Last night I was visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past. I usually dream in vivid Technicolor so when I first saw a monochrome apparition of a Madhuballa like buxom thirty something, I thought it was a wet dream gone horribly wrong. “Who the hell are you?” I asked. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past you worthless piece of shit,” she responded in a baritone voice that reminded me of Don Giovanni, “and instead of having Christmas Eve off I have the insipid task of illustrating how you have wasted another abject year of your pitiless life.” “Oh like that Dickens’ story …” I asked. She just looked at me, rolled her eyes, twirled her cape and flicking her middle finger gestured me to follow.
Our first stop was the family room: Bilal and me were arguing: “Dad, I don’t want to watch Hannah Montana, the Teletubbies are up next.” Eh-ooh … Now I don’t know if you’ve ever watched Tinki-winki and Lala and the other two demented puff balls but really, its like shoving a .357 Magnum in your throat and shooting it right up through your brains … repeatedly. Hannah on the other hand, maybe equally annoying, but at least she’s pleasing on the eyes. Its never too early to teach your kids the finer things in life, is it ? As I pondered this ageless question, my GoCP turned off the TV. Aaah .. ok, I get it, spending quality time with your kid doesn’t mean arguing endlessly about which shows to watch on TV. Although, to be honest. I really don’t have the patience to teach him anything, and am too lazy to go out and play and the disaster we make after a few minutes of “art-work” usually results in my wife screaming and chasing us around the house with a baseball bat in her hand. And seriously how many of us had fathers who spent the afternoon playing tag.
Next up, its later in the night. Everyone is asleep, but I seem to be researching something in earnest on our computer in the study. I look over and its the TMZ site. I seem to be turning my head in all directions trying to look at a picture of Paris and Lindsay and Britney … oh yes, the infamous crotch shot. That really did make my year. Madhuballa looks at me, with that sheepish grin of satisfaction on my face, shakes her head, as if it say: Dude, you need to get a life. But seriously what is the point of having a high speed internet connection: surely not to read the news on BBC or check out the online manuals of PHP and MySQL.
Huh .. this time I’m at work, in my cramped cubicle. Several windows are open on my busy computer screen, a lot of beeping and ding donging, there is bare board in front of me with probes hooked up to an oscilloscope, logic analyzer and other debug equipment. Seems like I am working on something serious, but then I notice that my eyes are focused on one small window in the corner of the display and occasionally I let out muted yelps and sometimes high five the Tendulkar poster on my desk … aah yes, the cricinfo site. How many days have I wasted watching strange numbers change every 60 seconds on that stupid cricket site that signal in so many different ways how India will lose this time.
I am back home now, in our basement. I am dressed up in my shorts, sneakers, a spanking new Nike t-shirt and have the Twisted Sisters blaring on the stereo. I am staring at the exercise equipment: the Norditrack Elliptical, the Bowflex Ultimate 2, the weight bench and the assortment of dumbbells. I start stretching: fingers trying vainly to touch my toes, but barely getting beyond my knees, stretch my arms in front of my chest and then extend them behind my back. I turn my head this way, then that and then all around, suddenly feeling a bit nauseous .. so I stop. I then arch my back back, and as I try to pull myself back up, I feel a twinge, I hear a crack and realize there is no coming back and the chorus on the stereo continues to blare: “We’re not going to make it, no we ain’t gonna make it, we’re not going to make it … anymore!” I spend the rest of the day watching NFL, lying on the futon munching on Cheetos and cookies, trying vainly to explain to my wife: “This is why I don’t exercise.”
We are in a sushi restaurant: snacking on some edamame as we wait for our rolls. I can see Anjum’s lips moving but I have no idea what she’s saying. I nod my head and occasionally say, Uh-huh or Oh, really, but for the most part I am scoping out the cute waitresses and trying desperately to eavesdrop on the conversation between the couple on the next table. Apparently they are trying to set up one of their friends’ .. Jane I think .. with this guy Mike, who is a lawyer but might also be a meth addict. “So what do you think,” I hear Anjum ask me. “I think being addicted to Meth might be a problem,” I respond and watch Anjum’s look of despair morph into rage and then notice the confounded couple staring at me with a look that said, “No you didn’t!”
So I haven’t quite been the responsible father or the dedicated worker or the loving husband but this coming year, everything is going to be different. And even as these thoughts are just forming in my mind, I hear Madhuballa say. “See you next year.”