I’ve got big ones. Not the Dolly Parton big ones, but yes, big ones. But then, big ones are valued only if they are big, and firm. Pam Anderson set the standards impossibly high for the rest of the womankind. And so, in my case, no man has ever salivated at them; and no woman has ever envied them. Had it not been for the bras, of which, thanks to my dimensions, only the most unattractive ones walk into my wardrobe, they would have reached down to my knees. But I managed to rein them in time.
One day, as I sat surfing the net, they popped out of the harness and said, “We want freedom. Liberate us. NOW.”
“Hallo? You two talking to me? I shall do nothing of the sort. Now duck right back in, and stay still. I like neither blabbering nor jiggling boobs. Have I made myself clear?”
I shoved them back where they belong, and having quelled the mini mutiny, forgot all about them next moment and went back to answering emails.
A few minutes later, I felt shooting pains in my boobs. This was untimely. They mess around with me only at the height of my PMS. That’s when they become tender and gooey, and irritatingly sensitive, and swell up to double their already gargantuan size threatening to tear at the seams of all my clothes. Basically, become a pain. But my bad times had just got over. And I saw no reason for this untimely insane temperament.
I looked down and saw the mischief mongers out again doing high fives. They sneered at me and said, “You don’t let us out, and we wont let you in peace!”
“Bitches!!” I screamed, and forcefully shoed them back in again. “In you go. You deserve to be thrashed and shown your proper place.”
But any one who has faced rebellion on any front knows only too well that simmering mutiny can never be doused. And so, that day on, it became a constant tussle between them and me. To tell you the truth, they did make my life miserable. They would pop out from the sides of the swim suit moment I would emerge from the water, they would pop out from the harness moment I stepped out in a figure hugging t-shirt exposing ugly multi-tiered secrets, would become impossibly overactive when I would be out jogging, start itching while I was in a theatre watching a movie, would squiggle and twitch around so that my bra hooks would get unclasped on their own right in the middle of the market place, and behave unpredictably mean all the time.
I gave up in less than a week.
“All right, let us talk. Tell me what your demands are.”
I saw them winking at each other. If I had my way, I would have dismembered them and thrown away from my body. Honestly, I didn’t need them, and I was tired of lugging them around for years. A trainer at a gym had once leeringly sized up my dimensions and commented that these, by themselves, add two kilos to my body weight. He had offered, as part of a month long weight reduction fitness regimen, personally massaging them to ease and melt the fat away. Thanks, but no thanks, and I had walked off without enrolling for the programme.
“We don’t want to be behind bras. We’ve had enough.”
“Sorry. But that’s not negotiable.”
“That is our demand. Accede or face the consequences.”
“But it’s an impossible demand. How do you expect me to make a cow of myself moving around with these pendulous humongous masses of embarrassment? Think of another demand, maybe I shall give in to that. What about a say, massage or something? I promise a dedicated hot oil massage this week for you two.”
“NO.”
“Ok, twice a week, for the rest of your lives. Ok?”
“NO. We want liberation. We believe in bra-burning. Off with it, off with it.”
“Ah! Listen, let me try and explain. Have a nice long look at yourselves. And look at me too. By some coincidence, you both and I are not exactly petite-framed femme fatales. You agree?”
They nodded.
“Now, going bra-less with this frame isn’t particularly pleasing to the eyes. You agree?”
“No we don’t. We don’t care whether others like it or not. We want to breathe easy. Period.”
At my wit’s end by now, I asked aloud what had suddenly gotten to their heads.
“We read the article you were reading the other day in the newspaper. Fashion divas walking the ramp bra-less, proudly displaying what lies beneath.”
“But that was New York. And on the ramp. Men without balls and women without tits sit thru those shows. Watching asset-less bare bodied models stirs up no one there. You and I are in the real world. Now come, good girls, shed your madness, and let’s be friends again. Ok?”
I need not have bothered explaining. It was a no-go with them. We hit an impasse. And I finally lost my temper.
“Fine. You two shall get what you want. And let’s see how long you can handle it on your own.”
So, after putting away all my bras, I holed myself up indoors. I went overboard with DVDs, books, magazines, reading even the sports news in every daily. I slept. And started online dance lessons and took to the skipping rope in the mornings. Called a masseuse over and got myself pampered once daily, with strict instructions not to touch the defected two. Life was bliss.
With no fixed center of gravity, and with all that jiggling, my back did start aching, but there’s nothing a little bit of yoga cant cure, so there I, as fighting fit and living it up indoors as I’d been outdoor earlier.
But the mood was no longer upbeat on the other side of the fence! Ailments soon began striking our twin ladies. Though careful not to tell me anything, their silent murmurs and hush-hush groans floated right into my ears every now and then. Of course, I feigned complete nonchalance.
And then it was, finally, on the eight day, the two of them sheepishly snaked upto me and said they’d had enough. They were in pain, a lot of it, and they needed support.
Support! Ha! Without much ado, I quickly unpacked the drawer load of bras and hooked on. And felt the body equilibrium back in place! Victory!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Agonising Aunts...
The doorbell rang just when I was about to step out of the house. My neighbour, from one floor up, stood there nervously with a note pad peeping out partially from under her shawl.
“Didi, can you give me five minutes please? I don’t know how to say this, but I’m sure you’re the only one who’ll understand my predicament. Please didi? I want to send a letter to the magazines…”
Even before I’d nodded, she hesitantly drew out the note pad with the following text:
“I am a 27 year old woman, married for three years. I have a happy loving family with a healthy toddler and a loving husband who doesn’t even look at other women. I am a caring wife and provide very tasty meals to my family. My husband praises my cooking before others, which makes me very happy. But for the last three months, I’m facing a peculiar problem in my marital life. Whenever he touches me these days, even my forearm, he quickly jerks his hands away, almost as if something inside him tells him that I’m an untouchable. I come from a high caste family, and have a fair complexion. My husband says he finds me pretty. Then why has he suddenly started treating me like this? I have been passing sleepless nights. Please help.”
