Rekha did mention to me that she had gifted her father a mobile phone but I didn’t pursue the case any further.

Today, when I called up my father in law, he started complaining that I wasn’t calling him up as frequently as I used to.

“But father, I did try calling you a couple of times….you weren’t home.” I tried to reason out. Why fight with somebody who holds the remote control of the person who holds your remote?

“Ohh come on. Stop lying. If I wasn’t home….why didn’t you call me on my mobile?”

“Your mobile? How stupid of me…I never asked for your mobile number. So what is it?”

“What do you mean ‘what is it’…weren’t you guys the ones to gift me the mobile? Wouldn’t you know the number?”

“Are you using the mobile that Rekha gifted you?” I inquired.

“Yes. I charge it daily and always carry it with me.” I couldn’t doubt my father in law. He never lies to me, except that one time when he said his daughter was a good girl (I think this was before our marriage).

I thought for a while. In situations like this, it is the ability of Rajans (by this I refer to all generations before me) to think like Dell Computers Call center executives that has got us out unscathed.

“Father, let us start from the beginning.”

“Sure.” I loved the cockiness in my father in law’s tone. Perhaps, I will have it on the day I control the happiness of the person I am speaking to.

“Did Rekha gift you a mobile?”

“She sure did.” If my father in law participated in one of these quiz programs on TV, I am sure he would have won the buzzer round.

“Did you accept it?”

“I sure did.”

“Did you then charge it for one whole day, as is expected of the buyer when one buys a new mobile?”

“I sure did. Though I didn’t buy it but my daughter did.”

“That’s not a problem. And have you been using it reggggguuuuulllllllarly?” I stretched a bit so that he got my impatience.

“I sure do. I carry it with me everywhere I go.” He failed to get my hint.

“Ok…have you made any calls from this mobile?” My impatience grew but I didn’t stretch any word this time because couldn’t decide on the right word.

“No son. For all my calls I use my landline. I am using this mobile only for incoming calls.”

“Ok…so are you getting incoming calls on this mobile?”

“No son…I haven’t got a single call on this mobile, yet. Is it because I didn’t give the number to anybody?”

“Yes father! Why don’t you distribute it?” How much I wish I could tell him that writing his mobile number on the toilet walls of Cochin’s bus stand could get him a lot of incoming calls.

“But I don’t have it son. Your wife never gave me the number. She just gave me the mobile and asked me to start using it.” Smart chap….when a complaint is being lodged she is ‘your wife’ and when she does anything good it is ‘my daughter’.

After twenty more minutes I figured out that my father in law hadn’t got a mobile connection – and was just charging the phone daily and carrying it with him expecting incoming calls.

I didn’t tell him there was something wrong with him – instead have told him that something was wrong with the mobile. Now, a friend of mine will collect it from him, sort it out and then give it back to him after a while. The only issue: The mobile bills will come to my Malayali friend’s house and I will have to transfer the money every month. But hey, my father in law is worth it.

Other Funny Reads

# Getting my hair cut under a tree
# Now I have a ‘study’ of my own…
# How to get into a conversation with a girl
# Communicating a baby’s birth to the World

The only difference between The Alchemist’s protagonist and my great grand father was that ….my old man traveled in a huge group of his family and relatives.

Times were good…back then the air was clean and sex was dirty (did George Burns say this?). Being a roamer, my great grand father and his family would sleep in a ‘Kudil’. In Tamil ‘Kudil’ is the term given to a semi-circular contraption that you carry around to live in. Since there was no pollution and the biggest threat in the grass lands were snakes…life was a breeze for my great grand father and his family.

This is how a Kudil looks:

His son (that’s my grand father) didn’t like the traveling job and decided to settle down in a then prosperous village called ‘Maangudi’. ‘Maangudi’ when broken up meant ‘an abode of deers’. Though, now the village is dry and its inhabitants are suffering due to lack of rains…back then it was a lush green village.

My grand father built a 300 square feet house first. It had mud walls, and low doors. Narrow wooden poles held up the thatched roof. Most of the time was spent outside the house – both the afternoon siesta and the night sleep was on the verandah. My guess is…the 300 square meters was used only for the intimate moments – which anyway lasted only 60 seconds. After all, men have been known to pull a fast one on the women for ages. If you know what I mean.

In effect, they enjoyed the benefits of nature and never felt the need for…what Rekha and I bought this weekend.

My father, who quit farming as a youngster, took wings in 1969. He joined the Indian Army and in the 32 years of his service (can you believe that he kept a single job for 32 years? I will have at least 20 jobs in that many years!) rraveled to different parts of the country. Just that he wasn’t herding goats & sheep as he traveled.

He was given huge houses to stay in. Since I was a kid back then……I would say the houses allotted to my father were at least 20,000 square feet big…it took me half a day to crawl from one wall to another.

