A catalogue of wants

Forty-two days into the lockdown, not having run out of medicines or groceries (bar boneless chicken for a few days), our definition of “essential” goods has somewhat changed, leading to some unpleasantness in the household. Wish lists have started popping up in (heated) conversations, on the (usually irate) family WhatsApp group, in shouted orders (never requests), about what everyone needs. Here’s a catalogue of some of these. If any kind soul, or souls, can lend a helping hand, they will have our eternal gratitude.

What the kids want: Malls, multiplexes and restaurants to head out to because they’re “going mad” — their mother’s words, not mine — in the absence of an escape from said mom, whose experiments with increasingly bizarre food has got me to side, for once, with them. Save us from baingan balls, tinda risotto and lauki-a-la some monstrosity. They want home delivery services that include dry-cleaning pick-ups and UrbanClap pedicures to resume. They want to meet friends, cross the border from Noida to Delhi (and vice-versa), shop for clothes, gin, sports bike accessories and diet suppressants. They want a drone. They want their mother to go visit her sister — in Jaipur — or brother — in Gurugram. “Permanently.” The kids’ words, not mine. 

What my mother wants: To go “home”. Wool (who knits in this heat?). Batteries for her hearing-aids (though she’s better off without them). Freshly prepared desserts after every meal. Coffee on the clock with corn-on-the-cob. And to tick off someone because not being able to do so is making her sulk. 

What my wife wants: Is stuff to pillage on walks in the neighbourhood, to compost waste in the kitchen, to recycle old clothes as new dusters, to post pictures of bread without owning up that the sourdough came from Theos, not her oven. She wants to visit her parlour for a “touch up” even though it looks like she’ll need the whole shebang. She wants a pick-up van for reasons best known to her, though it might have something to do with the pillaging. She wants to socialise with her kitty and kitchen clubs. She wants to have a party. She wants “to not have to talk” with me — we don’t.

What the cook wants: A respite from cooking, a break from requests for cold coffee, nimbu-paani, french fries, sandwiches, “early” lunch, “late” lunch, more browned toast, “something nice”, (awful homemade) dhoklas, paneer pakoras (when there’s no paneer), hot dogs (when there are no dogs — er, frankfurters), “kuchch achcha bana do please”, “something simple for dinner” but consisting of hill-station mutton curry, parathas and pudding. What he wants most of all is a day off. Sorry, buddy, not getting it. 
 

What the driver wants: To return to work, his wife is driving him bat-crazy.

What the part-timer wants: Ditto; replace wife with husband and bat-crazy with “bilkul paagal”.
 

What the neighbours want: A break from the music the kids have been belting from the balcony every evening. 

“Modi ji didn’t say music mana hai!”

What the dog wants: For everyone to return to work so he can have the run of the house again. Going to have to break the news that WFH is here to stay.

What I want: Old Monk, solitude, books. Is that too much to hope for?