Jingle Bling

For some weird reason, mom decided to get me microchipped the other day.

We were waiting for the veterinarian in the examination room, and there being no magazines, mom passed time looking at the periodontitis and heartworm disease posters on the wall. A microchip brochure happened to catch her eye, and purely on impulse, like when she buys a batch of Mrs. Field’s assorted nibblers at the mall because “it smelled so good,” mom authorized the vet to inject a chip in my shoulder.

The woman’s insecure that I might get lost. Where will I go? I’m under house arrest all day.

I now have three tags on my collar: a name tag with my phone number, a license and a microchip ID tag with a serial number. Maybe I should get my ears pierced and wear a shiny metal tag in each ear, like livestock. If they sold dog tags at Tirupathi with a photo of Lord Balaji and his consorts, I would no doubt have those in my collection, too.

With all this bling bling around my neck, I feel like I’m wearing a mangalsutra. Maybe that’s why a lot of the women I know don’t wear their yokes on a daily basis: you can’t creep up on anybody; the sharp edges poke your breasts; your hair gets caught in the chain; and, it’s an expensive piece of jewelry that doesn’t go with the majority of your outfits.

Mom tried to raise this last point with her parents when her marriage was being arranged a decade ago. The family had set off one sultry afternoon, well after rahu kalam had passed, to spend half the wedding budget on a pair of traditional diamond earrings that mom didn’t exactly fancy.

Mom: “They’re ugly! I don’t think I’ll ever wear them.”
Grandma: “Hush, they’re diamonds!”
Mom: “Agreed. But there’s still ugly. Besides, only mamis wear them. And if some of them carry doshas, why even bother taking a risk?”
Grandpa: “It is our tradition. You should always be proud of your culture.”
Mom: “I still think it’s a waste of money.”
Grandpa and grandma: “Be quiet! Don’t say something inauspicious on this auspicious occasion.”

Later that month, mom vainly raised the same argument while her parents pored over nine yards of silk at Nalli.

Mom: “Why are you wasting money on a nine-yard sari I’ll never wear again?”
Grandpa: “It is our tradition. You should be proud of who you are.”
Mom: “First, those ugly diamond studs that you said have no resale value, and now this ... I'm going to look like a clown!”
Grandma: “Stop fussing! And don’t say such inauspicious things in front of your future in-laws. What will they think?”

As mom foresaw, after the wedding, the stained, crumpled nine-yard sari lay in a sweaty heap on the floor, until it was folded and put away in grandma’s Godrej, never to be seen again.

The flower-shaped diamond studs - first and last worn at the same wedding - currently reside in a safety deposit box somewhere, waiting for mom to reach mami status.

Be Kind ... Give a Pint

Mom's good deed for the day ... more like good deed for the month ... was donating a pint of blood to the American Red Cross.

Figuring the process would take about 10 minutes or so, mom rolled up her sleeves and headed toward the mobile unit parked in the Company parking lot to sign up.

While waiting for a technician, she leafed through a glossy rag and learned that one way to keep a man happy is to call his mother at least once a week. While she was midway through "Crack Your Man's Carnal Code," (Tip #46: Offer to trim his toenails and lick the webbing between his toes very slowly. It will drive him wild) mom was ushered into a back office - the exact size of an airplane toilet - for an interview with a phlebotomist.

The questions started innocuously enough: date of birth, weight, current medications, travel outside the country, exposure to malaria, tetanus shot, etc., were dutifully recorded. As mom suppressed a yawn and thought about getting back to the 25+ emails waiting in her inbox, the phlebotomist suddenly switched gears and drove into alien territory.

"In the last 12 months, have you had sex with a man who had sex with another man?" asked the technician.
"I'm sorry, could you please repeat the question?" spluttered mom.

"In the last 12 months, have you had sex with anybody from Africa?" continued the grim-faced woman.
Mom hesitated before responding - not because the answer was in the affirmative - but because she thought the question was misleading and needed clarification. Was the lady referring to a person born in Africa, or a person of African descent born in another country, or a tourist who went to Africa?

"In the last 12 months, have you had sex with a prostitute?"
Please. If mom had that kind of loose cash lying around, she wouldn't be clipping coupons and patronizing Great Clips. And if she could afford it, mom would use the time, instead, to get a facial and a pedicure.

Given that my humans have rarely had a bed to themselves since their firstborn arrived, a more pertinent question for people like them would be, "In the last 12 months, have you had any sex at all?"

3 Deewarein

This movie would have been excellent had Nagesh Kukunoor limited himself to directing it. As it stands, it's very, very good.

The Creeping Crud

When mom’s under the weather, the entire household, and anybody within six degrees of separation, is subjected to graphic, minute-by-minute updates of how exactly she’s feeling.

“Amma….Appa…” she’ll moan, walking around the house like a listless ghost with dark circles under her eyes, wailing, “I just want to die!”

Stopping at regular intervals to cough and touch her forehead and cheeks with her palm, mom will wish she knew someone like the faith healer in The Green Mile who could mystically suck disorders out of people.

“Can you make me some ginger tea?” she’ll implore dad, looking her miserable best with watery eyes, a red nose and snot running down her nostrils.

“Um…, how exactly do you make tea, again? the Food Network junkie will wonder aloud. “Do I use this pot or that pot? Where’s the spoon? Where’s the sugar?" Holding out a jar of black mustard seeds, dad will ask, "Are these tea leaves?”

Too sick to retort, mom will wordlessly brew herself a cup of tea, yearning for her own mother’s cool hand on her forehead and a bowlful of her pepper rasam for comfort.

“Don’t make me shout, I have a sore throat,” she’ll warn the kids in a hoarse whisper, shooing them away. “And pick up your toys! This place is like a pig sty,” she’ll yell in the same breath, before collapsing in a fit of hacking coughs.

From time to time, fishing for a sympathy massage, mom will proffer her forehead to dad and ask him if she has fever. “Why don’t you use a thermometer?” dad will impatiently suggest. “Take some Tylenol and go lie down.”

“Yeah, right,” mom will retort under her breath, clanging pots and pans in the kitchen. “Who will cook? Who will feed the kids? Who will clean this place if I go lie down?” she’ll lament, convinced that the kids would starve if she didn’t cook healthy, balanced meals, and the household would fall apart if she didn’t clear the newspaper clutter in the family room this very instant, empty the dishwasher, refill it and do at least three loads of laundry for the week ahead.

So, sniffling and sneezing, groaning and grimacing, mom will go about her business, pausing only to declare, “You all will realize my worth only when I’m dead and gone!”

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.”