A series of unfortunate events

Saturday was just not my day.

When I heard my leash jiggle in the morning, I thought we were going out for bagels, but the car stopped in front of the veterinarian’s office, instead.

I was dragged, as willingly as a lamb to slaughter, into the sterile, tube-lit office reeking of antiseptic, anal fluids, bleach and fear - for my annual well check.

Hissing cats glared at me from pet carriers while their humans filled out paperwork; beady-eyed fish swam around in a glass enclosure, desperately looking for freedom; a fussy, coiffed French poodle, smelling of lavender fields, set me off on a sneezing spree; while a black Labrador strained at his leash and decided I would make a good breakfast.

“Hiya, handsome fella!” said the high-pitched nurse as she hoisted me on to the table. “Can we get a kiss?” she puckered up. Lady, have you smelled your breath today?

After a five-minute examination that included a cold thermometer stuck up my rear end, a distemper shot, a detailed description of my bowel movements, and a peek into my ears and eyes, the vet declared that I have officially begun ageing.

From “fella,” I was quickly demoted to “old man,” as mom swallowed the rising lump in her throat and listened to the vet describe my deteriorating vision, decaying teeth and fat tumors under my shoulders – “All natural signs of ageing; not to worry!” Apparently, I’m 60 in human years, but mom thinks I look as evergreen as Dev Anand. Hmmm…, I’m not sure that’s a compliment.

Back home, sans bagels, the humans left me to lick myself for three hours, while they went to a birthday party and overdosed on cake and candy from the piñata. (And here I thought after working all week, one would politely cancel social invitations that do not involve the entire family and spend a quiet, relaxing weekend at home vegetating on the couch and eating potato chips.)

I also ran into my nemesis later that afternoon. She had draped herself on the garden wall, the very picture of innocence, and stared at me with her cat-green eyes. From time to time, she would uncurl her tail and let it fall over the wall, in the style of a coy Indian heroine who accidentally drops her sari pallu. We stared at each other for the longest time until a spot of dust in my eye made me blink first. The little tease smirked and walked away, leaving me panting in frustration.

Come dinner time, I was fed the same old crap, while mom and dad argued over what kind of pizza to order.
“If we’re going to eat junk anyway, let’s get a veggie pizza,” said mom.
“I don’t like olives,” said dad stubbornly.
“So, pick them out,” suggested mom gently.
“I don’t want to pick them out. Let’s get individual pizzas instead,” said dad.
“Should I just make aloo-gobhi for dinner? It’s healthier,” offered mom.
“Fine,” said dad firmly, “If you don't want pizza, just say so. You have aloo-gobhi, and I’ll order a pizza.”

Given such a pithy exchange, I could tell the evening was going to end badly. And sure enough, the olives versus jalapeños argument mushroomed into a full-blown domestic squabble that had absolutely nothing to do with pizza.

Next time, people, just eat curd rice with pickles!

When push comes to shove

Anu: “Can I watch Salaam Namaste with you? Please?”
Mom: “Why?”
Anu: “I like Safely (an ABCD pronunciation of Saif Ali), and you said there was no violence in the movie.”
Mom: “Well, there’s no violence, but there might be … um, … other things ... only for adults.”
Anu: “Like what?”
Mom: “Just, um, … stuff … for grown-ups.”
Anu (rolling his eyes): “You mean, like kissing and stuff?”
Mom: “Um, …yeah.”
Anu: “Is it bad to kiss?”
Mom: “Oh no, no, not at all ... Oh, fine, you can watch the movie.”

So, the family (along with Anu’s friend, Neil, who’s almost nine and says he hates Indian movies but nevertheless watched with his mouth half-open) settled down with bowls of vanilla ice cream, turned the subtitles on for the kids’ benefit, and watched a very Pretty Zinta dimple her way through Safely’s life.

Mid-way through the feature, Anu and Neil added a new word to their vocabulary.

Anu: “Abortion?!!”
Neil: “Do they really kill the baby?”
Mom (squirming uncomfortably): “Um, … yeah.”
Neil: “How?”
Mom: “Um, …they give the mom some medicine. Guys, does anybody want water? Do you need to use the restroom? Are you sure? Are you feeling cold? Should I turn the heat up?”

