Vijay and The Call Centre Lady

My husband realises at the last minute ( as usual) that he has very limited time to submit some bank documents at the office. So he calls up the bank and requests the Call Center representative for the same.

Vijay: ...so that will be the Interest Certificate along with the Repayment schedule. Right?

CC lady: Yes, Sir. You will receive the Interest Certificate within 2 days and the Repayment Schedule within 15 working days...

Vijay (shocked): Hang on, Hang on...I have only five days left to submit everything. Why will I get the Repayment schedule within 15 days?

CC Lady: Sir, actually that's our system.

Vijay: What's your system?

CC Lady: The Interest Certificate will be sent by Courier and the Repayment schedule by regular post.

Vijay: But why?

CC Lady: Usually, people require Interest certificate more quickly, so that's our system sir.

Vijay: But...but...I need them both at the same time.

CC Lady: Sorry sir, but I can't help you. That's our...

Vijay: System, system, I know. (Inspired) But tell me. Can't you just send both documents to me by courier?

CC Lady: No sir. That is not something we can do.

Vijay: Listen . Do they come from separate sources or something?

CC Lady: No, sir. They are both taken out at same time from the computer.

Vijay (slowly): So you're telling me the guy who takes the printouts will put them into separate envelopes for despatch through two separate sources?

CC Lady (pleased that he's finally getting it): Exactly sir.

(Silence)

Vijay (taking a deep breath): So why can't he just put them in the same envelope?

CC Lady: That would not be possible, sir. It's the system.

Vijay (trying to turn on the charm): Look Madam. Can't it just be something between you and me? As an exception - you just tell that dude to put the Repayment schedule into the same envelope with the Interest Certificate and send both by courier?

CC Lady (aghast): No, sir.

Vijay (getting desperate): No one else has to know! And if he likes, he can quietly send me an empty envelope through regular post also....dheere dheere woh bhi pahuch jaayega...

(Ad infinitum. In short: I really don't know who to feel more sorry for when I hear Vijay speaking to customer care representatives). 

My Mechanical Man

Yes, I realize it makes him sound like a bit of a robot, but I am merely referring to the fact that he is a mechanical engineer.

It proves useful about the house - he fixes things quite ingeniously, and takes an active interest in the functioning of various items - the kind of thing that bores me stiff. It's a fairly happy arrangement, therefore - my job is to point out the problem and nag him until he gets around to 'getting out his tools'. (Why does it sound like there's some form of innuendo there? Not intended.). Once he's on the job (Dammit!), he doesn't stop until he's finished (This is sick!).

Anyway, Vijay has been lamenting that he does not have a 'toolbox' to keep his various tools. I caught him eyeing a small suitcase that someone presented my daughter and he suddenly declared 'That's it! I'll use this!'.

'This?' I said, unable to believe that he was serious.

'Of course' he asserted, 'It's just the right size, and Peanut never uses it for anything'.

'Yes, but...it's...'

'It's perfect for me' he finished.

Yes. My Mechanical Engineering Husband.

With the Pink Barbie Tool-box.

Nice. 

Bharatpur Day 2

I can't believe I haven't found time to complete the Bharatpur story. Therefore, quick attempt. This will be, unlike the previous post, just notes on the highlights.

Highlights, therefore:

1. We went cycling the next day in the Keola dev national park and my bottom hurt for a week or so after that. The landmark here is that this is the first post that mentions my bottom. It's a strange feeling. Moving along, quickly, the cycling was the BEST fun. This was in spite of the fact that there were no ladies cycles available and I had to ride a man's cycle which was too big for me and was in serious danger of hurting me and ensuring that I would not be able to bear a fourth child .... Hey...first post that mentions my...never mind. Vijay taught me how to ride properly, dismount (without hurting myself) and to pedal with maximum output and least effort. Useful two hours. And we saw some birds too.

2. Vijay was insistent that the rickshaw driver I had given a big tip to the day before would be lying somewhere drunk in a ditch - my heart leapt for joy when we spotted him at the end of our cycling trip - he had been anxiously looking out for us 'Un log ko aaj kaun andar le gaye'? He was mollified to note that we had taken ourselves in on bicycles; and I haughtily told Vijay he must have more faith in people since the man was talking to us and clearly NOT lying drunk in a ditch somewhere.

3. Vijay converted himself from a scoffer-of-my-mother's-many-cameras into a Canon-toting-shutterbug, who developed a fascination for photography and took some really lovely shots of some birds including me...i mean, and also me... which I have put up on Facebook in case any of you are interested.

4. I got to pat a stray black puppy and try out my newly cultivated American accent, just for a lark. Both activities drove Vijay crazy, as a dog-hater as well as a 'angrez-log' hater. Well, he doesn't hate either, he just doesn't like them much. I later subjected him to my American accent while we were driving back to Delhi and to his credit, he did not actually carry out his threat of throwing me out of the car.