“Hey Neetu, haven’t you confronted him?”
“God, didi, no. How can I ask him this? What will he think of me?”
I kept a straight face, and nodded, and told her she did have a serious problem at hand. But then, I was the least suitable person to offer proper guidance.
“But didi, you are also a woman and a wife, tell me please. I cant talk about this with anyone in this world, hence the magazine route.”
I couldn’t have told her I was dying of both mirth and impatience, but maintaining that same graveness, I explained my high (un)fitness quotient. Told her would not quite be able to identify with her situation: I’m more than a decade old in the game of marriage, so things don’t bother either party; I’m not exactly a wife who could be termed ‘caring’, or the mister ‘loving’; I have mostly male friends, and he, mostly female; since I don’t cook, not even when faced with an imminent death-by-starvation threat, I do not quite know what being lavished with praises for ones cooking means; ditto on the prettiness factor.
She saw reason. I didn’t quite fit into her agony aunt mould. I made a few changes to her text, wished her good luck, and then forgot about her and her problem for over three months, until last fortnight, when the heavens above my head began to shudder, groan and become painfully noisy, with incessant hammering and drilling and dragging of what seemed like, the entire concrete structure from one end to another.
When it became unbearable, I decided to have a word with our lady of the house.
“Getting flat renovated, Neetu?” She still looked just as depressed, so out of courtesy, I asked if all was well with her, and the problem sorted.
Oh, why did I have to ask? For, she ran in to return with a whole bunch of magazines. Turned out, our lady had sent her problem to a number of agony aunt columns, only to be inundated with conflicting ‘advice’! Sample a few:
“…have faith and patience. He sounds like a genuine person and loves you a lot. Your current problem may be due to his stress at work. Recession time, you see? Everytime he comes near you, a sudden sense of guilt grips him for not devoting enough time to work, or maybe, even the fear of a layoff, and therefore, the sharp recoil reaction. Continue to love him, be a loyal devoted wife, and show him that you’re his, come what may. That will relieve his tension at work too, and soon you’ll see the positive results…”
“…you may have had a sudden change in your hairstyle, or dress sense, which may be repulsing him. Or a strong perfume, maybe? Ask him, but not directly, what his ideal woman would look like…”
“…is taking you for a ride. He sounds too good to be true. Find out if he has another woman tucked away somewhere. Seek her out, and ask her to leave your property alone. That done, see the way your husband becomes yours again…”
“…a man will not look at another woman only under two circumstances: one, if he’s suddenly turned gay; two, if he’s putting on a Shree Ram act, and making an ass of you. To me, he looks more like a scoundrel. Dump him…”
“…have you checked if it’s not a bad breath problem? Get dental help, immediately…”
“…you have not given your sun sign, so the current position of the harmful stars on your raashi cant be ascertained...”
“…wait until the coming Karwa Chauth. Everything will be all right. Your husband maybe trying to test your devotion…”
“…some spirit in the house that’s distracting him? Get a havan done in your house immediately. Has he ever indicated that flashes from his past life pass through his mind?…”
I was speecless! Could this be true! Our lady sounded as if she’d actually gone ahead with each of the suggestions, but was still waiting for the blessed elusive touch!
She had more replies to share, but I excused myself. Getting up, I wished her luck, and glanced around the hall enquiringly.
“Oh didi, this is my last resort. This magazine you see? It’s an interiors magazine, and I’d sent my question there too. They suggested some basic changes. Am trying to restructure this flat as per the vaastu aesthetics. But then, I’m losing hope. The reply said I’ll get instant results from the day work starts in my house, but…”
A week is a long time in a woman’s life.
This morning, she came in gushing, delirious, fainting, “Didi, you wont believe this, but my problem is solved!”
“Aha, so Vaastu worked, great!” All said, I did genuinely feel happy for her.
“No no, my grandma came visiting us yesterday, and she instantly knew something was terribly wrong with me. So she probed. I had to tell her didi, I simply broke down, and sobbed and told her all.”
“Hmmm…and?” I couldn’t believe I was actually waiting to know the plot denouement!
“You’ll not believe it, she simply touched my arm, shook her head and said, coconut oil my girl. Nothing but static electricity, look at your skin, its so dry. You silly girls will not use it in the name of being all modern modern, and then wail and whine.”
“And…?”
“Didi, it worked!”
Phew! Could this be true!
“Didi, can you give me five minutes please? I don’t know how to say this, but I’m sure you’re the only one who’ll understand my predicament. Please didi? I want to send a letter to the magazines…”
Even before I’d nodded, she hesitantly drew out the note pad with the following text:
“I am a 27 year old woman, married for three years. I have a happy loving family with a healthy toddler and a loving husband who doesn’t even look at other women. I am a caring wife and provide very tasty meals to my family. My husband praises my cooking before others, which makes me very happy. But for the last three months, I’m facing a peculiar problem in my marital life. Whenever he touches me these days, even my forearm, he quickly jerks his hands away, almost as if something inside him tells him that I’m an untouchable. I come from a high caste family, and have a fair complexion. My husband says he finds me pretty. Then why has he suddenly started treating me like this? I have been passing sleepless nights. Please help.”
“Hey Neetu, haven’t you confronted him?”
“God, didi, no. How can I ask him this? What will he think of me?”
I kept a straight face, and nodded, and told her she did have a serious problem at hand. But then, I was the least suitable person to offer proper guidance.
“But didi, you are also a woman and a wife, tell me please. I cant talk about this with anyone in this world, hence the magazine route.”
