Four idiots

Okay, my life is turning out to be a constant source of material for this column, but in case you feel I need to address issues/peeves/idiocies beyond that, just write to me and I will address that. After all, there is only so much husband bashing that might be permissible. Competing with which will soon be boy-bashing, and then you will call me a bad mother, which is why I am offering you an open invitation.

So, there I was, not so long ago, leading a perfectly blissful life as a singleton—a job I loved, friends I absolutely dug, potlucks that were the rage, holidays I maxed out, a pad that was perfect for me— where I could find my oregano and my Season 7, Episode 5 of Seinfeld whenever I was in the mood, where plans were spontaneous and one could take off to Pondicherry on a whim.

That was then. Now, I live in boy-land with four idiots. There is a husband, a boy who thinks he is a cat, a tomcat who thinks he is the boy and a she-cat who thinks she is Don Corleone. Together, they drive me nutsidaisies. I like that word. (Note to self: use it abundantly in future conversation with said parties).

If that was not enough, there is football. Now I am not going to lament about the whole soccer widow thing, because, honestly, anything that keeps the boys to themselves and away from me is welcome. Because the thing I miss the most in my new life is me. So I will not be the one who asks the husband for some soccer compensation like a measly movie or lunch or a dress from Zara (which by the way has come a decade too late). And so, here’s my advice to soccer widows. Use this time to get you back. It’s a great opportunity.

No, my only problem with the football season, (and I fear there are too many to keep track of) is being asked to participate in the proceedings. So I am regularly given updates and statistics I haven’t asked for, asked to join in for beer and some rowdy rooting, staring at our 42 inch monster with surround sound, when I could just curl up with a book or do nothing (again, something that has become increasingly difficult to do). I don’t mind devouring cute butts on screen (or in real life) once in a while, but too much testosterone makes me sick. And then the husband blames me for not being into the game, but into the men. Well, what else will I be into, dude?

The boy, by virtue of majority, wants to be where the action is and the cats are excitedly discovering the Messis in them (give them a piece of rolled-up silver foil, and see what they can get up to) and messing up my house. That’s my life currently.

And lest I forget. Yes, Chetan Bhagat, the title for this column was indeed inspired by the movie that was inspired by your story, and unlike the filmmakers, I hereby give you due credit. Happy?

Hey sista!

I feel like doing something I have seldom done before; something I am really bad at. Matchmaking my little sister. And it’s not because I am a romantic at heart or I love fix-ups or know how to go about them, but simply because that will probably be the only way to rescue her from the spate of unsuitable boys my parents and other gerrys (my short form for geriatrics) in the family have been subjecting her to. Okay folks, I am sorry about airing this in my column, but I hope this works.

After years of being the black sheep of the family, I am suddenly the apple of everyone’s eye. It has nothing to do with this column but has to do with the fact that I am now ‘respectably married’ and what’s more, I have also demonstrated that I have a womb. So much for brownie points.

My little sister on the other hand is now fighting battles that I chose not to fight, simply by running away from home and living on my own since age 24.

When I was of ‘marriageable age’ i e way before I actually got married, I was introduced to various computer geeks, financial wizards, research scientists and academic Neanderthals by the usual suspects (not that I have anything against any of the species, but it demonstrates my family’s limited vision as far as mating is concerned). All I could think of was, what would they be like in the sack,and somehow, I found the idea unpalatable each time. But how does one tell parents that? So I would use euphemisms like, “I am too strong/independent for him, he may not be able to deal with my free spirit,” blah, blah. After a point, my parents declared me over the hill and gave up, and then it was over to my sister.

What bothers me is how the benefit of doubt is never in favour of you, but the ‘boy’ or the ‘party’ to put it crudely. How he is well settled, has a good job, has his ‘own flat’ never mind if it’s in Ranchi or Coimbatore, or wherever sad people live. And how we need to make haste and not ‘delay matters any further’ because time is ‘running out’ and age is ‘catching up’ and such a ‘case’ may not come again. I almost have visions of a train leaving the station in classic Bollywood style and Kamalhassan or some such running behind it with a pot in his hand, making monkey faces at Sridevi, ala Sadma.

