Problem 1: Tenderhearted long-nosed guests
“Riki”, my mother’s melodious voice rings from downstairs. “Tidy up your room today. I’ll have some guests.”
It’s unlike me to respond at once to anything my mother says, but the guest-is-coming danger signal works miracles.
“What kind of guests? Why do I have to tidy up MY room for YOUR guests?”
My mother sighs. “Oh, it’s Mrs. XYZ. She’s been offering to call for days now, I never really had the time. Do up your room you must. They’ll ask to be shown around, you know.”
It was just as I’d feared. A lady guest! One of those housewives from our purono para who have nothing better to do than calling on various people and making their lives hell for a day. I know that wasn’t decent of me. Ma would probably kill me if she heard me thinking along those lines. But the truth is that I hate some of these visitors of ma’s. In fact, to say I DREAD them would do better justice to the feelings that swell up from the pit of my stomach when I hear the sounds of their paan-chibano voices in the basement, the nasal “Oma, ki sundor”s punctuated by the scuffle of their saris, and yes, the sounds of their laughter. They’ll give the hyenas a run for their money any day! Having never seen my own mother wearing lipstick or any kind of make-up, I’ve always had a kind of prejudice against women who redden their lips like they’ve been sucking blood, and line their eyes deeply with blue-and-black as though they were afraid that their eyes wouldn’t be spotted otherwise. Sometimes, they even happen to be teachers from mum’s school, but for some strange reason, I never quite manage to put them in the same position as Tabby Cat or our dear old Ruchira Aunty. They come, they gorge on mum’s lunch, they eat up the best pieces of chicken, they make awful comments about the younger generations…And then come those dreaded words: “Koi apnar meyeke toh dekhlam na!”(Why, we didn’t see your daughter!) As if daughters are exhibition articles, to be viewed from all angles, commented upon, and priced.
Not wanting to appear rude, or rather, not wanting to face my mum after behaving rudely to her guests, I come down the stairs, almost always forgetting that to have a countenance that looks at least remotely like a cheerfully smiling face is an absolute necessity on these occasions.
The first stage is the worst, when they ask, “So which class are you in now, dear?”
Stoically sealing my ears, I let the mechanical reply cross my lips, “Class Ten”.
“Oh! (gasp) Then you’ll be sitting for the Madhyamiks this year!”
Thanks for the reminder; I’ll go jot it down in my planner right now!
“How she’s grown! Why, the last time I came here, you fitted in my lap!”
Ugh! Don’t tell me you ever took me in your lap! Now I know why I hate strong perfumes!
“Isn’t it amazing, the way kids grow?”
Once, hearing such a comment when I was younger, I had asked the concerned woman right away, “Wouldn’t you have been a bit more amazed if I still fitted in your lap?” Thank god I was only nine then, being cheeky at nine is considered an asset. “Oma, ki smart meyeta!” she had said. Now, however, I can only fume; comments in that vein are no longer welcome. Of course, I’d LIKE to try that again and see what happens, being fond of experiments with unpredictable results, but the reaction of my very excellent mother is so distinctly predictable that I wouldn’t dare!
The next inevitable statement: “Why, she’s gets thinner everyday! Don’t you EAT, my child?”
That’s a cue for Mum to take up the thread with a pathetic grimace, and with the air of a lifelong sufferer, she begins: “I can’t make her see sense! She has no appetite for anything except fast food! Why don’t you talk to her—”
I suppress a sigh.
“Oh, dear child! My cousin’s sister’s friend’s daughter is exactly the same age as you, and she looks way older! She eats everything that’s set down before her, you know.” Turning confidentially to my mother, she starts, “Vegetables, dearie. Feed her more vegetables. And kacha amloki sedhdo! My cousin’s sister’s friend believes in that!”
All I can do is watch in mute horror as my mother turns a sickeningly cheerful face towards me. “Hear! Hear! Are you even going to touch it if we get you something like that?”
You bet not! I glare.
“Oh yes she will. She’s a good girl. Madhyamiks do make one lose appetite, tai na ma?” In a sympathetic tone, “You must be a very sincere student. Do you study all the time? When do you go to sleep at night?"
