OPERATION MOM, DAY 5
Deepali had designated Crawford Market as our morning rendezvous point. Apparently, Vik’s mother had assigned him a bhaaji purchasing assignment. I marvelled at the absurdity of the situation. I mean, which rational-thinking mother entrusts her seventeen-year-old son with the task of buying vegetables? Deepali says that I can’t help but be critical since I come from a Punjabi household where all domestic activity is relegated to women. This is without, of course, stopping to consider the fact that there are no men in my household these days. According to Deepali, Vik’s mother is a progressive woman who is training her son to be a Renaissance man. Maybe she’s right. Still, it didn’t justify my intruding on her vegetable purchasing date. All I wanted was to meet Deepali somewhere outside my home to discuss the state of my nerves about Operation Mom.
This time, I was late. Well, not late, but not as early as Deepali. You see, if there’s one thing Deepali cannot resist, it’s alphonso mangoes. I arrived to find her lurking by the mango seller, checking out a fresh peti that had been delivered that morning. Vik hadn’t arrived yet, so I figured we had some time to talk. But all Deepali could focus on was the rows and rows of bright yellow mangoes tinged with a blush that indicated their ripeness.
‘Ilz,’ she said, her face flushed with excitement. ‘The season is finally here and it’s looking pretty jhakaas!’
It was. This new crop of mangoes was decidedly bigger, juicer and better looking than the measly ones that had been showing up in the markets for the last couple of weeks. The early fruits never quite cut it. You know you are in the thick of the season when the big, juicy ones show up. Alphonsos always remind me of Mom. I had never been bowled over by the fruit but, like Deepali, Mom couldn’t resist them and I have seen her devour up to three at a time. Aunty Maleeka had once told us how, as a kid, Mom used to eat nine a day and break out into the worst case of zits right through the summer. ‘We all loved aapos, but no one devoured them like Veena. We soon labelled her the leader of the Aam Junta.’
I tried to draw Deepali away from the mango stall. ‘We need to talk about this Operation Mom stuff,’ I said.
‘So talk,’ she said, holding up a large mango to her nose so she could inhale its delectable scent.
‘Not with Vik around.’
‘I don’t see him anywhere. Do you?’
‘This Internet dating thing is making me nervous. Mom’s not going to play ball.’
Deepali rolled her eyes and marched down the aisle to the next stall, which was stacked with a glorious array of vegetables of every shape and colour imaginable. As usual, I followed.
‘I am so fed up with you and your insecurity,’ she said, vexed. ‘The two of you are inseparable.’
‘Me and Mom?’
‘No, idiot! You and your insecurity!’
She picked up a fine tomato from a neatly arranged stack on a hay-lined shelf and crinkled her eyes. ‘How’s that for personification, Miss Geekier-than-thou?’
Pretty weak, actually! But analysing her poor attempt at poetic grammar was least on my mind. I wanted to focus on more pertinent matters.
‘Yesterday’s Mid Day featured a story about some weirdo who has a fetish for wearing women’s clothing,’ I said. ‘Apparently he posed as a “lonely heart” on an Internet dating site to gain access into a woman’s home and dress up in her clothes.’
Deepali clapped in glee. ‘That’s pretty radical!’
I gaped at her in disbelief. Didn’t this girl get anything? ‘C’mon, Deepali, it’s a pretty way-out story, don’t you think?’
Deepali bit into the tomato and looked back at me with tomato juice running down the sides of her mouth. My sense of responsibility kicked in immediately. I turned around to see if the vegetable vendor had seen Deepali. Luckily, he was busy chatting up a customer. ‘That’s exactly what it is. Way-out. Just because some freak happened to get into the newspaper, it doesn’t mean he’ll get into your life.’
I scowled, not knowing what to say.
‘Besides, give the guy a break. You don’t know how hard it can be for a tranny.’
‘What the heck is a tranny?’
‘A transvestite. As in chakka,’ Deepali said, bringing her hands together in the stereotypical chakka clap.
‘Isn’t a transvestite a crossdresser? And aren’t chakkas hermaphrodites?’ I was utterly confused.
‘Nahi, buddhu, it is as I say,’ Deepali cocked her head to the side and continued, ‘but seriously, you guys just need to brush up on your lingo. Just the other day, Vik thought I was talking about trendy grannies when I used the word with him. Oof!’
I wrung my hands in frustration and then stopped as soon as I became aware of my action, hand-wringing being another tell-tale sign that I was turning into my mother!
‘Can we get back to the topic now?’ I begged.
But Deepali was more interested in continuing the discussion. ‘It would be a great new idea for a product line, I have to say. Eye shadows for Daadi-amma.’
‘Deepali, please focus.’
‘Fine,’ she said, unceremoniously pushing me aside to examine more tomatoes. ‘What is it we were talking about anyway?’
I gazed at the market-goers with a sigh. When had life got this complicated?
‘Snap out of it, yaar. What are you freaking out about now?’
‘Look, my point is that Mom is not going to ever agree to meeting some guy on the Internet.’
Deepali waved her arms furiously. She tends to do that when she gets excited. Right then, it amounted to knocking over an entire line of tomatoes. Luckily, the vendor, who was still busy with his customer, didn’t notice anything.
‘Just because she freaked out doesn’t mean you get cold feet! Your mother freaks out over something or the other at least thrice a week,’ Deepali shrieked. ‘You should know; you live with her.’
