“Basanti! You stupid woman! I told you to put it straight! What makes you think you can put the phone diagonally? Can’t you do anything right?” screamed Papa as he was getting ready to go to office. “Sir, I can. And right now I am packing your ‘dabba’, please cooperate with me” she said while grinning at my ignorant face.
Im used to this now; his obsession with getting things done perfectly, ever since Mom went away that is. All day long he is screaming like a banshee. I just wonder what happens to his workers at office. I am just waiting for the day he comes home and kicks his shoes off at random places; he used to do that a lot.
I vividly remember my dad telling mother lazily “it’s a Sunday honey. Why bother with homework darling? Sometimes I feel you are too much of a brain-chewer. I should have married that British/Punjabi girl my parents wanted me to marry. She was as laid back as I am.” He said with his most charming smile, to which she replied “you do remember my old boyfriend, don’t you? That tall, fair Parsi boy. I still have his number you know; maybe I should call him up sometime” she replied cheekily while dressing me up in my Sunday dress. I used to wear that dress every Sunday, not every Sunday literally just the Sundays my brother was visiting and taking us to the cinema.
I used to worship cinema days. I used to love going to the matinee. I used to make sure I used to wear my best frocks every time I would go to the cinema. I was amazed that two hours of my life would transform my thinking and my way of looking at things.
I guess Papa enjoyed spending time with us too. He still visits that old shut down cinema from Sunday to Sunday. Maybe to revive old memories, maybe to revive Mother’s soul.
He probably behaves like her because he doesn’t want me to feel that she’s gone. But how could I miss!
Well I don’t want to boast but I feel I had the perfect family. Well, that is impossible but real close to being perfect; a loving dad, a fun/strict mom and a brother who is continuing his studies abroad. Everything was normal (or abnormal according to others) till she got her first fit (unfit).
It started off with her shivering violently and then screaming and going crazy. I was just nine then. Dad took her to the best hospitals and no one ever figured what was wrong with her. But still, they put her on some medication which reduced the often-ness of the convulsions.
But one fine (not fine) day, she got the worst seizure of her life and was well, found dead. We thought she was getting better but apparently she wasn’t. It was like a ‘Hindi’ movie coming towards the interval; only that it was the end of my mom. But it was even worse for my father. He looked like one of those sad, Italian gangsters in his office suits; he had a thin moustache and he smoked cigars. He never cried openly but me, being his daughter, knew that inside it was like an everlasting stab to the heart.
My brother stopped his studies for a bit and came to live with us but it made no difference. He was still quiet and obsessed with perfection.
Presently, he has tried perfecting everything; from how the socks are kept to the number of brown spots on a ‘chapatti’ (32) and my grades! And now that I am 17 and studying psychology, it just becomes clearer that perfection is just a voice for your inner insecurities/pain.
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