Come on baby, light my fire

In her salad days, reading unrequited romances would’ve had mom swooning on the floor with a glazed look in her eyes. With one hand clutching the paperback and the other hand on her heart, she would’ve been a simpering mess, conscious of the goose pimples straining to erupt through her skin.

For example, she once devoured The Bridges of Madison County in the backseat of a car as dad and a friend drove through two states along the Pacific coast. Instead of admiring the verdant landscape or listening to fascinating guy talk in the front seat, mom sighed through the whole trip and gazed out the window with unseeing eyes to still her beating heart.

These days, however, chick lit romance has begun to annoy her, in much the same way an aunt once told her to stop filling her head with nonsense. “You know, husbands are very different from heroes,” the aunt said, noting the book in mom’s hand.

After reading Message in a Bottle recently, a soppy, syrupy romance where the male protagonist sheds tears and writes love letters, mom is inclined to believe the old woman was right after all.

Consider the following passage from the book:

They stood with their arms around each other, kissing in the moonlight for a long time, neither of them caring if anyone could see them. They had both waited too long for this moment, and when they finally pulled back, they stared at each other.

So far, so good. The couple return home and kiss more passionately as they shut the door, trembling with anticipation. One would expect them to proceed directly to second base, but it seems there's something far more urgent to be done first (no, it's not loading the dishwasher).

She walked to the kitchen, picked up the two candles from the table, and led him to the bedroom. She put the candles on his bureau, and he pulled the matches from his pocket, lighting them as she walked to the windows and began to close the curtains.

Now, there are many reasons why lovemaking should be interrupted – crying children, a nosy pet, nature's call, servant knocking on the door, mother-in-law on the phone, even power cuts in the summer come to mind – but somehow, mood lighting doesn’t seem like a valid excuse.

Some of you may claim that candles are as integral to romance as frosting is to cake, but I can't seem to envision even a hypothetical scenario set under an Indian sun.

Woman to man: “Is it in yet?”
Man: “I don’t know. I can’t see. Let me turn the light on.”
Woman: “No, no, I hate the glare from the tube light. I'll get a headache.”
Man: “Fine, I’ll turn the bathroom light on.”
Woman: “Hello, we can't keep the door open. The air conditioner is on. Let’s light candles instead. That’s how they do it in the movies.”

Pause.

Man: "And I suppose you want me to go get them?"
Woman: “Well, I'm not going through the house in the dark. There might be lizards. You get the candles, I'll put some soft music on. Kenny G would set the mood.”
Man: “Kenny G? You’re kidding, right? I can’t stand him.”
Woman: “Well, I refuse to do it to the strains of Hotel California.”
Man: “Oh, fine. Let’s skip the music then. Where are the candles?”
Woman: “You don’t know? They’re in the drawing room showcase, where they’ve been for the past year. You never noticed?”
Man: “I didn’t. And where are the matches?”
Woman: “Right there in the puja room.”

Silence.

Woman: “What happened? Oh, God, are you coming? I thought you were going.”
Man: “Er … you want me to go into the puja room in this condition?”

It's just as I suspected, candles in India are only useful during power outages.

Canine couplings

They say dogs make wonderful teachers.

Why, as a lad, even actor Akshay Kumar learned a thing or two from his pet dog. In a recent interview in People magazine, he said he first learned about sex from the family dog, “I had a really overactive dog, so I thought I would save my parents the embarrassment of teaching me. I just copied the dog. His name was Thumper.”

Mom frowned in disapproval when she read the statement. She’s of the firm belief that pets need to be sterilized (and Akki perhaps needs to keep his pants zipped up). But she realized, even as she winced, that her own children were being subjected to this candid form of coitus.

“See how those dogs are playing, mom?” her little one points as she spots the colony kuttas exercising their pelvic muscles in the middle of the street. “So cute. Can we pet them?”

The neighborhood canines have taught mom that spring is not the only time of year for creating or birthing babies. Over the last few months, we have spotted furry litters almost every other week, snuggling against each other in vacant plots, open drains and under shady trees.

The little balls of fluff are universally cute, and even though she warns her children not to get attached to strays, mom cannot resist holding a warm puppy close to her heart and whispering sweet nothings in its ear.

“Why can’t we take them home?” her daughter insists.

“Because there are just too many,” sighs mom, bracing herself for the tantrum that invariably follows.

