Wrong number?

It’s not often that Caucasians ask mom where she’s from; least of all, a customer service representative at a home improvement store who was busy selling her the finer points of Berber carpeting.

A week ago, Ahmed, a McDonald’s manager had asked her where she was from as she picked up her order of French fries. From the way he smiled at her, mom knew the discussion would not be limited to counting change.

“You’re not allowed to eat beef, right?” he asked.

“Well …” began mom, wondering if she should tell him that it was more of a personal choice. “Yes,” she finally said, taking the easy way out.

“My religion doesn’t allow me to eat pork,” he offered, displaying his pearly whites.

Mom smiled, not sure what to say next. Thankfully, her whining children prevented further conversation, especially since she had no inclination to continue the transaction.

Sans kids today, mom wandered through the carpet section at a local store, running her fingers through different fibers and textures. Stifling a yawn, she listened to a blond salesman talk about carpet construction - a subject as fascinating to her as art is to the visually impaired.

Suddenly, the man stopped mid-sentence and asked, “Where are you from?”

Taken aback by the politically incorrect question by a Caucasian, mom replied, “India.”

“I just want to say you have the most beautiful eyes,” he said. “They’re so big and bright; they're simply lovely.”

Mom blushed and managed a weak “Thank you” since compliments embarrass her.

She looked away, hoping to steer him back to carpets and padding, but the man said enough nice things about her eyes to make her wonder if she should return to the store the following week with her eyebrows threaded and some makeup on.

After a few more minutes of carpet talk, mom headed to the checkout counter feeling light-headed and giddy. Still in beetroot red blush mode, she fluttered her eyelashes at the cashier.

“What a pretty shirt!” the man exclaimed, pointing to her vibrant orange kurti. “I love the colors and bold patterns.”

A little miffed, mom thanked him dryly and walked out with her purchases.

“Maybe he's married, with two kids and a dog, and is wedded to his laptop,” she consoled herself.

Guess Who's Going to Dinner?

Ask mom what the best part of moving is, and she’ll tell you that it has nothing to do with the feeling of returning to the land of her birth.

Nor is it the fact that she can drop her faux accent and say “cawn’t” instead of “can’t” and “hawf” as opposed to “half.”

It’s not even the abundance of mango and jackfruit in the summertime or being able to afford eyebrow threading at the closest beauty parlor every two weeks.

The best part, according to mom, is her hiatus from the kitchen thanks to the lunch and dinner invitations extended by generous friends until the humans leave.

For the first time ever, mom is refusing invitations. “Sorry, that weekend is completely booked,” she says, thumbing through her calendar. “We might be able to squeeze you in for tea on Wednesday if there’s a cancellation.”

Never have the humans been so much in demand as now, when they’re about to leave town and country.

This past weekend, my humans were graciously hosted by Zoey’s humans. Like the D.E.A.R. program at Anu's elementary school, this group of friends belongs to the D.E.A.H. (Drop Everything and Help) category. Many an evening has mom passed benefitting from the largesse of their hospitality.

Unlike her last visit to my home, Zoey has matured from a piddling puppy into a fine young lady with good manners. (Forgetting her own manners, mom spent most of the evening on the floor with Zoey, making occasional polite conversation with the hosts and guests.)

As befits her pedigree, Zoey now lives in a mansion by a lake, easily the most gorgeous house mom has seen in recent memory. Zoey’s parents kindly led the humans on a tour of their new home, by the end of which mom needed a map to guide her from the north to the east wing.

In addition to being gracious hosts, Zoey’s humans are also the kind of people who take cleanliness rather seriously. “Drop in anytime,” they say, knowing full well that their house is always camera-ready, unlike my humans who panic when the doorbell rings and pretend they’re not home.

“Must be nice to live in a house like that,” said Anu wistfully as the dinner party ended and the humans drove away. Mom followed his gaze to the large plate glass windows that overlooked the swimming pool and the lake, where the humans had stood savoring the sound of gentle waves lapping against the shore.

“Actually, it’s better to be a guest,” mom was tempted to say to her son. “That way you can D.E.A.L. (Drop Everything and Leave) once dinner is done."

What do you say?

It ain't over 'til the fat lady quits

Was it mom’s imagination, or did the sun shine brighter yesterday? Did the birds sound chirpier, was the weather milder, and how come traffic was so light?