There always would be a garden, and a few trees in each house allotted…which meant summers were spent in the shade. When we had to stay inside the house…the Engineer in my father would come up with an idea, which was left to us to implement.

Most Sundays were spent with the family of five bundled in one cot…with a thin, wet bed sheet on top of the mosquito net railings. This ensured a cool breeze from the fan. The only problem: Being the eldest, it was my job to wet the bed sheet every half hour in a bucket of water kept beside the cot…and then spread it on the railings again. In effect, I was my family’s air conditioner from 1985 to 1990.

After my father retired, and we moved back to Madurai…I was too old to be an air conditioner and too young to buy one for my room.

There were occasional air conditioner related disappointments – a visit to a friend’s place, an A/C advertisement, an old A/C in the junk shop….anything and everything related to A/Cs was disappointing. Probably because my father didn’t believe in A/Cs. He was of the opinion that if God wanted us to have A/Cs he would have attached one on our bums.

Which good son doesn’t have his father as a role model? I too grew up hating A/Cs and people who used A/Cs. It helped that A/Cs cost a lot and back then the disposable incomes weren’t huge either – the time when Dr Manmohan Singh hadn’t opened up the Indian Economy and five figure salaries were manna from heaven.

And then I got married. Every time Rekha suggested that we buy an A/C, I would say: “Why? My great grandfathers slept in the open…let us open the bedroom’s window. Maybe even leave the door open.”

After four years of marriage my wife Rekha decided not to take it anymore. So when I repeated the above statement, last Friday, she said: “Well, in that case…go sleep with your grand fathers.”

And on Sunday, we bought a cheap LG AC.

Moral of the story: When it is the right time to buy consumer durables, grand fathers can’t do a thing.

Other Funny Reads

# Entering a new house
# Of what could have been….
# Getting locked inside somebody’s washroom
# A south Indian family in North Indian winter
# CBI arrests Joe King; detains him for questioning

Maggi Two Minutes noodles

I first came to know about Maggi in 1985, when we were about to leave Kholapur (in Maharashtra) and settle down in Ballygunge Military Camp for the next three years. Back then I was studying in 4th standard in a Seventh Day Adventist school.

Nestle had introduced Maggi in India in 1983 and by 1985 students with rich parents had started bringing them for lunch. I first tasted it when my best friend (and I forget his name now) brought it for lunch one day.

“How do you eat this?” I remember asking.

“Simple. Just hold a strand between your thumb and index finger, keep it high in the air and slide one end inside your mouth.”

We were late for our next class. Lunch had taken up a long while that day - and why not? Each strand had to be separated, held up and slid inside the mouth slowly.

With time, I became an expert at eating noodles. To tell you the truth, when my friend wasn’t looking….I would cheat. I would pick up a couple of strands and stuff them into my mouth.

Nestle started to advertise Maggi 2-minute Noodles during the ‘Hum Log’ broadcasts on Doordarshan. Just in case you didn’t know in 1984-85 ‘Hum Log’ reached 60 million TV viewers. Nestle’s plan paid off and soon enough the volume of demand for Maggi Noodles increased from none in 1982 to 1,600 tons in 1983. It would go on to become 15,000 tons in 1998. I don’t have the 2008 figures, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it is in the 50,000 tons range. The marketing of Maggi Noodles became a case study on how to market a new product. Taking a cue from Maggi’s success, other companies started thronging Doordarshan for program sponsorship. Thus, advertising rates went up and advertising revenues started pouring in for Doordarshan.

Like I said, in three months time, we had to move to Kolkata. It was the most harrowing moment for me. I didn’t mind leaving behind Kholapur’s red mud, my friends, and the four hens I had been rearing in our garden….for I knew my father would anyway kill them (and eat them ) before we shift. What bothered me most was: Will I find a friend who would bring Maggi for lunch?

Our move to Kolkata coincided with my father buying ECTV – though this TV’s screen was only 15 inches…the TV was 40 inches wide. It was so wide that when my cousins visited, we played table tennis’ over its top even as the rest of the family watched Doordarshan.

It was on this ECTV that I first saw Nestle’s advertisement for Maggi noodles. When it appeared again, I pulled my mom before the television set and said: “Mom! Look Maggi Noodles. This is what Vikas Talpade used to bring for lunch.”

“Ohh…what is it?”

“It is called Maggi noodles and is very tasty. Can we buy it?”

“No baby. That’s for the rich. We don’t make that much money, yet.” The ‘yet’ in her sentence gave me hope.

“But father is always at work…what does he do? Doesn’t he earn money?”

“He does baby. But we would rather buy rice so that the whole family can eat instead of buying noodles, which you will finish in two minutes.” I still remember my mom had a caring expression when she said this.

“But mom, when they say two minutes it is not about eating….it is the cooking time.”

