If you ask any of my Saturdays out to tea or invite them for lunch and subject them to an investigation about my doings when they were the highlights of the week, chances are all of them will tell you the same story: "Oh he doesn't get out much! He just lazes in bed. Then he lazes in front of the telly. And a few hours later, he'll laze in front of the computer."
Prod them a little more and they'll tell you: "he loves to pretend to read and then he'll rub his forehead and then promptly forgets his ability to turn to the next page!" And a little later, when you have plied them with wine, they'll spill out the fact that: "he loves to argue - especially when he's fed up of lazing around."
This particular Saturday, I was particularly fed up not only of lazing in front of the television, but of the television itself. I began with Comedy Central, waltzed down to Zee Cafe, and then foxtrotted up to Star World only to waltz further up to FX.
All of them had some interesting programs on air. And every program was torn into bits of ten minutes or less and stitched together with at least three advertisements in between. The resulting ensembles then were a royal pain to sit through. No matter how much intrigue or humour the programs served, the advertisements always managed to replace all of that with an unceremonious helping of irritation. I had had enough of those helpings and I was debating over whether to go back to sleep or read a book.
That was when Mother walked into the hall. I let the remote control pass into her hands and began to read the parish monthly. Now Mother loves news as if it were her knight in shining armour. So, it wasn't very difficult to predict what channel she was about to surf to. She had had her dose of BBC World News at 7:30 in the morning. And at quarter to 12, it was time to know what acts of violence the BBC had updated all that news with. So, that's exactly what happened: She sat in her chair, pressed 2, 6, and 1 on the remote control, and BBC World News appeared with its platter of information!
A minute later, I heard her lament.
"Oh my God! Tch tch tch tch tch tch!"
"What happened Mother?"
"How sad no?"
"What's sad now?"
"It seems in so-and-so place they are using poisonous weapons!"
"I know! That is vexing."
"Why do they do that, really? Why?"
"Because they have nothing better to do other than manufacture news for you!"
That wasn't quite the answer Mother was looking for. And so, before I began to elaborate on what I had just said, she put a stop to it all. "Okay okay! Quiet now!" she said hurriedly, "Let me hear what he has to say."
Two minutes later, she was tch-tching again.
"Now what happened?"
"This Syria! Tch! Such a tragedy, really!"
"Yes it is," I said, "Just bear with it Mother."
"Who asked you what to do?"
"Well you are telling me."
"That doesn't mean I am asking you! Let me watch in peace, okay?"
But three minutes later, Mother was pitying another war-torn country somewhere in Africa.
"What things people are doing in this world!"
"What things they are doing?"
"See here? In this place, people are being tortured and killed! God, really! There's no end to their suffering! Tch!"
"Why watch then?"
"What do you mean, why watch?"
"Well Mother, it's very obvious it's too gruesome for your appetite. So, it's best you skip it."
In response to that Mother straightened her back against the chair and: "Do I tell you what to watch?" she inquired as if her hands were on her hips,"Do I? You watch what you want to, no? So let me watch this."
A few minutes of respite followed. Thereafter, much like clockwork precision, Mother was back to lamenting yet again. And by then, I was quite certain I had heard enough.
"All this," I thundered as my right index finger drew an accusing ring around the telly, "All this Mother, you will watch most religiously!"
"What do you mean by this?!"
"This!" I said, and I pointed to a news headline scurrying away as it told of a bomb that had gone off in Syria. "All this violence and killing and murders you will watch. But if they pack it all in a movie, you are the first to denounce it with chapter and verse from the Bible!"
"That," Mother said, "whatever that is that they show in those films, is an exaggeration."
"And this," I said as I pointed to another news item about killings some place in the world, "is not?! Whole day Mother! Whole day, they keep repeating the same and same thing: So many died, so many are injured. And then, they'll show you blood and bodies all over the place. All that, you have no problem with."
"Those," said Mother as she adjusted her spectacles, "are facts!"
"And what makes you think movies aren't?"
"Your movies aren't."
"Is that so? You mean to say the ones you watch are all true happenstances, is it?"