Perhaps nothing had changed, but mom was too distracted by the song in her heart and the spring in her step to notice.

It was her last day at work!

Cake was cut, gifts were given, cards were signed, backs were patted, praise was sung, hugs were dispensed, and mom left the building with happy memories, extra calories and promises to keep in touch.

“Can you work part-time from home until you leave?” asked the boss.

“All right,” replied mom, reluctant to sever all ties with the goddess of wealth.

Get back to warming that swivel chair, woman! You have another five weeks to go before you can apply for membership at SAHM’s Club.

Pit Peeve

At times mom would do well to follow her own advice of “How will you know you don’t like it unless you try it?” that she freely dispenses to her children.

As she lay back on the table at Lakme Beauty Salon and waited for the attendant to pour hot wax on her arm, mom wondered if she should expand the service to include her underarm region also.

In a departure from tradition, when she usually forgets to pack her toothbrush on a trip, mom had left her razor behind, and the weather in Chennai demanded that she occasionally air her armpits to catch the sea breeze.

After a quick round of mental math and deducing that a half-hour of pampering in India would cost her less than a bag of dog food back home, mom asked the attendant to do the honors.

The woman gathered the depilatory strips and smiled genially at mom.

“North Indian, madam?” she asked.

“Illai,” replied mom bemused. “South Indian daan.”

The woman proceeded to wax her arm rather vigorously, causing mom to wonder if she should modify her response to receive gentler handling.

“Oh, what happened here, madam?” the woman paused, holding up mom’s fleshy arm. “Why is it swollen?”

“Er … it’s not swollen, that’s how it is,” said mom, suddenly conscious of the dewlap jiggling under her arms.

The woman stretched mom’s left hand over her head. A discreet, cursory sniff of her armpit convinced mom to set trepidation aside and submit to the depilation.

Rrrrrrripppp! The first wave of agony almost knocked her senseless. Through a haze of pain she heard the attendant ask from very far away, “Has it been awhile, madam?”

“More like never,” gasped mom, smarting from the tears and bracing herself for the subsequent shock. Every excruciating rip thereafter made her childhood encounters with her maid, Chellamma, and the lice comb far more pleasurable.

“You’re wearing perfume no, madam?” the woman suddenly asked, pausing with the bread knife dripping with wax suspended in midair.

“You mean deodorant?” frowned mom.

“You should never wear perfume or lotion before waxing,” continued the woman. “See, that’s why the hair isn’t sticking to the strip,” she said, proceeding to rewax spots she had previously missed.

“Actually, I’m not wearing perfume. It’s deodorant,” explained mom weakly. “You see …”

“Same thing only,” said the woman cutting her off. “Next time, remember, no perfume.”

After what seemed like hours, the waxing session reached a merciful end. Barely able to lower her arms from the pain, mom struggled into her clothes and collected her purse and dupatta from the floor.

“What else, madam?” persisted the woman. “Facial? … Threading? … You don’t color your hair aa?”

Too weak to respond, mom merely nodded and made her way to the cash register, mindful of her delicate skin breaking into angry pustules that threatened to explode with a single cough.

The woman fired a salvo at the door.

“Are you Brahmin?” she wanted to know.

Jump with eyes wide shut

Either you all are incredibly polite, or my humans are incredibly stupid. (I know it's obvious, but humor me, won't you?)

Since news of her move has spread faster than the wildfires in California, mom has been pleasantly surprised at the reactions she’s been receiving.

People at work have been crawling out of the woodwork to let her know how incredibly “gutsy” she is. Co-workers who’ve only smiled at her the past year have been stopping by her desk to wish her well.

“I wish I could move closer to my grandchildren in Idaho,” said one woman. “But it’s so far away.”

“Hey, I wish I were from a foreign country. I’d totally move,” said a young intern.

“Don’t tell anybody, but I’m moving back to Gastonia,” whispered another colleague. “As soon as my house sells, I’m outta here.”

Mom suspects this outpouring of support might not have occurred had she deflected to a competitor.

On the personal front, other than her parents who are still freaking out – “Did you send out résumés?" – her friends’ reactions have been similar.

“You're going to love it there,” ex-Chennaiites confidently proclaim. Looking wistful and recalling their own younger days in the city, they list favorite restaurants, college capers, old bus routes and bumming on the beach.