My mom just smiled and went back into the kitchen. I stood there waiting for the advertisement to appear again. I loved the way steam escaped from the yellow bowl in which Maggi noodles were served in the advertisement. I swear I even got the aroma each time it appeared on TV.

I must have watched the advertisement at least twenty thousand times before I bought my first pack of Maggi noodles – sometime in 1994. It was my first scholarship money from school.

A naked (without the package) noodle looks like this

With great pride I walked into the house carrying a Maggi Noodles pack. My two sisters, my mother and I spent an hour looking at the Maggi Noodles pack and trying to understand the cooking procedure.

I remember my sister, an athlete at school, saying: “Looks like cooking noodles is not a marathon…but a 100 meters race…if you make a mistake, there is no time to correct it.”

She was right. My mother over cooked it and after eating the three strands each that all in the family got…we came to the conclusion that Maggi noodles wasn’t a tasty snack. I had my doubts, though.

In January 1999, I got my first job – with The New Indian Express. On Feb 5, after withdrawing my first salary and buying a shirt for my father and a saree for my mother….I bought five packs of Maggi Noodles. One each for my family members.

Once again, we had a conference of sorts where it was decided that my elder sister would cook this time. She did a fairly good job…and we had great fun. We decided to do this often…at least once every month…after I got my salary.

After a few months of the Maggi ritual, we forgot all about it and got busy with our lives.

After eight years of a Maggi less life, I had my first taste of the famed snack on April 15, 2008 – after my wife Rekha went on a 30 day vacation. Ever since, I must have had Maggi at least 30 times….and I tell you it sucks. Besides, it takes more than two minutes to cook….must be at least 10 minutes if you use the microwave oven!

Other Funny Reads related to Maggi Noodles

# Shopping carts can be dangerous
# Buying a Microwave oven
# Running away from noodles
# Don’t watch Lion King if you are married
# My small family and the Oscars

OK.…enough of the disclaimer. This post is about the frog that lives in my father in law’s house and has entertained me for the last three days. Just in case you didn’t know, I am currently in Kerala to celebrate Vishu.

Before you proceed any further you should go through the map of my father in law’s house. Notice, that the frog lives in one of the bathrooms. Also, notice that there is a forest zone in my father in law’s house…which makes life all the more difficult for a son in law whose only interaction with nature was watching ‘natural’ Brooke Shields in the Hollywood movie titled Blue Lagoon many times over.

Map of ‘Kedaram’ - my father in law’s house in Cherrukunnu, Kannur, Kerala. For a bigger map Click Here

Anyway, after reaching Calicut by a Jet Airways flight we boarded in Mumbai, we had to take a 180 minutes drive to Kannur in an old Ambassador to reach my father in law’s house.

It all began when we reached Kedaram, my father in law’s brilliantly named house. Kedaram is a raga in music (or so I am told) and it also means a place where prosperity resides.

Since I am suffering from what in medical parlance is also known as the King’s Urinary Bladder Syndrome (OK, I made that one up!)….I had to pee like a race horse when we reached home. After dumping my bags on the verandah, I rushed in. My mother in law was blocking the way, ‘Where are you going she asked?”

“If I were going for a cup of tea, would I be so hurried?” I asked.

“No.”

“How about coffee?”

“No.”

After 24 such questions, my mother in law guessed right that I had to use the loo. That’s when she turned towards my father in law and asked him: “Do you want to tell him now?”

This triggered a pensive look on my father in law’s face. And when that expression didn’t break after three mins, I broke it for him: “Do you mind….I have been holding back diluted urea for the last three hours…what is it guys?”

At this my mother in law intervened and broke the news: “There is a frog in your favourite bathroom!”

“So?” I was indignant. “I can always take a broom and push the guy out. Or maybe pour some water and slip him out of the washroom.”

It was my father who gave me the bad news: “Rajan, we have tried that many times over in the last six months. This guy doesn’t go.”

“What are you saying? Where in the washroom is he?”

“He lives in the closet.” My mother in law added.

Ever since that fateful day when this frog dude flew in from the window and lodged himself (or herself - I am yet to see the frog’s gender) my in laws haven’t used my favourite washroom. Many attempts have been made to retrieve the lost land but to no gain. So much so, the territory occupied by the frog has been codenamed ‘Tiger Hills’ so that it doesn’t understand my in law’s plans when they are discussed. Pity actually, for I found a major disconnect in the codename….why name it after a hill, when the territory in question is a shallow potty?

For a casual reader, the answer would be simple: ‘Use the other bathroom!”

But is the answer to this issue as simple, if I told you that bathroom two was my favourite because a snake lives in the closet of bathroom one?

Now you know why Kerala is God’s own country - because man and animal live as one!

