A Beautiful Mess

The Maa and The Kaa were inspecting a dull mound on the bed; tut-tutting, pointing and grimacing at its composition and size.
"How long has this been here?" the sister enquired, pointing at the scene of the crime.
"Weeks, months perhaps?" said Maa, the righteous sentinel.
"Pathetic" Kaa said, contorting her face in the manner that she does so well.
Maa, waste words as she doesn't, pointed heaven-ward doing that very contortion of pretty facial features which her elder daughter's genes so deftly copied.

And what did I do? I counted on what younger, average-looking, dim children suffer at the hands of not-so-proud parents all through their lives-- the undivided attention of no one-- to rescue me. I hoped nobody noticed as I tried to sneak-- from underneath the pile of clothes, books and stale-food-- out to a safer haven. Alas, it was not to be. The Duo(this is me living out my childhood fantasies of contributing to Gokulam some day) noticed a small lump, decidedly duller than the rest of the mound breaking away and moving in the general direction of the television.

"Oh good you're here. You can clean up this mess now" the Kaa smiled.
"Huh? I can't. Exams, woman!" I countered unconvincingly, a little like John LeCarre's Englishmen ("Hope in their faces and none in their hearts").
But the Younger-Child Effect kicked in crucial seconds too late, like these things tend to, and complex physical forces rendered my voice unheard and out-of-range; perhaps it made me invisible as well, but then given the hundred something post-its on the mirror in the room, it was difficult to check. The duo then moved on to more important subjects of discussion such as which aunt was at loggerheads with who else, and what pujas were to be undertaken to ensure The Kaa encountered no visa troubles and suchlike-- all as I silently considered my options.

They would have done well to know that I was made of sterner stuff. having practised the art for twenty or so years, I did what I do to survive. Stretching that streak of defiance I was born with (like the Maa describes it to puzzled relatives in lousy attempts to explain my 'eccentricities') into a full-blown landscape of rage, a glowering mark of protest, a tapestry of anger, I stormed off to the living room, eying the remote with all the mortal angst I could muster. This walk from my domain(Maa would have said 'cave') to the holy shrine of the television, savior of exam-ravaged warriors, was a show of strength, a giant leap.



Aaaand, I got as far as the remote.

As one heard the horrific, chillingly blase sound of the Mains going off. Click.

It was the Kaa. Leaning against the wall, listening, with rapt attention, to Ma recounting her second cousin's wedding in 1983 from her excellent, photographic memory, not to mention the three thousand weekly revisions(done in my reluctant presence) Kaa had preempted my claim to the basic human right of entertainment. In one graceful motion, she flicked the ominous looking switch that dictated power to the entire house, not taking her eyes off Ma the whole time.

For a moment, I contemplated rejoicing this acknowledgment of my presence and kissing the ground she walked on and singing eulogies. But then, that unused part of my brain dedicated to Self-Respect took over. Streak-of-defiance in place, walked up, shot a menacing sideways glance and boldly flicked the switch back on, like a triumphant gladiator.

I nearly died.



You, gentle reader, are probably questioning my fears. As you read this, you are descending to doubt my judgment. What after all can a pint sized (a large pint, if you ask me) woman do to me-- the general terror of professors,auto-drivers,unruly motorists, and sundry. At this point, I must point to you the complexity of the thing. You see, I am tormented by two terrible recurring nightmares. One involves poisonous snakes chasing me down as I run around, arms flailing. The other, admittedly scarier, involves my working for the sister in some organised setup, like-horror of horrors- her being my boss at office.

"You didn't do what I asked you to do three days ago, when I'd told you to do it in one hours time, and when I'd told you it was very-urgent when you were still working on the excel sheet I asked you to make to last week?" she will ask her victims, politely, with synchronised eyelash batting. And Christ! For the sake of those poor dah'links condemned to work for her, I hope her company's medical benefits covers psychotherapy. (I've stopped taking on the men in the family who complain about how women love to nag, of late. Poor things. Enough on their plates already.)

You see, the Kaa has an impeccable way of working her charms. Of keyholing her Fascist schemes through dastardly Gandhian methods.