Usually, I stop studying at 11, though I go to sleep at 2. But I cannot embarrass myself by telling her that! So I choose silence,
"Ah, I see! You surely study very late into the night. Don’t study so much, darling. Eat a bit more and yes, another useful vegetable is--”
My hopes of escaping them are dashed. I need to interrupt the conversation. At any cost! Or else we’ll probably have a raw-vegetable feast for dinner. “Ma”, I hurriedly chime in, “Did you see the pink rose that has come out today? It looks so amazing…aunty, you must see it!”
That always works!
My mother’s greatest pride is her garden. Indeed, she’s raised that garden with greater care than she’s raised us, and well, it’s paid back. It blooms and smiles and she can show it off; unlike her two children who have rewarded her care and concern by growing into two proverbial pencils that draw sympathetic sighs from every corner.
The mother-daughter love scenes
As soon as the visitor goes away, the real scene begins.
“Mum, there’s no way I’m eating that horrible stuff. I’ll continue the way I am, thank you!”
Ma, of course, goes up in smoke! “Look at you” she fumes, “Just look at you! And look at your friends. Now, Deyasini, she looks twice as big as you and she’s just your age! Remember her?”
Remember her?! She’s my best friend!
“She isn’t! She isn’t even taller than me!” I protest, starting to have second thoughts about organizing a Penta meeting at my place. The rest of them are bigger and fatter than Deya, and I can’t afford to have my mum noticing that. “And if you’re going to start the comparison cruise, then let me tell you, she doesn’t eat amloki seddho. She eats at Dominoes and Zeeshan and goes out to eat with friends—” My mum’s eyes have narrowed so much that I feel it’s prudent to stop.
“I suppose we make you live on raw vegetables?”
“Well, no, but the last time we had chicken was—”
“Yesterday” she finishes coldly.
Damn my memory! We’ve had chicken for the last five days.
“And how do you know your friends are going out?” I can feel her heating—“YOU’VE BEEN CHATTING ONLINE INSTEAD OF STUDYING?” She finishes in a dangerous whisper.
“CHAT! WHAT! She SMSed, Ma!” I didn’t lie, she did SMS. But sensing that the conversation is about to enter the danger zone, I quickly make up my mind, choosing the lesser of the two evils. “So you’re adding amloki seddho to the list from tomorrow? Chhola-badam, doi, chhana, amloki…I suppose the next will item on your list will comprise something in the line of cow-dung.”
"You need to get a shape", Mum says. "You cannot remain a straight line forever."
Stunning analogy. A straight line is dimensionless. So, no more arguments.
At the family dinner table
Though momentarily closed, the topic resurfaces at the dinner table.
“Why do you take half an hour to come down to dinner everyday?”
“The beautiful food!” I answer impertinently, and immediately regret it.
“Does this kind of thing happen even in the afternoon? Jupiter!” my dad calls strictly.
Jupiter, the maid, appears. Her answer is direct and to the point. “Oh well, I have to call her around 50 times then, she hardly hears a word when she’s at the computer.”
I close my eyes, knowing what will come next.
Why, oh WHY do I never have my lunch in time?
“COMPUTER!” they both shriek. “She sits at the computer!”
“WHAT DO YOU DO AT THE COMPUTER?”
All I can do is ensure my mouth is filled with food. I don’t have the guts to follow any of the two courses of action left before me: Invent a lie, or tell the truth.
“I know.” My brother says complacently, “She blogs!”
My beautiful bro!
“Blogs! What are they?”
“A place to make all sorts of announcements, probably.”
“Or is it a place to e-mail friends?”
“I think it’s an indirect mode of chatting.”
I keep chewing. Unimaginative parents who are completely computer-ignorant are REAL blessings, compared to the computer-educated ones. But imaginative computer-ignorant parents are anything but b's.
“Relax!” My brother says. “She doesn’t chat much nowadays. The last time I saw her chatting with some Devpriyo Pal and Kiki S on Facebook was—”
“Yuck!” I interrupt hurriedly, “I can’t eat this stew, it stinks. Yesterday's left-over, isn't it? I'm going to be sick.”
“Does it,now? No, don’t eat it then, wait, let me check it!” Clever me! The conversation is diverted immediately. My father is very health conscious. “Jupiter! How many times have I told you NOT to give left-over food-items to the children?”