Other Vishu related stories

Year 2005:
# Vishu Visit: The pre-interval story
# Vishu visit – post interval story

Year 2006:
# This, that and a Vishu trip
# Vishu Visit: How it all began

“What? Why?” My mom’s tone suggested that she had been betrayed.

“Why do you sound betrayed?” I enquired further.

The tough mother that she is, she didn’t respond. She was sulking.

Rekha would then explain that my mother had already experienced Jet Airways and Paramount Airlines and had been looking forward to The Kingfisher Experience this time.

Let me be frank here, the Rajans are not used to air travel. We are one of the many Indian families whose standard of living has been linked to the IT revolution in India – which means the first of us traveled by air for the first time only four years back.

I remember when we were kids and moving from city to city (my father being a patriotic army man) traveling by a 2nd class train compartment was a luxury. It was so much a luxury that during summer vacations father planned train trips to nearby places (and we caught the next train back). On such trips we would also carry our tarpaulin tents and bedrolls. While it was a means to a destination for all others….for us the train it self was the destination.

My mother and I were the first to enter the 12 noon Air Deccan flight to Chennai. After the other passengers had settled in, my mother took me by surprise by getting up and shouting at the nearest air hostess: “You there! Don’t you give wet towels like the Jet Airways?”

The air hostess was shocked but did well to let out a smile. To avoid embarrassment, I immediately got up and left for the washroom.

When I came back, I passed the air hostess who was servicing my mother and I heard her say: “Is the passenger sitting next to you, your mom?”

I couldn’t say no…so without looking at my mother, I replied: “I am sorry, I don’t know which passenger you are referring to.”

“The lady that wants eight wet towels for her grand daughter at home,” said the pretty damsel. I didn’t look at the air hostess but I was sure she was smiling at me.

The journey was pretty uneventful till my mother wanted to use the washroom. She went in, and came out within two minutes…complaining that there was no water in the potty. “What kind of service does Air Deccan provide? There is no water in the potty!”

Before anybody could respond she dug deep into her traveling experience and said: “Way back in the late 70s the long distance, steam-engine driven trains used to have such water problems. But I definitely didn’t this from Air Deccan.”

By now, my mother had caught the attention of all the passengers. Two of them were even taking photographs (bloggers, perhaps).

I walked up to my mother and explained that none of the airplane potties had water. And that it operated on vaccum…all one had to do was press the ‘Flush’ button.

“Are you saying that when the ‘Flush’ button is pressed, all the crap gets sucked and thrown out of the airplane?” Now my mom was being louder than before.

To end the conversation, I said: “Yes! Now will you please get into the washroom again?”

But my mom had other ideas. She turned towards the cabin crew and asked them in a Head mistress like tone: “What if some of the crap falls on somebody’s head? Wouldn’t the guy feel miserable?”

I gently reminded my mom that that’s exactly the way it happened in the trains – her favorite mode of travel. The crap fell out of the train and was always left behind on the gravel (in the case of kids, some stuck on to the bums).

My mom could be demanding in her requirements but she certainly saw reason when there was one…she shrugged her shoulders and went into the washroom a satisfied lady.

Just that when we landed in Madurai, she said: ‘One can’t be too careful about having a roof over one’s head when a plane passes by.”

All I could mutter was: “Surprisingly none of our 1521 relatives has ever narrated a crap-from-the-plane experience.”

“Yeah!” she agreed. For once.

Other Must Reads…

How Indian wives take their husbands for a ride
To be a father or not to be
Ten things you will never hear your husband say
Places you visit before and after marriage
My wife is a murderer

The three children caught in this 26-year old photograph are Jamshed V Rajan (a self-proclaimed Internet guru), Sumathy (the most artistic person in the family, who has plans of leaving her teaching career behind and joining the ITES-BPO sector) and Deepa (a house wife and the most affectionate of us all).

Story of the Photograph

Those were the innocent days. Children didn’t demand play stations and parents didn’t buy costly toys because they were never guilty of not spending enough time with their kids.

I still remember when my father – the more playful of the two parents because he could afford the time and money – called us all and announced that we were going out to take a family photograph. We hadn’t taken one since the youngest member of the family (the one with chubby cheeks) had arrived.

“Pick out your best clothes and be ready. I will be home by 4.30 p.m. and we will leave in half an hour,” he said.

It wasn’t a difficult task for me. I had only two good shorts and the zipper in the second didn’t work. I decided to wear the red short and the only shirt (out of the four I had) that would go well with it. Being an Army man’s son I couldn’t afford to be photographed without a belt and a pair of shoes. Kendriya Vidhyala’s red belt and white shoes, which was reserved for Saturdays, completed my attire.

Back then, it wasn’t fashionable to wear one’s socks around one’s ankles. I had to borrow two pink colored rubber bands from my mother to hold my socks in the right position. I have a feeling, by using the rubber bands I had cut the blood supply to my feet by half …but I wasn’t complaining.

