mustn’t complain today. It’s Father’s Day,” she said to herself, taking a sip of sickly-sweet rose milk.

She looked around at her fellow diners. Skipping the tables with noisy families, her gaze rested on the two grad students sitting at an adjacent table. The girl, a studious type who would win grandpa's and grandma's immediate approval for wearing a bindi with her jeans, smiled at her companion shyly.

“Ah, young love,” sighed mom, straining to catch bits of their conversation. Whatever the young lovers were whispering to each other was bound to be more interesting than the exchange at her table:

Mom: “Kuki, please sit down, and don’t throw your food around.”
Kuki: “No!”
Mom: "Kuki, please finish your potatoes."
Kuki: "No!"

Mom (to dad): “I’ve been thinking, we need to call XYZ for dinner.”
Dad: “Hmm.”
Mom: “Should we call ABC also? How about next weekend? What should I make? South Indian or North Indian food? I'm thinking beans poriyal. What do you say?”
Dad: “Don’t ask me anything today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Mom: “Can you walk Terri later tonight?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Mom: “Should we stop by Home Depot on the way back and buy a fan?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Kuki: “I want to go pee-pee.”
Mom: “Darn, I just sat down to eat! Can you take her, please?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

It took every ounce of self-restraint on mom's part to not empty her bowl of sambhar on dad's head that day. “Must control myself,” she thought, “after all, it’s Father’s Day.”

Generation Gap

Scene I

Grandma: “What would you all like for dinner?”
Grandpa: “Just make something simple.... Say, Bisi Bele Bhath with plantain pachadi. And maybe some cabbage curry with that? Oh, and don’t forget the vathal and appalam on the side. I think that should do…”
Grandma: “All right. What about you, Anu? You like cabbage, right?”
Anu: “Indian food again? Ugh! I want a quesadilla.”
Grandma: “OK, I’ll make whatever you want, my pet. Kuki, sweetie, how about you?”
Kuki: “I want wice with wajma.”
Grandma: “Sure, cutie. Go wash your hands, my darlings, and come sit at the table. Dinner will be ready soon.”


Scene II

Mom: “What should we have for dinner?”
Dad: “Just make something simple."
Mom: "Like what?"
Dad: "It's up to you. We can even order in.”
Mom: “I’m sick of eating out.”
Dad: “OK…Maggi noodles, then?”
Anu: “I want Mac 'n' cheese.”
Kuki: “I want wice with wasam.”
Mom: “Hello? This isn’t a restaurant, children! We’re all going to eat the same thing, understood? Now, go wash up while I heat the leftover dal from last week. We’ll have it with last night’s carrot curry. I'm too tired to cook.”

Who's my shmoopie?

Mom’s cubicle neighbor is whispering to his wife again. Sigh! He calls her at least five times a day; more, if one of the kids is sick.

Mom shamelessly eavesdrops on him.

It’s far more interesting to listen in than to deal with the paperwork on her desk. Ask her about that unfinished report that was due two days ago and she’ll give you a blank stare. Ask her what color her neighbor’s bedroom is, and she’ll tell you why they chose Shy Blossom by Glidden over Yarmouth Blue by Benjamin Moore.

The mood’s a little cloying today. He’s teasing his wife about something she did last night. For all you know, he might be referring to the way she yawned without covering her mouth or the little fart that escaped her, but mom’s imagination kicks into overdrive, and she imagines something else.

She leans closer to the partition wall, holding her breath, but the conversation has veered to their July 4 getaway to Vegas. No matter. He will call again later today and mom will lend ear.

It sure beats listening to the IT guy behind her talk about creating employee hash tables.

Brats Without Borders

You know how you pack really carefully for a trip, but forget something, anyway?

On the way to Vancouver, mom realized that she had left her heart behind at home. En route to a five-day conference, maternal guilt kicked in the night before, as Kuki helped mom pack her bags.

Kuki: “It’s my happy birthday tomorrow. I want a pink cake.”
Mom: “I’ll bake you a cake as soon as I get back.”
Kuki: “Where you going, Amma?”
Mom: “I’m going to work. I’ll be back soon.”
Kuki: “Can I come with you? No…? Can you stay home with me? Please, Amma?”

On the plane, mom stared forlornly at her in-flight magazine, wishing she hadn’t missed her princess’s big day. The initial excitement of being out of the office faded, as she realized that she didn’t know a soul at the conference. "I'm going to have an awful time," decided the eternal pessimist.

