UNCOMFORTABLE GUESTS

Guests can be received at different moods based on their cordiality. Tackier still are guests with kids. My husband’s rapport with a close friend somehow collapsed once his twins were born. The initial phase included sympathies, unwanted suggestions and help offerings from possibly everyone  who crossed their way since the twins were prematurely born. With one weighing about 700 grams and the other barely a kg, the doctors had almost given up hope. To add to it, the skyrocketing NICU charge and hospital bills drove the couple insane. And as a close buddy my husband’s former duty included extending monetary aid and nursing the babies, which was pretty easier is what I think now.

Back to present, when my husband discovered that his close pal is in town, his excitement leaped with all mirth. And thus we call them for a lavish lunch with little knowledge that it would turn out to be an invitation  to my impending calamity. The morning was spent locked up in the kitchen because my maid refuses to show up on auspicious occasions of guests coming. Probably her years of experience with people has taught her to avoid the unknown and unseen forces of human power, no matter how subtle. And I, only later come to realise that she is gifted with some terrible forebodings on visitors. Until midday I explored my culinary skills till the dining table got filled up with delicacies and savouries, making me feel an accomplished cook. The robust aroma of spices were enough to water my salivary glands but his friend’s arrival delayed; leaving me with an hour or so to give a final touch to the ambience inside. Being a connoisseur of fine aesthetics, I always preferred an elegantly decorated home with an artist’s touch of sophistication, prim and proper furnishings, a small kitchen garden and neatly organised interiors. Every person who visited me, admired and complimented my taste of paintings and antique collections, in particular my fondness for rare handicrafts.

In an hour or so they finally arrive, the family of four now, the husband wife and the twin boys. We embrace each other while the men greet and finally settle down for their hearty exchange of gossips. The kids however made me uncomfortable as they wickedly began to survey my endeared possessions with a caustic eye like a soldier’s observance of the surroundings before a war. These were my accomplishments over the years; the ferns, the succulents in a brass pot, the Japi and Horai from Assam emporium, the tiny hand crafted elephant hangings from Rajasthan, the glistening lampshade with mirror works; all made their way into my drawing room after thorough scrutiny and I could at any cost not part with them. In a quick period I discovered how two people can be from different planets when one has a child. Firstly, I have to feign a smile thoroughly and laugh away the kids’ nuisances because they are guests and by inviting them I have dug your own grave. Secondly, I cannot express any sign of annoyance because they are kids, so reluctantly I have to put the cartoon channel on TV and suffer while listening to their endless mumblings of ABCD and rhymes. Finally pretend to ignore their vandalising my own property even if it puts a knife through my heart because for their parents they are little innocent cherubs.

The conversation takes a halt as the kids finally declare themselves well armed and loaded to combat the battlefield. My helpless eyes witness cushions being flung out of the windows while the flower pots turned upside down, curtains made into a swing, and the mattress becomes a trampoline.  Living with the futile hope of parental intervention, my lips could wryly smile with ease as the callous couple rather expected me to ignore their children’s trivial nuisances and cajoled me to chat. The fine Thai hat came down and so did the Japi, food were scattered on the floor and shoes kept on the bed. My all attempt to stop their nuisances were received with haughty critical gaze. I practically realised the meaning of ‘hell hath no fury than a woman scorned’, and probably for the moment I wished that the ceiling fan falls on the little pair of devils. The hyper active twins begins to spit on one another, then in the floor, furnishings, sofa, table until everything in the house got bathed with their saliva. The best way to get out of the situation was to feed the family and bid adieu, so while I begin to serve them, my husband attempts to engage the kids in a book, only to realise that the pages are cruelly torn out and strewn like petals.  I could no longer put up a smile and ignore the ransacking turmoil or feign as if I am untouched by it. At once, one of the boys picked up a metallic vase and attempted to break the TV. So much did my agitation boiled that a faint chide in the form of “God!!! Terribly naughty kids” blurted out of my tongue that sounded offensive to the father. He immediately remarked that I must be finding it very annoying since I don’t have kids of my own. Also that boys need to be naughty or else they get tamed. Finding himself in a defenceless situation, my husband coyly stole a glance at me as if to indicate that they were perfect friends during their bachelor days and that he had not the faintest idea about his friend being capable of producing such imps. Well, by now I have completely lost it, having been convinced that these kids can be only this man’s legitimate children, I reverted back, “well, I do receive a plenty of guests with kids but none have I witnessed so miscreant.” That was enough to ignite the spark as the husband finally decided that my home isn’t children friendly and probably they should move to the nearby park which had a lot of tolerance. I heartily approved of his suggestion with the ‘Miss World’ smile. As the family moved out of my house, now turned into shack, the husband gave a brief farewell speech: “Bhabiji, we are leaving, you can be relaxed now, but I must say you don’t have a woman’s motherliness. A woman can be a good mother when she has tolerance”. The possible reply to this could be, ‘since I had a good upbringing, I can sense that you didn’t have a good mother and neither are you a good parent to your sons’. But some strange forces advised me to remain quiet as not all are worthy replying.

As the family goes out of my vision,I stand in the middle of the lonely, quiet yet peaceful drawing room and take a panoramic view of the remnants. To be precise, my house seemed to have undergone a nuclear explosion or passed through a hurricane. I could hear the faint wailing of the tiny earthen elephants that are now lying on the floor, half submerged in a pool of some undetectable liquid. I park my aching bottoms on the coffee stained sofa under the fan while the bits of papers fly around as snowflakes. A few of them settles on my perspiring face. The words of the man echoes through my heart, ‘were they really such miscreants or I over imagined things, is it because I don’t have kids of my own?’

Just then my husband enters. His words answered my own doubts. “This is what bad parenting does”.