In the morning, mummy sumo wrestled me into the bathroom to bathe. I lost only because I started laughing too much by the end. She locked me in. I bathed (though I really do not see the point) Later, having given up on me feeling hunger naturally, papa wrestled methi into me. I went on our daily walk with Dadi. We take the same path, the same stops for rest. I have done this so often I read while I walk now. But I look up every once in a while to check on the trees, the birds on them, and the road. I noticed a bunch of white flowers on a plant I did not know could flower. The birds almost never miss their time. Today we went late so a tiny one swooped over our head under the canopy. Oh, the luxury of regularity and routine!
When mummy came back from her walk, she had dragged with her an uprooted aloe vera plant. Again. She handed it to me with a spade, indicating my job to replant it in the downstairs garden, if a garden it is at all. Goldie (tried to) help me with the digging. I have mud in my hair. When I returned, mummy and papa were fighting in the kitchen. Mummy had tried to micro-manage papa’s cooking. With the air of an adult, I told them they could have been siblings!
I had forgotten Goldie downstairs. He wasn’t hurt. He had found a frog to entertain himself with. They could have been best friends if Goldie wasn’t too scared every time it jumped. Quite a sight. In the meantime, I entertained two baby girls, an anxious little sister, work anxiety, and mummy trying to micro-manage how I fold stuff. People spoke about my marriage only 4 times today. In my book, Lata is heartbroken and going back to Calcutta. Mummy has decided to not speak to me or papa. She is leaving us notes all over the house. ‘Eat dinner, put the dishes in the sink and the leftovers in the fridge. NOW.’
I vainly imagine selling my life to a bad Hindi serial script. My life is like this image – a pastel-colored potentially beautiful thing with a stinky commode in the foreground.