The spouse plays Snow White’s Grumpy with the newspapers spread before him, a permanent frown splitting his forehead in two distinct sections.
I waltz up, the cook having arrived, to figure out what he would like to have for breakfast.
Me: The cook is here.
Me: So what do you want to have for breakfast. (This question being occasioned by umpteen occasions when I have taken said decision on my ownsome only to have him smashing crockery later, metaphorically speaking of course, when he didnt like what was on offer).
Meanwhile I’m bouncing up and down like I have springs under the soles of my feet. Said cook is making clucking sounds from the kitchen.
Me: What? What? What? What do you want for breakfast, tell me quick, I have to get lunch organised too, cant keep her waiting until you decide.
Him: (Giving me the kind of blank look that people who normally come out of general anaesthesia give their loved ones hanging around in the hospital room). What what?
Me: *deep troubled sigh* What do you want for breakfast?
The child sees a potential pressure cooker explosion building up in mamma’s brain and drops all pretence at Cartoon Network watching to grab ring side seats.
Him: Make anything.
And buries his head back into the newspaper.
By this time I have started ricocheting off the walls and ceilings. The top maid who has been sweeping in the vicinity, quickly steers clear.
Me: *counting to hundred in my mind* Do you want alu paratha or powa or idli sambar or dosa sabji or omelette or sandwich…..
The spawn of our combined loins comes forth and pokes his head between his father’s and the newspaper, and tries to help.
Child: Pappa, whacyure eading?
And calmly removes the child’s head from obstructing his line of vision.
I clench my palms into fists and walk shaking with anger into the kitchen and tell the cook to make “anything” and I say it loud. My voice carries enough to wake the dead.
She stares at me blankly. The child trips in. He wants powa. So it is decided Powa will be made for all.
Breakfast is served. The man looks at it and says, “What is this, powa?” with the kind of dismissive air that jailbirds normally reserve for their loaf of stale bread with mould growing on it.
I have a mini explosion. It ends with me needing to take a Disprin for sudden inexplicable migraine attack.
Then the cook asks me what has to be made for lunch.
And I go ask the man, Are you off to get some dead animal?