I don’t know if Deepa (the one in salwar) had trouble choosing her best – I wasn’t into girls’ clothes then. Sumathy, being the second girl in the family had a host of clothes to choose from. Besides, being a small kid, she could afford to be seen wearing woolens in April.
There was immense camaraderie while we ironed the clothes. In fact there was so much camaraderie that Deepa offered to iron Sumathy’s best woolens and burnt them.

As promised, my father came home early and we left for the studio at 5 p.m..

I heard my father ask my mother, “Shall we go to the studio we went to two years back?”

Today, I shudder to think how much we have progressed in terms of photography. My daughter is all of 80-odd days old and I already have 100s of pictures.

My mother nodded in agreement.

Half way through our walk, my mother asked Deepa, “Where is your dupatta?”

Apparently, in all the excitement, my sister had left her dupatta at home.

Mother (turning towards daddy): “Is it ok to take a picture without a dupatta?
Father: “No way. What is the point in taking a picture if we can’t show it to others?”
Mother: “You are right. Let us buy one on the way.”

We entered a small shop and in ten minutes had with us a red dupatta – something that would go well with Deepa’s pink salwar.

Soon enough we were in the studio – a very small, smelly place. In one corner stood a wall-mounted mirror and on a stool nearby I could see a few dirty combs and a tin of Ponds talcum powder. My parents applied a dash of the talcum powder (remember, we had walked two kilometers and were now sweating). They then took turns combing our hair and powdering us.

Before we were to take our respective positions, my father spotted that my white canvas shoes were not actually white. The studio man suggested we try applying some talcum powder, which he assured had worked for the previous client.

After 10 minutes of struggle, the studio man managed to place us at the right spot. By then, my father had had different ideas. I didn’t hear what he told my mom, but I did see her nodding her approval.

My father turned towards the studio man and said: “Why don’t you take a photograph of these three first? We will join them later.”

It all happened in a flash. Pun intended.

The studio man looked towards my father and said, “Come on now…it is your turn.”

“How much will it be for this snap if I want three copies – one for each of them?” asked my father.

I didn’t get the exact amount, but I did see my father’s eyebrows knit. He looked at my mom and didn’t say a word…but I did see her nod in approval. My parents didn’t stand with us that day for the second photograph. And it was three years before we went out again for a family photograph.

Today…26 years hence…we three have a copy of this photograph. We miss our father, though.

Warning: This is a pretty long post.

I have a very funny family. Read about them

# Accepting gifts from relatives
# Rekha is getting ready for my family
# My world is suddenly crowded
# Never be selfish, go and meet your in-laws
# My Grandma didn’t go to Jail

I don’t know if you have noticed…but I close my eyes and nose while drinking. I used to drink with both my eyes and nose open, but one day I realized when I looked at the drink and smelt it…my mouth watered which diluted the liquor. It didn’t really matter if I was drinking rum or whiskey…but diluted beer tastes like horse piss. Keep it out of the fridge for half an hour and it starts tasting like a Cow’s.

The silver lining is I am saving some money. I used to drink a lot when I had my own business – my company rules allowed me to claim my drinking bills. Now, that I work for a dotcom and it doesn’t allow claiming of liquor bills…I am kind of stuck.

But saving money at what cost? Didn’t somebody say good health was more important than good wealth? I went to the doctor yesterday and he said my body didn’t have enough water. If only I could have a few drinks, I could have used up a lot of ice cubes – to increase the water content in my body.

It is kind of ironic because I am sitting in Kerala (the state with the maximum per-capita consumption of alcohol) and going alcohol-less. The amount of alcohol (in ml) consumed by an average man in Kerala is equal to the amount of petrol (in ml) used up by a Mumbai guy to travel to his office. Just that the Mumbai dude doesn’t reek of alcohol when he reaches office.

I did speak to Rekha about me visiting the local bar but she advised me against it. She said at least three of my fellow drinkers might crawl to her house and tell her father that I was seen drinking. All this even before I reached home.

“What a heinous crime? I wouldn’t want to be caught drinking and then jailed for 30 years,” I sneered at my wife.

I wonder how anonymous will the Alcoholics Anonymous group will be in Cherrukunnu, Kannur – a small town where everybody knows everybody else.

Post Script: Seventeen people have already come home to tell my father in law that they saw me smoking. To cater to the increasing crowd coming in to report the incident, we have re-laid the road to our house, have placed a register where the visitors can record their names and have also placed a pot of chilled water.

