A harem in my house!

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!