No, I can't say No

No…is the most difficult word in the dictionary for me.

Happy voice: ‘Wow, it’s been ages since we met! I’m dropping in to Bangalore. Will you pick me up from the airport at 10 in the night?’

Me: ‘aaah… well… er…’

Happy voice: ‘Thanks so much. Knew I could count on you.’

- - -

Arbit person I meet at a neighbour’s: ‘You haven’t got Tupperware? You MUST buy Tupperware. I’ll come over tomorrow morning with some must-have pieces.’

Me: ‘I really don’t need any…’

Arbit person: ‘You just have to see them and you’ll want them all.’

Me: ‘Oh of course!’

- - - -

Nice client: ‘Hey, sorry to catch you on a Saturday night. But I really need this by tomorrow morning urgently.’

Me: ‘But it’s Saturday night….’

Nice client: ‘I know. Shame to spoil it for you. So tomorrow morning, ok? Thanks so much!’

- - -

So, of course, it came as a major surprise to me, when my kids came around.

‘Mama, can we eat jam biscuits now?’

‘No’

‘Can we paint on the walls?’

‘No’

‘Can we ...’

‘No’

‘Don’t you know to say anything but No?’

Monday Vs The people

“The defendant Monday is hereby ordered to stand in the presence of the kangaroo court and the Supreme Justice Jandy. What, if anything, have you got to say in your defence, you snivelling miserable day, you?”

“Sir, I start the week.”

“You weak-starter! You ignoramus! I am not a Sir. I am a Your Honour. If you weren’t so sluggish after your weekend party, you woulda known the difference.”

“Your Honour, I am not sluggish. I am always sharp and bright and hard-working.”

“I know I know. That is the problem. Why do you slap everyone into shape for the hated Monday morning meeting?”

“Your Honour, it’s called discipline. Look at Friday, that slacker – no meetings, no discipline, half the day planning the weekend...”

“And why can’t you take a break for a little fun, huh? Why must you be such a killjoy? Giving everyone the Monday morning blues.”

 “Your Honour...”

“And do you know more people are sick on Mondays than any other day, huh?”

“Your Honour...”

“Don’t Your Honour me...”

“But you told me to call you Your Honour, Your Honour.”

“Are you arguing with the Supreme Justice Jandy? You are hereby sent to life imprisonment. With no chance of ever getting out! You will never show your face again. From now on, the work week will have 4 days, starting with half a work day on Tuesday, and Thursday afternoons off too. Begone Monday!”

The UnColour

My favourite colour is black. There I said it! That’s not a colour, right, you’re thinking, didn’t she do her light spectrum in school... black is the absence of all colours. Black is the uncolour.

I love black. Black hair. Which I never missed as much as now that it’s turning – well, not black.

I love black clothes. You look like you’re in mourning, mourns my Ma. You look like a crow, snaps my aunt. You look like an extra in a heavy metal band, said a friend. You look like you fell into ink, said a not-so-well-meaning in-law.

And so I stubbornly black on... I even buy my lil boys black clothes. Hey – black shows no dirt from the 15^th fall down the stairs, black shows no blood from scraped knees, black shows no darn marks from the tear in the trouser crotch that all boys seem mysteriously to get. Black’s wash n wear n no-iron.

I bought a black Kancheepuram sari for my bro-in-law’s wedding in Kerala, and was promptly escorted off to buy a more ‘auspicious colour’ which turned out to be blistering maroon with a golden pointy blouse that would make Madonna’s iron bra pale in comparison.

Nah, black is definitely me. Literally. I am the colour of burnt toast myself and so proud of it. And I don’t wanna look like the million other pink-is-in or pasty pastels you get a dime a dozen. After all, I’m the only mourning black crow in a heavy metal band who fell into ink – and wow, that’s a self-image I love enough to live with!

 

Mom Exchange

I’m afraid I’m doing such a lousy job of being a mom, that my lil boys are soon going to smarten up and go demand a ‘cash back’ from the Mom Exchange.