Other Must Reads

Accepting gifts from relatives
Familiarity breeds contempt and children
Rekha and I visit Mocha, Chennai
Why should you marry the girl you love?
Narain Karthikeyan meets Sania Mirza

Fully aware of my hair’s need for coconut oil, my mother decided that Sunday was a good day for me to apply coconut oil and take bath. Like a lamb to the slaughter, I extended my head while she applied copious amount of Parachute oil (I still wonder why coconut oil has to be named Parachute. Why not ‘Lifeboat’?). Till this seemingly small incident, I didn’t realize that my hair was disputed territory. Though, the intelligent me should have guessed that anything at the top – Kashmir for example - is likely to be disputed. At least that is what half the World says.

I heard my wife, who I assume was just passing by, say: “Aunty, I could have done that.”

I heard my mother quickly respond, as if somebody had already given her the script and she had been practicing all night. “That’s ok dear. He is my son after all and I applied oil on his head for 28 years before you married him.”

“But now, I have married him, aunty.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t apply oil on his head. Or does it?”

I tried to intervene but could only say ‘hey, mother…Rekha…” before my mother rolled my head around in such a way that my Adam’s apple hurt. Surprisingly, it was Adam’s apple but I felt the pain. While on the subject of apples, did you know that Newton’s apple fell? Anyway, I couldn’t utter a single word thereafter and was a mute spectator to this favorite pastime in Indian families.

“I know you have been applying oil on his hair for the last 28 years and that’s precisely why I am asking you to leave this to me now.” It was Rekha. She had her arms akimbo which meant she was angry.

With bated breath I waited for my mother to respond. What was she going to say? I saw logic in what my wife was saying.

“Rekha dear (I swear I spotted some sarcasm when she uttered the word ‘dear’)…you will know once you give birth to your child.”

“But aunty, you would have applied oil on uncle’s hair…so it is only just that you give me my share of joy.” You could accuse me of being a hen-pecked husband but I thought my wife was doing a fairly good job here.

Maybe the argument was taking a toll on my mother’s motor faculties…she was just running her oily, sticky fingers through my hair now. I knew she was thinking. Hard.

“Are you saying you will not apply oil on your son’s hair after he is married?” Now, the scales seem to tilt in my mother’s favor. I wondered how Rekha saw herself reacting when a similar situation arose – 30 years hence.

There was a long silence. Was it the right time for me to intervene? I wasn’t so sure. Many a times, a rabbit gets hurt because it thinks the tigresses are in a playful mood and it is the right time to get out of the shrub. I held my breath.

Rekha spoke first. “I agree aunty. You have every right to apply oil…by depriving you of a chance now I don’t want to let go of my chance when my son marries. Besides, medical facilities are really good now-a-days…and for all we know…I might not be able to cheat after you are gone.”

I thought I heard my mother’s victory smile. It was the right time to emerge from under my bush. I said: “Peace then, huh?”

Before my mother could say anything my wife jumped up and said, “Let me give you an oil massage today.” I smiled – luck takes many forms before it smiles on you. As I followed my wife I heard myself say: ‘Sorry, mom!”

Other Nasty Reads

# What if there were no women in the World
# Kid Story: How Onion got its clothes
# Farting…the fading art
# The art of making good tea
# Married men, watch out for dinner-time

What kabuliwalas were in the 70s, the Gulfwalas are today. They always come back with goodies for everybody. This being the Christmas season, I wouldn’t be off target if I compared them to Santa Claws. Oops! Santa Clause.

Living up to the expectations – in fact even exceeding them – they bought me Nokia N70. They had called me one month earlier to check what I wanted.

“We are coming to India next month. Anything we can bring for you?” It was my brother-in-law on the speaker phone with my sister-in-law listening.

My parents have always taught me to refuse at least three times before accepting anything. So, I quickly said: “Nothing for me please. Nothing for me please. Nothing for me please,” and waited for them to respond.

It was my sister-in-law who spoke next: “No Rajan, we want to gift you something. Thought we should check with you and buy you something you need.”

I had only three seconds to respond. The character of a man is decided in these three seconds. I had a few options - refusing their gift and telling them that I would be excited if they stayed with us for a few days, was the best option. The worst option was to list out the things I wanted from the Gulf – barring petrol of course.

With the fear that they might give in any moment and say, “OK then, no gift for you this time”, I replied: “I really think you should not take all the trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all. In an hour’s time we are going out for shopping and we could get you whatever you want.” That was my brother-in-law.

My mind went racing. I had bought gifts for so many people (none exceeding Rs 300/-). Before I walk into a store, I have always asked myself a few questions –

• Do I really need to gift this guy – will he be useful to me?
• Will this guy ever gift me back?
• Will this gift ensure better results when I forward a resume to him?
• Is there a possibility that I am overdoing it - will he/she be happy with a Rs 200/- gift?

My mind came back to the present. I had to quickly come up with a gift item…else I might be gifted with a Gillette deo, a Gillette shaving foam and a Gillette shampoo (if at all Gillette makes that). The problem with suggesting a gift was …I didn’t know their budget and I didn’t know what the Gulf is famous for, besides fuel of course.

