A trip down memory lane

On a recent visit to pay his respects to my badey bhaisaheb, s.b., everybody’s favorite commenter, clicked the following photograph in my honor.

Shame on my humans who’ve driven past this very retail strip so many times, yet never bothered to stop to take a picture.

Mom even went to Wal-Mart Supercenter the night before they were scheduled to fly out to Chennai. Her cell phone rang while she was picking children’s underwear and a couple of pillow protectors for grandma.

“Amma, where are you? We’re hungry!”

With one car between the humans and no food in the house, mom made a pit stop at Taco Bell on the way home and ordered the usual – 7-Layer Burritos and Mexican pizza with no meat.

“NO MEAT!” she hollered into the microphone, before pulling up to the second window to pay and to the third window to collect her food. Not trusting the serving staff at a beef behemoth, she swung her car into an empty parking spot and thrust her nose into the pizza to make sure it contained only beans.

By the time she drove home, the family was ravenous and grumpy.

“I don’t like green stuff in my food. This is too yucky, I want rasam,” chorused the kids, before they were satiated with bribes of “I’ll buy you candy at the airport,” and sent to bed.

When dad’s alarm rang at 4 the next morning, he found a bright-eyed mom hovering by the neatly packed suitcases lined up beside the front door.

“Didn’t you sleep all night?” he asked, noticing the clean kitchen countertops and the sparkling floors. “You didn’t have to clean everything.”

“I was spending time with my home before we left,” replied mom softly, turning away before dad could see the tears in her eyes.

It seems those NRIs who moved before us were right after all ... the only thing missing in your new life is your old home.

A Suitable House

Somewhat like a storybook princess who has to kiss a series of toads before she finds Prince Charming, my humans have finally found a home after three weeks of intense searching.

In their quest for a suitable home to rent, they discovered that family, friends, random strangers and their chitappas all had an opinion on where to rent, what to rent, and how much their co-brother is paying for 800 square feet on the other side of town.

“Don’t go with brokers. They’re a waste of money. Just look at the classifieds in the newspaper,” said some.

“I’ll ask my istri-wallah. He has contacts in all the right places,” offered others.

“Don't worry, I’m going to Tirupathi next week and will pray that you find a home soon,” said grandpa, willing to disturb the Almighty for such a flimsy reason.

Meanwhile, based on recommendations, mom scoured newspaper ads, online sites and relentlessly followed slim leads that led nowhere.

“Can you e-mail me pictures of the property?” she’d ask over the phone, since dad refused to give up his afternoon naps and drive around town based on a cursory description.

“Sorry, madam, owner doesn’t want property photos posted online,” said brokers, most of whom were only interested in entertaining company leases.

“I’ve mentioned your specifications to my neighbor whose son is in New Jersey,” said an uncle. “He has promised to keep an eye out for you.”

“New Jersey? But we want to rent in Chennai,” said the humans.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said uncle, shaking his head in a figure eight. “You see, my neighbor’s son has a friend in Bombay whose uncle in Mysore has a friend who just moved to Bangalore. His wife is working as a director for an NGO in Ahmedabad. Her mother lives with her son in Delhi, and has another daughter in Tennessee and one more son in Dehradun ….”

By the end of the narrative my humans forgot which city they were looking for a home in and silently nodded to everything uncle said.

“Surely, this city has a house somewhere with our name on it,” mom would sigh with each passing day.

“Don’t live near the beach,” advised grandma over the phone. “Things rust very quickly.”

“Ma, the whole city's by the beach. Besides, you’ve never lived in a coastal area.”

“It doesn’t matter. That’s what I’ve heard.”

After listening to earfuls of advice from people to “look in this neighborhood, there’s a big temple around the corner,” and “don’t even consider that neighborhood, there’s no Reliance Fresh store nearby,” the humans finally found a suitable home by the (gasp!) beach through (double gasp!) a realty company.

“But what will you do if there’s a tsunami?” asked grandpa, as soon as he heard about the sea breeze setting in at 4 p.m. everyday.

Er … anybody know of local swimming classes mom can enrol in?

The Book Tag

Mom was not going to ignore this tag; honestly.

It’s just that the tropical locale she’s in begs for one of those plantation chairs on a breezy verandah where one can peruse a book on a quiet afternoon until it gently falls to the floor, and sweet slumber, induced by a hearty meal of sambhar and roast potatoes, sets in.

(Pssst, anybody know where I can get an easy chair in this city for a song? I don't want to pay an arm and a leg.)

Rather than wait for the ideal setting – and risk incurring the wrath of A Muser and MumbaiGirl who sent the tag her way – mom threw her fillum fare aside one afternoon and headed to the neighborhood lending library to borrow a book.

“Yes, madam?” asked the patron, as she stood there in dismay looking at the grimy books crammed from floor to ceiling.

“Er, do you have Jhumpa Lahriri?” asked mom hesitantly, wondering if the man with a wide band of kumkum and sacred ash on his forehead had even heard of the author. “I don’t see it under ‘L’.”

“Unaccustomed Earth, aa?” he asked immediately. “It’s gone out, madam. Here, try A Thousand Splendid Suns or The Monk who Sold His Ferrari instead.” Pointing to a stack of paperbacks by his chair, he offered, “What about The Namesake? Have you read that? I also have the latest from Chitra Divakaruni.”

Chastened, mom buried her nose in the closest bookshelf and quickly picked French Lover in A Muser’s honor. She left the store determined to be less judgmental about appearances.