I mean – examples:

Neel wasn’t allowed to enter his piano competition in school because his mom didn’t ask in writing. So I promptly sent a note – taking full blame. Blaming it on my PMS and my head trauma when I was 11 years old (oh well, not exactly , but...) and in short, saying – look, he’s got a lousy mom, just let the kid play, ok?

Lil Niks is the only boy in his class who hasn’t got an umbrella for his umbrella dance. Where can one buy an umbrella in the dry dustiest season of the year? I’ve combed the streets and stores. So he’s hopping around like Gene Kelly twirling the class Number Rod. Well, at least he’ll stand out on stage!

Neel has decided to take things into his own hands. Today, I see him breaking his plastic sphere into 2. What for? Cos he needed to take one of my bangles as a circular object to school for Timeclock drawing, and he assumed (correctly) I wouldn’t ever be able to find a bangle. So he created his own hemisphere instead.

Now, they’re gonna get chatting with their pals and realise the others have these wonderful moms who pack tiffins on time and have bangles and write notes for piano. And some day, they’re going to trot off to the Mom Exchange and demand they get one of those!

So if one day you meet my boys at the Mom Exchange, please tell them how I gave up a galloping career at its peak to wipe multi-coloured crap off baby buttocks. How I painted their room wall with the Jungle book animals they wanted, since Asian Paints couldn’t and how I got a dust allergy from it that I carry till today. How I make Stegosaurus idlis attacking Diplodoccus cauliflowers for dinner. How every time they go up on stage, I chew off all my fingernails. And every time I’m told what fine young men I’ve brought up, I begin to howl in pride. Bet they can’t get a mom from the Exchange who’ll do all that, huh?

Ban the bloody gift

‘Ok Mama, ready for the party. Where’s the gift?’ shouts Neel.

Where’s the gift? Where’s what gift? What’s what gift? .... Didn’t buy it!!! Help!

You’d think I’d learn from past experience, but I never do, do I?

So, the marathon panic session begins yet again.

I charge up to the hidden stash of gifts they’ve been given – duplicates etc. Pull out the cooking set. Won’t do. It’s a boy’s party. Not a single rotten car. Or Beyblade. There’s a headless superman. Won’t do! Books? The kids too young for Harry Potter and too old for Noddy. Money’s too cheap to give! Help Help!

‘Mamaaa, getting late!’ the yell drifts up.

The cooking set it will be! Maybe the little boy will grow up to be a great chef and thank me for it endlessly (and call me for 5 star meals?)

Wrapping paper’s squashed into a ball. Kids had a fight with it. Store is closed! I read somewhere you can iron out wrapping paper. Yippee! Plug in the iron.

Try to tear the price tag off the cooking set – a chunk of the box peels off. Aaargh!

Iron the wrapping paper and it works! Something’s going right. No wrinkles – just that bit in the centre left – press the iron harder – and – gosh – a great big burn! No, no, not now!

‘Mamaaaaaaa!’

Swaddle the peeling plastic cooking set in the burnt wrapping paper. Try to cut off the darned cello tape and it starts sticking to everything but the paper. To the scissors, to the iron, to my fingers.... to my teeth (don’t ask!)

Maybe I can cover the gaping hole with the gift card? Nope, too small. There’s a magazine lying around with a big ad for Eurokids. Have a brainwave! Cut out the beaming kids in the ad and stick them over the burnt hole. They don’t cover it. Cut out a teddy bear’s head and add it. There! Done!

‘Mamaaaaaa!’

Go running down the stairs and fling the gift at Neel poised at the door, who catches it expertly and if he wonders why he has a slippery parcel with a Eurokids ad and beheaded teddy bears on it, he doesn’t ask.

Neel is never invited to this particular boy’s birthday party ever again!

Niks' world

The way my not-yet 6 year-old looks at the world: (Note: For all the bigness he's obsessed with, you only realise his perspective in the last line.)

What’s the big fishie, Niks?

It’s the biggest creature in the world. A blue whale. But bigger. A blue sperm whale. What’s sperm, Mama?

It’s - ahem -(changing topic) – what’s the thing on top of it?

