Cheap thrills

I suppose you could call it a date even though it didn’t feel like one.

For the second time since they became parents, the humans went out without the kids, but they didn’t hold hands, look deep into each other’s eyes or even make polite conversation. In fact, the only intimacy they shared in the darkened theater was eating from the same tub of popcorn.

And, yet, mom was as happy as a college coed. She was sitting next to her man, who had accompanied her to the movies after much arm-twisting. Even though he preferred holding a cold drink and popcorn to her warm hand, at least he was within nudging distance for the next 120 minutes.

It didn't really matter that the evening had started off on a sour note.

“Now look here, stop arguing with him over Rs.10,” said dad, as they hailed an auto rickshaw and asked him the fare to Sathyam Cinema.

“But it’s supposed to be around Rs.40,” protested mom, as the autowalla patiently watched husband and wife argue with each other instead of with him.

“I don’t understand why you’re so cheap,” said dad through gritted teeth. “You really need to change your attitude. I’ve put up with this behavior for 15 years now.”

Mom frowned. She wasn’t sure whether to correct dad on the cheapness accusation or the fact that they had only known each other the last 13 years.

Perhaps the situation could’ve been avoided had the humans taken the car, but mom would’ve observed that no matter the country or continent, dad still likes to park the car as far away from the entrance as possible, a quirk she still doesn't understand after more than a dozen years of marriage.

Fighting off a splitting headache caused by a sinus infection, mom followed dad into the theater for what she knew would be a mediocre movie, certainly not befitting 10 Oscar nominations.

“Do you have tea?” she asked hopefully at the concession stand, only to be met with the standard, “Sorry, madam, coffee only,” response.

Mom has observed that Chennai city is as friendly to tea drinkers as the Western world is to vegetarians. In fact, it’s far easier to find Camembert cheese in the metro than it is to find a cup of tea with the right amount of milk and sugar added.

Settling for bland popcorn instead, mom sat through Slumdog Millionaire, wondering what the Golden Globe committee had seen in the film or its music to bestow so many awards on it. It wasn’t the stark images of the slums or the abuse of little children that bothered her so much as did Anil Kapoor’s orange mustache contrasting with his jet-black hair.

The humans’ return journey by auto was as eventful as their arrival.

“Rs.60? What nonsense! We only paid Rs.50 to get here,” exclaimed mom, dismissing hovering autos outside the theater.

“Let me handle this,” said dad, pushing her aside.

“Rs.70 only, saar,” said a khaki-clad driver, beckoning the humans to get in.

“I won’t give a naya paisa above Rs.40,” hollered mom, pulling dad by the sleeve and raising her fist at the driver.

“Why are you doing this?” dad turned to mom, confronting her in front of the auto rickshaw driver. “I thought we had discussed this already. Stop being so cheap!”

“Cheap? I’m not cheap,” retorted mom. “That’s the standard fare. This guy's taking us for a ride.”

“You think I’m an idiot?” countered dad. “Really, I’ve been tolerating this attitude of yours for over 15 years now …”

“Seri, saar, give me Rs.60. OK vaa?” interrupted the driver, putting an end to further discussion between a peeved husband and his peevish wife.

The pair rode silently home, making sure they sat in the auto without body parts touching. Mom looked pointedly to the right, dad looked to his left. As the auto bumped along over potholes and the humans were thrown against each other, mom let out a deep sigh.

"One of these days," she thought, "when this episode is behind us, I need to gently remind the man that we’ve only known each other the last 13 years, not 15!"

Don’t ask why

Grandpa called early in the morning. “Do you know there’s a solar eclipse today?”

“Here it comes,” groaned mom inwardly, bracing herself for a list of dos and don’ts as long as a sacred cow’s tail.

“I’m not asking you to do much,” began grandpa diplomatically. “Just stay indoors and don’t look at the sun in the afternoon.”

“Of course,” said mom, somewhat surprised that the list was practical and short.

“OK?” continued grandpa. “And if possible, eat lunch before noon.”

“Why?”

“You might get minor indigestion, that’s all,” trod grandpa carefully, noting the slight edge creeping into mom’s voice. "By the way, it would be nice if you gave some money to the needy today."

"But I usually give food to the needy," mom wanted to protest, even as grandpa informed her that the charitable contribution on this particular day was to ward off ill effects to her birth star.

“Oh, before I forget, you have to take another bath at exactly 4:15 p.m. today,” said grandpa in conclusion.

Despite mom's advanced age, there are times when parental regulations make her want to hit her head rather forcefully against the closest wall.

Her parents can be forgiven for their beliefs as they belong to a different generation, but what does one make of the U.S.-returned neighbor who argues that there's a "scientific reason" behind not eating during an eclipse, throwing away leftovers and bathing right after one?

What's the scientific reason, you ask politely? The woman shrugs her shoulders, but "it's been proven," apparently.

After listening to her, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to learn that pregnant women here are still locked up during an eclipse and not allowed to handle sharp objects.

Progress, people! Maybe we'll get there someday.

Back from cool ooru

Who would've thought mom had it in her to turn heads? Of average height and unremarkable appearance, the woman slouches and has the personality of a ruminant bovine on most days.

But on a recent Friday night, as she and her girlfriends walked into Shiro, an upscale lounge bar in Bangalore, all heads turned and conversation came to a standstill.

“Wow, this is probably what a celebrity feels like when she enters a room,” thought mom, automatically straightening her shoulders and sucking her stomach in, until she realized that people were staring because she was dressed in a loose salwar kameez with a matching bindi, and was wearing her mother’s pearls.