5. We ate too much in the Bagh's wonderful restaurant and basked in the sun after every meal. The Moong-dal-ka-halwa was to die for. I died for it. And became a little fatter, I'm sure. Heavenly, heavenly meals. I told myself that the cycling had ensured that I could take the extra calories. It's okay to lie to yourself while on Holiday. In fact, it is a pre-requisite to enjoyment.

6. Vijay continued to fluster and annoy people, even the lovely staff at the restaurant - the nice waiter said 'how many cubes sugar, sir', only to be spontaneously told 'Mujhe to der cube ( or however you write the hindi word for one-and-a-half) chahiye'. The man hovered uncertainly until Vijay assured him that just one cube would do.

We had to rush back one day earlier because the kids were apparently inconsolable without me at night - and in short, ended up only staying for two days instead of three. We managed to squeeze in a place called Deeg, which was nice but not faaantastic, you know what I mean? Will try and write a bit more about that later. Dammit, it's been so long that I've lost my notes on the trip. Must not let so much time pass before posting again.

But overall- it was the best, best trip possible and our annual holiday was an unqualified success, even though it was very short.

Highly recommended, Bharatpur.

My Daddy, My Hero. For Peanut. Apparently.

I read a notice yesterday in Peanut's diary from school that said she had to dress up as a family member who inspires her, and that she had chosen her Father.

I was a little hurt, but asked nonchalantly 'Peanut, why didn't you want to dress up as Mama?'

She thought about this for a minute before she answered, and as she spoke, her agitation became clear 'Mama! How can I dress up as you and Daddy both? I am only ONE child', she said, holding out one finger at me to make her point.

I hastened to clarify 'No, Peanut. I meant...why did you choose Daddy and NOT Mama?'

'Oh' She said, dismissively 'Because you always scold me and Daddy doesn't scold me'.

I felt very bad about this but decided not to pursue the matter further. It's true that I've been scolding her of late. Even though things have improved drastically in the last month, the child ungratefully refuses to pick up on it. No matter, I think, and I browse the diary further. 'Oh it says you have to choose a dialogue...one thing that Daddy says a lot. What will you say?'

Pat came the answer ' Peanut, eat your food right now or you will get a smack-y!'

Oh Dear, Dear.

Eventually, the line she chose was ' Peanut, give me a huggy and a kissy. I'm going to Bombay'. But she also chose an extra line 'Peanut, don't sulk and fuss, just eat your food now'. She seems hell-bent on making her point about the food issue.

She wanted to wear Vijay's T-shirt, but he convinced her that dressing 'like him' didn't mean dressing in his clothes. She instead wore jeans and a grey boyish T-shirt. I tried to do her hair, sweeping it along her forehead like his, but she took one look at it and refused to go out like that.

I can't believe this child has grown up so much, so quickly.

Two more to go!

And hopefully at least one of the twins will want to dress up like me in about 3 years. Yes, there's always hope!

The Physicality Of It All

...days like these when I am just so tired, I'm not really thinking, but just registering the physicality of it all.
The pushing myself up eleven flights of stairs out of sheer habit and the knowledge it's the only exercise I'll get today.
The hot coffee that practically burns my tongue but props me up for the first few hours of the day. The aching muscles in my neck and shoulders, and the exhaustion that creeps in after lunch hour, reminding me again of the fact that I'm sleeping far less than I should be.
And then the dizzy spell that hits me as I'm climbing up the steps to my home towards my kids.
The way that the kids crowd around my legs - the twins insisting upon being carried, an impossible task beyond a few seconds.
I feed them one by one - Pickle bites me viciously and I cry out in pain. He thinks it's funny and breaks into impossibly cute peals of laughter. He bites me again.
And eventually I give up and lie down on the floor in surrender. Peanut takes the opportunity to come and lie down next to me, and starts imitating the twins. Blowing raspberries on my tummy. She thinks it's funny. After about the twentieth time, I'm not laughing, but she doesn't stop. She pokes my belly-button and tells me that I'm 'the best'.
Pickle and Papad take the opportunity to fall on top of me repeatedly, almost banging their heads against each other every few minutes. Despite how tired I am, I try to energize myself with a few floor exercises - leg lifts and some Yoga. The leg lifts, they do not appreciate, and push my legs down whenever I lift them. I turn around to lie flat on my tummy and try the Bhujangasana, but Papad takes great offense to this pose, and starts to pull my hair. He does it so hard that tears come into my eyes, but I'm too tired to actually get up. I try in vain to do a few more exercises, but none of it works.
As they fall on me, twisting their limbs uncaringly, trusting that I will somehow catch them in the nick of time and save them from hitting their heads on the floor -which somehow, with some motherly instinct, I do each time - I can feel their smooth cheeks, their soft hair, and smell their sweet baby breaths.
I watch as they momentarily lose interest in me and climb the sofas, climb the chairs, climb the railings, attempt to electrocute themselves by sticking their fingers into sockets, open cupboards to take out and eat CDs, throw their toys on the floor, fight over balls and bottles, hit each other with their plastic bats, pull each others' hair - while Peanut perches on the dining table like a little Princess and does her drawings. I am still exhausted, lying prone on the floor, and my two maids leap into action, saving the twins from each other and themselves. I thank my lucky stars again that I have such help, but feel really sorry because I realise how tired they must be after a full day of this, and I feel bad that I'm so tired myself that I'm really unable to help out just now. I feel so sick and I wish Vijay wasn't so late coming home today. Two hours have already passed by now, and it's been a crazy, impossible, fun and exhausting two hours with three children.

