Why being married is like owning a cat

Soon after I got home the husband, I got home the cats. Perhaps what helps our marriage survive is that I have a cat barometer for my feelings about marriage, and since it’s his first experience with cats, he is perhaps getting me (or the marriage) through cat. At least that’s what I like to believe. 

While love is about newness, liberating and adventure-seeking, marriage is about sameness, and finding joy in it, much like cats do.  And that’s why marriage is like owning a cat.

So if I were a cat, this is what I would say to the husband:

• Just because we are in the same room, it doesn’t mean we have to talk. I know all that talk about nurturing, but silence is good enough.
• Sometimes I might lick you, or give you a pedicure, even if you don’t ask for it. It’s how I show my love, even though I am not expected to. But don’t expect it at the same time, every day. That’s what dogs do.
• We have just signed up to be together for life. Can we cut through the crap of ‘I love you’ and “You are the most important person in my life’ and ‘I don’t think I can live without you.’ May be you can do it, but I can’t. I am a cat.
• It’s fine, we are husband-wife, but each one of us is still entitled to the best spot in the bed. The only thing that matters is, who gets there first.
• We are so over the phase of being polite and entertaining random people and doing things to please others.  Don’t go there.
• Sometimes, I may want to cuddle with you. At other times, I may not feel like showing up when you walk in that door. It should be cool either way.
• I may do things that are out of character, like fetch a ball, or serve you your newspaper in bed, but don’t get used to it.
• When you leave town, I get to be me. I love it. So don’t expect me to say that I miss you. That’s what lovers do. We are married.
• Two people living together is enough noise. Let’s not over-communicate. 
• And please, no surprises. I hate it.

P.S 

This post is a response to a hilarious link on How falling in love is like owning a dog sent to me by my friend Natasha. I had to do a cat on it. 

Cat-a-pulted

When in doubt, bring on the cats. Yes, it’s been a while since I went into feline zone, a subject of great interest to me, more so because it is something that I can never hope to fully unravel, even after spending four years writing this column on gender politics.

And thank god for small mysteries. Lessons from cats far supercede the Mars-Venus anomalies in my world, but I am not the first person to tell you that. I still can’t get over the fact that despite my glorious cat history of two decades and some spent with cats of various temperaments, personalities, quirks and lineages, I have never come across a pair such as my current twosome who are so into each other, and yet have enough left of them for human consumption.

So here’s Learnings from Cats - Part Two:

• Everything around you is not worth comprehending. Why does the fan creak, why does the cook look like she’s had a Happy Meal too many, why do people ring bells even though they can see you sitting right there, why do crows hover around and not have the guts or glory to swoop on you, and why do they find strength only in numbers and why does the neighbour lady talk to me like I am a dog — all a mighty waste of time in the cat world.

• If he’s into me, why is he not calling me, and why is he writing on walls of random sluts, is definitely not a cat preoccupation. When a cat is into you, it makes it amply clear, no mystery there. If a human works any other way, move on.

• Saying it like it is the best policy. No point air-kissing people and then bitching them out behind their backs. On the other hand, if someone’s feet catches your fancy, by all means give them a lick, or a scrub, or a full pedicure, if you please. Rewards will suitably follow.

• Less is not more. I have noticed friends, who in celebration of their newly acquired (read starved) bodies are dropping clothes, showing off cleavage, shoulder, navel, whatever it is they can find more than ever before. It intrigues me, the sudden state of nakedness, not that I am conservative, but the fact that women think that putting their boobs on the table is what is going to get them the guys. It is so not. What’s hidden is always intriguing. And there’s things the degree of buttoning in a shirt or a stray collar bone can do that all the world’s off-shoulder, one-shoulder, microminis, cleavage maximisers cannot. Notice how a cat swathed in your favourite shirt or sheet looks far more intriguing than one flashing its belly in abandon?

• If you are not into someone, make it amply clear. This will just waste less time, yours and his. A bird in hand is only worth two louts in the bush. So what would you rather have?

• If you are gorgeous, do nothing. Or better, just curl up. Let others do the work. If you are not, pretend you are, and things will work just the same.



Miaaaaaoooow!

Fever pitch

When it comes to being sick, I feel as though I am a cat while the husband is a dog (apart from a hundred other instances when I feel the same way). When I am sick, I retreat. I am best left alone, need no TLC or cuddling or whining or hot soup to be served in bed. Like a cat. But then, cats always like to be left alone, unless they are my current twosome who think they are dogs and give you routine pedicures and hair spas. But more about the aberrations later.