I couldn’t have told her I was dying of both mirth and impatience, but maintaining that same graveness, I explained my high (un)fitness quotient. Told her would not quite be able to identify with her situation: I’m more than a decade old in the game of marriage, so things don’t bother either party; I’m not exactly a wife who could be termed ‘caring’, or the mister ‘loving’; I have mostly male friends, and he, mostly female; since I don’t cook, not even when faced with an imminent death-by-starvation threat, I do not quite know what being lavished with praises for ones cooking means; ditto on the prettiness factor.
She saw reason. I didn’t quite fit into her agony aunt mould. I made a few changes to her text, wished her good luck, and then forgot about her and her problem for over three months, until last fortnight, when the heavens above my head began to shudder, groan and become painfully noisy, with incessant hammering and drilling and dragging of what seemed like, the entire concrete structure from one end to another.
When it became unbearable, I decided to have a word with our lady of the house.
“Getting flat renovated, Neetu?” She still looked just as depressed, so out of courtesy, I asked if all was well with her, and the problem sorted.
Oh, why did I have to ask? For, she ran in to return with a whole bunch of magazines. Turned out, our lady had sent her problem to a number of agony aunt columns, only to be inundated with conflicting ‘advice’! Sample a few:
“…have faith and patience. He sounds like a genuine person and loves you a lot. Your current problem may be due to his stress at work. Recession time, you see? Everytime he comes near you, a sudden sense of guilt grips him for not devoting enough time to work, or maybe, even the fear of a layoff, and therefore, the sharp recoil reaction. Continue to love him, be a loyal devoted wife, and show him that you’re his, come what may. That will relieve his tension at work too, and soon you’ll see the positive results…”
“…you may have had a sudden change in your hairstyle, or dress sense, which may be repulsing him. Or a strong perfume, maybe? Ask him, but not directly, what his ideal woman would look like…”
“…is taking you for a ride. He sounds too good to be true. Find out if he has another woman tucked away somewhere. Seek her out, and ask her to leave your property alone. That done, see the way your husband becomes yours again…”
“…a man will not look at another woman only under two circumstances: one, if he’s suddenly turned gay; two, if he’s putting on a Shree Ram act, and making an ass of you. To me, he looks more like a scoundrel. Dump him…”
“…have you checked if it’s not a bad breath problem? Get dental help, immediately…”
“…you have not given your sun sign, so the current position of the harmful stars on your raashi cant be ascertained...”
“…wait until the coming Karwa Chauth. Everything will be all right. Your husband maybe trying to test your devotion…”
“…some spirit in the house that’s distracting him? Get a havan done in your house immediately. Has he ever indicated that flashes from his past life pass through his mind?…”
I was speecless! Could this be true! Our lady sounded as if she’d actually gone ahead with each of the suggestions, but was still waiting for the blessed elusive touch!
She had more replies to share, but I excused myself. Getting up, I wished her luck, and glanced around the hall enquiringly.
“Oh didi, this is my last resort. This magazine you see? It’s an interiors magazine, and I’d sent my question there too. They suggested some basic changes. Am trying to restructure this flat as per the vaastu aesthetics. But then, I’m losing hope. The reply said I’ll get instant results from the day work starts in my house, but…”
A week is a long time in a woman’s life.
This morning, she came in gushing, delirious, fainting, “Didi, you wont believe this, but my problem is solved!”
“Aha, so Vaastu worked, great!” All said, I did genuinely feel happy for her.
“No no, my grandma came visiting us yesterday, and she instantly knew something was terribly wrong with me. So she probed. I had to tell her didi, I simply broke down, and sobbed and told her all.”
“Hmmm…and?” I couldn’t believe I was actually waiting to know the plot denouement!
“You’ll not believe it, she simply touched my arm, shook her head and said, coconut oil my girl. Nothing but static electricity, look at your skin, its so dry. You silly girls will not use it in the name of being all modern modern, and then wail and whine.”
“And…?”
“Didi, it worked!”
Phew! Could this be true!
AB Baby's Home...!
The tall man signed his name as Abhinav Bhindra in the entry register at the entrance of the condominium apartments I stay in, but it went unnoticed by the security guards. The lady visitor who signed in next after half an hour, was quick to recognize the only name worth chanting in the nation these days. Speaking breathlessly into her mobile, she raced up to her friend she’d come a visiting, pressed the doorbell, and waited impatiently.
“AB!!!!” they suddenly squealed together, which made the ground beneath their feet quake, and given the quality of construction at the ultra premium condo, some cement chipped off the ceiling and fell on my khichadi on the floor below.
“AB!!!” came another squeal, this time in the balcony, out for everyone to hear, and sure enough, not without the desired effect. Soon, more footsteps could be felt thundering all around, from above, from below, from the park and from the parking lot, all gravitating in that one direction.
Craning my neck up, I asked one of the ladies who was leaning against the balcony above mine the reason for such sound and flurry. “AB is here in our condo!! Our condo!! AB!! Can you believe it?”
“AB who? Senior or junior or junior’s wife?”
“Hallo! Have you been hibernating? The only AB worth mentioning…”
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. The look of incredulity from them all told me I’d already made an ass of myself.
Soon, the action seemed to move elsewhere as the combined weight trundled off en mass.
Later that evening, a notice on the building bulletin board said AB had graciously consented to come down to our society on such and such day, and that it was the condo’s honour to be hosting him. I could sniff the excitement in the condo’s air. Oh what a coup of sorts, some exclaimed, against the rival condos in the locality! One stroke, and they’d be mowed down on the popularity charts. The condo will be front page news. Who knows AB may like this place, and buy himself a flat here. I overheard two residents discuss buying a couple more flats in this complex rightaway, as the property price would shoot (said with a wink, meant as a shared joke) up immediately.
