When my younger sibling gained admission to a Ph.D. program in the U.S., I called him up to offer some big brotherly advice. That he was graduating out of a top-flight IIT and headed to a prestigious engineering school with full assistantship didn’t deter me. After all, I was many years his senior and had been in the States for a decade. I knew what I was talkin' about.
“Listen kid,” I told him, “to be successful in this country, you must remember two things. Always be on time and always use a deodorant. Always.”
I had learned these lessons the hard way: A near falling out with my major professor because I showed up at a planned meeting 3 hours late. And people quitting on me in mid-sentence as they realized the source of their olfactory discomfort. Traveling too often in crowded KSRTC1 buses had rendered me insensitive to punctuality and immune to malodorous perspiration. I wanted to give my brother a head start.
After the close call with my major professor, I took the punctuality lesson to heart and turned it into an art form. My obsession created difficulties with my easygoing wife. I would wake up at 5 a.m. for a 9 o’clock trip and start hurried preparations, making it impossible for her to sleep until 8. At 8 however, I am packing things in the van and yelling “move it” “move it,” like a military sergeant, driving her nuts. She would be especially upset if we were going to an Indian function. “Keep quiet,” she’ll say, “nobody will be there.”
I began to accept her viewpoint after a comic episode several years back. The program flyer2 proclaimed:
Come, Celebrate Onam with Us!!
NeverBeforeInWashington Delicious Onasadya followed by UltraMegaEventOftheYear Entertainment Program!!!
Wootton Point High School
1112 Goldilocks Avenue
Beltfax, DC
Lunch at Noon Sharp*, Program at 2:00 pm
*Note: Doors to the Cafeteria Close at 1:30 pm
“OK then,” I said, “we can’t miss this ultra mega event. Gotta be there at noon sharp. They close the lunch at 1,” fudging a bit to convey the urgency. Through the corner of my eyes, I could see the smirk on my wife’s face. “Nobody will be there.”
We reached the school at 11:50. I had it down to the details. “I will drop you off at the auditorium entrance,” I said, “you go in, pay, and get in line. I will park and join you.” My wife was buried in the latest Macy’s catalog and didn’t pay attention.
That something was amiss occurred to me almost immediately. The place was empty. There was the hum of traffic from the road. Otherwise, there was no sign of human activity anywhere. How could this be for a program advertised to start at noon with lunch, I wondered.
“Can you check the date and time again?” I asked. “Maybe we read it wrong.”
“Just park here and wait,” my wife said dismissively, barely looking up from her catalog, “and watch what happens.”
I pulled over to the side of the entrance and parked the van. If she wants to turn this into a little game, so be it, I thought.
We waited. No one spoke. Kids were engrossed in their tiny video screens. I sat back and started planning out the rest of the weekend activities.
At about quarter past noon, a van pulled up. A gentleman in traditional dhoti and cream colored silk shirt alighted. A lady in a glitzy if a bit oversized sari got down from the passenger side. They walked to the back of the van, opened the rear hatch, and proceeded to dismount a traditional brass lamp and related paraphernalia. The event organizers had arrived.
As I watched incredulously, a few others soon joined the early arrivers and all got busy decorating the lobby with some Onam gear. Afraid that we might be summoned to help out, I chose to stay in the van with the windows closed. It wasn’t well after 1 p.m. that the cafeteria doors opened and we were let in to partake of the NeverBeforeinWashington Onam feast.
As we finished and began walking to the auditorium for the UltraMegaEventOftheYear Entertainment Program!!!, I noticed the long line of patrons still in line for the lunch. “Great,” I thought, “it will be at least 3 before they start the program. I can catch a nap.” As if sensing my thoughts, my wife tugged at my arm, looked at me, and said: “Please watch the children. I need to meet a few people.” With that, she turned around and marched off, the ends of her shimmering kasavu saree fluttering in the breeze from an open door. Resigned, I walked to the auditorium with the kids. After all, my insistence on punctuality had cut short her early morning sleep.
That wasn’t the first time she had gotten the better of me due to my obsessions. My experience with standoffish student colleagues had turned me into a devoted fan of deodorant use. But my fixation over it soon got me in a pickle. Once I discovered that daily application of the deodorant worked wonders in holding people’s attention, I became a faithful consumer of this uniquely American product. It helped immensely in becoming an accepted member in graduate student gatherings. However, spending the meager assistantship money on personal care products beyond toothpaste, toothbrush, and bar soap didn’t come naturally to me. Take it from a regular consumer of the Lifebuoy soap, the least expensive personal cleanser of a certain era.
So, while committed to using the deodorant, I did so sticking to the primary rule of a PIGS’s life: buy the cheapest things at the biggest discount.
One day while shopping at a deep discounter with a wad of coupons in my pocket, I noticed a spray-on deodorant with a red sticker advertising a very attractive price. I grabbed a can in a hurry and checked it out with the rest of the stuff. I duly started using it in the mornings but after a few days started noticing something awkward going on.
It was feeling kind of sticky. I found myself twisting and turning my shoulders because of a sticky feeling under my shirt.
“This deodorant doesn’t feel right,” I said to my wife, as I was getting ready one morning.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“It feels kind of sticky,” I replied.
“That’s what you get when you go for the cheap stuff,” she said. “Let me take a look.”
She went into the bathroom and then came out. She held up the can in her hand.
“This is not a deodorant,” she announced. “This is hair spray!”
1 The Kerala public transit system that is as much a generous employment scheme as a provider of public transportation.↩
2 Breath easy. No current organization is implicated.↩
