‘You’re late for work, Kittu,’ Ravi Pant remarked, grave concern on his face, as he took a bite out of his lightly buttered toast. ‘When is she not?’ Shamik added his unsought opinion. ‘Dadu, we should get her married. Get a house-husband for her who would pitch in.’ ‘Because there are not enough duffer men in the house already?’ High BP chimed in calmly. ‘You’re always targeting me, Dadu,’ Shamik whined. ‘Kittu is right. You boys need to start acting your age and take responsibility for yourselves,’ Ravi Pant’s voice assumed a deeper baritone, warning Shamik to curb the nonsense.
‘Hear that, Shamik?’ Kittu glared at the twins, conveying with her eyes that if they helped out a tad, she wouldn’t be so drained. Sometimes she felt like a single mother of four. ‘Better organisation, better planning. Little changes, big rewards. That’s what Kittu Di needs. Learnt that in class yesterday,’ Shamik attempted a wisecrack. ‘I agree, Kittu Di. Better planning is all you need. Otherwise you’re very efficient,’ Nishant didn’t spare her either.
Kittu wanted to punch the boys, but that would be a losing proposition. Instead she opted for a mind game. ‘Nishant, someone called for you while I was cleaning your room. Esha, I think her name was.’ A slice of apple he was about to munch on plopped on to his plate. ‘She said she had accidentally left an important letter in a library book. Said she wanted it back.’ Nishant’s demeanour went from brat-like to pup-like in under a second. A hapless look emerged and stayed put. He pleaded with his eyes to keep his secrets between them. She smiled slightly in agreement, pleased with the dice rolling in her favour. ‘Kittu Di, I know you’re late for work. But could you please stop by the dhobi and check on my trousers?
I need them for a party tonight,’ Shamik was lazy and incorrigible.
‘You want a good spanking?’ ‘Who wants a spanking, ever?’ Shamik mocked. ‘Unless, you know, it was me asking someone on a romantic night,’ he winked and added so softly only she could hear. ‘Shut up. You’re so cheap.’ ‘What? I’m talking about Bark Twain.’ Bark Twain jumped to his feet at the sound of his name. ‘Who’s the bad boy? Who’s the bad boy?’ Woof, came the response. ‘The bad boy is our Mehul Malappa,’ High BP handed out his verdict, helping himself to a generous serving of oat bran cereal. ‘His father should have trained him before allowing him to run for chief minister. And what is all this nonsense he keeps tweeting?’ ‘Bauji, it’s just facetiousness that creates a sensation on social media. Bad leaders the world over are resorting to it.
Why blame the poor kid? And please, watch the sugar,’ Ravi pointed at the cereal bowl High BP had just filled to the brim with cold milk and cereal. ‘It’s not just bad leaders. It’s bad journalists too. I read what your respected Mr Verma tweeted on the marginalisation of minorities yesterday. Despicable it was.’ ‘Also the truth,’ Ravi retorted, helping himself to some ketchup, which he smothered on his omelette. ‘He’s your boss, not your god. You can call a distasteful tweet a distasteful tweet once in a while. I’m glad I did.’ ‘I don’t treat him like a god. It’s not like a public sector bank where you blindly worship authority.’ ‘There’s a fine line between worship and respect. It’s definitely not the private company culture where everyone’s on a first name basis. You wouldn’t know.’ High BP was at it between mouthfuls of cereal. ‘Can you pick up a different variety? I don’t like this,’ he ordered Ravi, pointing at his bowl. ‘Respect in the guise of—’ Ravi had developed selective hearing just like his father. ‘Wait, what do you mean you’re glad you did?’ ‘I’m glad I gave your Mr Verma a fitting reply. Will set him straight,’ High BP announced smugly. ‘You gave a fitting reply to my boss?’ The hand that held Ravi’s omelette-laden fork stood frozen in the air. So did his mouth, a few inches away from the fork. ‘Sure I did. It was nasty but fitting. He asked for it.’ ‘On Twitter?’ It was a futile question, but Ravi still posed it, hoping against hope. ‘Arre bhai if he wrote on Twitter where else would I retort?’ 110 Parinda Joshi ‘Bauji! You don’t even have a Twitter account.
‘Bauji! You don’t even have a Twitter account.’ ‘So? The iPad does. I used the Twitter icon on it.’ Ravi buried his red face in his palms, then ran a hand through his hair. ‘That iPad is MINE. It’s got MY Twitter account. Do you realise you just wrote a nasty retort to my boss using my name?’ ‘So what? Tell him it was your father. You wouldn’t dare anyway.’
The excerpt is from A House full of Men (HarperCollins India).