Sorry, wrong number

I'm in a foul mood; I don't feel like writing any more.

I've been told by someone I love deeply (but don't always see eye-to-eye with) that it's in bad taste to wash the family's dirty linen in public. Seriously, I didn't think my folks were that dysfunctional, and the idea was not to malign them or their friends; but, I've been told to "behave" from now on and think about consequences before I put paw to keypad.

So, I'm just going to crawl under a table for the time being and lick my chops. I'm not sure when my mood will lift, if it does at all.

Drama in High Heels

Rustling silks and politics. Heavy jewelry and mud slinging. Air kisses and name-calling. Manicured nails and double dealing. Christian Dior and chicanery … no, it’s not the latest saas-bahu offering on Zee TV, but local shenanigans playing out before my very eyes.

As surely as the sun rises every morning, throw a motley group of women together and watch as they pretend to get along for the sake of propriety, all the while baring their claws behind their backs, waiting to scratch each other’s eyes out.

Even after 10 years, mom hasn’t learned her lesson. With alarming naïveté, she continues to extend dinner invitations and arrange potlucks that bring mortal enemies face to face.

A can’t stand B; B hates C; A and C hang out with D but not E and F; E pretends to like B outwardly, but hates her inwardly; G and A are best friends this week, but there’s no telling how the tide will turn next week; D likes E and F but doesn’t want A to know about it; and, F’s husband wonders why everybody can’t just get along.

This past weekend mom issued an open house to her friends under the mistaken impression that nobody got together for Diwali. (Apparently, private gatherings are the norm these days.) When it’s a group invitation, participation usually depends on the guest list. Some will immediately decline, others will wait to see if their friends are attending, and then there are those who will keep the host hanging until the last minute with their maybes and call at the nth hour to decline saying their kid is sick.

It doesn’t matter if one family shows up or 10, mom turns into a harridan the day of the party and makes the entire household miserable. She starts cracking her whip at dawn, insisting everybody join in her cleaning crusade instead of relaxing with the morning paper and a cuppa. It is only when the house fills with the aroma of good food, and all the invitees congregate, that mom starts to unwind and go with the flow.

The last get-together served as a precursor to the next, eagerly anticipated gathering. Furious planning was underway to make the next party a memorable one. Tempers flared, a few manicured nails were almost ready to scratch, votes were taken, polls were conducted, opinions were aired and a consensus was reached about the menu.

To make things easier when it’s time to bid my humans adieu, I’ve helpfully compiled a list of mom’s favorite delicacies to prepare at their farewell party (if they ever leave, and if they’re ever honored with a party, that is).

In no particular order, mom (and, by extension, dad) would like Shivani’s paneer makhanwala; Shruti’s mom’s dal-baati and ginger tea; Gauri’s fruit crisp; Sandhya’s paal payasam and her mom's deep-fried modaks (among other things); Manisha’s mother-in-law’s sponge cake; Viveka’s nankatais and tomato saar; Vijaya’s red curry and her dad’s badam halwa; Zeenat’s bruschetta; Sucheta’s chaat creations; Ashwini’s Maharashtrian dal; and, Nandini’s white lasagna and Thai soup (among other things).

And, please, hold the idlis.

The Coffee-Mate Crook

Boy, oh boy, is mom pissed!

Some cheapskate at work has been dipping into her liquid Coffee-Mate. Despite a sign on the refrigerator door in the break room requesting people not to steal food, a cretinous coworker managed to consume a 32oz. bottle of mom’s caffeine creamer in less than a week. As if that’s not bad enough, the pilferer stuck the empty bottle back in the refrigerator.

When the woman in the next cubicle was missing money from her desk, mom thought the cleaning crew was to blame. Now, she’s inclined to believe there’s a serious klepto on the loose on her floor; someone who doesn’t balk at filching food or drink.

