OUR GUY

It is difficult to be the only guy in a house full of women. Add to this inherent “maleness” an above average intelligence, and life can become almost intolerable. This article is to commemorate my Father’s surviving in such a defunct household for nearly a quarter century. Let me introduce you to the aforementioned women. My Mother-Saint in disguise, very spiritual, great cook, thriving socialite, hates to have anything to do with accounts. The Nandhu- Exemplary student, perpetually cheerful disposition, wildly fluctuating maturity levels. Me, the Zog- angry young woman, rebel without a cause, emotionally unstable, anti-social. The three of us together are a heady combination. When we were really, really small, I guess my Dad thought child rearing was a piece of cake. A steady, long stare from him was good enough to keep us at our best behaviour for hours together. However, the moment we developed a mind of our own, or rather, a mindlessness of our own, life became hell for Papa. It began late one September, when I developed the “Barbie doll” mania. It is a phase most girls go through. Suddenly, everything is pink, from their tiffin box to their shoes, and all over the place are pictures, accessories and plastic figurines of “Barbie.” This was not easy on my Dad’s pocket, or his health. The moment a doll or her accessory was denied me, right there, in the middle of the toy shop, I would pout, my face would swell and then, my tiny, frail form would vibrate with the most heart-rending sobs. My Dad just had to give in. In a matter of three years I accumulated every variety of “Barbie” on the market from here to Timbuktu. My Dad watched fearfully should my sister develop a similar fever. This time it was worse. For the Nandhu had developed a fetish for electronic goods, not dolls. Every time we crossed a showroom, she would throw a tantrum. Fridges, vacuum cleaners, irons, TVs, VCRs, she wanted everything. My Dad would try reasoning with her that we already had these things. She would shake her head. NO, she wanted this one. Of course, she was forced to see reason with a pinch under her arm or a whack on her bottom. But I must say, we have accumulated a lot of weird appliances, thanks to her. Some of them would include a pocket vacuum cleaner, an on-the-go waffle maker and a jumbo size deep-fryer. The Zog’s pre-adolescence was marked by a long series of slumber parties and an even longer series of sob sessions following them. Either it was “ABC said this...”or “XYZ said that...” However, not going and avoiding all the misery was never an option. Daddy would puzzle over it as his baby girl strutted off for the next party. Off course, infinitely worse were the days when it was the Zog’s turn to “host” the party. Besides an endless stream of girls of all shapes and sizes pouring into the house, the mess they leave in their trail, and the trouble of keeping them fed (very difficult), there was the question of listening not just to your daughter crying but at least 10 others (some of them with complaints about your little angel.) Meanwhile your wife runs around the house trying to get the younger child to wear at least one article of clothing besides her Stars and Stripes plastic knickers. Daddy begins to grey. Final year of prep school ushers in an era of relative peace except for the Nandhu’s occasionally taking the computer apart and being unable to reassemble it. It is, however, not long lived. One fine day, the Zog comes running home from school screaming “Blood cancer! Blood cancer!” Daddy is worried and his brow, furrowed. What was the matter? Was she alright? Is she really ill? He watches nervously as the girl’s Mother escorts her to her room. He listens to the occasional noises that emanate from behind closed doors. Screams, wails, sobs, whines, silence. An hour later Ma tells him that the Zog is growing up. Thus begins an era of female code language. Growing up? Of course he knew she was growing up! Women! The Mother proceeds to call her parents and sisters in India. Now the sun rises. Aaaah! The Zog is growing up. My Dad feels distinctly out of place. While my Mom is busy on the phone ruining my life, my Dad is given more to worry about- International phone bills. More grey hair. Soon the Nandhu is all grown up too. My Dad feels even more excluded from the family circle. There are days when all three women are afflicted by mysterious stomach aches and are cranky all day long. When my Dad volunteers that these things happen, and that we must try to ignore them, three angry women glare at him. The intensity of their stares could roast him alive. He sheepishly withdraws inside his newspaper. What my Father dislikes the most must still be grocery lists that run like, Bread…1 packet, apple…1 kg, Whisper….2 large cartons (with wings). Somewhere in high school, most girls develop the “save the world” syndrome. Their male counterparts however, settle for something far more realistic like forming a world famous rock band or joining the Indian cricket team. This period is marked by a string of youth groups, political parties and ideologies, that poor Dad too is forced to adhere to. Initially the idea was to save the environment. Besides being bombarded day in and day out with policies to maintain ecological balance and reasons to boycott U.S. goods, Daddy was bullied into total vegetarianism and no-deodorant-use (They release harmful CFCs into the environment- Green house effect dummy!) for nearly six months. The girls soon figure that saving the environment is futile if all humans did not get equal access to it. Thus followed a short communist phase. Thankfully, this had no practical implications. For the period of a year, it was fashionable to quote Karl Marx, have a crush on Che Guerra and claim that “The Motorcycle Diaries” is your favourite movie. The relief was short lived however. The next phase was the worst by far-THE FEMINIST FANATIC Phase. For Daddy it must have been nauseating. For a period of four years he symbolized all that was evil and disgusting in the world, for no fault of his own. (He was, and still is, quite liberal considering his background.) Things did not look pretty. Papa’s grey hair was running into three digits. As a final feminist statement, the Zog decides to study in Ranchi, a place most people back home still considered to be a part of Bihar, and therefore unsafe for girls. Three months later, as she trudged to E.D. class, neatly oiled twin plaits and mismatched salwar suit, she knew her statement was going to cost her. Meanwhile, back home, the Nandhu prepared for her 10th boards. Between the constant phone calls from Ranchi complaining about everything from the mess food to the Prof’s wardrobes (ISD phone bills! ISD phone bills!) and the Nandhu’s nervous attacks at home, the remainder of Daddy’s black hair turned grey. My Mother’s beating on her chest and praying did not help the situation. Three years down the line, the frequency of phone calls from Ranchi did reduce. However, this is overly compensated by phone calls from Mangalore. The Nandhu had joined medical college. She calls every half minute to tell her beloved “Acha” things other girls would have figured eons ago. “Dada, people drink in college!” “Dada, my friends have boy friends and they are only 19.” “Dada, people go clubbing in college. I am so scared! Why are people so bad?” Dad’s going from grey to white. What next? Could things get any worse? Well no prizes for guessing, it did. Oh no! The elders back home in Kerala want the Zog to get married. My Dad raises his eyes to heaven and asks, “Why me?” Dad tries to broach the subject with the Zog. To his horror, the Zog has finally developed the faculty of logic. Dear God! What did B.I.T. do to her?! She could actually reason things out (to her own advantage of course). Nothing her Daddy says can convince her. In fact, she has different plans altogether. “See Daddy! I will do my M.S., then my Ph.D. and in the meantime, I will free lance part time for the “TIMES” and “New Scientist”. When I have a tidy sum saved up I will invest in a studio cum library cum……..and then win the Nobel Prize when I am 25. Daddy, marriage is sure to interfere with all my plans.” “Yes, yes. I understand,” he says wearily. In his mind, he thinks, “Do I? What on earth is she talking about? And yet a minute ago she tore my argument into shreds, so she must have some sense. Besides, she is my daughter. That is not the point, the point is…..” Meanwhile my Mom sits at the hall table, her eyes fixed on Daddy, full to the brim with tears “I hate doing accounts!”