A dinosaur. Biggest in the world. Its spines can turn into legs when it turns upside down. So it can have 18 legs.

Niks, no one can have 18 legs.

Why not?

Ok, so what’s the building? Our building?

No – it’s the Burj Khalifa. This dino’s taller than the Burj Khalifa!

Phew, what a big dino!

No, Mama. And here’s the best part. He’s only a baby. See the face? That’s the dino Mama!

WOW! That’s so gigantic, Niks, and what are those birds on the other side?

They’re pterodactyls all flying down towards the dot.

What’s that tiny dot, Niks?

Mama - That’s a Man.

New Year Desolutions

Every New Year’s Resolutions last determinedly and passionately for 365 .... seconds of January 1^st. Then ‘the second cup of coffee won’t hurt’ and the ‘I’ll diet tomorrow’ starts!

Because as everyone knows – resolutions are meant to be broken. It’s the great Universal Resolution Rule. Not my fault. Not your fault. Not the diet’s fault.

So, this year, I’m going to make the De-Resolutions. On the assumption that I’m going to break them. Let’s start with that. Ya, oh ya – this is gonna so work!

1. I am going to follow a crash diet! I will eat everything I want to, whenever I want to which will send my weighing scale crashing through the floor. (Already do this, but it’s so nice to make it legal!) I am going to aim to fit back into my maternity clothes! Yay Yay! Even better! I am going to throw out those old 26 inch waist jeans because I’ll never fit into them again but I’m going to aim for a 40 inch waist. Loverly!
2. I will exercise with a vengeance. I will exercise my jaws and yap away with my favourite buddies. I will exercise my remote control finger. Haven’t watched TV in ages! I must start again! I will exercise my vocal chords and command Neel and Niks to go get me things instead of getting off my fat butt and getting them myself. Loving this year already!
3. I will organize my life... next year. This year, I will live in the chaos I so love. So I will continue to lose cheques, not pay bills, lose the most important documents I kept in a very safe place and not find anything which is most critical... (like my marriage cert.... which  of course may mean that the kids aren’t legit!)
4. I will NOT learn to cook!
5. I will NOT be nice to all the lousy people who were mean to me.
6. I will NOT act my age! I will not behave like a mom of 2 should!
7. I will not get tech-savvy or PR savvy!
8. I will NOT join a gym, cut my hair, change my wardrobe and transform into a goddess.

Ha! Done! That was so easy! Now, check with me a few minutes, seconds, days into 2013, and let’s see how far this takes me. I should pretty much have my life in order don’t you think? Going by the slimy back-biting nature of resolutions and their ability to turn right around, these should turn my life organized, get me into super shape, and make me into a super mom super cook in no time at all. Waiting... and Happy New Year to you too!

Santa's list

Dear Jandy,

You’ve been asking for things since you were 4 years old. I’ve been delivering. At 7, I caught you popping awake in the night trying to crack open your ceiling to make a chimney.

Now, it’s my turn to make that list. Better be sure you deliver, girl!

1. A new reindeer. Rudolph (who is actually female, as you’ve read, because she has antlers in this season) is too whiney. She keeps asking me if her nose is too red, and her butt is too big. Of course, as you know with most of the female species, no answer is good enough.
2. L’oreal hair dye. Because I’m worth it. I don’t wanna look like an old man. I’d like some of those pretty young mommies to offer me a cup of hot chocolate when I get down the chimney. So how about it? Auburn – you think that would suit me? Or silver black?
3. A smart phone with GPS. It’s not funny having to travel the whole world at night, with only a whiney reindeer to guide me.
4. Spectacles. Phew! Have you ever tried reading a 5-year-old’s handwriting? I’ve got asked for ‘Remoth-control-BOYS’ which I only hope is ‘remote controlled toys’. I’ve squinted hard at ‘Barbed wall’, which I’ve delivered as ‘Barbie Doll’. And ‘No more pants!’ Gosh! Also  I’ve given a girl who wanted a ‘Crap dress’ – pretty pink crepe dress. I’ve carried puppies for those who asked for ‘poppies’, ‘pepsis’ and ‘paps’.  But what on earth is a  ‘Gronjicle’?
5. A vacation. In the Bahamas. Far from snow and ice and – ya, ya, - reindeers with big butts!