I wonder how long I'm going to be able to keep this up. Perhaps it's the fact that I am no longer as young as I used to be - after all, I'm in my thirties now. But between work, the children, and lack of sleep, it all feels like it's a little too much and I am very very grateful for the fact that there is a two day weekend coming up. Heavenly. My entire body already aches for the extra sleep that the Saturday and Sunday will bring.

And then the bell rings, interrupting my contemplative reverie. All three children promptly run towards the door and in walks my six feet two Vijay. It is eight p.m. and the two of us stare at each other - he grins at me but I am not amused by his lateness and have no sympathy for his extended meeting. The twins are now crowded around his long legs and he picks up Papad. Pickle does not like this and makes his protests heard until my maid picks him and places him on Vijay's other arm. He stands there like that with his two sons, grinning in pure delight - all three of them have identical smiles on their faces and the sight of my many, many men makes my heart lurch a bit.

And then, Papad gives him a resounding slap on the face, stunning him. Pickle follows suit and Vijay is shouting, and trying to get the two of them to stop, but their new game is amusing them immensely and they repeatedly slap him. Peanut is trying to show him her drawing, unmindful of the fact that he is getting assaulted, and when he is unable to respond to her, she loses her temper herself and starts to pummel at him - unfortunately for him, her height and skinny long arms are positioned for most of these blows to land upon his crotch and he dances around like a giraffe under attack, shouting 'Help, help' as all three children do their best to smack him silly.

I hear a loud, throaty laugh pealing through the room and it takes me a moment to realize that it's me, giggling uncontrollably through all the exhaustion and dizziness at the sight of my husband and children like this. I laugh long and hard for the next few minutes, feeling better and more energized than I have the whole day.

Yes, it's kind of funny when you're not the one being mauled.

Welcome Home, Honey.

A typical day

Morning 6.45 a.m.

Have been awaken by Pickle and am in an unusually good mood in the middle of a three day weekend. So am singing a GNR song that was my favorite years ago.

Belting out 'I used to love her...but I had to kill her...I knew I'd miss her...so I had to keep her...she's buried right in my backyaaaaard'.

Vijay opens one eye and says 'Hai raam - kya ga rahe ho, subah subah...kuchh bhajan-wajan nahi hai kya?'

I sing louder 'I used to love her...but I had to kill her...she bitched so MUCH...she drove me NUTS...and I can still hear her complaaaaiiin'.

Vijay shuts his eye and starts fervently and piously singing to try and drown me out 'Om Jai Jagdish Hare...'


Afternoon 2 p.m.

Me despairing about the clutter in the house after spending the morning trying to clean up in vain. Vijay not listening to me but working on his computer. Peanut coloring nearby.

Me: It's an impossible task to clean this house! But I have an idea. I will throw away 5 things each day.
Vijay: (Gives me the Thumbs up sign)
Me: That way, in a week I'll have thrown away 28 things!
Vijay: (Repeats Thumbs up sign)
Me (After some thought) Wait a minute. In a week, I'll have thrown away 35 things, not 28.
Vijay: (Two Thumbs Up sign)
Me: YOU'RE NOT LISTENING TO ME!
Peanut, looking up from her coloring: MAMA! LET HE WORK!

Fine, fine. I know when I'm outnumbered.

Evening 6 p.m.

I make a dismal pronouncement on the onset of menstruation. The one major benefit of pregnancy (apart from the children of course) has always been the lack of monthly cycles. But no more, I tell my husband.

'Oh good' he responds chirpily 'Now we can have more babies!'

Monday Morning Mindf**k

Scene on Sunday night: We're having a bad night - especially me - with little Pickle who refuses to sleep properly.

We're exhausted by 6 a.m. when he wakes up all bright and chirpy. He wants to play -when I ask Vijay to mind him for a little bit, while I catch some overdue shut-eye given the gruelling week that lies ahead, the husband attempts to oblige, but Pickle starts to cry. He has become extremely attached to me, and tends to get really upset when I hand him over to anyone else. It's as flattering as it is exhausting and I take him back from Vijay, but Vijay is annoyed and mutters ' I can't wait for him to grow up...I will give him a good beating...'