I knew my mother wouldn’t buy that. “That stew,” she says slowly and coldly, “is more nutritious than all the other items on the table today. And it was cooked an hour back. May I know exactly why you think it'll make you sick?”
I decide to quote a 7 year old kid I had chatted with online that day. “I just don’t like stew. It has stuff in it.”
“Really? What kind of stuff?”
“How do I know what goddamn stuff you put in my stew? Something that will make me grow into a Michael Phelps overnight, no doubt.”
She takes a deep breath.
“My dear,” she begins. It’s never a good sign to have mums beginning sentences so tenderly. Her next words confirm my worst fears. “Just in case you think you are the most beautiful girl on earth, let me remind you that you resemble a Sakchunni more and more with every passing day. (Consider myself beautiful? I suffer from obtuse mirror phobia, mom!) I can almost count your bones. (Big deal! I can too...206! I knew that in KG!) Your figure, though you never noticed, makes you look like an underfed lizard.”
Let me make something very clear here. I have no delusions about my looks. I DO NOT fancy that I look round, cute and lovely; in fact I know I probably come as close to the physical demonstration of a dimensionless straight line as possible. And it’s bad enough to have the mirror pointing that out mercilessly everyday, without having my mum picking it as an excuse to stuff me with all the food items in the market that compete for tastelessness. Whenever I try to show off my knowledge of Life Science by telling her that vegetables do not contain fat, she silences me with a you’re-not-the-only-educated-member-of-the-family look.
Catharsis Continues...
I wish I could wake up one morning to find myself swelled up like Aunt Marge. I’d bounce mildly down the stairs (Okay, maybe I’ll miss the joy of jumping 3 stairs at a time like I usually do!), and mightily refuse all the garbage they offer me in the name of nutrition. Being fat, you may not have a lot of admirers, but you at least have a long line of sympathizers. Skinny people miss out on both! :-( If you’re fat, people are never blunt enough to add to your misery by pointing out that you could sink through the floor any day. On the other hand, thinness is considered to be a mildly amusing joke, and people keep telling you all the time that you’d get blown away if you sigh too hard, or that you’d be indistinguishable from your shadow if you ate a little less.
Only yesterday, I was reading an article written by someone who I bet weighed more at conception than I did at birth. (Wait, no! I was born overweight!) Well, the article ran as follows:
If only I could enjoy that kind of a diet, and make all the fat people jealous, then being thin would be WORTH it. But thanks to my over-cautious mother and also my metabolism, I don’t. Pshaw!
I guess I’ll sign out now. I’ll be skinned alive if I don’t finish the doi that’s waiting for me downstairs. Sigh! And bye!
“Riki”, my mother’s melodious voice rings from downstairs. “Tidy up your room today. I’ll have some guests.”
It’s unlike me to respond at once to anything my mother says, but the guest-is-coming danger signal works miracles.
“What kind of guests? Why do I have to tidy up MY room for YOUR guests?”
My mother sighs. “Oh, it’s Mrs. XYZ. She’s been offering to call for days now, I never really had the time. Do up your room you must. They’ll ask to be shown around, you know.”
It was just as I’d feared. A lady guest! One of those housewives from our purono para who have nothing better to do than calling on various people and making their lives hell for a day. I know that wasn’t decent of me. Ma would probably kill me if she heard me thinking along those lines. But the truth is that I hate some of these visitors of ma’s. In fact, to say I DREAD them would do better justice to the feelings that swell up from the pit of my stomach when I hear the sounds of their paan-chibano voices in the basement, the nasal “Oma, ki sundor”s punctuated by the scuffle of their saris, and yes, the sounds of their laughter. They’ll give the hyenas a run for their money any day! Having never seen my own mother wearing lipstick or any kind of make-up, I’ve always had a kind of prejudice against women who redden their lips like they’ve been sucking blood, and line their eyes deeply with blue-and-black as though they were afraid that their eyes wouldn’t be spotted otherwise. Sometimes, they even happen to be teachers from mum’s school, but for some strange reason, I never quite manage to put them in the same position as Tabby Cat or our dear old Ruchira Aunty. They come, they gorge on mum’s lunch, they eat up the best pieces of chicken, they make awful comments about the younger generations…And then come those dreaded words: “Koi apnar meyeke toh dekhlam na!”(Why, we didn’t see your daughter!) As if daughters are exhibition articles, to be viewed from all angles, commented upon, and priced.
