Happily Ever After

My one and only male friend, NC, is moving away. He’s crossing the seven seas to relocate in a foreign country - to a place his humans and mine call home.

I’ve never been to this place, but from what I hear, food is so plentiful there, NC can eat off the streets. His humans would never have to pick up after him; they don’t even have to walk him because the driver’s son or the maid’s husband’s aunt’s youngest sister-in-law’s second son called Ramesha or Mahesha will happily oblige. NC would be able to exercise unrestrained freedom of speech because nobody would call the cops. And even if they did, the cops wouldn’t show up.

When my humans return from this enchanting land after a vacation, their suitcases smell of spice, dirt, rancid oil, barfis, silk, sun and sweat - all lingering traces of “back home”. While unpacking, mom will bury her head in a silk sari and allow the smell to transport her to a family function or a recent wedding – like the one where she wore that heavy necklace her hair kept getting caught in, and asked dad, every five minutes or so, to discreetly check her rear end and let her know of any telltale stains forming.

“What stain?” dad had asked, straining his voice to be heard above the din of 500 relatives, 600 family friends and a nadaswaram band shattering eardrums.
“Oh, OK,” he quickly said, realization dawning a split second before mom was about to dump the tray of sugar she was holding over his head.

Trips back home sound like fun, once you fast forward the three layovers, one missed connection in Frankfurt, reeking airplane toilets, snooty desi-working-for-phoren-airline stewardesses, smelly farts from the monkey-capped grandpa sitting across the aisle, and the kid who barfed his goldfish-milk-cheerios breakfast just as you were tucking into your Hindu vegetarian meal. You fork over about $1,500 to put up with all this, including twisting your spine into an unnatural position for close to 22 hours, because going home involves family, food, shopping and nostalgia.

In mom’s case, it also involves lizards - yellow ones, black ones, light brown, dark brown, newly-hatched, semi-transparent babies, casualties with missing tails, wizened ugly veterans with whorls on their backs.

Any sepia-toned, fuzzy sentiments mom has of moving back home are clouded by visions of reptiles slithering in the bathroom, in the bedroom, behind the tube lights, on the floor, even on the bed. Thin yellow lizards in the north, plump brown banded ones in the south that leer at mom with their beady eyes or mock her with their chik chik chirps when she’s alone in a room.

It was mainly to escape from these vile creatures that mom had instructed her parents to look for a prospect abroad when marriage talk began circulating in the household. She’d lounge on the bed in the summer heat, romance novel in hand, and dream of a knight in shining armor who would rescue her from the lizards (and most of her relatives) and whisk her away to a cottage with white picket fences and a two-car garage, where they’d happily raise their 2.3 children.

It was only when she got to the new land that she realized the lizards had preceded her. The bridal henna on her hands had not yet faded when she discovered a lizard party in progress around the patio light outside her apartment.

“You're funny,” remarked the new husband, making light of his hapless bride’s phobia. When she started hyperventilating, however, he grew slightly alarmed and said, “Don’t worry, they’re harmless; they’re afraid of people; they don’t come into the house.” And he silenced her protests and heaving sobs with soft kisses.

A few years and a child later, just as mom was getting used to the American dream, she discovered that the geckos (as they were called in this country) could actually wriggle into the house and enjoyed spending time away from the summer sun in the cool confines of her bathtub.

She speed-dialed dad at work.
“Calm down,” he said. “It’s just a gecko; deal with it. And, no, we’re not moving to Canada.”