“Just let me know what book you want the next time and I’ll order it in case I don’t have it, madam,” called the kindly owner after her.

The first time mom tried to read Lajja by Taslima Nasrin she couldn’t get past the second page. The second time she picked up the book, she never made it past page 10.

French Lover by the same author is a tad more interesting, chronicling the life of a clueless Bengali bride in Paris. She’s married to a cad who treats her like an unpaid servant, as her father did her mother, and Nilanjana plucks up the courage to leave him after she finds work in a factory.

She moves in with Danielle into a one-room studio and pays the woman for her boarding with her body.

Finally, on a return flight from Kolkata to Paris, Nilanjana meets a married-with-a-child Frenchman who takes her home from the airport and puts his marital bed to good use while his wife is away.

Reminiscent of the graphic L’Amant by Marguerite Duras, a movie mom watched in college with only a tub of popcorn for company, Nilanjana discovers pleasures hitherto unknown for the next few months. The Frenchman is so intense in his amour that one wishes the French had colonized India instead of the British, and educated the masses in the fine art of lovemaking.

I’m breaking the rules of the tag, but the sentences on page 123 are too boring to type. Instead, noteworthy phrases from the book paraphrased for your pleasure are:

“Again?" said Nilanjana. “It’s been seven times already tonight!”

“No, you cannot leave me, ma cherie! Can you feel this? See, I am 10 inches long and 8 inches wide.”

Midway through the novel, especially when she read about Nilanjana’s first meeting with the Frenchman high in the clouds, mom was a little miffed.

“Hmph!” she thought. “How many times have I traveled alone? Do I ever meet anyone I can base an entire novel on?”

Indeed, why is it that mom’s traveling companions, especially on long international flights, are either too young, too old, of the same sex or desi men with suspect hygiene? How is she supposed to become a best-selling author at this rate?

Something is very wrong here, especially since mom can say hello in more than one European language.

Pyar ke Side Effects

It may be the hot and steamy weather, or it could be the sabbatical from work, but whatever it is, mom silently counts her blessings at dad’s sudden surge of affection for her.

It’s not unusual for passers-by to find this couple - well past the newly married stage - holding hands and walking along busy Chennai intersections, dodging traffic and skipping over dog poo.

Mom was so surprised the first time dad held her arm and helped her across the street that she left her mouth open and swallowed a fly flitting across from the garbage dump nearby. She allowed her hand to linger in dad’s well after crossing, and even managed to lace her fingers through his before a rude motorcyclist behind pried them apart.

Chennai traffic seems to have accomplished in minutes what years of living in a progressive country didn’t. Dad shied away from unnecessary physical contact in the West, leaving a desolate mom to hold her children’s hands in public instead.

Couples tickling each other’s tonsils at malls and senior citizens holding hands and sharing ice cream seemed to have no effect on the man who often walked with his hands in his pockets and preferred to finger his car keys instead.

At home, mom often found that she had the entire family room to herself. Gently lowering her derriere next to dad's on the couch seemed to activate a hidden spring mechanism that immediately ejected him off the couch and landed him on the farthest side of the house.

Space constraints in their current surroundings force dad to share a love seat with mom in front of family and friends. Despite the muggy weather, he doesn’t bristle as though a bee stung him when mom occasionally brushes past him in narrow walkways.

On the streets, he protectively reaches for her hand as they wait for a break in traffic to run to the other side of the road. Dad instinctively pulls mom closer to him when cycles and auto rickshaws approach on the wrong side of the road and honk as though it’s the pedestrian’s fault.

For her part, mom is happy to play the role of a damsel in distress as she stands on street corners and allows dad to guide her through traffic.

The only time she displays her bravado is when a bunch of street dogs appear out of nowhere on a dark Chennai night and bark at intruders in their midst.

At such times, mom confidently reaches for a nervous dad and urges him to walk ahead without making eye contact with the canines. “Just ignore them,” she squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Remember, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Perhaps mom should repeat the same mantra the next time she spots a lizard a mile away and hastily cowers behind dad's back, shaking like a leaf.

On second thoughts, if it works to her advantage, why should she?

When people get hot and cross they call for a …

“Madam, there’s no school on Monday and Tuesday because of the bandh,” informed the class teacher over the phone.

After two weeks of twiddling their thumbs at home with no playmates but each other, the children were looking forward to the first day of school.

“What’s a bandh?” asked Anu.

“Um … er … err …,” struggled mom, trying to find the right definition, “It’s like a strike.”

“What’s a strike?”

“When people are unhappy with the government, they call for a strike. It’s a form of protest where you’re not supposed to go to work or school.”

“Then what’s a bandh? And if it's a holiday, why is it not on my school calendar?” pressed Anu.

“It’s an unscheduled holiday,” explained mom. “You’re supposed to stay off the streets in case there’s violence,” she let slip before she realized what she had said.

“Violence?” asked Anu, his eyes opening wide. “You mean it’s not safe here?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” stuttered mom. “Of course it’s safe here. They don’t have these bandhs very often. Look, you just have to stay home when they have one, OK? Now go finish your Hardy Boys.”

“I still don’t get what a bandh is,” said Anu, walking away.

“Did somebody say bun?” chirped his little sister, entering the room. “Hey, I want a bun! Where’s the bun? Someone gimme a bun, now! I'm hungry.”

"We're talking about a bandh, Kuki.”

“What’s that?”

Anyone care to explain? I give up.