While in Bombay, which seems like an age ago, my mother and I are walking down Juhu market.
Every inch of it is dug up. They dig up the road every single fucking year. It’s a government tradition. Like corruption (See? I can be political.)
Cars are honking constantly and ricks are driven by lunatics. It’s a chaotic, noisy, pot-hole filled, obstacle course.
My mother is not looking up as we are trying to cross the road, and is furiously texting some bum-chum.
“Mom, must we do this now? You can text who-ever when we get home or are off the road.”
“Haan, but it’s urgent! I need to reply to Vivek about our milonga!”
(Apparently a milonga is some dancing get-together thingummy. My mother has grown addicted to Salsa and Tango classes.)
For her birthday my mother wore some deadly off-shoulder, tight, lace mini (see above), while I was fully covered up to the neck.
She was dancing away, while I was at the bar drinking.
Chatting to my folks these days is like have a conversation with teenagers.
Mom’s tango class teacher (who is 30 years her junior) is sulking.
People have left his class and have gone to someone else’s class, then have being saying all these bitchy things about him behind his back, so he’s upset and is now saying he won’t come to Mom’s milonga and if he doesn’t come, Mom won’t enjoy the milonga because he’s her favourite and so she’s trying to convince him to come to the milonga.
Who knew you could say milonga so many times in one sentence?
She’s such a dedicated student that she became class assistant. That’s my Mom – class apple polisher.
All this milonga drama and dance class back stabbing made me have vivid school flashbacks.
“Oh my god! Have you heard?? Karishma said that Shipali said that she had a pakoda-nose-pimply-face! No one is going to talk to her ever again!”
That actually happened. Then it turned out that the person who said that the other person said that thing about their nose was lying, so no one talked to her after that. (A garbled business, I know) It brought her crashing down from position of social queen to social leper (for a little while anyway).
It was perfect example of social politics (I love school politics, don’t you?). Instead of taking part I documented it in detail in my diary back then like a huge nerd.
I told my mother that I recommended a nice tight slap for Sulky.
“Aare how can you say that? Poor fellow. These people are being damn mean. But there’s so much politics in this small tango community of ours.”
I love how my father says that. Like he’s experienced dance politics for eons.
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you watch Black Swan?”
I’ve learned a lot from Black Swan. That and watching ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ religiously.
“I thought I had resolved and smoothed out issues but then today he’s sulking all over again.”
“You should just leave it. What is this? High school?”
Seriously. I feel old listening to this.
“Just tell mom to slap him. Slap him hard.”
Man I really want my mother to slap someone.
“Mom says how can you talk like that? Poor chap. These people are making his life a misery. They say they don’t like his dancing. How can expect him not too sulk?”
Oh.my.god. So much drrrrrama!
“But if they don’t like it, they don’t like it! Loads of people tell me they don’t like my drawings. I’m not so lame that I would sulk. He needs to grow up.”
“Mom says she will bash up these people who say this to you.”
You see – This is what happens when you get a tattoo. You’ll start trying to ‘bash up’ people for no reason.
“Then she needs to bash – Munt, My boss, The ex, and various other sentimental types. Tell this guy to sort it out and go to the milonga.”
The ex and Monty think I need to be more ‘commercial’. They don’t approve of my dark material. Kittens and ponies, that’s what I need to draw. Preferably kittens riding ponies. You just can’t go wrong with material like that.
“Mom says she can kick ass. She works out at the gym. She says tell them that when she comes she’ll kick their ass.”
Aw. Mom is gonna fight people.
FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!
She’s gotten another tattoo by the way (ankle). Thought you’d like to know.