I Am Not Well (Part 4).

I've already mentioned how my mother, who'd been ready to rush to my side for days, ended up booking the wrong flight ticket. Anyway, she re-scheduled for the next day. And a couple of hours before she was due to land, I got a call.

"TRISHI! I'VE MISSED MY FLIGHT!"

I sighed a deep sigh and waited for her to continue.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED! IT'S ALL SABIR'S FAULT! HE TOLD ME IT WOULD TAKE AN HOUR TO REACH THE AIRPORT, IT TOOK AN HOUR AND A HALF!"

Right.

(She did manage getting on the next flight, and landed up in the evening. My father called soon after, and asked where she was. "She got here half an hour ago," I said. "She's been getting there half an hour ago for two days now," he said. Haha. Ha.)

Going back to that morning. I was alone because S. had to go to work and all my friends were at work and my aunt and uncle were at work. The hospital had a rule - patients cannot be left unattended by their attendant for more than an hour. I spent half the day alone.

"It's because everyone else has work," I told myself miserably, as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"I am loved, I am loved, I am loved," I told myself valiantly, as I lay on my bed, listening to the chatter and laughter of the six people who were visiting the old lady sharing my room.

Man, my life is a tragedy.

And then, at lunchtime, when I was dozing with the curtains around me, I suddenly heard a lot of commotion happening. The curtains were drawn, but I could hear the door banging, and nurses rushing in and out, and raised voices.

Oh god, I thought. The old lady's dead. Or dying.

I desperately wanted to peer through the curtains to see what was happening, but it felt like a nasty and intrusive thing to do, and also, I was convinced that I would see something horrifying. So I just lay there, biting my lip, thinking about this lady's life coming to an end, just feet away from me. At least she was surrounded by the people she loved.

Except it turned out that she'd been discharged and was leaving to go home. She cheerily waved goodbye to me as she wheeled out and said, "Maybe you will go home! God willing."

The indignity of it all.

I told myself that she didn't mean it the way it sounded, i.e. I think it's touch and go, but I hope you make it out alive.

Anyway.

After she left, I had the room to myself which was rather nice. They'd taken me off the drip that day, thank goodness, so I was able to walk around properly. But there wasn't really anywhere to walk, so I just stood at the window.

It was an interesting view. There were no buildings blocking my view. The window looked down on the main road, and across it, was a school. The grounds were empty just then, but a minute or two later, a file of nursery students were led out by their teacher. The children couldn't have been more than four. She lined them up and then, to my delight, they underwent that classic Indian punishment: holding ears and bending up and down. I counted how many times they did it - fifty. And they say today's children get no exercise.

As I stood there, watching them, feeling devoutly glad that my school days are long gone, all the other students started filtering out, milling around the grounds, and on the pavement outside.

The beauty of Home Time.

I could see groups of girls and boys standing around, mostly separately. The younger ones were screeching and running up and down the pavement. I don't know why. Children baffle me. One particular girl - she looked about fourteen - caught my eye because she was pacing a stretch of pavement on her own. And then this boy passed her, and she stopped. I couldn't see the expression on her face obviously, but I think she had a crush on him because as he walked by, she stood still, staring at him as he walked away.

Or maybe she was just staring at something else, but I like my interpretation. It made me fondly (time being a great healer) recall my own youth, and the time I'd spend standing on the pavement just outside school, looking longingly across the road at Farhad Anklesaria.

He already knew my face from the CCFC because I used to stalk him (and not very subtly), which is why, when he saw me standing across the road for the first time and realised I was in La Martiniere too, an expression of horror crossed his face, and he moved away very quickly.

Oh, the power I have over men.

Anyway, so I was standing there, comfortably back in the past, when something towards on my left on the window still - which was broad enough to climb out on instead of terrorists or a fire except you couldn't open the windows so you'd die anyway - caught my eye.

It was a dead kite.

I feel like throwing up just thinking about it. I couldn't see the entire bird, thank god for small mercies, but its back - all the limp brown feathers...

...sorry, I can't continue.

When it comes to birds, okay, life, but birds have a significant role to play, I just can't catch a break. And I know it was probably harder on the kite, being dead and all, but whatever.

I didn't go back to the window again.

Min, Bilal, and Sexy Lion came to visit me that evening which was nice; it made me feel I had friends. They all commented on how shit I was looking, which was not so nice. And then they went away. Come to think of it, maybe there's something to be said for having no friends.

And then my mother turned up. I required gentleness and comfort, but naturally she freaked out (loudly, as is her wont) about my appearance.

