Ask for directions, dammit!!!

It is a well-documented fact that guys will not ask for directions. This is a biological thing. This is why it takes several million sperm cells… to locate a female egg, despite the fact that the egg is, relative to them, the size of Wisconsin.
Dave Barry

The man has no sense of direction. He rather compensates by being a good driver, so he is forgiven the total lack of navigational skills. He also compensates by his stamina to drive, which allows him to do a single driver Mumbai to Bangalore in a single day. And be up at the crack of dawn the next morning to do Bangalore to Chennai. Of course, these were days when we were young and reckless and didnt have the child to pack for or cart along, when all we had to do was to chuck a duffel bag of a week’s clothes into the boot, and trust our stomachs to handle highway dhaba food without going projectile in protest.

I’ve normally overlooked the evident unease the man has about asking for directions. As long as we get from Point A to Point B, I dont kick up a fuss. Unless, of course, we happen to go so far off course, that we land up in a wildlife sanctuary, instead of hitting the beaches of Goa. As is evident from the metaphorical sneer in the tone that this last sentence was written with, this is a true incident. Involving a missed turn off from the expressway, the reluctance to stop and ask for directions, and driving through mountain and jungle and the Ponda forest sanctuary, in a car with petrol on blink blink empty, one very car sick person, two boys under five going ape shit with boredom and hunger, and a steaming at the ears mad as hell yours truly. The joy with which we greeted the pump attendant at the first petrol pump we encountered when we emerged from the untarred winding forest roads would have convinced anyone we had been lost for days in the wilderness and had survived on tree roots and bugs. It was a scary prospect. Darkness falling. Petrol on zilch. No mobile network signal. And two small children and one sick adult with us. And around 165kms off route. I was already trying to think up what of our luggage we could use to burn up to send smoke signals up into the air for help.

Considering we have done a lot of cross country drives (and India is a big country), I have enough anecdotes about going off track on deserted highways to fill a book. Whenever I get down to writing it. And it always, always boils down to me saying, “Are we on the right route? Should we stop and ask?” and the man grunting something unintelligible which translates into “Stopping and asking for directions is for wusses. I am a macho man. I have Google earth scanned into my brain. I do not ask for directions.” This coinciding with the road in front of us morphing into a dirt track like a Stephen King horror movie. And some minutes later, the trees getting alive and slowly crawling onto the dirt track and eating us up with the car. Arrrggggh. Anyway. You get my point. This would inevitably be the point where the man will look slightly puzzled and say in great surprise, “Look how bad the highway is on this stretch.” At which point I will be frothing at the mouth and unable to give a coherent answer except for occasional shrieks as tree branches slapped at the windshield. A second later, he would look at me with wisdom having dawned, “Do you think we left the highway somewhere behind?” “Turn, turn quick,” I would yell, before the trees morph into the Tree from The Evil Dead and attack us with vile intentions. And so we turn around and flee, with the forest laughing eeriely behind us, and with me mouthing the Hanuman Chalisa, the little I remember of it. This one took us 180 kms off course. This happened on NH4 once. During the days when Veerapan roamed at large, smuggling wood and killing random folk and had three states set their police forces behind him. My eyes shut on their own and I took a little nap. We were on our way from Mumbai to Bangalore. We had crossed Hubli and were still with plenty of time to make it to Bangalore before nightfall. I woke from the nap to find us  off the highway, in dense forest land, with the sun setting with unseemly haste somewhere beyond the canopy of trees, with evil noises emerging from the forest cover designed precisely to cause involuntary bowel movements. Lets just say, we got the hell out there by just driving on and on and on, and not knowing if we were ever going to see our loved ones again, and wondering when they would discover our bodies, and whether it would be a good idea to write a good bye note the mother could hang onto for solace while there was still some light. And no, the thought of falling into the hands of Sandalwood smugglers was not helping the rumbling in the intestines at all. The husband is cool and soigne through it all, almost as though he designed this diversion into the jungles to point out wildlife to me. “The road will be somewhere ahead,” he says calmly, while I’m hopping around in my seat as much as a seat belt will allow me to, while my head rotates on a 360 degree axis in a frantic bid to notice road signs and milestones in the fading light.  When we finally hit the highway, after going some 180 kms off route, I stepped out and kissed the asphalt.

