Save us…

I was dozing pleasantly last night, when a message from Mallika came through. Are you all right, she asked. Why, I replied, what has happened? South Bombay under seige switch on the television. A knife twisted in my gut and a sudden clamminess drenched my palms. I jumped up and reached for the remote. The husband was snoring pleasantly. He asked, what happened? I dont know I replied.  I dont know. And then the horror unspooled itself almost like I were watching an action flick, the kind with Van Damme and Schwarzenegger and Bruce Willis taking on terrorists. But these were frightened looking men, hastily putting on bullet proof vests and going in to confront demons. Demons with AK 47s and carbines and satellite phones and the training that made them merciless killers. Spraying bullets, holding people hostage in the Taj and the Trident, and gunning people down at CST and near Metro. Taking hostages at Cama Hospital. It wasnt sinking in, I sat stunned in front of the television, the hours turning into minutes, online with friends around the world. Messages and calls started pouring in, by the bucket load, Are you alright, is everyone safe?

My mother was in Daman on a mini break with a group of friends, and her mobile was unreachable. My stomach was churning. I saw the terrorist, walking down the street, his eyes maniacal, brandishing an AK 47, the way you’d expect a college student to carry a guitar. He could be my son a few years down the line, He couldnt have been over 20. There were others, and others, and explosions, and police officers succumbing to injuries. I saw them a couple of hours ago, putting on bullet proof vests and leading their men into the line of fire. Unstrategic perhaps. But courageous. With little piddly pistols in their hands. Over confident, Brave. And grossly underestimating the extent of the training, and precision and determination of the terrorists they were confronting. It was horrific, a never ending horror movie we were watching live.

The husband went off to sleep. The rest of the house went off to sleep. I held my child tight and sobbed for all the mothers who had lost their sons, for the wives who had lost their husbands, for the mothers who had the curse of knowing that their sons had brought such grief to the world, the mothers of the terrorists.

I am still in shock, I couldnt post all day. And this is a post with no analysis, no detailing, Nothing. Just an overwhelming sense of helplessness and futility. And a rising anger that we have still not learnt from our mistakes. That we still expect shoddy politicians to protect us from terrorism when all they are interested in is protecting their chairs, For the police officers facing sniper fire with no protection at all. With antiquated rifles in the face of state of the art weapons. In face of the obvious confused bungling of the situation in face of the meticulously planned operation that is still to be quelled at the Taj, the Trident and Nariman House as I write this, over 24 hours since the horror started.

And anger against God, Who let innocent lives be lost. For a war that no one will win.

Please pray for the souls of the deceased.

And a moment of silence for the brave personnel who lost their lives so we could live ours.

Hemant Karkare, Vijay Salaskar, Ashok Kumte. I owe you my life. I salute you.

Recessionary tales….

Contrary to popular perception, I am not the kind to run into stores showering notes on bemused salespeople in the manner of Michael Jackson in his pre bankruptcy days. No sirree, I start showering notes before I enter the store, and once in I run amok with credit card at hand, and am sensible enough to buy strips of Disprin to keep in my handbag for use when the bill does come in at the end of the month.

Seriously though, I do not buy when not on discount or sale. No. That is a rule I havent broken even when I have to be physically dragged away from a window display of wooden heeled wedges with floral canvas tops which were just yelling my name loud enough for the entire mall to ask for ear plugs.

And now in these recessionary times, what is a shopaholic like me to do.

What else, but go shopping. The shopping of the window variety. Where one hangs outside stores and peers in with nose pressed against the glass until the security men come wielding nasty batons and asking us to stop making out with the sheet of glass.

I find it is as satisfying as throwing my cash around in purposeless heaps and reaching home with stuff that looked wonderful in the store but which shrank in the transit time between the store shelf and the car journey back home, or morphed into something awful ugly that one would be seen wearing/carrying unless a very nasty mean looking and loaded gun was held against one’s temple, and even then is so ugly and terrible that one cannot even pull out birthday lists of dear friends and look for the closest upcoming birthday in the fond thrifty hope of palming it off to the hapless BFF.

The child has no clue of the recession and has no such qualms and as a consequence one spends on him. In the past week, he has added to his overflowing basket, a batman car, a superman car, a superheroes colour kit, a Power Ranger SPD costume. But he has been a very good boy. Especially at the dentist. Where he has been an excellent boy. And has actually sat without needing a straitjacket to be held to the chair. Oh, that was mamma. Who needed two nurses to hold her down during a routine cleaning. And didnt have anyone to get her a toy for being a good girl.

Anyway, this post is about the recession and the fact that there is definitely lesser money floating around therefore one has to pull up one’s metaphoric socks or pull ups or adult diapers depending on which stage of life one is in, although seeing the EMIs we owe our fillings to, might necessitate me wearing an adult diaper but thats another issue.

Therefore, here, are the cost cutting provisions on at the house.