As for the photographs of concerned ‘parties’, let us not even go into that— it’s a whole minefield, enough to deserve an exhibit. I wonder how in the era of Facebook and candid cameras, men still manage to get shot in low angles, accentuating their gauche bodies and bad clothes, looking like they just stepped out of a kitsch gallery. Who is shooting them? Their gardeners?

So dear parents and fellow gerrys, I implore you. Just clear orf! Or show me a real man.

Before sunrise

I can finally say this. I am so done with clubbing. I have danced up many a storm, club hopped till breakfast, shared chemistry with quite a few on the floor, created a riot in my girl-brigade phase, fudged hostel late-passes, and sometimes made a fool of myself too.

Now, with two men (the husband and the boy), two cats, and six friends from the real world in tow, I feel almost smug. And slightly dismissive about the way people engage in the city, particularly when the sun goes down.

I guess the reason people succumb to the black hole of social grandeur in night clubs is because it insulates them. Even though the amount of clothing worn these days at such night outs is next to nothing, it still makes them feel more protected than say, meeting for breakfast.

It’s a minefield out there and nothing is as it appears. Singletons are busy scoping the scene and marking potential mates on their datometers. Couples with kids are eager to make an appearance again, almost with a vengeance so as to not appear uncool. DINKS are making the most of whatever they can get while they wait for their mutual funds or reproductive organs to surprise them. The married ones are revelling in the fact that they can still score and making a point of their partners noticing. Those married-but-available are actually acting on it and hoping their partners will not notice — a fact that has become increasingly impossible in an over-tagged, over-commented, over-facebooked world. Insomniacs are hoping that night blends into day, so they can begin tagging and posting pictures the minute they reach their dreary homes.

And no one gives a damn about the music or the deejay, although it is cool to appear knowledgeable about one or both. So while people down their shots and max out their credit cards, the clubs always have the last laugh.

And yet, why do people do this? Why are bars and clubs always full, no matter what the price tag? Simple. Because it’s easy. It involves no work. And once you are on a list, it’s just the comfort of numbers. All you have to do is show up. After all, how many house parties does one get invited to anyway? How many of your night-lifers will actually have you in their home for breakfast?

I know quite a few over-zealous party animals who look like complete fish out of water at home parties. Without the strobe lights and the haze of smoke machines and the ear-shattering decibels, they appear almost naked, speechless, move-less.

So , one of the first rules of dating is do not go clubbing. Or, at the very least, to take it somewhere else from there, given that you have, after all, met the object of your affection in a bar. Things look, sound and feel very different with Long Island Iced teas or vodka-Red Bulls in swishy bars.

As for romances that yet happen, well, you are good as long as you are in your bubble.

Happy happy

Birthdays and babies are like visa-not-required ports. Almost anyone has the right to engage with you to wish you on your birthday or likewise, when you are with child, and there’s no need of clever lines to open the conversation.

So it’s a free for all, including mutual fund managers, personal bankers and insurance agents, Facebook friends, cute boy in the yoga class, PR insects, or anyone in your mailing list. And everyone deserves a thank you.

I somehow grew up on minimal birthday fuss in my childhood (being a May baby meant not being able to flaunt the birthday cake the mother baked, as most of the friends and neighbours were off to cooler climes, wearing polo necks and skiing or rolling in snow, ala Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Singh of yore), but birthdays have been getting more and more populated as I justify my greys. Almost enough to have a ready template for replying to messages/calls/emails.

As for the mother, the husband, the siblings, the BFF, the favourite aunt and cousin, birthday wishes are a given and slighting in any way will be an unpardonable offence, so they stick to what they do best, i.e celebrate you.