Not wanting to appear rude, or rather, not wanting to face my mum after behaving rudely to her guests, I come down the stairs, almost always forgetting that to have a countenance that looks at least remotely like a cheerfully smiling face is an absolute necessity on these occasions.
The first stage is the worst, when they ask, “So which class are you in now, dear?”
Stoically sealing my ears, I let the mechanical reply cross my lips, “Class Ten”.
“Oh! (gasp) Then you’ll be sitting for the Madhyamiks this year!”
Thanks for the reminder; I’ll go jot it down in my planner right now!
“How she’s grown! Why, the last time I came here, you fitted in my lap!”
Ugh! Don’t tell me you ever took me in your lap! Now I know why I hate strong perfumes!
“Isn’t it amazing, the way kids grow?”
Once, hearing such a comment when I was younger, I had asked the concerned woman right away, “Wouldn’t you have been a bit more amazed if I still fitted in your lap?” Thank god I was only nine then, being cheeky at nine is considered an asset. “Oma, ki smart meyeta!” she had said. Now, however, I can only fume; comments in that vein are no longer welcome. Of course, I’d LIKE to try that again and see what happens, being fond of experiments with unpredictable results, but the reaction of my very excellent mother is so distinctly predictable that I wouldn’t dare!
The next inevitable statement: “Why, she’s gets thinner everyday! Don’t you EAT, my child?”
That’s a cue for Mum to take up the thread with a pathetic grimace, and with the air of a lifelong sufferer, she begins: “I can’t make her see sense! She has no appetite for anything except fast food! Why don’t you talk to her—”
I suppress a sigh.
“Oh, dear child! My cousin’s sister’s friend’s daughter is exactly the same age as you, and she looks way older! She eats everything that’s set down before her, you know.” Turning confidentially to my mother, she starts, “Vegetables, dearie. Feed her more vegetables. And kacha amloki sedhdo! My cousin’s sister’s friend believes in that!”
All I can do is watch in mute horror as my mother turns a sickeningly cheerful face towards me. “Hear! Hear! Are you even going to touch it if we get you something like that?”
You bet not! I glare.
“Oh yes she will. She’s a good girl. Madhyamiks do make one lose appetite, tai na ma?” In a sympathetic tone, “You must be a very sincere student. Do you study all the time? When do you go to sleep at night?"
Usually, I stop studying at 11, though I go to sleep at 2. But I cannot embarrass myself by telling her that! So I choose silence,
"Ah, I see! You surely study very late into the night. Don’t study so much, darling. Eat a bit more and yes, another useful vegetable is--”
My hopes of escaping them are dashed. I need to interrupt the conversation. At any cost! Or else we’ll probably have a raw-vegetable feast for dinner. “Ma”, I hurriedly chime in, “Did you see the pink rose that has come out today? It looks so amazing…aunty, you must see it!”
That always works!
My mother’s greatest pride is her garden. Indeed, she’s raised that garden with greater care than she’s raised us, and well, it’s paid back. It blooms and smiles and she can show it off; unlike her two children who have rewarded her care and concern by growing into two proverbial pencils that draw sympathetic sighs from every corner.
The mother-daughter love scenes
As soon as the visitor goes away, the real scene begins.
“Mum, there’s no way I’m eating that horrible stuff. I’ll continue the way I am, thank you!”
Ma, of course, goes up in smoke! “Look at you” she fumes, “Just look at you! And look at your friends. Now, Deyasini, she looks twice as big as you and she’s just your age! Remember her?”
Remember her?! She’s my best friend!
“She isn’t! She isn’t even taller than me!” I protest, starting to have second thoughts about organizing a Penta meeting at my place. The rest of them are bigger and fatter than Deya, and I can’t afford to have my mum noticing that. “And if you’re going to start the comparison cruise, then let me tell you, she doesn’t eat amloki seddho. She eats at Dominoes and Zeeshan and goes out to eat with friends—” My mum’s eyes have narrowed so much that I feel it’s prudent to stop.
“I suppose we make you live on raw vegetables?”
“Well, no, but the last time we had chicken was—”
“Yesterday” she finishes coldly.
Damn my memory! We’ve had chicken for the last five days.