I get upset about this. Pickle had a rough start with his jaundice, and ten days of phototherapy and I still shudder when I think of him under that harsh bright light, lying there naked but for a nappy and a blindfold that he always scratched off his face. I tell Vijay 'You'll do nothing of the sort...he's such a sweetheart'.

'He's such a gunda' says Vijay with feeling. 'I'm sure he got switched at the nursery. He's not like Peanut or Papad'.

'Nonsense' I say and turn away. I've heard this one before. Pickle does look different from the other two - Papad was almost a carbon copy of Peanut at a similar age. What a mean thought, though.

But Vijay persists. 'I'm telling you. It's possible'. Then a thought occurs to him and he asks me with a rather evil smile 'So tell me - what would you do if it were true? If we found out now that Pickle was not ours and had got changed with our real baby in the nursery?'.

I'm not letting him get to me. 'That's easy' I declare 'We'll keep the other baby too and we'll have four and that way they can all play carrom nicely with each other'.

Vijay scoffs at me 'Oh come on. It's not like the other baby would still just be in the nursery after 8 months, you know. He would be with Pickle's real parents - and they would want a baby too. So tell me now - what would you do? Would you give away Pickle and take back the real twin?'

I think hard about it and after a few moments, I am completely flummoxed. The question is an incredibly difficult one. I begin to feel truly uncomfortable until it occurs to me that the question is also a truly inane and unnecessary one. I turn back to Vijay and ask him what the specific reason for this particular Monday Morning Mindf**k is.

He just giggles like a schoolgirl, and it is clear that he has truly enjoyed the conversation.

Idjit.

Just So Much Going ON!

So Peanut is starting school tomorrow. Fingers crossed and all that. Have to drop her to the school, and praying that she settles in nicely.

A week or so back, we went for her 'graduation' ceremony. The playschool had put up a really nice show, with dancing, singing, a play - the works. The kids did a commendable job and it was really quite amazing for me to see Peanut dancing demurely to Swagatam, she and her little partner flawlessly performing the steps.

However, she looked a little bit lost while dancing although I was totally entranced. Vijay said 'She's looking for us...'. It was difficult for her to see us because we were sitting right in the back - Vijay, me, my mother and Vijay's dad. The teachers had announced specifically before the show started that we were not to wave out to and distract our children while they were performing.

Being one who tries to follow official instructions to the absolute T, I told Vijay that we should not wave to our daughter, it would perhaps throw her off and that we should listen to the authorities.

Peanut went off stage, still looking a little lost. She hadn't spotted us. I felt a little bad but figured maybe she would perk up in the next performance. This was a play in which she was acting as 'Sita', the friend of Mowgli, in the Hansel and Gretel play ( don't ask, okay?). Her line was 'Look Mowgli, we have company!' and she had practiced at home several times.

The play was on and Peanut came on stage, looking like a little doll in a blue lehenga. The time rolled around for her to say her line, and I waited with bated breath.

My daughter forgot her line.

The teacher narrating the story smoothly jumped in with her line, but I felt bad - not that she had missed her line, but how she might feel about it. I turned to talk to Vijay about it and did a double take when I noticed he was gone from the seat next to me.

I looked back at Peanut and noted a change in her demeanour. She had perked up and was doing a little wave to someone at the back of the audience. Sure enough, it was my tall, gangly husband - her tall, gangly Daddy - who was determined to have his way and make sure that she saw him. She was now smiling and he headed back to his seat and since she was watching him, she could now see the rest of us too. She was very happy, and it was time for the 'Chaddi pehen ke song' which Mowgli and his friends were to dance on, and boy, did Sita rock it on this number!

She swayed, jumped, wiggled her bum and did a wonderful job with more enthusiasm than I had ever seen at home. Vijay and I were clapping along, and she finally waltzed off the stage with full confidence.

I had to admit. The husband does a good job with his free-wheeling and instinctive parenting. Much better than the by-the-book approach sometimes that some people take a teeny-tiny bit too seriously at times.

That's why we make a great team.

P.S - I actually cried during the graduation. I couldn't believe she had grown up so much.
P.P.S - I asked at the office today how many people cried after India won the World cup. Four out of nine people put up their hands. Just out of curiosity ( am not a cricket fan at all) - did you?