The humans figured - with the bedroom and abortion scenes behind them - the worst had passed and they could watch the rest of the show without further discomfort. Things went well until Safely jumped on the birthing bed and yelled, “Push, push!”

Anu: “What’s he pushing?”

Thankfully, AB’s antics saved the moment. The kids rolled on the floor in splits. Anu stopped for a moment to gasp out, “Hey, why is he looking under the sheet for the baby? You told me the doctor cuts your stomach open and takes the baby out.”

The movie mercifully ended and mom braced herself for more questions.

Anu (after a pregnant pause): “Can we have more ice cream?”

Update

In keeping with his desi roots, Baby Arun arrived fashionably late on January 21, weighing in at 7lbs. 2 oz. and measuring 21.5 inches.

My humans are urged to limit their reactions to “Awwwww… He’s so cute! He resembles Kuki…What a sweetie!...” etc., and not entertain any thoughts of adding another wee one to this family.

For voyeurs only

It’s all Arati’s fault, really.

But for her, I would have continued living my life wondering if there are others like me who cannot tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi; who do not like the smell of coffee and think chocolate is highly overrated; who are afraid of falling into Indian-style toilets and getting their foot stuck in the muck; and, who are unashamed voyeurs.

"Chee, chee, I’m no voyeur,” you think. Right. If you made it this far, and come here on a daily basis, you SO are! (And if you were a part of the group that turned off the lights and crowded into Ashu-Sucheta’s spare room 10 years ago to ogle at the couple on the couch in the neighbor’s house, please dismount from your high horse and hitch it to the doorpost on your way in.)

Now that we’re all on the same page, allow me to pull you farther into the mire.

As if it weren’t bad enough that I was chucking my chores and checking 3 Nomads for constant updates, I had to stumble upon Sonia Faleiro. If you’ve never heard of her, today is your lucky day. If you’re a big-time fan who hangs on to her every word, you know what I mean.

One good writer leads to another and I came upon Nilanjana Roy. A chit of a girl with a head full of tight curls who didn’t look a day over 12, Nilanjana was mom’s B.A. classmate in the last century. It looks like Ms. Roy (yeah, I’m name dropping in case she wins a Booker) put her English degree to good use to become a successful book critic and respected columnist, unlike mom, who spent her undergraduate years in a women’s college wondering where the men were.

Then there are fearless Tam Bram girls (too many to list, so be happy with these two. That's right, there are two - look closely) who are not afraid to speak their minds. The kind of girls who are grandma’s pet and mom’s angst because they are gracious hostesses who can make a mean (not meen) sambhar, keep a spotless home, discuss world affairs intelligibly with their fathers-in-law, and, recite the Bhagavad Gita backwards.

Indira, Mistress of Spices, was a serendipitous discovery who is now my daily fix. If only food cooked in my house looked as good. Her photographs are as soothing as a warm cup of tea on a wintry afternoon and I would move in with her for those ma’amoul cookies.

Lest you label me a biased voyeur, allow me to introduce two lamp posts from my daily pit stop. Ladies, I have no idea if these guys are tall, dark and handsome (probably not, because that's the way life is) but they’re hilarious, especially when they’re appealing to my baser instincts.

On your way out, do drop in on Megha, if you haven't already. She might be accepting nominations for president and secretary of her fan club pretty soon. I would apply, but I'm not sure I'm eligible.

Hey, somebody left their horse behind! Y'all come back now, ya hear?

Watch it. It's brilliant.

Why didn't she think of this before?

“Enough’s enough,” mom decided Friday night.

The evening started with her saying, “I want to watch The Interpreter. Can you drive me to Blockbuster? You can stay in the car with the kids while I (dodge clinging couples and) run out with the DVD.”

Dad pretends to be so busy with the laptop, he ignores her.

After a decade of connubial bliss, the man can ignore clanging pots and pans in the kitchen and doors that shut with such force that the drywall cracks.

So, a very acerbic mom drives herself to the video store with a "wanna-go-ba-bye" two-year-old in tow. The little darling seems to be the only person in the world who wants to regularly hang out with mom. (This is the part where you gush, “That’s not true. We love you!”)

