The month of May is especially a promising one for my family. It's one that hurls in a lot of changes in our vanilla existence, in terms of vacations, family bonding, foreign travels, exotic soirees, you know the works of social media prosperity. But there's one seemingly annoying upheaval that we find ourselves dealing with as we approach May. No, I'm not hinting at wedding anniversaries or the idea of being an old-er married couple. Anniversaries packaged in a travel diary are indeed one of my favourite things. To be able to see each other without gunky pores and crazy hair, in a brand new context, in a cleaner aura, is probably why marriage takes an exciting turn for us this time of year (well, at least for me).
May, as it happens, is also moving time, the biggest and baddest of beasts. The year-long lease for our apartment in Mumbai expires in May. We get an awkward yearly visit from our landlady who probably, for the life of her, cannot understand why we choose to stay on year after year in an apartment, which has been slowly crumbling into a shamble. It all started when my stiff-lipped, compact, two-bedroom house also added to its repertoire, inartistic clouds of seepage on the ceiling in various places. The grim clouds of peeling cement loomed over us as if hissing "It's time to let go." And in case I forgot to look up and cringe at the horror of it all, I was showered with some rather ill-timed concrete droppings on my freshly-shampooed hair every now and then. So, except for the lovely cross-ventilation that makes you feel you're standing on top of a cliff, there's no reason to continue living in this house really.
May, as it happens, is also moving time, the biggest and baddest of beasts. The year-long lease for our apartment in Mumbai expires in May. We get an awkward yearly visit from our landlady who probably, for the life of her, cannot understand why we choose to stay on year after year in an apartment, which has been slowly crumbling into a shamble. It all started when my stiff-lipped, compact, two-bedroom house also added to its repertoire, inartistic clouds of seepage on the ceiling in various places. The grim clouds of peeling cement loomed over us as if hissing "It's time to let go." And in case I forgot to look up and cringe at the horror of it all, I was showered with some rather ill-timed concrete droppings on my freshly-shampooed hair every now and then. So, except for the lovely cross-ventilation that makes you feel you're standing on top of a cliff, there's no reason to continue living in this house really.
Nevertheless, we sort of developed a pattern of moving away from house-moving in five easy steps.
I. First was a step towards a new house, a fresh start. We start by loathing everything about our current situation - the damp patches, the over-crowded rooms, the lack of storage spaces... Add to that a visit from Liz the lizard every now and then and I was ready to move in with my neighbours that very moment.
II. The second step was proactive measures to look for a house. Telling brokers, friends, gatekeepers, Saanvi's four-year old friends, the lady with cats who looked like she could swing a knife at us, to intimate us about a "prosperous" house that we can potentially move into.
III. The third step was making it official. Telling everyone we know, including our house help (you know, to save her from the inconvenience of turning up one day and figuring out that we've moved to a new location) that we are indeed moving out. Soonish.
IV. The fourth step was the first giant step back. It was like a sudden infatuation - you know the temporal state of falling irrevocably in love with someone and realizing no other person, however well he/she orders his/her wine, is good enough. So either the other prospective houses were not high-rise enough or the direction wasn't right or they came with their own set of baggages or absurd statutes.
V. The fifth one, the one that got us to renew our lease with the "I couldn't give a shit either way" landlady, was a combination of nostalgia and well, the fact that moving is a huge pain in the you-know-what.
I. First was a step towards a new house, a fresh start. We start by loathing everything about our current situation - the damp patches, the over-crowded rooms, the lack of storage spaces... Add to that a visit from Liz the lizard every now and then and I was ready to move in with my neighbours that very moment.
II. The second step was proactive measures to look for a house. Telling brokers, friends, gatekeepers, Saanvi's four-year old friends, the lady with cats who looked like she could swing a knife at us, to intimate us about a "prosperous" house that we can potentially move into.
III. The third step was making it official. Telling everyone we know, including our house help (you know, to save her from the inconvenience of turning up one day and figuring out that we've moved to a new location) that we are indeed moving out. Soonish.
