By Col Anil Alagh (Retd)
The amount of time, energy and wealth (both moolah type and emotional) that you spend on your children from the time they are born, to the time they reach their teens …. and the twinkle of an eye it takes to lose the ‘holy father’ status and become ’interfering holy shit’ in many cases, is a colossal mystery. Today, I will pen a few sentences on true life happenings, the so-called ‘aap-beeti’ in our local lingua franca. My children have crossed the age of ‘double teens’ …. taking the cue word from present day political ‘double engine’ models. I don’t know how many of you go through the traumatic times I am going to spell out.
First, my elder son and daughter (in-law to those who fancy the horrendous Ekta Kapoor saas bahu trash, which preaches anything but ‘ekta (unity)’ amongst families). Just because I have become a wheezing old man, slow on his feet, they seem to have discarded me … they have surreptitiously declared me an ‘old stinker’. Every time they travel home from overseas, I get a bottle of HUGO, DAVIDOFF, YSL, VERSACE, etc. I bathe twice a day with soap and my favourite Ramdev Yoga Baba’s organically grown shikakai shampoos guys … I have also shown them the array of soaps and shampoos in my washroom … but they either don’t believe, or don’t register a simple truth that their Dad is NOT a ‘stinker’, and my perfume and cologne collection keeps growing. One fine day, I am just going to hire a damn ‘redhi (handcart)’, slink into a cosy corner of the local ‘jumma (Friday)’ market somewhere or outside Hanumanji’s abode at Landour, and make some quick bucks. Become ‘stinking’ rich at their expense. Nobody messes with Veterans.
Then there is the younger one … whether in transit or long leave from fauji duty, when he comes home, he wants to emotionally, and psychologically, brainwash me to become an elite member of the ‘green army’ … a hardcore flora protecting environmentalist. The veggies and salads disappear from the dining menu. His mother joins him as the typical Punjabi Mom mollycoddling her youngest offspring. I fear the thought and sound of the call to meals … the sight of an endless array of non-veg … an odd leaf or a potato wedge gasping for precious breath … hidden deep down. I live like a 007 … on the edge … between gastronomic delight and gourmand trauma.
But there is a saving grace … all that fat and red meat going in, obviously has a positive flip side, too, … I gain a few pounds … the belly becomes more agile and rotund … in fact, it becomes akin present- day Maharashtra in a way … albeit ‘triple tier’ instead of ‘triple engine’. I naturally get more catcalls and whistles when I guffaw, and my belly turns exotic Persian, in a scintillating belly dance … btw, that is also my only and most favourite exercise with my ‘fat boy slim’ club buddies.
Wonder how many of you are facing the same or more trauma in your old age. Frankly, I hope all of you are … nothing beats the joy and contentment of having dirty little scoundrels as offspring. With that … it is time to spring off! This Maha-Belly has a Mahabali dance evening lined up with his Budweiser Buddies!
P.S. For the animal lovers / environment egoists gunning for the ‘ass of this ass’ … no animals or vegetables were harmed during the writing of this senile piece.
(Col Anil Alagh (Retd) is a St George’s College, Mussoorie, class of 1972 alumnus. Chose to hit civvy street in March 2001 after 27-plus years of uniformed service, to follow his life’s real calling of ‘Sewa’. Resident of Gurugram now. Happy world citizen, spending his life and time as a Sewadar at a home for the abandoned old and destitute, besides mentoring children and assorted needy beneficiaries. Enjoys writing satire and poetry, which some of his friends are compelled to appreciate for fear of losing out a crazy friend.)