No more dinners out. We order in. And lounge around and speak posh, and insist the child sits and behaves at the table and keeps his elbows off, and doesnt run around. And the good thing is he cant run to other tables and beg for food, so this option might actually be a keeper.

No more fancy schmancy holidays. The only fancy schmancy holidays we have had were pre becoming parents, so now we find places we can drive down to, simple hotels with minimal frills, and dont do the shopping for gifts to give on our return. Because of course, we’re in a recession.

We actually switch the lights off every room when we leave the room. Considering we are a family of four adults and one child who is running between all the rooms regardless of whether the lights are one or off, this can get pretty terrifying. The child will run into a room which was until a second ago manned with personnel and lit bright and then holler for help to switch on said light, as switches are all at child proof levels, read, at a level that just about manage to make it with the help of the small footstool for this adult. Just yesterday we received the monthly electricity bill, and after the smelling salts had been passed round for those passed out to be revived, a round table conference was summoned and it was decided that we would now live in candlelight. More romantic too. And the child could get his cheap thrills by going around blowing them out.

We are actually seriously recycling old clothes and bottles and junk. The junk and raddi gets sold now by us. Earlier we just passed it on to the maids, who are now sulking when they see the pile loads being loaded into the back of the car, because they’ve just lost out on their weekend party. Seriously though, we’re getting thrifty and that is a good sign. Because we really needed a good hard kick in our pants to be so.

We are taking public transport more often. Make that, I am. If it is just me who needs to be travelling and not required to arrive at destination looking like a glamazon, I prefer hopping into auto rickshaws. Quicker, and am not signing charge slips at petrol pumps every second day.

I have dug out clothes I’d stored in the loft to be given away and giving them a fresh lease of life through alterations and such like to make them usable at least at home. The husband hasnt been clothes shopping in a while, which is a clear economic indicator better than any sensex index findex thing.

The geysers are left on for shorter durations, and we’re making do with limited hot water.

There is spending money that is limited to groceries and household provisions with nothing spare to indulge oneself on anything. Friends are getting the sack. Business is at a standstill. Prices are at an all time high.

Yup, its killing. I’m even surviving on just one face cream. And no new shoes. And budget haircuts. And no facials at fancy salons. Am slapping on scrubs and homemade masks on my own and lying down on the bed imagining cool hands working on my skin, kneading it into malleable smoothness. Any of you painting on stockings as yet?

Seriously though, how bad is it for you?

So Ashu won Bigg Boss….

…do I care? No. I never watched the show. Not for any reason specifically but that I had a very basic issue with the assorted groupings of individuals the channel had culled together for the show. A politician’s son, involved in a very high profile doping and sex scandal which led to the death of his deceased father’s personal secretary, hush hush toy boys being driven off when the overdosing occured, a cover up marriage that followed, wife bashing accusations and a rushed divorce later becomes a Krishna Kanhaiya. An item girl. A gangster’s ex-moll. A television actress’s ex-husband who battered her to pulp. And another motley bunch of people who are absolutely uninteresting. But that is how it would be, right?

Why would people with anything interesting going on in their lives want to be part of such a ridiculous show, where they have to live with virtual strangers under constant camera surveillance for months on end, and perform ridiculous tasks, be performing monkeys and provide entertainment for a voyeuristic nation with nothing better to do with their time than watch this crap being peddled as entertainment.

While I can still condone a talent hunt like an Indian Idol, a Sa Re Ga Ma, a Star Voice of India, because here, the contestants are the average joe, with a dream to make it big and only talent on their side, and with an equal shot at winning the crown, this show is beyond the pale to me. Except for Ashutosh who won (whom I have not seen at all otherwise or in this show so have no opinion on), Diana Hayden and Ketki Dave, the rest of the bunch sound like an extremely seedy bunch, one would be loathe to bump into at a party, let alone be locked up in a house for months on end with.

It is amazing how jobless we are as a nation that such tripe would be the most eagerly watched show across all SECs. Did no one remember of the coke and heroin jacuzzi orgy with all those young studs confessing they were taken there by Sahil Zaroo for a ‘party’. And did they imagine the Krishna Kanhaiya minus his face packs, was naked in the jacuzzi party with Bibek Moitra was to discuss the state of the nation? Did they forget the pictures of his clearly very terrified wife, with bruises on her face and an arm in a sling purportedly from a bicycle accident. And her interview in a daily in which she spoke about the physical abuse, which was hurried retracted and covered up the next day? And hush hush reports from the Mumbai party circuit which whisper about a hedonistic lifestyle too gory to write about.

It was cringeworthy. And now the man is on every channel and in every newspaper talking about how he wanted to show his “real self” to the world and how he plans to get into politics. Excuse me?

I have not watched the show but have only gone by what I have heard being discussed and by what I have read in the newspapers about the show, and it sickens me to the core.