On most long drives, I am now the officially designated navigator. I take my job very very seriously. I google maps and routes and take printouts before we leave. I then pack them maps and routes and directions in some bag so I can never remember which one has them and rely on what every navigator down from the time early man wandered around checking out the scenery from the caves has used to mark directions, namely the position of the sun and the moon. Are we supposed to be going north or south, I ask myself. And start the route from that very valid benchmark. We’ve normally reached in one piece when I’ve done my job as a navigator, aka yell at the man to stop and ask for directions. Even then, the man will squirm in his driving seat, put the window on my side of the car down, and ask me to do the asking. Its a man thing. I ask with the complete lack of shame and embarassment that comes from being a non driver. And insist on stopping every five minutes once I have the initial directions to ensure we are on the right track. Which also involves a bit of a debate, with much macho hotheadedness happening, because, stopping and checking is for wusses.

On long drives now, the elderly relative insists I sit up front with the man, because I know routes in a subliminal way and I never forget a road. I call it reading up on the route before hand (thank you Google baba) and memorising the names of places enroute, and keeping a sharp eye out for landmarks. Its saves us time and petrol. Not to mention stress. I’m so getting the man one of those navigational GPRS devices the next time we decide to go on our long cross country drives. I’d so like to take the occasional nap.

Do you buy your man’s undies?

According to a Reuters news report, a poll conducted by UK retailer Debenhams, men only buy their underwear if they are still trying to entice new partners into a relationship. Most men leave underwear buying to their mothers until their are 19 and then buy for themselves until they get into a stable relationship, and then on expect the women in their lives to buy their underwear. The report says if your man leaves his underwear buying to you, it is a clear signal that you are the one.

I agree. But I did not get into underwear buying territory until post marriage. I think I was already The One for a few years before I got married. But those were the days of my youth, and more innocent times, and if it was even suggested I go underwear shopping for the man, I was quite capable of getting an attack of the vapours. I am ashamed to say I was quite the typical vapid innocent. Time has sure changed a lot of things. Including vapidity.

I was also informed by the elderly relative once I was married, that along with the metaphoric ‘tijori ki chavi’ I was also handed over the honorable task of underwear buying for the man, because, quote, “left to him, he will never buy himself a pair and wear torn and tattered undies, that are an embarassment to hang out on the clothesline.”

What does this say about men?

Off the bat, they’re lazy. They will spend hours investigating various mobile phone models and comparing features but not spend a couple of minutes in the underwear section of the same departmental store to pick up a pack of four.

Secondly, they couldnt care less if the pairs they have in their drawers are peppered with cheeseholes, with the elastic falling off, or are some indeterminate hue after years of being washed with the colours.

And yes, I think, we wives can safely add socks and handkerchiefs to underwear in the list of things to be bought for the male which indicate you are the one. Ever wonder at the mystery of the disappearing socks and handkerchiefs? It is a mystery that requires the services of Fox and Mulder for sure. One day the drawer will be overflowing with socks and handkerchiefs and underwear and the next morning, the man will be standing in front of same said open drawer and hopping on both feet because he cannot find a single matching pair of socks, and all the handkerchiefs are not ones that can be taken out in a public situation, all my handkerchiefs having invaded his space, and his handkerchiefs having fled in horror to the land where they cannot be compelled by embroidered female kerchiefs to mate and produce embroidered offspring. It is a male thing. The same thing happens to the child’s socks and handkerchiefs. One morning the drawer is overflowing with enough socks to create a mini football league. The next, I’m scrounging around in the deep dark recesses of the cupboard to find any which might have fallen out of said drawer and reached unreachable places to ensure they can never be found without the entire contents of the wardrobe being dumped on the bed, with five minutes to eight on the clock, eight am being the run out as you are time needed if said spawn of womb is to make it into the school gates before the bell.  

The next time I do my duty shopping to validate my status as ‘The One’ I am so buying yellow and black argyle socks and cherry printed undies.