"That is not what I am saying," said Mother as if she wanted to use that to wipe out what she had implied earlier.
"So then what are you saying?"
"I am saying that those movies are a big exaggeration."
"Yes yes! I know! But so is this nonstop reporting about violence! And doesn't hearing about it every day make you depressed, Mother? The other day you told me your pressure had gone down!"
"Don't be ridiculous dear!" snapped Mother, "My pressure has nothing to do with the news of the world!"
"That is not what I'm saying, Mother."
"Really? Then what?"
"I'm saying it only makes you worked up and bothers you enough for you to fall sick!"
"I DID not fall sick because of the news!"
"So why did you fall sick then?"
"My pressure went down!"
"And that happened because?"
"I have so much to do in the house!"
"Really Mother, all you do is cook!"
"And wash!"
"Wash? You just put the clothes in the tub! Samsung does all the washing. Not you!"
"It's easy for you to say all that! When it comes to you, let's see what you'll do!"
"Mother, you forget: I stayed alone for three months and managed. It's no big a deal. I managed then, and when the time comes, I will manage then too."
"Manage then too," mocked Mother, "Everyone says the same thing!"
"I am not everyone, Mother."
But Mother had had enough, and so she pulled out her trusted age-old weapon.
"Keep quiet men!" she snapped, "Don't argue with me. Go read your books go. From when they are catching dust!"
That line - the one she used - is the best missile to mute my tongue. That's because I get very irritated when anyone accuses my books of catching dust. I know my books are catching dust, but I hate it if someone says that to me. I think of my books as my children and though I may not have time for them, I just cannot bring myself to believe I am a terrible father. And Mother knows that very well. She knows I get very annoyed if she talks about them that way, and she knows I'll just shut up and walk away if she does.
Well, that's what I did: I shot up from my chair, replaced all I had to say with a glare at Mother, and went into my room. This time, an urge in me almost commanded me to prove her wrong. But sleep seemed a better chore to indulge in instead. After all, say what Mother might, I can, and do, do just as I please.
So, I straightened the sheets of my bed, fluffed my pillow, and did not leave my room till I was called for lunch. :-)
Prod them a little more and they'll tell you: "he loves to pretend to read and then he'll rub his forehead and then promptly forgets his ability to turn to the next page!" And a little later, when you have plied them with wine, they'll spill out the fact that: "he loves to argue - especially when he's fed up of lazing around."
This particular Saturday, I was particularly fed up not only of lazing in front of the television, but of the television itself. I began with Comedy Central, waltzed down to Zee Cafe, and then foxtrotted up to Star World only to waltz further up to FX.
All of them had some interesting programs on air. And every program was torn into bits of ten minutes or less and stitched together with at least three advertisements in between. The resulting ensembles then were a royal pain to sit through. No matter how much intrigue or humour the programs served, the advertisements always managed to replace all of that with an unceremonious helping of irritation. I had had enough of those helpings and I was debating over whether to go back to sleep or read a book.
That was when Mother walked into the hall. I let the remote control pass into her hands and began to read the parish monthly. Now Mother loves news as if it were her knight in shining armour. So, it wasn't very difficult to predict what channel she was about to surf to. She had had her dose of BBC World News at 7:30 in the morning. And at quarter to 12, it was time to know what acts of violence the BBC had updated all that news with. So, that's exactly what happened: She sat in her chair, pressed 2, 6, and 1 on the remote control, and BBC World News appeared with its platter of information!
A minute later, I heard her lament.
"Oh my God! Tch tch tch tch tch tch!"
"What happened Mother?"
"How sad no?"
"What's sad now?"
"It seems in so-and-so place they are using poisonous weapons!"
"I know! That is vexing."
"Why do they do that, really? Why?"
"Because they have nothing better to do other than manufacture news for you!"
That wasn't quite the answer Mother was looking for. And so, before I began to elaborate on what I had just said, she put a stop to it all. "Okay okay! Quiet now!" she said hurriedly, "Let me hear what he has to say."