IV. The fourth step was the first giant step back. It was like a sudden infatuation - you know the temporal state of falling irrevocably in love with someone and realizing no other person, however well he/she orders his/her wine, is good enough. So either the other prospective houses were not high-rise enough or the direction wasn't right or they came with their own set of baggages or absurd statutes.
V. The fifth one, the one that got us to renew our lease with the "I couldn't give a shit either way" landlady, was a combination of nostalgia and well, the fact that moving is a huge pain in the you-know-what.
And so we renewed the lease to our apartment yet again.
And as wise and insightful that decision may have been, it also woke me up to an alarming discovery.
Oh my god, there's a teeny-tiny possibility that I'm a freakin' cat! Sidenote: I hate cats.
Oh my god, there's a teeny-tiny possibility that I'm a freakin' cat! Sidenote: I hate cats.
OK, I realize this is going a bit off-track. I don't mean it like "Hey I'm a cat trapped in a human body and I'm going to get fake whiskers and oh, I'm also going to start meowing and purring." You see, staying away from home for almost a month made me really think about why I may have strong feline traits. Even though I still strongly maintain that cats are manipulative jerks. (And I think I'm still miles away from level 'pure evil'.)
Here's the thing. I hate moving. Sure I could be lazy. But I'm pretty territorial. So even in my house, I have my very own Sheldon spot. It's this corner with floor cushions that gets fresh monsoon breeze and has got a lil side-rest and a wide view of Saanvi's playroom positioned in such an angle that I can see what she's up to from an askance glance while watching TV.
And here are a couple of other reasons why I may be a cat (If you're still reading):
Here's the thing. I hate moving. Sure I could be lazy. But I'm pretty territorial. So even in my house, I have my very own Sheldon spot. It's this corner with floor cushions that gets fresh monsoon breeze and has got a lil side-rest and a wide view of Saanvi's playroom positioned in such an angle that I can see what she's up to from an askance glance while watching TV.
And here are a couple of other reasons why I may be a cat (If you're still reading):
A. I have mood swings (Like really dopey ones)
Yea, one minute I'm in so much love with you that I'm following you around everywhere, even on Instagram...The other minute, I want to literally tear you apart (or shave your head). I can't explain it. And from what I gather (from Garfield and friends with cat pets), you don't want to rub 'em the wrong way. Unless, you want some voodoo glances thrown your way with under-the-breath chants, "Die...just die!"
B. I am lazy (Du-uhh)
I mean sure, I am managing to run a house and stopping my baby from jumping out of my high-rise apartment and feeding my family four-square meals. And let's not forget, I am still writing. But I need naps to get through my day. Ask me to sacrifice one and you know, you're headed back to dealing with A. Yea, at least five days of the week are about hitting the snooze button and curling up in a ball with my tail between my legs. Figuratively.
C. I like being pampered and doted over unnecessarily
Yea, sure I find the "beholden to nobody.", "I can get the door myself, thank you" ideal very inspiring and I am still striving to be that kind of woman in real life. (Must learn driving.) But I like it when someone offers to carry heavy things for me. I live for breakfasts in bed. I love people washing my hair for me or getting a back rub from my man. And from what I hear, cats need a lifetime of belly rubs and vain fussing-over and even then they'd look like you had the entire slice of chocolate mud cake in front of them without offering them a bite.
D. I am a wallflower
I am a cat married to a dog. My husband lights up at having company (even though he has obnoxiously high/weird standards.) Dogs are sociable, right? I mean if you throw them a ball, they'd throw it right back at you and nudge you to go on. They'd stick their tongues out in roaring laughter. They'd circulate at parties, sharing tried-and-tested dog humor and cool one-liner comebacks that gets everyone cheering them wildly. Cats? Not so much. You'd find them sitting in a corner at a party with someone safe...probably another cat. When cats like you and they wanna say they miss you when you're gone, they'd probably pretend nothing's changed when you get back. Or show you an awful temper. What they're not likely to do is throw you a surprise party.
And I totally get that.
So, to conclude, we're not moving. And from my self-psychiatric analysis, it looks like while I call myself a dog person, I am a cat. A self-loathing one moreover.
I have to say it is not looking very promising.
Image Source:
Gemma Correll Illustrations
Andertoons
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