A House Filled With Women

There is this house which is filled with women, apart from one tiny pug, aptly named Pugloos, who has no idea what he is doing in that house, and with a name like that, I am not surprised, poor soul! He floats around, confused, his eyes clouded with cataract, bumping into corners and people. He barks occasionally, just to remind people that he is a dog and very much around.

Luckily, there are some alert neighbours who keep an eye on the house, and no one can come in or go out without their know-how. There are CCTVs all around the house that work overtime to record comings and goings. To top it all, the inhabitants have offspring who keep strict vigil over them.

The ages of the women in the house range from 80+ to 40+ and they all have their own favourite spaces. If, N, the oldest, a bundle of energy, likes the bedroom which doubles up as a music room, and the easy chair in front of the television, J, the second in command, a cheery meticulous soul, prefers the living room and the verandah in front where she can pick up calls from her daughters, living far away in the US. She spends times watching old classic movies and providing instant recipes, when asked.

B is a tiny little dynamo who bustles around, speaking her mind and clashing with all the others in turn. Size has nothing to do with it, after all.  She can be pugnacious; surprisingly, the word has nothing to do with ‘pugs’, two of which are cosily ensconced under chairs and under feet. Pugloos has been mentioned earlier, but he has a mini partner named ‘Midukki’ (which means ‘a smart little thing!’), aptly named for she, like most of the women mentioned above, has a mind of her own.

The two other women in the house are less visible. K, quiet but diligent, works upstairs like an automaton, sweeping, swabbing, dusting and ironing. She also has the honour of bathing the two pugs in a grand bathtub which is only used for this purpose. Baths by humans are had, stretching precariously over the bathtub, hoping against hope that the bather does not topple in by chance.

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The last woman, M, could be wearing the Potter Cloak of Invisibility, so insubstantial is she. Her domain is the kitchen where she churns out set dishes, mostly approved by N, whose taste buds have a mind of their own. M talks once a year, and when she does, she is not heard because people around have forgotten that she has a voice. So, she lives on, like Moaning Myrtle (Yes, I admit I have Potter mania), unseen, heard rarely, barely existing.

Getting back to N, there is no doubt that she is the big dynamo, having lived her entire life like one, getting things done in a jiffy at the click of a finger. So, she does get mighty riled if her little dynamo, B, does not snap up and do things her (N’s) way; hers (B’s) not to reason why. B has her moments when she shuts down completely, exhausted after having run up and down the stairs about twenty-seven and a half times, bringing down a book, a pen, around four pairs of spectacles in varied shades and for varied purposes, a half-read Kindle and a smart phone that has never been used smartly before… you see the pattern?

J has all the right qualifications to live in this house. She is a sister-in-love, a doctor, a septuagenarian who otherwise lives alone, and a go-to person at every stage. However, her biggest asset is her sense of humour, which causes her to giggle at the funny situations within the house, amidst two dynamos who never tone down, two others who never snap up and two canines who are in between. Her full-throated laugh can diffuse a clicking time bomb and it is a mercy that she is around to do so.

So, the other day, N decided that she was at the right age to play table tennis. Orders were given and even in a state of lockdown, two TT racquets and several balls were brought over home by an obliging gentleman. Then it was discovered that there was no net and the same gentleman procured the same, after which he was invited to play with the zealous sportswomen in the house, namely the older two.

Unfortunately, neither could hit a ball since they were rusty, not having picked up a racquet for over half a century. As a result, they all had a lark, a few booming laughs and that was the end of the game.

Likewise, B was made to scrabble around for an old board game. “Let’s play Scrabble!” came the order and after two days of desperate hunting, that too was given up as a bad idea. Hardly a red-letter day, pun intended!

Through all this, there was one thing that kept N at the top of her game, actually two things. One was watching her daily soaps, with the television at top volume. The neighbours could watch the soaps on mute as the volume was generously being provided next door.

The second thing was music… the love of her life. This was the time when N decided that she, (read B) would sort out her audio and video collection. Since N had a healthy collection, she placed the lot on her bed and began listening to them, one by one. Every time she finished with one, she would place it in a cabinet that had been bought off the local post office, a wooden one with plenty of tiny cubby holes, each of which was labelled. So, Lalgudi Jayaraman went into one, Ananda Shankar into another. Malayalam film music lay alongside Hindustani classical, Bombay Jayashree had her own niche, while ‘Bhavayami’ had no niche, because it was played and played and then, played again. Yesudas hits had pride of place, with instrumental music and English rhymes nestling in a corner. All very well, till N decided to take all of them out again and listen to them once more. Guess who had the onerous task of clearing up after!

The lock-down has had its advantages, no doubt. It has kept us all out of trouble and has shown us what all we can do when pushed to a corner.

That was exactly what happened in the house filled with women as well. While sorting out her old files, papers and letters, while listening to ceiling-pounding music resembling the Shiva tandava, N hoped to compose the Ganga, one of her dream projects. She even suggested that she should start dance classes for the other women (B, K and M), who, till now in their lives, have shown no interest or flair in anything even closely resembling the arts. J would maintain the beat, of course, along with her giggles.

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J, for whom cleanliness is a mantra, opened out the refrigerator, the kitchen cupboards and the adjoining drawers and got them squeaky clean… a lesson which hopefully will live on even after she goes back to her home. Her own refrigerator back home was getting the same beauty treatment via her telephonic chats to her Jeeves.

B continued to live her life in between the onslaughts from the big dynamo and watching her own soaps and movies, her main grouse being that she could not visit her favourite banks and supermarkets. Not that she had to worry for the supermarkets had provisions to deliver. (Pun again intended!)

K, who otherwise lives across the road, shifted in, bag and baggage, so that she could avoid meeting the virus on her way in and out. She had a break from her normal life, and I wonder if she did regret her decision after moving in.

Finally, the one person whose life did not change in the least was M, who continued to live like an insubstantial sprite, the silent worker who knew that, though invisible, she was essential to the running of the household, mainly the kitchen. 

For as someone wise put it, Virginia Woolf, I think,

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”

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