No-Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s...Tee For Two

                                                       Tee For Two

 It all started at Puri’s dinner party. I met a rather jolly old gentleman whom I took to instantly because he kept calling me “Birdie” in the most flattering manner. Succumbing to his charm, I insisted on his meeting my husband and that turned out to be a historic meeting. As we drove home, hubby was unusually silent, almost meditative. I failed to read the sign of the gathering clouds.

For the next couple of days, my husband avidly read the ‘For Sale’ columns and one day, with a more mellow version of ‘Eureka,’ a satisfied smile on his lips, he dashed off to some unknown (to me) destination. A few hours later, he came home, triumphantly dragging a rather funny looking bag with a bunch of sticks sticking out of it. “Clubs.” He corrected me and lovingly took out each one of them. I had always imagined my rival to be a tall, slinky, svelte woman – not long, skinny, iron sticks.

Then began the flaying of arms. Suddenly he would swing his arms backwards and swing them forward with his waist contorted. I secretly feared some form of fit that strikes middle aged men. But I believe he was perfecting his swing. After dinner, between the news in Hindi and the sponsored programme, he would gaze intensely at a tiny white ball and then push it to the centre of the flower in the middle of the carpet. No one dare breathe for fear of distracting his concentration. “I’m putting,” he would announce and those moments were as sacrosanct to him as pin-drop silence is to a meditator.

“Where is my tee,” he growled one day and I promptly went to the kitchen and got him a cup of tea. Irritated with my ignorance, yet gulping down the brew, he explained that what he wanted was his ‘tee’ – a small, coloured, plastic object that would be stuck in the ‘green’ and the golf ball placed on it before ‘teeing off.” I hesitantly confessed that I had seen some objects of that description and given them to the ayah’s child to play.

“Ah! You are a golfer’s wife!,” exclaimed a white-mustached man at the club, “What is his handicap?” “He has no handicap,” I protested vehemently. “He’s fit and can walk for hours on the golf course.” He gave me a puzzled look and walked away. Later, my husband explained that in golf parlance, ‘handicap’ is one’s prowess at play.

I have now reconciled to my fate. Now, I don’t feel left out when my husband busies himself with his swings, putting, or whatever golfers are wont to do. But I draw a line when my hubby gave me a packet of woolen balls and said: “You are fond of knitting. Why don’t you knit some covers for my golf clubs?”

Knitting booties for my babies was one thing. But for golf clubs? Ha!

(30 years later…I have now started playing golf!!)  

No Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s...The terrible trio

The terrible trio

There are some people you should never act smart with. They are the postman, the telephone operator in your office and your husband’s secretary!

Come Diwali, the postman is at your door for a fat ‘baksheesh’. You had better light up your face with a smile and be generous. If you aren’t, you will wait and wait for those letters you are expecting from your brother, the company you’ve applied for a job in and the cheque for your article.

Of course, there are others too who come for an ‘inam’ – like the sweeper, the plumber, the dhobi and the milkman. But you can afford to tip them with a meager amount or shoo them off. But the postman – No!(things have changed thanks to internet,now!)

Then there is that incorrigible breed called the telephone operator in the office. She has all the controls at her fingertips but prefers to spend her time either knitting or reading a paperback. You can bark at her, plead with her, request her – but she will give you your call only when she feels like it. If you act tough, she will either tell you that your number is engaged or put off the caller at the other end by saying you are out. When you step into office each morning, reserve the brightest hello and smile for his necessary evil of the Graham Bell contraption.

And your husband’s secretary. She holds the key to your marital bliss. In some cases, she’s perhaps the thorn in your side – but it’s all upto you. Make it a point to know her favourite colour, her birth date, family problems – anything at all. Invite her to a cozy lunch at home while your husband is away touring. Be hospitable and generously so. Give her a sob story about how forgetful your hubby is and how much you depend on her efficiency to keep him in line…you know, woman talk and all that. Thus having won her confidence and sympathy, leave it to her capable hands, to take care of your hubby.

But most wives don’t follow this strategy. They are always suspicious of this ‘other woman’ in the office. They give her a condescending nod when they visit the hubby; you will not be able to get past this sweet, honeyed voice telling you, ‘Sorry mam, Sir has gone to a meeting’ or “Sir is in a conference”, or Sir is with the M.D’. On the day you expect hubby to be back early to take you to the premier show, the sweet voice is again on the phone apologizing as “Sir has to meet the president”. You know that she knows that you know, she has purposely fixed the appointment at that time.

If you have been more than ‘cool’ to this husband guarder, you’d better beware – she’s capable of telling you a lie that your husband is way, keeping a rendezvous with a lady. All his denials will not repress the niggling suspicion planted by you-know-who.

So, when you know you have to cope with this formidable trio, follow this motto: “The only argument available with an East Wind, is to put on your overcoat.” 

