A streak of sunlight

If you think being a perfectionist is hard, you do not know what is harder. It is being the offspring of a perfectionist. Misery grows in geometric progression if one is the offspring of a pair of perfectionist parents. If one happens to be the sole heir to the perfectionism duplicated, it is calamity.
I am one of those calamified kids, scaffolded between a set of two perfectionists. Is it calamitied/ scaffolded by? Or maybe simply calamity, folded in between them. Crushed may be more appropriate. Never mind. You get the feeling I hope. Had it been my mother, she would have torn her hair (and mine) trying to find out the perfect word and the perfect syntax to say what she wanted. Or she would have consulted my dad and together they would have combed the dictionary inside out, upside down But not before bringing their collective blood to boiling point.
I am a college student. How have I survived the tyranny of perfection squared all these years? Like a body making its antibodies to fight infections, I too make my own anti-perfection-bodies to keep sane. When I hear ‘keep the spoons in the right order in the stand’ I just tweak one out of place, briefly that is. If it is ‘have you dried the soap after your bath?’ I put a few drops of water on the dry soap. ‘keep yesterday’s newspaper in the pile in the right order’ goes one command and I invert the magazine section inside the paper. And so on. If our flat suddenly begins to sway during your visit, do not think there’s been an earthquake. It is only catwalking for your benefit! All are impressed by the utter orderliness of the place. They search for the visitors’ book to write their comments, their wide open eyes suggest to me. Only I know how much of what fuel is burnt to achieve the effect, leaving behind much more than a mere Carbon Footprint!
My parents are meticulous in everything. From following the steps of a new recipe to keeping accounts, maintaining dairies, replying to mails, returning queries, respecting formalities…it feels as if their individual and joint I is/are forever splashing in an antiseptic solution. Being above board is what life is above all for them. No one can reproach them of ignoring a family function, of not expressing appropriate remarks for appropriate occasions. I find it mystifying that two very alike personalities should be living in unison. Aren’t opposites supposed to attract each other? Or maybe they caught the perfection bug one from the other. The thing about perfectionists is that they do not think they have caught a bug. Perfection in everything is the only way for them to live - stress, strain et al. If you can call it ‘living’ that is.
One look at my mother’s account book makes my innards do a figure of eight. The day and the date of each minute expense are all there for any CA to scrutinize – if he needs to know how many packets of Whisper (with wings) she bought in Feb 2008. All tallied to the last paise at the end of the day. Each page looks like a handcrafted computerized supermarket bill. What practical purpose does it serve? I agree she has an awesome memory but I simply feel she could put it to better use. Like memorize the Bhagawat Geeta. My mother works from home. She works her home at the same time. You can find the latest ‘Home’ magazine neatly nestling in the magazine rack. It is not just for idle viewing. My mother makes sure to bring (is it wring?) changes in the flat as and when an issue of the home Bible proposes one. ‘Go floral’ this summer’ it says and she goes flowery – that is our home. ‘show off your antiques’ it suggests and she hurriedly hunts for genuine antiques in fake shops or maybe fake antiques in genuine shops. Carpenters are permanent fixtures in our lives – to ensure that no fixture is permanent. The house forever wears the look of a new stage setting – except that no drama happens. Perfectionists just like settings for their own sake.
My father occupies a very senior position in the corporate world. He owns all the latest gadgets, always smells fresh and he never forgets to dye his hair. He values his looks and the value they hold for his clients and associates. If he has any ‘weaknesses’ like cigarettes or more, they are behind a smokescreen. If he has any affairs roaring (looks mighty possible to me), they are perfectly camouflaged with dramatic demonstrations of affection to my mother. But I like to imagine him with another woman – maybe his secretary – who is not as perfect as my mother. Someone to help him breathe a little fresh air away from home. At home he is generally likeable though he can blow his fuse if the power fails during a cricket match. Perhaps the electricity board and other utility services should get trained under my parents for efficiency.
We have two maid servants. They are the perfect antidotes to the perfectionists. They work individually and in tandem to ruin my parents’ peace. I would say they are the only creatures who enliven the stage setting of our home. Either one of them is absent on an impulse or she is present with her waggery tongue, which is just as bad. But suffer them we must for the day will not roll on without their able steering. A child can be subdued into obedience but a maid? And two of them? What’s more, they can ruin reputations with a simple wag of their duel or multiple tongues. It is wholesome fun for me to see someone as uneducated as the maids rattle my parents’ fortress like Peace.