In the interest of national pride and condo solidarity, I decided to attend the function at the club house.
The next day I learnt from my part-time domestic help that our ladies, who were last heard trundling off the previous day, had landed at an old lady’s (an octogenarian living alone with her pup) flat where Mr AB was to have come, but unfortunately, our man had already left the condo premises by then. My maid paused here to ask if this man was really a VIP, and I confirmed with a short nod. My maid looked pleased. She said she’d get her children to the function.
Over the course of the week, I got the complete de-briefing. It turned out that Abhi (as the old lady referred to him) happened to be that old lady’s nephew and that he’d just returned from the US, and was due to leave for Europe on work and had briefly come to meet his aunt. Few ladies seem to have tried to correct the old lady saying they were sure she meant China not USA, but then the others were quick to point out that it was quite possible he’d gone there post Beijing. The old lady seemed lost. They asked her if he’d shown her his gold, but she said the boy, being humble as he was, never spoke of any gold or silver to her. Our ladies probed further and satisfied themselves that he was still single without any known commitments. The old lady added that Abhinav’s mother is on a constant lookout for the right one for him, but the fellow just doesn’t seem interested. One of the ladies nodded, and said she’d read about him having mentioned some personal problems prior to China, must have been some girl. Girls these days are too insensitive, they nodded and agreed. Such a gem this boy, and look how he’s wasting himself without a perfect match. More nods followed. The old lady seemed more perplexed about this public knowledge of intimate details of her nephew’s life.
Our ladies then managed to prevail upon her to invite him over for lunch that weekend. They said he was a national asset, and they wished to felicitate him. The old lady smiled and said that every Indian is a national asset, at which the ladies collectively saluted the old lady for her humility. But shhh! they said, not a word to be sneaked to him until he breezed into the Surppprrrrise! One lady winked and corrected, ‘shoot’ into the surprise, and the entire cackle of them is said to have cracked up laughing at their cleverness as they left.
Convincing the Resident’s Welfare Association Secretary to make an occasion out of it was the least of the troubles. And so, the notice on all the notice boards across the several towers of the condo.
And then came the preparation for the mega event. Any element of spontaneity was decided to be done away with, as AB is believed to be a perfectionist. The secretary came up to rehearse his speech.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he made a rousing suggestion, “Bindra Boulevard we’ll rename our arterial pathway”, and everyone reacted rapturously. “The towers will be renamed Abhinav Tower 1, AT 2 and so on,” residents got up from their seats and got delirious. “We’ll convert one section of the landscaped area into a shooting range for practice,” and the young residents turned on their heads and hurrah-ed.
Seeing the residents getting carried away, the secretary requested those present to maintain decorum. The key to impressing AB was in precision, he said, and we were asked to clap in unison. Zero discordant notes. We tried. When some children, despite all efforts, and mostly due to the soaring excitement, failed to get the applause-chord right, they were given the petal-showering duty. So each time the residents clapped, petals were to be showered over AB.
Mrs C raised her hand and said she could arrange for white petals (AB’s favourite colour, she’d done her homework on that, she said) free of cost, from her aunt’s flower shop, provided the aunt’s family was invited to sit through the proceedings, and the aunt’s daughter would be the one sent up to throw the garland around AB.
Furor, furor! The Condo moms were up in arms at this. Garland! Outside daughter! What about the very many accomplished eligible Bindra matches within the condo? Unfair unfair! No outsider would get that privilege. Mrs C gave a nonchalant shrug and said, well then, go ahead, shell out money to get his favourite whites! Bloody expensive they are, in case you forgot to factor that in! He is a class apart, ladies!
It was a delicate situation for the Secy and Jt. Secy. Cash crunch versus crashing sentiments. Stalemate. The Jt. Secy, a lady with a college going daughter, came up with a solution. A ‘Miss Condo’ for young ladies, but of course, with Mr AB adjudging!
The youth of substance were quick to vociferously object to this blatant gender stereotyping, and decided to walk off, calling this entire AB felicitation business a farcical exercise by the desperate moms in match-making with AB. Shame on you, swayamvar organizers, few said as they stormed out. Ah, plain-speak! Utter chaos ensued, and the junta stood more divided than the day they had come together to elect the office bearers.
The hapless Secy looked on helplessly at the imminent fiasco, when he suddenly cleared his throat and said into the mike that there was a way out. If they so wished, the interested parties could have a private audience with AB in the library after the function, and exchange numbers, bio-datas, and so on.
Never before in the brief history of the condo had such unanimous aye aye’s been heard. The hall reverberated with thunderous applause and chants of excellent idea excellent idea, which made the glass panes shake and some cement chip off the ceiling. But no one seemed to notice.
With tempers showing signs of cooling down, it was decided that the little ones would take to the stage. A mother whose child had just been taught, ‘Prabhu hamara kitna mahaan’ volunterred to adapt the song on the lines of ‘AB hamara kitna mahaa…’ and train the kids; another mom suggested getting the toddlers to recite the new alphabetical mantra – A for Abhinav, B for bullets, C for Champ, and so on…
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. And decided to give the Sunday event a skip too.
But then when I saw the hordes congregating at the club house on D-day, I gave in, and silently took a seat at the rear. And like everyone else there, waited.
Just then, someone screamed from one end that the old lady could be seen along with a young man, slowly tottering towards the club house. There was a murmur, then a noise, then shhhhs, there was excitement, there was nervousness, there was anticipation. And there was that long wait of three minutes, which seemed like eternity, while the lady paced in at her own pace.
And then there was complete silence. Complete silence. The silence of shock and disbelief, as the young man stepped in and shook hands with the Hon Secy saying, “Abhinav Bhindra, so nice to see you!”