Okay, I am a terribly independent person, who usually lives in a universe that demands an abnormal amount of social niceties, all of which I happily abandon when I am sick and just be the anti-social me and do as I please.

Like a) Not talk to anyone. b) Curl up with a book and not talk to anyone. c) Keep eating and drinking and not talk to anyone. d)Not answer the phone and not make a single phone call and thus, not talk to anyone.

Not that I like being sick or that I fall sick often. I don’t. But when I do, it’s a very private affair.But whatever I do to camouflage, the mother, chirpy and intuitive cutlet No. 1 usually finds out from the inflection of my voice. “Are you sick..?”

Groan! Now she will ask for the gory details.

The husband is not so intuitive. Unless you are swathed in bandages or your face is obviously disfigured or your leg is in a plaster and you are hobbling to the loo, he would assume (naturally) that everything is okay.

On the other hand, he is the type that announces “I am sick” at least 47 times a day the day he as much as has a sore throat or a fever. (Now the M. Pharm in me is appalled at how ignorant people generally are about fever in that it’s the response to a disease and not the disease in itself. Thanks to the poor sods, doctors can have exotic vacations every year)

HE: I am sick.

ME: So eat, sleep, do nothing.

HE: My throat hurts.

ME: So drink lots of fluids, eat, sleep.

HE: Does beer count?

ME: No.

HE: But I have a Man U match and I do want to have a beer to celebrate.

ME: So have a beer.

HE: But I have fever.

ME: So don’t have a beer.

HE: I also have cramps and I feel like I am going to give birth to Danny De Vito.

(Now, speaking lightly about childbirth to someone who has recently given birth is not in supreme taste, but when people are sick, they do strange things.)

ME: So do whatever you want.

HE: I am sick. Please speak nicely to me.

Of all the vows we take when we get married, the one which refers to being there for each other “in sickness or in health” is probably the trickiest (whatever language you took it in). Among all things that tell people apart, what you are when you are sick is a deal breaker. So if you haven’t had your vows yet, it’s time to rewrite them.

P.S. Turns out, getting wrecked on Holi was what did it for the husband, and not the antibiotics and the trying to be a good boy (and failing miserably).

Weekend woes

The husband is currently a shade of beetroot. After having had a perfectly good weekend ruined by recurrent invasions from aliens, he is trying to regain his composure by punching as hard as he can on his PS3 controller and stuffing his body with an equivalent amount of junk. By the time you read this, a new working week would have begun and life will not be beautiful again.

But what’s gotta be done, gotta be done. So I make no big deal of the events that unfold over the weekend: a bunch of nincompoops masquerading as building society biggies armed with a troupe of workmen take over the apartment for alleged pipe-work, the cat tries to run away with the plumber, politics burgeon between the new hired help for the infant and the old housemaid, our financial planners and accountant pay us a visit, and in the midst of all this, I try to clear the clutter, collecting things for a garage sale for animal welfare, the husband trying to hoard (as usual), and me trying to convince him not to (as usual).

It comes naturally to me, as I am the queen of multi-tasking. To the husband, sitting in front of the television screen is also a task (which I reckon was all that he had planned for the glorious three-day weekend)

Anyway, the proceedings begin at 9 am on Saturday, me trying to wear a mask of stoic and the husband scowls, focusing on ‘keeping the airconditioning from running away’ from his room. Midway, I peek into the bathroom to check the proceedings and find a gaping hole in the ceiling, its nakedness replete with the iron skeleton and brick and all. “What if it rains tomorrow? The monsoon will come straight into the bathroom!,” I bark at the workmen (visions of me standing under a waterfall ala Zeenat Aman flash by)

“No madam, monsoon is over,” said one pipsqueak.

“What the.. (suddenly remember that the infant is in my arms)….What about rats, and other creatures?”

“Okay, we will put some maal then,” he mumbles.

The maal, as it turns out, is flung from ground level onto the ceiling, adding a splatter-painted look to the walls, but I can’t be bothered anymore. The husband, meanwhile is wondering aloud why I am prolonging the agony and not letting them go.

The gory is not over. Our financial planners are next. The husband winces when I tell him the meeting cannot be cancelled.

“Now they will come and take all our money away…What a torrid day!”

“They are not taking our money away. They are creating wealth,” says me of perennial wisdom. I have been speaking the right language ever since I read Rich Dad Poor Dad.