The 11 o'clock Show

I figured yesterday that Vijay and I should go for the late night show of 'The King's Speech'. By 11 p.m., hopefully all three kids should be in bed, and what was a little loss of sleep when it came to watching such an acclaimed movie.
I thus booked the tickets online and off we went at the appointed hour. One hot chocolatey brownie, a huge tub of popcorn and a large coke accompanied us into the hall.
I was terribly sleepy however, and I have to say that while I really liked the movie, it's not exactly the riveting fast-paced kind that would keep you wide awake at that late hour. But I had a lot of fun and net-net decided that this kind of movie experience could be managed once a month.
Vijay was making sighing and making comments like 'Arrey, yaar....bahut dheere bolta hai...' I thought he was just being funny till the end of the movie, when we walked out hand in hand but realized that our views on the movie were completely opposite.
'WHAT?' he said 'You LIKED IT?'. He then proceeded to say something that annoyed a lot of people who were walking out with us towards the lift, something along the lines of how 'next, koi maharani ko zukaam ho jaaye aur usse koi doctor theek kare, uspe movie banayenge!'. He thought it was predictable, plotless and felt like an extended serial instead of a movie.
I thought it was eminently enjoyable and that the acting was truly superb, even though I did feel that the plot was very predictable. I said I liked the acting a lot...the King, his wife, his brother and of course, the Speech Therapist.
Vijay thought about it and said 'I liked Aunty'.
Which Aunty, I enquired.
'Wohi...wo aunti jissne King ke bhai ko phassaya...woh mast thi'.

Whatever, Vijay. Seriously, should have just let you watch Dabanng at home on your laptop, the corny dialogues of which you were chuckling at, like a teenage boy, just before we left for the hall.

Next late night movie, you get to pick. And I'll be picking the holes in it.

What fun!

8 Years and I Still Don't See It Coming

Y (working on laptop on bed, next to lazing husband): Honey, my laptop battery is running out...
Vijay: Hmmm...?
Y: Please plug the charger in for me...
Vijay (Unwilling to move even half an inch): What? No...you plug it in.
Y: (Annoyed because the plug point is just behind his head and this hardly requires any effort on his part) Come on, just plug it in behind you.

( Slight pause as Vijay chooses his words carefully)

Vijay: Honey, you'll find plenty of natural gases there but no electricity...

My everloving husband

...is always finding new ways to express his feelings for me.

Sunday Morning Drama

My baby and I are in the shallow end of the pool. It's a windy day, and because it rained so hard yesterday, the pool has more mud and leaves in it than usual.

I am just about making up my mind to get out when the Lifeguard and a Security guard come rushing up towards the pool, shouting terse instructions to us to get out of the pool.

I grab Peanut and the two of us are out in a flash - my heart is beating fast because I've already spotted the cause of alarm - it's a snake that's entered the pool and is gliding along with some speed to the other side.

It's some distance away from us and we're out already so I feel relieved - until I realize that my husband is still in the pool. I scan the pool with worried eyes for him and am shocked to realize that he's still in it - oblivious floating on his back, with occasional lazy strokes with his long arms propelling him backwards - right towards the snake.

I am shouting his name, over and over again - the lifeguard and security guard are nearer him and they are also shouting at him. He doesn't hear any of us, he's in his own world, just floating, enjoying the Sunday morning backstroke. I think he briefly spots the lifeguard waving frantically at him, but appears to mistake it for a friendly greeting, because he just carries on regardless.

He is a mere five feet away from the snake and I am beginning to really panic -I continue to shout, while resolving to myself in a fairly detached manner that if the snake doesn't bite him to death today, I will.

Luckily, the snake is swimming much faster than him and passes him by, emerging on the other side of the pool - turns out to be this really, really huge lizard-iguana-type thing - the lifeguard runs towards it with a stick and tries to beat it - although I'm not sure what that would have achieved - but misses, and it scampers off into the nearby plants and disappears.

At this point, Vijay reaches the shallow end of the pool and sees me glowering at him, clutching a bemused Peanut at the edge of the pool. He casually asks 'Kya hua?' while the security guard, Peanut and I all look at him with a fair amount of disbelief.

That's my man.

Why You Shouldn't Ask Your Spouse For Feedback

So, I started work today after quite a few months of leave. It was a good day but hectic - and I'm too tired to write about it right now. Instead, putting up what I composed two days back. Bye!

Early morning conversation over tea.



Y: Honey, tell me three faults of mine.

Vijay (almost chokes while sipping tea): What?

Y: I'm in the mood for self-improvement. Go on, tell me my faults.

Vijay (sugary voice): You? Faults? You have no faults.

Y: It's okay, really. You can tell me. No problem. Tell me. I really want to know.

Vijay: No, no, let's talk about something else.

Y: Honey, please! Tell me - I want to work on it. You can tell me. Come on.

Vijay: Well, there's one right there, right now - you're so obstinate.

(Silence. Hurt look on my face.)

Vijay: But in a good way! Obstinacy is good. It gets things done.

Y: Hmmm. Fine. What else? Tell me another.

Vijay: Well...you do tend to be rigid.

Y: Me, rigid? Am I really rigid?

