A simple evening unfurled across the skies that peered through our balcony. A cloud here and a cloud there drifted as if dazed by the happy splash of orange and gold that the Sun had decided to paint the sky with. One little cloud even allowed itself to be touched with a glowing shade of yellow. But its companion, that floated just a yard away, refused to stop scowling in its grey cloak.
As I let my eyes follow this companion around till it was just about to hid behind a high rise, Mother Dearest called me in for dinner.
“What you're standing there? I have been calling you for so long.”
“Okay okay, you don't need to yell.”
“That's the only way to get you to respond.”
I was about to deny that when I was acquainted with a brand new piece of information.
“You know,” said Sister Dearest, as she began to unwrap the news, “I am going to the Holy Land!”
“Really,” I said, quite amused, “and what order are you to join there?”
“Shut up! It's a tour.”
“A tour?! They have those?”
“Stop acting okay! You yourself announced that in Church.”
That was quite true. This Sunday that had brushed past us, I had hogged the limelight in Church: I had sung, read the epistle, and also read the notices. This one, about the tours, I had taken great care to announce.
“Yes, I remember,” I said, as I dug into a potato sitting helplessly in my plate.
“So that's the tour I am talking about.”
“I see. Did you ask them?” And I nodded my head towards the Home Ministry.
But even before I could finish my sentence, she put down whatever she held in her hand, gave me a scathing look, and said: “I am not asking them. I told them. Just as I am telling you.”
This, as usual, happens to be Mother Dearest's cue to dive right into the conversation.
“What telling them telling them?,” she snapped as she seized her opportunity to talk, “All alone you will go? You don't even know any of them.”
“Then I'll get to know them. Besides, it's a priest who is organizing it all.”
“Priests!” Mother repeated with a spectacular tinge of disgust, “you cannot trust them these days. You know what happened on our Goa trip no? There too we had a priest only.”
“That fellow was useless! This priest writes books.”
“Really now,” I began, as I let my mouth split into a laugh, “I don’t see what his habit of writing books has to do with him organizing tours.”
“Oh you shut up!,” ordered my sibling, “I know how much you know of tours. You're still going to Lonavla, Khandala, and God knows where else.”
“Oh yes that reminds me Mother,” I said, “I have never been to Khandala.”
“I have been to Khandala,”informed Sister Dearest with all the relish she could accommodate into her tone, “I haven't been to Matheran though.”
“I haven't even been to Lonavla,” I went on as I began to realize how short my list of visited places was.
“Heh heh,” smirked Sister Dearest, “I have been to Lonavla. But Matheran I haven't seen.”
“What you haven't seen Lonavla, Khandala?,” cut in Mother, “they are on the way to Pune.”
“So?”
“So, you've been to Pune no? You have to pass through them to get to Pune.”
“Mother! Passing through a place is not the same as being there.”
“Whatever,” said Mother with a wave of her hand as she sat back into her chair, “you have anyway seen them on TV.”
“What nonsense you talk Mother, really! There's no other way to describe what you talk at times.”
“What do you mean nonsense?! I don't see what's so great about all these places.”
“Mother do you want to come for the tour?” This was Sister Dearest trying to bait Mother into an agreeable mode.
But that was met with a firm no and followed by grandiose exclamations of why would she ever want to go.
“Well,” I said after the exclamations died down, “you are scared of flying.”
“No, I just don't want to go.”
“Well, admit it Mother, you are scared of flying.”
“Whatever it is, I don't want to go.”
“Well then,” said Sister, “I am going, irrespective of anyone else coming. And that is final.”
“Go go,” sighed Mother, “you're very stubborn!”
“Well,” I said, as I picked up my plate, “that's a familial trait.”
“How?”
“You will not give in and fly and she will not give in and not!”
“That hardly makes it a trait!”
“Oh yes, it makes it a law.”
“Now that,” began Mother as if she was all set to drag me to court, “is carrying an observation too far.”
“Well, Mother, why don't you admit you too are equally stubborn?”
The plates she carried knew they had to sit back and watch her defend her position. And so, her hands made way for them to slide down to the table.
“Me? Stubborn? How dare you say that?”
“Oh of course, you insist I wear what you want me to. You insist I do things you want me to. But you will never ever bother to listen to what I have to say about what you wear.”
“I don't need you to teach me what to wear.”
“Yes, yes. Not at all! Which is why you went and bought that blood red dress of yours.”
“What's wrong with that? It looks good.”
“Oh come on Mother! It doesn't.”
“Well what you know? Your notion of style is rags stitched together!”
“That's what you think. No one else thinks those jeans are rags.”
“They'll not say that on your face. But they sure will, behind your back.”
“Like I care? If I had to, I would be in those drums you so love to advocate.”
“They aren't drums! They are proper trousers!”
“With a circumference as big as a drum!”
“They aren't drums! They are decent pants that don't look as if they have been rolled in muck.”
“You and your decency! It's high time we shake ourselves up a bit.”
“You have no shame to talk like this?” asked Mother rhetorically, evidently aware of my answer, “You've become so shameless. I wonder when will you talk some sense?”
Now, I was not going to answer that. For if I did, another round would ensue: I'd be reminded of the days of yore when I was so sweet. And how with each passing year, I had morphed into a shameless brute. Oh of course, I love to hear it all and remind Mother and whoever takes her side that they too were just the same.
But it was too late to let my ears be treated to some thundering conversation. Outside, the sky had worn a peerless black cloak and had sewn a myriad stars that twinkled by the second. Night had clothed the sky well and I realized I had a job awaiting me in the morning.
