Kaho Naa … Pyaar Hai

Were it an ordinary day, being presented with a bouquet of red roses and a box of Ferrero Rochers would have had her wondering, “What’s he done now?”

But when the above items arrived on her wedding anniversary last week, mom blushed like the bride she had been 13 years ago, her heart hammering the way it did when dad first laid eyes on her.

She had barely recovered from his phone call that morning wishing her a happy anniversary. “Wow, you remembered?” was her first thought as she said, “Thank you, same to you,” even though he has never forgotten once in all their years together.

“What’s Appa going to give you?” the little one wanted to know the previous day.

“Probably nothing, as usual,” thought mom, conveniently forgetting their tacit agreement of not exchanging presents for birthdays or anniversaries. Instead, she hugged her child close to her and said, “Appa isn’t even here. Besides, I don’t need anything (true!); I have everything I need (very true!).”

“Well, I want more jewelry, another handbag, pink shoes, a Barbie set …” began Kuki, counting items off on her fingers.

Two hours after dad’s phone call, a dumbfounded mom stood by the front gate signing for a special delivery of red roses and a box of candy. There was no need for grandma to ask who the flowers were from - the look on mom’s face said it all.

“Ooh, roses!” squealed Kuki as soon as she spotted the buds on the dining table. “Does this mean Appa loves you very much, Amma?”

I don’t know … he’s never said anything.

Mumbai se aayi ek dost

Some people bring out their best china when company’s expected. Others fill the house with fresh flowers and arrange potpourri in the bathroom.

Mom decided mumbaigirl would be most impressed when she visited if I took a bath.

“She’s coming all the way to meet you, Terri,” justified mom, tying me to the front gate and pouring slimy neem-based shampoo on my back.

“Friend coming over aa? What friend?” grandma wanted to know.

“Just someone I know,” replied mom vaguely.

“How do you know this person?” persisted grandma.

“Amma met her online,” offered the kids helpfully.

“No, it’s not Lakshmi,” said mom quickly, anticipating the next question. “It’s someone called mumbaigirl.”

“Oh, mumbaigirl, aa?" said maternal and paternal grandma together. "I’ve seen her name online.”

“Yikes!” panicked mom, wondering if she should ask mg to meet her at the closest Coffee Day instead.

“She writes well,” one of them said. Whew! (They probably hadn’t read her period post – one that reeled me in and made me an avowed fan.)

I looked no different after my bath (I never do), and mg doesn’t seem like the kind of person who cares much for canine good looks, but I greeted her politely when she arrived. She had travelled a great distance to meet me, subjecting herself to the chaotic Chennai traffic and searing heat.

Since most people who visit us fall in the 55+ age group, it was most refreshing to meet someone who was born in the same decade as mom.

As fair-skinned as the white salwar she was wearing, petite mg, who is blessed with a waist that can be cupped in one hand, arrived to a flurry of activity in the kitchen. Both grandmas, unmindful of the humidity, were busy preparing a feast for Lord Krishna’s birthday.

“No, you can’t touch,” said grandma, slapping away mom’s hand from a hot vadai. “You’ll have to wait until the puja’s done.” Since she couldn’t stay that long, mg was treated to the next best thing – Grand Snacks and Sweets fare, along with sugarless tea (at her insistence).

Mom asked after the London bloggers, a group of women she’s most envious of, since they seem to have forged a bond and a support system. “You should’ve moved to London,” said mg, a tempting proposition, given that mom is ready to jump on the next jet plane to the closest lizard-free land.

Much to mom's relief, mg's visit ended without the children misbehaving. The five-year-old is usually at her worst self when she has an audience, and our visitor was spared awkward questions, such as the one directed at the landlady the other day, “Paati, why do you have so many holes in your mouth?”

It was while the family was seated at dinner a few hours later and licking the last of moru kozhambu off their plates that grandma made reference to mg's remark about her aunt fasting until midnight in honor of Lord Krishna.

“Look at these north Indians,” remarked grandma. “They’re so strict about observing their fast. All we do is feast.”

Mom silently thanked the gods as she stuffed another homemade appam in her mouth and picked crumbs of rava laddu off her plate.

Wanted

Accepting applications for a man who will know her body almost as well as she does.

Wanted – a fine ladies’ tailor.

Dogma for Dummies

Dear dog owner in a polyester track suit,

Seriously, you need a better pickup line than pointing to me in the middle of the street and asking mom, “What breed is it? Dalmatian?”

You see, she tends to be a little judgmental about people who are ignorant about dog breeds, especially when they paid big bucks for a thoroughbred that they are now flaunting around the neighborhood.

The only reason she made eye contact with you was because the hippopotamus you were lugging suddenly decided to lunge at me from across the street.

“Hee, hee, he’s only trying to be friendly,” didn’t help assuage mom’s fears, given that your pet was at least 50 lbs. overweight and could’ve easily swallowed me for breakfast.

“What breed?” you asked again. “Alsatian?”

Did you notice mom flinch? You should’ve taken that as your cue to stop embarrassing yourself further.

Maybe you were only trying to be make conversation when you wanted to know if I was a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’ I don't think it mattered to your Labrador who would have humped the nearest electric pole if he could. But thank you for letting mom know that your dog is a ‘he.’ I think she figured that out when she saw the family jewels dangling proudly between his legs.

