A sinking feeling…

Eleven years ago we had looked at a ready-to occupy apartment in one of Chennai’s relatively new suburbs, Porur – and had bought it without any modifications

Soon after we moved in, I realized that every time I did the dishes at the kitchen sink I’d wind up with my arms and shoulders feeling like they’d been put through a wringer! So the next time my hands went through a sinkful of dirty dishes, my mind analyzed and dissected – and my heart sank – a strange sinking feeling – as I thunk, “I’m sunk… my sink is sunken!”

It was way too low and the faucet too far back for comfort. I wondered why – and the realization sank in: The building contractor had designed the sink with his dream woman in mind, a lovely young thing, no doubt – but she just had to be real tiny – under 4 feet 10 inches tall – with peculiarly long arms! There couldn’t be any other explanation!

All this talk of love and doing the dishes reminds me of that feminist slogan:

“It starts when you sink into his arms and ends with your arms in his sink!”

Be warned!

© Sosha Srinivasan

The battle lines are drawn…

I live on a battleground and our home was filled with wounded soldiers this week. Huh?! I can almost picture you blinking in surprise! The suburb I live in is called Porur and a month ago I googled it out of idle curiosity. Wiki (doesn’t spare anything, does it?) says the name loosely translates as “battlefield” – as a decisive skirmish seems to have taken place here during the Pallava era (between 4 AD and 9 AD). Later it was part of a Mughal viceroyalty in the 17th-18th centuries. A neighboring township is called Mugalivakkam.

I’m not really surprised because the battles still seem to be raging hereabouts. It’s all out war when it comes to local politics, shouting matches between neighbors when it is a matter of sharing water, and of course, marital tiffs galore…

When the mood takes him, hubby loudly and arbitrarily begins barking out orders at home. When it gets unbearable, my son and I exchange a look and call out in unison, “Major Payne!” Boot camp is dismissed with a sheepish grin. There is an execrable movie by the same name (Major Payne) – give it a miss.

Last week sonny fell ill with a severe bout of sinusitis and I underwent minor surgery for an ingrown toenail. Hubs was rushing from the hospital next door to the army cantonment (no kidding – St Thomas Hospital sits cheek by jowl with the army area) to the frontline, when his trusty steed capsized. His foot was caught between a rock and a hard place (the median and the scooter). He dusted himself off and though injured, gallantly charged on in the line of duty… all for his mate!

But between two lame ducks – sorry, parents – and a son with a sore head, our place resembled a field hospital, with bandages and medication strewn all over, the air thick with the odours of surgical spirit and herbal liniment and groans and cries of pain.

I leave you with a last thought to mull over – “martial” is an anagram of “marital”.

© Sosha Srinivasan