But outside of that, almost anyone has a free chance to “like” you on your birthday, or use terms of endearment, everything in the past forgiven. For potential crushes or fans, birthdays are an open window in the era of Facebook. Whether it’s the wall or a message is a choice they have to make, and whether to reply or not is a choice you have to. But how can one ignore a birthday wish? It seems wrong, somehow.

For contentious relationships, birthdays are a way to tell you, “Yes, I am still pissed, so I am not going to wish you on your birthday, see!”

So there were people who were conspicuous by their absence. May be my acerbic tongue might have said something they didn’t want to hear. May be we have outgrown each other and our friendship has reached its expiry date. May be it’s a decadent relationship that has lost its fire and is not worth stoking any more. May be we are just not into each other like we used to be. May be they just don’t have Facebook or birthday calendars or phones with reminders or just a good memory.

And then there are the excuses. “Oh, no, my Facebook page isn’t showing birthdays anymore.” Or, “I forgot to put a reminder on my phone.”

For unresolved romances or relationships that haven’t had closure, it’s a point of re-entry. “Yes, I still have feelings for you. See how I can’t seem to get your birthday out of my system?”

So ex-boyfriends, new flames, admirers and fans (not that I am trying to show off but you know what I mean) can all happily coexist under the birthday radar, say their piece and leave, if only to return after a whole year.

But then, as they say, keep the good energy flowing. It can never hurt, can it?

To many

I thought one of the best things about not being part of an organisation is not having to deal with Lotus Notes on a daily basis. It was as though writing emails was a necessary evil and the most preoccupying thought while writing a mail was who do you mark it to, and in what order. It has always been a tough one for me, so I took the alphabetical way out and pretended it was the norm and nothing untoward happened, so I kept at it.

Sometimes, figuring out who stands where in the order of hierarchy and therefore in your mail is enough to give you ulcers. How do you decide who’s the recipient and who’s the cc when there is a very thin line? Do you have to cc all that cc you? Can anyone butt into a cc chain, even though they haven’t been addressed/spoken to? Does every mail have to be grunted to, even though nothing in it is of any consequence to you? As for the bcc, well, that’s another can of worms. Whoever invented it had a devious little mind and I am sure is having a hearty laugh.

May be all HR departments should conduct an email orientation to new employees explaining the fine nuances of mail protocol, because sooner or later, it will become the bone of contention.

Ironically, I am married into a reply-all family and one of the toughest things about the marriage is keeping people ‘in the loop’. I did it for a while, and even believed in the theory that cyberia is the best thing that happened to the modern family, but after a series of back-patting and wowing at pictures and things, I realised it is not my scene, so I have now left the husband to do the dirty work, which of course he hasn’t done in months.

Having said that, I am still slightly embarrassed about having mailed people to “Become a fan” of this column when a friend set up a Facebook page for me. It seemed vulgar. But as my friends and husband suggested, it’s the age of self promotion, and the whole world is doing it, so what’s wrong with it? I am still ambivalent about it, but the damage is done.

As for forwards, it’s plain lazy. And the closer you are to me, the more I hate a forward from you. That’s about it. There are mails about making the world a better place, but only if you forward it to nine other people, else you will be doomed. Then there are those about life-threatening substances in your blood or deodorant or garbage liners and how, if you don’t do anything about them, you will die in 64 days.

The joke spammers are another lot. I know funny is funny and sharing laughter is such a noble thing and all that. And there are the inspirational messages on how to be happy (while all you are thinking of is how to get rid of this person without hiring a supari killer) and what is life and love and other deep four letter words. But do me a favour. Surprise me. For once.

Sheikh-en and stirred

It's funny how moving away from your immediate habitat puts you in a neutral space almost as you enter your port of take off. I have always been an inveterate traveler and to me, it is the best way to declutter your mind. You are suddenly insulated from all the stuff that gets to you, even though you are the same person and capable of feeling essentially the same things, there is a kind of distillation that happens to your thinking.