No-Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s …When we were girls

When we were girls

I have this horrible habit – when other people watch and enjoy a show on the TV and on stage, I sit and reflect about life. Take the Grammy awards. My teenage boys went crazy listening to Cindy Lauper and Tina Turner. I despaired at the hairstyles sported by them. I felt like picking up my brush and doing up their hair which looked like a crow’s nest swept off by an angry housewife.

How different it was when we were little girls! Our aunts were in charge of combing out our long tresses. It was a ritual. A small bowl of water to put the falling hair into, an ivory comb with long teeth, to separate tangled hair, another fine toothed comb and a bottle of oil containing crushed fenugreek seeds and dried gooseberry. Bright coloured ribbons were kept in a toffee box nearby. A basket of fresh jasmine strung into long “Venis” completed the paraphernalia.

All the nieces were mustered and made to squat on the floor. We had to sit cross-legged, with our back straight. Anyone slouching would get a thump and straightened out! A little oil would be poured into the palm and rubbed into the scalp – first gently and then vigorously.

“Keep your head still”, was an oft-repeated admonishment. Then would come the painful process of untangling the knots. We dared not squeak. “How will you bear labour pain if you can’t bear a mere tug”? was the logic! All the hair fallen on the ground, would then be twirled around the finger into a small black mass and dipped into the bowl of water. It was believed that any stray hair picked up by a bird would be used for its nest and the girl to whom it belonged, doomed to baldness!! Then would follow the slow rhythmic combing of the hair accompanied by the aunts gossiping about friends and relatives.

I have a feeling that they enjoyed the hair combing ritual and prolonged it because that was the only time they could sit for an hour without being questioned by granny! The hair would be plaited into two tight braids with the ribbons forming colourful bows at the tip of the braid. Then we had to turn around and face the aunt as she combed the hairline above the forehead – if we did not go through this, we would end up marrying old men, they would say! The best part of it all was the placing of the “Veni.” The fragrant ‘bundles’ were thrust into our hair and we would be shooed off to play – well groomed, not a hair out of place! Little wonder that we had lovely, dark luxurious hair!

There came the blast of fashion, blown in by a cousin from Delhi. She mocked at our oily braids  and called us “walking gardens.” She giggled at our magenta and yellow ribbons and pooh-poohed the legends that made us submit to the hair combing ritual. We were peeved and rebelled. We threw off the ribbons, refused to use oil and wrinkled our nose at the jasmine flowers. Some of us chopped off our hair into the fashionable “Bob Cut.” We felt liberated – those ribboned, flower-decked braids with their myths surrounding them, were bondages to be freed from.

Yet, today, I recall those with nostalgia, especially when I saw Grammy award winners whose “crowning glory” was nothing but a “gory mess”!!    

No-Nonsense Chayaisms from the 80s… Collectors’ items

Collectors’ items

 “I HOPE you don’t mind my taking this,” said the gentleman, stowing away the in-flight magazine “Swagat” into his briefcase. Naturally, my status as a fellow passenger only permitted my saying “Sure, go ahead, be my guest…..”.

Settling his bulky figure behind the seat belt, he explained that his sons had a particular fascination for the Airlines magazine and collected them! As they were not sold in the newsstands, the only alternative available was to “take” them from the aircraft.

I tentatively pointed out that it was more “stealing” than “taking”, but he brushed this aside with an “Oh! not at all – anyway the Indian Airlines swindles us so they can afford to lose a mere magazine.”

Just then the airhostess brought the usual sweets and the portly gentleman picked up a handful – “My sons collect the Airlines sweets too…” he explained, and I muttered, “Sure, why not?” He didn’t like the tone of my, “What else do you pilfer – sorry collect?”

They say, all’s fair in a collectors’ world. The rules of the game permit you to beg, borrow or steal (why buy!!) as long as you display the necessary zeal and enthusiasm that put you above a common thief.

A friend of mine has an enviable collection of table napkins. She calls them “souvenirs” to remind her of the delicious food she has eaten in various hotels and restaurants. She raises her eyebrows in a holier than-thou horror and gushes, “How can you call it pilfering? I’ve paid for the dinner my dear – just my taking an ordinary napkin can’t impoverish the hotel!” Who can fight this logic?

Then there is that top-notch executive who “collects” shower caps, hotel stationery and shampoo sachets from the five-star hotels he stays in. “they are mementos for my old age” he says. His wife “collects” the laundry bags of these hotels.

Slightly better than the “menu card” maniac who collects an assortment of menu cards from all the restaurants he dines in. he doesn’t stop there. A fork and spoon soon go with the lot. He has a special showcase in which he displays all this!

Our neighbour delights in “collecting” flowers every morning and he can be seen plucking off roses and jasmine, from the nieghbourhood gardens, stealthily!

Just as there is the invisible line between genius and madness, there is that delicate difference between collecting and pilfering! What’s in a name? It’s the action that counts!