Mornings in Mangalam

It is 4.20 am on a Saturday morning. In exactly two minutes, the younger aunt will start looking at the alarm clock every few seconds, so she can spring out of bed at 4.30 am, sharp. The older aunt makes annoyed ‘tut, tut’ noises, because she’s a late riser- choosing to wake up only at 4.45 am, and she wants her sister to keep it down. Me? I haven’t slept all night, owing to the dreadful anticipation of being rudely woken up at 4.30 am. And, the lumpy pillow that I somehow always end up with. My aunts never ask me to wake up. In as many words, that is.

But, try sleeping in a house in which two elderly women insist on thundering in and out of rooms- starting 4.30 am (every day, government holidays included), slamming and yanking creaking doors, turning off and on bright tube lights. But, decidedly, the worst part is dealing with the inevitable, unholy cacophony of shlokas and devotional songs that come at me, fangs drawn, from a multitude of devices. First, there’s that small, very vile plug-in-and-play contraption. Once switched on, an almost-demonic voice begins disgorging its love for Vishnu in the most terrifying fashion. The instruments accompanying the singing, I am convinced, are plucked from the Indian equivalent of the Addams Family mansion. The seconds are provided by a lady in a garish silk sari, who sits inside the idiot box and sings to the high heavens, contorting her face with yoga flexibility, for added effect. (Till it- thank you God- broke down, the cassette player would take part in the jugal bandhi too.) Third sound- Aunt No 1 singing along to Device No 1. Fourth sound- Aunt No 2 humming along to random song running in her head. The younger aunt used to be a skilled veena player, back in the day. She, however, cannot hold a tune. The older aunt was never a skilled veena player. And, she can hold a tune with even lesser finesse than the former. The overall effect is enough for me to begin the day with murderous thoughts. I love my aunts. But, it is my dearest wish that someone (perhaps my little niece) accidentally break all those darned devises.

My aunts aren’t an anomaly. Mangalam Apartments is infested with people who are in eternal competition with the Sun. ‘We will perform nine million namaskarams in tribute to you, but, ha, catch us rising later than you!’ they seem to imply, with relish.  As if to add to my overall delight at the proceedings, the acoustics of the building are such that one can hear what’s happening in B-Block’s Flat 10, in A-Block’s Flat 6. What does this spell? Cacophony x 100 = Slow Death. 

Age has made me wise, however. When I was younger, I would make dirty faces at my aunts and mumble threats in my sleep-laced voice (which was really a bleat, and therefore impossible to be taken seriously). The older aunt would make faces back at me, sometimes. These days, I usually just resignedly untangle myself from the sheets and get the morning ablutions out of the way, before I dive right into a book, telling myself that I will catch up on some shut eye in the afternoon. But, you know, good luck Anusha. Afternoon is when all the devilish children crawl out of their caves, solely to ring their cycle bells (stolen, I bet, from that Satan church in California), and yell collectively like a crowded slave market.

The irony of life. On a Saturday, a holiday, I should technically be able to wake up whenever I want. Even if it is at 2 pm on a Sunday. But, every Friday evening I make my way to my aunts’ place, of my own volition, knowing fully well that Saturday morning will be a total downer.

Anyway, it is 11 am, now. I am seated at the dining table, growing impatient at my aunts who have exhausted all their energy, storming about in the wee hours, and so, are moving at snail’s pace, settling themselves at the table. The day’s meal comprises all my favorite things in the world. Shallow fried potato. Tomato rasam. Radish sambar. Tomato pachadi. Rice fritters. Hot rice with ghee. Mango pickle.

4.20 am? Hmmm?