Two minutes later, she was tch-tching again.
"Now what happened?"
"This Syria! Tch! Such a tragedy, really!"
"Yes it is," I said, "Just bear with it Mother."
"Who asked you what to do?"
"Well you are telling me."
"That doesn't mean I am asking you! Let me watch in peace, okay?"
But three minutes later, Mother was pitying another war-torn country somewhere in Africa.
"What things people are doing in this world!"
"What things they are doing?"
"See here? In this place, people are being tortured and killed! God, really! There's no end to their suffering! Tch!"
"Why watch then?"
"What do you mean, why watch?"
"Well Mother, it's very obvious it's too gruesome for your appetite. So, it's best you skip it."
In response to that Mother straightened her back against the chair and: "Do I tell you what to watch?" she inquired as if her hands were on her hips,"Do I? You watch what you want to, no? So let me watch this."
A few minutes of respite followed. Thereafter, much like clockwork precision, Mother was back to lamenting yet again. And by then, I was quite certain I had heard enough.
"All this," I thundered as my right index finger drew an accusing ring around the telly, "All this Mother, you will watch most religiously!"
"What do you mean by this?!"
"This!" I said, and I pointed to a news headline scurrying away as it told of a bomb that had gone off in Syria. "All this violence and killing and murders you will watch. But if they pack it all in a movie, you are the first to denounce it with chapter and verse from the Bible!"
"That," Mother said, "whatever that is that they show in those films, is an exaggeration."
"And this," I said as I pointed to another news item about killings some place in the world, "is not?! Whole day Mother! Whole day, they keep repeating the same and same thing: So many died, so many are injured. And then, they'll show you blood and bodies all over the place. All that, you have no problem with."
"Those," said Mother as she adjusted her spectacles, "are facts!"
"And what makes you think movies aren't?"
"Your movies aren't."
"Is that so? You mean to say the ones you watch are all true happenstances, is it?"
"That is not what I am saying," said Mother as if she wanted to use that to wipe out what she had implied earlier.
"So then what are you saying?"
"I am saying that those movies are a big exaggeration."
"Yes yes! I know! But so is this nonstop reporting about violence! And doesn't hearing about it every day make you depressed, Mother? The other day you told me your pressure had gone down!"
"Don't be ridiculous dear!" snapped Mother, "My pressure has nothing to do with the news of the world!"
"That is not what I'm saying, Mother."
"Really? Then what?"
"I'm saying it only makes you worked up and bothers you enough for you to fall sick!"
"I DID not fall sick because of the news!"
"So why did you fall sick then?"
"My pressure went down!"
"And that happened because?"
"I have so much to do in the house!"
"Really Mother, all you do is cook!"
"And wash!"
"Wash? You just put the clothes in the tub! Samsung does all the washing. Not you!"
"It's easy for you to say all that! When it comes to you, let's see what you'll do!"
"Mother, you forget: I stayed alone for three months and managed. It's no big a deal. I managed then, and when the time comes, I will manage then too."
"Manage then too," mocked Mother, "Everyone says the same thing!"
"I am not everyone, Mother."
But Mother had had enough, and so she pulled out her trusted age-old weapon.
"Keep quiet men!" she snapped, "Don't argue with me. Go read your books go. From when they are catching dust!"
That line - the one she used - is the best missile to mute my tongue. That's because I get very irritated when anyone accuses my books of catching dust. I know my books are catching dust, but I hate it if someone says that to me. I think of my books as my children and though I may not have time for them, I just cannot bring myself to believe I am a terrible father. And Mother knows that very well. She knows I get very annoyed if she talks about them that way, and she knows I'll just shut up and walk away if she does.
Well, that's what I did: I shot up from my chair, replaced all I had to say with a glare at Mother, and went into my room. This time, an urge in me almost commanded me to prove her wrong. But sleep seemed a better chore to indulge in instead. After all, say what Mother might, I can, and do, do just as I please.
So, I straightened the sheets of my bed, fluffed my pillow, and did not leave my room till I was called for lunch. :-)
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