As I checked my email for only the third time that morning, the Kaa gingerly walked in to my domain (To refer to it by 'room' is so bourgeoisie, besides it doesn't resemble any such mundane dwelling. Any more.) and began to relocate all the important thingummies that populated it. Piece by dust-smothered-piece. With poetic flair. And drama so thick, it was floating around in blobs. When I objected, she tried to reason- with raised-eyebrow and those big brown eyes stretched into ominous question marks.

"I positively NEED my textbooks from two years ago AND that soiled sock AND that empty pack of chips to rest on my bed because..."

"Hmmm?" pout, raised eyebrow, straight face.

"...I'm an ENGINEER" I shouted, withdrawing even as I uttered the words. After four years of explaining every silly quibble with this stream of logic, one gets a little, comfortable, you know?

Kaa threw at me one more disgusted look and shook her head to continue with the cleaning, well on course to her moral victory. Maa, who had since- without stopping to observe the goings-on at chez yours truly's- gotten on to the details of the birth of said second-cousin's grandchildren, entered the fray and began to tend to the other objects of my affection- placed for convenience sake, as the intelligent reader will understand, on my bed.

"DON'T THROW THOSE EMPTY SHOE BOXES. I'VE BEEN COLLECTING THEM FROM 2004!" I screeched furiously.

Ma, gently(This family belongs on Broadway, I tell you!) placed the cardboard boxes on my bed and proceeded to help my sister who was by now making a big show of carrying large textbooks across the room-- Imagine the magnitude of the story. NRI daughter arrives for well-deserved holiday only to tend to problematic (possible deranged) younger sibling, who she has taken care of like she were her own child ever since age seven. A Scream. No. Make that a full throated HOWL. That's what this is. A howl.

The little details of my ineptitude and cruel indifference will be lustily exchanged at family gatherings. It will pass from mouth to ear, over and over again. Each time, convoluted into a new truth. Someone, somewhere will add a cigarette between my fingers and silk stockings to my wardrobe. And in one of the later versions, I will resemble an evil, scheming vamp with too much lip-gloss who tortured her family and robbed it of its meager fortunes. My great-grandchildren will talk about this, standing on the outer fringes of the assortment of family that will surround me when I'm lying on my death-bed, and all they'll have to say is how the wretched hag deserves to die for smoking filtered slims while her poor little rich sister toiled like the heroine of a Brothers Grimm fairytale.

But no. I couldn't let this happen. Like any political strategist, or Chess genius--I strike a fine balance between the two, I assure you-- will tell you: A truce is better than a tiff. A Draw is better than a rout.

And so I sat the two ladies down (I urge you to think metaphorically, the bed was simply inundated with priceless objects) and had a gentle heart-to-heart. Don't you cynically underestimate girl-talk. it is an evolved art: It took five generations of women in the family to perfect it, and we're already half way on the path to communication.

"I really want to...erm...clean the mess in the room, I really do. But I don't know how. I need these things, you know? See this large, tattered Yuvraj Singh poster? Don't you remember how attached I was to it, back in school? And this solitary shoe? This rubber snake? It was a birthday present! As for these Readers Digests from 1992, they're frigging relics. Considering the ruin RD went to in the late '90s. And about the pale,brown broken coffee brewer" I said, reaching from further under the pile to pull out a round coffee-maker. "erm...never mind." I said quietly, knowing full well that it is the thought that counts.

Two sets of large brown eyes stared at me.

"I've been wondering about that coffee machine for years." Maa noted, incredulously.
"It was white when it went missing" Kaa offered, looking a tad bit scared "and you weren't even born then" she said, eyes so wide, I could have paddled around in it.

Both ladies hurriedly scurried out of the room.


And that was the last I saw of them.


I have to only look left to see the sweater I wore two weeks back lazily stare back at me, sprawled as if it once had a life of its own which it has just lost. Another pair of jeans lies in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. A stack of textbooks is resting languidly in a corner of the room in a state of bliss I'd rather not interfere with.


As for Kaa, she has packed her bags and left for home, since. Not before testing herself for contamination by industrial effluents. Maa walks around with a gas mask around here. And my collection of Lays packets has seen sizable additions.

And I am at the centre of all this-- in the midst of my world. The proper order of things has been restored. Zeitgeist, unscathed.