A package of three children, three and a half hours and a good for nothing husband can alter your morning perceptions, I swear. Each sunrise is glorious and soothing to the soul….. The dawn breaking into a morning and the crimson rays of the sun emerging from the horizon announcing the start of a new day, is of course breathtaking. But mind you, for a person like me, every sunrise is a curse.
Gone are those days when the chirping of the winged friends adorn the dawn and usher you in to a new day. Now, it is the electronic cuckoo that wakes you up. I mean, the milkman ringing the door bell which marks the beginning of my bad times. Who on earth invented this dirty device ? Have my curse.
The kitchen is a virtual mess. The uncleaned dishes of yesternight assorted in the Kitchen Sink make you vomit. I stand aghast….. from where to start with. But once you plunge into it, there is no turning back. Whirled around with four hands, a four burner gas stove, a microwave and a kerosene stove with blunt wicks, my day begins in full throttle. It is three weeks since I asked my hubby to change those wicks. But the wicked never cared for those wicks.
The morning tea is gulped amidst an array of abuses to the other half, definitely not a better one at that point of time. The scrapping of coconut is a tough task for which the partner seems to have no part. I would prattle on for hours to my beloved husband for lending a helping hand in the kitchen. But the macho could not decide what he hates more, me or my request, which makes me all misty eyed.
Kids are angles but not during the early hours; I vouch. Braving all odds, I find time and patience to separate the brawling brats. Pandemonium ensued. The elder lustily kicking and screaming, the younger one sobbing heart rendingly and the tiny tot wailing. My bitter half unmindful of all these buries his head into ‘The Hindu.’ An Ostrich syndrom……? The 7.30 news is more important than ironing their uniform for him. The man who is deeply moved at the civil rights of the rural womanfolk in UP never shares any concern over the plight of the woman in his own family. The remitting of electric bill and school fees are silly and insignificant to him, in the wake of suspension of sedition law under section 124A of IPC. While I am busy in grinding spices he dogs me with the complaint that I am not paying heed to his rendition of Citizens Amendment Act and UAPA. This ‘avid reader’ seems to update his GK in the morning with all such ‘significant things’….yet unsatiated…. ‘Hey……. Dil mange more……ah…..ha.’
Morning is a time full of sound and fury….. signifying nothing. After all life itself is a drama and we are all actors; I grow philosophical. In the three and a half hour drama, I assume umpteen roles with no costumes nor flood lights and of course with no applause.
At times, I get a slice of Antonio Guterres, declaring ceasefire and signing peace treaties among the warring imps. I have to sweep aside the biscuit bits and cake crumbs on the granite flooring lest it would literally be an easy cake-walk for anyone. I wonder, who am I? A government employee, a home maker, a house keeper or a maid servant ? Often I get into the robe of Sherlock Holme on mission, on a missing shoelace. A good cobbler in mending and polishing their uniform shoes. The bar attendant in me becomes absolute while taking orders and serving tea and breakfast to my in laws in their respective rooms. Don’t get gap mouthed to see me a scavenger in the mornings, clearing the drainage block with a gloues in one hand and a long pole in the other. A good tailor in stitching his collar button. For, I believe that ‘a stich in time saves a quarrel.’ A high priest in the pooja room and a ‘lady with a lamp’ in supplying Deriphiline 150, Neurobion and Sorbitrate 10mg to my ailing in laws. To sum up, the incarnation of Durga with twelve hands sprouting around, each one holding cutleries and utensils is perfect in me.
Mummy and baby doing ‘home’ work may sound charming. But try doing it to know what a task it could be. In the middle of taking up my daughter’s Humpty…….dumpty…… it dawned me that I had dumped all those soiled linen in the washing machine. The other soul in the bathroom is immersed in the sports column unmindful of the School bus blaring. You can heave a sigh of relief when two of the imps are hurled up in Route No. 4 at 7.40.
The relief never lasts long. The call of the ‘fish aunty’ is succeeded with a ‘prestegious’ call from the cooker. The term ‘fish aunty’ was specially coined by our fish vendor herself for being addressed. If addressed otherwise there would definitely be a price hike for the sea product on that day.
It is better not to speak of the intermittent notifications of my whatsapp messages wishing me good morning followed with all sorts of chauvinistic jokes on idiotic wives and intelligent husbands posted by my beloved hubby. I wish throwing my mobile phone in the closet. What gets me on my nerves in addition to all, are the Direct Marketers who vow to withstand whatever onslaughts you cast from your quiver to ward them off. The most outrageous of all, is the call of my husband to supplement his daily quota of 2nd cup of black tea. I wish I were deaf.
“Hell with your black tea…..” I mumbled
“Mummy what are you talking to yourself? queried my daughter.
I could not very well explain her the intricacies of our ‘happy married life.’ I keep mum.
It is getting 8.45. Today, the last date for submitting the cash flow statement, a flash from my medulla oblongata. The statement brought from the office remains ‘untouchable’ amidst the domestic malee.
I wonder how precisely my morning hours are scheduled. I am very punctual in attending the office everyday precisely late by 15 minutes. However much early I get up, and whatever gimmicks I do, the time lag of 15 minutes could not be surmounted, till date.
As usual, I must keep my routine unchallenged. I get alert. With a wink of an eye I finished bathing. I didn’t have time to go through my wardrobe. I pulled out the first sari that came to my hand and started swirling around.
“Hey! What is there in the bathroom?”
“Oh! Heavens…..!
Any carieer woman would vouch that one of the most difficult things on earth is going back to the dining table after wiping a baby’s bottom.
Break Fast…….?
Who cares?
Where is my ‘pottu’?
Probably at the forehead of my daughter’s Barbie Queen.
A mad rush towards the bus stop, with hairs flurried. One has to marvel at the KSRTC commuters who catch the bus which always halts at a few meter ahead of the stop. Thanks to KSRTC, only because of you there are more sprinters from Kerala. Apology to P.T.Usha, there was no KSRTC plying through the Payyoli beach. It’s not merely catching a bus. If you want to get into it you have to be a real acrobat. Only the ‘survival of the fittest’ can enter in to it.
Hats off Darwin !
You are proved thousand times at every bus stop in Kerala. The ‘mighty never perishes in the might’ is the slogan of KSRTC.
The pungent human sweats, the irritant conductor, the stuffy air and the sardined passengers never seemed to bother me as my gaze fixed on my watch. The watch ticked 10.10……10.12……10.15…… Shit! The attendance is off. I cannot stand the sight of that bearded Superintendent.
Olympian Chandram would have held his head in shame had he ever happened to see me covering the Statue-Santhinagar route in 2 minutes 4 seconds. A neck to neck competition between the ticking of my pulse rate and that of my Titan, in which the later proves to be a poor defeated soul.
It’s 10.30!
Haavh!
It’s another day I have succeeded in maintaining my daily schedule intact; late by fifteen minutes.
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