Which was quite awful, to be fair.

My skin had gone all patchy, I had the rash (although it had cleared up a bit), and I'd lost two kilos in two days except, at the same time, I was all bloated. My hair was in the shape of a triangle, which it usually is, unless I take the trouble to blow-dry it, which I don't, but it was even more triangular than usual. Seriously. And given that my face was bloated and rounder than usual, baring an alarming resemblance to a circle, I looked like a geometry problem.

That's the thing about being sick. It's so much better you have that pale, ethereal, ready-for-the-angels look. Easier to deal with somehow. I will never be ready for the angels. They'd probably take one look at me and fly away.

Did my mother settle down after that, by my bedside, stroking my hair or asking whether I wanted something hot to drink?

HA.

She started nosing around the bathroom. Now the bathroom was okay and all, it was large, sun-lit, and clean. But come on. It was a bathroom. But she droned on and on and on and on about the excellent location of the shower, and the convenience of the toilet, and the wonderfulness of this and the impressiveness of that. I guess it's just one of those things she does that is, and always will be, incomprehensible to me. Like the way she randomly opens my underwear drawer in Calcutta and sniffs it. Even when I'm in Bangalore.

Anyway, she went back to stay at my aunt and uncle's that night (my father having correctly pointed out that she would demand more attention from the nurses than myself) so S. was my attendant instead. Some attendant. He ate disgusting McDonald's burgers that made the room smell, watched television, and passed out. Aren't I lucky to always be surrounded by such kind, compassionate people.

I was bored and couldn't sleep, so I called the nurse and asked for the magic pill (even though I didn't need it) and in seconds, I was asleep.

More about the day that followed later. I'm afraid this is getting tedious, and I'm forgetting a lot of the things that happened (which, let's face it, is probably a good thing), but you know. Finishing what I started and all that jazz.


To Be Continued. 

I Am Not Well (Part 3).

Okay, so given how much time has passed, I should really be calling this, I Was Not Well, but too late now. Oh...well.

Right, so I packed my stuff for hospital. Here is a reference in case you too ever need to be rushed off.

1. Pyjamas which I didn't need because they gave me a terrible prickly hospital gown - more on that later.
So actually, come to think of it, a pair of pyjamas is something you won't need to pack.

2. A book that I'd been attempting to read for three and a half years, but couldn't, because I don't understand half the words, and because, by the time I get to the next page, I forget what I've just read. It's Ayesha Jalal's Partisans of Allah.
Anyway, I suppose this is another lesson on what-not-to-pack. If you haven't read it in three years, three days in hospital won't cut it.

3. A bag of mixed berries. Because it was the only food in the house apart from two day Chinese leftovers (predictable). I also got people to smuggle food in. This is the only thing I did right.

4. ....

Okay, so I travel light.

Anyway, my aunt and uncle took me back to Vikram Hospital. By this time, I felt like a regular visitor. It was almost comforting. Or so I told myself valiantly, as I pictured days spent in a hospital bed stretching endlessly out before; my lone companion, a sick, elderly person who would die in the night. (Speaking of which...)

They hooked me up to an IV again in Emergency, but just as I was drifting up, a nurse came up to me and made me move to a side-room. Because apparently my situation wasn't as urgent as the person I was making way for. (It wasn't, but the nurse didn't have to make it so clear.)

And then I had to pee in a cup.

So the story around this is hilarious, so utterly hilarious, but given the subject matter, I think I shall, for once, give this one a miss.

Man, you're so missing out though.

And then finally, after hours of my aunt and uncle running around getting the admission procedure done, while I dozed happily, I was wheeled up to my room.

"I don't need a wheel chair," I said incredulously when they brought it to me. "I can walk."

"But you have to, Ma'am,"

"No, no. Not necessary."

"It's procedure, Ma'am."

I begged. I actually begged. I couldn't imagine anything more humiliating than being wheeled through waiting rooms, with my hair defying gravity and my glasses hanging off my face, which was bright red and peeling off, and I was clutching my bag with a bag of berries sticking out of it, but I didn't have to imagine it, because I was lucky (haha) enough to pass a mirror on my way out.

"I don't need IV drips, I need plastic surgery," I said out loud, but as usual, I was ignored.

So I get to the room, Room 306, and I had the bed by the door. It wasn't bad, actually, it was rather nice. There was a big window at the far end that let in a lot of light. We were relatively high up, so there were no windows blocking the sky. The floors were wooden. And each bed had curtains that left enough space to make a little private room.

