Cry Baby!

The music has gotten out of control. CD’s that are largely unused. MTV and Channel [V]. The MP3’s on the Ipod and the cell phone. Play lists on the computer. The Karaoke set the kids use. The neighbours surround sound system that has a 5.1 speaker system. It’s more like a 6.1 because it sounds like one of the speakers is in our house. The Worldspace radio, the F.M. in the car. The tune on the Aquagaurd. The tune on the same neighbours car when it gets into reverse gear. The hymns in church and the bhajans in the train. As we go through the day with all it’s attendant forces at play.
I turn around from the table to see my daughter with a big fat tear rolling down her face.
“What happened Aalia?”
“It’s such a sad song”.
God please let me cry too!

CAUTION! YOU ARE ENTERING THE AUNTY ZONE

Anyone who has encountered a ‘Bandra’ Aunty will not forget her in a hurry. Spotted mostly at the ‘Big Bazaar’ – not at Upper Worli but Lower Bandra, she is usually marketing – not at Dalal Street but Chinckpokli Road. She is armed with an umbrella – okay, parasol if you wish, and carries a bazaar bag, usually picked up from Mapusa market.But that’s just her look. Get past that and discover what she is all about. She’s a broker – usually fixing her ‘deals’ at the market or at a funeral. (You know what baba, Dolcie’s son is back from Dubai and is looking for a girl.) Or giving you market tips (Arre baba, Vincy’s potato-onions are much cheaper than here) Or announcing the FY 08 results (Wot to tell you, Flavia’s house went up for re-development and each flat got 30-30 lakhs!)She’s adorable. You’d better believe it, especially when you’re cruising down Turner Road, your car volume playing happy Abba tracks, and a group of kids overtake you screaming – “Arre Aunty, go faster”. Or you’re at the Bhaji walla and he returns your change with a “Thank you Aunty”. Or a chakka accosts you at the signal saying “Aunty give Five Rupees”.You wake up to reality – admit it, you are 40 plus and you have hit the ‘Aunty Zone’. Armed with your Reeboks, a backpack, a baseball cap (I draw the line with the parasol bit), you decide you’ve got to act your age. You head for the Big Bazaar to bond with your fellow sistas. You bargain for fish. You think you’re going to get a great deal. You envision yourself bragging about it to other aunties. Thrusting your palm at them saying – I got big big pomfrets for only 50 rupees a pair. When you decide to pick up some vegetables. To feel younger amidst your kind, you choose a bhajiwallah that’s old and grey. He respectfully loads your bag, returns your change. Then says, “Thank you Mummy”.
ANNABELLE FERRO
aberferro@gmail.com