Being a gangsters moll can get one a straight catapult to celebrityhood. The next batch of Bigg Boss would probably have Charles Sobhraj and Shibu Soren and convicted felons and murderers. And the process of elimination one guesses will be easier because the inmates can do away with each other without the hassle of the SMS voting and such crap to fill coffers of the channel and the SMS service provider. Why do we as a television viewing audience get sucked into this crap?

Is it because we have nothing better to watch? Is it because we are at the end of the day a voyeuristic nation with a penchant for the ridiculous. Or is it simply because, like the Kserial crap we have inflicted on ourselves, we deserve the puerile entertainment we get, because thats the only entertainment that gets the TRPs.

Yes, we deserve this entertainment. Because we allow ourselves to get entertained by it.

The new happily ever after…

The husband and I had the kind of romances that the Hindi filmdom copyrighted and would have probably charged us a royalty on had they gotten to know we filched their story.

Boy is college hunk. Girl is mousy geek. Girl is always aware of infinite handsomeness of boy who seems to be perpetually battling off contenders in mini skirts for position of arm candy of the week. Boy has no clue girl exists. And then, kaboom, one fine day their paths cross outside the girls common room. No the boy is not visiting said place, the girl is, and the boy’s much neglected classroom was somewhere in the vicinity. Eyes meet. Girl walks away. Boy follows. Introduces self. And girl is unsure of the volley of attention from boy. And boy stays put like leech till day is done. And grafts himself onto girl’s schedule by hanging outside her classroom for hours, huge sacrifice given that he had afternoon college and she had her first lecture starting at 7 am. Progressing to waiting on railway platforms for her to make her appearance and walking her to college.

Girl is terrified. Boy has quite made up his mind that doves are cooing and conches are blowing and rings are to be exchanged. It took boy six years and many fights. But he got there.

And then the romance, it went off scampering to the marriage bureau office to find newer victims to con into believing in cooing doves and naked cherubs shooting flower laden arrows into hearts and such like. Jumping into 7.40 am Churchgate return locals every morning and counting the coins at the end of the month did not make for an environment conducive to romance survival. Imagine me, staring all moony eyed at the man, “Dearest?” “Yes, Honey Pie?” “There’s no money to pay the electricity bill.” “We will live by the tax free light in your eyes.” Uncontactlensed one presumes. Anyway, you get the gist. And its the reason why the greatest romances always ended with the couple plunging to a watery death, stabbing themselves or getting poisoned. They didnt have to confront electricity bills and EMIs and a recessionary economy. Yup, our home loan interest rates are up darling, come let me take you out for a romantic dinner a deux to discuss it. Yup, I thought so. You too? But, I digress.

Scampering between work and home and deadlines and some years later, the child, romance was as dead as the proverbial dodo. Dinner a deux had been replaced by eat all you can buffets. Holidays meant destinations where we werent meant to be locked in the room doing pretty much what people locked in rooms on holiday do, but were now find stuff to entertain the child holidays. Deep lingering looks into eyes happened only when one begged the legally married spouse to check which corner the contact lens had vamoosed off to. And given that the spouse is as demonstrative and a believer of PDA as a new Taliban recruit would be,  hand holding was limited to helping me jump off a precariously docked ferry and then too hastily disengaged.

Which is why, the other night, when I got up with the wierd I know what you did every last summer since you were knee high kind of scare, that strange feeling of someone staring at one while one was asleep, and bounded up, patted the side table frantically for them spectacles to make sense of the shadows. I saw the man lying on his side, head held in one hand, looking at me. The spawn of our combined sperm and ova snored between the two of us, hands and legs spread out in the selfish starfish pattern child way of sleeping that ensures that no other occupant of said bed would ever have at any point more than a sliver of bedspace to sleep sideways on.

“What, what?” I asked. “I need a good night’s sleep,” says the man. With a huge sigh. The fruit of his loins had planted one karate chop right from where he had originated and the man was in agony.

So it is now, that I and the apple of my eye have been summarily despatched to a mattress on the floor, and the lord and the master sprawls undisturbed on a VERY VERY large bed. All Alone.

One would think that he would be snoring in such REM enough to have multistarrer blockbusters going on in his dreams. But no, the man was awake at 2.30 am last night. And clearing his throat suggestively. Now that we have the bed to ourselves and such unsubtle implications. Which I chose to ignore. Given that I had been the sole recepient of deep REM kicks and punches from the child and hadnt been able to sleep a wink anyway.

Yes, naturally, my definition of romance would change. It would have been a romantic gesture had he offered to have the child up on the bed, and allow me my deep undisturbed REM sleep.

Therefore, the need for a time out from parenting and to be back to our romantic selves. Research shows that as people change their definition of romance also changes. His handing me the remote is the most romantic gesture I can ever think of these days, and for him, I guess, the fact that I leave some hot water in the geyser tank for him after I take my looooonnnngggg bath is up there in strobe lights with other Archies moments.