More bad news follows. The husband is told he has to part with another princely sum for auditing and accounts. The meeting is tomorrow. Creating wealth is something he cannot visualize by now.

He is distraught, wondering how his weekend got robbed right under his nose and how he can salvage whatever few hours are left. The infant, meanwhile has no clue of the goings on, and gurgles with laughter, shaking his fists with glee.

Touché!

Parent trap

The mother is over to ease me into childbirth, as I waddle through my last days of pregnancy. We haven’t shared a habitat in a while and have different approaches to things—life, people, food—although when it comes to hospital visits, my mother has much more bravado than I do. She has, after all, squeezed twins out, had valve replacements and dealt with ICUs like it’s second nature to her.

We are both currently in parenting modes in different ways, as she cares for me and I do the same for the little one kicking away inside of me. And then of course there are my two resident feline offspring, who have also sensed that something’s up, so they are ever so gentle and clingy with me, and we also have conversations about the same. The husband, who still doesn’t speak Cat finds it fascinating to hear an ongoing dialogue that me and Nadia (my first born) or Bravo (my three legged James Bond of a cat) have at 6 am every day. Nadia seems concerned that our relationship will change, and I assure her that it won’t, and before she knows it, my child and her will be buddies. Bravo doesn’t have any such apprehensions, and is in a “more, the merrier” kind of zone.

I have always wondered whether I’d make a good mother—even though I have had (and continue to have) a pretty good innings with four legged babies— the fact that one day, my two-legged offspring could tell me (as I do to my mom) that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, and here is a better way, rattles me.

I also have a high benchmark to live up to, as mine is nothing short of a super mom. She has balanced work, parenting, social life and family ties immaculately, and is a top scorer in each of these spheres. She loved her job till the very end (after having worked close to forty years) and won many accolades in her long career, and is still fondly remembered as a teacher. As a mother, I think she did a pretty good job of us, me and my twin siblings, though she still laments, “If only I had more time. If I could only have stayed at home..”

The problem with being a parent is that one never ceases to be one— it’s a process that begins, but never ends, like it hasn’t for my mother— I had better come to terms with that. And it’s not about cleaning poop or washing butts or feeding or any of the chores. It’s about always putting someone else’s interest before yours. Marriage doesn’t necessarily teach you that; hopefully, becoming a parent does.

Am I ready for it? I don’t know, but will soon find out.

Cat lessons

Contrary to how it worked out for Robert Fulghum, I didn’t learn all I wanted to know in kindergarten. In fact I don’t even know all I need to know much after that. But I have come to realise, in my ripe adulthood that the 13 commandments I ever needed, I learnt from cats.

1. People who love you the most are the ones that let you be.

2. There is such a thing as too much affection. It’s called claustrophobia.

3. The louder you are, and the more you wield power, the less you actually have it. People who are loud and aggressive are usually insecure, that is why they need to shout to be heard. Power is best when it is not used. Ever seen a cat get aggressive and make a fool of itself for no reason?

4. There is nothing more underrated than discretion. Notice how cats never get caught doing things they are not supposed to do?

5. Bigger is not necessarily better. There’s much more dignity in holding your head high and talking up to people than talking down to them.

6. When in doubt, sleep. The art of doing nothing is hugely underestimated, and if all of us just knew how to do nothing, and look good while doing so, we’ll be happier people.

7. Conversation is largely a waste of time. Most people talk because they are uncomfortable with silences, not because they have something useful to say. Have you noticed how the most obnoxious person at work is always talking?

8. Ignorance is bliss. What doesn’t happen to you doesn’t concern you, and is definitely not worth poking your nose into. The world is better off without you getting involved sorting their problems.

9. Good looks, humour, intelligence and charm are always intimidating to most people, because it’s what they lack the most. If they have one, they don’t have the other, so they are constantly works-in-progress. A languid manner, an easy body language is what the whole world wants it, but doesn’t know how to get. If you have it, flaunt it.

10. If you want a good body, work for it. You can’t just eat right or not eat and get there. Have you notice how many stretches a cat does on an average day?

11. There are two kinds of people in this world—those who work bloody hard and never get noticed, and those who get the work done and always earn brownie points. Still figuring out what you want to be?

12. Ass-licking, networking, schmoozing is a waste of time. When you are good, people usually know it. At least the people who matter do. The rest can take a walk. The best company you will ever have is yourself. Nothing else can match up to that.

