Caesar leaped towards the hammock, and Jimmy, thinking that he was about to attack Masooma, yanked her arm so hard that all three of them tumbled four feet away from the hammock into the grass.
My granny screamed in fury, and just as she took two steps, the monsoon wind, in a furious gust, managed to break a massive tree branch, which landed exactly on the hammock.
Everyone was in shock. Visions of Masooma getting crushed by the branch were running through our minds. My granny gave Jimmy the tightest hug ever. Caesar was declared a visionary dog that could foretell that Masooma was in grave danger and had thus barked his lungs out to save her. Of course, he was bequeathed the status of a hero.
Just like a blockbuster movie, the underdogs had triumphed, an evil cosmic force had been vanquished and a maiden had been rescued.
I wish I could say that they lived happily ever after, but two months after Masooma went back to Texas, things went back to normal. The invisible bravery medals bestowed on Caesar and Jimmy were taken away as Caesar decided to bite the dhobi, and Jimmy threw up on my granny’s brother. Thus, both of them were soon relegated to their previous positions.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Your greatest moment in life soon joins a series of other moments and is often forgotten. As you rise, so shall you eventually fall.
Z: Zip Your Mouth for God’s Sake
8 a.m.: Today is Raksha Bandhan, an ancient festival where a sister ties a rakhi (sacred thread) on her brother’s wrist. This symbolizes the bond between them. The sister prays for her brother’s well-being and the brother promises to protect her from all harm.
One of the legendary stories about rakhi involves Rani Karnavati, the widow of the king of Chittor, who sent a rakhi to emperor Humayun so that he would refrain from invading her kingdom.
No, I didn’t know all of this, but have looked it up just to answer the million questions that my children are bound to ask me. There are times when they ask me things that I don’t have an answer to, like ‘But what is blue?’, or ‘If God is everywhere, so when I do potty, am I doing potty on Him?’ However, for the queries that do have some sort of an answer, I like to be thoroughly prepared.
10 a.m.: The baby is struggling to tie a rakhi onto her brother’s wrist; the brother keeps muttering that having a shiny orange thread with a picture of a bare-chested Salman Khan wrapped around his wrist is just not cool.
This is apparently my fault because I called Vinod Book Store (a shop that can supply seasonal decorations, pens, wrapping paper; anything besides the books that it claims to sell on its billboard) and requested them to send one of their bestselling rakhis, and I got this in return. Well, it seems Salman really is everyone’s favourite bhai.
10.30 a.m.: My phone rings and it’s mummyji who informs me that six of her real brothers, two not-real brothers (are they imaginary?) and hordes of cousins are coming over this evening. I am then enlightened with the fact that I must have some snacks ready for them and that I should wear that pretty orange salwar kameez that she gave me as a surprise gift last week.
11 a.m.: The man of the house, who also has a real sister and thirteen cousins, has asked me to have gifts ready for the entire brigade. He sees the saris I have picked out for them and says that I am being miserly and stingy, and that I should get them all jewellery instead.
Oh great karmic force, if I miraculously get reincarnated as a woman again instead of a spider or a dog flea, then let me be born as one of the man of the house’s sisters. They float in and out of the house as they please; my mother-in-law showers love and money on each of them and they get precious gems for rakhi; whereas all I get is the wonderful title of being an all-round dogsbody.
1.30 p.m.: Mommy dearest sent an antique door to my house yesterday despite me protesting that I already have enough doors to enter all the rooms in my house.
I am now looking at this monstrosity which my desi Jeeves has propped in front of my cupboard and wondering how I am supposed to get dressed at all.
1.50 p.m.: The antique door has been pushed out of the way and my wardrobe is once again at my disposal. I pull out the orange salwar kameez and it does not fit.
Either I have lost tons of weight, or more likely, this was given as a gift to my mother-in-law, and not being worthy of adorning her fine form, she simply passed it on to me. Well, to give her the benefit of the doubt, at least it’s my favourite colour and I can always get it altered by 156 inches all over.
6 p.m.: I can’t cook but since my philosophy in life is based on never revealing my weaknesses to my in-laws, I have called Nature’s Basket and asked them to deliver seekh kebabs and samosas that need to be put in boiling oil for three minutes and are then ready to serve. A minute saved is a minute that can be used for useful things, like weighing myself for the fourteenth time that week.
6.30 p.m.: The prodigal son has decided that we must at least fry these snacks ourselves and has banished our cook from his domain. He has a lot of training from his father and, unlike me, is quite handy in the kitchen. Often on a Saturday morning, he makes French toast with sprinkled cinnamon, and I am rather proud of his culinary skills.
The oil is boiling in the pan and the kitchen is stuffy. Getting rather irritated with the heat, I start grumbling about how we Indians always have to make enough food to feed an army and how Indians have so many festivals that are always about food; the prodigal son interrupts me and asks, ‘But, Mom, what does it really mean to be Indian?’
I don’t even pause for a beat and start reciting, ‘We are an ancient race of optimists, who hold our past firmly while we walk into the future. We have nuclear power reactors, but still believe in the power of black threads encircling our wrists. We have such strong family bonds that even if someone is just going to the train station, there will be eleven people, all loaded up in a tempo to accompany him and we . . .’
But he looks up at me and says, ‘No, Mom, tell me what you really think. I know the way you speak, this weird zombie tone is the same one you use to answer people when they ask you which is your favourite temple or what you love cooking! Tell me the truth.’