Vijay: Yes. A lot of the time. All the time.

Y: Really? I'm like that? Sort of 'My way or the Highway' types?

Vijay: Noooo....You're more like 'My way IS the Highway'. Ha ha ha.

(Silence)

Vijay: But rigidity can be good - it means that you don't sway this way and that - it helps you to be decisive. Yes, we need people who can make decisions.

Y: But I often change my decisions.

Vijay: Yes! And that means you're flexible and adaptive.

Y: But if I'm flexible and adaptive, how can I also be rigid?

Vijay: Because you're only rigid about one thing at a time. Then you change your mind and are rigid about another thing.

(Silence)

Vijay (Getting into the flow and clearly starting to enjoy himself): ...and you don't really let things go, you know. Little things - you can't let them go. You know that?

Y (Hastily): Okay, okay. That's the third fault. Fine.

Vijay: Third? Only two so far, I thought?

Y: Obstinacy. Rigidity. Not letting things go. That's three...Aren't you getting late for work now?

Vijay (Tilting his head back thoughtfully, putting his hands behind his head while stretching out his long legs): Shall I take the day off so that we can talk about this?

A very kind offer which I unfortunately had to refuse.

Salespersons Beware

And why it is entertaining and exasperating in equal measures to go shopping with my husband.


- Buying a Sofa a few years back:


I want to buy the first decent looking set I see; but oh, no, not he. He wants to research. And debate. And an important criterion for him - when I'm travelling, he needs to be able to sleep on it. And it must not 'sweat'.


Glib salesperson: How about THIS one, sir?
Vijay: Hmmm. Does it sweat?
Glib salesperson, losing some glibness: Sorry, sir?
Vijay: Does it sweat, sweat? Will I be able to sleep on it without getting all hot and sweaty?
Glib enlightened salesperson: Oh yes, of course. No, no. It doesn't sweat at all, sir.
Vijay: Hmmm (Sneakily puts his hand on the sofa and keeps it there)
Glib salesperson: It's one of our most popular models. Very high demand.
Vijay: Hmm. What material?
Glib salesperson: Blah blah blah.
Vijay: Where is it made?
Glib salesperson: Blah blah blah.
Vijay: How much will it cost?
Glib salesperson: Blah blah blah.

After a few minutes of this, just as Glib salesperson thinks he has sealed the deal, Vijay attacks.

Vijay: YOU said it would not sweat. But I've kept my hand on it for the last 5 minutes and it's sweating. SEE?

Glib salesperson recoils at sweaty hand and the thought that the expensive sofa has now got this tall gentleman's permanent imprint on it. We leave shortly without the sofa, my cheeks red.


More recently, buying a playpen for Peanut


Vijay: How much is THIS one?
Casual salesperson: This one, sir, is very cheap. 70% discount.
Vijay: 70%??
Casual salesperson: Yes, sir. Last piece left. Little tear on the side, but otherwise, very good condition.
Vijay (examining the playpen, muttering thoughtfully): 70%...
Casual salesperson: Yes, sir.
Vijay (attacks suddenly in an accusing tone): But your signs outside say discounts upto 50%...
Mystified salesperson: Yes...?
Vijay: And this is 70%.
Unsure salesperson: Yes...
Vijay: WHY don't your signs say upto 70%?
Flabbergasted salesperson: Sir...it's the only piece sir...if it goes, and customer asks 'where is 70%'...then sir...problem, sir.
Vijay (satisfied) Hmmm. Achha ji. Theek hai.

I am standing on the side, mouth slightly open, wondering how he's just got a guy to feel guilty about having a great discount offer. We buy the playpen, but leave the salesperson re-evaluating his career options.


And finally, buying a suitcase yesterday:


Enthu trainee salesboy: And THIS suitcase is very good, sir. This colour also very good. Suede matrial to bahut hi achha rehta hai, sir.
Vijay: Hmmm... par yeh jaldi ganda ho jayega, lagta hai...
Enthu trainee: Nahin, sir! Par yeh aisa matrial hai ....suede matrial ...ki jitna ganda hota hai, aur bhi achha dikhta hai, sir. Sachh mein!
Me: Yes...but do you have this same thing in black?
Enthu trainee: Yes, ma'am...but THIS colour is very popular....25 pieces of this I have sold...
Me: Yes, but I want black because I think this light brown will get dirty fast.
Enthu trainee: Nahin ma'am...I'm telling you...jitna ganda hoyega, utna achha lagega...
Vijay (tired of this argument, asks politely) Phir tum issko aur ganda karke kyon nahin bechte?

Enthu trainee is deflated. We buy the suitcase, but I think he is probably still working on his comeback.

5 Years Today! Holy Cow!

It is our marriage anniversary today. 5 years. This is some landmark na? It's not quite golden or silver...but maybe bronze? Copper? Something? Help me out here!