13. Always stay groomed. You never know who you will run into and when. That doorbell ringing could be a hottie. And then you can’t say, “Let me put my face on and come back”

Bravo!

The thing going for Bravo is not that he is a three-legged kitten who also happens to be cute. The thing going for him is that he is a three-legged kitten with an abundance of pluck and residual memory. So much so that he managed to flummox Nadia, reigning queen of the house and my first born (kitten), by attempting to strike her back with his stump when curiosity got the better of her as she was introduced to this mangy fluff-ball. She naturally was unprepared for this natural born killer (you should have seen the way he devoured his first fish—it would put any Bengali to shame) when I brought him home around 10 days ago.

Technically, Bravo came into my life when all and sundry thought I would be so gloating in my impending motherhood than I would have little to offer to the world, leave alone an animal species. But that’s exactly why I got him.

To those who asked me, “Is it okay to have cats when you are going to have a baby,?” my answer is, yes, it’s perfectly okay. I remember often being shocked by perfectly normal women who suddenly wanted to “get rid of their pets” when they knew they were going to be mothers. To me, motherhood doesn’t seem like anything new—its as though I have done it several times in the past, just that this time, the potty-training will take longer than the three-four days.

Of course there were attempts to question my feline offspring. And I am sure there will be more, but we are not about to give a damn. I was very clear that I wanted to bring my child to a world where animals are friends and not some extra terrestrial species.

Coming to the story of Bravo’s missing leg—well, his leg was ridden with maggots when Pooja, a WSD volunteer found him. He had to be amputated as the poison had spread too far; he wouldn’t have made it otherwise. The interesting thing was, Bravo yanked his dressing off on the second day, and since then, has refused to accept that the leg is in fact missing. Sometimes, when I stare at him long enough, I also catch him trying to wash his face.

Bravo had his first taste of vet-dom this Saturday when I took him for his deworming ritual, where he was greeted by four swarthy, pedigreed dogs with equally swarthy owners, barking away as Bravo stared at them bemused. He was completely unflustered, which made me happy. Sure, he was used to dogs and the inane sounds they make, as he spent a month at the WSD kennel, recuperating.

Point is, he is good looking, and he knows it. He is full of spunk and he knows it. He makes our coming home even more worthwhile and he knows it. And he has a weakness for necks, television backsides and spectacles and he knows it.

The only difference is, while his residual memory liberates him, ours tends to stifle.

Perhaps our lives would be simpler if our residual fearlessness came into the fore more often, and we led less conditioned, encumbered lives that make us say “why not?” instead of “why?”

Yes, I can

I never make new year resolutions, as I am usually quite resolved anyway, so there’s not much to fix (how boring). But this year, I have noticed that the cat has been displaying a great sense of purpose since the turn of the year. So I wonder if it has indeed made some resolutions. When I probed her in catspeak, here is what she shared (of course some of it may be offensive to human consumption and I recommend animal guidance):

1. I will not waste precious feline time on menials like crows, pigeons and other insects that come visiting.. instead I will focus on higher forms on Discovery channel and National Geographic.

2. I will hence, demand full viewing rights of the television when my flat-mates are at work, as I need something to recharge my batteries and can’t be bothered sleeping all day (much as they imagine I do)

3. I will practise my long jumps on the woman of the house instead of the man, as she has more resilience and notices the art in my sport. I will now jump lengthwise instead of breadthwise, as she’s not very long anyway.

4. I will fully express my sexuality by devouring all the men that stop by the house, especially the blue collared ones, as they smell so delectable, and are not usually scared of me.

5. I will make the most of every outing - random car rides, visits to the vet, to the lady’s mother (who is rather kind and huggable, but has two petrified cats who are too old for my taste) and the old man who I think fancies me.

6. As soon as I attain puberty, I will yank off this collar my flat-mates have bestowed upon me, and elope with the first able suitor.

7. I will insist upon fat-free chicken and organic fish, as I have to maintain my svelte form for such a suitor.

8. All alerts of human visitors’ have to be submitted 10 cat hours in advance, with a brief biography of said human, so that I can study its aesthetic quotient and ankle-delectability.

9. In case of animal visitors, I need a video shown to me at least one cat day in advance so I can gauge the stupidity quotient of said animal and tone down my brilliance accordingly, so that they don’t feel inferior.

10. I will demand full access to the fridge and the cupboard, where I need to retreat from time to time, just to collect my thoughts.

11. The man of the house will not treat electronic gadgets as his personal property. What is life without wires?

12. I will file a petition for animal abuse against the nincompoops who blast loud speakers every night and insist on singing (sometimes orating) in their ghastly voices.

