Turkish Delite

Nobody paid much attention to the singer and the drummer belting out Arabic ballads in the corner. As soon as a song ended, a few people would wipe their greasy fingers on napkins, politely clap and return to their dinners, clearly savoring the lamb kebabs and tabbouli more than the band in the background.

The star of the evening had yet to rise. Patrons bided their time drinking Pepsi and dipping pita bread in creamy hummus.

Mom was at the Turkish restaurant with a few girlfriends on a night out, and the women sat on low benches, next to a table of booze-swigging, leering Turkish men, who clearly did not have honorable intentions.

As the women passed random comments in Hindi about the sullen waitress who served them a bit of her attitude along with the food, the drum beat suddenly reached a crescendo, and the bead curtain in the back parted to reveal a brazen belly dancer who sashayed gracefully into the room.

The restaurant suddenly came alive. Hunched shoulders straightened, eyes lit up, appreciative gasps went around the room and the food grew cold as the brown-haired woman smiled seductively and swayed with the fluid grace of a sea anemone.

The seven women at mom’s table fell silent (a feat in itself) as they watched the ivory-skinned dancer effortlessly roll her belly in sinewy waves.

The dancer’s costume left little to the imagination, and there was so much of her to see and admire. From the rising swell of her breasts to the tattoo at the nape of her neck; from the glistening beads of sweat forming on her hips to the dangerously low-rise skirt hugging her curves, the woman was a veritable feast for the senses - her rhythmic thrusts and gentle undulations promising infinite pleasures and rapturous gratification.

Nervous men with clammy hands gingerly tucked notes into her flimsy garments as she teased them with wild pelvic gyrations. As the night grew and their drinking progressed, the lecherous Turkish men threw wads of dollar bills at the dancer and suggestively tucked notes into her groin, their fingers lingering on her skin a little longer than necessary.

The dancer stopped at mom’s table and expertly moved the muscles in her nonexistent belly, until she realized that the women were more forthcoming with their appreciation than with their money. Mom and her friends stayed until the dancing ended, despite the surly service.

“How was the Turkish food?” Anu wanted to know the next day. Before mom could reply, he rolled his eyes and exclaimed, “Oh, never mind, I know what you’ll say …”

East or West, Indian food is best!

Excess Baggage

This time, the humans have started arguing even before their vacation has begun.

Normally, they wait to schedule arguments just before departure.

Dad: “What are you still doing in the kitchen? We’re going to miss the plane.”
Dad: “Everybody in the car! I’m almost done checking my e-mail.”
Dad: “Oof, I told you not to pack so much for a weekend trip. I can hardly lift these bags.”
Dad: “Why do you need three pairs of shoes? It’s a hiking trip.”
Dad: “So many jackets? Please! We’re going to the beach!”
Dad: “Do the kids really need all these snacks for the way?”

Depending on her mood, and how late she stayed up the night before laundering everybody’s underwear, mom will respond with stinging sarcasm or stony silence, so that by the time they’re on their way, the humans are mostly communicating through their kids.

“Ask Amma if she’s hungry. I need to make a quick stop at Starbucks.”

“You want to go pee pee? Go ask Appa to take you. And make sure you go potty also.”

When dad recently announced that their Thanksgiving plan this year included visiting family in the Great Lakes region, mom smiled excitedly, looking forward to a weekend of good food, merry company and possible shopping at Ann Arbor.

Mom: “Cool! Now we can get that Ultra grinder I’ve been thinking about.”
Dad: “Are you kidding me? I’m not lugging a grinder all the way back. Those things weigh a ton.”
Mom: “I know, but we’re going all the way there. Why can’t we .…”
Dad: “Just order it online. It’s less of a hassle.”
Mom: “What? And pay needlessly for shipping and handling?”
Dad: “Look, I’m telling you, it’s not worth it. We’re not bringing any appliances back.”

Clearly, dad feels his "coolness" factor would reduce a notch if some babe at the airport were to see him hauling an Ultra grinder. Hmmm, I wonder what the general babe reaction would be when they see him towing a laptop, a camcorder, not one but two cameras, a tripod, a pink sipper cup, a novel, an umbrella stroller and a wailing toddler to the very last departure gate at the airport.

Oh, and notice that woman behind him with the hawk eyes? The one throwing dagger looks at all scantily clad women who give new meaning to the term "travel light?"

Babes, beware; she’s a part of his baggage too.

And here’s to you, Mrs. Sampat

The day started off like any other: the sun shone bright; the sparrows milled around the bird feeder feasting on last year’s animal crackers from Costco that the kids had refused after the first bite; Kuki was pulling clothes from her closet; the table was littered with jigsaw puzzle pieces; and Anu had a few friends over on a play date.

Before the boys started pestering her for television and sugar-laden snacks, mom sniffed her armpits and decided a shower was in order.