And then, oh, only then did everyone realize what a single alphabet can do! For our man turned out to be AB with an ‘h’ in his surname! And he certainly wasn’t complaining!
“AB!!!!” they suddenly squealed together, which made the ground beneath their feet quake, and given the quality of construction at the ultra premium condo, some cement chipped off the ceiling and fell on my khichadi on the floor below.
“AB!!!” came another squeal, this time in the balcony, out for everyone to hear, and sure enough, not without the desired effect. Soon, more footsteps could be felt thundering all around, from above, from below, from the park and from the parking lot, all gravitating in that one direction.
Craning my neck up, I asked one of the ladies who was leaning against the balcony above mine the reason for such sound and flurry. “AB is here in our condo!! Our condo!! AB!! Can you believe it?”
“AB who? Senior or junior or junior’s wife?”
“Hallo! Have you been hibernating? The only AB worth mentioning…”
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. The look of incredulity from them all told me I’d already made an ass of myself.
Soon, the action seemed to move elsewhere as the combined weight trundled off en mass.
Later that evening, a notice on the building bulletin board said AB had graciously consented to come down to our society on such and such day, and that it was the condo’s honour to be hosting him. I could sniff the excitement in the condo’s air. Oh what a coup of sorts, some exclaimed, against the rival condos in the locality! One stroke, and they’d be mowed down on the popularity charts. The condo will be front page news. Who knows AB may like this place, and buy himself a flat here. I overheard two residents discuss buying a couple more flats in this complex rightaway, as the property price would shoot (said with a wink, meant as a shared joke) up immediately.
In the interest of national pride and condo solidarity, I decided to attend the function at the club house.
The next day I learnt from my part-time domestic help that our ladies, who were last heard trundling off the previous day, had landed at an old lady’s (an octogenarian living alone with her pup) flat where Mr AB was to have come, but unfortunately, our man had already left the condo premises by then. My maid paused here to ask if this man was really a VIP, and I confirmed with a short nod. My maid looked pleased. She said she’d get her children to the function.
Over the course of the week, I got the complete de-briefing. It turned out that Abhi (as the old lady referred to him) happened to be that old lady’s nephew and that he’d just returned from the US, and was due to leave for Europe on work and had briefly come to meet his aunt. Few ladies seem to have tried to correct the old lady saying they were sure she meant China not USA, but then the others were quick to point out that it was quite possible he’d gone there post Beijing. The old lady seemed lost. They asked her if he’d shown her his gold, but she said the boy, being humble as he was, never spoke of any gold or silver to her. Our ladies probed further and satisfied themselves that he was still single without any known commitments. The old lady added that Abhinav’s mother is on a constant lookout for the right one for him, but the fellow just doesn’t seem interested. One of the ladies nodded, and said she’d read about him having mentioned some personal problems prior to China, must have been some girl. Girls these days are too insensitive, they nodded and agreed. Such a gem this boy, and look how he’s wasting himself without a perfect match. More nods followed. The old lady seemed more perplexed about this public knowledge of intimate details of her nephew’s life.
Our ladies then managed to prevail upon her to invite him over for lunch that weekend. They said he was a national asset, and they wished to felicitate him. The old lady smiled and said that every Indian is a national asset, at which the ladies collectively saluted the old lady for her humility. But shhh! they said, not a word to be sneaked to him until he breezed into the Surppprrrrise! One lady winked and corrected, ‘shoot’ into the surprise, and the entire cackle of them is said to have cracked up laughing at their cleverness as they left.
Convincing the Resident’s Welfare Association Secretary to make an occasion out of it was the least of the troubles. And so, the notice on all the notice boards across the several towers of the condo.
And then came the preparation for the mega event. Any element of spontaneity was decided to be done away with, as AB is believed to be a perfectionist. The secretary came up to rehearse his speech.
Somewhere in the middle of it, he made a rousing suggestion, “Bindra Boulevard we’ll rename our arterial pathway”, and everyone reacted rapturously. “The towers will be renamed Abhinav Tower 1, AT 2 and so on,” residents got up from their seats and got delirious. “We’ll convert one section of the landscaped area into a shooting range for practice,” and the young residents turned on their heads and hurrah-ed.
Seeing the residents getting carried away, the secretary requested those present to maintain decorum. The key to impressing AB was in precision, he said, and we were asked to clap in unison. Zero discordant notes. We tried. When some children, despite all efforts, and mostly due to the soaring excitement, failed to get the applause-chord right, they were given the petal-showering duty. So each time the residents clapped, petals were to be showered over AB.
Mrs C raised her hand and said she could arrange for white petals (AB’s favourite colour, she’d done her homework on that, she said) free of cost, from her aunt’s flower shop, provided the aunt’s family was invited to sit through the proceedings, and the aunt’s daughter would be the one sent up to throw the garland around AB.
Furor, furor! The Condo moms were up in arms at this. Garland! Outside daughter! What about the very many accomplished eligible Bindra matches within the condo? Unfair unfair! No outsider would get that privilege. Mrs C gave a nonchalant shrug and said, well then, go ahead, shell out money to get his favourite whites! Bloody expensive they are, in case you forgot to factor that in! He is a class apart, ladies!
It was a delicate situation for the Secy and Jt. Secy. Cash crunch versus crashing sentiments. Stalemate. The Jt. Secy, a lady with a college going daughter, came up with a solution. A ‘Miss Condo’ for young ladies, but of course, with Mr AB adjudging!
The youth of substance were quick to vociferously object to this blatant gender stereotyping, and decided to walk off, calling this entire AB felicitation business a farcical exercise by the desperate moms in match-making with AB. Shame on you, swayamvar organizers, few said as they stormed out. Ah, plain-speak! Utter chaos ensued, and the junta stood more divided than the day they had come together to elect the office bearers.