‘All right,’ I say, ‘if you want an honest answer, then Made in India is just a label coded in your genes. It is random chance that one is born within certain man-made boundaries, or is of a certain race, or of a certain religion, nothing more. So how does being born this side of a border or the other make any group of people better than another group? If God exists, then I doubt if He prefers people on the basis of their knowing Sanskrit or Urdu or English or Ger . . .’
The prodigal son gets all bug-eyed and screeches, ‘What?’ he splutters. ‘What do you mean if God exists? God is not real? You have never said this before, Mom!’
Holy cow! My brain has been spinning with so many thoughts that I absolutely forgot to evaluate my words before throwing them all out in the air.
All these years I haven’t voiced my opinions (well, a few sarcastic remarks may have slipped through) out of respect for his father’s beliefs, and my respect for the prodigal son himself that he should grow up and form his own convictions rather than have mine foisted on him. Now here I am, in this hot, sticky kitchen, waving away flies from the samosas and having to finally confess that it’s not just the rituals that I don’t see sense in, but also the main guy Himself.
I take a deep breath and finally all I say is this, ‘I just think that people rely too much on God; instead of asking to be in God’s favour, I would rather stack the odds in my favour. At the very least, I am certain that I exist. But ask your dad all these questions, you know I am not the religious type.’
He looks up at me with his big blue eyes (his and her recessive genes in perfect alignment) and says, ‘Mom, you know what? You should write a book about what all you think, all this cool stuff about borders and all.’
I swing my mosquito racquet like I am playing in the Grand Slam finals, demolish a fly about to sit on my samosas, and say, ‘Perhaps someday I will.’
8 p.m.: Everyon
e has gathered at my mother-in-law’s home. There are old Hindi songs playing and everywhere you look people are munching on jalebis and tikkas, and chatting away. A large group in the corner is busy playing housie. The man of the house is in charge of the proceedings and each number is announced in a whimsical manner, ‘Eight and eight, two uncles on a date!’
I am introduced to my sister-in-law’s new rakhi brother which in today’s day and age probably means: I like you a little and also find you a bit creepy, thus have no intention of fornicating with you, but I need another relative, as my twenty-eight relatives are not enough to celebrate our 168 festivals.
9.30 p.m.: The prodigal son is gently holding his baby sister’s hand as he navigates between cousins and friends. Sometimes when I look at them from a distance, I try and squint my eyes and clear my mind. I peer at them the way a stranger would— without any emotions, just observations. In this large fortress I had created around my heart, the one that let me enter situations easily and leave even more easily, how did they find a cat flap that allowed them to crawl into my soul?
As is inevitable, while I am doing my squinting business, a bulky aunty has managed to trip over another relative who is known only as Chota Vijay. Yes, he is short and no, he doesn’t feel terrible about his nickname. Auntyji has not only tripped over him, but has splattered her kesar lassi on me.
A perfect end to my perfect day and this is just the excuse I need to make a hasty exit.
Just as I am about to leave, I spot my mother-in-law munching on my samosas with her six real and two not-imaginary brothers. She is playing cards on a little table with them and I can hear them chattering in Punjabi and cackling away.
Her ways are different from mine; she treats me like her daughter on most days and like her daughter-in-law on a few others, but she has the ability to pull the whole family together and create gatherings like this effortlessly and sometimes I envy that.
I linger near the door. I have to pack for an early morning flight tomorrow to yet another trade fair and the sour smell of lassi is wafting through my hair, but I still linger.
I watch them like I have from the beginning, an oddball in this world of traditions and rituals. And as I continue dilly-dallying, the man of the house calls out, ‘Oye, where you going? Stay for a while and dance with us, na.’
Do I want to go back to my factual, functional world or linger on in their saffron-coloured, cardamom-scented cosmos that resounds with bhangra and dholak?
I am a misfit here, like most women that enter families which are so different from theirs. But I keep these thoughts to myself and stay. And for the next few hours, matching all the cousins, step for step, I make my own little place.
Will I inhabit this spot in perpetuum? I am not sure, but right now, with a string of borrowed jasmine flowers wrapped around my bun to mask the smell of yogurt, and my dupatta fluttering in the draught from the creaky air conditioner, I dance to the drumbeats and the night slips away.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my dear husband for reading every word that I have ever written. You are the diesel in my Innova, the helium in my balloon, and the ice cube in my apple martini.
A big hug to my sister for trying to make everything I write politically correct and for suffering through my ‘Just read and tell me what you think?’ moments time and again.
Thank you, mommy, for being so uniquely magnificent, everything I am is because of you.
My mother-in-law and sister-in-law, thank you for being wonderful women, and for always being there for me.
A big hug to Aarav and Nitara, my heart bursts with joy just by being around you two.
Sarita Tanwar, by persuading me to write that first column, you opened up the barn door and all the chickens ran out into the meadow, so thank you, my friend.
Thank you, Pritish Nandy, for some solid advice and for lending me your ear and your shoulder as well. This was your idea.
A shout-out to my Sunday Times editor, Neelam Raaj, for all her support.
A big thank you to Gaurav Shrinagesh and the great team at Penguin Random House. Milee Ashwarya for making it all happen, Aparajita Ninan, Shanuj V.C., Aman Arora and Caroline Newbury, thank you for making all of this real.
And finally, I am eternally grateful to my editor, Chiki Sarkar, for her kind, but ruthless advice. I would not have written this book if it weren’t for you.
THE BEGINNING
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First published by Penguin Books India 2015
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Copyright © Twinkle Khanna 2015
Illustrations by Kruttika Susarla
Some of these pieces have appeared in a slightly different form in the Times of India, DNA After Hrs and other publications.
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ISBN: 978-0-143-42446-8
This digital edition published in 2015.
e-ISBN: 978-9-352-14128-9
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