• If they were in Iraq…I could have asked for an armored tank.
• If they were in Palestine, I could have asked for an AK-47.
• If they were in Pakistan, I could have asked for a kilogram of RDX.
• If they were in Russia, I could have asked for a pinch of Polonium.
• If they were in Netherlands, I could have asked for some cocaine. Apparently, it is legal to buy and sell drugs there.

Since they were sitting in the Gulf, I said: “I am fine with anything as long as it is a Nokia N70 phone.”

They reached Chennai today and I have my Nokia N70. The problem is….now my wife wants to gift them something. I tried to argue…but the argument ended with a cold stare from Rekha when I said: “Why can’t we cancel the gifts…I can give them back the Nokia N70…and we wouldn’t have to buy them anything.”

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My grandfather once told me that there are two kinds of people: those who work and those who take the credit. He told me to try to be in the first group; there was less competition there.
Indira Gandhi (1917 - 1984)

Have you ever dreamt of visiting the loo for taking a leak…and midway through got up and found that you were still in bed and your trousers were wet? I have had many such dreams…I remember I used to keep a count by marking the inside of my cupboard’s door using charcoal. When the door became dark…and powdery substance started affecting my school shirts, I had to abandon the practice.

If you haven’t had such dreams, chances are you have never felt the chill in the middle of the night and thus have never felt the need for a bed sheet.

It is in such instances that a cot made of rope (the ones supplied by the Indian Army) scores over a cot made of steel or wood. As soon as the urea-laden water escaped my system, it would trickle down the army supplied blanket and collect in a Dead sea sort of water body just below the cot. I say Dead sea because that’s the sea with the highest salt density.

Initially, I would sleep through the whole watering exercise. With time, I realized that was the best way to get scolded by my father, laughed at by my mother and ridiculed by my younger sisters! As a result, I started getting up as soon as the watering exercise was over. Once up, I would remove the wet trousers and place them deep inside the laundry bag, wear another trouser and be ready for operation salvation.

Next, I had to steal my way into the kitchen and get the used-up sack my mother would stand on while cooking. This sack was used to soak up the Dead sea under my cot. Who said only Moses can part seas? Operation salvation was considered complete as soon as the wet sack was replaced inside the kitchen.

Now, all I had to do was spread my bed sheet wide (in single layer) and pray that it dried before 6.30 a.m. – the time my father returned from his morning exercise. On most occasions, the bed sheet stood by me and dried before 6.30 a.m.. With time, I realized that dreaming about going to the loo, early in the night helped because it gave me enough time for the cover-up operation.

After getting caught a few times by my mother and father…I started outwitting them. Now, I wasn’t getting caught anymore. I continued my dream experience for a year or two…and after that it was all over. It just stopped one day.

Cut to the present:

The other day, I was telling my mother that she should always use a bed sheet in the night because she was not getting any younger. She immediately said: “I know of a guy who used a lot of bed sheets. He would dream of going to the loo and water the bed…so often that the bed sheets had to be washed daily.”

I looked around. Rekha wasn’t there. I could safely take the discussion forward.

“So, who is this guy?” I asked.

“Perhaps, you don’t know that a nature’s call in the middle of the room, in the middle of the night, left to dry by itself…can raise a stink powerful enough to evacuate a colony.” My mother had a bit of I-know-it-all tone.

“So, you guys knew it all the way?” I had to wrap it up before Rekha entered the scene.

“Yes dear. Your papa and I decided to turn the blind eye…so that we don’t break you confidence. It helped you get over the habit.”

Update: How much I hope Rekha turns a blind eye when I look at other girls. Will help me get over the habit.

We got into the car – I in my favorite driver’s seat – took the right turn to reach the apartment’s exit gate…and right then, in front of my eyes a black cat crossed our car. I jammed the brakes.

“What happened?” My mother asked.

I knew my mother was superstitious and I also knew Rekha was superstitious when it was anything to do with my mother. “A black cat just crossed us,” I mumbled.

I hadn’t even finished my sentence when my younger sister jumped up from her seat and tried to look out. “Where is the black cat? I can’t see anybody.” She asked.

I wondered why my sister was so excited about a black cat. I knew she had a thing for dogs - in the last three years she has brought home 18 puppies only to abandon them when they ceased to be puppies. Even as I wondered, she added: “Finally, I get to see a black cat in flesh and blood.”

The rest of us in the car cried out in unison: “Excuse me?!”

She looked at us in a confused state…threw up her arms and said: “OK fine, I accept I have special warmth for the black cats. Knowing that Jayalalitha lives in Chennai, I knew I would get to see one here….but that was a close miss.”

It took us a while to convince my sister that it was indeed a black cat - not the gun-totting type but one that walks on all fours. Once that done, the rest of us started focusing on what should be the next step. I asked my mother if we should proceed to the railway station.