Yup. Romance is redefined. If the man sang paeons to me now, I would probably put a detective on his tail. But if he just ensured my credit card bills were paid on time, I know he cares. Its not about the stars exploding when your eyes meet anymore, nor about that instant hit of stomach wrenching lust that assaults you when you spot him coming into the room (though to be honest, would be two decades since I was worthy of inducing stomach wrenching lust in anything animate), it is about the simple fact of knowing the other is there. A comfort that goes beyond ratty pyjamas and unbrushed morning mouth kisses.

It is about me knowing that he will drive down to town and brave rush hour traffic for four hours, but let me have the driver for a lunch I have to go to. It is about him knowing that I will have everything cooked double soft and of swallowable consistency when he has a toothache. And no, bells dont ring, and doves dont coo anymore when our eyes meet. But we look at each other and we dont need to speak. We know what the other is thinking. And it is more often than not, “Dang, I forgot to switch off the geyser!”

Seeing as the morning walks are off

..and we are encrusted with a layer of smog every morning any way, and would need a sword to cut through it in order to proceed a few feet, and the weather is getting positively pleasant, and the skin is no longer oozing oil to the quantum that actually mandates a couple of derricks taking up permanent residence on the pitted surface, and the need to ingest fattening foods grows on the hour, given the nice blotted out sun, and the gentle chill wind that blows in, I just know that the kilos are going to take up permanent residence on them hips, and get their squatter certificates and ration cards made too, to circumvent eviction.

Therefore drastic measures are called for. This means skipping one entire meal. I decided to skip dinner yesterday. It was no great sacrifice because I had already downed a plate full of panipuris and could barely lift myself from the dining table where I had taken myself and the assorted katoris of pani, methi chutney, boondi, alu, boiled peas and the like that goes into the stuffing. Nothing was fried. That was the good part. I could eat so healthy every single day. I got veggies in too. Boiled peas are not veggies??? Cross your heart????

Okay. Therefore, maybe boiled potatoes and peas were not exactly dieters food. But every single article I read on models who got into bikini shape before their swimsuit calendar shoots said, yes, they exercised manically, but I didnt read that, and they cut out all carbs. And basically lived on protein shakes for months. I can also swear my last surviving strands of hair that had I been in their place, I would have been tearing out them surviving strands and running barefoot to the nearest fast food joint and downing cheesecrust double layered pizza with extra toppings, the way the wild children from jungles do when confronted with food they dont have to hunt and kill to eat do.

Maybe there is something to be said for denying oneself of carbs. Given that I am a pukka rice person, I need to get my system to accept the lack of carbs as a valid food option. Read. A platefull of KFC strips is a valid food option. And I dont need a plateful of chicken biryani. You mean I need to have some veggies? Is a burger with that lettuce a better option? No, it has bread, therefore carbs???

Its very confusing. I long for the state of being pregnant when I was actually looked on indulgently when I gobbled down food like an endless pit, rather than having people raise eyebrows and take plates of food away from under my face,  wagging fingers like one does to children ODing on icecream. Or the man telling me gently at an eat all you can buffet, that while he knows it is an eat all you can buffet, it would be nice if I left something for the other diners.

The only time in my life people voluntarily asked me what I would like to eat and cooked the delicacies, and then sent them across. Now I get lists of what not to eat and how to control my diet.

The only time I ever looked at the weighing scale needle moving up without a modicum of guilt and actually agonised if it didnt month on month. And now when the scale is going uphill with absolutely no sharm lihaaz, I bite my nails and refuse to climb on in a public situation.

The new regimen therefore is thus. Cut down all servings by half. Go with the child to the garden in the evening and run a bit. Climb up home whenever I can and have not worn stilletoes. And yes, will try and cut out those carbs.

That is the scariest part of it all. I am the one who cannot live without my buttered bread slices dipped in tea. or my plateful of rice and curry. But I need to build a steely resolve and be firm about this. After all how long can I siddle in at the maindoor sideways?

I really have nothing to write about today

So I should probably just keep shut. No?

Well, I’ve been running around like a headless chicken for the past few weeks. Doing the school run, the tuition run, the back to office run, and generally stopping myself from taking off and run in the middle of the night in deep sleep.

When my head hits the pillow in the night there are one million things that I need to do tomorrow or the whole wide world will collapse that flash before my mind.

And there are friends who are having their worlds collapse as I write this. High paying cushy jobs are being snatched away on a moments notice. Loan EMIs hover. Children have to be fed. Lives have to go on.

Marriages around me are breaking up. Marriages between people we thought were perfect for each other. Infidelities seem to be the norm these days and loyalty the aberration. Friends younger than me are being diagnosed with breast cancer. People around me are being mulish and difficult to live with.

So forgive me. If I take a break for a bit. I need to clear my head and come back.

Excuse me Aunty…

Says the young girl. Young being a subjective term. This young girl in question being in her late twenties if I have ever cut a birhday cake. I frown at her, the two frown lines cutting deep furrows into my forehead and lending credence to the nomenclature she had graciously given me.

