Keeping up with the mamis is a difficult task at the best of times. A man or woman is what he or she wears or owns. Every time I get myself one of those things that I have dreamed of having, it is either too late to make an impression or it has lost its status value. Mami next door has already got one of 'those things' long before its entry into my lifestyle.
Take the telephone for a start. We were one of the first few families to install our own telephone, one of those black, squat, dial-around varieties. We were very busy answering calls for the neighbour. The messages delivered in Coimbatore dialect were passed on with announcements of the birth of a son to an 80-year-old man who had collapsed on the fields of Tirutharaipoondi. Or the marriage of an aunt whose great granddaughter was the daughter-in-law of the aforementioned neighbour. Needless to say the neighbour was doubtful about the veracity of the garbled messages and complaints of our behaviour were delivered to my father followed by corporal punishment or 'grounding' and withdrawal of privileges like discussing homework on the phone. Soon the messages stopped coming as the neighbour got two phones, one upstairs and the other downstairs. While I waited to upgrade my instrument through offers of free gifts with subscriptions to weekly and fortnightly magazines the models had changed faster than the seasons.
Frigidaire was the first imported model that we owned. Cold water and yoghurt was a luxury in the 50s. By the time I got married, we took the icebox for granted. My father-in-law was dead against having a fridge as he thought it was an aid to the womenfolk in the house to serve him stale food or cook vegetables stored for heaven knows how long a period. The two-door refrigerator was only found in a few homes. By the time I could extract mileage from mine it was too late. The three door, the four door, the water dispenser, the ice-maker models all came somersaulting into the market, like a clutch of clowns into the main arena of a three-ring circus.
My father-in-law, a real sweetie, was fussy only about his coffee. Good one-yard coffee had to be made with 5-minute-old milk straight from the cow's udders. Bottled milk was an aberration and figured in his list of four letter words. According to him it was a fact of life thrust upon the unfortunate sections of well-to-do urban society. Unfortunately, when he came to live with us in Mauritius, he had to swallow coffee made from powdered milk as there was no other choice. The decoction was out too and Instant Coffee was the only choice. Back in India we continued to make decoction in the stainless steel filter and assured our visitors that coffee would be ready as soon the decoction dripped. "Oh, we don't use that filter anymore. We own a coffee maker and the decoction is ready in a minute," said my sister-in-law's sister's husband's sister. "Making 'A class' decoction from peaberry and plantation mixtures is so easy," she assured me in dulcet tones.
My family has had this fetish for cars. Each of us four kids was brought home from the hospital in a new car. My father was known by the make of the American car he drove. When my brother went to work for an MNC, chauffeur-driven cars were the last word in status symbols. Soon we too had this wonderful facility but my husband was often looked down upon by the chauffeur for lacking the suitable qualities appropriate for a durai. The master hated to wait for his door to be opened or the car to be brought to the porch of the apartment building to get into the rear seat and drive off to work. Often he would run to the garage and chivvy the driver to start the car. Horror of horrors - he also sat in the front seat, next to the chauffeur.
Cars have always been vehicles to carry my husband from one spot to the other. My family takes automobiles seriously and long discussions on alternators, suspensions and differential humming noises left my husband yawning. To add to my father's frustration, our car Heralded a new introduction to the family which had more noises than distinctly traceable ones to different parts of the automobile. According to my husband, if the car was hungry for water or oil it would open its bonnet. If it was running on four wheels, nothing was wrong with it. Back in India after driving luxury cars like Toyotas we landed up with a rattletrap Fiat. By the time we moved on to owning a Maruti 800, the rest of the family and other friends zipped by in their Ikons and Civics leaving us with our common man's car.
The black and white TV came into our lives early because we lived abroad. The first colour TV that came back with us in our luggage was a showstopper with the neighbours walking in to watch the cricket match and Chitrahaar. The VCR was also a status symbol and watching pirated movies was the in thing. Soon we were left behind with friends and foes buying Home Theatre and DVD systems while my family had to be content with surfing the 80 odd channels. Nowadays, my masseuse hires a DVD over the weekend to watch the latest blockbuster from Kollywood or Bollywood and faithfully relates the stories.
The PC was a luxury that came into my life thanks to my husband's job. We used to hide it underneath a huge bedspread when nosy fingers walked into the house, comparing what they had and what we owned. It would have been wonderful to boast of owning a Computer but there were other factors like neighbour's envy to take into account. In the blink of an eye the PC has become a part of the family inner circle in most homes. Now the competition is in the chip numbers and the flat, flatter, thinnest screens. The Laptop is still a management-wallah's appendage and all I have is the bag that can carry one that I sling across my shoulders. (It contains my organizer - not the electronic variety, a diary-like item and some books that help fill it up and give the impression of a make-believe Laptop.)
Most people dream multicolour visions of the wonderful accessories of modern social status. I dream of hearing the ringing tones of a Mobile from my handbag. I long to give sheepish looks as I grope to access and answer my cell phone in the midst of a General Body Meeting. I look for reasons to own one. When the telephone is on the blink, I say I wish I had a cell phone. When somebody complains that my line was busy as I must have been surfing and asks for my cell number for future use, I say, "Oh I am sorry, I wish I had a mobile phone." When I get scolded for disappearing into the blue, I logically say that if I had a mobile I would have been reachable - hinting at the possibility of getting one for the next birthday/anniversary. Every time I attend one of those Home or Life exhibitions, I hover round the cell phone providers' table. My bedside drawer today is full of leaflets and offers from cell phone companies. Meanwhile the doorbell rings. I find the fruit-seller at the door. I ask for Alphonso mangoes. He says, "Just a minute Amma." He pulls up his shirt and from his belt unhooks his mobile and says, "Wait ma!" He rings somebody up and sends a message, "Apoos mambazham rate?"
"Having a cell is matter in the hand," he tells me with a grin. "Et tu Brute," I whisper!
