Column

Tales from the locker room

These are grave times and not just because of another Madonna album whose very title Hard Candy showcases her evolvement and maturity as a writer of prose to rival Ben Johnson and Alexander Pope.

This week is full of setbacks. First the IPL is over which means one may be forced to converse with the family again. Secondly, the third of June is my wife’s birthday. Now, as part of her thesis on ancient medieval Russian torturethe wife doesn’t like too much fanfare on her birthday, but at the same time she doesn’t want the event washed over, either. It’s a thin balancing act, a tight rope walk, andif I take one false step, and the pain is said to last generations.

On the fourth is my parents’ anniversary. They of course will have no idea, but a quick check of history books will reveal that somewhere after Mangal Panday’s uprising and the founding of the Indian National
Congress they did get married; albeit grudgingly (which by the way, is still the best way to get hitched). Next week the hammering continues. My son’s school will start. He will immediately declare the opening day as a day of mourning. Then my niece turns 10 which means my brother-in-law will be buying a gun license to commemorate this event and on the 14th of June, my father turns one year older, but not necessarily one year wiser.

Clearly, by now you are all crying or weeping uncontrollably for me, I thank you for this act of solidarity, but that won’t stop the bad news. Here it is, my parents are in Mahableshwar, my wife in Goa, my perennial baby sitter Mr Vijaykar is in Diu.

In this, the most dangerous month of all, they’ve left me at home with four pairs of legs completely dependent on adult support and not an adult in sight for miles.

Anyway, I’ve risen to the occasion and am already planning for the future. I’ve already ripped the month of June out of my 2009 calendar. Some months just don’t deserve a chance.