Let me explain. I have no issues being an aunty to the child’s friends. I have no issues being an aunty to anyone who is still officially required to be in short pants. I can even stretch the requisite mandate for overgrown adolescents bordering on their late teens. I have two decades on them, it is justified. But this I draw the line at.

So I look at her firmly. “I am not your Aunty.” I say, in what I hope is a pleasant voice. “I think you have confused me with someone else.”

Of course. She had to be one of those whose craniums were built of double bullet proof steel, and I was just itching to take up the hammer. “No aunty, I wanted to ask you to please to move to side.”

This was forgivable. I do take up a lot of space. Especially when it is front of a display counter bearing any item of clothing, bags or shoes with signs bearing numbers, the percentage sign and the word discount written on them.

This was at Shoppers Stop, dear reader. And we were there, at Inorbit ostensibly for the Wednesday vegetable haul at Spencers. Which is next door to Shoppers Stop. Therefore it was but natural that one meandered into Shoppers Stop before one meandered towards the veggies. After all, what charm does a cauliflower hold over a calfskin tote on 40 per cent discount. Anyway, I digress.

The topic at hand being the indiscriminate peppering of the word Aunty, being spewed by all and sundry. Is there an age limit beyond which one is an official aunty? The first time I got called aunty, by a man with a head full of white hair and more wrinkles on his face than hair on my head, I was barely 25. Married a year. And by default, the lady of the house. So, it was a rite of passage for me when I opened the door to the doorbell laden with the symbols of my marital status, and the man actually addressed his query to me. Rather than saying, as I was used to, “Please call your mother-father.”

He began with folded hands, “Aunty, I am contesting for this ward as an independent candidate,” and thrust a leaflet into my stunned hands and continued blasely, “Please vote for me.”

I closed the door and collapsed into a heap. Then composed myself and ran shrieking to the mirror checking self under strong halogen light for sudden onset of greying and wrinkling. Needless to say, he was not getting my vote. Nor that of my husband if I could help it.

The next morning I sashayed off to the beauty salon and chopped off my hip length hair to shoulder level and never got called aunty again until I had the critter.

Then, I guess, I was officially an aunty. And I honestly didnt mind. I was also past the big 3-0, so terminology like aunty didnt bother me anymore. I was more concerned about burping and feeding schedules and milestones, so when the hair on the leg grew to cave woman levels, not to mention the facial foliage giving the husband some serious complexes, I didnt care.  I was mother earth. Aunty was the least of my concerns.

And then the kid grew up and I went back to being a vain puss again. And therefore the bristling at the Aunty from someone who is old enough to be my younger sister. But then these days it is so difficult to tell ages. Like, ahem, ahem, it is so difficult to tell mine. Perhaps the offender was actually a pre-adult. In which case it would be perfectly legit for her to call me aunty.

But I am still lifting up the cheeks and checking nasolabial folds and contemplating silicone injections and pulling hair back tightly to determine whether some cutting and splicing might make me, well, less, auntyish. And examining spider lattice under eyes and slathering on under eye gel hoping for it to miraculously seep through skin cell barrier and plump out indentations caused by living. And checking out the hairline for new signs of grey popping up and grinning cheekily at me. And seeing the waistline grow to a tyre or two that could make the Michelin man proud. A lift, some Botox, some liposuction and some Restylane and I would be perfect. Not an aunty.

Nah, I know, I am a coward. I will slather on my moisturiser and pray for a miracle. And happily morph into an aunty rather than inject self with stuff and risk the face swelling out like that miserable South Korean woman who injected her face with cooking oil and ended up looking like the stuff bad cartoons are made of.

Yup, aunty. I need to roll the word around on my tongue a bit to get used to the sound of it. I guess the next milestone from here is Granma. Right? Better start getting used to that right now too.

Awalking I will not go…

The morning walk has been discarded ruefully. My shuttered eyes are thanking me for it, though the ostensible reason I keep giving myself is that there is too much company to allow me to walk in peace. The elderly relative for one. Some other residents of the building who consider themselves my friends decided I was looking too mournful walking on my lonesome ownsome and decided it was their moral duty to drag themselves out of bed at the godawful hour of five thirty am and put on their walking shoes and walk with me. The problem in the mismatch is that I donot consider them my friends. Neighbours. Acquaintances. Perhaps. But not friends. We have nothing in common apart from being of the female gender and having offspring of similar ages.

So they flank me on either side. And keep up a droning inane conversation of what they cooked yesterday, what they plan to cook today, what they love cooking and eating. Most appropriate conversation for a self declared worst cook in the world to participate in. And when they get engrossed in their rhapsodic declarations of just that little pinch of that something in something which then adds an unforgettable taste to whatever delicacy they’re expounding on, I break out into a sprint and hope they cant catch up. 