Edited to add: Let me sign off with this very very valid quote from the feature. 

“This is the one issue that feminism has never addressed,” Faucherand (Debenhams Head of Men’s Accessories Buying, Rob Faucherand) said. “It’s not who wears the pants in each household – it’s who has to buy them that counts.”

Post the weekend

I’m back at work, I should say happy for the chance to get out of the home. The weekend has been the kind of horror that makes me want to throw some clothes into a duffel bag and run towards the Himalayas, grabbing my squawking reluctant son by his collar, and compelling him to adopt a life of retirement in the mountains. But, lets talk about more cheerful things.

Like this news report. It tells me that eating dark chocolate can help my skin fight sundamage and ageing. I could turn cartwheels. I now have a legitimate reason to scarf down at least a bar of dark chocolate every single day of my life. It is for my skin. Anti-ageing therapy. Prevents sundamage. I need to check the flavanol on said dark chocolates before I injest it. What more could a girl need to make her life complete? Maybe doctors prescribing shopping excursions to help her cope with stress and psychosomatic ailments? Yes?

 

 

Would you be able to live in the Bigg Boss house?

I for one wouldnt. Think about it rationally. I got to pluck out chin hair. It is not something that can be done on national television. Seriously though, I happened to catch part of an episode the other day, occasioned by the child wanting to eat a meal while seated in the drawing room, where the elderly relative had ursurped complete viewing rights and control to the remote control. This is why middle aged men have that crisis. The men folk wander around the homes feeling totally useless and emasculated since the women are hanging on grimly to remote controls to all the television sets in the house, all set to different weepy serials and aren’t concerned if the men folk are falling around having heart attacks and dying, as long as they catch the end to each episode. The men, they need some outlet for all that aggression which bottles up within them since they cant get to watch the 20/20 final since it coincides with Balika Vadhu, or Oprah or Desperate Housewives, and so they say to themselves in the mirror, hey, I have to prove I exist, I have to do something big and dramatic to prove my existence and get a rise out of my wife. So they go out and buy red convertible two seater sports cars with all their combined joint account plus loan amount life savings, and come back, smirking, look what I got myself baby. And now I’m going to pick me some hot arm candy. You dont worry, you just sit right there in front of your television set. Not that the women are registering these cries for attention. They’re too busy weeping that Anandi has been chucked out of the house by Dadisa, which undoubtedly according to me, she had been asking for with her infernal oversmartness and over efficiency. Not to mention the constant whiney voice.

Anyway, I digress. What I caught was Vindoo Dara Singh with a hair piece. Rohit Verma with a hair piece. And the rest of the folk looked like they had regular hair. Of the folk I recognised Poonam Dhillon seemed to be the sanest one in. God save her sanity. And I think she was doing her eyebrows. On national television. Maybe I could still get in there and pluck out chin hair. But first I have to be infamous. I wouldnt qualify. I lead a squeaky clean life. I need some scandal first. The height of my scandalous life is the days I bunked college lectures to hang out at the canteen and make sheep’s eyes at assorted fellow underage male eye candy, who promptly fled the premises shivering in horror of the thought of being accosted by me in a dark alley and being forced at knifepoint to committing themselves to being my date for the next college social.

The folks have to sleep in a dorm situation. Which means I will never be able to sleep at peace in deep REM given my propensity to snore like a propeller. It wouldnt do to be the cause of deprived sleep in a home of folks already deprived of food. I might just open my eyes in the dark of the night and find folks standing around my bed with cricket bats poised to knock me cold. And yes, I cant cook to save my life. Nor clean. Which means I need to be waited on hand and foot. I’m guessing the inmates will truss me up and dump me into a deep dank wardrobe before the first day is done.

Then is the politics. And the absolute horror of living with folk you wouldnt acknowledge with a nod when you pass them on the street. Ah well, I do so now too, so that might not be too difficult to do. The gossiping. I am a nose in the book girl. I tune out when gossip is happening. Therefore any gossip to me goes much like the alien invader’s story of how his planet was destroyed in Monsters V/s Aliens, with me being Ginormica, with the fab figure and the height of course. Which might make me the fall guy everytime. The good folks on the show would gossip gossip gossip. And I would smile placidly nose buried in Dave Barry turns 50, snorting occasionally in inelegant manner, and then get up and saunter across and do the very same thing they had just bitched out another house inmate for.