Aww. Who am I kidding! I love this job! I love the kids and their awful lists. Now, just what did your 5-year-old Niks want when he asked for ‘Mama to have another booby?’

Bucket List

Bucket list when I was 6

I want the tooth fairy to give me 2 new teeth really quick!

When I was 8

I want to become an airhostess and see the world. (Now that I’ve got my 2 front teeth).

At 11

Air-hostesses are fluffy. I want to become a pilot and see the world.

At 15

I want to marry Shahrukh Khan.

At 17

I want to marry the guy next door.

At 21

I don’t ever want to marry. I want to work hard and become rich and famous.

At 22

I’m sick of working. I want to marry someone rich and famous.

At 23

I want to save the world and all its animals and people and trees.

At 24

I want to learn to dance the flamenco, and learn the guitar, and learn Spanish, and work on a film script, and travel the world, and work all day and party all night.

At 25

I don’t want a single one of the above. I want to get a house of my own, with wonderful kids and a dog, and sit at a window and look at the sky and write a book, and write a column and write a blog .... and read and read... and write and write.

At Now.

Got there. Living my bucket list right now. Don’t seem to have anything more I want to do. I’m boring!!!! Help!

But guessing from the way my life is, I’m sure I’ll have one tomorrow, and a new one a year later. Maybe write that film script? Maybe work in a small town in France or Papua New Guinea? Maybe go look after polar bears or koala bears or tigers in the Sunderbans?  

I guess what I’m trying to say is that my bucket list in a work in progress. The bucket seems to have a hole at the bottom and the handle’s too rusty to carry around for long. It also seems to change shape. Sometimes it’s the size of the plane I wanted to learn to fly. Right now, it’s so tiny it’s non-existent. I’d like to see my 2 li’l boys grow up  to start working and stand on their own 2 feet. That’s about it. Before that, I refuse to kick the bucket. Or even think of one. (The one that’s overflowing in the bathroom, draining out the water tank, while I sit and write this blog).

Copyright cake

Everyone posts recipes, so here’s mine! Never let it be said I didn’t share the recipe of my fabulous much-acclaimed Christmas cake.

Buy a pack of maida and bring it home to realise it’s rice flour. Disgusting con men in the store!

Cut open the packet of sugar and get the scissors stuck in the pack and see half the sugar spill on to the floor.

Try to mop it up with one hand, while keeping the dog away with the other. Sugar is bad for dogs, since they don’t brush their teeth ever ever!

Take the cut n dried raisins and almonds and cashews and stuff that you’d soaked in rum a month back – and kept tasting ever since. Look shocked since it’s now down to a handful.  Make a big noise demanding to know who in the house ate it up.

Anyway, just pour everything into a big wooden bowl and stir it.  Add other things you think cakes need. Like candles. Like eggs. Darn, how do you pick out the egg shells? Never mind, they’re good sources of calcium!

Caramelise some sugar by burning it brown in a pan with a little water. Stop before the whole house starts smoking and the neighbours ring the bell in panic. Go to the door to assure them you are not on fire. Return to the kitchen to find you are!

The caramelised sugar is now hard enough to throw at one of the neighbours!

You forgot to add butter, you clod! The butter is frozen to its paper carton. Dump it in anyway. If they can eat egg shells, they can eat paper too. It won’t dissolve! Microwave the whole thing a bit to melt it!

Ooh freakin frook! Paper carton and  wooden bowl and metal stirrer! Everything’s smoking. The microwave oven has blown the house fuse!

How are you gonna bake it with no power?

Call the boys and the dog and sit and lick up all the cake mix instead. It’s much yummier than cake. Call S and ask him sweetly to buy 4 large Christmas cakes on his way home. And some medicine for tummy upset.

Liked my cake recipe? 

Now here’s the real secret. Ma bakes the cake. I just eat it.