The hapless Secy looked on helplessly at the imminent fiasco, when he suddenly cleared his throat and said into the mike that there was a way out. If they so wished, the interested parties could have a private audience with AB in the library after the function, and exchange numbers, bio-datas, and so on.
Never before in the brief history of the condo had such unanimous aye aye’s been heard. The hall reverberated with thunderous applause and chants of excellent idea excellent idea, which made the glass panes shake and some cement chip off the ceiling. But no one seemed to notice.
With tempers showing signs of cooling down, it was decided that the little ones would take to the stage. A mother whose child had just been taught, ‘Prabhu hamara kitna mahaan’ volunterred to adapt the song on the lines of ‘AB hamara kitna mahaa…’ and train the kids; another mom suggested getting the toddlers to recite the new alphabetical mantra – A for Abhinav, B for bullets, C for Champ, and so on…
I didn’t stay on to hear the rest. And decided to give the Sunday event a skip too.
But then when I saw the hordes congregating at the club house on D-day, I gave in, and silently took a seat at the rear. And like everyone else there, waited.
Just then, someone screamed from one end that the old lady could be seen along with a young man, slowly tottering towards the club house. There was a murmur, then a noise, then shhhhs, there was excitement, there was nervousness, there was anticipation. And there was that long wait of three minutes, which seemed like eternity, while the lady paced in at her own pace.
And then there was complete silence. Complete silence. The silence of shock and disbelief, as the young man stepped in and shook hands with the Hon Secy saying, “Abhinav Bhindra, so nice to see you!”
And then, oh, only then did everyone realize what a single alphabet can do! For our man turned out to be AB with an ‘h’ in his surname! And he certainly wasn’t complaining!
Love Thy Neighbour!
The day I moved into the second floor apartment of a recently added tower in a swanky Condominium, the gentleman from the first floor pressed my spanking new doorbell, and stood there waiting. He explained his presence there, tentatively. “It seems you have just arrived…may I, may I be of any help?”
“But why would you want to help?” I asked.
“Because we’re neighbours. Simple.” He stood there adding that his sixth sense said there was going to be some kind of a karmic connection between us.
“Between neighbours? Forget it. If you must be of some help, please send your maid to me instead please.”
“You don’t understand. I felt it that first instance my eyes fell on you this morning when your stuff was getting unloaded. Cant you already see the connect? Our balconies overlook the same car park, they lie stacked upon one another, water from the building overhead tank will come first to your house and then will flow down to mine, we share the common floor-cum-ceiling area, brick by brick, with this continuous flow of concrete, iron and cement. In the beginning, there is always only that smooth concrete binding force…How can you not see it?”
Of course, I couldn’t. Maybe I was karmically challenged. I decided to give it a try all the same. I could do with a pair of extra hands anyway. Within minutes he was struggling with the heavy boxes, pushing, pulling, shoving, lifting, breaking his back, all with a smile.
Even while I stood there sizing up the queerness quotient of that man, I suddenly felt the wires meet! Live wires, these! Made me feel those first, very first stirrings in my heart. I could see the sweat-beads forming on his puckered forehead on that hot and humid Delhi midday, and the gentle trickle flowing down the sideburns, down to the Adam’s apple…how I felt this irresistible urge to rush to him and collect his perspiration on my palms to acknowledge his gracious and selfless help; to look into his eyes as he struggled with those mammoth cartons all by himself, and silently say, ‘I can now see what you saw then.’
Were these the first delicate strains of tenderness hovering around? Oh yes, I felt them now. I felt them strong, felt them sure.
The day ended far too soon. He left in the evening with the sweet promise of an early return the next day. So, on day two, we swept and dusted and mopped and lined the cupboards with newspapers and arranged things together. We set up my kitchen together, dish by dish, empty vessel by vessel. We skipped down to his house for a shortbread-and-crisps break, and like a magician, he rustled up the most deliciously subtle pancakes, smeared in the headiest of maple syrups I’d had in ages. At my honest confession that I can’t cook to save my life he said he’d happily don the chef’s cap for me at all meals. With measured steps, taking time over each tier of the staircase, we walked up together back to my house. And at dusk, we lit up my house together. The unmistakable and growing symbolism of it all, how could the two stranger-hearts not start ticking as one?!
Just then the doorbell rang.
In walked The Hubby, and stood there stupidly, waiting to be introduced. Name? Did he have one? Did it matter?! The Hubby, reading my mind, mood, skipping beats, dilated pupils, and my embarrassment quickly initiated the formalities of both the introduction and a quick dismissal of the other man from my presence.
I didn’t have to say anything, the Hubby knew it all. With a wink and smiles breaking at the corner of his lips, he murmured, “I can see you’ve had an eventful house-warming, wifey! Good good, enjoy! Don’t forget to share the details with me, though! Do you, by any chance, want me to come home a little later tomorrow evening?!”
“Ha!” I hugged him tight, and promised not to go overboard.
Easier said!
By day three, the gentleman and I were cooking together in my kitchen, I more as an apprentice. By day four, we were eating together out of the same plate to save us the trouble of washing more dishes. By day five, in a bid to save our building water, we were using only one washing machine between the two households to do ‘our’ clothes. On day six, I asked him if he was on an extended leave from work. He said he’s a painter, so all the world’s his canvas, all the people his subject and all the physical space his work-studio. Profound, I thought; my admiration grew manifolds.
The gentleman and I spent our days together. In bliss. Utmost bliss. We talked of the sun and the moon, of the intergalactic phenomena and micro bursts, of blueberry crush and Spanish risotto, of volcanoes and whirlpools, of my school rivals and his culture vulture critics, of the men in my life and the women in his.