13. I will not be asked again why I go for the lady’s nose. She is rather charming, but she needs a nose job, what can I say?

14. I will not have my flat-mates talk about me like I am not in the room.



Meooow! Time for my beauty nap.

Truth about cats and dogs.. (or men and women)

The mother in law asked, rather innocently, “So what does the cat do all day when you are away?”

I wanted to tell her, “Isn’t that the whole point of being a cat? Doing nothing?” Instead I elaborated on the detailed nothingness of being that a cat is blessed with.

Which is when it struck me how the husband, who never had a pet in his entire life took to our new feline member rather easily. He had found an ally. An ally who celebrated laziness with as much passion as he did. An ally who believed equally in the concept of non-work. Except that the husband is not as lucky as the cat—he only gets weekends off.

Would he have been as happy if we’d got a dog? I doubt. Because that would have meant walking the dog at least once (I would have volunteered the other two times), which in turn would have meant walking with the dog. Which would have meant walking. Which would have meant using up precious couch potato time burning calories he doesn’t have to burn since he is lean anyway.

A dog would also have meant giving it a bath on Sundays, which would have meant having a bath oneself (after you are so messed up, you might as well anyway). Which would have meant disturbing the body’s equilibrium by getting into work mode on off-days. Which would have been totally unnecessary as there is so much joy in doing nothing.

Which is when it also struck me that in the whole relationship dynamic thing, women are the dogs and men are the cats. We go to parlours, get our nails done, hair trimmed, floss, bathe, wear belts and bows, get shampooed, scrubbed, tweezed and epilated with shocking regularity. Not that the men care, but we think they care. May be when men turn into dogs and women into cats in relationships, there is a chemical imbalance, which seems to throw it off-gear. (Just try and imagine yourself with a man who gets a regular pedicure and you’ll know what I mean)

Women also bark (read communicate), eat everything on their plate, answer when summoned, respond to doorbells, alarms, phones and other extraneous noises, run unnecessarily, get excited over frivolities, wag when praised, fetch and preen.

Cats (read men) on the other hand do nothing. And they don’t care if you do nothing either. Yet, they end up having better feet, hands, skin, hair, whatever. Irrespective of what sex they are, cats are quick to co-opt laziness as their birthright and remind you that it’s unnatural to be any other way.

Hence the husband is in a state of bliss that we have a cat and not a dog. The cat reminds him of him.

So now when I return home from work on Sundays, instead of one person who doesn’t answer the doorbell, there are two.

Stupid Cupid

One thing living with a cat does is that it raises the bar for suitable men in your life by several notches. I am shocked how I wound up falling in love and getting married despite my feline love interests of rather exacting standards.

I figured, if it can happen to me, how dare it not happen to my best friend? (this is one of the side effects of being married—you can’t bear a singleton’s open-ended life). Although, in retrospect I wonder why I ever attempted to disturb her equilibrium.

Anyway, I am guilty of playing cupid on two accounts.

The first time, it was a Goa-based restaurateur, best friend of bad boy I had a thing for. He seemed okay—smart, articulate, well-mannered, and all those things men are when they are playing the field. Anyway, I thought it was a perfect setting for double dates, in case bad boy and I worked out. Thankfully, we didn’t.

But bad boy’s best friend took a shine to my best friend. And I played catalyst, and egged her to go out with him. She did, and never forgave me.

She didn’t like the fact that he whistled for no apparent reason, and smoked without asking if she minded.

She hated his fake American accent.

She didn’t like the fact that he drove a car smaller than hers.

The last straw was: she didn’t like him getting a doggy bag packed from the restaurant on their date. Now this objection I could not sustain, since I always get doggy bags packed, as I hate wasting food. But her point was—you can’t do that on a first date.

Okay, point taken. I make a retreat.

Time passes. I meet old work buddy. I scheme again. Okay, this time I thought I got it right. He was into Akbarnama. She was into Akbarnama. He like Mir’s poetry. She liked Mir’s poetry. He kept a good house. She kept a good house.

Perfect, I thought.

It wasn’t.

He was smitten. She was not.

He was a “What’s up?” kind of a guy. She was not.

He was late. She was not.

He lived to eat. She ate to live.

End of story.

Needless to say, I got flak for it. “How could you?” she screamed.

Now I have a rather charming investment banker friend I would like to see her with, but I am resisting. Twice bitten, thrice petrified.