And what do you mean when you claim your pet is “three to four years old”? Be clear: is he three or four? Something tells me you’re not sure what grades your children are in either.

Also, the next time you talk to a woman, try to keep your attention on her face, will you? Were you looking for a mangalsutra around mom’s neck when your gaze kept veering southward?

There is a man in mom’s life, and I have a feeling you wouldn’t be coming over to say hello so eagerly if you see him with us. He’s not your type, see? He doesn’t wear polyester.

Neither a Dalmatian nor an Alsatian,
Terri

All bark but no bite

Now mom is usually the last person who would wish harm on a dog. She only has trouble with people and four-legged reptiles, but ever since we moved in, she’s been wishing the dog next door would die.

“That’s the best thing that can happen to him,” she thinks, choking back tears and going about her business as she listens to him bark incessantly from morning to night.

Chained to his front gate or the front door seven days a week, the overgrown pup pleads with his human masters for interaction that they’re far too busy and irresponsible to bestow on him.

Mom has come to recognize his moods from the tone of his voice so well in the past month that she can do an accelerated PhD. on the subject and pass with flying colors.

“I would’ve called the cops on that family if we were in the U.S.,” she mutters, as she watches the honey-eyed thoroughbred tip his steel feeding bowl, throw it in the air like a tennis ball and jump to retrieve it until his choke chain drags him back to his concrete post. With canine optimism, he looks at his drawing room window and barks to be let inside, wagging his tail furiously even as his masters throw curses at him to shut up from inside the house.

“Lesson no. 1,” mom tells her children, “never, EVER tie a dog. That’s the best way to break his spirit.”

“But what if he bites?” they ask.

“Tie a dog up and he’s sure to become a biter,” explains mom, a fact most dog owners in India seem to be unaware of.

Complaining to the dog owners is out of the question. Recent additions to the neighborhood, mom does not wish to piss them off, especially since their home is within spitting distance of ours.

Instead, she and her little one have befriended the puppy. Every time they step out of the gate, Kuki runs up to him, and mother and daughter reach through the iron bars and stroke his soft fur.

Curling their nose against the acidic stench of urine, they whisper in his ear and smile as he arches his head and rubs his wet nose against their hands, softly licking the fingers that pet him.

“What, you never came to see him yesterday?” their maid asked, as she stood at the gate this morning.

“What don’t you ever untie him?” asked grandma, unable to control herself. A pool of mush when it comes to pets, she and grandpa have passed on their crazy genes to their daughter, who’s trying her level best to pass on the same to her children.

“Well, the workers are here,” replied the maid, pointing to the renovation in the house. “I’ll untie him after they leave.”

Exactly 12 hours later, after rupturing the entire neighborhood’s ear drums, the parched dog finally stopped barking and settled in for the night, still chained to the same spot.

“Can we take him home, Amma?” asks the little one, posing a similar question every time she spies a stray dog on the street or a scrawny cat scaling a wall.

Mom smiles at her daughter indulgently - it’s a sentiment she knows all too well.

Yeh teraa ghar ya meraa ghar?

It was while they were both haggling with the vegetable vendor over the price of potatoes and pooshinikai that mom smiled at the woman across the street in a gesture of hello-I’m-new-here friendliness.

“Just moved in aa?” the lady asked, handing a bunch of carrots to the man and watching his weighing scales with a sharp eye.

“When you came?” she continued, asking him to throw in a few more carrots. “Carrot halwa for my son’s burthday, you see?” she offered by way of explanation at the large transaction.

Mom politely asked about the boy’s age, his school, eating habits, siblings, extracurricular activities, coaching classes, etc., as the women stood watching the vendor pedal away, calling out to the housewives and retirees in the locality.

Mom turned to bid the woman goodbye and extend the obligatory, “Come home sometime, OK?” that all women around her seemed to spout on auto-pilot.

“By the way, how much rent you are paying for this house?” asked the woman.

The genial smile froze on mom’s face. Shocked by this blatant intrusion into her privacy, her brain cells froze momentarily and the exact amount came tumbling out of her mouth.

“Aiyyo, toooooo much you are paying!” the woman responded shrilly, before walking away.

As mom entered the house with a flushed face, she was undecided on whether the question irked her more or the woman’s reaction to the response.

You’d think by now my human would be used to the blatant rudeness around her in the form of men who spit at her feet, drivers who ignore road etiquette, shopkeepers who pick their noses while attending to customers and grown men who use the roads as their latrine. Instead, the rent question still manages to take her aback.

It’s one thing when athimbers and sister-in-law’s brother-in-law’s parents inquire about the amount and deposit, but quite another when a passing raddiwala stops his bicycle and asks, “How much is the vaadagai, akka?” before asking for recyclables.

Really, if the humans wanted to inform the entire world of their affairs, they’d engrave the information on black granite and affix it to the front of the house - just like Mr. Manickaselvam, who lives at the end of the street, has.

Passers-by are urged to note that S. Manickaselvam, owner of two-storeyed “Lakshmi Nivas” has done his B.E. (Hons.) from Pilani, MSc. from Australia and M.Phil from U.S.A.

Wow, I’m so impressed. Aren’t you?