No squeak, pipsqueak

“God, your shelves and desk thing is amazing!” exclaims a girl on facebook. No interior designer herself, she leaves this comment on her ex-boyfriend’s profile after seeing all his furniture pictures. He doesn’t snigger. He doesn’t say anything.

~

An obituary goes to print late at night with the brand new daughter in law’s name spelt incorrectly. It’s Meenakshi. Not Minakshi. Thank you very much. The family doesn’t say anything.

~

A very post-pubescent gentleman on facebook takes shirtless photos of himself, wearing shades, light reflecting off the bathroom mirror in the background, highlighting his cheek that is stricken with red blotchy pimples. There is a whole series of such ugly snaps. All two hundred and eighty on the friend list get the notification, ki profile picture has changed. But not one comment, no one cries Rahul, change it. Nobody says anything.

~

Woman tears up her husband’s synopsis of his book. It’s war fiction, now in shreds. The draft is ruined and his effort, irretrievable. There’s no frisky puppy in the drawing room to blame. The wife doesn’t apologise. Nobody says anything.

~

They look engaged on facebook, the young couple, but perhaps only because the assumption is such. And the place where the photograph was taken is conducive to the belief. 'Very good, very good, shaadi ho gayi!' It’s the vibe -- his formal attire, her possibly-bridal sari, yellow lighting and their tall, committed body language. She’s pestered to reply, to clear the air, to accept the congratulations, and say something – “no no, it’s not like that, but ha ha, thanks for the kind wishes.” Yes? No. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing to do, this golden silence, pretend goodness, keep shut, and not say anything.

Insect in my ear

I’ve been given a blue tooth ear piece by the boyfriend (for whom I still need a nick name) so that I can drive and talk, and still not cause a pile up.

Most thoughtful gesture, I think. Except that trying it on even for a moment makes me feel silly. A fancy Bluetooth hearing-aid type device for hands free phone usage is really not something I would have out of my own doing.

(Note to nick-nameless boyfriend: it’s like you and pink shirts, or you and squeaky voices, or you and green vegetables.)

So anyway, here I am, trying to figure out how to work the damn thing, while hoping that undoing my hair should camouflage it and people don’t think what a fool.

In other news, I taught my five-year-old niece how to use MS paint. After the first five minutes, the novelty of watching her colour the walls of a house purple wore off. The kid has problems drawing stars. And how do you explain to someone that much younger that grass is not round. And so I had to take over and show little Leonardo how it’s done, thereby keeping myself entertained for the better part of a Sunday morning.

Saved by the lube

Not quite that, but against my wish, I had my first ultrasound today. It was just a stupid lump on the top of my spine. But I couldn't resist imagining the worst. Cancer! Malignant! Shit! This is how it happens; you go for one bloody check up by mistake and next thing you know, doc says you have five months to live!

Sure enough, within ten seconds, fat-fat tears had welled up. And there I was, missing my father, almost peeing in my college-days salwar, and hating that obnoxious cold jelly applied on the top of my neck. Some hideous node kept showing up on that black and white screen. We must've been in that teeny room for all of 8 mins. Long enough to picture your death scene and people's reactions to finding out you're gone. Shit, I owe Ruch 500 bucks. I think of how devastated my mother would be. What would she wear, come to think of it.. then I mentally skim through her wardrobe and give up. Oh! My brother, poor guy! He would have to take the train back to Delhi, A/C 2 tier or some third class shit. And and live with sympathy from his troops. Heard about your sister man, they'd say. And not own up to always sort of having had a crush on her. Heh. Sigh. I move on. Jump to the thought of my poor unborn babies. They wont' be no babies! All thanks to the cursed results of this deathly ultrasound!



More tears.

I keep em coming.

Could feel my nose swell.

It's only three minutes into this torturous exercise. I miss my brother. I think of my loves. I think of my colleagues. I think of the most obscure people. I follow that with how silly it is to not get the lead characters in my life to flash before my eyes! Would it matter to my boss if I copped it? He's probably fond of me, but I doubt it's a loss he'll feel at work. Damn. I'm so morbid.

Imagine my relief when they tell me it's nothing serious. No injections, no surgery, no death.

Of course, if I never post again, you know you sorta liked me. ;)

Shalini has a son that’s three years old!! OMG

This, the one line mail I have from my friend, Nanta first thing this morning.