“And how do you know your friends are going out?” I can feel her heating—“YOU’VE BEEN CHATTING ONLINE INSTEAD OF STUDYING?” She finishes in a dangerous whisper.
“CHAT! WHAT! She SMSed, Ma!” I didn’t lie, she did SMS. But sensing that the conversation is about to enter the danger zone, I quickly make up my mind, choosing the lesser of the two evils. “So you’re adding amloki seddho to the list from tomorrow? Chhola-badam, doi, chhana, amloki…I suppose the next will item on your list will comprise something in the line of cow-dung.”
"You need to get a shape", Mum says. "You cannot remain a straight line forever."
Stunning analogy. A straight line is dimensionless. So, no more arguments.
At the family dinner table
Though momentarily closed, the topic resurfaces at the dinner table.
“Why do you take half an hour to come down to dinner everyday?”
“The beautiful food!” I answer impertinently, and immediately regret it.
“Does this kind of thing happen even in the afternoon? Jupiter!” my dad calls strictly.
Jupiter, the maid, appears. Her answer is direct and to the point. “Oh well, I have to call her around 50 times then, she hardly hears a word when she’s at the computer.”
I close my eyes, knowing what will come next.
Why, oh WHY do I never have my lunch in time?
“COMPUTER!” they both shriek. “She sits at the computer!”
“WHAT DO YOU DO AT THE COMPUTER?”
All I can do is ensure my mouth is filled with food. I don’t have the guts to follow any of the two courses of action left before me: Invent a lie, or tell the truth.
“I know.” My brother says complacently, “She blogs!”
My beautiful bro!
“Blogs! What are they?”
“A place to make all sorts of announcements, probably.”
“Or is it a place to e-mail friends?”
“I think it’s an indirect mode of chatting.”
I keep chewing. Unimaginative parents who are completely computer-ignorant are REAL blessings, compared to the computer-educated ones. But imaginative computer-ignorant parents are anything but b's.
“Relax!” My brother says. “She doesn’t chat much nowadays. The last time I saw her chatting with some Devpriyo Pal and Kiki S on Facebook was—”
“Yuck!” I interrupt hurriedly, “I can’t eat this stew, it stinks. Yesterday's left-over, isn't it? I'm going to be sick.”
“Does it,now? No, don’t eat it then, wait, let me check it!” Clever me! The conversation is diverted immediately. My father is very health conscious. “Jupiter! How many times have I told you NOT to give left-over food-items to the children?”
I knew my mother wouldn’t buy that. “That stew,” she says slowly and coldly, “is more nutritious than all the other items on the table today. And it was cooked an hour back. May I know exactly why you think it'll make you sick?”
I decide to quote a 7 year old kid I had chatted with online that day. “I just don’t like stew. It has stuff in it.”
“Really? What kind of stuff?”
“How do I know what goddamn stuff you put in my stew? Something that will make me grow into a Michael Phelps overnight, no doubt.”
She takes a deep breath.
“My dear,” she begins. It’s never a good sign to have mums beginning sentences so tenderly. Her next words confirm my worst fears. “Just in case you think you are the most beautiful girl on earth, let me remind you that you resemble a Sakchunni more and more with every passing day. (Consider myself beautiful? I suffer from obtuse mirror phobia, mom!) I can almost count your bones. (Big deal! I can too...206! I knew that in KG!) Your figure, though you never noticed, makes you look like an underfed lizard.”
Let me make something very clear here. I have no delusions about my looks. I DO NOT fancy that I look round, cute and lovely; in fact I know I probably come as close to the physical demonstration of a dimensionless straight line as possible. And it’s bad enough to have the mirror pointing that out mercilessly everyday, without having my mum picking it as an excuse to stuff me with all the food items in the market that compete for tastelessness. Whenever I try to show off my knowledge of Life Science by telling her that vegetables do not contain fat, she silences me with a you’re-not-the-only-educated-member-of-the-family look.
Catharsis Continues...
I wish I could wake up one morning to find myself swelled up like Aunt Marge. I’d bounce mildly down the stairs (Okay, maybe I’ll miss the joy of jumping 3 stairs at a time like I usually do!), and mightily refuse all the garbage they offer me in the name of nutrition. Being fat, you may not have a lot of admirers, but you at least have a long line of sympathizers. Skinny people miss out on both! :-( If you’re fat, people are never blunt enough to add to your misery by pointing out that you could sink through the floor any day. On the other hand, thinness is considered to be a mildly amusing joke, and people keep telling you all the time that you’d get blown away if you sigh too hard, or that you’d be indistinguishable from your shadow if you ate a little less.