As she walked out of the airport, mom thought she had landed in Singapore by mistake. In the melting pot crowd, the Caucasians stood out like a devout Muslim in a Hindu temple. Korean, Thai, Chinese, Malaysian, Japanese and Indian restaurants whizzed past as the airport shuttle sped downtown. Multiracial couples ambled along the sidewalks, sharing umbrellas and kisses. Mom stared at them wistfully and sighed, hugging her laptop case closer and looking at the empty seat beside her.

Once the conference began, mom discovered that most of the 1,500 participants from over 40 countries were hungry for company, as well. A warm smile, a polite handshake, a complimentary observation about a person's clothes or shoes were enough to break the ice and start a conversation flowing among the seminar attendees - almost all women in their thirties and forties.

The quality of men present at the conference eliminated any sort of sexual tension, and mom spent a glorious five days networking and collecting business cards during the day, while filling her mind with Robson Street eye-candy at night.

Nursing a smoothie at a roadside café, mom would watch Paris Hilton look-alikes shop at Hermès with a pug or a maltipoo in their arms; inhale the aroma from a roadside crêperie; catch snippets of Québécois French; debate between Yakisoba or vegetable biryani for dinner; and, marvel at the flatness of an exposed belly or the smoothness of a passing cleavage.

Eventually, five days away from the family proved a bit much for mom, and she looked forward to returning home and squeezing her children.

As 200 people snaked their way through U.S. Immigration and Customs at the Vancouver airport, a pair of identical twins in a double stroller pierced the din with their primal shrieks. While their harried parents filled out forms, juggled car seats, provided snacks and attended to the older sibling, the 12-month-olds spat out their pacifiers and voiced their displeasure at being strapped down.

Mom silently sympathized with the parents and fervently hoped the kids were not on her flight. As luck would have it, the brats sat right behind her. For three hours and 40 minutes, the babies shrieked, blared, cried, howled, screeched, shouted, shrilled, wailed and yelled, while the parents smiled weakly and avoided looking at their fellow passengers.

As the vexed travelers stampeded to deplane, a burly gentleman in a Stetson hat and cowboy boots walked up to the family. Fixing the parents with a steely glare, he said, "Ah got two words of advice for ya: 'Liquid Benadryl!'"

Story of her life

Every morning, the security guard at work waits outside the glass door and opens it with a flourish when he sees mom walk up.

“Good morning,” he says brightly, bowing slightly, and quickly follows mom to open another set of glass doors that lead to her work area. “Miss, may I say you’re looking beautiful today? Enjoy your day,” the guard will say, before resuming his post at the front desk.

Every day, mom gets a variant of “You’re looking lovely today! Sunshine! What a gorgeous smile! You just brightened my day! Do I make you blush?” Ordinarily, if it were dad or some other reasonably attractive male passing these comments, mom would be in seventh heaven.

As it stands, the only man calling her beautiful on a regular basis happens to be 74 years old, has five great grandchildren, and is short and stout.

Beware of the dog

How do you like my summer cut?
I hate it; but I'm still having a hard time deciding who's cuter in this picture.

If only parents were as grand ...

It’s been an exciting month. No, not because it was my birthday - we all know how that went.

After a long time, I got to spend time with not one, but both sets of grandmas.

Earlier this month, dad’s mom spent a week with us and kept me company. A superlative cook, she indulged the humans with finger-licking food, entertained the kids all day and filled the freezer with goodies before she left.

This week, mom’s parents arrived to spend the entire summer with us. The lure of grandchildren proved too strong for grandpa to resist this time, and despite being the sort who gets bored even before he drops his suitcases, grandpa has decided to grin and bear two months of virtual house arrest.

With the arrival of grandparents, my lazy humans just got lazier.

Mom’s happy to cede her entire household, kids and all, to grandma. Which explains why the beds are made, the laundry’s folded, the toys put away and the plants watered. The telephone rings off the hook, but most of the calls are for the grandparents. Mom is now forced to “just say hello, c’mon!” to a few near, but-not-so-dear ones.

Grandma: “You really need to be more social and stay in touch with your family. For goodness sakes, you grew up with these people. They’ve know you since you were this high.”
Grandpa: “If you behave like this, how will your children grow up to be?”
Grandma: “Look at your cousin. She’s so warm and hospitable. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe you came from my womb.”

Mom was also duly interrogated on the status of her misplaced magalsutra, which is still, irrevocably, lost.

Grandma: “I just don’t understand how you can take it off. Do you have any idea what the price of gold is, these days?”
Mom: “But, but … I didn’t lose it on purpose.”
Grandma (in a hushed whisper): “Does your mother-in-law know about this?”