The first batch of puppies brought home from a street corner died before they made it to the animal shelter. The second batch found at a construction site were dropped off at the Blue Cross, but mom discovered the very next day that the puppy population in the neighborhood is almost on par with the human residents.

On any given morning, as they walk to school, mom and the children are subject to humping curs who seem unmindful of blaring horns, roaring motorcycles, the searing sun or an occasional rock hurled at them.

The first time her son spotted an amorous couple at a red light, the mongrels were in the throes of a post-coital embrace.

“Hey, look at those dogs, they’re stuck to each other’s butts,” he cried out.

Mom tried to distract her gaping children by pointing instead to the derelict beggar woman who approached their car and rattled her bowl for coins.

“But how will they walk if they’re attached to each other?” continued her son in alarm, fully expecting his mother to hop out of the car, run across two lanes of traffic and physically pry the lovers apart before they were run over by impatient cars.

Each time the issue comes up, and it crops up with alarming regularity given the sights they're exposed to, mom tries to explain the baby-making business as best as she can to her children.

“No, no, they’re not playing. Soon, that black dog will have puppies. Well, that’s how dogs make babies. Er… right, by standing on top of each other. Yes, I’m pretty sure the black dog’s a female. No, I can’t see from this distance, but the one standing on top of her is a male. How do I know? Look, I just know, OK?”

One day, in response to the “What’s that thing between his legs and why doesn't Terri have one?” question generated by a passing mutt, mom launched into a detailed description of sterilizing dogs and its numerous benefits. The five-year-old seemed to lose interest, but her son stared at her and nodded solemnly. Using me as a role model, mom ended her lecture with, “And that’s why Terri can’t have puppies. Understand?”

In the days that followed, with no other coital questions forthcoming, mom felt rather pleased with herself for the excellent instruction she had dispensed as a parent.

When news traveled from across the continent about a 13-year-old father, mom thought rather smugly that her son, though only 10 years old, is surely smarter. Therefore, she was entirely unprepared for the recent exchange between brother and sister.

“Anu, why can’t we bring that cute puppy on the corner home?”

“Because Amma will get angry.”

“But I want a puppy! I wish Terri could have puppies. Terri, why are you smerilized?”

“Not smerilized, silly. Sterilized.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Anyway, Terri can’t have puppies because he’s a boy. Only girl dogs can have puppies, not boys!"

Sigh! It’s back to the drawing board for mom as she wonders what part of the sterilization process her son retained, other than how to spell the word and pronounce it.

What a bummer!

With each passing day, mother gets more and more depressed.

No, it’s not because her parents left after the winter break, and mom now has to awake early to fetch the milk from the front gate before the crows peck at the packets.

It’s also not because dad threw in the towel after more than 14 years with the same corporation and both humans are now officially jobless. The poor man deserves to take a break, although mom has started dreading the casual, “Where does your husband work?” question directed at her in social situations. She’s noticed that nobody ever asks her where she works (not that she does), making her wonder whether she looks like the quintessential Indian housewife or a costly kept woman.

Mom's low spirits have less to do with her appearance (wait, is that even possible?) and more with the fact that nearly eight months after their move, the humans are about to run out of American toilet paper.

In a matter of hours or even minutes, depending on the family’s output, the last ply of Kirkland embossed bath tissue will disappear forever down the drain, leaving only a bare cardboard roll and a naked behind in its wake.

Smug NRIs, for whom quilted bath tissue is only a short walk away to the nearest restroom, may wonder what the crisis is compared to the more serious depression in the bear market. Isn't toilet paper as close as the nearest Nilgiri's? Or has the humans’ current jobless state affected their purchasing proclivities?

The problem is India manufactures sand paper that’s packaged and sold as toilet paper. A few vigorous wipes by the local brand can leave one with an inflammation in sensitive areas that are not even allowed to be kissed by the delicate rays of the sun.

Mom was not always a convert. Before she left Indian shores, she used paper the way Goddess Saraswati intended. Faithful use of the product for the last 15 years, however, has left her the kind of person who now stuffs her handbag with more toilet paper than money for unforeseen emergencies.

If she could, mom would request visiting relatives from abroad to dispense with the perfumes, chocolate, scented candles, saffron and dried fruit, and bring her gifts of ultra soft bath tissue instead.

“But paati said toilet paper is disgusting,” her children inform her when she berates them for using more than they require. According to mom, a wet bathroom is even more so. Besides, how does one walk around in damp underwear all day?

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.