The other bed, at the far end of the room, was occupied by an old lady.

Typical.

But she had her daughter with her throughout, and during the 24 hours she was there, people kept dropping in to visit her, which was comforting somehow.

I think it's because, a few months ago, I went to visit a friend of S,'s called Pog. Pog had been admitted to Fortis, a hospital close by and incidentally one of my clients, and he shared his room with an old man. An old lady, presumably his wife, was his attendant. No one visited them. She had to sleep on that uncomfortable bed. She sort of sat there, next to him, and you kind of got the impression they were both alone in the world. It was the sort of thing that just gives you a little ache, you know?

Anyway.

I got into bed (my aunt and uncle were still getting all the tedious stuff done), and I played with remote control a bit. Up, down, up down. I then took a moment to appreciate the rare and blessed feeling of clean sheets, but I was disturbed by a nurse who came in with the dreaded pyjamas.

Funnily enough, they weren't too bad. It wasn't a tunic, it was in two pieces, and it didn't leave your butt hanging out, and it was pink. The pink was unexpectedly cheerful.

Then, predictably, the IV and the sleep.

I haven't mentioned my mother yet, but she'd been quite busy. She'd intended to come down that day, that evening, but later in the afternoon, I got a frantic phone call.

"TRISH!"

"Hi," I said apprehensively, because I'm always apprehensive when she talks in capital letters.

"TRISH! I BOOKED THE WRONG FLIGHT!"

"What?"

"I BOOKED MY TICKET FROM BANGALORE TO CALCUTTA AND NOT CALCUTTA TO BANGALORE AND I ONLY REALISED WHEN I TRIED CHECKING IN."

I ask you, what can you say to that?

"THANK GOD I CHECKED IN FROM HOME. OTHERWISE I WOULDN'T HAVE REALISED UNTIL I'D GOTTEN TO THE AIRPORT."

A part of me momentarily wished that she had made the realisation when she got to the airport, but I dismissed the thought as an unworthy one.

"There there," I said to her. "I'll see you tomorrow. Don't worry."

"I JUST DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW IT COULD HAVE HAPPENED."

I had a theory on how it could have happened, more than one in fact, but I chose not to share them with her.

S. stayed the night - all hospital rooms have little side beds for 'attendents'. The night was horrible. I was itching all over, it was agony, and the medicine they gave me wasn't helping either. And now we come to the old lady - my god, that woman could snore. I have come across snorers before - my grandmother and my father were experts at the art - but this was like...I can't think of a parallel, but at some point, I was very close to tears, because the night seemed to have paused. I didn't see how the snoring and the itching would ever go away, I felt as if I was trapped in that situation forever, that maybe I'd died and this was my hell, and my punishment, for all the selfish things I've done and all the mean things I've said to people.

But then I called one of the night nurses, and she gave me a beautiful little pill (that I'd demand more than once, more on that later), and all of a sudden, poof, I'd shut down for the night.


To be continued.

I Am Not Well (Part 2).

Thursday, July 30. So on Thursday, my temperature started coming down a bit.

Ah, the road to recovery, I thought.

I can go back to office on Monday, I thought.

Tra la la la la, I thought. Before passing out and sleeping most of the day.

My mother called at some point and told me that she was going to come back to Bangalore. I saw red.

"I HAVE A VIRAL FEVER, MAMA!" I bellowed. "I AM NOT DYING. I DON'T NEED YOU RUNNING HERE TO PROTECT ME FOR EVERY LITTLE THING. I AM A STRONG, INDEPENDENT 24 YEAR OLD WOMAN."

"Did they take a malaria test?"

"Yes, of course they did,"

"What did it say?"

"Negative,"

"The report?"

And then I went through the report and realised that they'd only taken a platelet count - and asked me to return on Friday because platelets can take a while to drop.

"But she told me everything was negative. So I assumed that she took the dengue and malaria tests."

My mother didn't even shout at me. She understood that a) I've never been to a hospital under such circumstances, i.e. alone and b) that I was half-delirious most of the time and c) I am generally useless although less useless than I used to be.

But I assured her I didn't need her to come back because S. (who was away on a shoot) was coming home that evening.

Friday, July 30. Relatively boring day. Slept. Went to hospital. Got blood tests done. Blood pressure scarily low, but the tests were all negative. Went home. Yawn. Except for when I went to sleep - this agonising itching started around midnight - everywhere. I couldn't get to sleep till 3 in the morning. The itching on my face was particularly bad - forget scratching, I wanted to rip the skin off my face. But my skin was clear, there were no rashes. I spent an hour crawling around my bed, inspecting it for bedbugs or fleas - but nothing. An irritating mystery.