Till I found her a match she would give me her right kidney for. I put her in touch with someone who had found a kitten on the road and wanted it to be adopted. She responded immediately, “I want him..!!!” I was stumped.

Okay, finally I found her a suitable boy!

It’s been a year and now she doesn’t get enough of him, shoe shopping and salon time, so why add a man to that and complicate things?

Show me the mamma

Men don’t know what to do with their mothers. Actually, they haven’t had the foggiest for a long time, but they seldom get caught, as there have always been others to diffuse the situation. The mother has been a thing to deal with, get goodies out of, and escape really fast.

Most of them don’t know there’s a way out till they meet a woman is willing to take over— sister, wife, girlfriend, or just goodwill ambassador.

So when the mother-in-law was visiting, I was quite sure who’d end up doing the work even though the husband hadn’t yet announced that he was working through the weekend.

In the five odd days she spent with us, the total time the husband (the peach of her eye, incidentally) spent with her on a one-on-one was 46 minutes. He did try to teach her the fine art of registering for a petrol loyalty program online, but was seen tearing his hair out in less than ten minutes.

I realised that the difference between mothers and mothers-in-law is the difference between a cat and a dog—while one is discreet and invisible, the other is conspicuous and visible. Every action is announced, every thought is spoken, every silence filled. It takes work. Work that the husbands don’t want to do.

Brothers are no better. While my brother lived here, he was never around, so it worked out nicely—he went to work in the am and returned in the am. Since he moved to America, his visits have been spaced out such that he had had a lot to pack in each time, so mom-time was not such a priority. In any case, in two out of five times he has visited, my mother has been in the hospital, rendered speechless by a stitched-up rib cage, millions of tubes and needles. Conversation was limited.

Also, while visiting home, the brother has an agenda to keep himself from talking. He fixes things. So if it’s not the computer’s CD ROM drive or sound card, it’s the cordless telephone or the camera or my dad’s binoculars or the DVD player or the vacuum cleaner. Perfect! Hours of not having to make conversation or have an opinion!

As for overseas phone calls with him, mom is not very good with those—she imagines a time-bomb ticking away, and the need to pack in a lot. Usually, it ended up being a babble-fest with neither party figuring out what the other was saying. Flabbergasted, he gave up. Now, when he felt the need to call her, he called me. Till I reminded him that was not cool— I couldn’t be standing in for her forever, so he would have to deal with it.

I then suggested to mom that she ask open-ended questions, like I would tell a junior colleague about an interview—“Make him talk,” I said. “Don’t ask questions that he can answer with a yes or a no. And listen.”

A few weeks later, the brother called me to complain, “What have you done to her?”

Someone’s got to do the dirty work. Pity it’s always me in my family. Make that families.

Curiouser and curiouser

I wonder where the term “curiousity killed the cat” emerged from. Well, if I have to go by my years of experience with felines of various temperaments, habits and fetishes, I can say that curiousity never really killed the cat.

Okay, it nearly killed my cat Millie Kutty, as she was curious to find a short cut from bedroom no 1 to bedroom no 2 that didn’t involve doors or humans. It also unhinged my friend Rajashree's cat Taby’s hip as she jumped a fence chased a tomcat in the wilderness of Nagaon.

But there’s more curious cats in real life than in the feline family—the latter seem largely interested in ignoring you or finding their own answers.

**

An excerpt of a conversation I had on Saturday with a curious cat.

So I heard you went to Turkey?

Yes, that’s right

Direct flight or stopover?

Well, there is no direct flight.. so I flew via Delhi

Business class or economy?

It was a work trip. Yes, I flew business.

Did you also take Deepak with you?

No, I told you it was a work trip.

Oh! I thought you could combine work with pleasure

Whatever gave you that idea?

Where did you stay?

At the Swissotel, the Bosphorus.

Five star?

Ya, I think so.

How much was the ticket?

I don’t know. It was sponsored

I noticed that she never asked me whether I had fun, or what the weather was like, or what I loved about Turkey. Only useless trivia. I was being marked.

**

When my brother was visiting from America, the curious cats were again at play

How long is your H1 valid?

I’ve got my Green Card now

So soon? How come?

Well, things just worked out.

Are you applying for citizenship?

I will be, in a year..

So have you bought a house?

I am still looking.

**

When I bought my first car, after watching my mother struggle with public transport for her heart check-ups, they were at it..

New or second hand?

New.

Is it a company car?

