The art of domestic diplomacy

It has taken her long enough, but The Woman from Madras Musings has come to be practised in the art of domestic diplomacy. The skill has served her especially well in recent times – the household is in fresh need of decor and repairs here and there, and WMM is once again at battle with an army of handymen who believe that time is an illusion best ignored.

It was the geyser that rebelled first. There’s something about geysers in Chennai households – they work beautifully through the sweltering summer heat and quietly ditch the customer when the weather turns. In her case, WMM discovered that the geyser had stopped working when she turned on the shower to be greeted by a shock of cold water. She leapt out like a cat avoiding a bath and raised a complaint with the Better Half. WMM’s home, by the way, has only one geyser – the Better Half does not believe in hot water baths. (He even bathed in plain water whilst vacationing in Finland.) Thus it was an unsympathetic B.H. who listlessly surveyed the scene and pronounced it to be ‘some issue.’ He then switched off the geyser and declared the problem solved. This, dear reader, is how wars start.

But WMM kept her patience and was rewarded that very night – a faint drip-drip-drip sounded from the bathroom tap. WMM and B.H. attempted to sleep through the steady dripping, but realized it was impossible. No amount of tinkering with the valve could persuade the leak to stop; B.H. threw up his hands in despair, cursed the tap in chaste Tamil and made a call to the plumber the next day. WMM, of course, co-opted the chap to take a look at the geyser as well.

The man, it must be said, went above and beyond the call of duty. Not only did he fix the tap and diagnose the geyser (it turned out to be an electrical issue which was fixed the next day) but he also pointed at WMM’s blender which she was in the process of forcing a chutney from.

“Madam,” he said frowning, “This one makes too much sound.” He didn’t wait for a response; he bade WMM move out of his way, and set to work on the blender. WMM was stunned to discover that he had actually succeeded in making it quieter. She offered extra payment. “No,” he said, “I like fixing things.”

Now he drops in once a quarter when there’s other work nearby, checks all appliances, and leaves with little or no billing. WMM thinks he may be an angel. The Better Half thinks he’s just bored.

To be fair to B.H., there are others that have given WMM ample opportunity to practice her newfound diplomacy. Many months ago, WMM gave her house help (a.k.a Truth) a stack of Tupperware filled with snacks and sweets that she wanted to eat but couldn’t because of guilt and her nutritionist. The boxes have not yet returned. Gentle enquiries to the house help were of no avail – the boxes, it transpired, had made their way to her daughter’s school and inexplicably disappeared from there. WMM has stopped asking. She now stocks up on disposable takeaways instead. It is evident that Truth dislikes these new containers and finds them flimsy, but isn’t able to say a word in complaint.

WMM is also part of a residential WhatsApp group. Not by choice. She was added quietly one afternoon by a neighbour who said it was “just to stay updated about water tank timings.” This, of course, was a bald-faced lie.

The group now hosts daily debates on everything from parking etiquette to the pigeon menace, with the occasional philosophical musings on inflation. The undisputed queen of the group is an aunty who considers emojis punctuation and types in ALL CAPS FOR EMPHASIS.

Last week, B.H. casually parked three inches outside the designated line in his parking spot. Within five minutes, a grainy photo appeared in the group with the caption: “WHOSE CAR IS THIS?!”

WMM replied, “Ours. Sorry!” with three blushing-face emojis and a folded-hands one for good measure.

Aunty sent back a sticker of Mahatma Gandhi.

WMM still doesn’t know what that means, but now parks six inches within the line, just to be safe.

The little fan that would not

The Woman from Madras Musings has discovered that ceiling fans have emotions. WMM’s bedroom fan – a young contraption that has been in service for hardly two years – has recently taken to expressing moods. Some days it spins enthusiastically, sending papers flying and startling the B.H.. Other days, it whirs reluctantly with the lethargy of an office-goer who has just finished a good lunch and would like a nap but for the boss’s cabin in clear line of sight.

B.H. summoned the electrician – a young chap who wore sunglasses and addressed everyone as ‘bro’, much to B.H.’s delight. He tinkered with fan bro for about ten minutes and announced that the capacitor needed to be changed. “I’m on leave tomorrow, though – so I’ll see to bro when I get back,” he promised, and shot off.

The fan seems to have overhead this, for it began to spin rapidly, almost threateningly. It hasn’t slowed down since. WMM suspects it’s trying to warn her not to mess with it. She has decided to let electrician bro take the final call, though.

Leaf it to WMM

The Woman from Madras Musings has always fantasized about living in the sort of lush homes that some fancy magazines show pictures of – green fronds thriving in corners, pretty flowers on centrepieces, that sort of thing. Sadly, B.H. detests plants. Thinking that a small potted plant could cause no harm, WMM visited a nursery nearby with the kind of cautious optimism usually reserved for exam results and public speeches. The man at the counter took one look at her and said, “Money plant, madam?” This, WMM suspects, is a gentle hint that the others were not for the likes of her.

She mutinously resisted the money plant (barely) and walked out with two bumpy-looking succulents and something labelled “tropical foliage” that may or may not be a very determined weed. To his credit, B.H. only offered a single raised eyebrow in response. “Let’s see how long they last,” he said. That was sometime last month. The tropical foliage has since turned a distinct shade of brown. WMM believes it may be communicating its displeasure at not being a money plant. She has relegated it to the apartment’s common garden in the hope of reviving its spirits under greener thumbs.

– WMM