Saturday, July 31. In hindsight, I should have just started documenting everything from this point onward. But oh well.

So apart from the usual tiredness and fever, everything seemed normal until 10 PM when I went for my bed-time bath. I noticed a red rash covering my arms. And then I noticed, to my growing horror, that it was all over my body, including MY FACE.

I am very particular about my complexion. I follow a Set Skin Care Routine. Exfoliation every alternate day, a cleanser twice daily, followed by toner, followed by moisturiser, followed by vain attempts to get rid of the dark circles under my eyes. So you can imagine what this rash - and dryness, my nose and parts of my face had started peeling - did to my soul. I also had a huge pimple on my cheek, just to add some icing to the cake, I guess.

I yelled for S.

"MEASLES! I HAVE MEASLES!"

I would like to say he came running, but he moved at an infuriating slow pace and informed me it wasn't measles.

"Measles are like little red pimples," he said. "This is just a rash,"

"JUST A RASH? JUST A RASH?"

"Do you want to go to hospital?"

Remember how I told you I loathe hospitals more than anything, and do my best to avoid them?

Not this time. Not when it comes to my skin.

"OF COURSE I WANT TO GO TO HOSPITAL!" I shrieked.

So at 10.30, we went off to this hospital down the road from where I live. I solemnly vow never to go there again. We got to Emergency and the 'doctor' looked at my rash and confirmed it wasn't measles; it was an allergy or maybe a result of the viral fever.

And then he got a nurse to stick an injection into me.

There was a brief tussle for a moment - I thought she wanted to inject my bottom, and I refused to let her touch me, protesting that my bottom was sacred. But she finally managed to communicate that she was going to stick it into my hip, so that was okay.

The 'doctor' seemed supremely unconcerned. He had an ugly face, which is forgivable, But it had an ugly smirk on it. That is not forgivable, especially given the circumstances. And he didn't check the inside of my mouth or my eyes and more importantly -

HE WASN'T WEARING A LAB COAT.

That's right! No lab coat! Just an ugly brown shirt and ugly brown pants (that suitably matched the aforementioned ugly face and ugly smirk) and I distrusted him from the start.

I called my mother to tell her what had happened, and I told her (and S.) that there was no proof that jackass was a doctor, he could have been a Man Who Sits At A Desk, but as usual, no one listened to me.

Neither the injection nor the pills he prescribed helped me at all. That night, my fever went up to 103 degrees. I drifted in and out of sleep, shivering despite the four blankets I'd piled on top of me. And then, at 3 am, when the world was dark and quiet, I woke up because my face felt funny.

Sort of like when you're drinking water and you put too much in your mouth, and so it spills out, trickling down your chin, and your neck.

I put a hand to my chin, and I looked at my fingers in the moonlight. They were covered in blood. It was blood.

I'd only been awake for a few seconds, and I wasn't thinking properly, so in that moment - just a split second - with my body burning up and blood pouring out of my mouth, I thought, maybe, that I might die. I don't know how to explain it without sounding like an idiot. It was such a fleeting feeling. And my only thought was about something I regret; something I have been regretting for a long, long time, something that I broke and cannot fix.

On the bright side, I can't do anything about it, not even if I end up on my deathbed. I don't know whether that's depressing or comforting.

Anyway, like I said, it was a thought that passed as soon as it came, and I stumbled to the bathroom where a very gory sight met my eyes.

The entire lining of my top gum, the entire semi-circle, was bleeding more heavily than it's ever bled before. In the front, where it was pouring down my chin like a waterfall. At the back, where it was filling my mouth like a monsoon pool.

And if you think reading about it is disgusting, imagine what seeing it was like.

Luckily, we actually had a medicinal mouthwash in the house - not a regular one. So I coollied with it three or four times and the blood started receding, and it finally went - only my gums were redder and more raw than usual.

S. looked scared, which was gratifying, and he kept checking my nose for blood. According to him, it's a sign of high blood pressure, and I think he would have rushed me to the hospital if it had been bleeding. But it wasn't.

Everything seemed okay for the moment, and I didn't really want to call my mother up at 3 in the morning, so I went back to sleep.

I told her about it the next morning, and before I knew it, my aunt and uncle (who live down the road) spoke to some doctors who recommended I go to the hospital. They all agreed that it sounded a viral infection, albeit a really nasty one, and that 48 hours of supervision would, perhaps, be a good idea.

