Dearies, How I’ve missed you. How I’ve practically strangled my father to get my paws on his Vaio. How vile/listless I have been these past two days as the blogga-withdrawals hit me.
And what a week we’ve had! Nature begs me to be pithy since I’m sprawled on the bed like an giant anaconda who swallowed inordinately large prey. Or an anaconda who consumed too much rice and Kerala prawn curry at a late hour. My fifth or sixth meal of the day in case you`re interested. *Burp*
Ambitious maybe, but allow me to attempt a timeline of Indo-Viking Near-Catastrophe and Ultimate Joy starting on Saturday.
9.a.m. Awake on Saturday to a sunny day overshadowed by my foreboding. And because Murphy’s law is my own true dude, Armaan clowned around, hit his head on the coffee table and puked. Three visits to the ER and with more puke-nukes behind us, concussion was ruled out and tummy bug was ruled in.
8.p.m. Ziploc pukebags packed, surreally hectic last minute shopping done and real packing to commence at 10 p.m. for 6 a.m. flight. Because we’re seasoned travellers and packers and also because our eyes bleed if we don’t leave things till the zabzolute last minute. It’s like a blood disorder really.
9.p.m. Mother calls to inform me that Mumbai is drowning in its own sewage and maybe we need to make hotel arrangements? Maybe in Ahmedabad since flights were getting re-directed from Mumbai? Hyperventilate for five minutes into paperbag. Proceed with bedtime ablutions for ze kinder.
10:20 p.m. The Viking: Hey, were the e-tickets sent to your e-mail? Can’t seem to find them in mine.
MGM: (More hyperventilation into afore-mentioned paperbag before uttering choice expletives befitting situation)
Tickets are not in anyone’s e-mail because our e-mail confirmation was not a real e-mail confirmation. Go figure. Three calls to KLM between 10:20 and 11:15 where hysteria is loosely concealed. Patron Saint of Jackasses clearly on our side as KLM realises system error and proper e-ticket is sent to said Jackass’s e-mail account.
11:20 p.m. Viking subjected to Grievous Bodily Harm at hands of furious Indian wife. Peace eventually negotiated by consumption of vodka shots.
04:00 a.m. Arvind awakes wailing loudly, “Did you leave us and go to India? Where is everyone?!!” Sheesh! Clearly have bigger problem than being jackasses if son has abandonment issues.
04:40 a.m. Family of four arrives at airport. The adults have managed to pack, shower, nap 20 minutes and remember passports, credit cards and children. At this point everything else is negotiable. Sense of achievement and calm prevails.
06:00 a.m. – 11:25 p.m. IST Daytime flights? Don’t. Delta? Never again. If Delta is your cheapest alternative, it is for damn good reason.
Horrendous and impolite service aside, children sleep, watch movies, eat and don’t puke. Flight ends with Armaan high-fiving random people exiting the aircraft and loudly belting, “Ba ba baapootin, babababa bappootin” (Ra Ra Rasputin – Boney M) and loudly applauding own effort.
12:15 a.m. Family of four met by Mumbai’s wall of humidity and heavy rain. Hair automatically morphs into matted straw. Anti-frizz , my fat ass.
12:15 a.m. – 02:00 a.m. Met by cousin – single male in late twenties who takes us to awesome Juhu digs and serves us dal, rice, roti and pickles – all home-made except the pickles. How many ways are there to spell Incredible Young Man while my tastebuds and I weep with gratitude? Children plastered to wonderful Mama as mum mists up over whippersnapper of yore who has shaped up wonderfully. I love him even more when he solemnly agrees to wait a mandatory two-year period before getting hitched so that I can boast of a waistline in a saree again – the very expensive designer saree he will obviously buy for me when he gets hitched. Love India!
Monday 2 p.m. – Present: Umm.. the post about co-dependence? Scratch that.
Oh, the joys, the joys of being pampered senseless, being fed to the gills with whatever delighteth one’s tastebuds, casually demanding four prawn dishes and five types of payasam, watching my dirty laundry travel to unknown destinations and irons and being free to lie about on our porch swing watching the world spin on its axis as the Kerala monsoon lashes the fragrant earth, leaving our private green sphere squeaky clean – what me worry, maa?
Here, Gibran is literal. My children are NOT mine. They are fed, clothed, entertained, de-snotted and lulled to sleep by someone who is NOT me. My parenting is reduced to coming out of my over-fed stupor every couple of hours to say, “No Ben 10!” or “Get over it already.”
The bliss, I tell you, the bliss.