Anyway, it may not be commemorated by any precious metal but what the hell! I believe that 5 years is a long time. So much has changed - and yet, much remains the same. Actually, that sentence is completely meaningless but I've always wanted to use it.

Wow! I am rambling on and on, aren't I? I have no idea what to write. I can't say anything very gushy or romantic as this is a public space. And neither am I able to be my usual flippant self about this.

I guess I will just balance it...


...By saying that I am lucky enough to be married to the most amazing and wonderful and unselfish man in the whole world...

...And to counter that mushy sentence, I will now narrate last night's conversation...


Exhausted Vijay puts Peanut to sleep and falls into bed next to Y.

Y: Honey, have you brushed?

V: (wearily, stifling a groan) Yes, I have.

Y (suspicious because she knows he hates brushing at night and has to be reminded daily): Really?

V: (indignantly) Of course

Y: (snuggling up, not really wanting him to get up) Okay, promise?

V: (closing his eyes, sighing) I promise.

Y: (knows him too well) Promise you have brushed?

V: (without missing a beat, gaining confidence) Promise!

Y: (all the suspicions returning) Promise you brushed today?

V: (thinks a bit) Promise!

Y: Promise you brushed at night?

V: (pauses to consider this one) Promise!

Y: Promise you brushed TOnight?

V: ( Inaudible guilt-ridden mumble, pretends to drift off to sleep)

...both break into giggles and actually do go to sleep ...until Peanut cries 30 minutes later, to be lifted out of her bassinet and placed between us for the rest of the night. And that pretty much sums us up.


Yes, sir, 5 years is a loooong time. Everything changes. Everything changes but you! Hey, remember that song? ( I will not gab on about how cute my then boyfriend Robbie Williams looked in that song's video way back in 1998 or something, as talking about my past always irritates Vijay). Instead, I dive into a poem that I will make up as I go along:

You say po-tay-to, I say po-ta-to,
Actually, you say alu-gobi and I say Chicken Pesto,
Coz you're vegetarian, and let's just say I'm NOT,
And you always feel cold, when I'm feeling hot,
I'm of average height, you're over six feet tall,
You're skinny as a stick, I'm round as a ball,
That reminds me, Cricket is your favourite game,
And I can't stand it, I think it's just so lame,
You like old Hindi movies, I prefer Hollywood,
You could say that we're Mr Desi and Mrs Pseud,
Because you like the Great Indian Laughter Challenge,
Which I think is for the Mentally Challenged,
And when you catch me watching the OC on the sly,
You roll your eyes heavenward and ask Why, God, Why?
You take your time shopping, and I'm like In-and-OUT,
You sulk quietly when upset, while I not-so-quietly shout,
WHERE is the common ground, I ask, HOW will we survive?
Well, we've done pretty good these first five years, so bring on the next five!

And with that cheesy, badly metered excuse for a poem, I end this post. Happy Anniversary, honey!

Dialogue of the Week

Vijay, locking eyes with Peanut, coldly informs her in his best Amitabh Bachhan voice:

''Rishtey mein to hum tumhare baap lagte hain''

Peanut gurgles delightedly and resumes playing with her rattle. The effect is spoilt.

Cut!

Ups and Downs, Lifts and Crowns

The work on my crowns is finally over. Yay!

My dentist's office is on the eighth floor of his building. Needless to say, the lift is a crucial part of the journey there.

The last time I went there with my cousin Mini, we waited a long time for the lift. When it finally arrived, we piled in hurriedly with Peanut. Then a really huge man, around seven feet tall, all burly and gruff-looking entered. He frowned down at me, and I cowered against the back of the lift, quite terrified. Then he saw Peanut, who gave him a delighted smile. His face suddenly melted into that of a tenderhearted, large teddy bear. A cute baby can break just about anyone.

We were discussing him later at home,

Y: Did you see that big guy in the lift?
Mini: Ya, he was really tall. But he was quite nice, I thought.
Y: Oh yes, he held the door open for us.
Mini: Yes and he pressed the button for our floor also.
Y: Quite a sweet guy.
Mini: Ya, and he was also there when we were going down later, I don't think you noticed.
Y: That's quite a coincidence.

Vijay, who had been listening with a great deal of interest to this exchange, piped in 'Are you sure he wasn't the liftman?'

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Anyway, that was then - and now, three days ago, I had to go again to the dentist - this was to be my final visit for the final crowns. Vijay accompanied me this time, and as usual, we had to wait for what felt like an eternity for the lift. The wait was made even more painful by the fact that I was slightly late for my appointment, which I hate. Anyway, we piled into the lift with a bunch of other people.

By the time we got to the sixth floor, the left was empty except for us and this scrawny little guy in glasses, who seemed quite lost in his own thoughts. The door opened on the sixth floor, but no one got in or out.