The female patrons at the bar seemed oblivious to the night chill and wore clothes better suited to a fashion runway, while Exhibit A mom huddled in a shawl exactly like the one Mrs. Dhingra, her college lecturer, wore when she sunned herself on the college lawn and shelled peanuts in between classes.

Mom has no one but herself to blame for this fashion faux pas. After living in a neighborhood where maamis wander around in faded nighties with a towel thrown over their bosom, she was somewhat unprepared for the trendy set in Bangalore.

As she went around town, mom observed that the women in Bangalore are nattily dressed even when they rush to the closest Iyengar bakery to buy bread. Many a times did she trip and fall on non-existent sidewalks as she admired slim legs encased in fitting jeans and perky breasts swinging under snug tops.

When she wasn't staring at comely maidens with long tresses and sharp features, mom spent quality time with old friends, couples she and dad have known since H-1 visa days who are now living it up in Bangalore. With alcohol flowing and household help hovering in the background, the group reminisced and fondly watched the next generation forging bonds.

Visits to relatives were squeezed in between, and mom also managed to meet not one, but two friends from the online world, and spoke to two others she would’ve loved to meet in person.

Her first stop was at DS’s who doesn’t blog yet, but makes up for it by leaving entertaining comments here. As she walked into this virtual stranger’s house, mom was greeted by the smell of simmering apricots.

“Remember that post?” asked DS, as mom racked her brains. “I thought I’d make you some Qubani ka meetha.” (Note to self: Write more about food!)

As mom hovered in the kitchen, DS bustled around pouring, boiling, cooking, stirring, brewing tea and making warm conversation a la Rachel Ray. The Qubani, when it cooled, was well worth the wait of a lifetime, and mom threw etiquette aside to lick the spoon until it reflected her face.

DS is also a baker, and it has been brought to her kind attention that mom has a weakness for white flour and sugar.

The next day, mom rang the doorbell at Anitha’s house. Much like her writing, Anitha’s home is neat and methodical, yet vibrant and stimulating. Looking at the houseplants in the balcony, the earthy orange and yellow hues peeking from the bedrooms, and a haunting oil painting of a woman holding a lamp hung in the drawing room, it’s easy to tell that a creative soul resides in the house who also happens to tend her thoughts with equal care.

Even though Anitha has hidden her old pieces from public view, some of her writing has left such an indelible impression that were she a spider and I a fly, I’d willingly walk into her parlor without waiting for an invitation.

Stuffed with good food and stimulated by superlative company during their short stay in the ex-garden city, the humans boarded the train back home. As the railway staff served them meals in courses, the family noted that the vegetable soup was missing vegetables, the samosas smelled stale, the dal was a little runny, the yoghurt too sweet, and the only recognizable vegetable in the mixed curry was a cauliflower floret poking through. “Yucky! Hot! Spicy! I want pasta!” were the comments heard through the compartment on the return trip.

And to think that not so long ago, these very same people were grateful to receive salted peanuts or mini pretzels on five-hour long plane journeys. Sigh! How they've changed.

Potable poison

The customers teeming around the roadside wine shops after dark remind her of flies buzzing around an impaled goat carcass in a butcher shop.

Watching the men from the safe confines of a darkened car, mom wonders at their level of desperation as they hold their money aloft and trip over each other in order to reach the counter and quench their thirst.

The ones who manage to worm their way through the throng emerge triumphant, carefully clutching their sachet of liquid gold. A few patrons huddle silently, squatting under a dim streetlight like peasants, their bellies already sated with drink.

The putrescence of their surroundings do not seem to affect the men; indeed, they contribute to the existing feculence by hurling great gobs of spit around them or nonchalantly using the back wall to relieve themselves.

A group of boys in jeans, barely men yet, support a friend as he doubles over and vomits the venom out of his body. While one offers him water, another encourages him to take a drag, followed by a swig from a dark bottle. The boy obliges and gulps clumsily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, while his cohorts cheer and slap his back, making him feel like a man.

As the light changes to green and the car pulls away, mom thinks about her housemaid. “You do know her husband’s a drunkard, right?” her former employer informed mom one evening.

“Oh? I thought he was a painter,” replied mom dimly, not wanting to believe that the woman who hums while cleaning our bathrooms leads a troubled home life.

Was the maid's husband at a similar wine shop tonight, relieving himself of his day's wages? Does he go home and beat her? How does she manage her brood of three children on her slim earnings? Did she choose to have children or were they forced on her? Why does she stay with him? Why doesn’t she just leave?

“You know, all these men are drunkards,” the maid's former employer said softly, sweeping her arms to include her own gardener, chauffeur and the night watchman hovering nearby.

In the face of such despondency, don't you think the women should be out drinking instead?

HNY!*

Mom: “How was your dinner last night?”

Dad: “It was OK. I saw Abhishek Bacchan and Aishwarya Rai seated at another table. One of the guys pointed them out. They were having dinner with someone called Shobana.”

Mom: “Oh, Shobana is a Bharatanatyam dancer/actress with traditional Indian looks. She’s so beautiful! Right?

Dad: “I don’t know. I didn’t see her properly.”

Mom: “Oh, OK, never mind. Tell me, tell me … Aishwarya Rai ... Did she take your breath away? I bet she looks as beautiful off-screen as she does on-screen, even without loads of makeup. Tell me, na? Isn’t she drop-dead gorgeous?”

Dad: “Hmm, I don’t know. I didn’t really notice.”

While it’s comforting to note that mom has trained him well, a better response would’ve been to grab mom by the waist and declare, “Yes, Aishwarya Rai’s gorgeous, but then so are you,” followed by some heavy-duty neck nuzzling and nape kissing.

Obviously, mom’s work here is not done yet.

*Happy New Year to you all!