The ever elusive time

Punctuality. Spelt 'punk'tualittty. With extra stress on the 'punk'. Time conscious. Punctual. So many adjectives that baffle the average Indians like us. Indian Standard Time and the select few people who love to stick to it like a leech on the skin suck, big time. There is this one generation of people, whom we call 'oldies' by all standards who covet the hands of the clock as their love. That one word which I have been hating right from childhood is 'time'. I have spent hours brooding about 'on time' and 'just in time'. If there is one word that we Indian women despise other than 'guests' is 'time'.

Our household work is always well-timed. Planned and executed to precision. We have the capability of using all the four burners of the stove effectively, while the washing machine churns by one side and the mother-in-law chews our head on the other. We battle with everything under the sun- doing the morning dishes, tea spilled on the kitchen counter, the kaamwaali bhai who is on leave, sulking kids who think their mother is a genie at their beck and call and finally the mother of all time bound woes- the cylinder that sputters and dies in the middle of a morning marathon at home. 

When you practically push the kids into the waiting van and heave a sigh of relief with a socks dangling from your arm, comb perched atop your head and ribbon hanging around your neck, the man of the house calls out for his chaai, with eyes glued to the newspaper and the headlines of 'memont of reckoning'. You wish you were in the Nagpur jail instead of mixing chaai. A hasty bath, quick dab of makeup, carelessly draped saree and equally hasty breakfast, you literally run to your bike and realise you forgot to fill the petrol tank. As you summon the neighborhood autowallah who is a Robinhood reincarnate, the minutes tick by and your fate that day is sealed. 

 

By the time you sprint into the sanctum of power that you longingly call your office, rushing past the pearly gates, Saint Peter aka your supervisor rocks in his high chair and looks at you in disgust. His voice rises a few octaves as he bellows, "you must come to office well in time. Do you know what is the time now?". To prove that you are late, he turns his wrist and stares hard at the antique piece that he calls a watch. As if on cue, all heads turn to your side, men click their tongues with false pity and women sharpen their ears for some gossip juice. Your day- ruined. You are never on time, you see.

If reaching office on time is a nightmare, simpler pleasures like a movie night out is a distant dream. If you have a toddler at the crook of your arm, never ever try this stunt. Packing for a movie night with a toddler can drive you crazy as you keep packing and packing. Hot water in a flask, food substitute, bowl and a spoon, milk in a flask, bib, diapers, towels, baby powder, liquid soap, the list is longer than your grocery bill. A diaper forgotten will bring you back 'pooped' memories from nowhere! If you have two kids, God bless you, lady! You can be the referee to a free-for-all instantly.

The domestic God is always invincible when it comes to getting ready. A quick shower, dress up and  a dab of perfume, he is ready and shining. Here you are, oil-dripping hair, sweat oozing face, adorned in a nighty that would have seen a hundred washes trying to figure out which attire would be comfortable for the odyssey while he eyes his watch...meaningfully. Getting ready on time- bah...never happens to the women. Forget it. 

p.s.: I hate Mondays, period. Why do we have to put ourselves to the torture that is called 'office'?

p.p.s.: Special mention to the education minister of Jharkand- Neera Yadav. Milady. Please don't garland anyone's picture, ever. 

p.p.p.s.:  Why do you always have to be the subordinate of Kim Jong Un? :P