I want the driver,” my wife says, “to take me to get my hair done.” “I need him to drive me to my office,” my daughter cribs, “why do you want to pretty yourself anyway?” “Because I have a meeting,” my wife says, “why can’t you go with your brother?” “Hey,” I protest, “I need the car, I have an interview in the morning.” “Dad,” says my son, “I put fuel in the car yesterday, you can’t take my car.” “It’s not your car,” I tell him, “nor your driver,” I point out to the ladies, “you all need to check with me before making off with my resources.”
“Chauvinist,” says my wife. “Feudal,” mutters my daughter. “Fogey,” mumbles my son.
“Every one of you off to work in the mornings,” a neighbour had sighed just the other day, “how nice that must feel.” “Not particularly,” my wife had retorted — most mornings resulting in bedlam. “Where’s my cold coffee?” my daughter demands of the cook. “I asked for protein shake,” my son is unhappy about being served milk instead. My wife wants freshly-squeezed juice. I’m left asking for but not getting any coffee. My daughter won’t have idlis for breakfasts, my son wants his eggs without the yolks, my wife is on a fruit diet, and by the time I’m served toast, it’s charred and there’s no more butter on the table.
Tiffins have to be packed — my son doesn’t want rice because it makes him sleepy, my daughter won’t have pasta “again”, my wife is entertaining for lunch so I have to sacrifice my portion of chicken to her guest. My son wants to be the first to read the newspapers though he’s the last to get up, my daughter can’t understand why her dress still isn’t ironed when she requested it 10 minutes ago, my wife can’t be disturbed at yoga, so I have no option but to help out. I iron my daughter’s dress to prevent a tantrum, look for my son’s black shoes with the buckles, pour my wife her favourite herbal tea, give the cook instructions for the night’s dinner, hand my son his towel in the shower, attend to the phones they can’t be bothered with in the morning, and have barely managed to put some marmalade on my burnt toast when my wife says, “Can’t you at least make yourself a little useful?”
“Listen,” I say, when for a few moments everyone is in the living room, “all these bills need paying” – the bumper my son knocked off the car when he went to the gym, their mobile phones, my daughter’s laundry, my wife’s credit cards – but no one’s listening. “Gotta go, Dad,” says my son. “I’ve just begun working,” my daughter says, “besides, which father takes money from his daughter?” “If my father had known you wouldn’t give me money,” sniffs my wife, “he’d never have let me marry you.”
By the time I’ve finished writing the cheques, everyone’s off, leaving me to clear up, late again for work as I rush through my bath, to find my clothes have been dumped from my cupboard by someone in the family wanting extra wardrobe space. I can’t find my glasses, all the telephone chargers are missing, and I’ve no choice but to call for a taxi.
“Every one of you earning,” I run into the nosy neighbour again as I’m rushing out, “what do you do with so much money?” “I don’t know about the others,” I say bitterly, “but I seem to give all of mine to the family charity.”