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Trrrring! 5.30am already? Uff! I have often wondered why the alarm clock at the bedside table fails to wake up anyone else in the house except me. The noise is shrill enough to call an entire battalion to attention ahead of an impending war. As if a day in my life is any less dramatic. I would be lucky to hit the pillow again with minor blood pressure fluctuations through the day.
Off to my first round of tasks — trudge up to the attic, raise Gauri, our 24-hour help, and get her to start the domestic machinery. Then I got to rush down to my 12-year old Rip Van Winkle and shake him till he agrees to stir. These are the times when I wonder why we bothered to put him in a central Calcutta school. God forbid that he misses the school bus again. That would mean bad news for my husband as he would have to drive him to school. Our driver’s reporting time is 8am but when was the last time he came before nine, and not puffed up as if he ran our lives? Truth be told, he does, and worse, he knows it. You have to pay through your nose to get a driver in Salt Lake, and still you are the one who’d have to keep your hands clasped before him.
As my mind wanders for a bit, my son seems to have dozed off in the toilet. “Wake up and get out!” I shout, banging on the door, which leads to angry protests from inside. He is so slow that I sometimes feel like brushing his teeth like I used to when he was a toddler. And what is Gauri up to in the kitchen?
Thankfully, my son’s tiffin and breakfast are ready. So I shift to my next set of duties. It’s six ’clock — time for my mother-in-law to wake up. We live in a two-storeyed house, the top floor being occupied by my husband, son and me while she stays on the ground floor. Although she does not have a bus or a train to catch, she is very punctual. I suspect she hardly sleeps. Today also, I find her all dressed to go out for her morning walk, with her day ayah. She suffers from osteoarthritis in her knees and needs support in moving about. The instance she sees me she complains that the battery of her clock needs to be changed… NOW. Since it’s useless to tell her she can take all the time in the world and more to do her two rounds around our block, I go rushing up in search of one.
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Thank goodness, things are in order upstairs. Or so it seems. My son is having his breakfast. My husband is perched on the sofa, reading his newspaper and having his tea. Suddenly it crosses my mind that my son has his English class test today. “Biltu, did you revise English last night?” The sleepy expression on his face turns to one of panic. He rushes back to his room. “Biltu, there’s no time to study now. Your bus would be here any minute,” I run after him, heart in my mouth.
That raises my husband from his stupor as well. He knows what this means for him. I look at the clock — five minutes to seven. It will be touch and go. Is my mind playing tricks or do I already hear the honking of the bus at our door?
At this point, my son emerges from his room stuffing his English test copy into his school bag. What! Not only has he forgotten to revise, he was all set to miss the test altogether. I can’t help but give him a mouthful, to which he gives some pointed answers as he runs down the stairs, three at a time. Some attitude children have these days! Before I can wish him goodbye he vanishes. I was feeling bad that I did not wish him luck on a day he would clearly need it.
I need not have worried. It’s only a matter of minutes before he is back with a downcast face. His school bus has left without him.
His father shouts the house down and this time, my son knows better than to talk back. Father soon hurries down to the garage, with son, leaving the cup of tea unfinished, but not before blaming me for the fiasco. “My mother raised half a dozen of us without my father having to raise a finger. And you can’t even get a single child ready for school!” Men. Hrrmph!
But my nerves are not made to stay relaxed. Gauri is shouting from the kitchen: “Boudi, gas shesh. Onnota- toh phaka.” Calamity! The refill of the second LPG cylinder has not arrived yet. And in these days of restricted subsidised refills, which neighbour will lend me one? As I press the rice from the pressure cooker between my fingers I realise to my dismay that it’s still a whistle away from being steamed. It will have to be Dui Burir Heshel for lunch today... and perhaps dinner too.
As I flip through the dog-eared pages of my all-purpose notebook in search of the home delivery outfit’s phone number, the telephone rings. It is my mother-in-law’s night ayah calling to say that she wouldn’t be coming in. But why? “Jano na, Boudi? Kal Nari Dibas. Amader paray Bhanuda party theke shokal shokal michhil ber korbe bolechhey. Amra sobai jabo.”