Also, constantly being surrounded by folk is very very disorienting. I need some privacy.  What do I do if I need to dig my nose? Or have an itch down my back just needs to be scratched? Or suddenly regret the overingestion of gassy items of food? I cant always find a soft sofa handy to plonk myself down on for muffle the sound purposes. Knowing my luck, I will get myself stuck in an echo chamber when such moments come on me.  Reminds me of the husband watching CNBC TV 18 when an analyst was seriously discussing something earthshatteringly relevant to Nifty when a sudden unmistakeable sound ripped the audio. Unruffled he sailed right on. The spouse and I looked at each other, “Did you hear that?” “Yes, was it what I thought it is?” “Yes, Yes, yes,” I squealed excitedly. As you might have guessed, I never grew out of my five year old potty humour phase.  I can even do slanging of scatalogical insults with the six year old at the best of times. That skill might come in handy in the Bigg Boss house. And I must take to throwing water bottles randomly at folk. And practise doing this while wearing a badly made wig. I must also learn to spin tall tales about how wealthy I am even though a casual look at me proves that at best I’m vermin droppings. With a badly placed wig.

Maybe I might just be able to live in the Bigg Boss house. If all the inmates practise Vipassana. That would make for sky rocketing TRPs.

 

 

 

Back to hair oil

Given the current state of the mane, which has depleted itself from leonine to horse’s tail in the span of the past few months, I have been in a state of deep dank depression so severe that I have often been tempted to hang around at hair salons and cellotape cut  and fallen strands to my scalp.

Every morning by the bathroom basin, I tremble to run the comb through my hair (always wide toothed, always after applying hair serum to avoid breakages), then I gather my fallen glory gently and consign them to the dustbin with almost full state honours. Of course, I draw the line at the gun salute, given that the child on premises would love to be in charge of said 21 guns, and create an infernal racket while he gets the chance. And probably kill some action figure in the process.

Now, after indiscriminate shedding which I would have welcomed had it been hair from other extremities of the body, the scalp peers cheekily at me from random spots. Therefore the mater has pressed on me the urgent need to use a special hair oil, not the vanilla coconut oil I normally stick with. Yes, I oil my hair almost every other night. And wash it off the next day. I also believe in alien abductions and ghosts.

I was given a bottle of an ayurvedic concoction by the elderly relative, who felt my pain or more likely, was anguished by the trail of shedding hair I left through the house. It was a sweet thoughtful gesture. I did the decent thing, and put a clothes clip on my nose and applied said oil. Diligently. All over the scalp. And tied my hair up. And wandered out into the drawing room. The speed at which the room cleared up of its regular inmates namely the elderly relative and the child, convinced me that this could be patented for use for those who want clear access to the doors of suburban local trains in Mumbai. I had, for a rare hour, complete undisputed access to the television and the remote at prime viewing time. This in itself was cause enough to keep the bottle of said hair oil in the locker for preciousness. 

The husband looked at me strangely when I meandered into the bedroom, with my book du jour in hand, hoping for a nice quiet, winding down bed time read. “Whats that smell?” The man would never have made the cut as a diplomat. He would be sent to negotiate with terrorists and he would say, “You need to be shot dead right now.”

“Hair oil.” I replied. “How do you expect me to sleep in the same room?” he squawked in pure anguish. I think this here said hair oil could also be roped into the National Family Planning Programme. I saw the husband slowly edging around the bed where he had been lolling around carefree until a moment ago, ensuring he carefully positioned himself windward.