Just that, he somehow seemed to have forgotten to mention the one woman who mattered most.
The Wife!
Who’d have even foreseen a Mrs. Neighbour, who apparently had gone visiting her folks these last three weeks? Upon her return, I’m not sure how she figured that her husband’s heart was not exactly at the same place where she’d left it. Suddenly overnight, I became the dreaded and universally loathed ‘other woman’ in the neighbourhood. I was distraught, my heart shattered to bits, and with the gentleman not there to pick up the shards (as he was too busy fighting the wild flames of fury on the floor below), I became inconsolable. An amused hubby- my confidante, sounding board, soulmate, friend, philosopher, guide all rolled into one - offered to broker peace between me and that wife, but I flatly refused.
I would stick my ears close to the ground and feel the vessels being thrown up at the ceiling in the flat below; I would remain precariously bent from my balcony for hours, straining to hear the gentleman’s agitated cries of despair for being thus separated from me. I tried to sniff things out, but my olfactory senses used to remain perpetually blocked with all the hollering! Total devastation on all sides!
The other apartment residents tried to help in their own ways. They came and asked me if the gentleman had been sighted in recent days, or if he was unwell. Whether I knew if the wife was back. They were concerned that all kinds of sounds would emanate from the first floor house at odd hours, had the couple below set up their own theatre group? Men from other flats above would pop in on their way to work every morning to offer their most generous help with my house work. The drivers in the car park below would stand there with their eyes glued to my balcony, and his, for some drama to unfold. I politely asked them and their masters and mistresses to go to hell.
And then I saw HER! Two days after she had resurfaced into his life, she stormed into mine. Growled and looked and sniffed around the place for traces of her husband’s droppings, remnants of his existence intertwined with mine. Finding none (I had it all safe and locked up in my heart, those sweet gentle moments) she threw a piece of paper at me and shrieked, “Take this, you b**ch. I am going, but I will make sure you remain behind bars all your life,” and made a dash for the balcony.
Not having seen a suicide note ever before in my life, I was tempted to focus on it. But that would most certainly have sounded my death knell, as madam would have done her deed by then. Though there were enough well-wishers waiting to ‘catch’ her in her fall to martyrdom, I decided she needed immediate psychiatric aid, and ran to her.
“Mad woman, this is the second floor, for Pete’s sake. You attempt such an asinine thing, you’ll end up with just a broken rib and land up in jail, or worse, you’ll land in your own balcony, but still land up in jail. You know what that means? Your husband will be all alone in the house all over again.”
It helped. She turned to leave my flat threatening to do it from the 12th floor next time if I didn’t leave her husband for good. I told her I was not moving, she could do what she thought best. So, she turned back around, and this time dashed into my kitchen to storm out with a knife. Ah! That same knife with which until a few days back, he and I would chop ginger and carrots and onions and broccoli and at times, my finger, together. I would not let this imbalanced woman defile those memories. Ah, those bittersweet memories! So I snatched it back from her, sniffed it deep to make sure he was still on it, and said, ok, I’ll move.
So I shifted into to a new apartment in the corner-most, most secluded tower of the condo, where I was sure our karmic connection would no longer work. No common cement, iron bars, wall paint, water tank, drain-pipe, or plinth to hold us on together…
And then it happened again. The doorbell. And a hesitant nasal male voice from this dungaree-clad gentleman with flowing locks, “Hello…looks like you’ve just arrived…may I…”
It was beyond belief!
With unflinching curtness, I asked back, “Do you have a wife? A wife who doesn’t know you’re up here offering your free services to me?”
“What are you saying? I AM the wife sweeeeeetiepie! I know I know, it happens when people see me for the first time, but you’ll get used to me, my baiiibeee! Which you will, because I live next door to you!”
Phew! It takes all kinds to fill up my neighbour-collage!
I knew I was in safe company! Beaming, I let him in. There was such an awful lot of work waiting to be attended to…
“But why would you want to help?” I asked.
“Because we’re neighbours. Simple.” He stood there adding that his sixth sense said there was going to be some kind of a karmic connection between us.
“Between neighbours? Forget it. If you must be of some help, please send your maid to me instead please.”
“You don’t understand. I felt it that first instance my eyes fell on you this morning when your stuff was getting unloaded. Cant you already see the connect? Our balconies overlook the same car park, they lie stacked upon one another, water from the building overhead tank will come first to your house and then will flow down to mine, we share the common floor-cum-ceiling area, brick by brick, with this continuous flow of concrete, iron and cement. In the beginning, there is always only that smooth concrete binding force…How can you not see it?”
Of course, I couldn’t. Maybe I was karmically challenged. I decided to give it a try all the same. I could do with a pair of extra hands anyway. Within minutes he was struggling with the heavy boxes, pushing, pulling, shoving, lifting, breaking his back, all with a smile.
Even while I stood there sizing up the queerness quotient of that man, I suddenly felt the wires meet! Live wires, these! Made me feel those first, very first stirrings in my heart. I could see the sweat-beads forming on his puckered forehead on that hot and humid Delhi midday, and the gentle trickle flowing down the sideburns, down to the Adam’s apple…how I felt this irresistible urge to rush to him and collect his perspiration on my palms to acknowledge his gracious and selfless help; to look into his eyes as he struggled with those mammoth cartons all by himself, and silently say, ‘I can now see what you saw then.’
Were these the first delicate strains of tenderness hovering around? Oh yes, I felt them now. I felt them strong, felt them sure.