No it’s mine. I paid for it.

You drive yourself or you have a driver?

I drive.

One year or three year EMI?

One year..

So then you must be paying a lot…. How do you manage?

Well..

How come you chose a Santro?

I liked it…


**

When I went to the United States for the first time..

Got your visa?

Yes..

Six months?

No. Ten years. Multiple entry.

Wow? How did you manage that?

I don’t know, they gave it to me..

I thought it was tough for single women..

May be it’s not that tough.

So are you flying to the east coast or west coast?

Both.

No more questions.

**

And not so long ago, when I was single..

So? When are you giving us the good news?

I have no idea. What is good news?

Don’t pretend. What about settling down?

But I am so settled..

**

When I finally announced that I had found someone I truly love and wanted to spend the rest of my life with… the questions continued..

Where is he from?

Where does he live? What does he do?

Own house or renting?

So when are you inviting us home?

Where did you go for your honeymoon?

How come you didn’t go abroad?

**

It never ends. Which is why I would be in a state of bliss if I had to spend the rest of my life with animals. They have better things to do than collect useless knowledge and make checklists. Sleep, for instance. Or just be.

Happy happy joy joy!

Hi. I am Happy Singh and I am the kitten that just got adopted by a kind lady in HT. Okay, I know I created quite a flutter in their office as I was the only good looking thing in the compound, but sorry folks, no free shows anymore. I have a home address now. I just thought since all of you have so many questions, and I obviously can’t answer all of them, as I only know felinespeak, I am going to use this column to tackle a few:

1. Why am I called Happy Singh?

I think the writer of this column has a cat called Lupooh Singh and she is oh-so-smitten by him. And the lady who adopted me also liked the name, so who was I to protest?

2 . Why do I not respond to “Happy Singh”?

Frankly, I don’t care if you call me Osama Bin Laden or David Dhawan. I am just amused that you guys read so much into a name.All I care about is:

a) Are you going to feed me, which is usually a good thing

b) Are you going to pet/cuddle/kiss/squeeze me, which is usually not a good thing

3.Why do I never listen to you?

Because, if you notice, I am a cat and not a dog. Are you going to expect me to respond to doggy commands, like ‘catch’, ‘jump’, ‘down’ , ‘stay’ which, frankly are quite annoying. I just do what I want to do and not what you want me to do.

3.Why is my stomach so round?

Have I ever asked you why your nose is so big, or why you leave a trail of deodorant till Mahim station or why do you smoke so much or how did you get so fat? So leave my stomach alone. But if you must know, it’s worms. I lost my mommy when I was three weeks old and I had to eat garbage till I wandered into the HT building. Just give me a week, I will get my shape back.

4. Why do I attack you when you sponge me or try to take my ticks out?

Because I don’t like being messed around, is why. And has anyone tried to sponge you or take your ticks out? Just so you know how it feels.

5. Why do I scratch everything around so much?

Why do you think God gave me claws and not you?

6. Why do I curl up and sleep so much?

Because, I don’t have to slave in the office so much, hoping that some day I don’t have to work and then I can curl up and sleep all day like a cat. I am ahead of the game, as I am already living the good life and don’t have to wait till I am 60 or 70 or however long humans take to stop working and start living.

7. Why do I never stay in my assigned corner?

Because frankly, I have better taste and I don’t work in an office.



Purrs,

Happy Singh

Cat out of the bag

“Tell me all about Wriggly,” ordered Pooja as she hugged me. “Where did you meet, how does he look, how long have you been together, tell me all….now!”

I was a little taken aback. I was meeting her after three years, so I assumed all questions would be about me. “Okay, I’ll show you his picture,” I resigned, and beamed her the display on my mobile…

Stunned silence…. “A cat…..!!!!”

“Yes, what did you think?”

“I thought Wriggly was your boyfriend…, “ she said, despondent.

“You think I would date a guy named Wriggly?” I was chuckling by now, about my cat being out of the bag.

‘So what? You have a name like Lalli…that’s silly enough…”

It all came together. Pooja had been following my Facebook status updates, where Wriggly featured as the latest love of my life. He incidentally is a rambunctious kitten, recently adopted by my best friend and has turned our collective lives upside down. Yes, I am guilty of status messages like “Lalita is wondering what to wear to her date with Wriggly tonite” or “Lalita is unable to stop thinking about Wriggly” or “Lalita is distraced by Wriggly” or “Lalita is wondering when she can squeeze Wriggly again…

Surely, she couldn’t be thinking I was writing about my beau! I mean, what kind of person would put their love lives on Facebook?