At that moment only three of us were concerned about the black cat crossing the car…Rekha, my mother and myself. While I was neutral to any decision they might take, I knew exactly what Rekha and my mother would have been thinking.

Rekha: Gosh, don’t tell me you guys going to cancel the trip and staying back in Chennai for another week? Should I suggest that crossing of a cat from the left to right is not an issue?
My Mother: I can stay back, but Rekha could be a problem. I noticed the excitement in her eyes when I started packing. Can I say that crossing of a black cat from the left to right can be really, really bad?

I won’t tell you what happened after that…because that would be like washing dirty linen, bedsheets, trousers, towels, skirts, shirts, tops etc in public. But yes, we did make it to the railway station.

As we sat in the train waiting for it to leave so that we could say the final byes and go back home, my younger sister jumped up in her seat. “Look! A black cat!”

None of us was interested in a second black cat for the evening and didn’t turn. It was only after my sister said she could even see Tamil Nadu’s ex-Chief Minister Jayalalitha that we turned….there were six Black Cats guarding her as if she were a pail of milk.

Since Friday last (21st July) my life has taken a turn for the worse. My family from Madurai – which includes my mother, two sisters and brother-in-law - is here in Chennai.

The Pandiyan Express was sharp as usual – it crept into the Railway station exactly at 5.45 a.m….time when the warriors of night were losing a pitched battle against the warriors of day. Through the battlefront, I saw my family getting down from the train…four of them. All heavily armed…with suitcases, bags, parcels, and stainless steel containers for murruku and adirasam. From afar, I counted the pieces of luggage…there were 18 in all….not including my family members.

As I walked towards them, I felt like King Porus (Greek for the name Puru)…the King of Paurava…who had surrendered to Alexander the Great only after his whole army was destroyed. Believe me, I am a man who fights his wars with drops of adrenalin…the moment my body stops secreting adrenalin …I lose the war. It doesn’t matter if I have Rekha standing behind me or I have the US Army which is now trying to control Iraq, with me.

“I thought you will be leaving in four day’s time?” I asked.

“Your brother-in-law will leave early and the rest of us will stay back for a week or so.” It was my mother. She has a way about her that forces you to keep quite for at least ten minutes after she delivers a sentence, lest you kindle an erupting volcano. I kept quite.

I have always had trouble handling relatives who believed in the age old Indian tradition ‘Atithi Devo Bhavah’. For those of you who don’t know ‘Atithi Devo Bhavah’ means – Guest is God. Scary huh? For me the three words have always meant a marketing campaign started by Ministry of Tourism, Government of India.

Even as my thoughts raced, both my sisters said in unison: ‘How much we wish we could stay in Chennai forever!”

My brother-in-law pierced a spear in my heart by saying: “I have already started loving the Chennai air. Wonder if I should call up office and extend my leave.”

In life there are moments when you gain points by arguing (like in a NDA, CDS, IIM, IIT Group Discussion) and there are moments in life when you gain points by keeping quite. I kept quite.

We could have got a porter. My mother spotted a man in red and shouted: “Coolie!”

“Excuse me?” The man in red looked confused.

“Come here. I want you to move these pieces to my son’s car outside. By the way, how much will you charge?”

“Madam, I think you are mistaken. I am not a coolie….I am just wearing a red shirt.”

Even as my mom stood their dumbstruck wondering at the latest fashion in Chennai, I had picked up the bags and started walking towards the car.

When we reached my Swift, my sister exclaimed: “Wow, you got a car!”

I am not good in math so could only do a rough head-count of the number of people who turned their heads to see us…some 87 of them. I even overheard somebody saying: “The way the girl shrieked, I wonder if he has actually stolen the car.”

We negotiated an exit-policy like Lord Mountbatten and Mahatma Gandhi (and like Edwina Mountbatten and Pandit Nehru – Shashi Tharoor confirms their relationship here) and came to the decision that that they will occupy my house only for a week. It was decided that my family will withdraw from Chennai in a phased manner – 50% of them at the end of seven days and the rest after ten days. My mother said she felt like the US Army General promising troop withdrawal from Iraq. I asked her not to feel bad, because unlike the General, I knew she would keep her word.

Phew! The extent daughter-in-laws go to make their mother-in-laws happy.

This was snapped while filling up the car before we climbed up the hill. Wonder why it says ‘you pay more in the hills’.

Check out the tea’s name - Nonsuch. When I asked the tea shop owner he said: “Thats because there is ‘no other such’ tea in the World.”

Thats Rekha and I with our hosts in Mettupalayam - my uncle and aunt.

This board was spotted at the Nonsuch tea shop. It was a difficult choice.

Spot the happy couple in the picture

Liars. I tried touching the supposedly electricity board but didn’t get a shock. It was not an electricity board at all!