Despite pleas from their children to travel lightly, grandma and grandpa arrived like the Magi bearing masalas, pickles, sweets, dried fruit, clothes, savories and a Carrom Board.

Upon arrival, grandma discovered that the FAA had tampered with her suitcase. “Those rascals!” she exclaimed in horror, “they’ve broken all the vathal that I’d brought so carefully. This is too much! The last time they broke my brand-new suitcase, and this time, they opened it for no reason at all and broke my vathal.”

“I told you not to bring so much stuff,” said mom, stuffing laddus into her mouth, and reaching for a handful of banana chips.

While the humans pig out on badam halwa and murukku, and sleep in, grandma and grandpa, who wake with the birds, take me along on their daily power walks. Grandma strides purposefully in her bright salwar kameez and black Bata shoes, trying to keep pace with grandpa, who always walks as though he’s trying to catch a speeding bus. “Why can’t the man ever slow down and walk with me?” grandma has often sighed, throughout their 36-year marriage.

Much to mom’s delight, the children are starting to bypass the humans and flock to the grandparents with their concerns. “Bored? Go see grandpa. Hungry? Go see grandma,” directs mom, shamelessly herding the kids away from her, while she reclines on the couch and flips television channels.

The woman’s even outsourcing my hugs. “Not now, Terri,” she says, dismissively patting me on the head. She takes a sip of her cold drink and fluffs the pillows around her. “Go, follow the kids!”

Selective Hearing

Mom: “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the Mother’s Day luncheon at Kuki’s school tomorrow.”

Dad: No response.

Mom (teasingly): "Do you want to go, instead?"

Dad: No response.

Mom: "Hello? I said, 'Mother’s Day lunch.' Do you want to go?"

Dad: "I can’t. I have a meeting."

Doctors and patience

After much procrastination – three years to be exact - mom ran out of excuses, and finally scheduled her physical.

It’s not that she dislikes being examined; OK, she is afraid of needles, but mom will willingly let you collect all the blood samples you want, pee happily into a cup, tabulate her menstrual cycle and candidly answer questions about her preferred method of birth control. She’ll even insist to an apologetic doctor, “Don’t worry about it. I really didn’t mind waiting for over an hour, even though I arrived 10 minutes early for my appointment; really, I didn’t!” In short, the woman will do anything and almost everything save put her feet up on stirrups and display her wares to a latex-gloved stranger.

Steeling herself for the ordeal, mom ate lunch with care that afternoon, deliberately avoiding beans and broccoli and other flatulence-inducing foods. She arrived early, flipped through magazines in the waiting room, smiled when the nurse butchered her name, and lay down cold and naked under a white sheet in the examination room.

Listening to imaginary lounge music while waiting for the doctor, mom looked up to find a picture postcard of snow-capped mountains taped to the white ceiling, directly above her head. Somebody extremely thoughtful had had a brainwave that staring at the Swiss Alps during a pap smear would help women open up and get the juices flowing. Obviously, this person has never heard of a Brad Pitt or a Tom Cruise. Heck, even Angelina Jolie or a half-clad Mariah Carey would do, under extreme circumstances.

Mom closed her eyes and allowed pleasant images to invade her mind. Breathing deeply, she thoughts of the kids, me and finally, dad.

She thought about his shy smile and gentle hands, the smell of his heady antiperspirant, the way he blushes when she catches him ogling, the mean roast potatoes he can whip up, the way his stubble scratched her lips that morning …. Thinking back to that morning, mom’s thoughts took a slight detour and lingered on the image of the wet bath towel dad had flung on the bathroom floor instead of hanging on the rack. A slight irritation mounted inside her. “Why is it so difficult to hang the towel on the rod?” she thought. “And why is it next to impossible for him to put a new roll of toilet paper in the holder instead of setting it on top of the old one? Or empty the dishwasher, for that matter? Or clear the table? Or put away the laundry? Or recycle the newspapers after he's done reading ….”

Her train of thoughts was interrupted by the doctor breezing in and getting down to business. The dreaded examination lasted all of two minutes. The entire consultation came in under seven minutes - considerably lesser than the amount of time mom had spent in the waiting room trying to politely avoid a runny-nosed baby who insisted on cooing at her, and his monster brother who was having a major meltdown on the dirty carpet.

“You did great! Everything looks great! I’ll see you same time next year!” said the doctor, before sailing away to her next patient.

“Not unless you change that ridiculous picture on the ceiling,” thought mom, smiling sweetly at the departing doctor.

