Mom proposes, dad defers

The humans went out to lunch. Together. With no children to interrupt their attention every 3.5 seconds.

Now such an event may seem ordinary to you if you’re blessed with a spouse who enjoys spending time with you, but for mom, a couple outing is the equivalent of a hormonal teenager spending time with an adult magazine behind closed doors.

In fact, she is still pinching herself at her good fortune, because the last time mom was alone with dad - outside their bedroom, that is - they went for a movie after much arm-twisting on her part.

As with most good things in life, this "date" was completely unplanned. It started with mom getting heartburn in the morning after regurgitating the previous night’s dinner of spicy chickpeas.

Craving non-Indian food for lunch, she crossed her fingers and asked dad, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, if he wanted to go out that morning. “You know … go for a drive … maybe grab some lunch on the way?”

With heart hammering, she waited for him to veto the idea. Instead, he surprised her with an “OK, where do you want to go?”

Perhaps dad’s ready acceptance was the result of a recent spat between the humans over … um … er … what the hell was it about anyway? … that resulted in both parties avoiding each other for a few days.

Maybe the cold shoulder and the dry spell got to him, or maybe the spicy chickpeas were irritating his stomach lining as well. Whatever the reason, dad not only took his wife out, he also made conversation that extended beyond his habitual, “Hmmm.”

The humans headed to a restaurant that came with high recommendations. “You simply must go there,” gushed a friend, setting up lofty expectations of lip-smacking Continental food.

The place was filled with expats and the menu looked promising, but after a bite of her aubergine dish, mom wondered if the nondescript dosai place they had passed on the way might have been a better option.

It probably would’ve been a lot cheaper too, for when they were presented with the bill, the restaurant had inflated mom’s Rs. 70 dish to a whopping Rs. 250.

“They probably just made a mistake,” said dad. Mom had her own theories, but for the sake of marital accord, she decided not to voice them.

After lunch, trying to push her luck and prolong the “date,” mom suggested they drive out of the way to a grocery store called Spar. “They have a big liquor section,” she added quickly, before the frown lines formed on dad’s forehead.

Built with NRIs in mind, Spar is everything a Nilgiri’s or a Reliance Fresh is not. The first time she went there, mom had to keep reminding herself that she was still in India. Smiling expats wheeled their carts around saying, “Excuse me,” when they had to pass; the aisles were wide enough to accommodate might-is-right NRIs who leave their manners behind at the Frankfurt airport; and the staff made an attempt to guide shoppers instead of delivering the standard “Gothilla,” when asked for help.

As usual, mom came home loaded with stuff she didn’t really need. More importantly, she came home smiling. No, dad didn’t buy her roses as she secretly wished, but he did reach for her hand instinctively as they crossed a busy intersection, and didn’t object when she fiddled with the radio channels in the car.

What’s that?

Why, yes, it did rain that day.

Why do you ask?

Judging a book by its cover

A book on AIDS?

Normally, mom would’ve passed by without a second glance. “Aiyyo, too depressing,” would’ve been her excuse before moving on.

However, a chance encounter with a flame-red jacket stopped her in her tracks at the local library last week.

AIDS sutra rang a bell. A distant bell that evoked Sonia Faleiro’s post last year on her essay being one of the 16 stories in the book.

An avowed fan of Sonia’s reportage, mom devours her writing - courtesy her blog - as greedily as a hungry cat laps up milk. Some of her profiles, such as the series on bar girls, domestic servants and farmer suicides have moved mom to tears, despair at human suffering intermingling with admiration at the author's mastery of prose.

As expected, Sonia’s exposé on police brutality toward sex workers in her essay, "Maarne ka, Bhagane ka," does not disappoint. Like all other chapters in the book, her feature is also raw, honest, sad, terrifying, insightful and compelling.

What else can one expect from contributors such as Rushdie, Desai, Dalrymple, Seth, Dé, etc.? Sonia deserves her spot among the stars.

Chalti ka naam Mummy

What Chennai couldn’t do in 11 months, Bangalore accomplished in a few days.

The city, known internationally for its infamous traffic, forced mom to get behind the wheel of a car.

Of course, circumstances also played a part.

“Look, I can't take you shopping every single day,” remarked dad after a second run to the grocery store in two days. “I can take you out every 10 days or so, so plan your purchases accordingly.”

“Like hell I will!” thought mom, picking up the car keys in a huff the next afternoon and driving to the closest home store, determined to burn a hole the size of her ego in dad’s pocket.

People on the road honked at her, she forgot to change gears, her car stalled at a red light, but mom was filled with a sense of accomplishment when she returned from her maiden trip.