Only yesterday, I was reading an article written by someone who I bet weighed more at conception than I did at birth. (Wait, no! I was born overweight!) Well, the article ran as follows:
Scrawny waifs are not happy unless they are making us fat people cry. They gulp down five or six donuts, an entire box of chocolate-covered cherries, a box of cookies, a tub of ice cream, a couple dozen bagels with whipped cream on top, and a bowl of chocolate mousse, and then they cry about how unfair life is, because they don't gain an ounce, and they really want to gain at least ten pounds. Meanwhile, we fatties have just gained ten pounds by watching them eat.
If only I could enjoy that kind of a diet, and make all the fat people jealous, then being thin would be WORTH it. But thanks to my over-cautious mother and also my metabolism, I don’t. Pshaw!
I guess I’ll sign out now. I’ll be skinned alive if I don’t finish the doi that’s waiting for me downstairs. Sigh! And bye!
7 comments:
Oh lol! Now dont tell me YOUR mum goes on a comparrison trail as well~! Wheew.. my gran and ma and kamma.. they just tire me out so!--they STILL think I dont eat enough, would you beleive that? And you would have been WORSHIPPED at MY place--they love "neem pata" and "tangra maach".. and darling, being thin, is perhaps as hard than being "big and fat" like ME, i suppose, reading your blog..!
And that's an amusing description, really! I see a bit of Kiki-ness in this one, i really do, lol.. :P
Dont YOU DARE not have a penta-gathering at ur place some day..
P.S. We have 15 roses today. I'll get some for Kakima next time..
(and i HATE being "big and fat", you know that?)
Lol! i SO know the paan- chewing kakimas who comment -"Madhyamiks!!" or "Omaaaahhhh! Koto Boro hoe gechiss!!!! Chenai jai na!" Frick! or "Kumro shedhho kore debe, good for the brains, ei crucial somoi e lage!!" hateful. these days i just lock myself up in my room. my mum gave up after i started appearing before guests with maa- Kali type hair and baggy clothes intentionally. lol.
well so chatting with aniv helped you out did it? And this style of writing...its GREAT!
"My mother’s greatest pride is her garden. Indeed, she’s raised that garden with greater care than she’s raised us, and well, it’s paid back. It blooms and smiles and she can show it off; unlike her two children who have rewarded her care and concern by growing into two proverbial pencils that draw sympathetic sighs from every corner."
You know this really is something...LOL!
The attitude of your parents towards the computer... reminds me of my folks...2 years back...You bro sounds like a real character...
And you said you were bad at descriptions...Sheesh!
listen deer, you need to read your own blogs with a different perspective...
Maybe then you too would become enlightened...
"It’s never a good sign to have mums beginning sentences so tenderly." --- Couldnt agree more... You will write more about family drama right?
Pretending i am a connoisseur-"its stupendous!"
@Diana: You aren't "big and fat", you're just bigger and fatter than me. Which is not saying much, I agree.
@Kiki: Wow! U had the guts!? i never would.
@Rick: Of course, Aniv is great. And thanks for pointing that paragraph out. I was afraid that was rather rude, and thought of mellowing it down; but decided against it at the last moment. Artist's pride, you know, conquers humanly concerns.
I don't wanna read with a different perspective. It's right that I should have a writer's perspective and you should have a reader's.
And TY!!!!!!!! I DO trust your honesty; sorry I ever called you per-for-tio-...well, whatever! That word you taught me, I've forgotten!
LOL! This sort of thing happens to me ALL the time. But nothing seems to work! Life goes on but I don't gain weight, sniff.
@ Deya: *I daresay
@ Takai: But you're not as thin as me! In fact, you're beautiful! ;-)
I don't know what Amloki Sheddo is, but I really liked the way you neatly described your life. You might be a bit too harsh on those housewives. They had their own dreams as well, you know, they were just like all of us at 16, before they got married off at the age of 17 and were permanently suckered. And as for the Madhyameeeeeeek comments: well, most of us are at the receiving end these days for that.
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