Sunday, October 16, 2011

Bittersweet Firsts

There is something special about being 'first'. First in a race, first of its kind, first-born. And then, for newly married women in the northern plains of our country, there is the first Karva Chauth. Yesterday was my first. Luckily, it was a Saturday. Like thousands of other women, I planned, and I decked up, and I fasted. Mehendi and all that. It was my first, you see. Well, I'd be lying if said I didn't love it. It was special. The husband waiting on me hand and foot, lest I get mehendi on our white sofas. Or the very white macbook. Yes, I loved it.

The moon played hide-and-hide, and finally we were able to seek at 10 30 pm, a blurry brightness behind a cloud.  A heavy dinner followed, much happiness and wishes from everyone ensued as well.

Why bittersweet, you ask?

Later that night, the husband left for an overseas stint. For three months. Excellent opportunity for his career. Excellent opportunity for me to enjoy the single life I always crib I never got a chance to live.
Excellent opportunity to catch up with girlfriends, regular salon visits, twitterverse and embarrassing TV I could never admit I watch. My first time living alone, all the space to myself. Sounds good?

Well it has been 10 hours since he left. Have spent 6 of them sleeping, and the other 4 missing him. So much for my 'space'. As I waved goodbye to the fading taxi last night, overcoming many a throaty lump, I realised what an institution marriage truly is. My life revolves around him, whether I like it or not. From the mundane alarm setting variety, to the management of myriad landlord/carpenter/watchman issues, there is just so much I depend on him for, even if the money is not one of them.
Sunday mornings used to always be a battle; and getting up early, in line with his body clock, was not something I'd do. I'd sleep in till noon, leaving him to fend for himself. Today, I wake up before 9, and neither Twitter nor TV interests me. Making chai for one is just no fun.

I realise that marriage makes us weaker. Definitely. Suddenly I find myself unable to shop alone, go for a random drive alone, buy vegetables for one. I want to quit my job and tend to him and cook for him and clean after him. My feminist classmates from college will be disappointed, much. My own mother can't believe me when I talk like this. But that's the way it is. Practicality is a different matter, but if I had to, I would.

Spending all our time together, makes each minute spent apart even harder. As he left last night, he took a piece of my heart with him. I feel incomplete now, an incomplete puzzle. One that even I can't solve. One that he can, by coming back soon.

He forgot to detach my heartstrings from his, taking me along, yet leaving me here. All I can do, is wait.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

Third world problems of the first world kind - Pigeons

Seven months since I've been married. Living in a rented house for the first time in my life. Managing a house.. well lets say I still can't say its the first time I've managed one, since I haven't managed it. I am managing. Big difference. Anyway. Bais and groceries are one thing. Pigeons are quite another.

Yes, you heard me. Pigeons. We always had them around in the house I grew up in, in Delhi. They weren't adorable by any stretch of the imagination, but they weren't significant enough to be talked about. And definitely not blogged about! Now here in our chotu little house in Bandra, they're making themselves liable to be shot.

I kid you not. We pretty much selected THIS house since it has a lovely balcony (BALCONY, MUMBAI vich??! Yes it is true.) Anyway. Now we have a split AC unit in a nook there. And the pigeons, ah, well, they just love that little corner. The crap all over the place. They flutter incessantly. They coo (this I believe is too nice a word for their call) nonstop. And roughly ten of them accumulate there and indulge in fighting and love making and cuddling and whatever else it is that they do. I have been awakened at 6 am on many a morning due to this ruckus. And if you know me, not that you do, you will know how much I value my morning sleep.

After much whining and taunting and crying, my husband decides to take things into his own hands. Engineers, I tell you. A complex arrangement of cartons and plastic is created to block the space, a marvel of engineering, if I may boast. The man is a genius. True handyman. Love having him around in the house to help fix wires and what not. His cute ass doesn't hurt either. Talking about that.. WAIT A MINUTE. I digress. Back to the problem at hand. These effin' pigeons.

This marvel of engineering lasts 2 days. If that. These delinquent feathered monsters tear it apart. After that, the carpenter is summoned. I make the pigeons sound like a terrorist threat. He sympathises, and makes an enclosure of jaalis around the AC unit, so that never again can a pigeon enter. I couldn't be happier.

The kabootars continue to hang around for a few days, trying to balance themselves on edges. I figure they will take a few days to adjust to this new reality, and find alternative places for their orgies. Conditioning and all. I am right. Day-by-day the number of pigeons and the amount of collective crap on the floor diminishes. Peace is on the verge of being restored.

And then, one peaceful Saturday morning, when eggs are being made with cheese for the husband. I hear the news. 3 bloody useless suicidal pigeons are trapped INSIDE the jaali. With no way out. !@#$%^&*&^%$#@!#$#%^&. I make plans to shoot them with an airgun. I ask the husband how we can dispose of their bodies. Of course, I dont have the heart or the balls to do that. Truth be told, I am more scared of them than they are of me. Sshh. Dont tell them that!

As we speak, the poor carpenter is examining his work again, and looking for a possible solutions. I can only pray. Can someone please assure me that this being trapped will condition them into not reappaearing here? Common sense says so, but the only pigeon expert I know, yours truly, is extremely doubtful of the adaptive abilities of these darned kabootars. Something tells me I'll have to name them soon. Sigh.