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January 29, 2011

Hero Ranger Cycle - Part 2

(Disclaimer: This is a fictional account and narrated in first person to sound like an autobiographical excerpt)
(This is a continuation of Part-1)

I could hear clinging sounds from the kitchen. Mom was doing utensils.
Doing utensils or mopping floors – she performs her chores with great dedication, complete focus and an unbeatable passion. Like a dedicated sculptor.

I slid into a Neelkamal plastic chair by the kitchen entrance and was silently watching her. She threw a glance at me, raising her eyebrows enquiringly. I shrugged, conveying a 'Nothing. Just like that". She acknowledged my shrug with a nod and after adjusting her unruly hair, she shifted her focus back onto the spatula and continued scrubbing. For once, I felt she is the epitome of an untiring indian housewife.

However, there is one thing I honestly don't like about her. Her morbid obsession with nighties. Right from my birth, I have always seen her in nighties only. Her almirah has more nighties than sarees. Even dad, for whom her nightie-obsession is still a mystey, had gifted her a nightie on their wedding anniversary this year. "That's what she had asked for" I overheard him telling Krishna uncle over the phone. All my life, whenever I thought about her in my mind, or seen her in my dreams, she always shows up in a nightie. The last time I saw her dressed up in a saree was during my cousin Rajini’s wedding 8 months ago. When she is in a saree, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. So graceful. But when she is in a nightie, doing domestic chores, she looks like a Taliban refugee.

“Amma, when will you buy me Hero Ranger amma?" I gently asked her. She is aware of my latest B-grade feat and remembers her promise very well. Until the previous day, I used to re-confirm the promise with her every now and then.

“Eat some upma Babloo.You should be very hungry. Even yesterday you didn’t eat anything except three chapathis and a banana”.

This is a universal motherhood flaw. Women think their only purpose as a mother is to feed their children. And no matter how well the children eat, they feel it inadequate. Perhaps, it’s one of their pet peeves. Incidentally, with 3 chapathis and one banana, one can easily feed atleast 10 fashion models.

“I don’t want upma Amma. Tell me when are you gonna buy me the promised Hero Ranger” I asked her with a suppressed aggression.

"Babloo, quarterly exams are no big deal ok? Get a B-grade in the final, and then we’ll see. Until then, don’t talk about hero ranger in this house" she said with a hostile glare, sticking out her index finger.

That was so unsportsmanlike of her. A shameful foul play.

Mother or father, my conscience has a zero tolerance for cheating. My sense of right and wrong is emotionally unbiased. So I got pissed off at her response.

“You are a cheater Amma. You are a chameleon!” I yelled at her and became breathless with rage.

She was silent and irritatingly unmindful of my concern. She kept hard-rubbing a stainless-steel plate with her usual passion.

My temper flared further. And when my temper flares, I have a tendency to break or destroy stuff with the closest proximity, provided it’s not mine. I jumped down in rage and forcibly kicked the plastic chair up. It was airborne for a moment and then rolled over a few feet, narrowly missing her leg.

“ABAAA!@##” I groaned loudly in pain. It was the result of a healthy palm that crash-landed on my cheek from behind. Timing-wise, it was right after I had kicked that chair. I turned around and saw a familiar man, topless, right behind me. He stood there with a half hoisted lungie, exposing his thighs. His teeth were clenched, nostrils were flaring and his hands on his hips.

I sensed an instant heat accumulation on my cheek due to the exothermic property of the slap. It also created a spinning sensation. As if I'd just got off a roller coaster. After a few seconds the heat transformed itself into a strange numbness on one side of my face.

Feeling a sudden weakness and vulnerability, with my palm still on the cheek, I looked at him. Glaring at me with reproachful eyes, he seemed he was preparing to say something.


I was gasping in silence


With a traumatized soul, and the numbness and warmth still fresh on my cheek, I turned around to give a quick self-sympathatic glance at mom expecting some consolation.

“ENOUGH?” she nodded, staging a cold sarcasm.

Mom’s indifference was a bolt from the blue. Words failed me. With tears in my eyes, I ran across the living room. Opened the shoe rack and hastily wore my white-blue hawaii chappal. Then I ran out the main door, down the apartment staircase, like a woman running away from her drunken boyfriend after an attempted rape.

After a few moments, silence filled the house, except the distant sound of street dogs barking at each other.


Blue Lotus said...

Ha..Now that's more like it..It would've pained me if the mom did that,"Mere monu ko kuch nahin hone dena" act.Spoken and acted like a true Indian mom.She steals the show.Loved the story...

MIdhun Manmadhan said...

Incidentally, with 3 chapathis and one banana, one can easily feed atleast 10 fashion models.

Cool :- )

Sameera said...

"This is a universal motherhood flaw. Women think ........ fashion models."

Thats a classic para!

Very well written. I love how you captured the intricate details like obsession with nightie, Hawaii chappal, Lungi descriptions.. lol!

Nice read.. but it left me little worried about the kid. Needs a closure.

Victor Guerra said...

Blue lotus - I'm glad that the climax concurred with your expectation, thereby saving a pain. Yeah, Monu's mom was a funny lady...a talking goat.;-)

Midhun - Thanks for dropping by.

Sameera - Thank you for the comment, glad to know you liked the nittygritties I narrated.
Reg the boy, I'm indeed planning for a closure, lemme see if time permits to give it a shot. Else,here ends babloo's cycle story.

DivyaSreejith said...

Awesome... I just loved the second part... especially...the sound Abbaahh!!@..and the fashion models one...

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