Today morning, I woke up to an ear-splitting blood-boiling soul-searing buzz. Before I could make the head and tail of the world, my mother kissed me on the forehead and wished me a happy birthday.
“Who the hell is drilling tunnels at 5 am? “I asked her, furious and disoriented.
“Oh! That’s your father doing Bhraamri in the next room. “My mother clarified. “We didn’t go to the park today. ”
My parents go to this newly rejuvenated park every morning, exploiting the free gym facility and clicking selfies with two inglorious ducks that waddle about by the contaminated yellow pond. By now, my mother has more photos with the ducks than with any other member of our family.
For those who haven’t heard of Baba Ramdev, Bhraamri is a yogic process in which you make loud noises through your nose, something Himesh Reshamiya would do if he had to destroy humanity or something. My father used to do it a few years ago, till I left home in search of a peaceful life.
“I thought Papa stopped doing yoga. “I said, a fresh throbbing headache smashing me like a sledgehammer as he started with the loud buzz again.
“No. He’s nuts. “My mother said. “Happy Birthday! ”
She gave me a Choco Cookie carton, which I’d have accepted with twinkling dewy eyes had I been a 6 year old. My mother needs to know that I’m 18, and that a semi-solid paste of milk and biscuits isn’t my idea of delicious food anymore.
“Thanks. “I pretended to be surprised, even though I was kind of disappointed. I mean she could have given me a Femina or something.
The worst thing about having a birthday is that you have to take a bath early in the morning. The geyser stopped working right after the first splash of water I took, thus making the rest of the bath a painful, blood curdling process. I felt like a block of ice as I waddled out of the bathroom with a pink towel wrapped around myself.
Then, my mother had to go to the bank. I rode pillion on the scooty and it was fucking cold outside, with the wind hitting my bones like the spring tide of liquid nitrogen. And then, suddenly, a girl overtook my mother. God bless that soul! My mother turned into Vin Diesel and throttled the scooty to its maximum. She honked as the scooty swooshed past the girls. Their hair fluttered like trees in a tempest and they glared at us through their pretty brown goggles. And in no more time, the road turned into a racetrack. I glued my butts to the seat and held my mother tightly. My eyelids stuck together and my hair crept back to my occiput. In a sequence of colourful squirming phosphenes, I could vividly picture my passport size photo in the newspapers of tomorrow, along with words like ‘rash driving’, ‘death’ and ‘no helmet’.
“Couuuld youuu sloowwww dowwwwnnn a biit!? “I cried.
“Don’t you have my blood, you chicken heart! “She shouted. “Those bitches asked for it! ”
I felt like a two year old dragged by his own mother to a Ram Gopal Verma movie. It was scary as death. My mother soon left them behind and eventually slowed down at the crossroad. I let a sigh of relief.
In the evening, I went out with friends and we had momos.
It was a good day.