Nanta’s a panic master.

Me: not so much.

We go on to exchange 24 inane emails about Shalini and her son. All this could’ve been said on chat. But I think we enjoy Gmail so much, that we’d do anything for that pale yellow pop-down updating us each of new emails from the other.

Me: What do you suppose? We plan our pregnancies so our kids can 'hang'?

She: She looks about 30.

Me: No ya, she looks very young. As does the kid:P. Oh and Chani's expecting in July, it seems.

(We’re talking about our classmates back in school, naturally)

She: OMG : ( : ( these women make me feel old!!

Me: And barren.

Me (again) : They make me feel OLD, BARREN, and husband-less! :D

She: NO. I WANT kids… EVENTUALLY! But I flipped out when I saw the SIZE of that kid.

She (again) : I don’t give a shit about a husband, man. I have a job. And there are many flirt-worthy men:)

Me: Eventually = 28 or 32?

She: Eventually: 1st at 30, second at 32. Bas. Can you imagine having a baby right now?!

Me: What if there's a triplet googly at 26? Huh? Then what will you do? Plans don't work how we want em to my love..

She: Oho. Dont ruin it for me :). At least you’re all nice and settled with A

Me: Yeaa. A will make a good father.

She: yes, he will. =) As will C boy. sigh :) I can totally see him teaching kiddies Math :D haha… what’s the harm in daydreaming..

Me: Yep. Daydreaming is healthy. I like day dreaming. In fact, if I were awake all night, it’s what I'd do – daydream. And plan my house with A and the kids:). It's still what I do.

She: You'll have tall kids :D how nice to have that certainty :) you guys discussed this?

Me: No..we haven't sat and ‘discussed’ it. But you know, stray thinking-out-loud happens. He’s a little shy about it. Or maybe he thinks talking about it will jinx the eventuality that I am so certain of. But I know he thinks it: Tall kids, a beagle, and a big garden for tall people. I don't like the idea of a flat too much. And obviously they'll have to pick up an instrument. And a language, I suppose -- all at daddy’s behest. I won't force them. Automatically turn into the favourite parent. Haha. I only wish they learn to speak properly and not dig their nose when we have you and flirtworthy gent over for Sunday lunches…

See how giggly rubbish banter = key to a good fwiendship?

Foot loose and hands free

My Mother calls me, I'd say, about eight times a day. If she has somewhere exciting to be, like a mall or a tennis match or a party, the number could drop to, say, four. There are days though, that eight becomes fifteen. But the duration of our conversations remain the same. In one minute and eighteen seconds, we've covered everything there is to talk about. Such is the power of getting straight to the point.

Today, mommy was out of the house early. So the first call at 10 a m, was a morning morning, did I wake you? No, good, acha have anda bhurjia for breakfast...

Eighty seconds.

In another half hour, instructions for the maid.

In the next forty five, I leave the house.

In between calls from my mumma, father dearest calls. He's on his way back from golf and he's called to say hi. Also to say that the bad spell seems to be over -- he won his game. I ask him how much; eighty bucks. And how much did you tip the caddy?; hundred bucks. I tell him he's the limit. He laughs. Then asks whether I'll have dinner at home. Doesn't lose the opportunity to tell me eating out all the time is unhealthy and that, I, child, better get some exercise.

This call was about three-four minutes.

Four hours later, mumma calls again. Something about this super cake she's made so "come home fast." I try and reason that nobody else will eat it in the time, so it doesn't really matter WHEN I get home. "Anyway, see you at home".

Disconnected. Under a minute, this call.

The sixth call of the day is to tell me to keep my afternoon free the next day because we have to go over to so and so's for lunch. Fine, I say, but I'm going for a puppet show after that, so let lunch not pull on till high tea. Oh, puppet show, where, even I want to come!

...

Oh-kayy, so from it being a date just with boyfriend, the families are all going to watch puppets.

Deep breath.

Next call is twenty minutes later, and equally quick. "N, sweetheart, we've just reached the wedding. Papa's just parking. What time are you going home? There's nice khana in the fridge."

I recongise the restraint in my tone, "soon ma, soon, okay? Bye now, very busy. I'll eat later"

She calls me back in 8 mins. "What ya, Ma? I have work!"

