Being a potato

For the last few days I have been feeling rather under the weather. So much so that, as a friend and colleague very tactfully put it, I look as if I have been sat on fairly hard by the weather, thunderclouds, rain barrels and all. And if looks are anything to go by, I feel that way, too. But be that as it may, I did a lot at home – mostly sleeping. It was what I really needed, after a week of Small Cat’s yowl-filled nights, too much to do at home and at work and a mean stress level that signified nothing more than incipient break down. The old system finally gave in and demanded that I stop, take time off, rest and recoup.

That’s exactly what I did. With a variable fever and knees that suddenly vanished, I staggered about the house trying to do my usual quota of chores, but falling asleep before I could finish sentences. And then, when after much thought I found that I was still alive and human, I sat myself groggily on the sofa in the living room and switched on the television.

Mercifully, it was not a week day and I could be spared the usual ration of saas-bahu serials. While I would normally revel in those, with no clue who was doing what to whom why, how and when, and I delight in watching the gloriously tinselly-tacky clothes and jewellery and make-up, my eyes, hurt, my neck hurt, even my hair hurt and I could not enjoy it as much as usual. So I idly read the comics and horoscopes in the many newspapers and magazines that we get, flipped through a delightful photo-book on the Parsis and made affectionate noises at Small Cat, who bounced about the carpet chasing a chick-pea and seemed to be completely recovered from her troubles of last week.

Equally idly I flipped an occasional channel on the TV. At some stage I found two cookery shows running together, one hosted by a rotund gentleman and the other by a rather loud lady. Neither had any clue how to go about the proceedings and kept interrupting the person cooking to make completely banal conversation in a piercing over-tone that seemed to irritate the cook as much as it annoyed me. I soon cut to a rather better food show, where a peripatetic host wandered madly around the Indian countryside eating whatever he could put in his mouth and enjoying every moment of the experience. In contrast, another well-fed host did his rounds of some Indian-Chinese food, pontificated boringly on about his sophisticated taste-buds and managed to set my teeth on edge with his patronising air and better-than-thou commentary.

And then I came across a talk show, where the host, a well known filmmaker, was interviewing a once-number-one star who was making a tentative comeback to Bollywood. Karan Johar was talking to Madhuri Dixit, she of the radiant smile and the expressive eyes. She was confident and sure, he was trying very hard to find some controversy – after all, that was his job. And, just when she warmed up and started talking about her life out of the spotlight, the storm outside got fiercer and the TV dish on the terrace decided that it had to get out of the rain for the night.

That was the end of my brief and inglorious career as a couch potato. Small Cat and I closed up the house and decided that the best place to be at that time of night was in bed – she in Father’s and me in mine. And so…good night!