“How did you guys suddenly decide?” has been the oft-asked question. Close friends have known mom to publicly declare that she would never move back. At R2I discussions at desi parties, mom would blink blankly and move closer to the food. “I love it here,” she’d say. “I wish my folks lived in Mexico so I could drive down and see them.”

In moments of self-doubt, mom would ask dad if he ever wanted to move back to India. “I don’t want to,” she'd say with a finality that brooked no further discussion.

So, when did the tide change, and how?

If mom were a Hindi film heroine, she’d lie this minute with her head on her mother’s lap and declare, “Pata hi nahi chala, ma, kab epiphany ho gaya, pata hi nahi chala.”

Was it when somebody forwarded her this post? Or when a good friend moved to India to be closer to her family? Could it have been triggered by seeing her mother off at the airport, or the silent house that greeted her after her in-laws left?

Perhaps it was the frustration of sitting in traffic and wondering if commuting and rushing home every single day was what life was all about. It could even have been a post innocently written by the author with no far-reaching consequences in mind.

Who's to say what the catalyst was? Does it even matter?

The universe is now in motion and the humans are advised to buckle up and YENSOY the ride.

Conspiracy Theory

Hmmm, notice how nobody, I repeat nobody, took me up on my offer to make friendship in Chennai? Maybe it has to do with one of the following reasons:

1. My reputation precedes me
2. People in Chennai aren’t familiar with Rani-Kareena-Hrithik potboilers (Yikes, why not?!)
3. Chennai is filled with cat lovers (Double yikes!! Why?!!)
4. All of the above
   

If I had a finger instead of a tail, I would wag it at you, people. In the meantime, let me sidetrack and ask you this: Do I say Chennai or Madras?

When my humans left the country, there was only one name. That should tell you how old they are. The children and I would like to sound hip and politically correct, particularly after what happened last month at the immigration line at the Chennai/Madras airport when mom’s flight landed in the wee hours of the morning.

Now, one is usually not in the best of moods after flying halfway across the world for 17 hours with two kids and eating paneer dishes for breakfast, lunch and snack the entire stretch. Therefore, mom can be forgiven for being a tad short on patience and ignoring Kuki’s continuous whines of “Carry me, mom!” as they stood in line to get their passports stamped.

As she rifled through her purse for a pen and barked at her child to hush up, a man standing behind them delicately coughed and asked, “You know Tamizh?”

Mom turned to find herself at eye-level with an avuncular male wearing blue jeans and Kolhapuri chappals, with a dot of red kumkum on his forehead and a laptop case by his side.

“Hello, what’s you name?” he asked, clicking his fingers at Kuki and whistling softly through his teeth as though she were a puppy. “Tamizh terimaa?”

Kuki abashedly tried to dive in between her mother’s legs, causing mom to drop some of the items she was carrying, such as their passports, sweaters, uneaten snacks, bottled water, napkins, forms, a paperback, carry-on bags, etc.

The man continued to click his fingers and make puppy noises at Kuki. Annoyed, mom pulled her child closer to her and nodded slightly in response to the stranger’s “South India aa?” question, wondering where the one-sided conversation was heading.

“You should only speak in Tamizh, otherwise they will not let you enter this country,” the man pontificated to her children.

Taken aback, mom frowned and squished her babies closer to her, hoping the line would move quickly. “Pay no attention to the moron,” she wanted to whisper and reassure her darlings.

“Per enna? What’s your name?” the man repeated slowly, unaware of mom’s rising irritation. Before he could cluck his fingers again and suck in his breath to whistle, mom herded the kids across the red line to get their passports inspected and stamped and surprise! enter the country.

The Tamil trustee made a last-ditch attempt to drive his message home as Kuki turned to look at him. “Speak in Tamizh, OK? Only then Amma will be happy,” he said.

Sorry to disappoint you, maama, but Amma would’ve been far happier to show you her middle finger.

Aa Ab Laut Chalein

Tsk, tsk, what Doubting Thomases I have in my fan club.

Do my words hold no credence, people? Of what use is my writing when it fails to garner acceptance?

Wasn’t it Mahatma Gandhi who once said, “There’s no dog higher than truth”?

Barring a few, most of you sound like grandma who keeps telling mom, “You think this is all a big joke, don’t you?”