Since rediscovering a little of her former independence – the rest will follow as soon as she lands a job – mom finds that she is no longer afraid of the road.

She’s not the problem, you see? It’s the others out there who don’t know how to drive.

Men on two-wheelers are clearly suicidal; truck and bus drivers consider their vehicles as a phallic symbol; auto rickshaw drivers are savvy opportunists; and chauffeurs, a rude and belligerent lot with bad hygiene.

It took mom a few forays outside her gate before she started using the horn. The first time, she cruised in first gear behind an old man herding his goats home. “Oh, look at the babies; how cute!” admired mom, not wanting to signal her presence and frighten the herd.

The impatient driver behind her - a chauffeur, naturally - did not share her sentiments. He brought the bucolic scene to an abrupt end by leaning on his horn and scattering the goats in confusion, before roaring off in a cloud of dust.

These days, mom uses the horn judiciously. Unlike most other drivers, however, she’s not raring to go at red lights or trying to pass slower vehicles. When mom honks, she's trying to convey a message. It’s this mild mannered, genteel woman's way of saying, “F – you!” to all the bad drivers out there.

She thinks her mother would approve.

The Gods must be Crazy

Grandma: “How do the kids like their new school?”

Mom: “Anu doesn’t have a class teacher yet.”

Grandma: “Oh, why don’t you apply? You can teach English or French. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

Mom: “Grrrr, Amma, why do you bring it up every week? I don’t want to teach!”

Grandma: “Foolish child, just think, you’ll get two months off every year, you can eat lunch in school for free and ride with the children on the school bus. It’s so cushy; it’s almost as good as a bank job.”

Mom: “Ma, one should like teaching to be in the profession. I believe you should have a flair for it. It requires dedication, patience and …”

Grandma: “What nonsense. You think all teachers are like that?”

Mom: “Exactly! That's why certain people should never teach. Besides, I can earn more if I join a corporation.”

Grandma: “Yeah, right, as though the corporate world is knocking on your door offering you a plum job. (Muttering under her breath and walking away) Srinivasa, when will this girl learn?”

Perhaps the gods heard grandma’s plea, for mom received the following e-mail from a recruiter this morning:

Position: Marketing Ex.
Type of Job: Selling broadband through Vsat to the various corporates in Kabul
Must possess a valid Passport, And excellent Communication Skills (English- Spoken)

Suddenly, that teaching gig is starting to look mighty tempting.

Maid-to-order

The best part about living in a housing community, mom was told, was that there would be no dearth of household help. “If one maid leaves, another one will take her place,” friends and relatives told her.

Thus reassured, mom moved into her new house under the impression that the line of women queuing up outside our door would be as long as the one outside a local ration shop.

We soon found out that what these well-meaning people omitted to mention was the quality of people knocking on our door offering their services.

“You want me to work for how much?” some of the domestics exclaimed in disbelief. “The people in that house pay Rs. 3,000. That’s the going rate here, goththa?” they informed, highly offended.

“See what I said about the cost of living in Bangalore?” muttered grandma, deftly dispatching women who arrived with such tall claims.

“Mein kaam karoongi, didi,” one applicant informed mom. “Pay me whatever you like. I never overcharge my fellow north Indians.” Upon learning that mom hailed from the south of the Vindhyas, the woman diplomatically replied, “So what? We’re all Indians, aren't we? Ham sab ek hain.”

The next morning she sent a friend in her place. “Treat me like your mother, beta,” the elderly woman said, huffing and puffing as she climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. “So many stairs in your house, baba! I can only do light housework as this is my first job.”

Another servant maid brought her eighth-grader along and set her to work downstairs while she cleaned upstairs. Mother-daughter duo cleaned four bathrooms, swept, swabbed and washed dishes in 10 minutes, setting a world record in Domestic Olympics. They also left a few faucets open and a trail of body odor in their wake.

The duo's replacement fared no better.

“Do you speak Tamil?” asked mom.

The woman nodded and replied in Kannada.

"Did you sweep the porch today?"

The woman nodded even though she had forgotten to.

“Did you take out the trash?”

Of course she hadn't, but she nodded.

"Wait a minute, did you just clean the bathroom with the kitchen sponge?"

Mom was graced with another nod as the woman returned the dirty sponge to the kitchen.

"Here's your money for the last 10 days and a little bit extra. Please don't come back, OK?"

The maid nodded happily. "See you tomorrow," she said on the way out.

"You just need to find the right match," neighbors cluck in sympathy.

Such a person does exist, two of them in fact, who left our house sparkling and smelling of citrus rather than body odor.

Unfortunately, they don't live in this country.