I ignored such undignified behaviour from a grown man and read my book unperturbed. And drifted off to sleep, no doubt aided by the cooling and calming herbal constituents of said hair oil. The husband tossed and turned through the night, muttering to himself at regular intervals and was sternly ignored by me, and finally at around 3 am, I was vaguely aware of him storming off, pillow under the arm to sleep on the sofa, muttering stuff about how a hardworking man is not allowed to sleep in peace in his own home. By morning, I was undergoing the fisherfolk syndrome, I couldnt figure out why noses wrinkled when I drew near and why folks turned purple in the face trying to hold their breath. And the child pushed me away with a violence he reserves for best friend he loves to hate, when they are in their enemies for life mode.

And then I went in for a bath. And found that the numbers of hair shuddering violently and giving up the ghost in dramatic Hindi film fashion was no less than what it was the previous day. But I did see the advantages of said hair oil. Guess what I’m slathering on my head, the next time I need some me unwinding time. I can even do the Germanic accent for the “I just vant to be alone.” If my family is smart, they will stock up on clothes clips.

Re-examining life…

Sometimes life decides to do funny things to you. There you are, sitting peacefully on your sunbed, straw hat in place, sunglasses with double UV protection on your eyes, having applied appropriate amounts on sunblock on all extremities and adjusted your umbrella for maximum shelter and just about settling back with a nice banal chicklit, when voila a kind of wave that would make Hawaiin surfers orgasmic, rushes in and picks you and sunbed up and deposits you, gobsmacked in the midst of the shrubbery at the far end of the beach. With a mouthfull of sand so you cant even yell at said retreating wave with some choice words of endearment. Which of course, said wave wouldnt understand. It would be out there, chuckling quietly, zeroing in on its next victim. Yes, you with the Gucci beach tote and the matching Pucci print bikini and sarong, it could be you, so stop sneering at my flea market bag.

You then wonder about sunbed placement, and such like. Whether you should have consulted an almanac to check Rahu Kalam before settling self onto sunbed. And whether you should have actually sat inside a shack and downed beer on beer, than put yourself out there, at the mercy of the waves. Who knows, the shark that Richard Dreyfuss or whats his face threw back in Jaws could have been wandering around for a stray morsel. Or maybe, it could have brought in its friends for a buffet.

You wonder whether you should have, when the coin was being tossed on the matter of holiday destinations, queered the toss, and yells heads I win, Tails you lose and chosen the mountains. You start doubting every single decision wrt your life you have taken so far, given that you have ended up, you have ended up tossed up at the far end of the beach, along with stray bottles, assorted cans and such like debris, of such condition that even the raddi wallah would chuck them right into the sea. You wonder if you should learnt swimming and reached some nice deserted island with two palm trees placed strategically to allow for hammock stringing (though lord knows how one was to make a hammock from on deserted island, given one’s total lack of life skills, the maximum level of which is sticking hand out into traffic to hail taxi or auto). You wonder if you can sue the wave. You wonder if you can claim insurance for hurt ego and wounded self esteem. You wonder if you have an invisibility cloak on. You look around to see how folks have noticed and are collapsing around on the ground in various stages of mirth induced convulsions. None have. People around are too engrossed in baking their bodies to burnt wood texture. You have the last laugh. You pick yourself up quietly and move back to the hotel, where you lounge with said chicklit book on a sunbed by the poolside, where the max that can happen is the drinks trolley can run out of control, bang into your sunbed which can then get pushed right into the pool, which will then cause a minor crisis because the many children who are in the pool with their parents will all knock each other out of the way to clamber onto the sinking sunbed, and leave you to sink like the stone you are to the bottom of the pool where you will found bloated and peeling when they decide to drain the pool.

Maybe I should have just sat in my room and read by the window. Maybe I should have just stayed in the womb.

I’m a duck right now…

Be like a duck, my mother used to tell me. Remain calm on the surface and paddle like hell underneath.
– Michael Caine

God, am I paddling.

Maybe, I can now finally drive.

