The other day I ran into an old friend. We exhausted a zillion subjects before she suddenly declared, quite out of the blue, “Flat feet are so good. Best solution to a thousand problems.” As I have the flattest feet in the universe, I was thrilled by this pronunciamento, but also puzzled by her claim that this defect was actually a merit.

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She added, “Flat feet can minimise arthritis, arrest spondylitis, melt kidney stones, cure back pain, reduce rheumatism, block cancer, lower cholesterol, control blood pressure...” How could I not be spellbound by her comprehensive lecture on the inestimable values of flat feet? Why, I was one of God’s chosen few!

I had always tried to conceal my offending feet under the kind saree and not-so-kind salwars and pants. Now, for the first time in my life, I began to feel proud of what I had been ashamed before. My friend asked, “You have always had them?” I nodded. Next came a googly to stump me: “How much?” I managed to say, “Quite a lot.” Then my friend warned me, “Be careful! Flat feet can cause indigestion.” I was bewildered by the notion of flat feet causing stomach pain until the sad truth dawned on me. You may have guessed it — yes, my friend was talking about flax seeds, not flat feet!

I guess mishearing is a part of everyday life. On a subway train in London my husband once mused aloud, “What I would like is a kettle.” The man had no kitchen skills. Why did he want a kettle? But as a good wife I was happy to please him by disclosing that we had one at home. “Where?” he asked. “On the top kitchen shelf,” I said. “Nonsense!” he snorted. “Don’t you remember my cousin giving me a blue German kettle on my birthday? I don’t use it because it is such a bother to plug it in and out,” I explained. “A blue kettle? In the kitchen? Rubbish!” he snapped. After more bubble-n-hiss along this vein I saw the ad on the wall to which my husband’s eyes were hooked. Oh my God, what he craved was not a kettle, but a kindle.

I know that there are different kinds of hearing problems — auditory processing disorders (when the brain is unable to process sound to make sense), conductive (a punctured ear drum dimming volume and clarity), sensorineural (nerve damage preventing electrical transmission to the brain). 

There is also mixed impairment - with a little bit of everything thrown in. I know this is what I have, though my family is convinced that mishearing is some diabolical strategy on my part to plague them. (Like the disaster of grabbing a bottle of ghee for a holiday trip when told to bring the house key).

Did I inherit this affliction? No. My mother had sharp ears all right, though she decided what to take in and what to bypass. As a dance teacher at Kalakshetra, Madras, with total commitment to the values of founder Rukmini Devi Arundale, she had her own responses to the aggressive feminist writer who interviewed her for her book. “With her upper class Victorian morality, didn’t Rukmini Devi brahminise and sanitised Bharatanatyam?” 

Oblivious to the condescending tone, my mother replied, “Rukmini Devi was a world-travelled Theosophist, and her exposure to great artists and scholars in the West and the Far East deepened her understanding of spiritual values in art.” The writer persisted, “Isn’t it cultural appropriation to disenfranchise the original devadasi practitioners of the art, and steal their heritage?” My mother beamingly disclosed, “Why, Rukmini Devi brought two brilliant old devadasis — Saradambal and Mylapore Gowri Amma — to teach right here!” Undaunted, the writer asked, hadn’t Rukmini Devi copied western ballet in choreographing “Indian” dance dramas? Mother announced proudly, “Lighting experts from England, Germany, France, Holland came to train our own students in theatre crafts!”

My grandmother was one step ahead. She seized a single word from whatever you said and turned it into a launch pad for complaints. Compelled by my mother, I went to take her blessing with the prize and the khadi shawl I had won in a college competition. 

Grandma fingered the shawl and sighed, “They couldn’t give you silk? I was very sad because I had a Gandhi wedding, I mean, your grandfather insisted on wearing only khadi. Back then khadi smelt like cowdung and felt like sackcloth. Not much better now is it?” I told her that I had talked about women power. “I too had protested against the British,” she sniffed. “But what’s the use? All our values are dead. Even I may be dead for all you care. You talk about feminism but you never come to see me!”

Author is a playwright