Sometimes I wonder why I have no brothers or sisters. Like the two maids, we could have been on a roll, well…maybe not so blatantly, but at least behind the perfect backs of my parents. It is not hard to figure it out though. For perfectionist parents, bringing out (like an issue of Home) a perfect child is the ultimate height to attain and making more than one child is taking more than one risk. By dint of hard work, lots of lecturing and painstaking example setting, my parents have ingrained in me the(ir) values of a foolproof, perfect life. They think two is better than one when it comes to setting an example.
Have I been living up to their expectation you may wonder. From music to dance to computers to summer camps and winter camps, monsoon treks, theatre workshops, cruises, drives and flights, to yoga and regular visits to the beauty parlour, I have been spared nothing. My mother preserves my certificates neatly (carbon dated!) for future reference. Boyfriends? A few teen crushes behind the screen are all I have off the record. I do not think my parents are so old fashioned that they fear my friendships can sully their status in society. They let me go to the movies with friends though I feel there may be a private detective in the next row. They have their ways of keeping undesirable elements off me. Once in a while my mother and I go dress-shopping. Thank God I am not the fussy kind like my friend. Sometimes my mother, when in ‘available’ mode, walks into my room for an informal, friendly chat. A blast of chill maternal air blows into my face. I can increase my bust by an inch or two, she says, tuck the waist in a wee bit. The down half is perfect, let me not meddle with it, goes her advice. Is my hair looking healthy she fusses and feels through. Is the imported shampoo working its wonders? Is the skin glowing? Is the complexion fair ‘enough’? And than she throws a sweeping glance across the room to seize what is not perfect and redeems it then and there. Draws the floral curtain an inch and half to prevent any outside influence – dust and sunlight – from coming in. When I was in the throes of nascent adolescence, she was there to guide me, I’d say, with a face mask on and gloved hands and with answers to FAQs on the tips of her fingers. No, I did not ask her any questions.
Here comes my eleven year old daughter. A modern day obese thing, clad in a tight T shirt and short shorts with a bulging tummy and a hint of breasts already! Her short hair is flying all awry. Her hands are grubby. I am reading a book, lying on the divan. She lunges at me, gives me a tight kiss on my cheek, makes the book fall down and chuckles gleefully. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. I am carried away by the liveliness they exude. ‘Mummy, I am hungry. Make me some Maggi’ she hugs me. I return the hug and tell her to get a packet from the cupboard. As we boil the water and she breaks the noodles, spilling some on the floor, she excitedly tells me about the day’s happenings. And suddenly she goes ‘how does one fall in love mummy?’ Negotiating the unevenly broken magi pieces in the boiling water to uniformity, I tell her, ‘it is simple. If a boy likes a girl, he just tells her ‘I love you. Do you also love me?’ she is all attention. ‘of course, it can go the other way too . If a girl likes a boy, she too can tell him ‘I love you’. She is happy with the explanation and forgets the rest in the elation of simple steaming Maggi. Yesterday it was home made burgers. This is hardly the food to give an obese child but I think otherwise. To hell with inches, up, down or middle; she will work her way out of her obesity with time. But the fun of these moments and the delight of a trusting bond will nurture her when she forsakes calories on her own. I do not train my guns at the perfection of the future. I invest in imperfections of happiness now. ‘Mummy, story’ she begs. The homework can wait, I too think so. A post-Maggi 10 minute break is good for health! Anyways there is nothing more fun than stories – for her and for me. I make up my own and they are always about creatures with imperfections. The forgetful boy, the lazy lizard, the stammering girl etc. My stories are about their silly adventures, not about how they lived ever after. How easily they come to me! I should thank my parents for this talent, the only one they didn’t nurture. My stories suit her fine too, this bundle of imperfection that I have. She dozes off with a smile on her face. I bend over her chubby face, kiss it ever so lightly, make a dimple in her round cheeks, I feel her chocolate brown skin. When I look up a glorious sight awaits me. Through a crack in the wall I can see glimpses of the most wonderful sunset. It begs to be captured in my memory.
Sunset? Crack in the wall? Where?
The floral curtain flies just a bit to let in a streak of morning sunlight. As I rub my sleepy eyes, I am startled that a curtain in my room has actually allowed it in.