Wham Bam Thank-You Maam

By Vasumathi Mohanram

The entire topsy turvy house smelt of onions and vanilla that day. If you strode up the rickety bright blue staircase, you’d know exactly where the kitchen was. Because as you walked closer, a delicious aroma of baked oranges and all kinds of spices overwhelmed you.

In most houses, you wouldn’t have to climb the stairs to get to the kitchen but Anamika wouldn’t have it any other way. Most houses deep within the Indian subcontinent wouldn’t be called the Topsy Turvy house. It would probably be anointed Sankars or Bhatias or Abdullahs.

This wasn’t most houses. This was her house. She didn’t inherit it. She owned it like she owned her long reddish hair, buxom countenance or the right eyepatch that was now as real as her other eye.

If this were an unpleasant story we would have gone into long, winding, dark, historical paths to discover exactly how she happened to get the patch and what had happened underneath it.

But this is not one of those. So if you are looking for a nice long cry and reaching out for embroidered handkerchiefs to sniff into, well….put this down and pick something else up. Something by the Bronte sisters!

So coming back to ‘The’ day. Anamika had already decked up the house like it was Christmas. Only, it was a sunny August day, and instead of a pine tree she had bougainvillea and jasmine bushes and rugs that reflected the blues and greens of the Bombay sea outside the open patio.

She whistled merrily while peering into her deep closet and pulled out a chiffon that she had worn the last time she had met him 20 years ago.

As she expertly draped her saree, she caught sight of the pink blooms outside her window. Picking up a bunch, she tucked a couple behind her ear and put the rest in an old whiskey bottle on a wooden table that had pretty turquoise dishes laid up for two.

It was time. He wouldn’t be late. She knew that. ‘Bastard!’ She chuckled thoughtfully.

When she opened the door for him two minutes after that, her expression was completely wiped of all signs of mirth.

Snooty! he guffawed as he pretended to grab her about the waist.

After 20 minutes of chasing her and her flinging books and cushions at him, they settled down comfortably on the patio floor with a beer flask each.

Of course his intelligent eyes had to twinkle, trying to tear away her flimsy wall with his ocean of kindness. He was 50, a good 5 years older. Grey hair peeking on the sides, totally aware of his effect on her, smiling his unselfconscious smile, an 80s rock hit played in the background.

“You look like a fucking pirate!”

“What are you, a grandpa now?”

“There’s no way in Godless hell I’m sinking my pearly whites into those cake rocks, I don’t care what pretentious French name it’s got..”

“You mean they’re real?”

“As real as your stubborn red head..!”

“Why? You prefer blondes now? Oh wait Mediterranean mermaids flinging themselves in the sea to get to the bunker you share with your ship buddies ..”

“Navy men! .. and I’m the bloody captain! And yeah mermaids…Greek mermaids.” He winked and smacked his lips.

She laughed at that……finally. She had to. He had been such a bore in college. I mean, he had women swooning at him even then but he was always so stoic, pretending not to notice, until her that is. Oh she showed him! Not that she was a beauty or anything but she really was a manipulative brat. She smiled …. remembering her wily ways.

Always needing a challenge, that was her.

“So when are you going to disappear again?”

“Tomorrow”

So soon? She wanted to ask…. but never could.

That’s probably why she fought every real estate battle with every slimy lawyer who dared to cross her path, to buy this house. The one that faced the Arabian sea, that merged with the distant oceans that were always ripping him away from her.

Because she never could ask.

Speaking of which…. she looked over the rim of her flask…. letting her sweeping eyelashes do the trick. Her one functioning eye was enough to bring him to his knees.

“Oh no you don’t...”

“What…?”

“She said ever so innocently!”

Her flask barely hit his head as it flew past him

His booming laugh hit her favorite high note and that’s when she realized ……he was the wily minx. She realized this as she flung herself on his lap….

The pretty blue plates lay there unused.

By Vasumathi Mohanram