At Blockbuster, little Kuki acts like a bull in a china store. By the time mom finds her movie, Kuki has thundered past one clinging couple causing them to momentarily separate, and arranged titles that start with a "C" in the "S" section.

Mom scoops her up and gets in line behind another “bonded-by-Super-Glue” dewy-eyed couple, whose hands are lost somewhere inside each other’s jackets.

As she watches them coo and cuddle, a nauseous mom puckers up in retaliation and proceeds to plant noisy kisses on Kuki’s cheeks. The little one giggles and squeals, “Again, again!” And a puckered-out mother and giggly child exit the store seven minutes later to find that they are parked next to the kissy couple who are now making out in their car.

Mom’s ill-humor returns with full force as Kuki squirms and yells and refuses to be strapped into her car seat. Mom’s tempted to smack her and silently wonders why she had kids - nay, why did she get married - in the first place.

Super Glue couple pulls away and mom drives home too exhausted to watch the movie that night.

She signs up for Netflix the next morning.

Company Policy

One of the facets of mom’s work is to write condolence letters from the company’s president to the families of deceased employees.

Thankfully, that's not as tough as writing the obits for a newspaper where you call the bereaved family and friends and listen to them reminisce about a loved one. No, mom doesn’t have to call anybody and offer awkward condolences. She doesn’t have to listen to the grieving family break down over the phone, while choking back her own tears.

Instead, all the information she needs is just a click away, on the HR database. She fills out a form letter, gets the required approvals and sends it on its way.(Fortunately, this brainless activity is only a minuscule facet of her job.)

As one would expect, a lot of the dead are people who’ve been on medical leaves of absence or those involved in fatal car crashes. Once in a while, though, a report of a senseless, random act of violence will cross mom’s desk.

Here's one from the new year: a 59-year-old employee in Florida was fatally shot by her neighbor after they argued over a substance she was sprinkling around his house and his flowerbeds.

The loony bin shot her 11 times.

“The company would like to express its deepest sympathies to you on the recent loss of your …. Our thoughts and prayers are with you during this difficult time.”

That's the extent of corporate sympathy. It doesn't matter if you joined the firm last week or 25 years ago.

Mr. & Mrs. Sampat

Perhaps it was the flush of the new year. Perhaps it was the Wild Mushroom pizza at CPK. Or the fact that a restaurant outing with a two-year-old had passed without incident. Whatever the reason, we were pleasantly surprised when Mr. Sampat agreed to watch a film that night.

“I feel like watching a movie,” began Mrs. Sampat rhetorically, in between bites of pizza.
“Mr. & Mrs. Smith,” suggested Mr. Sampat.
“Why not?” thought Mrs. Sampat happily, even though she knew Mr. Sampat’s enthusiasm had more to do with sexy Mrs. Smith than with herself.

Less than two minutes into the feature, Mrs. Sampat realized she had made a big mistake. She should have rented something sickeningly sappy like In Her Shoes or The Notebook or even The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; anything other than the half-baked, vacuous inanity unfolding onscreen.

But the woman's supportive, if nothing else, and sat through the film - all 120 excruciating minutes of it - with toothpicks to prop her eyelids open.

Now, serious Brad Pitt fans will take offense and stop inviting me home to dinner, but prithee, tell me, why is he considered the Sexiest Man alive? The guy’s as unremarkable as a Matt Damon or a Leonardo DiCaprio, or even the UPS guy with rippling biceps who leaves packages outside our front door.

Angelina, on the other hand, is très jolie, with a killer body and lips plumper and moister than a California Sunkist raisin. And, if the tabloids are to be believed, those lips have been in more places and um … sticky situations, than the average UNHCR goodwill ambassador.

So, what could be worse than watching Brangelina wield heavy artillery for two hours and have make-up sex in a wrecked kitchen?

Watching a Hindi remake of the same with AB and Rani Mukherjee, titled Mr. & Mrs. Iyengar.

With songs.

Or watching Mrs. Sampat pucker up and pinch her lips in front of the mirror to make them fuller and plumper - sort of like this blowfish.