Sunday mornings are the most happily laid-back. I killed the alarm, laid on my back (I assume a helpless foetal position right about the time I'm supposed to wake up) and muttered "Another ten mins".
A couple of ten more minutes later, coffee, Sunday mag. Front page - a pic of some kids being scantily dressed up for a so called fashion show. The phone had been unusually quiet and I did the morning H-breaking (an old term, shall discuss origins later) by tapping out an outraged tweet or two. And then, the phone beeped nonchalantly, signalling the morning byte from R. Over to text..
R: He stinketh like an adder and biteth like a serpent
Me: [moves the paper aside, yawns] Rings a bell.. but adders stink? never smelt one.. Btw whom were those charges directed against?
R: [the curtness oozed thru her brevity. The dame was obviously in a dark mood] You.
Me: [thinks quickly] Hmmm.. Sunday-la Sandai-aa?
R: [flourish. she'd probably grown two feet taller and assumed a Gandalf-in-anger voice] Your one and only sister. Oh okay, one among the one and only sisters, twin soul, wired other-piece, a lovely young lady, miles away is confined to bed to the matresses, with a bump on her head and a rather twisted little cute ankle. [I suppressed an 'awww' here] Any loving caring brother, would've flown to his sister's side with mutton soup, and morning paper, a hug, a kiss and promises of a dairy milk. Any normal brother that is. Online brothers are subjected to certain restrictions.. shortcomings resulting from being on different sides of the Arabian sea. But a text enquiring about the wellbeing of the sweet sensitive sister was expected.
Me: [tosses the paper away, determined to see this thing out] The good ol' chyech has been subjecting herself to the ever good old PGW snack in bed, I see.. Certainly, an increased verbosity doesnt necessarily mean an increase in intensity of the scolding. Anyway, let me, on this occasion, put my why-disturb-her-while-she-might-be-asleep thought to bed, for subjects who're under the forty winks certainly do not exhibit texting capabilities..and hence, it is with deep regret and a quivering upper lip that I gently touch her forehead and ask her with concern, how are u feeling today, my dear chyech?
R: Paying a tribute to the title of the book she was perusing and also to enlighten the little, very small, insignificant bro about who the boss is.. She replied with a 'stiff upper lip' that she was indeed fine, but irritated at lil brothers in general, as is the case with big sisters all over the world who were cursed with insensitive indifferent idiots as brothers. Stiff upper lip jeeves, stiff upper lip chyech.
Me: *Now feeling like a 20 year old with the zero on the wrong side* The lil brother gently pointed it out to her that she should indeed be fortunate the ankle is on the healthy road to recovery, as opposed to, say, an unknown stranger stamping on it while she was asleep, or some heavy object mysteriously succumbing to gravity from right above it, as is what (purely coincidentally) happens in houses that house li'l brothers in them.
R: *enlightened* it is a rather queer feeling of relief one experiences when mere njanjools, eyesores, point out to you that life, with all its twisting ankle comedies can indeed be worse that it already is. happiness is rather a result of objective relativity and a matter of perspective [I start rubbing my eyes at this point] suddenly the world seems bright.
Me: Always glad to help ppl look at things in the right perspective. I feel like an enthusiastic telescope, which, after a hard day at the office, gets recognition for its farsightedness.
R: Life, eventhough beautiful, is inevitable jotted with such minor tragedies which we call brothers, as the rule goes, you cant have everything. Meh.
Me: And with that meh-ieval sigh of hers, she indicated that she had, as always, gottent he last word in it. Tch. Brothers worldwide have this responsibilty of letting their sisters FEEL they've won. For the love of things that can be gotten only when the subject is in a good mood, that is.
R: [continues, mindless] .. brothers who can crack PJs. Ah my fluttering heart stay still, be deaf and dumb to those cruel shots at humour. You are safe, think of bright yellow fields, Abhay Deol, Hugh Jackman - shirtless, and the world will seem okay, bearable, even with the tuxermans.
At this point, (after I stopped chuckling over the shirtless thingy, that is), I was overwhelmed with an extremely selfish thought. The blawg's been rusting for over a month. Time for another figment.
And so the fingers moved from the cramped keypad of my glorious text-phone (Nokia 1209, if you're wondering) to the evanescent lettering on my older PC-keyboard.
And one wonders why my handwriting sucks.