So, I smiled, dusted a few bread crumbs off my shirt and walked into the kitchen to wash my plate and hands.
As I let my eyes follow this companion around till it was just about to hid behind a high rise, Mother Dearest called me in for dinner.
“What you're standing there? I have been calling you for so long.”
“Okay okay, you don't need to yell.”
“That's the only way to get you to respond.”
I was about to deny that when I was acquainted with a brand new piece of information.
“You know,” said Sister Dearest, as she began to unwrap the news, “I am going to the Holy Land!”
“Really,” I said, quite amused, “and what order are you to join there?”
“Shut up! It's a tour.”
“A tour?! They have those?”
“Stop acting okay! You yourself announced that in Church.”
That was quite true. This Sunday that had brushed past us, I had hogged the limelight in Church: I had sung, read the epistle, and also read the notices. This one, about the tours, I had taken great care to announce.
“Yes, I remember,” I said, as I dug into a potato sitting helplessly in my plate.
“So that's the tour I am talking about.”
“I see. Did you ask them?” And I nodded my head towards the Home Ministry.
But even before I could finish my sentence, she put down whatever she held in her hand, gave me a scathing look, and said: “I am not asking them. I told them. Just as I am telling you.”
This, as usual, happens to be Mother Dearest's cue to dive right into the conversation.
“What telling them telling them?,” she snapped as she seized her opportunity to talk, “All alone you will go? You don't even know any of them.”
“Then I'll get to know them. Besides, it's a priest who is organizing it all.”
“Priests!” Mother repeated with a spectacular tinge of disgust, “you cannot trust them these days. You know what happened on our Goa trip no? There too we had a priest only.”
“That fellow was useless! This priest writes books.”
“Really now,” I began, as I let my mouth split into a laugh, “I don’t see what his habit of writing books has to do with him organizing tours.”
“Oh you shut up!,” ordered my sibling, “I know how much you know of tours. You're still going to Lonavla, Khandala, and God knows where else.”
“Oh yes that reminds me Mother,” I said, “I have never been to Khandala.”
“I have been to Khandala,”informed Sister Dearest with all the relish she could accommodate into her tone, “I haven't been to Matheran though.”
“I haven't even been to Lonavla,” I went on as I began to realize how short my list of visited places was.
“Heh heh,” smirked Sister Dearest, “I have been to Lonavla. But Matheran I haven't seen.”
“What you haven't seen Lonavla, Khandala?,” cut in Mother, “they are on the way to Pune.”
“So?”
“So, you've been to Pune no? You have to pass through them to get to Pune.”
“Mother! Passing through a place is not the same as being there.”
“Whatever,” said Mother with a wave of her hand as she sat back into her chair, “you have anyway seen them on TV.”
“What nonsense you talk Mother, really! There's no other way to describe what you talk at times.”
“What do you mean nonsense?! I don't see what's so great about all these places.”
“Mother do you want to come for the tour?” This was Sister Dearest trying to bait Mother into an agreeable mode.
But that was met with a firm no and followed by grandiose exclamations of why would she ever want to go.
“Well,” I said after the exclamations died down, “you are scared of flying.”
“No, I just don't want to go.”
“Well, admit it Mother, you are scared of flying.”
“Whatever it is, I don't want to go.”
“Well then,” said Sister, “I am going, irrespective of anyone else coming. And that is final.”
“Go go,” sighed Mother, “you're very stubborn!”
“Well,” I said, as I picked up my plate, “that's a familial trait.”
“How?”
“You will not give in and fly and she will not give in and not!”
“That hardly makes it a trait!”
“Oh yes, it makes it a law.”
“Now that,” began Mother as if she was all set to drag me to court, “is carrying an observation too far.”
“Well, Mother, why don't you admit you too are equally stubborn?”
The plates she carried knew they had to sit back and watch her defend her position. And so, her hands made way for them to slide down to the table.
“Me? Stubborn? How dare you say that?”
“Oh of course, you insist I wear what you want me to. You insist I do things you want me to. But you will never ever bother to listen to what I have to say about what you wear.”
“I don't need you to teach me what to wear.”
“Yes, yes. Not at all! Which is why you went and bought that blood red dress of yours.”
“What's wrong with that? It looks good.”
“Oh come on Mother! It doesn't.”
“Well what you know? Your notion of style is rags stitched together!”
“That's what you think. No one else thinks those jeans are rags.”
“They'll not say that on your face. But they sure will, behind your back.”
“Like I care? If I had to, I would be in those drums you so love to advocate.”
“They aren't drums! They are proper trousers!”
“With a circumference as big as a drum!”
“They aren't drums! They are decent pants that don't look as if they have been rolled in muck.”
“You and your decency! It's high time we shake ourselves up a bit.”
“You have no shame to talk like this?” asked Mother rhetorically, evidently aware of my answer, “You've become so shameless. I wonder when will you talk some sense?”
Now, I was not going to answer that. For if I did, another round would ensue: I'd be reminded of the days of yore when I was so sweet. And how with each passing year, I had morphed into a shameless brute. Oh of course, I love to hear it all and remind Mother and whoever takes her side that they too were just the same.
But it was too late to let my ears be treated to some thundering conversation. Outside, the sky had worn a peerless black cloak and had sewn a myriad stars that twinkled by the second. Night had clothed the sky well and I realized I had a job awaiting me in the morning.
So, I smiled, dusted a few bread crumbs off my shirt and walked into the kitchen to wash my plate and hands.
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