While peeling off her clothes, she noticed that she had allowed her legs and arms to grow so hairy she could actually run a comb through the strands. Wondering if she might perhaps turn into an abominable snowwoman if she allowed nature to take its course, mom smeared depilatory cream on her limbs, and dabbed some on her upper lip as well, for good measure.

She ran the shower and turned toward the mirror, critically pinching the layers of fat on her hips. Humming the theme song from Naach, mom idly wondered if Antara Mali had had her chest surgically enhanced. How else could one explain her taut, smooth mammaries that neither jiggled nor bounced, and seemed to have a personality of their own?

Straightening her shoulders, mom turned to her side and sharply sucked in her belly, noting with some satisfaction the inflation of her own chest as her stomach muscles contracted. Belting out a number from the film, she bent down in a graceful plié and stretched her arms out, à la Antara, toward an imaginary Abhishek Bachchan standing on a windy crag in the distance.

And it was in that position that Anu and his friends found mom, as they barged into the master bedroom without knocking. Four pairs of eyes (six, if you count his friends’ eyeglasses) stared at mom, as she stood buck naked in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but depilatory cream and a sexy pout.

“Er … ma, what are you doing?” asked Anu. “And why do you have a milk moustache?”

Caught like a deer in the glare of oncoming headlights, mom froze, unsure of whether to remain in a semi-crouched position with her arms stretched out or to straighten up.

“Amma, you naked!” squealed Kuki, from behind the boys. “Guys, see, my mom’s not wearing underwear,” she pointed out.

“Can we play Xbox, ma?” continued Anu. “Please, please, please?”

Mom nodded mutely. At that moment, if Anu had asked for a hippopotamus for Christmas, she would have assented to that too.

“Cool, let’s go guys!” said Anu, running out the bathroom, followed by a giggling gaggle of eight-year-olds and one three-year-old.

Mom waited until she heard the bedroom door slam behind them.

Only then did she exhale.

Sweet Nothings

You’d think with all the free time she now has, mom would do something constructive – like, say, exercise and lose the flab she gained while warming a swivel chair for eight hours a day the last 13 months? Or maybe clean the gunk behind the refrigerator, wipe the ceiling fans, or at the very least, remove the hair on her legs instead of hiding them under jeans?

But our domestic diva, clearly, has other priorities. She feels she has to somehow make up for all the shopping she missed, all the talk shows she couldn't watch, all the blogs she couldn’t read and all the baking she put on a backburner.

That’s right; mom has recommenced baking with a vengeance. On any given afternoon, the house is redolent with the aroma of pumpkin pie spice, crumbly raspberry bars, melt-in-your-mouth cranberry scones, chewy chocolate chip cookies, etc.

While stirring a pot of caramel sauce with one hand, mom might crack eggs with the other or scratch her head to estimate 1/8 of a teaspoon. Not for her the Rachel Ray method of eye-balling ingredients and randomly throwing things in a bowl, giggling all the while. This woman takes her craft much too seriously and measures out ingredients with drug dealer precision.

“What is half of two-thirds?” she’ll ask dad, when he’s in the middle of writing codes or on a conference call halfway around the world. Unaware of the intricacies of baking, dad will spit out the exact figure, leaving mom to wonder how she could possibly measure light corn syrup in decimal points.

With all the delish decadence emanating from the kitchen, you’d think the family would revel in mom's confectionery creations. “But I want pink ice cream,” Kuki will whine, when presented with a choice of creamy custard or almond biscotti for an afternoon snack. “I’ll take it later,” dad will diplomatically say - his standard phrase for refusal.

Ingrates! One of these days, when the family asks her what’s for dinner, mom will be very tempted to say, “Eat cake instead!”

SAHM* I Am

At about 8:35 a.m. yesterday, mom was granted deliverance.

She was released from her corporate cage and thanked for the last 13 months of hard labor. The security guard handed her a stack of papers and she was wished well.

As the double doors closed behind her, mom emerged into the sunshine and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. She blinked a few times as her eyes adjusted to the green grass, the swaying trees, the scattered sprinklers and the chirping birds.

In the distance, she heard speeding cars. Men and women wearing business suits and dour expressions, their shoulders sagging with the weight of laptop cases and sheaves of papers, filed past her.

Mom turned her face heavenward and closed her eyes, savoring the warm rays of the sun on her pale, mottled skin. She breathed in the crisp morning air that smelled of freshly cut grass and exhaust fumes.

In a daze, mom made her way toward the parking lot. As she spotted her car, she broke into a sprint. The hairclip holding her hair came undone and her ponytail spilled onto her shoulders. Shaking her hair loose, mom's face broke into a wide grin and she ran through the parking lot, shouting, “Glory, Hallelujah!”

She was free.

*Stay At Home Mom