Turns out, it is not as implausible it seems to be. Because, weirder things happen on this superficially effervescent networking site. A friend’s boyfriend who has never made any conversation with me in real life, inundates my wall, my super wall, my funwall and god knows what else, with random messages all the time. Some randoms want me to take the ‘sex appeal quiz’ and the stalker quiz and ‘how alike we are’ quiz and the ‘likeness unrated’ (find your inner criminal) quiz. Others want me to answer their questions and share movie tastes or share their garden or hatch their eggs or something equally absurd. I have been guilty of succumbing to a few of these advances, before I realised how silly and distracting it all was.

I feel like saying, dudes and dudelets, I don’t know how you made it here, but I don’t really ‘know’ you, so I have no reason to know how like or unlike we are, or to evaluate which one of us has more sex appeal. I am very confident in that department, thank you!
Yes, but I am guilty of adopting a pet, playing scrabble and learning my chess moves, because I think, might as well use the services of people who can teach you some skills. And why not?

As for the rest who are oh-so-random or just oh-so-inactive, I just want to know, if I delete them quietly, will they receive a notification that they have been deleted? Because that might be a tad rude, even for a superficial medium like Facebook. Someone please let me know. I am clearing the clutter, and yes, that is my current status update.


.

Feline wisdom

I was just beginning to grasp the nuances of gender politics when I acquired my cats. And from then on, it has been a journey of endless learning and unlearning for me.

Lupooh Singh came into my life with half a nose and no lip. I found him in a gutter, hiding from his assailants, trembling like a leaf. I had him stitched up, disinfected and baptized right away. He reminded me of a lil’ pooh, and Lupooh seemed befitting, although in retrospect I think I should have worked harder. The Singh part came from a certain strapping young surgeon in my life at that point, but the nomenclature didn’t go well at all — he felt let down, sharing his last name with a cat. Told me he felt ‘emasculated.’ I thought it was time to let him go. Not the cat, the surgeon.

Millie Kutty is another story. When she was the size of a spoon, she wandered into the electricity meter enclosure in my friend’s apartment, beckoned and stared beatifically at him, seducing him into taking her home. She then attacked his three robust and rather well endowed cats one by one, ate up their food, and then preened, perching over his shoulder. His wife immediately called, asking me to take her away. “Lupooh needs company,” she said. “And besides, she looks like you!” And that did it.

Off I went and got her home in a bag, and off she emerged from the bag as soon as we reached, handing Lupooh one tight slap. Ah! The powertics had just begun! My life was soon going to be a riot of cat (mis)adventures between an alpha-woman and a beta-man. She had to be a Kutty; she was just too antipodal to him, besides being a sultry siren (Iyer would have reeked of vanity)

The next few years were the most insightful ones of my life in more ways than one, and my feline off-springs had a lot to do with it, with their layered personalities and the sub-text within.

Of course, they do have something in common. In that they both suffer from an identity crisis. Lupooh thinks he is a dog, and Millie is most certain she is a panther, or some higher member of the cat family. She spent the first few months looking hungrily at the forest overlooking my earlier apartment block, disdainful of the life she had condescended to, by her own seeking. She scaled walls and crossed balconies, and every time she went missing, the first thought that came to my mind was—she has disappeared into panther-land. But she would be found in someone’s ledge or balcony, snarling at being lost. She hated defeat.

He, on the other hand turned out to be a faithful, waiting for me at the door, obeying my commands, getting restless whenever I packed a suitcase (He wanted to be in it)

For months, he tried to get an edge over her. Sure he was older, bigger, better looking, but often referred to as ‘she’ by ignoramuses. May be he felt emasculated too. He tried towering over her in an act of masculine aggression; she sneered at his obvious show of physical power, and chose to ignore him.
Till one day, in one of her ledge escapades, she slipped and fell. And ended up in a pool of blood with a fracture. The next month-and-a-half broke her completely, as she hobbled in her awkward catwalk, very unbecoming for a lady of her stature. She survived, needless to say, and the perched bum soon became sexy. As she convalesced, he turned into the alpha-male— the man about the house, taking charge of all her favourite spots, marking his territory.

Today, after six years, they have attained some equilibrium. She no longer attempts ledge tricks, but he gets into calculated adventure every once in a while. They still lead together, yet separate lives. Makes me wonder why humans always make a big deal about ‘not having anything in common’ with each other.