I nearly objected - I have never stayed overnight in a hospital before, let alone two nights (except when I was born which doesn't, obviously, count) - but then I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The rash had gotten even worse.

"I'll be ready in fifteen minutes," I told my aunt.

And then I started packing my things.



To be continued. 

I Am Not Well (Part 1).

There are sometimes advantages to being sick. Not when you have a cold, mind you (there can be no advantage to snot flowing out of the caves that were once your nostrils), but maybe a mild fever that lasts a couple of days. You can lie in bed for hours on end, with nothing but sleep and books to keep you company, and ask people to bring you cups of tea and they can't even tell you to get it yourself because that would make them Selfish and Inconsiderate and Unfeeling. Ha ha. 

But what I've been through the past week, my god, I've been through the very depths of hell and I swear that for once I'm not exaggerating. 

Tuesday, July 28. My mother had been in town and she was leaving that morning. She was on her way home after a month-long trip to Amrika and Engerland. She turned 56 on the 25th, by the way, and when I made fun of her age, she asked me to compare our lives to see who had the better one.

She doesn't usually get the better of me, but when she does - ouch. 

Anyway, so I spent the previous night at my aunt's, so I could have a Last Breakfast with Mum before she left, and I woke up that morning in agony. Terrible pains in my chest, the back of my knees, my wrists. I bent down to pick up something I'd dropped at one point, and the pain was unbelievable. 

"Something's wrong," I told her.

"Nothing's wrong. You just slept awkwardly."

"But I've never had this sort of pain before,"

My mother's explanation?

"You slept awkwardly in a position you've never slept in before,"

"Never slept in before? In twenty-four years?"

"Yes,"

I let it go. Sometimes, with my mother, you have to let things go. There's no other way.

Anyway, I kissed her goodbye, and hugged her tight, and then left for work with a slight lump in my throat. Because the world is a strange place and I am more fond of her than anything else in it. 

Anyway.

I was feeling awful by the time I got to work and by noon, I was burning up with fever. So I finished off the bits and pieces of work I had to do, and went home at lunch-time. 

I don't know how I got home and I don't remember the next 24 hours either. I just sort of lay there, drifting in and out of sleep. I do remember having to go to the shop to get water because my Aquaguard isn't working and I haven't gotten around to fixing it, and I remember that it was a very painful excursion. It's just a 2 minute walk, but I had to stop and rest, and when I got home, my fingers couldn't hold the packet the water was in, and the bottles fell on the floor, and rolled around, and I spent another painful 2 minutes attempting to pick them up.

Oh, the tragedies I have lived through. The sufferings I have been through. The traumas I have - 

Okay, getting back to the point, otherwise no one's going to believe I'm not exaggerating. 

Wednesday, July 29. I woke up feeling worse. I knew I needed to get blood tests done because the joint pain was getting unbearable, and the fever was disturbingly high, but I hate hospitals. I spent much of Wednesday morning googling doctors who do home-visits instead.

There are none anymore. Which is really terribly sad. 

My mother called. 

"I think you should go to the hospital for tests," she said.

"I can't go to the hospital on my own," I said irritably. 

"Chini can take you. Suja spoke to her and she says that Chini's brother works in a hospital close by. She thinks you need a blood test."

Chini is the lady who comes to help out at my aunt and uncle's house every morning. She makes very good coffee and I adore her - not just because of the coffee. 

"Well, see if she can arrange for someone to come to the house. That would be good. Because I cannot go to the hospital." And then a bellow to make my point - "I CAN'T EVEN WALK PROPERLY." 

"Okay, okay, I'll call you back." 

I was settled in bed when the doorbell rang and Chini walked into the house. I hadn't been expecting her. 

"What are you doing here?" I said in surprise.

"Come, we'll go to the hospital."

"No, no," I protested. "I don't need to, Chini. I'll get someone to come to the house. It's absolutely fine. I'm completely okay,"

"No, let's go, it's close by." 

I made a last feeble protest. "My legs hurt."

"I'll get an auto for you and we'll go together."

There are some people who, without the slightest hint of authority, in the sweetest, most matter-of-fact tones, Get Their Own Way. Chini is obviously one of those people and I am no match for her.

I found myself quietly putting my jeans on and hobbling out the door. 