Dont get me wrong. I can drive. Theoretically speaking. I hold a valid license that allows me control of a four wheeler on any Indian road. The fact of the matter is that I dont drive. The only time I dared try to reverse our Noddy yellow Zen out of our narrow compound onto the road, I managed to smash a rear light of said Zen, the front lights of our Ikon which was parked behind the Zen, and completely managed to crumple my driving confidence which has never since recovered from the brutal blow. In a public situation. Given that the husband who was looking on, had gritted his teeth to a fine powder and the male onlookers around were rolling around on the compound tiling in various stages of choke-laughter mirth. I skulked around under the cover of dark for the next few days when I wanted to leave the house. The attempts to teach me to drive have been numerous. The Bangalore SIL, who is a damn persistent and brave driver, took up the challenge one summer vacation while she was here in Bombay. ABC, she told me, are the rudiments to driving. Accelerator, Brake and Clutch. She pointed out said pedals to me. Even marked them with stickers. Informed me about the gears. I know I replied meekly, and wondered how I would deal with a truck racing towards me at the speed of light if I forgot where the damn B of the ABC was. After a few sessions of training where we went through many back roads and lost our way endless times, she declared me a lost cause. “She knows how to drive. But she is scared of God knows what.’ What God knew was that I was terrified of generally being at the wheel. It is an immense responsibility. It would make me the designated driver everytime the husband and I went out and the husband downed one too many for the road. The husband snarled disgustedly, “She doesnt want to make the effort to drive.” He knows me so well. He knows me for 20 years now. Its easier sitting at the back of the car, enjoying the music and chatting on the phone than dodging random cyclists planted by the CIA to suddenly swerve across the road just when you decide to check your lipstick in the rear view mirror.

Now, the news tells me I can drive my car via the Iphone. German Researchers have thought this up. There is even a clip on You Tube I am told. The car can be driven without a driver. I presume this application would be ideal for some of them sturdily built German engineering type cars which curve smoothly on them German Autobahns. I can just see me driving via Iphone on Mumbai’s roads. We need to get our animals and general public off the roads to start with. And maybe the rest of the traffic.

Like James Bond the article says. I kind of like the thought of that. I like it better if they tell me they will put Daniel Craig on the seat next to me and he will drive the car for me. Or whatever. I can do the driving via the phone and be free to concentrate on making interesting er.. conversation with Mr Craig. You know. except for when a cow crosses into my Iphone application path I need to shoo it out of the way, by undignified honking and yelling, for which I am sure the developers will develop some Iphone activated honking and yelling leaving me to be soigne and composed. One is supposed to steer the car by looking at the Iphone screen. Would oncoming traffic show up on said screen? And rabid cockroach like autorickshaws whose mortal duty having being cast onto this earth as road vermin, is to terrify every new driver by overtaking from the left, and then cutting across without warning to take a right turn? Would they show on the screen. And the policeman standing in the shade of that tree just after the signal waiting to pounce on the first cars that roar off before the signal can turn green? Will he show up? Will the Iphone allow me to virtually slip a 50 buck note into his palm? While the programme developers figure that one out, I’m going to find me a car I can remote drive. Preferably of German make. The car would understand the subtext and the hidden isms of the programme better.

 

Of lift encounters

Staying in a highrise with three lifts, of which two are perennially out of service, or if in service, two are perpetually being held hostage on floor 11 of our tower, the lift situation does get rather tricky during rush hours, aka morning and evenings.

The morning is when one waits and presses the buzzer going down with the misplaced notion that more frequent pressing of said buzzer will have one lift glide to a miraculous stop at ones floor. But no. Life has other plans, which does not take into account a six year old being dragged unwillingly to school and makes one wait interminably in the lobby, giving said six year old ample escape opportunities to run back into the house and slam the door shut, and climb up and latch the door to prevent fanatical parents from hauling him off to said font of knowledge and education. So one waits. And presses the up and down call buttons now. Frequently. One make desultory comments about how someone has kept the lift on hold for ten minutes on the 18th floor, and yes, that said lift is finally moving down, so maybe it will deign to stop on our floor. We wait with bated breath, as the lift moves down, slowly, slowly, hanging on to the collective offspring of our egg and sperm with a death grip, and it stops. We throw ourselves into said lift, only to leap back in horror as a Hound of Baskerville, with same drop dead red eyes at level with yours truly, jowls all aflutter and two men straining at the leash to restrain said hound from going after the child who has already taken himself out of the lift at a speed which if nurtured by a proper track coach could guarantee him a spot in track and field events of international importance.