Traveling sort of neutralizes you. It’s like sometimes life gets to a point where there is too much acid or too much alkali and then you add the opposite of what it is and render it to pH seven. And strangely, all seems well. People who travel a lot will get this, and will also get the fact that it’s not where you go, or who you go with, but whether you really do.

As mother to a ten-month old, I have been strangely dissuaded from my adventurous spirit by “How will you manage? What about food?”, and other such banal preoccupations, so I figured I will start small. So with baby slung on my shoulder and a suitcase full of adventure, off I went.

So here I am, on a holiday in Dubai and for once, I don’t have any male-bashing to do. The Sheikhs with their clichéd harems actually turned out to be the gentlest men, full of charm and niceties, and having an infant in my arms seemed to have more perks than I had imagined as far as breaking lines and being driven in airport carts went.

The husband is away, and hasn’t done anything to annoy me in the last six days, the parents and siblings are also at bay, thanks to a deactivated roaming facility, so life feels quiet, and sort of contemplative.

As for the cats, their absence is not being felt that much, thanks to a resident feline seductress who goes by the name of Misri and who has a not-so-strange duvet-excavating kink that fluctuates between endearing and exasperating, but she doesn’t really give a damn.

The infant is, to my relief, adaptable, and has been so from the word go, even though he has been breathing a fairly sterile air for the last few days. He of course couldn’t differentiate between the well-manicured porcelain-faced airhostess smiling beatifically at him, and the farsan-eating, bush-shirt wearing passenger next door, who was constantly asking the stewardess for “Cock” and whose shiny watch dial the infant took a shine for. To the child, almost anyone is worthy of a grin, the only prerequisite is that they should grin back.

And before I know it, there ends my jaunt in the mecca of shopping, where, ironically, I have done more food and beach than retail therapy, and where, to my relief, no one gives you the look if you stride up and down the beach in your bikini even though you haven’t exactly been on a size zero regimen for the last few weeks. May be it’s my arm candy.

Oh boy!

It is politically correct and rather fashionable to say that you can’t marry a man and expect to change him. So much so that we have started believing it. But almost every woman I know is subtly and steadfastly working on her man to at least change him enough to be able to live with him. For instance: Change what he eats. How often he sorts his paperwork. What he wears. What he buys. How much he talks. How much he doesn’t talk.

For most men, marriage is the ultimate and possibly, the cheapest rehabilitation program. Let me officially rechristen it to MRP (Man Rehabilitation Program). Coincidentally, MRP in its other avatar is a trivia most men love staring at. For example, the husband examines every bit of packaging, from a tooth brush to a jar of mustard for manufacture and expiry dates. Funnily enough, my father does the same, and so does my brother, and the former even sniffs everything like a dog would.

As if one MRP wasn’t enough, most of us are on multiple ones. I am on four, since I have a father, brother, husband and son.

I know what my friend meant when I told him I was taking a baby sabbatical and he said, “No, you are not. You are making a man.”

Had it been a girl, would he have said, “You are making a lady?” I guess not, because it is assumed that unless something really untoward happens, all girls grow up to be ladies and there’s really no work required. For boys, everything is a work in progress, whether they are seven or seventy.

Most of us have had fathers, brothers or both as projects when we were growing up, and did our best to redeem them. They either ate badly, flung clothes around, smoked too much, played the television too loud, messed up the kitchen, had bad friends or were just being themselves.

Yet, we go and get married. And then wonder, how did the men get by life thus far? And let’s not even get into lousy wardrobes, bad accessories, cholesterol friendly eating habits, electronics overdose or retail junkiness.

And then some of us go and give birth to men. And then actually end up doing more work in not getting him to turn out a certain way.

Curiously, the rehabilitation never ends. And the men aren’t really complaining, although it is considered macho to whine about it in male company. But secretly, they are grateful that someone finally makes them look good.

The husband has one redeeming feature though . The love for order. On a totally superficial level, but there it is. Call it OCD or what you may, but it gives me one less thing to do. Perfect.