Which is another grouse. I need to walk at their pace. Which is a level above dwaddling on river fronts looking for lurking fish to catch by spearing it. Or sashaying down store front high streets ogling at the window displays.

Therefore I decided. No more. Early morning walks. I will sleep in. Blissful. Undisturbed. Snore my lungs out. Wake up refreshed and revitalised and ready to seize the day by its horns or whatever parts a day has open to seizing purposes. But I hadnt reckoned for the light sleeping husband in my devious plans to sleep in. The man opens his eyes at the first call of the muezzin. Read five am. I will be rattling the walls with my snores. He will helpfully shake me awake. Such a devoted husband. “Lemmmesleeep,” I snarl, pulling the blanket further up around my ears. There is a reason why I am a woman who runs with the wolves apart from the fact that I can rarely drag myself to the parlour for much overdue waxing sessions. I open one eye hopefully to check why I was needed to be awake. And have my hopes deflated quickly enough. ”Arent you going for your walk?” asks the one true love. The voice resonating with the unsaid implications of the waist spreading beyond containment in the waistband of existing once loose jeans. “Noooo. Lemmmesleep,” I snarl politely. Refraining from leaving scratch marks on the hand that dares shake me awake. He mutters not nice things about lazy women with no will power and purpose and lies down silently, no doubt telepathically willing me to get up and get going. Now that the sleep has been truly and completely shattered, I open both myopic eyes. The room is dark. The world without is dark too.

Somewhere in the house, the elderly relative is making a right on cacophony of opening and closing doors at levels which rival clanging jail cell doors in preparation for her walk which also ensures that if she doesnt sleep, no one in the house will.

I sit up and contemplate my course of action. And lie right back and go to sleep. My dark circles will thank me for the extra hour of shuteye. And whatever exercise I need I make up for when I take the child to the park in the evening and have him play catch with me for half an hour. Works up a sweat, gets the heart rate buzzing, makes me a fun mom (or so I hope, the child is not old enough to realise his mother is being terribly uncool), and keeps me from feeling guilty about skipping the mornings. And best of all? No one can walk next to me and drone infernally into my ear about how they make dahi vadas. And fill my head with visions of food while all I am trying to do is work it off.

I needed new bags…

No, no, trust me. I really did. I have been so amazingly good that I have passed on/ chucked away almost three fourths of my stash which leaves me with exactly six bags. One leopard print horror that I can swing at a muggers head and kill him with instantly thanks to the junk that gets dumped into it. One pale gold Guess number that I refuse to carry around everyday lest small children run after me with stones. A nice python and canvas Guess which is smart bag. Translate that into nothing I need to carry apart from my wallet and handbag fit into it. And perhaps maybe, in a squeeze one tiny weeny lipstick. For a woman who has, at any given point, live creatures growing in her handbag thats like being in solitary confinement without even the pleasure of an echo to talk back to and give some lip.

And a couple of other nondescript versions that are good bags, sturdy bags, smart bags, that do absolutely nothing for me because they’re so blah blah blah. I need some colourand drama on me, and what better than a handbag to do the needful without me having to get into clown get up.

 

Therefore, it was with absolutely no intent to buy in my mind that I accompanied the elderly relative to the bustle of Lokhandwala market the other day. The apparent task on the agenda was purely gifting purposes. The elderly relative is to visit the native land in a month, and there is as is natural when one visits the natives, gifts have to be showered.

It was only by fluke, therefore, that one passed a shop that had a throng of women behaving so abyssmally outside it that they could have been booked for rioting and disorderly behaviour in a public place and read out their rights. On contributing self to disorderly behavior throng, one found out that said chaos was due to clearance sale situation, which, hold your breath, had bags being sold at Rs 500. Now these were bags I had seen in the days of window shopping being sold for nothing less than Rs 1500 to 2000, therefore the rioting was absolutely justified, and one leapt right into the throng and began sorting out the piles of handbags for stuff I could dump the kitchen sink in and still have room for more.

I must confess, in the fury of drilling through the pile I forgot completely about the elderly relative, surfaced for air after a good ten minutes to find her having pushed through the crowd to the front and doing her own drilling through the pile. Not even pausing for breath.

And so it came about that we walked home, or rather called for the driver to get the car round to where the shop bearing Clearance Sale sign was located, in the manner of two amiable drunks, laden with not one, not two, not three but five bags. A red mock croc print patent leather type for yours truly. A brown buckskin huge tote for yours truly again. A giraffe print beige and gold number for yours truly again. And two simple and decent, not my words, bags for the elderly relative. By implication, you can surmise what my bags are. But never mind.

And yes, these are all my very rough use numbers. They will be flung on dirty chairs, kept on floors, overloaded with waterbottles, kiddy clothes, tiffin boxes and such like. And if they last through such unspeakable abuse for more than a month I would be delighted.

What is it about bagging bargains that gives me a bigger high than the big O?