Mom’s hit upon a plan to deter the Coffee-Mate crook. She’s going to stock the refrigerator with a feeding bottle filled with Coffee-Mate but labeled BREAST MILK. If the bottle’s still tampered with, mom’s going to presume the culprit is a perverted male colleague.

She hopes the feeding bottle will be left alone because, frankly, she has no other bright ideas.

Perhaps you can help.

See. Sea. Si.

The family went to Rocky Point last weekend - without me, of course. I’m rarely included in these family outings because most places are openly hostile to pets. I say if children are allowed in establishments, so should dogs. We’re less messy, better behaved, cuter and don’t need to be force-fed or rocked to sleep.

Most relaxing family vacations in this household begin with the humans arguing right before they leave home. This road trip was no different. Dad blamed mom for delaying the trip by two hours and mom retorted by raking up past issues that had absolutely nothing to do with the current trip. So, by the time they pulled out of the driveway, the humans were definitely NOT talking to each other.

They finally made up somewhere along state route 85, partly because sulking takes too much energy, and partly because the scenery was so boring there was nothing else to do.

After a pit stop in Ajo with nary a McDonald’s or a Burger King in sight, the humans crossed over into Mexico and felt they had landed in a dusty shantytown in India. Except for the absence of cows and pigs on the streets (local delicacies, no doubt), the countryside was similarly littered with reckless drivers, potholed roads, festering garbage, unfinished homes, mangy dogs and street vendors.

As only my humans would, they consciously planned a vacation in a seaside resort and were then befuddled at the lack of vegetarian choices in local restaurants. “No meat? No problem; we have fish,” offered a helpful waiter at a restaurant touting choice seafood, where the humans ended up paying top dollars for chips and salsa, lard-coated chile poblanos and cheesy enchiladas.

Persnickety mom didn’t favor the roadside taquerias either, where juicy cuts of beef sizzled alongside her cheese quesadilla and lard seemed to be the cooking medium of the day.

Life was good on the beach, though. Despite the name Rocky Point, the beach was sandy and clean. The upscale resort, with half-naked Caucasians lolling on the beach, reminded mom of past holidays in Goa and Mahabalipuram. All in all, the view was spectacular, the sea was calm, the company was delightful, the cheese-filled food was filling (albeit constipating), the kids were happy, the weather was perfect and Viveka’s nankatais were delicious.

What a pity I wasn’t there to enjoy a single thing.

Divine intervention needed

Apparently, it was Diwali yesterday. But, in this household, it seemed like a regular day. Sure, the humans exchanged Diwali wishes and I smelt some scalded kheer in the air at night, but the occasion lacked festivity.

Compared with Halloween excitement the night before - costume planning, preparation, trick or treating, candy gorging - Diwali seemed more like an afterthought.

Grandma religiously calls mom every major festival to remind her to impart her heritage to the kids. But my humans aren’t very religious people. They’re too darned lazy to actively invoke god other than when they’re in trouble. Usually, guilt drives them to the temple … and, on occasion, good food.

Despite her upbringing in a traditional Hindu household, mom’s always felt claustrophobic in temples, especially in the inner sanctum. With no ventilation, the chamber usually smells of ripe coconuts, musty silk, flatulence and jasmine flowers. The windowless inner sanctums are burglar-proof, but not critter-proof; so, while the people around her are seemingly lost in a trance, mom passes time checking out scurrying rats out of the corner of her eye, or nervously avoiding the yellow geckos milling around the tube light.

Of late, however, mom’s been invoking the gods fervently because she’s misplaced her mangalsutra. She’s looked everywhere and is praying that it will somehow materialize in her drawer before grandma gets to know about it. (This 30-something woman is still afraid of her mom’s disapproval.) Grandma will be upset, not because mom lost her mangalsutra, but because she took it off.

Like Macha, one of our friends, looks high and low for a sacred thread before he pays a visit to his folks in Madras, mom will have to improvise the next time she goes to India, or risk a half-hour lecture on tradition, sanctity and sheer carelessness as soon as she lands.

I recommend she call Ajmeri Baba.