The day ended far too soon. He left in the evening with the sweet promise of an early return the next day. So, on day two, we swept and dusted and mopped and lined the cupboards with newspapers and arranged things together. We set up my kitchen together, dish by dish, empty vessel by vessel. We skipped down to his house for a shortbread-and-crisps break, and like a magician, he rustled up the most deliciously subtle pancakes, smeared in the headiest of maple syrups I’d had in ages. At my honest confession that I can’t cook to save my life he said he’d happily don the chef’s cap for me at all meals. With measured steps, taking time over each tier of the staircase, we walked up together back to my house. And at dusk, we lit up my house together. The unmistakable and growing symbolism of it all, how could the two stranger-hearts not start ticking as one?!
Just then the doorbell rang.
In walked The Hubby, and stood there stupidly, waiting to be introduced. Name? Did he have one? Did it matter?! The Hubby, reading my mind, mood, skipping beats, dilated pupils, and my embarrassment quickly initiated the formalities of both the introduction and a quick dismissal of the other man from my presence.
I didn’t have to say anything, the Hubby knew it all. With a wink and smiles breaking at the corner of his lips, he murmured, “I can see you’ve had an eventful house-warming, wifey! Good good, enjoy! Don’t forget to share the details with me, though! Do you, by any chance, want me to come home a little later tomorrow evening?!”
“Ha!” I hugged him tight, and promised not to go overboard.
Easier said!
By day three, the gentleman and I were cooking together in my kitchen, I more as an apprentice. By day four, we were eating together out of the same plate to save us the trouble of washing more dishes. By day five, in a bid to save our building water, we were using only one washing machine between the two households to do ‘our’ clothes. On day six, I asked him if he was on an extended leave from work. He said he’s a painter, so all the world’s his canvas, all the people his subject and all the physical space his work-studio. Profound, I thought; my admiration grew manifolds.
The gentleman and I spent our days together. In bliss. Utmost bliss. We talked of the sun and the moon, of the intergalactic phenomena and micro bursts, of blueberry crush and Spanish risotto, of volcanoes and whirlpools, of my school rivals and his culture vulture critics, of the men in my life and the women in his.
Just that, he somehow seemed to have forgotten to mention the one woman who mattered most.
The Wife!
Who’d have even foreseen a Mrs. Neighbour, who apparently had gone visiting her folks these last three weeks? Upon her return, I’m not sure how she figured that her husband’s heart was not exactly at the same place where she’d left it. Suddenly overnight, I became the dreaded and universally loathed ‘other woman’ in the neighbourhood. I was distraught, my heart shattered to bits, and with the gentleman not there to pick up the shards (as he was too busy fighting the wild flames of fury on the floor below), I became inconsolable. An amused hubby- my confidante, sounding board, soulmate, friend, philosopher, guide all rolled into one - offered to broker peace between me and that wife, but I flatly refused.
I would stick my ears close to the ground and feel the vessels being thrown up at the ceiling in the flat below; I would remain precariously bent from my balcony for hours, straining to hear the gentleman’s agitated cries of despair for being thus separated from me. I tried to sniff things out, but my olfactory senses used to remain perpetually blocked with all the hollering! Total devastation on all sides!
The other apartment residents tried to help in their own ways. They came and asked me if the gentleman had been sighted in recent days, or if he was unwell. Whether I knew if the wife was back. They were concerned that all kinds of sounds would emanate from the first floor house at odd hours, had the couple below set up their own theatre group? Men from other flats above would pop in on their way to work every morning to offer their most generous help with my house work. The drivers in the car park below would stand there with their eyes glued to my balcony, and his, for some drama to unfold. I politely asked them and their masters and mistresses to go to hell.
And then I saw HER! Two days after she had resurfaced into his life, she stormed into mine. Growled and looked and sniffed around the place for traces of her husband’s droppings, remnants of his existence intertwined with mine. Finding none (I had it all safe and locked up in my heart, those sweet gentle moments) she threw a piece of paper at me and shrieked, “Take this, you b**ch. I am going, but I will make sure you remain behind bars all your life,” and made a dash for the balcony.
Not having seen a suicide note ever before in my life, I was tempted to focus on it. But that would most certainly have sounded my death knell, as madam would have done her deed by then. Though there were enough well-wishers waiting to ‘catch’ her in her fall to martyrdom, I decided she needed immediate psychiatric aid, and ran to her.
“Mad woman, this is the second floor, for Pete’s sake. You attempt such an asinine thing, you’ll end up with just a broken rib and land up in jail, or worse, you’ll land in your own balcony, but still land up in jail. You know what that means? Your husband will be all alone in the house all over again.”
It helped. She turned to leave my flat threatening to do it from the 12th floor next time if I didn’t leave her husband for good. I told her I was not moving, she could do what she thought best. So, she turned back around, and this time dashed into my kitchen to storm out with a knife. Ah! That same knife with which until a few days back, he and I would chop ginger and carrots and onions and broccoli and at times, my finger, together. I would not let this imbalanced woman defile those memories. Ah, those bittersweet memories! So I snatched it back from her, sniffed it deep to make sure he was still on it, and said, ok, I’ll move.
So I shifted into to a new apartment in the corner-most, most secluded tower of the condo, where I was sure our karmic connection would no longer work. No common cement, iron bars, wall paint, water tank, drain-pipe, or plinth to hold us on together…
And then it happened again. The doorbell. And a hesitant nasal male voice from this dungaree-clad gentleman with flowing locks, “Hello…looks like you’ve just arrived…may I…”
It was beyond belief!
With unflinching curtness, I asked back, “Do you have a wife? A wife who doesn’t know you’re up here offering your free services to me?”
“What are you saying? I AM the wife sweeeeeetiepie! I know I know, it happens when people see me for the first time, but you’ll get used to me, my baiiibeee! Which you will, because I live next door to you!”
Phew! It takes all kinds to fill up my neighbour-collage!
I knew I was in safe company! Beaming, I let him in. There was such an awful lot of work waiting to be attended to…
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