And so we made it to Goa….

We had a week of enforced Diwali vacation on us, and confronted with the prospect of relaxing at home, the husband and I looked at each other and decided to escape. Now the husband is a beach person. I am a mountain person. Naturally we went to the beach. He drives. I dont. That pretty much resolves the issue.

That is also the reason we dont really take trips abroad. Neither of us fly. Barring some people who might be convinced I have a long handled broom tucked away in some closet somewhere just waiting for a solstice to pop up to do my kind of flying. But I digress. 

We set off from Mumbai bright and early at six am. Woke the self, bathed, made a cuppa woke the husband who then bathed and dressed and had his cuppa. Woke the brat who opened one eye, declared it was still night and commanded me back to sleep. But the mention of Goa had him springing up like a jack in the box and ready to race to the car bare foot. When we had finally finished loading our baggage, to the elderly relative’s chorus of how it reminded her of days of yore when people returned to the gaaon for a vacation, we realised we had a total of eight bags for three people for five days. On a beach. Where one wore minimum and miniscule clothes. But then we had a child accompanying us. So a lot of the baggage comprised RO filtered water in three ten litre cans (yup I am paranoid, I admit wholeheartedly, with absolutely no remorse or shamefacedness), enough Lays, cheetos, chocolates and such like to feed a small famished African nation (which all returned untouched back to base when we returned. Sometimes I wonder why the fruit of the womb has such brilliant eating habits, and remember the class teacher and the session of junkfoodzisverybadferyu.), infinite changes of clothes for the tyke, one duffel purely containing medicines for every possible medical emergency which could possibly involve the brat, including crepe bandage, iodine, betadine, dettol, bandaids, Deet mosquito repellent spray, Kids sensitive skin sunblock, anti emetic, ORS packets, Crocin, Ibulgesic, little pads of cloth to sponge down the critter in case of a fever, cough medicine, nasal drops, homeopathic medicines and some random action figures to keep him entertained. And I forgot sunblock. This omission was to play a major role in how this story develops so please read further.

The husband decided to go via the expressway past Kolhapur on NH4, and then turn off past Sankeshwar onto a little road, cross the Amboli ghats in a snap and voila, Goa. The children began whining (we were accompanied by friends and their five year old son), the moment the key was inserted into the ignition, “whenwewillreachthebeach!!!” a cry that escalated in intensity as the sun climbed higher till I was darned sure that all the songs of Rock On and Jaane Tu we played in a loop had this as a sarvajanik chorus to them.

BTW, for those interested, a superduper full size giant inflatable two storey high Ronald McDonald sits outside a new super duper spanking new yellow and red McDonalds outside Kolhapur which proved to be a lifesaver since neither of the two kids showed any interest in the parathas and sandwiches we two moms had unglued our eyes at 5 am to make and pack for them. Also, if anyone from the McDonald’s corporate office is reading this, there was no mayonnaise on the burgers and we had to pay extra for some. I demand a refund of my twenty bucks right now. And the iceberg lettuce was also sparsely plastered on, unlike the Mumbai version which insists on falling on your lap and forming interesting patterns which beg onlookers to come up and examine them in close proximity.

As luck would have it, and the husband’s navigational skills, we landed past the Maharashtra border and near a town called Belgaum before he began to suspect that he was seriously offcourse. This occasioned by the fact that we had now entered a third state from the one we were originally supposed to enter. Therefore we stopped to ask for directions. It would be more appropriate to say we badgered him into stopping to ask for directions. He would not ask. It was demeaning. He would rather be hung by his nails than ask for directions. Left to him we would have reached Kanyakumari and driven into the sea.

In Belgaum, any person we asked for directions just pointed us towards the west randomly. And so we turned and went through Belgaum city. Which has one zillion scooters and motorcyclists all without rear view mirrors and a penchant for darting in and out of traffic with scant regard for harassed driver having lost course, with two infuriating kids, one roadsick woman and a very shrilly angry wife going at warp speed. Luckily, no human sacrifices happened and we managed to reach the thick of some forest sanctuary that said Bondla Wildlife Sanctuary, which had red trees by the side of the road. Which was not actually a road but a red mud dirt track and which resulted in travel companion suffering from road sickness to be even more violently sick.

And at this wonderful juncture, as the sun began setting beautifically behind the thick canopy of trees, the husband informed his captives that we were running out of diesel and were running on reserve. At this moment, I changed avatar into Kalika and demanded he get us and the children out of the damn forest even if it meant he had to physically push the vehicle on the road. Luckily, he had the good sense to switch off the AC,  which meant we were now covered with red mud from hair to nostril hair to armpits and toes, and had to periodically keep pulling the kid’s heads in to prevent oncoming traffic from causing grievous harm to their headlights.

