One occasionally comes across something profound in the oddest of places, at
the oddest of hours - some where in a
book, in the bus, on the streets, and that something, at times gets etched into
your memory. Without any plausible rhyme or reason.
‘A harem in my house’ is a small
piece I once read in Readers’ Digest a long while ago. While reading the original at that time it
did not kind of make any significant impact on me, but somehow, to this day, the
article remains fresh in my memory. Not word by word but the essence of it. Probably because I now have a harem in my own
household! The only small hiatus in that
memory chain was the name of the author.
I tried a google search but could not locate his name, but God bless the soul. For I suddenly remember him and his piece today and find to my amazement that his situation very much matches mine.
About 18 years back, when I was quite out of my senses and ventured
into a dangerous territory called marriage, I was mentally prepared for a few surprises,
not prepared for several others but never in the wildest of my dreams did I
imagine that I would end up with a harem in my home. And here I am now, a full fledged samsari,
pecked day in and day out by not one but three hens. All belonging to one compact, homogenous
family of eye-gorging, blood-sucking vampires, comprising my wife, and my two
daughters. They chase me, prey on me,
kill me, devour me for breakfast, lunch and dinner, day in and day out. They have an unfailing habit of reminding me daily
that my worth on this planet is just about equal to that piece of plastic junk
protruding from the street corner garbage bin.
They keep lecturing me, mostly on what not to do and how not to do
things. Their eyes develop a sudden
cataract and their ears turn tone-deaf when I accomplish something worthwhile
and admirable (that is, in my opinion). The
same eyes open wide awake and the ears pick up even the drop of a pin when I display
some of my human foibles. Like spilling
the coffee, forgetting to switch off the fan, venturing out to office with
unpolished shoes etc.
“You can’t even buy tomatoes properly? See, two rotten ones in the lot..” - the mother hen.
“No, don’t you try to teach accounts to me“ – her elder
offspring.
“But I’ve been working in banks for 23 years, I know some
accountancy” – I protest.
“ You and your bank .
I don’t trust your accounting skills”
- her sealing reply.
“Bring me the print-outs of Edison, Madame Curie,
photosynthesis and India outline map pictures this evening” – my younger daughter’s
orders. For her, there is only one thing
for which I have some utility value – which is bringing printouts of assorted
web photos from the office computer, for her school record book. (Now this is a
secret, don’t tell this to my office guys).
And when I proudly present the photos in the evening, she would invariably
throw a few back at my face. “Was this the best photo you could get? Can’t you
even do this small task properly in office?
What else you are kizhichufying there?”
I would be reduced to the role of a supplicant meekly seeking the King’s
pardon.
Forget the disparaging remarks. Even ordinary pleasures
become a herculean task in my household.
Exactly when I sit down, lean back and press the remote and tune to
Murasu TV (for those 24x7 old songs), would my elder brat present herself
beside me, snatch the remote and switch to FoxCrime. Without even batting an eyelid or a ‘by- your- leave’. Ok, the next night when I switch on the same
Fox Crime to avoid a war, the remote would again be snatched and a certain Ranbir Kapoor would appear
on the screen in Sony Music squealing out “khuda jaane mein fida hoon…” I would be secretly left crying “khuda jaane ki
mein ullu hoon…”
The list of atrocities this threesome inflicts on me is
endless. The condition of a famine-
struck Somalia refugee would be better.
These three Hitlers do a thorough cleansing job of me day after day,
that I begin feeling like the rag cloth battered on the washing stone. The Government calls me the ‘head of the family’ in the
ration card but I actually make up the tail.
Wagging to the calls of the masters and running their errands. I am the man of the house but the house knows
who the real men are. An amalgam of
Ironmen, Supermen and Spidermen. The
three brutes owe half their names to me but that is just about all they owe
me. Why I can’t even have a separate
protected enclosure for me and my male- belongings in the house. Every single inch of space has been usurped
by them. My shoes have to fight for
space with their sandals. My shaving
cream has to wage a battle with their shampoos. My ties have to struggle with their talcum
powders. My frugal but manly earthly
belongings have to jostle for space with
their feminine accessories. Fact is, my existence itself has to face a daily Armageddon
with their eccentricities.
With my cup brimming with these woes, why am I still holed up in the
midst of this harem? Ah, there lies the
secret. I will let you out on that. I am their play- thing and I love being
that. I am their Baba, boy-friend and
buddy all rolled into one. They roast me
alive but can’t live without me. I think
deep inside they all love me. No one has
ever openly admitted to that but it is easy to spot the signs. Like when my daughters trust only me and not even the mother to select their
dresses when we go shopping. Like my
better-half laughing not just at me but also with me. And crying with me too, when things go
awry. They make fun of me but can’t bear
some one else making fun of me. They
drive me up the wall but ensure I stay up there safely ensconced when the floor
caves in. They get their highs when life
throws its small pleasant surprises at me.
They hit an emotional rock-bottom when the tide turns. They carry on stoically when I am not
present, even for years together. Never
once do they complain that I am not available when they need me most. Office and career have eaten me alive all
these years but they were with me all the way, at a far distance, though.
I remember the day when my elder daughter was born and news
reached me in Bihar where I was working.
“Ka hua Mohan babu?” my elderly
colleague asked.
“Ladki huyi hai”
“Mahalakshmi huyi hai bolilye na” – his retort. Didn’t give much thought to that remark of
his then, but its import strikes me now.
Mahalakshmi is wealth – not just
of the material variety but of wholesome prosperity and well-being. No male equivalent name comes anywhere close. And to think that I have three in my
household!
Lucky me, the TDP, not Chandra babu Naidu’s party, but the ‘Two Daughter Party’. And unlucky those, who know not what it is to
be engulfed by endearing feminine
presence on all sides. One is good, two is better and three is
perfect bliss. I know, because I experience
it. Day in and day out!