We got to the hospital, it's close by, on Miller's Road and ironically it's called Vikram Hospital (I didn't find it amusing, but all my friends did) and Chini introduced me to her brother who is on the nursing staff. They took me to the Emergency Department and I climbed gratefully into a bed. 

The first thing they did was attach me to a drip. It was exciting at first because I've never been attached to a drip before, but it stopped being exciting very soon, and after they took my pulse rate (I could hear it beeping away on those machines which was slightly scary) and my blood pressure and stuck a bunch of needles in me, I fell asleep. 

Chini was a star. I had to stay there for 2 to 3 hours, so I told her she ought to go home instead of hanging around, but she refused to. She got all the paper-work done and paid the bills while I drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. I didn't have to lift a finger; she was, to put it simply, amazing. 

The tests were apparently clear (I thought I'd been tested for malaria and stuff but more on that later) and the doctors thought it was viral fever. So they gave me some tablets and sent me home. 

Chini dropped me right to my door, I assured her that there was plenty of food in the house and that I'd be fine. And then I staggered to bed and fell asleep again.

A small side note on dinner that night. I was too tired to make a sandwich so I called this Chinese restaurant near my house. I don't usually order from them, they're on the expensive side and I don't like their food as much as Delicacy which in my opinion is the best Chinese restaurant in Bangalore, but I was craving soup and Thai Green Curry. So I ordered that. 

The soup and curry came and ten minutes later, I realised there was no rice with it. I burst into tears. Pathetic, I know. And then I got angry and I called the restaurant and they told me I had to order the rice separately (a small steamed rice, by the way, was 150 bucks).

"SEPARATELY?" I shouted. "EVERYONE SENDS RICE WITH GREEN CURRY. IT'S A GIVEN. YOU THINK PEOPLE EAT IT WITH CHOW MEIN?"

(Later, mulling over this matter, I realised that this is India, and maybe green curry and chow mein is not unheard of.)

"I'VE SEEN HOW MUCH YOUR RICE COSTS. I'M NOT A MILLIONAIRE. I DON'T WANT YOUR CURRY. TAKE IT BACK AND GIVE ME MY MONEY. I'M NOT PAYING FOR RICE."

At this point, I started crying again over the phone (my fever was at a fever-pitch) and I must have scared the poor man at the end because he said he'd send across rice for free. 

Now my temper is explosive, but it never lasts for long, so five minutes later, I called the restaurant back. 

"Listen," I said. "I'm sorry for speaking so rudely. I lost my temper. I still think it's a little unfair - you should mention that there's no rice with it, because most restaurants send rice, but I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. Please send the rice, but I'll pay for it."

"No, Ma'am," the poor man at the other end of the line said, probably cursing his job. "We'll send it for free." 

"No, sir. I insist on paying for it. I'll give the delivery boy the money."

"No, Ma'am," said he. "It's absolutely okay. Please just take the rice."

"Well, thank you very much," I said, after another minute of arguing with him. "It's very kind of you and I'm so sorry about shouting the way I did. It's really...so kind...I..." And then I started blubbering again. 

"We'll send it immediately, Ma'am," he said in alarm. "No problem, don't mention it."

The power a crying woman has over men is truly one of life's greatest mysteries. 

To be continued. 

For you. Today, and everyday.

Ceci n'est pas une egg.
It is fifty thousand words that can't be written.
Fifty thousand thoughts that just won't die.

How to be a domestic goddess. Or a domestic fraud.

I start a new job on Monday. And I managed getting a huge raise which means, for the first time in my life, I am completely financially independent. To me this translates as follows - I can pay my rent and still drink beer in pubs. Shady pubs, but I like shady pubs - they're infinitely more interesting than the other kind - so that's okay.

It's difficult not to be emotional about this (i.e. being independent, not pubs), because since graduating college, my ultimate goal has been to not leech money off my mother for rent. To stand on my own two feet. To walk the Path alone. (Don't ask me which path, I have no clue, but there has to be a frigging path somewhere.) To stand tall. (I also mean literally because though 5'3" seems short to most people, they are uninformed and do not realise I am above average height worldwide thanks to India and, of course, China.) To swim without sinking. To -

Etc. etc.

But seriously. This has been really important to me and it's one of the biggest things I've managed to accomplish in a long while, though, of course, it's an accomplishment nearly everyone...er...accomplishes.

Don't get me wrong. I'll still be making peanuts, but a few more peanuts than previously.

Anyway. Where was I?