Vijay, wanting to make sure the button for our floor had been pressed, mumbled at this little fella, who was standing near the front 'Can you press eighth floor, please?'

Scrawny little guy, snapping out of his reverie, looking confusedly at Vijay 'Huh?'

Vijay, said louder 'Eighth floor', adding, for good measure 'EIGHTH FLOOR!'

Scrawny little guy, still confused, saw the lift door was open and said 'Oh, is it? Thank you', and stepped out quickly.

Vijay, mortified, said 'No, no, this is the SIXTH....' as the door closed on the helpless, confused face of the poor scrawny little guy.

It was good fun asking Vijay, over and over again, 'Why did you do that to the poor chap, honey?' to hear mumbled variations of 'I didn't mean it...you know that...'.

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Seriously though, why do dentists insist on talking to you when your mouth is full of all sorts of drills, syringes and suchlike equipment?

And talking to you is bad enough, but actually ask you questions to which they seemingly expect a response?

And a reponse such as 'yes' or 'no' can still be managed with appropriate grunting sounds, but open ended questions?

Such as 'So what kind of a father is Vijay?'

How am I supposed to answer that question while in such pain, discomfort and the fear of losing all my teeth and maybe tongue, too?

Also, my dentist nearly gave me a heart attack by saying 'My laboratory has made a mistake'.

I waited, stricken.

He continued 'By mistake, they have made your crown a much higher quality than required for a back tooth. Metal finish'.

I waited.

He went on 'But since it is our mistake, I will not be charging you for it at that rate. So you are getting a great crown for half the cost. Lucky you. Ha ha.' (The last 'Ha, ha' being a total fake, barely masking his own pain at the loss of revenue)

I remained impassive, willing him to get on with the drilling.

He finished with 'So I guess that makes all your trauma of the temporary crown falling and having to come here six times worth it, eh?'

At this point, I truly wished for a chance to strap him into his own torture seat, stuff his mouth full of sharp implements and shout in his ear 'Do you think I really care about some ruddy metal finish that I never wanted in the first place on a crown for an inconsequential back tooth? Do you? Do you? Answer me! No, don't grunt! Say 'yes' or 'no'...Bruhuaahahaa....'

Of course, it was not to be. So I just grunted politely and non-committally.

He was obviously hurt by my lack of enthusiasm and therefore proceeded to start final work on my tooth before the anaesthetic kicked in.

I am so, so, so glad that's over.

For the time being. (Shudder).

This is the stuff Marriage is made of

It's a lazy, beautiful Sunday afternoon. The weekend is almost over for my hardworking husband. This really his day to relax. On this day, he usually resists the idea of a bath strongly.

However, given that I have bathed fairly early on in the day, and even our baby has been massaged and bathed, he clearly feels a little grimy in comparison. He somehow musters up the will power to get out of bed and goes to take a nice, hot shower.

He comes out sparkling clean. He looks like he's washed his hair today, and in fact, I think he may have used my shampoo for this. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he checks himself out in the mirror. Wearing a fresh T-shirt and track pants, he looks like he's even contemplating combing his hair. Indeed, he now looks around and spotting my hairbrush, picks it up and starts to run it in deft strokes through his hair.

I bury my nose in my book again quickly, so that he doesn't figure out how closely I've been watching him. I wait until he finishes with the final stroke of the hairbrush and turns away from the mirror towards me, with the faintest trace of satisfaction on his face.

That's when I look up from my book, glance at him with all the nonchalance I can muster, and suggest in a sweet voice,

'Honey, why don't you have a bath now?'

Oh, that single moment of wide-eyed, red-faced, blustering indignation.

When you've been married almost five years, it's these little moments of pleasure that give you maximum joy.

Buddies

Or 'Chal Mere Ghode, Tick, Tick, Tick'

Happy Merry Christmas, Every Buddy!

Off to Work

Friday morning, and I am bleary eyed at 8.00 a.m. - having been up every two hours to feed Peanut, as usual.

Vijay is as fresh as a daisy (strangely enough, this phrase has some of its zing since I met his secretary, Daisy), and all dressed up to go to work.

I try out the phrase that, I'm told, I used in early childhood when it was time to go to school 'Aaj to Thathurday hai?'

Vijay looks wistful and says 'Nahin...Friday hai'. We have a quick breakfast together and he dashes off, worrying about being late.

At 10 a.m., I get a call from him 'Aaj to badi bewakoofi ho gayi'.

It appears that he reached office, and noticed it was completely empty - except the solitary security guard who informed him 'Saab, aaj to chhutti hai'.

Yes, he drove all the way across the streets of Mumbai, for over an hour, only to discover that office is shut because it is Eid today.

He is now on his way back. Eid Mubarak!

Yayy! Aaj to Thathurday hai!