All shaken, we wait for the next lift to meander our way, and after much collective button pressing and praying, during which I swear the child grows a foot, and the spouse gets a five oclock stubble, never mind he’d emerged from the home with Gilette smooth skin, a lift stops at our floor. Only, it is going up. And two irate workmen, complain bitterly about people who randomly press up and down buttons and make the lift stop at every floor, while we immediately adopt collective deafness.

At this point it has been 15 minutes since we stepped out of the house, and we almost think of starting the long trudge down via the stairway, when a lift finally condescends to stop and open for us. And heavens, it also happens to be going down. It also has four very serious residents accumulated from various floors, who have their laptops, briefcases and such accoutrements to a professional life hanging off their persons. The child will attempt to draw them out into random conversation, given that he considers it his godgiven duty to ensure no lull in conversation, any place, any time. Of which, two will respond to him cheerily, and two will not, which will have yours truly shoot dagger looks at said rude people, regardless of whether said rudeness could be ascribed to momentary deafness, immediate due payments of EMIs, or lack of morning bowel movement. Of course, the adults will smile a small tight smile and nod at each other, and make a grand show of moving around to create a space enough for all the folks wanting to get into the lift to do so. By the time the ground floor is reached, I need to be carried out on a stretcher having passed out from the fumes of aftershave and perfume all congealed into an assault of masculine, sensual olfactory overload.

I return home in the afternoon. I generally get a lift to myself. Sometimes, our building complex being home to minor television and film personalities, I find a sudden hush descending the building lobby where the watchmen and assorted drivers are normally engaging in hectic debates peppered with choice amicable expletives being used to add emphasis to whatever points they might be making. I know, by the immediate collective glance that goes past my divine presence and focusses on a spot directly behind me, that a celebrity presence is making an entry. And given the likelihood that I am likely to now share a lift with said celebrity presence, I get a little unnerved. Because it is very difficult. Do you smile politely as a fellow resident? What if they look away or refuse to acknowlegde your smile. Makes you feel like the pigeon poop on a statue. Happened to me one momentous lift trip when I smiled broadly at a 20th floor resident, who is tall, slim, impeccable and supposedly a popular television actress. She, without a momentary change of expression, turned to look intently at the ceiling of said lift. I had a Mother Earth Swallow Me Now moment, and busied myself with my phone. Some television celebrities are considerate enough not to put you in such a spot. They refuse to share a lift. They wait until they get a lift all to themselves, leaving me sniffing my underarms wondering whether its the BO that did it.

And of course, there are some nice ones. Who actually are pretty regular. Like the tall guy from the 11th floor, who always makes it a point to make polite conversation, or India’s ex-best loved bahu who is so simple you could miss her in a flash if you didnt look at her face, and think, hey, she looks familiar and ask her if you’ve met her before.

And there are other residents. Some of whom you do know, so you can carry out a casual conversation while you wait for a lift, and while in said lift. Some whom you dont know, but who are familiar, so you smile at and are excruiatingly polite with. And ask what floor they will go to if you happen to be near the controls rather than have them stretch themselves across your person to reach the buttons. And make neutral conversation about the Mumbai weather which is so wonderfully hot every single day of the year, that it remains a guaranteed conversation starter.

And there are some who regard themselves bubblewrapped with invisi-wrap from contaminants like fellow lift travellers and keep a painstaking five foot distance between yours truly and selves, and give you a truly indepth demonstration of the phrase Personal Space, when entering said lift. And keep a studiedly neutral gaze and pained pinched expression of permanent bad smell under their nose which prompts you to look at them like Prize Exhibit A and wonder how they manage such neutrality, when you are the kind who bounds up like a puppy picking up random conversation with any random lift sharer.

Sharing a lift in the evenings is rather a lesson in the need to carry deodorant in Mumbai’s muggy weather.  And then the last point of this article. There are some folk I absolutely refuse to share a lift with. And they know who they are. Purple faces and all.

Mamma and son….

This from the recent birthday party.

I am now the mom of a six year old….