Oh right. I start a new job on Monday. Back to the working life. Back to unforgiving deadlines and re-writing a single paragraph multiple times and spending three hours on producing a headline that isn't shit. (I'm not kidding, to get a headline that isn't shit, you sometimes have to write more than a hundred. And you usually go back to the second one you wrote but that's neither here nor there.)  Back to returning home post-midnight, to having three days to come up with a pitch that will convince an important company to use your agency to sell it, and then a campaign to actually sell it. Back to banging my head against my desk, not having time to eat lunch, and being irritable and stressed nearly all the time.

I CAN'T WAIT.

Because you know what the alternative has been?

Being - egad - domestic. That means: making beds, keeping the house relatively tidy, and calling the guy from Onida to service my washing machine. Which isn't difficult. On the contrary, it's extremely easy, but it's also tedious. And quite frankly, I'd rather battle a shark (I've written a guide on how to do it anyway). At least it won't be boring - if I live to tell the tale which, let's face it, I probably won't. (Although it's a pretty kick-ass guide.)

But I've had to do it. The domestic stuff, I mean. Because even I realise, inconsiderate and selfish and lazy as I am, that it's completely unfair for S. to come home to a complete mess after a long day at work (which mostly comprises, I suspect, playing some infernal tank game he's discovered) when I've been sitting at home doing nothing.

We have a lady who comes in to help four times a week. But the thing about Vijaylakshmi is that she insists on making me dosas because she thinks I need to be fatter (she has a horror of collarbones) and then she runs off without cleaning the bathrooms or dusting the shelves. And how can you ask someone to clean bathrooms and dust shelves after they've made you dosas? I can't.

But once I start work, I won't be around to eat the dosas, so maybe she'll have to clean the bathrooms.

Ha ha, Vijaylakshmi, ha ha.

(I'm grasping at straws here.)

So I've been over-hauling the house at least once a week and doing some light tidying up everyday.

But Viji's taken her kids to Chennai for four days, which means I have to step up the ante. Especially when it comes to cleaning floors - thanks to the rain, a bunch of insects have made our home theirs and they are inconsiderate enough to die everywhere, at the same time ensuring their corpses are carefully positioned for human feet to tread upon.

 And even though I hate cleaning, when I do decide to do it, I am pretty thorough.

Okay, sometimes I take short-cuts.

And so this guide has a two-fold purpose: to aid those who wish to clean thoroughly and, more importantly, to aid those who wish to make it seem that they've cleaned thoroughly.


1. On dusting 

The thorough way to do it, henceforth known as You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Remove all objects from surface. Wipe surface with a wet and soapy cloth. Then wipe damp surface with a dry cloth. Repeat on the removed objects. Then put them back.

For ceilings, use that long ceiling cleaner thing every ten days. Cover any furniture that dust may land on. Alternatively, just brush off the dust from the furniture before attacking everything with a jharu. 

The quick way to do it, henceforth known as the Last Resort

Keep objects where they are. Use wet and soapy cloth to clean all the spaces around objects. Move cloth briefly over objects themselves. Put faith in the air or whatever to dry the bits that have been cleaned.

Ignore ceiling. And never look up.


2. On dishes

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Rinse dish thoroughly. Then clean with dish-cleaning liquid or whatever it's called. Rinse again. Check for any bits that are still stuck to the dish. Repeat process with focus on the bits. Wipe with dry cloth until the dish is dry. Then place dish on shelf or in cabinet/drawer.

The Last Resort

Rinse. Use liquid. Check for bits if you are on the fussy side which I am. Do not check for bits if you are lazier than I am. (Improbable, but not impossible.) Leave on sideboard or whatever and let the blessed air or whatever do the drying. Use dish from its place on the sideboard. This also leaves cabinets empty for more important things - your cat's bed, for instance.


3. On sweeping floors

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Switch fan off. Remove carpets. You may air them which you probably will if you're following this method - do it before you start sweeping. Sweep floor with a jharu. Pay close attention to corners and under-sofas. Use a dustpan to gather the dirt. Throw dirt in waste-paper basket.

There will always be a bit of remaining dirt that will refuse to be swept on the dustpan. Sweep it out the door. If door has a slight ledge to it, use a flick of the wrist (or a low tennis backhand sweep if you're feeling energetic) to send dirt flying out. The amount should be minuscule if you've done your job properly so calm yourself; it doesn't matter.

Then fill a bucket with soapy water. Use mop to clean the floor. It is extremely important to make sure that there are no dustballs or hairballs left, otherwise they just stick to the floor. Which is disgusting.

Re-fill bucket after cleaning every room otherwise you'll be using dirty water which defeats the point of this exercise.