When she first broke news of the move to her family, mom didn’t get the reaction she anticipated.

“Hello, are you still there?” she asked over the phone. “Hello? … Hello?”

Grandpa cleared his throat and asked, “What do you mean it’s not a company move? You mean he’s going to quit his job? But what’s he going to do?”

“We’ll figure it out,” muttered mom, just before the floodgates opened from the other side of the world.

“Are you both out of your minds?” yelled her father. “Think about your children. How can you do this to them?”

“But we want the children to grow up with their grandparents,” said mom, trying to get a word in edgeways.

“Is this how we’ve brought you up? How can you take a decision like this without consulting your elders?” ranted grandpa, as mom held the telephone receiver away from her ear.

Grandma fared no better in the encouragement department.

“My neighbor’s cousin’s son moved back as the senior vice president of operations for all of South Asia,” she said. “They have a huge bungalow in Banjara Hills and a driver, two cooks and three servants. See? Nobody quits their job and moves back. Have you at least discussed this with your in-laws?”

Dropping her voice conspiratorially, grandma asked if the marriage was in trouble. “Tell me the truth now,” she said.

Grandpa grabbed the telephone and asked if the humans were running from the law.

“Of all places, why Madras for god’s sake? Yes, I know your in-laws are there, but do you know how hot it is?” he lamented.

“What will people say?” bemoaned grandma in the background. “No job also. How will you manage?” Was this the very same girl who had specifically asked for a groom abroad, she wondered.

At an age when most girls coyly declare they never want to get married and move away from their parents, mom cast ceremony aside and demanded her parents start searching for a suitable groom.

“I want somebody from the foreign services so I can travel all over the world,” she said, too lazy to apply her own mind to the civil services examination.

Fate brought a software engineer’s horoscope to her door. Temple bells tolled, conch shells resounded, rose petals rained down from the heavens, and the humans were joined in wedlock before dad had fully recovered from jetlag.

“Are you sure you can do this?” ask both sets of grandparents worriedly, referring to the impending move. “How can you just give it all up?” they wonder, calling to mind the 12 years of memories mom and dad have created in their cozy suburban cocoon.

For the love you show your grandchildren dear thatha, paati, a thousand times over ....

Looking for Comedy in the Tamil World

It’s amazing the lengths some people would go to quit being a corporate slave just because they forget the password on their BlackBerry every two days.

“I think we should have another baby,” suggested mom one morning, twirling dad’s hair as he read the newspaper at the dining table.

Dad abruptly got up and locked himself in the bathroom for the rest of the day.

“I’m getting so fat sitting on my behind all day!” moaned mom one afternoon, reaching for a bag of potato chips from the pantry. “I wasn’t this heavy when I started working, blah, blah; I don’t have time to exercise, blah, blah; Let’s order in pizza, blah, blah, blah ….”

Dad discreetly turned up the volume on the television.

“Do you think I’m a bad mother?” started mom in the car one evening, where dad is forced to be a captive audience. “Maybe I should quit my job and stay home with the children, yadda, yadda; I’d die of boredom, but at least Terri will be happy, no? yadda, yadda, yadda … Hello! Are you even listening to me? nag, nag; I’m talking to you, nag, nag, nag ….”

Finally, mom received a response when she least expected it.

In between pressure cooker whistles one afternoon, while stirring a pot of sambhar with one hand and chopping garlic with the other, mom casually asked dad the following question as he wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water.

“Do you think we should move to India?”

Not really expecting a response, she poked her head into the refrigerator rummaging for a tomato half she had put away.

“OK.”

“Huh? Did you say something?” she asked, her head still in the refrigerator.

“OK,” said dad.

Mom turned to face him in disbelief.

“What? I said, ‘All right,’” he replied and walked away, a trace of irritation creeping into his voice at having to repeat himself.

It was at that moment that mom’s soul left her body and floated to cloud nine, where it currently resides.

This morning, mom turned in her two weeks notice at work.

The humans are homeward bound, to India!

Come summer, the already bursting-at-the-seams city of Chennai will have to make room for new denizens, one of whom is terrified of lizards, while the other is afraid of cockroaches. As part of the No Dog Left Behind program, the diverse duo and their family will be joined by a geriatric canine who intends to blog from his new digs.

Hey, Chennaiites, mujhse dosti karoge?