"Nanu just called. Amar mama ji died."

"What...? Where?"

"What do you mean where," she snaps, "In Doon, where else.."

"Oh... when...?"

I feel a twinge. Amar mama ji was a nice guy. My grandmother's elder brother, at 93 and till yesterday, he could read without his glasses. Every year, he would send me a card for my birthday and really fill it up with blessings without making it holy bore of a read.

I feel bad for my grandmother. She's no spring chicken, but losing your last sibling can't be fun. I'll speak to Nanu, I think. And I'll call my brother to hear his voice. "Hi," I'll say. "Did Mama call you?" He'll say "haan." "I heard. Amar mama ji na?" Then I'll make a hmm sound and we'll both be quiet and say something inadequate. Soon enough, we'll change the topic. And I will put the phone down, summarising another three-minute call.

4 p m on some idle Tuesday afternoon

I messaged my boss yesterday in the afternoon saying I’m not coming in to work because of my “debilitating period cramps”.

He never replied and that bothered me the whole time. When I see him today, he may pass a tart remark and I could possibly feel like shit. Then again, he may not because, well, he’s a man, and they are sometimes quiet and ball-less.

In my half a day of vegetation in front of the TV, I ate multiple slices of homemade cake with ice cream and chocolate sauce, telling myself this is lunch and everyone needs a weekly indulgence. Tuesday’s lounging cum debauchery included reruns of Dawson’s Creek and Gilmore Girls. Destressing half-day, I thought, except for those damn cramps. And the fact that Katie Holmes should, must, please and definitely be crucified. Irritating, that prissy know-all look of hers.

Or maybe I’ve just gotten too used to enjoying Grey’s Anatomy. But watching Gilmore Girls reminded me of the problem I had with that show: The mother-daughter dialogues flow too fast. Their banter is automatic to an unconvincing extent. Too ready, too scripted, too teen-patti, if you know what I mean. There isn’t a single second in the series where any of the actors stay silent. Pay attention next time. Or just stick to watching Grey’s.

Which in a meandering sort of way, reminds me, the Gmail inbox now has a lowercase ‘I’: inbox now, not Inbox. Is nobody else slightly alarmed and curious about why they would do this to us? The Times of India’s edit page can hardly be such a trend setter!

In other all-about-me news, I bought pretty white heels from The Shoe Garage on a tip from this one here who collected some 5 pairs. En route to Shah Pur Jat (where TSG is) I was told by the no-blog-link boyfriend that “I can’t believe you thought you were going to come here on your own.” Something about be stupid get raped. I didn’t think I was making him drive me there for no reason, but anyway, it’s good footwear, lovely for summer and cheaper than Hyde Out. Beat that.

I also had waffles second day in a row. They didn’t charge us for the ice cream, nicely enough. See, the day was interesting enough.

And then, seated in one Stein Auditorium, while the love of my life was trying to break my wrist getting at the nitrogen in my knuckles, we saw Amitabh Bachchan. Most surreal sentence. But there he was, Anthony Gonsalves, the man, up close, in a shimmery velvet blue suit, wearing red glasses and delivering one boring, perfunctory speech. If I were just a tad more overwhelmed, could’ve cried. Like I suspect I will when he dies. And as much as I used to in loser movies like Khuda Gawah in which I thought he might never return. (You know, like the song Sri Devi lip syncs?) And, oh! Silsila is on my eternal to-watch list.

And that, was the very much the highpoint of my day. I was accused of being star-struck by knuckle man. But my mother was only more excited and asked if I had conveyed to the great man that she loves him and always will.

And yet there were other parts of the day that I felt were, as they say in Wonderland, curiouser. I saw a woman sitting cross-legged on a loo-floor at the habitat facing the wall and breast feeding her baby. Nothing of it, except well, there it was, the hungry suckler, already hooked on to his six small meals a day thing.

Then, on my drive back home, my friend’s boyfriend calls me asking what up and if I’m going to Arunachal Pradesh tomorrow for four days with the president. Erm, no, I haven’t packed. But hey, if I change my mind, see you at Palam 8.45? Fact of the matter is some lazy-ass scribes are happier buying footwear and seeing film stars from a distance. Even if it means missing out on joyrides with Presidents and losing the right to drop that in conversation next week.