I was the quintessential Mumbai single woman living by herself. Envied by all, bound by no one. No questions asked if I skipped coming home one night. No compulsion to fix a broken light bulb for months on end. Surviving on eggs and maggi for dinner. Greeted every other evening by a Blue Dart courier slip stuck at my door saying "We missed you".
One year back, my parents moved back with me. A lot of people ask me "how is it to live with your parents after eight years of living by yourself? Today, I tell you the story.
It starts with the difficulty of believing how easily you become a child once again. How so many years of separation does nothing to the parent child equation. Years later, Mom still stays up in the night with me because my coughing bouts keep me awake. Often, she slips that banana into my lunch bag to make sure I am getting my daily dose of vitamins. Dad insists on heating the food and serving me at the dinner table. Occasionally, I become the parent. Chiding Dad for spilling the water all over the dining table. Or bullying Mom into taking a break from her long hours spent working online.
Every morning as I get ready to leave, Dad asks, "Which office are you going to today, Powai or Worli?" "Worli" I say. "Ok", he nods and then goes back to reading his newspaper. I can see that he has made a mental note of the distance that I will be driving. And the traffic that I have to navigate through. I don't know why he asks me this. But he needs to know. Like his coffee, it adds to the predictability of his morning routine.
I catch him dozing off on the sofa while watching TV after a long day. I'm conscious he is getting older. I gently nudge him awake. He brushes the sleep off and goes back to watching TV, where a woman is howling her lungs out about how her husband cheated on her. In less than a minute, I start wishing he would grow up.
Friday night party invitations have now been converted to more respectable and sober "Sunday lunches". Food has become integral to the relationship. I just have to go around looking for sweets in the fridge, and the next day, I find Mom experimenting in the kitchen with banana muffins. I never fail to miss the betrayed look in Dad's eyes when I choose pasta over sambhar for dinner.
Conversations around investments and income taxes are the most deary. "Have you filed your returns for the year?" Dad will ask. I start looking for my sister. Not finding her, I politely tell him I will check with Nandita and let him know. "When will you ever be on top of your finances?" he asks half in jest, half serious. It gets worse. "When did you last update your passbook?" I blank out. Then I remember. "We don't need passbooks anymore Dad. It's all online." He grunts something which I know is a mish mash of "this generation-value of money-crappy technology-don't care-spend like no tomorrow." I know that he knows that I am no longer hearing him, and he knows that I know that I will never get a passbook, but the conversation will happen every six months. It is our father-daughter ageing ritual.
With mom it's different. She doesn't sweat the small stuff. I sent you an article link today, she will say. "It is titled 15 signs that you are born a free thinker. They all apply to you. Read them." I read it. One of the signs reads "You are the Pope of your life. You live by your own rules, and no one, not even your Mother can change that". "I'm not that bad, I protest. Well, I can be, she says of herself. She gets me. That feeling of being a misfit is our shared secret.
I know they are both treading living together with caution. Wanting to be around, and yet be invisible. Be the parent, and the friend. The wings, and the roots. On a Saturday morning, I tell them I have plans for the night. "Pub hopping again?" asks Mom. "Where? Asks Dad. "You will know from the check-ins on Facebook" says Mom with a chuckle. I rest my case.
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