Of course she does and of course I did, but I was not going to admit that.
‘Must you turn this into a mud-slinging-at-Mom fest? Right here in the middle of Crawford Market?’
‘Where everyone is so interested in listening to the finer details of what happens in the Isham household?’ Deepali was dripping sarcasm. ‘Besides, who’s slinging mud, yaar? I love Aunty Veena and am happy to do her the service.’ She squeezed tomato juice right into my eye. Intentionally, of course.
Yuck, I screeched instinctively, reaching up to wipe my eye. My elbow hit a pile of tomatoes and sent it tumbling down in a mini avalanche. The fruit and veggie vendor in the next stall, who until then had been fanning himself in front of his stand, stormed over. Just my luck!
‘Kyaa bhai. Kayko idhar aakar sab kuch satyanaash karta hai?’
Thankfully, Deepali came to my rescue. ‘Sorry bhaiya, meri friend naa, thodi kaani hai. Maaf kar do isko.’
I couldn’t believe it. Deepali had told the fruit seller that I was blind in one eye!
‘Kaani hai?’ he asked, leaning over curiously.
‘Haan,’ she replied demurely.
‘Ingliss bolti hai?’
‘Haan,’ Deepali continued.
Like it was even relevant what language I spoke! I gritted my teeth as I swooped down to gather the fallen tomatoes. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed. But even as I was trying to rearrange them into the perfect pyramid that they had been set in earlier, I realized that my organizing and balancing skills were quite poor. A handful of tomatoes came tumbling down again, splattering bright red juice all over the front of my shirt.
‘You are doing it all wrong, baby,’ the fruit seller snapped.
So that’s why he wanted to know if I could speak English. To use it as an excuse to practise his own language skills. Well, clearly my tomato-gathering skills – or should I say lack thereof – were providing him with ample opportunity.
‘You go, baby. I vill do,’ he said, brushing me aside.
More than anything, I hate being called ‘baby’. It was bad enough that the building watchman and the school bus driver still referred to me this way, but at least they had been witness to my childhood. What business did a fruitwalla at Crawford Market have throwing these terms of endearment at me?
As usual, Deepali read my thoughts. ‘Respect, baby, respect. When’s the last time someone showed you some of that?’ She said, stifling her giggles at my less-than-respectable state as we exited the tomato stall.
‘Go on,’ I said acerbically. ‘Cut me down to size.’
‘Ila, come on! Even an onlooker would be able to see that I just bailed you out of what could have been an awkward situation caused by Ila-brand clumsiness,’ she said, restraining more chuckles.
Of course. She’s the illicit-eater-of-tomatoes, yet I cause the accident and need to get bailed out. Welcome to my world.
‘You called me kaaniya when you were responsible for trying to blind me with tomato juice in the first place,’ I said, trying to pick pieces of tomato skin off my shirt.
‘Consider it a favour,’ Deepali said. ‘When one eye is debilitated, sometimes the truth becomes much clearer with the other eye.’
‘Where do you find this kind of cheesy, garbage talk?’
‘Tulsidas.’
Before I could question the authenticity of her statement, a bird of paradise began to sing “Gangnam Style”. Deepali is known in school for her ultra-unusual ringtones. She swooped down upon her cell phone like a bird on its prey. ‘Vik babes, where are you? I’ve been waiting for an hour and I’m so bored.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered under my breath.
Before I could say anything, her phone rang again. This time it was Jaggi.
‘Jaggi babes, what are you up to? How about an afternoon soiree at Bademiyaan to help shake the boredom of my day?’
Yup, Deepali’s life was anything but boring. When Vik showed up from around the corner, I couldn’t help wonder why she even gave him the time of day. A tall, gangly creature with slovenly hair and even more pimples than the week before, he looked positively unkempt.
‘Hi, Deepali,’ he said in a dreary, drill sergeant tone.
‘Hi, Vik!’ Deepali squealed, throwing her arms around him. He responded with a smile and then made a beeline for her backside. Visually, of course. Vik was significantly taller that Deepali – although he had the gumption to keep his hands away from her smooth, round rump, he could not take his eyes off it.
Deepali was well aware and loved every minute of the attention. I flash-forwarded into what would happen next – she’d milk the situation all morning under the guise of helping Vik choose vegetables for his mother. Then she’d give him the tiniest but most suggestive little peck on the cheek before sending him off home, just in time for her rendezvous with Jaggi at Bademiyaan. Deepali was way above my league. Was it just her or did Gujjus really have more SA than Punjus? Regardless, it was now time to write off the morning.
‘Right, I’ll be going home, then,’ I said. ‘Best of luck with the vegetables.’
‘Uh, where are you going, Ila?’ Vik asked.
Like he cared!
Deepali was too busy tousling Vik’s already unruly mop.
‘Home,’ I replied. ‘Don’t wanna stick around and be the kebab mein haddi.’
‘It’s just as well,’ Deepali whispered loudly to Vik. ‘We don’t want her cramping our style.’
‘I heard that,’ I said as I turned around to leave.
‘You were meant to,’ Deepali retorted, then winked at me and grabbed Vik’s hand. Then she let it brush past her ample derriere – ‘by accident’.
Pimply Vik simply stood there, mouth slightly open, like a dumb fool.