Leave fan on high. And make sure your feet are clean otherwise you have to repeat the entire process which is just depressing.

The Last Resort

Switch fan off. Ignore corners and under-sofas and carpets for now. Once dust has accumulated, sweep it into corners, under the sofas, and under the carpets. No one will know.

Mopping is optional.


4. Laundry

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

If you have a washing machine, use it. If you are insane, fill your time with other things - cleaning the machine on the outside, for instance.

If you do not have a machine, fill a bucket with soapy water. Energetically dip clothes in the water several times. Then scrub clothes with a scrubbing brush (or use one part of the garment to scrub the other part, this helps with stains). Then rinse clothes until all the suds are gone. Then hang them up to dry.

The Last Resort

If you have a washing machine, use it.

If you do not have a machine, just rinse with water and hang out to dry. There shouldn't be any smell. If there is, just spray deodorant on the offending garment.


5. Making beds

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Strip down all sheets and bundle into laundry (if you've been using them for more than a week). Take out new sheets, give them a vigorous airing, and use them to make the bed. Tuck them into the corners, smooth the wrinkles. Repeat this entire process with the pillows and their covers. Air the bed cover (according to Mawii, it's unhygienic not to have a bed cover) and cover the bed, making sure that it doesn't drag on the floors and covers all the bits underneath and hangs evenly on all sides of the bed.

The Last Resort

Make an attempt to smooth existing sheets down. Throw bed cover haphazardly on bed. If anything offends the eye at first glance, throw a bunch of cushions over it.

If you haven't changed your sheets in a while, and don't intend to for a while longer, place a clean t-shirt on your pillow before going to sleep. This ensures that the dirt and oil on your pillow doesn't seep into your face and resurrect the acne of your teenage years.


6. Folding clothes

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

According to my mother, there is a particular formula to folding clothes. First you do this, then you do that, blah blah blah. She has shared this formula with me many times - I have also observed Mawii doing something similar - but there are limits to my patience so if you want to know, email me at trishdutt@gmail.com and I'll put you in touch with one of them.

The Last Resort

Just sort of fold your shirt or whatever so it looks reasonably folded, like a sort of square shape. Or, you could do what I do, and just toss your stuff in a cupboard and let it pile up. If you reach a stage where everything falls out the minute you open the cupboard door, a little re-stuffing will do the trick.


7. Ironing

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Adjust iron to the setting required for your garment. A cotton garment has a different setting from a silk garment. Lay garment out, sleeves unfolded. Iron front. Iron sleeves. Pay close attention to the edges. Flip garment and iron the back. Flip again and iron the front. If you are as incompetent as I am, you will probably have to do this several times. Fold whichever way you wish to fold.

The Last Resort

Do not purchase clothes that need ironing. If you must, find a dhobi. If you are particularly daring, attempt to start a non-ironed clothing movement. Interestingly enough, using a hairdryer can also be pretty effective.

Friend once claimed that he used his laptop to remove creases from his clothes. You may try this but if you saw Friend, you wouldn't.


8. Bathroom

When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands

Put on yellow gloves (they're always yellow for some reason) and attack drain first. Pour the relevant liquid/cleanser down the drain. Don't ask me which one to use. I'm not promoting products, mostly because I don't pay attention to them - I usually just use whatever liquid thingy I have lying around. Then pour water down. Foam may rise, but it usually goes away, so that's okay.

Use your gloves to scoop up any muck.

Yuck.

Then pour that cleaning thing made for toilets. Harpic. HARPIC! See, I know Harpic. Leave there for at least twenty minutes while you do the rest of the bathroom.

Mop floor. (Using a jharu is unnecessary.)

Clean sink, pay close attention to taps.

Then use toilet brush to scrub the inside of the toilet. Then flush.

The Last Resort

Ignore drain. Dump harpic in toilet and let it stay there until the next time you flush. Pour soapy water over sink and all over the floor. Leave bathroom and only return when it's relatively dry.


This brings me to the end of my guide. Perhaps there are more things I haven't covered, but quite frankly, I've been covering the bed (with a bed cover, I hope you're happy, Mawii) everyday for the past three weeks and I'm done.

I sincerely hope the content of this post has been illuminating.

And if it has been repugnant - in the sense, made you shudder increasingly as you picture the effort required to keep a house clean - I sincerely hope you feel a new appreciation for your job.

P.S. The best thing to do, really, is to find a Mawii. Although a Mawii - like all good things - is very difficult to find.