A town called Ponda was reached as darkness fell silently and a petrol pump was discovered just beneath the Welcome to Goa sign, and no fine dining restaurant looked sweeter. Many hours and many tired groans of protest from the kids and occasional stops for emissions of roadsickness later we reached Panaji and the hotel. It was then we discovered that we’d done 750 odd kms instead of the 500 km we should have.

The husband still has the ringing in the ears from the earblasting that happened.

Day 2

The hotel had a buffet breakfast we had paid for with the room so it was only mandatory that we attempted to do full justice to it. Therefore we attempted to cram ourselves to the gills before we hit the beach which was a completely foolhardy plan given we went berserk over the fish once we reach the beach shacks. Therefore much cramming happened as we hit the beach. Therefore, there we were stuffed to the gills like beached whales, lolling on deck chairs making no physical effort to go hit the waves. And then we ate some more.

Earth shattering revelations happened at Baga Beach. The kind that people put into books with catchy titles and have book tours to sell. The moment of revelation was huge quivering mountain of burnt pink flesh attached to small head, wandering around nonchalantly in thong undie and string bikini top. I had gone with them specs on, and therefore no sunglasses to shield them eyes. But, once the momentary shock had passed profound admiration set in. I almost walked upto above mentioned person and nearly knelt at them thunderous feet asking for lessons on such complete unselfconsciousness. Suffice to say, I was motivated into some skin display of my own with absolute no thought of thighs jiggling to their own beat as I walked.

And I discovered I didnt have sunscreen. And was too beached whale on food and drink to make the long trek to the stores to find some. Therefore burnt to a crisp black ensued with such rapid ferocity that only my eyes and teeth were to be visible in a dark night. Am currently slathering on homemixed unguents and miracle remedies like besan and dahi and hoping to reclaim some brown from the black soon.

We spent the entire day on the beach being beachbums. And topped it by a fabulous meal of prawn curry rice and mutton vindaloo at Souzalobos at Calangute. Where one heard some good live singing after years of having one’s ears torn off by tuneless yelling at restaurants when one hopes for a peaceful meal.

Snoring happened in unison on the way back to the hotel, and I dont know whether it was me who carried the child to the room or vice versa.

Day 3

A day to devotion. Mangeshi temple and Ramnathi temple in South Goa. Through some picturesque terrain. And lunch at Martins Corner in Betalbatim. Where they had run out of everything on the menu except the kingfish. And then insisted we finish our meal in a hurry because they were shutting down. I’m not listening to these high falutin reviews ever. Allow a guest to finish their meal in peace should be the unwritten credo of all feeding joints one presumes. The food? Average. Any planned return visits? Not worth the petrol.

Returned to the city and the hotel, where one plonked the menfolk into the pool and vamoosed off to do some retail therapy. And stingy little moi found everything so damn marked up to dollar conversion levels that one reluctantly bought one duffel bag worth of spices and cashews and left it at that. I was struggling with the infinite desire to take home some fabulous knockoffs in bags and shoes, but resisted with a valiantness that I regret now. Anyway. There would have been no place to pack them. I would have had to throw some clothes out. Ah my fake Gucci booties, I will never know what it feels to walk in you again. Oh my dear fake Choo Ramona, what I wouldnt give to hold you in my arms again.

Alas and alack.

Day 3

Back at the same shack at Baga beach, Zanzibar if you must know,  having made all round friends with everyone present including the owner’s Alsatian who joined the kids on the beach for day long beach football or pawball and ended up claiming the ball for his own with no one daring suggest to him that he needed to give it back. Am sure he took it to his stash of ursurped balls in the sand behind the sack and counted his collection backwards with the addition of this brand new just purchased one, much to brat’s trembling with near tears but am a big boy now face.

The child ate fish fry dal and roti for every single meal. Without fail. With unswerving dedication. Now that he’s back he’s off the jag. I dont think I could stomach fish for another year. The husband now has Kingfisher running through his veins. As for me, I think I’ve done enough lazing to last me exactly one week. I had sort of perfected the art of raising my hand languidly and asking for another, well, cold coffee without moving any muscle other than the necessary.

After a point even that became impossible and I would attempt to telepathically communicate to the waiter that I needed, well, cold coffee. So I would be sitting in the deck chair, eyes glazing over and staring intently at whichever unfortunate sod happened to be in the vicinity and hiss, “Ek aur lau.”

Luckily, me being a regular and all, they managed to comprehend what I was trying to communicate. I must mention at this point that the Kingfisher man had taken the fruit of his loins into the Arabian sea and was educating him on the necessities of tying his swimming trunks real tight before he actually got down to the serious task at hand of dunking him in the sea.

On an aside, what does one do for these, well, cold coffee headaches the next day?

I slept it off on the drive back to Mumbai while little men with irons and chains had themselves a dungeon do in the base of my cranium.

And the child is already waiting for the weekend. “We going Goa.” He tells me in all seriousness. “I wanna fiedfiss. and play fooball wid d doggy.” I’m all set too. Those fake Guccis might still be waiting for me.