Birthday candles make light of your age

Since I feel compelled to share every intimate detail of my life, and some of you feel compelled to read about it, I’d like to announce that I am officially a decade old today.

No, that does not make me 70 in human years, as is widely believed. I’m on the younger side of 50, although I still look and behave like a spring chicken.

The humans have no clue when my real birthday is, since I ain’t no thoroughbred, and didn’t come with no papers. The good folks at the pound looked at my teeth and decided I was about seven months old, so mom counted back seven months to the day she brought me home and decided on Cinco de Mayo.

You’d think the humans would try to make my day special and take me out for margaritas and nachos. Not these cheapskates! There was no cake; not even a bowl of payasam - a rawhide bone and a bunch of kisses do not count. Even dad’s mom, who was here for a brief visit, left town today, of all days.

The family fussed over me for a few minutes this morning, somewhere between the time they sat up in bed and went to the bathroom to pee. Mom put on a happy face in front of the kids, but later, buried her head in my neck and thought about my advancing age. Trust the woman to spot a grey cloud behind every silver lining.

Moving right along, folks, let’s leave the moping and worrying to mom, who’s so good at it, and concentrate on moi, instead.

Thank you in advance, shy lurkers and brave readers, for your good wishes and warm thoughts. All the virtual attention is deeply appreciated; although frankly, if I had a choice between wishes and gifts, I’d settle for gifts anytime - chiefly of the edible kind.

Did somebody say carbs?

If people from Poland are Poles, why aren’t people from Holland called Holes?

The first time it happened, it took her completely by surprise.

“Amma, what’s this?” asked Anu one evening, as they were stuck in a mile-long traffic jam.

“Hmm?” murmured mom, absently, wondering if there was yoghurt in the refrigerator and praying there were enough leftovers from two nights ago so she didn’t have to cook as soon as they got home, but could, instead, concentrate on important tasks, such as checking email while Kuki was perched on the potty.

“What is this?” repeated Anu, from the back.

“What?” asked mom, glancing at the rearview mirror, thinking Anu was pointing at a billboard or a new construction.

“This,” said Anu, raising an upturned middle finger at eye-level.

Mom went into shock. She slammed the brakes hard, just in time to avoid hitting the red pickup truck in front of her. “Shit!” she blurted out. Then, “Shoot, don’t say that. It’s not polite.”

“Amma, you crash?” trilled Kuki, as she tried to hold her finger up like her brother.

“No, like this, Kuki. See?” offered Anu, helpfully folding back his sister’s fingers.

As bells tolled, waves crashed, thunder clapped and images of Lord Shiva dancing the Tandava flashed in mom’s head, she wondered how to broach the somewhat delicate topic of the birds and bees with an almost eight-year-old.

Mom considered her options:

1. Bio 101: “The sperm fuses with the ovum, leading to the formation of a zygote.”
2. Desi response: “Chee chee, shame shame, puppy shame!”
3. Dr. Spock’s method: “When daddy and mommy love each other very much, he inserts his penis into her vagina. Together, they make a baby.”
4. Easy way out: “Go ask Appa.”

After quickly vetoing no. 1 (too boring, also not sure what the entire process is), no. 2 (get with the times, people), no. 4 (Appa will probably redirect non-mathematical questions to Amma), mom settled on a watered-down version of Dr. Spock, and managed to deliver the fundamentals with minimal stammering and a straight face. (Keeping her eyes on the road the entire time helped.)

With the floodgates of communication officially opened, mom now finds herself doubling as a dictionary cum encyclopedia for choice reference material, usually at the most inopportune of moments.

Anu (while mom’s on the phone): “What does ‘shit’ mean?”
Anu (while mom’s trying to strap a screaming Kuki to the car seat): “What does ‘gay’ mean?”
Anu (in the produce aisle): “Do bugs fart?”
Anu (as mom rolls out rotis): “Why is ‘f___ ‘a bad word?”
Anu (as mom exits the shower): “Why do you shave your armpits?”

Teaching opportunities aside, there are times when mom feels her life would’ve been easier had she followed her ancestors' footsteps and chosen option number 2. But then she thinks back to her school years and the humiliation that followed the day she realized that the Nirodh advertisements on television were not promoting razor blades, as her mother had informed her, but something quite different, and of all people, the boy she had a secret crush on, stood up in the middle of biology class and told her about it.

So, like a fairy dropping glitter in her wake, mom imparts life lessons, whenever, wherever and as best as she can - be it fielding questions that publicly mortify her, such as "Hey, how come you have a moustache?" or make her want to cross her legs, such as “Why do adults have hair down there?”

Anybody care to answer that?