I went to my son’s room last night, when he was chatting on the net, and asked him to open a flight reservation site. “I have a mandate to tell you that our home should not be used as a state of permanent residence by temporary guests, so please make a flight reservation for your grandmother’s departure for Sunday.” My son didn’t bother to look up from the monitor, but chuckled, “Does mom know?”
I suppose she did — we had been discussing her departure for several weeks now with something nearing the apathy of the Indo-Pak dialogue, one step ahead, two steps back — but now that she herself seemed on the verge of leaving for a holiday (yes, without me or our son, but accompanied by our daughter), I thought she might actually feel less burdened if her mother were to stay, in her absence, not in our home but that of her other children. “I have a mandate to tell you,” I said to my wife, “that in a bid to ease the peace process and eradicate the roots of domestic terrorism, our son wants to book my mother-in-law’s flight, but needs your written permission before he will make a reservation.” My wife, who was setting her cupboard in order, said, “Really, has the old biddy agreed?”
Because she was going away anyway, and I was not, I had no choice to go to my wife’s mother and petition her for her permission to book her on the Sunday flight to Pune. “I have a mandate to inform you that in the absence of your daughter, this home is not to be turned into a war zone, so which day other than a weekday is okay for you to pack your bags and leave?” My mother-in-law does not like to speak to me unless I have first given her a drink, which precaution I had managed, but she pretended not to hear anyway, and began to conduct a series of devotional exercises, waving me away. But knowing she would tire soon, I stayed rooted till she decided to give up the charade and reach for her drink. “It’s not like I enjoy being here,” she said to me, “it’s not like I don’t have my own home, but I feel duty-bound to stay and look after my daughter’s house in her absence, and to make sure” — she gave me a fierce look — “that you behave yourself while she is away.”
Having discovered that her bark, however bad, is definitely not worse than her bite — surprisingly, really, seeing how she doesn’t even wear her dentures — I went to the cook and said, “My mandate is to tell you that from now on the kitchen in this house will no longer cook mashed cuisines to suit the guests who are in danger of becoming hosts, and to refrain from cooking anything that doesn’t at least require chewing.” The cook sniggered and said nothing, having been bribed by my mother-in-law to comply with her wishes rather than mine.
I was wondering what next to do when my daughter, who was packing her bags and her mother’s, came to me and said, “My mandate is to tell you, on behalf of my mother, that you are not to use this house to create friction, sulk, throw tantrums, or behave like the quintessential male chauvinist pig. Furthermore, you are not to spread vitiating tales. My mandate is to tell you,” she added, “if you don’t like it here, you are at liberty to leave at any time of your choosing.”
Which is why — and not because I want to — I’m going away on a holiday, while my mother-in-law continues to play top dog at our home.